free palestine

she/her - twenty-three - sapphic af but tragically also attracted to men :( blurbs - fics - imagines requests open

[sl-ut]

masterlist

*WILL BE UPDATED AS POSTED*

a knight of the seven kingdoms

ser duncan the tall

oath keeper

bottoms

hazel callahan

different crowds (hcs)

euphoria

rue bennett

i wanna be your girlfriend (series-ON HOLD) (nsfw)

nsfw alphabet (nsfw—duh)

spending the day at rue’s house (hc)

maddy perez

desperate | 2 (nsfw)

nsfw alphabet (nsfw—duh)

stay at my place (nsfw)

prom

experimenting (nsfw)

cake (nsfw)

a new kind of happy

cassie howard

experimenting (nsfw)

harry potter

george weasley

comfort zone

house of the dragon

aemond targaryen

months apart (nsfw)

alicent hightower

want (nsfw)

simple pleasures (nsfw)

the dangers of our desires (nsfw)

sugar and spice (modern au) (hc)

cregan stark

princess of the north (nsfw) | the warmth of winter (nsfw)

of fire and ice

daemon targaryen

a prince's demand (nsfw)

rhaenyra targaryen

a princess’s order (nsfw) | a lady’s demand | a prince's demand (nsfw)

too sweet (slightly nsfw)

for better or for worse (nsfw)

outer banks

kiara carrera

lucky

nsfw alphabet (nsfw—duh)

pope heyward

enough

all is fair (feat. jj maybank)

sarah cameron

once a cheater…

blurb 1 (nsfw)

mcu

agatha harkness

when in westview

bob reynolds

i like it better

brunnhilde (valkyrie)

love of her life

pesky gods and whiskey

wanda maximoff

milf!wanda series (nsfw)

yelena belova

peachy

marc spector/steven grant/jake lockely

tipsy (j.l) (nsfw)

buzzed (m.s) (nsfw)

stranger things

robin buckley

the privacy of a dark theatre

edge of seventeen

our friend, steve

eddie munson

somebody else

nsfw alphabet (nsfw—duh)

steve harrington

beyond

the last of us

joel miller

if he wanted to | complicated | long, long time

you should probably leave | a man who was gonna die young

still here

the bottom (series)

tess servopoulos

habits

abby anderson

sweet cliches (series)

body heat (feat. ellie williams | blurb)

like real people do

ellie williams

ceilings | part two

body heat (feat. abby anderson | blurb)

cool with it (feat. dina | blurb)

always

gamer!ellie hcs | pt 2 | pt 3

jesse

the thing (slight nsfw)

the walking dead

daryl dixon

survive

glenn rhee

brutal (series-ON HOLD)

tara chambler

welcome party

the white lotus

timothy ratliff

darlin'

[sl-ut]

the dragon tattoo | prelude

pairing: modern!jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader

description: jacaerys was ecstatic when his mother proposed that he invite his girlfriend along on their annual summer holiday in dorne. two weeks in paradise, endless luxury, the love of his life, and…his entire extended family–what could go wrong?

Warnings: swearing, mentions of sex (no smut in this chap), reader is mentioned to be feminine presenting but no physical features mentioned beyond clothing, a disgustingly large wealth gap (middle class!reader), very toxic family dynamics, no targcest featured in this one (jace, luke, and joffrey are still velaryons but lets not dwell on that)

words: 2.3K

date posted: 19/07/26

next part

The call came late on a Saturday afternoon.

Jacaerys had prided himself on his ability to hole his girlfriend up in his penthouse for days on end; he had the resources to feed, clothe, and entertain her for weeks if he had to, and was never denying himself the opportunity to spend an entire weekend cut off entirely from the outside world, just himself and the love of his life for two and a half consecutive days straight. 

He spent his weeks buried deep in his work, but his focus was always somewhat clouded with the vision of his beloved taking up space, just existing in his environment with such ease. He’d yet to ask her to officially move in, but he could feel it coming in the near future, considering that he could hardly sleep a wink on the rare occasion she actually spends the night at her own shoebox apartment all the way across the city. He treated her to breakfast in bed, lazy morning sex followed by long showers where he clings to her the entire time. He took her on any afternoon outing she desired, chauffeuring her around the city for any appointments or activities she may have had on Saturday. Sundays, however, were reserved for a quiet reset. Laundry, grocery shopping, and meal prepping taken care of in the morning so the rest of the day can be spent in their most comfortable clothes with fruity smelling face masks pressed to their skin as they lounge on the couch watching The Real Housewives of Casterly Rock. Nowhere was his favourite place to be with her, where they had no distractions, no obligations other than to be together. 

It was just after supper, they were unwinding with a glass of chilled arbor red, on opposite sides of the couch lazily scrolling through their respective social media. Her legs stretched across the cushions, finding their place in his lap while his spare hand cupped the slope of muscle between her half and ankle, his fingers tracing soft patterns against the dragon tattoo just behind her ankle bone. 

The loud ringing that interrupted their peaceful silence caused both of them to jump, his phone falling to his lap and revealing his mother’s contact lit up on the screen. He let out a soft snort, his fingers curling around her ankle and offering a comforting squeeze as he reached for the device.

She could barely see the screen from where she laid, craning her neck as Jace accepted the call and his mother’s face appeared on the screen. Her surroundings were dimly lit, most likely her own living room at the Dragonstone Estate just a few hours outside of the city. Her hair was neatly braided back, as usual, and her face still radiated that ethereal beauty that only those of Valyrian descent possessed, though there was a certain tiredness beneath her soft expression. 

“Hi mum,” he greeted, “everything alright?”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened through the screen, her response coming with a playful bite, “does something need to be wrong in order to speak to your mother?”

Jace rolled his eyes, “no, of course not. But, I can see that you’re still at the office, so I can only assume.”

“I’m alright, my boy,” she sighed, “things are busy here. Your grandsire is increasingly difficult to work with now that I’ve relocated to Dragonstone. That man knows less and less about computers each time he uses one.”

Jacaerys let out a soft laugh at that. He’d spent the last few summers interning under his grandfather in King’s Landing, and had spent countless lunch breaks ranting to his girlfriend over the phone with the very same complaints. He squeezed her ankle playfully in a silent I-told-you-so, drawing a low giggle from her. 

Rhaenyra visibly perked up at the sound–how she had picked up on the quiet noise through the microphone was beyond both of them, but she’d grown incredibly fond of her son’s girlfriend and always bugged him about never seeing her enough.

“Hello my girl,” she said, “Jace, show her to me.”

Jace let out a scoff at his mother’s command, “did you call me because you missed your first born or because you wanted to speak to my girlfriend?”

“I called in hopes of seeing you both,” she said, rather diplomatically, “but especially the future mother of my firstborn’s firstborn. And the others to follow.”

A scarlet flush came to stain Jacaerys’s pale cheeks like a ruthless wave of heat. This drew a sharper laugh from his girlfriend, who had sat up and reached out to snatch the phone from his hand.

“There she is,” Rhaenyra hummed, “lovely as ever. How are you, my love?”

“Hello Miss Targaryen,” the younger woman beamed into the camera, “I’m far better than your son at the moment, it seems.”

Rhaenyra chuckled at that, “my son is utterly devoted to you in every way, and still he cannot handle even the slightest teasing.”

“I am still here,” Jace barked, shifting to lay across his girlfriend’s abdomen so they were both in frame, “I would ask you not to speak about me right to my face, but you two spend more time together than either of you do with me.”

“Oh please,” his girlfriend dismissed him, “we live in different cities, that is not possible.”

“And yet somehow, you manage.”

“That reminds me,” Rhaenyra cut in, “that is exactly why I called. My father has proposed a group trip.”

Jace’s body stiffened as his face lifted off of his girlfriend’s chest, “which group?”

Rhaenyra’s expression twisted, her eyes speaking for her as she pursed her lips, unenthused.

“The family. The whole family.”

“Such as…”

“Myself, you, Luke, and Joff, of course; my father, Alicent, Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond. Daeron has decided to find an internship in Old Town for the spring break, and the offer has been extended to Daemon and Laena, though it doesn’t seem likely that he’ll accept. My father and Daemon have done nothing but bicker for the last few weeks.”

Then, in a honeyed tone, she added the younger woman’s name to the list, “of courseyou are invited to join us as well. I’ve already included you in the numbers for planning, but there is no pressure. We’re thankful enough that you are able to handle Jacaerys, let alone my entire family.” 

“Oh–” 

Both Rhaenyra and Jace’s expressions shifted at the uncertainty on the girl’s face. 

“What is it?” He asked, sitting up straighter as concern flashed through him.

There were a few factors that struck fear into her, starting with the fact that she had never even met the rest of his family beyond his mother and brothers, who seemed so homey and welcoming that she almost forgot that Jace’s grandfather was the king. 

The king had extended an invitation for her to join their family vacation–well, he had extended it to his daughter, who extended it to her son, and in extension, to you, but the importance of the details seem to be lost on her. A week spent with the royal family, along with her boyfriend, who is part of the royal family. She suddenly felt that gnawing feeling of inadequacy that she often felt when she was suddenly reminded of how out of her league Jace was. 

Then, there was also the issue of her internship. While Jace had secured his own working closely along with his grandfather and his closest advisors, she’d had a harder time finding her own for the summer break, but she had struck gold when she received an offer from a very highly praised law firm to work as their office assistant. It came with many benefits, including a paid vacation time that had not yet been fixed to a date, it seemed like a better excuse than blatantly admitting to her cowardice.

“It’s just…” she felt her cheeks burning as she worked her way to the admission, “I just…I don’t think I could afford it, especially considering I’d be taking a week off for the holiday itself. Perhaps for the winter holidays, or–”

Rhaneyra let out a soft bark of a laugh as she interrupted the younger woman, “I’m very disappointed in my son that it was even a thought in your mind that you would be paying for any of it, my love. It is an invitation, all expenses covered. I want you there, so do Luke and Joff, and even Jacaerys’s grandsire has expressed his interest in meeting you. Besides, I cannot imagine the agony we would all suffer on behalf of Jace being apart from you for more than a few hours.”

“Mum,” Jace said sharply, but his arm only tightened around his girlfriend’s shoulders to confirm his mother’s implication. 

“I only jest, my boy,” Rhaenyra laughed, “the decision is yours, darling, but I do hope you consider it.”

The girl glanced up at her boyfriend’s hopeful expression, letting out a sigh, “I’ll think on it. I’ll need to see if I can take the time away from work, and the museum, and–”

“Yes, yes, all of your other engagements,” Rhaenyra pursed her lips, “Jace has told me about how busy you keep yourself during your summer break. Yet another reason you should join us, in my opinion.”

Jacaerys felt his partner’s figure stiffen under his arm at the dismissal. She’d expressed her uncertainty in the past regarding the major wealth and status difference between the two, especially when it came to Jace’s instinct to pay for everything or almost bribe her from her own engagements. 

It began with small requests for her to skip class to be with him, which was not often enough to put a stink up over, but enough for her to take note of how he had much less remorse for cutting himself some slack than she typically afforded herself. Then it was him begging her to attend all of his football matches and practices, even when she had other commitments or needed to study; this she could understand his desire for her to be there supporting him, but on the occasion that she was unable to attend, she was often left feeling a touch guilty when she prioritized her future over her relationship. 

The issue developed into the first real fight of their relationship, climaxing with a day of no contact, then a week of Jacaerys following her around like a lost puppy seeking her affection. Since then, he’d been more conscious of not making money seem worthless, but still went the extra mile to spoil her as much as she would allow. 

Her hand reached down to squeeze his thigh, offering him a small nod of assurance. Sure, it wasn’t always nice to have the limitless wealth of the Targaryens waved in her face so blatantly, but she knew Rhaenyra meant no harm by it. 

“We’ll let you know, mum,” Jace cut in, “my girl has herself working harder than anyone I know this summer, let her sleep on it.”

Rhaenyra’s expression shifted, seemingly more alert of how she may have been received, “forgive me, my girl, I didn’t mean to say that your other engagements were lesser or–”

“It’s alright,” she said, “I had to work very hard to earn my internship this summer, so I’ll need to see if I’m able to take the time before I agree.”

“I understand,” Rhaenyra agreed, seemingly a touch embarrassed over the discomfort she’d unintentionally caused, “well, just know that we would all adore it if you could make it, but we will not feel slighted at all. I will speak to you both tomorrow.”

“Love you, mum,” Jace said as he hung up, tossing his phone aside onto the coffee table and shifting his body to lay completely over her body with a groan.

She let out a laugh, hands catching at his ribs as he buried his head into her shoulder.

“Sorry about her,” he mumbled against her bare shoulder, the large sweatshirt of his that she wore shifting away as he laid her back against the cushions, “she can be a bit demanding, I know.”

“I’m not offended,” she responded, fingers carding through his thick curls affectionately, “she means well. Your mother and I both experience struggles that the other could not understand from our upbringings.”

He let out a small huff against her neck, “hm, and you I was spoiled.”

“You,” she tugged at his curls to lift his gaze to meet her own, “are spoiled. But I can be angry with you, but I do not think I could stay cross with your mother for very long. She is a very persuasive woman.”

“You’re the one who spoils me,” he argued, his voice shifting into a playfully mocking tone, “you’ve made me conditioned to need you at all times, woman. Forgive me for being just too besotted by you.”

She giggled at him, her leg lifting to press her heel into his backside in retaliation, “oh shut up. I’m starting to think you don’t want me to come on this holiday afterall.”

He raised a brow, “you think I am actively trying to give up seeing you in sundresses and bathing suits for a week straight?”

“Oh, is that why you want me to come?”

“Mostly,” he grinned at her, “but just think of it, unlimited wine, sunshine, sex on the beach…”

“Need I remind you that your entire family will be there as well?”

He let out a sigh, “fine, fine. Next time we go on holiday though…”

“Don’t push it.”

[lovebugism]

BLOOD OF MY BLOOD, KIN OF MY KIN. (ORMUND HIGHTOWER X WIFE!READER, DAERON TARGARYEN X MOTHER FIGURE!READER PREVIEW) — a glimpse into the years you and ormund raised daeron before the war took its toll, and all the years after it.

Daeron’s hands tremble around the leather hilt of Ormund’s sword. His misty eyes find the prisoner kneeling just before him, bloodied and chained for a crime any noble man would surely commit, before glancing slowly to where his uncle looms just behind him. Candelight flickers in shades of orange-gold upon the man’s chiseled features, pooling a dark black in the shadow of his eyes.

“What would Mother think of this?” Daeron hears himself ask, voice shaking under the weight of the tears burning in the backs of his eyes.

Ormund’s face softens, though there is little tenderness in what he asks of the boy now. “Alicent would understand,” he coos in a gentle voice. “War asks difficult things of every great house—”

“I didn’t—” Daeron swallows hard, shier now than moments before. “I did not mean the Lady Alicent…”

Realization flashes across Ormund’s face — a visible recognition of exactly which woman the boy had been referring to, and had been referring to since he was a babe; whenever the word would tumble accidentally from his mouth, without a second spared for the correction. Daeron might not have been yours by blood, but he was yours in every other way that mattered.

But still, Ormund does not soften for it.

“Your mother would be proud,” the man answers, brows lowered as if the answer was plain. “Don’t you see? Any strike against this army is a strike against her, against everything she’s built to keep you safe… Any man who raises his fist against our men raises it, in the end, against her… And do you not want to protect her, just as she has spent every day protecting you?”

Daeron swallows hard; the weight of Ormund’s words feels heavy in his throat. His trembling hands tighten around the sword hilt. His teary eyes linger on the steel blade, flickering gold in the candlelight. “No, please, I beg you,” the prisoner pleads. Daeron’s eyes lift to find his and linger there for a long moment. He sees your face in the back of his mind, the only real mother he’s ever known since he was sent to ward, and hears Ormund’s voice in his head as he draws the heavy blade back.

Then he strikes.

COMING SOON.

p.s. i don't do taglists (other than my @bugfics account) but feel free to leave a comment here if you'd like to be notified when the fic drops!

[asmeesh]

1$ flea market score. Tiny glass 1960s perfume bottles. I love them.

[shit-show-no-go]

Can you swap their heads ?

[asmeesh]

omg you can

[asmeesh]

Their meeting was foretold in the ancient texts

[theinvisiblespoon]

[muddiedfoxglove]

Pregaming tonight’s HOTD by watching Elizabeth (1998)

[sedonasummer]

ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ | ɢᴡᴀʏɴᴇ ʜɪɢʜᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ

─ summary: Gwayne comes back from war and is so enamoured of his son. ─ pairing: Gwayne Hightower x wife!reader ─ content: literally nothing but tooth-rotting fluff ─ a/n: i just wanted some softness in my life. Thank you as always for reading🖤

The room lay wrapped in a silence reserved for the hours long past midnight, when the keep had surrendered its last stirrings, and even the wind lay still against the stone. In the hearth, the fire had banked and covered, leaving only moonlight to light the room. Darkness pooled in the corners. A watchman's distant call rose and fell, muffled by walls of stone and panes of glass, then faded into nothing.

Gwayne stood beside the cradle. He wore a loose shirt, its laces undone at the throat so the fabric fell open, revealing the hard planes of his chest. His strawberry-blonde hair, darker in the moonlight than by day, hung loose around his shoulders. One broad hand rested on the carved rim of the cradle, his fingers curling gently over its edge. With the thumb of his other hand, he traced the delicate curve of his son's cheek so lightly the skin barely dimpled. The boy was scarcely a moon old. He lay curled on his back, hands curled into tiny fists, his lips making small, unconscious suckling motions in sleep. He was so new, so impossibly small, that Gwayne could scarcely reconcile him with reality. This perfect, fragile life had grown and entered the world while he was away at war, and Gwayne felt unworthy of any claim upon it.

In the bed across the room, the furs shifted. You had awakened to the cold emptiness beside you. Eyes opened to the dim chamber, your hand reaching across the linen and finding nothing. You sat up slowly, the sheets sliding to your waist, and saw him standing by the cradle, backlit by the moonlight.

He felt your gaze.

"Did I wake you, my love?" he whispered, voice barely more than breath.

You shook your head,  "I reached for you, and you were not there."

A flicker crossed his face, a softening of his mouth, a faint chastening of his brows. He looked back at the baby, then at you. You pushed the sheets away and swung your legs over the side of the bed.

"What are you doing?" 

"I want him to see the moment he wakes," he murmured, eyes already drawn to their son. 

You rose without a sound, your bare feet finding the stone floor, and crossed to his side. "He will, but come rest while he sleeps."

Gwayne shifted at once, opening his arm to draw you close. You fit yourself against him, your shoulder pressed to his ribs, your head turning to follow his gaze into the cradle. Together you watched the babe: the perfect smallness of him, the peaceful rise and fall of his breath, so new to the world, yet so sure of his place in it. "I do not want to miss another moment," Gwayne said, his voice low but carrying the weight of months spent in war; the nights in cold camps, the endless longing for home, for you, to meet the children he left growing in your belly. 

You turned in his arms, hand finding his cheek, and kissed him. His hand was warm against your back as you began to guide him back toward the bed.

Then the baby stirred.

A thin fuss, a hitch in his breath, and he woke. His face scrunched, arms jerking in startled distress.

Before you could move, Gwayne was bending over the cradle, lifting the child. One hand cradled the back of the babe's soft skull, the other supported his tiny body. The rough strength of a warrior gave way to complete gentleness. The infant blinked, ready to wail, but then he met his father's eyes; blue to blue. He stilled, fists unfurling, gaze fixed almost in recognition.

"There now," Gwayne murmured, swaying from foot to foot, his voice low and warm, rough at the edges. Awe lit his features at the miracle in his arms. "I have you."

The baby sighed, eyes drifting closed once more. Gwayne kept his slow rocking, chin bowed, and you stood beside him, your hand resting lightly on his arm. 

[targaryen-dynasty]

ORMUND HIGHTOWER HEADCANONS.

WARNINGS: mentions of panty sniffing and masturbating

NOTES: hey, so, I saw this man sniff that flask like his life depended on it and just knew he'd coax his wife to wear some sort of medieval panties (lmao) just so he can take them with him to have something good to sniff on.

Ormund, who always asks you to leave him one of your linen undergarments before he departs, insisting that no scented flask could ever compare to the scent of you(r cunt).

Ormund, who insists that the scent lingers longer if you wear the linen for several days before his departure, though he never truly explains why.

Ormund, who refuses to leave unless he carries something that smells like you, considering it just as important as his sword and armor.

Ormund, who carefully folds the linen and tucks it beneath his breastplate or into his doublet before every ride or battle, where it rests close to his heart.

Ormund, who lifts the fabric to his nose whenever the stench of sweat, horses, and blood becomes unbearable.

Ormund, who absentmindedly reaches into his armor during difficult rides, taking comfort in the familiar scent that reminds him of you and his place between your thighs.

Ormund, who finds that one inhale of your familiar scent steadies his nerves before riding into battle better than any prayer ever could.

Ormund, who lies awake at night, clutching the linen to his face and breathing in your lingering scent as he strokes himself, surrendering to the ache of missing you.

Ormund, who treats the linen like a treasured keepsake, making certain no squire or servant ever touches the small pouch in which he keeps it.

Ormund, who always returns the carefully folded linen to you after he comes home, only to ask for another before his next departure.

Ormund, who would sooner forget his own cloak than leave behind the piece of linen you gave him.

[fandomtrela]

I mean…Would I say no? No.🫣

[theehorsepusssy]

[diosapate]

[jessebloom]

first day of pride month

[odekirk]

[cy-lindric]

Due to its surprising popularity on the many places it's been posted and reposted to, I decided to finally complete this little wlw sketch that I had kind of given up on. I'm hoping to have it riso printed soon !

[sl-ut]

me opening the app and seeing a bunch of notifications, only to remember that euphoria has restarted and ppl want me to finally finish iwbyg

[psalmlover]

tiddles the church cat

[shadeofpeach]

Hidden bruises

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x Resident!Reader

Warnings: heavy angst, MDNI!!! Domestic violence, physical abuse, graphic descriptions of injuries, internal bleeding, blood. Please read with care. It explores the reality of being blind to violence out of fear and survival.

Summary: Working the night shift at The Pitt is hard enough without carrying the weight of a violent secret. Jack Abbot has been watching his best resident slowly fade for months until a desperate attempt to leave her abuser turns into a fight for her life.

A/N already working on part two!! Also, correct me if I wrote something wrong on the medical part 🫡

Jack was leaning against the central nursing station when he saw you. You were at the far end of the corridor, tucked into the shadow of a supply cart, thinking you were out of sight.

You weren't.

Jack watched as you pressed the phone to your ear, your knuckles white as bone. Even from twenty feet away, he could see the slight tremor in your shoulders. Your voice didn't carry but the frantic pacing did. It was the movement of someone trying to find a solution that wasn't there.

"Again?"

Jack didn't turn his head. He knew Lena’s voice without looking. The head nurse stood beside him, her eyes fixed on the same spot.

"Third time this shift," Jack muttered, his thumb tracing the rim of his jaw. "She’s been on that call for ten minutes. If the paramedics roll in with a code right now, she’s not going to be in the headspace to lead it."

"It’s not just the phone calls, Jack," Lena said softly, her voice heavy with sadness. "Look at her wrists."

Jack straightened up. He’d noticed the long sleeves you wore, the way you winced when you reached a high shelf and the heavy layer of make up that didn't quite hide the yellowish purple smudge blooming along your jawline.

He waited until you hung up, until you leaned your forehead against the cold metal of the supply cart and took a shallow breath. When you finally stepped back, rubbing your eyes until they were bloodshot and glassy, he intercepted you.

"Abbot," you croaked, your voice thin and brittle. You didn't look at him. You looked at his chest, at his ID badge, anywhere but his eyes. "Sorry. I was just checking on... a personal matter."

"A personal matter that has you screaming and unfocused at 3 a.m," Jack’s tone wasn't kind. "You’re late on your rounds. You missed the handoff on the MVA in Bed 4."

"I’m sorry. It won't happen again."

"It’s already happened again," Jack countered. He stepped closer, dropping his voice. "You’re a resident at one of the busiest trauma centers in the city. You can't afford to be compromised. You’re shaking and trailing three steps behind the rhythm of this floor."

You finally looked up and the raw exhaustion in your gaze made him flinch internally. "I'm just tired, Dr. Abbot. The night shifts are catching up to me."

"Don't lie to me," he said, the words landing like lead. "I see the bruises. I see the way you jump every time your phone vibrates on the counter. This isn't tired."

You stepped back, your posture suddenly defensive, arms crossing over your chest to hide the very signs he’d pointed out. "You don't know what you're talking about. You’re my attending, Jack. Not my therapist. If my work is subpar, write me up. Otherwise, leave it alone."

Jack watched you walk away. He saw Shen emerge from a patient room, catching your eye for a split second. Shen didn't say anything, but the look of pity he shot toward you was enough to confirm that everyone knew.

Everyone saw the cracks.

Jack stayed at the station. He wanted to reach out, to pull you into an office and demand the truth, to offer a way out. But as he watched you disappear into the shadows of the hallway, he realized the most agonizing part of the ER: you couldn't treat a patient who refused to admit they were bleeding.

He picked up the phone to page the next intake, his heart hardening while realizing he was watching his best resident slowly vanish, one night shift at a time.

_

Jack was just arriving at ER when he heard the slammed car door.

It wasn’t the sound of someone arriving; it was the sound of an exclamation point. Jack saw you. You were backing away, your hands up in a defensive posture, your scrubs already darkening with rain. Following you was a man whose voice cut through the sound of the rain, low with a terrifying rage.

"I told you to leave it alone!" you cried out, your voice cracking. "I’m late, I have to go—"

"You don't go anywhere until I'm finished," the man snarled.

Jack stopped ten feet away, his hand tightening around his bag. He saw the moment the man lunged. It wasn't a punch; it was a swift grab. He seized your upper arm, his fingers digging into the soft tissue with enough force to jerk your entire body toward him. You let out a choked gasp of pain, your heels skidding on the wet asphalt.

"Let go," you whispered, your eyes darting toward the ER entrance in a panic. "Please, someone will see."

"Let them look, you're being a bitch," he hissed, pulling you closer until your faces were inches apart.

"That's enough."

Jack’s voice wasn't loud but it was precise. He stepped out of the shadows, he didn't look at you, he kept his eyes locked on the man’s hand, still clamped around your arm.

The boyfriend looked up, eyes narrowing. "Back off, pal. This is private."

"It stopped being private the second you touched her on hospital property," Jack said, stepping into the man's personal space. "Let her go. Now."

"Jack, please," you stammered, your face pale and glistening with rain. "It’s fine, we’re just—"

"It isn't fine," Jack snapped, his eyes finally flickering to yours for a fraction of a second. "I’m Dr. Jack Abbot. I run this ER. And if you don't take your hand off my resident in the next three seconds, I’m calling hospital security. They’re already standing thirty feet behind those glass doors. Want to find out how fast they move?"

The man’s jaw worked, his eyes darting to the security desk visible through the lobby windows. He loosened his grip, giving your arm a final sharp shove before stepping back.

"She's all yours, Doc," the man spat. He pointed a finger at you, a silent promise of a conversation to be finished later, before climbing back into the car and peeling away.

The silence that followed was heavy. You stood there, your head bowed, your breath coming in ragged hitches. You reached up to rub your arm, your fingers hovering over where his grip had been.

Jack didn't offer a hand. He didn't offer a hug. He knew you’d break if he did.

"Get inside," he said, his voice low and tight. "Go to the breakroom. Take all the time you need before starting your shift."

"Jack, I—"

"Not here," he cut you off, his heart hammering against his ribs in a mix of fury and fear. He looked at the red marks already blooming on your skin, matching the older, fading bruises he'd spotted weeks ago. "We have a shift to run. But don't think for one second that we’re going back to pretending I don't see this."

He walked past you toward the sliding doors, leaving you standing in the rain, the cold reality of the night finally stripped of all its excuses.

_

The sun was beginning to bleed over the Pittsburgh skyline as the night shift finally drew to a close. The high adrenaline had faded, replaced by a heavy ache of exhaustion.

Jack stood by the lockers, his jacket already on, watching you. You were moving with a frantic energy, you were vibrating with the need to disappear before he could corner you.

"Day shift is here," Jack said, his voice echoing in the nearly empty hallway. "Go home."

You flinched but didn't turn around. "I just need to finish the notes on the cardiac arrest in Bed 2. I don't want to leave Robby with a mess."

"He already took the handoff. He told you to go home ten minutes ago." Jack walked over, stopping just far enough away that you wouldn't feel crowded. "And we need to talk about what happened."

You finally turned, and for a second, Jack was struck by the mask you had donned. It was a perfect, practiced smile, the kind used for difficult patients. "Oh, Abbot, honestly. It was just a silly argument. Tensions were high because I was running late. You know how it is."

"I know what a violent grip looks like," Jack said. "I saw his face. I saw yours. That wasn't a silly argument, and those marks on your arm aren't from a misunderstanding."

"He's just... he’s under a lot of pressure lately," you said quickly, the words tumbling out as if you had rehearsed them in your head a thousand times. "His job is stressful, and I’ve been pulling so many doubles here... he just misses me. He gets frustrated. It’s actually kind of sweet, if you think about it. He just wants me home."

Jack felt a cold chill run down his spine. Hearing you rationalize the bruises made his stomach churn. "Sweet? He shoved you in the rain, in front of your place of work. That’s not love. That’s some abusive bullshit."

"You’re overreacting," you laughed. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, a gesture that inadvertently revealed the darkening thumbprint on your jaw. "You see the worst of humanity every day in here, Jack. You’ve lost your perspective. We’re fine. We’re going to talk it out today, have a nice breakfast, and it’ll be like it never happened."

"But it did happen. And it’s going to happen again." Jack stepped closer, his eyes searching yours, pleading for a flicker of the logical resident he knew was in there. "Look at me. You’re a doctor. If a woman came into this ER with those same marks and told you that story, what would you tell her?"

You went rigid.

"I’d tell her to mind her own business," you snapped, your voice trembling. "I’m not a patient, Jack. I’m your resident."

You grabbed your bag and shouldered past him, your stride quick and desperate.

"I can't help you if you won't let me," Jack called after you.

You didn't stop. You didn't look back. You just pushed through the doors, heading straight toward the exit.

Jack watched you walk away, a silent witness to a tragedy he couldn't stop, feeling the crushing weight of the thing medical school prepared him for: the patients you can’t save because they don’t want to be found.

_

The silence of the ER was shattered by the frantic sound of shoes against the floor.

​Jack was just clipping his pager to his belt when he heard the collective gasp from the triage desk. He turned and his world stopped.

​You were stumbling through the sliding doors, one hand pressed uselessly against your ribs. Your blue scrubs were no blue; it was dark red. One eye was swollen shut, a deep gash splitting the eyebrow, and your lip was torn so badly you couldn't even call out for help.

​"Help—" The word died in a wet wheeze as blood came out your mouth.

​"Need a doctor here!" Dr. Langdon’s voice cutted through the shock of the room.

​Jack dropped his coffee. He didn't remember running, but suddenly he was there, catching you just as your knees buckled. The weight of you was terrifying: limp, cold and smelling of iron.

​"I’ve got you, I’ve got you," Jack muttered, his hands shaking as he tried to find a pulse in your neck. His brain was screaming Trauma. Grade 3 hemorrhage. Probable flail chest. But his heart was just screaming your name.

​"J-Jack, he.. he" you whispered through a mouthful of blood. Your one open eye, glassy and unfocused, searched his. "I... I tried-"

​"Don't talk." Jack commanded, his voice breaking. He looked up, his expression was primal fury. "Let's get her to Trauma 1! Now! Dana, I need two units of O-neg!"

As the team lifted you onto the trauma bed, a suffocating silence fell over the staff.

They weren't just treating a patient; they were treating one of their own.

"Get those scrubs off her! Carefully!" Jack roared, his voice cracking like a whip.

Dana’s shears moved with practiced speed, the blades gliding through the fabric you’d worn just yesterday. As the blue material fell away, the room seemed to go cold. There wasn't an inch of skin that wasn't mottled in shades of plum and yellow. Defensive wounds lined your forearm, fingernail gouges and deep bruises where he’d pinned you down.

"Pressure! I need pressure on the abdominal bleed!" Jack commanded, his gloved hands pressing firmly against your midsection. He felt the sickening pulse of arterial spray against his palms. "She’s tachycardic. Heart rate 140 and climbing. BP is 70 over 40. We’re losing the window."

"Jack, I can't get a line," a nurse called out, her voice rising in panic. "Her veins are collapsed."

"Go intraosseous!" Jack didn't look up. He couldn't. If he looked at your face, at the blood bubbling at the corner of your mouth, he would lose his mind. He had to stay in the anatomy. He had to see you as a series of leaks to be plugged, not the woman who liked her bagels burnt or the resident who always forgot her stethoscope on the charging station. "Drill the tibia! Now!"

The whine of the IO drill filled the room, a mechanical scream that felt like it was drilling directly into Jack's skull.

"I’m in!"

"Start the MTP," Jack ordered. "Give her the first cooler. Stay ahead of the coagulopathy."

Suddenly, your body buckled. A wet cough forced a spray of bright red blood onto Jack’s face shield. The monitor let out a long, continuous, high-pitched wail.

"She's flatlining! V-fib!"

"Start compressions!" Jack screamed.

Langdon stepped up and began the rhythmic task of pumping your heart for you. Every time his hands came down on your chest, the sound of your fractured ribs grating together echoed in the small room.

"Charge to 200," Jack commanded, grabbing the paddles. His hands were slick with your blood, making the handles hard to grip. "Clear!"

Your body jolted under the current.

"Nothing. Still in V-fib. Again! Clear!"

Jack watched your head loll to the side with the force of the shock. He saw the earring you were wearing—a small, silver stud he'd gift you last christmas.

*Don’t you dare,* he thought, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching it. *Don't you dare leave me here.*

"Come on, sweetheart," he whispered, the word lost under the noise of the suction and the barking orders. "Come back to us."

On the third shock, a jagged rhythm appeared on the monitor. It was weak but it was a rhythm.

"We have ROSC," Frank breathed, wiping sweat from his brow with a bloodied sleeve. "She’s not stable. Abbot, look at the ultrasound."

Jack looked at the screen. Your abdomen was filling with fluid, internal bleeding that no amount of pressure could stop.

"She needs an OR. Make the call," Jack said. He leaned over you, his face inches from yours, his voice a low, fierce growl that bypassed the professional and went straight to the personal. "You listen to me. We are taking you up. You stay away from the light. Do you hear me? Do not dare to leave us."

Jack didn't let go of the bedrail. He ran alongside you.

The elevator doors slid shut as the last thing the staff in the ER saw was Dr. Abbot’s back, standing over your broken form, terrified that if he blinked, the darkness you’d been living in would finally claim you.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

the pitt masterlist

[cartersway]

Trinity Santos x camgirl! reader

Imagine that the same girl Trinity is obsessed with on OF appears at the ER one day with a sprained ankle! Oh no!

She obviously recognizes you, but she tries to disguise it. She stays on edge all day because she feels like everyone knows how she knows you. At the same time, no one knows why Dr. Santos is acting so weird about the patient in South 17.

One hour, she would leave a comment slip out, like 'you will not perform for some days, I guess'. Then, for the first time in the ER, Trinity would be red. You laughed shyly, saying that you knew that she recognized you since the beginning.

Maybe Trinity's luck is about to change, because she left work with your personal phone number and a little bit in love already.

[spicyrose]

Daeron setting his sights on a young rich widow!reader and oh he wants that milf. reader has a daughter (like five years old) and Daeron trying to get to you by being nice to your kid. but reader’s daughter is used to suitors bothering her mom and she’s not impressed and would tell him she doesn’t care he’s a prince, and a dragon, he can jump in the blackwater and drown since dragons don’t swim. just like her mama taught her.