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abbotjack · 1 month ago

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Irregularities

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

summary : A federal audit brings a sharp, brilliant compliance officer face-to-face with Jack Abbot, a rule-breaking trauma doctor running a shadow supply system to keep his ER alive. What starts as a confrontation becomes an alliance and the two of them fall in love in the messiest, most human way possible.

word count : 13,529

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI !!! explicit language, medical trauma, workplace stress, injury description, mention of child patient death, grief processing, alcohol use, explicit sex, hospital politics, emotionally repressed older man, emotionally competent younger woman, mutual pining, slow-burn romance, power imbalance (non-hierarchical), injury while drunk, trauma bay realism, swearing, one (1) marriage proposal during sex

Tuesday – 8:00 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Lower Admin Wing

Hospitals don’t go quiet.

Not really.

Even here—three floors above the trauma bay and two glass doors removed from the chaos—there’s still the buzz of fluorescent lights, the hiss of a printer warming up, the rhythm of a city-sized machine trying to look composed. But this floor is different. It's where the noise is paperwork, and the blood is financial.

You walk like you belong here, because that’s half the job.

Navy slacks, pressed. Ivory blouse, tucked. The black wool coat draped over your arm has been folded just so, its lapel still holding the shape of your shoulder from the bus ride over. Your shoes are silent, soft-soled—conservative enough to say I’m not here to threaten you, but pointed enough to remind them that you could. Lanyard clipped at your sternum. A pen looped into the coil of your ledger notebook. A steel travel mug in one hand.

The other grips the strap of a leather bag, weighed down with printed ledgers and a half-dozen highlighters—color-coded in a way no one but you understands.

The badge clipped to your shirt flashes with every turn:

Kane & Turner LLP : Federal Compliance Division

Your name, printed clean in black sans serif.

That’s the only thing you say as you approach the front desk—your name. You don’t need to say why you’re here. They already know.

You’re the audit. The walk, the clothes, the quiet. It’s all part of the package. You’ve learned that you don’t need to act intimidating—people project the fear themselves.

“Finance conference room’s down the left hallway,” says the woman behind the desk, not bothering to smile. She’s polite, but brisk—like she’s been told to expect you and is already counting the minutes until you’re gone. “Security badge should be active ‘til five. If you need extra time, check with admin operations.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

They always act like audits come unannounced. But they don’t. You gave them notice. Ten days. Standard protocol. The federal grant in question flagged during the quarterly compliance sweep—a mismatch between trauma unit expenditures and the itemized supply orders. Enough of a discrepancy that your firm sent someone in person.

That someone is you.

You push the door open to the designated conference room and are hit with the familiar scent of institutional lemon cleaner and cold laminate tables. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the opposite hospital wing; the rest is sterile whiteboard and cheap drop ceiling. Someone left two water bottles and a packet of hospital-branded pens on the table. The air is too cold.

Good. You work better like that.

You slide into the seat furthest from the door and start unpacking: first the laptop, then the binder of flagged ledgers, then a manila folder marked ER SUPPLY – FY20 in your handwriting. You open it flat and smooth the corners, spreading it across the table like a map. You don’t need directions. You’re here to track footprints.

Most audits feel bloated. Fraud is rarely elegant. It’s padded hours, made-up patients, vendors that don’t exist. But this one is… off. Not obviously criminal. Just messy.

You sip the lukewarm coffee you poured in the break room—burnt, stale, and still the best part of your morning—and begin.

Line by line.

February 12th: Gauze and blood bags double-logged under pediatrics.

March 3rd: 16 units of epinephrine marked as “routine use” with no corresponding case.

April 8th: High-volume saline usage with no corresponding trauma log.

None of it makes sense until you hit the May file.

May 17th.

Your finger stills over the page. A flagged case code—4413A—a GSW patient brought in at 02:11AM, code blue on arrival. The trauma bay requisition log is blank. Completely empty. No gauze. No sutures. No chest tube. Not even surgical gloves.

Instead, the corresponding supply usage appears—wrong date, wrong bay, under the general medicine supply closet three doors down. The only signature?

J. Abbot.

You sit back in your chair, eyes narrowing.

It’s not the first time his name has come up. You flip through past logs, then again through the April folder. There he is again. Trauma-level supplies signed under incorrect departments. Equipment routed through pediatrics. Trauma kit requests stamped urgent but logged under outpatient codes.

Never outrageous. Never duplicated. But always… altered. Shifted.

And always the same name in the bottom corner.

Jack Abbot Trauma Attending.

No initials after the name. No pomp. Just that hard, slanted signature—like someone in too much of a hurry to care if the pen worked properly.

You lean forward again, grabbing a sticky note.

Who the hell are you, Jack Abbot?

Your phone buzzes. A reminder that your firm expects an initial report by EOD. You check your watch—8:58 AM. Still early. You’ve got time to dig before anyone notices you’re not just sitting quietly in the background.

You open your laptop and search the internal directory.

ABBOT, JACK. Emergency Medicine, Trauma Center – Full Time Contact : [email protected] Page: 3371

You hover over the extension.

Then you close the tab.

There are two ways to handle something like this. You can go the formal route—submit a flagged incident for admin review, request clarification via email, cc your firm. Or...

You can go see what the hell kind of doctor signs off on trauma supplies like they’re water and lies to the system to get away with it.

You stand.

Your shoes are soundless against the tile.

Time to meet the man behind the margins.

Tuesday — 9:07 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Emergency Wing, Sublevel One

You don’t belong here, and the walls know it.

The ER hums like a living organism—loud in the places you expect to be quiet, and disturbingly quiet in the places that should scream. No signage tells you where to go, just a worn plastic placard labeled “TRAUMA — RESTRICTED ACCESS” and an old red arrow. You follow it anyway.

Your heels click once. Then again.

A tech throws you a sideways glance. A nurse barrels past with a tray of tubing and a strip of ECG printouts clutched in her fist. You flatten yourself against the wall. Keep moving.

This isn't the world of emails and boardrooms and fluorescent-lit compliance briefings. Here, time is blood. Everything moves too fast, too loud, too hot. It smells like antiseptic and old sweat. Somewhere nearby, a man is moaning—low, ragged. In another room, someone shouts for a Glidescope.

You don’t flinch. You’ve sat across from CEOs getting indicted. But still—this is not your battlefield.

You square your shoulders anyway and head for the nurse’s station, guided by the pulsing anxiety of your purpose. The folder tucked against your ribs is thick with numbers. Itemized trauma inventory. Improper codes. Unexplained cross-departmental requisitions. And one name—over and over again.

J. Abbot.

You stop at the cluttered, overrun desk where five nurses and two interns are trying to share a single charting terminal. Dana Evans, Charge Nurse, gives you a look like she’s been warned someone like you might show up.

“You lost?” she asks, not unkind, but sharp around the edges.

“I’m here for Dr. Abbot. I’m conducting an internal audit—grant oversight tied to the ER trauma budget.”

Dana lets out a soft, near-silent laugh through her nose. “Oh. You.”

“Excuse me?”

“No offense, but we’ve been placing bets on how long you’d last down here. My money was on ten minutes. The med student said eight.”

“I’ve been here twelve.”

She cocks a brow. “Well. You just made someone ten bucks. He’s at the back bay, not supposed to be here this morning—double-covered someone’s shift. Lucky you.”

That last part catches your attention.

“Why is he covering?”

Dana shrugs, but her expression flickers—tight, guarded. “He’s not supposed to be. Got a call about a kid he used to mentor—resident from one of his old programs. Car wreck on Sunday. Jack’s been pacing ever since. Showed up before sunrise. Said he couldn’t sleep.”

You blink.

“You’re telling me he—”

“Hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t eaten, definitely hasn’t had a civil conversation since Saturday? Yeah. That’s about right.”

You process it. Nod once. “Thank you.”

She grins. “You’re brave. Not smart. But brave.”

You leave her laughing behind you.

The trauma wing proper is a maze of curtained bays and rushed movement. You keep scanning every ID badge, every profile, looking for something—until you see him.

Back turned. Clipboard under his elbow, talking to someone too quietly for you to hear. He’s taller than you’d imagined—broad in the shoulders, but tired in the way his weight shifts unevenly from one leg to the other. One knee flexes, absorbs. The other does not.

You recognize it now.

You walk up and stop a respectful foot behind.

“Dr. Abbot?”

He doesn’t turn at first. Just adjusts the pen behind his ear, flicks a switch on the vitals monitor. Then:

“Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder, sees you, and stills.

His face is older than his file photo. Harder. Faint stubble across his jaw, a constellation of stress lines under his eyes that no amount of sleep could erase. His black scrub top is creased at the collar, short sleeves revealing tan forearms mapped with faded scars and the pale ghost of a long-healed burn.

You catch your breath—not because he’s handsome, though he is. But because he’s real. Grounded. And already deciding what box to put you in.

You lift your badge. “I’m with Kane & Turner. I’m conducting a trauma budget audit for the grant you’re listed under. I’d like to go over some of your logs.”

He stares at you.

Long enough to make it feel intentional.

“Now?”

“I was told you were available.”

He huffs out a laugh, if you can call it that—dry and crooked, more breath than sound. “Jesus Christ. Yeah. I’m sure that’s what Dana said.”

“She said you came in before sunrise.”

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just scratches once at his jaw, where the stubble’s gone patchy, then drops his hand again like the gesture annoyed him. “Didn’t plan to be here. Wasn’t on the board.”

A beat. Then: “Got a call Sunday night. One of my old residents—kid from back in Boston. Wrapped his car around a guardrail. I don’t know if he fell asleep or if he meant to do it. Doesn’t matter, I guess. He died on impact.”

His voice doesn’t shift. Not even a flicker. Just calm, like he’s reading it off a report. But his fingers twitch once at his side, and he’s standing too still, like if he moves the wrong way, he might break something in himself.

“I’ve been up since,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “Figured I’d do something useful.”

You hesitate. “I’m sorry.”

He finally looks at you, and the hollow behind his eyes is like a door left open too long in winter. “Don’t be. He’s the one who didn’t walk away.”

A beat of silence.

“I won’t take much of your time,” you say. “But there are significant inconsistencies in your logs. Some dating back six months. Most from May. Including—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts. “May 17th. GSW. Bay One unavailable. Used the peds closet. Logged under the wrong department. Didn’t have time to clear it before I scrubbed in. End of story.”

You blink. “That’s not exactly—”

“You want a confession? Fine. I logged shit wrong. I do it all the time. I make it fit the bill codes that get supplies restocked fastest, not the ones that make sense to people sitting upstairs.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Jack turns to face you fully now, arms crossed. “You ever had a mother screaming in your face because her kid’s pressure dropped and you’re still waiting for a sterile suction kit to come up from Central?”

You shake your head.

“Didn’t think so.”

“I understand it’s difficult, but that doesn’t make it right—”

“I’m not here to be right,” he says flatly. “I’m here to make sure people don’t die waiting for tape and tubing.”

He steps closer, voice quieter now.

“You think the system’s built for this place? It’s not. It’s built for billing departments and insurance adjusters. I’m just bending it so the next teenager doesn’t bleed out on a gurney because the ER spent two hours requesting sterile gauze through the proper channel.”

You’re trying to hold your ground, but something in you wavers. Just slightly.

“This isn’t about money,” you say, though your voice softens. “It’s about transparency. The federal grant is under review. If they pull it, it’s not just your supplies—it’s salaries. Nurses. Fellowships. You could cost this hospital everything.”

Jack exhales hard through his nose. Looks at you like he wants to say a hundred things and doesn’t have the energy for one.

“You ever been in a position,” he murmurs, “where the right thing and the possible thing weren’t the same thing?”

You say nothing.

Because you’ve built a life doing the former.

And he’s built one surviving the latter.

“I’ll be in the charting room in twenty,” he says, already turning away. “If you want to see what this looks like up close, you’re welcome to follow.”

Before you can answer, someone shouts his name—loud, urgent.

He bolts toward the trauma bay before the syllables finish echoing.

And you’re left standing there, folder pressed to your chest, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with ethics and everything to do with him.

Jack Abbot.

A man who rewrites the rules not because he doesn’t care—

But because he cares too much to follow them.

Tuesday — 9:24 AM Allegheny General – Trauma Bay 2

You were not trained for this.

No part of your CPA license, your MBA electives, or your federal compliance onboarding prepared you for what it means to step inside a trauma bay mid-resuscitation.

But you do it anyway.

He told you to follow, and you did. Not because you’re scared of him—but because something in his voice made you want to understand him. Dissect the logic beneath the defiance. And because you're not the kind of woman who lets someone walk away thinking they’ve won a conversation just because they can bark louder.

So now here you are, standing just past the curtain, audit folder pressed against your chest like armor, trying not to breathe too shallow in case it looks like you’re afraid.

It’s loud. Then silent. Then louder.

A man lies on the table, unconscious. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. Jeans cut open, a ragged wound in his left thigh leaking bright arterial blood. A nurse swears under her breath. The EKG monitor screams. A resident drops a tray of gauze on the floor.

You don’t step back.

Jack Abbot is already at the man’s side.

His hands move like they’re ahead of his thoughts. No hesitation. No consulting a textbook. He pulls a sterile clamp from a drawer, presses it to the wound, and shouts for suction before the blood can pool down the table leg. The team forms around him like satellites to a planet. He doesn't yell. He commands. Low-voiced. Urgent. Controlled.

“Clamp there,” Jack says, to a stunned-looking intern. “No, firmer. This isn’t a prom date.”

You stifle a snort—barely. No one else even reacts.

The nurse closest to him says, “BP’s crashing.”

“Pressure bag’s up?”

“In use.”

“Give me a second one, now. And call blood bank—we’re skipping crossmatch. Type O, two units.”

You shift your weight quietly, moving two inches left so you’re out of the path of the incoming trauma cart. It bumps your hip. You don’t flinch.

He glances up. Sees you still standing there.

“You sure you want to be here?” he asks, not pausing. “It’s not exactly OSHA compliant.”

You meet his eyes evenly.

“You invited me, remember?”

He blinks once, but says nothing.

The monitor screams again. Jack lowers his head, muttering something you don’t catch. Then, to the nurse: “We’re not getting return. I need to open.”

“You want to crack here?” she asks. “We’re two minutes from OR three—”

“We don’t have two minutes.”

The tray arrives. Jack snaps on a new pair of gloves. You glance down and catch the gleam of something inside him—a steel that wasn’t there in the hallway.

This man is exhausted. Unshaven. Probably hasn't eaten in twelve hours. And yet every move he makes now is poetry. Violent, beautiful poetry. He’s not a man anymore—he’s a scalpel. A weapon for something bigger than him.

And still, you stay.

You even speak.

“If you’re going to override a standard OR protocol in front of a compliance officer,” you say calmly, “you might want to narrate it for the notes.”

The entire room freezes for half a second.

Jack looks up at you—truly looks—and his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something older. A flicker of amusement under pressure.

“You’re a piece of work,” he mutters, turning back to the table. “Sternotomy tray. Now.”

You watch.

He cuts.

The man survives.

And you’re left trying to hold onto the version of him you built in your head when you walked through those double doors—the reckless trauma doctor who flouts policy and falsifies entries like he’s above the rules.

But he’s not above them.

He’s beneath them. Holding them up from below.

Twenty-three minutes later, he’s stripping off his gloves and washing his hands at a sink just past the trauma bays. The blood spirals down the drain in rust-colored ribbons. His jaw is clenched. His shoulders sag.

You step closer. No fear. No folder to hide behind now—just your voice.

“I don’t know what you think I’m doing here,” you say quietly, “but I’m not your enemy.”

Jack doesn’t look up.

“You’re wearing a suit,” he says. “You carry a clipboard. You track numbers like they tell the whole story.”

“I track truth,” you correct. “Which is a lot harder to pin down when you hide things in pediatric line items.”

He turns. That gets his attention.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Hiding things?”

“I think you’re manipulating a fragile system to serve your own triage priorities. I think you’re smart enough to know how to avoid audit flags. And I think you’re exhausted enough not to care if it lands you in disciplinary review.”

His laugh is dry and joyless.

“You know what lands me in disciplinary review? Not spending thirty bucks of saline because a man didn’t bleed on the right fucking floor.”

“I know,” you say. “I watched you save someone who wasn’t supposed to make it past intake.”

Jack pauses.

And for the first time, you see it: a beat of surprise. Not in your observation, but in your acknowledgment.

“Then why are you still pushing?”

“Because I can’t fix what I don’t understand. And right now? You’re not giving me a goddamn thing to work with.”

A long silence stretches.

The sink drips.

You fold your arms. “If you want me to report accurately, show me what’s behind the curtain. The real system. Your system.”

Jack watches you carefully. His brow furrows. You wonder if anyone’s ever said that to him before—Let me see the whole thing. I won’t flinch.

“Follow me,” he says at last.

And then he walks. Not fast. Not trying to shake you. Just steady steps down the hallway. Past curtain 6. Past the empty crash cart. To a supply room you didn’t even know existed.

You follow.

Because that’s the deal now. He shows you what he’s built in the margins, and you decide whether to burn it down.

Or defend it.

Tuesday — 10:02 AM Allegheny General – Sublevel 1, Unmapped Storage Room

The hallway leading there isn’t on the public map. It’s narrower than it should be, dimmer too, the kind of corridor that exists between structural beams and budget approvals. You follow him past the trauma bay, past the marked charting alcove, past a metal door you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stopped.

Jack pulls a key from the lanyard tucked in his back pocket. Not a swipe badge—a key. Real, metal, old. He unlocks the door with a twist and a grunt.

Inside, fluorescent light hums awake overhead. The bulb stutters once, then holds.

And you freeze.

It’s a supply closet—but only in name. It’s his war room.

The room is narrow but deep, lined wall-to-wall with shelves of restocked trauma kits, expired saline bags labeled “STILL USABLE” in black Sharpie, drawers of unlabeled syringes, taped-up binders, folders with handwritten tabs. No digital interface. No hospital barcodes. No asset tags.

There’s a folding chair in the corner. A coffee mug half-full of pens. A cracked whiteboard with a grid system that only he could understand. The air smells like latex, ink, and whatever disinfectant they stopped ordering five fiscal quarters ago.

You take a breath. Step in. Close the door behind you.

He watches you like he expects you to flinch.

You don’t.

Jack leans a shoulder against the far wall, arms crossed, one leg bent to rest his boot against the floorboard behind him. The right leg. The prosthesis. You clock the adjustment without reacting. He notices that you notice—and doesn’t look away.

“This is off-grid,” he says finally. “No admin approval. No inventory code. No audit trail.”

You walk deeper into the room. Run your fingers along the edge of a file labeled: ALT REORDER ROUTES – Q2 / MANUAL ONLY / DO NOT SCAN

“You’ve built a shadow system,” you say.

“I built a system that works,” he corrects.

You turn. “This is fraud.”

He snorts. “It’s survival.”

“I’m serious, Abbot. This is full-blown liability. You’re rerouting federal grant stock using pediatric codes. You’re bypassing restock thresholds. You’re personally signing off on requisitions under miscategorized departments—”

“And you’re here with a folder and a badge acting like your spreadsheet saves more lives than a clamp and a peds line that actually shows up.”

Silence.

But it’s not silence. Not really.

There’s a hum between you now. Not quite anger. Not admiration either. Something in between. Something volatile.

You raise your chin. “I’m not here to be impressed.”

“Good. I’m not trying to impress you.”

“Then why show me this?”

“Because you kept your eyes open in the trauma bay,” he says. “You didn’t faint. You didn’t cry. You watched me crack a man’s chest open in real time, and instead of hiding behind a chart, you asked me to narrate the procedure.”

You blink. Once. “So that was a test?”

“That was a Tuesday.”

You glance around the room again.

There are labels that don’t match any official inventory records you’ve seen. Bin codes that don’t belong to any department. You pull a clipboard from the wall and flip through it—one page, then another. All hand-tracked inventory numbers. Dated. Annotated. Jack’s handwriting is messy but consistent. He’s been doing this for years.

Years.

And no one’s stopped him.

Or helped.

“Do they know?” you ask. “Admin. Robinavitch. Evans. Anyone?”

Jack leans his head back against the wall. “They know something’s off. But as long as the board meetings stay quiet and the trauma bay doesn’t run dry, no one goes looking. And if someone does, well…” He gestures to the room. “They find nothing.”

“You hide it this well?”

“I’m not stupid.”

You pause. “Then why let me see it?”

Jack looks at you.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Like he’s finally weighing you honestly.

“Because you’re not like the others they’ve sent before. The last one tried to threaten me with a suspension. You walked into a trauma bay in heels and told me to log my chaos in real-time.”

You smirk. “It is hard to argue with a woman holding a clipboard and a minor God complex.”

He chuckles. “You should see me with a chest tube and a caffeine withdrawal.”

You flip another page.

“You’ve been routing orders through departments that don’t even realize they’re losing inventory.”

“Because I return what I borrow before they notice. I run double restocks through the night shift when the scanner’s offline. I update storage rooms myself. No one’s ever missed a needle they weren’t expecting.”

You shake your head. “This is a house of cards.”

Jack shrugs. “And yet it holds.”

“But for how long?”

Now you’re the one who steps forward. You plant yourself in front of the table and open your binder. Click your pen.

“I can’t pretend this doesn’t exist. If I report this exactly as it is, the grant’s pulled. You’re fired. This hospital goes under federal review for misappropriation of trauma funds.”

He doesn’t blink. “Then do it.”

You stare at him. “What?”

He steps off the wall now, closes the space between you like it’s nothing.

“I’ve survived worse,” he says. “You think this job is about safety? It’s not. It’s about how long you can keep other people alive before the system kills you too.”

You inhale, hard. “God, you’re dramatic.”

He smirks. “And you’re stubborn.”

“Because I don’t want to bury you in a report. I want to fix the goddamn machine before someone else gets chewed up in it.”

Jack stares at you.

The flicker of something new in his expression.

Respect.

“Then help me,” you say. “Let me draft a compliance framework that mirrors what you’ve built. A real one. If we can prove this routing saved lives, reduced downtime, and didn’t drain pediatric inventory, we can pitch it as an emergency operations protocol, not fraud.”

His brows lift, skeptical. “You think they’ll buy that?”

“No,” you say. “But I’m not giving them the choice. I’m giving them math.”

That gets him.

He grins. Barely. But it’s real.

“God,” he mutters. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re welcome.”

He turns away to hide the grin, but not before you catch the edge of it.

And then—quietly—he reaches for a file at the back of the shelf. It’s older. Faded. Taped up the side. He places it in your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“The first reroute I ever filed. Back in 2017. Kid named Miguel. We were out of blood bags. I had a connection with the OR nurse who owed me a favor. Rerouted it through post-op. Saved the kid’s life. Never logged it.”

You glance down at the file. “You kept it?”

“I keep all of them.”

He meets your eyes again.

“You’re not here to bury me. Fine. But if you’re going to save me, do it right.”

You nod.

“I always do.”

Tuesday — 12:23 PM Allegheny General – Third Floor Charting Alcove

There’s no door to the alcove. Just a half-wall and a partition, like someone once tried to offer privacy and gave up halfway through. There’s a long desk, a broken rolling chair, two non-matching stools, and a stack of patient folders leaning so far left you half expect them to fall. The overhead light buzzes faintly, casting everything in pale hospital yellow.

You sit at the desk anyway.

Jacket folded over the back of the stool, sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers already flying across the keyboard of your laptop. You’re building fast but clean. Sharp lines. Conditional formatting. A crisis-routing framework that looks like it was written by a task force, not two people who met five hours ago in a trauma hallway soaked in blood.

Jack stands across from you.

Leaning, not lounging. One arm crossed, the other flexed slightly as he rubs a knot in his shoulder. His scrub top is wrinkled and dark at the collar. There's a faint stain down his side you’re trying not to identify. He hasn't touched his phone in forty minutes. Hasn’t once asked when this ends.

He’s watching you.

Not like you’re entertainment. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll slip.

You don’t.

“You ever sleep?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

You don’t look up. “I’ve heard of it.”

He makes a sound—half laugh, half breath. “What’s your background, anyway? You don’t have the eyes of someone who studied finance for fun.”

“Applied mathematical economics,” you say, still typing. “Minor in gender studies. First job was forensic audits for nonprofits. Moved to healthcare compliance after a board member got indicted.”

That gets his attention. “Jesus.”

You glance at him. “I’m not here because I care about sterile supply chains, Dr. Abbot. I’m here because I know what happens when people stop paying attention to the margins.”

He leans in. “And what happens?”

You meet his eyes.

“They bleed.”

Something in his face tightens. Not defensiveness. Recognition.

You go back to typing.

On your screen, the Crisis Routing Framework takes shape line by line. A column for shelf code. A subcolumn for department reroute. A notes field for justification. A time-stamp formula.

You highlight the headers and format them in hospital blue.

Jack watches your hands. “You make it look real.”

“It is real. I’m just reverse-engineering the lie.”

“You ever consider med school?”

You snort. “No offense, but I prefer a job where the people I save don’t flatline halfway through.”

He grins. It's tired. But it's real.

You type another line, then say, “I’m flagging pediatric code 412 as overused. If they run a query, we need to show it tapered off this month. Start routing through P-580. Float department. Similar stock, slower pull rate.”

He nods slowly. “You’re scary.”

“Good. You’ll need someone scary.”

He rubs his thumb along his jaw. “You always this relentless?”

You pause. Then look at him.

“I grew up in a house where if you didn’t solve the problem, no one else was coming. So yeah. I’m relentless.”

Jack doesn’t smile this time. He just nods. Like he gets it.

You shift gears. “Talk me through supply flow. Where’s your weakest point?”

He thinks. “ICU hoards ventilator tubing. Pediatrics short-changes trauma bay stock twice a year during audit season. Central Supply won't prioritize ER if the orders come in after 5PM. And once a month, someone from anesthesia pulls from our cart without logging it.”

You blink. “That’s practically sabotage.”

You finish a formula. “Okay. I’m structuring this like a mirrored requisition chain. Any reroute needs a justification and a fallback, plus one sign-off from a second attending. If we’re going to pitch this as protocol, we can’t make you look like the sole cowboy.”

Jack quirks a brow. “Even though I am?”

“Especially because you are.”

He laughs again, and it’s deeper this time. Not performative. Just… easy.

He moves closer. Pulls a stool up beside you. Watches the screen over your shoulder.

“Alright. Let’s build it.”

You glance at him sideways. “Now you want in?”

“I don’t like systems I didn’t help design.”

You smirk. “Typical.”

“Also,” he adds, “I’m the one who’s gonna have to sell this to Robby. If it sounds too academic, he’ll assume I lost a bet and had to let someone from Harvard try to fix the ER.”

“I went to Ohio State.”

“Even worse.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re naming it CRF—Crisis Routing Framework.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s bureaucratically unassailable.”

“Still sounds like a printer manual.”

“You’re welcome.”

He chuckles again, and it hits you for the first time how rare that sound probably is from him. Jack Abbot doesn’t laugh in meetings. He doesn’t charm the board. He doesn’t play. He works. Bleeds. Fixes.

And here he is, giving you his time.

You scroll to the bottom of the spreadsheet and create a new tab. LIVE REROUTE LOG – PHASE ONE PILOT

You look at him. “You’re gonna log everything from here on out. Time, item, reroute, reason, outcome.”

Jack raises a brow. “Outcome?”

“I’m not defending chaos. I’m documenting impact. That’s how we scale this.”

He nods. “Alright.”

“You’re going to train one resident to do this after you.”

“I already know who.”

“And you’re going to let me present this to the admin team before you barge in and call someone a corporate parasite.”

Jack presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I never said that out loud.”

You glance at him.

He exhales. “Fine. Deal.”

You close the laptop.

The spreadsheet is done. The framework is real. The logs are ready to go live. All that’s left now is convincing the hospital that what you’ve built together isn’t just a workaround—it’s the blueprint for saving what’s left.

He’s quiet for a minute.

Then: “You know this doesn’t fix everything, right?”

You nod. “It’s not supposed to. It just keeps the people who do fix things from getting fired.”

Jack tilts his head. “You really believe that?”

You meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He studies you like he’s trying to find the catch.

Then he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You know, when they said someone from Kane & Turner was coming in, I pictured a thirty-year-old with a spreadsheet addiction and no clue what a trauma bay looked like.”

“I pictured a man who didn’t know what a compliance code was and thought ethics were optional.”

He grins. “Touché.”

You smile back, tired and full of adrenaline and something else you don’t have a name for yet.

Then you stand. Sling your laptop under your arm.

“I’ll send you the first draft of the protocol by morning,” you say. “Review it. Sign off. Try not to add any sarcastic margin notes unless they’re grammatically correct.”

Jack stands too. Nods.

And then—quietly, like it costs him something—he says, “Thank you.”

You pause.

“You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t have to. You walk out of the alcove without looking back. You’ve already given him your trust. The rest is up to him.

Behind you, Jack pulls the chair closer. Opens the laptop.

And starts logging.

Saturday — 12:16 AM Three Weeks Later Downtown Pittsburgh — The Forge, Liberty Ave

The bar pulses.

Brick walls sweat condensation. Shot glasses clink. The DJ is on his third remix of the same Doja Cat song, and the bass is loud enough to rearrange your internal organs. Somewhere behind you, someone’s yelling about their ex. Your drink is pink and glowing and entirely too strong.

You’re wearing a bachelorette sash. It isn’t your party. You barely know half the girls here. One of them’s already crying in the bathroom. Another lost a nail trying to mount the mechanical bull.

And you?

You’re on top of a booth table with a stolen tiara jammed into your hair and exactly three working brain cells rattling around your skull.

Someone hands you another tequila shot.

You take it.

You’re drunk—not hospital gala drunk, not tipsy-at-a-networking-reception drunk.

You’re downtown-Pittsburgh, six-tequila-shots-deep, screaming-a-Fergie-remix drunk.

Because it’s been a month of high-functioning, hyper-competent, trauma-defending, budget-balancing brilliance. And tonight?

You want to be dumb. Messy. Loud. A girl in a too-short dress with glitter dusted across her clavicle and no memory of the phrase “compliance code.”

You tip your head back. The bar lights blur.

That’s when you try the spin.

A full, arms-above-your-head, dramatic-ass spin.

Your heel lands wrong.

And the table snaps.

You hear it before you feel it—an ugly wood crack, a rush of cold air, your body collapsing sideways. Something twists in your ankle. Your elbow hits the edge of a stool. You end up flat on your back on the floor, breath gone, ears ringing.

The bar goes silent.

Someone gasps.

Someone laughs.

And above you—through the haze of artificial light and bass static—you hear a voice.

Familiar.

Dry. Sharp. Unbelievably fucking real.

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack Abbot has been here twelve minutes.

Long enough for Robby to buy him a beer and mutter something about needing “noise therapy” after a shift that involved two DOAs, one psych hold, and an attempted overdose in the staff restroom.

Jack hadn’t wanted to come. He still smells like the trauma bay. His back hurts. There’s blood on his undershirt. But Robby insisted.

So here he is, in a bar full of neon and glitter, trying not to judge anyone for being loud and alive.

And then you fell through a table.

He doesn’t recognize you at first. Not in this light. Not in that dress. Not barefoot on the floor with your hair falling out of its updo and your mouth half-open in shock.

But then he sees the way you try to sit up.

And you groan: “Oh my God.”

Jack’s already moving.

Robby shouts behind him, “Is that—oh shit, that’s her—”

Jack ignores him. Shoves through the crowd. Kneels at your side. You’re clutching your ankle. There's glitter on your neck. You're laughing and crying and trying to brush off your friends.

And then you see him.

Your eyes go wide.

You blink. “...Jack?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. It’s me.”

You try to sit up straighter. Fail. “Am I dreaming?”

“Nope.”

“Are you real?”

“Unfortunately.”

You drop your head back against the floor. “Oh God. This is the most humiliating night of my life.”

“Worse than the procurement meeting?”

You peek up at him, hair in your eyes. “Worse. Way worse. I was trying to prove I could still do a backbend.”

Jack sighs. “Of course you were.”

You wince. “I think I broke my foot.”

He presses two fingers to your pulse, checks your ankle gently. “You might’ve. It’s swelling. You’re lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

“You are,” he says. “If you’d twisted further inward, you’d be looking at a spiral fracture.”

You stare at him. “Did you really just trauma-evaluate my foot in a bar?”

Jack looks up. “Would you prefer someone else?”

“No,” you admit.

“Then shut up and let me finish.”

Your friends hover, but none of them move closer. Jack’s presence is... commanding. Like the bar suddenly remembered he’s the person you call when someone stops breathing.

You watch him.

The sleeves of his black zip-up are rolled to the elbow. His hands are clean now, but his cuticles are stained. His ID badge is gone, but he still wears the same exhaustion. The same steady focus.

He touches your foot again. You flinch.

Jack winces, just slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

Jack slips one arm under your legs and the other behind your back and lifts.

“Holy shit,” you squeak. “What are you doing?!”

“Getting you off the floor before someone livestreams this.”

You bury your face in his collarbone. “I hate you.”

He chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m right.”

“You smell like trauma bay and cheap beer.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

He carries you past the bouncer, past the flash of phone cameras, past Robby cackling at the bar.

Outside, the air hits you like truth. Cold. Sharp. Clear.

Jack sets you down on the hood of his truck and kneels again.

“You’re taking me to the ER?” you ask, quieter now.

“No,” he says. “You’re coming to my apartment. We’ll ice it, wrap it, and if it still looks bad in the morning, I’ll take you in.”

You squint. “I thought you weren’t off until Monday.”

Jack stands. “I’m not, but you’re coming with me. Someone’s gotta keep you from dancing on furniture.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I always am.”

You look at him.

Three weeks ago, you rewrote a system together. Built a lifeline in the margins. Saved a hospital with data, caffeine, and stubborn brilliance.

And now he’s here, brushing glitter off your shoulder, holding your sprained foot like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I thought you hated me,” you murmur.

Jack looks at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“I didn’t hate you,” he says.

He leans in.

“I just didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Saturday — 12:57 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You don’t remember the elevator ride.

Just the press of warm hands. The cold knot of pain winding tighter in your foot. The way Jack didn’t flinch when you leaned into him like gravity wasn’t working the way it should.

He’d carried you like he’d done it before.

Like your weight wasn’t an inconvenience.

Like there wasn’t something fragile in the way your hands gripped the edge of his jacket, or the way your voice slurred slightly when you whispered, “Please don’t drop me.”

“I’ve got you,” he’d said.

Not a performance. Not pity.

Just fact.

Now you’re here. In his apartment. And everything’s still.

The door clicks shut behind you. The locks slide into place. You blink in the quiet.

Jack’s apartment is...surprising.

Not messy. Not sterile. Lived in.

A row of mugs lined up by the sink—some hospital-branded, one chipped, one that says “World’s Okayest Doctor” in faded red font. A half-built bookshelf in the corner with a hammer sitting beside it, a box of unopened paperbacks on the floor. A stack of trauma logs on the kitchen counter, marked with highlighters. There’s a hoodie tossed over the back of a chair. A photo frame turned face-down.

He doesn’t explain the place. Just moves toward the couch.

“Feet up,” he says gently. “Cushions under your back. I’ll get the ice.”

You let him settle you—ankle elevated, pillow beneath your knees, spine curving against the soft give of the cushion. His hands are firm but careful. His touch steady. No wasted movement.

The moment he turns toward the kitchen, you finally exhale.

Your foot throbs, yes. But it’s not just the injury. It’s the shift. The collapse. The way your brain is catching up to your body, fast and unforgiving.

He returns with a towel-wrapped bag of crushed ice. Kneels beside the couch. Presses it gently to your swollen ankle.

You wince.

He watches you. “Still bad?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He cocks his head. “Let me guess—tax season?”

You smile, tired. “Try federal oversight for a trauma unit that runs on scraps.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

He adjusts the ice. Shifts slightly to sit on the floor beside you, back against the edge of the couch.

“Thanks for not taking me to the hospital,” you murmur after a beat.

He snorts. “You were drunk, barefoot, and covered in glitter. I figured they didn’t need that energy tonight.”

You laugh softly. “I’m usually very composed, you know.”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“You’re also the only person I’ve ever seen terrify a board meeting into extending a $1.4 million grant with nothing but a color-coded spreadsheet and a raised eyebrow.”

You grin, despite the ache. “It worked.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It did.”

Silence stretches, but it’s not awkward.

The hum of his fridge clicks on. The distant wail of a siren threads through the cracked kitchen window. The ice burns through the towel, numbing your foot.

You turn your head toward him. “You don’t talk much when you’re off shift.”

He shrugs. “I talk all day. Sometimes it’s nice to let the quiet say something for me.”

You pause. Then: “You’ve changed.”

Jack’s eyes flick up. “Since what?”

“Since the first day. You were—” you search for the word, “—hostile.”

“I was exhausted.”

“You’re still exhausted.”

“Maybe.” He rubs a hand over his face. “But back then, I didn’t think anyone gave a shit about the mess we were drowning in. Then you showed up in heels and threatened to file an ethics report in real-time during a trauma code.”

You grin. “You never let me live that down.”

He chuckles. “It was hot.”

You blink. “What?”

His eyes widen slightly. He looks away. “Shit. Sorry. That was—”

“Say it again,” you say, heartbeat ticking up.

He hesitates.

Then, quieter: “It was hot.”

The room stills.

Your throat goes dry.

Jack clears his throat and stands. “I’ll get you some water.”

You catch his wrist.

He stops. Looks down.

You don’t let go. Not yet.

“I think I’m sobering up,” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t speak. But his expression softens. Like he’s afraid you’ll take it back if he breathes too loud.

“And I still want you here,” you add.

That breaks something in his posture.

Not lust. Not intention.

Just clarity.

Jack lowers himself back down. Closer this time. He leans forward, arms on his knees, forearms bare, veins visible under dim kitchen-light glow. You’re aware of the space between you. The hush. The hum.

“I’ve been trying to stay out of your way,” he admits. “Let the protocol speak for itself. Let the work be enough.”

“It is.”

“But it’s not all.”

You nod. “I know.”

He meets your eyes. “I meant what I said. I didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Your chest tightens.

“You make it easier to breathe in that place,” he adds. “And I haven’t breathed easy in years.”

You lean back against the couch, exhale slowly.

“I think we’re more alike than I thought,” you murmur. “We both like being the one people rely on.”

Jack nods. “And we both fall apart quietly.”

Another silence. Another shift.

“I don’t want to fall apart tonight,” you whisper.

He looks at you.

“You won’t,” he says. “Not while I’m here.”

And then he reaches for your hand. Doesn’t take it. Just lets his fingers rest close enough that the warmth passes between you.

That’s all it is.

Not a kiss.

Not a confession.

Just one long moment of quiet, where neither of you has to hold the weight of anyone else’s world.

Just each other’s.

Sunday — 8:19 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You wake to soft light.

Filtered through half-closed blinds, the kind that turns gray into gold and casts long lines across the carpet. The apartment is quiet, still warm from the night before, but there’s no sound except the faint hum of the fridge and the scrape of the city waking up somewhere six floors down.

Your foot throbs—but less than last night.

The pain is dulled. Managed.

You shift slowly, eyes adjusting. You’re on the couch, still in your dress, a blanket draped over you. Your leg is elevated on a pillow, and your ankle is wrapped in clean white gauze—professionally, precisely. You didn’t do that.

Jack.

There’s a glass of water on the coffee table. Full. No condensation. A bottle of ibuprofen beside it, label turned outward. A banana and a paper napkin.

The care is unmistakable.

You blink once, twice, then sit up slowly.

The apartment smells like coffee.

You limp toward the kitchen on your good foot, using the back of a chair for balance. The ice pack is gone. So is Jack.

But on the counter—neatly arranged like he planned every inch—is a folded gray hoodie, your left heel (broken but cleaned), a fresh cup of black coffee in a white ceramic mug, and something that stops you cold:

The new CRF logbook.

Printed. Binded. Tabbed in color-coded dividers. The first page filled out in his slanted, all-caps writing.

At the top: CRF — ALLEGHENY GENERAL EMERGENCY PILOT — 3-WEEK AUDIT REVIEW. In the corner, under “Lead Coordinator,” your name is written in ink.

There’s a sticky note beside it. Yellow. Curling at the edge.

“It works because of you.— J”

You stare at it for a long time.

Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s not.

Because it’s simple. True.

You pick up the binder, flip to the first log. It’s already halfway filled—dates, codes, outcomes. Jack has been tracking everything. By hand. Every reroute. Every save. Every corner he’s bent back into shape.

And he’s signing your name on every one of them.

You run your fingers over the paper.

Then reach for the mug.

It’s warm. Not fresh—but not cold either. Like he poured it minutes before leaving.

You sip.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you don’t feel like you're catching up to your own life. You feel placed. Like someone made room for you before you asked.

You limp toward the window, slow and careful, and watch the street below wake up.

The city is still gray. Still loud. But it’s yours now. His, too. Not perfect. Not quiet. But it’s working.

You lean against the frame.

Your chest aches in that unfamiliar, not-quite-painful way that only comes when something shifts inside you—something big and slow and inevitable.

You don’t know what this is yet.

But you know where it started.

On a trauma shift.

In a supply closet.

With a man who saw your strength before you ever raised your voice.

And stayed.

One Month Later — Saturday, 6:41 PM Pittsburgh — Shadyside, near Ellsworth Ave

The sky’s already lilac by the time you get out of the Uber.

The street glows with soft storefront lighting—jewelers locking up, the florist’s shutters halfway drawn, the sidewalk sprinkled with pale pink petals from whatever tree is blooming overhead. The restaurant is tucked between a jazz bar and a wine shop, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.

But Jack is already there.

Leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t want to go in without you. He’s in a navy button-down, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, top button undone. He’s not hiding in trauma armor tonight. He looks clean. Rested. Still a little unsure.

You see him before he sees you.

And when he does—when his head lifts and his eyes find you—he stills.

The kind of still that feels like reverence, even if he’d never call it that.

He says your name. Just once. And then:

“You came.”

You smile. “Of course I came.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He looks down, breathes out through his nose. “Because sometimes when things matter, I assume they won’t last.”

You step closer.

“They haven’t even started yet,” you murmur. “Let’s go in.”

The bistro is warm. Brick walls. Low ceilings. Candles on every table, their flames soft and steady in small hurricane glass cylinders. There’s a record player spinning something old in the corner—Chet Baker or maybe Nina Simone—and everything smells like rosemary, lemon, and the faintest hint of woodsmoke.

They seat you at a two-top near the back, under a copper wall sconce. Jack pulls out your chair.

You settle in, napkin across your lap, and when you look up—he’s still watching you.

You say, half-laughing, “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You arch a brow.

Jack clears his throat, quiet. “Just… didn’t think I’d ever sit across from you like this.”

You tilt your head. “What did you think?”

“That you’d disappear when the work was done. That I’d keep building alone.”

You soften. “You don’t have to anymore.”

He looks away like he’s holding back too much. “I know.”

The first half of the date is easier than expected.

You talk like people who already know the shape of each other’s silences. He tells you about a med student who called him “sir” and then fainted in a trauma room. You tell him about a client who tried to expense a yacht as “emergency morale restoration.” You laugh. You eat. He lets you try his meal before you ask.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and dessert, the air starts to shift.

Not tense. Just heavier. Like both of you know you’ve reached the part where you either step closer… or let it stay what it’s always been.

Jack leans back, arm resting on the back of the chair beside him.

He watches you carefully. “Can I ask something?”

You nod.

“Why’d you keep answering when I texted?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—you’re good. Smart. Whole. You didn’t need me.”

You smile. “You’re wrong.”

Jack doesn’t say anything. Just waits. You fold your hands in your lap. “I didn’t need a fixer,” you say slowly. “But I needed someone who saw the same broken thing I did. And didn’t flinch.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers tap the edge of the table. “I flinched,” he says. “At first.”

“But you stayed.”

Jack looks down. Then up again. “I’ve never been afraid of blood,” he says. “Or death. Or screaming. But I’ve always been afraid of this. Of getting used to something that could disappear.”

You exhale. “Then don’t disappear.” It’s not flirty. It’s not dramatic. It’s a promise.

His hand finds the table. Palm open.

Yours moves toward it.

You hesitate. For half a second.

Then place your hand in his.

He closes his fingers around yours like he’s done it a hundred times—but still can’t believe you’re letting him. His voice is low. “I like you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t do this. I don’t—”

“Jack.” You squeeze his hand. He stops talking. “I like you too.”

No rush. No smirk. Just this slow-burning, backlit certainty that maybe—for once—you’re allowed to be wanted in a way that doesn’t burn through you.

Jack lifts your hand. Presses his lips to the back of it—once, then again. Slower the second time.

When he lets go, it’s with a softness that feels deliberate. Like he’s giving it back to you, not letting it go.

You reach for your phone, half on autopilot. “I should call an Uber—”

“Don’t,” Jack says, low.

You pause.

He’s already pulling out his keys. “I’ll drive you home.”

You smile, small and warm.

“I figured you might.”

Saturday — 9:42 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The hallway feels quieter than usual.

Maybe it’s the way the night sits heavy on your skin—thick with everything left unsaid in the car ride over. Maybe it’s the way Jack keeps glancing over at you, not nervous, not unsure, but like he’s memorizing each second for safekeeping.

You unlock the door and push it open with your shoulder.

Warm light spills out into the hallway—the glow from the lamp you left on, the one by the bookshelf. It’s yellow-gold, soft around the edges, the kind of light that doesn’t ask for anything.

Jack pauses at the threshold.

You watch him watch the room.

He notices the details: the stack of books by the bed. The houseplant you’re not sure is alive. The smell of bergamot and something citrus curling faintly from the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything about it. He just steps inside slowly, like he doesn’t want to ruin anything.

You toe off your shoes by the door. He closes it behind you, quiet as ever. You catch him glancing at your coat hook, at the little ceramic tray full of loose change and paper clips and hair ties.

“You live like someone who doesn’t leave in a rush,” he says softly.

You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”

Jack shrugs. “It means it’s warm in here.”

You don’t know what to do with that. So you smile. And then—like gravity resets—you’re both standing in your living room, closer than you meant to be, without shoes or coats or any buffer at all.

Jack shifts first. Hands in his pockets. He looks down, then up again. There’s something almost boyish in it. Almost shy. “I keep thinking,” he murmurs, “about the moment I almost asked you out and didn’t.”

You swallow. “When was that?”

He steps closer. His voice stays low. “After we wrote the first draft of the protocol. You were sitting in that awful rolling chair. Hair up. Eyes on the screen like the world depended on your next keystroke.”

You laugh, soft.

“I looked at you,” he says, “and I thought, ‘If I ask her out now, I’ll never stop wanting her.’”

Your breath catches.

“And that scared the hell out of me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Because you’re already reaching for him. And he meets you halfway. Not in a rush. Not in a pull. Just a quiet, inevitable lean.

The kiss is slow. Not hesitant—intentional. His hand finds your waist first, the other grazing your cheek. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself.

You part your lips first. He deepens it. And it’s the kind of kiss that says: I waited. I wanted. I’m here now.

His thumb traces the side of your face like he’s still getting used to the shape of you. His mouth moves like he’s learned your rhythm already, like he’s wanted to do this since the first time you told him he was wrong and made him like it.

He breaks the kiss only to breathe. But his forehead stays pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse.

“I’m trying not to fall too fast.”

You whisper, “Why?”

Jack exhales. “Because I think I already did.”

You press your lips to his again—softer this time. Then pull back enough to look at him. His expression is unguarded. More than tired. Relieved. Like the thing he’s been carrying for years just finally set itself down. You brush your thumb across the line of his jaw.

“Then stay,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. No hesitation.

“I will.”

He follows you to the couch without asking. You curl into the corner, legs tucked beneath you. He sits beside you, arm behind your shoulders, body warm and still faintly smelling of cologne.

You rest your head on his chest.

His hand moves slowly—fingertips tracing light shapes against your spine. You think maybe he’s drawing the floor plan of a life he didn’t think he’d ever get.

Neither of you speak. And for once, Jack doesn’t need words.

Because here, in your living room, under soft lighting and quiet, and the hum of a city that never quite sleeps—you’re both still.

And neither of you is leaving.

Sunday – 6:58 AM Your Apartment – East End, Pittsburgh

It’s still early when the light begins to stretch.

Not sharp. Not the kind that yells the day awake. Just a slow, honey-soft glow bleeding in through the blinds—brushed gold along the floorboards, the edge of the nightstand, the collar of the shirt tangled around your frame.

It smells like sleep in here. Like warmth and cotton and skin. You’re not alone. You feel it before your eyes open: the quiet sound of someone else breathing. The weight of a hand resting loosely over your hip. The warmth of a body curved behind yours, chest to spine, legs tucked close like he was worried you’d get cold sometime in the night.

Jack.

Your heart gives a small, guilty flutter—not from regret. From how unreal it still feels. His arm shifts slightly. He inhales. Not quite awake, but moving toward it. You keep your eyes closed and let yourself be held.

Not because you need protection. Because being known—this fully, this gently—is rarer than safety.

The bedsheets are half-kicked off. Your shared body heat turned the room muggy around 3 a.m., but now the chill has crept back in. His nose is tucked against the crook of your neck. His stubble has left faint irritation on your skin. You could point out the way his foot rests over yours, how he must’ve hooked it there subconsciously, anchoring you in place. You could point out the weight of his hand splayed across your ribcage, not possessive—just there.

But there’s nothing to say. There’s just this. The shape of it. The way your body fits his. You shift slightly beneath his arm and feel him breathe in deeper.

Then—“You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice sleep-rough and warm against your skin.

You nod, barely. “So are you.”

He lets out a quiet hum. The kind people make when they don’t want the moment to change. You turn in his arms slowly. He doesn’t fight it. His hand slips to your lower back as you roll, fingers still curved to hold. And then you’re facing him—cheek to pillow, inches apart.

Jack Abbot is never this soft.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, messy hair pushed back on one side, face creased faintly where it met the pillow. His mouth is slightly open. There’s a dent at the base of his throat where his pulse beats slow and steady, and you watch it without shame.

His eyes search yours. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here in the morning,” he says.

You reach up, touch a lock of hair near his temple. “I think I wanted you here more than I’ve wanted anything in weeks.”

That gets him. Not a smile. Something quieter. Something grateful. “I almost left at five,” he admits. “But then you turned over and said my name.”

You blink. “I don’t remember that.”

“You said it like you were still dreaming. Like you thought I might disappear if you stopped saying it.”

Your throat catches. Jack reaches up, runs a thumb under your cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

You rest your forehead against his. “I know.”

Neither of you move for a while.

Eventually, he shifts slightly and kisses your jaw. Your temple. Your nose. When his lips brush yours, it’s not a kiss. Not yet. It’s just a touch. A greeting. A promise that he’ll wait for you to move first.

You do.

He kisses you slowly—like he’s checking if he can keep doing this, if it’s still allowed. You kiss him back like he’s already yours. And when it ends, it’s not because you pulled away.

It’s because he smiled against your mouth.

You shift again, stretching your limbs gently. “What time is it?”

Jack rolls slightly to glance at the clock. “Almost seven.”

You hum. “Too early for decisions.”

“What decisions?”

“Like whether I should make breakfast. Or pretend we’re too comfortable to move.”

Jack tugs you a little closer. “I vote for the second one.”

You laugh against his chest. His hand strokes up and down your spine in lazy, slow passes. Nothing rushed. Just skin and warmth and quiet.

It’s a long time before either of you try to get up. When you do, it’s because Jack insists on coffee.

You sit on the bed, cross-legged, blanket pooled around your waist while he pads around the kitchen in boxers, hair a mess, your fridge open with a squint like he’s trying to understand your milk choices.

“I have creamer,” you call.

“I saw. Why is it in a mason jar?”

“Because I dropped the original bottle and couldn’t get the lid back on.”

Jack just laughs and pours two mugs—one full, one halfway. He brings yours first. “Two sugars?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“You stirred your coffee five times the other day. I watched the way your face changed after the second packet.”

You squint. “You remember that?”

Jack shrugs, eyes soft. “I remember you.”

You take the cup. Your fingers brush. He leans in and kisses the top of your head. The apartment smells like coffee and him. He stays all morning. You don’t notice the time pass.

But when he kisses you goodbye—long, lingering, forehead pressed to yours—you don’t ask when you’ll see him next.

Because you already know.

Friday – 12:13 AM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

You’re awake, but just barely.

Your laptop is dimmed to preserve battery, the spreadsheet on screen more muscle memory than thought. You’d told yourself you'd finish reconciling the quarterly vendor ledger before bed, but your formulas have started to blur into one long row of black-and-white static.

There’s half a glass of Pinot on your coffee table. You’re in an old sweatshirt and socks, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. The only light in the apartment comes from the kitchen—low, golden, humming.

It’s late, but the kind of late you’re used to. And then—three knocks at the door. Not buzzed. Not texted. Not expected.

Three solid, decisive knocks.

You sit up straight. Laptop closed. Glass down. Your feet find the floor with a soft thud as you cross the room. The locks click one by one. You look through the peephole and your heart stumbles.

Jack.

Black scrubs. Blood dried along his collar. One hand braced against your doorframe, as if he needed the structure to hold himself up.

You don’t hesitate. You open the door. He looks at you like he’s not sure he should’ve come. You step aside anyway.

“Come in.”

Jack crosses the threshold slowly, like someone walking into a church they haven’t set foot in since the funeral. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t offer a greeting. His movements are mechanical. His body’s tight.

He stands in the middle of your living room, beneath the soft spill of light from the kitchen, and doesn’t say a word.

You shut the door. Turn toward him.

“Jack.”

His eyes lift to yours. He looks wrecked. Not bleeding. Not broken. Just… done. And yet still trying to hold it all together. You take one step forward.

“I lost a kid,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “Tonight.”

You go still.

“She came in from a hit-and-run. Eleven. Trauma-coded on arrival. We got her to the OR. Her BP was gone before the second unit of blood even cleared.”

You don’t interrupt.

“She had these barrettes in her hair. Bright pink. I don’t know why I keep thinking about them. Maybe because they were the only clean thing in the whole room. Or maybe because—” he breaks off, jaw clenched.

You reach for his wrist. He lets you.

“I didn’t want to stop. Even after I knew it was gone. Her mom—” his voice cracks—“she was screaming.”

Your fingers tighten gently around his. He finally looks at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to bring this to you. The blood. The mess. You work in numbers and deadlines. Spreadsheets and order. This isn’t your world.”

“You are.”

That stops him. Jack looks down.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You step into him fully now, arms sliding around his back. His hands hover for a moment, unsure.

Then he folds. All at once. His chin drops to your shoulder. One arm tightens around your waist, the other wraps up your back like he’s afraid you might vanish too. You feel it in his body—the way he lets go slowly, like muscle by muscle, his grief loosens its grip on his spine.

You don't rush him. You don’t ask more questions.

You just hold.

It takes him a long time to speak again.

When he does, it’s from the couch, twenty minutes later. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, your throw blanket around his shoulders.

You made tea without asking. You’re curled at the other end, knees drawn up, watching him with quiet presence.

“I don’t know how to be this person,” he says. “The one who can’t hold it all.”

You sip from your mug. “You don’t have to hold it alone.”

Jack lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”

You set the mug down. Shift closer.

“You patch up people who never say thank you. You hold their trauma in your hands. You drive home alone with someone else’s blood on your shirt. And then you pretend none of it touches you.”

He looks over at you.

“It touches you, Jack. Of course it does.”

He doesn’t respond. You reach for his hand. Laced fingers. “I don’t need you to be okay right now.”

His shoulders drop slightly. You lean into him, resting your head on his arm.

“You can fall apart here,” you say, voice low. “I know how to hold weight.”

Jack breathes in like that sentence pulled something loose in his chest. “You were working,” he says after a beat. “I shouldn’t have come.”

You look up. “I audit grants for a living. I’ll survive a late ledger.”

He smiles, barely. You move your hand to his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there.

“I’m glad you came here.”

He leans forward, presses his forehead to yours. “Me too.”

He kisses you once—slow, still tasting like exhaustion—and when he pulls back, it feels like the world has shifted a half-inch left.

You don’t say anything else. You just get up, take his hand, and lead him down the hallway.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other.

Jack’s head pressed between your shoulder and collarbone. Your legs tangled. Your arm around his middle. And for the first time in hours, his breathing evens out. He doesn’t flinch when the siren howls down the block. He doesn’t wake from the sound of your radiator clanking.

He stays still.

Safe.

And when you wake hours later to the soft grey of morning just beginning to yawn over the windowsill—Jack is already looking at you. Eyes soft. Brow relaxed.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods. “I will be.”

Jack watches you like he’s learning something new. And for once—he doesn’t try to fix a single thing.

Two weeks after the hard night — Thursday, 9:26 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The second episode of the sitcom has just started when you realize Jack isn’t watching anymore. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, fleece blanket over your legs, half a container of pad thai balanced precariously on your thigh. Jack’s sitting at the other end, your feet in his lap, chopsticks abandoned, one hand absently rubbing slow circles over your ankle.

His gaze is fixed—not on the TV, not on his food. On you.

You pause mid-bite. “What?”

Jack shakes his head slightly. “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow. He smiles. “You’re just… really good at this.”

You blink. “At what? Being horizontal?”

He shrugs. “That. Letting me in. Making room for me in your life. Turning leftovers into dinner without apologizing. Letting me keep my toothbrush here.”

You snort. “Jack, you have a drawer.”

He grins, but it fades slowly. Not gone—just quieter. “I keep waiting to feel like I don’t belong in this. And I haven’t.”

You watch him for a long beat. Then: “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

He looks down. Then back up. “I think I was afraid you’d get bored of me. That you’d realize I’m too much and not enough at the same time.”

Your heart tightens. “Jack.”

But he lifts a hand—like he needs to say it now or he won’t. “And then I came here the other week—falling apart in your doorway—and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask me to explain it or shape it or make it easier to hold. You just… held me.”

You set the container down. Jack shifts closer. Takes your foot in both hands now. Thumb moving over your arch, slower than before.

“I’ve spent years patching things. Working nights. Giving the best parts of me to strangers who forget my name. And you—” he exhales—“you made space without asking me to perform.”

You don’t speak. You just listen. And then he says it. Not softly. Not theatrically. Just right.

“I love you.”

You blink. Not because you’re shocked—but because of how easy it lands. How certain it feels.

Jack waits. Your mouth opens—and for a moment, nothing comes out. Then: “You know what I was thinking before you said that?”

He quirks a brow.

“I was thinking I could do this every night. Sit on this couch, eat cold noodles, watch something dumb. As long as you were here.”

Jack’s eyes flicker. You move closer. Take his face in both hands. “I love you too.” You don’t say it like a question. You say it like it’s always been true.

Jack leans in, kisses you once—sweet, grounding, slow. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, but it’s not smug. It’s soft. Like relief. Like home.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Okay.”

Four Months Later — Sunday, 6:21 PM Regent Square — Their First House

There are twenty-seven unopened boxes between the two of you.

You counted.

Because you’re an accountant, and that’s how your brain makes sense of chaos: it gives it a ledger, a timeline, a to-do list. Even now—sitting on the floor of a house that still smells like primer and wood polish—your eyes keep drifting toward the boxes like they owe you something.

But then Jack walks in from the porch, and the air shifts. He’s barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a bottle of sparkling water dangling from one hand. His hair’s slightly damp from the post-move-in rinse you bullied him into. And there’s something different in his face now—lighter, maybe. Looser.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m mentally organizing.”

Jack drops beside you on the floor, leans his shoulder into yours. “You’re stress-auditing the spice rack.”

“It’s not an audit,” you murmur. “It’s a preliminary layout strategy.”

He grins. “Do I need to leave you alone with the cinnamon?”

You elbow him.

The room around you is full of light. Big windows. A scratched-up floor you kind of already love. The couch is still wrapped in plastic. You’re sitting on the rug you just unrolled—your knees pressed to his thigh, your coffee mug still warm in your hands. There’s a half-built bookcase in the corner. Your duffel bag’s still open in the hall.

None of it’s finished. But Jack is here. And that makes the rest feel possible. He glances around the room. “You know what we should do?”

You look at him, wary. “If you say ‘unpack the garage,’ I’m calling a truce and ordering Thai.”

“No.” He turns toward you, one arm braced across his knee. “I meant we should ruin a room.”

You blink. Then stare. Jack watches your expression shift. You set your mug down slowly. “Ruin?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, totally unaware. “Pick one. Go full chaos. Pretend we can set it up tonight. Pretend we didn’t already work full days and haul furniture and fail to assemble a bedframe because someone threw out the extra screws—”

“I did not—”

He holds up a hand, grinning. “Not important. Point is: let’s ruin one. Let it be a disaster. First night tradition.”

You pause.

Then—tentatively: “You want to… have sex in a room full of boxes?”

Jack freezes. You raise an eyebrow. “Oh my God,” he mutters.

You start laughing. Jack covers his face with both hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You said ruin a room.”

“I meant emotionally. Functionally.”

You’re still laughing—half from exhaustion, half from how red his ears just went.

“Jesus,” he mutters into his hands. “You’re the one with a mortgage spreadsheet color-coded by quarter and you thought I wanted to christen the house with a full-home porno?”

You bite your lip. “Well, now you’re just making it sound like a challenge.”

Jack groans and collapses backward onto the rug. You follow him. Lay down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The ceiling above is bare. No light fixture yet. Just exposed beams and white primer. You stare at it for a long beat, side by side. He turns his head. Looks at you.

“You really thought I meant sex in every room?”

You shrug. “You said ruin. I was tired. My brain filled in the blanks.”

Jack snorts. Then rolls toward you, props himself on one elbow. “Would it be that bad if I had meant that?”

You glance at him. He’s flushed. Amused. Slightly wild-haired. You reach up and thread your fingers through the edge of his hoodie.

“I think,” you say slowly, “that it would make for a very effective unpacking incentive.”

Jack grins. “We’re negotiating with sex now?”

You shrug. “Depends.”

He kisses you once—soft and full of quiet mischief. You blink up at him. The room is suddenly still. Warm. Dimming. Gentle. Jack’s smile fades a little. Not gone—just quieter. Real.

“I know it’s just walls,” he says softly, “but it already feels like you live here more than me.”

You frown. “It’s our house.”

He nods. “Yeah. But you make it feel like home.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans down and kisses you again—this time longer. Slower. His hand curls against your waist. Your body moves with his instinctively. The kiss lingers.

And when he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers, “Okay. Let’s ruin the bedroom first.”

You smile. He stands, offers you a hand. And you follow. Not because you owe him. But because you’ve already decided:

This is the man you’ll build every room around.

One Year Later — Saturday, 11:46 PM The House — Bedroom. Dim Lamp. One Window Open. You and Him.

Jack Abbot is looking at you like he wants to burn through you.

You’re straddling his lap, bare thighs across his hips, tank top riding high, no underwear. His sweatpants are halfway down. Your bodies are flushed, panting, teeth-marks already ghosting along your collarbone. His hands are firm on your waist—not rough. Just present. Like he’s still making sure you’re real.

The window’s cracked. Night breeze slipping in against sweat-slicked skin.

The sheets are kicked to the floor.

You’d barely made it to the bedroom—half a bottle of wine, two soft laughs, one look across the kitchen, and he’d muttered something about being obsessed with you in this shirt, and that was it. His mouth was on your neck before you hit the hallway wall.

Now you're here.

Rocking slow on his cock, bodies tangled, your hand braced on his chest, the other wrapped around the back of his neck.

“Fuck,” Jack groans, barely audible. “You feel…”

“Yeah,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”

You’d always known.

But tonight?

Tonight, it clicks in a way that guts you both.

He’s not thrusting. He’s holding you there—deep and still—like if he moves too fast, the moment will shatter.

He kisses you like a vow.

You can feel how wrecked he is—his hands trembling a little now, his mouth hot and slow on your shoulder, his body not performing but unraveling.

And then he exhales—sharp, shaky—and says:

“I need you to marry me.”

You freeze.

Still seated on him, still connected, your breath caught mid-moan.

“Jack,” you say.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even blink.

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Hoarse. “I was gonna wait. Make it a thing. But I’m tired of pretending like this is just… day by day.”

You open your mouth.

He lifts one hand—fumbles behind the nightstand, like he already knew he was going to crack eventually.

And pulls out a ring box.

You blink, heart pounding. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He flips it open.

The ring is huge.

No frills. No side stones. Just a bold, clean-cut diamond—flawless, high clarity, set on a platinum band. Sleek. A little loud. But elegant as hell. The kind of thing that says, I know what I want. I’m not afraid of weight.

You blink down at it, still perched on top of him, still pulsing around him.

Jack’s voice drops—tired, exposed. “I know we won’t get married yet. I know we’re both fucking alcoholics. I know we argue over the thermostat and forget groceries and ruin bedsheets we don’t replace.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I know I leave shit everywhere and you color-code spreadsheets because it’s the only way to feel okay. I know you’re steadier than me. Smarter. Better. But I need you to be mine. Fully. Officially. Before I ruin it by waiting too long.”

You look at him—really look.

His eyes are glassy. His hair damp. His lips parted. He looks like he just survived a war and crawled out of it with the only thing that mattered.

You whisper, “You’re not ruining anything.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Say yes.”

“Jack.”

“I’ll wait. Years, if I have to. I don’t care when. But I need the word. I need the promise.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him slow.

Then lift the ring from the box.

Slide it on yourself, right there, while he’s still inside you. It fits perfectly.

His breath stutters.

You roll your hips—just once.

“Is that a yes?” he asks.

You drag your mouth across his jaw, bite down gently, then whisper: “It’s a fuck yes.”

Jack flips you—moves so fast you gasp, but his hands never leave your skin. He spreads you beneath him like a prayer.

“You gonna come with it on?” he asks, voice wrecked, forehead to yours.

“Obviously.”

“Fucking marry me.”

“I just said yes, idiot—”

“I need to hear it again.”

“I’m gonna marry you, Jack,” you whisper.

His hips drive in deeper, and you sob against his neck. Jack curses under his breath.

You come first. Soaking. Gasping. Shaking under him. He follows seconds later—moaning your name like it’s the only language he speaks.

When he collapses on top of you, still sheathed inside, he’s breathless. Raw.

He lifts your hand. Looks at the ring.

“It’s too big.”

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re gonna hit people with it accidentally.”

“I hope so.”

Jack presses a kiss to your palm, right at the base of the band.

Then, out of nowhere—

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

You smile, blinking hard.

“You’re the best thing I ever let happen to me.” You hold up your left hand, wiggling your fingers. The diamond flashes dramatically in the low light. “I can’t wait to do our shared taxes with this ring on. Really dominate the IRS.”

Jack groans into your shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”

You laugh softly, kiss the crown of his head.

And somewhere between his chest rising against yours and the breeze cooling the sweat on your skin, you realize:

You’re not scared anymore.

You’re home.

#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #dr abbot #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt #the pitt x reader #jack abbot fanfiction #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #the life we grew #fanfiction #fluff #the pitt hbo

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wttcsms · 1 year ago

Text

proof of love;

physical traces that reveal just how much you truly mean to him

ft. tobio kageyama, kiyoomi sakusa, atsumu miya

KAGEYAMA, your skincare routine in his bathroom — tobio lives in a stereotypical bachelor pad; you walk into his apartment and it's the very definition of bare-bones. thin, cotton navy sheets line his bed, with one single flat pillow. he doesn't own a dining table, and instead just stands near his kitchen counter to consume his meals. he blushes and tells you that he's just a minimalist. despite it all, though, after fun nights out, you find yourself heading back to his place with him, sleepy and drunk and pouty. you wake up, instantly regretting not washing off your face, moping because "i'm so gonna break out now, tobio!" when kags visits your place, he opens his notes app to get the names of all the skincare products lining your sink. the next night out, you're being carried into his apartment, mumbling drunk incoherencies. instead of setting you down on his bed (which now has two fluffy pillows and a fruit-print comforter that he bought for you), he guides you two to his bathroom where he places you on the counter and starts trying to figure out which steps to do first to help you remove your makeup. drunk-you guides him every step of the way, and the warmth you feel in your chest and cheeks isn't from the drinks — it's from the gentle care of your boyfriend rubbing in an oil cleanser to strip off your makeup.

SAKUSA, your lipstick stains on his water bottle — kiyoomi likes everything in his life to be neat and tidy. he carries a tide pen in his pocket that he ends up using on your clothes more often than his own. he's particular with how his belongings are treated, and you know better than to mess with anything of kiyoomi's. you respect his boundaries and find his oddities endearing, but you feel so much more secure in your relationship when you realize just how loose his boundaries are when it comes to you. on a road trip, you're thirsty and he offers you his water bottle. you don't think too much about it until you finish drinking and instantly widen your eyes at the sight of pink encasing the rim — remnants of your lipgloss. before you can say anything or try to wipe it off, he reaches over and takes a swig from it without a second thought. you try telling him not to drink yet, but he just glances over at you before focusing back on the road. "why would i be bothered by that? i kiss you all the time, don't i?" it's his subtle way of telling you that what's his is yours; you don't need to walk on eggshells with him.

MIYA, a cheap ring that came in a plastic egg — the proposal doesn't go as atsumu plans. things rarely ever go as atsumu plans, but this time — this is the one time he needs everything to go perfectly. and it does: the photographer is well hidden and on time, the decorations came out fantastic, and the ring! the ring is stunning. it's what's on everyone's pinterest boards. the only issue is that he put the ring box in the wrong pants pocket! with sweaty palms and a pink flush creeping from his neck to his cheeks to his ears, he gets down on one knee. he manages to stammer out his proposal speech to you, and you're listening with tears brimming in your eyes and a watery smile on your face, and then, those beautiful eyes of yours widen in surprise when you see, not a velvet ring box, but a plastic orb being revealed to you. he quickly explains that this is not your real ring (no duh), but that in typical atsumu fashion, he messed up. "it's just a placeholder!!! i'll buy you five diamond rings, just don't say no!" you're not marrying atsumu because of the ring, you remind him, but you allow him to slip on the cheesy ring. it's made out of plastic and it's one of those cheap prizes that are available in those weird machines outside the grocery store; the machines where you insert a quarter and twist the knob and a mysterious plastic ball surprises you with a prize. he tells you it took him a dozen tries to get a ring. you're laughing and saying it's meant to be since the ring manages to fit you perfectly. even after getting your real engagement ring, you still keep the cheesy ring to this day. it's evidence that no matter what happens, atsumu will always go the extra mile for you.

#tobio kageyama x reader #kageyama x reader #kiyoomi sakusa x reader #sakusa x reader #atsumu miya x reader #atsumu x reader #haikyuu x reader #headcanons #fluff #drabble #imagine #hq x reader #kageyama headcanons #sakusa headcanons #atsumu headcanons

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jesuistrestriste · 3 months ago

Note

sage. my flight got delayed AGAIN. i’m not getting back to school til late, i have an assignment due tomorrow i haven’t finished…may i please request some Mickey 17 stuff? smut or fluff or angst idc i miss that little guy:(

⭑.ᐟ cw (18+) : dry humping, tiny bit of fluff —

mickey’s body is a mess.

he’s just been reprinted for the twelfth time, his limbs slimy and his blood whooshing erratically through his veins as he’s sat up on the cold table. the familiar scientists poke and prod at his skin while they scribble hurried little notes in their pads of paper. his head spins badly whenever he gets propped up fresh out of the machine, but he still manages to immediately think of you.

where you’re at right now, what you’re doing, who you’re with.

he can’t do anything until the people in the lab are ready to let him go though, releasing him until the next agonizing experiment needs his lungs or his heart or his brain. sometimes it’s funny because they’re ready to kick him out the door before his legs are ready to be used, like a mother bird kicking her baby out of the nest before its ready to fledge. regardless, they’re usually pretty quick about finishing their post-printing examinations. and he can use the spare minutes while they’re working on him to think about what he’s gonna do when he finally gets to see you again.

the sting of his new cells adjusting to the atmosphere is drowned out by thoughts of pressing his lips to yours, trying out one of the stupid sex positions you and him made up on one of the tablets, running his hands over your warm flesh. he sighs.

one time—a few bodies ago—you had sucked him off when it had only been about 30 minutes since the reprinting, and you’d told him that his come tasted like plastic and sterilized metal. (which was weird because his body was supposed to be biologically the same as the last, so shouldn’t he have tasted normal? whatever. didn’t matter. you had swallowed. you had licked the rest of it into his mouth afterwards. it did taste artificial.)

the people surrounding him eventually scampered off and he assumed his freedom, got dressed, and slinked off and out. he walked through the hallways and listened to the sound of his heavy shoes hitting the flooring. climbed the stairs to the rooms, then slid open your door to find you laid on your bed. his chest sags with relief.

you smile at him. god, that smile. he can’t help but shut the door in a hasty effort and crawl up on top of you. your guys’ dark colored jumpsuits slide together. its only a tiny spark of friction, but its enough.

his body is always extra sensitive after coming out of the machine; he always feels like a virgin again, not that he’s had much sex in general. he feels your hand over his hip, and he shudders.

“mmgh,” he breathes into your neck, stiff and shaky, “i missed you.”

“missed you too. it’s only been a day and a half, but i really, really missed you,” you whisper against his jaw.

he loves how you can be just as clingy as him sometimes. you even beat him at his own game on occasion, sticking to his side like a glob of glue, but he blames the fact that you only get to see him during select parts of the day. with your duties and his expendable work.. it’s tough. you both take what you can get, and as much of it as you’re allowed. and that usually also means getting handsy as soon as you’re together.

you feel him rock down against your thigh involuntarily, reflexively, chasing a brewing feeling in his stomach. your fingers run through his brown hair, and you bite your lip when it elicits a whimper from him.

“already, mick?” you hum teasingly, the tips of your digits scratching the back of his scalp, just the way he likes it, “don’t you wanna go down and eat first?”

he chokes around a moan when he starts to hump the most perfect spot on your leg, just enough muscle there to give him something to work against. his hands find fabric of your suit, slipping under your back next as he keens. he feels a rush of warmth coat his cock, and then he feels a dribble of something start to leak from his tip.

“don’t wanna eat.. not really hungry..” he gasps, his brow pinched up now in the shadows of the crook of your body, “this.. you.. this feels so good, i don’t wanna stop..”

you tilt your head slightly and then lift your leg under him to press it further against his bulging crotch. a sharp cry spills from his lips. you pet his hair again. he’s like a puppy sometimes—a needy, possessive dog that looks up to you like you’re something to be worshipped. you can’t get enough.

“okay, well, i snuck you some food anyways, its in my—“

mickey cuts you off, crashing his lips to yours with a hunger that’s almost unlike him. he usually wants you to lead (much preferring following your directions). his tongue seeks yours desperately, flattening over your own once he gets access. you have to swallow down all the little noises he’s making as he starts to thrust his clothed appendage against your body quicker. the movement of his snapping hips is building a warmth between all of the layers.. you wouldn’t exactly be surprised if he burned a hole right through with all the rubbing he’s doing. you lovingly slide a hand over his lower back in an attempt to soothe his frantic movements, but it doesn’t quite work. he breaks from the kiss, body jolting, to look down to your face and hiccup. expression all crumpled and contorted and flushed with an orgasm that he’s almost got clutched in the palm of his hand. eyes glazed over and jaw slacked like he’s high on pure oxy from timo. just a disaster of a man. and to think—a hunk of machinery and a brick of his memories brought him back to life less than an hour ago. birthed him, really. everything about him in this moment is so primal. you can’t shake the need to mark your territory, just in case he’s forgotten somehow.

“easy, easy.. you’re all mine for the rest of the night anyways.. i don’t care what they want, they’re not taking you from me tonight..”

and that’s all it takes.

just those sweet, possessive words pouring like thick honey into his ears, and then he’s gone. easy as that.

his eyes roll back, his head drops to your shoulder, his length spasms in his new underwear, then he’s coming. it happens as quick as you can blink.

“aah! im.. im—!”

he heaves through the uncontrollable waves of pleasure that bloom and spread throughout his nervous system, rendering him a trembling heap on top of you. if it weren’t for the remaining strength in his biceps, he’d collapse and probably fall like dead weight over your chest. he gives a few more shaky rolls of his hips as he rides out the prickling aftershocks of overstimulation. “f-fuck, ohh, ngh..”

then he really does slump over you. lowering himself slowly over your frame so as to not crush you. there’s something tender about the way he moves to ensure your comfort, even when he’s so wrecked, and it makes you instinctively wrap your arms around him. he sniffles while he catches his breath.

“s-sssorry,” the word broken up lazily as he struggles to bring himself back to the reality of your touch, “mmn.. jus’ felt so good, and you smell so nice, and i just couldn’t..” he trails off, shaking his head as he feels his body begin to overheat.

a little laugh bubbles up and out at his incoherency. then your hand over his upper back snakes down to playfully squeeze his rear. he sucks in a gasp and then chuckles into your skin as he squirms.

“s’fine, i like watching you finish like that.”

he chews the inside of his cheek like gum. you can almost feel his lashes flutter against your pulse point.

“felt like i wasn’t myself for a second..”

it’s a joke, one twinged with a bit of shame and guilt, you know that, but it doesn’t feel like one. each time he gets reprinted, a part of him changes—gets stripped away and plastered over with something new. you don’t always mind, but it does make you question which mickey you’ll get next time. will he be soft and kind? blunt and impulsive?

at the end of the day, you suppose it doesn’t matter much.

“you’ll always be my mickey.”

he lets out a weighted sigh of relief for the second time in the past thirty minutes since he’s been back in your presence, and it’s almost like you can feel the very last of the tension drain from his pores. he only whispers two more words against your ear before he finds his own hands wandering your body, eager to reciprocate and prove that he’s still useful. he owes it to you for loving him through it all.

“yeah.. yours.”

#ellias i hope this helps <333 #sry its a bit late but i hope the assignment went well and that ur back at uni safe:3 #yay for mickey barnes who loves riding your thigh #sage’s asks #💌 - mutuals #🩷 - thirsts #mickey barnes x reader #mickey barnes x you #mickey barnes smut #mickey 17 fic #mickey 17 smut #mickey barnes fic

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maiamore · 6 months ago

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MILE HIGH CLUB

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female!Reader - No Outbreak

Rating: 18+ | W/C: 3.3k

Summary: Joel has to fly out of state for the first time in his life and his nerves are frayed. Luckily, he finds a good distraction. You.

Tags: m!receiving oral, deep throating, public indecency, mention of drug use, blowjob on a plane basically, alcohol consumption, nervous old man joel

A/N: maybe i’m just into exhibitionism atp MASTERLIST

Like every other man, Joel Miller had his kryptonite.

It wasn’t the idea of never finding someone to settle with, despite countless attempts—he had his fair share of awkward dates and mind-fucking-numbingly repetitive conversations about what his favourite colour was.

And sure, it could have been having to deal with empty nest syndrome after Sarah moved out of state for college. The loneliness came as a cold wash, but he kept busy enough to avoid spiraling down the rabbit hole of a quiet home. Babysitting for Tommy or tending to work troubles was a rickety solution at best.

But no, that wasn’t enough to rattle the man.

It was the very fact that he was hours away from having to sit in a “flying death machine” as he eloquently phrased it, just so he could visit his daughter.

Joel had successfully gone forty one years of his life dodging air travel. The thought of sitting in a metal contraption, being flung through the skies made his stomach churn. He couldn’t care less about how safe it chalked up to be. A car? He could control. Walking? Reliable.

A plane? Definitely not. A paper airplane for grown-ups, that’s all it was.

The glaring fluorescent lights, nauseating sound of suitcases and tearful goodbyes wasn’t doing him any favours. Least of all the sleaze bag at the counter, who hadn’t even spared more than a couple seconds. Being seven hours early was overkill, but he’d figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Can’t let ya in yet. Come back in a few hours.”

A litany of curses left unsaid under his breath about “dumb rules” and “what’s the point of gettin’ here early if yer just gonna make me wait?”

He shuffles out of the line with the creaky luggage he had with him, finding himself a seat by the waiting lounge next to a girl reading from those gizmos he’d seen Sarah use last Thanksgiving. A scowl crept up his face.

Did they have to invent some gadget for reading, too? Wasn’t that free?

He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small black leather bound book. It was worn, the edges were scuffed and the pages slightly dog-eared—a testament to its’ use.

Licking the pad of his thumb, he flips through the pages. There in black ink, lay a list of instructions he prepared prior to coming here. Misspellings here and there—chicken scratch, really.

1) checkin n’ give bags to airport

“Already screwed that one up,” he mutters out loud, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the growing aches.

2) go to gate no. on tikket

Joel peels out the airline pass tucked into his passport and squints at the printed words. “Christ.” He clicks his pen and painstakingly copies the details into his notebook in block letters big enough to read from across the room. “Tiny ass fuckin’...printin’...”

“Don’t travel much?”

Your voice breaks through the haze of uncertainty that had been plaguing him. Joel doesn’t offer more than a quick glance at first, his grip tightening slightly around the pen in his hand.

When he does look at you. You’d made him do a double take.

Despite the sorry state of his dating life–or maybe because of it–Joel wasn’t immune to the kind of attention a pretty thing like you could command. Even if it was just your attempt to be polite. His gaze then falls in disdain to your kindle laying abandoned in your lap.

“Not really, darlin’,” he says, his voice low and rough, with just enough warmth to take the edge off his typical gruffness.

Joel wasn’t big on small-talk, so when silence settled between you both, he didn’t feel the need to fill it. He wasn’t entirely sure why your presence had eased his nerves, even just a fraction, but it had.

And then you spoke up again, your tone uncertain but laced with quiet hope.

“There’s a lounge in the back with a bar,” you begin, tipping your head towards it. “Might be more your speed.”

Joel follows the motion with his eyes, then huffs a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. “Man after my own heart,” he tucks his notebook back into his pocket.

Maybe it wasn’t all too bad that your dad dropped you off at the airport hours too early.

When you’d first seen Joel, you’d nearly dropped your kindle. The heavy thud of his boots on the polished floor caught your attention. You slowly pulled your gaze upward–from the worn blue jeans to the faded grey t-shirt that did nothing to hide his strong forearms. His dark brown curls looked like they’d been through more than their fair share of rough mornings, but god did you want to run your fingers through them.

And then there was his scruffy beard–uneven in an endearing way that somehow made him even more pleasing to the eyes. You blinked, forcing yourself to look back at your screen, but the words blurred into nothingness. The way he sat stiffly on the chairs he made seem so small, down to what seemed to be a checklist for his flight.

“I’m pretty sure more people have died on construction sites than flights, Joel.”

Joel.

Introductions came easy the second the whiskey infiltrated his system, and damn if he didn’t he love the way his name rolled off your tongue.

He drags a palm down his jaw, a dry scoff slipping past his lips. “This your idea of makin’ me feel better ’bout all this?” he counters, half-regretting that he’d let slip what he did for a living.

You weren’t wrong, of course–he’d faced far more dangerous situations on the ground than he’d ever likely encounter in the air.

Still, it didn’t help.

“I ain’t sayin’ m’gonna piss my goddamn pants,” he muttered, shifting in his seat. “Just makes me feel queasy, s’all.”

Joel sighs into the crystal glass, thumb idly tracing the rim as if the whiskey might’ve given him some courage. When he glanced your way again, you were watching him with that look–the one that made him feel exposed and oddly at ease all at once.

He shot you a faint glare, more bark than bite, and nodded toward your drink.

“Drink your goddamn kiddy juice,” he grumbled.

Your lips curled up into a slight scowl, cupping your glass of bellini defensively. Despite your show of annoyance, you did feel a tinge of empathy for him. For crying out loud, he was hunched over the goddamn bar seat, looking at his empty glass like a kicked puppy like he was about to go for a neutering or something.

Gesturing towards the bartender for a refill of his glass, you dragged your bar stool closer to him.

“Look. If you’re up for it. I’ve got a little pick-me-up I take to settle my nerves before a long flight,” you said, fishing a small pill container from your bag. “Works like a charm.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed, his interest piqued despite his better judgement. But the second you popped open the lid, his reaction was instant.

“Hard pass.”

“You don’t even know what it–”

“I ain’t about to get drugged up,” he cut in, folding his arms. Your eyes shamelessly trace over the way the sleeves tightened around his biceps. “And besides, I hardly know ya.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line and without missing a beat, you tipped one of the white pills into your palm and dry swallowed it like a pro. Joel’s brow furrowed deeper, his disapproval practically radiating off him. Though that notion had him adjust his jeans discreetly.

“Well, it’s your funeral,” you said with a shrug. Then realizing how that might’ve come across, you raised your hands in mock surrender. “Figuratively speaking! Not literally–”

“Gimmie that damn thing,” Joel huffed, snatching the container from you. He popped the pill into his mouth and chased it with a gulp of whiskey, muttering something under his breath about regrettin’ this already.

You leaned back in your seat, a sly grin tugging at your lips. “You didn’t even ask what it does.”

Joel fixed you with a hard glare, the kind that could silence most people. But you weren’t most people.

“It also gives you a raging erecti–”

“Sweetheart.” Joel’s warning tone cut you off, his glare piercing.

You couldn’t help it–you laughed anyway, the sound earning a reluctant lop-sided smirk from him as he shook his head.

In all his years of living, Joel never thought he’d succumb to relying on drugs.

The idea was irresponsible at best. He’d pride himself on staying clear-headed, the occasional joint in his teenage years being the closest he’d come to experimentation. But that was a lifetime ago, a glimpse of a boy who didn’t have responsibilities or a family to think about. His body was a temple now, for at least a semi-respectable contractor.

Yet here he was, in the fluorescent purgatory of a transit hall, deciding that a four hour stint in a “metal coffin” justified drastic measures.

Your vague explanation on what that little white pill of yours was didn’t help either. You both agreed you were in this together now. He had to admit that it was ironic where life took him. Misery loved company, and you, his current “drug buddy,” were far easier on the eyes than his high school crowd had ever been.

And, well, it worked.

Joel could feel the change, his mind easing from the coiled tension it had been gripping since he set foot in the airport. His inhibitions, usually locked tighter than the pentagon, were suddenly looser. Not reckless, but freer.

If you’d thought Joel wasn’t the clingy type before, that illusion was thoroughly shattered now. He shadowed your every move, from hauling your luggage onto the conveyor belt without you even asking to tapping his card at the terminal before you could pay for yourself.

And then…there were his hands.

At first, they lingered tentatively–a brush of his palm at the small of your back, a quick touch to your arm as he gestured to something in the duty-free window. Testing boundaries. Waiting for a sign.

When you looped your arm through his without hesitation, Joel took it as his green light.

After that point on, his touches became a constant presence. Steady, warm & grounding. A hand resting lightly on your hip as you wandered through the departure hall, fingers curling against your wrist as he guided you through the crowds of travellers.

Joel fully blamed the pill for his current lapse of judgment.

He spit into his palms, smearing the wetness onto the length of his cock. His other hand gripped firmly onto the granite counter. The dull slaps of him fucking his fist filled the small space. Along with his strained grunts.

“C’mon, c’mon…”

Trying damned hard to focus—he thinks of you. How your body felt under the weight of his hands. The way you’d wet your lips before giving your own witty remark to his rants about shit he found ridiculous about Delta.

And he jolts, instinctively tightening his grip around his cock when the announcement rings in the speaker above—some bullshit safety reminder.

“Shit—…shit shit.” He mutters. Willing himself to come so he’d put himself out of his self made torture.

Joel was rock fucking hard the second he seated himself by the back of the plane. Thoughts of the way you’d smiled up at him & rubbing his arm before heading to your seat up front was enough ammo for him to daydream about you for the next hour.

He did think you were joking earlier. But this could very well be the side effect of whatever you’d given him.

Nevertheless, it was pointless. The sterile bathroom was doing nothing but turning him off.

With an annoyed sigh. He’d shucked his half limp cock back into his jeans. Thoroughly scrubbing his hands clean before he heads back to his seat.

He stops short, brows quirked at the intruder.

“Howdy. How ya holding up.”

You grinned. Lowering the latest issue of Baseball Digest that Joel was occupied with from where it covered your face.

“I’m—…what are you…doin’ back here.” He manages. Cursing himself for sounding way off.

“Flight‘s pretty empty, so…Donna did me a solid.”

Joel briefly glances up at the flight attendant that you did a little finger wave to before looking back, nudging his head to the vacant seat next to you. “Scoot over.”

“Jesus. Thought you’d be happy to see me.”

Yeah. I was. And I tried to jerk off to you too, not that it worked out.

“So that I can be tormented for the next three hours?”

You frowned at his words. Flipping through the magazine loudly. “Someone’s panties are in a bunch.”

He exhales as he sinks into his rightful seat. Thankfully, the shock of seeing your face again did a number to deflate Junior Miller.

The combination of turbulence and drinking two glasses of whiskey earlier was a nasty concoction. He thumbs eases the crease between his brows before finally deciding to speak, ignoring your earlier comment.

“Bout’ the side effect you mentioned…”

That causes you to tip your head towards him. You were silent, briefly.

“What about it?”

“…How long does it…last.”

You looked to the side. “Just for a bit.” Though you sounded unsure of yourself. “Why?”

“Nothin’. Suppose I’m gettin’ one of those weird reactions to it.”

“Weird how.” You pressed. Though Joel looked less than pleased about your probing. “Don’t gotta explain it to ya. S’just weird, darlin’.”

You get the memo regardless.

“Well did you try to—“

“I did.”

“And you didn’t—“

“No.”

“You sure you were doing it correctly?”

Joel drags his hand down his face, letting out a muffled, yet pained scoff before he looks at you. He doesn’t speak yet for a couple of seconds.

“Yes, sweetheart. I know how to fuckin’ jerk off.”

Your lips pressed into a taut line. His words stirred something deep in you, fuck if it didn’t make you want to do something stupid right now.

“Obviously you don’t. Wouldn’t be sitting here all wound up if you had.”

Joel’s lips part to shoot something snarky your way.

It’s quickly floored when he feels your fingertips trace past the sides of his thighs.

You look at him. Offering him an opportunity to pull away.

He adjusts his hips to shift lower. A firm tug on your wrist ground your palm directly onto the bulge of his jeans.

A shaky exhale leaves his lips when you knead against his hard on. Tipping his head back onto the headrest. He lets out a soft grunt escaping his lips as you continued your ministrations.

“Feels…real good.” He manages. Barely being able to look at you.

Fuck. You were so warm and you smelled so good. He couldn’t remember the last time he had something that he wanted real bad.

“Told ya, not doing it right.” You leaned in close enough for your cheeks to rest against his bicep. Watching how his grip around your wrists began to falter.

Joel’s breathing became a little more ragged as he started to become more and more pent up with each rub.

With a conspicuous sniffle, you dragged the zipper of his jeans down, earning a jolt from him. He whips his head to look at you as you maneuver his stiffened cock out of his boxers.

Locking your gaze with his, you provide a calming kiss to the edge of his shoulder before you lower yourself.

“Christ. Are you crazy?”

Joel lifts his gaze to scan the surroundings. Considering it was an evening flight, the dimmed overhead lighting provided a more intimate and gentle glow.

The absence of attendants who were likely resting up front, and the emptiness of the last five rows does provide him assurance, even when it shouldn’t have.

He lets out a hiss at a wet glob of saliva trickle down his shaft, stealing his focus once more. Followed by the softness of a smaller pair of hands pumping the wetness up and down.

You feel a strong hand gather your hair up loosely, before the fingertips entangles firmly through to hold your head in place.

He tugs you to meet his gaze momentarily. Eyeing your soft features being reflected with the amber mood lighting.

“Can I?”

You bit the insides of your cheeks. Realising what he’d meant. You nod slowly, kissing the tip of his weeping cock.

“Tap me twice if it’s t’much.”

He mutters with a gentleness that had you rubbing your thighs together, the slick wetness growing in your cunt.

You take him into his mouth fully this time. Feeling his hips jump up involuntarily. The tug on your head encourages you to continue.

“Ah..fuck. Fuck.”

Joel grinds his jaw at a painful intensity. The warmth and wetness of your mouth hollowing around his cockhead was intoxicating. He had to physically control himself from thrusting into your mouth too quickly.

The noises that rumbled from his throat spurs you on. You alternate between deep sucks through your hollowed mouth and stroking his cock. Though the hand holding your head became more of a weak hold than a guide.

You caught the hesitance in his actions. Treating you so damn gently as though you would break. It frustrated you, so you abruptly lowered yourself until you practically swallowed him whole. Nose grinding against the denim.

It catches the both of you off guard.

Joel, nearly lets out a fucking groan at the warmth of your throat convulse around his cock. And you, with your thumb digging into your fists to control your gag reflex.

That was enough for Joel to snap.

His grip around your hair goes taut. “Tap me.” He reminds, before he properly fucks his cock into your throat at an almost brutal pace.

You choked for a couple of seconds, the warm tears pricking your eyes as you gripped tightly over his thigh—essentially using your mouth as his personal fleshlight.

Letting out strained grunts as he quickened his pace, you taste the salty mixture of your tears and saliva. Joel doesn’t let himself go just yet, keeping the rational part of him awake in case you couldn’t take it, which in fairness—most women couldn’t.

But you? You took it like a fuckin’ champ.

You pulled away from his cock with a pop, letting a string of saliva follow as you dragged your lips down to his balls, giving one of them a sloppy suck as much as your mouth could fit before taking his cock into your throat.

Joel shudders at the sensation, It doesn’t take long before his hips stutter, spurting his hot, thick come into your throat.

He pulls you off him with a gentle tug, catching sight of your tear stricken face, lips pouty and reddened.

Joel groans at how pretty you looked like this.

He glances towards the bathroom behind them and back at the serenity of the moonlight illuminating inside the plane as he hastily tucks himself back in.

With a firm hold, he hoists you up underneath your arms to guide you into the cramped stall with him.

“You okay, honey?” He practically whispers. Thumb swiping the strands of your hair that stuck to your sweaty cheeks, tucking them behind your ears.

“Y…eah.” You managed. Voice coming out raspy. His dark brown gaze held nothing but concern for you.

A lazy smile graces your features. You stabilise yourself with Joel’s arms. He doesn’t hesitate as he leans in to lock his lips with yours.

“We can go back. Or continue. Whatever you want.” The gentle curve of nose comes to rub against your cheeks, though you could tell by the twitch of his cock that he was far from done.

You bit down on your lips. Hands travelling lower to let the sharp sound of Joel’s buckle give you the answer he needed.

As you flip over to lean against the counter with your palms flat on the granite—your cheeks presses against your shoulder to gaze up at him through your lashes.

“By the way…that pill I gave you? Just Vitamin C.”

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x y/n #joel the last of us #joel x reader #pedro pascal smut #tlou smut #the last of us smut

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andyoullhearitagain · 1 year ago

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Every Starfleet Uniform Ranked By How Annoying The Sleeve Is To Sew, Part 1

The Star Trek designers appear to be allergic to a normal-ass armscye, so I've broken down which sleeves are the most time-consuming and annoying to put in, starting from the easiest sleeve.

TOS Minidress:

A normal raglan sleeve, which is easier to sew then a set-in sleeve when it comes down to it. Quick and easy.

2. "The Cage":

A regular human armscye, set-in sleeves, a thin shoulder pad. They are made of velvet, which is notoriously slippery under the machine and requires hand basting, but they're a straight one piece sleeve which is going to take less time to place then a shaped two piece sleeve.

3. Original Movies-Era:

Both the movie uniforms have normal tailored two piece sleeves. Nothing weird. A tailored sleeve is going to be hand basted (maybe a few times) and include a shoulder pad and sleeve head, so despite being normal they do take longer than the more relaxed armscyes in our list.

4. AOS:

These guys aren't too bad, but they have a double row of satin trim that echoes the zipper in the TOS uniforms (cute!) that would be a little tricky to work with. They also gain difficulty points because they're stretch which I personally hate working with.

5. Strange New Worlds:

These are interesting because they echo both the raglan sleeve in the TOS uniforms and the piecing that starts in the TNG uniforms. Gains difficulty points for having two points of pattern matching and being a THREE piece sleeve (plus a cuff) with all those corners to navigate. AND it's a stretch fabric, AND I'd bet anything that the printed fabric sticks to the machine. Better break out that Teflon foot!

Part 2

#star trek #yelling about costume design #armscyes #sewing

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dresshistorynerd · 1 year ago

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Sewing 1890s Day Dress in Doll Scale

I went slightly overboard with this second historical doll project. Here's my first one. The style is from around 1897 and more of a middle class style. As with my first doll outfit, I tried to stick to historical methods as much as possible, but the scale forced me to do some deviations. I hand-sew everything though sewing machine was already widely used, because in this scale it's easier to control the stitch, there's not that much to sew anyway and also I just really like hand-sewing. Here's all the items I made. As said, I went a little overboard. One thing that's missing is the corset cover, but the layers of fabric were creating enough bulk on the waist as is so I decided to not make one.

This time I decided to try repainting the face. I don't have any doll customization materials, so I used acrylics. After couple of attempts I got decent results. Acrylics can't make as smooth and delicate finish as pastels, pencils and gouache, which can be used on vinyl with basing sprays, and I'm not experienced with painting small details on 3D objects, so it's a bit smudged at points, especially with the other eye. I aimed for 1890s very neutral make up and the type of expression that was popular in fashion plates and other illustrations.

Undergarments

Combinations and stockings

The combinations are split crotch as they were in the period. They are from thin cotton voile I have a lot of and is very appropriate. I didn't have really tiny enough lace for this, so it's kinda bulky, but I think it's okay enough. The stockings are cotton knit, which fits well. The garters are not actually necessary for this doll since her legs are rubbery.

Corset

I made the corset from a firm-ish linen and satin rayon pretending to be silk as the fashion fabric. The stitching of the boning channels is not super neat, this fabric is very unforgiving, I didn't have exactly matching thread and the scale made it very difficult. I of course didn't have tiny busk, so I used small hooks, sewed thread loops for them and used narrow metal wire for the edges. I think it looks surprisingly right on the outside. I used the same wire as the boning to reinforce the lacing on the back. I didn't actually use boning elsewhere but the tightly packed linen edges in the boning channels kinda work like lighter boning. I think it keeps the shape pretty ways even with just that. I stitched cotton tape inside to shape the corset further. I also didn't have tiny metal eyelets so I hand-sewed the lacing holes.

Bustle pad

The bustle pad is from linen and stuffed with tiny cabbage.

Petticoat

The petticoat is from the same cotton as the combinations.

Outer wear

Skirt

The fabric is cotton half-panama. It's pretty thin, but firm. I would have liked to use a woven wool, but I didn't have any that's thin enough to work in this scale. I think this cotton looks close enough in this scale to a wool with a tight weave, so I'm imagining it's that. My problem was that the cotton was white, but I wanted light brown. I wasn't going to buy any fabric for this, so I did the reasonable thing and dyed it with red onion peals (I've been doing natural dye experiments so this worked well for me).

Shirtwaist

The shirtwaist is from the same cotton as the undergarments. Yes, I dyed it too. I didn't have thin enough cotton in a color that would fit with the skirt and the purple bow, so I dyed it light blue with fabric color. Since I already went the trouble of dyeing I decided I might as well make a small flower print to it since that was popular in the era. I didn't want it to jump out too much but the lighting makes it even less visible. I made it with a white fabric pen. The collar and cuffs are reinforced with linen. I also sewed small stick-like beads to the cuffs on both sides, so one acts as a button (I sewed a buttonhole too) and the other makes it look like they are cufflinks. The bow is from the same fabric as the corset and the belt is sewn from the same cotton as the shirtwaist. The buckle is from a barbie belt.

Waistcoat

The waistcoat is from the same fabric as the skirt, thought the lapels and the back are from another satin rayon. I tailored the front panels and the lapels by stitching the linen interlining with tailor's stitches (I don't remember if that's the correct word in English) into shape. There is some wonkiness on one side of the hemline for some reason.

Boots

I made the slightly insane decision to make the shoes fully from leather, like they would have been in the period. I had an old broken leather wallet I had saved in case I needed some leather scarps. It has fairly thin leather, so it was workable here. It's light brown though, so I used black shoe polish to darken it. I wanted black or very dark brown shoes. I stacked the heels from glue and leather pieces and carved them into the right shape and sewed the shoe itself to leather shaped as the sole and glued it to the heeled and shaped sole. After I had shaped the shoes and the heels as much as I could I painted the heels black.

#historical fashion #fashion history #sewing #custom doll #ooak doll #victorian fashion #dress history #costuming #historical costuming #doll clothes #doll customization #historical sewing #my scene #my art #dolls

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commodorez · 1 month ago

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Start Me Up: 30 years of Windows 95 - @commodorez and @ms-dos5

Okay, last batch of photos from our exhibit, and I wanted to highlight a few details because so much planning and preparation went into making this the ultimate Windows 95 exhibit. And now you all have to hear about it.

You'll note software boxes from both major versions of Windows 95 RTM (Release To Manufacturing, the original version from August 24, 1995): the standalone version "for PCs without Windows", and the Upgrade version "for users of Windows". We used both versions when setting up the machines you see here to show the variety of install types people performed. My grandpa's original set of install floppies was displayed in a little shadowbox, next to a CD version, and a TI 486DX2-66 microprocessor emblazoned with "Designed for Microsoft Windows 95".

The machines on display, from left to right include:

Chicago Beta 73g on a custom Pentium 1 baby AT tower

Windows 95 RTM on an AST Bravo LC 4/66d desktop

Windows 95 RTM on a (broken) Compaq LTE Elite 4/75cx laptop

Windows 95 OSR 1 on an Intertel Pentium 1 tower

Windows 95 OSR 1 on a VTEL Pentium 1 desktop

Windows 95 OSR 2 on a Toshiba Satellite T1960CT laptop

Windows 95 OSR 2 on a Toshiba Libretto 70CT subnotebook

Windows 95 OSR 2 on an IBM Thinkpad 760E laptop

Windows 95 OSR 2.5 on a custom Pentium II tower (Vega)

That's alot of machines that had to be prepared for the exhibit, so for all of them to work (minus the Compaq) was a relief. Something about the trip to NJ rendered the Compaq unstable, and it refused to boot consistently. I have no idea what happened because it failed in like 5 different steps of the process.

The SMC TigerHub TP6 nestled between the Intertel and VTEL served as the network backbone for the exhibit, allowing 6 machines to be connected over twisted pair with all the multicolored network cables. However, problems with PCMCIA drivers on the Thinkpad, and the Compaq being on the blink meant only 5 machines were networked. Vega was sporting a CanoScan FS2710 film scanner connected via SCSI, which I demonstrated like 9 times over the course of the weekend -- including to LGR!

Game controllers were attached to computers where possible, and everything with a sound card had a set of era-appropriate speakers. We even picked out a slew of mid-90s mouse pads, some of which were specifically Windows 95 themed. We had Zip disks, floppy disks, CDs full of software, and basically no extra room on the tables. Almost every machine had a different screensaver, desktop wallpaper, sound scheme, and UI theme, showing just how much was user customizable.

@ms-dos5 made a point to have a variety of versions of Microsoft Office products on the machines present, meaning we had everything from stand-alone copies of Word 95 and Excel 95, thru complete MS Office 95 packages (standard & professional), MS Office 97 (standard & professional), Publisher, Frontpage, & Encarta.

We brought a bunch of important books about 95 too:

The Windows Interface Guidelines for Software Design

Microsoft Windows 95 Resource Kit

Hardware Design Guide for Windows 95

Inside Windows 95 by Adrian King

Just off to the right, stacked on top of some boxes was an Epson LX-300+II dot matrix printer, which we used to create all of the decorative banners, and the computer description cards next to each machine. Fun fact -- those were designed to mimic the format and style of 95's printer test page! We also printed off drawings for a number of visitors, and ended up having more paper jams with the tractor feed mechanism than we had Blue Screen of Death instances.

In fact, we only had 3 BSOD's total, all weekend, one of which was expected, and another was intentional on the part of an attendee.

We also had one guy install some shovelware/garbageware on the AST, which caused all sorts of errors, that was funny!

Thanks for coming along on this ride, both @ms-dos5 and I appreciate everyone taking the time to enjoy our exhibit.

It's now safe to turn off your computer.

VCF East XX

#vcfexx #vcf east xx #vintage computer festival east xx #commodorez goes to vcfexx #windows 95 #microsoft windows 95

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mostlysignssomeportents · 11 months ago

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AI art has no anti-cooption immune system

TONIGHT (July 20), I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

One thing Myspace had going for it: it was exuberantly ugly. The decision to let users with no design training loose on a highly customizable user-interface led to a proliferation of Myspace pages that vibrated with personality.

The ugliness of Myspace wasn't just exciting in a kind of outsider/folk-art way (though it was that). Myspace's ugliness was an anti-cooption force-field, because corporate designers and art-directors would, by and large, rather break their fingers and gouge out their eyes than produce pages that looked like that.

In this regard, Myspace was the heir to successive generations of "design democratization" that gave amateur communities, especially countercultural ones, a space to operate in where authentic community members could be easily distinguished between parasitic commercializers.

The immediate predecessors to Myspace's ugliness-as-a-feature were the web, and desktop publishing. Between the img tag, imagemaps, the blink tag, animated GIFs, and the million ways that you could weird a page with tables and padding, the early web was positively bursting with individual personality. The early web balanced in an equilibrium between the plunder-friendliness of "view source" and the topsy-turvy design imperatives of web-based layout, which confounded both print designers (no fixed fonts! RGB colorspaces! dithering!) and even multimedia designers who'd cut their teeth on Hypercard and CD ROMs (no fixed layout!).

Before the web came desktop publishing, the million tractor-feed ransom notes combining Broderbund Print Shop fonts, joystick-edited pixel-art, and a cohort of enthusiasts ranging from punk zinesters to community newsletter publishers. As this work proliferated on coffee-shop counters and telephone poles, it was visibly, obviously distinct from the work produced by "real" designers – that is, designers who'd been a) trained and b) paid by a corporation to employ that training.

All of this matters, and not just for aesthetic reasons. Communities – especially countercultural ones – are where our society's creative ferment starts. Getting your start in the trenches of the counterculture wars is no proof against being co-opted later (indeed, many of the designers who cut their teeth desktop publishing weird zines went on to pull their hair and roll their eyes at the incredible fuggliness of the web). But without that zone of noncommercial, antiestablishment, communitarian low weirdness, design and culture would stagnate.

I started thinking about this 25 years ago, the first time I met William Gibson. I'd been assigned by the Globe and Mail to interview him for the launch of All Tomorrow's Parties:

https://craphound.com/nonfic/transcript.html

One of the questions I asked was about his famous aphorism, "The street finds its own use for things." Given how quickly each post-punk tendency had been absorbed by commercial culture, couldn't we say that "Madison Avenue finds its own use for the street"? His answer started me down a quarter-century of thinking and writing about this subject:

I worry about what we'll do in the future, [about the instantaneous co-opting of pop culture]. Where is our new stuff going to come from? What we're doing pop culturally is like burning the rain forest. The biodiversity of pop culture is really, really in danger. I didn't see it coming until a few years ago, but looking back it's very apparent.

I watch a sort of primitive form of the recommodification machine around my friends and myself in sixties, and it took about two years for this clumsy mechanism to get and try to sell us The Monkees.

In 1977, it took about eight months for a slightly faster more refined mechanism to put punk in the window of Holt Renfrew. It's gotten faster ever since. The scene in Seattle that Nirvana came from: as soon as it had a label, it was on the runways of Paris.

Ugliness, transgressiveness and shock all represent an incoherent, grasping attempt to keep the world out of your demimonde – not just normies and squares, but also and especially enthusiastic marketers who want to figure out how to sell stuff to you, and use you to sell stuff to normies and squares.

I think this is what drove a lot of people to 4chan (remember, before 4chan was famous for incubating neofascism, it was the birthplace of Anonymous): its shock culture, combined with a strong cultural norm of anonymity, made for a difficult-to-digest, thoroughly spiky morsel that resisted recommodification (for a while).

All of this brings me to AI art (or AI "art"). In his essay on the "eerieness" of AI art, Henry Farrell quotes Mark Fisher's "The Weird and the Eerie":

https://www.programmablemutter.com/p/large-language-models-are-uncanny

"Eeriness" here is defined as "when there is something present where there should be nothing, or is there is nothing present when there should be something." AI is eerie because it produces the seeming of intent, without any intender:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/13/spooky-action-at-a-close-up/#invisible-hand

When we contemplate "authentic" countercultural work – ransom-note DTP, the weird old web, seizure-inducing Myspace GIFs – it is arresting because the personality of the human entity responsible for it shines through. We might be able to recognize where that person ganked their source-viewed HTML or pixel-optimized GIF, but we can also make inferences about the emotional meaning of those choices. To see that work is to connect to a mind. That mind might not necessarily belong to someone you want to be friends with or ever meet in person, but it is unmistakably another person, and you can't help but learn something about yourself from the way that their work makes you feel.

This is why corporate work is so often called "soulless." The point of corporate art is to dress the artificial person of the corporation in the stolen skins of the humans it uses as its substrate. Corporations are potentially immortal, artificial colony organisms. They maintain the pretense of personality, but they have no mind, only action that is the crescendo of an orchestra of improvised instruments played by hundreds or thousands of employees and a handful of executives who are often working directly against one another:

https://locusmag.com/2022/03/cory-doctorow-vertically-challenged/

The corporation is – as Charlie Stross has it – the "slow AI" that is slowly converting our planet to the long-prophesied grey goo (or, more prosaically, wildfire ashes and boiled oceans). The real thing that is signified by CEOs' professed fears of runaway AI is runaway corporations. As Ted Chiang says, the experience of being nominally in charge of a corporation that refuses to do what you tell it to is the kind of thing that will give you nightmares about autonomous AI turning on its masters:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

The job of corporate designers is to find the signifiers of authenticity and dress up the corporate entity's robotic imperatives in this stolen flesh. Everything about AI is done in service to this goal: the chatbots that replace customer service reps are meant to both perfectly mimic a real, competent corporate representative while also hewing perfectly to corporate policy, without ever betraying the real human frailties that none of us can escape.

In the same way, the shillbots that pretend to be corporate superfans online are supposed to perfectly amplify the corporate message, the slow AI's conception of its own virtues, without injecting their own off-script, potentially cringey enthusiasms.

The Hollywood writers' strike was, at root, about the studio execs' dream that they could convert the "insights" of focus groups and audience research into a perfect script, without having to go through a phalanx of lippy screenwriters who insisted on explaining why they think your idea is stupid. "Hey, nerd, make me another ET, except make the hero a dog, and set it on Mars" is exactly how you prompt an AI:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/20/everything-made-by-an-ai-is-in-the-public-domain/

Corporate design's job is to produce the seeming of intention without any intender. The "personality" we're meant to sense when we encounter corporate design isn't the designer's, nor the art director's, nor even the CEO's. The "personality" is meant to be the slow AI's, but a corporation doesn't have a personality.

In his 2018 short story "Noon in the antilibrary," Karl Schroeder describes an "antilibrary" as an endlessly deep anaerobic lagoon of generative botshit:

https://www.technologyreview.com/2018/08/18/104097/noon-in-the-antilibrary/

The antilibrary is a generative AI system that can produce entire librarys’-worth of fake books with fake authors, fake citations by other fake experts with their own fake books and biographies and fake social media accounts, on-demand and instantly. It was speculation in 2018; it’s possible now. Creating an antilibrary is just a matter of investing in a sufficient number of graphics cards and electricity.

https://kschroeder.substack.com/p/after-the-internet

Reading Karl's reflections on the antilibrary crystallized something for me that I've been thinking about for a quarter-century, since I interviewed Gibson at the Penguin offices in north Toronto. It snapped something into place that I've trying to fit since encountering Henry's thoughts on the "eeriness" of AI work and the intent without an intender.

It made me realize why I dislike AI art so much, on a deep, aesthetic level. The point of an image generator is to buffer the intention of the prompter (which might be genuinely creative and bursting with personality) in layers of automated decision-making that flense the final product of any hint of the mind that caused its creation.

The most febrile, deeply weird and authentic prompts of the most excluded outsiders produce images that feel the same as the corporate AI illustrations that project the illusion of personality from the immortal, transhuman colony organism that is the limited liability corporation.

AI art is born coopted. Even the 4chan equivalent of AI – the deeply transgressive and immoral nonconsensual pornography – feels no different from the "official" AI porn churned out by "real" pornographers. "Shrimp Jesus" and other SEO-optimized Facebook slop is so uncanny because it is simultaneously "weird" ("that which does not belong") and yet it belongs in the same aesthetic bucket of the most anodyne Corporate Memphis ephemera:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corporate_Memphis

We call it "generative" but AI art can't generate the kind of turnover that aerates the aesthetic soil. An artform that can't be transgressive is sterile, stillborn, a dead end.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/20/ransom-note-force-field/#antilibraries

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

Jake (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:1970s_fanzines_(21224199545).jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

#pluralistic

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meditek122 · 26 days ago

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Meditek Printing Solutions is one of the leading Pad Printing Machine manufacturers in India, based in Gurugram, Delhi NCR. Our machines are designed to print fine details like logos, texts, and graphics on small or irregularly shaped items. Commonly used for printing on products such as pens, toys, electronic components, medical devices, and bottle caps, our pad printing machines are ideal for various industries including automotive, FMCG, and promotional goods.

#Pad Printing Machine #Pad Printing Machine Manufacturers

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leyavo · 4 months ago

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| Coming home to you | Gaz

Summary: TF 141 boys and how their wife/gf helps them when they come home after a long and gruelling mission.

I enjoyed doing the wife/gf series and wanted to do some more 🥲 Ghost’s is already done. [Wife/gf masterlist] 1,604words

Gaz x lawyer girlfriend!reader

The soft click of a clasp drew you out of your sleepy haze. You sat up, fluffy blanket falling around your hips and you frowned. The coffee desk surface visible, your scattered files and paperwork piled neatly together beside your closed laptop and stationary case. A flickering candle set on the coaster, one you’ve never seen before.

Kyle, his back facing you as he put away the shopping from the reusable bags on the kitchen counter. He liked to do the simple and mundane things to ground himself whenever he returned from a mission.

Going food shopping however sent your thoughts haywire, he hated doing it that you normally got it delivered. You pushed the blanket off and kicked it to the end of the sofa. Before your feet could touch the floor he spoke.

“Want a coffee, babe?” Kyle asked, head not turning fully to glance at you over his shoulder. Another red flag, no hello or reunion kiss.

You pushed off the sofa and padded across the cold tiled floor, slippers no where to be seen. Now that you walked to him, the bins have been taken out and every surface in your view is spotless, almost sparkling. As if he’s been cleaning around you all morning.

“I got some new blend, but I know you like the vanilla kind.” He’s moving around the kitchen, back to you as you walked closer as if he’s trying not to look at you head on.

You leant against the counter, picking the oat milk from a bag and sliding it across the marble top. “When did you get back?”

“Not long,” he shrugged, cup slamming to the side as his back muscles trembled. “A few hours,” he said, his voice rough and scratchy.

The milk steamer silenced you as you called his name, the fancy coffee machine he got you is only used by him. You can never be bothered to learn all the functions when you’re always in some rush. Kyle making you all different types of blends when he returned from work, as if he liked the loud sound to drown his thoughts out. Drown you out when you try to question him.

“Why don’t we just go back to bed, rest,” you said, palm lightly touching his back, but you’re removing it as soon as his body froze at your touch. He goes the other direction before you can round him, your steaming hot coffee left on the side.

“Slept on the plane home.” Kyle plumped the cushions, the sound of his fists pounding so hard you thought the feathers would explode from the inside.

Sipping your coffee, you unplugged your phone from the charging station by the kettle. A chain of text messages from John lighting your phone. A warning, mission royally fucked, gal. Don’t let Kyle stew for too long, send him my way if he’s too stubborn. A few from Johnny too, don’t go looking into anything lass. That particular message telling you everything you need to know about the situation, something and someone had got in their way.

As if sensing your thoughts of getting involved, Simon texted you. He’d never done so before. Knowledge is power, give it to Gaz. Was he encouraging you to do some digging? To get involved with a classified mission? Maybe you even knew someone connected to them all.

Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, finger tapping against the screen as you sent a few question marks back to Simon. Eyes glancing to Kyle unravelling the cord of the hoover across the room.

The phone buzzed, two names written in capitals and a big fucking lead from Simon. BAILEY AND ROANE. Fuck, no wonder Kyle couldn’t look at you. The same names printed on the neatly stacked files on the coffee desk.

“Did you look through my casework?”

Kyle turned to face you for the first time. Stitches holding a gash together near his hairline, grazed skin above his brow and on his cheekbone. You wondered what else laid beneath the layers of clothes he wore.

Your back straightened, tension holding your shoulders up at the implication. So stuck in his head, that he couldn’t talk to you about what’s really going on.

“I just tidied it up, the place was a mess when I walked in,” Kyle snapped, flinging the hoovers plug across the floor. His nostrils flared, he’s doing a good job of avoiding your gaze as if your mere presence angers him.

“Why won’t you look me?”

Kyle’s gaze flickered to you, then to the coffee table piled with your work. He picked the files up and threw them across the room. “Drop the case, give it to someone else.” His voice was cool and controlled, like he’d practiced it all morning. It wasn’t anger he felt, but frustration.

The little tasks he’d done this morning helped him sort through his the mess in his mind. The mess that you had created both in your shared home and the relationship.

“I can’t just drop it. This is my life’s work,” you said, kneeling down to collect all the scattered papers on the floor.

Kyle sighed, crouching down in front of you and handing you photos, one in particular not leaving his grasp as you tried to take it back.

“You have no fucking idea who you’re going after,” he snapped, snatching the photo and lifting it up to wave in your face. The same man in the picture that taunted you in your dreams.

“I don’t give a shit! If they hurt you, I want to help. I want to ruin them. So you tell me exactly what they did.” You yelled in his face and he doesn’t even flinch, your throat burning and eyes stinging.

How was he so calm with everything at stake? You were so angry, every little moment of your life led up to this case and there was no way you were giving up now. The reason you’d become a lawyer in the first place, to put these scumbags behind bars and serve justice.

Kyle stood up, tossing the photo across the coffee table. “They used you to rein me in. They fucking threatened your life!” His finger pointing at you.

And there it is. The thing keeping him from you. He released a deep breath, his chest rising up and down.

“I don’t need protecting Ky! My parents were killed for their work and if I have to put my life at risk to nail those bastards I will.” More fuel to add to the fire, everyone you’d cared about, gone and Kyle wasn’t going to be added to that list.

“They’re fucking war criminals, this isn’t a game baby.” Kyle grabbed your arms, anchoring you to the spot. His glassy eyes connecting with yours, the line between his brows relaxing as he held you there.

It had never been a game to you. Retribution, revenge or karma you didn’t know what to call it, but justice didn’t seem enough most times. Not when it came to Bailey and Roane.

You shrugged out of his hold. “Have you even read my parent’s files?” He doesn’t respond, shaking his head.

Most in the military knew your parents more than you did. Sometimes you got a glimpse of them when you met people they knew, trails of stories giving you an insight to their character and morals. To you they were just mum and dad. Something you didn’t really talk about not even to Kyle, he respected that you didn’t want to pick apart that wound so he never asked any more.

“I thought that’d be the first thing you looked into. I know you looked into my background to see if I’d done shady shit. Yeah, I know.” You fell back into the sofa, gaze dropping to your hands in your lap. The wedding ring your mother wore on your finger.

The cushions dipped under his weight as he sat next to you. “It wasn’t personal, our careers, we can’t take the risk.” His hands took yours and he brushed the rough pad of his thumb over your knuckles. A peace offering and an apology for looking into you. Little did he know that you also did one on him.

“My parents were high up in the military, everyone knows that. They know how they died, but they didn’t know that I was there or that my dad gave me evidence. I’m not trusting that to someone else.”

Nine year old you crammed into that tight space, you didn’t come out for hours. Not till it was dark, not till you knew you could walk the rooms and follow the shadows. Just like daddy taught you to.

“Bailey and Roane killed them. I have evidence,” you whispered, a rogue tear rolling down your cheek. The weight of your words pushing down the knot on your chest. Saying it out loud made it feel more real. You hadn’t shared it with anyone.

“You’ve got a target on your back, I don’t like this.” Kyle wiped your tear stricken face, forehead resting against yours as he released a trembling breath.

“It’s always been there Ky, just a whole lot bigger now. Recon you could get me a meeting with Laswell and Price? I have intel they might find helpful.”

Slipping away, Kyle’s eyes scanned your face. “You’re really not going to back down are you?” He paused, nervous laugh as you shook your head. “Thought so, we’ll have to do this by the book and very discretely. I’m not letting you out of my sight either.”

🤝 Kyle and lawyer!girlfriend teaming up to take down the baddies.

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aestas---estas · 6 months ago

Text

Working hands

It's early Saturday morning and you get woken up by a strong fist incessantly knocking on your front door. It's pointed and regular, military in its consistency. While Price knows where you live — it's on your paperwork after all — and you have no doubt in your mind that both Johnny and Kyle could've easily found out, you know in your bones that it's Simon.

“Coming!” You call out, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you quickly find a pair of sweatpants to throw on; it would probably be in bad form to open the door in only a washed-out shirt and underwear. You stop in front of the bathroom mirror to quickly fix your bed hair as much as possible, splashing some cold water on your face in an attempt to look more awake than you feel. Simon’s still knocking intermittently and you can practically hear the irritation he’s starting to feel through the door — the man does not like to be ignored or left to wait.

“Good morning,” you say as you finally fling your door open, annoyance at having been so rudely interrupted clear in your voice despite the amicable words. He’s standing with his fist raised, ready to knock once more, a tool kit gripped in his other hand and you eye it curiously. “What-?”

You don’t really know how to end the sentence — what is he doing here? What’s with the tool kit? What makes him think he can wake you at 7:30 in the morning on your day off? — but you’re cut off before you manage to get another word past your lips, as he’s already made his way into your flat and toward the bathroom.

In confusion you close the front door and follow behind, your bare feet padding against the cool wooden floor, making you wish — not for the first time — that your landlord allowed heated floors. Simon’s courteous enough to have already toed off his boots by your shoe rack, so at least you don’t have to clean up dirt and grime, but the barging his way inside your space only worked to further annoy and confuse you.

“Simon, it’s not even 8,” you say as you lean against the doorframe of your bathroom, watching as he gets down on his knees in front of the broken washing machine you still hadn’t had a chance to look at. The annoyance seeps out of you as you remember the conversation you had that Monday; about how you wanted to return his jacket washed, but hadn’t been able to do your laundry. It’s a thoughtful gesture, one you can’t help but smile in appreciation at.

“I’m an early riser,” is all Simon says in return, not even glancing your way. He’s already busy with turning the machine on and off, looking at all the hoses and pipes, to try and discern what the issue might be.

For a moment, you just stay there, watching him quietly. He’s not wearing the skull mask or printed balaclava that had become synonymous with his alias, but rather a more simple black surgical mask. You don’t really know what you expected Simon to look like; you knew he was blonde, something Johnny had once shared with you to tease his Lieutenant, yet the sight of the surprisingly well groomed tresses on his head make something inside of you stir. His hair is just long enough for you to be able to card your fingers through it, and his left eyebrow is cleaved in half from a faded scar. You can’t see his jaw or chin properly, and the only time you remember him ever lifting his mask in your presence was to drink his beer in the pub all those weeks ago before he walked you home. You’d been drunk back then, hadn’t had the sense of mind to memorise his visage, and you mentally kick yourself about it now.

“It’s the water,” you supply, wanting to be helpful and hopefully distract yourself from thoughts of how it would feel to pet his hair and trace his scars, and Simon turns his head to glance at you. “It doesn’t drain properly, overflows about half the time too.”

Simon nods before turning back to the washing machine, pulling it away from the wall with little effort. “Sounds like the hose, or maybe the drainpipe. Could also be the lint trap. If there is one.” He’s mumbling more to himself than to you at this point, craning his neck to look at the backside of the machine all while nodding or shaking his head, making mental notes of possible solutions.

“Might be a while, love. Why don’t you go make us some tea?” It’s the out you didn’t know you wanted, but the second the suggestion leaves Simon’s lips you pounce on it, leaving the bathroom for the kitchen with no words or fuss.

You make two cups of some berry blend one of your friends got you as a birthday present — the mugs are white, bland, a little too boring for your liking, but they get the job done. And besides, you have more important things to spend your money on than crockery.

When you return to the bathroom, two steaming mugs in hand, you can’t help but stare at Simon for a moment before making yourself known. While the hoodie he’s wearing doesn’t provide you with much, his jeans are tight fitting around those muscular thighs of his, especially with the way he keeps crouching and kneeling. God, he’s got an ass too. The thought makes heat race to your face and you pull your eyes away from the enticing view of his rear.

“One cup for you,” you say, placing the tea down on top of the washing machine for whenever he feels like taking a sip. He sends you an appreciative look before focusing back on the task at hand; you’re both relieved and disappointed that he didn’t remove the face mask to have a taste of the drink right then and there. But then again, if he did, you’re more than sure that his uncovered visage would haunt your dreams in the best way possible.

“I’ll, uh, leave you to it then,” you say when he makes no move to speak again.

It’s odd having Simon in your space like this. Sure, he spent the night on the couch that night after the pub. But you had been drunk then, had thought of nothing but the soft embrace of your bed that awaited you. Now you’re both sober, both clear minded and both all too aware of whatever it is that’s been growing between the two of you.

Usually on your days off you would sleep in, would take a long shower so hot the fog on the mirror wouldn’t disappear for over an hour afterwards, would even make a proper breakfast if you had the energy for it. But Simon was currently occupying your bathroom, so a shower was out of the question, and while a short nap as he worked didn’t sound so bad it felt almost rude to go back to sleep as long as he was still there. He was doing something sweet for you; fixing something you hadn’t had the time or money to fix yet yourself.

So instead of your usual routine, you plant yourself under a blanket on the sofa with a new book you’d been meaning to read but haven’t had the chance to just yet and turn on some music. You can hear Simon in the bathroom, the clattering of tools and humming of the washing machine as he starts and stops new cycles every so often. The whole thing feels almost domestic, and it tugs on your heart in a way you don’t want to look too deep into.

---

“Can I ask you something?” you question and Simon grunts in that affirmative way he always does when you knock on his office door in the mornings. He had felt you coming back into the bathroom five minutes ago, leaning against the door frame, watching him with inquisitive eyes; but he had kept his attention on the washing machine. “Why do you wear that mask?”

If you hadn’t been studying him so intensely, you might’ve not noticed the way his shoulders and back tensed for half a second; it’s gone before you even have a chance to ponder about his reaction.

“Anonymity,” he answers at length, but you can tell there is more to it. Most of the other operators don't wear facial coverings — and if they do, it’s only while in active combat.

You understood wanting to keep his identity anonymous in the field, not letting the enemies know his name or face, it was dangerous work what he did after all, yet you couldn’t help but press. “Everyone on base already knows your name. And besides, there’s no one around but me right now.” Who are you hiding from? is what goes unasked, but the question still makes the air around you both feel heavy.

“They know what I want them to know,” he supplies, as if that would be a satisfactory answer. And it is, you suppose, at least somewhat. It doesn’t answer why exactly he keeps himself closed off, why no one — not even the men he fights beside — knows what he looks like. But it does tell you that he’s deeply paranoid and near obsessive with personal security. It tells you that he’s willing to show more of himself to the few he deems worthy; god, you want to be worthy.

“When’s the last time you took it off?” It’s a gamble of a question, but you know if Simon wants to leave the conversation he’ll let you know it in no uncertain terms.

“Last night.” You roll your eyes at that, because of course he doesn’t sleep with a stupid balaclava or face mask — maybe in the field, but you don’t know what goes on during their missions if it’s not in the reports.

“I meant with someone else in the room, Simon,” you tell him and cross your arms over your chest.

It’s quiet for a few moments, seconds stretching into minutes as Simon gives no indication of giving you a reply. Just as you let out a sigh, ready to give up on the conversation and walk back to your living room, he speaks. “It’s been… a while. Years.”

You don’t feel sorry for him, you have a feeling Simon wouldn't take kindly to pity, but empathy courses through your veins at the pain evident in his voice. He puts down the tool in his hand, turning his head just enough to make you appear in his vision, but makes no move to stand up. You realise he’s studying you, your reactions, your body language, every micro expression you don’t have the education to hide like he does.

“That sounds lonely,” you eventually say, taking the few steps from the doorway to where he’s kneeling beside the washing machine, lowering yourself until you’re eye-to-eye. “If you ever…” you hesitate for a second, but the fact that Simon has yet to end the conversation makes you power through. “I’ll be here, if you ever want to show someone.”

It’s not a demand or a manipulative tactic to get him to feel secure before ripping the rug out from under him; you genuinely want to be there for him, face or no face, want him to not go through his life with that crushing loneliness that’s been making it hard to breathe freely for years. Your eyes shine with open honesty and it’s almost too much for Simon to bear. He nearly tells you everything then; about his past, his family, Roba, everything. But you seem so innocent, untouched by the cruel reality of the world. And although he’s destroyed more uncorrupted and pure lives than yours, he wants you to keep living in the bubble of life is worth living for as long as possible.

“It’s not pretty,” is what he says instead. It — his life, him. A sad smile passes your lips as you nod your understanding.

“I’ll be here,” you repeat, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze before standing and leaving him alone in the bathroom to work.

Simon stays there for another half hour before packing everything up and making his way towards the door. Truth be told he had figured out the issue after only ten minutes, had fixed the problem — a clog in the drain pipe — as slow as possible just to be in your presence for a few minutes longer. He knew he had disrupted your morning, had woken you up too early on your day off just to selfishly indulge his own need for your warmth, and now you were offering him unadulterated support without demanding anything in return. He didn’t deserve your kindness, had used your predicament to satisfy his own wants. It made him feel low, dirty, unworthy.

“It works now,” Simon tells you as he walks past your spot on the couch, heading towards the front door without a second glance back.

Quickly you scramble from the couch and follow behind him, the blanket once more wrapped around your form. “Thank you,” you say, your eyes tracking his movements as he pulls on his jacket. “I’ll get your jacket back as soon as it’s washed.”

Simon shakes his head. “Told you, love, keep it.” There it is again; love. Before that weekend he had never called you that, and in the moment you had assumed the nickname had slipped from his lips the same way you had called him baby — simply to sell the illusion of a relationship so the creepy guy at the club would leave you alone. But now you couldn’t be so sure.

“At least let me buy you lunch or something as a thank you,” you insist, catching him by the wrist as he reaches for the door handle, grasping at straws for anything that would allow him to stay in your life. You had always done a good job at keeping your private and professional lives separate; but that was before Simon.

Simon’s eyes flicker down to where your fingers envelop his wrist, but he does not shift out of your grasp nor tell you to let go; so you don’t. “It doesn’t have to mean anything other than thanks,” you say, hoping the reassurance will help him decide.

Something indescribable passes through his eyes before he gives a firm nod. “I’m not much of a restaurant guy, but… a lunch sounds nice.”

“Great!” You beam, something akin to butterflies fluttering around inside your chest. “We can order in if that makes you more comfortable.”

Simon nods and it feels like he wants to say something, but no words leave his lips before he’s out the door.

---

As the hours of the day tick by, you find yourself glancing over to the hook where Simon’s jacket hangs. He said you could keep it, that it looks better on you. It feels wrong both to keep it — like you're owed something when you're not — and to give it back — like you don't appreciate his gesture of friendship.

It's a tightrope, one you can't navigate properly, one that wobbles and every step threatens to topple you over. It's anxiety inducing yet the most excited you've been in a while.

Deciding to bite the bullet, you send him a text.

Hope I didn’t scare you away with the invite to lunch.

You chew nervously on your bottom lip, already dreading his reply, but before your inevitable anxiety can spin out of control, your phone buzzes in your hand and the screen lights up with a new message.

You have plans tomorrow?

You don’t, actually, and tell him as much. It’s a few, short back and forths after that — Simon is concise even in text — but you have an official game plan that involves takeaway from the Indian place down the street and Simon showing up at your place around noon.

---

Simon had left the ordering up to you, having no idea what was good at the chosen restaurant — but he trusted you to guide him. He shows up just as you hang up on the Indian place, a can of WD-40 in hand, and you raise an eyebrow in question.

“Heard the god awful squeaking of the hinges on your bathroom door yesterday,” he explains with a shrug before making his way over to it without invitation.

You follow behind with a soft smile on your face, watching with more fascination than really necessary as he sprays the hinges and moves the door back and forth a few times until satisfied.

“Thank you. You didn't have to,” you say, giving his bicep a quick squeeze in gratitude. You'd lived with those squeaking hinges for months now, it had annoyed you in the beginning but it quickly fell into the background and it just became a noise you now ignored.

“The food should be here in fifteen minutes,” you add.

“Alright.” Simon gives you a short nod, not quite meeting your eyes. If you hadn't known him, you would've thought he was uncomfortable or seeking an escape — but you did know him, knew that he would just up and leave if that was his prerogative. But he was here. He brought lubricant for your door without prompting. He entrusted you to pick the restaurant and the food.

“Do you wanna sit?” you ask, gesturing to the couch; a fluffy blanket was draped over one of the armrests, embarrassing really how many times you folded the damn thing while cleaning up to make everything look presentable.

You were nervous, buzzing with both excitement and anxiety. You had hung out with Simon one-on-one before, a few times where he had walked you home from the pub, that time you called him after being ditched by your friends at the club, every single morning when you brought him a cup of tea in the office, and just yesterday when he had showed up unannounced to play handyman. But it had never been anything preplanned, you had never had time to rethink your decor and spend hours meticulously vacuuming and dusting and rearranging everything. And the realisation from the day before, about how kind and strong and capable and downright attractive he was, did not help.

You knew you wanted this to be a date, but there had been no clear confirmation from either side whether it was or wasn’t. Maybe he just saw this as lunch between co-workers, or as some sort of indebted meal because he fixed a problem that was entirely yours to sort.

It comes as no surprise when Simon spreads his legs wide on the couch when taking a seat, one arm on the armrest, the other slung lazily across the back. You knew if you sat down next to him, his knee would press against yours and his hand would be dangerously close to falling around your shoulders.

It was an easy choice, really, to plop yourself down beside him.

The conversation flowed easily, one topic blended into the next, Simon relaxed fully in his seat and you found yourself smiling enough to make your cheeks ache. It wasn’t until after you had thanked the delivery driver for the food and was starting to unload the various dishes you had ordered onto the coffee table, that his previous visible trepidation came back.

“I may have gone a little overboard,” you explain nervously, eyes downcast as you organise and open the boxes of food. They smelled delicious, and steam was rising from all of them; it nearly made your mouth water. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything.”

It’s good to have left-overs, your brain chimed in in defence of your own actions.

“‘S not that,” Simon replies, reaching for one of the dishes. You study his movements from the corner of your eye and as he stops his hand mid-air to his face you realise what the problem is — the mask.

“I can… turn around or something,” you supply, hoping to be helpful, to ease his nerves. But Simon just shakes his head and pulls the band away from behind his ear, letting the mask dangle for just a moment before unhooking the other side too.

You try not to stare — it’s obviously a big step, something significant that he chose to do with you — but it’s hard to tear your eyes away when the image in your head of what he looked like was actively being shattered and reformed.

There’s a raised, jagged line across his right cheek, a bump that makes his nose just a little crooked from where it hadn’t set properly after being broken, another smaller scar down the left side of his jaw. But the one mark that rocks you the most is the Glasgow smile. It’s only one side, but it’s clear as day that it wasn’t just someone getting a little too close with a knife in the field; it’s meticulous, sharp, someone with a steady hand had held his face still enough to carve it slowly. Not a battlescar, but rather one from torture.

You shake your head slightly, forcing yourself out of the spiral you’re otherwise likely to go down, and grab one of the boxes at random. “Let’s eat.” You hope your voice doesn’t shake, but when Simon raises an eyebrow you know you’ve failed.

“It’s okay to say it. It’s ugly. Told you it was.” He doesn’t sound mad about it, more exhaustedly used to it. Like it was an inevitability you would find him unattractive once he showed you everything.

As if instinctual, your hand shoots out to cup his knee. You can’t give him reassuring words, because the scars are awful, and you know Simon would see right through you if you try to lie and say you barely noticed. But they don’t take away from his attractiveness; rather, they make you sad at everything he’s gone through and angry at every person that’s inflicted pain upon him and forced him into the hard shell he now hides behind.

For a split second, Simon freezes, the unexpected touch sending adrenaline coursing through his veins as his body gets ready for a fight that never comes. He’s unaccustomed to friendly and harmless touching, at least the kind that lingers. The occasional congratulatory pat on his shoulder from his captain and teammates, but never one from someone like you.

“Let’s eat,” you repeat, giving his knee a quick squeeze before resituating yourself on the couch and digging into your food.

---

It becomes a form of routine after that; Simon showing up at your place the weekends he has off. More often than not he’s got a toolbox in hand, fixing small things around your flat that he grumbles that your lazy landlord should’ve already fixed ages ago. You always say it’s not his job, that you’re used to the leaky tap and squeaking hinges and uneven shelves, and then thank him with the offer of lunch, trying a new restaurant every week; he seems particularly fond of the various noodle dishes they provide so you order those more than anything else.

Eventually he starts placing the black KN95 on your entryway table when the front door closes behind him. You never mention it, and neither does Simon. And even when there’s nothing left to fix (apart from completely ripping the floorboards up and installing heating, but you vehemently refuse to let him do that in fear of being kicked out), he still shows up for lunch and just a conversation. Most of the time he lets you ramble on about whatever you please, chiming in with hums of acknowledgements and one-worded replies — if he was being honest with himself he could listen to you talk for hours and be satiated.

You kiss his cheek goodbye every time before he shrouds his features again with the mask; your lips are soft and reverent, right over the scar that gives him a perpetually lopsided smile. It takes Simon four goodbyes to let his hands rest, warm and heavy with intent, on your waist, and it makes butterflies flutter to life in your stomach.

It’s a simple gesture, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but it’s also a big step. While you haven’t shied away from physical intimacy — a hand squeeze here, a bumping of shoulders there, all the cheek kisses — it was the first time Simon allowed himself to reciprocate.

It takes him two more goodbyes to finally angle his face enough to let your kiss catch the corner of his lips.

“Sorry,” you mumble and try to take a step back, but Simon’s grip tightens and keeps you firmly in place.

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

Oh.

Carefully you raise your arms to wrap around his neck, going slow enough that even just a twitch from Simon would stop you in your tracks. But he stays still as a statue, eyes flickering between yours before settling at your lips.

“Is this okay?” you ask, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching his scalp.

“More than,” Simon replies, his breath washing over your face as he dips down, letting his lips hover over yours, his every exhale intermingling with yours.

You press yourself closer and in turn his hands slide from your sides and around your back, holding you in place firmly against him, his touch leaving a scorching trail on your skin despite the fabric that separates you.

You don’t know who moves first, who closes the small distance between you, but suddenly his lips are on yours and the butterflies in your stomach metamorphosize into fireworks and you can feel your heart race against your ribcage. His lips are warm, softer than you'd imagined, and you can still taste the cigarette he smoked before entering the building. Your fingers tug gently at his curls, angling his face to your liking so you can easier slot your lips over his.

A broken moan leaves your throat as Simon’s tongue finds yours and it’s all he can do to not push you up against the wall and fuck you right then and there. God knows he’s fantasised about it enough, fisted his cock to mental images of how you’d sound as he punched the air out of you with every thrust, how you’d look with his cum dripping down your thighs, how your eyes would roll to the back of your skull as he wrings out another orgasm from your already spent body. But he knows that’s not the way to go about this, not if he wants to keep you.

He licks into your mouth, exploring and teasing all at once, indulging in the sounds you let slip from your lips. His hands twitch, eager to wander over your body, but settles on curling his fingers in your shirt, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you trying to kill me?” Simon rasps when you eventually break to catch your breaths and your teeth nip at his lower lip.

“No,” you hum and trail a hand down his face and neck, smoothing your thumb over every risen scar in a show of unadulterated affection that makes him preen under your touch. “Quite like you alive. Like you a lot actually.”

Simon surges forward again, captures your lips in another bruising kiss because, fuck, if that doesn’t make his heart soar.

He doesn’t know what the future holds, how this will affect both his and your work, neither of you do. But he knows he’d rather be right here, with you in his arms, kissing you senseless, than anywhere else in the world.

--- CoD Masterlist

236 notes · View notes

bluesidez · 9 months ago

Note

Hi! I saw your opening requests!

I was hoping for Miguel O’Hara x plus-size reader. Reader is a regular waitress who meets both Miguel and Spider-Man. Knows Miguel because he’s become a regular and Spider-Man because the diner gets robbed, but Reader manages to save herself. Also if the reader could have glasses that would be awesome!

It’s up to you! You’re the writer.

Also I just wanted to say I love your Gym rat Miguel series! 😁❤️💙❤️

[Dual]

lab taster: Anonymous Participant 🩻

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x PlusSize!Reader

summary: There's something strange about that guy in the corner...

content warning: fluffy, definitely suggestive at parts, I kind of take a bit from the comic books, but it's still the ATSV Miguel, Kasey Nash is here + a certain someone for like a millisecond, talks of violence, guns, and threats (but nothing too terrifying), also LOTS of mentions of food. like lotsssss

word count: 3.6k, halfway proofread

a/n: I started writing this as if she worked at a fancy restaurant, but then I realized you said diner, so I had to backtrack. ALSO THANK YOU FOR THE LOVE ON GYM RAT MIGUEL!!! 🩵

“I’ve never seen one man eat so much.”

You looked to where your coworker was staring, eyes landing on the man that frequents the corner of the dim dining room.

“He’s a big guy. He probably needs it,” you flipped through your pad in order to avoid looking at the person who’s been wrapped in your thoughts for a few months now.

He always comes in just when the afternoon is turning into evening and the sun kisses his skin through the window. Most days he looks a little tired, lost in thought as he waits for his food.

His order is usually the same: a double-stacked burger with a large fry and a black coffee. Sometimes, he’d substitute the meal with a heavy breakfast, pouring syrup over everything. Other times, he’d order pork chops and gravy with a slice of apple pie to take home.

He always looked a bit sheepish when he asked for a meal to-go, as if you would judge him openly for being a working man.

On the contrary, you wondered why he always came here. From the shine on his watch to the material of his clothes, you could tell he could afford better establishments to eat at.

“If you’re done ogling at him, you can bring him the check,” Kasey snickered at you. “He keeps looking over here and it’s freaking me out.”

“You just don’t like anyone but that flying bug guy.”

“That’s Mr. Spider-Man to you,” Kasey moved so that you could print out his receipt. “And he does something useful with his time like save civilians. That guy just comes in here and looks at you like he wants to eat you for dessert.”

“What?”

You turn to him again and he quickly looks out of the window, plastic cup pressed against his lips.

“I don’t think he even sees me like that,” you mumble, ripping the paper from the machine and placing it onto the clipboard. “He’s just a man who enjoys comforting meals and ambiance.”

“Yeah. An ambiance that starts and ends with you and your ass, maybe.”

An affronted “hey” goes ignored by Kasey who disappears to go serve another table.

She really shouldn’t have put that thought into your head, because now you’re more hyperaware of your actions than usual.

You wipe at your apron and pull your dress down before you head towards his table, steps a bit hesitant.

As you get closer, he looks back at you. Maybe he is interested, but maybe you’re a bit delusional.

“Here’s your check, sir. I hope you enjoyed your meal,” you placed the clipboard on the table. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, thank you,” he holds up the check up with a small smile. “Maybe a name so I know who my tip is going to.”

Your fingers press against the frames of your glasses, pushing them up a little.

Did you forget to introduce yourself to him when you sat him down?

When you say your name, your confusion must have carried over to your face because the way the man brings his hands up is quick.

“Ah, it’s fine Mr.-“ you take a glance at his card, never mind that you’ve already memorized his name, “O’Hara.”

“Miguel is fine.”

“Mr. Miguel.”

“Just. Miguel is fine.”

You nod and smile. Miguel was fitting for a face like that, and your heart felt the same way as you completed his transaction and handed him his receipt.

The thought of him being interested in you was cute to imagine, but you didn’t want to get your hopes up.

Kasey taps your shoulder as she carries a coffee jug back to the machine, “Go clear your table. There’s a tip.”

With a routined step, you start to stack his empty plates. Napkins get thrown into the bin, and utensils are gathered.

A gasp leaves your lips as a stack of 20s reveals itself. A note wrapped around it says your name and “Thank you for always making my nights.”

Maybe Kasey was right. She could never know that, though.

It’s about a week or so before Miguel comes back.

Oddly enough, too much happened at the diner within that time.

Your boss was on your ass about splitting your tips with a manager that was never there. Creeps kept lingering around the corner during closing time. Your schedule was insane and you’ve hit your monthly limit of rude customers.

When Miguel comes in, it’s almost as if white angel wings were attached to him.

“What can I get you today?” you ask with a smile.

“I think just a black coffee to start off,” he looks over you. “New uniforms?”

You glance down at your dress, the neckline of it plunging severely low.

“Yeah. The boss thinks it’ll bring in more customers,” you yank at the back of the dress, still a bit nervous about how high the skirt is on your body. It’s tight in places that no uniform can should be, hugging your curves, and exposing your chest and legs. “I think he’s full of it.”

Miguel is silent for a while, eyes roaming in a way that you couldn’t quite discern.

“He definitely was onto something.”

You blink.

“Uh, is he- He’s not causing any problems for you, is he?”

“No. It’s all good. For now.”

He stumbles his way through his order, corned beef on rye bread with swiss cheese and sauerkraut along with some homemade potato spirals.

“Will that be all for you?”

“Yes, thank you,” he hides behind his coffee mug as you walk away.

While you wait for his order to be done, you watch Kasey run around and chat with some of your regulars. Despite how grumpy she could be, she was a natural at keeping the customers entertained.

Refilling the drinks for a few people at the barstools, your mind drifts to what Kasey is saying to one of the old geezers who’s keen on superstitions.

“I’m just saying, there has to be a motive for why he only strikes in the afternoon!”

“Are you sure he’s just not an idiot desperate for attention?” Kasey removes his empty plate and tops off his water. “Leaving notes with riddles? That’s so been-there-done-that.”

“Kase, I don’t think you get it, doll. His attacks have gotten more and more severe. He’s starting to target a specific demographic.”

A shout and a ding by the window lets you know that Miguel’s order is ready. You place an extra pickle on his plate just because.

Rounding the corner of the bar, Kasey is still bickering about the city’s most recent villain.

“Listen. If I’m ever in dire need,” she turns and sighs dramatically at a news segment featuring Spider-Man flying across buildings, “I know who to call for.”

The old man clicks his teeth and throws a hand at the screen, “What a bunch of rubbish. That prick isn’t worth a hoot. The Fly-Boys are your best bet.”

“As if those douchebags can do anything for me. Hurry up and pay, mister.”

You place Miguel’s food in front of him, mouth moving before your mind.

“Spider-man seems like a nice guy.”

“What makes you say so?” Miguel reaches for the ketchup.

“Oh, I don’t know. Kasey is always going on and on about him, so any doubts I had, she’s already debunked.”

He’s silent, turning over his sandwich.

“And what do you think of him now?”

“I think he’s pretty cool. He must be stressed out from everything, though. I couldn’t imagine taking on so much. What about you?”

He coughs, “What about me?”

“What do you think of Spider-Man?”

“He’s practical, always gets the job done. Maybe a bit too ambitious for his own good.”

“You talk like you know him.”

“I’ve never met him,” Miguel hums. “ Just taking a wild guess.”

The clip switches to Spider-Man throwing a car right at a villain camping out in a park resulting in immediate flames.

“That’s practical, alright.”

Miguel clears his throat, “He’s probably had better days.”

It’s been raining a lot which meant slower business and slower tips.

You’ve spent most work hours folding and refolding the towel in your apron pocket or flipping through the songs on the jukebox to fill the stillness of the diner.

A few lone stragglers were enjoying their meal, keeping quiet to themselves.

The chefs in the back were roughhousing and Kasey was ticking down when she could clock out.

Two more hours and thirty until you could fight through the rain to get home.

The bell to the door rings, opening up to a drenched Miguel.

A smile comes to your face as if you won a cash prize.

“Hey, stranger,” Kasey says as she turns and starts up a pot of coffee as you round the corner. “Glad to see you here. She was worried sick! You haven’t come in for a while.”

“Kasey, hush!”

“No, no, let her speak,” Miguel taps against the counter. “I’d like to hear what she has to say.”

You elbow Kasey before she even thinks to respond, “Would you like your regular seat, Miguel?”

“I would love that. Had a long day.”

“That you should tell her all about over some coffee,” Kasey smiles. “Go ahead, I’ll cover you.”

You sigh as Kasey follows you to wear Miguel usually sits, and gets Miguel’s order down. She fights silently with you over sitting down across from him. Her eyes saying something along the lines of “we can split the tip,” “here’s your chance,” and “that old fart isn’t going to fire you.”

So there you were, sitting across the guy who you anticipate to come in every so often. The guy who loved simple, American-style meals. The guy with the nice build and a pretty face.

The guy who can’t stop looking at your chest right now.

“You said you had a tough day?” you peer at him from over your glasses, a little unsure of what his steady eyes meant.

“Um, yeah,” he stutters. “There’s been some changes in positions at my job. Some higher ups are giving me trouble, but I think they’re scared they’re about to lose their seats.”

“Oh, you didn’t tell me you were a big-shot.”

“I wouldn’t say all of that,” he grins as he bends his head down. The way his hair falls is dreamy and it’s no fair that he still looks this good despite the rain dousing him. “I’m just in an interesting spot.”

Kasey plops down a hot plate of chopped steak and mashed potatoes smothered in gravy with some steaming broccoli on the side. There’s a heaping amount of food on the plate and you give her an incredulous look before she whips out an extra pair of utensils.

“The guys in the back a closing up shop. They want as little dishes to wash as possible.”

“We don’t close until-”

“As little dishes as possible!” Kasey sing-songs, leaving you shifting in your seat.

Miguel picks up a fork, “I hope you like beef.”

He starts to cut into the meat and you’re slow to follow, watching his arms bulge through through his sweater.

You wonder if he could hear your heart rattling in your chest.

The conversation continues and you learn that Miguel works at Alchemax working as a head lab technician.

“Miguel, that’s amazing! I’ve seen old classmates nearly go to war for that position.”

“It’s not all that it’s chalked up to be.”

“It’s still astounding that you got to that level,” you push your fork through some potatoes and take a bite, “You should be proud. And if not, I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you,” he looks up at you while you continue to chew. “You’ve got something here.”

“Oh,” you quickly take your fingers to your lips, embarrassed.

“Here,” Miguel reaches across from you and wipes he corner of your mouth with a napkin. “All better.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Time is lost as you two exchange words, Miguel making you laugh over the smallest things. He’s as sweet as ever, his compliments make you ecstatic, and he listens when you go into your own stories. Your cheeks hurt from how much you’ve been grinning.

“Hey, so, I’ve been thinking,” Miguel starts.

“About?”

He takes a deep breath, shoulders tensing up.

“I would love to take you on a date. Somewhere nice and exciting. That’s if you would want to, of course. I don’t want to pressure you.”

“Miguel,” you stop his ramblings with a hand on his wrist, “I would love to go on a date with you.”

His shoulders relax, and his smile is wide.

The chime of the door rings, signaling another customer coming inside. His hands are in his pockets and his hoodie is pulled tight around him. Not an uncommon sight, but the diner was set to close soon.

You followed his steps as he sat in Kasey’s side of the diner, his leg bouncing repeatedly.

“For our date,” Kasey meets your eyes before she goes to his table. Her hospitable tone switched on. “Where were you thinking of going?”

Miguel begins to answer, but you continue to stare at the other side of the room. The guy is jumpy and from what you can tell, snappy. Kasey looks antsy as she walks back to the counter to grab a cup and a picture of water.

Miguel turns around to look where you’re watch and turns back, “Is something wrong?”

“That guy is making Kasey nervous. She’s hiding it well, but she’s freaking out.”

You both watch as he scans that side of the room, body rocking in the still chair.

It was daunting and quiet. The sound of the rain drowning out the idle noises of the dining room.

“Something’s not right,” you whisper.

From how Miguel gets up, you can see that he can feel the uneasiness, too.

Kasey walks over to him, a slice of thick chocolate cake on a small plate in her hands. She places it on the table, ready to ask if he needs anything else.

Time stops as he grabs her arm and yanks her towards him, the few customers left stopping to watch the scene. Kasey pulls her arm back, ready to put up a fight.

The man pulls something out of his pocket, Kasey’s voice reaching a shriek. You gasp as you see him point it right at her head, nerves nearly failing you. People scramble to corners of the room, some falling to the floor.

Miguel grabs your arm and drags you to the bathroom, your hands covering your mouth as you fight the urge to scream.

You can’t feel anything as he shoves you into a stall, your limbs trembling. Tears are running down your face as you try to think, but Miguel is holding you up to keep you from falling.

“Stay in here, and lock the door. Don’t come out.”

“But Miguel, he has a gun! We, we should call someone. You can’t go back out there!”

“I’ll be ok. I promise.”

“How do you know that?”

“Look at me,” Miguel takes your hands as you slide to the floor. He makes the trip easy, arms solid. “I’ll meet you when this is over, ok?”

“Ok,” your vision blurs as Miguel leaves, face worn with sorrow.

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting on the gross bathroom floor, sobbing into your hands.

You could hear shouting and screaming, the yells of the man telling everyone to shut up. A few bangs of his gun went off and you bit your wrist in order to give yourself away. It didn’t feel right to be the only one to make an escape, but maybe you would be next to die, too.

The rain continues outside, a loud strike of thunder echoing off the tiles as lights flicker off. Your heartbeat picks up as you try not to make a sound. The lightning illuminates the room for a second, and the noise from outside stops.

You can’t tell what’s going on, the pit of your stomach falling with every second.

The door bangs open, and you feel like passing out. It sounds like the ocean is roaring in your ears as you try to listen for footsteps.

One second turns into two, two turns into ten, and you lose count of how long you’re holding your breath.

Your stall is pried open as the lightning shines through the window. Even as you see the masked hero, your throat lets out a weak cry.

“Come on,” he says, eyes on his mask squinting. “It’s safe now.”

With your eyes refocusing, you see Spider-Man standing tall and proud, with Kasey latched to his back like a koala.

Your hand moves across the stall before you feel yourself falling forward.

Spider-Man catches you with ease, lifting you into his arms.

“Thank you, thank you!”

“It’s what I’m here for.”

He carries you both back to the dining room where the robber is beaten black and blue, tied up in neon red webbing. People are huddled up together as policemen ask them questions.

Spider-Man places you in a seat and grabs a blanket from the pile that was brought in. You thank him with a soft voice.

“You can get off of my back now,” he tells Kasey. “He won’t hurt you any time soon.”

“No! I think I want to stay here,” she says. Her eyes surveying the side of his head. Her hands rub the side of his mask, “You really are as sturdy as they say. And this suit! It’s so cooling. What’s it made of? Silk?”

“No, it’s- Will you get off of me, please?”

Kasey jumps to the floor, face filled with glee, like she didn’t just get held at gunpoint.

“Where’s my phone? I have to get a picture. Look here! Say ‘whiskey’! Oh, wait, you can’t really smile can you? Can you sign something for me? My friends are going to be so jealous.”

Spider-Man stiffens up as Kacey flits around him like an excited puppy.

You try to be happy for her, but you can’t find Miguel. He said we would be ok.

There’s an old couple by the window, a mom and her son by the bar, a truck driver talking to the police. No Miguel.

“Shock, can you give me a second?” Spider-Man barks as Kasey tries to climb over him again, squealing like a schoolgirl.

“Excuse me,” you tug at his hand that Kasey doesn’t have a grip on, “Have you seen a man, about 6’8 or so? Sweater, khakis, and a lanyard. He- he was with me before the robber came. I don’t see him anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, this is everyone that was here when I came. Maybe he went to get help.”

“Oh, god,” you take in a watery gulp of air. “What if something happened to him out there? He told me he would be ok!”

“Hey, I’m sure wherever he is, he’ll be alright. No need to panic. Everything from here and a few miles out is taken care of. No one else is coming out here in this weather.”

The guy starts to wake up and fight against the webbing.

“I gotta take care of this,” he pulls Kasey off of him. “See you around, ladies.”

“But Spider-Man-”

Oranges, blues, and reds flash before you, Spider-Man flopping the man over his shoulder as he walks through, stoic silhouette disappearing before you.

You sit in horror as everything weighs down on you.

Something, no, someone, was taken from you before it even had a chance to begin.

Kasey’s hands are rubbing on your back as you cry into the blanket in your lab.

You had no idea where Miguel was.

“I’m sure he’s alright,” Kasey whispers to you, “And if not, I’ll kill him.”

A chuckle comes out of you, a bit half-hearted.

The lights of a car beam through the windows, doors slamming as people came rushing through the door.

You look up to Miguel and a man that looked almost identical.

“Miguel!” you run to him, his arms nearly taking you off the ground. “Oh my god, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Your hands shake as you touch across his face. He’s all intact, although still drenched.

“I’m ok, I promised you I would be. I went to go get help.”

“Hot help at that,” Kasey whistles as she looks at the man behind Miguel.

“Are you alright?” Miguel covers the hand you have on your face. “I hope I didn’t give you too much of a scare.”

“I’m better now,” you practically melt into him. “Is that date still on?”

“It was never off. I just need your number now. And we can get out of here, yeah?”

You nod and lean onto his chest listening to his heart sing to you.

It feels familiar.

As always, if you enjoyed, please like, reblog, and COMMENT! It felt very mysterious to write even thought I didn't really mean for it to be.

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