hyperfixation station (MDNI)

an account for every hyperfixation I have :) | 22 |

[abbotverse]

ER wallflower - jack abbot.

in which jack abbot is the first to notice the wallflower resident of the ER.

summary; reader has always been used to being left behind, and eventually stopped trying to make space for themselves. she doesn't think anyone notices her, until jack abbot starts paying attention.

warnings; fem!reader. use of y/n, use of she/her, probably medical inaccuracies bc all my medical knowledge comes from shows lol, also NO AI used !!! i use em dashes sometimes but i PROMISE this is strictly a no-ai account!! also reader has a cat bc i said so

i might make a part two of this tbh but i wont label it as a series bc then my brain will start procastinating and i'll lose all motivation to write it LOL

The noise of the ER buzzed around you. The muscles in your neck ached, begging to be stretched and massaged. One of your hands came up to gently rub on your neck, the other slowly typing out the chart of your latest patient.

Some of the interns were huddled together, giggling to each other about something. It had become a habit of yours to listen in on them— on whatever gossip they had going on this time. Sometimes, you liked to pretend that you were part of it. That you got to gossip with friends just like they do.

That'd never been the case for you. In your intern year, you were the only one. Already feeling alienated, you struggled to find your place in the ER. Everyone seemed to already know who they were, aside from you.

For a while, you tried. You tried to include yourself. You joined the others when they went for a beer after a heavy shift. But as time went on, you didn't feel any closer to belonging. It didn't feel like anyone was making room for you either. So, you stopped showing up. And no one said anything.

Now, you just worked. You took all the patients no one else wanted. You stayed a little later to make sure another coworker could get home on time. You helped in traumas, then slipped away as soon as it was done.

This routine worked. It'd been your routine for years now. It wasn't that you were a bad doctor, no. You just didn't fit in.

A small wince covered your features as you rubbed your neck again. You truly couldn't wait to get off shift, and go home. You know your cat must already be sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting for the sight of you walking through the door.

"Nice catch, earlier." You heard a gruff voice behind you— one you recognized as your attending, Jack Abbot. Being the eavesdropper you are, you waited to hear the response of the person he was complimenting. You wondered if they'd be humble or gleeful. You know that if you were complimented like that, you'd be over the moon.

The light of the monitor made your eyes burn a little, but you just had to push through this last chart.

Then, you felt a hand tap your shoulder.

"Kid?" Dr. Abbot hummed, looking down at you, the corner of his lips quirking into a small smile. "Did'ya hear me?"

Your eyes go wide, and you swear you can feel your heart jumping up into your throat, making your breath hitch. He was talking to you. No one ever bothered talking to you, not if it wasn't necessary.

"I— er- sorry, what did you say, Dr. Abbot?" You cleared your throat, trying to get your heart to return to a normal pace, the chart all forgotten now.

He watched you for a moment, his gaze softening from playful to a more gentle one. "I said..." His hands gripped both ends of his stethoscope, the one he always had around his neck, "Good catch earlier. With the silent heart attack patient. Not many of us could've caught that."

The apples of your cheeks shifted into a deep red color, your eyes darting from him to your keyboard, then to your water bottle, the floor, keyboard, him...

"Oh- um, yeah, thank you, sir." You nodded in response, already mentally degrading yourself for being so awkward. This is your attending, for gods sake. You should be professional.

But that easy grin rested on his face, and he nodded. "Oh, sure, kid. You're one hell of a doctor. Keep it up." He gently squeezed your shoulder, and walked off. And that was that. He complimented you like it was nothing.

That simple compliment swam in your head the entire day. It made you smile as you prepared your lunch for work at home that evening. It made you hum with content as you settled into bed, curtains drawn shut to hide the rising sun.

Good catch earlier.

It started happening more and more. Abbot would pull you into traumas with him, let you take the lead on them, and then give you a small compliment, and one of those warm smiles. He'd linger when you charted, always trying to spark up small talk.

You never came out of your shell, though. It was driving him insane. He tried everything. But you always shut it down and got back to work. For a while, he thought you might just dislike him. But he could see the small smiles you gave him, and the pink tint in your cheeks at his compliments.

So, he tried asking the other residents about you. Imagine his shock when no one knew anything about you. Everyone just responded off-handedly.

'Oh, Y/N? Yeah, she's a quiet one. Dunno much about her.'

'Y/N? Great doctor. Haven't talked to her much.'

'Saw her a few times in her first year of residency. Then she stopped coming out.'

No one knew anything. That's what made Jack perk up a little more. He tried to subtly keep notes on you throughout the day. See who you spoke to. If maybe you left with someone. Maybe discussed patients. But he got nothing.

You were all alone.

The last straw was when he spotted you slipping into the abandoned wing of the hospital, settling yourself on the dusty staircase, and opening your lunchbox. You even hid away to eat.

He had to fix that.

So, he became a little more persistent. He'd ask you to eat lunch with him, and before you had a chance to decline, he'd already led you into the breakroom, making you sit down with one pinned stare.

He could tell you were a little anxious. So he always made the first move. He'd ask questions that required more than a nod for an answer, just to get you talking. And he would listen. Full attention, eyes glued to you the entire time you spoke.

No dismissive nods, no hums of acknowledgement in a way to just make you feel heard, no. He made sure you knew he was listening. When you mentioned your cat, he asked for its name. He asked to see pictures. When you made an offhanded complaint about the hospital coffee, he asked what your favorite coffee place was.

The next day, a coffee from said place was waiting for you.

[bluetimeombre]

softer, harder, in-between

synopsis you and Jack have always been two peas in a pod, working the ER together, on the field together, no wonder you started to search for those dark eyes and damning smirk. and you thought for a second, just for a second, he might be searching for you too, until you hear the man you're crushing on airing out everything he hates about you

warningstypical medical drama stuff, in-accurate medical terms. miscommunication. angst. insecure reader. language, jack says things he doesn't mean about reader. angry love confession in the rain. this is not proof-read

authornotei really really really loved this idea and tried so hard to do it justice, I hope you like anon. I tried to stay close to the SWAT idea but I'll be honest I know nothing about American army stuff (i'm british) so I sort of set it as much in the Pitt as I could. I also couldn't find ANYTHING for Jack's military background so I made up some SWAT guys

pitt masterlist. another Jack fic!

Just when you thought the rest of your day was going to be boring, Jack Abbot and his crew of SWAT pushed through the ambulance bay doors, yelling off stats, applying pressure where needed and clearing the way around them.

Which was a welcome change from trying to sell Robby your hypothetical first born child in exchange for a lunch break.

“Intubated neck wound, stats are going down. Got a room?” said Jack.

You were at the gurney in an instance, Robby joining the herd in the pushing of the bed. It took you less than a second to see through the bag in the neck and the blood and the uniform to recognise the one on the gurney. “Hiro? What happened?”

“Warehouse robbery gone wrong,” said Jack with almost absent of mind. He said the words and promptly seemed to realise who he was talking to and looked up- at you- again. “You're working today?”

“Oh no, I just hang around in hopes of seeing you in unfiorm.”

Next to you, Robby chuckled and beyond Jack you gave quick greeting to your laughing buddies, clad in SWAT uniform.

You were what could be called, a floater.

By all educational means you were a doctor and a damn good one too. You had every certificate you needed and all the flying colours you could get. You just didn't have a permanent job. You were a sub. You worked mainly at PTMC and on the field but had been known to go to the dark side, a.k.a, Presby.

“Okay, on my count,” you begin. “One, two, three-”

You helped lift him over to the bed.

“Did you intubate him?” you asked,

“Yeah, under active fire,” said Jack.

You looked at Jack. Sweat on his forehead, flecks of grey hair sticking to him and the shirt under his army vest hung lose. He was dishevelled in away romance characters presented on books covers. To lure you in. “You were shot?”

“Shot at.”

“You need to be looked at?”

“No. I'm fine.” His lips were pursed, focus on Hiro.

“Did you see the chords when you intubated?” asked Robby, floating around the two of you as Jack refused to leave Hiro's side and you stayed by Abbot. He'd seen it a dozen times before. A disaster where there was one, there was the other.

There was the occasions he'd hand over to Jack, go home, sleep and come back to find Jack had called in you. You who was always ready to go at the first buzz of your pager. Wherever it was, whatever you had to do. And Robby would look through the patients that night, check the board and understand they hadn't really needed your help all that much.

Jack had.

Now, Robby saw the way you looked at Jack and had seen the gap that existed between the two of you.

“Yeah, I did but it was hard to miss when I cleared them.”

Jack reached and you watched as he stretched, wincing at the pull in his shoulder.

“You should get that looked at,” you told him.

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not.”

There was a small roll of the eyes as Jack's gaze rose to meet yours through his goggles. There was almost a tiny hint of a smirk- your favourite kind but it disappeared as soon as it appeared.

“Yeah, c'mon Abbot!” said Charlie, calling from the back of his room where he stood with Diaz, two of the SWAT officers you were most frequent with. “Let doc work you up.”

You chuckled low to yourself, trying to catch Jack's eyes to share the joke but he looked away, his jaw clenching.

So, he wasn't in the joking mood.

“Alright, fellas, out!” leaving the wounded's side you ushered them out in spite of their protests and their giddy, hopeful optimism that Officer Hiro would pull through. “We'll let you know any changes, out!”

You pulled on a gown and cleared a way over.

“Demanding,” said Robby.

“You should hear me in the bedroom,” you teased with a wink.

Over on the other side you caught a small click from Jack's tongue. A disapproval voiced loud enough for others to hear.

You grasped the ultrasound wand from the nurse, circling it around the wound at Hiro's neck while Jack pulled away the gauze he'd packed, carefully minding you. “Good lung sliding, no pneumo-”

The last gauze peeled away in a bloody mess and a rope of blood shot out directly at you for vengeance.

“Geez- woah!”

“Pumper!” you announced, clamping your hand over the wound.

The streak of red cut through the skin on your neck, your gown and the doctors coat you liked to wear just like they did in tv shows. You had a draw full of them at home for instances like that.

“Hey, hey,” Jack was at your side quick as you loomed over the body. “Move back, get yourself cleaned up.”

“I can handle a little blood, Abbot.”

“I know that but-”

“- this is a transected trachea now-”

There was little else time to worry about blood on your gown and coat when the intubation was pulled out, the hole in his throat open.

There was a lot people said about you, with words and looks alike but none of which passed you or bothered you. You knew some thought you abrash and loud, you were, you knew it true. On the field the teams you worked with always thought you as one of them, 'one of the guys' but damn it- you were a good doctor.

You ordered everything correctly, you took them and worked them without so much as a blink and Robby stood behind you approving of everything you did.

It was one of the reasons he always called you in.

“Well done, good breaths sounds, stats are up: in the nineties,” approved Robby.

Jack hummed, pulling off his gloves as you all backed away. “Not bad.”

Your carried your smirk with you and over to him. “Is that the great Jack Abbot stamp of approval?”

“You know I think you're good at you're job,” he said, plainly.

You did know that. You knew that Jack admired your skills. He was one of the only ones who'd seen your skills on the field when sometimes all you had left in your kit was the dregs from other procedures or in the hospital when everything was pristine. He'd worked closest to you, probably out of everyone in either one of your jobs.

But there was always something about Jack that kept him far away. He was always a man that was so calm, which in the the face of conflict wasn't a bad call. Yet, it was the quiet moments in between- the way his footfall would slow to match yours, or the glances he'd steal at you half way across the ward, or the extra snacks he'd pack that had you searching rooms for him, checking shifts to see if you'd be around him.

Then when you were, Jack pursed his lips, clenched his jaw, acted like he wanted to be anywhere else sometimes than at your side.

He was a complicated man. Annoyingly that's what added to your attraction- and everyone knew it.

Once the two of you told Officer Charlie and Diaz that Hiro was stable enough to be taken to surgery you followed after Jack.

“You sure you don't want me to look at that shoulder for you?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, it's fine,” he excused.

“Don't want the paperwork?”

“Something like that,” said Jack, still shifting around in pain as he tried to roll his shoulder out.

“Okay, okay, but get it looked at!” you called off, ready to shed your coat or at least try and rub off some of Hiro's blood.

There was a mutter from Jack before he went another way.

You looked back to him once, watching as he walked off with a small limp that probably wasn't detectable to anyone that didn't analyse him like you did. It was a brutal sort of thing, SWAT, and with Abbot's sleep schedule you knew it was only worse. Eight- maybe ten hour shifts for so little sleep to get thrown back into the fire- literally. You wondered how he did it.

And, why.

Jack flexed out his shoulder at the press of the q-tip to his back.

He meant it, the wound really wasn't that bad. It had grazed through his clothes and vest but still hit just enough to leave an angry welt and bruising. He was content to hide away and sort it himself if it weren't for the fact he couldn't reach.

Then Samira Mohan walked by and offered her help. He was already tired, annoyed that those punks had thought it a good idea to rob a warehouse in the middle of the day, already worried about Hiro and his recovery. Then- there was you, with your snarky comments while saving his life, not batting a lash at the blood that got splattered on you in the mean time and still having time to flirt with Robby.

And prancing around in this scrub pants that were surely just a bit too tight.

Jack was wound up, which was why he admitted surrender and allowed Mohan to clean out his wound.

“Why do you do this?” she'd asked.

Jack had folded his arms over his chest, suddenly very aware he was shirtless in front of her. “My therapist says I need a hobby. I suck at golf.”

She hummed. “Funny.”

“Thank you.”

He made conversation to be polite, asking about the fellowships he knew others were already applying for. Crus had been telling him about them and he knew Mohan was searching to.

They were chatting was all when Robby walked by, looking in to check.

He frowned when he saw Mohan and Abbot, pausing in his fly by with a hand in the door way.

Jack watched as Robby looked around again at the ward, undoubtedly searching for you.

“We're almost finished up here,” said Mohan.

Robby held up his hands. “I didn't say anything,” he said, leaning in the doorway. He passed Jack a nod. “You good?”

“Getting there, thanks to Doctor Mohan's capable hands.” Jack kept his eyes averted from Robby as if he'd done something wrong. He hadn't. He'd told you the wound didn't need looking at because he was going to handle it.

Robby looked at him the sort of way he looked at patients when he knew they were lying about their scale of pain. “Can you give us a second?”

Just as Jack was about to push himself up Samira moved behind him.

“Er, yeah, sure. No problem,” she said, pulling off her gloves and listing off post-care instructions from instinct. “Keep it clean and the dressing fresh.”

“Can do, Doctor Mohan. Thank you.”

Robby stepped out of the way for Mohan before walking in, staring at Jack with his hands in his pockets.

Jack found his shirt discarded on the floor and pulled it over him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Clearly,” said Jack.

“Are you avoiding her, now?”

Jack didn't need to ask who he was talking about and Robby didn't need to specify. “Course not.”

“Did she do something?”

“No.”

“So what was all that? Back in trauma?” asked Robby. His eyes were beady, waiting to pick up on any shift in Jack or anything that might betray him. But Robby wore his heart on his sleeve. He might think he doesn't or thinks he's good at hiding such emotions away but Jack and everyone else sees them anyhow.

Jack had his heart buried deep down. “I dunno, man,” he huffed, ignoring the burning sensation as he pulled his shirt back over him. “Maybe I just didn't feel like joking around when my buddy was bleeding out on the table.”

Robby shook his head, eyes creasing. “People bleed out all the time.”

Jacks lips pursed as he worked on tucking his shirt back into his pants. Anything to keep him occupied and averted from Robby’s knowing gaze.

“I haven’t seen you this worked up since you first met her,” he teased.

“Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abbot grumbled.

Robby chuckled low in his throat, leaning back on the wall comfortable like he was watching his favourite show. “When two consenting adults like each other very much-”

“I don’t,” said Jack, abrupt. “I don’t… like her.”

“Jack, c’mon-”

Jack turned to Robby. He considered his confusion. Sure, you were a great doctor and even better on the field. Something about the chaos seemed to focus you, bringing out your best self. You were funny, even at the worse times.

“She’s not it for me,” he said, trying to mean those words.

Your smile first thing in the morning didn’t warm him. The fact you knew his coffee order after only two days of working together didn’t make him feel special. You were incredibly intelligent. Beautiful.

Jack twisted and turned around his wedding band.

Robby watched, heaving a sigh. “Brother…”

Jack couldn’t keep you in his heart when his dead wife still held a place there. It wasn’t fair to you.

“She’s not it, Robby.”

“And why not?” He asked, pushing and prodding against his bag of lies like he knew he was carrying it.

“She’s different- we’re two different. You know with my- with my wife we worked. She wasn’t a doctor, she didn’t throw her life away on field missions. She wasn’t… she wasn’t ruthless, she was soft. Perfect for me.”

He pressed down against the metal band branding him.

“You’re not gonna give yourself a chance to be happy because she’s not like your wife?” Asked Robby.

Jack glanced back at him. “I know what works for me. I can’t be with someone as loud or… bash. She’s-she’s brutal, you know.”

Robby nodded but there was a furrow between his brows. “We all have our own ways of dealing with things.”

“Her way is drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there’s no healthy habits there,” argued Jack. Why he was arguing about you with Robby he didn’t know. Why he was defending himself with words that fell like led on his tongue he had no idea.

“Okay,” said Robby in a way that marked defeat.

But Jack didn’t believe what he was saying. He heard himself and frowned. “And I don’t even think she’s a person who could settle down. Hmm, I mean look at her job? She’s constantly in between them.”

“She’s a sub, that’s what she does-”

“- scared of commitment,” corrected Jack.

Robby scoffed out a laugh of disbelief. “Okay, you’re in a mood or something.” He pushed himself from the wall.

“No, I’m not,” he argued a little too quick and a little too harsh to be okay with what he was saying. “She’s a good person she’s just not my person. You know she-she doesn’t even like flowers, who doesn’t like flowers?”

“She’s more than a good person, Jack,” said Robby with an air of defeat about him. With one last look back to Jack he left, closing the door gently behind him.

In the seconds the door was open Jack sort a peek out. You were at the nurses desk, leaning over a tablet, the blue glow illuminating you. There was a troubled look to your face, scrunching your brows and marring your usual unflappable gaze. Jack almost wanted to see the chart himself and ask what was bothering you, but he knew you never told him, only ever let it be yourself that saw your problems.

Another thing he couldn’t stand. You’d never ask for help.

Even if, Jack couldn’t admit it out loud, he’d help without an invitation too.

You suppose you shouldn’t have been surprised, yet doctors ran on hope. Without hope trauma rooms became morgues and body’s became empty vessels. You’d built hope into your system, kept somewhere between your heart and stomach.

That’s why you felt it plummet.

She’s not it for me.

There was no intention to listen in on a conversation that clearly you weren’t supposed to know about. You'd just been passing by when you heard your name from Jacks mouth. That was enough to stop you in place. If your feet weren't frozen you would have moved, made yourself busy or call up to surgery to check on Hiro.

But as Jack went on your heart plummeted.

She's brutal.

It wasn't until you heard Robby defend you that you moved away, hiding with your back to the exam room and hunching over a tablet that held no chart.

You'd always assumed Jack was just harder to crack then some of the other SWAT guys. You could read most of them within days, know their moods from a glance. You'd never been able to read Jack and maybe it was because he didn't want to be known by you.

You thought seeing Hiro with a hole in his neck would be the worst thing of the day but you caught your reflection in the black screen of the tablet and resented the way things blurred around you.

She's not it for me.

“Hey-” Robby was behind you and you tucked your head into your chest. His hand squeezed your shoulder. “Central twelve when you have a chance.”

“You got it, boss.” Luckily your voice remained steady despite the waver in your throat.

Robby gave a nod and left you to it.

Had Jack had hatred for you since you knew him and just never said a word? Did you do something for him to harbour these feelings?

Besides from not being his wife.

The door closed again and on instinct you looked over your shoulder, catching Jack adjusting his belt. He looked up and found your gaze, offering you a pulled smile.

It was like every other smile he'd ever given you.

You'd been so blind with affection to not see it. What a fool.

You couldn't even pull your lips back up, you just walked away.

Weeks went by in flashes of sleepless nights and lonely days.

The sick and injured didn't wait for you to get over yourself, instead they helped.

You offered yourself like a lamb to the slaughter in Presby and even Westbridge. You pulled doubles, catching small naps in any empty exam room or on-call room you could find. You started to learn staff names when you'd never cared before.

A group of nurses at Westbridge even invited you out for drinks.

“Drinking every weekend, out with the guys, there's no healthy habits there” you remembered Jack's voice and declined their invitation.

When SWAT called you had an excuse. A plumber was coming around... you were re-modelling; suddenly your apartment was going through half a dozen makeovers and all your childhood friends were visiting.

“You know you're not a very good liar,” Diaz had said when he called you for a drink and you declined. That day you were taking your mom's dog to the vet (your mom was a cat person and in another state)

Your apartment became a cave and you became a shell of yourself, un-ironically listening to the high school musical soundtrack and crying.

And still you couldn't find it in yourself to be angry at Jack. Of course he wouldn't want you- he had a wife. And a memory of that wife to keep him walm. What could he do with you? If you weren't his type, you weren't his type. If it was just that maybe you could have moved on.

But he didn't like you as a person and that stung more.

You didn't know how long it had been since you were last at PTMC, only long enough that you started to scramble corridors in your mind and forget what some of the nurses sounded like.

“We have a mass casualty event,” said Robby on the phone one Sunday morning. His voice sounded different, but you supposed time played tricks on your memory. “School bus incident. You in?”

You were in pyjamas at home, some crappy tv on low. “I'll have to check, Presby might need me.”

Robby scoffed down the line. “Have they called yet?”

“Well, no-”

“Then get your ass over here.”

“Robby-”

“Please, please get your ass over here,” he said down the line, sighing heavily. “I.... I could really use another set of hands.”

Robby didn't say please. Ever. So how could you say no.

Within the hour you were dressed an,d thrown into the anarchy.

You got through the ambulance doors, was thrown a gown and got to work. You didn't even see Robby to let him know you were there, you just found Langdon and worked beside him.

“I need some help over here!” yelled out a paramedic.

At once you and Langdon were at her side, pushing along the gurney.

“Kid, fracted tib-fib, pupils mid range and sluggish- couldn't get a line we had to intubate.”

“Dana what's open?” called out Langdon.

“Room in trauma one!”

Mass casualty meant trauma rooms doubled up, pushed up against either wall. Mass casualty meant extra hands called in- like you. Still, when you pushed through the door and found Jack's eyes look up you spared half a second in apprehension.

“You're here,” was all he said.

You didn't know what to say. There was some snarky comment on the tip of your tongue as you settled the boy in the corner but you remembered you weren't supposed to be that person.

Jack didn't like that person.

“Yeah, in the flesh,” replied Frank instead.

“Chest trauma on the right!” you assessed. “We need an X-ray in here.”

“X-ray's backed up,” Jack called from where he hovered over another patient.

“Then get me an ultrasound!” you called out. “Push five migs of epi down the tube and hang a unit of O-neg on the rapid infuser.”

“BP'S eighty over fifty, pulse is at one-twelve!” called out Princess.

You felt someone bump in your shoulder and knew by inhale it was Jack. He was close at your side, pulling off and on another pair of gloves.

“What have you got?” he asked.

It wasn't instinct to move away from him. It was practised control that had you swapping sides with Frank, practically pushing him into Jack.

“Chest trauma to the right, he's tacky,” he explained quickly.

You pulled out your stethoscope, listening closely. “His breathing's stridor, I need a thoracotomy tray!”

“A thoracotomy?” asked Jack, voice oddly quiet in the trauma as if it was whispered just next to you. “You sure you can handle that?”

“I'm a good doctor, if I'm nothing else,” you bit out, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. You weren't going to allow yourself to fall back into old habits, of questioning what Jack didn't like so much about you. You focused on the un-conscious boy under the mercy of your hands. You ordered the right tools, made the cut neat and precise, pushing more pain relief.

“Any tamponade?” asked Jack.

You checked the boys blood pressure. “No, pericardium's dry.”

“Okay, start an-”

“- start an internal massage-”

You and Jack said at the same time.

Frank seemed stuck in headlights before he reached through the incision in the boys chest and slowly started to work the heart.

“Pulse?”

“Barely.”

Jack frowned, looking over at your work. “Cross clamp the aorta, and push another mig of antropine.”

“I need suction!”

“Got anything for surgery?” asked a new voice, Doctor Walsh checking between the patients in the room.

“Oh no, we've brought the OR down to us,” said Jack.

Doctor Walsh rounded, catching the suction and the message of the heart. “Are you doing a thoracotomy right now?”

“Don't look at me,” said Jack, surrendering.

Before anyone could argue with you, question your capability you snapped out. “I know what I'm doing!”

Jack was silent, Frank smirked and Walsh rose a brow.

“Clamped,” said Princess.

“Someone push in another of antropine and get another unit of blood in,” you ordered.

There was a sudden buzzing as all eyes averted to the monitor.

“He's going into V-fib!”

You wiped your bloody and gloved hands down your gown. “Okay, I need internal panels!”

They were handed to you and Jack rushed to your side.

“You want me to-” he started but you already had the panels in hand and were ordering their charge.

“Charge to thirty! Clear!”

Like you were cupping the heart with your own hands you nudged the panels on either side and shocked. There were little miracles sometimes in the ED and with a bus full of school children you needed miracles.

“There! He's stable!” said Princess.

“We've got a girl coming in, needs stabalising and an ortho consult!” said Lena, throwing the door open. It seemed everyone had been called in.

“I'll take this guy, don't want you getting all the credit,” smirked Walsh as she and the team wheeled out the boy. She looked back at you, almost waiting for you to say more- some funny joke or flirtatious tease.

You only waved past her to get the young girl into the room.

Everyone in the room looked at you as you honed in on the next casualty, ignoring the pang in your heart at Jack's gaze.

When the girl for ortho came in you could only work on stabilising her before Park the Shark descended and took her up, assuring the bag was on ice. He gave you a less ten friendly look. Seemingly Jack wasn't the only one who couldn't stand you.

The hours ticked by in bodies of different kids, in shades of blood and traumas. By the time you got outside for some fresh air it was night and one lonely ambulance sat with you.

You were catching your breath when you heard the doors slide open and shut again. You imagined it was someone else wanting some peace and air, or a paramedic heading back out on the road.

“You were impressive in there,” said Jack, coming to stand next to you. There was a large enough gap that another body could have fit there.

“Thank you.”

He gave one short nod. “Robby call you in?”

“Yeah.”

“Same here,” he said, not that you'd asked. “You know, Hiro's doing well.”

You paled in the night. Lost in your own self-loathing you hadn't even asked about Hiro, or gone to see him. You'd heard he was okay when he dropped a message from the ICU but that was as far as it got. “Oh yeah, I know, I heard.”

“What, from the guys?”

You nodded, lips pursing as you crossed your arms over your chest in the light chill.

“You know they told me you haven't been around much,” said Abbot. “I've noticed it too. We all went to Larry's the other night, your invitation get lost?”

Was it a test? Was it a joke to him?

“No, I just didn't want to drink. Trying to cut down, it's not so healthy,” you said, kicking one foot in front of the other.

“One or two's not bad,” he said. “Couple of us are gonna grab a beer once this is all over. You joining us? Usual spot.”

She's brutal, you know.

You looked to him first. He was already looking at you, eyes creased like he was trying to see through you. It was real and earnest and making his words from weeks ago hurt even more.

“No thanks, Jack.” You almost reached to his shoulder but thought better of it.

Heading back in seemed the safer option.

Jack turned when you did. “Noody's seen you for weeks-”

“- I've been busy-”

“- except those nurses in Presby, they see you all the time apparently-”

“- they've been busy, they've called me in-”

“- I called you three times last week, you didn't answer-”

“- I didn't think you'd want me.” It was about the only honest thing you'd said in weeks. Your trainers squeaked on the ground just before the hospital, the automatic doors ready to welcome you back.

Jack was at your side, close enough you could see the lines of confusion in his face. “Why would you think that?”

You tried to think of a quick excuse but every word died prematurely in your throat. You chocked on them.

“Hey-hey-” Jacks hand fell to your back, soothing it in calming rubs.

You allowed yourself to bask in one circular motion of his hand and your back before you stepped away, backing up from the doors that slid shut again on instant.

“What’s going on?” Asked Jack, following in your steps.

“Nothing, nothing.”

Jack made a disgruntled noise. “C’mon, talk to me.”

He let you think about what to say, stewing in silence where your mind became alive with everything he’d said, with every terrible thing you’d already thought about yourself. You imagined every time you’d cracked a joke that was maybe too perverse. You tried to picture Jacks face but came out blank. Was it loathing? Contempt?

Your voice betrayed you with a shake as you spoke again. “I do like flowers.”

“Huh?”

You wiped at your eyes and turned to him. “I like flowers,” you said, stronger. “Nobody’s ever brought me flowers but I- I like them.”

For anyone else it would’ve took time to click. They’d have stood there, looking at you like you’d gone mad, spewing out words that out of context meant nothing.

But Jack was not just any other clueless guy. He was the guy who always packed left overs and left them in the fridge, he always cooked enough to make sure he’d have left overs. He was the sort that always checked in on pedes patients and made sure they had enough colourful bandages for them.

Jack knew what you were saying immediately. His jaw tensed. “I- I shouldn't have said that.”

“You said a lot of things,” you said, holding yourself tighter. “Sounded like you meant them.”

He gulped. “I didn't mean-”

“-what, for me to hear it?”

“No, I didn't mean for what I said to come out as- as bad,” he said.

“Well it didn't come out as shining praise either.” You turned from him, looking out to the building and lights. Somewhere n the distance a siren wailed.

“Robby- Robby was saying things, teasing, I just waned to shut him up.”

You chuckled with loathing. “No you didn't. It's okay, Jack, you don't have to like me, I just wish you didn't make it seem like you did.”

“Hey!” he said, coming to stand in front of you. He was without a scrub top and his t-shirt clad to his biceps, his muscles flexing as his jaw worked. “I do like you.”

You rolled your eyes. “No you don't.”

“I do-I do-” Jack grabbed the top of your arms, stopping you from walking away. His grip was tight, not enough to bruise but enough to beg you not to leave. “I do like you.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does, it does.” Jack crouched enough in his knees to get a look at your face that you kept trying to turn away from him.

“You know the worst thing is? It's that I know,” you uttered, voice quiet. You didn't trust yourself to shout- even if you really wanted to- in fear your voice cracked, humiliatingly.

Jack's eyes softened, his thumb drawing up and down in comfort. “Know what?”

“I know that I can be a lot. I go out with the guys, I drink, I make jokes when things get bad because what else am I supposed to do? Cry? Let the grief of the job swallow me up?”

“No. No, of course not,” he said, lips pulled down.

You hated that you still wanted to make him smile. “I could keep a job if I wanted to but I like meeting the people-”

“- I know, I know you do-”

“- and now I'm here defending myself to a guy who probably doesn't even want to hear it!” Trying to turn in Jack's hold was feeble, his grip was strong and he moved with you.

“You don't have to defend yourself, you have nothing to defend!”

“You know what the worst part is?”

Jack shook his head, waiting.

“It's the guy you liked and admired the most seeing everything you hate about yourself and hating you for it too.”

Jack flinched as of you'd slapped him. The chill in the air grew colder around you and all the light from the dim glow of the lamps shrunk away, leaving you and Jack in a self-made darkness. You felt his grip weaken and savoured the feel of him a moment longer.

It was only when you couldn't stomach it anymore that you retreated back into work.

Jack had fucked up.

There was no easy way of putting it. There was no clinical way of looking at it, no diagnosis to give other than he had fucked up.

He'd never heard himself speak and hated the sound of his own voice. Never caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror with tired eyes and a pale expression and loath to see the sight. When he looked at himself, all he saw was your own face heart-broken. When he heard himself talking he remembered everything he'd said.

He could have blamed it on the pain in his shoulder, the worry over Hiro, the lack of sleep he'd been struggling with for days but he had a therapist for all that. You didn't deserve that burden.

He was un-focused the following week in work. Patient satisfaction was at an all time low with him. He'd opened up to his SWAT buddies over a self-pitying pint and had been shunned.

“What's your problem?” Charlie had said, two beers deep and a haze over his eyes. “She's a fucking saint. She'd lay down her life for any one of us- what the fuck man?”

“She won't return my calls,” Jack told them. “Can you just... just call her?”

They'd refused, with good reason.

He'd tried texting his apology. He'd tried calling you in but he found from a contact at Westbridge you'd been covering nights while their attending was on holiday.

It was a brash decision to call in to PTMC and tell them he'd be late, he was running an errand. Nobody questioned him.

Westbridge was darker than the hospital he was used t, built up on top of each other but they were no less busy than himself. Patients were lined up in corridors and there was hardly a seat left in chairs when he walked through.

“Can I help you?” asked the nurse at reception, eyeing Jack and the bouquet of flowers he held.

He said he was looking for you.

“She's in a trauma right now, can I take a message?”

“Can you tell her Ja-Jack's here.” For a moment he debated lying, saying it was Robby wanting to see you, or maybe you didn't want to see Robby either. Deceit wasn't going to be his friend.

Jack waited and tried not to look around, tried not to let himself get caught in the heavy bustle of another hospital as he waited for you. He ignored the coughing from the waiting room that definitely sounded like it would require a chest CT.

There was a crash of doors and he caught sight of you rushing out, protective goggles over your eyes and bloodied gown clad to you.

“Jack, what is it? Are you okay?” your eyes were frantic, searching him.

Ah. Of course you'd think something had happened. When you hear someone's in the hospital it's very rarely to just say hi. “I realise I should've specified,” said Jack, rubbing the back of his knuckle against his brow. “I just- I wanted to see you. And give you these.”

Sensing this was a conversation she definitely wanted to be around for yet probably wouldn't be allowed to, the nurse at reception left the two of you to it and Jack sat the flowers down on the counter in-between you.

You eyed the shades of red roses, of yellow tulips, the violet of the iris and the pink of the peony.

“I didn't know what you liked so, I kind of got one of everything,” he said, sighing to himself. He should have got two of every flower the florist had on hand. “I didn't get Lilies, the lady at the shop said it's a show of death and sunflowers aren't in season, apparently.”

“They're very nice, thank you,” you said.

“They come with an I'm sorry:” said Jack. “I'm sorry.”

You wet your lips and pursed them, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Jack looked down to his boots. “It's not, I know it's not, nothing I said is okay and I didn't mean it.”

You didn't say anything at that, only taking in a quivering breath.

He ignored the irritation in his prosthetic as he crouched to catch your gaze. Jack wasn't used to having to search for your gaze, usually he always found it already on him. He only realised how much he valued finding you in the middle of the storm when you wouldn't look at him.

“I didn't mean it,” he enunciated every word, begging you to hear them.

Your gaze studied around Westbridge, hoping for a distraction.

“I messed up, it's on me. It's not you.”

“The classic it's not you, it's me?” you dismissed.

Jack winced. It was cliché, damn him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He watched as your fingers brushed over a flower petal, picking it off like plucking a string on a guitar. He felt his heart pound in his chest.

“Can I get back to work now?” you asked, gently.

What was he thinking? Turning up to where you were tying to do some good. Where you were doing good- it was what you did. Did he expect the flowers to fix everything? No. Only he could. But he'd grovel, he'd beg, he'd crawl after you for the rest of his miserable life and do it all while building you a rose garden.

He'd do all of that for one minute of your eyes on his.

“Just promise you'll come back. To the Pitt. Whole place is going to crap without you.” He tried to joke but it was a pathetic thing.

“Okay. Yeah.” Your shoulders lifted in in-difference.

“And don't ignore the guys. They're going out for drinks tomorrow night. I won't be there. They all pretty much think I'm a dick anyway.”

There was a glimpse of a smile.

Jack played on. “I'm a total, total dick, a jerk!”

An elderly lady being escorted by with a nurse and an IV trailing her paused and glanced his way.

“Sorry,” he uttered.

You hid your chuckled behind your mouth but he caught a second of it.

It was enough for now.

Your name was called down the corridor.

“He's in V-tach!” a nurse announced before disappearing again.

“Go,” said Jack, taking himself out of the equation. “Just, please. Don't be a stranger.”

Jack wasn't lying when he said the place was going to crap without you. How they managed on shifts without your charm to work fretting family and friends down, or your terrible singing in between exams he didn't know.

Walking through the ambulance doors for his shift there was already paramedics pushing an empty and slightly blood stained gurney back into their rig. There was a crowd of elderly patients in beds and gowns left at the side and phones were ringing, drilling into his eardrums.

“Where the hell is she?” barked Robby, spotting Jack and no you.

Jack dumped his bag at the counter. “What happened here?”

“Nursing home caught fire, now where is she? We're swamped her, I thought you were going to get her and bring her back?”

Jack grumbled, frowning at the counter. “She's busy at West.”

“West? God-” Robby groaned, looking around the place and cursing. “Listen, I don't care what you have to do to make it up to her, buy her a florist, give her a ring, get down on your knees, I don't fucking care- I need her here.”

“You think I don't?” Jack snapped.

Robby eyed him, hand clenched on the counter. “Tell her the truth-”

“-Robby-”

“-no, you tell her you didn't mean a damn thing you said. That you were scared loving someone that isn't your wife.”

Glass. Jack was made of glass. If Robby could see through him so clearly why couldn't you? Why couldn't you see the truth? That Jack liked you, liked you more than he'd liked anyone. That loving you meant leaving the life he lived with his wife behind, yet carrying a part of her with him always. He didn't want to do that to you. He didn't want to make you live with a ghost or carry his grief. There were days where it was too hard for him to handle.

Robby sighed. “You think she'd want you to be happy?”

A muscle in Jack's neck tensed as he went to nod but was held back by himself.

“Talk to her,” said Robby clamping him on the shoulder quickly before disappearing.

Hiding away wasn't going to solve anything. That's what Robby said to you in a desperate plea to get you back to helping him out with shifts.

Truth was you weren't hiding away... as much.

Drinks with the guys had been hours of them telling you Jack was wrong, after Jack had exposed himself to them, laying the situation on the table. As promised, he wasn't there but every conversation revolved around him so much so it felt like he was at your side. You defended Jack when they argued against him. You told them you knew you were loud at times, maybe you shouldn't joke around as much as you did.

They'd laughed, thinking it was a joke itself.

They told you not to change.

It was hard not to. Every time you heard yourself get loud or get a look from people at the other table your instinct was to shrink. When Diaz tripped on the curb out the bar you laughed instead of helping him and was left with your own guilt when you got home.

Un-learning habits was hard. Learning to live with them was harder.

You started with baby steps. A day shift here, a day shift there, by hand-offs you were always gone. Yet, in the staff lounge there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers every morning. As soon as they started to wilt another fresh bunch was placed over night.

Nothing was said. Nothing ever had to be.

“Shen's out, food poisoning,” said Robby over the phone another day. “You know I wouldn't ask if there was no otherway.”

Which was how you ended up working a night shift. The first in months.

Jack's eyes lit up as you walked in, it was impossible not to notice. The only eyes to rival his sparkle was Lena's when she saw you.

It was the sort of night that held your attention. That roped you in and demanded you listened. Not overly busy but not quiet enough to cause you and Jack to be held captive in the same room. Only seconds passed in hallways when he looked like he was going to say something before being called away, taunt in the neck and gripping his stethoscope for the life of him.

“Am I going to need surgery?” asked the young boy in five who you were examining. A nasty accident in his dad's garage ended up with a laceration to the foot.

“Not surgery but a couple stitches to bring the skin back together, and you're gonna have to stay off your feet for a while,” you said.

The boys eyes grew wide in joy. “So, no school?”

You chuckled as his mom pinched his shoulder playfully. “Well, I can't be the deciding factor on that, I'm afraid.”

You put in the orders for stitches.

“Is it gonna hurt?” asked the boy, shrinking back in his bed.

“We're gonna numb you up so you don't feel anything,” you assured. “Tell you what, I have a secret stash of candy that I only share with my favourite patients, how's that sound, you want something?”

The boy tried not to be too eager in his nodding but it took less than two second for him to grin.

You didn't expect anyone in the lounge when you went in search for candy usually lying around.

Jack was hunched over the table, pulling out the dying flowers and arranging fresh ones. He stopped when you walked in, the door closing gently behind you. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“I was just... maintenance,” he mumbled.

You nodded along, a thick awkwardness engulfing the two of you. “Maintenance... yeah... sure...”

You moved around him, keeping a good distance around the space of him like he was a poisonous snake. The cabinet was high up, the tin an old sewing one where you hid your most precious protein bars and sugar packed candy.

“Here, I can-”

His body was sturdy against the back of you as he reached up for the tin. Few select people were allowed to know about its contents and Jack was on of the first ones you trusted. He raised his arm and you watched the freckles along his arm move and ripple. Upon inhale you took a deep breath of lingering cologne, mixed with the hearty sterile hand wash of the ED.

Jack's own head tilted down and your heard him inhale, deeply.

The tin fell into your hand.

Jack stared down. “Oh- er, there.”

“Thanks.”

It was about all the conversation you got with Jack your shift was over. The morning was just breaking through the clouds at six, bringing with it a down pour. You'd already punched out, handed off your patients to McKay and was left standing under the small awning of the ambulance bay, trying to out wait the rain.

It took ten minutes for Jack to follow you out.

“You heading out?” he asked, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Yeah. I'm just waiting for my uber.”

Jack frowned. “What happened to your car?”

“It's in the garage.”

“Well... I can give you a lift,” he suggested.

The rain hammered down harder above you, steady streams falling from the awning to at your feet. As discreet as possible you checked the location on you uber. Just around the corner. In the rain it had taken longer.

“No, it's okay, you don't have to.”

“I'd like to,” said Jack, stepping closer. “I'd like a chance to talk to you. To tell you everything that I meant by my words.”

You'd almost hoped you could carry on as you were: extremely avoidant.

“You don't have to, Jack.”

“I do- I do!” he insisted, hands out in front of him as if desperate to grasp you. He held himself back. “Please let me.”

Stomaching more of his words, whether it be excuses as to what he meant to say or just doubling down and insisting what he said was true. You didn't think you were strong enough for either.

Your phone buzzed in hand as a slick back black car pulled up, window rolling down and calling your name.

“No, wait-wait!” said Jack, holding a hand up to you with all the authority of an attending still on duty.

“Jack, what are you-” You were struck in place, watching him lean through the window, rain dampening his shirt as he un-folded a few bills and handed them to the driver.

“We don't need you know, sorry man,” Jack mumbled.

Your jaw hung open as you stepped out into the rain, bottom of your scrub pants dampening at once. “What?”

The driver tutted. “I still want me five star review!” He drove off quickly, splashing the two of you as he went.

“Oh- serious?” Jack gritted. “Now I wish I hadn't given him such a tip.”

The puddles of rain were seeping into your trainers as you walked off, out of the way of ambulances and cars, pulling your jacket tighter around you.

“Wait! Wait!” Jack called after you, boots slapping in the water. He all but jumped in front of you, stumbling lightly at the shift in his bad leg. “Wait.”

“I don't know what else you want to say to me, Jack?”

“Nothing I say can excuse what I said-”

“-so why try?”

“Because it's killing me being like this!” he snapped. The rain was pouring down, falling down his cheeks and nose. “It's killing me to look for your smile and not see it. It's killing me to hear a joke and you not laugh. Everything I said, it-it re-plays in my head and I'm sorry.”

“I know you are, Jack, I just need time!”

“I'll give you time,” he said. “I'll give you anything you need. But just let me say one thing. You owe me nothing, I'm begging you.”

To prove a point Jack crouched, starting to get down on his knees, hands already clenched together. To spare you the embarrassment and him the ache in his leg you tugged him back up.

He stared at you, breathless. He was as drenched as you, the both of your scrubs stuck to you.

“I haven't loved anyone since my wife,” said Jack. “I haven't tried, I didn't want to try. I was... not happy, but content to just carry on with her here-” he curled a fist at his chest. “And then you... and I couldn't not feel anything for you. I tried- I really tried.”

“Okay. You tried. I get it,” you mumbled.

“But I started to love you and I hated myself for it. It felt like I was betraying her by wanting someone else. By wanting you. And I did- I do want you. Every terrible joke you made, Jesus, I couldn't laugh in front of patients and their families. When you go out drinking with us and the guys in our team and you sing karaoke badly-”

“Excuse me?”

Jack winced. “I mean great, great karaoke.”

You chuckled.

“I can't take back the fact you're different from my wife, you are, but I don't think that's a bad thing- it's not. Because I still love you. I love that you're loud, I love that you draw attention to yourself as soon as you walk into a room, my attention is always on you anyway,” he smiled, sadly. It was the kind of smile a lover would give as they watched the love of their life leave them. “I shouldn't have made my grief your problem. I shouldn't have hated myself for feeling love again and I shouldn't have tried to convince myself hating you. I mean, that was just- just impossible.”

You looked down to your trainers, seeing the darkening colour where the water soaked in. “I've loved you for so long now, Jack.”

He waited, catching his breath, for more.

You looked up at him. “I'm sorry. About your wife. I can't imagine how hard it is for you. But I don't want to fall in love with a man who constantly advertises me next to his wife.”

Jack nodded, looking down.

The rain was probably helpful, hiding any tears you'd give away.

“I love you, separate to how I love my wife. And I loved her, I did. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life dead inside. Be on my death bed when I'm eighty looking back at all the times I should've kissed you.”

His words pulled at your heart, your feelings that you'd been burying deep inside clashing together inside of you.

“By the time you're eighty, I'll be like, in my sixties?” you said.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And looking to settle down.”

Jack laughed, and you laughed and for a second that was almost enough. The rain had made the grey in his hair darker, almost making him look younger. “I'm not saying I won't fuck up, I probably will, I have a therapist for a reason.”

“Therapy is good,” you said.

Jack's eyes were lighting up slowly with every teasing comment you made. Something akin to hope flickered between the two of you. “But I will never draw comparison to you and my wife. I'll never make you feel like second choice. I'll never dump my grief onto you. If you just give me one chance, just one chance at making this right.”

As sorry's went... as love confessions went.

“I'm scared what it means to love you, Jack,” you said, slowly, feeling the words around your mouth.

“I know, I know,” Jack reached over, clumsily brushing back your damp hair from your cheeks. In spite of the rain, his skin was still soft and hot on you. “I am too.”

You searched his eyes before whispering. “Can I kiss you?”

He smirked a little. “No.”

Your heart dropped.

Jack's hands tilted your head back before you could tuck yourself away. “Can I kiss you?”

His lips were slick and wet from rain but no less sort after from you. He didn't push or prod for more, he just laid his lips against yours with enough pressure for you to know he was there. For you to always remember he was there.

You could have stayed like that for hours, practically standing on each others toes as your own hands came up to clutch his biceps, fingertips digging into his freckles.

You pulled away only when you needed to catch your breath.

Jack's lips chased yours, body tumbling into you slightly as his eyes took seconds to open like coming out from a dream.

You ran your hands up his shoulders. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes and soaked in the words.

“Will you let me?” you asked.

“Always,” he promised.

thank you to anon for requesting, and thank you to @oldbaddies and @mafercita101 who wanted to be tagged :)

[robinavich]

masterlist | ao3

fics

godlight series (ongoing) jack abbot x f!attorney!reader: working as in house counsel means you've become very acquainted with jack abbot and his little scrawl of a signature. god help him. pixie cut (wc: 5.9k) | jack abbot x f!former army medic!reader: you can always count on jack abbot to throw you in situations that make you want to betray the hippocratic oath.

drabbles

kabul (jack abbot) | inspired pixie cut!

lawrence (michael robinavitch)

shaving (michael robinavitch)

blurbs

hands (jack abbot)

four simple letters: jack (jack abbot)

photo in his wallet (jack abbot)

[iamsoclone]

Overboard — Drag Me Down

pairing .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — shark-hybrid!Gojo x fem!reader

cw .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — NSFW, 18+ MDNI—non canon universe, explicit sexual content, explicit language, angst and fluff and smut, near death experience (drowning), slight dub-con, bloodplay and drinking (Gojo’s a biter), manhandling, fingering, oral (f rec), unprotected piv sex, rough sex, double stuffed (Gojo with 2 dicks), size difference, breeding kink, belly bulge, Gojo is a virgin and clueless, plot got thrown off the boat too so here’s p0rn, protective yandere Gojo, Gojo has a shark tail and really sharp teeth and he’s kind of feral in the literal sense!! (also very sweet and kinda innocent and horrendously down bad) don't worry, he's not going to eat you!! (he kinda wants to tho) reader is a freak and into it

summary .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — getting thrown overboard into the pacific ocean turns into the discovery of a new species? you know nothing about your savior, but he sure knows about you, and seems a little too interested. he looks human enough, if you don't count the tail. or the teeth.

a/n .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — sharkjo was a (fever) dream that I had to get out so happy kinktober to the monster-fuckers. art in the banner by @/PrommieA on X, divider creds to @/bbyg4rlhelps and @/cafekitsune w/c .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — 10.2k

It was great money. The pay made the risk worth it.

That’s what you told yourself to justify taking a job on a ship hauling up crab the size of your co-workers—most of them being full grown men. 

Sure, it was dangerous and people died or got seriously injured on the boats, but that wouldn’t happen to you. You’re careful, cautious, you wouldn’t be doing stupid shit like hanging off the edge to monitor the traps while someone else worked the controls. 

No, you’d be on deck somewhere in the center where the waves sprayed but didn’t fully soak. You’d be clear of the traps when they opened and out of the way of those enormous leg spans on the spiky nightmare fuel alaskan king crabs dumped into the holding tanks.

You’d be fine. You’d make it back home with your bank account fattened up enough that you wouldn’t need to even think about working for at least another full year. You’d invest most of it, use some to travel—somewhere tropical and warm where the water didn’t sting your face with how freezing it was. You’d help out your family, maybe spoil your mom and your siblings a little. 

What a joke.

Of course, a fucking wave the size of a condo building decided to come in and flash a colossal middle finger at you, and throw you the fuck overboard. 

You lurched when it hit, flailing for balance before slamming into the deck. The impact of your head hitting steel made your vision swim, black blotches bursting across and darkening the already gloomy scene around you. The wave didn’t give you a moment to snap back to reality and let instinct make you grab onto something before it tipped the boat hard and sent you rolling across the deck.

You threw your hands out to latch onto something, anything, and you did. You caught the edge of the boat with a clammy hand and felt your shoulder pop as you gripped the side. But everything was wet. Too wet.

The boat jolted like it wanted to shake you loose and your numb fingers just slipped. 

Into the ocean you went.

Holy shit, that water was so fucking cold. 

You knew it was freezing, you'd gone through the training before starting work on the boat and had been submerged in the sub zero temps. The people running things needed to make sure you wouldn't clam up and drown instantly. It was awful, but it was manageable. You treaded water for the necessary time, teeth chattering away and that was that. You got out and blocked out the memory of being so cold your bones hurt.

The difference between training and real life? You had been prepared to be dunked in that ice water. Being thrown into the northern pacific ocean was a shock in more ways than you could count.

The water flooded your gear instantly, travelling up through every opening to envelop your entire body. 

It was like a vice. Crushing the air from your lungs as you slipped under the surface. It stole thought from your brain, movement from your body.

Your entire body tensed and froze up and you couldnt even think of anything but how fucking painful the cold was. 

It took everything in you to jolt your arms in an attempt to swim up. Nothing would listen properly, but the gasp of air you sucked in just before going under wasn’t going to last, not with how the water around you was crushing in. 

It was dark, the kind of darkness that stole light before the hope of it could reach you. A mere speck of a star twinkled below you and you knew you had to be upside down. Frantically, a last ditch effort to live, to not suffocate and die and fucking drown in the ocean, alone, you kicked out.

You couldn’t even really feel the motions your body made, but you were somehow moving. Towards that light, which had to be the spotlight from the boat, it had to be. There was no other option, you had to make it back to the surface.

You wouldn’t die here. You couldn’t die here.

But the trickle of oxygen still in your lungs was running out and they were burning. Your whole body was starting to burn, fire coursing through your veins like streams of magma, but you didn’t stop. The light got closer, but no brighter, it stayed blurry and small and just out of reach and you threw an arm out in desperation as something else bright flickered ahead. 

Maybe someone would see you, grab you, save you.

Please, god? Don’t let me die here.

It was the last thing that passed through your mind, synapses firing off and exploding, refusing to believe that this was actually happening. The oxygen keeping your brain barely afloat ran out, and the spots flickering at the corners of your vision overtook it all. The light you couldn’t make it to went out and you tasted salt as control of your body slipped away.

Something wrapped around your waist, and you hoped it was a rope or a line or something to pull you up. But you didn’t get to verify that because consciousness slipped away as it tugged. 

You just hoped you’d wake up again.

Your eyes cracked open, and just that was exhausting. Miraculously, you could feel your body again. But maybe that wasn’t such a good thing because it ached, like you’d been using every muscle at full capacity. It was as if you’d been wrung out like a wet towel. 

Could you move?

Your fingers twitched.

Okay. Good. Maybe… open your eyes?

Slowly, they cracked open bit by bit. They still stung from salty sea water and you blinked a few times, the blurry darkness surrounding you starting to sharpen and come into focus.

An exhausted and pained noise slipped out as you shifted a little more, feeling something soft and cool under your head. 

“Oh, are you awake?” A voice chirped from somewhere just out of your line of sight and you immediately felt relief. 

Oh thank god. Someone pulled me out, someone saved me.

But where the hell were you? Not on the boat, there was a ceiling high above but it wasn’t the one you recognized in the cabin. It was made of… stone? Had you washed up somewhere?

You tried to speak, but your voice was hoarse and you started coughing as soon as the first syllable of yes came out. Tasting salt from the sea water you swallowed, you turned your head to keep from swallowing it again and saw the person who had spoken.

It took a while to process what exactly you were looking at.

First thing you noticed was that he was quite good looking. Not in a typically handsome way, but in a way that was shocking. He looked like he belonged in the arctic with icy azure eyes, wide and looking you over. Locks of wet pale hair, bright white like fresh snow fell into his impossibly blue eyes. His skin was so pale it almost matched his hair, just with a slightly more pinkish undertone.

As you registered your surroundings more, things started to make less and less sense.

You were in a cave of some kind, surrounded by dark and damp stone. Your head propped on some seaweed with you laid out on the perimeter of smooth rock that looped a large pool of water in the middle. There was no mouth to the cave, just the inky water in the middle that the pale man was submerged in.

He was sitting in the water, so casually like it was a bath or a pool or anything but the pacific ocean. His arms were bare, in fact, every part of him you could see—which was quite a bit—was completely uncovered. Muscled arms crossed and leaning on the cold, wet stone with his chin propped. He cocked his head at you.

“Wh-where am-m I?” Was the first question you asked him, starting to attempt to sit up. You got about six inches off the ground, lifting up with shaky arms before they gave out and you rolled onto your side a bit, coughing again.

“Hmm, I guess it’s like… my home?” He offered. You frowned. 

His home?  

“You’re shaking, why?” He breezed right past the whole he lives in a cave with no entrance or exit thing like it was normal. 

“Oh, um… yeah, it-it’s co-cold in h-here.” Your teeth chattered. Cold was an understatement. With feeling returning to your body, you were fucking freezing.

“Oh, I see.” He nodded slowly, assessing you with eyes that cataloged every shift and shiver.

“Y-yeah, um, are-are there an-ny other p-p-peop-ple ar-round?” You barely got the question out with a stammer. You sounded terrible, how fast did it take hypothermia to set in? You didn't feel warm yet at least, which was the real sign of danger. How long had you been here?

“Other p-p-people?” He cocked his head again and the way he stuttered the word out would probably feel like he was mocking you. But he seemed so genuine, like he was actually confused that you nodded. 

“Y-yeah, h-hum-mans?”

“Oh!” He shot up, face lit up with recognition. “Humans, like you, right?” 

“L-like m-me?” What the fuck did that mean?

“Yeah, I know lots about humans,” He said proudly, sending another wave of confusion through you. “I found a box with pictures of humans in it that look just like you! They fell off one of those little moving islands into the water too and it showed what to do, so I brought you here.”

Your brain wracked, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. Which was already a difficult feat considering your teeth were clenched and chattering so hard they might shatter and you felt exhaustion so deep your bones were tired.

A box? With pictures of humans that look like you? What the fuck was he talking about? And where the fuck did he take you? His home, but where exactly was home to this… person? 

You weren’t so sure of that now, not with the way he was talking.

“Oh, d-do you m-mean a fi-first aid ki-kit?” You asked, hope in your shaky voice. 

He shrugged, “Maybe, I can show you?” You nodded quickly. If it was a first aid kit, there might be an emergency foil blanket inside. He pushed off the ledge and swam across to the other side of the water and that's when you saw it. 

A flick of a light colored fin behind him in the water.

It was only a split second that you saw it and maybe to keep your mind from breaking fully, you disregarded it. It was probably just a fish.

He dug around in a pile of what looked like seaweed, pulling out a few random objects and moving a large rock out of his way easily. Your mind started to question things even more, but you pushed it aside. You were alive, and it was thanks to him, you’d accept whatever this was and be grateful you weren’t dead. 

Scrutiny and potential panic could wait until you weren’t worried about dying of hypothermia.

“Aha! Got it!” He called back triumphantly and held up a bright orange plastic box about the size of a toaster and relief washed over you at the sight. Definitely a first aid kit.

He swam back to you quickly, keeping the kit above water and held it out to you. You tried to sit up again and reached out, your hand shaking uncontrollably.

“You need to be warm, right?” He asked as your fumbling fingers closed around the box and you nodded.

“Mhm,” You pried at the clips on the box, your fingers numb and weak, it was practically useless.

“I can help if you want?” You figured he was talking about the kit, so you nodded again and held the box out only for him to flatten his palms on the ledge, and hoist the rest of his body out of the water.

What the hell had you been expecting? 

You’re not really sure. But as he twisted to sit on the ledge and cold fingers wrapped around your outstretched wrist, you gawked at the lower half of his body.

A fucking tail. 

Maybe you did die. 

He pulled you over to him, and a startled noise strangled its way up your throat. “Wh-what are y-you do—”

“Is this your skin?” He asked as he pulled you to sit on his lap, the box fell from your weak grasp. Too much was happening all at once. 

What the hell was he? 

You knew stories of mer-people, human hybrids with fish tails that lived underwater in lost, whimsical places like Atlantis or some shit. But it was a fairy tale, fantastical bullshit that Disney capitalized on and fed to kids to sell theatre seats.

This… guy? Mer-man? Whatever the fuck he was, he was real. And he looked nothing like the half-fish half-human ones you’d seen in movies.

Sure, he was human from his hips up, but everything below that looked like a shark. Just like a great white. 

He had a stark white underbelly, the back an icy light blue and speckled down his sides. He had all those little fins along his underside that sharks have and the large fin at the end that flicked side to side in the water was sharp and vertical.

“I-I do-don’t… wh-what?” You barely registered his question as he pulled at your bright orange rain gear. The first aid kit was in his hand, did he catch it?

“This,” He tugged at your sleeve as you sat practically paralyzed and shivering in his lap. “Is this your skin? Seems kind of loose, are you sick or something?” 

“No—we-well, um, ki-kind of?” You looked up at his face as he studied your jacket. He looked so human, bigger than a normal person but still. If you disregarded everything below you, you could convince yourself this was just a really hot, naked castaway that rescued you. Maybe that would keep your mind from shattering into oblivion. “I’m ju-just co-cold and it’s a ja-jacket.”

“A ja-jacket?” He asked, looking you in the eye again. His light eyes wide and sincere and filled with curiosity. You nodded and he hummed, like he was thinking it over. He let your jacket go and popped the clasps on the kit open to sift through the contents.

“Aha! See, they look just like you.” He pulled a soggy booklet out and gingerly peeled the cover back. Something glowed bright overhead, illuminating the pages with soft white light. You looked up at the source to see a lure protruding from his head and lit up at the end. 

You blinked and turned away again. 

It wasn’t the weirdest part of him, and at least it was helpful.

It was a CPR guide, the diagrams showed drawings of people in the same bright orange gear having chest compressions and mouth to mouth done on them.

Had he… given you mouth to mouth?

“D-did you… do th-this?” You slowly pointed at the diagram and he nodded eagerly, the lure bouncing a little.

“Mhm! You spat up a bunch of water after.” He smiled at you, lips pulling back to reveal brilliantly white and razor sharp teeth. “You taste nice.”

Your heart kicked at your ribcage. He had a shark tail, of course he’d have a mouth full of shark teeth too. He saved you, but maybe that was just to keep you alive for… something else.

“Are-are you…” You swallowed, breath catching as you struggled with the words. “A-are you going t-to… eat m-me?” It came out barely more than a whisper but he heard you, and he shook his head instantly.

“No! No, no, I won't eat you! You’re the first human who’s survived that I saved, I want to keep you.” He smiled again, showing his mouthful of the sharpest teeth you’ve ever been face to face with. It was probably meant to ease your worry, but the reassurance sent a wave of horror through you and your shivering worsened.

The first that’s survived? 

He wants to… keep you? Okay, well at least he’s not eating you.

His lure dimmed, the light going out and he put the booklet back in the box. “Right, I need to warm you up, hmm.” He hummed thoughtfully, closing up the kit.

“Wait!” You blurted, grabbing his arm before he put the kit down. “Th-there’s a bl-blanket in th-there. I n-need it." The moment you said you needed it, his lure lit up again and he opened the kit, putting it in front of you to root through. 

You fumbled through the contents until you saw the light glint off of shiny foil and you grabbed the packet. “Thi-is is it, c-can you, um, o-open it?” You held up the package and he nodded eagerly again, closing up the kit and putting it aside.

He took it from you and tore it open easily, his razor-like teeth cutting through the plastic like it was nothing. 

The sight made you shiver hard again, but not fully out of fear or cold. 

He was built like an arctic predator, all teeth and muscle and fins made for speed. For hunting. But he was being so gentle with you, helping you, saving you. 

Maybe you could disregard the fact that shark boy said he wanted to keep you and just let him try to take care of you. It wasn’t so bad.

“What’s that for?” He asked, handing you the open package and you pulled the sheet of foil out, stuffing the plastic wrapper in your jacket pocket—even in an emergency, you wouldn’t be the type to litter.

“It’s to k-keep bo-body heat in. Helps you w-warm up fa-faster.” You explained, shaking out the blanket. He hummed thoughtfully and you paused.

You’d need to take your jacket off. Actually, all your clothes were still soaked and practically frozen to you. You’d need to shed everything for the blanket to work properly.

“What’s wrong?” Shark boy tilted his head at you and you glanced quickly at him. 

He was practically naked, he probably wouldn’t think anything of you stripping down, right? 

Now that you think of it, you didn’t see anything where a guy would usually have… something. You didn’t know enough about shark anatomy to assume anything though.

“I-I need to, um, ta-take this off.” You tugged the sopping wet jacket away from your body. With a breath, you started on the buttons at the front. Your hands shook horribly though and you couldn't even get the first one open.

“Can I try?” Shark-boy asked innocently, like a kid asking to try a new toy. You glanced up at him again, his mouth was closed, smiling at you with wide eager eyes. He really just seemed fascinated by you and everything you did. 

It was kind of… endearing. You almost felt a little special with all of the attention.

“Um… o-okay.” You dropped your hands away and let him take over. He undid the buttons down the front easily but the zipper seemed to perplex him a little. He tugged it away from your chest to no luck and paused. “P-pull it d-down.” You instructed and he did as you said, humming with delight as he unzipped your jacket.

He peeled it down and off your arms, studying the bright orange PVC layer like it was one of the most fascinating things he’d ever seen. You started on the next layers, a thick hoodie and a thermal shirt and leggings under the matching PVC overalls.

“So what does it do—” Shark boy cut himself off as you shrugged off the straps on your overalls. “There’s more?”

“Mhm,”

“I’ll do it.” He said confidently, like he was an expert after taking your jacket off. You nodded and he pulled your overalls off, tugging each leg off as nicely as he could. 

Your hoodie seemed to stump him a bit and shark boy pulled at the bottom, then the sleeves, then the front, grabbing a handful of boob unknowingly. 

You squeaked, “W-wait! Ju-just—”

“Can I rip it?” He interrupted and you froze.

Why did that kind of… turn you on? Oh god, was there something wrong with you? You’re in a life or death situation with a shark-person, and you’re getting hot at the thought of him tearing your clothes off? 

It should be a no, right? You’d probably need the layers for when you returned to the outside world. 

It would be a when, right?

Well… he did say he wanted to keep you. 

“Um, I-I guess so,” You conceded and with that, he gripped the collar with both broad hands and tore your hoodie open so easily it was like it had been made of paper instead of tightly woven fabric.

Oh god. Yeah… it was hot. 

If you weren’t close to succumbing to hypothermia and shivering your ass off even harder being exposed to the air with just the wet thermal layer clinging to you, you’d be heating up.

“Oh, huh,” Shark boy hummed, pulling the bisected hoodie down your arms. “You’re much smaller under all that stuff.”

“Mhm,” You squeaked again, glancing up at shark boy. His lure was still lit up and illuminating his face. 

He really was quite good looking.

“So, um, are you al-lone h-here?” You asked, rubbing your arms and he nodded wistfully. “Oh, I'm s-sorry.” 

“It's okay,” He shrugged, his big hands gripped your biceps and he smiled at you. “I'm not alone anymore.”

“Right,” You winced. You'd deal with that later. For now, you needed to get the soggy last layer off and do your best to warm up under the foil blanket. 

“Right.” He agreed, looking content. “This one too?” He pulled at the sleeves of your thermal shirt and you nodded once. 

He wasted absolutely no time, ripping the shirt clean open and you gasped as cool damp air met your cold, bare skin.

“Oh.” He paused.

What a day to have skipped wearing a bra.

“You're a female, right?” He asked, excitement underlying but undeniable. You glanced up at him again, still sitting on his lap—on his smooth shark tail and against whatever instinct that told you saying yes might end up with you compromised, you nodded. 

He lit up instantly. “Oh wow, I've never met a female before.” 

It probably should have made you feel panicked, scared. Made you want to run or at least distance yourself from this shark guy. But as he looked at you with awe and excitement, pulling you a little closer to his broad and insanely toned chest, you more just empathized with him.

“Never?” You asked as he slipped your shirt down your arms, leaving you bare from the waist up. Your nipples hard already with the freezing cold, but it felt like they perked a little more under his gaze. He shook his head slowly and the lure on his head seemed to glow a little brighter as he looked you over. 

Shark boy was alone here, never met a female before. Was he a virgin? Was that even a thing with his kind?

What even was his kind?

Cold fingers hooked into the waistband of your leggings. He seemed a little more uncertain about them and when he peeled them away from your skin experimentally and let go, a loud and wet slap echoed through the cave that he chuckled at.

You jolted a little from the slap. “H-hey.” You said firmly and grabbed his arm again, his skin cool and smooth under your hand. 

"Oops." He met your eyes again and grinned. It was boyish and cheeky, his expression dripping mischief like he'd found some fun new toy. It would have been disarming if not for the glimpse of razor teeth he flashed your way. "These too, right?” 

“Mhm,” You hummed quietly and he almost… smirked?

Again, what had you been expecting?

Of course he ripped them right down the seam and left you completely bare. The cool air hit and you realized he even caught your underwear.

He paused again, hands hovering over your thighs with the scraps of your leggings bunched in them. You could feel his eyes on your body as you shivered, starting to squirm with the sting of cold, humid air on your skin. 

“I n-need the bla-anket. P-please.” You added for politeness’ sake. Though, maybe manners were the least of your worries at the moment.

It seemed to snap shark boy from the moment and he jumped to action once more. He leaned and grabbed the foil blanket, and handed it to you. 

“Tha-thank you,” You smiled at him and wrapped it around your shoulders. You left it draped over you and shimmied the remainder of your pants down, peeling them down your legs and off your feet along with your sodden socks. 

Your boots had disappeared at some point while you were unconscious. They were always a bit too big but it allowed you to wear extra thick socks under so you didn't mind. 

Naked and shivering hard, you wrapped the blanket tight around yourself, the material crinkling loudly and cutting through the quiet in the cave with every shift.

Shark boy—you probably should get his name, if he has one—pulled you closer to his body and wrapped his arms around you. He wasn't warm, but it still felt… nice. Safe.

He had saved you.

Maybe you'd look past the whole keeping you here comment for now and just lean into him.

“Is this okay?” He asked softly, his voice lower like he didn't want to disrupt whatever peace had fallen over you both.

“Mhm,” You hummed, letting your head rest back on his shoulder. He had a heart where you'd usually find it in humans, and you could feel it thumping steadily against your back. “Wh-whats your n-name?” 

“Name?” He chirped above you and you nodded.

“Yeah, wh-what do I ca-call you?” You figured an introduction was due if you were going to be sitting naked on his lap.

He hummed thoughtfully, sending the vibration of it into your back. “Hmm… you can call me… ah, right! Gojo. Yeah, call me Gojo.” He pressed his cheek to your head affectionately, arms tightening a little around you.

“Gojo, I li-like that. It’s n-nice.” 

“I like you.” His tail flicked in the water, splashing a little and you thought his lure might have flickered above you. “You're nice, and warm. What's your name?” 

“Th-thank you, Gojo,” You told him and he nuzzled your head, echoing your name slowly like he was savoring each syllable. Committing it to memory.

“I like that a lot, it sounds nice.” Gojo said it again and if you weren’t half frozen still you might have blushed with the fervour in his voice. 

“You should go to sleep, I know that's important for humans.” He said, confidently again like he was boasting his knowledge. You guessed he didn't get much opportunity to talk about it, or anything really. What with him being alone.

“Don’t worry, I'll keep you safe.” 

You looked up at him again, he smiled, just a peek of sharp teeth visible. 

With those things, you had no doubt he'd be able to keep you safe. You also had no doubt he could probably kill you before you could blink, but you were choosing not to think about that.

Returning his gesture with one of your own, you brought your knees up to your chest and let your cheek rest against his shoulder again, letting your eyes slide shut. Gojo wrapped his arms fully around you and squeezed, his lure dimming to leave you in muted darkness again.

It was reassuring, and even though you could definitely tell Gojo wasn't fully human even with your eyes closed, it still felt nice.

Going from being thrown off a boat and almost drowning to whatever this was with a shark-human hybrid whatever the hell Gojo was, felt a little too easy. Maybe you got brain damage from lack of oxygen.

That really sounds like a problem for the you that wasn’t succumbing to hypothermia though.

When you woke again, you felt significantly better than when you'd fallen asleep.

You were still a little cold, but the shivering had subsided and you could actually feel your fingers again.

The blanket crinkled as you shifted and blinked your eyes open. 

“You're awake!” A voice chirped above you. 

Oh, right.

You looked up at Gojo, blinking sleep from your eyes. He was bright even in the darkness of the cave. His eyes, his smile, his hair, his skin. It all seemed to glimmer with a faint flickering illumination of the water dancing across his handsome features.

“Mhm,” You took a moment to really look at him. You'd been so out of it and so overwhelmed that you hadn't really processed him fully. 

His lure was lit, but barely. Just a faint glow almost like a nightlight that cast shadows over his face. Pretty, pale lashes flicked and brushed his high cheekbones when he blinked.

“Do you feel better?” Gojo rubbed your arms over the foil blanket, the sound of it shrill. You nodded quickly.

“Yes, yeah, much better.”

“Oh, you sound different.” He observed, head cocking to the side. His lure bobbing with the motion in a way that you couldn't help but think was so cute. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“Mhm, really. Thank you, Gojo. You... you saved my life.” You supposed a little flattery wouldn’t hurt your situation. And boy, were you right.

“Yeah, I did, didn't I?” His chest almost seemed to puff up a little, chin lifting and a quiet splash came from the water as his tail flicked. You guessed that was kind of a subconscious thing.

You nodded and shifted a little, turning to the side so you could look at him properly. 

“I've always wanted to talk to a human, but none of them ever made it.” There it was again, no survivors. Had he done this with others? Tried to save them? “Can I ask you some questions?” He sounded eager, excited at the potential.

“Of course,” You supposed it was probably the least you could do considering he had saved your life.

Immediately, he started to shoot off questions. Some piggybacked off the one previous but most made it clear that he'd been wanting this for a long time and had quite a bit of time to think about the day he'd finally get to speak to a person.

Why did humans put scraps of stuff on their bodies? Clothes.

What was the weird shuffling humans did with each other? Dancing.

What was with the odd compilation of noises that humans did the dancing to? Music. 

And so on. You learned a little about Gojo as well while he rattled off an almost infinite amount of prose. 

The knowledge he did have about society and people was mostly from things he’d found in shipwrecks along the ocean floor.

He showed you some of the stuff he’d found and asked some questions about them. Like the compass, glass cracked and the needle stuck on north, a wristwatch, also stopped, the hands stuck at 5:17, a rotary telephone with the two handheld pieces. He had an interesting looking sword, two pronged and asymmetrical with jagged blades and a broken chain clipped to the hilt, pulled from a trench far from where the cave was.

Some more modern items were thrown in too, a laptop that almost snapped when you tried to open it. What looked like a depth sounder, spiderweb cracks spread across the screen. A couple of cell phones that were likely from over a decade ago and might even come back to life with a rice bath and a fresh battery.

Some things you guess he picked up because they were just pretty. A necklace with a fat red gem, bracelets that glittered despite the layer of dirt and grime. Rings that had probably once meant promises of forever to people that probably weren't around anymore.

You wondered if he pulled any of it off of bodies stuck in those ships. 

You didn't ask.

You learned that Gojo can survive out of water, with the partial human anatomy he can at least breathe out of water, the three raised lines on either side of his obliques were where his gills were closed off while he was out. It was why he didn't die with you sleeping on his lap for hours—but he does need to stay wet, his tail especially. 

He went between sitting next to you on the ledge, to sitting you on his lap so you were off the cold ground, and swimming around to grab stuff.

Watching him go back and forth, grabbing items from the other side of the cave, you noticed that he was quite nimble. His huge tail was flexible and strong, Gojo went back and forth carrying items, covering the distance quickly without ever using his arms. 

You couldn't help yourself. You asked if you could touch it.

When would you ever get an opportunity to touch a shark and not get your hand bitten off? 

He agreed quickly and wasted no time asking the same of you, you guessed that was fair enough.

His tail was cool to touch, just like the rest of him, and what seemed like his bright white underbelly was impossibly soft. So smooth it felt like touching velvet, the other icy blue side felt similar, just a little rougher. 

Gojo’s fin flicked a few times as you ran your hand along his tail, splashing in the water and the smaller fins down his sides by his hips and where you thought his knees would probably be twitched when you grazed them.

The first thing he touched were your feet when you sat on his lap again. You laughed and fought from kicking as he poked and prodded. He was quite intrigued by your legs in general but when you wiggled your toes for him he breathed a “Whoa.” Absolutely fascinated by your anatomy.

It was still kind of funny even when he lifted and pulled your legs apart. He just seemed curious as he did it, like the differences between you two were the most interesting thing in the world. You wondered again as he tilted his head lower and peered between your spread legs, if he even had the right parts to do anything. 

Gojo’s head snapped back up, his lure bobbed as he met your eyes again.

“Can I taste you again?” He asked earnestly.

“What?” You blinked, closing your legs.

“Like in the picture?” He said, like it was obvious. “It was nice, I liked it a lot.” 

“Oh.” You swallowed hard, it was one thing for him to give you mouth to mouth to save your life, but this was kissing. Was that ethical? 

You're sitting here with a mythical shark-person, where did ethics fit into a situation like this? If Gojo wanted to kiss you, you guessed you weren't really opposed to that.

“Um, I-I guess so? Sure.”

You weren’t sure what he would taste like, a part of you really hoped it wouldn't be like fish. He didn't stink, he mostly just smelled like salt. Something a little sweet underlying.

It was uncoordinated and a little off the mark as his cool mouth pressed to yours. He did not taste like fish, thank fucking god. He tasted almost just like he smelled, salt and something a little sweet in the saliva he exchanged with you.

He didn't really know what he was doing, just putting his mouth on yours. You laughed when he puffed his cheeks and blew a gust of air into your mouth, telling him he didn’t need to do that this time. 

“Oh. Okay, let me try again.” He demanded redemption and you lifted your face to him again. Gojo put his lips to yours, and stilled. You fought the urge to laugh again. You didn't really see the harm in taking the lead and showing him how to kiss properly. If you were going to do this, it may as well be good.

Your lips parted a little and you tilted your head slightly, a hand coming up to touch the side of his face gently. 

Gojo seemed stunned for a moment, like the fact that there was more to this than just putting your mouths together was enough to make him freeze. But he caught on quickly and followed your movements. His fingers thread through your hair, careful to not tangle the knots already there even more.

Your tongue met his and he made a small, excited noise that melted into a moan. 

You almost forgot that this wasn't just a guy you were kissing. 

But as your lower lip caught in his mouth, you were reminded of that mouthful of shark teeth as one sliced into your lip.

“Mm!” You pulled back, a hand flew up to your face and pressed to the fresh cut, pulling away to see bright red smeared on your fingers. “Ouch, ooh, careful with those things.” You jabbed jokingly with a light chuckle, sucking on your lip and tasting warm metal as you glanced back up at Gojo. 

A smear of your blood was still on his lip and as his tongue came out to swipe over it, his lashes fluttered and he groaned. 

“You… taste so good.”

You gulped. Oh god.

How could you possibly forget? 

Gojo is a fucking shark.

Now that he's tasted your blood, would he change his mind about eating you? You didn't have the guts to ask what he ate, but you knew it probably wasn't anything that didn’t bleed and have a heartbeat at some point.

“You look scared,” He pointed out, a crease forming in his brow but the curve to his lips didn't falter. “You don’t need to worry, I won't bite you… not very hard.” 

He brought his face closer to yours again, the light on his lure was definitely flickering now. He sniffed, and the water splashed as his tail flicked around in excitement. 

“Mm, I like you so much. You're my favorite.” 

You swallowed hard, leaning back just a little. “Oh?” 

“Mhm, I want more. Do you taste like that everywhere?” 

You weren't about to die of hypothermia anymore, and you were a little ashamed to admit that the question sent a wave of warmth pooling deep in your gut. A quiet breath like a sigh left your lips and you shifted again, pulling back a bit more to put distance between you as you thought on what to say to something like that.

But Gojo caught you, hands on your arms. The foil crinkling loudly under his grip as he held you in place under the weight of his bright blue gaze.

“You mean like… blood?” You breathed the word out, barely louder than a whisper and he smiled again.

“That too,” He chuckled, like watching you try to follow him where he was leading you was the most entertaining thing he'd done in a while. Like you were the most entertaining thing he'd encountered in a while. One hand glided down to your hip, his eyes following the motion. “Can I try? You smell really good too.” 

Ah. 

Well, of course he could smell your dripping sex. What else couldn't he do? 

Your thighs pressed together at the idea of him tasting you. Thanks to that mouthful of razor teeth that had already cut you once, you were uncertain. Gojo seemed to sense it, splaying a hand over your thigh.

“I won't hurt you,” He squeezed once and you looked from his hand, back to his face. “I promise.” 

Shit. Maybe you did lose some braincells. You could blame it on that.

Gojo saved your life after all, he likes you. He wouldn't literally eat you. 

…Right?

“Yeah, okay,” You nodded slowly. “Just, be careful with the tee—agh!” 

You didn't even get out the full sentence before he had you flipped around, practically upside down. You threw your arms out to balance as your legs hooked over Gojo’s shoulders. One hand wrapped around a thigh and the other curled over and prodded at your cunt.

“Mm! Oh my—what are you doing?” You gasped, clenching around his head. It felt like he was looking for something.

“Shouldn't there be a hole?” He asked quizzically, dragging a finger through your slit and rubbing around. “I don't think it works without one.”

“What? What does that me-ean?!” You squeaked as his exploratory finger found what he was looking for and he hummed with delight.

“Ah, good! Oh wow, it's so slippery, is that normal?” His thick finger pushed in deeper, prodding your walls like he was just… feeling around. Getting familiar with your cunt.

“Um—mmm… fuck, ye-yes?” How did you end up here? 

“Huh,” Was all he said. He withdrew his hand, leaving you empty, and licked a long stripe up your cunt. 

You had to give it to Gojo, he was quite observant. He took note of how you jerked when he flicked over your clit, and did it again. Watching how you gasped and arched a little.

“I like that noise,” His lips closed around your clit, “Mnnh!” He mimicked you, sending the vibration of the noise into you and you did it again, a hand threading into his soft, damp hair. He grinned and you felt his teeth against you.

“Ca-careful, remember, Gojo?” You reminded him, securing your grip in his hair just in case, mindful of the base of his lure hidden. Not sure how he felt about it being touched.

“I know, it doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“N-no, it doesn’t,”

“See? I won't hurt you, I know what I'm doing.” Gojo reassured, planting a wet, messy kiss on your clit with an audible smack!

“Mhm,” You hummed. 

You seriously doubted that.

Regardless of it, he figured out what he was doing quickly. He held your pelvis up and your legs wide open to him easily, your shoulders slumped on his smooth tail. You were completely at his mercy like that, and it only made the situation hotter. 

Paying the most attention to your clit with little sucks, grazing so lightly with those teeth that threatened to cut you open, but didn't. Each time you felt them you tightened your hand in his hair, yelping the first few times he did it in surprise just for him to wink at you. 

How did he even know how or why to do that?

He explored every bit of your cunt with sloppy licks, slurping at your arousal and humming at the taste. 

“Mnnh!” You threw your head back, eyes fluttering shut as he tongued and teased your hole. Lapping and pointing his tongue sharply to push deep inside, he hummed into you as he discovered the source of your slick.

He pulled his mouth off you, nipping lightly at your inner thigh. You startled at it, but didn't pull him off. Legs were fine, you guessed. 

“Keep doing that. And say my name again, I liked that.” He practically purred his requests to you, a light sting starting in your thigh with his teeth just barely breaking skin. “Can I bite? Just a little?”

This was all brand fucking new to you, but you had at least some experience. Gojo was just doing all of this for the first time, just figuring out what he liked.

You guessed you kind of owed it to him to help him work all that out.

You took a deep breath, “Ju-just a little one, please be careful, Gojo.” He nodded, those god damn teeth peeking out with his lips parted a little.

He looked you over, trying to decide where best to sink his jaws into you. He sniffed close to your skin again and tapped your hip with two fingers. “Here?”

“Mhm,” 

You knew it would probably be somewhat painful, but nothing would prepare you for the sensation of those teeth slicing into you. Tearing open skin and sinking into your flesh. It was white hot, and flooded your entire system like electricity. 

A scream tore from your throat, and melted into a guttural moan. 

It wasn't entirely painful, you realized.

Gojo moaned, his eyes fluttering shut as his tongue ran over the blood streaming from the countless little wounds. That felt better than you would have expected.

“Mnnh… ohh my god, Gojo!” You cried his name out, just as he asked and he reacted instantly. He sucked at the bite, pulling the flow of your blood into his mouth and he shuddered. Swallowing the mouthful with a whimper, his hands shaking and gripping your legs hard.

You shook again, shivers shaking through your whole body. Your skin was alight and felt like pure ecstasy as he sucked hard one more time before releasing the bite, pulling those teeth from you. 

“Wow,” Gojo sounded almost high, his voice somehow low and gravely while far off and dreamy. 

Maybe that was just you. 

His tongue dragged over the bite slowly, collecting the crimson leaking from the fresh wounds there. You dared a glance at Gojo, and he looked just as carnal as you expected. No, more than you were expecting.

His impossibly blue eyes were glazed, he stared somehow at and through you. His features slack and a lazy half smile curling his stained mouth.

He looked so satisfied as he licked his full lips, catching the blood smeared on his mouth and trickling down his chin. Like a predator finishing a meal, you supposed that was kind of what you were looking at. 

It felt more intimate than when his tongue was buried in your cunt. The trust of having an apex predator like him, teeth sunk into your flesh and praying he didn’t bleed you dry. And he didn’t.

“It’s amazing. I feel… so good right now.” He sighed, his cheek resting on your thigh as he came down from whatever cloud he was up on. 

Suddenly, it was like he actually saw you, his eyes focused solely on you. “I want more. I want all of it.” He almost growled, the sound greedy and hungry. 

You swallowed hard, heart kicking at your ribcage as something deep and primal in your brain screamed at you to run away. That whatever Gojo was, was dangerous. That here, in his domain, he loomed over you on the food chain.

He could eat you. The dark look in his eye told you he would eat you.

Gojo rubbed his cheek on your thigh, it almost felt lovingly gentle when juxtaposed with the harsh bite still throbbing and leaking on your hip. His hands glided up your sides, feeling up your body. 

“Gojo, I—”

“Don’t worry, I really want to, but that would be bad. I know that.” He placed a chaste kiss on your thigh, leaving a smear of deep red behind. “I’ll keep you safe, I like you too much to let anything bad happen to you.”

“Oh, well that’s, um… good?” It was better than him seeing you as nothing more than food.

“Mhm,” He hummed in agreement, taking your legs off his shoulders. You sagged, your back resting on Gojo’s tail, legs still up in the air but in a slightly less compromising position. 

Something hard pressed low into your spine, you had a pretty good idea of what it was. Where had it come from though? You had no idea. 

Gojo took a deep breath, eyes lidded and still dark but earnest as he said your name. “I want to mate you.” It sounded like he was asking for your hand marriage or something, the weight with which he said it.

“Mate… me?” You echoed and Gojo nodded quickly. 

“I’ll fit. I’m pretty sure.” He squinted at you, eyeing your belly. “I want to try, you’d be the perfect mate, I know it.”

Sex. He was talking about having sex with you. 

Maybe it’s that he was so protective of you, that he wanted you more than any other human man had ever. Even after just a short time of being around him, Gojo had a way of making your heart race with fight or flight while also seeming like the safest place in the world.

Maybe it was that he literally saved your life.

Maybe he was just really hot, even with that shark tail, and you were really horny. And maybe a little curious as to what it would be like.

Maybe it was everything, plus the bite mark still throbbing deliciously on your hip that made you nod slowly and agree.

“I like you too, Gojo. Yeah, let’s, um… let’s try.”

He didn’t say anything, just grinned and pulled you up to sit face to face with him, still on his lap. As you shifted upright and scooted back, your cunt rubbed on what was definitely his dick, but it felt… different. He wasn’t human, and it’d be naive to think he’d have human anatomy.

Gojo groaned quietly with the movement. You started to glance down, to see what exactly you were working with before you tried to fit him inside you. But Gojo took your face in one hand and lifted your chin gently to him. 

He kissed you again and caught you off guard with how smoothly his mouth opened, teasing the seam of your lips until they parted for him. He really was a fast learner.

He flipped you again easily, biceps flexing as he held you close to his chest and laid you down under him on a layer of your damp, shredded clothes. He broke the kiss as he reached down between you. Your legs hitched up around Gojo’s waist as he fumbled a little, his face scrunched up in concentration as he prodded around for your entrance. You tensed a little with cool fingers rubbing and poking gently. 

As Gojo’s thick fingers curled into you, his face lit up and you kept your eyes trained on him. He smiled, pleased with himself. His tail was flopped to the side, the large fin just barely breaking the surface of the water and sending splashes echoing through the dim cave. His lure bright and flickering just over your head as you let out the noise he liked.

It was so different to see someone—a man—be openly enthusiastic and excited about things. Gojo communicated clearly, paid attention to your body language, and laid his feelings out in the open. 

Was he… kind of the ideal guy?

Sure he was half shark, but… was that really such a bad thing when you thought about everything else?

Yeah, okay, he said he wanted to keep you, but it shows he’s not afraid of commitment. And he saved you. 

Okay, maybe that sounded a little stockholm syndrome-y. But would it really be that terrible?

He pulled his fingers from you and nudged—

You immediately tensed. Eyes going wide and you finally glanced down at what was happening between your legs. 

Not one, but two thick, blunt tips were pressing at your entrance. 

Before you could really think twice on it, on how Gojo might wreck you with two thick cocks—lengthy and pale and a little curve to the top one—prying you wide open. He pushed his hips into you and stretched your cunt to accommodate all of him.

You gasped and bit back a whimper, tensing up, walls clenching around the intrusion that was Gojo. But he sunk in further, forcing your cunt to open wider the deeper he went. It felt like you were stretched to the limit. He threw his head back with a deep groan, the flickering light bobbing as he somehow pushed even more into you and you somehow kept taking it. Your legs squeezed, toes curling as you felt Gojo fill every bit of your cunt as he kept shoving more into you. 

With a hard thrust, both blunt heads bullied against your cervix and you cried out. He stilled, breathing hard. “Wow, see?” Gojo marveled, gaze roving down your body to land low. “I fit inside you. We’re definitely mates.”

It was kind of a miracle that he fit. Maybe he was right.

“You ca-can… move,” You said quietly and he glanced up to meet your eyes for a moment.

“Oh, okay,” Gojo pulled his hips back, dragging out slow, and pushed all the way back in. “Like… that?” He whined a little, tail slapping the water as he bottomed out again. 

“Mhm!” You managed out a hum and a short nod, nails digging in as you gripped his shoulders hard, but he didn’t seem to mind. His gaze trained low again, he set a bit of a rhythm. He was probably watching as he pulled out and shoved back inside. How he branded the shape of himself into you.

It was like he was reshaping you, molding you to fit him with every thrust that grew more confident, more assured in the snap of his hips. 

“Oh wow, look at that.” Gojo leaned back and smoothed a hand over your stomach, fucking into you hard and slow with a mean angle that pushed the already curved cock into a sensitive spot. “I can see myself inside you.” 

You lifted your head somehow with that and saw exactly what he was talking about. Your stomach bubbled out a little, and as he grinded into you, the bulge moved. 

You watched as he rubbed the bump and pressed down. He moaned as he picked up the pace again and your head fell back, feeling his hand push against his cock, rubbing hard against your walls. The pressure made your eyes roll, mouth hanging open and gasping breaths. 

Every movement sparked pleasure that whited your brain out, wiping any thought from your head but how hot your skin felt, and how stuffed full you were. 

You were made aware that ‘mating you’ wasn’t just fucking you. It was a claim. Neither you, nor your body would never be the same after this.

Gojo wrapped an arm under you, his body lowered to press against yours. He was still cold, but the exertion had you so overheated that you welcomed his cool skin. Wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, feeling the soft texture of his tail under your calves. Your arms draped around his shoulders, clutching and gripping at the muscles that flexed under your hands.

Gojo brought his face to the crook of your neck, still making movements with his hips to keep fucking you as his mouth closed around your throat. 

His tongue glided over your hammering pulse.

You tried to say his name, but it caught in your throat. 

He didn’t bite, he sucked. His teeth pressed lightly to your skin, barely pricking. You almost couldn’t feel the sting with everything else going on, but you did. He licked the blood beading from the tiny pinpricks and the moment he tasted you again, control seemed to crack. 

Gojo whined out, biting down slightly harder, his teeth cutting into your throat. He pumped into you hard and fast. It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did, having his teeth sunken into your neck, licking the trickle of blood as he split you open on two thick cocks. 

But it did. You clenched around him, walls gripping and slowing his movements a little. He faltered a little, pace stuttering and you thought he might come. But instead he released your throat with a groan, like it fucking killed him to do.

“My mate,” He growled, his fin slapping and splashing the water uncontrollably.  “I want to do this forever, I fit inside you and its so nice—mnnh—you’re sooo warm,” He moaned, grinding into your cervix. His cocks were leaking inside you and you whined with so much pressure filling you you couldn’t think. Being fucked and held on the edge of climax. “I want, I wa-want to… mm!”

Gojo planted a fast kiss on your lips and pulled out of your cunt. The shocking loss and sudden emptiness hurt and you started to protest, but you were shut quickly up. 

Gojo flipped you over, carefully and he made sure you didn’t smack your head or any limbs on the ground. He pulled your hips up to his level and rubbed along your slit, lined back up to your hole, and pushed in again.

As he bottomed out again, he felt deeper somehow and as the tips of his cocks kissed your cervix, Gojo moaned behind you. He sounded just as lost in it as you were. “I want to fill you with my pups, can you do that, mate? Can you take it if I fill you up?” He rubbed over your belly and held firmly, feeling himself push into his hand. 

It didn’t really register with you, what he was really saying. In your blissed out mind held on the edge of coming, you knew he wanted to breed you, but that was impossible. You’re two different species. 

He could ‘fill you with pups’ all he wanted, none would stick.

“Yes! I can take it. To-touch me, please, Gojo!” 

“Touch you?” You nodded and he dipped his hand lower, drifting over your stomach to between your legs. “You mean here?” He rubbed a slow circle over your clit and you twitched hard, walls pulsing around his cocks as he fucked a slow rhythm into you.

“Ohh my god, mnh, yes!” You moaned out, you were drooling on the ground. 

He was fucking you stupid, the half shark virgin, was fucking you harder than anyone ever had in your life.

He dragged through your walls, every ridge and vein catching. He curled over you, cool chest pressing to your back, one arm wrapped under your chest to hold you up, the other hand cupping your cunt. He rubbed dizzying circles on your clit with two fingers and you twitched and writhed under him, hips bucking back to push into his thrusts.

He put his mouth on your shoulder, but he didn’t bite. Just pressed his lips there until your orgasm hit and you squeezed tight, letting out a choked cry as he bullied into you.

Gojo moaned, his fin was swishing in the water so hard and so fast it sounded like a propeller as he squeezed you tight, and bit down on your shoulder, hard. 

Tears pricked your eyes instantly and you could only whimper as Gojo sank his teeth into your flesh and sucked. 

Sure, it hurt, but why did it feel so good too?

He thrust into you hard, grinding deep as his cocks both swelled, twitching and about to burst. His jaw tightened and made a pitched noise deep in his throat. You choked on a sob as the blooming pain rolled through you like a wave, ecstasy making your eyes roll and stream tears.

His whole body shuddered as his cocks kicked deep inside, and ropes of cum spurted. It wasn’t hot, more just lukewarm, a little cooler than your body temperature as he flooded you. It didn’t stop for a while, not until there was so much pressure that you felt heavy and swollen from everything filling you.

You sagged, body drooping with exhaustion but still connected to Gojo. He pried his teeth from deep in your shoulder and you winced. He licked the bite, cool tongue gliding over the wound to collect blood still flowing, and hummed. He rubbed your belly affectionately.

“Are you okay? Does the bite hurt?” Gojo leaned into your periphery, a hand still pressed to your stomach. You shook your head, none of them really hurt at all. Not that you could feel much anyways. 

“Good,” Gojo hummed thoughtfully. “I wonder what our pups will be like, I hope they look like you.” You didn’t have the energy or the heart to crush the fantasy of you being his mate and giving him babies, so you just nodded for now and let your eyes close.

“It takes longer with a human female, I don’t mind waiting though. I’ll keep you safe till they come, then I'll put more in you.” Gojo nuzzled your shoulder, still stuffing you and keeping you plugged up and full of his cum. 

The realization of what he said hit and your eyes opened again.

“Wait, you can reproduce… outside of your own species?” 

“Mhm, just humans though. You’re close enough to our kind, it still works.” He sighed, the light from his lure dimming a little as he pulled you close and rolled onto his back, laying you on him and keeping his cocks in you. He rubbed your belly again, affectionately like his child was actually inside and not just a womb full of cum.

“I’m so happy I found you,” His tail swished in the water languidly. He sounded genuinely happy, he was probably lonely before the boat dumped you in the ocean and in a weird way, so were you. 

Sure, you weren’t alone, but you didn’t have a relationship or anyone to tell you not to go work on a deadly boat in the freezing ocean. 

Maybe staying with Gojo wouldn’t be the worst option. How many others did you really even have?

You hummed and put a hand over his on your swollen belly. “Do you have to stay in cold water, or can you go somewhere warmer?” 

“Nope, I can adjust to pretty much anything so we can go anywhere.” He squeezed you a little. 

Thank god for that, you didn’t know how much longer you’d survive in the freezing cold. You weren’t built like Gojo and his kind.

Wait a minute.

“What do you mean, our kind?”

a/n .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — idk what this is man, don't ask me. ask @/indiewritesxoxo bc reading her stuff before bed gave me weird dreams(10/10 recommend). I love the ocean but my biggest fear is drowning so the start was awful to write T_T pls tell me it was worth it

[tonycries]

Sweet Creature - G.S.

Synopsis. To Geto Suguru it’s the Creature, The Strongest being in existence, his masterpiece of science. To you he’s Gojo Satoru, the poor experiment you found chained up in the scientist’s dungeon, the creation that taught himself how to love. To him he doesn’t know who he is, but he knows where he belongs - with you.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, Creature!Gojo, Frankenstein!Geto, based on Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein, PLOT, 1800’s, worldbuilding, love triangles (Gojo x reader x Geto), angst, vioIence, bIood, backstories, accidentally falling in Iove, oraI (fem rec.), PÚSSYDRÚNK Gojo, spítting, face-ríding, fíngering, teaching him, first times (Gojo), he’s BIG, tummy buIges, cervíx kíssin’, making it fit, BRÉEDING, matíng presses, raw, FÉRAL GOJO, manhandIing, dúmbifícation, rough s, creampíes, cúmpIay, overstím, implied marathon, time skips, Nanami cameo, HAPPY ENDING, pet name, swéaring.

Word count. 16.8k

A/N. I’ve been wanting to do this AU for SOOOO LONG-

1857.

Reds of the Royal Danish Navy shed against bone-white ice; the Horisont has found itself trapped in ice amidst the expedition to the North Pole.

It was a coldness beyond cold, a glaucoma of the world. Only in such a place does the belligerence of humanity dim before a ceaseless peripheral of something much greater. Something much older. Something soul-cold.

Here, one cannot see.

One cannot swallow. One cannot hear.

And it is why Captain Nanami Kento pauses between scratching at his parchment. He works stiffly and slowly beneath the damp glow of the lantern, with an ear craned in the direction of the deck outside: the heaving of ropes being put to work, the chants between cold coughs, the sudden slamming of produce.

“Captain!” One of the newer crew members, still sun-tanned and youth-freckled, barges in through the door. From the doorway he pants out urgently, “Captain, an explosion- oh, you simply must see this.”

Nanami rises cautiously, “See what, boy?”

“A- a monster.”

A coldness creeps into his heart. “Get the men.”

In almost no time, there’s a group of about ten crew members racing down the frost-bitten landscape. They held their lit torches high, trembling flames that were snapped and slobbered in all directions by the wind, as if lambs being hauled to slaughter.

A few of the lookouts had already set a bonfire in the distance to mark their finding, and as Nanami leads the group closer, he can feel his pulse jump to his throat. He can taste the blood. He can smell it.

He brings a gloved hand up to cover his nostrils as he looks on at the reddened snow, “This…this blood- where does it hail from? Has one of ours been injured?”

“Not ours, Captain!” One of the seamen hasten to explain, he jogs past the bonfire. “A wounded man, he has suffered a great loss of blood!” And where the man motions them, Nanami could see two writhing lumps in the darkness - about as large as a young Grey Seal, though perhaps not made of as much pure muscle. 

They follow the man—a corpse.

At least, well on his way to become one.

Dressed much like them in protective coats, there was no telling just how long the man had been laying there in the snow. In a slowly-growing pool of his wine-blood. His fingers were blue, mouth trembling, eyes frosted shut. Though, perhaps out of some sick sense of mercy. Because even from here Nanami could see the garish slashes on the man’s neck and shoulders.

His pale face grimaces at the torrent of light that signals the crew’s entrance, muttering something that they could not discern.

Nanami’s the first to crouch beside him and take the man into his arms, “Bear attack?”

“I do not believe so, Captain.” The same young crew member from before urgently speaks, “Our early lookouts- they claim they saw something in the shadows…something otherworldly!” Nanami looks into the boy’s ghost-white face, “Something demonic!”

The blond man nods, “Itadori, help me with his boot.”

Together, they manage to knife between the coagulation of frost and blood that composed of the man’s boot. Like much of his body. It was a tough leather fighting against a dull blade, enough to make one sweat even in the bitter landscape. And Nanami almost thinks better of his decision before-

“A prosthetic leg.” Itadori breathes. He holds up the metal limb for the rest of the crew to peer at, fashioned from some sort of metal, it was attached to the man with a series of buckles and belts. So intricate, in fact, that had it not been for the discoloration then one might have thought that it was his natural outgrowing limb.

Nanami’s brows furrow at the device, “This must be…and what about the other one?” 

“The what?” Itadori asks.

“The other one.” Nanami’s the one to make his way onto the other ‘lump’ he’d made out, much more frozen stiff than the other one. He kneels down to gently wipe off the clumps of snow on the grooves of your face, your beautiful, beautiful face. You didn’t seem to be at all hurt, unlike the man. “A woman…”

“Found with the older man, Captain.” One of the crew answers, “Both frozen, almost to death.”

“Almost to death…”

And that’s when they hear it.

It.

That ghastly, guttural roar that came from no place but hell.

If the darkness could speak, this could be its voice. Hear its nightmare, its pain, its humanity. It makes the crew members break out in a cold sweat.

In the three seconds that it rips through the wind, Nanami’s running his mind through every page of every zoological textbook he’s ever read - and coming up blank after each one. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank—no living creature should ever be able to make a sound like this.

Just what in hell was that?

“C-Captain!”

It’s Itadori’s trembling tone that snaps Nanami out of his frozen state. He looks to the boy—fuck, he looks down and realizes that his hands were shaking.

“Put- put him…” Lips parched, he clears his throat and doesn’t care if it’s unsteady. “Put him onboard! Now!” Nanami yells at the crew, who instantly move to action as he keeps an eye in the dark direction of where the noise had originated from.

Beyond their circle of torches, something shifts in the shadows.

Something tall.

Tall.

Tall.

Another roar—“Hurry!” The Captain cries, helping his crew lift the injured man. “To the ship! Now—”

Perhaps because of the blood loss, their straggler is nothing more than a slight burden in their trembling arms, though with that- that thing in the darkness beyond them, he just might as well have weighed a hundred tonnes.

It’s with such dreadful relief that they manage to reach the Horisont and lever the body up the port side of the ship. As it’s carted off like a still-trembling corpse, Nanami calls out to the seamen that work the base. “Itadori, that thing is coming.”

“C-Captain?” The boy asks, nervously.

And the older man only silently hands him a gun, “We have to be ready.” Holding one himself, he raises the nozzle of the pistol in the air and fires, man-made thunder in response to the voice of something beyond. “Ready the rifles!”

Rows upon rows, guns upon guns, human beside human.

Lining the berth of the ship with their weapons raised, they clutched those polished wooden handles. Death at their fingertips. A third roar punctuates the night, and had it not been for their Captain’s presence right beside them, those men might just have been running for their life. 

“On my command…” Nanami calls out. 

Something bludgeons through the wintry landscape. As tall as even the tallest hanging icicles, with a coat that flaps around it like bat wings. 

“Aim…”

Inhuman.

“Fire!”

Gunshots ring out like applause, ah, the only invention of humanity that may cut through the cold. That may slice it. Two of the bullets hit the creature in what looked to be its shoulders, and it collapses to the ground with a pained cry. Pained? Could it really feel such a thing?

Most monsters didn’t. And this one raises its hooded head and roars.

Oh—Nanami’s stepping backwards before he can stop himself. 

“Next group, next group!” Itadori’s juvenile voice takes command in place of his Captain, though he was shaking even more so. Crew members with their guns cocked kneel down in the exact positions of the previous line.

Their nozzles smoke, hungry for blood.

With an arm stretched outwards, Nanami’s directing them. “On my command…aim…fire-”

Gunshot after gunshot after gunshot.

A second round of applause. A standing ovation. Almost with more fervour than before, those bullets reach towards the limelight where their lanterns were fixated on this hulking, inhuman figure. A hard target to miss.

Hit after hit after hit.

And yet…it does not stop. It does not slow down. It does not even shed blood - this thing takes their most fierce protection, lets it sink into its body as if not the worst thing it’s ever experienced. The bullets embed deep into its clamoring limbs, only increasing the fury in its pace.

Step after step after step.

Until finally- they’re catching a glimpse of blood-shot eyes.

“Re-retreat! To the ship.” Nanami yells, grabbing some of his crew members and pulling them to stand. He’s shoving them in the direction of the ramp that led up the side of the ship, not looking backwards until Itadori was already aboard. “To the ship! Retreat to the ship! Ret- no.”

He’s whipping his head behind as one of the foolhardy men rush in the direction of the monster with his gun. Raised as if to bash it with it—

“Retreat!”

In just one sweeping motion the creature throws the crew member aside. Hard enough that he bangs against the side of the ship, hard enough to break bone. 

Nanami pales as he hears the crunching of ligaments and skeleton, screaming out at his crew to board the ship once more. “Retreat- retreat, I say! This is an order from your Captain!” He’s stomping through the bustling deck, weaving through the men that feared for their life as much as they feared the life now rattling the ladder of the ship. “Where is that man we brought aboard? Where?”

“St-starboard, Captain.” Itadori replies.

And Nanami wastes no time before going up to the man - laid out amongst some blankets on the side of the ship - and grabbing him by the lapels of his frost-crusted coat, “What does that thing want?” He barks out at the groaning man, he assumes that you’d been taken inside. “Tell me! What does it want-”

Another young member, Ino, quivers out. “Captain, he’s almost—”

Roaring.

Gone and guttural.

It had reached the deck by now, standing tall amidst the crew that raced like ants. That looked just as helpless. In one hand it crushes a human skull as if nothing, and with the other he points straight at the shivering corpse.

“Bring- her- to me-”

A voice that sends their hearts beating out of their chests, so that they felt less-than human. Just as it sounded.

Her…?

From behind, one of the crew members stabs at the creature with the edge of his gun. Nanami doesn’t wait to watch him get flung off the edge of the ship- “The Blunderbuss.” He’s turning to the crew with widened eyes, breathless. “Ino, get the Blunderbuss!”

“Y-yes, Captain!”

In no time, a heavy metal firearm is being pressed into Nanami’s hands. He doesn’t wait to take aim and—shoot!

It strikes the monster right in the middle of his chest, and it stumbles. Hands but a blur on the greed-cold nozzle, sweat sticking his skin to metal, one eye closing in concentration- the Captain shoots again.

And again.

And again.

Each one finds its target with deathly precision. But a monster never truly dies, does it? Not until they can spike fear into the hearts of those mortal? It turns out, they merely fell.

As if a great oak befalling, it almost hurt to watch it descend. They all rush over to the other side of the deck as the monster plummets; the ice below craters once it rests, erupting a halo of dark blue lightning bolts brought out of the frozen water. Nanami wastes no time lugging the prolonged length of the Blunderbuss over the deck and shooting it a few more times - this time, however, not quite at their untimely visitor.

He aims for the thinning ice that cracks off with the blows, segregating the creature from the rest of them. And not one member of the crew releases a relieved breath until after the chunk of ice breaks off. Floats off.

It opens its eyes.

Snaking his body upright, “Give her…” Charging back towards the ship. A voice that thunders up to where they are, and makes everyone take a step back. “Give her to me-” All but Nanami, of course, who aims a single shot at the monster—and lets his hand fly off the trigger.

BANG—!

CRASH.

Thrown off his feet, it seems that the taller they are the harder they fall indeed. That…thing ends up with its back against the slab of ice once more, which gives way beneath its weight as if made out of nothing but paper. Opening up a gaping mouth. Ice-water sloshing at its feet. Crumbling into the tiniest pieces, the monster sinks…

The Captain doesn’t lower his gun or his caution until he can’t see its flailing arms any longer. Until the sea swallows up their woes with a gurgle, and with it, a creature more monster than man. Nanami peers down as its blood-black cloak dissipates into nothingness.

Then - and only then - does he turn to face the rest of the stunned crew.

“Take me to her.”

Less than an hour later, the man was up and talking—you, however, weren’t quite as lucky. According to the ship’s doctor you were alive, it seems, but just barely.

Itadori frowns at your shiver and rubs on your hands even harder. Entire body tinged ever-so-slightly with a pallor of blue - it didn’t matter what your original shade was, you looked plain sickly. And so tiny in Nanami’s bed, his heart aches as he lifts his bedcovers up to your chin, wishing that he had more than some ol’ Captain’s drudgery. You looked like a lady.

“Where am I…?” The black-haired man’s voice creaks out, his long locks sweeping the ship’s floor. He seemed to be the Captain’s own age. Despite being in the warmth now, he still quivered - whether out of the frigid outside, or the memory, Nanami wasn’t quite sure. “Who-”

“You’re aboard the Royal Danish ship, Horisont.” Nanami answers, watching as the doctor hands him a vial of something that the man downs with a wince. “I’m Captain Nanami, this is Dr. Shoko.”

“How many of your men did it kill?”

The blond man shivers, momentarily speechless. 

He looks at the man intensely, his teeth were drenched in red. “…Six.”

“It will come back and kill many more.” He begs, tone trembling until it was almost indiscernible. He sweeps a hand around the room, flickering in and out of existence in the dim lantern. “All of you, if necessary, unless you deliver me to it.”

Nanami bends down until he’s eye-level with the other man, almost condescending. “It’s gone. It sank in the freezing waters, it’s dead-”

“No, it is not!”

There’s a bang and a clutter- suddenly the long-haired man is upon him, grabbing Nanami by the coat and shaking him. His eyes held a madness to them that shook the taller man to his very core, and he found his own scared face staring back at him through those irises. “It cannot be killed! It- it…”  As if the weight of his own words were hitting him, he’s sinking back onto the couch that made his impromptu clinical bed. “It c-cannot die…I’ve tried.”

“You’ve tried?” Itadori pipes up.

Nanami looks at the madman wearily, “And you have most certainly been…unsuccessful.”

“Whether you believe me or not…” Sinking his head into his hands, throat shattering in tears. “-it will come back…for me.” He breathes heavily, “And when it does, you must promise that you will put me out on the ice and let it take me.” Looking up into Nanami’s molten eyes, “Please.”

“What sort of creature is that?” Shoko asks, taking off her medical gloves. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Or more pertinent a question—” Nanami looks behind at your shivering figure, still, and then at the man before him. “What manner of devil made him?”

The man gulps, “I did.” As if the weight of a thousand years was rushing out of him at once, “I, Geto Suguru, made him.”

.

.

.

PART I: Geto’s Story.

His name was Geto. Geto Suguru.

It was his father that gave him that name, Suguru (杉る) meaning excellent, superior, surpass. One could claim that it all started with him, his father. And his mother.

For there are some parents that bear no merit to become parents in anything other than name.

The world changes once you bear life, you know, in the way that they look at you, in the way that they speak to you, in the way that they know you. They don’t know you as anything otherwise. And unless you can change with the world, then the world will change you. For love is a melding of souls that leaves one’s tempered. 

And one has to be strong to accept change, to be changed. Both physically and mentally. Fear it, of course - the presence of strength does not equate to an absence of fear - but be strong. Change.

The strength of one’s love is equivalent to the strength of one’s self. Why shouldn’t you change?

And so—to recap, the world shall change, you shall change - so who does that leave amongst the conflict?

Why, the child, of course.

To his mother, he was strong: her first-born. And this woman amongst women, this flurry of passion and decadence, the only person to ever beat him in cards, the sole empress of their mansion to brave his father for all those years; to him, she was far stronger than he.

Far stronger.

And yet, his mother died at the hands of the nation’s best doctor.

His father.

Geto Suguru’s mother died giving birth to his younger brother. Though she didn’t die with regrets- at least, their father didn’t believe so.

The youngest child was the apple of their father’s eye, the one that couldn’t grow up, the one that was worth a life. He was the breeze, Geto was the storm cloud.

Where he was locked in the library and taught the ways of the human tissue, it was his brother that was boasted at every social function. What had taken him years of reciting the complexities of anatomy to learn from his father, his brother could earn a smile with but a single look. When he had never heard a syllable of love from his father, he could hear through his bedroom—a wall shared with his younger brother’s, sweet goodnights.

There was something more- or rather, there was something missing.

“Father?” He remembers asking one morning after their early anatomy lesson. Geto must have been barely fourteen by this point, though his father acted around him like nothing more than if he were dealing with a poisonous viper. 

The elderly man pauses, and turns stiffly towards his first-born. “Yes?”

“You let her die, did you not?”

“I did everything in my power to save her. You must know that.” His father answered, grimly. He clutched his textbooks tighter as his son got up and rounded the table slowly.

Geto looks at him, “So you failed.”

The patriarch looks at him dismissively, “No one can conquer death.” And it has the tone of the final say, to which the man turns his back and leaves.

“I will.” Geto calls out after him. And there was no way that the baron didn’t hear him, no way that he didn’t know the boy had just picked up his own cane. A thin bristling woodwork singed with years of hitting onto the very flesh that held it now. 

Geto whips it through the air, “I will conquer it.” He wasn’t speaking at a particularly high volume, and yet it cracks through the halls of the library- making his father stop in his tracks and turn. “Everything you know, I will know too.”

The man looks at him with intense eyes, so similar to his younger brother’s. “I think we’ve done quite enough for today.”

Ultimately, he was not strong enough.

The Geto fortune’s downfall was swift; two revolts and a fire across their fields left them bereft. They kept the estate, but lost everything else.

Including his father.

Geto was accepted into the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh, where he attempted to…widen the narrow vision of academia. It is here that he held his own at a tribunal hearing, before an audience of a hundred he demonstrated his earliest experiment mending the arm of a dead man, and the head of another. By running an electric current through this specimen, he made it move—life!

“This is a hearing, Doctor, not a carnival act!” Another powder-wigged, bespectacled, puff-pastried member of the board cried out from his raised podium. 

It was exactly because of bigwigs like him that Geto had to attend such a hearing in the first place. Some of the higher-ups had caught a whiff of his experiments on corpses, and thus they’d demanded a proper investigation before the entire association, to determine whether such acts were in line with the ‘morals and scientific integrity of’ the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh.

The other surgeons around him leaned in on the edge of their seats as the elderly board member stabbed a finger in the direction of the moving corpse. He seethes, as if he found the mere display of it offensive to his eyes. “You’re not helping your cause, this galvanic trickery will simply not do!”

“Trickery.” Geto repeats, reaching deep into his pockets. “Trickery?”

Before everyone, he pulls out a red apple, ripe to the touch. Throwing it in the air a few times—before throwing it to the corpse.

Who reaches out and catches it.

“That is not trickery- that is a decision!” He cries out at the display. The single arm twists and turns, letting the deceased head inspect the apple. And above the applause, Geto yells in elation. “Motor coordination between the eye of one dead man, and the arm of another! Infused with new will and the rudiments of understanding-” 

A board member cuts him off, “Understanding in a brain that has already died-”

“This is the future! It is strength-”

“It is an abomination!”

It is only after Geto was formally expelled for his ‘blasphemous’ research by the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh did he meet Kenjaku. It was with a tip of his hat and a bow so low that the tips of his nose nearly touched the blood-stained pavement, and then Kenjaku was led inside his laboratory.

He had strange stitches on his forehead, and Geto thought of him as almost a kindred spirit. A face to which he couldn’t put an age. He claimed to be an acquaintance of his brother’s and inquired into the other man’s work.

It was also the first time that Geto Suguru heard your name, his brother’s fiancée. 

It was also the first time that his heart had undergone the strangest palpitations that were not in line with any medical textbook he’d devoured before.

“So you claim you can do it-” Kenjaku had peered down at the man, dark eyes twinkling in interest. “-bring a man to life from the dead? Create a man that is so strong that he may not die?”

“I know I can.”

And it seemed to have been exactly the answer that he’d been looking for. 

Kenjaku reached into his long coat, and pulled out a flat white card with swooping cursive. “I have a proposal for you, Doctor.” At the surgeon’s raising eyebrows, his feline grin only grows. “I will endow your pursuit with unlimited resources. In exchange, I may in time ask you for a favor in return- but mostly, it would be my utmost honor to record your process for posterity.”

Geto looks at his outstretched hand. He hesitates. “I will…consider-”

“Don’t pretend to be reasonable now, Doctor.” Forcefully, the card with details is being pushed into his hand. “It would be such a shame.”

Geto never did find out his first name.

In the coming weeks Geto also grew to meet you, and he grew to be hated by you.

Or so you claimed. It was the interference of the natural cycle between life and death that made you instantly dislike him, you’d heard enough about his work from Kenjaku, a close family acquaintance. So to see this pompous, stubborn, (beautiful) scientist in the flesh was not too different from meeting the devil himself.

And the devil always was quite tempting.

“You laugh at my ideas?” He’d asked on your first meeting with him. It had been a lunch with none other than Kenjaku, his younger brother, and you.

And while the former two had disappeared for ‘brandy and cigars’ at a moment’s notice of one of your brewing debates, Geto had been the only one to stay. To sit opposite you on the long table. To look you straight in the eyes as you scoffed at his claims to bring a dead man back to life. “Idea are not worthwhile by themselves now, are they?” 

He crosses his arms, “Explain.”

“Think of the war, for example.” Your steely gaze watches as Geto’s dark brows raise, “Honor. Country. Valor. These surely are worthwhile elevated ideas by themselves, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Mhm.”

“And nevertheless, men are dying for them, in a decidedly less elevated way.” You continue, “Face down in the mud, choking on blood, screaming in pain. Fathers, brothers, sons. Men that were nursed into this world by their mothers, only to fall on a battlefield far from those that provoke these tragedies.” You’re looking straight at him, “Those men remain at home, untouched by blood or bayonet.”

Geto tugs on his coats, skin hot for the first time in…ever. “I-I see-”

“That is what happens when ideas are pursued by fools.”

His head snaps up, “And you think me a fool? Hm?”

To which you lean close enough that your breath wafts his face, warm and only warmer. Just the slightest smile on your face, “Run to your brandy and cigars~”

He’d never been harder.

A few weeks after that meeting, Geto rode down in a carriage with Kenjaku to a lake near Vaduz across the channel. A tower built as a water filtration plant and abandoned at the start of the war; the moment he laid eyes on it, the tower, he could feel destiny calling.

He could feel it.

The months slurred into one, and so did his experiments.

He stitched together the corpses of prisoners and men recently hanged, until he’d grown quite expert in making seamless threads on skin, until even various shades of skins could be melded into one. Trial after trial after trial.

The floor of his once-new laboratory ran red. 

And with every step closer he got to creating life, it felt like Geto lost a bit of his own. 

The first time that Geto bedded you, that was the night that he finalized the creation that would come to be his greatest downfall. He’d finally found the pressure points he needed to intrude in order to keep the lymphatic system intact. 

And he worked like a dog.

Night after night after nightmarish night. Those bad dreams melded into reality, and Geto could differentiate which was which.

Until one night, a strom was a-brewing above his spiral tower, and Geto stepped back to admire his creation. Upon a cross-like platform hoisted a pale body much larger than the largest man, much less human. He’d chosen each body part himself, of course: that toned torso, that handsome face, that small waist, those sea-blue eyes, hair of holy white. 

The perfect creation. 

As flares of lightning outreached across the sky, Geto connected the body to various cables and bolts aiming to extract the energy of the storm. Climbing to the top of the tallest tower, he’d enabled a massive ray that acted as a lightning catcher aimed straight at the lifeless body upon the cross. Like the hand of the heavens above, it was to give life.

“By God, it’s perfect.” Kenjaku whispers, coming up to the surgeon’s side in the laboratory. Kenjaku had taken residence in this very tower until Geto was to complete his experiment, and he frantically stopped Geto in his ministrations- “Quick! Quick, you have to do it now-”

“Pardon-” Geto’s brows furrowed, “Do what?”

“My brain.”

He pales, “P-pard-”

“My brain- inside that body.” He shakes the younger man, “Did I not say that the time would come when I ask you for a favor, boy? Well this is that time- quick, before the storm reaches its peak! Extract my brain and place it into the perfect body of our new Adam-”

Geto smacks his hand away, voice heightening. “That’s madness! I work with corpses, I will not kill just to put your-”

“Is it the money?”

He rounds the scientist now, hands throwing up in the air. And Geto can only step backwards—

“Because I can give you all the money you want- ohoho! You only need to say yes-” 

“But-”

He swipes a hand out once more to grab the other man, though Geto dodges it this time. “-no more, and no less!” Closing in on the man, “Just think about it, my boy, for me- youth! And for you, eternal wealth! No money in the world would be enough for this, and I can give it all to you if you just say the-”

“No.”

Kenjaku charges.

And at that exact moment, lightning clashes.

CLAP—!

It erupts from the needle-like end of the ray, making every piece of metal in the laboratory glow molten red with heatwaves. The diagonal and vertical lines of lightning crackling through the air, powerful enough that one could almost feel the atoms around it sizzling. Making the energy spark against metal as it conducts, making a stray beam hit Kenjaku and make him drop to the floor with a cold shiver. Dead. 

Geto himself can just barely manage to throw himself underneath one of his desks and take cover. His head in his hands, his heart in his throat.

And in the distance, something seems to ba-dump—!

When Geto Suguru opens his eyes again, he isn’t the only thing alive in that laboratory.

.

.

.

“And it was a monster.” In the present day, a Geto Suguru that was not much older - though he felt as such, he sighed as such - finishes off his story by spitting. It was as if speaking the very tale into memory left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, “With the average body and mind of a twenty-eight-year-old, and yet I discovered soon that it had super strength, healing like never seen in a natural organism before- and as his strength increased, mine waned. I did not sleep, I did not eat, I did not live- and more than that, I could not make it speak. I created The Strongest, and in doing so I created a monster.”

Nanami Kento runs a hand down his face silently, “You played God and now…”

“And now you reap the consequences.” Itadori is the one to finish off.

And the tired surgeon can only nod, placing his aching head in his hands once more. “I am its creator, and I have created a monster. It is something that should never have been done- never! I should have listened to her-”

“I did tell you so.”

A soft voice speaks up, and the fatigued crew almost believes it to be nothing but a hallucination- till they’re hearing the rustle of coarse bedsheets, and they instantly snap their heads towards the Captain’s bed. 

It was you.

At some point during Geto’s story, you’d managed to seat yourself up on the bed without any of them knowing. Keeping a keen ear on what was being said. Like Geto, you had that same air of faint fatigue about you- but you still held your head high, your poise that of high aristocracy.

Tired, but still as beautiful as ever. And Nanami swears he catches the surgeon’s gaze glimmer ever-so-slightly as they drift over to you.

By the determined glint in your pupils, he guessed you were none other than Geto’s brother’s (former, likely) fiancée.

Itadori jumps away from his seat on the bed with a squawk, blushing to the roots of his rosy hair. With a slightly stifled giggle, you’re patting the mattress beside you and getting him to sit once more. Once that was over, you cross your palms atop one another and introduce yourself.

“Captain Nanami Kento.” Nanami’s respectfully removing the cap of his uniform and bowing, hoping that you didn’t catch the exact shade of rouge that his ears were.

“Dr. Ieri Shoko.”

“Itadori Yuji.”

You’re nodding as they introduce each other, the rest of the crew, one after the other. Before ultimately settling on Geto, “And I know you too well.”

“Too well.” He chuckles.

“You have all heard my acquaintance’s story here.” You do not wait for the next invitation, gesturing at the man that was still sitting upon the couch. The rest of the room leans in with a nod, “So I believe it should only be fair that I share mine, too.”

.

.

.

PART II: Your Story.

You knew that Geto Suguru was trouble - you knew it.

In addition to unapologetically luring you away from your fiancé (his very brother, at that! That most certainly should’ve been enough to tell you all needed to know about the man), he was steeped in work of such nature that it should never even be spoken into existence. Such blasphemous ideologies, you had never heard of in your entire life. 

And you didn’t want to.

At least, that’s what you had assumed. But Geto just had a way about him that was so…irresistable. 

And even these past few weeks where he’d been holed up within his laboratory had a part of you missing him. Not necessarily out of any romantic obligation- though, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him in your bed. But mostly, you simply wanted to know whether he’d finally completed his life-death mission and left the rest of humanity to bear its consequences.

Unholy, unholy consequences.

“Oh, Suguru…” Your voice comes out breathless, murky in the stagnated air of the dungeon. It had been weeks since either Geto nor Kenjaku had responded to a letter from you, and without further ado - what next was there to do but barge into the very laboratory?

It wasn’t a difficult task you had to admit. The massive mill had been deemed empty after a few of your knocks went unanswered, and the door was unlocked - what have you told Geto about prioritizing his safety!

Nonetheless, it had worked in your favor this time. And while your fiancé had gone in search of his brother, you’d wandered throughout the entire barren, dilapidated mansion until you’d heard a few rustles from…the floor below the ground.

The dungeons.

Wondering that perhaps something unseemly had happened to one of the residents here, you’d quickly made your way down. And the sight that met you—oh, it had your vision blurring with- tears? You weren’t quite sure what was even real by this point.

It was a massive underground cavern, tiled clinically with white stone on every wall. Great pillars. Glistening streams of water. It wafted out slightly damp particles into the air, and made your breath take formulation in front of you. Tall concave arches curved their backs like portals into other worlds, and beyond the largest one- you could see a figure.

So pale that it almost melded into the walls it was chained to, almost wanted to.

But nothing could hinder the sight of the long-limbed, otherwordly…human before you. Less than human, more than not. He had the brightest blue eyes. Pale hair. Wearing nothing but a robe- more like a blanket, around his lower half. Stepping closer, you could see scar-like stitches around most of his joints: his neck, his legs, the most prominent one in the middle of his toned torso. You bring your hand up to your mouth and whisper, “Oh, Suguru, what have you done?”

The figure stirs at your voice, and stands.

“I…” You don’t know what to say, instinctually taking a step back behind a pillar as he stands to his full, towering height. Nearly eight feet tall, perhaps more. The strands of his ivory hair brushed the very ceiling, and you had to crane your head up to take a look at his handsome face.

The way he moves- jerky, to try and crane his head to see you. As if eager.

You notice that he couldn’t move much with the multiple chains around his wrists, and so you step into the light. Breathing out, “H-Hello.”

And then he smiles.

The most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen.

As you get closer, he silently cocks his head to look down at you.

“Hello.” You say, with more conviction this time. You’re raising your head up fully into the white overhead light, looking right into those beautiful blue eyes—and you think you hear him take in a slight hitched breath. You introduce yourself. “Have you been here long?”

As expected, he doesn’t answer once more. Simply blinking down dreamily at you, slow and steady like he was memorizing your face.

And yet you continue anyways- “It must be cold in here- here.” You’re shrugging off your coat immediately, and though it might be quite small for the giant, you stand on your tip-toes to help him wrap it over his naked shoulders. “I’m sorry, it’s not much- oh.” Mouth slightly dropping as he cups his hand over yours, just as you were straightening out the fabric over his pale skin. You feel the coldness of his body and gasp.

His large body somewhat startles at the noise, and you’re immediately feeling empathetic.

“Oh! Oh, I do apologize for scaring you.” In a slightly more hushed tone, you’re smiling up at him - hoping that perhaps it would disarm him, make him take a step closer. “That was not very lady-like of me, was it? Do forgive me.”

And you didn’t quite give a damn about customs, if you do say so yourself. But before this man you’re placing your hands upon either side of your skirt and curtseying- distinctly sure that you were making a fool of yourself before—

Rattle—!

You’re whipping your head up to realize that this giant was mimicking you - with his head bowed, and his lithe hands pinching the air of an invisible skirt.

You can’t help but giggle, and that draws a soft grunt from the creation, as if imitating that, too. 

Or at least wishing to. 

After a few seconds of drinking him in, you notice that he was looking rather intently at your hands. The very same part of you that he’d touched earlier.

His touch had been gentle, parched. 

And in almost slow-motion, you’re tugging off the silken gloves that encased your hands. The expensive fabric was  stuck to your fingertips like a second skin, and the giant’s eyes widen as if he was looking at you peeling a layer of your own. Reaching your exposed palm out—he grips your hand in his cold, cold ones and drags you closer.

He exhales as he brings it up to his face, as he feels you- as he presses your fingertips to his mouth and kisses. The man (or perhaps something else entirely?) lets out a soft chuckle as he feels you.

“Mm-” He grunts out, pressing a tender kiss on your hand before letting it free. Those overlarge palms of his move onto your other, and you’re almost about to repeat the movements of removing your glove on that one - before he tugs on the material at your ring finger. Pinching it delicately between his own digits, and tugging it down off.

Undressing you.

He grunts once more, “Mngh-” Something indiscernible, but to him it makes perfect sense.

In motions that feel like eons, he guides your hands - as light as feathers - to place them upon his own chest. Where you could feel a beating heart.

Ba-dump—!

Ba-dump—!

Ba-dump—!

Racing. 

Heaving chest. Bleeding stitches.

And you didn’t realize until then that you’d been shaking.

Eyes widened, you whisper. “Who hurt you?”

A few minutes later and you were barging into Geto Suguru’s decadent bedroom, where you found him deep in conversation with his brother - something or the other about the Royal Medical Society, not that you could give a damn right about now.

“The man!” You’re calling out, uncaring whether you interrupt. You feel so faint that you have to lean against the doorway to fully speak, “The man-”

Geto’s mouth parts, “You saw him…”

And that’s what keeps you walking forwards, until you’re almost nose-to-nose with Geto- and his brother is the one that has to tug you back by your elbows. “The man- is he patient? A victim?” Tone reaching something shrill that neither man has ever heard from you before, “His wounds- you wounded him like that-”

“No, no, no—” Geto’s clapping both hands on your shoulders and attempting to get you to look at him straight. But you almost couldn’t - his amethyst eyes weren’t how you remembered them, and his hair was askew. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have almost said that he looked crazed- “It was the world that hurt him, my dear, not I- I—” Pointing at himself now, “-merely gave him life.”

As you take a few steps backwards in shock, he’s looking at you fully.

“I gave him life.”

Later, Geto gave you a showcase of the ‘creature’ as he’d called it. He’d explained to you his rapid healing, the immense strength that seemed to have been an aftereffect of the storm. And when you’d pointedly asked him why he was chained was here-

“It doesn’t know any better-” Geto had off-handedly replied.

“But, Suguru…” You bore no mind to the hardening expression on his face, crouching down to clasp the giant’s hand. Your heart flutters as he presses your silken gloves back into your hands from where he’d removed them earlier. Caressing you, “-you know better.”

“Suguru, is he intelligent?” His brother asks, warily watching the interaction between you and…this beast. His brother had mentioned it had the mind of a twenty-eight-year-old, so did that mean he could also feel…

To which the surgeon doesn’t reply.

“Suguru, is he intelligent?”

That very night, you snuck out to meet him.

You found the giant glumly hunched over the streams that ran through the dungeon, his long fingers toying with the crisp autumn leaves that had fluttered from the surface above. You watch as he plucks them delicately by the step, chains rattling as he kisses them down onto the water below. Like a little boat that tips and rows right up to you.

He’d flinched as he saw you, you remember now.

Before you’d cast him a gentle smile, and the creation had nervously returned it.

Once you got closer, he’d reached his hand up to - trembling. Shaking at the very thought of human contact, and yet, he’d handed you—

“A leaf?” You’re breathing out in excitement,  and the man looks down when you take it. “For me?”

He’d grunted in affirmation.

“Thank you.”

After a few seconds of admiring the leaf by your lantern, you’d taken it up and pressed it to your lips. Humming ever-so-slightly.

“And what can I give back to you, hm?” You’d wondered out loud, “Oh! I know—”

That night, you’d introduced yourself.

Ultimately, Geto’s brother had decided to stay and monitor the situation - and with it, you did, too. Not quite to ‘monitor the situation’ as he had put it, but rather to keep an eye on…him. 

You didn’t know when ‘him’ had turned from Geto to the monster within Geto’s basement. 

And yet, here you were.

It was you who visited the creation every night, sneaking out when all the lanterns had been dimmed and sleep had befallen the mansion as your only cover. You’d grip a torch of your own in one hand, and in the other would be a cup of ointment. 

“Why hello—” You’d croon out, as soon as you caught sight of his hunched figure on the ground. Still chained - you were working on finding the key to it one of these days. And if worse comes to worse, you’d gnaw through those damned shackles if you had to.

You were on the verge to-

“And how have you been today?” You’d beam up at the pale figure, and he’d beam right back - all thirty-two pearly white teeth on full display. With your hands gentle on his limbs, you’re soothing your fingers underneath the unyielding gaps in the circular restraints around his wrist. Dabbing a bit of ointment on so that it would get all the purpleish skin, “Oh, that awful awful man!”

“Awful-” He’d nod, voice scratchy as it pronounced this new word. “Awful awful.”

It would make you chuckle, “And I’m just as awful, aren’t I? Only teaching you awful words?”

The creation’s eyebrows were pale, but you could still make out the way they knit together underneath the medical light. Fervently shaking his head from side to side, “Awful-” He shakes his head even harder, “Awful- not.”

“You say that I’m not awful, hm?” You bring a hand up to your mouth and titter, “Oh my, you’re quite the flatterer, aren’t you?”

And you’re not quite sure whether the giant understood what exactly that word meant, but he blushes all the way down the back of his neck like he does. Such a pretty pink. Rose pink.

Seeing it, you raise an amused brow. “Oh? Quite shy for a flatterer, hm?” Without thinking much of it - and oh, you really should think more when it comes to him - you reach out and glide the softness of your fingertips down his smooth neck. “No, it’s more like you’re just…sweet?”

With a shiver, he’s leaning up to your touch. “Sweet- sweet. My love- sweet.”

And there was that.

You’re not quite sure where he’d learned that particular pet name - my love - or whether it was a creation of his own beautiful mind. But he’d started to refer to you by it a few days ago, and had preferred it to your name ever since.

You’re reaching your hand back- only for him to clasp your fingers once more with his. Only to put them on his body once more.

With a kindly smile, you repeat your name.

“My love.” His gruff voice answers.

And you repeat it.

“My love.”

And you repeat it.

“My love.”

With such a fond sigh, you try to take a different route. “Geto Suguru.”

“Awful, awful man.”

“Hah! Well, at least you have the merit to get that one correct, hm?” You’re humming at him, and removing your hands from his neck to play with his massive fingers instead. The both of you were sitting facing each other, upon the cold marble ledge that Geto had intended to serve as his creation’s bed, you suppose. A sudden idea pops into your mind, “And what about your name?”

He cocks his head, “My love?”

“That’s my name, isn’t it?” You shake your head, tracing out the letters of both your actual name and his lil’ nickname on the surface of his palm. Once you’re done, you close his palm. “What about your name?”

“My…” He starts, and something seems to strangle at the back of his throat. It must be difficult, you guess, to speak out of a voicebox that was not your own. “Sa—weet.”

“Sweet?” You ask.

The giant lightly grunts, “Sa…sweet- Sat—weet.” He shakes his head, and you could practically feel the frustration that radiated off of him. 

“Hey hey—” You thumb down his palm once more, and he’s looking up at you with such depth. Such raw emotion in those summer-blue eyes; still unprotected from the roughness of a world that has been nothing but cruel to him. Cooing, “It’s alright—you can take your time.”

“Sa-weet.” He’s croaking out once more, one hand coming up to his throat- and the other hand pressing into your open palm. He draws out the letters that he was aiming to speak into existence. “Sa…to—ru.”

Your eyes widen in shock at his decision, and he looks at you intently.

“Sa—to—ru.” Patterning out two more syllables, “Go—jo.”

“Gojo Satoru?” You ask the man who has picked his own name.

“Gojo Satoru.” He repeats, still slightly rough around the edges. And the giant- Gojo, breaks out into a smile that feels like sunlight against your skin. And his hand- it ends up cupping your cheek, he presses his cold forehead to yours. Breathing you in. “Gojo Satoru, my love.”

You swear you’ve never felt your heart race faster.

After that particular night, you’d taken it upon yourself to teach Gojo as much of the language as you could. 

Night after night, you lugged down - not just ointment and your lamp now - books as well. If there was one blessing in this entire laboratory, then it was the fact that its libraries were generous with their bounty for you to raid. And for Gojo, as well.

Gojo—you supposed there were two blessings in this laboratory, after all.

It was tragedy after romance novel after historical novel that the two of you swept through.

You’d read in your lilting voice, and Gojo would listen - sometimes with his eyes peacefully shut, and his breath evening out so that you weren’t sure whether he was asleep or not. And whenever you stopped to check- he never was. 

He’d peer at you with wide blue eyes and query, “My love?” And that was all it took to get you reading again, no matter how scratchy your voicebox felt. 

You’d found that Gojo was partial to romance novels the most (yes, even the somewhat…steamier ones), and he vengefully loved a good tragedy, too (though you’d have to let him hold you afterwards, face pushed into the crook of your neck, and his large tears wetting your thin night gown). “You would never-” He’d gasp out through powerful sobs, always feeling pain so deep. “You will always stay by my side, my love?”

“Always.”

He’d lace his dominant hand with yours, “Always- always.” Pressing his forehead to yours once more, lips mere centimeters away. You could taste his icy breath, “I belong with you.”

Times like this you almost remembered why Geto kept calling Gojo ‘The Strongest’, because even his slightest hold would be enough to make your joints pop!

But then his teary eyes would take in the split-second wince on your face, and he’d immediately be loosening his grip once more.

He was never just The Strongest to you.

He picked up on language quickly, given that he had the mind of a twenty-eight-year-old. It was as if he’d just been borne into existence as such, merely manifested. 

A man in every way except how his creator treated him.

You admit that you didn’t get much sleep during those golden weeks- hell, your fiancé had started questioning whether you were ill after overseeing your bouts of sleepiness during the morning. And you had an inkling that Geto had already guessed, by the way that he’d been staring at you from afar…but he hadn’t caused trouble for you.

Just yet.

You remember that night as if it was just yesterday - it was your last night with Gojo Satoru, of course.

You’d spent particularly long in the dungeon with him that night, even after reading your book you’d stayed behind to simply converse with the gentle giant, all the while tugging and fidgeting with his shackles in an attempt to somehow break them free.

Break him free.

“My love?” Gojo’s asking in his husky voice, ragged. He peers down through his long lashes at what exactly you were doing with his hands - and he lets you do whatever you want. It was you, you could do anything to him. Anything.

You’re looking up at his coos, “Oh- my apologies, Gojo-”

“Satoru.”

“Satoru.” You manage a smile at his tenacity, “Was I hurting you?”

“No.” 

“And you’re not lying.”

“No.”

“And you would tell me if I was the one hurting you?”

“…No.”

He grins at your exasperation - it’s true, the way you rolled your eyes with a groan was highly unlady-like, but you didn’t quite care when you were with him. When you were with him, you didn’t quite care about anything else, to be honest. “Oh, Satoru—” You’re cupping his gorgeous face, finally letting go of those restraints that bothered you so much. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Mn.” He grunts, leaning his head in real close so that he could sniff at the flowery scent of your hair. “My love—” Hushly whispering out, “My love, my love, my love.”

“Satoru.” You’re breathing out, equally as quiet.

And then he’s tugging on his restraints, letting some of the screws fall off - easily, considering your tampering all these past few weeks - only to loop his strong arms as much as he could around you. You’re being pulled to his firm chest, feeling each rippling muscle through your thin nightgown. “My love—my love.” It’s like gospel to him.

Your mouth parts ever-so-slightly, something heating up within you. And looking deep into his dilated eyes, you attempt to say something. “Satoru, I…”

He presses his lips to yours in an instant.

In that gaze of his, you saw a need that matched yours.

In that distance of his, you heard the tearing of restraints.

.

.

.

“O-oh—” You’re cupping a hand over your gaping mouth, voice heightening the very second that Gojo’s able to get his ravenous hands on you.

The very second that he’s shoving your nightgown further up your body, bearing your body exposed.

For him…he’s running his jittering palms down both of your breasts. For him for—where your stomach was, down both sides of your hips. For him for him for him. Down to your legs where he’d missed a key part of you.

But before you can huff out in need, Gojo’s scooping you up in his arms and gently splaying you out on his marble bed. The surface is quite frigid against your back, and it makes you inadvertently smear your legs all open. 

Oh-so-lecherously open.

All Gojo needs it so take a mere whiff before he’s salivating down his chin at the smell of your sweet, sweet pussy. You’re watching him wipe away the burnished lacquer of spittle with the back of his hand-

“I never…” He’s gasping out, each word guttural and chopped as if being wrenched from the very back of his throat. Gojo hoists himself onto the bed, and towers above you casually. “In all my time here, I’ve yet to feel real h-hunger, my love.”

You supposed that was because of his superhuman body, and you’re wondering why he’s telling you this right now. “I’m…glad, Satoru. Would you like me to perhaps bring you something different next ti-”

“But now, I’ve never felt more starved in my life.”

Oh—

And before you know it, he’s moving. He’s moving his head down until it was nothing but a blur of white and pure carnal need. 

Darting straight towards the target of your pretty pussy-

You were just drippin’ wet by this point, and Gojo doesn’t even warn you before he’s surging his nose deep between your pussy and aiming to lick away every single sopping ounce. 

“O-oh—fuck!” You’re squealing out, the moment you feel his wet tastebuds sizzle against your core. Gojo was just swiping the pinkish tip of his crown between your pussylips and lavishing it all over in precisely the way he’d eat his favorite dessert. His favorite strawberry. His favorite cream pie. “I s-swear I got you enough of those sweets you love tonight-”

“But not this one.”

And you don’t know exactly what parts Geto had fitted onto his body- but Gojo’s savoring tongue just felt so looooong. Famished. Ramming it into every tiny nook n’ cranny of your outer pussy, forcing his face even deeper between your pretty legs. “Oh, I’ve yet to taste something so sweet.”

Those wads of your slick clung onto the lower half of Gojo’s handsome face, making it look as though he’d just dunked his head into a pool. And the more you’re attempting to push away his sweaty bangs and take a good look at him, the further he’s rovering. “Fuh-fuck, Satoru- oh my god, Satoru, slow down.” You’re panting, “You need to breathe-”

“Is it entirely necessary?”

And yet, it still wasn’t enough for him.

You don’t even know how but he was so dexterous opening you up.

Swirlin’ aside your puffy folds so that he could get to your hole - start filling up your hole.

Pushing and pushing and pushing—

Gojo huffs through his nostrils - right up against your swollen clit - when your snug channel naturally resists the intrusion. He couldn’t fit in more than an inch of his prolonged tongue, and the challenge makes him furrow his snowy brows. “Why isn’t it…” Almost muttering to himself, before he’s spitting a slick wad of saliva straight down onto your core. Splat! “Is this it—? Will this work-”

And then with both knobbly edges of his thumbs pryin’ aside your pussylips, he’s attempting to shovel even more of his tongue inside. “Oh heavens- Satoru, what did I tell you about breathing-”

“But s’just not fitting, my love.” Ah- at this point, his words were just slurred. And you swear his kiss-bitten lip pops out in what looked like a pout. “I don’t care if I don’t breathe if it just- hah, doesn’t go in-”

As if to prove his point, Gojo’s staring straight into your dazed eyes whilst he fucks your pussy with his tongue. Sharp jawline hanging wide open, slithering the pinkish edge of his tongue ‘round and ‘rooooound your hole a few times.

Before he hiccups, “S-see?” Just so sloppily, the giant is attempting to flop his thick muscle inside your leaky entrance. “S’not going in s’not going in- and fuck! how badly I want it to go in…”

“Oh, fuck…” You breathe, “I really am a bad influence- now I have you cussing from that pretty mouth.”

He was also whining into your cunt from that pretty mouth, begging you to take him more seriously. With both of his overlarge palms flattened on your thighs, Gojo’s just slightly slipping on the sheen of slick plastered to your skin as he spreads you all the more open for him. Like a feast-

“Well, if you really want to- hngh!” Just as you begin to speak, he’s funneling his tongue an inch or two deeper. The most sleazy expression upon Gojo’s face as his wet muscle reels back- only to do it all over again. “How cheeky, Satoru- if you really want to fit it a-all in, then you have to stretch me, y’know?”

“Streeetch?” Gojo blubbers out between your pussylips, his maw practically glued to your core by now. It was just too cute the way you’d splash all over him whenever he sent those vibrations right up your cunt, and he looked down at your entrance in interest. “So like- thiiiiiiis?”

“Oh fuuuuuck—” With your voice crackling as you keen, you’re immediately letting your body arch into the most perfect curvature.

Because Gojo Satoru had his rough index and thumb pinched over your puffy clit and drag-drag-draaaaagging that nub. Zaps of pleasure make you see white as he rolls it between both digits, “Like this, my love?” Gojo’s whispering, “Or—more-”

“Yes- no- yes.” By now, you can’t do anything but buck- oh, how did it get to this? He’s been the one that was easily pussydrunk with only a few laps, but now you were the one reaping its consequences.

Purely speechless on the way he was teasin’ your pretty clit, you’re reaching your dominant hand down and gripping onto Gojo’s white locks. Roughly - but if the way he purely moaned when he felt the sensation was anything to go by, then he loved it. “Yes, like that- ngh. But that’s not exactly what I meant, Satoru.”

“What did you mean then, my love?” He’s asking, eagerly.

And a faint satisfaction washes over you at the fact that you’re going to be the one to teach Gojo Satoru how to play with your pussy.

You flutter your lashes down at him, “First lesson is- you have to get me wet enough.” Not that he quite needed that lesson, for you were wet enough that your sap was oozing out of you and sticking onto his face in oodles by now.

But it just feels so good having him purse his rosy lips and splattering a straight ribbon down onto your cunt, smearing it with none other than his lips. “And then?”

“S-second lesson-” Shivering, you’re tugging his face closer - and The Strongest lets you. “Take it sloooow and easy with that tongue, Satoru. Just like- mmm, fuck!” But just a singular lap at your treacly pussy, and Gojo was all but plastered to it.

Lavishing your front with licks. Swiping and snapping his tongue allllll over every crevice.

He was letting his tastebuds enter wherever you’d let him, blue peripherals rolling right to the back of his skull at the candied taste that was filling his throat. And Gojo has the audacity to fight against it and whine when you’re briefly attempting to tug him off, “Just one more-” He pants out, with a wettened plop! when he attaches his maw to your cunt once more. “One more lick-” And once more. “Just one more taste-” And once more. “One more sweet kiss-”

And once more.

Eventually you can’t do anything but throw your head back and shrill—“Not adequately following the lessons will result in- in barring you from my pussy-”

And then he’s removing himself with a gasp! “No- no no no no-” Grabbing onto either side of your waist - and you’re unsure whether that’s to keep himself at bay, or to keep you from running away. “Please don’t- I beg of you, please don’t. I need this pretty pussy, my love…”

“Then you’ll listen, hm?” You ask, to which the powerful being doggedly nods. “Alright then, commencing- he second lesson is to take it slow with your tongue. Just stretch out my entrance—oh.”

And this time his tastebuds were sizzling against yours in slow, sensual motions. In circles and cute hearts- you swear your pupils were dazedly following along with the movements within the whites of your eyes. 

“Like- like this, my love?” He eagerly pants out, scorching breath hitting you from all angles. Luxuriously salivating into every tiny crevice within your channel- not just impatiently trying to fit in. Slick and satisfying with his plump tip squeezin’ inside. “Is this, mmmm, adequate enough for you?”

“Yes- yes yes yes.” You’re moaning with your head thrown back, “And now ngh, if you could just put your fingers on my clit now…”

“Is that a lesson?” Genuinely asking - he’s raising a pale brow, wafting his hand closer and closer to where you wanted him the most. Genuinely letting his mouth water at the notion - “Oh, please let that be a lesson- please. I love this cute lil’ clit.”

You’re nodding your head along with just as much desperation, “Yes- fuck yes, it’s a lesson.”

And the words have barely even left your mouth, you’ve barely even thought to close your gaping mouth - before Gojo’s cupping your cunt with highly-trained reflexes and teasin’ your clit. His lengthy fingers roll over that knobbly nub, in circular motions that make you buck atop him-

“Oh- oh look—” He’s marveling out at something, awe-struck. It takes you every shred of will in your body to actually tilt your head downwards and see what he was talking about. And Gojo? Gojo was just fixated on the sultry way that his tongue was shovelling even deeper between your pussylips, the friction letting his tastebuds massage your velvety walls. “Look it actually works- ngh, your lessons are benefiting me- ngh, quite greatly, my love.”

“Happy to help…” Blearily, you’re rutting your hips up in a sloppy staccato to chase that white-hot pleasure thrumming in your veins.

Something that Gojo happily welcomes, if the way he was roverin’ his sweaty head even closer told you anything. “And then?” He pants out, his nose rubbin’ all over the leaky slit of your cunt. “And then what- what next, my love, what next? Anything to do with this sweet pussy drives me wild.”

You take one look into his darkened eyes - blue irises damn near black by now - and shiver. “And lesson number…”

“Four.”

“Four is that you can t-try to use your fingers to help fit inside.” One more look- though, this time it’s at Gojo’s incredibly-sized fingertips. Far larger than any other human man, and the way they just curved dexterously inwards made you want to gulp. “Slowly, however.”

He purrs, “Slowly it is, my love.”

And you might have made Gojo Satoru agree to slowly—but you didn’t speak a word of him being nice, did you?

Within mere sultry seconds, he has the tip of his middle hooked ‘round the rim of your entrance. Using slight strength, Gojo’s stretching you wiiiide open- “Oh.” Gasping straight into the quivering orifice of your hole. “Oh, my love, you’re right.”

He’s then jutting his pointed chin straight between your puffy pussylips, letting his long tongue splosh! inside. “You’re right- it really does go even deeper. Oh, I wonder what it should be like if I put two fingers in-”

“T-two of your fingers?” You’re snapping your head up to gawp.

“Oh, but don’t worry.” Gojo shoots you a dazzling smile - literally, he was drenched in so many candied layers of your slick. Intently, “I’ll be reeeeeal slow.”

“O-oh, fuck.”

He’s swabbin’ away two of his doughy fingertips- right along with his tongue now. Again. And again. And again and again. Pressing into every speck and spot inside of you, Gojo’s digits manage to scissor your channel wide open, whilst the texture of his tastebuds were creating a feral sort of texture that drove you wild.

Spittle dangles down the side of your maw, “Oh- oh my god.” Babbling away almost nonsensically, just the most sinful noises leave you any time that Gojo was thrusting his thick digits in and out. In and out. In and out. “Oh heavens, I’ve never felt something so gooood, Toru.”

“Mmm, and that sounds good.” The tips of his ears blush a cute crimson shyly at the nickname - all the while he had his face nose-deep into your cunt and lapping you like a madman.

Sticking his fat tongue in every time he fingered open your cunt, hooking his muscle up to your gooey roof. Shoving. Shoving. So hard that glittery speckles of your slick escape and strike the tops of his cheekbones. And he just couldn’t get enough- with a growl he’s dragging you back mercilessly in for even more.

Adding in a third finger—

“Sh-shiiiit, Satoru-” You’re all but bawling, “I don’t think m’gonna last too long-”

“And the fifth lesson?” He’s hissing out in response, just as urgent as you. With his honed senses, he could practically smell the pure carnal need in your pheromones, “What should be the fifth lesson, my love? Please, I must hear it with my own two ears- I must-”

“The f-fifth lesson…” Head dizzy. Pupils whirling. “The fifth lesson s’to make me cum, Satoru.”

And he doesn’t think he’s heard sweeter words.

With a particularly haaaaard push of his fingers, all the way down to his bases, Gojo’s sticking his rounded fingertips straight against your throbbing g-spot. Where you’d been waiting for him for so long. Where he barely even has to graze that awaiting spot before you’re bursting into your sudden high.

“C-cumming—” Your shrill voice echoes out in the dungeon - not that you cared at this point. And your body unlatches from the now-warm bed to riiiide all of Gojo’s pretty face through your high, “M’cumming m’cumming m’cumming, Toru.”

“And s’all because of me-”

Proudly, Gojo’s letting himself be used to cover your sweet, sweet sensations of bliss. Any time he could feel your geysering orifice clench ‘round him- he’s only thrusting his fingers in harder.

Only licking over your bundle of nerves even more.

Slurp-slurp-slurp—you’re barely even midway through your wave of euphoria before Gojo finds himself already finished licking up your beaded ounces of slick. And without a second thought, he’s shoving himself back in between your legs with his tongue mazin’ inside. “Should be able to fit myself in- hah- now, huh?” He murmurs to himself, through just the slightest muffled gaps between his maw and his cunt. “Go inside- go inside go inside go inside-”

You’re strangling out a squeal as he ends up bottoming out his lengthy tongue, “So much of you…ngh, Toru, you fill me up like nothing else-” Thrust after thrust after thrust.

“And it’s the only thing I want to do.” Hammering away where you were the most sensitive. “To bring your pretty pussy so much loving.”

Before Gojo finds himself stuffing your cunt to the brim with his fingers and his tongue- and you’re barely through with your first high before already bursting into your second.

This one was unexpected, and it explodes through your body from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. Your entire body heating up about several more degrees, just like putty ‘round his constantly hitting digits - with such precision whenever he’s striking your g-spot.

It passes through in synchronization with your initial orgasm, a brief flash behind your eyelids- before it’s petering out to nothing but a few overstimulated zings!

“P-please-” You sob out, clawing at his perspired scalp. “I don’t think I can cum again, Satoru- fuck, I don’t possess the stamina for that-”

“You do not?” Genuinely in disbelief.

“You’re just much more- ngh, enduring than me.” Blurting out, and it takes you both of your hands to even nudge Gojo away from where he was wetting your orifice with his tongue. All over again, as though he was still set on the idea of tugging out a third orgasm from you. “But if we do it now, then I’ll let you put something else in my-”

He unglues from your pussy with a loud, lecherous mwah!

“As you wish, my love.”

Oh—and then you’re being manhandled. You thought that Gojo Satoru was being feral with you before?

Not at all, you’re actually realizing that he’d been going easy on you. He’d been holding himself back. So fast that you barely even register what’s happening, Gojo’s rip-rip-riiiiipping your poor nightgown straight down the middle, throwing it somewhere behind him.

Raising himself up on his haunches. And then a hand falls to the robe around his pelvis-

“Oh my…” You’re squeaking out in surprise, eyes widening as the white fabric unravels for Gojo to reveal himself completely. Even when he had that on, you’d assumed that he was quite…sizeable - it was only pertinent, after all, the rest of him was quite exceptional in size as well - height, weight, power. 

But this?

This just made your jaw drop, and your mind immediately goes to curse at the man that had created him. Eyes greedily following the stitches that held together his muscular torso and v-line, you can’t help but let them dip lower…and lower…and lower.

The prominent stitches between his lower and upper halves.

Those ladder-like abs that decorated his core.

The trail of his white happy trail.

The base where they ended in a thick cock.

Long.

With a handful of veins starting out from his pelvis, and snaking all the way down his nine - perhaps even ten - inches. They loop all over his shaft, so hard that you could visibly count every throb. As if all the blood had left his man-made body and ended up in his cock.

Ended up in his blushin’ red tip that glazed with a fresh lacquer of precum. Twitching at the intensity of your stare-

“I-is something the matter, my love?” Gojo interrupts your ogling, “Is something not to your liking- oh, is it because eating you out made me cum just a lil’ bit?”

Your mouth opens, but you don’t know what to say.

And Gojo’s swipin’ his thumb down his mushroomy tip, smearing away a few remnant beads of white. “Because I apologize that I’m so weak for-”

“No!” You’re interrupting his apology instantly - he had absolutely nothing to apologize for. In fact…you rather found it pleasurable that making out with your pussy made him cream right in his pants. Clearing your throat, “No- you don’t have to apologize for anything, Satoru. It’s just…”

“Yes?”

“You’re so big.”

“Oh.” He looks down at himself as if he never realized- and when he looks up, you’re jolted to your very core to realize that Gojo Satoru was smiling. “As long as we have the five rules, right?”

“R-right- oh.”

The confirmation is barely letting off from your lips before Gojo’s hulking figure grabs at your squirmy body and slap-slap-slaps! his creamy tip between your folds. Just nudgin’ away the curvature of his tip between them, he gets a taste of your heated cunt and all but breaks.

Shivers. Shatters.

He unfastens his mouth as if he was about to say something- before immediately gnawing down on his lower lip and rutting. Like an animal.

Like he was in fucking heat—Gojo’s attempting to swirl his strawberry divot inside. “Oh—oh…” He grunts out something primal from the back of his throat, every slight buck between your legs making Gojo let off a pained noise - he needed to be inside you right now. “Oh- so this is what a pretty pussy feels like. This is what your pretty pussy feels like-”

“Aaaand?” You’re cooing out, wrangling onto his sculptured deltoids. “How does it f-”

“Like heaven.”

He’s managing to bully in a single inch inside your tight cunt- completely forgetting whatever sinful ‘lessons’ you’d just taught him moments prior. Just that pussydrunk. 

And just the first measurement of his swollen, fattened cock inside your pussy - just the first sensation of your walls all wrapped around his cock…

And you think you might just have broken The Strongest.

Because Gojo’s then throwing his head back and cumming- dolloping out a thick layer of his sap deeeep inside where you could feel it move about. His honed tip enters your hole perfectly, layering out his slick.

“C-cum—ngh.” Just the cutest noises leave him, and you swear you’re catching his face stain with a single tear or two just at the sensation of putting it inside. “M’cumming.”

“I- hah- know, Toru.” Fuck…you shouldn’t have said that. Because that only makes his twitchy tip flinch just a bit more inside your walls before beading out his hot pearly cum, the slickness of it already overspilling from your entrance.

That cascade of liquid echoes out just the slightest sultry noise - the slightest.

And yet Gojo’s snapping a single look down your glistening cunt and giggling—“S-so that’s what it is.” He’s rasping out- goosebumps skitter all across your body as you register the way his tone sounded…octaves higher. Sounded as if he was almost crazed. 

Without any warning, he’s then lightly easing his shivering hips back and shoving- “So tha’s what it is. So tha’s what it is. Why h-has it never occurred to me prior?” Fucking his gooey wads back in. You weren’t sure whether he was talking to you or himself, before he’s plunging out a few more vulgar strikes with just his dribblin’ rose-colored tip. “That’s what it is, my love.”

“What is- hngh, what-” That final sentence of his was punctuated by the sloppiest stripes of pre, taken inside your channel with slurping noises.

He’s boring straight into your eyes with his dilated pupils. Almost glowing. Almost animalistic. Before you’re able to repeat your question once more- Gojo’s clogging up your throat with his hammerin’ away. Nothing more than three inches inside of you (for now) and still rendering you stupid. “It’s that… One of his hands claws down your front, feeling for himself as he sinks in. “I don’t know if I believe in any h-higher power, but if I did—then it’d be you, my love.”

“Oh my- fuck!” Both that hand on your stomach and his free one then grope onto your hips and slam you down to meet his greedy hips.

“It would be you-” He’s panting out, his own personal chant. Through half-lidded eyes, Gojo watches the way his thickened cock slips n’ slides into your tight orifice. Cum and slick pouring out like madness, “It would be this pretty pussy- oh, the way she’s taking me- I could worship your cunt every single day of my life and die with no regrets.”

Panting out, “D-don’t say that-”

You could feel him enveloping every single hidden sweet spot inside of your walls, Gojo didn’t even have to try to get his flared ridge to open you up juuust right. “I will.” He seethes, something absolutely ruined in his tone- you might just be right in thinking that you’ve broken him. “I will- unless you command it, my goddess.”

“O-oh my—fuck.” With your back arching into Gojo’s sculpted front - all toned abs and rippling obliques - you felt as though you were at his complete mercy. “Do you- do you even remember the lessons, Satoru-”

“Of course, I remember the lessons.”

His tone was one that was offended you should even ask.

And with his nose crinkled handsomely in slight concentration, Gojo’s then rattling off those very lessons - while doing his very best to disregard them. “First- hah, first lesson is to get your pussy wet enough.”

“And?” You’re raising a brow, just to see what he would do.

“And…” Gojo lays his eyes down on the vision of your glistening cunt and almost snickers - you were just so aroused that your pussylips were shimmering with your sweet, sweet sap. He then proceeds to crane his neck down and still spit a great glob of saliva down onto your cunt. “-completed.”

“Oh—” He was checking those lessons off like boxes. You just wondered what would be there for you by the very end.

“Second lesson-” Gojo continues, “-take it sloooooow and easy.”

You nod, “S-slow and easy.”

“Oh, but how m’I expected to when your pussy fuh-feels like ngh- this, my love?” He’s genuinely pondering, with his brows knitted and his tongue darting out in thought. “It just feels so good that- hck! slowing down should be punishable by the law. I would rather be chained and whipped than slow do-”

“Satoru!”

And you can only watch as Gojo’s eyes brighten up, “Oh! I know-”

That’s when he’s easing the sinking of his cock—eeeeeasing, ever-so-slightly. Just for a laaaaanguid stroke, two, three, four-

Before you’re once more being pounded silly by his massive intrusion, “There- there.” Gojo babbles out with a pussydrunken smile, all dopey and blushing. “I took it slow and easy- fuck, it even had me fitting in an inch more, my love, did your pussy notice?”

“Fuck yes, I did.” You’re whining, arching your hips up into his. “And now you’re going- fuck, you’re going so f-fast again-”

“Well, you never proclaimed that I must go slowly the entire time.” Basking in his own personal victory, the loophole he’d discovered, he accelerates his hips even more. The rotund crown of his tip poking into you viciously, “Rather an oversight on your hngh- part, don’t you think, my love?”

“Rather, yes.”

“But it’s alright-” He nuzzles you with his attractive nose, “-I should do well to excel in the third lesson. The ah-”

“F-fingers on my clit.”

But of course, Gojo Satoru didn’t forget. Of course he merely wanted to hear you say it in that pretty, whiny voice of yours whilst you were being fucked by him- “What was that?” Gojo cranes his head down, the tips of his bangs tickling your face. “I’m afraid I cannot hear you clearly over your cunt-”

“Fingers on my, mmm, clit!” You’re yelping out, “I want your fingers on my-”

“Oh, you never need to beg with me, my love.”

Such a tease- when did your sweet Gojo become such a tease? Become so damn mean? Snickering at the look on your face, he reaches down and gently pinches your clit.

Moaning at the lewd way you buck, “Ah- is that not adequate enough? Do you wish for mooooore?”

“Yes, more-” You’re gasping, “More more more more-”

“Oh.” And it makes a part of his over-hard cock jolt right against your walls, burying himself just a few more inches down your walls. “As you wish, my love.”

The flatness of Gojo’s thumb was now glued to your nub, and you’re seeing white at the sheer amount of pressure being put on your lower half. He runs a hand across your drivelling wet cunt, right atop your folds, in-between your slit, snaggin’ apart your cute clit and pressing down-down-down.

“Reminds me of your other lesson.” He coos out, shivering at the lecherous way your expression twists every time his bulbous tip entered you. “Reminds me to- hah, to use my—fingers.”

“Toru, for this I don’t believe you need to—mmmpf, fuck.”

You’re biting back your words- in fact, your words are being fucked right back into you. “The fourth- hah, fourth lesson.” Gojo’s whispering as his thumb darts down in rubbing motions from your clit and to your hole. “The fourth lesson the- ngh, the fourth.” Almost reminding himself, almost holding himself back whenever his fingertip was getting a taste of your sweetened cunt- 

And he’s reeling that hand upwards to lick off the polished wet excess. 

With those tips of his now coated in a gleaming layer of saliva, Gojo manages to curl his thumb inside and pry apart your entrance a lil’ further. Just a lil’ more.

Just enough for him to give you another hard push and finally bottom-out.

His tufts of pearly white curls scritch-scratch against your cunt, and you’re driven absolutely crazy by the carnal feeling of having all of Gojo Satoru deep and throbbing inside of you. He’s managing to fill out every single crevice like never before, a loooooong length that ends with his reddish tip kissin’ at your spongy cervix.

“O-oh my fuck-” Even as you breathe, you can feel him stuffed inside of you. You try to run your palm down your front, and you swear you can almost feel him from the outside.

The giant sploshes out a hefty wad of pre that adds to the mess already leaking out of you - and you might have thought that Gojo would feel awe-struck at the filthy sight below you, you might have thought that Gojo would babble away at it.

But instead he’s just so…quiet.

Gojo Satoru has his head hunched, his ivory bangs covering his eyes, his biceps quivering as if they were on the verge of collapsing—

You take in the sheer amount of his ragged breaths, as if he’d just run across town five hundred times. “Satoru-” You tug on his shoulders- and when that doesn’t rouse him, you’re moving onto shifting apart his bangs to take a good look at his flushed face. “Satoru, are you okay- oh, shit.”

One look into his eyes.

One look into his drunken, predatory eyes-

And that’s all it takes for Gojo Satoru’s entire body to jolt- for Gojo Satoru’s entire body to be electrified as if he’d just been brought to life a thousand times over. Startled into motion. Breaths catching. 

He’s moving mechanically, robotically, to throw both your legs over his broad shoulders and suddenly bend, bend, bend, bend—

“I don’t even know what I’m doing.” He utters out into the saturated air, words nothing but a whisper. Eyes wide. Mouth gaped. A slow dribble of saliva down the side of his mouth gives you the urge to lick it off- but before you can do anything about that temptation, Gojo’s rutting—using that kinetic force to push you even deeper in half. “I don’t even know what I’m doing-”

Till your knees hit your tits, and your chin hits your collarbones.

And you can only cry out as Gojo fucks you at a constant rhythm, feral. “You- you don’t realize that you’ve just folded me into the hck! meanest mating press, Toru?”

“No.”

He’s bullying his hot girth into you- thump-thump-thumping away directly near the back of your womb. And if that wasn’t enough, his split-ended tip found itself grazing your favorite g-spot as well, again. And again. And again and again and again.

“I don’t even know why- ngh.” He’s choking up at the feeling of your walls closing in on him, your sopping pussy holding him completely hostage by this point. One hand of his was rolling his fingers over your clit, and the other glides down your core. “I don’t know why it’s just…”

You’re gulping once his hand comes to a stop right above where his bulbous tip was ending out at your cervix. Thudding away-

“-m’getting this sudden urge to breed you, my love.”

Oh.

And perhaps it was the feeling of his perfectly vein-decorated cock getting to you, perhaps it was the way his probin’ eyes felt almost hypnotic. And yet you can’t help but open your mouth with a whiny- “Yes.” Locking your ankles firmly ‘round his neck, he’s ramming and ramming his hips into yours with a groan. “Breed me then, Satoru. Give me your- hck! child.”

“Oh, my love…” Gojo’s spit-slicked maw drops. “Oh, my heaven- oh, my life—” His forehead plasters against yours, scalding breath fanning your face. “You’d be lucky if I gave you just one.”

“I p-presume I won’t be making it out of this alive-”

Gojo doesn’t confirm nor deny, only drilling into you like such a madman. 

It was in his natural instinct to breed you until his silvery tip felt all red and raw. The only thing he had to do was bottom-out at the spongy layer of your womb to activate that carnal part of him that wanted to see you all round n’ glowing with his child. 

With his strings of precum splashing out at the bottom of your cunt as if a premonition of something much stronger. And Gojo can only plant smack after smack of his rounded, ruby-red tip at the base of your pussy. Those goopy layers suckin’ him in- “Haaaah, m’not even completely certain that it can be done.” He admits, thoroughly pressuring his hips against yours. “And yet- I hope you know that I won’t be letting you go until we make it happen…?”

“Make it happen?” You gulp.

“Mhmmm—I’ll stay here and pound you against this marble as long as I need to. Won’t stop even when your gorgeous shape’s dug into the stone, if by then you’re still not p-pregnant.” Such filthy words, and after each syllable he places a solid sultry flick upon your clit. 

It makes you dribble out your sap like a faucet, “If I can’t sense your pretty cunt taking my seed. If I can feel the space inside of you. If you aren’t all full and choking on my cum-” Free hand coming up to draw a line across your airway, “-right up to here. If you don’t have trouble speaking—then we’re repeating it all over again.”

You shiver at his words, “Oh fuh-fuck, Toru, I don’t think m’gonna last very long.”

“Oh yeah?” He’s tittering, “Tha’s not gonna make me stop, my love- I apologize- it just feels too good. Just gets me too addicted that I—ngh.” His brows furrow, head throwing back- “Don’t even think about trying to get me to pull out before I’ve done all I’ve promised-”

“Sa-toru!” You’re dragging out your words, feeling lightheaded with the constant thumping of pleasure taking over your fuzzy brain.

“Oh but- but don’t think that doesn’t mean m’that gone on this cunt…well, I do confess that I am.” He’s gently tugging on your clit, and breaking out into an accomplished smile. “But worry not, I still r-remember your lessons—”

You’re cracking your eyes open, almost delirious. “You…do?”

“Mhm—” He leans down, and plants a gentle peck on your lips. “Fifth lesson.”

And it’s exactly then that Gojo Satoru fucks you straight into your high- stark against your tizzy pleasure, scorching hot. The electricity of your orgasm rips right through your body, frying your veins with the sheer bliss-

“Fifth lesson, always make you cum.” He’s repeating as if a mantra, and you’re clutching his scarred back for dear life as Gojo’s lengthy shaft digs against your every tiny orifice inside. Somehow, he’s mapped out your g-spot perfectly - swabbin’ that exact spot in the same sloppy tandem as his fingers on your clit. Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump! “Always make you cum- hah, always- always-”

“W-want you to cum, too, Satoru.” You blink up tearily at him, wriggling your hips. You moan at the feeling of his flared ridge stirrin’ your tender insides, “Inside- please?”

He breathes out, “Has…has anyone ever cum in-”

“No.” You’re tugging him into a kiss, and it somehow seems to heat your body up even further. “Just you.”

And it’s all that needs to be said for Gojo to finally finish out.

Pouring out long clingy streaks of his cum, that ivory sap sticks against your walls and sensually slides down to your womb- hot and sticky. Balls clenching. Heavy. So much of it- the sheer volume is a sensation that only adds onto the shakes of your own orgasm. 

Your toes curl, and you swear you could almost taste the sticky sweetness of the puddle he was swirlin’ out at your very base. With all his throbbing inches shoved in tight—and your teeth set on edge after each ba-thump! of hot sap.

He’s riding both yours and his on your pretty lil’ cunt, “Just me-” Parched lips whispering. With brazen eyes, Gojo looks down at your core and pat-pat-pats above where he was spurting out his sap. “Just me, just me- just me—”

As Gojo’s voice breaks out, you’re peering up at him. “Satoru-”

“And is it…” He’s finishing off his train of thought from earlier, still muddled by the feeling of your sopping wet cunt- the crackles of his high. They make every hair on his body stand on end, spine arching into your body. “-is it just me that belongs to you, my love?”

You whine when his slightly-changing position makes his globular tip swab even further inwards to mess up your insides. “Oh, Toru, you don’t belong to me.” You tell him, and the corners of his lips almost downturn in sadness. “You’re mine, if you hah- want to be-”

“I do.” Gojo answers, immediately.“Oh, how I do, my life.”

Beaming.

You just didn’t know that, outside, Geto had been there to hear it all.

.

.

.

In the end, it was only with the promise of bringing him more romance novels, and perhaps a few sweet treats from the kitchen, that you’d managed to detangle yourself from Gojo Satoru’s long limbs. You crept upstairs with the morning light.

Clutching onto the staircase banister with all your might, absolutely ruined.

And you were well and fully intentioned to return with the spoils of your brief respite - to be quite honest with yourself, it ached somewhere deep inside when you weren’t near him. And you’d just been running your mind through a few potential titles that he might like when you heard his voice.

Not Gojo’s, no. 

Geto’s.

“You should not go near it.”

You whirl around to find him standing at the foot of the stairway, hidden in the shadows, so that you had not even noticed him with your mind full of Gojo.

Geto takes a step closer towards you, and you could feel his eyes sweep down the tattered nightgown that you help to your body, to your glistening eyes, your kissed lips. His lip curls in distaste, “You should not go near it.”

“It?” You ask, not masking your dislike.

“It, yes.” He spits, “It is dangerous-”

“He is a human being-”

“He is a monster.” And Geto Suguru has never raised his voice with you - not with you. But he can’t help but let that scratchy pitch out now, getting closer towards you with that utterly manic look in his eyes. “The Strongest- yes. I have not completely failed, but something must have gone wrong somewhere. A suture? A valve? Because he is a monster-”

“You do not know him!” Waving your lantern in his direction, he darts backwards with his eyes narrowed. 

“Good God, my dear…” He starts out, slow. “If I could force myself to believe it, it would be in my inclination to see attraction in you for that thing-”

“And if so, then what?” You’re raising your head high in challenge, meeting his steely gaze dead-on. “Understanding. Pain. Intelligence. In him, I see all of those things-” The flames lick away from him, “-and I am not quite sure I see them in you, anymore.”

Geto turns his head away from you, jaw clenched. “What about what you have denied me?” And you’re not quite sure what he means in that moment, not until he spits out the very two words that haunted you for nights. “Your heart.”

“My heart.” You can’t help but laugh to yourself, fists tightening on your lamp. “Of all human anatomy, that is the organ furthest from your understanding.”

And that is where your conversation had ended.

For the night, that is.

Turning your back to Geto, you’d made your way up that grandiose staircase- towards the library, as you were intended to. You took your time perusing the titles, both in wonderment as to what Gojo might like as a pastime to forget the conversation with Geto before you met your lover. And by the time that you’d picked up a tattered old copy of Beauty and the Beast…the tower was on fire.

What happened next you remember in snapshots and screams.

Running into Geto and your fiancé in the corridor, being bodily dragged out of the burning mansion by them both, fighting your way in an attempt to get into the dungeons- and yet, you were no match for both.

You’d flung and clawed at them both.

And yet…they still let the dungeons burn.

You knew that Geto had something to do with the fire, he seemed none too miserable about losing his greatest creation. None too sorry about hearing it scream—your name, from the depths of his wounded chest, it echoed above the flames,

That, however—that made you run to the house despite the flames- it’s only with your fiancé’s help that you narrowly missed a plume of flame and heat that had been headed straight at you. And when you opened your eyes, stuck together with tears, you’d found…

Geto attempting to go inside, as well.

Frantic. 

Fervent.

Flapping his coat and attempting to wade through, a single tear racing down his cheek.

What has he done?

“It’s too late now, Suguru.” You’re throwing off the other man’s arms, your cries aimed at Geto who looked on hopelessly at the maze of fire that he simply could not penetrate. “It’s too late now!”

Inevitably, you’d broken off your engagement and wished to flee the country, perhaps flee your life entirely - only, you didn’t realize that a certain scientist had much the same idea. Geto had joined you on an expedition to the North Pole a few months later, one that you’d signed up for in the hopes that the cold would perhaps numb your mind.

But when your Navy Vessel had been attacked by a hooded, inhuman figure- it was the two of you that had been left out for dead, the harbingers of such disaster. And you could only realize that Gojo was far far from numb in your mind. He was closing in on it. Just as he was closing in on you.

He was alive.

He was alive.

And you won’t let Geto prevent you from seeing him now.

.

.

.

“So that is why the mons…Gojo calls for ‘her’.” Nanami breathes into the ringing silence after your side of the story. He looks over at Geto, who hangs his head low, and then straight into your eyes. “He was asking for you- he was calling for you-”

“Oh-” Your hands fly up to your chest, “Surely you didn’t hurt him too badly?”

“We did not, my lady.” Nanami lies - and even if it had been false, it was only true that this creation had rapid healing. The Strongest, huh? Imagine such a thing. He takes his hat off and slightly bows before you, “We apologize that we were not there to speak with him before attacking, human to human.”

You’re managing out a slight smile, before you turn your gaze towards the haggard Geto Suguru. Who mutters to himself, “Her…so- so he really doesn’t want…”

“It’s not you he wants, Suguru. He doesn’t want revenge, he doesn’t want blood, he just wants-”

“Love.” He says the word like it pains him, looking up at you with those soft amethyst eyes for the first time in what feels like…forever. “He wants love.”

And you wanted your love, too.

The crew outside had been doing a valiant job at attempting to ignore the cracking of the frozen sea beneath them, the almost turgid shape of something attempting to claw at them from beneath the icy surface. Banging at the frost. Creating currents that sway and tip the Horisont from side to side. But once the group filters out of Nanami’s bedroom, multiple officers run up to their Captain with their worries.

“Captain, that- that thing seems to be coming back up again-”

“Our onlookers have spotted it swimming back near the ship-”

“It’s almost here!”

“Calm yourselves, calm yourselves.” The blond-haired man raises his palms to signal for silence, announcing to the entire crew. They look at you curiously, so out-of-place amongst their frantic faces, in fact- you seemed ready to leap off the side of the ship for a better look. “I am aware of the problem, and I am aware that he will be returning soon.”

“He?” Repeats Ino.

“He.” Nanami affirms, a twinkle in his eye. “And we have been quite the inhospitable hosts towards each of our guests here, and as your Captain I apologize for not correcting our behavior sooner.” And above the gasps, he continues. “Gojo Satoru is not dead. Gojo Satoru will return. And when he does-” He gestures behind at you, “-we will be letting this lovely lady off the side of the ship.”

“A sacrifice, Captain?!”

“That’s murder!”

“How could we ever possibly-”

“He’s coming.” His stern voice cuts through all, and it didn’t matter what they all had to say at this very moment. It only mattered what you had to do. “He’s coming- man the ladder.”

The crew works quickly and efficiently, and as they let that water-logged wooden ladder hit the ice below- Geto claps at your elbow with one of his shaking hands. “Are you perfectly sure-”

“Suguru.” You’re interrupting him, and it makes the taller man flinch. You smile, “I’ve never had a more foolhardy idea in my entire life.”

Somehow, somewhere, he manages to crack a smile, too.

The thunder of fists against frozen water grows louder, synchronizing with the stomp of your heartbeat as you make your way down that ladder. Biting your lips against the cold, your eyes trained on the dark mass of cloth that waded beneath the snow like a blood-thirsty shark. Ready to break free. 

The moment your shoes hit the crunching snow—

CRASH!

Gasping, the ship leans over on its side as they look over the edge.

The Strongest.

All eight, loving feet of him towering before you.

Shoulders stooped. Cloak drenched. Hood obscuring. His breaths come out in uncontrolled gusts after so long beneath the water, and the breeze tickles your face as he just can’t help but bow himself closer to you.

“Let me see you.” You’re humming, reaching over with absolutely no hesitation to pull the flap of his hood off. Ice-blue eyes meet yours. Rosy pink lips wobble with emotion. And suddenly you’re looking into the very face that has haunted your daydreams for so long now, your love. Your Gojo Satoru. “Satoru.” Taking one of his overlarge hands in yours, you’re placing them to your core - beyond those extra layers of coats, the swell of your belly. The life growing within. “We’re sorry we took so long.”

His scarred body embraces you then and there, “My loves.”

A/N. Think this might be the longest fic I’ve ever written? Mayhaps??

Plagiarism not authorized.

[keytomylockhart]

don't fear the reaper

Jack Abbot x Reader

summary: working at the hospital morgue didn't exactly endear you to the emergency room staff, especially when you're always cracking jokes. you think Jack might be warming up to you, but are quickly proven wrong when he berates you in front of the department after an ill-timed joke.

tags/warnings: sfw just a steamy kiss, big time angst, morgue technician!reader, socially awkward reader, discussions of death and grief (seriously, a lot of talk about death and grieving), mean Jack :(, age gap (not specified, but i wrote her as being between 28-30), mean girl nurses, medical inaccuracies probably

wc: 8.9k

a/n: baby's first request!!! feeling very nervy about this one as its my first time writing angst so please be kind <3 it turned into much more of a meditation on death than i expected but i hope you enjoy the jack angst!! also please go read @nightpitt's take on this request!!! it was incredible <3 (and in the future please don't send me requests that you've sent to multiple other authors, it makes me uncomfy)

credits: gif credits to @vanillarot <3

Majorie Deacons, 83. Survived by her husband, Harold, of 62 years, her three children–Mary, Thomas, and Steven–and 10 grandchildren. Worked as a paralegal for 48 years before retiring to the Poconos with Harold. Moved back to Pittsburgh when she got sick. Died from sepsis as a result of her cancer-weakened immune system.  

That was all you knew of the woman laying in front of you, her skin pale and body unnaturally still. You thought about her life as you removed her engagement and wedding ring, the crucifix pendant around her neck, the diamond bracelet around her frail wrist–all logged securely for the family to pick up at their convenience. 

You thought about her life, about the 83 years she spent on this earth. Where did she grow up? Was Harold her high-school sweetheart, or did they meet in college, or a bar? Did they travel? What sights did they see, how many sunsets did they share? Did she remember exactly where she was when Kennedy was assassinated, like most older folks did? Did she like red lipstick or pink? When did her hair turn white–did she hate it or did she embrace it? 

Did she feel welcomed by death, or did she fight it kicking and screaming? 

83 years, such a long life and yet still not long enough for the people who loved her. 

You spent a lot of time grieving people you’d never met before as a morgue technician. It was a tough job–one spent with people on the worst days of their lives. Sure, you weren’t the one responsible for saving lives–didn’t have a relationship with the patient while they were living–but sometimes you thought maybe it was worse in a way. You learned about these people from their families, from the people so deeply grieving their loved one that often all you felt was gut-wrenching sadness for the hole that now lived in these people’s hearts. You didn’t get the benefit of seeing them interact with their loved ones, didn’t get to know their personality or see their quirks. All you experienced was the grief their loss wrought, not the joy their life had created. 

You liked being there for people, though. Death is not something Americans are accustomed to talking about openly, the aftermath of losing a loved one often impersonal and shrouded in mystery. Especially at the hospital, it often felt more clinical than anything else, with procedure and policy often taking center stage over the deceased.  

You liked bringing a sense of humanity to the process; liked to have the families reminisce about their loved ones, liked getting to know them through the people who cherished them the most despite the deep ache it sometimes left in your chest. 

You learned about Marjorie upstairs, from the family as you collected the body, and you’re looking forward to learning more about her when the family comes to collect her effects. You found that getting people to talk about the person they lost made it easier to discuss funeral and transport arrangements. You didn’t want them to feel like they were just another box to check off your to-do list. 

A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. 

“Hey, we got another one upstairs. Transport’s been taking forever tonight,” Elise, your boss, said, rolling her eyes. “They have one job: get the body from point A to point B. What gives?” 

You shrugged, sighing as you finished cataloging all of Marjorie's effects. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, squeezing her hand gently before making your way to the elevators, up to the emergency department. 

Transport was supposed to, well, transport the body. But they were often backed up for one reason or another, and delays in moving the body meant a valuable room remained occupied when it could otherwise be used for another patient. So, more often than not, Elise sent you up to grab the body and bring it back down for processing. It was faster that way, and often gave the family some peace knowing that their loved one wasn’t just sitting in the emergency room. 

You didn’t mind, exactly. As much as you enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the mortuary, you liked peaking your head up in the ED and seeing the hustle and bustle there, the way it teemed with life as well as death, even at night.  

And it didn’t hurt that the senior night shift attending was perhaps the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d had a crush on him since you met him, your introduction being maybe one of the most embarrassing moments of your life. 

It was your first time up in the emergency department, the incessant beeping and constant chatter a stark difference to the quiet morgue–if people were talking down there, something was seriously wrong. 

You’d been taken on a brief tour by the charge nurse, Lena, who gave you a rundown of the transport procedure. You met a few of the residents, Dr. Ellis and Dr. Crus, and a handful of nurses, all of whom seemed nice enough.  

But you almost stopped dead in your tracks when you met the kind hazel eyes of the graying, curly-haired man standing at the nurses station. 

“And this is Dr. Abbot, senior night shift attending. You’ll need his or Dr. Shen’s signature whenever you transport a body,” Lena introduced you, “Dr. Abbot, this is the new morgue technician. She graciously offered to help with transport.” 

You held your hand out, brain nearly turning to mush when he shook it. His palm was rough, calloused from many years of working with his hands, and unbelievably warm. His hand also dwarfed yours, which sent a tingle down your spine. 

“New morgue technician?” he asked, “Well, no offense, but I hope we don’t see you too much around here,” he joked with an easy smile on his face.  

“I guess that remains to be seen,” you said, and followed it up with a ‘ba dum tss’ sound effect and finger guns. Yes, you really did that. 

The joke didn’t land; they never did. Jack cocked his head to the side, an almost-smile gracing his lips, and shot you an inquisitive look, like he was trying to figure you out. 

His intense stare made your cheeks heat and your tummy swirl. You weren’t sure if you were aroused or uncomfortable, or some combination of both.  

You couldn’t get out of there sooner. 

It felt like you could never get your foot out of your mouth when Jack Abbot was around. And so the cycle began: get called up to retrieve a body, make an ill-timed joke, embarrass the hell out of yourself, and return back to the safety of the morgue as quickly as possible. 

You never made jokes in front of patients or families; you knew that it was something strictly reserved for your peers, people you thought understood the challenges you all face in healthcare–and deathcare. 

You weren’t sure why it seemed physically impossible for you not to use humor as a defense mechanism. Part of it was the nature of your job–gallows humor was a coping mechanism you latched onto and couldn’t seem to shake off. It was the same way some people laughed when they were nervous or panicked–a reaction to pent up emotions and stress that manifested as humor instead of as tears. 

But you’d also always been like this, trying to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor instead of meeting them head on, or making a joke at your own expense before someone else could. It hurt less that way, if you could subvert something painful into something lighthearted.

You’d always been admonished for it, by your parents, friends, partners. Had been told that it was inappropriate and that you were too crass, too loud, too much. Which was probably true. It confused you, though, how some people did bond over humor, in the occasional callousness of it, when you were criticized for it. That was something you’d never been able to work out, how it was always wrong when you did it; why you’d never been able to bond with people the same way others did. Well, there was a reason you worked the night shift at a morgue, after all. 

You pushed those thoughts away and instead tried to talk yourself up as you stood in the elevator, willing yourself not to be weird. 

“Hey, Lena, heard you got another customer for me?” you grinned at her, leaning against the nurses station. 

“Sure do, sweets. Her name is Cary West,” she replied with a soft smile. Lena, at least, seemed to like you. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

She pointed you to the correct room, where Mateo was cleaning up the body. You stood silently as he finished, taking a moment to honor the person they were and the people they’re leaving behind. These moments always felt weird–liminal, in a way. No longer a patient, but not yet ready for the funeral home–they were entrusted in your care in the meantime. 

There was no family in the room, which wasn’t abnormal for night shift. Folks had gone home, to sleep or cry or do whatever else one does to process the grief. You always hope you’ll meet the family of the deceased, but you’re not holding on hope on this one. It was 4am, the family would likely be back during the day to take care of funeral arrangements and Ms. West would be long gone by then. Still, though, you thought about her life, her wants, her dreams–tried to insert some humanity where it had been lost.  

“Sorry you had to come back up so soon, I know you just got down there with Ms. Deacons,” Mateo said quietly, pulling the sheet over her head. 

“Oh no worries, I don’t mind. It's not like she’s gonna talk my ear off.” 

He just shook his head at your joke, unimpressed and unamused. 

“Looks like Dr. Abbot is at the nurses station. C’mon, and we’ll get the transfer paperwork signed,” he said, holding the door open for you to push the gurney through. 

Dr. Abbot looked worn out. His eyes were tired, and the kind smile he usually sported was replaced by a slight frown and a furrow between his brows. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the tension built up there almost looking painful. It must have been a rough night. 

You greeted him with a soft smile, and handed over the clipboard for his signature, which he promptly filled out. 

He handed you the clipboard before turning his attention back to the gurney. His jaw was clenched tight, a pained look on his face as he squeezed Ms. West’s hand peeking out from the blanket. 

“Treat her well for us, please,” he said, voice hoarse. 

“Always do, I wouldn’t want to know what the reaper-cussions would be if I didn’t,” you joked before you could think better of it, cringing internally at your lack of tact. 

There was a split second of silence, the tension simmering hotly before fully boiling over. 

“Jesus fucking christ, can you be serious for one fucking second? This is a hospital, not a fucking comedy club. There are people grieving here. You need to learn to be an adult and keep your fucknig mouth shut,” he boomed, his face red and chest heaving. 

He was looming over you now as he spit out, “get the fuck out of my ED.” 

Your ears were ringing. You weren’t sure if the department had actually fallen silent or if you’d just temporarily lost the ability to hear.

You couldn’t breathe, oxygen not flowing properly into your lungs. It felt like you’d been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out and replaced with lead.  

“S-sorry,” you stuttered out, cheeks burning and throat closing in on itself. Tears were building up quickly in your eyes, but you weren’t going to cry in front of these people; you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction. 

You gripped the edge of the gurney and pushed ahead, desperate to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. No one stopped you, no one offered any apologies or sympathies, just watched your humiliated form disappear into the elevator. 

The minute the elevator doors closed the tears fell, the hot trails burning your face as you tried to conceal your sobs. 

“I’m s-sorry, Ms. West, I shouldn’t be crying like this. I don’t really have much to be upset about in comparison,” you apologized to the corpse, feeling guilty for being so upset when you were literally transporting a dead woman. 

You managed to calm yourself down before you reached the morgue. You didn’t want to explain what happened to Elise, didn’t want to recount every embarrassing detail that was already replaying in your head. 

You soothed yourself with routine, with the repetitive motions of logging personal effects, filling out reports, and contacting the funeral home to make arrangements. 

By the time 7AM rolled around, you were more than ready to get the hell out of there.

The sun is blinding against your puffy eyes. The past two days were a blur, mostly spent crying and replaying the incident over and over. You called out of work, citing a stomach bug. Which wasn’t all that untrue–the thought of encountering anyone in the hospital did make you feel violently ill. 

You had already put in for a transfer to day shift, feigning some excuse about your school schedule changing. You couldn’t wait to finish your studies and officially become a mortician. You’d leave the hospital and start your own business, helping people through the grieving and burial process in your own way. 

And maybe you’d never have to see Jack Abbot ever again. The thought was as relieving as it was devastating, because you liked him. And you were starting to think maybe he liked you too–at least as a friend or acquaintance. 

It was a slow night, which you were thankful for. It meant there weren’t any bodies in the morgue–that there weren’t any deaths so far tonight. So you weren’t too bent out of shape when you got shipped up to the ED to collect a body. 

You found Dr. Abbot quickly, signed the necessary paperwork, and wheeled the body out to central. 

“Thanks for picking up, I don’t know what the hell’s going on with transpo tonight,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, we’re actually empty right now. There’s no body there,” you said, a cheeky grin crossing your lips. 

And Jack laughed. A full-on, deep-throated laugh. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. Your chest swelled with pride, and all you could think about was making him do it again. 

He shook his head at you, smile still lingering on his face, “what makes a girl like you want to work night shift at the morgue?”  

“Girl like me?” you asked coyly, raising your eyebrow at him. 

He assessed you, eyes flitting over your face, “yeah, young, smart… pretty.”

You flushed at that, your body getting all warm and tingly, “well, I’m not a mourning person, for one,” you joked, earning another laugh from Jack. 

“I, uh, I’m in school for mortuary science,” you continued, giving him a real answer, “I want to be a mortician when I’m done.” 

“That’s… admirable,” he said, “you don’t get the glory of saving lives but you do get all the dirty work. Good for you.” 

Jack’s attention made you feel like you were on fire–like a white hot ball of flame that would spread given the littlest bit of ammunition. His stare was brazen, unapologetic–you couldn’t look away if you tried. 

You cleared your throat, breaking some of the tension, “I guess I should probably get him downstairs,” you said, gesturing to the gurney in front of you. 

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Jack said, moving to stand by your side. He rested his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the elevators. The touch was electrifying–you could feel the warmth radiating from him through the layers of scrubs. He was close enough now that you could smell the warm amber of his cologne mixed with his own musky scent. You felt dizzy, and all you wanted to do was press yourself against him, to nestle yourself in the crook of his neck and inhale. 

He pressed the button for the elevator when you arrived and helped you wheel the gurney in. 

“It was good seein’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and just as the elevator doors were closing, he winked at you. 

You were surprised you didn’t turn into a puddle right then and there. 

Your chest twisted at the memory. Maybe that’s why his words hurt so much–why they’d sunk into the marrow of your bones, confirming that he thought as lowly of you as you already thought of yourself. He’d given you hope, shown you kindness where no one else in the ED had. 

It was stupid, anyway. Thinking that a man like Jack Abbot could feel anything other than disdain for someone like you. Of course the hot, older, accomplished attending wouldn’t want anything to do with the awkward morgue technician. 

Every time you thought about it, your heart ached, a dull pang ringing through your chest and reverberating through your body. Tears pooled in your eyes at the mere thought of the incident. It felt like you were back in high school, asking Alex Williams to the school dance just to have him laugh in your face and say he wasn’t going to go with a freak. 

You couldn’t dwell on it, though. You had a job to do, bills to pay. You could only hope that day shift was better, or that you could whip yourself into shape and keep your comments to yourself.

“Jesus, why is the body in north 2 still there?” Jack asked, eyes trained on the board ahead of him. Wait times were astronomical and chairs was full to the brim–the sooner they moved the deceased out, the sooner they could move a new patient in. 

“Not sure, I called transpo an hour ago, but you know how concerned they are with being timely,” Lena responded. 

“What about the morgue? Why haven’t they sent anyone to collect the body?” 

Lena looked at him over the top of her glasses, an unimpressed look on her face. 

“Oh, you mean that sweet girl who helps us out by transporting bodies when transpo is dicking around? The one you screamed at in front of the entire department? Gosh, I can’t think of a reason she’s not chomping at the bit to come up here,” she deadpanned, fixing Jack with a glare. “Last I heard she switched to day shift. Said she had some personal schedule conflicts, but I think we both know that’s not true.”   

Jack winced, guilt coursing through him. He hadn’t meant to make such a scene, to be so cruel. It had just been such a monumentally horrible day, his chest wound so tight and hackles raised that your little joke set him off. It was stupid, too, because Jack had easily made far worse jokes at far more inappropriate times. 

It could have easily been anyone else that he snapped at, would have been, if you weren’t there. But you were, and so you bore the brunt of his wrath. 

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been replaying the look on your face, the way it crumpled and tears welled up in your pretty eyes. He remembered how your breath hitched, how you shrunk in on yourself and ran away as fast as you could. 

It made his chest ache to think about. He wanted to find you, to apologize, but he thought he might just make it worse. And selfishly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation that would ensue. He assumed he’d see you up here at some point, where he could take you aside and beg for forgiveness–he didn’t think you’d rearrange your entire work schedule just to avoid seeing him. 

He wasn’t sure why he acted so indifferently toward you. Or rather, he did–he just didn’t want to acknowledge the way you made him feel. You made him feel giddy–made his face warm and his heart race, like a teenage boy flirting with a pretty girl for the first time. He briefly tried flirting with you, but he was pretty sure you were oblivious to it–either that or you didn’t feel the same. He was hoping for the former.  

He hadn’t felt this way about someone since he started dating his wife. Frankly, it made him uncomfortable to think about, made him feel like he was betraying her in some way. He knew that wasn’t true, knew that his wife would want him to be happy, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling. 

He’d been talking about it with his therapist, trying to cope with these feelings–trying to get up the courage to ask you out.

And the kicker was he was going to, he was getting bolder, complimenting you and finding any excuse to, respectfully, put his hands on you. And now he’s fucked it all up. 

“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face.  

“Yeah, shit. I suggest you take your ass down there and apologize. Properly.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it,” he said absent-mindedly, already wracking his brain for the right words to say to you.

The change to day shift was brutal. Your body wasn’t used to waking up when you were supposed to be going to bed, and vice versa. You were also working less hours to accommodate your school schedule, which was the reason you were on night shift to begin with. But you took it in stride the best you could. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that. 

You’d been up to the ED a couple times since the incident, feeling as awkward as ever even though most of them weren’t on shift when Dr. Abbot berated you. You covered day shift a few times, so you weren’t completely unfamiliar with the staff. Dr. Robby seemed nice enough, though you never stuck around long enough to build rapport. It was in and out from now on, speaking as little as you could before you retreated back to the morgue. 

You wished you could flat out refuse to go up there, but you didn’t want to punish innocent people just waiting for a bed. The sooner you got the bodies to the morgue, the sooner someone else could be seen by a doctor. 

Right now, though, you were sat at your desk, filling out log reports and finishing up paperwork before you inevitably got another body. It was monotonous work, yes, but calming in a way. The mindless action gave your brain a break between decedents–gave you a chance to mourn the person and compartmentalize it away before it ate away at you. 

You faintly heard the door at the end of the hall open and close, and assumed Elise was taking her lunch break. 

That is, until you heard a painfully familiar voice call out, “Hello? Anybody in here?” 

Oh no, why is he here? Attendings rarely visited the morgue–usually only if there was a particularly complex cause of death that they wanted to further examine. But there were no such cases right now, the only bodies currently in custody being a run of the mill STEMI and a GSW to the head–both pretty self-explanatory. 

And the night shift hadn’t started yet, the clock reading 5:34pm. There’s no plausible reason for Jack Abbot to be down here right now. 

His steps were getting louder–he was almost at your office now. 

You panicked. That is the only explanation you have for scrambling up from your desk and darting into the small storage closet to your left. You pressed yourself against the wall to the side, out of view of the frosted glass window. Was this the mature course of action? Absolutely not. But you weren’t sure you could handle seeing him right now. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, had done everything in your power to avoid any and all interactions. 

He called out again, and you could see his silhouette standing in the doorway of your office. 

Eyes closed, you took deep breaths to try and calm your rapidly beating heart. Hopefully he’d see the empty room and take his leave quickly.  

It was quiet, and for a moment you thought he’d left until–knock knock. 

“I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure I heard someone stumble into this closet and slam the door shut,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. 

You didn’t answer, hoping maybe you could convince him he was crazy. 

The doorknob rattled, and you instinctively grabbed it, pulling it with all the force you could muster to keep it closed. You weren’t sure why–surely he was much stronger than you and could rip the door open if he really wanted to. And god, why was thinking about how strong he was making you flustered?  

It’s not that you were scared of him, you were just… woefully unprepared for this conversation. Despite ruminating over the incident itself, you hadn’t actually pictured a scenario where you’d ever speak to him again. Hadn’t had time to go over it a million times in your head, coming up with the best comeback and constructing the perfect barb to lodge in his soft underbelly, the way he’d done to you. 

He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other day, if you’ll give me the chance.” 

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, considering. You’re not sure that an apology will do much for you, not sure that it’ll quell the pit in your stomach that’s opened and doesn’t show any sign of closing. 

You nodded to yourself anyway, letting out a quiet, “go ahead.” 

He chucked lightly, “face-to-face, if you don’t mind.” 

Damn him, you groaned internally. Taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door. Jack stood opposite you, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. You crossed your arms and fixed your gaze on your scuffed up shoes, the thought of looking him in the eye daunting and exciting at the same time.  

He let out a deep breath, “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other night. It was an exceptionally shitty night, and it wasn’t your fault but I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have.” 

You nodded, appreciated the effort it took to come down here and apologize. It did little to soothe your bruised heart, though. There was still a painful twinge in your chest, his words having already wormed their way into your brain and confirmed every worst thought you had about yourself. 

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot, apology accepted,” you said curtly, moving past him to get back to your desk. 

He stopped you, his hand resting on the bare skin just above your elbow. Goosebumps prickled against your skin from the roughness of his palm. You hated how your body craved more, how you wanted him to slide his hand up to your neck, tilt your head back and kiss you. Traitor. 

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “that woman that night, the one you picked up, she died of ovarian cancer,” he said. He looked conflicted, eyes flinty and mouth twisted to the side like he was warring with himself as he bit out the next words, “that’s how–my wife–she died of ovarian cancer.” 

Oh. You didn’t know that, didn’t even know he had a wife. Your eyes drifted to his left hand and saw the slightly lighter patch of skin there. Your heart ached and your defenses softened just a tad at the revelation. You could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a patient in the same manner you lost the person closest to you, could imagine the ugly emotions it would pull out of you. It didn’t make what he said okay, but you understood the circumstances that led him to say it. 

“And before that we had a kid who died from drowning, and a couple close calls, and a bunch of Dr. Google bullshit. And your joke was just… the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that and not in front of everybody. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity dripping from his words. His eyes were soft and pleading as he looked at you, and once again you found yourself unable to look away. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that–about your wife,” you said softly, not wanting to make it any more painful than it already was, “and I’m sorry about the joke. I know it’s not appropriate, and I’ve been trying to stop, but you know how hard it is to quit unhealthy coping mechanisms,” a small smile lifting the corner of your lips. 

He shook his head, “please don’t, you have nothing to apologize for. Gallows humor is how we all get by; I can’t tell you how many off-color jokes I’ve told in my day. It was really the pot calling the kettle black, if I'm being honest,” he said, “If it wasn’t you who set me off, it would’ve been Ellis or Shen, or some other unsuspecting person. I promise you it had so much more to do with me than it did with you.” 

You nodded, accepting his explanation. You felt a little lighter, a little less burdened by his words.    

“I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me,” he said, “maybe coffee or dinner, if you’re up for it?” 

You shook your head, “That’s really not necessary, Dr. Abbot. I meant it, I accept your apology, you don’t have to do anything else.” 

He nodded at that, looking a little deflated but otherwise satisfied that you’d accepted his apology. 

Jack felt the need to make it up to you anyway. 

It started with coffee after his shift ended. The first time, he brought you the most insane coffee order you’d ever seen–a mocha cappuccino with 5 extra shots of espresso, pistachio syrup, vanilla cold foam,  caramel AND white mocha drizzle, and salted caramel topping–a monstrosity borne from a recommendation from the woman ahead of him in line. You’re not sure how you didn’t immediately get cavities in all of your teeth. 

You couldn’t lie, though, the fact that he made the effort to go out and get coffee after his 12 hour shift was endearing, and once you gave him your coffee order, he got it right each and every time. 

It became routine over the next month for Jack to bring you coffee, and even though you didn’t have much time to talk in the morning, you began looking forward to the 10-15 minutes of conversation you shared with him each morning. You never discussed what this was, if it meant anything or if it was just a kind gesture between friends. You certainly hoped it meant something, but you weren’t going to get your hopes up. 

You were catching up on paperwork when his text came through. 

Jack: Can’t make it for coffee this morning, sweetheart, how about I bring you lunch later? 

Your cheeks heated at the pet name. He hadn’t called you that before, and you hoped you weren’t reading into it. 

You: sounds great, see you later :) 

You spend the morning counting down the minutes until Jack showed up. It only slightly hindered your progress on your paperwork, your mind only occasionally wandering off to think about his pretty pink lips.

It’s noon before you know it, and someone’s rapping their knuckles on the door frame to your office. 

“Knock, knock,” Jack said, shooting you a smile as he walked over to your desk. He set down a truly alarming amount of food. You laughed as he took out container after container, the sack resembling a clown car more than a fast food bag. 

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety,” he said, a little bashfully, “you can take home whatever’s left for dinner or lunch tomorrow.” 

You selected what you wanted from the smorgasbord he presented you with, and settled into the chair next to him. 

It was a little awkward at first. Most of the conversations you’d had with him up to this point were pretty surface level. Even your coffee chats were light-hearted affairs that didn’t really go deeper than what you did over the weekend. 

But Jack didn’t let it stay awkward for long, as if he knew that once you started talking, he’d be hard-pressed to get you to stop. 

“So, I realized that despite our coffee talks, I don’t really know that much about you. How long have you been a mortuary tech?” 

“About a year and a half. I got the job after I started school for mortuary science. Before that I taught for a little bit, but I didn’t really like it and I don’t think I was much good at it. I was a bartender for a long time too.” 

“So what made you make the jump to mortuary school?”

“I studied anthropology in college and death culture always really fascinated me, especially the way different cultures deal with grief and the burial process. America is so sanitized, so averse to looking at death straight on. We think death needs to be palatable, that the deceased need to look exactly as they did in life to avoid accepting the fact that our bodies are fundamentally different after death–that they are on their way to being absorbed back into the earth.

“I think the way we treat people in death is just as important as how we treat them in life. To some people, that person on the table is just an assemblage of bones and flesh, but to others that was a friend, a mother or daughter, father or son. And I figured as a mortician, I’d be in a position to offer families the kind of support that helps them work through their grief, not just hide it behind pretty floral arrangements.” 

You felt a little shy at the rapt expression on Jack’s face. He was giving you his undivided attention, listening intently to every word that came out of your mouth. You’re not sure any man has ever listened to you as attentively as he was now. Yes, the bar was in hell, but it didn’t make it any less hot.  

“Sorry, that was a lot, I didn’t mean to info dump on you,” you said sheepishly. 

He shook his head, “Please info dump, I could listen to you talk all day,” he said honestly, “do you want to continue working at the hospital when you’re done or do you want to start your own practice?” 

“I don’t think I’ll stay here. I mean, I like helping people through the immediate grief, but I think I just want to help grieving families lay their loved ones to rest in a way that honors the life they lived. I don’t care about selling fancy caskets or high-dollar cemetery plots, I just want to narrow it down to what really matters to preserving and celebrating the individual that was lost.”   

Jack nodded, “I don’t remember a lot about planning my wife’s funeral–Robby helped a lot with that–but I do remember it being really… almost commercial, in a way? Like, ‘do you want cedar or oak for the coffin? Do you want the casket lined in silk or velvet?’” he said, laughing bitterly, “like it was a fashion show or something, not the vessel my wife was going to be buried in. I couldn’t give less of a fuck what the damn thing was lined in.” 

You laid your hand on top of his, giving it a comforting squeeze as he continued. It made your heart swell that he felt comfortable enough to talk about his wife with you. 

“I mean, they were very compassionate, but it always felt like a business–which I get, we’re a capitalist society, but that’s not exactly what you want to feel when you’re burying someone,”  

You nodded, “that’s probably the thing that bothers me the most about this industry. Sometimes it seems like profit is the priority, and the real, hurting people come second.” 

Jack just looked at you with soft eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. He turned your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb.

“I think you’re going to be an amazing mortician,” he said, without an ounce of amusement or teasing, just pure honesty. “I think you’re exactly the kind of person that people want around them when they're going through the worst days of their lives.”  

You couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was the kindest thing someone had said to you about your career path, except maybe Elise. And it was nice to shed happy tears over something Jack Abbot said instead of embarrassed ones. 

You talked long after your lunch break was over, but Elise was out and you didn’t have any pressing work to get to at the moment, so you figured there was no harm, no foul. 

But eventually he had to leave to get ready for his shift, and you did have work to do, though you’d gladly forsake it for a few more minutes with him. 

You got up to dispose of your trash and walked him to the door. 

“Lunch was really nice,” he murmured, resting his hand on your arm, right above your elbow. 

Your breath hitched at the contact and goosebumps prickled up and down your arms. You gaze was locked on his, unable to look away, “yeah, I really enjoyed it,” you said breathily, your heart already racing. 

He moved closer, settling his hands on your waist, and backed you up slowly until the back of your knees hit your desk. 

You leaned back against your desk, widening your stance to allow Jack to step between your legs. His body was warm against you, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly. 

“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You could feel his breath against your lips, so close but still so far away. 

You nodded, a pathetic mewl leaving your lips without permission. It was embarrassing how badly you wanted to kiss this man.  

He pressed closer, his lips just barely grazing yours, his nose slightly bumping your cheek. You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as you moved to close the miniscule distance between your lips–

CLANG! 

The door down the hall slammed shut, and hurried footsteps approached your office.  

You nearly jumped out of your skin and stumbled back onto the desk, out of Jack’s grasp. He seemed just as shocked, his hand clutching his chest in surprise. 

A second later Elise came rushing into the room, saying something about a mass casualty event and how you needed to make as much room down here as you could to prepare for the inevitable. You nodded, turning to Jack to apologize, but he beat you to it. 

“Shit, I gotta go, sweetheart, they’re probably gonna call all-hands-on-deck,” he said, a genuinely mournful look on his face. 

“Yeah, of course. I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, equally as disappointed, but understanding. Duty calls.  

He wrapped you up in a tight hug, your cheek resting against his firm chest. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to savor his embrace for a moment before he had to go.

“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” he asked against your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back. 

You smiled against his chest and nodded, “yes, please.” 

He pulled away and planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading out. 

“What was that all about?” Elise questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.  

You didn’t say anything–your hot cheeks and dopey grin were worth a thousand words.

You were called up to the ED several times, each time worse than the last by the looks of the staff. It still felt a little awkward being in the emergency department. Even though most of the people here weren’t on shift when Jack yelled at you, it still felt like the department went still when you walked in, people stopping and staring like you were some sideshow circus freak. 

You were back up here collecting yet another soul, waiting for someone to sign off on the transfer. It seemed like things had calmed down, the worst of it over now. You were lost in thought at the nurses station, picking at the skin around your nails anxiously. 

You hoped Jack would be the one to come over and sign the paperwork–hoped you’d catch another glimpse of him before your shift was over. All you could think about all day was that almost-kiss you shared with him. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face every time you thought about it, which meant you basically had a permanent grin affixed to your face. 

You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of hushed voices to your left. You glanced over and saw two nurses you didn’t recognize taking a break and engaging in some friendly workplace gossip. Or so you thought. 

“–so happy about?” a nurse whispered incredulously. 

“Probably daydreaming about Dr. Abbot,” another said, her tone most likely accompanied by an eye roll.  

“God, when is she going to get a grip? Her fawning over him is not cute.” 

“Yeah, I think he just doesn’t know how to let her down… I mean when he yelled at her she changed her whole schedule, he probably feels guilty.” 

“True. Maybe she’ll realize how embarrassing it is to be so down bad for a man she has no chance with.” 

You stopped listening after that, crestfallen and heartbroken all over again. The illusion of the past month shattered and the feelings from before came roaring back full force. 

Your chest twisted painfully–like someone had grabbed ahold of your heart and squeezed, the squishy flesh bulging between their fingers. Your throat ached, tears surely not far behind. 

You knew you shouldn’t put too much stock in what these two random nurses were saying. You knew that they likely had no idea what they were talking about, that they were just mean girls blowing off steam and you seemed to be the target of it–like always. 

But there was the little gremlin in the back of your brain, the one that told you everything they said was true. That Jack just felt guilty, that he was making himself feel better for the way he treated you. Insecurity wrapped itself around you like a vise, squeezing around you like a boa constrictor, until it was the only thing you could feel. 

And that almost-kiss? Well, he was a man, after all. Maybe he was just overcome with the physical urge to kiss you, get in your pants if he could. But he wasn’t that kind of man, was he? You didn’t want to think so, but all rational thought was obscured by the hurt blooming in your chest that you couldn’t be sure. 

You startled at the hand on your shoulder. You looked up to see Dr. Robby standing there, brows furrowed in concern. Squeaking out an apology, you handed him the transfer paperwork. 

“I called your name three times, you okay?” he asked, flipping through the pages and signing where appropriate. 

“Fine,” you smiled, not trusting your voice not to break. 

He looked skeptical, but didn’t push. 

“Alright, all done. Hopefully that’ll be it, at least from the mass cas,” he said, handing back the paperwork. “We have a trauma counsellor available if you need to talk to someone,” he said before backing away to move onto the next patient. 

You chuckled at that. Of course he thought you were troubled by the amount of death that occurred today. But no, here you were, post mass casualty, and you were more concerned about a man than you were about the people that had died tonight. How fucked up were you? 

Jack showed up with coffee the next morning like usual, setting the paper cup down on your desk, “here you go, sweetheart.” 

“Thank you,” you said without looking up from your paperwork. You tasted acid in your throat, the words from the nurses station echoing in your head in an ugly cacophony. You’d memorized them by heart over the past 12 hours, twisting and turning in bed as they invaded your mind against your will. 

He just doesn’t know how to let her down.

He probably feels guilty.

Her fawning over him is not cute.

You cleared your throat, “you really don’t have to do this anymore, you know,” you said nonchalantly, like it wasn’t tearing your heart out to say. 

He was quiet for a moment. “I know… I do it because I want to, because I like spending time with you,” he said, head cocked and brow furrowed.  

“Sure,” you muttered under your breath. 

“What was that?” 

You sighed and set your pen down, shifting your full attention to him, “I’m just saying you don’t have to prostrate yourself in front of me because you feel guilty, Jack. You’ve done your penance, if that’s all this is. You’re forgiven, no hard feelings.” 

Your throat was tight, but your voice didn’t waver. You blinked back tears furiously as he stared at you, mouth agape. He looked a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and the lines on his face a little more pronounced, like he’d been frowning all night. Obviously, he worked like 16 hours last night. You felt another wave of guilt rush over you–he was wasting his much needed rest time to come placate you. 

He crossed his arms, shaking his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?” 

You stood up and started behind your desk, feeling restless and hurt and foolish. 

“You just–you don’t have to hang around me because you feel bad or something,” you said, “you’ve more than apologized. I just wish you didn’t make me feel like–like…” you trailed off, ragged breaths tearing through your chest. It was getting harder to force the words out, tears falling down your cheeks in earnest now. 

“Like what?” 

“Like this means something!” you choked out. God, you felt so silly. Aw, is someone upset that their crush doesn’t like them back? 

He looked at you in disbelief, “It does mean something,” he said, rounding your desk and stopping in front of you–effectively ceasing your pacing. 

“Please don’t lie to me,” you hiccuped, your bottom lip trembling violently, “I know I’m too much, I know no one at the Pitt likes me–you don’t have to pretend you do.” You fixed your gaze to the floor–you didn’t think you could handle the pitying look that was undoubtedly in his eyes. 

“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, cupping your face between his large hands. You tried to wiggle away, but his grip was unwavering–he wasn’t going to let you look away from him. He brushed away your tears, “I don’t know what ideas you’ve gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but if you think I’m anything but smitten with you, you’re dead wrong.” 

You laughed weakly, “who’s making bad jokes now?” 

He didn’t take the bait, didn’t let you deflect from the topic at hand. He pinned you with his eyes, his gaze steady as he delivered his next words. 

“I’m serious. I need you to know that I’m being honest with you when I say this: I’ve been scared for a long time to make a move on you, and I’m not letting anything–not even you–get in the way now, okay?

“I’ve liked you for a while now, pretty girl. You’re the best part of my day, the only thing keepin’ me going some days. I love your smile, your laugh, the way your face lights up when you talk about something you’re passionate about. I love the way you care about people, alive and dead, and I love your jokes, even if they can be a little off color. 

“And I can’t tell you how much I regret how I treated you. The only silver lining is that it kicked my ass into gear, made me realize I’ve been an idiot for waiting so long to make you mine. You’re not too much, and even if you were, I’d want more–I want everything you’re willing to give me.” 

You almost couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but he was nothing but sincere. His eyes pleaded with you to believe him, to give him a chance–and you desperately wanted to. 

“You mean that?” you asked, gnawing at your lip anxiously. You didn’t want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed again. 

“With all my heart,” he said, grabbing your hand and placing it over his heart. It was racing just as fast as yours was. “This is how I feel every time I see you, sweetheart. Feel like I should be hooked up to a monitor sometimes,” he joked. 

“I…I like you too. I have since the day I met you. But I’m scared,” you swallowed thickly, voice small as you finished, “I don’t want to get hurt.” 

“I know, sweetheart, I am too. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this–haven’t since my wife–and I don’t want to fuck it up. We’re in this together, as long as you’ll have me,” 

“I want you,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his neck tentatively. 

He grabbed your waist and backed you up against your desk, replicating your previous position from yesterday. 

“Can I kiss you now, sweetheart? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were interrupted,” he asked, thumb stroking your cheek. 

You nodded, “me either,” you said, heart pounding as he leaned in. 

His lips were soft when they met yours. It was tentative–just a slow, gentle press of his lips against yours, like he was trying to maintain some level of decorum.

He started to pull back, and you whined at the loss of contact. You fisted your hands in his scrub top and pulled him back in, your mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mash of teeth. He chuckled against you, “greedy girl,” he murmured, steadying your head in his hands and deepening the kiss. 

He tamped down your eagerness but didn’t erase any of the heat building between you–just kept you right where he wanted you. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you readily opened your mouth for him, desperate to taste him. He licked into your mouth, tongue hot as it tangled with yours. You were greedy, sucking and lapping and nipping at his tongue and lips, getting messy with it and thoroughly forgetting where you were and how inappropriate a setting this was. 

You were like horny teenagers, hands grabbing at whatever bits of flesh they could reach, tangling in each other’s hair, and moaning louder than was appropriate. 

When you finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air, chests heaving against each other. Jack rested his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. You didn’t want to waste another moment not kissing him, though, so you began peppering his face with kisses–to his nose, cheeks, chin, wherever you could reach. 

He laughed at the onslaught, craning his head to the side to give you access to his neck, which you happily latched onto, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you?” 

“I guess you’ll have to find out,” you replied as you pulled away, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at him. 

He shook his head fondly at you, “Now, as much as I’d like to do very, very inappropriate things to you right now, I came here this morning planning to ask you out to dinner. Would you allow me to ask you out properly now, sweetheart? Let me be a gentleman?” he asked, thumbs stroking your jaw. 

You nodded, still dizzy from his kiss–still reeling from the fact that Jack actually liked you. 

“Would you please make me the happiest man in the world, and accompany me to dinner at Altius tomorrow night at 7?” 

“I’d love to,” you grinned, pulling him in for another kiss. 

“And after, we'll see just how insatiable you are.” 

A/N: shoutout to my fellow anthropology majors lol glad that my degree is coming in handy for something cause its certainly not a job

taglist: @ficcyyfics @realwhoreforfictionalmen

[townsendbaby]

hiiii I love your fics with as the brother and I have one

So it’s a Garrett x sister reader and they don’t have a good relationship cause Garrett left her in that house, so know she’s sixteen still living with her father and Garrett and Hannah come over for thanksgiving? You can decide what happens

Thanksgiving

Garett Graham x little!sister!reader (y/n)

Summary: Garett reunites with his sister during Thanksgiving. The family holiday brings Garett to the realisation that his father has never stopped hurting y/n.

TW: Phil Graham

Word Count: 2.6K

The closer they got to Phil’s house, the quieter Garrett became.

Hannah noticed almost immediately.

He’d barely spoken in the last twenty minutes, one hand gripping the steering wheel while the other drummed an uneven rhythm against his jeans.

She reached across the center console and intertwined their fingers.

“You okay?”

Garrett forced a smile.

“Yeah.”

“Liar.”

He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“I hate coming back here.”

“I know.”

Thanksgiving could’ve been spent with friends at Briar.

Anywhere but here.

But Phil had called.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Eventually Garrett had answered.

“Just one dinner, Garrett. Cindy wants to meet you.”

Cindy. His father’s fiancée. The woman somehow willing to marry Phil Graham.

Garrett still couldn’t understand that part.

“I’ll be fine,” he murmured.

Hannah squeezed his hand.

“I’m here.”

He looked over for just a second before pulling into the long driveway.

Nothing about the house had changed. Same white siding. Same perfectly trimmed hedges. Same porch where he’d once sat for hours after hockey practice because going inside felt worse than the cold.

His stomach tightened.

“I hate this place.”

Hannah quietly unbuckled her seatbelt.

“I know. I’m here with you, okay?” She smiled reassuringly and squeezed his hand.

—

Phil opened the front door before they’d even reached it.

“Garrett.”

“Dad.”

No hug. No handshake. Just two men staring at each other.

“You made good time.”

“Traffic was light.”

Another silence. Then Phil stepped aside “Come in.”

The house smelled like roasted turkey and cinnamon.

Everything looked… normal. Like one of those picture-perfect homes in holiday commercials. Garrett had always hated how convincing the act was.

“Garrett!”

A woman appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. She looked to be in her early forties with kind eyes and a nervous smile.

“You must be Hannah.”

Hannah smiled politely.

“You must be Cindy.”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you both.”

She pulled Hannah into a brief hug before looking back at Garrett.

“I’ve heard so much about you.”

Garrett doubted that. Phil rarely spoke about him unless it involved hockey.

“Thanks,” he said simply.

“Oh!”

Cindy turned toward the hallway.

“Y/N!”

Garrett hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until he heard her name.

Footsteps echoed against the hardwood floor.

Then she appeared.

She’d grown.

The last time he’d seen her regularly she’d barely reached his shoulder.

Now… She looked sixteen. Still smaller than him. Hair pulled back into a loose braid. An oversized sweatshirt swallowing her frame.

For one ridiculous second, Garrett only saw the little girl who used to steal his hockey sticks and insist she could beat him one-on-one in the driveway.

Then reality settled back in.

She stopped a few feet away.

Neither of them spoke.

“Hi,” Garrett said quietly.

She looked at him for a long second.

“Hi.” Her voice was soft. Almost careful.

Hannah smiled warmly.

“It’s really nice to meet you.”

Y/N looked at her. “You too.”

The conversation seemed too polite, respectful, and distant. Garrett hated how formal it felt.

“You’ve…” He searched for something to say. “…grown.”

A tiny shrug. “I guess.”

Silence settled awkwardly.

Cindy clapped her hands together. “Well!” She smiled too brightly. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“I’ll help,” Y/N said immediately.

Before Garrett could ask another question, she disappeared into the kitchen beside Cindy.

He watched her go.

“She seems nice,” Hannah whispered.

Garrett nodded absently. “Yeah.”

But something felt off. Not wrong exactly. Just different. He remembered a little sister who never stopped talking. Who followed him everywhere. Who begged to sit in the garage while he taped his hockey stick.

This girl barely looked him in the eye.

—

From the dining room, Garrett watched Y/N move quietly around the kitchen.

Without being asked, she grabbed plates from the cabinet. Set the table. Refilled drinks before anyone noticed they were low.

When Cindy reached for the gravy, Y/N was already handing it to her. Like she’d memorized exactly what everyone needed before they asked.

Hannah noticed it too.

“She helps a lot.”

Garrett nodded. “Yeah.”

“Does she always…?”

He didn’t answer. Because he honestly didn’t know anymore.

At one point Cindy accidentally dropped a serving spoon.

The clang echoed through the kitchen.

Y/N visibly jumped. Not dramatically. Just enough that Garrett caught it.

She immediately bent to pick it up.

Garrett frowned slightly. Something about that exchange lodged itself in the back of his mind.

Before he could think about it any further, Phil’s voice cut through the room. “Dinner.”

Everyone gathered around the table. Garrett pulled Hannah’s chair out. Phil sat at the head. Cindy beside him. Y/N quietly took the remaining chair. The spread looked almost too perfect.

Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Stuffing. Green beans.

The kind of Thanksgiving dinner people put in magazines.

Phil folded his hands together. “Let’s say grace.”

Around the table, everyone reached for the hand beside them.

Garrett took Hannah’s. Then reached automatically toward Cindy. She smiled gently and slipped her hand into his.

As she did, the sleeve of her cardigan slid back just enough for Garrett to catch a glimpse of dark purple blooming across the inside of her wrist.

His breath caught.

The room suddenly felt much, much colder.

Garrett’s fingers went numb.

For a split second, all he could see was the bruise.

Dark purple.

Finger-shaped.

Old enough to have faded around the edges. New enough that it hadn’t healed.

His stomach dropped.

No.

His eyes flicked from Cindy’s wrist to Phil. Who sat calmly at the head of the table, hands folded as though nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.

Garrett stopped hearing the room.

“…Lord, thank You for bringing us together…”

Phil’s voice faded into static.

The bruise blurred.

Suddenly he wasn’t twenty-two anymore. He was eleven.

His mother kneeling beside the washing machine, hurriedly tugging the sleeve of her sweater down before answering the front door.

“Mom?”

“It’s nothing, sweetheart.”

“Did Dad—”

“Garrett.”

A shaky smile.

“Please don’t.”

The memory disappeared as quickly as it came.

Another one took its place.

Him.

Thirteen years old.

Looking down at the purple marks wrapped around his own wrist after Phil had grabbed him before practice.

“Coach is going to ask.”

“Then tell him you fell.”

Back to the present.

Garrett’s breathing had become shallow.

“…Bless this food…”

His eyes remained locked on Cindy’s wrist.

His heart pounded louder.

Too loud.

Too familiar.

No.

No.

No.

His chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor.

“Stop.”

Phil paused mid-prayer.

The entire table looked at Garrett.

He was already standing.

His voice came out louder this time. “I said stop.”

Silence crashed over the dining room.

Cindy looked confused.

“Garrett?”

His eyes never left her wrist. “Your sleeve.”

She frowned and instinctively covered her arm with her free hand.

“It’s fine.”

“No.” His voice shook. “It isn’t.”

Phil leaned back in his chair.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Garrett ignored him.

“Cindy.”

His tone softened immediately.

“Can I see your wrist?”

She looked uncertain.

“It’s really nothing.”

Garrett laughed once. A short, broken sound.

“That’s exactly what people say when it isn’t.”

Across the table, Hannah stared between everyone, completely lost.

“Garrett?”

He finally looked at Phil. “What happened?”

Phil’s expression didn’t change.

“She bumped into the counter.”

Garrett’s jaw tightened.

“Really.”

“Yes.”

“Funny.”

He nodded toward the bruise.

“Because that looks exactly like someone’s hand.”

The room went completely still.

Phil’s eyes darkened. “You’ve got a lot of nerve making accusations in my house.”

Garrett took a step around the table.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve pretending I don’t know what your hands leave behind.”

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Cindy’s face had gone pale.

Phil’s voice turned sharp. “Sit down.”

“No.”

“I said—”

“I heard you.”

Garrett’s own voice rose.

“I’m not sitting at a table with a man who—”

“Garrett.”

Hannah reached for his arm. He barely noticed. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

Then a movement. Tiny. Almost impossible to notice. Except Garrett noticed.

Because he’d spent years making himself notice. At Phil’s raised voice Cindy flinched. Small. Instinctive. Her shoulders curled inward for less than a second.

Garrett felt sick.

No…

His gaze shifted automatically toward the other side of the table. Toward his sister. Y/N. She’d flinched too.

Not because Garrett had shouted. Not because of the argument. Because Phil had.

It wasn’t even a conscious reaction. Her shoulders tightened. Her fingers immediately dropped from the table into her lap. Her eyes lowered to the plate in front of her. Like she was trying to disappear.

Garrett stared.

No.

No.

No.

His voice came out barely above a whisper.

“…Y/N?”

She looked up slowly.

And what Garrett saw on her face stole the air from his lungs.

Fear.

Not confusion.

Not annoyance.

Fear.

Directed at him.

Like she thought… Like she thought he was going to lose his temper next.

His heart shattered. “…Hey.”

His voice immediately softened. “It’s okay.”

She didn’t answer. She just kept staring. Wide-eyed. Waiting.

Garrett looked at her for another long second before something inside him broke.

“…Really?” The word came out almost pleading. “Y/N…”

His throat tightened painfully. “…You think…” He couldn’t even finish.

She instinctively shrank farther into her chair. The movement was tiny. Barely noticeable. But Garrett saw it.

God.

She was afraid of him.

Not because of anything he’d done.

Because she had learned that when a man stood up and raised his voice the next thing that happened was always pain.

Garrett’s eyes burned. “Oh, sweetheart…”

The words escaped before he could stop them.

Y/N blinked. Confused.

He shook his head slowly.

“You think I’m him.”

Silence.

She didn’t say yes.

She didn’t have to.

Her silence answered for her.

Garrett’s chest physically hurt.

All these years.

He’d convinced himself that leaving had protected her.

Instead…

His little sister had learned to fear raised voices so deeply that she’d looked at her own brother like he might become their father.

Garrett turned his head toward Phil. Slowly. His expression had changed. The shock was gone. The grief remained. But underneath it was fury. A quiet, controlled kind that somehow felt far more dangerous than shouting ever could be.

He looked back at Y/N.

Then spoke the words that would change everything.

“Go pack a bag.”

The room fell silent.

Y/N blinked. “…What?”

Garrett didn’t take his eyes off her. “I said go pack a bag.”

She looked from him to Phil then back again. Like she genuinely couldn’t understand what he was asking.

Garrett’s voice softened. “You’re leaving with me.”

Her mouth parted slightly. “What?”

“Go upstairs.”

She didn’t move.

“I…” Her voice barely came out. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

She looked toward Phil without meaning to.

The movement was tiny. Automatic. Like checking for permission had become second nature.

Garrett noticed. Something inside him twisted painfully. He took one step closer.

“You don’t have to ask him.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Garrett held her gaze.

“You hear me?”

Still nothing.

“So go.”

Silence stretched between them.

Finally she pushed her chair back. Slowly. Almost cautiously. Like she was waiting for someone to tell her no.

She stood. Looked once more toward Phil. He hadn’t moved. His face remained calm. Almost amused.

“Go ahead,” Phil said evenly. His smile never reached his eyes. “I know you’ll be back.”

The words sent a chill through the room.

Garrett’s jaw tightened.

Y/N hesitated only a second longer before turning and hurrying upstairs.

The sound of her footsteps disappeared into the second floor.

The second she was gone, Garrett rounded on his father.

“I spent years convincing myself she was okay.” His voice shook. “I told myself leaving meant she wouldn’t have to go through what I did.”

Phil shrugged.

“You always were dramatic.”

Garrett actually laughed. A broken, disbelieving laugh.

“You know…” He nodded slowly, noticing Cindy look down at her lap, tears quietly slipping onto folded hands.

His anger shifted. It wasn’t just Y/N. It had never been just Y/N. Phil had simply found new people to control.

“You deserve better too,” Garrett said quietly to Cindy. She looked up in surprise.

Phil scoffed. “Don’t fill her head with nonsense.”

Garrett ignored him. “Leave before it’s too late. Our mom couldn’t… but I know you can.”

Cindy stared at him, “It’s complicated…”

As Garett was about to say something, hurried footsteps echoed down the staircase. Y/N appeared clutching an old navy duffel bag. It wasn’t very full. A few clothes.

Garrett frowned. “That’s it?”

She looked embarrassed. “I didn’t know what I was allowed to take.”

The sentence hit everyone differently. Hannah’s eyes immediately filled with tears. Garrett just stared.

Allowed.

Not wanted.

Not needed.

Allowed.

He walked over and took the duffel from her shoulder. “You don’t have to ask anymore.”

She looked uncertain. “…Really?”

He nodded once. “Really.”

She followed him toward the front door. Every step seemed hesitant. Like she expected someone to stop her.

Halfway there, Garrett reached back and instinctively took her hand. She stiffened. He immediately loosened his grip.

“It’s okay.”

Then he saw it. A faint yellowing bruise wrapped around the inside of her wrist. His breath caught. Slowly, very carefully, he turned her hand over. His thumb barely brushed the edge of the fading mark.

“…Y/N.”

She quietly tried to pull her hand back.

“It’s nothing.”

His eyes closed for just a second. When he opened them again, they were glassy.

“You know me.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She looked at him. Really looked at him. For what felt like the first time all evening.

“I know.”

“No.” He shook his head gently. “I don’t think you do.” His thumb squeezed her hand once “So let me remind you. I’m your brother.” His voice cracked. “I should’ve come back sooner.”

The admission hung between them. Y/N swallowed hard.

“I thought…” She couldn’t finish.

“What?”

“I thought you left because…” Tears welled in her eyes. “…because I wasn’t enough of a reason to stay.”

Garrett looked like someone had punched him. He stepped forward without thinking and wrapped his arms around her. For a heartbeat she stayed completely stiff.

Then she hugged him back.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I am so unbelievably sorry.” His grip tightened.

Y/N’s words were muffled against his chest with her quiet cries. Garrett shut his eyes.

“I thought getting away from him meant I was protecting both of us.” His voice broke. “I never realized I left you to survive him alone.”

Neither of them noticed Hannah quietly wiping tears from her cheeks. Or Cindy watching from the dining room doorway with heartbreak written across her face.

The front door clicked open.

Cold November air drifted inside.

Phil remained seated at the table. Calm. Collected. As though this were nothing more than an inconvenience.

“You enjoy your little vacation,” he called after them.

Y/N froze.

Phil’s eyes settled on her. “You’ll be back.”His voice remained smooth. “You always come back.”

For a moment the sixteen-year-old girl looked like she might believe him.

Then Garrett stepped beside her. He didn’t let go of her hand. He looked directly at Phil.

“No.”

Just one word. Quiet. Certain.

“You don’t get her back.”

Phil smiled.

“We’ll see.”

Garrett didn’t answer.

Instead, he looked at his sister. “Ready?”

She looked at the open door. Then at the house she’d spent years believing she’d never escape.

Finally she nodded.

Garrett smiled, a real one this time, small but steady. “Good.”

Keeping hold of her hand, he led her across the threshold.

The door closed behind them with a solid click.

For the first time in a very long time, Y/N walked away from that house.

[residentheartache]

Hey,I have a request if you’re ok writing about triggering things. Can you please do a Jack abbot x a reader with an eating disorder preferable bulimia? If not I completely understand thank you for reading this.

Summary — After a long night shift at The Pitt, you think you’ve made it through unnoticed. But when exhaustion and weeks of hiding your eating disorder finally catch up to you, you collapse in the hallway of your apartment building and end up right back in the last place you wanted to be: the ER. Unfortunately for you, the doctor bringing day shift up to speed is the one person who already knows something is wrong Jack Abbott.

Warnings — bulimia/eating disorder retching/throwing up reader disordered eating behaviors, Body image struggles, Mentions of food anxiety and guilt around eating, Medical discussion of eating disorder symptoms, Emotional distress and shame related to eating disorders, Hospital setting and medical content.

Word count — 4.1k I will have to do a part two this kinda got too long for my liking but I don’t mind doing a part two.

If these topics are difficult for you, please prioritize your wellbeing and consider skipping this story. If you or someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder, you’re not alone. Support is available through medical professionals, trusted people in your life, or organizations that specialize in eating disorder recovery.

This wasn’t edited or proofread I don’t have a beta reader or editor so I apologize for mistakes I may have missed looking over this.

The break room was quiet for once. which was strange because The Pitt was rarely silent, but the lull between patients had settled over the floor like a held breath. Jack Abbott sat at the small table with a chart in front of him, pen resting between his fingers.

He wasn’t reading it. His eyes kept drifting across the room to you.You were sitting across from him, hunched slightly over the table, slowly tearing apart a granola bar wrapper like it had personally offended you. The foil crinkled softly with every nervous movement of your hands.

Ten minutes and you’d taken two bites. Jack leaned back in his chair, studying you over the top of the chart.

“You gonna eat that,” he asked casually, “or pick apart at it first?”

You blinked up at him, startled out of whatever anxious spiral you’d been in.

“I’m eating it.”

Your voice was quick, defensive.

To prove your point, you broke off a tiny piece and put it in your mouth. Jack hummed and he was not convinced. He’d been noticing things lately. Little things: like the way you chewed gum constantly, always mint flavored, always right after meals.

The way you carried a small pack of mints in your scrub pocket like they were a lifeline. The way your voice was sometimes rough in the mornings, like your throat hurt. But the thing that really caught his attention was your hands.

You tapped your fingers nervously against the table, and when you reached for your water bottle Jack saw the faint redness along your swollen knuckles

But not subtle enough for someone who spent their life looking for physical symptoms. Jack’s gaze lingered for half a second too long.

You noticed and your hand immediately dropped into your lap.The room was filled with the soft buzz of the vending machine and you forced yourself to take another bite of the granola bar, chewing slowly like every movement required effort.

Jack watched the way your jaw tightened. The way your eyes kept flicking toward the clock on the wall. Like you were waiting for something or counting down to something.

“You look like someone forced you to eat drywall,” Jack said dryly.

You rolled your eyes.

“I’m just tired.”

Jack nodded slightly.

“Tired people usually eat their food.”

You swallowed hard. The bite seemed to stick in your throat, and you quickly grabbed your water bottle, taking a long drink. When you set it down your fingers trembled. Just a little and Jack noticed that too.

He noticed everything about you lately. The way you sometimes swayed slightly during long shifts like you were dizzy. The way you insisted on taking extra charts, extra patients, extra responsibilities like if you worked hard enough you could outrun whatever was gnawing at you.

Perfectionism.

Control.

Classic coping.

Jack didn’t say that part out loud. Instead he gestured toward the granola bar.

“You know,” he said casually, “they make those things smaller now.”

You frowned.

“What?”

“Yeah,” he continued with mock seriousness. “Used to be twice that size. Now they’re barely a snack.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“You’re making that up.”

“Maybe.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at your mouth.For a second, the tension in your shoulders loosened. Then you glanced at the clock again and the tension snapped right back. Jack followed your gaze to the clock 2:17 a.m. You stood up, the chair scraping softly against the tile.

“Gotta get back,I have a patient to check on” you said quickly.

The granola bar was still half untouched.

You tossed it into the trash like it was evidence. Jack’s jaw tightened slightly.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Sure.”

You were already halfway to the door.

Jack waited about thirty seconds.

Then he stood too.

Not obviously following.

Just walking the same direction.

The hallway outside the break room was dimmer, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Nurses passed by in a blur of motion, voices echoing faintly from patient rooms.

Jack walked past the staff bathroom and then he stopped. The sound came from behind the door.

Quiet.

But unmistakable.

Retching.

Jack’s stomach dropped.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the door.

Doctors learned to identify sounds quickly. Coughs. Wheezes. Distress.

This one he recognized instantly.

The sink turned on a second later.

Water rushing loudly.

Jack rubbed a hand over his jaw.

He could leave.

Pretend he hadn’t heard it.

Everyone deserved privacy.

Jack leaned back against the wall outside the door, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t call your name.

He just waited.

About a minute later the water shut off.

The door opened.

You froze the second you saw him.

Your eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights.

“Jesus, Jack.”

Your voice sounded thin.

“You scared me.”

Jack looked at you carefully.

Your eyes were red.

Your lips looked irritated, like you’d been biting them too hard.

“Stomach bug?” Jack asked gently.

You nodded immediately.

“Yeah it must’ve been something I ate.”

Jack tilted his head slightly.

“Funny,” he said quietly. “That stomach bug seems to show up every time you eat.”

Your shoulders went rigid.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Jack pushed himself off the wall and stepped a little closer, but his posture stayed relaxed and non-threatening.

“Kid,” he sighed softly.

You hated it when he called you that, especially when his voice sounded so gentle and knowing.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said. “But I’m also not blind.”

You stared at the floor. Your fingers were twisting the gum wrapper into a tight little knot.

Jack’s gaze drifted to your hands again, your knuckles were red and slightly swollen.

He exhaled quietly.

“I’m not here to lecture you,” he continued. “And I’m definitely not here to embarrass you in the hallway.”

Your throat bobbed when you swallowed.

“I’m fine.”

Jack studied your face for a long moment.

“You’re dizzy on shift,” he said calmly.

“You barely eat.”

“You carry enough mints and gum to supply a small convenience store.”

Your eyes snapped up to his.

“And you disappear every time you finish a meal.”

The silence between you turned heavy.

Jack softened his voice.

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

Your eyes burned.

“I’m not—”

Your voice cracked.

You quickly looked away.

Jack felt something twist painfully in his chest.

He stepped back slightly, giving you space.

“I’m not trying to corner you,” he said gently.

Your arms wrapped around yourself.

“You should go.”

Jack nodded slowly.

“Yeah.”

He started down the hallway.

Then paused.

Without turning around, he said quietly:

“Whatever’s going on with you…”

His voice softened.

“You don’t have to fight it alone.”

Your breathing hitched.

Jack waited a moment.

But you didn’t speak.

So he kept walking.

Behind him, he heard a quiet sound.

A shaky breath.

Like you were trying very hard not to cry.

And Jack knew one thing with absolute certainty.

This conversation wasn’t over.

A couple hours later Jack tried to focus on his chart. He really did but the numbers blurred together after a while. Blood pressure. Lab results. Medication adjustments. None of it stuck because his brain kept replaying the same things.

Your hands.

Your voice.

The sound behind that bathroom door.

Jack had been a doctor long enough to know what he heard. And long enough to know how carefully this kind of thing had to be handled. Push too hard, and people shut down. Ignore it, and it gets worse.

He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and glanced down the hallway. You were at the nurses’ station now, standing over a chart working like nothing had happened. You were good at that. Jack had noticed that too. Always the first to volunteer for another patient.

Always the one double-checking medications. Always staying late.

Perfection.

Control.

He watched as you shifted your weight slightly.

Your hand braced against the counter for a second Just a second But it was enough to know that you were Dizzy. You straightened quickly when a nurse spoke to you, nodding like everything was normal.

Jack stood up and he grabbed his coffee and walked over casually.

“You’re about to put the rest of us out of a job,” he said, leaning against the counter.

You looked up.

“What?”

“All these charts done already?” he continued. “Overachiever.”

You shrugged, trying to look unaffected.

“Just staying on top of things.”

Jack’s gaze flicked to the pack of gum you’d placed next to the computer.

Half empty.

He tapped it lightly with his finger.

“Your dentist must love you.”

You immediately grabbed it.

“It helps with nausea.”

Jack hummed softly.

“Mhm.”

You slipped a piece into your mouth.

The mint smell hit the air almost immediately.

Jack didn’t comment.

Instead he reached over and slid one of the patient charts out to the way.

“Did you eat lunch today?” he asked casually.

You stiffened almost imperceptibly.

“Yeah.”

“What’d you have?”

Your brain stalled.

“A granola bar.”

Jack nodded slowly.

“That's it?”

You shrugged.

“I’m not that hungry.”

Jack studied your face for a moment there it was again that flicker of guilt. People who were simply “not hungry” didn’t look like that when they said it.

You quickly turned back to the computer.

“I’ve got to check the patient in room four,” you said.

Your voice had that rushed edge again.

Jack didn’t stop you.

But as you walked away, he noticed the way you pressed your arm briefly against the wall as you turned the corner like you needed the support.

Jack exhaled slowly.

Later that evening, the shift finally started to slow by bleeding into the morning.

You were back in the break room again. A different snack this time was a yogurt cup, sitting in front of you unopened. You were just staring at it so hard that you didn’t know that Jack was leaning against the doorway.

“You know it won’t explode if you open it.”

You jumped slightly.

“Do you ever knock?”

“This isn’t a bedroom.” You sighed out and peeled the lid open.

Jack stepped inside, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

He didn’t sit right away.

Instead he leaned against the counter, watching you take a small spoonful.

You swallowed it quickly.

Too quickly.

Your eyes immediately flicked toward the door.

Jack noticed.

“Relax,” he said gently. “Nobody’s timing you.”

Your grip tightened slightly around the spoon.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

His voice wasn’t accusing Just calm and Matter-of-fact.

You stared down at the cup of yogurt.

Jack waited a moment he said quietly,

“Does it feel like if you stop paying attention, everything spins out of control?”

Your head snapped up.

You hadn’t expected that.

Jack shrugged lightly.

“Control’s a funny thing,” he said. “We grab onto whatever we can.”

You looked away again.

“I should get back to work.”

“You’ve got five minutes left of your break.”

Your leg bounced under the table.

Jack watched you carefully.

Then he noticed something else.

When you lifted the spoon to your mouth again, you winced slightly.

“Teeth bothering you?” he asked.

You froze.

“It’s nothing.”

Jack nodded slowly.

“Acid can do that it eats away at your tooth enamel.”

Silence filled the room. Your breathing got a little shakier. Jack immediately softened his tone.

“I’m not judging you,” he said quietly.

You blinked hard.

“I just…”

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

“I care about the people I work with.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“You shouldn’t.”

Jack frowned.

“Why not?”

You stared at the yogurt like it personally offended you.

“Because it’s stupid,” you muttered.

Jack shook his head.

“No.”

Your eyes finally met his.

“It’s not stupid.”

His voice was gentle but firm.

“It’s something you’re dealing with.”

Your throat tightened.

Jack leaned back slightly, giving you space again.

“You don’t have to explain it today,” he said.

Your shoulders dropped a fraction.

“But if you ever want someone to sit with you while you eat…”

He gestured to the .

“I can do that.”

You stared at him like you didn’t quite believe what you were hearing.

Most people would’ve told you to “just eat.”

Or lectured you.

Or made a joke.

Jack just stood there. Calm. Patient. And Waiting.

After a long moment, you slowly took another spoonful.

Jack didn’t say anything but he stayed.

In the last hour of your shift The Pitt hummed monitors beeped somewhere down the hall. A nurse laughed softly at the desk.

The break room light buzzed overhead.

You were still sitting at the table with a banana in your hand halfway eaten which, for you, felt like running a marathon.

Your stomach twisted unpleasantly. Not from the banana but from the panic that came after eating.

It always came like a tight, crawling feeling under your ribs. Like your skin didn’t fit right. Like something inside you was screaming get it out get it out get it out.

You pressed your palm flat against your stomach.

Jack noticed immediately.

“You okay?”

You nodded too fast.

“Yeah.”

Your leg bounced harder under the table.

The voice in your head was getting louder.

Too much.

You shouldn’t have eaten that much.

You’re going to feel it all night.

Your fingers tightened around the banna until your knuckles turned pale.

Jack watched you carefully.

Doctors were trained to notice physical symptoms.

But Jack had also gotten very good at noticing you.

The way your breathing changed.

The way your eyes went distant when you started spiraling.

“You don’t have to finish it,” he said quietly.

Your head snapped up.

“I know that.”

Defensive again.

Jack raised his hands slightly.

“Hey. Easy.”

You hated how quickly your emotions jumped from zero to a hundred lately.

You forced yourself to take another bite.

Your throat burned slightly when you swallowed.

It has been doing that more lately.

Raw.

Like sandpaper.

Jack noticed you swallow carefully.

“Is your throat still bothering you?”

You shook your head.

“No.” You said lying.

Your throat hurts most mornings now. Sometimes your voice came out hoarse when you first started talking during rounds.

You told people it was allergies. Jack wasn’t convinced. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely.

“You know what the worst part of working in a hospital is?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“We see the consequences of everything.”

You frowned slightly.

“Meaning?”

Jack shrugged.

“Smoking. Drinking. Stress.”

His eyes flicked toward you briefly.

“Not eating enough.”

Your chest tightened.

“And eating in ways that hurt your body.”

Your stomach dropped.

You stared at the banna again.

Your appetite has completely disappeared now.

Jack noticed that too.

He pushed away from the counter and sat across from you.

Not close.

Just present.

“You know something else?” he said gently.

You didn’t answer.

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

Your jaw tightened.

“I’m not hiding anything.”

Jack gave you a look.

“The gum.”

Your fingers froze.

“The mints.”

Your heart started racing.

“The bathroom trips.”

Your stomach twisted.

“And the way you look like you’re about to pass out during hour twelve of a shift.”

You stared at the table.

Your eyes burned.

Jack’s voice softened.

“Kid.”

Your throat tightened.

“I hate that nickname.”

“I know.”

That made your chest hurt worse.

Because he remembered.

Jack leaned his elbows on the table slightly.

“Can I ask you something?”

You shrugged weakly.

“I guess.”

“How long?”

Your head jerked up.

“What?”

“How long has this been going on?”

You looked away.

Your fingers drifted toward your mouth automatically.

Chewing gum.

Always chewing gum.

It helped cover the taste.

Jack noticed.

He gently slid the gum pack a little farther away.

Not aggressively.

Just enough.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Your eyes are glossy now.

“I don’t—”

Your voice cracked.

You swallowed hard.

Jack didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t rush you.

The silence stretched.

Finally you whispered,

“A while.”

Jack nodded slowly.

“Months?”

You shook your head.

Your voice was barely audible.

“Years.”

Something in Jack’s expression shifted; it wasn't shock or judgment just sadness.

“That’s a long time to carry something by yourself.”

Your hands were shaking now.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Jack leaned back slightly.

“You’re right.”

You blinked.

“I probably don’t understand exactly what it feels like.”

That surprised you.

Most people argued that point.

“But I do understand addiction.”

Your eyes flicked up.

“And I understand coping mechanisms,” he continued.

“And I understand people hurting themselves because it feels like the only way to stay in control.”

Your breathing got uneven.

Your stomach twisted again.

You pushed your chair back slightly.

“I need to go.”

Jack’s voice stayed calm.

“To the bathroom?”

You froze.

Your face burned with humiliation.

“I feel sick.”

Jack didn’t move.

“Yeah.”

Your chest heaved once.

You hated that he knew.

You hated that someone finally saw through it.

You hated that a small part of you felt relieved.

Jack spoke carefully.

“Does it ever stop feeling urgent?”

You didn’t answer.

“Like if you don’t get rid of it immediately something terrible will happen?”

Your breathing hitched.

You stared at the floor.

Jack nodded softly.

“Thought so.”

You pressed your hands against the table.

Your knuckles hurt.

The skin there had been splitting lately.

Tiny scabs that never quite healed.

Jack had noticed those too.

“Your hands must hurt,” he said gently.

You instinctively pulled them into your sleeves.

“I burned them while cooking.”

Jack didn’t call you out.

Instead he said quietly,

“Stomach acid is brutal on skin.”

The room went silent again. Your vision blurred. You hated crying. Especially at work. Especially in front of him.

Jack leaned back slightly, giving you space again.

“You’re not weak for this,” he said.

Your laugh came out shaky.

“You don’t know that.”

Jack’s voice was firm now.

“Yes I do.”

You wiped quickly at your eyes.

“You should be focusing on patients instead of psychoanalyzing me.”

Jack tilted his head.

“You are one of my people.”

Your heart skipped.

“My people?”

“The people I work with.”

His voice softened again.

“The people I care about.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

No one had ever said that to you about this.

Usually it was anger.

Or frustration.

Or why can’t you just stop.

Jack watched you carefully.

“You know what scares me the most?”

You looked up weakly.

“What?”

“The dizziness.”

Your stomach dropped.

“And the exhaustion.”

He paused.

“And the fact that you’re trying to function in one of the most stressful jobs possible while your body’s basically running on fumes.”

Your hands started shaking again.

Jack noticed.

“You deserve help,” he said quietly.

Your immediate reaction was a sharp shake of your head.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m fine.”

Jack sighed softly.

“That word again.”

You stared at him.

Your voice cracked.

“I can handle it.”

Jack held your gaze.

“Maybe.”

He paused.

“But you shouldn’t have to.”

The words hit you harder than anything else he’d said.

Your chest rose and fell unevenly.

The bathroom urge was still clawing at you.

But now something else sat in your chest too.

Fear.

And something unfamiliar.

Hope.

Jack stood slowly.

“Finish your banana if you want but if you don’t, that’s okay too.”

You stared at the cup.

Jack grabbed his water bottle.

Then he paused at the doorway.

“You know where to find me.”

Your voice was small.

“Why do you care so much?”

Jack looked back at you.

For a second his usual sarcastic mask dropped completely.

“Because you matter, you are my friend and I care about you.

The words stayed with you longer than you wanted them to.

You didn’t know what to do with that kind of honesty. Jack was usually sarcastic and dry humor, not quiet confessions in the break room at four in the morning.

So you did the only thing you could.

You left.

The end of the shift blurred together after that. Charts. Discharges. A few last patients trickled in before the day shift arrived.

You avoided Jack as much as possible.

Not obviously.

Just enough.

By the time the morning staff began filling the floor, exhaustion was settling deep in your bones. The kind that made your thoughts feel slow and heavy.

You signed out, grabbed your bag, and slipped out of The Pitt without saying goodbye.

Your apartment building hallway smelled faintly like old carpet and someone’s burnt toast. You fumbled with your keys, your brain still half stuck in hospital mode. Vitals. Labs. Medication doses.

Your stomach twisted. The banana from earlier felt like it was still sitting wrong inside you. The familiar anxiety crept up again.

Too much.

You leaned against the hallway wall for a second.

Just to breathe.

The lights overhead flickered slightly.

Your vision blurred around the edges.

You blinked hard.

“Okay,” you muttered to yourself. “Just tired.”

You pushed off the wall and took another step toward your door.

The hallway tilted.

Your stomach dropped.

You reached for the wall again but this time your hand missed.

The last thing you saw was the ugly beige carpet rushing toward you.

————

Jack Abbott stood at the nurses’ station, arms crossed loosely while the day shift gathered around.

Morning light spilled through the high windows, turning the usual chaos into something almost calm.

Almost.

“Room four is stable,” Jack said, glancing down at the chart in his hands. “A kid with appendicitis is heading to surgery. Labs are already—”

The ambulance bay doors burst open.

The sound cut through the station like a knife.

Paramedics rolled a stretcher inside quickly.

“Female, mid-twenties,” one of them was saying. “Found unconscious in her apartment hallway. Possible syncope. Blood sugar was sixty-two in the field.”

Jack barely registered the words.

Because he’d already looked up.

And his brain had stopped processing anything else.

You were on the stretcher.

Your hair was a mess.

Your face is pale.

One arm draped loosely off the side where an IV line had been started.

For a split second, Jack didn’t move.

Then every instinct he had kicked in at once.

“Hey”

One of the residents noticed his expression.

“Dr. Abbott?”

Jack was already walking.

Fast.

The stretcher rolled past the nurses’ station.

Your eyes were half open now, unfocused and glassy.

You looked disoriented.

Embarrassed.

Then your gaze drifted sideways and landed on him.

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh no.”

Your voice was hoarse.

The paramedic glanced between the two of you.

“You know her?”

Jack’s jaw tightened.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

He stepped alongside the stretcher as they pushed it toward an open bay.

“What happened?”

“The neighbor found her on the floor,” the paramedic said. “Said she passed out in the hallway.”

Jack’s eyes flicked to your face.

Your skin still looked too pale.

You refused to meet his gaze.

“I’m fine,” you muttered weakly.

Jack let out a breath through his nose.

He’d heard that sentence from you about twenty times in the last twelve hours.

“You’re on a stretcher,” he said dryly.

You groaned softly.

“Jack, please don’t make this a thing.”

The paramedic raised an eyebrow.

Jack ignored that.

Instead he focused on the monitor as they rolled into the bay.

Heart rate elevated.

Blood pressure is a little low.

Not catastrophic.

But not great either.

“What’s her glucose now?” Jack asked.

“Sixty-two in the field,” the paramedic repeated. “Haven’t rechecked yet.”

Jack nodded.

“Let’s get another reading and start fluids.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I hate this.”

Jack leaned slightly closer to the stretcher.

“I warned you,” he said quietly.

Your eyes opened again.

Guilt flashed across your face.

“I know.”

Jack studied you for a long moment.

The dizziness.

The purging.

barely eating.

The way you’d almost passed out on shift earlier.

And now this.

His jaw clenched.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he said softly.

You looked away.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

A nurse slipped the blood glucose monitor onto your finger.

The machine beeped.

“Fifty-eight.”

Jack exhaled slowly.

Too low again.

He grabbed a chair and pulled it next to the bed while the nurse started another IV bag.

“You’re staying here for a bit,” he said.

You shook your head weakly.

“I have to sleep. I’ve been up all night.”

Jack gave you a look.

“You passed out in your apartment hallway.”

You sighed miserably.

“Can we pretend this didn’t happen?”

Jack leaned back in the chair.

“Not a chance.”

You covered your face with your hands.

Mortified.

Outside the bay, the rest of the ER buzzed with activity.

New patients arriving.

Phones ringing.

Monitors beeping.

But Jack didn’t move.

Not even when another doctor walked by and asked if he was taking the case.

He just gestured toward the chart.

“I’ve got it.”

You peeked at him through your fingers.

“Why?”

Jack didn’t hesitate.

“Because you’re not going through this alone.”

Your chest tightened again.

And despite the embarrassment

Despite the fear

Something in your shoulders loosened slightly.

Because Jack Abbott wasn’t going anywhere.

A/N — Oh wow this was a lot I haven’t written this much since high school English class but here we are!

I will be doing a second part if you want to be tagged leave a comment below.

[residentheartache]

I’m working on part two!

[townsendbaby]

Hii, are u taking requests?

Could you write one where the reader is Logan's girlfriend and Garrett's sister, and she's a figure skater and Phill is the one who coaches and choreographs her performances. One day, she messes up her choreography during a really important competition, and her dad completely loses it. He gets furious and tries to hit her (nothing too intense, just Phill being the asshole he is).

Then Logan and Garrett show up at the exact same time and immediately step in to protect her. I'd love to see Logan absolutely furious while defending his girl—like, full protective boyfriend mode. You know, something like, "Don't you dare lay a hand on my girl!"

Take Your Hand Off My Girlfriend

John Logan x Graham!Reader (y/n)

Summary: After y/n messes up the choreography during an important competition, Phil turns more furious than ever. Logan and Garett find y/n during the heated moment and help her.

TW: Phil Graham

Word Count: 2.4K

The applause sounded distant. Muted.

Y/N barely heard it over the pounding of her own heartbeat as she glided to the center of the ice for her final pose.

She already knew.

The mistake had happened barely forty seconds into the program.

One step.

One wrong step.

She’d entered the combination from the wrong edge, forcing her to improvise nearly twenty seconds of choreography she’d practiced thousands of times. Most people in the audience probably hadn’t noticed.

The judges had.

More importantly her father had.

By the time she stepped off the ice, her medal hopes had disappeared.

Commentators praised how well she’d recovered from the mistake.

Fans asked for photos.

Young skaters wished her luck next season.

Y/N smiled automatically through all of it.

She knew exactly what was waiting behind the scenes.

Phil Graham didn’t say a single word during scoring.

He simply stood. Turned. Walked toward the restricted hallway leading to the locker rooms.

“Y/N.”

His voice wasn’t loud.

It never had to be.

She followed.

—

The hallway was nearly empty. Only the distant hum of the arena echoed through the concrete corridors.

Phil stopped outside an unused dressing room. The second the door shut behind them, he rounded on her.

“What,” he asked quietly, “was that?”

Y/N kept her eyes lowered.

“I lost my timing.”

“You forgot the choreography.”

“I recovered.”

“You forgot.”

His voice sharpened on the last word.

“I know.”

“No.” He stepped closer. “You don’t.”

“I practiced it…”

“You embarrassed me.”

Y/N swallowed. “It was one section.”

“One section?”

His laugh held no humor.

“You think sponsors remember the clean triple after you butcher the program?”

“I’m sorry.”

“There it is.” Another step. “Always sorry.”

She instinctively took one backward.

Phil noticed.

“Oh, don’t start acting scared now.”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“And I said sorry doesn’t win competitions.”

His hand shot out. Not striking. Grabbing.

His fingers wrapped painfully around her wrist. Hard.

“So maybe you’ll remember this next time.”

Pain shot up her arm. “Dad…”

“You want to skate professionally?” His grip tightened until she winced. “Then start acting like one.”

“Dad… you’re hurting me.”

“Good.”

Her eyes watered.

“Maybe pain is the only thing you’ll remember.”

She tried pulling away. His grip only became tighter.

“Stop moving.”

“I can’t…”

“You forgot twenty seconds of choreography because you got emotional.”

“I slipped.”

“You panicked.”

“I adjusted!”

“You failed.”

He yanked her forward.

The force knocked her off balance, sending her crashing against his chest before he shoved her back upright again.

Her wrist throbbed violently now.

“Dad…”

“Look at me.”

She couldn’t.

He grabbed her chin with his free hand.

“I said…”

The dressing-room door slammed open.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Both of them turned.

Logan stood in the doorway.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, like he’d sprinted the entire length of the arena.

His eyes landed on Phil’s hand gripping Y/N’s wrist. Then on the tears she’d clearly been trying to blink away.

Something in Logan’s expression changed.

Not anger.

Something colder.

More dangerous.

“Let her go.”

Phil barely looked at him.

“This is none of your business.”

“The second you put your hands on her…” Logan took one step into the room. “…it became my business.”

Y/N had never seen him look like this.

Logan was usually easy smiles and sarcastic comments. Quick to laugh. Quick to forgive.

That man wasn’t standing in front of her anymore. This Logan looked absolutely livid.

Phil scoffed.

“Stay out of family matters.”

Logan’s jaw tightened.

“I’ll stay out of your coaching.”

Another step.

“I’ll stay out of your parenting.”

Another.

“But you don’t get to hurt her.”

Phil’s fingers remained locked around Y/N’s wrist.

“I said let go.”

“Or what?”

Logan didn’t answer immediately.

His gaze stayed fixed on Phil’s hand.

When he finally spoke, his voice was terrifyingly calm.

“Take.”

A beat.

“Your hand.”

Another.

“Off.”

His eyes finally met Phil’s.

“My girlfriend.”

Silence stretched between them.

Phil sneered.

“She’s my daughter.”

“And she’s standing here telling you you’re hurting her.”

The words landed like a punch.

Y/N hadn’t even realized she’d said them out loud.

Phil looked back at her.

“You’ve got him fighting your battles now?”

Before she could answer another voice echoed down the hallway.

“Y/N?”

Garrett.

The three of them turned just as he reached the doorway.

He stopped.

His hockey bag slipped from his shoulder onto the floor.

His eyes immediately found Phil’s grip on Y/N’s wrist.

His sister’s watery eyes. The fear written across her face.

Garrett didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in three long strides.

“What the fuck?”

Phil released her only when Garrett physically stepped between them.

Y/N stumbled backward.

Logan caught her before she could lose her balance.

“You okay?” he asked immediately, his voice changing in an instant.

Gentle.

Soft.

She nodded automatically.

Logan looked down.

Her wrist was already reddening. Angry fingerprints wrapped around it.

His stomach twisted. “You call this okay?”

Y/N instinctively pulled her arm behind her back.

“It’s fine.”

“The hell it is.”

Garrett turned slowly toward Phil. His expression was unreadable. Which somehow made it worse.

“What happened?”

Phil shrugged. “She needed correcting.”

Garrett laughed once.

Short.

Disbelieving.

“You grabbed her hard enough to leave bruises,” Logan spoke.

“She embarrassed herself.”

“No,” Garrett said quietly.

“You embarrassed yourself.”

Phil’s face darkened. “Watch your mouth.”

“No.”

Garrett took one deliberate step forward, “You watch yours.”

Logan felt Y/N trembling beside him.

Without saying anything, he reached for her hand.

Not the injured one.

The other.

His fingers threaded carefully through hers.

She held on immediately. Like she’d been waiting for permission.

Logan squeezed once.

“I’m right here,” he murmured without taking his eyes off Phil.

She nodded, breathing unevenly.

Logan continued.

“You don’t get to touch her.”

“I’m her father.”

“You’re supposed to protect her.”

The hallway fell silent.

Phil looked from Garrett to Logan standing protectively in front of Y/N to his daughter, who had unconsciously moved closer to Logan.

For the first time all afternoon, she wasn’t standing beside her father. She was standing behind someone else.

Phil’s jaw clenched. “This conversation isn’t over.”

“It is,” Logan said.

Phil looked at him.

Logan didn’t look away. “If you ever put your hands on her again…” His voice remained steady, but there was enough steel in it that even Y/N felt herself go still. “…you won’t have to worry about whether I’m her boyfriend.” A long pause. “You’ll have to worry about me.”

No shouting.

No threats dressed up as bravado.

Just a quiet promise from someone who meant every word.

Phil held his stare for several tense seconds.

Then, with one last glare, he shoved past Garrett and disappeared down the hallway.

The door swung shut behind him.

Silence.

Y/N hadn’t realized she was shaking until Logan turned toward her completely.

His anger vanished the instant he looked at her.

“Hey.”

He lifted his free hand slowly.

Giving her every chance to pull away.

Instead, she stepped into him.

He wrapped his arms around her carefully.

“You’re okay,” he whispered into her hair.

“I’ve got you.”

Garrett moved beside them, resting a gentle hand on the back of his sister’s shoulder.

Caught safely between her brother and the man she loved, Y/N finally let herself cry, not because she’d lost the competition, but because, for the first time after a mistake on the ice, she wasn’t facing the aftermath by herself.

—

The hallway stayed quiet long after Phil disappeared.

Y/N still hadn’t let go of Logan’s hand.Not because she thought Phil would come back. Because her fingers simply wouldn’t unclench.

Logan noticed.

Without saying anything, he slowly turned his hand so their fingers intertwined more comfortably, rubbing his thumb gently across her knuckles.

“Hey.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You with me?”

She nodded automatically.

Logan smiled sadly.

“I asked if you were with me.”

Another pause.

This time she actually looked at him.

“…Yeah.”

“There you are.”

His free hand came up to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Only then did he notice tears still clinging to her lashes.

His heart twisted.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Logan blinked. “What?”

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He stared at her like she’d started speaking another language.

“What are you apologizing for?”

She shrugged weakly.

“I didn’t want you to…” Her voice trailed off “…to see him like that.”

Logan’s expression softened even more “Sweetheart.” He cupped her cheek gently. “The only person who should be apologizing is your father.”

She shook her head.

“I ruined your afternoon.”

“You think this ruined my afternoon?”

A tiny nod.

Logan let out a quiet breath.

“You know what would’ve ruined my afternoon?”

She looked at him uncertainly.

“If I’d walked in five minutes later.”

The words settled heavily between them.

He leaned his forehead against hers.

“I don’t care about the competition.”

“I messed up.”

“I know.”

“I practiced that routine for months.”

“I know.”

“I disappointed everyone.”

“You disappointed absolutely nobody.”

She gave him a skeptical look.

“I watched you improvise almost thirty seconds of choreography without falling apart.”

A tiny smile almost appeared.

“That’s impossible to do and you did without loosing yourself. It was an intense moment and you handled well.” Logan continued, “I’ve seen hockey players cry because they broke a skate lace.”

That earned him the smallest snort from Y/n

“There she is.” Logan smiled. “I missed that.”

Y/N finally let herself smile, even if only a little.

Garrett, who had been politely pretending not to listen while collecting Y/N’s skate guards and jacket, walked over with her competition bag slung over one shoulder.

“I have one new rule.”

Y/N looked at him.

Garrett tossed her jacket gently into her arms.

“After competitions?”

She waited.

“You don’t go anywhere alone.”

She frowned. “Garrett—”

“I’m serious.”

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“If dad wants to talk?” He nodded toward Logan. “You come find one of us first.”

“Garrett…”

“No.” His voice stayed calm. “You call me.” He pointed at Logan. “Or him.” Then back to himself. “I don’t care if I’m in the middle of practice. I don’t care if Logan’s asleep. I don’t care if we’re across the damn arena. His eyes softened. “You don’t have to deal with him by yourself.”

Logan nodded immediately. “If you text me one word…” He squeezed her hand. “…I’ll come.”

Y/N looked between them.

Her brother.

Her boyfriend.

Both standing there looking at her like protecting her wasn’t an obligation, like it was the easiest decision they’d ever made.

Her eyes stung again. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Garrett shrugged. “Runs in the family.”

Logan grinned. “I was gonna say handsome, but sure we can go with ridiculous if you want to.”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “Please don’t flirt in front of me.”

That finally pulled a genuine laugh from Y/N.

It echoed through the hallway.

Both boys visibly relaxed.

“There it is,” Garrett said quietly. “That’s the sound I wanted.”

—

Twenty minutes later they were finally outside. The cold evening air felt refreshing after the stuffy arena.

“So,” Garrett announced dramatically, stretching his arms over his head.

“I’m starving.”

“Me too,” Logan admitted.

Y/N nodded. “I could eat.”

Garrett looked between them. Then a slow grin spread across his face.

“…Actually.”

Logan immediately recognized that smile.

“No.”

“What?”

“I know that look.”

“I don’t have a look.”

“You absolutely have a look.”

Garrett slung Y/N’s bag into Logan’s truck before tossing Logan his keys.

“You two go.”

Y/N frowned.

“What about you?”

“I’m suddenly craving pizza.”

“So come with us.”

“Nah.”

“You just said you were starving.”

“I am.”

“So…?”

Garrett started backing away toward his own car. “I’ve decided I don’t want to third-wheel my little sister making googly eyes at her boyfriend all night.”

Y/N’s face turned bright red.

“We do not make googly eyes.”

Logan couldn’t help laughing.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He looked at Garrett “She’s in denial.”

“I noticed.”

“Garrett!”

He held up both hands innocently.

“I’m leaving.”

He pointed at Logan. “You.” Logan straightened. “Take care of her.”

Logan’s joking smile disappeared. “I always do.”

Garrett looked at him for one long moment. Whatever he saw made him nod once. “I know.” Then he looked at Y/N. “I’ll call you tonight.”

She smiled softly. “Okay.”

“And answer your phone.”

“I always answer.”

“You literally don’t.”

“I answer eventually.”

Garrett laughed.

“Good enough.”

With one last wave, he climbed into his car and drove away.

Silence settled between Logan and Y/N.

She watched Garrett’s taillights disappear. Then sighed.

Logan looked at Garett’s car that was leaving and said, “You two are disgustingly wholesome.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly.

“Says the guy who threatened my dad.”

Logan rubbed the back of his neck.

“…Yeah.”

“That was kind of hot.”

He nearly choked.

“…Excuse me?”

She looked away to hide her smile.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, you absolutely did.”

A blush crept onto her cheeks.

“I take it back.”

“Too late.”

He laughed, relieved to hear something so normal after everything that had happened.

He reached for her hand again.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Diner.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“In my sparkly skating dress?”

He looked her up and down dramatically.

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I think you’re underdressed.”

She laughed, shoving his arm.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet…”

He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss across her knuckles, the same wrist he’d watched her father grab only an hour earlier. This time, his touch was impossibly gentle.

“…I still get to take the prettiest girl in the arena to dinner.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

No fear.

No apologies.

Just warmth.

Then she leaned up onto her toes and kissed him.

It was soft.

Brief.

When she pulled away, Logan rested his forehead against hers with a grin.

“I’ve got one more rule.”

“Oh?”

“The next time you lose a competition…”

She groaned.

“I’m not planning on…”

“Hear me out.”

She smiled.

“I’m listening.”

“The first person you come find?” He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Me.”

“And if I win?”

He smiled. “Then you still come find me.”

She laughed quietly. “Deal.”

Hand in hand, they walked toward the parking lot, leaving the arena. and everything that had happened inside it, behind them for the night.

[verstappenverse]

Heyy could I request something ? I got this idea from a video I saw where the guy said he didn’t want to wear the wedding ring because it felt uncomfortable. Maybe Max tells reader this and the reader gets upset and kinda does the same to provoke him ?

Thank you 🌷

A Matter of Principle

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max says his wedding ring doesn’t matter in order to symbolise your love, but when yours disappears too Max learns that jealousy has a way of making symbols feel very real.

5.2k words / Masterlist

Max stopped wearing his wedding ring so casually that at first you thought he'd simply forgotten it.

You noticed it over breakfast, his left hand wrapped around a mug while he scrolled through something on his phone, his thumb moving absently across the screen. The pale band of skin around his finger was still there, a faint outline where the ring usually sat, but the gold itself was missing.

“Where’s your ring?” you asked.

He glanced down at his hand as though he hadn’t noticed until you pointed it out.

“Upstairs I think.”

“You think?”

“On the bedside table.” Max took another drink, entirely unconcerned. “I took it off last night.”

You waited for him to explain, but he returned his attention to his phone, forehead creasing at whatever message he was reading. You told yourself there was nothing unusual about it. He sometimes removed it when he trained, and once or twice he’d forgotten to put it back on before leaving the house, although usually he noticed within an hour and sent you a message about it.

This time, however, the ring remained on the bedside table.

It was still there when he left for the factory the following morning. It sat beside his watch, placed neatly on the dark wood rather than abandoned carelessly, which somehow made its absence from his hand feel more deliberate.

“You’ve forgotten this again,” you said, holding it out to him as he came back into the bedroom to retrieve his wallet.

Max looked at the ring, then at you.

“I didn’t forget.”

Your fingers slowly curled around it. “You’re not wearing it?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly, without the sheepish smile you had expected, and something unpleasant tightened beneath your ribs.

“Why not?”

Max sighed, already sensing that the conversation was becoming more serious than he believed it needed to be. He stepped closer and placed his hands on your waist, rubbing his thumbs over the soft fabric of your jumper as if affection alone would smooth the concern from your face.

“It’s uncomfortable, it catches on everything,” he explained. “Especially when I’m driving or training. I keep noticing it and I don’t really like wearing jewellery anyway,” flexing his fingers as though the ring had been causing him some terrible physical hardship rather than a faint inconvenience.

“You’ve worn it for nearly two years.”

“Yes and it’s annoyed me for nearly two years.”

You stared at him but he just smiled, trying his best to make it sound harmless. “Not because it’s our wedding ring… just because it’s a ring.”

“It never seemed to bother you before.”

“It did. I just didn’t say anything because I knew you would take it personally.”

“I’m not taking it personally.”

“You are.”

“Well you never said anything.”

“Because I knew you'd be upset.” His answer came too easily. You looked at him for several seconds, waiting for some awareness of how unhelpful that confession was, but Max merely took a small step back.

“So you knew it would hurt me, and you decided to do it anyway.”

His expression tightened. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s very close.”

“I just told you.” Max lifted one hand to your cheek. “It has nothing to do with you. I love you. I am married to you. I am completely committed to you and a ring does not change any of that.”

“It represents it.”

“To other people maybe.”

“To me.”

His hand fell away from your face and he looked briefly frustrated, although he tried to conceal it. Max had never understood attaching enormous significance to objects. He cared about actions, loyalty and the things that existed privately between you, the parts of your marriage that did not require an audience. To him the ring was a symbol of something he already knew with complete certainty and symbols had always mattered less to him than facts.

The fact was that he loved you.

The fact was that he came home to you.

The fact was that he had stood in front of everyone who mattered and promised that there would never be anybody else for as long as he lived.

He didn’t understand why a narrow band of gold should carry more weight than all of that.

“It doesn’t make me more married when I wear it,” he said carefully. “And taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know that.”

“I know.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“I suppose I was asking you to care that it means something to me.”

Max’s expression faltered, but only briefly. He stepped back towards you and placed both hands on your waist again, drawing you close despite the stiffness in your body. His voice softened as he kissed your forehead, evidently believing the affection should reassure you more effectively than any further discussion.

“I care about everything that matters to you,” he murmured. “But I think you’re taking this personally when it has nothing to do with you.”

You pulled back enough to look at him. “You keep saying that as if it helps.”

“It should help. I love you.”

“I know.” you repeated

“Then trust that.”

You did trust it. That was almost the most irritating part.

It’s not like Max was trying to appear single. He wasn’t ashamed of you, nor was he concealing your marriage from anybody. He spoke about you constantly, often without realising he had done it, he’d developed a habit of beginning stories with my wife even when your marital status had absolutely no relevance to what followed. There was no hidden intention behind his decision as far as you could tell.

Still, it hurt.

Perhaps because you remembered how he’d looked at the ring on your wedding day, turning your hand beneath the light with a tenderness that had made your chest ache. Or maybe because he’d spent weeks before the ceremony pretending not to care about the design only to privately contact the jeweller three separate times to ensure the engraving was exactly right. Possibly because after the wedding you’d caught him looking down at his own hand with a small, private smile, as though the ring proved something he’d once been afraid he would never have.

It had meant something then.

You didn’t understand why it suddenly meant nothing now.

“I don’t want to argue before you leave,” you said, placing the ring back on the bedside table.

Max studied your face. “Then don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve hurt you.”

You gave him a thin smile. “You should go. You’re already late.”

He kissed your forehead before leaving, lingering for a moment as though reluctant to end the conversation there, but he still left the ring behind.

Over the next week you tried to let it go. You reminded yourself repeatedly that he hadn’t changed. There no secret motive for you to uncover, no suspicious behaviour hiding beneath his decision and no sudden reluctance to acknowledge your marriage. Max spoke about you constantly, often with an unmistakable pride that made even strangers aware of how thoroughly his life had rearranged itself around you. He introduced you as his wife when everybody in the room already knew who you were, kept photographs of you tucked into places he thought you’d never noticed and called you after almost every meeting, flight or race because he seemed to measure the passing of his days by when he could speak to you again. He still reached for your hand beneath restaurant tables, and he still pulled you against him in his sleep as though even unconsciousness made him possessive of the space between you. He continued to behave exactly like your husband.

He simply did it without looking like one.

Other people noticed.

His mother asked whether his fingers had swollen from training. One of the mechanics jokingly asked if he’d already lost it. A journalist’s gaze dropped conspicuously towards his hand during an interview before she carefully rephrased a question about how married life was treating him.

Max answered every comment with the same calm explanation.

He didn’t like jewellery.

The ring was uncomfortable for his style of work.

It did not mean anything.

You smiled whenever somebody looked towards you for reassurance, unwilling to admit that each repetition made the irritation beneath your skin burn a little hotter.

The final push came at a sponsor dinner in Monaco.

You were standing beside Max while he spoke with a group of executives, only half following the conversation as you watched a woman at the edge of the group look him over. She was subtle about it, but not subtle enough. Her attention lingered on his face, his shoulders and then, predictably, his bare left hand.

Her smile changed.

She stepped closer.

You watched her direct questions exclusively at him, laugh too brightly at comments that were not particularly funny and touch his forearm while making a point. Max remained oblivious, answering politely and occasionally glancing towards you, but he didn’t move away from her touch until he saw your expression.

Then he shifted immediately, placing a hand at the small of your back and drawing you closer.

“This is my wife,” he said, although you’d already been introduced.

The woman looked briefly embarrassed. “Of course.”

Max’s hand remained firmly against you for the rest of the conversation.

In the car afterwards he glanced towards you several times before eventually saying, “You’re quiet tonight.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re annoyed.”

“I’m apparently always annoyed now.”

“She knew I was married.”

“After you told her.”

Max frowned.

“She looked at your hand, saw no ring and thought she could try.”

“And then I told her you were my wife.”

You turned towards the window. “Exactly.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re making this into something it’s not.”

“I— I, maybe.” You stuttered slightly, and then looked back out the window.

The ease of your agreement made him suspicious, but he decided to let it go as you said nothing else.

The following morning you removed your wedding ring.

You didn’t announce it, you didn’t leave it pointedly on his side of the bathroom counter or place it somewhere he would be forced to notice. You simply slipped it from your finger while getting dressed and put it inside the small jewellery box in your wardrobe.

For the first few hours Max didn’t realise. He kissed you goodbye, left for a meeting and sent you two irritated messages about traffic. When he returned home in the afternoon he found you in the kitchen arranging flowers that had been delivered earlier that day.

He walked behind you, wrapped both arms around your waist and kissed the side of your neck.

“Who sent these?”

“The foundation.”

“For what?”

“The charity dinner next week.”

He reached around you to examine the card, and his gaze fell upon your hand.

His entire body went still.

You felt the change immediately, although you continued trimming the stem of a flower.

“Where’s your ring?”

The question sounded remarkably similar to the one you’d asked him a week earlier, except there was none of your tentative confusion in his voice. Max sounded sharp, alert and instantly displeased.

“In my jewellery box.”

“Why?”

“It was uncomfortable.”

He released you slowly. You could almost feel him arranging his response, separating what he wanted to say from what he was allowed to say. When you finally turned around, his jaw was set and his eyes were fixed on your bare finger.

“Your ring has never been uncomfortable. You’ve taken it off because I stopped wearing mine.” Max sighed frustrated.

“I thought you said it didn’t matter.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“Perhaps it’s annoyed me for years and I never said anything because I knew you would take it personally.”

His gaze lifted to yours. “You’re doing this to prove a point.”

“I’m just doing the same thing you are.”

“No you aren’t.”

“Why does the reason matter if the ring doesn’t? How is it different?”

“Because you like wearing yours.”

“You don’t get to decide whether I like wearing it.”

“I know you like it.” His voice tightened. “You play with it when you are nervous. You touch it whenever somebody asks about the wedding. You never take it off unless you’re showering or sleeping.”

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

“You didn’t change your mind. You’re trying to irritate me.”

You returned your attention to the flowers, choosing another stem. “Why would it irritate you? A ring doesn’t make me more married, and taking it off doesn’t make me less married. You know I love you. You know I’m committed to you. I shouldn’t need jewellery to prove that.”

Max stared at you in silence.

Hearing his own reasoning returned to him should have ended the argument. Instead, it seemed to make something darker and more complicated move behind his eyes.

“I don’t like it,” he said eventually.

You tried not to smile. “That sounds personal.”

“It is personal.”

“Interesting.”

“Put it back on.”

You looked at him then, unable to conceal your disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“So you can decide that you don’t want to wear yours, but I have to wear mine because you’ve told me to?”

“I didn’t tell you that you had to.”

“You just said, ‘Put it back on.’”

Max looked increasingly frustrated, not with you so much as with the fact that he had walked directly into a trap constructed from his own words. He rubbed a hand across his mouth, glancing again at your empty finger.

“You’re my wife.”

“And you’re my husband.”

“I know.”

“People can’t tell that when they look at your hand.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“And I’ll tell them,” you shot back quick.

“That’s not the point,” The words escaped before he could stop them.

Your eyebrows rose. “No?”

Max closed his eyes briefly.

He knew he was being hypocritical. He knew every argument he wanted to make could be dismantled with something he’d already said to you, and more importantly, he knew you knew it too.

You waited, but he had nothing else to offer. He couldn’t admit that the sight bothered him without giving validity to everything he’d dismissed, and he was too proud to concede the argument when he still believed his original reasoning made sense.

“All right,” you said eventually. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”

The following days became a quiet war.

Neither of you wore your ring and neither of you mentioned it. Max’s discomfort however, became increasingly obvious.

At dinner with friends he watched the waiter smile at you for a little too long while describing the specials. When you thanked him, Max’s hand immediately settled possessively on your thigh beneath the table. At a party an acquaintance you’d met only once before touched your elbow and asked whether you were attending alone. Max appeared at your side before you could answer.

“No,” he said, sliding an arm around your waist. “She’s here with her husband.”

The man blinked. “I didn’t realise.”

You pressed your lips together to hide your amusement.

Max did not find any of it amusing.

Without your ring every innocent interaction seemed to catch his attention, he noticed men looking at you in bars, strangers finding reasons to start conversations and old friends becoming slightly too familiar. Most of them likely would have behaved exactly the same way had the ring been there, but Max no longer had that immediate, visible claim to comfort himself with.

It made him restless.

It also made him clingy.

His hand rarely left your waist in public, he introduced you as his wife with unnecessary frequency. He kissed you more openly, sometimes in the middle of conversations, and stood so close behind you that the front of his body remained pressed to your back.

You knew precisely what he was doing.

He was replacing the symbol he had dismissed with constant physical reminders that you belonged together.

The hypocrisy was so obvious that you expected him to surrender.

Instead, the disagreement became something neither of you could address without reigniting the original argument. Max refused to wear his ring, and you refused to wear yours, while both of you quietly resented the other for making the same choice.

The situation finally broke at the next race weekend.

A set of images from a sponsor dinner appeared online showing you and Max standing several feet apart during a conversation. In one photograph his bare left hand was visible and in another, so was yours.

The speculation began almost immediately.

Most people dismissed it, but enough accounts repeated the suggestion that your marriage might be in trouble for the rumour to reach journalists. A reporter asked Max about it during a media session, disguising the question as casual concern.

Max’s face hardened instantly.

“My marriage is fine,” he answered.

The journalist began to clarify, but Max interrupted.

“It’s more than fine. My wife and I are very happy and there’s no story.”

When he came back to the hotel that evening, he was furious. You were sitting on the sofa when he entered, his phone clenched in one hand. He tossed it down on the table and began removing his jacket with agitated movements.

“They’re saying we separated.”

“I saw.”

“We could’ve released something.”

“A statement announcing that our marriage is intact but neither of us likes wearing jewellery?”

Max looked at you sharply. “This is not funny.”

“I don’t think it’s funny.”

“They’re saying you’ve moved out.”

“I’m sitting in our hotel room.”

“They don’t know that.”

You held his gaze. “You can tell them.”

The reminder of his own words made his jaw clench.

“I did tell them.”

“Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”

“There is a problem when thousands of people think my wife has left me.”

“Why do you care what they think?”

“I don’t care about them.”

“Then who?”

Max turned away, pacing towards the window before facing you again.

“I care that somebody might believe you’re available.”

There it was again, the truth he kept revealing in pieces without ever allowing himself to examine it fully.

“You know I’m not.”

“That’s not the point.”

You stood slowly. “That’s exactly what you said to me.”

“I know what I said.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, and I still believe it. I know you’re committed to me. I know a ring doesn’t change that.”

“But you hate other people not knowing.”

Max didn’t answer.

“You hate the possibility that someone might look at my hand and think there’s space for them in my life,” you continued. “You hate having to explain that I’m your wife after they’ve already approached me, and you hate that people are looking at photographs and questioning whether our marriage is secure.”

“Obviously.”

The answer was quiet, but it came without hesitation.

“That’s how I felt when you took yours off.”

“It’s not the same.”

Your frustration finally broke through. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because I didn’t take it off to hurt you!”

“And I didn’t take mine off to make people think I’d left you, I took it off because you made me feel foolish for caring about it.”

Max stopped. You had said versions of the same thing before, but never so directly. His anger faltered as he looked at you.

“You treated the ring like it was meaningless,” you said. “You made me feel shallow.”

“I never said you were shallow.”

“You kept telling me that your love should be enough, as though wanting the symbol as well meant I didn’t trust you. I never thought you were going to cheat on me. I never thought you wanted to look single. I only wanted you to understand that it meant something to see you choose to wear it.”

Max’s eyes lowered towards your hand.

“And when you refused,” you continued, your voice less steady now, “I started looking at mine and feeling stupid. Every time I wore it beside you, it felt as though I was publicly claiming something you’d decided was too inconvenient to acknowledge in the same way.”

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“I know… logically I know, but it’s how it made me feel.”

He came closer, but you stepped back before he could touch you. The movement seemed to wound him more than anything else you’d said.

“I need some air,” you murmured.

“It’s late.”

“I’m going downstairs, not leaving the country.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“I’d like to go alone.”

Max’s face changed. His protective instinct battled visibly with his awareness that following you would only make the situation worse.

You picked up your phone and left before he could decide.

The hotel bar was quiet, occupied mostly by guests finishing late drinks after the event. You found a seat at the far end of the counter and ordered water, wanting space more than alcohol.

You’d been alone for less than ten minutes when a man took the seat beside you. You recognised him vaguely although you couldn’t remember his name. He worked for one of the sponsors and had spoken to you earlier in the evening while Max was occupied.

“Escaping the crowd?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

He smiled. “I was hoping I might see you again.”

The intention behind the comment was clear enough to make you straighten.

“I’m married.”

His gaze dropped predictably towards your hand.

“I heard there might be some uncertainty about that.”

“There isn’t.”

The firmness of your answer should have ended the conversation instead he leaned one arm against the bar. “Then your husband is a very lucky man.”

“We both are.”

“Does he know you’re down here alone?”

You turned towards him fully. “I don’t need my husband’s permission to sit in a hotel bar.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“It sounded like it.”

Before the man could respond, a familiar voice came from behind you.

“She also doesn’t need to explain herself to you.”

Max stood several feet away, his expression too controlled to be anything but anger. His sleeves were rolled unevenly, the top buttons of his shirt undone like he had followed you before he could stop himself.

The man rose. “We were only talking.”

“I heard enough.” When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but unbridled jealousy sat beneath every word.

“Max,” you warned.

His gaze shifted to you, softening for only a second before returning to the man.

“She told you she was married.”

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Then leaving should be easy.”

The man muttered something beneath his breath but walked away. Max watched until he disappeared through the doors, then turned towards you. His restraint was already fraying.

“What were you thinking?”

Your disbelief was immediate. “Excuse me?”

“Sitting down here alone without your ring while people are saying we separated.”

“I told him I was married.”

“He didn’t care.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you angry about?”

“That he looked at you as if he had a chance!”

His voice rose enough to draw attention from the other end of the bar. Max noticed it too, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to lower his voice, but the emotion was still there, sharp and impossible to hide.

For a second neither of you said anything more. Then Max looked around the room, like he had only just remembered where you were.

“We’re not doing this here,” he said.

You should have argued. Part of you wanted to, just to make him stand there a little longer with all that jealousy burning under his skin, but the truth was, your own chest felt too tight, and you hated the idea of strangers pretending not to listen.

So you walked past him towards the lifts.

Max followed half a step behind you, close enough that you could feel him there, but not touching you. That somehow made it worse. He was usually all hands when he was like this hand on your waist, fingers at your back, some small claim disguised as care. Now he seemed to know he had lost the right to do it.

The lift ride was silent.

The moment the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, the argument picked up exactly where it had left off.

“You don’t get to be angry at me for this,” you said, turning on him.

Max was already facing you, one hand still on the door handle. “I’m not angry at you.”

“You are.”

“No I’m angry because he thought he had a chance, he sat beside you because he thought you were alone and when you said you were married he looked at your hand and decided he didn’t have to respect it.”

“That is exactly what happened to me when that woman approached you.”

“I know.”

“You dismissed it.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we still having this argument?”

Max stared at you, breathing hard as the anger gradually drained from his face. In its place came something far more exposed.

“Because I was wrong.”

The admission was not enough to soothe you immediately, particularly after weeks of stubbornness.

“You could have said that days ago.”

“I always understood that it upset you,” he continued. “I guess I just didn’t fully understand why.”

“And now?”

Max looked down at your hand. “Now… I still think a ring doesn’t make us married,” he admitted. “I still think what we have is more important than whether other people can see it.”

You waited.

“But I hate that they can’t see it.”

There it was, not quite an apology, but close.

You leaned back against the table. “Why?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the answer should have been obvious.

“Because you’re mine.”

You gave him a warning look laced with a smirk.

“You know what I mean,” he said quickly. “Not that I own you, but you’re my person. You’re my wife, and I don’t like somebody looking at you and thinking that place beside you might be available.”

“It isn’t.”

“No.” Max stepped closer. “But I like that it tells them before they ask.”

You studied him for a long moment Max came to stand between your knees, his hands settling on your hips. Unlike all the other times he’d touched you over the past week there was no performance in it now, no deliberate need to show anybody what you were to each other. It was only the two of you in the small room.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You made me feel ridiculous.”

“I’m really sorry.”

He bowed his head towards yours, “I thought you were putting too much meaning into an object when you should already know how I feel. I didn’t really consider that wearing it was one of the ways I showed you how I feel.”

“And?”

“And I have been an enormous hypocrite.”

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

Max’s mouth twitched. “I knew that would make you happy.”

“A little.”

He brushed his thumb over the place where your ring usually rested.

“I don’t like jewellery,” he said. “That part is true. I still find the ring uncomfortable sometimes.”

You gave him a flat look.

“But I would rather notice it a hundred times a day than make you believe I don’t value what it represents.”

“Then we can find one that isn’t.”

He looked at you. “What?”

“A thinner band. A different material. Something you barely notice. I never said it had to be the exact ring we bought for the wedding.”

Max frowned as though this practical solution had somehow never occurred to him. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“The ring matters because you’re choosing to wear it. I don’t care whether it’s gold, silver, silicone or something you found inside a cereal box.”

“A cereal box?”

“Perhaps not that.”

He smiled properly then, his shoulders finally relaxing.

“I’ll wear the original when we go somewhere important,” he said. “And we can find something more comfortable for every day.”

“That sounds fair.”

“But you have to put yours back on.”

You lifted an eyebrow.

Max corrected himself reluctantly. “I would very much like you to put yours back on.”

“And not because you nearly had an aneurysm when a man assumed I was single?”

He slid one hand around the back of your neck, leaning closer until his forehead rested against yours.

“I trust you,” he murmured. “I don’t trust other people to behave properly around you.”

“You can’t be angry with them for not knowing I’m married when you’re the one who said I shouldn’t need a ring to show it.”

“I can be angry about whatever I like. I simply can’t blame you for it.”

You smiled. “Growth.”

His mouth found yours the kiss beginning soft before deepening with the same possessive edge that had coloured his behaviour all week. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, and you felt the last of the tension in his body finally ease when your arms settled around his neck.

When he pulled back, he kissed the corner of your mouth once more.

“Will you wear it tomorrow?”

“I haven’t brought mine,” you said.

“It’s here.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I put it in the hotel safe.”

“You’ve known where it was this entire time?”

“Yes.”

“And you brought it with us?”

His expression became faintly sheepish. “I didn’t like leaving it at home.”

The confession was so painfully hypocritical that you stared at him.

“You carried my wedding ring across countries while insisting it did not matter?”

“Hey, I’ve already admitted I was wrong don’t I get some credit for that?”

“Will you wear yours?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it’s uncomfortable?”

Max sighed dramatically. “Until we replace it.”

You pretended to consider it.

“Then yes.”

The relief on his face was almost comical.

Later he retrieved your ring from the safe and placed it in your palm without immediately asking you to wear it. He sat beside you on the edge of the bed, his knee pressed against yours while he waited.

He held out his hand.

You took his ring first.

For a moment you simply turned it between your fingers, tracing the engraved date hidden along the inside. Then you slid it slowly back onto his finger. Max watched you with an intensity that made the moment feel strangely reminiscent of your wedding, stripped of the ceremony and the guests but not of its meaning.

He picked up yours next.

“I don’t need this to know you love me,” he said, looking at you rather than your hand.

“I know.”

“And you don’t need mine.”

“No.”

“But I will wear it because it matters to you.”

You softened. “And I’ll wear mine because it apparently keeps you from glaring at every innocent man who speaks to me.”

“None of them were innocent.” He growled.

“Max.” You laughed as he slipped the ring back onto your finger.

His thumb passed over it once, then again, and you watched the familiar satisfaction settle over his face. He lifted your hand to his mouth, kissing directly above the band before lacing your fingers together.

The rings didn’t make you married. They didn’t create the loyalty between you nor did they guarantee it. They couldn’t carry the full weight of every promise you had made or every private thing your marriage had become, but as Max stared down at your joined hands, both bands finally returned to their places he seemed to understand that symbols did not have to replace the truth to matter.

Sometimes they simply reminded you of it.

Taglist: @shigarika @rosesanddiaries @thecoolpotatohologram @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie@percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle@inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects1@fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh@lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa@wordskeeper @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak @taylordaughter @taetae-armyyyyy @kitty-m30w @abcdefghi09lmnopqrstuvwxyz @kevynnashley @robindrake13 @lilorose25 @sogoodtoheritsvicious @bestillmystuckyheart @alex1ella @nightrose-18

[spiderbeam]

i have Thoughts

“like i’ve hurt you” STOP i think this was the exact moment i locked in ohhhhh my god the way you write max? unmatched

“max did not find it amusing” i bet!!!!! I BET!!!!!! ohhh how the tables have turned

“then leaving should be easy” HELLOOOOOOO this hit. like it made me feels Things ohh this is going in my personal wall of fame mhm

this is such a full circle moment the way you wrap up this fic is sooooo special and dear to me. going from “you have to put yours back on” to “……..i would very much like you tu put yours back on” made me audibly go awwwww :( absolute 10/10

[sunrizef1]

bloodonmyhands

Pairing: Sidney Crosby x Hollander!Reader, Quinn Hughes x Ex!Reader

Warnings: Trump mention, US men’s national team, cursing

Summary: I was so prepared to fight a war on your side

Authors Note: anything to distract me from the bigger picture (my 30k word Sidney Crosby Olympic fic)

——

ynhollander

liked by quinnhughes ilyarozanov81 and 6,877,155 others

ynhollander my olympic bestie 💋

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user1 “bestie” girl, you kiss that man on the lips

user2 like she’s seen more of that man than god has, that is not just her best friend

user3 so proud of Quinn

user4 so excited to get to see the Hughes brothers in the Olympics!!!

user5 idk why I giggle everytime Yn posts Quinn as if they haven’t been dating for like six years

user6 it’s the fact that we all know Shane and Ilya are in her DMs telling her to dump him

user7 girl get that man out the way I wanna see u

user8 I don’t come to this page to see a man

user9 they’re adorable

user10 kinda the cutest couple OAT

user11 she litteraly has an Oscar but she’s dating a man who plays hockey, this is the representation Canada dreams of

user12 Yn you were so good in one battle after another

quinnhughes ❤️

liked by author

user13 I will #notice that her family never comments on posts with Quinn in them

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ynhollander added to their story!

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ynhollander

liked by mackinnon29 evgeni71malkin and 8,611,811 others

ynhollander Pittsburgh film festival I love you!!!

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user13 girl broke up with her boyfriend and moved to….Pittsburgh????

user14 serving

user15 love her so bad

michaelbjordan 🔥

liked by author

laila_edwards you’re the cooler Hollander

liked by author

teyanataylor I LOVE YOU!!!

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user16 she’s kind of the coolest person ever

user17 so obsessed

zendaya you’re glowing

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user18 she really broke up with Quinn and didn’t look back

ilyarozanov81 the coolest

liked by author

yunahollander my sweet girl!!!

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shanehollander24 you need to teach me how to dress

liked by author

leonardodicaprio 🌆🌆🌆

liked by author

user19 yn’s insta comments kinda the hottest place to be for celebrities im ngl

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ynhollander

📍Canada

liked by evgeni71malkin shanehollander24 and 10,611,511 others

ynhollander moments from this summer

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user20 WHO IS THAT

user21 Yn saw Twitter speculating that she’s dating Sidney Crosby and said “oh, let me confirm that for you”

user22 SIDNEY CROSBYYYYY

ilyarozanov81 😎

user23 my dream date….cute

user24 oh to be an actress model model actress dating Sidney Crosby and having Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander as your brothers

user25 the concept of Sidney Crosby spending his summer with Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander

user26 who remembers the time Ilya fought Sid

user27 and then they started playing for Canada together so everything’s fine

user28 so glad Yn escaped the curse of dating an American

shanehollander24 ☀️☀️☀️

lando 🙌

user29 lando what are you doing here 😭

evgeni71malkin what is this “soft launch”? I have photos of you making out with him

ynhollander Geno.

user30 Yn never replies to comments this is so funny

yunahollander my VOGUE cover girl!!!!!!!

liked by author

user31 Sidney Crosby log in your beautiful gf is soft launching you but you don’t have Instagram to post a really vague comment neither confirming nor denying

krisletang 🐧🐧🐧

sabrinacarpenter you’re the hottest

liked by author

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ynhollander

📍Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

🎵 bloodonmyhands - Tate McRae

liked by ilyarozanov81 shanehollander24 and 16,872,987 others

ynhollander bounced back and found another (and he hates you)

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user32 that soft launch really went out the door

user33 the concept of Sidney Crosby talking shit about Quinn Hughes

ilyarozanov81 I also hate him

shanehollander24 me too 🙋‍♂️

user34 I love this

yunahollander my favorite couple 🫶

shanehollander24 ?

user35 QUINN HUGHES FIGHT BACK WHERES YOUR ANGER

user36 the mostly cropped pic of Sid omg I’m melting

user37 just the cutest couple ever

evgeni71malkin showed him this post and he wants me to comment “my beautiful girl” do not make me communicate for him ever again this has disgusted me

user38 IM DYINGGGGG

user39 Sidney’s never ending commitment to being a digital nomad will never not make me giggle

user40 how quickly the Hollander-Rozanov’s accepted Sidney actually warms my heart

user41 mind you they NEVER liked Quinn this much

user42 the concept of Yn using a song by her ex boyfriends brothers Canadian girlfriend to shade her ex boyfriend and posting her new Canadian boyfriend….there’s levels to this

liked by author

haydenpike I like him! 🇨🇦🇨🇦🇨🇦

liked by author

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ilyarozanov81

🎵 Free Bird - Lynyrd Skynyrd

liked by ynhollander yunahollander and 21,345,911 others

ilyarozanov81 we always invite the women

tagged: shanehollander24, ynhollander, yunahollander, pittsburghpenguins, laila_edwards, carolineharvey, jackiepike, svetlanavetrova, roselandry

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user43 free bird? Ilya hello??? 😭😭😭

user44 so obsessed with this post

user45 this team America shade!!!!!

haydenpike I am in this post and am not tagged hello

user46 the concept of a family dinner where Caroline Harvey and rose Landry are at the same table

user47 Ilya tagging the penguins on the picture of Sid and Yn because he can’t tag Sid, he rly dgaf

user48 Ilya “I love women” Rozanov

jackiepike ❤️

liked by author

yunahollander 🤗🤗🤗

liked by author

haydenpike hello?

user49 will never not giggle at Ilya’s beef with Hayden

ynhollander me and Sid say “❤️”

ilyarozanov81 tell Sid I say “🙌”

user50 “Sid” UGHHHH I’m SOFT 🥹

shanehollander24 this is not the caption we agreed on

ilyarozanov81 🤷‍♂️

user51 genuinely so obsessed with this family and how nice and kind they all are to eachother. This is the kind of family everyone deserves.

user52 Caroline and Laila getting invited to family dinners don’t talk to me I’m crying

user53 the concept of rose Landry eating dinner with Sidney Crosby

user54 they’re the sweetest people ever and I’m so glad they all have each other ❤️❤️❤️

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[sunrizef1]

Stupid Old Man

Pairing: Sidney Crosby x Rozanov!Reader

Warnings: Cursing, hockey typical violence

Authors Note: This took me forever

Word Count: 14k

Requested: Let's go with yes

Summary: Everyone knows Ilya Rozanov hates Sidney Crosby. Unfortunately for Ilya, Sidney Crosby loves you.

Ilya Rozanov knows his long-standing beef with the older players in the NHL is well-documented. 

He’s been on the record calling Scott Hunter a stupid old man more than a couple of times. He asked an interviewer if Evgeni Malkin was still able to walk with his elderly knees. He once called Kris Letang “geriatric”, a word he’d only learned from Shane the day before.

To Ilya, age is one of the easiest ways to get under another player's skin. He does not think much when he calls a player old. He just laughs when he sees their jaws tick or their eyes narrow. He loves the reactions it gets him. 

But, one player who Ilya can’t seem to bother with the age comments is the one and only Sidney Crosby.

He’s the only player who refuses to react. Ilya has tried everything but he never even graces Ilya with a stare. The stupid Penguin just sniffs and skates past Ilya like he’d never said anything in the first place. 

It honestly gets under his skin more than when players try to insult him back. He can handle being called an asshole or any number of slurs but what he can’t stand is when his own insults don’t work. 

For as long as he has been in the NHL, Ilya has never met a player just as immune to his behavior as Sidney Crosby. 

So, Ilya decides he hates Sidney Crosby. He knows there is nothing that can change that. 

—

“You are stupid, Hughes,” your voice comes out flatly, as it often does when talking to the players, “I have degree in marketing, not degree in Instagram.”

“Come on, Roz, just once? Please?,” Luke pleads, leaning heavily against the wall between you, sliding just slightly on the ice, “You have such good posts!”

“That is because I am beautiful russian woman with interesting personal life,” you hum, raising an eyebrow at the begging hockey player, “You have none of this.”

“I just want you to put together one post for me!” he replies with a laugh, “The ladies will love it!”

“Yuck, Luka,” you groan, rolling your eyes, “I do not want to hear about what you think these ‘ladies’ like.”

“Roz, come on,” he calls after you gleefully as you move to turn around, “I’ll owe you!”

You turn around, hands on your hips, “What will you owe me?”

Luke seems caught off guard at your question, “Uh, I’ll get you tickets to any game in the league?”

“Davai, Luka,” you roll your eyes, “You think I do not have access to hockey games?”

Luke snorts, obviously following the train of thought to your brother and in-laws. 

“Fine, I’ll just- I don’t know…” Luke lets out an exasperated breath, shifting his skates on the ice below him, “I’ll owe you a favor. Anything. For the rest of the season.”

“Da, deal,” you reply with a spreading grin.

“Don’t seem so excited,” Luke says, already looking unwary about his choice. 

“Is good deal,” you respond smugly with a shrug.

“Hughesy!” the distinct voice of Nico Hischier rings out from the tunnel behind you, “You ready for practice?”

When the captain reaches you, he nods politely, “Rozanova.”

“Kolya, kapitan,” you reply, lips spitting the nickname easily towards the Swiss man that you had become particularly fond of since you had started working for the devils. (Nico, captain)

“Are you and your camera coming to Pittsburgh?” Nico asks, grinning, holding his stick up against the ground.

“Da,” you hum, “I would not miss it.”

“I wish you would,” Luke’s voice rings out from behind the two of you, laced in joking annoyance.

You turn, sticking your tongue out at him, “I am god with camera, Luka. I took photo you have framed on your wall.”

Nico snorts, “Give up, Hughes. You will not beat this Rozanov. Maybe if you get out on the ice, you can get closer to beating the other one.”

Luke rolls his eyes again, a habit he seemed to have picked up from you, “We beat Ottawa last month.”

“Rozanov was hurt that game,” Nico replies, walking out to reach the ice, stepping out next to Luke, “Go shoot some pucks or something before everybody else comes out.”

“Fine, fine,” Luke concedes, pushing off the wall and skating out towards one of the goals. 

Nico turns to you, “Bye, Rozy.”

“Bye, Kolya,” you reply with a smile, turning back down the tunnel to go to your office and edit some photos, already thinking about what you are going to make Luke do for you. 

—-

You aren’t sure how to explain it, but you’re pretty sure the city of Pittsburgh has an evil energy.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that pretty much any city with a major league hockey team in North America and probably beyond hates your brother but you also think the players are feeling the unwelcoming energy. 

You had been to Pittsburgh before, with your brother or Shane. But you’d never been on your own and definitely never while working for the opposing team. 

The city has a kind of mean energy, though, and it’s the type of post-industrial pseudo-metropolitan American city that makes you miss Boston. 

PPG Paints Arena is loud. It’s dripping with the type of vitriol that only comes with decades worth of passionate fandom. There’s about an hour and a half until puck drop and the stands are still peppered with a surprising amount of fans. 

Now, you’re wandering the back halls with Luke as he tries to walk off the nerves he gets before every game. You pass people who recognize the both of you, staff members and the occasional player sending passive glances your direction. You can’t say the last name Rozanov has garnered you an approachable reputation. 

“You will be okay,” you say for the sixth time since you and Luke had started walking, “You always are. Every game you are fine.”

“I know, Roz,” he sighs, shaking his hands out by his sides, “Have you never been anxious before? I can’t help it.”

“I do not do this ‘anxious’ thing,” you respond with a hum, heels clicking against the concrete ground, “Russians do not get anxious.”

“I don’t believe that,” he replies with a small huffed laugh, but his hands do stop their jerky movements. 

A few more moments of comfortable silence pass between the two of you before Luke speaks up, “Have you thought of what favor you’re gonna ask me for yet?”

You furrow your eyebrows, “Net. Is long-term thing, no? I can ask for it when I need it, tak?”

Luke sighs, eyes flickering closed for a few fractions of a second, “Yeah, that’s the deal, I guess. I’m just scared giving you an any-time pass to make me do something.”

While Luke is talking, your eyes flicker forward to a man down the hall leaning against a wall and typing on his phone. A familiar man. One you had found quite attractive for quite some time, actually. 

You snort in response to Luke, pausing in place when an idea pops into your head.

Luke, moping, walks one pace further before he turns to face you, face laced with confusion, “What?”

“I have idea for favor,” you say with a grin, eyes still tracing the side of the one and only Sidney Crosby’s face down the hall.

Luke seems to get more confused, concerned at the sight of your grin. His eyes follow your gaze to the Penguins captain leaning against the wall, “No. Roz, I swear to god-”

Luke, poor little Luke Hughes, looks absolutely distraught at the thought of what your “favor” could entail. He steps closer to you, hands coming up to clasp in front of his chest, pleading towards you, “Rozy, please, don’t make me talk to him. I don’t even care what you want, don’t make me-”

“Come on, Luka, you will be okay,” you grin, eyes turning toward him, “He is hockey player, you are hockey player, you have this in common. You just need to ask him for phone number. Tell him I ask for it, I do not care. But you will ask.”

“You know,” Luke starts, dropping his begging and narrowing his eyes, “Making me ask makes you look scared to talk to him.”

“Everybody knows I am not scared,” you reply, still grinning, “I am just mysterious. And you are very funny when you are scared.”

Luke takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and facing the ceiling for a few seconds before he lets the breath out and opens his eyes, “Fine.”

“Spasibo, Luka!” You reply happily, “Prodolzhat'. You need to get back to locker room.”

Luke concedes, dragging his feet as he spins around to face his fellow NHL player. You watch as he drags his feet all the way down the hall, approaching Sidney with a kind of nerves he only exhibits privately most of the time. You watch their conversation from a distance, observing with your usual sharp eye and entertained gaze. 

A few exchanges in, Sidney looks over Luke’s shoulder at you and, once his eyes land on you, his lips split into a wide grin. You smile back and watch as Sidney looks back to Luke and gazes at the younger player’s outstretched phone, typing something into his own. 

The two shake hands and Sidney sends a grin and small head nod your way which you return before the captain turns around and pulls the door behind him open and enters. 

Luke is walking back to you, rolling his eyes as he does, “You’re lucky that Instagram post was so popular.”

You laugh, reaching up and ruffling his hair, “Aww, Luka. You are so nice to me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Luke says, falling into step next to you as you both turn to walk back the direction you came, “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

“And I am so grateful for you,” you hum, leaning in and pressing a dramatic kiss to his temple.

As you both walk, you feel your phone buzz and you click it open, swiping past the selfie of you, your brother, and Shane that you set as your wallpaper. 

Unknown Number

Hey! Luke Hughes gave me this number and told me it was for a Rozanov who was interested in me

Im just hoping it was the pretty one with the camera and the nice smile and not the one who thinks I’m a few days away from death

You snort at the texts, typing back.

You

Very much not the one with anger issues and bear tattoo

Just the one who thought Sidney Crosby was very pretty man who plays even prettier hockey

Sidni

Oh, what a coincidence

I thought Yn Rozanova was a very pretty woman who takes even prettier pictures

You

You have seen my pictures?

Sidni

Yeah, they're some of the best in the league

I’ve been jealous of all the NJ players since they got you

You

I am taking pictures of game tonight

I think I could fit time for taking pictures of pretty penguin man into busy schedule

Sidni

How will I ever repay you?

You

I can accept payment in form of dinner?

Sidni

I think I can make that happen

How long are you in town?

You

We leave day after tomorrow

Sidni

Then I’ll see you tomorrow

I’ll pick you up. 7 pm.

You

Da, kapitan. 

Good luck tonight

xxxx 💋

“Get off your phone, I’m trying to talk to you,” Luke groans, basically smacking the device out of your hand, “You’re not even listening.”

“I can not listen, Luka,” you reply, putting your phone away with a grin, “I have date tomorrow night.”

“Gross,” Luke replies with a sigh.

But you’re too busy daydreaming about Sidney Crosby and his beautiful face to care.

—-

The rest of your time in Pittsburgh is much nicer than the start of it had been. Though, you were probably now seeing the city through rose-colored lenses due to the nice man you had met that belonged to this place. 

You stay completely focused throughout the game. You snap a few pictures of Luke that you know he’ll fawn over later, you capture a shot of Nico’s second period goal, get some of Jack’s third period power play goal, and even take one or two of Sidney celebrating his own game-winning goal at the end of the third. 

Later, Luke will complain when he’s clicking through your camera and sees the shots of Sidney, face frozen in celebration. 

You’ll just snatch the camera out of his hands and threaten to delete the photos you took of him which very quickly shuts him up. 

You spend most of the next day on call with Svetlana back in Boston, a girl who had become like a sister to you over the years. She has always been one of the first people you turn to when you have an issue or you are worried about something. 

During your phone call, you tried to play your date off as just a random guy you met while in Pittsburgh but Svetlana, being as intelligent as she is, quickly poked holes in your story and realized you were keeping a secret about something when you refused to go into real detail. 

When you admitted your mystery date was Sidney Crosby, Svetlana gasped like she had been electrically shocked. 

So now, here you are, grimacing as Svetlana shouts down the phone, her English (which you both like to practice during phone calls) occasionally slipping from her excitement. 

“You are kidding, net? You, famous sister of evil, old man-hating hockey player Ilya Rozanov are going on date with very good old man hockey player Sidney Crosby? You are serious?”

You stare into the mirror, focusing on the mascara wand in your hand as you reply, “Da, Sveta. He is very pretty and very nice.”

“Da, I know this. But I do not know if you are crazy? Ilyushka will lose his mind if he knows about this.”

“He will not know,” you roll your eyes, grabbing your lip gloss, “I am grown woman, ne rebenok. He will get over it if he finds out.” (Not a child)

“He will kill him.”

“Davai, I know,” you reply, standing up from in front of the mirror to walk to your open suitcase, “Help me decide on dress, pozhaluysta, Sveta.” (please)

There’s a few seconds of silence from your phone. 

“Did you bring little black dress? The hot one that makes your boobs look very big?”

You grab the dress in question out of your suitcase, along with a pair of heels, “Da, of course I did. I was going to sleep with someone either way.”

Svetlana snorts a laugh down the phone and you grin, grateful for your friend.

You spend the next thirty minutes getting ready to the dulcet tones of Svetlana shouting through her phone, going on and on about angry brothers and hot older hockey players. 

Your phone, the screen taken over by Svetlana’s contact, buzzes with a text.

Sidni

I’m here

No rush, though

You gasp, picking your phone up off the hotel bed with a grin.

“I have to go, Sveta. Hot hockey man who my brother will murder is here.”

“Go get some! Have fun moya lyubov!”

“Spasibo, Sveta,” you reply, giddy, “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu, Rozy.”

The phone clicks off, and you’re left in the quiet of your hotel room. You quickly move, grabbing a jacket and your bag and exiting the room.

You

I’m coming down now

“Wow, Roz! Who’s the lucky man?”

You turn on your heel, locking eyes on Dawson Mercer stepping out of his room with a grin on his face, his eyes looking you up and down.

“Not you, Daws. That is what matters,” you reply over your shoulder, laughing slightly and walking down the hotel hallway, heels clicking.

“Aw, you wound me,” he calls after you, still standing by his door, “Have fun! Be safe!”

“Spasibo!” You shout as the elevator doors open and you step inside.

Down in the lobby, Jesper, Timo, and Nico are surrounding a table, playing some kind of card game. You’re met with similar jeers from the three of them. 

“Roz! Are you going out on a date? Do we need to vet the guy? Should we tail your car? Stake out the date?”

“You are all idiots,” you reply as you pass them, but you can’t help the cheeky grin that splits your face, “He is safe, promise.”

“How do you know that?” Nico asks, genuine concern hidden under his goofiness. 

You shrug, eyes trailing to the front door of the lobby, landing on the very man in question walking through, seemingly coming to greet you. You glance back to the players, watching them notice him too. You can tell their shock won’t be going away any time soon so you just laugh and keep walking.

“Goodbye boys, have good night!” 

You just hear Jesper mumble a quiet “holy shit” under his breath as you leave. 

“Privyet, Sidni,” you smile as you reach him. 

He looks you up and down, smiling warmly, “Hello Yn.”

“Should we go?” You ask, pointing vaguely towards the door, “Or stay standing here so those boys can keep staring at us.”

Sidney glancing back behind you, sending a small wave to the players swarmed around the table before he leans back to you, offering his arm.

“Let’s go.”

You take his arm, letting him help you to his car parked just outside. 

The ride to the restaurant is nice. You and Sidney make quick conversation, the air between you electric and filled with charm. It’s immediately easy with him. There aren't many moments of quiet but, even when there are, it’s not awkward or anything. It’s comfortable. Like you had known him forever. 

Sidney is the very picture of a perfect gentleman all night. He opens the car door for you, pulls out your chair, advises you on picking a wine, tells you about any dish you’re interested in, and, your favorite part, he makes actual real conversation where he asks you about yourself and seems genuinely interested in your answers. It isn’t a high bar but it had been surprising at how many dates had just talked about themselves for the entire date. 

You don’t discuss yourselves. At least, not in the way the world thinks about you. You don’t talk about Yn Rozanova, Ilya Rozanov’s sister, he doesn’t talk about Sidney Crosby, Pittsburgh Penguins captain and Stanley Cup winner. At that table, you’re just Sid and Roz, two people who like hockey and each other. 

He’s charming, but you knew he would be. 

Years of seeing him from across the ice or through a TV screen had given you enough information to know his smile and sweet talk would make you melt. But what you hadn’t expected was his complete and obvious care. You had wondered for a moment if he was thinking this would be his easy, speedy ticket to a one-night stand with a rival’s hot sister that he could use as a chirp on the ice in a heated moment. 

But no, Sid is making it clearly known that he doesn’t want this to just be a night. 

“No, no, no, none of that,” the man is saying, snatching up the check from the tabletop before you can press your card down onto it.

“Sid,” you say flatly, fixing the man with a hard stare as he pulls out his own card.

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I let the lady pay?” he asks with a self-satisfied grin, setting the check back down on the table.

“The lady has black card,” you reply with a deadpan, flicking your finger against the card in your fingers, the sound of metal ringing out, “The lady can pay.”

“You can pay next time,” he says with a small shrug, sliding his wallet back in his pocket.

You tilt your head, eyebrows raised, watching the smug man as he leans back in his chair, “Next time?”

“Yeah, of course,” he grins, eyes fixed on you, “You’re an intelligent, talented, beautiful woman who’s a genius at hockey, why would I let you go?”

You bite back your grin, teeth digging into your lip, eyes surveying his movements, “You are not so bad yourself.”

“Oh, yeah,” he grins, cocking his head, “I’m a catch.”

“Da,” you hum, almost under your breath, “You are.”

He laughs breathlessly, stare caught on your own. The air crackles with chemistry, almost electric. 

“I am going back to Jersey,” you purr quietly, “You will stay in Pittsburgh.” The city names sound strange from your lips, your tongue never meant to shape these vowels. 

“We both travel a ton anyway,” he shrugs, “We both have the means to fly.”

“You play for enemy team.”

“Never stopped anyone else”

“You are much older than me.”

“”I’m not that old. I still got it.”

“I am way out of your league.”

“That’s true,” he grins, leaning forward on the table. 

You pause, glancing at him softly, eyes flicking up and down his face, “My brother will kill you.”

“I’m not scared of him,” he says quietly, eyes gazing into your own, “He won’t scare me off.”

“I know,” you murmur back, “But it will kill me to see him like that.”

You trail off, gaze falling away. You look back up when Sid’s hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, forcing your gaze back to his face. When you look at him, you only see concern. 

“This is nice,” he assures you, eyebrows furrowed slightly, “We like each other. This is making me happy. I’m pretty sure it’s making you happy. If he loves you, he will accept that you are a grown woman and can choose who you date. He should want you to be happy. Yes?”

You observe this strange, delightful, caring man in front of you, his hand, rough from years of sports, cradling your face gently like it was the most delicate thing he had ever held.

“Da,” you say simply, nodding, “I choose who I date and I choose stupid penguin captain because he makes me happy.”

Sid’s face splits into a wide grin and he leans forward just slightly, pausing, asking you a silent question. 

You answer it without words, closing the gap between you and pressing your lips to his. 

—-

“Roz! Get up! We brought breakfast!”

Your morning starts louder than it should. 

The incessant shouting is accompanied by the loud pounding at your hotel room door. You blink an eye open, already annoyed by the sunlight leaking through the blinds. 

You groan, attempting to roll over to block out the loud sounds of the New Jersey players gathered outside your door. When you try to move, you quickly realize there is something laying on your waist, pinning you to the mattress. You glance to the side.

Oh. Yeah. 

“Rozyyyyy! We know you’re in there!”

You groan again, effectively unpinning yourself and rolling out of the bed, throwing on one of your oversized t-shirts and a pair of shorts from your half-packed suitcase over your bare skin. 

You pad over to the door, slowly blinking and trying to wake up.

You reach the door and swing it open, already annoyed at the boys on the other side.

“Roz!” There is a chorus of cheers that meet you and you suddenly remember how hard it is to stay mad at these guys. 

“Privyet, mal’chiki,” you say, voice deep with sleep, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Roz,” Nico grins, a plate of pancakes held in front of him, “We brought breakfast since you missed it.”

You glance at the other guys: Luke, Jack, and Dawson, all holding a plate. 

“We weren’t sure what you would want so we brought some of all of it,” Nico says, catching your glance and laughing sheepishly. 

“Spasibo, New Jersey Devils,” you reply, managing a small smile, “I can not carry all of that, though.”

“We can set it down-”

“D’ya need help with that?” a voice rings out from behind you, also deep with sleep. 

The players in front of you pause, clearly hearing the distinctly male voice. You watch as Luke goes on his tip-toes to peer over your shoulder. 

You can tell Sid walks into view behind you based on the way the boy’s jaws drop. You groan, grabbing two of the plates from Luke and Jack, and turning to pass them to Sid who takes them easily. You turn back, grabbing the ones from Nico and Dawson and handing them to Sid again, who had freed his hands. 

“Thank you boys, I will see you on plane,” you say firmly, nodding at the four of them and closing the door before they can get a word out. 

When you spin around, you’re met with the smug face of Sid, looking way too proud of himself. 

“You are proud of yourself.”

He shakes his head but, based on his smirk, you’re pretty sure he is. 

“You are idiot,” you say, crossing the room, grinning despite yourself.

He catches your waist as you reach him, letting you push him back to land on the bed. You lean over him, pressing your lips to his own. 

When you pull away, he’s grinning, “Your coworker’s food is going to get cold.”

“Shut up,” you huff a laugh, leaning back into him.

—-

The next six months aren’t perfect, but they’re certainly close. 

You and Sid make it work, despite the distance and the weird schedules. 

It’s a lot of facetimes and voice memos, selfies sent from arenas that aren’t your own, flights and cab drives just for the single nights you can piece together. 

Sidney is great. But you knew he would be. He’s sweet, attentive even over the phone, and he seems almost desperate to spend the time off he does get with you. 

Your least favorite mornings are the ones where you have to wake up and leave each other. It’s a lot of groaning and dramatics, grasping for the parts of each other that you can still reach, savoring the feeling of the other's skin as they half-heartedly say goodbye.

But your favorite mornings are the ones where you get to stay. It’s a lot of laughing and smiles, Sidney tracing the shape of your lips as you teach him words in russian, your fingers softly tracing the shapes of the words on his bare chest in cyrillic, too-expensive sheets wrapping around the two of you and fostering the little bubble of peace you had created. 

You think you’re in love with Sidney Crosby.

God, your brother is going to kill him. 

—-

Ottawa’s Arena is loud. Their new-found win streak seemingly invigorated the city’s hockey fandom. 

“Fuck-“ Sid hits the boards with a thump, the impact making him groan a bit as the puck skitters away. He moans, his shoulder thrumming with pain. 

“You make same sounds as your sister when I am with her,” Rozanov spits, his face still close to Sidney’s ear from where he had checked him.

It’s not Rozanov’s best work, but Sidney thinks of you and the irony makes him huff a small laugh.

Rozanov balks at the noise, shocked. 

“You finally laugh at something I say and it is stupid joke about fucking your sister?”

Sidney just pushes off the boards, sending a glance back at the Russian, “I’m not thinking about my sister.”

Rozanov blinks, his shocked face quickly turning confused, “What does that mean? Crosby!…Crosby!”

Sid just skates away, going after the puck, leaving Rozanov in the dust. 

——

Pittsburgh is exactly as it always is. Sidney is supposed to be focused on the imminent game but he’s busy thinking about you, an hour-long flight away in Philadelphia, the Devils 1-0 down to the Flyers at the end of the third period. Sidney wants this game to be over as quickly as possible so he can get back to his place where he knows you’ll be waiting. 

He’s so distracted that he doesn’t even notice who has skated to the edge of the circle across from him. 

“What did you mean by thing you said in Ottawa?” Rozanov asks as he stands at center ice, waiting for the face off. 

“Hm?” Sid replies, eyebrows furrow in mock-confusion.

“You know what I am talking about, Crosby,” Ilya spits, an uncharacteristic frown on his lips, “Do not mention my sister.”

“I’m not mentioning anyone,” Sid hums, trying his hardest to avoid falling prey to Rozanov’s spite.

“You mention my sister,” Rozanov replies, his gaze filling with vitriol as he stares at Sidney, “You will not demean my sister, Crosby. I will kill you.”

Sid suddenly straightens, face falling deathly serious, “I wouldn’t dream of it, Rozanov.”

Rozanov seems to sense Sidney’s grave demeanor as he fails to respond for several long moments, just watching the older man with wary eyes as they lean over for the puck drop. 

Sidney knows his demeanor is probably suspicious. He finds it hard to care. Especially when it comes to being accused of saying anything negative about you. Even if the accusations are coming from your brother. Especially when the accusations are coming from your brother. 

Sidney leans down, eyes staring solidly at Rozanov across from him. Rozanov stares back, coldness and something deeper, stranger, filling his gaze. 

The Russian loses the face-off. 

——

Ilya often finds himself in situations where he has to make a split-second decision about how he is going to respond to a problem. 

Unfortunately for everybody around him, those split-second decisions usually involve irrational violence. 

That’s how he ended up here, with the distinct feel of a bruise booming on his cheek, letting himself be dragged toward the penalty box by an exasperated Shane. 

Ilya is too busy looking over his shoulder to care about being carted away to serve his minor roughing penalty.

“Fuck you, Crosby!” Ilya is shouting over his shoulder, the shout accompanied by as many Russian expletives as he can spit in the span of a few seconds, “Stupid old man!”

“Ilya, shut up,” Shane sighs, hand tightening on the back collar of his husband’s jersey, “He didn’t do anything.”

“Otvali, he did,” Ilya replies, reaching the penalty box and shaking his head, “He say something to me in Russian.”

Shane blinks, watching Ilya as he settles into the box, “What did he say?”

“He tell me ‘good goal’ after I score,” Ilya replies, voice dripping with vitriol, “He is antagonizing me.”

Ilya is always proud when he manages to slip a word Shane taught him into conversation. They’re both aware, though, that this is not the time to acknowledge the usage.

“Ilya,” Shane replies flatly, half-aware of the ending commercial break, “That was a compliment.”

“Otvali,” Ilya huffs, crossing his arms over his jersey.

“I’ve played with him, Ilya,” Shane calls as he closes the door to the penalty box, “He’s nice!”

Ilya ignores him, watching his back as he skates away. Once Shane is gone, Ilya’s eyes travel across the ice and land on where Crosby is standing near the bench, handing the ice pack back over the gate and grabbing his stick to head back out for the power play. 

Ilya knew the Canadian was antagonizing him. It had to be that. They had always hated each other, even if Ilya couldn’t recall a time where Crosby had said anything rude back to Ilya’s jeering. 

But speaking Russian? Of course Crosby was using it as a means to get under his skin. Why else would he use a language only Ilya could understand? No, he was speaking in Ilya’s mother tongue to sarcastically comment and to ruin Ilya’s celebratory moment. 

The penguins score on the power play a minute and a half later.

Ilya had done a lot of thinking in the box. Despite how many times he had told himself that Crosby was a detestable old asshole and the worst of Canada, he doesn't do anything but send Crosby a wary glance as he passes him. 

Something in his gut feels guilty for the bruise painting Crosby’s cheek. He doesn’t regret it. But something, somewhere, seems to be making him feel like he should. 

—

You stare warily at the game highlights playing on the tv in Sidney’s living room, watching as your brother gets dragged away by the scruff of his neck, his husband staring at him with a tired gaze. 

The camera cuts back to Sidney, whose eyes have a wild look in them, blood running out of his nose and an ice pack being pushed into his hands as the tv timeout starts. It then cuts to your brother, doing something you can only describe as pouting, in the penalty box, watching the power play with a grumpy face. 

Then, finally, it cuts to Shane, skating away from the box and rolling his eyes, something you had only seen him do when Ilya was being particularly annoying. 

The commentators are laughing, making the same jokes they always do when Sidney and your brother get into it. 

The next highlight is Sidney assisting Brazeau during the power play to make the game 2-1 to the Penguins. The camera cuts away from Pittsburgh’s celebration to Ilya stalking back onto the ice, his face irritated. 

Serves him right for continuing to fight with a man whose only crime is being barely any older. 

Over the past months with Sid, you’ve kinda been waving him off whenever he mentions how your brother will react. But, in reality, you know he’s right. Ilya isn’t going to react well. There isn’t a single person in the world who Ilya would consider good enough for you. Definitely not the man whose face has memorized the shape of his fists. 

You don’t want to tell Ilya. You know you’ll have to. Mainly because, while you haven’t admitted to him, you can tell you’re definitely falling in love with Sid. 

How could you not?

He’s charming, funny, and careful. He’s the same man who will carry you in his arms after dates if your feet hurt, the same man who memorized your coffee order after the first night and had it ready the second you woke up the next time you stayed the night, the same man who has flown across the country immediately after games on no less than seven occasions just because he wanted to see you. 

So yes, you’re in love with Sid. And your brother isn’t going to be happy about it. 

You hear the sound of the front door opening from somewhere behind you. You don’t look, eyes still stuck on Sidney giving his post-game interview, a bright bruise on his cheekbone and his hand holding a napkin up to his nose, the white fabric turning blood red. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” you hear Sid setting his stuff down and rounding the couch to come to a stop next to you. 

You finally glance up, eyes immediately softening when you see his battle-worn features in person, “Oh, dorogaya.”

You reach your hand toward him and he takes it as his queue to meet you on your level, leaning down and placing a hand softly on the side of your face as he presses his lips to yours.

You can vaguely feel the edge of his split lip against your own. He tastes like blood. 

Once Sid is also sitting on the couch, you pull back and move up to straddle his outstretched legs, settling on top of his muscles. His hands immediately move to grip your hips. 

You lean forward again but then stop, pulling your face away even when Sid and his captivated face chase your touch. Instead of kissing him, you lean back and grab the remote, pointedly pressing pause on the highlights, the screen stopped on a frame of Ilya’s post-game interview, the Russian clearly fuming. 

You toss the remote aside, looking back to your boyfriend. His face is sheepish, and he keeps his eyes on the screen even when your eyes trace his features. Even though he’s avoiding you, his hands subtly pull you closer anyway. 

“Moya lyubov,” you hum, reaching a hand up to turn his face toward yours.

“He hit me first,” he practically whispers, eyes locking on yours, “I didn’t start anything.”

“No, no, no,” you shake your head, eyebrows furrowed, “I am not mad at you. I just realized you were right.”

“About what?” He asks softly, confusing lacing his tone as he shifts in his seat, jostling you as well. 

You lace your arms around the back of his neck, “About my brother. He is a lot. And he hates you. But he does not know about us. He will hate you even more when he knows what I know.”

Sid cocks his head, frowning, “What do you know?”

You look down at him from your place in his lap, lips quirking just slightly, “Just that…ya tebya lyublyu.”

Sid seems to recognize that one as his eyes light up and a grin paints his weathered expression, “I love you too.”

“Mmm,” you hum, grinning and leaning in, moving a hand to wrap gently around the front of his throat, “You know, I have never seen you fight before.”

Sid grins, eyes tracing your lips, “No?”

“No,” you shake your head, leaning in to whisper against his lips, “Was very hot. Did not even get a penalty.”

Sid, as impatient as ever, closes the gap, crashing his lips against yours and keeping you close by your hips. He pulls back just slightly, “Everyone loves me too much to give me a penalty.”

“I know I do,” you hum again, pushing your lips back to his, ignoring the distinct taste of metal Sid’s face is giving out. 

You’ll get back to the Ilya thing another time. For now, you’re busy making the most of the little time you get with your boyfriend. 

——

Turns out, you never get to “get back” to the Ilya thing. The Ilya thing actually gets back to itself. 

You’re laying with your head on Sid’s chest in his bed, having only flown into Pittsburgh an hour ago. The Devils had played the night before so you were free to visit Sid. You were planning on watching the Penguins’ game from Sid’s apartment and being right where he left you when he gets back. 

You roll over, placing your chin on his chest and looking up towards your boyfriend. He just smiles when he sees you watching, moving a hand to hold the side of your face, his thumb gliding smoothly against your temple. 

“What are you thinking about?” He hums, smiling softly.

You tilt your head, pressing a gentle kiss to his bare chest beneath you before you look up and hum, “Who do you play tonight?”

He seems confused by the question, cocking his head and furrowing his eyebrows, “What-? I thought you-“

Your phone rings loudly before he can finish talking, the sound of a popular radio hit echoing around the room. You quickly roll off of Sid and sit up to answer it, pulling the sheet with you to cover your bare chest. 

“Alyo,” you say into the phone, holding it up to your ear. (hi)

Sid’s hand slides to your hip, pulling you back toward him. You let him, leaning back to lay against his chest, trying to ignore the soft press of his lips to your neck. 

“Solnyshko.” (sunshine)

You shoot up at the sound of the voice on the other end of the phone, eyes going wide, “Zayka. Hi, Ilyushka.” (bunny)

Sidney recognizes who the caller must be at this point, shifting to sit up against the headboard. You turn, facing the Canadian. 

“Where are you right now?”

“Uh-” you pause, eyes locking onto Sid and his bare chest, the sheet barely concealing his dignity but doing nothing to hide the small mouth-sized bruises blooming on his skin, “New Jersey.”

“Ah, good. You should come to Pittsburgh for game tonight.”

“Chto?” you ask, confusion lacing your tone. Why would Ilya want you to come to the game tonight specifically? Who is Pittsburgh playing that Ilya would want you to go to?

You press mute on your phone, leaning toward Sid and whispering, “You are playing who tonight?”

He looks about as worried as you do as he whispers back, “Ottawa.”

“Yebat,” you spit with annoyance, sitting back and rolling your eyes, “What did you say, Ilyushka? The call cut out.”

“I say you should come to game tonight against Pittsburgh. I will get you good ticket. Private family box. You can wear Rozanov jersey.”

“Ah, zayka,” you sigh, shifting uncomfortably, “I am busy-”

“I miss my sister, moya devochka, moy lyubimyy. Roza, pozhaluysta.” (my girl, my favorite, please)

You immediately feel guilty at that, realizing just how long you had been avoiding your brother. You had been so caught up in your mysterious romance with Sid that you had let yourself treat Ilya like a villain when, in reality, he hadn’t done anything besides fight a man who he has no idea you have a connection with. You had fielded multiple calls in favor of getting lost in Sid, kept your phone on DND longer than you really should, and even turned down multiple dinner invites from Shane, an event you would usually drop anything to attend. You vaguely wonder if Shane had gotten suspicious yet. You’re not going to text him to find out. 

“Okay, zayka,” you hum, shoulders dropping, “I will go.”

“And you will wear my jersey. Everyone must know they must stay away from you or face me.”

“I will wear Shane jersey because he is best player in Ottawa.”

“Davai, he will not fight anyone for you like I would.”

“I think he would.”

“You are right, solnyshko, he loves you very much.”

You smile softly at that, missing your brother-in-law, “I will be at game, ya tebya lyublyu.”

“Ya tohze tebya lyublyu, paka-paka.” (bye-bye)

“Paka,” you reply to your brother, clicking your phone off and sighing.  

Sid is staring at you with a small smirk when you look back to him, abandoning your phone on the mattress beside you.

“What did Rozanov want?” he asks, smirk widening as he leans back, placing his arms behind his head. 

You roll your eyes, unable to help the grin splitting your lips at the sight of him, “Nothing.”

You pounce forward, straddling his lap and lacing your arms around the back of his neck. His arms move down to wrap around your waist, the sheet falling away from you as you speak, “I am going to your game tonight.”

Sid’s eyes light up and he grins, moving forward to press his lips against yours. Before he can, you pull back, “But I will be wearing Rozanov jersey. Because I will be there for my brother.”

Sid’s expression falls flat just slightly and he shakes his head, gazing up at you, voice falling to a murmur, “That’s fine. You’ll still be wearing the hickeys I gave you.”

“I do not have any hickeys,” you murmur back, teeth digging into your lip.

“You will before you leave,” he replies. Before you can say anything, he turns you both over quickly, causing a startled laugh to leave your throat, one of his own echoing after yours. 

—-

Despite your now-8-month-long relationship with Sid, you’re nowhere near familiar with PPG paints arena. You’d been here whenever the Devils had played here but this is only the third time you’ve been here as a fan and only the first time you’ve allowed yourself to be seen publicly.

You had to leave Sidney’s apartment earlier than planned to go downtown and find a Rozanov jersey from some sporting goods store. You hadn’t brought the jersey in your overnight bag and Ilya would know something is up if you didn’t wear the jersey he knew you owned and would always wear at Ottawa games the seasons before. So, you bought a three hundred dollar oversized Ottawa centaurs jersey with ROZANOV printed across the back, ripping the tags off in the car on your way there. 

Your heels click clinically across the concrete floor of the arena hallway as you make your way to the family box Ilya had texted you about. You stop a few times to take a selfie with the Ottawa fans who pass by and recognize you. 

When you reach the box, you step in, hoping to arrive quietly. Immediately, those hopes are crushed by a couple of very caring Canadians.

“Yn Rozanov!” you glance up, closing the door behind you, eyes landing on the one and only Yuna Hollander, silhouetted by the bright white ice rink behind her, “We haven’t seen you in forever!”

“Hi, mama,” you smile politely, leaning in when she walks towards you with her arms outstretched. 

Yuna had always been more of a mother to you than anything else. When Shane and Ilya had started dating, you had been sixteen and depressed in the middle of Boston. You had grown up without a mother since you were two and had only been forced to be raised by your father until Ilya had gotten drafted and had taken you with him when you were seven. After that, Ilya had been the only family you really had, forcing himself to be the shield between you and the rest of your shitty family. So, you had never really had any important parental figures in your life. 

When Ilya introduced you to Yuna and David and they had figured this fact out, they had made it their mission to be the parents you had never had. Yuna had helped you find a job in photography with the Devils, David had played word-based board games with you to help you with your english, Yuna had gifted you all her favorite cookbooks for your apartment, and David had helped you build all the furniture in your first apartment, among other things that you never thought you would have someone to help you with. 

All that to say, they can tell when something is wrong with you. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Yuna asks as soon as she pulls back from your hug. You blanch, having been pretty sure you had been concealing your nerves pretty well. 

“Ack, it is nothing, Yuna. I am just nervous for game,” you try to make your smile betray none of your true feelings. But, judging by the look on Yuna’s face, she is seeing right through you. One look at David behind her confirms your fears. 

But, you just keep moving anyway, stepping away to hug David as well, “Hi, papa.”

“Hello, Yn,” he replies warmly, hugging you back before you pull away, walking over to grab a drink out of the mini fridge. 

You can feel their gazes on your back so you don’t turn back to them, instead choosing to look around the rest of the room. 

Your eyes latch onto a pair of occupied seats at the front of the box, the two figures chatting animatedly and leaning familiarly into each other. 

You narrow your eyes, quickly recognizing the backs of both the people’s heads.

“Sveta? Rozochka?”

The two women whip around, their gazes immediately meeting your own. They grin and stand up from their seats. 

“Rozzy?” Rose asks, the actress looking the very picture of put-together beauty as she stands up from her seat, smoothing down her HOLLANDER jersey as she walks over and puts her arms out to pull you into a hug, “Oh my god! I missed you so much!”

Her words make you wince, once again remembering how distant you had become to the people closest to you over the past months with Sid. You had just been so worried about keeping your relationship a secret that you had accidentally managed to keep the rest of your life a secret as well. You couldn’t even remember the last time you had called Rose or answered one of her calls. God, you’re gonna take her out to such a nice lunch as soon as she’s free. 

“I missed you too, my rose,” you hum, pulling back with a small smile, “It is nice to see you.”

You then turn to Svetlana, who is fixing you with an unamused gaze. Despite her initial frostiness, you know she can’t hold back around you and her face quickly splits into a smirk and she rolls her eyes, leaning in to hug you, “Come here, moya malyshka.”

You grin back, wrapping your arms around Svetlana’s neck, leaning into her, pressing your jersey against her incredibly expensive, incredibly chic outfit, “Privyet, Sveta.”

“Mm,” she hums, hugging you tightly, leaning closer to whisper lowly, “We have very much to talk about, da?”

“Later,” you whisper quietly, leaning back to be face-to-face with her, smiling sharply. 

She concedes, nodding slightly. 

You take your drink to go sit in one of the seats, facing the ice and staring out with the same sharp gaze you and your brother had become known for. 

A few minutes later, the other four move over as well, Yuna and David sitting on your left and Rose and Svetlana sitting on your right, a few seats across the small aisle. 

The five of you make small chatter as you look out at the ice, cheering just like everyone else when the teams come out for warm-ups. 

Ilya and Shane both face the box while they stretch, glancing up as they always had. Ilya had told you before that he liked to be able to see you while on the ice, even if for no other reason than just knowing that you’re there. 

Both of them wave the first time they look up and you all wave back, even while a lot of the crowd turn to see who Ottawa’s star players are looking at. 

Throughout warm-ups, you try your hardest not to just watch Sidney, even if the sight of his grin even from so far away is making your stomach flip. 

You don’t fall prey to the glances you know Yuna is sending your way. You actually try even harder to avoid looking any way in Sidney’s direction as to avoid her catching on.

That’s about how it goes for the duration of time until the game starts. This is gonna be a long night.

—-

“Ah! Crosby! Surprised to see that your old knees are still working after I kicked your ass last time we played,” Rozanov calls smugly as he glides up to the circle, waiting for the face-off. 

“Mmm,” Sidney replies, face neutral, “Who won that game?”

“Blegh,” Rozanov replies with a frown, “You are still no fun to chirp at.”

Sidney just shrugs, vaguely recalling the promise he had made to you to not get into any fights with your brother tonight. 

Thinking of you, Sid glances up to the box where he knows you are, having looked in your direction fifty times already tonight. For a brief, electrifying moment, your gaze locks onto Sid’s own and he has to bite back a grin. You look away soon after, turning to talk to who Sid knows is Shane Hollander’s mother. 

When Sid looks back to the ice, Rozanov is already watching him, eyes narrowed and fist tightening around the stick in his hand. Rozanov’s eyes don’t lift from Sid’s face even as the ref comes over to drop the puck. Not even when Sid looks down, eyes centered on the ice. 

The Russian loses the face-off. 

—-

Deep in the second, the game is tied 2-2. The Centaurs and their younger, faster attack have been fighting perilously to send attempt after attempt into the Penguins’s defense but the Penguins have been clawing back just as hard, skating with precision and experience around the other team. 

Sidney and Rozanov both have one goal each. Evgeni and Hollander providing the other goals for each team. 

The ref signals for a tv-timeout after a stoppage in play and Sidney skates over to the edge of the bench, closer to center ice, accepting the water bottle that is offered to him from over the wall. 

Evgeni Malkin skates over, coming to a stop on Sidney’s right, glancing up at the same spot Sidney had been staring at all night.

“Your girlfriend is here,” the Russian states, turning to place his back against the wall that Sidney is leaning his front against.

“Yeah,” Sidney nods, not looking up, “She is.”

“She is very beautiful,” Geno says flatly.

“She is,” Sidney says again, bringing the water bottle up and squirting some in his mouth. 

Geno leans forward, looking past Sid to glance at the Ottawa bench before he leans back, “Her brother is going to kill you.”

Sid sighs slightly, “Yeah, probably.”

He glances up again, eyes softening at the sight of you laughing to a young woman with curly hair and sharp eyes, Rose Landry sat on that woman’s other side, laughing along. 

“You love her,” Geno doesn't say it as a question. He says it like it’s something he knows very well, which, from the amount Sid had talked about you to the russian, it probably is. 

“Yes,” Sid replies, tossing the water bottle back to the bench, “I do.”

Geno nods, turning and setting his water bottle down as well, following Sid as they skate down the wall to their coach. 

—-

It’s early in the third when it happens. 

Luca Haas had been sent off for slashing, the younger player still having some recklessness left in him from over the seasons. 

This had left the Penguins on the power play, the team currently passing the puck swiftly around the less-prepared centaurs. Sidney passes the puck to his right to Geno, who moves the puck around his skates, getting past Troy Barret who has to turn and chase after the play. Geno passes the puck back to Sid off to the left, the center only being faced with Evan Dykstra who is conveniently standing in a line with the goal, his skates just slightly too far apart to be safe.

Sid takes the shot before he really thinks, the puck sliding between Dykstra’s skates and going bar-down in the right side of the goal, the goalie, Wyatt Hayes, unable to glove it down. 

The team that’s on the ice swarms Sid, his teammates all cheering and shouting and pounding their fists on his shoulders, shaking him around. Sidney can’t help the grin that splits on his face. Despite their bombardment, Sid isn’t really thinking about his teammates. 

No, he’s looking through the crowd of burly men and dejected Centaurs to look up and lock eyes with you. Despite your avoidance the rest of the night, you’re now standing up in the box, clapping along with the home crowd, a grin on the lips he had kissed so many times before. 

He doesn’t look away from you until much after his teammates have already untangled themselves from around him. You send him a small nod when the other members of your box are too distracted looking at the ice to notice what you’re doing. He nods back, shaking his head with a soft smile and looking away, skating over to the bench to get some water. 

—-

Ilya isn’t sure what he just saw. 

He’s already pissed that Dykstra had let the puck get through his legs and he’s even more pissed that Luca had gotten a slashing penalty in the first place. Not that he’d ever tell them that. He’s too good a captain to show his anger at his teammates. 

But what is currently making Ilya the most pissed is what he watched transpire in front of him just a few yards down the ice. 

He had skated backward towards his bench the second the puck had hit the net. He had shaken his head, ready to move on immediately. 

When he had turned around to watch the Penguins’s celebration, he had watched Crosby’s eyes lock on something in the crowd, presumably the same thing he had been staring at before the face-off. 

Ilya had watched as Crosby had skated away from his teammates, grinning at the crowd. Ilya had finally conceded, willing to find out what was capturing Crosby’s attention so closely. 

Ilya had looked up, following Crosby’s gaze. His hand had paused where it had been lifting the water bottle to his face, his eyebrows knitting in confusion.

Ilya, against all odds, is pretty sure that Sidney Crosby, of all people, is staring right up at you. 

Ilya’s eyes lock on you, where you’re cheering for the wrong team, a grin on the features that mirrored Ilya’s own. His gaze flickers back to Crosby, who is grinning. Then, back to you, where you send the Penguin a little nod. Ilya is already ready to puke before he looks back and sees Crosby nod back. 

“Chto za khujnya?” Ilya spits, tossing the water bottle carelessly back to the bench, his gloves quickly following. (what the fuck?)

“Huh?” Shane asks casually from beside him, eyes moving from where he had been talking to Zane Boodram, “Ilya? Where are you going?”

Ilya has already skated too far away for Shane to do anything now. 

“Crosby!” Ilya barks, skating toward the older man, who turns sideways from where he had been skating toward his own bench.

“Rozanov?” Crosby asks, clearly wary about the interaction. 

“You have secret,” Ilya responds flatly, barely biting his tongue.

Crosby glances sideways at his own bench just a few yards away, “Sure. Don’t we all?”

Ilya nods, looking away and running his hand over his face before he looks back, “When were you going to tell me you are sleeping with my sister?”

Crosby doesn’t look shocked, for what it’s worth. He just glances back to the box, an action that makes Ilya immeasurably more angry, “She’s a grown woman, she makes her own choices.”

“Yes,” Ilya responds with a flat smile, “And I am grown man who can disapprove of these choices.”

“You should talk to her about this,” Crosby responds, seemingly sensing Ilya’s energy.

“No,” Ilya shakes his head, skating closer, “I think I am talking just fine.”

Ilya’s fist connects with the same spot it did the last time they played. Ilya vaguely wonders if it hurts more to get hit there than anywhere else. 

Crosby finally fights back, for what it’s worth. He swings just as hard as Ilya does, landing a particularly strong one right on Ilya’s nose, blood quickly pouring out and dripping onto the ice. 

Ilya has a few inches on the older player, though the latter has a pretty tight grip on Ilya’s jersey. 

They both scrap for a few more moments, landing a few hits each, before players from each team skate over to tear them apart.

In the end, Ilya is left with a bloodied nose and Crosby has a split lip and bleeding knuckles. 

They’re both given fighting penalties, Geno and Shane escorting them to the penalty boxes, the refs just behind them to make sure no more fighting occurs. 

Ilya doesn’t regret it. The asshole was fucking defiling his sister! What was he supposed to do? Let the shithead get away with manipulating you? His baby sister?

The dickhead was probably sleeping with you to get in Ilya’s head. What a dick. Ilya had always known he was worse than the calm and collected image he had been projecting toward the Russian. 

“Fuck you!” Ilya calls past Shane, spitting on the ice below him as he does.

Crosby doesn’t look his way, just sending him a middle finger over Geno’s shoulder. 

They both settle into their respective penalty boxes, avoiding the disapproving stares of their closest teammates. 

——

You can’t help it when you start cheering. 

You’d spent nine months keeping this thing with Sidney a secret. Nine. That’s an entire pregnancy. That’s long enough to create a life. That’s how long you’d been with Sid without telling the people you’re both biologically and legally related to. 

Rose and David send you confused glances when you shoot up from your seat, Yuna looks almost offended. Svetlana doesn’t even glance in your direction. You can’t find it in yourself to care. Not when the man you love just scored and you’re finally in the right place to show just how much you care. 

You don’t look away from him as he celebrates. There’s something so captivating about seeing Sid do the thing he’s good at. It’s like falling in love with him all over again.

He looks up at you after a few moments. Your heart skips. You grin like you’re a little girl again, something you’d only found yourself doing in Sid’s presence. 

You glance sideways, realizing everyone else is staring down at the ice or at each other. You look back at Sid, nodding to acknowledge him. 

You watch as his grin widens and he nods back. 

You finally settle back into your seat, ignoring the very pointed glance Yuna sends your way. Upon your silence, the older woman just moves a hand over to lightly grasp your own, giving it a small squeeze. 

Neither you nor Yuna had ever been the best at sharing emotions. But she’s conveying everything she needs to with that touch. You know she can tell what just happened. You have her support, that’s what matters. 

It’s the crowd noise becoming louder that catches your affention. You lean forward, looking closer at the ice. You glance over just in time to see your brother's fist connect with your boyfriend’s jaw. 

God, you’re going to kill him. 

For what it’s worth, Sid does fight back. You know you had made him promise to not start any fights but you’re not going to be mad at him for fighting back when Ilya is already hitting him. Definitely annoyed at his inability to hold back but you won’t be pissed at him. You’d be lying if you said it wasn’t a little hot when he dropped the gloves. 

You groan, leaning back into the seat behind you, averting your eyes and running a hand over your face. You’re sure one of the fifty cameras in this building is pointed at the box, broadcasting your annoyed face all over the continent. 

Yuna’s grip on your hand tightens and you hear her let out a soft disappointed sigh. 

From her other side, David pipes up, still oblivious to what Yuna had figured out, “Wonder what Crosby said for Ilya to react like that.”

“David,” Yuna says softly and you can see her shake her head out of the corner of your eye. David falls quiet after that. 

Svetlana, fully aware of your relationship with Sid, is actually full-on cheering like she's at an MMA fight and not a hockey game. You lean forward, sending her a questioning glance. 

“I like it when they give in to their primal male urges and try to kill each other,” she shrugs, gesturing toward the ice, “Is guilty pleasure. Sue me.”

You just frown, looking back to the ice, surveying it like a parent watching their misbehaving children.

“I need a drink,” you murmur, standing up from your seat and walking back into the room to find the nearest and strongest alcoholic beverage. 

Five minutes later, Ilya and Sid are both let back out onto the ice. Much to your chagrin. You’re cradling a bottle of vodka in your lap, having abandoned the pretense of using a glass. 

“Mudaks “ you curse under your breath, rolling your eyes and tilting your head back. Svetlana laughs from the other side of the aisle. 

You bring the bottle of vodka to your lips, downing a few sips before setting it down, wishing the last eight minutes of the game would go faster. 

Ilya scores two minutes later to make it 3-3. You cheer despite your anger. 

Late in the third, Sid scores to make it 4-3 for the penguins. You stand up to cheer again, holding back your surprise when David stands and politely claps as well. Maybe it’s the vodka or maybe it’s the heightened emotions and it’s probably your lack of a decent father figure growing up but you find yourself having to hold back a few tears. 

Ottawa pulls their goalie with two minutes left. Unfortunately for them, it doesn’t result in anything, making the home crowd as happy as could be. You have to bite back your grin as the game ends.

“I have to go,” you say quickly, grabbing your bag and turning to hug the other four people in the box, leaving with promises to talk to them all soon, agreeing to the family dinner Yuna proposes for next week. You’re pretty sure you’ll be showing up with more than just yourself. 

Now, you’re waiting outside of the Pittsburgh locker room, leaning your back against the wall to hide the jersey name and number, your arms crossed over the centaurs logo on the front. Your feet are beginning to hurt in your heels but you shift side to side nervously anyway, waiting for Sid to come out. 

You have half the mind to leave and text Sid that you’ll see him back at his place when the door suddenly opens and out steps the Pittsburgh captain himself, face reflecting very clearly the fight he’d engaged in earlier. 

“Come here, idiot,” you hum, trying and failing to stay annoyed at him. 

He steps over to you, smiling sheepishly and pulling you in by your waist, his thumbs gliding back and forth against the fabric of your jersey, “Next time you come to my game you’ll be wearing my jersey.”

“If my brother ever lets me go to game again,” you murmur quietly, ignoring the way Sidney’s face drops in favor of leaning in to press your lips to his.

Upon initial contact, Sid flinches, no doubt because of the cut splitting his upper lip.

“Izvini,” you apologize softly, bringing a hand up to run through his hair on the side of his head. (sorry)

“No, no,” he shakes his head, laughing slightly, “Getting kissed by you is the best problem to have.”

You laugh in response, letting him pull you back in for another kiss. He just showered, thank god, and he smells of his expensive coconut body wash and the Tom Ford cologne you had gotten him for Christmas. 

He pulls you impossibly closer, deepening the kiss, his hands splayed across your waist and the small of your back. Your own hand drifts to lightly grip at the nape of his neck. 

You shift, almost falling on your precarious heels and he holds your waist keeping you upright. You laugh into the kiss, pulling back just slightly before tilting your head down to rest your forehead on his chest for a moment.

“Good game, dorogaya,” you hum softly, looking up. 

He smiles warmly, eyes crinkled as he watches you, “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Because you score game-winning goal, I will wait to talk to you about fighting until tomorrow," you hum, shrugging graciously.

“Oh, good,” Sidney laughs, moving a hand to hold the side of your face and bringing you closer to kiss you again.

You’d gotten used to tasting metal when you kissed him. 

You’re so lost in your boyfriend that you don’t hear the sound of a door opening from down the hall. 

“Crosby I will kill you!” Comes the shout from behind you, the voice laced with a familiar Russian tone. 

“Ilya! Jesus Christ!” You can hear Shane’s voice echoing down the hallway. 

You don’t turn around, pulling away from Sid just to rest your forehead against his chest again, hoping that, if you don’t turn around, your incessant brother won’t be there, bruised nose and all. 

You feel Sid’s hands tense against your waist, though, signaling that you should probably turn around. 

You do, locking eyes on a slightly-damp Ilya storming down the hallway, an even-more-damp Shane chasing desperately after him. 

“Get your dirty hands off my sister, Crosby!” Ilya is coming in hot, pointing an accusatory finger at your boyfriend behind you. 

“Otvali, Ilya!” You shout back, rolling your eyes, “I am fine!”

Ilya comes to a stop in front of you, glaring at Sidney over your shoulder, “On zloy starik,” he basically growls, narrowing his eyes. (he is an evil old man)

“He’s not,” you say firmly, reaching a hand up to poke at your brother's chest, “Ya lyublyu yego.” (I love him)

Ilya’s eyes shoot to you and he somehow becomes madder. He goes to speak but, as his mouth opens, Shane reaches your group, placing a hand on his husband’s shoulder, “What’s happening?”

Ilya narrows his eyes, glancing sideways at the Canadian, “Nothing.”

“Hi, Shane,” Your boyfriend finally speaks up, nodding kindly at the man who’d he known from national play and all-star games. Shane had told you multiple times that he was actually pretty fond of the Penguins’s captain. 

“Sid,” Shane nods back, smiling warmly. His eyes flicker to you, wavering between your face and Sid’s grip on your hip. You watch him put the pieces together, “Hey, Rozzy. Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Yes, Ilyushka invited me,” you reply, words strained, “I was already in Pittsburgh so I thought I would come.”

“You told me you were in New Jersey,” Ilya murmurs, tone dipped in annoyance.

You spare him a disdained glance, “I lied.”

He just grunts, arms crossed over his chest.

“Okay!” Shane says suddenly, clapping his hands together one and smiling brightly, though it's strained, “How about we all talk this out with full sentences, yeah? Politely. No fighting.”

You nod immediately, wanting to get this over with as little yelling as possible. Since you nodded, you’re sure Sidney follows suit. Ilya is the last to concede, though one glance from Shane has him nodding, “Fine.”

——

The four of you end up at a restaurant that Sidney suggests. Ilya protests about going anywhere that Sidney enjoys but Shane just drags him away, telling you that they’ll meet you at the restaurant. 

The car ride over is quiet, the silence only really punctuated by a low sigh every few minutes.

You know the restaurant well. Sidney had taken you there on enough dates that his usual waiter knew your name. You’re just glad you won’t have to think too hard about what to order. 

You and Sid get there first, accepting the offer of his usual table, your usual waiter greeting you and whisking off with promises of getting your usual drinks. 

Ironically, nothing about this situation is usual. 

Shane and Ilya get there next, Ilya seeming calmer but still disgruntled about the situation. 

They sit quietly, ordering a glass of wine and a glass of vodka when you and Sid’s glasses are set down. Those drinks are brought soon after. Still, no one has said a word.

Shane breaks the silence first, “So…does somebody want to explain what’s happening to me?”

“Old man Crosby insulted me by dating my sister,” Ilya mutters bitterly into his glass. 

“It had nothing to do you,” Sidney replies, rolling his eyes, shifting his arm to sit on the back of your chair. 

Ilya watches the movement, narrowing his eyes, “Move your arm.”

“No,” Sidney replies, eyebrows knitting in confusion, “Rozanov, we’ve done much worse.”

With that comment, your eyes widen and you move to slap him lightly on his thigh, hissing, “Sid!”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he replies quietly, conceding about his instigating behavior with a gentle shrug. 

“Sweetheart,” Ilya scoffs, shaking his head. Shane nudges the Russian with his shoulder. 

“What’s your problem with me, Rozanov?” Sid asks suddenly, clearly tired of Ilya’s constant berating tone, “Did I do something to you.”

“I do not like you, Crosby,” Ilya shrugs, setting his glass down on the table, “You are famous hockey player, I do not need more reason to know you are asshole.”

“You don’t know me, man,” Sid huffs a laugh, “Since the beginning, I’ve gone out of my way not to respond to the shit you’ve said.”

“Dating my sister is ‘not responding’, da?” Ilya laughs snarkily.

You feel a slight pull in your chest, the idea of Sidney dating you to get back at your brother having run through your head more than a couple of times during those nights where you had nothing better to do than trace Sidney’s features in the dark and wonder how you got so lucky.  

Luckily for the yearning in your mind, Sidney is quick on the defense, “I didn’t date her because she’s your sister. I started dating her because she’s an amazing woman.”

“And last name Rozanov did not influence your actions at all, I am sure,” Ilya’s tone is clipped and Shane’s hand lands tightly on his husband's knee. 

“No, it didn’t. You know why?” Sidney asks, leaning forward just slightly, “Because she asked me out, Rozanov.”

Ilya’s eyes snap to your own. You, having been raised on Russian courage, just nod when he looks at you. Ilya stares for a few more seconds before he grabs his glass and downs what’s left in it, running a hand over his face. 

“Jesus, I am surrounded by liars.”

You roll your eyes, almost ready to throttle your brother from across the table. Shane, for what it’s worth, does lightly slap his shoulder as well, probably not particularly fond of being accusatory at the dinner table. 

“How long have you two been doing this, then?” Ilya asks, “There is still time to escape, solnyshko.”

“Nine months,” you say before Sidney can, cementing the fact that this is not something you want to escape. 

“Fuck me,” Ilya groans, leaning his head back, eyes flickering closed. 

“Congrats,” Shane says warmly as Ilya pitches his fit, “I’m happy for you, Yn.”

“Thank you, Shaney,” you smile kindly at your brother-in-law, “I am glad someone is happy for me.”

“I would be much happier if you did not choose stupid old man to spend your time with!” Ilya calls from where he is still facing the ceiling. 

You roll your eyes, “I love him, Ilyushka. You will get over it. Because you love me. I will pick him over you if you turn this into a dealbreaker, zayka.” (bunny)

You can feel Sid’s warm gaze on the side of your face. You also feel heat rising to your cheeks at your deceleration. You’d even say you were blushing if that was something Russians could do. 

Ilya finally sits up, fixing Sidney with a hard stare. For a moment, you wonder if he’s going to go on another vicious rampage. 

But, instead, he just asks, “You love my sister, da?”

Sidney blinks, clearly surprised at the question, “Yes. Very much.”

Your brother turns his gaze to focus it on you, “And he treats you well?”

“Da,” you murmur, “Very well.”

“Fine, then,” Ilya states simply, leaning back in his seat and picking a menu up off the table, “What is good here?”

You and Sidney share a sideways glance but, ultimately, you accept that this is the best you’re going to get from your brother so Sidney starts to rattle off the dishes he’s familiar with, letting you describe the ones he’s not. 

When you catch eyes with Shane, the Canadian has a small smirk on his lips and a glint in his eyes as he stares at his own menu. 

Your strange little quartet gets through the rest of dinner without much of a hitch, the only disagreement coming when all three of the men on the table put their card down on the check at the same time. 

While they’re busy squabbling, you slide the check out from underneath their hands, attaching your own card and handing it to your passing waiter before any of them even realize the check has moved. 

They continue to argue until the waiter comes back, handing you the check. You sign it, sliding the check back into the middle of the table, catching the attention of all three men who look at you with surprised glances. You just stand up from your seat, offering your hand for Sid to grasp. 

After a few seconds, he does, smiling wildly at you. 

“Good night, boys,” you say to Shane and Ilya as they stand, “Enjoy Pittsburgh. I will be busy here, do not try to make me show you around or anything. I will see you next week for dinner, da?”

Shane nods, “My parents place, 6:30. Bring wine.”

“I will,” you say, stepping forward to hug both of them, “Bye-bye, Shane, I love you.”

“Love you too,” he hums into your shoulder.

You pull back to hug your brother, “Bye-bye, zayka. Ya tebya lyublyu.”

He holds on for a few moments longer than normal, murmuring into your hair, “Bye, solnyshko. Ya tebya lyublyu. I just want to protect you. I worry about you.”

You pull back to look at his face, lips forming a frown, “I know this. I am grateful. But I am also okay. I love him. And I love you, moy brat.” (my brother)

Ilya smiles softly, “I love you, moya sestra.” (my sister)

With that, you and Sid turn to leave, parting with the Ottawa players. 

You hook your arm around his own, leaning your head against his shoulder, the exhaustion of the day finally hitting you. You let out a small yawn, stumbling slightly in your heels. 

“Tired?” Sid asks with a grin, glancing down at you. 

“Da,” you mumble, words always turning Russian when you get more tired. 

“Mm,” Sid hums as you both step outside, “Well, good thing I have a perfectly good bed in a perfectly good place where you can pass out just down the road.”

“Yes, very good,” you murmur, pressing yourself into his side, “I can go to sleep with my perfect hockey player boyfriend.”

Sid laughs slightly as you continue.

“‘My perfect…stupid old man,” you sigh, humming contently. Sid laughs harder at your echoing of your brother.

You look up, just watching his face for a few moments. He notices, looking back at you with a small grin on his lips.

You lean up to kiss him, pressing your lips softly against his own. 

——

“Can you pass me the salt, please, sweetheart?”

You turn in response to the question, grabbing the salt shaker off the counter and passing it over to David who’s leaning over the pot of pasta sauce on the stovetop. He grabs it from your hand, sprinkling some of it into the red sauce, grabbing a clean spoon to taste it before tossing the spoon in the sink. 

You just lean against the island as he moves around the kitchen, sipping passively on your glass of expensive wine that Sidney had picked out at the store on your way here. 

David has been making dinner for the hour you’d been here, the others randomly passing in and out. Yuna was watching hockey on the TV with Ilya and Sidney when you had left that room, and Shane had been floating between the two rooms, helping David with whatever he asked and sharing small comments about the sport on the screen in the living room. 

“Here, taste this,” David turns, offering you a spoon with some of the red sauce dripping off it. 

You take the spoon from him, tasting the sauce, eyebrows raising as you hum slightly, “Mm, very good.”

“I know,” David grins, turning back to the stove. 

You just follow his movements for a few more moments, sipping at your wine and listening to the sounds of hockey being watched in the other room. 

You glance up when Sid walks in, setting down his own glass of wine and walking over to sling his arms around you from behind. 

You set down your glass, leaning back into him and glancing up, “Hi, moya lyubov.”

“Hi,” he hums, grinning, “How are you?”

“I am good,” you nod, looking back to David who has a knowing grin on his face as he cooks, “I am helping David make dinner.”

“Are you?” Sid asks, raising an eyebrow playfully. 

“She is,” David nods with a chuckle, pointing a wooden spoon in your direction, “But as helpful as she is, you could both be more helpful if you set the table. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Mm,” Sid hums, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “We can do that. Come on.”

He helps you off your stool, walking hand-in-hand with you to go set the table. You work in tandem, your laughs echoing around the dining room. David walks in after a few moments, signaling to both of you that dinner is ready. 

When you walk back into the kitchen, Ilya is standing there, hands on his hips like he’s the surveyor of pasta. Shane strolls in after him, leaning his head on the Russian’s shoulder. 

Yuna is the last person in, pressing a kiss to David’s cheek as he cleans up. 

The six of you move to the dinner table. You sit with Ilya on your left, at one end of the table and Sid on your right, Shane across from you. You pretend not to notice when Shane’s foot bumps into yours on its way to rest against Ilya’s ankle. 

You shift your chair closer to Sid’s, smiling softly when he places his arm around the back of your chair. 

You hear Ilya scoff from beside you. You send him a glance. He shrugs, scooping some pasta onto his fork. 

It’s only been a week since the restaurant and, while he had gotten better about it, Ilya was still displeased with your relationship. Though, you had pretended not to be looking when Ilya had laughed and clapped Sid on the shoulder in the living room earlier. It’s a delicate balance. 

The evening passes smoothly, the air light with laughs and stories you had collected over the years. Shane snorts at a story about Luke Hughes tripping and going face-first into a goal post. Ilya embarrasses you by telling the room about the very first time you had ever skated and forgot how to stop, getting a nose-bleed from running into the boards. Sid even has a story about Shane having a few drinks, a rare sight for him, after winning the four nations face-off and promptly falling asleep in the bathtub in Connor McDavid’s hotel room. 

“That makes me think,” Yuna pipes up, taking a sip of wine, “Ilya, now that you’re a Canadian citizen, you’ll be playing with both Shane and Sidney for the Olympics this year, right?”

Everyone pauses, the delicate balance of the room hanging by a thread. 

You had thought about the Olympics and their roster decisions already. It is very clear that no one else had. 

You chew quietly, eyes flickering between Ilya and your plate. 

No one else speaks, so you do, “Yes. Canada will have hard choice for first-line center. But at least they will kill stupid Americans when they do not choose to bring Robertson.”

You hope that pivoting to making fun of the Americans will make this conversation move smoother. 

After a few more tense seconds, Ilya finally replies, “Yes. It will be nice to play with a Canadian with strong backhand.”

Shane frowns, rolling his eyes at his husband and grabbing his glass of wine, “Shut up, Ilya.”

Sidney laughs, and suddenly the tension is completely gone and the room is now discussing the logistics of the canadian national hockey team the Milan winter olympics. 

You glance around the room, letting yourself lean into Sidney’s side. When Shane and Ilya are busy arguing with David and Yuna about whether or not curling is an entertaining sporting event, you glance up at Sid, smiling softly at the joy in his eyes. 

“I love you,” you murmur, nudging him with your elbow.

He glances down at you, eyes softening and his lips tilting up, “I love you too. Even if your family is crazy.”

You laugh, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips. He tastes like wine and pasta. You’ve never loved anyone more. 

In your in-laws house, eating pasta, watching your brother argue with the man he loves, laying back against the man you love who also happens to be one of the best hockey players of all time. 

Who knew creating an Instagram post for Luke Hughes, of all people, would lead you here?

----

[soulareclypse]

lighthouse; b. park

Brendon Park x Reader

Request: Reader gets injured at Pittfest and Brendon is her emergency contact.

8k words.

AN; Thank you for the request !! <3 I took it and kinda ran with it and it developed into something slightly different, but vibes are still there. Please note I finished writing this (and am posting this) from my phone at work because it’s a national holiday and I am bored and wanted to write instead of work lol. This is not proofread for grammar at the time of posting. I appreciate any and all feedback (please be polite though <3)

CW; Mass shooting, death, etc. It’s PittFest.

Brendon Park wasn’t used to waking up cold anymore.

He was used to overheating and needing to turn on the bedroom AC in the middle of the night because you were nestled into his body, raising his body temperature to a borderline unbearable point.

Like every single morning, he rolled over to slam his large hand onto his beeping alarm, Old Reliable, as you’d called your mortal enemy, because iphone alarms that didn’t ring half the time be damned, Brendon loved the old school alarm clocks.

The red 5:00 AM blinked at him angrily. He blinked right back.

Brendon swung himself upright, feet landing with a heady thud onto the cream coloured rug covering the herringbone floor under his bed. He tilted his head to the left, crack, then to the right, crack. Then, with one big huff, Brendon stood up and marched his way to the kitchen. Every step he made was decisive and calculated like every other part of his life– Order started first thing in the morning for Dr. Park.

At the large quartzite kitchen island, he made his usual breakfast which consisted of scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, spinach, and avocado, with a side of black coffee. The only sound in the quiet apartment to be heard was the buzzing of the news reporter talking from the living-room TV.

Once he was done eating, Brendon rinsed his dishes and placed them into the stainless steel dishwasher. Then, he went back to the master bedroom and threw on briefs, a pair of white socks, black shorts with a matching black compression shirt before heading out the front door of the condo and down the hallway to the elevator to go to the gym on the main floor for his 5:30 AM workout.

By 6:15 AM, the waterfall shower head was turned on and the bathroom mirror was fogging up from the humidity. Brendon’s sweaty clothes were tossed into the laundry hamper as he stepped into the shower, washing away any remnants of sweat and tiredness left on his body.

What made today different from every other day was that by the time he had towelled himself off and went back into the walk-in closet to get dressed, you weren’t groaning yourself awake in the california king sized bed.

Usually, you’d be tossing and turning at the sounds coming from the bathroom and grumbling nonsense as Brendon came to press a kiss to your temple as a good morning. He’d shut the alarms ringing on your phone minutes apart because you’d snoozed the three alarms that had been programmed at fifteen minute intervals and plugged the phone in so it could charge a bit after being lost in the sheets while you slept.

But no, today, your side of the bed was empty and cold, sheets still tucked under the mattress unlike usually when half the sheets were pulled off from how much you moved at night. You’d gone to your best friend, Olivia’s, apartment with a duffel bag stuffed with all kinds of clothes and products so you could spend the three day weekend dancing around at PittFest, an event you’d bought tickets for the second the lineup was released.

Brendan’s eyes looked away from where you’d usually be laying and reached for his phone to see if you’d texted him since you’d left the night prior. Nothing. The only thing on his lockscreen was the picture of the two of you on vacation in Tulum last winter and a few emails that had come in from the hospital administration.

Usually that wouldn’t bother him– he knew you were probably sleeping in after a girls night that he knew always turned rowdy even if you guys stayed in, but you had essentially dropped off the surface of the earth and left him with a cold shoulder after an argument earlier during the week, which seemed impossible because you lived together, but you were of the stubborn kind, and your silence was eating him alive.

—

Brendon had met you four years ago through your best friend, Oliva, where you’d quite literally bumped into each other in the cramped kitchen of her downtown apartment for her housewarming party. Liv had met Brendon in university, sororities and frats and all that, and they’d struck it off like long lost siblings. It was surprising that it had taken you so long to meet the orthopaedic surgeon considering their friendship. However, that hadn’t mattered much because the second Brendon laid his eyes on you as you refilled the ice cooler to bring into the living room, he knew he was done for.

What took you by surprise was that, when you’d turned to look at him after walking backwards and bumping into him, your name tumbled out of his mouth like a stutter. The tips of his ears turned red as his eyes widened.

“Uh sorry–” You started confused, but not displeased, at how this handsome stranger knew your name when you’d never seen him before. “Do I know you?”

“I’ve seen you in Liv’s posts.” He explained, desperately trying to not sound like a total creep. “I’m Brendon. Liv and I met in university.”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to piece if Brendon existed in the collage of Liv’s life you’d made in your mind. She was a free spirit who’d decided to drop out of med school and go travel around the world instead. Liv would go do seasonal work in different countries and save up every penny she could to just travel around the country after. She always brought back an array of trinkets, pictures, and stories of torrid affairs. It was only fair that you started trying red strings to keep track of all the interesting characters she met on her adventures.

Ah yes! There he was. Brendon was the med school friend who’d met up with her in Peru to do sandboarding.

“It’s nice to finally meet you. I was looking forward to it.” Brendon had indeed. The first time he had seen a picture of you, the bodily reaction he experienced to seeing your smile had shocked him so hard that he had called Olivia and demanded to meet you. Not yet. She’d told him with a tone similar to the owner of a dog wagging its finger at it after finding a chewed-up shoe. “I’ve only heard good things about you.” Brendon leaned in and it made you realize just how massive of a man he really was.

Somehow, the sounds of the party happening down the hallway seemed to evaporate into thin air and you and Brendon lost yourselves in conversation. The conversation started from the sand snowboarding adventure in Peru with Olivia to mountain biking in Arizona then to you being taught how to ride a bike when you moved in with your college friend when you were twenty-one years old. It wasn’t until someone came to get some ice because there was none left in the living room that you realized that had been so deep in the most fluid conversation of your life that all the ice you’d taken out had melted in the bucket.

It was an obvious decision to give him your number when he’d sheepishly asked and by the end of the night, when all the stragglers were heading back home, Brendon had asked you on a supper date the next evening which you enthusiastically agreed to.

When you and Olivia were finally alone, curled up into her bed with most of the apartment cleaned up into a load of big garbage bags, you rolled over to look at her.

“Liv, I know I’m being dramatic, but I swear there were sparks flying between Brendon and I. Am I crazy?” You hadn’t felt that way about any man you’d met since your ex-boyfriend three years ago, and even then, meeting Brendon made you realize that it hadn’t even been that eye opening to meet your ex. Your first encounter with Brendon was equally exhilarating like a kite flying through the sky on a windy day and soothing like a glass of warm milk before bed when you were little.

“No, you’re not crazy.” Olivia answered, a knowing smile on her lips as she fluffed her pillow up to look at you comfortably. “I knew this would happen, that’s why I didn't introduce you guys.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think he’s ready for you right now.” She began and paused for a second like she was trying to put together the right words. Your lifted eyebrows and pointed look urged her to get on with it quicker.”I wanted to let him ferment a bit before I matched you guys up. Seems like he’s deadset on proving me wrong though.” Olivia laughed and smacked you on the shoulder playfully. “Listen, I love the guy, he’s like the brother I never had, but he was still in his douche canoe phase and you’re too special to not catch at the right time.”

—

It had taken Brendon some time to fully open up to you as you started seeing each other. He was the classic avoidantly attached guy and you seriously thought about ending things with him over the first year, but Brendon took you and your concerns seriously and worked on himself. He always showed you that you meant the world to him and that he was willing to put the effort in. It also may have helped that Olivia had given him a few stern talking to’s to make him get his shit together when she saw you teetering.

The next three years had been more than perfect. Brendon took you on vacations every year, he invited you to move into his beautiful apartment and had asked you to decorate the place to make it more homey– the apartment had felt like a shell to him until you had brought life to it.

His older sister absolutely adored you– she had threatened to neuter him if he hurt you in any way because she finally had the sister she’d always dreamed of. Although, she had told you she used to dress him up in her fluffy pink tutus and make him do dance recitals with her when she was doing ballet, so at this point it was more like the addition of an official sister.

You had met his parents much later than he had ever met yours. Both of your parents were divorced, but his parents had gone through much more than yours ever did. Where your parents simply fell out of love and remained good friends after their long relationship, Brendon’s mother and father had been cheating on each other for years, and the divorce had felt like a blessing to the Park children. They had spent their formative years bouncing from house to house with both parents talking behind each other’s backs, trying to poison their children against one another.

That had set the tone for Brendon’s views on relationships and had been the leading factor in his hesitation whenever he found someone that seemed like they could be the perfect balance to himself.

After getting to know his parents a bit better, it had made a lot more sense to you why Brendon was the way he was. In fact, it had surprised you how well he had turned out despite all of that. You had figured that his sister’s marriage had helped your boyfriend not swear off of relationships completely, even though he remained reticent and it had been a long road to where you were. Brendon’s sister had married an absolute gem of a man who had become an important figure in Brendon’s life, and they had made a beautiful life for themselves and gave the surgeon a look into what life could possibly be like for himself.

—

At 7:00 AM on the dot, Brendon grabbed his keys off the hooks by the front door. He slipped his shoes on, his eyes lingered on the empty hook where your keys should be hanging for a second too long, before walking out the door.

The fourth year of your relationship was when things started to get a little bit rocky. People around you started feeling too comfortable asking questions– When would he propose? When was the first baby coming? What about buying a house? The questions were to be expected, and they were harmless enough, but it was Brendon’s reaction to them that got the alarm bells ringing.

You and Brendon had wanted the same things from all those late night conversations dreaming about your future together– marriage, kids, a home in the suburbs and weekends filled with soccer games and pool parties. But, as that reality crept up closer and closer, Brendon started regressing into his old ways. He would shut down the conversations before they could fully be addressed and deflect any comment you or anyone else made. Every conversation ended the same way.

Not now.

Later.

When the time is right.

Your friend Sabrina’s engagement tipped the scales.

She’d known her boyfriend, Justin, for barely a year before he slid a massive diamond on her ring finger in front of fifty people and proclaimed his love for her. You knew that everyone had their own timing in life, and that your friend’s speedy engagement said nothing about your own relationship, but it would be a lie to say it hadn’t opened the wound up again.

Brendon standing beside you quietly as Sabrina went around the room waving her borderline eyesore of an engagement ring was what had triggered the fight that happened earlier in the week between you and your boyfriend.

“I love you, Bren. You know I do.” You had started with a sigh after he had shut you down when you had started talking about Sabrina’s engagement once you’d gotten back home. “But I know what I want for myself and I’ve always been honest with you. I don’t ever want to end up resenting you or regretting things because I let myself stay in a relationship that doesn’t align with what I want from life.” You knew it was harsh, but sometimes that was the only option. Brendon only listened when things got ugly. “If you don’t want the same things as I do, it’s not fair to either of us to keep dragging this on.”

It had been easier than you had expected to utter those words. You had been thinking about them, had even said them out loud to Olivia, but you had never expressed your reality to Brendon. It was true, you loved him deeply and you wanted all of those things with him, but at the same time you would never hold yourself back for a man. Your mother had made you promise her that as you cried into a tub of pistachio ice cream after your first break up in high school.

—

By 10 AM, Brendon was elbows deep in paperwork while Olivia’s hand was slapping your cheek, apparently thinking your face was the snooze button on top of her alarm. Normally, you were hard to wake up in the morning, but her hand was much rougher than how Brendon would lull you out of sleep. This had quite literally been a rude awakening.

“Oh fuck off.” You grumbled and smacked her back. Olivia let out an offended gasp as she opened one eye to look at you, laying across from her in her bed. Although your friend wasn’t up and ready like Brendon was, she was still better than you were when it came to waking up.

“Today’s the day!” Olivia exclaimed, energy surging into her body as she realized that today was day one of PittFest. “I think I’m going to wear the ruffle shorts with that big suede belt you found at the vintage shop.” She didn’t even give you time to open your eyes before she was off into one of her monologues. “Do you think it’d be cute with the gold hoops?”

All you did in response was lift your arm and give her a thumbs up and turn around to sleep for a few more minutes, even though that was always a trap that made you late in the mornings.

“Ok, fine.” Olivia ceded. “I’ll go get breakfast started, but I’ll be back in fifteen if you’re not awake. We want to get there early enough for a good parking spot.”

When you heard Olivia’s muffled footsteps leave her bedroom, you finally opened your eyes and rolled onto your back to look up at her ceiling for a moment. You should have been so excited for today, but for some reason there was this anxious pit in your stomach that you could only hope would go away as you got ready.

You grabbed your phone and opened it, your heart sinking a bit at the text message on your screen.

bren <3 : Have a good day.

bren <3 : I love you.

Usually you’d feel warm in your chest when reading those three words. Usually you’d respond back quicker than you could formulate a thought because loving Brendon came so naturally to you, you didn’t need to think about it. But this week had felt like somebody had tilted the earth a few degrees and everything was just a bit off.

Since your argument with Brendon earlier on in the week, it felt like you had been two ships passing in the night. Brendon was stuck at the hospital later than planned most days, trying to make his way through the piles of paperwork on his desk, and whenever he’d come home you’d have already made and eaten supper– his portion waiting for him in a glass tupperware in the fridge. He’d find you sitting on the couch watching re-runs of the original Sabrina the Teenage Witch and he’d come join you, but you were both too tired to interact meaningfully.

You loved Brendon, there was no doubt in that, but you were frustrated and exhausted. So, you simply liked his message and tossed your phone back onto the bed before getting up.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to him, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to pretend that everything was alright and be as affectionate as you always were. Your co-worker had called you petty; you called yourself justified in your behaviour.

“Legend.” You sighed out as an iced coffee was shoved into your hand the second you crossed the threshold into Olivia’s kitchen. She was standing by her kitchen island, two ceramic plates she’d made in her pottery classes on the counter adorned with sourdough bread topped with egg salad on the counter.

“Do you want me to do the braids you showed me from pinterest?” Olivia asked after your quiet thank you at the food placed in front of you. You nodded with a hum and started eating your breakfast, not bothering to elaborate on her question. “Are we going to talk about it?” Your friend asked, knowing the reason behind your shift in mood in the last few days. You’d been discussing your insecurities with her for the last few months and you’d texted her after the argument with Brendon, but you hadn’t seen each other yet, so you hadn’t been able to dive deeper into the whole ordeal. Olivia knew you well, well enough to know that you weren’t feeling well by your lack of ‘:-)’ at the end of a silly message you’d sent her.

“Not yet,” You began. “I just want to have fun today.”

“I hear you.” Olivia answered, after swallowing a mouthful of avocado and egg. “I’m here when you’re ready, you know that.” And with resolution, she shifted gears to talking about the makeup look she’d be doing and which jewelry would complement her outfit the best.

—

A few hours later, Brendon was elbows deep in scrub sinks and you were dancing around with Olivia on the grassy hills of the field where Pitt Fest took place. You’d thought about texting him a picture of your outfit, and then thought about texting him when you arrived at the first set of the day, and you even thought about sending him a picture of the ridiculously overpriced drink menu, because he would always get so frustrated at how events overcharged for goods even if he was basically swimming in his surgeon money.

You’d held back at each of those moments though; feeling the need to stay cold hoping that maybe this week of you barely being there would click something into place in Brendon. Your heart weakened at the thought of his warm eyes and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking about you as much as you were thinking about him.

“You know,” You started all of a sudden after a moment of quiet. Olivia’s head snapped towards you so quick you worried she’d injured her neck. She pushed her sunglasses up to take you in properly and crossed her hands onto her lap, dramatically showcasing how focused she was on you. “I hate being like this with Brendon. I hate feeling like this.”

Olivia hummed in response, knowing that you just needed to vent without necessarily hearing about solutions or what she thought.

“I love him so much for fucks sake, and I can’t picture myself marrying or having kids with anyone else, but I’ll be damned if I get dragged along for a few more years until he decides what he actually wants and by then it’ll be too late for me.” You admitted, your head dropping to look down at your lap with shame.

“He’s always been a bit messed up when it comes to relationships because of his parents, you know this.” Olivia chimed in softly. Her voice gentle like she was talking to a skittish animal. “I’ve never seen him work on himself as much as he has for you. He really does love you; I just think this is the biggest hurdle he’s ever had to face.”

Your friend prided herself on being the number one man hater in Pennsylvania, however she knew deep down that Brendon would come through. She’d seen how flustered he’d been when you two met and how he had basically begged her to tell him all the things you liked so he could plan the best first date you’d ever been on; he planned to make it the last so it had to be perfect.

“I just don’t want to be collateral in someone else’s war with themselves.” You sighed and looked up from your intertwined hands to meet Olivia’s eyes. “I feel like even when I’m giving myself deadlines of when to end things with him I’m just lying to myself. I don’t want to be without him, and I’m scared I won’t be strong enough to walk away if it comes to it.” Tears had started flooding the inner corners of your eyes by the time the last word came out of your mouth.

Olivia reached over, her manicured hand wrapping around yours as she gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I think you need to trust in the strength of his love for you.” Is all she said to you, her tone certain and calm, which soothed you instantly. “Come on, Weezer is playing soon and I know you don’t want to miss them.” Olivia suddenly got up and leaned forward to you, holding her hand out for you to grab onto and lift you up. With a nod, you linked hands and she pulled you back up to your feet, literally and metaphorically.

A 20-minute wait had managed to calm all your nerves and a dopey smile appeared on your lips as you heard the familiar tune of Island in the Sun. That damn song broke your resilience and you pulled out your phone to take a quick video to send to Brendon.

Babe : Our song.

Babe : I love you.

Your phone was shoved back into your small sling purse before you could think twice and unsend the message that came so naturally to you. God, you hated it here.

Although Brendon had been all EDM and Rap when you’d met him, he’d come to appreciate the soft ballads that had you swaying around your apartment when you cleaned. One song in particular, Island in the Sun, that had played in one of your guilty pleasure movies Aquamarine, had become the white flag in any argument between you and Brendon, as few and wide as they came. It could lighten any mood and bring the both of you back to each other like a lighthouse calling to a lost boat.

You’d checked your phone two hours later in hopes to see an answer from your boyfriend, but there was only a notification from uber eats giving you a 20% off on a delivery order. You figured he was probably in an emergency surgery or wrapping up his day as it was nearing 5:30PM.

“You ready to start heading out?” Olivia had asked you after looking at the rest of the performers for the evening. Although you loved going out, you also loved going the hell home after a day filled with crowds of people under a hot sun.

“Absolutely.” You nodded and started walking side by side in the direction of the parking lot.

Everything was fine, until it wasn’t.

It was like a bomb detonated with a deafening bang and everyone got real quiet.

Then, another bang rang out, and then another in quick succession.

At first nobody moved, they tilted their heads up to look for the fireworks they’d heard, but the sky was its regular shade of blue. It wasn’t until someone yelled out ‘Shooter!’ at the top of their lungs that people started screaming.

“What was that?” Olivia turned to you, moving almost sluggishly as the shock paralyzed her entire body. It felt like a joke. Like Ashton Kutcher should have popped up on stage with a filming crew for the reboot of Punk’d. “Was that–?”

It wasn’t until someone came crashing down between you two that the seriousness of the situation really dawned on you. The sensation in your stomach was rare, but familiar. It was that pit you’d felt this morning when waking up.

“Go! We need to go!.” You managed to choke out as you grabbed Olivia’s hand, dragging her forward towards the car park where you saw people flocking to. The escape attempt came with hurdles, as people tried to push each other to get to the gates first, body after body falling down like dominos.

Every shot that rang out felt like a whip to your heels as you ran faster than you ever knew you could. It felt like your imagination was playing tricks on you as they sounded like they were landing closer and closer to you and Olivia. Without thinking about it twice, you grabbed Olivia’s hand and jerked her forward so she’d be running in front of you.

You could see the exit. The three fence gates that were open, people being funneled through them like cattle entering a kill pen. People had to slow down to all manage to fit through, but it’d been carnage as people jumped over one another to get to safety first. The indomitable human spirit they said.

Then all of a sudden it felt like you were hit with a bat in your back. And that bat had tiny explosives in it that popped when it made contact with your body.

“You okay?” Olivia whipped her head around and slowed down for a few steps when she heard the breath being audibly knocked out of your chest. She saw your eyebrows furrowed together, mouth open in a small ‘o’ as your hand reached to where you’d felt the punch.

“I don’t know.” You said as you felt a heat start spreading inside your body. You kept running, which got Olivia to turn her head back around and try to focus on angling herself properly to make it through the gates as quickly as possible. You took in the biggest breath you could muster as you pulled your hand back in front of you and saw your fingertips stained with a dark red. You’d been shot. You couldn’t alarm Olivia until you made it to the car. She needed to focus on running forwards so you could escape.

Once you were in the car she just had to drive you to safety. To Brendon. He would fix all of this mess. He always fixed your silly messes.

In the few metres you covered since passing the gate, the pain had spread in your chest and you felt your t-shirt getting wet and sticky on your skin. Each breath was getting harder to take.

“Please, she’s hurt!” Cried a voice out as Olivia unlocked her car. It hurt to move, but you turned your upper body to find two teenage girls. The ginger haired girl was being held up by her friend. Her feet dragged behind her with every step they took. She looked like she was holding on to whatever life force she had just to get her friend to safety. “Take us with you!”

“Come on.” Olivia said, running around the car to help the two girls into the backseat. It took all the effort in the world for you to open the front door, the simple action of flexing muscles triggering another wave of pain shooting through your middle. “Hey, hey– you okay?” Olivia asked like she had a potato in her mouth. Huh, that was weird. Should Olivia be driving if she was having trouble talking like that?

Your vision darkened like the edges of an old movie as you turned to your left. Olivia’s head was jumping from you to the road, speeding enough to escape the blood bath without causing an accident. It was like a bumper cart playground in the parking lot. Cars were zooming past one another. Police and Ambulance sirens were wailing like banshees.

“Hospital. Need to hurry.” Came out with a voice you didn’t recognize. It was you. It sounded like you. But it wasn’t you. You had floated up into the clouds, feeling like there were only balloon strings tying you down to your body.

The blonde girl with the freckles was sobbing as she shook her friend’s shoulders. The white flowy dress she’d been wearing was stained in shades of red and brown in the center of her body.

“What are your names?” You managed to whisper out, having to take as deep a breath as you could to stay awake.

“This is Gwen,” she hiccuped. “I’m Rosie.” Gwen and Rosie. You wondered if those were short for anything, or if they’d been given the nickname from the start. Gwendolyn and Rosalie. Pretty. You wondered if you’d ever have daughters. Brendon would be so good with a daughter.

“It’s going to be alright, okay?” Your eyelids were so heavy. And god did Olivia turn on the AC? It was so cold in the car. It seemed like that had somehow calmed down Rosie as the back of the car got quiet. The peace that came from the quiet after all the horrors that had happened in the last hour lulled you into your seat.

You never fell asleep on roadtrip drives with Olivia. It was one of your unbreakable vows you’d agreed to. The passenger always stays awake with the driver. But this time it was so hard. She’d forgive you if you slept for just a little bit, right? Besides with the speed she was driving, you’d be reunited with the love of your life in no time.

—

Brendon was about to scrub in for a surgery when “Code Triage” was announced over the P.A systems. The second he heard those words, he whipped his body around and marched himself right back out of the scrubbing room. He walked to the closest nurses station he could find and immediately asked what was happening.

“There’s an active shooter at Pittfest.” The nurse sitting at the desk replied to him instantly, her spine straightening up when she Dr. Park marching towards her. “We’re the nearest trauma center so most of the victims are coming this way.”

“Fuck.” Was all that came out of Brendon’s mouth. The swear shocked the nurse even more. Although Park the Shark was known for his biting tone and condescending demeanor, he never swore. He was professional enough to remain courteous in the presence of others, especially patients.

Brendon reached into his back pocket and fished out his phone. He hadn’t been able to check it since earlier that morning because he’d been stuck in procedure after procedure. You had answered him hours ago. Said you loved him. Those three simple words he’d been yearning to hear from you all week. It had been killing him to be so distant while sharing the same bed.

Hearing your voice singing along to Weezer in the back of your video was like having a sip of water after being stranded in the desert. You hated when you went to concerts and you could hear your voice in your videos. You always said that you would stop singing at the next concert, but you always did. The music was always too good for you to not let go and sing along. It was one of Brendon’s favourite things about you, how much love consumed you.

He tried calling you. Once, twice, three times. Each time, your phone just rang on and on until your voice spoke up.

“So sorry you couldn’t reach me. Please leave me a voicemail, or even better send me a text! Have a great day.” He could hear the smile on your lips. All Brendon wanted was to see that same smile in that moment.

He found Olivia’s number next.

“Brendon!” Olivia’s voice rang out, her voice wobbly but tight, like she was trying her darndest to keep it all together.

“Are you guys okay?” He asked after explaining that you weren’t answering your phone. Relief flooded through his body as he heard his friend’s voice. If she was answering, then you guys must be okay. You had probably just lost your phone in the chaos.

“She didn’t tell me she got shot. She was awake and talking until we got to the car and then she just started going real quiet. I’ve been trying to get her to talk but she just makes a few sounds and she’s out again.” Olivia had never sounded so panicked. In all the years Brendon had known her, she’d always had such a blasé attitude. Now, it sounded like she’d strung up all her words together and if she said quickly enough it wouldn’t be real.

“How far away are you?” Brendon was already running to the stairway down to The Pitt. His heart was in his throat. It felt like he couldn’t move his tongue and his fist was balled together so tightly he felt his elbow flare up.

“10 minutes. There’s also two girls with us. One is not in good shape, Brendon.”

That was all Brendon needed to hear for him to start leaping down three steps at a time with how massive his stride was. He barged through the doors of the ED, seeing everything all set up and organized for triage. Patients were already being wheeled in, clothes bloody and faces white from shock or blood loss.

“I need people at the ambulance bay. Now!” Brendon barked out, running to the ambulance bay. “My wife is coming in with another injured girl and two passengers. GSWs to the abdomen on both of them.” Brendon didn’t bother looking at the people who fell into step behind him.

“We’ve got them, Dr. Park.” Dr. Shen’s voice pulled him out of his fear induced haze for a moment. “You know you can’t get in the way when they arrive.” He patted the orthopaedic surgeon’s shoulder in a sign of encouragement as he walked off the next car that arrived.

“Brendon!” He heard Olivia scream out as he saw her Bronco drive up into the ambulance bay. The tires screeched against the concrete as Olivia slammed the breaks and yanked open her door to get out. She ran to the other side as doctors swarmed her. “The girls in the back are Rosie and Gwen. Gwen has been unresponsive since we got in the car.”

Brendon ran up to your side, opening the car door to reach you. His hands held your cheeks like he was holding a newborn as he let his eyes roam over you quickly. When he moved his fingers to start counting your pulse. Your skin was sickly pale and you could barely open your eyes when you heard him call your name.

“Hey baby.” You managed to choke out, although you couldn’t keep your head up. His gentle touch and his deep voice could wake you up from any slumber imaginable.

“Black and white. Bring her to paeds.” Ellis spoke from the back of the vehicle as she slapped a checkered band on Gwen’s wrist. Rosie was crying as she looked at her own yellow band. She didn’t need to be told what the difference meant. She knew she’d lost her childhood best friend on the way to the hospital.

“On three.” You heard as you hissed at the pain that bloomed in your back as hands probed at you and then lifted you up to place you onto a gurney. “Ma’am, can you hear me? Watch the abdomen.”

“Park.” Came out like a warning tone. “We’ve got to take her in, she’s getting weaker. I need you to move.” Shen was surprisingly firm. It was out of character for the jolly attending, but he wasn’t playing around this time. “Your wife needs serious help, right now. If you want to be useful, go see Dr. King in the yellow section.”

Everything was bright and so loud all of a sudden. You could hear multiple voices overlapping around you, but you couldn’t recognize a single one of them.

“Female, thirties, GSW to left upper quadrant, hypotensive en route, no EMS transport.”

A gust of cold air made goosebumps appear on your skin as the cold metal of scissors started slicing through your shirt to expose the damages.

“Breathing shallow. Cool and clammy. Weak radial pulses. Get me a bag of O-Neg please.” Rattled on another voice. There were some beeping noises and some pressure on your stomach. “Shit. She’s got free fluid. It’s a massive hemoperitoneum. She needs to go into an OR now.”

You didn’t hear the end of that sentence as your eyes rolled into the back of your head and everything went dark again. “She’s unresponsive! Pressure’s tanking. We’ve got to intubate if she’s going to last long enough to see the inside of an OR.

The team of doctors and nurses around you scrambled as they got ready to slip the tube into your airways.

“Alright, I’ve got cords.” The doctor spoke, moving his hands gently. “And, we’re in! Get Dr. Walsh in here. And let Dr. Park know she’s being sent up for surgery.”

—

Brendon had helped out where he could. Deciding to keep his mind busy by not letting his hands stop moving. At least here could do something and help rather than be completely useless as he waited for any update on you.

It felt like it had been forever until he was advised that you had crashed and were being wheeled into surgery. The nurse had tried not to give too many details, but Park the Shark had come out and bullied the young nurse into telling him everything she knew. The bullet had destroyed your spleen and you were bleeding out internally. You were on the touch and go and the surgical team would do their best to tip the skills in your favour.

“Hey Liv, how are you feeling?” Brendon crouched down next to his friend that he’d sorted out when they went into the hospital. She’d been lucky enough to only have scratches and bruises.

“She pushed me in front of her Bren.” Olivia teared up. You’d prioritized her safety over yours, and you had saved her life. You were the reason she was sitting in the cafeteria chair with only some bad bruises. Brendon wrapped his arms around his friend both for her and for him. It hadn’t surprised him at all, that was just the kind of person you were.

“You called her your wife when we arrived.” She pointed out, sniffling and rubbing away at her eyes. “Did you realize that?”

“I didn’t. It just came out.” Brendon admitted. “She’s going into surgery now. She’s tough, she'll make it.” He said like there was no other option possible. You would survive this. You had to. “I got her a ring three months ago.”

“What?” Olivia asked, somewhat shocked because Brendon hadn’t told her. He had asked for your pinterest board dedicated to dream engagement rings that you didn’t know he knew about, but hadn’t said anything afterwards.

“I know she’s been losing hope in me. I was going to propose on our trip to Croatia.” He reached back into his pocket to pull out his phone and unlocked it. He swiped to his pictures and turned his phone back to Liv to show her the picture of the ring.

“Brendon–” She stopped herself with a gasp, her hand going to her chest in awe. “This is beautiful! She’s going to love it.”

“I know.” Was all he said before sitting next to his friend in silence. “It’s in my work bag. I’ve been carrying the ring with me wherever I go.” A chuckle escaped like he couldn’t quite believe himself. “She was really upset after Sabrina’s engagement party and I didn’t want her to think I was proposing because I felt like I needed to.”

“We talked about it a bit today. I told her to trust in your love for her.” Olivia comforted her friend, who although he was incredibly smart, was also a massive knucklehead a lot of the time.

“I just need to see her eyes filled with life again.” Brendon’s breath stuttered. His throat closed up again and he had to wiggle his neck around to gain control of his body again. “I don’t know what I’d do with myself if she doesn’t make it through this, Liv.”

The nurses who passed in the hallway sped up their walk when they noticed it was none other than Park the Shark who was sat on the hospital floor, his eyes red and his usually neatly combed back hair a mess.

“Don’t even go there, Park.” Olivia threatened him, but there was no fire behind her eyes. “She’s going to make it through or I’ll bring her back to life and kill her myself for doing this to us.”

—-

It took 18 hours after you’d been wheeled into the OR for the ICU team to start lowering your sedation.

It took another hour after that for you to show signs of life.

For those 19 hours, Brendon sat with his large frame packed in like a sardine can on the uncomfortable visitor chairs they’d put in hospital rooms. His ass was aching, but that was nothing compared to the pain he felt at seeing you plugged in to all of the machines that surrounded you.

Usually, the scene in front of him would mean nothing. He had learned to detach himself emotionally from his patients the second he entered his residency. Brendon walked into the OR, did the best he could, and would wipe his memory of whatever happened the second he walked out of the room.

But this wasn’t anyone. This was you. The love of his life.

He’d never thought he’d meet someone like you, who could bring so much joy and warmth into his life by simply existing in his vicinity. Truthfully, he considered himself incredibly lucky that you even tolerated him.

Brendon was an asshole. He knew that and he was okay with it. He was anal, and compulsive, and got frustrated easily.

Yet somehow you’d managed to see past all of that and you’d found his soft spots. The gummy areas that had been pushed so far within himself they hadn’t managed to be hardened like the rest of his person.

“Hey Baby,” Brendon cooed and pulled his chair closer to your bed so he could brush your face. “I’m here, you’re okay.”

Everything was dark and groggy. You could start to make out the sound of a rhythmic beeping and a voice you couldn’t quite place talking to you. It felt like you’d taken one of those naps where you oversleep by accident and you have no idea what day it is when you wake up.

“That’s right, come back to me gorgeous.” It was Brendon. Brendon was there. You could feel his fingertips brushing against your temple and his lips kissing your palm.

“Bren?” Your throat was so sore. God, what happened? You tried to open your eyes but it felt like they had been glued shut. Your limbs felt like they’d been weighed down and you were locked in your body. “Where am I?”

“You’re at the hospital. There was an accident. You’re okay and so is Liv.” Brendon reassured you before you could ask about your friend. He knew you’d start panicking when you remembered you were with your best friend. “Take your time, I’m just going to go tell the nurse that you’re awake. They’re going to need to do some check ups.”

With that, Brendon kissed your cheek and left the room briefly. During that time, you were finally able to open your eyes and take in your surroundings.

The bleak hospital room. The wires and tubes coming out from all over your body. The blue hospital gown you were wearing.

“Welcome back.” Said the nurse who came in after Brendon. She had a reassuring smile on her face as she started checking your vitals. “You fought hard. We’re happy to have you with us.”

“That’s my girl.” Brendon responded in your place with a grin that was half proud, half still dying inside from almost losing you.

“I’m starving, the food was way too expensive for how small the portions were.” You needed to laugh about something to start processing what had happened the day before.

“Sweetheart, I will get you anything and everything your heart desires.” The surgeon chuckled as your stomach rumbled. “You scared the living shit out of me.” Brendon finally admitted to you after the nurse had left and you had rested for a few more hours.

“I was scared too. I thought I’d never see you again.” Tears welled up in your eyes and Brendon reached out to wipe them away before you could. “I love you Bren, I really do. With my whole heart.”

“I love you more than words could ever describe.” He responded with urgency. Then he fished into his pocket and pulled out a navy velvet box. “I wanted to make this a whole big romantic thing in Croatia, but then shit kept happening, and I can’t wait anymore.”

Your mouth opened in shock as your brain caught up to your eyes.

“I bought this a few months ago after we went to my sister’s place for supper. I’ve known since the day I met you that you were the one for me. Meeting you made me feel like I could actually start living life, not just let it happen to me.” He opened the box and in it sat the most beautiful yellow diamond engagement ring.

“Brendon— I, I have no words.” The tears that streamed down your face were tears of joy this time.

“Well, hopefully there’s one.” Brendon chuckled, although he couldn’t help but feel the tip of his ears go red. “Will you marry me and make me the luckiest man this world has ever seen?”

“Of course! I do!”

With a relieved laugh, Brendon slipped the engagement ring onto your finger and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

“I knew I couldn’t live without you for one second, but even the thought of losing you made me feel like a shell of myself. I couldn’t wait a minute longer.”

[rawme-price]

No thoughts just reader using ghost as an emergency contact.

You seriously didn't think it would be an issue. You usually left your emergency contact blank, no one to contact anyways, but recent policy changes made it mandatory. You simply jot down the number you saw on soaps phone ages ago, figuring ghost wouldn't show up even if you did get hurt.

...you were sorely mistaken.

"Kid?! What the fuck–?" Ghost bursts through the door, making you wince at the sharp noise. He's quickly followed by two nurses, obviously trying to explain that he shouldn't be here.

"It's fine. He can stay." You grit out, head pounding. The nurses glance to eachother, looking between you and ghost, then tentatively retreat. "Hey....hi lieutenant..." you force a smile.

"Why the hell did i get a call at midnight tellin' me yer hurt?" Ghost approaches your bed, eyes narrowed. He takes in the various bandages you have, then looks to your right arm in a thick cast. "...do i need to find someone?"

"No! No. I just–" you pause and wait for your ears to stop ringing, then add "i just. Got in the way of a bike. It's fine."

It's only now that you actually look at ghost and realize just how...tense he is. You wouldn't know about the last time ghost was in a hospital, about healing for weeks from what roba did. Or about his father, sick and still full of hate. All you see is how ghost seems to shake with adrenaline as he looks from you to all the machines beeping in the room.

Still, you reach out your hand "I'm fine, ghost. I promise."

Ghost sighs, sinks into the shitty hospital chair. It looks comically small compared to him. "I'm glad yer okay, kid." He scrubs a hand under the simple face mask he wears, tired "scared the hell out of me. They called an' said you were gettin' surgery. Don't know how they got my number."

"Oh. Yeah. I took it from soaps phone." You comment mildly, more embarrassed about him being called in the first place. Then, with a grin and desire to forget this whole mess, you add "Did you know he's got you in his contacts as 'future wifey'?"

"...he what?!"

[feyrinnn]

pms? tender breasts? don't worry, your ꒰devoted꒱ boyfriend satoru gojo is happy to be your personal bra for the day ౨ৎ 1.1k fluff ; crack ; suggestive art by @/Rezijellyfish0

It was a morning like any other.

You woke up curled right into your boyfriend Satoru Gojo's side, practically on top of him on the comfortable double bed. You didn't really have much room, not with his habit of lying down like a starfish, but you couldn't blame him – his long limbs just needed to take up all the space every night, and so you were forced to use your boyfriend as a pillow, of course.

Your favourite pillow.

You were awfully comfortable like this, nuzzling into his broad chest as the morning light started to bleed in through the half open window. Yes, so comfortable you could just drift away again... until.

Until those long limbs started to close in towards you.

That was another one of his morning habits, you see. Even for how spread out he liked to sleep, as soon as Satoru started to drift back into consciousness – you were the first thing he'd search for.

In his half asleep haze he closed his arms around you, squeezing you into him with all his might, letting out the most satisfied of hums. Not you, however – the sound that escaped your mouth was somewhere between a yelp and a cry for help.

"Baby?!" Satoru sprung into consciousness in a second. "What's wrong?!"

His bright blue eyes snapped open to see you pouting at him, hands over your already very sore breasts that he had painfully squeezed against his side. "Oh" he frowned, understanding. "It's that week, isn't it?"

You nodded slowly, letting Satoru manoeuvre you on your back so he could rest on his elbow next to you. When you first found out he was tracking your cycle you did call him a freak, but to be honest, it was worth it with how gentle he was with you now.

"Is it really bad?" he asked, tracing soft lines over your collarbone with his free hand. His touch was feather light, his hand apologising to your tender skin.

"It hurts" you exhaled, letting your head sink into the pillow with a long sigh. "They feel heavy"

"Heavy?" Satoru echoed, very obviously looking down to your chest. Naturally, you pinched him. "Ow! What was that for?"

"I'm in pain and you want to check if they're bigger?!" you growled, ready to throw a pillow right on his stupid white hair.

"No no no, you know I think they’re perfect” Satoru apologised immediately, peppering kisses all over your face. "It was for science only"

"Sure" you rolled your eyes, but you couldn't keep the angry act for long, not with your boyfriend's puppy dog eyes so close to your face.

"I mean it, I only want to help" he said, sitting up. And you did believe him – your boyfriend had been trying his best since he figured out how difficult pms was for you.

Last month, he even bought you a personalised hot water bottle with both your initials on it. Baby blue, of course.

You weren't sure who else would be confusing their hot water bottle for yours anyway, but its the gesture that counts.

"Come here baby, I'll help you up" he called to you with wide open arms, but as soon as he started to pull you up, you groaned again. "Is it that bad?" he grimaced, seeing your hands go back to holding onto your sore breasts.

Unfortunately, it was.

"It's ok" you tried to deflect, feeling bad for how worried he seemed. "You don't have to worry about m–"

"None of that" Satoru pouted. "Does that help?" he nodded to your hands, clearly some sort of plan starting to form in that head of his.

"Kind of" you replied, massaging yourself. "Should probably put on a bra" you sighed.

"In bed?!" Satoru shook his messy white hair side to side. "It's unfair" he completed solemnly. And you agreed with him.

But then he opened up his mouth again, with that tone he employed when he was going to suggest something... unusual.

"Why don't you...let me help?"

That made you stop halfway, turning up to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"Just… come here" he said, extending those pale fingers to you. You had one raised eyebrow, but let him do what he had intended – and soon his large palms were closing around your breasts.

"Pervert" you deadpanned.

"You said it helped!" he argued.

You took a moment, considering. You were very used to your boyfriend touching you everywhere, of course, but you had never seen him look so commited about it. It was almost endearing, in a kind of, um, odd way.

"So, what, you'll just be my personal bra today?" you teased.

"If you want me to" he nodded.

"Aren't your arms getting tired?" you narrowed your eyes at him.

"Baby, this is what I train for" he replied smugly.

You let out a little laugh, enjoying your boyfriend's silly plan and how serious he was about it. "You can't possibly keep this up" you joked.

"Wanna bet?"

You shouldn't have said yes. But of course you did.

The rest of the day was spent with Satoru glued to you – more so than usual. "You're enjoying this" you poked him as he stood with his chin on top of your head and his hands right where he promised they'd be, watching you make your morning coffee.

"You wound me, princess" he pretended to sigh. "This is for your own good"

Sure it was.

Later you sat down to watch TV, and Satoru placed you right on his lap, before his hands returned to your chest. "You're ridiculous" you laughed, his chin heavy on your shoulder this time and your back to his chest.

"Is it helping?" he asked.

In truth, it was. He was warm and soft and much more comfortable than a real bra; and walking around like you had been cursed into attachment was lifting your mood as much as it was annoying you too.

His eccentric ways were just one of the things you loved about your boyfriend, after all.

Of course, this all got a bit too ridiculous when you announced you were going to shower, and got followed by the white haired giant all the way into the bathroom. "You can't be serious" you looked up at him.

"I only want to hel–Ow! Ok, I'll be outside"

You laughed, seeing his pout as he closed the door behind him. It was adorable how devoted he was to this stupid plan – and you also couldn't deny you missed his loving touch as soon as he had let go of you.

Maybe he could help you shower too. He only wanted you to feel better, right?

"Satoru" you called, not even surprised when the door opened before you had even finished saying his name.

"Need me?" he grinned from ear to ear.

You would have pinched him again if he wasn't so damn adorable.

my boobs feel like they're about to explode and this is what came of it I don't know what else to say

permatags @madamechrissy @mercipourleveninx @septembermoonchild @plaguecxlt @nanamitiddiechomper @kekeanna266 @amazedfor @dogggggggblog-kaye @literallyadarling @dawnsoblivion @chewiebee @iquitfindingausername @valberryboos @pwd54gr54 @raendarkfaerie @bbfawns @itimisu @sapph22 @bornafairy @sukunahs @hatchus2 @sukubusss @pawwwginaaa @b-bitter

dividers by @strangergraphics

[madamechrissy]

this was for me! I am delusional 🤭

[helloitshell]

Hi hi hi I’m loving your off campus fics!

Could you write something for garrett where reader looks after him while he’s injured and can’t play hockey, and keeps him company when he would normally be at training. Thank you!!💕

Where You're Supposed to be

Pairing: Garrett Graham x Fem!Reader

Summary: when an injury forces garrett off the ice for a few weeks, he quickly realizes he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself when he isn't at hockey practice. luckily, you don't mind filling those empty afternoons with snacks, bad movies, and keeping your very dramatic boyfriend company.

warnings: fluff, injured!garrett, very mild angst, clingy garrett, established relationship, lots of softness, kissing, garrett being dramatic about missing hockey

requested by : anonymous I hope you like it!

masterlist

One shot

Garrett Graham was possibly the worst injured person you had ever met.

Not because he complained constantly. Actually, it was almost the opposite.

He just sulked.

Quietly. Dramatically.

You found him on the couch exactly where you had left him an hour ago, one leg stretched out in front of him with an ice pack balanced over his knee. The TV was playing some sports channel, though Garrett wasn't actually watching it. His phone was in his hand, the screen showing the team group chat.

You leaned against the doorway.

"Are you stalking them again?"

His head snapped up. "No."

"Garrett."

"I'm checking in."

"You've been checking in for forty minutes."

"They need me."

"They're at practice."

"Exactly."

You tried not to smile as you walked over, dropping the grocery bag onto the coffee table.

Garrett had injured his knee during a game the week before. Nothing serious enough for surgery, thankfully, but serious enough that the doctor had ordered him off the ice for at least a few weeks.

Which, to Garrett, might as well have been a prison sentence.

You had known hockey was important to him before this. Obviously. It was Garrett. Hockey was stitched into nearly every part of his life.

But you hadn't realized just how much of his day revolved around it until suddenly, it didn't.

Practices. Morning skates. Workouts. Games.

Now there were just empty hours.

Hours Garrett apparently planned to spend sitting on the couch and staring at the team group chat like someone had died.

"Move."

He frowned. "I'm injured."

"Your knee is injured. Your ass works perfectly fine."

"Wow."

You nudged his shoulder until he shifted over, making room for you beside him.

The second you sat down, Garrett's arm came around your shoulders automatically.

That was another thing.

He had gotten clingy.

Not that you minded.

You were actually enjoying it more than you should.

Normally Garrett was always moving. Always rushing from class to practice, practice to the gym, the gym to somewhere else. You saw him plenty, but there was always something waiting for him.

Now?

Now you had him completely to yourself.

"You know what they're doing right now?" he asked.

"Practicing?"

"Power plays."

You looked up at him. "Wow."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. Devastating stuff."

Garrett rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched.

You smiled, reaching into the grocery bag.

"I got you something."

"If it's another puzzle, I'm breaking up with you."

"You liked the puzzle."

"I did not."

"You spent four hours doing it."

"Because I had nothing else to do."

"And then you made Logan help you finish it."

"Because he was doing it wrong."

You laughed, pulling out a bag of his favorite candy and tossing it into his lap.

His expression softened immediately.

"You're bribing me."

"Yes."

"To stop complaining?"

"Mostly."

Garrett looked down at the candy before looking back at you.

"You don't have to keep coming over, you know."

Your smile faded slightly.

"I know."

"I mean it." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You have stuff to do. You don't need to babysit me every time the guys have practice."

"I'm not babysitting you."

"You brought me snacks."

"I bring you snacks when you're not injured."

"And you watched three hours of game footage with me yesterday."

"That was against my will."

"You asked questions."

"Because you wouldn't stop talking."

That finally got a real laugh out of him.

You smiled, but Garrett's expression became quieter after a second.

"I just don't want you feeling like you have to be here."

There was something underneath his words that made your chest ache a little.

Garrett hated this.

Not just the injury. Not just missing games.

He hated feeling useless.

You had noticed it almost immediately. The way he went quiet when the guys left for practice. The way he checked his phone constantly. The way he tried to joke whenever someone asked how he was doing.

You shifted closer.

"I like being here."

Garrett looked at you.

"I like keeping you company," you continued. "Even when you're being annoying."

"I'm never annoying."

"You almost called Coach yesterday to ask if you could come watch practice from the bench."

"That's dedication."

"That's insanity."

His fingers started tracing lazy circles against your shoulder.

You rested your head against his chest.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

The TV played quietly in the background and Garrett's phone buzzed somewhere between the couch cushions.

For once, he didn't reach for it.

"You know," you said, "when you're back on the ice, you're going to miss this."

He scoffed.

"No chance."

"You'll miss me bringing you food."

"You'll still bring me food."

"You'll miss our afternoon movie marathons."

"We can still do those."

"You'll miss having me all to yourself."

That made him pause.

You tilted your head back to look at him.

Garrett was already staring down at you.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Probably."

Your heart did something embarrassingly stupid.

You tried to look away, but his hand came up, gently catching your chin.

"Actually," he murmured, "I definitely will."

"Garrett."

"What?"

"You're being dramatic."

"I'm injured. I'm allowed."

You laughed, and he leaned down to kiss you.

It was slow and soft, nothing rushed about it.

That was something you weren't used to either.

Garrett always seemed to be moving toward the next thing. Even your kisses sometimes happened between places, stolen before he had to leave for practice or while you were walking out the door.

But lately, there was nowhere he had to be.

His hand settled against your cheek as he kissed you again.

When he pulled away, you stayed close.

"Still wish you were at practice?"

Garrett glanced toward his phone.

Then back at you.

"Nah."

You smiled. "Liar."

"Okay, maybe a little."

You smacked his chest.

He laughed, catching your hand and pulling you closer until you were practically lying on top of him.

"Careful," you warned. "Your knee."

"My knee's fine."

"Five minutes ago you were basically dying."

"Things changed."

"Because I kissed you?"

"Obviously."

You rolled your eyes, but Garrett only grinned, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

His phone buzzed again.

He ignored it.

And later, when the guys came home from practice, they found the two of you asleep on the couch.

Garrett's injured leg was still propped up carefully.

Your head was resting against his chest.

His arm was wrapped securely around your waist.

And for the first time since getting injured, Garrett didn't ask a single one of them how practice went.

the end.

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

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@snowtargaryen ||

[gxbbywrites]

suddenly i see | garrett graham

“I don’t think you do, baby.” He crawls closer, holding your face delicately in his large hands. “I’m not trying to humiliate you by revisiting your most embarrassing moments. I want you to understand where I’m coming from and why I say that you need to wear your glasses. Every time you tell me you’re fine, you end up squinting, rubbing your eyes, missing details unless you are standing close. I don’t want you to keep hurting when there’s something that can help.”

contents — profanities, reader does not want to wear her glasses (me), garrett being the best boyfriend ever | word count — 2.6k | title — suddenly i see by kt tunstall (lol)

gabby says — this is a repost from my old blog, @fictionallygabby. i have decided to start my blog all over, so please feel free to read here for the explanation.

1.) During your exam season

“Fuck, my head hurts,” you groan and drop your pen on your table, rubbing your forehead and your temples as if doing so will magically make your headache disappear. It’s been going on for two hours this time—just as long as you have been studying. You blame it on eye strain—after all, you have been staring at your laptop screen for hours now—but your roommates-slash-best friends, Hannah and Allie, seem to think otherwise.

“That’s been going on for days, babe,” Allie says worriedly from her bedroom’s doorway. “Are you sure you don’t want to get that checked?”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m sure it’ll pass after the hell weeks,” you say, shutting your laptop. “I think I’m going to take a nap. I don’t want to drink any more meds. I’ll see you later, my babies, love you.”

“Hey, you haven’t been wearing your glasses,” Hannah says thoughtfully, turning to face you before you close your door. “Are you wearing contacts? I thought you hated those things?”

“I do hate them,” you say with a shrug, “I’m not wearing any.”

“So…” She smirks, spinning her pen in her fingers, as if in deep thought. “You’re not wearing any contacts or your glasses? Nothing to aid you with your blindness?”

Behind her, Allie is pretending to read through the draft of Hannah’s paper, but the small, amused smile on her face gives her away.

You know she is trying to get you to admit that you need your glasses, but your eyesight is not that bad, really. It’s just a little hard seeing things clearly from a certain distance, but that’s completely normal!

“Hannah, I’m not blind,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes—which is apparently not the best choice because your head spins for a moment. “My eyesight is perfect! I’m okay. My headache is caused by stress and eyestrain and dehydration and sleep deprivation and—”

“Okay!” Allie interjects with her arms raised in surrender. “We believe you,” she says, more to appease you than anything, “Go take your nap, babe, before your headache gets worse. Love you.”

You chuckle softly before closing your door. You crawl into your bed, lying on the side Garrett always sleeps on—you find that his scent comforts you, easing your headaches just enough for sleep to take over.

Later, there is a knock on the main door. Allie moves from her place on the couch to open the door, only to find Garrett standing there holding three paper bags.

“Hey, G,” Allie greets, opening the door wider to let Garrett pass through. “Your stubborn girl’s asleep in her room.”

Garrett raises his eyebrows at your roommate’s tone and particular use of words. “Did something happen?”

Hannah snorts out a laugh from the dining table. “She’s been having these headaches for a few days now—she told you, didn’t she? Well, did she also tell you how she hasn’t been wearing her glasses?”

Garrett’s face softens into a fond expression. He puts two paper bags down on the table beside Hannah’s things. “Here are some things I got for you three. There are drinks and pastries in there—just something to power you through your midterms, hopefully.”

“Thanks, hockey boy, you’re a good sport,” Allie says, clapping his shoulders before looking through the bag with her name on, Hannah doing the same.

He walks into your room without as much as a smile towards your friends. He closes the door behind him, and his eyes immediately land on your form on his side of your bed. You are lying on your front, your face buried into his pillow. His smile widens into a soft grin at the sight, putting the last paper bag on your table.

Crawling beside you, his hand finds your upper back, and he strokes soothingly. He leans closer to your ear and murmurs, “Hey, baby, move your head a little.” He brushes your hair away from your sweaty face as soon as you angle your head towards him. “How are you feeling, pretty?” He asks, keeping his voice soft to avoid making your headache worse

“Better now that you’re here.” You grin in a dopey way.

He laughs at your expression, unable to help himself from pressing a quick, soft kiss to your forehead, then to your lips. “You are adorable.”

You only hum in response.

Then, he addresses the elephant in the room, “The girls told me you haven’t been wearing your glasses. I thought you were.”

“No, I hate them,” you groan, burying your face back into his pillow.

“Baby, look at me.” His voice turns a little strict, and you obey, turning your head back towards him with a small frown, which he soothes with a gentle touch of his thumb. “What’s wrong? Why haven’t you been wearing them? I thought you told me they helped.”

“No—I mean, they did,” you say, almost shyly, “But they get annoying, like when it’s already so hot out, and I have to wear my glasses, it literally feels like my face is melting off with those damn glasses—or when they ruin the whole outfit I’d plan for a whole week.” You frown once again as you recount the things that make you hate wearing glasses. “It’s fine, my eyesight is not that bad. I can manage just fine without my glasses.”

Garrett stares at you for a moment, as if taking in everything you just told him. “Alright,” he says after a few beats. He is clearly not convinced, but he decides to let it slide—for now. “If you say so, but promise me you will tell me the moment you feel like you need to wear your glasses?”

“…I promise.”

“Good girl.”

2.) In public

You are walking with Garrett within the campus grounds, your hands laced in his. He had offered to walk you to your next class—which is conveniently located in the science department three buildings away—since he had no classes until two hours later. Who are you to say no?

So here you are now, your hand in Garrett’s as you talk about anything and everything.

He has your bag slung over his shoulder, your water bottle in the same hand, and your hand in his other hand. You swing your intertwined hands as you walk, seemingly unnoticed by you, and he can’t help but smile and bring your joined hands close for a gentle kiss on your knuckle.

His action makes you pause and look at him, but he only shakes his head with a soft laugh. “Sorry, baby, please continue. I’m still listening.”

And so you continue talking while you both walk closer and closer to the science building when he suddenly stops, a look of confusion etched onto his face.

“What? What’s wrong?” You ask, turning to him.

“Baby, do you, by any chance, currently have a beef with Sloane?” He asks, and your face twists. Sloane is a sorority girl in your chemistry class, and you can say you have grown close to her.

“What? No.” You shake your head. “Why?”

“Are you sure?” He raises your joined hands to point in the direction where Sloane supposedly is. “Because she has been waving at you for, like, 5 minutes, and you haven’t acknowledged her since.”

“Oh, she is?” Your brows furrow as you turn to the direction he was pointing at, and you see people—blurry people, but people nonetheless—and you don’t think you see Sloane anywhere in the crowd. “What are you talking about, G? She’s not even there.”

“She is right there, baby.” He insists, starting to walk once again.

“No, she’s not.”

When you get close enough, that’s when you see her.

“Oh,” is all you say, waving back at Sloane with a weak smile.

“Yeah, baby,” Garrett breathes out a laugh, but stops when you pinch his side. “I mean, she’s been there for the past 5 minutes, baby.”

“Don’t,” you say, glaring at him, albeit weakly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t turn this into a lecture about me wearing my glasses.”

“I’m not.”

“You were literally about to,” you poke his side repeatedly, and he flinches every time, bursting out with laughter. “Stop.”

“Okay, okay! Mercy, baby, mercy!” He surrenders, and you stop and dust your clothes for (nonexistent, imaginary) dirt.

“Good.”

3.) In a restaurant with Garrett

“You really didn’t have to do this, babe, but thank you,” you say as Garrett pulls a chair out for you to sit in.

He had somehow booked a table for two in the restaurant you have been wanting to try, the one with a wait time of up to a year. Perks of dating a pro hockey player-to-be, you suppose.

“I didn’t have to, but I wanted to.” He flashes you an easygoing, charming smile as he takes a seat across from you. He thanks the waiter, takes the menu, and gestures for you to do the same. “Order anything, baby; it’s on me.”

“But—”

“No buts, baby. You deserve this, okay? You aced the shit out of your exams.” He grins easily, and you have no choice but to cave.

He easily reads through the menu, telling you all about the dishes they offer from appetizers to desserts and beverages, while you respond with hums and nods. Your lack of response does not go unnoticed by Garrett. Usually, you are chattering with him excitedly about the variety of dishes, the prices, and even the ingredients used. Tonight, you are quieter than usual—engaging with him, yes, but you are not initiating a conversation.

“What’s wrong?” He asks worriedly, putting the menu down to look at you properly. “You don’t like it here? We can leave and look for a new place, it’s okay,” he says, starting to pack your things and stand when you stop him with a hand on his.

“No, G, it’s not that, I swear.”

“Then what’s wrong, baby?”

“Do you promise not to judge?”

His brows furrow briefly at your choice words and tone. “I promise I won’t judge.”

“I can’t read what’s written on the menu because the letters are too small,” you say rapidly, all in one breath.

He stares at you for a few seconds, and you feel the pit in your stomach grow deeper by the second when he breaks the silence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Can you speak a little slower?”

You take a deep breath before speaking, slower this time, “I can’t read what’s written on the menu because the letters are too small.”

His face softens—gone is the worry from his face, replaced by the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Don’t laugh,” you say, your tone coming out more like a plea than a warning.

“I’m not laughing.”

“You literally are.”

“I’m literally not. I didn’t even snicker.”

“Your lips are twitching.”

“But I’m not laughing.”

“But you are about to. See, your smile is getting wider.”

He does not respond to that. Instead, his smile turns softer. “Baby, I think your eyesight is actually worse without your glasses than you realize,” he says softly, reaching over the table to hold your hand in his gently. “Are you sure you don’t want to wear them? Or even contacts if they bother you so much.”

“Babe, I’m okay, I promise. I don’t need glasses or contacts, I swear.”

The silence lasts longer this time before he nods. “Okay, I hear you.”

You nod. That’s all you want from him, really—for him to listen.

4.) During a movie night with your friends

A week after your midterm exams, you and your friends decide to have your bi-monthly movie night in their off-campus house. However, instead of picking out a Hollywood movie, you collectively agree on watching a foreign movie this time.

It’s safe to say that it does not go well for you. As soon as the movie starts, you know you are fucked.

You can barely read the texts on the screen, but you chalk it up to your unfamiliarity with the language and its alphabet. But as soon as the character speaks, you are sure that you are in it deep—the language is completely incomprehensible, and you cannot fucking read the captions on the bottom of the screen.

You keep your eyes trained on the screen anyway, squinting a little to try and make sense of the blurry little letters, but to no avail. You try to pay attention to the characters and their scenes instead, but even that makes your head hurt since their faces are so blurry.

Not even halfway through the film, you just give up and lean back against Garrett. His arm instinctively drapes over your shoulder, effectively tucking you close.

The entire group laughs at a joke (you think), except for you. You turn to Garrett. “What was that? Sorry, I kinda spaced out.”

He explains the joke, and that’s when you laugh, finally understanding what happened. And if Garrett did not notice your struggle before, he notices now.

For the rest of the film, he keeps an eye on you. He watches as you squint and move your head a little closer, as you rub your forehead and your eyes every so often, as you turn to him when the group seems to collectively agree on something.

When the film finally finishes, the rest of the group are debriefing, but you stand and bid them goodnight. They think nothing of it, but Garrett does.

+ 1 time you finally wear your glasses

You trudge up the stairs after bidding your friends goodnight, going straight into Garrett’s room. You crawl into his bed and stare up at the ceiling—you don’t want to use your phone because it may worsen the dull throbbing in your head.

A few minutes later, the door opens, and Garrett steps in. He sits on the edge of the bed by your foot. “Baby, can you look at me?”

You turn your gaze over to his face, but frown when your vision doesn’t focus.

“Fuck, I think I stared into the abyss for too long.” You joke, but he does not laugh.

“I noticed how often you were squinting at the screen, rubbing your eyes and your forehead.” He rubs your foot soothingly. “And it wasn’t just during the movie, sweetheart, it happens almost all the time now. Remember when you didn’t see Sloane waving at you until you were about four feet away? Or how often you get these headaches due to various reasons? Or—’

“Oookay, I think I get your point now.”

“I don’t think you do, baby.” He crawls closer, holding your face delicately in his large hands. “I’m not trying to humiliate you by revisiting your most embarrassing moments. I want you to understand where I’m coming from and why I say that you need to wear your glasses. Every time you say you’re fine, you end up squinting, rubbing your eyes, missing details unless you are standing close. I don’t want you to keep hurting when there’s something that can help.”

You stay silent for several moments, trying to process the information. All this time, you think your eyesight is not that bad because you are not practically blind, but you realize now how inconvenient life is without your glasses, so with a deep sigh, you nod. “Okay,” you say, “I will try to wear my glasses, but I can’t promise that I’m gonna like it.”

“Trying is perfect, baby.”

With yet another sigh, you rummage through your bag for the case of your prescription glasses. You reluctantly open the case and wipe the lens before putting them on. You can’t help but gasp softly as you look around.

“Holy fucking shit, has everything been this clear?”

Bonus

“Fucking hallelujah!” Allie whoops when you turn the corner and walk into the kitchen. “She’s finally wearing her glasses. War is over, bitches!”

“So proud of you, honey,” Hannah says with a smile that rivals that of a proud mom of a kindergartener.

“Holy fucking shit, you are all dramatic!”