#adjustable base jack

[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

Base Jack Loading Capacity Test - Wellmade Scaffold China

[jkscaffolding]

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[spikedfearn]

As if It’s Heaven’s Gate

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You take a job as a live-in nurse for the town’s most infamous recluse—Remmick, the strange, soft-spoken man hidden away in a rotting Victorian farmhouse no one dares approach. Locals warn you not to touch him. Not to linger after dark. But when you meet him, he’s all big eyes and broken manners, trembling hands and gold chain glinting at his throat. Touch-starved, tender, and ruinously ancient. He flinches when you reach for him—and sobs when you don’t. You drop to your knees, and he forgets the taste of blood. He’s already yours before you ever put your mouth on him.

wc: 8.5k

a/n: holy 2k followers batman!! I wanna thank everyone for the outpouring of love and support my work has gotten over the last month, truly insane, still processing, gonna release something soon as a massive thank you <333 based off this post, I'm sure I'm not the first but I haven't come across any fic of reader going down on Remmick yet and I have a great need to suck that man's dick until his stomach caves in like a Capri-sun (someone revoke my internet access) so here we are. Thank you to @ddlydevotion for finding my photo refs. Dedicated to Sam @matrixfangs for not only beta reading this but also requesting I incorporate Jack's cross tattoo into one of my fics!! title from the song too sweet by hozier.

warnings: vampirism, oral sex (m!receiving), d/s dynamic, begging, spit kink, hair pulling, praise kink, humiliation kink (soft), drool, overstimulation, ruined man behavior, touch starvation, religious imagery, cross kink?, control kink, sub!remmick, somniloquy, emotional degradation (tender), slight dacryphilia, mildly unhinged reader, dark romance, southern gothic atmosphere, implied violence, implied murder (offscreen)

I am doing away with my tag list because it's getting a little long so I recommend turning on notifications if you don't wanna miss when I post c:

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, enjoy!!

The bus wheezed like it was exhaling its last breath, sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Dust kicked up around its wheels as the brakes hissed and the door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.

You stepped off into the heat—that heavy, wet Southern heat that sticks to your skin like tacky glue, curling into your clothes and dragging its teeth across the back of your neck.

The sun hung fat and merciless in a sky bleached bone-white, cicadas crying loud enough to shake the treetops. Sweat bloomed across your collarbone before your boots even hit the dirt.

It wasn’t real pavement, not out here. Just cracked-red earth, dry and crumbling, veined with weeds and the roots of things too stubborn to die. The main road—if you could call it that—was lined with rusted fence posts, bowed under the weight of creeping kudzu and wire that hadn’t held anything in years.

The town itself looked like it had been forgotten in a drawer: sun-wilted storefronts with paint peeling off in strips, glass windows clouded with grime, and a gas station that hadn’t changed its prices since Prohibition.

A man with no teeth watched you from a bench outside a bait shop. A girl gnawed a peach in the shade of a feed store awning, juice dripping down her wrist as she stared without blinking.

No one smiled. No one welcomed you. Just silence and the shrill, electric whine of summer bugs, loud as a curse.

You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle—leather, secondhand, the clasp a little loose—and stepped forward, your boots crunching on gravel as the bus hissed again and pulled away behind you. The sudden stillness in its absence made your ears ring. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once, then went quiet.

The driver who’d agreed to take you the last few miles was late. Or not coming. You checked the watch on your wrist—scratched crystal, the hour hand a little jittery—and waited. The skin on your shoulders prickled. Not from the heat. From the eyes.

They were still staring.

A woman in a gingham dress crossed herself. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you twice.

Then a voice—cracked with age and smoke, coming from just over your shoulder—broke the thick, humid quiet: “That house got ghosts in it.”

You turned. It was the man from the bench, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes milky with cataracts. He spat to the side, aimed like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“He don’t come to town. Don’t let him touch you, honey.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant, the groan of old suspension and rattling chains cut through the air.

A pickup truck, wheezing like the bus, pulled up in a cloud of red dust. Faded forest green with rust eating away the sides and a crooked license plate hanging on by one bolt. The man driving it looked as old as the truck—tan leather skin, yellowed shirt, a straw hat pulled low.

He didn’t say your name. Just nodded once. Like he already knew.

You climbed in beside him, the vinyl seat burning hot through your skirt. Neither of you spoke. The ride out of town was long and winding, lined with cypress trees and fields that had gone to seed. Every now and then, the man would spit out the window. You watched the land unravel into nothing—just swaying grass, rusted scarecrows, and buzzards perched on telephone wires.

Then, after what felt like forever, the truck crested a hill.

And there it was.

The house.

Aging Victorian farmhouse, two stories tall, white paint weathered to the color of bone. Porch bowed in the middle like a snapped spine. Shutters hanging off their hinges. The front door was so dark it looked like a hole punched through the front of the house. Vines crept up the sides like veins, crawling toward the chimneys and windows like they wanted to choke it. Or hold it down.

The iron gates at the front were rusted and tall, still latched shut. You could make out glass-paned windows that looked hollow, staring out at the road like eyes that hadn’t blinked in years.

The man parked, killed the engine, and didn’t move. You stepped out. Shut the door behind you. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase. Just lit a cigarette, slow and deliberate.

“He sleeps durin’ the day. House is yours ‘til sundown. Don’t linger on the porch.”

You waited for more.

He didn’t offer it.

He put the truck in gear and reversed down the dirt road without another word, vanishing behind the veil of oak and kudzu until there was nothing but eerie birdsong and your own breath.

The wind kicked up. Dry. Hot. Mean. The house creaked—just once. Like it had been holding its breath too.

And then…the front door groaned open.

The open door breathed out a draft of air—cool and heavy, smelling of cedarwood, old paper, and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers pressed between book pages. It curled around your ankles like mist.

You stepped forward. The porch groaned beneath your feet, boards soft with age, and for one heart-pounding moment you thought the whole thing might give. But it held. Just barely. The screen door had been ripped clean off its hinges long ago. The wooden door itself was open wide now, dark as pitch inside.

You crossed the threshold. The world behind you dropped away like a curtain falling shut.

The house swallowed sound. Swallowed light. It was dim and old in the way caves are old—cooler than it had any right to be, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Lace curtains yellowed with age hung limp at the windows. The wallpaper had peeled back in strips, revealing ribs of rotting wood beneath. A hallway stretched long ahead of you, lined with crooked picture frames and closed doors.

Your hand skimmed the wall, trying to find your balance. The place felt like it was holding its breath.

Then you saw him.

He stepped out of the parlor like he wasn’t used to being seen, like he expected to vanish the moment your eyes landed on him.

Remmick.

And he was…nothing like you expected.

Not some grizzled recluse with wild hair and yellow teeth, not a hissing, skeletal shut-in like the townsfolk seemed to imagine. No. He was—

Broad.

His shoulders were built like a man who used to work with his hands, chest thick under the open collar of a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up, the sleeves messily rolled to his elbows. Beneath it, a threadbare white wife-beater clung to his torso like second skin. His jeans were dark, faded, worn at the knees, and he was barefoot—toes pale, dust smudged across the tops of his feet, like he hadn’t stepped outside in years.

His hair was short and messy, soft-looking, brown with uneven bangs that fell just above his brows in a way that felt almost boyish, almost accidental. Not styled. Just…unbothered. Untamed. Like he’d dragged his fingers through it and given up halfway.

And then his eyes.

Blue. Too blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean-blue. The blue of cracked porcelain. The kind of blue that shouldn’t exist in nature. They looked almost glassy, as if someone had painted them on too carefully.

You didn’t know that they were artificial, not yet, like a predator blending in with its surroundings to fool the naive prey. That the real eyes were red as flame and waiting underneath.

But even so, you felt it.

Something inhuman. Something primordial.

You didn’t know what you were seeing. But you knew it wasn’t just a man and yet—you weren’t scared.

He froze when he saw you. Like he’d walked into a memory.

His mouth parted slightly. His hands hung at his sides, rough-knuckled, long-fingered. One of them twitched, just once, like he meant to lift it—and then stopped. Like the very thought of touching was…too much.

His voice came slow, thick. Raspy from disuse. “Evenin’.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

That same hand moved to scratch the back of his neck—awkward, almost boyish. He ducked his head slightly, eyes flitting away from yours. His lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure whether or not to smile, and then decided against it.

“I, uh…I didn’t expect you so soon.”

There was a tremble in his voice, barely there beneath the deep drawl. But it was there. Not nervous. Not quite. Just…unused. He sounded like someone who didn’t speak unless he had to. Someone who had been silent for too long.

You stepped forward, instinctive. He flinched.

It was subtle—just a twitch of his shoulder, the stiffening of his posture, a faint shift backward—but your body caught it. Your eyes caught it. His eyes never left you.

“I’m your nurse,” you said softly, giving your name, your voice feather-light.

He nodded. Still didn’t move closer.

There was a thin gold chain around his neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. It caught the faint light from the window and glinted, just for a second, brushing against the pale hollow of his throat when he leaned forward slightly. Like it had weight. Like it mattered.

You took a breath, trying to read him. He was watching you the way a starving man watches a feast. Not greedy. Not desperate.

Haunted.

Like he was talking to someone who no longer walked this mortal coil.

“Where should I…?” you asked, fingers curling slightly around the strap of your bag.

He startled. “Oh. Right. Room’s upstairs. I, uh—” he hesitated, scratched at his forearm where the button-up had slipped back just far enough to reveal the edge of a vein that looked darker than it should—“I ain’t had company in a while.”

“How long?” you asked.

He blinked at you. Like the question hadn’t occurred to him before.

Then, just as softly, with a note of old sorrow so quiet you nearly missed it, he answered:

“Too long.”

He turned, shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and motioned for you to follow. He didn’t offer to carry your bag. Not out of rudeness—it was something else. A hesitation that clung to him like sweat in the air.

The hallway creaked under your steps, your boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His bare feet moved near-silent, just the soft pad of skin on old wood. Dust stirred where he passed, curling like smoke in his wake. You watched the muscles move beneath his shirt—the way the thin material clung to his back, the curve of his shoulders, the faint outline of his spine shifting when he turned a corner. You could almost imagine him once being a laborer, maybe a carpenter, with those thick forearms and that sunken posture—like he hadn’t stood tall in years.

He didn’t look back at you until he reached the stairs.

“They’re steep,” he warned, voice low, accent thickening just a touch like the words were sticking to his tongue. “House wasn’t built for comfort. Not anymore.”

You followed him anyway.

The staircase was narrow and curved, wood darkened by age and use. The banister wobbled when you touched it. His hand hovered near the wall as he climbed, but he didn’t steady himself on anything—as if he was afraid to touch the house too long.

The landing opened into a hallway lit only by a single cracked window. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight, and Remmick avoided it completely, skirting the edge like a shadow. You didn’t think much of it. Just heat, maybe. Or habit.

He stopped in front of a door at the far end. It was plain—faded green paint, iron handle gone dull with rust. He opened it for you but didn’t step inside.

“Room’s clean,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “Did it myself this mornin’.”

You peered in.

Small, but tidy. The bed was old but made, white sheets tucked tight. There was a vanity with a tarnished mirror, a small closet door that hung slightly crooked, and a bedside table with a worn oil lamp and what looked like a book left behind years ago. A hand towel had been folded and left on the pillow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I did,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d leave it…unfit.”

He stood there, barefoot and awkward, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His bangs had fallen deeper over his eyes, hiding them. But you saw the shape of them behind the strands—wide, almost deer-like.

He looked like he didn’t know whether to apologize for being alive or thank you for showing up.

You stepped inside. Set your bag down. When you turned to speak again, he was already halfway down the hall.

He hadn’t made a sound.

Later, after you’d unpacked and washed your face in the cracked porcelain basin, you made your way down to the kitchen, following the faint clatter of dishware. You paused at the doorway.

He stood at the sink, back to you, sleeves rolled higher now—his forearms dusted in pale hair, thick with muscle, the veins just barely raised under the skin. The gold chain shifted at his throat as he rinsed out an old tin mug. He didn’t seem to notice you.

The light from the window cut across the floor, a bright bar of late-afternoon sun. It stopped just inches from where he stood, and he didn’t cross it. His toes curled against the edge like it was a line he couldn’t breach.

You finally spoke. “Do you want any help?”

He jumped.

Not violently—just a twitch. His shoulders drew in, spine straightening, as if your voice had reached into him and plucked something loose.

Then he slowly turned. His eyes—still too blue—met yours, and for a second you thought he looked guilty. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

“No,” he said, swallowing. “But…thank you.”

You stepped forward anyway.

He froze. Again.

“I’m just getting a glass,” you said, brushing past him, your fingers grazing the inside of his forearm by accident—just a whisper of skin against skin.

He flinched. Actually flinched. Not hard. Not violently. But enough to feel like a blow. You pulled back, brows furrowing.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice hushed and low and cracking like dry wood underfoot. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

You turned your head, studied him.

“Do you not like to be touched?”

A pause.

He looked down at the floor. His hands opened and closed once.

“I just…ain’t used to it, is all.”

Not used to it. Not anymore. Not in a long, long time.

You felt something tighten in your chest then, strange and aching. A tether drawing taut. You didn’t know what had happened to him. Why the town feared him. Why the sunlight seemed to singe the air around him. Why his voice trembled when you spoke too softly.

But you did know this:

He was alone.

And he had been alone for a very, very long time.

The glass was cloudy. Not dirty—just old, like everything else in this house. When you turned the tap, the pipes groaned in protest before surrendering a stream of lukewarm water. You sipped, then leaned against the counter, your eyes sliding back to him.

Remmick hadn’t moved.

Still by the sink, shoulder just shy of that stripe of sunlight, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know how to stand. The water dripped from the mug he held. A single droplet clung to the edge of his knuckle and then slid down, curling over his wrist.

He stared at the floor. At your boots. At anything except you.

“You live here alone?” you asked.

His head tilted slightly, as though the question had startled him. He nodded.

“For how long?”

A beat.

“…Long.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just that one syllable, spoken like a stone dropped into a well. No echo. No follow-up.

You took another sip. “Locals said you don’t like company.”

His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. It was more like…a ghost of a smirk, something he might’ve worn naturally once, long ago, before it fell out of practice.

“I reckon they said worse’n that.”

“They said not to let you touch me.”

That made him flinch for real.

A sharp intake of breath, his spine straightening, knuckles whitening around the tin cup. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. But the shame bled off him like heat, pouring into the space between you until the air turned too thick to breathe.

You waited.

And when he still didn’t say anything, you set your glass down with a quiet clink and asked gently:

“Why would they say that?”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

Eyes wide. Blue. Too blue. Glassy in the way that porcelain is glassy—shiny and fragile and false. A color that didn’t feel real, not on a living thing. His brow was furrowed like the question pained him.

“…They scared,” he said softly. “Always been. But fear makes folks say things that ain’t...whole.”

“Is it not true?”

His throat bobbed. That thin gold chain moved with the motion, catching what little light the room offered. His jaw tensed, a tick pulsing just beneath the skin. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

“I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

He said it like it was a rule, not a defense. Something sacred. Something self-imposed and unshakable.

“I didn’t think you did,” you murmured.

That made him pause. Head tilted again. Studying you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.

“Then why’d you come?”

You gave a small shrug. “They said you needed help.”

“And you believed ‘em?”

“I believe you now.”

That silenced him.

He set the tin mug down gently, almost reverently. The sound was soft. Barely there. Like he’d learned to be careful with his strength. Or maybe he was just scared of breaking things.

“I ain’t had a nurse before,” he said. “Didn’t think I needed one.”

“Well,” you said, tone light, “I’m here now.”

Another pause.

He nodded, still not smiling. Just…accepting. Resigned. Like he’d already decided you were temporary.

A flicker of something passed behind his eyes then. Regret. Fear. Hunger. You couldn’t tell. But it made you step closer. And again—he moved back. Just a step. Not far. Not fast. But enough.

Like your nearness singed. You didn’t take it personally. You were starting to understand: it wasn’t you he didn’t trust. It was himself.

“Can I ask your name?” you said, after a beat.

He blinked. Then, slowly, he answered:

“…Remmick.”

You repeated it once, soft. Let it settle. His breath hitched. And just for a second—less than a breath, less than a blink—his eyes flashed red.

Bright. Brief. Burning.

Gone just as fast.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure you’d seen it. But he turned away like he had something to hide.

“I’ll, uh…be out on the porch. If you need me.” His voice cracked again. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“Remmick.”

He stilled.

“Thank you.”

His hand touched the doorframe. Just the tips of his fingers. Then he left without looking back, the gold chain glinting once over the curve of his collarbone as he slipped into the shadows again.

You didn’t know what you’d just seen. But you knew you weren’t afraid. Not of him. And not of whatever was buried beneath those woeful eyes.

The dining room was crooked.

The long table—mahogany once, now dulled and water-stained—sat slightly uneven, legs warped from heat and time. One chair at the end had been worn smooth with use. The others were still draped in white sheets, untouched, forgotten. The chandelier above was dust-choked, only one bulb flickering faintly. Shadows wavered across the ceiling like they were alive.

Remmick was already seated when you stepped in, spine stiff, hands folded neatly in his lap. Not touching the silverware. Not even looking at the plate in front of him. A modest meal—roasted potatoes, black-eyed peas, cornbread—steamed in a careful arrangement across two plates, though yours was a little fuller.

He’d set it out like it was a ritual. Like it mattered. His eyes jumped to yours the moment you crossed the threshold. That same stare—wide, dark in the low light, too big for his face—gave him the look of something puppyish, soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.

“I hope it’s alright,” he said quickly, words too fast, too eager. “I cooked it this mornin’. Tried to keep it warm without dryin’ it out.”

You slid into the chair across from him. “It smells good.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, like a wire had gone slack. “Ain’t had much reason to cook for two.”

You took a bite, slowly. It was simple—salt, butter, heat. No herbs. No flair. But it was made with care. You could taste that.

Across from you, Remmick didn’t eat. He watched you instead.

You didn’t comment on it at first, but when you finally glanced up, fork paused midair, he looked away too quickly. A flicker of red threatened behind his lashes—gone before you could be sure.

“You’re not hungry?” you asked gently.

He hesitated. “Not for that.”

You blinked.

He flinched. “I mean—nothin’ wrong with it. I just—I don’t eat much. Not lately.”

You let it go. For now.

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It strained under its own weight. Not tension between you, but the kind that comes when someone’s forgotten how to be in a room with another person. He kept shifting in his seat—shoulders tight, hands flexing slightly in his lap, like he had to remind himself to stay still.

You tried again.

“So…you’ve lived here a long time?”

He nodded. “Since before the war.”

“Which one?”

His lips twitched. “Exactly.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Do you ever leave?”

Another long pause. He looked down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scratch in the wood.

“I used to,” he said. “Town was smaller then. Or maybe it just felt that way.”

“You don’t go anymore?”

“I scare folks.” He said it plainly. No self-pity. Just fact. “And I don’t…do well in the sun.”

You watched the way he said it—carefully. Intentionally vague. Like he was testing how much he could say without scaring you off.

“I noticed,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted again. In the dim lighting, they looked almost black, shadows swallowing all the unnatural blue. The wide shape of them gave him a look so innocent it was disarming—a big-eyed, vulnerable softness, like a boy too shy to ask for what he needed.

“I’m not scared of you,” you added.

He swallowed hard. The gold chain at his collarbone shifted.

“You should be,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re not.”

The food sat cooling between you.

You noticed he kept glancing at your hands—how they moved, how they curled around your fork, how they pressed briefly to your chest when you swallowed water. He didn’t leer. Didn’t ogle. But he watched with the intensity of someone who’d gone without touch so long, he’d forgotten what warmth looked like.

“Do you miss it?” you asked.

He looked up sharply. “Miss what?”

“Conversation. Company.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

“Yes,” he said. Just that. No hesitation. Voice cracking around the edge.

Then, quieter:

“I try not to. But yes.”

You sat with that for a beat.

“I could talk more,” you offered, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Or less. If you’d rather quiet.”

He shook his head, too fast. “No—no, I like it. I…I like your voice.”

You blinked. Your cheeks went warm.

He blinked too, startled at himself. “Shit—I mean—not like that. Just. It’s nice. I ain’t heard anything like it in…”

He trailed off. His ears had gone pink.

You laughed gently. “You’re a little out of practice, huh?”

“I’m fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, with a glance at you: “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “It’s nice. You’re…nice.”

He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that word. And then, without warning, a loud creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The pipes moaned. The lights flickered.

You jumped.

Remmick didn’t move. But the red flashed again in his eyes—just for a blink, just enough to raise the hairs on your arms.

“Old house,” he murmured.

“Right.”

But he was staring down the hallway now, like he heard something you couldn’t. His jaw clenched. One hand curled tight against his knee, as if fighting the urge to stand.

“Is it safe?” you asked, your voice dipping instinctively into something wary.

His eyes cut to yours.

And something about the way he looked at you then—those big, dark, wide eyes still soft as a dog’s, still scared to ask too much—made your breath catch.

“With me?” he said.

A beat.

Then, softer:

“Always.”

The house changed at night.

It didn’t creak. It breathed—slow and hollow, like the walls had lungs of their own. The old wood carried footsteps in strange directions. Voices turned inward. Time unspooled.

You lay in bed, still dressed, still wired, the heat slick on the back of your neck. The lamp on your bedside table cast a low, amber glow across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a whippoorwill called once and went quiet.

The room smelled like lavender soap and old cotton. The fan in the corner ticked every fifth rotation. You hadn’t seen Remmick since dinner.

He hadn’t said goodnight. Not that you blamed him.

He’d looked like he wanted to linger. Like his legs didn’t quite want to carry him away. But something in him—something knotted deep—had yanked him back into the dark, like a leash.

Still, you thought of him as you lay there. The way his eyes kept dropping to your hands. The way his voice cracked when he spoke too kindly. The way he watched you like he hadn’t watched another soul in decades—and didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You didn’t mean to doze. But the silence folded over you like a sheet.

And then—

You heard it.

Low. Fragile. Muffled.

A sound curling up through the floorboards.

You blinked awake, heart ticking faster, every hair on your arms rising before your mind even caught up. You sat up slowly. The fan ticked again.

And again, that sound.

A moan.

Male. Soft. Throaty.

Followed by something rougher. Shaped by a tongue and a mouth. Words.

You slid from the bed, bare feet ghosting over the cool floor. Pressed your palm to the wall. Leaned close.

The voice—Remmick’s voice—was speaking. But not English. Something old. It came in broken fragments. Whispered. Half-strangled. And aching.

“A chuisle…mo chuisle, mo chroí…”

(My pulse…my pulse, my heart…)

The wood under your fingers thrummed.

“Táid mo lámha ag crith…Dia, tá brón orm…”

(My hands are shaking…God, I’m sorry…)

A sound followed—wet. Guttural. Like he’d tried to breathe through a sob and swallowed it.

You stepped back, heart rabbiting, heat pooling low in your belly—not from fear, but from something else.

The need in that voice. The loneliness. The way the words clung to his throat like they hurt coming out.

And then—

A moan. Sharp. Broken open.

“Lig dom é a mhothú… lig dom tú a mhothú…”

(Let me feel it…let me feel you…)

You were rooted to the floor, bare toes curling against the wood as something bloomed low in your abdomen—hot and needy and shameful in its intensity. Your thighs pressed together before you even realized you’d done it.

He sounded desperate. Not sexual—not entirely. But starved. Ragged.

Destroyed.

Like he was begging for something he didn’t think he deserved to have, not even in sleep.

“Tá tú anseo…tá tú fíor…ná fág mé…”

(You’re here…you’re real…don’t leave me…)

The words were choked now. Slurred. Drenched in a broken kind of longing. You didn’t mean to press your palm flat against the wall. Didn’t mean to close your eyes.

Didn’t mean to whisper: “I’m here.”

But you did.

And somehow, the sounds stopped. Not abruptly. Just…slowed. Faded.

As if he'd heard you.

As if, wherever he was in that dream, the presence of you at the wall soothed something raw and ancient inside him.

The air stilled. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only quiet. You stood there for a moment longer, breath shallow, chest tight. Then turned back to the bed.

And as you crawled beneath the covers, something inside you whispered—

He wasn’t dreaming of just anyone. He was dreaming of you.

You didn’t sleep long.

When you woke again, the air was different. Thicker.

Your body was heavy with it, sunk into the mattress, heart drumming in your ears like you were already in motion. The fan had stopped ticking. The lamp had gone out. A soft glow slanted in through the hallway—a light left on downstairs, maybe. Or—

No.

Someone had turned it on.

You sat up slowly. The floorboards creaked outside your door. Once. Twice. A pause. Then a knock. Soft. Barely there.

Your stomach flipped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still sleep-rough, soft enough that he could ignore it if he needed to.

But he didn’t. The door opened a crack. And there he was.

Remmick.

Still barefoot.

Still dressed the same—pinstriped button-up wrinkled from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. His hair was mussed now, falling harder into his face, and his chest rose and fell beneath the thin white wife-beater like he’d climbed stairs too fast. Or hadn’t been breathing right since sundown.

He didn’t cross the threshold. Not at first.

He stood there like a man unsure of his place in the world—a broad shadow outlined in gold from the hallway light, wide-eyed and fidgeting, arms at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to lift them.

“Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

He hesitated.

Then: “Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes flicked toward the inside of the room—dark and private and unthreatening—and you understood.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

He stepped in.

Carefully. Like the floor might bite him.

The door shut behind him with a click that echoed louder than it should have. He stood near the dresser, eyes darting—not in panic, but like he was looking for something to anchor himself to. His fingers worried the hem of his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, defensive, vulnerable despite the width of them.

His eyes—dark in this light, wide and glassy—looked almost wet. Puppyish. Devastating.

“I heard you,” you said quietly. “Last night.”

He stiffened.

“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just…couldn’t sleep.”

His jaw flexed. His throat bobbed. He didn’t look at you.

“You were speaking in another language.”

“Gaelic,” he muttered, almost like he was ashamed of it. “From…before.”

“Before what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand twitched at his side.

“I didn’t know I was talkin’,” he said. “I don’t—usually.”

“You sounded upset.”

“I was.”

You waited.

Then, just above a whisper:

“I was dreamin’ of you.”

The room tilted. Your breath caught.

He raised his eyes then—still that soft, drowning dark, still wide like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say your name, let alone admit this.

“I know it ain’t right,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking. “But I’ve been here so long. Been quiet so long. And then you—” His breath hitched. “You come in here like you’re made of light. Like you belong. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stood slowly.

He didn’t move. He watched you with that same broken hunger, like he’d already decided you were too good for him, but couldn’t stop himself from needing you anyway.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

He glanced down. His hands were trembling. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch this time.

But he didn’t touch you either. Just stood there—shoulders tight, breath shallow, like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

“I ain’t touched anyone in so long,” he whispered. “And I keep thinkin’ about what they said. About me. About my hands. That I ruin things.”

You reached up, slowly, brushing your fingertips just above his collarbone—where the thin gold chain clung to his skin.

He gasped like it burned. You didn’t pull away.

“You didn’t ruin this.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lip trembled. A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a moan—as he leaned forward, forehead just barely grazing yours.

“Tell me not to,” he whispered. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But if you don’t—if you don’t say it—I swear to God, I’m gonna fall to my knees.”

The air between you crackled.

And his voice dropped, Irish blooming up from the roots of him like something ancient and helpless:

“Cuir do lámha orm…ná tabhair uaim thú…”

(Put your hands on me…don’t take yourself away from me…)

You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move either.

Just breathed—slow and even, like you were the calm center of a storm, and he was every desperate gust of wind trying to press against your skin.

Remmick stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From need. It curled off him like steam, thick and desperate, clinging to the air between you. His pupils were wide, swallowing the color of his irises until they looked nearly black, and his lips parted like he wanted to say more, to beg, to confess—but didn’t know how to start.

You reached for him.

He gasped—actually gasped—when your fingers slid up the open placket of his button-up, brushing the edge of his white ribbed wife-beater. You felt the tremor through him, all the way down. His chest was warm and solid, rising and falling like he was trying not to pant.

Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, palms splaying against the thick muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. And then, softly—gently, like it was a kindness—you pushed him.

He let you.

Without resistance, without question, he backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sank down like he didn’t know how to carry his own weight anymore. He sat there, breath shallow, eyes wide and wet and locked on you like you were the moon and he hadn’t seen the sky in a hundred years.

You stood between his knees. Tilted his chin up with just two fingers under his jaw.

“Hands to yourself,” you ordered, soft yet firm.

His breath hitched. His fingers dug into the comforter on either side of him, white-knuckled and obedient.

You watched the way he fought his own instinct—fought it like it pained him. He wanted to touch you. God, did he want to. It rolled off him in waves. His thighs were tense, knees spread wide, shirt wrinkled where your hands had touched him. He looked wrecked already.

“Y-you sure?” he asked, voice cracking like shaky glass under the burgeoning weight of desperation.

“I didn’t ask for your hands,” you said. “Not yet.”

His throat bobbed. The gold chain swayed at the base of his throat as he nodded—once, sharp, frantic.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I—yeah, I can do that. I’ll be good.”

You smiled, slow and soft and wicked.

“I know you will.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A soft, strangled sound pulled from the depths of him, one he didn’t seem prepared for.

His hair had fallen over his brow again, mussed and curling faintly with sweat at his temples. You brushed it back, deliberately slow. He didn’t lean into the touch—he melted under it. His lashes fluttered. His lips parted.

“You’ve really gone this long?” you murmured, thumb stroking the sharp line of his trembling cheekbone.

His voice was barely audible.

“Thirteen hundred years.”

You blinked. He looked away, ashamed.

“I feed when I have to,” he said, “but touch? Mouths? Skin? That kinda closeness?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Not since—fuck. Before the plague hit London.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re starved.”

He looked back at you with those wide, dark, pleading eyes, red bleeding into his pupils like a fresh laceration, like a man who's learned to lick his wounds clean in silence finally cracking open wide and letting you see the most vulnerable parts of him.

“I’m starvin’.”

You nodded, slow and understanding, letting your hand fall away from his face.

“Then sit still, Remmick,” you murmured, hushed, like you were afraid to shatter the silence. “And let me feed you.”

His breath shuddered out of him like you’d punched it from his lungs. His hands curled tighter in the sheets. His voice was hoarse, shaking, with the faintest Irish crack as he whispered:

“A ghrá…táim i do lámha…”

(My love…I’m in your hands…)

You stayed standing between his knees, just looking at him, because even if you didn't know what those words meant, you could feel them carve into your soul like a brand.

And Remmick—God help him—let you. Didn’t dare breathe too deep, didn’t dare move a single muscle. He was shaking with it. With restraint. With want. With that terrible, ancient hunger not just for blood, but for closeness, for skin-on-skin, for the obscene luxury of being touched.

Your fingers reached for him. He twitched.

Not in fear. In anticipation. His lips parted, a fine strand of spit hanging off one corner, catching in the gold glow of the hallway light behind you. It glistened, trailing down toward his chin before pooling at the dip beneath his lower lip—thick, warm, a little foamy, and wholly instinctual. His breath came in short, shallow bursts now, as if his body was preparing for something it didn’t fully understand.

You slid his suspenders off the broad slope of his shoulders first, snapping one against his pec, feeling arousal pool into your cunt like molten hot lava when he whimpers at the pleasant sting of it, letting the thin scraps of fabric fall down beside his hips.

Then you undid the first button of his shirt. Then the next. And the next. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact.

Remmick’s eyes were huge in the dark—dark and shiny, wide like a dog waiting to be called forward, like he’d sink his teeth into the floor just for a word from you. Sweat pearled at his temples. His thighs spread slightly wider beneath you as the shirt parted open.

His chest was beautiful. Scarred, but beautiful—pale muscle threaded with faint blue veins, the sort that spoke of long nights and longer hunger. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, though you could feel the heat roiling beneath it, just under the surface.

But what drew your eye—what made you pause—was the tattoo.

On his left ribcage, inked into him like a brand, was a budded cross—old, faded, the lines a little blurred from age but unmistakable. A Christian cross, yes—but older, rougher, like it had been carved into him by a trembling hand in candlelight.

You stared.

He followed your gaze, and his throat worked, the motion making his chain jump slightly against his collarbones.

“I got that when I still thought it’d save me,” he whispered, voice tight.

You dropped to your knees. He whimpered.

No contact yet—just the sound of your body lowering between his thighs, the shift in the room, the weight of your presence pressing into the cradle of his hips. He tipped his head back against the edge of the bed, more thick drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, breath now shallow, frantic, like he was trying not to choke on his own spit.

You leaned forward. Pressed your mouth to the edge of the cross.

He hissed.

You kissed it. Then licked—tongue flattening over the cool ink, tracing it reverently, slowly. He trembled beneath you like a man being sanctified and defiled all at once.

The irony rolled off your tongue with every stroke.

A man like this—older than gunpowder, older than the books that tried to define him—wearing a cross close to his heart like it still meant salvation.

You dragged your lips lower.

Down his ribs. Over the ridges of muscle. To the soft trail of hair starting just below his navel—a dark, fine line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You licked that too. Just once. Teasing.

Following the path slowly, like you were on your knees at an altar, taking your time with worship. His happy trail twitched under your tongue.

Above you, Remmick made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a sob but something shattered between the two.

More drool slipped from his lips now—foamy, thick, sliding down his chin, catching on the curve of his neck and the edge of that trembling gold chain. He didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t. You’d told him not to touch.

His voice broke apart.

“I c-can’t take it,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’m gonna come just from you lookin’ at me like that—just from that tongue—fuck, darlin’, please.”

You looked up at him.

Still on your knees. Still reverent. And said, with quiet finality, “Good.”

You reached for his belt.

His breath caught—sharply, like the sound a deer makes when it hears the snap of a twig too close behind it. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with those wide, wet eyes, black in the low light, pupils blown to the edge. His chest rose and fell like he was sprinting through mud.

The leather was worn, soft from age and use, the buckle cool in your fingers.

You took your time.

Slowly, purposefully, you undid the clasp, the soft clink of metal loud in the hush of the room. He whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath you, and more drool spilled from the corner of his mouth—thick, glistening, sliding down his chin

“Stay still,” you reminded him, voice silk-wrapped steel.

He nodded, a jerky, miserable little movement, and you swore his lower lip quivered. You dragged the zipper down, each tooth catching slightly, the sound sharp and intimate.

And then—finally—you pulled him free.

Your breath hitched.

He was hard. Painfully so. Flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking, the slit glossy and wet. He twitched in your hand, a thick vein pulsing along the underside, and his thighs quivered like he could barely keep himself grounded.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Remmick gave a breathless, broken laugh, chin tilted back as he struggled not to move. His hands were fists in the sheets now, white-knuckled, his gold chain trembling across his throat with every shallow breath.

“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t stop—fuck, it’s so much—”

You looked up at him as you gave him the first stroke.

Just one.

Slow.

Base to tip, twisting your palm, watching his mouth fall open wider—thick drool spilling freely now, down his neck, dampening the edge of his shirt. He looked utterly destroyed already.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, your voice soft, cruel with how gently you said it.

He nodded frantically.

“Use your words.”

His head lolled forward. His voice was wrecked. “Feels like heaven,” he groaned. “Oh God, sugar, I cain’t—I cain’t believe—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned forward, licking up the length of him, tongue flat, slow, letting his taste settle warm and heavy on your tongue—salt and skin and something a little coppery, something distinctly him, something old. He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest hiccuping, thighs jerking just slightly before he caught himself and moaned through clenched teeth.

Your mouth wrapped around the head. He cried out.

No words now. Just a strangled sound ripped from his throat, and more drool frothed at the corners of his lips. He looked dazed—eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. His hips bucked once—a reflex—and immediately stilled like he was terrified to move again without permission.

You pulled back just enough to speak, saliva stringing between your lips and his flushed cock.

“I told you,” you whispered. “Hands to yourself.”

His voice came out wrecked, breathless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then your mouth was back on him.

You took him deeper this time—slow, tight suction, twisting your wrist around what you couldn’t take yet—and the way he howled, you’d have thought he’d been starved in every way a man could be. Which, of course, he had. Thirteen hundred years of this. Denied. Suppressed. Begged away.

His thighs trembled. His belly tensed. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t dare.

You sucked harder.

He broke.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh, please, please, I’m so sorry—”

He was crying.

Not just drool now—actual tears, shining in his lashes, streaking down his flushed face as you sucked him through it, as he jerked and shook and whimpered out your name like it was a hymn.

He came with a sob, hips barely stuttering forward as his whole body went taut, his cock pulsing against your tongue, spilling hot down your throat in waves, thick and heavy and so much you almost gagged on it.

He was loud.

Pathetic.

Perfect.

When you finally pulled off, he was slumped forward—a wrecked, shivering mess, his lips bitten red and his chain soaked through with spit and sweat. His chest heaved. His thighs twitched.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your mouth slowly.

“Still with me?” you asked.

He nodded, weakly. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you leave.”

He collapsed.

Not fell—melted. Like every bone in him had turned to syrup and grief, his body slumping forward, catching on the edge of the bed before slipping down to the floor.

Boneless.

His cheek pressed to the old wood, hair clinging to his forehead, the buttons of his half-undone shirt twisted beneath him. He was drenched—sweat slicked across his chest and ribs, his pale skin kissed pink from effort, a shine of drool still slicking his chin, clinging to the corners of his mouth like foam. His gold chain was crooked now, stuck against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.

You rose slowly to your knees, then leaned forward—not to comfort him, not yet—but to press your lips to that chain.

Right at the dip of his collarbones. He gasped. Like it burned. Like your mouth was fire and he’d been craving the flame.

His eyes fluttered open—glass-wet, dazed, the whites shot red, his lips trembling from overstimulation. He looked wrecked. Used. Holy.

And still. Still, he tried.

One shaking hand rose, dragging along the edge of your thigh—hesitant, aching, reverent. His fingers brushed your hip like he was praying through it.

“Lemme touch you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me—wanna make you feel good—want your taste on my tongue, sugar, please—”

You caught his wrist mid-rise. Firm. Final. His breath hitched. His mouth parted. But he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. You leaned in close, until your mouth was at his ear, and whispered—

“You don’t get to yet.”

His eyes fluttered. His breath caught.

“You’re gonna learn to wait.”

A tremble rolled through him, from head to toe. His hand fell away, limp at his side. And then he nodded.

Small. Shaky. Utterly obedient.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait, I swear.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently now, and he whimpered at the touch.

“Look at you,” you murmured.

He did. Glassy-eyed. Pathetic. So fucking into it.

His tongue darted out across his lower lip, catching more of the drool clinging there, and he looked at you like he’d fall on his knees all over again if you so much as told him to.

“Did I do good?” he asked, voice so small, so needy it nearly broke something open in your chest.

You smiled.

And whispered, “You were perfect.”

He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.

Just curled in beside your legs like a dog, bare chest heaving, forehead pressed to your knee, as if your body alone could tether him to the earth. His arms folded in at his chest, drawn tight like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.

You stayed still. Let him have it. Let him exist in the aftermath—his breath still catching, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his brow, drool drying tacky at the corners of his mouth, his jeans half undone around his hips, completely forgotten. He looked small down there, despite the size of him. Small and wrecked.

He murmured against your thigh—words so soft you almost missed them, lips brushing the fabric of your skirt like a confession:

“Didn’t know it could feel like that…”

You glanced down.

His eyes were closed, lashes wet. His lips parted as he pressed the side of his face closer to your leg, as if nearness was the only thing keeping him from coming apart again.

“Didn’t know I could feel like that.”

You stroked his hair gently. He shivered.

“I ain’t been held like this since…” He swallowed. “Since before.”

You waited. Then, with a sigh that hitched in his throat, he said:

“Before I stopped bein’ a man and started bein’ a thing.”

Your fingers paused at his temple.

But he nuzzled into your knee like he hadn’t said something awful. Like he hadn’t peeled that truth out of himself and bled it onto your lap.

“I remember what it was like,” he whispered. “Before I turned. Before the hunger. Before all that silence got in me and stayed.”

Another pause.

“I used to think about what it’d be like, y’know? Fallin’ apart for someone. Just crackin’ open. Bein’ touched like I was human.”

He sighed again.

“Didn’t think it’d ever happen.”

Your hand returned to his hair, soft strokes over the messy bangs sticking to his forehead.

He let out a low, contented whine.

“Felt you on my tongue before I ever tasted you,” he breathed, voice thick and syrup-slow. “In my dreams. In my fuckin’ bones.”

His fingers brushed the floor. Not reaching. Just hovering.

“Tell me you won’t go,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move. And that was enough.

He breathed deep then, nose brushing your thigh, the gold chain glinting dully in the light. His body slackened further, weight pooling against you like he meant to stay right there forever—a crumpled thing collared in sweat, salt, and shame, held together only by the sound of your breath and the soft drag of your fingers through his hair.

“I’m ruined now,” he said sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”

You smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He whimpered again. A sound so low and lovely it curled down your spine and planted itself deep in your stomach.

And then he sighed—the sound of someone finally coming home—and nuzzled in deeper at your thigh.

[qamraalhassan]

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[cloudcountry]

since you guys liked my idea so much here it is: WAYS THE NRC BOYS WOULD MAKE YOU WORSE

reader's personality is based more off of in-game yuu than anything? this set of hcs is a bunch of hypotheticals basically. this can be read as platonic or romantic idk each guy is written as if they are the closest person to you, friends or otherwise.

IF YOU SEE A TYPO NO YOU DONT

mentally preparing myself for the "i wouldnt do that!!!!!" comments...and post.

Riddle increases your attentiveness to the rules tenfold. No matter how meek you are, he makes your voice strong—and oh boy does it carry. You’re yelling at people for running in the halls, chastising them for not doing their homework, and opening your mouth wider when you speak. For a school full of troublemakers like Night Raven, the entire student body is so disappointed there’s another Riddle.

Trey makes you more passive, less likely to speak up when you see something. He’s always stood back in the shadows, watching over everything without saying a word, and it’s seeped into your personality, too. You’re spineless now. This world is unfamiliar, why should you try to do anything? You’d only stand out. You don’t want to be outstanding. You want to be as normal as possible. So you stand back.

Cater gets you wrapped up in the hype of social media. It started out as a way to indulge his interests but now you’re on Magicam all day, scrolling and scrolling and scrolling. You send things to your friends and say “hey, we should do this” but never make any actual effort to connect with them outside of that. You fall easier into jealousy because you’re surrounded by glamor.

Deuce makes you reckless. He’s so willing to throw himself into things and it spurs you to do the same, no matter how many times your teachers or potential upperclassmen tell you not to. You can’t hear anything but Deuce and his yelling, his enthusiasm and terror for whichever situation you two find yourselves in, knowing that you’d follow him anywhere.

Ace makes you all the more prickly, your sharp jabs and irritating smugness a product of spending too much time with him. You two are two peas in a pod, but to an outsider you two just seem...irritating. You have a talent for getting under people’s skin and have definitely gotten better at lying.

Leona thinks its so cute how you try to defend him at every twist and turn. Like no, he is as dastardly as everyone is saying. Why are you trying to deny it? You’re suddenly seeing reason in the most massive ego-ed people this side of Sage Island and Leona honestly doesn’t know if he should be concerned for you or be amused because of you. (This one in particular was inspired by @loser-jpg LMAO)

Ruggie could have made you prioritize yourself more, but you think he took it a bit too far. See, now you’re snatching cafeteria items and worksheets right under people’s noses, giggling as they demand you give it back. Sometimes they don’t even notice you, but even if they did you’ve learned how to be lighter on your feet.

Jack and you are incredibly uncooperative people (unless you owe someone, of course.) He’s guided you away from asking for help, insisting that the people here will take advantage of you then turning around to say that he doesn’t care, he just doesn't want to get wrapped up in your mess. It’s like you can’t trust anyone but him and your Heartslabyul friends anymore.

Azul has given you one nasty sense of perception, allowing you to key into every little detail and find loopholes in the things people say in a second. He’s turned you into a deadly asset, one he treasures just as much as the student body fears. You read over his contracts and point out what you would do to get out of them, and he adjusts accordingly. What a fine team you two make!

Jade makes it clear that his morals are less than savory, and will often encourage you to partake in things you really shouldn't. You rationalize it as Jade helping you go after the things you want, to finally take and take and take from people when you’ve been so selfless all your life, because it's what you deserve isn’t it?

Floyd will often rope you into his schemes, and it's not wrong before you start doing the same. Once a model student, attending every class, you now skip class and watch with amusement as Floyd threatens another student, hiding your smile behind your hand. They may plead for your assistance, but who are you to stop Floyd? This poor soul clearly owed something.

Kalim instills you with a sense of jealousy and helplessness. He has money to solve all of his problems, his life must be so easy. You’ve lived through so many overblots and received no help from anyone, but Kalim has always been so kind and generous to you. It makes you resent him a little, and anyone else who tries to help, because they all have things that you don’t and that's just not fair.

Jamil twists and bends your mind so much that you can do the very same thing to others. You’ve caught onto his little game and he knows it, eyeing you with anticipation whenever you speak in the same honeyed tone he uses when he wants something. You’ve gotten scarily good at hiding it too, shooting him a smug grin because you know he knows, but nobody else does.

Vil brings out so much confidence in your abilities it’s borderline arrogance. You know you’re capable, so why doesn’t everyone just let you handle this? You can do it, they can’t. So they should just step aside. You’re not doing it to be mean, so why are they getting so annoyed at you? You’re just better.

Rook has some eccentricities, and you’re well aware of them. They put you off at first, but now you’re used to him. It just seems normal now. You’re not sure why everyone makes such a big deal out of his tendencies, that’s just how he is. He’ll stalk you, hunt you down, but he’s having fun! Don’t spoil it for him!

Epel is actually the perfect fit for NRC, you think. He’s a troublemaker, he’s stubborn, and he’s so, so angry. But he’s right! Why should you respect people who claim to be above you? It’s so irritating that they walk around with those annoying smirks on their faces. You two should do something about that, don’t you think?

Idia has a very specific way of talking that can not only be confusing, but can also irritate the hell out of people. Of all things you could pick up from him, you picked up his smug jabs and insults, accompanied by a tooth grin and a laugh. It’s unnerving how much he’s rubbed off on you, a true testament to how close you too are much to the chagrin of the rest of NRC.

Malleus finds so much delight in being your bodyguard, your most trusted companion, that he doesn’t even bat an eye when you use his magic for your own gain. You’ve gotten soft, molding to whatever shape Malleus wants you to be just so he won’t leave. You’re helpless without him, only he has the will and the magic to protect you. So won’t he please stay?

Lilia has a way of dodging the truth, putting a smile on his face even when he’s hurting. It makes you think that, if he can do that, why can’t you? Lilia is smart, he knows how to go about life, so you should follow his lead and bury your problems until they’ll never see the light again.

Sebek has done nothing but berate you for being human since you met him, and even if you’ve gotten closer to him over the course of your stay in Twisted Wonderland, you’re starting to think he’s right. If you had magic, if you weren’t human, you’d be more powerful. It’s a fact. You could do so much more if you weren’t so weak.

Silver has made you complacent. He takes each step carefully, protecting both you and Malleus, so why would you need to protect yourself in any capacity? It’s so nice, having this safety net. If you could, you'd rely on Silver forever, never facing the cruel realities of the world that are blocked by his strong arms.

[gigiwritess]

LIKE THE STAR? BRIGHTER.

dr. jack abbott x f!resident!reader "vega" aka "wildcard"

wc: 2,205 synopsis: just another normal day at the pitt—except it's not. for the first time in a long time, jack might have found an equal in every sense. tl;dr: dr. abbott meets a new resident for the first time.

contents: 20-year age gap (vega is 26, jack is 46), usual pitt dynamics. probably lots of medical inaccuracies that im not gonna apologize for. very quick mentions of mental health issues. this is totally self-inserted and vega is totally based in lots of aspects of myself. gonna probably update this list when i have more creativity.

gigi's note: this man and the pitt have been consuming my every waking thought so of course it culminated in the fastest fic i've ever written. i have a whole little series planned for these two, but im gonna try to write at least some of them in a manner where you dont necessarily need to read the others. read the end notes for more info!!! enjoy!!!!

PLAYLIST | NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST

NEXT

It had already become a habit—more often than not, Jack’s days off ended up being spent at the Pitt. Not that he minded; the Pitt’s chaos was better than the chaos inside his head that ran free when he was alone at home. At home, the silence was suffocating—he had too much time to think. Here, every beep and shout gave him a reason not to listen to the thoughts clawing at the inside of his skull. Here, he knew exactly what he was doing. And he was damn good at it.

To Vega, being in the Pitt made her feel more alive than she’d ever felt. She didn’t mind the chaos—she thrived in it. Being surrounded by it sharpened her focus, made everything else—the endless voice in her head, the black monster inside her chest threatening day by day to swallow her whole—fade into nothing but background static.

Today was no different. The Pitt was, like usual, a chaotic hellscape; machines humming, monitors beeping, medical staff shouting orders, the scent of antiseptic filling everyone’s nostrils. The kind of place that felt both alive and dead at the same time. Jack had just arrived after a few hours of sleep after his night shift, clutching a cup of coffee in his hand, when he first spotted her across the ER in trauma two—a woman who didn’t seem to belong here, but did. Jack had barely any time to take a proper look at her before she was on the move again.

She moved fast, braid whipping against her back as she called for suction, adjusting doses, her hands slick with blood. The Pitt demanded everything and she gladly gave it. Without hesitation, without pause. It was what she lived for.

“Push another 20 of epi. I need suction—no, hold it, go with 50 cc,” she called out, her voice cutting through the chaos as she worked. Controlled. Sharp. The team moved, almost grateful for the authority in her voice. She didn’t miss the way Santos’ hands trembled, or how Whitaker clung to her words like a lifeline.

Jack hadn’t seen her before—not that he was keeping track; new faces came and went. But something about this one made him look twice. He caught sight of her again—tall, dark hair, sharp, moving fast between patients. She was a calm center, a fixed point in the storm. She worked with precision, her hands a blur as she gave orders, her focus unwavering as she moved around and directed the team with an ease that made it look effortless, a mixture of experienced residents and interns following her every instruction without hesitation. She moved around the room like she owned it. She was focused.

“Who’s that?” Jack asked, voice neutral.

“That is my star resident,” Robby said with a hint of amusement in his voice, noticing his curious gaze. “Wildcard.”

Then, still working on the patient, she felt it. His stare. She was used to people’s eyes on her all the time in this place—curious glances, usually directed at her tattoos whenever they poked out; interns sizing her up, sometimes with grudging respect, sometimes openly doubting her abilities to handle the weight of the Pitt. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t the usual ER gawkers or old surgeons with smug superiority. This was different. Something else.

Jack raised an eyebrow. He had seen his fair share of capable residents, but something about the way she moved—almost like she was born for this—caught his attention. She was completely in her element, cutting through the chaos with a level of focus that suggested she’d been there before. Not that Jack expected anything less, but there was something about her that piqued his interest.

She felt the weight of his gaze, analyzing, unapologetic. She recognized that old, instinctive prickle at the back of her neck—the kind of awareness she only felt around people who could do damage. Not the loud, blustering types, no. The quiet ones. The wolves pretending to be men.

But she was no sheep.

Vega didn’t look up, focused solely on the person in front of her. She let him look. Let him think he was unnoticed, but she felt the scrape of it against her nerves.

“Wildcard?” Jack asked, nodding toward the scene, his tone cool but intrigued.

Robby grinned, stepping back slightly to give Jack a better view. “Yeah. Earned it on her first shift. Handled a mass casualty like it was nothing. Nerves of steel.”

Jack didn’t reply. Instead, he just watched her as she worked. There was a quiet intensity to the way she moved. She wasn’t loud or flashy, didn’t seek attention; instead, she commanded the room with a quiet authority, in a way that spoke volumes about her ability to take charge when things went south. It was a quality Jack respected, even if he wasn’t willing to admit it out loud. She wasn’t just surviving in the chaos—she was thriving in it. Something he did, too.

When the patient was finally stable, able to wait for the OR, Robby called her name. She peeled the paper gown off and turned towards them, tugging off the gloves with a sharp pull, and met Jack’s gaze head-on.

“Wildcard,” Robby said, “this is Dr. Jack Abbott. Jack, this is Dr. Vega, also known as Wildcard.”

She barely heard his voice—she already knew who he was.

Dr. Jack Abbott. The ER’s storm cloud, a man with a reputation for being as sharp as he was reckless. She’d heard plenty—everyone had. Stories traded in break rooms, warnings half-uttered with a mixture of respect and almost fear. A doctor built out of sharp things and bad habits, all jagged edges and rough temper. A man people either followed or avoided. And now here he was, giving her that look like he was trying to decide if she was worth his time.

Their gazes locked—not an awkward glance. She didn’t look away as most people did when meeting him for the first time, usually too nervous to look him in the eye. No. There was a beat of silence, a brief exchange of recognition, as if both of them could feel something shift in the air between them. Subtle, but undeniable. She sized him up in a fraction of a second, eyes sharp and unreadable, but he knew what that look was. For the first time in months, Jack felt something in his chest unclench, some flicker of recognition that made the blood in his veins hum with something dangerously close to life.

None of the stories she’d heard did him justice. He wasn’t the washed-up, better-than-everyone asshole she expected. For a second, the ER didn’t exist; the screaming monitors, the sharp tang of blood and bleach—gone. It was just him. Dark eyes, sharp jaw, slight tilt of his head, the heavy kind of presence you could feel in your teeth. The way he looked at her—not polite, not exactly curious. He looked at her like a man who was curious to see what would happen if he pushed. Good. She was tired of polite. She was tired of fake pleasantries.

She looked younger than he expected. But there was something else in her eyes that made her feel older than she probably was. Experienced.

Her lips twitched—barely a smile, but the kind that dared him to make the first move.

“Dr. Vega.” His voice was low, neutral, but her stomach did a dangerous twist.

There was a familiarity in the way he looked at her—not exactly recognition, but that kind of animal instinct of like recognizes like. The people who knew what it was to thrive in the places others avoided. The people who thrived in the chaos.

She couldn’t help the slight curve of her mouth, barely there, but enough to be noticed by him.

“Heard things about you, Dr. Abbott,” she said, her voice even, threading a fine line between professional and personal. “Thought you’d be scarier.”

Her words were like a soft challenge, the ghost of a smile on her lips, and it was Jack’s time to quirk an eyebrow, his eyes darkening, a flicker of something dangerous and amused sliding into place. Was she mocking him? Or was she just testing the waters? He couldn’t quite decide.

Jack tilted his head slightly, a slow, crooked smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. She met his eyes head-on, unblinking. No one held her gaze for long—too sharp, too cold—but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze dropped, assessing. Not leering. Calculating. Like a predator working out if she was worth the risk.

“Stick around, Doc,” he replied. “You’ll get there.”

Oh, she fucking liked that.

Robby snorted, glancing between them with an amused look in his eyes. Jack wasn’t the type to be rattled easily, but there was a palpable tension now between the two of them, something that felt familiar yet almost… uncomfortable. Different. Jack didn’t show it, of course, but Robby knew him better than everyone.

Vega had had a lot of first meetings since walking into this ER not more than four weeks ago. Most were forgettable, most faded by the next shift. But there was weight to this one. The air around them felt tight, stretched thin in a way she recognized from old fights and late-night emergencies. The kind of moment where you either stepped up or stepped aside, where you either fought the wave headfirst or let it wash over you, carry you with it.

“How’s day shift treating you?” Abbott asked, and Robby’s eyebrow went up, already seeing where Jack’s head was going.

Vega realized—these two men knew each other better than everyone else.

“The coffee could be better,” she replied, finishing what she was typing on the computer.

Jack’s lips quirked, a flicker of dry amusement in his otherwise unreadable expression. “Night shift coffee’s better,” he replied smoothly, taking a sip from his cup, the steam rising from it like he was making a point of something, just for her.

Robby’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he watched the interaction with newfound interest, like a new TV show that was starting to catch his attention. He shook his head. “Don’t you even think about stealing her from me, Abbott.”

Jack’s eyes found hers again, and neither looked away. “Yeah, yeah. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But the way he said it—quiet, edged—suggested otherwise.

Robby drifted off to take care of another matter, and she half-expected him to do the same, say something smug or look away. He didn’t. Neither did she. She raised her eyebrows and smirked at him, almost as if she was daring him to do something about it.

“You’re welcome to try, Dr. Abbott,” Vega said, her voice smooth, low, carrying a spark of challenge that showed itself in the way his jaw tightened slightly.

It was brief, but it was there. The smallest tell that he was just a little thrown by her, caught off guard. She liked that. She liked that a lot. Probably more than she should’ve.

He wasn’t used to being challenged quite like that. There was something about her—something too familiar in the way she carried herself that made him pause, that made him stop in his tracks.

“Noted,” he replied, five simple letters carrying more weight than normal. It felt like a promise. Or a threat—she couldn’t tell.

Both excited her, both made her heart skip a beat and made her skin prickle with something she couldn’t decipher yet. The air between them tightened, thickened. That kind of electric stillness you only get before a bad decision—the kind you’d make twice just to feel something. The kind she was built for.

He held her gaze, and she held his, never once faltering, up until she turned her back to see another patient. Jack was rattled—it’d been a while since someone managed to do that. She pulled a chart off the rack and moved on to the next patient with effortless grace. As he stared at her back, he felt an inexplicable pull, one he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel. For the first time in a long time, something in Jack’s chest pulled tight. Not enough to show, but enough for him to feel it.

Even as she walked away, she still felt it—a tug in her chest, his gaze burning between her shoulder blades, the awareness of his eyes on her as she crossed the room.

Jack didn’t move. Not yet. As she was about to disappear behind a curtain, his voice called after her.

“Vega,” he said.

Not Wildcard. Not yet. He said her name like a question. Or a challenge—she couldn’t decide. She paused. A beat. Half a heartbeat. Let the silence hang there, heavy and thick and hungry. Then she turned her head, one eyebrow raised in silent question.

“Like the star?” he asked, voice low, rough, unreadable, his eyes full of things she couldn’t decipher.

For the first time since clocking in that morning, a real smile spread across her face.

“Brighter,” she said softly and went back on her way.

She didn’t need to look back to know he was still watching her.

Good.

gigi's note: PLEASE tell me your opinions on this and what you think of the series!!!! the future pieces are gonna dive deep into vega's mental issues (which are my own). not gonna be exactly a slow burn because i hate slow burns, i just prefer the burning head-on lol comments and reblogs are most welcome!!!

my inbox is always open and i would loooooooove to yap about this man. xoxo <3

NEXT

[lunarcowgirl]

don't leave me here without you | one

yeah yeah fuck me, jack abbot x f!doctor!reader

you can read part two here and part three here

dr abbot finds your resume and thinks you are leaving the pitt - absolute disgusting and pathetic behaviour ensues, its all very endearing.

~~~

from the office of the author: DOn't even LOOK at me, I'm embarrassed. the pitt consumes my every waking thought so I'm going to make that everyone else's problem :)

this is my very first fic!!! it is a work of fiction!!!!! i do not know anything about being a doctor!!!!!! inaccuracies are none of my damn business!!!!!!!!!!

i can’t help but love the emotional constipation of jack and robby in this show, and i was feeling inspired by jack, so this is my attempt at unpacking a bit of it. reader is indeed reader, but i have formed a bit of a character in my head, so pls forgive me she does get a last name late in the piece. hope you enjoy!!!!! maybe more soon!!!!! <3

warnings: cussing, jack being pathetic, snooping based behaviours, mentions of loss of bodily function/traumatic injuries, mentions of war, mentions of covid, a spider may or not be guilty of a crime, miscommunication i fear, bad grammar from yours truely, bit o' angst

word count: 2.1k

Dr. Jack Abbot thought he was doing a very fine job not staring at you all shift long, thank you very much. It had gotten harder since you’d changed the way you’d done your hair, letting the blonde grow out. When the lights hit the top of your two fastidiously tied french braids it set the crown of your head on fire, like the sun itself sat behind you in some kind of imitation of a halo. angel indeed. You’d pierced your left ear again, yet another little golden hoop in the soft shell of cartilage at the very top. Every now and then, he would see you reach for it, as if to scratch an itch, but catch yourself before you could touch the still healing wound. The smallest, prettiest crease would form between your eyebrows, and your hand would curl into a tight fist of frustration. You were going to be the absolute death of him.

The last trauma had been difficult; damage to the neck not only making finding an airway close to impossible, but suggested a grim future for the patients ability to move as he once did. Walking was now in question. Fucking e-scooters, they were starting to offer up more victims than motorbikes. It had been an excruciating emotional dance to explain to the teenager’s recently widowed mother, that her 15 year old’s life would now be dramatically different, that she was going to have to take on a new burden. The quiet, contained grief in her eyes, not breaking contact with his, was just about all he could take for this shift.

It was easy then, to justify a little bit of gratuitous selfishness in front of the board; the easiest place to catch a glimpse of you. This shift you’d remained calm and switched on, as you always were, but something was clearly scratching at your mind. Standing dutifully behind Jack as he spoke to the mother, gently answering her questions, offering sincere condolences, introducing her to Kiara had all been done with perfect form. but when it was done, you had all but fled back to the nurses’ station, logging onto one of the computers at break neck speed.

This is where you now sat, chin resting on your linked fingers, eyes in a predatory narrow. Without meaning to, without really realising it was happening, Jack let himself drift slowly around the desk. On his journey closer to you he let his hands fall into nonchalant, non-suspicious motion. Adjusting the cord of the landline, running his finger over some forms to see if they needed his signature, flicking on a tablet to consider the chart on it. He didn’t really have the time to think too hard about it, but some small voice in the back of his head told him he looked like a fucking idiot. Jesus Christ, he’d committed now.

To get a decent angle of your screen he would have to step back a little from the desk, making it pretty damn obvious he was snooping. If it was only a glance, just a few seconds, he should be in the clear. Mindful not to get to close (you seemed to have eyes in the back of your head when it came to him, probably since he was your attending), he took one last scan of the room to check no one was clocking every last shuffle he was taking.

Pursing his lips with arms crossed tightly across his chest, he stepped back swiftly, eyes flicking down your screen. The majority of it was taken up by a word document, your name is bold letters across the top. Underneath was a jumble of dot points, places and years and accolades and societies—a resume?

A resume…your resume. You were leaving?

His heart went somersaulting into his stomach, bouncing off his ribs on the way down.

When had you decided this? Where were you going? When were you going to tell him?

Jack felt anger and grief and confusion and jealousy all at once in his veins like some kind of poisonous cocktail. What was he, some kind of teenager? What had he ever done to deserve an explanation from you? You, who was so wonderful and so clever and so funny and so so beautiful. You who had only ever weathered his grumpiness and sour expressions and poorly timed criticism with grace and patience. You who’d never figured out how to be a pessimist, who never let the bad days win. The thought of your absence was more painful than he could have ever expected — it scared him goddamn shitless.

“Dr Abbot?”

Dr Ellis had materialised out of nothing on the other side of the desk, one eyebrow cocked. Jack nearly tripped over his own feet to get away from you and the scalding sensation of shame burning across his face, “Ya?”

“Uh, can I get your eyes on a case in South 15? We’ve got a 10 year old, lethargic, sweaty, confused. Her parents are insistent she hasn’t ingested anything.”

Your head snapped up, finally divorced from whatever hypnotic pull the resume had on you.

“Does she have control over her extremities, fingers?”

Ellis frowned, “She was moving them a lot, almost obsessively. I figured if might just be a reaction to the confusion and being in a strange place.”

You stood in one fluid motion, hands quick to grab a pair of gloves, feet quick to dance around the station to get to Ellis’ side.

“Mind if I join? I think we need to look for a spider bite. Funnel-weavers are usually—”

And with that the pair of you were gone, walking shoulder to shoulder into the fray like soldiers in arms, conversing in low, practised tones. Ready to tackle whatever the inside of that room held; the scariness of having to diagnose quickly, the stress of terrified parents breathing down your neck. It didn’t matter how bitter-of-heart Jack had become after all the years of carnage, there was still a part of him that sang at the sight of a well-oiled team. It was selfish, he considered, to believe your leaving would effect just him. Every last doctor, nurse, support worker, radiologist, technician, transport aide, frequent flyer and desk clerk would mourn your loss. Perhaps the endearing Mel King most of all. She had taken to your cheerful demeanour and calm teaching style like someone drowning does to oxygen. In the time Langdon had been a voluntary inpatient, you had been a much needed rock in the stormy wake of that revelation. Another loss could send her off kilter again, and the ER needed her…badly.

So where exactly were you planning to run off to? Surely you wouldn’t go overseas again, not after what had brought you home the last time...

Morality was telling him to just walk away, to busy himself in some problem that likely was currently yearning for his help.

They hadn’t reached out had they? Could they convince you to go back?

He wished Bridget would just call for him, that Shen would bustle in with all his careful questions. But wishing would not make it so. And he had fought so long, all his life. The older he became, the easier it was to just surrender. To drift. The computer was about to fall asleep, locking it to the world. One swift movement of the mouse sealed his fate. He was a shameless snoop, a betrayer of privacy - your privacy.

It couldn’t be denied, the resume was impressive. Very, very impressive. How many graduating honours could one 30 something year old have? And the places you’d been, you’d practised - how many names could you possibly stack next to each other? Some of them he hadn’t even seen with his eyes, even after all the time in the camouflage pants that chaffed like you wouldn’t believe. You’d seen the very worst Covid had served up in Mexico City and Rio, you had been at the very front in Ukraine, in Afghanistan, traipsed all the way across North Africa and South America and just about every island in Indonesia. Pittsburgh, even with its fair share of tragedy, felt so foreign on the page next to all the adventure and danger. It would be easy to think that you had simply become bored, and wished once again to go somewhere that you could stem the flow of blood. Jack thought the blue beret would match the new blonde hair quite nicely.

“Dr Abbot?”

He froze. That voice. How long had he been staring at the carefully typed words, wishing they would reveal an answer?

There was no way, no way at all that he could gracefully and silently retreat from this one. He was elbow deep in the cookie jar, no better than a child, spited at not being told the grown up’s secret. He looked behind himself with humiliating slowness, feeling infinitely small and ashamed. The small crease between your brows had deepened into a valley he could not dig himself out of.

“Dr James.” He said, his voice sounding all together too loud and too far away, “If you are walking away from a computer in any circumstance other than a complete emergency, you must log off, there is confidential information of patients that must be protected from wandering eyes.”

“Wandering eyes?” You let a laugh escape, entirely hollow.

And then, with more steel then he had ever heard, “Can I speak with you privately for a minute?”

“Fine.” He said, straightening with an angry click from his back. Too old for all this high school shit. You made a point to lean past him, and log off with a few aggressively passive aggressive snaps of the keys.

He trailed behind your long, mechanical strides, deeply unsettled by the stiff set of your shoulders. Maybe you’d developed the ability to be negative in the time to took to stomp from the nurses’ station to the family room door, which you promptly shoulder charged open. Once it was safely closed behind both doctors, you whirled on him.

“What the hell were you doing looking at that?”

“Like I said, you need to log off—”

“Bullshit, Jack!” You looked wild, eyes impossibly wide, “There was no reason for your face to be 2 inches from the screen to log me out. Or have your eyes completely given out since the start of shift?”

If there was no way to dodge the bullet, he may as well try swallowing it, “What exactly do you plan on doing with that document? You gonna flee the country again? Run from all us sorry fucks here in the Pitt?”

You recoiled, like the venom in his words had actually struck your skin. Jack watched them sink in, the sizzle of their marks.

You shook your head once, looking down at your sneakers, the 10-year-too-old linoleum floors.

“I can’t believe you. I cannot believe you.” The words were pulled straight from your chest at the end of meat hooks.

Jack opened his mouth to strike again, but your gaze shot upwards and locked onto his. The attacks died on his tongue.

“All I have done since I set foot in here was try and get close to you Jack Abbot. I have offered you my full attention, my utter respect and confidence and trust, all my effort, all my energy, everything I have.” You took an incredulous step backwards, unsteadied by your own words and the weight of them now sitting between you, “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, I would ride right on back into all the shit and misery all over again if that is what you asked of me.”

Something that looked frighteningly like a tear slipped down your cheek and off your chin.

“And what do you offer in return? You push and push and push me away.” The words wobbled now, exhausted from the revelation.

“What right do you have,” You gasped, “to now act betrayed about this? To declare you’ve always cared? Like its me that’s hurting you?!”

Killshot.

Jack’s mouth pressed into a hard line, a terrible burning spreading through the back of his eyes, a horrible pressure on his chest. All that time he had been pretending not to look at you, you had been staring straight through him into his very soul. Seeing every ugly inch of his insides. He wanted to run, he wanted to throw up, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness at your feet.

Bridget rapped sharply on the door of the window, her face grave, “Car pileup on the highway, multiple traumas, 4 minutes out.”

By the time he turned back to you, your face had been schooled back into cool neutrality, a deep breath filling your lungs. Before Jack could reach out and touch you, you were gone, like you were never even there.

~~~~~

um, so yeah I guess? more soon! x

| next

[hughes-your-daddy]

Hey!! You’re so great at writing angst omg!! This could be for any player, but could you do something where maybe this time y/n gets hurt? She’s hurt pretty bad and he’s really worried about her, but instead she just feels horrible that she wrecked his car. He’s just shocked that she would think that he cares more about his car being totaled than her being in the hospital. And maybe a sprinkle of him taking care of her at home when she gets released from the hospital☺️🍦🍒

i love this idea thank youuu

i’m sorry..

pairing: quinn hughes x fem reader

warnings: hospitals, car crash, swearing

summary: driving to quinn’s game took an unexpected turn

“alright babe, peteys here so i’m heading off now,” quinn calls out, walking into your shared bedroom where you’re sat doing your hair and makeup for the game tonight.

he rounds the corner stopping at the door and leaning against it for a moment. “you look so pretty baby.” he smiles, catching your eyes through your mirror.

“thank you,” you blush, spinning around on your stool to see him properly as he pushes off the doorframe coming over.

“you’re wearing that suit i got you.” you smile, seeing his new suit being worn, as he walks over, taking your face in his hands leaning down to brush his lips against yours.

“gotta look good for you tonight baby,” he smiles against your lips before pressing a soft kiss to yours.

“i love you ok, ill see you later, drive safe.” he smiles before pressing one last kiss to your lips, smiling as he pulls away.

“i love you too.” you call out as he leaves the apartment, leaving you to finish getting ready. it was the annual hughesbowl tonight so you decide to go a little more with your routine than normal. you decide on some loose curls in your hair with your normal makeup routine before moving to pull on a pair of slightly baggy jeans, and quinn’s jersey, layering a hoodie underneath to stay warm.

you walk though to living room quickly throwing a few necessities into your bag before sliding on your leather jacket and grabbing quinn’s keys.

your car had been in the shop after the engine just wouldn’t turn over so quinn’s been getting a ride off petey most days refusing to let you get an uber without him as in his words ‘you could be kidnapped baby.’

so that’s how you end up in your apartments garage sitting in the drivers seat of quinn’s car, pulling the seat forward and adjusting yourself before pulling out of the garage heading to the arena.

the arena is t too far away from your apartment, that the whole reason you chose there in the first place when buying it, but the traffic makes the ride so much longer.

sitting in traffic you quickly send him a good luck text like you always do, before the car infront starts moving.

thankfully you start to see the arena come into view and just as the about to turn into the small parking lot for family and friends of the players.

that’s when it happens.

a car pulling out infront of you, speeding.

causing you to crash into them with the hood of the car, sending the buckle spinning.

it all goes dark.

quinn’s walking in, straight to the changing room quickly greeting a few people before starting to get geared up.

he quickly discards the suit, sliding on his base layers before just chucking on a hoodie and some shorts as he’s going to quickly do some media and press before the game.

he’s about to give you a call when luke comes barrelling through the front door, jack not far behind.

the teammates looking between the two brothers then to quinn in shock, thinking what they’re doing in the opposing teams changing room.

he says a quick apology to the few people in there before going over, brows furrowed.

“guys, what the hell are you doing?” he asks, voice sharper than usual, before it immediately softens at their speechless expressions.

“guys, seriously, what’s wrong?” he asks pulling them into the hallway, jack taking a breath.

“it’s-“ jack starts before being cut off by his team manager.

“boy, games been delayed for a while. a crash happened just outside, it’s blocking entryways.” they say before heading into the changing room to tell the others.

“ok jack, finish your sentence man.” quinn prods but by the look on jacks now pale face he knows something’s wrong.

“jack, talk to em yeh?” he says trying to comfort his younger brother.

“the crash, it’s y/n.” jack stutters and that’s all it takes before quinn’s sprinting off out the exit, jack and luke on his tail until he comes to a screeching halt.

he can see it.

the hood of the car crumpled, smashed glass everywhere and blood on the airbags. police manage to barricade off the scene, trying to keep the crowds to a minimum. he runs over to the police, surveying the damage.

“i’m sorry sir, but you can’t be here right now.” the cop says, ushering him back before quinn cuts him off.

“n-no that’s my car, my fiancé was driving.” he says, stumbling over his words as the cops face falls.

“oh im sorry, ill grab one of the emt’s.” he says quickly before heading off towards the ambulance.

“did yous see anything?” quinn asks turning to see his brothers stood behind, faces blank.

luke tries to find some words before jack stops him.

“no, we just saw the car when luke was driving us into the parking lot, apparently it had been gridlocked for ike an hour.” jack says, shaking his head before the cop comes back over followed by an emt.

“family of y/n y/l/n?” she asks, all three nodding, “she’s been taken to vancouver general hospital. she’s not too badly injured, a few scrapes, bruises, a small concussion, but she did dislocate her knee due to the impact but that’s the worst of her injuries.” the emt says, sending a small smile quinn’s way.

“but she’s ok?” quinn asks, the emt nodding. he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding before realising, they were stood in the middle of the street with a game starting in an hour, fans starting to notice them.

“quinn we’ve gotta move, they’re noticing us,” luke mumbles, hand on his shoulder.

“yeh, yeh, follow me there’s a door round the side.” quinn mumbles still stuck in his own thoughts, before hurrying back into the building heading to the dressing room before remembering about jack and luke.

“um,” he says, turning around quickly, jack and luke nearly running into him, “message mom and dad, just say i won’t be playing and that i’ll see them tomorrow or something.” he rushes out before turning to leave.

“quinn,” jack shouts, quinn turning brows raised, “we’re not playing dude, not when y/n injured like that yeh? get some clothes on, we’ll drive you there.” jack says before pulling him into a tight hug.

“she’ll be fine yeh? take a breather.” he mumbles, quinn visibly relaxing a bit.

“i’ll be quick.” he mumbles before turning to the dressing room.

his teammates side eye him seeing his frantic movements, rushing to pull on some trainers since he’s already got some shorts and a hoodie on before turning to petey.

“woah hughes, what’s happening?” he asks, quinn looking between him and tocchet.

“y/n was in a crash,” he says, expressions of shock being shared around the room, “i can’t play the game tonight. i’ve gotta head straight to the hospital.” he rushes, throwing some stuff into his bag, petey resting a hand on his shoulder.

“don’t worry about us ok? go see y/n,” he says sending quinn a small smile, “just send a message with how she is ok?” he says, quinn nodding before rushing out to the parking lot where jack and luke are waiting the car already running.

he quickly hops in the passengers seat, jack driving with luke in the back before he starts driving over to the hospital.

the ride felt like hours when jack was nearly breaking speed limits getting there in record speed.

jack pulls up to the front doors, quinn quickly jumping out while jack parks up, luke following his eldest brother.

“sorry, excuse me,” quinn says, slightly out of breath, waving down a nurse at reception, “my fiancé was brought here ‘y/n y/l/n,’ she was in a car accident.” quinn rushes out, panic still flooding his body.

“ok, she was brought in about an hour ago, but is currently in surgery so yous can take a seat in the waiting area,” the nurse smiles, but quinn’s mind is caught on those few words ‘in surgery.’

“sorry, what do you mean in surgery?” he asks, the nurse frowning.

“we’re you not contacted?” she asks, quinn shaking his head not recalling a phone call, “she was taken in for a routine knee surgery due to her dislocation.” the nurse says, quinn nodding absentmindedly, “she should be out in around 2-3 hours.” the nurse smiles before moving to assist someone else.

“quinn, come sit down yeh?” luke mumbles, busing him over to a few free seats where they sit down, quinn’s bodies collapsing against the plastic.

they find themselves sat in silence, jack eventually joining them asking for any updates but luke just waves him off, quickly explaining the situation. ellen and jim eventually show up, leaving the arena but due to the crash, traffic there became crazy.

it took them a few hours but when they did show up, ellen was straight to taking quinn in her arms, a few silent tears falling from her eldests eyes.

“i told her to take my car mom, if she wasn’t driving then it wouldn’t have happened to her. i caused this,” he whispers in disbelief, ellen quickly pulling away, a stern look on her face.

“quintin hughes, don’t you dare blame this on yourself,” she says stern, wiping a few stray tears off his face, “it was the other driver, a drunk, none of this was yours or y/n’s fault ok?” she says, quinn giving her a small nod before being brought back to reality by a nurse calling your name.

“y/n y/l/n?” she says, the group rushing over, quinn at the front of them, “she’s out of surgery now, room 315.” she says before they’re off navigating their way through the hospital making their way to her room.

ellen pushes him gently towards the door, his family giving him a moment in privacy to see her before them.

he gently opens the door a small creak echoing through the small room causing you to look over in surprise. that’s when you see it, that familiar mop of brown, and brown eyes meeting yours.

“quinn,” you breathe out before he’s stepping across the room quickly immediately taking you into his arms as you feel yourself break down, as he holds you tight.

“shh baby,” he soothes as you hear his own voice waver slightly as he perches himself on your bed, not loosening his grip.

“i-im so sorry,” you cry, him pulling away in confusion.

“sorry for what baby? that crash wasn’t your fault, it was a drunk guy.” quinn says gently, as you catch his eyes, seeing them red like he’d been crying.

“but your car is ruined.” you mumble, as he takes your face in his hands, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead.

“baby, i need you to know i do not care about my car right now, i just care that the ok yeh?” he asks as you can’t bring yourself to respond, “seriously baby, you’re the most important thing in my life, way more important than a car, i can buy a new one baby, i can’t get abouther one of you though.” he says, voice wobbling slightly towards the end.

“i was so scared.” you whisper, looking down before he’s moving to sit next to you on the bed, kicking his legs up, while his arms coming around your shoulders, you laying into his chest.

“your ok now, all safe with me.” he whispers back as you feel yourself start to finally relax slightly knowing he’s here with you now.

you get released pretty quickly from the hospital, ellen and jim deciding to stay a few more days to make sure you’d be settled back at home. the drive back was ok, quinn making sure he was very gentle with his driving, avoiding any bumps or harsh breaking due to your knee still being in pain from surgery even with it wrapped in a. thick layer of gauze and a knee brace.

he helps you out the car, crutches in hand as he gives you both of them but never leaves your side the whole time from the parking lot to the elevator up to your apartment. he’s by your side, hand on your lower back there for you. if you needed some extra support.

he quickly unlocks your apartment, moving away from you to quickly set up some blankets and pillows on the couch so you can set up there for the day, ellen and jim following behind you.

“we’re gonna head out and grab some groceries for you guys ok? i’ll make sure yous are all stocked up on snacks and meals.” she smiles before giving ew h of yous a hug, before heading out with him, leaving just you and quinn in the apartment.

“here baby, lemme help you.” he says, helping you back onto the couch, laying your favourite fluffy blanket over you.

“i’m gonna grab you some new clothes to change into but we’ll worry about hot showering tomorrow ok?” he asks and you send him a soft smile feeling the exhaustion overcome you.

he doesn’t take long before he’s back with a pair of his sweatpants and his hoodie in hand, coming over to the couch peeling back the blanket.

he helps you get undressed without leaving your spot, easily sliding the clothes onto your body, being careful of every time you wince at the ache in your body or pain in your knee.

“ok, all done baby,” he smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, “you need anything?” he asks, gently rubbing up and down your hip.

“cuddles?” you ask quietly, the grin widening on quinn’s face as he happily complies, sliding behind you on the couch so you can lag between his legs, back against his chest.

“i love you y/n,” quinn whispers pressing a soft kiss beneath your ear, as you smile, taking his hand in yours, resting it in your lap.

“i love you too quinny.”

[ssahotchnerr]

HI HONEY!! I have a fic request! Based on Aaron and his love for calling the reader sweet girl/his sweet girl. Where that’s his favorite nickname for her and she loves is sm and he loves it sm AND THEYRE JUST IN LOVE. I think that would be so cute!

endearments

i'm putting a (slightly) drunk aaron take on this 🤭 cw; fem!reader, mentions of drinking, soft drunk!aaron, vague suggestion, a lot of fluff <3

You had been on the brink of dozing off, but had fought against your heavy eyelids until Aaron returned home safely. It had been guys night out; aka Dave dragging him to some top-shelf fancy bar, or whatever establishment the David Rossi enjoyed to frequent.

The slower than normal pace echoed from down the hallway - locking the door, putting his coat away, a quick check on Jack; his usual night rounds. Finally he made his way into your shared bedroom, dropping soundly onto the bed beside you with a heavy exhale. His aim, however, a bit off - he landed nearly on top of you.

You could smell the small aroma of bourbon on his breath. He always drank just enough to be tipsy, smart and conscious of avoiding a brutal hangover, or an alert tending to.

"My sweet girl."

His voice was heavenly deep, softer and smoother in its inebriated manner. It paralleled his actions: drunk Aaron meant clingy Aaron. His immediate tight hold solidified such.

"Hey," You adjusted yourself, laying more so on your side, facing him. Your voice was laced with your drowsiness; tone relaxed, content, making Aaron wonder why he didn't just stay home with you all night. "Have fun?"

"Yeah, it was nice." Your hand cupped his cheek momentarily, moving towards the nape of his neck. His glassy eyes admired you.

"Dave find any new wives?"

Aaron snorted gently, "Not this time."

You hummed in response, fingers running through the back of his hair. You switched between brushing through the short strands, and gently scratching his scalp. Aaron could've groaned at the feeling (he may have, he honestly couldn't recall if he did.) "Poor wing-manning on your end, then."

"Always next time." His head dropped into your neck, immediately pressing a gentle kiss into your skin. Then another, and another. His words were muffled when he spoke, "I missed you though, sweet girl. Wished you were with me the whole time."

You immediately flushed. While Aaron supplied you with multiple terms of endearment, this was without a doubt your favorite. It simply made you feel loved within its purest state. Adored.

Whereas Aaron loved the way it rolled off his tongue. It fit, just like the way his hand fit perfectly into yours, or the way your body molded perfectly into his - just like now. Not only that, he loved your reaction - the pet name turned you into a flustered, shy mess within seconds.

But now, in his drunken state, he wasn't saying so to fluster you, but it was the natural affection you caused him to possess, only elevated. His words rushed out effortlessly, freely. More insistent.

"You're blushing."

You scoffed lightly, all in amusement. "How do you know?"

"Because you're my sweet girl." His words slurred slightly, flowing together. If you didn't know any better, he was also falling asleep. He leaned up to kiss your lips, before his head dropped hastily back down onto your chest. "I know what I'm saying.

"You're drunk. Do you really?" You teased, your eyes narrowing with a small smile on your face.

"How dare you question otherwise."

You laughed softly, sitting up from your lying position, causing Aaron to whine as he slid off, breaking contact. "Let's get you out of these clothes."

Despite the shadows on half his face, half illuminated by the glow of the lap, you could see his lips tugging into a mischievous smirk.

"Wipe that look off your face Hotchner."

He allowed it to linger for just a playful moment longer, before his facial features relaxed, allowing you to pull off his clothes. You tossed them onto the ground carelessly - they could be dealt with in the morning. You tossed him yet another lighthearted glare at the second smirk that followed when you reached his belt buckle.

As tempting as it was, now wasn't the time.

In just his boxers and tee, his arm wrapped around your middle, pulling you as close as he could possibly get you. His face, right back into the crook of your neck. "My sweet girl."

His repetitive words left him in a sigh, quiet enough you wouldn't have known he mumbled them if it weren't him speaking directly into your skin, or for them vibrating into you.

You wiggled your hand out from his hold, draping it over his forearm and lazily tracing your fingertips along the veins his arms possessed.

"I love it, you know." You mumbled into the darkness, scooting back against him, burying your head into your pillow. Confirming the proximity, you almost couldn't be any closer. "Being yours."

He was fading fast, but still awake and aware enough to respond, "Can't imagine anything else."

[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

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[jkscaffolding]

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[augustjoy]

That’ll Show Them.

Based on the following ask: 🥰 yay!! Okay. (Deep breath), so the idea was basically either preschool or elementary school setting. Hotch being a sexy single dad has most of the single (and not!) Moms drooling over him. Y/N or Reader is a single mom, not one of those drooling but definitely sees that he's attractive. But her kid (girl or boy) happens to quickly become Jack's BFF and this causes natural interactions and conversations between her and Hotch over the next few weeks which makes the other moms salty and jealous, and she overhears them at one point speculating that she probably told her kid to befriend Jack just so she could get closer to Hotch. I didn't really think of an ending for it but just had an idea of a scene where she's trying to remain calm and unaffected while overhearing them talking about her and giving side eye. Maybe Hotch hears it too and comes to her defense? Or makes them even saltier by asking her out in front of them? 😈 @nyxwolph thank you for requesting this! I did adjust a little bit, so I hope you like it!!

Aaron Hotchner x Single Mom! Reader

Angst/Fluff

Word count: 3569

REQUESTS ARE OPEN - not edited - please be kind. Requests are open and feedback is welcome if it's constructive!

Warnings: My blog is 18+, minors DNI, some explicit language, reader is a single mom, mention of divorce, school moms being shitty, mention of Hotch’s ex father-in-law being ill, no use of y/n, Fem reader, reader has no physical description other than being shorter than hotch, reader is mentioned/implied to own a shop (no details), gay best friend, Hotch starts work at 8am (idk what the BAU hours are lmao) let me know if I missed any!

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

The moms were ruthless. You were barely three months into the school year and already you had been completely ostracized from the “mom group.” Part of you had assumed it was because the majority of these moms had all caught wind of your very public, messy divorce. The other part of you, however, knew that the main reason you’d been exiled was him.

Aaron HOTTIE Hotchner, as the other moms called him, had taken Ms. Jenson’s third grade class by storm. Meet the teacher night had been a frenzy of horny moms all praying their child ended up in the same class as Aaron’s son. There were hushed conversations and giggles, and hair flips all night long, you had felt bad for the teachers since their presentations had fallen second to the gossip travelling through the halls about the hot single dad.

“I heard he works for the FBI!”

“I heard he’s a widower. Could you even imagine?”

“Wow. He must be pretty amazing, a single dad and working for the FBI!”

“Can we be real for a moment and just admire how hot he is?”

“Did you see his hands?”

“Yes! Did you see his suit? I love a well-dressed man.”

They were vultures, every single one of them, and Aaron was their newest victim. He, of course, had been completely oblivious to the blatant flirting – he returned every advance they made with a kind smile or polite nod. And listen, you weren’t going to deny that Aaron was hot…you just weren’t trying to be like those other moms and gush about it at meet the teacher night.

Your being excluded by the class moms had only gotten worse since Jack and Millie had become friends. Millie had told you on the first day of school, that a boy had pushed her down on the playground, and before you could panic, she told you that a different boy…one named Jack…had helped her up. She said after that, they sat together at lunch and read aloud.

You could barely contain you excitement. Since the divorce, Millie had been having a tough time making friends – mainly because the moms told their kids to stay away. Your ex had been quite cozy with some of the moms at Millie’s last school and you had eventually found out he was sleeping with one of them. Once the divorce was finalized and you had full custody, you’d moved and that meant a new school for Millie.

Realistically that should’ve been the end of the drama, but it just so happens that the girl who your husband slept with…well her sister’s child was in the same class as Millie. He of course was the kid that pushed Millie down on the first day of school.

It shouldn’t have bothered you, their constant whispers…but it had you seething. This was an everyday occurrence now that you drove Jack home. The moms all waiting for dismissal engaging in hushed conversations about how desperate you must be.

“I bet she told her daughter to befriend his son.”

“What a sad way to get his attention.”

“Well, I mean, her ex did cheat…so she’s probably desperate.”

“She’s ridiculous if you ask me.”

This new development has begun exactly two weeks ago. Jack and Millie had been on their sixth playdate – this had been the first one Aaron had been able to host (due to work obvi) which had led to you staying and the two of you talking about how demanding his work schedule must be. He had told you it kept him pretty busy and that his sister-in-law had been extremely helpful, but with her father falling ill, she was growing increasingly busy.

“You know, I could drive Jack. If you’re comfortable with it.” You offered.

“I couldn’t possibly ask that of you!” Aaron panicked.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t ask…I’m offering. I already have to drive to the school to get Millie, I could grab Jack and the two of them could hang out until you are off work. And if your sister-in-law ever can’t watch him while you’re away, know that I am more than willing.” You punctuated with a kind smile.

“What if I take them to school, I don’t need to be at work until eight, and then you could pick them up? That way it is even. Obviously when I’m out of town, which wouldn’t necessarily be possible, but I could coordinate with Jess and…” Aaron was spiraling.

“Aaron. If you want to take them to school when you’re in town, that would be great. That would allow me the time I need in the shop before opening. When you are out of town, if Jack is staying with me, I will take them to and from school – if he’s with Jess, she doesn’t have to worry about Millie okay?” You suggested.

“You’re a godsend. You know that?” Aaron said, a smile growing on his face.

“Yeah well, Jack has been an incredible friend to Millie, and I would love for them to spend more time together. Plus, the house has been so quiet and, I don’t know. It would be nice to have the kids there.” There was a slight cringe that was brought with the insinuation of your divorce.

“I appreciate it either way.” Aaron gently nudged your shoulder.

So, for the last two weeks, Aaron had been driving the kids to school and you had been picking them up. He shockingly had yet to be called on a case…but you knew it was only a matter of time.

Aaron was called away a few days later, he had let you know that Jess would be watching Jack. That had sent a tinge of pain right to your heart. In truth, you were attracted to Aaron, and the more time you spent with him, you were starting to fall for him. You tried not to focus too much on the fact that he’d sent Jack to stay with Jess…chalking up to the fact that Aaron probably didn’t want to burden you – even though he could never.

You didn’t hear from Aaron until nearly two weeks later.

A: Hey, we just got back from this case. I’ll pick Millie up in the morning for school. Are you good to pick up Jack after?

Y: Hey! Yeah I can pick them up tomorrow. I have to take Millie to get her cleats and shin guards for soccer, is it okay if Jack tags along?

A: I totally forgot soccer starts next weekend. If I sent some money in Jack’s backpack could you pick up his stuff too?

Y: Of course! Will you be late tomorrow?

A: Probably, after a case like this, there’s a lot of paperwork to be done. I will try to be there by 7pm if that’s okay.

Y: 7 is fine, we will get homework done and I will feed them and have Jack all ready for you!

A: Thank you. Seriously I don’t know what I’d do without you.

The next day you arrived at the school at 2:45 pm to pick up the kids. You parked your car like always and stood in wait with the other parents. You were checking your phone to see where the nearest sporting goods store was when one of the dads approached you.

“Hey, is Millie ready for soccer to start?”

“Oh, hey Scott! Yeah she is so excited! What about Macy?” You questioned.

“She’s nervous, but she told me she was glad Millie and Jack were playing too. Michael was really bummed that the girls weren’t in a class together this year.” Scott explained.

“I was too! How is Michael? We should all have dinner some time!” You suggested.

“He’s good, and I am sure he would love to have you and your new beau over for a meal – I will talk to him when we get home!” Scott beamed.

“New beau…what are you talking about? Do you mean Aaron? He and I, we’re not…” You stuttered.

“Don’t worry, it’s okay! You should be bragging to all those bitches that you bagged the hot DILF! Don’t let them spoil something good for you hon.” Scott gently squeezed your arm.

Just as you opened your mouth to reply, the kids came running out. Macy ran to hug her dad while Jack and Millie made their way to you. Both kids hugged you and then said their goodbyes to Macy. You moved to grab their hands and guide them to the car, but not without catching the glares from all the moms. They must’ve heard Scott and you talking…and while you and Aaron weren’t dating, it didn’t hurt to let them believe it for a bit.

After getting the kids soccer gear, you took them home and got them started on their homework and gave them some apple slices. You checked a few emails, changed the washer and dryer, and wrote up your grocery list in the meantime.

When they were done with their homework, you checked their work and then quizzed them on their spelling words. By then it was nearly 5:30 pm, you set the two of them up in the living room with a coloring book and some Legos while you got dinner started. You made some grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans – for the kids, you added some cheese to the potatoes and cut up the chicken – setting that on the table for them alongside a glass of chocolate milk.

“Kids, time for dinner!” You hollered.

“Coming mom!” Millie called.

You were about 10 minutes into dinner when a knock sounded from the front door. You excused yourself and walked over to let Aaron in.

“Hey, we were just having dinner, can I get you a plate?” You offered.

“Oh, as long as it’s not an imposition!” Aaron replied.

“Aaron, how many times do I have to tell you that it’s not an imposition. I like having you around.” You stopped abruptly, embarrassed that you’d let that slip. “I mean, you know, it’s nice that Millie and Jack are friends…I uh. I…”

“I know what you mean. And I like having you around too.” He said, finally stepping fully into the house.

Aaron placed a gentle hand on the small of your back to guide you toward the kitchen. You plated him up some food and he joined you at the table, sitting right beside you. You couldn’t help the growing heat that bloomed on your cheeks as his arm brushed against your own. The room was filled with the playful chatter of the eight-year-olds that sat across from you, giggles escaping them as they recounted the events of their day at school.

Glancing over, you noticed the joy radiating from Aaron’s expression. You hadn’t seen him this genuinely happy in all the time you’ve known him, and you wonder if it is because he doesn’t get to relax like this often. The thought allows your mind to drift even further – splaying images of cooking for the four of you all the time, of late nights cuddled with Aaron and even further into the future, welcoming a new child to the family you’ve curated…only it's all in your head.

“You alright?” Aaron whispers. His warm breath against your ear causes a chill to cascade across your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Yeah, I’m good. Sorry, just lost in thought.”

“Hey mom, is Jack’s dad going to be my new dad?” Millie posed, causing you to choke on the bite of chicken you’d just taken.

“Woah, sweetheart you’re okay, just breathe!” Aaron patted your back gently. “Here, take a sip of water.”

Taking a swig, the chicken makes its way down. “Mills…baby where did you get that idea?”

“Well Rain said that his mom said that you were moving in on Jack’s dad, and I thought that if we were moving in, then that would make him my new dad!” Millie smiled.

It was Aaron who choked this time, only it was on his water, causing some of it to certainly escape through his nose. He pulled his napkin to his face as he coughed in an attempt to clear his airway.

“Aar…breathe.” You returned the favor of patting him gently on the back. “Are you okay?”

He answered with a nod and allowed a chuckle to escape his mouth before looking up to meet your gaze. Aaron wasn’t ignorant of the fact that the other moms had been eyeing him since the beginning of the year, he just hadn’t realized that they’d gone after you due to your budding closeness.

“Millie, Rain’s mom is just kidding. Jack’s dad and I are becoming good friends, like you and Jack, and they don’t like that, so they’re saying some not so nice things.” You explained.

“Oh…okay.” Millie said, a small pout gracing her features.

A pout that pulled on not only yours, but also Aaron’s heartstrings. He allowed himself a glance in your direction and took careful note of the hurt and disappointment that flashed across your own features briefly. Was it possible you felt more than you were letting on?

Six days later you received a call at four in the morning. It hadn’t been the thing to wake you up, but it came as a surprise, nonetheless.

“Hello?”

“Hey, I just got a call about a time sensitive case and Jess is dealing with her dad. Would you mind taking Jack while I am away?”

“Aaron, of course! Do you need me to come and get him?”

“No, I will get a bag together for him and drop him off on my way to the office. I am going to leave you with a key to my place just in case Jack needs anything. Thank you for doing this, seriously it means a lot.”

“It’s really not a problem, I will have a bed made up for him by the time you get here.”

“Thanks sweetheart, see you soon.”

With that, Aaron hung up, and for the second time you were taken by surprise at the pet name he so casually referred to you by. You had to remind yourself not to swoon. It wouldn’t do you any good to get into your thoughts about the meaning behind his slip of the tongue.

Jack Hotchner was the most wonderful child you have the privilege of knowing – aside from Millie of course. He was polite and he listened with no pushback. He helped Millie with her chores (cleaning up her toys and putting her clothes in the laundry basket), he didn’t complain, and he just exuded this kindness and joy that brought an extra bit of warmth to your home.

You could see Millie becoming attached and you feared her heart would break once Jack had to go back home. You only hoped that she’d understand that although Jack’s presence isn’t currently permanent, they’d still get to see each other all the time.

Jack stayed with you for five nights, Aaron surprised you all by showing up with a pizza on Saturday evening.

The three of you had been cuddled up on the couch watching Inside Out 2 when the doorbell rang. You shuffled over to the door in your sweats and fuzzy socks to see Aaron standing there in a quarter zip and jeans. Good God, he’s never looked so good.

“Aaron!” You couldn’t hide your excitement.

“Surprise! I brought pizza, I hope cheese is okay.” He inquired.

“Cheese is perfect.” You confirmed. “Kids, dinner is here!”

“Dad!”

Jack ran to embrace his father. Millie, however, stormed off to her room. You were quick to throw Aaron an apologetic glance, before following her down the hall.

“Mills…what’s wrong honey?”

Millie replied with a grumble in her pillow and a shake of her head.

“Baby, I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”

“It’s not fair. Jack doesn’t have a mom, and I don’t have a dad. But when you and Mr. Aaron are together it feels like a normal family. How come you guys can’t just be together?” Millie cried.

“Oh, honey. It’s not that simple bug. Mr. Aaron, well he’s a busy man and I just…” You trailed off.

“Don’t you like him?”

“Mills, yeah I like him, but like I said, it’s not that simple. Even if he liked me back, that wouldn’t just make us a family, it would take some time for us to get serious and then we’d have to decide if that was the right step for us.”

“It is the right step! You guys like each other, and Jack and I get along…mommy it’s perfect! You could be Jack’s mom and Mr. Aaron could be my new dad.” Millie said matter-of-factly.

“Oh honey, is this about your dad?” You pulled Millie into a hug.

“No! He wasn’t nice to me like Mr. Aaron is. Mom I want Mr. Aaron to be my dad.” She whispered as tears stained her cheeks.

“I know honey, me too…me too.” You pressed a kiss to her head. “Baby lets go have some pizza and enjoy our time with Jack and Mr. Aaron, yeah?”

“Okay.”

That night, something shifted. Aaron and you had begun spending more time together, going to soccer practices and games together, taking the kids to the park, the movies, pottery painting places, dinner at your house, game night at his. Aaron had also exclusively been asking you to take Jack while he was away on cases – claiming Jess’ father was getting worse.

Two months passed like this, and things had started to feel very domestic. Millie was asking more and more about Jack being her brother and Aaron her father and you had to explain that even though they weren’t related, even by marriage, that friends could be considered family too.

Once again you were taking care of Jack while Aaron was out of town on a case, only this time it was a little different. Your car was in the shop, so Aaron had let you borrow his car, and today was the last day of school before winter break. The schoolyard was buzzing with anticipation of the final bell, parents were discussing their vacation plans with one another while waiting.

You has been talking to Scott and Michael when Becca approached you.

“You know, I think it’s a sick thing you’ve done, using your daughter to help you prey on a vulnerable man.” She hissed.

“Excuse me? What the hell are you talking about?” You shot back.

“Aaron. You had Millie befriend Jack and for what so you could trick Aaron into going out with you? It’s truly despicable behavior. He’s a good man and he deserves someone who is genuine.” Becca spewed.

“I don’t know where you get off, talking to me like that, but I can assure you – ”

“Becca, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t speak to my girlfriend that way. She is the kindest most genuine person I have ever met, and every day she shows me how much she cares for and loves Jack and me. So back off, and maybe don’t speak on things you don’t know anything about.” Aaron bit as his arm snuck its way around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“I KNEW IT!” Scott shouted.

Becca stormed off with a huff and you turned around to see Aaron wearing a shit eating grin. You couldn’t help but be overwhelmed with disbelief at the fact that Aaron was here right now, he’d stuck up for you, and he’d called you his girlfriend. Yeah, you were fairly sure your brain had short circuited.

“Girlfriend?” Your gaze lifted to meet his.

“You know, I’d been meaning to ask.” He grinned down at you. “What do you say?”

“Yes! Of course!”

Aaron closed the gap between you and captured your lips in a kiss. All the while the moms scoffed and huffed in disbelief that you truly had taken Aaron HOTTIE Hotchner off the market. And before you had a chance to pull away, Jack and Millie came bounding over just in time to catch the last bit of your kiss.

“Does this mean Mr. Aaron can finally be my dad?” Millie asked.

Aaron leaned down to Millie’s level “Mills, I would love nothing more than to be your dad, but we have to take things slow okay? Your mom and I have a lot of grown-up decisions to make before that can happen, so I need you to be patient. Can you do that for me?”

“I can do that!”

You leaned down in front of Jack, wanting to ensure he’s included in all this. “What do you think Jack? Would you be okay with me and your dad being together? It means you and Millie will be together a lot more often.”

“Will you eventually be my mom then?”

“If your dad and I choose to get married eventually, then yeah, I’d be your stepmom.” You explained.

“I think you’d be a really good mom.” Jack wrapped his arms around you.

Aaron and you may have only just made things official, but in the last five or so months, you’d both fallen for each other. Sometimes, things are just right, and all the pieces fall into place naturally. And for the first time in a long time, you couldn’t wait to see where this leads.

[twohearts-hs]

Dove & Captain: 7 - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader Series

Words in Total: 11.9k

Pairings: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Synopsis: She's his Dove. The ER nurse who is the definition of chaos, trauma and humour in scrubs. He's her Captain, gruff, emotionally guarded war veteran with a prosthetic leg and completely in love with her. Six years together, a mortgage, four dogs and the ability to conquer anything. This is a story of their life in one day. He is 49, she's 30. This is one day of their life based on the 15 episodes of 'The Pitt'. There will be little imagines of their relationship over the years.

Warnings: Swearing, Age Gap, Trauma, Medical Language/Procedure, Pregnancy, Miscarriage, etc.

A/N: This is a complete series of ~60k. I will post a few snapshots of their relationship over the six+ years they've been together.

Hope you enjoy :)

Series Masterlist

-

2000

It was now eight o’clock. An hour passed the time Y/N was supposed to be off. Another hour into this mass casualty.

            Y/N was on another patient. Jack was behind her with a different patient. Dr. Mohan was with her as they worked alongside one another.

            “This is weird,” Dr. Mohan called out.

            “What?” Jack asked, looking over.

            “Shot in the chest but nothing out of the thoracostomy tube,” Dr. Mohan said to Jack as he came over.

            Leaning over, Jack looked at the tube going into the patient. “You got through the pleura, ok?” he asked.

            “Yeah, I definitely felt the lung with my finger,” Dr. Mohan replied.

            Y/N was working around them, then glanced up. “Hey, I lost the radial pulse. I got a femoral though,” she stated, looking at the two doctors. “I think he’s bleeding out.”

            Jack nodded. “Indeed, he is. Probably tore through the spleen,” he said.

            “How?” Mohan asked.

            “Ok,” Jack hummed, “nipples to navel is no man’s land. If he got shot while exhaling, the bullet possibly passed below the diaphragm.” He glanced over to Mohan. “Start a second IO, transfuse two units O-positive. Where’s Robby? Let’s find him and call Walsh. This guy needs the next OR immediately.” Then Jack was gone, moving to the next patient.

            Y/N went straight back to her work.

-

Y/N continued to follow Mohan around. She was a great doctor, an excellent doctor and the more Y/N worked with her, the more impressed she was.

            They were in a trauma room stabilising a patient when Jack opened the door and came in, pulling his gloves on as he entered.

            “Tapping in,” he expressed.

            “Thanks, brother,” Shen responded, patting Jack on the shoulder.

            “Yeah,” Jack grunted, coming over to the side.

            “EFAST normal. No abdominal haemorrhage, no tamponade,” Mohan stated, trying to catch Jack up to speed. Jack glanced at the monitors.

            Jack looked at the wound before Y/N spoke up. “Pulse ox borderline, 89% on 15 litres,” she stated as they made eye contact. “BP’s only 95 over 58,” she finished, looking over at the monitor before going back to her work on the patient.

            “Vinny Rivera…is he here?” the patient asked, looking over to them.

            “I’m not sure, man,” Jack replied.

            “I’m so sleepy,” the patient muttered.

            “Were you tired right after you got shot?” Mohan asked. The monitors continued to repeatedly beep.

            “Uh, no,” he muttered back. “I helped move 20, 30 people.”

            Y/N continued to do her nursing duties as Jack analysed the monitor, brain trying to calculate.

            “What’s causing his oxygen levels to tank?” Mohan asked.

            “Up the oxygen!” Jack ordered, looking at Y/N.

            She went over to the machine, trying to adjust it. “Abbot, 15’s as high as it goes,” she replied.  

            Jack walked over to her. “Gauge only goes to 15. Keep cranking, Kid,” he fired back. “You can get to 50.” Y/N nodded, going back to the machine.

            Just then, the door opened and a woman appeared. “Brian?” she asked. Lupe was there too. Y/N and Jack both turned around. Jack stood there like he was in the military, hands behind his back as he stared at Y/N, then at the patient.

            “Vinny got shot. I sent him with the first car I saw,” the patient stated, voice breathy. “Is he ok?”

            The woman looked at Jack, then to Brian, leaning over. “You fight, Brian, ok? You fight like the stubborn bastard you are.”

            “I tried, Whit,” Brian replied. “I tried,” he cried.

            They continued to work with Brian, but the monitor continued to rapidly beep. No one had an idea of what was happening. Y/N glanced at the monitor and than to Jack and Mohan.

            “He’s on 100% oxygen,” she stated. “His pulse ox is still only 88.”

            Jack nodded, listening to the patient’s chest when Walsh came into the trauma room. “How’s it going upstairs?” Jack called over his shoulder.

            “Regular spa day at the OR,” Walsh replied. Y/N was grabbing IV bags, changing them. “42 ex-laps and thoracotomies.”

            “Impressive,” Mohan replied.

            “What do you got?” Walsh asked, grabbing gloves.

            “GSW through and through the thigh, not arterial, now hypotensive and hypoxic,” Jack replied, walking around the patient and trading spots with Mohan.

            “Sounds like blood loss,” Walsh replied.

            “No. Haemoglobin times 2 is stable,” Mohan stated, glancing over to Walsh. “Vena cava is plump. It would be flat with haemorrhage.”

            Jack stared at the screen where the ultrasound was presented. “It’s actually a little too plump. Let me see the phased array probe,” Jack stated, grabbing the probe.

            “Any history of heart disease?” Walsh called out.

            “Not sure, but he’s a strong guy,” Y/N replied. “Got shot, strapped a t-shirt and belt around his thigh and ran around helping people for a few hours.”

            Jack then gasped quietly. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed. “Check out the four chamber apical view.”

            Y/N turned her head to look at the monitors.

            “Dilated right atrium and right ventricle. Right-sided strain with vowing of the septum,” Mohan stated, reading the scan.

            “Sounds like a PE,” Walsh added. “He threw a clot from having the tourniquet on?”

            Jack shook his head. “Way too soon for a DVT. Ok, let’s get him in left lateral decubitus,” Jack stated, moving the probe before handing it back to Y/N. “One, two…” Y/N grasped the patient’s side and helped roll him over. “Trendelenburg ASAP.”

            “What for?” Mohan asked.

            “Intracardiac air embolism. All that running around introduced air into the femoral vein right up to the heart. Now it’s blocking blood flow to the lungs,” Jack told them.

            “You need a CT to confirm,” Walsh replied.

            “They’re still backed up with other patients,” Y/N said to Walsh.

            Walsh looked at her. “Well, then maybe the cath lab can take them. They have fluoro. I’ll go check!” she called out, walking away.

            “Yeah, good luck with that,” Jack retorted, then he met Y/N’s eyes. “Kid, get me a central line kit and a 5 French pigtail catheter, please.”

            “Yes, Captain,” she hummed, walking to grab supplies. Jack looked at her, sending her a hard glare. She was not allowed to use that nickname at work.

            “Y/N,” he warned, raising a brow. Voice was low and sharp.

            She smirked over her shoulder, already grabbing supplies. “You said please,” she replied sweetly. “I’m being polite.”

            Jack stared at her again. “Y/N. Don’t.”

            Mohan looked between them before looking at Jack. “He doesn’t have a collapsed lung,” she told him.

            Jack grunted. “Yeah?”

            “So, what are you going to do?” Mohan asked.

            Jack glanced over, standing up straight as he stared at her. “I’m not going to do anything. You are.”

            Y/N looked between the two of them, holding the supplies. She chuckled, shaking her head as she watched Mohan’s shock take over her face.

            Y/N was watching, doing her job as Jack and Mohn were performing whatever they were performing.

            “Got the IJ,” Mohan stated, placing a needle inside the patient while Jack held the probe.

            “Ok, back to business as usual, thank God,” he stated, looking at the ultrasound. “Guidewire and introducer,” he began, grabbing the supplies on the tray behind him.

            “What the hell are you doing?” Dr. Walsh spoke up as she entered the room.

            “Dr. Mohan is about to pull air from the right atrium and right ventricle,” Jack stated, annoyance in his tone but also his damn stubbornness.

            “With what?” Walsh barked.

            “Five French Pigtail catheter,” Mohan replied.

            “Inside the heart?” Walsh asked, voice sharp.

            “It’s so cool,” Y/N replied, looking over her shoulder. “I want to do this.”

            Jack glanced at Y/N. “You’re a nurse, Kid. Dummies is all you get,” he mumbled.

            Y/N frowned. “Way to kill a girl’s ambition.” Jack just let out a low chuckle.

            “Multiple side-holes gives you a better shot at suck out all the air,” Jack explained, watching the procedure be done.

            Mohan glanced up. “Dr. Abbot showed me a case report from South Korea–“ Mohan tried.

            “What the actual fuck?” Walsh barked, pushing Y/N out of the way.

            “Woah, girl,” she muttered.

            “Hey,” Jack stated. “Be gentle.”

            Walsh glared. “I just talked to cardiology. They want a CT scan. If it’s showing air, then you need to dive him in the hyperbaric chamber,” she said, looking at the procedure.

            “He’ll be dead by then,” Jack barked.

            “Not if you kill him first with this banana-pants procedure,” Walsh fired back.

            Jack was getting agitated. Y/N could tell. His brows were furrowed, his jaw was tight. “We don’t have time to wait for your fancy-pants machine,” he replied, tone sharp but low. “If we don’t get the air out of his heart, he’ll die.”

            “This is not the standard of care,” Walsh replied lowly.

            Jack shot up to look at Walsh, eyes glaring at her as if she had stolen the last cookie from the cookie jar. “Oh, fuck standard of care. If we want to save him, we go in now.” His eyes were glaring holes into Walsh.

            Mohan was uncomfortable. “Maybe I should–“

            Jack glanced at Mohan. “Thread in the pigtail?” he hummed, mocking Walsh. “Excellent idea, Dr. Mohan.” Jack grabbed the supplies before handing them to Mohan, sending her a reassuring nod.

            Gentle beeping was heard as Mohan took the pigtail and continued to work under Jack’s supervision and words.

            “Go down to 24 centimetres, and then we’ll confirm with X-ray,” he told her, watching as she did what he told her to do. “Good.”

            “Think I’ll stick around in case you need another set of hands to resuscitate your patient when he crashes,” she remarked, then looked at Y/N. “Nurse, gloves.”

            Y/N stayed there for a moment, raising a brow. “A please would be nice,” she muttered, walking away to grab gloves before handing it to her. She took them. “And a thank you would suffice. Mother never taught you manners, Walsh?” she hummed with a smirk.

            Jack glanced up, smiling lightly but the average folk wouldn’t know. But Y/N, she knew.

            Walsh looked over to her. Staring hard but didn’t respond as she snapped her gloves on.

            “Pigtail’s in the right atrium, good position,” Jack said after they took an X-ray. “Aspirate, see what you get.”

            Y/N was there, helping Mohan as she glanced up to see Jack staring at them. He was gowned up in blue, surgical gloves on and safety glasses. His hands were close to his chest, but far away to make sure its sterile.

            “Pulling back blood from the heart…” Mohan muttered holding the syringe and pulling its trigger. “Along with some air,” she said then looked back at Jack.

            Jack smirked, looked at Walsh. “How about that?” he snarked before walking back over.

            “BP’s still only 85 systolic,” Y/N called out.

            “No improvement,” Walsh stated the obvious.

            Y/N let out a sharp breath, trying to keep her cool. Jack ignored her comment.

            “Advance slowly into the right ventricle,” he told Mohan.

            “How do I know when I’m–“

            “PVCs–“ Y/N tried, looking at the monitor.

            “That’s how you know. Aspirate again,” Jack stated.

            “Run of three,” Y/N hummed as the alarm blared from the machine.

            “More blood and air coming out,” Mohan replied, pulling more on the syringe.

            “Run of five,” Y/N said.

            “Non-sustained V tach. Charge to 200 for when he deteriorates,” Walsh commanded.

            Y/N stared at her for a moment, and she raised a brow. Y/N then promptly nodded, moving away from the table and doing her orders and going to the crash cart.

            “Mainly blood now,” Mohan explained.

            Jack nodded. “Pull the pigtail back to the RA.”

            “Step aside,” Walsh barked.

            “Pull the pigtail, Dr. Mohan,” he commanded, looking at the monitor again.

            “Step aside!” Walsh yelled, holding panels, however Jack took a step to block her.

            “You got this,” he stated, looking at Mohan. Then Mohan pulled the pigtail.

            Y/N smiled where she was. “Normal sinus rhythm, 92,” she called out as the beeping stopped. “Pulse ox is improving. BP’s 112 over 84.” She stared at the monitor.

            Walsh stepped down. The patient stabilised and Jack was full-blown smirking. He turned his head slightly to look at Walsh. “Not too shabby, huh, Dr. Walsh?” he hummed. “I think we can admit him to General Surgery now.”

            “Hell no,” Walsh replied.

            Jack’s brows furrowed. “He’s a gunshot victim.”

            “Admit him to the cardiac ICU. We’ll consult from there,” she barked back.

            Jack hummed, shrugging. “Well, you can admit him yourself, with Cardiology consulting. I thought you liked flying the plane.”

            Walsh took a step up to him, lowering her voice. “Not when it’s gonna crash.” Then she glared at Mohan and Y/N before leaving.

            Jack turned back to Mohan. “Solid work.”

            “That was your save, not mine,” Mohan replied, shaking her head.

            Jack smirked. “Take the win, Dr. Mohan,” he hummed.

            “Thanks,” she said, voice light and happy.

            “Besides, it was a little too risky for me to do myself,” he hummed, looking down. Y/N watched them, working around them, shaking her. What an ass he was…a little shit.

            “What?” Mohan breathed.

            “Kid, suture?” he called over his shoulder.

            Y/N chuckled, grabbing the supplies before handing Jack them. “So, you’re allowed to make jokes mid-procedure now? Is that what we’re doing now, Abbot?” she asked, smirking.

            Jack didn’t look up as he took the suture kit. “When I’m saving lives? Yes, when you’re mouthing off at me? Never.”

            Y/N smirked. “So, I can’t make comedy in your trauma room?” she hummed.

            Jack looked at her. “Kid,” he warned, then shook his head. “Keep it to the stage but thank you for your application in entertaining me while I’m working. It’s in the trash.”

            Y/N chuckled, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. They were back to normal. Their banter was there, and Jack was actually letting loose at work. It was as if he wasn’t pissed off at her an hour ago, though she knows the lecture is coming.

            Mohan blinked at them, pausing her movements. “Um, I’m sorry, but like you two close?” she asked.

            “Y/N was part of the night shift for a long time,” Jack said, handing Mohan the suture kit. “Suture.”

            “You two used to work nights together?” she hummed, brows furrowing.

            Jack nodded. “Yeah, she was my charge nurse until she was moved back to days like two weeks ago,” he stated, watching Mohan.

            Mohan shook her head. “Ok,” she muttered, looking down then back up, “Kid and Captain?” she asked, raising a brow.

            “What do you mean?” Y/N asked, crossing her arms.

            “He calls you kid like he’s your dad–“

            “I am not her fucking dad,” Jack bit. “Not even fucking close.”

            Mohan slowly nodded.

            “Do not mix Abbot’s and I’s relationship with the word ‘dad’,” Y/N warned as she went to check his IV and change the bags.

            “Right, so Captain and Kid,” she muttered as she began to suture.

            “Ask the question, Mohan,” Jack stated, watching. “It’s burning.”

            “You two are close?” Mohan whispered. “Like close? Because you act like a divorce couple who have joint custody of a dog.”

            Jack chuckled lowly, shaking his head. “We have four dogs,” he whispered. “We share them. No joint custody where we trade off to different houses. We have one house.”

            Y/N bit back her grin and chimed in casually. “And a mortgage.”

            Mohan froze; mouth slightly open. “Wait…what?”

            Jack stood straight up, peeling his gloves and gown off as he through them in the trash as he looked over. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Four dogs, a mortgage,” he muttered.

            Y/N then smirked. “He may be the boss here, but I’m the boss in the bedroom,” she hummed, winking.

            “Y/N!” Jack bit, snapping his head and hissing. “Shut it.”

            Y/N just smiled like a kid with candy.

            Mohan looked between them. “Oh my God, you’re the partner! I thought you were some metaphor. You know, like the ‘mysterious old guy with a truck and a grumpy demeanour’ genre.”

            Jack snapped his head at Y/N. “One, talking about me when I’m not there?” he scolded, raising a brow. “Second,” he looked at Mohan, “I’m not a genre.”

            “He is a genre, fulfils all my smutty romance kindle book fantasy,” she hummed, winking.

            Jack shot his head back to her. “Y/N,” he warned. “We are at work. This is a resident at work. We are in a trauma room with a patient.”

            Y/N stared at him. “God, you’re boring.” Then she rolled her eyes.

            Mohan looked between them; brows furrowed. “You guys are so professional, it’s honestly disturbing.”

            Y/N chuckled. “That’s trauma bonding for you, doll,” she hummed, winking.

            Jack ignored Y/N’s comment and looked at Mohan. “No, seriously, good job. You killed it,” he stated with a smile before walking out of the room.

            Mohan, who was still suturing, looked at Y/N. “So, that’s him?”

            “Yeah, that’s my Old Man, McVeteran, McGrump. Who scolds me for reading kinky books, leaving messes, banned me from his fancy truck but loves me till the world ends,” she whispered, smirking. “I’m a lucky girl.”

            Mohan nodded. “You’re the definition of one.”

            “I think he’s lucky, cause who’d want to be with that?” she joked, pointing to the doors. “Kidding, he’s the love of my life.”

            Mohan nodded. “I thought you were secretly with Robby,” she stated.

            Y/N cackled, full blown cackled. “Don’t tell Jack that.”

-

Jack walked by the nurses’ station while Y/N was still with a patient in the trauma room. He brushed his arm against Dana. “Hey, you got a second?” he asked.

            Dana turned to him. “Yeah,” she hummed, glasses on her nose. She turned to face him, taking off the glasses as she stared at Jack.

            “What is up with Robby?” Jack whispered.

            Dana shrugged. “He’s been better. I’m really worried about him. Maybe Y/N can get it out of him?” she said. “Use her psych degree and mental health background. Manipulate him into expressing his feelings.”

            Jack snorted. “Yeah, she’s good at that,” he muttered.

            “I’ve never seen him like this,” Dana stated, looking Jack in the eye. “Have you?”

            “No,” he said simply. “How about you, slugger?” he hummed, smirking.

            Dana scoffed. “Been better.”

            Jack nodded. “Preach,” he hummed. Dana nodded, patting him on the arm. Then Jack got serious. “Y/N told me,” he whispered.

            Dana raised her brow. “About?”

            He tilted his head and raised a brow. “Pregnancy. Miscarriage,” he said. “She told me cause I kept budging. I asked her why she couldn’t give blood, and eventually she broke.”             Dana blinked. Slowly. Then she took a deep breath. She crossed her arms as her face went serious. “Yeah,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. “She said she’d tell you. Robby and I both–“

            “Robby knew?” he asked, brows furrowing.

            Dana sighed. “Robby figured it out. He was there to give her the ultrasound today to confirm it was a miscarriage,” she said, voice low. “Don’t blame her. Don’t. She’s a survivor. You know that. I don’t know her story as much as you, but she’s not good with relying on someone when she needs emotional support.”

            Jack nodded. He knew. He knew her well. “I know. I’ve been teaching her these years that I’m here and not going anywhere…”

            “Marry her then, you grump,” she stated, nudging her.

            Jack nodded. “I know. I will,” he said. “We aren’t focused on that right now. Fuck,” he muttered, “didn’t even had a single clue she could be pregnant. I track her cycle, and I know her body–“

            “She wasn’t far. She was seven weeks,” Dana responded. “She found out yesterday when she puked everything up.” Jack nodded. “She was going to tell you, ok? Don’t think she was hiding this from you. And don’t ask me why I didn’t tell you…Abbot, this is her story…even if you were the father, it’s her body, her story.”

            Jack nodded again before dragging a hand over his face. “Yeah, it is. She doesn’t deserve this. She’s had a rough go at her life–“

            “Yes, but life has been good for her since you met her. She was what, twenty-one when she did her practicum for like six weeks. Then you swept her off her feet few years later, and life has been great for her,” Dana hummed. “Maybe before that was hard, but now she’s good. She’s not the same girl compared to when I met her. Now, she’s a–“

            “Gremlin,” he stated with a chuckle. “She’s a gremlin and her brother is a goblin who crashes at our house, drinks my beer and eats my snacks while talking quantum physics to her and I have no idea what they are saying.”

            Dana chuckled. “Those two are a team. She raised him since she was fourteen.”

            Jack nodded. “I know.”

            “She’s a mom, Jack. To Beckett. But believe me,” she looked around, voice low, “she always wanted a baby of her own.”

            Jack nodded.

            “And she has tried,” she whispered.

            Jack’s brows furrowed. “What?”

            “It’s not her first miscarriage,” she whispered. “Talk to her.”

            Jack froze. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. His brows furrowed; jaw tightened. “Dana, are you saying she’d miscarried before?”

            Dana’s face softened. She reached out, touching his arm gently. “Twenty-two was the last time. Then nineteen.”

            His breath caught in his chest. “Two?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Three,” he then said, before breaking eye contact. “She’s been pregnant three times,” he muttered.

            Dana nodded. “Talk to her. She loves you with everything in her, and she is not planning on ever leaving you. You’re the thing she needed in her fucked-up life. For her and for her brother.”

            Jack nodded.

            “She didn’t want you to go through another loss,” Dana added. “She didn’t want that on your conscious. Especially with losing your wife,” Dana muttered.

            “I lost Grace nine years ago,” Jack said. “I’ve been with Y/N for six. Known her for eight.”

            Dana nodded. She reached out, squeezing his arm. “Take her home. Make her a mean meal. Run her a bath. Buy her a fancy bottle of wine. Let all the dogs on the bed. Hold her. She’s going to need you. All of you. The quiet parts. The ones you keep locked away. It’s been a day. It’s been a lifetime for her,” she whispered. “And, don’t be mad at Robby for figuring it out and supporting her before you could. Don’t take it personally, ok?”

            Jack just nodded, sending her a smile. “I don’t like it when she hides things,” he muttered.

            “Jack…you and I come from different worlds. We had a childhood, a teenagerhood, a life. A mother, a father, siblings, a roof on our head and education. She was in survival. She worried how to raise a four-year-old at fourteen when druggy Mom ran away to New Mexico with a boyfriend who she met at casino. She learnt how to count cards so she could win in poker matches to put food on the table and pay rent. She dodged CPS and social workers until she got the law involved with becoming Beckett’s guardian which was finally granted when she was nineteen. She did shit to survive. She’s not your average folk. She’s a trooper. But no one knows the real story.”

            Jack just nodded. “I know. Not all of it. But enough,” he stated. “I just,” he sighed, “I worry about her all the damn time.”

            Dana shrugged. “She’s your girl. Your partner. Of course you do, but be patient. Talk to her. Let her tell you more when she’s ready, but don’t pressure her.”

            Jack nodded. “Thanks, Dana,” he stated. “Thank you, really.”

            “Be patient,” she said lowly. “But let’s see if Y/N could crack Robby.”

-

2100

Y/N came over after finishing with a patient to see McKay being arrested. Quick on her feet, she hurried to where Jack stood. Hands on his hips, a death glare given.

            “Woah, what’s happening?” she asked, halting.

            “I disabled my ankle monitor because it was going off,” McKay said then looking over to the officers, “and fucking with our ability to help patients during the mass casualty.”

            McKay was in cuffs. Y/N was behind Jack, brushing his arm as he glanced at her.             “Tell that to your judge,” the officer stated to McKay.

            Y/N watched, arms crossed now as she looked between Robby, McKay and the officers.

            “This is my resident. I need her,” Robby stated, voice serious and stern. Then he glanced over to Dana. “Call Gloria. You can at least wait a second to speak to our chief medical officer?”

            The officer shook his head. “No, but they can call the Department if they have any questions.”

            Robby’s jaw was shut tight, taking a deep breath, trying to contain himself. “We just came through the worst mass casualty incident in this city’s history, and you two are fucking around with this? Are you serious?” Robby stated, raising a brow. “You don’t have anything better to do?”

            Just then, a group of officers walked by. The one’s who partner was rushed to surgery and Jack preformed a crike on him. Robby grabbed their attention.

            “Officer Harrelson, can you please,” Robby grabbed his attention as the officer came over.

            “Is there a problem here?” Officer Harrelson asked, glancing around at the group of medical professionals and additional officers while McKay was handcuffed.

            “She disabled her ankle monitor,” the officer holding McKay in handcuffs responded.

            “It was malfunctioning,” McKay replied.

            “She’s in a custody battle with a restraining order and is considered a flight risk,” the other officer responded.

            “A flight risk?” Y/N gasped. “McKay? No,” she muttered, looking at Jack, who remained focused on the scene.

            “Bullshit,” McKay muttered. “That is bullshit.”

            Robby nodded, crossing his arms as he looked at Harrelson. “It was interfering with our ability to treat patients. I’m not sure we could have saved Officer Stefano if she hadn’t disabled the damn thing,” Robby replied, pointing to the monitor, voice low.

            “Is that true?” the officer asked.

            “They saved Stefano’s life,” the other officer replied. “They saved a lot of lives.”

            The older officer looked at McKay. “Take care of this first thing tomorrow morning?” he asked her.

            “I swear,” McKay replied, voice full of promises.

            “Take the cuffs off.”

            McKay turned while her handcuffs were removed, giving her gratitude to everyone.

            Robby shook the officer’s hand. “Thank you,” Robby replied.

            “Thank you, for everything you did here tonight,” he responded, patting Robby’s shoulder before all the officers walked away.

-

Y/N got called to the code tan – a case of someone getting hurt in the hospital. Usually, fainting or a fall. She was wheeling the gurney when she looked up to see Robby.

            “Robby! Pelvis crush injury,” she called out.

            Robby was talking to Langdon about what Y/N knew, but didn’t want to think about it. Instead, she continued to move the patient to a bay area.

            “Thought we were closed to trauma,” Robby replied, walking over.

            “Well, code tan,” Y/N muttered. “He got pinned behind a truck backing up with replacement supplies,” she explained. “Oops. But, pulse is weak and tready, tachy at…”

            They got into the trauma room, instantly gloves on and Y/N began to cut the clothes away from the patient.

            “Grab me some monitor leads, please,” someone called out.

            “100% non-rebreather,” Robby stated. “Let’s draw up 120 of ketamine, 100 of rock, and page trauma surgery, please.” He was pulling his gloves on.

            Jack was across from Y/N, helping with removing the clothes off the patient. “The hell did this guy come from?” he asked.

            “Our loading dock,” Y/N replied.

            “Oh my God,” Jack muttered as they continued to work.

            “Ok, I got the EFAST. Grab a binder. Obvious pelvic fracture,” Jack called out.

            “I’m in a lot of pain!” the patient called out.

            Y/N grabbed the supplies, handing them to Jack and Robby.

            “You taking any medications?” Robby asked.

            “Crestor,” the patient replied as they wrapped the binder around him.

            “Any drug allergies?” Robby asked.

            “No. Am I gonna be ok?” the patient asked.

            Robby was using the ultrasound on the pelvis, trying to figure out what was wrong and how to fix it.

            “Absolutely,” Robby replied, looking at the monitor.

“We got you, Hector,” Jack stated, looking at the screen too.

            “BP 68 over 42, pulse 130,” Y/N called out as she glanced at the monitors. “I got a 14 gauge in the left AC.” Y/N was placing the IV in.

            “Whole blood massive transfusion protocol,” Jack stated.

            “Jack, we’ve got whole blood coming in from Erie and Youngstown. However, I’m not sure if it’s here yet,” Y/N stated, glancing up to look at Jack and shaking her head.

            “Let’s go one-to-one-to-one, red cells, platelets and plasma. We’ve got that,” Robby called out. “Let’s place an IJ after the intubation, please.”

            “Affirmative, Cowboy,” Y/N stated, turning away and grabbing the supplies.

            Jack glanced up at Y/N as she went to get the supplies, shaking his head with light chuckle. “We are in a trauma, Y/N,” he muttered. “Not the time to be calling the chief nicknames.”

            Y/N chuckled. “Oh, shut it. He loves it,” she hummed.

            Robby glanced at her for a moment, shaking his head.

“Ok, EFAST negative,” Jack stated. “It’s all retroperitoneal. No blood at the meatus. Kid, Foley,” Jack called out.

Y/N was back, handing supplies. “Can’t call him cowboy but can call me kid?” she hummed.

“Not the time, Y/N,” Jack stated, voice low.

“Hector, you crushed all the bones in your pelvis, and you’ve got some internal bleeding. We need to sedate you to treat you,” Robby said as the machines beeped rapidly.

“Hurts a lot!” Hector replied.

“When you wake up, you’re not gonna be able to talk. You’re going to have a breathing tube in your throat,” Robby stated as Y/N continued to work alongside them.

“Can I speak to my wife first?” Hector asked.

“Afraid we have to move now, Hector,” Jack stated, looking at the patient.

“First unit of packed cells in the infuser,” Y/N stated from her corner.

            Just then, the doors opened, and Dr. Parker Ellis and Dr. John Shen came in, smirking. “What have we here?” Ellis asked.

            “It looks like two old white guys poached our patient,” Shen replied.

            Instantly, Y/N glanced up, hearing those words. Biting down on her bottom lip, she tried to hide her chuckle, but it came out loud. Jack hated when people called him old, except when it was Y/N. Y/N constantly called him her old man and Jack tolerates it. While Robby, well, Robby got offended as well. To them, they weren’t old, but both approaching or over fifty anyway.

            Jack and Robby instantly looked at one another as Y/N stared at them.

            “Oh, I know you’re not talking about us,” Robby replied, voice low as he went back to intubation.

            Jack looked at the two doctors. “Well, I know he’s definitely not talking about me,” Jack stated, shaking his head.

            “Back off, you two, leave the senior citizens alone. They’re sensitive today,” Y/N barked, smirking.  

            Jack just looked at Y/N, sending her a hard glare. “Jesus, Kid,” he muttered. Then he told them the case, “Crushed pelvis, haemorrhagic shock.”

            “MTP, pelvis binder. I’m doing an intubation, about to place an IJ,” Robby replied as Y/N grabbed saline and other medicines for the IV. “Ace, behave.”

            “You need us?” Shen asked, raising a brow.

            “We got this for now. Hold down the fort,” Jack fired back. “Get caught up on the day shift’s remaining PittFest patients, and we’ll get this guy stabilised.”

            They continued to work on Hector, trying their best to stabilise him. Jack got gowned up, mask on, safety glasses and X-ray vest.

            “Central line is in,” Jack called out.

            “Let’s hook up the rapid infuser over to the IJ, and then we can shoot the film,” Robby muttered as Y/N and he fixed the lines.

            “Clear for X-ray.”

            The x-ray tech moved the x-ray machine over the patient as Y/N took a step back. The beeping was still rapid from the machines. Y/N walked over to Robby, who was stretching in the corner.

            “How are you holding up, Cowboy?” she asked, nudging her hip in his.

            He looked over to her, and it was all in his eyes. “Fine,” he eventually said.

            Y/N just hummed. “Don’t believe it for a second,” she responded.

            They shot the X-ray while Jack continued to work on the patient.

            Robby looked at her. “I could say the same for you,” he replied. Y/N just nodded.

            “Jack knows,” she whispered to him as Jack continued to be busy. “Found out during the mass casualty. I couldn’t give blood, and he dug into me,” she said lowly.

            Robby glanced over to her and just nodded. “Good.”

            “Clear!” the tech called back out.

            Y/N and Robby walked over to the X-ray screen. Pulling out his glasses, Robby leaned over to look at the screen.

            “Oh, that ain’t good,” he muttered. Y/N nodded too.

            “Shit,” she muttered before walking over to the phone on the wall.

            Jack glanced up to them, pulling his mask off as he came over. “What have you got?” he took one look at the screen and groaned. “Widened symphysis pubis anteriorly. “

            “Distorted sacroiliac posteriorly,” Robby replied.

            Jack shook his head. “Guy’s bleeding like a stuck pig,” Jack muttered.

            “I got Dr. Walsh on speakerphone from the OR,” Y/N called out from the phone, holding it close to her ear before pressing a button and putting the phone back.

            “Hey, guys, what’s up?” Dr. Walsh asked over the phone.

            “We’ve got an unstable pelvis ring fracture, systolic of 68, EFAST negative,” Robby called out as they went back to the patient.

            “Thought we were closed for trauma,” Walsh replied.

            “Hospital worker versus reversing supply truck. MTP and pelvic binder in place,” Jack said.

            “TXA?”

            “Gave it,” Jack replied.

            “Stable for CT angiogram?” Walsh asked.

            “Uh, not at the moment, no,” Robby replied.

            “Keep transfusing,” Walsh replied as they continued to stabilise the patient.

            “The blood bank is still waiting on a delivery, unless you have some upstairs,” Robby replied, walking over to the phone.

            “He doesn’t need surgery,” Walsh stated. “He needs interventional radiology to embolise the bleeders.”

            Robby was leaning against one of the machines, glancing back at Jack.

            “They don’t like unstable patients,” Jack stated, confused by her comment.

            “They will tonight,” Walsh replied. “I’ll be down as soon as I finish this grade 5 liver lac.” Then Robby hung up on her.

            They were continuing, but the patient was not stabilising. Minutes went by. However, Mel walked into the room, looking at them.

            “54 after 3 rounds packed cells, FFP, and platelets,” Jack called out.

            “Not too shabby,” Ellis responded.

            Y/N glanced up when she spotted Mel, raising a brow. “Our measles kid’s parents are trying to move him to West Penn,” Mel said.

            Robby, Jack and Y/N stared at her. However, Jack and Y/N went back to work as Robby yelled out, “Let them!” Shaking his head, he sighed. “They’ve been warned multiple times. I even took the father into the PittFest morgue to drive the point home.”             Instantly, Jack and Y/N snapped their heads to Robby. “You what?” they said at the same time.

            “Yeah, I doubt any hospital will take him without a spinal tap,” Ellis responded. Robby was still on the phone.

            “I’ll be there in a minute. Don’t let them move that kid,” Shen stated.

            Robby hung up the phone and looked at the crowd of medical professionals. “They can see this guy in 45 minutes in Interventional Radiology.”

            “That’s a long time for this guy,” Shen replied.

            “They’re just starting a REBOA,” Robby muttered.

            “A REBOA? Who did a REBOA during a mass casualty?” Y/N asked, looking at Robby.

            Jack smirked at Y/N. “One of his interns did,” he snickered.

            “Santos?” Y/N asked, looking at Robby who was groaning in the corner. “Jesus, she’s gonna kill someone.”

            “Shut up,” Ellis responded.

            “I was busy,” Robby muttered, raising a brow.

“That was ballsy,” Shen responded. “Yeah, we can babysit this guy until IR is ready. You guys are three hours post-shift.”

“Whoo!” Robby exclaimed, throwing his hands up.

“This was supposed to be my day off,” Jack muttered, taking his gloves off, “bought steak and lobster. Was gonna grill and have wine.”

“I would love wine. Wine in bed. Wine with blankets. Wine with dogs and a good hot fucking shower,” Y/N muttered, stretching her neck.

“We got this,” Ellis stated.

Y/N was pulling her gloves off too now.

“Hasta la vista, vatos,” Jack called out as he threw his gloves in the bin. Jack’s hand came over, barely brushing Y/N’s back as they left the room.

“Talking Spanish at work, Old Man?” she hummed in his ear. “Talk to me dirty,” she whispered and smirked.

Jack glanced at her. “Y/N,” he whispered. “We are at work. Work.”

Y/N groaned. “Boring,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as she went to a computer. However, Jack grasped her arm for a second, pulling her back.

“When we get home,” he began, voice low, “we are going to talk. We are going to sit. We are going to have a conversation where we are going to be honest and listen to one another,” he said. “It’s been a day for you. You kept me in the dark.”

Y/N stared at him for a moment. He wanted to talk about the miscarriage that happened today. How she didn’t tell him. How she kept it from him.

“Serious talk. No jokes. No, trying to mask your feelings. Serious talk,” he said, raising a brow.

Y/N just nodded. “Yeah, you’re right,” she whispered. “We will talk.”

Jack nodded. “Good.” Then he went to leave, but she stopped him.

“When I’m ready,” she responded when he glanced away to leave her. “When I’m ready, Jack.”

Jack paused mid-step. His jaw tensed, that square silhouette of his back going rigid under his dark scrubs. For a second, he didn’t turn, just stood there with his hand curled at his side, as if deciding whether to push or leave it alone.

Then finally, he nodded once, slowly. Barely perceptible.

“Ok,” he said. His voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold. Just rough. Quiet. “When you’re ready.”

“We are ok, though, right?” she asked, voice breaking.

Jack looked at her, seeing the fear in her eyes for a moment, then he sent her a smile. “We will always be alright, Dove,” he whispered. “Just don’t suffer alone.”

Y/N nodded as he left to go to a computer to write his patients notes. A loud exhale came from her as she pulled her hair out of the elastic, running her fingers through the long locks as she looked around her. What a fucking day.

            Robby came back from the ambulance bay. Y/N was sitting at the nurses’ station, pink water bottle in hand as she sipped through the straw and wrote out her notes. Finishing off everything that needed to be done.

            Jack was by her at the standing computer. “Doing ok, man?” he asked as Robby walked by.

            Y/N glanced up, looking at Robby and his tired state.

            “Why do you keep asking me that?” Robby responded, walking into the nurses’ station before looking at the board.

            Y/N turned her chair to look at them.

            “Oh, I don’t know,” Jack muttered. “You did take the parent of a patient into our makeshift morgue,” Jack hissed, staring at Robby. “Forget that its technically a fucking crime scene. That’s just not cool, man.”

            Dana was next to Y/N, reading something as she slowly turned to look at Robby. Y/N was glancing between Jack and Robby now. Tension there.

            Just then, Gloria walked up. “Just the two heroes I wanted to see. We’re holding a press conference in the education auditorium,” she said, looking between Jack and Robby.

            Robby shook his head. “Not a chance.”

            “I know you hate this stuff, but it’s important for this department and the hospital,” Gloria began.

            Robby was breaking down. Y/N could see it. Jack could see it. He was rolling his shoulders back, looking at the ceiling as he took a sharp breath. “Trust me, Gloria. You don’t want me speaking to the press right now,” Robby said, sternly.

            “Or ever,” Jack spoke up. Robby was running a hand down his face.

            “Look, as much as you ER cowboys are a pain in my ass, what you and your department did here tonight was nothing short of miraculous. People need to know that,” Gloria stated, looking them over. “Take the win.”

            She had no idea. Not a single clue of what truly happened there that day.

            Ellis opened the door to Trauma 1, yelling out, “Need a second round of MTP.”

            Jack glanced up. “What the fuck?” he muttered before walking over. Y/N stayed where she was as she already had her hand over to the night nurses.

            Y/N was still at the nurses’ station. Cops came to talk to Dana about Doug Driscoll. Y/N continued with her finishing up.

            “Kid,” she heard behind her. Y/N glanced over her shoulder as Jack had his hands on the top of her chair.

            “Yes, my dear,” she hummed before going back to her computer. Jack’s hand came over, grabbing the water bottle that was next to her. Her giant pink one as he took a sip from it.

            “You missed out on something good,” he whispered as he looked over at her computer.

            “Do tell.”

            “I did preperitoneal packing,” he whispered in her ear.

            Y/N instantly turned her chair to look at him. Her mouth fell open as she crossed her arms. He stood there holding her water bottle, smirking at her. “That’s an OR procedure,” she whispered.

            Jack nodded, raised his brows before shrugging. “Sure is, but I did one. Here. Done hundreds at the combat hospitals, but just did one here,” he told her. Then he smirked again. “And you missed out because you’re too busy tip-tapping on your computer.”

            Y/N groaned. “Ugh, I did my hand off,” she muttered. “I should’ve been there. I would’ve loved to witness it.”

            Jack leaned against the wall now, smug as hell, sipping her pink water bottle like it was a celebratory cocktail.

            “You’d have loved it,” he murmured. “Patient was crashing. Abdomen tight. Blood pressure in the toilet. Had to act fast.”

            Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. “God, you’re the devil. Just showing off now.”

            “Oh, yeah,” he admitted easily. “It was glorious.”

            “You’re unbearable,” she muttered. “Give me that,” she muttered, taking the water bottle back and sipping it with exaggerated drama.

            “What’s in there? It takes like berries,” he muttered.

            “Robby put electrolytes in it and other fancy jazz a few hours ago,” she responded, sipping her drink.

            He slowly nodded. “Good,” he hummed. They stayed quiet for a second as she turned back to her computer. “Almost done?”

            “Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “Not too much left. Normally, I’m faster. But my four cups of coffee have exited my system, I’m running on like 3% of serotonin and residual adrenaline.”

            Jack nodded. “Once you’re done, let’s go home. I’ll pick up something on the way home for us to eat, as I can’t be assed to cook.”

            Y/N hummed, not answering right away. “Sushi,” she said eventually. “Or burritos. Or Chinese. But I feel like sushi,” she muttered. “Just order something you know I’ll eat. You pick, I’m easy.”

            He nodded before brushing his knuckles along her arm for a second. “We will eat and talk,” he whispered.

            “Yes, Captain,” she said. “Now scram and let me finish this.”

            He nodded before walking away to the other computer to finish his own patient notes and logging the procedures he did. Y/N stared at him for a moment before turning back to her screen.

            Next to her, Dana, glanced over. “You ok?” she asked.

            Y/N glanced over. “I will be.”

            She nodded. “Go home, sweetheart,” she muttered, nudging her. “Sleep. Talk. Eat. Cry if you need to. Shower. Then go lie on your old man’s chest and make him watch some reality TV.”

            Y/N smiled, chuckling. “Let’s see if he allows me to eat in bed. What a grump,” she muttered. “Military man and all his fucking rules. I pay half the mortgage, too.”

            Eventually, it was time to leave. Robby wanted to give a speech to everyone before they left. Y/N walked over from the nurses’ station, standing across from Jack and Robby, who were preparing for a little speech.

            “Alright, everybody!” Dana called out. “Listen up!”

            All eyes went on them.

            “Today should never have happened,” Robby began. Y/N looked at him, then to Jack, who had his arms crossed. “It’s impossible to imagine that would possess somebody to commit such a horrific act. It’s the worst of humanity, but it brought out the best in the rest of us. We saw our better angels come to aid of our patients. Each of you rose to the occasion. And I can’t…can’t tell you how proud I am of all of you,” Robby expressed, looking all of them over, voice filled with emotion. “This place will break your heart. But it is also full of miracles, and that is a testament to all of you coming together and doing what we do best. Thank you for everything you did here today. We saw 112 mass casualty patients come through here in the last four hours, and 106 of them are gonna live.” Robby stopped, tears coming to his eyes as he glanced down. His voice broke. “None of us are gonna forget today…Even if we really, really want to.” Robby had tears in his eyes. Actual tears. Y/N bit down on her bottom lip, glancing at the floor as she took a breath. “So go home. Let yourselves cry. You’ll feel better. It’s just grief leaving the body.” Robby did one final nod before Jack patted him on the back as Robby walked away.

-

Robby was on the roof when Jack came up. Y/N was finishing off something and Jack saw Robby sneak off somewhere. He followed. Silent footsteps as Robby heard him eventually halt.

            Robby let out a sigh.

            “You’re in my spot,” Jack stated, nodding to where Robby was standing on the roof, hands on his lips. Robby was past the safety rails; however, he didn’t respond. “Just so you know, Grubhub will not deliver to the roof, but there is a DoorDash guy…uh…Marco, who will trek up here for an extra ten bucks, twenty if you want beer.”

            Robby didn’t say anything for a moment, focusing on the city skyline and the bright lights while the darkness slept. Jack walked a little further up, grasping the rails, then glanced at his best mate. “Nice speech down there. Wish I had given it.”

            Robby shook his head, still looking ahead. “No, you don’t.”

            Jack scoffed, shaking his head. “No. Fuck, no. But I’m glad somebody did.” Then he leaned over, looking over the railing to the fall. “Yeah,” he hummed. “I think I finally understand why I keep coming back now,” he said, taking a moment as Robby glanced at him quickly. “It’s in our DNA. It’s what we do. We can’t help it. We’re the…we’re the bees that protect the hive.”

            Robby sniffled, nodding as tears came down his face. However, he shook his head. “Maybe you, not me.”

            “What are you talking about?” Jack asked.

            “You know damn well what I’m talk–“ he halted, glancing away. “I’m talking about.” Robby continued to shake his head. “I broke.”

            “You didn’t break,” Jack muttered, voice stern. “You didn’t break,” he repeated.

            “I shut down. At the moment, everybody needed me the most, I wasn’t there. I couldn’t do it. I choked.”

            Jack’s brows furrowed. “For what, for forty seconds?” Robby stayed quiet. “Three minutes? Ten minutes?” Robby turned to look at Jack. “So, fucking what? We all have that. That is what happens when you’re in a war and nothing makes sense.” Robby was running his hands through his hair. “We survived as a species because we learned how to cooperate and communicate, so when we’re in the middle of killing each other, it divides the very logic of our existence. Your brain starts to short-circuit. All you can do is focus on the medicine. The medicine’s the only thing that saves the patient and your sanity.”

            Robby nodded along. “I’m gonna need a drink if you keep talking,” he muttered.

            Jack glanced over. “You get what I’m saying, right?” Jack asked, voice low and brow raised. He leaned in, tone going serious. “You rocked that shit down there tonight.” Then a beat as he tried to get Robby to make eye contact. “Yeah? You rocked that shit down there tonight. We all did. Now that is a compliment. Accept the damn compliment for once.”

            Robby looked back at Jack. “What if we just didn’t talk for a minute?” Robby muttered.

            “I’m just trying to help,” Jack replied.

            “I know.”

            “I appreciate you–“

            “Still talking,” Robby muttered, glancing away.

            Jack nodded, looking away as he stayed quiet. “Sorry.”

            Silence happened for a few minutes as the two of them took steady breathes and thought for a moment. Robby groaned lightly as Jack just stared at the horizon. After about thirty seconds, Jack looked up from looking at his feet. “I know you said not to talk, but I do need to thank you,” he began.

            Robby looked over. “For what?”

            “Being there for Y/N today,” Jack responded.

            Robby didn’t say anything right away. His jaw flexed once, then again. He looked away again, back to the skyline, like it was safer than the weight in Jack’s voice.

            Jack exhaled slowly through his nose. “I was mad,” he admitted, voice quiet now. “Fuck, I was mad. Not because I thought you did anything wrong or she did anything wrong, but because I wasn’t there. She needed someone, and I wasn’t the one there. And it killed me because the minute she was mine, I made a promise to myself that she’d never have to suffer alone again. But you were there and Dana.”

            Robby swallowed hard. His lips parted like he might say something, but then he just shook his head and blinked rapidly.

            “Never thought we would have an experience like this,” Jack admitted. “She has endo, severely, and I knew the chances of her getting pregnant were slim, and her carrying to full term was even slimmer. But,” he sighed, “it happened, and you were there. You were the one who figured it out before me, who gave her the ultrasound. You were the one who didn’t press, didn’t push. You just sat there with her. And when I couldn’t… When I didn’t even know what was going on, you had her back. So, thank you.” Jack found Robby’s eyes again.

            Robby was quiet again, his chest rising a little harder now. And then, he broke, tears coming down.

            “You don’t have to thank me,” he said hoarsely. “I did it because I care about her. I’ve always cared about her.”

            Jack nodded. “I know,” he muttered.

            “I tried not to,” Robby whispered, looking away. “After you two got serious. I told myself I was over it. That I was just her friend. That I was her partner’s best mate. That I was her boss. But watching her today,” he stopped, rubbing at his eyes. “Watching her go through that. Alone. Quiet. Acting like she was fine. It,” he stopped and took a breath, “killed me.” He took a sharp breath. “Then she threatened me to never mention it again. That she was never going to tell you–“

            “What?” Jack muttered.

            Robby bit his bottom lip. “She was going through it. It was conflicting in her brain. She didn’t want you to go through loss again.” Jack nodded. “I love her too, you know,” Robby whispered. “Just not the way you do. Not anymore. But she’s family. She’s always been family.”

            Jack didn’t speak at first.

            He looked at Robby, really looked at him. The way his shoulders shook despite his effort to hide it, the way he wiped at his eyes without thinking, the way his voice stayed hoarse like something had torn through his chest. And Jack felt it in his own ribs, too. That ache. The familiar pain of watching Y/N suffer and knowing there was nothing he could do to take it away.

            Jack nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered finally. “She’s family. That and her goblin brother,” he added with a chuckle. Then he shrugged. “Fucking genius that kid is. Scares me. The two of them. But I love that kid too. Even if he crashes in my bed when I work nights or steals my beer when I’m not looking or wrestles me when I’m in the middle of doing something.”

            Robby nodded, chuckling. “That’s her kid,” he muttered. “And we will never know the real story.”

            Jack shook his head. “No, we never will. I know enough, but not all of it. Don’t know where she lived between fourteen and eighteen when she raised him or how she fed him or…” he stopped and sighed. “I just know there was a woman named Charlotte.”

            Robby nodded as he grasped the railing. “I didn’t want to be the one there,” he confessed. “I would’ve rather it been you. She should’ve had you. But when I saw her, fuck,” he muttered, “she was lecturing me and then doubled over in pain. I found her grabbing an ultrasound machine, and I pushed myself into the room and made her let me do it. I didn’t want her to suffer alone. And she just shrank…she was so small. And she said she was fine, but you could tell–“

            “Yeah, she hides,” Jack muttered.

            “She wants to be a mom” Robby muttered.

Jack nodded. “It fucking destroys me that I can’t give her that,” he muttered. “I would. I would do anything for her to be a mother…despite my age,” Jack chuckled.

Robby nodded. “I didn’t want her to look at the screen,” Robby continued. “But she did. I saw the sac, she did too. Saw the lack of rhythm. I just…” he stopped himself, voice breaking. “And she didn’t even cry. She just…thanked me. Thanked me. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Jack’s voice came out like sandpaper. “She does that. She thanks you when she doesn’t know how to feel.” Robby nodded. Jack bit down his bottom lip. “She said we’d talk. When she’s ready.”

Robby shook his head. “She won’t be,” he muttered. “Not fully. But she’ll try. For you.”

Jack nodded. “Get that drink now?” he asked.

Robby nodded. “Yeah.”

-

Y/N was at the nurses’ station on her phone. Hot pink cardigan on and her giant handbag that fits her whole life beside her. She leaned back as Jack and Robby appeared.

            “Where’d you two old men run away to?” she called out, raising a brow as she pocketed her phone. “I feel left out. Complete FOMO.”

            Jack’s brows furrowed. “FOMO?” he asked.

            “Fear of missing out. Get with the language,” she hummed, smirking. “Seriously, where’d you fuck off to?”

            “Roof,” Jack stated.

            “Damn, where was my invitation?” she asked as she got up to walk to them, grabbing her bag off the floor.

            “Kids aren’t allowed there,” Jack stated as they began to walk to the lockers.

            Robby rolled his eyes, rubbing his face. “You wouldn’t have liked it anyway. It was mostly us bonding over trauma and failing mental health.”

            Y/N chuckled, pushing her bag over her shoulder, but Jack took it off, holding the massive bag in his hands. “So…a brooding pity party with a skyline view? Sounds romantic? Were the clothes on or off?” she asked, smirking.

            “Kid,” Jack hissed. “Enough.”

            “What? I love a little guy-on-guy action,” she chuckled, nudging their arms. “Favourite porn category.”

            “I am going to put a muzzle on you,” Jack muttered as they grabbed their things.

            She groaned. “Ugh, fine. I prefer lesbian action anyway,” she muttered as they walked to the exit after Jack grabbed his backpack and Robby too.

            Jack sent her a death glare while Robby just threw his head back in laughter. “I don’t know how you live with her, man,” he muttered, shaking his head before patting Jack on the back.

            “I don’t either,” Jack deadpanned. “I survive her.”

            Y/N beamed like he’d just given her a compliment. “Oh, you love me, Captain. I’m a full-time adventurer. Keeps you young.”

            “You’re a full-time migraine, is what you are,” Jack muttered as they left the ER into the waiting room, still holding her bag in his hand. “Whoa,” Jack mumbled as they entered the waiting room. “It didn’t take long to fill up in here.”

            “Never does,” Robby responded as they walked through it in a single line, Y/N in front.

            “How long until we run out of boarding beds?” Jack asked over his shoulder.

            “Probably sunrise,” Robby responded.

            They were walking when Jack halted with Robby. Y/N looked from behind them as Myrna came in with a police officer. Dressed in sparkles and chaos, she grinned at the doctors while the police officer had her bag slung over his shoulder.

            “She had a seizure,” the officer said to them.

            “Of course she did,” Robby replied.

            Myrna looked Jack up and down, smirking. “Looking good, Dr. Abbot,” she hummed, winking.

            Jack nodded to her. “You too, Myrna,” he replied respectfully.

            “Oh, thanks,” she hummed back. Then she saw Y/N. “Cupcake,” she muttered.

            “Hiya,” Y/N replied, grasping onto Jack’s bag with her hand. His camo one with his last name embroidered on it. “Dabbling in nighttime mischief?” she replied.

            “Always,” Myrna muttered, winking. Then she saw Robby as he walked away. She called over her shoulder. “Hey, Fruitcake. Fruitcake and Cupcake, my favourite bakery.”

            Y/N called over her shoulder. “Want sprinkles with that attitude, Myrna?” Then she heard a cackle.

            “You keep that sass up, Cupcake, and I’m gonna put you in my will. Leave you my collection of bedazzled ashtrays and felony charges.”

            Y/N snorted as she continued to walk with Jack and Robby.

            “Don’t harass my nurse, Myrna,” Robby called over his shoulder.

            Then Jack looked at Robby. “Fruitcake?” he hummed then looked at Y/N. “Cupcake?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

            “She reminds me of my mother,” Y/N muttered. “Without the pills. But attitude, absolutely. And the desire to show everyone her vagina.”

            They all started chuckling. They exited the hospital; Jack placed his hand on Y/N’s back as they walked across the street to the park. It was dark, Jack dropped his hand as they got closer to the park bench. Y/N brought her cardigan closer. It was a Friday night in September, the breeze was there. Jack, who wore no jacket, wasn’t bothered.

            “Cold?” she asked him.

            He shook his head. “I’m right,” he muttered. She just nodded but rubbed her hand up and down his bare arm.

            They got to the park bench. Princess and Donnie were there. Smiles went around.

            “Hey, hide the hard drugs, kids,” Donnie said as he threw a beer to Robby. Then he threw one to Jack, who missed.

            “Oh, nice catch,” Robby muttered.

            “Loser,” Y/N muttered before perfectly catching hers.

            Jack sat on the edge of the bench, placing his bag on the ground with Y/N’s before grabbing the back of Y/N’s caridgan to pull her next to him. She sat down as Robby sat next to her.

            “Man,” Robby groaned as he took a deep breath.

            Jack was playing with his prosthetic. He rolled up his cargo pants, revealing his transformer leg. Y/N glanced over to watch him.

            Princess sighed before Donnie shook his head. “Today was a motherfucker,” he muttered.

            “You in pain?” Y/N asked, looking at him. “How’s your hip?” she asked as he began to undo the leg.

            “I’m fine,” Jack muttered. Y/N just nodded.

            “You sure?”

            “Grand, Kid,” he said as he got it off and handed it to her. Y/N took it, placing it in her lap as if it were nothing. It was normal for them.

            Donnie looked at Jack. “Have you ever been in anything like that before?” he asked.

            Jack began to massage his leg, and Y/N grasped his hand. “I’ll massage it tonight,” she muttered, bringing his left hand to her lips and kissing it. It was quiet enough for them to only hear. He was still wearing his wedding ring, but she was not bothered by it.

            “Let’s hope none of us ever had to again,” Robby replied.

            Princess shook her head. “No shit.”

            Jack glanced up from massaging his leg. “We probably will,” he stated, voice gruffy and blunt. “If not us, others.” Then he grabbed his beer, cracking it.

            Y/N cracked hers, bringing it to her lips. A subtle groan came from her lips. “Ugh, divine.”

            “Yeah, but we survived that craziness, right?” Donnie hummed, nodding.

            Jack just nodded, eyes directly on the nurse. Eye contact always.

            “To the Pitt crew,” Donnie stated, taking his can up to the sky to toast.

            “To all the people we saved,” Princess added, holding her beer up.

            “Here, here,” Robby muttered.

            “And the ones we couldn’t,” Jack added.

            “To chaos, blood, gore and drama. We slayed that puppy like it’s a motherfucker,” Y/N muttered.

            Then they took a sip, smiling at one another.

            A few figures appeared as they drank their beer.

            “Is this where all the cool kids hang out?” Samira (Mohan) expressed, smirking as she came up with Javadi and Mateo.

            “Oh, you know it,” Donnie replied, opening the cooler to throw them a beer.

            “Nice of you to join us,” Princess said.

            “If there ever was a day,” Samira muttered as Donnie and each threw them a beer.

            Javadi got a beer, and she shook her head. “Actually, sorry, I don’t drink,” she muttered. “I don’t know why I took that.” Then she handed it to Mateo.

            “She’s not old enough,” Princess muttered.

            “I’d say if she is old enough to put in a chest tube and intubate, she’d old enough to drink a beer,” Robby muttered.

            “Kudos,” Y/N replied. “How old are you, Kid?” she asked.

            “Twenty,” Javadi muttered.

            “Holy shit,” Y/N replied. “Youngling. My brother is turning twenty soon, he drinks beer. Well,” she looked over to Jack who was looking at the ground, “Jack’s beer.” Then she chuckled.

            “We won’t tell your mom,” Mateo stated, handing her a beer.

            Javadi looked between them. How Jack placed his hand on Y/N’s thigh, squeezing it.

            “Wait, you two are together?” Javadi gasped looking between Jack and Y/N.

            Y/N smirked, taking a sip of her beer. She lowered it and raised a brow. “What gave that away?” she hummed.

            Jack didn’t even look up, just took another sip of his beer, hand still resting on Y/N’s thigh possessively.

            “I thought…” Javadi trailed off, looking at Robby with a confused expression. “I thought you and Dr. Robby were a thing.”

            Robby choked on his beer.

            Y/N let out a loud chuckle. “Oh my God,” she mumbled. “I did hear that rumour today,” she hummed. “Best entertainment.”

            Robby chuckled, shaking his head. “No, Ace and I,” he looked at Y/N. “Good mates.”

            Javadi’s brows furrowed. “You called him, ‘Cowboy’,” she stated. “Repeatly.”

            Y/N shrugged. “Been at this ER for eight years. Everyone gets a nickname,” she hummed and looking at Jack. “Old man and Captain,” she hummed as Jack met her eyes. “What else do I call you?” Then she patted his thigh.

            Jack muttered. “Six years,” he said, glancing up. “Been tolerating her bullshit for six years.”

            Y/N hummed with her beer and hand, prosthetic on her lap. “Robby and I are close. Best mates with a dysfunctional but healthy relationship. However, I’m more into emotionally constipated war veterans with truck obsessions, collects emergency medicine kits and superiority complexes.”

            Jack snorted. “You forgot the prosthetic.”

            “Oh yeah,” she hummed. “That’s the best part. Real kink starter,” she stated, smirking.

            Everyone snorted on their drink while Jack did a simple, “Y/N,” hiss.

            Javadi blinked. “There’s a…a vibe between you two,” she muttered, looking between Y/N and Robby.

            Jack stayed quiet, looking at the floor.

            “Just wait till they work together,” Princess stated, pointing to Jack and Y/N. “They read each other’s minds,” she whispered, smirking. Princess then handed Jack some wipes.

            “Thank you,” he replied, taking them.

            “You guys do this after every shift?” Samira asked.

            Jack took the prosthetic from Y/N’s lap and began to clean the shoe on it.

            “Not always,” Y/N replied.

            “Usually, it’s a little more lively,” Donnie stated.

“The emergency department throws wicked parties.”

            Y/N watched Jack clean the blood off his shoes. Then he gestured to her with the wipes. She shook her head. “Not now.” He then nodded. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

            “It’s going to stain,” he whispered. She nodded and squeezed his hand.

            “Just adds to the fear of me,” she replied.

            Just then, Robby began to cackle. Loud laughter. Y/N glanced over to him.

            “What’s so funny?” Samira asked.

            Robby ran a hand through his hair and beard before looking at Javadi. “I just realised this is your first shift,” he said, looking at the med student.

            Y/N’s eyes widened while Jack continued to focus on his shoes.

            “Yeah,” Javadi muttered.

            Then everyone began to laugh together. Jack smirked. “That was baptism by fire, baby,” he hummed, holding his beer up and a toasting moment.

            “I can pretty much guarantee you the next one will be easier,” Robby added.

            Javadi stared at Robby before nodding. “I really fucking hope so,” she stated, sternly.

            “You’ll love it soon,” Y/N replied. “If you want to do ED. You’ll fall in love with it. Its gore, chaos, disorganisation and blood. You’ll be addicted to it without even realising it. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else,” she said, nodding. Then chuckled. “Maybe plastics. You can make so much money in plastics.”

            “You’re not leaving the ER,” Robby and Jack stated at the same time.

            “Doll,” Y/N stated, looking at Javadi, “take it from me. You’re twenty. Finishing your medical degree. Mama is a hot-shot surgeon. There’s an expectation for greatness from your environment.” Javadi stared at her. “Pick something you love. That makes you excited every day. That fills your bucket. Don’t live for other people. You’re the maker of your own destiny.”

            Javadi blinked at her like she’d never heard someone say that out loud before. Slowly, she nodded, then glanced down at her beer in her hands, her eyes glassy with overwhelm. “Thanks,” she muttered, voice small but grateful. “I need to hear that.”

            Y/N nodded. “You remind me of my brother. He’s incredibly intelligent and I tell him that its ok to fuck up, its ok to not know but its ok to take time to figure it out. You have the privilege to do that. You have the time. So, if ER is not for you, then find something you love, and if medicine isn’t for you, then there are other ways to help people.”

            Javadi nodded. “Thanks,” she muttered. “I don’t know if I want be a doctor after today,” she admitted.

            “Because today isn’t normal,” Y/N replied. “You’re here for a few weeks for your rotation, you’ll see normal. But you were great today. Excellent. You’re a great doctor, Victoria.”

            She just sent a smile to Y/N. “Thanks.”

            Jack looked over to Y/N. “You know this is a park hangout with beer not a TED talk, right?” he hummed, smirking.

            “Oh, shut up. You love my inspirational moments,” Y/N replied. “Got to use the psych degree somehow.”

            “You have a psych degree?” Javadi asked.

            Y/N smiled. “I have a double major in nursing and psychology with honours. An IQ of 178 and an eidetic memory. Don’t let the charisma, humour and the massive rack confuse you, Doll.”

            Javadi’s mouth opened, then closed again like her brain had stalled. “You’re kidding. Why aren’t you a doctor?” she asked, shrugging.

            Jack and Robby both looked at Y/N, who stayed quiet. She stared at Javadi for a moment. “That’s where we are different, Victoria. I didn’t have the privilege to be one. But you do,” she stated, smiling. “So, make it your bitch. Because if I was in your position. I would’ve been a fucking goddamn award-winning surgeon.”

            Javadi swallowed hard, her face falling a little with the weight of Y/N’s words. “Sorry,” she muttered, genuinely, cheeks tinged with pink. “I didn’t–“

            Y/N cut her off with a soft smile and shake of her head. “Doll, it’s grand. This isn’t a pity party. This is me being a mom for a moment who is like ‘hey, make the world your bitch and bend it over so you can peg it’. I’ve given the same speech to my brother. You should meet. He’s a quantum physics major with a…well, debating between psychology or math as a minor. Honours as well. His IQ is 174, though. However, I’ve saved hundreds of lives and I’m happy so that’s what matters. I love what I do, and I love my life. I boss everyone around. So, don’t worry, ok?”

            Javadi just nodded.

            “You boss all of us around,” Robby muttered, lifting his beer. “Like an emotional support dominatrix.”

            Y/N gasped. “Jesus, Cowboy, want me to pull out the leather outfit as well and the whip?” she hummed. Robby just chuckled, shaking his head. Y/N glanced back at Javadi then Samira. “Don’t talk to your attendings the way I do,” she said seriously. “It will probably get you fired.”

            Jack sighed. “Behave, Y/N. Enough of the TED talks,” he stated, sipping his beer. “It’s too late.”

            “Fine, I’ll save it for the pillow talk,” Y/N hummed, sipping her beer now. Jack rolled his eyes. “I bring it all. The speeches. The depth. The rack. What do you bring, McGrumpy?” she hummed, looking at her man.

            Jack just stated, very seriously. “The retirement plan.”

            Robby snorted beer out of his nose.

            Donnie then hummed. “Hey, at least you didn’t get pissed on,” he added to Javadi.

            “Oh my God, the kid got peed on, didn’t he?” Y/N chuckled.

            “Who?” Jack whispered to her.

            “Whitaker. Poor Whitaker,” Y/N muttered. “Med student.”

            “Where is he?” Princess asked.

            “Yeah, probably quit,” Donnie stated.

            Robby shook his head, groaning. “No… Oh, that kid’s tough. He’ll be back. Just like the rest of us.”

            Everyone nodded, however, an ambulance came by. The loud sirens were echoing.

            “Home?” Jack whispered to Y/N. She nodded.

            “Ok, that’s it for me,” Robby muttered, standing up as he grabbed his backpack.

            “Want a ride, Cowboy?” Y/N asked. “Jack is going to get us food. He has the truck; I have the Bronco. So, I can drop you home.”

            Robby looked at Y/N and nodded. “Yeah, sure, Ace. That’ll be great.” He stood up and looked at everyone. “Goodnight. Get some rest. Tomorrow is another day.”

-

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-

Hope you enjoyed. xoxo

Send in imagine requests for Dove & Captain!

Ava <3

[missarchive]

motel six

spencer reid

cw; spencer reid x fem!reader, spencer gets caught jacking off, cowgirl, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, softdom!reader, sub!spencer, one bed troupe, oral (m. receiving), aftercare, unprotected p in v, spencer’s a little desperate and awkward (what’s new)

an; HIII ALLL!!! This is based on an ask I received earlier this month, but I have had a few similar ones so I finally made a fic for them. The truth is that I have been seeing a beautiful woman and she is taking up most of my time. BUT- I managed to sneak this one in. I will start posting more consistently again now that my writer’s block has finally disappeared. As always, please leave some feedback if you liked it (if you didn’t just know you’re stepping on my hopes and dreams). Love and miss u guys xoxo

wc; around 3k

Your stomach twists. A long day chasing leads and poring over case files has already left you drained, and now you have to share a room with someone? You glance around at your teammates, who are pairing off with little hesitation. Morgan claims a room with Rossi. Hotch and JJ take another. Emily and Garcia get the third. That leaves…

You turn your head just as Spencer Reid—resident genius, profiler extraordinaire, and your usual case partner—adjusts the strap of his bag with an unmistakable grimace. His hazel eyes dart to yours before flicking away, his jaw tightening.

Of course.

"Looks like it's you and me, Reid," you say, trying to keep your tone light.

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he nods stiffly and brushes past you toward the room number scribbled on the keycard sleeve. Your stomach sinks further, but you push down the unease and follow.

The room is as underwhelming as expected: beige walls, scratchy-looking blankets, and a single queen bed shoved against one side. A rickety wooden chair sits near the window, but otherwise, the space is cramped.

Spencer stops in the doorway, his whole body tensing. "You take the bed. I’ll sleep in the chair."

You frown. "Reid, that thing looks like it’ll collapse if you breathe on it too hard. We can just—"

"I said I’ll sleep in the chair," he snaps, dropping his go-bag by the door.

The sharpness in his voice catches you off guard. Spencer is always a little awkward, sometimes distant, but rarely outright rude. You watch as he rubs his temple, his jaw clenched so tightly you wonder if he might crack a tooth. He looks… angry. At you?

"Okay," you say slowly. "Did I do something?"

"No," he bites out. "Just drop it."

You exhale sharply, irritation flaring. "Spencer, we’re both exhausted. If something’s wrong, you can just—"

"Just leave it alone, Y/N."

His words are clipped, final. You stare at him for a moment, searching his face for an answer, but he won’t meet your gaze. The room suddenly feels suffocating.

Fine. If he wants to be an ass, let him.

"I’m going outside," you mutter, grabbing your jacket. "Maybe by the time I get back, you’ll have figured out how to use your words like an adult."

You don’t wait for a response before stepping out into the cool night air.

The motel parking lot is nearly empty, save for the team's vehicles and a couple of semi-trucks parked along the far end. You breathe in the crisp air, letting it wash away some of the frustration bubbling inside you.

Spencer’s behavior isn’t just annoying—it stings. You thought the two of you were friends. Sure, he can be awkward and distant, but he’s never been outright cruel before. Whatever is bothering him, he clearly doesn’t want to share it with you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, shivering as the cold seeps through your thin jacket. After a few minutes, your irritation starts to wane, replaced by exhaustion. You don’t have the energy to stay mad, and honestly, all you want is to collapse into bed and sleep for at least twelve hours.

With a sigh, you make your way back toward the room. The hallway is silent, the only sound your footsteps against the aging carpet. You reach for the door handle but freeze as a muffled noise seeps through the thin walls.

A low, breathy moan.

Your heart stutters.

You strain to listen, barely breathing as another quiet sound follows—one you recognize immediately.

A strangled gasp, unmistakably Spencer’s.

Heat rushes to your face as your brain supplies every possible explanation, each one more embarrassing than the last. You should walk away. You should turn around and pretend you never heard anything. But your hand stays frozen on the doorknob, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Another moan drifts through the door, this one louder. You swallow against the sudden lump in your throat.

"Fuck," Spencer gasps. "O-oh god— please."

His voice is low, rough. Desperate.

You grip the doorknob tighter, debating for what feels like an eternity. Should you walk away? Or—

You ease the door open, pressing your hand against it as if to stop yourself from charging forward. Spencer’s back is to you, his head thrown back as he works himself over, his hand moving in rapid strokes.

You can’t help it—you step further into the room, drinking in the sight of him.

He’s sprawled on the bed, shirtless and pale in the moonlight filtering through the blinds. His arm muscles are tense, sweat dripping down the side of his face. The blanket is thrown back, revealing his naked lower half: his long legs, his perfect hands—

His cock, thick and wet between his fingers.

You feel a rush of arousal at the sight, your blood pulsing hot. This is so wrong. So inappropriate. He’s your teammate, for god’s sake, and yet—

And yet, you can’t bring yourself to walk away.

Spencer's hips jerk upwards, his body shuddering with pleasure. "Y/N," he gasps again, his head falling back against the pillow. His eyelids flutter shut, his brows drawn together.

"Y/N, fuck, please—" His hand moves faster, stroking himself with a rough desperation that makes your breath hitch. You can’t look away as he thrusts against his grip, his hips writhing, his spine arched.

"Ah- fuck," he gasps, his body tensing, his fist tightening around himself. His mouth falls open, his eyes squeezing shut as he comes with a strangled moan.

You press your hand over your mouth, holding back a whimper of your own as you watch him.

Spencer sags against the mattress, his chest heaving. He's so fucking beautiful, and—

And you’re still standing here, watching him.

Your eyes dart to his face, and your stomach plummets as he turns his head.

He opens his eyes, and you meet his gaze across the room.

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

Then you both leap into action.

He scrambles upright, fumbling for the blanket to cover himself. You jump backward, tripping over the threshold and landing hard on your ass.

"Shit," you hiss, wincing at the pain that shoots up your tailbone. "Shit. I—fuck, I’m sorry. I should—"

"Y/N," Spencer says in a strangled voice. "I—I thought you were gone. I didn’t know you were—"

He trails off, looking anywhere but at you. You struggle to your feet, smoothing your clothes down self-consciously. This is awkward as hell.

"I thought you were asleep," you admit, wincing. "I didn’t mean to—"

Spencer draws his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. He looks so fucking embarrassed, and you can't blame him.

You should say something. Apologize. You should put him at ease—

But the sight of him still has your pulse hammering.

You clear your throat, trying to calm down your racing thoughts. "I’m sorry, Spencer. I really am. I don’t mean—this is just—"

He raises his head, his eyes searching your face. "What were you doing, standing there?" he asks softly.

You swallow against the lump in your throat. "I don’t know," you whisper. "It was wrong, what I did. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have watched you. I’m sorry."

Spencer lowers his gaze, his face still flushed. "What if I wanted you to?" he mumbles.

Your heart jumps. "What?"

"I wanted you to watch me," he says louder, his eyes darting up to meet yours. "I’ve been wanting you to for weeks, ever since you asked me to take over the case files."

"What?" you repeat stupidly.

Spencer shifts, his cheeks flushing a deep red. "I started—I started thinking about you. Fantasizing about you. You touching me, kissing me— everything."

Oh.

You stare at him, trying to process. "Reid," you say softly. "I—"

"Don’t apologize," he says quickly. "It’s not your fault, I just—I wanted you. So fucking bad. I thought that sleeping next to you would be—"

"What?" you prompt gently.

He exhales sharply. "That it would be uncomfortable," he says in a rough whisper. "That it would drive me crazy. That maybe you’d—maybe you’d feel it too."

His gaze flicks up to yours again, full of hope.

Your heart races. "Is that what you want?" you ask, stepping forward.

Spencer's breath hitches, his fingers tightening around his knees. "Yes," he rasps. "Oh fuck, yes. If you—Y/N, I’ll do anything you want. Just—just don’t leave me alone again. Please."

His words send a surge of pleasure through your veins. The sight of him, desperate and pleading, is almost too much to bear.

"Spencer," you whisper, taking another step forward. "Come here."

He scrambles to his feet, rushing toward you. You meet him halfway, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him close. He melts against you, pressing his face into the curve of your neck with a sigh.

"I can’t believe you saw that," he murmurs into your skin.

"I can’t believe I did either," you admit with a chuckle. "But I’m glad I did."

Spencer raises his head, his hazel eyes searching yours. "You are?"

You nod, smiling softly. "Yes."

His face flushes. "Do—do you want to watch me again?"

You smile wider. "Maybe later," you tease. "Right now, I think it’s my turn."

Spencer's eyes widen as you press him backwards, onto the bed. "I thought you were tired," he murmurs, his voice already thickening with arousal.

"I am," you agree, smiling. "But this is more important." You drop your jacket onto the floor, pulling off your shirt and jeans in quick motions. Spencer's eyes dart down to take in the sight of your naked body, and you flush at his hungry gaze.

He groans, throwing his head back against the pillow as you climb on top of him.

It takes a lot to shock Spencer Reid. But you're definitely up for the challenge. The look on his face is priceless as you take his cock in your mouth, not wasting any more time. His hips buck against the mattress, his hands threading into your hair.

"Fuck," he gasps. "Oh my god. Y/N."

He tangles his fingers in your hair, urging you on as you work him over. He's so responsive, moaning and gasping and whining—fuck, it's a beautiful sound.

You work him deeper, taking

Spencer moans loudly as you take him deeper, his thighs trembling. "Y/N, oh fuck, I—fuck—"

You press one hand against his hip, holding him steady as you swirl your tongue over the underside of his cock. Spencer bucks against your grip, his fingers tightening in your hair. He's still so sensitive from his previous release, but he's still getting harder—thicker—by the second.

You run your tongue along the underside of his cock, teasing the spot behind the head.

"Oh fuck," Spencer gasps, his voice broken. "Y/N, please—please don’t stop. I’m going to— ah."

You press your other hand against his stomach, feeling the muscles contract. His whole body is straining upwards, his back arched and his eyes squeezed shut.

You take him all the way in, swallowing around his length as you work your lips over his shaft. Spencer comes with a cry, his hips jerking as he empties down your throat. You swallow every drop, holding his gaze as you slowly pull back.

"Touch," he rasps, his fingers searching for your own.

You swallow against the ache in your throat and smile up at him, lacing your fingers with his. "How are you feeling?" you ask, running your thumb over his hand, keeping your voice soft as to not disturb the air.

Spencer sighs, though not out of exhaustion, you assume he’s still taking everything in as you see his head rolling against the pillow. "It’s never felt like that before."

You grin. "Glad I could help."

He shifts, reaching for his discarded pants on the floor. "We should—we should clean up," he mumbles, his eyes darting to yours. He flushes when he sees your expression, and his face turns even redder as you realize what he’s doing.

"Reid," you laugh. "Are you really reaching for tissues right now?"

His ears turn bright red. "Well, what—what else am I supposed to do?"

You shift, straddling his hips as you lean down. "How about we do something else," you murmur. You kiss his jawline, working your way down his neck.

"Like what?" he asks in a breathy voice.

"Like this," you reply. You shift, taking his cock inside you. Spencer's breath hitches, and he groans at the feel of you surrounding him. You clasp his shoulders as you begin to move, his hands falling to your hips. He gasps with each thrust, his eyes falling shut as his head lolls back against the pillow.

"Y/N," he whimpers, his fingers digging into your skin. “I don’t know if I can-."

You ride him harder, sliding up and down his cock. “Yes you can, baby. I know you can give me one more,” Spencer's hips rock upwards to meet you, his breath coming in broken gasps.

His fingers tighten around your hips, holding you close as he thrusts upwards.

You’re both panting and gasping now as you chase the peak. You're so close. So fucking close.

"Please—" Spencer groans. "Y/N. I'm—fuck, I'm coming."

You feel him spasm inside you, his fingers tightening almost painfully around your hips. You groan, your movements slowing as you ride him through his orgasm. Spencer's eyes are closed, his mouth open as he gasps for air. His body trembles beneath you, and you feel a surge of satisfaction as you reach yours, too.

You slump forward, catching yourself on his shoulders as you press your forehead against his. He opens his eyes and smiles at you, a warm expression that makes your chest ache.

"Hi," he murmurs softly.

"Hi Spencer." You smile back.

You both lay there for a moment, enjoying the weight of each other’s bodies. Finally, you roll off him, stretching out next to him on the creaky motel bed.

You reach for him, pulling him into your arms as you smile. He nestles against you, his arm snaking around your waist as he presses his face against your chest.

You wrap your arm around him, whispering soft praise into his hair as you stroke his skin gently. He relaxes further, his body growing heavy with sleep.

The mattress is uncomfortable, the sheets too thin. But somehow, you feel more at ease than you have in weeks.

Spencer Reid is a brilliant man. But he’s also really fucking good at other things too. And you’re excited to find out what else he’s good at.

You smile to yourself, your chest warm with affection.

"Goodnight, Reid," you whisper into his hair.

He hums a soft reply, his breathing already slowing. You wrap your arm tighter around him, closing your eyes and letting yourself drift off into sleep. Tomorrow, the case will continue, and so will your job. But right now, you have Spencer in your arms.

And that’s more than enough. You smile again, feeling a sense of contentment wash over you as you drift off to sleep. This room might not be perfect. But it’s home for the moment, and that’s all you need. You drift off to sleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of Spencer's heartbeat against your chest.

[gf2bellamy]

Hi i was wondering if you could write a fic where bau!reader is cheering spencer on at his baseball game?

softball — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of a guy throwing sort of rude remarks at spence ( just like in the scene ) a/n: i rewatched the scene to write this and omg i forgot how silly it is i love them all so bad theyre literally family ( also i miss blake ) i had so much fun writing this i hope you like it !! <3 ( also i literally know nothing about softball so if anything is wrong i'm vv sorry </3 )

The warm afternoon sun bathed the softball field in golden light. You walked beside the bleachers, your sneakers crunching against the gravel path, with JJ at your side. Her son Henry skipped ahead, his tiny hand clutching hers, his excitement obvious as he pointed at the players warming up on the field.

Ahead, Spencer stood by the chain- link fence, deep in conversation with Derek, who was already dressed in his baseball uniform, adjusting his grip on his glove.

Spencer, in contrast, looked hesitant and nervous.

His eyes darted toward the field, where players were tossing balls and stretching, and you could see the uncertainty written all over his face.

“Hey!” JJ called, drawing their attention. 

Spencer turned, his brows furrowing slightly before his expression shifted into surprise. Practically the entire BAU team was gathered behind you—Hotch, Rossi, Garcia, Alex and even little Jack standing beside Henry. 

“What are you all doing here?” Spencer asked, his voice laced with disbelief. His eyes flickered over each of you.

You stepped forward, grinning up at him as you held out a black cap. “Came to support you, of course.” 

He turned it over in his hands, examining it, before slowly placing it on his head. The cap sat awkwardly over his curls at first, but he adjusted it carefully, pulling it down until it fit snugly.

“There,” you said, tilting your head as you studied him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Now you look the part.”

Spencer huffed out a small, amused breath but didn’t argue. 

Ten minutes later, the game was in full swing. Derek was already at bat, sending the ball flying across the field with a powerful hit. The crowd erupted in cheers as he sprinted toward first base.

You clapped from your seat on the bleachers, sharing an excited glance with JJ. 

You watched as Spencer stepped up to the plate, his movements hesitant as he selected a bat from the rack. He gripped it tightly, his knuckles whitening as he took his position. His stance was awkward, his feet too close together, and he shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other.

Just before the pitcher threw the ball, Spencer turned his head, searching for something—someone. 

His eyes found you. 

You gave him an encouraging look, your lips curving into a soft, reassuring smile as you nodded.

Spencer swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tightened his grip on the bat. He squared his shoulders as he turned back toward the pitcher.

The opposing player wound up and threw the ball.

Spencer swung—and missed. 

You bit your lip, fingers curling around the edge of the bleacher.

It was okay. He just needed to get a feel for it. 

The second pitch came. Spencer adjusted his grip, focused his gaze, and swung. 

Missed again. 

The sound of the bat slicing through empty air was met with a few sympathetic murmurs from the crowd.

You exhaled softly through your nose, feeling a twinge of nervousness for him. You could see the frustration creeping into his posture, the way his shoulders tensed and his jaw tightened.

Rossi, stood up from the bleachers as he clapped his hands together. “It’s all right, kid. You got this. Just keep your eye on the ball.” 

Spencer rolled his shoulders before repositioning himself. The third pitch came. He swung—and missed once more. 

A sharp whistle blew, signaling the end of his turn. Spencer sighed, pushing his hair back under the cap as he stepped away from the plate. 

Time passed, and the game continued. The team erupted in cheers when Derek hit a line drive into the outfield, sprinting around the bases with that signature confidence of his.

You clapped along with everyone else, letting out a light laugh when he slid into home base, grinning like he owned the field. 

Your attention drifted back to Spencer. He stood off to the side, a bat in his hand, tossing it lightly into the air as if trying to distract himself.

Except, instead of landing smoothly in his grip, it fumbled and hit the dirt with a dull thud.

You had to bite your cheek to suppress a laugh, not wanting to embarrass him further. He bent down quickly, picking it up like nothing had happened, his cheeks tinged with pink as he went back into position.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight. There was something so endearing about Spencer Reid—genius, FBI profiler, and yet utterly out of his element on a softball field.

You stood up from the bleachers, brushing off your jeans as you made your way over to the chain-link fence that separated the stands from the field. Leaning against it, you called out to him, your voice light and teasing.

“Need a hand with that bat, or are you just practicing your juggling skills?”

Spencer’s head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly as he realized you were watching him. He straightened, brushing a stray curl out of his face as he walked closer to the fence, the bat dangling loosely in his hand.

“I, uh, didn’t realize anyone was paying attention,” he admitted, his voice tinged with embarrassment.

“Oh, I’m paying attention,” you said with a grin, resting your arms on the top of the fence. “And I have to say, your juggling could use a little work. Maybe stick to profiling for now.”

He let out a small, self-conscious laugh, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before meeting yours again. “I’m not exactly cut out for this,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the field. “I mean, I can calculate the trajectory of a ball in my head, but actually hitting it? That’s a whole different story.”

You tilted your head, your smile softening. “Hey, you’re doing better than you think. It’s just a game, Spencer.”

He glanced over at Derek, who was currently showing off with a series of exaggerated practice swings, much to the amusement of the rest of the team. “Yeah, well, Morgan makes it look easy,” Spencer muttered.

“Derek’s had years of practice,” you pointed out. “You’re just starting. Cut yourself some slack.”

Spencer sighed, leaning against the fence on his side so that you were face to face, only the metal links separating you.

Your heart softened. “You don’t have to be good at everything, Spencer. It'’s okay to just have fun.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his brown eyes searching yours as if trying to find some kind of reassurance. Finally, he nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Fun, huh? I guess I can try that.”

“That’s the spirit,” you said, reaching through the fence to give his arm a playful nudge. “And hey, if nothing else, you’ve got the best cheering section here. We’re all rooting for you.”

Spencer’s smile widened, and for the first time since the game started, he looked genuinely relaxed. “Thanks,” he said, his voice warm. “That… means a lot.”

Just then, Derek’s voice boomed across the field. “Reid! You’re up again! Stop flirting and get over here!”

Spencer’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, and he quickly straightened, adjusting his cap. “I, uh, should probably go,” he said, glancing back at you.

You laughed, waving him off. “Go on. Show them what you’ve got.”

Smiling you went back to your seat. When he stepped up to bat, he glanced over at you one more time, and you gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up, earning a small chuckle from him.

JJ, Penelope, and Alex all exchanged knowing glances. 

When Spencer turned his back to get into position, you caught them looking and furrowed your brows. “What?” 

JJ smirked, leaning in slightly. “Oh, nothing.” 

“Absolutely nothing at all,” Penelope added, eyes twinkling. 

Alex just shook her head, biting back a small, amused smile. 

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth blooming in your chest was undeniable. 

And when Spencer stepped up to bat once more, he stole one last glance at you before squaring his stance. His eyes lingered for just a moment, and you could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

But then, from the opposing team’s dugout, someone called out, “This guy can’t hit.”

You frowned, your expression twisting in annoyance.

That was unnecessary.

Apparently, you weren’t the only one who noticed. 

Derek, standing near home plate, lifted a hand and called for a time-out. He turned on his heel and strode toward Spencer, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he leaned in to say something. 

You let out a small breath of relief. 

Rossi, seated just below you on the bleachers, leaned back slightly and smirked. “Shoot him another one of your good luck smiles. Maybe he won’t miss this time.” 

Your eyes narrowed, heat creeping up your neck. “Funny,” you muttered, crossing your arms in an attempt to keep yourself composed. 

Rossi chuckled, clearly enjoying himself, and the rest of the team exchanged knowing glances. 

Derek finally walked back to his position, and Spencer turned around once more—his eyes searching for you almost instinctively. You met his gaze, and despite the slight nervousness still lingering in his stance, you smiled at him, giving him an encouraging nod. 

“There you go,” Rossi muttered under his breath, and you shot him a glare, though it held no real heat. 

You ignored him, keeping your eyes on Spencer as he adjusted his grip on the bat, exhaled, and squared his stance once more. 

The pitcher wound up. 

The ball came flying toward him. 

Spencer swung. 

And missed. 

You bit your lip, fingers curling slightly as you watched him adjust.

The second pitch came. 

Another miss. 

You swallowed hard. You could tell he was getting in his own head. 

And then, just as the pitcher lined up for the third throw, that same player from earlier muttered loud enough for everyone to hear, “This guy’s got nothing.” 

Your head snapped toward him, irritation bubbling up in your chest. Oh, shut up, you thought, resisting the urge to march over there yourself. You shot the player a glare, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care.

Then, the third pitch came. 

For a split second, time seemed to slow. 

Spencer swung— 

Crack! 

The unmistakable sound of the bat making solid contact echoed across the field. 

The ball shot into the air, soaring far past the infield. 

For a second, Spencer just stood there, wide-eyed, almost as if he couldn’t believe it himself. He blinked at the bat in his hands, then at the ball still sailing through the air, as if trying to process what had just happened.

He didn’t move an inch. 

“Spencer, run!” 

Everyone was shouting now—Derek, Rossi, JJ, Penelope,Alex even Hotch. But it was your voice that seemed to snap him out of it. His head jerked in your direction, and when he saw you standing, hands cupped around your mouth as you cheered, something seemed to click. 

He ran. 

Derek was smacking his hands against his knees. “C’mon, kid, move it!” 

Spencer rounded first, then second. The outfielders were still scrambling to recover, and the team’s cheers only grew louder. 

By the time he made it to third, you could see the determination set on his face. His cap had slipped slightly, his curls bouncing with every stride, and his cheeks were flushed from the effort.

“Go, Spencer!” you yelled, clapping wildly. 

The second the opposing team threw the ball toward home plate, Spencer took one final, desperate sprint— 

And then slid. 

It wasn’t the smoothest slide, and judging by the way he grimaced as he skidded across the dirt, it definitely wasn’t something he had ever practiced before. But when the referee threw his arms out and called, “Safe!” the entire BAU team erupted. 

Derek was the first to reach him, pulling Spencer to his feet and clapping him on the back so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of him. “That’s what I’m talking about, kid!” he shouted, his grin wide and proud.

JJ and Penelope were cheering loudly, their voices carrying across the field, while Rossi let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. Even Hotch, who was usually so stoic, was cheering.

But your eyes were on Spencer. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath, but there was a look of pure triumph on his face.

His cap was crooked, his shirt was covered in dirt, and his hair was a complete mess, but he looked happier than you’d seen him in a long time.

When his eyes found yours, he smiled—a real, genuine smile that lit up his entire face. You grinned back at him, giving him a thumbs-up, and he shook his head, laughing softly as he adjusted his cap.

After a few moments, as the team’s cheers began to subside, Spencer finally managed to wiggle free from Derek’s grip, stepping away from the celebratory pit.

His teammates continued to pat him on the back, offering congratulations and words of encouragement, but Spencer’s attention was already drifting.

His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for you.

When he finally spotted you, his expression softened, and a small, almost shy smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

You walked up to him, your smile growing wider with every step.

Spencer was still slightly breathless, his chest rising and falling with adrenaline , but all he could focus on was you.

The noise of the cheering team, the occasional slap on his back from his teammates—it all faded into the background the moment your arms wrapped around his neck. 

His fingers instinctively tightened around your waist, his grip warm.

“You did great,” you said, your voice full of excitement, as you pulled back slightly, your smile so wide it felt like it could light up the entire field. 

Spencer’s lips parted slightly, his mind struggling to catch up with what was happening. You were so close.

He could see the way your cheeks were slightly flushed—whether from the excitement of the game or something else, he wasn’t sure. 

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

You nodded, smiling brightly. “Yeah.” 

His heart stuttered at the confirmation, at the way you were looking at him like he had genuinely impressed you.

It wasn’t often that Spencer Reid felt cool, but right now, standing here with you, he kind of did. 

The way you were looking at him, your arms still loosely draped around his neck, made him feel like he’d just accomplished something extraordinary—even if it was just a lucky hit in a casual softball game.

“See, pretty boy? Told you you had it in you,” Derek called, clapping him on the shoulder as he walked past, effectively snapping Spencer out of his daze. 

You giggled, finally stepping back, though Spencer hesitated before letting you go.

Garcia practically skipped over, phone in hand. “Oh, don’t mind me, just capturing all these adorable moments,” she teased, wiggling her fingers at her screen. 

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the warmth creeping up your neck. “Garcia…” 

“What? This is gold,” she argued, waving her phone. “The genius hits a home run, and his biggest fan is the first one to congratulate him? I live for this.” 

Spencer, still trying to recover from all of this, rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks burning.

You reached up, gently adjusting his cap.

Your fingers brushed against his forehead, and for a moment, Spencer froze, his breath catching as he looked down at you.

“There,” you said softly, smoothing the brim of the cap. “Now you look like a proper MVP.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but no words came out. He just stared at you, his mind racing as he tried to process the way your touch made him feel.

Rossi, who had been watching from the bleachers with an amused smirk, leaned toward Hotch and muttered, “I give it two months.”

Hotch merely sighed, shaking his head. “They’ll be the last to realize it.”

[alinathinkstoomuch]

CLOSET FULL OF NERVES

pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader summary: meeting your FBI boyfriend’s team? cue the outfit crisis, a bad blouse, and a mild spiral. good thing aaron knows exactly how to talk you down and remind you that being yourself is more than enough, based on this requesst. warnings: fluffff, brief porno discussion lol, aaron being sweet and protective word count: 1.1k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

Meeting Hotch’s—Aaron’s, now—team shouldn’t have filled you with this much anxiety and yet here you were, engulfed by nerves, knee-deep in a closet implosion, and currently debating whether the sacred casual but cute look was code for jeans or a dress or a possible a tailored meltdown. Your people-pleasing radar was at its absolute peak. You’d changed outfits six times, debated redoing your hair twice, and spent far too long practicing a casual ‘hi’ in the mirror.

When Aaron mentioned drinks with the team at the start of the week, it had sounded breezy enough. Being around a bunch of slightly tipsy profilers (aka human lie detectors) couldn’t be that bad…right?

Well. You were now strongly reconsidering your earlier optimism. 

You’d pieced together a mental scrapbook of them from the sidelines through Aaron’s end-of-day stories, Jack’s offhand dinner-table commentary, and the one time JJ had picked up Henry from a playdate and waved at you like she already knew your SAT scores.

But dating Aaron? That changed the math. This wasn’t idle curiosity anymore. This was entering the orbit of people who could, with startling ease, determine your attachment style and also what you were like in sixth grade. Especially now, since you weren’t just the nanny anymore—you were his person. And walking into a room full of highly perceptive people who loved him like family suddenly felt like the pressure had tripled.

You were still standing in front of the mirror, scrutinising your earrings when you heard your phone buzz. 

Aaron: Leaving now. Should be there in 10.

You: Are we sure this is a good idea? I’m totally fine skipping this one. No pressure, no potential for public humiliation. Everyone wins.

Aaron: You’ll be fine, don’t stress. They’re going to like you. 

You: But will they like-like me?

You wait. Longer than is reasonable for a man who never uses more than ten words per text. 

Aaron: I like-like you.

It was unfair, really, how casually he could undo you with four words and a hyphen. You blinked at your reflection. Your hair was doing something vaguely hopeful and the earrings suddenly didn’t seem like they mattered all that much.

You hearted the text and figured you’d let him actually reverse out of the parking lot and into yours before you started catastrophizing again. You just needed to get through the evening. Smile. Make polite conversation. Don’t say anything that reveals your deeply repressed childhood fears or the fact that you still Google words you pretend to know.

After exactly ten minutes you heard a knock on your door.

You were, naturally, mid-blouse change, tangled in something with too many buttons and not enough leniency. So you grabbed your phone, thumbed out a quick It’s open, and tossed it onto the bed, which now looked like a fabric massacre had occurred.

From downstairs, his voice travelled up to your bedroom. “Please tell me you didn’t leave the door unlocked again.”

You groaned, loudly. “Hello to you too!”

“I’m serious,” Aaron called back. “You live alone, what if someone had walked in?”

You stepped into the hallway, barefoot and still adjusting your sleeves. “What if it was the tooth fairy? You ever consider that? Maybe I was hoping to get my rent covered.”

He appeared at the bottom of the stairs then, that furrow between his brows activated in full-blown dad mode. “You live alone in a house with multiple windows and no security system.”

“Yes, but I have a very scary FBI boyfriend who never smiles. All the nonexistent threats in this neighborhood know better than to mess with me.”

You flicked the bedroom light off, grabbed your phone and made your way downstairs, one hand on the railing, the other trying to discreetly tug your blouse into behaving. You narrowed your eyes at your allegedly serious, stoic boyfriend, who, for someone denying the existence of his own smile, was very clearly suppressing one right now.

“Is something funny?” 

He shook his head, far too quickly. “No. Not at all. You just look... different.”

You stopped at the last step. “Different how?”

“Just…”

“Spit it out, Hotchner, or I swear I’ll continue leaving my doors unlocked.” Blackmail. It never lets you down.

“You don’t look very you. You look like…we’re going to a job interview.”

“Aaron!” you shrieked, giving his chest a shove. 

He took it in stride, both hands raised in surrender, that damn half-smile still flirting with the corner of his mouth. “Honey, I know how you dress. And I would bet actual money that this blouse still has the tags on from when you panic-bought it today.”

“I wanted to make a good impression,” you groaned, tipping your head back. “Figured if I dressed normal enough, it might smooth over the whole ‘Hi, I’m slutting it up with your boss who also happens to be my boss because I’m his nanny’ thing. Which, if we’re being honest, sounds like the plot of a really bad porno.”

Aaron raised a brow. “Oh yeah? What do you know about pornos?”

You squinted at him, suspicious. “Is this a trap?”

“Just curious. You seemed oddly fluent in the premise.”

​​“I—okay, I was making a point. A colourful, exaggerated point.”

“That you’re in a porno.”

You sighed, ready to launch into a defensive monologue but Aaron stepped forward and caught your hands. Both of them. Like he’d done it a hundred times before and would keep doing it until your brain finally agreed you were safe.

“All jokes aside, I want you to be comfortable. And I want you to be you—the great, wonderful, endlessly patient, charming woman I fell in love with. Not some version you think will be more appealing to everyone else.”

You let a breath out. 

“Now,” he continued, “if this blouse makes you feel confident and happy, then wear it. But what I don’t want—what I won’t let happen—is you walking in there thinking any of this is inappropriate, or scandalous, or something to be ashamed of.”

The inside of your cheek caught between your teeth. Not because you didn’t believe him, but because it was easier to chew on skin than emotion.

“Yes,” he added, “it was a little complicated at the start. We knew that. But I’d go through all of it again if it meant ending up here with you.”

There was something a little terrifying and kind of wonderful about being seen that clearly by someone who refused to look away. Your heart did this weird fluttery thing, like affection had turned into a full-body cramp.

“I hate this blouse,” you mumbled.

Aaron’s mouth twitched. “I suspected.”

“Do I have time to change?”

He checked his watch, then looked back at you. “Only if you tell me what pornos you’ve been watching in your spare time.”

You laughed, a chesty thing that felt borderline suffocating inside the godforsaken polyester trap that passed for a blouse on the receipt. “That’s blackmail.”

“Hm,” he hummed casually,  “wonder where I got the idea from.”

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