It took you some time to notice that because you, like everyone you had kissed before Dex, closed your eyes when kissing someone.
It wasn't until one time, when you opened your eyes to slowly pull away, that you noticed it. There he was, staring right back at you, with his eyes and lips on yours.
In a way, it made sense. Dex was an observant person. Only that sometimes, instead of looking for objects he could use as weapons in the case of a potential attack, he observed you. as he so often did.
Dex had learned how you liked placing candles around the kitchen after you cooked something with a strong smell. Dex had learned to read your reactions when he made breakfast. If you didn't smile a specific way, he knew the dish lacked salt, even if you told him it was perfect.
To him, watching is loving.
So naturally, he kisses you with his eyes open. He watches as you melt into him, watches how your eyelids shut tight when his hand sneaks under your shirt—that's how he learns when to touch you.
Kissing you with his eyes open also means that he can reassure himself that you're not running away. You're right there where he can see you. You can't leave him while he's watching you, can you?
Dex can only imagine what he would do if he lost sight of you.
✧ aimee's note i don't have original thoughts, and this actually was inspired by this absolutely delicious artwork.
✧ synopsis: every morning, you make breakfast for jack when he returns home from his shift. this morning, all your worries are confirmed when he shows up with a bullet wound he swears you don't have to worry about.
✧ pairings: jack abbot x wife!reader
✧ warnings: fluff, minimal angst. mentions of wounds and bullets. adjusted the timeline of s2 for this to be able to take place in the morning instead of at 1 p.m like in the original episode. reader is implied to be a biomedic (no i'm not biased) | 0.9k words
✧ aimee's notes: it's been a while since i've last written for jack, and this idea has been floating around in my mind since the first time i saw that episode. i'm still trying to get the hang of what tone to use for jack, so i'm always reluctant about my fics for him but alas.
masterlist // taglist forms // do not copy or translate my work
Home smelt like bacon, eggs, and freshly brewed coffee. Through over twenty years of marriage, you had done the same every morning. Make breakfast for Jack before you go out to work. Kiss him over coffee and pray that would be enough for him to put away whatever piece of his shift he still carried with him.
That cherished routine of yours changed when Jack volunteered as tactical EMS for the SWAT team. You would be lying if you said it didn’t worry you sick every time he was out there. He, being the man that he was, reassured you over and over again that there was nothing for you to worry about. And you, for once in your life, hoped with all of your might that you would lose that argument.
…
You scrambled eggs in a hot pan. You were happy because you had finally managed to buy those quality farm eggs that always seemed to taste better. Every once in a while you allowed yourself to leave the house later than you usually would to be able to welcome your husband when he came back from his patrol.
You knew something was wrong the minute he stepped into the house. Jack walked over to you and pressed a kiss on your head. He pulled away, then, and rested his forearm on the kitchen counter.
“Morning,” he hummed.
“Hey, hon. How was your shift?” You asked him without taking your eyes away from the pan and the eggs that had started to stick around the corners, even if the guy who had sold you the pan had sworn it was non-stick.
“Surprisingly uneventful. I’m just glad to be home.”
That was when you started to doubt. His answer had been too short. What was he not telling you? “And how about patrol? Anything happen?”
“Warehouse robbery, only they didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances.”
“Jack,” you deadpanned.
“Mhm?”
“Stop doing that. I know when you’re not telling me something.”
Jack sighed and pondered how and if to tell you at all. “Look, things got a little rough out there. There was shooting, and it was messy—”
“You’re telling me you got shot?!” You took a long stride to reach him. The eggs could burn for all you cared; the thing that mattered was your husband. You placed your hands on his arms as if trying to search for the wound.
“Shot at,” he clarified as if it would make a difference in your eyes.
“You think that makes it better? There was you and there was a bullet. That’s all I need to know.”
“It just grazed my vest; I’m alright.” His own hands moved now, resting reassuringly on your shoulders. Already took care of it.”
“Show me,” you demanded, tugging at his shirt.
Jack was about to make a joke that felt entirely inappropriate given the sheer worry on your face. Instead, he gave in, sliding his shirt off. He turned around, showing you the small piece of white cloth covering the wound.
“Oh my god, Jack! Were you ever going to tell me about this? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“Easy, easy. I was going to tell you. Later. After we had breakfast and ideally when you came home from the lab.”
“Oh, right, so you could go on your next shift and pretend like nothing happened.” You were more worried than angry, even if you did slightly want to kill him for being so calm.
“No, not like that.”
He placed his thumb on your chin and kissed you on the lips.
“You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to shut me up with kisses.” You pulled away just to emphasize your point, despite how much you would have liked to kiss him some more.
“I didn’t want you to go to work worried.”
“Well, too bad, Jack. I’m already worried.”
Suddenly the jokes were all gone. You weren’t just a pestering wife making a fuss about small concerns. Jack had fought more than his fair share, and he still chose to go out there. In spite of everything he had seen, in spite of the toll it had taken on his body, he still volunteered to be in the midst of it all because that was just who he was.
He pulled you closer into an embrace, arms tightly wrapped around you as you pressed up against his chest. “I’ll let you know next time, I promise. I’m okay now, really. I just need to sleep.”
You nodded, fighting the urge to tear up at the thought of anything happening to him. “Just be very fucking careful, alright?”
You didn’t have to say anything else. Jack knew. He knew exactly what you feared. He knew what seeing him dressed in military colors made you feel, and he also knew you understood why he still did it. You had been married for long enough for that to become a mutual understanding.
“I’m always careful,” your husband whispered in an overly confident tone that told you he was exhausted and still trying to be funny.
You kissed him once and then twice before pulling away. “Call me, alright? I don’t care if you think I’m busy. That’s the good thing about being head of lab—I can just say ‘it’s important’ and pick up.”
“Okay. I’ll call.”
With one more kiss, you got your bag and you walked out the door. You knew he wouldn’t call. He would let you do your job and say he had fallen asleep when you asked why he hadn’t called. And, surprisingly enough, you were okay with that now.
dean di laurentis x retired figure skater!reader. 1k words, fluff. dean di laurentis was being serious about a girl for the first time in his life. the final stage of his plan was taking you ice-skating, where you would fall for him—for good.
"What do you mean?" was the first thing Dean asked after hearing your resounding 'no' to his proposal.
"If it's 'cause you're scared of slipping, then I gotcha. You won't fall—and that's a personal promise."
Of course you wouldn't fall. It was skating, for fuck's sake. If there was one thing you knew how to do, it was that. Only he didn't know that; nobody at Briar really did.
You used to skate when you were younger. A lot. Afternoon after afternoon on the ice. Routines that would forever be engraved into your brain. You were good; you were really good. Future star potential. The problem is that stars don't shine forever.
"I just think we could find something better to do, that's all." You replied, holding two books that felt heavier with each passing second.
He paused. Were you blowing him off? He sure as hell hoped you weren't. Dean Di Laurentis had never been serious about a girl, not until you showed up.
And there you were, coming up with vague excuses about why going out skating was a terrible idea. An ice-skating date was the culmination of Dean's attempts at making sure you knew that he was absolutely serious about this. In his mind, you would cling to him, deathly afraid of slipping. He would smoothly place his hand on your waist and guide you through the ice. You would fall hopelessly for him and, if everything went according to his plan, go home with him.
"You think it's cheesy, don't you?" He opened his arms in defeat. "I thought you liked cheesy—you mentioned all those romcoms that you had watched."
This poor boy was at his wits end. A big golden retriever who had no clue what he had done wrong. His brows were creased, and God, you wanted to kiss that small frown off him.
"Fine, fine," you sighed. "We'll go skating on Saturday."
Dean instantly perked up, pulling you by the arm and kissing you on the head. "You won't regret it!"
Now you had to figure out just how you were going to pretend that you had no clue how to skate. Or tell your kind-of-sort-of-almost-boyfriend that you were, in fact, a retired figure skater.
—
Dean's car pulled up to your driveway that afternoon. You hadn't yet opened the door to the car, but you could already sense the smugness radiating off him. All golden retriever blond hair with those sunglasses he insisted on wearing whenever he didn't want to be seen because, to him, they were the epitome of subtle.
"Are you absolutely ready for the best afternoon of your life?" He had one hand on the steering wheel and all the excitement in the world.
"Hi to you, too, Dean." You laughed, fastening your seatbelt.
"Hello, princess."
"Careful with the nicknames, Di Laurentis. We're not there yet."
"Aren't we?" He turned his head towards you. "That's not what you said two nights ago when—"
"Okay, okay", you shut him up, almost flustered.
The ice skating rink was more than busy. Winter and the upcoming holiday season had everyone feeling a little more than festive. It was couples and families, all skating messy circles.
Dean stepped in first, offering his hand out for you. You pretended to hesitate. You looked at the ice and then looked at him back again. You took his hand, warm and steady. "You good?"He asked.
"Yeah. I'm alright." You replied with your best nervous smile.
Dean moved, taking two steps backwards and pulling you along with him. He slid once, and he slid twice. It was a slow rhythm. "You're doing good."
"Thank you," you gripped his hand a little tighter, just to sell your story. He squeezed it in return.
Somewhere along the second lap, he started to tease you. You laughed and you teased him back the way you always did. You shoved him in the chest, and he didn't move an inch but still pretended to be fatally wounded.
At some point, you stopped pretending that you had no idea what you were doing. It had been years since you had last been on ice, but it did not feel like a second had passed. It was easy and calming. You let go of Dean's hand and even tried to go faster than him once and then twice.
By the third time you did it, he stopped on the spot. He squinted his eyes at you and didn't say anything for at least twenty seconds. "You are a liar."
"What?"
"You know how to skate!" Dean pointed out, almost proud of himself for the big discovery. "Who taught you? Please don't tell me it's an ex I've got to worry about."
You sighed and bit your lip. The laugh was wiped off Dean's face when he noticed how serious you looked. He inched closer and placed a hand on your waist, tracing shapes with his thumb. "What's up?"
"Will you promise not to hate me? There's something I haven't told you…"
He nodded his head, prompting you to continue.
"I used to be a figure skater. I quit before college. I don't like telling people because they start asking questions I don't want to answer. The important part is that I quit."
Dean stared at you with wide green eyes for a beat before bursting in laughter. "Jesus—you almost had me believing you'd done something bad—" He chuckled a few moments longer before quieting down and asking you, "Why didn't you tell me? I would've picked a different thing to do." He gestured to the rink around you.
You shrugged. "It's fine, Dean, this was a sweet idea."
"You were supposed to fall, and I was supposed to catch you." He complained, sagging his shoulders as if he were disappointed.
"In your dreams, Di Laurentis." You smirked, pulling away slowly but surely.
"Is that a race? Are you seriously going to try me?"
"Catch me, then," you said before skating off. He smiled to himself—this just made things even better.
masterlist // taglist forms // previous part // do not copy or translate my work.
pairings: benjamin poindexter x female!reader
tags: husband!dex and wife!reader. set after dex breaks out of jail. reunions. | WC: 1.2k
warnings: mentions of killing. it's dex, so it's his usual mental issues. canon inaccuracies. dex's missing tooth.
synopsis: after months away, your husband shows up at your house at night. unbeknownst to you, dex had broken out of jail and attempted to kill wilson fisk. either way, dex fought his way back to you, and you would be a fool not to welcome him with open arms.
a/n: you guys loved part one and I'm so incredibly grateful about that. I have a third fic in the works for this same pairing that is set when matt rescues dex and takes him to the safehouse in DDBA s2.
“I told you to lock the windows at night.”
Just like that, Dex was standing in your living room. He wore a dark blue suit, and he had pulled the mask off. It had all kinds of weapons attached to it, and you chose not to wonder about its origin yet.
His hair looked a mess, thin blond strands sticking out in all directions. His breath came out in short puffs with clear adrenaline that was still in his system.
He stared at you, and you stared back. Your husband, who was supposed to be in jail for life, was standing right in front of you, complaining about open windows as if breaking out of prison was a minor detail.
Jail was never going to be a permanent place for Dex. He was too erratic to be confined between walls and guards. He had played his part: he had behaved to the most of his ability, and when Matt Murdock had come to visit him, he willingly accepted all the punches, knowing it was part of his path to freedom.
“Well, hello to you, too Dex…” Your voice was unstable. It shook with the joy of having him back and the fear of what he had done to get there.
Dex took two long strides until he was facing you directly. He smirked in that knowing way of his, where the corner of his mouth would turn up and the scar along his cheek move right with it.
You didn’t have to do anything else before he was kissing you. His hands cupped your face, and he yanked you closer. He kissed with everything that had been left pent-up after his time away. He kissed you to make up for those jail visits where all you could do was sit in front of him and talk.
It was consuming and obsessive like he always was when his head got too loud. Your lips on his, your skin on his, were his last desperate attempt at getting his mind back. He pulled you closer and almost forgot that breathing was a thing until you gently pushed him away by the chest.
“I need some air, baby,” you clarified the second you were able to, knowing that if you didn’t, it would send him to an instant spiral.
“I’m sorry,” he replied.
He kissed you again, gentler this time. Slowly but surely, the muscle memory came back to him. He remembered that carefulness that you had taught him and that he had tried so hard to learn.
“Dex,” you said when you finally pulled away from the kiss. “I love that you’re here; I really do.”
“There’s a ‘but’ coming.” Dex’s mood deflated, and you had to once again place your hand on his chest to let him know you were there.
“Tell me so we can get this over with. What happened?”
“You’re asking as if you were accusing me of killing someone.”
With all the fondness of your heart, you gave him a deadpan look. You knew your husband very well—murderer side and all.
“I didn’t —or at least not who I was aiming for. Matthew Murdock got in the way.”
You sighed and started tracing figures with your hand over his skin. “If I turn the news on, what will I see?”
Dex sighed and dropped his head to your shoulder. His mouth pressed against the cotton of your shirt, and he shut his eyes tight. After that, he securely wrapped his arms around your waist. “I had to. I still have to,” he murmured against you.
You moved to hold the back of his head, running your fingers through the hairs at the nape of his neck. Nobody knew what truly went on inside Dex’s mind. Most of the times, he didn’t even know himself.
The one thing he was certain of is that he would kill his way to you if he had to. He wanted his mind back and he wanted his wife back.
“Alright, hun, we’ll deal with that in the morning. Are you hungry? Should we cook some dinner?”
Dex breathed in and kissed you right on the shoulder before he pulled away whilst still keeping his hands around you. “Sure.”
Dinner was quick. Dex had always been a very efficient and clean cook. He only chopped precisely the amount of vegetables needed, and he washed everything right after he used it. He asked you if you still made sure to cut vegetables and raw meat on separate boards, and you laughed when you told him yes. Some of Dex’s neat and structured little habits had stuck with you.
You sat down to eat and chatted as if you had just returned from work after a normal day. You told him about Nancy, the new co-worker who had brought cookies from her mother’s shop, and how the toilet had started leaking that same morning.
Dex didn’t tell you much in return, and you chose not to ask, not even when you noticed how he struggled to adjust to eating with a missing tooth. A heavy conversation was in order, but you would leave that for later. In the meantime, you would hide your husband in your apartment for as long as you had to.
When you got ready for bed, Dex sat back and just watched you. He was there, in his boxers and light shirt, admiring the domesticity he had so greatly missed. You brushed your teeth and placed your toothbrush next to his. You took a clean pair of pyjamas from your drawer, which was also next to his.
Everything in the house had remained the same. Never once had it crossed your mind to put away anything that belonged to him. The apartment looked exactly like the apartment of any other married couple would. You had a few framed pictures on the walls, and his headphones and CD player were still resting on his nightstand the way he had placed them the last night he had spent with you.
You laid down in bed and he followed suit. He placed his head on your upper chest, and you pulled the covers over both your frames. It was usually the other way around: he would be the one holding you, but in that moment, being held and being loved was just what he needed.
You turned the lights off, and he closed his eyes. He could feel the way his own head moved as your chest rose and fell with your breathing; he could feel the way your index finger traced a path from his hair to his ear.
And as blissful as the moment was, there was something that still bothered him. The scales were still uneven. He still needed a good deed, something to make up for Foggy’s death. He needed to prove to you that he was a good man. That price could only be paid in blood. Vanessa Fisk’s blood.
Tonight, he would allow himself to have this, though.
masterlist // taglist forms // do not copy or translate my work. // next part
Pairings: Benjamin Poindexter x wife!reader.
Tags: Fluff with some angst. Husband!Dex. | WC: 1.6k words.
Warnings: canon inaccuracies. Violence and mentions of death. Stalking, kind of. Little mentions of blood. Mental health issues. A surprise by the end.
Synopsis: After months in solitary confinement, Dex is finally released to the general population. The reasons for it are unknown. But you've missed your husband too much to question the implications. In other words, visiting your husband in jail.
A/N: This idea has been in my mind for a while, and then Olivia released her amazing album. Safe to say, I have a dozen songs that remind me of Dex now.
Benjamin Poindexter had nothing to say when he was sentenced to jail for the murder of Franklin “Foggy” Nelson. He was guilty, and there was no denying that.
For reasons unknown to you, he had been released to the general population. It made you feel queasy. It could mean nothing good.
You allowed yourself to hope, anyway. You turned a blind eye on all the implications of his transfer. Did the Fisks need him to do their dirty work again? Truth be told, you didn’t want that question answered. You only wanted to see your husband.
They made you sign a billion different forms, asking all sorts of questions. You pushed through because only God knows what can happen when Dex spends a little too long locked away from you.
You dressed nicely; you went through the pictures on your phone of your first dates and tried to recreate all of it. The hair, the exact shade of lipstick, and that same blouse with that same necklace. For once in a couple of months, your husband deserved a pretty sight.
“You have twenty minutes,” the guard outside of the room gruffly stated. Then, he pushed the door open.
Dex sat on a chair with his hands cuffed to the table. They were covered completely, allowing for no movement whatsoever. Everyone knew what your husband was capable of if he had any object at all on his hands. The measure was only understandable, no matter how much it pained you.
He sat almost confidently with his shoulders slumped forward. His hair fell over his face, light and straight as ever.
And just in that moment, as you assessed your husband with your eyes, you noticed it.
Jesus Christ.
His shoulders were broad, making him look much bigger than the last time you had seen him. And his arms — God, his arms — they made the orange shirt look much smaller than it actually was.
You bit your tongue and you laughed as if he were a handsome stranger whom you had just met and not the man who was able to read you like his favourite book.
“I see they finally let you come, hmm?”
“Dex.” You dropped to your own seat, almost in awe.
There was no explaining just how you had managed to fall so in love with a man like him. A cold-blooded sociopathic killer with a mild tendency to stalking. People feared him for having no mercy. An FBI agent turned murderer.
They all had very fair reasons to fear this husband of yours. After all, they didn’t know what he was like when he had a North Star. He played music with an old DVD player that he refused to let go of. Always Billy Joel and The Smiths in the mornings. He made you breakfast before work, and he always made sure that the dishes were clean.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he greeted. Dex was calm—calmer than he had been in a very long time. Having you in his presence again quieted every demon that screamed into his ears. He was with you again, for as long as the guards outside would allow him.
Dex was trying really hard to behave in prison. Listen to the guards, play nice when he gets psychological evaluations, and most importantly, do not kill anyone—a truly tragic existence. But he had to comply if he wanted to keep being allowed to receive you as a visitor.
You reached as far as your body allowed you to. You could not hold his hand, and that broke your heart. Instead, you reached out further, hugging his wrist with your fingers. For a moment there, he softened. His gaze dropped. He stopped analysing all the potential exits and all the potential hazards. Stopped keeping an eye on the guard outside the room in case he decided to try anything with you.
“That looks uncomfortable.” He nodded in your direction, alluding to the position you had to put yourself in to be able to touch him.
“It’s worth it, Dex. I promise.”
He nodded. It better be. It was bad enough to be tied down to the table like a child uncapable of self-control.
“How’s everything?” Dex asked, breaking the silence that had dared build between you.
You slumped back in your seat, and he grieved the loss of contact for a brief moment. “It’s not easy. I miss you most days.” You didn’t tell him all of it.
Not a lot of people knew you were married to Dex. After all, not a lot of time had gone between the moment in which you met him and the day you said yes to his proposal. Even so, you had received nothing short of odd looks after Dex’s sentence. Your husband was in jail for murdering a defenceless lawyer who was just doing his job. Your husband had helped Wilson Fisk corrupt the FBI. Your husband had killed a fellow agent, one with a family waiting for him. Your husband had worn a fake suit to kill dozens of civilians.
How could you ever marry such a monster?
They didn’t know Dex, and that perhaps had always been his greatest doom. Time and again, he had been judged and punished instead of listened to. Dex needed structure to function. The FBI had given him that; you had given him that. When his job was threatened, his whole footing tumbled.
Then, he was placed in solitary confinement. Despite your efforts, nobody had cared. Being alone was the last thing Dex needed. You felt helpless knowing that he had been locked away with all the right conditions for him to destroy himself.
And as much as you tried to hide all of this anguish from him, Benjamin Poindexter knew how to read all of your signs. Words he had a hard time empathising with, but actions he could understand immediately. He knew something was off but couldn’t exactly name it.
“You’re lying,” he spoke plainly.
“I’m not lying. I did miss you.” You bit back in defence. Was he actually doubting how lonely you had felt?
Dex flinched and shook his head. The words hadn’t come off the way he had wanted them to. “I’m not saying that you didn’t miss me. But you’re not telling me everything.”
“That’s not the same as lying.”
“It is to me.”
You wanted to get angry, you really did. But this was hardly the time to argue over what made a lie. In Dex’s world, pointing out how you were hiding things from him was how he showed true concern.
You sighed and covered your face with your hands. “Want the truth, Dex?! It’s terrible. I’m trying, I really am trying, but it’s so hard. I miss you, and everybody thinks I’m crazy for still being married to you.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, the one with the scar; it somehow felt more satisfying on that side. This was not how things were supposed to be. He was supposed to kill Foggy Nelson and get his mind back. He was supposed to come home to you. Instead, they locked him in jail. Away from you.
Your breathing was heavy. A side of you felt almost ashamed to burden him with your troubles—as if there were anything he could do about them.
“What should I do?” He asked, almost as if he were expecting a killing order.
“A hug and kiss would be nice. But we can’t really do anything about that either, can we?” You chuckled sadly as you held back tears, nodding your head towards his restraints.
“Don’t worry about that.” The tone shifted away from that careful empathy he tried his hardest to build for you. It turned calculated and arrogant. “I’ll have that dealt with soon enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart.”
An eerie sense of calm settled on your chest after that. The remaining twenty minutes of the meeting went by like a breeze. You told Dex about the new tea shop you had been enjoying recently and how nice the new carpet looked in your living room.
You returned to an empty home like you had done so many times before. You cooked dinner for one, showered alone, and went to bed with nobody but Dex’s pillow beside you. You woke up alone the next morning. You cooked breakfast by yourself and even considered cooking your eggs the way he liked to do it.
Another two months went by like that.
One afternoon, you were sitting on the couch. Normally, the TV would be turned on, but that night, you had decided to relieve yourself from the incessant tragedies of New York City. You were trying to sew back one of the buttons of your favourite cardigan. Your knees were close to your chest as you rested the cardigan over your legs.
You threaded the needle through the first hole of the button, then the second, and just when you were about to do the third, you pinched yourself. Fourth time already. You took your injured finger to your mouth and decided it was enough for the night. You could always take the cardigan to a tailor.
You walked towards the kitchen to rinse the small droplet of blood from your fingertip, and just as you were moving, you saw something pass through the window. Your head whipped to the side as your heart took a frightened little jump.
The window that led to the fire escape creaked, and before you knew it, Benjamin Poindexter was standing in your living room. “I told you to lock the windows at night.”
benjamin poindexter whose phone storage is 60% voicemail. and not just voice notes from anyone—voice notes coming from you. every voice note you have ever sent him, actually.
he listens them on repeat. ever since burning his old therapy tapes, he needed something else to fill that role, something else to soothe the noise in his head.
you're out, working like any other normal person would. he's at home because bullseye can't exactly roam the streets normally anymore. if he's not plotting his next scheme to kill anti-vigilante task force agents or in your company, he spirals.
which means that all that's left for him to do is to sit back on the couch, grab his phone and his headphones, and listen to your voice. it's never something grand, it's usually just things like
"hey, i'm at the store. what kind of bread did you say you wanted again?"
or "i'll be home by seven, my boss kept me working on something for entirely too long. i'll tell you about it when i get home. love you."
those are his favourites. how easily you seem to admit loving him, a man who killed people for a living and who had known your favourite restaurant and your coffee order before you had even told him.
they never fail to put his busy mind at ease. benjamin poindexter believes every word you say; and if you swear you are coming back home at seven, then all he has to do is anxiously count down the minutes until he gets to see you again.
Masterlist – I do not consent to my work being reuploaded, translated or fed into AI. Click here to be added to my tag list.
Tags: fluff, comfort when reader gets injured. Part two
Warnings: possible grammar and spelling mistakes. Injuries. Inaccurate description of medical procedures.
Synopsis: Your date plans with the handsome doctor Jack Abbot are ruined when you get injured due to some careless driver. A visit to the ER later, you realise that there is a lot that Jack is willing to do to stay with you.
A/N: I would very much like to credit @illumoria for giving me the idea for this fic. This is my first time writing for him, so bear with me.
You had to bite your tongue every time Jack spoke. His tone was smooth and rich from the speaker of your cell phone. You hadn't been on a date in too long. All you could remember were failed situationships with guys who were too much in their own head to even text back.
Lucky for you, one Dr Jack Abbot had snuck his way into your life after a run-in at the local coffee shop. You were just getting your day started, and he was finishing his. He looked exhausted but was kind when you bumped into him nevertheless. Sleeplessness and stress had never looked this good.
Through some excuse you could no longer recall, you exchanged numbers. And although your schedules were out of phase, you made it work. After a few back-and-forth messages and calls, Jack had decided to make things official. He had asked you out on a date.
"How's the Pitt?" You asked him, plopping down into your bed. A meaningless question, really. All you wanted was to spark a conversation.
"Same old, same old. Lucky for me, I have something to look forward to this time," he replied.
"Oh, yeah?" You chuckled. "And what might that be?"
"Just, you know, a date. With a lovely girl who was too focused on getting her coffee to notice the man standing right in front of her."
Blessed be the screen that hid the way your face reddened when he teased you. "Don't hold that over my head forever. It was too early in the morning."
"Sure. If you say so."
A beat of silence took over while you tried to scramble a way to tease him back, to keep it going. Unfortunately, reality kicked in when Jack spoke next.
"Look, my break's about to be over. I'll call you when I get off, and I'll pick you up at eight like we talked about, alright?"
"Gee, eight in the morning. You really are making me work for it." Then you laughed, showing that your words meant no harm. "I'll see you, doctor. Look nice for me."
"Will do. You take care, yeah?"
"I will."
Then he hung up. You let your head fall against the pillow, burying your face against the fabric. Eight in the morning better come quick. When you turned your head away from the pillow, you caught a glimpse of your dress. The one you were planning to wear for your date. The one you still had to fix.
It didn't quite fit you the way you wanted, and you had been too busy throughout the day to be able to run to the store and get the pins you needed. The stores were about to close, meaning you had to rush.
You grabbed your car keys and a coat, leaving your apartment in a rush. Typically, the corner store two streets left of yours would remain open longer than most. If you were lucky enough, you might still catch it.
The streets were busy; everybody was trying to get home. Perhaps you should have been more careful. You had a date the next day; you could hardly allow for anything to happen to you. You walked, steps a little too quick, shoes clinking against the floor.
Then you saw it: the store was still open. All you had to do was cross the street. You looked both ways and put one foot in front of the other, crossing halfway across the street until—
A car. By not stopping properly, it had bumped into you. Not enough to cause any terminal damage, but enough to make you lose your balance and gasp in pain when your leg gave out. You hit the concrete floor with more strength than you had intended to. Your hand rested over your knee, as if your touch alone could make the pain go away.
"Fuck—" you cursed, trying to stand up but failing to do so.
The man who was inside the car walked over to you, hands resting on his head. "Shit, I'm sorry."
You gave him an indignant scoff but accepted his help to get up nonetheless. People were starting to stop and stare, and the traffic of the street had completely paused.
"Let me drive you to the ER, yeah? That's the least I can do."
*Oh no,* Jack. Absolutely not. "I'm fine—I'll walk home. There's no need."
"Walk home? Ma'am, you can't even stand up. Let me drive you, please. Whether you go in or leave, it's up to you."
You sighed out and reluctantly accepted. The silence was awkward, but the drive was short. Before you could finish pondering what you were to do, the car had arrived right at PTMC.
"Thank you for the drive." You muttered while making your way to the nearest wall. You rested all of your tired bodyweight against it. What a way to ruin things. You had a date planned with a super handsome man who was just inside that building. You did not want to make him worry or give him any sign that your date may cancel.
But your knee was looking more and more swollen by the second. Maybe you could slip inside the ER and avoid him. There must surely be much more pressing matters for him to attend to. Someone with their life at risk. No way they would send Jack Abbot to take care of a little injury, right?
Wrong.
After waiting for what likely felt longer than it actually was, your name was called. With the help of some of the nurses, you made your way to one of the triage beds, where you rested until a doctor arrived. Too bad it was not just any doctor.
The curtain of the booth was swung open, and he walked in with the usual. "Hello, I'm Dr Abbot—" That was when his face went blank.
In one stride, he was next to you. "What happened?"
You pressed your eyes close in embarrassment before looking up at him, almost as if you expected to be scolded. "I was walking to the store, and then some speeding car came and… bumped into me."
"You got hit by a car." He prompted, one hand on his hip.
"That's one way to put it," you shrugged. "Either way, I'm fine, Jack. I just hurt my knee. I'm sure there's someone else who needs way more attention than I do."
He shook his head. "Show me your knee."
You reluctantly rolled up your trousers, looking away from his face. With gloved hands, he pressed his fingers around the edges of the skin. "You'll need to have your knee scanned, and I'll also send in for a CT scan. Just to be sure."
"Alright, thank you."
Jack smiled and nodded. "Of course. I'll be back as soon as I can."
You did not have the courage to say anything else. Maybe you would have liked to apologise. For being a burden and ruining the date. Maybe you would have liked to ask him to stay and maybe even give him a kiss. All you could do was wait.
—
The few hours that followed were spent between the waiting room and various spots at the hospital. A few scans and a visit to the traumatologist later, you sat with a brace on your knee and a bandage on your hand, waiting to be discharged.
You drank the last few droplets of the apple juice the hospital had offered you, wanting nothing more than to go home already. To curl under your covers and hide away from the embarrassment the situation had brought you.
Instead, Jack stepped in once again. He was smiling gently, like he always did. "You're good to go. Thanks for the visit."
You tried to laugh. "Ha. Couldn't wait for the date, so I just busted my knee."
Jack could sense the joke wasn't genuine. He walked closer, leaning against the cot you were sitting on. "Look, you need to rest that leg, so maybe going out tomorrow isn't the best idea."
Your heart dropped to your stomach. "N-no, you're right."
Right before your heart could break more, he spoke again. "But that doesn't mean we have to cancel. If it's not too forward, I can go to yours. Still a breakfast date, just inside your house."
Your head shot up, eyes meeting his. "I would love that."
Pairings: bucky barnes x reader. Bucky x wife!reader. Bucky x fem!reader.
Tags: husband bucky. Fluff & comfort. Secret marriage. New Avengers!bucky. Thunderbolts spoilers. You guys LOVED part one, so here is part two. Thank you so much for the support.
Synopsis: The secret's out; Bucky Barnes is married. After allowing the Thunderbolts in his own home, they all learn to fall in love with the same woman as him. Featuring our favourite white kitten.
Warnings: possible grammar and spelling mistakes. Not proofread. No use of y/n. Worse than my usual work, something quick & written w my phone.
I do not consent for my work to be uploaded onto other platforms or translated. Reblog to support.
The Thunderbolts sat now completely patched up and clean. The only thing missing was a warm plate of food—which certainly was on its way. The house was filled with the delicious aroma of a sizzling pot of vegetables. You moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, humming to yourself as you cut down some carrots and stirred the soup.
Bucky watched with a tired smile, the corner of his lips pulling upwards. He’d seen you do this a hundred times before, and it never got old. Something about the domesticity of the situation made his heart flutter.
“That actually does smell good,” for the first time in the last couple of hours, Ava smiled—along with the rest of the team. Never in their lives had they seen Bucky’s eyebrows hang so loosely, with no worry whatsoever. And to even push their amazement further, Alpine decided to make yet another appearance.
She meowed softly as she rubbed her head against Bucky’s hand, which lazily hung from the couch. “Hey, Alp,” his hand moved to acknowledge the small animal, brushing his fingers against her tiny nose bridge. She watched with curious, distrusting eyes, curling against the soldier’s arm as if her tiny body would have been able to shield him from the strangers.
Alpine Barnes was very clearly her father’s daughter—that was what you had said. Everyone else outside your home—minus a few other people like Sam—were met with a loud hiss and a distasteful look. He scooped the cat into his arms, gently placing her on his chest and allowing her to curl up against his neck.
The little white cat missed him when he wasn’t home—whenever he was sent on a mission that lasted longer than a day, she’d start to grow particularly adamant about scratching the couch and chewing on Bucky’s shoes.
Bucky had found Alpine some years ago, right when he was coming home after the whole Flagsmashers ordeal. He had found her scrounging for food in some dark street in Brooklyn, completely drenched, probably cold, and definitely scared.
Something in the wary blue eyes of the tiny animal spoke directly to him. Without thinking twice, he picked her up, and embraced her with the warmth of his leather jacket, her head sticking out from inside.
“So you have a wife, and you have a cat?” John inquired, breaking the silence, to what Bucky just shrugged. “Just don’t try to pet her—unless you want your burrito shield scratched, that is.” A collective snicker was heard across the room, making you raise your gaze away from your vegetables. “Hey, I got a new one, a better one this time!” He retorted, in an almost offended tone.
“James, be nice. What kind of team dynamics are these?” You half-scolded your husband, earning an amused huff in return. “Very interesting ones, definitely,” Yelena replied, eyes watching over Alpine’s tail movement as Bucky ran his vibranium fingers through her hair.
“Well, I tried to help us all become friends. Gain team unity and everything. But Mr. Soldier doesn’t want to attend our boding sessions,” Alexei sounded almost outraged at Bucky’s refusal to attend his very dear meetings. You shot Bucky a glare, silently questioning his distaste towards Alexei’s wholehearted intentions of forming an actual emotional team.
“Don’t worry, him and I—we’ll have a chat about his team appreciation.” You reassured, your voice just sharp enough, the sound of the kitchen knife against the plastic board punctuating your words. “Sweetheart—” Bucky tried to intervene, raising one arm in your direction. “No, James, they all seem so nice. So far, very good guests, none of them dripped blood over my new carpet.”
That was, yet again, a strange thing to witness for the Thunderbolts. Bucky was completely at his wife’s mercy. How could he not be, though? After Steve left, Bucky thought he was meant to ‘make amends’ and walk alone forever.
Until you walked in and swept him entirely off his feet. He was not expecting it, and he sure as hell wasn’t prepared for it. But you had, and he was immensely grateful for it.
You held his metal hand as if it was nothing to be afraid of, and every time he made a self-deprecating joke, you laughed alongside him instead of scolding and lecturing him about ‘how much he was truly worth’. Love hadn’t been on the table for him, at least not since the 1940s. There was something about his old-fashioned charm that lured you in.
This could be seen all over your house, since most of your furniture consisted of old, second hand items from the past century. One of the first things you had done, upon beginning to date Bucky, was introducing him to thrift stores. Naturally, when you got married, you went out of your way to find 40s items to decorate the house—to make him feel at home, too.
“Okay, dinner’s almost done!” You exclaimed with a smile, approaching the group once more. They all cheered, now that the adrenaline had worn off, and that they were completely healed, hunger was truly starting to make itself present.
ou sat on the armrest of the couch Bucky was manspreading on, his hand moving to the small of your back, keeping you in place and brushing comforting circles with his thumb. “You’re surprisingly normal,” Ava smiled appreciatively. “Uhm, what?” You questioned, brow raised in confusion.
“No, no, it’s good, we just figured that if Bucky was ever to date someone it would be—I don’t know—someone brooding and dark like him,” John shrugged trying to defend his point of view. That last part was true; you were the complete opposite of your husband. You owned a flower shop, and you baked, you greeted everyone with the most radiating of smiles, and never once treated a customer rudely.
“I think we might have to steal you away one day, have some girl talk.” Yelena suggested, Bucky shooting daggers in her direction. “You’re not—” he couldn’t even finish his sentence before you eagerly agreed, “that sounds fun.”
You placed a hand on his bicep, a gentle touch of reassurance; you were not going to disappear on him just because you became friends with his team. You were there, for him, always, and that alone allowed him to breathe.
From the kitchen area, your phone rang, signalling the soup was ready to be served. You hurriedly stood up, taking long, quick strides to your usual spot. “Alright, you five, hope this is good enough for your New Avenger taste buds or whatever.”
The first once to receive a bowl was Bucky, who blissfully took spoonfuls of the liquid, loving nothing more than his wife's cooking. The rest followed along, instantly amazed and grateful for the warm, homemade meal. “Told you she was good,” said your husband proudly, a smirk on his face as he stood up to place a peck to your temple.
“The food is wonderful, and she is incredibly nice,” Yelena added, a smile slipping through the clear exhaustion. In just a matter of forty-five minutes, an entire team of ex-criminals and mercenaries had warmed up to you, the same way as Bucky once had. Nobody resisted the appeal.
“Maybe we should even bring Bob to meet Mrs. secret wife here one of these days.”
