Jones

Kora °• 23°• she/her I luv older men ;)

[peaky-void]

Masterlist

The Pitt

Jack Abbot

Star-Crossed - Angst * most popular *

~ Dr Abbot who lives on adrenaline and still wears his late wife’s ring leaves his girlfriend feeling perpetually second, and as grief, emotional distance, and medical trauma collide, their relationship unravels into devastating loss.

Daredevil

Bullseye

A bullseye on her back - smut/ infidelity

~ Feeling neglected and pushed aside by her workaholic ass boyfriend, ER doctor Jack Abbot. A lonely day-shift nurse seeks comfort in the arms of a dangerous, obsessive assassin named Bullseye, who patches up his battle wounds in her apartment and leaves a terrifying, permanent mark of ownership on her skin. ;)

[heauxplesslydevoted]

If you’re making posts about the Off Campus boys and purposely excluding Jalen/Tucker, you’re weird. I’ll even take it a step further and say you’re sinister

[peaky-void]

The Fire They Never Saw.

☆The Pitt x House md ☆

Summary: A brilliant but invisible ER attending finally finds people who truly see her worth, forcing the man who once rejected her to confront the devastating realization that he only valued being loved, not the person loving him.

House x Fem!Reader with Past Robby Feelings.

~ im not even sure if this counts as a house x reader lol. # need that senior citizen...

Pls Enjoy!!!!! ● The pitt x House md.

You learned very early that people only looked at you when they needed something. Whether it was a chart that needed to be signed, a consult handled and a difficult famjly member needing help to calm down, you always managed to stabilize crashing pateints with hands so steady they almost looked detached from your body.

You were a brilliant attending. Your clinical instincts were flawless; you could manage a multi-vehicle trauma surge with a quiet, devastating efficiency that left the residents in awe. Yet, the moment the adrenaline faded and the dust settled, you slipped seamlessly back into the background. While the rest of the staff traded banter, drank at the local pubs, and leaned on each other through the gruelling twelve-hour shifts, you remained isolated.

At The Pitt, competence mattered more than personality. That was what everyone said. But somehow the people who were loud, and warm , the ones who laughed too hard in the break room and touched shoulders casually in hallways they became family to each other anyway.

You never did you just became useful. There was a difference, because no one ever texted you after shifts, no one saved you a seat in the cafeteria, and when everyone spilled out after trauma nights to some crowded bar two blocks from the hospital, you always found out the next morning through overheard conversations. As though being forgotten was something you’d grown accustomed to.

And then there was Dr. Robby. He had ruined you quietly. Not intentionally that was the worst part. He had noticed you when nobody else really did. He’d pause beside you during impossible shifts and murmur, “You doing okay?” in that low, tired voice of his. He remembered how you took your coffee. He once adjusted the lead apron slipping off your shoulder before a procedure without even thinking about it, his fingers briefly brushing the back of your neck. Such smmall things, but lonely people survive on tiny things.

You fell in love with him slowly and completely. Not because he was charming, fuck he wasn’t, really. He was exhausted all the time, carrying grief around like another organ inside his body. But he looked at people carefully, like they were worth understanding. And you had spent most of your life feeling invisible. So when someone finally saw you, even a little, you mistook it for sunlight.

For months you carried the feeling in secret, hiding it beneath professionalism and careful distance. You hated yourself for wanting him at all because you knew how pathetic it sounded — a shy, insecure attending physician silently in love with a man too broken to notice. But hope is humiliating. It grows anyway.

Ten months ago, after a thirty-hour shift and too much courage born from sheer exhaustion, you finally told him. Not dramatically, ha never . You’d been standing outside the ambulance bay while rainwater gathered in silver puddles around your shoes. Robby looked dead on his feet, rubbing at his eyes while the city screamed around you.

You said quietly, almost apologetically, “I think I’ve started caring about you more than I should.”

He stared at you not with cruelty although it would’ve been easier. Just… surprised and sad. Then he sighed.

“I can’t do relationships,” his voice was gentle, heavy with the weight of his own burnout. “I barely survive this place as it is. I just don’t have time for that kind of thing.”

You nodded too quickly, your face burning with a shame so hot it felt physical. “No, of course. I know.”

“It’s not you,” he added.

Those words always sounded rehearsed to you, like a shield handed over to soften a wound already decided upon. He looked genuinely sorry, but you went home that night and cried until you vomited in your bathroom sink, sickened by your own pathetic embarrassment that the one time you finally took a chance, this was your reward.

After that, you became even quieter. Whatever softness you’d allowed yourself around him disappeared. You kept conversations clinical, efficient, and safe. And Robby seemed relieved by it, which hurt more than the rejection itself.

Then came Noelle Hastings.

You first noticed them together at the nurses' station, where Noelle leaned in to whisper something that made Robby laugh softly, his head ducking down with a real, genuine smile instead of the exhausted half-grin he gave everyone else. Watching them, you realized people gravitated toward Noelle naturally, completely captivated by her easy laugh, bright confidence, and the kind of effortless beauty you never knew how to compete with.

You forgot what you were about to say the moment the sight hit you, your mind suddenly flooded by the memory of him claiming he couldn't do relationships. The unbearable, gut-wrenching truth was that he could, just not with you, and it would have hurt significantly less if he truly didn't want anyone at all. Instead, watching him want Noelle so effortlessly made you feel foolish for believing his rejection was ever about his schedule or emotional unavailability, hollowing you out slowly as you realized that people always find time for what they actually want.

After that, you began noticing everything. How Noelle touched Robby’s arm when she spoke. How he unconsciously moved closer to her in crowded rooms. How everyone at PTMC already treated them like something inevitable. And you stood three feet away holding patient files while nobody noticed you’d gone completely silent.

Once, during an overnight shift when everyone ordered food together, a resident asked loudly if everyone had put something in, only for Noelle to list off the names of Robby, Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi. Nobody said your name even though you were sitting right there, and for a terrible second, nobody even realized you’d been forgotten until someone looked over abruptly to apologize. You forgave them immediately, answering before they could even finish as if you’d practiced pardoning people your whole life, before spending the rest of the night eating vending machine crackers alone in an empty consult room while their laughter echoed down the hallway.

Walking into a dimly lit on-call room looking for a missing chart during the twilight hours, you froze at the sight of Noelle sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling tiredly while Robby stood between her knees, his hands resting gently at her waist with an intimacy that was devastating because it was so entirely natural.

 Noelle looked up first with a soft apology, causing Robby to step back immediately with a flash of guilt that almost destroyed you not because he loved you, but because he remembered the rain outside the ambulance bay, your shaking voice, and the humiliation he had caused. Realizing that his pity was somehow worse than his rejection, you handed over the chart without a word and left before either of them could speak, locking yourself in a bathroom stall downstairs where you pressed your fist against your mouth to stop the sob trying to tear out of your throat, completely overwhelmed by the weight of all the love living uselessly inside you.

In an effort to fill the void, you started staying later, picking up extra shifts and volunteering for impossible cases, earning constant praise, “ You’re a machine” “ Without you PTMC would collapse” though you quickly learned that praise isn’t companionship and admiration isn’t love.

That reality hit sharply the night Robby found you asleep at a desk, your cheek pressed against scattered patient notes, and touched your shoulder gently to say, “You should go home.”

You startled awake with a horrible microsecond of the old warmth and wanting surging through you, only for it to die the moment you noticed Noelle waiting down the hallway, holding his coat.

 Gathering your papers with trembling hands, you asked, “You two heading out?” which drew a hesitant, “Yeah,” from Robby and a kind, "You okay getting home?" from Noelle. Her kindness made you feel like something fragile everyone was carefully avoiding breaking completely, so you replied, “I’m fine,” because you were simply used to the ache, watching them walk away together beneath the cold hospital lights with their shoulders brushing intimately until the automatic doors slid shut, leaving you alone in the terrible fluorescent silence of PTMC, surrounded by people who respected you deeply and loved you not at all.

Everything shifted on a Tuesday.

The first thing Dr. Gregory House said to you was, “You look like you apologize to furniture after bumping into it.”

The trauma bay fell into a dead silence as a nurse choked on her coffee, and somewhere behind him, Dr. Eric Foreman closed his eyes as if the entire situation was already becoming completely exhausting.

The famous, infamous diagnostician had arrived at PTMC three hours earlier and had already insulted two residents, a respiratory therapist, hospital administration, and God, in that exact order. Everyone knew who House was before he even limped through the doors, because the stories surrounding him sounded half-mythical, painting a picture of a man who was brilliant, cruel, impossible to work with, and somehow always right.

And now he was standing right in the middle of The Pitt’s ER, his cane tapping rhythmically against the floor while his equally exhausted team trailed behind him: Dr. Robert Chase, Dr. Allison Cameron, and Foreman, who was looking deeply regrettable about all of his life choices.

Near the nurses’ station, Dr. Robby muttered, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

House grinned widely, gesturing vaguely toward him, “Oh good, another emotionally constipated attending.”

Then his sharp, piercing blue eyes shifted entirely to you. You stood right beside a charting computer, your shoulders already slightly curled inward from the chaos of the room, but House’s gaze pinned you instantly.

“You,” he said, pointing the tip of his cane directly at you. “You look clinically repressed.”

The entire room waited for you to shrink, because that was exactly what you usually did, but something about his absolute, shameless bluntness bypassed your usual anxiety. You blinked once, looked down at his cane, and said quietly, “You look like a lawsuit with a limp.”

The silence that followed was thick and shocked, but then Chase barked out a sudden laugh while Cameron looked utterly startled, and Foreman physically turned away just to hide a smile. House stared at you for two full seconds before a slow, delighted, and wicked grin spread across his face.

“Oh, this place does have entertainment. What’s your name, Dr. Not-Completely-Useless?”

Before you could even form the words to answer, House waved his hand dismissively, his sharp eyes already catching the way you instinctively tried to hide behind a high collar and a massive stack of files. “No, don't tell me. It'll be something incredibly mundane that doesn't fit you at all. From now on, you're Ember.”

You blinked, completely thrown off, "Ember?"

"You're a tiny, compressed piece of coal buried under a mountain of boring grey ash," House stated matter-of-factly, leaning heavily on his cane. "Everyone thinks you're cold and burnt out, but you're actually holding all the heat in the room. Now, Ember, congratulations. You’ve earned the right to buy me coffee while we prove I'm right about the secondary infection."

For the first time in ten months, you laughed a real, genuine laugh rather than the tiny, polite breath you usually gave your coworkers. It was quick and startled, escaping you so completely by accident that Robby looked up so fast it almost hurt his neck, utterly stunned because he had never heard that sound from you before. Not once.

Over the next week, the dynamic in the hospital changed entirely as the Princeton-Plainsboro team practically anchored themselves to you. The case was absolutely awful, involving a twenty-three-year-old patient who was rapidly crashing from unexplained multi-system failure characterized by severe seizures, catastrophic organ damage, and vivid hallucinations. Nobody in the hospital could figure out why, which apparently made House completely ecstatic, though by hour four, the entire PTMC staff already hated his guts. He shamelessly stole food off unattended cafeteria trays, ruthlessly insulted every surgical consult called to the floor, and told a struggling resident that if their brain was any smoother, the hospital could use it as an ice rink.

Yet somehow you kept answering him. Not nervously, and certainly not defensively, but entirely naturally.

House would sneer: “Congratulations, your differential diagnosis has all the creativity of stale toast.”

And you would simply reply without even looking up from the scans: “Interesting. Most people wait at least a day before comparing me to your personality.”

Chase nearly inhaled his coffee at the remark, and House cackled—actually cackled—and from that moment on, he kept actively seeking you out.

At first, everyone assumed it was merely because House enjoyed tormenting quiet people, but then the staff noticed something incredibly strange. He wasn’t cruel to you at all; he was constantly annoying and absolutely insufferable, but the underlying dynamic was entirely different. He would lean casually against your workstation and throw bizarre medical theories at you just to watch you dismantle them, or he’d steal your favourite pen and twirl it through his fingers until you sighed and stole his cane in immediate retaliation. He would spend an hour insulting everyone else in the room, only to glance over at you and say, “Not you. You’re only emotionally disturbing.”

And you, you absolutely glowed around them. It wasn’t a dramatic shift, which was the truly heartbreaking part of it all, but rather a collection of small, beautiful things. It was the way you completely stopped hovering near doorways as if you were constantly apologizing for existing, the way you started confidently interrupting House mid-sentence, and the way you rolled your eyes whenever Wilson appeared carrying coffee like a weary, divorced wife. You even found yourself smiling before House could even finish certain jokes, simply because you already understood exactly where his chaotic brain was going.

The PTMC staff noticed the change immediately, and it struck Robby especially hard, because this vibrant version of you did not exist when you were with them.

One night, Santos whispered to the group while watching you passionately argue with House over a set of complex MRI results, “Have you ever seen her act like this before?”

Nobody answered her, because the truth was that they hadn’t witnessed it a single time. With PTMC, you were nothing more than quiet competence wrapped in pure exhaustion, but with House’s team, you were entirely alive. Foreman started bringing you into complex medical discussions naturally, Chase actively sought your clinical opinion first during difficult procedures, and Cameron sat right beside you during overnight charting as if the two of you had been close friends for years.

And somehow, you fit with them effortlessly, not despite your social awkwardness, but because of it. House’s team was entirely composed of strange, sharp-edged, and lonely people, and you suddenly stopped looking out of place among them.

That realization settled heavily over the entire PTMC staff, but it devastated Robby the most, because he began noticing all the things he should’ve noticed months ago. He saw how you instinctively memorized everyone’s specific coffee orders, how you quietly covered gruelling shifts for residents having emotional breakdowns, how you got flustered whenever you were complimented, and how funny you actually were beneath all that quiet restraint.

And suddenly, Robby couldn’t stop thinking: How did I miss all of this?

 It drove the Pitt staff entirely insane because House absolutely refused to use your real name, ensuring that every time he limped into the ER, his loud, grating voice would echo clearly across the floor.

“Where is Ember? Chase is being stupid again and I need someone with actual neurons.”

Or he’d shout all the way from the diagnostics desk, “Ember! Bring me those tox screens before Foreman tries to think!”

The first few times it happened, the Pitt residents and nurses would spin around utterly confused, looking at each other and whispering to ask who he was talking about, whether they had a new burn specialist visiting, or if there was a consult down here named Ember. They genuinely had no idea, constantly searching their mental databases of colleagues to try and figure out who this mysterious, indispensable doctor was that the legendary Gregory House kept demanding.

And then, they saw it.

Robby was standing by central admitting with Noelle when House’s voice boomed over the noise of the trauma bay.

“Ember! The idiot in bed four is leaking from his ears! Lumbar puncture, now!”

Robby watched as you stepped out from behind a curtain, looking neither offended nor shy as you simply rolled your eyes and shot a sharp, sarcastic remark back across the room,"If he dies because you took twenty minutes to find your cane, it's on your license, House."

You grabbed a spinal kit while Chase laughed smoothly beside you, handing you a pair of sterile gloves without you even having to ask, and Cameron gave you a warm, knowing smile as she adjusted the overhead light for you. Robby froze, Noelle’s mouth parted in surprise, and all around the desk, the Pitt residents went entirely still as a strange, uncomfortable sensation tightened in Robby's chest.

It was you.

The realization hit the room like a cold front, leaving a sickening, hollow silence in its wake as everyone processed the fact that the mysterious, brilliant, irreplaceable doctor House’s team couldn't live without was the quiet attending they had left out of the dinner orders. You were the one they never texted, the one they treated like a piece of hospital machinery, and Robby looked back toward the admitting desk where Dana Evans and the residents were watching the scene with a mixture of intrigue and a sudden, sharp pang of guilt.

"Have we... ever actually made her laugh like that?" Dana asked quietly, looking over at Robby. "We always just leave her to her charts."

The Pitt people had never made a single ounce of effort to see it, having always just left you to your charts, and Robby couldn't even answer as he kept his eyes locked onto you. He realized with a sickening jolt how radiant you were when you smiled, remembering ten months ago when you had looked at him with such raw, hopeful vulnerability, and how easily he had dismissed you as 'too quiet.' He had assumed you were just background noise, but watching you trade sharp, brilliant barbs with Gregory House, he realized he hadn't known you at all, leaving him with a deep, sudden pang of regret for never trying to truly see you.

The shift that finally broke everything started horribly with a mass casualty intake and multiple traumas that left the ER entirely drowning in noise, blood, and alarms. Robby stood at central admitting trying to coordinate incoming patients while every department screamed for decisions, and when he hit a diagnostic wall with a massive, volatile cardiac trauma, his thoughts instinctively flew to you because you always answered within seconds, and you always put him first. He grabbed the desk phone and paged your real name directly to Trauma Bay 2, Stat.

No response.

Ten minutes later, the chaos peaked as House’s complex neuro patient began to seize violently across the ER floor, prompting House to bypass the hospital page entirely and simply holler across the room with his usual abrasive urgency:

"Ember! Move it! Chase is killing the patient!"

You were already jogging down the center aisle, stethoscope in hand, completely focused and alive. Robby stepped out of Trauma Bay 2 and caught your eye, calling out your real name with a heavy, desperate sound over the din.

"I need you in here, right now! I've got a complex haemorrhage and—"

You paused for a fraction of a second and looked at Robby, and for one awful second, the old instinct that had oriented toward him for ten long months appeared on your face as if answering the very moment you had once prayed for. But House barked from the adjacent room:

"Your emotionally unavailable ex- boyfriend can survive five minutes. The patient can’t. Ember, get in here!"

You didn't even look back at Robby or hesitate for another second, completely bypassing him with your eyes fixed ahead as you sprinted straight past Trauma Bay 2 and directly into House’s room to help his team.

"Foreman, pull the tox screen again," you called out as you threw open the door, completely embedded in their world. "I think the liver involvement’s secondary!"

House pointed at you with a triumphant expression, glancing out the glass at Robby.

"See? Smart people choose me."

And you smiled, completely absorbed in the medicine, not even realizing the weight of what you had just done. Robby stood frozen in the hallway with his hand still half-raised and his voice dying completely in his throat, the rejection hitting him like a physical blow to the sternum. House finally glanced over through the glass, reading the entire situation instantly before stepping to the doorway and leaning casually on his cane.

“Oh,” House said softly to Robby. “You’re the idiot.”

Robby frowned, his chest aching. “Excuse me?”

“She looked at you like you invented oxygen for about six months,” House shrugged, looking back at you as you animatedly discussed the differential with Chase, laughing so hard at a dry joke that you nearly dropped a vial. “Now she doesn't.”

The words landed like blunt force trauma.

“You know what your problem is?” House said, his voice dropping its usual mockery, leaving only a brutal, clinical truth. “You liked being loved more than you liked her.”

Robby swallowed hard, glaring at the doctor through a blur of sudden, defensive anger.

"You don't know anything about us. And that nickname, it's ridiculous. It's rude. Calling a colleague 'Ember' like she's some joke to you? She deserves respect."

House let out a soft, dry chuckle, leaning his weight onto his cane as his blue eyes softened just a fraction, a rare glint of genuine warmth bleeding into his sharp features.

"You think it's an insult because your brain functions on the level of a light switch," House said quietly. "You look at her and see a grey wall. You see someone who signs charts and doesn't make trouble. I call her Ember because shes  the only thing in this miserable, freezing hospital that has any actual fire in them. Shes a spark. I've spent twenty years freezing people out, but she quietly kept the room warm without ever demanding the credit for it."

House tilted his head, looking directly at Robby's breaking expression.

"Chase reads her medical journals because he actually respects her as an equal, and he pulled up a seat for her in the lounge on day two. Cameron bought her favourite tea—the specific loose-leaf kind she keeps in her locker—and she texts her after a brutal code just to make sure shes holding up. Your people brings hera cup of that bitter, sludge-like dark coffee from the breakroom whenever you want her to pick up a shift, completely oblivious to the fact that she actually hates it because it makes her hands shaky, fuels her anxiety, and never calms her down. She never actually finished a single cup you've handed her, but you wouldn't know that, because you never cared enough to make the effort to look. Foreman, on the other hand, actually stops what he's doing and listens when she speaks, because he trusts her clinical instincts more than his own. My team has known her for less than a few months, and they’ve already looked up to her as a doctor and cared for them as a friend. You people have worked shoulder-to-shoulder with her for years, and you didn't even notice she was sitting in the dark."

House took a step closer, his voice dropping to a devastating whisper, "It's not a joke. An ember is what's left when everything else gets burnt to ash. It's the part that survives. she survived you, she survived this meat-grinder of a hospital, and shes still glowing. We saw the fire. You just wanted someone to keep you warm while you let them burn out."

Robby went completely paralyzed as House's words hollowed him out, leaving him standing alone in the bustling, indifferent corridor of The Pitt as the reality finally hit him with devastating clarity. PTMC had only ever known a title and a useful tool, but House’s team knew Ember, having built a bridge to you and fanned the flames of your brilliant, sarcasm-laced soul while the people who worked beside you for years couldn't even bother to learn who you were. And by the time Robby finally wanted to cross that bridge, someone else had already claimed it.

Eeeeeee

Hope you liked it lolol, really took me some time to find a love interest for the reader. Ive been binging house md so I thought why not ;))) and it took me 3 days to find a cute but sentimental nickname so I hope its good!!

[peaky-void]

The Fire They Never Saw.

☆The Pitt x House md ☆

Summary: A brilliant but invisible ER attending finally finds people who truly see her worth, forcing the man who once rejected her to confront the devastating realization that he only valued being loved, not the person loving him.

House x Fem!Reader with Past Robby Feelings.

~ im not even sure if this counts as a house x reader lol. # need that senior citizen...

Pls Enjoy!!!!! ● The pitt x House md.

You learned very early that people only looked at you when they needed something. Whether it was a chart that needed to be signed, a consult handled and a difficult famjly member needing help to calm down, you always managed to stabilize crashing pateints with hands so steady they almost looked detached from your body.

You were a brilliant attending. Your clinical instincts were flawless; you could manage a multi-vehicle trauma surge with a quiet, devastating efficiency that left the residents in awe. Yet, the moment the adrenaline faded and the dust settled, you slipped seamlessly back into the background. While the rest of the staff traded banter, drank at the local pubs, and leaned on each other through the gruelling twelve-hour shifts, you remained isolated.

At The Pitt, competence mattered more than personality. That was what everyone said. But somehow the people who were loud, and warm , the ones who laughed too hard in the break room and touched shoulders casually in hallways they became family to each other anyway.

You never did you just became useful. There was a difference, because no one ever texted you after shifts, no one saved you a seat in the cafeteria, and when everyone spilled out after trauma nights to some crowded bar two blocks from the hospital, you always found out the next morning through overheard conversations. As though being forgotten was something you’d grown accustomed to.

And then there was Dr. Robby. He had ruined you quietly. Not intentionally that was the worst part. He had noticed you when nobody else really did. He’d pause beside you during impossible shifts and murmur, “You doing okay?” in that low, tired voice of his. He remembered how you took your coffee. He once adjusted the lead apron slipping off your shoulder before a procedure without even thinking about it, his fingers briefly brushing the back of your neck. Such smmall things, but lonely people survive on tiny things.

You fell in love with him slowly and completely. Not because he was charming, fuck he wasn’t, really. He was exhausted all the time, carrying grief around like another organ inside his body. But he looked at people carefully, like they were worth understanding. And you had spent most of your life feeling invisible. So when someone finally saw you, even a little, you mistook it for sunlight.

For months you carried the feeling in secret, hiding it beneath professionalism and careful distance. You hated yourself for wanting him at all because you knew how pathetic it sounded — a shy, insecure attending physician silently in love with a man too broken to notice. But hope is humiliating. It grows anyway.

Ten months ago, after a thirty-hour shift and too much courage born from sheer exhaustion, you finally told him. Not dramatically, ha never . You’d been standing outside the ambulance bay while rainwater gathered in silver puddles around your shoes. Robby looked dead on his feet, rubbing at his eyes while the city screamed around you.

You said quietly, almost apologetically, “I think I’ve started caring about you more than I should.”

He stared at you not with cruelty although it would’ve been easier. Just… surprised and sad. Then he sighed.

“I can’t do relationships,” his voice was gentle, heavy with the weight of his own burnout. “I barely survive this place as it is. I just don’t have time for that kind of thing.”

You nodded too quickly, your face burning with a shame so hot it felt physical. “No, of course. I know.”

“It’s not you,” he added.

Those words always sounded rehearsed to you, like a shield handed over to soften a wound already decided upon. He looked genuinely sorry, but you went home that night and cried until you vomited in your bathroom sink, sickened by your own pathetic embarrassment that the one time you finally took a chance, this was your reward.

After that, you became even quieter. Whatever softness you’d allowed yourself around him disappeared. You kept conversations clinical, efficient, and safe. And Robby seemed relieved by it, which hurt more than the rejection itself.

Then came Noelle Hastings.

You first noticed them together at the nurses' station, where Noelle leaned in to whisper something that made Robby laugh softly, his head ducking down with a real, genuine smile instead of the exhausted half-grin he gave everyone else. Watching them, you realized people gravitated toward Noelle naturally, completely captivated by her easy laugh, bright confidence, and the kind of effortless beauty you never knew how to compete with.

You forgot what you were about to say the moment the sight hit you, your mind suddenly flooded by the memory of him claiming he couldn't do relationships. The unbearable, gut-wrenching truth was that he could, just not with you, and it would have hurt significantly less if he truly didn't want anyone at all. Instead, watching him want Noelle so effortlessly made you feel foolish for believing his rejection was ever about his schedule or emotional unavailability, hollowing you out slowly as you realized that people always find time for what they actually want.

After that, you began noticing everything. How Noelle touched Robby’s arm when she spoke. How he unconsciously moved closer to her in crowded rooms. How everyone at PTMC already treated them like something inevitable. And you stood three feet away holding patient files while nobody noticed you’d gone completely silent.

Once, during an overnight shift when everyone ordered food together, a resident asked loudly if everyone had put something in, only for Noelle to list off the names of Robby, Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi. Nobody said your name even though you were sitting right there, and for a terrible second, nobody even realized you’d been forgotten until someone looked over abruptly to apologize. You forgave them immediately, answering before they could even finish as if you’d practiced pardoning people your whole life, before spending the rest of the night eating vending machine crackers alone in an empty consult room while their laughter echoed down the hallway.

Walking into a dimly lit on-call room looking for a missing chart during the twilight hours, you froze at the sight of Noelle sitting on the edge of the bed and smiling tiredly while Robby stood between her knees, his hands resting gently at her waist with an intimacy that was devastating because it was so entirely natural.

 Noelle looked up first with a soft apology, causing Robby to step back immediately with a flash of guilt that almost destroyed you not because he loved you, but because he remembered the rain outside the ambulance bay, your shaking voice, and the humiliation he had caused. Realizing that his pity was somehow worse than his rejection, you handed over the chart without a word and left before either of them could speak, locking yourself in a bathroom stall downstairs where you pressed your fist against your mouth to stop the sob trying to tear out of your throat, completely overwhelmed by the weight of all the love living uselessly inside you.

In an effort to fill the void, you started staying later, picking up extra shifts and volunteering for impossible cases, earning constant praise, “ You’re a machine” “ Without you PTMC would collapse” though you quickly learned that praise isn’t companionship and admiration isn’t love.

That reality hit sharply the night Robby found you asleep at a desk, your cheek pressed against scattered patient notes, and touched your shoulder gently to say, “You should go home.”

You startled awake with a horrible microsecond of the old warmth and wanting surging through you, only for it to die the moment you noticed Noelle waiting down the hallway, holding his coat.

 Gathering your papers with trembling hands, you asked, “You two heading out?” which drew a hesitant, “Yeah,” from Robby and a kind, "You okay getting home?" from Noelle. Her kindness made you feel like something fragile everyone was carefully avoiding breaking completely, so you replied, “I’m fine,” because you were simply used to the ache, watching them walk away together beneath the cold hospital lights with their shoulders brushing intimately until the automatic doors slid shut, leaving you alone in the terrible fluorescent silence of PTMC, surrounded by people who respected you deeply and loved you not at all.

Everything shifted on a Tuesday.

The first thing Dr. Gregory House said to you was, “You look like you apologize to furniture after bumping into it.”

The trauma bay fell into a dead silence as a nurse choked on her coffee, and somewhere behind him, Dr. Eric Foreman closed his eyes as if the entire situation was already becoming completely exhausting.

The famous, infamous diagnostician had arrived at PTMC three hours earlier and had already insulted two residents, a respiratory therapist, hospital administration, and God, in that exact order. Everyone knew who House was before he even limped through the doors, because the stories surrounding him sounded half-mythical, painting a picture of a man who was brilliant, cruel, impossible to work with, and somehow always right.

And now he was standing right in the middle of The Pitt’s ER, his cane tapping rhythmically against the floor while his equally exhausted team trailed behind him: Dr. Robert Chase, Dr. Allison Cameron, and Foreman, who was looking deeply regrettable about all of his life choices.

Near the nurses’ station, Dr. Robby muttered, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

House grinned widely, gesturing vaguely toward him, “Oh good, another emotionally constipated attending.”

Then his sharp, piercing blue eyes shifted entirely to you. You stood right beside a charting computer, your shoulders already slightly curled inward from the chaos of the room, but House’s gaze pinned you instantly.

“You,” he said, pointing the tip of his cane directly at you. “You look clinically repressed.”

The entire room waited for you to shrink, because that was exactly what you usually did, but something about his absolute, shameless bluntness bypassed your usual anxiety. You blinked once, looked down at his cane, and said quietly, “You look like a lawsuit with a limp.”

The silence that followed was thick and shocked, but then Chase barked out a sudden laugh while Cameron looked utterly startled, and Foreman physically turned away just to hide a smile. House stared at you for two full seconds before a slow, delighted, and wicked grin spread across his face.

“Oh, this place does have entertainment. What’s your name, Dr. Not-Completely-Useless?”

Before you could even form the words to answer, House waved his hand dismissively, his sharp eyes already catching the way you instinctively tried to hide behind a high collar and a massive stack of files. “No, don't tell me. It'll be something incredibly mundane that doesn't fit you at all. From now on, you're Ember.”

You blinked, completely thrown off, "Ember?"

"You're a tiny, compressed piece of coal buried under a mountain of boring grey ash," House stated matter-of-factly, leaning heavily on his cane. "Everyone thinks you're cold and burnt out, but you're actually holding all the heat in the room. Now, Ember, congratulations. You’ve earned the right to buy me coffee while we prove I'm right about the secondary infection."

For the first time in ten months, you laughed a real, genuine laugh rather than the tiny, polite breath you usually gave your coworkers. It was quick and startled, escaping you so completely by accident that Robby looked up so fast it almost hurt his neck, utterly stunned because he had never heard that sound from you before. Not once.

Over the next week, the dynamic in the hospital changed entirely as the Princeton-Plainsboro team practically anchored themselves to you. The case was absolutely awful, involving a twenty-three-year-old patient who was rapidly crashing from unexplained multi-system failure characterized by severe seizures, catastrophic organ damage, and vivid hallucinations. Nobody in the hospital could figure out why, which apparently made House completely ecstatic, though by hour four, the entire PTMC staff already hated his guts. He shamelessly stole food off unattended cafeteria trays, ruthlessly insulted every surgical consult called to the floor, and told a struggling resident that if their brain was any smoother, the hospital could use it as an ice rink.

Yet somehow you kept answering him. Not nervously, and certainly not defensively, but entirely naturally.

House would sneer: “Congratulations, your differential diagnosis has all the creativity of stale toast.”

And you would simply reply without even looking up from the scans: “Interesting. Most people wait at least a day before comparing me to your personality.”

Chase nearly inhaled his coffee at the remark, and House cackled—actually cackled—and from that moment on, he kept actively seeking you out.

At first, everyone assumed it was merely because House enjoyed tormenting quiet people, but then the staff noticed something incredibly strange. He wasn’t cruel to you at all; he was constantly annoying and absolutely insufferable, but the underlying dynamic was entirely different. He would lean casually against your workstation and throw bizarre medical theories at you just to watch you dismantle them, or he’d steal your favourite pen and twirl it through his fingers until you sighed and stole his cane in immediate retaliation. He would spend an hour insulting everyone else in the room, only to glance over at you and say, “Not you. You’re only emotionally disturbing.”

And you, you absolutely glowed around them. It wasn’t a dramatic shift, which was the truly heartbreaking part of it all, but rather a collection of small, beautiful things. It was the way you completely stopped hovering near doorways as if you were constantly apologizing for existing, the way you started confidently interrupting House mid-sentence, and the way you rolled your eyes whenever Wilson appeared carrying coffee like a weary, divorced wife. You even found yourself smiling before House could even finish certain jokes, simply because you already understood exactly where his chaotic brain was going.

The PTMC staff noticed the change immediately, and it struck Robby especially hard, because this vibrant version of you did not exist when you were with them.

One night, Santos whispered to the group while watching you passionately argue with House over a set of complex MRI results, “Have you ever seen her act like this before?”

Nobody answered her, because the truth was that they hadn’t witnessed it a single time. With PTMC, you were nothing more than quiet competence wrapped in pure exhaustion, but with House’s team, you were entirely alive. Foreman started bringing you into complex medical discussions naturally, Chase actively sought your clinical opinion first during difficult procedures, and Cameron sat right beside you during overnight charting as if the two of you had been close friends for years.

And somehow, you fit with them effortlessly, not despite your social awkwardness, but because of it. House’s team was entirely composed of strange, sharp-edged, and lonely people, and you suddenly stopped looking out of place among them.

That realization settled heavily over the entire PTMC staff, but it devastated Robby the most, because he began noticing all the things he should’ve noticed months ago. He saw how you instinctively memorized everyone’s specific coffee orders, how you quietly covered gruelling shifts for residents having emotional breakdowns, how you got flustered whenever you were complimented, and how funny you actually were beneath all that quiet restraint.

And suddenly, Robby couldn’t stop thinking: How did I miss all of this?

 It drove the Pitt staff entirely insane because House absolutely refused to use your real name, ensuring that every time he limped into the ER, his loud, grating voice would echo clearly across the floor.

“Where is Ember? Chase is being stupid again and I need someone with actual neurons.”

Or he’d shout all the way from the diagnostics desk, “Ember! Bring me those tox screens before Foreman tries to think!”

The first few times it happened, the Pitt residents and nurses would spin around utterly confused, looking at each other and whispering to ask who he was talking about, whether they had a new burn specialist visiting, or if there was a consult down here named Ember. They genuinely had no idea, constantly searching their mental databases of colleagues to try and figure out who this mysterious, indispensable doctor was that the legendary Gregory House kept demanding.

And then, they saw it.

Robby was standing by central admitting with Noelle when House’s voice boomed over the noise of the trauma bay.

“Ember! The idiot in bed four is leaking from his ears! Lumbar puncture, now!”

Robby watched as you stepped out from behind a curtain, looking neither offended nor shy as you simply rolled your eyes and shot a sharp, sarcastic remark back across the room,"If he dies because you took twenty minutes to find your cane, it's on your license, House."

You grabbed a spinal kit while Chase laughed smoothly beside you, handing you a pair of sterile gloves without you even having to ask, and Cameron gave you a warm, knowing smile as she adjusted the overhead light for you. Robby froze, Noelle’s mouth parted in surprise, and all around the desk, the Pitt residents went entirely still as a strange, uncomfortable sensation tightened in Robby's chest.

It was you.

The realization hit the room like a cold front, leaving a sickening, hollow silence in its wake as everyone processed the fact that the mysterious, brilliant, irreplaceable doctor House’s team couldn't live without was the quiet attending they had left out of the dinner orders. You were the one they never texted, the one they treated like a piece of hospital machinery, and Robby looked back toward the admitting desk where Dana Evans and the residents were watching the scene with a mixture of intrigue and a sudden, sharp pang of guilt.

"Have we... ever actually made her laugh like that?" Dana asked quietly, looking over at Robby. "We always just leave her to her charts."

The Pitt people had never made a single ounce of effort to see it, having always just left you to your charts, and Robby couldn't even answer as he kept his eyes locked onto you. He realized with a sickening jolt how radiant you were when you smiled, remembering ten months ago when you had looked at him with such raw, hopeful vulnerability, and how easily he had dismissed you as 'too quiet.' He had assumed you were just background noise, but watching you trade sharp, brilliant barbs with Gregory House, he realized he hadn't known you at all, leaving him with a deep, sudden pang of regret for never trying to truly see you.

The shift that finally broke everything started horribly with a mass casualty intake and multiple traumas that left the ER entirely drowning in noise, blood, and alarms. Robby stood at central admitting trying to coordinate incoming patients while every department screamed for decisions, and when he hit a diagnostic wall with a massive, volatile cardiac trauma, his thoughts instinctively flew to you because you always answered within seconds, and you always put him first. He grabbed the desk phone and paged your real name directly to Trauma Bay 2, Stat.

No response.

Ten minutes later, the chaos peaked as House’s complex neuro patient began to seize violently across the ER floor, prompting House to bypass the hospital page entirely and simply holler across the room with his usual abrasive urgency:

"Ember! Move it! Chase is killing the patient!"

You were already jogging down the center aisle, stethoscope in hand, completely focused and alive. Robby stepped out of Trauma Bay 2 and caught your eye, calling out your real name with a heavy, desperate sound over the din.

"I need you in here, right now! I've got a complex haemorrhage and—"

You paused for a fraction of a second and looked at Robby, and for one awful second, the old instinct that had oriented toward him for ten long months appeared on your face as if answering the very moment you had once prayed for. But House barked from the adjacent room:

"Your emotionally unavailable ex- boyfriend can survive five minutes. The patient can’t. Ember, get in here!"

You didn't even look back at Robby or hesitate for another second, completely bypassing him with your eyes fixed ahead as you sprinted straight past Trauma Bay 2 and directly into House’s room to help his team.

"Foreman, pull the tox screen again," you called out as you threw open the door, completely embedded in their world. "I think the liver involvement’s secondary!"

House pointed at you with a triumphant expression, glancing out the glass at Robby.

"See? Smart people choose me."

And you smiled, completely absorbed in the medicine, not even realizing the weight of what you had just done. Robby stood frozen in the hallway with his hand still half-raised and his voice dying completely in his throat, the rejection hitting him like a physical blow to the sternum. House finally glanced over through the glass, reading the entire situation instantly before stepping to the doorway and leaning casually on his cane.

“Oh,” House said softly to Robby. “You’re the idiot.”

Robby frowned, his chest aching. “Excuse me?”

“She looked at you like you invented oxygen for about six months,” House shrugged, looking back at you as you animatedly discussed the differential with Chase, laughing so hard at a dry joke that you nearly dropped a vial. “Now she doesn't.”

The words landed like blunt force trauma.

“You know what your problem is?” House said, his voice dropping its usual mockery, leaving only a brutal, clinical truth. “You liked being loved more than you liked her.”

Robby swallowed hard, glaring at the doctor through a blur of sudden, defensive anger.

"You don't know anything about us. And that nickname, it's ridiculous. It's rude. Calling a colleague 'Ember' like she's some joke to you? She deserves respect."

House let out a soft, dry chuckle, leaning his weight onto his cane as his blue eyes softened just a fraction, a rare glint of genuine warmth bleeding into his sharp features.

"You think it's an insult because your brain functions on the level of a light switch," House said quietly. "You look at her and see a grey wall. You see someone who signs charts and doesn't make trouble. I call her Ember because shes  the only thing in this miserable, freezing hospital that has any actual fire in them. Shes a spark. I've spent twenty years freezing people out, but she quietly kept the room warm without ever demanding the credit for it."

House tilted his head, looking directly at Robby's breaking expression.

"Chase reads her medical journals because he actually respects her as an equal, and he pulled up a seat for her in the lounge on day two. Cameron bought her favourite tea—the specific loose-leaf kind she keeps in her locker—and she texts her after a brutal code just to make sure shes holding up. Your people brings hera cup of that bitter, sludge-like dark coffee from the breakroom whenever you want her to pick up a shift, completely oblivious to the fact that she actually hates it because it makes her hands shaky, fuels her anxiety, and never calms her down. She never actually finished a single cup you've handed her, but you wouldn't know that, because you never cared enough to make the effort to look. Foreman, on the other hand, actually stops what he's doing and listens when she speaks, because he trusts her clinical instincts more than his own. My team has known her for less than a few months, and they’ve already looked up to her as a doctor and cared for them as a friend. You people have worked shoulder-to-shoulder with her for years, and you didn't even notice she was sitting in the dark."

House took a step closer, his voice dropping to a devastating whisper, "It's not a joke. An ember is what's left when everything else gets burnt to ash. It's the part that survives. she survived you, she survived this meat-grinder of a hospital, and shes still glowing. We saw the fire. You just wanted someone to keep you warm while you let them burn out."

Robby went completely paralyzed as House's words hollowed him out, leaving him standing alone in the bustling, indifferent corridor of The Pitt as the reality finally hit him with devastating clarity. PTMC had only ever known a title and a useful tool, but House’s team knew Ember, having built a bridge to you and fanned the flames of your brilliant, sarcasm-laced soul while the people who worked beside you for years couldn't even bother to learn who you were. And by the time Robby finally wanted to cross that bridge, someone else had already claimed it.

Eeeeeee

Hope you liked it lolol, really took me some time to find a love interest for the reader. Ive been binging house md so I thought why not ;))) and it took me 3 days to find a cute but sentimental nickname so I hope its good!!

[k1tk4ttt]

How I feel reading smut while being scared of intimacy in real life

[lalaleeiillaa]

“yeah i read a lot!”

“oh awesome! What books do you read?”

[richeeduvie]

Feeding Leggy <3

Jack's chubby little daughter, who's half of you (the woman to ruin him), decides she has every right to share her snacks with his prosthetic.

wc: 1.4k // ft. Jack suffering from Chubby's cuteness. That's all. // fic directory // finally got my computer to connect to the internet, but I'm treating myself to cookie dough after this.

The ruining of Jack’s heart for the eightieth time is the crime of, you guessed it, the chubby little daughter you’ve given him.

It happens in the living room on an ordinary afternoon when he’s on the couch, and he’s watching her eat banana puffs with the clumsy pinch babies do as they try to shove something in their mouth.

At least it’s something edible this time. But, funnily enough, she’s in a shirt with peaches on it. 

“Fake fan.”

He’s being ambushed by this all-too-tender sight. He’s allowed to make fun. She doesn’t even understand what he’s saying, and that’s apparent when she turns her head to him, offering a banana puff from the bowl in her lap. 

His prosthetic is off for the afternoon, leaning on the coffee table. 

“No. I’m fine, Chubs. But thank you.”

Chubby’s not tinnie-tiny anymore, though. She’s still very much a baby. She always will be. Jack needs that to be true. But the kid’s got opinions now, more acts he couldn’t guess the intention of, and he assumes that’s why she completely ignores him and drops a banana puff onto his thigh. 

“Alright. Thank you for ignoring me. I’ll enjoy your fine cuisine.” 

Jack pops it into his mouth right when he notices his daughter has taken to staring wide-eyed at something in front of her.

When his sight follows, he finds that it’s his prosthetic. Which is just a part of the room now. 

Shouldn’t be something her little head tilts at, but it tilts with a puff halfway to her mouth. 

“Hey, what’re you plotting?”

She ignores him. Of course. She’s totally right to, but Jack’s…Jack is already suspicious. He’s gotten thirteen months to spend with Chubby, the second half of his girls, to know that that sort of look rarely ends in anything manageable. Don’t fucking even, baby. 

He’s quicker than her, even without the prosthetic. He’ll fucking hop if he has to. 

“Eh, eh-eh.”

“Chubby, whatever you’re thinking of doing—”

With a little grunt, Chubby sets her bowl aside. It tips. A couple of puffs tumble onto the couch, which, obviously, the kid doesn’t care about the clean up. Bigger things are at stake, apparently.

Jack couldn’t tell God what, but his girl’s on a mission as she stands up with a wobble before climbing down. 

“Ehhhh.”

“Hey, careful—”

On cue, you come around the corner to catch the shift in his posture. The last thing he needs is you to get a front row seat to the baby you grew, cracking her head open. 

“What’s going on?”

Jack doesn’t take his eyes off her. 

“I don’t know yet.”

Chubby’s able to grab a handful of puffs from the bowl before turning to his…prosthetic. Which, yeah, that’s what she was looking at, but now her intention’s more obvious. You know. Just enough to fuck him up. 

He doesn’t know to you that his ruin is as obvious as Chubby’s mission. 

“Uh-oh.”

If she’s eating, then perhaps his leg should be eating too. Because somewhere in her baby brain, your daughter has decided Jack’s prosthetic is a doll. 

Is there a cuter way to crust Jack’s heart? 

Chubby sits down in front of the prosthetic as she lays one hand on the floor to steady herself. 

And just then, she lifts one of the puffs toward the lower part of it. 

Like a saint feeding the fucking poor. Or. Yeah. A kid feeding her doll.

“Sa-yee ah, Leeg.”

…Say ah, leg?

You could choke on how cute this is, and you already feel tears welling up when she pushes the puff against the carbon fiber. She smushes it, practically.

It sticks for a second before falling onto the floor.

“Ah!”

Chubby gasps. This is the first time, you think, that you’ve seen your baby offended. 

“Now you know how Mommy and Dada feel when we try to feed you.”

There’s a humor in this situation that you have no trouble finding. You’ll blame the tears on postpartum hormones even though it’s been more than a year since you’ve had her. But Jack…with the way he’s looking at the daughter you’ve given him. 

The lines in his face, marked by time, have slackened. You think he’s done for.

“...Why are you—mm.” Jack runs a hand over his stubble. “Why’re you feeding my leg, baby?” 

You were pretty stupid to think that, with him, the shock of being loved by a tiny, chubby person who shares his blood would have dulled by now. No. Dull’s a mean word. That it would’ve softened by now. 

“Ehh. Da.”

Nope. You’re only in love with how fatherhood with Chubby will ruin him every time.

“No one should be left out of snacktime, Dad.” 

Not even his fucking leg, apparently. 

Jack leans forward, smile growing thin and wavering at your words. He tries to pretend that you can’t notice his throat bobbing. He stares at his baby girl, trying again. 

She goes in with another determined offering of a puff that also falls to the floor. 

“No, baby.” 

His voice is already rough. How the hell did that happen? He was fine a minute ago, and now you can definitely hear him coming undone like the first time—well. No. The first time was when he heard Chub’s heartbeat. He was pretty fucking bad then, wasn’t he? He’s better here. Yeah? He’s not crying, at least. 

“Dada’s prosthetic doesn’t eat, okay? Dada eats. But not his leg.”

Chubby turns to Jack, and he nearly scoffs at the look of immediate disappointment on her face. She shakes her head. 

“Yeah. How could I say something so stupid?”

She points at the prosthetic. 

“Eh-eh.”

Jack has to look away for a moment. 

“Jack, you okay?”

Can’t really help how his chest is turning into something unbearable and too fucking big for the side of the moment, can he, kid? At least she reminds him to take his heart medication. There’s the silver lining in the ruin. The other one is that you’re the reason he takes it. The only reason anyone should be sick to the pulse is you. And the baby that you made.

“M’ fine, Sleepy.”

He looks back to find Chubby trying again, leaning closer and pressing the snack to the side of the socket. She’s so determined for the baby that she is, and Jack thinks for a second that she might be able to solve the problem of his prosthetic’s anatomy if the adults around her stop being Debbie Downers. 

Thinking your kid can do anything is a part of parenthood. Right? Right. 

“Just…you think she knows what she’s doing?”

You can only think why this is beautifully awful for Jack’s heart is because of what’s left unsaid beneath the surface of something so ridiculously cute. Chubby feeding his prosthetic turns your heart inside out, too, but in her head, the leg is just a part of Dada, and therefore part of what she loves.

Things in this family get fed and included, so why wouldn’t she think his leg deserves a snack? 

You and he are raising her well.

“AH! Ahhhh! Leegy eah!”

Jack laughs with a slight snort when the baby manages to wedge a puff into the seam near the top. She’s lighting up like the cutest Christmas tree in the world.

His laugh, in your opinion, is sorta broken. 

Chubby claps her little hands, happy as can be, before reaching back into the bowl, having rid herself of the first handful because her hands are small. And dimpled. It was, like, five puffs and they’re all on the damn floor now. 

“Nope.” 

Jack leans forward and catches her gently around the middle before she can begin the next course. “That’s enough. It’s full.”

Chubby squeals at being scooped up, but she’s settled quickly on his good leg, his hand at her stomach to steady her. He looks to his prosthetic with its faint, sticky smears from little fingers.

She leans against his chest and points again.

“Lee eh?”

Jack nods. Mockery feels impossible right now. Being normal about this even more so. 

“Yeah. You gave my leg a snack.”

“Yayyyyy.”

You come down, kissing Chubby’s cheek and the corner of his mouth. You know. Just to really do him in. Right? He’s guessing right. 

“You are so, so gone, Doctor."

Jack looks down at the daughter you’ve made with him. She’s kicking both feet. She was feeding banana puffs to his prosthetic. You were standing near, knowing exactly why it hurts. 

“I know.”

That he does. Heaven on earth might just send him to hell.

[eyesxxyou]

Matt slamming Dex's face against the table in the interrogation scene only tells me one thing... Dex is a gigantic masochistic pain slut. Him smiling and saying "thank you"??? He absolutely loves being hurt. He loves hate fucking. He loves walking that thin line that separates pain from pleasure and he loves it EVEN MORE when the line doesn't exist at all and they just fully become one.

Anyway, Gun kink with Dex 🫶

[p1stach-io]

smh I wish could flirt w jack abbot so baddddd I want to kid with him about the whole “never a j name” thing because his old ass probably doesn’t even know that’s a thing 😭

what’s in a name?

pairing: jack abbot x reader

word count: 1.0k

content: age gap vibes, heavy flirting, sexual tension, mutual pining, alcohol, smoking references.

author’s note: anon i think you may be in my walls because i literally had this thought before (jack may be one of the worst of the “j” names (lmfao)). so i had to just write this small piece immediately before it escaped my brain.

you were taking your sweet time wiping down the back counter, stacking clean glasses with a rhythmic clink. the bar was mostly quiet, the late-night lull finally settling in. the rhythmic hum of the ice machine and the low, soulful blues track playing from the speakers filled the space between a few patrons.

the clink of clean glasses was the only thing that was anchoring you to your shift. truth be told, your attention had been entirely down at the far end of the bar for the last twenty ish minutes.

and you knew damn well his attention was right on you.

jack abbot was hunched over the mahogany counter, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up to his forearms, his hands loosely cupping a lowball glass.

between the dim overhead pendant light throwing soft shadows across his jaw and the deep lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes, he looked every bit the weary workaholic carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

but he hadn't touched his phone once. he had been watching you move around the space since the moment he walked in.

your hair was pulled back from your face in an undone knot which held two unlit cigarettes. it was a habit he had already kind of lectured you about on your last date, his stern doctor persona coming out to tell you to consider quitting.

you had just laughed it off, leaning in to blow a slow, deliberate cloud of smoke away from his face, watching the way his breath caught and his eyes darkened in a way that was anything but clinical.

now, as you moved under the warm bar lights in a low-cut tank top, his dark gaze followed the line of your collarbone, tracking the slow rise and fall of your chest. every time you caught his eye, a heavy, familiar heat flared up between you. it was the exact same look he had used on your last two dates to melt away any lingering reservations you had.

grabbing a fresh rag, you slowly worked your way down the bar, polishing the wood until you were standing right across from him. you leaned your forearms on the counter, tilting your chest forward just enough to make his eyes dip before they snapped back up to yours.

you had his undivided attention.

a faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the kind of soft, genuine smile he seemed to reserve just for you.

"hi," he said, his voice low and heavy with a long day's fatigue. "i was starting to think you were ignoring me."

"never," you murmured, tilting your head, letting your eyes linger on the soft line of his jaw. "just earning a living, jack. though, looking at you right now, i'm realizing i might need to reevaluate my choices."

he paused, a flicker of genuine amusement mixing with the exhaustion in his eyes. he slowly set his glass down, turning his torso fully toward you, his gaze locked onto yours. "is that so? and what choices would those be? am i a bad customer? did i do something wrong?"

"no, everything is perfect that's the problem," you said, keeping your voice smooth and low as you leaned a little closer. your eyes dropped briefly to his lips before meeting his eyes again. "it's an inherent issue. i was doing some thinking while watching you watch me from across the room, and i realized i'm breaking a fundamental rule here."

jack stared at you, the skin around his eyes crinkling as a slow grin began to form. "a fundamental rule? please enlighten me."

"i really shouldn't be letting myself get this attached to a guy whose name starts with a j. it's like an automatic red flag."

the silence stretched, thick and heavy, the soulful blues music from the speakers drifting between you. jack just looked at you, utterly, beautifully baffled. "...a j name?"

"yeah. you can never trust a j name. it's a universal law."

he looked down at his glass, then back up at you, trying to find the punchline in the shift of your features. "what the hell does the first letter of a name have to do with anything? is this some internet nonsense i missed?"

you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing out loud, your gaze dropping to the crinkles around his eyes. oh, god. his old ass really has absolutely no idea.

"it's not nonsense, jack, it's science," you teased, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial whisper that forced him to lean over the counter to catch it.

"johns, jasons, joshs, jameses, jacks... you guys are always trouble. built-in heartbreakers. i'm really just trying to protect my peace here before date number three."

jack let out a sudden laugh, the tension instantly melting right out of his broad shoulders. he leaned back against his stool, crossing his arms over his chest, looking at you with a mix of rich amusement and undeniable fondness.

"trouble, huh?" he murmured. his eyes glinted in the low light, dark and heavy as they slowly scanned your face, before lingering on the cigarettes tucked into your hair. "between the smoking habit and this superstition, i'm starting to think you're the one who's trouble."

he leaned back over the counter, closing the distance between you until you could catch the faint, woody scent of his cologne. his voice dropped a register, growing softer, intensely intimate. "but i would like to think i've already proven i'm the exception to your little rule."

"have you?" you arched an eyebrow, the heat between you humming tight and electric.

"tell you what," jack said, his eyes dropping to your lips, his hand sliding just a fraction closer to yours on the mahogany wood. "pour yourself a glass, slide around to this side of the bar, and keep judging my character. see if i'm worth breaking your rule for."

you smiled, the playful banter settling into something thick and heavy. you reached down, grabbing a clean glass from under the counter.

"alright, jack," you said, pouring a splash into the glass and locking eyes with him. "i guess i can give you a chance to clear your name."

[pxterparkerfilmss]

dex????? buck???? involve me.

[grlchrm]

Refreshing the FUCK out of the Benjamin Poindexter x Reader tags

[p1stach-io]

almost home: masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x reader

content: divorce/separation, co-parenting dynamics, language, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, mild injuries, mentions of infertility, mentions of medical procedures/injections, references to therapy and anxiety, unresolved feelings, conflict.

series summary: after seventeen years of marriage, one teenage daughter, and a relationship slowly worn thin by exhaustion and grief, you and your husband finally let each other go.

except divorce doesn’t really mean separation when there’s still school pickups, shared calendars, and a daughter determined to keep both her parents stitched into the same orbit.

almost home - when your daughter gets suspended at school, you end up in the er asking your estranged husband to talk some sense into her. (1.3k)

almost home: two - your daughter’s suspension lands you and jack in a meeting with her school principal. (2.3k)

almost home: three - when you return to work, your colleagues encourage you to move on—using a dating app you already regret downloading. (3.5k)

almost home: four - an uncomfortable conversation threatens to throw the temporary peace you and jack have built away. (3.8k)

almost home: five - months later at chase’s science fair jack finally meets daniel. and the between you and him begins to fracture. (4.4k)

almost home: six

i was really going to keep this as a one shot but it’s grown beyond that single draft so i’ll give it its own little masterlist. !! thank you all for reading so far 🫀

[peaky-void]

😭😭😭 Read this in one sitting, that's how much it got me hooked. So talented AND I NEED MOREEEEEE RN PLSSS.

[peaky-void]

A Bullseye on her back

Jack Abbot kinda.. x female reader x bullseye

Infidelity warning.

This is honestly a bullseye fic but I just added Jack to drive the plot forward lololol.. dont hate me, could be a p2 with a threesome hehe.

Summary : Feeling neglected and pushed aside by her workaholic ass boyfriend, ER doctor Jack Abbot. A lonely day-shift nurse seeks comfort in the arms of a dangerous, obsessive assassin named Bullseye, who patches up his battle wounds in her apartment and leaves a terrifying, permanent mark of ownership on her skin. ;)

Pls enjoy!

The sharp, sterile tang of antiseptic clung to the back of your throat, mingling unpleasantly with the bitter aroma of burnt coffee that had been sitting in the pot since morning. Leaning against the cold laminate of the kitchen counter in your pale blue scrubs, you rubbed at your burning eyes to press away the exhaustion of a twelve-hour shift while the microwave hummed a monotonous drone, counting down the final thirty seconds of another sad, solitary dinner.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital always gave Jack a cold, clinical edge, but lately, that edge had bled into everything else. Between his brutal night shifts and his naturally rigid disposition, Jack Abbot didn't have much left for you. You worked as a day-shift nurse at the exact same hospital, which ironically meant you passed each other like ships in the night, your lives reduced to brief crossovers in crowded hallways. When you did see him at home, he was short-tempered, dismissive, and utterly consumed by his work.

"I don't have time for this right now, Y/N," Jack had snapped just that morning, barely looking up from his tablet as he grabbed his keys. You had only tried to ask him about dinner pleading for just a single night togethcer since he had promised, faithfully for once, that he was taking this specific evening off. Instead, he had turned on you with a look of pure exasperation. "I'm on a double. Figure it out yourself. You're a nurse, you know how this place runs. Stop suffocating me."

The slamm of the door had echoed through the quiet apartment, leaving you alone, lonely, and profoundly neglected. When your phone finally shattered the midnight silence with a harsh buzz, the text offered no apology for the broken promise, just a clipped, “Got slammed. Don’t wait up.” You stared at the glowing screen before tossing it aside, a familiar bitterness settling deep into your chest. You were entirely vulnerable, exhausted by a man who treated your relationship like an unwanted shift he could simply call out of.

That silence was abruptly broken by a heavy, uneven thud echoing from the hallway, causing your head to snap up as your breath caught in your throat. A strange, dragging weight shifted against the outside of the door, followed immediately by three distinct, measured knocks that felt entirely too deliberate to be accidental. It wasn’t the familiar, hurried cadence of Jack returning home, nor was it the polite tap of a neighbour, but a slow, heavy rhythm that seemed to demand entry, leaving you frozen in the dim kitchen light as you stared at the deadbolt.

You didn't flinch anymore. Instead, your instincts took over, and you simply reached for the heavy trauma kit you kept hidden beneath the sink.

Dex or "Bullseye," as the whispers in the criminal underworld called him slid into your living room like a shadow, though tonight he was an absolute mess. His tactical suit was shredded, and a steady trail of crimson dripped from a deep, jagged gash across his ribs, painting your pristine hardwood floor. Yet, despite the sheer agony he had to be in, that unsettling, razor-sharp smirk remained firmly in place.

"Hey there, sweetface," Dex rasped, leaning his full, heavy weight against your kitchen counter. His dark eyes locked onto yours with that intense, unblinking focus that never failed to send a cold shiver down your spine. "Miss me baby?"

"You're bleeding out," you whispered, ignoring the charm and pulling him firmly toward a kitchen chair.

"Just a scratch. Met a guy with a shield who didn't appreciate my sense of humour," Dex chuckled, though he winced as he sank into the chair, peeling back the ruined fabric of his shirt to expose the raw wound.

You knelt beside him on the floor, clearing away the blood with practiced, clinically efficiency. The entire time, you could feel his eyes burning into you not tracking the movement of your hands, but watching your face with terrifying intensity.

"You always stare?" you muttered, keeping your focus glued to his side.

"You always avoid eye contact when you’re attracted to someone?"

Your hand slipped slightly against his skin, the sterile wipe catching the edge of the cut. He smirked immediately, delighted by the reaction. "There it is."

"You flirt after getting stabbed?"

"I flirt especially after getting stabbed," Dex purred, his voice dropping an octave as you threaded a suture needle. "So... where's Dr. Perfect tonight? Let me guess... saving lives? Or just ignoring yours?"

"Don't start, Dex," you muttered, but your face felt warm, and the sudden heat irritated you more than his actual flirting.

"I'm just saying," Dex teased, a wicked gleam in his eye as he leaned down closer to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "A pretty little thing like you, sitting all alone in the dark, waiting for a guy who treats you like a piece of hospital equipment. It’s tragic. He’s an asshole, Y/N.

"He's busy," you defended, though the words tasted like ash in your mouth. Instantly, Jack’s harsh words from that morning echoed through your mind: Stop suffocating me.

"He's an idiot," Dex corrected softly. Suddenly, his hand came up, his cold fingers catching your chin and tilting your head upward. His grip was just a little too tight, and al little too possessive, forcing you to look at him. "He doesn't see you. Not like I do. I see how hard you work. I see how lonely you are."

You stiffened, trying to pull back. "He’s working. He’s an ER attending, Dex. That’s what he does."

"Mhm." Bullseye’s eyes flicked over your features, reading you like a book. "And what do you do?"

"I’m literally helping you right now."

"No, dollface" he said quietly, his voice dangerously soft. "I mean besides waiting for him."

The room went completely still. You hated how accurately the blow landed, and Bullseye noticed the exact moment your defenses fractured. Of course he did, he was a predator; he always noticed the weakness.s

"You know," he continued lazily, enjoying the silence, "I’ve seen the way guys like him look at women like you."

You scoffed, trying to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. "You don’t know him."

"I know exhausted men who think everyone should revolve around their suffering," he countered, leaning back slightly but never breaking eye contact. "And I know lonely women."

"That’s not—"

"You keep defending him before I even say anything bad." His grin sharpened into something predatory and triumphant. "That’s usually a sign."

Biting your lip, you tied off the final stitch and yanked the bandage tighter than entirely necessary. Dex didn’t even flinch; he just laughed under his breath, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a dark, knowing amusement.

"There she is," he murmured, his laughter dying down into a low hum of approval as he inspected your handywork. "Perfect. You've got magic hands, my nurse."

This time, you didn't pull away. The heavy silence of the apartment, the suffocating weight of your resentment toward Jack, and the intoxicating, terrifying aura of the man sitting in front of you all collided at once. The loneliness that had been building up for months finally fractured. Slowly, deliberately, you reached up, your fingers tracing the sharp, stubbled edge of Dex's jawline.

Dex’s playful smirk faded instantly, replaced by something much darker, hungrier, and altogether predatory.

"He's a fool," Dex whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous pitch. He reached out, his gloved hand wrapping around your arm, his thumb sliding down to trace the tender inside of your wrist where your pulse was absolutely racing. "If you were mine... I’d never leave you alone. I’d make sure you knew exactly how important you are. Every single second."

The sheer contrast of Dex’s hyper-fixation against Jack’s cold neglect broke something vital inside you. You looked at Dex, broken, lethal and deathly terrifying Dex, and saw someone who actually wanted you. Someone who was entirely, completely present.

"Careful," Dex whispered, his breath hot against your lips as he leaned in, his dark eyes boring into yours. "You play with fire, you're gonna get burned."

"I don't care," you breathed.

Dex didn't hesitate. He caught your wrist and pulled you downward, lifting his own body slightly to meet you as he captured your lips in a bruising, possessive kiss. It wasn't gentle or clinical like Jack used to be; it was frantic, demanding, and utterly consuming. The heat of it swept through you like wildfire, making your blood run hot and heavy. You forgot about Jackand the hospital. You wrapped your arms around Dex's neck, deepening the kiss, letting your hands slide over his scarred, muscled shoulders. He groaned deep in his chest, his hands gripping your waist with a terrifying, vice-like strength, hoisting you up onto the edge of the kitchen counter.

Yet, even in his frenzy, he was meticulously careful. He shifted his weight, pulling you flush against his uninjured side, handling your body as if you were something precious and fragile, even while his mouth ravaged yours.

He pulled back just an inch, his lips wet and swollen, his eyes wild as he looked up at you. "Should've happened a long time ago, sweetface," he teased, a breathless, wicked chuckle escaping him as his thumbs stroked the bare skin of your thighs where your scrubs had ridden up. "All that time wasted on a ghost."

"Shut up, Dex," you gasped, your voice a desperate, needy thing as you buried your hands in his hair and dragged him back down to you.

Later, the chaos of the kitchen floor, the bloodied gauze and discarded wrappers, was left behind for the tangled sheets of your bed, but the atmosphere only grew more intense. Dex lay above you, his frame casting a long shadow, his eyes unblinking and fixed entirely on you. He was a man of lethal precision, and it was clear he wanted to leave an indelible mark.

"He's never going to look at you the same way again," Dex whispered frantically, his fingers tracing a slow, agonizing path down the dip of your bare back. His touch sent a violent shiver through your spine. "You're mine now. Ill make sure he knows it."

A mix of fear and dark thrill washed over you as he reached into his discarded gear beside the bed, retrieving something small, metallic, and deadly sharp. You whimpered, pressing your face into the pillow, but you didn't tell him to stop. With terrifying, surgical accuracy, he began to press the point into the sensitive skin on your back above your ass.

It stung, a sharp, biting pain that made your muscles tense, but Dex was right there, his lips pressing hot, grounding kisses against the nape of your neck, whispering low, possessive praises into your ear to keep you anchored in the delirium of the night. He carved his signature directly into your skin: a neat, freakish, perfectly symmetrical bullseye target, with his initials stamped right in the center.

You belonged to a monster now, but as you looked up into Dex's unhinged, adoring eyes in the dark, you knew he was the only person in the world looking at you like you were the absolute center of the universe.

AHHHHHHHH, this took me so long. I changed my writing style a bit, if it is to much let me know. I kinda went crazy trying to get synonyms to make me sound smarter. Lmao my google search bar is insane. So if its to much and sounds wierd lemme know!! But yea, hope u enjoyed it and my requests are always open!!! Can we just just act like this makes sense despite it being 2 different universes thanks!

[ladybuggirlll]

john tucker isn’t backwards hat frat boy enough for you people so i guess more for me. my man stays underrated by you ungrateful people.

[peaky-void]

I need more bullseye fics and more mateo diaz fics 😭😫 pls im literally gonna start watching off campus just because lol. Im already halfway through daredevil😫

[caseysdictionary]

the walk omfg guys im tweaking so hard over this man he literally walks like its heavy omg

[peaky-void]

I'm so sorry people have been horrible about PT 2 to star-crossed and threatening you. What the actual hell is wrong with people?!!! I'm a bit like you and prefer a difinitive ending but the open one you did was amazing, seriously, it was so good. And I've been STARVED for Abbot angst so you were doing me a massive favour, I jumped at those 2 fics when I saw them. Just wanted to send you a little positivity. X 💜

Thank you so much for this, it honestly means more than you knowwww 🥹💜😭

The negativity caught me so off guard esp since it was so backhanded lol, but messages like yours genuinely make it feel worth it. I’m really glad you enjoyed the ending even if it was a bit open, and the angst 😭 I had sososo much funn writing it!!

Your support means everything, truly. Thank you for taking the time to send this 💜