#from hospital to front row

[girlwithapinkhelmet]

News from the summer break of ‘24 (probably):

“During the summer break 17 drivers of the grid will undergo appendectomy. “🤷‍♀️

[humanjarvis]

wasting your honor

synopsis: at akso hospital’s charity gala, you realize how smart zayne is. how much smarter he is than you.

tags: fluff to angst to fluff/comfort, reader is insecure about their intelligence, reader thinks zayne deserves better, references to socioeconomic differences, potentially inaccurate references to medical terminology and protocore stuff, misunderstanding, reader ghosts zayne for a week, he comes to find her, reader tears up, love confessions, happy ending pairing: zayne x fem!reader (referred to as “she” one time), reader doesn't have to be mc word count: 2.4k

a/n: i’m rly rly proud of this it may be my favorite thing i’ve written so far please read it

“Are you sure I should be going to this?” you ask, the hesitation clear in your voice. 

“Why shouldn’t you? Plenty of other attendees will be bringing their partners as plus-ones,” Zayne says matter-of-factly. “Of course, if you’re feeling unwell, it’s best to stay behind and rest. I'm sure I'll be able to manage on my own.”

“No, no, I feel fine,” you reply, chewing your bottom lip nervously. “It’s just…I've never been surrounded by so many highly educated people. I’m afraid I'll slip up, or say something wrong, or embarrass you, or…”

Before you can ramble on, he walks up to you and squishes your cheeks between his large scarred hands. “Darling,” he begins, a soft smile on his face, “none of that matters. Just be yourself, and I’m sure you’ll be the most refined person there by a mile.” 

Akso Hospital’s annual charity gala was the topic of his impromptu pep talk. Each year, the event made front-page news from drawing in hundreds of world-renowned physicians to support a pressing medical cause. Tonight’s gala would be hosted by a team of legendary neurologists, and the venue—a prestigious museum of anthropology—was equally celebrated.

Zayne, who usually struggled at such events, had invited you as his plus-one with youthful hope in his hazel eyes, and there was no way you could have rejected his offer. At first, you’d been thrilled at the prospect of making an official outing together—you rarely got the chance due to his busy schedule—but as the days passed by, the anxiety of being average in a room of geniuses had caught up to you.

So as you pace back and forth before the full-length mirror, fidgeting with your dress at every turn, you can only hope that he’s right.

As Zayne puts the car in park, your stomach lurches with dread.

In the few seconds you have to panic to yourself while he walks around to open your door, the way your mind formulates last-minute escape plans would put a supercomputer to shame. Maybe you could fake sick—no, you’d told him you felt fine—or maybe with enough pressure you could lightly sprain your ankle in your hee—

The door swings open. 

Fuck.

He takes your hand and guides you out of the car, and as you walk toward the museum entrance, you’re too focused on trying not to trip over your flowing gown to take in the scenery. The lights twinkling in the foggy night, the verdant plants lining the entryway in carefully arranged rows, the opulent fountain flowing over small hills of bronze coins. It’s a lovely setup, really. If only your brain would allow you to enjoy it. 

After passing through the lavish front hall, decorated with colorful displays of ancient artifacts, you’re greeted by a grand ballroom layout. Round banquet tables with crystal centerpieces are scattered throughout the space, and the upscale alcohol behind the bar could probably bankrupt you with one sip. 

All around you, people clad in gold watches and diamond necklaces mingle with thinly veiled scrutiny, and you silently bless Zayne for personally sponsoring your event attire. 

As you head further into the room, a striking brunette woman in her 40s saunters up to you. “Zayne!” she gushes, “It’s so nice to see you could make it! With how antisocial you are, I was afraid you’d find a reason not to come. Oh, and who’s this?” she asks, eyes passing over you dismissively. “I’ve never seen you working with Zayne before—perhaps you’re in nephrology or gastroenterology?” 

You have no idea what either of those words mean.

Luckily, like always, Zayne saves the day. “Actually, this is my partner. She’s accompanying me tonight.”

“Partner,” the woman repeats, her voice raising an octave in disbelief. “…What a surprise! I didn’t realize the aloof Dr. Zayne was seeing someone. How lucky you are to have him,” she finishes with a stiff smile. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it, then. Enjoy your evening!” she calls as she flags down a waiter and scoops up two glasses of wine. 

“That was our chief of staff,” Zayne says flatly. “Surely you can understand how she scored the position with such a charming personality.” 

You chat with—or Zayne chats with, while you stand off awkwardly to the side—a few more guests before the main portion of the event begins.

Dr. Greyson had roped him into a conversation about a thrilling surgery from the day before, and an intern who’d somehow managed to get on the invite list had bombarded him with questions while you watched with a blank smile.

When the lights gradually dim and you’re directed to your seats, you let out a sigh of relief. Finally, a moment to breathe, you think. 

The hours pass. Speech after speech travels in and out of your ear, the jargon too advanced for you to process before the next utterly alien word comes along. 

Flipping open your program in restlessness, you realize you’ve reached the final segment of the gala just as the next speaker takes the stage. 

“Again, thank you all so much for your attendance tonight,” he starts. “I’m proud to announce that we’ve raised a record-breaking amount for medical research involving Protocores—what a historic feat. Each of you should be immensely proud of your contributions.”

Your claps seem too loud in the polite applause. Shifting your gaze to the guests around you, you match their enthusiasm—or lack thereof—with an inward grimace. 

“Now, before the night ends, we do have one more achievement to celebrate. Dr. Zayne Li, who I believe is here with us tonight, has recently passed an extraordinary milestone—in his time with Akso, our chief cardiac surgeon has successfully completed over 800 surgeries. To show our gratitude, we’d like to present him with the Medical Impact Award. Dr. Li, if you’re in the audience, won’t you come up and celebrate this accomplishment?” 

This time, you don’t hold back your applause. As Zayne rises from his seat, an endearing look of bewilderment on his face, your heart swells with admiration. Lucky, was what that woman had called you earlier. You suppose she’d been right.

As Zayne climbs up the steps, the presenter hands him a polished wooden plaque. Saying a brief thanks, he struts to the mic, a practiced look of confidence on his face now that the surprise has worn off.

“Thank you for this honor,” he begins steadily. “It’s with immense privilege that I can stand here before you today, but I’d like to take this time to commend our fundraising efforts tonight. The millions of dollars we’ve raised will be dedicated to investigating the nature of pathological conditions that originate in Protocore exposure. This will allow hundreds of medical personnel in and outside of Linkon to treat previously unsolvable cases. In regards to my own work, I’m particularly grateful—with the generosity you’ve all shown tonight, you’ve made me incredibly optimistic for the future of treating Cardiac Protocore Syndrome. I’ll keep that in mind every day—so the next 800 surgeries can go smoothly and with quick recoveries.”

As his speech ends, your look of admiration melts into a resigned, defeated smile. 

For the first time that night, the room breaks out into thunderous applause. And for the hundredth time that night, you feel like you don’t deserve to stand by his side.

You’d hope that he’d chalked up your silence on the ride home to sleepiness. When he’d walked you to your apartment door and leaned in to kiss you goodnight, you’d merely stood there in indecision, afraid to taint his brilliance with your mediocrity. And then, with a strained smile, you’d shut the door in his face.

That was the last time you’d seen him for the rest of the week. And for half of the next. 

For six days, you’d been completely ghosting him, too wrapped up in your insecurities to respond to his numerous messages. 

Thank you for accompanying me last night. I had a wonderful time, he’d texted on the first day. 

One of the nurses came up to me and gushed over your dress. She asked where you bought it from, but I told her we got it custom-ordered, he’d said on the second. 

The fourth day. Would you like to join me for a meal later? We’ve had to reschedule a surgery. I’ll be getting home earlier than usual tonight.

Last night. Please respond to me when you get a chance.

And no matter how badly you wanted to, each time your fingers hovered over the keyboard, they froze in paralyzing shame. 

You’d passed the time like you had before you met him—hiding from the sun, rewatching comfort movies, and wallowing in bed with gloomy ballads in the background.

But on the seventh day, your doorbell rings.

Thinking it’s the package of pastries you’d ordered from the bakery near Zayne’s house—you always got a box when you were sad—you hastily swing open the door.

And then fight the urge to shut it right back. 

Because standing on your doorstep is a tired-looking Zayne, frowning in hurt and confusion. 

“Hello. Is your phone broken?” he asks worriedly, checking your body for signs of illness. 

“Um…no,” you mutter, suddenly fixated on your navy blue slippers. “Why don’t you come in? If you want to.”

With an infinitesimal squint, he crosses the threshold of your apartment. All things considered, it’s a good thing he’s here, given the way your heart is beating out of your chest.

“You haven’t been responding to my calls or messages since the gala,” he begins carefully. “I was afraid something was wrong. There were so many people present—maybe you’d caught a virus. But,” he continues, taking in your disheveled yet healthy appearance, “it seems I was incorrect.”

The guilt that’s been eating at you for days suddenly devours your insides whole, and your emotional dam bursts open. 

“I-I’m glad you got to go, and that you got your award—your speech was great, by the way,” you sniffle. “But while we were there, the whole time I was thinking how much more successful you are than me. How much more intelligent. I mean, that lady asked me if I was an entomologist, or whatever, and I didn’t even know what she meant! At the end of it I just…thought you’d be better off without me. That you deserve better. Smarter. That’s why I’ve been quiet the last few days,” you finish, eyes downcast.

His puzzled frown deepens at your revelation.

“Why would I expect you to possess medical knowledge when that’s not your field of study?”

Oh.

Oh.

You really were stupid, weren’t you.

“You…don’t think I’m too…average for you?”

“No, have I ever indicated that I do? If so, I apologize for making you feel that way. It’s the complete opposite of how I view you,” he reveals, stepping closer. “I’m also terribly sorry I didn’t notice you were so uncomfortab—”

“No,” you interrupt him shakily. “I tried to hide it. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

Zayne gives you a sympathetic grin before starting over. “Regardless, I regret not being able to take care of you like I should have. And as much as I wish you hadn’t, I understand why you took the time to process your feelings. But to make one thing clear,” he asserts, voice deepening in emphasis. “I’m the one who’s lucky to have you.”

As you look up at him through glassy eyes, your breath hitches. “What?” you croak, voice hoarse from built-up tears.

“Darling,” he begins gently. “Did you ever consider whether I like socializing with those types of people?”

Mouth parting in a small ‘o,’ you shake your head meekly. 

He smiles wryly. “After every previous one of those events, I’ve gone home with an ear-splitting headache. Last week was the first time I’ve ever enjoyed going,” he chuckles. “Not because of that award—which was flattering but unnecessary considering I was only doing my job,” he quips, “but because you were there beside me.” 

“No amount of medical knowledge can compare to the peace you make me feel. The comfort. I asked you to be my plus-one for one reason only: the person I love makes me happy.”

At the confession, your battered heart soars and your cheeks burn so hot you think they’ll melt off. Timidly, you inch closer to him, instinctually unsure if he’ll welcome you back into his arms. 

He answers your unvoiced question almost immediately, pulling you to him by the waist before he speaks again. “Although,” he pauses, giving you a concerned once-over, “if you were truly in so much distress over attending, you could have just refused. At the expense of my own happiness, I would’ve preferred you had.”

“But you seemed so excited to go,” you groan, laying your head against his chest. You shiver at the contact—you must’ve missed him more than you realized. “I guess I was wrong.” 

“Not entirely. I was excited to go with you.”

At his response, you bury yourself impossibly further into him, and he strokes your back tenderly. “Well, that was one reason I agreed—you looked so cute when you asked, I just couldn’t say no,” you grumble, lightly pinching his waist. “But the other part was…with all the hours you spend at the hospital—800 surgeries and all—we never really get to go to big events as a couple. I just wanted to take the opportunity, I guess. I thought it would feel nice.”

Zayne sighs deeply and presses a light kiss to your hair. “And it felt bad instead,” he surmises. “How can I make it up to you? I’ll ask Greyson to trade shifts with me if I need to, just say the word.”

“Well,” you start, peering up at him shyly. “There is an office party next week that I’ve been dreading going to. All alone,” you pout. “If he comes with me, the illustrious Dr. Zayne will get to see how we regular people socialize.” 

Chuckling softly, he kisses your forehead. “He wouldn’t dare miss out on that. He’ll be there,” he promises, squeezing your hip in confirmation. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, I believe the bakery van just dropped something off at your door. Shall we open it?”

In an instant, you peel yourself off of him and sprint for the door before freezing in your tracks. You were forgetting something. 

“Wait!” you exclaim, turning back around to face him. With a nervous gulp, you say the words you think you’ve known for a long time.

“I asked you to come with me, Zayne,” you breathe, “because the person I love makes me happy, too.”

[mggslover]

Stuck

In which reader finds herself stuck in an elevator with her colleagues.

Pairing: Hotch x Reid x Morgan x Fem!BAU!Reader Genre: smut (18+) Content warnings: fingering, oral (f and m receiving), face riding, p in v sex, overstimulation, masturbation, breast play Word count: 5,4k A/n: I'm ovulating, so you know what time it is 🤭 I'm really nervous to post this, so I hope you will enjoy!

“Oh, you guys are such babies!” You laugh as Spencer and Derek refuse to step into the elevator, explaining how they’ve been stuck in one before. 

“It’s not funny, Y/N,” Spencer chimes in. “There are six elevator deaths per year. Not to mention ten thousand injuries that require hospitalization.”   

You roll your eyes at his comment, just as Hotch walks toward the elevator. “See!” You exclaim. “Hotch is joining us, and he saved you last time. We’ll be fine.” You add cheerfully.

“You’re coming?” Hotch asks, holding the elevator door open. You nod, pulling Morgan and Reid with you by their arms. 

You chuckle at their nervous reflections in the mirror as the elevator starts moving. A sudden creak causes Derek to snap his head towards you. “It made the same sound the last time!” You were just about to shut Derek up as the elevator shakes and the lights start flickering. 

“Not again!” Spencer whimpers, his eyes squeezed shut like he’s about to fall to his death at any given moment.

Hotch inspects the tight space, his expression grim. “It seems like the electricity went out…” 

“Actually, there are a lot of reasons why an elevator might stop,” Spencer interjects. “It could be worn-out suspension ropes, and it actually happens quite regularly that the motor overheats the safety sensors of the-“ 

“Let’s just solve this problem, shall we?” You cut him off, nudging Morgan out of the way to hit the red button on the panel. 

“You think that’ll do something?” Morgan asks, brow lifted. 

“It will alert someone that we’re stuck. We have to wait until somebody comes and gets us out of here.” Hotch adds. 

“Well at least I’ll be missing my meeting with Strauss,” I sigh in relief. 

“It was at twelve, right?” Spencer asks. 

“Yeah,” you respond with a nod.

“Statistically the average wait time to be rescued from an elevator is less than an hour,” Spencer continues, checking his watch. “That means you could still make it in time.” 

“Now that’s just what I wanted to hear,” you say sarcastically, earning a grin from Morgan. 

“We can only hope we won’t be in here for that long,” Hotch mutters, his impatience visible as he leans uncomfortably against the elevator doors. 

“Okay… so now what? Want to go over a case to pass the time?” 

“No, no cases please,” Morgan groans. “We’ve had three in a row. I’m done.” 

“Morgan is right. We’ve done enough cases in the past few days.” Hotch agrees. 

You mutter an “alright” as you sit down with your back against the elevator wall, smoothing out the crinkles in your skirt. The others look at you with uncertainty. Eventually Reid decides to sit next to you, exchanging a soft smile. Morgan follows suit, sitting in front of you. Hotch remains standing. You leave him be and turn to Spencer. 

“So Reid, I’m sure you’ve got enough interesting facts to pass the time.” 

Spencer looks surprised by the request, not used to directly being asked to share his facts, but his eyes quickly brighten, eager to share. “Well, actually, there are a lot of interesting things to say about elevators. There are approximately 20 million elevators worldwide,” you chuckle at his obvious enthusiasm. “The first elevator was created in 236 B.C. by Archimedes, a Greek mathematician. He used a water wheel and tied animals together with rope to create a lift mechanism.” You hum in interest. “They used lifts in the Colosseum, right?” 

“Yes! Exactly!” he responds excitedly. “The system was powered by eight men who would turn this massive wooden shaft connected to ropes. It could hold more than 600 pounds!” 

“Oh come on,” Derek says, his hand falling to his knee. “You’re telling me you’re actually interested in the mechanics of ancient elevators?”. 

Hotch glances at Morgan, silently agreeing with Derek’s skepticism. 

“Derek Morgan…” you feign offense, placing a hand on your chest. “Don’t act like I’m not curious about knowledge. At least Spence’s got something interesting to say.” 

Spencer blushes faintly, appreciating your defense. 

“Hey, I know facts too,” Morgan says smugly. “How about there being 7000 languages in the world today.” 

“The overall number is actually closer to 8000,” Spencer corrects him. “You only counted verbal communication.” 

“You guys are going to have a facts competition now?” You ask, bewildered. “It’s way too hot in here. I need some light conversation.”

“I agree,” Hotch mutters. “It is getting a little warm.”

You glance up at the AC in the corner of the elevator, which is clearly not working. It probably shut down along with the power. There’s a brief silence before Reid speaks up again. 

“I never thought I’d be trapped in an elevator with my colleagues,” he muses. “It’s a little cliché.”

“Cliche, how?” Hotch asks, intrigued despite himself. 

“You know how, in movies, a group of people get stuck in an elevator and they have to learn to overcome their differences to escape?” 

You shake your head in confusion, “I think I only know the dirty movies where they get stuck in an elevator,” you laugh. 

Spencer blinks at you, clearly thrown off. Derek chuckles at the scene, and even Hotch manages a faint smile. 

“I should’ve known you’ve only watched the dirty ones,” Derek teases. 

“What about you, pretty boy?  Ever seen a dirty movie?” He asks Spencer, grinning. 

Reid looks flustered. “I grew up in Vegas… I’ve seen some things.” 

“Ah, Vegas,” you say, sighing dreamily. “The place where you can’t drive for a minute without seeing a giant porn billboard.”

Morgan grins, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. “Sounds like my kind of place.” 

You laugh and kick his leg playfully. Morgan winks at you, enjoying the lighthearted banter. You glance up at Hotch, who is still the only one standing. 

“What about you, Hotch? What’s your favorite dirty movie?” You ask with a mischievous grin, but your expression quickly drops when you see his stern look. 

“Watch it, Y/L/N.” Hotch warns.

“Come on, Hotch,” Derek says. “Let loose a little!”

“See it as the universe’s sign.” I press on. 

“How is being stuck in here a sign of the universe?” Hotch asks, brows raised.

“Well, no way would you willingly take a break yourself. Now the universe got you stuck in here and is forcing you to relax,” you explain, with a playful gleam in your eyes. 

To everyone’s surprise, he slowly lowers himself to the floor, sitting down next to you. 

You exchange surprised looks with Derek and Spencer. All amazed at how you managed to get Hotch to sit down.

The next few minutes are spent in comfortable silence, scared to say something that will make Hotch change his mind. You’re glad he joined you, but it’s hard to ignore the rising temperature now that another person is sitting in close proximity to you. 

“How long has it been?” you ask, fanning yourself with your blazer. “I’m starting to sweat.”

“Thirty-five minutes so far,” Derek replies, following your lead and fanning himself. 

Hotch looks mildly uncomfortable, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Spencer, however, looks the most miserable using the collar of his sweater vest to wipe his face. 

“You guys should take your jackets off,” you suggest, eyeing Morgan and Hotch. 

You don’t need to tell Derek twice, as he removes his jacket, revealing a black short sleeved shirt that looks a lot more comfortable. Hotch looks reluctant to do the same, but eventually gives in, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt collar. You take a peak as he reveals his broad, muscled shoulders for a moment, before readjusting his shirt. Hotch notices your glance and his eyes shoot up to yours, catching you in the moment as your cheeks flush. You quickly look away. 

“Oh, she’s enjoying the view, alright,” Derek smirks and you give him a warning glance.

“Shut up. I was just surprised Hotch would give in.” 

Morgan grins and nudges Hotch with his elbow, “Look at that, Hotch. You’re surprising us all today. First you smile and now you’re taking your jacket off. What’s next, dancing a jig?” You and Spencer snort at his comment. Hotch rolls his eyes at Morgan’s teasing but can’t help a small smile from appearing on his lips. 

Spencer struggles with his vest and you give him a hand. “Here, let me help you”, you say as you scoot closer, pulling the vest over his head. The fabric feels soft, but incredibly warm in your hands. You don’t know how he managed to keep it on for this long. Reid is taken aback for a moment, but mutters a soft thanks. Morgan and Hotch watch the exchange with interest, clearly amused at the sight of you being so forward with Reid.

“Now it’s your turn, you’re the one who insisted,” Morgan states, and you can’t help but agree as you take your blazer off, giving a satisfied hum at the immediate relief.

“I’ll open up some buttons too, if you don’t mind,” you announce as your fingers start working on your blouse. You don’t give them a chance to respond, since it seems only fair. Their eyes widen at your gesture, all of them staring at the sight of your blouse slightly opening up. Morgan lets out a low whistle, “Now that’s a nice view.”

“You’re insufferable,” you scoff as you stop unbuttoning, showing just a hint of your lacy bra. Morgan’s eyes linger on the sight, clearly enjoying the view. Hotch and Reid look like they’re struggling to keep their cool. Reid is the most flustered of all, turning bright red as he focuses on his hands. Morgan glances around at the others, seeing them struggle to keep themselves composed. 

He chuckles and shakes his head, enjoying the effect you’re having on them. “You know, you’re driving all of us a little crazy here, sweetheart.” 

You let out a small huff, “Give me a break. You’re wearing shortsleeves, I’m the one wearing a blouse.” 

Hotch speaks up, his gaze lingering on your blouse. “That blouse does seem a bit warm.” 

“Thank you!” You say, glad someone is on your side. 

Hotch eyes stay focused on you though, or specifically the bit of exposed collarbone and the lace that’s hugged around the swell of your breast. Your breathing heaves when you find Spencer taking occasional peaks as well, watching with a mixture of awe and embarrassment, finding difficulty in looking away. 

“Let’s just all take our shirts off, I want it to be fair”, you quickly exclaim, done with the heavy tension that’s driving you crazy. Hotch and Morgan exchange amused glances as Spencer eyes turn big, taking in your proposal. 

“All our shirts, are you sure about that?” Derek asks, a hint of surprise in his voice. 

“Then at least you won’t eye me like that.” 

“Oh, I think I’ll eye you only more.” Derek teases, licking his lips. 

“Just take your damn shirt off.” 

Derek chuckles and raises his hands in surrender, “Alright, alright. No need to get feisty.” He says as he lifts his shirt off in a smooth motion. It’s a known fact that Derek is jacked, but seeing him in a setting like this, abs glistening with sweat and pupils still dilated from looking at you, is on a whole ‘nother level. 

You’re glad the attention is taken away from your peering eyes as Hotch follows suit, unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a clearly defined muscular chest with just a hint of hair. You start doubting your suggestion as it feels like the room is only growing hotter. You look over at Spencer, seeing whether he’ll be the next. Spencer hesitates for a moment, his eyes darting between the other’s bare chests and your unbuttoned blouse. His chest heaving with his breath, suggesting that he’s more affected than he’s letting on. 

“Come on, pretty boy. Join the party.” Derek says.

“I’ll go first,” you assure Spencer, not wanting him to suffer under peer pressure. Your hands start working on the buttons. Spencer’s eyes widened at the scene in front of him.

“See, it’s not that hard,” you reassure Spencer, folding your blouse and placing it next to you. 

“I don’t know about that. You’re making things pretty hard, baby girl.” Morgan comments, making you laugh. 

“You’re way too dirty for your own good.” 

Morgan grins. “Can you blame me? I mean, look at you. You’re looking mighty tempting right now.”

You softly smile at the compliment and focus back on Spencer. “You’ll feel a lot cooler, I promise,” you encourage. 

“I don’t know. I’m not as… toned as the others.” It hurts you to hear how he’s comparing himself to his colleagues. 

“Do you truly think I care about that?” You ask him. “It’s not a competition. I just want you to feel comfortable,” you speak genuinely. Spencer looks up at you, his eyes searching yours for any signs of mockery or deception. When he finds none, his face softens and he nods. He lifts his shirt over his head, revealing a body no less impressive than the others. 

“Not too bad, pretty boy. You’re looking pretty good without that vest on.” Derek compliments. 

“You do,” You agree, as you fold his shirt and place it on top of my blouse. Spencer gives you a sheepish smile, grateful for your help. Glad he decided to take his shirt off as he felt the cool air hit his chest, “Yeah, that does feel better.” 

You look around the room, the scene for sure one to be put down in the history books of the BAU. “I think it’s safe to say we’ve entered a new step in our colleague bonding,” you awkwardly chuckle, trying to lighten the mood but the air feels charged with an unspoken tension that’s impossible to ignore. You can feel their eyes on you, the way they linger, the weight of their gazes following your every movement. You try to ignore it, to stay professional, but your body betrays you. You shift slightly, adjusting your skirt, and that’s when you feel it - the subtle brush of Hotch’s fingers caressing your arm.

You swallow hard as you look away. The air around you is suddenly too tight. You want to curse your body as your nipples harden under his steady gaze, there being no way to blame it on the cold. Derek notices the exchange and leans in, the heat between you two palpable. 

His voice is low and husky, “You're all worked up, sweetheart. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.” 

Your pulse quickens, the sound of your heartbeat almost drowning out his words. “I’m not the only one,” you counter, voice quieter, but the challenge in it is unmistakable. You feel Spencer shift next to you, his body tense as he feels like he’s been caught staring at your chest. “Don’t be shy, genius,” Derek teases. “We’re all thinking the same thing right now.” You can’t help but smile at Spencer’s flustered look. “It’s… It’s hard not to, when you-” He cuts himself off, his voice faltering as his eyes dart away from your breasts. 

Hotch is still standing by the door, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watches the dynamic play out. “We’ve been stuck in here long enough. I think it’s safe to say we all want and feel the same thing.” The air thickens with desire as he dares to say the thought that’s been occupying everyone’s mind. You glance at the others, seeing how Spencer is adjusting himself in his pants and the way Derek is watching you, his gaze so intense it almost feels like he’s touching you. 

“Guess it’s only fair if we all just… give in to it,” you murmur, your eyes flicking between them. The suggestion is there, unspoken but understood. 

From there on everything feels like a blur. You hear Hotch growl behind you as he wraps his bicep around your neck, pulling you in as his lips crash against yours. You whimper against his mouth, which gives him the opportunity to let his tongue slide in. You welcome his tongue with yours as your hand moves to squeeze the arm around your neck, making full use of the circumstances to feel up on his muscles. 

“You’re always driving me crazy when wearing this skirt,” Hotch groans in your ear as his teeth pull on your earlobe. You can find no other way to respond than let out a high pitched sound of enjoyment as his free hand kneads your ass through your pencil skirt. Spencer watches the scene unfold in front of him. How his boss roughly grabs and kisses you, manhandling you. 

 “I- I don’t know about this…” Spencer stammers. 

Morgan turns to him, breaking the intense gaze he had on you and Hotch. “Don’t worry Reid, she’s enjoying it.” 

“Are you sure?” Spencer asks, uncertainty in his voice as Hotch is pulling on your hair, giving him access to plant kisses and bites on your neck. 

Morgan grins, “Let me show you how sure I am,” he says as he steps towards you and Hotch. He rolls your skirt up to your stomach and lets his fingers slide over your panties, cursing when it easily slips between your folds, creating a wet sound. You moan at the friction, not in the state to feel embarrassed by how wet you are. 

“See Reid, she loves it,” Derek points out, licking his lips as he pulls your damp panties to the side. Spencer lets out a groan as Derek reveals your glistening pussy, his hand subconsciously squeezing the bulge in his pants for any form of release.

“Let me see,” Hotch insists, removing his lips from your neck. Derek slides a finger through your folds and proudly displays the stickiness to Hotch. 

“You’re such a little slut, aren’t you?,” Hotch whispers, his nose pressed against the side of your face. “Just been begging to get in a situation like this so we could all fuck you the way you deserve.” You whimper at his dirty words and hot breath on your skin. Your legs feel like jelly as he grinds himself against your ass. Derek continues to apply pressure with his hand as he lets his fingers rub up and down your lips and clit. 

Spencer’s eyes are burning holes in your chest. He just can’t understand how no one has touched your lovely tits, while they’ve been teasing him the entire time. 

“You can come here Spence,” you purr, hypnotizing him to walk towards you. He swallows as he’s close enough to touch you, close enough to hear all the little sounds you’re making as you’re being touched all over. 

“Can I-?” You don’t let Spencer finish his question as you quickly nod, throwing your head back as his finger grazes over your nipple, sending a direct spark of pleasure to your clit. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers mostly to himself in awe as he cups your breast, the shape fitting perfectly in his large hand. 

“Thank you,” you whisper back. It’s ironic how his sweet compliment is the thing that's making you shy.

Derek slips a finger inside of you with ease, and you bite your lip to hold back your mewls. “Don’t do that. I like the way you sound.” Spencer encourages, resulting in another moan from you, loving the effect his words have on you. 

Hotch unclasps your bra from behind and Spencer helps him by pulling your straps down, letting your breasts fall free. Hotch grabs your left breast, kneading it with his strong, calloused hands as he rolls your nipple in between his fingers. Spencer uses the momentary distraction to bend down and experimentally licks your nipple, humming at the sensation. He gives a couple more licks to your breast as he pulls your nipple in between his lips, sucking on it as he flicks his tongue against the sensitive bud. 

You feel overwhelmed by the way all of your erogenous zones are stimulated at once; Hotch licking and biting on your neck and ear, while massaging your breast and grinding his hardness against your ass. Spencer’s swollen lips and wet tongue tracing over your nipple as Derek caresses your thighs as he adds a second finger into your pussy. You realize that this is what pleasure is supposed to be like. The zones on your body are all connected and you haven’t experienced true bliss until those spots get triggered at the same time. 

“Morgan, is she ready?” Hotch asks, breathing heavily. 

“More than ready, sir,” Derek grins as he takes a step back. He lets his fingers slide out of you, making you whimper at the loss of contact, but then Hotch turns you around so that your chest is pressed up against the elevator doors where he was standing. 

“I need you for myself,” he groans. Derek tosses a condom from his jeans and Hotch catches it, ripping the package with his teeth while pulling his trousers down to his knees, not wanting to let a single moment go to waste. Your hands are pressed against the wall as he slowly enters you. 

“Oh my god… I feel so full,” you whine and you swear you could feel him grin as you register that he’s not even fully inside of you. You let out a long breath as you feel his balls make contact with your ass. 

“You’re doing okay there, princess?” Derek chuckles and you nod. Hotch slowly moves his length out of you as he slams his hips back in with a groan. You gasp as you wrap your hand around the back of his head, keeping yourself steady as he continues thrusting into you. His growls feel hot against your neck. His sweaty chest pressed up against your back, leaving you completely in his grasp.

“You feel that angel? How your pussy swallows my cock?” You let out a cry as you nod your head in agreement. 

“I don’t understand Y/N. You’re a big girl, use your words.” 

“Oh god…’’ Your head spins as he pounds into you. “I’m not going to tell you again Y/N, use your words.” He orders. 

“Yes!’’ you cry out. ‘’God yes Aaron, it feels so good. I can feel you so deep inside of me.” 

“Say my name again.” He moans as his hand trails down your stomach until it reaches your swollen bud. “Aaron, please… I’m so, so close.” He gives some quick taps to your clit, making you squirm in pleasure as your knees give out. His strong hands grip you by the waist and he hoists you back up on his dick. “I’m almost there honey, you can keep it up, be good for me.” 

You let out a string of whines as he uses the palm of his hand to swiftly move against your folds, indirectly bringing pleasure to your clit. You can’t take it any more, pressing your nails into his arms as you crouch down in front of him, shaking as your release hits you. Hotch groans loudly as his dick slips out of your pussy. His dick twitches as he takes off the condom, painting your back with hot spurts of cum.

You have your eyes closed, trying to catch your breath as you’re still riding down your orgasm. You hum as you feel the soft material of Spencer’s sweater vest against your back, cleaning you up. 

“You okay?” Spencer asks, kneeled in front of you. You nod your head and softly smile at his tenderness. 

“Yeah. I feel really, really good.” You answer, making Spencer return your smile. With him in front of you, you notice the visible outline of his bulge pressed against his thigh and reach out to touch it. Your fingers lightly brush over his length, causing him to shudder. 

“Do you want me to take care of you?” You ask sensually, looking in his eyes. 

“Not really,” he responds, taking you by surprise. He sees your expression and quickly corrects himself. “It’s not like I don’t want you to! I’d- I’d love you to do…”, he’s not actually sure what you planned on doing to him. “Whatever you would do. I just-,” his voice softens, meeting your gaze. “I really need to know what you taste like.” 

Your cheeks warm, feeling your arousal grow. “Okay,” you exhale. Spencer extends his hand, helping you up. You find your blazer and bundle it up for Spencer to lay his head on. You’re amazed at how willing he is to get down on the floor, ready to eat you out in a very nontraditional and arguable unsanitized way. You hover over his face as you get down on your knees, letting out a hum as his breath tingles your pussy. Spencer kneads your calves and runs his hands up the back of your thighs. He tilts his head up, placing a wet kiss on your inner thigh.

“Feels good,” you mumble. Spencer responds with a hum against your skin, the vibration causing you to moan. He grabs your thighs, slowly pulling them further apart. “I can’t wait to taste you,” he admits, sticking out his tongue and licking a stripe up your folds. You moan, arching your back. Through hooded eyes you spot the figure of Hotch. He’s sitting against the wall in front of you, lazily stroking his half hard length as he stares at you. 

Just when you were about to question where Morgan was, you catch him in your periphery. He holds your gaze as he approaches, coming to a stop right in front of you. His belt buckle hangs open, but it doesn’t look like he’s touched himself. 

“If you don’t mind, I’d really like to take up on that offer genius here denied.” You grin at him, hands reaching out to his belt. Spencer is keeping himself busy, licking and sucking up your juices. You pull Derek’s pants down, gasping as his dick springs free, slapping against his happy trail. You groan in delight as you wrap your hand around his shaft. He tilts his head back at the contact. “Fuck baby, your hands feel so warm and soft.” You lean forward and let some of your spit dribble down on his dick, making him hiss. You move your thumb in circles over his tip, mixing your saliva with his precum. When it feels like it’s wet enough, you move your hand up and down his length in a steady motion.

His tip grows red and you cannot resist licking your lips before putting your mouth on him. He feels heavy in your mouth as you take him in deeper, stimulating him with your tongue as you suck. His hands tangle in your hair, holding you as he moves in sync with your movements. 

Spencer moves a hand up the curve of your ass while he uses the other to unbuckle his belt. He slides his hand in his pants, rubbing himself over his boxers as he relishes in your taste. His lips nibble on your labia as his nose tickles against your clit. 

“Don’t get distracted, baby girl,” Derek states, softly pushing your head back down. You swallow around him and try to up your pace. Derek takes your breast in his hand, massaging it. As your nipples harden he takes one in between his fingers, pulling on it. You gasp at the sensation, making his dick slide deeper down your throat. 

“Fuck! Right there baby, that feels so good,” he pants. You blink away tears, continuing the steady movement of your head and swirls of your tongue. 

Spencer’s dick starts feeling too hot in his boxers and he pulls it out, so that it lays against his stomach. Your pussy is absolutely dripping because of the swipes of Spencer’s tongue and the taste of Derek in your mouth. Spencer can’t keep up with licking you clean, your wetness dripping down his chin. He reaches out to grab his length, the skin to skin contact overstimulating him. 

You notice Spencer getting restless underneath you. Derek’s dick pops out of your mouth. “Are you okay, Spence?” You ask. He hums against your clit in response, you let out a high pitched moan and instinctively bend your knees. “Sorry,” you apologize as you want to tilt your hips back up, but Spencer pulls you back down by your thighs, making you sit on his face.

“Oh god…” You moan as he starts devouring you. He keeps a hand firm on your ass as he starts jerking himself off to the beautiful sounds that you’re making. You lazily tug on Derek’s cock, too distracted by Spencer’s tongue. 

“Oh Spencer, I’m going to cum,” you whimper, mouth open and brows furrowed in pleasure. You start grinding yourself on his tongue, seeking your release. You find the perfect spot and Spencer presses the tip of his tongue against your clit, as you fall undone. Spencer laps up your juices and squeezes the load out of his dick as it splatters on his belly. You lift your hips to give Spencer some space. He moves away, joining you on his knees as he sits behind you, pressing featherlight kisses to your back. 

“I’m not gonna last that much longer,” Derek announces, who’s been stroking himself to your orgasm. “Come here, then,” you invite as you take him back in your mouth. Placing a hand on his thigh for support, you use all of the energy that is left in you to suck him off. Your free hand reaches out to play with his balls, which seems to be the trigger for him.

“Fuck, Y/N, baby, I’m going to cum!” He groans deeply as he fills your mouth. You quickly swallow his load, eyes watering as he pulls you in by your head, needing your lips on him as he rides out the aftershocks. 

“Fuck… You’re amazing, sweetheart.” He sighs, letting go of your hair so that you can catch your breath. 

-

“Who the hell is in there?” 

The voice outside is sharp and gruff. Everyone’s heads whip around, startled. Hotch swiftly buckles his belt as he strides towards the elevator doors.

“This is SSA Aaron Hotchner of the BAU. I’m stuck here with three of my agents.” 

The voice responds quickly, dripping with disbelief. "Why didn’t you morons use the emergency button?"

Your colleagues look at each other, then shift their gaze to you, all with accusing looks plastered on their faces.

"Hey, don’t look at me! I’m the first one that pressed the red button!" You say in defense. 

The voice outside huffs in frustration. "Red? It's a black button."

You blink in surprise, your gaze snapping to the panel. You crawl up to get a better look, and sure enough, there's a black button, boldly labeled ‘EMERGENCY.’

"What in the world?" you mutter under your breath. "Then what the hell is the red button for?!"

The voice outside laughs sarcastically. "How the hell am I supposed to know? I’ve been working here for six months. Don’t blame me because you can’t read." He pauses, clearly shaking his head. "FBI agents, my ass."

You blink in disbelief. You share an incredulous glance with Derek, then burst out laughing, your frustration giving way to amusement. "Seriously?" you mutter, shaking your head. 

Derek notices how Spencer’s been unusually quiet. “Speak up, kid,” he urged. 

“I’ve known what the buttons do the entire time,” he says, voice casual.

You and Hotch both turn to look at him, eyes wide. “What?!” You both exclaim at the same time. 

Spencer shrugs, a playful glint in his eyes. “I told you about those movies where people overcome their differences to try to escape. I wanted to see how we would solve it.”

Derek’s mouth drops open. “You’ve been sitting here the whole time knowing exactly what to do and didn’t say anything?!” 

Spencer smiles, looking almost proud of himself. “It’s a team-building exercise,” he says matter-of-factly. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t enjoy it.”

You shake your head, laughing in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable, Reid.”

As if on cue, the elevator jolts, and the soft ding of the doors opening fills the space.

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Could you write a Dad!Oscar, where yn is constantly in a game of hide and seek with everyone (engineers, other drivers, mechanics, team principals, everyone) and everyone finds it adorable

Hide and Seek

Oscar was crouched beside his car, speaking quietly with one of his engineers about the updates to the front wing, but even as he focused on the words, his ears were trained on the familiar giggle echoing through the paddock.

"Behind the tire rack again?" his engineer asked with a grin, eyes darting to the left where a soft peal of laughter rang out again, barely muffled.

Oscar didn't need to look. "Third time today," he muttered fondly, standing and brushing his hands on his fire suit. "She thinks no one ever looks there. She’s very proud of her hiding skills.”

His five-year-old daughter, Yn, was once again playing her favorite game—hide and seek in the paddock. It had started as a simple distraction during a long race weekend, but it had quickly become tradition. Engineers, mechanics, other drivers, even team principals—they were all drafted into her ongoing game. And none of them minded. In fact, most of them actively looked forward to seeing the little girl scurrying behind tire stacks or squeezing beneath tables, giggling as she waited to be “found.”

Oscar turned just in time to see Lando tiptoeing past the pit wall, hands on his hips, eyes darting around theatrically.

"Yn! Hmm… where could she be?" Lando called in a sing-song voice, drawing out the vowels.

From the corner, a soft snort of laughter exploded from behind a row of stacked tires.

Lando froze and gasped dramatically. "Did I just hear a mouse?"

Giggle.

"Wait a minute…" he turned, creeping closer to the tires with exaggerated stealth, "...was that… a racing mouse? Wearing tiny sneakers?"

This sent Yn into fits of laughter, and she burst from her hiding spot, sprinting out into the open with a squeal. Lando pretended to slip and fall over, face-planting into a patch of unused mats, groaning dramatically.

"No! She’s too fast!" he wailed, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I’ve been defeated!"

Yn giggled uncontrollably and spun in a circle before spotting her father just a few meters away.

“Daddy!” she shrieked, running up to him at full speed.

Oscar, mid-conversation again, crouched down instinctively and caught her, lifting her high into his arms. "Hey, sunshine," he said, grinning. “You winning?”

She nodded fiercely. “Lando almost found me! But I’m too sneaky. Can you hide me, please please please?”

Oscar laughed, glancing at Lando, who was peeking over a mat and winking.

"Where do you want me to hide you?" Oscar asked.

“In your jacket!” Yn announced, eyes wide with excitement. “He’ll never find me there!”

Oscar didn’t miss a beat. He sat down in his chair, unzipped his team jacket and helped her nestle into his lap. She curled up with a little sigh of satisfaction, her tiny hands holding the inside of his suit like it was a security blanket. He zipped the jacket halfway back up, not really covering her, but enough for pretend.

She giggled again as he gently hushed her, “Shh, shh… the hunter is near.”

Lando sauntered over, hands on his hips. “Now, where oh where could Yn have gone?” he mused, very pointedly looking everywhere but at Oscar’s lap.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, keeping a very serious expression. “Haven’t seen her.”

“Hmm…” Lando stepped closer, bent to peer under a bench. “Maybe she went back to the hospitality suite? Or—wait. Maybe she climbed into the tire rack again.”

Oscar shrugged. “Could be. She’s pretty quick.”

A tiny giggle trembled from within his jacket. Lando froze.

“Wait… was that wind?” he asked, blinking. “Or do I hear… a giggle?”

Oscar opened his mouth solemnly. “Wind.”

“Oh,” Lando said. “Weirdly adorable wind.”

The jacket shook slightly. Oscar patted the little bump under the fabric gently.

“I guess I’ll have to keep looking,” Lando sighed dramatically. “I’m the worst seeker ever.”

A tiny head popped up from Oscar’s jacket, grinning triumphantly. “You didn’t find me!”

Lando gasped and staggered back. “What?! You were hidden in there? Impossible! That's cheating!”

“It’s not cheating,” she insisted, climbing out into Oscar’s lap, “It’s being smart.”

Lando crossed his arms, pretending to pout. “I’ve been outsmarted by a five-year-old again.”

“You always are,” Oscar teased, poking his friend in the ribs with a laugh.

“Okay,” Lando said, spinning to face her. “Next round, I’m going pro. No mercy.”

“I’m going super pro!” she shot back, pointing at him.

Oscar chuckled, hugging her tight. “Go easy on him, sunshine. He’s not that smart.”

“I heard that!” Lando called as he jogged away, already scanning for hiding spots.

Oscar stood, setting Yn gently on the ground. “Alright, off you go, professional hider.”

She gave him a kiss on the cheek and whispered, “You’re the best hiding place ever,” before darting off again.

Oscar just smiled and watched her run, her pigtails bouncing, her laughter echoing through the paddock.

As she disappeared behind a catering cart, a group of engineers turned, pretending to be confused. One whispered loudly, “Was that the wind again?” and the others nodded seriously.

The whole paddock was in on it. She was their little ray of sunshine, their game master, their daily joy. And Oscar wouldn’t trade a single moment of it for the world.

Even during a debrief later, when a mechanic leaned in and whispered, “She hid in the tire warmers again. You might want to go rescue her before she cooks,” Oscar didn’t mind.

He smiled, stood up from his seat, and headed to retrieve his daughter.

Because no matter how many races he drove, no matter how many podiums he reached, this—this chaotic, loving, laughter-filled paddock life with his daughter—was the greatest win of all.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

-♡○♡

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

Life imitates art - Dr. Jack Abbot x amputee!reader

Summary: 2.6k words. Jack is sent into a tailspin when the woman he’s been eyeing for months at his amputee support group arrives at the Pitt in a gurney. Based on this request by @seasiren212! (this is now a series! Here's the master list)

Warnings: canon-typical depiction of wounds and medical situations, cancer in remission, some medical jargon, reader’s history of BKA, Jack’s history of BKA & accident, age gap, angst, etc. The most unrealistic part of this fic is a doctor spending this much time with one patient (live laugh love the U.S. healthcare system).

a/n: ugh I cried a little bit while writing this. I’m so passionate about oncology care mwah. Abbot is working day shift in this fic. Surrender yourself to the plot and pretend he’s covering for Robby if you must. Divider credit!

At 23 years old, your leg was amputated just below the knee. You’d been fighting bone marrow cancer for a while now, and you were running out of treatment options. To mitigate the risk of significant metastasis, your oncologist recommended an amputation.

So it was off with your leg.

Before the amputation, you’d spent months in and out of the hospital. Somehow, despite the fatigue, aches, and genuine existential crisis over whether this reality was a fate better than death, you graduated with your Master's degree in art history after completing most of the program virtually from your hospital bed. You got special permission from the dean of your university’s college of the arts to defend your thesis from the hospital. Your nurses arranged for you to use a conference room on the floor and made sure everything was thoroughly cleaned to prevent the risk of secondary infection.

Your IV was hooked up to some medications you couldn’t pronounce, but by now, you’d learned how to wave your arms around wildly without letting the tubing hinder you. The thesis committee didn’t go easy on you during your defense just because you were sick. Good. You didn’t want them to. You’d researched and studied your ass off, and earned the right to defend your thesis. The one you’d spent countless sleepless nights and nauseating days working on. So what if you were presenting at UPMC’s Cancer Center?

The oncology unit staff were the first to celebrate you as soon as you made it out of the conference room with happy tears in your eyes. In the time you’d been presenting, the halls had been decorated with streamers. Balloons surrounded your hospital room, and you were given an elaborate bouquet of artificial flowers. You did it.

The RN who’d been caring for you the longest was the one to push your wheelchair across the stage during your hooding ceremony. The oncology unit staff lined the front row of the audience and cheered louder than you’d ever heard.

“MA” looked pretty damn good after your name in your email signature. The Master of Arts degree hung proudly on the wall of your apartment, a forever reminder of your resilience through it all.

It took grueling months to find the right prosthetic and get it fitted properly, and even more years of physical therapy to allow you to be here today, giving narrated walking tours through the Carnegie Museum of Art.

Jack met you at his amputee support group.

At first, he assumed you were there as a student. You were quiet. Observant. Some of the local clinical psychology degree programs assigned students to attend open support group meetings. The large, structured tote bag that followed you to every meeting supported his theory. He imagined you had a laptop, a textbook or two, and a can of Red Bull in the bag, if he had to guess.

You didn’t take notes like other students Jack saw in the past, but you didn’t seem like the type that needed to take notes in the moment, anyway. You were a breathtaking wallflower at the meetings, it was hard not to notice you. The floor-length dresses that complemented your body and draped across you in all the right places were delicate and dainty. Jack was dying to know if your personality matched your exterior.

If Abbot had to guess, he’d say the mystery girl at the amputee support group was in her mid-to-late twenties, though she didn’t necessarily dress like it. Your wardrobe was all maxi skirts and long flowy dresses, cardigans and cable knit sweaters, statement earrings and small chain necklaces. Jack overheard one of the younger group members complimenting your clothing style one day, describing it as “serving cottage core meets coastal grandma chic.” Whatever the hell that meant.

At one of the meetings, you barely showed up on time. You were flustered and a bit disheveled, blowing a stray strand of hair out of your face, but still beautiful as ever. An intricately decorated lanyard and your employee badge hung out of the purse’s wide mouth.

Your name, MA. Art Historian, Curator, and Guest Guide. Carnegie Museum of Art.

Hmm. Jack wasn’t really one for the arts. He was most creative when figuring out how to perform complex medical procedures in unconventional situations. He was methodical and analytical in his life. He approached situations and his work with scientific precision, but he could be tempted to give the museum a visit if it meant he might run into you.

The Pitt’s ambulance bay was never empty for long. Gurneys rolled in and out of the ER all day and night. After all his years in emergency medicine, few things surprised Doctor Abbot anymore.

Until you rolled in.

Dana was the first to reach the EMTs, taking report as she guided them to an available room. Doctor Abbot watched from the provider desk, his mouth slightly parted as his eyes tracked you the whole way across the Pitt.

The charge nurse barely made it out of the room and assigned the patient to Abbot before he jumped out of his seat and bee-lined to room five. “On it,” he said, to no one in particular. Dana stood back and observed his uncharacteristic movements for half a second with her hands on her hips before returning to her millions of other tasks.

Doctor Abbot pulled back the exam room curtain to reveal you sitting on the gurney, fidgeting with your museum badge and shaking your exposed shoe back and forth.

“Hi, kid,” he greeted, donning gloves. He took note of the prosthetic leg covered in floral designs resting next to your hip. Not a student. An amputee. Abbot hummed inwardly.

“Oh. Hi, Jack,” you responded, surprise gracing your face. You knew he was a doctor; he mentioned working at the hospital a couple of times during support group meetings, you just didn’t know he was a doctor here. You took him in. Frustratingly, he was handsome as ever in his black scrubs with toned, muscled arms that threatened to burst out of his short sleeves, with a badge that read Dr. Abbot. Attending Emergency Medicine Physician. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Despite the situation, you couldn’t help but notice that his gray curls were a little more mussed than usual, like he’d run his hands through them at least half a dozen times. You yearned to follow suit.

Mateo followed Doctor Abbot into the exam room not long after and glanced between you and the physician a couple of times, trying to decipher the dynamic. It was obvious the two of you knew each other, but he kept quiet and set up the WOW for orders in case Doctor Abbot needed it.

Jack sat down smoothly on a rolling stool and scooted close to your bedside. Maybe closer than was necessary, but no one in the room objected to it.

“What brings you in?” He swept his eyes over you analytically. You looked fine on the surface, sans the removed prosthetic accompanying you against the bed rails.

“Bum leg,” you sighed. This was embarrassing. Even when you leaned back against the gurney, unsuccessfully attempting to relax, you never broke eye contact with Jack.

“Figures. Mind if I take a look?” Abbot replied without missing a beat. He rubbed his chin, eyes darting between your face and the raised slope of your leg underneath your dress.

You hesitantly pulled up your skirt to reveal the angry red skin surrounding what was left of your knee joint. For some reason, exposing your thigh felt intimate, even in the hospital. It didn’t look good, and it admittedly had Jack concerned, but he wouldn’t let you know that. At least not yet. It didn’t look like cellulitis, at least not on the surface. There was no wound weeping or skin dimpling. He’d still run cultures just to be safe.

“Are you resting your leg often? Do you remove the prosthetic?” He ran through a slew of questions. Sure, he knew more about amputations and prosthetics than the average physician, but he wanted to know more about your story.

“Well, I’ve given roughly 8 hours of walking tours through the museum every day for the past week, plus 2 hours today,” you rattled off your schedule. It was strenuous, but this was the life you worked and studied and fought to build for yourself. You had no regrets.

Jack gave you a stern look, and you shrank under his gaze. You almost reminded him that he was being hypocritical, with his 12-hour shifts at the Pitt, but decided against it.

“What else?” He pressed. You sighed.

“I can put my socks and sleeves on, but they’re tighter than normal. The prosthetic will fit on, but it hurts.” The a lot was silent, but you both knew it was there. “I was limping this morning, and I eventually fell while giving a tour,” you continued. Doctor Abbot immediately scanned you for signs of any other fall-related injury. No bruises or bumps as far as he could see. “But a guest caught me. And the museum director insisted that I get checked out. Even though I’m fine,” you finished, exasperated.

“You and I must have different definitions of ‘fine,’ my friend,” Jack exhaled and leaned back, just far enough to not topple off the stool.

A comfortable silence fell between you two while Jack weighed treatment options. This was more of an outpatient specialist matter, but he was glad you came in. He’d learned more about you in the past 15 minutes than he had in the past 3 months of staring longingly at you during the amputee support group meetings.

Mateo felt like he was intruding on a private moment. He cleared his throat and started preemptively entering orders in your chart.

“Cultures? For cellulitis rule-out, Dr. Abbot?” The physician nodded thankfully to the nurse. Jack didn’t miss the flash of fear that crossed your face. Doctor Abbot ordered an ultrasound as well, just to make sure there wasn’t an underlying abscess forming, potentially evidenced by the edema at the end of your limb.

You cleared your throat. “Could you also run a CBC?” you asked, wringing your hands together. Abbot nodded again and stood, dusting his hands on his pants to keep them busy.

“Why?” It wasn’t accusatory. He’d do it anyway if you asked for it; he just wanted to know why.

“I’m in remission. Bone marrow cancer. Doesn’t hurt to check for signs of recurrence when funky things happen,” you shrugged, though you were obviously tense as you gestured to what was left of your left while pulling your dress skirt back down.

The room went silent.

That definitely would’ve been added to your chart’s medical history if you hadn’t come in by ambulance and instead had the pleasure of meeting Lupe at registration.

Up until now, why you attended the support group meetings wasn’t Jack’s business. Now, you were his patient. Your health and history were absolutely his business now.

Doctor Abbot offered a small smile and agreed to the additional test. You didn’t want his sympathy, he knew that better than anyone. He knocked on the door frame on his way out with a promise to be back shortly.

For a minute, Jack pondered what it would’ve been like to know he’d be losing his leg before it happened. When he had his accident, the decision was made for him. The blood loss had been near fatal. He’d long since passed out when the military medics realized they were forced to decide between his life or his limb, the lesser of two evils. He wondered if he had the time to plan a new reality beforehand, if things would be any different. Any better. He didn’t think they would.

He thought you must’ve been young when you were diagnosed with cancer. You were young now, notably younger than him. He wondered when you had the amputation, how old you were—how young you were. The ‘stump’, as you called it, was healed. The multiple incisions left silvery scars on your marred skin. You had lived without the leg for quite a while now.

Mateo drew your blood panel and cultures. He carefully added the bottles and tubes into a stat biohazard lab bag with the promise that an ultrasound tech would be by soon.

“Good news and bad news,” Doctor Abbot strolled back into your exam room with results as soon as he could, true to his word.

“Good news: Blood cultures were negative and the CBC was all within normal limits. And the bad news,” he continued, scrolling through your chart on an iPad before looking up at you. You nodded with a sharp inhale and gripped the gurney’s side rail, prepping for whatever diagnosis he might deliver. His eyes softened.

“Bad news,” he said quieter, “is you’ll need to stay off that leg for a while. At least until some of the inflammation goes down. I’ll leave the specific guidance up to your prosthetist. But for now, doctor’s orders are to cut back on the 8-hour walking tours. You got a wheelchair?” He asked with his arms crossed over his distractingly broad chest. He was solution-oriented, but not convinced you would heed the medical advice. You were strong-willed, that much was evident.

You groaned and threw an arm over your face to cover your eyes. You thought of the wheelchair you’d shoved to the back of your closet years ago. After a few beats of silence, you nod. You’re not happy about the plan of care, but you agree to it nonetheless.

“Do you have someone to take you home?” Jack asked, shuffling your discharge paperwork to keep his hands busy. Otherwise, he might give in to the urge to reach out to you. 

Everyone you knew was either working or busy. Internally, you felt like a burden. The people in your life didn’t feel that way, but it didn’t make the guilt go away. You chuckled inwardly. What doesn’t kill you gives you a dark sense of humor.

“I’ll figure it out,” you replied nonchalantly, already opening the rideshare app on your phone. Jack frowned. If he weren’t in the thick of his shift, he’d offer to let you hang around in the lounge and take you home himself, but that wouldn’t be for another 5 hours. At least.

“I’ll come check on you after my shift,” he resigned. It wasn’t a question or an offer.

“You don’t have to do that,” you looked up at him from beneath your lashes, shocked that he would even suggest such a thing.

“I insist. It’ll make me feel better knowing you’re okay,” Jack replied without missing a beat. So he cares about you. Hmm. His hands found his hips, only adding to his inherent sass factor.

“You don’t know where I live,” you retorted. The banter was fun. God forbid a girl take advantage of her amputation to flirt with a silver fox trauma doc.

“I’m literally two taps away from finding your address in your chart,” Abbot smirked. He wasn’t lying. A couple of gestures on the iPad later, he was parroting your address back at you.

“Fine. But you better bring food with you.” It was your turn to leave no room for argument. You eyed him up and down, watching the way he squared his shoulders with confidence.

“It’s a date,” Jack replied easily, without thinking. You couldn’t tell whose cheeks were more flushed, yours or his. He didn’t dare take it back, though. Either way, you agreed.

“It’s a date.”

a/n: At the risk of sounding desperate, I'm begging y'all to leave comments and interact with my work. The likes are so super duper appreciated but I kind of feel like I'm posting into a void when 99% of the engagement is likes with no comments. anyway!! COMMENTS ARE REALLY APPRECIATED!! They keep me motivated to write more <3

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[yakshxiao]

FIVE MINUTES AT A TIME ; JACK ABBOT

wc; 9.3k synopsis; You and Jack only ever see each other for five minutes at a time — the tail end of day shift and the start of night shift. But those five minutes? They’ve become the best part of both of your days. Everyone else in the ER has noticed it. The way you both lean in just a little too close during handoff. The way both of you leave a drink and a protein bar next to the chart rack. The way neither of you ever miss a single shift — until one day, one of you doesn’t show up. And everything shifts.

contents; Jack Abbot/nurse!reader, gn!reader, medical inaccuracies, hospital setting, mentions of injury and death, slow burn, found family, mutual pinning, mild jealousy, age gap (like 10-15 years, reader is aged around late 20s/early 30s but you can do any age), can you tell this man is consuming my every thought? tempted to write a follow-up fic lemme know what u guys think.

You only see him at 7 p.m. — well, 6:55 p.m., if you’re being exact.

You’re already at the nurse’s station, chart pulled up, pen poised, pretending you’re more focused than you are — just waiting for that familiar figure to walk in. The ER is barely holding itself together, seams straining under the weight of another long, unsparing shift. 

You’ve witnessed Mckay go through two scrub changes — both stained, both discarded like paper towels. Dana’s been shouted at by too many angry patients to count, each new confrontation carving deeper lines into her already exhausted face. And if you see Gloria trailing behind Robby one more time, arms crossed, mouth already mid-complaint, you’re sure you’ll have front-row seats to the implosion of Robby’s self-restraint.

The end-of-shift exhaustion hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. It seeps into the walls, the floor, your bones. The scent of bleach, sweat, and cold coffee hangs over everything, a cocktail that clings to your skin long after you clock out. The vending machine’s been emptied of anything worth eating. Your stomach gave up asking hours ago. 

The sun is still trying to claw its way down, its last rays pressing uselessly against frosted windows, too far removed to touch. The ER isn’t made for soft light. It lives under fluorescents, bright and unfeeling, leeching color and kindness from the world, one hour at a time.

It’s then, right on time, he arrives.

Jack Abbot.

Always the same. Dark scrubs, military backpack slung over his shoulder, the strap worn and fraying. His stethoscope loops around his neck like it belongs there and his hair is a little unkempt, like the day’s already dragged its hands through him before the night even starts.

He walks the same unhurried pace every time — not slow, not fast — like a man who’s learned the ER’s tempo can’t be outrun or outpaced. It’ll still be here, bleeding and burning, whether he sprints or crawls. And every day, like clockwork, he arrives at your station at 6:55 p.m., eyes just sharp enough to remind you he hasn’t completely handed himself over to exhaustion.

The handoff always starts the same. Clean. Professional. Efficient. Vitals. Labs. Status updates on the regulars and the barely-holding-ons. Names are exchanged like currency, chart numbers folded into the cadence of clipped sentences, shorthand that both of you learned the hard way. The rhythm of it is steady, like the low, constant beep of monitors in the background.

But tonight, the silence stretches just a little longer before either of you speaks. His eyes skim the board, lingering for half a second too long on South 2. You catch it. You always do.

“She’s still here,” you say, tapping your pen against the chart. “Outlived the odds and half the staff’s patience.”

Jack huffs a quiet sound that’s almost — almost — a laugh. The sound is low and dry, like it hasn’t been used much lately, “Figures.”

His attention shifts, following the slow, inevitable exit of Gloria, her unmistakable white coat vanishing around the corner, Robby sagging against the wall in her wake like a man aging in real-time, “I leave for twelve hours and Gloria’s still haunting the halls. She got squatters’ rights yet?”

You smirk, shaking your head and turning to look in the same direction, “I think Robby’s about five minutes away from filing for witness protection.”

That earns you a real smile — small, fleeting, but it’s there. The kind that only shows up in this place during the quiet moments between shift changes, the ones too short to hold onto and too rare to take for granted. The kind that makes you wonder how often he uses it when he’s not here.

Jack glances at the clock, then back at you, his voice low and dry. “Guess I better go save what’s left of his sanity, huh?”

You shrug, sliding the last of your notes toward him, the pages worn thin at the corners from too many hands, too many days like this. “Too late for that. You’re just here to do damage control.”

His smile lingers a little longer, but his eyes settle on you, the weight of the shift pressing into the space between you both — familiar, constant, unspoken. The clock ticks forward, the moment folding neatly back into the rush of the ER, the five-minute bubble of quiet already closing like it always does.

And then — 7 p.m. — the night begins.

The next few weeks worth of handoffs play out the same way.

The same rhythm. The same quiet trade of names, numbers, and near-misses. The same half-conversations, broken by pagers, interrupted by overhead calls. The same looks, the same five minutes stretched thin between shifts, like the ER itself holds its breath for you both.

But today is different. 

This time, Jack arrives at 6:50 p.m. 

Five minutes earlier than usual — early even for him. 

You glance up from the nurse’s station when you catch the sound of his footsteps long before the clock gives you permission to expect him. Still the same dark scrubs, the military backpack and stethoscope around his neck. 

But it’s not just the arrival time that’s different.

It’s the tea. Balanced carefully in one hand, lid still steaming, sleeve creased from the walk in. Tea — not coffee. Jack Abbot doesn’t do tea. At least, not in all the months you’ve been on this rotation. He’s a coffee-or-nothing type. Strong, bitter, the kind of brew that tastes like the end of the world.

He sets it down in front of you without fanfare, as if it’s just another piece of the shift — like vitals, like the board, like the handoff that always waits for both of you. But the corner of his mouth lifts when he catches the confused tilt of your head.

“Either I’m hallucinating,” you say, “or you’re early and bringing offerings.”

“You sounded like hell on the scanner today,” he says, voice dry but easy. “Figured you’d be better off with tea when you leave.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Your fingers curl around the warmth. The smell hits you before the sip does — honey, ginger, something gentler than the day you’ve had.

“Consider it hazard pay,” Jack’s mouth quirks, eyes flicking toward the whiteboard behind you. “The board looks worse than usual.”

You huff a dry laugh, glancing at the mess of names and numbers — half of them marked awaiting test results and the rest marked with waiting.

“Yeah,” you say. “One of those days.”

You huff a laugh, the sound pulling the sting from your throat even before the tea does. The day’s been a long one. Endless patient turnover, backlogged labs, and the kind of non-stop tension that winds itself into your muscles and stays there, even when you clock out.

Jack leans his hip against the edge of the counter, and lets the quiet settle there for a moment. No handoff yet. No rush. The world is still turning, but for a brief second it feels like the clock’s hands have stalled, stuck in that thin stretch of stillness before the next wave breaks.

“You trying to throw off the universe?” you ask, half teasing, lifting the cup in mock salute. “Next thing I know, Gloria will come in here smiling.”

Jack huffs, “Let’s not be that ambitious.”

The moment hangs between you, the conversation drifting comfortably into the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand filling. Just the weight of the day, and the knowledge that the night will be heavier.

But then, as always, duty calls. A sharp crackle from his pager splits the stillness like a stone through glass. He straightens, his expression shifting back to business without missing a beat.

You slide the last chart across the desk toward him, your hand brushing the edge of his as you let go. The handoff starts, the ritual resumes. Vitals. Labs. Critical patients flagged in red ink. Familiar, steady, practiced. A dance you both know too well.

But even as the conversation folds back into clinical shorthand, the tea sits between you, cooling slowly, marking the space where the ritual has quietly shifted into something else entirely.

And when the handoff’s done — when the last name leaves your mouth — the clock ticks past 7:05 p.m.

You linger. Just long enough for Jack to glance back your way.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks. The question light, but not casual.

You nod once, the answer already written.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

After that, the handoff’s change. Tea was only the beginning.

It’s always there first — sometimes waiting on the desk before you’ve even finished logging out. The cup’s always right, too. No questions asked, no orders repeated. Jack learns the little details: how you like it, when it's too hot or too cold. When the shift’s been particularly cruel and the hours stretch too thin, he starts adding the occasional muffin or protein bar to the offering, wordlessly placed on the desk beside your notes.

In return, you start doing the same. Only you give him coffee. Black, bitter — too bitter for you — but it's how he likes it and you’ve never had the heart to tell him there’s better tasting coffee out there. Sometimes you give him tea on the calmer nights. A granola bar and an apple join soon after so you know he has something to eat when the food he brings in becomes a ghost of a meal at the back of the staff fridge. A post-it with a doodle and the words “I once heard a joke about amnesia, but I forgot how it goes” gets stuck to his coffee after an especially tough day shift, knowing it’ll bleed into the night.

It’s quiet, easy. Half-finished conversations that start at one handoff and end in the next.

You talk about everything but yourselves.

About the regulars — which patient is faking, which one’s hanging on by more than sheer luck. About the shows you both pretend you don’t have time for but always end up watching, somehow. About staff gossip, bets on how long the new hire will last, debates over whose turn it is to replace the break room coffee filter (spoiler: no one ever volunteers).

But never about what you two have. Never about what any of it means.

You pretend the lines are clear. That it’s all part of the handoff. That it’s just routine.

But the team notices.

Mckay starts hanging around the station longer than necessary at 6:55 p.m., her eyes flicking between the clock and the doorway like she’s waiting for a cue. Dana starts asking loaded questions in passing — light, but pointed. “So, Jack’s shift starting soon?” she’ll say with a knowing tilt of her head.

The worst offenders, though, are Princess and Perlah.

They start a betting pool. Subtle at first — a folded scrap of paper passed around, tucked in their pockets like an afterthought. Before long, half the ER staff’s names are scribbled under columns like ‘Next week’, ‘Next Month’ or ‘Never happening’.

And then one day, you open your locker after a twelve-hour shift, hands still shaking slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep, and there it is:

A post-it, bright yellow and impossible to miss.

“JUST KISS ALREADY.”

No name. No signature. Just the collective voice of the entire ER condensed into three impatient words.

You stand there longer than you should, staring at it, your chest tightening in that quiet, unfamiliar way that’s got nothing to do with the shift and everything to do with him.

When you finally peel the note off and stuff it deep into your pocket, you find Jack already waiting at the nurse’s station. 6:55 p.m. Early, as always. Tea in hand. Same dark scrubs. Same unhurried stride. Same steady presence.

And when you settle in beside him, brushing just close enough for your shoulder to graze his sleeve, he doesn’t say anything about the flush still warm in your cheeks.

You don’t say anything either.

The handoff begins like it always does. The names. The numbers. The rhythm. The world still spinning the same broken way it always has.

But the note is still in your pocket. And the weight of it lingers longer than it should.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. Maybe never.

The handoff tonight starts like any other.

The same exchange of vitals, the same clipped sentences folding neatly into the rhythm both of you know by heart. The ER hums and flickers around you, always on the edge of chaos but never quite tipping over. Jack’s there, 6:55 p.m., tea in one hand, muffin in the other — that small tired look in place like a badge he never bothers to take off.

But tonight, the air feels heavier. The space between you, thinner.

There’s no reason for it — at least, none you could name. Just a quiet shift in gravity, subtle enough to pretend away, sharp enough to notice. A conversation that drifts lazily off course, no talk of patients, no staff gossip, no television shows. Just silence. Comfortable, but expectant.

And then his hand — reaching past you to grab a chart — brushes yours.

Not the accidental kind. Not the casual, workplace kind. The kind that lingers. Warm, steady, the weight of his palm light against the back of your fingers like the pause before a sentence you’re too scared to finish.

You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world outside the nurse’s station slows. The monitors still beep, the overhead paging system still hums, the hallway still bustles — but you don’t hear any of it.

There’s just his hand. Your hand. The breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

And then the trauma alert hits.

“MVA — multiple injuries. Incoming ETA two minutes.”

The spell shatters. The moment folds back in on itself like it was never there at all. Jack pulls away first, but not fast. His hand brushes yours one last time as if reluctant, as if the shift might grant you one more second before it demands him back.

But the ER has no patience for almosts.

You both move — the way you always do when the alarms go off, efficient and wordless, sliding back into your roles like armor. He’s already at the doors, gloves snapped on, voice low and level as the gurneys rush in. You’re right behind him, notes ready, vitals called out before the paramedics finish their sentences.

The night swallows the moment whole. The weight of the job fills the space where it had lived.

And when the trauma bay finally quiets, when the adrenaline starts to bleed out of your system and the hallways return to their usual background hum, Jack passes by you at the station, slowing just long enough for your eyes to meet.

Nothing said. Nothing needed.

Almost.

Weeks after the same routine, over and over, the change starts like most things do in your world — quietly, without fanfare.

A new name slips into conversation one morning over burnt coffee and half-finished charting. Someone you met outside the ER walls, outside the endless loop of vitals and crash carts and lives balanced on the edge. A friend of a friend, the kind of person who looks good on paper: steady job, easy smile, around your age, the kind of life that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or ring with the static of trauma alerts.

You don’t even mean to mention them. The words just tumble out between patients, light and careless. Jack barely reacts — just a flicker of his eyes, the barest pause in the way his pen scratches across the chart. He hums, noncommittal, and says, “Good for you.”

But after that, the air between you shifts.

The ritual stays the same — the teas and coffees still show up, the handoffs still slide smooth and clean — but the conversations dull. They're shallower. You talk about patients, the weather. But the inside jokes dry up, and the silences stretch longer, thicker, like neither of you can find the right words to fix the growing space between you.

The new person tries. Dinners that never quite feel right. Movies that blur together. Conversations that stall out halfway through, where you find yourself thinking about Jack’s voice instead of the one across the table. It’s not their fault — they do everything right. They ask about your day, they remember how you take your tea, they show up when they say they will.

But they aren’t him. They never will be.

And the truth of that sits heavy in your chest long before you let it go.

When the end finally comes, it’s as quiet as the beginning. No fight. No grand scene. Just a conversation that runs out of steam and a mutual, tired understanding: this was never going to be enough.

You don’t tell Jack. Not directly. But he knows.

Maybe it’s the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes that night, or the way your usual jokes come slower, dull around the edges. Or maybe it’s just that he knows you too well by now, the way you know him — a kind of understanding that doesn’t need translation.

He doesn’t push. He’s not the kind of man who asks questions he isn’t ready to hear the answers to, and you’ve never been the type to offer up more than what the job requires. But when you pass him the last of the handoff notes that night, his fingers brush yours, and for once, they linger. Just a second longer than they should. Long enough to say everything neither of you will.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Neutral. Studied, “You get any sleep lately?”

It’s not the question he wants to ask. Not even close. But it’s the one he can ask, the one that fits inside the safe little script you’ve both written for yourselves.

You lie — both of you know it — but he doesn’t call you on it. He just nods, slow and thoughtful, and when he stands, he leaves his coffee behind on the counter. Still hot. Barely touched.

And that’s how you know.

Because Jack never leaves coffee unfinished.

The next handoff, he’s already at the nurse’s station when you arrive — ten minutes early, a tea waiting for you, exactly how you like it. There’s no note, no smile, no pointed comment. Just the small, familiar weight of the cup in your hand and the warmth that spreads through your chest, sharper than it should be.

You settle into the routine, pulling the chart toward you, the silence stretching long and comfortable for the first time in weeks. Jack doesn’t ask, and you don’t offer. But when your fingers brush his as you pass him the logbook, you don’t pull away as quickly as you used to.

And for a moment, that’s enough.

The world around you moves the same way it always does — busy, breathless, unrelenting. But somewhere in the quiet, something unspoken hums between you both. Something that’s been waiting.

They weren’t him. And you weren’t surprised.

Neither was he.

It’s the handoff on a cold Wednesday evening that brings a quiet kind of news — the kind that doesn’t explode, just settles. Like dust.

Jack mentions it in passing, the way people mention the weather or the fact that the coffee machine’s finally given up the ghost. Mid-handoff, eyes on the chart, voice level. 

“Admin gave me an offer.”

Your pen stills, barely a beat, then keeps moving. “Oh yeah?” you ask, as if you hadn’t heard the shift in his tone. As if your chest didn’t tighten the moment the words left his mouth.

The department’s newer, quieter. Fewer traumas. More order. Less of the endless night shift churn that has worn him down to the bone these last few years. It would suit him. You know it. Everyone knows it.

And so you do what you’re supposed to do. What any friend — any coworker — would do. You offer the words, gift-wrapped in all the right tones.

“You’d be great at it.”

The smile you give him is steady, practiced. It reaches your lips. But not your eyes. Never your eyes.

Fortunately, Jack knows you like the back of his hand.

He just nods, the kind of slow, quiet nod that feels more like a goodbye than anything else. The conversation moves on. The night moves on.

You go home, and for him, the patients come and go, machines beep, the usual rhythm swallows the moment whole. But the shift feels different. Like the floor’s shifted under his feet and the walls don’t sit right in his peripherals anymore.

The offer lingers in the air for days. No one mentions it. But he notices things — the way you're quieter, the way you seem almost distant during handoffs. Like the weight of the outcome of the decision’s sitting on your shoulders, heavy and personal.

And then, just as quietly, the tension shifts. No announcement. No conversation. The offer just evaporates. You hear it from Robby two days later, his voice offhand as he scrolls through the department’s scheduling board.

“Abbot passed on the job.”

That’s all he says. That’s all you need.

When your shift ends that day, you linger a little longer than usual. Five minutes past the clock, then ten. Just enough time to catch him walking in. Same dark scrubs, same tired eyes. But this time, no talk of transfers. No talk of moving on.

You slide the handoff notes toward him, and when his fingers brush yours, neither of you let go right away.

“Long night ahead.” you say, your eyes lock onto his.

“Same as always,” he answers, soft but sure.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

But he stayed.

And so did you.

The holiday shift is a quiet one for once.

Not the kind of chaotic disaster you usually brace for — no code blues, no trauma alerts, no frantic scrambling. The ER hums at a lower frequency tonight, as if the whole department is holding its breath, waiting for the chaos to pass and the clock to turn over.

You’ve been working on autopilot for the last few hours. The patient load is manageable, the team is mostly intact, and the usual undercurrent of stress is more like a murmur than a shout. But there's something about the quiet, the softness of it, that makes you more aware of everything, every moment stretching a little longer than it should. It makes the weight of the day feel more pressing, more noticeable.

As the last patient leaves — nothing serious, just another sprain — you settle into your chair by the nurse’s station, the kind of exhausted calm that only comes when the worst is over. The clock inches toward the end of your shift — 6:50 p.m. — but you’re not in any hurry to leave, not yet.

As always, Jack walks in.

You look up just as he passes by the station. His usual tired look is softened tonight, the edges of his exhaustion blunted by something quieter, something a little more worn into his features. The shadows under his eyes are deeper, but there’s a kind of peace in him tonight — a rare thing for the man who’s always running on the edge of burnout.

He stops in front of you, and you can see the small, crumpled bag in his hand. It’s not much, just a bit of wrapping paper that’s a little too wrinkled, but something about it makes your heart give a funny, lopsided beat.

"Here," he says, low, voice a little rougher than usual.

You blink, surprised. “What’s this?”

He hesitates for half a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should say anything at all. “For you.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-laughing. "We don’t usually exchange gifts, Jack."

His smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. "Thought we might make an exception today."

You take the gift from him, feeling the weight of it, simple but somehow significant. You glance down at it, and for a moment, the world feels like it falls away. He doesn't ask you to open it right then, and for a second, you think maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll leave it unopened, just like so many things left unsaid between you two.

But the curiosity wins out.

You peel back the paper slowly. It’s a leather-bound notebook, simple and unassuming. The kind of thing that makes you wonder how he knew.

“I... didn’t know what to get you," Jack says, his voice soft, almost sheepish. "But I figured you'd use it."

The gesture is simple — almost too simple. But it’s not. It’s too personal for just coworkers. Too thoughtful, too quiet. The weight of it sits between the two of you, unspoken, thick in the air.

You look up at him, your chest tight in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. "Thank you," you manage, and you can’t quite shake the feeling that this — this little notebook — means more than just a gift. It’s something that says everything neither of you has been able to put into words.

Jack nods, his smile barely there but real. He takes a step back, as if pulling himself away from something he doesn’t know how to navigate. The silence stretches. But it’s different this time. It’s not awkward. It’s soft. It feels like a bridge between the two of you, built in the quiet spaces you’ve shared and the ones you haven’t.

“I got you something too,” you say before you can stop yourself. When you reach into your pocket, your fingers brush against the small, folded package you had tucked away. 

His brow furrows slightly in surprise, but he takes it from you, and when he unwraps it, it’s just a small, hand-carved keychain you had spotted at a market — simple, not much, but it reminded you of Jack.

He laughs, a short, quiet sound that vibrates in the space between you, and the tension between you two feels almost manageable. “Thank you,” he says, his fingers brushing over the little keychain.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The noise of the ER seems distant, muffled, as if it’s happening in another world altogether. The clock ticks, the final minutes of your shift inching by. But in that small, quiet space, it’s as if time has paused, holding its breath alongside the two of you.

“I guess it’s just... us then, huh?” he says finally, voice softer than before, quieter in a way that feels like more than just the end of a shift.

You nod, and for the first time in ages, the silence between you feels easy. Comfortable.

Just a few more minutes, and the shift will be over. But right now, this — this small, quiet exchange, these moments that don’t need words — is all that matters.

The day shift is winding down when Jack walks in, just before 7 p.m.

The usual rhythm of the ER is fading, the intensity of the day finally trailing off as the night shift prepares to take over. He arrives just as the last few nurses finish their rounds, their faces tired but steady as they begin to pass the baton.

But something feels off. The station is quieter than usual, the hum of conversation quieter, the buzz of the monitors almost unnaturally sharp in the sudden stillness. Jack glances around, noting the lack of a familiar face, the way the department feels a little emptier, more distant. He spots Dana and Robby at the nurse’s station, exchanging murmurs, and immediately knows something’s not right.

You’re not there.

He doesn’t immediately ask. Instead, he strides toward the counter, his mind racing to calculate the cause. A sick day? A last-minute emergency? Something’s happened, but he can’t quite place it. The thought that it’s anything serious doesn’t sit well in his chest, and yet, it presses down harder with every minute that passes.

It’s 6:55 p.m. now, and the clock keeps ticking forward.

By 7:00, Jack is halfway through his handoff, scanning the patient charts and mentally preparing for the usual chaos, but his focus keeps drifting.

Where are you?

He finally asks. Not loudly, not with urgency, but quietly enough that only Robby and Dana catch the edge in his voice. “Have they called in tonight?”

Before he even has a chance to follow up with your name, Dana looks up at him, a tired smirk on her face. “No. No word.”

Robby shakes his head, looking between Dana and Jack. “We haven’t heard anything. Thought you’d know.”

He nods, swallowing the sudden tightness in his throat. He tries not to show it — not to let it show in the way his shoulders stiffen or the slight furrow between his brows. He finishes up the handoff as usual, but his mind keeps returning to you, to the way the shift feels off without your presence, the absence weighing heavy on him.

By the time the rest of the night staff rolls in, Jack's focus is split. He’s still mentally running through the patient roster, but he’s half-waiting, half-hoping to see you come walking to the nurses station, just like always.

It doesn't happen.

And then, as if on cue, a message comes through — a notification from HR. You’d left for the day in a rush. Your parent had been hospitalised out of town, and you’d rushed off without a word. No call. No notice.

Jack stops in his tracks. The room feels suddenly too small, the quiet too loud. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he puts his phone back into his pocket, his eyes flicking over it again, like it will make more sense the second time.

His mind moves quickly, fast enough to keep up with the frantic pace of the ER around him, but his body is still, frozen for a heartbeat longer than it should be. He doesn’t know what to do with this — this sudden, heavy weight of worry and concern.

The team, in their usual way, rallies. They pull a care package together like clockwork — snacks, tissues, a soft blanket someone swears helps during long waits in hospital chairs. A card circulates, scrawled with signatures and the usual messages: thinking of you, hang in there, we’ve got you. It’s routine, something they’ve done for each other countless times in the past, a small gesture in the face of someone’s crisis.

But Jack doesn’t sign the card.

He sits quietly in the break room for a while, the weight of his concern simmering beneath the surface of his usual calm. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel — concern for you, for the situation, for how the ER feels without you there. The package is ready, and with it, so is a quiet, unsaid piece of himself.

When the others step away, he tucks something else inside, sliding it between the blanket and the box of cheap chocolates the team threw in at the last minute — an envelope, plain, unmarked, the handwriting inside careful but unsteady, like the words cost more than he expected.

Take care of them. The place isn’t the same without you.

Short. Simple. Honest in a way he rarely lets himself be. It isn’t signed. It doesn’t need to be. You’d know.

The team doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they make no comment on it. The ER continues to move, steady in its rhythm, even as Jack’s world feels like it’s been thrown off balance. The package is sent. The shift carries on. And Jack waits. He waits, in the quiet space between you and him, in the absence of your presence, in the weight of things he can’t say.

The clock ticks on. And with it, Jack misses you a little more that night.

Two weeks.

That’s how long the space at the nurse’s station stayed empty. That’s how long the chair at the nurse’s station sat empty — the one you always claimed without thinking. Nobody touched it. Nobody had to say why. It just sat there — a quiet, hollow thing that marked your absence more clearly than any words could’ve.

Two weeks of missing the familiar scrape of your pen against the chart. Two weeks of shift changes stripped down to bare-bones handoffs, clipped and clinical, no space for the soft edges of inside jokes or the quiet pauses where your voice used to fit. Two weeks of coffee going cold, of tasting far more bitter than it did before. Two weeks of the ER feeling off-kilter, like the clock’s gears had ground themselves down and no one could quite put the pieces back.

When you walk back through the automatic doors, it’s like the air catches on itself — that split-second stall before everything moves forward again. You don’t announce yourself. No one really does. The place just swallows you back up, the way it does to anyone who leaves and dares to return.

You clock in that morning. The shift goes on as normal, as normal as the ER can be. The others greet you like they’ve been told to act normal. Quick nods, small smiles. Robby pats your shoulder, light and brief. Dana leaves an extra coffee by the monitors without a word.

When the clock hands swing toward 6:50 p.m., you’re already at the nurses station. Sitting at the desk like you’d never left. Like nothing’s changed, like no time has passed at all. Like the last two weeks were some other life. Scrubs pressed, badge clipped at the same off-center tilt it always is. But your hands hover just slightly, resting on the chart without writing, pen poised like your mind hasn’t quite caught up to your body being back.

The air feels different — not heavy, not light, just suspended. Stalled.

And then you hear them. Footsteps.

Steady. Familiar. The cadence you’ve known for months. 

Jack.

He stops a few feet from you, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, the faintest crease between his brow like he hasn’t quite convinced himself this isn’t some kind of trick.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

No patient names. No vitals. No shorthand. The handoff script that’s lived on your tongues for months goes untouched. Instead, you stand there, surrounded by the soft beep of monitors and the shuffle of overworked staff, wrapped in the kind of silence that says everything words can’t.

It’s a strange sort of silence. Not awkward. Just full.

For a long moment, the chaos of the ER fades to the edges, the overhead pages and the low mechanical hums turning to static. You look at him, and it’s like seeing him for the first time all over again. The small lines around his eyes seem deeper. The tension at his shoulders, usually buried beneath practiced calm, sits plainly in view.

You wonder if it’s been there the whole time. You wonder if he noticed the same about you.

His eyes meet yours, steady, unguarded. The first thing that breaks the quiet isn’t a handoff or a patient update.

“I missed this.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into something that doesn’t quite make it to a smile. When he replies, it’s not rushed. It’s not easy. But it’s the truth.

“I missed you.”

Simple. Honest. No side steps. No softening the edges with humor. Just the truth. The words sit there between you, bare and uncomplicated. For a second, the world feels smaller — just the two of you, the hum of machines, and the weight of two weeks' worth of things unsaid.

His gaze shifts, softer now, searching your face for something, or maybe just memorizing it all over again.

“How are they?” he asks, voice low, careful. Not clinical, not casual — the way people ask when they mean it.

You swallow, the answer lingering behind your teeth. You hadn’t said much to anyone, not even now. But his question doesn’t pry, it just waits.

“They’re stable,” you say after a moment, the words simple but heavy. “Scared. Tired. I stayed until I couldn’t anymore.”

Jack nods once, slow and sure, as if that answer was all he needed. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like there’s more he wants to do, more he wants to say — but this is still the space between shifts, still the same ER where everything gets held back for later.

But his voice is steady when he replies.

“I’m glad you were with them.”

A pause. One of those long, silent stretches that says everything the words don’t.

“And I’m glad you came back.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t have to.

And then, the clock ticks forward. The night shift begins. The world presses on, the monitors start beeping their endless song, and the next patient is already waiting. But the weight of those words lingers, tucked just beneath the surface.

And this time — neither of you pretend it didn’t happen.

But it’s still not quite the right time.

Jack’s walls aren’t the obvious kind. They don’t come with sharp edges or cold shoulders. His are quieter, built from small hesitations — the steady, practiced way he keeps his distance, the careful deflection tucked behind dry humor and midnight coffee refills. And at the center of it, two stubborn truths: he’s older, and he’s widowed.

Being widowed is a quiet shadow that doesn’t lift, not really. It taught him how easily a future can disappear, how love doesn’t stop the world from taking what it wants. He doesn’t talk about her, not much — not unless the shift runs long and the coffee’s gone cold — but the space she left is always there, shaping the way he looks at you, at himself, at the idea of starting over. Jack tells himself it wouldn’t be fair. Not to you. Not when you’ve still got years ahead to figure out what you want. Not when he’s already stood graveside, watching the world shrink down to a headstone and a handful of fading memories. 

You’re younger. Less worn down. Less jaded. He tells himself — on the long drives home, when sleep refuses to come — that you deserve more time than he can offer. More time to figure out your world without him quietly shaping the edges of it. It’s the sort of difference people pretend doesn’t matter, until it does. Until he’s standing beside you, catching himself in the reflection of the trauma room glass, wondering how the years settled heavier on him than on you. Until he’s half a sentence deep into asking what you’re doing after shift, and pulling back before the words can leave his mouth.

Because no matter how much space he tries to give, the part of him that’s still grieving would always leave its mark. And you deserve more than the half-mended heart of a man who’s already learned how to live without the things he loves.

And you?

You’ve got your own reasons.

Not the ones anyone could spot at a glance, not the kind that leave scars or stories behind. Just a quiet, low-grade fear. The kind that hums beneath your skin, born from years of learning that getting too comfortable with people — letting yourself want too much — always ends the same way: doors closing, phones going silent, people walking away before you even notice they’ve started.

So you anchor yourself to the things that don’t shift. Your routine. Your steadiness. The hours that stretch long and hard but never ask you to be anything more than reliable. Because when you’re needed, you can’t be left behind. When you’re useful, it hurts less when people don’t stay.

Jack’s careful, and you’re cautious, and the space between you both stays exactly where it’s always been: not quite close enough.

So you both settle for the in-between. The ritual. The routine. Shared drinks at handoff. Inside jokes sharp enough to leave bruises. Half-finished conversations, always interrupted by codes and pages and the sharp ring of phones.

The ER runs like clockwork, except the clock’s always broken, and in the background the rest of the team watches the same loop play out — two people orbiting closer, always just out of reach.

The bets from Princess and Perlah are at the heaviest they’ve ever been, and so are their pockets. There are no more ‘Never happening’ — everyone’s now in the ‘Next week’ or ‘Next Month’. The others have stopped pretending they don’t see what’s happening. In fact, they’re practically counting the days, biding their time like a clock ticking in reverse, waiting for that moment when everything finally clicks into place.

At first, it’s subtle. 

One less handoff cut short by timing. One more overlapping hour “by accident.”

You and Jack work together more and more now, whether it's trauma cases, code blue alerts, or the quieter moments between chaotic shifts when the floor clears enough to breathe. The careful choreography of your daily dance is starting to wear thin around the edges, like a well-loved sweater that’s a little too threadbare to keep pretending it’s still holding together.

The soft exchanges in the middle of emergency rooms — the handoffs that are always clean and professional — have started to bleed into something else. You don’t mean for it to happen. Neither of you do.

But you find yourselves walking the same hallways just a bit more often. You swap shifts with an ease you hadn’t before. Jack’s voice lingers a little longer when he says, “Good night, see you tomorrow,” and the weight of that goodbye has started to feel a little like an unspoken promise.

But it’s still not enough to break the silence.

The team watches, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but neither of you says a word about it. You can’t, because the truth is, it’s easier to let things stay where they are. Safer, maybe. To just let the rhythm of the shifts carry you through without the sudden plunge of vulnerability that might shatter it all.

Still, they see it.

Dana, ever the romantic, gives you that knowing, almost conspiratorial look when she catches you making eye contact with Jack across the floor. “You two need a room,” she’ll joke, but it’s always followed by that soft exhale, like she’s waiting for the punchline you won’t give her.

Princess’ and Perlah’s bets are always louder, and always in a language neither of you understand. Every shift, they pass by the nurse’s station with sly grins, casting their predictions with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re talking about.

“Next month, I’m telling you. It’s happening in the next month. Mark my words.”

Neither you or Jack respond to the teasing. But it’s not because you don’t hear it. It’s because, in the quietest corners of your mind, the thoughts are too sharp, too close, and there’s something terrifying about acknowledging them.

The room holds its breath for you both, watching the space between you become thinner with every passing minute. You can’t feel the ticking of time, but the team certainly can.

And so it goes. Days blend into each other. Hours pass in a blur of frantic beeps and calls, hands working together with that comfortable rhythm, but always keeping just a little distance — just a little bit too much space.

But it’s getting harder to ignore the truth of what everyone else already knows. You’re both circling something, something that neither of you is brave enough to catch yet. 

Almost.

Almost always. But never quite.

The shift is brutal.

The ER’s pulse is erratic, like a heart struggling to maintain rhythm. The trauma bays are full, the waiting room is overflowing, and the chaos — the relentless, grinding chaos — is a constant roar in your ears. Alarms bleed into each other. The phone rings off the hook. Machines chirp, beds squeak, someone shouts for help, and the scent of antiseptic is powerless against the metallic undertone of blood lingering in the air.

It’s the kind of shift that makes even seasoned hands tremble. The kind that swallows hours whole, leaves your back sore and your mind frayed, and still, the board never clears.

At some point, you’re not sure when, maybe after the fifth code blue or the eighth set of vitals skimming the edge of disaster, Robby mutters something sharp and low under his breath, peels his phone out of his pocket, and steps away from the desk.

“Calling Abbot,” he says, voice tight. “We’re underwater.”

Jack isn’t due for another two hours, but the call doesn’t surprise you. The ER doesn’t care about schedules. And Jack — he shows up twenty minutes later.

His eyes meet yours across the station, and there’s no need for words. Just a nod. Just the quiet understanding that this isn’t going to be easy, if such a thing even exists.

The clock ticks and skips, seconds folding into one another, meaningless, until finally, the worst of it comes.

Trauma alert.

A car accident. The usual chaos.

Rollover on the interstate, the kind that dispatch voices always sound too steady while reporting. The kind where the EMTs work in grim silence. Two patients this time. A married couple.

The usual chaos unfolds the second the gurneys crash through the double doors — shouting, gloves snapping on, IV lines threading, vitals barking out like a list of crimes.

But this time, it’s different.

You notice it before anyone says it aloud: the husband’s hand is tangled in his wife’s, their fingers blood-slick but still locked together, knuckles white with the sheer force of holding on. Their wedding rings glinted under the harsh fluorescents, a tiny, defiant flash of gold against the chaos.

Neither of them will let go. Even unconscious, the connection stays.

You’re already in motion. Jack too. The usual rhythm, muscle memory sharp as ever. But something in the air feels different. He glances once at the woman, blood matted in her hair, her left hand still clutching the man’s. The rings. The way their bodies lean toward each other even in a state of injury, as if muscle memory alone could keep them tethered

And for just a second, he falters.

You almost miss it, but you don’t.

Jack works the wife’s side, but her injuries speak for themselves. Her chart is a litany of injuries: internal bleeding, tension pneumothorax, skull fracture.

You watch Jack work the case like his hands are moving on instinct, but his face gives him away. It’s too quiet. Too closed off. You see it all in real-time — the silent war behind his eyes, the years catching up to him in the span of a heartbeat. The lines around his mouth tightening, the weight of something too personal rising behind the clinical routine.

You know who he’s thinking about. 

It’s her — it’s her face he sees.

Jack’s gloves are stained, jaw tight, voice steady but clipped as the monitor flatlines for the third time. You watch. You press hands to bleeding wounds that won’t stop. You call out numbers you barely register. But the inevitable creeps in anyway.

At 6:41 p.m., time of death is called.

No one speaks, not right away. The monitors fall silent, the room too. The husband, still unconscious, is wheeled away. His hand finally slips from hers, left empty on the gurney.

It’s Jack that calls it. He stands over the woman’s bed for a beat too long, the silence of it all thickening in the air. His shoulders sag ever so slightly, the weight of it settling in — the anger, the grief, the helplessness. There’s no denying it, the hours and hours of labor, of lives teetering between life and death, have begun to take their toll.

You watch him and know the exact moment it breaks him.

He doesn’t even need to say it. You can see it in the way he moves — stiff, distant, a bit lost. His hand hovers by his stethoscope, his fingers curling slightly before dropping. The tension in his face is the kind you’ve seen only when someone is holding themselves together by a thread.

He catches your eye briefly, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. There’s an unspoken understanding, a shared grief between the two of you that’s settled like an old wound, reopened. He turns away before you can even ask, stepping out of the trauma bay and heading toward the on-call room, his pace a little slower than usual, weighed down by more than just the fatigue.

The shift drags on, but the tension, the heaviness, only grows. Finally, when it seems like it might never end, you make the decision. You leave your post, quietly slipping away from the chaos, and find your way to the on-call room where Jack is already sitting.

It’s dark in there but you don’t need to see him to know what’s there. His chest rises and falls with a weary sigh. There’s nothing to say at first. Nothing that would make this any easier, and you both know it.

You sit beside him in silence, the space between you both filled with the weight of the night, of the patient lost, of the things neither of you can change. You don’t push. You don’t ask. You simply exist in the same room, the same quiet, like two people who are too exhausted, too worn, to speak but too connected to stay apart.

Minutes pass. Long ones.

It’s Jack who breaks the silence, his voice a little rough, like it’s been buried too long.

“I kept thinking we’d have more time,” he says. It’s not addressed to you, not really — more confession than conversation, the kind of truth that’s spent too long locked behind his ribs.

You don’t answer right away, because you know the ache that lives under those words. You’ve felt it too. So you sit there, listening, the silence making room for him to say the rest.

And then, softer, barely above a breath —

“She looked like her. For a second — I thought it was her.”

The words hang in the dark, heavier than any silence.

You reach over, placing a hand gently on his. Your fingers brush his skin, warm, steady. You just sit there, the two of you, in the dark — the only light seeping in from under the door, pale and distant, like the world outside is somewhere neither of you belong right now.

Minutes pass, slow and shapeless, the kind of time that doesn’t measure in hours or shifts or chart updates. Just quiet. Just presence. Just the shared, unspoken ache of people who’ve both lost too much to say the words out loud.

When he finally exhales — long, steady, but still weighted — you feel the faintest shift in the air. Not fixed. Not fine. But breathing. Alive. Here.

When his gaze lifts, meeting yours — searching, fragile, waiting for something he can’t name — you finally offer it, soft but certain.

“We don’t get forever,” you whisper. “But we’ve still got now.”

And it’s enough. Maybe not to fix anything. Maybe not to make the night any less heavy. But enough to pull Jack through to the other side.

He exhales, slow and quiet, the tension in his chest loosening like it’s finally allowed to. The moment is small — no grand revelations, no dramatic declarations.

Just two people, breathing in the same quiet, carrying the same scars.

When the next shift change arrives, the rhythm of the ER doesn’t quite return to normal.

The pulse of the place still beats steady — monitors chiming, phones ringing, stretchers wheeling in and out — but the handoff feels different. Like the pattern has shifted beneath your feet.

The familiar routine plays out — the smooth exchange of patient reports, the clipped shorthand you both know by heart, the easy banter that’s always filled the spaces between — but now it lingers. The words sit heavier. The pauses stretch longer. The politeness that once held everything in place has softened, frayed at the edges by the weight of what’s left unsaid.

You stay five minutes later. Then ten.

Neither of you points it out. Neither of you needs to.

The silence isn’t awkward — it’s intentional. It hangs easy between you, unhurried and unforced. The kind of silence built on understanding rather than distance. Like the quiet knows something you both haven’t said out loud yet.

The rest of the team doesn’t call you on it. But they see it. And you catch the glances. 

You catch Dana’s raised eyebrow as she clocks out, her expression all knowing, no judgment — just quiet observation, like she’s been waiting for this to finally click into place. Robby doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk behind his coffee cup this time, his glance flicking from you to Jack and back again, as if he’s already tallying another win in the betting pool.

And still, no one says a word.

The ER lights flicker, humming softly against the early morning haze as the next shift trickles in, tired and rumpled, faces scrubbed clean and coffee cups refilled. The world moves on — patients, pages, paperwork — but Jack doesn’t.

His glance finds you, steady and certain, like an anchor after too many months of pretending there wasn’t a current pulling you both closer all along. There’s no question in it. No hesitation. Just quiet agreement.

And this time, neither of you heads for the door alone.

You fall into step beside him, the silence still stretched soft between you, your shoulder brushing his just slightly as you cross through the automatic doors and into the cool, early light. The air is crisp against your scrubs, the hum of the hospital fading behind you, replaced by the quiet sprawl of the parking lot and the slow stretch of a sky trying to shake off the dark.

The weight you’ve both carried for so long — all the almosts, the what-ifs, the walls and the fear — feels lighter now. Still there, but not crushing. Not anymore.

It isn’t just a handoff anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but now it’s undeniable.

You glance toward him as the quiet settles between you one last time before the day fully wakes up, and he meets your look with that same soft steadiness — the kind that doesn’t demand, doesn’t rush, just holds. Like the space between you has finally exhaled, like the moment has finally caught up to the both of you after all this time skirting around it.

His hand finds yours, slow and certain, like it was always supposed to be there. No grand gesture, no sharp intake of breath, just the gentle slide of skin against skin — warm, grounding, steady. His thumb brushes the back of your hand once, absentminded and careful, like he’s memorizing the feel of this — of you — as if to make sure it’s real.

The world beyond hums back to life, ready for another day beginning. But here, in this sliver of space, between what you’ve always been and whatever comes next — everything stays still.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You don’t need to.

It’s in the way his fingers curl just slightly tighter around yours, in the way the last of the shift’s exhaustion softens at the edges of his expression. In the way the air feels different now — less heavy, less waiting. Like the question that’s lived between you for months has finally answered itself.

The first thin blush of sunrise creeps over the parking lot, painting long soft shadows across the cracked pavement, and neither of you move. There’s no rush now, no clock chasing you forward, no unspoken rule pushing you apart. Just this. Just you and him, side by side, hand in hand, standing still while the world stumbles back into motion.

It’s the start of something else.

And you both know it. Without needing to say a thing.

©yakshxiao 2025.

[kitasuno]

with you, i'm first | miya osamu x reader

in which miya osamu is used to coming second to his brother. but with you, he's always first.

wc: 1113 | gn!reader | fluff

Miya Osamu is used to coming second. 

It starts with Atsumu, like most things do. October is cold and gray and Atsumu comes first, a small body with a large presence that fills the warm hospital room. His cries are loud and he’s a little underweight, but with him comes the sun. 

Atsumu is born under a partly cloudy sky but the nurses swear he was shrouded in sunlight. 

Osamu comes twelve minutes later. His parents are crying and his Ma is close to passing out. If he thinks really hard he can almost feel her warmth, Atsumu’s sobs, and a mumble of prayers that October has safely brought Atsumu and then Osamu.

He asks Grandma one day what the weather was like when he was born. She says, with confidence, it was foggy.

Atsumu doesn’t get along with his classmates. He is too loud and too rash and lacks social cues, and Osamu is angry because Stupid ‘Tsumu cares too little: and he wants everyone to know Atsumu like he knows Atsumu.

They fight and they yell and they argue until Atsumu says, 

‘Samu, I don’t care about ‘em. Why do ya care so much? 

And Osamu throws him across the room. The argument ends there, he says sorry, and Osamu lies awake that night thinking about his brother. Atsumu is hotheaded. And an idiot. A loud snorer, too. But he turns on his side and curls into a ball because he knows it was sunny when Atsumu was born and all of a sudden he really wants to be his brother. 

Atsumu dyes his hair first: it’s a shitty box dye from the pharmacy down the street, and it looks terrible. It’s a little yellow and a little neon, and Osamu laughs until his sides hurt when Atsumu shows him. 

But Atsumu is proud, and he is confident, and he goes to school with a hundred watt smile and a group of girls trailing after him. 

Osamu goes to the pharmacy that night and buys a box of gray, cloudy dye. Atsumu helps him bleach his hair under their bathroom sink with the faulty tap and tells him he looks like the moon.

His Ma says that Atsu is hot and Samu is cold after the two have a particularly bad fight. Atsumu is gleeful and smug as he gloats that he was born to be hotter and warmer and better, and Osamu punches him. 

He remembers his Ma sitting on the porch, an arm around his shoulders as he pouts. 

“‘S not fair,” Osamu had said, his chin in his palm. “Why’d ya name Tsumu that?” 

His Ma had laughed, quietly, leaning her weight into his side. And she had held his cheeks between her palms and told him with a fire in her eyes that Osamu means To Rule. 

He meets you for the first time in February. 

You were standing in front of him, a little sheepish, with a box of chocolates in your extended palms. He remembers feeling something heavy in his chest. Because, yeah, Atsumu was definitely going to accept your confession. 

You had said, IReallyLikeYou, and Here’sSomeChocolates, and Please Accept Them. 

You were shorter than him, and your hair was done nicely, and you were blushing and nervous. And you were really fucking cute. But Osamu is used to coming second, so the only thing that comes out of his mouth is, Why? And then, Tsumu’s in tha next classroom ov’r. 

He doesn’t remember what happened next, only Atsumu’s laugh and the slap echoing through the halls. You leave with his cheeks stinging and hot. And Atsumu had teased him the next day, behind his mountain of chocolates and confessions, because Osamu’s face was still red twelve hours later. 

He sees you a lot the year after. 

You’re in the same class as him and ‘Tsumu, and you smile every time you see him. You sit two rows in front of him and you’re not very good at tying your uniform. Every lunch, Osamu watches you pull out the same gray bento with a wrapped onigiri on the side. He tells you one day that he really likes onigiri. And then, Osamu watches as every lunch, you pull out the same gray bento with two wrapped onigiris on the side. 

With you, it’s always Hi Osamu, first, and then, Hullo Atsumu. With you, it’s an onigiri dropped on his desk when the lunch bell rings. With you, Osamu thinks back to a conversation with his Ma on a porch. 

Osamu means To Rule.

The menu is this: Tuna mayo on Mondays and Thursdays, Ume on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Friday is plain. You don’t ever bring onigiri for his brother. 

He asks you, on a hot night in June, what your favorite type of weather is. You had your knees tucked to your chest, a sparkler in hand, and then told him cloudy. Cold. Foggy. Winter. Snow is nice, too. You say it all with no hesitation. 

Osamu kisses you for the first time that night. 

It’s New Years and you’re cooking Ozoni on the stove. The curtains are open, it’s snowing outside, and Osamu wakes to the smell of miso and the sound of carrots on a chopping board. He gets out of bed, padding to the kitchen with half-lidded eyes and a stifled yawn, and then he thinks his heart stops when he sees you. 

Because what Miya Osamu is not used to is this: coming first and having something unequivocally his. 

But you’re bent over the counter, fiddling with the oven as you read the instructions on the back of the packaged Yakimochi you bought the other day. And you’re wearing his shirt, it falls right below your thighs, your hair is still messy from using his chest as a pillow, and you look beautiful. 

“Mornin’ ‘Samu, come help me with this.” You say, looking back at him with a smile, pointing to the fresh pot of rice on the counter. “You’re in charge of onigiri.”

He hugs you instead, his arms around your stomach with your back to him. 

“But I like yer onigiri,” He says, his chin on your head. His eyes are watering and it must be from the steam of your boiling dashi. 

“‘Samu,” You complain, giggling as he presses kisses into the crown of your head. “I made enough for ya in high school.” 

It’s cold outside and snowing, and Osamu knows he’s going to make the onigiri. 

He also knows that if his name means To Rule, he’s okay with coming second if it means you’re by his side.

[abbotsanatomy]

I can’t stop thinking about the fluffy alphabet you did for Jack where his nightmare is you coming into his ER. I’d love if you could expand upon that please and thank you.

⨳ JUST A WALK-IN

pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader warnings: depiction of ectopic pregnancy, mentions of surgery/medical procedures. author's note: i think it'd definitely feel that much worse if he caused your visit to the ER (even if indirectly). so here's this..

It takes a lot for you to visit the ER. Lightheadedness, pain in the most random places, and three days of excruciating pain later, you've finally succumbed to the fact that this is, indeed, an emergency.

In truth, you're more worried about your husband than yourself. Jack's what the people call completely overbearing, when it comes to your health. If you could be a hypochondriac for someone, he's that. He tries to downplay it, but you know he's panicking inside every time you get a cold that lasts a little too long or tell him about that pain in your side.

That's why it's incredibly detrimental that your husband not see you in his ER. You're going to tip-toe around, asking for anyone who isn't him and hoping the nurses won't slip up and tell him they saw you around. You feel safe, for now, behind this curtain.

You managed to snag Parker Ellis on your way in. She's one of your favorites, and you know she can keep her mouth shut with Jack.

“Y'know if Abbot finds out, I'll tell him you totally threatened me, right?” she deadpans, pulling her gloves on.

She's sat on a stool beside your hospital bed. You shoot her a pouty look that you hope could soften her up. It doesn't.

“Come on! I only threatened you a little,” you yell, “Have my back. It can't be that serious. Probably just appendicitis or something.”

“You waited three days before coming in,” she berates you. “If it is appendicitis, you should be worried.”

You sigh loudly, and move to lie farther back onto the hospital bed. Ellis brings the cart with the ultrasound kit closer to herself.

“Whatever,” you whisper, pulling your shirt up to reveal your torso.

Ellis puts some ultrasound gel there. You close your eyes at the sensation. It feels too cold, especially with the preexisting pain.

She puts the transducer on your lower abdomen and moves it around, her eyes glued to the screen in front of her. You assume she's found something when her hand freezes and just stares at the screen for a minute.

“What is it?” you question, softly. You're a little scared now; you've never seen Ellis look so serious.

When the silence becomes too intense, you start turning the diamond ring on your fourth finger around. You know whatever Parker's about to tell you, it isn't good.

“Should Jack be here for this?” you suggest, unable to pull your eyes from the sparkling rock on your hand.

Ellis finally pulls her eyes away from the screen, “Yeah. Maybe.”

You nod, slowly letting your eyes flutter shut.

“Okay. Can you tell him? To come in here?” you finally look up at her, “I want him here.”

She leaves without another word. You put your head into your hands, breathing deeply. You think you're getting a moment of peace, and then the pain that's been following you around for days, maybe even weeks, it doubles.

Then, it triples.

You know this can't be a good sign. You make for the call button quickly. You're inches away, when you feel your consciousness slip away. Your vision goes black before you can do anything.

Ellis is making her way through the ER at record speed. When she finds Jack, she's even more frustrated than before.

He's operating. She can't interrupt. She isn't even sure how she was going to tell him in the first place, let alone in a room full of people, with someone's life in his hands.

Ellis is more than aware of just how much Jack loves you. She was at the wedding. She sat front row, listened intently to all of your vows. She hears how he talks to you on the phone, his voice completely morphing into something a lot softer. She notices how you’re on speed dial every time a major incident happens, because he always needs to make sure you’re okay.

She knows he'll freak out when he hears.

These things usually aren't that dangerous, but you've left it for too long. She isn't even sure if you'll make it into surgery before it gets bad. This thing's ready to rupture, and Jack should definitely be there for you if it does.

Fuck it, she decides. She walks into trauma room one with a newfound sense of determination. Ellis grabs a mask off of the tray at the door, and walks in, holding it to her face.

“Hey, Abbot?”

Jack only spares her a glance.

“Kind of busy here,” he tells her, his hands literally inside of the patient in front of him.

“You know I wouldn't do this if it wasn't important,” her voice comes off as frantic.

So much so, that it makes him look up. His eyes immediately become set into a deep frown. He quickly tells Walsh to take over, pulling his hands away. They're both out of the trauma room in seconds.

“Is it...” Jack pauses.

“Yeah, yeah. It's your wife. She's here. She came in for an emergency,” she explains.

“You didn't tell me?”

“She's freakin' scary, alright? Just—I'll tell you what it is there.” Ellis just walks away without a second glance. Jack's following, his footsteps heavy.

When they get to the hospital cubicle you were in, Ellis pushes the curtain back quickly to reveal...nothing.

“Where is she, Ellis?”

“I left her right here. Wait...” Ellis walks to the nurse's station to ask about your whereabouts. They give her the worst case scenario.

As soon as Jack hears the news, he's sprinting to the elevator to make his way to the surgical floor. You're having surgery, and he isn't there. You're having life-altering surgery, which he might've caused, and he isn't there.

His heart’s pounding so hard in his chest he think he might be having a heart attack. This is worse. It’s scarier. He isn’t scared of dying, he’s scared of losing the one thing that’s keeping him going. And the idea that he’s the one who put you in this situation makes him more uneasy.

He can't help but feel guilty, especially when they hand him your wedding ring and the band T-shirt and jeans you presumably had on, and tell him to just wait in the room you'll be admitted in.

He just stares at the glittering diamond in his hands for what feels like hours, until they wheel you in. Then, he puts it back on your ring finger and stares some more.

When you wake up, it's like being reborn. It's completely stressful, you feel like you’re learning how to breathe all over again, and you want to burst out crying. But Jack's right there, with your hand in his.

It makes you smile. Your face still feels heavy, but you manage to show a little teeth. You turn your head to the side, and he's still looking down at your interlocked fingers. He finally looks up when you squeeze his hand as tight as you can.

He can't say anything, so you do.

“I'm, like, so fucking hungry,” you whisper, and then start laughing.

Jack stands up from his seat at your bedside, leaning in. He pulls your head up with a hand buried into your hair. His lips are pressed onto your forehead and, if it's even possible, you're smiling wider.

“That was scary,” you admit.

He nods, his forehead resting against yours now. Your brows crease.

“What, uh...What happened?”

Jack shakes his head, “It was an ectopic pregnancy. Ruptured. I thought—”

He closes his eyes tight, “I thought I'd lose you.”

“You didn't.” You bring a hand up, so your fingers can brush against his jaw.

Jack takes a deep breath, but you can tell it's a little off. “I...I sit up, late at night, thinking about this. You dying, here, in this hospital. Me not knowing about it.”

You shake your head adamantly, pulling his face back so you can really look into his eyes. It takes you a good minute to form a whole sentence.

“I didn't die. I'm right here. It wasn't even close, I swear,” you promise him, offering the best smile you can in this moment.

You plant a firm kiss on his lips to punctuate your point. You let your fingers play around in the salt and pepper strands of his hair.

“But, seriously,” you sigh, “I'm totally starving. How do we get someone to bring me something to eat?”

You look around for a minute, until he starts laughing. It's more of a cathartic coping mechanism than a genuine laugh. You giggle along with him anyway.

[astonmartinii]

you gotta look out for the quiet ones | oscar piastri social media au

pairing: oscar piastri x fem musician!reader

a surprise appearance from y/n in the formula one paddock raises some questions, but the rumour mill will never guess who she's there to see...

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

note: olivia rodrigo is the face claim but i'll be pulling from her music as well as taylor swift!

f1

liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and 2,439,677 others

tagged: yourusername

f1: there's paddock guests and there's paddock guests, y/n y/ln is here for the bahrain grand prix!

view comments

user1: MOTHER WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE?

user2: this is not what i expected to see this friday morning

user3: okay i've only ever heard of y/n y/ln through others but like she must be dedicated to be there for friday as well

user4: certified y/n superfan here! y/n has always said she's a massive fan of f1 - she hasn't been asked about it recently but when she was last asked about it she said she grew up loving jenson button!

jensonbutton: @yourusername i see you have amazing taste

yourusername: how could i not love the playboy of f1?

user3: okay she knows what she's talking about, i guess it's time to have a little listen to her music

user5: okay so what garage is she going to be in?

user6: ferrari 🤞🏻

user7: did we not just see this ^^^ she's clearly going to be in the mclaren garage

user8: if she has any sense she'll be in the mercedes garage with sir lewis hamilton

user9: what about the literal world champions?

user10: shut the fuck up (i would like to see max blush and stutter tho)

user11: i love how y/n said she's taking a year off of music after her tour and we're immediately seeing her here, there and everywhere

user12: living her true sports nerd life and i love that for her

landonorris: i promise that mclaren have the best hospitality xx

user13: oh brother are we about to see some lando norris snapchat u up flirting?

alexalbon: this is tragic

georgerussell63: make sure you don't tell her about the massive poster you had of her that you practiced kissing on!

georgerussell63: whoops!

landonorris: i am in your walls george

user14: well.. that was something, i don't think we'll see her in the mclaren garage anytime soon now

logansargeant: @oscarpiastri i hope you brought your vinyl to be signed

oscarpiastri: i didn't want to risk it on the plane, it's limited edition 😔

user15: wait so oscar is also a y/n fan ???

user16: not this mclaren battle for y/n's attention

user17: lets be real, there's no competition here - there's no way she wouldn't choose lando

user18: i'm tired of you people sleeping on oscar (pun intended)

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris and 21,309,784 others

yourusername: i had so much fun the first time round, i thought i'd come by again

view all comments

user25: okayyyy i thought the girlies on twitter were delusional but the second race in a row ... i fear there's another incentive

user26: once again, she's been a massive fan of the sport and has a ton of disposable money why wouldn't she go to a load of races?

landonorris: can't wait to see you again this weekend, i'll get you that win i promised

alexalbon: nurse he's talking to himself again

georgerussell63: this is crazy thirsting to do in front of 21 million people

landonorris: i assure you i'll be the one with the last laugh here

maxverstappen1: sure you will buddy, it's good to see you so confident

user27: are they gentle parenting lando?

user28: bro is about to get his heart broken they're actually being good friends

user29: idk i think he's still the one in the paddock with the best shot

user30: i gotta get this delusion all lando fans seem to have

carlossainz55: i think you'd look great in red ❤️

charles_leclerc: oh gosh....

carlossainz55: they don't call me the smooth operator for no reason, just sit back and watch the magic

maxverstappen1: you fucking morons do realise you're proclaiming this in a PUBLIC instagram comment section that everyone INCLUDING y/n can see?

user31: this is a mess ... keep going!

oscarpiastri: i celebrated my win here in 2021 with the release of sour - i know you're on a sabbatical but any chance of a surprise single?

user32: yall getting on lando and carlos for their bad flirting when oscar is stinking up the gaff with his attempts

yourusername: i'm so sorry to tell you this but no surprise single, but i can show you some demos?

oscarpiastri: please, please, please! good 4 u is my scream in the car song

user33: i just know oscar was streaming traitor when his DRS failed for the ten billionth time

oscarpiastri: it went platinum in my car yes

yourusername: i imagine it's even better at 200mph

oscarpiastri: i'd be happy to show you anytime

yourusername: carpool karaoke x hot laps when?

oscarpiastri: name a time and i'm there

user34: why is oscar trying so hard bro she's not going to choose you

user35: and yet he's the only one she replied to ... makes you think

user36: you guys are miserable because i'd literally do anything to see them singing in a car together

oscarpiastri

liked by maxverstappen1, yourusername and 832,988 others

oscarpiastri: jeddah you were okay i guess

view all comments

user37: holy soft launch

user38: and right after flirting up a storm with Y/N Y/LN

user39: first of all, oscar is a fan of y/n so it could've definitely been from a platonic point of view

user40: it has to be platonic cause bro had no chance to start with and has a gf ???

landonorris: i'm sorry what is this ?

oscarpiastri: an instagram post, would hope you would know what that is if you're already on the app

landonorris: don't get smart with me mister

oscarpiastri: you got smart first 🤨

landonorris: what happened to my sweet rookie?

oscarpiastri: he's still 23 years old ?

landonorris: i need to meet this mystery woman who has seemed to give you all this sass

user41: prema girlies know that this sass has always been here

user42: but i'm glad it's coming out in f1

yourusername: okay i guess? you slayed mr piastri and i won't hear anything less than that

oscarpiastri: okay it was a bit of a slay

yourusername: a bit?

oscarpiastri: a big slay then

yourusername: stop talking down on yourself otherwise you'll have me to deal with

oscarpiastri: that is not the threat you think it is

yourusername: it's not a threat it's a promise x

user43: excuse me what the fuck was that ^

user44: i can't tell if they're flirting or if y/n just feels sorry for him?

user45: they did get coffee like once this weekend so maybe they're just friends

user46: they have to be because there's no way that is y/n in this soft launch

user47: there's no way oscar piastri could woo the y/n y/ln idk why people are even suggesting it

user48: and i think even flirting with her is a bit weird considering his teammate has made it so obvious he likes her

user49: oscar doesn't seem to be the type to step on toes but we'll see

logansargeant: if that's who i think it is i am going to fight you for not telling me straight up

oscarpiastri: i'll meet you in the parking lot i guess

logansargeant: be there or be square

user50: what does logan know that we don't ???

f1tea

liked by user52, user53 and 11,209 others

f1tea: now she's attended THREE races in a row, i think it's okay to start the conversation about her being with one of the drivers... so here's our theories!

lando: he's been on this train the longest and has the old thirst tweets to back it up. he's been spotted talking to her numerous times at races and has been camping in her comment section since bahrain

carlos: he has also been in her comments since bahrain and has been seen with her in the paddock - less than lando but y/n has worn red a couple times in the paddock so??

lewis: y/n was blushing up a storm when they were spotted together and i honestly think if the age gap wasn't so big they would be so cute together

liam: an outside shout but this guy was stuck to her side the whole time she was at red bull

charles: they have spoken a lot in the paddock, i don't think it's him but omg imagine them together

view all comments

user54: not this oscar erasure - i.e. the only driver she's actually interacted with online

user55: if it's oscar i will literally streak across the track at the next race

user56: admin snuck liam in there like we wouldn't notice

user57: idk why they think that liam is a better shout than oscar

user58: i think all the fangirling from oscar defo put him straight into the friend zone

user59: idk about you guys but i've actually listened to y/n's music and her album after her last breakup suggests that she might like someone who appreciates her craft and publicly supports her

user60: yeah but she also deserves a boyfriend that's on her level

user61: oscar is a literal f1 driver?

user60: yeah but he's not cute enough

user62: to YOU

user63: omg just say you have no taste and bounce gosh

user64: how did lando become a frontrunner in this?

user65: i think because he's liked her the longest? and has been the most insistent

user66: i hate to say this but just because you like someone and said it first, does not mean you are entitled to actually date them

user67: i will laugh my ass off if she's not with any of these fools

user68: bro took a year off of music to have some fun and now is linked to everyone and their mum

user69: unfortunately this is the way it goes although if she does become a wag (tho be real, whoever is with her is the wag) i shall be enjoying her paddock outfits

user70: carlos vs oscar i think i've seen this film before

user71: oh trust me off track there is no competition

user72: you people are so mean

user73: oscar will win again, mark my words. i'm not sure if carlos can cry to the fia about that tho

yourusername

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri and 23,874,093 others

yourusername: getting the real aussie experience down under

view all comments

user74: AHHHHHHHHHH A MAN

user75: who the fuck wears jeans on a hammock she needs to run away from this man he's clearly a psychopath

maxverstappen1: you went to see quokkas without me??? does our friendship mean nothing ???

yourusername: it's not considered normal to invite friends to a date

maxverstappen1: boring. i will remember this when you try and get some red bull from our hospitality

yourusername: nO PLEASE

maxverstappen1: no, for this you must suffer through the piss they put in monster cans

this comment was deleted

maxverstappen1: well you should've thought more of our friendship :P

yourusername: you are impossible. no more limited edition merch for you

maxverstappen1: WHAT

user76: for all this love life speculation i am loving this max and y/n friendship

user77: but... the monster comment... it has to be lando right? monster sponsor mclaren

user78: i think this is the most confirmation we're getting right now

user79: they're so cute

oscarpiastri: i am glad the homeland is treating you well :)

yourusername: i've only had one scary insect encounter so win!

oscarpiastri: we'll have to get you some real australian delicacies this weekend

yourusername: i've heard of grandma's baking so i'm excited!

oscarpiastri: we've got a tupperware box with your name on it

yourusername: ugh i love you guys

user80: the monster comment pointed to mclaren but there's only one of them in the comments...

user81: i mean this is a soft launch so it would make sense that lando wouldn't comment if they're trying to throw people off of their scent

user82: the mental gymnastics you people are doing is insane

user83: literally just admit that your driver just doesn't have the sauce like that

user84: and oscar piastri does???

user85: STOP SLEEPING ON HIM HE'S LITERALLY GETTING HER HOME-BAKED GOODS

oscarpiastri

liked by maxverstappen1, yourusername and 2,349,761 others

tagged: yourusername

oscarpiastri: home win means more than you could ever know. and you can stop theorising now, i may be a nerd but i've still got game.

view all comments

user89: HHAHHHAHHAHAHAHHA THAT'S MY AUSSIE

user90: stunting his stunning gf on all these delusional fangirls

yourusername: now i can finally say it: I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU

yourusername: and i'm proud of you

yourusername: forever and always

oscarpiastri: maybe i was so fast because i knew there was a literal angel waiting for me back in my garage

yourusername: oh so the other races i came to i just didn't look good enough for you to win :(

oscarpiastri: NO NO NO you're always the most beautiful woman in any room

oscarpiastri: but this time you're wearing my jersey and my name

yourusername: i guess i'll never take it off again

oscarpiastri: you might not take it off, but that doesn't mean i won't

yourusername: ehhhehehhehheeh hurry up in debrief :P

user91: oscar piastri i am so sorry i was not familiar with your game

user92: i for one had complete faith in that bumbling fool

yourusername: as you should, he may have stuttered through the lines, but he's one smooth operator

carlossainz55: that's my nickname? please stop rubbing salt in the wound

yourusername: it was better than your attempts. and better than whatever the fuck you've been doing on the track - keep your dumptruck away from oscar

user93: y/n defending oscar, consider me moved

user94: okay fave celeb couple just dropped

landonorris: HOW LONG HAS THIS BEING GOING ON? HOW LONG HAVE YOU LET ME FLIRT WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND? HOW DID I LOSE TO YOU?

yourusername: watch your tone.

landonorris: sorry???

oscarpiastri: we've been together nearly a year. i didn't 'let' you flirt with my girlfriend i tried to tell you but you ignored me at every turn. you didn't lose to me, there was never any competition.

yourusername: best year of my life 🫶 and lando i tried to tell you, maybe listen to oscar for once 😭

oscarpiastri: awwwwww i love you 😘

yourusername: i love you too osc xx

user95: not them dancing on lando's dead body 😭

logansargeant: I FUCKING KNEW IT YOU SON OF A BITCH

oscarpiastri: never doubt me again eagle boy

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc and 35,609, 451 others

tagged: oscarpiastri

yourusername: if you saw me ugly crying on live tv - no you didn't. i'm so proud of you osc, my beautiful boy.

view all comments

user96: i think y/n was all of us

user97: absolutely screaming at all of the y/n fans on twitter having a meltdown and trying to figure out how f1 works

user98: this was me, am i really going to learn about tyre compounds because y/n is dating a driver? yes!

maxverstappen1: i am very happy for you both but enjoy the win while it lasts oscar i have a score to settle after being ABANDONED on the quokka date

yourusername: once again it was a DATE which is for the two people in the relationship, not the weird third guy with attachment issues

maxverstappen1: well jokes on you i do have attachment issues and now i've latched onto you and oscar which means you're contractually obligated to come to every race now

yourusername: ok?

oscarpiastri: it's okay max with our combined powers, y/n will have to stick around she hates making us sad

yourusername: it's true :(

user99: not lando fumbling yet another lead

yourusername: he never had a chance to begin with

oscarpiastri: 😆

user100: this is another level of teammate psychological warfare

landonorris: i am a victim of a smear campaign

oscarpiastri: smear campaign being you flirting with my girlfriend after she told you she had a boyfriend

landonorris: I DIDN'T HEAR HER

yourusername: i said it multiple times 🤨 and SOFT LAUNCHED OSCAR AND YOU STILL TRIED

georgerussell63: looks like it's back to the poster now lando

yourusername: and for the record ^^ this is very creepy

landonorris: THAT WAS LIKE TEN YEARS AGO

alexalbon: that's what you want us to think ...

user101: i am screaming at them rubbing it in lando's face

user102: kind of deserved LOL but funny nonetheless

oscarpiastri: all things aside, i'm so glad you could be there for my first win! i love you so much and can't wait to spend there rest of my life with you, even if it means my teammate flirts with you everyday

yourusername: i love you too osc, i'm sure you'll win so many more

oscarpiastri: i'm counting on it ;)

landonorris: I AM SORRY HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY IT

yourusername: you gonna let oscar have the upgrades first?

landonorris: no?

yourusername: then i will guilt you at every corner 🤨

fin. i know, i know. guilty as sin is coming but i just wanted to get this out. i had to come home from silverstone early cause of a mechanical dnf (foot stopped working and had heat stroke and a cold at the same time). but i had a great time while i was there and met a load of drivers with lando and alex signing my hat !!!!!

[luvxkdrama]

— sidelines

pairing : yeon sieun x reader

warnings : bit of angst, mentions of hospitals

word count : 3.7k

summary : sieun spent his days watching life from the sidelines, content with having nothing to lose. That’s until you arrived, and suddenly, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing the one thing that made him feel alive.

a/n : i highly recommend to listen to "sidelines" by Phoebe Bridges while reading this xx (if you’ve read my fanfic “unspoken”, you can consider this one as a beginning of their love story!)

—

You weren’t exactly excited to start another school day at Eunjang High. It wasn’t like anyone looked forward to it, but at least most people here had their little groups, their cliques, their drama. You didn’t.

Not even because you were shy, just selective.

It was easier to stay out of things when most of your classmates had their hands in something shady, fights, trouble, things you didn’t want to be wrapped up in. Most people were either too loud, too aggressive, or just... not your kind of company. You kept to yourself. And you were fine with that.

But today, your peace was interrupted when you stepped into class, early enough to avoid the hall crowd, only to find someone sitting at your desk.

You paused mid-step, pulling out one of your earphones.

The guy had his head down, arms folded like he’d been asleep there all night. He didn’t even flinch at the sound of the door.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. About to speak up when you caught a few murmurs behind you.

“Apparently he’s a genius.”

“Huh? Then why transfer here?”

“I heard he killed someone.”

You glanced sideways. The source of the whispers - two guys known for making up multiple rumours - caught your eye and quickly looked away, pretending they weren’t just gossiping two feet away from you.

You sighed and walked toward your desk. You weren’t superstitious, and you weren’t about to get into a rumor spiral on a Monday morning.

You reached the desk, second row from the back, and gently tapped the guy on the shoulder.

Nothing. So you leaned down a bit. “Hey.”

Finally, he stirred. Slowly, as if gravity worked harder on him than the rest of the world. His head lifted just enough for you to see his sharp half-lidded eyes.

You kept your voice neutral. “This is my desk.”

He blinked at you once.

Then looked away.

Then laid his head back down.

You stood there, frowning. Not because he ignored you, exactly - more because you had no idea what kind of interaction just happened.

After a second, you simply sighed and nodded to yourself, grabbing your bag to sit in the desk directly in front of him. It’s not like it was worth to pick a fight for a desk.

You put your earphones back in and was about to pull out your notebook to study some more material before the teacher comes, when you realised you had left it in the drawer of your desk.

You exhaled through your nose, already annoyed by that out of ordinary Monday and pulled out one earbud again before leaning back just enough to tap on his arm a second time. Maybe a little firmer this time.

This time, he didn’t lift his head, but you heard a faint sigh escape him.

You blinked, unimpressed.

“Okay?” you muttered, voice just loud enough for him to hear, “You’re the one who stole my desk? I just need the notebook inside it.”

He shifted slightly, slow and clearly reluctant, but eventually lifted his head just a little to lazily reach toward the drawer beneath the desk for your notebook.

His fingers brushed over the inside surface, then paused. Nothing. He glanced inside with a sliver more interest this time, hand searching again. Still nothing.

You narrowed your eyes, shifting your weight to one leg. “Move a sec.” you said, not exactly aggressive, just impatient.

You stepped forward and leaned down next to him, resting one hand on the edge of the desk for balance, your other brushing a few stray pens aside as you peered into the drawer yourself. He stiffened a little at how close you were standing, your presence very much in his personal space.

You leaned further, your hair nearly brushing his shoulder, lips slightly parted in thought as you scanned the empty drawer.

You clicked your tongue. “I swear I left it here-”

You paused, then smacked your forehead lightly. “Wait. No. No, I left it on my bookshelf.” You sighed and straightened up with a dramatic groan, brushing off your skirt and glancing at him for the first time.

And that’s when your eyes met.

He was already staring at you. Not startled, not nervous—just watching. Quietly. Unreadable.

You meant to say something, maybe a thanks or a joke, but the words kind of stuck for a second.

Because now that you were actually looking at him, really looking, he wasn’t quite what you’d expected.

That was the first time you actually saw his features.

His features were oddly soft, despite the deadpan expression. His eyes weren’t cold like you expected. They were wide and dark, kind of doe-like beneath the messy fringe of his hair. His skin was annoyingly clear, and his lips were full and soft-looking.

You blinked.

He blinked back.

Then, clearing your throat, you took a step back, “Right. My bad.” you said flatly, waving your notebook-less hand in a vague gesture before returning to your new desk in front of him.

No reply. Just quiet breathing and the faint creak of him shifting in his seat again, lowering his head on his arms.

You slipped your earphones back in and leaned your cheek against your fist, trying to get back into the zone. But the silence behind you felt just a little different now.

Sieun stared at you a few more seconds before diving back into the arms of Morpheus, trying to stay unbothered by your sudden approaches.

He wasn't used to being noticed, not necessarily in the shy kind of way, more like he just didn't care to step into the spotlight. People were messy, unpredictable and often crossed lines that were then hard to redraw.

So he watched from the sidelines, kept his head down and slept through the noise. It was easier this way.

That same evening, you were leaving the school’s library later than usual. Finals were creeping closer, and you had more materials to catch up on than you liked to admit. The sun had already dipped below the buildings, and the streetlights had flickered on in their usual lazy rhythm.

That’s when you saw him.

Sieun, earphones in, hoodie on, hands stuffed in his pockets, walking a few paces ahead on the empty sidewalk. You weren’t even sure it was him at first, but the way he dragged his steps, the slight slump of his shoulders… yeah, that was definitely him.

Your brain told you to just go home but your feet moved before you could think twice about it. You picked up pace, caught up to him, and gently tapped his shoulder.

He turned, a little startled, pulling one earbud out. His expression shifted the second he saw it was you, eyebrows lifting slightly, not quite a smile, but something softer than his usual stoic.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low but not unfriendly.

You grinned. “Following you, obviously.”

His eyes widened, not dramatically, but enough to make you laugh, glancing away sheepishly before adding, “I was just heading home from the library.”

You fell into step beside him, talking like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t put his earbuds back in either.

A few minutes later, you passed the small family-run restaurant you’ve gone to since you were a kid.

“I’m starving,” you said, already slowing your pace. “I’m eating here.”

He nodded slightly, like he was about to walk away.

But before he could, you slipped your arm around his—lightly, barely more than a hook—and guided him toward the door. He didn’t resist, but you felt him stiffen slightly, eyes glued to where your arms touched.

You greeted the older lady at the counter with your usual grin. She lit up at the sight of you and already began preparing your usual.

“Double it this time!” you called before heading toward your usual table and finally letting go of Sieun’s arm.

You sat down, still smiling, still talking about how your teacher gave a three-page worksheet for fun. But mid-sentence, you noticed him—still standing, his expression unreadable.

“I should go.” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He shifted on his feet. “Thanks, but I have to go home.”

You frowned. “The food’s good, I swear. You’ll regret it!”

Sieun let out a soft sigh. Not annoyed, not angry, just tired.

“I don’t know why you’re like this,” he said quietly. “But I’m not looking to make friends.”

It wasn’t harsh. Just matter-of-fact. Like he was trying to set a boundary that even he wasn’t fully convinced of.

Your smile faltered, just for a second. You nodded slowly, but instead of pushing back, you just looked at him with a quiet calm.

“I didn’t say I was trying to be your friend,” you said, voice light, but steadier than before. “I just didn’t wanna eat alone.”

He stared at you a beat longer. Then another.

And then, slowly, wordlessly, he pulled out the chair across from you and sat down.

You didn’t say anything for a few minutes as you noticed his small glances toward the door and the tension still clinging to his shoulders. But then you slowly started talking about a new story of yours, not expecting a response anymore, just making him comfortable in your company.

He didn’t laugh. But he listened. You could tell from the way his eyes would twitch at certain points, or how he shifted ever so slightly when something you said caught him off guard.

Then the food came, steaming bowls, a dozen tiny plates with pickled radishes and crispy kimchi, all warm and familiar.

You looked at him. He didn’t move. He just stared at the tray like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Without a word, you picked up your chopsticks and reached across his tray, placing a few of your favorite side dishes on top of his white rice. Nothing dramatic, nothing too much—just a quiet gesture. You didn’t say anything, just went back to eating your own meal, eyes on your bowl, giving him space to catch up.

For a moment, he didn’t move. And then, slowly, almost hesitantly, he picked up his chopsticks. You didn’t look up, but from the corner of your eye, you saw him take a small bite of the rice you topped, chew, and swallow.

You smiled. Soft and barely-there.

He didn’t say a word. Neither did you. The restaurant filled the silence for you—soft clinks of metal bowls, the faint hum of an old TV in the back, the quiet muttering of the older lady behind the counter.

But for the first time in a long time, Sieun didn’t feel like he needed to leave right away. He didn’t feel the itch in his spine to retreat. He just stayed. Ate. Sat across from someone who didn’t expect him to be more than what he could offer.

That evening didn’t change everything. He didn’t suddenly start texting first or waiting outside classrooms like some eager cliché. He still kept to himself, still stayed quiet, still lived on the edge of everyone’s world. But somehow, you started to slip into his orbit without asking permission.

The classroom was half full when he walked in, earpods tucked in, expression unreadable. Same as always. But when he sat down, he noticed it.

A small pack of vitamin gummies on his desk. The same kind you were chewing the other day in the restaurant.

He stared at it. Then at you—already seated in front of him, pretending very obviously to tie your shoelace even though both shoes were still on.

You peeked back at him. “You gonna eat them or just burn a hole through the wrapper?”

He blinked once, slow. “You put this here?”

“Do you see anyone else giving you stuff to take care of your immune system?”

Silence. Then, Sieun reached out, slowly picked up the pack, and tucked it into his pencil case, avoiding your gaze.

Later that week, you caught up to him just after last period ended, your steps quick against the linoleum.

“Hey, wait up!” you called.

He didn’t. Not really. But he didn’t speed either which was new.

You fell into step beside him, out of breath. “You walk like someone’s chasing you.”

“I am.” he said without thinking.

You blinked. “Huh?”

Sieun didn’t reply. You tilted your head.

“That was... was that a joke?” you asked.

He stayed silent. The corner of your mouth twitched.

“I didn’t think you could do that!” You exclaimed, smiling excitedly.

Still no response. But the way he turned his face slightly toward the window told you he was hiding something. Perhaps the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The next shift in your dynamic happened by accident.

You were sitting under the small pavilion just outside the school gate, waiting for the rain to calm down. Most students had already left, but you’d forgotten an umbrella.

Sieun, earbuds in, walked past, only to stop halfway down the steps when he saw you. You waved your phone in the air. “No signal. Can’t even call for a ride.”

He stood there for a beat, then slowly walked back. Opened his umbrella.

You blinked. “Wait, are you—?”

“Come on,” he said, eyes not meeting yours.

You stood quickly, scrambling over, squeezing under the small umbrella with him. “It’s gonna be a tight fit.”

“Then walk fast.”

You were halfway down the block when you looked up at him. “I’ll pay you back for this heroic rescue. One day.”

“You already did.”

“What? When?”

“The food. That night.”

“Didn’t think it was that special.” You chuckled.

“You’re the first person who took me out to eat something.” He admitted, his grip on the umbrella handle tightening slightly. “So it felt special to me.”

And in that moment—feet splashing in puddles, your shoulder brushing his, raindrops ticking against plastic—you realized the hard walls Sieun has been building up so hard throughout his entire life, were finally starting to fall apart.

The following week, you didn’t appear at school on Tuesday. At first, Sieun thought maybe you were just late. But class started. Then lunch passed. Then the final bell rang.

No teasing pokes to his ribs. No gummy vitamins tossed onto his desk. No sudden voice asking if he'd finally figured out how to smile.

And yet the silence was louder than anything you ever said.

He found himself packing his bag slower than usual. He kept glancing at your empty desk as though you’d come sprinting in, out of breath, waving some excuse and asking if he missed you too.

He didn’t.

But maybe he did.

By the time he left the school building, his hands were already fishing out his phone. The screen glared back at him in the soft evening light, showing your last five messages, each one as chaotic and cluttered as your speech.

He’d replied, once. “You’re dramatic.” to which you replied with an offended sticker.

This time, for the first time, he typed first:

“You were absent today.”

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to send as he wasn’t the best with words.

Then, his phone rang. He answered fast, too fast, maybe. But he wasn’t met with your voice.

“Hello? Is this… Sieun?”

He frowned slightly. “Yes?”

“I’m Y/N’s mom. I found her phone. I figured someone named Sieun would probably wonder since she’s been in the hospital since this morning…”

His world stilled. The word echoed, too loud in his ears. Hospital.

“What hospital?”

Y/N’s mom didn’t even have the time to explain what happened before Sieun hung up the call with trembling fingers. His brain couldn’t even process her tone or phrasing, the only word that rang loud in his head was hospital.

He ran.

Ran past the gates of Eunjang, past busy streets and honking cars, ignoring the burn in his lungs and the ache in his legs.

When he reached the hospital, sweat sticking to the back of his neck and breath shallow, he didn’t stop to think about how crazy he must’ve looked. He walked up to the front desk with shaking hands, giving your name, waiting while they looked it up. His heart drummed against his ribs like a warning.

Room 207.

He made his way there, steps slowing the closer he got. The quiet of the hospital hallways made the tension worse.

When he stood in front of the door, his hand hovered over the handle. He wasn’t even sure what he’d say, or if he even should be here.

But he opened it anyway.

And there you were.

Laying down on the narrow hospital bed, eyes closed, IV hooked up to your arm. Your lips were parted in soft breaths, a blanket pulled up to your chest, your hair a bit messier than usual.

Sieun’s breath hitched. His feet locked in place.

He’d never seen you like this. Still. Quiet.

You always filled every space you walked into with noise, movement, warmth — and now you were just… still.

His chest tightened so hard it hurt.

Then, your brow furrowed and you let out a soft groan, shifting under the blanket. You stretched with a whiny noise, eyes fluttering open.

You flinched when you saw someone standing there.

Then smiled. “Hey!” you exclaimed, rubbing your eyes, “you scared the hell out of me. You look like a ghost.”

But the moment you registered his expression, not angry, not sarcastic, just scared, your smile slowly fell.

“…Sieun?”

He didn’t speak. He just stared.

You blinked. “Oh, right. Okay. I’m fine, I promise. I just fainted this morning because apparently I overworked myself. No sleep, too much coffee, etc.” You waved a hand. “They gave me some IVs, made me nap for hours, and now I’m fine. Look.” You stretched your arms up and wiggled your fingers. “Alive and functioning.”

But Sieun didn’t respond right away.

He walked closer slowly, eyes never leaving your face.

Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low, hoarse, like it got lost somewhere on the way there.

“I thought something happened to you.”

A long silence.

You softened, your lips parting. “I’m really okay. You didn’t have to run all the way here.”

“I did.” he snapped.

You stared at him.

Not because he snapped. But because it wasn’t like him to raise his voice, not even like that. It wasn’t loud, not really. But it was shaken.

“Sit for a minute.” you said softly, patting the chair next to your bed.

Sieun hesitated, his eyes flickering to the seat in the corner of the room, but finally he let out a long sigh and settled on the chair next to the bed — not quite next to you, but closer than he’d usually get.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, watching him. “Didn’t mean to worry you like that. I swear, I’m fine now. Just… a bit dramatic with the whole fainting thing.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just sat there, hands on his knees, gaze fixed on the IV line as if it offended him.

You tilted your head. “Are you mad at me?”

“No.” he muttered.

“…You sure?”

He nodded once.

But you weren’t convinced.

“You know you didn’t have to come here.” you added carefully.

“I know.”

“…But I’m glad you did.”

Finally, that got his attention. He turned slightly, eyes meeting yours. They looked tired, not physically, but something heavier.

“I wasn’t gonna come.” he said after a pause, voice low.

“Wow, thanks!” you teased gently, hoping to ease whatever tension was still coiled in him.

But he didn’t even crack a smirk.

“I wasn’t gonna come,” he repeated, “but the second I heard the word hospital, I just… moved.”

You blinked, surprised at how honest he sounded.

“I’ve never—” He paused. “I’ve never ran for anyone.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

“I didn’t think I cared that much,” he finished quietly. “But I do.”

The room fell still.

You didn’t know what to say. You always teased him for being unbothered, unreadable, cold even. But now — now he was just a boy who didn’t know what to do with a feeling that showed up without warning.

You reached out, lightly tapping his knee with your fingers. “Well… you care,” you said softly. “And that’s kinda nice to know.”

He looked at your hand. Then at you.

You smiled. “Even if it took a hospital bed to get you to admit it.”

That earned the tiniest huff from him — not a laugh, not really, but close. A slight release of breath through his nose. For Sieun, that was basically a chuckle.

You leaned back into your pillow, watching him.

He didn’t move. Just stayed there, hand still clenched, like he didn’t know how to unwind from the day’s weight.

“Want me to scoot over?” you offered, patting the mattress.

He blinked at you like you were insane.

You snorted. “I’m kidding! … Unless?”

He shook his head, but you swore the corners of his mouth twitched.

You reached for your water bottle, took a sip, then tilted your head toward him. “You can stay a bit, if you want.”

“…Yeah,” he said after a long beat. “Okay.”

And just like that, the silence between you shifted — from tense to comfortable. And Sieun stayed.

Not because he had to.

But because he wanted to.

He sat there with his hands resting on his knees, eyes finally steady, no longer darting or restless. For the first time in a while, his mind wasn’t busy with numbers, deadlines, or that pressure to be something. It was just you. The sound of your voice, the faint beep of the IV machine, and the soft pull in his chest that he didn’t want to shake off.

All this time, he’d been watching the world from the sidelines — moving through it without ever really touching it.

But then you came into his life.

And now, for the first time… he wanted to know what it felt like — to want to stay.

To want something more.

Because now, he had something to lose.

You.

[wolvietxt]

𝓣HIN 𝓦ALLS.

pairing : frank castle x fem!reader warnings : injury detail (hardly), hurt/comfort, fluff, light angst, neighbour!frank, sensitive reader, no use of y/n summary : you’ve been dealing with a noisy neighbor for weeks, constantly hearing grunts, gun cleaning, and the occasional heavy sigh through the walls. one night, you hear him groan in pain, followed by a loud thud. you knock on his door, only to find frank castle bleeding out on his floor. wc : 2.1k a/n : neighbour!frank idea from @agirlcandream84 thank you so much i adore your neighbour!frank💕 also i wanna make this a little snapshot series lmk if any of you have any ideas

the first time you noticed your neighbor, it wasn’t because of anything he said. it was because of the sounds.  

deep grunts, the metallic clicks of a gun being cleaned, the occasional heavy sigh that made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t want to think about. at first, you tried to ignore it - people made noise, it was an apartment, thin walls weren’t exactly a rare struggle. but after the third night in a row of hearing the same steady rhythm of deep, measured breathing and the scrape of metal, you started to feel a little unnerved.   

he was quiet in the hallways, never said much more than a rough “hey” when you crossed paths. but you noticed things - like the way he never seemed to make eye contact, like he was used to keeping his head down. or how he always smelled like gunpowder and something a little like blood, a little like sweat.   

still, he wasn’t the worst neighbor you could have. he wasn’t throwing parties or blasting music, wasn’t yelling on the phone at odd hours. but there was something about the way his presence filled the silence between you that made you feel hyper-aware of every sound he made. it didn’t help that you were sensitive - jumpy at loud noises, easily overwhelmed when things got too chaotic. so every scrape, every sigh, every muttered curse in that low, gravelly voice of his sent a shiver down your spine.  

you told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.  

until tonight.  

you’d been curled up on your couch, a blanket pulled up to your chin, trying to block out the world with some mindless tv when you heard it - something heavier than usual. a groan, low and rough, followed by a sharp curse. then a thud.   

your stomach twisted.  

for a second, you told yourself to ignore it. it wasn’t your business. but then silence stretched out on the other side of the wall, a kind of stillness that felt wrong. you hesitated for all of two seconds before you were up, hurrying to your front door. your fingers trembled as you knocked.  

no response.  

you knocked again, harder this time.  

“hello?” your voice came out softer than you wanted, barely above a whisper. “are you okay?”  

nothing.  

your heart was hammering as you reached for the doorknob, finding it unlocked. you barely pushed the door open before the smell of blood hit you, sharp and metallic.  

and there he was.  

your neighbor - frank, you remembered hearing someone call him once - was sprawled on the floor, blood seeping through his shirt, his face pale. his breathing was uneven, rough. panic surged through you, your throat tightening.   

“oh my god,” you gasped, dropping to your knees beside him. your hands hovered over him uselessly. “you - you’re bleeding, you’re - ”  

his eyes cracked open, dark and heavy-lidded, scanning you with something slow and unreadable.  

“shit,” he muttered, voice thick with pain. “you shouldn’t be here.”  

but you weren’t listening. your hands were already moving, pressing against the wound even as your eyes burned with unshed tears.  

“you need help,” you choked out. “i - I don’t know what to do, should i call someone? an ambulance - ”  

his hand shot out, gripping your wrist - not rough, but firm.  

“no hospitals,” he ground out.  

you swallowed, chest tight.  

“then - then what do i do?”  

his gaze softened, just a fraction.  

“just stay,” he rasped. “just - keep pressure. don’t go.”  

and even though your hands were shaking and your eyes were threatening to spill over, you nodded.  

your fingers trembled as you pressed harder against the wound, the warmth of his blood seeping through your hands. you sniffled, trying to keep yourself from completely breaking down, but your chest felt too tight, too full of panic.   

“i - i don’t know what i’m doing,” you whispered, voice shaking. “i don’t - i’m not a doctor, i can’t - ”  

“hey.” his voice was rough, but softer now, like he could hear the way your breathing was getting uneven. like he could tell you were a second away from losing it. “you’re doin’ fine. just keep pressure on it.”   

his hand was still on your wrist, warm despite how much blood he was losing. his thumb brushed over your skin, barely there, but the little touch sent a different kind of shiver through you. your brain felt scrambled, like you couldn’t focus on anything except the way he was looking at you now - less sharp, less closed off. like he was seeing you for the first time, really seeing you.   

you swallowed hard, nodding even though your eyes were wet, even though you felt like you were about to burst into tears any second.   

“okay,” you murmured. “okay.”   

you kept pressing down, watching the way his jaw clenched, his breathing rough as he tried not to react. he was tough - you knew that just from the way he carried himself, from the way he never seemed phased by anything. but he was hurt now, bleeding, and the sight of him like this made your chest ache in a way you didn’t know how to handle.   

“what happened?” you asked, voice small.   

he exhaled slowly, blinking up at the ceiling. “got into it with the wrong people.”  

you bit your lip, your fingers twitching where they rested against his stomach. you wanted to ask more, wanted to know what exactly he meant by that, but something about the way he said it told you not to push.   

instead, you focused on keeping pressure on the wound, on the way his breathing evened out just a little under your touch. your own breathing was still unsteady, but he wasn’t looking at you like you were weak. he wasn’t rolling his eyes at how easily you teared up or how your voice trembled when you spoke.  

he just looked... tired. and something else, something softer.  

“you always this jumpy?” he asked after a beat, his voice quieter now.   

your cheeks burned. you tried to wipe at your face with your shoulder, embarrassed at how quickly you’d teared up.   

“sorry,” you mumbled. “i just - i get overwhelmed easily.”  

he hummed, like that made sense to him. his fingers flexed against your wrist again, and you weren’t sure if he even realized he was still holding onto you.   

“s’nothing to apologize for,” he muttered. “just didn’t peg you for the type to come runnin’ to help a guy like me.”   

your brows furrowed. “what’s that supposed to mean?”  

he sighed, closing his eyes for a second. “means i ain’t exactly good company.”  

you frowned at that. you might not have known him well, but you knew enough to know that he kept to himself, that he didn’t bother anyone. sure, he was intimidating - quiet, intense, the kind of person who felt larger than life even when he wasn’t saying a word - but he’d never given you a reason to be afraid of him.  

“that’s not true,” you said before you could stop yourself.   

his eyes opened again, locking onto yours. for a second, it felt like you’d said too much. like you were pushing into something he wasn’t ready to talk about. but then his expression shifted, something in his face relaxing.   

he didn’t say anything right away, just looked at you for a long moment before exhaling through his nose.  

“you got a name?” he asked finally.  

your lips parted in surprise. “you - you don’t know my name?”  

“never asked,” he said simply.   

you blinked at him. you’d lived next door to each other for months. all this time, you thought he just didn’t care to acknowledge you, but now you weren’t so sure.   

“it’s - ” your voice caught, your heart still racing, and for some reason, that made you want to cry all over again. “it’s okay if you don’t want to talk right now,” you said instead, shaking your head. “you should be resting.”   

he watched you for a second longer before huffing out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.   

“crybaby,” he muttered, but it wasn’t mean. wasn’t teasing.   

your face burned again. “am not,” you said weakly, sniffling.   

he smirked, just a little. “sure, sweetheart.”   

your stomach flipped. you didn’t know if it was from the nickname or the fact that he was still bleeding under your hands, but either way, you were feeling way too much at once.  

you looked away, trying to get yourself under control.  

“you should probably get stitched up, right?” you murmured. “have you got a first aid kit?”  

he nodded toward the bathroom. you hesitated, biting your lip, not wanting to take your hands off the wound.  

like he could sense your hesitation, his fingers curled a little tighter around your wrist.  

“i’ll be fine,” he said. “go on, sweetheart.”  

your stomach flipped again. you swallowed hard and nodded, moving quickly toward the bathroom.   

as you rummaged through the cabinet, your heart pounded, your thoughts racing. this was insane. you were in way over your head. but when you came back and saw the way his gaze softened just a little when he saw you again, you knew one thing for sure. you weren’t going anywhere.

you worked as quickly as you could, hands still shaking as you set the first aid kit down beside him. his blood was everywhere - on his shirt, his skin, your hands. the sight of it made your stomach churn, but you forced yourself to focus.  

frank watched you, quiet and steady, even as you fumbled with the supplies. he was still pale, but there was something almost amused in his expression, like he could tell how hard you were trying to hold it together.  

“you done this before?” he asked, voice low.  

you swallowed, shaking your head. “no.”  

his lips twitched, just barely. “figured.”  

your face burned. “you - you don’t have to be mean,” you mumbled, grabbing the antiseptic.   

“ain’t bein’ mean,” he said, and the way he said it made your breath catch. “just think it’s real sweet, you tryin’ so hard.”  

your chest felt too full. you bit your lip, blinking rapidly as you poured the antiseptic onto a cotton pad.   

“i think… this is supposed to hurt. right? it looks like it’s gonna hurt, frank, i don’t know if - ,” you started, unaware of the fact you were beginning to ramble.   

he grunted, cutting you off. “been through worse, sweetheart.”  

your face was still hot as you pressed the pad to the wound, and he tensed beneath your touch, muscles going rigid. you winced, sniffling despite yourself.  

“sorry,” you whispered.   

he exhaled through his nose. “told you, you don’t gotta - ”  

“i do,” you cut in, voice soft but firm. “i do, frank.”  

his expression shifted at that, something unreadable passing over his face. but he didn’t argue. you kept going, hands as steady as you could make them, cleaning the wound and prepping the needle. you hesitated before threading it, biting your lip hard.  

“you sure about no hospital?”  

“positive.”  

you swallowed. “okay.”   

he stayed quiet as you stitched him up, but his hand rested lightly against your knee, his fingers curling slightly whenever you pulled the thread through. it was grounding, in a way - like he was the one keeping you steady, even though he was the one bleeding all over the place.  

by the time you finished, your body was thrumming with nerves, exhaustion, something else you didn’t know how to name. you sat back on your heels, exhaling shakily.  

“all done,” you murmured. “you should rest.”  

frank huffed. “don’t need to be fussed over.”  

your face scrunched up. “you were literally bleeding out on the floor,” you argued, sniffling. “let me fuss.”  

he looked at you, long and hard, before sighing through his nose.  

“fine,” he muttered.   

you moved to stand, but before you could, his hand closed around your wrist again, stopping you.   

your heart skipped.  

“thank you,” he said, quieter this time. like it was hard for him to say, but he meant it.  

your throat tightened. “you’re welcome.”  

he didn’t let go.  

you swallowed, eyes darting to his fingers around your wrist, then back up to his face.  

“i should - um, clean up,” you whispered.  

his grip loosened, but he didn’t pull away.  

“stay,” he murmured instead. “just for a bit.”  

your breath caught.  

he wasn’t looking at you now, but you could see it in the way his jaw was tense, the way his fingers flexed just slightly like he was waiting for you to pull away. like he expected you to.  

but you didn’t.  

“okay,” you whispered, settling back down beside him.   

his shoulders relaxed just a little. his fingers brushed against your wrist one last time before letting go, and you knew, somehow, that this was only the beginning.

ᰔ frank castle : @stvr-dust, @uncertified-doc, @erospecies

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[trulybetty]

tuesday afternoon. | robby x f!reader

⁂ pairing: dr. michael 'robby' robinavitch x f!reader word count: 1,450 warnings: fluff, baby robinavitch, postpartum, parental dynamics, minor mentions of stitches but doesn't say where, robby blushes™, dana is the mvp, no use of y/n, no physical descriptions of reader, no beta, all mistakes are my own summary: the emergency department never slows down—except, perhaps, when you walk in carrying home on your chest. ⤷ ao3: linked

A/N: this is just indulgent fluff, call it hormones, call it who knows what - but this is what I needed, hopefully you enjoy it too!

It’s a Tuesday afternoon.

You weren’t planning on stopping at the hospital.

You really weren’t. The original goal had been to just get out. Get air. Get movement. Stop the walls from closing in and a chance to shake off the static of sleep deprivation, baby spit up and the endless stream of doorbell notifications from parcels you don’t even remember ordering. And Robby—sweet, half distracted, back at work after barely being home five minutes the night before—had left his badge sitting by the coffee maker, right next to the box of protein bars he’d swore he’d take with him and didn’t.

You’d picked up both on your way out.

Two birds. One stone. And a walk that wasn’t from the nursery to the kitchen for the hundredth time.

It was a reasonable walk to the hospital. Long enough to feel like something. Not so far your OB would file a formal complaint. And the baby? Still and content, wrapped to your chest—sleepy, warm, and milk-drunk. You’d been cleared for physical activity the day before. Doctor’s order. Well, depending which doctor—the one sharing your bed seems to think you should still be on bed rest.

You barely make it past the welcome desk of the hospital before you catch the eye of one of the junior nurses as she glances up, does a double take, and disappears down a hallway like she’s just witnessed some emergency.

You exhale. “Here we go.”

Thirty seconds later, barely on the cusp of the threshold of the emergency department, Robby appears. Walking, but at that rigid stepped up pace that he gets when he’s pretending not to be worried for the sake of those around him. Like he’s technically calm, but absolutely not. His eyes flick across the rows of chairs until they land on you—as you make your way around to meet him—then drop to the baby on your chest.

She’s asleep. You’re fine. No one is crying or bleeding.

Still, he picks up speed like it’s a code blue until he’s in front of you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low but tight.

You hold up his badge.

“You left this. And I didn’t feel like ordering a lunch I’d forget to eat. So walked, figured we’d pick something up after dropping this off.”

Robby doesn’t take the badge right away. He looks at you—really looks. Takes in the sunglasses perched on your forehead, running shoes on with your jacket half zipped, eyes bright, but standing steady.

“You walked?” he asks, more alarmed than if you’d just announced you’d hitchhiked on the back of a motorcycle.

You nod, shifting slightly, wincing just enough that you hope he doesn’t notice. He does.

His brow furrows deeper. “Wait—are your stitches okay?”

You exhale through your nose. “Fine. Just… tugged the wrong way.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press.

“We walked,” you say again, like repetition will soften the truth.

“That’s—what, two miles?”

You fight rolling your eyes. You know he cares.

“Two and a bit. Mostly flat.” You smirk. “And before you pull rank on me, Doctor Robinavitch, remember—I was cleared yesterday.” You raise an eyebrow. “You were the one who kept telling me I needed to listen to the doctor.”

“I meant—” he knows he has no argument here, “I just worry, and you brought her here.” he’s not angry, not really, just… Robby. All protectiveness and overthinking wrapped in sarcasm.

“She slept the whole time,” you say, glancing down. The baby is warm against you, one hand curled into your shirt. “We came in through the back entrance. Didn’t lick any patients.”

Robby, unable to switch it off, sighs, “Don’t make this a thing,” you murmur. “I just missed you. And you forgot your crap. And I wanted air.”

That last bit lands. Robby nods slowly. Then finally he steps closer, one hand coming up—not to touch you, but just hovering, fingers twitching like they want to. Like he’s still learning the rules of what this version of you two—now three—looks like in public. As if seeing you here, where the two of you don’t belong, has short-circuited him a little.

Robby exhales slowly, it’s not quite defeat—but it’s close.

“Still,” he says, eyeing your daughter, “she’s only four weeks.”

“And snug as a bug,” you say, glancing down. The tiny human between you is snoring softly. “Didn’t even stir.” You press his ID badge to his chest.

He takes it with a thank you, muttering something about he hates manually logging in to the system and none of the temporary badges ever work right. You smile.

“See?” you say. “I saved you from having to call IT. Again. Heroic, really.”

“You could have just texted, I’d have been fine.”

“Yeah,” you say with a shrug, “but then I’d still be home covered in formula and half-resenting your freedom. This was nicer.”

Robby’s mouth pulls to one side. “You’re not supposed to be doing too much yet.”

“I’m not. Just enough.” You lean into him slightly. “Although… I was thinking, if I’m not too wiped out later, maybe you could remind me of some of that physical activity that got us into his position in the first place.”

He freezes. And blushes. Blushes.

You grin. It was the effect you wanted your words to have.

He clears his throat. Fidgets with the badge. Avoids eye contact—he knows it’ll only deepen the blush when he sees the spark in your eyes and your tongue-in-cheek smile.

“I have that admin meeting when Jack arrives for turnover.”

You feign disappointment. “Shame.”

He shifts his weight, rubs the back of his neck as he looks back to the doors to the emergency department that are swinging shut, then back at you.

“You should go home. Before she wakes up and decides you owe her for dragging her across town.”

“She’s living rent-free. I think we’re square.”

His expression softens, but there’s still that undercurrent—like part of him doesn’t want to let you leave just yet. His hand moves down to your waist, where it rests gently at your hip.

You let yourself linger there a little longer.

When he pulls back, his hand brushes over the curve of the baby cocooned in the wrap, one last sweep over your daughter’s hair. He steps back, his badge now clipped to his hoodie, he takes a deep breath and as you’re both about to say your goodbyes—maybe add in an extra bit of flirting for the road—when a familiar voice pipes up behind you.

“Well would you look at this,” Dana says sauntering up from behind the intake desk like definitely wasn’t watching your entire exchange. “If it isn’t our littlest future chief of emergency medicine.”

You smile as she leans in to peer at the baby—you angle her for Dana to get a better look—she lowers her voice to a whisper like she’s afraid to wake her.

“She’s so stinkin’ cute,” Dana murmurs, grinning at the tiny fist now poking out of the wrap. “Got his nose though. Poor thing.”

Robby rolls his eyes, she doesn’t have his nose—she’s all you. Dana pats his shoulder.

“She here to drop off your badge?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“Yup,” you say. “Figured we’d get some air at the same time. She slept the entire way here.”

Dana gives Robby a sideways glance, “No traumas. I hear the cafeteria special’s passable today.”

Robby lifts a brow. “Is that your way of telling me to go eat?”

“It’s my way of telling you to take your partner for lunch while the ED isn’t on fire,” she says plainly. “And while that baby is still knocked out.”

“Wait—you letting him loose from the ED Dana?” you ask.

Dana shrugs with the casual authority of knowing who exactly it is who runs the ED, “If anyone asks, it’s a consult.”

Then she smirks and walks away, already tapping open her tablet like she just didn’t play fairy godmother in scrubs.

Robby watches her go then turns to you.

“Want to split a grilled cheese and let me stare at you for twenty minutes before I have to go back to being responsible for other people’s lives?”

You pretend to think it over, then adjust the baby wrap just slightly.

“Only if my date is buying.”

“I’ll even throw in a pudding cup.”

Your smile widens, “You sure know the way to a girls heart.”

Robby offers his arm like the sentimental goof he is. You link yours through it and the two of you start toward the cafeteria

[pathologicalreid]

mirrorball | s.r.

in which coping with Emily's return leads to tension between JJ and you, her sister, and Spencer, her best friend. it just ends up pushing the two of you closer together.

jareau!reader masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst (hurt/comfort) content warnings: takes place during the events of 7x2 "proof", spencer's addiction, suicide, idiots in love word count: 2.92k a/n: happy memorial day 😎 have a fanfic, as a little treat

Durant, Oklahoma

Your sister had spoken to you ad nauseam about Spencer lashing out at her, which probably explained the way your heart rate spiked when you saw her approach Spencer in the conference room. Glancing over your shoulder, you flashed a concerned look at Emily, who had desperately been trying to smooth things over with the team since her rise from death.

“Spence,” JJ called, the nickname she’d started using when the two of them were kindred spirits and nothing more. “Look, we gotta talk about this,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief that he was acting out at work.

You weren’t surprised, though. Spencer had been holding in a lot of resentment since Emily returned from Paris and JJ left the Pentagon, and he’d been confiding in you. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Spencer answered, grabbing a file from the table and quickly flipping through it.

He wouldn’t, not at work and not in front of so many people. He’d withhold his real emotions until the sun went down, and once it was you and him in his bedroom—him lying to the team and you lying to your boyfriend—he’d talk about it until the sun rose. “I get it, okay? You’re disappointed with the way we handled Emily.” You tried to step forward, to stomp out the fire before it had a chance to ignite, but an arm reached out. Derek pulled you back, wanting to cause less of a scene.

“Listen, I have a lot going on, alright?” He said, abstaining from meeting her eyes and instead focusing on the folder in his hands. Spencer was right, the team was in the middle of a case, but you knew JJ would have a hard time working if she didn’t resolve her issues with Spencer.

She frowned, adjusting her stance like she was getting ready for a fight. “You know what I think it is?”

Exasperated, Spencer sighed, looking up at your sister expectantly, “What?” His voice was sharp, bitterness tinging his tone.

“You’re mad that Hotch and I controlled our micro-expressions at the hospital, and you weren’t able to detect our deception.” Her guess was as good as a nail in a coffin. She was making an entirely human issue about Spencer’s intelligence because that’s all he’d ever be to her—187.

He swallowed thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he stared your sister down with hurt, brown eyes. “You think it’s about my profiling skills?” He asked, bordering on tearful before he regained his composure, “Jennifer, listen, the only reason that you were able to manage my perceptions is because I trusted you. I came to your house for ten weeks in a row, crying over losing a friend, and not once did you have the decency to tell me the truth.”

Red rimmed your sister’s baby blue eyes as devastation sunk in, “I couldn’t.” The words were forced out of her mouth, her voice constricted by emotion.

“You couldn’t? Or you wouldn’t?” Spencer challenged, tilting his head at her in the same way he did when he was cajoling an UnSub.

You walked forward again, this time uninterrupted, so you could hear the two of them better. “No,” JJ insisted, “I couldn’t.”

Spencer didn’t look surprised. “What if I started taking Dilaudid again? Would you have let me?”

JJ faltered, her head tipping back slightly before she poked it forward, “You didn’t.”

“Yeah,” he conceded, “But I thought about it.” The worst part of it was that he wasn’t lying, and when he needed someone to tell him the truth, you’d been the one there to pick up the pieces. The one to beg him to tell you where he’d put the vials so you could properly dispose of them.

One look at her and you knew Spencer had cracked your sister’s armor, the same way yours had that night, with his head in your lap as you begged him to sleep so he wouldn’t continue to yearn for the dreams that had nearly killed him years ago. “Spence,” she said, her voice breathy with shock. “I’m sorry.”

Spencer put his hands up in surrender, stepping away from her, his back facing you. “It’s too late, alright?”

Behind his back, your eyes met JJ’s. She silently pleaded with you to say something in support of her, but instead, you stayed silent while Spencer stalked away and Emily called after him. Your sister’s glare instinctively narrowed, frowning at your refusal to take her side, but if there was anything you learned from your time as her sister, you never wanted to be in between her feuds. 

Emily faltered, thinking about following after Spencer but deciding against it, nearly tripping over her own feet when she resolved herself to stay behind. Her brown eyes found you in the chaos of her indecision, asking you to go after him, and instead, you walked to the conference room where your sister was licking her wounds. “I can’t believe him,” she muttered under her breath, fingertips trembling as she tried to grab a stack of papers from the table. 

You could. You’d seen him like this before, right after JJ had told you Emily was dead. He was hurting, and he tended to lash out when he felt vulnerable. Now this, this convoluted reciprocal grief where he—and the rest of you—were no longer mourning the loss of your friend, but the versions of yourselves that had spent six months coping with Emily’s death, only to find that she had been alive the whole time. 

On the jet, on the way to Oklahoma, you’d observed her in discreet silence, wondering what her life had looked like during that brief intermission. Had she gone to explore in Paris? Watching the twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower while you were barely holding yourselves together. 

It wasn’t unlike yourself to push aside your own grief for the sake of someone else’s, you vaguely remember doing it when your oldest sister passed away. What a heavy burden it was, to be four years old and taking responsibility for every smile that came around in that old house. You tried now, to be someone else, setting a gentle hand on JJ’s shoulder and whispering, “It’s been hard for him. It’s one of those things where you just never know what someone else is going through.” 

You’d selected your words carefully, concerning yourself with the secrets you’d kept from your sister, protecting yourself and Spencer while trying to reassure her. You clipped the wire to a ticking time bomb, and you’d chosen the wrong one. “That’s rich, coming from you,” JJ responded, setting her jaw and looking at you expectantly. 

Forgetting yourself for a moment, you flinched back at her words as surely as she’d struck you across the face. Slowly, you looked around to see if any of your other team members had heard what she said, just to find them all still lingering by the evidence boards. 

Desperately, you found yourself staring at Hotch, parting your lips to explain your departure, but he already knew. He nodded at you once, giving you the okay to follow after Spencer, so that’s exactly what you did. Emily’s hand skimmed over your shoulders as you pointedly refrained from looking back at your sister before walking out the front door of the precinct. 

The brightness of the sun stung your eyes as you searched the parking lot, looking for Spencer before your eyes caught him, getting into the driver’s seat of one of the SUVs before starting the car. Swallowing the distaste that your sister had left in your mouth, you jogged over to the black car, opening the door and swinging yourself into the passenger seat. “Where are we going?” 

“What?” He asked, looking at you in disbelief, shocked that you had followed him into the parking lot. 

You shrugged, pulling the seat belt over your shoulder and clicking it, “There’s a park just down the road. We could go there for a little while—get some fresh air,” you offered, pointing to the left of the precinct toward the park you’d seen on your way in. 

Silently, Spencer considered your offer and put the car in reverse, pulling out of the parking lot and following your directions to the park. 

Neither of you moved to get out of the car once it was stationary. Spencer ducked his head down, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Hey,” you spoke softly now, unbuckling your seatbelt and tilting your head to the side in concern. “Do you have a migraine?” 

He shook his head, mumbling something unintelligible from behind his hands before dragging them down his face, “Did you know?”

You frowned for a moment, wondering what he was asking while you unscrambled the thoughts in your mind. He was asking if you had known about Emily. If you had known the whole time he was breaking down that Emily was still alive. If you were another name he needed to add to his list of betrayers. “No,” you assured him. “I had no idea.”

Thankfully, he believed you, nodding while seemingly melting back into the driver’s seat before looking out at the playground. School was still in session, so the playground was mostly abandoned, save for a few toddlers running about. “I went to her house for ten weeks straight before… that night. She never told me anything other than how sorry she was.” 

Trying to ignore the way he stumbled over his memory of that night, you nodded, commiserating with him. After the night in question, he’d resorted to coming to you for anything he needed, the life preserver in the middle of the sea of grief that he had practically begged your sister to throw. You weren’t interested in a conversation regarding who was right and who was wrong. You knew how Spencer’s brain worked well enough to know that this wasn’t about moral philosophy, it was about how JJ left Spencer to drown when he needed her most. 

Part of you had tried to forget the night you’d gone to his apartment, convincing his neighbor to buzz you in and picking the lock to his front door before getting into a screaming match with him. A fight that had ended with his head in your lap, combing your fingers through his hair while you whispered reassuring things. Telling him childhood stories about you and JJ, a funny story about something Henry had done—anything it took to get his mind off of his grief and away from the drug that he so desperately craved.

He never intended to use his addiction as a weapon, but at some point in his time as an addict, his brain had crossed its wires. It was common for addicts, and maybe it was because you’d never known Spencer before that became part of him, but it seemed like you were able to wrap your mind around it in ways that no one else on the team could. 

“Thank you for coming after me,” Spencer said after the extended silence, reaching out for your hand before thinking better of it and returning his hand to his lap.

Your chest ached at his choice, but you understood why he’d made it. Everything about your friendship had become so convoluted, but the two of you never crossed that bridge. “I had to get out of there too,” you admitted, your eyes burning with the promise of tears, giving you the excuse to cross your arms across your chest. 

Spencer cocked his head to you, “What do you mean? What happened?” 

“Uh,” you faltered over your words, “I tried to defend you to JJ, and she… didn’t like it.” 

Across the center console from you, Spencer set his jaw, “What did she say to you?” He asked with a curiosity so genuine you wouldn’t believe it if it were coming from anyone else. 

Skipping some of the words, you picked at the skin around your nails, “How much do you know about Roslyn?” Even her name burned at your throat, vague memories of someone who shared your genes scratched at you, leaving your voice hoarse. 

“Just how she died,” Spencer admitted, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning so he could face you better. 

You frowned, avoiding his eyes at all costs, “JJ blames me for her death.” 

Though you couldn’t see him, you heard Spencer struggling with the information that you’d just given to him. He shifted uncomfortably on the seat and did the mental math in his head, “You were only four when she died. You couldn’t have caused her suicide.” 

Nodding, you spared a quick look at him, but the sympathy in his eyes was too much to bear in the confines of the car. Scrambling for the door handle, you opened the door to the car and nearly fell out, sitting yourself on the curb so you could feel the wind prick at your skin. “JJ calls me Ducky because it’s a nickname that Ros gave to me,” you explained once he came around the back of the SUV. 

“You don’t need to explain,” He tried to offer. Selfishly, you wanted him to know. You wanted him to understand you better, offering a piece of yourself that no one outside of your immediate family had. You knew Spencer would take that piece and hold it close to his heart, treating it better than anyone else ever had. 

You took a deep, trembling breath, “When I was learning how to walk, I did more of a waddle, and Ros said I looked like a little duck. She used to come to the elementary school when I was in kindergarten and walk home with me, because the kids had bullied me so badly on the bus that I was petrified of ever getting back on.” You laughed in slight disbelief, “I didn’t even ask her, she just offered to walk me home. She always stayed after the high school got out and met me in front of my school.” 

It was innocent, really, when she called out my nickname to get my attention so we could walk home, but some other kids had overheard her. The next day, we were doing a craft in school, and this one kid—Peter Fuller—dumped a bunch of glue and feathers on my seat when I got up to get a colored pencil. I sat in it, and they all stuck to me. I still remember the way it felt to have everyone point and laugh at me.” You wiped a few stray tears from your cheeks. “My mom picked me up and helped me pull the feathers off of me, but the skirt was a goner. When Ros got home, I yelled at her. I told her I hated her and that she was a bad sister, and the next day…” 

Spencer opened his mouth to speak, but you interrupted him, “JJ found her in the bathroom. She’d slit her wrists with our father’s razor blades.” You hugged yourself tightly, “Jennifer told dad what I had said, and he was the first one to blame me. She just followed suit. We’ve gotten past it, mostly, but sometimes things get ugly between us and that’s always the first shot to be fired.” 

“It’s a defense mechanism,” Spencer said, lowering himself down to the curb, sitting next to you. “She hits where it hurts because she feels like her walls are down.” 

You nodded weakly, “I know. That’s why she always goes for Ros. That’s why she went for your profiling skills.” 

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Spencer asked innocently, trying to gain insight on your sister through you. “That she can’t be confronted without returning fire?” 

Thinking about it for a moment, you shrugged, looking at him through teary eyes, “It never changes the fact that she’s my sister. We promised each other a long time ago that we’d never let anything get in between us, so, I don’t think there’s any secret we couldn’t come back from.” You watched him stand up from the curb, holding a hand out for you to take. “She’ll apologize to you in a few days, you just have to wait her out,” you told him as he pulled you to your feet. 

You looked up at him, curiously gazing into his brown eyes, he murmured, “I’m glad it’s not just me under fire.” 

Nodding, you swallowed thickly before responding to him, “I’ll always be here when you’re under siege.” You noticed the way his eyes were studying your face, “Spencer,” you whispered, “I’m—“

“How’s Garrett?” He asked abruptly, inquiring about your boyfriend unprompted, watching your facial expressions for an answer before you even opened your mouth. 

You pursed your lips thoughtfully while he took a step away from you, mindfully putting space between the two of you. “He’s okay, he asked me to move in with him, but I’m—“ 

“You should do it,” he interrupted you again, putting his hands in his pockets before rounding the car. “We should get back to the precinct,” he said, turning the key in the ignition before you could even comprehend what had just happened. 

I’m confused was what you had intended to say to him, and now you were leaving with more questions than you had arrived with. Blinding pawing at the door handle while you prepared yourself for the silent car ride back to work.

"I think I want to be in love with you, but I don't know how." — Angela Carter

[dollyswishingwell]

Hiii, love your writing:3 could you write one about the LADS guys with an MC that loves kisses but had a partner that said that too much kissing was annoying so she struggles asking for them

how would the guys reassure MC that they adore kissing her

Have a lovely day :3

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Give it to me

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ flufff, just pure fluff lol

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They want all your kisses

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

– He thinks something’s wrong when you suddenly start pulling back after kisses. He notices your nervous fingers and sad little glance.

– “Cutie?” he says, slipping in front of you and leaning close. “Why’re you lookin’ at me like I won’t kiss you stupid?”

– You shyly admit you’re used to being told it’s too much.

– He goes dead silent, then starts peppering your face in dramatic, sloppy, tickly kisses.

– “I love your kisses. Love, love, love. I want ten more. No—twenty. Right now. Don’t make me cry, baby, I need them to live~”

– From then on, he pouts if you don’t kiss him every few minutes. “I think I’m withering,” he moans, sprawled dramatically. “Only your lips can save me.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

– Zayne notices it immediately. The slight pause, the shy glance at his lips, the way you lean in but never quite close the distance.

– “You want a kiss?” he asks lowly, tilting your chin. When you hesitate, he narrows his eyes. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

– When you tell him your ex said it was annoying, there’s a long pause. His jaw ticks. “That won’t happen here.”

– From that day on, Zayne kisses you constantly, forehead, temple, hands, lips. Even in the middle of hospital rounds, he steals private kisses.

– “Don’t you ever hold back again,” he murmurs, breath brushing your lips. “I’ll never be tired of kissing you.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

– You nervously pull back every time you try to kiss him more than once in a row, and Xavier catches on with his usual eerie calm.

– “Do you think I dislike it?” he asks with a soft tilt of his head, confused. You tell him you’ve just… been told that before.

– He frowns slightly. “That doesn’t apply to me.”

– After that, he starts counting your kisses like little stars. “That’s three. Only three?” he teases. “You must not love me very much.”

– Sometimes he’ll wake up from one of his random naps with a lazy grin and murmur, “Did I miss any kisses? Give them all to me now.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

– The moment he notices you pulling away or hesitating to lean in, Sylus is on high alert. He thinks someone’s upset you.

– When you admit you’re just not used to asking for kisses because your ex found them annoying, Sylus is pissed.

– “That’s because they were a damn fool,” he scoffs. “You’re lucky I don’t chain you to my lap with how kissable you are.”

– From then on, he kisses you just to shut you up mid-ramble, mid-cooking, mid-bubble bath.

– “You want a kiss?” he smirks. “Then take it. All of them. Every second you don’t kiss me is annoying, sweetheart.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

– Caleb’s sharp eyes catch it the first time you look longingly at his mouth and then glance away.

– “What is it, princess?” he asks gently. You brush it off, but he presses again.

– When you admit the truth, he’s stunned, furrows his brow, softly cupping your cheek. “Who said that to you?”

– You’re embarrassed, but Caleb pulls you into his arms, presses a long kiss to your forehead, then nose, then lips.

– “You’re mine now. That means your kisses are mine too. Ask me for them whenever you want, or better—just take them.”

– He always tilts his head down just a little when you walk near, so his lips are right there for the taking.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

ROUTE 666

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Black!OC

Summary: it’s the year 1984 and Star goes to a roadside bar off of Devil’s Highway that a friend of hers invited her to. What Star doesn’t know is that someone is waiting for her beyond the velvet drapes.

Warnings: SMUT. Lots of pussy licking. 18+ CONTENT. Mentions of blood, Violence.

Part Three

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore entered Vaisseau just before the sun could peek over the horizon. The windows were already covered with thick, blacked–out curtains. At the bar stood a woman named Ivory. She’s a human, Onyx’s personal blood bank and pussy. Once a small town girl living in a lonely world, she was taken in by a vampire biker gang and passed around for feast and sex.

Ivory was busy shining glasses with a cloth. Her chocolate–brown eyes fell upon Elias as he made his was towards the bar. Ivory placed the glass amongst a row of others she dried off. The faint sound of ‘I Love Rock N Roll’ could be heard from a jukebox. Stack took a seat and tapped the bar for Ivory to attend to him.

“Grab me some O negative out of the fridge, baby.”

“No problem.”

Ivory swept her eyes over Stack before walking away to retrieve a blood bag for him. Stack followed the purposeful sway of her ass in a pair of daisy dukes. She styled the denim cut–offs with sheer black stockings that shimmered and a very cropped T-shirt.

Ivory opened a fridge, chilling smoke wafting her face. She thumbed through the many blood bags and came across what Stack needed. Grabbing it, she went to pour it into a glass tumbler. Ivory made her way back over to Stack, sitting the cup on a folded, black napkin in front of him.

“Drink straw?” Ivory offered with a hospitable smile.

“Nah, no need, darling. Onyx sleeping?”

“Not yet. He’s in the back,” Ivory motioned with her finger painted a vibrant red, “You can go on back there.”

Stack gulped down the O negative blood. He licked the rim and glided his blood–covered tongue over his teeth. It tasted decent, Stack preferring bag blood chilled. He stood up, sucking on his lips to clear the rest of the crimson delight away before disappearing behind a black drapery.

Stack made a left, then a right, until he was standing within the doorway of Onyx’s office. It wasn’t the most decorative, but it was useful to handle the business side of things at the bar. Onyx glanced up at Stack and nodded his head in greeting.

“Alright there, brother?”

“Pretty damn good.”

Stack propped his shoulder against the doorway and lit a blunt with a match.

“How was your porn star pussy?”

“Delicious…and no I don’t plan to share.”

Onyx released a deep laugh.

“You’ve had Ivory.” Onyx countered.

“Did. And that still won’t change my mind.” Stack quipped.

“The way she was eyeing me like she wanted this fat cock…I know a hopper when I see one. And she is a hopper…”

Stack pushed himself up and approached Onyx’s desk. He leaned forward against it, propping himself up on his knuckles. Stack’s eyes glowed menacingly. Onyx simply smirked.

“Don’t. Talk. About her. Like that. Onyx. Or I’ll kill ya’.”

“I’m only fuckin’ with you, Stack. What you want anyway?” Onyx brushed off Stack’s threat, continuing with counting his cash.

“Came to sleep. Can’t afford to burn in a bed when that sun come up. Better safe than sorry.”

“Since when do you sleep in a casket?” Onyx joked.

“Since now, nigga. Star still at the motel.”

A sinister smile crept over Onyx’s lips.

“You ain’t turn her like you said you would?”

Stack flicked his gaze away, taking a hit of his blunt.

“Not yet. Soon.”

“You could just keep her around like I do Ivory.” Onyx suggested, placing a stack of Benjamin’s away in a safe deposit box.

“And watch her age? I want another eternal partner, Onyx. You know how long I’ve been searching since me and Mary split?”

“I know, Stack. Just…tread lightly with it, aight? I got lucky with Ivory. From what Cora says, she’s perfect.”

“Ivory ain’t got shit to lose. Star different.”

Onyx dropped his head with frustration, “Which is why I said be careful. Remember…we didn’t have a choice.”

The glow from Stack’s eyes dimmed to brown. Onyx was right. Once again, he was given that painful reminder. Despite being surrounded by so many others like him, lurking in the shadows, there was still loneliness. Stack walked this immortal life with Mary in the midst because she was the last connection he could hold onto that understood.

His cousin, Sammie Moore, went on to have a successful career as a big, bad, Blues man. Stack was proud of him. Mary fought fang and coffin nail to keep Stack for herself, but he’d had enough. Enough of her possessiveness. Enough of her jealousy. Enough of her lack of remorse whenever Stack would reflect on his twin, Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore.

They got us in museums, Smoke. Mobster Museum…Black History Museum…we icons. Just like I knew we’d be…wish ya’ was here to see it all…

But his mortal life was snatched from beneath his feet.

So to snatch Star’s would be just as wrong.

He would need her consent.

“I’m a head down to the basement…”

Stack left and slow strolled down the hall until he found his way at the top of stairs. He was about to descend into a sleeping quarter with coffins until a familiar, condescending, backwoods country accent caught his ears.

“The fuck you doin’ here?!”

Stack’s fangs popped out violently and he turned carefully with a steady gaze on a woman he hoped he didn’t have to run into.

“Raven.”

“Surprised to see you walking around here freely after the shit you pulled last time.”

Stack released a frustrated sigh, “What? Because I killed a Choctaw?”

“You spilled blood on this end of Route 666 and with that comes trouble. Trouble we ain’t had in a long time until you showed up, nigga.”

Raven’s cynical nature irritated Stack to no end. Always confrontational whenever he touched down in Arizona. Things weren’t always bad between them, hell, things were good as far as he knew. As long as his dick was in her wet pussy she didn’t care. But because he forced his fist through the chest cavity of a Choctaw he’s the bad guy?

“Why you really mad, Raven? Tell me that.” Stack argued.

Raven’s left eye flinched with rage.

“You ain’t shit, Elias. First you let Mary come between us. Then you jeopardize everything because you can’t just swallow your pride. They’ve been watching us because of you, nigga!”

“They been watching us since I turned vampire back in 1932, Raven! Don’t make no difference!” Stack shouted.

Onyx appeared from his office. His eyes fell on Raven and his shoulders slouched.

“Raven, I told you Stack was coming here. He’s one of ours. Been one of ours. Blood Riders united,” Onyx folded his arms across his sculpted chest.

“I’m going to sleep,” Stack adjusted his leather moto vest, “Ain’t got time for this shit, Raven. It’s either you miss me or you don’t. Point FUCKING blank.”

“I got somebody! I’m over you!”

“Don’t look like it,” Onyx chimed in.

Raven’s hissed with her fangs poking out to threaten.

“Fuck you, Onyx! Who side you on anyway?!”

“The side where I can have some peace counting this money.”

Raven sneered before storming off. As she breezed past the black drapes, she caught Ivory looking at her and that’s when her icy core melted to that of flirtatious heat. She winked at Ivory and blew her a kiss.

Stack descended the stairs with inhuman speed.

Clearly, she wasn’t over him. And clearly being with someone else didn’t stop her from flirting with Ivory.

He found a spare coffin open and took off his vest, placing it on a hook. A coffin across from him, a brown one with a carved, ornate style popped opened, revealing golden silk. Inside, tangled within each other’s embrace, fully naked, was Legend and Cora.

Cora sat up first, stretching her arms. She locked eyes with Stack before he settled into his coffin.

“Enjoy my friend, Stack?” Cora questioned with a sultry voice.

“I have you to thank for that. Just like a Collector should. ‘Ppreciate ya’, baby.” Stack winked at Cora.

“Anytime,” Cora exhaled, “I’m hungry. Can’t sleep.”

“Got enough blood left upstairs. Better get it before it ain’t no more good.” Stack revealed.

Cora stepped out of the coffin gracefully. She sauntered over to a chair and grabbed a long, billowing, ivory robe with feathered details.

“You get a chance to fuck her? Or did you put her in a coma with your tongue?”

Stack relaxed back against the inside of the coffin, his head cushioned by the pillow. He stared up at the ceiling of the unfinished basement, spiderwebs and other creepy crawlers showing themselves. A faint smile tickled his full lips.

“Number two.” Stack replied smugly.

“Told ya’ she tastes like heaven on earth.”

“Don’t go makin’ me jealous now, Cora.” Stack replied playfully.

Cora made her way towards the stairs. Legend stirred awake, siting up in search of Cora. His monstrous dick sat up high and imposingly girthy. Enough to split you open. But Cora was a vampire so she could handle it any way she liked.

“Cora?” Legend called out.

“I’ll be back. I’m hungry. Unless you wanna go feed elsewhere? You know the strip is still lively.”

“Nah, it’ll be daytime soon.”

“Suit yourself,” Cora climbed up until she was gone.

Stack shut his casket, happy that it was a soundproof one.

He didn’t need to hear Legend and Cora fucking from dusk till dawn.

Only thoughts of Star and her captivating brown eyes, beautiful smile, sweet moans, and how he felt lost until he met her.

Red, sheer curtains billow beyond open windows on both sides of the hall. Moonlight bathed her path as she walked slowly, wearing nothing but the scent of Hypnotic Poison.

Come to me…

Star, caught up in a dream, followed the sound of that voice until she was face to face with her lover. Naked just like her. fog helped to establish the mood and atmosphere, giving off a dark, dramatic, sensual and even slightly mysterious aura.

Stack…

He picked Star up, pulling her in for a kiss as he guided her to the bed. A bed draped in black silk with an upholstered leather headboard. Stack sat down with Star in his lap. Heads swiveling, tongues delving deep, Star moved a hand to Stack’s dick from behind, more than ready to feel him inside her. Stack licked and sucked on her nipples while she stroked him.

He moaned and groaned.

Star…

She guided him to her sweet center, and Stack inched his way inside with both hands on her ass cheeks to keep her positioned. Deep in her juicy walls he thrusted.

Star gasped.

Juices trickled between her legs. Stack kept a steady pace. He watched her. Never took his eyes off of her. Star threw her head back, moaning with his moans.

“Uhnnn…” Star moans.

“Mmmhhhhh…” Stack moans.

He picked up speed, powerful and intense with each pounding stroke, rhythm far from timid. He knew exactly how to please her, he had no problem handling Star. He lifted Star up and down on his dick.

Deeper…Deeper…

His brown eyes unexpectedly changed from that smooth cognac brown to a blazing rouge. Star locked eyes with him, mesmerized by the fire in them. Suddenly, her body stiffened completely and her arms dropped limply to her sides.

Her heart raced…she couldn’t move. She was putty in his hands as he drilled from underneath. Thick fingers reached up to caress the side of her face with his fingertips, turning her head slightly to the right and placing his lips on her neck.

The blood pumped through her veins against his full lips.

What was supposed to be a sensual nibble evolved into something else…something sinister as he pierced her skin—

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Star stirred awake in the bed Stack left her in. The thin, stark white sheets were tangled around her body as she rolled over to silence the alarm clock on an end table. She felt hot all over and her pulse quickened.

Not just the pulse against the right side of her neck, but the pulse between her legs.

She had to catch her breath. Sweaty and sore, Star couldn’t begin to understand why that dream felt so real.

Chocolate is…S.CRUNCH.OUS!

Star jumped, blinked her eyes, wiping them to focus. She squinted at the TV, a Nestle Crunch commercial on. It was so loud she had to scramble out of bed to search for the remote.

The arm chair.

Star froze.

“Stack?” She called out.

Silence echoed back at her. Star unwrapped herself, revealing curves and soft brown skin. Her hair was all over her head and the aftershock of a repeated orgasm left her muscles aching. She found the remote, snatching it before aiming it at the TV. She muted it with a hard press of a button before getting rid of the remote.

Her eyes fell upon the alarm clock.

1:32 pm

“Shit–”

Star rushed, pacing back and forth as she got dressed. She went without her stockings, ripped to shreds because of Stack.

Knock knock knock

Star froze.

“Is Star in there?”

Star tip toes to the door. She peered through the peep hole, staring at a beautiful woman that looked like she could be featured in play magazine. Petite, Jerry curl, hot shorts on.

“Who are you?” Star asked.

“I’m Ivory. I work at Vaisseau…came over to see if you were hungry. Stack’s busy handling things at the bar and he won’t be back til’ sun down.” 

Cora.

“Would you happen to know where my friend, Cora is?”

Ivory went quiet for a few seconds.

“Cora is with Legend. Saw them leave last night in his truck.”

Star rolled her eyes.

“Well,” Star threw her hands up, “I guess I’ll grab a bite. Seeing as I can’t leave without my friend.”

“Of course! There’s a diner next door. Food is real tasty! Don’t worry about the bill, Stack’s got it covered.”

“I could use a change of clothes and something to freshen up with while you’re at it,” Star examined her maroon–painted nails, “Please and thank you.” She added for good measure.

“Of course! I’ll have that for you in your room. House keeping will clean up while you’re out.”

Star raised a curious brow.

So, did they also own the motel?

“Great…”

Ivory gave an awkward nod at the door before turning to leave, swaying her hips with each step, perky booty cheeks peeking out from beneath her daisy dukes.

“Fucking, Cora,” Star fussed, “Bitch didn’t even have the decency to let me know.”

Cora eyed the cord phone in the room. She walked over to it, picking it up before slipping a slender finger into the ring of the dial, spinning it to contact the front desk.

It rang three times before it picked up.

“Front desk,” A jaded male voice spoke.

“Hi…was wondering if you knew a Cora Livingston? She’s staying here. Not sure which room…”

“Hold on a sec…”

Star tapped her foot impatiently. Her stomach rumbled.

“Ah! Miss Livingston. She’s staying in 210 but—”

“Thank you!”

Star slammed the phone down on the receiver before zipping up her sexy red boots and grabbing her cheetah printed hand bag. Before she left, she spotted the keys on the table where Stack had left it. Star retrieved them and left the room.

The Arizona heat slapped her in the face the minute she stepped foot outside. Star began walking towards a flight of stairs leading up to the second level. She scanned the parking lot, not recognizing Cora’s black corvette amongst the other vehicles. The corners of her face frowned, Star opened her hand bag to grab a pair of cat eye sunglasses in all black with a rhinestone trim. Grabbing onto the iron railing, Star climbed with a click–clack of her boots.

Room 210 was right before her eyes.

Star walked with a determined strut towards the door, hips switching and ass bouncing beneath her mini, halter dress.

Star raised a fist.

Knock knock knock

No response.

Star raised two fists.

Knock knock knock

“The fuck?”

She bent over to try and peek into the room. She couldn’t see much of anything.

Groaning, Star made her way back to the stairs. As she climbed down, she began to worry about Cora. Sure, she can take care of herself, but Star knows first hand what it’s like to lose friends in a horrific way.

Kidnapping.

Murder.

One of the reasons she left Vegas is because of a serial killer preying on young women, especially street walkers, exotic dancers, and porn stars. They still hadn’t caught the guy.

Star wrung her hands, glancing left and right along Devil’s Highway.

The diner with its welcoming high rise sign and fifty’s retro design was a beacon for her. Star traveled across the parking lot and pushed her way through the revolving doors.

“Hi! Welcome to Suga’s! Just you, honey?”

A black woman a little over sixty years old with short salt and pepper hair greeted her. She held a stack of menus against her thick hip. A pastel pink work dress with buttons in the front hugged her motherly curves and a half apron stretched across her waist, stained with food and condiments.

The diner wasn’t packed, a few patrons here and there. It did smell savory from the grill and sugary from the malt shakes being blended. Star gave the woman—from what it looked like on her name badge goes by Doris—a sweet smile. She took off her sunglasses, the corners of her eyes crinkled from smiling.

“Just me. May I have a booth seat?”

“Absolutely! Follow me.”

Star walked behind Doris to a booth window seat. Star scooted in, accepting her menu with a soft ‘thank you’.

“What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll have a water with lemon…and…fuck it, a chocolate malt with whipped cream and a cherry on top.”

“I’ll put that in for you.”

Doris walked away humming Cheryl Lynn Encore.

Star tapped her almond–shaped nails against the laminated menu.

A western omelette with home fries and bacon sounded delicious.

After five minutes, Doris returned with her drinks. Star placed her order, and after Doris scribbled everything down on a notepad, Star reached out to stop her with a gentle hand.

“Um, the tab is covered, right? I was told by a woman named Ivory that I didn’t have to worry about paying? I got cash if it’s a problem.”

Doris pondered for about three seconds before recognition dawned her eyes.

“Yes! Oh, yes. Ivory mentioned something like that to the boss. No worries, honey.”

“Thank you.”

Star drank her water down quickly before sampling her shake.

It was delicious.

She twirled her straw around, wondering what type of connections a roadside bar would have with a motel and a diner?

Maybe they run an illegal drug trade?

No other explanation. Hard to believe a bunch of black folk can own anything without it being a fight. That’s when Star’s mind finally drifted to Stack.

Her one night stand.

He’s a good friend and partner. When he likes you, he tends to throw money at you. Flashy brother. Slick talk. But he mean business…

Is Stack the brains of the operation? He rides a motorcycle, and Star caught a glimpse of other motorcycles parked along the side of Vaeisseau.

Outlaw motorcycle gangs (OMGs) are considered dangerous due to their involvement in various criminal activities and violent behavior. And a lot of those gangs frequent the Arizona desert. Route 666 in general. Star didn’t want to get mixed up with a criminal. She came to Arizona to make money off of good pussy, big tits, and an ass that can swallow a g-string.

But…that long thick tongue…

The way that dick fit in her mouth…

Star squirmed in her seat at the booth, the flashbacks causing her to blush into her hand.

“Here’s your meal, honey.”

The steam of freshly cooked food warmed Star’s cheeks. Full portions and all of it looked good.

“Thank you, Miss Doris.”

Star picked up her fork to sample some home fries.

Miss Doris lingered with a hesitant gaze. Star looked up at her, both brows raised and disappearing beyond her Farrah Fawcett bangs.

“Everything okay?” Star asked.

“Just–just wanted to mention,” Miss Doris placed a gentle hand against Star’s, “Be careful around here at night, honey. Too much bad stuff goes on. That bar…ain’t no place for you to be,” Miss Doris whispered that last part.

Star’s stomach dropped.

“Thanks for the advice, Miss Doris…”

Miss Doris nodded her head with a wary expression. She finally left Star alone to her thoughts again.

Stack doesn’t owe her any explanation. She probably will never see him again. He did leave her alone in his Motel room.

But Ivory said he’d be back.

No. Cora was going to drive her back into the city when she gets back. Nice knowing you, Stack.

Cora ate her meal, cleaning her plate completely. She excused herself to the restroom before returning to the motel room. Afterwards she left a tip on the table for Miss Doris, a fifty dollar bill. Star put her sunglasses back on and walked out.

She showed up to the motel and rummaged through her hand bag for the keys. Once back inside, Star noticed straight away that the room had been tidied up and on the bed rested a sexy little number with thigh high boots to match.

And was that…

Star walked over to the left side of the bed where she was sleeping and picked up a quad of cash held together by a ruby and diamond bracelet with a tiny ‘S’. She picked it up with alarming eyes.

All one hundred dollar bills.

Star situated herself in front of the dress.

She picked it up before placing herself in front of the mirror. Star pressed the dress against her torso, spreading it out to fit her curves. It was gorgeous.

A sexy halter mini dress with ruched detailing and backless in a foil gold color. The studded thigh high boots that was paired with it was a perfect match. On a table next to the arm chair was some toiletries and stuff for her hair.

Stack hooked her up. Like Star was his woman.

She’d play along for now. Since he likes to spoil you and give you money for just having a pretty face.

The freaks come out at night

The freaks come out at night

The freaks come out at night

The freaks come out at night

Discos don't open 'till after dark

And it ain't 'till twelve 'till the party really starts

And I always had to be home by ten

Right before the fun was about to begin

Crowds of people lined up inside and out

Just one reason, to rock the house

But in the day time the streets was clear

You couldn't find a good freak anywhere, 'cause…

Star lit a cig while sipping from a bottle of wine in her motel room. She spent the rest of the afternoon exploring where she could, she even found a nail salon to get a fresh mani and pedi. Now, she had her nails and toes painted a metallic gold.

She giggled at the aerobic exercise segment on TV. Whoever this white girl thought she was, she sure wasn’t that. Speaking of, Star had a class to attend herself in a couple of days. She was wearing the dress Stack got her and the thigh high boots with a three–inch heel.

Knock knock knock

Star ashes out her cigarette before placing the bottle of red wine on the end table next to her. She got up and rushed over to the door. Peering out, she spotted Cora with her hands on her hips and staring right at her through the peep hole like she knew she would be there.

She was wearing a skin–tight, black leather dress with a bunch of studs, knee–high, black stockings with a lace trim, and black stilettos. A cropped mink coat covered her arms but left her cleavage on display sitting high and oiled up twinkling like she’d been doused in glitter. Her hair was pinned up in a half–Mohawk style and she wore one dangling earring with the other sporting a black diamond stud.

Star’s brown eyes with lids smoky from her eyeshadow rolled heavenward.

She opened the door and jutted her hip out.

“Where the fuck you been at, Cora?”

Cora smiled wide, “Well hello to you too, Star. Missed me?”

“I outta ring your neck! Not a word from you all day! Had me worried sick!” Star argued.

“So, you did miss me? Well, let me on in girl so I can tell you how my night went with legend.”

Star didn’t make a move to let her in. Cora bat her false lashes with a pout of her bottom lip.

“Okay, I’m sorry, girl. I should’ve called you to check in. Legend had me stuck between a bed and him, you know how that is!”

“…fuck it, come in, bitch.”

Star gleamed, “Thank you, kindly, hoe.”

Star shut the door to the motel room.

“Fuck you.” Star shot a death glare at Cora.

Cora laughed, “Oh, you already did that…wine!”

Cora snatched up the bottle, helping herself to some.

“So, let me tell you about legend—”

“When we leaving, Cora?”

Cora sighed with a roll of her eyes, “Tomorrow, girl! Stack wants to see you again.”

“Stack throwing gifts and money my way but had me waiting around like I’m on his time.” Star complained.

Cora flopped down on the bed next to Star. She stroked her friend’s cheek that was covered in pink blush.

“Stack really likes you, Cora. Said he can’t wait to see you again. He real sorry for leaving the way he did. Duty calls, ya’ know?”

Star cut her eyes at Cora, “I don’t actually. What he do for work?”

“He works in entertainment. Mostly down south. A little in New York. That’s all I know.”

“He a drug dealer?” Star cut to the quick.

Cora laughed blissfully. Star shoved her friend away.

“What makes you think that? Star!”

Cora grabbed onto Star’s wrist firm. Star spun back around, poking her hip out with a fold of her arms.

“He got me feeling all giddy and I don’t get like this over a one time fling. We gotta get back in the city before I lose my fucking mind over a big dick and good head.” Star confessed.

“When was the last time you had good dick and head, Star? And porn ain’t nothing but for show! Them white men with big ol’ porn staches and baby dicks don’t do a damn thing for you! Why you think you came to Arizona for girl on girl work? Listen,” Cora stroked Star’s arms, “I know you wanna go to Malibu…but maybe you should consider Georgia…”

Star studied Cora.

“Better opportunities for black folk in the porn industry. I can hook you up!”

“…for real?”

“Yeah!” Cora exclaimed, “You know I’m gonna hook my girl up!”

Star threw a mini temper tantrum.

“I’ll consider. But I go where the money flows, Cora.”

“I hear that,” Cora tilted her head and gave Star a kiss on the cheek, “Let’s have a look around before we head over to Vaisseau!”

Star grabbed her hand bag quickly before Cora could pull her out of the room. They jogged towards her black corvette and they both hopped in.

Whodini Freaks Come Out At Night played from the radio as they made their way towards pleasure paradise. A high concentration of vices and activities that are considered sinful by some.

Star’s thighs and hips were on fire. She shifted in the passenger seat, a cramp shooting up her left leg. Cora noticed, a teasing smile on her lips. She caught the glimmer of Star’s ruby and diamond bracelet that Stack left for her.

“Your bracelet’s real pretty.” Cora says.

Star admired it.

“This probably cost more than my rent.”

“It’s beautiful, Star. Stack wants you real bad.”

Star twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

“He didn’t fuck me last night…he tucked me in…like a gentleman.”

“He wants to savor you. Clearly.” Cora responded.

“What about you and Legend?”

“We go way back,” Cora beamed, “Deep history. The only man I let touch me. Too bad we can’t be together all the time.”

Star grabbed her palm palette, opening it so she could apply some more of her brown, shimmery lipstick. She popped her lips a few times to make sure it was evenly spread before snapping the palm palette closed.

“Why not?” Star asked.

“I travel a lot. He gotta keep an eye on the bar…”

Cora rolled into a parking lot outside of a sex shop.

Let’s go have a look around. I may want to grab something as a souvenir before we leave.”

Leaving the car, they made their way towards the sex shop and Cora opened the door. Star giggled at a cardboard cut–out of herself in the display window.

The 80s became revolutionary for the history of sex toys. This era brought adult stores, where the public could easily enter in to buy whatever delight tickled their fancy. It was colorful library with aisles and shelves filled with all things sex. Videos, dirty magazines, kink, blow up dolls, sexy toys for him and her, and advertisements for new products like performance enhancers for instance.

Star felt right at home. She picked up VHS tapes featuring her, play magazines that she flipped through, posters of her naked body folded between the pages. Cora dragged Star towards the section filled with lingerie. They searched wracks filled with baby dolls, chemise’, thongs, crotchless panties, and lacy bras that made your girls sit up high.

A worker was busy stocking a shelf with Hitachi Magic Wands until he noticed Star. A tall, lanky white male with long, red hair and a freckled face. He wore a Guns and Roses T-shirt with Levi’s jeans. Star gave him a flirty wave and a wink.

He dropped a box on the ground, so infatuated by her being there.

“C–Can I please take a picture?”

“Sure,” Star replied.

He was delighted, pale cheeks rose red from blushing. He pointed towards a Photo Booth and Star followed him inside. He kept his hands planted in his lap. His eyes gawked at her cleavage oiled up like buttery, hot rolls fresh out of the oven. He started the photo booth, placing a dime in the coin slot. Star began posing, pouting her lips or parting them slightly. She gave siren energy with her sleepy eyes and beguiling energy.

The photos dispensed and Star picked them up. She was ready to get out of that booth, the man was breathing hot air towards her direction. Breath smelling like pork skins.

“Got a pen?”

He shoved his hand into his back pocket, a yo–yo, ten dollar bill, and keys resurfacing.

“Shit—sorry, I left it at the front.”

“It’s okay. At least you have proof.”

Star slid out of the Photo Booth and found Cora waiting for her. She had a few things in her hand that she was ready to purchase. Cora held up a hot pink lingerie set that she thought Cora would love.

“Too vibrant. Maybe this one?”

Cora looked it over, tapping her chin. It was the exact same one but an emerald green.

“I love it.”

They made their way towards the front and as they did, Star got the feeling someone was watching her…

And funny enough, Rockwell was playing over the speakers.

I always feel like somebody's watchin' me

And I have no privacy (Oh-oh-oh)

I always feel like somebody's watchin' me

Tell me, is it just a dream?

I always feel like somebody's watchin' me (Hee-hee-hee)

And I have no privacy (Oh-oh-oh-oh)

I always feel like somebody's watchin' me

Who's playing tricks on me? (Who's watching?)

Cora gripped Star’s hand firm. She positioned herself protectively in front of Star, staring ahead, eyes sharp.

“What is it?” Star asked with concern.

“Let’s pay for this shit and head over to Vaisseau.” Cora replied abruptly.

Star scanned the front of the store, eyes sweeping across the windows. She didn’t see anything, but she felt it. And for some reason, a voice in her head told her to be careful.

Not Miss Doris’ voice. A chilling voice of a man.

Star…be safe…watch your surroundings…stick close to Cora…

Someone or something was definitely watching her.

And they were coming to kill.

@eggnox @blackisy2k @thickeeparker @theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg @inkdrippeddreams

[lixiemissexotic]

𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐃𝐀𝐃 𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐑౨ৎ

girl dad eren yeager who full-on sobbed when you told him you were pregnant, then cried again at the ultrasound when he found out it was a girl. and then again yes, again when he was lying beside you on the hospital bed holding her for the first time. you looked over at him, eyes puffy, nose red, whispering, “she’s not even the biggest baby in this room,” and he just laughed through the tears, excited to finally have his little family.

girl dad! eren yeager who learned to do hair with you as his own real life mannequin while you were pregnant. “she’s gonna be so pretty just like her mommy”.

girl dad! eren yeager who constantly spoke in the third person to his daughter when she was a toddler in hopes that “dada” would be her first words.

girl dad! eren yeager who is no regular girl dad, he’s a dance dad as well. he’s front row at every single recital, he’s never missed a single one. camera in hand, cheering way too loudly. he makes all his friends come as well, ensuring his baby feels more than enough support. he takes his dance dad duties ver seriously and helps her practice moves at home and ends up knowing the whole routine better than the dancers. he jabs you while the dance is happening “i can twirl better than these amateurs”. then screams “that’s our girl !” as soon as your daughter makes her appearance.

girl dad! eren yeager who goes absolutely insane when his daughter is sick, raids the supermarket for vitamins, cough drops, tissues, pain killers, cough syrup everything. luckily for your daughter her grandfather is a world class doctor so trust and believe he’s always in the best hands.

girl dad! eren yeager who spoils his daughter absolutely rotten. he tries to say no at first, but folds the second she pouts. she has him absolutely wrapped around her tiny glittery painted finger and she knows it.

girl dad! eren yeager who’s the kind of guy to make a power point presentation on why she will have to wait till she’s 30 to have her first boyfriend. when he picks her up from school and sees her holding hands with reiner’s son he damn near almost losses it but he’s good at keeping his cool (fakest most evil smile you’ve seen btw).

girl dad! eren yeager who lets his daughter sit on his lap while he’s driving, teaching her how cars work. he loves taking her out for joy rides especially late at night. it’s these special little moments that make him happiest.

girl dad! eren yeager who’s always making sure to treat you like his diamond, always bringing your flowers, taking you on nice vacations and adoring you in gifts and affection not only because he loves you to the moon and back but also to make sure his daughter grows up with a good example of what a man should be like.

girl dad! eren yeager who loves you and his daughter more than anything else and would give up anything to make sure you two were safe and happy.

💐— ily girl dad eren!! likes & reblogs always appreciated. stay safe and hydrated pokies <3

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