౨ৎ the night before valentine’s day, you decided to send out a form to every single crush you had for a youtube video. now you wake up to 4 new answers! who will be your valentine’s this year?
contents svt hhu x youtuber!reader, reader is gn, smau (youtube & texts), romance, comedy, light profanities, reader is a faceless youtuber :3 (bonbonribbon as a fc)
from rianca, cliffhanger rhin strikes back again !!!! this is my part for the k-records’ love letters i can’t send event. yes i only came back to write something for this event…
౨ৎ the night before valentine’s day, you decided to send out a form to every single crush you had for a youtube video. now you wake up to 4 new answers! who will be your valentine’s this year?
contents svt hhu x youtuber!reader, reader is gn, smau (youtube & texts), romance, comedy, light profanities, reader is a faceless youtuber :3 (bonbonribbon as a fc)
from rianca, cliffhanger rhin strikes back again !!!! this is my part for the k-records’ love letters i can’t send event. yes i only came back to write something for this event…
from rianca, i made this without anyone’s bday in mind. it’s not even my bday today.. i’m born in march… also thanks to soph for the inspo from her cortis ex texts !!
heian!sukuna reclines on one elbow, palm cupping his cheek in a posture of idle sovereignty. the persimmon rests heavy in his palm, its skin burnished and taut, autumn condensed into a single globe. his thumb digs in, and it opens like a wound, trickling over his fingers in viscous rivulets, staining the creases of his palms. ruby red eyes regard it with dispassion, as he has watched blood do the same.
the scent blooms at once—honeyed, almost fermenting. its lush interior a glistening mass of pulp. fibres stretch as he prises it apart. the gore reminds him of a human heart. he has torn out plenty of those.
(love is an inane thing. an affliction. unbecoming of a man who has torn villages apart with these same hands.)
sukuna lifts a segment between his fingers and brings it to your mouth, an intimacy that would scandalise any courtier foolish enough to witness it. the pad of his thumb guides your lips open. juice spills, tracing a sticky amber line down your chin. before you can lift your own hand, he swipes a finger beneath your chin. you smile at him then, tilting your head so that your face is now nestled comfortably against his perlicue.
if this is what it feels like to give one’s heart—
ridiculous, he thinks, to feel as though he is the one being fed. in offering you a morsel of sweetness, the king of curses has placed something vital and beating into your keeping.
♡ synopsis: what begins as a good day with a service dog visiting the pitt because it's still in training nearly ends with you being admitted as you spiral during a horrible panic attack outside, due to believing that you're going to soon be without a place to live. until jack rectifies the situation.
♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, reader has a panic attack, a sweet doggy, jealous robby (i am truly a slut for it), abbot coming to the rescue in every way he can
♡ a/n: requested by @styx03, ty!
A service dog has been brought in by a trainer to grace the Pitt today. A friendly golden retriever with an endlessly wagging tail and shimmering flaxen coat. Its purpose being, you've been told, to aid an individual with chronic anxiety and panic attacks once she's been deemed fit for service. Being an ED, one may wonder why it would be allowed in such a place, hectic as it is. But that's precisely the reason: so she can become accustomed to true chaos, as opposed to that of the simulated kind. Because while such a setting may send its owner into a spiral, Honey—that's her adorable name—will need to otherwise remain vigilant.
A soft paw plants itself atop your lap, causing the corner of your mouth to twitch.
"I'm trying to chart, girl," you say quietly while giving her a scratch on the head.
Once Honey has dropped her paw, your leg goes back to bouncing at the speed of light. Compulsive habit. Like a subconscious tick that can't be helped.
You've only gotten halfway through your current patient's workup before the paw returns.
"Yes," you mutter. "I have anxiety. No one is more aware than I am."
Especially now. Last week saw your world upended when you received a notice from your landlord via email that starting a month from now, your rent is to be raised another $250 more per month. A cost you cannot feasibly pay without plunging your bank account into the negative, which will only serve to harm you further when they proceed to then hit you with an overdraft fee.
You'd tried talking to your landlord over the phone during your break that same day, desperate to stop your downward spiral as you envisioned yourself living out of the back of your vehicle and freezing to death in it come winter, but they wouldn't budge. Not an inch. "Cost of upkeep in this economy" had been the bullshit line they fed you.
So in every spare moment you've had, you've been scouring the internet, and even the damn newspapers, for cheaper apartment postings.
You've found one which is hopeful. Not exactly in the best part of town, but only a hundred more than what you're currently paying now. Yes, you're already on a shoestring budget, and such an extra cost will leave you with no money left over whatsoever after pay day, but at least you'll have four walls and a roof over your head.
Honey lifts her paw, then pats your thigh once more.
You roll your eyes.
You think it sweet that she's here, but her presence beside you is only serving to distract, if not overstimulate. Attempting to concentrate in such loud and busy environs is bad enough, but being continually touched by a panting dog on top of it all is about to see you lock yourself in the women's restroom for a bit of peace and quiet.
"Think somebody is trying to tell you that it's time to take a break," remarks her handler, Joyce. She left Honey with you when she went off to the restroom herself just a moment ago.
"Can barely afford to take our scheduled ones around here," you reply. "Taking an extra just because she wants me to is sort of out of the question. But I appreciate the concern."
You never look up from your desktop when you reply.
Honey lies her head in your lap and you shake your own while biting back a smirk. Something is oddly comical about her behavior. Meanwhile, she probably finds your own perplexing. Or maybe distressing in that she probably feels like she's failing at her job to calm you.
"Sorry," you mumble. "But I really do need to get this done, Honey."
Your chest has grown impossibly tight and the breath in your lungs short. With a weakened grip, you keep your cellphone pressed to your ear. "Please," you choke. "I'm begging you. Time is running out at my current residence and I can't afford—"
"I truly am sorry, miss, but the decision was made by those well above myself."
Your chin wobbles. "I'll be homeless," you whisper. "And if the police decide one day to impound my car because they don't want me living out of it, I'll be on the streets."
From inside the Pitt, Honey sits patiently at Joyce's side—her wagging tail practically sweeping the floor around her as it oscillates from one side to the other. Then her head suddenly turns toward the glass doors which lead to the ambulance bay. She stands at alert, then tugs against her lead.
Joyce glances behind her, but the path between where they stand, and where the doors are located is clear. No patients are currently in the way.
Shrugging, she returns to her conversation with Javadi.
Honey tugs again in earnest, then barks.
Robby swiftly exits the exam room he's only just relocated a patient to and shakes his head while converging on Joyce. "Uh huh. We can't have any of that. PTMC is doing you a favor by letting you bring her here today, but—"
Joyce narrows her eyes at the glass doors, ignoring his directives to remove Honey from the ED before she causes a scene. Nodding her head toward them, she turns to him. "I'm going to check if someone is out there. She's after something."
"Probably dinner," Santos mutters from behind the nurse's station.
Barely dodging a supply cart, Jack wraps his stethoscope around his neck, speaking to Robby as he steps past. "130/95. Diastolic especially is way too high. He did say tachycardia is normal for him, but I still want to try and get his pulse down, too."
Nodding, Robby jerks his head toward the ambulance bay while pulling on a pair of sterile gloves. "Joyce seems to think somebody's out there. Can you—or just anybody—go and check before that dog eats a hole through the ED's walls?"
"On it," Jack quips while heading that direction.
Clutching at your chest, your phone slips from your grasp and clatters against the ground. Great. What if you just broke the screen? You certainly can't afford that now. You can't afford anything. You're going to be unhoused soon. That is the priority: keeping a roof over your head.
You'll lose your job here when you can no longer afford the gas to get you back and forth from... Whichever Walmart parking lot you decide to camp out in at night, you realize. And if someone breaks into what will be your new makeshift home? Where...where will you keep your belongings that you currently own? Your furniture? It took you years to accumulate it all, only to what? Sell it?
No, no, no. This can't be happening.
You double over and gasp for breath, but none is to be found.
You're having a heart attack! Oh God, how will you pay the bills? You can't let anyone see. It'll pass. It has to—
"Y/N!" Jack shouts, rushing out to meet you. Crouching in front of where you sit atop the half wall outside—balancing only on the balls of his feet—he reaches up and takes your face between his hands, forcing your focus to remain upon him, and him alone. "Tell me where it hurts."
Clutching at your shirt, you pat between your breasts. "Can't breathe," you wheeze.
Swiftly removing his stethoscope from round his neck, Jack situates the apparatus in his ears before pressing the chestpiece to your heart.
You grip his shoulder in an attempt to keep yourself upright and alert. Sweat pours from your forehead while your limbs begin to grow numb and tingly. Just stay conscious, you command yourself.
Draping it back around his neck, Jack returns to keeping a firm hold on you. "Your heartrate is elevated, but I don't hear anything which gives me cause for alarm."
Pushing down on his knees, he stands with a groan before seating himself beside you. Jack swings his leg over the side of the wall before settling a palm against your breastbone and the other at the small of your back. "Honey was starting to lose it in there, so I'm assuming that it's a panic attack. But about what?"
Slapping your hand over his, you dig your nails into the back of his hand. Loosing a ragged gasp, you shake your head. "I'm going to be fucking homeless," you spit, slowly coming back to yourself.
Jack's brows knit together. "What? Are you being evicted, or—"
You shake your head in exasperation. "My landlord is upping the cost of my rent, which I can't afford. I thought—" You fight against an ugly sob which wrestles its way up your constricted throat. "I thought that maybe I had found another apartment, but I just got off the phone with their office. They chose somebody else."
Staring at him through blurry eyes, your hand slips away and plops uselessly into your lap. "I don't...know if I'll be able to keep working here."
Jack rests his hand atop yours, gripping it sternly. "I'm not gonna let that happen."
Rolling your eyes in irritation—not necessarily at him, but rather from the dire situation you now find yourself in, which has surpassed making you panic to instead set your blood to boiling—you stand. "There's nothing you can do," you state while standing and brushing debris from the back of your pants.
You feel as if you skipped a couple steps in the five stages of losing your place of living as you finally accept defeat.
There's something sickly freeing about the thought of it, though: not having an apartment or job or any other form of responsibility to tend to.
Perhaps you've gone off the deep end.
"I have a spare room," Jack says reassuringly while running a calloused hand down your arm. "Only use I've made of it is throwing boxes inside that I should've really taken down to the basement instead."
He grins. "I got lazy. Stopped bothering with going downstairs." Jack shrugs. "Old knees, and with my leg it can be a pain in the ass."
A pang of sympathy spreads through you. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "But I can't. Living with my attending..." It's unthinkable: the prospect of sharing a home and common living spaces with him. Such as a fridge. And a bathroom.
Your eyes flit to his, then immediately away. Oh, do not picture him washing up in a steamy shower. You have bigger fish to fry right now.
"I'm not asking," Jack declares with a shake of his head. "You need a home and I have one to provide. You're going to let me be that for you. End of discussion."
You open your mouth to rebut, until he takes a step forward, crosses his arms, and stands at full height, forcing you to lean your head back to meet his eyes. "Don't argue with me." He jerks his head toward the Pitt. "Get your ass back inside." He smiles softly. "Honey's probably looking for you. Had her worried, you know?"
Lowering your shoulders in defeat—but with an unspoken, blossoming sense of appreciation growing in your chest, superseding the panic you'd felt just moments ago which Jack has now calmed—you obey.
Robby steps forward, flipping the stop switch on the elevator, halting the metal box in its tracks between floors. He waits until the annoying ringing overhead ceases before speaking. "You can't do this, Jack. It's unethical."
Grinding his teeth, Jack counts backwards from ten before replying. "And letting her live out of her car, or on the streets, or under a fucking bridge isn't?" He snaps from over his shoulder.
Robby leans back against the wall to Jack's side and slides his hands in his pockets. "That's not what I'm saying—"
Jack pivots on his heel to face him. "What are you saying then, Robby? Enlighten me."
He raises a brow. He never thought he'd ever see Abbot so testy, and over one of his subordinates, at that. "You're putting yourself at risk of scrutiny. And every time she climbs another rung in this place, everybody is going to assume it's because she's warming your damn bed."
Jack chews the inside of his lip. "What is this really about?"
Robby's brows draw together. "I don't know what you—"
"Ever since I told you, you've been avoiding me. When we do talk it's short—straight to the point. No more bullshitting or—"
"Because I'm trying to do my fucking job, Abbot. I don't always have time to stand around gossiping," he shoots back with vehemence
"Oh, Abbot now, is it?" He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I can't believe we're actually fucking arguing about this," he mumbles before lifting his head again. "This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the way you feel about her."
Robby opens his mouth to retort, until Jack lifts a hand before slapping it down on his opposite one again. "I see the way you look at her. How you favor her." He chuckles, but it's devoid of humor. "I get it, because I do the same damn thing. It's why I think this entire conversation is stemming from a sense of resentment on your end."
"Resentment?" Robby scoffs with a humorless grin.
"That you didn't go out there instead to check on her. If you had, maybe it'd be your house she's moving into instead."
Robby snaps his mouth shut and glowers at Jack—all but confirming that he's laid bare what Robby has been trying so hard to hide.
He flips the switch back into place, and with a soft jolt, the elevator begins moving again.
Once they've reached the Pitt, Robby brushes past him. "Just trying to look out for you both. But you do what you want."
Standing at the threshold of your new bedroom—Jack even went so far as to give it a fresh new coat of paint; a rather pleasant color which you picked out, in fact—your eyes water.
Jack pads toward you from behind, then wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you against him until his chest is flush against your back. "Think we did an alright job?"
You trail your eyes along your newly situated furniture, appreciating the way soft afternoon light streams in from the floor-length window across the room before spilling across your fluffy duvet. You nod softly. "I do."
He gives you a peck on the back of your head, ignoring the way Robby's voice rings true in his head. Ignoring how...his reasons for moving you into his home and fully into his life weren't entirely selfless.
He steps back and releases you before turning to head in the direction of the kitchen. "I get any luckier and one day I'll have you saying that under an entirely different context."
Your brows furrow as you stare at the rug at the foot of your bed, wondering what he could mean— Oh.
Turning and facing the way which he's heading, you stare at his back with wide eyes, stemming from a complete sense of shock. "Wait. What?"
He chuckles while rounding a corner. "You heard me."
♡ synopsis: after catching you on tinder at work, jack puts himself on a mission to get you off of the obnoxious app & into a meaningful relationship with him instead before it's too late. learning you've never so much as been on a date before & are doubtful about ever finding someone worthwhile, he expends every effort to win you over.
♡ content: jealous!jack, jack treats you to dinner on the roof, buys you flowers, spoils you with attention etc, fingering, dacryphilia (kinda), pet names, teasing, flirting
♡ a/n: based off this request, ty!
With forearms planted atop the back of the office chair you occupy, Santos peers over your shoulder as you swipe left.
And left.
And left.
And—
"Oh, he's cute," she remarks.
Looking up from the rolling computer cart Jack stands at, he eyes the two of you from over the rim of his glasses.
Pushing the phone back in her direction for a closer look, you half turn toward her with a raised brow.
"I was talking about the dog," Trinity explains.
You roll your eyes, then swipe again.
"Honestly, you'd have a better time picking up a guy from Chairs than Tinder. Least that way you can test him for drugs and STDs before taking him home like a stray." After drumming her hands against the back of your seat, she steps away.
"Hey!" Jack calls from a few feet away.
Your head jerks up.
Stalking over to the nurse's station, he plants his hands on his hips. "Get off the phone. No more...Tindering," he spits.
You blink twice, then lock the device before storing it away in your pocket. "Sorry," you mumble, now humiliated.
"Look at me," he commands.
You do as instructed and shrink beneath his authoritative gaze.
Jack leans forward. "I catch you on it again, and I'm taking it away. Understood?"
You nod before dropping your chin in shame.
"Only man you should be giving your attention to is me: your attending," he grumbles.
You shift uncomfortably, praying he'll soon walk away in search of someone else to berate instead.
"C'mon, follow me. Time for you to put your hands to uses other than clicking through your Tinder."
Your shoulders slump, but you nevertheless rise and follow his lead.
Once you've finished wrapping the forehead of a ten-year-old girl in soft white gauze who was nothing short of a trooper while you administered seven stitches, due to a nasty skateboarding accident, you grant her a smile. "You were so brave today. But don't hesitate to tell your parents if your head starts hurting, alright? I'm going to give them some medicine to take home just incase."
A concussion was the first thing Diaz ruled out when she was brought back, thankfully.
The girl nods and sends slick black curls bouncing from the motion. "Okay."
You grin, then turn to look at Abbot.
Bumping the back of your head against his abdomen because he's standing that close to you, you mutter a quiet apology.
"Somethin' you need?" Jack asks while uncrossing his arms.
"Yeah. Can you, uh... Get me the jar of suckers from the shelf behind you? And a roll of stickers, too?"
He nods before turning around to retrieve the requested items. "Sure."
Handing you the jar first, his fingers linger against the warmth of your palm. When you glance up to him with an inquisitive brow, he merely takes a small step back while nodding toward your adorable patient. "I'll give you the stickers next."
You blink, then return your attentions to her. "Alright, sweetie, which flavor?"
"You were good with her," Jack says while cupping his hand around the crown of your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze.
Ignoring the vibrating phone in your pocket, you smile softly. "Kids are easier, I think. Adults are the ones who think they know everything. Or just know better than us because they have a degree from Google University."
He snorts. "It's why cellphones are such a bad idea," he says matter-of-factly while shrugging casually.
You roll your eyes. "I promise to save my 'Tindering' only for breaks and after-hours," you reply while rounding a corner and heading in the direction of your computer so that you can get back to charting.
Sliding his hand from your shoulder to the small of your back, Jack's lips tug into a frown. "I mean, I don't exactly know a lot about it, but isn't that some kind of a hookup app?" He leans in close to your ear. "Where people go to get laid?" He whispers lowly.
It sends a shiver up your spine.
Breaking from his side, you make a beeline for your desktop. "It's...It's the most popular dating app there is, which is the only reason I'm on it. Not everyone uses it for...that, though." You flush. "Most men seem to," you complain with a frown. "But I have what I want outlined in my bio. Then again, that would require them to bother reading it."
You shake your head, then plop down in your seat and toss your phone face-down beside you.
Jack slides his forearms atop the counter in front of you. "Let me take a peek," he says with beckoning fingers.
You think you may fall out of your chair. "I—What? You wanna see my Tinder profile?" You ask incredulously.
He lays his palms face-up and shrugs before clasping them together. "I mean, I could give you a male opinion. Help you figure out why all you're catching are minnows instead of trout."
Your brows knit together. "Who... Who is the trout in this scenario?"
Leaning over the counter, he snatches away your phone. You make to grab for it in a panic, but promptly seat yourself again with the reassurance that he doesn't know your pin. Thus, no entry will be gained.
Wiggling from satisfaction from atop your chair, you roll forward.
A sobering expression crosses his face at the sight. Clearing his throat, Abbot pulls out his glasses and settles them atop the bridge of his nose.
You watch with amusement as he holds the phone at a distance to see properly before pulling up the lockscreen.
"Pin?" He questions while studying you.
You busy yourself with charting. "Never."
He considers for a moment, then turns the phone around to face you. He whistles to gain your attention. "Look here, sweetheart."
The moment you glance up, the home screen reveals itself. "Hey! That's cheating!" You shout while trying to swipe the device from his hands yet again.
"Never said I had any intention of playing fair," he drawls before thumbing through... You worry as to what he's looking at, actually. Like cutesy Pinterest boards dedicated to a dream wedding you'll probably never have.
"Not gonna find any dirty photos on here, am I?" He asks while pressing the screen with his index finger. Who uses digits other than their thumbs on touchscreens, anyway? Besides geriatrics.
Your face grows warm. "No!" You hiss. "Course not!"
He purses his lips. "Here's to hopin'."
Your jaw falls slightly open, and he chuckles.
"Just kidding." He continues searching for the app in question. "Or am I?" He mumbles. "I meant to ask, you ever considered going into peds?"
You pull up your recent patient's chart. "I have. It's just that... The day will inevitably come when a child in my care..." You swallow thickly. "Dies in my care," you finish. "I don't know if I can survive that."
Jack reaches forward and slides his index finger under your chin and tilts your head back until your eyes to meet his own. "That's going to happen if you stay in emergency care anyway, baby. You have to go where the heart calls."
He returns his hand to holding the side of your phone, leaving your skin tingling from the abandoned contact.
"Ah!" He exclaims. "Here we go. Tinder," he purrs.
You focus strictly on the computer screen ahead of you while sliding a hand over the back of your tensed-up neck.
Jack remains quiet for a moment and you peer at him covertly. You will never have your personal phone out while at work ever again from this day forward. Even for emergencies. The landlines provided will do just fine.
You watch as a corner of Jack's mouth twitches before verging into full-on smirking territory.
He's going to make fun of you, you can feel it.
And then he begins to swipe.
"W-what're you doing?"
"Trying to get rid of all these assholes," he mutters. "God, how long does it go on for?"
"I have my radius set pretty wide, so—"
He lowers his head and stares at you with wide eyes. "Your what?"
"R-Radius? Like, miles around me. If men are within the search radius—"
He rolls his eyes. "Got it."
Swipe, swipe, swipe.
You glower. "One of those could be my future husband, you know?"
He jeers. "What? These douchebags? Unlikely."
You've never seen him so irritable. Who peed in his Cheerios this afternoon?
With a sigh, he tosses it down beside you onto a stack of paperwork. "You're never going to find what you're looking for on there. I know you know this."
You swiftly shove the device in your pocket. "It's my only option. It's not like it was in the olden days when people met at the market, y'know?" You commentate a tad snidely. But if he's going to shame you for trying to find someone to love, then he deserves a bit of attitude in return.
It's none of his concern, anyway.
He chuckles. "How old do you think I am, honey?"
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Ancient."
Rounding the counter he occupies, Jack grips the back of your chair with one hand and the desk you sit at with the other. Leaning down, he brings himself level with your ear. "I read your little bio," he rumbles. "Looking for someone to settle down with," he quotes. "To start a life with, yada yada. Those are things a man provides." He slides his hand to the back of your neck. "All I saw were boys."
His fingers tugs gently at the base of your scalp. "You wanna meet someone the old-fashioned way? Take a long, hard look at what's in your immediate vicinity."
Jack steps back then and you loose a ragged breath in an attempt to calm your thready heart.
"Just remember what I said," he states while heading into Trauma 2. "I catch you on it again..." He sucks his teeth. "Probably be better if you just removed the temptation and delete the account altogether, you ask me."
He's practically fuming while slyly spying on you from across the parking lot—watching as you smile down at your phone with an index finger gently bit between your teeth.
It's like you're trying to set him off.
Happy-go-lucky guy that Abbot normally is, after today's whole Tinder fiasco, he found himself snapping at residents in the style of Robinavitch at every turn. He's meant to be the fun dad, and yet...
He tosses his bag in the backseat of his truck and cringes when the metal zipper clips the window. Not seeing a chip in the glass, however, he slams the door shut while shaking his head.
He keeps taking his piss-poor attitude out on his vehicle and he'll really have something to be ticked off about when it starts falling apart on the damn interstate.
He plants his palms atop the passenger seat and hangs his head between his shoulders. "Let it go, old man. You're too old for this shit," he mutters. "She's not interested. She's not interested. She's not—"
With a huff, he shuts the door before heading in your direction. "Hey, you hungry?"
Jack watches with a satiated look on his face as you munch on a basket of hot wings.
"It's really pretty up here," you say between hearty bites. "With all the lights. Quiet, too." Turning to face him, you begin wiping your hands with cheap napkins.
It's nothing fancy—the two of you are seated upon bare asphalt after all. But facing each other while making idle conversation is admittedly a lot nicer alternative to being stuck inside a noisy ED.
He chuckles and takes a sip of his beer.
"What?" You ask, sucking on a saucy finger.
A muscle in his jaw feathers. "You, uh, you've got some—"
Your hand flutters toward your face. When Jack scoots closer, you promptly drop it into your lap when he runs the pad of his thumb along the corner of your mouth.
"T-Thanks," you squeak before taking a pull from your water.
Leaning back against the railing behind him, Jack studies you for a moment. "You can do better than online dating."
Your eyes flit to his.
Holding his hands up, he continues. "I get it. It's just the way it is nowadays. But, sweetheart, the guys I saw on there?"
You interrupt him. Occupying yourself with a packet of wet-wipes, you start scrubbing at your hands. Otherwise you might just nibble them down to the bone the sauce was so yummy.
"I...I'm lonely," you whisper. "And I feel like I've fallen behind somehow." You worry your lower lip between your teeth. "I've never so much as been on a date before. There was just...never time. First, it was graduate from high school, then college, then an internship, now residency. After that, fellowship and—" You shake your head. "I told myself that once I was settled in my career and happy with my living arrangements is when I would put myself out there."
You sniffle while toying with your plastic water bottle, listening idly as the water sloshes around as you turn it one way, then the other. "I don't think I can wait that long. I don't want to. I want someone of my own to love. To call after I've had a bad day. Arms to fall asleep in, a chest to lay against when I feel scared. A body to come home to."
You shrug and wipe at yours eyes. "Then again, how many people do we work with—patients do we meet—who tell us the horror stories that are their relationships and marriages?" You frown. "Hardly makes commitment sound all that tempting."
Jack leans his head to the side, then cups your cheek in his palm. "That's why you don't settle for any less than someone who worships you. Who constantly thinks about you. Who'd kill to keep you safe."
A quiet click sounds at the back of your throat when you swallow.
He brushes his thumb along the apple of your cheek. "You've never been on a date?"
You shake your head.
He smiles softly, leans forward, then murmurs "What're we doing right now, then?" before pressing his lips to yours.
Jack never explicitly asked to enter into a relationship with you. Instead, it seems to be a decision he simply makes without warning.
On the one hand, it's so incredibly flattering to be desired by the Jack Abbot of all people. Of all men. Doctors, even. On the other, he's your attending. As well as someone who seems beyond comfortable in his own skin and abilities as a healer while you otherwise feel like you're stumbling through life.
You truly have no understanding of his decision.
There's nothing particularly special about you. You're not a young prodigy like Javadi, fast as a whip like Santos (not that he exactly seems like her type), as lovely as Mohan, or as intelligent as Mel.
The list goes on.
Maybe he's like all the rest, then? Just having fun while the iron is hot?
You dislike the thought.
It makes you feel cheap; pathetic; used.
It's why when at work...you sort of continue keeping your distance. At least initially.
Intent on hovering and crowding and smothering and touching you, however, Abbot is there nearly every time you turn around.
"I get that you're busy," he tells you one day—his hand sliding from your shoulder blade to your lower back; dangerously close to another body part. "But if you wanna keep playing hard to get even though you're already mine, then I'm happy to keep chasing."
And then he'd leaned close, bringing his lips to the shell of your ear. "Tell you the truth, the whole thing is giving my Viagra a run for its money."
Instead of it turning you on, as was clearly his intention, it'd only made you feel sick. Because you were right after all: he only saw you as a collection of parts to...objectify.
You had scurried away after, leaving him a bit perplexed.
It's only been a few days since the rooftop, so granted not much has happened thus far, but forcing yourself to have an awkward conversation with Jack where you innocently inquire What are we? feels out of the question. Not to mention humiliating. You're here to work, not star in a rom-com.
Whatever he's after, he clearly needs to start looking elsewhere.
But instead of being a damn adult about the entire ordeal and pulling him aside to talk like grown-ups...you sort of latch onto Robby instead. Not in a flirtatious sort of way. Just as a mentor and mentee one. By otherwise being occupied with learning from him, maybe Jack will move on? Grow bored? As much is inevitable, you figure.
When Jack stumbles across you all but pressed against Robby's side in Trauma 4 one day, however, it's like the pin in a grenade is pulled. All that's left is to release the lever.
He never took you for a tease, but he'll be damned if he's not going to mark his territory as a last resort before throwing in the towel.
Entering the Pitt Friday evening, you're greeted by a vision. A lovely floral arrangement sits atop the nurse's station in a crystal vase; its blooms sprouting in every direction.
You smile at Dana while walking past. "Looks like Benji is quite the romantic."
"Not for me, doll. Had to sign for 'em, but they're for you."
Halting in your tracks—causing your tennis shoes to squeak against the polished tile floor beneath you—you turn and pad over to it. Plucking the enclosure card from the plastic cardette, you read it over.
Meet me where I made you mine. — J
You glance up to Dana who throws a hand up while dialing the phone in front of her with the other. "Didn't read it. Hand to God, kid."
"Could you...keep this here for me until the end of my shift?"
Sliding it back toward herself, she nods. "You got it."
"We couldn't have done this downstairs?"
Standing just behind the railing positioned at the edge of the rooftop, Jack turns back to you with folded arms. "Felt like this should be a private conversation," he replies while stepping unsteadily toward you.
Perhaps his leg is giving him fits tonight.
Matching his strides, you meet him halfway.
He remains silent, with a thoughtful look etched upon his face. "Am I just not what you're looking for, then?"
Your brows furrow as you bat your lashes. "What?"
He huffs. "You've barely spoken to me in the last week, sweetheart. I'm getting mixed signals. You put on your Tinder," he says with an upwards wave of his hand, "that you want essentially the same things that I do. But I try to get close—give you my attention—and you glue your ass to Robby's side instead."
You open your mouth to speak, only to shut it a moment later as he continues.
"Look, I get it. I've been out of the game for awhile, so maybe I don't really know what goes nowadays. I tried giving you attention and that backfired. I flirted and I got the same result. So now I'm going old-fashioned with flowers and clandestine meetings on rooftops. I just—" he steps forward. "I need you to tell me whether to stay or go. Because the last thing I want is to make you feel uncomfortable. I'd thought we were together, but if you've changed your mind about commitment and settling down—"
"I haven't," you blurt out.
He quiets.
"You... You never asked me."
He raises a silver brow.
"To be...yours. I wasn't sure what we were. And I felt stupid at the idea of even asking. And then with the Viagra comment," you say with a flush. "It seemed like I was back to online dating, but in real life this time."
He hangs his head and sighs. "That's on me." He raises it. "I can have a peculiar sense of humor sometimes. Guess it gets even worse when I'm making a come-on."
Sliding his hand along the back of your neck, he holds you close. "I didn't think it needed saying after the night we were together up here. I just assumed we were on the same page. So I am truly sorry that I never bothered to ask if you wanted to be—" His mouth quirks to the side as he thinks. "Boyfriend and girlfriend are way too juvenile for me," he mumbles. "Partners, then."
He slides his hand to your shoulder. "Everything you listed is what I have to offer; what I want to give you."
You nervously rub at your arm. "I just didn't want to make assumptions."
He grins. "Too late."
Your eyes flit to his.
"I already did for the both of us, sweetheart. Listen, I'm not some kid on the internet throwing darts at a board until something sticks and I get a consolation prize out of it. I want you, and only you. I have since the day you were first assigned to me."
"Oh," you say, leaving your lips slightly parted.
"So," he begins while running a calloused palm down your arm before gripping your fingertips. Lifting them to his lips, he brushes a kiss along the back of your hand. "We're clear on what we're doing this time, then? That you belong to me and me alone, and I to you?"
You glance away while heat rushes to your cheeks.
You nod. "Yes, I think so."
He chuckles. "Good."
Jack wraps you in his arms and holds you firm against his chest. "Because if I see you with Robby again, I'm throwing my leg at him in the parking lot."
You cackle while burying your face in his chest and inhaling the calming, woodsy scent of his cologne.
It takes some adjusting to: being Jack's girl. From him assigning himself to being your designated driver to and from work, to cooking for you in the comfort of his well-stocked kitchen, to asking rather sheepishly if you'll rub his leg at night—what begins with butterflies and nervous laughter, ends in routine and comfortability.
The only excitement is at the ED. Because outside of it, you each share quiet nights in. Ones where you lie atop his chest on the couch while he watches TV... Or the one where he finally coaxes you out of your shirt and bra so that he can run his palms along the soft skin of your back.
He says it feels nice, since they can ache at times from arthritis.
The scratchy sensation makes your skin sing in the best of ways.
He seems rather pleased, after having moved you in before long, when you finally take liberty in using what's his, but for yourself. Like his t-shirts for sleeping in, his razor for shaving (men's are superior, you tell him), his truck for picking up groceries and his credit card to pay for them, and... Well... His stethoscope on the nights the two of you play doctor in the bedroom.
So, yes, physical intimacy is a facet of your relationship which does develop naturally in due time. And to his credit, Jack is endlessly patient with you as he teaches you all about it.
Insecurity about inexperience in every arena—sexual or otherwise—had certainly been of much concern to you. Perhaps he'd prefer someone who had familiarity with partnership, you'd worried. But he made clear that being able to claim you in every way there is stroked his masculine ego like nothing else.
And being the first to put hands on you...?
It doesn't take long for you to learn that you really enjoy extra attention being paid to your breasts, for example, when he laps at them with his tongue while his fingers explore the sopping folds between your legs. Gruffly, he says things which get you dripping with little effort applied: "That feel good, sweetheart?", "Spread your legs for me, baby.", "C'mere and lie back on the bed so that I can take your clothes off, angel."
You'd once asked shyly from atop your shared bed if he could please wear his dog tags during. With a grin, he muttered quietly "Yeah, honey, I can do that," before obliging your request.
As if he's Pavloved you, he sometimes teases even while at work just to get a rise out of you. Like when he seats himself next to you as you chart—sliding a palm along your inner thigh until it's right against your heat. Jack merely leaves it there, and smirks every time you make a typo.
Or when you do a job well done with a patient and he'll mutter "Good girl." before stepping away.
By the time the two of you get home, you're feral with want, and care little to none about waiting for his Viagra to kick in.
So, he typically makes use of his tongue instead until he's able to achieve manhood. He usually challenges himself in getting you to come twice on it before finally sinking his cock between your fluttering walls and kissing away your tears, you're that overstimulated from him rutting away between your thighs.
You'd been so afraid before—paranoid, even—of winding up in an unhealthy, and deeply unhappy relationship, but with all the love and tenderness he gives you, you can scarcely imagine ever wanting another.
Besides, Jack tells you that just the thought of you with someone else is likely to make his head explode. So, for better or worse, you're stuck with him.
You find that you're just fine with that fact. Especially at night when he holds your naked body close to his—his arms wrapped tightly around you—and as you drift off to sleep, he whispers how he's never letting you go now that he's found you.
You know what would've been an excellent storyline??? Robby coming back from his sabbatical and learning that Dr Samira "SlOw-Mo" Mohan is thriving under the supervision of an attending that doesn't talk down on her
in which dennis tries not to have a crush on his favorite co-worker. . .
co-worker!den — who swears he doesn’t have a crush on you. isn’t it his job as your co-worker to make sure you have a ride home even though he saw you pull in with santos? or when at a work outing, hold your drink while you go upstairs to make out with a guy who you’ll definitely forget about in the morning? of course it is. It’s simply apart of being a good co-worker. and if it wasn’t, he’s made it his job. he totally doesn’t mind getting the cuck allegations from ogilvie if he was doing it for you, or the snide remarks from trinity when trying to chart.
co-worker!den — who always has his ringer on for you, even if your do not disturb settings have been permanently set for everything and everyone. his phone automatically recognizes your contact as a priority messenger after a while.
co-worker!den — who absolutely keeps everything you’ve ever given him, even if you were slightly obligated to. birthday cards you’d definitely thrown into your cart absentmindedly and written a rushed ‘happy b-day’ inside moments before handing it to him. who runs his fingers over your sloppy handwriting on each card and plays every vinyl you’d lended him after he’d pressed too hard on repeat until every lyric is ingrained deep enough for him to hum out habitually when performing cpr.
co-worker!den — who memorizes almost every single one of your likes. coffee order he overhears you telling shen? in his notes app. favorite cake flavor being stupidly defended in the groupchat? already memorized and ready for your birthday. not that you asked him for any of it…ever. but it remains his standard. the constantly whispered ‘you really don’t have to do all of this denny’ and ‘you’re so thoughtful!’ practically forces him to continue keeping tabs on everything else you mention, or he manages to overhear. every little praise just keeps him running right back to you whenever you may need him. even if you never ask.
co-worker!den — when he finds you upset after a failed surgery, dennis gets upset too. perhaps even more than you originally were. he tries his hardest not to show it because he knows it's generally not helpful. at all.
co-worker!den — who is always trying to find ways to touch you. he swears internally he isn’t a pervert, but he can’t help taking advantage of some situations…only slightly! grazing his fingers against your middle as he takes the half-empty water bottle from your fingers, ‘accidentally’ rubbing his front against your scrubs-clothed ass as you both rush to sanitize after a surgery, grabbing your waist to get you out of the way in the busy lobby. anything to feel you closely.
co-worker!den — who loves it when you compliment how he looks, every little change to his haircut never goes unnoticed by you, and he absolutely revels in your praise. perhaps even more so than fact you even notice the changes in the first place. he forces himself to wake up hours prior to his shift and scroll endlessly on pinterest to dig up a new way he can gel his curls back on purpose now.
co-worker!den — who can simply never get enough of you.
soulmate first words au where Simon grew up with the words “oh my god, please, don’t.” plastered across his arm in dark black ink. since the moment he could read, he’d been terrified of what that meant. he’d heard those words from him mother enough times when his dad came home drunk and swinging fists towards anything that moved, he’d heard them in back alleys while undercover, some poor woman being groped by a man twice her size, and he’d even heard it once or twice from the poor fucker he’d put a bullet in after interrogations gone wrong. Every time he flinches, wondering if that was his one shot at something good he’d just killed in cold blood. Fitting, for a bastard like him, or so he told himself.
It wasn’t until a night off with the team in some sweaty, sticky bar that he runs into you. As much as he tries to ignore the girl on a shitty date who keeps pushing the man’s hands off her ass and fake laughing at his boring jokes, it grates at him for reasons he can quite grasp. Later, he’ll catch the tail end of a screaming match outside the bar. One that has your date storming off, and you sinking onto the grimy concrete in your nicest outfit. He’ll watch from the shadows, flicking the ash off a cigarette before finally saying, “Want me to kill him for ya?” and when your eyes shoot up to the stranger in disbelief he tacks on, “free of charge.”
He almost can’t make it out through your laughter, wet with lingering tears. “oh my god, please, don’t.” you chuckle, “i wouldn’t last a day in prison.” between the burning on his arm, exactly where those dreaded words are, and the way the air feels like it’s been punched straight from his lungs, simon can’t muster up a reply fast enough.
You, on the other hand, have a smile slowly forming as you rub your own burning mark. “Do you know how worried my parents were when they saw what this said? They put me in preemptive therapy and everything. Thought I’d end up in a gang or something.” The man reaches a hand out, offering to help you stand. “You’re not are you? In a gang I mean?”
Another puff of smoke leaves his lips in what you think might have been the beginning of a laugh. “No, military. Close enough, though.”
Dusting yourself off, you sneak a closer look at the shadowed stranger. your soulmate, a voice inside flutters with childish glee. “Well damn, there go all my mob wife aspirations.”
He sighs, and steps closer to you, just within the light of a flickering street lamp. Now, you can make out his features. Scars cover every inch of exposed skin, twisting and mangling what might have once been a fair face. Under your gaze, he waits cautiously, “Sorry to disappoint.” A double meaning you catch immediately.
You motion back to the bar the both of you had been in earlier, then close your fingers around his with a tug, “Make it up to me, then?”
i don’t know if you weite for other The Boys characters but if you do i would love something soft with A-Train. he has a rare moment of downtime and he and his partner can go out on the town and try to have a quiet date night. they both get dressed up nice and head out to their reservation at some fancy new restaurant… chaos ensues in one way or another.
obviously he’s one of the most popular recognizable people in america so those plans for a relaxing evening together go to shit. people asking for photos and generally not respecting Reggie or his partner. they end up just going back in early for the night, cuddling up with takeout and a movie.
i would live for this to be with a gender neutral reader if possible.
if you do write this, thank you so much!
- 🎠
a quiet night in.
notes : of course anon!!! this is such a sweet ask <3 summary: A-Train's attempt at a quiet dinner date is disrupted by fans, but he and his partner find comfort in each other, ending the night with takeout and a cozy movie at home. warnings: tooth rotting fluff, we love a train :')
The city lights sparkled like jewels, a kaleidoscope of colors reflecting off the skyscrapers as A-Train, or Reggie as you called him, stood beside you. Tonight, he wasn't the supe, the speedster, the face everyone knew. He was simply your Reggie, dressed in a tailored suit that hugged his athletic frame perfectly. You adjusted your outfit, feeling a bit nervous but excited about the night ahead.
Reggie had managed to carve out some rare downtime and the two of you were determined to make the most of it. Your reservation at one of the newest, fanciest restaurants in the city was the highlight of the week. As you both walked hand in hand towards the entrance, you could feel the stares and hear the murmurs.
"Isn't that A-Train?" "Oh my God, it's really him!"
Reggie squeezed your hand gently, a silent reassurance that he was here with you, for you. Inside, the ambiance was perfect—soft lighting, a gentle hum of conversation, and the aroma of exquisite cuisine wafting through the air. The maître d' led you to your table, and you both settled in, hoping for an uninterrupted evening.
But as soon as you sat down, the bubble of tranquility burst. A couple at a nearby table started whispering loudly, their excitement palpable. Soon, one brave soul approached.
“Hey, A-Train! Big fan, man. Can I get a picture?"
Reggie forced a polite smile, his eyes flicking to you apologetically. "Sure, just one," he said, standing up for the photo.
One photo turned into three, then five, then what felt like an endless stream of admirers. The restaurant, which had initially seemed a haven, transformed into a circus of flashing cameras and excited chatter. You watched Reggie try to balance his public persona with his desire to be with you, his frustration growing more visible with each intrusion.
After what felt like an eternity, the waiter finally brought your appetizers. You both tried to enjoy them, but the constant interruptions made it impossible to relax.
"Hey, man, could you sign this?"
"Can I get a shout-out for my Instagram?"
By the time the main course arrived, Reggie looked ready to bolt. The final straw was when a particularly eager fan knocked over a glass of wine, splashing it onto your outfit. The fan apologized profusely, but the damage was done.
Reggie stood up, his jaw clenched. "I'm really sorry," he said, addressing both the fan and you. "But we have to go."
You didn't argue. The night, which had promised so much, was now a disappointment. As you stepped out into the cool night air, Reggie pulled you close, his arm around your shoulders.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured, his frustration giving way to genuine regret. "I just wanted us to have a nice night."
You shook your head, leaning into him. "It's okay, Reggie. I know you tried."
The walk back to his apartment was quiet, the city bustling around you but feeling oddly distant. Once inside, you both changed into more comfortable clothes. Reggie ordered takeout from your favorite place, and you set up a movie, hoping to salvage the evening.
When the food arrived, you spread it out on the coffee table, the comforting aroma of noodles and dumplings filling the room. You both settled on the couch, your legs tangled together as the movie started.
As the opening credits rolled, Reggie sighed, pulling you closer. "I hate that I can't give you a normal night out."
You looked up at him, seeing the genuine care and frustration in his eyes. "Reggie, this is perfect. We don't need fancy restaurants or big nights out. I just need you."
His expression softened, and he kissed your forehead. "I love you," he whispered.
You smiled, snuggling into him. "I love you too."
The movie played on, but it was more of a background to your quiet conversation and shared laughter. The chaos of the evening melted away, leaving just the two of you in your little bubble of comfort and love.
As you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you realized that these were the moments that mattered. The quiet nights in, the takeout dinners, and the feeling of being completely at ease with each other. This was your perfect night, after all. <3
clark who always wants a little kiss. it’s exactly as it sounds. in coffee shops and on the tram, across the dinner table and right before bed—when you’re sleeping already, sniffling and snoring, briefly woken by a soft pressure—clark loves to take a kiss. they aren’t long kisses, not often more than a princely peck against your lips or cupid’s bow.
you aren’t sure how you survived them at first, new in love and feverish to be adored, you’d sit there waiting to be kissed. how to woo the sweetest girl in metropolis? kiss her over and over. kiss her tired and sick, kiss her crying at a bad movie, kiss and kiss and kiss, even if she isn’t sure she’s allowed to ask for one. you barely have to lift your chin, those first few weeks.
clark doesn’t adore you less over time. it’s not an issue, he falls for you more everyday and in strange ways, fancies your peach fuzz and your rumbly tummy, considers proposing the first time you almost pee your pants laughing on a dizzy walk home. it shouldn’t be a bad thing, but these kisses, they’re getting disruptive. he needs them between sips of coffee, or when you’re face down in a warm pillow, or in the middle of an inconvenient yawn.
we cannot keep meeting like this, he says through a laugh, the water from your shower wetting the top of his head and slicking his curls to his forehead as he leans in to nab a quick one, the curtain held aside by his shoulder. you’re so shocked you let him have it, your sudsy hand pressed against his clothed chest. sorry, he adds, to your owlish blinking. just needed one last one, honey.
your smile makes a liar of him. he takes another kiss with his hand cradling your cheek, water sluicing down his elbow in a great trickle to soak the floor.
at first glance, it was easy to assume zanka nijiku had it all going for him. his demeanour radiated it like steady heat; he regarded the world with sure eyes, walked without an ounce of uncertainty in his stance. he slunk about the ground with the air of something ethereal.
such reasoning is why you were so deeply shocked to find out that, when it came to romance, he was absolutely clueless. if the topic were in focus, that calm stride morphed into that of a fawn on shaking legs; a bird cast to sea; something in a new world it had never dared to step foot on before. like his body was not fit for it. like he had never hoped he would be.
it came up once or twice—mostly when riyo took it upon herself to host another party and, furthermore, you all managed to convince zanka that a drink would not rot him from the inside out within a week post-consumption. when he got that hazy look in his eyes and his shoulders loosened just a bit, his inhibitions lowered and his mind, for once, empty, things would slip. someone would make a comment about their girlfriend and say you get it, right? and zanka would simply reply nah, never been there—or some or the other—it became apparent.
tonight was one of those nights. however, you happened to be alone with him, this time; the both of you got sick of the upbeat music and constant chatter quite promptly and decided to slip away to zanka’s room. it was momentarily silent as you sat parallel on his bed.
“…so you’ve really never kissed anyone? not even once?”
a huff. his next words came out slurred at the edges, “why would I have lied about it the first time?”
“your puritan tendencies, of course.”
“shut the hell up.”
another beat of that brief quiet; the faint thrum of bass from the mess hall, the whisper of breath, and presence.
“I could teach you,” you said after mild hesitation, a small smirk playing at your lips (because if you made it lighthearted, he would never guess that you really wanted to kiss him, period, right?).
his eyes widened, tones of pink already crawling up his neck and warming his ears. no way. no fucking way you had just said that—the audacity. he was suddenly and undeniably struck by the memory of every night he had spent imagining such an act—the warmth of your mouth, the thought of your hands in his hair, how your breath would feel being taken by him—though he never thought you would offer it. it felt like, even if he did not admit it, his every fantasy was being exploited. “yer’ fucking kidding.”
you huffed a gentle laugh, cocking your head. “no. it’d just make sense to be me, of all people, wouldn’t it? we’re buddies. you can trust me.”
his brows creased slightly—his face was all red now, he was sure. he could deny it all he wished, but his want for you bled from inside and into the shades of his cheeks. “I- are you-“ a slow breath, both to calm his heartbeat and to give him a moment to articulate a full sentence through his embarrassment. perhaps if this were any normal moment (or you were literally anyone else), he would have gotten up and left entirely. however, zanka was a bit tipsy and a lot in love with you, so he murmured, “I guess.”
a million promises you were serious and that you would not tell anyone later, you had him close enough that you felt every exhale puff against your face. he was warm. he played nonchalant, but the way his throat clicked when he swallowed overruled his outward presentation.
“keep your mouth… soft. and loosen up. you’re stiff as a board, zan.”
he was dizzy—alcohol, frazzle, it was all the same now.
then, you were kissing him. he sucked in a breath, the sound audible in the stillness of the room, freezing for a moment. slowly, ever so slowly, he sank into the gentle heat against his lips—as much as zanka could sink into anything, at least. his eyes fluttered shut, body curving ever so slightly toward yours while he sighed against you. one of your hands crawled up to his nape, the other settling over his racing heart. he was unsure what to do with his own hands; one lifted, then stopped midair, twitching, before he let it smooth over the curve of your waist. the other wrapped around your wrist at his chest.
his reciprocal efforts were clumsy, and he knew it—too clumsy to suit him. too clumsy to ease his mind. every sense was pummelled with your smothering proximity; the lowest part of his scalp tingled when your fingertips brushed it, and his breath was raising in speed with every soft movement of your lips. he was drowning here, and he knew—he knew you were taking it slow with him, but it was like one drop of water from you was a tsunami wreaking upon his poor heart.
your tongue gently coaxed his mouth open. he moaned—then immediately pulled back, eyes wide with humiliation and face set aflame. he brought one hand up to cover his face, childish as it was. his ring felt cold on his skin.
you giggled quietly. “you alright over there?”
he groaned. “fuck off.”
he eventually let his hand fall away, but still vehemently avoided any level of eye contact. this was a bad idea. as if he was not plagued by you enough already, now you had poured the sap of your heart down his very throat, and it was undoubtedly bound to take root within him until it was all that resided within the hollow of his ribcage.
you nibbled on your lower lip. “don’t be silly. don’t you… don’t ya wanna keep practicing?”
his fingers curled into his thigh. I shouldn’t.
yet, he still huffed and moved back over to your side of the bed.
sat down nd wrote this in one sitting because someone reblogged my old Teaching U How To Kiss drabble and I was like. omg. this but zanka and hes a loser WOOP WOOP DONT HURT EM NOW
doesn’t mean to get attached to you, but it happens anyway. quietly. gradually. like something inevitable. one day you’re just “someone in the unit,” and the next, you’re the only voice he listens for in the comms.
who pretends he’s unaffected, but the moment you go radio silent for even a second too long, his entire body locks up. he’ll bark orders, keep moving, stay sharp but inside, it’s all static and worst-case scenarios.
who never shows his face, not fully… but lets you see pieces of him no one else gets. the edge of his jaw when he lifts the mask to drink. the faintest ghost of a smile when you say something dumb.
who remembers everything about you. the way you take your tea. the exact tone your voice drops to when you’re tired. the difference between your real laugh and the one you use around others.
who stands just a little closer to you than necessary. not touching, never that obvious, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, grounding, steady.
who calls you by your name in private, not your callsign. low and rough, like it actually means something. like you mean something.
who gets protective in a way that isn’t loud amd isn’t possessive just…absolute. if you’re in danger, he’s already moving before anyone else has processed what’s happening.
who will patch you up himself, even if you insist you’re fine. silent, focused, hands surprisingly gentle for someone who’s spent so long breaking things.
who doesn’t do affection the normal way. no grand gestures. no soft confessions. but he’ll sit beside you in silence after a mission, shoulder brushing yours, and that’s his version of everything.
who, one night when it’s just the two of you, finally says: “you’re safe with me.” and it’s not a promise he makes lightly.
who doesn’t say “i love you.” not at first. maybe not ever in the way people expect but you’ll hear it in every stay close, every i’ve got you, bird , but every moment he chooses you — again and again.
after all the pain you endured during your delivery, SUKUNA refuses to ever let his wife go through it again
★ based of that one scene in "when life gives you tangerines"
11 hours, 34 minutes, and 34 seconds. then 40. then more. sukuna counts them all without meaning to, like something wired too deep into him to stop. each second stretching, dragging, carving itself into his bones as time refuses to move fast enough.
his eyes burn, raw and unforgiving, a kind of ache he’s never known. not even in those long, merciless nights bent over a laptop back in his college days. this is worse. dark circles bruise the skin beneath his eyes, lashes still damp.
he sits rigid in a cheap, dark blue hospital chair, one that creaks every time he so much as breathes too deeply, yet he hasn’t moved from it in hours. maybe longer. his body feels locked in place, but his mind drifts, slipping in and out of a dull haze until the sound of a door jolts him upright again, sharp, alert, feral in the way his gaze snaps toward it. every time without fail. his hands rest on his knees, fingers twitching, trembling despite himself, nails pressing into fabric as if grounding himself is the only thing keeping him together.
the baby is fine. he knows she is. he’s checked too many times for anyone to comment on without risking the look he’d give them. each visit ends the same way: standing on the other side of the glass, large hand pressed flat against it, breath fogging the surface as something unfamiliar tightens in his chest. he doesn’t stay long. he can’t. not when you’re not there.
everything in him had gone cold— no, empty the moment they rushed you away. the world had narrowed down to the sight of you on that bed, face twisted in pain, your fingers clutching his with a strength that spoke of fear you rarely ever showed. and he had felt it too, sharp and suffocating, coiling tight in his chest in a way he couldn’t fight, couldn’t control.
then a clipboard had been shoved into his line of sight, a nurse speaking too quickly. “mr. ryomen, you need to sign this form in case the baby—”
“my wife.”
his voice had cut through hers without hesitation. not loud nor panicked. just final.
for a moment, everything had stilled. even you had looked at him, eyes wide despite the pain. He hadn’t even looked back at the paper.
“i choose my wife.”
after that, they had forced him out, the doors closing between you with a finality that made something ugly claw at his ribs. since then, all he’s done is wait, endless, suffocating waiting, counting seconds like they’re the only thing he has left to hold onto.
people came. of course they did. gojo, loud and insufferable even in a hospital, arms filled with gifts that cost more than necessary. geto, calm, offering congratulations that barely registered. toji lingering off to the side, megumi in his arms as he tried, awkwardly, to show him the newborn through the glass, jin nearby with itadori and choso, their presence filling the hallway with low conversation and quiet excitement.
sukuna acknowledged none of it beyond a glance at best.
because none of it mattered.
not the gifts, not the voices, not the child he had already seen and silently loved.
the only thing on his mind was you.
his wife.
“mr. ryomen?”
his name lands and something in him snaps taut and slack all at once. sukuna is on his feet before he’s fully aware of moving, the chair scraping faintly behind him. the sudden shift makes his vision tilt for a second, exhaustion catching up, but he steadies through it, jaw set, legs carrying him forward even as they threaten to give.
“she’s awake, everything is stable. you may see her now.”
that’s all he needs.
the door barely has time to open before he’s through it, pace quick, bordering on reckless, yet each step feels impossibly heavy as the weight of the past hours clings to him, refusing to let go. the sterile white of the room greets him, too bright, too clean, and then—
you.
everything else falls away.
you’re laid against the stark sheets, small in a way he’s never seen you before, exhaustion carved into every line of your face, the aftermath of something brutal and beautiful all at once. you look fragile. spent. human.
and still— still you’ve never looked more perfect to him.
his chest tightens, something sharp and overwhelming lodging itself beneath his ribs as his eyes lock onto yours. they find him easily, soft despite the fatigue, a faint smile ghosting over your lips as your hand lifts, barely reaching for him.
“my love…” your voice is hoarse, worn thin, and it nearly undoes him.
he closes the distance in seconds, dropping to his knees at your bedside without care for anything else, large hand immediately enclosing yours as if to confirm you’re real, warm and alive. here. he brings it to his face, pressing slow, reverent kisses to your knuckles, your palm, your wrist, lingering like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.
something wet slips against your skin.
“ryo…?” your voice is softer now, concerned, your fingers twitching as if to pull away, but he doesn’t let go not out of force, never that, but out of something far more desperate.
he tightens just enough to keep you there, head bowed, shoulders trembling in a way that doesn’t belong to a man like him.
“there…” his voice catches, rough, uneven, breath hitching as the memory crashes back; your face twisted in pain, the sound of it, the helplessness of being torn away. his brows pull together sharply, grip faltering for a second before tightening again. “there won’t be another.”
he presses another kiss to your skin, slower this time. like sealing a vow into you.
“there won’t be another,” he repeats, quieter, but no less absolute.
you blink at him, caught off guard, and then despite everythin a soft, breathy laugh escapes you. “don’t be stupid, ryo.”
his head lifts just enough for you to see the way his expression twists, raw and unguarded, eyes rimmed red, lashes clumped.
“i don’t—” his breath stutters, voice breaking in a way he doesn’t bother to hide, “—want to see you like that again.” his hand curls into the sheets beside you, gripping the fabric tight as if grounding himself, “not like that. not ever.”
you soften instantly, both hands coming up carefully to cradle his face, guiding him closer despite the way he resists for half a second.
“did you see her?” you murmur, thumb brushing beneath his eye, catching the dampness there.
he nods, quick, almost eager despite everything, leaning into your touch without thinking. “i did… but—” his voice drops, “i wanted to see my wife.”
“oh, ryo…” you pull him closer, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips; soft, lingering, tasting faintly of salt.
he exhales against you, eyes closing briefly, forehead coming to rest against yours as his hand finds its place around yours again, unwilling to let go.
“there won’t be another,” he says, quieter now. final.
you study him for a moment. at the fear still lingering beneath the surface, and the love that outweighs everything else, and your expression softens into something certain.
“okay,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his. “there won’t.”
★ it's 2:49am i should fucking sleep but i finally got the idea how to write this and i had to
