#open requests

With that out of the way, the drive home that normally took less then half an hour Jack had managed to cut to just fourteen minutes. 

Jack barely remembers the traffic lights, or the stops signs. When he pulls into the driveway he sees you. Standing inside the doorway exactly where you must had been when you called him just awhile ago. Bags by your side at your feet, with one of your most comfortable pillows tucked your arm, and a steady stream of tears rolling down your puffy cheeks. The second you see him get out of the car the tears come once again. 

"Oh, baby." He mumbles as he reaches out for you. He wraps his arms around you carefully not wanting to cause any more unnecessary harm. "I've got you now." He whispers to you, at that moment another wave of contractions rolls through your body. You are quick to bury your head into the crook of his neck, "I hate this, Jack." You mumble into this neck. "I know." He says sympathetically, "It hurts." You whine, Jack kisses your forehead. 

"I know it hurts, but think with every contraction we are one step closer to meeting our son." You nod slowly, and with that together the two of your make your way back to the car. Another set of bags are already loaded into the back of the car. Jack might have had a gut feeling, or maybe he was over prepared. Neither of you will ever know, the drive back to the hospital is a much slower one. 

One of his hands stays on the steering wheel, the other one never leaves yours. 

"You gotta breath with me, honey." 

You take a breath in together counting again. "Four." held, and then let our again. 

Again

Again 

And again 

until Jack can see the glow of the hospital lights as they finally come into view. 

An entire shift has passed since Jack got the phone call that your water had broken. 

It's somewhere at the twelve hour mark when the conversation decides to rear it's head. You're lay on the bed absolutely exhausted, Jack sits next to you. His hand wrapped up in your. Watching as the sweat clings to your brows, neck, and chest. "You know." You whisper into the finally empty delivery room. "We never actually talks about a middle name." Jack glances at you. 

"You're thinkin' about that right now?" He asks, brows twisted up and raised high on his head. "I'm trying to distract myself from this pain, Jack." You say like it's common knowledge. "That's fair honey." He mumbles you give a tired, but happy smile. "We've had literally nine months to think about this." Jack laughs, "Yeah I know." 

"And somehow all we've got is a first name." 

"Oliver is a pretty good first name." You hum, "Yeah Oliver is perfect." you say with a sweet smile. "Oliver Michael." Jack offers, you look at him and he's staring down at your intertwined hands. "Michael?" You say softly, "Yeah." There's the smallest of smiles that pulls at his lips. "After Robby?" You claify. 

Jack just nods, holding back some of the emotions he can feeling bubbling up in his chest, and throat. "I mean the mans been my best friend for most of my life. He's really been there for me through everything." Jack voices goes soft. "And he's gonna be here for Oliver too." 

You feel your eyes start to water, "You think he'll like it?" You ask, and Jack laughs. "I think that the old bastard will try and pretend that he hates it." You smile, "Then he'll cry." Jack nods. You're both laughing when all the sudden your laugh turns into a groan. Yet another contraction starting. Jack is quick to drop the subject and resign all his attention back on you. "Okay, lets forget Robby, and forget the names, just breath." Jack mumbles. 

It's another six hours later with a final push, a single cry and then suddenly he's there. 

Oliver Michael Abbot. 

He's a mostly healthy baby boy, weighing in at seven pounds a head full of Jacks red hair, tiny fingers, and toes. 

Letting out the most furious cries that filled the delivery room immediately. Jack had finally let himself cry and that was before the nurses put baby Oliver on your chest. "Oh…" he let out his voice cracking. "Hi buddy." he spoke softly. Tiny fingers wrapping around just one of Jacks. 

You assuming it's there when Jack had gone from in love, to completely wrapped around Olivers finger. Hopelessly in love with not only just you but now this new life laying contently against your chest. 

Oliver does manage to get the VIP stay in the NICU for the first few days of his new life, mostly because he had needed just a little extra help with learning how to eat, but now he's taken the bottle right away, and his breathing is staying strong not that Jack had any fear especially when Oliver had been a yeller the second he entered the world. 

Every single updates brings better news. Every day Oliver is brought one step closer to making it home. The entire ER, day and night shift are determined to adopt him before he's even discharged. Flowers fill the room you're staying in, cards from the day and night shift. Even departments heads from different floors come by to just simply congratulate you. 

Lena is the first to show up with enough food that it could probably feed a small army. Dana is never far behind, carrying with her a small, green stuffed dinosaur that she had insisted every little boy needed. 

Finally after just a few days have passed Robby wanders into the NICU carrying a bouguet the knocks the rest of the other flowers out of the park. He's quiet when he steps to Olivers bassinet. "You made a pretty good looking kid, brother." Jack smiles and rolls his eyes. "Yeah he's prefect." Robby looks over at his oldest, and best friend. "So… what'd you guys land on?" 

Jack takes a quick glance at you, and you nod. "We'd like you to met Oliver Michael Abbot." Robby frowns maybe out of sheer shock. "Michael?" He asks quietly, as Oliver wraps a hand around one of his fingers. Jack smiles knowingly at him. "Man you've been my best friend, and saved my ass more time then I have fingers to count on." Robby just blinks rapidly. "You've been my family for years." Jacks words are met with silence. 

And before Jack knows it Robby's eyes are filling with tears. "You idiot." Robby laughs through the tears. "You really named your kid after me?" He asks. Jack pulls him into a tight hug before Robby can protest. "You've more then earned it brother." Robby finally melts into the hug,

"I love you man." 

"I love you too brother." 

From across the room Lena smiles at you, and Dana hands you yet another tissue. "I told you that he'd cry." 

"I didn't." 

"Oh come on big guy you absolutely did." Dana says from the other side of the room. Oliver lets out at that moment the tiniest of squeaks from his bassinet. All of you are quick to look his way, and it makes Jack laugh. "Looks like we're all already wrapped around Olivers finger." The five of you can't even agrue with that statment, because they all know that it's true. 

Oliver is about to be the most spoiled baby boy in the entire ER. 

You and Dennis have known each other since diapers—your parents went to college together, eventually working side by side and starting their own families at the same time.

Though, you don’t really say you knew Dennis until you were both 16, awkward, hormonal, attempting at a puppy love style relationship, perfectly appropriate for kids your age.

Until you saw the plus sign when you were 17. Knowing you were at a crossroads—-though, your parents and his definitely wanted Dennis to stay, and he did—you decided mom life wasn’t so bad.

18 with a 8 month old baby in your mother’s lap while you walk down the aisle of your wedding wasn’t exactly something you had entirely pictured, but seeing baby Malcolm in a onesie printed with a tux on it, Dennis crying seeing you in white; none of it seemed so bad.

Despite your hardships through the beginning, you and Dennis decide to relocate to Pittsburgh after Malcolm turned 3. Dennis dedicated himself to being a provider for his wife and child, even perusing a higher education just to take care of you both.

Dennis doesn’t bring you or Malcolm up at work, the only outright proof was his wedding band.

Now, Malcolm is older—more reckless now he can ride bikes and tell lies—just turning 10 a week ago.

He decides to prove said reckless behavior now it’s summer break, crashing his bike into a tree and possibly breaking his wrist.

You rush him to PTMC while he holds an ice pack on it, sighing,

“Mom, I’m fine. I don’t think I need to go.” He says, despite the fact his eyes have tears welling in them. You scoff, finally parking your Jeep,

“You say that but I heard you scream, I heard the cry—it’s ok to need help.” You reply, helping Malcolm out of the car. He’s almost pouting as you walk in, brushing his hair with your fingers to soothe yourself and him.

You step inside—thankfully, the chairs are only 1/4 full for a change—the universe sometimes had divine timing.

You explain the situation to the medical receptionist, rubbing Malcolm’s back while you do.

“Ok, and name?”

“Malcolm Whitaker.” You say, almost stuttering on the last name—you didn’t want to seem like you were using nepotism to be seen quicker.

The receptionist nods, pointing you to a chair to sit with him. The receptionist stands and walks back into the ER, calling to Dennis,

“There’s a kid here that looks like your twin!”

Dennis takes a second to process, seeing the name pop up, he’s quick to rush out.

“What happened?” He asks while you both stand, following Dennis back into triage.

“Mom thinks I’m dying.” Malcolm says sarcastically while you huff,

“You know how when I broke my wrist as a kid my parents didn’t believe me and then it was a super bad break? What if it’s that? I don’t want that to happen, he doesn’t need to be in that pain.” You ramble, scrubbing your face with your hands till Dennis gently takes your wrists and forces you to look at him.

“Slow. Breathe, in… out. It’s ok.” He says softly, giving a lopsided smile. His expression turns half concerned, half stern,

“Were you down by the creek with Tyler?” Dennis asks, crossing his arms over his chest while Malcolm slowly nods, almost giving puppy dog eyes.

“Yes… but dad—“

“No, I told you not to go down there, so has mom, so have both of Tyler’s parents too.” Dennis cuts him off, sighing softly,

“Look, Big Mac,” he only used that nickname for really good days or life lessons, right now seemed the latter,

“You got hurt because you didn’t listen. You’re growing up, you need to be able to discern right from wrong.” Dennis says, putting a hand onto his shoulder,

“I’ll order an X-Ray, you aren’t in trouble but you know not to go down there again, right?” He says, standing while Malcolm gives a sheepish nod,

“Yes dad… I’m sorry for disrespecting you and mom..” he murmurs while both you and Dennis smile,

“The fact you apologized like that already shows me how strong and smart you’ve become.” You say, pulling Malcolm in for a hug.

“Whitaker, we have—whoa.” Dana walks in but quickly stops when she sees Malcolm.

“Did someone clone and shrink you?” She asks with a nervous laugh, looking between the two of you. Slowly, the pieces come together and her brows furrow,

“You’re married with a kid?” Dana blurts out while Dennis gives a weak smile,

“I like to keep life and work separate.” He says simply while you chuckle,

“Trust me, he barely talks about the ER at home.” You say, Malcolm nodding,

“Dad only told me like… two stories. I only remember the farting grandma.” He says, laughing while you giggle too.

“That’s a good story.”

Dana smiles and nods,

“Alright, I’ll tell them you’re with a patient. They’ve got enough hands.”

Dennis leads you both to radiology, Malcolm stepping in by himself while you two stood outside, watching through the glass.

“You know he gets it from you.” Dennis blurts out, looking to you. Your attention snaps in his direction, tilting your head,

“Get what?” You ask, while he smirks,

“Bravery. Not asking for permission but asking for forgiveness.” He says, putting an arm around your shoulder to pull you in for a side hug.

“I made him for 9 months and raised him for 10 years and he has the audacity to be your total twin. Not even my eye shape.” You sigh, resting your head onto him,

“He has your mischievous smile. The same glitter of love in his eyes.” He says softly, kissing your scalp. You nod and just stay in Dennis’s arm while Malcolm finishes the imaging.

When Malcolm steps out, Dennis holds out a hand,

“Nice job, Mac. Sometimes adults get freaked out by it.” He says with a smile while Malcolm furrows his brows,

“Why? It wasn’t even scary. Grandma without her dentures in was scarier than that.” Malcolm says casually while you both laugh, causing Malcolm to smile.

“Let me go look at it and I’ll be back. Give me 5 minutes, promise.” Dennis says, ruffling Malcolm’s hair before rushing off, leaving you to back in the exam room.

“You guys aren’t mad?” Malcolm asks quietly while you give a lopsided smile,

“No, but you understand why we were, right? We love you. There’s no other Malcolm, you make our lives whole.” You say, pulling him in for another hug. The door clicks open and Dennis steps inside, grinning at the scene,

“I think someone needs to go home and take a nap. That applies to both of you.” He chuckles while you let go,

“But it’s just a sprain guys. Don’t cause trouble until I’m home.” Dennis says, kissing both of you on the head and planting an extra kiss on your lips.

“I love you guys.” He adds, Malcolm finishing,

“To grandma’s farm and back.” He smiles, which you’re quick to mirror.

“Let’s go get discharged, baby.” You say, leading Malcolm out—not before he takes one last hug from his dad.

In the car ride back home, Malcolm looks over to you,

“Mom, why did that lady not know about us? Is dad hiding us?” He blurts out while you shake your head,

“No, far from that, bug. Dad is trying to protect us and himself. He sees a lot of things in there, you saw all the stuff happening while we were in the room.” You explain, Malcolm’s brows still furrowed,

“So why does he not talk about us?” He asks again while you sigh softly,

“Dad worries about us, when he sees a patient that reminds him of us, it can make work hard. So he tries not to think about us at all so he doesn’t make himself worry. Does that kinda make sense?” You ask, Malcolm slowly nodding,

“So that’s why dad doesn’t tell us about the ER? He’s trying to protect us from the bad stuff?” He questions while you smile,

“Bingo. That’s how I know you’re my kid, you’re a genius.” You muse, Malcolm smiling and puffing his chest when he speaks,

“When I grow up, I hope I’m like dad.”

———————————————————————

Ok Yeall like Si o no…. parte Dos? No? Si? I. Love this request. MORE!!!!!

The explosion hit.

A blast of force sent you both you and Peeta flying, slamming you against a tree, knocking the wind from your lungs. The last thing you saw before everything went black was the blinding white light of destruction—debris raining down as the arena shattered.

Pain drags you back to consciousness.

It’s different now—sharp, aching, thrumming through every nerve in your body. Your head is heavy, your thoughts sluggish, and when you try to move, your limbs feel foreign, unresponsive.

The first thing you register is the cold. Not just from the sterile air, but from the hard surface beneath you, unforgiving and clinical. The second is the color. White. Blindingly white. The walls, the ceiling, the floor. Even the flimsy gown draped over your battered body. It’s like you’ve been erased, stripped down to nothing.

A cell.

You try to sit up, but the movement sends a sharp spike of pain through your ribs. Bruised—maybe cracked. Your wrists are raw, red marks circling them, though you don’t remember why. You don’t remember much at all beyond the explosion. Beyond the moment the arena fell apart.

The soft hiss of a door opening snaps you to attention.

Boots echo against the floor, slow and deliberate. You force yourself to look up, and ice coils in your veins.

President Snow stands before you.

He’s composed as ever, dressed in crisp white, his cold blue eyes studying you like you’re an insect pinned beneath glass. A faint, almost amused smile tugs at his lips. In his hands, he cradles a pristine white rose.

You steel yourself, masking the fear clawing at your throat. You don’t speak first. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

Snow takes a slow breath, inhaling the scent of the rose before his gaze locks onto you. “You’re quite the survivor, aren’t you?”

You say nothing.

“I must admit, I was quite disappointed to see you among those extracted from the arena. A shame, really. I had hoped for better from a Victor of District Four.” He tilts his head. “Finnick Odair’s love.”

Your stomach twists at Finnick’s name, but you keep your face blank. You don’t know where he is. If he made it out. If he’s even alive.

Snow takes a step closer, watching you carefully. “You see, we know there was a plan. We know the Quarter Quell was never meant to go as intended. The rebels orchestrated this, didn’t they?” He crouches slightly, lowering himself to your level. “Why don’t you save us all some time and tell me what you know?”

You blink at him, forcing your expression into something blank, confused. “Plan?” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Snow sighs, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Lying is beneath you.” He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest hint of blood beneath the overwhelming scent of roses. “Very well. We have ways of making you talk,”

And you know he’s right.

And the pain he afflicts never left. It simply changed—sometimes sharp and searing, sometimes a dull ache that settled in your bones—but it was always there.

Time blurred in the Capitol. You didn’t know how long it had been since they ripped you from the arena, since the explosion stole you away from Finnick. Days, weeks… it could have been months. You weren’t sure anymore. You weren’t sure of anything anymore.

They never let you rest. The sterile white walls, the blinding overhead lights, the sound of footsteps approaching and retreating—it all became part of your existence. And then there were Peeta and Johanna.

You caught glimpses of them when they dragged you through the halls, when you passed rooms where screams bled through the walls.

Peeta was barely recognizable anymore. The hijacking, the tracker jackers, had shattered him, stolen the light that used to live in his eyes. He couldn’t focus for long, his mind darting from one fleeting thought to the next. His words were broken, a disjointed mess of confusion and hurt. His body trembled constantly, his hands shaking as if they couldn’t hold onto the fragments of his sanity. He would mumble to himself, apologize for things he didn’t understand, and then, in a fit of panic, beg you to stay, to tell him he wasn’t lost. And you would do your best to assure him, sooth him from across the room.

It was unbearable.

Johanna was different. She was quieter, but there was something hollow in her. Her body shook violently from withdrawal, her lips cracked from dehydration. The Capitol had drowned her over and over again, only to pull her back just before she crossed the line between life and death. When she looked at you, there was no spark of rebellion, no fire. Just exhaustion and pure resentment that kept her going.

And then there was you.

They had their own way of breaking you.

At first, they kept it simple—pain, starvation, isolation. Keeping you across the room from your friends. Close enough to talk. Close enough to hear their screaming. But not close enough to comfort.

But then they brought you to that room. The one with the speakers hidden in the walls, where the shadows were deeper, where the air felt heavier. And they made you listen.

Jabberjays.

You had heard them in the arena before, their eerie mimicry of loved ones’ voices meant to torment you. You had seen Finnick fall to them, and Katniss. And it had broken your heart seeing how they were reacting.

But that had been nothing compared to this.

The pain had been your constant companion, gnawing at you, twisting every second into an eternity.

They didn’t just sing—they screeched. The birds were torture incarnate, their calls designed to break the mind, to twist the memories into something ugly. They brought you to the room, the sterile walls designed to keep you isolated, to amplify the terror in your heart. They had programmed the birds to sound like those you loved—those you had failed.

At first, it was a whisper. A voice you thought you recognized, but it was distorted, cracked, like the sound was being pulled through a filter of madness. It came slowly, building, growing louder.

It was impossible. You had never heard that tone from him before. Finnick never spoke like that. But there it was, his voice accusing you, twisting the memory of his care, of his laughter, into something venomous. The birds sang it over and over, forcing you to hear the words that ripped at your very soul.

And then the voice changed again.

The words cut through you like a knife, too sharp, too raw. His voice, so young and full of trust, was unmistakable. But it was a voice that had long since faded from your memory. The bird had twisted it, made it sound like something darker, like something hateful. Your little brother who you did everything to keep safe.

It wasn’t the voice of a child who loved you. It was the voice of a child who felt abandoned, who had been left alone. The bird screamed again, louder this time, its voice shrill and echoing, sending waves of nausea through you.

The birds’ voices layered one on top of the other, drowning out your thoughts, breaking the barrier between reality and the spiraling nightmare that consumed you. It was as though every painful memory, every regret, every mistake you had ever made, was being replayed and twisted into something ugly. Something unforgivable.

The walls seemed to close in as you sank deeper, the birds’ calls surrounding you, clawing at your mind, twisting your thoughts. It was endless. The repetition, the overwhelming weight of their words, started to chip away at you. You could feel your sanity slipping, each scream from the birds tearing a hole inside your chest.

The pain, the guilt, the spiraling madness was too much. You had no defense left. The voices echoed, screamed, whispered, and everything you had held onto was cracking, shattering like glass. Your hands trembled, your heart raced, and you were drowning in the sound of their accusations.

The sound of Finnick’s broken voice, Annie’s hollow sadness, and the desperation in your brother’s cries—each one felt like a new blade slicing into you. Each call, each accusation, only deepened the spiral you were trapped in. Your chest ached with the weight of their pain, your soul shattered from the guilt of it all. The torment was endless, suffocating.

In the haze of madness, time felt like an abstract concept—blurred, stretched beyond recognition. The room seemed to shift around you, but the stillness of it pressed in like a vice. It was as though you were stuck in this moment forever, caught between memories and nightmares. You couldn’t tell when you were moved from one place to another.

Even then as you laid on the cold, white floor of your cell, the sterile walls closing in around you. The trembling never stopped. It was like a constant hum in your body, a fear that never quite left. Your back was pressed against the smooth, unforgiving surface of the wall, your eyes staring blankly at nothing in particular.

Your mind felt detached from reality, a fog clouding every thought. The voices of the Jabberjays still echoed in your head, their cruel distortions of Finnick’s, Annie’s, and your brother’s voices a constant reminder of the horrors they had subjected you to. You couldn’t escape it. You couldn’t escape them.

You barely noticed the sounds at first—footsteps, muffled voices, the faint shuffle of boots on the hard floors. Then the door to your cell opened with a sharp hiss, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you looked up. Someone was standing there, silhouetted in the dim light, their features too blurred to make out. You didn’t know if it was real, if you were dreaming again, or if it was just another cruel trick of the Capitol.

A hand reached out, tentative, like they were unsure of how to approach you. “You’re alright,” a voice said softly, but with a firmness that cracked through the haze in your mind. “We’re here to get you out.”

But the words felt distant, disconnected, as though they were coming from underwater. You couldn’t trust anything. Your heart pounded in your chest, fear bubbling up from deep within. This could be another trap. Another lie. You weren’t sure who this person was, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

Before you could even form a coherent thought, a sharp scent flooded the room, heavy and sickly sweet. The next thing you knew, the room swirled around you—shapes and sounds warping—and the last thing you heard was the voice again, more urgent this time: “It’s okay. We’re getting you out.”

And then, as the smoke thickened and your vision blurred, everything went black.

The first thing you felt when you woke up was confusion. It was disorienting—your senses a blur, your mind fragmented. You were in a room, but it wasn’t your cell, wasn’t the sterile white of the Capitol. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, and the soft hum of machines around you was both strange and oddly comforting.

But that didn’t mean you were safe. Not yet. Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the chaos. Doctors in white coats were moving quickly, their voices a frantic buzz. Someone was touching your arm, their hands too firm, too urgent.

You flinched away, panic surging through your veins as memories of the Jabberjays twisted into your mind. The screams of Finnick, Annie, and your brother—distorted and cruel—ripped through your thoughts again. Was this just another trick? Were they going to use the birds again? Were you being captured all over again?

“Please, just… just stop,” you gasped, your voice raw, barely audible. You scrambled, trying to pull yourself away from their grasp, but your limbs were weak.

“Shh, shh, you’re safe,” one of the doctors whispered, but you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t. Safe didn’t exist anymore.

They tried to hold you down, to reassure you, but the more they touched you, the more your skin crawled. Your breath was coming in ragged gasps as the room closed in, and the walls felt like they were suffocating you. Everything felt too bright, too loud. You wanted to escape, to run, to hide from the chaos.

Then you heard it—his voice.

“Where is she? Where is she?”

Your heart skipped a beat, a raw, desperate sound. Finnick’s voice. But it couldn’t be him. You tensed, a jolt of panic shooting through you. No, no, no—this isn’t real. It’s not real.

The words that came next weren’t comforting—they were the birds, mimicking him, twisting his voice. It was too much. Your pulse raced, your body trembling violently as you backed away from the doctors, too afraid to look.

“Where is she?” Finnick’s voice called again, closer this time. “Please, please, I need to find her.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The memories collided in your mind, his voice and the twisted birds, and you weren’t sure where one began and the other ended.

Then, out of the chaos, a familiar face emerged. Finnick. His face was drawn, haunted, but his eyes—his eyes—they were the same. He was real. The fog in your mind started to clear, the panic slowly ebbing away as you locked onto him. The sight of him, standing there, filled you with a raw, aching relief. But the confusion still clung to you, the terror that this was a trick.

He stepped closer, his hand outstretched. “It’s me, sweetheart” he said softly, his voice full of something gentle, something full of warmth you thought you’d lost forever. “I’m here. You’re safe. It’s over.”

Your body froze, heart hammering in your chest, but then something inside you broke. You couldn’t hold onto the fear anymore, couldn’t push him away. You collapsed into him, falling into his arms, the weight of the months of torture pressing down on you, flooding you with every raw emotion you’d been holding in.

The warmth of Finnick’s embrace is overwhelming, like a beacon in the dark. For a moment, it feels surreal, like you’re still trapped in the nightmare, that you’ll wake up any second and be back in that place, alone and broken. But when his arms tighten around you, when he whispers against your hair, you realize that this—this is real.

Finnick was home. His scent, his touch, the way his body feels against yours—it’s everything you’ve been missing, everything you’ve been longing for. For so long, you thought you would never feel this again. You thought you were going to die there, in that cold, endless nightmare.

“I thought I was going to die there,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper, a broken sob escaping as you clutch him tighter. The words spill out before you can stop them, the weight of them sinking deep into your chest. “I thought… I thought I’d never make it out. That I’d never see you again.”

Finnick pulls back just enough to look at you, his face full of sorrow, guilt swirling in his eyes. “You’re here now,” he says, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek, wiping away the tears. “You’re safe. You’re with me now, and I’m never leaving you again. I swear it.”

The sound of his voice, steady and unwavering, cracks something deep inside of you. It’s like the world around you shifts—like you’re not alone anymore. Like you’re finally home.

He takes a slow, deep breath and leans his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face with gentle care. “I know… I know it’s been hell,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m never leaving you again, sweetheart,”

You nod against him, your breath shaky, but his presence is like an anchor, grounding you, pulling you back from the abyss. Your body trembles, not from the cold or the fear, but from the raw relief that courses through you.

AERION-  Obsessed and Pathetic

You couldn’t have been more displeased at your current predicament here in the storm lands.  The weather was warm, but the air seemed to be heavy with humidity, and your brow came drenched in sweat as the sun beat down on you.  It hurt your eyes how bright the sun shone over the growing field of tents.

A small tourney was to be constructed, and as a friend of the Lady, she entrusted you with the more gentle details of the event.  Which flowers, the tent fabrics, the entertainments, all swirled in your head till you seemed swallowed by the work.

Your Lord Husband was less than enthused by it.  Having you leave for an engagement practically had him radiating with growing displeasure.  Aerion adored you, no, he worshiped the very ground you walked upon.  Not a day went by that he was not glued to your side or practically preening just for a glance from you.

He craved your attention as if he were a drunkard worse than his elder brother.  For if you did not smile at him nor have your pinky hooked 'round his during daily walks, he would think you’d thought you married a worm over a dragon.

When he set fires to the tapestries or replaced the salt with sugar, he needed you to laugh or smile the way he wanted, how you tuck your lips to stifle any laughter, or the curl of those supple lips when you smiled at him from across the dining table.

You, You, You, just you…

Filled his mind till he wore a hole in the floor from his pacing.  In his arms, Maegor clung to his chest, the chubby babe practically seemed over the moon from the movement.  Clinging to his sire’s growing facial hair while he watched through happy eyes.

But Aerion was far from happy, he couldn't care less that his growing stubble was being pulled and tugged, he couldn't care less about the diaper that hadn’t been changed.  He was waiting by the window for a raven, a falcon, Anything from you.  

It had only been four days since you’d been gone.  You’d sent a letter telling him you arrived safely, but other than that, nothing else had come.  

There was no requirement for your family to attend the festivities, with Maegor still only half to his first name day, there was no expectation that anyone of your family would go.  You were there simply to help and set up, then promptly go home.  

You were nearly done with the preparations, everything had been perfectly set up, and all the accommodations had been handled.  You drafted letters and ledgers of all the costs and materials till the night changed to dawn.  Practically exhausted till you saw the look on your friend's face and felt a growing sense of pride.

Your husband may have had a horrid reputation before; all of the Maekarlings seemed to be tainted by their eldest siblings' misdeeds.  But since you’d married into the family, all of that seemed to turn around with each engagement completed by you.  It didn’t stop Aerion’s behavior or wipe it all away, but at least now, when Maekar heard his son’s name, it was quickly followed by the loveliness and kindness of his Lady wife.   

You were kind and cruel to Aerion, and he loved you painfully for it.

When the guard announced you had arrived home, he was there to greet you as if he were a hound.  He pushed past your guard and flung your wheelhouse door open to see you for himself.  Your eyes widened with surprise when he gathered you up into his arms.  “My love…?” Gods, your voice sounded heavenly to him as he carried you along back to your shared chambers.

He didn’t speak to you nor falter in his step, simply carried you past the house staff and past your confused father-in-law. Your arms remained tight around his shoulders, and your eyes looked at his profile.  His stubble was growing, but his eyes were dark with circles and red as if he’d been crying and was about to do so again.  He carried you all the way down winding halls till the door to your chambers came into view.

Brought you inside and kicked the heavy door closed as if it were a normal one.  And still he carried you till he set you down on the freshly made bed as if you would shatter like a piece of precious stone.

You looked at him from your place on the bed, watched the thoughts race behind his eyes, and he kneeled to you.  Wordlessly pushing up your skirts to remove your shoes.  

It was better not to talk when he was like this.  To let him do what he needs and find the words he feels best to say.

So you let him undress you.  Watched as his pale hands shakily unwrapped you from the heavy garments and tossed them away.  You watched him tug every layer free till you remained in your shift before him.  

Still, he kneeled to you.

His hands pressed to the floor as he stared at your feet and ankles. And after a beat of silence…

“Do you still love me?” he said, but it cracked halfway through.  Desperate and almost pleading.

From your place on the bed, you could see the tremble in his shoulders and the wet droplets falling on the floor. He was crying and nearly shaking before you.  You opened your mouth to speak, but he was faster in his desperation, quickly closing the distance and wrapping his arms around your legs.  

"Please, Sweetheart, I'll do better, I swear," he says, burying his face in your lap. "Just don't leave me again."

His tears stained the fabric of your gown as he sobbed into your lap.  You had never truly been away from him, not really. Sure, he would get a little mopey if your tasks differed for the day.  But never had you traveled away from him like this before, and never did you think it would hurt him this much.  

And for a moment, you’re frozen as you watch your usually boisterous husband fall apart so truly in front of you. Through his crying, he hiccups. "Please, tell me I'm still yours,"  and your heart nearly breaks at the sound.

“Yes, my love…you never stopped being mine,” you assured him brining your hands down to entangle in his growing silver hair.  Scratching at his scalp the way he liked till his sobs quieted and his breathing evened out, raking your fingers through the hair till those violet eyes looked into yours.  

“You promise,” he mumbled with a sniffle of his nose.  You wiped his tears and cradled his face in your hands, rubbing your thumb over his cheeks with a soothing hum.  “I promise,” your voice a little firmer this time as he now rose to his feet.  How he looked down at you with a tear-streaked face and eyes still watering even now, “Can I hold you?” he whispered, finally reaching for your hand.

With a nod, you let him pull you to your feet, leading you to the hearth where the fire burned low and quiet.  He didn’t let you go, simply held your hand while he got the fire back to a steady warmth, asking if it was good enough for you.  Pokeing it alive till you approve.  

This is what he missed.  Having you, the fire, and the quiet until your babe cried.

Pulling you into his lap and buries his face into your neck and simply breathes you in.  He adores how you smell and how soft and smooth you are, how your coiled hair tickles his nose with each spiral.  How full his hands feel as he rubs his paler hands over your deep sunborne skin, how kissed by the fire itself you feel as he grabs at your waist and rear.  Just feeling, just holding your weight atop him to wash away every bad thought that possessed him.  

Some may call it weak or pathetic to be so enamored or bewitched.  But Aerion would rather be here under you than anywhere else in the seven kingdoms, here with his lady wife as she kissed and peppered him.  Rubbed at his hair and whispered her love to him and him alone.  He wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else but here.

AN: for a 4am quick write im pretty proud. This is very much crack and i dunno bruh hope ya liked it and don't forget your umbrellaaaaa

-Stormy