🌹The Perks of Being a Queen🌹

✨Sprinkling some black girl magic with each post✨ 20's, Things to note : I post occasional prompts and I try to use this blog as a way to get out of my head every once in a while ✌🏾

[vardapilled]

"This film was an incredible opportunity for me. And more than anything, I thought it was an opportunity for me to write a love letter to cinema, to all the things I love about going to the movies. [...] In many ways it's most important movie I've made, straight from me to all of you." - Ryan Coogler

SINNERS (2025) BEHIND THE SCENES (1/2) Dir. Ryan Coogler

[capinejghafa]

Josh Johnson: So much of the of the culture, so much of what people like about a culture that they're willing to take in, they try to do as best as possible to the exclusion of the people that the culture is actually from. Right? So, you'll see how people of Latin descent have been treated in this country the entire time while we fall in love with more and more and more and more of their stuff. You know what I mean? And it's something that obviously happens to black people. It's something that's happened to Asian-Americans and everything, but it's something that doesn't always get addressed is that if you loved what we make, then just love us. We made it.

SINNERS (2025) dir. RYAN COOGLER // JOSH JOHNSON (10.7.25)

[liliacsdelight]

Galvanized Bodies

Bo Chow x Blackfem!reader

A trip to the grocery store turns into a nightmare when an attack leaves you praying for a quick end. That prayer arrives in the form of something monstrous: a demon who intervenes with brutal, effortless violence. Finding your savior wounded in the aftermath, you bring him into your home. As you wash the blood away in soapy water and stitch his skin, the fear dissolves into an unexpected intimacy. You soon learn that while his nature is dark, being favored by a demon is the most divine thing you've ever felt.

ᦏ9k words, reader is said to have brown skin, plot before smut, vivid detailing of murder and dismemberment, violence, attempted sa, light horror erotica, tention, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), dirty talk (I KNOW HE HAS A FILTHY MOUTH), choking, spanking, riding -> doggy, namecalling/petnames (e.g., sugar, baby, sweetness, and little bird), sensory play, sweet ending, etc᪔

ᦏ18+ 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕᪔

The 1930s Mississippi Delta had a soul-crushing climate. The air hung heavy, a stagnant soup of humidity and rotting cypress swamps that smelled of damp earth and the iron-rich musk of the river. By the time you stepped off the general store’s creaking porch, the sun had long since bled out below the flat horizon, leaving the sky a ink-stained purple that swallowed the cotton fields whole.

​You had driven the rusted-out Ford nearly twenty miles from your patch of dirt—navigating past sagging sharecropper shacks and endless, skeletal rows of white bolls—just to secure salt pork and peach preserves for your brother and his kin.

​The gravel in the lot crunched like bone under your heels. Behind you, the store’s lone, grime-streaked window cast a sickly yellow glow that struggled to reach the edge of the lot, leaving you to contend with the encroaching dark. You clutched the brown paper bags to your chest, the paper crinkling under your grip, feeling like they were the only fragile shield you had against the vast emptiness of the Delta.

Then came the sound.

Boots.

Four of them.

The yellow light caught the sweat on their pale, unsightly faces, making them look like cruel carvings rather than men. They weren't just walking; they were closing in, a pack of hounds finding a scent. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you watched them approach.​

"Late for a girl like you to be out, ain't it?" the one in the lead drawled. He stepped into your personal space, smelling of cheap moonshine and stale tobacco.​

"Gettin' groceries for my family," you said. You forced your voice to stay steady, even though your knees were slightly trembling.

"Family," another one hissed. He stepped behind you, and you felt the cold, sharp draft of his presence. "Bet you got a lot of 'family' tucked away."

​​The leader reached out, his hand a dead weight on your shoulder. "Maybe you oughta share some of that sweetness with us. A girl like you... you oughta know how to treat a man right."​

Another man chuckle. "I don't know boss. Her kind ain't good for much." He followed it with a word—a cruel, ugly slur.

The heat in your belly—a sudden, sharp flare of anger—overrode the cold terror in your veins for a split second. You looked him dead in the eye, your vision blurring with tears of rage.​ "I’d never do a damn thing with a racist cracker like you," you spat, the words coming out like venom. "You don't know how to please a woman. You're only good for stealin' and carryin' the evil you was born with."

​​The leader’s face contorted, turning a mottled red. "I’m gonna teach you a lesson the Delta won't ever forget."​

They lunged.​

The paper bags hit the gravel with a sharp clack, jars of preserves shattering with a wet, heavy sound. They dragged you away from the safety of the light, pulling you into the pitch-black maw behind your car. The mud was cool and slick against your skin as they shoved you down, the grit of the gravel digging into your palms. You screamed and fought, your nails clawing at the dirt, until—crack.​

The slap made your head whip to the side, white spots exploding behind your eyes. The taste of blood bloomed in your mouth immediately. You closed your eyes, a silent, desperate prayer for a quick end dancing on your tongue.

The tall one loomed over you, the metallic clink-clink of his belt being unlooped from his trousers sounding like a death knell in the silence of the swamp. You scrambled back on your elbows, your nails clawing into the mud, but another man pinned your wrists to the ground, his weight crushing your chest.​

Then, the world shifted.​

It wasn't a human sound that changed things.​ It started with a pressure—an unnatural chill swept through the humid air, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The man over you froze, his hand still on his buckle.​​

Suddenly, a blur of movement—something darker than the night itself—hit the man standing guard at the rear of the car. There was no struggle. Just a wet, terrifying crunch, followed by a sound that didn't belong in a human throat.

A scream ripped through the air—"AHHGLUR!"—not a shout for help, but a high-pitched, gargling shriek of pure, unadulterated terror. On the other side of the Ford, you heard the sound of heavy metal being crumpled like tissue paper, and then the petrifying sound of something being systematically dismantled.​

Rrip. Rrip. Snap.​

The three men standing over you scrambled back, their bravado evaporating into the thick air like mist. They stared into the dark behind the car, their faces turning as white as ghosts (if at all possible). The leader pulled a small revolver from his waistband, his hand shaking so violently the barrel rattled against his knuckles with a click-click-click.

​"Go see what that is," the leader hissed at one of the men.​

The man looked hesitant, his eyes wide and bulging with fear, but he stumbled toward the back of the car, his boots dragging in the gravel. Silence for two long heartbeats. Then, a sharp yell that was cut off by a wet crunch—the sound of a ripe melon being dropped from a great height, or a dry branch snapping while wrapped in raw meat.

​A thick, dark liquid began to pool from under the car, snaking through the gravel like an oil slick. It was too dark to be water. It was viscous, steaming slightly in the cool night air, the copper smell of it overwhelming the swamp rot. Then, a heavy thud—the sound of a body being dropped like a sack of grain, followed by the wet sliding sound of intestines hitting the mud.​

You scrambled to find your footing, desperate to run, but the leader’s hand clamped onto your hair, yanking you back with a force that nearly tore your scalp. "S-stay put!" he barked, his voice cracking with a fear he couldn't hide.​

"You stupid son of a bitch! We need to run!" you croaked, your voice trembling.​

From the shadows behind the car, a figure emerged.​

He was tall, lean, and drenched in a dark, glistening crimson that coated his white shirt until it clung to his frame like a second skin, mapped out in horrific detail. He stepped into the faint spill of yellow light. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace. Too smooth, too silent. His skin was a pale tan, almost translucent in the moonlight, and his hands... his fingers were tipped and dripping with fresh, steaming blood.​

"W-what the hell are you?" the leader screamed, cocking the pistol.​Bang. The shot echoed off the store walls like a cannon blast. You saw the bullet hit Bo’s upper arm, tearing through the fabric and the flesh beneath. Bo let out a low groan—not of pain, but of irritation, like a man being stung by a common bee.​

Before the leader could even think of cocking the hammer again, Bo was gone. He didn't run; he blurred. One second he was feet away, and the next, he was a solid shadow standing directly behind the leader. A large, blood-slicked hand reached around, catching the leader’s throat. There was a brief, desperate struggle, the leader's feet kicking uselessly in the air, and then the sound of windpipes collapsing—a dry, crushed whistle—as Bo squeezed until the man’s head lolled at a sharp, unnatural angle.​

The fourth man turned to run, his boots slipping and sliding in the mud. He didn't get three steps. Bo reached out, his hand moving like a whip. There was a flash of something sharp, a wet shluck sound, and then the man’s head was simply... gone.

It didn't just fall; it was taken off with such surgical, violent force that the headless body kept running for a split second, blood geysering from the neck, before collapsing into a heap of spasming nerves.​

The shock had your eyes wide, your body trembling so hard you could hear your teeth chattering against each other. The rumors you’d heard about the juke—the whispered stories about the "man" who haunted the outskirts, the one who didn't fear the lynch mobs because he was the one who hunted the hunters—they were all true.

Every terrifying word.

​The gravel crunched. You looked up, paralyzed with a different kind of fear, as he walked back toward you. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at your broken groceries and the blood smeared on your lip. He reached out a hand—the one not covered in the men's blood—and offered it to you.​

"They're gone, little bird," he said. His voice was surprisingly gentle, carrying a soft, melodic lilt that felt entirely out of place amidst the carnage and the smell of death behind him. "It's not safe. You should get home."

His eyes, dark and ancient, trailed over your body with a slow, heavy pressure that felt like it was peeling back your skin. He lifted his other hand, the fingers still slick and dripping with the life of the men he’d just dismantled, and slowly licked a smear of blood from his knuckles. He did it with a focused, animalistic intensity, his tongue rasping against his skin. You stared, paralyzed by a nauseating mixture of terror and intrigue, as the faint yellow light from the store caught the unmistakable glint of his fangs. Long, needle-sharp, and so real.​

You noted then, through the haze of your panic, that he was Chinese. His features were sharp and elegant, carved with a precision that seemed out of place beneath the splattered gore. But your eyes quickly dropped to his arm. A steady stream of dark blood was pulsing from the bullet hole in his tricep, dripping onto the gravel with a heavy, rhythmic drip-drip-drip that sounded like a ticking clock in the silence of the night.​

"You're hurt," you whispered, your voice a ghost of itself, thin and reed-like. "You’re bleedin' bad."​

Bo looked down at his arm as if he’d forgotten it was even attached to his body. He watched the blood flow for a moment, his expression unreadable, almost bored.​

"I don't feel it," he said flatly.​

You didn't believe him.

You couldn't.

The wound was deep, the flesh jagged and torn where the lead had bitten through, and even in the dark, the sheer volume of blood he was losing was enough to kill a normal man three times over. But as he looked back at you, the darkness in his eyes seemed to expand, swallowing what little light was left in the world. You stood there, your knees knocking together so hard it was audible, looking at that dark hole in his arm. The blood wasn't slowing; it was a pulsing, red leak.​

“You need to let me bandage that,” you said, your voice finally finding a shred of its footing, though your hands were still shaking. “Before you bleed out right here in the mud.”​

Bo looked at the wound, then back at you, his face a mask of elegant stone. “I’ll be alright. It’ll stop.”​

“Until the sun is up?” you countered. The words slipped out before you could stop them, fueled by the folk stories and the sheer wrongness of the man standing before you.​

Bo stilled. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips—one that showed just a hint of the ivory points behind his teeth. It wasn't a friendly look; it was the look of a predator realizing his prey had been paying closer attention than he thought. “And what do you know about the sun, girl?”​

You swallowed hard, your heart thudding against your ribs like a trapped, dying moth. “I hear things. R-rumors from a few towns over... about what happened at that juke joint. They said dead people came through and left nothin’ but death. No, they didn't say people. They said haints... demons.”​

Bo’s brown eyes searched yours, heavy and unblinking. The silence between you was taut as a wire about to snap. “Still gonna patch up a haint?” he murmured, his voice a low, melodic rasp that made the hair on your arms stand up. “Or do you not like my kind?”​

You took a shaky breath, looking past him at the carnage—the splats of bloodied blonde hair on the gravel, the detached limbs, the torn skin of the men who would have done far worse to you if he hadn’t intervened. The horror of what he was balanced by the horror of what those men were.

​“I’ll help you,” you whispered, the fear thick in your throat. “As long as you don't hurt me. You gotta promise.”​

You held out your pinky, a childish gesture that felt absurd in the face of such violence. Bo looked at your small, trembling finger for a long moment. Then, he reached out. His skin was unnaturally cool, sending a jolt through your system. He didn't just hook his finger into yours; he brought your hand to his mouth and pressed a lingering, velvet-soft kiss to the knuckle of your pinky.

​Your breath hitched.​

“Make the promise official,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. “Kiss the promise.”​

You hesitated, then pressed your own lips to the spot he’d just kissed. As you pulled your hand away, you felt the tacky, drying blood from his face stick to your skin for a split second before parting with a faint, wet sound. The bond felt heavy. Visceral. Like you’d just signed a contract in salt and iron.

ᦏ᪔

​The ride back to your place was an unsettling stretch of silence. The Ford’s engine groaned as it cut through the darkness, the headlights barely carving a path through the hanging moss that looked like drowned hair. Bo sat in the passenger seat, his frame dwarfing the interior, making the car feel like a coffin. He didn't move, didn't talk, just stared out into the blackness of the cotton fields. The scent of him—ancient earth, cold metal, and the sharp, copper sting of fresh blood—filled the cab until you felt lightheaded and dizzy.​

When you pulled up to your small, weathered house, you hurried out, your heels clicking on the packed dirt as you fled the confines of the car. You unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, clicking on the warm, orange kitchen light. When you turned back, Bo was still standing on the porch, his silhouette tall and imposing against the night, his eyes reflecting the light like a cat's. He was just... waiting.​

Is he slow? you wondered, a flicker of irritation cutting through your mounting dread. “Well? Come on in,” you said, waving him forward.​

A faint, knowing smirk tugged at his mouth—a look that mocked your limited knowledge of the rules he lived by. But as soon as the invitation left your lips, he crossed the threshold.​

The house felt smaller the moment he entered. He took up so much space, his broad shoulders and tall, fit frame making the ceiling feel dangerously low. You weren't a short woman, but standing near him, you felt fragile, like a piece of fine porcelain held next to a sledgehammer.

​Bo stood in the center of your kitchen, his nostrils flaring.

He was smelling you. Beneath the scent of fear and the iron of the blood on your dress, he caught the deep, intoxicating aroma of your skin—sweetness mixed with a light earthiness. Your blood was still running hot from the adrenaline, pulsing visibly in the hollow of your throat, and to him, you sounded like a drum in the absolute silence of the house.​

“Sit,” you commanded, pointing to the sturdy wooden chair at the table.​

He obeyed, the chair creaking ominously under his weight. You turned away, moving toward the cupboard to gather what you needed—the jug of corn liquor for disinfectant, a needle, heavy thread, and clean strips of linen. As you moved, Bo’s eyes never left you. He tracked the line of your back, the curve of your hips, and the way your hands shook as you reached for the supplies. He watched the way your rich, brown skin glowed under the dim bulb. To him, you were a feast he was trying very hard not to devour.​

You walked back to him, the supplies clutched to your chest. Up close, his handsomeness was frightening. His features were sharp, carved with a precision that was almost too perfect. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, slicked back but messy from the fight. You took a moment to give him a once-over, your eyes lingering on the way his white shirt was torn open, revealing the muscle of his chest, and the still-bleeding hole in his arm.

​He was a monster. A haint. A dead man. But as he looked up at you, his gaze heavy and expectant, your stomach did a slow, treacherous roll.​

“Hold still,” you whispered, unscrewing the cap on the liquor. “This is gonna bite.”​

Bo’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a gravelly purr that vibrated in your own chest. “I told you, little bird... I don't feel a thing.”​

You rolled your eyes, huffing a breath through your nose to hide the way your heart was racing. The corn liquor hit the open wound with an audible hiss, the sharp, medicinal sting of it rising in a cloud that made your own eyes water.​

"Mhm, keep talkin’ that big talk," you muttered, dabbing the blood away with a rag that was quickly turning a sodden crimson. "Don't feel a thing. Like you ain't made of the same meat and bone as everybody else."​

Bo didn’t flinch.

He didn’t even blink.

His skin was slick under the low warmth of the kitchen light, his muscles corded like iron cables. You glanced up at his face and found him just... watching you. Not with the frantic gaze of a man who’d just been shot, but with a deep, unsettling stillness that made your skin hum with a strange, forbidden electricity.​

"What they call you?" you asked, trying to fill the heavy silence.​

"Bo Chow," he said. His voice was so smooth; it seemed to settle into the very floorboards beneath your feet.​

"Bo Chow," you repeated, humming the name under your breath. You kept cleaning the ragged edges of the hole in his arm, noting with a start that his skin didn't feel cold like a corpse's anymore; it felt like a low-burning stove, radiating a heat that began to seep into your own fingers. You couldn't believe you were sitting here—in the same place you’d fried green tomatoes just yesterday—patching up a haint.​

But he looked so... beautiful. In a way that felt like a trap. The blood smeared across his high cheekbones didn't make him look hideous; it made him look like something out of a dream you shouldn't be having.

Is he the type that likes the pain? you wondered, your mind wandering down a lewd, forbidden path as you looked at the raw power of his frame. He looks kind of cute all bloody like that. You caught yourself and shook your head lightly, your face heating up. Lord, girl, stop it. Imagine if this man could read your thoughts.​ LALALALALAH.

You reached for the needle and the heavy black thread, your fingers trembling just enough to make the metal glint. When you looked back down at his face, his eyes caught yours. They looked strange—not just dark, but shimmery, like the surface of the river under a full moon, shifting with a light that didn't come from your kitchen lamp.​

"What's wrong?" he asked.​

"Your eyes," you whispered, leaning in a fraction closer despite the internal alarms screaming in your head. "They look... weird."​

Bo’s mouth quirked into a ghost of a smirk. "That’s because I’m Chinese, little bird."​

Your eyes widened at the dry wit, a small, startled laugh escaping your throat. "I know that. I mean they’re—um... shimmery. Like there’s a fire in ‘em."​

Bo just hummed, a deep sound in his chest. Your gaze dropped from his eyes to his body—the broadness of his chest, the way his shirt clung—and for a second, a thought so filthy it made your ears hot flashed through your mind. You didn't say a word, just bit your lip and threaded the needle with a sharp, decisive tug.​

"If that alcohol didn't hurt," you warned, leaning over him so your breath fanned across the hard line of his shoulder, "this definitely will. Bullet’s out, but I gotta close the door behind it."​

You pushed the needle through the torn skin.​

Suddenly, a large, cool hand clamped onto your inner thigh.​

You froze, the needle halfway through his skin, your breath hitching in your throat. His grip was firm, his palm heavy and certain against the soft skin just above your knee. You could feel the heat radiating from his fingers now, the weight of him anchored to you.​

"It hurts," he rasped, though his face remained a mask of tranquility. "Hurry up."​

You nodded dumbly as wetness began pooling between your legs. His hands were massive, the veins standing out like mountain ridges. He squeezed your thigh—just a little, just enough to make your pulse jump—as you pulled the thread taut.​

He inhaled deeply, a long, dragging breath that made his chest expand. You thought it was the pain, but Bo’s eyes were half-closed, his nostrils flaring. He wasn't bracing for the needle; he was drinking you in. You smelled like the rain coming off the Delta, like the sweet, dusty scent of dried herbs in the rafters, and the intoxicating, metallic spice of your own racing blood. To him, you were a feast.​

You stitched as fast as you could, your fingers flying, trying not to focus on the way his hand was subtly, almost imperceptibly sliding an inch higher on your thigh with every stitch. The fear was still there, sharp and cold, but it was being smothered by a want you couldn't name.​

"Okay," you gasped, your voice sounding higher, more breathless than you intended. "Okay. Done." You tied the knot and nipped the thread with your teeth, your face inches from his, the scent of him overwhelming your senses.​

"Thank you," he murmured.

"Y-you're welcome," you stammered, the words tripping over the frantic rhythm of your heart.​

Bo didn't let go. Instead, he reached out with his other hand, large and cooling, and hooked it behind the back of your other thigh. He slid his fingers under the hem of your torn dress and pulled you forward, dragging you between his knees.

He was still sitting, his head level with your chest, looking up at you with an intensity that felt like it was stripping the very marrow from your bones. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin at the back of your leg—calloused, rough, and stained with the dark, drying iron of the men he’d slaughtered. It sent a shiver up your spine that had nothing to do with the room's humidity and everything to do with the predatory heat radiating from him.

​"You're a kind woman," he said, his voice dropping into an intimate register that made your body ache.

"You too," you replied, your brain fumbling for any shred of logic to hold onto. Then the absurdity of the statement hit you. "I mean... obviously you ain't a woman."​

Your eyes trailed down, unbidden. You followed the line of his flat, hard stomach to the unmistakable bulge straining against the dark fabric of his trousers. It was thick, prominent, and pulsed with a life that seemed at odds with the "dead man" stories. Your heart nearly stopped, a cold spike of fear warring with a shameful heat.​

"Oh! Lord—I—I’m sorry," you blurted out, your face hot with embarrassment as you jerked your eyes back up to the ceiling, focusing on a spiderweb in the corner just to keep from looking at the monster’s hunger.​

Bo didn't look offended. He let out an amused, dark laugh—a sound that was rich, deep, and surprisingly warm, like honey poured over gravel. He let go of your thighs, his fingers lingering for a fraction of a second too long, and stood up in one fluid motion.

The transition was so fast it seemed to skip a frame of reality, making the kitchen floorboards groan and creak under the sudden shift of his weight. He loomed over you, his frame completely blotting out the yellow light of the kitchen lamp, casting a long, predatory shadow that swallowed you whole.​

"It’s okay," he murmured, that mischievous, knowing smirk returning. It was a look that made your stomach turn—a perfidious mix of horror and a raw, magnetic attraction you couldn't suppress. "I've seen women look at me before. But never one who could sew me up without fainting."​

You cleared your throat, clutching the blood-stained rag so hard your knuckles hurt. "Well, I ain't most women. And you ain't most men."​

"No," he agreed. "I'm not. Now, show me where I can wash this filth off. I can taste the dirt in my pores."​

You nodded, your legs feeling like jelly. You led him out of the kitchen, your back feeling exposed and vulnerable with him walking behind you.​ The floorboards groaned under Bo’s weight as you led him down the narrow, dimly lit hallway. The air in your small house felt different now—charged, like the atmosphere right before a thunderstorm breaks the heat. His silent, looming presence seemed to swallow the flickering light of the wall-mounted oil lamps.

You stopped at the door to the washroom, a cramped space with a slanted ceiling and the heavy scent of lye soap. ​"In here," you said, pointing to the galvanized tub in the center of the floor.

You didn't turn around to face him.

You couldn't.

"I’ll—I’ll get the water hot for the tub," you murmured to the wall. "I reckon I got some of my brother’s old work shirts and trousers in the chest. You can wear 'em while I wash yours."

​​A dark thought flickered in the back of your mind—that a man like him probably didn't need to borrow clothes; he likely just took what he wanted from the bodies he left behind. But you shook it away, choosing to believe in the quiet, euphonious lilt of his voice instead of the carnage you’d seen in the gravel. You wanted him to be a decent man, even if you knew deep down he was something else entirely.

ᦏ᪔

In the small, cramped washroom, you hauled the heavy kettle you’d left on the stove, pouring the steaming water into the metal tub. The steam rose in heavy, humid plumes, turning the small bathroom into a hothouse that smelled of woodsmoke and the iron tang of the well water. You felt the dampness immediately; the fine coils of your hair began to tighten and frizz against your neck, the edges of your kitchen-wrap softening into a halo of wild texture in the heat.​

Bo stood in the doorway, a solid weight against the flickering light. He began to strip with a slow, crude lack of shame. The ruined white shirt made a wet, sticky sound as he peeled it away—a sound that sat heavy in your stomach.​

Your eyes betrayed you, trailing over the map of his back. He was a landscape of fit, scarred muscle, shoulders broad enough to block out the world, tapering down to a waist that looked lean and lethal. The jagged lines of old wars—some silver, some deep and puckered—were smeared now with the fresh, drying blood of the men he’d just finished. It looked like war paint against his skin, dark and drying in the air.

His nostrils flared. He drew a breath so deep his ribs expanded like an animal scenting the wind. His gaze fixed on the back of your neck with a focused hunger. The steam was acting as a messenger, carrying your scent directly to him—the sun-dried cotton of your dress, the earthy sweetness of your skin, and the sharp, copper sting of the blood where the gravel had torn your knees.​

"Wash me," he commanded.​

The words weren't a request. They were a low, alluring rasp that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into the soles of your bare feet.​

You gripped the washcloth until your fingers ached, the water dripping hot and stinging against your knuckles. You hesitated, every instinct screaming at you to run out the back door and never look back. The air in the room was too thin, too hot.​

"You got two hands, Bo," you said, trying to summon the ghost of your courage. "I already did the hard part with the needle and thread. I ain't your maid."​

"It’s the least you can do," he countered. He took a step into the room, the space shrinking instantly. His eyes locked onto yours, hooded and unblinking. "I took a bullet in my dominant arm for you, sweetheart. Hard to scrub when you're stitched up tight."​

You tried to find your spine, forcing a huff of indignation even as your heart hammered against your ribs. "You’re a monster. I reckon you got enough of that super-human devilry in you to handle a bar of soap without my help."​

The smirk vanished instantly. His face dropped, a glum expression crossed his features, making the room feel even smaller and colder despite the steam. He looked at you with a startling vulnerability that felt more dangerous than his anger. It was the look of a thing that had forgotten it could be perceived as anything other than a threat to be put down.​

"Is that all you see?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave into a bleak, hollow place. "A monster?"​

A pang of guilt pricked at your chest. You looked at him—really looked, past the blood and the horror. You followed the line of his jaw, the tired curve of his eyes, and the way the blood was matted into his dark hair like a crown of thorns.

He looked exhausted.

He looked lonely.​

"I didn't say that's all," you whispered, the words coming out softer and more regretful than you intended. "But you are what you are, Bo."​

To break the smothering weight of the silence, you reached for the jar of dried lavender and bath salts on the shelf. You threw a handful into the steaming tub, the floral scent blooming instantly in a desperate attempt to mask the smell of the road and the kill.​

"This should take the edge off the pain," you murmured, your hands shaking as you stirred the water. "Help you sleep."​

Bo didn't look away from you. His hands moved to the buttons of his trousers. The metallic clink of the fly being undone sent a jolt of white-hot heat straight to your thighs, a pulse that matched the frantic, ragged beat of your heart. You watched, paralyzed, as his stomach muscles raised, the dark hair disappearing into the waistband as he pushed the heavy denim down his hips.

​"I—um—I’m going to get the clean clothes," you blurted out, the panic finally winning. Your pulse was a wild, trapped thing in your throat, and you felt like you were about to drown in the steam. "I’ll leave 'em right outside the door so you can get in the water. And If you really can't do it yourself, I'll help. Promise."​

You scrambled out of the room, your face burning and your skin damp with the ghost of his heat. You instantly regretted the last part of your statement. Why had you even offered? Maybe it was the lingering sting of guilt from your earlier words, a clumsy and impulsive attempt to balance the scales. Maybe it was the heavy silence that followed, making you desperate to fill the air. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you.

Those brown eyes held a pull you couldn’t quite name, an unspoken gravity that made you want to do things for him, to be the person who fixed whatever was broken. You didn't have to look back to know his eyes were on your spine, trailing the path of your retreat like a hunter watching a deer vanish into the brush. You stood in the hallway, shivering in the sudden draft, while the scent of lavender and iron lingered in your lungs like a curse.

ᦏ᪔

The kitchen was quiet, save for the rhythmic, wet shuck-shuck of the wooden scrub board. You stood hunched over the bucket, your knuckles raw and stinging from the harsh lye soap. You watched, mesmerized and appalled, as the water turned a deep plum color—the blood of the men Bo had slaughtered bleeding out of the white fabric of his shirt.​

Your mind was a hornet’s nest, buzzing with images you couldn't unsee. Every time you blinked, you heard it again: the metallic clink-clink of that man’s belt, the weight of him pinning you down, the taste of Mississippi dirt and your own copper blood in your mouth. And then... the shift.​

The sound of Bo’s arrival hadn't been human. It was the sound of a butcher shop at midnight—the wet, splintering crunch of bone, the melon-dropping thud of a head hitting the gravel, and that gargling, truncated scream. You had witnessed four murders. You had seen a man’s head taken off with the casual ease of someone plucking a cotton boll.​

I’m patchin' up a demon, you thought, your rhythm slowing until the scrub board went silent. I’m washin' his sins off his clothes like he’s my own kin. A cold shiver raced down your spine, clashing with the sweltering heat of the stove.

Had you made a terrible mistake?

You had invited a thing into your home that didn't eat, didn't breathe right, and carried the stench of the grave beneath a veil of lavender. You were a lone woman in a sharecropper shack with a monster. If he decided he was still hungry, there wasn't a lock in the Delta that could keep him out.​

But then, you remembered the way he’d gripped your thigh—not with the bruising, entitlement of the men in the lot, but with a anchoring certainty. He looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a world of ghosts. The fear was there, sharp as a razor, but it was being crowded out by a thick, honey-slow heat. You knew that look in his shimmery eyes. He wanted to ruin you, yes—but he wanted to be the only thing that ever touched you again.​

And God help you, you were ready to let him.

The water in the bucket was too foul to continue. You needed to change it and get the rinsing rack you’d left in the washroom. You wiped your damp, soapy hands on your apron, the fabric rough against your sensitized skin, and walked down the hall.​

You knocked softly, your heart beginning that familiar, erratic dance against your ribs. "Bo?"

​"Come in," his voice drifted through the wood.​

You pushed the door open. The steam hit you first, a thick, comforting fog that smelled of the lavender and salt you’d thrown in. But underneath the flowers was the unmistakable scent of him—rain, cold earth, and a hint of ozone. Bo was submerged in the galvanized tub, his long legs folded uncomfortably against the metal.​

His wet hair was pushed back, revealing the stark, haunting beauty of his face. His tan skin glistened with water and oil, the blood finally gone, leaving him looking like a polished jade statue.​

"I just came for the scrubbing rack," you whispered. You tried to keep your eyes on the wall, but they drifted, fixed on the way the water beaded on his collarbones and the muscles of his chest. "For your clothes."​

Bo didn't move. He just watched you, his eyes shimmery and dark, tracking the rise and fall of your chest. "The clothes can wait, little bird. 'Member what I said?"

​"Oh... yeah," you breathed.

You walked toward him, the floorboards creaking. There was a mesmerizing charm in his gaze that felt like an illusion of safety.

As you reached the edge of the tub, Bo’s hand shot out—the uninjured one—and caught your wrist. His skin was cool, a shocking contrast to the steaming water, and his grip was a firm cuff.​ He guided you down until your knees hit the damp floorboards with a soft thud.​

"You made a promise," he murmured, pressing the hot washcloth into your hand. "Be thorough. I don't want a speck of dirt or blood left on me."​

He leaned back, exposing the wet planes of his stomach and the strong column of his throat. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking and predatory. "Don't let your shyness keep you from seeing where you need to clean," he warned, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. "I want to feel every bit of that kindness you claimed to have."​

You took a shaky breath, your fingers trembling as you pressed the cloth to his shoulder. You began to scrub, tracing the lines of his muscles. Bo watched you with an intense focus. He could smell the way your pulse had spiked, the scent of your arousal blooming like a night-flower in the cramped room.​

He reached out, his large hand tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back. "Look at me while you do it," he commanded softly. "I want to see you realize what you're touchin'."

The steam had become a lavender-scented disinhibitor. As you moved the cloth lower, your knuckles brushed against the solid weight of him, submerged in the soapy water. You felt the thick, hard length of his dick stir beneath the surface, pulsing against your hand.

Bo let out a long, shuddering sigh. He didn't pull away. He just watched you, his shimmery eyes blown wide. Your lips were parted with a mix of curiosity and a hunger you couldn't hide anymore. You were gentle, your soapy hands sliding over his slick skin, but the more you cleaned, the harder he became.​

Bo’s hand clamped onto your waist. Before you could gasp, he hauled you over the rim.​ The water surged over the sides, splashing onto the floorboards with a heavy thud, as you landed in the tub with him. It was cramped; the metal bit into your hip, and your dress was instantly a heavy, sodden weight clinging to your skin.

Bo’s grip was absolute. He held your waist with one hand, his fingers digging into your flesh, while his other arm draped casually over the edge, his veiny hand twitching.​

You leaned in, your lips trembling as you pressed a tentative kiss to his.​

Bo didn't do tentative. He moaned into your mouth, his hand pulling you flush against his chest. He took over the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a desperate hunger that tasted of ancient promises. You felt his dick pressing between your thighs. You ground down, the wet fabric of your dress providing a friction that made your toes curl into the metal.​

His hand slid beneath the wet hem of your dress, his fingers ghosting over your thighs until they hooked into the waistband of your panties. With one effortless tug, he ripped the fabric. The sound of the tearing cotton was a sharp snap of finality. He flung the ruined scrap into the corner.​

He pulled back just enough to nip your bottom lip. When you looked down, your heart nearly stopped. His fangs were fully descended—ragged, ivory daggers that looked like fresh bone. They were jagged, lethal, and capable of tearing the life from you in a single heartbeat.​

You felt a spike of pure fear, and Bo felt it too. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. "Relax, little bird. I've got you. Don't let the teeth scare you... I'll only bite if you ask me too."​

He licked a slow, hot path across your lip before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned, your head falling back as you grinded onto his dick. It was perfectly positioned, stimulating you until you were seeing sparks.

​"Put it in for me," he rasped.​

He began to kiss a trail down your neck, the points of his fangs dragging across your skin, leaving thin, white lines that stung and burned. You reached down, your fingers fumbling through the soapy water until you found him. He was big—thick and pulsing with a life that didn't belong to a dead man. You lined him up, your breath catching, and slowly, you started to sink down.​

The stretch was deep, a forceful opening that made your vision swim. You felt every ridge, every inch of him as he filled you.​

"Mghn, fuck..." you breathed, your nails carving small crescents into his skin.​

"All the way," Bo commanded, his breath hot against your throat. "Take it all, sweetness. Every bit of it."​

You pushed through the resistance until you bottomed out. He hit a wall with a blunt pressure that made your stomach ache with the sheer fullness. You sat there for a moment, impaled and trembling, while the water lapped at your waists and the steam curled around your heads.​

"There," he whispered, his hand sliding up to cup your face. "Now you know exactly what a monster feels like inside you." Bo’s damp hand stayed clamped on your face, his thumb dragging roughly across your lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the slick, red inner flesh of your mouth.

He watched the way you trembled, your breath coming in shallow, broken hitches as your body tried—and failed—to accommodate the sheer, unyielding stretch of him.

He shifted his hips, a slow, teasing roll that forced you to feel every ridge and pulsing vein of him. You let out a high, thin whimper, your hands flying to his chest to push him away, to find some air, but his weight was like the Mississippi mud—heavy, ancient, and impossible to move.​

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a low, condescending purr that vibrated through your joined heat.

"All that fire in the gravel lot, spittin’ venom at those crackers... and here you are now, shakin’ like a leaf just ‘cause a real man’s fillin’ you up. You’re a pathetic little thing, ain’t you? All mouth and no room for the consequences. You think you’re brave ‘cause you sew up a wound? You’re just a fragile woman who doesn't know how to leave things be."​

The mean edge in his voice made your stomach flip, a toxic cocktail of shame and heat. "Shut—uhn... shut up," you gasped, your head rolling back as he thrust upward—a sharp, blunt jab that hit your g-spot with the force of a hammer, making your vision streak with white light.​

"Make me," he challenged, his eyes shimmering with a wicked, gold-flecked shimmer that made your blood run hotter.​

He didn't give you a chance to answer. He reached for the straps of your dress. He didn't bother being gentle; he ripped the fabric down, the wet slap of the ruined dress hitting the floorboards echoed loud in the cramped room. Your bra followed, snapped and flung aside until you were bare, your skin glistening with sweat and lavender-water in the flickering light.​

Bo’s breath hitched as he leaned in, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue rough and scorching as he swirled it around your nipple. He sucked deep, his fangs grazing the sensitive peak just enough to draw a pinprick of blood—a jolt of pain-pleasure that traveled straight to your clit.​

He thrust again, slow and agonizing, his hips grinding into your soft thighs with a crude force. You reached out, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer as you found a dulcet rhythm. You began to bounce, the water in the tub sloshing violently over the rim with every downward stroke, soaking the floor.​

Bo threw his head back, a low, guttural moan tearing from his throat. He let you ride him, but his hands weren't gentle. They moved to your chest, his palms engulfing your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh with a bruising strength that made you gasp. His thumbs found your nipples, pinching and twisting until you cried out.​

"That's it," he rasped, his fingers digging into your hip bones to anchor you as you hammered yourself down. "Ride it, baby. Show me how much you want it. You like the way I feel, don't you? Like I’m stretchin’ you out so far you’ll never close right again? You’re lucky I found you, or those men would’ve torn you apart... but I’m the one actually doin' it, ain't I?"​

He sped up his own hips, his thrusts turning quick and short, hitting you with a force that made the galvanized tub rattle against the floorboards. You felt his fangs scrape against your shoulder as he leaned in to bite at your skin, not breaking it yet, just marking you with the weight of his hunger.​

"You're so wet," he groaned against your ear, his breath smelling of lavender and the copper of his own blood. "Drippin' all into the water. Shit... I'm gonna make sure you can't walk for a week without—ahh—feelin' me between your legs, remindin' you who you let in."​

You nodded, your head lolling against his shoulder, your voice nothing but a broken, humid whisper. "Y-you feel so good, Bo... Lord, you feel so good."​

Bo let out a sound that was half-growl, half-purr, his chest vibrating against yours. He leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tasted of salt and the iron-sweetness of his. His tongue sweeping deep as he thrust upward, meeting your downward motion halfway. The wet slap of your bodies meeting echoed off the damp wooden walls.​

"Mhmm, I bet I do," he mumbled against your lips, his drawl thick and heavy with condescension. "Better than anythin’ you ever imagined in that quiet little life of yours, ain’t it? You spend your days haulin’ water a-and pickin’ okra, never dreamin’ a demon from the dark would come and stretch you out like this, sweet girl."​

You tilted your head, your tongue flicking out to lick across the sharp, jagged ivory of his teeth. The danger of it—the knowledge that he could snap your neck in a second—made your blood sing. "You're a mean one, Bo Chow," you breathed, your eyes fluttering. "But you can be as mean as you w-want, as long as you keep fucking me."​

His eyes flashed, a shimmery darkness. Without a word, he gripped your waist and stood up. The water cascaded off his body, splashing onto the floorboards in a heavy torrent. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs dangling for a split second before he flipped you over the cold, narrow edge of the galvanized tub. Your stomach hit the metal, your hands scrambling for purchase on the damp floor as you were forced into a deep arch. Bo was behind you instantly, his shadow swallowing you whole.

He didn't wait. He grabbed your hips—his fingers digging deep—and drove back home in one violent thrust that bottomed out with a wet squelch.​

"Ahhn—!" You cried out, your fingers clawing at the wood.​

He was fucking you like you owed him a debt you could never pay, his movements fast and relentless. It was rough, the friction of the wet skin and the deep, forceful stretch of him making your vision streak with color. He was marking you from the inside out, claiming every inch of your internal space.​

"Look back at me," he ordered, as he reached back and delivered a sharp, stinging slap to your ass. One that made your skin tingle and your pussy clench tight around him. "Look at what I'm doin' to you. See how you take it."​

You twisted your neck, looking over your shoulder with blown-out eyes. You watched as his shaft disappeared into you and reappeared, glistening with your combined slickness. You watched your own flesh stretch and yield, your hole squeezing him with every pulse.​

Bo let out a long, ragged moan. "Oh my... look at that. Look at how you're grabbin' me. You're s-so greedy for it. Just a hungry little hole for the haint." He leaned down, his chest pressing into your back, and whispered something dark and filthy in Cantonese—the sounds sharp and ancient against your ear. Then, his voice dropped back into that Delta rasp. "I bet if I sink these teeth into that pretty neck of yours, you'd squeeze me so tight I’d never get out. I could drink you dry while I fill you up.

​He kept pounding into you, his pace turning frantic, his breath hitching. The overstimulation was too much; you reached back, your hand pressing into his lower stomach, trying to find some leverage against the assault.​

"Bo, w-wait... slow down," you sobbed, your eyes teary, your lips pouting in a desperate plea. "Please, it's too much..."​

He paused, but he didn't pull out. He looked down at your face—the tears, the flushed skin, the absolute wreck he’d made of you—and a slow, possessive smirk crossed his lips. He reached out and folded one of your arms behind your back, pinning it there with his large hand, and began to fuck you slow and deep.​

It was worse this way. Every inch of him was felt, every ridge of his dick dragging against your sensitive walls. You watched as your own cream began to coat his skin, dripping down his thighs and into the pink-tinted water on the floor. Bo reached around with his free hand, spreading your cheeks wide, his thumb tracing the seam of your ass with a strange gentleness.​

"You're a mess," he murmured, watching the way you took him. "A beautiful, wet mess. I’m gonna eat this pretty pussy later, once I’m done usin’ it. I’m gonna taste every bit of what I put inside you. You’re gonna miss me for days."​

Your hand drifted down to your clit, your fingers finding the swollen, sensitive nub and rubbing in frantic circles. The slow, deep thrusts were driving you to the edge of a cliff.​

"Can you take it faster, baby?" Bo rasped, his hand leaving your back to wrap firmly around the base of your neck. "You want me to finish in you? You want the monster to fill you up?"​

"Yes," you gasped, your head falling forward. "Yes, Bo! Please! Just do it!"​

He gripped your neck, anchoring you as he began to pound into you with everything he had. The sounds were wet and violent, the tub rattling against the floor as he reached for his own peak. You felt your orgasm building, a tidal wave of heat that crashed over you just as he delivered one last deep thrust that pinned you against the metal.​

You screamed into the empty washroom, your body convulsing as you came in wave after wave of paralyzing pleasure. A second later, Bo let out a low moan, his body locking up as he erupted inside you. You felt the scorching heat of him, the thick, pulsing ropes of his release filling you to the absolute brim, making you feel like you were overflowing.​

He stayed there for a long time, his forehead resting against your back, both of you panting in the cooling steam. When he finally pulled out, the sound was wet and heavy. You stayed slumped over the tub, your legs shaking, watching as his thick, white cum began to leak out of you, dripping slowly onto the dark, damp floorboards of your home.​

Bo stood over you, his eyes still shining, his thumb reaching out to catch a stray drop of his seed from your thigh before bringing it to his lips, tasting you one last time.

ᦏ᪔

The scent of lye soap and fresh floor wax had mostly chased away the copper sting of blood and the heavy musk of the night before. Your small house looked right again—quilts snapped straight, the hearth swept clean, and the kitchen table scrubbed down for the arrival of your brother, his wife, and their little ones. But despite the domestic order, the air still felt charged, humming with the ghost of the intimacy that had unfolded in the washroom.​

Bo sat at your small kitchen table, draped in a set of your brother’s old work clothes. The denim was faded and the shirt was tight across his broad, scarred shoulders, but he wore them with a strange, effortless dignity. He looked like any other man from the Delta, save for the stillness in his posture and the way his eyes seemed to swallow the afternoon light.​

You leaned against the counter, smoothing your apron, feeling the dull ache between your thighs—a constant, thrumming reminder of exactly what he was.​

"Everything’s ready," you said, your voice a little raspy. "I reckon you can stay on and rest a bit longer, but you got to be gone before the crickets start their real loud chirpin'. My brother and his kin... they can’t find you here. Especially not lookin’ like you do."

​Bo didn't answer right away. He stood up, his frame making the kitchen feel small again, and crossed the room with that fluid, silent stride. He stepped behind you, wrapping his large, cool arms around your waist. He pulled you back against his chest, his chin resting in the crook of your neck. You felt his breath, cold and smelling faintly of the lavender salts, against your skin.​

"I’ll be gone before the first headlight hits the gravel, little bird," he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. He didn't bite, but the threat—the promise—of his fangs was always there. "When can I see you again?"​

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes. "Whenever you want, Bo. I'm sure you know the way."​

He let out a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through your spine. He squeezed your waist once, firmly, before letting go. "Thank you again. For the thread. For not callin' the law or the lynch mobs." His eyes drifted to the window, looking out toward the cypress trees. "I’ll pay you back for the trouble. Name your price."​

You didn't hesitate. You knew the value of your silence and your safety in this world. You named a price—a bold amount of silver that would keep your family fed and the taxes paid for a long, long time.​

Bo let out a short, dry bark of a laugh, his shimmery eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’re a greedy woman," he said, but there was a deep, underlying respect in his tone. He reached out, his thumb dragging across your cheek. "I like that. I used to own a store myself, back before the world got so dark. I know the cost of doin' business. You'll have your silver."​

ᦏ᪔

The house was full of the sounds of family later that night—the high-pitched giggles of your nieces, the heavy thud of your brother’s boots, and the soft chatter of his wife as they settled into the guest rooms. You played your part, serving food and enjoying family time, but your mind was stuck in the quiet shadows of the washroom.​

When you finally crawled into your own bed, the sheets felt cold and lonely. You fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, exhausted by the weight of the secrets you were carrying.​

In the dead of the night, the air in your room shifted. There was no sound, just a subtle change in pressure.​

Bo appeared at your bedside like a shadow detached from the wall. He stood over you for a long time, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, and pressed a lingering, feather-light kiss to your forehead.​

He reached out, his long fingers snagging a small scarf you’d left on the nightstand—one you’d used to tie back your hair. He brought it to his nose, inhaling the scent of you that clung to the fabric: the peach-sweetness, the earth, and the lingering spice of the night before. He tucked it into his pocket, a piece of you to take back into the dark.​

When you woke the next morning, the room was empty and the sun was beginning to bleed over the horizon. You sat up, shivering slightly, and noticed a small piece of paper weighted down by a small sack on your vanity.​

You picked up the note. The handwriting was elegant, sharp, and slanted.​

The Delta is a dangerous place, dear. Keep your doors locked and your fire high. I'll be back for the rest of what I owe you.​— B.C.​

You clutched the silver coin in your hand, feeling its cold weight, and looked out at the swamp. Bo Chow was gone, but you knew that he was still watching.

ᦏ𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑪𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒃𝒚 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈᪔

тαgℓιѕт: @aizawash0e, @h3avenlyglory, @mahoganybreeze

Dividers by @uzmacchiato

All works © liliacsdelight 2025–Present. Do not repost, translate, modify, or use my work to train AI models.

[unbotheredandunmedicated]

where is this from i can't sleep-

[edenisonline]

Im going to watch the movie in two days ⭐️

[treshchotka]

Queen

Follow me everywhere / commissions open

[katestewartt]

"I can give you the exact play-by-play that was happening in my mind when everyone else was projecting something entirely different."

[manny-jacinto]

🌸 Peter Parker, flower boy 🌸

[my-ny]

Marvel + text posts

[lovedheronthecoast]

2000s spideytorch

2000s age-accurate spideytorch bc im obsessed with them

i just know andrew garfield would kill to make a spideytorch movie w michael b jordan

[s-writing-s]

Diagnosis: Married? | Part 13

Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?

tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, drinking, sexual tension

word count: 7.5k

a/n: a slight trim from 8k but still a long chapter for you guys <33 i hope you enjoy it! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33

Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist The Pitt | Masterlist Main | Masterlist Previous part | Next part

It's been three days since Olivia left. Three days since you moved into the guest room.

Three days since Jack has slept more than an hour at a time.

He'd expected that he'd miss you, but he hadn't expected his body to react so viscerally to your lack of presence. Hadn’t expected it to feel like something essential had been pulled out of him—like his body didn’t know how to settle without you.

It's familiar in a way he hates. The restless energy buzzing under his skin, the sharp edge of awareness, the way his mind keeps searching for something to do—something urgent, something loud enough to drown everything else out.

He'd caught himself earlier, halfway to the drawer where he'd hidden the police scanner, until his mind caught up to his body. He wanted to reach in, grab it, but he didn't. Because if he did, he’d go. And as long as you were here—even in another room—he wouldn’t.

He'll reach for it when you're gone. Not a second before.

You've left for the guest room half an hour ago—your room now—after getting ready for bed. He'd convinced you to keep your things in his bathroom, arguing that it made more sense than to move them—a weak excuse that somehow worked.

It meant that he could sit against the headboard, listen to you potter around in there and get a sweet smile from you before you eventually leave.

After that, he could creep under the covers, drag your pillow into his arms, and bury his nose deep into the fabric where your scent still lingers. Pretend for a moment that you haven't left—that you're still in the bathroom.

But this time the familiar scent is not there. He'd turned the pillow around, rather desperately, hoping—praying—to find it.

He didn't.

You'd changed the sheets. Washed off the last bit of evidence he had that you'd been there. He lay back down with a thud, pillow still hugged tightly to his chest, and resigned himself to a night of no sleep.

He was wrong. It isn't a night of no sleep—it's much worse. Because when his eyes close, he's right back there.

Dry, suffocating heat sticks to his skin. Lungs burning with each breath. Sand grinds between his teeth. There's a sharp, metallic stink of fuel and blood.

Someone's bleeding.

He's pressing down, his hands slick, trying to keep it in—begging stay with me, stay with me—but it won't stop.

It never stops. It's one after the other. Faces blur. Voices overlap. Orders shouted over choking breaths.

He's too slow. He's always too slow.

A broken sound tears out of him. His hands twist into the sheets, knuckles straining white, fabric biting into his palms. He doesn't feel it until something pulls him up, drags him out—

His eyes snap open to another nightmare—one that hurts in an entirely different way.

You're sitting beside him, watching him with worried but sympathetic eyes. Close but not touching him like he wishes you would—he wants nothing more than to feel your warmth, even if it's just a mind's trick. His chest is still heaving, lungs refusing to settle, heart slamming hard enough it hurts. Adrenaline courses through him. He doesn't move—couldn't if he wanted to—so he just stares at you, waiting for the inevitable moment when you fade away again.

"You're okay," you whisper, shifting closer on the bed.

He doesn't believe it. Not when he can still feel it—the heat, the blood, the weight of it all sitting heavy in his chest like it never left.

"You're okay," you murmur again, glancing from his face down to his hands still clutching the covers. You reach out, but stop halfway, hesitating. "Can I touch you?"

"Please," he manages, his voice cracking. He can barely breathe.

You move slowly, carefully easing the fabric out of his grip and replacing it with your hand. Your other hand comes up to his face, swiping at the tears that he hadn't even realised had fallen.

"Breathe with me," you say. You bring your intertwined hands up to your chest, resting them gently on your sternum, so he can feel the slow and steady rise of it.

He tries matching you, but it feels impossible.

You keep murmuring assurances, gentle words that he doesn't believe, but he keeps trying. His breaths come uneven at first, catching, stuttering—but you keep at it.

He knows it’s a panic attack. Rationally, he does. But his body takes its own time to realise it. Eventually, the edges dull. The noise fades. His lungs stop fighting him.

And once he's finally able to take a full, deep breath, he realises, it isn't a dream. Your hand is warm—real.

"Hey," you whisper, giving him a small smile.

"Hi," he says back.

You don't say more. You don’t ask anything. You don’t push. You just look at him, something soft in your expression, and then—

you pull your hand away.

The loss is immediate. He swallows, disappointment filling his aching chest. Of course. He should've known you wouldn’t stay. You just came to make sure he was okay. That’s what good people do. People like you.

He should’ve known better. Should’ve known not to expect more. Men like him don’t get to have things like this. Not with everything he carries. Not with everything he’s failed to carry. Not with—

The mattress dips beside him. You don’t say anything as you slip under the covers beside him. Your face tucks into the space between his shoulder and chest, your arm draping over his stomach.

He doesn’t move at first, then his arm comes up. Careful. Hesitant. It wraps around your shoulder, pressing you closer into him. His nose dips into your hair, and he takes another deep breath. Finally breathing you in. His eyes close again, his grip tightening just slightly around you, afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens it.

And for the first time in three nights, he sleeps properly.

Jack wakes slowly. His shoulders loosened, breathing calm, and his head not aching for once. He breathes in quietly, searching for your soft breath in the room. It's quiet.

Too quiet.

Heart slowly sinking, he keeps his eyes closed as he reaches across the mattress, searching for your body. Not wanting to see just yet. Not wanting to confirm it.

His fingers only brush against cold sheets.

Jack sighs, cold realisation hitting him. He keeps his eyes closed for another second before he reluctantly opens them to face the truth.

You've left. Of course you have.

And judging by the coldness, it must have been sooner rather than later. Probably right after he fell asleep.

With another harsh exhale, he pushes himself up to sit at the edge of the bed. Building up the nerve to go act like it doesn't mean anything, that his heart isn't fracturing, trying to keep up this pretence.

Then the door creaks open, your foot nudging it as your elbow releases the handle. In your hands, you hold a tray with plates and mugs clinking as you step inside.

"Nooo," you pout when you see he's awake. "I was supposed to wake you up with breakfast in bed." You lift the tray, staring at it dejectedly. "I even made you coffee," you add.

Jack blinks at you, trying to make sense of the situation. Had you slept there the whole night, after all?

"Lay back down," you demand, cutting through his thought process.

"Really?" His voice is hoarse from surprise and sleep, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Amusement flickers through the haze of disappointment.

"Yes!"

And because he can't resist you, he does as he's told, his eyes closing again. He hears the tray set down next to him, his book hitting the floor—he bites back a comment.

"Okay, you can wake up now," you say.

Jack doesn't move.

"Ja-ack," you exaggerate, poking his arm. He doesn't budge. "Come on," you push at his arm, your voice growing closer as your face nears his.

"I'm sleeping," he murmurs, his mouth curling despite his attempt to control his grin.

"Funny," you deadpan. " Come on, wake up. Wake up. Wake up." You poke, push and prod with each word. "Wake u—" he cuts you off this time, his hands wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you into the bed. In a smooth roll, he pins you lightly beneath him, leaning on one arm to avoid crushing you, the other draped across your frame to hold you in place.

Your mouth stays open, but no words leave this time.

"I thought you were taught bedside manners in med school," he says. "Looks like I was expecting too much."

He can see your eyes widening, how your breathing turns shaky. He has to stop himself from leaning down and pressing his mouth to yours. He drags in a breath and forces himself to keep still.

He doesn't have the chance to act, even if he wanted to, because your head turns, soft lips brushing his ear seconds later.

"What? Something more like—" your voice turns breathy, sweet, and downright sultry. "Good morning, Jack. Your sweet, sweet wife made you breakfast."

He knows you're teasing him, but that is actually what he wants. What he wishes for every day.

But he can't show you that, so he rolls back, shrugging. "Something like that, yeah."

You grin, pushing yourself up to lean against the headboard. "I'll remember that. Now," you gesture to the tray, "eat before it gets cold."

"Yes, ma'am." Jack reaches over, giving you one of the mugs and taking the other himself. He takes a small sip of the dark liquid.

You've been watching him carefully, your brows knitting as he swallows. "It's not good, is it?"

He tries his best to hide the instinctive grimace that comes from drinking watery coffee, murmuring, "No, it's… It's good."

The lie flops immediately. Especially when you take a sip yourself. "It's horrible." You pout again, something Jack really wishes you would stop doing. It keeps drawing his attention to your lips.

"It's the effort that counts," he says.

"I don't want your pity," you say.

"Hey—the offer to teach you still stands."

"Hmm, nah," you say, shaking your head, a slight smile on your lips. "I'll just let that be your thing."

Jack tilts his head, thinking. "Did you make it bad on purpose?"

"What?" He can see you considering how to answer, knowing that he'd placed a trap—that either answer is bad.

You settle on, "Shut up and eat," instead.

Jack grins, watching you over the rim of his mug.

You'd seen the worst of him, and still you'd come back. He wants to believe that means something.

The shift is progressing much better than the last few ones, despite the cases being nearly the same. The difference is in you—yawning less, not fighting so hard to stay awake.

Just one night of sleeping with Jack again apparently makes up for days of fractured sleep. The bed in the guest room isn't as nice—it's what you tried to convince yourself at first—but deep inside, you know it's really about not sleeping with Jack. It’s unsettling how quickly your body has gotten used to it—how much worse everything feels without it.

Tonight you're still tired, but significantly less so.

"Here." A cup lands on the desk next to you as Lily leans against the counter. "I finally give in—come to the 'dark side' or whatever you call it—" she grins, "and then you're too tired to even notice."

"No, ugh—I'm the worst," you groan. "I'm so happy you're here. You're one of the few nurses I've managed to convince."

"Don’t you mean the only one?" Lily tilts her head, red ponytail slipping over her shoulder as her eyes narrow playfully. There’s a grin tugging at her lips, the kind that says she already knows the answer.

"Give it time. My charm is a slow burn."

"Mm-hmm. Or a complete myth," she says, nudging your shoulder lightly.

Lily’s been here as long as you have—long enough that you can’t quite remember any shifts without her. She’s the kind of person who somehow looks put together even after twelve-hour shifts, her scrubs never wrinkled, her smile never fully fading. When everything feels dark, she’s the one who brightens it.

And somehow—miraculously—she’s also figured out how to make the break room coffee taste like something other than regret.

"Seriously though," she adds, softer now, studying your face. "You look exhausted. Like… more than usual exhausted."

"I’ve just slept like shit the last few days," you admit, shrugging one shoulder.

"Uh-huh," someone mutters in passing. You don’t even have to look to know it’s Parker, but you do anyway. She’s halfway past the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, already moving like she’s got somewhere better to be.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" you call after her, because you absolutely cannot let it go—even though experience tells you that’s a mistake.

Parker stops, glancing at you, unimpressed. "You've slept 'shitty'," she repeats flatly.

"Yes?"

She hums, glancing between you and Lily, something calculating flickering behind her eyes. "That’s just funny."

You sigh, regretting this conversation even more. "Why?"

"So has Abbot."

"So what?"

Parker’s mouth curves, just barely. "It’s just funny that two newlyweds both show up to work tired." There’s just enough pause after it for the implication to settle.

"Oh my—" Lily’s eyes go wide, and she physically leans closer to you, her voice dropping into a whisper that is not quiet at all. "Are you trying?"

"What? No!" you choke, nearly spilling your coffee as you whip toward Parker. "Stop making up rumours!"

But Parker’s already turned back to Lily, completely ignoring your protest. "I’ve got twenty on it happening this year," she says, like she’s placing a perfectly reasonable bet. "You in?"

"Oh, I’m absolutely in," Lily replies instantly, all delight and zero hesitation. "Thirty on it happening in three months—and them pretending it didn’t until it’s too obvious to hide."

"Guys," you groan, dragging both hands down your face this time. "Guys, please—"

They’re already walking away, laughing like this is the best thing that’s happened all shift.

You stare after them, equal parts horrified and exhausted. "…I hate both of you," you mutter, even though they’re long gone.

But you know the night shift's noticed. The way you lean in more, flirt a little easier—just trying to take Olivia’s advice, even if you’re doing it far more subtly than she'd like you to.

Still, you didn’t think that, combined with a few bad nights of sleep, would be enough to start a bet.

At around four in the morning, there's a lull in patients, the waiting room empty for once. Unlike others, who are taking the time to catch some Z's, you’re using it to catch up on your charts.

You’re mid-sentence when a body drops heavily into the chair beside you. "Ugh."

"Hmm?" You barely glance over, fingers still moving across the keyboard, though slower now.

"I’m gonna have to file a harassment claim by the end of the night if this keeps going," Shen says, dragging a hand down his face.

That gets your attention. "A patient?"

"No." He shakes his head immediately, expression souring. "Worse."

You already have a feeling. Your eyes flick instinctively down the hall—and just in time to see Smith slip through the doors of one of the rooms. "Don't tell me it's—"

He grimaces, nodding. "Uh-huh."

You lean back with a quiet exhale, rubbing your temple. "Damn. I told her to drop that."

"Who?" a new voice cuts in. Jack's shadow falls across the counter a second before he leans over it, his eyes moving between you and Shen.

"Smith," Shen mutters. "She hasn’t crossed a line yet, but she’s right on the edge."

Jack’s expression tightens slightly, his easy demeanour sharpening into something more focused. "Has she done it to anyone else?"

"Not that I know of," Shen says, shaking his head. "Just me."

Jack nods once, adding almost like an afterthought, "So you and me."

Your spine straightens instantly. Shen’s head snaps toward Jack, eyes wide, then flicks to you like he’s suddenly very aware he’s in the blast radius of something.

You turn fully in your chair, staring up at Jack. "She hit on you?"

Jack blinks, like he hadn’t quite anticipated the reaction. "Yes."

"When?"

"When you were—" he gestures vaguely toward your midsection, searching for the least awkward phrasing, "…I turned her down."

Your brows knit tighter. "Why didn’t you tell me?" It comes out sharper than you mean it to.

"Uh oh," Shen mutters under his breath, already pushing himself upright. "I have a patient in South 19—I gotta go."

Neither of you stops him. He disappears fast.

Jack exhales quietly and moves around the counter, stepping into your space instead of staying on the other side. He leans back against the edge beside you, closer now, his voice softer.

"Hey," he says. "I’m sorry. I didn’t really think about it at the time. I was more worried about you that day, and then it just… slipped my mind."

You worry your bottom lip, gaze dropping briefly to the desk as you turn that over.

"Still," he adds quickly, watching your face, "I should’ve told you. I’m sorry." He pauses, then asks, "Are you mad?"

You look up at him then—taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s trying not to make a big deal out of it but clearly cares about the answer.

After a second, you shake your head. "No. Not at you."

Some of the tightness leaves him immediately, subtle but still noticeable.

"I’m mad at her," you continue, turning back toward your screen, though you’re not really reading it anymore.

Jack shifts beside you, thinking. "I’m going to write her up."

You glance at him again, surprised. "You are?"

"That’s two attendings now," he says evenly. "And there’s also the shit she pulled with you." His mouth presses into a thin line. "Hopefully it’s a reality check."

"And if it’s not?" you ask.

A hint of something dry creeps back into his expression. "Then I’ll have her moved back to days."

You raise a brow.

"Make her Robby’s problem," he finishes.

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, cutting through the lingering irritation. "Wow. Harsh."

"He’ll survive," Jack says lightly, completely unapologetic.

You study him for a moment, something softer settling in your chest now. "…Thanks," you say.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, pushing off the counter slightly. "It’s my job as your attending to take care of you."

He says it lightly. It doesn’t feel light. Doesn't quite match the way he’s looking at you.

"Hey," you say, catching Parker just as she’s finishing up, the early signs of shift change rippling through the department. "Wanna go out soon?"

Her head snaps up so fast it’s almost comical. "Uh, yes?" she says immediately, eyebrows shooting up. "I’ve been waiting for you to ask."

A small, tired smile tugs at your mouth. "Good."

You mean it more than she realises. You need it—something loud, something distracting, something that isn’t this constant low simmer in your chest. Every time you catch a glimpse of Smith moving through the department, laughing too easily, standing a little too close to people, it tightens again.

It’s not about Jack. Not really. You trust him. It’s the audacity of it that gets under your skin. The fact that she knew. That she looked at him, at the ring, at you—and still decided to try anyway. Fake marriage or not, it irks you.

"Can I come too?" Lily calls as she passes behind you, halfway to the supply room, but clearly listening in.

"Of course," you say easily.

"Yay!" she grins, then, without missing a beat, she turns slightly. "Hey… you coming?" You follow her line of sight—and your stomach sinks.

Smith.

She’s just stepped up to the board, pausing mid-motion as she blinks at Lily, clearly caught off guard. "Uh… me?" she asks, pointing lightly to herself.

"Yeah!" Lily grins, completely oblivious to the undercurrent running through the rest of you. "Come hang out with us."

There’s a split second where Smith hesitates. "Uh… sure," she says finally.

"Great," you reply, the word coming out smoother than it feels. You glance at Parker, and the look you share says enough.

Great. Just great.

"Uh—let’s invite day shift too," you add quickly, already stepping back, reaching for a pen you don’t need. "Make it a whole thing."

Bigger group. More noise. Less chance of being forced to interact.

"Yeah, yeah, good idea," Parker murmurs, catching on instantly.

As you start to move away, Parker falls into step beside you just long enough to mutter under her breath, "I’ll tell Lily what’s going on."

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing just slightly. "Thanks," you murmur back.

"Hi!" Lily beams the second she steps through the door, her voice already carrying that bright, slightly-too-loud energy of someone ready for a night out.

Warm light spills from the living room into the hallway, soft music humming in the background. The place already feels lived-in for the night: shoes kicked off near the entry, jackets draped over chairs, laughter drifting in from deeper inside.

"Come in, come in," you say, stepping back to let her through, one hand gesturing her inside while the other tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Jack’s just leaving."

Right on cue, he appears from the hallway, shrugging into his jacket, keys already in hand. He looks relaxed in a way he rarely does at work—sleeves rolled, hair slightly mussed. He nods at her.

"Hey," Lily says, her eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate interest.

"Call me if there’s anything," Jack says to you, like he hasn’t already said it twice. He'd offered the house for you guys to get ready together, something the other girls had squealed at—more than just a little excited to see "your" place. It's just a few of you pregaming, the rest meeting you later. "And take an Uber to the bar."

"It’s a ten-minute walk," you shoot back instantly, crossing your arms. "I’m not wasting my money on that."

Jack exhales, slow and long, like he saw that coming. "Hand me your phone."

You don’t even hesitate, though your eyes narrow as you pass it over. "What are you doing?"

"Saving you from yourself," he mutters, already unlocking it, password memorised. His thumbs move quickly, tapping through screens easily.

You lean slightly, trying to peek. "Jack—"

"Relax," he says, not even looking up. "I’m not reading your messages."

"Wow, thank you for that bare minimum reassurance."

He huffs a quiet laugh, then hands the phone back. "My card’s on there. Take an Uber."

You glance at the screen, then back at him, sighing. "…Alright."

He studies you for a second, like he’s deciding whether to argue further, then seems to accept the win. His hand comes up, settling briefly at your waist as he pulls you a step closer. He presses a soft kiss to the side of your head, lingering just a second longer than necessary. "I’ll see you later, honey."

The door clicks shut behind him, and there is exactly one second of silence. Then—

A high-pitched squeal cuts through the hallway. "Oh my god, you two are disgusting," Lily breathes, clutching her chest.

You roll your eyes, but you’re already laughing, shaking your head as you take Lily by the arm and guide her further inside. "You're just jealous."

"Am not," Lily says immediately, though her grin says otherwise. Her eyes are already darting around, taking everything in. "Also—wow."

She steps fully into the living room, turning slowly like she’s trying to catalogue the entire place at once. "Okay," Lily says, wandering a few steps farther in. "This is so nice."

"Right?" Trinity chimes in from near the hallway, already halfway through opening a door before you even notice. "I’m just gonna—"

"Trin—" you start.

Too late. She peeks inside anyway. "Bathroom. Boring," she announces, closing it and immediately moving to the next.

"You guys are unbelievable," you mutter, though there’s no real heat behind it.

"Wait, is this your room?" Trinity asks.

"No," you say quickly. "Trinity—"

"I’m just looking!" she insists, disappearing down the hall anyway.

Lily drifts toward a bookshelf, tilting her head as she scans the spines. Mel perches carefully on the very edge of the couch, like she’s still not entirely sure she’s allowed to take up space there—but she’s trying. There’s a small smile on her face as she watches the rest of you bicker and move around each other, something soft and a little uncertain, like she’s easing into the rhythm of it. You're not sure how Trinity managed to convince her to come out with you—but you're so happy she did. You like Mel.

From the kitchen, ice clinks against glass. "Come get your drinks," Parker calls.

You make your way over, leaning against the counter as she hands you a glass. Behind you, Trinity’s voice echoes from down the hall, "Oh my god, your closet is so organised, it’s actually stressful."

"Don’t touch anything!" you call back.

"I’m not touching—I’m just looking!"

"Same thing!"

Lily appears beside you again, still grinning. "No, really, you guys are so cute," she says, nudging your arm. "I’ve seen you two at shift change, but never like that."

"Like what?" you ask, taking a sip.

"Domestic," she says immediately. "It’s weird. In a good way. But also—" she scrunches her nose, "—barf."

"They’re barf material," Trinity yells from the hallway, doubling down. Mel grins over the rim of her glass.

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself, the earlier tension finally loosening its grip.

"Oh—wait," Lily suddenly says, her whole expression shifting as something clicks. She turns to you, eyes wide. "I’m so sorry about inviting Smith, I didn’t know—"

"It’s fine," you cut in easily, waving a hand like it’s nothing. And you mean it. She couldn't have known. "Seriously. Don’t worry about it."

Parker snorts, not even looking up as she pours another drink. "Yeah, we’ll just make sure she sees exactly who she’s dealing with tonight."

"Ooh yes. Here's to dressing slutty," Trinity adds, sliding up to the table and grabbing a drink.

Lily raises her glass, grinning. "And to making Abbot incapable of coherent thought."

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch anyway as glasses clink together around you.

Olivia’s words echo in your mind: Flirt more. Try harder. See what happens. You have… kind of. But nothing bold. Nothing risky.

Tonight? Tonight you’re going to push it. And if it blows up—there’s alcohol, witnesses, plausible deniability.

The house descends into chaos, music playing just loud enough to keep the energy up without drowning conversation. Empty glasses and half-finished drinks cluttered the coffee table.

Trinity has taken over the couch like she owns it, legs tucked under her, talking fast and loud about something that had happened earlier as she draws a sharp cat eye. Lily sits cross-legged on the floor, halfway through curling her hair, pausing every few seconds to laugh. Parker hovers near the kitchen, topping up everyone’s drinks whether they ask or not. Mel lingers just at the edge of everything, but she’s smiling more now, shoulders less tense. Every now and then, someone pulls her into the conversation, and her laughter blends softly with the rest.

"Can I do your makeup?" you ask once you're finished with your own.

She blinks, caught off guard. "Who—who, me?"

You nod, already shifting closer. "We can do something simple… or we can go all out. Your choice."

"Um… well," she glances back at Trinity. "Could we do that?"

"A cat eye?" you light up. "Yes. Absolutely."

You're sitting in front of her now, steadying her chin, carefully dragging eyeliner across her lid.

Behind you, Trinity leans back into the couch cushions, watching. "I’m doing her hair next," she declares.

You finish Mel’s eyeliner, leaning back to assess your work. "Okay. Now don’t touch it."

Mel turns toward the mirror, and her expression shifts. "Oh… wow."

"Okay," Trinity cuts in, pointing at you as she grabs the curling iron. "Your turn. Go change. We need to see the look."

You grab your drink off the table, taking a quick sip before heading toward the bedroom.

"I'll come with you," Parker says. "Make sure you don't choose something boring."

The bedroom is quieter, the living room muffled behind the door. Parker perches on the bed, watching as you pull options from the closet. "No." You hold up another. "No." Another. "Absolutely not. What is that?"

"You’re so picky," you mutter.

"Sit," she orders, pointing at the spot she just left.

You roll your eyes—but sit. Parker is already on her feet, rifling through your closet, pushing hangers aside. She pauses, then slowly pulls a dress out.

Black. Fitted in all the right places, but still soft. Short. "This one," she says, turning to you—and the look she gives you makes it very clear this is not a discussion. "Abbot will have a heart attack."

You raise a brow—but you’re already reaching for it. You don’t bother turning away as you change. Parker doesn’t even blink, just leans back on her hands, completely unfazed. Your first year of residency together killed any sense of modesty between you.

"Girl, if you weren't married, I'd tap that," Parker says with a smirk. "If Abbot ever fucks things up, you'll always have me."

You laugh, loud and unfiltered. "I'll keep that in mind." You grab your drink again, finishing what’s left in one go, the warmth settling low in your chest.

"Alright," you say, turning toward the door, a spark of something sharper and bolder settling in as the fabric shifts against your body. "Let’s do shots before we leave."

Parker grins, already pushing off the bed. "Now you’re talking."

You spill out of the Uber in a tangle of laughter, Lily gripping your arm as she nearly misses the curb entirely. The air hits cool against your skin, grounding but not nearly enough to dull the soft buzz humming through you. Even Mel looks a little looser around the edges now.

Inside, the bar is already alive. Trinity pushes ahead, dragging Parker with her toward the bar. Lily stays close to you, fingers hooked loosely in your arm so you don’t get separated, while Mel lingers just behind, taking it all in.

Your eyes are searching the crowd, but it doesn't take long to find him. Jack's at the bar with other night shift people, leaning back against the counter. He looks relaxed, posture loosened by alcohol, but his eyes keep flicking toward the door.

Even half-hidden behind the others, he sees you. His mouth curves immediately in response. The group converges, greetings overlapping, orders being shouted toward the bartender—but it all blurs a little as you step closer to him.

"Hi," you say. You don’t overthink it—you just lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. His reaction is immediate, his hand finding your waist, steady and warm. "Oops," you murmur, swiping your thumb lightly over his cheek. "Lipstick."

Jack doesn't seem to mind. He's watching you. You can see his eyes move, taking you in properly. From your face, down the line of your neck, over the dress… lingering just a second too long at the hem.

The reaction hits you instantly—a warm, electric rush settling low. You grin, leaning back to give him more space to look. "Do you like it?"

He hums, head tilting. "Can't really see it, sweetheart."

Your smile sharpens. "Oh?" you murmur, sliding your fingers into his. You lift his hand, spinning beneath it. The dress shifts against your thighs. "How about now?"

His grip tightens slightly when you come back to him. His gaze burns dark. "You look…" he starts, then pauses, swallowing once. "You look gorgeous."

There’s something in the way he says it—something quieter and more real than you'd imagined. For a second, you just hold his gaze, letting that settle between you, then your smile softens, something genuine slipping through the teasing. "Thank you."

You close the space again without thinking, your body angling naturally into his. His hand adjusts at your waist, pulling you in just a little closer.

Before you can say anything else, the music shifts. Trinity lights up instantly. "Oh, this is my song," she announces, already grabbing Lily.

"Wait—no—" Lily protests, laughing as she’s dragged away anyway.

Parker doesn’t even hesitate. "We’re going," she says, pointing at you and Mel like there’s no alternative.

Mel hesitates, clearly unsure. "I don’t—"

"You do now," Parker calls, already moving. Mel looks at you like she’s not entirely convinced, but she turns anyway.

You glance back at Jack, one brow lifting slightly. "Wanna come dance?"

"I don't dance, sweetheart," he answers.

You hum, leaning in just a little closer, your fingers brushing lightly along the front of his shirt. "That’s a shame," you murmur. Your gaze flicks up to his. "I think you’d be good at it."

His hand tightens at your waist. "Yeah?" he says, his voice lower now.

"Mm," you hum, lips curving slightly, a little more confident now, alcohol heightening the feeling that it might not be just you feeling this way. You might’ve said more—leaned in just a little further, pushed it one step further past safe—

—but Parker’s hand closes around your arm, pulling you with her before you can. And just like that, you’re gone into the crowd—though you can still feel the imprint of his hand where it was, and the weight of his gaze lingering long after.

The dance floor is packed, bodies moving close, lights flashing in uneven bursts. Trinity is fully in her element—hands in the air, singing along to every word, whether she knows them or not. Parker’s matching her energy, spinning Lily into her until they’re both laughing too hard to keep rhythm.

Mel hovers at first, then slowly loosens, shoulders relaxing, a small smile turning into something more real as she lets herself move. You fall into it easily enough—the music, the drinks, the way the night feels like it’s building toward something. Every now and then, you catch glimpses of the bar, half-looking for him without meaning to.

Time blurs a little after that—songs bleeding into each other, drinks appearing and disappearing, the group shifting and reforming as people wander and come back.

Eventually, the heat of the dance floor gets to be too much, so you slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the bar. "Water, please," you say, sliding onto one of the high chairs. The bartender nods, and a second later, you’ve got a cold glass in your hand. You take a long sip, closing your eyes for just a second.

God, that’s better.

You’re just starting to settle, letting the room sway lightly around you, when a voice cuts in beside you. "Hey—"

You don’t turn right away. A man leans against the bar next to you anyway, shaggy-haired, smirking. "I saw you out there," he says, nodding toward the dance floor. "You looked good."

"Thanks," you answer, your voice cool, eyes forward, sipping again. Letting him know you’re not interested.

He doesn’t take the hint. "I’m Trent," he goes on, shifting closer like that alone will make this work. "You’ve got some moves, but I think we could make some great moves together—if you know what I mean."

You let out a soft, unimpressed breath. "I’m married," you say, lifting your hand just enough for the ring to catch the light.

He hesitates for only a heartbeat before smirking like he thinks he can charm it away. "He doesn’t have to know."

Your expression shifts, irritation flickering sharper now. You finally turn your head fully, meeting his gaze.

He mistakes it instantly for interest and leans in just a little more.

"I'm not interested," you say flatly.

"Come on," he presses, his voice dropping like that’s supposed to help. "Your husband can’t please you like I—"

"You sure about that?" Jack’s voice cuts through like a blade. You feel him before you see him—solid at your back, close enough that your shoulder brushes his chest. The shift is immediate.

Trent straightens, the confidence cracking just slightly as he looks past you. Gone is the easy, relaxed lean from earlier. Now he’s all sharp lines and tension—shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes locked on Trent.

"Fuck off," Jack says, voice quiet but edged. "And leave my wife alone."

Trent looks like he might argue for half a second—ego flaring—but then he really looks at Jack. At the way he’s standing. The way his gaze doesn’t waver. The kind of anger that doesn’t need volume to be threatening. It drains out of him just as fast. "Yeah—yeah, man, whatever," he mutters, backing off, hands half-raised like he wants no part of it anymore. He disappears into the crowd.

Jack doesn’t move until he’s gone. "Asshole," he murmurs, then he turns to you. His hands land on your hips, spinning your chair so you’re facing him fully. "You okay?" he asks. His voice is still low—but different now. Still tight, but threaded with something protective.

You look up at him. At the tension still lingering in his jaw. The way his eyes flick over you like he’s making sure you’re actually fine. Your breath stutters just slightly as heat curls low in your stomach. Your thighs press together instinctively, a reflex you can’t fully control. You feel it everywhere—warm, electric, pooling low, your pulse throbbing in places it shouldn't.

You’re hyper-aware of him: the brush of his hands on your hips, the nearness of his chest, the tension still coiled in his body, ready to snap at a moment’s notice. Your eyes betray you—you know it. They darken, deepen, and when your gaze meets his, you see it reflected back.

"Mm," you hum softly.

Jack watches you for a second longer, like he's clocking the shift in you, before he exhales lightly. "Come join us at the pool table."

He doesn’t pause for your answer. His hand finds yours, fingers sliding between yours with a possessiveness that makes your stomach flutter. He keeps you close as he guides you through the crowd, and the heat in your chest only grows.

The pool area is quieter. Enough space to breathe, enough light to actually see what you’re doing. Shen’s already there, lining up a shot with calm precision, like the chaos of the bar doesn’t touch him at all.

"You play?" he asks without looking up.

"Define play," you reply, grabbing a cue from the rack. Truthfully, you don’t care about the game—not with Jack this close.

You lean over the table, more focused on the way your dress shifts against your thighs than the shot.

You hit. The cue ball goes entirely the wrong direction. "Damn," you say, pretending to be disappointed.

"Sweetheart." Jack’s voice comes from behind you, closer than before, threaded with amusement. "What was that?"

You glance over your shoulder, lips already pulling into a small pout. "I don’t know how to do it."

His eyes flick to your mouth before returning to your eyes. Shen sinks his shot cleanly in the background.

You step forward again when it’s your turn, deliberately setting up another questionable shot. There’s a small pause, then—

"Here," Jack says, a little quieter now. "Let me help you." He steps in behind you before you can move. Close enough that you feel the heat of him before anything else—his presence slotting in naturally. His hand slides over yours on the cue, the other settling at your waist.

"Not like that," he murmurs, his voice lower now. "You’re fighting it."

You inhale a little sharper than you mean to.

"Loosen this," he adds, thumb pressing lightly against your fingers. His mouth is near your ear now, close enough that you feel the shape of the words more than hear them. "Yeah," he says softly. "Like that."

For a second, the rest of the room fades—the noise, the game, Shen waiting patiently at the edge of it.

"Take it," he murmurs. You do. The ball sinks cleanly this time.

He steps back again. You straighten, turning toward him. He’s already looking at you. There’s something hotter there now. Something that matches exactly what’s been burning under your skin all night.

It hits you all at once, sharp and unmistakable. Oh.

This isn’t one-sided. This isn’t you imagining things or pushing boundaries just to see what happens.

He’s… there with you. Meeting it. Responding. Wanting it.

You don't win the game, but it doesn't really matter. You barely register the score. Because every time you step up to the table after that, you can feel his eyes on you—and every time he steps in again, a little closer, a little bolder—it has nothing to do with pool anymore.

It actually feels possible now—and that changes everything.

Shen’s convinced Bridget to play him after absolutely destroying you. You linger off to the side with Lily and Jack, half-listening as they laugh about something, half-watching the game. You're mostly focused on how his thumb keeps stroking softly against your hip bone.

"I’m gonna go pee," you murmur into Jack's ear, your lips brushing just enough to feel the warmth of his skin before you slip away. He lets you go, but his hand lingers for half a second at your waist.

"I'll be at the bar," he responds, smiling at you with half-lidded eyes.

The second you’re in the bathroom, door locked behind you, you exhale hard—then immediately press a hand to your mouth, a breathy, disbelieving laugh slipping out anyway.

"Okay—okay," you whisper to yourself, pacing once in the tiny stall. Your head is light—spinning, but not in a bad way. The alcohol sitting just right in your system, softening your edges, quieting the part of you that usually overthinks everything. You press your lips together, trying to steady yourself, but the grin keeps pulling back. "Jesus," you breathe, shaking your head.

You’re just about to step out when you hear it. A voice, sweet and slightly high-pitched, carrying just loud enough for you to catch the words over the music. "Has Abbot done this before? Been with other residents? Do you think I still have a chance?"

Your body stills instantly. Smith. You'd completely forgotten that she was here. The other girl answers, uncertain, but it barely registers over the rush in your ears.

"I just don’t really see how they fit," Smith continues, giggling softly. "I mean, I’ve never seen them kiss or be really affectionate with each other."

Something in you snaps. A sharp, sudden possessiveness that cuts clean through the haze of alcohol and lands hard in your chest.

By the time the door swings shut behind them, you’re already walking. You don’t even fully think it through. You just move.

You find him easily, leaning against the bar, talking to Jesse and Donnie. Stepping close, your hand finds his arm, fingers curling into him. "Hey," you murmur.

He glances at you, turning his attention fully to you as he senses the shift in your energy.

You don't give him time to ask. You just lean in. This time it isn’t a quick, calculated peck. It’s not something you can pass off or laugh away.

It’s immediate—sharp and demanding. Your lips press to his with a purpose you can’t deny. Your other hand comes up to his shoulder, to his neck, pulling him closer, claiming him.

His reaction is just as instinctive. He cups your waist, tilts you slightly, deepening the kiss without hesitation. He exhales softly against your mouth before his tongue skims your lower lip. The world around you drops away until there’s only this. Only the two of you, lost in the heat and closeness that’s been simmering all night. The alcohol doesn’t dull it—it amplifies it. Makes you bolder, less restrained, and less willing to pull back.

As you break apart just slightly, your forehead resting against his, you whisper, barely audible over the pulse of the bar, "Sorry," you breathe. "Needed to… shut something down."

Jack doesn’t answer right away. His hand is still firm at your waist, thumb resting just where the fabric meets your skin. Not pulling away. Not loosening.

You expect a smirk. A joke. Something that minimises the heat. Instead, when you finally lift your eyes to his— he’s looking at you. Focused. Pupils blown.

His gaze drops to your mouth, like he’s replaying it, then back to your eyes.

"Yeah?" he says quietly, but he doesn’t move back. He doesn’t create distance like it was just a moment, just another cover-up. If anything, his grip tightens slightly, like he's keeping you right where you are. There’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth when you don't answer.

"Right," he murmurs, softer this time. But the way he says it—the look he gives you—doesn’t suggest he buys it. Not entirely. He looks at you like he's considering doing it again.

You hope he does.

[thecherrypittttttt]

THE FIVE STAGES; dr jack abbot x dr!reader

words: 13.3k

content warnings: 18+!!!! Gets quite smutty, fluffy, jack abbot invented YEARNING, age gap!!!, no use of Y/N

notes: i know this one sounds kinda depressing but i promise its fun and funny and flirty and it’s my favorite one ive ever written!! also debating on making an ao3 account - should i?

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack Abbot was unfortunately intimately familiar with the 5 Stages of Grief. Depression, Bargaining, Denial, Anger, Acceptance.

He grieved his leg at the ripe age of 31 - courtesy of an IED in the desert of Afghanistan.

He began grieving his late wife the following year at 32 - courtesy of an arrogant, misogynistic emergency medicine resident.

At 33, he grieved the life he thought he was going to have while he started a new one. No longer a husband, but a widow. No longer an army medic, but an Emergency Room attending at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Sometimes when he would come back to the empty home he bought at 34, the ghosts of that life were louder than any silence he thought he could drown out with the police scanner.

Jack Abbot knew the 5 Stages of Grief like the back of his hand.

In hindsight, he didn’t know how he didn't realize the 5 stages in which he fell in love with her were quite similar. A mirror of his grief refracted through a lens of unconditional love.

depression

If someone would have asked Jack at the time, he wouldn't have admitted he was depressed. He truly didn't think he was.

He didn't need therapy to deal with his trauma. His wife passed away a decade ago. His leg, or lack thereof, the constant reminder of the time he gave up while he had her on this earth - was physically healed. As much as it was going to be anyways. So therefore he was mentally healed. As much as he thought he was going to ever be anyways.

He'd been running on autopilot. It carried him from but mostly to the emergency room at PTMC. It's what made him stop at the unfamiliar sight of Gloria in his ED. This was why he didn't work the day shift. He never wanted to deal with all of the bureaucratic administrative bullshit. The only business Jack Abbot was ever interested in was the one of saving lives. Gloria hadn't even opened her mouth and Jack already knew that Robby was going to owe him one.

"Dr Abbot! Wonderful timing. I have a residency interview waiting in Robby's office for you."

Now Robby really owed him one. "Doesn't Robby usually..." Jack scratched at the back of his neck, still confused as to why Gloria had involved herself, and now him, in a residency interview, "...facilitate those?"

Gloria gave a curt nod before glancing around them, as if checking to make sure they would not be overheard. She lowered her voice as she spoke, "Yes but I specifically scheduled this one when I knew you were covering. She is the best candidate we have ever had and probably ever will. I cannot risk Robby running her off."

Right. The Adamson of it all. There was a joke in there somewhere about Jack being considered the stable one in the ED. He guessed he must be. He had become fairly good at presenting an even keeled, calm front. He still had kind of felt like a mess in every other area of his life but the ED was the one place he was the furthest from one. It's where he solved the mess instead of becoming it.

She shoved a printed resume into Jack's hands before she was off. Back up to her ivory tower. He took a look as he strode over to Robby's office. Full ride to Stanford for both her undergraduate and medical degree.

For once, he agreed with Gloria. What the hell did this candidate want to do with PTMC?

He asked her as much as he sat across the desk from her, brow furrowed in genuine curiosity. Residency interviews usually went one of two ways. The candidate was either far too cocky or so nervous they barely got a complete sentence out.

She struck the balance. She was confident. More so than some of his residents who had been out on the floor that day. She wore a dark gray wool sweater and maxi skirt set. The monochrome was only cut by the deep maroon of her belt, tights, heels, and purse. Her long hair was slicked back into a simple pony tail and her makeup was minimal, if any.

It wasn't the typical look of a medical student on a residency interview. Still completely appropriate, but far less stuffy and much more self assured.

Jack wouldn't know good style if it had slapped him in the face but he did know what hers revealed to him about herself. It was the kind of style that someone who knew who they were had. Who had spent time getting to know what they liked. Whether it was what they were reading, listening to, watching, or doing. Her style wasn’t an afterthought but she carried it with a quiet confidence that let everyone know she was not overcompensating for anything either.

It was a demeanor and style that was derivative of having a life outside of medicine - which was quite uncommon for medical students and residents alike. It was completely foreign to Jack. It intrigued him. She intrigued him.

Her body language was relaxed but respectful. One leg crossed over the other as she leaned back into the wooden chair that was probably older than she was, hands clasped in her lap. Jack doubted her heart rate had reached over 65 the whole time she had been in there.

She took a beat to answer his question which also intrigued Jack. She was not rushing to answer just to fill space. She seemed to be comfortable with the time silence gave her to craft intentional responses. Why PTMC?

A ghost of a smile that looked like it might be haunted by one appeared on her face, "My family is here."

"That's it?"

"Do you want the practiced professional answer that every other interviewer has gotten or do you want the real one?"

Jack bit back a grin at her bluntness. Ignored the stirring in his stomach that made him feel special that she may share something about herself with him that she hadn't with anyone else. He tells himself to Get. A. Grip.

"I am sure the absolute best residencies in the country are foaming at the mouth to land you and you want to come here because of your family? Give me the real reason." He let his smirk slip through as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, "I'm a captive audience after all."

The airy laugh that he got out of her almost knocked him out of his seat. What was wrong with him? He had a feeling she didn't just hand out a laugh as ethereal as that one. That she was not the kind of woman who just giggled because it was the part of the conversation where she'd been socialized to appease the man speaking that he was funny. She seemed far too smart for that. For probably everyone in the building. For him, especially.

"I have already been away in California for eight years. I could have fifty years left with my dad and my brothers and my sister in laws and my nieces and nephews or they could be gone next week," she uncrossed and recrossed her legs before continuing. Didn't rush before speaking again, "I don't want to build an unguaranteed future alone and then have no one to share it with when I get there. I wanna spend time with them now."

Jack's adam's apple bobbed in his throat. His eyes burned as he fought to hold back tears. It must have been some kind of cruel joke that right then his phantom limb pain wanted to shoot up through his thigh. Like a reminder of the time he spent wasting while he had his wife alive.

He had joined the army to become a doctor debt free. Then he had spent all of their marriage overseas, saving money for a life they never even got to spend together. He had borrowed time from the future that didn't even exist. And all he had to show for it was ironically - more money - monthly life insurance, disability, and veteran affairs checks. Oh and one and a half legs.

He blinked rapidly. He was not about to cry at work. Nevertheless while he was conducting a residency interview. He diverted the conversation away from himself, "You didn't mention your mom."

"She died. When I was a teenager, about ten years ago. After coming here actually," She coughed out a dry laugh that sounded like she dragged it up through her throat, kicking and screaming. Awfully different to the one Jack had floated out of her moments prior, "She was pregnant and they sent her away without so much as a full consultation. Just chalked her symptoms up to pregnancy and she died from an aortic dissection later that night."

Jack wanted to vomit at the almost exact recountance of how his wife had died. He was so focused on not emptying his breakfast onto Robby's desk that a tear slipped - the first in probably years.

"Oh, Dr Abbot. I didn't mean to make you emotional. I can go back to the professional answer any time you want." Another scoffed laugh, her eyes full of compassion but no tears, "Trust me - it's probably easier for both of us."

Jack really never talked about his late wife anymore. He liked to tell himself he was healed. He most definitely didn't talk about it at work. But he found himself wanting to then - with her, "No it's just - my late wife - she died the same way, about a decade ago. I was away on a stupid bachelor party trip and she didn't want to worry me so she didn't call me about it and then she, uh, never called again."

"Jesus - I am so sorry, Dr Abbot."

He noticed, appreciated, the way her head didn't tip and her eye contact didn't waver. She was not expressing her condolences out of pity or not understanding but of exactly the opposite. She knew exactly how he felt. He ignored the way his heart jumped out of his chest at the thought.

God, Robby really owed him one.

"Thank you - I am sorry about your mom. I am just impressed you still wanna work here. I could never work in the hospital that did that to my wife. The couple years after she passed - I could barely work here."

"Well, the other option was becoming one of those weirdos who swears off doctors and hospitals and science."

Jack tilted his chin at her in consideration, rubbed at the scruff there, and let out a sputtering laugh, "Are you sure that is the only other option?"

He pulled another light chuckle from her and he exhaled. Truly exhaled. For the first time in maybe ten years - like he had been underwater for so long he had forgotten what fresh air felt like.

"This is my way of letting her live on through me. To do something about what happened to her rather than using it as an excuse to sulk through life. I wanna see life as something that comes from me and not at me."

She picked at the lining of her purse that was perched in her lap. The first sign of potentially any nerves. The first time he realized that he was getting the true her. Not the front she must put up for interviews. It didn't seem much different - just a little more vulnerable.

Jack could talk. So much so he had a reputation for it in the ED. He was no stranger to being on the receiving end of a 'God do you ever shutup?' so he was a bit stunned that she had managed to shock him into silence.

He hugged his crossed arms closer to his chest as if that was even possible and just stared.

She cracked a smile, back to what was seemingly her calm and confident self, "Too esoteric for a residency interview?"

"Oh no. Not at all. I just..." Jack couldn't seem to find the right words to tell her that she had just reframed his entire outlook on his life and his grief in one sentence so he settled on, "...I uh never really thought of it that way."

"Me neither. But I have an excellent therapist."

"I will have you know, if you choose to do your residency here, I do not make it a habit of trauma dumping on my residents like I did on you today."

"I think I started that, Dr Abbot. But since I made you cry - does that mean I am in?"

That earned a genuine cackle out of Jack. A cackle. A kind of sound he wasn't even sure he was capable of making anymore but the bright, beaming smile she reciprocated made him want to do it for the rest of his life.

Maybe he owed Robby one.

Jack tried not to think about her as he got the old laptop down from his hallway closet later that night. He may never even see her again. He ignored the fact that that thought made him sick to his stomach.

Tried not to think about how Gloria had never ever personally been the residency candidate welcome committee until today while he googled 'Veteran, disabled, widower therapists near me'.

He tried not to think about how she looked the best anyone has ever looked in that emergency department as he murmured to himself, "God, that's a depressing search."

He tried not to think about how she had the most beautifully intriguing brain of anyone who had ever stepped foot into that hospital, potentially his entire life, as he booked his very first therapy appointment.

bargaining

"Remember when you told me you didn't make it a habit of trauma dumping on your residents?"

Jack didn't even have to look at her to know there was a huge smirk plastered on her face. She had been his resident for a little over a year. Although, it had taken much less time for the ribbing to start.

"Telling you about how Shen won't stop calling me 'Unc'," Jack had put air quotes around the Gen Z slang term as he continued, "is not trauma dumping."

"You seem pretty traumatized by it. You've only brought it up 85 times this shift."

"And to think - I was gonna ask you to a research breakfast after this." Jack nudged his shoulder gently with hers, tried his best to stave off the grin that played on his lips.

"And to think! You're going to anyway, old man." She nudged him right back, a little less gentle causing him to turn his shoulders and gaze towards her, feigning shock and offense.

That got the exact reaction he was fishing for - a big bright smile, loud laugh, and a second or so more of eye contact that he wouldn't have had a reason to justify otherwise.

What can he say? When it came to her - he was greedy.

"You two! I would prefer to get the hand off completed before you're both back on shift tonight. I swear you're like young and dumb medical students after shift sometimes." Dana chastised them but not without a hint of a smile.

Dana had known Jack for over ten years at this point. Seen him in a lot of different moods; but never as happy as this.

"Well, I'm young." She emphasized the 'I' with a smirk and pointed the finger that she had aimed at herself over at Jack, "He is just being dumb."

Jack barked a laugh. A sound that was no longer so foreign to him. No longer so foreign to everyone else in the ED.

He didn't miss the knowing glance Dana shot his way, a grin fighting to appear on both of their faces. He did his best to give Dana a look that said that he wasn't hopelessly infatuated with his resident. That he enjoyed spending time with each of his residents equally. He was not entirely sure he convinced Dana. He wasn't even good at convincing himself.

He could take her to breakfast if it was to help her with her research. It was most definitely not to see how many times he could pull a laugh from her. Bonus points if he got a nose scrunch or an accidental spit take of the orange juice that was already half way down her throat.

He could bring her a coffee every shift if it was to ensure his best resident was energized for her shift. It was not because of the way she looked up at him with her bright, big eyes through her lashes and said "Thank you, Dr Abbot!" like it was some sort of melody. If he started buying coffee for Dr Ellis and Dr Shen as well to make his affection less obvious - what was the difference?

He could let her do a pericardiocentesis way before anyone else her year probably should have if it was to improve her education. And because she truly was ready. He'd have bet his entire career that she was better at it than all of the surgical residents upstairs. Which meant it wasn't so totally obvious that he was staring at her in awe all of the time. Because when she was doing shit like that - everyone was. Being able to guide her hands through a procedure was just a bonus. Even if there were latex gloves between them.

He could bring extra food to shift, knowing she was going to eat half of it, if it was because he wanted to ensure his best resident was properly fueled and empowered to do her job to the best of her ability. He kept it to himself that he drove to a grocery store thirty minutes out of his way to get the specific kind of candy he knew she liked.

He could drive her home if it was to ensure his smartest resident got home safe. It was totally not because he got to spend more time with her. He definitely didn't take the long way to her apartment and he went exactly the speed limit because that was what was safe. Not because it meant extra time with her. No one else needed to know that he went at least fifteen over when she wasn't in his passenger seat.

No one also needed to know that he bought an aux cord just for her because he loved to hear what kinds of songs she liked. He definitely didn't have a playlist compiled of them all that he listened to at home now instead of his police scanner.

denial

She had been his resident for a bit over two years now and the ED was Q word tonight. No one had said it but the combined time they had all spent fucking around at the hub proved it.

Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night. He thought he was being inconspicuous about the amount of time he had been spending with Javadi but his new found interest in the social media app gave him away. Jack couldn't really say anything to his new junior attending about the dangers of falling for someone that you were the superior to without blowing up his own soft spot for a certain resident.

So Shen was on his fifth tiktok trend of the night and he had roped her in.

Jack thought he knew all of her secret talents by now but he watched from behind her, amused and hands tugging at his stethoscope looped behind his neck, as Shen played various Britney Spears songs to see how quickly she could guess them.

She hadn't needed more than 3 seconds for any of them.

Then they were busy for an hour or so. A couple drunk twenty somethings with some concussions and laceration repairs - nothing too crazy. And then they were back at central. The quiet was interrupted by a gasp from Dr Shen. Which was quickly followed by Dr Ellis looking over his shoulder at his phone and then both of them dying laughing.

"I don't even want to know." Jack threw his hands up in surrender.

"Oh, yes you do! You're going viral for being hot!" Shen exclaimed.

"I don't know what viral means if it’s not to do with an infection and I already know that I’m hot thank you very much." Jack didn't even glance up from his charting as he spoke.

“For being hot and being hopelessly in love.” Ellis clarified.

That got Jack's attention. He got up, snatched Shen's phone out of his hand as he muttered, “I am not hopelessly -" he didn't even want to give the accusation a real denial to validate it, "-let me see that.” He pressed play.

It was ironic that he had been telling himself he needed to start schooling his expressions when it came to her when the same dopey smile and enamored eyes he had going in the video were on his face as he watched the video.

He knew Shen and Ellis were monitoring his reaction closely but he couldn't help but let out a laugh at the part of the video where he had guessed the song 'Lucky' before she had.

She had whipped around in the spinning chair so fast - her hair had stuck to her glossed lips, "How the hell do you know that?!" she asked surprised, a wide smile taking over her face.

Jack shuffled around in his wide stance, large hands going from the ends of his stethoscope to clasped behind his back, his chin tilted up at her as he spoke with a drawl, "I let you play your music when I drive you home, don’t I?”

In the moment, Jack had missed what was caught on camera - the knowing smirk Dr Ellis had leveled at Dr Shen off camera as she said, “Oh, I’m sure you do.”

Jack's rebuttal hadn't even had a chance to leave his mouth before Shen and Ellis were reading the comments aloud, taking turns as they went.

"WHOOOO DAT IN THE BACK!?"

"Paging Doctor biceps in the back"

"Close enough. Welcome back Lexie grey and mark sloan"

"What in the greys anatomy"

"Do the two doctor sexys know that age gap august is upon us"

"If she doesn’t wanna bite on his biceps I will"

"Does that girl know she has 45mins to claim that man before I do"

"He does not play about her!"

"A man who YEARNS is a man who EARNS"

"Dr sexy is down bad for the other doctor sexy"

"Where is this emergency room at … for research purposes"

"I want Doctor sexy to look at me like that"

"Okay, I don’t look at her like anything!" Jack hissed low in a whisper, hoping to a god he did not believe in that she was still busy with the drunk college kids and was not hearing any of this.

"Well, you definitely don’t look at me like that." Shen laughed, sucking on his Dunkin straw even though nothing had been left in his cup for hours.

"I look at you all the same." Jack deadpanned. He sat back down at his computer. An attempt to get back to charting. But not before taking a sweep of the ED and making sure she was nowhere within earshot. Not that Shen and Ellis were making it easy with their hysterics.

"Bro - if you looked at me like that I would call HR. She's just into it."

“Into what?" She asked monotonically, not even looking up from her iPad as she approached the rest of the night shift crew at the hub.

“Nothing!” Jack barely got out, grumbling and exasperatedly running a hand through his silver curls as he got up from his computer and went to chairs.

He didn't miss the raise in her brows as she looked at Shen and Ellis, silently asking 'What the hell is up with him?'.

He couldn't tell you the last time he voluntarily went out to chairs but he was hoping his fair Irish skin would be finished betraying him with the pinkness in his cheeks, ears, and neck by the time he made his way back to central.

He knew it was only a matter of time before Shen and Ellis showed her the video and he did not want to be there when they did.

So he missed the flush in her cheeks, ears, and neck that had been identical to his.

And her slightly embarrassed, definitely exaggerated, "You guys stop - he is literally our boss."

"But you're not not into it?" Ellis had pushed. If anyone was getting it out of her, it was Ellis. They had been attached at the hip since their residency began.

"It doesn't matter if I'm into it. He is our boss! He is not into it."

"God, for someone so smart you are so stupid sometimes."

Jack had waved Shen off when Shen had come out to chairs to tell him about that interaction, practically vibrating with excitement. Or maybe that was the caffeine. Jack had parroted her, tried to make a joke of it all. Said something along the lines of, "I know you guys like to pretend otherwise but I am your boss."

But once Jack was home, black out shades drawn and snug in his bed, he couldn't wipe the huge, stupid grin off of his face.

anger

Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. Very few things on this earth made him genuinely angry - one of them being the annual hospital gala. Every year they were trotted out as show ponies to raise money that the ED would never even see. You can't save patients with empty compliments and an open bar.

He had managed to avoid it the past couple years - always worked instead. So when he saw he wasn't scheduled to work the night of this year's gala, he printed out the schedule and marched right over to Robby's workstation to rectify what was surely a mistake.

"Why am I not scheduled to work tomorrow? I didn't even check the schedule until now because I just assumed that my friend would do me a solid because he owes me one-"

"Because you have to go to the gala, man." Robby interrupted Jack's rambling.

"What part of 'you owe me one' did you not understand?"

"Did you happen to see who else is not scheduled?"

Neither of them had to say anything for them both to know who's name Jack was scanning that piece of paper for.

Robby clapped him on the back, satisfied with a smile on his face as he walked away, "Go home and rest, Romeo. You got a big date tomorrow night - you’re welcome!"

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

So again, Jack was not an angry man. Never had been. But he had decided to add a new line item to the short list of things that made his blood absolutely boil. The thing being every single young, conventionally attractive, rich, tall surgeon working in his hospital hitting on his resident at this stupid fucking gala.

They hadn't even made it to dinner yet and he was sure she'd been approached over ten times. Jack had to step away after the most recent one - under the guise of getting a drink.

Jack unfortunately was very familiar with this particular suitor of hers. She was well into her last year of her residency and it had not been an uncommon occurrence for Dr Harvard from cardio thoracic surgery to make any and every excuse to come down and consult when she was on shift.

Jack made a conscious effort to forget his name. Shen and Ellis loved to remind him of it.

They'd tease him about it. They'd say that there was a plus side to it all. They never had to wait long on a cardiac surgery consultation anymore. But selfishly, Jack would wait fucking years if it meant he was chatting her ear off instead of Mr Harvard.

Jack wasn't naive. She was practically glowing. She always was. She always looked beautiful. Before tonight, he basically only ever saw her with no makeup on, hair a mess, wearing hospital issued scrubs and he still thought she was the most gorgeous person alive.

But tonight. Tonight, Jack was surprised he did not end up as a patient in his ED the first moment he had laid eyes on her. Her hair was carefully curled, framing her perfect face that was painted with just the right amount of makeup. Her lashes were more prominent than usual, her cheeks more flushed and her lips a bit more pink and a lot more glossy.

And then her dress. That damn dress. It was vintage because of course it was. Of course, she found time to vintage shop on top of the grueling hours she put in at the ED. Even in her last year of residency, she had never lost sight of being her own person both in and outside of work.

The dress reminded Jack of something from the prohibition era - celebratory. He was trying not to be so obvious in his celebration of how the structured seams of the powder blue silk created a corset shape that wasn't too tight for a work function but definitely was tight enough to have his imagination wandering.

With delicate lace panels towards the bottom of her dress and the swooping off the shoulder neckline with draped cap sleeves - Jack was being a sap but she looked like she had stepped out of a romance movie. Or off of a runway.

It was the kind of dress that reminded him of when they first met. He loved getting glimpses of her like this. Of who she was outside of the ED.

She had said she found the dress at a second hand shop on consignment. After that he had spent most of their evening dreaming about what it would be like to hold her hand and watch her shop.

Get to see the process of how she selected what she liked. Get to bring her hand up to his lips and kiss it - knowing that he was one of those things that she liked. Maybe even loved. And of course, buy everything her gaze lingered on even when she insisted not to. Especially then.

So Jack was not naive. He knew she was absolutely, positively stunning. He knew even beyond that - she was kind and funny and fucking whip smart. Smarter than anyone he had ever met and in so many different ways. If he could move into her brain - he would. So he was not naive enough to think other men wouldn't flirt with her. They would be fools not to. He just wished he could be the reason they wouldn't.

He sipped his old fashioned and did his best to pretend like he was looking anywhere but at her and Mr Harvard. He can't imagine that he was very successful. A ding from his phone took him out of his misery.

From Shen: Yo - i know you hate that gala shit. Kinda bogus robby made you go. Thought you guys were friends. Anyway, can you come help? Ellis has got a hot date. Or so she says

Jack had never been more thankful to receive a weird text from Shen in his life. He replied with a quick 'On my way' before taking one last glance over at her.

He sighed at the sight of her digging through her purse for something. He couldn’t see her expression but he sure could see Mr Harvard's. Dude couldn’t wipe the grin off of his face. Jack wished he could do it for him.

Okay chill, he reminded himself. As much as he wanted to, he figured it would be rude to interrupt her to say goodbye. She probably didn’t want her old attending cock blocking her anyways.

Jack set his half finished drink on the bar counter along with a $20 tip and turned on his good heel. He had his hands on the cold metal of the event venue's door when he heard his favorite voice behind him.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Jack turned to see her and the sight made him melt. Arms crossed over her chest, brow furrowed, and lips in a stern line that was slowly slipping into a pout.

"Shen and Ellis need a cover."

"And when were you planning on telling me?" Her hands moved to her hips. Jack's hands flexed at his sides. All he wanted to do was kiss the sass out of her. But he couldn't. She was still his resident. And probably not even interested in him.

"You seemed busy. We haven’t even eaten dinner yet." Jack's response earned an eye roll out of her.

Before he could even blink, her arm threaded under his own - grabbing his bicep, "I'm coming with you."

Who was Jack to argue with that?

"How'd you get out of your conversation with Mr Harvard?"

Another dramatic eye roll. He loved it. Then the prettiest little smile he had ever seen.

"Told him my mean, scary boss said we had to leave."

He couldn't decide his opinion regarding the short walk to his SUV in handicapped parking. One part of him was thankful. He wouldn't be shocked if he had burnt holes in his suit jacket from the way his skin had heated up under her feather light touch. The blush was sure to creep up into his cheeks any moment now.

On the other hand, he could walk for miles if it meant she was touching him the whole way. She stopped at his passenger car door and turned to look at him.

"Mean, scary boss huh?" was all Jack could get out while he was under her gaze. It sounded like he had dragged his words through gravel on their way out. But with the way her eyes still shone in the moonlight and the fact that they were solely trained on his own - he was lucky he managed to get any words out at all.

"The scariest." she winked. She fucking winked. Jack had never been more thankful that he had metal for a leg because if he didn't - his legs were sure to have wobbled out from beneath him right then.

His hands were stuffed into his slack pockets. He didn't trust himself for them to be anywhere else. Her hands had given him a moment of reprieve. No longer lightly squeezing his bicep. But now they trailed up his chest, stopping to pretend to fix his tie even though Jack knew it was perfect. Military habit. Didn't matter - she could do whatever the hell she wanted if it involved touching him.

His breath hitched at her touch. He hoped she didn't notice.

"He cleans up nice though - makes up for all the mean and scary."

"Did your mean, scary boss mention you look beautiful tonight." Jack kept his hands in his pockets but took an experimental step forward. Was this really happening? Was she really hitting on him?

It was almost as if she had heard his inner monologue. Wanted to make her intentions clear as she looped her arms around Jack's neck and absentmindedly threaded her fingers through the curls at the nape there.

Ever since she had started fiddling with his suit, her eyes had dropped to anywhere but his face. Typical Jack would have dipped his head, forced eye contact but Jack right now was just trying to stand up right.

Her gaze snapped to him and this time he hadn't even tried to hide the palpitation in his heart or his breathing, "No." was all she said. Barely a whisper but Jack heard her loud and clear.

His hands immediately fell to her hips. He filed away the way she seemed to sink into his grip. Exhaled a little. Like it was muscle memory from a past life.

Her fingers circled their way higher up onto his head, fully tugging on his curls and lightly scratching at his scalp. Jack had to bite back a groan as he squeezed at her hips and pressed her fully back onto his unopened car door.

"Jack." She murmured out low somewhere between a moan and an airy breath, head tilted back in pleasure at the pressure of his fingers on her hips. Jack was fucked now that he knew what his name sounded like falling off her lips without inhibition.

The expanse of her neck now available to him was like a siren song. The past four years had felt like a siren song and he couldn't help himself any longer. One of his hands found the back of her head, gently cradling it back up for her to look at him. His other hand rubbed at her jaw in sweeping strokes of his thumb.

Neither of them could rip their gaze from the others' lips - their panting chests just a mere centimeter apart. He was finally going to do it. He was finally going to kiss her.

Until he wasn't.

Until a loud bang of the door opening broke them apart. A slew of hospital administrators spilled out behind it looking for their next smoke break. Had Jack mentioned that he fucking hated the annual hospital gala?

They flew off each other at what would have been a rather impressive speed if it hadn't felt so agonizing. What was Jack thinking? That he could make out with his resident against his car like they were a horny teenage couple while all of the people in the building a few feet away from them could have her fired for it in a heartbeat? He had to be better. At least until her residency was over with.

He had to get it together - for the both of them it seemed like. Jack cleared his throat and ran a hand over his stubble to hide the smile threatening to take over his face at the realization that she had wanted to kiss him. The way she had said his name with so much...want. Need, even. Maybe this thing wasn't so one sided after all.

He got out of his own head just in time to stop her closing of the passenger door. He wrapped his hand around the top of the door, held it open and waited for her to look up at him after she had buckled up. But the buckle clicked and her gaze stayed trained on her lap.

"Hey." He whispered softly. They both knew the eye contact he was seeking. She slowly turned her head in his direction, gazing up at where he was standing in front of her.

"You look absolutely breathtaking. You always do."

She sucked in a breath and then there she was - big bright smile, shoulders no longer slumped, no more fiddling with her purse strings just to avoid the space between them. She was back to herself.

"Just for that I'll order pizza to the hospital." His favorite.

"Thank you." He probably should have shut the door by now. Should have probably already been on their way to the hospital. But he couldn't stop fucking staring at her. What's new?

"Don't thank me. I still have your card in my DoorDash account." She giggled and all Jack could get out was good before he shut her door.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

They ate their pizza in their gown and tux at the hub with Ellis and Shen.

Ellis raised the polaroid camera that Dana kept at the hub desk and signaled for them to get together for a photo. Jack hooked two fingers under her rolling stool and tugged her over into his side.

"Woah! Old man still has moves!"

Jack ignored Shen as he wrapped his arm over her collarbone from behind her, pulling her closer. Her head instinctively leaned toward his and her fingers delicately held his wrist as they smiled for Ellis's camera.

Jack didn't miss the look Ellis had given her. Maybe he was delusional or maybe she had gotten her best friend Ellis's advice on making a move on her attending at the gala and now Ellis was checking in on the results.

Jack also didn't miss the way her cheeks heated up and the subtle shake of her head at Ellis. As if to signal that they would talk about it later. Probably, when Jack was out of earshot.

Shen tried to get them to pose like they were going to prom. When they both refused citing unprofessionalism, Shen threw a bit of a hissy fit. Mumbling something along the lines of "Oh, now we are being professional!"

Ellis settled on writing ‘Gala Girlies' as the caption for their polaroid before taping it onto the hub counter with the rest of the pictures that had accumulated over the years. This one was definitely Jack's new favorite.

He knew exactly what Robby was going to say when he saw it tomorrow morning, “You owe me one, brother."

He was so fucked.

acceptance

Jack was bored. He never thought he'd say that but this hospital without her was straight up boring with a capital B. He worked here without her for ten years and now - the ten days of PTO she had taken before her first day as a junior attending - felt like the longest of his life. And he was only on day 6.

He wasn't even supposed to be there right now. He had come in after a Tactical EMS job gone bad. His buddy had already gone up to surgery. Before Jack could leave, Robby had roped Jack into joining him on the new day shift attending, Dr Al-Hashimi's, welcome tour.

He was waiting on a text from her. She was spending the day with her family and then she and Jack were supposed to go watch the fireworks together - alone. It was the Fourth of July after all. He had it all planned. He had practiced how he was going to profess his feelings to her in the mirror like a dork more times than he cared to admit. He had long accepted that he was in love with his resident. Now his colleague. He could work with that.

He checked his phone again. No luck. He ignored Robby's inquisitive glance. Jack had never been so interested in his phone like he had been today.

They stood at the hub as Robby droned on and on about day shift procedures that Jack was so thankful not to have to know too much about. Jack just admired the polaroids on the desk in front of them. He was still plotting a way to inconspicuously steal the one of him and her from the gala for his wallet but it had become a fan favorite in the past few months.

Dr Al-Hashimi directed her next question to Jack, pulling him out of his thoughts. She held up his second favorite polaroid with a raised brow, "Am I going to have the pleasure of meeting..." Dr Al-Hashimi squinted to read the writing below the picture, "...Abbot's Angels?"

Jack couldn't help but laugh. The photo had been taken over a year ago. Shen had begged him to take it. Handed the camera over to Jack as he maneuvered himself between the two girls. Both her and Ellis's backs to Shen. All three of them holding up finger guns to their lips with faux serious expressions.

As if her ears were ringing, Dr Ellis appeared behind Jack at the hub. Clapping him on the shoulder and extending a hand out to greet Dr Al-Hashimi, "Don't bring it up to him. He is going through withdrawals because his favorite is still out on PTO."

"Parker - I do not have favorites. You guys aren't even my residents anymore." Jack muttered in defense as he checked his phone again.

Dr Al-Hashimi clocked him, "Dr Abbot - I am good to go here and I am sure I will be seeing you. You should go. It's your day off and a holiday. I am sure you have plans."

"Yeah, what are your plans, Dr Abbot?" Ellis teased. She must have known her best friend's plans were with him for the night. Ellis was enjoying herself. Jack shot her a glare.

"I think his plans just showed up!" Robby clapped his hands together, sputtered out a laugh at the coincidence.

"Brother - I am not taking another case! I am leav-" Jack looked up from unscrewing his water bottle to follow Robby's gaze.

He spotted her mid sip and he genuinely choked on his water in a way he thought only happened in cartoons. He was ready to send Ellis out to chairs when she patted his back like she was burping a baby and suggested that there was a cooling room in North 5 if he needed it.

She was simply glowing. Wavy hair, bright eyes, sun kissed skin donning a short jean skirt and a white halter tank top that accentuated the tan lines over her collarbones left by her bikini.

"Well if it isn’t the prodigal princess of the pitt herself!" Robby goaded, grabbing a clip board and rounding the hub.

The man she was pushing in the wheelchair piped up at that, "You guys actually call her that? Seriously? I thought she was making that up. Please stop - her ego is big enough as it is."

"What do you got?" Robby asked. Jack was still staring. Who the fuck was this guy?

"Idiot male. 37 years old. Broke his ankle trying to relive his glory days coaching youth soccer practice," She was leaned over, pushing the wheelchair with all her might, "and could stand to lose a few pounds."

That pulls an almost relieved huff from Jack. Whoever this guy was - she must've not been that fond of him.

"Hey -" the man reached behind him and tugged on her hair "-my arms still work!"

Oh hell no, Jack thought. Ellis must have noticed he was about to step in and she stopped him before he could, "At ease, soldier. That is her brother."

"Well your brain clearly doesn't" she whacked him right upside the head.

Her brother imitated her, high pitched while she made a show of dramatically handing over his wheelchair to Robby so he could take him away for X-rays.

She thanked Robby as she made her way over to the hub, introducing herself to Dr Al-Hashimi and grabbing the bag of candy that Jack was offering out to her.

She looked him up and down and nodded her head at his camouflage pants, "Really? What is with the GI Jack get up? I thought you were gonna get a hobby.”

"And I thought you said you were gonna stop stealing my food."

"And I thought you said you were gonna stop buying t-shirts one size too small."

"From Walmart." Dr Ellis added.

"You guys, I told you - I do not shop at Walmart."

She giggled and gently nudged her shoulder into Ellis's, "Oh yeah Parker, how could we forget? He shops at Costco!"

"They send good coupons in the mail!" Jack defended himself

"Bro - you're a disabled, widowed veteran who makes more than half a million dollars a year. I think you can afford real clothes." Ellis deadpanned.

“Any other comments from the fashion police about my outfit?”

“Don’t threaten us with a good time.”

Jack cocked his head towards her, smirk widening. He couldn't hide how happy he was to see her. It had been a long couple of days, "And to think I was just starting to miss you."

"Just starting to!?" She raised her eyebrows in challenge, feigning offense while her eyes practically sparkled up at him. He could feel the weight of Ellis's knowing smile on them. He didn't care.

He was debating how obvious it would be for him to pull her into a hug until Dana beat him to it.

"Dr Al, you have just met one of our finest," Dana squeezed her harder, "Except you probably won't see her much because Abbot is always hogging her on nights."

She was released from Dana's grip just enough to clap a light hand on Jack's shoulder, giving him a squeeze, "He needs someone to keep him sharp in his old age."

Jack grimaced the second her hand had made contact with his shoulder and dread washed over her face. Dana fully released her now. Letting her turn all of her attention onto Jack.

“Jack…”

“I’m fine.” He avoided her probing stare and that was exactly how she knew he was not fine.

“Really?” She asked - not buying what he was selling.

“Yes!" She applied light pressure on his shoulder again and he wriggled out of her grasp with a sharp and hissed, "- ah!”

“The room right there is open. Go patch him up.” Dana pointed to the room across the hall. Shooing them in there before Jack had a chance to protest.

Jack sat on the bed as she shut the door and pulled the curtain. Her back was still turned to him as she said, "Take off your shirt."

"At least let me take you to dinner first." Jack tried to pull a laugh from her. It didn't go over well.

"Jack." She warned. Now turned toward him with her arms crossed, “What happened?”

“I was intubating in open fire and a bullet grazed my vest. I’m fine.” He shrugged as he pulled off his shirt. As if what he just said was a completely normal and frequent occurrence.

“You were shot!?” She hurried over to him, standing in between his legs as he sat on the bed.

“Shot…at."

She tilted her head at him in annoyance. Pausing her opening of the various utensils she was preparing to clean his wound.

“What?” He asked.

“Can’t you just take up tennis or golf or literally anything else? Like a normal person?”

“What fun would that be?” Jack insisted upon keeping it light. She shouldn't ever have to worry about him. That was his job.

She lathered some kind of ointment onto his open wound that was on the front of his chest, right above his collar bone. Jack was too distracted by how close they were to care and see what kind.

“There is nothing fun about me coming to work one day and finding out you’re dead because you wanted an adrenaline rush.”

“That isn’t gonna happen.”

“You don’t know that. You think you’re invincible and you’re not.”

“Is that an old joke?”

“Jack-“ her voice cracked and Jack was immediately on his feet, cupping her face in his hands.

“Woah, woah honey okay - I thought we were kidding. I’m fine.” He cooed, one hand stroked her cheek bone making sure not one tear fell while the other steadied her at her hip as she stood between his legs.

“Look at me." He tilted his chin down while he tilted hers up, holding her gaze with his own, "I’m fine. And I’m not going anywhere."

“I won’t survive you dying, Jack. I can't.” Her voice sounded wrecked as her chin wobbled. Jack felt horribly responsible. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. Naturally, like they had been in this position a million times before. He murmured into the side of her hair, “Okay forget the SWAT thing. Although, you should’ve seen me earlier in my full uniform I looked pretty sick”

Jack huffed a sigh of relief as he felt her laugh vibrate through him. He pulled her back with his hands on her shoulders to get another good look at her, "There's my girl."

She wiped a sniffle with the back of her hand and lightly pushed him back down to a seat. His hands never left her. Just slid down her body until he rested them on the outsides of her upper thighs - a safe distance away from the hem of her jean skirt.

She worked in silence for a moment until Jack piped back up, “I’ll pick up tennis or golf like a normal person. I promise.”

“You don’t have to do that, Jack. I just want you to have a little more regard for your life okay? Can you please just do that for me?”

“I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t do for you.” Jack didn't even think that was an exaggeration.

“Except for wearing the correct size shirt.”

He teasingly pinched her leg and she swatted at his good shoulder, laughing. She was done helping him but they hadn't moved. Neither of them really wanted to.

“That’s for you too. Don’t think I don’t see you staring at my biceps.”

Her eyebrows rose in faux surprise as she dragged a hand down his freckled arm.

“Oh you wanna talk about staring? I must have picked that up from someone.”

“This is a teaching hospital.”

“Could’ve mistaken it for a staring one.”

“Come on - you’re always performing medical miracles while looking like that. I can’t help it. Cut a guy some slack.” Jack's hands felt like they were on fire, practically kneading her thighs. God, she really had to wear this skirt today of all days.

“You’re a flirt, you know that?”

“Only with you.”

They had about a second to jump apart at the sound of a knock on the door before the curtain was pulled back to reveal Dr Al-Hashimi.

Jack rubbed at the back of his neck. Both him and her were looking anywhere but each other. Jack wasn't planning on getting excited but he was thankful he had placed his shirt over his lap to cover himself now that they were no longer alone.

Dr Al-Hashimi cleared her throat, obviously picking up on the fact that she had interrupted something, "Sorry to uh, interrupt. But my number, Dr Abbot. Like we discussed. For that date.”

Dr Al-Hashimi handed Jack a piece of paper and then turned to her, "You have a visitor from cardio thoracic surgery outside."

Jack groaned. Could Mr Harvard have any worse timing? She shot Jack a glare and stepped outside. Jack could see the shadow of Mr Harvard who he knew was down here pretending he'd have something to do with her brother's ankle surgery just to flirt.

He caught the end of her dismissing Mr Harvard's valiant attempt at being her knight in shining armor. Jack smiled to himself as he made his way back to the hub to catch up with her. He was explaining a procedure to Whitaker as he walked, "You're gonna have to start with your finger. And then slowly over a few minutes as the wetness gathers, go deeper. All the way to the back of the knuckle."

Whitaker nodded in understanding and was on his merry way. She turned right on Jack the second he was in her vicinity.

"What the hell is your problem?!"

"Problem?" Jack asked, genuinely perplexed.

Her voice pitched down, she whispered, "Why do you have to say everything so unnecessarily slutty? You wanna ask Whitaker out too!?"

Now that - Jack was not expecting. He quirked his eyebrow up in surprise. Also in confusion.

"Ask Whitaker out? What are you-"

He was cut off by a little girl screaming her name and running right into her arms, "Look! Look! Your work is on my new soccer jersey!"

The girl couldn't be older than five. Jack recognized the little girl as her niece from photos she had shown him. He noticed who must have been her sister in law a few feet away, talking to Robby presumably about discharge instructions for her brother as he awaited surgery that he would probably have next week once the swelling went down.

"What are you talking about? Lemme see that." She plucked the jersey from her niece and examined the PTMC logo on it.

Jack knew his cheeks were ruby red. He could see the gears in her head putting it all together as she stared at the small jersey with the ironed on PTMC ED patch. A couple weeks ago, she had told him offhandedly that her niece's soccer league was going to get cancelled since they had no sponsor. So Jack called up the park district and paid for it himself. Under the guise it was the PTMC ED. It was no big deal. If her niece was happy, she was happy.

She put her niece down next to her on the ground as her eyes looked up to Jack, softening, "We don't have the budget for this."

"I know. But I do."

She opened her mouth to say something but her niece cut her off, climbing into her dad's lap on his wheelchair as he, her sister in law, and Robby joined them at the hub, "Auntie, is this Dr Sexy?"

Jack's lips immediatley preened, quirking up into an amused smirk, Dr Ellis and Robby doubled over in laughter.

"No baby - this is Dr Abbot." She tried to recover, her eyes blown wide, mouth agape and her cheeks beet red. She couldn't even look at Jack.

"But you always call him Dr Sexy when you are talking to mommy. What does sexy mean?"

"OKAY-" she said loudly, still looking anywhere but at Jack. She turned her gaze on her brother as she clapped her hands together, "-it is time for you all to leave."

"Only if Dr Sexy walks us out." Her brother teased.

She groaned, putting her head in her hands as Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She hid in the crook of his neck, "I am getting a new job."

"Oh no you're not."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack met her at her car after he helped her family to theirs. “Dr Sexy, huh?”

“Shut up. I'm trying to be annoyed with you and you’re making it damn hard”

“Why are you annoyed with me?” Jack steadied himself with a wide stance, crossed his arms over his chest as she turned to look at him, leaning against her car door.

“Seriously?"

Jack just raised his eyebrows back at her in question.

She mirrored his stance, crossed arms over chest, "So you go on dates now?”

“What are you talking about? Is this about tonight? If you don't want to go anymore we don't have to-”

She imitated him and Dr Al-Hashimi from earlier, "Sorry to uh, interrupt. But my number, Dr Abbot. Like we discussed. For that date.” She emphasized the word.

Jack rubbed his hand over his face, stopping at his scruff and trying to mask the smirk that was threatening to take over his face, “Are you…jealous?”

She scoffed, trying to sound nonchalant but Jack knew her too well for that, “Me? Jealous? No, Jack I just think it’s wildly inappropriate. This is our workplace.”

“Well that’s a damn shame because I didn’t ask Dr Al on a date. I’m setting her up on one. With my army buddy actually."

Her lips formed a barely there oh, "Well…now I just feel like a bitch."

Jack laughed and stepped closer, shaking his head in refute to her statement. He let his hands find purchase on her car, caging her in.

His voice came out far more groveled than expected, "But I’ve been wanting to ask you on a date for going on, oh I don’t know almost five years now, but if you think it’s so wildly inappropri-"

“I don’t!”

“You dont? But I thought-“

He earned himself an eyeroll and a stern, “Jack.”

“You just said-" He couldn't help the huge grin spreading across his face.

“I know what I said.”

“So - let me get this straight - it’s only wildly inappropriate if it’s a date with anyone but you? Is that stated somewhere in the HR handbook or-”

"God, do you ever shutup?" And then her lips were on his.

His whole body felt like it was on fire. Her hands on each side of his face, his squeezing at her hips and pressing her up against the car. Just like that night at the gala. Except this time he actually got to kiss her. He was kissing her.

His head spun at the way her fingers circled around to the nape of his neck, tugging at his curls. He cradled her jaw in one strong hand and grabbed her waist with the other, hand pushing up the white tank she had on to make contact with her bare skin. They couldn't possible get any closer but it still didn't feel close enough.

Jack didn't want to ever stop the exploration of his hands along her body. He grabbed at the flesh on the outside of her upper thigh, hiking it up slightly around his hips. She ground herself down onto his bulge and the gasp she let out was heavenly. Jack took the chance to swipe his tongue into her mouth, as she ground down again, slower this time. Jack couldn't keep his moan from tumbling out.

He pulled back ever so slightly, their lips still practically touching as their chests heaved, "Baby, where are your keys?"

"My keys? That is what you care about right now?" She went to grind on him again but Jack's hands grabbed her hips, halting her.

"If you keep doing that I am going to come in my pants in the hospital parking garage and I would much rather come somewhere else in the comfort of my own home. I've been thinking about this for a long time. I want to take my time with you."

"How long?" She asked as she slipped her keys into Jack's front pocket.

"Inappropriatley long. Now get in the car so Dr Sexy can drive us home."

"I am never gonna live that down, am I?"

"Absolutely not."

"I hate you."

Jack grabbed her chin and peppered her face with kisses, ending with one on her lips as she giggled. Kissing her hard because he could do that now, "Somehow, I am not convinced."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack's left hand flexed hard on her steering wheel. His right hand preoccupied with a steady grip on her upper thigh. Her left hand played with his curls as he drove.

"What are you thinking about?"

"How after the gala last year I went home and touched myself. Imagined my fingers were yours." Jack choked on nothing at her words.

"Jesus Christ - I am trying not to cause a mass casualty event, honey. Can you please just wait till we get home."

She groaned his name in frustration and squeezed his fingers between her thighs, trying to find friction anyway she could.

"You're that needy?"

"Yes, Jack."

"Show me then." His voice was gritty and low as he knocked her knees apart. He batted down the sun visor on her side, sliding the mirror cover up and aiming it perfectly to reflect her lap.

She whined at the loss of contact as both of his hands now gripped the steering wheel. Her eyes screwed shut and her chest lifted, breathing heavy. The way her hard nipples were peaking through her tank top was enough to make Jack scared he was going to crash the car.

"Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me. You think you can handle that for me, baby?"

His words seemed to hit her all at once. Demanding in the way it was when he was ordering people around the ED. The tone went straight to her core as she hiked her jean skirt up over her hips and slid her small lacy black thong down her legs. She stuffed it in one of the pockets of Jack's camo pants, lightly squeezing his bulge as she did. All Jack could murmur out was a hissed fuck as she angled her center to the mirror above her, giving him a perfect view of her absolutely soaked core.

"I asked you a question."

"Yes, yes I can handle it. I promise." She rushed her words out in one run on sentence, out of breath as her chest heaved.

"Good girl, baby. Show me how you touch yourself."

She nodded as she began to rub her clit, her voice shakey as she spoke, "I start like this and I think about everything you said to me that day. When you tell me good job after a prodecure or how you order everyone around or how-"

A tumbled moan falls from her lips, cutting herself off.

"Do you play with these pretty tits?" Jack reached over and gripped the nape of her neck, tugging at the string of her halter top and letting it fall. He pulled it down, her tits spilling out as he tweaked a nipple, kneading it after with his palm.

He thought she squeaked out a soft uh huh with a nod that trailed into a moan as her right hand slipped two fingers into her center. The sound was obscene as she pushed in and out, her head falling back and her chest pushing forward into Jack's hand.

"Jack!" She was getting louder now, the pace of her fingers moving quicker. The tone of her voice filled with unabashed need.

"What else, baby?"

All she could do was babble in response. Jack's hand fell from her nipples to her pussy, giving it a slap before grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at herself in the mirror, "Do you see how pretty your pussy is? What was that you said earlier? That I say everything so slutty? Look who's the slut now."

They both saw the way her pussy contracted around her two fingers at his words. The way her already dripping core somehow managed to get even more wet at the filth he was spilling.

"Oh you like when I am a little mean, don't you?"

She could barely nod, her chest hitting her chin as her breathing became more rapid the closer she inched towards her finish line.

"You wanna come for me?"

"Please." She panted. Jack smirked to himself as he grabbed her wrist, pulled her hand from her center before she could even think about finishing, and pressed her fingers into his mouth - licking them clean.

Her head lolled against the seat, she groaned his name. A mix of frustration and want as she dazedly stared at him.

"I've waited almost five years to taste you, honey. You can wait five more minutes till we are home, yeah?"

She huffed out an, "I hate you."

"Somehow, I am not convinced." He chuckled as he placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack held her hand gently as he tugged her into his house. She was practically bouncing on her heels behind him. "I'm gonna shower first and then-"

"Like hell you are." She snipped. Now she was pulling him. Through his foyer and straight to his couch where she perched herself on his lap, bracketing his hips with her thighs and grinding down on his bulge that was dying to spring out of his pants.

He pushed her skirt back up her hips and rubbed her upper thighs as she rocked her bare pussy down on him, her hands steadying herself on his neck as she leaned into press her mouth to his.

Jack's chest was heaving, "Baby, I'm all sweaty and gross from TEMS."

"I couldn't care less, Jack. You might be patient enough to wait five years but I sure as hell am not. Please touch me."

"Like this?" His fingers rubbed her clit, her head falling back in relief at him finally touching her where she needed him most.

"God, you were dripping all over your car and now you're soaking my couch? Who's got you so worked up?" She gasped as Jack entered two thick fingers in her, kissing up her neck as he did. Nipping at her jaw line as he pulled her tank top down so he could swirl his mouth around one of her sensitive nipples.

She pulled his shirt off over his head, flashing him a mischevious smirk before, "Dr Harvard from cardiac surgery."

Jack's fingers stopped immediatley. She whined and writhed in his lap at the loss of contact. Jack wrapped his other hand around her neck, squeezing slightly, "I thought you were gonna be good for me?"

"I will, I will. I am." She begged. Jack didn't know what he did in a past life to get her begging like this in his lap but he was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Atta girl." He cooed, adding a third finger and plunging back into her tight core, "I am gonna ask you again - what's got you so worked up?"

"You, Jack! Your voice and your arms and your curls and these stupid fucking pants."

"Oh my girl likes my uniform, yeah? Is that what had you so bratty today? Want me to fuck you in it?"

"Please." she huffed. Sweat beading at the top of her forehead as she began to rock her hips, riding his fingers.

"Come for me first."

"Yeah, thats it." Jack hissed, trying hard not to imagine what it would feel like to have his cock where his fingers were. That would surely lead to an early curtain call, "That's it. My good girl."

"Fuck, Jack" She let out a shakey laugh as she came down from her orgasm, riding it out on Jack's fingers as she threaded her fingers in his hair.

"The uniform really does it for you, huh?"

She kissed him hard, "You do it for me. The uniform is just a bonus."

Jack readjusted her in his lap, pushing her legs open further over the expanse of his thick thighs. She whined at the stretch, "Come here, baby. you're doing so good for me. Wanna take my time with you."

"You can take your time with me later. I need you to fuck me now."

"Yeah? That needy, huh?"

"Yes, Jack please." She murmured as she undid the belt on his camo pants.

"You're the boss." Jack winked. He may have been her boss at work. She may have liked him bossing her around in bed. But she was the boss in every other sense of the word.

"Funny."

"Glad you think so." Jack hissed as she wrapped her hand around his hard length, preening with pre cum at the tip. She pushed his pants and his boxers down in one go, his erection immediatley slapping up against his stomach.

Jack's head fell back onto the couch as he let out a moan, her fingers rubbing the precum from his tip down his shaft and back up again. She spit into her hand and repeated the same movement. Jack thought he might come right then and there.

"Wanna ride you, please. I'm clean and on birth control. Need to feel you."

Jack couldn’t even get words out. He was too busy trying not to come from a handjob like a horned up teenager, "Same. Mm clean, too" He managed to get out, eyes fluttering shut as another wave of pleasure wracked his body, "Fuck, baby."

She sunk down on him in an instant, relishing the stretch and sending them both into a fit of whimpered moans. Jack used one hand on her hip to guide her motions, the other rubbing up and down her back, eventually landing in her hair as he tugged her forward into a blistering kiss. Now that he knew what her lips felt like he was never gonna go long without kissing them.

"Fuck!" She rocked down hard on him again, "You feel fucking phenomenal. So tight, So. Perfect." He emphasized his praise with kisses, "Taking me so well. Like you were fucking made for me."

He took the hand from her hair and placed it on her clit, rubbing it as she started to rock quicker. He could tell she was close again. He was in danger of spilling over at any second, "You have no business being so good at this. Fuck, I'm not gonna last long baby. Fuck, look at you." Jack brought the hand from her hip up to her mouth, pushing his thumb into her mouth, moaning as she immediatley began to suck on it.

"All these years. Had a feeling you'd get off on praise. Knew you'd wanna be so good for me. Knew you'd be such a good slut just for me, yeah?"

"Yeah, please. Just for you, I promise." Jack didn't know how he had managed to keep himself from finishing with the way she was riding him. She steadied herself on his shoulders, brought herself all the way up and then slowly rocked herself back down, taking all of him and making sure he felt every fucking inch of her velvety walls.

"If you keep doing that I am not gonna last long." He managed to grunt out.

"Then don't. Come in me, please. Want you to fill me up."

Those words alone did it for Jack as he spilled his warm release into her, continuing to rub her clit. "Give me another one baby. I know you can do it. You can do anything. You're fucking brilliant. Your brilliant fucking brain. C'mon, I feel you clenching. Let go. Come on my cock, please."

She tugged hard on his hair, mixing her own release with his as she came. Panting into Jack's mouth as he whispered, "Good girl."

Jack cradled her cheek as she rode out her orgasm on his cock, whispering praise as she did. He swiped two fingers through the mix of their arousals and brought them to her mouth.

Jacks eyes watched, mesmerized, blown out with arousal as she sucked on his fingers, released them with a pop and then, "The second I saw you in that uniform I wanted to drop to my knees in the middle of the hub and suck the soul out of you."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, laying her bare chest over his and nuzzling into his neck, peppering kisses there as he scratched her back. His laugh vibrated through her, "Jesus Christ - you can't say shit like that when I'm still inside of you."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

He eventually gently cleaned her up. Once she agreed to finally get off of him. He had to bribe her with kisses. He didn't mind one bit. He dragged her to the shower which lead to him having to clean her up again. Again, he didn't mind one bit.

He was at the stove now. Donning only a pair of gray sweatpants as he cooked dinner and watched her pad around his kitchen in only his tshirt and some basketball shorts with probably the dopiest smile of all time on his face.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, tucking herself into his side. He used his free hand to wrap his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer, pressing kisses into her hair. She behaved for a moment until he felt a pair of soft lips pressing kisses across the side of his chest that was accessible to her.

He turned the burner down, dropped the spoon he had been using to stir the pasta on the counter and then grabbed her hips, trapping her against his kitchen island, "You're going to make me burn dinner."

She put her finger to her lips, pretended to think about what he had to say and then with a quick kiss to his lips she muttered against them, "Mmmm, don't care!"

He dug into his pocket, unlocked his phone and put it in her hands, "Put on music. It is already hooked up to the speaker system,"

He picked her up by her hips, causing the cutest squeal he had ever heard, and plopped her down onto his counter. He rubbed a gentle thumb against her cheek, the other against her hip as he stood between her legs, "You need to eat, baby."

She grumbled a fine. She knew when it came to taking care of her - Jack would not budge. She scrolled through his Spotify - she wanted to find something both of them would like but first she was gonna stalk what he already listened to. Of course her curiosity was gonna get the better of her.

A quiet gasp fell from her lips - causing Jack to look over from his spot in front of the stove, "What?"

She turned his phone screen to him, already spotting the flush creeping up on his chest. He recognized the playlist almost immediatley. Made up of all the songs she had played while he drove her home these past couple years - simply titled with her name. There was hundreds of songs on there.

"Did you make this? Do you listen to it?"

Jack figured now was as good a time as ever to lay out all his cards onto the table. Even if he was so embarrassed he couldn't even look up from the dinner he was cooking. He spoke fast, "Would you be entirely creeped out if I told you I replaced the police scanner with it?"

"Would you be entirely creeped out if I told you I am so beyond in love with you?"

Jack's head snapped up from the dinner. He'd never moved so quickly in his life. He was back to standing in between her legs, holding her face - just staring at her with a huge smile. The same expression was being mirrored back to him. It made his heart soar.

"You do? I mean, you are?"

She laughed, "Where have you been the past couple years?”

"Waiting for you to realize that I've been hopelessly in love with you."

"Are we the dumbest smart people alive?"

"Potentially. But doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Only you. Only us." He kissed her now. Slotted his lips over hers like the perfect final piece of a puzzle. His stomach fluttered at the sensation of her fingers finding their home in his curls. He couldn't believe that this was real. That she loved him. He already knew that the astronomical amount he loved her was very, very real.

"God, I love you." Kiss, "So much." Another kiss.

"Say it again." Jack whispered against her lips, smiling like a little kid.

"I love you, Jack."

He pulled back just a bit. Just enough to murmur how much he loved her and get a good look at her face, "Remember when you were so jealous earlier?" He teased.

"I was not-" She began to deny it but Jack leveled a look at her, "I hate you!" she giggled, swatting at his shoulder that was not bandaged up.

"Somehow, I am not convinced." He preened.

"Mmmm, good." She was kissing him again. He could do this forever. He will do this forever - if he has anything to say about it.

The ding of her phone was what made him pull away. But not by much. They both looked at the cause of the disruption, Jack planting kisses up and down her neck, jaw, and chest as she unlocked her phone.

From Robby: Doing scheduling. Can you pick up a shift next Tuesday night please? Shen needs off. You'll get to see your doctor sexy🤪

They both let out a cackle. Jack took her phone and took a selfie with his middle finger up. He sent it to Robby along with a message that read, 'Stop texting my girlfriend.'

"Girlfriend, huh?"

Jack rubbed up and down her thighs as he spoke, "Figured you might think I was insane if I said wife after just one day but trust me that is part of the plan."

"What else is in the plan?”

“Maybe a kid or two? Or four? Or zero. Really as many or as little as you’ll give me. I’m just happy to be here.”

She chuckled, kissed him while lovingly stroking his face, “I like that plan.”

“Yeah?” He asked, brimming with hope.

She nodded as her phone went off again, a message from Robby flashing across the screen. Jack kissed each of her cheeks, her forehead, and then her lips before reading it out loud - sending them both into a fit of giggles.

From Robby: You owe me one, man.

Boy, did he.

[demadogs]

There are legends of people born with the gift of making music so true, it can pierce the veil between life and death.

SINNERS (2025)

[ghostapop]

i feel like a lot of fandoms pride themselves on being gayer than the source material but have they considered being less racist and less misogynistic than the source material as well . could be revolutionary

[ovaryacted]

This man’s fingers are so fucking thick I just know having two curled inside you pressing into your g-spot with his thumb against your clit would probably feel so fucking good. Yeah. I need dat.

(Sorry I took this pic from you @oldermenfucker I didn’t want to be inappropriate like this in a reblog cause I was saying some crazy shit 😭)

[swanlake1998]

precious adams photographed backstage during balanchine's theme and variations by isabella turolla

[uzumaki-rebellion]

In an alternate universe, this would be N'Jobu congratulating Erik on getting his Ph.D at MIT with his mom taking the photo of them.