#......it's been a long week......i apologize | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

haztory · 1 day ago

Text

bias.

— jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (reader is late 20s, jack is mid-40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, character harassment (from an original male character), mentions of grief, mentions of jack's late wife, mentions of racism against staff, sexual content (mild), mentions of death, protective jack abbot, medical inaccuracies, mentions of needles, these two taking care of each other without realizing, ohio slander (srry!)

— word count: 11k

— summary: A week on the floor with Dr. Jack Abbot. Or: The multiple shifts in which Dr. Abbot's bias towards you shows.

SHIFT ONE, Sun-Mon, 4:15 AM:

“Did you tell Reno you were going to shove your foot up his ass?”

You pause your charting at the rolling cart outside of North 12 and look over your shoulder.

Jack stands behind you, arms crossed, with a raised brow and his lips pulled thin. Not sternly— you're familiar with what that looks like, have been on the receiving end of that a few times. This is a tempered concern, one he pushes down lest he get too involved.

“Yep.” You answer, simply. You return to your charting, fingers clacking loudly on the keyboard as the truth buoys in the air.

He huffs a breath, heavy. An attempt to roll out the strife that comes with the burden of being an attending. “You trying to make my Monday shitty?”

“Trying to keep you on your toes, old man.” You return.

He steps in beside you, leaning his good shoulder against the wall as he faces you. He keeps his gaze beyond you, scanning the movements of the ER.

“You wanna tell me why?”

“I don’t think you want to know.”

“I don’t.” He agrees.

“So, why are you asking?”

“Morbid curiosity.” He admits, dryly. Hazel eyes fall to you, swimming with a suppressed amusement that only a poet could accurately describe. “And he wants me to write you up.”

A sigh escaped your mouth, heavy and inconvenienced. You turn to him. “He told Anna Maria to spend less time speaking ‘her language’ and more time speaking ‘ours’ so she could fulfill his orders.”

His lips flick downward, heat infusing with the twitch. “You see it?”

“No. Caught her in the stairwell crying and she told me. Apparently, he’s been picking at her all night. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t the first one he said this to. So, I told him if I ever see him speaking like that to one of my nurses I’d take him to the parking lot and shove my foot up his ass.”

Jack nods. It’s weighty and slow as he digests your words, but there is otherwise no conflict on his face. The heat from before extinguishing. No shade change, no visible opinion. Resolute, resound, completely normal, when he says, without much effect, “Okay.”

The typical smart quip dry remark remains nowhere to be found.

He steps away from you and walks the short distance to the front desk and settles behind it. You watch him quietly, clueless as he grabs a post-it note from behind the desk and a pen from the cupholder and begins writing something. Completely unable to read the man.

“Okay?” You probe, drawing closer to him.

“I believe you.” He says.

A beat passes, filled with the low hum of the moving ER and the faint sound of his pen scratching on the paper. He puts the pen back into the cup holder then folds the paper up, tucking it into the breast pocket of his scrubs. It’s a simple thing yet the charged silence makes it feel like a great epic.

The fated paper written on account of your words. His face makes no betrayal of its contents. Even in your own obvious glance down to the paper then to his eyes, he makes no movement to provide clarity.

“I’m not apologizing.” You say after a minute.

“I didn’t ask you to.” Jack tilts his head to the side. “Would’ve done the same damn thing.”

Silence stretches, long and heavy as your eyes hold on his.

“I don’t like him.” You explain, as if that could help anything. Jack nods and this time you understand it to be one of agreement.

There’s no doubt of the new transfer’s value as a knowledgeable doctor, just as there is no doubt that PTMC needs another night shift doctor on the rotations. But within those resounding truths comes another of equal importance.

Dr. Maxwell Reno, the new fellow on the floor transferred from Cleveland three months ago, is a dick.

“Neither do I. But I don’t like anybody.” A flicker of understanding sparks in his eyes. “I’d pay good money to see you take him in the parking lot, though.”

A smile finally breaks onto your face. “Give me Friday off and I’ll do it right here.”

“Yeah, and get stuck with paperwork? Try again, city girl.”

“Worth a shot.” You shrug and he shakes his head. Only a slight downturned smile gracing his face..

A steadied quiet fills the space. The ER only slightly awake tonight with the small troubles. A young boy who had fallen off his bunk bed, a teenager on fluids from a stress induced migraine, and some other small plights that have trickled onto the floor. It’s hardly ever like this, the forbidden “quiet”. Usually a storm falls in shortly after but tonight, the quiet has been just that. Quiet.

There’s a slight wariness in everyone, the other shoe dangling from the ceiling that everyone keeps glancing to. Waiting for it to teeter, maybe even thud violently against the floor. And yet, nothing. For once, it’s a nice thing to wade into, because it leads to moments like this. Pleasant exchanges and generous smiles from the man usually averse to those.

“I can tell Anna Maria to come talk to you.” You supply, only to make his life easier.

He shrugs, considering it. “Sure, only if she wants to. But you handled it. Should be fine.”

“You gonna do it?”

“Write you up?” He asks. You nod.

He walks around the front desk, his slow gait bringing him before you. “Do I look like a school principal?”

“Grey hair had me convinced.”

He glares. The edge of your grin cracks wider. “I can’t professionally condone fellow-on-fellow crime—”

“—You have got to stop hanging with Shen—”

“—but you’re my only brawler on the floor and we’re running low on those. So no.”

“Brawler? It was one time!”

“You tackling that 37-year-old meth addict is a fan favorite.”

“Is that why you’re keeping me around?”

“It’s not because of your suturing, I can tell you that.” He leans comfortably against the desk, and for all the quiet murmurs that have gone around about Jack and his hard sarcasm and no-bullshit attitude, he is wildly comfortable in this moment. Eased, despite the constant glancing at the other shoe. Joking, at your expense. As he settles into an easy tease and his body relaxes, you find that you don’t mind him poking at you all that much. Not if it gets him like this.

You raise a brow at the mention. “Didn’t realize you all were thinking about it that much.”

“Every night before bed. Your screams help me sleep.”

You hit his arm playfully. “You’re so morbid.”

“Wait ‘til you see what I use to meditate.”

You feel, then, the tingling sensation of an audience on you. Glancing up, you see the quick scurrying of some nurses pretending to be occupied. The whites of their eyes seen at the very last second, just as they pull their stares away from the quiet moment.

“You should get out of here before the peanut gallery starts accusing you of bias.” There’s a thrum of dismay that pulses through you at the suggestion. The feeling of a good moment ending that you unknowingly try to cling on to. You stampen it out before the possibility of it shows on your face.

“Bias? Of what? I don’t like you that much.” The tone is dry, wholly Jack, and yet his eyes make home to a low burning whim of trouble like it always belonged there. “If anyone says anything, I’ll just take it from the expert and shove my foot up their ass.”

He taps his hand on your desk, a finalizing drum before he departs.

“Hopefully the metal one.” You call after his retreating figure.

“You know it.” He says without looking back.

The sound of your laugh resounds through the halls.

SHIFT TWO, Mon-Tues, 9:17 PM:

Meredith Sakman, a 67-year old woman who fell off her kitchen chair as she was trying to clean her kitchen light, sits before you in the examination room as you suture the superficial laceration sustained to the right side of her head.

Her hands, wrinkled with age and wisdom, fiddle with each other incessantly. Passing from twiddling with her wedding ring to drumming on her thighs as you weave thread through skin.

Sensing her discomfort, you fill the space. “So, Mrs. Sakman—how long have you been married?”

She seems startled out of the fog of her head, ”Oh, uh, 42 years.”

“Wow. Congratulations.” You hum, sincerely. “What’s the secret?”

“I don’t know. All these years and he’s still the person I look for when I walk into a room.”

“Must be an outstanding man.”

“When he wants to be. He’s a little bit of a grouch, but he makes me laugh.” She laughs, and the wistfulness of her voice grounds the room. You smile inadvertently at the details of her love.

“Are you dating anyone?” She asks curiously, just as your forceps tie one end of the suture.

“Uh, no. I am not.” Saying it isn’t a confession of fault. It’s fact.

The priority has always been your career. School first to get you to the good job that can get you to the rest of your life. You weren’t made for much of the troublesome youth, a fortunate detail your parents never took for granted. Smart head on your shoulders that got you the New York residency for three years, that led you to pursue the Pittsburgh EM fellowship—year one of two already knocked off your belt.

Dating—as desirous as it could be on the lonely nights—didn’t fit much into that picture. The type of men that were interested in dating you didn’t fit into that picture.

“Well that’s odd.” Mrs. Sakman heaves, truly stunned by your admission. “You’re a beautiful young woman. And a doctor. They should be rushing to snatch you up.”

“Well, you know. Guys my age tend to find that intimidating and often can’t measure up.” You explain simply and the older woman scoffs.

“You need an older man.” She smiles knowingly. “One who knows a couple of things and can be your match. I’ve had my fair share of them and they were quite the memories.”

You don’t settle too long on her words, no matter how much you agree with them. Have always been told that you needed someone mature, like you.

You move on. “I bet you were a hot gun back in the day.”

“Still am, sweetheart.” She giggles. “You know, my son is single.”

You give her a deadpan stare from above, halting the thread of your needle to meet her gaze.

“Mrs. Sakman—“ You scold and she holds her hands up in defense.

“He’s a very smart man! Has his own accounting firm, very sweet and I’m not saying that because he’s my son. He’s 40 and you’d make a good match. And with that face of yours, you’d give me beautiful grand babies.”

You laugh, tying up the final knot in the suture and setting the forceps on the cart beside you. The excess thread is cut off with your scissors. “Unfortunately, I’m not in the habit of dating anyone related to my patients.”

“Then I’d like to see another doctor, please. So that way I’m not your patient.”

You shake your head with a smile. “You are a trip, Mrs. Sakman.”

The exam room settles into a comfortable silence, filled with the overheard sounds of the life of the ER around you. The small chatter in the curtained room beside you, the hum of machines, the occasional shout or laugh from the nurses desk.

Just as you finish up your dutiful matters to her laceration, slipping the gloves off and directing your attention to her to explain proper suture care—

—she’s calling out to someone over your shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir! Can you be my doctor?”

Turning around, you see Jack is caught mid-stride walking past your room. His face scrunches in concern.

“Everything alright?”

“Mrs. Sakman—“ You begin hastily, mortification burning through you as he steps into the enclosed space.

Mrs. Sakman, in her rosy glory, plows on. Meeting the man with an effervescent grin that gives no cause for caution. “Oh yes, your doctor here is lovely and has taken such good care of me, but I’d like you to be my doctor.”

A brow raises, his eyes flicking to yours for explanation.

You flounder for a moment, your mouth opening and closing repeatedly. The chagrin you feel is red hot and there is little hope that it doesn’t reflect obviously in your face.

“Dr. Abbot—” You sigh, begrudgingly, fingers at your forehead as you try to rub the embarrassment away, “Mrs. Sakman is trying to set me up with her son but as I said, I do not date relatives of my patients.”

“Ah.” He takes the information in stride, nodding his head with latent interest. Cool, calm, and collected while you fluster over the discussion of your dating life.“You trying to take one of my doctors from me, Mrs. Sakman?”

“If you’ll let me.” She smiles

“You don’t have to put your son through that torture. Order me a pastrami deli sandwich and I’ll give her to you for free.” Jack tilts his head to the side, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. He pointedly ignores the loud offended gasp you emit.

“Let’s take a look at you.” Sliding the gloves on and stepping up beside the older woman, he begins a gentle survey of the laceration. Fingers slightly touching the wound, turning his head this way and that in review.

“Sutures look good. CT clean?”

“Not even a hairline fracture.” You present, “She’ll be tired, maybe a bit dizzy, but otherwise she’s good. Anticoagulants have been prescribed along with tylenol for the next couple of days. Gonna keep her for another hour for observation before discharge with a wonderful guide on how to clean her sutures.”

“Good.” Jack nods. “Well, unfortunately, Mrs. Sakman, there’s not much more for me to do that your current doctor hasn’t. So you will have to stay in her care.”

“You can’t make an exception for a poor woman?” She sweetens.

“Your flirtations won’t work on me, young lady.” He issues, low and exceptionally playful.

Mrs. Sakman giggles akin to a teenage girl, her face turning rosy as she waves Jack away.

“Besides—” Hie head gestures to you as he speaks to Mrs. Sakman, “—we call this one Rambo behind her back. We give her up, we gotta spend more money on security and that’ll come out of my paycheck.”

Jack takes off his gloves and tosses them into the bin, giving you a long, knowing look. Mirthful and wry, it holds against your dry, scolding one. Waiting for you to make a rebuttal, calculating the moves and ways it would come out of your mouth for him to counter. You anticipate it, depriving him of the reaction that he’s looking for despite the way his eyes dig into yours, searching for it. Looking like he couldn’t stop looking for it, like it would make his whole night if you just caved.

You stick your tongue in your cheek and he watches, fixated—the ghost of amusement casting over his face as he sidesteps you by the curtain’s opening.

Your eyes trail after him, doing so well in withholding until he tilts his head at you. Beckoning. Your lips quirk upward then, and it’s all he needs.

He breaks the prolonged charge with a sweet goodbye to your patient. “Have a good night, Mrs. Sakman.” Then, to you, he innocently says. “Holler if you need me.”

And then he’s gone, leaving from whence he came. The crater of his weighty presence settles in the room.

You turn to Mrs. Sakman, with a shake of your head and an exasperated smile on your face. “And that is why you don’t want Dr. Abbot as your doctor.”

“Is he seeing anyone?” She laughs.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a daughter you want to set up, too.” You admonish.

“No. But you should pursue that one. That look, I’ve seen that before.”

It’s a splash of cold water over the heat that was simmering within you. At the embarrassment, at his teasing. A voiced thought that has no place for existence in this room—in this department, in this moment, in your life.

(A voiced thought that has infiltrated your own a time or two. That has wiggled its titillating fingers into the wayward dream, made a mountain out of a molehill, leaving your chest heaving, your thighs clenching, and the thought of Jack Abbot vivid on your mind.)

You push on, clearing your throat and detouring before your embarrassment escalates to humiliation. “Alright, Mrs. Sakman. I’m going to print out a guide for you that tells you how to take care of your sutures.”

“I’m serious. Rules be damned, life’s too short. And he’s too handsome.” She insists just as you mean to step out of the exam room. You see only sincerity and genuity in her features. “I can see you with someone like him.”

Your mouth opens to find a response only to be met with the drying of your tongue. Words suddenly hard to connect, meaning difficult to find.

Finally, with little resolve and even less polish, you mutter, “Be back soon.”

SHIFT THREE, Tues-Wed, 12:05 AM

“Hey! You think you can take my shift, sunshine?”

Ellis’ voice stops you from your walk from the bathroom and into the break room where she and Hilly gaze curiously back at you. The resident and the nurse are two of your favorites on the night shift, stopping for them is akin to stopping for air.

“Rambo, brawler, sunshine. I’m getting all the nicknames this week.” You lean against the doorframe, peering at the two women who smile easily at you. “When?”

“Next Tuesday.”

“Can’t. I’ll be on vacation.” You tell her with pity.

“Oh shit.” Her voice is light despite the disappointment. A welcome refresh on the night shift. “Where you going?”

“Florida.” The excitement is barely contained in your words. The prospect of a long vacation—away from the noise, away from the stress, away from disinfectant and in the sun—is a long overdue one. That excitement is shattered upon Hilly and Parker’s audible groan of disgust. Your mouth drops in shock as you defend. “I’m visiting my sister!”

“Don’t get eaten by a gator.” Hilly mumbles.

“Or a disney adult.” Parker pokes and you roll your eyes.

“I will be at the beach, thank you very much. A whole week with a piña colada in my hand and a tiny bikini on.”

Parker stands from her seat at the break table and fills up her thermos from a water bottle in the fridge. “If you come back with sun poisoning, I’m gonna laugh.”

“I’m a pro at tanning.” You insist.

She raises a brow. “Even with a tiny bikini on?”

“Especially with a tiny bikini on.” You assert.

She shrugs with a smile. “We’ll see.”

“Talk to Abbot.” You tell her, returning back to the topic, “He might cover it.”

It’s almost comical the way Parker and Hilly’s faces scrunch in unanimous uncertainty.

“Not today.” Ellis says.

“It’s one of those days.” Hilly supplements. You nod in understanding, not entirely faulting the reasoning. Warnings were issued throughout the crew the minute the shift started. Steer clear. Dr. Abbot woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.

Or maybe he didn’t sleep at all.

“Unless you wanna ask him for me?” Ellis counters, curiously.

Your brows furrow. “Why me?”

“Because you would get a much different answer than I would get.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” You insist, off put by the implication that you have any kind of weight to you in respect to Jack. Jack doesn’t lean on anything, for anyone. He doesn’t waver, he doesn’t reconsider. He’s a straight shooter, calling things like he sees it, having answers before the situation even arises.

If anything, your familiarity and comfortability with him makes you more prone to being at the short end of his sticks. Voluntold for things less than appealing—like picking up more shifts, by his steadfast hand.

“He’d say the same thing to me that he would to you.”

Hilly and Parker, in another feat of supernatural alignment, look at one another. A silent discussion translated in the look before they return to you.

“Sure.” Hilly nods.

“Whatever you say.” Ellis supports. Your guffaw is met with Hilly’s boisterous giggles.

That is, until her laughter is unceremoniously shot dead. An arrow to the heart, a quick and frigid silence encompassing the room. A glance at her reveals widened eyes fixated on something over your shoulder.

The man in question stands behind you, lips in a thin line as his gaze bounces between the three of you.

“Are we a hospital or a talk show, now?”

The two women quickly make their excuses, shuffling out of the room in a speed remarkably unlike either of them.

“Nope, on the way out now—”

“—I just remembered I’m so busy—”

Leaving only the two of you to occupy the break room. You half expect him to throw a comment out to you, expelling you back to the trenches of the ER but he doesn’t. He steps into the room with a low mutter. Unintelligible and gruff, resounding of the ire that has become him since the night started.

The smell of his aftershave wafts past you. A cool mist twined with a musk. Inexplicably, him. Resonant of the stoic confidence that emanates off of him. Resounding man.

He’s tense as he approaches the counter, pulling a mug out of the cupboard and flicking on the coffee machine. It’s visible in the way he carries himself. The stance of a soldier back on war grounds, eyes skirting, glancing over his shoulder, listening for something. Not the sound of an incoming ambulance, not the sound of an intern struggling during a procedure. Something almost quiet, imperceptible. Known only to him, familiar to the memories that live in the lines of his face. A call with no name.

A call that will bring back all that he’s lost.

“Ellis needs her shift covered next Tuesday.” You toss the test balloon out, wondering if it’s enough of that kind of day for him to shoot it down with a precise blow dart or if there’s enough gentility in him to at least let it float by.

“Sounds like an Ellis problem.” He mumbles.

“Just throwing it out there. In case you happen to have a solution.”

He looks over his shoulder, his eyes clearly bounce between yours, digging for a moment, before he turns his attention back to the coffee machine.

“I’ll see.”

Floating by, it is.

“Everything good?” You ask his turned figure. Stepping further into the minefield, seeing what lands, which foot you place will step on the mine. “You’ve been working all week.”

He snorts, but there’s no humor to be found. “So have you.”

“Yeah, but I’m off for a week starting Saturday. When are you off?”

”Saturday.”

A quiet hangs in the air, filled with your expectancy. ”…that’s it?”

“And Monday.”

“You need more than that.”

One shoulder raises in a shrug. The smell of ground coffee fills the air as the pot bubbles to toil with the brew. Nothing particularly interesting and yet his attention is fixated. “Not dead yet.”

You hum, suspicious enough. “Rough night?”

“What makes you say that?”

The edge to his tone, that’s identical to the edge in his posture, that’s exactly like the edge in his attitude. Any and all of the above.

“You’re wired, today.”

The observation isn’t groundbreaking. It doesn’t shatter windows, or break the sound barrier. It is a recognized truth that sits in the air with little disruption. He says nothing. Only pours the pot of black coffee into his mug.

He’s not wearing his ring.

The black one that has stayed permanently fixed on his left hand, third finger.

There’s only been a handful of shifts in your year at PTMC that you’ve seen him without it—and they all felt like this. Rough. Tense. Like someone is one misstep away from receiving the glare that maims the career.

It’s not a secret that Dr. Abbot lost his wife to cancer a few years after he was medically discharged from the Army. Just the mythology that lingers in the air like antiseptic. It’s easy to piece together that the days of his rigidity happen to coincide with whether or not his ring is on.

And maybe that’s why you’ve been able to gravitate towards him. Not out of pity, but understanding. Respect. Admiration. Anyone with two eyes can tell that Jack carries himself with a significant weight—a testament to the life he’s lived, all that he has learned and lost. It’s a quiet confidence, an assumed burden that shows in his gait. A shining light that draws the helpless to him.

It’s hard to not be drawn to someone like him.

So, you try. Out of some loose notion of affinity, respect, out of some desire to give back, you push where you know you probably shouldn’t.

“You know…if you ever want to talk— about life, your day, what you ate this morning, something stupid you saw—” Your voice falters, hesitant for a moment before you find your steel commitment and push. “—grief. You can always talk to me. I’m here. At work. Out of work.”

His body goes still. Rigid. And stupidly, you wonder if this was the call he was listening for.

“I won’t pretend to know. But, I can listen. If you want me to. Just ask.”

You don’t think he’ll ever take you up on it. In fact, it’s laughable to think that your attending—the man leagues above you in experience, and knowledge, and wisdom, would willingly stoop down to his fellow’s standing and talk about his feelings. Men like him compartmentalize. It’s what makes him an excellent doctor. The immovable rock under the beating current of the river. The beacon in a rushing trauma room.

But a foolish part of you tries because… well, because you want to.

Because it’s Jack, at the end of the day. Battlin’ Jack with the edge in his eyes and the razor on his tongue. The first one you look for in a busy operating room, the last one you spot as you're packing up for the night.

Hazel eyes turn over his shoulder and find their spot on you with immediate precision. Boring a hole into you. Analyzing, configuring, understanding. He stares at you, in a charged stillness, almost like he were doing all three things at once and coming up empty on whatever he was trying to find.

“…Sure.”

You understand in the hesitancy that there is something hidden that he’s not wanting to share. You try to reason that his answer, as vague as vague comes, is a good thing, if only to save yourself from the disappointment of realizing that your attempt for connection has met a stoned wall. His words ring of finality, his signal to end the conversation.

It’s here where the berth between you two feels so enormous, the difference in your stages of life. Not in the quips of the shifts, not in the jests of your being his junior and your teases of his age. Not when you’re beside him manning a procedure and working in tandem with the makings of a well-oiled machine as though you were always meant to work with him. But here, where you catch Jack in the hush and see glimpses of the man under the doctor is where the reminder is so pointed.

Signed, sealed, and delivered with red tape in your line of sight. Caution, written in his crow’s feet. Tread lightly, in the wrinkle of his smile lines. Warnings you should heed.

And yet, keep pushing, echoes in the beat of your heart.

You nod, a small, resigned smile crossing your face. Leaving well enough alone.

“Okay.” Tapping a hand against the doorway, you begin to take your leave from the room.

“Oh!” You stop yourself, turning back to him only to find that his eyes are still trained on you. “Uh, your patient in fourteen said he was experiencing a burning sensation in his penis when I walked by.”

“He’s in for heartburn from eating a shit ton of takis.” He says, diffident.

“Guess he didn’t lick all the dust off his fingers.” You shrug.

“Sounds like it.”

You take your leave and in the wake of your absence, Jack takes a harrowing breath.

His therapist’s voice lingers in his head.

Doesn’t have to be the whole fleet. Doesn’t have to be announced. Just one is enough. Just a status update is all they need. All you need.

And maybe it's because he knows the sincerity behind your words, the invitation doesn’t feel like a hanging noose like it usually does. The prospect of talking about it—giving the status update—is akin to a standing death sentence for a man like him. Giving the unnamed a name, voicing it into existence, giving it the power to consume.

He’s getting better at it. Giving the small doses in the official setting, where it's him, four beige walls, and a man with a PhD. Taking it outside of there, though, is still the battling challenge.

But—when you say it, when you offer—

He pushes past it, doesn’t try to think too hard about it. Stocks it up on a shelf out of reach. Something to handle later, to forget about when he remembers to toss it out. Or, if the mood catches him just right in the safety of Dr. Mott’s office, he’ll bring it up. Discuss what it means, what he should do about it.

He doesn’t know. Only knows that a door has been left ajar, breadcrumbs of care and comfort leading a trail through and to you. Cracked open by your gentle hand.

Only knows that in the dormant hold of a wounded man and the slow becoming of a new one that he’s pushing himself to, Jack finds himself feeling the faint pang of hunger for something other than self-inflicted guilt and shame.

He eyes the breadcrumbs you left behind. Wondering, deep in the recesses of his conflicted mind, how they would taste.

He chugs his coffee, burns the taste buds on the tip of his tongue. Hopes that it erodes the want right where it began, cripples the potential to even try.

(It doesn’t.)

Thurs-Fri, 11:35 PM:

Jack is two forearms deep in the cracked thoracic cavity of an intubated 46-year old woman performing an EDT when the doors to Trauma One open.

“Dr. Abbot, can I speak to you?” Dr. Reno, communal night shift’s bane of existence and general nuisance, shouts into the operating room.

Jack has no more of an issue with the man than he does with anyone from Ohio—a general sense of pity coupled with a scrutinized squint of the eyes at some unsavory opinions that tend to come from the Buckeyes, particularly when the Steelers are playing—but the general opinion of the team’s feelings are not lost on him.

He’s heard the whispers, seen the way the crowd parts like the Red Sea when the man is around. Jack keeps his head down, for the most part. He’s not Robby. Aside from the general check-in and check-out, he doesn’t want to manage people. Personalities exist, but they don’t matter in the heat of the moment. He leaves them be, pointedly making quirks and general tendencies a side effect of the job. Pointedly makes it not his business.

Until it is.

“Don’t know if you have eyes, Reno, but I’m kind of busy.” Jack responds, quick and cool, before turning his attention to Ellis’s intubation, “Drop the left lung and pump another three CC’s. Pericardium is getting cut.”

“Find me after.” Reno says briskly, the doors shutting loudly.

Something vile and uncouth springs to his mind, annoyance cutting through Jack like a stabbing knife at the summoning. Something inappropriate, unprofessional, mildly threatening on a good day. Its sentiment is met in equal parts with Ellis’ mumble of “dick” which only makes Jack feel slightly better.

Scissors cut through the thin wall of the heart’s membrane and quickly spot the torn ventricle that’s spouting blood profusely.

“Found our geyser.” Plugging the hole shut with his finger into the rupture, he looks over to Walsh. “Ready to stop twiddling your thumbs, Dr. Walsh?”

“About time.” She rebuts, moving in beside him and beginning the suturing of the heart.

Then a moment later, as her forceps pull thread through delicate tissue, she says, “You should handle that.”

He doesn’t need clarification to know what she means. “And you should handle this.”

“I’m doing my job.” She pushes. “Do yours.”

12:05 AM

“I’m concerned about your other fellow.”

If time could be rewound, he’d go back to this morning and let the phone ring into oblivion. Ignore the call asking him to come in tonight and spend the rest of his day watching the Pirates play the Yankees. Would rather watch his team get their asses handed to them than have this conversation—knowing where it’s going, knowing who it's about. The regret of his decisions only grates him further.

Dr. Abbot doesn’t find Dr. Reno. Dr. Reno finds Dr. Abbot—contrary to the directive that interrupted the procedure in South-13.

Just as he’s stepping out of the OR and chucking his bloodied gloves into the trash bin, Maxwell is on him without preamble. That stabbing feeling—the unabated annoyance— creeps up his neck like a fucking burn. So much so that Jack has to roll it out before even looking at the new fellow.

His eyes flick to the man, deeply unimpressed at how dogged the man appears to be. He continues his path towards the workstation. Dr. Reno follows after him, quick on his heels.

“Her charts and prescriptions are suspect.”

“What, is there not enough work, man? You’re reading other doctors’ charting notes?”

“She and I have disagreed too often about standards of care.”

“Then leave it as a disagreement and move on.”

“Just—” Dr. Reno grabs onto Jack’s arm, halting him in place. It earns the man a putrid glare, Jack’s eyes boring into the hand that lingers on his bicep until Dr. Reno takes the hint and quickly removes it. “—look at it, Dr. Abbot. I’m concerned.”

Reno holds out a folder, one that Jack fights the urge to grab and chuck across the ER. There are no niceties when Jack takes it, his ire blatant as he yanks the folder from the man’s hand.

Your name is the first thing he sees on the document. A usual tender, easing thing within him that Jack refuses to draw attention to—the sight of your name below his on the schedule set for the same shift, the pop-up notification of your name in the work group chat whenever you send a text. Something he would continue to dutifully ignore were it not for the fact that the notes labeled as “suspect” are notes you’ve made on a patient dated a week and a half ago.

He scans the timeline, red quickly filling his vision. Steel becomes him the minute his gaze flicks up to Reno, finding the man looking back at him expectantly.

“This is your smoking gun? Really?” Reno nods, emphatically. Jack grits his teeth. “Get back to work, Maxwell.”

“The patient was coughing up blood and complained of chest pain. CT confirmed it was a pulmonary embolism which should’ve resulted in a cardiac catheterization.” Reno insists, bulldozing past the point of professional restraint.

“Not if it wasn’t severe enough.”

“It was enough for the patient to be transferred for admission and OR to take care of it. This is a clear case of delay in proper care.”

“You’re upset that one of our doctors isn’t trigger happy with a knife? That she—” Jack looks to the chart record again, spotting a note that makes him more irritated, “That she correctly prescribed and provided anticoagulants that reduced patient discomfort and clearly instructed the patient to follow up with their PCP the next day.”

“And him being on the schedule for the upstairs OR today?”

“A week and a half after the patient’s visit to the ER. Clearly not admitted through us and yet treated in our hospital. Wonder what that could mean.” Jack bites sarcastically. “Oh yeah, that the patient followed up with their PCP and it was decided to remove the clot.”

“Dr. Abbot—“

“Stop following up on other doctors' charts. Focus on your patients. And don’t bother me with this shit again unless it's serious.” The folder is shoved unceremoniously into Reno’s chest. “Whatever beef you got against her, don’t bring it to my floor.”

It’s when Jack is halfway down the hall that another remark is called out.

“I didn’t realize you were so biased.”

His leg aches in the socket of his prosthetic, a sign of his lowering threshold. The pulse of blood felt worse in the stub more than anywhere else. Turning, his eyes narrow.

“Excuse me?”

”You should’ve written her up. You know you should’ve.” Reno explains as Jack steps—stalks—closer. “It was a threat against another doctor. Management won’t be happy that you’ve overlooked it.”

Abbot stands before him, his chin tilting up just as his jaw clenches. “I didn’t overlook anything. I’m well aware of what happened and I’m choosing to handle it differently.”

“You handled it wrong.”

Jack's eyes narrow. A long steadied exhale is released, like a bull catching sight of the red. “You caught me on a good day. Take a walk, Dr. Reno. If you can’t be a team player and get your shit on straight, then consider this permission to get out of the ER for the night. Your choice.”

“You can’t—“

“Make. Your choice. Before I make it for you.”

12:17 AM

You’re on the back of a motorcycle with the wind in your hair when a phone call interrupts. Opening your eyes is like pulling yourself out of tar, but the caller ID does the hard work of taking you out of the depths of your REM cycle.

“Hello?” You ask, voice groggy and tired.

“Sorry to be calling you so late. I know it’s your day off.” Hilly’s voice sounds on the other end of the phone. “Any chance you can come in and work an 8-hour?”

“Why? What’s going on?” You’re already sitting up in your bed, the decision to head into work practically made.

“Reno had to head out for an emergency. We’re short one.”

“Oh shit.” You mutter. You raise the heel of your palm to rub into your eye. “I didn’t realize I was next on the rotation.”

“You aren’t. Dr. Abbot asked for you.”

If the decision wasn’t made before, it was made now. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

“You’re the best.” Over the line, you hear from a familiar but faint voice in the background, “She coming in?”

“Yes!” Hilly calls, before turning her attention to you. “Dr. Abbot gave a thumbs up, but it was a grateful one. I can tell.”

12:52 PM

“What took you so long?” Jack calls over his shoulder, seemingly already knowing you’ve entered the ER without even glancing backward.

You watch as the back of his head tilts up to the status board, then back down to his notes. You saddle up beside him, placing your bag onto the nurses desk for shoving into a locker later and lean against the workstation.

“Yankees beat Pirates ten to four. I should be out on the town. You’re lucky I’m here at all.” You push back and he tuts, annoyed. Whether at you or the game, you’re unsure, but it brings a smile to your face.

You peer into his notes. If he minds, he makes no visible sign of it.

“I’m delighted, truly. Nothing screams lucky more than watching the unit crash and burn while we wait for you to grace us with your presence.” He retorts, but there’s no venom to his bite.

“You’re smart, Dr. Abbot. You can handle it.”

”Yeah? Then what do we pay you for?”

“PTMC needed the city flair.” You smile widely at him.

“The shitty one?”

“The New York state of mind. The wins and all. You’ll understand when the Pirates finally fix their offense in the outfield.”

“Don’t forget the stellar humility.” He hums, noncommittal. “And leave the Buccos out of this.”

You tilt your head at him. “You don’t like me because I’m humble.”

“Like implies affection.” He replies, easily. “Tolerate is more accurate, city girl.”

“Whatever you say, old man.” You sigh. “I get to leave early tomorrow though, right?”

“Extortion.”

“Tit for tat.”

An announcement rings over the intercom. An inbound GSW, four minutes out. The room turns then, those settling in the front half of the floor preparing in an orchestrated chaos for the arrival. Jack grabs a pair of gloves from the box affixed to the wall, tossing them over to you before grabbing and slipping on his own. Jack finally looks over to you, his eyes doing a quick once over of you before he settles back on your face—readied, but easy.

Seamless and still anticipation constructing your features, determination filtering in through the artful weave of your calmness. You stand sliding gloves onto your hands welcoming the impending disaster like it were an old friend.

If there were nerves to be had on you, he couldn’t find them.

It only compounds the ridiculousness of Reno from earlier. Only furthers Jack’s unwavering lack of doubt when it comes to you. You stand awaiting the incoming trauma like you hadn’t just woken up half an hour ago, like you’ve been standing beside Jack the entire night when it should be Reno, and relief hits him like a truck.

A semi that’s caught him like a deer in the headlights, loosens the strain that’s fixed permanently in the column of his neck, makes the ache in his shoulder pointedly less. One held breath away from feeling.

“Thanks for coming in.” He says, suddenly serious.

Thanks for coming when I asked, he means.

It startles you, the turn. The unexpected stoop into sincerity. Eyes bounce between his, unaware of where it comes from. He stares back, unabashed with the earnest yet otherwise unreadable.

Nonetheless, you take what he gives you.

“Yeah. Of course.” There is equal genuinity in your voice. You nod your head, softly. “Anything you need.”

He nods, once. Then turns to watch the loading bay doors. “Make me proud tonight and I’ll think about Friday.”

“Getting soft on me, Dr. Abbot.” You tease, but it holds no real feet to fire. It’s not ribbing, nor is it a condemnation. Just an observation that sits between you two like a shared secret.

“Yeah, well.” Jack shakes his head, but there’s no concealing the way his lips twitch upward. You both decide to leave well enough alone.

Turning in time with him, you pull on his surgical gown and tie it at the back. He ties your own, his hand lingering on your back when he finishes.

SHIFT FOUR, Friday-Sat, 8:47 AM:

You don’t get to leave early.

You take a sip from the porcelain mug of lukewarm coffee you’ve taken from the breakroom and continue your endless stare into the slow revival of the world.

The dark of the sky begins to dilute with the morning rise, the cold breeze of the spring air a welcomed remedy to your flustered skin. The benches at the park beside the hospital are uncomfortable, pointedly so. The longer you sit, the further the aches in your back that made their wonderful appearance halfway through your shift demand your attention—but this is what you need.

A tether to reality, a removal from the endless spirals of a hurried mind. A way for your feet to finally settle on the firm, stable ground. No running, no long stretches of standing, no burning in the flex of your calves. Just dirty sneakers on the gravel, feeling some semblance of stillness even as life begins to slowly wake up around you. Hands feeling the fading warmth of the drink you hold tightly.

Birds chirp melodically as streaks of orange break up the sky. Your chest starts to feel like it isn’t on the brink of collapse from the erratic beat of your heart. You can finally breathe.

The new day, in. The old one, out.

“It’s not the worst of vices to have, but a sixth cup of coffee is pretty drastic. Even for my standards.”

It’s rather difficult to align your inner chakras when Jack’s voice grows closer to you.

The heavy sigh you exhale conveys exactly how you feel about it. “I’m not in the mood, Jack.”

“First name, huh?” The sound of his voice is another stabbed knife into the pantheon of wounds that decorate you today.

“Off the clock. Formalities be damned.” You return, annoyed.

He steps in beside you, his steadied gait and imposing figure filling your periphery. A vision cladded in black scrubs that you refuse to look at. He makes no further movement, surveying you with a neutral look on his face. Not a new thing from him, and certainly not for the first time it’s happened tonight.

Jack has a staring problem. Always watching, hawk eyes knowing things before they reach his ears. A dutiful sentinel on the floor and the subject of the running joke you have with a few of the nurses about the amount of eyes he has on the back of his head. Lisa and Hilly think there’s at least four, one for each cardinal direction. You’ve got money on the table that there’s eight pairs, minimum.

It’s his job as attending to be tuned in to everything that happens on his shift but it’s uncanny the way he notices everything.

(“Military.” Ellis had said simply, eyes focused on charting.

“X-ray vision.” Shen chirped with a shrug and a sip of his iced coffee. You nodded in agreement.)

It’s not a hunch, or a theory, or a girlish fantasy to say that all eight pairs of Jack’s eyes were on you tonight. He appeared out of thin air when things went sideways on your cases. Seemingly easy patients turning chaotic within the blink of an eye and each time, he was there. Beating Ellis and Shen to the punch, pulling gloves over his hands and giving his assessment in steady confidence and simple authority as he fell into step beside you.

Assisting you with perfect timing the first two times your patients coded, leading the procedures for the next one, and taking over completely on the final one.

With his backpack slung over his shoulder and his hand shoved in the pants of his scrubs, Jack does as he’s done all night long and stares at you. Deeply, intently, unnervingly. His face betraying no tangible thought as he keeps you within his line of sight.

And just as you’ve done all night, you keep your gaze in front of you. Fixated on the park before you.

There’s no telling if he watches out of concern for your wellbeing or others. Determining if you were a complex puzzle needing to be solved or maybe a potential bomb needing to be diffused.

He’s got a morbid connection to the latter. All the more reason for him to stay away.

In standard Jack fashion, he doesn’t.

“That bad, then.” His words are light, almost blasé. It fuels a fire that you were unsuccessfully trying to stampen out.

You scoff. “Yeah. Pretty fucking bad.”

He moves, then. Shrugging his backpack off, he places it beside the bench and sits next to you. Close, too close. Out in the open and away from the confines of sterile white walls and yet you still feel like you’re cornered. Drowning in the nearness of him, in the substantial feel of his presence.

He takes a breath before finally saying, quietly, like a man trying to tame an angered animal, “It wasn’t personal—”

“Felt personal.” You bite back, bitterly.

“You were clouded.”

Finally, your head snaps to him. Disbelief furrows in your brows. “That’s bullshit.”

Your heated and sharpened fury meets his stoic and anchored one, looking at him for the first time since you were pushed aside in trauma three. No betrayal of guilt resides in the lines of his face, only true honesty and sincerity.

It only makes you angrier.

“You undermined me in the middle of a procedure. In front of interns, in front of residents. This isn’t my first time around the block, Jack. It was a resection. I can do those in my sleep and you know that. This was no different.” Your head shakes incredulously, the frustration surging forward with little reservation. And while the anger is there, simmering deep in every crevice of your words, pinching your lips and narrowing your eyes, the hurt bleeds through, try as you might to hold it back.

“You might as well have just told the whole team you think I don’t know what I’m doing. That would’ve been infinitely better than telling me to step aside.”

The corner of Jack’s lips flick downward, a sign you’ve come to understand as his clear disagreement. They purse forward as he thinks for a second. Registering the extent of your words.

He leans his elbows on his knees. Thinking for another moment, until he says, “This isn’t New York.”

Your head pulls back in offense. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you’re not alone in a department doing drastic shit by yourself because you have to, anymore. You’re here, we’re a team and in case you forgot, you’re my senior fellow. My responsibility. And I’m not going to let you drown.”

“I-I wasn’t drowning. I had cases, they got resolved and I moved onto the next one—”

“You had four codes today.” He interrupts. “You don’t just move on from that.”

Your breath hitches. It’s the actualization of the heavy weight, the one that’s been sitting on your chest all night. Constricting your breath, keeping your feet moving, and hands fidgeting. Somewhere in between keeping your head down and switching from one patient to the next, it hadn’t registered that he would have tucked the information away as something other than a performance metric.

A stupid notion, one clearly without any semblance of thought, because it’s Jack.

(The Jack you’ve had all week, the one who teases as a means to compliment, who has quietly deferred to you when questions arose during procedures, who has given approving looks from the doorway over the course of the week. Jack that has brought you coffee on random occasions when the lulls have kicked in, in the mug he knows belongs to you, the one you sip at now. Jack who knows you’ve entered a room before a word comes out of your mouth.

Jack, who is both a breath of fresh air and the halting cause of your own when the hazel of his eyes fall on yours from across a hectic room. Concern etched in the irises, a quiet check-in, a quick review of your status, before moving on to the next thing.

Jack, Jack, Jack—whose name fits too well in your mouth, that you’re too keen to speak out loud just because you want to.)

He says the truth simply. Without blame, unlike the raging guilt that courses through you. Without lecture. Words uttered incredibly soft for a man forged from fire and brimstone.

“None of them were easy and none of them were your fault. Just really bad fuckin’ luck that they landed on you. It’s enough to weigh on anyone.”

“My day had nothing to do with that procedure. I’ve been through worse, I can handle it.” You lie, stubbornly.

“It had everything to do with it.” He continues, holding your gaze dutifully. As though he could stare his truth into you—make you physically see his meaning. “I saw that look in your eye. You were gonna hack at that man’s body if it meant a single chance of survival.”

“Because there was a chance, Jack. If you had just let me—“

“Sepsis from secondary peritonitis. The bowel was necrotic. There wasn’t.”

“Then let me find that out! You push Shen, you push Ellis, I’ve seen you push Mohan. I get one bad day and I’m treated with baby gloves? I get kicked off a procedure? I’m a fellow, Jack. I should’ve been allowed to do my job.”

“I push when there is something to learn. He was gone the minute he rolled in through those doors. There was nothing to learn in that.”

“So I get punished for wanting to try?”

“I stepped in because you weren’t doing it for the betterment of the patient, you were doing it for yourself.”

He renders you speechless. Your face falls from tense anger to a shattered hurt. You fall against the backing of the bench with defeat. The throat tightens in that familiar way that it’s been doing all shift. Your eyes start to sting with the swell of tears that you try to swallow down, force away before they threaten to spill.

Still, Jack watches. Assessing, preparing, readying himself for the fall that he’d seen coming from the beginning.

“This isn’t a question about what you can do.” He says quietly, a whisper in the wind. A reassurance uttered in the safe space between you, broken only by your shuddering breaths. “You’ve been off kilter on me since you got that little girl. I get it. No one blames you for that. You went into this one hoping you could get a save after the ones you lost. And if you want to pretend there was a chance, fine. You can sleep knowing that I made the call on this one. That this falls on me. Not you.”

And you’re smart enough to read between those lines.

It was never about competence. It was a staged intervention. Jack’s way to release some of the pressure off of the cooking chamber that has been you all day. To place part of your burden on his shoulders.

Making sure that the four codes you were responsible for tonight didn’t turn to five.

The heat of your bruised ego simmers low, water poured onto the embers and leaving a smoking ash of your tender and fragile heart. Heavy with the stress of today, fraying from the guilt that eats at you. You turn to him, your eyes red-rimmed and burning with unshed tears that only inch forward the minute you meet his gaze.

His focus on you isn’t intimidating. It’s a familiar shroud of comfort, a soft place to land. He listens, watches, waits. Beckoning you into him, wanting you to let go.

“It was just like New York again, Jack. It felt like everyone I touched died.” Your voice breaks at the admission. “I can handle it, you know, when it’s bad. It sucks, but I can put it away and keep going. But today it was—these were simple ones.”

Your breath catches when you feel him move closer to you, his thigh intentionally pressing into yours. Another tether to the ground.

You rub your hands against your face roughly. “Like what— what do you mean I lost an eight-year old to pneumonia? That’s routine, we go through that all the time. I did a year in peds for fuck’s sake. I had her— for a second I had her.”

An incredulous laugh tumbles out of your mouth. Absurdity is hardly a humorous thing and yet, it escapes with the fall of a tear that you quickly wipe away. “Then it was the dad with the DVT who just dropped on me. He was ready to be discharged. I was on him for two hours and nothing.”

“Then the car accident came in and I—I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t shake them from me. It was just one after another. And I tried but…just wasn’t good enough.”

He interrupts quickly, leaning in close to you. His voice fusing with a well-meaning reprimand, “Don’t do that. That doesn’t do anyone any good.”

You sigh, tearfully and look to him. He’s close, close enough in your space where his shoulder is touching yours and you see how the lines on his face deepen with his intentful stare into you. It only capitulates the need to fall.

“I know Reno’s been looking at my charts. And I know he brought it up to you.” You tell him. The careful composition of the man made of stone fractures, then. Surprised, aggrieved, almost furious. “And I guess—I don’t know. When you told me to step aside, it felt like you were believing him a little bit.”

The speed in which he dissuades the thought is comforting. “That wasn’t what that was. That’s not why I took you out.”

“I know.” And you do. But it still felt like it.

Jack shakes his head, drilling truth into you with an emphasis that could hardly be missed. Needing you to understand exactly what he meant. “Whatever Reno thinks about you, fuckin’ forget about it. It doesn’t matter—”

“I don’t care what he thinks. He’s an idiot. And he’s from Ohio.” You scoff. “I care what you think.”

It’s his turn to be rendered silent. Not out of shock or stupor—but at the need to hold back everything that creeps up in that moment. Tiny gospels that bang against the caverns of a hollowed heart, carved empty from the brutal grip of a world that has taken too much. Truths that beg to be let out. The unnamed that claws up the soft tissue of his throat that begs to be given a name, to be heard.

The truth is that you had been thorough all night, fast on your feet, a helping hand where needed. A forceful hurricane blazing through the trauma bay with a proficiency that justified your standing as a fellow. And Jack had an eye on you all night not because you were cracking but because he had to make sure you were still standing. Still breathing. Not as part of his job but because—

He needed to.

And the minute he saw the slight waver, saw the way it was beginning to seep into you, he became a man of two minds. No longer able to compartmentalize. His eyes focused on the patients in front of him, his ears attuned to the sound of your voice on the other side of the room. Listening to the rises and falls like a hymn, reverent in his pious focus.

How his only way to fix all that was wrong for you was to be involved himself—handle it himself. Wedge into the web of you that’s been stretched thin and mend the cracks, bring you back to steady and safe ground.

Bring you back to him.

He doesn’t say any of that. Restrains the flooding thoughts with a wrangled rope and ties it hard enough to cut circulation. Ties the yearning before it makes an ample fool out of everything.

Instead, he goes for the standard. The known truth, the easy one that lives beneath the dry teases and offhand remarks.

“If it matters that much, you knocked it out of the fuckin’ park today. You touched more patients today than anyone else on the floor, gave excellent care in the chaos. You did damn good, today.”

Your nod is empty, tired. Dry of any attempt at human dignity. And it humors you that just a few days ago you were the one offering him comfort.

“How’d you know how many I was on?” You ask after a moment.

“…I was keeping count.”

“Really?”

”You drink more when you’re stressed. Like caffeine will make you focus harder.” He huffs at the surprised look on your face. “Told you. You’re my responsibility.”

“MD, therapist, dietician, and babysitter.” The laugh that comes out of you is wet. You sniffle. “Sucks to be you.”

“Most days, but not today.” You huff out a laugh and his smile slants. He flicks his head to the side. “C’mon. You need to sleep. Florida’s calling your name, God knows why.”

He stands with a grunt, working out a knot in his neck before turning and holding a hand out to you. You take it, allowing him to lift you from the bench with your own pained sigh.

You rub at the ache on your back. “I’ll try but I’m five coffees deep—“

“—six.” He corrects.

“Six.” You repeat, feeling gently warmed at his record keeping. “Don’t think my buzz is going to let me sleep. Try to get some shut eye for me, though.”

“Don’t waste your wish on me. I don’t sleep much.”

“Do—do you wanna get some breakfast, then? I just—” The words come out before you have much cognizance to reel them in. Exhaustion and guilt and all of its disarming siblings pushing the request out. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”

Just as they hit the air, you realize how silly it is. You don’t expect him to take you up on it—too aware of the gap, the existing berth that lives loudly in between you two.

“Yeah. Of course.” He interrupts. Says it as sure as the air he breathes. Says it without hesitation and even less reservation. As if you couldn’t have asked anything more obvious.

“Anything you need.”

And in your colored shock, in the repeat of the words that were once aimed at him, here—that’s when you see it. Or rather, feel it. The charge, the shift, the inkling of something else.

Something beyond your attending. Beyond the stature of the leader who knows everything, who can impart wisdom just as much as he could take it away. Beyond the monolith who pushes you to be better, that draws the lines firmly in the sand of duty and obligation, of giving it your all and knowing when to let it go.

There, in the softness of his hazel eyes settling on yours and the small tilt of the corner of his lips pulling upward, is a man. A gentle one, with something soft wedged in the center of his steel chest that he’s torn down a wall and unlocked just to show you.

Only you.

Something on the precipice of becoming sweet, almost ripe for picking.

Something you don’t know the name to, yet, but can feel deep in parts previously unknown to you that you desperately want to learn more of as the sun rises on the two of you.

SHIFT ONE, Tues-Wed, 6:48 PM

“Look at what the cat dragged in.” Dana’s smile bleeds into her voice as you step onto the floor. “Smelling of coconut and looking sunkissed.”

The familiar smell of sterile sanitizer and disinfectant is a welcome one. The pat of your sneakers on the tile floor is a familiar anthem as you enter the ER.

You hold your hands out and bow to your awaiting crowd, “In the very flesh.”

“Surprised you don’t have a flower in your hair.” She teases, her smile growing warmer as you draw in closer.

"Thought about it but I figured that’d be bragging.”

“Indeed it would.” Dana busies herself with the final details in preparation of handoff. You come up to the desk, leaning your elbows against the surface. A quiet moment before your shift starts. “You get to stay at the beach?”

You hum, pleased. “All week. In the tiniest bikini known to man.”

“Atta girl.” She smiles.

“There’s sunshine.” Ellis calls from down the hall, and you see her approach the workstation looking like she’s already gotten a head start on her rounds. “Welcome back. How’re the nieces?”

“Too stinking cute. I got some photos you’re gonna die for.” You sigh, wistfully. “I missed them.”

“Not gonna leave us for Florida now, are you?”

“Ask me at the end of my shift.”

“Nah, she won’t.” Dana coos, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and giving your arm a loving rub. “Pittsburgh won’t force our sunshine out just yet.”

“Abbot would put a stop to that before it even started.” Ellis jests, and you raise a brow.

“What?” You ask.

Dana ignores you, directing her stare to Ellis. “Maybe even get some people written up.”

“Maybe even put some people in a disciplinary hearing.” Ellis returns.

Your eyes bounce between the two. “Okay, what the hell don’t I know?”

“Nothin’.” Ellis smiles, turning on her heel.

Dana pats your arm, lovingly. “Happy to have you back, sweetie.”

7:47 PM

“Hilly, I’m going to put in an order for an EKG for Mr. Breyer. You mind making sure that he’s bumped up on that one?” You tell the nurse as you both exit the exam room.

“Can do!” She chirps.

“Oh! And—“ She turns on her heel at your call, looking at you curiously. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

Her brows furrow. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something with Abbot.” Understanding floods her face.

“What have you heard?” She asks, voice dipping low.

”Just a comment. Something about a disciplinary hearing.”

”Oh my god, I can’t believe no one’s told you.” She crowds near you, excitement radiating off of her. “Not confirmed, but heavily suspected because Anna Maria heard it from Jesse who heard it from Perlah who saw Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot talking about it. But— Dr. Abbot got Reno suspended.”

“What?” Shock raises your volume, which Hilly quickly shushes you. You lower your voice in apology, “For what?”

“Harassment. Unprofessional conduct.”

“Against who?” You ask, already suspecting the answer.

“Four people. Three nurses—”

“Three!” You gasp. You had only known about the one incident, heard some things about from the others. But the extent remained only in what you saw in the stairwell with Anna Maria.

“All Latino. They all went to Dr. Abbot. Apparently he was keeping notes on certain racist comments made.” Your mind flickers to the image of the note he tucked into his breast pocket, and its unsurprising then that he would’ve known about it all along.

Eight pairs of eyes always watching.

“And the fourth?” You ask, curiously.

Hilly’s eyes seem to gleam brighter when she says, “You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Dr. Abbot raised it up to Dr. Robby who raised it up to Gloria and so on.”

“Harassment against me?” You ask again, unbelieving.

“Yeah. Something about sabotaging your performance. Depending on the source, some say he talked about some of the comments he’s heard Reno say to you or the arguments he would start in the operating rooms. But everyone agrees—”

Hilly pauses for a moment—whether for dramatic effect or to convey the extent of the magnitude of her next. Either way, you remain fixated on her. Waiting, watching for her.

“—they’ve never seen Dr. Abbot angry like that.”

9:51 PM

You don’t get the chance to talk to him—officially.

Only make him out in the background of the hectic shift, see him at the bedside of an incoming trauma before rushing into an OR, stepping in beside him and slipping the gown on to assist.

There’s the sly comment about your absence—Hope you didn’t forget how to do your job, city girl.

One you meet in equal time—Watch and learn, old man.

Sly smiles exchanged, the meeting of tender glances, the return of the familiar. Into the feeling.

He catches you at the rolling cart outside of North 12 again. A moment finally spared in the frenzy of the night that he willingly decides to lean into. He puts his good shoulder against the wall, surveying you with a steadied eye.

“How you feeling?” He asks, but you can make in the tone that something belies the words. A veiled test, the subtle making of your person upon return to work. A gauge of what you’ve heard.

You meet his test balloon with an easy smile. Happy, content.

“Good.” You say to him, true and meaningful, “How are you?”

He watches for a moment before nodding, satisfied. “Good.”

There’s not much to say about what may or may not have happened while you were gone. At least nothing you trust to not lay waste to the goodness of the moment. There’s nothing to explain or be explained.

You know why he did it. He knows you know why he did it. You both decide to leave well enough alone. Trusting each other like second nature.

A beat passes. “D’you relax? Take photos?”

You nod, emphatically. “Yeah. I gotta show you the ones I got from this alligator farm we took my nieces to. You’d get a kick out of it.”

“So long as you skip over the bikini ones.” A smile etches on his face. Loose and light, the same familiar song and dance.

“C’mon. You don’t even want to take a peek?”

“Not unless you want to keep me up at night.” He raises a brow. “You can keep your Florida sunburns to yourself.”

“Well, just picture my screams, then. That always puts you to bed, right?”

“Not this time, it won’t.”

You take it to mean that the image of your body will scar your attending, which forces a scoff out of your mouth. Rolling your head to him, you intend to make faux hurt known. But, in meeting his gaze, you see something else entirely.

A toiling knowing that runs the quip on your tongue dry. It’s that something from before, tainted with a depth that you haven’t seen from him.

The air heats slowly, flint to stone igniting the mutuality of piqued interest.

For a second you realize that maybe, the heavy gap that you’ve always figured lies between you two wasn’t so hefty from the extent of the said differences in life and experiences—but heavy for another reason altogether. For all the things left unsaid.

It brings an image to your mind—one that has entered into the realm of consciousness on nights where alcohol has made you too loose and latent desires infiltrate the privacy of sleep.

An image of you and him.

Rough, calloused hands running over flustered skin. Tugging shirts off, stripping pants down, pulling panties to the side to take a peek. The heat of his breath fanning over the side of your neck, the pads of his fingers swiping through the wet. Circling, playing, a tease whispered in a husky tone just before he—

Your breath shudders.

“Welcome back.” Jack says lowly, turning on his heel and trekking down the hall.

a/n: of course it would be a a traumatized forty-nine year old man that would break my eight month hiatus. my first dip into this man, and i want more

let me know your thoughts!

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #the pitt x reader #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #jack abbot x female reader #the pitt fanfic #idk man he just means so much to me #also we are widower!jack stans in this house #nothing but respect for his grief and trauma #and you bet reader has respect for it to #also srry about the ohio slander

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semperamans · 2 days ago

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part three of loverboy!oscar is here! get ready for chaos! also!! i deeply apologize for how long it took to get this posted :'(

if you missed part two you can find it here! if you read and enjoy please let me know what you think! your comments keep my days oh so bright! hope you all are well!

xo, clo

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pias_lover_girl commented "what other things oscarpiastri my STOMACH HURTS."

mclaren commented "bring us home a souviner 🥹 we accept refridgerator magnets, snowglobes, and t-shirts."

↳ landonorris replied "i only accept signed CDs 🙂"

↳ pitstop_piastri replied "oh this was CRAZY LANDO SJFHSKDF"

ynsgirly commented "oscarpiastri what are your intentions with my daughter 🤨"

oscarsfearless89 commented "he is just a little boy in a big ole city i-"

tracksidebabe commented "the little smile after he said "other things planned" 🥺 hope he has the best time."

mclarendad72 commented "love this for him honestly, nothing like your first trip to new york city."

f1fanfiles commented "he looks like he’s actually excited for once lol bless"

futureyn_piastri commented "ik he won't be listening to that Shawn Mendes podcast..."

↳ ynforpresident replied "babygirl NO ONE is gonna listen to that."

liked by yourname_source, sc4rlett_44, bestofyn, oscarpiastri, morningwithyn, and others

yn_nation our girl was spotted out and about today! mayas_yn snapped these pics of our cutie gal outside of Bubby's Bakery on Hudson :') maya said yn was picking up some baked goods: a cake for an upcoming birthday and some cupcakes for her nieces who will be visiting her in the next few days :)

thank you for sharing, maya! 💌

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bubbysbarista i served her this morning and she gave me and my coworkers $300 tips 😭😭

↳ sundaywithyn NOT HER OUT HERE CHANGING LIVES BEFORE NOON

↳ ynlover95 she's so sweet :( she's soft spoken :( her pockets deep as hell :( yn save me :(

↳ sc4rlett_44 ugh ☹️ it’s little moments like this that remind me why i’ve been a fan for so long.

piastrigirlies not to be That Person but… any chance she was with someone mayas_yn 👁️👁️

↳ mayas_yn she was alone :)

afterglowing81 honestly just happy to see her out and about, smiling and living her life — not hiding out or spiraling over shawn or any of that mess. growth looks really good on her 🤍

herefordrama i personally think she's just trying to save face and show up randomly doing good deed so we won't watch the Shawn podcast episode lol

↳ f1xynlore girl she bought baked goods for her nieces… not exactly a strategic media move 😭

↳ starryeyesandbutterflies did you activley seek out a yn fan account to leave a hate comment? YOU HAVE SO MUCH TIME ON YOUR HANDS I- FSHDFJKSDHF

↳ girlshush every time she breathes y’all get suspicious. therapy is calling. pick up.

↳ ynsdefense “doing good deeds” is wild behavior to accuse someone of. sorry she’s a decent human i guess?

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yourusername uploaded a story!

love4yn replied "your nieces are about to get the most emotionally regulated love known to man."

landoe04 replied “can’t wait to see uncle oscar in the next story 😇”

angelicyn replied "i volunteer to be one of your nieces thx"

shawnmendes replied "this made me smile."

papayapressure replied “we get it. you’re soft. you’re sweet. you’re just like us 🙄”

newintown replied "do the nieces know their aunt could sell out Madison Square Garden but is taking them hiking instead??"

shedoesntgohere replied “this gives ‘please think i’m a good person’ energy.”

yourbrother replied "still laughing at Cleo telling me that i don't get the vibe."

ynsgirl222 replied “just curious… are the kids the only ones you’re babysitting this week 👀”

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later...

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shawnmendes uploaded a story!

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liked by hattie_piastri, oscarpiastri, sophie_matteson, mia.reinhart, yourbestfriend, and others

edie_pia kicked off my second decade with cake, watching noodle fall in love with my big brother, expensive dinners (thank u mclaren for writing his checks), and the best vibes. feeling loved, slightly over-caffeinated, and ready to take on my twenties 🧁

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liv.rothman “thank u mclaren for writing his checks” IM CRYINGGGG

hattie_piastri love you so big, baby sister.

kayla.beech ugh i forgot to text you this morning but HAPPY BIRTHDAY you angel 😭🎉

f1butunwell happy birthday, Edie! We love your brother!

mclarenmeg wait this is oscar’s sister?? omg slay happy bday queen

↳ edie_pia no idk who that is sorry

↳ oscarpiastri same

mum.piastri My darling girl, I can hardly believe you're 20! It feels like just yesterday I was holding you in my arms, and yet my gray hairs might tell a different story... (They’re really piling up now!). Love you oodles and oodles. 💖

mclaren happy birthday, edie! 🎈

oscarpiastri happy birthday, ed. thanks for showing me how to jaywalk.

↳ edie_pia you still don't do it properly...? you apologize every single time 😒

↳ mum.pastri ... What? 🥲

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edie_pia uploaded a story!

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oscarandthegirlies replied "he is NOT back emotionally 💀 look at that GROUCHY FACE yn come get your man."

sector2slump replied "bro said good to be home like he’s trying to convince himself 😭"

ynpapayapress replied "i KNOW a man in emotional limbo when i see one"

markonmediums replied "my daughter said he’s giving abandoned golden retriever energy and i don't know what that means but i hope he chins up. good kid."

piastrisf1wife replied "he looks like someone just told him it’s media day for the third time in one week."

racedaybabe replied "jet lag hitting different huh"

lockuplads replied "he's so polite but you can tell he'd rather be anywhere else"

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liked by sydney_sweeney, rinasonline, chloebailey, phoebebridgers. oscarpiastri, yourbrother, and others

yourusername hello lovers! i was on double-duty this week - auntie yn x tour guide and i adored every minute of it. this was the first time my girls have visited me in the city and suffice to say, they loved it :') we chased down ice cream trucks, rode the carousel until our eyes were cross, bought way too many flowers (kidding, of course, you can never have too many), we made some new friends, ate pizza slices bigger than our heads, and had very serious discussions about what bubble wand color is superior (pink, of course).

these are the kinds of days i want to keep close. bare-faced and barefoot in central park. loud giggles and sticky fingers on sunlit sidewalks. big big smiles on two little faces :) the city feels like magic, again. thankful to these cuties for reminding me of that ♡

p.s. pls refer to the duck chart 🦆

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mclaren we'd like to formally offer you a position on our media team, the vibes are immaculate.

↳ yourusername only if my nieces can come too. they’re very invested in tire strategy now.

↳ yourbrother they are five and three - what about ME?! HELLO? LIFELONG F1 FAN?

↳ yourusername 🤔 mclaren... did you guys hear anything?

↳ mclaren 🙉

↳ ynbaby IM SCREAMING mclaren GIVE HIM A JOB. HE IS THE REASON WE ARE HERE.

futureyn_piastri no oscar pics? i know Lando is going to be disappointed :(

↳ landonorris real

piastri_panic ... duck chart?

↳ imwithnorris no i was about to say what the FUCK IS SHE TALKING ABOUT 😭

dramaqueen01 girl wrap it UP with this soft girl narrative we are tired

↳ oscpresso says the one who came on yn's page to start shit? okay lol

dualipa the hold you have on me is not normal

↳ yourusername text meeeee

orangehearted not to be fucking insane but that is the HAND of a MAN in slide two...

↳ pitstoppiastri 👀

↳ f1butunwell you guys are so fucking weird i hate it here

maggierogers so glad joy found you again 💕

ynupdates this whole post is giving indie movie directed by greta gerwig

piastrisbaby ngl kinda wish oscar was in this dump too 😭

↳ not_lando lets be real, he probably took half these pics

ynsunrise how do i audition to be your niece. i’m 27 and emotionally unavailable but i can love to bake, know every single one of your songs, and like f1

↳ yourusername i'll have my people contact yours

oscarpiastri 🦆

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landonorris uploaded a story!

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#f1 smau #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #formula 1 #formula 1 fic #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri smau #oscar piastri #mclaren #lando norris

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delilahsturniolo · 1 day ago

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⋆˙⟡ ۶ৎ 📞 BABY, CAN YOU CALL ME BACK? I MISS YOU . . .

in which . . . you and matt get into an argument over the phone while he’s away for tour. matt calls you again hours later, apologizing and letting you know how much he misses you.

warnings . . . phone sex, mutual masturbation, degradation, dirty talk, arguing, angst, sexual descriptions, cursing, matt talking you through it.

written by @delilahsturniolo, do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

the call starts out fine. he’s in some city you can’t remember the name of. maybe denver. or dallas. it doesn’t matter. he’s not here. he hasn’t been for weeks. you’re curled up on your bed, wearing his hoodie, one of the only things that still smells like him. it’s past midnight and the video call glitches when he answers. he looks tired. his hair’s messy. he’s got a water bottle in one hand and his phone in the other, held up under his chin like he can’t be bothered to try. “hey,” he says, voice scratchy from the show “hey,” you reply, quiet.

he talks about the crowd, about his travels, all that stuff. you nod. smile where it feels appropriate. but something’s off, he doesn’t ask about your day. doesn’t notice the dark circles under your eyes or the way your voice shakes a little when you talk. and you’re already too close to the edge to let it slide. you miss him, so damn much. “do you even care how i am?” you blurt. matt pauses. “what?”

“you didn’t ask. not once.” your voice cracks. “i’ve been trying so hard to be cool about this, matt, but i feel like i’m dating a fucking ghost.” his jaw tightens. “that’s not fair.”

“neither is the fact that i haven’t seen you in a month and the best i get is a ten-minute facetime where you talk more about the food you ate than me.”

“i’m working,” he says, sharper now. “this isn’t a vacation. i’m exhausted.”

“and i’m lonely!” you snap, tears brimming. “but that doesn’t matter, right? because as long as you’re doing your thing, i’m just supposed to shut up and deal with it.”

he goes quiet. his face darkens. “i can’t do this right now,” he mutters. “of course not,” you say bitterly. “you never can.” then he hangs up. your phone screen goes black and the room suddenly feels colder. you don’t cry. not at first. you just sit there, staring at the screen, fists clenched, chest burning with anger and heartbreak. you toss your phone on the bed, crawl under the covers, and try to pretend you’re not falling apart.

two hours pass.

then, your phone buzzes, you don’t look right away. but then the screen lights up again. matt calling, your heart stutters. you answer. neither of you says anything for a few seconds. then his voice…low, rough, soft in the dark.

“i’m sorry.”

you breathe out slowly. “me too.”

“i shouldn’t have hung up. that was a dick move.”

“i shouldn’t have picked a fight,” you whisper. “i just… miss you so bad it hurts.” he exhales. “i know, baby. i miss you too. like fucking crazy.” silence. then, more quietly…

“can i tell you something?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“i—i just…i needed to hear your voice again.”

your breath catches.

“been laying in this hotel bed thinking about you. thinking about how mad you looked. even that turned me on.” his voice dips, husky now. “you know what that does to me, don’t you?”you squirm under your blankets. “what?”

“the way your voice sounds when you’re mad. the way your lips pout when you’re frustrated. i kept picturing you walking away from the phone, pacing in my hoodie, no pants on, just those little shorts that ride up when you sit…fuck.” your body heats instantly.

“matt…”

“i know, baby. i know. you’re probably in bed right now, aren’t you? wearing that hoodie. nothing else.” you can’t speak. your breath’s gone, you clench your thighs together, trying to contain the heat pooling between your legs.

“i’d be touching you if i was there. slow. careful. i’d make it up to you, make you forget why you were ever mad in the first place. i’d kiss your thighs, your stomach, every inch of you.”

“matt,” you whisper, needy now.

“say it again,” he murmurs. “please.”

“matt,” you moan out into the speaker, softer, more desperate.

“good girl,” he groans. “you don’t even know what you do to me.” you close your eyes, biting your lip. “touch yourself for me,” he says, voice ragged. “just a little. i wanna hear how bad you need me.” your fingers trail down slowly, as he whispers your name again and again like a prayer, voice thick with lust and love and everything you’ve both been holding in for too long. the argument fades like smoke, what’s left is the ache. the love. the promise of his hands on you again soon.

you breathe, your hand sliding down your body. "i miss you so much, i need you." matt groans. "i know, baby, i need you too," he whispers, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "i wish i could touch you, taste you, feel your body against mine. i'd run my hands all over your soft skin, teasing you until you were begging for more."

"tell me what you'd do to me," you beg, your fingers toying with the hem of your panties. "tell me how you'd make me feel."

"first, i'd kiss you, long and deep," he starts, his voice low and seductive. "i'd taste every inch of your mouth, claim you with my tongue. then i'd trail kisses down your neck, sucking and biting until i left marks on your skin…” you moan softly, your eyes fluttering closed as you imagine his lips on your body. your fingers slip beneath your panties, finding your clit and circling it slowly.

"then i'd move down to your breasts, sucking and licking your nipples until they were hard and aching," he continues, his voice rough with desire. "i'd worship your body with my mouth, kissing and tasting every inch of your skin." you whimper, your fingers moving faster against your clit. "more," you beg, your voice breathy and needy.

"then i'd spread your legs, baring your pretty pussy to me," he growls, and you can hear the hunger in his voice. "i'd lick you from top to bottom, tasting your sweetness. i'd fuck you with my tongue, thrusting it deep inside you until you were writhing and moaning beneath me." you cry out, your hips bucking against your hand. "matt, please," you whimper, your body trembling with need.

"fuck yourself on your fingers," he commands, his voice low and rough. "imagine it's my cock inside you, stretching you open, filling you up. i want you to feel me, even though i'm not there." you obey, sliding two fingers inside yourself, your walls clenching around them. you moan loudly, your hips rocking against your hand.

"that's it, baby," he encourages, his voice strained. "fuck yourself just like that, take what you need. imagine my hands on your body, my cock deep inside you." you hear him moan softly, and you realize he's stroking himself, his hand moving up and down his thick shaft. the thought of him jerking off to the sound of your moans sends a thrill through your body.

"you like that, don't you?" he growls, his voice low and dirty. "you like knowing i'm stroking my cock, thinking about your tight little pussy. you're such a dirty little slut, aren't you?" you moan loudly, your fingers moving faster inside yourself. "yes," you whimper, your voice breathy and needy. "i'm—oh my gosh..”

"fuck, you're so hot," he groans, his breathing ragged. "i wish i could see you, see your fingers fucking your pussy, see your face as you cum. i’d give anything to be inside you right now, pounding into you until you screamed."

"matt," you gasp, your fingers curling inside yourself. "i'm so close, i need to cum!”

"cum for me," he growls, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "cum all over your fingers, let me hear you scream. i want to hear how good i make you feel, even from miles away." with a cry, you come undone, your body convulsing around your fingers. you moan his name over and over again, your hips bucking wildly. "that's it, baby," he purrs, his voice low and satisfied. "just like that. i wish i could be there to hold you, to taste your cum on my tongue, to feel your body against mine."

you hear his breathing quicken, his moans growing louder. "fuck, i'm gonna cum," he groans, his voice rough with pleasure. "i'm gonna cum thinking about you, about your tight pussy, your gorgeous body." with a loud moan, he comes undone, his cum spilling over his hand as he strokes himself through his orgasm. you listen to his moans, your body trembling with pleasure. "soon," you promise, your voice rough with emotion. "soon we'll be together again."

"i can't wait," he whispers. "until then, know that i love you, that i'm always thinking of you. i'll be dreaming of you tonight, of touching you and tasting you and fucking you until you scream." you laugh. "i love you too," you reply, your heart swelling with love and desire. as you lay in bed, basking in the afterglow of your shared pleasure, you know that no matter the distance between you, your love will always keep you connected.

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sad-girl-hours23 · 2 days ago

Note

Can I have kiss 48 out of habit for bucktommy please 😘

Thank you for the ask! 🥰

They haven't told anyone they're back together yet. And everyone they would tell—namely the Hans and Wilsons—is currently sit around the Hans' kitchen table.

Or ignoring Tommy from three states away.

Ravi found out three weeks ago when Evan picked Tommy up from karaoke bar trivia. Which was a perfectly platonic thing for him to do. Sticking his tongue so far into Tommy's mouth he could name the citrus flavor of the beer he finished hours before, however, was not.

They've kept quiet for reasons which Tommy's sure felt, well, reasonable at the time— after several much needed conversations and the most comprehensive pros and cons list Tommy's ever been presented with—but which have felt unfathomable since the moment he stepped into the house to find Evan with a sleeping baby in his arms.

Sweet, thoughtful Evan spent the entirety of dinner holding Kevin so Maddie could eat hers while it was still hot, sparing no thought for the crisis Tommy was going through.

Between dinner and dessert, their seating arrangements change. Now Tommy's close enough to feel the heat radiating off Evan's body, to breathe in the familiar scent of him—something sweet and inherently Evan underneath the sandalwood and amber of his cologne. But there's something else—that up until a few hours ago Tommy had never experienced—that new baby smell. It clings to Evan's skin and burrows underneath Tommy's rib cage.

Evan taps a thumb on Tommy's knee, bringing him back into the room.

He wonders how long Howie's been saying his name.

"You alright, bud?"

Tommy rubs the back of his neck and laughs. "Yeah. Just tired, I guess."

"Picking up extra shifts will do that."

"Speaking of, I should get going. Thank you for dinner."

Maddie smiles. "You're welcome anytime."

Tommy stands up from the table and pushes in his chair.

Evan looks up at him and says, "be safe."

Tommy kisses Evan's curls. "Always am."

For the longest moment of Tommy's life, nobody says a word.

Then Howie pops his gum and says, "you never kiss me goodbye."

"That," Evan says—grabbing Tommy's shirt and pulling him closer—"is because he doesn't love you like he loves me."

Howie smirks. "Is that true?"

"Afraid so."

Evan makes a wounded noise. Tommy kisses him in apology. "I really have to go."

"Thanks again for dinner."

"Uh huh," Howie says. "Thanks for the show."

Tommy laughs and shakes his head.

He catches the moment Karen hands her wife a twenty and he can't help but feel a little smug on Hen's behalf. And when he meets Hen's eye, he thinks that maybe she's feeling a bit proud on his.

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #bucktommy fic #madney #henren #kiss prompts #o0anapher0o

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nemisuki · 2 days ago

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𐔌✧.* ꜱᴘᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

ೀ⋆ || Just your man driving over to protect you from a cat caller, he’d even break the law for you ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

. ♬ ݁˖ || inspo song : spotify version & yt version ᯓ★

ᝰ.ᐟ || katsuki bakugo x f!reader, she/her pronouns, pure fluff, acts of service, 1.5k word count •°. *࿐

To say your boyfriend was a bit protective… certainly turned out to be the biggest understatement of the century.

You should’ve assumed from the moment you two started dating that he would be like this, whenever a man would so much as stare at you — a little too long for his liking — the blonde would quickly step in front of you, blocking their line of sight.

All while glaring absolute daggers at the onlooker.

He would never immediately tell you though, not wanting to interrupt whatever you were rambling on about.

Plus he knew it always made you feel uneasy, always clinging to his side whenever he muttered something along the lines of “fucking creep is starin’ at you” or “walk closer to me yeah?”

Because Katsuki Bakugo was never one to play about his woman.

You smile at the familiar contact under ‘Blasty💥’ as your phone begins to buzz, already imagining an impatient man behind the screen, whose no doubt waiting for you to answer.

So you do, continuing to walk down the streets under the night sky, holding the mobile device against your ears, not even having time to speak since he beats you to it.

“Where are you hah?”

You giggle.

“Wow, not even a hello Katsuki?”

He grumbles through the speaker, the sound of a car door closing — of his Porsche no doubt — echoing in the background, meaning he must’ve already finished his patrol, already preparing to head home.

Likely calling you in case you were nearby.

“Yeah yeah, hi or whatever. Now answer the question, dumbass.”

You hum.

“I’m walking home right now, stopped by the store to grab us some dinner—”

“Tch, I told yur’ ass to stop doin’ that, I can cook dammit.”

You can hear the way his car engine switches on in an instant, soon buckling on his seat belt, clearly determined to pick you up.

This man sure is a force of nature, but deep down, a massive softie… well maybe only to you.

Your eyes soften.

“I know but you’ve been really busy this week, thought we could eat takeout and watch a movie or something.”

It’s silent for a moment, and it honestly made you wonder if he was genuinely upset, I mean… you suppose he does enjoy being in the kitchen — cooking amazing meals whenever given the opportunity.

You slow down your stride.

“Oh I’m sorry Kats, I should’ve asked first—“

He scoffs.

“Stop apologizing nerd, I was just checking your location. Stay where you are, yeah? I’ll be there in 15.... and the food better be damn good.”

You couldn’t help the cheesy smile that formed on your face, finding his last few words so stinkin' cute as he attempts to reassure you.

Deciding to stand near an open diner, you continue filling in Katsuki about your day, unlike him — having a relatively calm job at one of the local shops around here — despite the blonde constantly reminding you that it’s okay to not work anymore.

Since you quote on quote “shouldn’t be paying for anything in the fucking first place” because you have him.

You didn’t mind though, it helped you keep busy whenever he wasn’t around and a few extra dollars to your name couldn't hurt!

For the most part, it was a relatively peaceful night — for the most part.

Until something suddenly switched in the air, the feeling of someone watching, sent a wave of uneasiness through your veins, temporarily distracting you from Katsuki's voice on the line.

You look around, taking notice of a man sitting a few steps away in his car, shamelessly staring you down with a gaze that screams danger.

Unsure of what to do, you simply try to ignore it, in hopes he’ll eventually look away, but he didn’t, so in order to avoid any further interactions — you grab your bags, starting to search for another place to wait at.

Already hearing disgusting comments the man was making about your appearance; an obnoxious cat caller per usual.

It was beyond discomforting.

And Katsuki being perceptive as he is, took notice of your sudden silence, his brows furrowing as he glanced at the phone on the dashboard.

“Oi, you still there?”

You jolt out of your spiraling thoughts, mustering up the best response you could say with a — very much phony — relaxed tone, not wanting to alarm the blonde.

“Hm? Oh yeah sorry… I was just—"

Though you should’ve known it was futile, this is Katsuki Bakugo we’re talking about, the 5th ranking pro hero that’s known for being a key strategist on the battlefield.

His fingers tighten against the steering wheel, all alarms going off in his head.

“What happened? Tell me.”

“It's nothing—“

The blondes jaw clenches, sharp crimson eyes peeking at your location once again, huffing with increasing annoyance.

“Don’t lie to me dumbass, I can see you walking when I specifically told you to stay put. Plus I heard the way yur' breathing spiked up, anyone ever told you — you’re a horrible liar?”

You sigh with defeat, now standing in front of a local convenience store, anxiously looking around to make sure the guy didn’t follow close behind.

“Well… a guy was staring really hard from his car a few seconds ago, so I moved spots, but I don’t think he’s following me. He just wouldn’t look away ya' know?”

He mumbles incoherent curses through the phone, already stepping on the gas pedal with shimmering rage, his muscles tensing up at the nervous tone you horribly try to hide.

"Did the bastard say anything to you?"

Your silence was all he needed.

He uses one hand to swiftly maneuver through the passing cars, moving from one lane to the next, accelerating as best as he could without causing danger to those around.

This would surely be in the media tomorrow, breaking news and headlines — Number 5, Pro Hero Dynamight causing mayhem on the freeway — the controversy will probably drop him a rank or two, but he didn't give a damn.

Not when an asshole is making you feel troubled.

“Go inside the store and if you see him approaching then tell the cashier okay? Just wait a little longer, don’t fucking hang up ya' hear?”

“Alright…”

You quickly make your way inside, aimlessly roaming the aisles of bagged chips and colorful candy wrappers, trying to take your mind off the whole incident.

And much to your disbelief, Katsuki makes it there in under 5 minutes, the time so absurd that you’re almost positive he drove past a few red lights at full speed, as if he’ll ever admit to that to you though.

Instant relief floods your veins as you see him rush through the automatic doors, his chest slightly heaving — as if he ran straight out of his car — eyes snapping around each part of the relatively empty store for his gaze to eventually land on your figure.

And he’s at your side before you could even blink.

His arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, making sure you’re unharmed and safely tucked against him.

While his other hand cups your cheek, the blonde's voice having a softer yet gruff undertone to it.

“You okay, baby?”

You absolutely melt in his embrace.

Nuzzling into his palm, smiling up at him as your heart stammers with newfound affection, he almost never uses nicknames, or even is this touchy in public — yet he seems to have forgotten all about that in this very moment.

“Mhm, 'm sorry I made you worry.”

He shakes his head, keeping his arm around your waist as he leads you outside, where his sleek black car is parked in all its glory.

“I said to stop apologizing woman, and remind me to get you pepper spray when we get home, fucking creeps all over the damn city…”

You smile, standing on your tippy toes to press a soft kiss to his lips, unable to resist showing your savior some love.

“Thank you for saving me Dynamight~”

He tenses up, clearly caught off guard, his cheeks flushing in a soft pink as he hesitantly opens the passenger door for you, taking the bags and avoiding your gaze entirely — he’s so cute.

Such a rough exterior with a heart of a kitten; the blonde clears his throat.

“Just get in already, stupid… and it's Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, say it right!"

"Oh my god Kats—"

You burst out in laughter, already hopping inside as he shuts the door behind you, moving to place the bags in the back seat.

And although he may not realize, you can see it through the side mirrors, a small smile on his face as he shuts the back door.

Of course, you made sure to show him extra love when you two got home, cuddling up to him on the couch as you two snacked on their takeout, the man attempting to act aloof but his gentle eyes said another thing.

That protecting your smile was always his main priority, even over the world.

✦ ⎯⎯⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨ masterlist || taglist || intro || socials ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⎯⎯ ✦

ᴀ/ɴ ||| hi my beautiful flowers! i hope u liked this fic of me gushing over driver bkg — the fact that he could drive is EXTREMELY attractive, i just know he uses one hand on the wheel hehe... now time for me to go, plus ultra! ᕙ( •̀ ᗜ •́ )ᕗ ᴛᴀɢꜱ ||| @leleyro @zaiban2989 @qyuin @sunnyalmighty (❁ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)

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holylulusworld · 1 day ago

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Ghosted

Summary: Dating. You’re not doing this anymore.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader, former Seth x fem!Reader (mentioned)

Warnings: mentions of past bad relationships, abandonment, being ghosted, unresolved breakup, angst, a hint of fluff, hopeful ending

Dating. Romance. Love. You’re not doing this anymore.

“Why not?” Your new colleague, a cocky and handsome guy, asks. He wanted you to have dinner with him, but like with every man before, you turned him down. “Did I say something wrong? I thought we were getting along very well, and there’s no company policy saying we can’t date.”

“I’m not doing this anymore,” you simply reply, with no sadness or pain in your voice. You became indifferent when it comes to dating, love, or even interacting with men. “I know people say this all the time, but it’s not you, it’s me, Bucky.” You give him a cracked smile and pat his upper arm. “You are an all-right guy, I guess, but dating is not for me. Not anymore…”

Bucky is stunned. He believed there was something great blooming between the two of you. You ate together during lunch break, shared jokes, and helped each other whenever one of you needed a hand.

“What was that?” He scratches his beard. “I thought she liked me too. Huh…did I lose my mojo?” Bucky dips his head to glance at Jake, another colleague from IT.

“It’s not you,” Jake says, knowing about your history with dating. “You didn’t hear this from me, but…”

…And then, Jake, ever the tattletale, tells Bucky how you became indifferent when it comes to love.

Three years ago, …

It was perfect. He was perfect.

Your last relationship left you heartbroken, and you believed there was never going to be a nice guy you’d fall in love with again. But there you were, spinning in your living room in a brand-new dress, waiting for him to pick you up.

After only six months, you and Seth were going steady.

It surprised you that Seth and you immediately got along so well. At first, he looked like one of those self-centered guys. Handsome but shallow.

Luckily, he was not a quitter. Seth talked you into giving him a chance to prove he’s a better man than your ex. He was charming and suggested going to the library to listen to a new author talking about their book.

Seth was sweet and shyly wrapped his arm around your shoulders when the author read a sad passage of their book.

You talked for hours after leaving the library. He liked the same music, reading, and long walks in the park. Not to forget, he wanted to start doing charity work, too, and he loved pets.

You haven’t talked about adopting a dog or cat with him yet, but you have had lots of time. At least you thought so at that point while spinning in your dress.

A funny moment turned into hours of waiting, desperate calls, messages, and so many questions. You didn’t get an answer. Not that night or any other night for two months.

One night, Seth invited you for dinner, and the next day, he just ghosted you. No call. No message. No apology.

You spent weeks questioning yourself, your appearance, hell, even the food you served Seth when you cooked for him.

Out of the blue, the man you believed loved you, and you would spend the rest of your life with, was gone, without as much as an explanation.

It was two months later that you saw him at a restaurant with his ex—the woman he told you was in the past. He used you to make her jealous, so she left her boyfriend.

You laughed about your stupidity. How could you have been so blind and let a man walk all over you again? That day at the restaurant, you swore to yourself you’d never fall in love again… never…

Now, …

“Wow,” Bucky replies after Jake finally stops talking. He can’t believe someone did this to you. You are always kind and the nicest person he ever met. “Why would he do this to her?”

“I don’t know.” Jake shrugs. “Some people are assholes and ghost others. I’m not saying it’s okay, but shit like this happens all the damn time.”

“I understand now that she doesn’t want to date anyone. Fuck,” he curses himself for asking you out. “I should apologize. Right?” Bucky looks at Jake, who’s busy scrolling through his phone. “Jake, can you stop with that for once?”

“Do whatever you want with the information I gave you. Just keep me out of this. You didn’t hear a word from me.”

Bucky awkwardly watches you from afar. Things have been strained between the two of you since you turned him down a week ago.

He averts his gaze when you look his way, sighing deeply. For days, he has tried to find the right words to apologize to you. Whatever he believed was going on between you and him was non-existent, and he feels like a fool.

He walks toward your office, his now cold coffee in his hand. Bucky looks at it, sighing again. The last thing he wanted was to hurt you or make you feel uncomfortable.

“Come in,” you say as someone hesitantly knocks at your door. You’re surprised to see Bucky poke his head in. “Bucky, hey. Please come in.”

He steps inside, looking around your office as if he is trying to buy himself some time. “Hi,” Bucky shyly says. “Uh—I wanted to say I’m sorry for asking you out without a warning.” Bucky looks down at his shoes, nervously shuffling from one foot to the other.

You blink at his words. “It’s fine,” you hastily reply. “I’m sorry too. You’re a nice guy, and I like you, but… I’m not dating…anyone.”

He nods and looks away. “I never wanted to make things awkward between us or make you feel uncomfortable. I like you too much to do such a shitty thing. Please forget I ever said a thing.”

“It’s not your fault that most of the men are shitty,” you murmur and give him a cracked smile. “If things were different, I’d gladly go out with you.”

Bucky smiles for a second before he turns around and leaves your office without another word.

He wishes things were different, but you’re too heartbroken, and there’s no way he’ll ever convince you that he’d rather die than hurt you.

“Handsome, you’re back,” the waitress at his favorite restaurant greets Bucky. She makes an insider joke only he understands and subtly asks about his best friend, Steve. “Where is your shadow today?”

“He’s out of town.” Her face falls, and Bucky is quick to say, “For business. Next time, he’ll be around too.”

“I reserved the best table for you,” she says and winks at Bucky. He follows her without a word. The table he reserved was for the two of you; now he’ll eat alone as so often.

“Thank you,” Bucky says and sits down. The waitress hands him the menu, asking if he wants the usual. He nods, not in the mood to decide on anything but how to forget about you and his feelings.

She walks away to give his orders to the kitchen, a sly smile on her face. While Bucky tries to busy himself with his phone and scrolls through the pictures of his cat Alpine, she’s greeting the next guest.

“Maybe one of our regulars would be generous enough to share his table with you, miss,” she says, suddenly standing in front of Bucky’s table. “Mr. Barnes, would you help this lady out? She wants to eat here, but there’s no free table.

He gets up to leave the table to whoever the waitress brought to his table. “She can—” His eyes widen as you stand in front of his table. “I can eat at home…uh…she can have the table.”

“We could share.” You are as shocked as Bucky, but somehow, you don’t want him to go. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Oh, sure…” He pulls the chair for you. “My pleasure, Y/N.”

You glance at his phone, giggling because his gallery is full of pictures of a white furball. A cute white cat with the bluest eyes you ever saw. Well, except for the pair he owns.

“You like cats?”

“I like this one,” he replies, with a smile. “That’s Alpine, the queen of my castle. She’s picky and a drama queen when it comes to food, my attention, or…anything in between.” He shrugs. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You nod and smile back. A warm feeling spreads through your chest when Bucky starts talking about his cat and how he found her at a shelter. He tells you that he didn’t go there to adopt a pet, only to accompany his friend Steve, who wanted to pick up his dog.

“I ended up taking her home,” Bucky explains and shows you another picture. “Shit…sorry. I didn’t want to talk about my cat all the time. Uh—I’ll be silent now so you can eat and go home.”

“Hey, uh—” You touch his hand, stopping Bucky from closing the gallery. “Why don’t you tell me more about your cat?”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #Ghosted

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humaling · 2 days ago

Text

You're Still The One I Run To.

pt 2 of Hope Is A Dangerous Thing To Have

pairings: hijacked!finnick x reader

summary: in district 13, survival is routine—but when finnick’s quiet apology breaks through the silence, you begin to wonder if something lost can still be found.

contents: mentions of capitol's torture on finnick, slow burn

word count: 7.4k

author's notes: i'm sorry it took a while! i had a writer's block on this one hehe. next chapter will be the last and might take a while again.

Finnick shifts uncomfortably in bed, the thin mattress doing little to cushion the hard metal frame beneath him. Every time he moves, it creaks and groans, pressing into his back like a cruel reminder of how far he is from comfort. Honestly, the floor might be better than this.

The dim glow from the lampshade beside him casts long, soft shadows across the room, the only source of light in the bunker’s stale gloom. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels dull, empty, lifeless—much like how his body feels during these godforsaken hours of the night. He lies there, restless, like his bones are aching for something he can’t name. Something missing. Something lost. He tells himself it’s just District 13—cold, gray, and not at all like District 4. Not home.

Beside him, Gale Hawthorne sleeps soundly. A low snore rattles from his chest, breaking the silence in an oddly grounding way. Finnick figures it’s better than nothing. Better than lying awake in silence and letting the darkness creeping in the back of his mind swallow him whole.

It’s been a few weeks since he was cleared. He’d been assigned to share this room with Gale, who hadn’t exactly seemed thrilled about it. Not that Finnick was either, but at least he didn’t throw a fit. Katniss told him not to take it personally—that Gale’s just been sensitive lately, with everything that’s happened. Finnick tried to take her word for it. But after Gale locked him out of the room one night, Finnick stopped caring altogether.

Stopped caring. Grew indifferent.

His mind weaves back to you when he first got here; the heartbroken look plastered on your face when he pushed you away, the way your eyes glossed as you plead with him. And then:

A soft laugh flits through his memory like a breeze—gentle, teasing, familiar. He sees you again: running down the shoreline, your laughter carried by the wind. Just for a moment.

He squeezes his eyes shut. A dull ache presses into his skull, pulsing behind his temple. The memory slips back into the darkness, but not before leaving behind its echo. That’s been happening more and more. The flashbacks, the headaches, the wave of nausea that always follows. Ever since the emergency drill in the safety vault, it’s like his mind’s been splitting open, one blurred memory at a time. A voice. A touch. An object that looks a little too familiar—they all bring something back.

The doctor said it’s the Capitol’s hijacking wearing off. Told him it was expected. Gave him pills to ease the side effects. Finnick tried taking them at first, but he’s always been terrible with medication. He gave up after a couple days. He remembers how his mother used to chase him around the house just to get him to take flu drops. Now, the pills are tucked away in the drawer beneath his bed, buried under bits and pieces he’s collected since he got here—things that don’t mean anything to anyone but him.

The doctors, and the few friends he has here, keep telling him the same thing—that the memories resurfacing now are real, and the ones the Capitol etched into his mind are nothing but lies. And he wants to believe them, he truly does. But it’s hard. Damn near impossible. Because how can something real feel so distant and fragmented, while the false ones remain vivid, sharp, and devastating?

He tries to reason with himself. Maybe this is exactly how the Capitol intended to break him. Twist his thoughts. Turn him against someone he once loved. Because what better way to destroy a man than to erase the love he once knew? To make him forget how it felt to be held by someone who saw his darkest parts and didn’t flinch—who cradled his brokenness like it was fragile glass and still chose to stay.

But on most nights, he isn’t reasonable. Most nights, he wonders if this is how Snow wanted him to unravel. Not with violence. Not with blood. But with quiet betrayal. With the slow realization that the person he held closest—who he thought cherished him most—might have been nothing more than a well-crafted lie. A backstabber wrapped in warmth. A performance masked as affection. And for what? What was he even used for?

There are cracks in those memories, though. Little gaps. Inconsistencies. And sometimes, that alone is enough to soothe the sharp ache behind his ribs. Annie tells him those might be planted memories, stitched together by the Capitol to manipulate him. He holds onto that thought like a lifeline.

That it wasn’t real. That it was all fake. That it was designed to hurt him. Designed to turn him inside out.

God, get out of his head.

Finnick sits up in bed, the frame groaning under the shift of his weight. He leans back until his spine hits the cold wall, and a shiver races down his back. His thoughts drift again. To you.

He hasn’t seen you much lately. He never asked why, didn’t think he should. But a part of him aches to know. And he hates himself for that. He’s supposed to hate you, isn’t he?

But instead, he finds himself lying awake night after night, staring at the ceiling and thinking of you.

Finnick threads through the sterile halls of District 13, his pace steady, his mind fixated on one thing: berries. One of the soldiers had let it slip that there’d be berries served with the oatmeal today, and honestly, that was enough to light a spark in his otherwise dreary morning. He never thought he’d get this excited over something so small. Mango had always been his favorite. But after spending weeks underground without a single glimpse of sunlight, even the faint promise of berries felt like a damn miracle.

Because those godawful oatmeals? They tasted like regret. Like wet sand. Like someone thought flavor was a war crime.

He weaves through the crowd with ease, tossing a few practiced smiles here and there—charming, effortless, Capitol-polished. Just enough to slip past the line of tired faces and into the cafeteria before the berry stash is gone.

Even though he’s so caught up in his berry-fueled daydream, he catches a glimpse of a familiar face sitting at the corner of the cafeteria. You.

There you are, sitting in the far corner, a few unfamiliar soldiers scattered around you. Finnick figures they’re from your unit—he’s heard you joined the front lines. Johanna said it’s how you cope. Annie thinks it’s something darker, something rooted in self-destruction. She’d nudged him the other night, whispering that you’re not doing well, like she expected him to fix it. But Finnick isn’t sure what to believe anymore. About you. About himself. About anything.

You look… different. And not in a way that sits right with him.

You’re thinner—sharper around the edges. Your shoulders slumped, expression blank, eyes staring somewhere far away. Hollow. Faded. Like something vital in you had been drained and never quite filled back in. Those weren’t the eyes he remembered. The last time he really saw you—back in the bunker—they were bright, even through the pain. You’d looked at him like you still believed there was something worth salvaging.

Now? You look like someone who stopped waiting.

It’s hard, seeing you like this. Because he’s supposed to hate you. That’s what he told himself. That’s what the Capitol etched into his mind—memories painted in betrayal, twisted in ways that still make his stomach turn. And yet, his heart doesn’t play by the same rules. Because despite everything, despite the mess, it still beats a little faster when you’re near. Still aches when you’re not. And that hate he clings to so tightly? It doesn't live in his chest. It’s in his head. Planted. Manufactured.

His heart never forgot you.

That might be the cruelest part.

The tray in his hands trembles slightly. He doesn’t notice until someone bumps into him, muttering an apology as they pass. He realizes, too late, that he’s stopped walking. Just standing there in the middle of the cafeteria, staring at you like some haunted fool. A few people glance his way. He doesn’t care.

All he can see is you.

And right now, you look like you’re about to fall apart.

He tears his eyes away with effort, forcing his feet to move, to carry him toward the other end of the cafeteria where Katniss, Johanna, Annie, Gale, and Prim are already gathered at one of the long metal tables. Their conversation is quiet, tired. The kind of talk that hums under the surface of war—just enough to feel normal, even if no one really believes in normal anymore.

Finnick slides into the seat beside Annie, dropping his tray onto the table with less grace than usual. No one comments. Katniss glances at him briefly, then turns back to whatever Gale is muttering under his breath. Johanna’s poking at her food like it insulted her, while Prim gently nudges a bowl toward him with a small smile. Strawberries. A few, nestled beside the oatmeal like some precious, rare gem.

He nods in silent thanks, though he’s lost his appetite. That dull twist in his stomach has nothing to do with hunger.

Annie leans close. “You saw her, didn’t you?”

Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper. He doesn’t answer, just stares at the berries, mind still wrapped around the ghost of your expression. That faraway look. That hollow shell. He presses his tongue to the back of his teeth and forces a swallow.

“She looks worse,” Johanna mutters, eyes still on her food. “Should’ve known she’d run herself straight into the ground.”

Katniss gives her a sharp look, but Johanna shrugs. “What? I’m not wrong.”

Prim stays quiet, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her napkin.

Finnick doesn’t say anything. He can’t. The words are there, burning behind his teeth, but none of them make it out. Because part of him wants to cross that room and reach out. Ask if you’ve eaten. If you’re sleeping. If the shadows under your eyes are from nightmares or from living wide awake in one.

But he doesn’t.

He picks up a strawberry instead, stares at it like it might give him answers. It doesn’t.

He stays quiet, even as the conversation picks back up around him. Laughter in the background. War in the foreground. And in between it all, the echo of something he once held close slipping further out of reach.

The corridors of District 13 hum with the low thrum of machinery and distant footfalls, sterile and cold as always. Finnick walks beside Katniss, steps matching hers as Boggs leads them down a narrow hallway lined with reinforced glass. It’s part of the upper training sector—recently refurbished, apparently. Or so Boggs says, though everything still looks the same shade of lifeless gray.

“From here on out,” Boggs says, tapping something on a clipboard as he walks, “you’ll be expected to report to training units daily—combat drills, endurance conditioning, field strategy. Nothing too advanced yet, just enough to prep your bodies for real fieldwork.”

Katniss gives a quiet nod, her expression unreadable. Finnick doesn’t respond. He’s listening, mostly, but his mind drifts in and out, clinging to details and letting others slide. The talk of drills, the bark of instructors echoing from far-off rooms, the repetitive slap of boots against the ground—it all blends together.

They round a corner and come upon a wide observation dome. The floor here curves into a glass overlook, where rows of seats face down into a sunken arena—a simulation room for live training. Finnick almost keeps walking—the place reminds him a little too much of the hunger games. But something pulls at the corner of his vision. A flicker of movement. A flash of a face he knows too well.

You.

You're down below, dressed in training blacks, moving through a timed obstacle drill with calculated speed. Dodging, pivoting, sweeping your arm in clean arcs as you strike the dummy in front of you, reset, strike again. Your body moves with trained precision—quick, sharp, disciplined.

But he sees it. In the way your left leg slightly drags after each leap. The moment your fingers twitch around the training staff like they’ve gone numb. How your jaw clenches after every third hit. Movements smooth, but not flawless. Not anymore.

Finnick slows, falling a step behind Boggs and Katniss, gaze fixed on the glass.

“She’s been here every morning,” Boggs says without looking, as if he’s already guessed what—or who—Finnick’s watching. “Won’t take breaks. Won’t talk to the medics. She’s burning herself out.”

Katniss glances back at him, a flicker of concern in her eyes. “They said she passed out during drills last week.”

Finnick doesn’t say anything. He watches as you stumble for the briefest moment, catching yourself before anyone can notice—anyone but him. You reset again. Keep going. Determined. Desperate.

Something inside him pulls tight.

“She doesn’t want help,” Katniss says gently. “Not even from Haymitch.”

That doesn’t surprise him. You always preferred to fight your demons head-on, even if it meant losing the battle with yourself.

Boggs keeps walking, motioning for them to follow toward another corridor lined with equipment and holo-maps. Katniss gives him a small nudge, and Finnick finally turns away, the image of you lingering behind his eyes like an afterimage burned into his vision.

But as they leave the dome, all he can think about is the way your hands trembled when you thought no one was watching.

It becomes a routine before he even realizes it.

After drills with Katniss and Gale, after the tactical briefings with Boggs, after the debriefs and silent lunches where conversation feels like another mission in itself—Finnick finds himself back in the upper levels of the training dome, tucked into the shadowed corners above the observation glass.

You’re always there.

Sometimes early, sometimes late, but always training like your life depends on it. Maybe it does. Maybe you think it does.

He sits with his elbows propped on his knees, shoulders hunched forward, eyes fixed on the figure moving below. You run the same combat sequences he’s seen a dozen times—standard disarm techniques, pressure point strikes, simulated close-quarters combat. He could close his eyes and still know how your feet land, how you pivot, how your hand flexes just a second too long after each blow.

At first, he told himself he was only watching out of concern. That’s what Annie would say. That he’s just worried. That he’s just looking after someone who’s clearly slipping.

But deep down, he knows that’s not the whole truth.

It’s the ache. The invisible thread that still pulls when he sees your shoulders sag a little lower than they used to. The way your breathing hitches when you think no one can hear. The way you fight like you’re punishing yourself for something no one else seems to understand.

He wants to say something. Every time, he tells himself he will. He’ll wait for the end of the session, trail down the stairs, walk across the floor and say—

What?

I’m sorry?

I miss you?

I don’t know what’s real but I think it’s you?

But the moment never comes. Not really. He watches as you finish the last round of drills, your body trembling slightly as you lean against the mat wall, sweat clinging to your skin, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You rest there for a beat. Then straighten. Then leave.

Just like always.

You never look up.

And maybe he tells himself it’s because you don’t know he’s watching. Maybe he tells himself that’s what makes it easier.

But it’s not. Not really.

Because the truth is, part of him hopes you do know.

Finnick sits there, his thoughts swirling, his mind still caught in the mess of lies and truths. His fingers twitch slightly, the familiar itch of wanting to move closer to you, to speak to you, but he doesn’t. Not yet. Not while he’s still unsure of what he feels. Not while the Capitol’s poison still lingers in his mind, clouding everything.

The sound of footsteps makes him glance up, and before he can look away, you’re sitting beside him. He blinks, caught off guard by how easily you slipped into the space beside him, how you don’t even seem to mind that he’s been watching you for weeks now.

At first, you don’t say anything. You just sit there, cross-legged, twisting the cap off a bottle of water in your hands. He can feel the tension between you, thick like a fog. He wonders if it’s because of the distance he’s put between you two or because he’s been too damn silent, too afraid to approach.

Finally, you break the silence, your voice low, steady. "You’ve been watching me."

Finnick’s chest tightens at the way your voice holds no judgment, just a quiet knowing. He shifts uncomfortably, fingers flexing against his knees.

“I—yeah," he admits, his voice hoarse. "I couldn’t help it."

You nod, like you’ve been waiting for that. You take a deep breath, eyes fixed on the bottle in your hands, not looking at him.

"I thought maybe, just maybe, the Finnick I loved was still there," you say softly. "At first, I thought if I just gave you space, you'd come back to me. But you didn’t. You never did."

Finnick's heart tightens, the words cutting deeper than he expected. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"But you know," you continue, "I can only put up with so much distance. I can only wait for you to find your way back for so long. It’s not that I stopped caring... I just—" You break off, your gaze dropping to the ground. "I miss you."

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to fix what’s been broken for so long. All he knows is that hearing those words from you feels like a weight lifting off his chest. He’s afraid to look at you, afraid to see the hope in your eyes that he might be able to fix this, but he does anyway.

And when he does, when his eyes meet yours, the rawness in your expression takes him by surprise. There’s hurt there, but also something more—a spark of the love you once shared. It’s not gone. It’s still there, flickering in the dark.

"I didn’t mean to hurt you," he says, his voice barely a whisper.

You glance at him, your lips curling slightly into a small, sad smile. "I know you didn’t. But you did anyway."

He bites back a sigh. "I don’t know how to fix this."

You shake your head, eyes softening. "You don’t have to. Just stop pushing me away."

The words hang between you for a long moment. Neither of you moves, neither of you speaks. But the silence feels different now, heavier. It’s not an absence of words—it’s the space where the two of you are finally, maybe, finding your way back to each other.

Finally, you stand up, dusting off your pants. Finnick watches you, heart aching with every step you take away from him. But before you leave, you stop and glance over your shoulder, a quiet challenge in your eyes.

"I’ll be here. When you’re ready."

And with that, you walk away, leaving Finnick alone with his thoughts, with the lingering weight of your words.

The day starts on schedule, like it always does here. In District 13, time is a currency you’re expected to spend wisely. There’s no room for distraction. No softness. Just wake, work, train, repeat.

You lace up your boots with steady fingers, standing in your shared quarters under the flickering light. The air feels sterile, too clean. Too sharp. As if even the walls are trying to scrub the humanity out of you. You can still feel the rough edge of the bench beneath you from this morning—can still hear Finnick’s voice, broken and raw, circling like smoke in the back of your mind.

You don’t speak during training. You can’t. Your body moves on command, lunging and dodging through combat drills, sparring with people who don’t know you well enough to ask questions. That helps. You can lose yourself in the burn of your muscles, in the precision of every strike. But even then, there’s a hollowness that follows you. You duck a punch and see the look in his eyes again—tired, aching, like he was already halfway gone and trying to crawl his way back to you.

You scrub in for your assigned unit shift in the war room—tasked with logistics today—and sit at your assigned desk, eyes fixed on the columns of data cycling across the screen. Numbers. Supplies. Deployment routes. It’s important. It should matter. But none of it can drown out the echo of what he said.

I didn’t mean to hurt you.

He meant it. That’s what shakes you most. It wasn’t performative. Not like the Capitol, where every word is curated, every gesture designed to be consumed. No, Finnick looked at you like he couldn’t stand what he’d done. Like he’d been watching the fracture grow and hadn’t known how to stop it.

The silence between assignments in 13 is usually a relief. A breath. But today, it just gives your thoughts too much space. You spend your ten-minute break sitting on the lower level of the dormitory hall, hunched over with your elbows on your knees, staring at the scuffed floor. You know someone’s watching—they always are—but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when all you can think about is the way he looked like he was trying not to shatter.

After curfew, you shower under low-pressure water that smells faintly of metal. You let it run down your back until your skin pricks with cold. You don’t cry. You won’t. You already gave him your honesty—you won’t let him have your grief.

But later, lying in the dark of your bunk with the lights dimmed and the rigid mattress pressed against your spine, you can’t stop the memory from playing again. The way his voice cracked when he said he didn’t know how to fix this. The way he looked at you like maybe he didn’t deserve to.

You don’t know if you want him to try or if it would only hurt more if he did.

But gods, you miss him. You miss you—the version of yourself that felt whole with him.

You turn your face into the pillow, as if the act of hiding could quiet everything inside you.

It doesn’t.

The night went out just as fast as it came. There’s no softness to mornings here—just the buzz of the overhead lights flickering on like a switch has been flipped inside your head. You sit up before the alarm sounds, already awake. Already tired. The sheets are stiff against your skin, the air dry in your throat. Everything feels muted, like the color’s been drained from the world.

You move through the motions. Dress. Report to duty. There’s a rhythm to it, cold and clean, and you follow it because it’s easier than stopping to think. You sit through morning briefing with your spine straight, eyes forward, nodding at schedules and supply counts. You’re praised for efficiency. You always are.

But even as the room echoes with clipped orders and footsteps on polished floors, your mind isn’t really here. It’s still in that quiet space between you and Finnick. Still circling around the way he looked at you, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to.

You try not to let it show. You focus on the data in front of you, let your pen move across the page with practiced precision. You memorize updates that don’t mean anything to your heart, only to your role. Your identity here has no room for vulnerability.

By the time lunch rolls around, your stomach isn’t exactly hungry, but your legs still carry you out of habit, moving you through the labyrinth of white-walled corridors toward the cafeteria. The halls are half-filled with people walking in clusters, speaking in low voices or nodding silently to each other. You keep your head down. You don’t expect anything. Not here.

But then—his voice.

“Hey.”

You stop.

The word cuts clean through the haze, too familiar, too fragile. You don’t even have to turn around to know it’s him. That voice has lived in your chest long enough.

You turn anyway. Finnick stands there a few steps behind you, hands at his sides, his expression unreadable but open in a way that makes it harder to breathe. He looks steadier than he did yesterday. But not by much. Just enough to show up. Just enough to speak.

You’re not sure what to say. You’re not even sure if you want to. But something in his eyes keeps you there, rooted in place, heart suspended in your chest like it’s waiting to see what he’ll do next.

He doesn't speak right away, just shifts on his feet like he's working up the nerve. His hands are twitchy, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides, like they’re searching for something to hold onto.

You tilt your head, watching him with quiet curiosity. Finnick Odair has always been fluid and confident, a creature of effortless charm. But now? He looks like he’s standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying.

His lips part, close, then part again.

“I—uh…” He glances over his shoulder, like maybe he's reconsidering. Like maybe he thinks this was a mistake. But then he looks back at you, eyes soft and uncertain. “We're... we’re all sitting together for lunch. Katniss, Johanna, Gale, the others. Annie too.” He swallows, trying to play it casual, but you see right through it.

The pause stretches. He runs a hand through his hair. “You can sit with us. If you want.”

You blink, caught off guard by how tentative he sounds. He’s not asking you like a man who's used to being told yes. He’s asking you like he doesn’t believe he deserves it. Like the offer is fragile, like he’s fragile.

And suddenly, you remember—twelve years old, in the glow of summer light back home in 4. Salt on your skin, sand in your shoes, and Finnick looking at you like you held every star in the sky. He was nervous then, too. Fingers fidgeting with a fraying bracelet, voice cracking as he asked if maybe you wanted to go to the harbor with him sometime. He’d smiled too fast, too big, trying to mask the tremble in his voice.

He looks like that now. That same unsure, wide-eyed boy, just with more scars. Just with a world that’s tried to break him in every way.

And even if you’re still hurting, even if the ache in your chest hasn’t faded, some small part of you—that soft, quiet part that never stopped loving him—leans forward.

You nod.

“Okay.”

It’s all you say. But his shoulders loosen, just slightly. A breath he didn’t realize he was holding escapes his chest.

He doesn’t smile. Not really. But there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Relief. Maybe even hope.

The cafeteria hums with the same low buzz it always does, voices blending into the clatter of trays and cutlery. Fluorescent lights cast everything in a pale, sterile glow, but the table Finnick leads you to feels strangely warm despite it. Familiar.

Annie’s the first to smile. It's soft and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she makes space beside her, nudging a tray out of the way with a quiet sort of grace.

“You haven’t changed,” she says, tilting her head toward you as you sit. “Still like to lurk in corridors until someone drags you to lunch.”

You let out a breath, the sound almost a laugh. “And you still think you’re so charming for pointing it out.”

She grins wider, and for a moment, it’s like the war hasn’t touched either of you. Like the years haven’t passed. You talk, low and easy, about nothing and everything—how awful the rations are, how the uniforms never quite fit right, how District 13 seems allergic to any form of joy. You feel something shift in your chest. Something loosen.

Across the table, Katniss meets your gaze, her expression unreadable as always. But there’s a flicker there. A silent nod. An understanding passed like a note between soldiers—you’ve been through it too. You return the nod, and that’s enough.

Prim beams at you like you’ve made her whole week. “Thank you,” she says, too earnestly. “Now I don’t have to sit with them for one day, then you and your friends the next—it was starting to feel like I had divorced parents.”

That earns a quiet laugh around the table. Even Finnick huffs out something like amusement, eyes trained on his tray.

You glance down the table at Gale. He hasn’t said a word. He just gives you a look—cool, curious, unreadable. Like he’s trying to decide what kind of Capitol creature you are.

You meet it evenly. You don’t know him either. Don’t trust him. He carries himself like he’s always one breath away from starting a revolution, and maybe that’s true. But there’s something about his conviction that rubs you wrong. You grew up around people who wore masks; Gale doesn’t. Maybe that’s why you don’t know what to make of him.

Still, for Katniss’s sake, you nod politely. He doesn’t return it. Just goes back to eating.

Johanna flops down across from you halfway through a story about Annie smuggling sugar packets. Her eyes narrow like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“Look who finally crawled out of her Capitol shell,” she mutters, reaching for a roll she probably didn’t wait in line for. “Did Finnick threaten to cry or something?”

You raise a brow. “I just missed the privilege of being insulted mid-meal. Thought I’d treat myself.”

She smirks. “There she is.”

And maybe most people wouldn’t catch it, but you do—beneath the sarcasm, there's a glint of approval. Maybe even affection. It’s all Johanna knows how to offer.

The conversation ebbs and flows, warm and awkward and strangely easy. It’s not perfect. But it’s something. And as you sit there, tray untouched, laughter slowly folding itself around you, you realize how long it’s been since you felt like you belonged anywhere at all.

Lunch ends slowly, the table thinning one by one. Johanna slinks off first, muttering something about needing to spar before she “goes soft from all the sap.” Gale disappears not long after, barely sparing you a glance. Prim and Katniss leave together, Prim bubbling with chatter, Katniss trailing beside her in her usual brooding silence. Annie lingers, brushing a hand over Finnick’s arm as she stands—something gentle, something old and familiar—and then she’s gone too.

It leaves just you and Finnick.

Neither of you speaks right away. He’s fidgeting again, thumb brushing the rim of his tray, shoulders too tense for someone who used to command every room he walked into without even trying. It’s strange to see him like this—uncertain, too careful with you. The last time you saw him look this nervous, you were thirteen, and he had a daisy in one hand and sweaty palms in the other, stammering through his first try at asking you to the District 4’s spring banquet.

You were both still whole then.

He glances at you now, that same look flickering behind his eyes—like he’s on the edge of a sentence he can’t quite say.

“You didn’t have to sit with me,” he murmurs, almost a question.

“I know,” you say softly. “I wanted to.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, green and wide and uncertain. There’s a pause, then he exhales, like that admission untied something in him. He stands first, grabbing both trays without asking. You follow quietly.

The walk to the drop-off station is short, but he doesn’t leave you after. He hesitates, lingers just beside you in the corridor outside the cafeteria, shoulders brushing once—by accident or on purpose, you’re not sure. The hallway is quiet, colder now without the warmth of others.

“I…” He stops, starts again. “I didn’t think you would. Sit with me, I mean.”

You shrug, though it feels heavy. “You asked.”

He lets out a breath, a quiet huff of almost-laughter. “Yeah. I did.”

There’s a pause that stretches too long. You know he’s searching for words. You know because you are too.

“I meant it,” he says finally, quieter than before. “What I said. About not wanting to hurt you.”

You nod, because you know. But knowing doesn’t erase the ache. Still, something about hearing it again, here in the hush of this empty hallway, feels like balm to a wound you stopped looking at weeks ago.

“Hey,” he says suddenly. “Do you remember that night—back in Four—when we snuck out during the storm?”

You blink, surprised by the shift in tone. He’s looking at you now, not nervous anymore, just gentle. “The hurricane?” you ask.

He nods. “Yeah. We were what… fourteen? Maybe fifteen. We got caught in it trying to race to the docks. I’ve been thinking about it lately. I remember the rain hitting so hard it stung. And we ended up hiding under that overturned canoe.”

You let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. “You told me you’d protect me from the wind if I gave you half my chocolate bar.”

His mouth twitches. “You still gave it to me even after I told you I forgot mine on purpose.”

“I remember,” you say softly, looking down. “You looked so proud of that plan.”

He chuckles, a low sound, soft and fond. Then his voice quiets again. “I don’t know why that memory’s been stuck in my head lately. I just… I needed to know if it was real. If I didn’t just make it up.”

You meet his gaze, and in it, you see something achingly vulnerable. Not a man trying to make amends with grand gestures. Just someone trying to hold on to something true in a world that keeps taking.

“It was real,” you say. “That was real.”

Finnick nods slowly, and it looks like relief. Like something inside him finally exhales.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Good.”

And it’s not a confession. It’s not a plea. It’s something simpler, more fragile—a thread being carefully, hopefully tied back between you.

He doesn’t ask anything else. And you don’t press.

You walk in different directions at the end of the hall, but the air feels lighter now. Less like absence. More like beginning.

It’s been three days since that hallway conversation. Three days since Finnick brought up the storm in District 4, since he looked at you like he was remembering how to breathe.

You haven’t talked since. Not properly. There were nods, the occasional flicker of eye contact, and once—just once—he passed by you in the training center and murmured your name like a quiet promise before disappearing into the next room.

You’ve been patient. Careful. Letting him come to you in his own time, if he ever does.

And then, that evening, just after the last strategy meeting lets out, you step out into the corridor—and he’s already there.

He’s leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting. Not with the sharp confidence the Capitol taught him, but with something softer. Familiar. Like he’s trying to be brave again.

“Hey,” he says, straightening a little. “You free?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Right now?”

Finnick hesitates, then nods. “There’s something I want to show you.”

The corridors of District 13 are quiet this late in the evening, lit only by the sterile, humming lights overhead. You follow Finnick through a series of winding turns, deeper into the underground. He doesn’t say much, only glances back now and then to make sure you’re still there. His pace is steady, but there’s a nervousness in the way his hands twitch at his sides—like he’s unsure if this is too much, too soon.

Eventually, he leads you to a small maintenance room at the end of a lesser-used hallway. He punches in a code and the door hisses open. Inside, it’s dim and cold, just metal walls and a few crates pushed into corners. But when he gestures you forward, you realize what he’s really brought you to see.

There’s a narrow crawlspace tucked into the wall—a vent path maybe, or a space cleared for storage. Finnick slips inside first and helps you follow. At the other end is a grate that opens into a hidden view of one of the District’s water filtration reservoirs. It’s quiet. Still. And the pale reflection of the underground lights in the water gives it a silvery, moonlit sheen.

Finnick sits with his back against the wall, knees drawn up. It’s cramped, but not uncomfortable. You take your place beside him, careful not to let your shoulder brush his, even though part of you aches to.

“It’s not much,” he says, voice low, “but sometimes I come here when I can’t take all the walls.”

You nod slowly, letting your eyes trace the ripple of light on the water. “It kind of reminds me of home.”

He glances at you then. “Yeah. I was hoping you’d think that too.”

The silence between you isn’t heavy this time. It stretches out gently, like waves lapping at the shore. And then Finnick’s voice breaks through, hesitant.

“Do you remember that cove just past the harbor in Four? The one we had to swim out to?”

You turn to look at him, and there’s something soft in his expression—uncertain, almost boyish.

“I remember,” you say.

“You got stung by a jellyfish and told me I’d better marry you one day or you’d haunt me for eternity.” He lets out a quiet laugh. “Did that really happen, or did I just make it up to survive Snow’s parties?”

You smile, warmth blooming behind your ribs. “No, it happened. You cried more than I did.”

His face shifts, the tension in his jaw loosening just enough. “I was scared,” he says. “I thought I was gonna lose you.”

You look at him. Really look. The tired set of his shoulders, the faint tremble in his fingers, the way his eyes hold on to you like he’s still trying to memorize this moment before it slips away.

“I never left,” you say quietly. “Even when you tried to make me.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just nods. And when he does speak, it’s barely a whisper.

“I know.”

The silence settles again, comfortable in its stillness but laced with things too fragile to name. Finnick shifts slightly beside you, drawing his knees closer to his chest like he’s trying to hold himself together. His thumb rubs over the edge of a seam in his pants—slow, rhythmic, grounding. You can almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, but he’s too careful, too practiced now, to let them slip freely.

“You know,” he murmurs after a beat, “sometimes I remember things that didn’t happen. Or maybe they did. It’s like… pieces of a puzzle that don’t belong to the same picture.”

You nod, quietly. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be sure right now.”

He looks at you, grateful but pained. “But I want to be. Especially with you.”

There’s something in his voice that cracks. Not loudly, not dramatically—but in the quiet way that feels like the soft crumble of stone, worn down by years of pressure. He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

“I think I remember your laugh,” he says after a long moment. “Not the one they made you wear in front of cameras. The real one. From when you’d chase me down the beach because I stole your towel. You always caught me. Always.”

A laugh does escape you now—quiet, surprised. “You were terrible at hiding. You’d always leave a trail of seashells behind you.”

His eyes open. They meet yours with something like wonder, as though he wasn’t sure if that memory was his or just another echo the Capitol forced into his head. But hearing it from you makes it real.

“I needed that,” he says. “I needed to know I didn’t make it all up.”

You don’t reach for him—he still flinches sometimes, and you won’t take that from him—but your voice is steady when you speak again.

“You didn’t. We were real. You and me. Before all of this.”

He nods. Slowly. Like it takes effort to believe it, but he’s trying.

“I’m still trying to find my way back to that,” he admits. “Back to the boy who thought a handful of seashells was enough to win you over.”

“You didn’t need seashells,” you whisper. “You already had me.”

The words hang between you, fragile but steady. And for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t look away.

You can hear the faint hum of pipes in the walls, the steady trickle of the reservoir below. Finnick hasn’t moved, still sitting close, still watching you like your presence is the only thing keeping him tethered to the present moment.

Then, he shifts. Just barely. His voice is tentative, searching.

“Can I ask you something else?”

You glance over at him, nodding once.

“That game,” he says. “Real or not?”

At first, you don’t answer. Your breath catches, your mind reeling back—not to this cold, hollow bunker, but to another time entirely. The way you’d sat with your back pressed to a door in the Capitol, shivering and broken, unable to sleep, to eat, to speak. And Finnick, kneeling in front of you with a look in his eyes that said he understood too much. More than he should have.

He was the one who made you look at him. Who asked the first question. “Your favorite food is salt-crusted crab, real or not?” And you blinked at him, confused and exhausted, before whispering, real.

“It’s real,” you say softly, voice thick. “You made it up on the second night. When I couldn’t stop crying.”

Finnick exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. His shoulders relax, just slightly.

“I thought maybe I imagined that,” he murmurs. “I wanted it to be real so badly I started thinking it was.”

You reach out, just enough to let your hand rest lightly on the edge of the wall between you. Not touching him—but close. “It was real. That game saved me, Finnick. You saved me.”

He goes quiet again, but there’s something different about it now. A flicker of hope trying to find shape.

Then, barely above a whisper, he says, “Do you think… you’d want to play it again? With me. Now.”

Your heart tightens, not with fear, but with that bittersweet kind of warmth that comes with remembering who someone used to be—and seeing traces of them still alive in front of you. Still trying.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’d like that.”

He doesn’t smile, not quite. But his lips twitch, and his eyes flicker with something close to light. He nods slowly, almost like he’s afraid to break the moment.

And then he asks—quiet, careful, like the boy from District 4 who once handed you a seashell and promised the ocean would always bring him back to you:

“Real or not: you used to hum sea shanties under your breath when you thought no one was listening.”

Your eyes meet his, and for a second it’s like nothing ever changed.

“Real,” you say. “Only when I missed home.”

Finnick’s gaze softens. He leans his head back against the wall again, letting that answer settle inside him like a wave returning to shore.

“Your turn,” he murmurs.

The game continues on in the silence between you, questions lingering like whispers in the space you’ve carved out together. You take turns, each answer grounding you a little more in the reality of the present. The past is never far, but for once, it feels like something you can touch without fear.

As the minutes stretch into an hour, the world outside fades away. There are no more games, no more masks, no more Capitol pressures—just two people, sitting in the quiet glow of shared memories, leaning on the simple comfort of each other's company.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself believe in something real again.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #the hunger games x reader #finnick x reader

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lycanlure · 3 days ago

Text

No Love To Give : More (1)

"M-My love... Slow down" Her hands explored me as her hips rocked mine.

"S-Shut up, f-fuck you feel so good..." Her voice shook, my hands tied behind my back.

Unable to do anything, she rode me crazy.

Our breath matched every thrust she made, my knees got weak as this has been happening for 3 hours straight.

"O-Oh my goodne-" I looked at my manhood, seeing the sight made my head rock back.

As pleasure was reaching in the back of my mind, making me groan.

I was a mess.

My tongue is hanging...

My eyes rolled back...

My legs shaking...

She never once stopped, she kept her pace...

Too slow and too good

"Love that, slut?"

"Y-Ye-"

"What? T-Tell me!"

"Y-Yes... Augghh" My moans began to roam around the entire house...

My moans and our flesh smacking at each other enveloped the closed house.

She fastened her pace, my moans became louder and louder. Her sweat dripped down on me... Her hair bounced as she rode my pathetic manhood.

"So long and thick, yet... It only stands when I'm around."

"Such a loyal slut!"

She then grabbed my neck, she slammed her glistening cunt harder.

Her warm hands only wrapped around me, as her slow pace began to get violent.

I cant help but let out a shivering breath.

"Fuck i'm cumming" She gritted her teeth.

Her pace only gotten rougher and violent.

"Aaughh!" My moans are restriced by her hands.

Enveloping my neck with her cold hands.

As we bot succumb to our climax, Karina rested on my chest.

Her breathing was heavy, 'She really outdid herself this time...' I whispered to myself.

I held onto her, putting my hand on the back of her head and the other on her back.

Turning around and putting her back on the bed.

As she lay there I looked at her

My eyes lingered on her for too long, and then I realised

I should be ironing her suits and pants

I slowly got up and got myself to rinse up before going out and do my chores

As I finished prepping myself, I stepped out of our room.

'Let's start!' I told myself and got to work immediately

I started to iron out her suits

As the iron pressed her suits, the steam of her suit smelled like flowers

Finishing her clothes, I soon moved onto her pants

Ironing her ridiculously expensive pants, I lightened the heat and then moved on, hanging them on her drawers.

'Hmm, maybe I should buy some vegetables for her. It's been weeks since we've had veggies,' I whispered to yourself

I slowly walked towards our room and looked at her

'She still asleep...' I spoke quitely

Stepping in closely to her, kissing her cheek

"Hey, I'm going out." I whispered to her

Karina groaned as she slightly opened her eyes, meeting mine

"A-Alright" She then flipped herself over and went back to sleeping

I giggled as I left the room quietly

1 HOUR LATER

"I'm home" I subconsciously said

I immediately saw Karina sitting at the sofa

"Oh, you're awake? Since when?" I asked as I removed my shoes

"Just a minute ago..." As she continued to go through every channel to see if there's anything good to watch.

"Alright." I soon went to the kitchen and placed the bag of groceries I bought

For the last 25 minutes, I have been cooking something...

It isn't much, but she'll like it

"My love, breakfast is ready" I called out to her

Karina then immediately went to the dining table and sat at middle chair

"Here you go" I placed her breakfast

"Yachaejeon? Never knew you know how to make them, " Karina curved her eyebrows

"Well, you haven't seen enough of my cooking. Yet" I smirked at her

"Hope it's good" Karina coldly replied

"O-Oh it's good, dont worry" I fixed my hair nervously

'It's here again... What happened? What the hell is with her, again?!' I thought

"Well, so any news about the company?" I awkwardly started a conversation

"Dont ask me about work. it's 7 in the morning..." She sounded irritated

"O-Oh, sorry," I apologized as I went to the sink and cleaned my hands

"Talking about it might ruin my appetite..." Karina added

"Well, I'm sure you're doing a good job" I placed my hand on her shoulders, massaging them

Karina easily finished eating and grabbed her plate

"My love, just give it to me" I smiled at her

Then I went towards her, taking the plate off of her hand

"You think I can't do mundane tasks now, Y/N?" She angerily told me

"O-Oh, it's just-" I wanted to reason but she soon cut me off

"Forget it, I'm getting ready..." She turned around and went upstairs

"A-Alright... I finished ironing your suits, my love!" I shouted as her figure disappeared from my line of sight

I sighed as I went to clean the dishes

"She's in a bad mood... Wonder what her father told her this time. " I sighed and finished the dishes

As I went to close the garage, a girl from the other side of the street waved at me

"Hey, neighbour!" Her smile was wide

She looked left and right on the road

Then she crossed

Approaching me, she said, "Hi, I'm new here, and I just want to introduce myself"

"Well, good morning" I replied with a smile

"O-Oh, good morning, My name is Kim Chaewon..." She stretched her hand out to me

"Nice to meet you, My name is Yu Y/N"

"You're korean too?! Wow, I never thought I'd meet Koreans here. " She applauded

"Was that your wife?" She added

"Y-Yes, just left for work" I smiled

"Wow, that's good for you then. Your wife must love you for her to, you know, go to work for you." She said smiling innocently

"Y-Yeah, she does..." You grabbed your arm looking down

"O-Oh, do you want to have breakfast? I made too much Yachaejeon" I scratched my nape

"Thanks! Dont mind if I do, " Her smile was infectious

Looks like I just made a friend

Chaewon POV

'Their house looks so expensive,' I thought to myself

"Please make yourself feel at home," He said as he went to the kitchen

"A-Alright" I followed him

Following him brought me to the kitchen, which was near the dining room, then I sat in one of the chairs in the dining room

"Here you go" He brought me a full serving if Yachaejeon

Which is great, because I'm fucking starving!

"You must be really hungry, huh?" He started to speak after I devoured my given Yachaejeon

"Um, sorryy" I covered my mouth and laughed

"Yeah, the flight was so long that I never even had the strength to buy food..." I told him as he listened thoroughly

"And all of the restaurants and fast food that I went were full of lines so... I just went straight here"

"So, you bought your house? It's a good one." He grabbed a water for me and gave it to me

"Y-Yeah, bought it off online, and later I found out that my cousin was the previous owner" I laughed

"Lucky you then, but why did you travel alone?" He asked me, looking confused

"W-Well for work reasons, and I dont have anyone." I scratched my head and laughed

"You sure are a jolly person, Chaewon." He laughed as he went to fill my water

"O-Oh, i-its fine, you done so much for me, I can at least fill my own water." I waved my hands on him as I bowed

"It's fine, I invited you so and I must take care of my guests." He then handed me the refilled glass

"Thank you so much"

Our hands touched, it felt like some kind of spark that shocked us both.

We both locked eyes...

I dont know what I'm feeling but...

I cant help but-

"A-Anyways, do you need anything else?" He immediately took his hands away

Both of us were surprised, yet I cant help but notice.

Is he flustered?

Sure he's handsome already and plus he's hella cute-

What am I thinking?!

'He's married for goodness sake, Chaewon'

I told myself

"Chaewon? Is everything alright? You haven't spoken anything." He nervously laughed

"O-Oh, I... I was just... About to... leave" I told him

"Oh? Alright, I'll pack you up some Yachaejeon" He smiled warmly to me

As his back is turned, I can't help but feel a sense of familiarity towards him...

Like he has this pull that, gradually attracts me

Pulling me closer and closer...

The way he speaks to me

How nice and innocent he is...

"Here you go." He handed me 3 tupperwares filled with Yachaejeon

"T-Thanks, Y/N" I looked at him as I grabbed all 3 of the tupperware

"No problem, you can ask here for more, dont worry" He clasped both of his hands as he smiled at me

As both of us went to the door

I felt like, I didn't want to leave...

His presence made me feel like I was home...

"Hey, it was nice meeting you... Y/N" I looked at him as I was close at the door

"You too, Chaewon. It's nice to finally have a friend here in this neighbourhood." He laughed and smiled at me

"Yeah..." I replied

I was just so dumbfounded how perfect he is...

The way he spoke, the way he served me like I was a family...

"See you," He told me as he held the door for me

"Yeah, see you" I smiled at him

He then closed the door slowly and waved at me as he went to finally closed the door.

"He's so cute..." I told myself

As i strolled back to my house, I couldn't help but feel lonely again

"Hope I can hang out with him or just talk to him again..."

#smut #aespa smut #fantasy #male sub #followers #femdxm #karina smut #kim chaewon #sub male reader #sub male character

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hot-patootiee · 1 day ago

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Holy shit this got angsty fast.

AIDS crisis, it’s ambiguous if Steve has it or not but no main characters are dead. Mention of funerals.

Steve doesn’t forget to tell Robin he’s queer. He just can’t find the right time to interject that he’s been driving down to Indianapolis to go to gay bars and get laid since 1984.

Steve means well, as even drugged up on the bathroom floor, he was unwilling to expose Robin to his type of raunchy queer indulgences.

When Eddie shows up, Steve stares at the Hanky and wonders if he was just copying other metalheads or flagging in Hawkins. He settles on Eddie doing it on accident as a fashion choice and moves on.

Robin, on the other hand, asks if the rumors of Eddie’s queerness are true and Eddie confirms it after Robin makes it incredibly clear that she is completely safe and a lesbian.

Robin and Eddie become best friends, moaning about their crushes on straight people. Eventually they decide to go to Indianapolis and find a gay bar. Steve is out of town for the week so it’s perfect timing.

Little do they know, they roll up to Steve’s cruising spot, and Steve has his little navy hanky tucked into his back right pocket. He’s grinding up on some guy when they arrive and neither of them notice each other. Steve’s too busy having a guy lick up the side of his neck and Robin and Eddie are busy looking timid as fuck near the entrance.

Robin and Eddie don’t notice Steve until the bartender is yelling “put y’a tits away ‘evie, if you wanna fuck, do it somewhere I don’t have to see!”

Their eyes jolt to the direction the bartender is yelling and there’s Steve, the guy behind him had pushed Steve’s shirt up to his collarbones and was currently brushing over his nipples. Steve rolls his eyes at the bartender, straightening up and letting his shirt fall back over his body. It was still obvious that his hook-up’s hands hadn’t moved.

Eddie chokes and Steve’s eyes whip over to them. He pushes the guy’s hands off his chest, whispering something quietly to him before sauntering towards Eddie and Robin.

“Hey.” Steve says sheepishly.

“Steve, what the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me?” Robin inquires in a whiny tone.

Steve rolls his eyes again, tangling his thumbs in his belt loops.

“There wasn’t exactly a good time where I could tell you I come down here to get the daylights fucked out of me.” Steve replies nonchalantly as if telling Robin the weather.

Robin just makes a series of unintelligible and unholy noises of frustration at this.

“Oh and unless you plan on hitting someone while having sex with them, I’d remove the hanky as you’re probably not actually a sadist.” Steve states plainly, gesturing at Eddie’s pants where the hanky swings from his back pocket.

Eddie hurriedly unfastens the hanky and tucks it fully into his pocket to hide it.

“So what are you two here for? Fun or a hook-up? If you’re looking for a hookup I could pair you guys off with some of my acquaintances.” Robin looks mildly horrified by Steve’s offer, while Eddie looks repulsed.

“So, not a hookup?” Steve inquires.

“Oh my god, Steve shut up!” Robin squeals.

“Tiffany over there has a mouth like heaven, as I’ve been told by her numerous trysts, Still not interested Robin?” Steve asks, gesturing vaguely to a perfectly coiffed woman with red tinted hair and sun-kissed skin.

Robin got distracted for a second when Tiffany looked at her and winked.

“We just wanted to check the place out, maybe make some conversation.” Robin justified.

“Fuck! I should probably stay with you then. Jack will be disappointed.” Steve says with a pout. “Can’t exactly ditch my friends to get laid.” He grumbles.

Steve waves at the bartender, “Paul, can you send Jack a Long Island, as an apology from me?”

“ ‘Course”

“Steve you don’t-“ Eddie is quickly interrupted.

“Unless you’re planning on fucking me, it’s probably not happening tonight.” Steve said in a blasé tone.“Anyway, maybe go to Paul if you want the whole papa gay spiel. Condoms, gay plauge, and how not to get murdered. Specifically important for you Eddie because men are a lot more likely to try to kill you.” Steve laughs self deprecatingly with an odd tilt to his barking laughter.

“Steve why are you acting like this?” Robin questions sharply.

“The plague is killing the gays, might as well party up while we’re still alive.” Steve pauses, remembering something, his smile slips slightly just for a moment. “There’s a funeral I’m attending tomorrow. So party tonight, party tomorrow to remind us all we’re still alive, visit the ward before going back to Hawkins.” Steve says it with a smile, his eyes shining like he’s high on something and not all quite there.

Robin could suddenly see why Steve was acting like this, it slotted perfectly into her picture of Steve. Steve the monster killer, Steve the human shield, the Steve who tempts death on a yearly basis.

No matter where he went, Steve was on the front lines, getting shot. But now it was like he was dancing in no man’s land, pirouetting around the death and destruction like it was his damn home.

Robin felt a little mad that Steve would seemingly never be able to escape it, by nature of who he was.

Eddie on the other hand, was shocked. His time in a small town had protected him from this. Getting whiskey drunk in the trenches before disease inevitably claims you. Being gay seemed suddenly too large for him, made him want to scurry back into his closet and hide.

But, God, Steve could die without ever knowing how Eddie felt.

“Steve, I think we should leave.” Eddie said firmly, Steve gave him a bewildered look.

“Why?” Eddie responded by tugging the hankey out of Steve’s pocket and hiding it in his jacket, before beginning to drag Steve out of the bar.

“I have to pay my tab, asshole!” Steve tugs back, quickly grabbing his wallet and throwing 30 dollars in the counter before Eddie resumed tugging him out of the bar.

They were hit with cool spring air when they emerged, Eddie taking little time to drag Steve into the alley and push him up against the wall.

Eddie was shaking with rage, but his eyes were full of tears.

“You can’t act like this!” He yells.

“Chill Eddie.”

“You’re not allowed to kill yourself.” Eddie whimpers out.

“I know how the plague spreads, I’m safe, always make the guy wear a condom. Why, you wanna fucking watch to check?”

“But what if one pops, what if you die before..-” Eddie starts shaking harder.

“Before what Eddie?” Steve interrupts, anger lacing his voice.

“BEFORE I CAN TELL YOU IM IN LOVE WITH YOU!” Eddie shouts, tears winding paths down his cheeks.

Steve pauses, anger and tension melting off his frame. He blinks a few times, stunned. Eddie on the other hand is curling into Steve and sobbing, body shaking like a leaf.

Steve curls around Eddie, taking him securely into his arms.

“Oh I’m so sorry.” Steve says in a hushed tone.

“I d’nt wan’ you to d’e!” Eddie struggles out.

Steve looks up and finds Robin and Paul staring at them. Paul nods at him before going back inside.

“Eddie, I’ll get tested and stop coming here to hook up, I still want to see my friends though.”

Eddie nods tearfully at the compromise.

Steve pulls Eddie’s head up and gives him a chaste kiss on the lips.

“It’ll all be okay.”

#this was supposed to be fluffy I swear #it was not fluffy #the second we leave Hawkins I become period accurate #manwhore steve harrington #Tiffany fucks #love Tiffany #Paul is the fucking man #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #fanfic #robin buckley #steddie #platonic stobin #stobin #aids #hiv #hiv aids #aids crisis

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sparrows4bats · 2 days ago

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So this is Batcow fan account, and I shall starting earning that title now.

Batcow is the greatest matchmaker to ever live. She is the reason for the batfamilys continuing sanity and relationship status. The Manor functions because of Alfred and Batcow.

How, you ask? How does a bovine save superhero and vigilante love lives? Why does a cow hold that much power? Dear sweet child, Batcow Is, that is how. But some quick examples of her her brilliance follow:

Dickory

Batcow is how Dick wins Kory back after a spectacular fight that almost breaks them up. Dick is upset and takes it out by arguing with Bruce and then walking around the Manor Gardens to cool off where he notices Batcow has somehow inexplicably ended up on the roof of the Manor. She looks unharmed, but there is no way for her to get down.

Dick panics because if anything happens to that cow, Damian will murder everyone in the house and fight Ras himself to get her to a Lazarus Pit. So after a moment or two of trying to think of a way out of this. He does what he usually does when his back is against the wall, and his life is on the line. He calls Kory.

After listening to him explain, she flies over and air-lifts Batcow off the roof. Where Dick promptly falls to his knees in front of this literal Queen and apologies for being a stubborn ass. Kory laughs and kisses him. Dick brings Bat Cow treats for weeks after.

JayRoy

Jason has been pining after Roy for months, possibly years, but can't find the right way to see if they could be anything more than friends. If they get together, he is in this for the long haul, not just for Roy but Lian too. So, instead of communicating like a normal person, he starts a silent campaign of proving he is Step Dad Material.

All of his attempts somehow backfire. Lian loves him, but Roy has no kitchen left and thought they both died twice. (He still lets Jason watch her, though. JASON IS OBLIVIOUS) So he is looking for child safe activities that don't involve bedtime stories(Lian prefers his over Roy's already), and then Damian remarks how friendly his pets are with civilians in his never ending pursuit of getting Bruce to allow him to patrol with his pets. And Jason knows exactly what to do. Why go to a petting zoo when he has one in the Manors backyard?

(They are still banned from the actual zoo. That penguin was fine. Eventually.)

So he brings Roy and Lian over to the Manor, and Alfred sets up lunch on the grass. Lian loves batcow and the rest of Damians' menagerie. She is so happy that after hours of cuddling and feeding the animals that she throws herself into Jason's arms and says, "Thank you, Pops! Can we come back tomorrow? Pretty please?" Jason tears up, and Roy smiles. He also asks him on a date so he can make it official. (Roy isn't as happy when he finds out about the Dragons on their next visit.)

Jason gives Lian a Batcow plushie when he adopts her a few years later.

TimBer/ Timbernkon

Tim hesitates to kiss Bernard and later Kon for so long that Batcow steps up to help him.

Tim after hours of too little sleep and too much angst . He goes to vent to the cow because she's good company and won't spill his secrets to anyone. One of these chats was interrupted by a worried Bernard looking for this boyfriend after he disappeared from his office.

Bernard loves Batcow, and seeing him act so adoring to her makes any doubt he had fly away. Because Bernard looks at him in almost the same way so he leans in and finally kisses him properly. They end up making out a little and get caught by Alfred, who came to feed Batcow her dinner.

When Tim and Bernard introduce Kon to Batcow, after a few weeks of trying to convince him to date them, Batcow full on body checks him into Bernard, and they accidentally kiss as Kon avoids crushing him. Tim pouts until Kon kisses him, too.

Bernard now visits Batcow at least once a week and bonds with Damian over her.

BatCat

They didn't know Batcow was pregnant or how she even got pregnant, until one day she went into Labour.

Damian is a mess and enlists Selinas' help because she has been around so many cat births. She tries to tell him a cow is completely different, but Damian is desperate and won't take no for an answer. Silena and Damian stay with Batcow, brushing and encouraging her until Batcalf is born.

Damian falls in love at first sight, and Silena has a realisation and suddenly blurts out that she thinks she might be pregnant while looking over the newborn. Damian doesn't react for a moment, and Silena fears the worst until he starts tearing up a little and asks rather shakily, "Does that mean I'll be a big brother?" Silena hugs him and tells him he will be the best big brother and doesn't comment on the tears that soak her shirt.

They tell Bruce together, first about Batcalf and then about the baby. (He is stunned, and Damian tells him off for his response because his silence is upsetting Silena and "She needs little to no stress in her condition, Father!")

Damian and the Cows follow Silena like shadows during her pregnancy (she doesn't ask how Batcow gets into the house and Bruce is too upset about how his son and his pets are doing a better job than him at being supportive to notice how Bat Calf sleeps on Damians bed.)

Damian is the first, after her parents, to hold Helena Wayne. He gives her two Cow plushies she carries everywhere for years.

StephCass

Batcow goes missing while Damian is on a mission, Stephanie is meant to be watching her, as Alfred is away as well. AND SHE LOST THE COW. Damian is going to kill her. Not even Cass could save her.

Then she realises, Cass! Cass will find Batcow, if anyone can, Cass, the most competent person ever, will.

So Cass and Steph spend hours searching everywhere they can think of until it starts to rain. And Cass looks so good with wet hair and rain drops sticking to her lashes that she can't help just kiss her. (They might die tomorrow if they don't find the cow anyway, so YOLO). Cass kisses back and asks, 'What took her so long?'

Batcow is on the roof on the Manor. They call Kara to come get her. No one knows how she ended up there, but they all agree never to tell Damian.

Duke/Izzy

Apparently, 'Do you want to go see my crazy family's pet cow?' is a ridiculous way to ask a girl out. But it made Izzy laugh so hard she says yes anyway.

Duke gives Batcow extra attention ever since and sends Izzy regular updates on her 'Adventures'.

Jondami

Batcow, like in the supersons movie, is one of the first things Jon and Damian bond over. Jon comes over to help Damian with his pets regularly, and that is how their partnership develops to friendship and then something more.

Then, Batcow gets sick, and Damian panics hard. (He has contingencies in place if she dies, but if he can prevent that, he will.) Damian calls for Jon for the first time ever, and Jon is there in Minutes. Damian is in tears and hugging his cow like a giant teddy bear when he arrives. He's never seen Damian look so....human. They investigate what is hurting Batcow and Jon figures out she's pregnant AGAIN, this time possibly with twins.

Damian is so relieved that he hugs Jon. It's the first time Damian has touched him willingly outside of training and missions. They are both teenagers at this point, and its like Jons whole world tilts on its axis. Righting itself to centre on the boy in his arms, a boy who is so kind and lovely, despite all the reasons he shouldn't be. Damian fits under his chin, and suddenly, Jon knows he would do anything to make him happy, to keep in his arms where Jon can protect him. Jon knows Damian can protect himself and has done so hundreds of times, but Jon wants to be the one he calls when he's scared, and based on tonight, he already is.

Damian pulls back too soon, and Jon, instead of pulling him into another hug, kisses him. Best of all, Damian kisses him back.

Duke catches them, and they swear him to secracy with the agreement that he can bring Izzy over when the new calves are born.

They still don't know how Batcow got pregnant, but they name the calves Supercow and Wondercow because Lian insisted. (Jon and Damian laugh at Bruce's face when they introduce him to the new members of the family.)

Batcow deserves an award for her service. For now, she and her children are spoiled rotten.

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wonsiwon · 19 hours ago

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the breaking point | p.js

genre— angst (not really) hurt/comfort, slice of life, domestic

pairing— reader × jay (husband!jay)

synopsis— after the worst day in a long time, you get in jay’s car without a word. you don’t mean to be mean, but when he asks what’s wrong, everything you’ve buried comes crashing out.

warnings— mentions of stress, crying, emotional shutdown, implied burnout, slight argument, comfort-heavy ending

you didn’t even want to call him.

you stood outside the building, hands freezing, breath visible in the air even though it wasn’t that cold. your phone screen showed his name on the lock screen, calling you because you were late. because you said you’d be out by six, and it was already pushing seven.

it was supposed to be an easy day. a few reports, a presentation, some annoying emails. you’ve handled worse. but today, nothing worked. the printer jammed, your coworker dumped their part of the work on you last minute, your boss nitpicked everything you did like it was personal, and someone even made a comment about how tired you looked in the elevator. you forgot your lunch on the kitchen counter this morning. you spilled coffee on your shirt before noon. and then had to stay late to redo something that wasn’t even your mistake.

so, yeah. you were already over it before you even stepped into jay’s car.

you pull the door shut without saying anything. just drop your bag at your feet and lean your head back against the seat, eyes closed.

jay turns his head, smile ready but it falters the second he sees your face.

you don’t look at him. don’t say hi. don’t even breathe in his direction. your jaw’s tight, arms crossed, eyes fixed out the window like the sky pissed you off too.

jay watches you for a second, hand still resting on the steering wheel. “hey, baby..” he says softly, “you okay?”

you exhale, sharp and tired. “just drive, jay.”

his brows pull together. “okay…” he puts the car in drive, silence wrapping around both of you. but he keeps glancing over, concern growing. “work was that bad, huh?”

you don’t respond. you’re chewing your bottom lip raw, picking at your nails like if you stay quiet long enough, you’ll disappear into the leather seat.

jay tries again, gentle. “wanna talk about it?”

“no.”

“you sure? maybe i can help—”

“i said no, jay.” it came out harsher than you intended, turning to him.

jay blinked, pulling the car up to a red light. “alright. but you don’t have to snap at me, baby.”

“jesus.” you mutter under your breath, head falling back against the seat, again. “i’m not snapping, you just don’t listen.”

his hand grips the wheel a little tighter, but his voice stays calm. “don’t do that. i’m trying here.”

you shake your head. “i don’t need you to try. i just need peace. five fucking minutes without someone asking me to explain myself.”

that does it.

he pulls the car over to the side of the road and puts it in park. turns to face you fully.

“baby, what’s wrong with you tonight?” his voice is low now. not angry, hurt. “you’ve been all snappy since you got in the car.

you open your mouth, to yell, to bite back, to say something that’ll push him further away, but instead it crumbles.

your lip wobbles. breath catches. and then it hits you all at once.

the tears you’ve been holding back since noon break loose. they burst out of your eyes like a dam finally gave in. you turn your face to your hands, sobbing so hard like you’ve been holding it in for weeks.

jay’s already unbuckling. leaning over to wrap his arms around you. “oh, sweetheart—” he whispers, wrapping you in his arms before you can even think.

“i’m so tired..” you cry into his chest. “everything’s falling apart. they dumped everything on me again, and i messed up and my boss was on my ass and i didn’t even get to eat and—fuck, i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

“hey, it’s okay. don’t apologize.” he murmurs, brushing your hair back. “my poor girl. why didn’t you say something sooner?”

you can barely talk through the sobs, but it spills out in pieces. how everything just felt too much and you didn’t know how to breathe anymore.

“you should’ve called me..” he says gently, brushing your hair back. “i would’ve brought you lunch. you’re my wife. if something it’s happening, you have to tell me.”

he pulls back just enough to cup your face, thumbing away your tears. your shoulders shake again and he kisses your forehead.

“you’re so strong, baby. i’m proud of you even on the worst days. especially on the worst days.”

“i was mean to you..” you whisper.

“you were overwhelmed.” he corrects gently. “you don’t have to be perfect with me. i know who you are, and i love you. all of you. even the tired, pissed off version.”

you let out a broken laugh, still teary.

he tucks your hair behind your ear. “we’re gonna go home. i’m gonna run you a bath, order your favourite food and rub your back until you fall asleep. okay?”

you nod slowly, clinging to him.

“okay..” you whisper. “thank you.”

“always, baby.” he says, kissing your temple again. “you don’t have to go through any of this alone.”

need a boyfie jay like dis ˙◠˙

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savyindeepspace · 2 days ago

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Colonel’s Return✈️

Tags: fem reader x Caleb, couple, angst, romance, smut, mentions of death and being experimented on, slow burn, praise, aftercare

Description: Caleb has been away on a mission and you haven’t heard from him in months. What awaits you when he finally comes home?

•••••••••••••••••••••••

You were beginning to forget how his chest felt against your back while you were sleeping, that is if you slept at all. The warmth of his arms around you fully evaporated from your skin and you felt…incomplete. Days felt like years, minutes like hours, just waiting for him to call or write. Hunting wasn’t distracting you anymore and completing missions felt less rewarding. Caleb left with the Farspace Fleet for an assignment five months ago with no formal details about his plans to return. Millions of questions ruminated in your mind. Was he safe? What was he looking for, or whom? More importantly, when was he coming back? Every phone call or text you received was met with disappointment when it was anyone other than his contact. But you would wait for Caleb, you always did. Your reunion with him all those years ago when you infiltrated the Fleet finally brought him back to you and that wasn’t about to change.

•••

After several heavy work weeks, you came home and decided to treat yourself to a long soak in the tub. Caleb always had the best epsom salts, candles and aroma therapy stocked for you and tonight you were taking advantage of it. Your muscles ached and head throbbed, it was the least you could do for yourself. Sinking into the milk and honey scented basin, you felt your tense body soften. The temperature was hot enough to ease the pain you felt from head to toe. You sank deeper and deeper until your head floated above the surface. Just as your eyelids grew heavy, you heard the doorbell echo from the other room. Who could be here at this hour? You reluctantly climbed out of the warm sanctuary of the bath, threw on a robe and went to the living room. Peaking through the bottom of the door was the corner of an envelope. You bent down and slid the rest of it inside. It was addressed: “Pipsqueak”, and your heart plunged to your stomach. You frantically tore the paper to get what was inside. It was a letter from Caleb.

•••

“Hey, Sweetheart. I know I’ve been gone for a while now…just give me a few more days to sort all this out. I promise, I’ll be home soon. There’s just…some things that need to be handled that I can’t get into right now, but don’t worry. I’m safe. I’m alive and kickin’. Most importantly, I love you. -Caleb” Your grip on the letter was tight, making the skin on your knuckles taught and pale. He even sprayed the inside of the envelope with cologne, what torture. But this was something, an answer you had been so desperately waiting for. A few days, he said, you hoped he’d keep his word. You knew he was investigating Ever for what felt like ages and worry loomed over you like a storm cloud. He said he was safe, don’t assume the worst, you thought. Sealing the letter away, you sighed and hid it safely in a desk drawer. If you had a way to write him back you would in a heartbeat, but for now you felt reassured. Just a few more days.

•••

The end of the week was nearing and your anxiety only got worse. Staring at the monitor at work, each line of text began to blur as you zoned in and out of focus. “Hey, are you alright?,” Tara’s mousy voice rang in your ear. “I’m just a little distracted since receiving Caleb’s letter the other day, I’m sorry,” you admit, slowly rubbing your temples. Tara’s light touch warmed your shoulder, “please, don’t apologize. I don’t know how you still make it in here every morning. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” You mustered a smile, “thank you, I really should finish these reports though, it’ll keep my mind busy.” She nodded and patted your back, “don’t work too hard, okay?” You hummed in agreement. The sound of clicking keys rattled in your ears as you finished each document and eventually you press send. The day was finally over.

•••

Your drive home was quiet, even the radio wasn’t appealing at this point. The thoughts in your head provided plenty of noise. You pulled into the driveway slowly and parked, retrieving the key from the ignition. A deep gust of wind blew from your lips as you prepared to return to an empty house. The keypad to the front door was glowing green, did you leave the door unlocked all day? Your hand hesitated over the doorknob before you twist it open and step inside. All the lights were on and you saw a tall figure with their back turned. Were your eyes deceiving you? Was the dark uniform the one Caleb always wore staring back at you? “C-Caleb?,” you choked, a lump rising in your throat. He finally turned to face you, his eyes were grim and his lips were pulled into a forced smile. “I told you I’d be back.” Everything fell from your hands and you ran to him, slamming into his tight embrace. He held you as close to his chest as possible, quieting your muffled sobs. “It’s okay…I’m here…I’m right here,” Caleb soothed, lightly petting your hair. Even while digging your fingers into the rough fabric of his Fleet uniform, you couldn’t discern if this was a dream or reality. Finally, your eyes meet. His deep amethyst irises bored into you with blown out pupils. “When did you get back?,” you whisper. Caleb swept the tears off your cheeks, “The Fleet dropped me off here maybe thirty minutes ago.” You withdraw from each other but Caleb takes both of your hands, gently stroking them with his thumbs. His leather gloves were cold against your skin. He smiles again, this time it was warm and genuine, “you hungry, Pips?”

•••

Before you speak, he was already in the kitchen, scanning the fridge for ingredients. For now, you just wanted to enjoy a meal together, so you’d save any questions for later. Caleb made your favorite braised chicken wings that you’d tried to replicate while he was away. It didn’t matter how closely you followed his recipe, Caleb had the magic touch. After dinner you made your way to the living room. The colonel reclined on the couch and let out a deep sigh. You laid on top of him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Your heartbeats began to match paces and you felt whole again. “Caleb…,” you murmured. “Mhmm?,” he hummed quietly. Lifting yourself on your forearms, you looked into his eyes and leaned forward. You stared at him for a moment, studying his features to make sure he was real. His gaze fell to your lips, they were just barely touching his before he gave in. Electricity surged through your body as you kissed. Caleb sat up and leaned against the back of the couch, pulling you into his lap by your waist. Your hands traveled up his chest, tugging away at his jacket. It made an audible thump when it hit the carpet. You hated that uniform, the Fleet and this unnecessary time apart. All you wanted was Caleb to yourself, without any interference from the entities trying to harm him. His breath grew uneven as the kiss deepened. Your tongues tangled between parted lips and you began grinding against Caleb’s crotch.

•••

“I hated being away from you, I need you…right now,” he rasped, digging his fingertips into the flesh of your thighs. You laced your arms around him, “then take me...” Caleb’s arms tucked under your legs and he lifted you off the couch with ease. You grazed your lips down his neck, then sank your teeth into the flesh as he made his way to the bedroom. The soft mattress sunk in as he laid you down, caging your body between his arms. Desperation painted your face and your legs began to part. Touching yourself became a tiresome task after the first month of Caleb being gone. It had been so long since you felt his hands wander over your curves, pausing occasionally to grope your breasts or ass. He put his gloved hands to your mouth and you pulled them off with your teeth. You gasped when you felt two deft fingers move your panties and press into your pussy. “As wet as I remembered,” he exhaled, rubbing your soaked folds. Eagerly he dove inside, pumping in and out as he warmed you up. “Mmm…Caleb,” you whined. He quieted your pleasured moans with a kiss, “Sssh I’m right here.” In one swift movement, your skirt and panties were pulled off and tossed to the floor. You reached for the zipper on the front of your top and the teeth buzzed as it ripped downward.

•••

Caleb’s eyes flickered at the sight of your breasts spilling over your black lacy bra. He unhooked the clasp and they bounced upon release. His mouth ghosted over your hardened nipple and you writhe impatiently. “Please,” you beg. The sensation of his wet tongue gliding over the peak made your back arch off the bed. “You like that, don’t you?,” he teased. “Y-yes, w-want more,” the words tumbled clumsily from your mouth. Caleb chuckled before pressing his lips against your stomach, then both hips and inner thighs. “It’s been so long since I’ve tasted you, let me refresh my memory,” he groaned, burying his nose into your warmth. “Mm!,” your fingers tangled in his hair “don’t stop.” His mouth enveloped your clit and gave it a harsh suck, leaving the nerves vibrating from stimulation. He dragged his tongue through one last time before pulling away. “Do you remember how amazing you taste? I think I should jog your memory,” he said before you tasted yourself off his lips. Caleb stripped away the remains of his uniform, his muscles glistened with sweat. You traced his abs with your fingertips, curling them into the waistline of his briefs. Your eyes found his in the dimly lit room, they glowed with anticipation as you pulled down on the elastic, releasing him fully. He hissed through gritted teeth when your hand feathered over his cock. “I missed him…,” you cooed, tightening your grip. Caleb groaned as you began to stroke, his breath coming out in ragged huffs.

•••

Caleb lowered his hips and lined up with your entrance, gliding his cock through your folds. “Fuck…,” he whispered. Sinking in inch by inch, he gifted you with the fullness you’d been longing for. Your eyes rolled back when he bottomed out and your core pulled him in eagerly.“Goddamn,” he moaned “she missed me, didn’t she?” Blush crept across your face, but he was right, your pussy welcomed him deeper just from the sound of his voice alone. Caleb started to rock his hips into you, the languid dragging of his dick made your toes curl. “Feels….s’good,” you panted, clawing at the muscles on his back. Whimpers and moans fell from your lips as he dug into you. “I missed those pretty sounds you make,” Caleb whined. You could only hum in response. Your mind felt like putty trying to focus on anything but how each roll of his hips sent you into a spiral. “Why didn’t you–mmm..call me? I was so–ah… worried,” you confessed, digging your heels into his lower back. “I’m so…,” thrust “sorry,” thrust “for making you ah–wait,” thrust thrust thrust. The way he laid into you made your mouth fall slack, broken moans and squeals burst from your throat. Heat began to pool between your legs as your climax approached. “Mmmyes right there,” you keened, pulling him in as deep as your core would allow. Caleb cradled your head in his hand, violet eyes boring into you with desire. His strokes were spaced out but heavy and the bed frame creaked under the weight. “I’ll never leave you again,” thrust…thrust “I promise,” he whimpered. Desperate lips crashed into yours leaving you gasping for breath. The tight coil in your gut could hold no longer, “Caleb–I’m…I’m..” “Do it for me, baby, please. Make a mess all over my dick. I missed you. I need you. I love you so much,” his ramblings brought you over the edge and you came, hard. Your release ran fluidly down his abdomen, leaving a puddle on the sheets and a mess where you were connected.

•••

Caleb’s resolve began to fade at the sight of you, skin flushed and damp with sweat, breasts heaving deeply and the look in your eyes begged for more. Your walls clamped down around his length, begging for friction, movement. He knew your body well and spent years memorizing every reaction you gave to his touch. His thrusts grew faster and more erratic. The way you ached and throbbed around him made Caleb never want to leave you again. He fell apart as he came, his muscles trembled trying to hold his body upright. Overwhelmed by the pulsing sensation inside you, a second orgasm rippled through your body. “Yes, just like that, I love it when you cum with me,” Caleb praised. He smoothed his thumb across your cheek and leaned in to kiss you. His soft lips swept over yours slowly, bringing the energy to a calm stop. You still felt him move, but it was steady, just enough to emulate slight tingles down your legs. When he pulled out the emptiness made you wince. Caleb held you in a close embrace, the feeling of his skin against yours again was something you worried about losing forever. It was like he could hear your thoughts and sense the unease in your muscles. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” he murmured into the crook of your neck. “Okay…,” you breathed.

•••

Caleb carried you to the bathroom and sat behind you on the edge of the tub. He gently brushed the tangles out of your hair, occasionally stopping to plant kisses along your shoulders. Torrid bath water surrounded your intertwined figures. You leaned into Caleb as he massaged shampoo into your scalp. The colonel always served you like a goddess, taking his time to worship every curve, scar and dimple on your body. “You’re perfect,” he whispered low in your ear. Your pulse fluttered as his hands smoothed over your skin with a washcloth. “Don’t leave me for that long ever again,” you playfully demanded. A laugh shook Caleb’s frame, “you’re so bossy, Pips.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, letting his lips linger for a moment. “I won’t.”

•••

The answers you wanted didn’t come easily. Every detail about Caleb’s voyage was classified to Fleet personnel only. “It’s complicated, Pips, but I promise I’ll tell you everything once I get to the bottom of this. I won’t let them hurt you again,” his voice was clear and direct. You wanted to trust him, but there were too many things he’d kept hidden, “who is them?” A pained sound caught in Caleb’s throat, “Ever.” A chill ran down your spine. Ever had been quiet for a while now, but that wasn’t a good sign. Their obsessive research and inhumane experiments in regard to immortality were getting out of hand. So much so that the Farspace Fleet’s authority over the cause far surpassed yours as a Hunter. “If they so much as touch one hair in your head, I’ll kill them all,” his threat sounded more like a promise when he spoke. His clenched fists loosened from your touch, “I won’t get hurt—,” “you don’t know that,” he interrupted. Caleb exhaled sharply from his nose, “I’m sorry, I just…can’t watch you die in front of me anymore.” Memories from the lab were never clear in your mind, you could only remember fragments at a time, but seeing the look on Caleb’s face confirmed enough. You cupped his cheeks with both hands, “I know you’ll always keep me safe. I’m not going anywhere.” He nuzzled into your palm and you felt a strain in your heart when you noticed his wet eyes. “Let’s just focus on right now. You’ve come back to me and that’s what matters.” Caleb meets your gaze with a smile and nods. You wipe his tear-stained cheeks and pull him into your embrace. “Kiss me, Caleb.” He did, taking his time as to not forget the shape of your lips. Again and again and again…

*~*~*~*

End.

Readers note: thank you so much for reading! This one is a little more angsty but I love where the ending leaves off. Hope you enjoyed. :)

Edit: fixed the text size

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lads caleb #lnds caleb #caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb smut #love and deepspace fanfic #lads smut

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