⇢ im a very inconsistent writer 😅 one week I might be writing and posting everyday and then i wont post for 3 weeks but i promise to try and be consistent on this blog and with the requests
⇢ my fav characters are jason todd, jack abbot, bucky barnes, father judd, dean winchester, blaise zabini, theo nott, and joshua pearce
⇢ my favs in general are iced coffee/matcha, reading (romance usually), flowers (plumerias on top), video games (zeldaaa), listening to music, and movies <3
⇢ the mood board on top and bottom are me lol
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⇢ coming soon
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⇢ I am currently taking requests!
⇢ i do not feel comfortable/refuse to write about abuse (may mention past abuse), self-harm, illegal age gaps, polyamory, eating disorders/body image, incest, selfcest, r*pe/sa, or any hardcore violence that wouldn't be normal in the canon universe
⇢ please do not request any blatant nsfw writing/posts. i will not do smut but ill possibly hint to or allude to it.
⇢ all of my writings are going to be female reader inserts unless otherwise requested just because that is what im comfortable with
⇢ mostly ill be writing fluff because i have a hard time writing angst but im willing to write anything for the most part😅
⇢ ill also be adding moodboards that i made to the fics sometimes <3
masterlist | pls make requests!!
DESCRIPTION: At your cousin's baby shower, you're bringing a partner to meet your family for the first time. It turns out Jack Abbot is the perfect person to bring.
WORD COUNT: 3k
WARNINGS: FLUFF. TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF. Age gap- not specified but big enough to be noticed. Established!relationship. Reader's family is slightly judgy at first. Jack Abbot gets baby fever. Talks of potential kids (though unlikely). Talk of marriage.
READ ON AO3! - MASTERLIST
It was an early morning. They had a long drive ahead of them to their first extended family function of Y/n’s. Jack buttoned up his polo shirt and did that little head tilt he did when he wanted clarification on something. His upper lip curled.
“Whose baby shower are we going to again?
She chuckled as she pulled up the straps on her little blue spring dress. Ornate flowers ran up and down the fabric. She had researched what to wear to a baby shower and figured this was nice enough without overshadowing the mother-to-be.
“My cousin Sandra, remember?”
His brows furrowed, “Are we… close to this cousin?”
She blushed at that. ‘We’. ‘We’ as in her family was his, and his was hers. Granted, he didn’t have much family left these days. But she appreciated him including himself. They had been dating for a little over a year now, and while he had met her parents, he hadn’t met any of her extended family.
“Not really, but I still wanna support her. Can you zip up my dress, dear?”
He chuckled a little to himself as he strutted over. His fingers hung on the zipper for a moment.
“I much prefer to zip it down.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, smart ass. We don’t have the time for that.”
“You’re underestimating how quick I can be.” He murmured but obediently zipped her up. He patted her hips, looking up at their reflection in the mirror that hung on her closet. “You look beautiful.”
Her face fully reddened, and she shook her head gently, “You’re crazy.”
His face contorted as if she had just said something so incredibly offensive. His hands glided from her hips to across her stomach, so she was more in a bear hug as he leaned his head against her shoulder.
“I’m not at all. I’m saying the truth.”
She gave him a pity chuckle and looked down at the floor. He turned to look at her now, not in the reflection. And his real-life gaze was much more intense.
“Hey… what’s got my pretty girl all like this?”
With a little scoff, she waved it off, trying to seem nonchalant.
“I’m fine. It’s just my cousins will all be there, and they’re… literally models. I mean it. Like one of them is as a profession. And they always bring their boyfriends, so this is the first year that I’m…”
“Bringing someone.” He slowly nodded. “Is there anything I should know, baby?”
She shook her head, “Just that they may be a bit judgy because of the… you know…” she put her face in her hands, worried to admit this.
“The age gap.” He chuckled, “Baby, I already expected this. And when it comes to your cousins being models, who cares? You’re so beautiful. Comparing apples to oranges.”
He planted a kiss on the crook of her neck and squeezed her hips reassuringly.
Walking up to the little blue house, Jack held the big gift bag, which carried a quilted play mat, and he held her shaky hand with his free one. The door was wide open, so they peeked their heads inside. The sound of chattering and laughter drifted from the backyard. Inside was covered in lacy, frilly decor. It looked as though the baby section of the department store had exploded. With blue bears everywhere, it was safe to say that it was going to be a boy.
At the sound of Jack shutting the door, Sandra walked through the kitchen holding her swollen stomach. Her eyes lit up.
“Y/N! My goodness, it’s been ages. You look fantastic!”
“I can say the same to you! Congratulations.”
Jack held up the present, “Where can I put this?”
Sandra’s attention drifted, and her mouth stayed ajar as she processed for a moment. She suddenly seemed to remember that it was rude to stare at the handsome older man in front of her.
“Oh- just on the dining table.” She made up for it with a smile.
Jack nodded with an awkward no-teeth smile and shifted through the entryway to place the gift on the table overflowing with tissue-papered presents. Sandra watched him, then looked over to her with wide eyes. She mouthed a quick ‘wow’ before going,
“Is this your…?”
She smiled proudly as Jack started making his way back over. “Boyfriend. Yes. This is my boyfriend, Dr. Jack Abbot.”
He chuckled and scratched his neck as he reunited with her side.
“Quick braggin, sweetheart.” He put his hand out to Sandra, “Hi. Congratulations.”
Her cousin shook it and looked between the two.
“A doctor! Wow, Jesus. Grandma’s gonna love him, huh?”
And in that moment, she realized that this wasn’t going to be bad at all. This was actually going to be so completely and utterly perfect. For the first time in her entire life, she was going to prove that she was just as beautiful and capable of having a perfect boyfriend as her cousins and relatives.
After some awkward introductions, Jack felt stiffer than usual. He tried his usual charisma, and it worked for the most part. Her grandma certainly was all over him. But there were a few weirded-out glares and stiff conversations from her older cousins and relatives. They all certainly fit her description. They had a ‘better than you’ air around them that would suffocate Y/n’s welcome until he showed up behind her like a guard dog. Then it would completely dissipate when he’d introduce himself and tell them he was a doctor. They were then left with an overall feeling of suspicious approval.
As he sipped a beer, he sat with some of her uncles who were closer in his age range, though still older than him. He managed to win them over a little more by discussing his military service. Though he refused to reveal his leg. It wasn’t that he felt embarrassed by it. But the attention was already heavily on him, and he’d rather not take any more of it. Though as they sat in the heat, he was starting to regret the choice of khaki pants.
The other men talked about the football season starting up in September, and Jack didn’t have much to contribute to the conversation. So instead of trying to pretend he cared, he let his eyes drift over to his girl sitting on a patio chair. She had been dragged by her youngest cousins to go play with them across the yard. He watched as she held a one-year-old girl in her lap while talking to a little boy who couldn’t be more than nine. She was a clear favorite, considering the kids didn’t seem to bother any of her other cousins, who were much too busy with their own boyfriends. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled and laughed at the boy describing a scribbled drawing to her, the construction paper crinkled. It was as if she was genuinely interested in whatever nonsense he was probably spouting.
His heart clenched. It had to be the baby shower theme. It had to be the decorations and the ultrasound pictures and the constant talk from the women in her family. But seeing her with the kids was making him feel something dangerous. He knew he couldn’t have kids. Not at 50. But Jesus, did the sight of her brushing that little girl's hair through her fingers make him want to change his mind.
Suddenly, she pointed at him, clearly distinguishing him to the kids in front of her. They were talking about him. He broke out of his thoughts and pointed to himself with raised brows. She laughed and waved him over to the other side. Part of him felt guilty for not excusing himself, but he wasn’t about to ignore this for some stupid talk about ESPN hosts.
He walked over and crossed his arms with a playful arch of his brow.
“My ears were burning. Now who’s talking about me?”
The little boy grinned and pointed to Y/n. “She was!”
She gasped, “Jax! You asked who he was. You can’t throw me under the bus.”
“Well, who am I then, Jaxon?” Jack asked lightly
He shrugged and knelt down by the patio table. He put his paper down and returned to a set of sprawled-out crayons.
“An old guy.” He said innocently
Ouch.
She lightly smacked Jaxon’s shoulder, “Hey. Be nice.”
The kid smirked, and the little girl on her lap gurgled a laugh. Suddenly, another little girl appeared. She had been slowly making her way over, wringing her hands in her dress. It was clear she wanted to be with her cousin, but was also hesitant about the older man there. Y/n waved her over.
“Hi, Janie.” She said in a much softer voice. A much different voice than she had with Jaxon.
“Hi.”
“Let me do introductions.” She said, looking between everyone, “This is Jaxon, Janie, and their little sister Judy.”
Jack smiled, “A lot of J names around her.”
Janie nodded and looked down at the floor. Jack decided the best course of action was to squat down and sit by the patio table as well. Though his good knee let out a slight crack as he did so. Janie looked at him, suspicious, but didn’t run away.
“Well… It’s nice to meet you guys. I’m Jack.”
Jaxon looked up from his paper with wide eyes, “YOU HAVE A J NAME TOO.”
“That’s right.” He nodded and snuck a look at the Transformer that the boy was drawing, “Look, I’m new here. So how about we make a J name pact?”
Jaxon’s face contorted, “What’s a pact?”
Y/n chuckled as she grabbed a small bowl of Cheerios to let Janie snack on in her lap.
“A pact is like a promise.”
Jack nodded, “Like a promise. That us J names have each other’s backs, alright? I need some protection. People watching my six.” He pointed to Janie, “You included. I need all the help I can get.”
Janie giggled at the idea of her protecting him. “I can’t help. I’m too little.”
“Sure, you can. You’re the toughest person here.”
The kids giggled, and Y/n smiled at the interaction. She didn’t know Jack was so good with kids. She knew he dealt with them at work time to time, but she had never witnessed him in action. And he was somehow charming her little cousins, who usually didn’t trust too easily.
Judy cooed and reached her hands out, and Jack gave her a little side eye.
“She’s a close second.”
Soon, the kids were all over him. He hadn’t realized that his girlfriend was basically the glorified babysitter at these events until now. Jaxon was clinging to his good leg (thankfully). And Janie was bossing them around on how to play this game, which Jack was having a hard time telling what the exact rules were.
Y/n sat busied with doting on little Judy. She watched Jack with a heart so full, knowing Jack was probably being drained a bit by the kids. Though he was doing the exact same to them, and their mothers would be thankful once they were napping on the car ride home.
Her aunt called the kids to eat some real food, and they begrudgingly started to calm down. Jack ruffled Jax’s head.
“Go eat. You need protein to beat the lava monster.”
With that totally sound logic, the kids practically booked it to grab a plate from their mom. And Jack limped back to his girl and sat next to her, Judy still in her lap. He winced and rubbed at the back of his prosthetic knee where skin met silicone.
She reached over and rubbed his shoulder, “Your leg bothering you?”
He shook his head in a ‘so-so’ manner, not wanting to worry her.
“It’s just sweaty, and when it sweats, it starts to chafe.” He grimaced a bit. “Just need to sit down for a bit.”
She laughed at that, “I’m sorry. My cousins are like that once they’re comfortable with someone… Or once they find a target that’ll play with them.”
Jack shook his head and looked down at Judy, who was biting her fist. He gently reached over and pinched the little rolls of her doughy arms.
“Don’t apologize. They’re great.” He looked down and made an overly excited face at Judy, making the baby squeal with laughter. Oh, that sound was like the bells of heaven ringing. “You’re great, huh?”
She bounced the baby on her knee, making her laugh more. “You wanna hold her?”
He didn’t drop his face, keeping it happy looking to entertain Judy, “Only if she wants to.”
Well, in convenient timing, the baby reached out and made grabby hands at Jack.
“I think she wants to.” She smiled and handed Jack the baby.
He made a little groan as he wrapped his hands around her tummy and quickly positioned the almost toddler onto his lap. Judy clapped her hands and looked around for approval. Y/n quickly started clapping and letting out a little ‘Yay!’
The baby let out a huff, and Jack looked down at her.
“Yeah. Long day, huh?”
That made the both of them laugh. Jack casually squeezed her little doughy arms and reached over to grab the small bowl of puff snacks on the table. He handed it to her, and Judy shrieked excitedly. Jack smiled, proud of himself for making his girlfriend’s little cousins happy.
“This is so so dangerous, sweetheart.” He murmured.
She smirked a little knowingly, “How so?”
“We’re too good at this.” He shook his head with a nervous smile, “Makes me think of things.”
Her eyes widened despite having put two and two together. The idea of kids was something they didn’t talk about much, but the general idea was that he was too old, and she liked her independence. She had always been that way. She liked being able to put herself first, and if she became a mother…she could never be selfish ever again. But the idea of kids with HIM? With Jack Abbot? For some reason, that was a lot more attractive. And more than attractive… it felt doable.
She shook off the thought and smiled with a blushing face.
“Yeah… Me too.” She admitted, watching Judy shove little star puffs into her mouth. “How about we revisit this when we’re…” She looked around at all the baby shower decorations. The little clothes and footie pajamas hanging around. The ultrasound pictures. The cutesy stuffed animals. “... more immune to propaganda.”
Jack chuckled, looking around himself. “I completely agree.”
A little later into the evening, it was getting close to leaving time, and all the adults sat at a long picnic table outside. The heat at least seemed to be settling down as the high noon sun set a little more. She and Jack had played a few of the baby shower games. Watched Sandra open presents with her beau. And did their best to get some time away from the little cousins.
One of her cousins squeezed her boyfriend’s hand, directing her half-lidded eyes to Y/n. “So… how did you meet Jack?”
She smiled, unfazed, “Our mutual friend, Dana, set us up.”
Jack scratched the back of his neck, “Yeah. Basically, a blind date, and I nearly passed out because Dana had failed to mention how freaking gorgeous you are.”
“Oh shut up.” She rolled her eyes with a smile, taking a sip of her drink.
“It’s true!”
Her aunt piped up and pointed between the two of them, “And you two aren’t bothered by the… well, by the age gap? I feel like I’d have nothing in common with someone like that.”
It was a bit of a sting, but the two of them were used to it.
She shrugged.
“We’re not really bothered. And it’s not like I’ve ever been overly trendy or anything. Honestly, I haven’t seen a big difference other than he’s more mature than any man my age.” At that, her older cousins looked at each other. It wasn’t meant to be a dig, but if the shoe fits.
Her aunt let out a little, “Huh,” and leaned back in her chair.
Suddenly, her grandma tapped the table, “Well, that just means you gotta get started on the grandbabies right away!”
Both her and Jack choked on their drinks.
“GRANDMA!” She laughed in shock as the rest of the table died in laughter, “Look, we’re not even married yet. Let that wait for just a bit more, okay?”
Under the table, she felt Jack reach down and squeeze her thigh. His grip a mix of fabric and skin. She flushed and bit her lip through her smile, trying to seem totally cool. Jack had been getting on her about getting married for the past month, so she knew she was in for the best kind of trouble when she got home.
Sandra rubbed her stomach, “Well, I wish you guys luck with everything. I’m sure whatever you decide will be best. Clearly, you’ve brought home a big catch.”
The table laughed again, and Jack raised his hands, waving them off.
“No, no… If anything, I’m the lucky one. Every day I wake up, and I can’t believe that a woman like your Y/n is with a guy like me.”
At that, all the girls swooned. The cousins. The aunts. They were all definitely won over by the handsome Dr. Jack Abbot. And she felt so completely satisfied.
“Thank you. You’re crazy, baby.” She chuckled and leaned over to give him a quick peck.
The kids watching from the end of the table let out a ‘EWWWWW’ and she shook her head with a laugh. Jack pointed to them.
“Hey, the J Name Pact. Remember?”
They giggled mischievously and returned their attention to their activity books. And with her whole family won over, she felt not only like she had made them proud. But that she was so incandescently happy to have Jack in her life and in her future, wherever that led.
TAG: @theariespov
I could see man hater reader and dean eventually getting together, and she freezes up whenever something happens between them and uses the excuse "sorry.. im nervous. It's weird calling you my boyfriend now"
dean winchester n his girl bff…wait, his gf? (og post) (pt.2)
Not a single soul that had ever been around the two were surprised when they finally, abruptly, ended up together.
It took a life ending threat for it to happen, of course, where she sobbed and pleaded against his chest for him to please, de, don’t go, please, just stay, where he pet the back of her hair and bled from his mouth and told her, s’okay, baby, you’ll be okay, my pretty girl.
Sam would argue this is much weirder than they were before, for all those years. They’re…awkward.
Somehow, holding hands and kisses on the cheek in front of the people who were forced to watch them hang off each other with goo-goo eyes is now the most promiscuous thing in the universe.
Sam walked in on them cuddling in a hotel bed, as they usually do, and suddenly she was half way across the bed and Dean was looking everywhere in the room but at Sammy.
“Guys,” Sam threw his hands up. “Can you stop being so weird? I’ve seen you do a lot worse things than cuddle for basically my entire life. I think i’ll live.”
She shrugged, flipping through the book she grabbed off the nightstand to pretend like she was reading.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, bud.” She’s called him that a long time. Sam remembers the first time, when he’d tripped on the way back from the vending machines and scraped his knee.
Dean was on a hunt with dad, so he all by himself. It was scary, and he was alone, and his knee was bleeding and all stingy feeling.
“Sam?” She’d called quietly, from the door of the motel room her own father left her in to go with Dean and his dad. “What happened, bud?”
He’d wiped his tears from the curb, and tried not to let her see him cry. She sat outside with him for a second, rubbed his back and opened his snacks for him, and yeah, maybe he did cry a little bit more. Dad couldn’t be mad at him, though, cause she would never tell on him. She let Sammy stay in her room for the rest of the night, and patched his knee up. Made him a really good sandwich, and happily watched a bird documentary with him.
Sometimes they still watch documentaries together, at Bobby’s. They had last night, which means it’s Deans turn to pick what they watch on TV, except when Sam makes his way down the stairs, neither of them are on the couch. Bobby’s in his chair, reading a book, but looks up at the lanky man’s entrance.
He noticed Sam’s confusion, and pointed to the back porch. Through the window, he can see them in the dim porch lights.
She grins up at Dean, hands on his chest. Her hands slither up, cupping around his neck while he pulls her in closer. Sams only seen him so happy with her — she keeps him young, with that boyish glimmer in his greens eyes. He says something stupid, like he always does to make her laugh, and it works.
“I wish it was always like this,” She whispers up at him, fingers toying in his hair. “I wish we could just…stay here.”
Dean pauses for a moment, nodding as his grin dampens to a soft smile.
“Yeah. Yeah, me too, pretty.”
They won’t, and they both know it. There’s too much bad out there to sit around and let people who don’t know what they do die. It isn’t often a good life, or even really a happy one, but they’ll be okay. As long as Sammy’s being an annoying little bitch, Bobby’s only a phone call away, and his pretty girl is by his side, Dean can deal with all the other shit the worlds got coming for him.
It’s a good dream, though. Maybe even a perfect one.
dean winchester and his girl best friend, who are way too comfortable with each other (og post!)
They’ve always been that way — too touchy with each other and not enough with anyone else. Sammy’s seen the brunt of it for the most part.
The late night talks on the sidewalk outside of their motel room, where she leans on Deans shoulder, and nudges his work boots with her sneakers until he picks her legs up and throws them over his lap.
On long drives, where she desperately wants to get the hell out of the car but won’t say it, so instead she’ll bend forward and wrap her arms around Deans shoulders. Dean will pull into the next gas station he sees, and help her crack her sore back. She’ll wrap her arms close to her chest, and Dean will lift her off the ground and to his front. Afterwards, she lets out a big sigh of relief and Dean will pat her lower back — well, he used to.
When Sam was sucked into the cage, it was only the two of them. Somewhere in that time, they lost a lot of care for what ‘best friends’ are and aren’t supposed to do. Her and Dean don’t seem to notice the difference, but Sam does, once his soul is back.
Their first ‘normal’ hunt, all three of them back together, she wraps around Dean four hours into the drive.
“All good, pretty?” Dean turns his head a little, just to nudge hers which sits on his shoulder, but still watches the road. She nods, and holds him tighter.
Sammy’s used to that — it’s kind of refreshing, actually. To see something that’s so normal in their everyday life, compared to everything that’s been happening. Y’know, like, angels and the devil and not having a soul.
Dean still pulls over, twenty minutes later. She leaves the back seat immediately, stretching her arms over her head and raising up on her tippy toes. Sam watches the pair unconsciously as he leans over the other side of the car.
Dean pats her arm, shoves it a little, so she’ll turn around. He lifts her off the ground effortlessly, and her head falls back on his shoulder in relief.
“Better?” He asks, while she turns back around with a grin.
“Yeah.” She nods. “Thanks, De.”
“Ah,” He grins right back, tilting his head. “Always, pretty.”
Then, she turns once more, to open the back door and hop in, and Dean pats her on the ass. Twice.
“Alright, let’s get this show back on the road.” He jumps back in the drivers seat, leaving Sam frozen, and quite honestly, disturbed, outside of the car. That…that was not refreshing.
Neither was the time Dean went to go get food when Sam was supposed to. It’d been mutually agreed that they switch back and forth every time they get take out, but the last time they’d been near their current place of stay, Deans girl had a wonderful milkshake at this diner that was pretty far. He wanted to get her one, but obviously, he can’t just say that, and Sam won’t go to a random diner ten more minutes away than the others in town just ‘cause’, so Dean opts to take another turn grabbing dinner.
The problem here, though, is that that decision was made while she was in the shower.
Twenty minutes later, she bursts through the bathroom door in nothing but underwear and a covering her chest.
“De, where’s my pajamas- oh, my God, Sam!” As quickly as she entered the room, she’s back in the bathroom. “I’m so sorry, I thought you were Dean!”
Sam, with heat crawling up his chest, and ears burning red, is so sick of them.
“What difference would that have made!” His head flips in the opposite direction of the bathroom, even with the door closed again. “You just walk around naked when i’m not here?”
“Well-it’s Dean, it doesn’t matter!”
Sam’s so done. There’s no point in continuing to argue about it with either of them, because it gets nobody anywhere. They still continue acting all lovey dovey and clueless, and everyone gets more irritated.
Somehow, neither of them understand why people think they’re a couple so often — the motel clerks when they get a room with one bed, random old ladies in stores watching them swing their conjoined hands and giggle, bartenders and waitresses passing every tab Deans way, the list is endless. Hell, their first time at the Roadhouse, that crew thinks so too.
“So, uh,” Jo starts, from next to her mother. The brothers were conversing with Ash, and left her back with the two woman over on the other side of the bar (she didn’t feel like getting up, and dean didn’t have the heart to make her). It was a nice change of pace, really, to not be surrounded by so much suffocating testosterone, even if they had just been holding her and the two people she is the closest with at gunpoint. “When’d you meet those two?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” She shrugged, taking a gulp of her water. “When Sam was okay with being called Sammy.”
“Huh,” Ellen scoffs. “Well how ‘bout that.”
“When’d you get with the little one?” Jo interrupts her mother’s reminiscing, leaning over the counter.
“Uh,” She laughs a little, confused. “Dean? What do you mean?”
“Y’know, like when’d start being more than just real good friends?”
“Well, I mean he’s always been my best friend, if that’s what you mean.” She shrugs, and a little smile makes it way onto her face. “Guess if I had to find a point it’d be when we were all playing with Bobby’s dog, and I fell and scraped my knee in sixth grade. He cleaned it up and stole me some Cracker Jack and then we listened to Led Zeppelin.”
The three sit in silence for a minute, her, staring over at Dean at the other side of the bar with a wide grin, and the mother and daughter sharing a look of disbelief.
“…so you’re saying you aren’t dating that guy?” Jo tries one last time, pointing over in Deans direction.
“Me and Dean? No,” She shakes her head, and laughs it off. “A lot of people think that, though. I don’t get why.”
The other two woman share another brief glance at one another, before the Winchesters and Ash come barreling over. Sam sits on the stool to her left, and Dean stands close enough to her right that she can lean against his chest.
“Anything good?” She asks, peering up at him from next to his heartbeat.
“Oh, yeah, pretty,” He grins right back, wrapping an arm around her. “Ash’s checking some stuff out, thinks he can track the demon down.”
“Oh, great!”
“Sammy said Ellen’s found us a case while we wait. Somethin’ with clowns.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and they both turn to ‘oooohhhh’ in Sam’s direction.
“Oh, just-shuddup!” He grumbles, stomping outside to the busted van. She shoves her face in Deans chest as they cackle at Sam’s expense, before eventually crawling down from her seat.
“I’m gonna use the bathroom before we get outta here. Meet you in the car, yeah?” She does a quick stretch, backing up towards the bathroom a little, only for Dean to palm her waist and pull her right back against him.
“Alright.” Dean plants a kiss to her forehead, and gives her waist a gentle squeeze before backing off. “Hurry!” He shouts on his way out the door.
Ellen and Jo watch the pair go their separate ways from behind the bar. Ellen grabs a beer, and sighs.
“How long you think that’s gonna last like that?” She grumbles with plenty snark.
“Who knows how long they’ve been like that already! Oh, poor Sam…” Jo shakes her head.
Dean winchester and his girl best friend that hates men <3
Dean loves her. He knows it. Not always — there was a time before her, long ago. Dean can’t remember exactly when, but it was when Sammy was still shorter than him and had a little height on her. But since then, he’s loved her.
He’s glad to have met her so early in their lives; he’s glad to have had the chance to cling onto her for so long that she doesn’t have any other options but staying at his side, now. Now, Dean doesn’t think she’d even give him a glance.
Not because it’s him, or anything, but because he’s a dude. Probably, also because of him, honestly. She puts up with a lot of his gross man stuff because he’s Dean. At least, that’s always her excuse. She’ll complain about some guy, and scoff under her breath about ‘men’, and Dean will look a little offended, so she’ll pat on his arm and say, “No offense, you don’t count, De.”
He used to actually get kind of upset because he is a man. He’s very manly, and very much a guy. Now, he just pretends to be so he can ask, “Then what the hell am I?”, so he can hear her say, “You’re my Dean.”
She doesn’t really willingly talk to guys that aren’t Dean or Sam. Ever. Every bar, she rolls her eyes at free drinks, but takes them anyways, and turns back to finish her conversation with Dean about what famous cowboys they would be. He’s Clint Eastwood, unless she’s there in this universe, then he has to be the Wild Bill Hickok to her Calamity Jane, obviousy. Having a smoke outside, she refuses a guys lighter and looks to Dean by her side instead, and continues talking about how she would join the Dark Side, but only if Darth Maul asked, or Dean had already joined. Dean, who doesn’t smoke, but carries the lighter he took from Bobby’s for her.
Never once has Dean seen her enjoy a conversation with a man outside of himself, Sammy, or Bobby. She always looks to him for saving, too. He loves when she does that. Loves that she knows he’s always there for her to do that, even if it’s just throwing an arm around her shoulder to give some guy a hint. He loves getting to throw an arm around her shoulder.
He does it a lot, too. Not just for that, either. They sit in the same booth at every diner Dean pulls the Impala into, whether Sam’s there to take up the other side or not. They share beds, definitely just because it’s cheaper, and maybe even cuddle sometimes, when Dean somehow magically pulls her over to replace the pillow he usually holds. They watch cable screenings of movies together, on shitty leather couches, and always end up toppled over eachother with the comfy blanket she brings on every hunt. He likes when she folds first, and crawls onto his chest and in between his legs, but he’ll never complain about resting his head on her chest.
They touch a lot. They giggle and shove, and rub backs, and squeeze arms, and twirl hair, and grab waists, and maybe even hold pinkies and interlock legs under tables. And he’s allowed to have all of that with her cause he’s her Dean. Even all Sammy gets is a side hug and a high five here and there.
She doesn’t have much family left, and she doesn’t talk to whoever is. Her neighbor, though, some old lady with a husband she hates and an oddly large amount of grandchildren, loves her.
She’s never home much with hunting, but when she is, her and her neighbor will smoke a cigarette on the porch together with a cup of coffee. The first time Dean met this lady was interesting. When he pulled into her driveway the sun was barely up, but it was already glistening against the skin of her legs, and the rest of what was peaking out from under her silky robe.
She grinned, and took a drag, smoke pooling from her lips while he walked over.
“Look at this handsome man,” Her old neighbor chimed, waving a finger. “Thought you didn’t have no boyfriend.”
“I don’t,” She laughed right back. He’d been close enough to touch then, so she gave his forearm a little squeeze. “Hi, De.”
“Hey, Sweetheart.” He grinned back down at her, eyes rimmed red and sleepy from the long car ride, but still just happy to take in the sight of her.
“Sounds like boyfriend talk to me, there, honey.” The old lady sipped on her coffee, eyeing him.
“Nah,” Her hand moved up further, giving his bicep a pat. “This right here is why is don’t need one. Not that I ever really wanted one in the first place.”
He thinks about that a lot. And about afterwards, when she called him baby, and stood from her patio furniture to lead him inside. How her hand was warm on his bicep, and rubbed his back to sleep while she read a cheap novel until he woke back up.
She makes loving her easy, but Dean would still do it if it was hard. She never asks for much, but he always knows what she needs. When they get back to the motel room after a long day, and she flops on the bed on her tummy, Dean knows she won’t want to eat anything but pretzels or crackers, sometimes toast, for a while until her stomach will feel better. He’ll tell her he’s going for a drive and show back up five minutes later with a Ginger Ale.
When she scrolls through the TV channel guide before pouting and tossing the remote in his lap, he can tell there aren’t any Dr. Sexy reruns on, so now it’s up to Dean to find an acceptable movie. When a hunt goes bad, and her eyes go all spacey, Dean knows it’s time to go lay in bed. Not necessarily go to bed, just be in bed. With Dean. To lay together, under her huge, comfy blanket. She likes watching cartoons, then, or just talking. The two of them, they can talk about anything for hours.
Sometimes, she likes to lay on his chest. Dean will already be in bed, channel surfing, when she strolls from the bathroom in his old hoodie and soft pj shorts. She’ll crawl into the bed, and curl up with her head on his abs, facing the TV.
Once, halfway through an episode of Scooby-Doo, she shuffled around to face him.
“Do you think it’s weird I never try to get with guys?”
It threw him off pretty bad. Never once, has he ever really thought about it. She just…didn’t do that, and that was that. End of story.
“No. Why would I?”
“I don’t know,” She shrugged. “Just…when we went to the Roadhouse awhile ago and I was hanging out with Jo, she wanted to talk about boys and stuff. I told her you’re the only guy I tolerate — besides Sam, obviously, but — she kinda made fun of me a little. She was just joking, y’know, but I guess it just made me think.”
“What did?” His eyebrows were crinkled, and his pretty green eyes showed just how truly lost he was.
“I just never realized that it wasn’t normal for that to not be appealing. The whole…sleeping with a random guy thing. That’s probably why i’ve never had sex.” She said it like it means nothing, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“…You’re a virgin?” His eyebrows moved all the way up, and his mouth didn’t gape, but it was still open when he finished. The prettiest, smartest, most hilarious woman he’s ever known — is a virgin.
“Well, yeah,” She shrugged again. “Why would I wanna have sex with some random dude who won’t even get me off? I’d rather just do it myself. Besides, I’d want it to be someone I trust, and I only really trust you that much.” Then, after staring him in the eyes and spilling the one thing he didn’t know about her in the most casual tone possible, and saying, out of anyone in the world, she’d only want to have sex with him, she turns back around and watches the rest of the Scooby episode until she falls asleep. Her head is still on his tummy, moving up and down with his breath, and her hand lays in front of it, a little too close to his waistband.
They’ve been different after that. Not much, but enough for Sam to notice. Jo, Ellen, and even Bobby, notice, too when they’re around.
All their soft, small touches that could’ve maybe passed off as just something sweet between good friends now linger. They fully hold hands, all the time. No more pinkies linked under tables, but now, swinging hand in hand everywhere they go. Kisses on the cheek are mandatory when one is leaving for more than five minutes without the other, whether it’s to a different state or the next room over. Hugs are constant and never ending. She receives a minimum of four Dean Winchester given piggybacks on a weekly basis. Playful pushes turn into tickles and giggling and careful tackles onto beds and big bear hugs. Basically, they’re just fucking insufferable.
They say I love you, like they’ve been doing it for centuries. To Dean, it feels like they have. Everything is just so easy with her, that there’s no way he can’t say it back. It’s not like he’s lying, either way. It kinda scares the shit out of Sammy, though, the first time he catches it.
Dean and Sam were just going to the library, she was staying back in the room with an upset stomach because Dean wouldn’t let her go. He’d had gotten her Goldfish and a Ginger Ale already, had her propped up in bed with the best pillows in the room and Cake Boss ready to shine (Dr.Sexy wasn’t on).
Sam had already been waiting by the door, annoyed and impatient when it happened. He was about to start sighing and grumbling for Dean to hurry up when the older brother leaned back into her side, after just finally being convinced to leave it, and pressed a kiss to her temple.
“Call me if it gets worse or somethin’, alright? We’ll be back in a minute.” Her hand curled up, into his hair, basically petting him.
“I know, De,” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
“Nothin’ to thank me for.” He got all bashful, grinning like he was on top of the world.
“Alright, get out of here,” She laughed, and gave him a push. “Stop making Sam wait.” He moved away, finally, and just as the two were about to shut the door behind them, she shouts for Dean. “Love ya!”
He sticks his head back in, grinning so fucking sickly sweet it almost made Sam’s stomach start to hurt too. “Yeah, love ya, girl,” He closes the door, turning back to Sam. “Hurry up, Sammy, we’re running late.”
Yet, both of them will still claim they’re ’just best friends’. What absolute bullshit.
The Magic Box had that familiar end-of-the-world energy again—books open, weapons half-out, coffee going cold like it was a ritual.
Buffy was arguing with Xander about something that sounded suspiciously like “whether that thing had tentacles or just bad vibes.” Willow and Tara were quietly decoding a Latin passage together, their shoulders brushing in a way that made everything feel softer around the edges. Anya was loudly offended by a footnote in a text about vengeance demons. Somewhere nearby, Dawn was flipping through a book she definitely wasn’t reading correctly but insisted she understood perfectly anyway.
And there was Spike.
Leaning in his chair like the concept of chairs was optional, all leather coat and restless boredom. He was pretending not to watch Buffy.
You had gotten good at noticing that.
And you had gotten even better at noticing everything else.
Being fae had its perks—reading minds, feeling emotional currents in the room like weather changes—but Spike’s mind always hit differently. Sharp. Restless. Loud in a way that made it hard to ignore.
Right now, it was… focused.
At first, it was the usual noise.
Slayer’s glaring again. Red and Glinda all cozy. Nibblet’s going to knock something over in a minute…
Then it shifted.
Her again.
You didn’t look up immediately.
You assumed he meant Buffy.
It was almost always Buffy.
You’d noticed it too—the way Spike’s attention snagged on her like gravity didn’t fully apply to him, but he was trying anyway. The tension between them was something everyone in the room could feel, even if no one said it out loud.
So you stayed quiet, turning a page in your book as if nothing had changed.
Spike’s thoughts drifted again, slower now.
Not like that. Not the Slayer. Different.
That made you pause slightly, but you still didn’t look up.
Different?
Your mind automatically tried to categorize it—maybe Willow? Tara? Even Anya, in a chaotic sense.
You were still guessing when his thoughts sharpened again, sudden and unguarded.
Bloody hell… what would it be like to kiss her?
Your fingers stilled.
Her.
Not Buffy.
Not Willow.
Not Tara.
Not anyone else in the room.
You finally glanced up.
Spike hadn’t moved. Still lounging like he didn’t care about anything in particular. But his gaze—blue, bright, far too aware—was flicking toward you more often than it had any right to.
Your heart gave a small, traitorous skip.
No. That couldn’t be right.
You’d misread it.
You had to have misread it.
Because Spike thinking about you like that didn’t fit the story you’d been quietly writing in your head about how this dynamic worked.
You looked back down too quickly.
Probably just curiosity, you told yourself. Or sarcasm. Or demon-related confusion.
But his mind didn’t stop.
And now it wasn’t subtle anymore.
It sharpened into something vivid.
Would she taste like she looks? Soft. Dangerous in that quiet way. Think she’d freeze up or push back? Bet she’d surprise me… she always does.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
That wasn’t Buffy.
That was unmistakably, specifically, unavoidably you.
Across the room, Buffy laughed at something Xander said, completely unaware that your entire internal balance had just shifted.
Spike shifted in his chair, like he’d felt something change in the air.
You forced yourself to stay calm.
To not react.
To absolutely not give away that you could hear every thought he wasn’t saying out loud.
Instead, you tested it carefully.
“You’re thinking loudly again,” you said casually, without looking at him.
A beat.
Spike’s head tilted slightly.
“Oh yeah?” he said aloud, smirking faintly. “And what am I thinking about, pet?”
Pet.
Your stomach flipped.
Because his mind answered immediately, before you could even process the word.
You. Still you. Bloody inconvenient, that.
You finally looked at him properly.
Spike was watching you now, openly curious, like he was trying to solve a puzzle that had started looking less like a game and more like a problem he didn’t mind having.
You exhaled softly.
“I thought it was Buffy,” you admitted, choosing honesty carefully. “It usually is.”
That made something flicker across his expression—quick, almost offended.
“Slayer’s got nothing to do with this,” he said aloud, sharper than before.
And in his thoughts, quieter but stronger:
Not her. Never her like this.
Your pulse stuttered.
Oh.
So you hadn’t been imagining it.
Spike leaned forward slightly now, elbows on his knees, attention fully on you for the first time without pretending otherwise.
“You always do that?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“That thing where you look like you already know what I’m thinking.”
You hesitated.
Because you did.
And because telling him that would change everything.
But before you could answer, his mind drifted again—unguarded, unfiltered, impossibly clear.
What would she do if I kissed her right now? Right here. Probably tell me to sod off… or maybe she wouldn’t.
The image that followed wasn’t vague.
It was vivid enough to make your breath catch.
Spike leaning in.
Slow. Certain. Like he had all the time in the world.
You—apparently not moving away.
A kiss that started teasing and turned dangerously real halfway through.
Your grip tightened on your book.
Spike’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Alright,” he said softly, “now I’m curious.”
You swallowed.
“I think,” you said carefully, “you should probably stop thinking so loudly in public places.”
A slow grin spread across his face.
“Oh,” he murmured. “So you can hear me.”
Silence.
The entire Magic Box faded out for a second.
You didn’t deny it.
Spike’s grin widened just slightly, like something had clicked into place.
“Well,” he said, voice lower now, almost amused, almost pleased, “that changes things, doesn’t it?”
Across the room, Willow called your name about a translation question.
You didn’t answer immediately.
Because Spike was still looking at you like he’d just discovered a new kind of trouble.
And for once, he didn’t seem in any hurry to run from it.
me: okay, tonight i’m locking in. i’m going to write all night, become a literary weapon and finish my chapter. i won’t just write the wip, i will be the wip. i’ll be unstoppable! relentless! unbreakable! so powerful the writing gods will have to restrain me themselves—
also me, 3 hours later: *giggling at yet another cursed tumblr post while my opened word doc glares at me with only 5 new words and a shameful half-finished sentence*
@/fadedlagoon is stealing works and posting as their own, the original writer of those works is @itsgretta, they've blocked me and the original author.
SUMMARY: Three hours trapped in a dusty storage room with Blaise Zabini wasn't how you planned to spend your evening. Surprisingly, it wasn't how you wanted it to end either.
A/N: This is a part of #blaiseappreciationevent hosted by the lovely @i-await!!
Forced Proximity
Being stuck in a room with Blaise Zabini was the last thing you expected tonight.
It had started as a stupid thought that Pansy put in your head — she swore there was a secret passageway in the old fifth-floor storage room that led straight back to the Slytherin common room. You, after the thought scratched at your head, had gone to check.
When you entered the storage room, your eyes widened fractionally when you saw Blaise already a few steps in.
He looked at you over his shoulder.
And that’s when the door had slammed shut behind you both.
No handle.
No spell would open it.
Even Alohomora laughed in your face.
Three hours had passed since then.
Now the two of you sat on opposite sides of the dusty room, surrounded by old trunks and forgotten furniture. A single torch flickered weakly on the wall. Blaise looked perfectly composed, legs stretched out, back against the stone wall.
You, however, were growing restless.
“This is ridiculous. Snape is going to murder us,” you muttered, kicking lightly at a chest.
Blaise didn’t even look up, reading an old book that was left behind.
“Panicking won’t make the door open faster.”
You shot him a glare. “I’m not panicking. I’m thinking.”
“Violently,” he added smoothly, finally glancing at you.
His dark eyes held a hint of amusement.
“You’ve glared at that door like it personally offended you for the last twenty minutes.”
You crossed your arms. “And you’re just sitting there like this is a spa day.”
Blaise closed the book and set it aside, leaning his head back against the stone wall.
“What would you like me to do? Curse the walls? Yell dramatically? That’s more Mattheo’s style.”
You hated how calm he sounded.
How effortlessly elegant he looked even covered in dust, robes slightly rumpled, his expression as casual as ever.
Silence settled again.
This time, it wasn’t quite as tense.
After a few minutes, you sighed and slid down the wall to sit properly.
“How did you end up here?”
Blaise shrugged lightly. “Curiosity. Pansy is very persuasive when she wants to be.”
You let out a soft laugh. “So you came for the same reason as me?”
“I suppose,” he replied casually.
You studied him for a moment.
Blaise had always been a bit of a mystery — elegant, quiet, never raising his voice, never getting involved in the loud drama the others thrived on.
He observed everything.
“You’re not what I expected,” you said, tone honest.
Blaise raised an eyebrow. “And what did you expect?”
“Someone colder,” you admitted. “You always seem so… above everything. Like nothing touches you.”
He was quiet for a while, staring at the flickering torch.
“I suppose that’s how I prefer it,” he said eventually. “Easier that way. Less mess.”
You nodded, taking in his words and the meaning behind them.
“I get that. Sometimes I wish I could be like that. But I feel everything too much.”
Blaise looked at you then, longer than he had ever before.
“That’s not a weakness,” he said, voice quiet. “It’s rare. Most people in our house only feel ambition.”
The conversation flowed easier after that.
You talked about everything and nothing.
He told you how he hated that people only saw his mother’s reputation and his looks, never who he actually was. You confessed how exhausting it was sometimes to keep up the Slytherin mask when all you wanted was to be honest.
Hours passed.
The torch had burned lower when Blaise spoke again, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.
“I’ve always noticed you,” he admitted. “You’re… different from most. You don’t try to impress people. You just are.”
You felt warmth bloom in your chest.
“I’ve noticed you too. You’re quieter than the rest, but when you speak, it matters.”
Blaise gave you a small, genuine smile — the kind that reached his eyes.
The door finally clicked open just before dawn, no doubt Pansy or someone she’d sent that didn’t stay long enough to face consequences.
But neither of you moved right away.
You stood up slowly, brushing dust off your robes. Blaise did the same.
As you reached the doorway, you turned to him.
“Tonight wasn’t completely terrible,” you said, a small smile playing on your lips.
Blaise looked at you for a long moment, something soft and new in his dark eyes.
“No,” he agreed quietly. “It wasn’t.”
You walked back to the common room side by side in comfortable silence.
For the first time, the distance between you felt smaller — not because of forced proximity, but because you had finally seen each other clearly.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the beginning of something more.
This was so cute in my head lol, thank you @i-await once again for proofreading and correcting the mistakes<33
It's well past midnight, hours after Jack had left for his shift. You had been laying awake for a while, half expecting a text from him, or maybe a call from Robby. Anything that confirms what you'd been suspicious of for the last 24 hours.
The call comes from Lena.
"Hi hon! Sorry to wake you."
"No, no that's alright. Is everything okay?"
"Well..."
You're pulling on a pair of sweats and one of Jack's thick sweaters a minute later, grabbing your keys and making the short drive to PTMC. It's busy when you sneak in through the ambulance bay, your eyes wide as you take in the crowded waiting room through the glass divider.
John gives you a grin and a friendly wave when you pass by him, a half drunk coffee clutched in his hand. You smile, clutching your keys a little tighter.
"Where is he?"
"Solitary confinement." You make a face.
"That bad huh?"
"Lena told me she thinks it's mostly a fever. But he was putting up a bit of a fight when Robby asked to check him out."
"I'm sure," you sigh, thanking John before moving to the patient room across the ED.
A bit of a fight was an understatement.
"Robby, so help me- I swear to God- if you put that thing anywhere near me again-"
"It's just a thermometer. It's not gonna kill you Jack!"
You peek in behind the curtain, trying to hold in a laugh as you take in the sight.
"What's happening here?"
Jack looks over, eyes rimmed red, his nose and cheeks flushed. You could see the wads of tissue stuffed into his pocket, the sweat beading along his forehead. Lena just shakes her head from over by the wall, watching Robby hover over your husband with a thermometer clutched in his hand.
"Welcome to the show."
"It's not a show," Jack barks, his hand held out to push Robby away. "I'm telling you I'm fine."
"Jack, you're burning up man. You look worse than some of the patients here."
"Well jeez, you don't look the greatest either, sunshine." Robby sighs, giving you a deadpan look. You just laugh behind your hand, moving to stand beside Lena.
"Has he been like this for a while?" Lena asks.
"Yes," you say, Jack's head whips around to look at you so fast you’re surprised he didn't break it. If he didn't look so miserable and betrayed, you'd almost say he looked cute with his messy curls and big pout. You smile, "It started yesterday. He had a cough and was sneezing-"
"Allergies," Jack interjects gruffly.
"-And then he was trying his hardest to pretend like he wasn't sweating buckets before he left for his shift."
"I take an extra hot shower sometimes," he says defensively, his voice catching as he turns, coughing hoarsely into the crook of his elbow. Jack sniffs, the sound of mucus plugging up his throat echoing loudly.
Robby and Lena give each other looks. You sigh.
"Jack," you start, moving closer. He shakes his head.
"I'm not sick."
"You literally have snot dripping down your lip."
“I’m fine!”
He protests for a half hour, practically fighting against Robby and John who help you get him into your car an hour later after they forced him to go home.
"I'm not sick! It's just a cold!!"
“Stop whining and put your seatbelt on,” you say as you slide into the driver's seat. Jack grovels, his hands working to slide his seatbelt into the buckle. He has to try to get the lock to latch multiple times, eyes narrowing as he tries to get his vision to focus.
“I’m not whining. I don't know why you're listening to Robby...”
“Jack,” you give him a look, reaching out to pet the sweat slicked hairs at his temple. “Baby, you're burning up. Robby would tell anyone in this state to go home.”
“He's not my doctor.” You sigh and get the car started.
“No. I am now. And as your doctor I need you to sit there and close your mouth so I can drive.”
Jack glares at you, crossing his arms.
“You're a mean doctor.”
“I’m not mean. It’s three in the morning and my husband is acting like he’s not running a 102 degree fever.” Jack shakes his head.
But in spite of his resistance you note the way he slouches into the passenger seat a bit. The way his eyes droop lower and his head begins to rest against the car window.
“This goes against the code of ethics,” Jack mumbles. “Family can't treat family.”
You snort, turning the car out of the parking lot and onto the main street.
“You want to talk about code of ethics? Let’s review what the code of ethics says about treating sick patients while being sick yourself. Have anything to say about that?”
Jack goes silent, the radio static humming quietly in the background. He turns to you, eyelids heavy as he blinks.
“No,” he lets out gruffly.
“That's what I thought.”
Jack trudges into the house like a zombie. You watch him amusedly, his camo backpack slung over one of your shoulders as you push him towards the bedroom.
“I’m not going to bed-”
“No. You're getting in the shower and we're getting your temperature down.” Jack recoils, trying to leave but you push him forward.
He fights it the whole way. Arguing as you make him take off his leg, trying to move your hand away when you help him undress.
Jack is complaining as you get the shower running, your own clothes abandoned in the bedroom and swapped for a pair of shorts and a bra.
“This is overkill, baby. I just need to sleep it off.” You look over your shoulder at Jack where he sits on the closed toilet in nothing but his boxer shorts, shoulders slumped and face lined with exhaustion.
“Oh, you've got something now? I thought it was just allergies?” Jack’s already flushed cheeks turn a shade darker.
“I’m just saying. I don’t need you to worry or fuss over me like I'm some kid. This is nothing-”
“Hey,” you shake your head, drying water droplets off your hand as you move to squat in front of him. “I’m not fussing, Jack.”
“It seems like you are.” You shake your head and sigh.
Always the same, Jack Abbot.
“I know you’re a grown man Jack. I’ve seen you deal with a head cold and fever before. But just because you can work through the pain doesn’t mean you have to.” He opens his mouth to argue again, but you just rest your hand on his bare thigh and give him a look. The kind that always left him quiet and ready to listen. “Jack, I want to take care of you because I love you. You don’t have to power through everything. It doesn’t make you less than to admit you need to rest.”
You know it’s hard for him to listen to that. To actually listen and take it to heart. The fact you wanted to help him. That you didn’t see him as less than for admitting he needed to rest. To admit that, yes. He was sick.
Jack sighs, his forehead coming to rest against your shoulder as he leans into you. You adjust your stance as he lays against you, shifting your arms to embrace him better. The pipes hum gently, steam slowly collecting in the bathroom as the hot shower runs.
You hear him sniffle, his cheek pressing against your arm, his eyes closed as you hold him. He faintly hums with tired pleasure as you run a hand through his sweat matted curls, your gaze soft and comforting.
He swallows thickly, and you note the way he grimaces slightly at the gravelly catch in his voice.
“That feels nice.”
“Yeah?” Jack nods. You continue, just holding him. Letting Jack be still.
“You know what else would feel nice?”
“Sleeping naked with you?” You chuckle softly.
“No. That’s something we can do another night.” Jack frowns. But he can’t be too disappointed. You can tell by the way his eyes are more closed than open that he’s getting a bad headache. “How about I help you in the shower and we get your temperature down. Just enough so you can sleep a little better. Okay?”
Jack doesn’t protest. He lets you help him up and onto the shower bench. Lets you stand there as water runs down his chest and thighs. You run a washcloth over his back and neck, admiring the pattern of freckles that spanned his tan back.
He keeps leaning into you, like his head is too heavy to hold up anymore. Like sitting still has finally let the exhaustion and weariness settle i to him. Jack’s hand is permanently posted on the soft curve of your thigh, holding your leg gently. Like it was grounding him.
When his head finally hits the pillow, after you deemed a dropping temperature of 100.1 was enough to get out of the shower, Jack is out like a light. Not that you’re surprised. You watch him for a moment as you slip out of your wet undergarments, smiling faintly. He seemed so different like this. Peaceful. Not encumbered by the heaviness of the emergency room or the weight of his own memories.
His chest rises and falls steadily, the pair of sweats he’d barely managed to pull on resting low on his hips. You slip into Jack’s old sweater again, reaching out to pull and adjust the covers around him. Jack lets out a quiet breath, his hand catching yours when you are about to walk away.
His voice is barely there, lost to the irritation and mucus clogging his throat.
“You’re not leaving… are you?” You laugh softly.
“I’m coming back, Jack. Just going to get you some extra tissues and water in case you need them.” Jack hums, his eyes already closing again.
“No. I just need you.” You shake your head, opening your mouth to protest when Jack tugs you into bed. “Who’s the doctor here?”
“I thought I was the doctor?” you whisper, crawling over him.
“Well then you’d know…” You frown, settling into bed next to him, keeping a cautious distance because even though you loved Jack, you were not getting sick right now.
“Know what?”
Jack is silent.
You look over at him, repeating your question. But he’s out again, one hand resting in between your bodies. You just shake your head, taking his hand gently into yours and pressing a kiss across his knuckles.
He always demands asks for the OR that you're assigned to and paid for the best, most comfortable chair for you. He also got you the best compression socks money can buy.
Like 90% of the songs in his operating playlist were chosen with you in mind and when pretends he doesn't notice when the he gets side-eyed by the others in the OR
He knows what you like to bring in to keep you occupied during long surgeries so he makes sure to keep extras on hand (you bring your laptop/ipad? he has like 10 portable chargers in his drawer. sudoku/crossword/word search/puzzle books? he has a dedicated shelf in his office for just those)
Always treats you with the utmost respect both in and out of the operating room and if he so much as hears that another surgeon didn't treat you right (read: didn't worship the ground you walk on), let's just say that The Shark will be out for blood.
as a writer, it’s very important that you know this: whenever you tell yourself “this will only be one-chapter-long” that is a lie. your brain is lying to you. it won’t, in fact, be just a short one-shot
summary: The thing about Logan is that he always knew what to say. He just kept finding reasons not to say it.
or: the five times Logan almost confessed and the one time he did.
notes: hii!! lazy sunday inspiration, this one is like sabrina short and sweet, hope you guys like it! enjoy your reading!!
warnings: childhood friends to lovers, fluff, happy ending.
word count: 4k
I've been afraid of changing because I've built my life around you
You had met Logan at a rink.
This was, in retrospect, the most inevitable thing about you, that two people who had built their entire lives around ice would find each other on it. You had been eleven, in the middle of a spin sequence that wasn't working, frustrated enough that you had stopped and put your hands on your hips and glared at the ice like it had personally wronged you. He had been eleven too, sitting in the penalty box with his helmet off, watching you with the focused attention of someone who had forgotten he was supposed to be somewhere else.
"Your left shoulder drops," he said.
You had looked at the penalty box. At the boy in it. At the hockey gear he was still wearing.
"Did I ask?" you said.
"No," he said. "But it does."
You had glared at him for a long moment. Then you had tried the sequence again with your left shoulder deliberately up and it had been better. Significantly better.
You had not told him that.
You had skated to the boards and looked at him.
"Why are you in the penalty box?" you said.
"Coach," he said, simply.
"What did you do."
"Argued a call."
"Was the call wrong?"
"Obviously," he said.
You had looked at him for another long moment.
"I'm (Y/N)," you said.
"Logan," he said.
Ten years later you were still talking.
one — the competition february, sophomore year
The thing about watching you skate was that it was completely impossible to be indifferent to.
Logan had been to enough of your competitions by now that he had developed what he privately considered a professional appreciation for figure skating, he understood the technical elements, the edge work, the difference between a clean landing and one that cost points. He had opinions about judging. He had once gotten into a fifteen-minute argument with Tucker about the scoring system.
He was, in other words, not watching you the way a normal person watched figure skating.
He was watching you the way he had been watching you for approximately five years without doing anything about it, which was with focused attention of someone who had accidentally learned the exact shape of their own feelings by observing them in a controlled environment and then never done anything with the information.
You were in the middle of your free skate program.
The arena was quiet, something that happen only when a competition in progress, a few hundred people all holding the same breath and you were in the center of the ice in a deep red costume that caught the light when you moved, and you were moving the way you always moved when you were doing this properly, like you were constantly sure of all the decisions and it was up to everyone else to accept it.
The triple axel was coming. Logan knew your program better than his own game tape.
He watched your set up for it and then you were in the air and rotating and landing clean, one blade, no stumble, the crowd exhaling around him in something close to relief.
Logan exhaled too.
You finished the program and stood in the center of the ice with your arms out and your chest heaving and your face doing something close to relief and the thin line with triumph.
He knew that face. He had photographs of that face going back five years.
Logan was completely gone.
After the scores were posted — first place, which was not a surprise to anyone who had been paying attention — Logan found you in the corridor outside the changing rooms, still in the costume, skates exchanged for boots, medal around your neck that you kept touching like making sure it was real.
You saw him and couldn't help but to smile.
"You came," you said.
"I always come," he said.
"I know." You were smiling the real one, not the competition smile, not the public smile. "How was the axel?"
"Perfect," he said. "Clean landing, good height, the rotation was exactly right."
"You sound like my coach."
"Your coach is correct."
You laughed and walked toward him and he opened his arms because that was what happened after competitions you walked into them and he held on and you smelled like the rink and some body lotion that he has been trying to steal for a long time, he had his chin on top of your head and everything was exactly the same as it always was.
Except that his heart was doing something extremely inconvenient.
"I have something to tell you," he said, into your hair.
"Mm?" You didn't move.
He had the words right there. Had been carrying them for approximately two years, which was when he had stopped being able to pretend to himself that what he felt was just friendship, had been practiced and ready and —
"You dropped your left shoulder in the step sequence," he said. "Third section. It cost you."
You pulled back and looked at him. "You can not be serious right now, Johnny."
"It's a small thing, but —"
"I just won," she said.
"I know. You also dropped your shoulder."
You stared at him for a long moment with a watchful expression.
"I hate you," you said.
"No you don't," he said.
"Maybe I do" you looked at him "No I don't," you confirmed.
You took his hand and pulled him toward the exit to find the others, and Logan walked behind you and thought about what he had almost said and hadn't. Logan had decided for once, to store away this information, maybe soon would come in handy.
two — the lazy day april, sophomore year
It was a Sunday in April, a Sunday that had decided to be warm for the first time all year, and you were lying on the floor of Logan's room with your legs up on his bed because the floor was cooler than the bed and you had been at the rink since six in the morning and every single part of you ached.
Logan was on the bed, technically reading something for class, practically staring at the ceiling.
You had been in this exact configuration approximately four hundred times over ten years. The comfortable silence of two people who had run out of things to say and were fine with that.
"My coach wants me to change the music for nationals," you said, to the ceiling.
"What's wrong with the current music?"
"She says it doesn't show enough range."
"What does she want instead?"
"Something more emotional apparently." You paused. "She used the word vulnerable which made me want to scream."
Logan made a sound that meant he was listening.
"I'm not un-vulnerable," you said. "I'm just — I show it differently."
"You show it on the ice," Logan said. "Anyone paying attention can see it."
You turned your head to look at him. He was still looking at the ceiling.
"That's a nice thing to say," you said.
"It's a true thing to say." He turned his head and looked at you. From this angle, floor to bed, you were looking at each other sideways, and there was something about the afternoon light coming through the window that was doing something to his expression, making it more open than usual, less managed.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"About what."
He looked at you for a moment. The open expression doing something more complicated.
"About —" he started.
Your phone went off.
The ringtone you had assigned to your coach, which you had made deliberately annoying so you couldn't ignore it. You grabbed it off the floor and sat up and mouthed sorry at Logan and answered.
Your coach talked for eleven minutes about the music change.
When you hung up Logan was reading again, or pretending to, and the afternoon light had shifted, and whatever the moment had been it had passed.
"What were you thinking about?" you said.
"Nothing," he said. "Doesn't matter."
You looked at him for a second longer than necessary.
Then you put your legs back up on his bed and went back to staring at the ceiling.
three — the boys september, junior year
The thing about you was that you were, objectively, extremely easy to be around.
Dean had arrived at this conclusion independently and over time, through the accumulated evidence of approximately a year of you being at various team events and group hangs and spontaneous Malone's trips, and it was not a controversial conclusion, Tucker had said the same thing, Garrett had nodded in agreement.
You were funny and direct and had opinions and didn't perform interest you didn't have, which was rarer than it should have been. You also had the unselfconscious ease of someone who had been comfortable on a competitive stage since you were fourteen, which meant you walked into rooms the same way you walked onto ice like you had already decided you belonged there.
Dean had been thinking about this for approximately three weeks when he cornered Logan after practice.
"Your figure skater friend," he said.
Logan looked at him over his equipment bag. "Her name is (Y/N)."
"Is she single?"
The locker room continued around them. Tucker was unwrapping tape. Garrett was checking his phone. Nobody appeared to be paying particular attention.
Logan's jaw did something.
"Yeah," he said. "She's single."
"Nice." Dean leaned against the locker with the easy confidence of someone who had made a decision. "Do you think she'd be open to —"
"She's focused on skating," Logan said. "Nationals are in February. She doesn't have time for —"
"I'm not talking about anything serious," Dean said. "Just —"
"She's busy," Logan said.
Dean looked at him.
Logan looked at his equipment bag.
"Sure," Dean said, slowly. "Right. Busy." A pause. "You sure you don't have a —"
"She's my best friend," Logan said. "Can you just — not."
Dean looked at him for a long moment with the expression of someone doing math.
"Okay," he said. "Sure."
He went back to his own locker.
Tucker caught his eye across the room and raised his eyebrows. Dean gave the smallest possible shrug, which in their particular shorthand meant: you are seeing what you think you're seeing.
Tucker looked at the ceiling briefly and then went back to his tape.
Logan texted you that night.
logan: what are you doing
yn: stretching. my hip flexors are staging a revolt. what's up
logan: nothing. just checking in
yn: at 10pm on a tuesday
logan: is that suspicious
yn: a little
logan: go stretch your hip flexors
yn: i am. you could come over and suffer with me
A pause. Longer than usual.
logan: be there in twenty
He showed up with food and sat on your floor and watched you stretch with the expression he sometimes had when he was thinking about something he wasn't saying. You didn't push. You had learned, over ten years, the difference between Logan processing something and Logan ready to talk about it.
You stretched your hip flexors.
He was quiet beside you.
It was, somehow, exactly enough.
four — the party november, junior year
Hannah had a very simple theory about Logan and you that she had shared with Allie approximately four months ago and had been collecting evidence for ever since.
The theory was: you were both completely in love with each other and were going to keep not doing anything about it until one of them finally cracked or they both graduated and went their separate ways, which would be a tragedy.
Allie's theory was identical, arrived at independently, and they had spent four months running what amounted to a covert observation project with no intervention component because, as Allie had said, correctly , very time anyone said anything to Logan he went quiet and every time anyone said anything to you, you laughed and changed the subject, and the only thing that was going to fix this was one of them actually doing something.
The party was in November, someone's house, the kind that happened naturally when enough people were in the same place with nothing specific to do. Allie and Hannah had come together. Logan and you had come separately and found each other within four minutes, which was, Hannah noted, always how it went.
You were in the corner of the living room now, in the configuration you always occupied at parties, close enough that yourshoulders touched, talking in the way you talked when you were somewhere loud, which was slightly lower and slightly more direct, leaning in.
"He's doing it again," Hannah said.
Allie, beside her, followed her eyeline. "The shoulder thing."
"He always does the shoulder thing when he's about to say something."
They watched. Across the room, Logan's shoulder had indeed done the thing, a slight forward tilt, the specific posture of someone turning toward something rather than standing beside it.
You were looking up at him with the expression you had when you were actually listening to someone, which was different from your polite listening expression and your processing expression and was reserved for maybe three people in your life.
"He's going to do it," Hannah said.
"He's not going to do it," Allie said.
"He's leaning in —"
"He never does it."
"There's always a first time —"
Someone across the room called Logan's name. Loudly. Urgently. Something about a game in the kitchen that required his participation immediately.
Logan closed his eyes very briefly.
Then he straightened up and said something to you — one second probably, or back in a minute — and went toward the kitchen.
You watched him go with an expression that lasted approximately two seconds before you reorganized it into something neutral.
Allie looked at Hannah.
Hannah looked at Allie.
"I'm going to lose my mind," Hannah said.
"Same," said Allie.
They looked at each other.
"We're not intervening," Allie said.
"We're absolutely not intervening," Hannah agreed.
They watched you drift toward the snack table looking slightly like someone who had been about to hear something and hadn't.
"We're not intervening," Allie said again, more firmly.
"Right," said Hannah. "Definitely not."
allie: okay so
hannah: i KNOW
allie: the shoulder thing
hannah: and her FACE when he left
allie: someone needs to do something
hannah: we said we weren't intervening
allie: i know what we said
hannah: allie
allie: i'm just saying
hannah: we are not telling them
allie: fine
hannah: fine
allie: ...fine
hannah: goodnight allie
allie: if they're still doing this at graduation i'm saying something
hannah: GOODNIGHT ALLIE
five — the almost january, senior year
You found out about the Dean thing entirely by accident.
You had been in the kitchen at the off campus house, making tea because it was January and you were cold and your coach had banned coffee during competition prep, and Tucker had come in and started making a sandwich and you had been coexisting peacefully until Tucker said, entirely unprompted and clearly without thinking:
"By the way, for what it's worth, I told Dean not to."
You looked at him. "Told Dean not to what."
Tucker looked at his sandwich. Then at you. Then at his sandwich again with the expression of someone who had realized, too late, that they had said something.
"Ask about you," he said finally. "Like — ask Logan if he could pursue you. I told him it was a bad idea."
You put down your tea.
"Dean asked Logan if he could pursue me," you said.
"Back in September. Logan said you were busy with skating." Tucker picked up his sandwich. "Which was — I mean, you are busy. But also —" he stopped. "I probably shouldn't have said anything."
"Probably," you said.
Tucker took a bite of his sandwich and left the kitchen with the energy of someone removing themselves from a situation.
You stood at the counter with your tea and thought about September and Logan showing up at your apartment at ten on a Tuesday for no reason, sitting on your floor, being quiet beside you in a way that had felt like something without ever becoming something.
She's busy, he had apparently said.
You looked at the doorway Tucker had disappeared through.
You looked at your tea.
Hm, you thought.
Logan found you twenty minutes later in the living room, already in his jacket, apparently on his way out.
"Hey," he said. "You good?"
"Fine," you said. "Where are you going?"
"Skate rental shop. I need new laces." He paused. "Do you want to come? We can get food after."
You looked at him.
"Sure," you said.
You got your coat.
one — the one time he did january, senior year.
The skate rental shop was quiet on a January afternoon, the mundane warmth of a place that smelled like rubber and old equipment, and Logan found his laces in approximately four minutes and then stood in the aisle for another ten not moving, which you had learned to recognize as Logan making up his mind about something.
You looked at a display of blade covers that you did not need.
"Tucker told me," you said, to the blade covers.
A pause.
"Told you what," Logan said.
"About Dean. In September."
The aisle was very quiet.
"She's busy," you said. "That's what you said, apparently."
Another pause. Longer.
"You were," Logan said. "You were in nationals prep."
"Logan."
"What."
You turned to look at him. He was looking at the laces in his hands with the expression he got when he was trying to decide something and hating that he had to decide it.
"Why did you say she's busy," you said. "Instead of — anything else."
He looked up. His jaw did the thing.
"Because," he started.
"Because why."
He looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention, except you were paying attention and he knew it and he still wasn't looking away.
"Because it's you," he said. "And I couldn't just — I didn't want Dean to —" he stopped. Started again. "I didn't want anyone to."
The skate rental shop was very quiet.
"Okay," you said.
"Okay?" he said.
"That's — I needed to know that." You looked at the blade covers. You looked at him. "I also needed you to know that I'm not busy. I mean — I am. But I'm not. Not for — not for this."
Logan looked at you for a long moment.
"Not for this," he repeated.
"Not for you," you said, which was the more honest version, which you had decided to say because you were twenty-two and you had been doing this for five years and Tucker had accidentally said something in a kitchen and it was January and you were tired of not saying things.
The laces in Logan's hands had been thoroughly analyzed.
He put them back on the shelf.
"I was going to tell you after your competition," he said. "In February. Your sophomore year."
"You talked about my shoulder."
"I know," he said. "I know I did."
"And on the Sunday in April —"
"Your coach called."
"And at the party in November —"
"Dean," he said, simply, and you almost laughed.
"Five times," you said.
"Probably more," he said. "I stopped counting."
You looked at him. This person who had been in the penalty box when you were eleven and had told you your shoulder dropped and had come to every competition and had stood in a locker room in September and said she's busy when what he meant was something else entirely.
"So say it now," you said. "We're in a skate rental shop in January. There's nobody here. Say it now."
Logan looked at you.
"I love you," he said. Not dramatically just simply, the way he said true things, like it was information that had been waiting a long time to be delivered and was relieved to finally arrive. "I've loved you since you told me I didn't ask and then tried the spin again anyway. I love you and I'm sorry it took me this long."
The blade covers blurred slightly.
You reached up and took the lapel of his jacket in your hand.
"You talked about my shoulder," you said.
"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."
"I'm going to bring that up for years."
"I know," he said. "I deserve that."
You pulled him down by the jacket.
He kissed you in the skate rental shop in January, between the blade covers and the laces display, with nobody watching and nothing to interrupt, and it was warm and unhurried and tasted like something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.
When you pulled back he had the expression you had been trying not to notice for five years — open and certain and entirely unmanaged.
"For the record," you said, "my shoulder doesn't drop anymore."
"It really doesn't," he said. "You've completely fixed it."
"I know," you said. "I'm very good."
He laughed and pulled you back in, and the skate rental shop continued to be entirely quiet around you, indifferent and perfect.
You told Allie and Hannah together, which was the only way to do it.
You had barely gotten the words out before Hannah made a sound that could only be described as vindicated, and Allie said I told you to Hannah at the same moment Hannah said I told you to Allie, and then they looked at each other and then at you and both started talking at the same time.
"The shoulder thing at the party —"
"In sophomore year when you called after the competition —"
"The thing in September with Dean —"
"We knew," Hannah said. "We have known for so long."
"How long," you said.
They looked at each other.
"Since the first time we saw you two in the same room," Allie said.
You looked at them. "And you didn't say anything?"
"We said we weren't going to intervene," Hannah said, with the dignity of someone honoring a commitment.
"You could have said something to me," you said.
"We said we weren't going to intervene," Allie said, equally dignified.
You looked at them both.
"I cannot believe," you said.
"You're welcome," they said, simultaneously.
Logan told the team at dinner.
Or rather, Dean asked where you were and Logan said she's coming later and Tucker said she's coming? is she — and Logan said yeah in the even tone that contained a lot of information, and Dean looked at Tucker and Tucker looked at Dean and Garrett looked at his food and the table continued exactly as it always had except that something had shifted in the specific, settled way of something that had always been heading here finally arriving.
When you got there Logan moved over without being asked and you sat beside him and his shoulder was warm against yours and everything was exactly the same as it had always been.
Except that his hand found yours under the table.
And this time he didn't let go.
allie: so
hannah: SO
allie: we called it
hannah: from the beginning
allie: the penalty box story is the most romantic thing i have ever heard
