•24 •Love cats and reading •Big fan of BTS, anime (like My Hero Academia, Attack on Titans, Haikyuu...) Criminal Minds and other shows •I don’t write, however I reblog and if a work is reblogged, then the author and work is worth reading. •Some of the stuff I reblog is 18+
Summary: After leaving your boyfriend some little notes of love in his lunchbox, you became very famous throughout the night shift. But you didn't know this until you had to step into the ER trying to give Jack his forgotten lunchbox.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors.
Thanks to the anon who requested a part 2 for Little Notes of Love and illuminated my brain because this little fic wasn't meant to have a part 2.
Hope you guys love it just as much as the first part.
(Sorry that this took me more time than I planned to 🙃)
The ER wasn't a place you liked. Really, you didn't enjoy being at a hospital. Ironic, since your boyfriend is an ER doctor. There is nothing specific for you to dislike about the place, it's just a hospital, and no one really likes being there. But this time, you drove voluntarily to the place all because Jack forgot his lunchbox, and your concern about the rare times your boyfriend gets to eat at his job is more important than your dislike for the hospital.
You don't really know where to get in. You're not a patient, and you're afraid that the lady at the desk would not let you in, so even if you're a little embarrassed, you get in through the ambulance bay. Your plan is not to stay too long and to bother people as little as possible. It's a very busy place, and you don't want to get in anyone's way.
You stand near the place where a desk is (the nurse station), trying to find Jack through all the people moving from one side to another so quickly that you could get dizzy.
Someone taps your shoulder, making you turn around.
“Ma’am, is everything okay? You should go through the desk at the front door.”
She said calmly with tired eyes, but she still gave you a small smile. By Jack's description, you think it's Dr. Ellis.
You smile at her, letting out a relieved sigh.
“I’m not a patient, I'm fine,” you assure her. You lift the gray lunchbox in your hand, and by the expression she makes, you think she recognizes it. “I’m looking for my boyfriend, he's an attending here,” you explain to her.
“So you are the mysterious Lady Notes, huh?” she said, smiling widely, her eyes suddenly bright with interest.
Your cheeks burn because you never thought that Jack would show them the notes, or that they would see them.
“Guess I am,” you said, telling her your actual name, but something tells you that you're stuck with Lady Notes.
“I’m Dr. Parker Ellis,” she introduced herself by shaking your hand. “Follow me.”
You do. She guides you through the nurse station toward a nurse who looks like she is in charge, and by the look she gives you above her reading glasses and Jack's description, you think she's Lena. By her side, there is a tall man who looks completely relaxed and not even bothered by the rush of the ED.
“Look who finally visited us,” Parker said, too excited.
You stay a few steps behind, a little embarrassed by the attention the three of them give you, and again, they seem to recognize you the moment they see the gray lunchbox in your hands.
Lena gives you a full smile, looking really excited, while Shen just says:
“You are Mysterious Lady Notes?” he asked, taking a sip from his Dunkin' coffee, looking as surprised as he could.
Lena gave him a look that made him shrug.
“You are beautiful, hon,” she said, walking toward you. “I’m Lena, the charge nurse from the night shift.” She smiles at you, and you give her your best smile as you introduce yourself to her.
“I don't want to disturb you or anyone. Jack forgot his lunchbox, so I thought I'd stop by and give it to him,” you explain.
“You don't disturb anyone. We all have been waiting to meet the woman who has softened Abbott.”
And you can clearly see that because of how excited the three of them seem at your presence, and their reactions attract more people.
“I thought Jack was having hallucinations when he said he would take five minutes to eat the lunch his girlfriend made for him,” Shen told you from where he was standing a few steps back from Lena. He had been talking about something with Parker before. “I’m Dr. Shen.”
You tell your name again, giggling at his comment.
You told yourself it was going to be a quick visit: give Jack his lunchbox, a kiss, and then head back to your apartment to sleep. But twenty minutes later, you have said your name more times than in your entire life, introducing yourself to anyone who tells you, “You're the mysterious Lady Notes.” You get to know Nurse Mateo, Dr. Henderson, the student Nazly, Nurse Vivi, and you think that by that point, you have met everyone who works there.
“What is happening here?” a well-known voice cut through the crowd surrounding the nurse station.
Jack stood there waiting for an explanation when his eyes met yours, and realization quickly hit him.
“Okay, you guys, stop overwhelming my missus.” He walked toward you, placing himself by your side and resting one of his hands on your lower back as usual.
“I don't think you get to call her missus if you haven't married her yet,” Mateo said playfully, pointing to your bare ring finger.
Jack looks at the nurse, narrowing his eyes, and points at him.
“Careful, or you'll spend the rest of the night with the bad cases,” he warns while the rest of the people laugh.
“He’s right, Abbott. I have no idea how you haven't put a ring on that finger already,” Parker says, raising both eyebrows.
If your cheeks were warm before, now your face was burning hot. All the eyes were on the two of you, and everyone was supporting Ellis and Mateo's thoughts.
“Okay, okay, all of you, leave them alone. Go back to your jobs. There are sick people who need you all,” Lena commands with a tone of voice that actually scares you, and it is a warning for everyone because they all say goodbye to you and go back to work as soon as they can.
Jack guides you to an empty room. Your face is hot, but the wide smile is something nobody could get rid of no matter what they said.
“So I'm the mysterious Lady Notes,” you said, giggling.
He looks at you in that intense way that only he is able to do, that hazel gaze that makes your legs tremble like jelly and your heart race so hard that you can hear it in your ears.
He huffed, rolling his eyes at your words.
“They insisted on calling you that until they knew you,” he mumbled, trying to look irritated but failing because of the smile growing on his face.
His hands go instinctively to your waist, and your arms settle around his neck. There is not an inch separating the two of you. You brush your nose against his, which finally makes him give you that crooked smile you love so much.
Jack didn't wait. He kissed you, not caring that anyone could walk in and catch you.
“You forgot your lunchbox,” you said through the kiss.
He breaks the kiss but rests his forehead against yours.
“And you brought it to me instead of going to sleep when you have to work early,” he whispered in disbelief.
“Your shift is long. You need to eat, and I don't trust the vending machine,” you said as if it wasn't a point of comparison, and just imagining him eating something from the vending machine felt like a betrayal.
He shakes his head and lets out a little laugh.
“I love you.” He leaves a kiss on your temple and another on your cheek.
“I love you too,” you respond, leaving a short kiss on his lips.
You wanted to stay a little longer, but you saw that the ER was full and that you had already attracted too much attention and distracted several people. You didn't want to take up too much of the chief attending's time.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” You leave the lunchbox in his hands and another kiss on his lips. “Eat something,” you said, pointing at him with your index finger like a threat.
He just smiles at you.
“I will. See you in the morning.” He watches you disappear through the door.
He's quick to open the lunchbox, finding just what he wanted: a little Post-it note. It was white, and written on it was:
“Lovely grumpy doctor, if you ever forget your lunchbox again, you will be temporarily banned from these masterpieces that I put my heart into.
(I’m being very serious, please don't forget to eat like you forgot your lunchbox.)
Should I be worried about memory problems? They are very common at your age.
Your beautiful girlfriend ;)”
He lets out a laugh, shaking his head.
That one was going to his locker.
Jack keeps the Post-it in his scrub pocket after reading it a few more times before Parker finds him and tells him that they have an incoming trauma. She also tries to see what the note says, but he makes sure to hide it from her view.
It was just for him.
After the trauma and doing some rounds, he finally has time to sit and do some charts. But peace was something that never happened in the ER, and definitely after your visit, he would know no peace for a while.
“What?” he asked Lena, who was looking at him above her reading glasses.
She gives him a look that Jack completely ignores.
“What are you waiting for?” she said as if it were obvious. “She deserves that damn rock on her finger.” It was more of an order than a suggestion.
Jack goes back to his chart, but the last thing he was thinking about was the patient. He would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it, but it had only been a year and a half since the two of you started officially dating. He didn't want to scare you. Even though you didn't seem bothered by the comments his co-workers made, maybe you thought they were just kidding and trying to bother him.
There was nothing that he would like more than to call you his wife, Mrs. Abbott, seeing you stop signing your notes with “girlfriend” and replacing it with “your wife,” the title you deserve because there was nothing in that life that would make Jack let you go.
You were stuck with him for the rest of your life. What better way than to make it official?
Since your visit to the ER, your discomfort with the hospital has faded, and you have visited more often, dropping Jack off and picking him up, always making a little entrance to say hello and gossip a little with Lena, Ellis, and Shen.
Now you make sure to pack Jack more food than before and tell him specifically which bowls are for each nightcrawler: the dark blue one for Mateo, the red one for Parker, the green one for Shen, and so on with the rest of the crew.
He complains, telling you that you are spoiling them. But deep inside, he loves how you worry about all of them, so he gives them all the bowls, threatening that if they don't return them empty at the end of their shift, they will be stuck at triage for an entire week.
But something that keeps staying on his mind, and that everyone keeps telling him, even Dana and Robby, is about the ring that is missing from your finger.
It doesn't sound like a rushed step if everyone keeps telling him that he's been taking a long time.
I have to admit I was smiling like an idiot while writing this 😽
Summary: Just you making Jack's shift happier with hidden notes.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors.
Part 2 :)
It all started one day when you discovered that Jack didn't really eat proper food during his shift, and came back home starving and more tired than he should. So you decided, since you would stay at his home that day, that you would prepare him a proper lunchbox with different things that were healthy and he could eat quickly during those five minutes of peace that he could have during his shift.
You didn't put so much thought into it when you grabbed a pink neon post-it and wrote on it and then stuck it on one of the tuppers. He was a little confused when you handed him the lunchbox and left a kiss on his lips, but he didn't say anything and just left it in the fridge in the on-call room.
And it stayed there until twelve am when he started to feel a little hungry, and thought of going for something from the vending machine until he remembered the lunchbox. When he opened it, he saw a few tuppers with different fruits already cut, a sandwich along with a bottle of water and some more things that he didn't notice because his eyes were captured by the pink neon post-it.
“Have a great shift!! Save lives and stay hydrated!! I love you so so much, honey.”
And your name as a signature alongside a heart that you drew.
Jack took the note and read it again, and again and again. He looked at the note then at the lunchbox and he could feel his heart explode with love. A smile grew on his face that stayed the rest of his shift along with him taking all the free time that he got going back to that lunchbox to eat the next tupper while looking at the post-it.
Everyone noticed his change of humor but nobody really wanted to mention it, a little afraid that if they did his humor would decay. And nobody really wanted the grumpy Jack back.
When he got home, lunchbox in hand and completely empty, he left it on the table and ran to your bedroom. You were there still asleep, tangled in the sheets, he crawled into bed with you, his arms finding your waist pulling you closer to him, making it easy for him to fill your face with kisses that made you wake up with a smile on your face.
“Nice shift, huh?” you said once you woke up a little more, feeling his kisses go down your neck.
“One of the best,” he answered, leaving a sweet kiss on your lips.
“You liked the food?” you asked with your hands going from his broad shoulders to his salt and pepper curls.
“I like everything you do,” he said, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “And I like the little note on it much more.” He started to trace kisses from your neck to your jawline until he found your lips again.
“Glad you liked it,” you responded between kisses. “Gonna do it more often then.”
“Please.” He started to take off your clothes spreading kisses all over your body making you giggle.
Since then you started doing it more often until you moved in with him and it became an everyday thing. You began to be more creative, every day it was a different type of color; blue, yellow, purple, green, pastel pink, among many more. Then they came in different shapes; hearts, stars, flowers, there was a cloud once along with one that had a teddy bear shape.
Jack kept every single one of them, some were stuck on his locker, the ones he liked the most;
“You save and take care of so many lives that I'm here to take care of yours. Eat something and come back to me in one piece.” A purple star with a heart drawn on the bottom.
“Eat some of it, doctor's orders!!! And remember that I love you and I'm waiting for you at home.” A baby blue one with a mini stethoscope drawn on the bottom.
“I dunno what makes me fall in love with you more; your big heart or how sexy you look in those scrubs.” It was an orange one with a heart shape.
“I keep doing this because I'm madly in love with you and you need your own doctor that takes care of you, my love.” It was a pastel pink heart-shaped post-it.
All of them had your name as a signature but sometimes said “Your beautiful girlfriend” or “The only person in this world that can bear your changes of humor” or “The madly in love woman that lives with you." The rest of the notes were in a little box in the drawer of his nightstand.
By that time everyone had noticed the notes. One time Langdon had told him how lucky he was, Robby had mocked him a little but Jack could see the jealousy in his eyes that Jack didn't take personally; he knew that Robby longed for something like that. Lena told him how sweet it was from your side to do it every day and that she could see the effort that you put into the notes, and Dana told him that he better not screw it up with you or she would personally act against him.
Jack Abbot definitely knew how lucky he was and it reminded him every time that he saw you preparing his lunchbox and when he found himself counting the minutes to open it and be surprised by a new post-it of a different color and shape alongside some new words of yours reminding him how much you loved him in different ways.
And he kept every single one of them.
When he came home finding you in your shared bed waiting for him to join you, he made sure to also show how much he loved you so deeply in a very Jack Abbot way.
Idk how I got the inspiration to write this after weeks without being able to write something, but I hope you guys like it!!!
SUMMARY: you introduce a vibrator to your relationship. spencer enjoys it a little too much, and he decides to put it to the test.
GENRE: smut (MDNI) | WORD COUNT: 1.2k
TAGS: fem!reader, overstimulation, sex toys (vibrators), spencer using sex as research, he even has his glasses on and everything, f orgasm, squirting!!, mentions of multiple orgasms, slight mention of somno, sexting, and cock rings, not proofread
NOTES: wrote this because i was mad at another fic, actually really enjoyed it. shoutout to ann summers' rampant rabbits <3
Letting him pick was your first mistake. He sat scrolling through the websites for over an hour, long enough for his wide eyes and flushed cheeks to settle into a deep, thoughtful frown.
You left him alone for a few minutes to fix yourself a cup of coffee, and you returned to find him plotting out a lengthy spreadsheet, categorising the different toys by shape and size, intensity and function. The prices weren't included, or considered at all, when he was narrowing down your options; apparently the cost "wasn't important", and Spencer was willing to shell out whatever necessary to find your perfect match. You'd be lying if you said his dedication didn't earn a laugh, but it was cute—endearing, even—to see just how invested he was in your pleasure.
In the end, Spencer concluded that your ideal toy was none other than a rabbit. You could have told him that from the start, saved you both the time spent exploring increasingly raunchy webpages, but there'd have been no fun in that.
He had settled on the exact toy that you would have chosen for yourself, if you hadn't handed the reins off to him, and that, in the moment, was one of the most attractive things you'd ever seen. He was perfectly in tune with your body, with you, and that thought alone was enough for you to shut the laptop and pull him down on top of you right there on the couch.
—
"How does that feel?"
The only response you offer is a low whine, but Spencer nods attentively all the same.
You don't know which one of you looks more ridiculous: you lying on the bed, legs spread, head of the vibrator pressed to your swollen clit; or Spencer kneeling on the floor, glasses on, watching you clench around nothing, teetering dangerously close to another orgasm, like he's watching God at work.
"Spence…"
His name leaves your lips in a squeak. Your thighs are shaking, desperate to clamp shut.
"I know," he murmurs, keeping his voice soft. Comforting.
"I…I can't—"
"You can."
Soft, but firm. Comforting, but unwavering. He doesn't touch you, doesn't force you in any way, but his words hold you in place, reassuring you, telling you “you've got this” and, fatally, that “you're doing so well”. The praise goes straight to your head, then ricochets down to your core where it tangles in the fast-growing knot, pulls it so taut that you're sure it's about to snap.
You aren't sure how long you've been doing this, lying here playing with your new toy whilst he watches, engrossed, studying how your body reacts to different angles, pressures, modes—because yes, it has different modes; three increasing speeds and seven different vibration patterns—to see which combinations bring you over the edge the fastest, and which push you over it the hardest.
What you do know is that you're nearing your umpteenth orgasm, and Spencer hasn't so much as glanced at his persistent, and presumably quite uncomfortable, erection. All he cares to look at is you, sweating all over his sheets, moaning for him like an angel.
"I really— fuck, Spence…" you're choking on your words, almost babbling as you try to gather the strength to speak. "I really…can't. Please…"
Spencer purses his lips, visibly torn between cutting his little experiment short for your sake and pushing you that little bit further—for research's sake. But, after a moment, he concedes with a small nod. "Okay. This can be your last one, alright?"
"…thank God—"
"And we'll run through the rest of the settings tomorrow."
Weakly, you raise your head to meet his gaze. He's smiling—grinning, actually. Too tired to argue, and too weak to kick him in the face, you just let your head fall back against the mattress, and you resign yourself to your fate.
"Do you wanna put it back in?" he asks, immediately returning his focus to the toy, to the questionnaire he's been running since he first asked you to lie down. "Or do you prefer it like this?"
When all you can muster in reply is a hum, Spencer gives your foot a gentle tap.
"I know you're tired, honey, but we're almost done. I promise," he says. "I read online that the insertable length has more of a rumble feel to it, whereas the 'rabbit ears' provide a lighter vibrational feel—would you say that's correct?"
"Spencer, I—" a sharp gasp cuts through your words. Your hips buck, rubbing your over-sensitive clit against the toy, and you bite your lip, stifle a whine, before answering, "Yes. Yes, i-it's…whatever you said."
"And do you prefer that?" he asks.
Your answer comes in the form of a moan—a loud one—followed by a sudden, unexpected gush of warmth as the knot finally snaps, unravelling in an instant, and it takes the last of your strength with it. The orgasm hits like a tsunami wave, pulling you under the tide before washing you up on the shore, so overcome with exhaustion that you fail to register Spencer's stunned silence.
"…I suppose that's as good of an answer as any," he says, puffing air into his cheeks as he leans back.
He's grinning line a kid, smile stretching from ear to ear as he admires the mess you've made of yourself.
"…what?" you mumble, confused. You've a dim awareness of how warm the sheets have become under your hips.
"Have you, um," Spencer clears his throat. "Have you ever squirted in the past? Or is this new?"
"What?"
"I see. So it's new, then? Noted."
—
Spencer's experiment was a resounding success. Sex was never lacklustre in your relationship—it was quite the opposite—but since opening your doors, and wallets, to the prospect of sex toys, your intimate lives have improved tenfold. You continue to discover new things about yourself, about each other, and Spencer stores each little fun fact away in his library of a mind; he has an arsenal of knowledge about you, your body, how to make you squirt even though you were sure you couldn't—and he never hesitates to use it.
You wake up to it, sometimes, that low rumble against your clit. You're already soaked through your panties, sleep-leaden body desperate for release before you even open your eyes. He peppers your face with kisses, whispers “good morning” as he guides you towards an orgasm that will likely put you straight back to sleep. You doze off in his arms, wake up some thirty minutes later already cleaned up.
He asked you—begged you, if we're being honest—to use it when he's away, to get off as much as your heart desires and, of course, to send him videos of it (even a technophobe like Spencer Reid is willing to use WhatsApp if there's something in it for him). You oblige, of course; you put on your prettiest matching set, and you put on a show for him.
And what you earn in response is a mouth-watering video of Spencer in his hotel room, moaning your name as he pleasures himself with his hands and, in more recent times, the vibrating cock ring you bought for his birthday.
Summary: New to the industry, you become paired with one of p*rn’s biggest names; Eddie “The Freak” Munson. Used to doing solo work, you can’t help but feel a little intimidated and a lot nervous. That is, until Eddie teaches you that maybe there isn’t all that much to be scared about.
Content Warning: 18+ smut, porn, porn-industry talk/mentions, pornstar!Eddie x pornstar!reader, sex work, allusion to sex, dirty talk, she/her pronouns, masturbation (m & f), use of sex toys, swearing/profanity, mentions of oral sex, actual oral sex (m & f receiving), swallowing, cum-play, handjob, digital penetration (fingering), light spanking, overstimulation, voyeurism, sex while being filmed, rough oral/face fucking, face riding, face smothering, spitting/sloppy oral sex (both m & f receiving), softdom!Eddie, mutual pining. Eddie is down bad for reader. Eddie solidifies the rumors that he's a total munch.
────────
He was supposed to be off on Sundays- practically unreachable. It was a clause in his final contract that he signed almost 11 months ago. He had Sundays off with no disruptions. No calls, no emails, no meetings- and absolutely no work. So, when his phone rang through the quiet confines of his loft-style apartment, he groaned out in frustration.
Leave me the fuck alone, Paul…
He thought, slumping further into his couch as he slung his forearm over his eyes. He had nothing on his agenda besides a well-needed nap and some light D&D manual reading. He didn’t even plan on leaving his apartment. Just that.
So, when his phone stopping ringing, Eddie let out a sigh of relief- trying to doze off again before it started ringing again. Not even a five minute pause between the last call.
Whatever he wants, he can leave a goddamn message like everyone else.
He would get to it on Monday. Maybe. If he was lucky.
But no.
On the third attempted call, Eddie jumps off the couch with a groan- stomping over to his wall phone before picking it up.
“Munson.” He murmurs gruffly as he leans against the wall impatiently.
“Eds! Jesus Christ, kid! Pick up your damn phone when I call.”
“What do you want, Paul?” Eddie drones, already wanting to be off the phone as fast as he picked it up.
“Look, kid, I know you said no Sundays but-“
“Nuh-uh.” Eddie cuts him off “No. You know the rules. The only thing I asked for when we renewed my contract was that I get to be unreachable on Sundays. This-“ Eddie gestures to the phone in his hand even though he knew his manager couldn’t see him. It was all for emphasis, really.
“This is not unreachable.” He finishes “It can wait until Monday.”
“Look, kiddo, I know what you said but I don’t think this can wait.”
“Yeah, well, it’ll have to wait. I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
“Do not hang up on me, Munson! I know you’ve only got a month left of this but at least respect me enough to hear me out when I speak to you.”
“Fine,” Eddie sighs, rubbing his temple in exasperation “What do you want?”
“I’ve got a gig for you. Trust me, kid, you’re gonna love it.”
Eddie rolls his eyes.
“Y’know, Paul, I feel like I’ve heard you say that before.” He points out.
“Nah, kid. I mean it. I’ve got something you’re gonna love. Meet me in my office in an hour.”
“What!?” Eddie exclaims “Hold on! Wait-“
But before Eddie could argue, his manager had already hung up- leaving the other end dead as he stood there in disbelief.
That fucking bastard.
────────
To say that the porn industry had made him jaded would be an understatement.
After three grueling years, a lot of fucking, faking it, and getting off enough women to start a Jim Jones-style cult- Eddie had had enough. He was retiring. For good.
The announcement to the porn industry had been a shock to everyone. Eddie “The Freak” Munson; the sex-industry’s “Prince of Porn” (Or “The Prince of Pussy” as some called him, for some odd reason) was leaving behind his legacy as the ladies’ favorite male pornstar. No one has seen anything like it. It was practically unfathomable that someone of his caliber- someone who jackhammered his way into the hearts of millions- was walking away.
To almost every man in America, Eddie “The Freak” Munson was living their dream. Eddie, however, was bored, tired, and lonely. It was fun while it lasted but he was ready to move on. You could only fuck so many blondes with huge tits and daddy kinks until it got completely played out and repetitive. It also didn’t help that, outside of filming, he wasn’t even interested in sex.
True be told, sex had become the last thing on his mind. Not that he couldn’t fuck anyone he wanted. Hell, he was sure there would be a line halfway to Europe if he did. He just didn’t see the point. It was like eating the same meal everyday for the rest of your life. You get tired of it pretty damn quick. What was the point of sex without the emotional connection? The passion? The lust? It was just a waste of time and energy.
Eddie rolled into his manager’s office an hour and a half later, taking his sweet time as he parked his van at the studio. He walks past the receptionists, sending a wink their way as he walked through to Paul’s private office suite. There have been many occasions when he overheard the girls at the front-desk fawning over him after he had just wrapped up a scene with some “up and coming” star that was completely underwhelming.
Sometimes he even thought about taking home one of the receptionists and dicking them down just to see if he felt something. That he wasn’t completely numb to getting someone else’s rocks off. But Paul would surely have his ass if he found out. Sometimes Eddie wondered why he even cared.
“Where the hell have you been?” Paul exclaims, turning towards Eddie once he walks through the door “I was just in the middle of calling you.”
Paul puts the phone down as he watches Eddie plop down into one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.
“Yeah, well, I’m here now. What are your other two wishes.” Eddie deadpans.
“You’re lucky that production pushed back today’s shoot by another hour otherwise you would’ve missed out on what the hell I even called you in for.” Paul chastises, earning an eye-roll from his client.
“Which is?” Eddie points out “You had me race across town in traffic and you haven’t even told me that the hell for. Let’s get on with it. What’s this gig you’re so obsessed about?”
“I found a girl for you.” Paul announces excitedly as if he were a matchmaker and not a manager for sex workers.
“….Okay.” Eddie replies slowly “That’s it?”
“Would you lighten up?” Paul replies incredulously “I’m getting there, okay? Just give me a minute to, you know, set the scene.”
“Paul, I don’t pay you 10% for you to ‘set the scene’ and waste my time. Let’s pick a lane here, and stick to it.” Eddie states, not mincing words. One thing he learned fast during his first year in the industry was that mincing words was what got you used up and stomped on.
“Alright. So, I found this girl. Her manager came to me. Her company is putting together a flick. Oral Fixation 5 or some shit like that. Anyway, they’re looking for a male costar for her. They want someone good. It’s the girl’s first time with a partner. She mainly does solo work. She’s a bit skittish but cute. Different than the type of girls you usually work with.”
“So, you want me to fuck an amateur?” Eddie asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“No, no. Not an amateur. She’s been on film before.”
“Has she fucked anyone on film before?” Eddie challenges, eyeing his manager judgmentally. Leave it to Paul to call him in on his day off to ask him to fuck some newbie that probably has no idea what she’s doing.
“See, that’s the thing, you wouldn’t be fucking her.” Paul explains.
“Then what would I be doing? Feeding her bon-bons?” Eddie asks.
“Like I said, it’s an oral flick. No fucking. Very simple stuff. She basically does most of the work herself. She’ll start off solo, get herself nice and ready, you come in and eat her out, make her come, she’ll suck you off, let you come on her face and voila! Done! You’ll be out of here by noon tomorrow. So, whaddya say?”
“….What does she look like?” Eddie asks, leaning forward in his seat. He would be lying if he said his interest wasn’t piqued. No actual fucking? Just some light oral work, a blowjob, and then done? Didn’t seem that bad.
“That’s why I wanted you to come in!” Paul explains “She’s here. In Studio B shooting some stuff for Hot & Horny. You can head over, give her a good look, see what she can do, and then we can book it if she makes the cut. Maybe if she’s up to your standards, we can use her for your big flick. But you have to decide today before someone else snags her. She’s cute, kid. A real looker. I don’t see her staying small for very long.”
“Really?” Eddie asks, rubbing his chin in thought.
“Really.” Paul assures him “What’re you thinkin’?”
“Alright.” Eddie sighs, standing up from his chair “Let me see her.”
────────
When he walks into Studio B, Eddie is expecting to find another cookie-cutter run of the mill porn girl. Big fake silicone tits, lip injections, and an overly-enthusiastic fake orgasm. Bonus points for bleach blonde hair. What he didn’t expect to find was you- the complete antithesis of all of the other girls he’s used to. You were a breath of fresh air.
You stood off to the side of your set- a cute little bedroom set up complete with frilly pink floral sheets, heart shaped pillows, and cute little teddy bears. Boy band posters were taped onto the fake set walls to mimic the feel of a girl’s bedroom. College student, girl-next-door. Young, hot, and sexy- and, boy, Eddie was into it. He was so fucking into it.
Production staff began setting up the scene, placing several different adult toys onto the rose-printed lacy duvet. A smorgasbord of pleasure instruments. Eddie was no stranger to solo girls scenes. He’s gotten off to many of them. But this one was different. He was sucked in- intrigued.
You were standing in a silky robe, covering up whatever production has asked you to wear. All Eddie could get a glimpse of was the thigh high white stockings with lace trim that adorned your long, sexy legs. No heels. Interesting.
You were talking to a set manager, batting your long mascara-ed eyelashes as your pink, kissable lips spread into a sweet smile. The set guy said something that got you to laugh, your head tilting back as you let out an adorable sexy laugh- your hair draping down like a luscious waterfall.
Fuck, you were hot. So, so hot.
“Told you she was a looker.” Paul chimes in as he sidles up beside Eddie- too distracted to notice that he was even in the vicinity “What are your thoughts so far?”
Eddie didn’t want to reveal his hand just yet. He didn’t want to seem too eager.
“Let me sit in for this one. I wanna see what she does.” He replies slowly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Before he knows it, the director calls you over- motioning for you to enter your set and get yourself situated on the cutesy pink bed.
Alright, Eddie thought, Show-time.
Before the cameras begin to roll, you gingerly untie the silk sash of your rope- taking it off to reveal your lingerie ensemble before handing it off to a set manager. Eddie’s mouth immediately went dry.
There you were in all of your glory, decorated head-to-toe in a baby pink lacy lingerie set that Eddie wanted to unwrap- desperately. You wore a bra that was practically see-through, your perfect tits hardly covered by the lace that adorned them. Through the fabric, he could spot your perky nipples- his mouth beginning to water at the thought of rolling his tongue around them- his hands full of your gorgeous breasts.
You wore a pair of lacy matching panties. Your beautiful cunt barely hidden beneath the fabric. Covered up just enough to leave him wanting more. Teasing him. You were a vision. You sat primly on the bed, your legs tucked to the side- like a proper lady- as you waited for your cue to start. Eddie began to move closer- not wanting to miss this.
He sidled up to the small herd of production members, standing firmly as a few of them greeted him with a nod. They were probably wondering what the hell he was doing there. He normally didn’t sit in to watch scenes. He was more known to shoot his own shit, get dressed, and leave as soon as possible. Yet, here he was, metaphorically sitting on the edge of his seat as he waited for you to start.
As if by the grace of god, the set director calls action- signaling to you that the camera was rolling. There wasn’t even a hint of intimidation as you started off slow and tantalizing. You place your fingers over your lips, blowing your signature kiss to the camera. Those lips. Those pouty, pink lips. Eddie hadn’t seen anything yet and he was already hooked- those soft kissable lips drawing him in. Soft lips that he wanted wrapped around his cock.
Continuing on with your tease, you trail up your body with your cute little hands, reaching up to your chest- gently massaging your tits through your lacy pink bra. The movement was slow and sensual, your hands kneading your perfect breasts- pushing them together seductively as you began to look straight into the lens of the camera.
Okay, Eddie thought, this was definitely not your first time doing this sort of thing.
He could tell, immediately- his eyes taking in the way that you were confident and deliberate with your touches. The way that your hands trailed up and down your body- grabbing, kneading, and tracing your irresistible curves. You were comfortable. In your element. Eddie could tell right away that, when it came to getting yourself off, you were definitely no amateur. He had barely even seen anything yet and he knew- and all he wanted was to see it in real time.
You reach up to hook your thumbs into your bra straps, sliding them off your shoulders as you bit your lip- batting those pretty eyelashes at the camera lens. Reaching behind you, you began to unclasp your bra- sliding it off agonizingly slow. Eddie’s breath hitches as his eyes lock onto your bare tits- nipples hard and perky as you playfully toss the discarded bra onto the floor beside the set bed.
Eddie couldn’t help but smirk, loving the way that you teased the camera- staring it down as if it were the viewers at home. The sad, unfortunate losers that weren’t anywhere near as lucky as he was to see it in person- to even be offered the opportunity to get on his knees to please you.
You kneel onto the bed, giving the camera a good view of your lower half- your lace panties and stockings still on. Those fucking stockings. Eddie could feel the blood circulating to his dick, causing him to grow hard against the zipper of his jeans. You had barely even done anything but play with your tits and he was already starting to leak precum.
These days, it took a lot for Eddie to physically react to things. Being overly-exposed to sex in this industry tends to do that to you. So, the sheer notion that he was getting hard and horny for you when all he had seen so far were your breasts was pretty damn close to miraculous. You were barely even into your scene and he was sure that he’d have to use one of the private dressing rooms to rub one out afterwards.
You ran your hands down your stomach, staring down the camera as you caressed lower and lower down your body until you reached the waistband of your panties, biting your lip as you plunged your right hand into the fabric. Eddie had to stop himself from groaning at the sight. He had seen plenty of women touch themselves- he was a pornstar, for fuck sake- but the way that you did it was hypnotizing. His eyes become glued to your clothed core as he focuses on the way that your fingers moved and teased yourself behind the thin fabric.
So fucking hot. So goddamn sexy.
He wanted to see more- needed to see more.
Your nimble little fingers teased your clit, working behind the thin fabric of your panties as you threw your head back in pleasure- your hair cascading down as your free hand reached up to one of your breasts. You pinched the nipple between your fingers, letting out a light little moan that had Eddie’s dick stirring beneath his boxers.
Fuck, that’s hot. Eddie thought. Keep going, baby. Show me how you do it.
As if you could read his mind from across the room, your eyes open- flickering over to him as you inch your hand further down into your panties. You insert a digit inside of your pussy, causing yourself to gasp as the sensation.
Shit.
Eddie watches your knuckles work their way inside of your cunt as he strains himself to get even just a glimpse past what’s behind those pretty lace panties. He could bet that they were fucking sopping wet by the way that your muscles didn’t tense or stutter when you inserted another finger. You probably slid it in with complete ease. Like it was nothing- and that was so incredibly hot.
It went on like this for a while. Eddie staring at your lower half as you toyed with yourself from behind the panties. Just when he thought he was on the brink of getting blue balls, you slowly slipped your fingers out of your panties- the production lights on the studio set picking up the way that your digital glistened with your arousal. It was a fucking sight. Such a sight that Eddie didn’t even think about you upping the ante- taking your drenched fingers and sliding them into your mouth, wrapping your lips around them as you sucked them clean.
Holy..fuck.
Suddenly, the director called cut- the sound of his orders causing Eddie to snap his head over in horror.
Cut? No. No, no, no, no, no! You were just getting started! What the fuck?!
“Alright, babe, second act. Lose the panties and get into position. Legs spread, okay?” The director calls out, causing Eddie to sigh in relief. You weren’t wrapping yet.
Thank god!
You nod at the director, hopping off the bed as you begin to take your panties off, sliding them down your legs. Where Eddie was standing off-set, he had the perfect view as you bent over further and further to push your underwear off. You were bend over so low that he had a full fucking view of your glistening wet pussy, and he was right- you were sopping. It took all of the fucking strength and self-control he had to not stomp onto that set, pull down his jeans to free his raging hard cock and jam it into your fucking cunt. God, he’s never wanted to fuck someone so badly in his life. He wanted to tell production to fuck your solo scene so that he could start fucking you.
You straighten up, now standing as you kicked off the panties- leaving you completely nude aside from the white thigh-high stockings. You climb back onto the bed, perched near the edge as you opened your legs- sitting spread eagle in front of the camera. Eddie was fully convinced that he was about to pass out.
That perfect little pussy. It was wet, pink, and tight. The prettiest he’s ever seen and he’s seen a lot during his career. Yours was the first to make him go weak in the knees, wanting to sink down in front of you at the edge of the bed as he spread you open and devoured you- acting as if you would be his last meal.
Production came rushing in to fix your hair, smoothing away any imperfections before running off set- gearing up for your cue. You waited patiently like a good, good girl. Hands to yourself as you awaited permission to continue and, if it were up to Eddie, he would reward you. For being so good. So patient.
The director begins rolling, cuing you in to start and Eddie was hooked and ready to see what you would do next- spread out in front of him. Your eyes catch the camera, your hands roaming down to your core as you begin to play with your clit- now uncovered. No barriers in-between. Thank god.
Your middle finger does all of the work, slowly circling your sensitive little button as you throw your head back again, letting the sensation take over you. Letting your hands freely pleasure yourself as if no one were watching- as if it really were you in your bedroom alone. That, Eddie decided, was what made it so hot. You weren't putting on a performance for anyone. There was no theatrics, no drama- no over the top acting. It was you. Just as you were. Enjoying every little bit of it- and, goddamn, was it sexy.
You let out soft little moans and gasps that went straight to Eddie’s dick, twitching in his pants at the way that you sounded. You sounded sweet- melodic. Music to his ears as your breathing picked up. He stared as you moved your fingers from your clit and down through your folds, wet and glistening as you spread your arousal all over your sex. You were drenched. In all of his life, Eddie never even thought about wanting to be an appendage, but holy shit was he jealous of your fingers.
You use one of your hands to spread yourself open for the camera, causing Eddie’s eyes to almost roll into the back of his head. He was seeing so much of you and he hadn’t even met you yet. But he couldn’t help but watch. He couldn’t look away.
You sink the middle finger of your other hand into your pussy, pushing it in until you reach your knuckle- so fucking deep with that little finger of yours. Eddie couldn’t help but want to take over, wanting to use his much bigger digits to fill you up just how you deserved.
Eddie watched as you slip another finger in, framing your soaked core with your pointer and pinky finger. The way that you touched yourself was hypnotic, putting him in a trance as you ramped yourself up closer and closer to your orgasm. Your moans grew louder, breathing heavier and more needy. Because there was something you needed- Him. Or maybe that’s delusional of him to think. But he knew that he needed you. He was hungry for you and he wanted a taste.
You begin fingering yourself, expertly delving your fingers into your pussy as you fucked yourself with your digits just the way that you liked. Eddie studies this, watching the way that you liked it- wanting to replicate it. No, he wanted to do it better. So fucking good that you couldn't even fathom the idea of anyone touching you but him. He was so drunk on your pussy and he hadn't even so much as touched it yet. He was fucked.
"Alright, angel." The director calls out, catching Eddie's attention for a moment "How about we get some footage of you with one of the toys? Get a really good build-up, climax, we'll do a closeup of the aftermath, and then we're done. Sound good?"
Toys? Eddie forgot about the toys. He was so fucked. He probably shouldn't watch this, knowing that he could very well finish in his pants- but he didn't care. He was rooted to the spot. Too addicted to move. He was drunk on you and your sexy body and your perfect pussy. He needed this. He needed to see you come undone. He needed something to think about tonight as he jacked himself off so hard that he would probably chafe. He'd have to use lube. His own spit wouldn't cut it. There's no way that he could rub himself raw when he knew that he was going to be lucky enough to be in your mouth the next day. Sucked off by those pouty pink lips.
His own thoughts and the view of you naked on that bed, toying with yourself, was becoming overstimulating. It was like an outer-body experience to watch. Even though he didn't feel like he was in his own body, he knew that there was nothing he wanted more than to be inside of yours.
His eyes are glued to the scene as you daintily reach for the toy of your choice. A purple Jack Rabbit style vibrator. You click it on, watching as the toy came to life in your hands. Eddie couldn't help but think about how much bigger he was than that stupid toy. How he would be able to reach places inside of you that the vibrator couldn't even come close to reaching. Places that you probably didn't even know existed. You deserved to be fucked like a queen. Not by some inadequate toy. Even still, he watched as you pressed the tip of the toy to your clit- causing you to gasp loudly in reaction.
Fuck, Eddie thought as he watched you slide the tip of the toy past your clit and through your folds- marveling at the way that your body shivered in reaction. The way that your body responded to pleasure was oh so delicious. Eddie was eating it up like he was starving.
He watches as the toy collects a thick coating of your arousal, making it so wet that Eddie had to bite his lip to keep from moaning.
Fuck, you were so wet.
You slide the toy back up towards your clit, pressing the tip against it harshly as your eyes fluttered shut- causing you to buck your hips.
So fucking sensitive.
You swirl the toy against your clit as you breath catches, followed by a soft moan that escaped those pretty lips.
Fuck, baby, let me hear you.
As if you could hear his thoughts, you let out a needy whine. You needed more. It wasn't enough. Not even close.
Before he could process it, you had begun to insert the toy into your pussy- falling back onto the mattress underneath you as you started to thrust it inside. Flicking your wrist with a motion that had you whimpering desperately. The vibration inside of your cunt causing your walls to contract around the vibrator- making it a tight squeeze to continue thrusting.
Eddie's eyes were wide as he watched. The sounds of your moans, the faint buzzing of the vibrator, and the wet squelching sound of your pussy completely overtaking him. Fuck, this was hot. The most erotic thing he's ever fucking seen.
You continue fucking yourself with it, picking up the pace as you sit yourself up enough to watch you fuck yourself with it.
Shit, yes! Bet you like to watch yourself get fucked, don't you?
You mouth falls open as you watch how slickly coated the toy was as you pushed it in and out of your pussy. Eddie was jealous that it wasn't his dick covered in your arousal, making it so easy for him to slide in and out of your cunt at an ungodly pace. He wanted it so fucking bad that his knees were weak.
Without warning, you finally find that spot. That perfect spot deep within you that had you going crazy. Toes curling, gasping for air, moaning out like crazy as you squeezed your eyes shut. You were close.
Fuck, baby! Just like that! Fuck, fuck, fuck!
You pushed that pathetic little toy as deep as it could go, your mouth falling into a perfect little 'O' as you got closer and closer and closer.
Show me how you like it, baby. That's right. So fucking good!
Soon you couldn't control yourself, bucking your hips as you thrusted it in and out of hole as your moans became more loud and desperate.
Fuck, sweetheart, doing so good. You're almost there. Need to watch you cum.
You began to reach your peak, practically sobbing as you kept working for it.
C'mon, baby. Give it to me. Let me see it.
And as if on cue with his dirty thoughts, you cry out in pleasure. Finally peaking as your thighs began to shake, whimpering as you came all over that stupid toy- your orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave.
Fuck, yes! That's it! Fuck, you are so fucking hot! Jesus fucking Christ!
You rode out your orgasm, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. It was so fucking hot. Eddie didn't know how he had gone this long in his career without fucking you. Without knowing you existed. A perfect little sex kitten that he wanted to play with. Hell, you alone were giving him second thoughts about retiring. Not before he could fuck you in every possible way imaginable. Fuck, he was so fucking into you that he could surely invent new ways to fuck you that had never even been thought of before. He'd have to create a whole new updated version of the Kama Sutra with you as his sole muse.
"That's a wrap! You did great!"
The director praises you as you slowly begin to sit up on the bed, hair wild with a blissed-out look on your face. Eddie had never seen someone look so beautiful post-orgasm.
A member of the production crew came over to you and handed you your silk robe. You stand up with shaky legs as they helped you put it on- making yourself modest after that fucking smoke-show that you had just given everybody. Eddie didn't know how no one else was crashing down like he was. He was leaking so much precum that he would probably need new pants. But it was worth it because you were...wow.
"See? I told you." Eddie whips his head over to catch his manager standing there next to him. Had he been there the whole time? Had Eddie been talking out loud? "What do you think, kid?"
Eddie's mouth was dry. He felt dehydrated from just watching. He felt like he needed to down a gallon of water after watching you get yourself off like a fucking professional. With an intensity that he's never fucking seen before.
"Is she still available?" Eddie croaks, his heart hammering in his chest. What if another guy had swooped in and booked the gig right under his nose while he was too busy ogling at you?
"I could give her manager a call and see if it's still open. I know they reached out to a few guys. That Chris Infamous guy being one of them. The jacked up one with the muscles. You know who I'm talking about."
Chris Infamous? Over his dead fucking body!
“Paul, go call her manager right now and tell them I’m in. Like, now.”
────────
The whole way home, he had been antsy. He had waited an hour after your shoot in his manager’s office as he called up your manager in an attempt to get in touch with them. There was no luck. Paul had missed them every single time- and Eddie made him leave a voicemail every…single…time. He couldn’t let this opportunity slip through his hands.
Eddie tried to busy himself with his previous plans that he had before leaving his loft earlier that day but he just couldn’t focus. The words in his Dungeons and Dragons player manual just blended together and his mind would wander off, causing him to read the same sentence over and over again.
He couldn’t keep his mind off of you. Your soft, supple body wrapped up in that pink lingerie. Those goddamn white stockings that you had kept on the entire shoot. The way your pussy glistened with your arousal underneath the production lights. Eddie was addicted- transfixed. He needed to do this scene with you.
He throws down his player’s manual, tossing his head back onto the couch. He stares up at the ceiling as he lets out a frustrated grunt. Waiting back for a response was torture. He just needed a yes or a no- hopefully a yes. God, he was hoping for a yes. But if the gig was taken, he wished he would know sooner rather than later in order to kill the anticipation.
He reaches onto the coffee table for his pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and placing it between his lips before lighting it. He took a couple of drags, the taste of nicotine barely doing anything to calm his nerves. He was so pent up. He had been ever since your scene. He was hot and bothered.
His mind drifts back to thoughts of you. Your perfect tits that would fit perfectly in his hands. Your perky nipples that he wanted to roll his tongue against, tasting them. But he mostly thought about your sex. What you would taste like. He imagined that you would be sweet- candy-coated beneath his tongue as he ate you up. Liquified sugar in the best way.
Eddie could feel his cock twitch beneath his pants as he fantasized- wanting to bury his head between your soft thighs as he worked his tongue against you so ferociously like it would be the last thing he’d ever do. He’d never wanted someone as bad as he wanted you- wishing that he could toy with your sensitive little button with the tip of his tongue. Teasing you until you begged for more.
Eddie began to unbutton his pants, feeling the ache in his cock that was dying to be satiated. He needed a release. His head was so full of you that he needed to do something to quell the heat that he felt in his groin. He needed to cum.
He pulls down his zipper, feeling a sense of relief as the pressure of the metal enclosure against his hard cock was finally removed. It was like releasing a long, pent-up sigh. He was painfully hard. Practically throbbing underneath his boxers as he slides his hand down past the fabric, gripping himself as he attempts to pull his dick out. He winces at the sensitivity he felt on his cock head.
When he pulls his dick free from his jeans, he looks down to find that his tip was nearly red, angry at the lack of attention that it was receiving. It had been a long time since Eddie had touched himself. He normally didn’t have to with the kind of work that he did. But this was different, he needed this. He needed relief.
He wraps his hand around his length, slowly moving it up and down the way that he liked but his member felt nearly hot to the touch. He was so worked up that it had made him ultra-sensitive to every little thing. Every stroke, every little flick of his wrist. He could feel everything with ten times more intensity than normal. And, god, he didn’t want this. He didn’t want to jack himself off to completion on his living room couch. No, he wanted to sink his desperately hard cock into the velvety soft walls of your incredible cunt.
A pearl of precum leaks out of his tip, slowly dripping down until he collects it with his finger-swiping it up to use as lubricant and he began to buck his hips into his hand. It shouldn’t be his hand. It should be you. He didn’t want to settle for anything that wasn’t you. But he’d have to until he hopefully got the real thing.
“Ah! F-fuck!” He gasps as he picks up a faster pace, wanting to reach his peak as quickly as possible. He was desperate for it. He was needy and fucked out by the images of you that kept playing out in his head.
You on the bed with your legs spread wide open for him, ready to take whatever it was that he was willing to give you like the good girl you would be. Like the good girl he just knew that you were. He stroked himself fast and hard as he thought about how he’d want you to take his cock. He wanted your legs slung over his shoulders as he pounded into you hard enough to have you sobbing. He wanted to wrap his hand around your throat and jerk you back onto his cock as he fucked you from behind. He wanted to fuck you like a whore. Like you were made for it.
“Fuck, baby…” Eddie whimpers, more precum oozing from his tip as he imagined that it was your hand instead of his. Stroking him with those soft little hands of yours as you stared him down with those gorgeous eyes. Marveling at just how crazy you could drive him- at just how badly he wanted you.
“Shit….just like that, sweetheart. Fuck.”
Eddie could feel himself getting close, his breathing picking up faster and faster until they became needy grunts- trying to chase his high.
“Shit, shit, holy fuck…”
He kept stroking and he wouldn’t stop until he got there. Not when all he could think about was just how hot you looked when you orgasm. When all he wanted was to fuck you so good that you had to beg him to stop. How he wanted to make you cum on his cock over and over again until you couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted to take you apart just to put you back together again.
Just when he was ramping up to his finish, a few seconds away from blowing his load into his hand, the phone rings- snatching him right out of his fantasies.
Fuck. No!
He growls in frustration, jumping off the couch as he stumbles towards the phone- barely stuffing his angry cock back into the confines of his jeans. A denim-clad prison.
“What?” He huffs as he picks up the phone, his breathing still heavy and ragged from touching himself.
“Eddie, listen, I got in touch with her management.”
“Fuck!” He sighs in relief, resting his back against the wall. “What’d they say?”
“They were pretty psyched that you wanted in, kid. Turns out you were first choice for them. Which is great because they were an inch away from giving the gig to Chris. Good thing I called when I did. Anyway, you got the gig. They’re excited. The girl’s excited.”
You were excited? Wait…You knew who he was?
“Wait, she knows who I am?” Eddie stammers, his heart beating wildly in his chest.
“Oh yeah.” Paul laughs “Apparently she’s a huge fan.”
“Fuuuck. No shit?” He asks, trying to fight the grin on his face. He felt on-top-of the-world fucking incredible.
“Have you ever known me to pull your leg, kid? She asked for you specifically. By name. Lucky you, playboy!”
Yeah, Eddie thought. No fucking kidding!
“She asked…for me?” He still couldn’t believe it. You were out-of-this-world gorgeous and you wanted him to be your first on-screen partner? Eddie hadn’t experienced an ego-boost this big since…well, ever.
“Yeah, kid. First on her list. She was worried we wouldn’t accept what her management was offering but I told her we’d make it work.”
Fuck, he would do it for free.
Wait…
“You spoke to her?” Eddie asks, jaw practically hitting the floor.
“Oh yeah,” Paul replied “She personally returned my calls. Wanted to thank us for accepting.”
“No fucking way.” Eddie swoons. It just kept getting better.
“She also wanted me to tell you that she hoped you were impressed at the shoot today. She said she was a little nervous when she saw you but hopefully you didn’t notice.”
You...naughty…little…minx. You had known that he was there the entire time? Fuck….
“Anyway, call time for tomorrow is eight a.m.” Paul adds “And Eddie?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fucking be late.”
────────
The next morning, Eddie had woken up early.
Not because he had something to do or somewhere to be. No vastly important errands that he needed to run. Eddie had woken up early because his body couldn’t stand to stay dormant and asleep any longer. Because, for once in a long time, his reality was better than sleep. He had something to look forward to- you.
He had never felt this way before, never took his work too seriously- honestly, what was there to take seriously? He just showed up, fucked, picked up his check, and went home. He never put much thought into things. He just did them. But today was different. Today, he seemed to be putting too much thought into everything.
He agonized over whether or not to drink coffee, worried that the caffeine might make him come off hyper or on edge when he finally had the opportunity to speak to you. He debated foregoing breakfast, giving himself an excuse to invite you out to post-work brunch if things really took off between you two. This was the start of all of his worries. The closer it got to his call time, he got more and more in his own head.
He was suddenly hyper-aware of everything about himself. Anything that you could nit-pick when you finally met. Did you like tattooed guys? What if you didn’t? Would you think his tattoos were stupid? Did you prefer guys with short hair as opposed to long hair? What if he wasn’t your type at all in the slightest and none of this even really mattered? It only got worse by the minute.
Then he reminded himself that you knew him. You’ve seen his work. You were a fan. There was obviously something you must have liked if you chose him out of any other guy in the industry. You were so pretty that you could have requested anyone you wanted- and you chose him. Eddie desperately wanted to know why.
He prepped and primped himself in the bathroom like a teenage girl. He took extra care in the shower, scrubbing every inch of himself vigorously with the soap that smelled extra good.
He washed and conditioned his hair. Hell, he actually brushed it and applied product instead of just running his fingers through it and calling it good. He fucking styled it- putting it into a low bun with a hair tie that he found in his medicine cabinet. He knew just how much wearing his hair up drove women crazy- and he hoped that you weren’t any exception.
He paid extra attention to his downstairs area, making sure that he was perfectly trimmed and proper for you. The last thing he wanted was for you to get on your knees for him and be met with an unkempt jungle. He wanted things to be neat and tidy. He also hoped that landscaping the bush would make his dick appear prettier- something that you’d want to put in your mouth.
An hour before his call time, he was shaking like a leaf. He felt like he was in high school again, nervous and skittish around the female population of Hawkins High. Which was ironic considering what he does for a living these days. Over the years following graduation and leaving that hellhole, Eddie had begun to gain a sense of self-confidence. His demeanor changed.
He became sure of himself, finally believing that he was worth women’s attention. That he was far more attractive than he initially gave himself credit for- and the critical feedback on his work as a porn actor definitely proved that. If twenty year-old Eddie could see just how many women would flip their shit over him, he’d have probably dropped dead in disbelief. But none of those women mattered. None of the porn girls that he had previously filmed with mattered. Even the girls from Hawkins didn’t matter anymore. You mattered.
The whole drive to the studio was anxiety-inducing. Multiple people tried to cut him off on the freeway- gotta love L.A. traffic. Some douchebag in a fucking Corvette flipped him off because he forgot to use his blinker, which seemed to worsen Eddie’s mood as he just kept overthinking himself. How was he supposed to talk to you, let alone shoot a scene, when he couldn’t even drive straight?
When he finally pulled up to the studio and parked his van, Eddie was officially a wreck. He had no idea what to do with himself. You were probably already inside trying to pretty yourself up for your scene together. Eddie couldn’t help but wonder what you would wear- hell, why did he even care if you wore anything at all?
He wondered if you were just as nervous as he was. Granted, you had an excuse. This would be your first scene with a partner, meanwhile, this wasn’t anywhere close to Eddie’s first rodeo. Yet, he felt like a virgin on prom night.
He enters the studio, trying to act normal as the front desk girls greet him. Even the choruses of “Hi Eddie…” in their seductive voices weren’t enough to get him out of his own head. He just gave a small wave and a slight tinge of a smile on his lips. Normally he would’ve leaned up against the receptionist desk and flirted- given them just a scrap of his attention. But not today. Not when he felt like he was going to be sick.
He drifted all the way back to Paul’s office, casually knocking on the door a couple of times before letting himself in. His manager looks up from his desk, suddenly adopting a confused look on his face once he laid eyes on Eddie.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” Paul asks, tilting his head in confusion.
The comment takes Eddie aback, immediately causing his stomach to drop. Was he missing something? He was supposed to be here…right? Then he felt the dread seep in.
Fuck. The shoot’s cancelled. No way. There is no…fucking…way.
“I…uh…I’m confused.” Eddie replies slowly, shaking his head as he tries to keep it together. This could not be happening.
“Aren’t we shooting today? I came before call time. Did they fucking cancel?” He panics, running his ring-clad fingers through his hair in agony. Fuck!
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down.” Paul says “Nobody cancelled. Shoot’s still on.”
“But…I thought…you said you were surprised that I’m here.” Eddie tries to reason.
“Yeah,” Paul nods, looking at Eddie as if he were nuts “I’m surprised that you’re here before call time. I’ve managed you for the past three years and I can barely remember a time when you’ve ever shown up on time. Let alone early.”
“Oh.” Eddie replies, dumbfounded.
Well, at least the shoot is still on.
“Are you wearing cologne?” Paul asks, looking Eddie up and down as he stood awkwardly in front of his desk.
“Oh.” Eddie breathes “Yeah.”
That has Paul even more confused. Eddie always smelled nice but it was always just his natural scent- laundry detergent, a woodsy musk from the deodorant he wore, and a hint of cigarette smoke. Eddie never deliberately put on cologne unless he was trying to impress someone- and Paul knew this.
“Alright, well…” Paul starts, not knowing what to say to make things less awkward than it already was “Your leading lady is here. Dressing room A.”
“She’s here already?” Eddie gapes, taken by surprise. He thought he had more time to prepare. For what? He didn’t know.
“Yeah, kid. Unlike you, the leading lady happens to know a thing or two about punctuality. Speaking of which, why don’t you go see how she’s doing? Bet she’s sweating like a sinner in church. First time on-camera partner and all that.”
“Do you think she’s nervous?” Eddie asks, out of concern but mostly to gauge if you could be nervous because of him.
“No idea, kid, but it would be nice for you to have a conversation with each other. You know, before you stick your dick in her mouth.” Paul suggests.
To which, he had a great point. Eddie probably should go and say hi. Hopefully he can pull himself together enough to be charming and personable for you. Or, if anything, at least make you feel a bit more comfortable with him before he went down on you in front of a whole camera crew. This could either go very well for him or become a complete disaster.
────────
Eddie stood outside of your dressing room door, his body so tense that he felt like stone. On the other side of this door was you- the girl of his wet dreams that he somehow, begrudgingly, didn’t know existed until yesterday. To say that he was nervous would be an understatement. Eddie’s stomach felt like it was tied in knots and the last thing he wanted was for you to see that he was nervous. No, he had to play it cool- confident and sure of himself. He could do this. Even if it was all a facade.
He begins to knock, so nervous that he could practically break into a sweat over it. He was definitely glad that he decided to wear cologne today but then Eddie began to worry that maybe the cologne would make it seem like he was trying too hard. He was worried that you could sense it and that it would turn you off. Turning you off was the absolute last thing he wanted to do.
He could hear shuffling from behind the door, the sound growing closer before the handle turned and the door swung open- revealing you. All dolled up with completed hair and makeup. Wearing that short little silk robe. As soon as you saw him, your face broke into a smile.
Okay, Eddie thought, that’s a good sign.
“Hey,” he smiles, trying to be smooth but it was so fucking hard when you looked at him with those eyes “I’m Eddie. I’m…uh…I’m your scene partner for today.”
Not that he had to introduce himself. You knew exactly who he was. You had gotten off to his scenes more times than you could count.
“Right, of course!” You exclaim, extending out your hand in greeting as you introduced yourself to him. Eddie raised his eyebrows when he noticed that you hadn’t given him your porn name. No, you had given him your real name.
“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you….properly.” Eddie jokes, causing you to laugh. God, he loved the way your lips curled into a smile- how your eyes lit up. You were so damn pretty.
“Me too.” you nod, looking at him for a beat too long to be accidental. With a cheeky little glint in your eyes as you casually looked him up and down.
Oh, Eddie thought, so we’re flirting now?
“You mind if I come in? Or are you going to make me hang out in the hallway?” Eddie teases “Which I wouldn’t mind. As long as you keep looking at me like that.”
Your heart flutters in your chest “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.” You bite your lip nervously- and, boy, does Eddie notice.
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.” He smirks “So, you gonna let me in or?”
“Right!” You shake your head “Come in.”
You step aside, letting him walk through the door before closing it for privacy. Not that you expected anything to happen. Not off-camera, at least.
Eddie walks over and sinks down onto the small loveseat that was against the wall in the dressing room. He sits seductively, legs spread apart as he leans back on the sofa like he owned it. Honestly, he was so charming that he could tell you that he did, indeed, own it and you’d believe him. You, on the other hand, sank down into the hair and makeup chair across from him.
“So, I…uh….I should probably say thank you for accepting. My management probably already told you but it’s my first time doing a scene with someone else. I normally do solo work.”
“So I’ve seen.” Eddie replies, a cocky smirk on his lips. He wanted you to know that he had seen you in action. Not that he needed to tell you. No, he just wanted to remind you of the fact.
“So, my manager might have told me that you had requested me specifically…..by name.”
As soon as the words left his lips, your face began to heat up in embarrassment. “He told you that?”
“Mhm.” Eddie hums, his eyes devouring you.
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry,” Eddie smiles slyly “I was pretty flattered, actually. Not gonna lie, it kinda gave me a big head.”
And, to tell you the truth, I wanna show you my big head, Eddie wanted to say.
But he didn’t want to come off crude and overtly sexual during your first meeting.
“Really?” You mumble bashfully, trying to look anywhere but at Eddie but it was so hard when he was so fucking hot.
“Yeah.” He confirms “Especially coming from a girl like you. So, tell me, sweetheart….why me?”
The sound of his deep, sexy voice calling you sweetheart was enough to make you light-headed. Lord have mercy….
“Well,” you sigh “My management really started to float the idea of me doing stuff with a co-star. They thought it might push my career a bit more and give me more opportunities. To be honest, I wanted to do it but I didn’t want to do it with just anyone. So, I told them that I would only agree to do it as long as I could pitch at least one guy that I thought I could feel…comfortable with.”
You thought you could feel comfortable with him. You had chosen him because there was something about him that you felt was different than all of the other porn guys. You were far too shy to admit it but Eddie was your favorite male pornstar. You didn’t know what it was about him but he just felt safe. Like you wouldn’t be completely in your head if you were to work with him.
You had seen so much of his stuff that you had witnessed exactly how he treated other girls-putting their pleasure first so much so that he made sure to at least get them off twice before he finished, himself. It wasn’t just that but how soft he seemed with them. Like every one of them and how they felt was important. For your first time, you didn’t want to feel like a piece of meat. You wanted to feel cared for. You were certain that Eddie Munson would be the perfect guy to pop your first-time cherry with. He didn’t want to settle for anything else.
“I make you feel comfortable?” He asks, looking at you in a way that had you on the brink of melting into your seat. However, truth be told, it was Eddie who was trying not to lose his shit. You felt comfortable with him. You had chosen him because there was something different about him than the others. You felt something.
“That’s, uh, really flattering.” Eddie clears his throat, trying to stifle the very turned-on moan that he felt coming. "Can I maybe ask why you feel comfortable with me? Y'know, so I can lean into it while we're shooting the scene?"
And so I can use it as spank bank material tonight…
“Well, I don't really know what it is exactly.” You begin, wringing your hands nervously in your lap “I guess it’s the vibe you give off. I’ve seen your stuff and I just….there’s something about how you treat the other girls that makes me feel like I’d be safe. Cared for, I guess.”
“Okay, yeah." He nods.
Keep it together, Eddie. Jesus Christ...
“I want to make sure you feel cared for. It's important to me. Especially it being your first time. I'm really flattered."
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah, of course. How could I not be?' Eddie admits “You're, like, super gorgeous....and you picked me, for some reason."
He says it as if he's not one of the most sought after guys in the industry. Like he was nobody. Like he couldn't have a harem of girls hanging all over him if he wanted to.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m looking forward to it. Making you feel cared for...and safe."
"Thanks, Eddie." You reply bashfully "That means a lot to me."
"Um....so....since we're being truthful and shit...can I admit something?" He asks, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.
"Yeah." You agree "Absolutely. Safe space and all." You smile and, god, it makes Eddie's dick so hard.
"I...uh...I've kinda got a little crush on you." He blurts out before he can back out of saying it.
"Oh." You breathe, your eyes widening in surprise "You have a crush...on me?"
Eddie fucking Munson just admitted that he had a crush on you.
"...Yeah." He winces "I've kinda been down bad for you since yesterday."
"Really?" You repeat "Me?"
"Why do you keep saying it like it's hard to believe or something?" Eddie laughs.
"I mean....because it is. You're...you know..."
"I'm what?" He pushes, wanting to hear you say it.
"You're Eddie 'The Munch' Munson, for god's sake."
"Jesus fucking Christ," Eddie laughs "That’s a new one."
"I mean...it's not not factual." You argue "When you...you know...eat pussy like that....you could have basically any girl that you want."
"Hm." Eddie hums, as if he were doubting it.
"Oh please," You tease "Don't act all modest. You know you're gifted."
"Oh, I am, am I?" He flirts, a cheeky smirk spreading across his lips.
"As if you don't know." You scoff, trying to avoid his gaze. But how could you when he was so hot?
"Well, sweetheart, that's really flattering coming from you." He compliments "At least I know that I have a pretty good chance of pleasing you later."
The comment went straight to your core, causing you to shift in the hair and makeup chair as you clamp your thighs together. You tried to be inconspicuous about the fact that him and his words had such a strong effect on you, but Eddie's eyes shift to your long, sexy legs as you crossed them in your seat. His lips curl into another smirk. He was loving this.
"Don't look at me like that." You practically whisper, your face heating up bashfully.
"Like what?" Eddie teases, that fucking shit-eating-grin still plastered on his face.
"I don't know. Like-"
"Like I wanna eat you?" Eddie interjects, raising an eyebrow at you seductively.
Cocky asshole....
"What if I do wanna eat you, sweetheart?" He asks, leaning forward as he rests his elbows on his knees, staring you down.
"I-"
"'Cause I do. As a matter of fact, since this is a safe space and all, I'm going to tell you that I wanna eat you so fucking bad. Real bad."
You were so fucking wet. Holy fucking shit.
"And if I'm being real honest, baby, I wanna eat you so good that I make you cry. But I get the feeling that you just might like that."
"Eddie..."
"But only if you want me to." He adds "I don't wanna misinterpret anything."
He couldn't misinterpret anything if he fucking tried. How you felt about him was so fucking obvious.
"Anyway," He says, quickly standing from his seat on the sofa. “I should probably go freshen up for you. Y'know, seeing as I'm about to get really lucky in the next..." He checks his watch "Thirty minutes."
He looks up from his watch, his big brown eyes falling upon you- drinking you in.
"See you out there, Princess."
────────
You were so fucking nervous. You stood off-set, watching as production set up lighting- making sure there was the right amount of brightness on the scene stage. The set was a small brick-walled room with an expensive looking black leather sofa in the middle. White shag rug underneath it and some vibrantly green foliage plants in the background.
It was reminiscent of those “casting couch” scenes that porn companies liked to shoot- but this one was classy. Not cheap and sleazy. Like it was the middle of someone’s living room- a glimpse into a private passionate moment between a couple and not just two strangers fucking. Eddie Munson was going to eat you out on that couch. The thought of it made you somehow even wetter than you already were.
Just as you were allowing yourself to get lost in the fantasy, you feel a large hand on your waist- causing you to look over to find Eddie standing next to you. Staring at you with softness in his eyes.
“Doing okay?” He asks, searching your face for any indication that you weren’t, indeed, doing okay.
“I’m okay.” You breathe shakily “Just a little nervous.”
“Don’t be.” Eddie whispers, leaning into you so intimately that only you could hear “There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just me. You’re safe with me, okay?”
And somehow those five little words felt like they’ve lifted so much weight off of your shoulders. He was right. It was just him. You could trust him.
“Okay.” You whisper, looking into his warm, brown eyes. Everything was going to be okay.
“How about this…” he starts, beginning to think “If things become too much or you need to stop, I want you to tap my arm twice. I’ll get them to cut and we’ll take a break.”
“Won’t they get mad?” You ask, your voice tiny and uncertain.
“It doesn’t matter.” He states “What matters is that you’re comfortable. This is about you, sweetheart. Without you, there’s no scene. You have the upper-hand. You are in control here. Nothing happens here that you don’t want to happen. Understand?”
“Yeah.” You nod “Okay.”
“You trust me?”
“I trust you, Eddie.”
“Good.” He nods “Because there’s nothing to worry about. If things start to get overwhelming with everyone watching just close your eyes and just focus on feeling, okay? That’s my job. To make you feel good.”
You didn’t think it was possible to be even wetter than you had been before but Eddie being sweet on you had practically opened up a floodgate inside of you. If it weren’t for the scene, you’d throw yourself at him right there.
“Well, hopefully I’m able to return the favor.” You say “I’ve never done that before…on camera.”
You were alluding to giving him a blowjob. It’s not like you haven’t given blowjobs to ex-boyfriends and casual hookups before. But this was different. You would be sucking off Eddie Munson- a man that’s probably received far too many blowjobs to count. He’s probably experienced some mind-blowing shit and there’s no way that you’d ever be able to compare to what other porn girls have been able to do to him with their mouths. You were embarrassed to even try.
“Sweetheart, I’m sure you’ll do just fine, trust me. I’m not picky.” He laughs “Blowjobs are like pizza. Even when it’s not the best pizza, it’s still good because it’s pizza. Not that I expect you to be bad or anything.”
“…I don’t know if that’s supposed to be encouraging or not.” You reply, starting to retreat back into your own head.
“Sweetheart, what I’m trying to say is that it’s going to be fine. Don’t think too much about it.”
“But how could I not think about it when-“
You were cut off by Eddie grabbing for your hand, squeezing it affectionately as he looked into your eyes.
“I thought said you trusted me.” He points out, raising an eyebrow at you.
“I do.” You reply hastily “I just-“
“Like I said, focus on feeling. When we get to that part, I just want you to focus on what feels right. Things will be fine. Honestly, there’s also nothing sexier than a girl that’s into it, y’know?” Eddie explains “You don’t have to be the best at something. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you enjoy doing it and I want you to enjoy yourself. ‘Kay?”
“Okay.” You nod, letting his words sink in.
“Also, sweetheart, with lips like those, I’m sure you suck cock like a champ but I guess I’ll just have to wait to find out.”
Your heart skips a beat at his dirty confession and you almost think about smacking his arm before one of the production managers approaches you.
“You’re on in five.” They say “Start stripping down and we’ll get you on set.”
You felt your blood run cold.
“Hey,” Eddie whispers, voice low as he strokes your back with one of his large hands “If it gets to be too much just look at me, okay? I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here the entire time.”
You take a deep breath before nodding. Eddie gives your hand another squeeze before letting you walk to take your place on set. He had successfully gotten you out of your head even just a little bit. Now Eddie just had to get himself out of his own head about cumming too soon.
────────
Eddie stands back near the camera as the director calls action. He had been watching you like a hawk, eyes peeled for any sort of sense that you were beginning to panic. He stared as you dropped your robe, handing it off before gingerly taking a seat onto the black leather sofa.
“Alright, start off slow like you normally do. Take as much time as you need. Start off with slowly taking the panties off. We’ll do some light touching, maybe some fingering. Get yourself nice and ready then Eddie’s gonna come in and take care of you.”
Hearing those words immediately felt soothing to you.
You look over towards the camera and lock eyes with Eddie. He was right there like he told you he would be. He winks at you, setting off a flurry of butterflies in your stomach.
You began to follow directions, waiting for the director to give you the okay before you started. Then you began to do what felt right. Just like you were doing a solo masturbation scene. You began to touch and caress your body, getting yourself worked up as you got into the scene.
You began with your breasts, reaching your hands up as you began to knead them through the red lacy bra that you had chosen for this scene- something that made you feel sexy and confident. In your head you began to repeat it like a mantra.
You were sexy and confident.
You are sexy.
You are confident.
You could do this.
You push your tits together, thumbs rubbing over your nipples through the lace bra and you gasped at the feeling. You shut your eyes, allowing yourself to be in the moment and just feel. Just like Eddie had told you.
Eddie, on the other side of the set, was watching. His eyes were hyper-fixated on every little thing. The way your soft hands roamed your supple body and you tossed your head back in pleasure as you teased yourself. He was too far away but he was sure that you were letting out the tiniest little moans as you touched and squeezed and felt your sexy body with gentle hands.
Eddie had been halfway hard all morning but now his cock was starting to respond to every little thing you did. Every pinch, every grasp, every flick of your fingers against your tits. He could’ve sworn that it was starting to get hot in there and your bra wasn’t even off yet.
“Okay, honey, start to naturally drift down more. Get to the panties and take them off. We want it nice and slow, alright? Tease the camera.”
Tease the camera? Eddie definitely won’t be lasting long enough for the planned cum shot if you kept going on like that. But he didn’t dare say it out loud. He didn’t want to immediately gain a reputation for finishing fast even when he had so much pornographic proof out there that he wasn’t a fast shooter. You were the first girl in the industry that made him worry that he was going to finish in his pants as soon as he got a taste of you.
Nevertheless, your hands began to drag down, lower and lower until they reached the waistband of your panties. Red lace just like the bra. You didn’t even have to feel yourself to know that you were ready to go. You knew as soon as you had locked your eyes on Eddie from where he stood off-set that you were going to be drenched. But your right hand still delved into your panties, swiping at your folds as you felt just how wet you were.
Eddie watched, heart pounding as he stared at your hand down your little red panties-playing with your sopping wet core until you slowly removed your fingers. Drawing them out to reveal a thin coating of your arousal. Eddie’s breath hitched as your eyes bore into him. You were staring at him. Your gaze was locked in on him. All of this was for him.
You bring your slick fingers to your mouth, maintaining eye contact as you popped them into your mouth, sucking them nice and clean.
Fuck, you dirty girl….
Eddie’s dick begins to strain against his jeans at the action. God, was he ready to find out what you tasted like. He couldn’t take the teasing and direct eye-contact for much longer. He was so fucking ready for you.
Meeting the expectations of the director, you slip your thumbs into the waistband of your panties, seductively shimmying your hips as you pulled them down tantalizingly slow- agonizingly slow. Eddie watches with greedy eyes.
You laid back onto the sofa, panties wrapped around your thighs as you begin to lift your legs up, pulling the wet lacy fabric the rest of the way down your legs that were lifted slightly into the air- giving the camera a nice view of your pussy. Thighs pressed together in a way that had Eddie staring hungrily. He wanted so badly to sink down to his knees and hold those legs up like that as he ate you. The sight was mesmerizing.
After the lacy panties were off, you flung them across the set- right in Eddie's direction and he swore he saw a cute little smirk on your face when you did it. God, you were so naughty- and he was going to teach you a lesson.
"Okay, honey, now lay back on the couch. Spread your legs. Great! Perfect! Can we get some finger action in there?"
Eddie realizes just how well you follow directions as your body melts into the back of the couch, bringing your legs up onto it as you open them for the camera- spreading them open for everyone to see and, god, it was a fucking sight that was so fucking unholy. Yet, Eddie couldn't look away. Not when you were bare and spread out in front of him for his eyes to feast upon. That gorgeous body, those lace-clad tits, that glistening wet pussy. You were going to fucking kill him.
Just when he thought it couldn't get any hotter, you looked off near the camera- eyes trained on his as you used your fingers to spread yourself open for him. He could have passed out right there.
Fuck, he was really gonna give it to you.
He was going to devour every fucking inch of that tight little pussy until you were screaming. Fuck the cameras, fuck the scene, fuck everyone who was watching. They didn't matter. All that mattered was what he wanted to fucking do to you.
Your fingers began to tease your hole as you glided them up and down your slit. You were so fucking wet that it was making Eddie weak in the knees. Your sopping wet pussy was none other than a holy altar in which he wanted to bow down and worship. Eddie wasn't religious but you were a fucking goddess that he would devote his entire fucking life praying to if you let him.
You began to play with yourself, using your fingers to rub your needy little clit in slow circles. You threw your head back against the back of the sofa as you close your eyes. Focusing on feeling. Making yourself feel good. Getting yourself nice and wet for Eddie.
Eddie.
Eddie fucking Munson with his huge fucking cock and his soft-looking lips and those big brown eyes. How he made you feel. So cared for, so safe. Your fingers begin to work your clit a bit rougher. You had seen him on screen so many times fucking so many girls and now it was finally going to be you. His head between your thighs. His tongue in your folds. Sucking on your clit. It was getting you so fucking worked up.
You insert two fingers into your pussy as you begin to fuck them into yourself. You let your mind take over, moans tumbling from your lips as you try to fuck yourself with your fingers as deep as you can- wanting to hit that spot within yourself that had you curling your toes.
You shove them as deep as you go, trying to reach it but you just couldn’t. It felt like something was missing. But you kept trying. It felt good, of course it did, but you couldn’t help but feel like something was off. Like you were struggling. Now you were beginning to wonder if closing your eyes and thinking about Eddie was what did you in.
You had no issues in the past with using your fingers on yourself to get the relief you needed but now they just felt inadequate. As if they suddenly weren’t enough. It was so odd. Was Eddie jinxing you? Were you maybe more nervous than you originally thought? Were you-
“Alright, honey, how are we doing?” The director asks, bellowing out to you from behind the camera. “You look good, babe. Gorgeous. We’re going to add Eddie in. Are you ready?”
You look over at Eddie as he begins to strip off his shirt, his brown curls still tied back in a low bun. As he removes his t-shirt, you can’t help but stare- zoning in on his sexy, toned body. He was so fucking hot. Just when you thought you couldn’t be more turned on by him, he looks up at you- making sure that you were okay. That you were comfortable.
You both lock eyes, staring at each other with so much sexual tension that the whole room could probably feel it. You wanted Eddie Munson so bad- his body, his mouth, this hands touching all over you. You wanted him so bad that your body felt hot to the touch. He had been your industry crush for so long and now you were going to have his mouth on you- tasting you.
You give the director the okay, still spread out on the couch. As Eddie prepares to join you on-set, he can’t help the way that his eyes wander over your beautiful body. Your perky tits, your long legs, your pretty face, your sexy curves- but, most of all, your glistening wet sex. You were practically dripping with arousal as he shamelessly stared at you- the most gorgeous angel he’s ever laid eyes on. He hadn’t even gotten his mouth on you yet and he knew that he was in for trouble.
“Alright, you’re on.” The director nods towards him, giving Eddie his cue. It was the moment that he had been thinking about for hours.
His hardened cock was surely very noticeable beneath his black jeans. He could’ve sworn that there was so much blood rushing to his dick that he would pass out from the sheer lack of it being anywhere else in his body- and it was only getting worse with the way that you were looking at him. As if he were the most delectable man on the planet. Which, you would have to admit, was pretty accurate.
Your eyes stay glued to him and the pure fucking sex god that he is as he crosses onto the set, introducing himself to the scene. You loved the way that the black denim of his jeans hugged his waist. You loved the silver chain that dangled against his right hip as he strode over to you. You loved the soft tufts of dark hair that made up the happy trail leading down into the waistband of his pants. Eddie Munson was a fucking dream. He was a king- and you wanted to be his queen.
“Hey, you.” He whispers, eyes on you as he sinks down onto his knees in front of you “Doing okay? Not nervous?”
He was checking on you. Fuck, there was no way this man could be any hotter.
“I’m okay.” You whisper back “Just a little overwhelmed.”
The way that Eddie looked at you with those chocolate brown eyes made you want to melt.
“Yeah?” He asks, voice still low enough for only you to hear- sharing this intimate moment with you only.
“Just a little.” You answer. You were trying not to focus on your nerves but you could feel the space that they occupied in your body.
“Everything’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. Just close your eyes and relax. I’m here to take care of you.” He says, his eyes warm “Remember what I said? If it gets to be too much just focus on me. Just forget that anyone’s even here. Okay?”
“Okay.” You whisper back, staring at him as you nod.
“Good.” He says “Now, how can I help you get comfortable? What do you need? Hm?”
God, he was making you so wet…
“….I….I, uh, can you use-“ You immediately felt embarrassed, your face flushes as you try to look away from him.
“Hey, hey, hey…” He tsks “Eyes on me. Look at me, angel.” He reaches for you, taking your chin in-between his thumb and forefinger- guiding you to look at him. “Tell me what you want. It’s just you and me here. It’s just us. Okay?”
“Okay.” You bite your lip, nodding along.
“Say it.” He demands, maintaining eye contact “I want to hear you say it. Need to know that you’re with me. That it’s just me and you in this room right now. Nobody else. Just us, okay? Tell me.”
“I….It’s just us.” You breathe, your body feeling as if it were on fire from the intimacy “You and me. No one else.”
“That’s right, sweetheart. Just you and me. Now, tell me, what….do you….need?”
What did you need?
“You, Eddie. I need you.” You gasp lightly, causing his lips to form into a smirk.
“What do you need me to do?” He asks “Gotta use your words or I won’t be able to understand.”
“I want….I need you to kiss me. Please?”
Eddie lets of a short, low growl from the back of his throat as his hands fly to your waist, grasping tightly as he jerked you towards him- wanting you closer.
“C’mere, baby.” He rasps, straightening his body to become level with yours before he uses one of his large hands to grab the back of your neck- pulling you into a rough, hungry kiss that was so intense that it could have knocked the air out of you.
And Eddie fucking Munson was an amazing kisser.
The way that his lips slotted and molded against yours. The way that his mouth moved against yours as he nipped and licked and sucked at your bottom lip. The way that he slid his tongue into your mouth as if you belonged to him- causing you to want him to make you his.
You moaned into his mouth as his tongue fought for dominance against yours, taking your breath away with how desperate he was to kiss you harder and more passionately than he already was- if that were even possible.
How hands were all over. Grabbing your waist, his fingertips trailing up and down your back in delicate touches. The way that his thumb slipped underneath the clasp of your bra. He pulled his thumb back to stretch out the band then released it to let it snap back against your soft skin- earning him a surprised gasp.
He removes his lips from yours, beginning to pepper light kisses along your jawline before trailing his lips down your neck. You tilt your head back, giving him more access as he kisses down the column of your throat and then back up- working his way over until he began nibbling on your ear. You thought you were dreaming when he whispered in your ear.
“Can I take your tits out?”
You probably seemed needy and desperate as you fervently nodded your approval. You worried that you probably looked pathetic but, to Eddie, there was nothing hotter than seeing how worked up you were getting.
“P-please.” You mutter, voice coming out breathy and shaky.
“Mmm…good girl. Wanna look at those pretty tits when I fuck you with my fingers.”
You let out a startled squeak at his filthy works, causing him to grin.
“Fuck, sweetheart, does that turn you on? Listening to me tell you that I wanna put my fingers in you? Hm? That I wanna stuff you full?”
“Fuck, Eddie…” You moan.
“God, sweetheart, you’re already moaning my name and I haven’t even touched you yet. So needy for me. I fucking love it.”
He reaches both hands around to your bra clasp, expertly popping it open and removing it as if it were the easiest thing on earth. To him, it probably was. He’s probably taken off so many girl’s bras that he could do it with his eyes closed.
He pulled the bra off, taking it in his large hand before flinging it somewhere on the set. Not that it mattered. As hot as it was, it was getting in the way of what he really wanted. Your tits in his mouth.
“Mmm fuck, baby.” He groans, staring lovingly at your gorgeous chest- your hardened nipples. “You are so goddamn pretty, angel. So beautiful. Can I put my mouth on them?”
“Please.” You moan, arching your back in order to bring your tits closer to his face. Eddie chuckles at your eagerness.
“Shit, sweetheart.” He laughs “You want me to put them in my mouth? Yeah? These sweet fucking titties….”
He keeps one hand on your waist while the other snakes up to your chest, grabbing a handful of your boob as he squeezes it in his hand.
“So fucking soft, honey. So warm…..so perfect.” He teases, voice low and seductive. “Perfect little tits. Want me to put them in my face? Suck on your perky little nipples? Fuck, they’re so hard for me.”
You don’t know what came over you but you instinctively grasp at Eddie’s hand that was left grabbing your waist as you draw it up and onto your other breast, wanting him to have two handfuls of you.
“Look at you, sweet girl. You want both my hands paying attention to your tits? So bossy.” He tsks “Could’ve just asked. But that’s okay. I’m gonna give you what you want. But you’re gonna have to do something for me too.”
You look at him with curiosity in your eyes. You had no idea what he was going to ask you. Truth be told, it made you a little nervous.
“Since both my hands are full, sweetness, I’m gonna need you to use yours to play with your pussy for me. Think you can do that for me? Hm?”
Fuck
You stare at him as he surveys your body, now fully nude in front of him. God, you were a beautiful sight.
“Okay.” You squeak out, nodding your head.
“Atta girl.” He whispers “That’s my good girl. Now start rubbing your clit.”
────────
To Be Continued…
A/N: Hope you enjoyed part one. Sorry that I cut it short, I didn’t want to make the fic too long and I also wanted to get it out before I left for vacation next week. I feel like I’ve already held this back from you all long enough. Please excuse any spelling errors. I’ll go back and edit later
An unplanned nap exposes your secret relationship to the 118. Buddie x Reader
Smoke wafted from the open oven as the shrill fire alarm echoed around the suburban house. The remains of what was meant to be a surprise date night dinner was now a mix of embers and ash. While not ideal it was much better than the blaze it was a few minutes prior.
Your heart was still pounding as you directed the smoke towards the open window above the sink by violently waving a hand towel. The rude awakening from your unintentional nap had it pounding so fast it felt like it was going to take off. The only bright side was that you were home alone, so no scaring Chris with nearly emergencies. And you’d even have time to air out the house and clean out the oven, hiding this embarrassing incident from your partners.
10 minutes earlier
Buck and Eddie were nearing the end of a 24hr shift that had managed to hit the sweet spot of busy but uneventful. The team had been called out enough that they had no chance to pay attention to the time, and the calls had been straightforward and all in all relatively successful. Both men were therefore in good spirits, sneaking smiles and soft touches.
Three months into Eddie's probation year the rest of the 118 were still unaware of the nature of their relationship, bar Bobby, of course, who they were obligated to disclose their relationship to. Buck knew the rest of the team would be accepting of his relationship with Eddie, especially since they'd proven time and again that their relationship didn't cause issues for their work partnership. However, he was more hesitant to open up when you and Chris were involved. Not wanting his untraditional relationship to cause rifts with his team he was starting to view as family. Eddie on the other hand had no such qualms, not needing the same validation. He was just waiting for Bucks go ahead so he could loudly show off those he loved most.
But for now they were sitting on opposite ends on the sofa in the station's loft, having enjoyed a break in the calls. It was short lived however as the blare of the bells started echoing around the firehouse. The crew redacted swiftly and were dressed and peeling out of the station in under two mintues.
"Alright team, looks like we have a fire in a free standing residential building. A neighbour called it in, saw smoke billowing out from the eastern side of the house but didn't see flames." Bobby informed from his captains chair at the front of the engine. "Not sure if there are any occupants inside so we may need to do a thorough sweep of the house." He nodded at Buck and Eddie, indicating they'd be heading straight in to investigate. "We're two minutes out,"
Eddie gave Buck a soft smile, before glimpsing out the window to see that they are in a very familiar neighbourhood. "Uh cap, where exactly are we headed to?"
"House is on South Bedford St,"
"Shit," Buck muttered under his breath, eyes meeting Eddie's. Still he reasoned that it was a long street, the likelihood it was their house was low.
As the truck swiftly turned the corner and pulled to a sharp halt in front of 4995 South Bedford Street both of their stomachs dropped.
Wasting no time they hauled themselves out the engine and up the familiar driveway.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
You were wafting away at the smoke when you heard the front door slam open and thudding footsteps echo in the front hallway. A frantic shout of "Baby" followed and you knew you'd been caught.
"In here," you muttered, resigned.
Eddie and Buck quickly making their way into the kitchen, greeted by your sheepish grin.
"Oh thank god," Eddie murmered, wrapping you in a hug. Buck quickly joined, a soft kiss placed on your forehead.
"What happened?" Buck questioned, keeping you tucked between him and Eddie.
"Well it was suppose to be our dinner. But I made the dual mistake of not putting on a timer and having an impromptu nap."
"That'll do it," Eddie agreed. "We're just glad you're okay." The arms from both sides squeezed a little tighter and you pressed your head into Eddie's chest and you felt the delayed panic of the last ten minutes hit you full force.
The comforting hands that stroked your back quickly halted when you heard a pointed cough from the doorway.
"Oh hey Hen, Chim." Buck squeaked. "As you can see the fire is already contained."
"We can see that bud. Seems like it's not the only thing thats' contained, maybe you two can stop smothering our patient so we can check for smoke inhalation,"
"I'll do the assessment," Eddie almost growled, shifting you onto one of the dinning table chairs. "Buck can you grab a wet cloth please. Might as well bring some water as well,"
Buck rushed down the hall, coming back seconds later with the cloth in one hand and your water bottle that lives on the bedside table in the other.
Eddie began his assessment, while Hen was looking at the three of you suspiciously.
"Buck, how'd you know where to go? And Eddie why are you being so possessive?"
You and Eddie both turned to Buck, ready to take his lead on how to answer. He gave a resigned smile and you mouthed the word 'sorry'. Bobby gave a soft chuckle from the side of the room, clearly cottoning on to whats going on.
"Right well, this is my house. Our house,"
"Oh, so this is your flatmate? Or partner?"
"No. Well yes we are partners," Buck backtracked, introducing you to the team. "But I mean OUR house, Eddie's too."
"Oh, Eddie's become your roommate. That's sweet." Chim chuckled.
Buck could have taken the out, but he decided he was tired of hiding the most important people in his life, Chris included.
"Not just roommate. We're partners, all of us." Chim and Hen's mouths opened in shock and a few moments of tense silenced followed. Buck's easy smile began to slowly fall.
"This better not be a problem," Eddie deadpanned, eyes going back and forth between Hen and Chim "I would be very dissapointed if you judge how other people decide to love."
"No, sorry of course not. We we're just surprised," Hen placated, while Chimney nodded in the background. "But love? I think I was assuming this is new, since Eddie started at the 118."
"Not new, in fact we've been together for years," You confirmed.
"We also have a son, Christopher. Chris. He's eight, and is the most amazing kid." Buck confessed, all three of you smiling thinking of the final member of the family.
"He is a bit bias as Chris is basically Buck's mini-me,"
"Which Eddie never fails to point out when Chris gets in trouble. Yet we all know where he gets his sass from."
"I don't know how you managed to miss this," Bobby finally spoke up. " They clearly have been acting like an old married couple this whole time,"
Summery: Your whimpers and Ahs have invaded his ears, and he felt like he could stay here, between your legs, for days. Jack hadn't really kept count but it must have been the fourth time he pulled back right before you could cum. You had lost your speech around the second time, babbling and huffing. Edging is the one thing that can get you extremely frustrated, incredibly fast.
an: I've never written smut before. this was strange to write but also fun! I discovered about myself that I read a lot of absolute filth but when I write it has to be loving, like really soft, for some reason. idk. I really hope you enjoy it!
It had been building for over two weeks, this internal whirlwind of a fire. You've been lightly teasing each other repeatedly and it was starting an itch. Sex was part of the routine, sure, but this itch was for something else entirely.
Jack could tell, almost smell, your craving for him. It appeared in slow blinks when you your gaze flickered over his freckles, and in the dazed parting of your lips when he tucks your head under his jaw, surrounding you entirely.
There's a different kind of pleasure, soul deep comfort, that comes from having established and discussed everything,left no room for doubt. It opened up doors in Jack's imagination, had him fantasizing far more than an old man like him was supposed to.
Knowing you, knowing how to please you, how to drag you through your battling thoughts and pull you past them onto a floating cloud. Holding on to you as you drift, then slowly, lovingly, pull you down. It had become one of the most rewarding, exciting, beautiful roles Jack had ever had.
This was a scene not out of emergent necessity or anxiety, but for the love of the play. You sobbing breathlessly for the past ten minutes still counted.
"God, you sound unbelievably … hypnotic," the drawl of Jack's voice dragged low, breath panting.
Your whimpers and Ahs have invaded his ears, and he felt like he could stay here, between your legs, for days. Jack hadn't really kept count but it must have been the fourth time he pulled back right before you could cum. You had lost your speech around the second time, babbling and huffing. Edging is the one thing that can get you extremely frustrated, incredibly fast.
"Hnnn-" whipping your head side to side was all you could do.
Soft fabric wrapped your wrists up above your head, your arms warm and sweaty against your cheeks. Your skin was turning pink up your neck and down your chest, and your gasping turned to moans in every other breath.
"Tired, Baby?" Jack mumbled with his lips deliberately brushing your wet folds, "Too sensitive?"
Another brush right at your clit and your belly quivered. Jack smiled wide from beneath you, holding your ankles down. "I wonder if you came now, how long you'll keep cumming.."
You groaned hard, almost angry, at his musings, while your hips squirmed against the sheets. "Fuck-"
Jack chuckled lowly, his breath setting your skin ablaze. "Aw, sweet thing, you want to cum so badly, don't you?"
"Yes! God- Please!" you shouted, your voice breaking as tears trailed over your temples.
"Let's have another go, hm? maybe I won't change my mind when we get there, yeah?" Jack barely finished his words before diving back in.
He swiped his tongue, flat and tense, over the entirety of your pussy and you whined long, breath stuttering when his tongue stayed at your clit longer. Wet sounds surrounded the bed as he played you like an instrument, thumb pressure on your clit, tongue on your entrance. Your wetness glistened over the lower half of his face and his hot puffs of air make your thighs shudder.
"I'll never," Jack paused for another tongue-flick, "ever have enough of this. Fucking delicious, baby."
"Plea- Jack, I'm- I'm close," you begged breathlessly.
"Hmm," he hummed against you in a teasing tone, "am I ready for you to cum…hmmm."
"I'll be good." You exhale, voice hiccuping, "I'll be so good, Jack, Pleas-"
"Oh, you are good," he cooed your name, stroking your thighs, "you've been so good for me. I was just teasing, Sweet. Here, let me make it worth the wait, hm?"
Your jaw dropped soundlessly at the sensation of three rough fingers plunging into you, stretching and tingling all the way up your spine. Tongue becoming forceful, intentional, in it's circling, it had your nerves buzzing. You could barely locate a coherent thought, let alone find a voice to say it.
The heat built further as Jack's maneuvers sped up, his grip tight on your hipbones keeping you from bucking. Spots of hot light sparked and accumulated at your core, pulsing higher and higher. Your clit throbbed between Jack's lips and everything muffled like cotton in your ears.
"Go on, Baby, show me," Jack purred, picking his head up to slam his fingers harder, faster.
"Ah-Jack! hnn-" you screamed as static enveloped you, vision blurred and spotty. The hight of the crushing wave stayed up, catching your breath and bringing a tremor to your entire form.
"Ohh," Jack smiled, glinting eyes attentively watching you quake through it, "Thaaat's the one."
You whined, low and long, and your knees fell open as the twitching muscles slowly melted. The float overwhelmed you then, tinted your thoughts and covered all sound in hone-
"Honey-sweet," a wet smack sounded as he dipped his fingers into his mouth, tasting you hungrily, "just for me, huh?"
You floated higher, and it was like the pressure was bringing tears to your eyes. You didn't realize you were softly sobbing until you ran out of breath to inhale.
"I got you, baby," Jack crawled up over you, running his hands over your aching arms, "you're ok, you're ok. I'm here."
His rough hands added slight pressure over your forearms and it made you sigh, shoulders relaxing a bit in your effort to breath. Jack caught it and rested his torso at half it's weight against yours, carrying the rest of his weight on his bent arm. His breath was warm when he leaned close, the kiss on your neck was soft and wet, "I'm holding you down, baby, don't be scared."
You vaguely registered him releasing your wrists from their restraints, holding your arms where they were for a minute so as to not make a sudden movement. Your body softened against the mattress, under his pleasant weight, and Jacks hands gently massaged your arms and wrists. Blinking blearily, vision still fuzzy around the edges, you turned your face towards him.
"There's my best girl," he whispered, brushing his thumbs across the tears on your cheeks, "You were incredible, sweet, you did so good. Can I clean you up, or do you want to wait?"
A glossy film still covered your eyes, sparkly wet and slow-blinking, and he could see you trying to answer. Then your leg lightly bumped his hip, "I- I want you inside me," you whimpered.
"Where are we on color, baby?" he mumbled into your skin as he peppered kissed along you collar.
"Green," you breathed, wrapping your arms weekly around his shoulders, "So green, Jack."
A wicked smirk stretched his cheek and he reached a hand down your belly, "Absolutely drenched, huh? that's what empties out your head, Sweet?"
Leaning in to kiss you, Jack's tongue instantly invading your mouth and twirling behind your teeth. You kissed back lazily, tangling your fingers in his curls and moaning into his mouth.
"Fuck-" he groaned low when you trapped his bottom lip between yours.
You let out a dazed smile, you do love pressing one of his buttons, and you dug your nails into his nape and shoulders. Jack went for your neck, reigniting the fading colors and gifting you a new set. Red-purple half-circles bloomed under his teeth, the suckling sending waves of goosebumps over you.
You opened your mouth to keep begging, wanting the man inside you so badly, but his mouth took over yours again. Just as your nails gifted his shoulders a set of marks of his own, Jack centered himself right at your slit. Wet slap of his tip on your weeping folds.
"'S this what you want?" he growled, muffled into your bottom lip, "what you beg me for?"
"Plea- Yes! yes, Jack-" you whined, high and almost petulant, "Fuck me."
The head of his cock spread your entrance, and the slow slow movement almost had you sobbing again, "Fuck's sa-"
"Aw, baby," He crooned as he pushed further in, "gotchu really frustrated, have I?"
Jack groaned, nose against your cheek, as he flexed his hips and pushed faster, "Goddamn heaven in there, can't get enough."
Then his hips fit into place flush against you with a final thrust, length plunging fully inside you. Jaw dropping lax, your eyes rolled up for a moment. He fit perfectly, exactly where he was supposed to be, exactly where you were, too.
His next groan came out broken, composure fully surrendered, puffs of breath scalding hot on your neck and ear. "You- ah- you ok?"
You intended to say yes, yes please fucking move already, yes I need you to fuck me through the mattress now. But all you could focus on was the blissful cloud you were on because of the stretch of his cock inside you.
"I love you," you breathed.
His bicep beside you trembled along with his hips, and he growled low in your ear, "I love you." Jack took a slow breath, his hands moving to slowly stroke your hair, gentle thumb against your brow. His molten eyes caught hold of yours and stayed on them as he started to move his hips back, and the sensation made his eyelids flutter.
One sharp thrust back in, your internal nerves lighting up anew, and you both moaned in unison as your exhales merged in the small space between your faces.
"I love you," He whispered in the next thrust, firm like he was unsatisfied with saying it once, "I love you."
Your throat tightened at the break in his voice, like it's pushing to tell you even while the vocal cords are so overwhelmed. Jack placed his open lips on your neck, forehead hot on your cheek, and started a steady pump. "Jack-" you whimpered, tightening your fist in his hair.
The throbbing surged right back, covering your clit in prickles that stirred with every thrust. You lost track of time in the blissfully repetitive slide of his cock, playing a rhythm your body seems to know better than you.
"Nice and slow, Sweet," Jack grawled, hoarse with how harsh his breathing was, "you feel so fucking good- mmh-"
The rolling of his hips stayed in continuos loop, gentle and wonderfully igniting, and your breath hitched with every pass over that one spot deep inside you. Whimpers passed your lips as Jack fucked into you, holding you so close the tears prickled again over you lashes.
Jack moved his head up from your neck, running his lips from your jaw to the salty tracks on your cheeks, his breath fervant and his forearm sweaty under you. When his eyes locked onto yours, steady thrusts still rocking you both, he smiled. That gentle open one, the one he doesn't suppress with a pursing of his lips, and his eyes glimmered before you.
"You wanna cum, baby?" he whispered, "got one more in ya?"
"Hmm-.. close," you rubbed your forehead on his, your heart pounding in your throat.
"Cum with me," Jack grunted, nuzzing his nose over your cheek, "show me how tight you can get."
You moaned, low and broken, and weekly hooked your legs above his hips. The bliss surged from low in your stomach up to your chest, bringing back that buzz in your ears. God, it was like you hadn't stopped cumming since the last orgasm.
"Ah, Ah- Jack," You didnt know what you were saying at that point, only the cadence of Jack's voice and the scalding heat of him on top of you kept you from completely dissolving into the mattress.
"I've got all of you, Sweet, let go."
The buzz sang in you ears, static that covered everything around you, and the tide, already high, crashed over you both. Jack's moan broke, breath stuttering and hips trembling. His cock throbbed inside you and pulsed in waved against your sensitive walls.
"Fuck-"
In moments, Jack caught his breath just enough to drag you into a long kiss. Humming into his lips, you tightened your arms and legs around him, keeping him inside you while the throbbing subsided.
"You did so good, baby," Jack exhaled against your lips, "So good for me."
Your tightening limbs relaxed gradually during the next long kiss, fingers caressing his hair instead of gripping, legs unlocking to relax on the sheets. You breathed deep and slow, humming with your eyes closed. You felt him starting to rub the muscles of your thighs and hips as he went down your body, his usual check-up. It never failed to make you feel like you were something precious, sacred.
Jack placed a kiss at your right ankle, then reached down to the floor by the bed for the towel and water bottle he had placed there. After gently, reverently, wiping away the sweat and release from between your legs, he climbed back over you. His thumb sweeping a soothing line down your forehead urged you to open your eyes.
"Drink," he whispered.
Your limbs felt lathargic as you grasped the bottle and took a sip. Handing it back to him, you stretched laguidly atop the sheets, and spread an open hand towards him. There was a specific chill at the surface of your feverish skin that required him to hold you, and he could always tell by the small pout pulling at your lower lip.
"Come 'here," adjusting himself to your side, Jacks tucked your head atop his shoulder.
You breathed in his scent, distictly sweat and sex right then, and placed a soft kiss to his collarbone, "I love you."
"I love you too, Sweet," his grin boyish and eyes soft, "tell me again tomorrow."
an: thank you so much for reading! please let me know what you think! I will be setting up a masterlist for this series bc I wanna keep going it's so much fun, and I don't want you to be lost in navigation. ily!
you cannot make a post about how men put women in certain boxes without someone going "but what if i love the box? what if i've decided that it's comfortable in the box? are you gonna tell me i'm not ALLOWED to like the box? not very feminist of you to police a woman's decisions... maybe you'd be less ugly and miserable if you stopped talking about the box LMFAO #Girlboss #MyBox<3"
#and its like. 'what if ive decided its comfortable to be in the box' it is always going to be more comfortable to be in the box #they will reward you for staying in the box and punish you for trying to leave it #that doesnt mean the box is like. a good place to be — @butchfaith
Sometimes you step out of the box, and you're free of the box, and you're out of the box, and you realize you are fairly box shaped. So you sit down, and you do a lot of introspection about whether or not you were always box shaped, or if you grew into the shape of the box after being forced into the box for so long, and whether or not there are stunted parts of you, that might grow, now that you're out of the box, or if you should just maybe wear the box around as a fashion accessory that conveniently makes life so much easier while living among those who expect you to be in the box, and in the middle of your naval gazing someone always shows up to try and put you back in the box.
And you realize that regardless of whether or not you actually fit in the box, it's dark in there.
based on this request
wc: 1.2k
pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader
summary: jack has always liked privacy, but one of his biggest secrets is revealed one random afternoon.
c.warning: established relationship (married); mentions of minor injury and minor car accident; reader is a mother; no other warnings i think but if i missed something let me know!
a/n: gooooood it's been so long since i last wrote for jack. i missed him so much! i hope you liked this!
masterlist | requests
for years, jack’s personal life has been locked inside a vault. of course he’d mention you, his wife, from time to time. but always in passing and never waiting too long for his coworkers to asks any personal questions. and it’s not because he doesn’t love you, god knows he’s obsessed with you. but a small, overprotective part of him thinks that by distancing himself from you and your kids when he’s at work he manages to keep you away from the hospital.
he has spent a decade building a wall between his grueling work and the life he cherishes waiting for him back home.
but tonight, the universe has different plans for him.
you sit on the edge of the crinkling paper of the examination table in exam room 4, a dull, throbbing ache radiating down the left side of your neck. every time you try to tilt your head, a sharp reminder of the sudden impact flashes through your muscles. a minor fender-bender on the way home from your daughter's hockey practice left you with a stiff, aching neck, but thankfully, nothing more. next to you, your twelve-year-old daughter is swinging her legs off a plastic chair, her hockey gear bag resting by her feet. she’s still wearing her team jersey and, next to her, your five-year-old son is entirely unbothered by the clinical surroundings, happily coloring on a piece of scrap paper. the minor accident had sent your heart into your throat, but as you look at your children, the overwhelming wave of maternal relief keeps you grounded.
"it seems to be nothing more than a little muscle strain," dr shen says softly, his gloved hands expertly palpating the base of your skull, his expression a soothing balm to the lingering adrenaline in your veins. shen steps back, charting something on his tablet with a soft, reassuring smile. "the kids are completely clear, not a single mark or tender spot on either of them. i’m going to order a mild anti-inflammatory for you and then you are free to go home and rest."
"thank goodness," you sigh, reaching down to ruffle your son's hair. "i just wanted to be absolutely sure they were okay."
outside the glass doors of the exam room, jack is walking fast, clipboard in hand, listening to an intern rattle off a patient's vitals.
“send for dr. fitz, he’ll know what to do. and call me when you get the results. what’s the state of the girl in bay one?”
jack turns then towards the intern as she starts listing the latest lab results on the young patient that just arrived a few minutes ago. he is in full doctor mode. focused, distant, and professional.
that is, until he passes the curtain of your bay, a sudden movement catching his eye. it’s a high, dark auburn ponytail swinging back and forth. a very specific, familiar ponytail.
the same one he usually fights with on his days off as he helps his daughter get ready for practice, earnestly trying to avoid any bumps or stay hairs hanging from the ponytail. jack stops dead in his tracks, causing the intern to almost crash into his back.
jack looks through the pale curtain, eyes widening. the clipboard in his hand feels suddenly too heavy. and it only gets worse once he notices a second head poking though the curtain, this time his baby boy. his entire world is sitting right now in exam room 4.
he abandons the intern mid-sentence, pulling the curtain aside, his usual collected demeanor completely evaporating.
"jack?" shen looks up, surprised by his sudden entrance.
but jack isn't looking at him. he rushes straight to the side of the table, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, wide with a rare, raw panic. "what happened? are you okay? are the kids okay?"
"hey, breathe," you say instantly, reaching out to catch his hand. your fingers lace into his, and the grounding touch immediately lowers his shoulders, though his chest is still heaving. "we're okay. i promise. just a stupid little bumper-to-bumper on the way home from the rink. someone short-braked ahead of us."
your daughter rolls her eyes playfully. "mom took the hit like a champ, dad. you should be proud."
"daddy!" your five-year-old chirps, abandoning his coloring page to scramble off the chair and throw his arms around jack’s leg.
jack immediately drops to one knee, wrapping his strong arms around your son, burying his face in the boy's hair for a brief, fiercely protective second. he looks up at your daughter, reaching out to squeeze her knee. "you're sure you're both okay? nothing hurts?"
"we're totally fine, dad," she reassures him, giving him a warm smile.
only then does jack stand back up, turning his attention fully to you, eyes glowing with adoration and relief. his hand cups your cheek, his thumb gently brushing across your cheekbone. "and you? your neck?"
"just a little stiff," you murmur, leaning into his touch, completely accustomed to how deeply he cares for his family, even if he keeps it hidden from the rest of the world. "dr. shen was just checking me out. he says we’re good to go."
speaking of which… the room is entirely silent as four sets of eyes turn to the doctor.
you look past jack’s shoulder and notice that dr shen is standing there, his jaw slightly slack. on the other side of the curtain, the intern who had been following jack is staring open-mouthed, and a bunch of other nurses, including lena, have paused in the hallway, completely transfixed by the scene.
the great private dr. abbot is currently looking at you with a softness none of them knew he possessed, his hand resting tenderly on your waist while a local little league hockey player calls him dad.
jack blinks, finally realizing the audience he has gathered. he straightens up, but he doesn't let go of your hand, the other one resting on top of your son’s head. he clears his throat, the faint trace of a rare, boyish smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he looks at his stunned colleague.
"john," jack says, his voice regaining its usual steady cadence, though it's much warmer now. "i believe you've met my wife. and these are our kids."
shen blinks, a massive grin suddenly breaking across her face. "your kids? jack, you have a whole family!”
“i do,” he says, smiling softly.
“and you didn’t think of sharing that information with the group.”
"i like my privacy," jack defends himself. he looks down at his kids, then back to you, the sheer relief of knowing you are all safe overtaking any awkwardness about his secret being out. he leans down, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your lips right in front of the entire observation window. " i'm glad you're all safe."
"we are," you whisper, smiling against his lips. "now, can you sign our discharge papers, dr. abbot? we want to go home."
"consider it done," jack says softly. he turns to the staring interns outside with a mock-stern raise of his eyebrows, and they instantly scramble back to work, whispering excitedly among themselves.
as jack helps you down from the table and gathers your son into his arms, you know his quiet, mysterious reputation at the hospital is officially over, but seeing the proud, contented smile on his face as he walks his family out, it’s clear he doesn't mind one bit.
Find My Pitt Masterlist here
Jack could be relentless when it came to stirring up trouble.
Especially when it came to poking a little fun at PTMC's Shark.
What no one could quite understand was why? Or how Jack managed to get away with it.
Not until you, Jack's fearless firefighter of a wife, comes rushing into the ER.
Turns out your presence worries more than just Jack.
Notes: strong language. established relationship. medical inaccuracies. injuries. Jack being relentless when it comes to teasing his brother-in-law. overprotective Shark.
Word Count: ~4.5k
Jack was known to poke a little fun here and there.
Known to keep a steady head, a calm resolve.
Keeping things light hearted despite the weight of the work. Whatever troubles he had he buried them deep inside, something very few people knew..
It was a trait most carried whilst working the night shift.
An air of indifference, so polarising from the dayshift’s tightly wound energy, it could give someone whiplash.
But one thing remained the same between the day and night shift.
Was its need to feed on gossip.
Gossip was what made the ER spur on. Or at least, simply helped maintain a little sanity for those who worked there.
He loved stirring up a little humour.
His therapist had told him more than once that it was a coping mechanism – but he countered that comment by asking what harm could a little laugh here and there really do?
Whenever someone new came aboard.
One of the inevitable questions that came to their mind was – How did you lose your leg?
Now it wasn’t like everyone outright asked him, most skirting around the topic, too afraid to ask, too timid to broach such a personal topic.
But there were times where some intern or student let their curiosity get the better of them.
Had let the question pass by their filter.
And that such time was now.
As Ogilvie raised a brow, pointed at Jack’s leg and straight up asked, “How’d you lose it?”
A hush falling over those nearby, a huff of annoyance at his blunt question. The insensitivity of it all.
But in Jack’s eyes, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
As Jack catches sight of PTMC’s Shark. The chilling orthopedic surgeon that made everyone’s blood freeze at the sight of him.
That made people part and duck their heads, averting their gaze.
Only a select few found the ability to stand toe-to-toe with him. To not waver in his presence.
And one of those few, was Jack Abbot.
A grin slipping onto Jack’s face as he answers dryly in response to Ogilvie's question, “Bitten off by a shark"
Jutting a finger over towards Park, "That one, that one took my leg,” the words were so blatant, and dry.
An expression of complete seriousness taking over Jack’s features as he spoke.
One that Ogilvie honestly couldn’t decipher from being real or false. His mind knew it was a joke, and yet Jack’s delivery couldn’t have sounded more honest.
Catching word of the joke, Park merely scoffed with the slightest shake of his head, concealing the faintest chuckle beneath his breath.
It wasn’t the first time Jack had made that joke.
And both knew it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The joke never once got old, for either of them.
Jack often brushed off questions about his leg with a simple, before you ask…it was a shark. It was one of Jack’s favourite jokes when avoiding the topic.
Jack shot a look back at Ogilvie, “Now shouldn’t you be helping with hand-offs?”
“Uh–yeah, course,” His eyes widened, stammering slightly with a nod of his head, ducking away.
Jack clicks his tongue, turning to face Park, “I swear that kid is going to make a fight break out in here if he doesn’t learn to bite his tongue”
An air of mutual respect hangs between them. A silent understanding between the two.
“And this is why I chose to go into surgery and not emergency med”
“Hm, and why’s that?”
“The patients tend to be less chatty,” Brendon’s eyes glance up at the clock, eyes furrowing as he simply nods towards Jack. “Makes it easier to talk shit”
Jack merely chuckles from his response, patting his back before Park disappears back upstairs.
It was rare.
But not an uncommon sight to see Jack and Brendon get along.
Whenever they passed each other, every one could tell that there was a friendliness between their interactions.
No one could quite pinpoint why.
Or how.
But it was clear that Brendon tolerated Jack.
But this mutual respect didn’t mean Jack didn’t divulge himself in a little gossip here and then about the Shark.
Whether he’d be passing by as his colleagues spoke, catching wind that the topic was about Park.
He’d add certain little things, “I heard he only ever listens to the soundtrack of Jaws whilst he operates” True or not, he liked to poke fun at the man.
“And how do you know that?” Santos would raise a brow in question.
Jack would simply shrug, “Heard it from someone I know”
It’d be simple things, small things that amused Jack.
Slipping in little truths here and there.
The information always chalked up to having heard it from someone he knew.
Now this someone as far as anyone knew could’ve been anyone, from admin, to a scrub nurse to a fellow doctor in the hospital that Jack was friends with.
No one any wiser to the fact that he was, in fact, referring to his wife.
Brendon Park’s sister.
You.
It was no secret to the staff of PTMC’s emergency department that Jack was happily married.
He proudly wore his wedding ring for all to see.
Speaking highly of you, a clear pride and deep devotion in his tone as he spoke of you.
He kept a photo of you in his wallet, and his camera roll was filled with photos of you and him, simply happy. Just waiting to be pulled out and scrolled through.
The sight of you never failed to bring a smile to Jack’s face.
Slipping you into the conversation with ease. Without even realising it, he could easily spend minutes talking about you to anyone that would listen.
On occasion even doting about you to his patients whilst he worked.
Going on and on about how strong and courageous you were. Fearless. Compassionate.
…
From the moment Jack had laid eyes on you.
His first thought was that you were smoking hot.
Literally smoking as you brushed away at the ashes from your suit, smoke curling from behind you.
Whilst you walked out of the building you and your team had just wrangled with, containing the burning embers until they were out.
He was on the scene assisting the SWAT team as a medic.
And he simply couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you carried yourself with confidence. Words firm as you made the next orders for your team. You were captivating. As you took control of the chaos around you.
How you had taken the time to crouch down and console one of a young boy who had gotten caught up in this mess.
It was that little boy that had brought you over to him.
Having tugged off your glove, your hand was wrapped with his, as you stopped before Jack. The slight dusting of embers on your cheek.
“Do you mind checking up on him? Just want to make sure he didn’t inhale too much of the smoke,” you had asked. “I’d go to the EMTs, but they’re all a bit preoccupied at the moment”
Jack nodded, “Of course,” his eyes moving down to the boy, whilst he crouched before him, to appear a little more friendly.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“George”
“Well George, I’m Dr Abbot, but you can call me Jack. Do you mind if I take a look at you, make sure everything’s ok?”
George nods, “Ok,” his hand never lets go of yours. Clutching it tightly.
“You were pretty brave in there,” Jack said whilst glancing up at you.
You shrugged slightly, “All part of the job, isn’t it?”
Eyes drifting down to the little boy by your side, “Though I think you were braver than me George, maybe you’ll be a firefighter one day huh?”
“Or you could be a doctor?” Jack added.
While George’s nose scrunched up laughing at the two of you. His mind drifted away from the stressful events, as he focused on you both.
“Saving lives, and helping people,” Jack continues to say.
While you twist your mouth, debating his words, “Firefighters do all that too, and we get to ride in a pretty cool truck, what do you say George?”
Whilst George tilts his head in thought.
Jack chuckles, feigning defeat, “When you say it like that, being a firefighter does sound pretty cool”
“Then I’ll count on seeing you at the sign ups,” you remark jokingly.
Jack’s hands moved swiftly, announcing anytime he did something, and what he was checking for. From checking his pupils, to listening to his heartbeat, Jack was thorough.
“Can you take a deep breath in for me George?” Jack asks, while George agrees, “One, two, three, and out, that’s it.”
Your eyes watch as Jack continues to be gentle, humorous as he makes the young boy laugh.
There was something soothing about Jack.
Something that made the adrenaline coursing through you begin to rest and settle. Heart steadying.
“Seems like everything is in order, George, I’d offer you a lollipop but it seems like one of the only things I don’t have in my pockets,” Jack jokes.
“Hey Park! We’ve located the kid’s mom,” one of your colleagues called over. Whilst you nodded in acknowledgement, before looking back at Jack.
“Thanks again for the help, doc”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Jack nodded.
You both hesitate for a moment, not yet wanting to part. “I don’t know what it is about you Abbot, but something tells me you’re trouble”
“Hopefully the good kind,” he replies, with a small quirk of his lip.
“–Park, c’mon!” you’re urged once more.
“I’m coming,” You hum, with a small nod of your head as you wave at Jack. “I’ll see you around”
“See ya”
One of his colleagues comes up to his side, as Jack’s eyes follow you. “Who was that?”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to,” he replied.
Clapping his shoulder, Jack’s attention snapped to the side, “Maybe next time Romeo,” and with that Jack is pulled away to attend to another injury.
From that moment on.
It felt like each time Jack saw a fire truck or a cluster of firefighters, he always, without meaning to, searched for your face in the crowd. Had kept an eye out just to see you once more.
Until eventually it had faded.
His hope had begun to dissipate. Pittsburgh was a big city afterall. The chance of seeing you again was slim to none.
Days turned into weeks, which had turned into months.
Until you had become a distant memory, simply a nice idea.
Well.
That was until you had tapped on his shoulder. Whilst standing in line at a coffee shop one late afternoon, smiling as he met your eye.
You would be lying to say your mind didn’t drift to the memory of the medic you had met all those months ago.
The image of him flitting into the forefront of your mind. How his eyes held a depth to them, unwavering, calculating. The way he held eye contact with you. Softening ever so slightly.
There was a story behind those hazel eyes.
A story you wanted to know.
Eyes tracing his features, as you took in his appearance. No longer wearing the camo tactile suit of a SWAT medic, instead simply in a black t-shirt and cargo pants.
Upon meeting your eyes, they blinked in surprise, before a smile graced his features.
“Well if it isn’t Pittsburgh’s finest firefighter,” he tilts his head, “It’s good seeing you again”
“I see I made quite an impression,” you grinned. With this look in your eye that had him enthralled.
“As if I could forget, Park wasn’t it?” he said.
With a smile you nodded in confirmation, “But you can call me Y/N”
“Well if you’re not busy, how about you join me for some coffee?”
You pause for a moment, letting the offer stand in the air. Before you eventually nod, “I’d love to”
“Great,” a twinkle sparked in his eyes.
Intrigue developing.
Laughter and smiles shared over coffee. Swapping stories from your own funny moments as a firefighter to Jack’s own mishaps in the ER.
A friendship gained, with the feeling that something more could develop.
When schedules aligned. You’d share a coffee or tea, or whatever you felt like, maybe even breakfast before your shift started and after his shift ended.
You had grown closer until soon, the line between friendship and something more had become blurred.
As Jack leaned in, hand caressing your cheek gently. Waiting, tentative, longing to cross that line. Until you tugged him down, crashing your lips against his, melting into his embrace with a sigh.
It was messy at first, clumsy and new.
Trying to find your rhythm together. But once you did. It was absolute bliss. A peace harbouring between you both.
Understanding one another, even in the silences when words felt too difficult to say.
That wasn’t to say it was all perfect.
That there weren’t times you wanted to pull your hair out in frustration as he’d shut you out. Or times where you would be reckless coming home worn out from a shift as Jack would incessantly worry over you.
But you both pulled through.
You learned to grow, to be better. For yourselves. And for each other.
Jack should’ve known that a life with you would always be full of surprises.
Especially when you insisted he meet your brother.
The brother you had mentioned a handful of times, how he was scary but a real softy once you got to know him.
Imagine Jack’s surprise when he opened the door to your home, only to be confronted by the sight of Brendon Park.
The orthopedic surgeon known as the Shark of the very hospital that Jack worked at.
It definitely started out as a tense meeting.
Whilst you tried your best to melt the tension. It didn’t go past you to see how Brendon’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at Jack. How Jack held his gaze. Cool. Unflinching.
Both simply, polite. But nothing more.
A stale mate.
Only once you slapped him in the arm did his cold facade begin to fracture. “Cool it,” you muttered to Brendon with a pointed look.
Jack watched as Brendon relaxed, how it was clear he cared for you. The way you both interacted with ease. A clear bond.
A side to Brendon he never thought he would get to see.
Jack followed your lead as you teased Brendon, whilst Jack would add his own quips, growing bolder with each passing meeting.
And though Brendon was never one to reveal the cards closest to his chest.
He was glad to see you so happy with Jack.
And even happier when he watched as you and Jack had exchanged your, I Dos, words of cherished promises and love. Brendon couldn’t believe it, the little girl he once grew up with was now grown and married.
Hell, Brendon still couldn’t believe the risks you put yourself through day in and day out as a firefighter.
Even if at times all Brendon wanted to do was wrap you up in bubble wrap and ensure you were ok. He knew that wasn’t a solution.
But no matter what, no matter how much time would pass he would always worry over you. It was part of his job as your brother.
Even if you were confident and able.
Fearless. Bold.
When you walked into a room it was as though you would gain control of it. Eyes would look to you. Your shoulders pushed back, a keen look in your eye.
You and Jack made quite the pair.
That was the you that those in the ER had grown to know. In the fleeting moments when you’d drop by, You’d always take a moment to say hello to everyone whenever time allowed.
Even sometimes bringing in a little something for everyone to eat – knowing all too well the negative impact an empty stomach can have on morale.
You were always a welcomed sight.
Unfortunately.
Tonight was one of those nights they wished they didn’t see you. On the cusp of changeover, just as the night shifters had begun to filter in as those from the day began to file out.
A trauma had been called through.
Another trauma.
Nothing out of the ordinary, especially for those in the Pitt. Barely batted an eye at the information, simply going through the motions as they prepared for it.
Female, a firefighter that had simply got caught in a bad accident.
What no one had expected however.
Was you.
The moment the gurney rolled through the doors it felt like everyone had their breaths caught in their throat.
Snapping back into motion as they hear your muffled groans.
Jack felt like he couldn’t move.
It felt like his heart had stopped.
You were lying there.
Covered in soot. Your gear, partially cut away. A cervical collar wrapped around your neck. One of your legs securely stabalised in an inflated splint.
Bruises already blooming across your jaw.
Yet somehow.
Somehow.
You still managed a grin, running high on adrenaline or on the medications, that was something you couldn’t decipher.
“Hey–” you managed to choke out, voice strained.
“Jesus Christ," Jack had muttered, feet moving fast as he moved beside you. Eyes flickering to everything and everyone as they work around you.
You pull his attention back to you, as you grasp his hand. “Look at me,” you said firmly.
His brows knitted. Worry plastered all over his face.
“Don’t do that”
“Do what?”
“That face, that terrified look doesn’t suit you,” you mumble out, breathing short between your words. “Especially on your handsome face”
A few of the others in the room stifle a laugh.
Jack bites his lip, before sucking in a harsh breath, “I’m sorry love,” his hand clasps yours tighter. Unable to shake the worry from his features.
“I’m going to be fine”
No matter how many times you might say that to him. Jack’s shoulders remained tense. On edge. His attention flickers between you and your vitals. Doing his best to keep you alert.
To keep you talking.
To keep you breathing.
To keep you smiling.
Because smiling meant that you were okay. At least, okay by your standards.
Robby moved fluidly, quick and efficient, doing his very best to ensure you were going to make it through this. He was not going to be the reason Jack lost another wife…
“Page ortho,” he had directed, eyes assessing your leg. No signs of broken skin tissue, which was good, less risk of infection. But there was clearly something wrong with your leg.
Ordering scans as they assess the damage.
Shit.
That was the thought that had crossed Jack’s mind once the word ortho filled the air. Eyes glancing down to his watch.
There was no way Park would still be here.
No way that he would be the surgeon called down.
A wave of relief had washed over him as the orthopede that had appeared, was instead one of the residents.
Watching intently as they worked upon you, feeling the weight of Jack’s eyes.
It seems.
That Jack’s slight relief was short lived.
“What’s the verdict?” Park’s deep voice echoed in the room.
The universe has a strange sense of humour.
The room stilled.
As Brendon appeared at the door. Eyes stern, cold, calculating as he glances at those around the room.
But once his eyes land on you.
He freezes.
Eyes widening, a lump forming in his throat. Dana might have called him down here.
But this was not what he had expected to see.
Not who he had expected to see.
When she had said the words urgently. He imagined a lot of different scenarios. But he never once expected to see you here.
“It appears to be a fractured tibia,” the resident reported.
You snorted, “Think it’d be okay if I borrow your crutches?” you teased Jack.
“Do you really think this is the time to be joking?”
“You could teach me how to use ‘em,” you continued.
Those around you laugh lightly from your jokes.
All except for Brendon and Jack.
“What happened?” Brendon’s face hardened.
Just as the resident was about to speak up, about to explain the details of your fractured tibia. They stopped short, noticing that his attention was directed at you.
“I’m fine,” you replied.
Brendon shook his head, moving to assess the imaging himself, “Fine people don’t get wheeled into the ER”
“Everyone has a bad day,” you shrug, wincing slightly from the movement. Jack’s hand grips yours tighter.
“And what did your bad day include?” he asks, words clipped.
“Building collapsed, that’s all,” you murmured. Your other hand waved lazily, trying to decrease the situation.
“Y/N?” he asked once more.
You simply complained, “Oh my god, you’re hovering”
His brows knit at your words, “I’m not hovering, just worried. Right Jack?”
“Right,” Jack nodded.
Brendon crosses his arms over his chest, lips pulled taut.
"I am making sure you're okay."
But there was this glint in your eye, one that Jack had seen far too many times to count. One he had recognised immediately.
Oh no.
Robby arching a brow at the sight.
Whilst the others watch in confusion, completely left in the dark as to what was happening. Never had Park shown such interest in a patient.
Before Jack could stop you, your arm had reached up.
Your finger pressing against Brendon’s nose.
As you booped him.
You had fucking booped Shark’s nose.
Everyone held their breaths, waiting for his reaction, waiting to see what would happen.
The look on Brendon’s face was one of blinking shock.
Whilst you bore a delighted grin.
“What the fu–” he had grumbled out.
Until you had booped his nose again, his hand catching your wrist. Firm but not harshly.
“What are you doing?” he raises a brow as he looks to you, eyes narrowed.
Whilst Jack pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I read somewhere that sharks back down if you bump them on the nose,” you had explained, a small laugh escaping you before forming into a harsh cough.
Instead of a growling rage. Instead of a harsh retort.
The whole room watched as Shark, PTMC’s fiercest orthopedic surgeon. The very man that could make medical students and interns cry with a simple click of his tongue.
Any harshness had been bitten back, as he instead crouched by your side, grasping your free hand.
Here he was.
Softening.
“Are you ok?” he asks you, softly.
“I will be if you let anyone here do their job,” you squeeze both of their hands, eyes moving to glance between them both.
“It’s not my first broken leg, and you know it,” you looked at Brendon.
He remarks, “Don’t blame me for worrying over you”
Your hand slipped from his, as you pinched his cheek, “I know you’re just being a good brother”
Brother.
The word travelled through to the ears of those nearby. Eyes widening in shock. As if today couldn’t have brought any more surprises.
“As the break is clean and transverse, surgery isn't necessary,” someone had announced. “It’ll likely be a cast for several months to allow it to heal”
You sigh.
Whilst you had been putting on a brave face you had a genuine feeling of relief rush through you. No surgery was a good sign.
Even if you were feeling good now. Anything could happen.
“I love you both, a lot–” you had begun to say.
Jack clenched his jaw, shaking his head, “Don’t speak like that”
You send him a look, “I’m just saying I love you”
“That tone says something else,” his words hang between you.
“I love you too,” he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your head.
Robby lets out a chuckle as he catches a glimpse of outside the trauma room. Knowing that this incident had added fuel to the flames, gossip spread like wildfire.
Just outside of the trauma room, where you laid, Brendon on one side, as Jack stood on the opposite.
The second it became clear that you weren’t dying.
That you were in the clear.
The second everyone realized your injuries amounted to a cast, a handful of bruises, and a mandatory period of sitting still that would undoubtedly drive you insane—
The gossip began.
Dana bit back a grin as she overheard the murmurs that passed through. This was something that was definitely going to stick around.
“Well this explains it.” Santos said arms folded over her chest.
Whitaker raised a brow, “Explains what?”
She elbows him as though it were obvious, “Explains why Abbot and Shark get along”
“They’re obviously playing civil for her sake,” Princess comments, nodding in agreement. “Seems like Mrs Abbot was once Miss Park”
“They’re always acting like this” Ellis stated as she came up to check up on charts.
“Did you know?”
Ellis stared at them confused. “You didn’t?” her eyes scanning those before her. The dayshifters who had gotten caught up once more with overtime.
And those who simply didn’t want to leave until they knew you were ok.
“No,” Santos exclaimed.
Javadi shook her head, “Had no idea”
“Why would we know that?”
Their shock had only worsened once Mel joined the conversation. “What’s everyone talking about?”
“Y/N, Abbot’s wife, the firefighter” Mohan began to explain.
“Yeah?”
“She’s Park’s sister”
“Oh,” Mel said.
“Oh?” Santos raised her brow.
She tilted her head, brows furrowing, “I thought everyone knew that?” her eyes glanced around at those standing there. Meeting Ellis’ eye who nods, believing the same thing.
“How did you know this?”
“Dr Abbot mentioned it,” Mel explained. It was in passing and so small, to the point that Mel didn’t think anything more of it.
“Of course he did,” Javadi sighed.
Questions brewing in their mind. Their thoughts run wild.
Questions about what it was like having Park as a brother?
What was it like having Park as a brother in law?
How did Abbot not cower when he realised?
Did Park give an overprotective brother talk?
Everything and anything that came to mind.
They would simply have to wait for their questions to be answered just until you were feeling better.
Your hand not once leaving Jack’s as he stood by your side. Soothing you and consoling you.
The worry that had pent up within him now finally was able to settle.
You were safe.
That was all that mattered to him, and to Brendon.
At least now everyone could say that one thing was for sure.
While a shark might not have taken Jack’s leg.
It was true.
That a shark’s sister had taken his heart.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. I just loved the idea of Jack using the excuse of a shark biting his leg off, only to tease his brother in law Brendon. Both finding a middle ground when it came to joking about the other. and I totally picture most of the night are already in the know about your relation to Shark as well as Mel!! catching everyone else off guard about it. Just know that no one can look at Abbot or Park the same after this interaction haha
Let me know what you thought ✨
There will be more to come for the Shiver Collection!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist ♥️
Next up will feature Mateo Diaz x Reader: Tricky Fish
Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
For more Jack Abbot Works check out my series below!
Such as my Dr Jack Abbot x Reader Who Would've Thought series here💖
Or my fic Based on Waitress the Musical, Dr Jack Abbot x Waitress!Reader Sugar, Butter, Flour series 🥧
Or for a lil bit of hurt with eventual comfort check out Jack and the reader create a bond through being widowers, I Know You're Hurting series
Or check out my overall Masterlist here
𑣲⋆ pairing: zuko x fem! reader
✮⋆˙ summary: raising a child was harder than you thought it would be, but lucky for you, zuko is an understanding husband
𖹭.ᐟ warning(s): a bit of angst near the end but theres comfort by urs truly, fluff time
12 hours.
you haven't been asleep for 12 hours.
your duty as the fire lady is hectic by itself, but to balance it as a mother now has got you heavily sleep deprived.
izumi lay asleep in your arms after countless attempts to put her to sleep, and you stood to place her back in her crib.
you lay her down carefully and tucked her blanket over her—a battlefield for mothers—and suddenly, she started stirring like she was about to cry again. you started rocking her crib and cooed 'mommy's here, it's okay' all over her, and finally, after a few grumbles, she settled down.
you stared at her anxiously for a moment, ready to cradle her back in your arms if she started looking for you again, but thankfully, she remained asleep in her crib. you heaved a sigh of relief for the umpteenth time now. hopefully, that would be the last attempt.
slowly, you backed away from the crib and walked towards your bed—a sight that never failed to make you happy—and gracefully, flopped down. you stared at the ceiling for a moment before closing your eyes and praying to the heavens to let you finally sleep. but you knew by the next hour, you would hear the wails of your daughter.
a beat passes. you're slowly drifting off to dreamland when you hear the door creak a bit too loudly for your liking. you chose to ignore it.
you could hear heavy thuds of footsteps; your eyebrow twitched, but still chose not to get up.
then a loud thump followed by an 'ow!' echoed, and your eyes snapped open.
"dear, could you please be quiet?!" you whisper-shouted.
lo and behold, it was your ever-so-graceful husband, zuko, who quickly apologized with a pained look. you closed your eyes back again, while you could hear some rustling of clothes before feeling a dip in the bed beside you. warm, toned arms pulled you into an embrace and a kiss landed on your forehead.
"how's izumi?" he whispered, tracing the noticeable swell under your eyes. "asleep" you murmured. he hummed in response and just started peppering you with kisses. normally, it would make you feel all giddy and excited, but the loud smack of his kisses makes you feel wary of the sound waking izumi up.
"could you please kiss me quietly?"
"is that even possible?"
"then, stop kissing me."
if you had your eyes open, you would see how he looked offended right now. "so now it's a crime to show my love to my wife?"
"it's a crime to be this loud."
after a few hushed bickering, both of you just stopped to sleep.
a minute passes…then a few…until it was almost an hour for the scheduled cry.
as if your body knew when your daughter would cry, you woke up and just right on time, you could hear the loud cries of your daughter.
you groaned and zuko seemed to stir awake from your daughter as well. when will you ever get to have a proper sleep?
"i'll go take care of her." you moved to get off the bed, but zuko's arms around you tightened. "no, you can go back to sleep. i'll take care of her." noting how his tired eyes mirror yours, you insisted. "no, i'll take care of her".
leaving no room for argument, you quickly got up and picked izumi up from her crib.
"it's okay now…" you rocked her in your arms, mindlessly humming a melody while your eyes grew tired by the minute. time has passed and you've been rocking her for a while now, but she still wouldn't stop crying. "izumi, mommy's here…" you heaved a frustrated sigh. she continued to wail louder and louder, and even started squirming and you've grown irritated at this point that you hadn't noticed your voice grew louder too. "izumi, why won't you li—"
a hand came up behind you, startling you. it was zuko. you hadn't noticed he got up from the bed.
"hey, you alright?" he had a worried look.
you sighed, rubbing your eyes. "i'm fine." he looked at you for a moment; it's obvious he doesn't believe you.
he soothed your back in silence, watching izumi squirm and cry. his gaze settled to yours, noting your irritated yet tired look. "here, let me." you shook your head, "it's okay, I can do it. you have a lot of things to do tomorrow." izumi seemed to disagree as she started thrashing and wailing as if she didn't want to be in your arms. "izumi—" zuko could feel that you were about to explode.
he called your name. "she' can feel you, you know." you turned to look at him, eyebrows furrowed. "she's scared of you." zuko extended his arms out in silent invitation. you were reluctant for a moment, but you were tired of trying to figure her out, so you handed her over to him. he started slowly swaying her in his arms, littering her little face with kisses. "hush now, izumi, let your mother sleep now."
you watched them, noticing how her loud cries died down to sobs. zuko smiled down at her, wiping the tears streaming down her cheeks. your heart felt heavy yet lifted at the sight, the feeling of blue starting to creep up to you. now you can't believe you almost lashed out on her.
are you really a good mother for izumi?
zuko noticed the doubtful look you had, and as if he knew what you were thinking, he kissed your forehead like he was silencing your thoughts. "hey, you're a great mother." you looked at him, your eyes felt prickly. his other arm pulled you in for an embrace while the other was holding your daughter, "and a loving wife I could ever ask for."
his words made you feel even more emotional as you felt your mouth quivering, tears building up in your eyes. your daughter looked at you curiously with those amber eyes that resembled zuko's while you sniffled on your husband's chest, her stubby arms reaching out and tapping your shoulders.
you noticed and leaned in to kiss her arms softly making izumi giggle with her gummy smile out. zuko grabbed her chubby hand and patted them on your cheek, while speaking with an obnoxious high-pitched voice, "sorry for waking you up, mama." you smiled at him in humor.
feeling that you seemed to calm down, he gently held your hand and lead you back to your shared bed. he laid izumi down between the two of you, tucking her with her blanket. you watched him hum her to sleep, his hand caressing her dark baby hairs.
is it possible to fall in love with him all over again?
both of you watched her go to sleep as you properly tucked her sprawled limbs underneath the blanket. zuko looked at you for a moment and whispered, "are you alright now?" you hummed in response, whispering a thanks to you. afraid to wake izumi up, you felt that you hadn't expressed your gratitude enough so you smothered every part of his face with your kisses, to which he wholeheartedly accepted. once again, you're remined yourself how much of a blessing it was to marry zuko as you continued to pepper kisses on his face.
…
"......could you please kiss me quietly?"
"oh, shut up."
and for what felt so long, you finally get to sleep feeling loved by your own family.
author's note: bye i just reread it im so sorry the pacing is ass, i literally just wrote this in a rush for mother's day which btw, happy mother's day everyone !! i wanted to highlight mothers' struggles n appreciate their strength but i captured it horribly gosh i suck writing angst cuz wdym it was suddenly okay??? time to suffer in uni before i get to even post my zuko songfic
credits: @uzmacchiato for the lovely gold divider
summary: its a hot day at the pool and criag doesn't know how to act around pope's girl (idk man)
pairing: andrew 'pope' cody x fem!reader
wc: 1.1k
warnings: reader wears a bikini and craig is perving on his brother's gf, slight violence, not proofed soz </3
deran can sense craig’s train of thought before he even begins speaking. he’s looking at where you sit on the edge of the pool, pretty polka dot bikini showing off your body that’s glistening from the oily sunscreen pope had rubbed you down with earlier, feet dangling into to crystal blue water. your boyfriend had just stepped away to grab you another drink, a sweet smile showing your pretty teeth as you murmured a thank you andy to his brother as he stepped away.
there’s an impromptu swim party going on at the cody house, inspired by the sweltering triple-digit heat wave blanketing california and smurf being out of town. deran watches craig watch you as pope walks further and further away, a mischievous look in craig’s eyes that deran is sure will only spell trouble.
“dude, whatever you’re thinking—forget it,” deran warns. craig whips his head towards his younger brother, incredulous.
“what? i’m not doing anything,” craig defends causing deran to roll his eyes.
“whatever man, you mess with pope’s girl it’s your funeral,” deran says as he brings his bottle to his lips.
“i’m just gonna see if she’s up for a friendly game,” craig says innocently as he begins to swim through the water towards you.
you’re pulled from your own thoughts as you sway slightly to whatever rock song was playing through the speakers as craig appears below you in the water. you smile down at him, eyes hidden behind your sunglasses as you greet him kindly.
“hi craig!” you chirp.
“hey y/n,” he says, “why’re you not in the water?” he says splashing you slightly making you giggle.
“oh, pope doesn’t feel like swimming,” you say simply, but not unhappily.
“well don’t you want to swim?” he asks you imploringly. you hesitate, the water does look nice, and it is so hot outside, but you’d been content to sit beside pope at the edge, watching the festivities as he dotes on you. when you don’t answer, he speaks again, “c’mon” he coaxes, “i need a partner and you’d be perfect,”
you glance back at the house where pope went to refill your glass before looking back at craig, “partner for what?” you cave, sliding into the water beside him. one quick dip won’t hurt, you’ll be out by the time pope gets back, you decide.
criag thinks this is the best idea he’s ever had. he’s got you, a total babe, sat atop his shoulders, his hands grasping at your legs to keep you in place, just above your knees. you laugh as he surges forward, your arms pushing at the girl across from you who sat on her own partners shoulders. you shove and shove, craig below you trying to trip his own opponent across from him.
your squeal reaches pope’s ears as he steps outside, returning with your drink in hand. he walks up to the edge of the pool where you were sitting when he left and his eyes find you just as your opponent knocks you down, you and craig falling sideways into the water with a big splash.
you pop out of the water, a bright smile on your face as you graciously congratulate the winners. you take the steps out of the pool, water cascading down your form and reflecting the sun like jewels—craig hot on your heels.
he’s talking to you animatedly, looking like a little kid chasing an icecream cone as you walk around the pool. you’re smiling at him sweetly, but that’s all it is to you—sometimes you’re too kind for your own good, unaware of the ulterior motives pope’s brother might be harboring. which is why pope isn’t mad at you.
pope clenches his jaw hard at the scene, bending down to set the drink on the concrete before grabbing your towel from your bag on a nearby lounger with stiff and controlled movements. he meets you halfway, opening the towel for you to step into and he wraps it around you securely.
you beam at him as his arms encircle you, pushing up onto your toes to press a damp kiss to his cheek. his gaze remains locked on craig, whose steps beside you faltered only slightly when he noticed pope’s return.
“thank you, andy!” you gush with your saccharine tone.
“you’re welcome, sweetheart,” he responds in his usual even tone, never looking away from craig. “you have fun?” he asks you.
“yeah!” you gush, “craig needed a partner and he’d said i’d be perfect, but we lost anyway,” you pout slightly at your defeat, unaware of how you’d practically taddled on his brother.
craig shifts awkwardly in place, his good idea crumbling around him as pope continues to stare at him with his murderous glare.
“i’m sure you were perfect, sweetheart,” he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, “why don’t you go get changed and we’ll head to that diner you like for dinner,” he says, squeezing your waist.
you depart with an excited “okay!” grabbing your bag from the chair and shouting a quick “bye craig!” over your shoulder as you head inside, unaware of the tension you were leaving behind.
craig offers a meek “bye,” in response, cause even his coked out brain is realizing deran was right and he messed around and took things too far again. pope just looks at him with raised brows, listening for the sliding glass door to click shut behind you.
“look man, i—“ craig starts, but the moment pope’s sure you’re well into the house, his fist is coming up and connecting with craig’s jaw with a thick crack!
standing at the edge of the pool, the force of the punch sends craig stumbling into the water, the crowd of partygoers whooping obnoxiously at the splash.
craig emerges from the water floundering, deran appearing at his side. they watch pope stalk back inside to you, derans hand clapping his older brother on the shoulder. craig twists his jaw from side to side, wincing at the pain that’s sure to leave a bruise and the tang of iron that coats his tongue.
“told you it was a bad idea man,” is all the blonde says, no sympathy lacing his voice.
craig just turns to his brother, a shit eating grin already growing on his face—blood staining his teeth—that had deran rolling his eyes hard and said “it was so worth it, man,” already thinking longingly about the soft flesh of your supple thighs squeezing his head and the feel of them under his hands. “no way pope can handle all of that,” he says dopily, which earns him a smack upside the head from deran, “ow! what the hell man!”
“dipshit,” deran says, shaking his head unbelievably at his brother who never learns not to poke the bear.
Hiii! Can you do number two with Spencer Reid? Also I love your work!!!🤍
No. 2 spencer reid x reader
prompt list “I can’t leave you alone for one second without you hurting yourself, can I?” “I mean, I’m fine so it’s okay-” “No, it’s not okay not when I feel like I’m going to go batshit fucking crazy, thinking you’ve hurt yourself.”
The sound was what got him.
Not a crash — not dramatic enough for that. Just a sharp, abbreviated clatter from the kitchen, followed by silence, followed by your voice saying okay under your breath in the particular tone that meant the opposite.
Spencer was off the couch before he’d made a conscious decision about it.
You were standing at the counter with your hand wrapped around your opposite wrist, which was not a great sign, and there was a broken mug on the tile floor, and the kettle was still running, which meant you’d been reaching for it when whatever happened had happened.
“What did you do,” he said. Not a question.
“It’s nothing.” You didn’t look up. “The mug slipped and I grabbed the counter wrong, I just—”
“Let me see.”
“Spencer, it’s really—”
“Let me see your hand.”
You looked up at him then, and whatever expression was on his face made you stop arguing. You held your hand out.
A burn, shallow, along the inside of your palm — hot water or the steam from the kettle, he couldn’t tell immediately. Not serious. Not nothing.
He didn’t say anything for a moment.
He turned your hand carefully in both of his, examining it with the focused attention he gave everything, and you watched his face do the thing where it cycled through several emotions in rapid succession and then settled into something very controlled.
“I’m fine,” you offered.
“I know,” he said.
His voice was measured in the specific way that meant it was being kept that way.
“It doesn’t even really hurt anymore—”
“Okay.”
“Spencer.”
“Give me one second.” He didn’t let go of your hand. He turned to the cabinet under the sink, located the first aid kit he’d reorganized two months ago because the previous arrangement had made no logical sense, and set it on the counter. He ran your hand under cool water first, gently, two fingers at your wrist to keep it steady.
You let him. You knew better than to argue with Spencer when his hands were doing something careful — it meant his brain was somewhere else, working through something, and interrupting it never went the way you hoped.
He dried your hand. Found the burn gel. Applied it with more precision than was strictly necessary for a minor kitchen injury.
“I can’t leave you alone for one second,” he said, very quietly, “without you hurting yourself, can I?”
“I mean—” You looked at the mug fragments on the floor. “I’m fine, so it’s okay—”
“No.” The word came out with more weight than you expected, and he stopped, and you watched him set the gauze down on the counter and press his hands flat against the surface. “No, it’s not okay. Not when I feel like I’m going to go batshit fucking crazy thinking you’ve hurt yourself.”
The kitchen was very quiet.
Spencer Reid almost never swore. It wasn’t a rule — it just wasn’t something he reached for. Which meant when he did it landed differently, like a measure of exactly how much something had gotten through the composure.
“Hey,” you said carefully.
He had his eyes on the counter.
“Spence.” You touched his arm with your unbandaged hand. “It was a mug. And some steam.”
“I know what it was.”
“Then—”
“I heard the sound.” He looked up at you finally, and there was something in his expression that was rawer than the situation seemed to warrant — or rawer than you thought it warranted, which you were increasingly understanding was not the same thing. “I heard it from the other room and my brain just—” He stopped. “You know what I do. You know what I’ve seen. And when I hear a sound like that and I don’t know yet what happened, my brain doesn’t wait for evidence before it starts running scenarios.”
Oh.
You looked at him — really looked, past the controlled voice and the careful hands, at the thing underneath. The two seconds in the hallway before he’d seen you standing. The not-knowing.
“I scared you,” you said.
He didn’t answer, which was its own answer.
“Spencer.” You shifted in front of him, ducking slightly until he met your eyes. “I’m fine. Look — present, accounted for, mildly scalded and embarrassed about the mug. That’s the whole story.”
His jaw moved.
“I know,” he said again, quieter now. “I know that. Logically I—” He exhaled through his nose. “I’m aware I’m overreacting to a kitchen accident.”
“You’re not overreacting.”
“The statistical likelihood that—”
“You’re not overreacting,” you said firmly. “You heard a noise and you got scared. That’s not a logic problem.” You held up your bandaged hand between you. “Okay? A little burn. That’s all this is.”
He looked at your hand. At the neat, precise bandaging job he’d done on a minor injury like it was the most important thing he’d touched all day.
“You could have called for me,” he said. Low, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it.
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
Something crossed his face.
“Bother me.” He said it like he was testing the weight of it and finding it didn’t make any sense. “You — I was sitting on the couch. Reading. You burned your hand and you didn’t call for me because you didn’t want to bother me?”
“It wasn’t a big deal—”
“You are never a bother.” He said it plainly, directly, with the full eye contact he reserved for things he needed you to actually receive. “Not for this. Not for anything. I don’t care if it’s a small thing — if you’re hurt I want to know. Even if it’s a splinter. Even if it’s a—” His voice caught slightly. “Even if it turns out to be nothing. I want to know.”
You were quiet for a moment.
“Okay,” you said softly.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” You turned your hand over and laced your fingers through his carefully, mindful of the bandage. “Next time I will call for you from the kitchen when I have a minor steam burn, and you can come panic at me in person.”
His expression shifted. The tension around his eyes loosened by a fraction.
“I wasn’t panicking.”
“You used the word batshit.”
“I was illustrating a point.”
“You absolutely were panicking.”
“I was—” He looked at the ceiling briefly. “I was experiencing elevated concern.”
“Mmhm.” You squeezed his hand. “Come on. Help me clean up the mug. And then you can make the tea since apparently I can’t be trusted.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Spencer.”
He looked at you.
“I’m okay,” you said. Simply. Directly. The way he’d needed it.
He looked at your face for a moment, doing that thing where he read you more thoroughly than most people read books.
Then he exhaled, slow and complete, and some last held thing released from his shoulders.
“I know,” he said. And this time it sounded like he meant it.
He bent to pick up the broken pieces of the mug, careful and methodical, while you held the dustpan. His shoulder pressed against yours. You let it.
“Next time,” he said, without looking up, “call for me.”
“Next time,” you agreed, “I will call for you.”
He glanced up at you sideways.
You smiled at him.
He looked back at the floor, but the corner of his mouth had moved, and that was enough.
Jack Abbot x Handzo!Reader—you're Lena's adopted daughter
The Pitt men (Robby, Abbot, Park, Shen, Langdon, Jesse, and Whitaker) when you show up in their lives again...with a child that looks a lot like them.
TW: 18+ MDNI. Angst. Jack is kind of a dick. Miscommunication. Pregnancy and pregnancy symptoms. Birth. Sex. Mentions of the foster system. No descriptions except that your hair is long enough for a two year old to pull when they're sitting on your hip. And I mean ANGST.
A/N: This is Jack's part of the collection and I once again have easter eggs with the names, lmk if you spot them. Now buckle in. She's a long one. Also ran out space for dividers so sorry about that.
Tags: @lunamoonbby @lillly-ofthevalley @justreadinghere7 @thedamnqueenofhell @abbot976 @kitkatrina @a-loveunlaced @fishsticks-jellybeans @itchlbbwgirl03 @imabapical @sebby-staan @shadowysouldphilospher @kmc1989 @staygoldsquatchling02 @kinard-luca-street-deacon-chris @keepingitundercover @darknessofhell666-blog-blog
“You’re shitting me,” Trinity says, her voice deadpan as she looks at the stick in her hand, the two pink lines present on the small digital screen. “You have to be shitting me. You’re pregnant?!” She looks up at you in disbelief, her eyes wide and gleaming with shock and yet a sort of pleasant glee.
“Is it that surprising?” you ask, your tone just slightly tense, just slightly offbeat, your mood high and happy and yet dark. You feel like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for some bad news to arise. You feel like it’s going too well.
“No, not really,” she says, rolling her eyes even though the gesture is half-assed, still tinged with that shock running through those clear mahogany eyes. Those eyes that can never lie, have never been able to lie. Not to you. “You and Jack fuck like wild rabbits so one of those times you were bound to wind up a statistic of failed contraceptives.”
“So, kind of you,” you reply, crossing your arms as you lean back against the bathroom sink, the granite top digging into your hip while she sits on the toilet seat lid, ankles crossed over ankles.
“Have you told Mr. Fiancé yet?” she asks and you sigh, gaze flicking up to the ceiling, the white popcorn texture shadowed by the light.
“I’m waiting until after his bachelor party. Don’t really want to spoil it and suffer through Robby’s whining all the way through to the wedding so…” you trail off, looking back down at her, at the way her lips are pursed as if she’s holding back a laugh, mirth glimmering in those eyes that you know almost as well as your own.
“You just don’t want to mess with Huckleberry’s first Vegas trip.” You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you, the way that Trinity knows you so well, has always known you so well. She knows you in a way that few people do—she knows every dark secret and thought that you’ve had and have, knows every fear and every dream. She knows because she’s been there since first year of medical school—eyebrow arched as always.
“Have you seen that boy? He could use some…exposure,” you reply and are delighted by the way her face twists into laughter, her body folding on itself as she snorts, head bopping in only the way she has, ponytail bouncing with the force.
“Well,” she says, regaining her composure, swallowing hard, her laughter and yours still echoing in the en suite bathroom. “You have to tell your mother at least. I am not putting up with Lena when she finds out you didn’t tell her right away. Because she’s vicious.” You sigh and glance down at your feet, at the socks designed to look like ice cream cones, a gift from Vicky for Galentine’s.
“How pissed would she be if I didn’t tell her until after the baby was born?” you ask and the only response you get is the choked snort of your best friend as it cracks into a belly laugh, the sound rich and deep as it echoes off the walls and the bathroom tiles, the echo making it octaves louder than it truly is.
“If you try that, you’re dead meat,” she tells you in between laughs, the stick still in her hand.
“Yeah,” you sigh again, one hand coming up and running through the strands of your hair with a violence that Robby would be proud of. “I was afraid of that.”
You watch as your mom walks into the café, her bag over her shoulder, dark red hair pulled back in that ponytail she always has. You can see that her eyes are tired, bags under them from the lack of sleep, from the shifting of her hours for everyone else in the world but herself. But they still have that gleam in them—the one you remember from your childhood, the one that promised fun and love and acceptance.
You love her, your mom, Lena Handzo—the mother who chose you. You were a child abandoned by people who didn’t want you, put into the care of people who only took you in because they got paid to. You were a child who believed that they would never have anyone who chose them, who wanted them. You were a child that felt like a burden and then in walked a woman with red hair and a smile that spoke when she couldn’t.
“I’ve been waiting for my daughter,” she had said, crouching down before you, hands kept to herself as if she knew the fear and hope that had been warring within you. “And I think you found me.”
And you thought she was right. You were her daughter—she chose you and you chose her. She wanted you; she loves you and she is here for you.
“Hey, sweetie,” she says now as she sinks down into the booth, her large bag moving to sit beside her, what appears like a change of clothes sticking out of the top of the old tote she’s had since you were a kid. “What’s up?”
“If I tell you what’s up,” you begin, pausing, measuring your words carefully, thinking as best you can, a part of you ready to just blurt it out and another knowing this needs to be done properly. “Then you can’t freak out.”
“Never a good lead up, kiddo,” she says, her eyes narrowing at you behind her black frame glasses, the size of which continues to get smaller the older she gets—she claims it’s an old lady thing. “But fine. Spit it out.”
“I’m pregnant,” you tell her, laying your phone flat on the table, the screen unlocking with your face, the picture of the five tests that Trin made you take already up and there and visible for her. You can feel that tightness in your throat, that bit of anticipation as your heart rises into your throat, the muscles pulsing with every beat as you swallow, watching the way she takes in the photo.
In the fact that is displayed on a small little screen.
You can see when the knowledge settles on her shoulder, you can see the way she seems to melt, her shoulders sinking down and her lips quivering as they tilt upwards in a watery smile, her eyes glimmering with joy and tears behind her glasses as she looks up at you, drawing in a hard breath nasal breath, her nostrils contracting, pulled together as she flicks her gaze up and away for a moment, lips still quivering.
“Mom?” you say, your voice cautious and tender and slightly fearful as her one lifts, shaking just slightly as she draws in another shaky breath, her hand going to rest over her mouth as a small cry escapes, echoing in the still air. “Say something, please.”
“I’m so happy!” she cries, turning back to you completely, small tears falling from the corners of her eyes, trailing over her cheeks as she lowers her hand, taking both of yours in hers, the phone still sitting on the table. “I’m so happy for you, sweetie! How’s Jack? He happy?”
“He doesn’t know yet,” you tell her, sighing, removing one hand from the warmth of her grip to run it through the strands of your hair, looking down at the stained and aged Formica tabletop. “I’m waiting until after his bachelor party. But I know he’ll be happy…right?” You look up at her, at your mother, finding peace in her smile as she nods, just once, the Mom kind of nod.
“Yes, sweetie. He’ll be happy, I’m sure. He loves you,” she says, her confident smile softening into a different kind of smile—the one a mother has when she is proud for her child, happy for her child. At peace because her child has the life she deserves. The love she deserves.
“Yeah, he does,” you say, a smile growing on your face at the thought of him, of Jack, your fiancé. At the image of him just this morning getting in, wearing his scrubs and a frown which brightened to a smile as he saw you, taking you in his arms and just holding tight to you, murmuring how much he loved you over and over and over. How lucky he was.
“Have you thought of names?” There is no waiting with your mother, she always cuts straight to the point, no dilly-dallying or hesitation.
“Mom!” you cry, sighing and rolling your eyes, wincing just a bit at the cluck of her tongue.
“I am your mother, do not roll your eyes at me, young lady!” And you can’t help the laugh that comes out, bubbling up your throat before entering the air, echoing through the coffee shop. Even more so when she joins in the laughter, her hand squeezing yours as the laughter turns to tears and she walks around the table to sit beside you, pulling you against her, tight and secure just as she’s done since you were a child.
Since she helped you beat the nightmares and the demons back with every time she said I love you, daughter-mine.
“This kid is gonna know—love,” you choke out around the lump of tears and mucus sitting in your throat, the one that makes it hard to breathe. “Right, Mommy?” You can feel her arms tighten around you as you cry soft tears with her, yours falling on her shirt and hers dripping into your hair, her chin on your head, your head on her shoulder.
“Yes. Yes, sweetie. Your kid is gonna know so much love that they’ll be…just sick of it. I know it, sweetie. You got so much love to give,” she says and you give one more choked sob, a thought rising and escaping from your mouth, voiced aloud and made real. Acknowledged.
“My kid will never have the feeling I did before you adopted me…they will always—always know they’re…wanted.”
“See you in two days, Bluefire,” Jack says, pressing a kiss against your cheek, his hand resting on the dip of your waist, warm and sure and strong. “I’m gonna miss you.”
“Oh, shut up,” you tease him, your hand finding his free one—the one not currently on you—and giving it a short, sharp squeeze. “You’ll be back before you know it and then we’ll be Mr. and Mrs. Handzo, right?” You can feel that sharp smile growing, the one that occurs when you’re teasing, when you’re analyzing, pranking or you know something no one else does.
“If that’s what you want,” he says, stepping closer, lifting your joined hands to his heart, “then that’s what we’ll have.”
“Stop being so perfect!” you tell him, your voice only slightly irritated, mostly full of joy and happiness. A kind of happiness you used to think you’d never have, the kind that the fear of never being wanted said would be impossible.
Yet here you are—you have a mother and three best friends and a fiancé. Everything you thought you’d never have when you were five years old sitting on yet another bunk bed in the tenth foster home, your things in a trash bag tucked underneath the rickety metal frame, the sounds of other kids echoing, but not in a happy way.
Here you are, building a family. One step at a time.
And who knows. Maybe after your baby is born, you can do what you always wanted to do: adopt. Save kids just like you in the same way Lena saved you.
“Can’t help it, Bluefire,” Jack says again, leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss against your lips, yet still one that has the ability to steal the breath from your lungs at the same time that a horn sounds, long and loud and annoying.
“I think Robby has arrived,” you tell him as he pulls away, squeezing your hand one last time as he steps back and opens the door, stepping out onto the porch, a slight hitch in his step from his new prosthetic—after his old one cracked during a SWAT mission. “Have fun!” you call out after him, waving as he turns back to smile at you, taking a photo of you standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame.
“I will!” he replies, turning back around to Robby who has leaned across the passenger seat to pop open the door for Jack.
“Just not too much!” you yell out as your final note, crossing your arms, cold creeping into your body and down your spine the longer you stand on the porch.
“Love you too!” he yells and then the door is closed and Robby backs out of the driveway, turning onto the road and towards the airport.
“Thank god, they’re finally gone!” calls out an exasperated voice from somewhere behind you, the voice of one Victoria Javadi—your best friend since childhood.
“Wow,” you deadpan, turning back around to face her, one eyebrow arching as you look at her and her irritated expression. “I’m so glad my fiancé annoys the fuck out of you, Vicky. Makes me feel so great.”
“Oh, shut it, kid,” your mom says, peeking her head out from the dining room, eyes narrowed at you in the way that only a mother has. “She wants to get on with your day.”
“My day is like, nothing because I’m pregnant,” you counter, making sure to enunciate each word, clearly and cleanly for the both of them.
“That’s why she made me bring all of this shit,” Trin says, stepping out, her body half-behind Vicky and half-out, her hand holding a bag full of baby planning books. “Her goal is to pick your name options. Personally,” Trin says as you sigh, walking over to them, taking the first book that she hands you, “I think you should name this baby Trinity, but I’m just biased. Always wanted a kid named after me.”
“Then have your own kid,” Vicky counters, the sentence making it impossible to stay straight-faced and the three of you burst out laughing as your mother clucks like a worried hen.
“And here I was thinking you three had grown up,” Lena mutters and you can’t help but smile at her, the soft smile that you have—the one of daughter-mine as she calls you.
“We have, mother-mine,” you tell her, watching as her irritated face softens. “We just don’t always want to act the way we’re supposed to. There’s nothing wrong with staying young while you can. I’m not a mother yet.”
The sound of the door opening was what woke you, the metallic clink of a key in a lock, a deadbolt sliding out of place, echoing through your living room, causing you to jolt to that state of conscious alertness, startled arousal.
You had fallen asleep while watching 10 Things I Hate About You, one of your comfort movies. The last thing you remembered was watching Kat dance drunk on the table, yet now the TV displays Mona Lisa Smile and your front door is opening, shuffled footsteps echoing in a way that makes your blood run cold.
You’ve dealt with too many patients, crying and shaking and aching in a way that will never really go away because of people who break into their homes, hurt them in not just physical ways, but the ones of the mind. The scars that never really fade, never really heal in any way that is true or tangible.
You don’t want that and it’s why you sit up, reaching underneath the couch for the baseball bat you keep there, something that can buy you time while you get to Jack’s safe, get his gun. You’re not going to be defenseless—if someone’s going to hurt you, they’re gonna have scars of their own. But as you tiptoe from the living room, through to the hall, baseball bat held aloft, ready to swing, to smash someone’s head in if you have to, you hear it.
The slurred words of a very drunk and very engaged man.
“Baby.” Your shoulders dip, the tension in your body unwinding, uncoiling, set back to normal as you let the tip of the bat fall, resting against your foot as you step out into the hallway, the sight of Jack further relaxing you in only the way that he has.
“Hey, Jackie,” you call out, leaning the bat against the hall wall, walking to him, ready to take his bag from him and help him struggle up the stairs, take his leg off and put on the cream, positioning the bucket by the bed so he doesn’t have to struggle with mobility when he’s sick. “Thought you were you were gonna take it easy.”
“M’sorry, Diane,” he says, voice slurred, yet eyes open wide, focused on you, seeing but not seeing because that is not your name. That is the name of a dead woman. A woman who has had his love, who has been his love. A woman who is not you.
She was first and you are the one who comes after, but hearing her name leave his lips…hear her name from him as if it were yours makes you wonder if you’re coming after her at all.
Or if you’re just a living placeholder, a Barbie doll of wives. Dress you up and make you anyone. Dress you up and make you into the wife that was so that she can be again.
“Jack,” you whisper, your throat closing around his name, around your words as if it doesn’t want to let them out, doesn’t want to put truth to the fears. Doesn’t want to make them a reality. “I’m not Diane.”
“’es, you are,” he says, stumbling forwards, falling just slightly but you’re there, right there, to catch him, arms under his armpits, looped up and around to his shoulders, palms flat on his back and even through the pain and hurt and anger running through you, his body is still warm, still solid and comforting. “You’re ma wife.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” you sigh as his head rests on your shoulder, lolling just slightly as he laughs at nothing, walking with you as you lead him up and into your bedroom, setting him upon the bed, kneeling down before him and rolling up his pantleg. “I’m your wife.” You can’t say her name, can’t even put in your mouth, can’t feel the syllables. Not now.
Because it would feel too much like erasing yourself. So, instead you focus on removing his prosthetic, taking the ointment from the bedside table and applying it the end of his leg, right where the saddle for his leg rests, the adjustment period still ongoing, the skin rubbed red, making you wonder just how long he’s been on his feet, been drinking and dancing.
And for a minute, you wonder if there was anyone else he was calling Diane. Anyone else he mistook for her, the first woman he loved.
And the thing is, is you’re okay to be second place to her. You understand that he loved her first, that he loves her always. You like that, you like that he loves with all that he is, but that he has room for more. You just don’t want to be erased.
You don’t want to be a Barbie doll in your own marriage. You want to be yourself. Wholly and completely.
“Love you so much, Diane,” he murmurs, his hand coming to tangle in the strands of your hair, twining them round his fingers, watching the way they shift in the light. “O’ly one I’ll ever love.”
And you bite your lip at his words, the sting of tears echoing through your body as your chest constricts with the held breath, lungs burning at the sob you hold back. Because Jack is tender, yes, but never like this. Never quite like this with you and even though you understand that Diane was his first love, his always love, you thought he loved you too.
Loved you in a way that matters. But maybe you were wrong…
Or maybe it’s just hormones. You are pregnant after all and everyone knows that pregnancy does wild things to people. Especially in the first trimester.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself as you help him into bed, not bothering to help him change his clothes because you know that when he’s drunk, he’ll just fight you on it and think you want sex even though he can’t consent. So, all you do is roll his pantleg up, pinning it so that it doesn’t tangle, pull or hurt him.
And then you step back, lower lip wobbling, vision just a little blurry, a sob still sitting in the base of your throat, pressure on your lungs, on your windpipe, screaming to be let out. To be let out into the air, given weight in your reality.
But if you hold it in, then you can pretend this isn’t really happening. You can pretend that he’s seeing you when he looks at you with those perfect, warm hazel eyes and not her. The one who came before.
“Where you going, Diane?” Jack calls out just as you turn around, turn away, the tears slipping down your cheeks, rolling and stinging and drying you all the same.
“Gotta…uh get…cleaned up,” you say, the words thick and filled with quiet sobs as you swallow hard around the lump in your throat, swallow hard around the sob still waiting to be released. Still waiting for the fear to be acknowledged.
“Good plan,” you hear him murmur, the words not only slurred from alcohol but from sleep now, a fact confirmed when you glance over your shoulder, noting the way he’s dozing, half on his side, half on his back. “Love you, Di.”
And that’s when you leave, shutting the bathroom door behind you as quietly as you can, the same bathroom where just three days ago you found out you were pregnant. The same bathroom where you, Vicky and Trin ended up the day Jack left, putting on face masks and coming up with names like Sammy if it’s a boy and Margot if it’s a girl. The same bathroom where you’ve been throwing up every evening, your morning sickness actually night sickness.
You stand at the sink, gripping the cold marble between your fingers, letting the tears fall and the sobs out, choked sounds echoing in the room. Choked sounds of not being seen. The sounds of someone still harbouring those fears of the child who thought they could never be wanted.
Who thought they didn’t deserve a family because they weren’t wanted in the one they should have had in the first place.
The sobs you let out rip from your throat, leaving it red and raw but my no means empty, the feeling of thickness and tears, mucus and despair still there as your eyes continue to water, tears sliding down your cheeks, salt tracks in their wake, your nose following suit as you sob.
Because you thought you’d found someone who saw you, but you can’t help but wonder if he ever really saw you at all.
Or if maybe he saw Diane all along.
In the light of the morning sun, your fears don’t seem as heavy, don’t seem as possible. They seem like a hormonal pregnant woman overreacting, taking her childhood fears to adult ones with the snap of a finger because of one drunken moment.
You tell yourself it’s nothing as you set about brewing a pot of coffee, popping protein Eggos into the toaster after the two pieces of toast you’ve made for Jack, accompanied by the gallon jug of water and the mug of coffee. It’s waiting at his spot for him while you take in a deep breath, plating the waffles when the toaster dings, pouring your coffee into your cup, adjusting it the way you like it and waiting for Jack to emerge.
Which he does with stumbling steps, his eyes heavy and tired as he steps forth, squinting at the bright lights of the kitchen.
“Morning, Abbot,” you say, your voice purposefully loud, a sadistic part of you delighting in the way he flinches at the sound, his hands going to his temples, blocking out the light and noise. “How was Vegas?”
“What happens in Vegas,” he says, his voice hoarse and husky, no doubt from the vomiting at 3 AM and the off-key singing he did at midnight, “stays in Vegas.”
“So, I’ve been told,” you tell him, nodding at his spot at the table where he sinks, groaning at the comfort of the chair, but wincing at the sight before him—the food and hydrants. “Now, you’ll eat the toast and drink the water for sure. Coffee’s optional.”
“You’re one cruel woman,” he mutters and if it had been any other morning, you would have laughed it off, but you can’t. Not today. Not after last night when the fears only feel a little bit too much, not entirely wrong.
Not entirely false.
“I have a question for you,” you tell him and he looks up as he takes a bite of the slightly burned toast, exactly the way he likes it, something you learned in the two years of being with him.
“Shoot.”
“Do you want kids?” You know he’s hungover which is exactly why you’re asking now because he’s honest when he’s drunk and he’s honest when he’s hungover. He’s not always honest sober.
“What?” he asks, the word just slightly slurred from the toast in his mouth, the bread he’s chewing and swallowing, the path easily tracked down his throat.
“You heard me. Do you want kids?”
“No,” he says and the response is fast in the way that truth is, not the way that conditioned responses are. “Diane and I missed our window so why would I have any now?” You know right then that last night was him being honest in the way he is when he’s drunk.
You’re his fucking Barbie doll wife.
Just dress her up and play pretend. You’ll almost never know she wasn’t your real love.
“What about adoption?” It’s the final card. The one you know will tell you what will happen next. The ball is in his court even if he doesn’t know it yet.
“What?! No…just…leave me be! I’m hungover. Jesus Christ.” And you nod, standing from the table, leaving your breakfast and coffee behind, trying to act as normal as possible as you press a kiss to the top of his head as you pass and he touches your hand gently and then you’re gone, locked in the main bathroom, your phone in your hand.
And you send one text into the group chat Vicky insisted on setting up three days ago—the one with her, Trin and your mom.
You send just one:
I need out.
And this is why you love them. Why they are your family even when the idea of the family you were building is crashing down around you with the idea of being Jack’s fucking Barbie.
You love them because of many things, but mainly because they answer. Each of them. The same sentence. Just one.
Then we get you out.
To them it’s that simple: you need out. They’ll get you fucking out. Because they love you too and it’s a love that doesn’t let you down. It’s one that doesn’t pretend. Doesn’t play dress-up and lie and make you feel like you’re special when you’re just mannequin chosen to superimpose her image over you.
It’s not a love that is designed to erase you.
It’s one designed to shout your name from the rooftop. Do stupid shit for you. Make you known.
It was almost scarily easy how they got you out. Vicky made calls and your mom made calls, an immediate transfer passed, moving you to a New York City trauma centre ED, day shift. Trin showed up as soon as Jack left for a suit fitting, helping you pack you stuff up in boxes and get it out of the house, Dennis helping.
They packed you into a U-Haul and each took three days off to help you move, to help you shift your life into a different city, different state. Different everything.
But they left you alone enough to write your goodbye letter. The one where you told Jack everything about how you felt.
Just leaving out the baby growing within you. If he didn’t want children, he wouldn’t have one. He didn’t need to know.
It’s not like he would want to be a part of their life anyways. And then you took your engagement ring off and placed it on top of the letter, leaving it in clear view on the dining room table. Precisely where he’d find it when he came home.
And then you got the hell out of there.
Dear Jack,
I’m sorry that it’s ending like this. I want to say I’m sorry it’s ending at all, but that would be a lie. It would be a lie because I’m fucking hurt. Because you don’t see me.
I don’t know what you see when you look at me sober, but I know that when you’re drunk you don’t see me at all. You see Diane. I thought, at first, that that was the first time you saw her in me, but Dennis was quick to disabuse of that notion. He said it happened more than anyone would like to admit.
When we first met, you called me Wildfire, remember? Called me that because I was feisty and strong and smart and ready to set people right when they were wrong. And I countered you and said that I wasn’t a wildfire because I was more controlled than that. I said that I was more like the hotter parts of fire, the one you can still see. The blue flame.
And then you called me Bluefire.
And when you did, I thought that meant you saw me, but I see now, I was wrong. You saw someone strong enough to not break when you made them your Barbie. Your Build-a-Bitch. Great song by the way, recommend it. But…you saw someone similar enough to her to become her in a way.
And I’m not her.
I’ve lived my life with this fear that I’m not enough. That I won’t get a family, that I don’t deserve it. That I don’t deserve to be seen. It comes from my past, from being that five-year-old whose grown up in a system designed to destroy. It comes from being abandoned by people who never wanted you in the first place but carried it through because it was the right thing to do. It comes from being someone who was never chosen…Until Mom, of course. But I live with that fear, even being chosen, even having that life, I still have that fear. It doesn’t go away.
It can’t. It’s who I am, it’s a piece of me. I thought when I found you, that you understood. That you saw me, your Bluefire. Dr. Handzo. Me. But you didn’t. You saw her.
I don’t begrudge you that, Jack. I just wish I’d known how much it would hurt to find out the way I did. I’m sorry for what it’s worth that it’s ending like this. But I deserve someone who sees me.
And you deserve to see someone. It wasn’t me but they’re out there. For both of us. I know it. That’s another thing—you have hope when you’ve been on that bed with your stuff in a trash bag. You hope because it’s all you fucking have.
So, I hope they’re out there for us. I hope we find them. We deserve that. And don’t worry about the wedding costs. The venue paid us back, deposits there are returned until the actual day and your suit is returnable…unless you want to keep it for some reason. The ring is yours. Not mine. I took all my stuff; there’s nothing for you to do. I took care of it.
Good luck, Jack. I love you. I think I always will…maybe…maybe you’re my Diane. Who knows.
But goodbye.
Good luck. Don’t hate me, please.
Love,
Your Bluefire.
Jack came home to an empty house, the kind of empty that rings with the echo of a previous presence, a presence that’s now gone. Gone completely and totally. Irreversibly. He came home to a coat room that had none of your shoes, none of your coats. A living room that was devoid of your trophies and trinkets. A kitchen that had only his plain glassware and cutlery, all your novelty or special ones were gone.
Except the ones you’d given him. Like the mug which said Power tools? I think you mean arms, a picture of his bicep on it, one you made and one which made you laugh when you’d given it to him. Just laughed in a way that he loved, that he wanted to see always, that had rung through him.
He came home to a house that was empty of you. Everything of yours was gone, from the bedroom and the bathrooms and the closets. Every single thing that was yours was gone.
And that was when he found the letter. The ring. And he read it, every word, took note of every tear stain, of every place you’d written so hard that there was a hole. He took note of every emotion that must have been running through you as you wrote it. He took note of it all.
And then he lost it.
He lost it because you were wrong. So horribly wrong. He did see you, he always had. He just didn’t always know how to express that. He thought marrying you would show you, that being yours in name and body and soul showed you that. He thought that waking you every morning saying I love you did that. He thought everything he was doing was showing that to you.
Only for him to find out that it didn’t.
And to find out in a fucking letter. He thought he deserved a face-to-face conversation, a sit-down talk, one where you could reason through those things destroying you and him and the two of you, the us that you had. A talk where you could salvage what was, could see the truth.
The truth that he loved you. That he saw you. That he’d do anything to have you understand that, to understand just how much he saw you. Just how much he loved you.
Because he does, love you that is. With all that he is, with all that can be. He felt that life had been rote, just a set of actions that had to be done, death a grand temptation—until you.
You had walked into the ED on a stormy day, looking like the sun for all the world, like a blazing fire, warmth and light and life with a darker centre. A sharpness, a wildness. You had walked in and suddenly life didn’t so rote anymore.
It seemed worthwhile for the first time in seven years, for the first time since he held Diane’s hand as she drew her last breath, cancer having whittled her away to nothing. It seemed worthwhile because you made everything around you bright and warm and he had been cold for too long.
And now you were gone and the room was cold. The house was cold, the whole fucking world was cold and dark and he felt alone for the first time since that day three years ago when you walked in with that smile, the smile that made everything less. Everything lighter.
He reads the letter again, the tears pouring down his face, streaming, falling onto the paper, landing on the marks that were once yours, the last joining he’ll really have with you. And as he reads, he notices everything. It’s like he can see those instances before him as if they’re playing out before him.
He can see those drunken moments when past and present seemed to verge into one, becoming what was there. He can see those mornings when he was hungover and snappy and irritated. He can see those moments when it seemed like he looked through you and not at you. He can see the toll his mistakes took, the way you seemed to dim.
The way loving him took just a bit of your life away, a bit of your warmth. The way his love began to choke you, block the oxygen from your flame, slowly starving you away.
And he loses it, but not in anger. Instead, he holds your letter in one hand, the paper crumpling in his fist, the mug of his arm in the other, your laughter still ringing through the halls as he cries, tears fast and slow, hard and soft. He cries and lets the tears fall, his muscles spasming, pain shooting through the leg that was but never will be again. He cries and can feel the way his throat becomes hoarse, lungs start to burn and heart beat fast. He cries and it’s in those moments of weakness that the mug slips from his fingers and falls onto the porcelain, shattering.
The pieces of porcelain shatter into a million pieces, some large, some small, some so tiny that he can’t even see them. It’s then he understands.
The relationship didn’t break loudly like the glass, it broke in little ways, a million microscopic pieces breaking off amid every small little trouble and when it broke in a big way, like the way that made you leave, there is no putting it back together.
Because you’re missing all those little pieces that you didn’t even realize were gone.
Until you try to put it back together and nothing fits quite right.
“Lena! Lena, listen to me,” Jack yells, his voice echoing and cracking in his house, the house still ringing with your absence. “I need to talk to her! Lena!” He can feel that rage building in him, the helpless kind. The kind that chokes and kills and injures the one who feels it because it just seems to shut you down.
“Listen to me, Jack Abbot,” Lena says, her voice calm and low, quiet in an eerie, dangerous way. “I will be nothing but civil to you at work, but if you ask me about my daughter again, I will be going Mama Bear on you and you do not want to see my claws.”
And then the line goes dead and he pulls the phone from his ear, looking at his lockscreen, at the photo of you that you didn’t know he had taken. A photo of you standing at the nurse’s station, caught midlaugh, looking for all the world like the sun.
His sun.
The light he took for granted never thinking it would be gone.
“Hi, Diane,” Jack whispers as he maneuvers himself to the ground, crossing his one leg, stretching out his prosthetic, taking it as he sits before the gravestone Diane had picked out during her hospice days. A simple arch, her name inscribed with her favourite quote—All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his act being seven ages.
He had wanted something better, something that seemed more her, but she had fought him on it, asking him what was more of an English teacher than a Shakespeare quote. And he had said nothing because it was her grave, her death. Her remembrance.
You had said once that you wanted twin graves with whoever you loved. You said you wanted them like J.R.R and Edith Tolkien, the character inscriptions they had. You said you wanted people to know that in your life, you had love. The kind that lasts. The kind that heals. The kind that defies all odds. And then you had laughed, said that was impossible, just the ramblings of a hopeless romantic.
He had told you he loved you then. And then he had kissed you, the first kiss you two had shared, one sweet and unsure and unsteady, yet all the more perfect. One that tasted like the raspberry on your tongue.
A kiss he could still taste now.
“I know I’ve been gone a bit. I’ve been busy…planning my wedding that is now off. Remember when we were planning ours? How we decided it was too much hassle and just had a courthouse wedding? You wore a pantsuit and we didn’t even have our parents there…they were so pissed but we…we were happy. I remember that most of all. How you had laughed…how you smiled. I thought I was the luckiest guy in the world to have you smile at me like that. And I still do. I was lucky that I got to love you…but I don’t love you like I did then.
“I fucked up, Di. I fucked up the relationship I had, the love I had because I feel guilty. I feel like I shouldn’t feel as much love for her as I do because of you…because…I had a love, you know?...I don’t want to…to make this, us, nothing, you know? But because of that guilt, I’ve fucked up a relationship that means everything to me.
“I feel guilty even saying that, but Di…I love her in a way I never loved you. I loved you like my equal, like my partner and I love her like she’s everything. And yet…yet I fucked it up because I felt so wrong for it, because I held onto you. I mean…fuck, I still have your ring around my neck on a chain. And she…she didn’t even care. She used to say she understood that you had been first, so of course I’d always love you.
“She’s fucking everything and I broke her heart because I couldn’t just talk to her. I lost her because I couldn’t communicate. I couldn’t tell her that I felt like I was betraying you or making our relationship…less. I broke her heart and yet she did everything she could to make her leaving even easier on me. How perfect is she, honestly? She seems impossible, like a dream but I know she’s real. I know she’s real because somehow she feels realer than anything in my life before.
“And I fucked it up. And god…Diane…I don’t know what to do! That’s…that’s what I wish you were here for…so you could tell me what to do. How to fix it…because I think…maybe, I can’t. I wish you were here…not to love youthis time…but just so you could tell me what the hell to do! To do to get her back! Because Diane…I love her. So much. Impossibly much. And all I want is her back and I know one thing you would tell me to do so…I think it’s time, Diane.
“I think it’s time you have your ring back,” he finishes, the tears still pouring down his face, hot and heavy and drying as he removes the chain from around his neck, the one where he’s had Diane’s wedding ring resting since she’s been gone, that last bit he’s been unable to give up.
He digs into the ground before her gravestone, just deep enough that he can bury it again, laying the woven sterling silver band down and covering it with the dirt, a single red rose laid over to cover it.
And then he pulls your engagement ring from his pocket, slipping it onto the chain and clasping it around his neck.
“Bye Diane,” he says and then he rises, brushing the dirt from his knees, tucking the chain beneath his shirt and walking off, holding tight to the last piece of you.
He just wishes he didn’t have to lose you to realize how much he loves you.
New York is a lot.
It’s big and busy and crowded and yet empty at the same time. It’s quiet and it’s noisy and it never sleeps yet is in bed by nine o’clock. It’s restless and reckless and yet overly cautious. And you love it.
You feel alive in a way you didn’t back in Pittsburgh. You feel alive because you’re home.
“I still can’t believe Lena never sold this place,” Vicky says, her hands trailing over the wall, her fingers marking every notch your mom made your first two years as her daughter when the two of you lived here, in this house. The notches of your height, your childhood playroom still filled with your toys and the photo albums of your childhood where every awkward phase is perfectly captured.
“Mom says it’s too special. It was her parent’s and now hers and…she wants it to be mine one day,” you reply, turning, two glasses of iced water held tight in your hand, perspiration slicking against your skin. “And I’m glad. I love this place.”
“It’s home, right?” Victoria asks, her voice softer than normal. Delicate and fragile in a way she hasn’t been in a year. Not since Pitt Fest.
“Yeah,” you whisper, looking around the room, taking in every inch of the kitchen. The kitchen where your first full day as a Handzo had taken place, your mom asking you if you wanted to help her bake some cookies.
You had never been asked that before. You’d never had homemade cookies, period.
“Why?” Vicky asks you, her voice still fragile but with an undercurrent of anger in it. As if she’s angry that you don’t consider the place you really grew up, grew up with her, home.
“Because this was the first place I had a family,” you tell her and you can see the way she softens, that small, delicate smile blooming as she takes one glass from you, her fingers brushing yours in a tender, familial way. “Pittsburgh was just the place where it got bigger.”
“And New York is where you’re expanding it again,” she says and you can’t help the soft smile that blooms on your face as you look down at your stomach, the one just barely showing now at the three-month mark, your hand coming to rest on it, rubbing a small circle on the bump where your child grows.
“Yeah, it is. In the same place it started.” And you feel that lump in your throat, the one that’s never far away these days because you miss Jack. You miss the way he held you, his grip firm and soft at the same time, comforting and steady. Guiding when you felt like you were lost.
But guiding you to what?
“How’s the ED here?” Vicky says, her voice enough to draw you from the slight image forming of Jack, his smile and the way his eyes though always tired seemed to gleam.
“Pretty good,” you tell her. “We get way more traumas through. Like…a lot. Maybe not like more, but a decent amount. And the other residents are awesome. Not like my Pittlings but…they’re pretty damn nice.”
“Just don’t go replacing us, alright? Trin will kill you if she loses her godmother status to one of the New Yorkers,” Vicky says and you sigh, lifting the sweating glass to your lips and taking a swallow, the feeling of the ice water easily tracked as it slides down your throat, cooling your insides, causing a shiver to run through you.
“You guys are my family,” you tell her. “They’re just my friends.” And there’s nothing else you need to say because Vicky gets it. She always has, since the day you met her in the PTMC daycare—a crying two-year-old that exasperated the daycare attendants. The crying two-year-old that stopped when you cared for her.
The now twenty-one-year-old who still needs your shoulder when she cries. The sister you chose, the sister who chose you—whose shoulder is there for you.
Trinity gets it too. She gets it because she was the twenty-two-year-old M2 you ran into when you were late your first day who told you chill, I’ll get you where you need to go, kiddo. The older sister who just knew that you needed someone to look out for you, the way you look out for everyone else.
And Dennis, sweet little Dennis, understands too. Because he is your brother, the one you call your twin. The boy who asked you for your number after your first class together first day of med school and then blushed so furiously when he realized it seemed he was asking you out and he clarified that he needed a friend.
And you took him under your wing. How could you not?
They understand because they know that family is not the blood, but rather the ties that bind and the four of you are so tightly woven that there is no untangling.
You’re bound for life. A family.
“Take a break, Jesus,” Antony cries out, his face twisted in exhaustion as he bends at the waist, hands on his knees, sucking in a deep breath. “How do you just keep moving?! You’re pregnant!”
“As if I don’t fucking know, Ant,” you reply, one hand on your lower back, the other on your stomach, the weight of your bump growing heavier and heavier as the weeks go by. It’s one thing to objectively know that babies grow fast and grow heavy, but it’s another thing to experience it.
“Just saying!” he retorts, his eyes twinkling as he rises, his lips curving into a mischievous smile, one that you recognize as trouble. You’ve found that four months is enough to learn the language of someone’s smile. Especially someone as easy to read as Antony.
“What’s your aim here?” you ask him, taking the iPad that Charge Nurse Ava hands you, her head jerking in the direction of Central 2.
“I need someone to come with me to the gay bar on third! Just so I know if the guy I’m meeting with is going to kill me or not, pretty please,” he says and you glance at the iPad, taking note of the case—bowel issue—and back at him.
“Take this case for me and we’re good,” you tell him, giving him a sweet smile, one that’s saccharine with how sweet yet he doesn’t notice, simply takes it from you, mouthing thank you until he takes note of the chart.
“Shit,” he hisses, looking back up at you and shaking his head. “I’m never falling for that again.”
“Too late.”
Jack doesn’t even take notice of the sunset as he steps into the hospital, backpack over his shoulder. He doesn’t say hi to Robby or Dana or any of the Pittlings. He doesn’t do his old Nightcrawler chant. He doesn’t do anything he used to do.
Because the world is dark and cold and you are gone. Four months. Four months without your warmth, but he will go a lifetime without it so long as he can hold onto that little bit of hope inside of him.
The hope that you come back and he can win you over again.
“Jesus, Trin,” you hiss as you open the door, exposing her standing there on your porch, laden down with a bright blue bag so full that baby things are peeking around the zipper. “What the hell is all this?”
“You’re having a boy,” she says, pushing past you, mindful of your five-month bump. “Which means we need to begin planning how to make him a good guy now. And I have to be the best aunt which means if I have to physically fight Crash, I will.”
“You sure are dedicated,” you tell her as you shut the door, locking it and sliding the deadbolt into place along with the safety chain and the special snib lock. “But you know I’m alright, right?”
She looks back at you, one eyebrow arched and lips pursed in that expression she has that calls bullshit, but you can see the slight wobble in her lip and the sadness in her eyes. This isn’t about your son; this isn’t about being the best aunt.
This about you being gone.
“Come here, Trin,” you whisper, opening your arms wide and she doesn’t hesitate, just runs and wraps her arms around you, the only person she can be tender with, the person who knows all her scars and loves her not despite them, but because of them—because they’re a piece of her.
“I just fucking miss you,” she cries, her body hiccupping with sobs as she holds tight to you, her tears soaking into your graphic tee.
“I miss you too. So much.”
“Mother,” you say, tone stern as Lena falls quiet. “I am fine. Please do not transfer up to New York. I am handling pregnancy quite well on my own.”
“I’m taking two months sabbatical for your birth though. Non-negotiable. I will be there for you to break every bone in my hand. I will be there so you’re not alone, okay? You need someone and I’m not missing this, sweetie,” she says and you feel like crying because how did you get so lucky to get a mother like this.
“Deal,” you whisper around the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to be alone for it.”
“And you won’t be.”
What can Jack say about his life?
It’s empty and it’s lonely and it’s cold. It’s dark and it’s cramped and it’s horrible because you’re not in it.
He’s realized these past seven months that he hadn’t seen you. Not really. Because he missed all the little things. All the small things you did that seemed to brighten a room. That seemed to warm it from the inside out. That seemed to fix it.
He realized that he’s only seen the outside part of you. The curated sunshine for everyone’s benefit. But as he overhears Santos and Javadi and Whittaker talking about you, about what they’ve done with you in New York, he realizes that he missed seeing a whole version of you.
He didn’t see you when he had you.
He’s only seen you now that you’re gone.
“MOM!” you cry, your gaze locked on the puddle underneath you, the one glimmering in the lights, the one that’s sticky on your legs, caused by that contraction. “MOM!”
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” she cries, bursting into your room, her hair coming loose from her ponytail as she takes in the puddle, in you and she just nods. “Okay.”
And then she guides you to the car, grabs your go-bag and drives you to the hospital, guiding you into the wheelchair, wheeling you up to the maternity floor herself.
She’s there when they get you in a bed. She’s there as the contractions grow closer and closer. She’s there as they rip through you, her hand in yours, voice calm as she tells you that you’re wonderful and perfect and she loves you and she’s there.
She’s there as the doctor guides you through the birth. She’s there as you push your baby into the world. She’s there as you hear his first strangled cry. She’s there as they cut the umbilical cord. She’s there as you hold your son for the first time. She’s there for it all.
Because you’re her daughter.
Where else would she be but with you?
Even when the only person you want beside you is the person who broke your heart in the first place, the person with those steady hazel eyes and the smile of a thousand stories.
You want Jack.
“Sammy,” you whisper, lifting the bundled baby from his crib, his cries ripping through the still air of your house, where just you and him live. “Sammy, bud, Mommy’s here. Mommy’s not going anywhere.”
It’s while you cradle him to your chest, his cries softening as you rock him and hold him and sing to him that you wish Jack were here, not for the first time, just behind you, his hand on your shoulder and the other on Sammy’s head as he whispers calm down, bub. We’re not going anywhere.
“He’s a little terror,” you tell Dennis as you lean back against the couch, your feet on Trinity’s lap, Vicky in the kitchen while Dennis plays with Sammy on the floor, race cars zooming around your chubby little son.
“He’s an angel,” Dennis counters—precisely as Sammy runs the car over his little toy with shocking force. Enough that Dennis cries out. “Maybe…a fallen angel.”
“Not for me,” Trin says. “But that’s cause I’m a cool aunt.”
“You’re not a normal aunt; you’re a cool aunt!” Vicky calls out as she steps into the room, Jones’ sodas held in her hands as she passes out the flavours, the four of you cracking them open and reading the fortunes in the lid while Sammy giggles at his race cars.
“’You will grow to love yourself’,” Trin says, snorting as she takes a swig of the cream soda. “I already did.”
“’Take joy in the small moments’,” Dennis reads and he screws the lid back on, setting the bottle aside as he lifts Sammy up and onto his lap, looking over you and Trin and Vicky. “I think I am.”
“’Understand that you are you’,” Vicky says and she sighs, leaning back in the recliner, smiling at the three of you. “I understand.”
And you look at your fortune, heart stuttering just a bit at the words. “’Remember that perceptions in love matter. Not everyone sees it all the same’.”
And you can’t help but think of Jack.
Jack loves you.
That’s all he really knows these days. These years that you have been gone. He loves you, every bit of you, every scrap of an update that he over hears. Every piece that he remembers.
Every piece that was.
He just loves you.
And he’ll do anything to get you back.
The email sits before you, the job offer to be an attending back in Pittsburgh. Back in the PTMC at the ED. The place you’ve wanted to work since you arrived there with your mother all those years ago, your things in cardboard boxes in a professional moving truck, objects that belonged to you and not just clothes that you needed.
“What do you say, bud?” you ask your little boy, now turned two. “Should we move…home?” And when he claps twice and giggles you take it as a sign.
You accept it.
“Don’t worry about hand-offs this morning, kid,” Robby says, his voice familiar to you, the only ex of your mother’s that ever actually cared for you. “I know you don’t wanna see him.”
“Robs,” you sigh, looking away out your window, the house you share with your mother since she insisted you needed help watching Sammy even as you’ve managed on your own in New York. “I’ll have to see him eventually.”
“But you don’t have to on your first day back,” he counters and you can’t argue with him, simply shrug and look down at your interlaced hands, the baby monitor not far away as Sammy snoozes.
“Okay,” you say and then Robby is there, pulling you into a hug, one that’s strong and steady and reminds you of when you were ten and your mom had already been divorced twice and she was dating Robby and he understood.
He understood that you and Lena were a unit, that no one came before you for her because you were her child. And he put you first.
And now, as you return the hug with the first man whose been like a father to you, you wonder if he still is.
“Jesus,” you hiss, rolling your shoulders, the muscles aching from the day you’ve had. The day of rolling people and doing chest compressions and working within the small budget. “New York had way more tools.”
“Only because you were at that fancy one,” Dennis reminds you and you can’t help but stick your tongue out at him as you lean against the counter, the two of you the attendings for the day, Trin off and Javadi still in residency.
She chose the ED when she had a pregnancy case. She told you she couldn’t stop wondering what if that had been you? Someone needs to be there for them. And she can be that.
“The fancy one was wonderful and god, I miss it,” you reply as you lean against the nurse’s station, observing the chaos of the Pitt, the day shift. “I’d be home by now with Sammy there.”
“Can you shut up about New York?” he asks you and you look over at him, one eyebrow arched as you take in his appearance, the pinched expression and the sad gleam in his eyes. You know that New York didn’t just save you from seeing Jack, it also hurt the people that you love because you were always there and then suddenly you weren’t.
“No,” you tell him, sliding along the station to be right beside him, your arm up against his as you look at him, your brother for all intents and purposes, the one you can call at 3AM because you’re freaking out about a baby temperature. “Because it happened. I lived there, I worked there and I’m only just back, but Den…this place is home.”
“Glad to hear that kiddo,” you hear Dana say and you glance over your shoulder, taking in your aunt—Dana Evans ne Handzo, one of three daughters.
“I literally told you that yesterday, Auntie,” you reply and all she does is let out that laugh of hers, the husky smoker one as she steps around to stand in front of you and Dennis, her lips curved up in that smile she has, the one that says I love you, you annoying bastards.
“It’s nice to hear it though,” Dennis whispers and then you can feel his arm around your shoulder and you lean into him, your head resting on his chest as you sigh just slightly, looking up at the display board, the time 7:00 PM and the names of patients in their bays.
“Just tell me when you need to hear it,” you whisper and the squeeze on your upper arm from his hand tells you that he understands. “Now, where the hell is the night shift?”
“Behind you, bitch.” You can feel a smile grow on your face, the one that you try to suppress but can’t, the full expression their as you take in the sight of Parker, their face twisted into faux-outrage, but really just happiness.
“Nice to see you too, Ellis,” you reply, crossing your arms over your chest and raising your brows as they drop their bag and step to you, arms open wide. In a gesture you return, the embrace calm and steady and everything you’d missed.
“Missed you,” they say into your hair and all you do is squeeze them in reply. Because you don’t think you can reply, you don’t think you can speak around that lump in your throat, the one that’s hard and salty like the tears that burn your eyes.
“Save some of that for me!” calls the voice of one John Shen. You pull back from Ellis and shake your head at him, before lifting one arm and gesturing him over, wrapping him in a hug, one that he returns with vigor, lifting you up and spinning you around. An overly flamboyant gesture for someone normally so reserved and chill.
“Jeez,” you say, your voice tight, just slightly choked around the lump in your throat, “you guys are gonna make me feel all special if you keep it up.” And when you pull back from John, you can see his face has shuttered into that serious expression he has.
“You are,” he says and those words themselves are almost enough to bring you to your knees, but you simply smile a watery kind of smile, waving your hand, washing away his statement. Ignoring it even as it rings through your bones and your heart.
“Deliver for Attending Physician Handzo,” calls out the familiar voice of your mother and you turn, taking in the sight of her holding the hand of a very small and chubby toddler with auburn curls and hazel eyes.
“Thanks, Mom,” you tell her, drawing in a sharp, nasally breath, blinking past the tears that have gathered in your eyes, instead waking to her and scooping Sammy up into your arms. “Hey, buddy. You ready to go home with Mommy?”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice high-pitched in that frail toddler way, the kind of way that is soon to be gone, grown out of, just like everything else. Because someday he will grow up to be a boy. A boy who needs guidance to become a man. A boy will know the rights and wrongs, the struggles of the people that are not him. A boy you have to guide to become a good man.
“Then I shall leave the handoffs in Uncle Denny’s hands, right?” you ask him, wincing just slightly as his small, chubby hands find your hair, tugging on the strands with a force that’s all new of his terrible twos.
“Yeah!” he cries, one hand tugging on a strand with particular force as the other waves in the air, excited and fast.
It was then you heard the strangled sound, the kind that was deep and yet high at the same time. The sound of a man who has seen the most shocking thing, the most beautiful, the most miraculous and you knew. You knew it was Jack because you felt it in your bones, in your heart, in your mind.
It was like you had some sensor for him. Like you were attune to him.
You don’t know why you turn, only that you do and the sight is enough to knock the breath from your lungs because he looks awful. He looks like a man devoid of purpose, a man who is living life like a machine, doing this and doing that and not getting anything from it. Just doing it because it’s what’s supposed to be done.
A glint of light on his chest draws your eye down, your gaze snagged by the ring around the chain where Diane’s wedding ring always sat—where the engagement ring you left behind now sits, his hand drifting up to clutch at it as he looks at you and the baby on your hip.
The baby who looks a lot like him.
“Bluefire?” he whispers and even if the entire ED hadn’t fallen quiet, you would have heard him. Would have heard him ten thousand miles away because you still love him. You weren’t lying when you wrote that he was your Diane. He is the first man you ever loved—first person—and the first who broke your heart in totality.
But he is still the man who helped you fix the pieces of yourself that you thought were broken when you first met.
And he is still the father of your child.
“Hi, Jack,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but from the way his face brightens, the way a gleam comes into his eyes, you know he’s the same as you.
He would hear you from ten thousand miles away.
He’ll always hear you.
Life has been rote, nothing and empty, just a house that echoes with your ghost, your image everywhere doing a million different things. He could see you in the living room, your legs thrown over the top of the couch, your head on the floor as you watch TV upside down. He could see you smiling at him from the chair in the den you turned into a library, knees up and textbook resting between them. He could see you in the kitchen making cookies, the recipe one of Lena’s, the first ones you’d ever made.
The first ones you’d ever had.
He could see you doing face masks in the bathroom, gesturing him over, trying to put one on him. He could see you with your gym bag, leaving the house and coming back, sweaty and tired but smiling. He could see you lying in bed, trying to meditate but really only sleeping.
And in all of those, there was always a hint of your smile, of your joy. Of your happiness. The smile that has been missing from his life for three years.
Three painful years.
Three years of watching your ghosts spin around his house. Three years of holding onto your hygiene products just to lift them up to smell them, hoping to capture your scent, but always missing that essential part—you. Three years of holding onto your engagement ring every time he missed you, wanted you, felt pain or anything at all. Three years of writing you a thousand letters that he had no way of ever getting to you. Three years of mourning you as if you’d died because in many ways, you had.
He was dead to you and so, in a way, you made yourself a living ghost in his life.
One that haunts him every day, so much that when he stepped into the ED and saw you lift a toddler up and place him on your hip, he thought he was hallucinating.
Seeing what he wanted. The future he had dreamed of, but thought was impossible. Something he didn’t get to have, something he didn’t deserve.
The guilt over moving on didn’t just apply to you but to that family he never got to build with Diane and seeing you now, with a baby, one with his auburn curls and his hazel eyes and his nose sends that shockwave through him.
The one that says that what he is seeing is a miracle. The one that says that what he is seeing is real in a way that nothing ever really has been. The one that says you need to grab hold of them, hold fast and protect them.
Don’t fuck this up again.
“Bye Jack,” you say and then he’s seeing you turn and begin to walk away, the baby babbling away, tugging on strands of your beautiful, perfect hair.
And he’s frozen, every muscle rigid.
And he just lets you walk away. Because what else can he do?
Seeing Jack hurt you. It felt like being stabbed in the gut over and over again destroyed over and over, your heart stomped on again and again and again.
It hurt you like nothing has before—not because the hurt of not being seen is still as strong, but because it felt like he did see you.
But only once you were gone.
“Mom watches Sammy while I’m work, you know this, Trin,” you tell her, the two of you walking in tandem towards the incoming trauma, the two of you running the Pitt as efficiently as possible, waiting for traumas as they were called.
“Yeah, but,” she says as the two of you pull on over-scrubs and gloves, glasses firmly in place. “You, Huckleberry and I never all work on the same days…This means that at least one of us is always available to watch Sammy. It would give your mom time to rest and me more time to…educate your son.”
“He’s two,” you say, your tone deadpan and flat. “He doesn’t need his feminism education yet.”
“It’s never too early to start,” she counters and you sigh, turning to her and fixing her with a glare, one that causes her to wince.
“When he can understand the words needed for a basic feminism education, fine. But he’s two. He cannot yet understand it; it’s enough that his bedtime story is Gender Trouble, okay?”
“Who the fuck picked that?” she asks you as the EMTs arrive, wheeling the gurney holding the SWAT officer, blood dripping from him to the floor.
“You did,” you tell her as the two of you rush to assist the EMTs, the team awaiting in the trauma prepared, transferring him to the table and starting work on his two GSWs.
But what catches your attention is not the body before you but the man behind you, the one you caught a glimpse of in the glass, arms crossed, biceps bulging against his SWAT uniform, worry etched in every line of his face.
“Get him up to surgery!” you say, the resident whose name you haven’t yet learned and the new med student nod, assisting the surgical transport team as you peel the gloves from your hands and the over-scrub, dumping them and stepping out, your safety glasses coming off, tucked back into the breast pocket of your scrubs.
“We need to talk.”
The words you’ve been dreading since you came back, since you first saw Jack. Since you started avoiding him, successfully for two weeks. The words that tell you that maybe you did fuck up by just leaving.
By not telling him that you were pregnant and giving him the opportunity to tell you the truth. By not giving him the truth.
The words still ring through you as you follow Jack to the on-call room, mind just slightly hazy as he closes the door, locking it, preventing any nosy Pittling (Trinity) from getting in and disturbing this.
Because this is the moment you need to tell him. It doesn’t matter how he looks at you, what he says or does or how he reacts. It doesn’t fucking matter because he deserves to know. And he deserves the chance to say he wants to be part of his son’s life.
And he deserves to know that he just can’t be a part of yours.
Because no matter how much you love him, you can’t go back to being someone who isn’t seen.
“Jack…” you whisper, but you don’t even get a full sentence out before you begin to cry, breath hiccupping as the tears fall fast and furious down your cheeks. And then he’s there, his arms around you in that grip that is steady and safe and warm. His arms locked tight around you as he holds you upright as you cry, your tears soaking his scrubs, knees buckling as every sob becomes harder and larger and more painful.
“Shh,” he whispers, one hand moving up and down your back in that rhythm he’s always had that calms you, rights you and tells you all will be well. The rhythm you’ve missed in your time apart. “It’s okay. I understand.”
“But Jack,” you cry, pulling away from him, away from his touch, your arms going around yourself, holding tight to your abdomen as if it’s the only thing holding you together. As if you remove your arms, you’ll fall apart, all those loose pieces spilling and breaking even more. “You…you have a—son.”
“I figured,” he says, his voice steady and soft in that way he has to comfort, never judge. “He looks like me.”
“He…h-he really fucking does, doesn’t he?” you cry, your breaths still hiccupping and frail and fragile. You feel breakable in this moment, more than you did three years ago when you left him. When you chose yourself.
“Yeah. Minute I saw the hair, I had a guess,” he says and you can feel your knees buckle, give way and you sink down onto the couch, your head falling into your hands, elbows digging into your thighs.
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, your mind running so fast that there’s a ringing in your ears and the world is blurry as your vision tilts and skews. “I didn’t think you’d be this cool about it.”
“Sweetheart,” he whispers and you can feel the couch bend under his weight, dipping on his side as his hand comes to rest on your back as the hiccupping and burning starts again, the tears never far from the surface. “I understand why you didn’t tell me. I…I k-know I didn’t…see you so…I know what I did. I know what I said and I wish, god, I wish I’d never done those things, but I did. I can’t change them…but I can try to…to move forwards.” You lift your head to look at him, at the way his face is open, twisted in pain and sadness, tears marking his cheeks just like yours.
“You really hurt me,” you whisper and you watch as those words land, his face twisting in on itself even more. “But…but a part of me didn’t tell you because…because I didn’t want the first time you really saw me to be…to be with anger because you don’t fucking want a kid!”
And in his eyes you can see confusion and then the dawn of understanding and he pulls you against him, tight and strong and fast, his arms steady and strong as you continue to cry and he does too, his tears falling on your head, on your neck, feeling for all the world like raindrops.
“I thought I was too old,” he whispers, his hand still rubbing your back in that soothing motion. “I thought I was too old…too fucked up…I didn’t think I deserved a kid. Deserved to have a family. I had this…fucking guilt that I had moved on and when you asked that day…about a kid. I felt so guilty that I said no, but baby, I wanted—want—everything with you. I want whatever you’re willing to give me.”
You look up at him to see that quiet sincerity in his perfect hazel eyes, those eyes that tell you a thousand different things in a language you learned to read long ago. A language you can still read now.
“I need you to prove that you see me,” you whisper and watch as he pulls from his bag three large stacks of envelopes, the top ones addressed with your name in his tight, neat script.
“I wrote you a letter,” he whispers, setting the stacks between the two of you, a barrier of a different sort. “One for every day that you’ve been gone. 1095 letters, sweetheart.” His hand comes to rest on your cheek, palm cupping just gently as his thumb smooths across your cheekbone.
“Then let me take it one day at a time, Jack,” you reply and he nods, leaning forwards to press a soft and gentle kiss to your forehead.
“Take all the time you need, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”
Day 1 without you
Dear Bluefire,
God, what am I even doing? You’re never gonna read this, never even see me again if I know you. And I do know you. I know how stubborn you are and how brave and how perfect and beautiful.
I know you. Just you. But you may have been right, sweetheart. I think I was too choked with guilt for loving you more to really see you the way I should have.
But it’s too late now, isn’t it?
Maybe one day I’ll send these, these letters to you. Maybe one day you’ll read them and know one thing: I love you.
God, do I love you.
Love,
Your Jack.
Day 37 without you
Dear Bluefire,
I really fucking miss you. I miss the way you sleep, the way you pull me tight against you like a blanket. I miss the way you needed to cuddle after a hard shift. I miss the way you’d show up during my shift just to bring me something even when you should have been sleeping. I miss the way you used to say my name.
I miss the way you sit and the way you read, your mouth silently speaking the dialogue, as if you’re acting it out like an actor on a stage. I miss the way you watch movies, the way you get so into it, exclaiming in outrage or delight or sadness.
I just miss you.
God, this is pathetic. But it’s true. Perhaps the truest thing I’ve ever written.
Day 365 without you
Dear Bluefire,
One year. One whole fucking year you’ve been gone and all I can think about is you. It’s like the world is dark and you were the light and now you’re gone. And I can’t see anything before me without you.
In case you can’t tell, it means I miss you.
And all I’ve been thinking about is what you asked me that day when I was hungover. If I wanted kids. And I said no. But that’s not true and I worry that that’s what’s fucked our relationship up.
The truth is…is that yes, I want kids. I want kids with you, it doesn’t really have anything to do with Diane except that I feel guilty that I’m happy and she’s gone. I want kids but I fear that I’m too fucked up for them, that I’d ruin them by just being me. And I don’t want that.
But all I can see in the house, is you. As a mother. You coming home after a long shift and scooping up the kid that I’ve spent my day with while I change out and go. You coming home on a night I have off and we settle down in the living room with our kids (yes, I know. Plural) and watch whatever kids movie they want for the umpteenth time while we share looks over their heads about how much we hate it.
God, I sound pathetic. But I love you, Bluefire. I love you so much.
Day 730 without you
Dear Bluefire,
I don’t really know what to say. Only that I miss you and that life is harder without you. The only that’s keeping me going is that hope you spoke about. The hope that you’ll come back and rescue me.
Can you be my knight in shining armor? I’ll play the damsel in distress so long as it makes you come back to me.
Please, Bluefire. Rescue me.
I love you.
Day 1095 without you
Dear Bluefire,
I will write one of these every day that you’re not in my life. Because it’s manifestation, right? Isn’t that what Javadi talks about? Manifesting destiny?
While this is me doing just that. Manifesting us and our happy ending. Our marriage. One where I see you. Every inch of you.
I will never not see you so long as you come back. See? Manifesting. I really fucking hope it works, sweetheart. Cause I need you.
I love you more than life.
Your Jack.
The letters made you cry, made you sob and heave and buckle, the noise of your cries disturbing Sammy who would only calm down once you did and once you sang to him. Once you sang to him “Looking Through a Window.”
The letters made you fall apart because in them, you heard him, Jack. You heard him realize how he fucked everything up, how he didn’t see you but he did now and how much he needed you.
And you took it a day at a time, reading his thoughts over three years. It took you a day. It took you one whole day in between caring for Sammy and occasionally calming your friends down over something stupid.
It took you a day, but it took you through three years. Three years of emptiness and loneliness and understanding.
It took you through a life of a man who realized he had lost everything he ever cared for.
And you didn’t want him to stay lost.
“Sammy,” you say, lifting him from his car seat, settling him on your hip, turning and noticing Jack, standing stiff and straight in front of the Toys-R-Us. It’s his soldier posture, hands clasped behind his back, chest thrown out. “Let’s go meet your daddy.”
“Hi,” he says when you get close to him and you can see the vulnerability on his face, the fear. Something you never thought you would see on his face.
“Hey, meet Sammy Rhys Handzo-Abbot,” you say and you watch with that beating in your throat, that pulse of your heart in the muscles of your voice, bated breath. You watch as Jack looks up at you hope, surprise and fear all warring in those perfect, forest eyes.
“He has…he has my name?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, looking down at the cracked concrete beneath your feet. “I told Mom I thought it was a good idea for him to know who his dad is. To carry a piece of him with him so…we filled it out that way.”
“Hey, bud,” he says, eyes still on you as his hand comes up to cup Sammy’s chubby cheek. And then his attention falls to the little boy in your arms who lets out a small giggle, crying, “Dada! Dada!”
You watch as silent tears fall from Jack’s eyes, the kinds of tears that show more emotion than any angry or desperate cry does. Because these are the tears you try to prevent from falling in the first place.
“Do you want to hold him?”
“Can I?” He looks so surprised that you smile at him, a soft and sad smile as you nod.
“I read your letters, Jack. I read every word and…I want you…in our lives.”
*
“Hey,” you call out as Jack steps into the house, your mom out at work, her second job taking her to spend the day helping with caskets. “How was the zoo? Was Sammy too much work?”
“Do you know he insists on being fucking carried? He didn’t want to walk or use the stroller. He just wanted me to carry him. Do I look like his personal carriage?”
“No,” you tell him, a laugh bubbling up and over your lips as Sammy toddles in, his hands holding tight to a panda plushie. “You just look like his dad.”
*
“Come on,” he whispers, his hands holding tight to yours. “I don’t want to be away from you and Sammy and even if it’s the fucking guest room that you live in…sweetheart, just please. Move in with me.”
“What do you see when you look at me?” you ask him as he lets go of your hands, instead his hands come to rest on your waist, yours looping around his neck, Sammy out for the day with Lena and Dana looking for Mother’s Day gifts.
“I see the love of my life, the mother of my child and my future. I see a woman who is strong and bright and brilliant and perfect. I see a woman who holds my heart in her hands,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath becoming your air.
“I don’t think I’ll need the guest room.”
*
“Sammy!” you hear Jack yell, the life you’re building slow but steady. It started with dates, days with Sammy and now…a year later, living together. It was a fight with Lena but a necessary one. You told her that you needed to build your family.
And Jack was part of it.
“What’s he doing now?!” you yell, stepping out of the library, a book tucked under your arm as you see Jack run past, the giggles your son echoing from a room not that far away.
“He has a snake!” You step back into the library and move to shut the door.
“I’ll let you deal with that one, babe!”
*
“Happy birthday, Sammy!” you whisper as you step into his room, watching as his still solid, chubby frame jumps up and runs over to you, his arms looping around your legs as footsteps sound behind you.
You can feel Jack place his hand in between your shoulder blades, your body automatically adjusting, leaning back as his other hand comes to rest on Sammy’s head.
“Happy birthday, bud. Mommy and Daddy are very excited for today.” He says it just like you always thought he would.
*
“God!” Jack cries as you press your lips against his pulse point, your tongue flicking out against it as he thrusts into you for the first time in four years. This is not sex the way it used to be, rather in every thrust in, in every kiss you share, every caress and touch and every time he brings you to your peak, it is an exclamation of I see you, I love you, I will always see you.
Every touch Jack gives you, every kiss, caress, lick and thrust is him telling you how much he loves you, just how much he regrets ever losing you in the first place.
And in every touch you give him, you tell him just how much you forgive him.
*
The dining room is empty, rather laughing echoes from outside as you step into it, a baseball cap on your head, sunscreen on your screen and in your pocket. It’s the day of the farmer’s market and you look forward to it every year, the ones in New York just not the same.
“We’re leaving in ten minutes!” you yell, knowing they’ll hear through the open kitchen window and you grab your two canvas bags from where you left them on the counter, a glint catching your attention.
It’s a glint on the table. The glint of metal catching light and you walk to it, taking notice of a gold ring set with three stones and a space for a fourth. You see your birthstone, Jack’s and Sammy’s and a space where it looks like a stone was left off or lost.
And that’s when you notice the papers.
You’ve always wanted to adopt, wanted to save a child from the system, give a child the same chance that Lena gave you. You just didn’t think you’d do it, having Sammy and your career and doing it alone seemed like too much, but here before you are the papers to adopt. The ones you fill out to end up on adoption agency records and they’re already partly filled out.
The age marked as a child from anywhere from one to twelve. The names…Jack Handzo-Abbot and yours, the same…Handzo-Abbot.
“Do you know what I’m asking?” Jack asks and you look from the papers to the ring and you do. You really do.
He’s asking you to marry him with a ring that’s prepared for your next kid. The one you adopt, just like you always wanted.
“You haven’t asked,” you tell him, throat thick as you lift the ring up just as Sammy jumps and hugs your legs, making you stumble just a bit, laughing as you right yourself.
“You always wanted to adopt and you don’t have to go any of this alone anymore so…will you marry me and not only make your husband and Sammy’s father but someone you trust to adopt a child with too?”
“Yes! Yes, I will!” And then he’s there slipping the ring onto your finger and pressing a deep kiss against you, one that tastes of love and family but above all: second chances.
Because Jack’s right. You don’t have to go it alone anymore. You never did.
Just this time you get to do it all with someone who sees every piece of you and loves you because of them.
You get to do it all with someone who sees you. The miracle of you.
Summary: After a violent patient attack leaves you critically injured, Jack is forced to confront what it means to almost lose the person he loves.
Word count: 12k+
Warnings: patience violence, severe injury, angst, fluff
A/N:
read part 2 here
hey guys !! i’m genuinely so excited to finally post my first jack abbot fic, and i’m so excited for you guys to read it 😭
because tumblr hates me and this fic apparently exceeded the block limit, i had to split it into two parts <3 but i really hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed emotionally ruining myself while writing it.
anyways !!! thank you so much for reading, and please be nice this is my first time writing for the pitt/jack hahahah. if i used any medical terms wrong, my apologies 🫶
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The rain had started sometime before dawn.
By the time you merged onto the interstate, the entire city looked washed out and miserable beneath sheets of gray rain and smeared headlights reflecting across wet pavement. Your windshield wipers moved at full speed and still barely kept up with the storm. The coffee sitting untouched in your cupholder had gone cold nearly an hour ago, though you were honestly too exhausted to care anymore.
The overnight shift had turned into fifteen hours instead of eight after two trauma admissions arrived back-to-back near the end of the night, and now every muscle in your body ached with the kind of exhaustion that settled deep into your bones. You genuinely could not remember the last time you slept more than four uninterrupted hours.
Traffic slowed suddenly ahead of you.
At first you assumed construction or flooding because of the weather, but then smoke curled upward through the rain and your stomach dropped immediately.
Cars sat mangled across three lanes of traffic at impossible angles. One SUV had spun into the median while another sedan looked almost folded around the back of a delivery truck, its front end crushed so badly it barely resembled a vehicle anymore. Hazard lights blinked weakly through the storm while people stumbled across the interstate in shock.
Your body moved before your brain fully caught up.
“Oh my God.”
You were already unbuckling your seatbelt before the car completely stopped.
Adrenaline sliced straight through your exhaustion hard enough to make your hands shake as you reached for the trauma bag in the passenger seat. Rain hit you instantly the second you shoved the door open, cold water soaking through your clothes within seconds while distant screaming echoed somewhere through the storm.
Someone yelled that a driver was trapped.
Another voice screamed for a medic.
A woman near the shoulder sobbed hard enough she could barely breathe, blood running down the side of her forehead while a man beside her stood completely frozen, staring blankly at the wreckage like his brain had stopped processing reality altogether.
You were already running.
“I’m a doctor,” you shouted over the rain. “Move back and give me some room.”
People listened immediately.
The trapped driver looked somewhere in his forties, pinned awkwardly behind the wheel of the crushed sedan. Blood streamed from a scalp laceration down the side of his face while the airbags hung deflated around him. His breathing came too fast beneath the sound of rain hammering against twisted metal, panic beginning to sharpen around the edges of every inhale.
You crouched carefully beside the shattered driver’s side window, ignoring the glass biting through your scrub pants into your knees.
“Hey,” you said, forcing calmness into your voice despite the adrenaline roaring through your chest. “Can you hear me?”
The man blinked slowly toward you, dazed. “Think so.”
“Good. That’s good.” You adjusted the flashlight between your fingers while quickly checking his pupils. “What’s your name?”
“Leon.”
“Okay, Leon. I’m Dr. Y/L/N.” Your voice stayed steady automatically, years of emergency medicine taking over before panic had a chance to settle in. “Don’t move your neck for me, alright?”
A shaky breath of laughter escaped him. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Despite everything, you smiled a little.
“You’re doing great,” you assured him quietly. “Stay with me.”
And he did.
His eyes kept finding yours every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.
Your hands moved automatically after that.
Pressure against the head wound. Monitoring responsiveness. Keeping him conscious and talking while you assessed what you could from outside the vehicle. Rainwater mixed with blood beneath your fingers while traffic backed up for what looked like miles behind you, headlights glowing dimly through the storm.
Leon kept looking at you every few seconds like you were the only stable thing left in the middle of the chaos.
“You work at the PTMC?” he asked weakly after spotting the hospital logo embroidered onto your soaked jacket.
“Unfortunately.”
That got a real laugh out of him, brief and pained but enough that relief loosened slightly in your chest.
“You always this calm when you see a car crash?”
You let out a tired breath through your nose. “No. I’m panicking beautifully internally.”
That made him laugh again.
Patients relaxed faster once they laughed. It was something you learned early in residency, fear loosened the second people felt human again instead of helpless.
So you stayed with him.
Even after the paramedics arrived.
Even after they started finishing the extrication, peeling back what remained of the driver’s side door while rain poured endlessly over the wreckage.
You stayed crouched beside him talking him through every step because shock was already creeping in around the edges of his expression, and every time panic threatened to overwhelm him again, his eyes found yours immediately.
“You’re okay,” you kept saying quietly. “Stay with me. You’re okay.”
The interstate blurred around you in streaks of red brake lights and flashing hazards. Rain soaked through your jacket and scrubs completely now, damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin while your hair stuck to the back of your neck. The adrenaline that had carried you through the crash scene was already fading, leaving behind an exhaustion so heavy it felt physical.
An EMT looked up from the stretcher and did a double take.
“Dr. Y/L/N?”
You snapped back into focus automatically.
“Male, approximately forty-two. Restrained driver. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen currently. Complaining of left-sided rib pain. Possible concussion. Neuro status intact for now, but keep an eye on him.”
The EMT nodded once while adjusting the cervical collar. “Got it.”
They moved quickly after that, securing straps, checking vitals, loading equipment through the rain while Leon tracked every movement with the wide-eyed focus of someone trying very hard not to think too much about what had almost happened.
Your knees ached from kneeling on broken glass. Your hands had started trembling slightly now that nobody urgently needed anything from you anymore.
But you stayed beside him anyway.
Leon caught your wrist weakly just before the paramedics closed the ambulance doors.
“Hey.”
You looked up immediately.
His face looked pale beneath the blood and rainwater, eyes glassy with pain and adrenaline, but there was something steadier there too.
Gratitude maybe.
“Thank you for taking care of me.”
The words landed somewhere deeper than they should have.
You swallowed hard before giving his hand one quick squeeze.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Of course.”
For a second, you just stood there breathing.
The interstate still smelled like gasoline and smoke. Somewhere farther down the road another paramedic shouted instructions while tow trucks crawled through the rain toward the wreckage. Traffic in the opposite lanes slowed almost to a stop as people stared through fogged windows at what was left of the crash.
“You riding in with us?” one of the EMTs asked.
You glanced once toward your abandoned car still trapped in unmoving traffic nearly half a mile behind the accident scene. The thought of trying to get back to it right now felt impossible.
“Yeah,” you answered tiredly.
The ambulance doors shut behind you a second later, sealing you inside with the sharp smell of antiseptic, wet clothing, and adrenaline.
Leon talked for almost the entire ride to the hospital.
Nervous talking.
The kind trauma patients did when they were scared enough to fill every silence because silence meant thinking too hard about how close they came to dying. You’d seen it hundreds of times before. Some people cried. Some got angry. Some went terrifyingly quiet.
Leon talked.
So you let him.
He rambled about his job, about his daughter’s soccer game this weekend, about how his wife was going to kill him for wrecking the car because they still hadn’t finished paying it off. Every few sentences his voice shook slightly before he forced another joke out anyway.
You stayed beside him the whole ride, monitoring pupils and vitals while keeping him talking just enough to assess mental status without making it obvious you were doing it.
“You always pick up patients on the highway on your day off?” he asked weakly at one point.
You let out a tired breath of laughter. “Only the lucky ones.”
That earned another shaky smile from him.
The ambulance doors burst open, paramedics already rolling the stretcher down the bay entrance while rainwater dripped steadily from the wheels onto the floor.
By the time the ambulance rolled through the bay doors at The Pitt, you were freezing hard enough your teeth almost hurt. Your scrubs were soaked completely through, your shoes squelching against the floor while trauma staff moved around you in organized chaos.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Santos called across the ER the second she spotted you climbing out of the ambulance bay. “Always a pleasure seeing you this early, Iron Woman.”
You groaned immediately.
You earned the nickname after accidentally mistaking a patient for Robert Downey Jr. during a twenty-hour shift.
To be fair, the goatee had been identical.
“Dana,” you called immediately, falling into step beside the stretcher. “What’s open?”
Dana barely looked up from the nurses’ station. “Trauma Two’s clear.”
“Perfect.” You pushed damp hair back from your face before glancing toward the department. “Whitaker, Javadi, you’re with me. Perlah, can you help set up Two?”
Perlah nodded immediately and disappeared ahead of the group while Whitaker grabbed gloves from the wall dispenser on his way past.
“You look cold,” Whitaker informed you conversationally.
“Thank you,” you replied flatly.
Javadi appeared beside the stretcher while all of you pushed through the trauma bay doors together. “What happened?”
“Restrained driver, approximately forty-two,” you answered automatically. “High-speed MVA during the storm. Brief LOC reported by witnesses. GCS fifteen on arrival, complaining of left-sided rib pain and worsening headache. Possible concussion.”
“Vitals stable en route,” one of the paramedics added while helping transfer Leon onto the trauma bed.
Whitaker immediately started attaching monitors while Javadi pulled supplies from cabinets with the frantic efficiency of someone still trying very hard to look calmer than she actually felt.
Then Jack looked up from the computer station.
And somehow, in the middle of the packed emergency department, everything softened slightly around the edges.
You caught the exact moment recognition crossed his face. The exhaustion behind his eyes shifted immediately into concern as his gaze moved slowly over you. Soaked scrubs, blood smeared across your gloves, rainwater dripping steadily from your hair onto the floor beneath you.
Jack crossed the trauma bay almost immediately.
“You okay?” he asked quietly. “What happened? I thought you went home.”
His voice grounded you in a way almost nothing else could anymore.
Maybe it was because he always sounded calm even during chaos. Maybe it was because after years together your body recognized him before your brain consciously caught up. Or maybe it was simply that exhaustion hit harder the second somebody else arrived to help carry it.
“I’m fine,” you answered automatically while stripping off your soaked gloves and replacing them with clean ones. “Probably need a head CT.”
Jack’s expression tightened instantly.
“For you?”
You blinked at him before realizing what you’d said. “What? No. For the patient.”
Behind you, Perlah had already started cutting away Leon’s soaked shirt while Whitaker attached cardiac leads to his chest.
“BP’s holding,” Whitaker called.
“Sinus tach at one-ten,” Javadi added while checking another monitor. “Probably pain and adrenaline.”
“Good,” you answered automatically before stepping back beside the bed.
“Where’s Robby?”
“Overdose in Four,” Dana answered from the doorway.
You nodded once and reached for your penlight again, checking Leon’s pupils carefully while rain continued tapping faintly against the ambulance bay doors behind you.
Santos wandered into Trauma Two looking personally offended. “Why does huckleberry and crash get invited? I can help.”
“You can stand there and look pretty while actual doctors save lives,” you shot back immediately.
Santos gasped dramatically. “Dr. Abbot, your girlfriend is bullying me again.”
“She bullies everybody,” Jack muttered.
But there was no heat behind it.
His eyes lingered on you a second too long.
You knew that look by now.
Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to bury concern beneath sarcasm and exhaustion, but you still caught it every time. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes. The slight tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline was wearing off. The way your shoulders sagged whenever you thought nobody was looking.
“You’re freezing,” he said quietly.
“You are correct. I am freezing.”
Without another word, Jack pulled his hoodie off the back of the nurses’ station chair and draped it carefully around your shoulders before you could protest. It was still warm from him, smelling faintly like coffee, antiseptic, and the cologne he only remembered to wear maybe twice a month.
Something in your chest tightened stupidly at the gesture.
Behind him, Santos gagged theatrically. “Oh my God. Romance in the trauma bay. I’m going to throw up.”
“Go chart something,” Jack said flatly.
Whitaker looked up from the monitor leads. “Actually, I think it's very sweet."
“You’re all miserable,” you informed them while pulling the hoodie tighter around yourself.
“No,” Javadi corrected while checking Leon’s blood pressure. “You two are just aggressively in love in public.”
Jack looked genuinely offended. “Aggressively? I don't get it."
Despite yourself, you laughed softly while stepping back toward Leon’s bedside.
Leon noticed the interaction immediately.
“That your boyfriend?” he asked weakly from the trauma bed.
“Husband to the emergency department,” you corrected while snapping fresh gloves on. “Boyfriend in real life.”
Jack rolled his eyes while typing orders into the computer. “Don’t encourage her, Leon.”
Leon grinned despite the pain. “You guys are disgustingly cute.”
Under the brighter trauma lights, bruising had already started blooming dark purple across his ribs beneath the rain-soaked skin.
“Headache worse?” you asked while checking his pupils again.
“A little.”
“You nauseous?”
“Not yet.”
“Good,” you answered. “Let’s keep it that way.”
Javadi palpated carefully along his left side while Whitaker adjusted the blood pressure cuff.
“There’s something strangely comforting about you people,” Leon admitted weakly after a moment.
“You say that now,” Javadi muttered.
That earned another tired laugh from him before he winced sharply afterward.
“There it is,” you said softly. “Still joking. Good sign, buddy.”
There was something oddly comforting about patients who stayed conversational. After years in emergency medicine, you learned to appreciate moments where humanity still existed between procedures and bloodwork and trauma assessments.
Sometimes those tiny conversations mattered almost as much as the medicine itself.
Jack stepped beside you while reviewing Leon’s vitals, his shoulder brushing yours briefly in the cramped trauma bay. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, damp fabric, and rainwater now that Leon’s soaked clothing had finally been cut away.
“You should change,” Jack murmured quietly while adjusting one of the monitor leads. “I got this, baby.”
You barely glanced at him, still focused on the chart. “Don’t worry. I’ll survive.”
A tired look crossed his face immediately.
“That’s usually what people say right before passing out.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder, though exhaustion dulled most of the energy behind it. “You’re dramatic.”
“You’ve been awake how long now?”
“Eighteen hours.”
Jack stared at you flatly. “That’s not comforting.”
“You stopped at a major accident scene after an eighteen-hour shift?” Javadi asked incredulously.
You shrugged slightly.
And that alone made Jack’s jaw tighten, because that was exactly the kind of thing you always did.
The adrenaline carrying you through the crash scene had almost completely faded now, leaving behind exhaustion so heavy it felt physical. Your wet clothes clung coldly to your skin beneath Jack’s hoodie while every muscle in your body ached now that the immediate crisis had passed.
Jack exhaled softly through his nose before lowering his voice.
“You don’t always have to run yourself into the ground trying to save everybody.”
The words landed harder than they should have.
You focused instead on adjusting Leon’s blanket over his chest, smoothing the fabric carefully just to give your hands something else to do.
Jack knew you too well by now to push after saying something like that.
That was part of what made loving him dangerous sometimes. He noticed things you worked very hard to hide from everybody else.
He noticed the way your hands trembled after bad trauma calls once the adrenaline wore off. How you skipped meals without realizing it during difficult shifts. How every patient death stayed with you longer than you ever admitted aloud.
Jack had spent years in emergency medicine learning how to compartmentalize just enough to survive it, which somehow only made him better at recognizing when you weren’t doing the same.
His hand brushed briefly against the small of your back as he moved toward the monitors again.
“Don’t worry, Leon,” Jack said easily while checking the cardiac tracing. “You’re in good hands.”
Leon looked toward him before his gaze drifted back to you.
“I figured that out already,” he said softly. “She stopped on the interstate for me.”
You glanced up from the chart, slightly surprised by how steady his voice sounded now despite everything.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” Leon continued quietly.
You shrugged lightly, pushing damp hair away from your face. “Part of the job.”
“Maybe,” he answered softly, still watching you carefully. “But most people would’ve kept driving.”
Something warm and uncomfortable settled low in your chest at that.
Most patients never saw the moments in between all of this. They saw calm voices and steady hands. They saw competence because that was what they needed from you in moments like these.
They never saw the aftermath.
The exhaustion. The panic doctors swallowed in real time just to keep functioning. The way people occasionally locked themselves in supply closets for thirty seconds after bad cases just to breathe before walking back out like nothing happened.
But Leon had seen you kneeling beside twisted metal in freezing rain with blood on your hands while traffic screamed past only feet away.
He’d seen the human part too.
And somehow that felt far more exposing than expected.
Before you could answer, something shifted.
Subtle.
Small enough most people in the room probably would have missed it entirely.
But after years in emergency medicine, your body noticed changes before your brain consciously caught up.
Leon’s breathing changed.
One second it was slow and uneven with postictal exhaustion.
The next it caught strangely in his chest.
His eyes lost focus somewhere over your shoulder while every muscle in his body tightened beneath the blankets all at once.
Your stomach dropped instantly.
“Leon?”
Jack looked up from the monitor station at the exact same moment Leon’s entire body stiffened violently against the mattress.
“He’s seizing!”
Everything exploded into motion.
The seizure hit hard and fast, violent enough that the entire trauma bed rattled beneath him. His back arched sharply while his arms convulsed uncontrollably, knocking equipment sideways as monitors erupted into sharp screaming alarms throughout the room.
“Clock started,” Perlah called immediately.
“Two minutes on the seizure pads,” Whitaker added while grabbing suction.
“Turn him,” you ordered.
You and Javadi moved together automatically, carefully rolling Leon onto his side while his body continued jerking violently beneath your hands. Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth where he’d bitten through his tongue while every breath came in horrible choking gasps between convulsions.
“Airway’s clear,” Javadi said quickly, though her voice still sounded tight with adrenaline.
Across the room Jack was already pulling medication from the crash cart while Dana called CT from the doorway ahead of transport.
Then finally, slowly, the seizure broke.
Leon’s body slumped heavily back against the mattress drenched in sweat while ragged breaths tore unevenly from his chest. The room fell briefly into that strange silence that always followed emergencies, where everybody still moved quickly even though the worst part had passed.
For now.
“Let’s get a CT stat,” Jack said immediately.
You nodded once, trying to ignore the tremor beginning in your hands now that the adrenaline spike was crashing again.
“I’ll stay with him until transport.”
Jack hesitated.
Only briefly, but long enough for you to notice.
Something unreadable crossed his expression while his eyes flicked from Leon back toward you.
Concern maybe.
The same quiet tension he always carried after particularly violent trauma cases.
“You sure?” he asked softly.
You frowned slightly. “Yeah.”
Whitaker glanced briefly between both of you like he noticed something too, but before he could say anything Dana appeared in the doorway again.
“Trauma Three needs help now.”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
His fingers brushed briefly against your wrist before he stepped away toward the hallway, disappearing almost immediately back into the noise and chaos outside the trauma bay.
The room quieted afterward.
Machines beeped steadily while rain tapped faintly against distant ER windows somewhere down the hall. Whitaker and Javadi had already been pulled into another room, leaving you alone beside Leon while he lay motionless in exhausted postictal confusion.
You dimmed the overhead light slightly before adjusting the blanket higher over his chest.
“Hey,” you said gently when you noticed him beginning to stir. “You’re okay. You had a seizure.”
No response.
His eyes stayed fixed upward, unfocused and confused.
Postictal.
You had seen it hundreds of times before. Disorientation. Confusion. Agitation sometimes. Patients waking terrified because their brains had not fully caught up to reality yet.
Your shoulder ached dully now that exhaustion was settling deeper into your body again. You reached absentmindedly for the chart at the foot of the bed, mentally running through differentials and imaging priorities while waiting for CT to call back.
You missed the shift in him by less than a second.
One moment Leon lay motionless against the mattress, the next his eyes sharpened violently.
Not recognition.
Fear.
Pure terrified instinct.
Your stomach dropped.
“Leon—”
He surged upright before you could finish the sentence.
His hand closed around your throat with terrifying force, slamming you backward into the cabinet hard enough to knock the air violently from your lungs. Pain exploded across the back of your skull as your head cracked sharply against metal.
“Leon!”
The sound came out broken and strangled.
But he wasn’t seeing you.
That was the horrifying part.
His eyes looked completely wild now—unfocused, terrified, empty all at once. Pure neurological panic stripped entirely of recognition.
For one terrible second, training overrode fear.
“Leon,” you gasped desperately, grabbing his wrists instinctively instead of striking him. “Listen to me. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”
Nothing reached him.
His grip tightened harder around your throat.
Air stopped.
Panic slammed through you instantly now, sharp and animal and overwhelming in a way you almost never allowed yourself to feel. Your vision flickered violently while you clawed uselessly at his hands, trying desperately to drag in even one full breath.
You needed help.
Safe word.
Your mouth opened automatically.
“H—”
Nothing came out except a rasp.
Leon shoved you backward harder, your skull slamming against the cabinet again hard enough that white exploded across your vision.
The hospital safe word.
You just needed to say it.
“Hula—”
The sound collapsed into another strangled gasp as his fingers crushed tighter against your airway.
Your lungs burned.
Tears blurred your vision from pain and lack of oxygen while movement echoed faintly somewhere outside the trauma bay. People were still moving through the ER completely unaware of what was happening behind the curtain.
Your body was weakening fast.
You forced one shredded breath into your lungs and screamed:
“HULA HOOP!”
The entire department reacted instantly.
The trauma bay doors burst open hard enough to slam against the wall while voices shouted over each other.
Hands grabbed Leon, trying to drag him backward while he fought wildly in blind confusion and terror.
But before anyone could fully pull him away, he shoved you violently across the room.
Your shoulder struck the edge of the cabinetry with a horrible crack before the rest of your body collapsed hard onto the tile floor.
Pain tore through your arm instantly, sharp and wrong enough it barely felt real.
You couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
The room blurred violently while alarms screamed overhead and people shouted your name somewhere nearby.
And through all of it, through the pain and chaos splitting apart around you, your brain found one thing instinctively.
Jack.
You thought about the way he always found you in crowded trauma bays without even trying. The way his hoodie still smelled faintly like coffee and antiseptic around your shoulders. The quiet brush of his hand against your back only minutes earlier.
You wondered irrationally if he was going to blame himself for leaving the room.
That thought hurt almost as badly as the pain itself.
Your eyes slipped closed just as the world dissolved completely into noise.
Jack was halfway through finishing a chart when he realized he had not seen you in several minutes.
He looked up automatically, scanning the department for you out of habit more than anything else. Usually he could spot you immediately no matter how crowded the ER became. You moved quickly when you worked, sharp and focused and impossible to miss once he knew what to look for.
But you were nowhere.
“Hey, Javadi,” he called while signing off medication orders. “Have you seen Dr. Y/L/N?”
Javadi looked up so quickly, like she was a deer caught in headlights. “Uh… no,” she answered quickly. Too quickly. “I haven’t seen her since I left Leon. Sorry.”
Then she disappeared almost immediately toward another patient before he could ask anything else.
He pushed himself upright from the workstation, the familiar ache radiating faintly through his prosthetic. Long shifts always made it worse. The socket rubbed raw after enough hours on his feet, especially during busy trauma nights when he barely sat down.
Normally he ignored it.
Right now he barely felt it at all.
“Dana,” he called, already moving toward the nurses’ station. “Have you seen Y/N?”
Dana barely looked up from the chart she was reviewing. “Pretty sure she’s still with Leon. Why?”
Jack turned the iPad slightly toward her. “They haven’t gone to CT.”
That got her attention.
Her eyes flicked quickly toward the tracking board before settling back on him. “They’re probably backed up upstairs.”
“Maybe.”
But something still felt wrong.
Dana sighed softly. “Jack, she’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”
He knew that.
God, he knew that better than anybody.
You were one of the strongest people he had ever met. Smarter than most attendings twice your age. Calm during trauma activations that made residents freeze completely. You handled combative patients, pediatric codes, catastrophic MVCs, and grieving families with a steadiness that still amazed him after all these years.
But that feeling in his chest would not go away.
Dana pointed down the hallway. “I actually need you in Central Fourteen. Chest pain rule-out and Dr. Garcia wants another set of eyes before she calls cards.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, still staring at the tracking board.
“Right,” he muttered distractedly. “Yeah. Okay.”
He turned reluctantly toward the direction of Central Fourteen, adjusting his pace automatically as the prosthetic clicked softly against tile beneath his scrub pants. Fatigue had settled deep into the joint hours ago, making his gait slightly uneven now that the adrenaline from earlier trauma activations had worn off.
Then he heard it.
“HULA HOOP!”
Everything in his body stopped instantly.
The voice was barely recognizable.
Raw. Ragged. Strangled around obvious pain and panic in a way that made every hair on the back of his neck stand upright immediately. For one horrible second his brain refused to process it properly because it did not make sense. Not your voice. Not like that.
And then recognition hit him all at once.
The hospital safe word.
Trauma Two.
Jack’s heart dropped so violently it almost hurt.
No.
The thought hit him before anything else.
No no no.
Adrenaline detonated through his bloodstream hard enough to make him dizzy.
Then instinct took over completely.
“No,” he breathed aloud, already moving before the word fully left his mouth.
He pivoted so sharply pain shot violently through his prosthetic, the sudden turn grinding pressure through the socket hard enough that under normal circumstances it would have staggered him. But right now he barely felt it beneath the sheer overwhelming panic flooding his system.
Fear swallowed everything else whole.
Not the controlled fear he knew from trauma medicine. Not the clinical kind that sharpened your focus during codes and mass casualty calls.
This was different.
This was personal.
Jack shoved past a stretcher hard enough that the wheels screeched across tile while people all around him started reacting at the exact same time. Nurses turned toward Trauma Two instantly at the sound of the safe word. Dana’s head snapped upward from the nurses’ station. Santos was already running before half the department fully understood what was happening.
But Jack got there first.
The curtain outside Trauma Two jerked violently as shouting erupted from inside the room. Monitors screamed overhead loud enough to echo through the entire department while equipment crashed hard against the floor somewhere beyond the drapes.
“Get him off her!”
The words barely registered through the roaring in Jack’s ears.
His pulse was so loud now it drowned everything else out.
He hit the doorway hard enough that the curtain ripped halfway off the track as he shoved inside.
And then he saw you.
Lying on the floor.
Motionless.
For one horrifying second his brain simply stopped functioning.
You were crumpled unnaturally against the tile beside the cabinets, one arm twisted wrong beneath you while blood streaked across the side of your face from where your head had struck something hard enough to split skin open. Jack noticed everything all at once in the brutal hyperclarity trauma doctors developed after years in emergency medicine.
The bruising already forming around your throat.
The abnormal angle of your shoulder.
The way your chest barely moved.
And somehow that was the part that terrified him most.
You were not moving enough.
Leon was still screaming somewhere nearby while Ahmed and two nurses fought to restrain him against the opposite wall, his face wild with postictal confusion and terror. Somebody was yelling for sedation meds. The entire trauma bay had dissolved into complete chaos.
But Jack barely registered any of it.
Because you were on the floor.
And you were not getting up.
Something inside his chest seemed to cave inward violently.
“Oh, honey.”
Then he said your name, and the sound that came out barely resembled the steady, composed voice Jack used during traumas and codes and every impossible shift the hospital threw at him.
This was different.
There was no clinical calm left in him now.
Only fear.
Pure terrified fear.
He dropped beside you so fast pain tore sharply through his prosthetic as his knee hit tile, but he ignored it instantly. His hands shook hard enough he almost missed your carotid pulse the first time he checked.
Then finally.
There. Weak, but there.
Relief hit so hard it almost made him nauseous.
“Oh my God,” he whispered shakily, one bloodstained hand cradling the side of your face carefully while the other pressed against your neck searching for injuries. “Hey. Hey, stay with me. Come on.”
You did not respond.
Jack’s stomach turned violently.
Training forced itself back online in fragmented pieces despite the panic threatening to choke him alive. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Neuro. He assessed automatically even while his brain screamed at him that this was you beneath his hands.
His eyes flicked instantly toward your throat again and rage flooded him so suddenly it nearly stole his breath.
Finger-shaped bruises were already darkening against your skin.
He hurt you.
The realization nearly made Jack physically sick.
“Jack,” Dana’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as she dropped beside him. “We need to move.”
But Jack could barely hear her.
Your eyelashes fluttered faintly for half a second before falling closed again and something inside him broke completely at the sight.
“No no no,” he whispered frantically, brushing damp hair away from your face with shaking fingers. “Stay awake. Baby, stay awake for me.”
His voice cracked hard on the last word.
That terrified him almost as much as the sight of you bleeding on the floor.
Because Jack Abbot did not lose composure.
Not during traumas, not during mass casualties, not while pronouncing deaths.
But right now panic was tearing straight through him so violently he could barely breathe around it.
And for the first time in years, he had absolutely no idea how to separate being a doctor from being the man who loved you.
“What the hell happened?”
Robby’s voice cut sharply through the chaos as he pushed into Trauma Two with Mohan directly behind him, but for half a second, both of them stopped cold.
The room looked catastrophic. Leon was still fighting violently against security near the far wall, his movements frantic and disorganized while Santos shouted for more sedation. Equipment littered the floor around the trauma bay, overturned trays and scattered supplies crunching beneath people’s shoes as alarms screamed overhead loudly enough to make the entire room feel claustrophobic.
And in the middle of all of it, you were lying motionless on the floor with Jack kneeling beside you.
Blood streaked down the side of your face and disappeared beneath the collar of his hoodie still hanging around your shoulders. Bruising had already started darkening visibly around your throat, ugly fingerprints blooming beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while your left arm rested at an angle that made Mohan’s stomach immediately drop.
“Jesus Christ,” Mohan breathed.
“Security’s got the patient,” Dana snapped, already dropping beside you with Santos. “Probably postictal aggression after the seizure. He went after her.”
Robby moved instantly after that, years of trauma medicine overriding shock the second he reached your side. “Get her on a gurney now. C-spine precautions. Santos, I need vitals. Dana, page CT and tell them we’re coming immediately. Mohan, get me neuro and ortho on standby.”
Everybody moved except Jack.
He stayed frozen beside you on the tile floor, one hand still cradling the side of your face like he physically could not force himself to let go.
“Jack,” Robby said.
No response.
Jack was staring at you with an expression Robby had never seen on him before. Not panic exactly. Worse than panic. Helplessness, maybe, like his brain had short-circuited somewhere between doctor and boyfriend and now could not figure out how to function as either.
“Jack,” Robby repeated more firmly.
That finally seemed to pull him back enough to blink.
“She isn’t breathing right,” he said hoarsely, voice rough enough it barely sounded like him anymore. “He had her by the throat. Her head hit the cabinet, probably. Possible LOC. Shoulder’s definitely dislocated, maybe fractured too.”
The words came out clipped and automatic, pure trauma assessment forced through panic, but his hands were still shaking.
Dana and Santos carefully slid a backboard beneath you while Mohan cut away the remains of the hoodie around your shoulder to assess the injury better. The second the fabric moved, Jack saw the full extent of the bruising spreading across your throat, dark purple already beneath your skin.
“He squeezed hard enough to leave petechiae,” Santos muttered quietly while examining your neck. “Shit.”
You stirred weakly then, letting out a broken sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper as Dana stabilized your shoulder. Jack moved instantly at the sound.
“Hey,” he said, voice softening so fast it almost hurt to hear. “Hey, don’t move. You’re okay.”
Your eyes fluttered halfway open for barely a second before unfocusing again.
“She’s awake,” Jack breathed.
“For now,” Robby answered grimly while checking your pupils with a penlight. “Possible concussion. We’re not ruling anything out yet.”
Jack knew that tone. It was the same one they all used when things might be much worse than they looked initially.
Around them, the room was finally beginning to settle into controlled chaos instead of outright panic. Security had Leon restrained now while Santos pushed sedatives through an IV line with tight, controlled movements. Leon’s terrified shouting dissolved into confused, exhausted mumbling as the medication began taking effect.
“He didn’t know what he was doing,” Mohan said quietly, mostly to fill the horrible silence hanging over the room.
Jack did not answer. Rationally, he already knew that. Postictal aggression, neurological confusion, severe agitation after seizure activity. They had all seen it before. But none of it mattered right now, because every time Jack blinked, he saw your body hitting the floor again.
“On my count,” Santos said firmly while positioning herself near your head. “One, two, three.”
They lifted you carefully onto the gurney, and the second they moved your shoulder, a sharp cry tore from your throat despite your barely conscious state.
Jack physically flinched.
Robby looked at him immediately. “Jack, I need you with me here.”
But Jack still looked frozen. His prosthetic locked slightly as he stood too quickly, pain shooting sharply through the joint while exhaustion and adrenaline crashed violently together inside his body. Normally, he compensated automatically for it. Years of physical therapy had taught him exactly how to move through pain without thinking.
Right now, he barely noticed it. All he could see was you strapped to a trauma gurney instead of standing beside one, and somehow that felt profoundly wrong in a way his brain could not fully process yet.
Dana squeezed his arm briefly as she passed him. “She’s alive,” she said quietly, firmly enough that it sounded almost like an order. “So stay with us.”
Jack swallowed hard, then finally nodded once.
The second the gurney locked into place beside the trauma bed, the room shifted fully into trauma mode. Controlled chaos. Fast hands. Sharply clipped orders. Monitor alarms blending into the constant noise of the ER outside while everybody moved around you with the kind of practiced coordination that only came from years of emergency medicine.
“BP dropping,” Santos called from the monitor station. “Ninety-two over fifty-six. Heart rate one-forty. Pulse ox ninety-four.”
Robby swore quietly under his breath before stepping beside the gurney. “Dana, I need another large bore IV. CBC, CMP, coags, type and screen, lactate. Full trauma panel.”
Dana was already moving before he finished speaking.
Mohan carefully stabilized your cervical spine while Perlah adjusted the collar more securely around your neck. Blood stained the side of your face now, dark against pale skin beneath the fluorescent trauma lights, while bruising continued spreading visibly across your throat.
“She’s tachycardic from pain and adrenaline,” Mohan said quickly while palpating carefully along your ribs and clavicle. “Left shoulder deformity obvious. Could be anterior dislocation, maybe proximal humerus fracture too.”
“She hit hard,” Dana added grimly while cutting away the sleeve of your scrub top completely. “Look at the swelling already, poor baby.”
Jack forced himself closer finally, though every instinct in his body screamed at him to stop looking entirely.
Your shoulder looked wrong. Not subtly wrong, catastrophically wrong. The joint sat visibly displaced beneath skin already darkening with bruising while your arm rested protectively against your torso in unconscious guarding. Even barely responsive, your body was trying to protect the injury.
“Y/N?” Robby called firmly while shining the penlight into your eyes again. “Hey, stay with me.”
Your eyelids fluttered weakly, and your lips parted slightly before a small broken sound escaped you, more pain than words.
“There you go,” Dana said softly. “That’s good, hey sweetie.”
Jack swallowed hard. Normally those words would have sounded clinical. Routine. Hearing them about you made him feel sick.
Robby’s fingers moved carefully along your scalp before stopping near the back of your head. “She’s got a laceration here. Probably where she hit the cabinet.”
“How bad?” Jack asked immediately.
Robby looked up briefly. “Needs staples. I’m more concerned about intracranial bleed.”
Jack felt the room narrow sharply around him as his brain supplied every possibility instantly. Subdural. Epidural. Contusion. Diffuse axonal injury. Years of trauma medicine suddenly felt less like a skill and more like torture because now he knew exactly how bad this could become.
“BP’s still dropping,” Santos called sharply.
“Hang another liter.”
Dana connected fluids immediately while Mohan checked your abdomen carefully for rigidity and tenderness.
“She guarding?”
“Little bit.”
“Could just be pain response.”
“Or internal injury,” Robby answered grimly.
Jack closed his eyes briefly. Only twenty minutes ago, he had been teasing you for refusing to change out of wet scrubs. Twenty minutes ago, you had been standing beside him alive and exhausted and rolling your eyes at him. Now you were strapped to a trauma gurney while your coworkers discussed possible brain bleeds.
The trauma bay doors pushed open again.
“What do we have?”
Garcia entered already pulling gloves on, clearly expecting another routine consult before her eyes landed on the gurney. Then she froze.
“Is that...?”
Nobody answered immediately because suddenly saying it aloud made everything feel horrifyingly real.
Garcia moved closer automatically, surgical instincts taking over even while shock still flickered visibly across her face. Her eyes swept quickly across your injuries, taking in the bruising around your throat, the unstable shoulder, and the blood matted into your hair.
“Oh my God.”
Jack looked away sharply at the sound in her voice. He could handle panic, trauma, blood, failed resuscitations, and catastrophic injuries. But he could not handle hearing pity directed at you.
“What happened?” Garcia asked quietly.
“Postictal assault,” Robby answered while reviewing your vitals. “Patient seized after MVC. Became combative during recovery.”
Garcia’s jaw tightened immediately. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Jack, and somehow that made everything worse. Everybody in the hospital knew about the two of you. Not because either of you talked about it much, but because some things became obvious after enough years working together. The way Jack unconsciously searched for you in crowded rooms. The way your voice softened around him even during impossible shifts. The way both of you somehow always ended up side by side during difficult traumas without discussing it first.
And now everybody was watching him try not to fall apart while you lay bleeding in front of him.
“Y/N,” Garcia said gently while stepping closer to assess your airway. “Can you hear me?”
Your brow twitched faintly at the sound of your name.
“Good,” she murmured softly. “Stay with us.”
Jack finally moved closer again until he stood directly beside the gurney. For a second, he just stared at you. Really stared. At the bruises darkening beneath your jaw, at the trembling rise and fall of your breathing, at the blood drying against your temple.
Then very carefully, he reached down and took your hand.
Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm almost immediately.
Tiny movement. Huge relief.
“Okay,” Robby said firmly, forcing the room back into focus. “Let’s move. I want CT angio head and neck immediately. We’re ruling out intracranial bleed and carotid injury.”
Garcia nodded once beside him, already assessing your airway with practiced hands. “Neck swelling’s getting worse.”
Jack saw it too now that she said it aloud. The bruising around your throat had spread darker beneath the fluorescent lights while swelling gathered visibly beneath your jawline. Every breath you took sounded wrong now. Wet. Shallow. Strained enough to make every survival instinct in his body start screaming.
“Pulse ox is dipping,” Santos called sharply. “Ninety-one.”
“Jaw thrust,” Garcia ordered immediately.
Dana repositioned carefully at your head while Garcia leaned closer, studying the bruising around your airway with growing concern. “She may need to be intubated before CT if the swelling progresses.”
The word hit Jack like a physical blow. Intubated. His brain immediately supplied images he did not want. Ventilator settings. Sedation drips. ICU monitors. Neurological checks every hour.
“No,” he said automatically before he could stop himself.
Everybody looked at him.
Jack swallowed hard immediately, realizing too late he had said it aloud.
Robby’s expression softened slightly. “Jack.”
He hated the way Robby said his name right now. Carefully. Like he was one bad second away from falling apart completely.
“I know,” Jack muttered quickly, dragging a shaky hand down his face. “I know.”
But he didn’t. Not really. Because his brain kept splitting violently between two impossible realities. One side of him catalogued injuries automatically. Airway trauma after strangulation. Possible cervical instability. Hypoxia. Concussion. Internal bleeding. Shoulder fracture-dislocation. The other side could barely process the fact that you were lying here at all.
Your breathing suddenly hitched sharply.
Jack’s head snapped toward you instantly.
Your eyes fluttered weakly before opening. Confusion crossed your face immediately while you tried weakly to move, but pain flashed across your expression so fast it made Jack physically tense.
“Don’t,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “Baby, don’t move.”
Your gaze drifted slowly around the trauma bay like you were trying to understand where you were. The bright lights. The people surrounding you. The monitors beeping overhead. Then finally, your eyes landed on Jack.
Relief flickered there instantly. Small. Barely there. Enough to nearly destroy him.
“Hey,” he said softly, gripping your hand tighter without realizing it. “Hey, I’m right here.”
Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out at first except a weak breath.
Jack leaned closer immediately. “What?”
Your brow pinched faintly in confusion.
“...Leon?”
The room went quiet for half a second.
Even now, barely conscious and injured and terrified, your first instinct was still the patient. Something inside Jack cracked painfully at that.
“He’s restrained,” Robby answered gently before Jack could. “You’re safe.”
Your eyes shifted again, slower this time.
“Hurts,” you whispered faintly.
Jack looked immediately toward your shoulder. “I know,” he said quietly, voice finally cracking despite how hard he tried to control it. “I know, sweetheart.”
Garcia’s eyes flicked sharply toward him at the sound. Jack almost never lost composure at work. Not like this.
Robby swore quietly under his breath. “We tube here or risk losing it in CT.”
The room shifted instantly again. More movement. More urgency. Dana reached for airway equipment while Santos prepared sedation meds with visibly tighter movements now. Mohan adjusted oxygen flow quickly while Garcia moved toward the head of the bed.
Jack felt suddenly frozen all over again.
Your eyes moved back toward him weakly, panic beginning to flicker beneath the pain now that you were awake enough to understand pieces of the conversation around you.
“Jack,” you whispered hoarsely.
His chest tightened violently. “I’m here.”
Your fingers curled weakly against his hand.
“Don’t...” Your breathing hitched painfully. “Don’t leave.”
That finally broke him.
Because you sounded scared. You, the person who stayed calm during pediatric arrests and mass casualty incidents and catastrophic traumas that made residents physically sick afterward.
Jack leaned down immediately, pressing his forehead briefly against yours despite the blood and chaos surrounding both of you. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered shakily. “Okay? I’m right here.”
Then your heart rate spiked sharply.
“One-fifty,” Santos warned.
Your oxygen dipped again.
“Eighty-eight.”
Garcia looked up instantly. “That’s it. We’re securing the airway.”
Panic flashed visibly across your face, and Jack felt your hand tighten weakly around his.
“Hey,” he said immediately, brushing damp hair carefully away from your forehead. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
Your unfocused eyes found his again.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, even though his own heart was pounding hard enough to make him nauseous. “Just keep breathing for me.”
Garcia stepped beside him carefully. “Jack,” she said quietly. “I need room.”
And suddenly he realized there was nothing else he could do. No medication to order. No procedure capable of fixing this himself. No trauma protocol separating him from the overwhelming terror flooding his chest.
All he could do was let go of your hand and watch other people try to save you, and somehow that felt worse than anything he had seen in his entire career.
And somehow that felt infinitely worse than any injury he had seen in his entire career.
The intubation blurred together afterward in fragments Jack knew would probably stay with him for the rest of his life.
Garcia’s voice turned sharp and clinical the second she stepped fully into procedure mode. “Etomidate ready?”
“Ready.”
“Succinylcholine?”
“Ready.”
“Pulse ox?”
“Eighty-seven and dropping.”
The room moved quickly around you after that. Packaging tore open, monitors screamed softly overhead, and Santos pushed medications through your IV with controlled precision while Dana stabilized your cervical spine at the head of the bed.
Jack stood rooted beside the wall, feeling completely fucking useless.
He had watched hundreds of intubations in his career. He had performed them himself during impossible traumas, with blood filling airways and families screaming outside the room. Usually, the procedure grounded him. Medicine always grounded him because medicine made sense. Algorithms. Protocols. Airway, breathing, circulation. Find the problem and fix it.
But this was you, and suddenly none of it felt clinical anymore.
Your eyes found his one last time before the sedatives fully took effect. Fear still flickered there beneath the exhaustion and pain, but so did trust. Complete trust. The kind that made his chest ache violently because you were still looking at him like he could somehow fix this.
Then your body relaxed beneath the medication.
Garcia moved immediately. “Going in.”
The room fell quieter for a second except for the ventilator alarms and the sound of Jack’s own pulse hammering violently in his ears. He watched Garcia guide the laryngoscope carefully while Robby monitored your vitals from beside the bed.
“Visualized.”
“Tube.”
“Advancing.”
Jack swallowed hard enough that it hurt.
You looked so small suddenly. That was the thought that kept repeating in his head while he stared at your motionless body beneath trauma lights that suddenly felt much too bright. You had always seemed larger than life somehow. Loud when you wanted to be. Brilliant. Sharp-edged. Impossible to intimidate. The kind of doctor residents followed instinctively because even during disasters, you carried yourself like you could handle anything thrown at you.
Now you were lying completely still while somebody else breathed for you.
“Tube’s in,” Garcia confirmed.
Relief swept through the room instantly, subtle but collective.
“End tidal color change confirmed.”
“Breath sounds bilateral.”
“Secure it.”
Dana taped the ET tube carefully into place while the ventilator connected with a soft mechanical hiss. Your chest finally began rising in slow, controlled breaths afterward, steady and artificial and horrifyingly impersonal.
Jack hated the sound immediately.
The ventilator transformed you from injured into critical in a way his brain could no longer avoid.
Robby was already moving again. “Okay, we transport now. I want CTA head and neck, cervical spine imaging, chest CT, trauma series. Somebody call ortho and tell them she’s likely got a fracture-dislocation.”
“She’s still hypotensive,” Santos warned while adjusting fluids.
“Pressure?”
“Ninety systolic.”
“Hang another liter.”
Everything continued moving around him after that, but Jack could barely process any of it fully anymore. The room had narrowed into snapshots burned violently into his memory. Blood staining the collar of your scrub top. Finger-shaped bruises spreading darker around your throat. Your hand slipping weakly from his when they rolled the gurney toward the doors.
He followed automatically beside the bed while they rushed you toward imaging. His prosthetic protested immediately beneath the sudden pace, sharp pain radiating through the socket with every uneven step, but he barely registered it now. His entire body had narrowed itself into one singular instinct.
Stay close. Do not lose sight of her.
Hallway lights blurred overhead while the gurney rattled violently across tile. Nurses moved aside instantly when they recognized who was lying on the stretcher, and somehow that silence hurt worse than panic would have.
People stopped talking when they saw you.
A respiratory therapist physically froze near the elevators before whispering, “Oh my God.”
Jack looked away immediately. He could not handle watching other people realize how bad this was.
Then suddenly, he was left standing alone in the hallway.
The silence hit him all at once.
He stared numbly at the closed doors for several long seconds before finally turning back toward Trauma Two because he genuinely did not know what else to do with himself.
By the time he returned, the room was mostly empty again. The chaos was over. Only the aftermath remained.
One overturned tray still sat abandoned near the wall where it had been kicked over during the struggle. Wrappers and syringes littered the floor beside shattered plastic packaging while a monitor continued beeping pointlessly beside an empty bed.
And blood.
Your blood was still everywhere.
Jack stopped walking.
For a second he just stood there staring at it. Tiny streaks across the tile floor. Smears against the cabinets where your head had hit. Dark fingerprints dried against the bedrail.
His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might actually throw up.
Because the only thing left of you in this room now was blood.
Not your laugh echoing across the nurses’ station during overnight shifts. Not your sarcasm when Santos annoyed you on purpose. Not the warmth of your body curled against his after impossible shifts when both of you were too exhausted to even speak properly anymore.
Just blood.
Jack looked down slowly at his own hands. There was still dried blood caught beneath his fingernails from where he had held your face trying to keep you conscious. More stained the sleeves of his scrub top in dark rust-colored smears that made his chest tighten painfully every time he looked at them.
You were intubated upstairs while trauma surgeons searched your brain for bleeding.
The thought cracked something open inside him.
If he had stayed. If he had trusted his instincts. If he had checked sooner.
“Jack.”
Dana’s voice came softly from the doorway behind him.
He did not turn around immediately. For a second, neither of them spoke while she took in the scene around him. Dana had worked in emergency medicine long enough to understand what trauma aftermath looked like, not just physically, but emotionally too.
Jack looked wrecked. Not outwardly hysterical. That almost would have been easier. Instead, he looked hollowed out from the inside.
“You should sit down,” she said gently.
“I’m fine.”
The answer came automatically, immediate and empty.
Dana almost sighed because they both knew it was complete bullshit. She stepped further into the room slowly, careful with him now in the same way people approached trauma patients who had not realized how badly they were injured yet.
“You’re shaking.”
His hands were trembling badly now that the adrenaline had started wearing off, small uncontrollable tremors moving through his fingers no matter how tightly he clenched them into fists.
“I left her,” he said quietly.
Dana’s expression softened immediately. “Jack.”
“I left her alone with him.”
The guilt in his voice nearly hurt to hear.
Dana moved closer. “You could not have predicted postictal aggression escalating like that.”
“But I should’ve checked sooner.”
Jack laughed once under his breath, but there was absolutely no humor in it. Just panic and exhaustion and guilt twisting together so tightly he could barely breathe around it anymore.
“She sounded scared,” he whispered roughly. “Do you know how bad it has to be for her to sound scared?”
Dana’s chest tightened painfully because she did know. Everybody in that hospital knew how terrifyingly calm you usually were under pressure. You were the person comforting other people during disasters. The doctor residents looked for during bad traumas because your voice never shook.
But tonight it had.
Dana stepped directly in front of him then and reached up without hesitation, gripping the back of his neck firmly enough to ground him.
“Listen to me,” she said softly but seriously. “She is alive.”
Jack swallowed hard. “She squeezed my hand before CT.”
“Then hold onto that.”
His eyes burned immediately at the words.
For a second, he looked terrifyingly close to falling apart completely.
“She was looking at me like she thought she was dying.”
Dana’s face crumpled slightly at the crack in his voice because Jack Abbot almost never sounded fragile. Not after everything life had already put him through.
But this was different.
This was you.
“You know her,” Dana said quietly. “You know how hard she fights.”
Jack closed his eyes briefly because somehow that made this hurt even worse. He did know. He knew the exact stubborn determination living inside you, the way you worked through exhaustion and grief and pain because your body physically did not know how to stop caring about people.
And suddenly, the idea of losing you felt so catastrophic he genuinely could not imagine surviving it.
When you woke up, the first thing you felt was pain.
Not sharp at first. Not localized enough to understand. Just heavy.
A crushing ache spread through your entire body like every bone had shattered somewhere deep beneath your skin. Awareness dragged itself slowly upward through layers of medication and exhaustion while fluorescent hospital light glowed faintly red through your eyelids. For one blissfully empty second, your brain stayed blank enough that you did not remember anything at all.
Then your chest tightened violently around the ventilator tube lodged in your throat.
Panic hit instantly.
Your eyes snapped open as your body reacted on pure instinct, trying desperately to fight the foreign object forcing air into your lungs. The movement sent agony ripping through your throat and jaw so violently it nearly knocked you unconscious again. A horrible choking sound escaped around the tube while pain exploded across the side of your head hard enough to blur your vision immediately.
The monitors beside your bed erupted into sharp alarms.
Then suddenly Jack was there.
He moved so quickly the chair beside your ICU bed nearly tipped backward onto the floor. One second the room felt empty and terrifying and unfamiliar, and the next his hands were hovering carefully near your face like he wanted to touch you everywhere at once but was terrified of hurting you more.
“Hey, hey, don’t fight it,” he said immediately, voice low and urgent. “You’re okay. Breathe with it.”
You could see his mouth moving. Could see panic written all over his face.
But you could not hear him properly.
Everything sounded distorted beneath the ringing in your ears, voices muffled and warped together like you were trapped underwater. The ventilator hissed rhythmically beside you while your chest rose mechanically against your will, and the sensation was horrifying enough to send another wave of panic crashing violently through your body.
Jack kept talking anyway.
You recognized the cadence of his voice more than the words themselves. Calm. Steady. But underneath it there was something rawer now, something desperate he usually hid much better than this.
Your entire body hurt.
Your throat burned every time the ventilator pushed another breath into your lungs. Your jaw ached violently from the intubation while your left shoulder throbbed with deep nauseating pain that radiated all the way down your arm. Even breathing hurt despite the machine doing most of the work for you.
Then memory came back all at once.
The trauma bay. Leon seizing. Hands crushing around your throat. Your head slamming violently against the cabinet. The floor.
You started crying before you even realized it was happening.
Tears slipped silently sideways into your hair while panic clawed straight up your chest hard enough to blur your vision again. You could not stop shaking. Every instinct in your body still screamed danger even though logically you knew you were safe now.
Jack’s entire expression broke the second he realized you were crying.
“Oh, baby,” he whispered hoarsely.
At least you thought that was what he said.
He sat carefully on the edge of the chair beside your bed before reaching for your hand, avoiding IV lines and bruises with practiced gentleness. The second his fingers touched yours, you grabbed onto him desperately enough that pain shot violently through your injured shoulder again.
You did not care.
Jack was here.
And somehow that meant alive. Safe.
Your grip tightened harder around his hand while your breathing turned ragged around the tube again. Jack immediately leaned closer, his thumb brushing shakily across your knuckles while he tried to calm you before you exhausted yourself further.
“It’s okay,” he murmured softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Only then did you really look at him.
And God.
He looked awful.
Dark bruising sat beneath his eyes like he had not slept once since this happened. His hair looked messy in a way that suggested he had spent hours dragging anxious hands through it, and there was something hollowed out in his expression now that made your chest tighten painfully.
You mouthed the question anyway despite the ventilator.
What happened to you?
Jack watched your lips carefully before understanding finally crossed his face. His throat worked once visibly while emotion flashed so openly across his expression it almost scared you more than the pain itself.
He still looked terrified.
Even now.
Instead of speaking, he carefully turned your hand over in his and began tracing slow letters against your palm with his thumb.
Patient attacked you.
The memory crashed back completely after that.
The pressure around your throat. Leon’s empty unfocused eyes. Your body hitting the wall. The terrifying realization that he genuinely did not recognize you anymore.
You jerked violently on instinct before you could stop yourself, panic surging through your bloodstream so fast your vision blurred instantly while the cardiac monitor erupted into another wave of alarms beside the bed.
Jack reacted immediately.
“Hey, hey, look at me.”
You could not fully hear the words, but you knew his voice. Knew the shape of it. The desperation underneath it.
Your breathing turned frantic around the ventilator while terror clawed violently through your chest again. You remembered thinking you were going to die. Not abstractly. Not distantly.
Really die.
And for one horrifying second, lying in this ICU bed unable to speak or breathe on your own, that feeling came rushing back all over again.
Jack kept one hand wrapped tightly around yours while the other hovered uncertainly near your face. He looked like he wanted to pull you against him and protect you from everything all at once but knew touching you too much would only hurt you further.
Your eyes darted weakly around the ICU room instead. Machines. IV poles. Bandages. Your leg elevated and immobilized beneath blankets. Soft restraints loosely secured around your wrists so you would not accidentally pull the ventilator tube out while disoriented.
You felt trapped inside your own body.
The panic became unbearable.
Then your eyes landed on the PCA pump beside the bed.
Jack noticed immediately.
His entire face fell.
“Baby…”
You reached weakly toward the button anyway with trembling fingers.
Jack looked absolutely shattered watching you press it. Not angry. Not disappointed.
Heartbroken.
Because he understood immediately what you were doing.
You could not stop the fear. Could not stop the pain.
So you were choosing unconsciousness instead.
Medication flooded slowly through your bloodstream almost immediately afterward. Warmth spread outward in gradual waves, softening the sharp edges of panic first before the pain finally began loosening its grip around your body. The terror still lingered somewhere deep beneath everything else, but it no longer felt sharp enough to suffocate you alive.
Your grip weakened slightly around Jack’s hand as exhaustion dragged heavily at your eyelids again.
Jack stayed exactly where he was.
You could barely keep your eyes open anymore, but you still saw the way he looked at you while the medication slowly pulled you back under.
Completely devastated.
Like watching you choose sedation over consciousness hurt him almost as much as the attack itself.
Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm before your eyes finally slipped closed again.
The last thing you felt before unconsciousness dragged you under completely was Jack lifting your hand carefully toward his mouth and pressing one shaking kiss against your bruised knuckles.
The second time you woke up was somehow worse because this time you stayed conscious long enough to understand what had happened to you.
Pain existed everywhere now.
Not sharp anymore. Not even severe enough in one specific place to focus on. It had settled deeper than that, heavy and constant, wrapping itself around your entire body until even breathing felt exhausting. Every inhale pulled painfully against bruised ribs while your jaw throbbed in slow aching pulses that spread all the way into your skull. The medication dulled the edges enough to keep panic from swallowing you whole again, but not enough to make you forget.
Nothing let you forget for very long.
Garcia stood beside your ICU bed when your eyes finally opened again, flashlight moving carefully across your pupils while monitors hummed steadily around the room. The overhead lights had been dimmed sometime while you slept, leaving everything washed in pale blue-gray shadows that made the hospital feel strangely unreal.
“Hey,” Garcia said softly the second she noticed you were awake. “Welcome back.”
Your hearing still came and went in fractured bursts after the concussion. Some sounds arrived painfully sharp while others disappeared completely beneath the relentless ringing inside your ears. Voices felt warped and distant, like everybody speaking stood underwater somewhere far away from you.
You blinked slowly toward the doorway and spotted Santos hovering there awkwardly holding a bouquet of flowers that looked aggressively stolen from the hospital gift shop. Half the stems bent sideways beneath crinkled plastic wrap while one of the price tags still dangled visibly from the bouquet.
You stared at them for a second before a weak breath of laughter escaped you despite the pain immediately punishing the movement.
Santos looked so relieved at the sound she nearly seemed close to crying herself.
“You scared the absolute shit out of us,” she said quickly, like humor was the only thing keeping her from saying something genuinely emotional instead.
The ghost of a smile tugged weakly at your mouth.
Garcia stepped back after finishing the neuro assessment while Santos moved a little closer to the bed, still clutching the flowers awkwardly against her chest.
“Abbott threatened like six people,” she muttered after clearing her throat.
Your eyes shifted toward her slowly.
“He almost went through security trying to get back to Leon.”
Your stomach twisted instantly.
Leon.
For one horrible second you saw him again exactly as he looked before the attack happened. Pale and exhausted beneath ambulance lights while rain hammered against the windows around both of you. Laughing weakly through pain. Asking if you were always that calm. Looking at you like you were safe.
You swallowed hard against the sudden nausea crawling into your throat.
“What happened to him?” you asked quietly, each word dragging painfully through the ache in your fractured jaw.
Santos’ expression changed immediately. The sarcasm disappeared first. Then the humor.
“He’s okay,” she answered after a moment, voice softer now. “Physically, I mean.”
You closed your eyes briefly.
Santos hesitated before continuing more carefully. “He doesn’t remember anything after the seizure started. Robby thinks it’s the postictal state mixed with the head trauma.”
The room fell quiet after that.
Not awkward quiet.
Heavy quiet.
The kind that settled directly into your ribs and stayed there.
Because the worst part was that you believed her completely.
You knew exactly what postictal violence looked like. You understood the neurological confusion, the blind panic, the total loss of recognition that sometimes followed severe seizures. Rationally and medically, every part of your brain understood exactly what had happened inside Trauma Two.
But emotionally, it still hurt in ways you did not know how to untangle yet.
A strange grief wrapped itself around the fear sitting inside your chest because less than an hour before the attack, Leon had been sitting beside you in the back of an ambulance talking about his daughter and his wife and soccer games and stupid jokes while rain pounded against the windows. You remembered thinking he seemed kind, the sort of patient who apologized too much for being in pain.
You had liked him.
And then suddenly he became the person who nearly killed you.
Emergency medicine was cruel like that sometimes. One second somebody was human to you. The next they became trauma.
Santos stepped closer quietly before squeezing your foot gently through the blanket. “We’ll come back later, okay?”
You nodded weakly.
After they left, the ICU room felt unbearably quiet again. Machines hummed softly around you while rain tapped faintly against distant windows somewhere beyond the hallway. Pittsburgh looked gray outside the narrow ICU window, the city blurred beneath another storm rolling slowly across the skyline.
You drifted in and out for hours after that.
Sometimes nurses came in to check vitals and neuro responses. Sometimes transport arrived to wheel you toward imaging. Sometimes you only woke long enough to register pain before medication dragged you under again.
Then sometime deep into the night, consciousness returned slowly enough that you realized somebody was sitting beside your bed.
Jack.
At first you thought he was asleep.
His head rested bowed carefully against your hand where it lay on top of the blanket, broad shoulders slumped forward like exhaustion had physically crushed him downward into the chair. The dim ICU lighting softened the edges of him enough that for one brief second he looked strangely fragile.
Then you noticed he was shaking.
Your heart cracked instantly.
Jack was crying.
Quietly. Almost silently. But hard enough that his shoulders trembled every few seconds beneath the dim blue ICU lights.
The sight hurt worse than any fracture in your body.
You had seen Jack exhausted before. Angry. Burned out after impossible shifts and mass casualty nights and pediatric codes that left entire departments emotionally gutted afterward.
But you had never seen him like this.
Very slowly, ignoring the pain shooting through your ribs and shoulder, you lifted your fingers weakly toward his hair.
The movement alone was enough.
Jack lifted his head immediately.
His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed beneath exhaustion so deep it looked painful. There was stubble shadowing his jaw now like he had not even thought about himself since this happened, and the healing cut near his cheekbone stood out harshly beneath fluorescent light.
Destroyed.
That was the only word your exhausted brain could find for the way he looked.
Jack Abbott was always the steady one. The person everybody else leaned on during disasters because he never seemed to break no matter how catastrophic things became around him.
Until now.
“I should’ve stayed.”
The words came out rough enough they barely sounded like him at all. Raw. Torn open somewhere deep inside.
You frowned weakly despite the pain. “No.”
“I knew something was wrong.”
“You couldn’t know.”
“I did.”
Jack stood abruptly then, pacing once across the small ICU room before turning back toward you like he physically could not force himself to stay still anymore. His prosthetic clicked sharply against the tile beneath his scrub pants while one trembling hand dragged hard through his hair again.
“I left you alone in there.”
“Jack.”
His face crumpled so suddenly it stole what little breath your bruised ribs could manage.
“When they pulled him off you...” His voice broke completely for one horrible second before he forced himself to continue anyway. “You weren’t moving.”
Your own eyes filled instantly.
Jack pressed shaking fingers hard against his mouth, trying desperately to regain control of himself and failing anyway.
“There was so much blood,” he whispered finally.
The confession hollowed the entire room out around both of you.
You reached toward him carefully despite the pain.
Jack moved back to your bedside immediately this time, like he physically could not tolerate distance from you anymore, and leaned down slowly until his forehead rested carefully against yours.
For a long time neither of you spoke.
Machines hummed softly around the room while rain tapped gently against the windows again. Jack’s breathing still shook every few seconds no matter how hard he tried controlling it, and you realized with sudden aching clarity that he had been holding himself together by force ever since the attack happened.
Probably for everyone else.
For the department.
For you.
Until now.
Finally, through the ache in your jaw and throat, you whispered softly, “You saved me.”
Jack closed his eyes immediately like the words hurt almost as much as the memory itself.
For a long moment he did not say anything at all. His forehead stayed pressed carefully against yours while his breathing shook unevenly every few seconds, and you realized suddenly that he was trying very hard not to completely fall apart in front of you. The effort of it sat visibly in every tense line of his body, in the way his fingers curled tightly around yours like letting go might physically destroy him, in the way his shoulders remained rigid even now like some part of him still expected another disaster to happen the second he stopped bracing for it.
“You almost died.”
The words came out so quietly you nearly missed them beneath the hum of machines surrounding both of you.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you again, and the expression on his face made something ache deep inside your chest because he looked terrified still.
Not panicked anymore. Not frantic.
Just deeply, genuinely terrified in a way you had never seen before.
“I couldn’t get to you fast enough,” he admitted roughly, eyes fixed on your face like he needed constant proof you were still here. “I heard the safe word and I ran, but by the time I got there...” His throat tightened visibly. “You were on the floor.”
You swallowed painfully.
Bits and pieces still came back in flashes more than complete memories. Leon’s hands around your throat. The cabinet slamming against the back of your skull. The overwhelming certainty that your body was beginning to give out beneath you.
Then Jack.
Your eyes drifted slowly across his face now, taking him in properly for the first time since waking up. The exhaustion. The fear. The sleepless hollowing beneath his eyes. He looked like somebody who had been surviving on adrenaline alone for far too long.
“You did get to me,” you whispered carefully.
Jack laughed once under his breath, but the sound cracked painfully in the middle. “Barely.”
“That’s not true.”
His jaw tightened immediately.
You knew that look. The same one he got after bad outcomes. After losses he carried around long after everybody else moved on. Jack had always been harder on himself than anyone else could ever be, especially when the people he loved were involved.
And God, he loved deeply.
Even when he pretended not to.
You shifted your hand weakly against his, ignoring the ache radiating through your shoulder and ribs.
“Jack.”
His eyes lifted back to yours instantly.
“I’m here.”
Something inside him seemed to break completely at those words.
Jack lowered his head again, pressing one trembling kiss carefully against your bruised knuckles before holding your hand against his chest. His heartbeat pounded hard and uneven beneath your fingers, fast enough that you could still feel the leftover adrenaline vibrating through him.
For a while neither of you spoke again.
The ICU remained dim and quiet around you while rain continued tapping softly against the windows outside. Nurses’ footsteps echoed faintly somewhere down the hallway, distant enough that it almost felt like the rest of the world existed somewhere very far away from this room.
Your eyelids had started growing heavy again by the time Jack finally spoke.
“You scared me,” he admitted quietly.
The confession sounded small somehow. Honest in a way that made your chest ache more than the injuries did.
You looked at him for a second before squeezing his hand as tightly as your exhausted body would allow.
“I know,” you whispered.
Jack nodded once, eyes never leaving your face.
Then very carefully, like he was handling something impossibly fragile, he leaned closer and pressed a kiss against your forehead while exhaustion slowly began pulling you back under again.
This time, when sleep finally took you, Jack’s hand never left yours.
Half-light, jack knife into the canyon at night — Signs and wonders Perseus aligned with the skull
₊˚⊹♡ Percy Jackson x Fem. Reader
Synopsis: One of Percy's main love languages was physical touch; everyone could see that. But what everyone didn't see was the small movements he would always do with his hands when it came to you.
Or, two mini blurbs about how Percy's hands always seem to find you.
Content Warning(s): reader gets a small concussion while being on a quest, reader is said to have anxiety & has a small anxiety attack, soft Percy cuz that's how I always write him (...whoops), not proofread :,(
Author's Note: okayyy so this fic is a bit of a warmup to get used to writing again bc of the long ass break I just took lmao. I'm planning on writing the P2 to the angst Percy Fic, but I don't have any full ideas for it yet, so I wrote this to hopefully inspire some ideas for that (if any of you guys have any ideas for what I should write for P2, I would greatly appreciate it!!)! :)
There were habits Percy always did with his hands around you—always subconscious, never on purpose, but always there. His hand finding the small of your back whenever you are just the right distance apart, covering the sharp corners of surfaces when you bend down, massaging your shoulders after a Friday of capture the flag, his hand always resting on your thigh when you two sit together, thumb rubbing small circles into your skin.
Usually, you didn't put much thought into the actions. When you first started dating, you noticed. How could you not? You asked him about it, why his hands always seemed to find you whenever you were near. He replied with a shrug of his shoulders and that stupidly handsome grin. "Don't wanna have you drift away from me, y'know?"
You laughed it off with a blush already making its way across your face. After that, his actions drifted to the back of your mind. It became a custom for the two of you: Percy would reach out to you, always silently, always gentle.
The quest was supposed to be an easy one.
If a God tells you that—specifically a God of war who goes by the name of Ares—then it probably isn't going to be. To Ares' credit, it was going fine, until a hellhound appeared. The other times you've dealt with hellhounds, it's been fine; it wasn't necessarily easy to take one down, but it was manageable without getting injured. However, when it appears out of nowhere when you're already blinking away stars in your vision because of the amount of running you've done in the past day, it gets trickier.
You tilted your head back, hitting a tree with the back of your head—you think it might be a sycamore tree, you were in that type of forest, right? Watching through a blurry vision, you could make out the shape of Riptide gleaming in the unnatural way it always did in the dark, along with the slow falling golden particles of what used to be the hellhound, gleaming from the faint glow of Riptide.
"Hey—hey sweetheart, can you hear me?" You heard Percy ask, and oh, his voice was a lot softer than usual. It always got softer around the edges with you, a warmth that he only showed to a few, that being his mortal family. But now? It was all warmth, honey-coated, and vanilla sugar. At least you think that's a good way to put it—it was hard to have a fully coherent thought with the throbbing in your head. You blink slowly, finally registering the words. The throbbing becomes more intense as you attempt to nod, so you croak out a weak, "yes," in response.
Percy exhaled quietly, nodding to your single word like it had changed the entire trajectory of his life. "Okay, that's good. That's really good." One of his hands came up to the back of your head, gently pushing it away from the trunk of the tree, cradling the back of your head. "You took a pretty good hit there, yeah?" He prompted, though it was more of a thought to himself rather than to you.
Before you could even attempt to reply—although you hadn't even heard him—he continued. "Let's get you somewhere else. How's that sound, pretty girl?" You attempted to roll your eyes, having only picked up on the part where he called you pretty, because how he was calling you that right now was beyond your imagination. That, however, only resulted in a low groan emitting from you. Percy grimaced at the sound, his other hand coming up to gently be at your waist to prop you up onto your feet. After a moment of struggle, you were standing, although most of your weight was leaning onto him.
You might've passed out after that; you honestly weren't really sure. You came back to reality silently, blinking away the familiar fog that's always there after an injury. Squinting, you could see the stars shining in the sky, twinkling as you stared at them. So, if you did pass out, it hadn't been for very long—it was still nighttime.
Your attention shifted from the night sky to the heat next to you. Percy was sitting next to your lying form, fast asleep. His head was tilted forward at an awkward angle, and his face shifted slightly every few moments. One of his hands rested in his lap, lightly gripping his own jeans, probably a form of self-comfort as he had the normal demi-god dreams. As your eyes slowly went over his whole form, you realized that his other hand was glued to your wrist.
His hand placement wasn't random either; his fingers aligned perfectly where your pulse was. His fingers pressed against the skin of your wrist—not in a rough way, but in possibly the gentlest way possible for someone. The rest of his hand held your wrist in a loose grip, the obvious attention being on your pulse point rather than your hand. You smiled lightly and slowly brought your free hand to Percy's hand, returning the action by pressing softly into his skin on his pulse point, feeling the steady movement of his heart.
Finding yourself inside the Poseidon cabin wasn't unusual; in fact, it was more common to find you there than in your own cabin. Although you loved your own cabin, especially your siblings, the Poseidon cabin was a safe space for you. With the sound of the lake lapping softly against the shore, the smell of old wood and ocean salt, and the breeze that drifted through the always open windows—it was the perfect place to relax.
Today, though, it felt like you were hiding in there more than relaxing. Your breath was coming out unevenly, no matter how many times you tried to count to five, breathing in, holding, and then breathing out. You would hold the pattern for one round of counting and then get overwhelmed again.
Nothing specific happened that day either, making the overwhelming sense even worse; you didn't have a reason to be like this, today was a good day.
You took another shuddering breath, hands leaving where they were holding Percy's sheets to hug your knees instead. The pattern of you trying to breathe in and out slowly but choking up halfway through continued for what felt like hours but was probably around twenty minutes. Being trapped inside your own world that consisted of counting to five, you didn't hear the loud approaching footsteps of Percy.
"Hey, sweetheart, you huddled up in here? Will said you disappeared as soon as your shift at the infirmary ended—" Right. The infirmary was where everything started being too much. The smell of cleaner with an underlayer of dried blood, the nonstop mutter of voices that were always an octave too loud, the rustling of sheets from patients. You took a shuddering breath as you thought about being back there.
At the sound of your breath, Percy's steps came to a halt. For a moment, he simply stared at you, huddling up against the back of his bed, knees drawn to your chest with your hands hugging them. Quickly, he moved, kicking off his sandals as he scooted into his bed. He sat crisscross in front of you, head ducked down slightly so he had a clearer view of your voice. "Hi, pretty girl," he whispered. "Are you okay?" He gently asked, not making any move to touch you just yet.
It took a few seconds, maybe even a minute, before you responded. You shook your head slowly, responding with a no. "M'sorry, I don't know what's—" You started before Percy gently shushed you.
"Hey, none of that, 'kay? Whatever you're feeling is fine for you to feel." He muttered, hand coming up to rest on your bare ankle. You nodded before choking back tears, although some had already started to fall down your face. Percy gave no verbal response to your tears, but his grip on your ankle tightened slightly, thumb now rubbing small circles into your bone.
The two of you sat there in silence, with the only sounds being your shuddering breaths and the noise of the lake just outside. As your breath started to pick up once again, Percy started talking again in that soft, gentle voice reserved for few. "Let's do something together, yeah? How's that sound, sweetie?" He prompted, leaning forward to press a light kiss to your knee. You nodded, not trusting your voice just yet. Percy smiled at your nod, squeezing his hand lightly on your ankle as a response.
"Can you tell me five things you hear?" He asked, moving so he's slightly closer to you.
You frowned, thinking of a response, letting go of the breathing pattern you were trying to follow for so long. It took you a few moments, but you eventually muttered out small words, which Percy hung onto. "I—uhm—I hear the lake," You started, voice uneven and cracking slightly at the end.
Percy nodded lightly in response, once again pressing a kiss to your skin, this time your lower leg. "Good job, pretty girl."
Hearing his response prompted you to continue. "The windchimes on the deck, people talking, my breathing, and uhm—" you paused, finally looking up to Percy instead of your lap. He smiled softly at you, nodding for you to continue. "And you," you finished, moving one of your hands that was wrapped around your own knee to hold his hand that wasn't on your ankle.
Percy immediately latched onto your hand, grip firm but soft at the same time. "You're doing amazing, sweetheart," He whispered, carful to keep his tone at the same level you were speaking at. "Four things you feel?" He prompted again. This time, your head was slightly clearer, breath coming in slower bursts, but still slightly on edge.
It took you less time to answer. "My necklace, hair tie, uhm—my breath?" You say, having it come out as a question toward the end.
Percy smiled, "Keep going pretty."
You took another deep breath, realizing that Percy was also breathing in and out slowly, giving you a pattern to follow. "My shorts, and your hands," you finished, blinking away the last of your tears.
In response to your breath evening out even more, he took your hand that wasn't being held and kissed each of your knuckles softly. "Wanna keep going?" He prompted, watching you closely for a reaction. You nodded, hand squeezing his to add to your response.
Percy continued to gently ask you questions, your breath getting slower and more controlled with each passing moment. His hands always stayed on you; one gripping your ankle with a gentle grip, thumb going over your bone in careful movements, and the other holding your hand in a grip that was anything but rough.
Title lyrics from The Only Thing by Sufjan Stevens
യ (p. jackson ) 𓂃 you hate the look of blood on demigods; every drop of the reddish liquid only serves as a bleak reminder of all the grueling work you have to do as a healer. however, an unassuming tuesday makes you realize that sometimes, blood looks oh so good on a certain son of poseidon.
alternatively, where you realize you want percy after he shows up to the infirmary bloodied and gashed.
cws. nsfw / smut under the cut , 18+ only ; minors dni ! fem apollo reader. fingering (f! receiving) . oral (m! receiving) . unprotected piv & he cums inside . . . reader is referred to as “pretty girl”, “my girl”. percy and reader are adults. percy is cocky. implied post-hoo. porn with some plot . lmk if i missed any other warnings !
wc. 4054 words. requested by @myrapottah
sol ‘s note : though this was requested (like MONTHS ago . . . i'm sorry myra babes) , i’d like to dedicate this fic to a special recent achievement of mine: passing nursing school in one of the best schools in my state ! :’) the fic’s quite long, but i had so so so much fun writing her. i hope u all enjoy reading !
tuesdays were always training days.
every tuesday of the week, campers would flock towards the training ground, celestial bronze weapons in hand, picking fights with straw dummies in bronze armor. oftentimes, campers who grew bored of the non-moving, stationary strawmen flocked together and decided to use themselves as their own training dummies. this became a new, innovative method of melee fight teaching, and has carried on to the present day.
this demigod versus demigod training brawls always happen on tuesdays.
it was an unspoken tradition, written in the minds of these orange-clad campers like it was law. tuesdays were always training days. for the rest of camp, it was a day to hone and develop new skills, to have a better chance at defending themselves against monsters that were prevalent outsidecamp half blood’s borders. it was because of this reasoning that the campers got far too carried away with their training.
for the apollo cabin, it’s the worst day of the week.
with the influx of injured campers—all with injuries ranging from pin-sized papercuts to almost amputations—the infirmary was almost always full. more often than not, training days meant that the apollo cabin had to be spread thinner to accommodate the number of people who needed medical attention.
the apollo cabin holds a mild dislike for tuesdays. you do, especially.
you often regretted saying yes. after leaving camp half blood years ago, you thought it’d be a nice few years in the mortal world—pursuing your education and bettering your skills away from the world of deadly prophecies and gods and goddesses. it would have been a nice break, until chiron reached out to you privately, asking for a small favor.
according to him, before you left and for a while after, the tuesdays system was never this bad. apollo could manage it enough; they didn’t need to spread themselves out so thin to treat injured campers.
the system worsened after chiron asked percy jackson to train the campers in swordfighting. this led to a staggering increase in injured demigods.
you thought it was a false cause—post hoc ergo propter hoc, or whatever. but, after you said yes to chiron’s plea to come back to camp and help apollo manage injuries, you saw with your own eyes that chiron wasn't just incorrectly assuming that because one event followed another, the first event caused the second.
you saw how the poor campers were tripping over themselves and nearly getting mauled because of their efforts in swordfighting. and—upon asking a patient with a finger that almost fell off—it wasn’t because of his methods of teaching. no, it was because the kids wanted to be like him so bad, they went to extremes just to get better, to be like their hero, percy jackson.
the apollo cabin held a mild dislike for tuesdays. you? you loathed them.
this tuesday, however, is an exception.
“jackson…” you pause. you have to chastise yourself. healers aren’t supposed to sound this horrified upon seeing their patients, no matter how battered, bloody, or bruised they are. they aren’t supposed to sound horrified at all. you try to mask it with a cough. “what…happened to you?”
threre’s a gash. no, not even that—to call it a gash would be an insult to the mere magnitude of it. it was an ugly, jagged line, the origin at the dead center of his chest. it curls around his pectorals, and you can see it end on a point between his armpit and his bicep. from a blunt weapon, most likely. blood is splattered on his chest like a bad watercolor painting, but thankfully, the wound isn’t gushing out any blood at all.
he’s led to the bed—thank you, you tell his companion—and when he’s sat down, the muscles of his abdomen flex ever so noticeably.
my gods, was his body always this defined?
a traitorous, unserious voice in your head points that fact out, and heat immediately rushes to your cheeks.
he straightens at your gaze.
“you should see the other guy,” he tells you, snapping you out of your thoughts.
your eyebrows furrow, your mouth curls into a wince just thinking of all the healing you’ll have to do to this poor other camper. “i hope i don't get to see the other guy at all.”
you glance at the pitcher of lukewarm water used to clean wounds.
percy is the son of poseidon. the pitcher would be an easy way to heal him—you wouldn’t need to spend so much cleaning his large wound and sewing it up. you probably wouldn’t even need to consume the entire pitcher to make the wound disappear.
it’s convenient, the voice in your head says, but it comes at the cost of you not seeing or touching percy’s muscles.
it’s a moral and ethical dilemma.
you shake your head and turn to the cabinet above you. from there, you pull out sterile gloves, cotton balls, antiseptic, a needle and thread, and some nectar. in the end, the traitorous voice prevails.
after you put the gloves on, you tell him, “i’ll start by cleaning your wound.” you douse the cotton ball in antiseptic. “your wound’s quite big, it might sting.”
he purses his lips and nods, as if steeling himself.
you circle the edges of his wound with antiseptic. once clean, you take a nectar-doused cotton ball and dab it gently against the open wound.
his stomach flexes at the contact. his arms brace against the bed frame, and you can almost see the same arms wrapped around you, same bare torso pressed against your bare back—
“did a kid beat you up this much?” you ask to rid yourself of those thoughts. and oh, how you prayed he couldn’t hear the small tremors in your voice.
his head snaps around, and he throws a small glare at you. “i’ll have you know, i wasn’t beaten up by a kid.”
“i don’t know who you’re fooling,” you say. “the nymphs, satyrs, and chiron are the only things in camp older than us.”
percy shuts his mouth after, giving you the perfect opportunity to sew the wound closed.
you trace a line around the wound's perimeter.
“i’ll sew around here,” you say. at the look on percy’s face, you reassure him: “there’ll be nectar in the thread, don’t worry. it won’t hurt.”
after you’d sewn the wound closed, you dab over it with nectar for good measure.
“alright, that’s all you’ll need from me.” you hand him a spare camp shirt that—you assume—is his size. “the wound’s all closed up, and i made sure the thread’s fortified enough that the wound won’t open with strenuous activity. you can continue training; just don’t let any kids cut you up that bad, yeah?”
you turn your back to him. you dispose of the antiseptic and nectar cotton balls you used to clean his wound, wrap the needle in tissue and throw it, shelve the bottle of nectar and antiseptic, then tidy up your area.
when you turn back, percy jackson is still sitting on the infirmary bed.
he didn’t even put the shirt on.
“why aren’t you leaving—?”
“you want me,” he says, blunt as the blade that slashed through his—defined, toned, muscled—chest.
“what?”
shit.
your heart is beating rapidly in your chest, loud enough that you can hear it roaring in your ears.
“i do not,” you state, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to lower your heart rate. it doesn't slow.
“do too,” he replies. “weren't you checking me out a while ago?”
this was new.
“i was assessing you. what’s gotten into you?”
“was it the blood, doc?” he smirks. he didn’t even answer your question. “you're into that?”
you hate how much he sounds like he’s mocking you.
and you hate how much he's right.
“no. i’m not. i treat a lot of bloody demigods. every day of the week. there's no way i get aroused by blood.”
i’m into how the blood looks on you, the traitorous (and truthful) voice in your head says.
then, you huff. “you lost a lot of blood back there,” you say. “you're delirious, jackson. delusional, even.”
“y’sure, doc?” and you can see the shadow of a smile that stretches across his face when he says, “why don't we test that theory out, huh?”
suddenly, your lower back meets the wooden table. in one long stride, percy had crossed the distance between the two of you.
there’s a soft smack as his hands land on the table, just right beside you, caging you in between his arms. he leans in enough that the low timbre of his voice reverberates through your bones and stirs the butterflies lying low.
“you're soaked, pretty girl.”
fuck. of course the son of the water god would know that.
and, from the look on his face, the same son of the water god knew that you’d never be able to deny it.
percy was hot—objectively, truthfully speaking. you knew this. especially now that you’ve seen his fine, god-esque figure accentuated by the sheen of blood. you doubt it was even the blood. it was just him.
you won't deny, too, what you’ve been feeling—the warmth in your entire body and the unmistakable dampness in your panties—the moment he entered the infirmary.
was it so wrong to give in to what you want, just this once?
when you look back up at him, his sea green eyes are boring into your very soul.
“have you made up your mind yet, doc?” he asks.
and fuck it, you have.
you lean in first, smashing your lips against his.
and, to your surprise, percy kisses you back with as much vigor—if not more.
the two of you waste no time in being careful. percy shoves his tongue in your mouth, you run your hands to his hair, tugging at the strands that get caught between your fingers.
you only register hands on you, then the loss of ground, before you’re lifted onto the wooden table.
he leans in, his kisses sloppy, desperate, and downright greedy as he sucks on your bottom lip.
he leaves your lips tingling for more as he kisses down, down, down, right at your carotid. he licks that very point, then hollows his cheeks and sucks.
you let out a sound. it teeters embarrassingly on the edge of a yelp and a drawn-out groan.
immediately, your hand flies to your mouth.
“don't do that, pretty girl,” he says, peeling your hands away from your mouth. he intertwines them, then presses another kiss there, mumbling against the soft skin: “wanna hear everything.”
“but they'll hear us, jackson,” you whisper.
the both of you are silent for a moment, until:
“wanna come over to mine?” he asks. “cabin’s soundproof. no one’s gonna hear a thing.”
the moments to cabin three pass in the blink of an eye.
when you cross the threshold of the seasalt-scented cabin, none of you linger.
with a sudden bout of newfound confidence, you pull him in by the hand, the kiss open-mouthed, wet—leagues away from your initial composure at the infirmary. there’s none now; you think you’ve lost it all.
percy leads you to the bed. he makes himself comfortable, and the hand entwined with yours pulls you onto his lap.
his one hand is everywhere. it cradles your face and deepens the kiss, it squeezes and grips at your waist, and, the next moment, latches on to it like a vice and pulls you impossibly closer to him.
your limbs are wrapped perfectly around him. one hand clings to his shoulders, locking him in place and feeling every oscillating wave of his muscles at every small movement. the other hand stays locked in his.
your pussy’s weeping, downright throbbing at the taste of his tongue in your mouth. you couldn't help but think about how it’d feel inside of you—
ankles lock right behind him, trying to bring yourself even closer and closer to where you needed him most. your drenched panties catch on to the tent at the front of his shorts, and you have to hold back a sob.
you think, in this moment, you’ve finally made up your mind.
“i want you,” you murmur. “so bad.”
percy lets out a small, mirthful chuckle. “can feel you getting wetter over me, doc. ‘s like a damn waterpark.”
before you can retort, percy’s hands grip your hips—not rough, not tight, but as if asking for permission—and only slightly lift. your fingers hook under the garter of your waistband and, with his help, you shimmy out of your shorts.
percy doesn't have to try, and yet, every move of his arm is showing off and flexing his biceps for you to ogle at.
and, as the next piece of fabric comes down, he lets out a guttural groan. both of you watch—percy, transfixed—as a few stringy wads of your slick stick to the front of your panties.
oh, you really were so wet.
percy continues to stare, a small smile stretching across his face and into a smirk.
“don't–don't get cocky about it.” your legs inch closer together in an attempt to block out the pure intensity of his stare, when—
“dont.”
his middle and ring finger swipe a long, languid stripe up your pussy lips, pooling your slick onto his digits.
your mouth drops into a little “oh!” as he starts to sink his middle finger into your pussy. and as if in a daze, he’s letting the second of his long fingers in.
“jackson—you… fuck!” you're trying not to wail, to keep your voice low so other campers can't hear you—but, fuck, do percy’s fingers feel good.
percy’s brows furrow and crease in the middle just as he watches your cunt swallow up his fingers. he moves them slowly, just a small wriggle side to side, before he feels the slight resistance—“fuck,” he whispers against your neck (he’s never felt so parched). “so tight around me, pretty girl,”
you whine when he pulls his fingers out. sheeny slick coats them, a line of it keeping you two connected still.
you miss the feel of percy in you for a few seconds, before he’s pushing his fingers back in, out, in. they were so vicious, so greedy, taking up all the space and swabbing at you. in, then out, then in.
“don't stop, please.”
“why would i?” he murmurs. his eyes aren't on you at all, but down, down, down.
he scissoring your entrance wide open with his roving fingertips to the point where you can feel his fingerprints against your soft insides. you shiver at the way he sinks them in again with a sluurp.
percy leans in a bit more, pressing a kiss to your carotid, then clavicle.
in that same moment, his wrist has found a newfound angle, one that somehow pushes his two fingers deeper in. hitting nearly the back of your pussy, pushing back and forth against your gooey walls.
when you feel it, your eyes widen.
he smiles. “found it.”
he hooks at your most sensitive gummy bundle of nerves. curves his fingers just right.
your loose limbs start shaking at percy’s relentless back and forth with your g-spot– “jackson—think ‘m gonna—”
lewd squelches and your mewls of his name ring in the heady room as he speeds up his ministrations. A ruthless pace that has tears stinging your eyes, hitting that spot over and over and—
white-hot pleasure between your eyes. tension curling your toes.
“cum f’me, pretty girl,” he rasps out. he squeezes in a third finger inside your tight cunt—
and you're seeing stars.
he’s fucking you through your high, each thump of his fingertips against your g-spot and each glide of his long fingertips easing you down.
again, and again, and again.
right as the high bates, you feel an emptiness when percy’s fingers have pulled out of your weeping hole.
you pull him in by the shoulders, kissing him just to get a taste of his lips and tongue.
“give me more, jackson,” you mumble against his lips.
“what?”
“you know what i mean,” you tell him. your hands snake to his belt loops, pawing at them in delirious desperation. “want more of you.”
percy groans.
his feet land on the ground beside the bed. metal clinks against the floor. clothes ruffle as they're being discarded.
“been wanting this for so long, pretty girl–” he lugs his boxers down, along with his bottoms, “felt like i was dying.”
his cock springs free and slaps against his abdomen. he was big—so mouthwateringly big; flushed your favorite shade of pink at his leaking tip, pulsing veins glistening in the dim light—every part of him was so unfairly pretty.
and, well, you just couldn't resist a taste.
beding down in one fluid motion, you press a kiss to his weeping tip, drag your tongue all the way down the vein under his shaft, and his hand immediately flies to your hair.
“shit— hah- you don't have to—”
“shut up, jackson.”
and with that, you’re shoving as much of his throbbing erection down your throat. there’s a slightly salty taste on your tongue as you swipe at the droplets of precum pooling on his tip.
“shit, oh—yes, yes, yes–.” percy lets out a guttural moan. Fingers thread through your hair as he uses it as leverage to fuck himself slowly, deeper and deeper into your heavenly mouth, his hips stuttering and jerking with pleasure.
it was dizzying, the way he was pulsing in your throat, his scent filling your senses. beginning to move up and down in hasty, desperate bobs of your head. pulling such lewd gasps and moans from his lips.
his dick twitches in your mouth and your cunt clenches. you brace yourself, ready for his orgasm, when he stops.
and just pulls his cock out.
there’s a loud, lewd pop! that accompanies it that makes his dick twitch and your pussy ache. you’re about to retort, mouth opening to ask him why— but he beats you to it.
“don’t wanna cum yet,” he tells you. he grabs his cock, tugging it ever so slightly, when he says, “lean back for me, pretty girl.”
and that you don’t argue with.
your legs are spread in front of him, and the look on his sea-green eyes is so carnal, so hungry that you motion to close yourself up. he places your legs above his shoulders, eyes stil trained on your soaked core.
he drags his reddened tip right through your swollen folds, catching maddeningly on your clit, teasingly pooling your slick on his leaking head. too slow.
you wiggle your hips just so that the tip just slides inside your hole.
he curses above you, and you feel small spurts of precum lining your walls.
with newfound vigor, percy pushes his hips forward, groaning out your name.
you could almost sob at the stretch as he presses in inch by inch.
his cock was long enough that it kissed your cervix, and that the mushroom tip hooked just right against your g-spot. it didn't lack girth, too—it was thick enough that you could feel the veins pressing against your walls.
deliciously painful, borderline addicting, and something you didn’t know you’d been craving until today.
and it’s almost like percy felt the same, cock hot and throbbing agonizingly inside of you, almost like his second heartbeat.
he buries himself to the hilt and stays. he bows his body down until his damp forehead meets yours.
“greedy girl,” he says. “so tight. gripping—hah–gripping me like a damn vice.”
he pulls himself out fully, just ‘til his tip is kissing your sloppy hole. you whine at the loss of contact, only for him to ram his cock all the way back inside your warmth.
skin on skin, skin on skin. he starts fucking into you, the sheer tightness of your pussy sucking him in so greedily, like she never wanted him to part.
“yes, yes—oh—just like that,” you moan out.
“all–all of it‘s ngh—yours, my girl. yours,” percy says, his baritone voice now raspier above the sloppy squelches that immediately start pouring out of your pussy.
slick gushes out of your cunt with every in and out, dripping down his length and pooling around his balls. they sting against your ass with every thrust in.
“percy—fuck,”
and you feel percy freeze. the loss of movement makes you cry out.
“why—?”
“say it again.”
“what? noo, just come on and fuck me—”
he thrusts once, then stills. “c’mon, my girl, please? lemme hear it one more time.”
oh.
“mmfh—ah—okay, okay.” and one more thrust, harder this time. “oh—! percy, percy, percy! fuuck—”
he keeps the pace constant, rough, kissing your cervix with every in and out of his cock.
“that’s so right, baby.” he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the juncture where your neck meets your shoulders. “sounds—hah—sounds nice, right? better than jus’ jackson?”
you lean away from the bed, hand gripping onto percy’s shoulder for support as you grab his face and kiss him.
he continues thrusting his cock in and out of your poor walls, a sheeny white ring of fluid gathering around his base.
you feel him so deep, he’s pushing your eyes to roll allll the way to the back of your head with the crown of his fat tip.
it was intoxicating, inebriating—from the feeling of his cock throbbing inside you, fucking into you, his lips kissing ever surface he can reach, his teeth biting and marking what’s his.
“m’ so close, percy,” you sob.
percy’s large hand trails down where your bodies meet to draw frenzied circles on your puffy clit. “cum with me—please, baby.”
“inside,” you gasp out. “want you inside.”
and this orgasm seems to be stronger than last time, lightning hot pleasure zapping through your body faster. sobs escape your mouth. your back arches so much you fear for your spine. your body flinches every time he brushes against your clit.
percy’s high comes right alongside yours, and he’s shooting thick, hot, strings of cum, painting your walls white with a low groan of your name. you feel it dripping out of your cunt and into the sheets under you before it's being fucked back in.
when your highs bate, you flop unceremoniously on percy’s bed.
he lets out a small chuckle, before kissing your forehead. “i’ll be right back, okay?”
you watch as his figure retreats to his closet and comes back with an armful of clothes.
the towel in his hands is warm as he cleans going down, passing your stomach, before finally wiping down your inner thighs. he slips his boxers on you, then a shirt.
when he finishes, he collapses right beside you. he pulls you closer, settling you right over his heart, draping an arm over your back.
for a moment, both of you just stare.
“you were amazing, percy,” you say. “i… i liked it. a lot. i'm glad it was you.”
percy presses a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. “i've liked you for so long. still can't believe i managed to kiss you, let alone…”
you let out a small laugh and snuggle closer.
tuesdays were the worst days of the week, you think.
but maybe, just maybe—you brush a stray lock of percy’s hair behind his ears—tuesdays had a little bit of merit to them.
( . . . )
“told you you wanted me”
you grumble against his chest. “shut up.”
he only presses you closer to him. “i don’t know who you’re fooling, baby. i saw you skip that pitcher of water entirely.”
your eyes widen and snap up to meet his. then, feigned nonchalance. “i didn’t need it.”
“i’d have healed faster with it.” then, he grins down at you, canines and eye crinkles and all. “it’s okay, baby, i’d do the same so i could get in the pants of my hot, muscular, super handsome—”
you smush a pillow over his face.
“you wanted me first,” you protest. “you probably asked a bunch of kids to cut you up so you had an excuse to come see me.”
percy’s lack of retort—and movement—makes you sit up.
“oh my gods.”
“listen—”
“there is no way.”
he groans, burying his face deep into your hair. "you're never gonna let me live this down, are you?"
you only grin in reply, canines and eye crinkles and all. "never."
Statistically Speaking - Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Three: Dana Evans
Series Summary: After completing your residency, you join the staff at the Pitt, the hospital where your husband of nearly ten years (who you already have five kids with) works. With a common last name and radically different personalities, you make a bet on how long it'll take everyone to figure out that you're married.
Chapter Summary: Dana's the one to catch you in the bathroom when you come down with a stomach bug.
Content: vomiting/emetophobia, discussion of pregnancy
A/N: love this one i fear she's very cute and waaahh to me
Word Count: 3.5k
You make it through two full months with nobody finding out about you and Brendon, everybody in on it keeping their lips zipped and everyone else happily oblivious, but that changes one random day when you wake up feeling like shit.
“You should just stay home, baby,” Brendon murmurs as he watches you slog through getting dressed, clearly exhausted and feeling off. “The ED can survive without you for one day.”
You shake your head and insist, “All I need is breakfast and a coffee and I’ll be all set. Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Alright, I trust you,” he sighs, dropping down so he can tie your shoes the way he has every morning for more than 3,000 days. “Take it easy though. For me. There’s that nasty bug going around and if this is the start of it-”
“I’m fine, Bren,” you assure as he stands up. “You worry too much.”
He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sweet,” you reply, nudging up to kiss him softly. You know he only worries about your health so much because he had to watch you nearly lose your life a few years ago; you’re sure you’d be ten times as bad if the roles were reversed. “Let’s go get the kids up, yeah?”
He nods solemnly. “I’ll start pancake duty.”
You pat his ass and push him toward the bedroom door. “Good boy.”
Annoyingly, though, you really aren’t feeling better by the time you’ve had your coffee and breakfast and snuggles with your mama’s boy. Still, you take a deep breath, get the little ones in their car seats, and head to the hospital with a determination to get through the day since you have the next two off.
You don’t even make it to lunch.
Your breakfast decides to make a dramatic reappearance out of nowhere, sending you running to the staff bathroom at code speeds. After puking, your skin is about ten shades grayer than usual while you slide down the wall next to the bathroom trash, head spinning and forehead shining with sweat.
The next person to push inside the bathroom is Dana, having watched you hustle away with an expression every mom recognizes when there’s a bug going around. When she spots you, she immediately drops down and touches the back of your clammy forehead. “You don’t feel feverish, but, Jesus, you look terrible.”
“Thanks for that.” You grimace as she grabs one of the little paper cups and fills it with water for you to sip on.
“You’ve gotta go home; you look like you’re gonna pass out. Can I call someone for you?”
Shit, you left your phone in your locker this morning. You manage to mumble out as much to her and say, “If you have your phone, I can tell you my husband’s number.”
He picks up on the last ring after excusing himself from supervising a more-than-capable resident, knowing an unknown number could easily be the kids’ school or daycare. “Hello?”
Your voice creaks through. “Hi, hon, I left my phone in my locker. Borrowing Dana’s. I think I’ve got the bug that’s going around. I’ve been throwing up for like half an hour.”
“I’m so sorry you’re sick, sweetheart,” he soothes softly. “You need me to come down and take you home?”
Dana’s head cocks to one side. That’s a familiar voice, but she can’t quite place it because she’s never heard it sounding sympathetic before.
“Yeah, I think so,” you reply, feeling defeated and exhausted. “This thing’s really knocked me on my ass. Literally, actually. I’m on the bathroom floor.”
Brendon’s voice gains intensity as it lowers in volume. “Are you okay? How serious is this?”
“I’m alright,” you reassure him, “just needed to sit down somewhere cool and quiet. Dana’s here with me being amazing. You’ll come down soon?”
“Yeah, baby, of course,” he sighs tenderly. You hear him shuffling things around, already reorienting his day at the first sign of you needing him. “I’ve got one more quick post-op and then I’ll grab you, okay? Can you find somewhere to hang tight until then?”
“Mhm,” you offer queasily. “I’ll wait for you in Occupational Health, maybe? I can lay down and get some meds there at least.”
“That’s a good idea. Tell them I want blood and cultures. Don’t forget that you want trimethobenzamide, not Zofran, for the nausea. Zofran always makes you too fatigued.”
“Yes, doctor,” you reply with an eye roll. But when the eye roll makes the world spin which makes your stomach flip, you groan, “Thanks, Bren.”
As she puts all the baffling dots together, Dana steps in and tells him, “I’ll bring her up to OT. She looks like she could go down any second, so I’m gonna stick with her.”
Brendon sighs. You know he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to stop himself from getting too upset that he can’t fix everything right away. “Thanks, Dana, I’ll see you both soon.”
Dana manages to get you to Occupational Health without catching any stray questioning stares. After being briefed on your symptoms, the OT nurse gives you a sympathetic smile as she preps her kit. “It’s probably the flu, but we’re going to draw some blood and take a couple cultures just to be safe, alright?”
Dramatically presenting your arm for the poke, you murmur, “As if my husband would let me leave without a battery of tests for a seasonal virus half a Pittsburgh has.”
She smiles knowingly. “Park definitely seems like the protective type.”
“Park the fuckin’ Shark,” Dana sighs, still disbelieving, as she shakes her head. “So tell me: Was he nice when you first met or were you mean?”
Seeing Brendon’s broad form in the corner of your eye, you turn toward him and sigh romantically, “He’s always nice to me.”
The moment he catches your eye, Brendon’s expression softens. Dana’s never seen that before. He strides quickly to your side and takes your free hand as the nurse does your blood draw. With a quick squeeze to your palm, he asks gently, “How’s the patient feeling?”
You tilt your head back and pout. “Supremely crappy. Sorry, baby, I know you told me to stay home this morning.”
Brendon shakes his head and presses his lips to your hair. “Never apologize for needing my help; that’s the job. You’ve been nauseous half of your adult life and you’re used to pushing through it. Shit happens. Let’s just get you home, baby.”
Dana watches the exchange with befuddled eyebrows. Suddenly the mountain of a frown she’s come to know is a gentle giant, his eyes concerned and his expression tender. He’s had baby blue eyes this whole time? Jesus. She never would’ve guessed after avoiding eye contact so long. She gestures broadly and half-laughs as she asks Brendon, “You’re telling me all those precious angels she’s got covering the inside of her locker belong to you? The meanest man in the hospital?”
“Guilty as charged,” Brendon confirms as he once again kisses the top of your head. He’s rubbing your back, too, unable to stop touching you as a way of grounding himself. “We’ve been together almost ten years now.”
She whistles, impressed. Turning to you while the nurse disappears with your tests, she asks, “Any reason you don’t talk about him at work besides the fact that he’s undeniably awful?”
“I talk plenty about my husband,” you laugh softly, not able to muster much energy to tease, “you all just don’t think my cute stories could be about him.”
Suddenly recontextualizing countless adorable accounts, Dana disbelievingly says, “Brendon Park takes his girls to their father-daughter dances every year in a tie that matches their dress. Brendon Park writes notes for his kids’ lunchboxes and takes them all on dad dates so they don’t miss out on quality time with him.” She shakes her head and laughs, “No wonder he keeps his family a secret; I think you might be the sweetest man in the world, Dr. Park. I’m never gonna look at you the same way again.”
“That’s all hearsay,” Brendon snaps back through a chuckle. Then he sighs and tells her, “Look, surgery may be my life, but those kids are my world. Family’s everything.”
Dana can’t help smiling. “God, now I’m gonna be sick.”
You make kissy lips at Brendon and say, “I tell you guys all the time: My husband’s a huge softie.”
Brendon shakes his head and jokingly covers your ears with his hands. “She’s delirious; don’t listen to a word she says.” Then, while you get cleared to leave, he nudges Dana on the arm and adds, “Hey, don’t tell anyone about us, alright? We’ve got a whole bet going.”
And she gives the only response heard in the Pitt: “Can I get in on the action?”
Just as you’re about to go home after your first shift back a few days later, feeling much better after resting and hydrating as with Brendon’s mom coming over to dote on the kids, Dana touches you on the shoulder. Her eyes are sharp and her voice is low. “Do you have a few minutes?”
You glance at your watch. Brendon’s grabbing the boys from daycare, so you can spare a few minutes. “Now?”
She nods and you can see something serious hiding behind her eyes. Immediately you worry about the particularly fragile patient she assisted you with a few hours ago. “No time like the present.”
“Um, yeah, alright.”
She leads you into a private room and closes the door behind her. Inside, she picks up a chart and a few packets of paper she had waiting.
Swallowing hard as your mind easily supplies all sorts of horrible news, you check, “Is this about a patient?”
“Ah, kind of,” she replies, gesturing for you to sit on the bed. You hop up and she steps closer. After a deep breath, she hands over the clipboard – your chart from your visit to OT last week – and says, “No point beating around the bush, I say. You’re pregnant.”
The floor falls out from under you.
Your ears start to ring. Staring down at the litany of blood tests, your eyes settle on that firm POSITIVE next to a sky-high hCG level.
While your heart thuds its way into your throat, Dana adds softly, “I’m guessing you’re already well into your first trimester based on those numbers. Maybe 10, 12 weeks.”
Not quite processing, you blink fast and ramble out, “I- I’m so good about my birth control pills. Same time every day. Never miss them. With five kids, you don’t miss your birth control.”
“I read over your chart, honey,” she explains, standing next to you now so she can place a hand on your upper back. “One of the medications you’re on – the modafinil, for your sleep issues – reduces the effectiveness of hormonal birth control.”
Tears sting at your eyes as you scoff, feeling stupid and confused and jarred, “How did I not know that? I’m a fucking doctor.”
“You’re not a psychiatrist. If they didn’t tell you that, you should sue as far as I’m concerned.” She hands you a couple stapled packets of paper and a pamphlet. Studies, you realize. “Look, take a day and talk about it with your husband, whatever you need to do, but if you decide to stay pregnant, you’ll need to stop taking it because first trimester exposure can cause some complications and malformations.”
If the floor fell out of you at the first news, it’s the ceiling flying off this time. Your hand goes over your mouth as you choke back a sob. “Oh, god.”
“Don’t go panicking yet,” she soothes, rubbing your back how your mother would when you were little. “The chance is still low and you know as well as I do there are things we can screen for and most of them are fixable, treatable, or manageable even if they’re present. All your numbers look fantastic and you’ve got a nice long history of healthy pregnancies, right?”
You wipe the tears from your cheeks and take a deep breath, steadying yourself as much as you can. “Right. Right, yeah. Okay. Everything’s okay.”
Dana gives you a sympathetic, understanding smile. “Do you want a minute alone? Or I can walk you out to your car?”
You sniffle and try to force your face into a grateful expression, genuinely thankful she’s being so kind and taking the time to be supportive. “That would be nice.”
With her voice low and her arm slung protectively around your shoulder, Dana guided you out of the back entrance and to your waiting car. She says goodbye with a tight hug that lingers, promising you everything will be okay.
Then, alone in your car, your mind finally settled enough to relax, you feel that tiny little spark.
Underneath the shock, underneath the panic, underneath the confusion, peeking out like a sprout growing through a crack in the concrete, there’s that familiar bloom of pure love. That soft, sacred, quiet thing that grows unrelentingly inside of you when everything else threatens to crumble.
Love without boundaries, without conditions, without a name. The same love that has you sewing custom Halloween costumes, baking preschool graduation cakes, and wiping sniffly noses all cold season long. A love made from you and the man who’s rerouted and dedicated his entire life to making sure you and your children are safe and adored.
As you turn over the engine, you touch your lower abdomen and murmur softly, “We’re doing this again, aren’t we?”
You hate to say it, but you’re grateful when Brendon is pulled into an emergency surgery at the end of the day, sending his mom to pick up the boys at daycare. It’s nice to have some time to think while you make dinner and help the older ones with homework.
While everyone settles into the evening, you catch yourself watching the kids playing with each other, leaning in the doorway with a soft, far away expression. You’d felt so finished having kids after Felix, but suddenly you can see another baby to bounce as you chase the others around. You can see it so clearly that your eyes sting with tears. Even when you imagine that baby with any myriad of complications, you love it. You want it.
Late that night, all the kids in bed save your littlest one, Felix is half-asleep on your chest, his thumb in his mouth while you watch the TV on low. You just can’t bear to stop moments like this when you know they’re so fleeting. Running your fingers through his hair, just like Brendon’s downy waves, you murmur, “What do you think about becoming a big brother, little man?”
He stirs slightly and gives you a heavy-lidded smile. With a half-giggle that always melts you, he muses, “Baby sister?”
“Baby something,” you confirm gently. “I just have to tell daddy.”
He nods as if knowingly, nestling his forehead into your side. “Daddy happy.”
“I hope so.”
“Know so.”
You’ve convinced yourself that you’ll manage to wait to tell Brendon until after he’s had a solid night’s sleep. But then he comes home. And, in a matter of minutes, you remember it’s impossible for you to keep a secret from him, especially one this big. That’s the problem with being married to your best friend; he’s the one person you want to talk about everything with, even when it’s not the best time.
“I got my bloodwork back,” you tell him tentatively as you watch him go through his bedtime routine from the bed, “and I don’t have the flu.”
After he finishes flossing, he heads into the closet and asks, “Norovirus?”
Your hands start to sweat. This feels very, very different from your other pregnancies. The shadow of Felix’s birth clouds you both. You swallow hard and squeak out, “Not quite.”
Stepping out in nothing but his boxers, a few droplets of water still on his chest from his recent shower, Brendon sits next to you on the bed and cups your cheek. With a furrowed brow, he urges, “I can read you like a book, angel. Spit it out.”
Searching his blue eyes for any islands to rest away from your anxiety, you whisper, “I’m pregnant.”
Every time you’ve told him before, he’s scooped you up into his arms and spun you around and celebrated. This time, the blood drains from his face. His palms go clammy. The world stills.
After a minute, he asks in a voice that’s jumbled up with fear and grief and love and hope and desperation, “You want us to keep it?”
“I think so,” you reply quietly, “but not if you don’t want another-”
“I’d raise as many kids as you’d give me, baby, that’s not what I’m nervous about.” Brendon turns to you, clutches your hands in his, and shakes his head like he’s trying to clear an Etch-a-Sketch. Through tears that just won’t stop falling, he whispers, “After everything last time, after almost- almost fucking lose you, I don’t know if I can- if I can handle it.”
You rush back, “That won’t happen again, Bren.”
“You can’t know that for sure.”
Brushing his wet cheeks with your thumbs, you remind him, “I can know it to 99.99994 percent based on the latest research. We both know the odds are astronomical that that complication would happen more than once.”
Unable to speak, Brendon buries his face in your shoulder and takes a deep breath. His arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you effortlessly into his lap to hold you as tight to him as possible.
You massage his scalp with your fingertips and soothe, “I’m okay, Bren. I’m just pregnant.”
“I know, baby, I know.” He pulls back and kisses your hand over and over with his eyebrows pinched together. “But you’re older now, and-”
“Sweetheart, I’m not even thirty,” you chuckle and shake your head. “The average woman hasn’t even started having babies by my age.”
“You’re really on one with the statistics tonight,” he half-laughs, wiping his tears and taking a deep breath. After a minute of studying your features the way he always has when he wishes he could read your thoughts, he checks, “Are you sure?”
You nod and give him the first secretive smile. “Completely.”
Brendon hugs you close once again and sighs out all his fears with his next breath. “Then I’m sure with you.” Sliding his strong arms beneath your ass, he offers a mischievous smile and asks, “Feel secure?”
You roll your eyes and grin and nod – and he hoists you up into the air. Letting out a needed laugh, you lock your legs around him and kiss him hard as he spins you around. With your forehead pressed to his, you giggle out, “We’re gonna have a baby.”
“I love you so fucking much,” he says, kissing across your cheeks. Once he’s got you laughing and thrilled, he flops you back on the bed and kisses your stomach. Finally, propped on his elbows next to you, that boyish smile of his blooms in full force. He says seriously, “At least this means we have some wiggle room for our ultimate frisbee lineup. Margot’s not exactly shaping up to be an athlete with all her musical theater.”
You snort run your fingers through Brendon’s hair as he rests his head on your stomach, eyes closed reverently as he once again reimagines his future with another baby. “Hear that, kiddo? Daddy’s gonna teach you to throw as soon as you’re out of there. Work extra hard on building up that right hook.”
“Nah, we need a Southpaw,” he corrects with the most adorable smile you’ve ever seen. Then he just shakes his head happily and snuggles closer to you, the picture of domestic bliss. As he softly kisses anywhere he can, he muses, “We’re gonna have to go ring shopping again.”
You poke him in the pec and balk, “You want me to wear a six carat diamond? My hand will fall off, Bren. We could send one of the kids to college with that.”
He holds up his hand to stop you in your tracks. “One carat per baby; that’s been my rule for a decade and I’m not about to betray my values now.”
With a snicker, you reach back and turn off your bedside lamp, getting cozy under the covers together. “I can’t even wear my ring to work.”
He counters, “But I like when you wear it on dates.”
“Because you like to show me off like some trophy wife.”
Dramatically, he sighs out, “God forbid a man be madly, spectacularly in love with a gorgeous woman and want everyone in a ten-foot radius to know.”
“Fine,” you relent, unable to stop smiling even in the dark, “six carats it is.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
