#it's changed the way i say 'nothing!' now

[ohtobeleah]

Purgatory // Jack Abbot

Part 1of2

Summary: A patient brought in with the Pittfest mass casualty event experiences a psychosis of some sort. Jack Abbot doesn’t know it but while he’s elbow deep in saving some guys bowel…you’re attacked while just trying to help.

Warnings: Jack Abbot x Nurse!reader. Violence against women. Angst/whump.mediocre medical knowledge. Hurt!reader. Established relationship. Age gap marriage. Older male x younger reader.

Word Count: 4.3k

Author Note: This guy…this fucking guy.. Truly, I could write about him for hours, if not days on end. I love him your honour.

In the practice of medicine, change is inevitable. New surgical techniques are created, and procedures are updated. Levels of expertise increase. Innovation is everything. Nothing remains the same for long, and we either decide to adapt to the change…

Or we get left behind. 

“Sir,” You sighed as you tried your best to have the man in the hospital bed cooperate. “I’m just trying to–” Before you had a chance to finish your sentence, to let the man who’d been brought in during the worst mass casualty event you’d ever worked, that you were just cleaning him up a little in a low period, he was on you like a bad rash. 

“Hel–!” You tried to scream, but two large, bloodied hands wrapped themselves around your throat as the unidentified male, mid-fifties possibly, tackled you to the ground. “H–!” 

*Crack* The sound was jarring. *Crack* The back of your head was repeatedly being slammed into the laminate floor. *Crack* You couldn’t breathe. Your lungs felt like they had been set alight, burning with a deep desire to take in oxygen. 

“Get away from me!” The man yelled as he released one of the hands he had tightly gripped around your neck, only to draw it behind his head and lay a full fist of force against your nose. 

“SECURITY!” You heard Dana shout as she caught sight of the assault happening across the way. She couldn’t tell who it was under the man who’d gone rogue. But it felt too late now…

Everything was a blur. You couldn’t breathe as blood trickled down your throat. The swelling had already begun to take effect. You coughed and rolled onto your side as the man was removed from you in a flurry of blurs. You couldn’t hear the commotion going on around on, but you could see the shadows behind swollen eyes and broken skin. 

“Y/n!?” Robby was the first voice that managed to break through the perpetual ringing. He was just a shadow, mixing with the fluorescent light beaming down on you. “You’re not okay, but you’re gonna be.” You could barely make out what he was saying. If you could, you would’ve panicked at the sheer heaviness in his tone of voice. The worry, the panic that his best friend’s wife had just been attacked. 

“Someone get me Dr. Abbott!” Robbys voice echoed across the entire expanse of the Emergency Room department. Everyone heard the urgent desperation in his voice. Everyone besides Jack…who was someone across the department, elbow deep in saving some guys bowel from needing to be removed. “Tell him it’s his wife!”

Whittaker was the one who dropped what he was doing, albeit not as important as finding Dr. Abbott, but nevertheless, he knew whatever it was that it was bad. Jack hadn’t anticipated one of the new kids to come charging in like it was life or death the way he did. 

“Dr. Abbot! Something happened, you need to come and–” 

“Someone better be dying for you to be taking any of my time away from this man, Whittaker, what is it!?” Jack didn’t shout, nor was it laced with anger. It was a response of pure and total control over the situation. Jack was as calm as they come under crisis. It was just who he was. He saw the solutions in chaos like a puzzle he could put back together. 

“Your wife–” Dennis choked on his own words like he was afraid to deliver bad news. Ironic that delivering bad news to loved ones of patients was a part of the job. “She uh–” 

“She what, Whitaker? My wife, what?” Jack never faltered. He never looked up from where he was working magic. Blood-stained gloves halted to a standstill, however, when the words that left Whittaker’s mouth next knocked the wind right out of Jack’s lungs. 

“She was just attacked, Robby has her in trauma two now, it’s bad, like real bad, sir.”

The air grew thin, the walls began to cave in. Jack Abbot was, on a regular day, as calm as they come under pressure. 

He saved his breakdowns for the roof in the early hours of the morning. He’d spend a few minutes watching as the sun kissed the horizon with a warmth that could only be rivalled by your own. 

He’d hedge his bets, cut his losses and accept what reality had dealt and delivered. All the while continuing all the reasons why he couldn’t take that leap. Always circling back to the most important of all. 

You. 

But when that guiding light is challenged, Jack's body language alters. His normally rigid, ex-military stance softened for a brief moment. 

Jack's heart was breaking. He could feel it being ripped apart inside his chest cavity. The thud of his heart was nearly loud enough to echo off the walls.

“What?” No one had seen Jack Abbot so flustered before. His eyes softened in a moment of what must have looked like weakness. But to Jack, it was love. Pure, that’s my best friend, love. The kind of love that’s deep in your bones, love. The kind of love that haunts you, love. “My, my wife?” 

It was a softness only reserved for you, a side to Jack Abbot that was hidden away behind the safety and security of his own perfectly designed Volt system. His expert ability to compartmentalise only ever falters around you. 

He can’t control it. Jack Abbot had a weakness, an affinity of affection. An addiction to the release of Oxytocin he received whenever you paid him any mind. It had always been like that, a little catch and release. Cat and mouse. Jack loved to watch you walk away because he knew you were always coming back. 

But now…you were hurt. You were hurt, and he was stuck in his own head thinking about the first time he saw you. How you lit up the entire night sky and hung every star just for him to feel comfort in the darkness. 

Your laugh, how it’s the only therapy he’d ever need. The deep cackle that’s not cute, but infectious. You’re like a shot of espresso, keeping Jack on his toes and never allowing him to fall completely off the deep end into permanent geriatric grumpiness. No matter how far he teetered over the edge.

Jack Abbot was just lucky enough to be living in general, but to be living in your world was just the luck of the Anglo-Irish. He wasn’t sure if he could live in a world without you in it. 

The thought consumed his entire being. A world without you. A life without you. What if he never got to hear your voice again? Or tell you how much he fucking loved you. The contrast between the heat of Jack's skin and the coolness of his wedding band resting upon his heart couldn’t have been more stark. 

“Is she—“ Before Jack could ask if you were okay, he was cut off. 

“Go,” Dr. Ellis damn near ordered. “I got this, go.” She reaffirmed as Jack felt her shove him over, there was no extra time that could be wasted. It was all Jack needed to find his centre of gravity again and get a hold of himself. 

His composure.

“Who attacked her?” But as the surge of panic softened, a wave of uncontrollable rage began to boil deep within Jack. His eyes scanned the utter chaos that was the emergency department, searching for whoever it was that had hurt you. “Where are they now?” 

No one gets to hurt Jack Abbots wife and gets to continue breathing. 

“Uhhh—“ Whitaker stammered, unsure of whether he should disclose that information or not. “He’s with security now, behavioural health two.”

It was a deep-rooted, all-consuming need to hook it left and make a B line directly for behavioural health two. Who did this guy think he was? Huh? Attacking people, no…attacking his wife like this? It wouldn’t be without consequence. 

“Dr. Abbot.” 

“This the guy?” Jack asked one of the security guards with a look of rage behind his exhausted eyes. “I need to speak with him?” 

“The cops and McKay are in there with him now.” 

“It wasn’t a request.” Jack snarled as he tried to make his way into the room that held the man who attacked you.

“JACK!” It was Robby who had yelled. “NOW!” You were in a rough way, Jack would tell by the tone in his friend’s voice. 

“Y/n,” Jack whispered to himself as he looked over at trauma two. “Oh, oh no no no no no.” It was a mumble only to himself, but everyone could feel the heaviness that followed Jack Abbot across and through the emergency department chaos. 

Change. We don’t like it, we fear it. But we can’t stop it from coming. We either adapt to change…

Or we get left behind. 

“She needs to be intubated, get her up for a head CT, we’re looking at some major blunt force trauma here, needs–needs burr holls to relieve the intracranial pressure.” 

“Y/n!” Jack barreled in like a hurricane-force wind. “What the actual fuck happened here, man?” 

“She was with a patient, Y/n? Can you hear me? It’s Robinovich here, don’t you make this difficult for me,” Robby spoke through panicked words as he worked on you as fast as he could. “Guy freaked, psychotic episode, probably a bleed on the brain–”

“Ja–” You barely mumbled as blood spilled from your mouth. Jack heard you, though. He heard you loud and clear as he made his way to your side. His hand was immediately in yours as he made sure to be aware of his spatial awareness as his colleagues worked on you. 

“I’m right here,” Jack cooed as he took in the sight of your face. Beaten, bloodied and bruised. “You’re okay, I’m right here, just hang on for me, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” 

“I, love–” You were in and out of consciousness, fighting against the pull of whatever it was threatening to pull you away from the surface. 

“Pulse is thready, she’s crashing,” someone announced as all the bells and whistles sounded off at once. You were indeed crashing, right in front of Jack. 

“Sweetheat? You stay with us, you hear me?” Jack was feeling the panic creep up his spine again. “Are you shitting me? What the hell do you think you’re doing being alone with a patient like that?” Jack knew if you were listening, you would have jabbed him back. Of all people to be giving you a lecture on hospital protocol, it shouldn’t have been him. 

You called him a Cowboy for a reason.

“If you die on me, i’m gonna be so fucking screwed here Y/n, get your shit together,” It was Jacks love language. “Robby, get her back!” 

He kept searching for some sort of eye contact, that deep-rooted ability of his that you at times often regarded as his superpower. That intense gaze, the one able to break through anything and reach your very soul. 

But Jack couldn’t see you through you, he couldn’t see anything but the blood that covered your beautiful face. The face he dreamed of at night, when all was said and done, and there was nothing left to do. 

“Working on it, someone get me neuro, NOW!” 

“O.R. is prepped and ready upstairs.” 

“Okay, let’s get her stable and on the move.” 

“I’m coming.” 

“Like fuck you are, brother,” Robby sighed, never missing a beat as he continued to stabilise his best friends wife. The love of his life.”You can watch from observation, but you can’t be in the O.R., hospital policy we—“

“Don’t work on family, I’m not, I’m telling you I’m—“

“If we can’t get her back, you’ll be in there, let me get her back, I’ve got her.” It was a promise Robby shouldn’t have made. But he knew you and he knew you well enough to know that this was not your exit music moment. 

Jack simply held his lips into a tight line of silent panic. He never let go of your hand, opting to walk you all the way to surgery. 

“Wait,” He begged right before the double doors automatically opened on your arrival. Everyone stopped moving as Jack leaned in to whisper something in your ear. “If you die on me so help me god, I’m walking right up to that roof for the last time and you damn well know it, don’t do this to us,” Jack begged. “I love you with all that I am and have.” He said one final time before letting go of your hand. Grazing across your wedding band as he let you go. 

“Let’s move people!” Someone beside your side yelled as all Jack could do was stand still, as you were wheeled away from him. 

“Oh god,” It was immediate, the sudden feeling of sickness. The wave of nausea hit him like a freight train. The nearest fake plant was the best course of action. With one hand on the wall in front of him, Jack emptied the contents of his stomach. It wasn’t much, mainly stomach bile, but the sentiment remained the same. “Fuckk-.” 

The thought of losing you made Jack Abbot's stomach churn. 

It hurts to adapt to change; anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. It’s utter bullshit. But change is inevitable, good or bad. It haunts us like ghosts of our former past. It can taunt us like a small child who thinks you’re having the time of your life. 

But when change is brought about, it’s better to adapt than deny that it's happening in the first place. 

—----------------------

There’s a reason surgeons learn to wield scalpels. They liked to pretend that their hard, cold scientists. They like to pretend that they’re fearless. But the truth is, people become surgeons because somewhere, deep down, they think they can cut away that of which haunts them. 

Weakness, frailty…death. 

Jack woke with a stark jolt. He was sweating, running a fever. The darkness was all-consuming as he tried to gain his bearings. He was in bed. The bed he shared with you.

“Christ,” Jack sighed to himself as he laid on his back in the middle of the night. A hand ran down his face as he collected his thoughts. That had been one of the most intense nightmares, one of the most realistic ones, he’d ever had. 

“Something tells me he had you on do not disturb.” Jack heard you mumble from beside him, wrapped up in a mess of covers and sheets. “Probably, don’t think that guys ever paid much mind to me, has he, sweetheart?”

When you didn’t respond, Jack frowned. You were just talking. Were you talking in your sleep? But you were talking directly to him.

“Y/n, you awake?” It was a question laced with hope. Jack hoped you were. He couldn’t stop thinking about your bloodied face in his nightmare. The way you lay there, lifeless, not breathing. “Hey, c’mere for a minute.” Jack nearly begged as he slowly but surely moved closer to where you were in the bed you shared together. 

With a gentle kiss to your exposed shoulder, Jack maneuvered you from where you were lying on your side to your back. It was then he realised he was still in a living hell. 

“Remember?” Was all you said as blood spilled out of your mouth and down your chin. A bloodied smile was permanently seared into Jack's memory as pure horror washed over him. “You couldn’t protect me, you couldn’t save me. What’s the point of being married to a doctor if you can’t save my life?” 

“No, no this isn’t real,” Jack tried to reason with his mind as he hovered over your now lifeless body in the bed you shared. “Stay with me, sweetheart, stay with me!!” 

But you didn’t move, you were lifeless and cold. So fucking cold. 

“Jack?” He heard through a whisper, a mumbled distance away, “Jack?” There it was again. This time, though, a hand on his shoulder accompanied the male voice, coaxing him back to reality. “Jack, wake up, bother.” 

With a jolt, Jack was waking from where he’d fallen asleep. Right beside you with his head on the spot beside your hand. His in yours. His back ached like no tomorrow, but his hips hurt the worst. 

“I must’ve fallen asleep.” Jack sighed as he tried to regain his composure. The thought of you dead beside him in bed had rocked him to his very core. But it was always the same dream ever since you were attacked. 

I could hear you screaming from the second I stepped out of the elevator,” Robby sighed as he checked your vitals. All the signs pointed to good news. “Have you spoken to your therapist about all this yet?” he asked with a frown of concern from above his glasses. 

“Nope,” Jack explained as he let out a sigh and stretched out in the chair he was sitting on. “Can’t bear to bring it up, might jinx her.” 

“Well, the swelling is mostly stable, she’s regaining strength, and her pulse ox is great, the only thing keeping her under right now is, well, her,” Robby shrugged as he crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s gonna wake up, man.”

Jack didn’t respond right away. He let the silence linger in the air. He watched your steady heartbeat on the monitor. He eyed off your vitals, the way your chest rose and fell with every breath you took unassisted. He was still on edge, but was able to talk himself through it. 

He’d watched you recover over the last week since the attack. Jack hadnt left the hospital once. He’d become what he hated most. A border. But he couldn't bring himself to leave even just for a few minutes. Not when you were here. 

It took a village. Dana had organised someone to collect all the essentials Jack and yourself might need during your stay. The house was probably a mess and the content of the fridge was well past used by, but that wasn't important right now. 

He’d stay here beside you watching you heal. Watching you get stronger. Watching you slowly come back to him like Robby had promised. But no one had any idea how you would react when you finally woke up. There was worry of mental deficits from the head trauma. But Jack knew you well enough to know you were a real fighter. 

He finally knew what it was like for you when he’d lost his leg. A part of him he’d never get back. Jack wondered if you'd feel the same way after, if a part of you died that day. He was anticipating it really. The onset of depression post traumatic events. The PTSD that would haunt you like a ghost. The sleepless nights. The recklessness. The suicidal tendencies. All of it, he knew about it and was prepared for it. 

Only difference is you weren’t. But boy were you a fast learner. And oh boy did Jack understand the other side of it now. How it felt to watch the person you love suffer so much. 

“Here,” Again Robby's voice broke Jack out of his trance-like thinking state. “Drink this, eat this, don’t argue,” A juice box lands in Jack's lap, so did a half eaten sandwich. He looks up at his friend, perplexed…but already knows the answer. “I ate the other half in the elevator.” Robby still explains. 

“Thanks.” Is all Jack has left in him to say. He’s exhausted, but won't say that out loud. Won't admit it to anyone but himself. Robby can see it written in the lines on Jack's face. He can see it in the growth of his facial hair, the bags under his eyes. 

“Have a shower before she starts to stir,” It's one of the last thing Robby says before he leaves. “You look and smell like shit, she’s probably not waking up just to be polite you know.” He doesn't wait for an answer, but as he leaves and heads down the corridor back to the elevator, he knows Jack is smiling behind him. Shaking his head. 

“You would do that, wouldn't you?” Jack sighed, popping the straw into the small juice box. The sugar is a much needed relief for the man running on empty. 

It isn't just surgeons, the truth is, Jack didn't know anyone who wasn't haunted by something…or someone. And whether we try to slice the pain away with a scalpel or shove it in the back of a closet…

Our efforts usually fail. 

—-------------------------------------

Jack Abbot went into medicine because he wanted to save lives. He went into medicine because he wanted to do good. He went into medicine for the rush…for the high…for the ride. 

But what he tends to remember at the end of most days are the losses. What he lies awake at night, replaying is the pain he caused or failed to cure. The lives he ruined or failed to save. So the experience of practising medicine, for Jack Abbot, that is, rarely resembles the goal. 

The experience is, too often, ass-backwards and upside down. 

“One slight gust and you’d be done for, you know?” Jack knew it was you the second he heard the approaching footsteps. 

“What are you doing up here?” Jack replied, all the while he still had his hands tucked away in his pockets. 

“Oh, I dunno,” You sighed as you ducked under the railing. Coming to stand close to but not close enough to where your husband stood. “Heard some lunatic was up on the roof, didn’t take much for me to realise that the lunatic in question was probably my repeat offender.” You rubbed your hands over your face like you’d had enough of today. Coaxing your husband off the ledge of the roof was not something you had on your bingo card for today. “What are you doing up here, Abbot?” 

It was a loaded question, but a question that deserved a genuine response nevertheless. Jack shrugged, unable to look his wife in the eye for once. Something he was really fucking good at doing. 

“Guy lost his leg in a car accident.” You didn’t need much more than that, but Jack continued. You didn’t interrupt. “My call to amputate, we weren’t gonna be able to save it.” You could feel the heaviness weighing on your husband’s heart as he explained what led him to the roof. “Pains been unbearable ever since.” 

You didn’t speak, you didn’t respond, but you sure knew what you had to do. There was a deeper meaning behind the reason Jack made you carry a pocket knife with you. One that wasn’t permitted by the hospital. You casually reached into your back pocket to reveal the small pocket knife. 

“You know, a wise man once told me that you find comfort in darkness,” You said as you knelt down carefully and knew back your arm with just enough force that the blade of your knife would pierce the titanium foot of your husband’s prosthetic leg. “There, should start to feel some slight relief soon.” 

Jack sighed. It never worked when he did it himself. Nor did it work if he knew it was coming. It had to be spontaneous, quick and off guard. You did just that.

“I needed that more than you know.” It was another way of saying ‘I love you’ But you already knew that. 

“Oh trust me, I knew, otherwise we wouldn't be up here standing on the edge of a building.” Jack knew you were right. You knew him better than he knew himself most days. 

That’s why you were his wife. His life partner. His better half. 

Jack let a moment of silence pass the two of you by as you moved to stand beside him once again, both watching the sun gently kiss the horizon. He raised an arm up and over your shoulders. Drawing you close to his side as he left a gentle, but meaningful, kiss to your temple. 

He adored you, far more than you would ever know. Jack was thankful for the way you left the knife in his foot. The more he looked down at it sticking out of his prosthetic, the more the pain alleviated. The more the tendencies subsided.

“You’re pretty good at this comfort thing, you know.” He prayed the roles were never reversed, was there a version of Jack that could offer the same kind of comfort, strength and grace that you could? 

“Comes with the territory,” Was all you said as you let your head against Jack's shoulder. “But seriously, we should totally get down before you spiral again.”  You bumped Jack's hip with your own. He smirked.

“There’s always tomorrow,” Jack teased as he kissed your temple once more. Choosing to leave with you via the stairs rather than over the edge. 

As the warmth of the water cascaded down Jack's exposed body, he stood leaning against the wall. Prosthetic leaning against the doorframe. He needed a moment. 

The scent of your body wash adorned him, using the toiletries you hadn’t had a chance to use yourself yet. Sure, Jack had kept you as clean as you could be during your stay, but wet wipes weren’t the same as your black plum and vanilla scented everything. 

Your wedding ring hung around his dog tags, right next to his. Robby had taken it off before surgery. It had become Jack's comfort blanket. To thumb at the circular silver ring. 

But as the steam threatened to allow Jack's muscles to relax, he heard it…the warning alerts. 

“No,” He gasped. Panic rose inside his chest as he fumbled to switch the water off and wrap the towel around his midsection. Fuck a shirt, this was a hospital and everyone knew basic anatomy. “No, this cannot be happening—not now.“ 

The sight that Jack saw when he stepped out of the bathroom was nothing short of horrific. There you were, surrounded by doctors and nurses alike. Some Jack knew, some he didn't. But they all shared a common goal… 

Avoiding the experience that is, too often, ass-backwards and upside down.

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Part Two: Coming Soon. Please leave me something to encourage that to come sooner :)

[maskedbyghost]

Possessive reader getting a body pillow cover of Simon made for when he’s on deployment for long periods of time and can’t communicate. Like a cat seeing a balloon of itself, man is pissy anytime he’s reminded it exists and gets reader’s undivided attention the moment he’s forced away from them.

You didn’t buy it as a joke. That’s the first thing people get wrong. You weren’t drunk or being ironic or trying to be funny about how much you missed him. You were just pissed off. He was gone again, longer this time, and he didn’t say how long exactly—just said he wouldn’t be able to call often, might not even text for a while.

And you just stood there, nodding like you were cool with it, like it didn’t already burn in your chest thinking about sleeping alone again.

So yeah. You searched “custom body pillow” that night with your jaw clenched and your arms crossed and your phone brightness on full blast, like that was gonna make it hurt less.

You found a site that let you upload any photo you wanted, and you picked that one—him shirtless, sweaty from a workout, giving you the kind of half-smile that made your stomach flip. He’d sent it to you months ago, and you’d never deleted it. Now it was going to be six feet of print pressed up against you under the blankets every night.

And you didn’t tell him. Of course not. You just tracked the shipping, yanked it out of the box the second it arrived, and dressed it in one of his old oversized tees—your favorite. The one he always pulled on when he got out of the shower, the one he always told you looked better on you than on him. It smelled like him. And now so did the pillow.

You laid it down on his side of the bed, adjusted the angle like a crazy person, and stared at it for way too long before you finally turned the light off. It wasn’t even that it made you feel better. You were just so mad you couldn’t have the real thing. If you had to sleep without him, then fine—you’d make damn sure there was no space in your bed left for anyone else. Not even empty air.

He got back weeks later. He didn’t even text that he was on his way—just showed up, opened the front door, and called your name like nothing had changed.

You were halfway through the hallway when you heard him go completely silent.

“Uh,” he finally said, and it was coming from the bedroom.

You turned the corner and saw him just standing there. Bag on the floor, keys still in one hand, mouth half open like someone had sucker punched him. The pillow was still there, obviously. Front and center. Still wearing his shirt. His face was printed life-sized on it.

“Oh,” you said, like you’d forgotten. Like it hadn’t been your emotional support sleep aid for two straight weeks. “That.”

“That?” he repeated, turning to look at you with full-blown betrayal in his eyes. “That’s what you’ve been sleepin’ with?”

“I didn’t exactly have options,” you said, walking past him to flop down on the bed. “You were gone. It was either this or cry myself to sleep.”

“You could’ve warned me,” he muttered, still staring at it.

You snorted. “Would you have stopped me?”

“…No.”

“Exactly.”

He finally tore his eyes off it and looked at you instead, arms crossed. “What, so I leave for five minutes and you replace me with a bloody pillow?”

“I wouldn’t need a replacement if you didn’t keep running off to fight bad guys every other month,” you said sweetly, patting the spot beside you. “Come on, it’s your turn. Might as well take your place back.”

He just stood there, unmoving. “You seriously slept next to that thing?”

“I did more than sleep,” you grinned.

He groaned. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“You jealous?”

“It’s a pillow,” he said, like the word offended him. “I’m not jealous of a fuckin’—”

“I rubbed my face on it every night. Talked to it too. Called it baby. You know, just regular relationship stuff.”

He stared at you, completely deadpan, then looked at the pillow again. “You’re sick in the head.”

You shrugged. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he snapped. “That’s the problem. You get away with this shit.”

You smiled like you’d won something. “You bet your ass I do. And if you ever get deployed without warning me again, I’m printing one of those full cardboard cutouts next. I’ll sit it at the kitchen table. Put it in the shower, even.”

He dragged a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath, and when he looked at you again his eyes were warmer. “You’re insane.”

“You love it,” you said, reaching for him.

He let you pull him toward the bed, finally dropping down beside you with a sigh. You tossed the pillow off to the side and straddled his lap like it was your rightful seat, hands on his chest, your grin smug.

He blinked, breath stuttering just slightly, and you watched the red creep up the tips of his ears as your fingers dragged down the front of his shirt. “You’re not allowed to be hotter than me and then disappear. That’s not fair.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, woman.”

“You missed it,” you said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You missed me.”

“I really did.”

“Good,” you whispered, nose brushing his. “So don’t leave again.”

He kissed you hard, all tongue and teeth. “Make me.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

------------------------------------------

i just can't with these two

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @bunnyxiis

[somanyideassolittletime]

To be loved is to be changed.

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

Summary : 3 ways you changed Jack, and one time Jack changed you.

Warnings: fluff, Jack is in love with his wife, language, grammar inaccuracies (maybe? idk), so much fluff I felt giddy writing this.

Author's note: I love Jack so much, enjoy!

| one

Jack, albeit all of his typical stereotypes people use to box him into, is secretly tech-savvy. It comes with the job, he supposed. Working in a field where technology is always evolving, he learnt to adapt, and he learnt to love it. It started with geeking out when the newest, most updated machine was delivered to the hospital, up to buying himself handheld medical pieces of equipment delivered to your door – he would wait for you at home before unboxing the most recent ‘toys’ he ordered, and he would talk your ears off about how cool and innovative it is. 

You loved it, you loved hearing him talk passionately, you love that even after all this time working in his job, he still finds wonders in it (it doesn’t help that he looked so hot with his forearms flexed, knife in hand, while opening the package).

He understands technology, he does. But he doesn’t get the idea of FaceTime. He wasn’t a big texter himself; nothing beats the good old phone calls, where you can get your point across without fear of miscommunication on both sides. Even when you dated, you never went as far as FaceTime; it was always a phone call with a promise of meeting each other, and now that you are married, sharing his home, he still doesn’t get it.

“Why do you even need to look at their faces when you call? What matters is what you say, y’know, besides, it’s awkward to call someone with your phone far away from your ears,” He once said while holding you tightly in his side, cuddling in his far too comfy leather couch. Both of you watching a movie, where the scene of people facetiming each other just finished. You laughed at him back then, nudging his sides, “Eh, don’t knock it till you try it, hon.” 

What a turn of events now for him, as you were called away across the country for a few guest lectures and seminars for two weeks. Away from Pittsburgh, away from him – that he finds himself thankful for whoever invented the damned thing. He’s sitting on his bed, currently deprived of your presence beside him, when he decides to try out FaceTime. 

 “Hi, handsome,” you pick up on the first ring, he’s greeted with the face he’s been missing for the past few days, smiling at him. He sighs in contentment, he finally gets to see your face. “Hi, sweetheart.” 

He can hear you rustling around, looking for something to prop up your phone before you settle on your water bottle. Your screen is now steady. You grin at him, “Finally getting the whole FaceTime thing now, huh?” 

He huffs, “Don’t wanna get used to it, i’d rather have you here.” he starts, “But yeah, thank god shit’s exist. Been so long since I've seen that face.” 

“I’ve been here four days and you turned grumpy, huh?” You tell him, referring to the text Dana sent you earlier, “Your husband is Mr. Grumpy. Med students scared to approach him all day” 

“What do you mean?” You’re still grinning at him, you’re afraid your cheeks might be too sore to talk to the faculty tomorrow. “Dana texted me, said you were being bad teacher.” 

He groaned, “I’m annoyed at everything, it seems.” he mumbles just loud enough for you to hear him on the other end. He’s holding the phone a little too close to his eyes, he squints to look at you. You noticed it, “Wear your glasses, hon.” He hates wearing his glasses, which you know, but he’s squinting so hard you’re afraid he’s gonna get a headache later on. He’s contemplating debating you, but he knows that you’re right; he’s getting too old to see something so close to his eyes now. 

“Ugh, fine. Wait,” he puts his phone in the bed, now his screen is showing the ceiling of the bedroom you share back home. A few rustling and groans later, you find yourself looking at Jack wearing his glasses. Your breath hitched. The sight of him in his glasses always gets to you, even after all this time. “Looking good, Dr. Abbot,” you joke. He smiles, “You’re Dr. Abbot yourself.” You frowned mockingly. “I was looking at my reflection, y’know.” 

He laughs, and your heart aches to be with him. You missed him as bad as he missed you, it seems. You lift your phone, standing up now, he’s curious, “What are you doing?” You reverse the camera now, showing your room. “I’m doing a room tour. Now shut up and listen to me yap.” 

He gladly obeys, he loves listening to your voice, he watches as you explain everything in your room, from the bathroom, the wardrobe, the bed, all the way to the balcony. His eyes caught something when your camera points at your desk, a familiar bottle of cologne – one he’s been wearing for ten years – so he decides to jab at you. “Is that why I can’t find my cologne in my bag?” You turn the camera facing you, and he’s glad now that he can see your face again. “I miss you. Sue me.” You stick your tongue out at him. How he wishes to wipe that shit eating grin from your face. 

“I’m suing you for that with a lifetime with me,” he says earnestly. You look at him fondly, “Jack Abbot, I didn’t know you get sappier the further we departed.” He puts his phone on the nightstand, angled so that you can still see his face, pulling the comforter up to his chin. 

“I miss you so much, baby,” you blegh at the nickname, phone now back at your desk, “You sounded like a teenager,” he chuckles, he looks at you putting on your glasses, the light from the laptop reflecting in your eyes. “Talk to me,” you say.

So he did, he tells you about the shift he’s had today while you’re typing away at your laptop, looking at him every once in a while. He tells you about the boy who went berserk, hands flailing around, making Langdon drop the scalpel in his hand, dropping it to his prosthetic feet, panicking the entire trauma room, only for him to be unfazed. You laugh fondly at him, eyes twinkling with the same mesmerization you only hold for him (and for a crazy innovation that you find interesting). 

He’s holding his yawn, but you know better. His eyes are glassy now. “Go to sleep. It’s late,” you say, he obeys you, taking off his glasses, relaxing into his pillow. “Don’t turn it off,” he says softly, eyes fluttering. You shake your head, “I’ll turn it off when you snore,” he huffs, “what? You snore.” you start, “But I need to hear you snore to sleep nowadays.” you explain. 

His eyes are half-closed now, and he finds himself relaxed, hearing your breaths on the other side, keys clacking softly. “I love you,” he whispers to you. You stopped your typing, now looking at his eyes fully closed, “I love you too, goodnight, hon.” 

For the next 7 days, he finds himself loving FaceTime, finds himself looking forward to FaceTime with you every night before he sleeps, and like other technology he once frowned at, he finally gets it. 

| two

Jack is not a man of pop culture, he never understands the appeal of it. He rarely watches movies by himself, let alone pop culture movies or series. But you loved it to no end, you often ask him to watch those movies with you, ranging from sci-fi, fantasy, to superhero movies, whatever you want to watch, he’ll gladly oblige. He’ll pretend to be uninterested in your series whenever you watch it alone with him moving around the house. But you always find him standing behind the couch, watching the show intently, before finding him beside you, starting to give commentary on what's happening on the screen. And slowly, he finds himself enjoying watching those movies and series with you. 

He loves watching you explain to him about the complexity of a character you like, loves hearing you badmouth a character you hate, and when you both find yourself watching sci-fi movies with futuristic technologies, he finds himself falling a little harder, hearing you explain to him the concept of the technology in said movies. “I don’t understand a single word you just said. Is this what you feel when I explain procedures to you?” he once asked you. You nodded, “Yeah, pretty much, but you’re hot when you’re explaining it. So I love it,” you said to him. And he agreed with you on that one. 

Jack was covering the night shift tonight, it’s Halloween night, so he’ll find himself drowning in patients in costumes, no doubt. You had dropped him off earlier with a kiss on his cheek and a promise to pick him up later in the morning.  

He’s talking to a ten-year-old kid in a yellow uniform, one he recognized as a Star Trek uniform when Ellis enters the room, “I got this, Abbot. You go ahead,” she says to Jack. Jack nods at her before saying, “You’re in good hands, kiddo.” Ellis looks at the boy in the bed, saying, “Well, what do we got here, Mr.Spock?” The kid was about to protest when Jack reactively says, “He’s Captain Kirk,” Earning a look from Ellis. He fistbumps the kid and leaves the room, fully trusting Ellis. 

The rest of the shift is pretty slow, filled with kids getting food poisoning from the candy being given away, typical drunks, and some OD patients from parties. It was now one hour left in the shift, everyone was either hanging by the hub or just doing a frequent check for their patients. He was charting when Shen and Ellis approached him.

“Hey, Abbot. How’s the stormtrooper guy?” Shen asks him. He’s currently scanning through his memory, not finding a single stormtrooper costume in his recollection of the night. “We haven’t got a stormtrooper,” He frowns at Shen. Shen points his fingers over Jack’s shoulder, he turns his head – now looking at a man in a Mandalorian get-up, his helmet on the chair beside the bed – he turns back to Shen, “That’s a fucking Mandalorian, good to go in a few hour, ” Shen doesn’t say anything, opting to look at Ellis beside him. Who, for the second time that night, gave him a weird look. He’s been doing medical procedures that might be crazy ballsy for some, but never once he received that look from either Ellis or Shen until tonight. 

“Okay, you know what, what the hell?” Ellis starts, “You corrected me earlier cause of a fuckin costume, and now, what the hell, man?” Jack shrugs, “What?” Shen points his finger at Jack, his voice accusatory, “Dude, you only ever turn your TV on for penguins games, now you tellin me you know fuckin sci-fi shit, now.?” Jack looks at him, “Wrong, I turn on my TV for the Steelers and Pirates too,” he says casually. 

“Ugh, you know what we meant. Since when do you even watch that stuff?” Ellis says exasperatedly. Jack crossed his arms, shrugging, “My wife likes that stuff.” He says that so casually that Shen and Ellis might combust at his tone. 

Shen laughs at him, “Holy shit, you’re whipped.” Jack smirks, “Yeah, I wouldn’t get married if I weren’t.” his hands find the ring in his necklace now. Fully smiling at Shen and Ellis, both of whom groan at him. “Ughhh, please be a simp somewhere else, not here.” Shen rolls his eyes. 

Shen and Ellis walked away from him before he muttered, “God forbid a man is in love,” smiling to himself with the thought of you in his mind. 

So slowly but surely, he understands the appeal now that he can see how your eyes lit up every time he referenced something. And like any other form of entertainment, he once cringed at, he finds himself enjoying and looking forward to the next time he has you curled up beside him, whispering theories he doesn’t get. Anything that makes you happy, it seems, makes him happy. 

| three

Jack is a man of many talents, but not of many coffee orders. He takes his coffee as plain as possible. Black, no sugar. He never ordered his coffee sweet, not before he met you at least. For him, coffee should be something simple, he doesn’t need extra flavor in his coffee, he just needs it to fuel him through the day. 

But you? You take your coffee as abstractly as possible. Though you do enjoy a plain black coffee once in a while, once the occasion calls for it, you actually prefer some flavor and sweetness in your coffee. 

“black , no sugar, please. What about you hon,” he asked you, ordering for himself to barista; he never ordered for you since he knew he would botch the task. “Uh, let me think. I ordered the almond latte yesterday. I think I’ll go with hazelnut today, please. Thank you,” you answered to the barista, who punched in some buttons. Jack tapped his card to pay before moving over to wait for your order. 

“Here, try this. You’ll like it.” you said to him. He shakes his head, refusing to take a sip. “Just try it, I swear” he takes the coffee in his hand, sipping on it. Fuck. that’s good. He thought. He bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a smile, not wanting to give you the victory. You pointed at him victoriously, “aha! You like it don’t you.” he shrugged, giving you back your coffee. “Eh, black’s still better.” though you know that he actually enjoys it. 

But now that it’s been a while since the two of you went on cafe dates, he finds himself missing your random coffee order. So when the opportunity comes for him to drink your coffee order, he’ll take it. 

“Hey, I’m ordering coffee, your usual?” Robby asks him, typing in his notes app to list everyone’s coffee order. Jack thinks for a second before answering him, “I’ll have a vanilla latte,” earning a raised eyebrow from Robby, who types it down without question before moving over to the others. Making a mental note to ask him later on. 

It was a while later when the order came in, and everyone stopped by the break room to take their coffee. Jack is greeted by Langdon and Robby inside, both holding their coffee. Langdon doesn’t even think before handing him a black coffee, one that Jack doesn’t take. “It’s not mine,” he says, walking over to the table, reading the labels in each cup before settling on his order. 

He holds it in a way that the label is visible to Langdon, who looks at him weirdly, “a Latte? Really? Vanilla latte?” Langdon asks him. Jack sips on his coffee before entertaining Langdon, “What? It’s good,” he answers. Langdon, who looks at Robby as if saying, dude, you seeing what I’m seeing???. Robby teases him, “Yeah, I don’t think that cuts it, brother.” 

Jack huffs, sipping some more, “Fine. My wife takes her coffee like this.” he wants to look annoyed, but he can’t bear himself to do it; not when he just drank your coffee order, being reminded of you seems to have that effect on him. 

“I’m a married man myself, but I never even order my coffee her way, man.” Langdon laughs at him. Robby smiles at him, putting his hand on Langdon’s shoulder, slightly leaning toward him. “I believe we are seeing Jack in love. What is it? To be loved is to be changed?” says Robby to Langdon’s who laughed at Jack. 

Jack wants to retort something smart as usual, but somehow, he doesn’t want to. So he opted to just smile at both of them before taking his coffee outside the break room. 

Because yeah, he might realize himself that his preference is changing, but what Robby said earlier was right, that he’s in love and that he’s loved – and he wouldn’t change that for the world. 

But the next time the two of you went on your cafe dates, he would still order his usual, not because he wanted it, he ordered it because for him, nothing beats the mischievous smile you gave him after asking him to try your coffee. (and it doesn’t help that he liked seeing your lip product mark on his cup after you drink his coffee, and that both of you just did an indirect kiss) Though that was a thought he’ll keep to himself forever. 

+1

“How do I look?” you walk into the living room, twirling your body to Jack, who is sitting on the leather couch, now looking at you. You were sporting a Penguins jersey with a big 87 on the back, CROSBY above it. You were offered a sideline ticket to the Penguins game by your friend, which you excitedly accepted. So here you are, getting ready for the game with the Penguins heartbreaker’s Jersey on you. 

Jack smiles at you. “Well, you look like you’re drowning in it, Mrs. Crosby,” he says coyly. You frown at him, walking over to him, “Jack, as much as I love Sid, I actually prefer being Mrs. Abbot,” you say to him, leaning down to give his lips a peck.

Jack puts his hand on your waist, capturing your lips on his. Pulling back, Jack let out a breathy chuckle, “Yeah? Say that after you see him, hon. You know I’m straight, but he’s hot as hell,” he jested. You laugh at his confession, about to say something when you hear a honk in the driveway. Jack walks you over to the door, opening it for you.

Jack pecks your lips once again before saying, “Stay safe, okay? I love you.” You smile, kissing his cheek, “I will. Love you too.”

It’s almost midnight when you come home, and the Penguins won, so it was a victorious night out in your books. You open the door slowly, not wanting to disturb Jack, who should be sleeping by now. You can hear the TV still turned on in the living room, so you decide to check it out.  

Jack was sprawled over the couch, the light from the TV illuminating his figure, his prosthetic placed by the table, as much as you want to move him to the bed because you know that his back would scream at him tomorrow if he spends as much as an extra hour on the couch, he looked so cozy you can’t help yourself, so you lay down on the couch, joining him. 

Your movement startles him at first, but upon seeing that it’s you, he relaxes, “Hey,” he whispers into your ear. “It was fun, wished it was with you though,” you confess to him. His arms now caging you, drawing soft circles on your back. It was quiet before you started.

“Jack,” you whisper softly, he hums, acknowledging you. You continue, “I think you broke me.” Jack stops his hand, pulling his head just enough to look you in the eyes. “What do you mean?” you snuggle further into his chest before saying, “I don’t find Sid attractive anymore.” 

“Huh?” Jack asks, You sit up, placing your hand on his stomach. “Imagine, I was that close with him, I could practically see his pores, Jack.-” You put your hand in front of you, in an attempt to emphasize just how close you are to The Sidney Crosby earlier. “But all I can think about is eh, he’s okay. Jack’s way more attractive.” Jack’s entire body warms at hearing your confession. 

He’s about to comment before you put your hand that was previously on his stomach to his mouth, not allowing him to speak, “No, you don’t get it. It's THE SIDNEY CROSBY, Jack. You know how much I love him, right?” he nods against your hand, now smiling as wide as ever. You lift your hand from his mouth, continuing your explanation. “I was supposed to be entranced by him, Jack. But I kept on thinking that he had nothing against you.” 

“You’re putting me on a damn high pedestal now, hon,” he says jokingly, though his eyes shows nothing but adoration looking at you. 

You lie back on the couch again, cuddling him. “Nah. I think I just love you too much that I find any other guy to just be….mid.” 

He chuckles, resuming his hand motion on your back. “I love you too, so much.” You don’t say anything after that, you're both snuggling, the TV playing softly as background noise – the intimacy of this moment has nothing against anything else. 

You both stayed that way for a while until you mentioned to him that you needed to move before you both fell asleep on the couch, so you walked over to the bedroom, Jack behind you, searching for the remote to turn it off, seeing the highlight of the day on the screen, with crosby’s goal earlier. He smirks proudly at the TV, remembering your earlier admission. 

Sid 0 - 1 Jack. 

[nedgetheelfling]

Not a day goes by that I don't feel this.

I lived for the old form of fandom. It felt like the only place you could go to get away from all the competition addicts and rule-sticklers and people with tiny views of the world who will refuse to even consider new possibilities, endlessly parroting "that's just the way the world is" like it could never be changed.

Old fandom proved them wrong. Old fandom proved everyone wrong. Old fandom was the lynchpin on which so much of the late 1990s to early 2010s optimism in the world CAME from; because we HAD gotten away from all that, we HAD built stable, healthy communities, and we WERE getting by without needless competition and pedantry and small-mindedness. We weren't better. We were just different, and by our very existence we were proving that was valid.

Then, all the competitors and the pendants and the small minds got in, and they told us we should be happy because our fandoms were getting more popular. But none of the new folks cared. They weren't here to live, to build, or to share. They just wanted to consume and compete and scrutinize, just as they did everywhere else.

They showed up and they twisted fandom to be just like their world, and then they turned to us and had the nerve to say "this is how fandom has always been".

No. This is how sports hooliganry has always been. Fandom was something else. It was, and now it's not, and they'll never admit it because to them, nothing's changed.

Not people saying “Fandom has always been like this” in that vent post I made. No. It hasn’t always been like this. Fandom has NEVER been like this until recently and if you were in fandom pre-tumblr purge, pre-twitter, pre-netflix boom, pre-tiktok….then you would fucking know it was nothing like this.

We still had the drive to create. We still sold prints and charms and made zines…but it was never like this.

The introduction of streaming, binge shows that drop all at once, tiktok and vine RIP i still love u vine but you were the beginning of a particularly ugly era) creating this bite sized, quick paced ‘content’ era of creation and it bled out into fucking everything else.

Fandoms didn’t die down when the show ended or the season was over. You didn’t mass unfollow artist, writers or moots just because they changed fandoms. There wasn’t this need to please the algorithm in order for your posts to get seen by people and enjoyed.

Fandoms used to last YEARS. Star Trek is literally the oldest running fandom out there and you got people in there that could care less about the new stuff and still have been happily prancing through their fucking fifty year old fandom today. Hell, even SPN after all it’s fuckups and shitshows has a dedicated fanbase STILL creating tons of art and fic.

There is no patience anymore. No calm feeling of taking in fandom and friends at a pace that which doesn’t make you stressed and is still fun.

Do I blame fandom for this? Of course not, but people are complacent with it and start changing their vocab to accommodate and end up making the situation so deep it cant be fixed.

We call Art & Fic Content now, completely stripping the value of what it is to a level of consumerism instead of personal entertainment & community bonding.

[epsilonblack]

Sirius found the letter buried in a drawer beneath old birth certificates and pure blood family trees. It was crinkled and yellowed, not meant to be read. Not by him.

"Male, by parental choice," it said. Words clinical. Detached.

He read it three times before the words lost shape, swimming behind the sting in his eyes. His hands trembled, the paper fluttering like wings caught in a storm.

He had always known something didn’t fit quite right. The mirror never felt like a truth teller. His body, his voice, his bones, none of it quite belonged the way it seemed to for James, or Remus, or even Regulus.

But this? This was a decision. A fork in the road taken without him.

“They chose for me,” he whispered into the silence of the room. “They looked at me and decided what I’d be.”

Anger bloomed like fire in his chest. How could they? How could they hold that power and never think to let him hold it too?

It wasn’t that he didn’t love being Sirius. It was that Sirius should have had the choice to become himself. Not be sculpted by parents who only saw heirs and legacies.

He stood at the mirror now, shirt lifted, fingers tracing the lines of his body, not hating it, but questioning for the first time what it could have been. What it might still be.

Later, when he told Remus, voice cracking around the edges, he braced for confusion. Or worse, pity.

But Remus just listened. Quiet, steady.

“That was never their choice to make,” he said, voice like a grounding spell. “But it’s yours now. Whatever you want. However you feel. You’re still Sirius. And I love all the versions you’ve ever been or will ever be.”

Sirius breathed out. Shaky. Relieved.

James found Sirius on the Astronomy Tower. Legs pulled up, arms wrapped around his knees, hair tangled from the wind. It was too late for him to be up there alone, too cold not to have cast a warming charm. But Sirius hadn’t. He just sat there, eyes locked on the stars like they owed him answers.

James didn’t speak right away. Just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

Sirius didn’t look at him. “You ever feel like your body isn’t really yours?” he asked softly.

James blinked, thrown by the quiet vulnerability. “Not… not really. Why?”

Sirius pulled a folded parchment from his coat pocket, crumpled from being read too many times. He handed it to James without a word.

James read it once. Twice. And slowly, his throat tightened. “Sirius—”

“I didn’t know,” Sirius interrupted, voice shaking. “They made the decision before I could even speak. Before I could be anything.”

He laughed, bitter and wet. “I always thought there was something wrong with me. That I wasn’t man enough. That maybe I was just broken.”

James looked at him, really looked. Sirius’ face was red, jaw clenched like he was holding back a scream. But the tears still slipped free, traitorous, and aching. He wiped at them harshly.

James put the paper down and wrapped an arm around him.

“You’re not broken,” he said. “You’re Sirius. You’re my brother. You’re the best person I know.”

Sirius choked on a sob and leaned into him, burying his face in James’ shoulder.

“I didn’t get to choose who I was supposed to be,” he whispered.

“But you do now,” James murmured. “And no matter what you choose, I’m not going anywhere. Alright?”

Sirius nodded, clinging a little tighter, as if he’d finally allowed himself to be held. The stars above kept shining, but for once, Sirius didn’t need them to light his way. He had James.

The next few weeks passed in subtle shifts. Nothing dramatic. Sirius didn’t burst out in the common room with a declaration or change his name overnight. But something in him loosened, like a thread finally freed from a too tight knot.

He started experimenting. Borrowed eyeliner from Marlene. Let Lily charm his hair into waves. Wore his shirts a little more open. Painted his nails black one day and didn’t say a word when someone asked. When Remus told him he looked cool, Sirius smiled like it actually reached somewhere deep.

The Marauders noticed, of course. James was the first to start referring to Sirius as “our hot mess of chaos and beauty.” Remus started calling him “love” instead of “mate” without missing a beat. Peter was awkward for about a week, then shyly asked if he could learn to braid Sirius’ hair for him.

Sirius didn’t always know what he wanted to be called. Some days, he was fine with “he.” Some days, “they” fit better. Once, when Remus called him “gorgeous girl” as a joke, Sirius surprised himself by not flinching.

But the important thing was that no one made him pick. Not right away. Not at all.

One evening, when they were sprawled out in the Gryffindor common room like always, Remus reading, James practicing wand twirls, Peter sketching something chaotic, Sirius spoke without warning.

“I think I might be both,” he said. “A boy and a girl. Or neither. Or something… in between.”

Remus looked up. “Okay,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

James grinned. “Mate, you could tell me you were a sentient cloud and I’d still throw hands for you.”

Peter blinked. “Do we still call you Sirius?”

“For now,” they said. Then smirked. “Unless you want to call me Empress Black.”

James clutched his heart. “I kneel, my liege.”

Remus rolled his eyes but leaned over to kiss Sirius’ temple. “Whoever you are,” he said quietly, “you’re ours.”

Sirius, for the first time in a long time, felt like maybe that body, however complicated it was, was finally starting to feel like theirs.

[littlelamy]

            you’d spent all day cleaning the baseboards in the upstairs guest bathroom—on your knees, humming disney songs, hair tied up in one of those giant puffy scrunchies that matched your apron. the idea of putting on makeup, or heels, or trying to sit still for hours at a place that used real cloth napkins and tiny forks for god-knows-what? it made your tummy feel twisty but a little excited.

but rafe had asked; in that voice that didn’t really ask, more like a direct demand. he’d leaned against the pantry door that afternoon, arms crossed, one brow raised while you tried to reach the top shelf for a cake plate.

“you do anything tonight?”

you blinked. “me?”

“no, the other barefoot girl in the house.”

you giggled, clutching the plate. “no plans, mister rafe. just a bath and maybe folding towels. i was gonna reorganize the drawer where we keep the twisty ties—”

“stop.” his mouth twitched. “you’re coming to dinner.. wear something cute.”

“oh! um—okay! i can be cute! i mean i am cute—i’ll be cuter. where are we going? will there be breadsticks?”

“get in the car by seven,” he said, already walking off. “remember to wear heels, baby.”

and now here you are. squeezed into the passenger seat of his sleek black car, nerves curled tight in your belly like a sleepy kitten. your dress was short, pink, and so shiny. your shoes are taller than you're used to. your lipstick keeps sticking to your teeth because you picked a new gloss called 'strawberry fizz' and maybe it’s too much, but rafe had looked at you when you came down the stairs and said “fuck, you look edible,” so you didn’t dare change.

the restaurant was fancy. all soft jazz and dim lights, plates that look more like art than food. rafe’s friends are already there, guys who look like rafe but definietly weren't as cute as him. you sit beside him, hands folded in your lap, smiling sweet as sugar while they talk about things you don’t understand—hedge funds? market something?

but rafe’s hand stays on your thigh, grounding you through all this real estate nonsense. his thumb strokes gentle circles into your skin, and every time you start to drift into a cloud of fizzy nothing, he squeezes just a little. like he was saying 'stay with me, bunny.'

as you begin to dream about a furture with rafe, you hear a loud, obnoxious laugh. “wait—no fucking way.”

your head turns. the guy was sitting at the bar—a group of three, all wearing button-ups, loafers, and a big red face.—and sadly, he’s looking right at you.

you blink as he continues, “bro,” he slaps the guy next to him. “it’s her! it’s fucking her! girls of gulf coast, spring 2022! pink heels, yellow lollipop, ass for days? you know—the one in the bunny ears with whipped cream on her tits?”

your stomach drops. even rafe’s hand tenses on your leg.

you try to smile and laugh. try to pretend you didn’t hear that. but you can feel heat crawling up your neck, all the way to your ears. oh no. oh no.

you haven’t heard that name in months or seen those photos since you stuffed the sample polaroids into a shoebox and slid them under your bed. you weren’t her anymore. you were a house manager. you made jam, organized spice racks, even kissed wheezie on the forehead before school.

but he keeps talking, not reading the room.

“dude, i jerked off to that spread like every night of senior year. girls of gulf coast, man, that issue was legendary.”

the guy next to him whistles. “no shit? that her? y/n something, right?”

you stare at the linen napkin in your lap like it might swallow you whole. your hands shake as you hear one of rafe’s friends laugh, very awkward.

“damn, rafe, you didn’t tell us your girl used to be in magazines.” it’s a joke. it’s all a joke, you think to yourself. well, this joke made you want to melt through the floor.

rafe stands slowly, you could almost see steam coming out of his ears. he turns toward the bar. “come again.”

the guy blinks, grinning. “what?”

“say it one more fuckin' time.” his voice isn’t loud, but it’s sharp which make the whole table go quiet. “you wanna talk about my girl? say it again. real slow so everyone can hear your bitch ass.”

the guy scoffs. “chill, man. it’s a compliment—”

“a better compliment would be you shutting up and mind your own business instead of talkin' about my woman.” his jaw ticks, as you go to hold his arm. fingers caressing his forearm, leading to his hands.

you whisper, “rafe, it’s okay—”

he looks at you and leans close, lips brushing your ear. “you don’t ever say it’s okay for people to talk about you like that.”

“but—”

“baby,” he cups your cheek. thumb brushing the sticky corner of your mouth where your gloss smudged. “you were art..still are.” you blink up at him. “they don’t get to mock art just because they can’t touch it.”

your throat tightens before he turns back to the bar. the guy was already avoiding his eyes now, nervous laugh dying in his throat.

rafe smiles, coldly, “look at her again, and you’ll be drinking out of a straw for a year.”

then he sits, completely casual, like nothing just happened. you’re stunned, staring at him. he could feel your eyes on him making him glance over with a smirk on his face.

“you want to leave?”

you nod, fast. "please." he quickly grabs your hand.

you don’t say a word until you’re back in his car. “i didn’t want you to be mad,” you whisper.

“i’m not mad at you.” you blink, confused. “i’m mad someone thought they could say your name like it was a punchline.”

you sniffle. “it was just a phase. i needed money. and i thought it was fun. i didn’t think anyone would recognize me in the real world.”

he squeezes your hand, reassuringly. “i did.” your head snaps up. “saw the spread. remember thinking, no fucking way someone this pretty’s real. i tore that page out and kept it in my glove box for three months.”

your jaw drops. “you—what?!”

“uh-huh. told myself if i ever met her, i’d marry her.”

you blink fast. “you’re lying.”

he shrugs. “maybe..but why would i?” and then he leans over, presses a kiss to your cheek. “either way, you’re mine now. magazine girl, house manager, whatever. all mine.”

you blush so hard your knees knock. you whisper, “you really think i was pretty?”

he grins, reaching out for you. “baby..you were and are so fuckin’ gorgeous.”'

❤︎ tags below

@rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @rafedaddy01 @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @bevstofu @wintercrows @emluvsuxo @rafestoothbrush @cadhlabear @st8rkey

[athenalvss]

DONT PLAY WITH ME ( Jason Todd! )

summary: Jason disappears for a couple of weeks and the Batfam needs reinforcements, when Jason finds out, he breaks into your house to talk about how much he dislikes your approach to Dick

category: jealous fwb

pairing: Jason todd x fem!reader

open request — batfam masterlist

"Since when do you work with Nightwing?" Jason asks, leaning against the window frame of your apartment as if he hadn't just barged in five seconds earlier.

You give him a look, not bothering to hide your annoyance. "Since someone decided to disappear for three weeks without a trace. Bruce needed help. And Dick called for backup."

Jason crosses his arms, his helmet dangling from his left hand. "Okay, my bad, I shouldn't go without telling you" he stays a few seconds in silence. "But he needed to call you for backup? Of all the vigilantes in Gotham... you?"

You look at him with a raised eyebrow. "What do you mean 'you'?"

"Nothing, just..." Jason clears his throat. "Dick has a history. He's a...how do I put it? too much friendly."

"Is this your weird way of saying you're jealous?"

"What? No!" he answers so quickly he almost stumbles over his own words. Jason looks at you as if you're being completely irrational. "I'm not jealous!"

You lean in a little closer, enjoying the discomfort on his face a little too much. How many times do you get to see the big Red Hood uncomfortable? You had to make the most of it. "So you wouldn't mind if I paired up with him again tomorrow, right?"

"Again?" he says, almost choking on his own words. "How many missions did you go on? One? Two?"

"Four, to be exact," you reply, with a sly smile. "Yesterday he even bought me a coffee."

Jason blinks and stares at you, his eyes wide, almost cartoonish. "You went on a date with him?"

"No. It was a hot drink. Which I needed. Because it was cold out there."

"Of course not, that almost counts as a date," he mutters, pacing around your living room like an angry cat. "How is it possible you'd change me for Dick? Only three weeks."

"You're being so silly and jealous."

"I'm not jealous," he repeats, but now he seems to be trying to convince himself.

You lean against the table and look at him with amusement. "If you're not jealous, then you won't mind if I return the favor tomorrow. Maybe I'll bring him some cookies, you know, those orange-flavored ones I cook."

Jason stops dead in his tracks. He regards you silently. Then, very seriously, he says, "I officially forbid you from make patrols with Dick Grayson, and especially from taking him those cookies. It's a line that must not be crossed. It's... intimate."

You can't help but burst out laughing. "Intimate?"

"Yes! Those are my cookies, only I try that recipe. That's already emotional territory."

You look at him, still laughing. You're usually the one making sarcastic comments, but right now, you're genuinely surprised by how dramatic he can be. "Oh my god," you mutter, bringing a hand to your forehead. "Since when did you get so ridiculously intense?"

"Since some overly friendly acrobat is trying to steal my patrol partner" he growls, not looking at you directly.

"Your patrol partner?"

Jason blinks. "Technically you are, I met you first."

You take a step towards him, crossing your arms, and stare into his eyes with a playful sparkle. "And that's all I am to you?" You pouted.

He gives you one of those looks he uses to intimidate criminals. But his cheeks are still a little red from the heat of the situation. "Don't play with me darling."

You smile, with no intention of stopping. "What if I do want to play?"

Jason steps a little closer, so close you can see every shadow in his eyes, and his voice lowers a little, deeper, softer. "Then brace yourself, because I don't play fair."

[sirfrogsworth]

So Elon has decided to skip the imminent disaster of global climate change and just move on to a calamity 5 billion years in the future.

If you ever need to understand Elon's motivations, it's all this.

Okay and a little bit the woke mind virus.

But mostly this.

He wants to get to Mars more than anything. It's why the only thing he can speak intelligently about is his rockets. He has put in the time and effort to learn about them because this is his singular passion.

A lovely Youtube physicist did a video about SpaceX and she said half of the rockets blow up and Elon just wants more money. And it was disappointing to hear her say that because she is a scientist and both things are inaccurate.

SpaceX would be an amazing company without Elon. His leadership is the only thing really holding it back. They have put lots of cool shit into space. Their Falcon program is the most productive and cheapest rocket program in history. They put more stuff into space than everyone else combined.

They had to blow up part of the graph just so you could see the competition. Half of the SpaceX rockets are *not* blowing up.

Starship is a specific prototype. It has nothing to do with their main rocket business. Starship is Elon wanting to go to Mars. It is basically him trying to send a 3 story building into space. And he keeps blowing it up because that is the fastest way to develop a rocket. He's wasting a lot of money by trying to speedrun a trip to Mars in his lifetime. And these tests are bit more like crash test data than expecting the rocket and Starship to actually function properly. It's a process and they have goals for each launch, and for the most part, they reach those goals. Any success after those goals is gravy to them. But they are pretty certain it is going to end in fireworks at this stage of development.

I don't know if they will get it to work. It would be nice because a functional spaceship that size could do a lot of cool science. But Elon's goals and NASA's goals are going to conflict in a major way at some point in the future. And I'm worried that may damage space exploration.

Starship is very different than their Falcon program. It's a science experiment. Falcons rarely blow up. They get shit to space like the James Webb telescope.

And as far as Elon just wanting more money... sort of.

His personal wealth has not been a huge concern of his for a while. Otherwise he wouldn't have let Tesla fall apart like it has. The wealth he is actually concerned about is not his own. Going to Mars is a trillion-dollar-plus endeavor. Even the richest man in the world cannot raise that much money.

Only a government could fund that.

Elon knows this. He figured it out a while ago. And when he saw an opportunity to get his hands on the government purse strings, he jumped at the chance.

He jumped in the shape of an X like a giant loser.

I'm *positive* Elon thought, "If I could save the government a trillion dollars, they'll give it to me so I can go to Mars."

But it is probably breaking his brain right now after learning he isn't this super genius who can figure out government bureaucracy in a weekend with a bunch of coding dorks.

He got depressed and realized his cool plan to get to Mars was falling apart.

Whoops.

Elon will say anything to get to Mars. He will lie about anything to get to Mars. He will consort with anyone to get to Mars. If you are ever unsure why Elon is doing something, it's to get to Mars. His moral calculus is based on this. In his delusional mind, everything is justifiable to save the human race.

He does have side quests. He wants to repopulate the Earth with his seed. And he uses IVF because you can drastically increase the odds of getting a boy if you pay extra. And he is angry at his trans daughter because he wants boys to continue his mission to spread Musk seed. He spends $50,000 extra to make sure he gets boys and she is messing with the plan.

Oh, and he really really wants people to think he is good at video games. And he wants people to like him. And he wants to kill the woke mind virus because he didn't get the boy he paid for.

But Mars is *almost* all he cares about.

Elon thinks Earth is doomed and he wants immortality from being the man who saved human civilization. He truly believes our existence is dependent on being "multiplanetary." It might be the only thing he believes.

Saving the human race is supposed to be his legacy.

And it is killing us.

[bjlipss]

— bug, part ii.

contents: college!sukuna x weird!reader. weird as in just odd and confusing behaviour but nonetheless cute, nothing pervy-weird. reader wears glasses because yes. really awkward and silly hehe

part i <- part ii -> part iii

day 2.

he figures it’s a one-time thing.

a glitch in the matrix. some weird campus cryptid latched onto him for ten minutes and then slithered back into whatever art building crawlspace you crawled out of.

he doesn’t even think about you again. not really.

not until the next afternoon.

he’s cutting across the east courtyard this time. earbuds in. hoodie up. gym bag slung over his shoulder like a threat. the sun’s too bright, his hangover’s kicking in, and someone spilled smoothie on the locker room bench this morning—so now his favorite hoodie smells like artificial strawberries and spite.

he’s halfway to the library steps, scowl already locked and loaded, when he hears it.

that same soft, off-key hum. buggy and breathy, like it’s being piped through a tin can.

he stops mid-step, completely still.

his playlist fades under the sound, like the world’s being tuned to your specific radio frequency.

no way. no fucking way.

slowly—too slowly, like a man turning to face a monster in a horror movie—he cranes his neck.

and there you are.

sitting under the big oak tree like it’s a throne made just for you.

same enormous sweatshirt swallowing your frame. same huge glasses slipping down your nose. bandaid still on your neck, but now there’s a little cartoon worm doodled on it in purple pen. legs swinging rhythmically like a little kid at the doctor’s office. there’s a juice box next to you—grape, he thinks—and you’re peeling a banana in slow motion. reverent.

you’re also staring directly at him.

unblinking.

he blinks once. then again.

you tilt your head.

he scowls.

“…are you fucking stalking me?”

“no,” you chirp, like this is a completely reasonable situation. “you’re just really easy to find.”

you tap your temple. “i have a sukuna sense.”

his jaw flexes. he’s genuinely not sure if you’re kidding or if you’ve genuinely installed some sort of psychic sukuna-tracker in your skull.

“stop saying weird shit.”

you pat the space next to you on the bench. casual. like this is a sitcom and you’re inviting your reluctant co-star to deliver his lines.

he doesn’t move. just glares.

you pat it again.

smile wider this time. not creepy—just patient. like you’re confident he’ll get tired eventually and choose to be around you.

“you’re not my friend,” he mutters.

“yet,” you say cheerfully, and punctuate it with a loud slurp from your juice box.

he stares at you like you’re an invasive species.

then snorts, half in disbelief, and stomps off without another word.

he doesn’t look back, not even once.

but the weird thing is—he’s not as annoyed as he should be.

day 3.

he’s at his locker. post-lift. sore, sweaty, halfway dead. earbuds in, head down. all he wants is a protein bar and a goddamn nap.

he spins the dial, opens the door—

—and three red skittles roll out and clatter onto the floor.

he freezes.

so do the guys around him.

one of them snorts. another mutters, “yo, what the hell?”

but sukuna doesn’t move. just stares at the skittles like they’re a warning. or a bomb.

he crouches, picks one up between his thumb and forefinger. there’s a tiny smiley face drawn on it in ink. the lines are a little shaky. probably drawn in a rush.

he grits his teeth. he doesn’t even like candy.

he glances down the hallway instinctively. doesn’t see you. doesn’t hear you. but something in the air feels off. staticky.

he tosses the skittle into his bag and slams the locker shut a little harder than necessary.

the next two he keeps in his palm.

he doesn’t know why.

day 4.

today he changes his route entirely. cuts around the humanities building. skirts the edge of the quad like it’s lava. ditches his usual corner table at the library and slinks into the back of the dining hall, behind a dusty fake ficus that smells like cheap plastic and desperation.

finally. finally.

no bug. no hum. no weird banana rituals or unsolicited commentary.

he grabs a tray, sits down, and pulls out his phone. opens it to scroll aimlessly. silence surrounds him.

for thirty blissful seconds.

then—

“hi.”

he flinches. audibly. jerks his head up so fast he nearly knocks over his drink.

you’re standing in front of him.

holding a tupperware container. it has a sticker on the lid that says “this is NOT poison” with a smiley face next to it.

“…how the fuck do you keep finding me?”

you blink innocently. “i told you. sukuna sense.”

he glares. “you are not funny.”

you shrug. “not trying to be.”

you pop the lid open and hold it out. inside: a peanut butter sandwich. no crusts. cut into the shape of a bat. it’s kind of ugly, if he’s honest, but also strangely… deliberate.

“it’s a snackrifice,” you say. “in exchange for your continued tolerance.”

he opens his mouth. ready to tell you to take it and leave. to stop harassing him. to go find a new person to haunt.

but the crusts are cut off and it smells kinda good.

he snatches it from your hands like a feral raccoon and mutters, “you’re so fucking weird.”

you beam and plop down across from him. he doesn’t kick you out. he eats the sandwich in silence.

day 5.

he gets to class early. because he has to. he’s not going to sit in the back like some loser just because you’ve wormed your way into his territory.

but when he walks in—you’re already in his seat.

you’re humming. chewing on a pen labeled penjamin in sparkly marker.

there’s a tiny paper crane perched next to your notes. it has googly eyes stuck on it and what looks like a cape made from a gum wrapper.

he stops in the aisle. glares at you. hard.

you look up. blink once.

and then calmly pat the seat beside you.

he stares. you pat again.

he makes a low sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, and drops his bag onto the floor with a thud.

sits beside you.

you don’t say anything. just grin like a cat who’s claimed a sunbeam. your knee bumps his under the table.

he tells himself not to react.

he fails.

day 6.

you don’t show up.

he notices immediately. not consciously—but something feels off. like the sound in the world is too clear. too unbothered.

he walks across the courtyard. eyes skim the oak tree. it’s empty. the bench is cold.

he tells himself that’s good. peaceful.

but then he lingers by the vending machines. glances around the quad. checks his locker twice.

finally, right before his next class, he opens the locker again.

and finds it.

a sticky note, crooked and half-folded, clinging to the inside wall. your handwriting is messy and weirdly round:

can’t bug you today. sick. dying probably. rip me. save me a seat. ps: don’t eat skittles from strangers. except me. i’m trustworthy.

underneath is a tiny doodle of a skull with glasses. and… a cape?

he stares at it for a long moment.

then slowly, carefully, peels it off and folds it into his hoodie pocket.

his hand stays there longer than it needs to. just in case.

—

after that, he doesn’t try to shake you anymore.

he eats lunch on the quad, and you’re there.

he waits for practice in the locker room hallway, and you’re there, too.

you show up like bad weather. like background noise.

but weirdly… you’re quiet.

you don’t talk unless you want to. you don’t interrupt or cling. you don’t demand anything from him.

you just exist beside him.

chewing on pens. humming under your breath. sometimes reading a book upside down, like that’s normal. you wear socks with frogs on them and have a bandaid on your hand even when you’re not bleeding.

you remind him of static electricity. of flickering lights. of a broken clock that’s still somehow right twice a day.

you make his eye twitch.

and yet—

every time he glares at you, and you smile back like he’s just being so funny, something in his chest stirs. something small and stupid. something flickering like a lighter on its last spark.

he tells himself he hates it.

he hates you.

but he doesn’t tell you to leave anymore.

and that’s how he knows he’s fucked.

[syrecjh]

─★°🦋⋆ For You, He'd Say It

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

Lunch tasted different without you.

Not because the food changed—same bento, same spice, same everything—but because you weren’t there, waving your chopsticks at him like drumsticks and teasing, "You ever eat anything that doesn’t burn your mouth?”

He’d grunt. You’d laugh. He’d shove his leftover karaage your way and act like he didn’t care when you took it.

But today, your seat stayed empty.

You sat with Midoriya’s group across the room, laughing too loudly at a joke he didn’t hear—and didn’t care to. You didn’t even glance his way.

And Bakugo felt it.

He felt the absence like a weight pressing into his side.

Usually, you were the one who got there first. Usually, you were the one talking. Usually, he was the one pretending not to listen.

But not today.

Bakugo didn’t need to retrace what happened that morning. He already knew. During training, he’d been sharp—not in the good way. You’d offered him advice, something small, something he should’ve brushed off. Instead, he snapped. Not loud, not cruel—just clipped and cold.

You’d blinked. Nodded. Walked off.

And now, here he was, surrounded with his friends, the bakusquad yet he feel alone with food that didn’t taste like anything.

Everyone around him must’ve assumed he was sulking over a failed move or a missed target.

But this?

This wasn’t about training.

When the bell rang, he didn’t move, he stayed behind. He didn’t go with the group. He waited. Just sat there, elbows on the table, staring at a lunch that hadn’t been touched. Eventually, he stood up and stuffed his hands in his pockets, shoulders squared like he was heading into battle.

You stayed back to clean up. Slow, silent. The wrappers crinkled in your hands as you tossed them into the trash.

He walked over, stopped just a step away. Not too close. But not far enough to be mistaken.

“…You mad at me?” His voice was low, cautious.

You didn’t jump. Just glanced at him, unreadable. “What?”

“You didn’t sit with me.”

You blinked once, then shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”

His jaw twitched. “Tch.” He looked to the side, fingers curling in his pocket. “I know I was an ass earlier.”

You didn’t reply.

“I shouldn’t’ve snapped,” he added, quieter. “You were just tryin’ to help. I was already pissed and I took it out on you.”

Still nothing.

So he shifted, glanced at you again, and then—finally—spoke the words like they had weight.

“…I’m sorry.”

You froze. For a second, the world did too.

“…What?”

“I said I’m sorry, dammit.” His voice cracked on the edges, but not with volume—just honesty.

The breeze picked up. He tugged at his sleeve again. Something to do with his hands.

“I suck at this kinda thing,” he muttered. “You know that. But I don’t want you thinkin’ I don’t care. ‘Cause I do. I care a hell of a lot.”

That’s when your shoulders dropped. Just slightly. Like you’d been holding up a wall, and it finally gave out.

“I’m not mad,” you said quietly. “Just hurt.”

He nodded. Once. “Yeah. I get it.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder—not dramatic, not romantic. Just… real.

And it knocked the air right out of him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second.

Then he relaxed.

Just a little.

You didn’t need some big apology. Didn’t need a scene.

You just needed him to see you.

And he did.

“So…” you murmured, voice lighter, “You gonna share your side dish tomorrow, or what?”

He huffed. Almost a laugh. “Not the spicy one. That’s mine.”

And that was that.

Bakugo doesn’t apologize often.

But when he does, it’s because he means every damn word.

[7-wonders]

Seeing Ghosts

Dr. Jack Abbot x psychiatrist!reader (gender-neutral)

Summary: A case hits too close to home for you. Jack wants you to know you're not alone.

Word count: 1.9k

A note from the author: "I'm just going to write a little blurb," I say to myself. "Fucking liar!" my laptop yells at me.

I don't even know what I'm doing with this but I'm watching The Pitt and cannot get this old man out of my head! If you're reading this, I sincerely hope you enjoy!

Content warning: Mentions of suicidal thoughts

You’re on night rotations for the first time in years, taking over for Dr. Gibbons who’s out on paternity leave. Night shift has been kind to you with a fairly easy workload as your body gets adjusted to a completely opposite sleep-wake schedule, but tonight, you’re called down to the ER for a 5150. 20 y/o male, brought to the ER after his roommate found him with cuts to his wrists. He's crying as his wrists are tended to, so sure that some unseen entity is on the phone with Pitt's admissions office right now to get his scholarships revoked.

You recognize him, this young overachiever who has the weight of the world on his shoulders for no real reason other than that he feels it will all collapse if he's not the one to hold it up. Not because you've met him before. You recognize him because, at one point in time, he was you.

One of your favorite parts about your job is getting to truly connect with your patients, and you feel that one of the best ways to do that is by meeting them at their level. Sitting next to them, giving them your first name and insisting they call you by that, and, if they allow for it, holding their hands. You catch a fair amount of shit for it from other doctors (mainly those for whom psychiatry isn't their specialty), but there's a reason why your patient satisfaction scores are so high. You know what you're doing, and you know how to accomplish a positive outcome, so when Shaun Gold takes your outstretched hand, you know you've got an in.

“I understand, that you feel like you’re alone in how you’re feeling right now. But can I tell you a secret?" He nods, and you tighten your grip on his hand. "You're not alone. So many people have felt the exact same way. I have felt the exact same way."

"You have?" Shaun's face opens up at this revelation, seeing in front of him a successful (-ish) doctor who's also battled the lowest of the lows.

"Yep. And I'm not here to tell you that I never feel the way I did then anymore, because I would be lying to you. But I have the right skills now to help me combat those feelings. Therapy, and coping tools, and medication. That's what I'm trying to do for you here. Give you the proper skills so that you can be the best possible version of yourself. And maybe one day, you'll be in my position, helping to give hope to somebody who needs it. So?" You squeeze his hand, smiling when he squeezes back. "Can we help you?"

Shaun agrees, and you get him safely transferred up to your ward with a schedule laid out and a promise that you'll be back in an hour. A favorable outcome, which is all that one can ask for in this career. But it doesn't change the heaviness in your chest, which continues to press down on you even after you're back down in the ER to discuss potential care plans with Ellis. Throwing yourself back into work is normally your trick to get your mind off of a tough case—it's not the healthiest coping mechanism, but mental health is nothing if not a balancing act—and you're left searching for relief. Where's a physician to go when everything feels a little too...much? Your fellow dayshifter clued you in on just the place.

The roof of PTMC is quiet at this time of night, no incoming or outgoing medical flights interrupting your stolen moment of peace. Almost immediately, you can see why Robby finds so much comfort in being up here. Leaning against the railing, having the cool breeze on your face and watching cars crawl through the streets of Pittsburgh like ants in an ant farm...it may not comfort you, exactly, but it does help to calm you down enough that you can focus on the things you would tell a patient in your position to do: deep breathing and grounding.

From behind you comes the sound of the rooftop door opening and closing and your slow exhale turns into a harsh sigh, assuming that it's some medical student coming to find you about a drunk experiencing hallucinations. Do people not remember how to use a pager anymore?

"Fancy seeing you up here." You'd be able to pick Jack Abbot's voice out of a crowd of hundreds, and it's no different now when he's standing behind you. Your shoulders, which you hadn't realized tensed up at the threat of being pulled back to work before you're ready, loosen up almost immediately.

It was naive of you to think that Jack wouldn't have picked up on anything out of the ordinary in any of the doctors on the clock tonight. He and Robby are two of the best ER attendings in the state for many reasons, but the way that they look out for those on their teams is one of them. Ellis probably snitched, you think, before realizing that you're not giving Jack nearly enough credit for his intuitiveness.

"I've heard so much about this 'trick' from Robby, figured now was the perfect time to try it out. Sorry to steal your hiding spot," you call out, keeping your eyes focused on the lights of PNC Park in the distance.

"I'm not going to ask you if you're alright, because god knows I would hate if someone came up here, interrupted my moment of peace, and asked the same." You can't help the smile that appears on your face. "But I am...here. Y'know, just in case you feel like talking."

You recognize this language, and it makes you chuckle. "Who's the psychiatrist here?"

"Not me, thankfully."

"Saw a ghost downstairs," you supply, still staring determinedly ahead. "I'm pretty good at compartmentalizing, at separating my work life from my personal life. But every so often, a certain case comes in that just...hits too close to home."

"I completely understand."

What Jack doesn't tell you is that, the moment you saw your ghost in that student, he saw his own ghost in you. He often hears negative feedback from those in the ivory tower about how he could stand to be a little more caring to, well, everybody. Though Robby hosts some of the worst patient reviews, he has more than a few of his own.

But who the hospital administration hears from is the bad seeds. Drunk idiots, antivaxxer mothers, bigots who think they can get away with snide comments to members of the staff—the types of people for whom complaining is in their blood. They're more than happy to fill out the survey provided to them with their discharge instructions, flaming everything and everything about the hospital—but especially about Dr. Abbot, who has been called anything from "gruff and unapproachable" to "a raging asshole."

He doesn't do this for them, though. He does it for the people that can actually benefit from his help, those who likely won't fill out a survey. The young parent frantically making sure that every test and procedure for their sick child is covered by Medicaid before consenting. The unhoused man being treated on his fingers for frostbite (and who will find a warm, sturdy pair of gloves tucked with his discharge paperwork).

The veteran fresh off a tour of duty and having her first real bout of PTSD.

You found yourself caught off guard by how close you felt to this case, and in that moment, he saw himself in you.

"I've been that student before—still am, sometimes," you admit quietly, knowing Jack will still hear it. "I was always too scared of what would happen to me if people found out I was feeling this way. I was sure that I'd be judged by everyone, but especially by doctors. I had no reason to feel that way, of course, but I didn't know any better at the time. I think that's why this case got to me; I needed him to hear me, to know for certain that he wasn't alone in his feelings and that he had friends in those who would be taking care of him."

Jack's silent, but you know that's not a bad thing. When he finally speaks, his voice is closer than it was when he first joined you on the roof. "I think that's what distinguishes good doctors from great doctors. Good doctors study hard, perform quality work, and genuinely care for their patients. But the great doctors are those who allow their experiences to fuel them. Who go through pain, or heartbreak, or grief, and use those feelings to guide their work and how they treat those that come under their care. And you, my friend, are a damn great doctor."

"Thanks, Jack." You don't say what you want to, which is that he's describing himself, too. The man's trying to teach a lesson, after all, and you've seen his disdain when his lessons have been hijacked before.

"Got any plans after work?" he asks.

"Besides still trying to get used to working nights?"

He chuckles. "Can't help you there. But if you're not feeling like the walking dead come seven, I know a great diner in the area. We can share some more ghost stories, maybe. Only condition is that you can't divulge the location after we go, no matter how much you may want to sing its praises. I can't go having my favorite breakfast spot overrun by interns and residents, after all."

It's a good thing that you're still facing away from Jack, because you wouldn't be able to school your face to some neutral expression fast enough. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't carried a bit of a torch for Jack for a while—the kind of crush that's easy to sustain when you work opposite shifts and your interactions are in stolen five-minute interactions before your shift ends and his begins. If this were day shift, you know Dana would be teasing you endlessly and going on about the betting pool that's allegedly been steadily gaining money since you volunteered to temporarily move to nights.

("Garcia has twenty on you both being too chicken to make a move before Gibbons returns from paternity leave," Dana whispered to you last week when she was supposed to be giving you a status update on the Kraken before clocking out for the night. "Don't give her a win."

"I don't know what you're talking about," you claimed, cheeks burning as you focused on reading from the tablet in your hands.)

"Let me guess, the VFW?" you tease.

"Nah, their pancakes suck."

On your next exhale, when the heaviness in your chest seems to have finally abated, you turn around to face Jack. He's closer than you thought he would be, a couple of feet away at most. Close enough that you can see the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles at you. "Alright, we can go to your super secret breakfast spot. But I'm expecting world-class waffles, deal?"

"Deal."

When Jack wraps an arm around your shoulders in a loose hug, he doesn't put it down again until right before the elevator doors open on the ER. You don't mind in the slightest.

[wosospacegirl]

Head over heels - Ingrid Engen

Summary: 4 times Ingrid and Y/n almost confessed their feelings, and 1 time when they actually did.

Word count: 3.6k

This is part of my 1k commemoration blurb! <3

Masterlist

..

1. The beginning.

Y/n didn’t imagine she’d end up as Ingrid Engen’s neighbour when she first signed up to teach the U12 girls at La Masia. 

In fact, she hadn’t expected much of anything—just another job, a few classes, maybe some peace and quiet.

She definitely hadn’t expected to form a friendship with Ingrid.

Y/n knew nothing about football. She didn’t keep up with it, didn’t even know who Ingrid Engen was.

That changed the day she casually mentioned Ingrid’s name in class, and the girls let out the highest-pitched scream she had ever heard.

That’s when she learned Ingrid Engen was royalty.

Both in Barcelona and Norway.

Although, honestly, it didn’t look like it. Not when Ingrid had shown up at her doorstep with a bag of fresh cookies, introducing herself and welcoming Y/n to the building with a shy smile. 

Not when her washing machine broke and she had to use Y/n’s for a week, leaving behind her weird Norwegian detergent that smelled like pine trees.

Ingrid was nice. Kind of awkward, really pretty, and... normal.

Y/n liked that.

It was one of those nights that felt like it would never end.

The streets outside were quiet, and the soft hum of the city was the only sound drifting in through the open window of Ingrid’s apartment.

Y/n sat on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, and Ingrid was sprawled across the floor, head resting on a pillow.

They had spent hours talking about Y/n’s class, Ingrid’s training—like they always did. But tonight, something felt different.

There was something quieter between them, heavier.

Not uncomfortable, just… lingering.

Ingrid could feel it in the way her pulse sped up every time Y/n laughed a little too loudly, her entire face glowing like it didn’t even know how to hold back.

“So, how are you feeling? You’ve got a game tomorrow, right? A big one?” Y/n asked, glancing over at her with the kind of attention that made Ingrid’s stomach twist.

Ingrid shrugged, trying to stay casual.

“Hmm, yeah. It’s the last game of the league.” She paused, and her voice dropped a little. “It's kind of a big deal.”

Y/n nodded slowly, her eyes still on Ingrid.

They had been friends for a few months now, but every time their gazes held like this, it felt like something was shifting. 

Like something was almost—almost on the verge of being said.

Ingrid wondered, just for a second, if Y/n felt it too, if maybe she was about to say something important.

Something real.

But the moment passed.

“You’ll have a good game, I know it,” Y/n said eventually, her voice light. “The kids keep telling me to remind you to close the end on your right, though.”

Ingrid huffed a quiet laugh, her smile soft. “Tell the girls I'll put it into the plan.”

2. The Café

It was one of their usual spots—a quiet café tucked between a bakery and a bookstore, with uneven chairs and coffee that always came a little too hot or a little too cold.

Y/n sat across from Ingrid, halfway through her drink and animatedly retelling her day, hands moving with each sentence.

“So, how are the kids?” Ingrid asked, her chin propped on her hand, watching Y/n with a soft smile.

Y/n leaned back in her chair, sipping from her mug.

“Unhinged, mostly,” she said, grinning. “But there’s this one girl...Selena she’s ten. She’s already convinced she’s going to be Spain’s next starting goalkeeper.”

Ingrid raised a brow, amused. “I’ll tell Cata she’s got competition.”

“No, listen,” Y/n said, leaning forward like she was about to reveal a secret. “She caught a paper ball someone threw at her from across the room. Without looking. Mid-lesson. Didn’t even flinch.”

Ingrid laughed, eyes lighting up. “Alright, I’m sold. Sign her up.”

Y/n smiled at that, her gaze lingering a second too long. “She reminds me of you a little.”

Ingrid tilted her head, eyebrow raised. “Because I catch rogue paper balls? I’m sorry, I know you’re not that good at football, but I’m a defender.”

Y/n snorted, ignoring Ingrid’s last statement. “Because she’s confident. And calm. And kind of annoyingly good at everything.”

There was a pause.

Not awkward, exactly—just quiet.

Ingrid looked at her for a second longer than necessary, and Y/n suddenly realised how close they were sitting. 

The café buzzed faintly around them, but the warmth between them made everything else feel muted.

“Also,” Y/n added, teasing, “she told me she thinks your hair is cool. So, you know. Icon status or whatever....”

Ingrid’s smile curled up at the corners, soft and amused. “Well, I try.”

The silence lingered again.

Ingrid opened her mouth like she might say something else, but Y/n reached for her cup too fast, nearly knocking it over.

“Okay, I definitely don’t need more caffeine,” she said with a laugh, cheeks warm.

Ingrid let the moment pass, though something flickered in her eyes. “Shame. You’re cute when you’re over-caffeinated.”

Y/n pretended not to hear it, not knowing how to deal with it,

 “So, uh, what about you?” Y/n asked, trying to change the subject, her voice just a little too sharp. “How’s the prep for the next match going?”

Ingrid noticed the shift, but instead of pushing, she smiled softly, settling back in her chair. “Busy, but good. Same old routine.” 

Ingrid paused, eyes glinting mischievously.

“I’m just hoping no one decides to challenge me for my position as ‘most intimidating defender.’”

Y/n’s chuckle was softer this time. “Guess you’re pretty safe there, huh?”

Ingrid leaned a bit closer, her smile widening. “For now. But you never know... I might need a backup.”

Y/n swallowed, a little embarrassed by how quickly her heartbeat picked up at the thought of that proximity. “I don’t think I’m cut out for being a defender. I can barely keep my coffee from spilling, remember?”

Ingrid’s laughter softened the tension, but Y/n could feel it lingering between them...something new.

3. The Goodbye

The afternoon light filtered softly through the windows, casting a warm glow across Ingrid’s living room. 

Y/n stood by the open suitcase, folding Ingrid’s clothes as neatly as she could, trying not to look too closely at the other woman. 

Ingrid was busy rifling through a drawer, clearly searching for her shins, her expression focused and a little frantic as she threw things from one corner of her room to the other.

Y/n’s eyes lingered on the clothes she was folding, Ingrid’s shirts, her sweatpants, all items that had become so familiar to her over the past few months. 

She let out a quiet sigh.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t been around when Ingrid went off to camp before, but this time... it was different.

Ingrid was leaving for Norway’s national camp, and Y/n was unsure of how to navigate it.

She had never had to deal with this before—this feeling of missing someone who wasn’t... quite hers.

“So..." Y/n started, trying to make small talk, anything to distract herself from the tightening feeling in her chest.

“How does camp work, exactly? I know you’ve told me a bit, but like, what’s the routine? Is it much different from here?”

Ingrid’s voice drifted over to Y/n as she continued to dig through her drawers. 

“It’s pretty much the same as Barcelona. Training, recovery, more training, meetings... But with Norway, everyone’s Norwegian,” she said with a little chuckle, glancing over her shoulder to catch Y/n’s eye. “Oh, and we don’t actually leave the training facility. It’s more intense, too.”

Y/n nodded slowly, but she couldn’t hide the frown that tugged at her lips. It wasn’t jealousy…no! She wasn’t jealous. Ingrid was just... going away. 

To play football. To represent her country. This was good. This was important. 

Still, a tight feeling formed in her chest as she folded one of Ingrid’s sweaters.

Ingrid caught the frown, her gaze softening as she walked over, finding her shins and tossing them on the bed.

“Hey,” she said gently. “It’s just a week. You’ll be fine, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Y/n muttered, clearly lying.

She didn’t want to admit that the thought of Ingrid being gone for an entire week made her stomach churn, even though she couldn’t exactly explain why. 

They were just friends, right? Neighbors.

She didn’t need Ingrid around—she was perfectly capable of being alone for a while.

But the idea of not seeing her... of not having those quiet nights, those easy conversations that stretched into hours, made her feel like something important was going to be missing.

Ingrid stopped and looked at Y/n for a long moment, noticing the way she stood there with her arms folded tightly, her eyes cast downward. 

“Y/n,” she said softly, her voice full of warmth. “You’re gonna be fine. It’s just a week. You’ll barely even notice I’m gone.”

Y/n hesitated, but finally, she spoke. 

“They’ll miss you,” Y/n blurted out, not thinking. “The girls, I mean. They always ask about you. I always tell them about the things we talk about. “

Y/n paused, but contineudm feeling a little embarrassed, her face growing warm. “They won’t have any Ingrid content for a week.”

Ingrid blinked, and then her lips curved into a smile.

“You tell them I’ll miss them too,” she said, her voice soft but teasing. “I’m sure they’re all heartbroken without me.”

Y/n chuckled, but it felt a little hollow in her chest. She nodded, feeling her heart race for no reason at all. 

The silence settled between them, but Y/n didn’t mind. She was used to this comfortable quiet with Ingrid. 

Still, it didn’t stop the ache that continued to build inside her as Ingrid moved around the room, packing the final bits into her suitcase.

As Ingrid was finishing up, she grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair, ready to go. 

“I’ll call you when I get there, okay?” Ingrid said, glancing over her shoulder. “And I’ll bring you more chocolate, obviously.” She smiled, and Y/n tried to ignore how much that smile made her chest tighten.

“Yeah, okay,” Y/n replied, smiling weakly. “Take care of yourself. Don’t get too caught up in...football stuff, alright?”

Ingrid rolled her eyes playfully. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. I won’t get hit by too many balls.”

Y/n’s lips quirked up. “You better not.”

Ingrid winked at her as she slung her bag over her shoulder. 

“Thanks for helping me pack. And for the good luck charm, obviously.” She gave her a teasing grin. “Maybe next time we can actually work out a football tactic for you.”

Y/n laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll stick to the cheering–and–teaching section for now.”

“Fair enough,” Ingrid said with a shrug, then hesitated for a moment before walking over and pulling Y/n into a quick hug. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered into Y/n’s ear.

Y/n froze, her heart skipping a beat.

She wanted to say something, but the words stuck in her throat.

Instead, she just squeezed Ingrid back, holding onto her for a little longer than maybe she should have.

“I’ll miss you too,” Y/n said, her voice quiet but sincere.

And with that, Ingrid was gone, her presence lingering in the air long after she left, and Y/n stood in the empty apartment, feeling a little less like herself than before.

..

When Ingrid came back from her trip, Y/n found herself unexpectedly waiting for her. The week had felt much longer than it was. 

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but when Ingrid finally showed up at her door, a huge smile on her face and a bag in her hand, Y/n felt something settle in her chest.

“I brought you something,” Ingrid said, holding out the bag with a small grin. “Norwegian chocolate, as promised.”

Y/n smiled, her heart lifting at the gesture. “Kremtopper,” she said, recognising the name on the packaging from the searches she did on the internet. “Thank you!”

“Welcome” Ingrid said softly, a knowing look in her eyes as she handed her the chocolate. “And I brought something for the girls, too. More chocolate...you’ll have to share.”

Y/n smiled more brightly, taking the bag from Ingrid’s hand. “I’ll share with them, don’t worry. But... only because you brought me something sweet.” She looked up at Ingrid, eyes soft. “How was the camp?”

“It was good,” Ingrid replied, but her voice held a small, almost wistful quality. “But I’m glad to be home. I missed our talks.”

Y/n’s heart swelled at that. “Yeah,” she said quietly, “me too.”

And there it was again, the familiar, comfortable silence. But this time, it felt different. It felt like something more.

4. The Stupid Misunderstanding

Y/n woke up to the soft hum of her phone alarm, groggily rubbing her eyes before pushing the blankets away.

Her first thought was of Ingrid—of course. 

They had a little routine, one that was comfortable and familiar.

Whoever woke up first in the morning went to the other’s apartment to make breakfast. 

Y/n stretched and threw on her robe, slipping her feet into her slippers. She walked down the short hallway and knocked on Ingrid’s door, as she always did.

No answer.

She waited, but the usual sound of Ingrid humming in the kitchen didn’t come.

Y/n shrugged it off, knocking once more.

But then, the door opened, and Y/n’s eyes widened in surprise.

A girl, a random girl Y/n didn’t recognise, walked briskly out of Ingrid’s apartment, right by her side. 

The girl was wearing a Barça jacket, she stepped into the elevator, and Y/n felt something in her chest that she didn’t quite understand.

She frowned. Had she missed something? The girls from the team were always in and out of Ingrid’s place, but the girl was most definitely not from the team.

Y/n stood frozen, unsure of what to do next.

Ingrid appeared at the door then, beaming as she waved the girl off. “Bye, Michelle. It was great!”

Y/n’s gaze snapped up to Ingrid. 

She was so casual about it, like there was nothing unusual in the situation. 

Ingrid didn’t even seem to notice the way Y/n’s jaw had clenched, the surprise and maybe a little hurt bubbling in her chest.

Ingrid’s smile faltered for just a moment when she noticed Y/n standing there, but it quickly returned. 

“Oh! Y/n, you’re early,” Ingrid said, her tone light, not catching the tension that was growing between them.

Y/n couldn’t hide the anger building in her.

She had to say something, but she didn’t know what.

“Michelle?” Y/n asked, her voice tight. “You didn’t tell me you had company this morning.”

Ingrid opened the door wider, clearly oblivious to Y/n’s frustration. “Yeah, she slept here because–”

Y/n swallowed, trying to keep her tone steady. “Oh, right. She slept here.”

Ingrid nodded, completely unbothered. 

“Yup... slept here. We had some coffee, I made breakfast.” She gestured toward the kitchen, oblivious to the growing distance between them. “Come on in, I made extra for you and me. Still some left if you want.”

Y/n’s hands tightened into fists, frustration bubbling over.

Without thinking, she turned on her heel and walked back down the hall, slamming her door shut with more force than she intended.

Ingrid hurried after her, her voice softening with concern. “Y/n?”

But Y/n didn’t stop.

She heard Ingrid knocking softly on her door, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she threw herself onto her bed, burying her face in the pillow and letting the tears come—tears of anger, confusion, and the hurt she didn’t know how to voice.

Minutes passed before Y/n finally pulled herself together. 

She couldn’t let her emotions control her, especially not when she had to teach twenty girls math that morning.

She quickly got dressed, throwing on a sweater and jeans, and left for La Masia, trying to push everything out of her mind.

She was halfway through her class when her phone buzzed. It was Ingrid. But Y/n ignored it.

By the time the school day ended, she was exhausted and emotionally drained. She was just walking down the hallway to her apartment when she saw it—a bouquet of flowers sitting on her doorstep.

Y/n knelt down to read the small note attached:

“Michelle’s Patri’s sibling. She asked me to give her a place to stay while her apartment is being renovated. PS: I’m pretty sure she’s straight.”

Y/n blinked, her chest tightening in embarrassment as the realisation hit her: she had completely overreacted. 

She had let her insecurities get the best of her, jumping to conclusions about Ingrid’s friendship with Michelle.

Before she could process it any further, Ingrid’s voice came from behind her. 

“Y/n?” Ingrid’s soft voice held a note of uncertainty. “I made carrot cake... if you want some.”

Y/n’s face flushed with guilt. She turned around slowly, meeting Ingrid’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I--I was being dumb. I jumped to conclusions.”

Ingrid gave her a soft smile, shaking her head. “It’s okay. Honestly, I would’ve reacted the same way if it were you.” 

She reached forward, holding out the plate with the freshly baked cake. “Friends?”

Y/n smiled sheepishly and nodded. “Yeah. Friends.”

They stood in the hallway for a moment, neither of them saying anything. 

Y/n’s heart was still racing, but it was a different feeling now—a mix of relief and the quiet warmth of understanding between them.

Ingrid stepped into the apartment, and Y/n followed her inside.

The door clicked shut behind them as they sat down at the small kitchen table, cutting the carrot cake and laughing at the simplicity of the moment. 

No more misunderstandings. Just the two of them, the cake, and the quiet realisation that everything was okay.

5. The Confession 

Barcelona had just clinched the league title, and the team threw a private celebration at one of the club’s event spaces—no press, no fans, just players, staff, and a few invited friends. 

Y/n arrived in a simple silk dress, heart pounding from more than just the excitement of victory of the team.

She spotted Ingrid near the dance floor, laughing as she clinked glasses with Aitana and Alexia.

When Ingrid’s eyes met hers, she waved Y/n over with that dazzling, lopsided grin that sent butterflies crashing through Y/n’s chest.

Across the room, Alexia whooped, and Aitana held up a plate of patatas bravas.

A few of the players winked at Y/n’s direction as they passed. 

But Y/n’s eyes never left Ingrid’s, who beckoned her over with a grin that made Y/n feel all warm inside.

The DJ slid into the next song—a R&B track with a slow, pulsing beat. Ingrid extended her hand wordlessly. 

Y/n slipped her fingers into Ingrid’s, and they drifted to the small dance floor.

Beneath the gentle glow of overhead bulbs, tables of empty plates and glasses fell... It felt like it was just the two of them, two bodies swaying in perfect sync.

Ingrid’s hand settled at the small of Y/n’s back; Y/n’s other hand came to rest lightly on Ingrid’s hip. 

The thrum of the music echoed in Y/n’s chest, but the only rhythm she heard was her own heartbeat, speeding up as Ingrid leaned in. 

Warmth brushed Y/n’s ear as Ingrid spoke, her voice low, the tiniest tremor betraying nerves. “I have been waiting all night for this moment.”

Y/n’s breath caught. The air between them felt charged, as if the entire loft had hushed.

She met Ingrid’s gaze, searching the hazel depths for confirmation.

Then Ingrid asked—softly, tentatively—“Is it okay if I kiss you?”

Time stretched. Y/n’s mouth felt suddenly dry. 

The thumping of her pulse was louder than the bass. She nodded, her voice caught in her throat.

“Yes,” she managed, and her words flared in her ears. “Please.”

Ingrid’s lips found hers in a soft, searching kiss. 

First gentle—an exploration—then confident, as if they’d been practising for months. 

Glasses clinked in the background, but Y/n heard nothing but the rush of Ingrid’s breath and the warmth of her hands cradling Y/n’s face.

When they broke apart, Ingrid’s forehead rested against Y/n’s. Her voice was husky.

“I’ve wanted to do that ever since you moved in nexxt door.”

Y/n’s cheeks burned. 

She tucked a hand behind Ingrid’s neck, tracing the line of Ingrid’s jaw with her thumb.

“I’m glad you did. I’ve been head over heels for you, for what, seven months?”

Ingrid’s brow rose. “Seven months?”

Y/n laughed, the sound soft and breathy.

“Since the day you introduced yourself with those freshly baked cookies. But don’t let it go to your head.”.

Ingrid grinned, brushing a loose curl behind Y/n’s ear.,

“Too late.” She dipped her head and captured Y/n’s lips once more, more boldly this time, sealing their first real confession beneath the glow of victory lights and the away‑game hum of celebration.

..

a/n: if you read this far-- first of all, ily. second of all, feel free to let me know what you thought!

i love hearing your reactions, fav lines, or just general thoughts 🫶 it really makes my day <3

Tag list: @edensbreeze @silentwolfsstuff, @goodloe-e @mccabeskcc @blaugranafairy, @footy-lover264 @the-fandom-ness

[lightsoutmatthews]

auston matthews + you left this at mine for the 100 celly, please? 🥹 make it fluffy or angsty depending on your mood i don’t mind either way 🫶🏻

"You left this at mine" - Auston Matthews

summary: While cleaning your apartment you found something your ex-boyfriend left behind after you broke up. Now it is on you to decide what to do with it

pairing: Auston Matthews x female!reader

word count: 3.1k

warnings: none

authors note:

First post of the 100 followers celly!! Hope you enjoy!!

--------------------------------

The apartment was cold. Quiet. Too quiet.

Just a few short weeks ago it was filled with life. You boyfriend, now ex-boyfriend, spending time here whenever his schedule allowed. Bringing his dog, his sisters, sometimes teammates that became friends over the course of your relationship.

He always said he liked staying here because it was closer to the rink than his place. You never complained. Sleeping in your own bed something you preferred most nights even though the perfect mattress in his bed was more comfortable than anything you´ve ever laid on.

But all that was gone now.

His usual spot on the couch was occupied by nothing but the throw pillows that had always been there, the used mug he put in the sink each morning before he left for practice or morning responsibilities cleaned and put in the cupboard weeks ago. Untouched since.

It was like he was never here. At least not physically. The memories the two of you made in this living room, the kitchen, on the balcony and at the dining room table still lingered heavy in the air. Warm hugs that were shared, kisses, movie nights, teasing and laughter that was sometimes still ringing through your head.

The breakup came out of nowhere, or that´s what you were telling yourself. One day he came here from practice at Scotiabank Arena and just decided that he could not do it anymore. That he had to focus on his career right now, on being the captain while dealing with the fact that he would not be able to replicate the career season he had last year.

He also told you, you both changed. Your focus laid on different things than at the start of your relationship when he wasn’t captain, and you were still a student with no full-time job.

You understood, or at least you pretended you did. Secretly, behind closed doors, when no one could see you break, it was hard to deal with the suddenness. One day you were planning how to spend the off-season, and the next one you were alone. Heartbroken.

But at the same time, you couldn’t say that you didn’t see the signs. He became distant. Cold even. He spent less time at yours, hardly asking if you wanted to come to his.

Your relationship wasn’t all roses, you knew that, but the finality of all of it had claimed you weeks before the actual breakup happened. You just were too caught up in telling yourself otherwise while trying to hold onto something that wasn’t what it had been at the beginning for weeks now.

------------

It took you a week to initially recover, you had been together for almost two years after all. Then you got yourself up and moved on with your life. Or at least you tried to.

Memories clinging tight to you everywhere you looked. The lunch spots the two of you frequented that you passed every day on your way to work. His face plastered around the city. Scotiabank Arena. Everything reminded you of him.

And it got better. At first. But whenever you were reminded of what you had, of what you shared over the course of your relationship, your heart shattered into a million pieced all over again.

The expensive hoodie he forgot at your apartment when he took his things that night was draped over one of your dining room chairs. It served as a severe reminder of him the same way the memories did.

Ever since you found it a few days ago during a deep clean of your apartment you debated what you should do with it. You didn’t want to keep it; it was expensive after all, but you weren’t sure if you could muster up the courage to text him or worse, show up to his place to give it back.

So, it just hung there, day in and day out. Starring back at you whenever you walked through the open space of your apartment. Until it was enough, and you couldn’t bear the sight of it anymore.

You would be in his neighborhood for a client meeting tomorrow, stopping by and dropping it off wouldn’t hurt, right?

-------------

The next day passed in a blur, a coffee meeting with your supervisor in the morning, lunch with a few of your co-workers, the client meeting in the part of Toronto where Auston lived. Your clients, a nice elderly couple, unfortunately people who wanted to know every single thing down to the littlest detail, which kept you with them for much longer than you expected. Your anxiety about the evening raising with every passing minute.

The lady had even asked if you were alright at one point because you kept kneading your hands and brushing your hand through your hair in an attempt to calm yourself down.

The hoodie was stashed on the passenger seat of your car when you returned. The logo of a famous brand staring back at you just like it had every day while it was hanging in your dining room. The navy-blue color engraved into your brain.

His house looked like the last time you were here. Lights along the driveway lit. Auston´s Porsche sitting in front of the garage indicating he was home.

Your stomach clenched. The many times you drove up this driveway, alone or with him, coming back to you. One particular memory flashed through your brain. You came home from dinner at a really exclusive restaurant. Both dressed up to the nines. The maroon dress you chose, the black suit he wore. The night of passion that followed.

You swallowed it all down. Focusing on the task on hand. Delivering the hoodie, getting out of here as quickly as possible.

The lights in the living room on the first floor were on. Maybe he had people over, but the lack of cars in the driveway indicated otherwise. You hoped he hadn’t. As much as you liked his teammates, friends, there was no way you would do this with them present.

It took you five minutes and several deep breaths to finally press the doorbell. The material cold on your pointer finger, a stark contrast to the warmth of the hoodies soft material in your other hand.

You couldn’t remember the last time you rang. He had given you a key early on in the relationship. “To check on the plants” he said at first, but the lack of plants throughout the house always indicated otherwise.

A bark from the other side of the door ripped you from your thoughts.

Felix.

When the door opened the doodle excitedly jumped right into your arms. “Hey snuff,” you whispered as you softly petted the dog on his head. He didn’t know why you stopped showing up or why he stopped going to your apartment. He was just happy to see you again.

When you looked up Auston was staring down at you, eyebrows raised, shoulders tense. A backwards cap hiding his hair. It had always been a weakness of yours when he was wearing one.

For a beat neither of you said anything, both just staring. His brown eyes meeting yours before eyeing you up and down. It sent a shiver down your spine.

“Hey,” you breathed out when you finally mustered up the courage. “Hey,” he replied, quiet but firm. The hint of surprise and confusion in the single word wasn’t missed on you.

When you didn’t say anything for another few seconds, just continuing to pet Felix on his head, he cleared his throat. The noise almost making you jump back in surprise. “Uhm… what can I do for you?” he awkwardly asked, while you once again ran your hands through your hair.

“You left this at mine.” you held out the hoodie to him like you were presenting him with a gift. “I was in the neighborhood with some clients so I thought I would stop by and drop it off,” you added quickly, not wanting him to think you drove out here just for this.

“Oh uhm, thanks?” it sounded more like a question than a genuine thankfulness.

You weren’t sure what you expected from seeing him again, the awkwardness of two ex-lovers reuniting clear in the cold air of the Toronto night.

“Yeah uh… you´re welcome.” Your voice an awkward stutter. For another second the both of you were just staring. It seemed as it was your thing now.

“Why are you really here?” he asked then. A question that made your heart beat faster. Initially there wasn’t any underlying reason why you were coming here but then, it was just a hoodie, if he hadn’t come searching for it, he clearly wasn’t missing it, there was no reason to bring it here.

You could´ve just thrown it away and never thought about it again.

“I don’t know,” you mumbled.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked, so quietly you almost missed it.

“Yeah,” you breathed out before you could think otherwise.

He stepped away from the door, opening it just wide enough for you to slip through, Felix trailing behind you like the loyal companion he was.

The house hadn’t changed since you´ve last seen the inside. It was still the lived in mess crossed with the typical men aesthetic. You had once tried to decorate it more with the help of his sisters, but he was having none of it, so the attempts were quickly stopped.

“Drink?” he asked holding a bottle of water in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other, holding both out to you.

You noticed an open bottle on the couch table, but you opted for the water. “Thanks.”

He settled next to you, the awkward silence once again casting over you. “So, how is it going?”

“I´m fine, playoffs are coming up next week, just trying to get through the last few regular season games. How´s the job?”

“Good, nothing exciting to report. Congrats on making the playoffs again.”

The conversation being awkward was the understatement of the century. What once was familiar banter, sweet words and honest thoughts shared was now just small talk you would make with a stranger at the grocery store.

You studied his frame from the side. The wear and tear from the season were slowly starting to show. One of his fingers was in a bandage, a bruise formed on the side of his face. He looked tired. More tired than usually at the end of the season.

Empathy immediately flooding your body. He was still an individual you were caring for deeply. All the feelings your shared not something that would just vanish in the span of a few short weeks without seeing each other.

“You look tired,” you pointed out the obvious. “Long season,” he countered. You nodded along in agreement, but you knew him, it wasn’t the only thing bothering him. The breakup was nagging on him like it was nagging on you.

When you looked the room over to do anything but continue to stare at him you noticed a piece of art hanging on the wall next to the TV. You knew it all too well because you had commissioned it for him after he broke the single season scoring record of active players last season.

“You kept it?” his eyes shot up from starring at the now empty bottle in front of him. “of course.” Another one of these short replies but this time it made your heart beat faster. You figured he would’ve gotten rid of it after you broke up.

“I made a mistake,” the confession came out of nowhere, your head snapping to him, eyes wide.

He couldn’t mean the breakup, right?

“Made a mistake how?” you still asked, unsure if you even wanted to hear the answer. “I´m an asshole, I thought all would get better if I got rid of the distractions, if I just focused on hockey alone, I would score more goals, rack up more points, help the team to secure more wins and be a better captain but I was wrong.” He uttered.

“My life has not been the same since we broke up. Coming home alone and to an empty house after a loss was harder than I expected.”

Your heart beat so fast you were scared it would jump out of your chest if he said one more word. He was basically confessing that breaking up was a mistake, indicating that if he could he would take it all back and never throw the words at you in the first place.

“What are you saying, Auston?” you challenged. “I fucked up, babe.” The nickname sending a shiver down your spine, but he didn’t let you get a word in before he spoke again. “Breaking up with you was the worst mistake of my life.”

You weren’t used to seeing him in a vulnerable state like this. Usually he was all calm, cool and collected hockey superstar who was unshakable and immune to everything life threw at him, at least in the public eye. Him confessing to you that he made a mistake with so much emotion in his voice had you take a step back and look at him with disbelieve, was an odd feeling.

“I miss waking up next to you and falling asleep with you in my arms. I miss you waiting for me after a game, good or bad, telling me I did well even though we both know I didn’t in most games we lost. If I could take it all back, I would.”

When you showed up here an hour ago, hands shaking, heart racing just because you were seeing him again and it was bringing back emotions you didn’t know you still had, you would have never guessed that it was this it would come to. Hence why you were unsure as to how to react to his sudden confession.

Felix let out a bark when you stopped petting him but apart from that the living room was dead quiet. His words hanging heavy in the air.

“Can you say something?” he muttered.

“I need to go.” was what you settled on, before you got up and rushed out of the house.

-------------

A week later you weren’t any wiser than when you stormed out of his house. He had sent a few messages, called at least once a day. Apologizing, still waiting for you to say something when you yourself didn’t even know how to feel.

On the one hand all those feelings you had when you were together came back to you as soon as he dropped that on you. On the other hand, you couldn’t forget how your relationship ended in the first place.

Of course, he tried to explain. His messages said as much but you weren’t sure if it was enough for you to forget and forgive him for how sudden he just ended things.

He was used to getting what he wanted, at least in his career. A bigger contract, a new sponsorship, a captaincy. But transmitting that to his life shouldn’t work as easily as it did.

You missed him too, that was no question but who told you that he wouldn’t do the exact same thing the next time it got hard in his career. When the goals and points wouldn’t come next season, or the post-season success was once again cut short?

Who promised you he wouldn’t do it all over again?

On the other hand, you felt like you should risk it. What you and Auston had was good. At least most of the time, at least until it turned sour. For almost two years you had an almost picture-perfect relationship that your friends were jealous of whenever you got the chance to brag about him.

For days you questioned if the good would outweigh the bad in this case, but you came to no conclusion.

You debated talking to someone about it but in the end, it was a decision you had to make all on your own and no advice in the world could take that from you.

----------------

The Friday before the first game of the playoffs a sleek black box arrived at your doorstep. Curiosity overtook you because you hadn’t ordered anything and weren’t waiting for anything either.

Carefully you unwrapped the parchment paper that was covering the inside of the box which revealed a cozy looking black fluffy jacket. The Leafs logo was stitched at the front. Matthews was stitched inside it in black thread.

When you took it out of the box and turned it around the back showed the Toronto skyline, the team name in writing as well as a big 34.

The wag jacket.

You weren’t sure why you got one, you weren’t a wag anymore.

Maybe it was an attempt from him to get you back, and you hated to admit it, but it was working.

A black envelope was hidden beneath the jacket. When you opened it a card was inside, written on by an all too familiar handwriting.

Maybe this is a long shot and maybe I´m overstepping but I wanted you to have this. There´s a pass waiting for you at will call. You can use it or not, but I wanted to give you the opportunity.

Hopefully see you Sunday. A.

------------------

Sunday. The first game of the playoff series between the Leafs and the Senators. The Battle of Ontario making its way into the playoffs had everyone beaming with anticipation.

Scotiabank Arena was loud already, and warm-ups hadn’t even started yet.

You were on you way to the glass to stand with some of the other wags and watch warm-ups. Some had cheered when you entered the family room a few minutes prior. Steph Marner had wrapped you in a warm hug, telling you how glad she was that you gave Auston another chance after he was a dumbass. Some others followed.

You just smiled at them, nodding, not telling them that the man had no idea that you were here, wearing his name and number on you back again.

Standing with one of the Tavares kids you held him up to the glass so he could see his dad skating past, waving enthusiastically. John immediately recognized who was holding his son and laughed, trying to gain Auston´s attention.

When the captain looked into his assistants general direction you waved. Shooting him a shy smile which brought out the biggest smile on his face. Especially, when you turned around, careful as to not drop the kid, showing him the back of your jacket.

He proceeded to rack up two assists in the 6-2 win over the Senators and when he wrapped you in his arms, spinning you around in the hallway as if he had just won the cup and not game one of the first round you knew you made the right decision because in the end the good always outweigh the bad when it came to the both of you.

[leyavo]

Hacker!reader that joined the military as a political prisoner. You were found as part of a freedom fighter movement, forced to use your skills for a small military operation in exchange for prison or worse sent back to your strict cult family.

You now work as a hybrid technician in the field, still got a very short leash though. - tracker injected into the back of your arm. Maybe one day you’ll earn that freedom you desperately seek.

Freedom, is something you’ve fought for years. Escaped the cult you grew up in using technology. Nothing but a busted up phone and a concussed group leader, the type of grit and determination Captain Price likes when he reads your file. Slipped into databases and breached security systems like you’ve built them yourself. All in the name of bringing down shady operations and war criminals just like John Price.

He’s a lesser evil though if you want to help the greater good.

Taught to obey the same hand you were trying to break, the system you were trying to destroy. And your superiors all knew that, even gave you special treatment (not that type though). You’re more of a feral dog, a stray tied up to a lamp post and made to beg for scraps.

That’s how you get your call-sign, Lucky. Some sick, twisted joke of how your superiors liked to remind how fortunate you were. “Lucky, you’re still breathing…” when you’re in fact on the floor, your blood dripping on the training mat as a lieutenant looms over you. “Lucky I ain’t knocking you out.”

“Should think yourself lucky, I’d rather you rot away in a cell.” - everyone telling you to be thankful, to kiss the hand that trapped you. To play the good little soldier and be rewarded with a decent meal, a bed or a moment of silence without someone breathing down your neck.

The task force 141 changes that though, your handler pissed at how they can go above him and request your presence without him. Doesn’t stop him from controlling the situation. How your hands are cuffed to the bar on top of the table, left to wait five hours till John Price enters the interrogation room. A thick file thudding in front you, yours.

“This just might be your lucky day,” John says, flicking your file open and jabbing your mugshot clipped to the first page.

Gone is the handler whose boot presses on the back of your neck, the one to keep you down. You’re thrusted into the base with buzzing computers, whirring drones and you can’t help but lean into the hum of machines lining the task force’s room.

No, you’re new handlers a ghost. A silent observer that watches you from afar and gives you space to work. Lieutenant Riley, you don’t know if he cares about you really. Like it’s all part of the job working with the enemy. Doesn’t speak to you much, only barking orders out in the field or when he requests some research, intel.

The only one you can stand is sergeant Garrick, some sort of moral compass and voice of reason within the team. Someone you learnt to stay on side with as he’d probably be the only one questioning your wellbeing. Johnny Mactavish or Soap as they call him, too brash…the type your mother would wash their mouth out, make them hold the bar of soap until they stop speaking with such disgusting tongue. He gets the job done though, pulled you out by the scruff of your top a few times whilst bullets were flying.

Captain Price though, he’s oddly fair and you convince yourself it’s his way of manipulating you to do what you’re told. Not used to scheduled check-ins on your work or the good job he throws your way when you do what’s asked of you. In the back of your mind though you remind yourself what these people really are…

[Masterlist]

[hearts4johnwick]

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ Lethal Touch. / B. Reynolds.

SUMMARY. 𝜗𝜚 while training, all goes well until a move bob makes changes your concentration as you begin to relive your worst memory.

CW. 𝜗𝜚 lil bit of angst, lil bit of fluff, war/military ptsd, violence, character death, bob & reader spar for training.

A/N. 𝜗𝜚 im in love with bob. i need lewis pullman. check out my thunderbolts* fic on wattpad! @/hearts4johnwick 🤭🤭🤭

“Okay, ready?” You smile as you look at Bob, your hands are on your hips and your hair in a ponytail.

“Are you ready to get an ass whooping?” You scoff at his cocky words and shake your head.

“Seriously? You’re stealing my lines now?” He laughs and you squint your eyes.

“I mean… I kind of did beat you once, there’s no way I can’t do it again.” He exhales sharply and shrugs. You nod your head mockingly and walk closer to him.

“You’re not going to do it again, I know you’re not, you like me too much.” Bob’s smile leaves when you tease him about him liking you, you meant it in a platonic way, but he feels nothing platonic for you, purely romantic since the day you tried to kill Ava in Valentina’s storage building. His face gets red, and you notice it but shrug it off. You push him away and tilt your head. “Plus, this is training, no powers, you can’t hurt me.”

“I don’t think I ever could.” He says in all honesty and you smile. You put your fists up and signal him to step forward, to which, he does. He strikes with a left hook which you block by pushing his arm away and kicking him from the back and onto the ground.

“That was nasty.” You bite your lip and he laughs breathily. You lunge forward once he’s back on his feet, but he grabs your arm and throws you to the ground effortlessly. You groan and stand back up. You take the distance between you and run up, jumping onto his shoulders and choking him with your legs, he grabs you by your shirt and throws you off of him. You groan in pain and look up at him. “Bob! I said no powers!”

“I wasn’t using them! It’s not my fault I’m incredibly strong.” You scoff and roll your eyes. You weren’t exactly mad at him, it’s part of training, but damn, he threw you a bit too hard on that one.

Punches were thrown, punches were blocked, and you managed to get a hold of Bob’s arm and throw him over your shoulder and onto the floor, where you pinned his wrist with your knee and held his other leg.

In his mind, Bob can’t get tired of the view, you on top of him, drops of sweat falling from your temple, and your heavy breathing, it is perfection, right now he wishes that instead of his alter ego making him relive his worst moments, it’d be the best moments, and clearly, this is would be one of those moments. “1-0?” Bob’s eyebrows furrow and he scoffs.

“You wish. 1-2.” Your body recoils and his scoring and you stand up.

“1-2 how? You haven’t pinned me at any moment.” You question and he sighs, placing his hands on his hips once he stands from the floor.

“1-0.” He corrects himself and you smile. He stares deeply into your eyes, your smile makes him smile back, your matching energy radiating off of each other. You don’t realize how long you’ve been staring at each other until he reaches out to get a gentle hold of your arm, but you take a simple step back unknowingly.

“1-0. Want to change that?” Bob nods. “Then fight me.”

“I thought you said for me to be careful.” Your eyebrows furrow and you tilt your head.

“When did I say that?” You ask genuinely.

“When I knocked you on your ass.” You laugh loudly and get into your fighting stance.

“Oh yeah? And when was that?” you tease.

“Right now.”

“You’re so funny, Bobby.” You watch as he approaches, you go to tackle him, but he grabs your legs, wrapping them around his torso and throwing the two of you onto the ground. He grabs both of your wrists and pins one to your side, while he holds your other one close to his face.

The expression on your face shattered his heart, he knew he messed up, and your then content features were now blank, scared.

You were there, in the field. Your ears ringing as a result of the gunshots coming from both sides of the field. Enemies. “Conners! Where is Harley?” You ask the soldier next to you, he was on your side, he was good, 3 years in the army. 20 years of age.

“I don’t—I don’t know!” His voice was shaky as he peeked over the spot you were hiding in while the enemy shot your place down. “Lieutenant… we’re not going to make it, are we?” Your head slowly moves to look at him. He was scared, and God, so were you.

“What? Don’t say that! Don’t you dare say that!” You yell to his face as he holds his rifle closer. “We will—we will get out of here. Do you hear me?! Do you hear me, soldier?!” He nods and you take a deep breath.

Staring at a wall. That’s how you would die. Staring at a wall. At least, a piece of you died, staring at a wall in enemy territory.

“Lieutenant ____!” Your closest combat friend calls out your name. You search for her, then, a soft rattling sound catches your ear.

“Grenade!” Harley was in too much of a shock to react, she just stood there, staring at it.

“No! Harley get out of here!” The flash was enough to blind you. You were in a state of mind only the dead could go through. You didn’t hear a thing, and through your blurry vision, all you could see were the flashes of weapons firing, and, the gruesome scene of what was your only companion.

There it was, another piece of you gone. Staring at the absolute nothing of someone you cared for.

You were back, gasping for air as you let out faint sobs. Bob held you close, caressing your hair and rocking you back and forth. You sit up and stare at him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Your lip quivers when you see him, tears falling from his face. You slowly move your hands to his face, cupping his cheeks and wiping away one of his tears. You let out a soft sob and embrace him. Letting all your tears flow while he held you tighter than ever in his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeats and you nod.

The two of you sat on the floor, curled up together in a hug for almost more than 10 minutes, as he stayed caressing your hair and murmuring “I’m so sorry.” And “It’s going to be okay.”

When you pulled away, you held his face close to yours. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” You sniffle.

He places his hand over yours. “I’m sorry you had to live that.” You nod and swallow the lump in your throat. He raises his hand to wipe your falling tears. He then cups your cheek and stares into your bloodshot eyes.

Once again, you stay like this with no recollection of how much time has passed, until you close the distance by pressing your foreheads together.

Outside the training room, in the coms room, Alexei sat eating his box of cereals, watching the whole scene unfold, and celebrating silently when you pressed your foreheads. “Young love.” He sighed in awe.

[mandarinmoons]

Nothing more than friends

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gender neutral reader Summary: Faced with his feelings for you, Spencer is caught between confessing or not saying a word, as your presence in his life is something he can't go without Words: 790 Warnings: None

Spencer’s head snapped up as he heard your laughter. His head turned to the way of the kitchen, seeing you hold your hand over your mouth as you tried to control yourself, as well as Penelope wiping a few tears from her eyes and taking a breath to calm herself.

Spencer chuckled at the sight, you were professional yes, but you were also one of the most light hearted people he had ever met. It was hard not to smile whenever he, or anyone, was in your presence and your warmth had an impact on him for the rest of the day. Whenever he was down he knew who to turn to brighten his mood.

As you calmed down from your laughing fit, your eyes met Spencer’s before his glance was back down to his paperwork, trying to make it seem like he wasn’t gawking at you to save his life. He could feel the heat in his cheeks and was hoping they hadn’t turned into a betraying shade of red, he had gotten enough teasing comments from Morgan and if he were to get one more, he was sure to bury himself six feet under due to the embarrassment.

Spencer liked you, more than a coworker and definitely more than a friend, he was aware of that. He would be the dumbest person on Earth if he were to deny it, especially to himself. This wasn’t some fleeting crush he had with Lila Archer for instance, his connection to her was cut as soon as the case regarding her ended and that was that, with you it was different. He saw you nearly every single day, he had opened up to you over the years and it made your connection to each other stronger. It was hard to cut the cord on something so strong.

And that was the problem. Relationships were something that never came easy to both of you, it was one of the things that brought you closer together. You had confided to Spencer about the times you had been mistreated and how it was hard to open up again after every disappointment, he didn’t judge you, he heard you out and comforted you. He saw himself in you, a feeling he didn’t experience very often, and to feel it with you, of all people, only made him fall harder.

“I hope this never changes, what we have.”

The memory of what you said made the smile on his lips fade. Confessing to you was something that always terrified him, but after the night when you had told him those words, opening up about his feelings seemed like a no deal now. 

The bond you two shared felt like something that only happened once in a lifetime, if that. Spencer was skeptical over the concept of reincarnation, but he would be lying if he were to say that he didn’t think about you and him meeting in a past life late at night when he wasn’t able to sleep.

He weighed the pros and cons of the situation seemingly every day. He was so consumed by it that Hotch himself had noticed the decline of the quality of Spencer’s work. He asked Spencer if he needed help, which he declined, and seeing his superior walk back to his office, he knew he was in hot water. You had consumed every part of his mind that it was just as the words Emily once said.

“Just like that, an IQ of 187 is slashed to 60.”

You made Spencer feel dumb and he couldn’t be happier. He was constantly at war with himself in his mind, some say the knowledge someone like him holds is a gift, a miracle even, but you don’t have to be a genius to know that knowing more isn’t always better. It was more of a curse than a blessing and whenever he was with you, he felt relief. With you he didn’t have to be the smartest person in the room, he didn’t have to be the guy who always had the answers, with you he could be just Spencer, the kind hearted man who would make your day with his magic tricks.

That is why he had stayed quiet for so long. What he had with you was one of the most precious things in his life, it was something far too great to risk, so he stayed silent. He sat at his desk, quietly stealing glances at you to get through the day, seeing if he could catch a glimpse of your smile so he could smile as well, but through all of that, he was dying on the inside, slowly but surely, with the words he hadn’t said.

You can find my masterlists here! Let me know your thoughts in the comments and like & reblog to support <3