♡ Im a college student so this is just for funzies, if i disappear, it might just be becauase schools whooping my ass!
♡ I only write sfw stuff, and I tend to be long winded (I also have an angst problem)
♡ Currently obsessed w HOTD! I am still willing to write for Bob Reynolds, Damian Wayne and Neteyam - just less into them right now so posts for them may come slower
♡ Im not particularly taking requests rn - BUT if you have an idea feel free to send it and Id love to talk ab it and possibly write it! also feel free to come into my inbox and talk ab my fics i loce feedback - good and bad!
a/n: vampire!valarr is finally here and i’ve literally had these ideas sitting in my notes for weeks.i was watching gotham knights and saw oscar morgan all covered in blood oohmygod
cw: blood, vampirism, feeding, biting, a bit of dark valarr, vampire valarr, fem!reader,obsessive behavior, possessiveness, erotic horror, unhealthy attachment, dependency themes, violence/intimacy overlap, explicit sexual content, coercive undertones
𝔅𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔐𝔢
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen whose first bite is a sacrament of agony and bliss. he is so, so gentle at first. his cool lips barely brush the frantic pulse at your throat, a kiss of apology. his hands, usually so decisive and strong, tremble as they frame your face, holding you with a reverence that makes you want to cry. “be still, my love,” he murmurs, his breath a cold sigh against your skin. “be so still for me.” and then the sharp, perfect puncture—a lightning bolt of pain so clean and swift it steals your breath. you gasp, your fingers flying to tangle in his hair, not to push him away, but to hold on as the world dissolves
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who loses all control when he tastes you. the first pull of your life into his is like a dam breaking. that princely restraint, the discipline, it all shatters. a low groan vibrates against your throat, a sound of pure desperate want. his arms tighten around you, crushing you to his chest as he drinks deeper, his movements turning from reverent to ravenous.
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who is driven mad by your whimpers. the little sounds of pain and pleasure you make go straight through him like a sword. he’ll growl, low in his throat, a feral sound, and his bite will deepen, not to hurt you, but to feel you more, to drown in you. when you tug his hair, he moans against your skin, he’s addicted—not just to your blood, but to your reactions, to the proof that you are giving yourself to him in the most intimate, devastating way possible.
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who would never, ever let you go once he’s started. if you tried to pull away, even weakly, it would awaken something terrifying in him. his arm would lock around your waist, his other hand cradling the back of your head, holding you in place with a gentle, unbreakable firmness. “shhh,” he’d whisper, his voice thick, blurred with your essence. “shhh, my darling, my only one. give it to me. let me have it. you are so sweet, you have no idea.” he drinks until he’s drunk on you
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who is horrifically, beautifully tender afterwards. when he finally, reluctantly detaches, it’s with a soft, wet sound that makes you blush. he’s panting, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his body shuddering with aftershocks. then, with a devotion that borders on worship, he licks the twin wounds clean, his tongue soothing the sting. he kisses each puncture with a softness that brings tears to your eyes, then trails his lips up the column of your throat to finally capture your mouth. you can taste yourself on his tongue—metallic, vital, yours—and it’s the most intimate kiss you’ve ever shared.
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who looks at the mark he left with a mixture of pride and terrible shame. his thumb, cold and gentle, will stroke over the delicate bruises blossoming around the bites. his perfect prince mask is gone, replaced by raw, vulnerable awe. “look what i’ve done to you,” he whispers, his voice wrecked. “my darling girl..marked by me. forgive me.”
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who finds you asleep in his bed, curled under the furs, your pulse a soft, steady rhythm he can hear from the doorway. he doesn’t wake you. he simply watches, memorizing the flutter of your eyelashes, the way your lips part slightly with each breath. then he slides into the sheets beside you, cold and deliberate, and drapes himself over your body like a second skin. his nose drags along your throat, inhaling the scent of your skin, the salt and warmth. when you stir,half conscious, he murmurs against your pulse point “stay asleep, sweet one.” and you do, surrendering to the dreamy haze as his fangs sink in. you don’t wake until morning, groggy and strangely content, with two small marks on your neck and the taste of copper on your tongue.
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who tastes you slowly, reverently, as if you are the first meal he’s ever been allowed to savor. he doesn’t rush. he traces the line of your collarbone with the tip of his tongue first, tasting the salt of your skin, the faint sweetness of the oil you rubbed into your shoulders. he nips at your earlobe, your jaw, the hollow behind your ear. by the time he reaches your wrist, you’re trembling, half naked beneath his robes, cunt slick and aching. he holds your arm like it’s something precious, turns it over, presses his lips to the delicate blue veins. “here,” he whispers, “i want to drink from here tonight.” and when he bites, he does so with his other hand pressed flat against your lower belly, feeling the heat of your arousal rise as the blood leaves you. he drinks in slow pulls, his eyes closing, a broken sound escaping his throat. when he finishes, he licks the wound clean, seals it with a soft kiss, and pulls you into his lap, your blood still wet on his lips. “you taste like sin,” he says, “and i am never going to be saved”
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who fucks you while he feeds, because he cannot separate the two anymore. you’re on your back, legs hooked over his shoulders,his cock buried deep inside you. he’s leaning over you, fangs grazing your throat, but he doesn’t bite yet. he waits until you’re close—until your walls flutter around him until your breath hitches into that high, desperate pitch. then he sinks his fangs into the curve of your neck, just as your orgasm crests. the pain and pleasure collide so sharply that you scream, your body arching, your hips bucking against his. he drinks through your climax, his own hips grinding, chasing his release inside you. when he comes, it’s with your blood hot in his mouth, your cunt clenching around him, your nails raking down his back. he pulls out slowly, still lapping at the bite mark, still trembling. “you will kill me,” he says, voice wrecked. “but gods, what a way to die.”
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who discovers you’ve tried to hide from him, just for an hour, just to breathe. he finds you in the castle library, tucked behind a shelf, a book open in your lap. he doesn’t speak. he simply stands at the end of the aisle, arms crossed, mismatched eyes glowing in the dim torchlight. the silence stretches. you look up, and your heart stops. he walks toward you slowly, each step deliberate, predatory. he doesn’t grab you. he kneels in front of your chair, takes the book from your hands, sets it aside then he cups your face, tilts your head, and presses his forehead to yours. “if you need space,” he says quietly, “you tell me. you do not hide.” his thumb strokes your cheek. “i will give you the sky if you ask. but i will tear down every wall in this world if you try to run.” he kisses you then—soft, almost tender.
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who, after feeding, becomes unbearably gentle. the feral edge dulls into something warm, almost sleepy. he curls around you, one hand splayed over your stomach, nose buried in your hair. he whispers things he would never say otherwise. that he was alone for centuries before you, that he thought love was a mortal lie, that your blood has rewritten his very nature. he traces the bite mark on your neck with his fingertip, over and over, like a prayer. mine, he breathes.mine. and you feel his lips press a kiss to the crown of your head. “when you die, and you will, because you are mortal and i am not. i will find you in whatever comes next. i will tear through the veil itself to reach you.” he says it like a promise, not a threat. and you believe him
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who wakes you in the middle of the night, not with a touch, but with a whisper. “i dreamed you left.” his voice is small, childlike. he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched. you reach for him, but he flinches. “don’t. not yet. i need..i need to know this is real.” he takes your hand, presses it to his chest where his heart should beat but doesn’t. then he brings your wrist to his lips and bites, shallow and quick, just enough to taste. he closes his eyes. “yes. you’re here. you’re real.” he crawls into bed beside you, wraps himself around you, and doesn’t let go until dawn.
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who has a habit of hoarding things that smell like you. a ribbon you wore in your hair. the shirt you slept in. he tucks them into a chest under the bed, and he won’t tell you why. but one night, after a heavy feeding, he lets you peek—and you see the collection, neatly folded and arranged like relics. “when you’re not here,” he says, voice barely audible, “i need something. anything. so i don’t forget the shape of you.” you crawl into his lap, wrap your arms around his neck, and whisper that you’re not going anywhere. he holds you so tight it hurts. “promise me,” he says, and you do.
the x reader "consumers" on tumblr lowk are so entitled, i said consumer bcs these people do nothing to support the writers but complain about FREE fanfics that other people write for FUN and for the LOVE of the game. THEY DON'T OWE YOU ANYTHING.
i'm so tired of you people who can only pressure these writers, make memes, and ridicule them for writing something that was not fit to your standards or liking.
you don't even write or contribute anything to the community, don't even support or atleast reblogs to the writers you actually like.
stop filling the tags with your consistent complaints about the fanfics that obviously wasn't meant for you (not to your liking) and start learn how to write.
✴︎ with a temper like you ⋆˚࿔ pt. 2
⤷ suguru, yuuta, toge, toji, choso, hiromi, takuma, shoko x fem!reader
syn. when you're fighting but they still care. angst to fluff, comfort
pt. 1 ଓ (ft. megumi, yuuji, nanami, gojo, sukuna)
all roughly 600-800 words !
ෆ g. suguru
you misunderstand him asking for space
you and suguru rarely argue.
when you do, it's small things. small things that get resolved within the hour.
but this time it's different. tight words, clipped tones. neither of you willing to back down. the kind of quiet disagreement that builds quicker than you can stop it until it feels too heavy to carry.
you’d both been sitting on opposite ends of the couch, voices overlapping, neither of you really listening anymore. just waiting for your turn to speak.
and then he'd said the words: “i think we should take a little space.”
calm and measured. like always.
but you were nothing but calm. you’d gone still.
“space?” you echoed.
he nodded once, already standing, then already by the front door, already reaching for his coat, “we’re both getting frustrated.”
you didn’t say anything. just watched him leave.
the door clicked shut softly behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.
you've been replaying that in your head for the past hour. curled on the couch, in the same spot he'd left you, knees to your chest, cheeks wet with tears and eyes trained on some stubborn mark on the coffee table as you tried to piece it all together.
space.
space.
what does that even mean? people don't usually ask for space unless something's wrong, right?
unless he was pulling away— or trying to let you down gently.
your throat closes at the thought.
no. nonono, he wouldn't just leave like that, would he? suguru was always so communicative, surely he'd at least tell you if he really was breaking up with you.
space didn't mean forever. did it?
but what if he was just trying to soften it?
your thoughts move faster than you could grab at them.
the conversation played in your head again as hot, stinging tears well up in your eyes. you psycho-analyse every part of it. every pause. every breath that now sounded suspiciously like a sigh of annoyance. every look on his face. was it disgust? anger? or was he tired?
did he seem distant recently? had he already been pulling away without you noticing it? did you miss it?
your body jolts when you hear the lock click.
the door opens again. and suguru walks in, holding two to-go cups of warm beverages, and his small smile back on his face, "hey." he says.
your head snaps up. and all you can do is stare, mouth slightly agape in confusion. he's... back?
he blinks when he sees you. really sees you.
your tear-streaked face. your curled posture. the way you look at him all furrowed brows like you weren’t expecting him to return.
his expression softens instantly.
“…oh, sweetheart.”
suguru sheds his coat and shoes, and finds his spot beside you, putting the cups down. one in front of him and one in front of you.
his hands are gentle as they come up to your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes.
“i was only gone for an hour,” he murmurs. “what happened? have you been crying this whole time?”
you stare at him, lost. “you…” your voice trembles. “you said… space.”
“i did.”
“but… but you’re back…” your lips wobble, “i—i thought you were leaving for… a long time.”
his brows knit together, something like guilt flashing across his face. “…is that why you think i wanted space?”
you hiccup, looking at him with wide, watery eyes. “is… it not..?”
he frowns, “no, baby,” his voice is quiet and wrapped in silk, fingers brushing the tears from your cheeks. “not at all.”
you sniff, your breathing uneven as you try to process it.
“i just saw we were both getting frustrated,” he continues, “and i didn’t want us to say something hurtful.”
you blink at him. then your shoulders sag. like something heavy finally slipped off them, “…oh.”
he smiles softly at your realisation, a breathy chuckle leaving him. he exhales softly, thumbs still tracing slow, soothing motions against your skin, “i’m sorry,” he murmurs sincerely. “i should’ve explained that better. i thought you understood what i meant.”
a small sniffle escapes you and you shake your head, "no. it's okay." you mumble.
"come here."
and you do. then you sit there. silent, face in his shoulder, and his arms looped around your back, gentle hands stroking your skin comfortingly.
once you're calm again, there’s a pause. then suguru reaches forwards for one of the cups, pressing it gently into your hands.
“drink."
you take it, fingers still trembling slightly. it's your favourite order from the cafe nearby.
you swallow, feeling the hot liquid chase its way down your throat, warming your chest and soothing you. your head finds its usual spot on his chest and you sigh. "i'm still mad at you." you mumble, reminiscing the earlier fight that had still gone unresolved.
suguru only smiles. "me too, baby. we'll talk later, hm?"
ෆ o. yuuta
you forget your phone at his place
you're halfway down the elevator when you realise your pocket feels way lighter than it should.
empty.
you pat it, and frown. then check the other pocket. your jacket. your bag. then your pocket again for good measure.
"...ugh." a quiet groan escapes you.
your phone. you forgot your phone. up there.
in that apartment. with that boyfriend. the one you'd just stormed out on.
the one who's probably still standing at the door, staring at it like you might come back. which now, you're forced to.
he gets like that after arguments. quiet and wide-eyed and apologising profusely even if he doesn't quite understand what he did wrong. like a kicked puppy.
and you... always cave. but you hadn't this time. mostly because you'd fully managed to avoid eye contact all the way until the door.
you had succeeded. if only you hadn't forgotten your phone in the heat of your annoyance.
the elevator dings at the ground floor and the doors slide open. you grumble and instead of getting out and going home like you're supposed to, you press the button for his floor, and glide back up.
yuuta blinks at you as he opens the front door, clearly confused why you're back so soon, eyes round and a little red around the rims. you immediately snap your gaze to ground. if you look at him for too long, you'll feel bad and give in.
"shut up." you mutter, pushing past him and inviting yourself into his house.
yuuta hadn't said anything. but he chooses to listen to your warning. he stands there, idly, watching you stalk around his living room, searching for something. he wants to offer to help, ask what you're looking for... but he's not quite sure if he's allowed to exist in the same space as you right now. even if this is his own house. besides, you had just told him to shut up.
you stand straight, back rigid. you can feel his gaze on you.
it pisses you off. because you know what face he's making even without looking at him: he has his head tilted to the side, his lips pressed together and his eyes wide and questioning and nervous. and he looks way too adorable for someone you're supposed to be mad at.
"say it." you mutter.
"huh..?"
your head snaps to him— big mistake. but you were absolutely correct with your prediction. he was making that exact face. "whatever you're thinking."
"...what are you looking for?" he almost steps forward, but his foot hovers before he retracts it, choosing to stay in his spot. as if one step would make you coil away in disgust.
"my phone."
"oh..." he scratches his nape, trying to think of when he last saw you with it. nothing comes up except for flashes of the argument and you walking out that make his chest hurt a little, "uh... do you want me to ring it?"
you pause. jaw flexes and unflexes and yuuta swears he sees a vein in your neck pop. before you sigh, "fine."
he fumbles and pulls his phone out of his pocket. and presses a few buttons and rings. a faint 'bzzt bzzt' accompanied by your ringtone reverberates from the couch. you walk over shoving your hand between the cushions and fish out the noisemaker.
you head for the door again, and yuuta simply watches, unsure if he should walk you out. he decides you probably wouldn't want that. "text me when you're home," he says instead, "...please."
you pause, your hand on the handle and your heart squeezes.
his voice is quiet and unsure like he's not sure if he's been given permission to ask that from you. you close your eyes, head tilting forwards and you almost groan. how the hell were you supposed to stay mad at him now?
with a turn of your heel, you step back into his space, and throw your arms around him in a hug. yuuta stiffens instantly, clearly not expecting the turnaround. but just as quickly, he melts, holding you, cheek pressed into the top of your head. "i will." you mumble into his shirt.
he nods against your head, "okay... bye..."
there’s a pause, you can feel it; the hesitation— like there’s something else he wants to say.
but he’s holding it back. perhaps because he doesn’t want to push you. or because he thinks he’s not allowed to.
you pull back slightly, looking up at him. his expression is soft and a little uncertain.
you roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it now. just affection, “love you,” you say for him.
his eyes widen just a little.
like you’ve just given him something he wasn’t expecting.
“…love you too,” he says, quieter. relieved.
you huff softly, stepping back again, grabbing the door handle. “i’m still mad at you,” you clarify, just to be clear.
he nods immediately. “i know.”
“we’re talking about it later.”
“okay.”
you open the door and step out. then pause. “…don’t just stand there,” you mutter. “go sit down or something.”
he blinks. “oh... okay.”
you shake your head, a small smile slipping through despite yourself. then you leave.
ෆ i. toge
clingy bf final boss
you’ve been ignoring him since last night, which, in theory, should’ve made you feel better.
it doesn’t.
it just means you’re on the track with nobara and maki, supposedly training, grumbling through your annoyance while pretending you don’t feel a pair of eyes burning into the back of your head.
“hey, y/n?…” nobara tilts her head slightly, squinting past you. “i think you have a fan.”
you don’t evem need to look. you know. “don’t acknowledge him,” you mutter. “i’m mad.”
maki snorts under her breath, arms folded. “i think he’s sorry.”
“i don’t care,” you say immediately. “he can be sorry from over there.”
behind you, a certain presence stays exactly where it’s been for the last ten minutes. quiet. still. watching. not paying the slightest bit of attention to anything his training buddies panda or yuuta have to say to him on the other side of the oval.
toge doesn’t move unless you move first.
and even then, it’s not really moving, it’s copying.
when you pace the track, he does too from his side. when you stop, he stops.
when you glance over your shoulder, he’s already looking at you.
expression unreadable. but persistent.
nobara eventually laughs, “this is insane.”
"i feel like that must take more energy than actually training," maki adds.
“ignore it,” you repeat, firmer this time, like that’ll fix your heartbeat.
it doesn’t. he knows exactly how to make you feel guilty. although you really can't tell if he's doing it on purpose or not.
you’re mid-sentence, telling the girls you’re going to go into the city for lunch— just to get space, clear your head, avoid the feeling of being watched wherever you are.
then you feel it.
a presence at your side.
you don’t even need to look.
you already know.
he reaches for your hand gently.
“salmon?” he asks, almost a little pouty. like he’s daring you to turn him away.
you glare at him instantly. “no. you’re not coming.”
he pauses.
blinks.
then tilts his head.
“okaka.”
you groan loudly and turn away, already walking. “i don't care,” you mutter. “i said no.”
he follows anyway.
it’s the worst game of 'what’s the time, mr wolf' you’ve ever played.
you walk. he walks. you speed up. he matches you instantly. you slow down. so does he.
and every single time you stop and turn around—
he’s stopped too. just standing there. looking at you.
like he’s waiting for you to keep walking. like you're just a normal couple out on a normal walk on a normal day. like you're the weird one for stopping all of a sudden.
you whip around at him once, frustrated. “s-stop following me!”
he tilts his head, “…tuna?”
you groan again and keep walking.
he follows again.
by the time you reach the restaurant, you’re fully done.
the hostess at the door smiles politely, holding up two fingers. “for two?”
you exhale through your nose like your soul has left your body. toge nods for the both of you, and then you're seated.
you sit across from him with your arms crossed.
he sits across from you like he didn’t just trail behind across half the city like a clingy stray caught on your scent.
for a few minutes, there’s silence. you refuse to look at him, even though his eyes are on you.
then the food arrives.
he watches you for a second. then picks up a piece of food, and holds his chopsticks under your chin in offering.
you immediately turn your head away. “no.”
he doesn’t move.
you glare at him. “i don't want it.”
he blinks slowly, “salmon.”
you refuse.
he waits.
ten seconds. twenty.
you try continuing with your meal, but he doesn't put it down. you can feel him still holding it there out of the corner of your eye.
still waiting.
you groan, rubbing your temple. “isn't your arm tired?”
"okaka."
"that was a rhetorical question."
"salmon."
your jaw tics, half in humour and half in annoyance "you don't have to respond to everything i say."
"salmon." he keeps holding the food up.
you finally snap, just to make him stop. “fine!”
he smiles, satisfied. you take a bite and chew, a little more aggresively than usual, as if you imagined his head being ground repeatedly between your teeth.
he watches you eat like he’s won something.
ෆ f. toji
you don't ask him for help
you’re still mad at him. which is why you’re doing it yourself.
because he doesn't deserve the sweet, soft; “baby, can you grab that for me?” nor the batting of your lashes like you usually do just to see that stupid smug smirk tug at his mouth.
no.
you drag a chair across the kitchen tiles instead.
deliberately scrape it a little louder than necessary to get him to look up from the tv.
you climb up without looking at him, reaching toward the top cabinet for your favourite mug— the one he always gets for you.
behind you, the couch creaks.
he’s noticed.
you smile faintly with your back turned, enjoying the idea of the annoyed grimace that must be present on his face now.
toji doesn’t say anything at first. just watches. eyes narrowed slightly.
you stretch a little higher, fingertips just brushing the shelf.
the chair wobbles.
just a little, but that’s enough.
“oi.”
his voice cuts through the room, low and irritated.
"what? you ask haphazardly, reaching again.
the chair shifts once more as you lower cup after cup onto the counter to clear space for you to grab your favourite one. you swear he hides it at the back on purpose just to make sure you ask him every time.
heavy footsteps cross the room in two strides.
then suddenly, you’re airborne. clean off the chair like you weigh nothing.
“hey—!” you yelp, grabbing his shoulder on instinct as he sets you down on the floor like you’re the problem. “when the hell did you get there!?” you snap, glaring up at him.
he doesn’t even look fazed.
“shut,” he mutters, already reaching up to the cabinet.
he grabs the mug easily.
you cross your arms, still annoyed. “i could’ve gotten it.”
he shuts the cabinet with a quiet thud and turns to you.
“…yeah,” he says flatly. “looked real stable up there.”
you huff. “i wasn’t gonna fall.”
he steps closer. too close. close enough that you have to tilt your head up to keep glaring at him, “don’t care,” he says, tone rough but quieter now. “don’t like it.”
your irritation falters for half a second, but you recover quickly, scoffing, “well... i don't like you. and i don't need your help.”
he snorts. "yeah?"
"yeah."
"then how come every morning all i hear is—"
"don't mimic me." you grind out through tight teeth, already feeing the mocking tone coming.
he bats his lashes at you, "ohhh toooji." he trills in a high-pitched voice impishly made to resemble that of yours, "it's too high, i can't reeaaach."
you grit your teeth, lips pursing and head whipping in the other direction, looking away quickly so you don't laugh. now would be the worst time to laugh. it would only vindicate him and his ego. "shut up."
then he presses the mug into your hands.
firm.
final.
“drink your tea,” he says smugly.
"don't tell me what to do."
minutes later, you glance at him over the rim of the steaming mug.
he’s back on the couch like nothing happened.
controller in hand, leaned back, game unpaused.
ignoring you again. except his eyes flick to you.
just once. quick. checking. making sure you’re not climbing anything else you shouldn’t be. and he gives you that infuriating sharkish grin.
ෆ k. choso
clingy bf final boss pt. 2
you don’t go to bed afterwards.
the argument had fizzled out hours ago— no real resolution, just quiet tension and too many things left unsaid. he’d gone to the bedroom eventually, slow steps, softer than usual, like he didn’t want to push you.
you didn’t follow.
instead, you'd curled up on the couch with a blanket and a pillow, the tv casting soft light across the living room. some random movie plays that you’re not even really watching.
it’s late. really late. your retinas burn a little, a warning that you should just turn it off and rest, but you don’t move.
you’re still mad… at least you think you are. but too much of that madness is diluted by sadness and guilt and also how badly you miss his puppy dog eyes.
the hallway light flicks on.
soft footsteps.
you don’t look. because a part of you still feels the need to keep up the act.
choso appears in the doorway, hair loose and messy, sleep shirt wrinkled, eyes still heavy with exhaustion. his eyebags even more pronounced than they already usually are.
he pauses when he sees you. really sees you.
the blanket. the pillow. the way you’ve set up camp like you’re planning to stay there.
his brows pull together slightly.
“…you’re not coming to bed?” he asks, voice quiet, careful. and sad. undoubtedly sad.
you don’t answer.
just stare at the screen.
he steps closer anyway.
you hear the soft clink of glass before you see it—a cup of water placed gently on the coffee table in front of you.
“you should drink,” he murmurs.
still nothing from you.
he lingers.
waiting.
you don’t look at him.
don’t acknowledge him.
don’t give him anything to work with.
a minute passes. then two.
you expect him to sigh. to leave. to go back to bed. anything but stand there watching over you in the dark like the babadook.
he doesn’t.
"if you're gonna stay there, can you sit?" your voice croaks from exhaustion and unuse, "creeping me out."
"oh." he whispers. the couch dips beside you.
you finally glance over. he’s sitting there.
quietly.
hands folded loosely in his lap. watching the movie like he’s been invited.
but choso doesn’t move. doesn’t talk. doesn't snuggle into your side or join you under the blanket, even if he's a little cold and the blanket is definitely big enough to share. just sits with you.
the movie keeps playing. some backstory scene you don’t care about. but now you’re aware of him. the warmth beside you. the quiet presence. the way he glances at you every so often like he’s checking if you’re still there. watching your reactions to every line. the way your eyes follow the captions at the bottom of the screen and your lips press together to suppress a snicker when a character makes a dirty joke.
he smiles when you do. not because he heard or processed the joke but because you're smiling.
time passes. ten minutes. twenty. you shift slightly under the blanket.
he doesn’t say anything.
just adjusts the edge of it absentmindedly so it covers your shoulder better.
you notice, but you don't move.
fifteen more minutes.
eventually, curiosity gets the better of you.
you look over, expecting to see him watching the screen or you. he’s slumped slightly now, head tipped back against the couch, eyes closed, breathing slow and even.
…he fell asleep.
you stare at him for a second.
then sigh. soft. fond.
“you’re so stupid,” you mumble under your breath, but there’s no bite to it. you nudge him lightly. he stirs with a light whine but doesn’t wake.
he was already half-asleep when he came out here.
you shift, pulling the pillow out from under your head and sliding it beneath his instead. you tug the blanket up, draping it properly over him, tucking it around his shoulders.
his hand moves in his sleep. fingers brushing your wrist. then curling around it.
you stare at him, laying with the pillow and blanket you'd brought out for yourself with the intent of sleeping away from him and can't do anything but sigh again.
✴︎ BONUS!
(my apology gift for dragging this pt. 2 for like 3 months OOPSIE DAISIES)
ෆ h. hiromi
he forgets to exit lawyer mode
you’re halfway through ranting about your coworker when he starts doing that thing.
that lawyer thing.
the one where his brows knit, his fingers fold beneath his chin, and suddenly he sounds less like your boyfriend listening to you vent and more like a man preparing cross-examination notes.
“well,” hiromi says slowly, “did you instigate the exchange at all?”
you blink, “…what?”
he continues, maddeningly calm. “because you do have a habit of responding sarcastically when agitated, and that can escalate—”
“hiromi.”
“i’m just saying there may have been contributory—”
“hiromi.”
he pauses.
looks up.
you stare at him in disbelief from across the kitchen.
“i’m your girlfriend,” you say flatly, grabbing your coat from the hook by the door, “not your defendant.”
his mouth opens.
closes.
you yank the coat on with a furious huff.
“where are you going?”
“for a walk,” you snap.
the door shuts behind you before he can answer.
the cold air does help.
a little.
mostly because it gives you something else to focus on besides the fact your boyfriend had just tried to assign legal fault percentages to your workplace annoyance.
you walk for twenty minutes. then thirty. rounding the block and angrily murmuring to yourself.
by the time you come back, your anger’s dulled into that grumpy stubbornness where you’ve already decided you’ll be silent for the rest of the night.
you unlock the apartment.
step inside.
and stop.
the lights are dimmer.
soft jazz hums quietly from somewhere in the living room.
there’s a mug of coffee on the table.
your coffee.
made exactly how you like it.
and beside it—
flowers.
you blink.
“what…”
“in here, sweetheart.”
you turn.
hiromi appears from the kitchen, tie loosened now, sleeves rolled up, looking deeply sheepish in a way that almost never happens.
almost.
he walks over carefully, like approaching a witness he’s already intimidated.
“before you say anything,” he starts, “i’d like to formally state that i handled that conversation very poorly.”
you fold your arms.
and stare
he winces. “yes. deserved.”
you try not to smile.
try.
he notices anyway.
of course he does.
he steps closer, taking your coat from your shoulders and hanging it up for you.
“i’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says, voice softer now. boyfriend voice, not attorney voice. “you wanted comfort. i gave you a deposition.”
that gets a snort out of you.
you hate that it does.
he smiles faintly, relieved.
“i should have just told you your coworker sounds insufferable and that you were right.”
you narrow your eyes. “…i was right.”
“you were absolutely right.”
“and she’s annoying.”
“unbearably.”
you hum, accepting this.
he offers you the coffee and you take it. still grumpy, but less committed to the bit now.
“are the flowers part of your apology strategy?”
“yes.”
“did it work?”
he looks down at you, mouth twitching, “the jury seems undecided.”
you sigh dramatically. then step into him.
he wraps his arms around you instantly, warm and secure, kissing the top of your head. “for the record,” he murmurs, “i am on your side.”
you grumble into his chest, “that should be your default.”
“noted.”
ෆ i. takuma
accidental pervert
it happens so casually that it throws you off.
you’re both lounging around his place, tv playing something neither of you are really watching, on your phones, when he glances over at you and goes—
“…hey baby, what’s your bust size?”
you blink. slowly turn your head.
“…my what.”
takuma doesn’t even look phased. he’s still half-focused on his phone, like he just asked what your favourite colour was.
“your bust size,” he repeats. “like, the measurement.”
you stare at him, “…why.”
he shrugs. “just asking.”
just asking.
you sit up straight, narrowing your eyes. “why are you asking me that like it’s casual conversation.”
he finally looks at you properly, confused. “because i need to know?”
that does not help.
“takuma.”
“what?”
you chuck a pillow at his head, “what's wrong with you?!”
"ow! what?"
“why are you asking me that out of nowhere, you freak?” you ask, incredulous.
he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. as if this is absolutely not where he saw this conversation going.
“i'm going to bed,” you cut him off, grabbing your phone, "sleep here.”
“wait—”
“shut up.”
you stand up, already walking off, leaving him on the couch blinking after you like he just lost an argument he didn’t realise he was in.
he doesn't argue against you telling him to sleep on the couch of the house he pays for while you get his bed.
and you don’t bring it up again. the next morning is a little awkward, but you're fine again quite quickly.
even if he does act a little… awkward for the next couple days. like he wants to say something, but remembers how that went last time and decides against it.
a week later, a package arrives, addressed to you.
you frown, turning it over in your hands. “did you order something for me?”
takuma freezes. just for a second. then scratches the back of his neck. “…open it.”
you narrow your eyes suspiciously. but you do.
inside is a dress.
not just any dress.
a gorgeous one.
soft fabric, the kind that has to be tailored, your exact style like he reached into your brain and picked it out himself.
your mouth parts slightly. “…kuma.”
he’s suddenly very interested in the floor.
“it’s… custom,” he mutters.
you blink. look at the dress. then back at him. then back at the dress. “…custom.” you repeat
“yeah.”
realisation hits you like a truck. your jaw drops.
“takuma.”
"so... sorry if it doesn't fit right," he winces, “…i tried asking for your size,” he says, voice quieter now, “but you didn’t take too kindly to that.”
you stare at him. then at the dress. then back at him again.
“kuma, why would you ask me like that?!” you burst out. “if you told me it was for this i wouldn’t have gotten mad?”
he frowns, defensive now. “well i didn’t know it was weird!”
“how did you not know that was weird?!”
“because i didn’t even know what bust meant!” he blurts.
you pause, “…what?”
he rubs the back of his neck again, embarrassed. “i was just reading it off the website. it said bust, waist, hips... i thought it was just a regular measurement.”
you stare. “…you didn’t know what it meant.”
“not until you got mad at me and i googled it,” he admits.
you blink at him.
once.
twice.
then you start laughing.
he groans, face heating up. “it's not funny..."
“oh my god.”
he crosses his arms, sulking. “i was trying to do something nice.”
your laughter softens. you look down at the dress again with a grin. run your fingers over the fabric.
“…it’s really pretty,” you say softly.
he glances at you. “…yeah?”
you nod. then step closer, hugging him. “thank you, baby,” you mumble into his chest. “and… sorry for yelling at you.”
he huffs. “you’re still mean.”
“you asked me my bust size out of nowhere!”
“i didn’t know what it meant!”
you laugh again.
he sighs.
but he’s smiling too.
“…try it on?” he asks after a second.
you pull back, grinning, “yeah.”
ෆ i. shoko
she ate your cupcake
she's being dramatic. at least, that’s what you claim.
it’s just a scraped knee. you’ve had worse. it doesn’t even hurt that much anymore.
still, you’re sitting on the cool metal of the bench in her office, arms crossed, refusing to look at her because you’re still annoyed about the cupcake situation.
“it was in the fridge for a week,” you mutter. “i was saving it.”
“mm,” she hums. shoko doesn’t even look apologetic anymore.
she’s crouched in front of you, hair slightly messy, gloves on, disinfectant-soaked cotton ball pinched between a pair of silver tweezers, dabbing lightly at the broken, bloodied skin.
“i didn't think you wanted it anymore,” she says simply.
you glare at her, “so you just assumed it was abandoned?”
“yes.”
"it was waiting for me.”
“and you never arrived. poor cupcake.”
you huff.
she reaches forward and gently takes your leg, pulling it closer so she can clean the scrape at a better angle.
you flinch slightly.
“don’t move,” she says flatly.
“i am moving because you’re attacking me with alcohol.”
“i know. you're very brave.”
"haha. really funny. you proud of that one?"
she doesn’t respond. but smirks lightly as if to affirm, yes, she is in fact proud of that one, and presses the cotton pad to your knee again.
you hiss softly. “ow.”
“don’t be dramatic.”
“i am literally injured.”
“you’re alive.”
you narrow your eyes at her. “my cupcake isn't.”
“because i put it out of its misery.”
“it was my cupcake, shoko.”
she finally glances up at you.
“…you’re more upset about a cupcake than your actual wound.”
“because the cupcake was important.”
she sighs. like she’s tired. like she’s always tired. but there’s something softer in her eyes that only ever appears when you're around..
she finishes wrapping your knee with practiced ease, fingers light, careful.
then presses her lips to your bandaged knee gently.
“done.”
you look down.
“…you’re surprisingly gentle for a thief.”
“i'm not a thief,” she corrects. “i rehome neglected cupcakes.”
you snort.
she stands up, tossing the used materials into a bin before walking over to her desk.
you watch her. still sitting there. still mildly grumpy.
she grabs a small box from her drawer and places it graciously onto your lap.
you blink. “what’s this?”
“replacement.”
you open it. inside is a cupcake. perfectly frosted. freshly chilled. your favourite kind. you stare at it.
then at her.
"forgive me?” she requests.
you smile despite yourself. “hm. i suppose.”
“you’re so charitable.”
all dividers by da best @anitalenia !!! saur kyoot
summary: no one at the pitt knows you and jack are separated when you show up to the emergency room during a particularly chaotic shift, with a number of dubious symptoms that force you and jack to reconcile. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / wife!reader, jack abbot, dana evans, the pittlings
contents: established relationship, grumpy!jack, protective!jack, angst, hurt/comfort, not proofread cw for mentions of divorce, medical procedures, and pregnancy
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You make a reluctant trip to the PTMC with a two-week-old headache and the remnants of last night’s argument with Jack.
You don’t see the man when you first walk in, which you’re slightly grateful for, even though you know that a crowded E.R. is hardly ever a good sign. You feel the swelling noise and bustling bodies pressing hard on either side of you as you freeze in place by the entrance, trapped within a sea of rushing doctors and transporting patients. Dana, who had spotted you the second you walked in, rushes to your side to keep you from drowning in it entirely.
“Hey, hun,” the older woman greets in her usual gritty deadpan, wearing the weight of the long day all over her face as she rounds the work station to meet you.
“Hey, D— Lupe sent me through,” you murmur, just barely audible over the noisy emergency department. You point behind you to the double doors towards the waiting room, but don’t take your eyes off the surrounding chaos as Dana ushers you the short distance to the front desk. “Jeez, you guys are busy today, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it, honey,” Santos huffs distantly, from where she stands before the overhead monitor with a few other residents. It takes her a second too long to realize her slip-up, and her half-up ponytail sways behind her as she flashes you an apologetic grimace. “Shit. Sorry. I just— I hear Jack calling you that all the time, and it just slipped.”
You burn at the mention of his name. You hope it doesn’t show on your face.
“It’s okay,” you assure her with a dismissive wave of your hand. “Trust me— I’m used to it.”
“We’re never too busy for you, hun. C’mon. Let’s find you a room,” Dana assures with a gentle pat on your arm. She cranes her neck and shouts across the work station, “We got anything open, Princess?”
The woman bends at the waist to check her computer, then calls over her shoulder, “Psych 1 should be.”
“One of you find Abbot, will ya?” Dana asks the younger residents, peering at them over the top of the glasses sitting low on her nose as she escorts you down the hall. “Tell him his wife is here.”
You tense instinctively under her touch at the turn of phrase — a bitter reminder of the stack of divorce papers on the coffee table back home, which says that pretty soon you won’t be Jack’s wife anymore, or his honey. You dread telling his coworkers almost as much as you dread signing the wretched thing.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” you assure her with a wavering grin. “It’s nothing, D, really.”
“That’s what they all say, hun,” the woman rolls her eyes.
The remaining residents share weary looks once the two of you have disappeared into the crowd — because telling Abbot his wife is in is one thing, but telling him in the middle of the unforgiving chaos of a rather brutal shift is entirely another.
“Well, I have a patient to check on, so…” Santos trails off, ambling backward with her thumb cocked over her shoulder. She spins on her sneaker and dismisses herself with a curt wave. “Later, losers.”
“Look at this place, we all have patients to check on,” Whitaker scoffs, then cowers at the expectant looks he gets from the two women at his side. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “But, yeah, I… I have to go, too…”
Samira laughs as she watches the blonde scurry off behind Santos.
“What’s his deal?” she scoffs and turns over her shoulder to look at Mel. Her dark brows furrow when she finds the girl backing slowly away. “Dr. King?”
“Oh, I’ve already completed all my rounds, I just… don’t wanna do it,” Mel confesses, forgetting to lie. She grimaces and turns away. “Sorry…”
Samira watches them go with a confused look twisting her features. She doesn’t understand their apprehension, or their subtle looks of sympathy — as if she’d just gotten stuck diffusing a ticking time bomb.
“O-kay, I guess I’ll do it then…” she mumbles under her breath and turns on the heel of her sneaker, starting the hunt for Dr. Abbot.
Dana stashes you in a small room on the farthest end of the E.R., away from all the chaos on the opposite side, which has since been reduced to a muted droning behind the shut door. She leaves the curtains drawn and the lights dim to ease the unwavering migraine she knows you’ve been sporting for some days now — which inevitably means it’s been plaguing you for at least a week or more before you told anyone about it.
You lie back against the angled exam table with your knees bent and your arms crossed over your eyes, feeling the pounding in your skull down into your bones. You struggle to even out your breathing and harder to relax — you tense on instinct when the door clicks open, and not just because every noise feels like a knife right to your temple.
Your stomach twists with the anticipation of seeing Jack, a sick sort of feeling at potentially having to confront the night before and the uncertain future ahead. You exhale a breath of relief when Robby slides in instead, letting in a sliver of white-blue light and a trickle of noise.
“Dana told me you were in,” he says in lieu of any real greeting, shutting the door behind him with his elbow as he reaches for the hand sanitizer on the wall at his side. He rubs it between his palms and wonders aloud, “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure him despite the faint grimace that twists your features when you struggle to sit up straighter on the bed. “Don’t worry about me— What the hell’s going on out there?”
Robby exhales hard through his mouth, bearded cheeks puffing. “Huge wreck, right off the highway— You didn’t see it on the way here?”
“No,” you shake your head.
“Good…” he nods. “I damn near had a heart attack when Dana told me you were in— I’m sure Abbot’s head is gonna cave in when he finds out.”
He exhales a quiet laugh and waits for you to make another stupid joke in response, just like you always do. But you avert your gaze instead and shift uncomfortably on the thin mattress, like the mention of Jack’s name is enough to make you nervous.
“What’s going on?” the man wonders with furrowed brows. You give him a shocked sort of look in response, half-confused that he’d even know you and Jack were on the outs in the first place. He elaborates soon after, “Dana said you’ve been having headaches for a while now— so that means it’s been a week, at most.”
“You guys know me so well…” you deadpan with a pair of squinted eyes. “It’s nothing, Robby. Really. I just… Had another fainting spell. And usually I wouldn’t even come in for them, but Jack said if it happened again that he’d drag me down here himself, so… I figured I’d save him the trip.”
Robby’s dark eyes narrow at the cynical smile you give him.
“Well, I’m gonna save you the lecture about waiting this long to come in… Since I’m pretty sure you’re gonna hear it from Abbot anyway, so…”
“Thank you,” you sigh.
“You sure you don’t want me to tell him you’re in?” Robby presses tentatively. “He’s with another patient right now, but he’d drop it in a second if you—”
“No,” you shake your heavy head almost instantly, ‘cause you’re not so sure how true that is anymore — Jack hasn’t exactly been too keen on dropping his work these days, which is essentially the entire reason you’re in this mess to begin with. “I don’t wanna… worry him over nothing, you know?”
Robby has a sneaking suspicion that this isn’t nothing, and that there’s something you and Abbot aren’t exactly telling him, but he doesn’t press the issue now.
“Yes, ma’am…” he nods with a huff and drops down in the cushioned stool at your bedside, silently preparing himself for the hell Abbot’s gonna raise when he inevitably finds out you’re here.
Samira finds Dr. Abbot in Trauma 2, performing an emergency surgery on a patient whose pelvis was crushed in the crash, with Dr. Garcia and a crowd of other residents at his side. The younger girl slinks through the glass door into the windowless room, and doesn’t flinch at the overwhelming scent of blood and bitter antiseptic heavying the air inside.
She plucks a surgical mask from the dispenser beside the door and holds it over her mouth as she calls out a hesitant, “Dr. Abbot?”
“Little busy here, Mohan,” Jack answers without looking at her, elbows deep in the unconscious man’s open pelvis as he readjusts the metal clamps there. Bright crimson blood stains his gloves and the stomach of his blue PPE gown as he works with expert hands.
“It’s sort of important, sir…”
Jack says nothing in response; just gives the girl a silent, expectant look from behind the safety glasses sitting low on his nose.
“Your wife is here,” she tells him, dark eyes wild from behind the mask she holds over her mouth. “She’s totally fine, she’s in psych 1 with Dana, but she—”
“Since when?” Jack snaps before she can properly get the words out, flaring red-hot with an immediate worry and a suffocating tinge of regret despite Samira’s reassurances.
Flashes of the crash plague his anxious mind. He can’t help but picture you lying as limp and as bloody as the man before him now. The brutal image hits him as hard as the memory of the last thing he said to you the night before, right before you slept in separate bedrooms.
“Well, if my work schedule makes you so damn miserable, then why don’t you just sign the goddamn papers—?”
“Um… I’m not sure,” Samira answers with a waver in her voice. “About ten minutes ago, I think? I did a few rounds before I came in here, so—”
Jack stills suddenly in place. His head snaps in the younger girl’s direction, and Samira cowers at the hardened glare in his eyes.
“Is there a reason you didn’t come to me directly?”
Samira flinches at his unusually harsh tone. Her wide eyes flit between his stern ones and the anxious looks from the residents just behind him. “Well, she said not to… But then Dana said that I should, so I wasn’t exactly sure who to listen to—”
“Me,” Jack snaps. “You listen to the attending, who told everyone to come get him if his wife came in—”
He doesn’t have time to notice his slip-up, or otherwise correct it, when Garcia steps in.
“I’ll take over here,” the older woman says in her usual deadpan. “If you guys wanna argue like children somewhere else.”
Jack doesn’t argue as he steps back from the patient, peeling off his bloodied gown and gloves with suddenly anxious hands. He chucks the PPE in the biohazard bin with an obvious fire in his touch. The sudden shift in his usually calm disposition makes Samira’s chest ache, while Garcia grins behind her mask.
“Tell your wife I said hi, Dr. Rabbit,” the woman croons with a teasing lilt and a mischievous look behind her glasses.
“She’s still not interested, Garcia,” Abbot calls over his shoulder as he storms towards the door.
“Dammit…”
Samira cowers when Jack slides past her in the doorway, not looking at her once, like he barely recognizes that she’s there at all. She watches through the glass door as he disappears into the bustling crowd outside, hands balled into trembling fists at his sides.
“Don’t worry about him, kid,” Garcia sighs, half-distracted, as she fishes her bloodied hands in the unconscious man’s open pelvis. “He’s been on his period for about a week now, and we’re all paying the price for it…”
Samira’s chest deflates with a huff. “So, that’s why no one else wanted to do it…”
The two-minute trek across the E.R. feels nothing short of two years.
The entire walk there, Jack’s anxious mind struggles to discern what Mohan could’ve meant by totally fine. Were you just a little scraped up? Were you terribly injured, but at the very least alive? Was Samira trying to soften the blow, or did she truly mean totally fine?
Jack can’t help but picture the worst-case scenario, and he expects to find you hurt.
“No, I just kinda have this headache that comes and goes, you know?” he hears you say, right before he storms inside.
“Oh— And there it is,” Jack jokes when Abbot appears suddenly in the doorway, bringing in a wave of light and noise and unadulterated panic in with him.
Jack’s tight chest relaxes slightly when he finds you totally fine — lounging in a dim room with Robby at your side, laughing at his stupid joke as he draws dark red blood from the inside of your arm.
He’s relieved that you’re okay, of course, but the sight of you smiling — when Jack hasn’t quite been able to keep food down for days with the worry that you might be leaving him — hurts him in a completely different (and only slightly jealous) way.
“Oh, fuck…” you hear yourself say when Jack storms in like a white-hot flame. Because, sure, you’ve sort of made it a point to avoid the man at every turn, but you didn’t want him finding you like this.
You know what this looks like. You know it looks like you’re going behind his back and purposefully taunting him by going to his friends instead of straight to him. You know it hurts his feelings. And you may not like him so much right now, but you never want to see him sad.
“Yeah, 'oh fuck' is right,” Jack nods as he closes the door behind him, muffling the noise as the room goes dim again.
Robby inhales sharply through his nose. He can feel the sudden tension between the two of you pressing hard on either side of him. “Little pinch,” he murmurs to you, right before sliding the needle from your vein.
“Why didn’t you come get me?” Jack asks.
“Because you were busy,” you sigh, then mumble more quietly under your breath. “Go figure…”
“Why didn’t you call before you came—”
You fight the urge to rehash the fight from the night before and roll your eyes instead. “Because it’s not a big deal, Jack—”
“Yeah, I think I’ll be the judge of that,” the man concludes with narrowed eyes and biceps that strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest.
Robby’s dark eyes flit between the two of you behind the glasses perched on his broad nose. When he’s sure the arguing has ceased, he looks over his shoulder at Abbot and begins to explain. “I’m doing an electrolyte panel to check for any imbalances— It’ll also help us rule out anemia and hypoglycemia.”
Jack nods, brows lowered in concentration. “Okay… What about—?”
“I was gonna do an ECG when the results came back,” Robby finishes for him. “Her heart sounds fine, but I’ll have to wait for a room to open up if the bloodwork comes back abnormal, and… Who knows how long that’s gonna be?”
“Alright,” Jack nods again. “Sounds good.”
Robby turns to you, brows raised expectantly. “Sound good?”
“You’re the boss, Robinavitch,” you shrug.
“Hear that, brother?” Robby scoffs as he rises from his stool, taking the vials of blood work with him as he heads for the door. He elbows Jack on the arm when he walks by and flashes the frowning man a smug grin. “I’m the boss.”
Robby opens and shuts the door behind him, and all the playful energy leaves with him. The subsequent silence feels borderline suffocating. You and Jack, barely breathing, try to break it at the same time.
“I’m fine, Jack—”
“I can’t believe this—”
You huff and tip your aching head back. “I’m fine. So you can go back and do whatever it is you were doing before. I’m sure it’s more important.”
Jack’s light eyes narrow into thin slits. His firm stature never wavers — arms crossed tight, sneakers spread shoulder-length apart — like he’s interrogating an enemy on the battlefield.
“What happened? Did you faint again?”
“Yeah…” you answer suddenly sheepishly, averting your gaze to a faded stain on the knee of your jeans. “It was in your shower chair this time. I think I had the water too hot.”
“I told you about the hot water—”
“I know,” you huff like a stubborn child. “And you also told me that if I passed out again that I needed to come in so… I came in.”
“I still wish you would’ve called me first,” he tells you — not angry this time, not truly, but still obviously hurt. “When Mohan told me you were here, I thought something bad happened to you.”
“Well, considering you told me to leave last night, I honestly didn’t think you really gave a shit anymore, Jack...” you confess with a smile you hardly mean.
“I told you to leave because you said you wanted to,” Jack argues through gritted teeth. “You act like I pulled that shit out of thin air— Like you haven’t been looking for an out for weeks.”
“An out?” you echo, a little louder than you mean to, as your face screws in offense. “You’re the one who’s never home, Jack. So if anyone’s been looking for a fucking out, it’s you— Fuck…”
You whimper when a white-hot flare surges suddenly across your skull, from temple to temple and down the base of your neck. You wince and close your eyes, tentatively tipping your head back against the bed once more.
Jack forgets to be angry in an instant. His chest stings at the pained look that etches across your features. His legs carry him to you before his brain has decided whether or not he should.
“What?” he presses, eyes wild. “What’s wrong?”
“My head…” you squeak out.
Jack huffs. “Here…”
You know he’s towering over you without having to open your eyes. You can feel him there, warm like a heater, and smelling of cologne and a long shift at the E.R. He braces himself with one hand on the mattress beside your head and covers your eyes with his free one. You don’t flinch when his gently calloused palm splays suddenly over the length of your forehead, pinky curving in the bend of your closed eyelids.
He couldn’t possibly count the number of times he’s done this over the years — hundreds, at least. It’s the only way he knew how to soothe your headaches when the medicine was taking its sweet time kicking in. It’s the pressure that helps, though you’ve always argued that Jack must have some secret healing superpowers that he isn’t telling you about.
You’re only able take your first good breath in two weeks when he’s finally touching you so gently.
“Better?” he wonders, half-detached but still strikingly soft.
You nod once beneath his palm and fight back the urge to cry when his thumb rubs softly over your temple.
“Contrary to popular belief, honey,” the older man murmurs. “I didn’t come in here to fight with you.”
“It always ends in a fight with us, Jack,” you sigh. “You know that.”
“I thought you were hurt,” he confesses, in a voice so soft it makes you feel like crying. “Bad hurt. When Mohan came and got me, I thought for sure you were involved with all the shit going on out there.”
“Well, I’m not… So you can go now…” you tell him in a trembling voice, which you’d rather blame on the lingering ache in your skull and not the fact that you don’t truly want him to leave — that you never really wanted him to leave.
You miss the quiet smile Jack gives you in response, because he can see right through you.
“Yeah, I’m not going anywhere, honey…” he says on a gentle exhale. “And I’m not signing those stupid papers.”
Your heart drops at the mention of them, at the bitter reminder of their existence, even though it’s been plaguing your every waking thought for some weeks now.
Your trembling hands reach for the one he holds over your eyes. You wrap your fingers around his wrist and knuckles, peeling his palm away to peer up at him with a glassy gaze.
“What do you mean?” you ask on bated breath.
Jack meets your weary look with a softer, sadder smile.
“Well, I just got about a… three-minute glimpse of what my life was gonna look like without you,” Jack sighs, in lieu of confessing all the gory worst-case scenarios he couldn’t quite get out of his head. “And, turns out, I’m not strong enough for that, so… I’m officially declining your divorce, honey.”
“Jack…” you protest feebly, features crumpling at his poor excuse for a joke, while his calloused palm slips from your forehead and cups gently over your warm cheek.
He ducks down to meet your gaze when you try to turn away, bending slightly at the waist and bracing himself with his free hand curled around the top of the mattress. His nose is mere inches from yours — you can feel each of his exhales fan across your chin. You couldn’t shy away from him if you tried.
“I’m serious, honey,” he says with a stern but no less sincere look swimming in his light eyes. “You were right— I’m working too much—”
“No, don’t…” you protest with a shake of your head, because the affirmation doesn’t feel as rewarding as you’d expected it to. Instead, it makes you feel a little sick. Your gaze falls to the dog tags slipping from the inside of his scrubs, glimmering in the darkness as they sway just ahead of you. Your fingers reach to fidget with the chain on muscle memory. “It’s your job, Jack. I shouldn’t dictate how much you work—”
“You’re my wife, honey. You shouldn’t feel second to my job, because you’re not,” he tells you, brows raised to his hairline. “So, I’ll— cut down on my hours, I’ll stop picking up so many shifts, I’ll… I’ll do whatever the hell you want me to do, baby, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere, alright?”
You feel his words physically, like a white-hot knife lodged in the center of your sternum and twisting.
You struggle to find the words to respond, just as you struggle to find the air in the room to breathe. Because you’ve spent weeks thinking you’d failed at your marriage, and now you’ve failed at failing your marriage. It’s a stupid tug of war that makes you hate yourself all the more.
“Well, maybe we should wait for Robby to get back…” you murmur quietly, shifting on the mattress beneath him. “You know, before we have this conversation or whatever…”
Jack ducks his head to chase your averted gaze, brows furrowing in confusion. “What the hell does Robby have to do with this?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I might have, like, a super rare blood cancer or something—”
“Jesus,” Jack grimaces before you can properly get the words out, flinching away from you when you shatter the sincere moment. “Why would you say something like that?”
“I might only have a week left to live or something,” you retort with wide eyes, only partially playful. “So we might not even have to worry about any of this, you know? …Who knows?”
Jack meets your sparkling, half-crazed look with a firm scowl. “You’re real morbid, honey. You know that?”
“Well, what can I say?” you shrug and fight the urge to smile. “Your cynicism’s rubbing off on me, Abbot.”
Robby returns about a half hour later, to a room considerably less tense than it was when he left. He forgets to comment or otherwise pry about it when he slips inside, gaze averted to the glowing iPad resting on his palm. His free hand scratches at the grey patch in his beard — an anxious tic you’ve come to know well.
“Hey, uh—” he clears his throat behind his fist when the words get stuck there.
“Oh, shit…” you waver when the door clicks shuts behind him. “I was just kidding about the whole blood cancer thing, I swear—”
Robby’s brows lower in confusion. “…What?”
“Don’t listen to her,” Jack huffs, rising from the stool at your side for the first time in thirty minutes as he rushes to Robby in long strides — ‘cause he can feel the man’s trepidation like heat off a bonfire. “What did the blood work say?”
Robby inhales sharply through his nose as he passes the man the tablet. He crosses his arms over his chest and splays his right hand over the lower half of his bearded face. His wide eyes dart between the lit-up iPad and the edge of Jack’s profile, eagerly awaiting the man’s reaction.
You watch with your heart in your throat as Jack’s eyes flit wildly back and forth across the screen. His scruffy jaw slackens slightly in shock, and Robby nods slowly in a quiet concurrence.
“Okay, what the hell?” You shatter the heavy silence. “Are you guys just gonna communicate telepathically the whole time, or is someone gonna tell me what’s going on with me?”
“You’re fine— You’re totally fine,” Robby reassures you, gesturing wildly with his right hand. “Your bloodwork came back normal, but… There’s a high level of hCG in your bloodstream. And I think that’s what’s been causing your dizziness and fainting spells.”
“HCG?” you echo, eyes darting wildly between the two men in front of you. “What the hell is hCG?”
“Human chorionic gonadotropin,” Jack answers on instinct, half-strangled, and never once taking his eyes off the screen in his hands. “Means you’re pregnant, honey…”
You feel the world fall out from under you for the second or third or hundredth time that day. You hide your crumpling features behind your hands as your head falls back against the exam table. Your following words come out muffled.
Finnick Odair x hijacked!reader who asks what's real or not real [2k words]
summary: a District Thirteen reunion story heavily inspired by the brilliant @ervotica's fic 'a life of our own' & @/ilguna's 'hijacked'! Reader was tortured much like Peeta was into fearing Finnick, finding her playing the game 'real or not real'
CW: fem!reader, discussion of past torture [not described], reader tortured into believing Finnick did abhorrent and disgusting things to her [not described], medical personnel acting as villains sort of, hurt/comfort, hopeful/open ending
Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book that he brought with him to your hospital room every day which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop.
Routine was a word that came to dictate much of Finnick’s life recently; stability. Ritualized schedules were the norm in District Thirteen. But more importantly, routine, stability, and ritualized schedules were deemed necessary and important to your recovery.
Thus, Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book - the same paperback book - that he brought with him to your hospital room every day - at the exact same time - which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop.
He’d been following more or less the same routine ever since you’d been rescued from the Capitol a few weeks ago, though Finnick could admit visiting you felt slightly better now than it had in the beginning.
The beginning had been nothing short of heartbreaking for him. The beginning had been nothing short of torturous for you.
There’d been a hunch in place of hard evidence that the lot of you were being tortured in the Capitol, though to what extent no one knew. And absolutely no one was prepared for what awaited them by the time the three of you were safe in District Thirteen.
Peeta had promptly tried to off Katniss which was very off brand of him; Johanna’s head had been shaved, she was emaciated, and had a plethora of evidence of gruesome physical torture, and you…
You weren’t filled with the same loathing, hatred, and disgust that Peeta seemed to carry for Katniss. No, you were completely and utterly terrified.
Medics had to sedate you when Finnick rushed into the room upon hearing of your arrival because you’d thrown yourself against the wall so violently you’d split your head open, then nearly ripped your nails clean off your fingers in your desperation to open a locked door in an attempt to escape from him. And if that hadn’t been devastating enough, the sounds of your guttural screams and desperate cries caused by him still haunted many of Finnick’s nightmares.
Finnick had been hesitant to return to you after that; he didn’t want to ever cause you that much distress again.
Haymitch tried to reason with him; Finnick wasn’t the one causing you this much distress, it was the Capitol. The medics tried to reason with him; it was to be considered exposure therapy, they hoped that - over time - as you regained some familiarity and comfort with him and worked through your memories and trauma with the doctors that you’d start to remember.
He reluctantly agreed. So, he was horrified when, the first day he returned, you’d been strapped down to your bed in preparation for his meeting.
“This is sick!” He’d shouted at the medics as he gestured at your current state. “This isn’t exposure therapy, this is torture!”
“Mr. Odair, the hope is that once she begins to realize there’s no need to fight or run, we’ll be able to take the restraints off.” One of them explained in a bored manner.
“Fuck whatever you’re hoping for! You’re torturing her; she’s not going to feel any safer here than she did in the Capitol!”
They’d tried calling after him, but he simply looked over at you and offered a pathetic “I’m sorry, honey” that you probably hadn’t heard over your own desperate wails before he fled.
The next day he returned, you hadn’t been strapped down, but you had been heavily medicated with some kind of sedative before his arrival. He swallowed around the bile in his throat as he took a seat in one of the chairs, pretended to read his book and tried his hardest to ignore the extremely wary and haunted gaze that stayed glued to his side for the entirety of his visit.
The third visit went much the same, except about halfway through his scheduled ‘visit’, he noticed that your eyes seemed to fall extremely heavy.
“Are you tired, sweetheart?” He murmured quietly, though you would have thought he’d screamed at you with the way you bodily flinched and your eyes snapped open.
He just continued watching you as you fought to convince your heart to return to its normal tempo, slowly, cautiously nodding your head yes to his question when you seemed to realize he was earnest in his question.
“Would you like me to leave so you can get some rest?”
Your brows furrowed ever so subtly, eyes darting across his face as you searched for any hidden meaning or potential threat.
You must not have found one.
“Please.” You whispered, and - though it was still but a whisper - it was the first time he had heard your voice since the Quarter Quell that wasn’t shrieking and sobbing in fear, causing a lump to form in his throat.
“Okay, honey, I’ll go.” He whispered back, smiling at you through tears as he stood and swiftly left the room, hardly closing the door fully behind him before he let out a sob.
Over the weeks, you began finding your own routine and schedule outside of the time you spent working with doctors and medics. You were hardly ever seen without your journal on your person, and one of your doctors explained to Finnick that you were beginning to compile notes to differentiate between things you knew, things that you didn’t know, and what was real or not real. Many times, Finnick could find you working in your journal when he arrived, and though you still managed to keep a concerned eye on him at any given point and your body never fully relaxed while he was there, he was grateful you were becoming more or less accustomed to his company.
And then one day he showed up to your room to find one wall completely transformed into a giant drawing board. The board was divided into two equal sides; one side was labelled REAL and one side was labelled NOT REAL. The only thing that had been written down so far was on the NOT REAL side, which read “Finnick did not set you up and leave you there to die.”
“She’s been struggling to sleep without the aid of sedatives; she wakes up quite violently from nightmares, struggling to differentiate between what is real and what is not, even when we’re standing right there in front of her.” One of the medics told him. “We tried once to have her look through her journal, but she threw it across the room and told us to get away from her. We thought maybe having a very large visualization in front of her in her own writing would be helpful to tether her to reality upon waking.”
And that seemed all well in good, but Finnick found himself sick over some of the things the Capitol had convinced you he was guilty of more than once.
But, if this is what you needed, if this was helping you, Finnick would stomach it, no questions asked.
So, Finnick drummed his fingers against the paperback book that he brought with him to your hospital room every day which acted as nothing more than a glorified prop.
He knocked twice gently on your door before stepping inside, watching as you stepped quickly away from the board and hid the marker and eraser behind your back as if you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, watching Finnick as though you were waiting for him to attack.
“Hi, honey.” He greeted quietly, nodding politely at you before he pulled out his chair and took his place, flipping his book open to an arbitrary page as he pretended to read.
You didn’t move; your feet seemed to be glued to the spot as you watched Finnick pretend to not be watching you. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had missed your gaze, quite selfishly, and found that while the atmosphere wasn’t exactly relaxed, he was happy enough just to have your eyes on him again.
Finnick wasn’t sure how much time had passed before you ended up breaking the silence.
“F…Finnick?” You asked, barely above a whisper; question so quiet that Finnick was sure if he hadn’t only been pretending to read, he would have missed it entirely.
You sounded as though you were trying his name out for size, just to see how it felt on your tongue. Finnick missed the days when you used to squeal his name in laughter, or groan his name in frustration, or call his name in excitement. But even though it came out cautious and stilted, he didn’t think he’d ever heard as pretty a sound as the sound of his name falling from your lips.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He asked eagerly, fighting to keep his tone, face, and body language calm as he saved his ‘place’ with a finger and leaned forward in his chair, resting his knees on his elbows.
You swallowed thickly and fiddled with the marker in your hands as you stole yourself to speak. “Can I ask you something?”
He wanted to be an ass; he wanted to say ‘you just asked me two things’, he wanted to whoop and holler at finally having an actual conversation with you after weeks of finally having you back, yet not really having you back at all.
Instead, all he said was “of course.”
You cleared your throat before gaining the courage to ask what he heard as “you love me; real, or not real?”
Finnick wasn’t sure an answer had ever come to him so fast. “Real.”
You seemed somewhat surprised by his answer even though it was clearly the answer you’d been expecting. After a few moments, you simply nodded at him before turning back to your drawing board’s REAL side.
Finnick loved me you wrote, adding bullet points underneath it...
He told me so
He acts like it
Gut feeling
...is what you cited as proof to this revelation. Finnick wanted to weep. A gut feeling; you were still in there, somewhere. There was still a version of you that knew deep down that Finnick loved you.
“It’s not quite right, honey.” He offered softly, fighting the urge to smile when you turned at his interruption, yet didn’t flinch at the sound of his voice as you often did. You simply looked at him in confusion.
“Do you mind if I make a minor adjustment?” He asked as he carefully placed his book on your empty bed and slowly stood, holding his hands out in ask.
You looked between him and the marker and eraser in your hands before holding them out for him; an invitation.
Finnick smiled at you as he slowly walked towards you, hyper focused on remaining as unthreatening as possible as he gently took the items from you, careful not to touch you unnecessarily.
He moved to the REAL side of the board, using the edge of the eraser to remove the d from the end of loved and replacing it with an s. The sentence now - properly - read Finnick loves me.
“There, now it’s perfect.” He offered you with another smile as he held the items back out to you, gently placing them in your hands when you held them open for him before he turned back towards his chair, retrieved his book, and sat back down.
Your eyes stayed glued on the correction he made to your board as the marker and eraser hovered uselessly midair; moments dragging on before your arms finally lowered to your sides.
Finnick didn’t bother pretending to read, so when you turned to look at him - face full of confusion, curiosity, concern, and what looked to be devastation - you found him already looking at you.
“Still?” You asked, voice cracking painfully as a heavy tear fell down your face.
And if Finnick thought that no answer had ever come faster to him before, he was sorely mistaken.
hi this is straight from twitter not gonna fib. THIS IS GENUINELY GETTING ON MY NERVES IK I SAY IT EVERY POST BUT THEY GEN SUCKED THE COLOURS DRY THIS IS WHY I HATE POSTING ON HERE.
i HATE playing rivals. i HATE playing supp. i HATE the dps epidemic.
WHY am i queuing with 4 people who only tank, OR 4 people who only dps, OR someone who went supp last game so they CANT POSSIBLY go supp again.
This fuckass game is the only thing i wanna do at the end of a long ass day of school but its so angering.
AND the one time i try to duo w someone he seems to take it as i want to date him, brother this is a VIDEO GAME that we're MUTUALLY GOOD AT, AND WE WIN! NO SHIT I WANT TO PLAY WITH YOU SO I CAN WIN.
bf!timothy will bring heaps of dark chocolate when you’re on your period, stocking up on pads & tampons incase you run out.
bf!timothy will be running late into the night, analysing data before watching you come in, rubbing your eyes while muttering his name. his heart melting at your need for him.
bf!timothy won’t let goons block him from texting you, pulling out his phone mid combat just to say ‘inaminit’ when you ask him to bring you groceries.
bf!timothy can and will use his skills to win you big plushie at amusement parks, smirking softly at the glimmer in your eyes as you squeal.
bf!timothy has a tendency of shutting people out when working on a difficult case, however he will be typing away next to you. hearing your gentle snores as the white from his laptop casts a glow on your resting face.
bf!timothy will try his hardest to not smile while you scream at him, questioning about him coming home late everyday as your hands place themselves on your hips, huffing loudly.
bf!timothy will force you into a bear hug, snugging his nose into the crook of your neck as he utters, “i’m sorry baby.”
bf!timothy then will reassure you nothing happens during his stakeouts, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he rocks you back and forth.
bf!timothy carries you back to bed, tucking you in before putting his suit on for another long night, sighing at the relief of easing your concerns.
a/n :: didn’t wanna post today but i’m slowly growing my love for writing especially when you guys reblog and like 🥹🥹🫰 my true motivation is freaky baby maya the woman who encouraged me to start this
