A quiet night in the bakery turns into something much warmer when Simon drops by after hours.
3. Crumbs and Confessions
Simon didn’t intend to see you three nights in a row.
It just… happened.
The first night, he showed up under the excuse of returning your tupperware. He handed it to you without saying much, but you beamed like he’d gifted you the crown jewels.
The second night, you texted him. Just one line:
“Baking late. Too many muffins. Come help.”
He sat in your tiny kitchen while you loaded lemon poppyseed into brown paper bags. He didn’t say much then either, just watched while you moved around in your flour-stained apron and mismatched socks, humming something he didn’t recognize.
You offered him one straight off the cooling rack. He burned his tongue.
He didn’t even care.
The third night, he didn’t bother with excuses.
You were already outside when he came around the back. The string lights were on, your playlist low, and your feet were tucked up in your chair like always.
“You know,” you said, without looking up from your drink, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you actually like me.”
Simon paused, halfway into his chair. “Don’t push your luck.”
You smirked. “Too late.”
He settled beside you, sighing softly as he leaned back. You handed him a beer without asking.
He took it, cracked it open, and said, “What’s the music tonight?”
“Old jazz covers,” you said, tapping your phone. “Makes me feel classy even when I smell like yeast and sugar.”
He hummed. “Fits you.”
“What? Jazz?”
“The classy part.”
Your eyes flicked to his. A beat passed, long enough to feel like something unsaid hung in the air.
Then you looked down, suddenly shy. “You always like this when you’re off duty?”
Simon tilted his head. “Like what?”
You bit your lip. “Quiet. Still. Watching everything like it might explode.”
He gave a short nod. “Yeah. Can’t really turn it off.”
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
He glanced sideways.
“I just…” you trailed off. “I can tell your brain’s never still. Even when your body is.”
That made something flicker in his eyes. “You’re perceptive.”
You smiled faintly. “I watch people for a living too, y’know. Customers, regulars. It’s kind of the same.”
He grunted. “You see a lot?”
“Enough.”
Later, inside, you sat on the counter as he helped dry dishes. You didn’t ask, he just picked up a towel after watching you elbow-deep in suds for two minutes too long.
“You ever get tired of being alone?” you asked.
Simon glanced at you, caught off guard. “Where’d that come from?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. Just wondering. You’ve been alone a long time, haven’t you?”
He dried a bowl and set it gently beside the others. “It’s easier.”
“That’s not the same as better.”
Simon didn’t answer.
You let the silence stretch, comfortable now in a way it hadn’t been when you first met. The kind of silence that holds questions you’re not sure either of you are ready to answer.
You hopped off the counter and wiped your hands.
“You want to see something?” you asked.
He nodded once.
You pulled open the drawer under the register and took out a photo album. It was worn at the edges, the cover dusted with flour. You sat across from him at the counter and flipped it open.
“These are my parents,” you said, pointing to a photo of two people in front of a yellow-and-white bakery. “They owned a place back home. Taught me everything. My dad used to whistle while he kneaded dough. It drove me nuts.”
Simon leaned in, just a little.
“My mom passed a few years ago. Cancer. My dad after that—stroke. This bakery is kind of… my way of keeping them close.”
Simon looked at the photo again. The way your mother’s arm curled around your dad’s waist. The way your father was mid-laugh.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
You nodded. “Me too. But baking still feels like home.”
He thought about that for a moment. “You ever think about giving it up? Doing something else?”
“Sometimes. When the bills pile up or the oven breaks down.” You smiled a little. “But then someone walks in and tells me the smell reminds them of their grandma’s house. Or someone buys cupcakes for their kid’s birthday. And I remember why I’m doing it.”
He nodded slowly.
You turned the page. “What about you? You got family?”
Simon’s jaw tightened. “Had a brother. Tommy. He.”
Had. You froze. “Simon… I didn’t—”
He shook his head. “You didn’t know.”
You watched him carefully. “Was it recent?”
He shook his head again. “Long enough. But some things don’t feel far away, even when they are.”
You waited, not pushing.
Then, almost so quiet you barely caught it, he said:
“I was the older one. Meant to protect him. But I was gone. Too far to help when he needed me.”
You swallowed, heart aching.
Simon stared at the album. “He was a good kid. Smarter than me. Always smiling. Got the short end of every stick, but he didn’t let it make him bitter.”
You reached out, slow and careful, and placed your hand over his.
He didn’t flinch.
“He’d be proud of you,” you said softly. “I know that doesn’t fix anything. But I believe it.”
Simon looked at your hand on his. Then at you.
There was something in his eyes then—something raw and open and unguarded.
It passed like a ghost in the dark.
But you saw it.
You walked him out to the back door like always.
The air was thick and warm, storm clouds low in the distance.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” you asked.
Simon looked at you like he wanted to say something more.
Instead, he gave a quiet, “Yeah.”
You leaned against the doorframe. “Night, Riley.”
He blinked.
You rarely used his last name.
He liked the way you said it. Soft. Sweet. Like a secret.
He gave you a faint nod and stepped into the shadows.
But he didn’t go far.
He stood just beyond the string lights, watching the glow spill out around your figure.
And for the first time in a long time, he wanted to stay.
Back in your apartment that night, you sat on the couch in his hoodie again.
It smelled like him now—smoke, soap, something earthy and grounding.
You curled into the cushions and stared at your phone.
No new messages. No new posts.
But you didn’t feel lonely.
Not anymore.
Meanwhile, Simon lay awake.
He didn’t dream of gunfire or blood or the dirt roads of places he didn’t want to remember.
He dreamed of your hand on his. Of lemon muffins. Of laughter through flour-dusted air.
He dreamed of… home.
And the strange, impossible thought that maybe he’d found a piece of it… right next door.
Summary: When Simon returns home from deployment, he doesn’t expect the smell of cinnamon and fresh bread to have replaced his old neighbor’s blaring TV. Nor does he expect the woman behind the warm scents to change everything.
1. Fresh Baked and Unprepared
When Simon got home from deployment, the first thing he noticed wasn’t the way his key stuck in the lock like always, or how the hallway light still flickered when you walked past the second stair.
It was the silence.
No TV blaring some grainy war documentary through the paper-thin walls. No static hiss of volume turned up way too loud for 2 a.m.
Mr. Carruthers—his neighbor of four years, a retiree with a fondness for old reruns and malt liquor—was gone.
In his place, there was something else entirely.
Bread. Sweet, yeasty, warm. And something sugary, like cinnamon rolls or sticky buns, drifting under the door and into Simon’s very soul.
He stood there with his duffel slung over his shoulder, helmet tucked under one arm, and just… breathed.
The scent didn’t just smell good. It felt good. Like a memory he couldn’t quite place.
He narrowed his eyes and made a mental note to ask about it. Eventually. Maybe.
Not now.
The noise started the next morning.
Not the kind he was used to—explosions, drunken shouting, chaos—but cheerful noise. Uplifting pop. The kind with too many dance sequences.
And humming. From next door.
Simon blinked at the wall as he sipped black coffee that tasted like dirt and jet lag. The humming was off-key. A little breathy. But for some reason, it didn’t irritate him the way most things did these days.
He set down his mug.
Then the knocking started.
Sharp, fast, and way too enthusiastic.
He opened the door in sweatpants and a t-shirt, mask tugged down around his neck.
The woman on the other side had flour on her cheek and a box in her hands. Pink bakery box. She beamed.
“Hi! Sorry to bug you, I just realized I haven’t said hello yet. I’m your new neighbor!” Her eyes were bright, a little shy behind the confidence. “I moved in two weeks ago. Bought the old bakery down the street. ‘Sweetie’s’—maybe you’ve seen it?”
Simon stared. Said nothing.
You gestured with the box. “Anyway, I baked too much this morning. Cinnamon rolls. Thought I’d share.”
He glanced at the box, then back at you.
“Right.” His voice was low. Rough.
Your smile faltered just a touch. “Unless you’re gluten-free or allergic or something, then I guess I—”
“I’m not.”
“Oh. Good. Great.”
A pause.
You offered the box again. “So…?”
He blinked, then slowly reached for it. His fingers brushed yours, calloused and warm. You smiled.
“Welcome back,” you added gently. “You military?”
His eyes flicked to the duffel still in the hallway behind him. “Something like that.”
“Well, thanks for your service. Or… whatever it is you do.”
He gave a short nod. “You’re the one who replaced Carruthers.”
You laughed. “That’s me. I turned off the TV and turned on the oven.”
Simon looked at the box in his hands. Warm. Sticky. A little grease spot bleeding through the bottom.
“Thanks,” he said after a beat. Not used to being on the receiving end of kindness. Not like this.
You stepped back toward your door. “See you around, neighbor.”
He watched you disappear inside, leaving behind the scent of sugar and spice and a strange flutter in his chest he couldn’t explain.
He ate all six cinnamon rolls.
In one sitting.
Didn’t even heat them up.
That night, he dreamed of flour-dusted fingers and your humming.
You saw him again the next week.
He passed by the shop while you were unloading flour from the back of your little SUV, arms full and winded. You didn’t see him at first, not until you nearly tripped over a sack and muttered, “Shit,” under your breath.
Then a shadow appeared beside you.
“Need a hand?”
You looked up, heart skipping. “Oh! Hey… Simon, right?”
He nodded.
“Uh—yeah, I mean, if you’re not busy.”
He stepped in without another word, grabbing two heavy sacks of flour like they weighed nothing. You followed him inside, the bells above your bakery door jingling.
Inside, the air was warm and filled with vanilla. You glanced over as he took in the space—exposed brick, chalkboard menu, wooden counters.
“It’s adorable, right?” you said, catching the look in his eye. “I just finished the reno last week.”
He grunted in acknowledgment.
“Really appreciate the help,” you added as you dropped the last bag. “You move like someone used to carrying heavy stuff.”
Simon smirked. “You bake. I lift. Fair trade.”
You bit back a grin. “You ever want to trade jobs for a day, let me know.”
He eyed the frosting-smeared mixer in the corner. “No chance in hell.”
You laughed, and it filled the room like sunshine. Simon looked at you—really looked—and realized it had been a long time since someone made him want to laugh too.
Over the next few weeks, you became a quiet, warm constant.
He’d wake to the smell of baking bread, sometimes find little gift boxes on his doormat—blueberry muffins, fresh baguettes, chocolate chip cookies.
You never asked for anything in return. But you smiled every time you saw him. Asked how he was. Offered him coffee when he passed the bakery on your early morning runs.
You teased him about being quiet. About looking grumpy even when he wasn’t.
And Simon? He… started looking forward to things.
To your voice through the wall as you talked on the phone. To your humming. To the knock on the door. To the way you always smelled like sugar and yeast and hope.
The meet-cute moment—the real one—happened on a Tuesday.
A storm had rolled in, sharp and fast, drenching everything in its path. You’d forgotten your keys and stood outside the building, soaked and shivering.
Simon opened the door.
Your hair was plastered to your cheeks, clothes stuck to your skin. “Hi,” you said, sheepish. “Locked out. I’m a genius.”
He stepped aside without a word. You followed.
“Promise I’m not trying to break in,” you added as he handed you a towel. “This is just… a very wet, very dumb baker moment.”
Simon leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Watching you. Amused.
You peeked at him from under the towel. “You ever forget your keys?”
“Never.”
“Of course you haven’t. Bet you’ve never forgotten anything in your life.”
He shrugged. “Once. I forgot to call my brother on his birthday.”
You grinned. “See? You are human.”
A beat.
Then, quieter, “Thanks for letting me in.”
He nodded.
You looked around. Sparse apartment. Neat. Bare walls.
“I like your place,” you said, even though it was clear he didn’t spend much time here.
He watched you with those unreadable brown eyes. “You’re soaked.”
“I know. I was trying to be chill about it.”
“You’re shivering.”
“Still being chill.”
He stepped into the hallway and returned with a hoodie. “Here.”
You blinked at it. “That’s yours.”
“You want to sit there and freeze, or—”
You took it. Pulled it over your head. It drowned you, smelled like him—smoke, cedar, soap.
You didn’t know it then, but he’d never let anyone else wear that hoodie before.
You settled onto the couch, tugging the sleeves over your hands. “So. You’re a man of few words.”
Simon arched a brow.
“But I bet you’re secretly really sweet under that scary skull exterior.”
He stared.
You smiled. “I’ll take that as a maybe.”
Another beat.
“You’re strange,” he said at last.
You grinned wider. “Takes one to know one.”
The rain slowed eventually. You stood at the door again, his hoodie still clinging to your body.
“I’ll return this tomorrow,” you said.
“Keep it.”
You blinked. “Really?”
He nodded.
Then you tilted your head. “You ever want something sweet, just knock on the wall.”
Drunk!ghost who slurs on and on about being married when gaz drops him off to you. He makes a big deal of not touching you when you try to guide him upstairs, tells you "m' lovie 's gorgeous. Never need anything else so fock off–"
And of course he refuses to let you sleep in the same bed as him, he's married, got it? So you sleep on the couch after watching a movie, awfully endeared by your husband.
Only to wake up to him standing over you at 3am with the saddest puppy dog eyes asking "why're you out here, love? Did I do something wrong? :(" and bodily hauling you to bed so he can smother you in slightly more sober cuddles.
a jack abbot x reader x grant reilly smau (ft. the pitt)
summary - it's bad enough you have to deal with the night shift attending breathing down your neck every chance he gets, now you're under the radar of a cute new chef working a couple blocks from PTMC.
cw: afab reader, unspecified age gap, nurse!reader is kinda loser coded lol, reader is sometimes referred to as sleepy, slice of life, medical inaccuracies, possible ooc characters, will update as the story progresses :)
this is my first ever attempt at a smau fanfic, so feedback is greatly appreciated ^^
beach day with finnick!! give that man the happy ending he deserves :')
ughhhhh my sweet sweet boy!!! need to give him the happiest of endings <3
2026 Summer Blurbs
It’s no secret that Finnick was born to be in the water. Really, in your mind, he was born for the summertime in general. You always think he looks perfect, how could you not, but there’s just something about the way he seems to come alive as the days stretch longer and warmer. The way his hair grows lighter and curlier from the sun and salt, bright blonde against the increasing tan of his skin, the way his smile never seems to fade and the way he always smells like saltwater, fresh and clean. Your boy was made for the summer.
And you, you were made to ogle him.
“You gonna come in the water today?” Finnick asks as he wades back to shore, saltwater dripping from his hair, running down his body in rivulets. You almost don’t catch what he says, you’re too preoccupied with running your eyes up and down his body. He notices, and answers with a wolfish grin.
“I might,” you respond with a shrug once your brain begins to work again. Finnick has crossed the sand to reach out, sitting down on the corner of the towel you’ve laid out. “Seems a little cold.”
While Finnick craves the sea the way others crave a drink, you’re perfectly content just sitting on the sand, soaking up the sun and the sight of him. You know he loves it when you join him, though, and that if you hold out just long enough, he’ll grab your wrists and tug you upwards, gentle yet insistent, before hurling you over his shoulders and racing down towards the water. You’ll squirm and pretend to fight back, only to melt into his arms as the water laps around your waist. He’ll hold you then, and close his eyes, like he’s never been happier.
That’ll come later, you’re certain of it, but for now you’re both in the mood to tease, to be childish in ways you were never allowed to be before.
Finnick disagrees with you, an insistent shake of his head that sends water droplets spraying.
“It’s perfect,” he counters, twisting in his seat to face you, to plant his hands on either side of your head and lean forward.
“It’s dripping on me, and it’s cold,” you argue back, a grin dancing across your features. The water drips steadily from Finnick’s hair, down the tip of his nose, off of his jaw, to land on your face, tiny droplets like gentle kisses. You’re not wrong, there’s a chill to the water, but the day has only increased in heat. Now, you’re in it for the love of the game.
“I could warm you up,” Finnick practically purrs the words out, dipping himself closer to you until there’s only a fraction of an inch between your mouth and his.
“Throwing me in the water won’t warm me up,” you’re incredibly proud of yourself for keeping the back and forth going, especially with Finnick pressed so close to you. You’re rewarded for your tenacity by a laugh that warms you more than the sun ever could. Just when he’s about to close the gap, he stops in his descent and speaks instead.
“We’ll see about that.” Quick as a flash he hoists you from the ground, and you’re too shocked to even pretend to squirm in his hold. He splashes down into the water, and before you know it, the both of you are completely submerged.
When you surface, sputtering, you see Finnick looking mighty pleased with himself. He looks so happy you can’t even manage any faux-outrage. Instead, you just loop your arms around his neck, and vow to get him back later.
Chapter 1 Summary: Being Plutarch Heavensbee forbidden child was hard, but Finnick makes it easier.
Tags/Warnings: toxic father, mentions of Finnick being bought (vague), female reader, slowish burn
Word Count: 3.0k
Editor: @sweetcherries123
-.-
7 years ago, 68th Hunger Games Victory Tour
Every winter your father, Plutarch Heavensbee, has hundreds of guests staying at the house, but never anybody interesting. It was nice at first, you were an isolated child so when your father brought people over it was a welcome change of pace, even if none of them knew who you were. Eventually it became something you dreaded, constantly having to be something you weren’t and keeping secrets that weren’t yours became exhausting.
Your father never let you talk to anyone, no one could know who and what you truly were. Your role in the household during these winter months was not as the daughter of the host, but instead as an avox. It was safer for you to be considered a forced laborer than what you truly were, a forbidden child.
There's no record of your birth, the government doesn’t know you exist. Since the beginning you’ve been locked away in the house, your father intended to keep it that way for the time being. When you were younger you would question it, but maybe some things are better kept a mystery.
This winter felt different, like a big change would come to your repetitive, lonely life. You could feel it when you woke up, a barely noticeable shift in the air.
Last night your father had said he had an important guest today, one who would have an extended visit. He said he’d known this man for years and trusted him enough to invite him over. Your father never described trust as having a factor in if people were invited over, it usually was based on how much he could profit off their support.
You could hear commotion in the hallway, the avoxes must've been trying to prepare for the man coming later, you weren’t worried like they were. Every single visit was the same.
Stand in the corner, anticipate messes or when someone needs something, listen intently, and then clean up after they leave. It was that. Every time.
When you first saw the special visitor you were intrigued. It wasn’t the usual middle-aged man with a creepy, dangerous stare. No. This was a young man, not much older than you, with kind eyes and a magnetic energy. Dad should invite this guy over more often, you thought.
They talked about a rebellion that your father had been planning for years, slowly recruiting victors in on the large movement. This was not new information, but the age of the man was throwing you off. Your father usually waited for them to get older, allowing more resentment to grow, which proved more useful for their specific role in the rebellion, but this victor you remember winning around 3 years ago. Still, you brushed it off.
There were vague statements you caught, distracted by your own thoughts being louder than their conversation. Things about him being the capital’s sweetheart, the influence he had on the citizens, and that if he were to agree then he wouldn’t be bought again. You felt sympathy, never having felt that often due to most guests being pretentious. This victor was the perfect mix of confidence, humbleness, and resilience, it was charming. You still weren’t able to catch his name yet.
At the end of the dinner, the guest excused himself to go to the bathroom, your father turning to you once he was out of ear-shot, “Do you mind setting the guest bedroom up?”
It took you a second to respond. Since when was that guest bedroom used? The only thing that stayed in there were the moths that slowly ate at the unused linens in the closet.
“Of course, dad. For who?” you asked. Somewhat careless as you addressed your father not using the usual “sir” or “Mr. Heavensbee.” You were lucky no one was around.
Your father thought you were joking, did you not just stand and watch him talk to the young man for an hour?
“For me,” that same man appeared behind you, shock riddled down your spine. No one, other than your father, had heard your voice before. That shock you felt appeared in your fathers expression, who sat in front of you, still being too afraid to look at the mystery man.
“Finnick,” your father said calmly, his usual demeanor returning to him.
The young man, who you now knew was named Finnick, responded with that same calmness, “Yes, sir?”
“Do not speak of this to anyone.” The elder man was borderline terrifying as underlying threats dripped from his words.
“The thought never even crossed my mind, sir.” A small smirk still on his lips, unaffected by Plutarch’s attempt to intimidate him.
-.-
5 years ago, 70th Hunger Games Victory Tour
Victor's week had become your favorite week of the year, which is weird because you used to dread it. But ever since the 68th Hunger Games, you had something to long for — Finnick Odair. He began to change your routine.
Finnick somehow made a week full of scheming politicians and drunk socialists into something fun. Maybe it was his witty remarks or the mischievous grin that crept onto his face when he saw you across the room. He made it… fun.
It was embarrassing and you would never admit to anyone how giddy you got the night before he arrived, but he became the best part of your year. He was understanding of your predicament and never made fun of your underdeveloped social skills.
Flora, another avox, had been signing teasing remarks about your little crush on Finnick to you when he walked in. He strolled over like this was a normal occurrence, like he owned the house. It didn’t take long for him to be standing right in front of you, the avox prep room was a small space.
Speak of the devil, Flora signed, giving you a knowing smile. She glanced between you and Finnick before ultimately deciding to leave you two alone, nodding goodbye to the both of you.
He said your name softly, it melted your heart, “You’re a hard person to find, Miss Heavensbee.”
You rolled your eyes, “I didn’t know this was a routine.”
Last year he caught you in the kitchen, arriving early just to talk to you without the dangers of capital officials finding out your secret.
“I missed you too.” He smiled at you, unbothered by the fake annoyed glare you gave him.
You scoffed at him, reaching for the final part of your ensemble, a dainty necklace, on the table he started leaning on. “Don’t flirt with me.”
“Why not?” He intercepted your grab for the necklace and motioned for you to turn around, your eyebrows furrowed but you obliged.
“You do it with everyone.” Your voice was uneven as his gentle hands reached around to put the accessory on you.
“That’s true,” he admitted as you turned to face him again, “But I only learn sign language for you.”
“You're kidding!” A smile of disbelief gracing your features.
His hands moved in an attempt to sign You’re beautiful but instead he signed soapy strawberry, you understood his intent still.
A genuine laugh erupted from you, a rare occurrence, “You did not sign that right.”
Finnick felt accomplished, even if he did it wrong. He would embarrass himself a thousand more times if it meant he could hear you laugh like that again.
“It was worth a shot.” He shrugged, a subtle blush dusting his cheeks, “You look beautiful tonight.”
You tried to sneer at him, but the grin tugging at your lips ruined it,“You don’t have to butter me up like everyone else.”
“I know.” His hand reached out for yours, brushing his fingers across it, “ I want to.”
You couldn’t help the way your breath hitched.
“Don’t you have a dinner to go to?” You asked quickly, flustered by his attention being solely on you.
He nodded, “Unfortunately.” His hand still played with yours despite the fact that he had to go.
“Then go.”
“In a minute.”
“Finnick—”
“Fine,” He groaned, beginning to leave as he walked backwards, “I’ll see you out there.”
-.-
3 years ago, 72nd Hunger games Victory Tour
You woke up with the worst headache this morning and knew that tonight would be torture. Your father had decided tonight would be his biggest party for the victor, Pliny Arausio, but also Seneca Crane, the new gamemaker.
The closer it got to the time of the event the worse you felt. It had progressed to the point where it was no longer just your head pounding but also a runny nose and sore throat accompanying it. The small cold you thought you had this morning was more serious than you anticipated. You couldn’t even think straight, the pain was blocking all logical thoughts.
Nothing followed your silent routine tonight.
This party in particular felt more overwhelming than others. There was more food, louder music, and at least a thousand people, but no Finnick. Over the past few years Finnick Odair had become the only reason why you eagerly awaited these daunting events, the fact that he wasn’t here was killing you. You weren’t told that he was not invited tonight, but he didn’t visit you before like he usually would; therefore, you could only assume he wouldn’t be here.
Your feet were killing you as you held onto a tray of champagne, parading it around the event for attendees to grab at their convenience. You felt like you were on fire, the combination of your fever and the body heat from all the guests made the room feel like a sauna. You were invisible to them, everyone kept bumping into you or accidentally smacking into your tray as they gestured wildly.
Just when you thought this night couldn’t get any worse, you saw Finnick leaning into a beautiful woman's presence with his signature smirk on his face, flirting with her.
You immediately started jumping to conclusions.
It was clear he didn’t think seeing you was as important as you thought. Maybe the past year forced us to grow apart. Maybe he preferred the company of girls he didn’t have to sneak around just to say hello to.
Just then you made eye contact with him.
Shit.
You had to get out of there. You did not want Finnick to see you upset over something that meant so little to him.
Without a second thought, you turned around to escape into the mansion. Inside, you went to the kitchen, a practical place that wouldn’t draw attention.
Your mind was racing with illogical thoughts.
He doesn’t care. He never liked me in the first place, I was just leverage in his sick game. Finnick probably told everyone about the abomination I am. Everything he’s said was a twisted joke.
Tears were rolling down your cheeks before you even knew it, everything had been building up all day and Finnick had been the last straw. This night felt like it would never end. You were angry at your best friend, who no longer cared, and exhausted from your raging fever.
It wasn’t long before the kitchen door flew open, a distressed Finnick making his way inside. The few minutes you had alone weren’t enough to properly calm you down.
You clumsily wipe your tear stained face and start busying yourself, ignoring his worried gaze.
He approaches you in the same way he would approach a skittish animal, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
You don’t respond, treating him like he was everyone else. Like to him you were just an avox.
“Baby, please talk to me.” He pleaded from behind you. His gentle, caring tone sounded mocking to you, even though it wasn’t.
You shake your head in frustration, "there's nothing to say.” You finished placing the last wine glass on the silver tray and turned to leave, but Finnick stood in your way.
“Yes there is,” he insisted, “I just wanna know what's going on.”
You huff and put the tray down behind you before staring him straight in the eye. You didn’t want to be confrontational but at this point it felt as if he wanted you to. “Are you always this oblivious?”
Finnick’s brows furrow, unable to do anything but nod.
“You are the most confusing person ever!” Your voice raises louder than intended, “I thought we were friends, good friends, but tonight you’ve shown me it was just my imagination.”
He helplessly responds, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“So you just accidentally ignore me and cozy up to another woman?”
You can tell that got him as he scoffs at you, “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. I know I may not mean that much to you, but I look forward to seeing you and it's clear you don’t reciprocate that feeling.” You try to shove past him, abandoning the tray behind you, he doesn’t let you… again. His hand grabbed your forearm this time.
“You do mean a lot to me, I was working just like you were tonight.” Finnick's grip became firmer, but not painful.
Oh.
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. You were so sick that you forgot his deal with snow, a topic he previously discussed with your father at their first dinner.
Finnick takes your stunned silence as pity, “Don’t give me that look, don’t be like everyone else.”
“I’m not, I swear.” You reach out for him, enveloping the hand that was on your arm.
He sighs, taking a step back and reassessing the situation, “This isn’t about me right now, I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
You try to take a deep breath but it's interrupted by a violent cough, you grab his arm to steady yourself.
His other hand flies to your waist as he finally understands what's really been bothering you. “Let's get you to bed, sweetheart.”
“You have to get back out there, I don’t want you getting in trouble because of me.” Despite your insistence on him leaving, your grip on him doesn’t falter.
“You’re worth all the trouble.”
-.-
7 months ago, 74th Hunger Games Victory Tour
There were two victors this year, something that had never happened before. The rebellion was going to start picking up, you knew by the way there were more secret meetings than usual and by the unrest in the districts.
Your father volunteered to be the head game maker which put him in the best position to start acting on what had just been hushed discussions for the past several years. He said tonight he would hint at Katniss his intentions but wouldn’t reveal any major information.
You could tell by the way she cringed from across the dance floor that she didn’t trust him, or anyone other than the folks she knew back in 12. You hoped this year it would work, you couldn’t live in secret anymore. Your father had said once you left the capital, you would never have to hide yourself away again. After year 3 it felt impossible, an unattainable dream.
Until then, you decided to continue with your routine.
Before the event, Finnick had visited you, but instead of welcoming his warm hug and witty remarks, you shoved him out of the room. He was confused, but also pleasantly entertained by your bold action. For the past week you’d planned for his arrival, searching for a place where you could talk for more than the five minutes before the annual events.
You had Flora slip him an important “notice” that ultimately told him the location you set up. It didn’t take long before he cautiously opened the door. He wore a white linen shirt, the top few buttons undone, and loose pants that complemented the overall silhouette.
Inside he was met with you holding a small gift box. For once, Finnick didn’t have a clever remark ready.
“So this is what you’ve been up to?” His voice was teasing, making you cower back slightly in embarrassment.
You nod slowly, “I know we don’t have a lot of time, but I wanted to do this in private.” If you had done it earlier there would’ve been the risk of other avoxes or your father coming in.
“So this is the secondary location.” He jokes, looking around the room as if this were the end of the road for him.
You gave him a face that spoke for you, one of pure annoyance.
“Sorry.” He bowed his head slightly, signaling you to continue.
You took a deep breath to collect your thoughts, “I wanted to give you something to remember me by, the rebellion is picking up fast and I don’t know what will happen.” You extend the box to him but he doesn’t take it. “Finnick, please.”
“I can’t” He stared at the neat bow on the pale yellow box like it would attack him at any moment.
“Why not?”
“Because then this would be a goodbye.” That's when you saw it. His eyes were glossy as the intention of the gift set in.
You grabbed his hand to pull him closer, he let you, “It isn’t, I swear.”
He decided to trust you, maybe if he acted like this was just a kind gesture rather than a safety measure then maybe, just maybe, it means he’ll see you after tonight.
He gingerly took the box and slowly undid the ribbon wrapped around it. Inside was the necklace he helped put on you many years ago. Finnick picked it up like it would break at any moment.
“This is so strawberry, thank you.” Without a second thought Finnick leaned down slightly to press a light kiss to your cheek.
Chapter 2 Summary: Finnick was meant to meet you at District 13, but you weren't there.
Tags/Warnings: Graphic torture, Finnick not eating or sleeping, kidnapping, female reader, Hallucinations, several wounds, Creepy man, implied starvation and dehydration, hostage videos
Word Count: 2.8k
Editor: @sweetcherries123
Chapter 1
-.-
Finnick’s POV
Finnick barely remembered the flight to District 13. Only fragments stayed with him now — the vibration of the hovercraft beneath his boots, the copper taste of blood in his mouth, the way every sharp turn sent pain through his ribs.
By the time they landed, medics were already waiting. Hands pulled him onto a stretcher. Questions blurred together. Someone cut through the sleeve of his shirt. Another pressed cold fingers against the bruising along his neck.
He let them work. None of it mattered.
“Where is she?” The words came out rougher than he intended. His throat still burned from the arena smoke.
A medic glanced up. “Who?”
Finnick shut his eyes briefly, exhausted with himself. “Y/N Heavensbee.”
Recognition flickered instantly across the woman’s face. “She hasn’t arrived yet,” she said carefully. “Her transport was delayed.”
Delayed.
Finnick nodded anyway and leaned his head back against the pillow, pretending that explanation was enough.
“There’s word she should arrive by nightfall”
Nightfall, I can wait until then, Finnick thought before closing his eyes to rest, hoping sleep would make nightfall come sooner.
-.-
Reader’s POV
You woke up with a start, a cold sweat running down your spine. You opened your eyes only to be met with darkness, the feeling of a cloth tied too tight around your head causing a tension headache to start forming. You tried to take it off by moving your hand up to your face, but your hands were bound behind you.You tried to stand from the chair but all you did was make it screech against the floor as more binds around your mid-section kept you in place.
This wasn’t District 13.
The room was cold, damp, and smelled stale. You didn’t need your eyes to see that this wasn’t what your father had promised you would wake up to this morning.
Yesterday, before your father left for the game center, he promised that by this time tomorrow you would be in district 13, talking to whomever you desired and never having to hide your identity again. He declared that last night he would somehow get the victors out, while he did that you would be packed up and on a jet to your new home.
He was wrong.
Instead, you're stuck in a mysterious room hearing muffled voices from outside, none of them being familiar.
You weren't left alone with your own thoughts too long before a door somewhere in front of you swung open, you could feel the air blow your loose shirt back.
“A fine morning isn’t it?” A deep voice asked, he had an accent you’ve never heard before. You didn’t respond. He chuckled before continuing, “Well, I guess you wouldn’t know.”
You could hear the man shuffle to stand in front of you, “I want this to be easy, so let's be honest with each other.”
You nodded slowly.
“So you can hear me, perfect.” He noted.
You wish he could see the way you rolled your eyes at him, but it was probably better that he couldn't.
The man took a deep breath before asking calmly, “Who are you?”
You tugged on your restraints, signaling that you needed your hands to speak.
The man just laughed at you, “You don’t need those to respond, I know you can talk.”
You stayed silent.
“Speak.” His voice was eerily calm, sending a chill up your spine.
You shook your head.
His hand came down in a swift, calculated slap. It sent your head to the left, for a second all you could hear was ringing.
His boots scraped in front of you as he moved closer to grab your chin, forcing your head straight again.
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
You were throbbing with pain but you were not going to give in.
You shook your head again.
This process continued for a while, each slap growing more painful than the last. Still, he refused to raise his voice.
-.-
Finnick’s POV
Every five seconds he would check the door, hoping you would walk in any minute. You didn’t. He would ask the doctors for updates, and they told him to be patient. He couldn’t be patient anymore. He waited until nightfall, but now it had been three days.
He tried to reassure himself that there are many logical, safe reasons for you being late. Maybe the pilot had rerouted. Maybe the Capitol’s airspace was worse than expected. Maybe there was still time for everything to be okay. None of his logical explanations helped.
Finnick tried to appear calm and collected, but everyone could already see him unraveling.
Maybe once he’s back to work he’ll know the situation and find out you’re just around the corner… right?
-.-
Reader’s POV
There had been an endless dripping above your head for hours. It was intentional, you could tell because the only people who would want to torture and gain information from you would be the capital, and they never did anything on accident.
You were damp from head to toe, the cold air around you making it worse. In a few hours you knew sickness would start to set in. Your fingers and toes felt numb, all your blood focused on keeping your heart beating. Thoughts didn’t come clearly anymore—only the uncontrollable shivering of your body and the relentless clatter of your teeth filling the space inside your head.
Every once in a while you would hear shuffling of tactical boots and men speaking. You couldn’t tell if hours or minutes passed anymore. It was just water dripping forever and ever. There was nothing anchoring you to time anymore. You couldn’t see. You couldn’t feel or smell, the freezing temperatures making your nose lose its ability.
-.-
“Finnick?” You heard him outside, calling for you.
He didn’t respond. I should yell louder, you thought.
“I'm here!” You fought against your restraints, feeling one of your hands start to loosen the rope.
“Wait for me!” You yell into the darkness, still making your way out of the rope.
After only a minute your hand was free. You started shimmying your way out of the thick binds, a feeling of hope flooding your body.
The door opened, footsteps approaching, “Finnick!” You rejoice, pulling the blindfold off.
But it's not Finnick. It’s a peacekeeper with his face covered, his hand nearing your face rapidly before everything went black.
-.-
You were in a new room now. It wasn’t the damp stone room you’d seen for only a second before, this one was more of a cell. A thin, hard bed in the corner, a one way mirror across from it, a large security camera above the door, and a dirty toilet off to the side. You would be here for a while.
There were no windows, you still couldn’t tell the time. You were still in your grim covered clothes, but there was no longer a “leaking” pipe above your head so all was well… in a way.
The door opened, an older man with a long black trenchcoat entered.
“You’ve shown us you are capable. We were just going to ‘discard’ you, but you are more useful than we thought.” He used his figures to put quotes around “discard,” It was the man who had slapped you when you first arrived.
“Be a doll and tell me how you’re related to this rebellion. If you cooperate, maybe I can negotiate to get some food for you.” His demeanor was the same, calm and strategic.
You thought for a moment about it, then physically cringed. I’m such a bad daughter, you thought as you cursed yourself for even considering betraying your father and best friend. This place was taking a toll on you.
“Get me some food first and I’ll tell you.”
He clicked his tongue three times and shook his head, “You are in no place to negotiate. Taking my deal is your best option, you’ve only seen a fraction of the consequences.”
You simply shook your head.
He didn’t give a reaction, he just… left.
-.-
Finnick’s POV
Finnick started memorizing footsteps. The heavy stride near the command hall belonged to Boggs. Light, hurried steps usually meant Prim. Coin’s escorts moved in pairs. Every unfamiliar sound made his head turn instinctively. Every door made his pulse jump. It had been nine days.
He had asked everyone where you were, even Coin, but there were still no updates. Nobody knew where you were, where the mission crew was, and whether any of you were alright. No one knew anything, and if they did, they definitely weren’t telling him.
He wasn’t the type of person who overthinks, but he couldn’t help it. His mind kept jumping to the worst case scenarios, even going as far as giving him nightmares about them. Your body lifeless and mutilated at the hands of the Capitol.
It became a routine for him to wander, he couldn’t stand being in his room too long without you. During lap three of the compound he heard your name echo through the halls. Instinctively, he followed it and not long after his ear was pressed against a door to listen further.
It was Coin’s voice that he heard first, “They found bodies on the east border of the capital.”
Bodies? Was there an attempt to breach the walls? Finnick thought before the conversation could continue.
“Was it the crew?” Coin must’ve nodded as Plutarch further asked, “Was my daughter with them?”
“No, her status is still unknown.”
Silence settled over the room and it made Finnick impatient, he had to start asking questions himself.
He opened the door and acted surprised as he “accidently” interrupted their conversation. “I didn’t know there was a meeting today.”
Plutarch quickly turned around to respond, “There isn’t, we were just talking.” A cautious smile creeps onto his face.
“About what?”
Coin and Plutarch weren’t stupid, they could tell he already knew. The tension in the air was suffocating, “Finnick maybe you should go-” Coin began to escort him out but Finnick cut her off.
“No thanks, I’d rather stay.” He didn’t mean to have an attitude, he couldn’t help it. He needed to know more, like if there was a plan to find you.
Plutarch gave in, he knew Finnick cared about his daughter, a father always knows. “Please, make yourself at home.” He gestured to a chair across from him.
The blond smoothed out his District 13 issued clothing and moved across the room to sit at the large table, “Where do you think she is?”
Plutarch didn’t have the energy to lie anymore, a week was his limit. “I have a feeling the capital got to her before the team could.”
Finnick nodded deep in thought, “Is there a plan to get her?”
The older man shook his head.
“Then we are going to make one.”
-.-
Reader’s POV
The past few hours, days, weeks? You didn’t know anymore, you just know you would rather die than continue with this lifestyle. A life of mutilation, starvation, and psychological torture. You were burned, cut, and beaten. Your head dunked in water repeatedly.
Don’t Sleep.
Don’t Sleep.
Don’t Sleep.
Became your mantra, if you slept then your guard was down. If your guard was down then something worse than death would happen, you knew it.
The door slammed open. The trench coat man, two peacekeepers accompanying him.
Just kill me today, you thought.
“I have a treat for you today, doll.” His smile was anything but comforting, it revealed his true twisted intentions.
You were led to a room with a chair, leather bonds on the arms, legs, and body, and a small television from long before you were born.
The peacekeepers strapped you in while your torturer tuned the tv to one of the other cameras in the building.
The screen flickered once before the image steadied.
Your father sat restrained in a chair identical to yours. For a moment you forgot to breathe. His hair was disheveled. Blood darkened the collar of his shirt. Silver duct tape covered his mouth, trapping every desperate sound in his throat.
“No…” The word barely escaped you.
Beside you, the man in the trench coat smiled.
“I’m doing this because you made me,” he said softly.
A Peacekeeper stepped into frame. Your father began struggling violently against the restraints. You’d never seen him afraid before. The realization hollowed something inside you.
“Wait—”
The Peacekeeper drew his weapon.
You pulled against the leather straps hard enough to tear skin from your wrists.“Please, please don’t—” A hand gripped the back of your head, forcing you to keep watching.
The gunshot echoed through the room.
Afterward, your father didn’t move again.
“...dad?” A childish squeak left your mouth at the scene, sobs following shortly after.
The man behind you stood with an accomplished grin.
-.-
Finnick’s POV
He hasn’t been sleeping, he couldn’t. Every time he tried, his mind wandered back to you and the enigma that was your location. He lost his appetite a few days ago. Every time he tried to eat, he couldn’t help but think about how you were most likely being starved.
He’d been training lately to prepare for your rescue mission, though he hadn’t been promised a spot on the team. There wasn’t a plan yet, no set date or team, they didn’t even know where you were being held. Coin insisted that they were looking for your location but he believed her less everyday. There wasn’t any new information on you and it was killing him.
The sleep deprivation and overexertion from training inevitably turned into him passing out while “taking a breather” on the floor.
-.-
“Finnick!” Prim violently shook him awake, she was out of breath and her hands were unsteady.
He opened his eyes, “What is it?” His tone was surprisingly kind despite the fact that he was rudely awakened.
“Coin needs you in the meeting room,” Finnick started to fall back asleep, “She needs you right now!” Primrose began shaking him again.
“Okay okay,” he said, swatting her away and making his way to the meeting room.
When he opened the door Coin quickly moved to turn off the holographic screen displaying a gruesome video of you, but it was too late. He saw it all.
“What the hell was that?” Finnick made his way to the controls, “Where did you get that?” His voice rose slightly in distress.
A beat passes as everyone stares at him in shock, they’ve never seen him so worked up.
“The capital’s private channel. Betee, found it earlier.” Plutarch gestures to the man who sat next to him.
Betee hasn’t been able to get through the system for weeks, it's obvious that the capital wanted the rebels to find this.
“I wanna see the whole thing.” Finnick knows its graphic, he knows it’ll hurt to watch, but he needs to know what they did to you—what he failed to protect you from.
“Finnick—” Betee tries to argue but Finnick doesn’t let him.
“Show me the video… please.” His voice breaks on the final word but Coin obliges, the video flickering back to life on the screen.
You’re tied up to a chair, blindfolded, and brutally beaten. Tears and blood seeped through the cloth tied around your eyes as you cried in pain. A man demands you to read a message to the rebels but it doesn’t register well. You shake your head and call a name.
His name.
“Finnick, please help me.” You plead before a peacekeeper knocks you out with a hard hit to your head. The video cuts out.
The room is covered in a thick blanket of silence. No one knows what to say.
Coin speaks with reassurance to comfort the father and friend in the room, “We can use the radio signals that sent the video to triangulate the location where she is being kept. Once we have that, a team will be sent to recover her.”
Finnick nodded, “When do we leave?”
“You’re not going.” Plutarch states firmly.
“Yes, I am. She needs me—she was calling for me, not strangers who have nothing at stake.”
Plutarch’s voice raises from Finnick's defiance, “No. What she needs is stability and a mission without complications. You would jeopardize all of that.”
“She needs a familiar face—”
“You’re not going and that's final.” Coin settles the argument, shutting both the men up.
A few days later Finnick watches as the recovery team takes off in a sleek jet, hoping that he’ll see you again.
synopsis: jack abbot has had a shit day. luckily, his beautiful OBGYN wife is there to save his day.
contains: night crew!!, trinity santos being a menace, depictions of birth, jack being a simp, bad bitch reader, no use of y/n
note: first 'the Pitt' fanfic.
Being the lead OBGYN in PTMC emergency department was no easy feat.
You constantly handled STIs, infected IUDs and the occasional birth, but it was otherwise pretty calm.
They called you Bear, due to your calm yet assertive approach to distressed women. Not to mention it referred to ‘Mama Bear’, what almost all the interns and new residents called you at the insistence of Robby.
Overall, you truly loved your job. You got to spend time with women, babies, and your best friends.
Also, your husband worked in the Emergency Department, and you two always made it a show to flaunt your marriage in front of the residents.
.
.
.
Jack was tired.
He got shot. No, wait. Shot at. There’s a difference. A clear difference that he would highlight in your eventual fight over it.
Whatever, he was irritated as fuck.
And now he had all the new gen residents bitching to him about going analogue.
He entered a trauma room, followed by Dr. Santos, Dr. Langdon, student doctors Ogilvie and Joy and senior resident Ellis.
“Okay, Ms. Richards, can you tell us what happened?” He asked, frowning as he gazed over her chart.
Right, a woman was currently crowning the ER. Not the best situation, but it is what it is.
The woman cleared her throat, sweaty and crying as she held her bump. “My…my water broke while I was taking a hike. I had to go all the way back down before calling 911. I passed out and here I am.” She wheezed out.
Jack nodded, looking around. “Joy, what are we looking for?” He called out, gloving and gowning up.
“Uhm-”
“Chorioamnionitis. Her uterus may be infected.” Ogilvie cut her, looking over at Jack for approval.
The older man paused, dumbfounded at the cause. Great, Robby assigned him a Gunner.
Santos snorted from where she was getting the epidural ready.
“We’re looking for horses, not zebras.”
The familiar voice made Jack’s muscles relax.
The familiar pink scrubs appeared in the room.
Everybody paused, before Ellis chuckled.
“Thank God Dr. Abbot’s here, no offence Jack.” She snorted, already walking over to you instinctively.
You breathed out a smile, pulling your hair off your face. “Thanks, Doctor Ellis.”
You walked over to Jack’s side, giving him a teasing smile. “Dr. Abbot, what’s up with the patient?”
He cleared his throat. God, he’s whipped when you use that authoritative tone.
“Well, she’s two weeks premature, and was having strenuous activity before the birth so that is the most likely cause.” You nodded, turning over to Ogilvie.
“She would be over 100 degrees if it were chorioamnionitis.” You explained dryly, checking the patient’s vitals.
“Dr. Abbot’s the expert here, dear future doctors. She's the head of OBGYN down here. She could probably birth triplets with her eyes closed.” Jack stated, trying to maintain an air of professionalism in front of them.
“I have. Remember Snowmageddon?” You said, nudging his side with your hip.
Langdon and Ellis, already used to all of this, were moving in tandem, while Santos, Ogilvie and Joy were nothing but flabbergasted.
“Okay, Ms. Richards. I’m afraid we’ll have to give birth to your baby girl right here. You are much too fragile to go up to L&D.” With a sigh, you sat on the chair and rolled over between her legs, pushing your glasses up.
Santos, ever the chaotic good that she was, cleared her throat. “Doctor Abbot?” She called out.
Both you and Jack looked over to her, eyebrows raised. She paused, looking between the two.
“Mama Bear, epidural’s ready.” Langdon called out. You nodded, going over to ask the patient if she wanted an epidural.
She nodded, gripping the railing of the gurney.
“Okay, Dr. Santos, epidural.” You ordered, adjusting the lady’s legs on the stirrups.
“Are you two married?” Joy finally blurted out, looking between you two.
You paused, turning over to Jack for his answer.
He paused before nodding, crossing his arms. “Yeah, yeah we are. She’s senior here though. She has about two years on me experience wise. But, yeah, we’re both doctor Abbot-”
“Honey?” You cut off his nervous rambling, looking up at him with those deep eyes of yours.
He mumbled out a sorry, turning back to the patient as she pushed. “You guys can just call me Bear. That’s the nickname around here.” You mumbled, busy checking the dilation.
10 centimeters. Time to go.
“Uh, no. You guys call her Dr. Abbot. Just call me Jack.” Your husband protested, gulping at your cautious glance.
Santos raised her eyebrows, surprised at the attending’s insistence on keeping your doctor title.
“That’s some feminist shit.” She said under her breath, earning a “I know that’s right” from Ellis.
“One last push, Ms. Richards.” You assured, hands ready to catch the babe while everybody else gossiped.
Jack watched you, eyes observing reverently as you entered flow state.
That’s what he loved the most about you, how focused you were when you were working.
The contrast of his beautiful and serious colleague from his caring and passionate wife always made his heart do a little twirl.
At one point, Langdon and Santos started bickering before a sharp cry cut them off.
You cooed gently, wiping the baby’s eyes. “Langdon, 9:30.” You called out the time of birth, carefully cutting the umbilical birth while Ellis grabbed the baby, bringing her to her mama.
You turned to Jack, grinning. “Think we don’t need you here, Dr. Abbot.” You teased, waiting for the placenta.
He smiled, walking over to your side. “You sure, Dr. Abbot?”
“Yes, go help Robby. Poor man’s last day is already as bad as it can get.” You ordered, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.
He blushed, nodding. “Yes ma’am.” He said with a small salute, leaving.
Trinity snorted, looking down at your expert hands. “That was so weird.”
“What? You’ve never seen Abbot act like a puppy?” Ellis snorted, holding the metal tray under the woman as her placenta spilled out.
You always loved seeing the residents’ reaction to you and your husband. Nothing could replace the dumbfoundedness on their faces.
Trinity nodded.
You sighed, sitting up with a backstretch. “He knows how to abandon authority when I’m around.”
Joy held back a grin. “That’s some Alpha/Beta shit, Doc.” She hummed, bursting out into laughter at Ogilvie’s reaction.
“I don’t even know what that is.” He grimaced.
You shrugged, throwing your gloves out. “What can I say? A man who yearns is a man who earns, girls.” You said, walking out to go page L&D.
Trinity and Joy followed your figure, sighing.
“I don’t know if I want to be with her or be her.” Joy frowned.
some texts between reader and dennis in the hot shot universe but you don't need to have read those!! just know that reader is a respiratory therapist <3 these were mostly taken from/heavily inspired by pinterest lol but a few of them are just from my mind!
<3 no taglist on the smaus like usual just for fun!!
summary: working as in house counsel means you've become very acquainted with jack abbot and his little scrawl of a signature. god help him.
content: sexually explicit content, age gap, swearing, medical inaccuracy obviously--sue me I'm in law not medicine, blood and wound mentions but this is a medical show so
total wc: 42,468
status: ongoing
godlight (wc: 16.7k) | the first friday of every month you make your way down to the emergency department with a stack of insurance claims in hand to harass robby with, and you leave through the stairs with jack abbot, fresh off his shift and half a step behind you, muttering something lowly in your ear that makes you laugh.
hey, siri (wc: 3k) | you become privy to some abbot-sponsored healthcare fraud.
ornithological jurisprudence (wc: 3k) | bothering jack abbot is your specialty, fuck whatever your actual job is.
goldilocks (wc: 5k) | jack has trouble sleeping. you don’t make it any easier.
saint jack (wc: 14.3k) | abbot decides it's your turn to fix what's broken and, lucky for you, he's there to talk you through it.
I’m not going to defend Robby’s behavior towards Samira because it was wrong and cruel and deeply, deeply unprofessional. But I also find the reactions to it incredibly ironic. The Pitt is at its core about extreme burnout in the healthcare field, particularly amongst emergency medicine personnel, and how that ripples out and affects absolutely everyone around them—their colleagues, their relationships, the entire community. Over and over again, the Pitt asks of its audience: even in the face of extreme and sometimes unforgivable behavior, can you find the same empathy that is constantly and endlessly demanded of our healthcare providers? And for so many it seems like the answer to that question is a definitive, categorical no. Which funnily enough, is exactly the point the show is trying to make.
%%%% authors note . . . one of my smaller chapters only because my work is picking up like wtffff i wish i could be employed but do unemployed stuff constantly.
%%%% taglist (taglist is closed) . . . @tqd4455 @goldfishenthusiast67 @xreader1989 @malibuhearts @mewmew222 @tabisswag @cosmicneptune @dollieangeel @abbotitts @localsams @cutiesinthecosmos @dumbbandpoetic @silovicbaird @cosmosnkaz @kaiparkerwife @tatoda @shitface-t @iloveofftotheraces @niyizh @batgirlieee @vikisvendetta @ziggy0stardust @vesperazhier @horanghaepaws @theariespov @memanda17 @harringtonsbowgirl l @cassierins @peachyfckingkeen @jaelaconsuela @rott3ndesire @huckkleberry @lonerm3g @mxtokko @ancientimes @sideblogmeanz @wylewhims @almostjollypizza @braincellfugitive @fadedmunson @pennyploorp @cherryybombbthoughts @marvelsimps @archxve @mel164 @ilumxna @fembot-rot @minghaossv @faelvz @matt-murdockk (NOTE!! i mean this as kindly as possible, interactions help my motivation to post. that being said, the taglist is full and if you do not interact with my posts in any capacity, nor do you follow me, i will have to remove you and try out others who are also asking to be put on the list. sorry.)
%%%% authors note . . . im hoping its not the case but my work will kick back up again soon so i’ll try to post everyday like this past week. anyway i love it when u guys give me your thoughts so dont be shy 🙈🙈🙈 little jealousy plot inspired by my talented moots latest update!!
%%%% taglist (still open) . . . @tqd4455 @goldfishenthusiast67 @xreader1989 @malibuhearts @mewmew222 @tabisswag @cosmicneptune @dollieangeel @abbotitts @localsams @cutiesinthecosmos @dumbbandpoetic @silovicbaird @cosmosnkaz @kaiparkerwife @tatoda @shitface-t @iloveofftotheraces @niyizh @batgirliee @vikisvendetta @ziggy0stardust @vesperazhier @horanghaepaws @theariespov @memanda17 @harringtonsbowgirl @cassierins @peachyfkingkeen @jaelaconsuela @rott3ndesire @huckkleberry @lonerm3g @mxtokko @ancientimes @sideblogmeanz @wylewhims @almostjollypizza @iheartdonis @braincellfugitive @fadedmunson @pennyploorp @cherryybombbthoughts @marvelsimps @archxve @mel164 @clementinebutnottheorange @ilumxna @fembot-rot @minghaossv @faelvz @matt-murdockk @turtlesareeverywhere (pink means i can’t tag you or i got ur user wrong, sorry!)
✨️Bug✨️ @corpsehusband-simp - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
