I'm Not Friends With You Because You Serve A Purpose To Me, I'm Friends With You Because I Just Like

Dave

There’s this guy,

His name is Dave.

He doesn’t know me and I don’t know him.

But I do know a little about him.

What little he’s shared - anyway.

He seems nice and lovely and kind.

He works hard and puts effort into what he does.

But we all know - those of us who’ve heard his songs - that the man we know hasn’t always had it easy

He has a dark past - a sunken place.

He has dark thoughts and sometimes they suffocate

him to the point where he needs to scream to let it out.

But he never lets that get to him.

I admire Dave,

because we’ve both been through some things.

I admire Dave because he’s had it worse than me,

but he’s still going.

I admire Dave because as far as I know he’s an admirable guy.

I hope one day I can meet him,

I hope one day I can be him,

but that’s probably not going to happen

---

his teeth are so straight, i find that slightly off putting. maybe he isn't perfect 🤔

but that makes him sexier(?) somehow

this is something very personal to me

SEMPER TECUM

Marcus Acacius x F!Reader | AU | Mini Series 🤍

🤍 Semper Tecum = Always With You

When you stumble upon an old necklace hidden among your late grandmother’s belongings, you assume it’s nothing more than a beautiful relic of the past. But your world shifts when you meet Marcus, an enigmatic and handsome Roman antiques dealer who seems to know far more about the necklace—and about you—than he should.

As strange coincidences and vivid dreams begin to blur the line between past and present, you're thrust into a mystery that will rewrite everything you think you know about history, destiny, and a love spanned across the ages.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x F!Reader/OFC (No physical description, confirmed age, or ethnicity of reader. Reader is described as female, occasionally wears feminine clothing/make-up, she has hair long enough to tuck behind her ear, but is otherwise a blank slate. However I've marked it OFC as well due to these traits, and these are mentioned minimally.)

Word Count: Approx 80k - Novella length

Scoville Smut Rating: 🌶🌶🌶 "You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Warnings/Triggers: Angst/unrequited love/soulmates/love across the ages trope/mentions of violence/death/injury/illness/blood/mild gore/a very brief, tiny mention of sexual assault/infidelity/modern and historic timeline shifts/playing fast and loose with Roman artefacts and some made up lore for them/some references to the film Gladiator 2, and actual historical figures, although a little skewed/Marcus is known as General Acacius or Justus Acacius in Ancient Rome and Marcus by Reader in my story, because this is how I'm choosing to ball/this isn't a history lesson, it's a fictional story/this is primarily a story about love, romance and all that goes with it, including smut. Lots of smut, including unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!), oral M & F, fingering, mild dirty talk etc... See individual parts for full smut warnings, marked with an asterisk *

🤍 PART I. INVENTIO

🤍 PART II. MEMORIAE *

🤍 PART III. VINCULUM

🤍 PART IV. VERITAS *

🤍 PART V. REDITUS*

🤍 PART VI. AETERNUM

-> MARCUS ACACIUS MASTERLIST

-> MAIN MASTERLIST

-> TAG LIST: I no longer have a tag list. Please ensure you're following me and turn on notifications to get updates for when I post the parts so you don't miss them. 🖤

---

the show was intentional

and yet people  keep acting like certain things aren’t canon. 

Lets lay it out:

They chose to give Robby a love interest. Not just a random hookup or a throwaway arc. No, they made her work with him. They made her someone he sees almost every shift. Someone he longs for during said shifts, casting her those heart-wrenching glances across the ER floor. And they didn’t stop there.

They gave them a backstory. One full of tension, complicated choices, heartbreak. We’re talking an abortion. A breakup. A one-sided breakup. You don’t write that unless you’re trying to say something.

If the show didn’t want to position Heather Collins as a central figure in Robby’s life, they would’ve just… not done all that? But they did. They crafted her with care. They wove her into the very fabric of his storyline, and into the rhythm of the show.

And yet… fandom and media refuses to see it.

Heather is more than “Robby’s love interest.” She’s pivotal on her own. She’s competent, compassionate, layered. A Black woman in medicine with her own trauma, her own ambitions, and yes, a deep, complicated love for a man who still looks at her like she hung the damn moon.

Stop overlooking her.

Stop pretending she doesn’t matter.

Because the writers made it very clear: she does.

And Robby knows it.

We know it.

It’s time fandom and the media caught up.

my fave fic writers have kept me sane through the worst parts of my life. you lot rock 🤙🏾

I fucking love fan-fic writers, you are the most precious people on this fucking planet and please, please, don't stop writing.

can’t pretend

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: He is puzzled with you first, then vexed, and he can’t understand his feelings. In an attempt to get to know you better (or maybe to get you out of his head), Abbot accidentally crosses the line. (or, alternatively: what if Jack met someone similar to him in many ways. traumatic past included)

warnings: <rivals> to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of blood and injuries / I’m hinting at the age gap but you can ignore it / some complicated feelings and a LOT of Jack’s thoughts (his poor therapist will need a raise); assault. ANGST. / words: 7K author’s note: this is my first fic for “The Pitt”. I binge-watched the show in 2 days and didn’t plan on writing anything but my inspiration decided otherwise. I’ve never had a beta reader in my life, please be kind. ♡

Early at dawn, the sky is just the right color — the darkness slowly dissipates, deep purple at the edges, black fading into blue. If he squints and looks above the roofs, he can pretend he’s looking at the ocean. He’s been toying with the idea for some time but it’s more of a dream, a comforting mirage: him getting a small house by the beach, waves crashing softly in the distance, clean blue water blending into the bright blue sky. He’d wake up to the sunrise, take lugs full of cooling salty air, walk in the sand that glistens under the foaming swash. He’d probably adopt a dog — someone to pass his days with, just so the silence doesn’t get too heavy, doesn’t weigh on him when he can’t sleep at night.

A passing car honks down the street, loud and sudden, and Jack flinches, opening his eyes. That’s when the perfect image always falls apart. He is afraid he will get lonely with just a dog and with nothing to do, he will be going up the walls, bored out of his mind. But he doesn’t know how not to be alone. And some days he wishes that he did.

The air in Pittsburgh doesn’t carry any scents at this morning hour, and Jack’s gaze wanders down to the tree leaves writhing in the wind. He absentmindedly rubs his wrists when he hears the door creaking behind him.

“You know, security is getting worried about you,” Robby chuckles, his steps slow. “I heard the guys making bets on how many times a week you’ll come here.”

“Says the man who likes to brood in my spot,” Jack huffs without looking at him.

“Me, brooding? No idea what you are talking about.”

Robby gets to the roof edge but stays behind the railing, leans on it and slowly stretches his arms. His tone lets empathy in when he speaks up:

“Tough night?”

The sky is overcast, a mush of white and grey clouds the blue barely peeks through, and Jack sighs as he turns away. “Remember you told me about the kid who OD’d on Xanax laced with fentanyl? The parents sat by his bed hoping he’d wake up by some miracle,” Robby only nods when Jack throws him a glance. “I’m dealing with one of those.”

They both lost patients before, and both know that it doesn’t get easier with time. You have to tuck your grief away to walk into the room with their loved ones, offer apologies that carry little meaning, take even more grief in because this isn’t about you and this loss is not for you to carry. But they do carry it — Robby memorizes lifeless faces, Jack never forgets the names of everyone he couldn’t save.

“Brain dead?”

“Yep,” Jack drawls, hands gripping the metal rails. “He’s got three sisters, and all three were begging me. And I stood there feeling absolutely useless.”

Robby watches as his friend’s knuckles turn white. “If you couldn’t do anything then there was nothing that could’ve been done. And I’m really sorry.”

If only words could bring people back from the dead, Jack thinks bitterly but doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t want to sour Robby’s mood. And he can’t help but notice — it used to bother him way more, it sometimes would eat him alive; now Jack is mostly numb.

“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles.

“Not staying for the welcoming party?”

It takes a few seconds for the reminder to pop up in Jack’s head: a new senior resident, today is her first day. After Collins took maternity leave, Robby spent hours on the phone, glasses pressed to the bridge of his nose as he flipped through the applications, always unsure, never satisfied. And then he got a call and drove across the city to another hospital to meet her in person — he came back beaming. Jack must’ve zoned out so he didn’t catch the details.

“Don’t think I have a very welcoming face.”

“Should’ve seen the guys she worked with. I thought her chief of surgery would literally fist-fight me after I offered her the job,” Robby cackles.

It stirs Jack’s curiosity a bit. “She’s that good?”

“I believe she is. Skilled, confident, haven’t heard a single bad thing about her,” and even though his voice is certain, Robby dithers, bringing a hand to the back of his neck.

“But... ? I sense a but coming.”

“No-no, she’s great, really, and I made up my mind. It’s just that… She comes off as quite stubborn, and I feel like she is used to flying solo,” his eyes dart to Jack. “Reminds me of someone I know,” a smile grazes his lips, an unvoiced comparison he can’t help but draw.

Jack doesn’t see it, his gaze set somewhere on the horizon. “We all have to be team players here, that’s how it works,” he says dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll learn.”

The streets are getting busy, filling with people talking, rushing, making endless calls — and with more honking and more sounds that all merge into one unpleasant noise. And Jack is getting really tired.

“I should go back. Don’t want anyone to scare her off,” Robby puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, a friendly but firm grip. “I’d also rather not waste my time on scraping your frail body off the pavement. Let me walk you out.”

“Frail body? You are three years older, you bag of bones,” Jack quips, and they share a laugh, and it warms up his heart a little.

But the warmth fades as they get inside, into the weave of corridors, into the crowd of nurses and other doctors pacing, the lighting bright and harsh, the smell of antiseptics clinging to the walls like mold. And it is not as overwhelming as it’s tiresome; once he is out on the street, Jack takes a few deep breaths. It’s hardly a relief.

As he passes by the park, exhaustion already on his heels, he suddenly picks up a sound, something between a whine and a small woof. Jack looks around to find the source peeping out from behind the bushes — brown eyes, wet nose, grey fluffy ears, one marked with a white spot. When Jack takes a step closer, the stray puppy immediately runs off.

On his way home he gets some dog treats and throws them in his bag. He tries thinking of pet names but nothing comes to mind. And when he falls into his cold bed, thick curtains not letting any light reach him, he dreams of standing on a long road framed with grass, a murmuring of waves heard through the mist. But he can’t see the ocean.

It keeps raining, and they have to close the roof — “Merely a precaution, sir, we don’t want anyone to slip. I heard the weather is supposed to clear up in a few days,” one of the guards assures Jack. His mood these days is just as gloomy as the sky. But he’s a man of habit, so every time Jack wants to get out to the roof, he instead gets more cases, drinks more coffee, barely a few words squeezed in between that aren’t work-related.

At first, he only catches glimpses of you.

On the days when your shifts overlap, he sees you tearing along the hallways, your hair up and your face focused, removing gowns to quickly put on fresh ones, your hands either in gloves or carrying the charts. You don’t speak much, and very few times Jack gets to walk past you, he is slightly puzzled by this combination of quiet and fast-paced.

Your first week is nearing its end when Dana prompts Jack to make a proper introduction. She calls him uncooperative and calls for you herself when she sees you leaving trauma#1. You swiftly come by the nurses' station and glance up at the board — and then you finally face Jack, your gaze so piercing, it catches him off guard. He clears his throat and manages a greeting, a bit coolly.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him calmly, offering a hand. And you don’t look away, and your handshake is firmer than he would expect. The next thing you are holding is another chart, eyes following the lines of words and numbers as you step away, Whitaker barely keeping up.

“She is so fast, she’s almost flying. Beautiful,” Princess notes approvingly, and Perlah hums in agreement.

Their voices snap him back into reality, and Jack inhales sharply, only now realizing his gaze is still on you. He looks down, pretending he needs to fix his watch. “What is this, a fan club?”

“Aw, no need to be so jealous. You will always be our favorite old white doctor,” Princess teases.

Perlah gives her a side-eye. “I thought Dr. Robby was our favorite.”

“Well, yes. But I have a soft spot for men in existential crisis,” Princess winks at him.

Perlah rolls her eyes. “They are all in existential crisis.”

“And I wonder why,” Jack deadpans, then picks a case just so he’s got an excuse to leave. And maybe an excuse to pass by the room you’re in, your gloved hands already stained with crimson.

He starts watching you more often, an impulse he can’t necessarily explain.

He’s careful, he’s not staring, but his hazel eyes always pick you out from the crowd. He’s taking mental notes: you lean on doors with your right shoulder when you rush in, you scan the injured head to toe in every case, hands moving quickly in tandem with your gaze. You never raise your voice but you keep eye contact — with the interns when you give instructions and with the patients to make sure they understand what’s going on. You are efficient with your work-ups, you’re the first one to come in and you stay late to turn your patients over to the night shift. You are meticulous and disciplined in a way he finds relatable; in three weeks' time there’s a foundation laid for him to grow respectful. But sometimes Jack can’t stop the thought: he is yet to see your smile. He is also yet to see you slip up, and that is bound to happen because no doctor is without fault.

A month in, he thinks you finally come close to failure.

A patient is wheeled in on a gurney, gesticulating, red in the face from how displeased or pained he is (probably both); still, as you talk to him, he makes pauses to listen. There’s blood on his chest and his speech is slurring, and Jack’s gaze follows you. From where he’s standing, he can see you clearly, so he can’t help but glance up a few times from his computer screen. It’s all the same routine and it seems to be working smoothly — but when he takes another peek, he sees you frozen.

Jack instantly draws near, alert and observing through the glass: the man is intubated, his shirt cut and chest bared — and with a nail sticking right out of where his heart should be. The monitors go off as the blood pressure drops. When Whitaker makes eye contact with him, Jack takes that as an invitation to come in.

“What do we got here?”

Whitaker looks half worried, half relieved. “Um-m, 41 years old male, nail to the chest, intracardiac. Prepped for the thoracotomy. Cardio is tied up with another surgery, and it’s at least 15 more minutes until we can get an O.R.”

Jack knows the patient doesn’t have that long. His gaze flickers to you but you do not meet it, and he can’t tell what you are looking at. There is no time to guess — if you’ve never cracked into someone’s chest, he’ll gladly guide you. And his guidance is assertive, if a little cocky.

“It’s not every day that you get to do a thoracotomy. And it can be daunting — also, pretty risky if you ask me—”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking,” you retort abruptly without even sparing him a glance.

And then you pick the scalpel and make the first incision, your hands steady and never hesitating, the confidence of a tsunami sweeping rocks away.

Jack has to take a step back because it would be childish to argue when someone’s life is hanging by a thread. And all his doubts are crushed before his very eyes the way ribs are under the pressure of a steel retractor you are holding, the metal sinking into flesh and blood to give you access to the heart. After the nail is out — long but intact, you deal with excess fluid and with the bleeding — and you are more nimble than he is, than he’s ever seen the other doctors be.

“Well, call me impressed,” Jack says earnestly.

The silence is a little awkward — a couple of seconds before you give reply: “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He wonders if maybe his compliment might’ve come as patronizing. What he knows for sure is that you do not need his help. But when he backs away, he sees a glint out of the corner of his eye — dog tags left in the pile of the man’s belongings on the floor. Jack has the same tags hanging on a chain around his neck. He almost doesn’t feel the weight of them but the memories they bring are heavy — sometimes an image flashing through his mind, sometimes a nightmare stirring him awake. And mostly it’s the latter.

But today, as his shift goes on, he isn’t thinking of torn limbs and collapsing buildings and bombings that looked like firecrackers in the night. Those weren’t the reasons he kept going back — he never once craved violence, never really cared about the money. For him, it was the roar of the adrenaline and the belief that even amidst the death and ruins, he could make a change. He hasn’t felt that for a while: the rush, the determination, the power held in your hands when you are cutting into someone’s body, fixing the organs and sewing the skin together, bringing the life back in. He lacks that spark, he misses it, he wants to get it back. To prove to himself that he still can do that — or maybe not only to himself.

So now he isn’t watching you but studying, with a diligence of a man who once had to learn how to walk again.

He starts work earlier just so he can get more patients — but also to listen in on your case reports and trail your steps, peek into trauma rooms you run in and out of. He often finds himself holding back the questions: damn, how did you do that? How come you easily catch things others take so long to figure out? You take on complicated cases: a feeble woman who can’t hold her food down, her arms marked with a red rash; a young jogger who keeps fainting, short of breath; a man whose neck hurts, the pain radiating to his chest. And you examine them and pick the clues to solve the tangle of the symptoms — it’s Celiac disease, it’s kidney failure, it’s spondylodiscitis and you know exactly how to treat it. But Jack knows all these answers too. And even if they don’t click in his mind as quickly as they do in yours, it’s still a victory: he’s not as rusty as he thought he was, he is enjoying this. He can’t believe he almost let himself forget.

When he decides to try a day shift for a change, he’s met with Dana’s worried face, her wondering out loud if he feels okay. She then proceeds to ask the same question two more times, just to make sure.

“You on day shifts may be the thing that saves Robby from a heart attack, you know,” her face softens.

“Are you saying you guys get way more action than us night owls?”

Dana grins. “What, you are already reconsidering your choices?”

“Like hell I am,” one corner of his mouth hints at a smirk.

The day is busy, and he can barely catch a break, but it isn’t a chore: he’s equally enthusiastic about a road accident that left a guy with a skull fracture, an appendectomy, a stoned teenage with a knife stuck in his thigh, a street worker with a leg broken in two places. An hour before his shift ends, they get a lacrosse team of middle schoolers, and the staff shares an exasperated sigh; but not Jack. He fixes broken noses and split eyebrows and some nasty shoulder dislocations, then goes to talk to their coach — a woman in her fifties, robust and perhaps too loud with her scolding. But her blaring voice cracks as soon as the kids are out of her sight. At some point, Jack finds himself holding her hand in reassurance, and she jokes that she’d gladly marry him if only she didn’t have a wife. She also promises that all the kids' parents will give the hospital the highest ranking. And they do.

Jack clocks out when the sky is colored orange, the shadows bleeding on the pavement, and his limbs hum but this weariness is pleasant. He is content, he’s almost joyous — the almost comes from you having a day off. He got to work with so many people, why would your presence make a difference? Jack persuades himself it’s not the reason he takes a few more mornings.

But when he comes back the next time, and you’re already there, there is this weird feeling in his ribcage — a spill of heat, a flutter of his heart. He blames it on the caffeine. You stand with your eyes glued to the chart while Princess lets out a big yawn.

“If another lacrosse team comes in today, I might actually quit,” she laments.

“Send them my way,” you say with ease, without missing a beat.

“That’s ten people,” she punctuates, incredulous. “We got lucky they were just kids. Grown-up men who slam into each other while voluntarily chasing a ball scare me.”

“I’m not easily scared,” you carefully tap on the screen, scrolling through some case report, someone’s illnesses broken into signs and terms; but you do pay attention to what she’s saying. You glance up at the nurse, your voice kind: “If you ever need help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

And then you look over your shoulder as if you can feel him watching — and it’s the same as the first time: your gaze startles him, like would a fire eruption or a ball lightning. But Jack’s greeting stays rooted in his mouth because Mateo sprints in:

“Hey, there’s something wrong with my patient’s veins, can someone take a look?”

And you are by his side and following him out of the hall in what feels like barely a second.

“I’m so grateful for you!” Princess calls after you. Then she spots Jack too, her face expression turning smug. “Oh, hello there, boss,” and she grins like she knows a secret Jack wasn’t let in on.

Turns out, Robby showed his gratitude by taking a sick leave, the first in three years (Jack would’ve sent him home himself if he heard Robby’s muffled coughing one more time). And it left Jack with way more shifts to cover. He readily gulps coffee from his to-go mug as he skims through the list of patients. The others join him soon: Mel smiles at everyone, the ever-optimistic one, Whitaker looks like hasn’t slept in months, and Santos teases him about something Jack doesn’t care to listen to. McKay is running late. Langton walks briskly to the nurses' station, taps on the tabletop right next to Jack.

“Ready to get back in the game?”

“I’ve been in the game for more years than you can count on your fingers,” Jack gives him a cold stare.

Frank sighs, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface, although he sounds barely concerned. “Love the positive attitude. Dr Robby surely won’t be missed.”

“As if you are such a pleasure to work with,” Dana cuts in, hands on her hips. “You guys should redirect that buzzing testosterone into your work. No one is getting paid for whining.”

“Preach,” Jack huffs as he steps away.

He stops himself from immediately going to check up on you. And twenty minutes later, he is glad that he did — you walk back, unruffled as you always are, Matteo tagging after you. His patient is an old lady with thrombocytopenia she probably ignored until it got too bad: there are bruises sprinkled on her arms and legs, a splotch of dried blood under her nose from how often it’s been bleeding. You gave her a platelet transfusion but you suspect it’s cancer; you order more blood tests and bring her a blanket before she even asks for it. Her eyes well up, voice shaking with heartfelt gratitude. And Jack has to remind himself that he can’t pick any favorites, he isn’t in it for the long run; but if he was to pick, it would’ve been an easy choice. And no one lags behind today — he’s got a well-coordinated team, like gears interlocking in a clock, the harmony built out of weeks of practice. They make jokes, share work stories and snacks; but every time Jack’s eyes get back to you, he can’t catch even a ghost of a smile.

He finds that you are very hard to read. And it unnerves him, maybe just a little.

He tries for his attempts to look brief and nonchalant — a kind word here and there, a quick approving look, a dry joke — and you offer nothing in return. As thorough as you are with diagnosing, you take no part in other conversations, you rarely take breaks or stand around. By the time the noon rolls in, Jack is fighting the urge to grab you by the shoulders: hey, take a seat and have something to eat. And tell me how can I cadge a laugh out of you, just one will be enough.

Dana waves a hand before his face, the phone up to her ear. “There’s been some gang fight at the North Side. Four victims coming in, two critical — one shot in the stomach, the other has his head smashed in. Don’t think they both will make it.”

Jack’s bet is on the first guy but it’s the head injury that’s fatal — the victim is pronounced dead, face so disfigured they’ll need a DNA test. Mel looks away in shock, and Santos frowns. Your stare is blank and unimpressed. You volunteer to take the third guy with a pelvic wound — he’s rambling incoherently, the tight bandage over his hip already soaked; you press your hand to it on the way to trauma. Jack leaves the worst case to himself.

“Who’s down for an ex-lap?”

“Can I run the bowel? I’ve never done it,” Santos asks, hopeful.

“Sure. Once we open the abdomen and remove the bullet, you can have your fun,” he offers, and she runs along with joy.

Although Jack can’t imagine a procedure less joyful. Yet, he is fueled by his new-found appreciation for his job so he walks her through the steps: identify the entry wound and cut in, look for the bleeding and what the bullet might’ve hit. It missed the liver by an inch; but to confirm the damage they need to evaluate the area by hand.

Perlah peeks into the room. “Is he stable?”

“Well, unless Dr. Santos gets too excited and makes a bow out of his intestines,” her hands stop, and Jack breathes out a chuckle. “I’m just joking, keep going. I’d say, his vitals do look promising.”

“Then you can keep him down here for a bit. We have a guy with a balloon in his aorta, he’s gotta go up first.”

Jack blinks at her once, twice, the meaning of her words settling in. “Did someone do a REBOA?”

“You bet she did. And it was awesome,” the nurse then scrunches her nose. “Apart from the amount of blood. And by the way, the fourth one only has a broken rib, so no miraculous procedures needed.”

He doesn’t find it funny and he can’t find the word for it: it’s something in between confusion and offence. As soon as Santos’s done with stitches, he strides out to find you.

His turmoil momentarily recedes when he sees one of the cubicle curtains stained, the deep red lurking through. Jack pulls at the material and barges in — and then he’s silenced at the sight. The area looks horrifying: bright streaks of blood left on the floor, the anesthesia trolley, the table with the instruments that you are now collecting, a few droplets smudged over your cheek. Before he’s even angry, there is another feeling — a thought, a pull: if only he could brush that splatter off your face, a few brief seconds for one briefest touch. Of course, he doesn’t.

Jack keeps his hands behind his back. “You didn’t think you should consult with anyone first before doing a damn REBOA?”

“Why would I?” your eyes are on the tools.

“Because it’s dangerous as hell and since I am the attending—”

“I do know protocol. But I also know how fast a human can bleed out. It was a truncal hemorrhage, and you were hands deep in someone’s abdomen. Was I supposed to wait?”

He wishes you were meaner, rougher, anything that would give him an excuse to snap. But you aren’t doing this to show off — your tone is measured and your reasoning is simple: a man was dying and you knew how to save him. Jack realizes it is the same logic he often uses. And he can’t tell what is it that bothers him so much. If Whitaker pulled off something like that, Jack would’ve chosen to commend him. The same goes for Santos, Javadi or King, for any other intern or resident that he can think of... Except, they would’ve asked for his opinion or his help. You didn’t even think to.

Well, Robby warned him you’d be stubborn.

“I want to be informed about any life-altering decisions. At least give me a heads-up so I am not blindsided when a nurse gushes over it in passing,” Jack insists, head tilted slightly so he can catch your gaze.

What he really wants is for you to look at him. You grant him that one wish.

“Will do,” you tell him simply.

But your eyes are still unreadable, a book written in a foreign language, a manuscript he doesn’t know how to decrypt.

And either out of incomprehension or rejection, his brain makes an assumption: maybe you believe that you are better, maybe you think the rules weren’t made for you. You never really gave him cause for rivalry — you are in your final year of residency, and Jack is put in charge. But you are so bluntly independent and reserved, his every try to understand you feels like leaping in the dark. Later that day he can’t help but glimpse into your file — there’s hardly anything of interest: you previously trained in a small clinic, in a nice neighborhood, your letters of recommendation all consist of praises.

What adds to his moroseness is that you fit really well with literally everybody else. Langdon tones down his sarcasm, listens to you like he only does to Robby. Santos discreetly brings you cases she needs advice on, McKay and Mel enjoy your company when you get a free minute. Whitaker seems to be your favorite although Jack isn’t sure why — he deems him soft and insecure; but Dennis does a better job under your guidance. On rare occasions when he’s got a day off, Javadi always takes his place.

Jack figures out everyone’s relationships by his fourth morning shift; he hasn’t gotten any closer to figuring you out. He’s fighting the grimace at how bitter his coffee is when Javadi pops out in the hall and you follow suit. He catches scraps of your conversation: something about a teen with a gashed forehead. Javadi rambles — until you ask her nonchalantly, unprompted. “You don’t like the sight of blood?”

“What? Oh no, it’s fine! I’m totally fine,” Victoria stumbles over the words, but her denial is too meek.

From how nervous she is, Jack guesses that she’s lying. He almost wants to laugh — before a thought comes to his mind: how come he never noticed her fear of blood?

“It’s just a little disturbing sometimes... But I only passed out, like, once or twice.”

“I used to be like that. Fainted many times during blood tests,” you tell her quietly while entering some data.

Jack is so caught in disbelief, he can’t help a glance in your direction. But your sincerity doesn’t seem feigned. Javadi gapes at you.

“And how did you... what did you do to overcome it?”

“I found myself in a situation where someone needed help and there was no one else around to help him,” you shrug. And Jack discerns the subtle reticence behind your tone.

It only spurs Javadi’s interest. “Was there a lot of blood? Like, a heavy bleeding, a deep wound?”

Your fingers freeze over the tablet screen, your facial profile not betraying your true feelings. But Jack swears he can see the tension crawling down your body. You don’t give the answer right away, you weigh the words carefully before you say them.

“A drug overdose, he still had a needle in his arm and I must’ve missed it. Took barely a minute of chest compressions for the needle to fly out across the room. It was a lot of blood to me.”

Javadi’s hopefulness grows dim. “Yeah, I don’t like needles too. I tried drawing blood a few times but the process kinda makes me nauseous, and I can’t force myself to —”

“It’s different when it’s someone you care about.”

Your comment slips out involuntarily — and immediately you look like you want to take it back. But you get it together and meet her eyes, your voice carrying just the right amount of firmness.

“Listen, I’m not suggesting you should torture your family members. But you may not always have attendings by your side or someone else to take your place in case you feel like fainting. If you fall, you can hurt your head, you can hurt a patient, you can disrupt a surgery when every minute counts. I think you have a good head on your shoulders, and I don’t want to downplay your efforts. But please, figure it out. Otherwise, you won’t make for a good surgeon.”

You reassure her you won’t tell anyone her secret. Javadi manages a small smile, a hushed “thank you”. It is a sweet moment, a heart-to-heart chat you bond over; it’s also three times more words than you’ve spoken to Jack in weeks.

But he accepts your silence — as a challenge.

Jack keeps an eye on you, now critical, resisting the gravitation that’s been attracting him to you. Although it’s hard to find the reasons to be hard on you. Whenever he has questions — or more so when he can come up with some, you give detailed replies, and he’s left with nothing to complain about. Your patient satisfaction score is high, you are never facile or reckless with your judgment; with how smart you are, you can give odds to many doctors, him included. And Jack knows he is older, with years of experience under his belt — but he can’t in good faith wish for anyone to go through the same things he did to gain the same knowledge.

On his second week of day shifts he is still clueless about what to make of you. And Jack tells himself that he is simply looking for a connection — except, all his attempts look like he is trying to pick a fight.

“This is a teaching hospital. You are supposed to teach them things,” he grumbles as he meets you outside the trauma room. You got a guy who came in spitting blood — post-tonsillectomy hemorrhage, and things went south pretty quickly. He started choking, crashed, his airways flooded with liquid; you had to intubate him blindly. Whitaker spent an hour by your side, his questions endless — to which you did give answers, barely ever breaking focus, but you only allowed him to use suction.

“He’ll learn plenty if he is attentive enough,” you say, throwing away the gown, trying to put some distance in between you.

Jack doesn’t like it, he keeps pace with you. “Whitaker needs more practice, as much as he can get. He’s not supposed to stand there like some deer who wandered into the yard.”

You whirl around, so fast that Jack comes to a stop when you are separated by merely an inch. And your gaze burns, like lava seeping through the mountain’s restrain.

“And I needed the patient not to die on the table,” you bite back, then breathe in — and then add more coolly. “Dennis will get his chance to shine.”

“And when exactly is that gonna happen?”

“That’s for me to decide,” you state, like you would do a fact that can’t be questioned. “Thank you for your input, Dr. Abbot, but I have to get back to work.”

You turn your back to him and leave him standing there, and Jack almost feels helpless. And that’s the feeling he can’t stand. It simmers in him, it must be the reason his cheeks suddenly feel hot.

Dana tsks as she comes near, her brows furrowed and face visibly concerned.

“You know how I’ve been calling Robby a sad boy? I’m gonna start calling you a pissy boy.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” he dismisses, a humorless escape attempt. But her fingers grab at his elbow, and he pauses with an annoyed exhale.

“I’ve been watching you hammering away at her for days,” Dana makes sure to lower her voice. “If she was a student, I’d maybe let it slide, but she is a resident, a senior one. And nothing I am seeing suggests she isn’t doing well.”

His eyes dart to her hand; then he glares stubbornly at her. She looks unfazed.

“Jack, you will take it too far one day — and you will regret it,” Dana tries to reason. “She is a good kid and she’s really good at her job. Just let her be.”

“Thank you for your input, Evans. I’d prefer to get back to work,” he frees his arm, and she allows it. But Jack can feel her worried gaze as he walks away.

He doesn’t come home until the twilight hugs the sky, until he feels like he’ll pass out on the next step. Jack wastes hours on attempts to wear himself out: he walks the entire park three times, peeping about in case the puppy comes again. It doesn’t. He stops by the bar he hasn’t been to in a few weeks, orders a beer and sips on it, his musings soon drowned out by the blasting music. The alcohol tastes weird, and the bass guitar gives him a pounding headache. He takes a walk instead of taking a bus home, two miles on foot in hopes he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

But the thought of you cuts into his mind as easily as a nail does into a human body, and it stays there, vexing and robbing him of whatever little peace he’s had.

He barely gets any sleep.

And his nights are dreamless.

It’s just another Friday, and these bring in a lot of drunks — from parties and family gatherings, from business meetings that ran late and tense until someone reached for whiskey. Jack stays behind for paperwork, a tedious pastime that keeps him pinned to an uncomfortable chair. He briefly takes eyes off the screen, stretching his neck — and then a noise catches his attention. It’s someone talking in a raised voice, someone who sounds too wasted to be reasoned with. Which sounds like a problem.

Jack finds the source with ease — the nurses all glance in the direction of the trauma room, and in support of their agitation Mateo all but flies out, his face hardened at the edges. Jack gets up and gets closer, his ears open and eyes watchful.

“Should we call security?” Dana asks warily.

Mateo brushes the suggestion off. “No, it’s fine,” — but it sounds like it’s not. “I just need a short break.”

“What’s wrong?” Jack interrupts.

And it isn’t a question but a demand for explanation Mateo can’t reject. He lets out a tired sigh.

“The guy got drunk and couldn’t hold his liquor, some passersby saw him sprawled out in an alley and called the ambulance. Came in with a nasty arm fracture. He’ll live though,” Mateo looks back at the room with obvious disdain. “Unfortunately.”

Jack promptly moves forward. “I will deal with it.”

“Hold on, Rambo,” Dana interjects. And she keeps her eyes on him while she talks to Mateo. “Did he get physical?”

“Nah, he’s too inebriated. Keeps trying to get up from the gurney but mostly he’s all talk.”

More can be heard from where they are standing — it’s some drunken yelling, a disarticulated chain of curse words. And then they hear something break, a dull sound of an object hitting a wall.

In a few seconds comes another one.

“I can’t just let him trash all of our equipment,” Jack gives Dana a pointed look.

She clucks her tongue at his persistence. “It’s not the equipment that I fear for.”

“Rest assured, Evans, I won’t give him another arm fracture.”

“I didn’t think you would, but now that you suggested it so easily—”

“Finally someone decided to take action instead of all this talking,” Perlah remarks, her gaze isn’t on either one of them. And Jack turns to follow it just in time to catch you running right into the room.

His heart falls. Why the hell are you even still here?

And it’s barely three heartbeats before a realization strikes: you can’t go there alone. He can’t let you.

Jack bolts to you without waiting for anyone’s permission. He comes in just in time to see you dodge the trolley the patient pushed at you — it slams into the wall and rolls over, the instruments scattering loudly across the floor. You don’t seem scared, but you are all tensed up, gaze fixed on the guy who’s screaming his lungs out.

“You won’t trick me! I won’t let you experiment on me!”

And you don’t look away once but you must’ve noticed Jack; your voice comes out low. “I think he’s having an episode. He needs benzodiazepines but I can’t get close to administer them.”

“And you should not,” Jack retorts, eyeing the guy with discontent. “You absolutely shouldn’t deal with him on your own. Not when he’s flapping around and yelling like a fucking psycho.”

“Silently watching him wreck the room didn’t seem like a good tactic either.”

In an instant Jack’s gaze is drawn to you, pulse racing as he is struggling to bite down his emotions: why would you put yourself in danger, why can’t you ever back down, why can’t he stay away? And unexpectedly you look at him, and your gaze isn’t a puzzle or a dare but an explanation: you can’t be mad at me for the thing you would’ve done yourself. I know you would have.

The room goes quiet but only for a moment — before another cry comes, and the patient lunges straight at you. Jack’s eye catches the movement, and at the very last second, he moves to stand in the guy’s way.

The drunkard crashes into him, hands swatting at the air, too uncoordinated to land a proper punch. And then all of a sudden he headbutts Jack. The pain is sharp, shooting toward his nose, but Jack manages to stay upright. He can’t see you stopping cold or the security approaching in a hurry and in worry.

Because Jack is only seeing red.

He breathes in through the mouth and grabs the man with both hands, rough and unflinching. Jack pushes him back to the gurney, then throws him on it, face flat against the pillow; his angry cries tone down to weak whimpers.

“Shut the fuck up. Stop moving,” Jack hisses into his ear.

He can taste the blood that oozed down to his lips and he can hear the sound of footsteps in the room. But he doesn’t let go.

Jack feels a hand on his shoulder — he turns to see one of the guards, Ahmad. “Man, let us handle this. C’mon, step away.”

Begrudgingly, Jack does. Ahmad quickly takes his place, he and two other guards strapping the patient down; Mateo wriggles in the middle to sedate the guy. He dozes off, a dark purple bruise already blooming on his forehead, drool at the corner of his mouth.

You are still standing at the exact same spot, but then your eyes land on Jack’s blooded nose, and you immediately fall out of the stupor. You rummage through the nearest drawer and get a few clean cloths, then call for Dana to bring an ice pack. The guards leave but Mateo hangs back; he pulls up a chair for Jack to sit on.

“Are you okay? Any headache or dizziness or—”

“I’m fine, no need to coddle me,” Jack waves off his concerns crankily. Mateo looks at you for some support.

“He needs a head CT,” you say, gaze glued to Jack. “Ask the radiology if they can squeeze him in.”

Mateo nods and takes off with no other questions asked. The silence is now laced with tension, and while Jack’s pain gradually subsides, his anger doesn’t. He’s not the one for chit-chats, and it’s not a 'thank you' that he wants — but an admission: he was right, and you were careless, and maybe this is the one time you can agree with him.

You lean over wordlessly and wipe the dried-up blood, pushing his head back to examine his nose. Your touch is light, fleeting, but his skin heats up under your hands. You take a penlight to check for septal hematoma; then your thumbs move from his cheekbones to his nostrils. Jack doesn’t wince or look away, eyes dark and boring into you, unblinking. You put a finger to his nose and move it slowly from side to side, watching closely as his gaze follows it.

And then you pull away, and something cracks in him, a line formed on the ocean floor after it’s shaken by an earthquake, a force that pushes waves to crash onto the shore. And all his feelings surge up, unstoppable like a tsunami.

You look for more cloths, and only with your back to him, you finally decide to speak:

“Doesn’t look like a fracture but—”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jack bursts out, the stridency of his voice barely contained.

Your hands flinch at the sound. Jack misses it or maybe chooses to ignore it, too adamant in his displeasure, too wrapped up in it.

“Do you realize how dangerous it was for you to go here alone? What could’ve happened to you if security came late? Or do you just assume it’s not a big deal if you get hurt? Can you for at least a second consider the consequences of your relentlessness, can you imagine how dire they might be? And what it’s like for someone else to throw themselves between danger and you?”

But then you turn to him, and his tirade breaks off, the anger ebbing instantly as he sees your face expression.

It would be easy to assume he must’ve hit a nerve. Except, it looks way worse than that.

Your gaze is swept with pain, eyes wide and bright with tears you are holding back. An inhale quivers at your lips, chest heaving like you are scarcely managing to curb your feelings. Like there’s been a wall you’ve built meticulously over the years, and he didn’t just put a crack in it — no, he tore it down completely, drove through it with a bulldozer, only a mess of rubble left behind. And he knows that’s not something an apology will fix.

Jack feels the guilt already swirling in his chest as he sits straighter, eyes not leaving yours.

“Listen, I didn’t—”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Abbot,” your voice is lacerating, a blade you’ve armed yourself with, steel that cuts him deep. “If my company displeases you so much, I will make sure to limit our interactions. Apologies for any inconvenience.”

You turn away, and when he sees you wipe your cheeks with one quick motion, Jack knows he is the only one to blame. But you don’t let him see your tears nor do you wait for him to talk again. You rush out of the doors, and the words he catches aren’t meant for him:

“Dana, please help Dr. Abbot with the ice pack.”

He hears her coming in and he’s almost ashamed to look — Dana meets his gaze with arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head in disapproval. She doesn’t say a thing and puts ice on his nose with a face that looks like she would rather punch him. Jack doesn’t even try to come up with excuses — he knows that he has none.

He fails to find you after the shift ends: you must’ve sneaked out to avoid him, and he can’t say that he’s surprised. Jack walks home in the rain, not bothering to open the umbrella, the street lights drowning in the puddles underfoot, the wind biting his wet face. He can barely feel it. And in the privacy of his apartment — a cold, half-empty space, walls void of any color — a thought that has been lurking in his mind finally takes shape:

Jack loathes being alone.

And he messed up so badly.

🎵 the title is a quote from Tom Odell’s “Can’t pretend” (the song is just so Jack-coded to me! highly recommend you give it a listen. the small part from 1:29 to 1:49 gives me heart palpitations and is very fitting for this chapter lol).

by “rivals” I meant it’s all in Jack’s head, he’s silly like that 😩 you’ll learn about the reader’s past in the next chapter!

I didn’t specify how big the age gap is exactly. google search told me you get into residency when you are in your 30s, and Abbot is def over 40. but some like to imagine the reader younger, so I didn’t want to ruin that for you.

there are definitely some medical inaccuracies (pretty sure ex-lap isn’t performed in the ER) but I am begging you to ignore that.

dividers by me & plum98.

» I plan on writing 3 parts in total (a prayer circle for my inspiration to stay with me, PLEASE). of course, there will be smut... they just have to learn how to talk to each other first. » read on AO3 » English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated! tell me if you want to be tagged ♡

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The Golden Oath (to decide)

- Summary: The lion falls in love with the daughter of the Mad King, which starts a domino effect that eventually collapses the realm onto itself.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: This story doesn't have a place in my schedule, as it's still being written. But, I may continue to drop a new chapter here and there unexpectedly. Thank you everybody for your support. ❤️

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: to take a chance

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @howtodisappearcompletely3 @joyfulyouthlover @viyannaiya @mortallyblueninja @nestvrn @wuluhwuhmaster @loafersrs @annoyinginfp-t @simpsonsam @barnes70stark @angel6776 @mrsnms @butterfl1ies @lordofthunderthr @idenyimimdenial @jsprien213

The road narrowed as the procession climbed the last hill, the sun now high above them, its light muted beneath a veil of thin cloud. Dust rose from the hooves of their horses, and beyond the crest of the hill, the ruins of Summerhall slowly came into view—a broken crown of stone and ash, half-swallowed by creeping vines and the passage of time.

Jaime had heard the tales, of course—whispers passed between pages and knights of the court, stories of fire and madness and the fall of a dream long dead. But no telling had prepared him for the solemn quiet that blanketed the ruins like a shroud. Even the birds had stilled their songs, and the air held a heaviness that pressed into the lungs, as if it remembered everything that had happened here.

He rode close to Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy as they descended the last slope, the guard fanning out behind them. Crumbled columns reached skyward like fingers of a dead god, scorched stone blackened from old flames. What had once been a great hall now lay in splintered ruin—arches collapsed, hearths hollow and cold, no roof to shelter what remained.

Jaime said nothing as they dismounted, the leather reins firm in his grip. His gaze swept over the shattered remnants of the palace, noting where the fire had burned deepest—walls half-fallen in on themselves, the marble tiles cracked and blackened beneath moss and decay.

Ahead of them, Rhaegar and Y/N walked side by side, the prince’s hand light on her back as they passed through what had once been the grand entrance. There was no ceremony in the way they moved, no announcement of their intention to separate from the group. They simply passed beyond the threshold of the ruins, the pale folds of her cloak disappearing behind the stone arch with graceful finality.

Jaime’s brows drew together as he watched them go. He remained where he stood for a long moment, eyes lingering on the dark space where they had vanished.

He shifted slightly, then turned to Ser Barristan, who was tightening the strap of his vambrace, his expression unbothered as if this had been expected.

"Shouldn’t someone follow them?" Jaime asked, his voice low but firm. "It’s not safe. These ruins—"

"They will be fine on their own," Barristan said, cutting him off gently but with the steady weight of authority. He didn’t look at Jaime as he spoke, merely adjusting the leather binding with practiced ease. "They’ve come here before, and they come for their own reasons. We are here only to ensure they return."

Jaime frowned, glancing toward Ser Arthur, who stood beside a jagged pillar with one hand resting casually on the hilt of Dawn. The Sword of the Morning gave Jaime a glance, then nodded faintly.

"Summerhall is sacred to the prince," Arthur said. "And to her."

Jaime’s jaw clenched. "And what is it to you?"

Arthur tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. "A ruin. A reminder. Nothing more."

But Barristan, older and less inclined to philosophical detachment, gave Jaime a longer look, his eyes unreadable beneath the line of his brow.

"You care for her," he said quietly.

It wasn’t a question.

Jaime’s breath caught, just for a heartbeat, before he set his jaw and looked away. "I respect her," he said simply.

Barristan’s mouth twitched, just faintly, before he turned his attention back to the guards dispersing among the trees.

"You’re not the first."

Jaime blinked, caught off-guard. "What?"

The older knight’s tone remained neutral. "To see her. To want her. To wonder if what you see in her eyes is meant for you."

Jaime stared at him, something unsettled curling low in his chest.

"But you must understand something," Barristan continued. "She is the king’s daughter, yes. But more than that—she is his."

He didn’t say the prince’s name. He didn’t have to.

Jaime looked once more toward the ruins, now silent and still beneath the rising sun. He could almost imagine their voices echoing within the blackened halls—hers low and warm, his soft and distant like a harp played in an empty chamber.

And suddenly, Jaime felt as though he were standing outside something he had never truly been invited into.

He said nothing more, only stood there beside the stones, waiting for a glimpse of silver and violet to return from the ruin of dreams.

The light dimmed as you stepped beneath what remained of the old stone arch, the world outside muffled the moment you and Rhaegar entered the hollow shell of what had once been a palace built for joy. Vines crept along the broken walls, their green fingers winding through cracks left by fire and time, and shattered marble tiles crunched under your boots as you moved further inward. The air here smelled of ash and earth, of something old and buried, something that clung to the bones of Summerhall like a final breath that refused to leave.

Rhaegar walked just ahead, his footsteps slow and careful, not out of fear, but reverence. He did not speak at first, and neither did you. This place had always demanded silence when you came together, silence not out of respect, but of understanding. It was as though the stones themselves remembered the cries that had risen here the night it burned—Aegon’s last dream, kindled in fire and ended in smoke.

You followed him through the collapsed doorway that once led to the hall of the fountain, or what remained of it. The basin was cracked and blackened, half-swallowed by moss, and the marble dragons that once spiraled around its rim had lost their heads to time and heat. You stepped beside him, your cloak brushing the crumbling stone, and you looked not at the ruin, but at Rhaegar.

His expression was distant, his eyes tracing the outlines of what had once been. His hands, usually so steady, hung at his sides, his fingers twitching now and again like a man playing invisible strings. The silence had stretched too long, so you broke it first, your voice soft.

“You’ve grown quieter here.”

His gaze didn’t shift. “It’s quieter here,” he answered, though it wasn’t truly an explanation.

You glanced around, the ruins swallowing you both in shadow and memory. “You used to say this was where you felt closest to what came before.”

Rhaegar nodded slowly. “I still do.”

You watched him for a long moment. His face looked older today. Not from time, but from weight. From thought. You could see it in the lines that hadn’t been there last year, the deepening shadows beneath his eyes. He looked like a man who had already lived through the prophecy he was meant to fulfill.

He finally looked at you. His eyes were strange in this light—flickering between indigo and stormcloud. “Do you believe in destiny?” he asked you, quietly, as though afraid the ruins might answer for you.

You drew in a breath, letting it settle before answering. “I believe we shape it,” you said. “Even when it’s written.”

He turned from you again, his jaw tight, the tension spreading through his shoulders. “Mine is already written. In scrolls, in books, in flames.” He shook his head slowly. “And every step I take, I feel it binding tighter around me.”

You moved closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “But not alone.”

Rhaegar went still, and for a moment you thought he might close off again like he always did when the subject crept too close to his heart. But instead, he turned toward you fully, his eyes burning now—not with rage, but with something deeper. Fear.

“I’m afraid,” he said. “Not of what I must do. Not of what I will become. I’m afraid I’ll have to walk it without you.”

His words hung there, suspended between ruin and memory. You had heard his fears before, but never so plainly. Never so bare.

You reached for him, your hand settling gently against his chest, where his heartbeat pulsed like the soft rhythm of a distant drum. “You won’t.”

He swallowed, and for the first time, his posture seemed to break. “The future takes things,” he said, voice hoarse. “Even when they’re not ready to be taken.”

You let your forehead rest against his shoulder, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. “Then we will make the future yield.”

He exhaled shakily, his arms coming around you slowly, as though afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast. He held you against him, and you could feel it now—the quiet tremble beneath his stillness. Rhaegar, the silver prince, the one who carried songs and sorrow alike, was simply a man here. A brother. Yours.

“Don’t let go,” he whispered.

“I never have,” you answered.

And in the stillness of Summerhall, surrounded by what had burned, you held onto one another like the last unbroken thing.

The sun had crept higher into the sky, tracing shadows across the broken stone and brittle grass of Summerhall. The ruins lay still, undisturbed save for the occasional gust of wind that whispered through the hollowed walls and stirred the remnants of a palace long dead. Jaime stood near the edge of the old courtyard, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the scorched archway where the prince and princess had disappeared nearly an hour ago.

He was growing restless.

His horse had long since cooled beneath the shade of a tree. The guards lounged or kept idle watch. Ser Arthur, patient as ever, sat with his back to a blackened pillar, his head tipped downward as he thumbed through a small leather-bound book, utterly unbothered by the passage of time. But Jaime… Jaime was coiled tight.

He didn’t realize he was scowling until a voice beside him stirred him from his brooding.

“Patience is a virtue for knights,” Ser Barristan said lightly, walking toward him with his helm tucked beneath one arm. His hair was tousled slightly from removing it, but his eyes were focused and clear beneath the weight of years. “Though I find fewer and fewer of the young possess it.”

Jaime didn’t look at him at first. His eyes remained fixed on the ruins. “It’s been too long,” he said flatly.

“They’ve been here before,” Barristan replied, as if that answered anything. “And they’ve always returned.”

Jaime shifted his stance, fingers drumming against his arm. “She’s not just some wandering lady from the Reach,” he said. “She’s the king’s daughter.”

Barristan raised a brow. “And you think the prince would let harm come to her?”

Jaime glanced at him then, just briefly. “I don’t think anything. That’s the problem.”

For a time, they stood in silence, the breeze rustling the scorched grass around them. Then Barristan spoke again, this time more carefully.

“You train like a knight. You fight like one. But your thoughts, Jaime…” He paused. “They’ve drifted elsewhere, haven’t they?”

Jaime didn’t respond.

“You asked me once,” Barristan continued, “what it felt like to wear the white. To take the vows. You were only twelve, and you looked at me as though I’d been made of stories.” A faint smile ghosted his lips. “But now you hardly speak of it at all.”

Jaime turned to him, slowly. His jaw was tight. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“But not the same way,” Barristan said quietly.

Jaime exhaled through his nose, staring at the blackened stones beneath his boots. “I never wanted Casterly Rock. That was meant for Kevan’s son. Even when I was a boy, I knew my father would see me as a sword first and heir second.” He glanced up at the sky, his voice lower now. “But I never imagined I’d want anything else.” He looked toward the archway again, his gaze distant. “Now I do.”

Barristan regarded him, his expression unreadable. “You would give up the Kingsguard. Give up your name. Your legacy. For her?”

Jaime didn’t hesitate. “For her, I’d try.”

The old knight was quiet for a long time. Then, he stepped closer, his voice dropping.

“I have seen many men fall in love with dragons,” he said. “Some from afar. Some from within. It rarely ends well for any of them—especially the ones without wings.”

Jaime turned to him, meeting his gaze evenly. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

Barristan sighed, the weight of experience settling in his shoulders. “Then pray, for both your sakes, that this fire does not burn you alive.”

Jaime said nothing. His eyes drifted once more to the ruins.

And still, you did not return.

The solar in Maegor’s Holdfast was stifling despite the breeze that whispered through the high windows. The red and black tapestries, embroidered with dragons in flight and fire, hung heavy on the walls, absorbing the heat and amplifying the sense of confinement within the chamber. The air smelled of warmed parchment and perfumed oils, a rich, cloying mixture that clung to the skin. But it was not the heat or the scent that unsettled Tywin Lannister—it was the man seated on the carved wooden chair beneath the Targaryen crest, idly turning a jeweled ring around his finger, his violet eyes glittering with something between amusement and disdain.

Aerys Targaryen had not yet descended fully into the madness that would one day consume him, but the change had begun. It was there in the long silences between his words, the sudden flickers of suspicion behind his gaze, the way his mouth twisted when he smiled, as if the act required effort. And yet, he was still shrewd. Still cunning. Still dangerous.

“My king,” Tywin began again, his voice measured, every word deliberate. “You’ve made your views clear regarding my daughter. If you will not entertain the match between Prince Rhaegar and Cersei, then I ask you to consider—”

“You ask,” Aerys interrupted abruptly, his tone light but edged like a blade. “You, Tywin Lannister, who once served as Hand of the King, who now returns with gifts and golden children in tow, asking for my blood to be mixed with yours.”

Tywin didn’t flinch. “It would strengthen both houses.”

Aerys’s laugh was brittle, too loud for the small room. “Ah, yes, strength. That is always your language, isn’t it? Not honor, not duty—strength. Power. Gold.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened. “Jaime is a capable boy. More than capable. And he is your daughter’s equal in birth, if not in name. I merely ask that you consider the benefit of promising her to him.”

The king’s fingers stilled against the ring. His gaze narrowed, lips curling slightly. “Your son is a squire, not a prince. And she is not yours to have.”

“She is the daughter of the dragon,” Tywin reminded him calmly. “And Westeros is watching. It would do your House good to remind the realm that alliances can be made outside the bloodline.”

“Outside?” Aerys repeated, his tone suddenly biting. “You would dilute the blood of the dragon with lion’s blood. Do you think me a fool?”

Tywin met his gaze without blinking. “I think you a king who must preserve more than his name. Isolation breeds weakness. The other Great Houses grow in power with each generation. Your own family grows thinner.”

Aerys stood then, his movements sudden, graceful despite the long folds of his black and red robes. He moved to the window, his back turned, his posture tense.

“They speak of me in whispers,” he said, voice low, almost musing. “They say I’ve grown strange. That I fear shadows and keep to myself. That I hoard wildfire between the walls.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you believe these things, Tywin?”

“I believe your enemies want others to believe them.”

The king turned slowly, his expression twisting into something smug. “Let them believe what they will. Let them fear. They have always feared Targaryen fire. That is how we keep the throne. Not with Lannister gold.”

Tywin remained silent, letting the pause settle between them before stepping forward.

“And what of your children?” he asked softly. “What of the girl? Will you have her remain unwed while the world speculates? Or will you—” he stopped short, letting the weight of his next words hang unspoken.

Aerys’s eyes narrowed. “Speak plainly.”

“You mean to wed them,” Tywin said. “Your son and daughter. That is why you refuse all other matches. You’ve planned this.”

The king’s silence was answer enough.

Tywin’s mouth tightened. “You would close the Targaryen circle again.”

“As it has always been,” Aerys said, chin lifting. “As it must be.”

“You will isolate your House,” Tywin warned, voice low. “Already the smallfolk whisper that your line is touched by madness. You think to silence them by marrying your children? You will only make it worse.”

Aerys smiled slowly. “Let them whisper. So long as they kneel.”

Tywin’s eyes hardened, but he said no more. The game had been revealed. The king had made his choice—years ago, it seemed—and now he merely waited for others to fall into place, like pieces on a board whose moves only he could see.

But Tywin Lannister had not come this far to play someone else’s game.

He bowed stiffly. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

And with that, he turned and left the solar, his steps echoing through the stone hall, the cold realization settling in his chest like a knife: he had brought his son here hoping for a crown.

And found a dragon’s den instead.

The sun had long since set below the hills, and the pale orange glow that had lingered in the sky gave way to the violet hush of evening. Summerhall, in twilight, seemed quieter still—its broken walls softened by the dark, its jagged lines blurred into silhouette. The stars stretched wide above the ruin, scattered like shards of glass across a velvet dome, and the moon had begun to rise, thin like the edge of a blade.

You lay beside Rhaegar in what remained of the old courtyard, your cloak spread beneath you to keep the cold of the earth at bay. The moss beneath your fingers was damp and fragrant, tinged with the scent of ash that never seemed to leave this place. Beside you, Rhaegar lay silent, one hand behind his head, the other resting lightly between you both. His silver hair spilled across the ground like a halo of light, his profile illuminated by moonlight that caught the delicate line of his jaw, the quiet slope of his brow.

You watched the stars in silence for some time. Here, without the press of court or the ever-watching eyes of nobles and lords, the world felt still. The only sounds were the rustling of the wind through crumbling stone and the occasional call of a nightbird far off in the trees. It reminded you of your childhood—of stolen moments in the city when your brother played his harp and you sat cross-legged at his side, dreaming of nothing but the sound of his music and the warmth of his voice.

Now his voice came again, softer than the breeze. “They’ve been speaking of Dorne again,” Rhaegar said.

You turned your head toward him. “The council?”

He nodded slowly. “I heard Lord Mooton speaking with Grand Maester Pycelle before we departed. They believe Elia Martell would be a suitable match. That Dorne’s alliance could stabilize the southern houses.”

Your chest tightened. For a moment, you said nothing, listening to the distant sigh of the wind moving through the hollow halls. Then you reached over, gently brushing your fingertips against his sleeve.

“They speak,” you said quietly, “but they do not decide. Father does.”

Rhaegar did not look at you. His eyes were fixed upward, toward the stars. “And what if they begin to turn Father against himself? You’ve seen it too. The way they whisper about his temper, about his judgments. They speak as though his mind is already slipping.” A pause. “They will try to take the choice from him.”

You sat up slightly, leaning your weight on your elbow as you looked at him fully. “Rhaegar. He will never allow them to dictate your match.” You touched his hand. “And he will never give me to another. He’s made that much clear.”

He turned to face you now, his indigo eyes shining faintly in the starlight. “Sometimes I fear that Father’s devotion to us is the very thing they resent most.”

You didn’t deny it. You knew well how the lords of the realm watched you both—how they saw your father’s favoritism not as love, but as danger. But you also knew that no one could pull the reins from Aerys Targaryen’s hands—not yet, not while fire still clung to his voice and his will remained unbroken.

“He may be many things,” you said, gently, “but no one tells him what to do. No lord in Westeros, no whispering maester, no cautious courtier. Not even Tywin Lannister.” You smiled faintly. “Especially not him.”

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose, something like amusement breaking the tension in his brow. “Tywin would flay himself before bending to Father’s whims. And yet he still came to court with two golden offerings.”

You laid back down, folding your hands over your stomach, your voice thoughtful. “He must be desperate, to think you’d marry Cersei.”

“She speaks with all the charm of her father,” Rhaegar muttered.

You laughed softly, your breath a cloud in the air above you. “And Jaime?”

He was quiet for a moment. “He watches you too closely.”

You said nothing, though your smile lingered. Then you reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his, the pressure light but warm.

“Let them speak,” you said. “Let them scheme and guess. At the end of it all, it is you and me. And it has always been.”

He turned to you again, his gaze softening. “And you’ll stay with me, even when the road darkens?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Always.”

A moment passed. Then Rhaegar sat up slowly, brushing dust from his sleeve. “We should return,” he said. “They’ll be wondering.”

You rose with him, adjusting your cloak against the chill. “Barristan will pretend not to be concerned. Arthur will say nothing at all. But Jaime…” You looked to him sidelong. “Jaime might have been counting every minute.”

Rhaegar offered no response, but his eyes narrowed faintly in the dark.

Together, you turned from the courtyard, walking side by side through the broken halls of Summerhall, leaving the ashes of dreams behind you.

Night had fully claimed Summerhall by the time you and Rhaegar returned to the camp. The ruins behind you seemed to sink deeper into shadow, their scorched stones swallowed by darkness, leaving behind only the cold scent of ash and old earth on the air. The clearing where the retinue had made their camp was quiet, lit by low-burning fires ringed with coals, their flickering light casting soft amber hues across the edges of the tents and the faint glint of polished armor.

You walked beside your brother in silence, your cloak drawn close around you, the night wind tugging softly at your pale hair. The firelight caught in his profile as you stepped into camp—the quiet set of his mouth, the unfocused distance in his eyes. Yet there was a stillness in him now, a quiet centering that had not been there when you arrived. Whatever had weighed upon him earlier in the day had eased, if only slightly.

The guards took notice of your return without fanfare. They moved as soldiers often did—observing everything, commenting on nothing. But as you approached the central fire where Ser Barristan stood speaking quietly with Ser Arthur Dayne, the old knight lifted his head, and the conversation stilled.

“My prince,” Barristan said with a slight bow of the head. “Shall we begin preparations to ride at first light?”

Rhaegar gave a small nod, pulling his gloves tighter. “Yes. We return to the capital tomorrow.”

“Very good,” Barristan replied, his gaze flickering toward you for the briefest moment, his eyes unreadable. “The men will be ready.”

You inclined your head to them both and turned to step toward your own tent, the warmth of the fire briefly brushing against your skin as you passed it. But you could feel it—a gaze lingering—not from Rhaegar or the knights, but from the edge of the firelight.

Jaime.

He was crouched beside his tent, working a leather strap between his gloved fingers, pretending to busy himself with tying down the flaps, though they had long since been secured. His brow was furrowed, a deep crease between his eyes that suggested concentration, but his posture betrayed him—too still, too tense, his head lifting slightly with every soft step you took.

You paused by the water basin outside your tent, letting your fingers brush the cool metal rim, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t look directly at him, but you felt the shift of his gaze—the flicker of green eyes that never strayed far from where you stood.

He had barely spoken since you and Rhaegar left, but the weight of his silence was louder than words.

Behind you, the camp settled further into quiet. The guards rotated shifts, and Ser Arthur began checking over the horses tethered nearby. You heard soft conversation in Dorne-accented Low Valyrian between two of Rhaegar’s retainers, muffled by distance and night.

You turned slightly toward your tent’s entrance, then paused and glanced back—Jaime was still watching.

Not openly. Not boldly. But in that careful, cautious way of a young man who wasn’t sure if what he felt was allowed to become anything at all.

And you—you were no stranger to being watched.

But something about the way he looked at you was different. Not hungry, not proud, not with the entitlement so many lords’ sons carried when they gazed upon a princess.

His gaze held wonder.

And perhaps, quietly, a question.

You turned your head and disappeared into the dark canvas folds of your tent, saying nothing.

But even then, behind your closed eyes and the rustle of your cloak as you unfastened it, you could still feel him watching.

The canvas walls of Jaime’s tent creaked softly in the night wind, the faint rustle of fabric barely louder than the rhythm of his breath. He lay flat on the modest cot, boots pulled off but the rest of his clothes still clinging to him, his cloak bundled beneath his head in place of a proper pillow. The air was cold against his skin, and despite the small brazier burning low in the corner, the warmth did little to reach him. He stared at the sloped ceiling, its folds of cloth illuminated faintly by the dying glow of the coals. Outside, the camp was quiet—sleep had claimed most of the men, the guards walked their rounds in silence, and the sounds of the forest beyond Summerhall’s broken stones whispered with night creatures.

But Jaime could not sleep.

Not for the cold. Not for the discomfort. But because of you.

Every time he shut his eyes, he saw you standing in the starlight—your hair pale and soft, trailing like light down your back as you passed beneath the old archway with Rhaegar. He saw the way you looked when you returned: calm, but distant, as if your mind had not yet followed you back from the place the two of you had gone. You hadn’t spoken a word to him. You hadn’t needed to. Your silence had done more than any conversation might have.

And yet he couldn’t shake the image of you standing near the water basin, pausing just long enough to let him see that you knew. That you had always known.

He shifted onto his side, drawing the cloak closer to his neck, staring at the shadowed flap of the tent’s entrance. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear keeping his thoughts caged. Rhaegar had claimed your time, your attention, your closeness, but Jaime couldn’t allow himself to be silent forever. He didn’t know if what he felt was foolish. He didn’t know if it was dangerous. All he knew was that it was real.

And that he wanted more.

Tomorrow, they would leave Summerhall. Return to King’s Landing, return to the games of court and whispered alliances, and you would vanish back into the castle’s halls, where you moved like a ghost no one dared reach for. If he didn’t speak now—if he didn’t try—then he would lose whatever slender chance he had to be near you.

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. The fire in the brazier cracked softly, casting long shadows against the canvas walls. He breathed in, the scent of smoke and dust heavy in his lungs, and exhaled through his nose.

“I’ll speak with her,” he said aloud, his voice low and certain in the darkness. “Before we ride.”

Even if it led nowhere. Even if it only confirmed that her thoughts lay with Rhaegar, as he feared. He had to know. He had to offer more than stolen glances and half-smiles over firelight. You were not a dream he could afford to let drift further away.

The wind picked up outside, tugging gently at the corner of the tent. Jaime lay back once more, closing his eyes not in sleep, but in resolve.

Tomorrow. Before the sun rose high and they turned their horses north. He would find you.

And he would speak.

The first whispers of dawn spilled pale across the landscape, turning the edges of Summerhall's ruined stones from charcoal to ashen gray. Mist still clung low to the ground, curling between the hooves of restless horses and coiling around the boots of squires hurrying to break down camp. The metallic clatter of buckles, the flapping of canvas, and the murmured commands of men folding their tents into neat piles filled the air with the quiet energy of morning.

You stood near your tent, your cloak drawn close against the chill that came before the sun. The ruins behind you were dark and still, but the sky above had begun to shift—faint streaks of rose and amber blossoming at the horizon. The fire had gone out some time ago, leaving only a cold ring of stones and scattered embers, but you hadn’t moved far from it. There was something peaceful in these last quiet moments before the ride began. Something final, too, as if Summerhall, in its silence, was saying farewell.

And then you heard footsteps behind you—deliberate, hesitant.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Jaime Lannister approached with his cloak thrown loosely over one shoulder, his golden hair slightly tousled, his sword strapped at his hip. He wasn’t in armor yet—just the traveling leathers, scuffed and dusted with the ash and soil of yesterday’s ride—but somehow he still looked the part of a lord's son, every inch the lion trying not to stalk too loudly.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice softer than usual. Hesitant, but not unsure. “Did you sleep well?”

You offered him a faint smile. “As well as one can in a ruined palace.”

That drew a small chuckle from him, and he took a slow step closer, as if gauging how close he was permitted to stand. He looked out toward the morning haze with you, his eyes catching the first hints of yellow that filtered over the hills.

“This place,” he said after a moment, “it reminds me of somewhere else. Somewhere I haven’t thought about in years.” He glanced at you. “When I was a boy, I used to sneak out of Casterly Rock with Cersei. There was an old watchtower at the edge of the cliffs. Crumbling and forgotten, like this. We’d pretend we were dragonlords there—two brave warriors building a kingdom out of sea stone and wind.”

You looked at him, surprised by the honesty in his voice. “Did you take turns being the dragon?”

He smiled, sheepish. “No. Cersei was always the dragon. I was whatever she told me to be.” He laughed to himself, then rubbed the back of his neck. “But it was quiet there. And for once, no one expected anything of us. No father, no maesters, no banners. Just salt and air and... her laughter.”

He seemed to catch himself then, the softness in his tone drawing back slightly. His gaze returned to you, and something shifted behind his eyes—a vulnerability poorly hidden behind his usual ease.

“I never thought I’d come to like a place like this again,” he admitted. “But I do.”

You tilted your head gently. “Because it reminds you of home?”

Jaime hesitated, then shook his head. “Because of you.”

You felt the breath in your lungs pause, just slightly.

He cleared his throat, not looking at you now. “Forgive me, I’m… not particularly good at this sort of thing. I’ve never had to… speak this way. Not to anyone.” He glanced at you again, briefly, and then away. “I never had to try.”

Your brow arched faintly, amusement glimmering behind your eyes. “That sounds like something someone says when they’re used to being adored.”

He smiled, a little crooked now. “That’s just it. I’ve been flattered before. Admired. Not… seen.” He gestured vaguely toward the ruins, toward the day beginning around you. “Not like this. Not like here.”

You studied him, the way he stood half in shadow, half in light, fighting the urge to retreat into something easier. Something more familiar. But his voice was honest. His words clumsy, yes—but sincere.

“You don’t need to charm me, Ser Jaime,” you said gently. “You only need to be yourself.”

He met your eyes then, and for the first time since you’d known him, there was no trace of performance.

“I’m trying,” he said.

You nodded, then turned your gaze back to the horizon. “Then try walking with me. The day waits for no one.”

Jaime stepped beside you, falling into stride as you moved toward the others, the low light stretching long across the earth ahead.

And for the first time, you let him walk beside you.

The soft crunch of grass and soil beneath your boots was the only sound between you and Jaime as you walked back toward the center of the camp. The sky had begun to blossom with the full colors of morning—rose, amber, the faintest tinge of lilac streaked across the eastern horizon. The chill of night still lingered in the air, but there was movement all around now. Squires moved briskly with saddles and gear, guards were tightening straps, checking bridles, and shifting into the formation that would carry the procession back to the Red Keep. Horses stamped the earth impatiently, their breath curling in the morning light, and the scent of fresh leather mixed with the familiar tang of steel.

Your mare, Moonveil, was already saddled and waiting, her dappled coat gleaming with dew. She nickered softly at your approach, ears flicking toward you, and you reached out instinctively, brushing your fingers along her neck. Jaime’s stallion was tethered nearby, his chestnut coat well-brushed and gleaming, already restless under the weight of his light armor.

Rhaegar stood just ahead with Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan, his back partially turned as he spoke quietly with the two Kingsguard. His hair caught the rising light and glimmered like frost, his profile calm as ever—still, poised, as if he belonged not to the world around him but to some dream yet unfolding.

As you and Jaime approached, his voice paused mid-sentence, and his gaze lifted—not to you, but to the young lion walking a step behind you.

Rhaegar’s eyes settled on Jaime for only the briefest of moments.

Not a glare. Not a challenge. Just a look—cool, unreadable, assessing.

And then he looked away, disinterested.

If Jaime noticed the dismissal, he didn’t show it. He stepped ahead and moved to his horse, checking the girth himself even though the stablehands had already seen to it, clearly needing something for his hands to do. His jaw tightened for only a moment, just enough for you to notice, before he composed himself and turned to mount.

Rhaegar’s voice drifted toward you a moment later, soft but audible.

“We’ll take the south road through Bramblebend,” he said to Ser Arthur, mounting with effortless grace. “It’s quieter. And I would not have my sister ride through the capital’s filth upon our return.”

Barristan nodded. “It will add time, but not much.”

You moved to mount Moonveil, and as you swung into the saddle, you felt Jaime’s eyes on you again—brief, searching. He said nothing as he settled onto his stallion beside you, but the silence that hung between you now was different than it had been days ago. It was not the quiet of uncertainty, but of something beginning to take shape, fragile and unnamed.

Rhaegar rode at the front of the procession as always, Ser Arthur flanking him at one side, Ser Barristan falling into position near the rear. You remained near the center, Jaime keeping close, though now with a careful distance—never too near, never too far.

The ruins of Summerhall receded behind you, swallowed slowly by the trees and the mist.

None of you looked back.

But you felt the shift beneath your ribs—that this ride home would not be the same as the ride here.

And the lion at your side was no longer watching you as an outsider might.

He rode with the intent of a man who had made a decision.

And was waiting for you to see it.

---

Superman desperately scanning the street during a fight to find the most morally acceptable car to throw at his opponent, knowing that not everybody has insurance, and loss of transportation can ruin a life -

A wave of incredible relief washes over him as he spots the hard geometric lines and silver paintless sheen of a Cybertruck.

cute

Shameless Enjoyment

platonic Bucky Barnes x Alpine!reader

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Image found on Pinterest by @ellethespaceunicorn who thought of Bucky bonding with his new kitty 😻 so OBVIOUSLY I had to run with it...

No warnings, just floofy fluff! Enjoy 😘 WC 625

It's because he has nightmares that he suddenly pops up to burn off unprovoked, fight-or-flight energy. Shirtless, metal arm whirring in strain, covered in sickly sweat, Bucky just goes and goes.

Hundreds of sit ups. Hundreds of pull ups. Hundreds of push ups until his muscles finally fail, and he can (maybe) go back to sleep.

You've watched with your own breed of fear and sadness a few times before, but not tonight. You need him to not feel alone, to notice there's someone (or something) here to help. You need to ease his pain in some small, tiny, probably insignificant way, but you have to try.

So you prop yourself up on his knees during the sit ups, you jump for his rising, crossed ankles during the pull ups, and you shimmy across the floor by the sleek hairs of you back, positioning yourself beneath his head during the push ups.

His eyes are glassy, unseeing of you, his face bobbing closer then farther on and on.

His dog tags clink on the floorboards only an inch away, but Bucky still notices absolutely nothing.

Well, you know how it goes, right? Hear a tink, tink, tink enough times (dozens and dozens so far), and we're all like to be driven a bit bonkers.

You attack them, pinching the flat steel between your paws and bunny-kicking the swinging string, deeply annoyed that you have no thumbs to grab them properly and rip them right off his neck.

Ok. Maybe you're tired and he did wake you from a proper sleep this time.

You bite at the tags, intent on making your own mark on the stamped metal.

Bucky stops, but you only notice when his body remains lowered to yours for longer than the regular beat.

You, in turn, stop mid-thrash.

"Pretty girl..." he growls playfully, though you are anything but 'pretty' with your fangs hammering an unyielding surface, your wide eyes angry and lopsided, and your body twisted to gain the leverage of one-twentieth Bucky's own size.

You pause then growl in kind.

"Are you mad at me? Did I disturb you?"

A back leg whacks at the chain again in defiance.

He chuckles, the harsh lines above his serious brow relaxing as he pushes up, dragging the necklace almost out of your reach.

The smooth plates slip from your paws, and it makes you furious, batting wildly to regain your hold of them.

Bucky seems very pleased with that reaction.

"There ya go, doll. Almost got it--" he lowers again "--yay! What about--" he pushes as far as his elbows will straighten "--now?"

A wet huff escapes your throat when the string goes entirely beyond the extension of your own fury limbs.

"Uh oh! Little higher, Alpine. You can do it," he coos.

Your screech is from genuine irritation, but it amuses Bucky to the point you wriggle some more...just for show.

"Okay, okay, here ya go." Bucky lowers the tags carefully to your chest, delighted by the feral display of savagery he sometimes wishes to impart on the symbols, too. You're sure he doesn't realize he says these things out loud, but you take his confessions as seriously as a priest.

You'll take on his burdens like a golem if that's what helps him sleep through the night.

A few hundred secrets. Let him push them out. And then let him dream of better things. Fluffier, pure white, happy things. If he lets you, you'll fight all the demons and fly from room to room scaring all the ghosts of his past away.

He can do this routine without shame. He's simply playing with his cat. Bucky's just enjoying his time with you...at any and all hours of the day.

[Next Part: 'Babygirl']

[Main Masterlist; Bucky Barnes Masterlist]

A/N: yes, Lexi's got zero chill. What of it? You all knew that!

@hisredheadedgoddess28 @irishhappiness @fallenxjas @ilovetaquitosmmmm @venunsgirl @fries11 @lovinglimerence @navs-bhat @creat0r-cat @yenzys-lucky-charm @bitchy-bi-trash @supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry

Ousmane Sembène, Senegalese director and father of African cinema

"It is good to be at Cannes, but I wish Africa would create something of its own. We should not be eternal guests. It is up to us to create our own values. To recognize them and to carry them throughout the world." —Sembene! (2015)

Clips from Caméra d'Afrique + Sembene! (2015)