erephene

[erephene]

— , , 'Summer's Dying Light.'

⤑ Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!Reader. (Drabble)

WC : 1.2k.

Summary : Two days before the 50th Hunger Games, Haymitch Abernathy sits with you in the summer light, the world already mourning him before his name is even drawn. Beneath the sarcasm and stubbornness, he’s scared — and so are you. But fear isn’t the end of the story. Not if you have anything to say about it.

Warnings : Reader takes the place of Lenore Dove in this drabble, some SOTR spoilers, a bit of angst, fluff. Please let me know if I've missed anything else! <3

AO3 LINK HERE!

~

The reaping is two days away.

District 12 is already mourning like it's lost something.

The square is being swept and painted, banners hung like a child’s cruel joke. You hate the silence more than the noise — that suffocating hush that’s fallen over the Seam and swallowed everything golden about summer. Kids aren’t in the streets. Doors are locked earlier than usual. Mothers are keeping their children close, as if any of it matters.

And you—

You’re pretending not to stare at Haymitch Abernathy like you already know he’s going to be taken.

He’s sitting by the fence with his back to it, arms slung lazily over his knees like he doesn’t feel the noose tightening. His blond hair glows in the low light, and a blade of grass dangles from his lips. Smug. Careless. He looks like a boy playing at war.

But you know better.

You walk up without a word, sit next to him, and fold your legs underneath you. The hum of the fence is off, which means it’s safe. Safe to sit here, to pretend. The woods are doused in gold. Crickets sing.

“Sun looks good on you,” he says without looking at you.

“You always say that when you want me to forgive you for something.”

He grins. “Do I need forgiving?”

You pick at a blade of grass, rolling it between your calloused fingertips — hardened over the years by plucking or strumming various string instruments. “Only if you’re planning on leaving.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Almost too long.

You know the odds. Everyone does. There’ll be four tributes per district this year — double the death, double the pain. Haymitch is seventeen. He’s strong. Clever. Already a favorite with the girls and a thorn in the Peacekeepers’ side. That makes him a target. Or maybe just… visible. And visibility kills.

He finally speaks. “I was thinkin’," he says slowly. "If it is me, I don't want you comin' to the train."

You bristle. “That’s not your call.”

“It is if I don’t want to see you cry.”

“You don’t want to see me cry?” Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “Too late.”

His head turns then, and he sees it — the sheen in your eyes, the way your jaw clenches like you’re holding back a scream. His smugness drops away like a curtain. There’s just Haymitch now. Raw, real.

“You shouldn’t care this much about me,” he mutters, thumb brushing your knuckle. “I’m nothin’ but trouble.”

“I know,” you say. “That’s why I care.”

He lets out a shaky breath that’s not quite a laugh. “What happens if I go in?”

“If you come back, I’ll marry you.”

He blinks.

“You win,” you say, voice strong now, “and I’ll make you pancakes every Sunday for the rest of your life. I’ll braid your hair when you’re sick. I’ll kiss your scars, all of them. Even the ones I can’t see.”

“That’s an awful lot to promise someone who might not come back.”

You swallow. “Then you better come back.”

Haymitch leans in, rests his forehead against yours. He’s warm. Smells like pine and sweat and something boyish, wild, unruined.

He kisses you, slow and aching. It’s the kind of kiss you give when you’re trying to memorize someone. He tastes like defiance and fear and the end of something good.

When he pulls away, his eyes are glassy.

You’ve never seen him like this — not in the dim corners of the Hob, not under the stars in the meadow, not even on the nights he showed you how sharp his loneliness could be. He blinks once, slowly, like it hurts to come back to the world after kissing you.

“I don’t know how to keep you safe from this,” he says, voice cracked at the edges. “I’ve been running my mouth my whole life, but I don’t have the words for this.”

“You don’t have to protect me from it,” you murmur. “Just let me stay with you in it.”

His jaw twitches. He looks away, toward the fence, toward the woods he’s always talked about escaping to. His throat works around something unspoken, and you see the moment the weight settles — not fear for himself, but for you. For what you’ll carry if he’s gone.

“You’ll remember me?” he says quietly. “Even if they turn me into a monster?”

You don’t hesitate. “I’ll remember who you are. Even if they cut you to pieces and sew you back all wrong — I’ll still know the boy who steals bread just to share it. The one who learned my laugh before my last name.”

His face twists like he wants to believe you but doesn’t know how.

So you cup his cheek, thumb brushing the freckled skin beneath his eye. “Haymitch,” you say, soft and certain, “you’ll come back. And if you don’t, I’ll carry the part of you they couldn’t touch.”

For a moment, he just breathes. Then he leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours again — not with fire this time, but with something quieter. Grieving. Reverent.

“Don’t let them kill the part of you that loves,” he whispers. “Even if they kill me.”

“They won’t,” you promise. “They’re not that powerful.”

He watches you for a long, still moment. Like he’s memorizing you — not your face, but the shape of your defiance. The way you say “they” like they’re something you could one day bury.

Then his lips twitch, just barely. “You always talk like you’ve got a weapon in your chest.”

You nod. “I do. It’s you.”

Haymitch’s smile falters. His breath catches in a way that’s not quite a gasp, not quite a sob. He sits back, elbows on his knees, and stares down at his hands like they’re holding ghosts. Maybe they are.

“You’re too good,” he says bitterly. “Too good to be stuck here. With me. With this whole cursed district.”

“I don’t want good,” you say. “I want real. And I’ve never known anything more real than you.”

He swallows hard. The wind rustles through the grass, the only sound between you for a long, aching stretch. Then, quietly:

“I’m scared.”

It breaks something in you. Not because he said it, but because he’s never said it before. Because he’s always worn his fear like armor — twisted into sarcasm, thrown as barbed wire — and now it’s just here, bare in his lap like something wounded.

You slide closer, curling your fingers into his.

“I’m scared too,” you admit. “But fear’s not the end of the story.”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s just the part where everything starts to fall apart.”

You press his knuckles to your lips, kissing the scraped skin gently. “Then let it fall. And we’ll build something after.”

His brow furrows. “What if there’s no after?”

“There is.” You say it like a vow. “Even if it’s just me, keeping the pieces of you alive. There will be something.”

He closes his eyes.

You think he’s going to cry, but he doesn’t. He just nods, once. Tight. Like that’s all he can manage. And then, in a voice so quiet it barely touches the air:

“Don’t forget me.”

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

Haymitch lets out a breath — broken, grateful, stunned.

Then he leans forward again, resting his forehead against yours like it’s the only place he knows how to find peace.

And in that moment, before the world reaps him, before blood and cameras and Capitol lies, there’s just the two of you. Breathing. Trembling. Alive.

[erephene]

and if i said this was robby or abbot, what abt it

saying “i know baby” while she’s having an orgasm

[erephene]

nothing scarier than being a fan of a fic and then becoming mutuals with the author. like hi shakespeare. big fan of your fake dating au

[erephene]

as a proud mexican-american girl born and raised in california, fuck anyone supporting ICE and donald trump. you’re just as terrible as them.

[erephene]

His gray streak 🤤

[erephene]

I'm not like a regular doctor. I'm a cool doctor. + text posts

[erephene]

Ho'oponopono

Michael Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: Filthy smut, angry sex, unprotected p in v sex, age gap (reader late 20s, Robby early 50s), jealousy, Robby doesn’t clock flirting, angst but then heavy fluff at the end, NOT proofread lol I’ll fix them as I go

Description: When a new intern is flirting with Robby, the reader blows up at him for entertaining it. To prove his love for her, he drags the reader to an on-call room.

Michael Robinavitch Masterlist

--

The words “I love you” hadn’t been exchanged between you and Robby. You were waiting for him to say it first, but there was no doubt in your mind that he did love you. You could see it in everything.

In the way he always failed to hold back a prideful smile when you commanded a trauma case.

In the way he caged you in his arms, tucking you deep into to his chest, after the death of a patient.

In the way he laughed when you danced with him in the kitchen while dinner cooked on the stove after a long shift.

In the way he always walked on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street, guiding you with a large hand on the small of your back.

In the way he hit snooze on the first alarm of the morning, grumbling until it was silent again, then pulled you closer against his frame, nestling his face into the crook of your neck and kissing the soft skin.

In the way he worshipped your body and whispered your name as he fucked you every night, keeping as much of your body pressed against his at all times while he railed into you.

In the way he always looked at you like you personally hung the stars and painted the sunsets and planted every flower.

But when you watched Robby laugh at a joke the new intern had whispered a little too close to his ear, you couldn’t feel the ground beneath you. The foundation of your relationship had suddenly cracked.

The new interns started a couple of days ago, but you had been off until today. They were all kind, smart, and a little scared. But one of the interns had taken a particular liking to Robby. She was young and pretty. Her laugh sounded genuine and sweet. She was quick on her feet, and you didn’t miss the way she blushed when Robby complimented her for it after a trauma came in this morning.

It was close to 3pm, and you’d watched them interact several times. The intern clearly had a crush on your boyfriend that must have developed on her first day. Could you blame her? Robby was handsome, funny, and a very good teacher. Anyone with a praise kink would be on their knees for him, yourself included. And it’s not like she would know that he was your boyfriend. It’s not something that was announced as a part of intern orientation, nor was it professional to mark your territory by kissing him right in front of her to make a point.

But what really stung was the way Robby leaned into her when he laughed at her joke. That he was entertaining the flirting, even though he didn’t reciprocate it. He was flashing that boyish grin that he usually only reserved for you.

It made you sick. Physically sick. You felt nauseous and had half a mind to run to the bathroom before you puked your guts out in front of everyone. Just as you were about to check out your patient in Central Three, you saw it happen.

She touched his arm. Practically fondling his bicep. And Robby didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, didn’t make a single move to discourage the touch. In fact, he raised his hand to pat it, in more of a fatherly way than anything. But it didn’t matter.

It sent you into a spiral. You needed air, and you needed it before you threw up. Your skin had paled, and your mouth began to water, a final warning sign. You sprinted out to the ambulance bay, rushing past Robby and the intern, not giving them a single glance.

When the fresh air hit your face and the scent of antiseptic faded away, your nausea began to curb. You still leaned against the brick wall, stabilizing yourself, taking deep breaths. The whir of the automatic doors caught your attention, and you saw Robby hurry out, snapping his head in every direction until he saw you.

“Hey, kid. What’s goin’ on?” His voice was soft but laced with worry. “You okay?”

You closed your eyes and swallowed hard. Was it worth telling him the truth? All it would do was make the rest of your shift uncomfortable.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” You answered, refusing to meet his gaze, focusing on not throwing up.

Robby closed in on you, practically trapping you against the wall when he grabbed your face in his massive hands, tilting until your eyes met his. “Need ya to talk to me, baby. You’re pale as a ghost, you’re shaking.”

You wished that his touch didn’t immediately alleviate some of your worries. But you refused to let yourself be so malleable for him, especially when he was entertaining affections from someone else.

“I just…needed some air.” You replied, drawing in another deep breath through your nose.

Robby nodded, brushing his thumb against your cheek. “You don’t have to tell me, but I wish you would. Helps me understand.” His offer was tempting, and you knew he meant it.

Just as you were about to confess your jealousy and petty hatred towards the intern, you saw writing on the dorsum of his hand. It was a bunch of numbers. It was a phone number. In a particularly cutesy handwriting that certainly wasn’t your boyfriend’s.

“What’s that?” Your voice was curious but dangerously cold.

Robby followed your eyesight to the back of his hand. “Oh, one of the new interns wrote her number on my hand. She mentioned a library in town that I hadn’t heard about, and she said to text her later to get the address. I wish she didn’t use Sharpie though because it’ll take forever to-“

“Why don’t you go fuck the new intern? Seems to be your thing.”

A freezing silence followed even in the heat of summer. Robby’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, blocked by wrinkles of surprise. He blinked dumbly for a few seconds.

“Excuse me?” His voice was slow and cautious.

You stepped to the side to get away from his proximity, away from his warmth. “Don’t play dumb with me, Robby. I watched you flirt with her all day.” Your words came out in hisses that would make a viper jealous.

Robby’s jaw slackened, and his eyebrows began to drop, furrowing with anger. “Who do you think you’re talking to, kid?” It was scarily authoritative. He had switched from boyfriend to attending in a mere second.

When he took a step forward, you took another step back to maintain the distance. “Sorry I can’t be the youngest in the room anymore. Guess that’s what gets you off.”

Before he could respond, the automatic doors slid open, and Dana ran through. “Robby, we need you in Trauma One!” She called out.

Robby leaned close to you, nostrils flared, a dangerous fire in his eyes. “We are not done with this.” He practically growled.

You cocked an eyebrow, unfazed by his threat. “Go take your little plaything with you. Just try not to cum in your pants when she touches your arm again.”

The muscles in his neck shifted, his entire face reddened from fury. It took every ounce of self control for him to walk away, following Dana back into the Pitt.

Once he was gone, you let out a deep breath that you didn’t realize had been trapped in your chest. You felt a little better. You got to release your anger, but that didn��t stop the pang of guilt that hit your gut when you thought about the words you chose. That you didn’t give Robby a chance to say anything. That you didn’t give yourselves the chance to handle it in a healthier manner.

—

You finished stitching up a patient’s arm in Central Three before heading out to the desk hub. Every now and then, you peered through the window to see Robby still working in Trauma One, covered in sweat, his gown stained with blood. It had been well over an hour since Dana had called for his help.

You cleaned up your suture kit, discarding the sharps into a red bin. “Okay, I’m gonna be back in a few minutes with some bandages to keep that wound covered, alright?”

The patient just smiled and nodded, content with your plan. When you stepped out of the room, a strong hand grabbed your bicep and started dragging you down the hallway. You quickly recognized the New Balance shoes, now covered in blood, and knew it was Robby.

“What are you doing?” You grumbled, low enough to keep attention away from the two of you.

Robby didn’t say anything. His hoodie was gone, leaving him only in his black scrubs. Sweat trickled down his face and neck, his hair disheveled from pulling off a sterile hat. He looked rough.

He kept pulling you behind him like you weighed nothing, stopping only when he shoved you into an on-call room, slamming the door behind him. Before you could say anything else, he caught your mouth with his, pushing you back until your head pressed against the door.

Robby wasted no time snatching your scrub bottoms down, shoving his long fingers down your panties, furiously circling your clit. A strangled cry left your lips and into his mouth.

“Hush.” He growled, a sharp breath blowing against your tongue from the single word.

He dragged his hand down to your folds, testing the wetness. Satisfied by the way you drenched his fingers, he reached for his zipper with his free hand. His cock sprung free from the confines of his boxers, and he gave himself a few pumps.

“You can say a lot of things to me, and I won’t get mad. But accuse me of entertaining someone other than you? Like a fucking slap in the face.” His voice was steady and harsh as he ran his tip against your pussy.

Without a warning, he sank deep into you with a swiftness, sparing no time for you to adjust to his length. Your breath hitched as his first thrust came soon after. His hands grasped your thighs, hoisting you up for a better angle. You moaned at the wonderful stretch and delicious pain. Anyone walking by would be able to guess with certainty what was happening behind the door.

“You’re the only one I’d risk my fucking job for like this. Reminding you that I only belong to you. Right next to our patients, right next to our coworkers. So you better keep that pretty mouth shut.”

His hips rocked against yours, thrusting deep, almost too deep. Your whimpers were muffled by his lips on yours again. When he could hear people walking by outside, he moved you to the bed, putting your knees on the mattress, and realigned himself with your pussy before returning to his blistering pace.

“Don’t you ever disrespect me like that again, you understand? Don’t you ever question my loyalty and my love for you.”

Your head was shoved into the mattress, resting on one side of your face, drool beginning to trickle out of your open mouth. “Love?” You breathed.

“Yes. Love. I love you. I fucking love you.” Robby grunted through each thrust, the smacks of his pelvis against your ass growing increasingly louder.

Tears pricked your eyes as you felt your orgasm building but also from his confession. “I-oh, God. I love you, Robby.” You babbled.

He bent down to press a kiss to your spine, never relenting from his speed. “Wanted to say it at a nice dinner, dress up for you, make it a pretty memory. But you needed to hear it now, yeah? Full of my cock in the fucking on-call room?” He grumbled.

You felt your abdomen tighten, heat pooling incredibly fast. “Michael, please.” You whimpered.

“Callin’ me Michael already, huh? You must be gettin’ pretty close.” He cooed, and you nodded pathetically. “Good, ‘cause you gotta go check on that patient in Central Three.”

He reached around to your clit, circling viciously again to coax your orgasm out. When you came, it broke you. Your back arched, pussy squeezing around his cock with each wave of bliss.

“Atta girl. I know you needed that. Mmmm, so good for me.” His deep voice praised you sweetly, losing a bit of its gruffness from earlier.

Your high began to come down, and Robby made a fist in your hair, pulling just a bit until your ass was flat against his hips.

“Now why don’t you keep rockin’ back against me so I can fill you up, yeah? So you can feel me running down your legs when you see that intern talking to me again and remember who I belong to. Not her. You.”

His voice made your pussy clench tightly around him. You wearily began shifting back, filling yourself with his length, slick with your cream. His grunts became louder, his grip in your hair tighter, and he held his free hand over his mouth to bite the back of his hand, where that fucking phone number was, to keep from whining.

“Fuckin’ hell. Oh, that’s right, pretty girl. Just like that.”

With a few more of your backwards thrusts, each one sealed with a lewd squelch from your juices, Robby came, and fuck, he came a lot. His cock twitched longer than usual, filling your walls with his thick cum. He didn’t move for a while, just enjoying the aftershocks of your orgasm around his cock, keeping you plugged with his release. He slowly slipped out, grunting explicitives as he did, and tucked himself back into his pants. He pulled your panties and scrub pants back up for you, planting sweet kisses on your shoulder and neck as he did. You flipped over onto your back, resting on your elbows, catching your breath.

“Feel better?” He asked, pulling you to your feet gently.

Your legs trembled as you tried to regain your footing, hands clutching his shoulders in the meantime. You shuddered as you felt his hot cum drip into your panties from the change in position. “Yeah.” You breathed.

Robby wrapped his arms around you, keeping you close to him. “Good. ‘Cause I mean it. I love you, kid. With everything that I am.” His lips pulled into a smile with his promise.

You matched his smile and reached up to caress the side of his face, gently scratching his beard. “I love you, too. God, I love you so much, Robby.”

He pulled his lips into a thin line, his brow furrowing with a serious expression. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize that she was flirting with me and that it made you uncomfortable. I can see it now in hindsight, but I won’t entertain it further.” He said. “I don’t think I saw it because I genuinely wasn’t interested in anything besides education.”

You nodded in acceptance. “I’m sorry, too. For snapping at you like that. I was just angry and very insecure.” You confessed. “I didn’t even give you a chance to defend yourself.”

Robby brushed a strand of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Ho’oponopono, yeah?” He whispered.

You smiled and nodded, running your hand through his hair to smooth it down for public appearance.

“I love you.”

“Thank you.”

“I forgive you.”

“Please forgive me.”

You both recited the mantra, each statement sealed with a gentle kiss. You giggled and nuzzled your nose against his. “The four things that matter most. You taught me that on my first day.” You noted.

He nodded, rubbing your waist in soothing squeezes. “I’m glad you remembered.”

You shrugged and bumped your forehead against his playfully. “I have a good teacher.”

Robby patted the small of your back and tilted his head toward the door. “Come on, kid. We gotta get back out there.”

You lowered your forehead into his chest, inhaling his comforting scent that never failed to ground you. “Just a few more seconds.” You pleaded.

Robby couldn’t say no to that. He just tightened his embrace and rested his head on yours, swaying your bodies gently. “Y’know, I had something made for you. Was gonna give it to you when I took you out for that nice dinner.” He broke the silence.

You smiled slightly and hummed. “What is it?”

He began to lead you to the door, ready to lead you both back to the rest of the shift. “Check your locker when I’m doing shift-change with Jack tonight. Might find something there.” He said with a cheeky smile.

—

Just like Robby suggested, you found a present in your locker when you went to retrieve your backpack at the end of your shift. The box was small, not wrapped. Just a simple receptacle with a lid. You pulled away the top to inspect the contents of the box.

A key.

You gingerly twirled the metal in your fingers, inspecting the grooves. You didn’t have a photographic memory, but you recognized the unique pattern.

A key to Robby’s house.

You smiled and clutched the key in your hand, slinging your backpack over your shoulder before heading to the floor again. There you saw Jack and Robby going over the patient list for handoff. You sauntered over to the desk hub where they stood, leaning against the high counter. Once Robby met your gaze, he smiled and patted Jack on the shoulder, wishing him luck for the night.

When he approached, you couldn’t repress the silly smile on your face. “I got my gift.” You said simply.

Robby matched your smile and leaned against the counter. “You know what it’s for?” He asked.

You shrugged. “I think I know, but tell me anyway.” You hummed.

He looked down, almost bashfully, and nudged your foot with his. “It’s a key to my house. For you to stay whenever you want…for however long you want.”

You tapped his foot playfully in retaliation. “Is staying forever an option?”

Robby’s eyes met yours, a twinkle of hope in them. “Of course. It’s up to you, kid.”

“It’s always been my end goal.” You confirmed, taking a step closer to him.

Robby let you invade his space, and he placed a hand on your hip. “Then I might have something a little shinier coming your way in a few months. How’s that sound?” He asked with a charming wink.

You giggled and threw your arms around his neck. He chuckled and squeezed you tight, catching your lips for a very quick but very public kiss. One that every new intern could see from across the room. Including her.

“Sounds perfect.” You replied, kissing him one more time. “Ready to go home?”

Robby nodded, eyes crinkled at the corners from his grin. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

—

A/N: I hope y’all liked this! I’m a little out of the long fic-writing game. I’ve been so busy and only had motivation for blurbs. I’m hoping to get more fics out here soon!! Thanks for reading!!

[erephene]

some yolanda garcia headcanons i have. <3

her choice of a caffeinated beverage would be black coffee. she's never been a fan of anything super sugary or sweet in general.

elaborating on that, she dislikes halloween as a holiday. felt like passing out candy to trick-or-treaters was a waste of time and energy when living with her parents. finds the creepy, tacky decor cute at least.

definitely the oldest child. i see her having a younger brother!

despises the noise of shoes squeaking against the hospital floor. the sound makes her teeth grind together in irritation, regardless of whether it was accidental or not.

she would have an entire playlist dedicated to surgeries in the o.r. it might not be with every operation that she gets to play it, but when she does, the nurses and technicians can expect a variety of artists to play. one song might be from acdc, the next perhaps sade.

yolanda never, and i mean never, orders takeout. this woman can cook literally anything, so why would she waste money on something inexplicably expensive? her meals are healthier, cheaper and taste better in the end anyways.

at a bar, her go to drink is a gin and tonic. argue with the wall.

[erephene]

18+ BLOG, MDNI. <3

MASTERLIST IN THE WORKS.

[erephene]

Happy Father’s Day, Jack

TLWG bonus chapter (part 3.5 : in between phase six and phase seven of sticky fingers, quiet mornings )

a/n : part two to the prequel is still in the works, but thought I'd offer this bonus chapter for you all! wc: roughly 2,300

Father’s Day begins exactly twelve minutes after Jack Abbot walks off a trauma floor that nearly broke him.

It’s 7:12AM.

Pittsburgh humidity clings to the porch railing like breath. The street’s quiet. A dog barks three houses down. Somewhere in the distance, a train rolls through, low and steady. Your windows are cracked open, just enough to let the air in, not the heat. You’ve already brewed the coffee. Toasted the waffles. Set out the card. Tucked her handprint painting between the sleeves of the new Steelers sweatshirt you bought him, folded carefully, placed right on the arm of the couch where he’d see it first. Everything’s ready. You’ve been up since six.

You’re wearing a pair of biker shorts and his old PTMC long sleeve, the sleeves pushed to your elbows, the neckline slouching over one shoulder. There’s a small smear of pink paint on your wrist from when she wouldn’t stop “signing” his card with the side of her fist last night.

The front door opens.

And then he’s there.

Jack Abbot. Black scrubs, soaked in overnight shift fatigue, shirt clinging at the collarbone, badge unhooked, stethoscope looped tight in one hand. His eyes are bloodshot. One shoulder visibly lower than the other, like the weight of the shift is still hanging off him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sees you in the kitchen and stops like something hit him square in the chest.

You meet his eyes.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you say, quietly.

Jack blinks, stunned for half a second, then sets his stethoscope down like he forgot he was still holding it.

“You did all this?” he says, voice rough. “For me?”

You nod. “Of course I did.”

He rubs a hand down his face. “I was gonna pretend I didn’t care. Be chill about it.”

“You? Chill?”

“I had a speech ready.”

You look at him, curious. “For Father’s Day?”

Jack nods, smile barely there, just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, sleep still hanging off him like a second shift. He steps closer, the hem of his black scrubs brushing your hip as he leans against the counter. “Yeah. Figured you’d do something. Thought I’d try to be smooth. Say thanks, maybe kiss you slow. Try to talk you back into bed.”

You snort. “You practiced that in the trauma bay?”

He shrugs, cracking the faintest smile. “Tried. Didn’t get far. An intern asked me about marriage,” he says. “Like, dead-ass. During rounds. Whole hallway smells like blood and ketamine, and he goes, ‘Dr. Abbot, is it worth it?’”

You laugh under your breath. “And what’d you say?”

Jack’s hand comes to your waist, fingers curling in over the long sleeve's hem, thumb pressing into the soft skin of your hip like he’s grounding himself.

“I said—‘Imagine the worst shift of your life. Like, seven codes, backboarded GSW, a social worker crying in the supply closet, just hell. And you come home to someone who doesn’t ask anything from you. She’s just there. Coffee ready. Kid babbling in the crib. And you still get to love her like you’ve got time to spare.’”

Your throat tightens. “You said all that?”

He shrugs. “He’s lucky I was running on adrenaline. Any other time I’d have told him to shut the fuck up and chart.”

You grin. “That’s disgusting. I love you.”

“I love you more.” He tilts his head, eyes flicking down your body. “You wore this for me?”

“Maybe.”

“You trying to get me to cry or get me to fuck you?”

“Why not both?”

Jack groans softly and presses his forehead to your shoulder.

“I’m so tired,” he whispers. “And you’re making it worse.”

“I made waffles.”

“You’re trying to seduce me.”

“They’re heart-shaped.”

Jack mutters something against your skin that sounds like Jesus fucking Christ and then kisses your shoulder. Slow. Open-mouthed. Like he’s remembering you’re real.

Then—

Crackle.

The monitor hums. Both your heads turn.

And there it is.

“DAAA-DAAAA?”

Jack’s breath catches.

You wait.

Then her voice rises again, louder now, sweeter, almost like a song:

“DADA COME NOW. DADA COME.”

You glance up at him.

He’s frozen, eyes locked on the monitor. Silent. Like the sound cracked something open in him and he’s trying not to let it spill out.

Last year, she couldn’t even form the word. No teeth. No words. Just soft coos and gummy grins. Now she’s standing in her crib, gripping the rails, calling for him like he’s the whole damn sun.

You rest your palm over his chest. Feel the breath rise sharp beneath it.

“Go,” you murmur. “She’s been practicing. I caught her saying it to that photo in her room last night, the one of all three of us. She can see it from the crib.”

Jack nods. Doesn’t speak. Just takes one deep breath, like he’s bracing against the weight of it, and moves.

Then, just before he turns the corner, voice low without looking back:

“Don’t eat my waffles.”

You smirk. “No promises.”

You follow him down the hall. Quietly. The morning presses in around you like a held breath.

The nursery door swings open.

And your daughter, the light of your life, is standing in her crib, duck in one hand, hair in total disarray, cheeks flushed from sleep. She points at him like she’s been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.

“DADA.”

Jack drops to a knee like she shot him straight through the ribs. “Hi, bean,” he says, voice thick, eyes already glassing over. “I missed you.”

She lifts both arms like royalty, and he gathers her up like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen. Her little body melts against his chest, warm and heavy with trust, her curls sticking to the collar of his wrinkled black scrubs. He holds her like he never wants to let go—but when he turns to you, it’s different. Deeper.

He looks at you like you hung the stars. Like this, this home, this child, this morning, is something he still can’t believe he gets to have. His eyes are wrecked. His voice rough with everything he never says out loud.

“Best thing we ever made.”

And when he looks at you, it’s not just tired. It’s bone-deep love. That look he only gives when he’s too exhausted to keep the walls up, when all that’s left is the truth. That he loves you. Fiercely. Silently. Constantly.

For one long, breathless moment, the house is still.

Jack Abbot. In black scrubs. A baby in his arms. His whole heart in yours. A Father’s Day that actually fucking means something.

And not a single part of him takes it for granted.

You cross to him and lower yourself beside them, curling into his side like it’s the only place that’s ever made sense. His arm slips around you instantly. She presses herself between you both with a possessive little grunt.

“Happy Father’s Day,” you whisper again.

Jack closes his eyes. Breathes you both in. And then, softly, without opening them:

“I love you”

You lean into his chest. “I love you too. You’re the best thing we’ve ever had.”

His voice is wrecked when he says it. “Don’t ever let me fuck this up.”

“You won’t,” you promise.

Later that night, 11:42PM.

It’s almost midnight.

The waffles are long gone. The handprint painting’s been magnet-pinned to the fridge, slightly crooked, beside a gas bill and a grocery list Jack added to earlier—diapers, more blueberries, get her favorite tea. The new Steelers sweatshirt he pulled on after his shower this morning still smells like soap and daughter. You caught him wearing it again after dinner, toddler in his arms, rocking on the back porch swing with her cheek pressed to his chest like she’d been waiting all day for that exact configuration of time, weight, and warmth.

She was asleep by 8:40. Out cold by 8:49.

He hasn’t put his ring back on since work, but it’s there, on the nightstand. Next to the baby monitor. Next to the small black leather album he still hasn’t opened.

You told him about it during dinner, leaned across the table while he was chewing and said, “There’s one more gift.”

He blinked, fork halfway to his mouth. “I already got three. The card, the sweatshirt, the painting…” He tapped the side of his head. “That’s three. I counted. You’re done.”

You smirked. “I’ll have you open it when we’re alone.”

Now you’re in bed. Jack’s walking out of the bathroom, threadbare navy shirt, boxer briefs riding low on his hips. He’s blinking slow like he’s still catching up with his own exhaustion. But when his eyes fall on the album, he pauses.

“You’re really gonna make me cry three times in one day?”

You smile, heart already racing. “Just open it.”

Jack squints, scrubs a tired hand down his face, and mutters something like I’m too fucking soft for this. He sits beside you. Turns the album over in his palm. His hand is rough from work. Tape residue, fading ink, a healing nick on his knuckle that you know came from a trauma room cabinet door he forgot was broken. His thumb lingers on the spine. He flips the first page.

And then—

“Jesus Christ.”

His voice goes flat. Then quiet. “Oh, fuck me.”

You don’t answer. Just watch the slow unravel.

Jack blinks. And then blinks again. His breath leaves him like he’s been punched straight in the solar plexus. His mouth opens, closes.

“Is this—are you—this is you?”

You smirk. “Don’t act like you don’t recognize your own wife.”

He flips another page. The flush spreads from his neck to his ears. There you are, posed in soft golden light, black lace barely covering anything. His dog tags around your neck. Your hands behind your back, wrapped in his tie. One shot with your fingers curled in the waistband of your panties, gaze sharp, hair mussed, lips parted like you’re waiting for him to step out of frame and ruin the rest of the photo.

Jack swears under his breath. “When—when did you do this?”

“Last week. Took a long lunch. Studio near the firm.”

He flips the page again, and stops cold. His breath stutters. His fingers tighten against the edge of the leather.

You’re wearing his sweatshirt. Not the clean, fresh one you gave him this morning, but his sweatshirt, the grey one with the faded army logo that still smells faintly like old detergent, sand and him. The same one he left on the bed the first night you ever stayed over, when he didn’t want to make it a whole thing but didn’t want you cold either.

And now—Christ.

The hem sits just below your hips, riding up higher on one side, exposing the curve of your ass like a secret you wanted him to find. Your back is arched, thighs tucked, feet flexed like you shifted into that position mid-movement—like you’d just climbed up and waited for him to follow.

Your face is half-hidden in your arms, cheek pressed to the mattress, but he can still see the soft part of your mouth. The barest hint of a smirk. The slope of your spine. The suggestion of everything just out of reach.

Jack exhales like he’s been sucker punched.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “That’s my sweatshirt.”

His voice cracks on the word my.

Jack shuts the album fast, like if he looks at one more page, he’ll fucking combust on the spot.

“I married you,” he says, voice hoarse. “I fucking married you.”

“You did.”

“I thought the waffles were gonna break me. The new sweatshirt, the painting—she said Dada—and I kept it together. Barely. And now...” His hand drags down his face again. “Now you’re pulling this shit?”

You crawl closer, hand on his thigh, voice low, “Happy Father’s Day.”

He stares at you. Then laughs once, quiet, pained, wrecked. “You’re actually trying to kill me.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

Jack turns to you. The look on his face is nothing short of reverent.

“Like it?” he repeats. “I want to frame every goddamn page. I want to staple it to the fridge. I want to show that intern from this morning what happens when you marry someone way too good for you.”

You laugh. “You wanna show him nudes?”

“I wanna show him you. I wanna show everybody.”

“Jack—”

“I’m so in love with you,” he breathes, voice low and wrecked, like it’s clawing its way out of his chest. “I walk around all night with blood on my shoes, palms aching from compressions, lungs full of hospital air, and all I do is think about you. Think about this house. Think about coming home. To waffles. To her. To you. To this life I don’t fucking deserve.”

You climb into his lap, slow and deliberate. His hands catch your hips without hesitation.

“I was trying to make this special.”

“You did,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You made it sacred.”

You lean in, lips brushing his. “You gonna thank me properly?”

Jack doesn’t answer. He just kisses you, slow, deep, aching. Like gratitude and lust and years of knowing your body better than he knows his own. His hands slide up your back beneath the hem of your shirt. You’re not wearing anything underneath.

He swears again. Then flips you back against the pillows, his body blanketing yours in one fluid motion.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of the night worshipping you,” he says into your skin. “Starting now.”

And when he finally slips inside you, hot, deep, full-body groan into your mouth, there’s not a single thought left in his head but you.

The woman who made him a father.

The woman who still wants him.

The only thing that’s ever felt like home.

[erephene]

"Santos sucks bc she snitched on lang-" OKAY AND??? SHE HAD EVERY RIGHT TO DO SO??? yall dont seem to understand how dangerous it is to fuck with patients medication and (possibly) be high WHILE TREATING PATIENTS!! its not like santos went and made a scene, she spoke to robby privately and let him handle the rest. She made a proper judgment call and you all hate it bc she's a bit rude to people.

[erephene]

“what radicalized you” bro EMPATHY

[erephene]

POV: FaceTime with Dr. Walsh while she gets ready for work ;)

[erephene]

i think robby has a slight savior complex and would subconsciously find himself drawn towards “damaged”/“broken”/women who need saving

[erephene]

yk that one josh hutcherson meme? yeah, thats me rn

FRANK LANGDON WHEN YOU… SUCK HIM OFF.

Frank watches you sink to your knees like it’s the most obscene thing he’s ever seen. His jaw’s tight, his chest rising with shallow breaths, hands already flexing at his sides like he’s trying not to grab you and ruin the moment by being greedy.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “You really gonna do this? Right here?”

You hum as you unbuckle his belt, mouth brushing the bulge in his slacks, and he swears again—richer this time, like he’s in awe.

You free his cock and he’s already hard, heavy in your hand. You stroke him once, slow, just to watch his head tip back. Then you lick up the underside and take him in, warm and wet and willing.

His hand’s in your hair within seconds, not pushing—just anchoring. You look up at him as you suck him deep, lips wrapped tight, tongue dragging along the vein under his shaft. His eyes darken.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he groans. “That mouth… fuck.”

You bob your head slowly, using your spit, your hands, your throat when he twitches against your tongue. He’s panting now, hips jerking despite himself, voice gone ragged.

“God, you feel perfect. Always so fuckin’ sweet for me, aren’t you?” His hand tightens in your hair, just enough to make you whimper, and it nearly undoes him. “You like makin’ me fall apart like this? That what you want?”

You moan around him in answer and he nearly buckles. His cock hits the back of your throat and you take it, gagging just enough to make him grunt and curse under his breath.

“Shit, look at you—fuck, you’re takin’ me so good. So deep—my good girl.”

When he comes, it’s sudden and hot and filthy, spilling down your throat as he groans your name, fucking into your mouth in tiny, desperate thrusts.

He doesn’t move right away. Just breathes heavy, staring down at you like you’ve completely wrecked him.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, thumb swiping your wet chin, “I’m comin’ in your mouth while you look me in the eye the whole damn time.”

[erephene]

Just to make a few things clear, I am a adult woman who doesn’t really do fandom nonsense anymore. I’ve had a few people pop into my inbox trying to incite some kind of argument about celebrities and shipping.

I’m literally here for fun. End of story. I block stuff that I don’t like or want to see and that is okay. It’s my right to shape my space how I like it.

I’m not sure when young people stopped letting people like stuff but y’all need to chill sometimes. If you don’t like something and it’s pretty much harmless, don’t engage.

I’m an admirer of good art and especially great acting. That is what drew me to The Pitt in the first place. So I come on here to engage in what I love about the show, the characters and actors. If you don’t like a ship, okay. Don’t make it my problem. I don’t really ship anyway.

If an actor has, as far as we know, done nothing wrong stop trying to vilify them. Having an opinion about their character and their choices is pretty much their job. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean they are a bad guy.

Blocking is a normal, healthy thing to do. If they are uncomfortable or just don’t want to see certain things pop up on their feeds, the actors have that right.

Be kind or they will stop engaging all together.

I love this show. I love the characters. I think the team involved is inspiring. Enjoy it, don’t enjoy it, but stop being so self righteous about your own opinions. We are allowed to disagree on this stuff.

Leave Patrick Ball alone, Leave Supriya Ganesh alone, Leave Isa Briones alone, Leave Shawn Hatosy alone.

Some of y’all are getting too weird and maybe need to take a break. There is real shit going on that could use this energy.

[erephene]

Pope's Back