#So now instead of general medical nursing

[floridecuts]

Hey guys, I'm back with the promised au comic!! ^-^ Thank you so much for your comments on my recent posts! <3 Let me know what you think of this one and if you liked it! :)

So, let me explain a bit more about this. I got this au idea that Mashita could be a nurse out of the blue some day and it stuck in my head. The thought of Mashita as a prickly nurse was very funny to me, and I thought his tired eyes could work very well for this scenario too. I believe a nurse's job can be very exhausting and, if my memory is correct, often involves working overtime shifts. (Kudos and my greatest respect to anyone working in this field!) So, in this au Yashiki and Mashita get to know each other under different circumstances. It plays (obviously) during Death Mark 2, the events of the Slit Mouthed Kashima case where Yashiki's arm gets injured - only this time the injury is not just an illusion and doesn't disappear when the spirit leaves. Instead of Shou it's Daimon who is with Yashiki when it happens, he calls Mashita during their way back to the school. (Please don't ask the very logical question why he doesn't take Yashiki to his clinic instead... I definitely did not just realize this mistake now, right before posting this. Just... throw logic out of the window for the duration of these short 7 pages, please. ^^') The idea is that Mashita is a nurse working in Daimon's clinic, hence they know each other. Daimon asks him for help because he knows Mashita is a person he can trust and he could really need an extra hand for removing all these scissor blades. Thankfully it doesn't take Mashita long to arrive (but of course Daimon gave Yashiki some pain meds for the meantime, so the pain is at least manageable). I thought it'd be hilarious if Mashita got hit by Armor's arrow the moment he sees Yashiki for the first time (especially because he "bickered" about him moments before). xD And I have fun drawing him blushing, so I couldn't resist adding that scene. Btw, Mashita and Yashiki haven't met each other before in this au, but my idea was that Daimon has mentioned him and his work to Mashita in the past, hence he referred to Yashiki before as "that ghost hunter guy". As Mashita doesn't have any spiritual abilities/powers and seems like a skeptic character in general to me, I found it fitting here that he doesn't believe in spirits or supernatural stuff. Until the day he meets Yashiki that is. I like to think that, after this evening, Mashita changes or at least rethinks his previous opinion on spirits and offers Daimon to call him again whenever "that ghost hunter guy" gets himself injured again (definitely not because he'd like to see Yashiki again, of course). Sorry for the abrupt end, I cut it off after the revelation of the unjury because I couldn't quite decide how to continue from there.

I am aware that, from a medical standpoint, Daimon's choice to treat that wounded arm in the school's infirmary is probably not the best choice but I just ignored this for the sake of drawing this comic (as I said, just throw logic out the window for this ^^'). Same goes for the probably high risk of permanent damage to the arm/hand with that injury and any other medical inaccuracies. I get random ideas like this a lot, but am not great with figuring out a complete (and realistic) story. I guess I don't have a talent for storytelling as a whole, but more for short moments of drama, fluff or some funny moments. ^^'

I really grew to like the idea of Mashita as a nurse while drawing this. That's probably because I love healer/medic characters in general in fictional works. And it was really fun to draw our cranky ex-detective in nurse clothing. xD (Am I the only one thinking those look super comfortable to wear?) I would love to draw more for this in the future, especially if you guys like the idea as well. Though at the moment I'm out of ideas for new scenes. But in case any of you have ideas, let me know! I'd be happy to hear about them, maybe they can spark my inspiration. :)

Btw. I did notice that I made a mistake with the injury, as in the game it's Yashiki's other arm that gets injured. But it'll just stay this way now, it's an au after all with a lot of things that are different from canon. The next au short comic will be focusing more on Yashiki and some other Mark Bearers, but Mashita will appear too. It's mostly fluff with a little bit of romance at the end. Hope you'll like it. I'm curious to see which au you'll like more in the end - or if you don't like them. Either way, let me know what you think! ^^

Thanks for taking a look and have a nice week! :)

[abbotsanatomy]

(Desperately) begging for a fic where reader is experiencing Whitaker-levels of a bad day including a stubborn argument with Jack and she just crashes out on the rooftop and he’s just like comforting her 🙏

⨳ REALLY VERY BAD DAY

pairing: jack abbot x chief resident!reader warnings: gross fluids (blood, vomit, etc.), minor injury, severe second hand embarrassment, injections, suicidal ideation, but not rlly. this isn't beta'd. author's note: this man is canonically sooo bad at comfort, so this gets a lil silly!

Your entire shift is exactly 12 hours. Somehow, you managed to have six different catastrophes happen to you in that limited time. That's an average of one every two hours. The odds have got to be completely stacked against you.

You should've known, when the first hour of your shift ended with a kid, who'd come in with a stomachache, throwing up all over your scrubs. It happens all the time, so you weren't too pessimistic about how the rest of the night would go by that point.

Little did you know, that was a sign from the universe. You should've taken it and clocked out instead of using your first scrub credit of the night.

By 11:00, you were slowly losing your optimism. You'd been taking out a patient's IV cannula when you apparently pricked yourself through your gloves. You only realized much later, when the antiseptic sanitizer you were using stung a little too much.

The moment you noticed, you checked the patient's medical record for any blood-borne diseases that might spread to you. And lo and behold, he had HBV.

You found Jack at the nurse's station, picking up some labs for a patient.

“I'm gonna need you to give me an HBV PEP injection. Please,” you'd whispered, as close to him as possible.

“Why would you need that?” he asked casually.

“I have a needle-stick injury.”

He looked over at you, finally. There's a silent disappointment in his eyes. Jack's one of the most composed people you know, but you also know he's a worrier. He won't let it show now, but he'll definitely be all over you the moment you're both back home.

The night shift's charge nurse walked into the station you're both standing at. She let Jack know his patient needed emergency surgery, and would be admitted to general surgery in a few minutes. When he told her he'd be right there, he turned to you again.

“You can't give it to yourself?” you know he isn't asking out of reluctance to do it, just curiosity.

“I need... some comfort.”

It wasn't a complete lie. The night'd already been getting difficult. You just wanted his hands on you for a minute. It'd make you feel better. You're afraid you haven't gotten to that point in the relationship where you could admit all of that out loud, though. But he seems to have gotten it.

“Alright. Go wait in there,” he pointed to a curtained corner of the ER, and then turned to walk away.

The words made you almost kiss him on the mouth. Instead, you walked to sit on the recliner and prepared the shot.

It took three minutes of waiting, before he's walked in and pulled the curtain half closed behind him. You swung your legs, staring down at your feet the entire time he's prepping to get this done.

“You have to be more careful,” he whispered, uncovering the syringe.

His voice was a little tense. You know he doesn't like reprimanding you. It puts you both in an awkward situation, but as your superior, he has to do it. You appreciate the criticism, but Jack happens to think it adds an uncomfortable impersonality to your relationship.

You could only offer a nod back. He let you hold onto his arm the whole time. You pulled his hand onto yours, as he used a plaster to cover the injection site. He pressed a kiss right above it before covering your arm with your sleeve again. The whole affair only took about five minutes, but it was the best part of your night.

When he was done, Jack stepped in front of you, his hand still holding onto yours. He leaned in, the proximity meaning you couldn't possibly look anywhere but his eyes.

“You'll be more careful?” he asked. He wanted you to repeat it.

“Yeah, I'll take care,” you affirmed. There was a thinly veiled promise in the affirmation. You were telling him you won't make any more of these mistakes that are completely beneath you. It was more for his peace of mind than anything else.

He pulled your conjoined hands up to his lips, lowering his lips to the back of yours.

The dull pain in your shoulder from the injection made it infinitely harder to hold your patient's jugular closed with your fingers.

It isn't very common for a patient to come in with a knife to his throat. Needless to say, you've never had to pull a carving knife out of someone's jugular, and then use your fingers to keep it closed.

The blood everywhere is a given, considering the severity of the injury, but the crimson droplets streaking your face and scrub top are all thanks to your unsteady grip.

You were hyperaware of the fact that this guy had been dead. He was dead long before he came into the ER. He'd only still been alive on a technicality. One that was long gone by this point.

He'd lost too much blood on the way to the PTMC, and there's no amount of available blood bags that could replenish it all. You couldn't stop holding onto him, though. Not when the steady stream stopped. Not when his pulse faded into nothing.

Not until Jack slipped behind you and pulled your hands away with a firm grip. He'd whispered meaningless encouragements into your ear, telling you to go take a minute for yourself. He might've offered to help, but you were too out of it to remember exactly what was said.

You were barely there the whole time. Washing the blood out of your hair, and changing your scrubs in the ER bathroom. It all didn't feel real. It took you a good hour to get back to normal. As normal as ‘normal’ gets after whatever the fuck that was.

You were glad when tripped over some spilt saline fluid and fell face-first on the ER's cold floor. Your chin was busted, but you actually felt something. It'd been hours of walking around stitching wounds up, looking over x-rays and blood work results, and feeling like a ghost who floats around the floor with no purpose.

Thankfully, when you looked in the mirror, it appeared like there were no broken bones. Just a scratch on your forehead, and a bleeding chin. No one wants a doctor who looks like they just got beat up, so your number one priority was disinfecting your mess of a face and covering up all of the nastiness.

When you reached for some normal, adult plaster, though, it was all gone. The storage locker wouldn't be open for another few hours, either. You let out the biggest sigh known to mankind when you spotted the children's bandaids.

Looking back into the mirror, you saw how ridiculous it looked to have farm animals plastered on your forehead, and a family of brightly colored elephants on your chin.

You couldn't seem to find it in yourself to care. You do almost snap at Chen when he tries to crack a joke at your expense, though.

The lock on the blood bank refrigerator had been broken for months.

You keep filing complaint after complaint, for the higher-ups to send someone to fix it. You and everyone in the department, in fact. But to no avail. It took you five minutes longer than it should to finally grab a fresh bag of donated blood out of the shelf.

So, you rushed back to Ellis. It's stupid, considering you'd just fell an hour ago. The patient's more important than logic.

The moment you crashed into an intern standing in the middle of the ER played in slow motion. You watched the bag drop to the floor, saw the plastic snap, felt the blood seep into your black work sneakers.

The ‘O-’ label on the bag stared back up at you, as you stood there in shock for a moment. Every muscle in your body started aching. It was suddenly painful to even breathe. You were barely holding yourself together, and this relatively small inconvenience was your very last straw.

“Fuck,” you whispered, not even registering the intern's profuse apologies, aimed at you.

You let out one long sigh, and your shoulders started shaking. Your chin came into contact with your chest, as you felt something painful stir within you. The feeling of helpless disappointment had been gnawing at you for hours. Now, it engulfed you completely. You'd had no idea how long you stood there, your eyes screwed tight, as the rest of the ER kept buzzing around you.

Familiar hands gripping your shoulders and pulling you away is the first thing you felt. Looking down at your feet as they lead you wherever you were being guided was a fatal mistake. You saw the bloodied shoe prints you left behind and felt even worse, if that was possible. So, you let your eyes flutter shut again.

When you were finally sat down on the edge somewhere, your face felt undeniably cold. That's when you realized you'd been shedding tears the entire time. The familiar feeling of embarrassment that bubbled up in your throat when you were vulnerable around big groups of people never arrived. Just a steady numbness.

The heavy breeze on the PTMC's roof made the salty tears on your face feel like tiny pinpricks of despair. You hoped it could also make you fly very far away from this building, never to return again. Alas, not all dreams come true.

“I did so, so badly today,” you confessed, your voice sounding thick and foreign to your own ears.

Jack frowned at you, his eyes scanning your entire face. You noticed his frown deepen almost imperceptibly when he landed on the bandaids covering your face. You were sure he'd make fun of them if today hadn't gone so badly.

He looked like he was calculating his next words very carefully, “That's alright. We have tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.”

Oh boy, that wasn't making you feel any better. In fact, it might've made you want to jump off of the very same roof you sat on right now. You stared off into the distance, calculating the height of the jump.

Apparently, Jack didn't get the memo.

“You'll always have chances to do better. You're still young. The worst day of your life can never define your entire being,” he rambled on. It was starting to seem like he was just trying to find it along the way.

Your eyes screwed shut in an attempt to tune your very sweet, but very misguided, boyfriend out. When it didn't work, you resorted to just blurting out the words on your mind.

Unfortunately, it had come out meaner than intended, “Shut up. Just stop talking, please.”

Jack was just about to talk again when you interrupted him with a plea, “I'll pay you.”

His eyes were sad. You knew he was trying, it just wasn't what you needed at all. You swung your legs, trying to play off the shame you felt at the way you spoke to him earlier. You couldn't apologize just yet though, lest he go on another tangent.

His voice was raw, but not hurt, “Do you need me to leave?”

You shook your head frantically. Just the thought of it hurt your brain.

“No. No. Just stay right here,” you whispered, and pulled his arm close.

You let your head fall onto his shoulder, the scent of his drug-store shampoo filling your nose. It worked wonders for your nerves.

“Just no more talking, please,” you begged, voice growing heavy with exhaustion.

Jack laughed. In that moment, it was like hearing the angels sing. You could listen to the sound for hours.

You could feel him nod against your head, and then press his lips into your hair.

“Alright, honey. Whatever you need.”

You were fully hugging his arm, now. Shamelessly letting yourself snuggle against his body heat. You knew you had to go downstairs and clock out to get home.

But right here, with the first rays of dawn slowly making their way onto your face, and Jack's free hand coming up to stroke your hair, it felt like you were already home.

A thousand horrible motivational speeches couldn't change that.

[7-wonders]

Hot Doctor Boyfriend

Dr. Jack Abbot x GN!reader

Summary: PTMC's in a tizzy over the admission of one of the city's biggest stars to the ER. Jack realizes that introductions, and explanations, are going to need to be made.

Word count: 2.5k

A note from the author: I'm not a medical professional and thus know nothing about how fast CT scanners can be made available. I also believe that sports injuries are sent to an actual imaging center the next day and not to the ER, but it made for a fun plot so please don't come for me on any of this. Thank you to the 150+ of you who voted that you wanted to see this trope in particular, and to the over 300 of you who voted on the poll in general!

In his personal life, Jack Abbot is not one to put much belief into superstitions. Black cats crossing paths, not opening umbrellas indoors, tossing salt over the shoulder—it’s never made sense to him why these have become rituals that are so ingrained in society. He’s a man of science and logic, and science and logic dictate that superstitions are fanciful and have no influence over events that may or may not happen in one’s life.

In his work life, though? Oh, superstitions are very much to be believed and adhered to. Saying that it’s too quiet while on a shift is a recipe for disaster. Full moons almost always bring out the crazy in everyone. For whatever reason, the hospital defies those carefully-held beliefs in science and logic and becomes something otherworldly. Jack’s certainly not about to ruin the careful balance that an emergency department achieves, and so he fastidiously follows these superstitions the moment that he clocks in.

He’s in late tonight, having used a couple of hours of PTO to attend a niece’s choir concert. The moment that he hits the ER floor, though, he’s wondering if he should have taken the whole night off instead. People are acting weird tonight. Huddling around in loose groups, giggling and talking, spreading information amongst themselves. They all keep looking a certain direction too, almost like they’re waiting for someone, or something, to appear. Even when he passes, they only bother to look busy for a few seconds before going back to their previous states.

By the time he reaches the ER floor desk, he’s feeling thoroughly rattled.

“Did the moon suddenly go from waxing to full during the duration of my walk from the parking lot to the ER?” Jack asks the assembled staff.

Mary, tonight’s charge nurse, shakes her head and smiles. “Nope. Full moon is still another fourteen days away.”

“Couldn’t tell. Why are they acting like this…all the–the whispering and shit? I hate it when they do that; feels like they’re conspiring against me.”

“We have a VIP in the ER tonight.”

Jack’s brows furrow. “Myrna’s back already?” Though Myrna’s a frequent flyer, coming back a mere two hours after discharge would be a new record for her.

“Nope. An actual VIP.”

He thinks for a couple of seconds, trying to decide who would be important enough to have an entire floor of medical professionals—people who have enough degrees combined to bring a thermometer up to triple digits—acting like nervy teens. “Okay, you’ve hooked me. Who’s disrupting our orderly chaos?”

Mary leans over the desk, eyes bright and a grin playing at her lips. “Sidney Crosby is sitting in North 3 right now.”

“What?”

Hockey is not the most popular sport in America. In fact, out of the four big professional sports leagues in the US, hockey is at the bottom. But one would have to be living under a rock to be in Pittsburgh and not know who Sidney Crosby is. He’s the city’s sweetheart; not only is he one hell of a hockey player, but he’s also a great guy. How many times has Jack seen something on the news about him donating his money or his time to local causes? How many times has he gone semi-viral for playing street hockey with random groups of children?

“Hold on,” he says, hastily grabbing a tablet from the charging docks. Not because he doesn’t believe Mary (he doesn’t make it a point to question any of the nurses, who regularly save his ass), but because he’s wondering what the hell one of the most decorated hockey players of the 21st century did to land in PTMC’s ER. Even as he reads, Mary verbalizes his chart for him.

“He was chasing a puck behind the net during tonight’s game against the Panthers and took a hard check. The training staff pretty quickly diagnosed shoulder dislocation, but they obviously don’t have the right imaging equipment at PPG. He arrived with one of the trainers, and they’re waiting for a doctor now after yours truly took vitals.”

“And you didn’t accost him or anything? I’ve seen those hockey romance novels you read,” Jack smirks.

Across from him, Mary flushes red. “I only fangirled a little bit, thank you very much.”

As his brain begins to catch up with what the commotion in the ER actually means, Jack’s own excitement fades a little. If Sidney Crosby’s here, and if he got injured during a game, then chances are that means—

“Guess we’re doing this now,” he says with a sigh, earning the curious eyes of those around him. 

“Doc, you alright?” Shen asks, pausing in his walk from one bay to the next.

“Just fine.” He looks over the interns and residents who aren’t currently on a case, deciding which one won’t lose all professionalism the moment they’re faced with a veritable star. “Santos, you’re with me.”

Santos stares at him, the energy drink she was planning on taking a sip from paused halfway to her lips. The residents are on only their second week of night shift and are still getting used to life on the dark side, including the quirks of their new boss. Shen says he scares them, but that’s ridiculous; they all worked the PittFest mass cas with him just fine!

(Although…maybe that’s why they’re a little wary? The fact that the one and only time they interacted with him was during a pretty traumatic event where he was barking out orders? Oh well, that’s a conversation for his next therapy appointment.)

“Me?” Santos points to herself.

He has to fight himself from rolling his eyes. “Unless there’s somebody else here named Santos?”

“No, no sir.” She loops her stethoscope around her neck again and hurries after Jack, already halfway to North 3.

He pauses just outside of the doors and pretends to check the tablet in his hands, taking a quick moment to prepare himself for the finality of what comes next. When he and Santos enter the room, he goes against his medical instincts and doesn’t immediately greet the patient.

“Y’know, if you missed me that much, you didn’t have to have somebody stage an injury to see me,” he says.

From the chair next to the hospital bed, you smile. “What can I say, handsome? Our schedules haven’t meshed recently, I needed to get your attention somehow.” 

The two others in the room are watching the exchange with the intensity and confusion of a novice attending Wimbledon. They’re both trying to figure out dynamics here, wondering what’s led to this moment where one seeming stranger is talking to another like they intimately know each other.

Finally, the hospital’s own VIP speaks. “Wait, is this hot doctor boyfriend?”

Though Jack isn’t facing her, he can hear Santos’s gasp as a surprised, “Boyfriend?” falls from her mouth.

You sputter while trying to remember how words work, and Jack laughs. “That was said to you in confidence, man!” you complain.

Jack steps closer to the bed and holds out his hand. “I guess that’s me. Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Sidney Crosby (the part of Jack that’s watched hockey since he was a little kid sitting in the den with his dad tries not to start freaking out) raises the hand that’s not currently in a sling to shake Jack’s. “Sidney. Call me Sid.”

He’s a little too starstruck to feel comfortable calling him a nickname like Sid, but it’s nice to have a friendly patient every once in a while.

Behind him, Santos’s thumbs surreptitiously tap on her phone, surely letting every resident in this hospital know that Jack Abbot is off the market. Jack rolls his neck, looks at Santos until she realizes she’s been caught and puts her phone in her scrubs pocket, and gets to work as best as he can.

“It’s already in your chart, but I want to hear it from you,” Jack says. “How’d you end up in the sling?”

“Jarry dumped a puck behind the net that couldn’t be iced. I went to chase after it and got checked, but hit the boards wrong. Felt a popping and pain right away, which is never good,” Sidney explains.

“I’m guessing this isn’t your first dislocation?” Jack asks, helping to remove the sling so he can examine the injury.

“Far from it.” Sidney’s scoff is cut off by a pained groan when Jack begins to feel the joint. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt like a bitch.”

“You need some meds?”

“We administered 600 milligrams of ibuprofen at the arena,” you supply. “A little morphine wouldn’t hurt.”

“Santos?” Jack turns to look at the resident.

“On it,” she says, already heading to grab the needed supplies.

“Your staff is diagnosing it as a dislocation, too?” Jack asks you.

“Like Sid said, he reported his pain as immediate and swelling has continued since the incident, which are two of the biggest indicators for dislocation. A preliminary exam at the rink says dislocation as well. We’re confident in that diagnosis but need imaging to confirm,” you report.

Santos, who’s returned with morphine and is working on drawing it up, looks at you. “You’re a doctor, too?”

You shake your head. “Athletic trainer. I work for the Penguins.”

“Nice.” She grins as she injects the morphine through the IV (Jack’s not sure if she’s smiling at your career or getting to do tasks related to her job). 

Sidney relaxes almost immediately, the morphine quickly going to work. Jack takes the opportunity to finish his exam, confirming what everybody’s expected. “Your shoulder’s definitely dislocated. I’ll push you to the front of the CT line, and pending results, we’ll hopefully be able to pop it back in within the hour.”

Jack grabs the tablet and puts in the orders, adding, “Yes, it’s THAT Sidney Crosby” in the ‘notes’ section in the hopes that radiology will actually take him seriously.

“I gotta know,” Sidney asks you, “how did you and hot doctor boyfriend meet?”

“You remember when the front office gave us all tickets to the Steelers game in September?” He nods. “I was tailgating with some friends from marketing when a fight broke out in the spot next to ours. Fists started swinging and one almost got me when I turned around to see what was going on. Jack pulled me out of the way just in time.”

“I was a goner the moment you reared around with your fists raised like you thought I was going to fight you,” Jack recalls fondly.

You’re about to respond when your phone buzzes, and you look down. Though you don’t say anything, Sidney seems to already know what you’re looking at and grins.

“Tanger or Geno?” Sidney guesses.

You laugh lightly. “Tanger. Wanting to know if they’ve popped the shoulder back in yet.”

“Didn’t the game just finish?” Santos asks.

“Ten minutes ago, if that. Kris Letang’s an impatient one.”

“Holy shit, that’s so cool,” Santos whispers under her breath from the biohazard disposal receptacle near the sink, a rare crack in the badass persona she tries so hard to maintain at work.

“We win?” Sidney wonders.

“2-1,” you confirm.

Mary knocks before popping her head into the room. “CT’s ready.”

“Santos, go with?” Jack steps towards her and lowers his voice. “Make sure that nobody hassles him.”

She nods and takes one side of the bed, a couple of members of the transport team taking the other. You rise from the chair and move to Sidney’s side, stealing his phone and other personal items so that he doesn’t have to worry about them getting lost (or, god forbid, stolen by some superfan working tonight).

“You’re in good hands, okay?” you reassure. “See you soon, Sid.”

He gives you a halfhearted wave and then is gone. The room, so quickly full of life as doctors and nurses filed in and out to provide care, has gone quiet just as fast.

Just another day in the ER. 

Now that it’s silent, Jack gets the joy of focusing his full attention on you for the first time today. To his pleasure, he finds you looking at him already, eyes and smile both soft.

“Hi,” you greet.

“Hi.” It’s breaking so many hospital protocols to give you a kiss, but he can’t resist a quick one. Not when you’re standing there in your team-issued quarter-zip and ice-friendly tennis shoes, looking very professional (Robby’s right—he really is whipped). “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too. How was Reneé’s concert?”

Jack smiles, pleased that you remembered. “Good! She killed her solo.”

“Oh good, I know you said she was nervous…” you trail off, looking over Jack’s shoulder and out the door. “Why are they staring?”

When he turns his head, he sees a small group of residents and interns curiously peering inside to see that Jack Abbot does have a life outside of work. Of course, they all scatter like marbles upon realizing that they’ve been caught. Javadi’s the last one to run, stuck like a deer in headlights until Mohan pulls her along. “I…may have not told anybody except for Robby and a couple of close friends here that I was seeing someone.”

“Jack!” You sound scandalized, but he can tell by the grin you sport that there’s no offense behind it. “We’ve been dating for six months now.” 

“I’m not in the business of telling everybody my business. And you’re one to talk! I’m just ‘hot doctor boyfriend’ when you’re at work?” He can’t help but smile as he says it, from both the name and the fact that somebody cares about him enough to call him such a thing.

“Hot doctor boyfriend is fun to say! Adds some mystery to my life. Plus, hockey players are terrible gossips. It gives them something to talk about.”

“Maybe I was trying to do the same. Add some mystery to my life.”

You roll your eyes, knowing that he’s full of shit. “Sure, Mr. Brick Wall.”

“I think I prefer hot doctor boyfriend.” He earns himself a kiss for that. Screw propriety, he thinks as he leans in and steals a couple more precious seconds. 

“We should go out there,” you murmur against his lips, “they’re gonna think we’re hiding.”

Jack sighs before pulling away, knowing that you’re right. “Or, and hear me out, we just stay here, away from the interns, and wait for Sidney to get back.”

Your eyes catch somebody else outside. “Aw, but he looks nice!” 

Whitaker waves, sandwich in hand. When Jack shoots a stern look through the doorway, he quickly scurries off.

“You’re being too social for my taste,” he complains.

“Blame it on still being in work mode.” He can understand why a person would need to be personable in a stadium with almost 20,000 screaming fans, and he does not envy you at all.

“You and I have very different definitions of work mode.”

“My sweet, anti-social man,” you coo, patting his cheek affectionately before taking his hand and leading him to the door against his better judgment. “C’mon, let’s go say hi to everyone before Sid gets back and we both have to be professionals again.”

[moody-alcoholic]

Cross My Heart

Part 2 - Trust is a Two Way Street

Summary: eventual poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers, mini fic.

CW: Mentions of war, mentions of death, descriptions of wounds, medical stuff, medical inaccuracies.

Previous parts - masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

The barrel is cold on your skin, you’re holding your breath, his finger is on the trigger. 

“Explain yourself.” A deep voice asks. You swallow hard trying to keep as still as possible.

“I’m a smuggler. I work for whoever pays. The people you killed, I was supposed to get them to Al Qatala. Konni pays me to smuggle people or weapons over the border. It’s easy to use ULF safehouses up here as a stop off point.” 

“You Russian?” The man with the mohawk asks. 

“Does it matter?” You almost spit back at him. 

“What about Al Qatala or ULF you done jobs for them too?” 

“If they pay, yeah. You’d be surprised  how desperate people can get.”  

“Gaz, stand down. She’s not a threat.” You see a hand land on his shoulder. You swallow again, looking up at him, his eyes are scrunched together, there’s real anger behind them. The gun moves from your head, you let out a sigh of relief, sitting back on your legs, you lower your hands slowly.

“What do Al Qatala pay you to smuggle?” Ghost asks. 

“I don’t ask. The less I know the less I’m a liability. I’m good at what I do, that's all that matters.” The man with the mohawk scoffs. Gaz moves back to stand with him. 

“You don’t even get a little curious?” Gaz asks, putting his pistol away. You sigh rolling your eyes, almost like it’s an inconvenience.

“POW’s, chemicals. High ranking members of Al Qatala, mostly for meetings with Konni, sometimes with Makarov himself.”

“What about the ULF?” 

“General supplies, the odd civilians, favors for Farah. It’s harder to cross the other borders. Russia is easy.” 

“So you’re not a medic. Can you even help him?” Ghost asks. You turn to look at him, you can’t tell if colour has come back to his face or not. 

“My mother was a nurse, my father was a doctor. I was on track to go to med school too.” You say, you’re not sure what’s going to happen now. You probably know as much as they do, they’ve most likely been trained on such situations. 

“Where are your parents now?” Gaz asks.

“Dead, killed in the conflict. Like almost everyone I know.” There’s sadness in your voice, you try to hide it. 

“You didn’t pick a side?” Ghost asks. 

“I did, in the beginning. Farah’s message was a popular one. It was the ULF who came to our aid when our town was attacked.” You pause looking round at them all. “It was the ULF who carpet bombed the hospital killing my father. A week later my mother was killed by Al Qatala when they raided a ULF base.” 

“I’m sorry, about your parents.” The mohawk man says, Gaz tuts. 

“Why become a smuggler?” 

“It was by chance. I managed to gather enough money to flee, and pay someone to get me over the border. We got talking, he offered me a job instead.” 

“Where is he now?”

“Probably dead.” You say as a matter of fact. You haven’t seen him in over a year. In the beginning he was like your mentor, teaching you the best routs how to use ULF and Al Qatala safehouses. Who to mention to get people to leave you alone. He vouched for you, got you jobs then when you were ready he just left. 

No one is saying anything. You move to stand up. 

“Your friend’s gunshot is not a through and through, that means the bullet is still in there. Pulling it out could kill him, I don’t have the equipment to check where it is or if he has any other injured organs. He needs a hospital.” You say urgently. 

“CASEVAC?” Gaz says.

“Not from here.” Ghost replies. There’s silence again. You squeeze your eyes closed sighing.

“There’s an abandoned vets in the next town, east of here. It will have the equipment I need to check him.” They could think you’re lying. They’re exchanging glances, you can almost see them thinking. It seems like Ghost is the one incharge, he shifts on his feet. 

“Okay.” 

“What about Farah?” Your head snaps over to the mohawk man, you need to get his name at some point, and figure out where his accent is from, he doesn’t sound like the other two.

“Nothing but radio silence.” Ghost replies. 

“How did you end up here?” You ask before you can stop yourself. You’ve been honest with them, maybe they’ll be honest with you.

“That's classified.” Ghost snaps, you nod. You expected that. 

“I heard Farah’s forces are moving north. We’re close to the Russian border. Maybe it’s best you wait?” You say offering up the only info you have on ULF’s movements.

“How do you know that?” Ghost asks. 

“I was warned they were on the move when I picked up this job.” You say. 

“By Konni?” Gaz asks, you nod. You hear Ghost sigh then mutter under his breath. 

“In your opinion, how bad is he?” Ghost asks, taking another step towards you, you hold your ground. 

“I don’t know. Moving him is risky, but there is no way to tell if the bullet is doing any damage internally. I couldn’t say without scans. There’s probably an x-ray at the vets.” You explain. “It’s 50/50 either way.” 

“And you know how to use one?” The mohawk guy asks, raising en eyebrow. 

“I-I could figure it out, I spent one summer shadowing a radiologist.” You explain. It’s a long shot, but right now it's about keeping yourself alive. As long as you’re useful you’re safe.

There are collective sighs around the room, glaces and nods of heads. Ghost lowers his weapon taking another step towards you. He opens his mouth about to speak when a groan from behind you stops him. 

You turn to see the man on the couch trying to sit himself up. Gaz rushes past you and you take a step back giving him room. 

“Price, don’t move. You’re okay.” He says. Price so that's the name of the man on the sofa. His eyes blink open and he looks around, you can feel Ghost behind you, the barrel of his weapon digging into your back. 

A gentle reminder they don’t trust you.

“Where are we?” Price groans, it’s barely words, you almost miss what he says.

“Urzikstan, ULF safehouse just across the border.” Gaz explains. They came from Russia, what were they doing in Russia?

“Shit, what happened?” Gaz is keeping him pressed down, his hand stroking his arm. 

“Convoy was ambushed, we had no choice.” 

“Alex?” Price asks.

“MIA, we lost track of him when you got shot. I made the order to fall back.” Ghost says but you can hear the strain in his voice. 

“Shit.” 

“It’s okay cap, we’ll find him.” So there are more people with them. Someone called Alex, and they’re missing. They had a convoy, most likely for the ULF. 

“Who’s she?” Price asks his gaze landing on you. You smile at him. 

“That’s a long story.” Gaz says.

next Banners by plum98

[prettyinpink69]

♥︎Sevika's girl♥︎

Wc: 2K

Soldier Sevika X Nurse Reader

Warnings: none other than munch lesbians 😏

Reblogs are always appreciated <3

Being a nurse, a civilian nurse on the base, was not what you had expected you'd be doing with your life. But you couldn't be happier. Your internship at the hospital back home had an opening for a role on an army base in America. You, being the opportunist you are, couldn't pass it up, which is how you ended up here. You weren't on the front line patching up gunshot wounds or exploded limbs, thank God. You were strictly on the base, dealing with smaller wounds or general illnesses. It was comfortable, plus it gave you the opportunity to actually get to know the soldiers. One which you got to know very well...

Sevika. 6ft 2, a wall of muscle, a woman that means business. The only female soldier on base yet the most respected; no one would dare be rude to her or they'd face her wrath. So when she took a liking to you, well, every other soldier on base treated you with respect, getting the unofficial title of "Sevika's girl." You weren't dating; Sevika didn't date, but the way she looked at you said otherwise. You were hers, and she was yours. Though you never spoke about it, the toughened soldier having a soft spot for you, however, was not what you expected. Though it was only behind closed doors, she'd rather die than have people find out you called her 'pookie' in privacy.

It was another day at work, sat at your desk in your little appointed office, stocked with a desk, chair, and medical bed. White tiled floor with clinical white walls; you'd tried putting up a bulletin board and some decor to make the space feel less like a hospital... but it always felt clinical. You sat at your desk, going through your schedule. You had an appointment with a male soldier in an hour, but until then it was just walk-ins or emergencies, which there were none of. So you sat bored out of your mind. Almost like she knew, in walked Sevika.

Her boots hitting the floor with precision in each step. She didn't say anything, just walked in, locked the door, and stared at you with that stupid smirk. "Can I help you, Sevika?" You smiled sweetly, like a puppy waiting for its owner to return. Her arms dropped from being folded to opening wide. "Come here, pretty girl." It wasn't an ask; it was a command. However, you found your feet moving willingly towards her. Within seconds your face was against her chest, the strong muscles flexing slightly against your cheek, her arms wrapping tightly around your frame: protective, possessive, safe.

"People are pissing me off, just needed to see you..." There was that tone you loved so much, her voice softening as she spoke. You knew she had a lot to deal with, a lot of stress. You were her safe place, where she could let her walls down, and you felt so lucky. "I'm glad you came... was pretty bored doing paperwork," you mumbled as your face nuzzled into her chest. Despite her gruff demeanor, her long fingers ran through your hair, scratching the scalp. Her voice was low, teasing, but not at all serious. "Ah, so you're slacking off is what I'm hearing?"

"Am not. You're the one who came in here distracting me," you retorted. You couldn't help the brattiness that was seeping into your tone. Her arms tightened around you as she spoke; it was deeper this time, warning, "Careful, pretty girl, don't make me shut you up, babygirl..." The next words that left you... you knew you were asking for it, but you were bored and you knew the punishment would be fun, so why not?

"Make me."

Her arms tightened, before going slack. She let go of you, and you already missed her warmth. "Get on the bed. You want me to make you shut up, I'll put your bratty mouth to use instead. Bed. Now." Without hesitation your feet carried you over to the clinical, medical bed in the corner.

You lay back on the bed, the white paper sheet ripping beneath you at your quick enthusiasm. "Eager, are we? Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere," Sevika chuckled lowly, the kind where she was laughing, but you knew she was about to ruin you. And you loved it.

Her large, calloused hands unbuckled her belt and cargos, but you knew how soft those hand felt elsewhere... She kicked her boots off and slid the cargos and her boxers off, leaving a pile of her clothes on the tile floor right next to your station. "You're making a mess of my workspace," you complained, but it was weak, not really a compliant. "It's okay, you won't be able to see it in a minute, angel." She smirked as she stalked towards the bed. Despite her colossal frame she could move around almost silently. Damn her for being a soldier.

You watched as she climbed to sit on your shoulders, the sight of the mess long gone, replaced by the more arousing sight of her bush, and her brown folds peeking through the strands. Your tongue darts out automatically to wet your lips. "You wanted to shut me up but you're not doing a very good- mmph..." You instantly shut up the minute she pulled you up by your hair into her dripping cunt, eagerly lapping at her folds, kissing and sucking her clit between drinking down her juices. "That's it... play the good little nurse and make me feel better, doll... fuck just like that, good girl..."

The feel of her hands fisted in your hair, tight pulling at the scalp, only fueled your desire, the warmth of her thighs wrapped around your head like personal ear muffs, keeping you in place. You didn't mind one bit, committing to yourself right then and there in your head that you'd happily stay there forever, between her thighs, cunt dripping down your throat. Your tongue swirled around her enlarged, hard clit, just lifting the hood and her thighs got tighter around your head. "Fuck, doll... keep doing whatever that was, fuck, baby... you're such a good girl, 's good for me..." The praise caused your pussy to clench around nothing; even though you were still fully clothed there's definitely a wet patch forming on your scrubs.

"Mmph... tastes... mmmmph..." your pleased mumbling trails off as you suck her puffy folds between your lips, desperate to taste the tang of her arousal. You nuzzle your tongue around her entrance just teasing the nerves around it, before fully burying your tongue into her hole. "Fuck, good girl, that's it... let me use that pretty little mouth..." You felt her start to grind down onto your tongue, your nose bumping against her clit with each grind. The smell was intoxicating, filling your nostrils with the musky scent with a twinge of sweetness beneath it.

You lay there beneath her, letting her use your mouth to de-stress. Your hands finding the backs of her thighs, slowly sliding up to her ass and squeezing. All the physical activity clearly paid off with the way her muscle felt on your soft manicured fingertips. You subconsciously helped her grind on you in a steady rhythm, until you felt her pace slightly start to falter. You took initiative and started to move your tongue again to keep up the pace, pushing her over the edge. "Just like that, angel... nnghh fuck..." Her sweet, tangy release coated your tongue as she let go. Her large hands tightening in your hair; you let out a small whimper of what was either pain or pleasure, probably both. You licked and lapped at her cunt, helping her ride it out as you cleaned her up. Who said you can't multitask?

After a few slow breaths, her hands let go of your hair and she lifted some of her weight off your shoulders. Her grey eyes looked down at you, soft but still dripping with dominance, a stark contrast to yours which looked up at her: soft, needy... submissive. "Done being a brat now?"

"Yeah... I'll be good now, I'll shut up..." you looked up at her, your fingers absentmindedly running along her thighs. "Did I do good?.." The shake in your voice gave way to more vulnerability than you liked. You'd done things together before; you've came on her fingers more times than you can count, but she always made you feel good, said that 'I just wanna make you feel good, don't worry about me' so it was reasonable that the first time you got to reciprocate you were a little nervous. Her rough hand cupped your cheek, gentle and soothing as the pad of her thumb caressed the skin. "You did such a good job, angel. I came, didn't I?" You nodded, still looking up at her with need in your eyes, that needy look Sevika saw far too often.

Without words she knew what you needed and was more than willing to provide. She climbed off your shoulders and slid down between your legs. "Hips up, baby, let's get these off..." Your body instantly complied, hips lifting off the bed at her words. The way she could switch from dominant to loving in an instant was something you admired. Her hands worked quickly and methodically, slipping off your scrubs and panties with one swift movement. With how wet you were, you knew there was a wet patch that seeped through onto your sky blue scrubs, but Sevika didn't comment, didn't tease you for getting so worked up after eating her out. You were feeling vulnerable right now, and she knew that.

Her hands gripped the soft flesh of your thighs to gently pry your legs open, exposing your wet cunt to the air, causing you to shiver slightly. "So wet, angel... you're soaked, hm? I should let you touch me more in the future..." It wasn't a tease, more of an observation, like she was studying the way your body reacted to everything she did to you.

Her tongue finally made contact with your pussy, parting her folds with your tongue to get to your bundle of nerves, circling your clit with her tongue. "S-sev, oh my God..." Your hips twitched at the feeling of her tongue sucking on your clit. Again she doesn't demand you keep still; instead runs her hands up to your hips and just rubs her hands in soothing circles. "Feel it, babygirl... that's all you gotta do... just sit and take it for me, let me take care of this needy cunt.." And you did. You let her lap and suck at your clit, like she's a starved woman, but every move she makes, every flick of her tongue is calculated, designed to push you over the edge. You pushed her hair out of her face, and gripped the strands to ground yourself.

"Please... Sev, please let me... oh fuck, please..." Even you didn't know what you were begging for; every time you tried to form a thought her tongue would flick over your clit and ruin your train of thought. Every touch sent flames through your body, that coil in your tummy getting tighter and tighter with each lick. Sevika doubled down her efforts, like she knew with the way your thighs started to shake. "Come for me, angel, come on... let me have it baby..." And with whatever power this woman had over you, the sweetness in her voice, like coaxing an animal out of hiding, the coil snapped, your thighs closing around her head as she lapped up your release, helping you ride out the pleasure in the best way possible. "Ok... mmph, too much... oh fuck, Sev-" She sucked hard one last time on your clit before relenting and pulling away. Her head lifted up from between your legs, a shit-eating grin on her face as she licked her lips. "Oh, I'm not done with you yet, angel... this is just the start. You can handle it though, can't you? After all... you do have the reputation of being my girl..."

[cryoculus]

the art of war (and other distractions) ⟢

as a mandatory part of your post-grad program, you're required to log 200 hours as a teaching aide—which would’ve been fine, if you had any say in who you were working with. instead, you're assigned under professor jing yuan: esteemed war historian, charming bane of the faculty lounge, and the one man who makes grading ancient battle essays feel like a tactical skirmish of your own.

★ featuring; jing yuan x f!reader

★ word count; 12.9k words

★ notes; hi, hello part three is here! this is the last part of the series hehe and thank you kindly for patiently waiting <3 this contains non-explicit smut, so it's not that graphic but the goods are there, just a heads up. it's been so fun sharing this with you guys, writing this series genuinely made me love jing yuan so much more, he's such an endearing character to write. trust that i WILL be back for more JY, but for now, i hope you enjoy :3c

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

III. A (PERFECTLY) TIMED SURRENDER

Days later, you take the late train to the Luofu, like ripping off a bandage under the cover of night. Fewer passengers. Fewer chances to second-guess the whole trip. The hum of the engine is steady—something to hold onto while your thoughts spiral.

By the time you reach the hotel, your legs ache and your wrist hurts from dragging your suitcase up the uneven ramps. The lobby’s too bright. The hallway’s too clean. You scan the keycard, step inside, and barely get the door shut before your phone starts buzzing.

Jiaoqiu: you alive?

Jiaoqiu: did the train explode?

Jiaoqiu: i can ring up an ambulance 

You don’t even get a chance to answer before the call comes through. You sigh and accept it.

“Tell me you’re hydrating,” Jiaoqiu says without preamble, voice crisp with the background beeping of hospital monitors. “And that you wore the orthopedic sneakers I recommended. Or are you planning to let your spine compress into powder before your guest lecture?”

You drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and sink onto the edge of the bed.

“Hello to you too,” you murmur. “Aren’t you in the middle of your shift?”

He clicks his tongue. “I have five minutes before I need to run an ECG and bully someone into doing their rounds. Talk fast.”

You pick at the corner of the hotel blanket. “I haven’t even unpacked.”

“But you have checked all escape routes in case of a sudden general-shaped emergency?”

“You’re mixing metaphors. He’s a professor.”

“Sure,” Jiaoqiu drawls, “and I’m a resident who gets enough sleep. Humor me—have you seen him yet?”

“No, Jiaoqiu. It's three in the morning,” you say too quickly. “And I won’t. Hopefully. Feixiao said I didn’t have to see him.”

There’s a pause on the line, the kind that means he’s making a face.

“You know,” he says slowly, “for someone who writes so well about emotional honesty in literature, you are spectacularly bad at applying it to your own life.”

You lie down fully on the bed, one arm flung over your eyes. The jab stings, but not as much as you thought it would. “I came here to give lectures and not disgrace the Yaoqing campus. Not to do… whatever the hell you're insinuating.”

“This is you spiraling because you’re back on the Luofu and you haven’t figured out if you want to punch him, kiss him, or cry about it.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No you’re not,” Jiaoqiu simpers, just as a nurse yells something unintelligible in the background. “Okay, I really do have to go. But hey—if you need me to fake a medical emergency to get you out of a dinner with the literature faculty, my pager’s on.”

You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You’ll be fine,” he says, and for once, the teasing slips out of his voice. “You’ve done harder things than this.”

You know he means it. And you wish that helped.

“Sleep if you can,” your best friend adds. “And drink some water, for once in your life.”

The call ends, and the silence that follows is too loud. You let it settle around you like static, eyes on the ceiling. The bed’s too soft. The air’s too dry. And the city outside hasn’t changed a bit.

Unfortunately, neither have you.

The morning comes too early.

You sleep like a stone and wake up with the creases of the pillow pressed into your cheek, your mouth dry as paper. Unfortunately for you, there’s no time to wallow. You shower quickly, tug on your nicest set of “please take me seriously” professor clothes, and remind yourself that this is what you came here to do.

Before you leave, you hold a staring contest between yourself and the complimentary water bottle on the night stand. Jiaoqiu's doctor voice hovers in the depths of your mind, preaching about getting at least eight glasses in you everyday.

You chug it down with a forlorn sigh.

The Luofu campus feels the same. Maybe the lampposts are newer, and the fountains finally got cleaned, but the bones of the place are untouched. Stepping back onto it is like cracking open a memory and finding the ink hasn’t faded at all.

Professor Ying meets you just outside the entrance to the Literature Department, beaming like he’s greeting a prodigal daughter.

“You're here,” he greets with a theatrical flourish, “Back from the academic wilderness!”

You try not to laugh, but it's a futile effort. “It’s only been a couple years.”

“Too long,” he insists, pulling you into a brief, careful hug that smells like old books and black tea. “I’ve read your symposium paper three times. Feixiao sent it to me the moment it came out.”

“She did?” you ask, startled.

“Oh yes. She was very smug about it. Said, ‘Didn’t I tell you she’d be brilliant?’ and then called me an idiot for not stealing you back from Yaoqing sooner.”

You wince. “Please don’t let her do that.”

Professor Ying chuckles and waves a hand. “No promises. Now come—let me show you around the old place. We’ve rearranged the faculty lounge, and the printer still jams the same way.”

He walks you through the department like it’s a garden he’s proud of. Students trickle past with coffees in hand, the halls buzz with soft conversation, and the sunlight filters in through windows you used to nap under. You still remember which step on the west stairwell creaks. You still know the exact angle to push open the back door when it sticks.

It’s a kind of ache, how much you remember.

Professor Ying opens the lecture hall door for you like it’s a ceremony. “You’ll be in here tomorrow. The class looked excited when I told them—and a little terrified. I may have said you once debated a visiting scholar into submission using nothing but classical poetry when you were still an undergrad.”

“That’s slander,” you snort.

“It’s good press.”

You laugh, easing into your skin a little more with every step.

For a moment, it feels like you never left.

After a long day spent catching up with old professors you now call colleagues, classmates who never quite left the area, and (thankully) not a single run-in with the ghosts that still haunt the edges of your thoughts, you march back to your hotel room.

You sit at the narrow desk by the window, a cup of lukewarm tea cooling beside your tablet. Outside, the maglev sighs past in the distance like a ghost trailing the skyline. Your room is still and sterile, the air humming low and steady. On the screen of your laptop, a lecture outline glows a soft, officious blue—half-finished, overly formal, and far too rehearsed.

You scroll through it once, then close the file with a sigh. It reads like someone trying to prove she belongs here. Someone performing competence rather than believing in it.

Leaning back, you rub the ache from your neck and open a new document.

Lecture Title: When Literature Lies to Us: The Story of the Unreliable Narrator

You pause, watching the words settle across the page, lips twitching slightly. 

Why do we trust stories? What happens when they betray us?

Now, this feels closer. Not a defense or an argument. Just a question worth sitting with. The kind of question that curls through a classroom like smoke, unanswered and all the more alive for it.

Your fingers start moving again, slowly at first, then steadier as the shape of the lecture emerges.

You think of old paperbacks worn at the edges, of sleepless nights spent re-reading passages that made you feel seen, even if you didn’t quite know why. You think of a certain professor’s voice asking, “What makes this narrator trustworthy to you?” as if peeling back the layers of the page could reveal something about yourself, too.

As an added flourish, you list a few key texts—familiar ones, but sharp enough to cut:

The Soldier’s Regret, where the narrator insists he’s dying until the final line sees him stepping onto a transport home.

A City Beneath the Rain, a Xianzhou classic where a poet mourns a lover who may never have existed at all.

An early modern novel you loved, written entirely in letters, where each writer swears they’re telling the truth—even when their stories contradict.

The outline comes to life as the hours stretch on, your tea long cold, the hotel dim and quiet around you. It’s not quite done, but it breathes now—something that can flex and shift in a room full of undergrads who’ve yet to be told their instincts matter.

Just before you close the file, you add one last question at the bottom:

What does a narrator’s unreliability tell us about ourselves, when we choose to believe them anyway?

You sit back and let your eyes fall shut, just for a moment. The city outside hasn’t changed. But maybe the way you speak to it has.

Afternoons on the Luofu are always a little too bright, a little too fast.

You tighten your grip on your satchel as you weave through the familiar hallways, the low buzz of students and faculty washing over you like a tide you almost recognize. Professor Ying is already in the lecture hall when you arrive, flipping through a stack of notes he probably won’t use. He looks up as you step inside and grins, bright and familiar.

When he introduces you, he covers all the bases—your name first, then a flourish of accolades: recipient of the university’s best dissertation award, now a rising scholar in modern literary analysis, and a proud alumna of the department. He wears his pride openly, like a badge.

There’s polite applause. Some students look curious. Others scroll quietly on their phones. A few stare blankly, the way only undergrads facing an 2 p.m. lecture can.

You’re gathering your notes when a hand shoots up from the third row—hesitant at first, then more determined when you nod to acknowledge it.

The student, a boy with sleep-mussed hair and a skeptical squint, lowers his hand and asks, “If you were produced by the Luofu campus... why are you teaching at Yaoqing?”

The room goes a little still. Even Professor Ying looks briefly thrown, his easy smile faltering. It's not a rude question, just blunt in that way only undergrads can get away with—earnest, oblivious, and weirdly cutting all at once.

You don’t miss a beat. But somewhere under the practiced smile, something twists—a flicker of a memory:

Jing Yuan’s office, sunlight spilling across the floor, catching on the glossy leaves of the dracaena you'd nursed back to health together—Commander in Leaf, standing sentinel by the window. The slow, deliberate way he’d said, You’ll make a very kind professor one day.

You blink once, clearing your thoughts like dust off a shelf.

“I like to think the Luofu taught me how to think,” you say lightly, “but Yaoqing gave me the space to put it to use.”

A few students glance at each other, murmuring. Professor Ying recovers with a small chuckle, tapping his knuckles lightly against the podium as if to say good answer.

You smile, smooth down the front of your blouse again, and move on.

“I won’t keep you long,” you say, even though your lecture outline stretches past forty minutes. “But I’d like to talk about something we all rely on, whether we realize it or not—narrators. Specifically, the ones who lie to us.”

That gets a reaction—small but immediate. One student lowers their phone. Another tilts their head.

You write on the board:

When Literature Lies to Us: The Story of the Unreliable Narrator

Then underneath:

Why do we trust stories? What happens when they betray us?

You start slow. Not with definitions or textbook terms, but with questions that itch at the back of the brain. You ask them to think of a time they realized a narrator couldn’t be trusted—how it felt, what it changed about the story, what it changed about them as readers. You move through your examples—the soldier who survives the war he insists is fatal. The poet who mourns a lover never confirmed to be real. The letter-based novel where truth tilts depending on who’s writing it.

“The narrator,” you say, “isn’t a window. They’re a person. And people forget. People deceive. Sometimes they don’t even mean to.”

One student raises a hand. She’s got sharp eyes, a pen tucked behind one ear. “But if they’re lying… why do we still root for them?”

You pause, a smile curving across your face.

“Because we want something from them. Not facts. Not accuracy. Something else. Connection, perhaps? Or even catharsis. A version of the truth that feels more real than reality.”

A murmur ripples through the room—thoughtful, restless. You see it land.

By the time you’re winding down, the energy’s shifted. A boy in the back who looked half-asleep is now furiously scribbling notes. Another student lingers after class, asking about a memoir she read last semester where the author recants half the book in the epilogue. You answer what you can. Suggest a few titles. Smile when Professor Ying pats your shoulder on the way out.

“You had them,” he says. “Not many can say that before the first cup of tea.”

You shrug, still buzzing, still catching your breath.

“It helps,” you say, “when you care for the things you talk about.”

The rush of the lecture leaves a strange, lingering hum in your chest—an aftershock of nerves, adrenaline, and something warmer you don’t want to name. You tell yourself you should head back to your hotel, or get some lunch at the university cafeteria. Anything to stop your thoughts from buzzing too loud.

But instead, you wander.

It’s too easy to fall into old habits—feet tracing half-forgotten paths, mind slipping sideways into memory. Before you know it, the signs around you shift: History Department, East Wing.

The halls here are quieter, lined with heavy, wood-paneled doors and dusty glass displays of ancient banners and ceremonial armor. The floor creaks in the same familiar places. The scent of old paper and sun-warmed stone rises up to meet you, achingly unchanged.

You round the corner before you can think better of it.

There it is: the office tucked neatly into the bend of the hallway, where the afternoon light used to pool like a lazy cat across the threshold.

The door looks the same—scuffed at the bottom from years of use. But the plaque beside it catches the light too sharply, too new. When you step closer, you find that the name engraved in sleek, unblemished characters is not his. You don't even notice how your heart sinks at the sight of it.

For a moment, you just stand there, reading and rereading it, as if expecting the letters to rearrange themselves under your gaze.

But they don’t.

“Well, well. I thought I saw a familiar face sneaking around.”

You start, then relax instantly as Professor Yukong steps into view, arms crossed, the same amused smile tugging at her lips. She looks exactly the same, down to the deep green scarf she always wears when the weather starts to dip.

“I wasn’t sneaking,” you say, which is the sort of thing people only say when they absolutely are.

She hums. “Of course not.” Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a piece of hard candy, holding it out without ceremony. “Still like lychee?”

You take it, smiling before you even realize it. “You really never stopped doing this?”

"Some traditions are worth keeping," Yukong says with a wink. She steps closer, peering at you with an assessing glance. "It’s been too long, little one. You’re thinner than I remember. Are they working you too hard at Yaoqing?"

You shake your head, pocketing the candy. "Maybe."

Yukong hums, but doesn’t push. Her gaze flicks briefly toward the office door, and a knowing smile curls at the edges of her mouth.

"You know," she says, voice light, "this hallway’s been quieter these days. Not quite the same without certain... noisy neighbors."

Your expression slips before you can stop it.

She pretends not to notice. "The new fellow’s decent enough. Keeps his door closed, doesn't trail students behind him like ducklings. Not much for houseplants, though." She tilts her head, studying you over the rim of her glasses. "Shame."

You fold your arms loosely across your chest, playing along. "Sounds like a very serious improvement." 

"Oh, tremendously serious," Yukong agrees, eyes glinting. "But I'd say it's an even bigger improvement for that last tenant. He moved up in the world. Some might say way up."

You raise an eyebrow despite yourself.

Yukong smiles, pleased that she's gotten your attention. "New Dean of the History Department. His office on the top floor now. They even gave him a window big enough to land an airship, if you can believe it."

The news settles over you strangely, making your brows knit together. Jing Yuan? The Dean? You don't remember seeing that specific title in his list of credentials back at the symposium. This must be a recent development. 

...or that pesky professor just didn't want to brag.

"He's been busy these days," she adds, her teasing softening into something almost kind. "Too busy, if you ask me. The students miss him. Faculty too, though they’d rather eat chalk than admit it."

You force a small smile, your fingers tightening around the strap of your satchel.

"Good for him," you say, and you mean it. Mostly.

Yukong watches you for a beat longer, her smile turning a little wistful, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she drops another foil packet in your hands.

"Take another," she says. "You look like you need it."

You laugh again and accept, slipping a second candy into your pocket like a charm. 

The clouds have been gathering all afternoon, soft and gray at first, then heavier, darker, like they’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to fall. You adjust your satchel and quicken your pace, already picturing the kettle in your hotel room and the dry change of clothes folded neatly in your suitcase.

It’s time to leave campus. You’ve done your part—guest lecture delivered, awkward reunions sidestepped, mostly. There’s no need to linger.

Your steps slow near the path that forks toward the Humanities Building. Just for a second.

Top floor. Big window. The Dean’s office.

You imagine it, without meaning to—how it must look now. Probably neater than his old office. More formal. Less green. You wonder if Commander in Leaf made the move with him. You wonder if he still lets the sunlight in.

No, you think, firm and fast. No good would come of it.

You pivot toward the opposite direction, toward the gate. The greenhouse crosses your mind next, like a flicker of a different life. But that, too, you let go. You don’t need to revisit every corner of the past to know it still aches.

Then the sky growls low, and you’re rounding the last corner when you see him.

Jing Yuan stands half-sheltered beneath the overhang by the east wing annex, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other holding a phone to his ear. His coat is missing, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up unevenly. A folder is clutched against his side in a way that looks almost careless, and even if his silver hair has always looked professionally unkempt, there's a disheveled air to it that suggests he might be just a little stressed out. 

He looks different. Not unrecognizable or diminished, but human in a way memory never allowed.

Your body angles away before you even think, the instinct to retreat swift and familiar. It would be easy. One turn, a few quick steps, and this could remain a moment left unclaimed.

But then he lifts his head.

Those golden eyes, steady and unerring even in the fading light, find you the way they always have—without hesitation, without question, as if part of him had been waiting all this time without ever meaning to.

For a moment that feels stretched thin and breakable, you stand there, caught between habit and longing, between every line you once drew and the way he looks at you now, as if none of them ever mattered.

Jing Yuan speaks into the phone, low and brief, the words too faint to catch. A moment later, he slips the device into the pocket of his trousers and pushes away from the doorframe. He straightens—not with the polished ease you remember, but with something rougher, wearier, real.

The distance hangs there, dense and humming, like a question neither of you knows how to ask.

And then he says your name.

Not sharply, not even expectantly. Just your name, shaped by something quieter than regret and heavier than memory. The sound of it cracks something open in you.

You could turn away. You should. The kindness would be in the leaving, in preserving whatever fragile peace you've managed to build.

But you don’t.

Your shoes scuff softly against the pavement, and in the hush that follows, the wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain.

He watches you come closer, never once looking away. Up close, you see the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, the ink stains along his fingers, the disarray he once would have hidden without a second thought.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Jing Yuan says to you, voice low and rough around the edges, as if unused to being this bare in your presence. “I didn’t mean to...” He glances down, mouth twisting briefly, then lifts his eyes again. “...catch you like this.”

You almost smile at the absurdity of it—as if any meeting between you now could be anything but inevitable.

Instead, you shake your head. “You didn’t.”

Jing Yuan exhales, a sound somewhere between a breath and a worn-out laugh, and rakes a hand through his hair—only making the mess worse. His gaze moves over you, steady and searching, lingering on small, familiar details: the way you shift your bag higher on your shoulder, the faint crease between your brows, how you stand like you might bolt if given the slightest reason.

“You’re here,” he says.

The words are simple. Deceptively small. But they land hard, knocking something loose in your chest.

You clear your throat. “Just until tomorrow.”

It’s barely a defense. Barely anything at all. His hand flexes once around the folder he carries, then falls still again. For a moment, you think he might let you go. That he’ll spare you the awkwardness, the ache. But instead, after a pause, he shifts his weight and asks:

“Would you walk with me?”

No demand. No expectation. Only an offering—set gently between you, like a bridge you could choose to cross, or leave untouched.

You should refuse. You know that. You should say you’re tired, or late, or that the rain is about to fall. But before you can think better of it, you nod—small, instinctive. 

“Okay.”

The faintest breath escapes him, but Jing Yuan says nothing as he steps back just enough to make room for you beside him.

You fall into step together, the annex wall sliding past on one side, the wet gleam of the gardens catching the silver light on the other. His pace is slower than you remember—not sluggish, but deliberate, as if he’s learned there’s no need to rush anymore.

The silence that gathers between you isn’t brittle. It’s heavier than comfort but lighter than regret—an old rhythm you didn’t realize you still knew how to follow.

After a while, Jing Yuan says, almost casually, “I was at a meeting, but I had to step out to take that call.”

You glance at him. His hair’s still mussed from his hands, another smudge of ink lingering on his knuckles.

“And you just left?” you ask, raising a brow.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “You can do the same thing if you so wished. Free will has its perks.”

You huff a quiet sound, half disbelief, half amusement. ���That's what people normally call terrible leadership.”

“Really? I'd like to call it delegation,” he says easily. “An essential skill, grossly overlooked.”

“For good reason.”

The banter slips out before you can guard against it, familiar enough to be dangerous. You look away, toward the narrowing path ahead, and try not to feel how effortless it still is—how the space between you folds itself back into something it once knew by heart.

You aren’t the same people who parted ways all those years ago.

And yet, standing here, side by side, you can’t help but ache for how easily you once fit—and how, somehow, you still do.

"You should go back," you say after a stretch of silence, trying to infuse your voice with lightness. "They’re probably wondering where their fearless leader wandered off to."

He doesn’t speed up. In fact, his pace stays steady as ever.

Jing Yuan glances at you, the dryness in his eyes cutting through the moment like a quiet truth. "If I leave," he says, "how will I know you’ll still be here when I get back?"

The words hang there, not heavy with accusation but with something quieter, more dangerous. An openness you aren’t sure you can bear.

You stop walking. So does he.

The breeze rustles through the leaves, and for a moment, the world feels a little too still. All you can hear is the hum of the annex lights.

"I’ll be here," you say, your voice lower now, softer. "Let's have lunch tomorrow. We’ll catch up."

You mean it—of course you do—but even you hear the way it rings: a polite diversion, a way to push the conversation into the safer distance of the future.

And damn him, Jing Yuan hears it too.

"No," he says, with a quiet finality that doesn’t invite discussion. "Dinner. Tonight."

Your heart stutters.

Before you can find a reason to decline—fatigue, the night, the thousand little excuses—you hear him finish, almost gently: "I’d rather not wait until tomorrow. Not if you’re willing."

The weight of that "willing" breaks something inside you. It’s not a demand. It’s an offer. As if he’s still giving you an out, and he’s afraid of pressing too hard and losing what little ground he’s reclaimed.

You look at him, really look at him, and you realize it’s not the waiting you’re afraid of.

"All right," you say, the word slipping out before you can second-guess it, the surrender in it quieter than you expected. 

And for the first time tonight, he smiles. Not the faint, polite curve you know he shows the world, but something quieter. Something real.

It lodges itself deep in your chest, where all your carefully built walls used to be.

As promised, you waited for Jing Yuan's meeting to conclude, which didn't take too long, gratefully. Though he insisted that you could wait for him in his new office, you declined before he could even finish the sentence. You weren't ready for that. Not yet. 

Instead, you lingered by the empty seats near the entrance to the east wing annex, listening to the echo of footsteps in the hall, watching the windows darken as evening gave way to night.

By the time he reappeared, coat in hand, the rain had already started—soft, persistent, the kind that settles in like a quiet thought you can’t quite shake.

You hadn’t brought an umbrella. Of course you hadn’t.

Naturally, Jing Yuan had, and now the two of you walk beneath the narrow span of his umbrella, shoulder to shoulder, closer than you’ve been in years. Rain taps gently around you, but beneath the fabric, it’s warm—quiet in a way that feels almost private. You keep your eyes ahead, pretending not to notice the warmth between you—that it doesn’t feel like something you’ve missed.

Because how can you long for something that never was?

The familiar glow of a hotpot restaurant blinks ahead. You pause with him beneath the sagging awning, rainwater dripping in lazy rivulets off the umbrella’s edge. For a moment, neither of you moves. The rain drums softly above you, steady and unchanging. 

Then Jing Yuan pushes the door open, and you follow him inside—into a place that still smells like broth and memory, like nothing’s changed at all.

The chipped sign still wobbles in the breeze, and the heavy scent of broth and chili oil clings to the doorway like a permanent welcome. Inside, the scratched tables and handwritten specials plastered on the walls haven’t changed, either. Even the crooked "Cash Only!" sign still hangs stubbornly above the register.

You almost expect to hear Jiaoqiu’s voice ringing out over the chatter, arguing over spice levels, dropping chopsticks between rounds of hotpot. Instead, it’s quiet—almost wistful, like the place is suspended in time.

You linger just inside the entrance, phone in hand, caught between the past you knew so well and the strangely fragile present.

On impulse, you snap a few pictures—the menu, the battered counter, the little window where steam fogs up the glass, all of it somehow untouched, preserved.

Not two seconds later, a text notification pops up.

 

Jiaoqiu: MY KINGDOM.

Jiaoqiu: 🔥🍲🔥🍲🔥🍲

Jiaoqiu: do they have those do it yourself takeout bundles now

Jiaoqiu: if they do, PLEASE bring some home

Me: You know Mr. Choi doesn't believe in innovation.

Me: The best thing I can bring home to you is me.

Jiaoqiu: eh, i'll take it.

Jiaoqiu: wait a minute 

Jiaoqiu: why are you there, you never go there alone

Jiaoqiu: who are you with????

Jiaoqiu: answer carefully

 

You suppress a smile, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. Across from you, Jing Yuan is studying the menu, his focus sharp enough to suggest he’s planning a military campaign rather than picking dinner. You tuck your phone away before you can do something foolish—like tell Jiaoqiu the truth.

"You sure you can handle it?" you ask, eyebrow raised.

Jing Yuan leans back in his chair, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the picture of nonchalance. "I'm sure."

You give him a look. "They don’t joke around here. Medium spice is basically a dare."

"I'll manage," he insists, which is exactly the kind of overconfident answer you expect.

You hide your grin behind your menu.

The food arrives fast—plates of thinly sliced meats, mushrooms, greens, and a bubbling pot already simmering at the center of the table. The broth you picked is bright red, oily, and angry-looking.

Within minutes, Jing Yuan is coughing discreetly into his sleeve, eyes watering slightly.

You reach over with the calm cruelty of long practice and plop another pepper-laden meat slice into his bowl.

"You could surrender," you say, utterly deadpan.

He gives you a betrayed look that almost makes you pity him.

"My best friend, Jiaoqiu would've loved this," you add, laughing as you pop a non-lethal mushroom into your mouth. "He used to sneak ghost peppers into the hotpot just to see who cracked first. You would’ve been prime entertainment."

"He sounds like a menace," Jing Yuan says hoarsely.

That makes two of you, you muse only to yourself.

He looks... lighter this way. Less like the man who stands in doorways, all unreadable eyes and quiet intensity. In moments like this, he feels more like a person you remember—a man who lets you get away with your mischief, who lets go for just a moment.

Spicy downfall aside, you both fall into easy conversation—old stories, half-forgotten classmates, absurd tales of Jiaoqiu’s failed cooking experiments. The laughter slips in between your words, slow and genuine.

But then, somewhere between the second round of meat and the third refill of tea, the air changes. It’s subtle, a shift barely noticeable. But it’s there—the way the conversation begins to slow, the pauses that linger a little longer.

The air between you hums, heavy with more than just steam. You set your chopsticks down carefully, aligning them with a precision that fools no one. 

Across from you, Jing Yuan watches, quiet and steady. He doesn’t push. He’s giving you space, giving you the choice. To cross this battlefield or to retreat, like you’ve both done so many times before.

"You’re waiting for me to say it," you murmur.

The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. "I’m waiting for you to stop pretending we don’t already know."

Your heart pounds once, a desperate thud against your ribs. Not from fear. From something that feels suspiciously like hope.

You draw a slow breath, tasting the words before you speak them. "We weren’t just arguing about literature and history at the symposium, were we?"

The memory flickers sharp and vivid—the way your words had clashed like blades, how each rebuttal left you a little more breathless, a little more exposed. You remember Zichen’s teasing afterward, Yingyue and Lihua's boisterous approval. But what holds the most gravity during those three days wasn't the keynote speeches. Or the panels. Or the debates.

Your lips still tingle from the spice of the broth, but beneath that, there’s something else—an unfamiliar warmth that lingers. The faint memory of his breath, so close, and the press of his hand against your cheek, as if he’d been holding onto something more than just the moment. 

Across the table, Jing Yuan’s eyes catch the light—deep gold, unwavering.

"If that was a debate," he says, voice dipping lower, "it’s the only one I’ve ever wanted to lose."

The table between you feels too wide now. Too much distance when you’ve already come this far.

You think back to the lecture you shared this afternoon. The unreliable narrator you told the students about whispers cruelly in the quiet corners of your mind, threading doubt through your ribs like a slow, relentless tide.

It’s too much. It’s too close. You will ruin this.

You know it lies.

Yet, you still listen.

"You were my professor. I was just your TA," you whisper, the old excuse slipping free before you can stop it. "It would’ve been wrong. It would've ruined everything."

For a long moment, Jing Yuan remains silent, his gaze steady, not quite judging, but heavy with thought. His fingers hover near the edge of his cup, unmoving, as if your words have settled between you like an unwelcome guest, lingering in the air.

There’s something almost imperceptible in the way his eyes shift, as if he’s measuring more than the space between you. A flicker of something deeper crosses his expression—something close to regret, but not quite. He exhales, slow and controlled, the faintest tremor beneath the surface.

At last, his voice breaks the stillness, though it carries a weight that suggests more than mere disagreement.

“You’re not just my student anymore.”

It’s not a reprimand. Not a dismissal. Just a simple truth, cutting through the deafening silence.

“And I,” Jing Yuan adds, quieter still, “have been waiting for you to see it.”

The ache in you grows so sharp you almost flinch from it. All those years spent holding your breath. All those moments you tried to name as nothing.

You look at him, stripped of every title, every excuse. Right now, he's just Jing Yuan—impossibly patient, as if he would wait forever if you asked.

"You still want this?" you ask, and your voice trembles just slightly with how much you want the answer to be yes. 

Jing Yuan leans in, slow and deliberate, as if he means to erase the distance between you piece by piece. His elbows rest on the table; his hand inches forward, close enough that if you reached out, you could brush your fingers against his. His smile finds you, quiet and unhurried, and it feels like coming home.

"I never stopped," he says.

And just like that, the world shifts.

Small. Tremendous. Inevitable.

Your fingers brush against his—tentative at first, a whisper of contact. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his hand over, palm open, offering himself to you with a quiet certainty. The touch is simple, almost laughably so. No grand declarations or dizzying fireworks—only warmth, steady and unwavering, grounding you in a way nothing else ever has.

His thumb traces the back of your hand once, slow enough to make your heart stutter. When you glance up, he’s watching you with a softness that nearly undoes you completely.

"You know," you say, a broken sort of laugh catching at the end of your words, "Zichen would lose his mind if he knew we were holding hands at a hotpot restaurant."

Jing Yuan’s smile deepens, wry and unbearably fond. "Then we’ll simply have to tell him it’s been a long time coming."

Something in you breaks open at that. Something tender and foolish and irreparably yours.

"It has been," you whisper, squeezing his hand as you ground yourself in the moment. 

For a long while, you simply sit there, breathing the same air, the world around you blurring until there is nothing left except the two of you.

And for the first time in years, you don't feel like you’re balancing on the edge of something terrifying. You feel like you’re standing on solid ground.

Right where you’re supposed to be.

When you make it back to Yaoqing the next day, you let your suitcase down on the floor with a soft thud.

You toe off your shoes and cross to the balcony, the city basking in sunlight, its streets awake and bustling beneath a clear sky. Your little garden is exactly as you left it—orderly rows of potted herbs, trailing flowers reaching lazily toward the warmth, their colors vivid and alive in the light.

The contrast is stark, almost jarring after the damp chill of the Luofu night, where the rain had hung heavily like an unspoken thought.

Carefully, you pull a small pot from a paper bag that's accompanied you back home.

A dracaena stem cutting, the leaves still tender and new. Jing Yuan had given it to you when he saw you off the platform earlier this morning, wrapped in a makeshift sling of old newspaper, like something precious. Commander in Leaf told me to send you off with one of its offspring. 

You're grinning before you realize it. 

You set the pot down by the railing, nudging it into place among your other plants. It fits easily, like it had been waiting for a space here all along. Your fingers linger on the soil, smoothing it out with practiced care.

You're still crouched there, brushing a bit of dirt from your hands, when the front door rattles.

Jiaoqiu stumbles in a second later, still in his hospital ID badge and wrinkled shirt, his hair flattened strangely on one side like he’d tried—and failed—to nap in the break room. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you.

"You’re back?" he blurts, blinking like he’s seeing a ghost. "Already?"

You nod, standing up and dusting off your knees. "Got an early shuttle off the Luofu."

He blinks a few more times, as if trying to make sense of the timeline through sheer exhaustion. "You crossed half the goddamn continent overnight and beat me home from a shift?"

You shrug. "Missed my plants."

He snorts, rubbing his face with one hand. "Unbelievable." But there’s a smile tucked under all the grogginess, fond and exasperated at once. "Anything good happen while you were off having your midlife crisis?"

You hesitate, just a second too long.

His eyes sharpen immediately, like a bloodhound catching a scent. "Don't tell me... Oh my god."

You glance down, suddenly sheepish, then back up. "I had hotpot with someone."

"Someone." He squints at you, suspicious. 

"Jing Yuan."

There’s a beat of silence. Then Jiaoqiu lets out a full-body groan and throws his bag onto the couch with an unnecessarily dramatic thud.

"You’re telling me," he starts, stabbing a finger at you, "that you made a core memory with your boyfriend at our favorite hotpot place?"

You blink. "First of all, not my boyfriend."

Jiaoqiu waves you off, too tired for precision. "Core. Memory," he repeats, as if personally wounded. "Overshadowing years of beautiful, platonic hotpot tradition. The betrayal."

You laugh, too relieved and too tired yourself to take him seriously. "You’re ridiculous."

He sighs like he’s carrying the weight of a thousand lost hotpot dinners on his back. Then, quieter, almost grudging: "I’m happy for you."

You soften, the tightness in your chest easing a little. "Thanks, Jiao."

He grumbles something incoherent under his breath, shuffling toward the hall. "Tell your not-boyfriend I’m billing him for emotional damages."

You catch the faint slam of his door as he disappears into his room, leaving you alone again in the soft, growing light. Outside, the dracaena sapling catches a beam of morning sun, its tiny leaves trembling in the breeze. 

You smile, and this time, it feels like you’re finally growing into something new.

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Monday 10:12 AM

Hi Professor,

It's been a while since I sent one of these. No slides attached, no looming deadlines, just a slightly belated thank-you.

Thank you for the hotpot. And the dracaena cutting. And for not making it weird, even though I probably did, several times.

Private Leaf has officially joined the ranks on my balcony. He's holding the line bravely between the rosemary and a basil plant that thinks it’s a tree. Early reports suggest high morale.

Hope you’re settling back into the Luofu without incident, or at least with manageable levels of it.

All the best.

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Jing Yuan To: Me Date: Monday 11:03 AM

Hello,

I'm relieved to hear Private Leaf has survived the initial deployment. I trust he'll adapt quickly under your capable command.

As for making it "weird"—if you did, I was too busy trying not to burn my mouth to notice. (You were right about the spice level. I am still recovering.)

The Luofu persists. Minor uprisings among the administration, but nothing beyond the usual skirmishes.

I’m glad you wrote. Even without haunted slides or rebellious citations.

— JY

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Monday 11:27 AM

Glad to hear the Luofu remains unconquered. I was worried they might stage a coup in your absence and replace you with a sentient syllabus.

Also: you have no one to blame but yourself re: the spice level. I distinctly remember offering an alternative. You chose valor (and chili oil).

Anyway, I'll be moving Private Leaf to my office soon. If he turns feral without Commander in Leaf around to supervise, I reserve the right to file an official complaint. 

Thanks again. For everything.

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Jing Yuan To: Me Date: Monday 11:51 AM

If Private Leaf does go rogue, I recommend appealing to his better nature. Or bribery. That tends to work on young recruits.

You’re welcome. And if you ever need reinforcements—plants, spices, or otherwise—you know where to find me.

(Preferably somewhere outside a boiling cauldron of doom.)

— JY

In the months that follow that quiet but eventful dinner, you and Jing Yuan fall into some sort of routine. 

First are the visits. 

 

(The distance between the Luofu and Yaoqing isn’t something to scoff at. It takes a three-hour train ride for either of you to make the trip. And given how plainly Jing Yuan had said he wanted to pursue a romantic relationship with you—verbatim, so you couldn’t twist his words into something safer—figuring out how to manage that distance was the first obstacle on the list. Between your stacked schedules, it all felt a little impossible.

But Jing Yuan has a way of making things happen, when he truly wants to.

You never really expected him to follow through so effortlessly. Yet sure enough, every two weeks, Jing Yuan's visits become a rhythm—a quiet but steady thread between the two of you.

At first, it feels like a formality, just another professional visit between departments. Even Feixiao has vouched for his recurring presence at Yaoqing, but there’s something deeper in the way he manages to carve out space for you in the midst of his packed schedule.

And, in that small window of time, you realize that his visits aren’t just about business.

They’re about you.

Sometimes, you’ll find Jing Yuan standing outside your office, with that soft, knowing smile of his, always a little more than what you expect. The first time it happened, there was no forewarning, no heads up. You simply answered the annoyingly long string of knocks on your door with a shout directed at who you thought was Zichen, only to be proven wrong.

Shortly after, he made a home of your office chair’s twin—his coat slung over the back, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, your copy of Courts and Dust balanced in one hand. The light filtering through the window gives his hair a sun-warmed sheen, and the faint scent of the tea you made earlier still lingers between you.

Every so often, your gaze drifts to the faint scar etched along his inner forearm. A jagged line that speaks of something distant, a memory he keeps hidden. You've come a long way in many ways, but that question lingers.

Despite everything, you still don't have the heart to ask.

“You annotated this section twice,” Jing Yuan says without looking up, oblivious.

You swallow thickly, eyes returning to the spreadsheet of grades before you. “Because students never read it the first time.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that stretches gently but never pulls. He flips the page. You pretend not to notice that his eyes haven’t moved. Somehow, you feel like the roles have been reversed between the two of you. 

You shouldn’t be used to this already—his presence here, the second mug beside yours on the windowsill, the little routine forming like threads tugged quietly into place. And yet, the air doesn’t feel like it did on the Luofu, when everything between you was uncertain and bracing and unspoken.

“Do you always work like this?” he asks eventually.

You arch an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid if you stop, something will catch up.”

That hits a little too close. You shut your laptop.

“I meant what I said. About pursuing you." He closes the book, careful with the fragile spine, and leans forward just slightly. “I’m not expecting you to leap right away. We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t say anything for a while. But your hand drifts to the edge of the pot by the window—Private Leaf, sturdy and greener than ever—and you tilt it just so the sunlight catches the newest leaf.)

 

Then the phone calls.

 

(Jing Yuan usually gets in touch past midnight, and the hum of your desk lamp is the only thing louder than your heartbeat. Your students’ papers are spread in messy stacks, but all of them go forgotten the moment his voice filters through the line.

“You’re still up.”

“You’re one to talk.”

There’s a pause, the kind that feels like a hand brushing your sleeve more than silence. On the other end, you hear the faint sound of his kettle. He’s brewing tea, probably that floral blend he pretends not to like when he’s on campus.

“Did you eat?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “Did you?”

“Answering a question with a question. You really are a professor.”

“You really are nosy.”

That earns a soft chuckle from him, and you imagine the curve of his mouth, the way he probably leans back in his chair as though he’s still in your office, opposite your desk. The space between Yaoqing and the Luofu isn’t short—not with classes, not with time—but somehow, his voice manages to bridge it like a warm coat thrown over your shoulders.

There’s no pressing need to define anything just yet. Only the ritual of it: he calls every other night when you bring your work back home, and you text him photos of your garden on Sunday mornings. He always points out which plants are thriving. You always leave out that you used his old notes to figure out the watering schedule for the skullcap.

Sometimes he tells you about his day. Sometimes he listens to yours. And at other times, like now, you both sit in companionable quiet, not saying much at all.

After a while, you glance at the time. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

But neither of you hangs up just yet.)

 

Lastly, the gifts. 

 

(When you completed a particularly difficult paper on the historical roots of literature, it was a surreal experience. 

That afternoon, as you sat in your office reviewing your notes, a knock on the door broke your concentration. It was too early for Feixiao to be dropping by, and Zichen would have just walked in. So when you opened the door, you weren’t prepared for the sight of a delivery—a box, elegantly wrapped in deep crimson silk, the kind of gift you only received for something truly special.

Curious, you carefully lifted the lid. Inside was a stunning bouquet, its colors a mixture of rich purples and soft pinks. 

It was beautiful, but what caught your attention most was the small card nestled between the petals.

In the language of flowers, these represent respect and admiration, a reminder of how you’ve blossomed into something extraordinary.

You smiled as your fingers traced the edges. Anyone could guess who they were from.

The flowers were a deliberate selection—a mixture of lavender for devotion and pink roses for gratitude. There were even a few sprigs of rosemary, signifying remembrance. Feixiao had likely spilled the news to Jing Yuan the moment your success was confirmed. And true to form, he had gone out of his way to choose something meaningful.

Taking the bouquet into your arms, you placed it gently on the desk, savoring its scent. A part of you felt the warmth of his thoughtfulness despite the distance between you. Even when miles apart, he found ways to show that you mattered, to celebrate your triumphs as if he were right there beside you.

Just as you admired the flowers, your phone buzzed with a message.

It was from Jing Yuan, as if he knew the moment you’d seen the bouquet.

 

Jing Yuan: I hope the flowers bring you as much joy as your success brought to me.

Jing Yuan: Congratulations on your accomplishment :)

Jing Yuan: I look forward to hearing all about it soon.

 

A wave of affection swelled in your chest, and as you gazed at the flowers, you couldn’t help but think—long distance might be difficult, but it was also filled with these quiet moments, these little efforts that somehow made the space between you both feel a little less vast.

 

Me: Thank you. I can’t wait for you to see it in person.

Jing Yuan: I suppose you're not excited to see me?

Me: ...Fine. 

Me: I can't wait to see you too.)

 

It doesn't happen all at once.

It’s a slow, careful unraveling, stitched together by quiet hours and smaller things that mattered more than you thought.

Of course, you don't let him do all the work—you reciprocate each grand gesture, each minuscule effort however you can. You even dedicate some Saturdays to spending time together at the Luofu. 

Whenever you hop off the platform, Jing Yuan is always waiting. Sometimes at the terminal, or at the station’s tea shop, casually flipping through a book while pretending not to check the time. The moment your eyes meet, the distance you spent hours crossing disappears completely.

It’s in the way he smiles. The way he reaches for your bag without asking. The way he says your name like he’s been carrying it in his chest the whole time.

You fall into a rhythm here, too. Late lunches in quiet places he’s memorized just for you. Shared walks through familiar gardens, the kind you once only saw from the edge of a memory. On quieter days, he brings you to his new office—still filled with neat stacks of papers, the same old Commander in Leaf thriving in the corner. He makes tea while you sit on the couch he’s cleared for your visits. 

You leave just as the sun begins to set, and Jing Yuan walks you to the station every time. He never makes a scene of it—just a warm hand at your back, a lingering look before the train doors close.

Back in Yaoqing, your days return to routine, but something's shifted.

You're no longer bracing yourself against absence. You're learning how to hold love gently, how to trust that it won’t fall apart simply because it spans a few hundred miles.

What grows between you and Jing Yuan doesn’t just endure the distance—it finds a way to bloom because of it.

After the flowers, the train rides, the playful banter in your office, the consistency remains.

It’s a weekend this time—his turn to visit—and the two of you had agreed on something simple: dinner, a movie, nothing extravagant.

The screening ran longer than expected. You hadn’t checked the time when you left the cinema—too distracted by the lingering warmth of his shoulder against yours, the way he leaned in to whisper sharp commentary beneath the film’s most dramatic scenes.

It isn’t until the credits finish rolling and you step into the cool evening air that you realize: the last train back to the Luofu left twenty minutes ago.

“It’s alright,” Jing Yuan says, unfazed and already reaching for his phone. “I’ll just find a place to stay for the night.”

That should’ve been it. You could’ve let him.

But something compels you—some small, braver part of you that’s grown louder since all this began.

“You don’t have to,” you say. The words come out too fast, but you don’t take them back. “Jiaoqiu’s not home. You can stay at mine.”

He looks at you. Not surprised, not smug—just quietly searching. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “He’s at a conference all week. You’ll have the couch to yourself.”

There’s a breath of a laugh from him. “Understood.”

And that’s how you end up here: your apartment a little too warm, the tea a little too hastily made.

Jing Yuan’s coat hangs over the back of your dining chair, and he’s already taken off his boots at the door like he’s done it before. You’re not really nervous per se, but something stirs in your chest as you watch him move with the same ease he had in your office, like he belongs wherever you are.

Later, you hand him a folded blanket, a pillow, and—after rummaging through your closet—one of your old college shirts and a pair of Jiaoqiu's sweats that got mixed up with your laundry.

“They might be a bit snug,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes. “But it’s better than sleeping in your coat.”

Jing Yuan takes them with a small smile. “You’re too kind to your stranded guests.”

He disappears into the bathroom for a while. When he reemerges, his hair is down—long, unbound, still a little damp around the ends. He runs a hand through it absently, like he’s used to the weight, unaware of the way it steals the breath from your throat. The shirt fits a little too well. The sleeves cling to his forearms, and the hem rides just short of his hips.

You try not to look too long.

He settles onto the couch, the blanket bunched loosely at his side. You think you’ve adjusted to the sight of him—seen him in every shade of light, every kind of mood—but somehow this version still catches you off guard. Hair loose, eyes soft, the curve of his mouth just shy of a smile.

“Thank you again,” Jing Yuan says. “I mean it.”

You nod, though your fingers are still curled a little too tightly around the edge of the mug in your hands. You’re not drinking anything. You just needed something to hold.

“I don’t mind,” you say. “It’s really fine.”

He watches you for a beat too long. You pretend not to notice.

“I would’ve booked a hotel,” he offers, almost teasing now.

“I know,” you reply, eyes flicking toward the darkened hallway. “But I didn’t want you to.”

That admission hangs in the air, soft and bare.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts, his knee brushing lightly against yours where you’ve drifted closer to the edge of the couch without meaning to. You don’t pull away.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable—it’s dense with something else. Anticipation. Relief. The ache of having waited this long and still not knowing what comes next.

And that’s when it happens.

You don’t remember who moves first. Maybe it’s both of you. Maybe it had always been coming to this. One moment, the air between you is thick with the weight of everything unspoken. The next, his hand is on your waist, yours curled into the borrowed fabric at his shoulder, and the distance between you vanishes completely.

His hand finds your waist, and your fingers curl into the borrowed fabric at his shoulder. Jing Yuan exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for months, and then he kisses you.

Jing Yuan's lips brush yours once, then again. When you answer with a soft gasp, leaning in like you’ve waited a lifetime, the kiss deepens. Heat coils low in your belly as his other hand finds the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting you toward him like he’s afraid of losing the moment.

You taste tea on his tongue, feel the slight tremble in his shoulders as you press closer. His hair falls forward, strands slipping through your fingers as you anchor yourself against him.

And just for a mere second, you remember the symposium. That moment you shared by the railings, months ago, when he’d almost kissed you. When you’d stood too close, hearts racing, silence stretching long enough to feel like surrender.

But this is no almost.

This is all the wanting you couldn’t name back then, poured into every kiss he gives you now. Every inch of you answers him with a need that feels long overdue. You can’t deny it any longer, not to yourself, not to him. You’ve been falling toward this moment for years, your lives tangling together in ways neither of you could have predicted.

“Jing Yuan,” you breathe against his mouth, like it hurts to say, like it means too much because it does.

He answers you with another kiss, deeper this time, needier. The blanket falls away. The pillow tumbles off the couch. You don’t notice. His shirt—your shirt—bunches under your hands as you slide them beneath the hem, seeking warmth, seeking skin.

When he groans, it’s not from surprise. It’s from restraint.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, breath uneven. His lips are swollen, his hair a halo of silver around his face in the soft light.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs.

You nod, pulling him back in without hesitation.

“Yes.” 

There’s a deep, shuddering breath he takes before his mouth crashes against yours again. His hands find your hips, gripping you with a surety that almost feels like a command. You meet him, heady with the same raw want, the same urgency. His chest presses against yours, the warmth of his body seeping into you, grounding you in this moment. Every inch of space between you is burned away by the press of lips, by the roughness of his hand at your waist, pulling you closer, closer still.

Jing Yuan's breath quickens as he tugs you onto his lap, the motion fluid, practiced—as if he’s done this before, as if he’s always known this was the way it was supposed to be. His hands slide under your shirt, his fingertips warm against the bare skin of your back, a touch that sends a ripple of heat through you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

You can feel his heart beating fast against your chest, just as frantic as your own. His kisses are desperate now, each one deeper than the last, as though he’s trying to imprint himself onto you, to remind you of every moment that’s led up to this.

The familiar scent of his cologne—woodsy, subtle—mingles with the heady perfume of your own desire. It’s intoxicating. You let your hands roam, tracing the hard lines of his jaw, the muscles of his shoulders, the soft curve of his neck. His skin burns under your touch, and you press in closer, your body reacting to his presence like it was always meant to.

When Jing Yuan pulls back again, his eyes are dark with the kind of hunger that makes your chest tighten. He looks at you like he’s asking permission for something that’s been building up for years.

This isn’t just about tonight. This isn’t just about the warmth of his body against yours or the heat of the moment. This is the culmination of everything—the quiet hours, the stolen glances, the letters, the lectures, the shared silences.

You don’t answer with words. Your body already knows what it wants, and it’s not about holding back anymore.

Without breaking eye contact, you slowly rise from the couch, pulling him up with you. His hand finds yours instinctively, the touch of his fingers warm, firm. You guide him to your bedroom with a steady, sure step, each one carrying the weight of everything unspoken that’s finally coming to the surface.

When you close the door behind you, the quiet of the room settles around you both, amplifying the thrum of anticipation that fills the space between your hearts. Jing Yuan doesn’t say a word as you turn to face him, but there’s something in his gaze—something hungry, but still searching, still waiting for the go-ahead.

You take a deep breath, feeling the moment stretch between the two of you, the years of careful distance and restraint dissolving into the charged air. With one last look, you close the distance, pulling him toward you as you kiss him again, but this time, it’s different.

It’s deeper. More desperate.

His hands are everywhere, sliding off your shirt, grazing your skin with the touch of a man who’s been holding back for too long. You respond in kind, your own hands trailing down the front of his sternum, feeling the way his heartbeat speeds beneath your fingertips as you undress each other.

Everything becomes a blur—the sharpness of his touch, the warmth of his breath, the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

You step back, guiding his hands with yours, leading him to the bed. There’s no hesitation this time. There’s no second-guessing. This is years of waiting, of longing, of wanting to finally let go. And as you fall into the bed together, everything feels exactly like it should.

Jing Yuan guides you through it with saintlike patience. His voice is a steady murmur, checking in with you softly—asking if you want this, if you're comfortable, if there’s any pain at all. You always knew him to be considerate, even as a professor, but you never imagined that kindness could stretch into something this intimate.

"Ah, I didn't think you'd be so sensitive," he murmurs sweetly. 

Thoughtful as he is, Jing Yuan still knows how to turn up the charm when he wants to.

His large hands are splayed across the plush give of your thighs—amber eyes admiring the mess between your legs. You've slicked up considerably, clenching around nothing as his lips draw into a candid smirk. You're not sure whether you want to pull his face into your sopping heat or bury your head under a mountain of pillows. 

"Really?" you groan. "We've been dancing around each other for years, and you still choose to draw it out?" 

He laughs. Of course he does. But Jing Yuan gives you some sort of reprieve when he moves lower down the mattress, hooking your legs across his broad shoulders before placing a kiss on your inner thigh. His gaze never strays from yours, intense and unrelenting.

"I'm a patient man, darling," he says. "I can string you apart until morning if I felt like it."

The words land like a challenge, and your body tightens in response. As much as you’ve longed for the kind of devotion he’s offering, you're too wound up—too desperate to wait any longer.

You need him. Carnally.

Fortunately, Jing Yuan is nothing if not generous. 

He makes you fall apart on his tongue with two fingers knuckle-deep in your cunt—mercilessly suckling at your clit as you spasm beneath him in the height of bliss. When he feels that the tremors of pleasure have calmed, his golden eyes find yours in the haze. You can't help the rush of heat that fills you when he swipes his tongue across spit-slicked lips. 

Jing Yuan surges forward, easing his large frame between your thighs so he can capture your lips again. The tangy aftertaste lingers on his mouth, but you devour each other like the world ends tomorrow, despite. 

"Can I...?" He frames the plea around a moan when you grind against his leaking shaft. "Y-You're free to refuse, of course."

Trust this man to ask permission only to retract it afterwards. You fight the urge to roll your eyes before laying down on top of your pillows, making sure the half-lidded stare you shoot him carries the message well.

"Jing Yuan," you start, spreading your legs apart for him once more. "If you don't fuck me right now, we're going to have problems." 

He pauses for a second, eyes widening by a fraction. As if he isn't used to hearing you talk like this. Still, the the astonishment fades quickly, replaced by a glimmer of amusement. He presses a light kiss to the corner of your mouth, voice low and teasing. "Do you have any condoms, darling? Forgive me, but I honestly didn't plan on getting to see you like this." 

Neither did you. But the universe works in strange ways like that.

"I've..." Your face heats up, embarrassment coloring your cheeks. "I've been taking contraceptive meds since we started...dating."

That draws his full attention. His gaze sharpens, interest unmistakable, and his smile takes on a new edge—pleased, warm, and just a little dangerous.

“Is that so?” he says, voice dipped in honey. “Now that’s something I wish I’d known sooner.”

You’re not sure you want to dwell on the implication behind his words. But it doesn’t matter—not when time feels like a luxury neither of you can afford. The urgency in your chest is mirrored in his touch, in the way his breath stutters against your skin. You love him so much, you can hardly breathe. 

Oh. 

You love him. 

Jing Yuan, completely unaware of the dawning realization, gathers the pearlescent liquid at the tip, lathering the rest of him with his own essence. His teeth catch along his bottom lip slightly as he eases himself between your legs. You nearly squirm when he rubs the head along your glistening seam.

"You're still free to refuse," he murmurs, but there's little weight to the words. 

You shake your head, legs circling his hips in a feeble attempt to bring him closer. Jing Yuan chuckles, nosing at the crook of your neck as his lips flutter over your pulse like a promise. 

"Please," you nearly beg. "We've waited long enough, don't you think?"

His breath catches—a hitch you feel more than hear. That word, please, does something to him. You feel it in the way his hands settle more firmly on your waist, grounding you both. In the way he lifts his head just enough to look at you properly, like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment.

"You're sure?" he asks, quieter now. Not doubting you, just giving you the chance to change your mind. He always has.

And maybe that’s what makes your answer so easy.

"Yes," you breathe, the word framed around a soft, easy laugh. "Always, yes."

That’s all it takes.

Jing Yuan exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something that’s been weighing him down for too long. Then he kisses you—slowly, thoroughly, reverently. You feel the shift in him, and in you. This isn’t about urgency anymore. This is about presence. About devotion. About making up for all the years of stolen glances and unspoken longing.

And when you finally move together, it’s not with haste but with the deep, aching patience of two people who have known each other in every other way. Everything is quiet now but the whisper of breath, the rustle of sheets, and the soft cadence of your name on his lips—spoken like a vow.

These things linger in the air like they wish to be remembered.

You’re not sure how long it lasts—entwined, breath mingling, the hush of your shared want settling over everything like a second skin. But eventually, Jing Yuan lifts his head again, eyes catching yours.

And gods, those eyes.

Gold like the moment before sunrise, like melted metal—brimming not just with desire, but with something quieter beneath. 

You reach for him without thinking, fingers threading into the long strands of his silver hair—silken and cool to the touch, like moonlight slipping through your hands. He leans into it, into you, a sound caught low in his throat.

Every line of him is taut with effort. The kind that speaks of restraint, not hesitation. The flex of muscle beneath your palms is measured and deliberate—each motion a study in control, until you feel it unravel. Slowly. Beautifully.

He moves with the kind of care only someone who has thought of this moment a thousand times could possess.

And when he presses his forehead to yours again, his voice comes out low and reverent.

“You're everything to me.”

Fingers digging in, you cling to him. Not out of fear.

But because nothing’s ever felt more right.

In the aftermath, you lie tangled in sheets and warmth, Jing Yuan's heartbeat still faintly pulsing beneath your cheek where you rest against his chest.

One of your hands drifts across his forearm, fingers brushing the pale scar that arcs along the muscle like a memory half-buried. You’ve seen it before—in passing, under rolled-up sleeves, or whenever he gestures too broadly during office hours. A dozen times, you thought to ask. A dozen more, you hesitated.

But now, in the hush between heartbeats, with nothing left to guard—

“What happened here?” you ask, your thumb grazing the seam of old pain.

Jing Yuan glances down, his gaze following the movement of your hand. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, with a soft exhale, he answers, “Military. A long time ago.”

You shift slightly to look up at him, head still tucked against his side. “One of the wars you talk about in class?”

His mouth quirks, but there’s no real humor in it. “One of those, yes. The more recent ones. My battalion was deployed when I was just a little older than my students now. We were green. Thought we’d be home in a month.” He pauses, voice softening. “It didn’t go that way.”

You don’t interrupt. You keep tracing gentle lines over his skin.

“There were three of us that stuck together,” he continues after a beat. “Yingxing. Dan Feng. And me.” The names come out carefully, like they’ve been resting at the edge of his mouth for years, waiting for the right moment. “We were always watching out for each other. Gods, we were stupid sometimes. Brave. But mostly just stupid.”

He’s smiling now, but it’s tinged with a kind of quiet grief, the kind that only comes from surviving what others didn’t.

“I remember once,” he says, eyes distant, “Yingxing tried to sneak a bottle of wine into base. Dan Feng caught him before I could, but neither of them gave it up. We ended up sharing it, passing it around in silence, watching the stars like idiots who didn’t know if tomorrow would come.”

You feel something shift in his voice—affection, longing, something deeper than memory. It’s not just nostalgia.

“You were close,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hums low in his throat. “Closer than we should’ve been, maybe. In that kind of place… bonds form quickly. And deeply. You hold on to what you can.”

You don’t press him. You don’t need to. The way he says their names tells you enough. There was love there. Complicated, perhaps. But real.

“I think about them a lot,” he says. “Even now.”

Your fingers still against his skin. He places his hand over yours, grounding the moment. And when he looks at you again, it’s not with regret—but with trust. You’re not just someone passing through. You’re someone who’s here now, who sees him, scars and all.

“They’d have liked you,” he says eventually, eyes soft. “Yingxing especially. He had a terrible sense of humor. You’d have put him in his place.”

You laugh into his shoulder, and he smiles at the sound—tired, but genuine. The kind of smile that only surfaces when it’s safe to do so.

“You don’t have to tell me more,” you say. “But I’ll listen. If you ever want to.”

He nods once, slow and sure. “I know.”

And in the quiet that follows, he presses a kiss to your temple and pulls you closer, your fingers still curled around the part of him that never really left the battlefield.

But then—a soft chime cuts through the warmth between you. A text notification. The real world, slipping back in.

Jing Yuan’s arm tightens around your waist, a soft, unspoken protest, urging you to stay. As if to say let it wait. You soothe him with a gentle kiss, brief and tender, your lips brushing his with quiet reassurance that you’ll return before you slip from his embrace.

You reach for your phone.

Jiaoqiu’s name lights up the screen, followed by a flurry of texts. You can feel the weight of golden eyes reading over your shoulder.

 

Jiaoqiu: are u home rn...

Me: Yes. Why?

Jiaoqiu: i'm bringing someone over

Jiaoqiu: don't judge me

Jiaoqiu: his name's moze

Jiaoqiu: one of the nurses from the er shift

Jiaoqiu: i've been trying to make this happen for a month now

Jiaoqiu: and we might've gotten close during the conference :3c

Me: Oh!

Jiaoqiu: yeah...

Jiaoqiu: so please tell me ure not in the living room

Jiaoqiu: or anywhere visible

Me: ...I'm just in my room

Jiaoqiu: perfect

Jiaoqiu: just keep your door shut 

Jiaoqiu: and don't come out for like an hour. maybe two

Jiaoqiu: three if he's enthusiastic

Me: No promises

Me: Also, you might want to knock first if you need me

Me: [Sent an image]

Jiaoqiu: hey

Jiaoqiu: HEY who is that in there with you 

Jiaoqiu: is that jing yuan

Me: Perhaps.

Jiaoqiu: oh my god

Jiaoqiu: are you fucking kidding me 

Jiaoqiu: i'm bringing home a man and you're also—

Me: Hey, this is a sex-positive household

Jiaoqiu: you know what 

Jiaoqiu: this is fine

Jiaoqiu: love this for us

Me: That's the spirit.

Me: Now you have to tell me when you guys finish

Me: So we don't all use the bathroom to wash up at the same time 

Jiaoqiu: oh my fucking god 

 

You don’t even get the chance to put your phone down before an arm snakes around your waist and tugs—gently but firmly—pulling you back into the warmth of the bed.

“You’re handling this like a military operation now?” Jing Yuan teases, voice smooth but carrying a hint of indignation. “Making sure there’s no friendly fire in the bathroom?”

You glance down at your phone—Jiaoqiu’s colorful messages still open—and let out a quiet sigh. “He’s bringing someone over, so I figured I should keep things lowkey.”

Jing Yuan hums thoughtfully. “Clever. But it feels a bit like a betrayal, doesn’t it?” His fingers trace up your side, slow and deliberate. “Here I thought we’d earned some peace and quiet tonight.”

You scoff, about to say something witty about splitting rent, but then he flips you gently onto your back, looming over you like the war god you’re pretty sure he used to be. His hair falls over one shoulder, tousled and shining silver in the lamplight, and his golden eyes narrow with mock offense.

“I fought a long campaign to get you in this bed,” Jing Yuan murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “Don't think I’ll surrender you now just because your roommate’s got a date.”

You laugh softly, curling your fingers into his hair and tugging lightly. “Surrender implies you ever stood a chance.”

That earns you a low, pleased growl, and then he's kissing you again, quick and claiming.

“Then consider this a counteroffensive,” he says, already pulling the blankets back up and tugging you under them.

“Didn’t realize this was a battlefield.”

“Oh, it is,” Jing Yuan chuckles, burying his face against your neck with a victorious sigh. “And you, darling, are already well and truly conquered.”

You laugh graciously, curling a hand behind his neck and pulling him into a long kiss—slow and sure and just a little smug.

The war is over. The treaties are signed.

And in the hush between heartbeats, you finally let yourself believe in the peace you’ve made together.

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[aacalienz]

Not all level 1 autistic people have low support needs.

Even if someone’s autism doesn’t cause significant problems for someone to do basic activities of daily living, live independently, or maintain safe behaviors, another condition might.

I’m autistic. My level when I was diagnosed at 17 (I’m 21 now) was level 1. While I don’t feel like this is entirely accurate to how my autism affects me now it’s still my diagnosis.

But I have other things going on with me. I have severe depression that has resulted in multiple hospitalizations. I think like 7? in the last 3 years. My mental illness is so severe that I am frequently at risk of being hospitalized, and when I am hospitalized it’s usually for a week or longer instead of the normal 5-7 days. I’m worried if I can’t stay out of the hospital for longer periods they might recommend a residential placement, but luckily that hasn’t been on the table yet.

I get to the point where I get nervous sharing my autism level publicly online because I get nervous people will think I’m low support needs. But that isn’t my reality. I’m definitely not high support needs. I don’t need constant care and can do all my every day hygiene without any physical support. But there’s a lot I can’t do.

I can’t live independently without being hospitalized within 1-2 months. I can’t maintain employment without severe mental decline leading to hospitalization. I can’t maintain safe behaviors like not hurting myself for long periods of time. I can’t manage my own medication because of safety risks. I can’t keep my space clean. My ptsd is so bad that often times I can’t say no with my mouth. I am eligible for home and community based services. Which in my state requires that a person needs a nursing home level of care.

There’s a lot of things that I can do. And I’m very grateful for that. I’m nowhere near the most disabled. But when people compare me to people who can live on their own and mask and work without completely breaking down I just feel like I can never measure up. My life feels like it’s not amounting to as much as other level 1 autistic people my age and I feel like it’s because I’m not good enough or trying hard enough.

But there are lots of disabilities than can cause a person to have severe problems with independent living and daily activities. A person who is mostly bedbound due to a physical disability doesn’t have low support needs just because they aren’t autistic or are level 1. A person with severe mental illness who is living in a group home or state hospital doesn’t have low support needs.

I think in the autistic community including the medium and high support needs autistic community we need to take into consideration other disabilities more when we think about who needs which levels of support. Just because someone doesn’t need lots of support with their autism specifically doesn’t mean they don’t need lots of support in general or with our other disabilities.

[nowprettybbyimrunning]

Winter

This is chapter 2 from the series "Carter's Favorite Season is Autumn", series masterlist HERE, chapter 1 HERE, add yourself to my taglist HERE.

W.C: 8k

WARNINGS: mention of blood, inaccurate medical procedures, i think some cursing

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i think this kinda gets progressively more shitty as you reach the end.

Three days. Three whole working days had passed since Carter’s and Autumn’s little fight and she still wasn’t talking to him and John did not know for how long he could take it. It was more than just the fact that he had an enormous crush on her and she was not even looking at him, killing him. It was the fact that they were friends, they had a kind of routine together that for Carter had become, in a way, sacred. 

Every time he got home, instead of relaxing and being happy about having a few hours of silence and peace, Carter couldn’t wait for the next day to start just so he could see Autumn. There was brightness and warmness in the way she bounced into the ER, messy curls tucked into her big brown coat and characteristic green scarf that somehow made the orangey red of her hair stand out even more; usually two coffees in her hands, and one was for him. By the time she had walked up to the entry dest where he was impatiently waiting, John had already caught himself staring at her in awe. Jerry always laughed at him. Everyone did. To the point that now he was being called “loverboy” behind his back. Carter could only hope that his new nickname hadn’t reached Autumn’s ears.

But he had ruined it. He had been an asshole and clearly deserved what he was getting (which was nothing, and that was the problem); yet, he thought the way she had been acting was at least a tiny bit childish. What were they, five years old? Carter knew he needed just three seconds to express how utterly sorry he was for the way he had acted and they’d be back to normal. ‘Cause if there was one thing he had gotten to know pretty well in almost two months of residency, was Autumn, and there was no way this wasn’t also pissing her off.

Anyways, the point is that he missed her. Just three days and it felt like a lifetime without her. John did not feel like he was being dramatic. Yes, he had seen her, of course he had it was impossible not to. Still, she hadn’t talked to him. Not. A. Single. Word. 

So, he decided that day would be the last one he’d let the redhead keep on ignoring him.

Autumn had just gotten to the hospital and went straight to the break room to enjoy at least five minutes of peace while she drank her coffee before someone called her for help. She found that Carter was already inside the dimly lit room, sitting on the couch and drinking his own mug of coffee. She knew he was looking at her, she could feel it. But she was not going to look at him or talk to him, not until he said sorry. That’s all it took, Dr. Hawthorn just wanted to hear her friend apologize.

They hadn’t said a word to each other since she walked out of the exam room after Carter stitched her up. Everyone was talking about their little argument, Autumn had heard the nurses whispering and every time she walked into a room Carol and Susan were already in, they stopped talking. She didn’t know exactly what they were saying, but they were talking. And if that wasn’t enough, the gossip was not only about her and John, but also about her and Doug.

Dr. Ross had gone to check up on her after the incident with the psych patient. It was late at night and he hadn’t had dinner yet, so she served him a plate of the pasta she had cooked for herself. That’s it. But of course once he went back to the ER and told Lydia what he had been doing, it suddenly had been a date. It was not.

Sure! Doug was a hot guy, every single person working or not at County General knew that, but Autumn was not interested at all. Plus, she did not want to get into trouble, and whatever little game Dr. Ross was trying to get her into had already reached Dr. Greene, who did not doubt asking her about it.

“Dr. Hawthorn, do you have a minute?” Was the first thing Autumn heard when she came back to work the next day and Mark was waiting at the entry desk.

“Yeah, sure” she followed him into an empty (thank god) exam room, “is there a problem?” the redhead expected him to ask her about the psych patient or, worst case scenario, about Carter.

“No, not really,” Dr. Greene started, “it’s just that, you know how fast word travels in here” sure thing Sherlock, “and I heard that Dr. Ross took time off yesterday to pay you a visit,” that was not the topic of conversation she was hoping for.

“Yeah, he just wanted to check on me and give me some painkillers,” Autumn excused him.

“And have dinner,” oh oh.

“Dr. Greene I swear it’s not like that, at all” was she sweating? yeah she was.

“I know, I know” Mark held up both hands to stop her from talking, “but Doug is… well, he is Doug. And I want you to be careful,” she did not appreciate the babying, but she understood it.

Since then Autumn tried to keep things between her and Doug strictly professional, and it was working, she hoped. But the silence in the break room did not last long, it was exactly Dr. Ross who cut through it by stepping inside.

“There you are,” he said leaning against the lockers, “I need you in room 2”.

“Who?” Carter asked.

“Both of you, now,” Autumn and John immediately left their half drank coffees and followed Doug down the corridor, “ten year old boy, has been coughing for a few days and has a little fever, figured you Autumn specially would like to go solo”.

“Me?” There was clear surprise in her voice.

“Yes, do you not want to?” Dr. Ross asked jokingly.

“No- I mean, yeah of course who’s with him?”

“Mom’s in there, the kid’s name is Liam I-” Doug was interrupted by Carter.

“Do I have to be there?” 

“Yes” Doug looked at him, “like I was going to say, I’ll be there in the room watching over just in case, and you too Dr. Carter,” he handed a clear chart for Autumn to take.

She grabbed the paper, a bit nervous, and entered the room with Doug and John behind her, going directly toward the exam table, while the other two men stayed back closer to the door.

Liam was already sitting on the exam table, his legs slightly swinging back and forth, on his hands what seemed to be a keychain. Autumn gave a bright smile to the kid’s mom who sat in a chair next to the boy before she started to talk.

“Hi there,” she snapped on a pair of gloves, “My name is Autumn and they are Dr. Ross and Dr. Carter” she signaled with her right hand the direction where they were standing, John almost jumped at hearing her acknowledge him “I’m a medical student, is it okay if I examine you today?” Autumn waited for the mom’s approval and Liam’s confirmation. When she got a nod from the woman and a shy ‘yes’ from the kid she took her stethoscope off around her neck and prepared to use it.

“It’s nothing too serious, he has just been coughing for a few days and it won’t stop” the mom told her.

“Okay, then let’s take a listen to see what’s going on, Liam can you please sit straight for me?” the little boy did just as he was asked, “excellent, now take a deep breath in”. Autumn listened carefully first to his chest, “and out,” there was a bit of a wheeze but she wanted to be sure so she moved on to listen through his back, “good,now do it again one more time,” and yes, there definitely was. She took off the stethoscope and took down some notes on the chart, “has he had any history of asthma? he or anyone in the family”.

“No, not really” Liam’s mom shook her head, “he rarely gets sick, he’s usually a very healthy kid”.

“Any pets or smokers at home?” Dr. Hawthorn kept on asking the regular questions.

“Not, it’s just us, no other animals or people”

“I see,” Autumn took a moment to think, “if there’s no pets, smokers or prior asthma then I’m going to order a chest X-ray to confirm if it is early bronchitis or just a virus that’s too stubborn to go away yet,” she looked at Dr. Ross to see if he had any objections.

“Sounds about right,” Autumn smiled, “go and put down the order, good job Dr. Hawthorn,” the redhead wanted to scream at Doug’s words but she contained herself and instead just rushed out of the exam room with the biggest smile on her face.

Carter had wanted to stop her to tell her she had been amazing, but decided against it when he noticed she was still not looking at him.

Autumn watched as the technician clipped the X-rays into place, “is this the first one you’re doing alone?” he asked.

“Yes, it is” she got closer to see better.

“Well, the lungs are clear, what were you looking for exactly?” the old man tried to help.

“Just wanted to make sure the patient doesn’t have bronchitis.”

“Doesn’t seem like it”

“Yeah, it probably is just a virus,” Dr. Hawthorn scribbled what she was seeing onto the chart, “can I take those with me? so Dr. Ross can take a look at them”

“Yeah of course, let me get an envelope,” she waited patiently for the man to hand her back a brown envelope with Liam’s X-Rays inside and went on a mission to find Doug. It took her a few minutes but she finally caught him talking to Dr. Greene.

“Dr. Ross, do you have a minute? I have Liam’s X-Rays with me,” she held them up and then handed them over.

“Yeah, let me see” Doug opened the envelope and examined them, “what do you think Dr. Hawthorn?,” he looked at her.

“There’s nothing in the lungs, they are clear, it’s probably just a virus and should be gone soon, so I’d just give him some analgesics as the mom said he had already been coughing for a few days, try to make it go faster. Maybe add a follow-up in case it doesn’t let up?” Autumn prayed to not have forgotten anything and to have made a decent enough presentation.

“That’s exactly what I’d suggest,” the redhead couldn’t help but smile, “you wanna tell the mom?”.

Dr. Hawthorn blinked at him, “me?”

“Yeah of course,” Doug handed her back the X-Rays, “you checked Liam, you made the diagnosis, seems fair don’t you think?”

“Okay, I’d love to”.

“Carter!” Dr. Ross called for him, “go with her,” Autumn did not know if he should thank him or kill him, she’ll decide after releasing Liam.

They walked in silence together to room 2, and when they got there Carter opened the door and moved to the side to let Autumn walk in, going in after her.

Liam was lying on the exam table now, he looked tired and his mom was running her hands through his hair. The woman looked up to the sound of the door closing behind John.

“Hello again,” Autumn greeted, “I’m here to update you on Liam’s X-Rays results, I’m sorry if I took too long, I can see that he is tired,” she walked over to him and placed her left palm on the kid’s forehead, checking that he hadn’t gotten a fever during the time she was gone, but his body temperature was fine. Carter waited on a corner.

“Oh please don’t apologize,” the woman stood up, “is he fine?”

“Yes he is fine,” the mom exhaled, “there was nothing of concern in his lungs, what he’s got is probably just a virus”.

“What can I give him?”

“I’m gonna give him some analgesics, I’ll send in a nurse in a moment to give him his first dose here and then you’ll have to get a prescription and continue to give it to him at home every eight hours,” Autumn took the liberty to write down everything she was saying for Liam and his mom to take home in case they forget, “I also recommend giving him lots of water and a few lemon teas a day or honey sweets to help him with the throat ache from all the coughing, you can also come back in a few days for a follow-up, or sooner if you don’t see any improvement in one or two days,” Dr. Hawthorne gave the woman a sheet of paper full of bullet points with information about what to do.

“Thank you so much doctor, we’ll be back if it is necessary,” Liam got up and stood beside his mother.

“Well let’s hope that’s not necessary,” she took a lollipop out of her pocket and handed it to the boy, “this is for you Liam, it has honey in it, it’ll be good for your throat”.

“Thank you Dr. Autumn,” the redhead smiled and pinched his cheek.

“I’ll go call a nurse to give him the medicine and then you are free to go,” she smiled at the small family for the last time and turned around. Carter opened the door for her again.

“Autumn wait,” John called after her before she could get away.

“What do you need?” she asked lowly, keeping her distance.

“I just wanted to say that you were amazing, really” there was an unmistakable look of pride on John’s face.

“Thanks,” Autumn simply replied and was starting to turn away when he spoke again.

“And I also wanted to say that I’m sorry,” Dr. Carter took a step toward her and she crossed her arms over her chest, “I was an asshole, I know you have nothing going on with Doug”.

“It was something a friend would not think about their friend,” she tried to keep her cool but the relief in her voice could be heard by anyone.

“You’ve been avoiding me” he stated, “it was childish”.

Dr. Hawthorn laughed and Carter smiled at the sound, “I know, I just wanted to hear you say that you were sorry”.

“So we are good now, aren’t we?”

“Yes we are,” Autumn got closer to him to fix his crooked tie, “but next time ask me instead of assuming shit you know it’s not real”.

John gulped at the graze of Autumn’s fingers on his neck, his heart beating faster, “I will, I promise”.

“I have to go tell Carol to give Liam something for his cough,” she started walking backwards, “I’ll see you at 3 for our coffee?”

“Wouldn’t miss it even if I tried,” Dr. Carter waited for Autumn to turn around and then hit the air with his fist.

“Easy loverboy,” Lydia pushed an empty gurney down the corridor, “Dr. Benton is looking for you in trauma 1” and with not one more word Carter practically skipped away, overjoyed by the fact that his and Autumn’s friendship was back to normal.

“What are you doing tonight? It’s Friday” Autumn asked Carter while taking the first sip of her coffee.

“My parents are taking me to an event they got going on” both of them were eating someone else’s donuts.

“You don’t sound too excited” the redhead playfully lifted up the sides of John’s lips with her fingers to make him smile, and it worked.

“That’s because I’m not.” Still, the smile his friend had brought to him did not fade away.

“And why’s that?” Dr. Hawthorn didn’t want to pressure him into dumping more personal information on her if he did not want to, but she was curious. After all, Carter didn’t mention his parents. Like never.

“It’s just boring I guess,” he started, “I just would rather be doing something else, like sleeping” Autumn laughed, “what are you doing?”.

“Probably just listen to some music, try and cook something nice for once,” both took a big gulp from their mugs, almost finishing their coffees. But neither of them wanted their little break to end too soon.

“Like what?” John sat back on his chair and started manspreading.

Autumn almost got caught up in her own words and cleared her throat before speaking again, “music or food wise?”.

“I guess both,” the tiny smirk that appeared on Dr. Carter’s face could’ve killed Dr. Hawthorn right then and there.

“Well, I’m kinda craving some chicken” John pulled a face at that, “what’s wrong with chicken?” she tried to sound hurt, but in reality found it very funny.

“It’s just a bit plain… and boring” he explained.

“Oh and hanging out with your parents on a Friday night it’s not?” she joked.

“What can I say? I’m a family man,” Carter opened up his arms above his head, “whatever, and what music?” he sat straight again, elbows on the table.

Autumn thought for a few seconds, “I kinda have been listening to Linger by The Cranberries nonstop” she confessed.

“What d’you mean? the album it’s on?” she must mean the album. 

“Nope, just the song”.

“Don’t you get tired of it?”

“I don’t get tired of things i like, Carter” Autumn kinda hoped that he would get the hint that she was, in fact, talking about him.

“Not even people?” and maybe he had.

“Not even people,” the redhead confirmed.

The next week, while Autumn and Carter were working a night shift, a snowstorm hit Chicago. So now they were physically stuck at the hospital since snow didn’t seem to stop falling and every means of public transport shut down as it was too dangerous for people to wander around, which meant they were having a quiet and slow night at County General; and even though the thought of being completely confined inside the hospital wasn’t too appealing, they were thankful that it was under those conditions. With not many patients to look after.

Actually, it was a very boring night. Used to the chaos that was the ER, both Autumn and Carter found it hard to stay still without doing anything, and the silence that invaded every corridor and room was upsetting and eerie. And that was the reason they were where they were at that moment.

Carter had managed to somehow steal the keys to the cafeteria kitchen from Linda who was fast asleep, sitting at a chair, without waking her up. Autumn had been on the lookout in case any of the older residents or doctors suddenly appeared and told them off for their little shenanigan.

Once they were inside the cold and big room they got into a fit of laughter, feeling like two bad kids who knew they could get in trouble if found. John was leaning forwards with his hands in his knees, he was having trouble trying to stop laughing but he couldn’t; to the point that his eyes were filling up with tears. Autumn wasn’t too different, she had had to grab the countertop or else she might fall. But unlike Dr. Carter, she had already stopped laughing but had been coughing for the past ten seconds from it.

When John realised the problem the redhead was under, he immediately got close to her and started giving some harsh pats on her back, “are you okay?” He face palmed himself mentally, of course she was not, her face and neck were getting red from all the effort.

“I’m okay” more coughing, “just- water please” Autumn begged.

“Yeah, sure, on it” Carter, as fast as he could, grabbed the first cup he found, filled it up with tap water and gave it to her.

“Thank you”

“Would you like to drink some tea while I cook something for us?” Dr. Carter offered. He was rummaging through the kitchen’s cupboards trying to find a mug, and tea for that matter. 

“That’d be nice, yes” Autumn propelled herself on top of an aisle and watched him put water in the pot and turn the stove on. The heat that radiated from it warmed them up a bit. “What’s on the menu chef.”

John took some stuff from the fridge and placed it beside her, “I was thinking maybe I could cut some vegetables and cook them with some chicken?”

“I thought chicken was boring” the redhead poked the man on the ribs, tickling him and getting a smile out of it.

“Not my chicken ma’am, no” he started by washing up some carrots.

“Okay then, amaze me” Dr. Hawthorn handed Carter a big knife.

“Oh, you will, believe me.”

Autumn took a liking to watching John cook for her. She didn’t know if he was doing it to impress her or because he actually was a good cook, and she’ll find out sooner or later which is the case. “Do you like snow?”

“I like playing with it I guess” he moved on to some onions.

“Like snowball fights you mean?” The redhead stole a piece of carrot from the pile he had just finished cutting.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Carter pointed at her with the knife but she just laughed, “yes of course I mean snowball fights, what else can you do in the snow?” 

“Oh come on! you don’t like doing snow angels?” she bit down on the orange stick.

“No, I don’t like getting all my clothes wet from laying on the freezing ground,” it was the turn of the bell peppers to get cut into surprisingly thin slices.

“That’s lame John, you sound like an old grandpa” Autumn took the piece of chicken’s breast out of the tray it was in and handed it to him.

“I’m not a grandpa,” he complained.

“No, you’re right” he was worse, “my grandpa at least loved doing snow angels with me, on the freezing ground may I add.”

Carter rolled his eyes, “of course he did you’re his granddaughter.”

A few minutes passed and Carter had finished chopping all the ingredients and put them on a cooking pot when Autumn spoke again “I think I’d beat you in a snowball fight” it was a lie, she was awful at them; but, she also loved to tease him.

“No way, no one beats my throw” he was now looking at her, having finished his job for the time being.

“I think I could,” the redhead pressed.

“Fine” John caved in, “once the snow lets down we’ll go outside and I’ll show you how good I am.”

“Okay, loser has to get the morning coffees for both of us the entire next week” Dr. Hawthorn extended her hand for him to shake.

“Deal,” he took it and gave it a firm shake “you’re going to regret it.”

“I don’t think I will,” Autumn tried as best as she could to not show how she felt the moment John’s way bigger hand got into contact with hers. The man’s felt warmer and stronger against her own. Internally she wished they never had to let go. Carter was the one to let go so he could grab a bottle of kitchen oil and uncap it.

“Carter I don’t think you shou-” she tried to warn him but it was too late, he had already let big splash of oil hit the burning hot pot, sending flames into the air, “OH MY GOD”

“Oh shit-” John jumped back.

“PUT THE LID ON PUT THE LID ON” Autumn pointed to the lid that was resting behind him. 

Once the flow of oxygen had been stopped from getting inside the pot, putting off the fire, Carter turned off the stove. “I’m sorry, I hope you like your vegetables and chicken a bit crisp.”

Dr. Hawthorn jumped off the countertop and patted him on the shoulder, “I always liked my food a bit smoked,” she tried to joke while getting some plates and utensils for them.

“Just don’t consider this as my cooking, okay?” Dr. Carter served some of his slightly burned dish on each plate, “I swear I'm a good cook.”

“I’ll have to taste it to believe it.”

“Someday I’ll cook for you again and you’ll have to swallow your words,” they took the first bite and it wasn’t that bad.

“Hey, I didn’t say anything!” Autumn found it cute how distressed he was getting over it when the food really wasn’t bad.

“No, but you thought about it”

“No, I did not” they kept on eating. “This was actually quite good.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice,” John took their empty plates to the sink.

Autumn followed him so she could wash them as a thank you, “again, no I’m not.” Carter looked at her with his hands on his hips and eyebrows raised. “I’m being serious, this was better than whatever I could’ve prepared for myself at home, thank you.”

“You’re welcome” he took to helping the redhead dry the dishes with a towel he found laying around and started putting them back where he had found them. “So, what now?”

Dr. Hawthorn rinsed her hands, “let’s check with Lydia, maybe there’s something we can help on.”

“That sounds boring” John complained and Autumn laughed a laugh that was more than music for his ears.

“That sounds like work,” they made sure to tidy everything up before getting out the kitchen and locking it up again, “if there’s nothing then I’ll take you up on that snowball fight.”

“What have you done?” Lydia asked them when Carter left the keys on top of the desk in front of her.

“How are you Lydia? Enjoyed your nap?” Autumn knew the woman liked her a tiny bit more than she liked John.

“Like a kid enjoys their sweets,” the nurse joked, “what are you two up to?”

“We just stole some chi-” John was interrupted by Dr Hawthorn’s index finger on his lips, attempting to shut him up.

“Is there something for us to do? Any patient?” Both residents sure hoped there wouldn’t be.

“No, at least no one has been admitted since I’ve been awake,” nurse Wright explained, “and last time I checked Dr. Greene was sleeping in the break room so I guess no.”

“Could you page us in case something comes up?” Carter begged while handing Dr. Hawthorn her scarf and beanie that he had picked up from said room on their way from the cafeteria’s kitchen.

“Where are you going?” The woman looked at them like they were crazy.

“Just outside the ambulance bay, we want to see the snow,” Autumn said as she followed Dr. Carter to the door and he held it open for her.

“But it’s freezing out there” Lydia yelled at them.

“That’s the entire point,” John yelled back before stepping out and closing the door.

The moment their feet landed on the outside pavement a chill ran through their spines. Lydia was absolutely right, it was freezing. Carter took a moment to look at Autumn through the corner of his eye. Her big green scarf covered her up almost to the lips, her matching beanie covered her ears, though he could see a bit of it getting red from the cold; her hair was tucked under it and under her big brown leg length coat that didn’t graze the floor just by a few inches. He watched her let out a puff of air that turned white when it came into contact with the air outside and wished he was close enough to her face to inhale it himself. She looked perfect, as if they hadn’t spent hours and hours running around an ER filled with patients before the storm hit. Self-consciousness invaded him, he probably looked like he had been run over by a truck.

Yet Autumn thought he had never looked better. Yes, he looked tired; but so did she. And she wondered if that was how he looked like every time he got home and got into bed, drained from all the time spent at County General. She cursed at herself for wearing a coat with no pockets and forgetting her woolen gloves at home, because Carter’s hair seemed like the best place for her cold hands to rest and get warm and she was fighting every cell in her body to not do so.

“Are you ready to get your ass beat?” He finally broke the silence around them.

“Don’t get so cocky Dr. Carter,” the redhead teased, walking toward the snow.

“Dr. Carter? You must mean business…” he followed her like a puppy follows its owner.

“That I do,” her sneakers started getting wet and she instantly knew that meant she’d get a cold by the next morning, but at that moment the possibility of having to be a mouth breather for a few days did not worry her. 

“So, loser is on coffee duty?” that was what they had agreed.

“I’d like to change it up a bit if you let me,” Autumn bent her knees to grab a handful of snow.

“I’m listening,” he’d agree to anything she asked of him.

“If you win, I’ll be on coffee duty,” Dr. Hawthorn said with a grin on her face that told Carter she was up to no good when he looked at her, also getting down to pick up some snow, “if I win, you have to do a snow angel with me” she finished while both of them tried to mold into balls the snow on their hands.

John pretended to be thinking about it, but in reality he had nothing to think about. “You’re on,” he agreed and threw the first ball in her direction, hitting her on the shoulder.

“Hey,” Autumn tried to sound offended, “I wasn’t ready!” she threw hers back and hit him on his chest.

Carter was surprised by the strength of her throw, “where did you learn to throw like that?”

“I might’ve forgotten to mention that I took baseball classes as a kid” Dr. Hawthorn stood as if she was a player and snapped her arm forward, sending a big ball of snow into the air at high speed, crashing directly on Carter’s stomach.

“That’s totally cheating,” he started to complain “and you know it,” he tried to do the same movements as her, but she dodged it.

“No it’s not, I just didn’t tell you the entire truth,” Autumn repeated her last throw, but this time her snowball landed on John's face, most precisely his nose.

Dr. Carter took his hands to his face and bent his knees forward a bit. A muffled grunt escaping his lips.

“OH MY GOD” Autumn rushed to his side the moment she noticed what had happened, “I’m so so sorry John, let me see” she grabbed his hands to remove them from his face so she could see the damage she had caused.

“It’s fine, I’m fine” John tried to assure her, but his face said otherwise.

“No you’re not, your nose is bleeding” Autumn bent his head backwards to stop the blood from flowing and staining his clothes, “let’s go inside and I’ll help you clean up”

“Okay, yeah that I can take,” John was kinda glad for the hit he took if it meant he’ll have the redhead tending to him, close to his face.

They ran inside the hospital and into an exam room as fast as they could in order to avoid being seen by Lydia or they’d probably get scolded. Carter sat down on the exam table while Dr. Hawthorn prepared some gauze to clean his nose and upper lip as some blood had already dried there. She tilted his head back by grabbing him by the chin. John was looking at her with sad puppy eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that” she started to gently rub on his nose with the gauze, “you’ll make me feel bad”

“You broke my nose” he played with her.

“No I did not! don’t be a baby” she punched him on the arm before putting some cotton in one of his nostrils as it was still bleeding a bit, “I guess we could say I won…”

“Yeah, through cheating,” Carter could not resist the urge to fix Autumn’s hair that was falling on his face as she hovered over him. He took a strand that was grazing his cheek and moved it to rest behind her shoulder.

The redhead smiled at the gesture and finished cleaning him up, “now you owe me some snow angels”

“We’ll see about that” John tapped on his nose to see if it was hurting, it was not.

“You know you will do it” Autumn put away everything she had used.

“How can you be so sure?” He knew he would do it, but still he wanted to know why she was so sure.

“‘Cause you don’t seem like the type of guy to break a promise” she started explaining, “and I think you like me too much not to” Dr. Hawthorn had no idea from where she had gotten the guts to say that. She didn’t mean it romantically. Well, yeah she did. But Carter didn’t know that. Couldn't know that, or it’ll be the end of her.

Carter did not know what to say, he couldn’t say yes but he also could not not say anything at all. So he just awkwardly laughed, and now the moment felt as uncomfortable as ever. He noticed the way Autumn’s face changed at his response and it made him feel the most terrible and stupid he had felt in his entire life.

“I’m going to the break room,” the redhead let him know, grabbing the room’s handle to get away from him. Great, he had definitely ruined it, they were having an awesome night together but he had to be the one to end it.

“I’ll go with you,” he quickly got up and followed her.

“Suit yourself,” was all Dr. Hawthorn replied to him.

As they walked down the corridor Carter tried to find something to say, but what? Yeah you’re right I like you, like a lot, and risk being rejected by her?  No chance. Autumn didn’t like him, at least not in the way he liked her, he was sure of that; so, he wasn’t going to put their friendship on the line because of his silly crush. It’ll go away eventually, he hoped.

Once they were in the break room, neither of them said a word. The redhead sat down on the couch and turned on the TV, faking being interested in some news about the stock market. John sat down next to her, he knew she hated anything that had to do with stock, every time a man who looked like he owned assets came into the ER for help she’d leave him to someone else. 

They were the only ones there at the moment, Dr. Greene must have woken up at some point and gone somewhere else. A sudden wave of exhaustion hit Carter, it made sense as it should have been almost four in the morning, which meant he had been awake for almost an entire day with no naps in between. Autumn must have been as tired as him because he could feel how her breathing slowed down second by second, and after a few minutes he was also dozing off too when an external weight landed on his left shoulder.

It was her head.

Autumn was resting her head on his shoulder.

Carter smiled to himself and moved his head a bit to be able to watch her. She looked at peace, and there was nothing he loved more than to see that: her relaxed, next to him. It was the fact that he felt Autumn was comfortable enough with him to the point of falling asleep, none other than on his shoulder, when they were the only two living souls in the room that made his heart jump. The smell of coconut from her shampoo and the vanilla in her perfume reached his nose, he could swear on god that never in his life had he smelled something as delicious.

And just like that, he fell asleep too. With his head on top of hers.

And in that moment he did not care at all that someone would probably walk in and see them like that, that depending on who would it be the entire hospital would hear about it, that they’d be the targets of jokes for an entire week; ‘cause it meant that, at least on someone else’s mind, Autumn and him fit together.

Christmas time arrived at County General Hospital as quick as days were cold, and everyone was too excited for secret santa to come. It was the 23rd of December and they were supposed to give out the gifts that day since not all were coming back until after Christmas.

The picking process had been easy, Autumn had been in charge of writing down in tiny pieces of paper the names of all the workers that were participating, and then each one pulled out from a mug, the name you picked was the person you were buying for.

Dr. Hawthorn’s paper had said Susan, and she got her a long dark blue trench coat she had heard her say she wanted for a long time.

But Carter was overjoyed and excited from the moment he opened his and read, on her neat cursive “Autumn”. Since that moment ten days ago, he had paid even more attention than he usually did to everything she said just in case it gave him an idea about what to give her. And once he finally made up his mind and prepared his gift for her, he had been counting down the days until he was able to give it to her.

He arrived at the ER with the package he himself had wrapped in red paper under his arm and went straight to the break room to save it in his locker so Autumn would not see it. He was planning on giving it to her when they’d be doing their walk to the bus stop, where Carter always waited with her until her’s came.

“That’s a big box” Susan commented the moment she saw him enter the room, “who’s your lucky secret santa?”

“I’m not telling you” he opened his locker and had to play tetris with the stuff he had in it so Autumn’s gift would fix.

“Come on! why not?” Dr. Lewis almost screamed and got closer to him.

“‘Cause you’ll tell her” it took him a few tries but he was able to close the metal door.

“You know I would never tell Autumn you’re her lucky santa,” after hearing the blonde say that, John turned around abruptly, almost crashing into her and making a mess of the coffee mug she was holding.

“How did yo-” he really wanted it to be a surprise.

“You wouldn’t put effort into personally wrapping whatever’s inside there if it wasn’t her,” she kinda had a point, but he was not going to give himself away so easily. Susan and Carol had been trying to get him to confess his feelings for Dr. Hawthorn for a few weeks now and, surprisingly, he hadn’t fallen into it, yet.

“That’s not true,” it actually was, “I would’ve done it for anyone”

“So what you’re saying is that it actually is her,” Susan crossed her arms on top of her chest.

“I said I’m not telling you” John was almost to the door when he heard Dr. Lewis speak again.

“Whatever you say, loverboy” there was the nickname, again. He raised his middle finger at her without turning around.

Autumn had just gotten there where he reached the front desk, looking for her, and his coffee. The redhead handed it to him before she set hers down while taking off her big green scarf with one only with one hand.

“You know you still owe me that snowangel” Dr. Hawthorn pointed her index finger at him, “It’s been weeks”

“And here I thought you had forgotten about it,” he took a sip from the styrofoam cup, “thanks for the coffee by the way” he was trying to divert the topic of conversation to something else.

“I already told you to stop thanking me every day for it” she really had, but every time he tries to pay her back she says no, “and no, I didn’t forget about it, I’ll never forget about it”

Carter threw his head back and grunted, “fine, next time it snows I’ll do a snow angel with you” he finally gave in.

“You know they say it’ll snow on new year’s eve,” Autumn told him and signaled for him to follow her.

“Then it’s a good thing we’ll be stuck here” they were working a night shift on new year’s eve, which meant they’d be starting it together.

Carter would be lying if he said he hadn’t dreamt about a midnight kiss. ‘Cause he had. Twice in a row. Both times he had woken up in a sweat, having to take a cold shower despite the coldness of winter outside.

He noticed that the redhead didn’t bring in anything that resembled a present with her, “did you forget your secret santa gift at home?”

“huh?” Autumn was confused for a moment, “oh right! No, I kinda cheated and gave it early.”

John was bumped over the fact that this confirmed his was not the name written on her paper, “and who was it?”

“Dr. Lewis” that’s why she had asked him about it in the break room, “bought her a blue trench coat.”

Everyone knew Susan loved her coats, “she probably loved it.”

“She did, I saw her wearing it yesterday,” they arrived at the break room, again, where Autumn finished taking off her extra layers of clothing and putting them away inside her locker, “who’s yours?”

Carter smiled at her back, grateful that she was not able to see his little slip, “you can’t know that.”

“But it’s almost over,” he was not going to fall into this one, “I just want to know if you’re good at giving presents, I promise I won’t tell” the redhead turned around and rested her hands at her hips.

“Well, you said it yourself it’s almost over,” John said while laughing and she rolled her eyes, “you’ll know eventually” she was going to love it, he was sure.

“But you already know min-” Autumn’s protest was interrupted by Dr. Benton.

“Dr. Hawthorn, there’s a kid with early signs of pneumonia in room 4 and Dr. Ross needs your help,” he instructed her, “Carter paramedics are bringing in a GSW to the chest in two minutes, go to trauma 1 right now.”

“Yes sir” both residents responded at the same time.

The rest of the shift went on as usual, always a little hectic, especially with the holidays around the corner. Some firework’s injuries and kids sick with the flu.

Carter and Autumn were ready to get the hell out of there. They grabbed their stuff from the break room as fast as they could, just in case a new patient came in and delayed their exit, and practically ran out of County General.

They were already walking on the sidewalk when John noticed she was shivering and not wearing her coat, “where’s your coat?”

“I forgot to grab in the hurry of getting out” she engulfed herself in her own arms, thankful to at least have a big sweater and her green scarf on.

“Here,” Carter started to take off his own coat, “have mine.”

“Oh no no” the redhead tried to stop him by tapping his forearms, “you’ll get sick John, we’re almost to my bus stop.”

“Just let me-” he stopped in his tracks and set the wrapped box he was carrying on the floor, “and as soon as you get on your bus I’ll hail a cab while you have the entire ride home and another few blocks to walk,” he extended the black jacket to her, “just put it on please.”

“Fine” she accepted and started to put it on while Carter picked up the gift and resumed walking, “just because I’ve already been exposed to too much flu today…” that made him chuckle, “did you not get to see your secret santa?” Autumn looked at his arms.

“I actually did, she’s wearing my jacket right now,” he tried to be smooth.

“No way! Seriously?” Dr. Hawthorn stopped walking.

“Yes, this” he handed her the box, “is for you” John watched her expectantly as she sat down on a bench they had stopped in front of and started tearing off the paper.

Once all the red was out of the picture, Autumn’s mouth dropped in awe and his eyes opened like saucers. She immediately set it down beside her and jumped to hug Carter.

“A moka pot?!” she screamed in his ear as her arms interlocked in the back of his neck and she felt him do the same around her waist.

“Do you like it?” his voice was filled with excitement over her excitement, he knew he had nailed it.

“I fucking love it, seriously” they broke apart, “thank you so much it’s the best thing you could’ve given to me.”

“I’m glad you like it, take it as a ‘thank you’ for all the coffees you bring me and don’t let me pay for” the smiles on their faces could not get bigger even if they tried.

They continued their little journey to Autumn’s stop while she read aloud, from the back of the box, all the special features her new coffee maker had. And when it was time for her to get on it, both wished she would have invited him over to try it for the first time; but Autumn was too shy to suggest it and Carter was too scared to ask.

That night, John dreamt of a midnight kiss from his friend, again. Only this time it also included breakfast in bed and two mugs of freshly brewed espresso.

When New Year’s Eve came around and it found Dr. Hawthorn and Dr. Carter like they said it would, snowed in and stuck in another night shift, they didn’t mind it at all. If you had asked them if they preferred to spend that night at home or right where they were at that point, they wouldn’t second guess going for the latter option.

They weren’t able to spend much time together as John had been invited by Dr. Benton to help out in an open heart surgery, an opportunity he couldn’t miss and that had lasted nearly seven hours. Which had left Autumn to her own devices most of the day, even though Dr. Ross had kept her occupied with lots of sutures and taught her to do a spinal tap.

But when the clock marked 11:55 p. m. , all the ER staff got together at the entry desk. Dr. Hawthorn helped Lydia and Dr. Greene’s wife, Jen, pass around some non-alcoholic fruit punch to toast with at midnight, giving everyone a tiny cup.

By the time they finished serving it was a few seconds 'till 12 p. m. and Autumn found her place next to Carter.

“Hey, long time no see” he greeted.

“I’m very happy that you got to help Dr. Benton on that surgery but it was such a bore without you here,” the redhead confessed, “I missed you.”

John felt his heart jump in his chest, “I mi-”

“TEN, NINE-” he wanted to tell her that he had missed her too, a lot; but the countdown set him back.

“EIGHT, SEVEN-” Autumn joined in, still looking at him.

“SIX, FIVE, FOUR, THREE-” Carter copied her, yelling the numbers in each other’s faces.

“TWO, ONE-” God she wished he would kiss her.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” And he would have done so if they had been alone.

For now the clink of their glasses and a hug, so tight they felt their insides stood on new places, had to suffice.

TAGLIST: @thinemineours @Katydunn047-blog @delicatetrashtree

[paracosm-draw]

for the ask game, what about obikin & 14. "hey I'm with you, okay? always." ? 🤠

Heyy, thank you for the proposition ! I had a lot of fun thinking about how I wanted to include this sentence in a short story, hope you'll like it ! 👀

---

“He broke his arm but the surgery went well. He’s not in any pain ; he’s actually pretty high on painkillers right now, so… He might not exactly be like himself for the next hour or so.” 

It’s the only information Obi-Wan gets from the moment he steps off the bridge of the Negotiator, unsettled, anxiety still clinging to his skin despite the many hours he spent meditating during their hyperspace travel, and the moment he enters into the Halls of Healing. 

It’s just a broken arm. 

Just a broken arm. It could have been way worse. He could have lost it, could have lost another limb because the Force is cruel like that sometimes. He didn’t. Just a broken arm. Already fixed. Still, he cannot help but think that he could have prevented it, should he have been there, by Anakin’s side, instead of being dispatched to the other end of the galaxy where his usefulness had been, in his opinion, more than questionable. 

He doesn't like it one bit, being away from Anakin so often and for so long. He never really liked it, if he’s being honest. Not when Anakin was twelve and he had to leave him to another Master to fly from a diplomatic mission to another. Not when Anakin had been knighted and made a general in charge of his own battalion, and by extension of his own missions away from Coruscant and from Obi-Wan. Certainly not now that they're very freshly and very illegally married behind the Council’s back. 

The moment he pushes the door of Anakin's medical room, he’s still thinking about the speech he’s going to give the Council next time they try to send them on different systems. They’ve always functioned better together, anyway. Completing each other. Catalysing each other. A frighteningly powerful synergy even the Council couldn’t deny the efficacy. A perfect team. The team, as the holonet called them now. Obi-Wan kinda liked it. If only they knew. 

“Obi-Wan !” 

The noise in Obi-Wan’s mind mutes as soon as he looks up to a very awake, very happy Anakin. He’s lying on a quite impressive pile of pillows (Obi-Wan isn’t sure he's supposed to have so many pillows) like a perfectly content loth-cat, white cast resting over white sheets. His entire face lights up when Obi-Wan closes the door and lays his eyes on him, and Obi-Wan’s heart does a funny little thing at the pure, unfiltered joy written in capital letters on his features. 

“You came !” 

“Of course I came, dearest.” Obi-Wan chuckles, scanning the room as he approaches the bed. 

There’s a nurse in a corner, preparing medications in a couple of syringes. No obvious display of affection, then.

“Good evening, Master Kenobi.” She kindly smiles at him. He gives her a respectful nod. “I’m glad you came, he wouldn’t stop calling for you.” 

Of course, he did. He thinks but doesn’t say. Instead he says : 

“I hope he didn’t cause you any trouble.”

“You took sooo long ! What took you so long ?” Anakin whines from the bed. 

Obi-Wan can hear him squirming and shuffling in a vain attempt at sitting up, but he knows him too well to ignore the underlying attempt at getting his undivided attention back on him and him only. Obi-Wan can’t remember ever having refused him, even once. 

“Oh no, he’s been very quiet and easy. The perfect patient.” The nurse says, but Obi-Wan had already turned his back on her, stepping towards the bed with a scoff. 

Quiet and easy. Really ? Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow at Anakin, who gives him a sheepish smile. Those two words don’t belong in a vocabulary destined to describe him. He’s probably the worst patient in all timelines and universes. Some would say him and Obi-Wan were fighting for the first place but Obi-Wan doesn’t agree. He knows how to behave himself, thank you very much, he just doesn’t need half of the care they try to impose on him most of the time. 

“So you’ve been waiting for me calmly and without complaining ?” He asks skeptically, pulling a chair on his way to sit right next to the bed. He refrains himself from touching Anakin, not until they’re alone, but he brushes his fingers over the sheet covering his wrist and keeps them there, pressed against the side of his durasteel forearm. 

Anakin squints at him like he just asked a very complex question requiring a great deal of thoughts, but then a smile spreads on his lips and he beams at him with a giggle. 

“Your beard looks funny.” 

Not… exactly the answer Obi-Wan expected. But before he can ponder on what Anakin finds so funny about his facial hair, the young man continues. 

“Looks so soft, like- Like… Y’know that old sweater you insisted on keeping that’s ugly and smells funny too… It’s like… Can I touch it ?” 

Obi-Wan is too occupied being offended about Anakin criticizing his favorite sweater (it’s not ugly) to register the end of the sentence and notice the mechano fingers sneaking from under the covers until they’re on his face, petting his cheeks with awkward movements. 

“Anakin, behave yourself.” He reprimands gently because the nurse is still in the room, but a smile still makes its way on his lips when Anakin gives him the same pout as when he was nine and was denied a third portion of dessert. 

Obi-Wan couldn’t resist him back then, he still can’t fifteen years later. So he takes his hand in his own and intertwines their fingers on the bed. The nurse be damned. He needs to touch him. The other hand, the flesh one, the one on which Obi-Wan put an engagement ring, is stuck on the cast, from the tip of his fingers to his elbow. But Obi-Wan doesn't care. He doesn’t care about holding gold and black metal. The durasteel skin and wired tendons are as much a part of Anakin as are his blood and bones. And he loves all the parts of him. 

“Hey.”

When Obi-Wan looks up from their hands, Anakin is wiggling his eyebrows at him, a blissful smile plastered on his face. Obi-Wan knows this face. He’s got something on his mind, most probably one of his terrible pick up lines that makes Obi-Wan cringe and Anakin laugh his ass off. But he also has glassy and unfocused eyes - high on painkillers, Obi-Wan remembers - and seems way too proud of what he’s about to say, so he plays his game. He’ll have something to bargain with next time Anakin decides to be a little shit and disclose embarrassing stories about him. 

“Hello.” 

Anakin giggles again and clears his throat, trying and failing at looking at least a little bit composed. 

“Did the stars- No, wait. Did someone take all the stars in the galaxy to put them in your eyes ? Because you’re so pretty.” Anakin grins, and Obi-Wan can’t help but bark a laugh at the cheesiest line he’s probably ever heard until now. And Force knows he’s heard his fair share of them. 

“You think you’re very smooth, mmh ?” 

“Affirmative.” The young man - the war General - nods enthusiastically. “I’ve got baby skin.”

That’s when the nurse decides to leave the room. Thank the Force. Obi-Wan isn’t sure how much more time he can stop Anakin from saying something betraying both of them on the true nature of their relationship. He truly hopes she will take all of this as the nonsensical rant of a man high on medications only. 

As if on cue, Anakin leans towards him with a conspiratorial air, almost losing his balance on the process. 

“You got a boyfriend ?”

Obi-Wan stabilizes him with a chuckle and pushes him back gently on the pillows, arranging them for better support. Anakin lets him but his eyes never leave his face, the intensity of his stare unsettling a long time ago, but almost reassuring now. He really wants to know. And Obi-Wan can’t resist a little bit of teasing. 

“I’ve got a husband, actually.” He says very casually, even though his heart still misses a beat at the words. It’s been two months. He hopes he will never get used to it. 

“Oh.” 

Anakin’s entire face falls at that. Obi-Wan didn’t know what to expect but he should have known. Because soon, Anakin’s lips start to wobble and his eyes widen, filling with tears at an alarming rate. Obi-Wan winces. He should have known. If there’s one thing Anakin never jokes about, high or not, it’s the complicated, forbidden, precious love they keep for each other. 

“Anak-”

“So you don’t love me ?” 

Ah, kriff. 

“Of course I love you, dear o-”

“You had a husband all that time and you never told me !” Anakin whimpers, tears finally spilling on his cheeks and rolling down to the collar of his hospital gown. “You don’t love me.” 

Good job, Kenobi. Making your husband cry not two months after you promised to make him happy every day. 

Obi-Wan may well know that the medications are most probably talking for Anakin right now, the tears in his eyes are real enough to make his stomach clench. The last thing he wants is for Anakin to think he doesn’t love him, even as a joke. He takes his hand in both of his and presses a kiss on the sensors at the tip of his fingers, their sensitive mechanism translating the gentle pressure into an electrical signal sent to his brain, mimicking the sensation of lips against real skin. Or so Anakin explained to him. 

“I do love you.” He says softly. “You’re the one I married, remember ?”

Anakin sniffles and gives him a wary look. He’s beautiful, even like that. 

“Prove it.”

They don’t wear their rings, obviously. They can’t. Not on their fingers, anyway. They keep them together on a chain. They decided to take turns ; the one being sent on the most dangerous mission leaving the rings behind with the other, just in case he didn’t come back. So they would never be separated. 

“Look.” 

Obi-Wan slips his fingers under the tight collar of his undertunic, pulling out the golden chain preciously pressed against his chest. Sometimes it leaves marks on his skin, tiny dents he discovers when he disrobes before going to sleep. He cherishes them just as much as the marks Anakin leaves on him when they reunite, a secret proof that he’s here all the time, in Obi-Wan’s head and flesh, right next to his heart. 

“See that ?” He asks, laying the rings on the palm of his hand. There’s a black one and a copper one, interlocked into one single ring, two pieces of the same entity. He disconnects them to show him the copper one. “You gave it to me, remember ?” 

Anakin doesn’t seem very convinced. His gaze travels from Obi-Wan’s palm to his face. 

“I gave it to you ?” 

“Yes, you did.” Obi-Wan smiles. “Even though I’m the one who proposed to you.” 

Anakin hums. The pout is back but the tears stopped. 

“So you won’t leave me for another husband…?” He asks in a whisper, voice wavering hesitantly at the end. 

Obi-Wan puts the chain back under his clothes, hidden behind several layers like he keeps their love hidden, safe and private and only theirs. Then he leans towards Anakin, cupping his beloved face between his hands and gently wiping the wetness on his cheeks. 

“Hey.” He breathes softly. “I’m with you, okay ? Always. I’ll never leave you, Anakin.” 

Anakin closes his eyes and lets out a shaky sigh, leaning into the touch for a moment before suddenly opening his eyes again with a gasp. 

“But I broke my arm. I can’t be married if I can’t even put my ring on !”

Obi-Wan sighs deeply. The “next hours or so” promised to be long. 

[sleep-i-ness]

Maybe They're Born With It, Maybe It's Trauma

Summary: You make a new friend at rehab.

Content Warning: Drugs, rehab

TUA MASTERLIST | GENERAL MASTERLIST

“I hoped we wouldn’t be seeing you back here so soon.” The dour face of Dr Hartleben greeted you as you waltzed into the rehab centre, a grin splitting your face in two.

“How could I stay away? I simply adore the early morning yoga sessions and going around in a circle after lunch explaining why we’re all so fucked up.”

Dr Hartleben’s pursed lips and sour expression conveyed all she had to say on the matter as you turned sharply on the ball of your foot. She took large strides down the corridor, and you had to jog to catch up, your scruffy trainers squeaking on the shiny linoleum floor. This place was like a second home to you, having been in and out every few months for the past 7 or so years.

You’d tried to hold down a steady job, really, you had. But all you had to show for it was a place as a flautist in the local orchestra, which did not pay, and a spacious but surprisingly cheap apartment in the dodgy part of the city. That you’d bought with money from your past life, when everything had been fine and on track to at least a minimal amount of success. But all in all, you’d decided that there was no point in trying to regain some semblance of normalcy in your life when all you ever did was try to escape the ghosts from your past.

Dr Hartleben pushed open the dull aluminium door with your foot, a shaft of sunlight illuminating the room. Ah, home sweet home. The stale scent of iodoform and sweat wafted out and you breathed deeply. This was the one thing that never changed, no matter what.

“You know your way around, the top bunk on the far left is vacant. I expect to see you adding your name to the duty rosters and coming to group therapy this afternoon,” Dr Hartleben was itching to leave you in the confined patient dormitories, barely even standing on the faded doorstep of the room. “Your stuff will be brought to you as soon as it has all been checked.”

You scoffed. “I’m always a model patient, I’d never jeopardise my spot in this wonderful place by bringing shit in with me.”

“Then why are you back again? I’ll leave you to get settled and make your bed. Your sheets should be on the end of your bunk. The others are in the garden, one of the nurses will be round in 10 minutes to escort you.”

With that, the door swung closed, and you were left standing in the dank and poorly lit room. The frosted windows were too grimy to let much light in and the bulb in the lamp buzzed a faint yellow. At least this time you had a top bunk, which was clearly the superior spot.

That was the problem in having so many drug overdoses on your medical record; every so often you’d be sent back into rehab, with or without a court order to stay. You had forgotten the strict rules that had to be followed and the lack of freedom; you didn’t need a babysitter. At least in rehab you wouldn’t be quite so lonely, you had roommates to keep you company now. And everyone had their own demons to face, otherwise they wouldn’t be here. There was no room for judging.

The crisp sheets smelt of starched linen, over washed and firm to the touch. No more comfy bed sheets, you mourned. The mattress was lumpy and had a suspicious dark stain on the plastic that you straight up refused to touch, choosing to flip it over instead and hope that the other side was less grimy.

“Y/N?” A knock sounded at the door and a nurse popped his head round the door, clutching your overflowing crochet shoulder bag. It was a face you hadn’t seen before, and you quickly plastered on your friendliest grin.

“Hi, yep, that’s me. Is my stuff all okay for me to take?” All there was in the bag was a change of clothes, some toiletries and spare underwear. No point bringing anything too nice, someone was bound to nick it otherwise.

“Yeah, yeah.” The nurse returned your smile, holding out the bag for you to quickly grab and sling over the end of your bed. He was quite young, you would guess late 20s to early 30s. You pitied the poor guy, having to deal with them all the time. Well, he had chosen this.

“Dr Hartleben said that the other patients were all in the garden, can I join them?” You skipped over to the door, your colourfully patterned skirt swishing round your ankles. You hadn’t been quite sure that your outfit was particularly fitting for the centre; it had felt a bit too bohemian but seeing the drab and dreary walls reminded you that a pop of colour would do this place some good.

The garden was a bit of an overstatement really. It was more of a paved courtyard with weeds growing between the cracks in the slabs and a couple of small flowerbeds, one of which had been a vegetable garden the last time you had been here but now appeared to have been taken over by weeds. It was the space for the newest patients, who couldn’t be trusted to go into the slightly more expansive grounds yet. It was depressingly barren, and you eyed the patients morosely milling around with a grimace. How boring.

“What’s growing in the beds at the moment?” You turned to the nurse, whose name you hadn’t learnt yet, with a dazzling smile.

“I don’t think there’s anything particular being grown.”

You pursed your lips. How sad. Any life or nature in this place really was stifled and stamped out in the end.

--

You trudged into the group therapy room, eyes following your feet as they left scuff marks on the shiny floor. You slipped into a spare seat, barely making eye contact with anyone else. If you could get out of this without a single person trying to become your new bosom pal, you’d count it as a win.

“Hi, I’m Ella and today we have someone new joining us, so I’d like everyone to go round in the circle and introduce themselves by saying their name and why they’re here. Louisa, if you wouldn’t mind starting off for us.” The irritatingly cheery voice of the therapist was grating on your nerves, you hated these sessions with a passion. What was the need in sharing the same stories every week?

“I’m Louisa and I’m an alcoholic.”

“I’m Mark and I’m a heroin addict.”

“I’m Susanna and I’m a drug addict.”

“I’m Brent and I’m an alcoholic.”

The droning of voices soon became a wave of background noise that washed over you like a sea of calm, each introduction as monotonously boring as the next. The person to your left spoke and you yawned softly, daintily lifting a hand to cover your mouth. “I’m Y/N and I’m an addict.”

There was something so tiring about rehab. Between the withdrawals and the endless therapy and need to be in touch with emotions, it was draining both physically and mentally. You couldn’t wait to get out; you only had a couple more weeks to go.

“And, our newest member, would you like to introduce yourself?” You could practically hear the beaming grin in Ella’s voice, and you rolled your eyes. Bit much.

“I’m Klaus and I’d like to say I’m a tortured soul-” Your head snapped up to look curiously at the newbie. Heavily eyelinered brown eyes stared back at you, a mischievous twinkle shining in them. “But to stick with the same pattern as everyone else, I’m an addict.”

He lifted a ringed hand to wave to the circle, winking at you. And you felt yourself flush, ducking your head from his intense gaze.

Group therapy had never felt so long as today, not that you could recall anything discussed, not when your eyes kept straying towards Klaus. And boy, did he notice. Every time his eyes met yours, he held the eye contact, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and you flushed redder and redder.

How unfair that someone this gorgeous was at rehab; how were you meant to even attempt to recover when he kept looking at you!

It wasn’t until the end of the session, as you all shuffled out, that he properly made his way over to you, a cheeky grin on his face. You glanced at him, turning your head back to the door with a small smile which you tried your hardest to fight back.

“Hello, Y/N,” he murmured, voice so low it felt like a conversation that was only for you. And you bit at the inside of your cheek to squash the blush crawling up inside you.

“Hiya,” you whispered, hoping you didn’t sound quite as excited as you felt.

“Come here often?”

You giggled, hating how much like a schoolgirl you sounded, and finally plucked up the courage to make eye contact with him. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Court mandated as well?”

You nodded, picking at a stray thread on your skirt.

“Well, we’ve got each other now.”

And you chewed at your bottom lip, beaming grin splitting across your face as a heady rush of giddiness filled your chest. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

“Want to go see the garden with me?”

You nodded, a little too quickly and eagerly, and he just chuckled at you.

Maybe rehab wouldn’t be as bad this time around.

[queenshelby]

An Illicit Affair

Part One: My Boyfriend's Father

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (46) x Reader (23)

Warning: Age-Gap, Taboo Relationship, Infidelity

It was 15 months ago when you first met the man who, unbeknownst to you, would eventually become the center of your disastrous life and that man was not your current boyfriend Maximilian Murphy, a twenty-two-year-old Irishman from Dublin.

You had been going out with Max for about a year when you met the man who changed everything for you and, whilst Max was almost an entire year younger than you, you had both met at London's top medical school after he had transferred from Trinity College. 

Max was energetic, confident and intelligent. He was popular with the girls and, although you were drawn to him because of his sense of humor and easygoing nature, it was quite obvious to you that he was much less serious about life in general than you were. 

After a year of non-serious dating, Max eventually told you that he was taking you to Dublin for his father's 46th birthday and it was then when you first laid eyes on him. Cillian Murphy, your boyfriend's father. 

The name "Cillian Murphy" didn't ring any bells for you at the time as you had never seen any of his films, but now, 15 months later, you knew everything that there was to know about him due to the publicity his movie Oppenheimer had received in recent weeks. 

You went to see the movie too with some friends and whilst you had broken up with Max about a year earlier, you happened to recall the weekend you shared with him and his family in Dublin. 

Both Cillian and his wife Danielle made you feel welcome when you arrived with their son Max late on a Friday afternoon at their large Victorian townhouse near the coast, just outside Dublin.

The house was decorated with tasteful modern furniture and a collection of modern art hung on the walls. The living room featured large windows overlooking the sea with heavy curtains blocking the view when needed.

You spent most of Saturday relaxing by the pool with Max, swimming and sunbathing before enjoying a dinner prepared by Danielle for her husband's birthday.

As you sat down at the table, Cillian seemed distracted, and it wasn't until the second glass of wine that he asked you more about yourself and your aspirations.

"So, what do you want to specialize in?" he asked and you looked down at your plate and replied softly, "I haven't decided yet. I think I might enjoy working in pediatrics."

"Working with children can be emotionally demanding," Cillian said, "but I am sure it's  incredibly rewarding," he then went on to say before acknowledging that Max had told him that you were at the top of your class. 

"It sounds like you have a bright future ahead of you," he told you and your heart fluttered a bit as you heard his voice, deep and resonant, filled with warmth and confidence. It was a contrast to Max's playful teasing, something about which made you feel comfortable and safe.

Danielle, Cillian's wife, chimed in with a question for you, "What got you interested in medicine in the first place?" she asked. You paused for a moment, considering how best to explain such a complex answer.

"Well, my dad was a doctor, so healthcare was a part of our household growing up," you began thoughtfully. "But the real turning point came during high school when I visited a friend who was hospitalized with leukemia. Her doctors and nurses took such great care of her, and it really opened my eyes to the impact that medicine could have on people's lives."

Cillian nodded along, seemingly genuinely interested in your response.

"That's amazing," he murmured. "You are genuinely empathetic and that's a good trait to have, especially as a doctor," he went on to say with a smile and you couldn't help but blush slightly under his intense gaze. His piercing blue eyes seemed to look right through you, making you feel vulnerable in a way you hadn't felt before. But instead of feeling uncomfortable, you found yourself strangely drawn to him. There was something magnetic about him, something that made you want to spend more time with him despite the fact that he was twice your age.

The day after his birthday party, while you were lounging around the poolside, you couldn't help but notice Cillian looking at you intently from across the lawn. His eyes held a mysterious glint, a curiosity that seemed to grow stronger every minute.

As if sensing your presence, he approached you and started a friendly conversation. The topics ranged from movies to books, and even personal interests. It was a pleasant surprise finding out that both of you shared a love for Jazz before Max pointed out to you that Jazz music was for "old people", causing Cillian to laugh.

The sound of Cillian's laughter was soothing and comforting.

You felt butterflies in your stomach as adrenaline surged through your veins. You tried to compose yourself, focusing on the casual exchange of small talk, hoping to distract yourself from the strong attraction you felt towards your own boyfriend's father.

But no matter how hard you tried, those enchanting blue eyes kept drawing you back in. The subtle smell of his cologne lingered in the air, filling your senses with a mix of excitement and shame.

Luckily for you however, on Sunday morning, Max and you travelled back to London, leaving behind the memory of the lingering gaze that Cillian gave you as you boarded the plane while, in hindsight, you realized that Cillian's gaze did leave something behind - a seed planted between the lines of your otherwise innocent encounter.

In the months that followed, you found yourself thinking about Cillian more often than you expected and, unfortunately for Max, at the same time as fantasizing about his father, you became more and more annoyed by his immaturities. 

And then, one evening, after another argument between you and Max over whether you should go clubbing or stay in and study, you finally snapped.

"This isn't working out anymore, Max," you told it him straight. "We need different things in life and we would be better off breaking up now rather than prolonging something that won't work long term," you told Max, sitting on the bed of his dorm room, causing his chin to drop.

"You don't mean it," he said, sounding shocked.

"Yes, I do," you said firmly as you looked away from him, knowing that he wouldn't understand why you couldn't go on like this.

"No, please, give me another chance. We can make this work," Max pleaded, moving closer to you, reaching out to touch your arm.

"No, Max, I've made up my mind," you said firmly, avoiding his pleading eyes.

You knew that it was only a matter of time before Max would come to terms with the truth, but you also knew that the process would be painful for both of you.

Max moved closer, grasping your hand gently. "Maybe we just need to communicate better," he suggested, his eyes full of hope. "I love you, you know. I am happy to try anything," he continued but you shook your head.

You pulled your hand away, fighting back tears. "I just... I can't anymore, Max," you whispered quietly. "We tried to make it work several times, but our expectations are quite different. I am taking university serious, but you are not. You have different interests and I think that you would be better of with someone else," you confessed, averting your gaze.

"But... but, what about the future? What about us?" Max stammered, desperation seeping into his tone. You remained silent, allowing the silence to hang heavily between you two. Finally, you took a deep breath.

"I don't want to lose you, Y/N," Max pleaded, his voice quivering. "We have been together for a year, surely we can find a way to make it work. I promise."

You shook your head sadly, unable to meet his desperate gaze.

"We are both still young and year is nothing if you are in your early twenties. I'm sorry, Max," you managed to whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I think it's best if we end things here."

He let out a choked sob, his face crumpling. "Please," he implored, clutching onto your wrist. "Don't leave me like this."

But you couldn't stand it any longer, pulling your arm free. "I need space, Max," you said sharply, rising to your feet.

"I need to focus on myself and my studies right now," you told him while, deep down inside, you knew that something was missing, something was holding you back from fully committing to your relationship.

And it wasn't long before fate intervened as, just over year after your breakup with Max, you ran into Cillian again at a jazz concert in London...

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@heidimoreton @nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter

[suspiciouscatastrophe]

I know, I know, the audacity I have barging into Czech Tumblr speaking English... (I have lost the ability to express myself comfortably in my native language) BUT this might come in handy to someone!

It'sssss... ✨ DOCTOR REVIEW ✨ time! (The trans kind. Of the sexologist sort.)

The subject of this review is MuDr R. Mužný (must be one of the top names for someone who can prescribe you T) of Fakultní nemocnice Ostrava. He's a sexologist currently accepting new patients.

My experience: I have only visited him once so far, so I have a concrete idea of his requirements to let you transition and his general attitude, but if something to add comes up in the future, I'll update and reblog the new version. It's also important to mention that I'm an adult transmasc, transfems or minors might have different experiences.

Attitude: The doctor's very young and seems laid-back and very friendly. He was affirming to me, and apologetic for some of the more sexual questions. He assured me that he didn't want to complicate my transition.

He didn't have any comments, derisive or supportive, when I mentioned having identified as non-binary in the past.

He thinks that even non-intersex people can transition. (yes, I was also surprised to learn about sexologists who don't)

He accepted a vague response to his question about sexuality. No need to pretend you're hetero if you aren't with this one.

He didn't seem to be against my ability to transition even though he was made aware I was autistic and had OCD.

Requirements: When making my first appointment, I mentioned to the nurse that I had spoken with a clinical psychologist about transsexuality before, and it led to them wanting a gender-related report from a different professional. I don't know to what extent is that a necessity, or if you can just come without any "recommendation" whatsoever.

Now here's the kicker: Dr. Mužný asks you for an essay (he calls it "životopis") in which you describe your relationship to your gender identity throughout your life, minimal length 3 A4s, written by hand. On top of that, it should include a written testimony from your PARENT. He also offered to invite the parent to come with me next time instead. I reiterate that I am not a minor, I'm in my mid twenties. The parental voice having to basically fact-check you if what you're writing about your childhood is true is, in my opinion, more than demeaning and terrifying. I voiced my disapproval and concern to him, to which he assured me that if the parent seems dismissive, unaccepting or simply transphobic, he won't give their words much weight. So at least there's that.

As for something positive, he doesn't do any violating, archaic physical examinations. (no physical examinations at all, actually) I was not asked to strip down.

The length of the real life test with him is 1 year. When he was answering this question of mine, he seemed to pause and ponder my case, since I came already fully socially transitioned (and had been for more than half a year), so there's a chance that it could be even shorter, if it turns out he takes your initiative into account.

The other doctors he sends you to are, as expected, an endocrinologist, a gynecologist (transmasc special, I don't know if transfems get sent for a "your genitals seem fine health-wise" paper somewhere, too, I'm sorry), but also a geneticist. (He told me that it was to complete a general patient anamnesis, but also to determine whether I was intersex. When I asked whether the result impacted my ability to transition, he said no.)

You may notice I didn't mention a psychiatrist. Neither did he. Whether that was because I already came armed with a paper saying that a clinical psychologist finds me sane enough to make medical decisions, or because he just doesn't do that (or forgot to tell me), I have no idea.

Oh yeah, and be prepared for the auto[insertgender]philia question. He will ask you whether transitioning turns you on and you will say no, because [even if you low-key think being trans is hot], your sexologist is not your friend and could only use it against you.

My conclusion so far: You could probably do worse with a sexologist, just make sure you have a functioning relationship with at least one parent and hope. My opinion might be object to change.

[vee-the-ghostie]

I don't necessarily enjoy posting this stuff on my blog, but I'm hoping it will have a lighter tone than it initially seems.

So I saw a Facebook friend of mine share a post saying that Texas is introducing a bill that criminalizes all gender affirming care, including for adults. Now this is bad and we can all agree this is bad, for reasons both directly and indirectly related to this prohibition.

However, I propose that this present and amazing opportunity for us in The Trans Community as a whole.

See my mind can't help but wander back to my school days and learning US History. The Prohibition of the 1920s specifically comes to mind. Now this may be a false equivalency, but there are some similarities in these two situations: it's a pointless law that targets a significant number of American people. (There's probably more similarities but my brain doesn't want to function fully right now.)

Now when you think Prohibition your first thought might be bootlegs or bootleggers. This could be a problem in the face of what we're dealing with today considering this is a prohibition of medical treatment instead of drinks for recreational use. For instance, the easiest option for those who want to continue their medical transition would be to order their medications online, which is an option that can and will be taken advantage of by people who wish to harm the trans community in any way they can.

But there's another key word that comes to mind when thinking of the Prohibition of the 1920s:

Speakeasy.

That's right. I think this is an opportunity for the trans community to band together and form "speakeasy"-esque gender care clinics. These will be trustworthy businesses who can reliably source quality HRT medications for people in states with gender care prohibitions. Ideally, they will be run by trans people who practice medicine, but failing that we can bring in allied doctors and/or nurses who can prescribe medications for their trans patients. Failing that, we can have them run by trans people who have been on these prescriptions and know a lot about them.

Now there is a chance that if news gets out about these, there will be new laws put in place to crack down on such practices. But perhaps we could use this to our advantage. If there are clinics that give out unreliable and dangerous prescriptions and generally not taking care of their patients, they can be ratted out and shut down.

Is this a ridiculous and stupid idea? Perhaps. Am I the first person who's thought of this? Probably not. Are there numerous issues that I've glossed over that will complicate the implementation of such a stupid idea? Most definitely. But if our country is being led by stupid people who put stupid laws in place to fight our beautiful existence, then why can't we use stupid ideas to fight back. Besides, if we can get the right people involved, then those numerous issues may become much less numerous.

-V

Tagging people I think could blow this up

@catboybiologist @sharkgirldick @i-am-a-fish @punkitt-is-here @nyancrimew @bisexual-engineer-guy

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

𝓣𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓒𝓪𝓻𝓮. [Running Free (Final)]

Decisions have to be made- you can't just run away from them.

Tags/Warnings: Hospital/Medical AU, Doctor!Jungkook, slightly aged up!Jungkook, Hybrid!Reader, Dog Hybrid!Reader, comfort, romance??, Fluff, happy end I guess, we finished another one yay

Length: 5k words

-> Masterlist

There is no taglist for this fic.

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You’re being released from the hospital this week.

He’s not too sure how he feels about it, but he knows it’s for the best. The longer you stay in, the more you gain the risk of catching an infection that’ll be resistant to most medication due to the natural environment of a hospital- and you also deserve to go home, wherever that might end up being.

He’ll miss the daily visits, and he will most of all miss the hospital- but he’s made his choice, long term wish of finally having his own office as a hybrid specialist in the city soon to be coming true. The building is currently being renovated from the core, to soon become a place where hybrids can finally be treated without having to have their owners or partners drag them hours away to another location. This had been his dream ever since he’s started med school-

And it looks like if everything goes smooth from now on, it’ll finally come true.

You on the other hand, clearly can’t wait to get outside.

After multiple sessions with a professional, you’ve slowly come to learn that most of the things you’ve been taught weren’t actually true at all. While it’s correct that certain hybrids can’t be outside alone, for most hybrids it’s just a general suggestion- there’s no law against going out alone. So now that you know that you can actually go outside, you constantly ask him if he’ll take you-

And he’d love to, but he just doesn’t have the time.

So instead you’ve gone out with Jimin a few times, while Jungkook would eagerly listen to all the fun stories the nurse would get to experience with you. If he was up for it, you’d probably be really happy with him- but Jungkook knows that Jimin has his reasons for not even thinking about taking you in.

“She’s scratching her ear a lot.” Jimin mentions at lunch, and Jungkook instantly focuses. “I think she might’ve either developed an ear infection or it’s something that’s been brewing for a while.”

“Well, her ears fold over quite a bit so it wouldn’t be surprising.” Jungkook hums as he eats his food. “And since she’s not been outside much her immune system probably isn’t the strongest. I’ll take a look at it later, see if it needs anything prescribed.” He offers, as Jimin falls quiet for a moment, watching the doctor. “what?”

“You have to let her get discharged-“ He starts, but Jungkook instantly shakes his head.

“I will, I will, I’d never do that.!” He argues. “I just want to make sure everything’s alright before she leaves.” He says quietly into his food.

“You could just take her home.” Jimin chuckles. “you’d get to make sure all the time then.” He teases, and Jungkook rolls his eyes.

“Its not that simple. I told you.” He reminds his older coworker, who nods.

“I know, sorry.” He brushes the topic off, before Jungkook’s name is being called out, making Jimin sigh with sympathy for his friend. “I’ll have them wrap it so you can heat it up later?” He asks, and Jungkook nods as he wipes his mouth already standing up.

“Thanks.”

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“hm, yeah, it all looks like it.” Jungkook hums as he inspects your ear, before taking out some cotton swabs and a cleaning solution. “But it’s not bad. Most likely just your immune system being a little over-protective.” He reassures you as he moves to put some of the cleaning solution on the ball of cotton.

“is that bad?” You wonder. “when will I be normal?”

“You’re already normal, don’t worry about that.” The doctor tells you before he holds up your ear to both clean and disinfect it- something you slightly move away from, as it’s uncomfortable. “no no, stay here, yeah?” He tells you, but it’s hard. “you’re doing great..” he mumbles the praise as he makes sure to do a good job while not taking longer than necessary. “Jimin said you saw ducks today?” He tries to distract you, and it seems to work.

“they were in a.. pond, nearby. But there was a fence so I couldn’t get close.” You explain, making Jungkook chuckle. It’s probably for the best you couldn’t- you could’ve fallen into the ice cold waters or gotten lost otherwise. You’re not used to being outside, and Jimin doesn’t have a good sense of what you’re capable of doing and where you should be more supervised than someone else.

You’re holding onto the pink and white little plushy, and he’s again reminded of his choice.

Did he make the right call? Hopefully, because he honestly doesn’t really think that a situation like this will ever truly reoccur like this again. But he had sat down yesterday to go through everything, just to come to a clearer answer for himself. This isn’t something to take lightly, and again, sometimes letting go is the best option to take.

For the rest of the day, you don’t see Jungkook anymore- and neither do you see him the day after, as you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, shoes on your feet and bag packed. Jimin had shed a few tears at seeing you go- but you told him you might visit without needing actual help for once.

The care worker looks nice. He’s wearing a jacket with an official emblem on it for hybrid social work- and he seems really friendly. “You ready?” He asks, and you nod-

There’s no use in waiting for something that won’t happen, after all.

In the small van, you watch all the people and cars pass you by, while the car radio plays slight music on low volume. “if you don’t like the place I’ll bring you, you can always call the number in the phone, okay?” the care worker says, and you nod. The phone you got has a very simplified, easy to understand user interface installed, so it didn’t take you too long to understand how it works. It’s still however quite odd to hold it in your hands.

Everything you thought you knew had been a lie.

“Don’t be afraid to speak up. We’re always just a call away.” He offers, before he parks in front of a tall apartment complex, fancy, high security. He’s being asked twice about where he wants to go and what his name is, as he walks around with you, elevator chiming happily before it opens.

Everything is so.. big. Fancy. Expensive. You shudder, as you remember the last time you’ve been to a place like this.

Will it be the same again? Someone rich and famous buying you just to lock you up and feed you lies? You worry. You really want to go back to the hospital.

When you walk out the elevator and wait in front of another door, you become anxious. But just for a moment, because you start to.. smell something.

And when the door opens, you finally know where you actually are-

As you stand right in front of doctor Jeon, who’s smiling kindly right at you and your wagging tail.

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Jungkook’s apartment is big, very high up in the tall building, and smells like him.

There’s a room just for you, and he’s also got many windows- from the regular balcony and smaller windows in your room, to large one’s going all the way from the floor to the ceiling, showing the tiny city below in the living room. You’re currently sitting on the floor right in front of them, as Jungkook approaches you, sitting down next to you. “You like the view?” He asks, and you nod.

“Do you think I can be an ant now, too?” you ask, and he looks at you a bit confused. “the people.. they look like ants.” You say, pointing to the people all the way down on the ground walking around despite the late hour.

“would you like to be one of them?” He wonders, having brought you a pillow to sit on now- one you happily take.

You nod. “they.. get to have phones. And they meet friends. Or eat at restaurants and drink. Or they buy large stuffed toys.” You explain, and Jungkook realizes that this must’ve been your standard.. or rather only form of entertainment up until now.

Instead of experiencing life, you only got to watch it in silence, secretly.

“Well, you already have a phone. And if you want, we can go eat at restaurants and cafes too- though I might not get you coffee.” He chuckles, watching you look at him now with drooping ears. “it’s bitter.” He explains, and you nod at that.

“Hm.. then maybe something else?” You ask. “but not chocolate. That makes me feel bad.” You tell him, and he internally cringes. Of course it makes you feel bad- you’re a hybrid, and therefore sensitive to it.

“we can check if a Café has hybrid alternatives. I’m sure there’s one.” He tells you, and you smile, tail swishing around a bit as you yawn. “now come on, let’s go to bed.” He says before he gets up, and you look up at him.

“Can I sleep here?” You ask, and much to your surprise, Jungkook nods easily.

“sure. I’ll put your mattress here then.” He offers as he disappears into your room to fetch just that and some bedding to make you comfortable.

This really is quite different from your old home.

You watch how he carefully creates a good bed for you on the floor in front of the window, not just slap everything down there and have you do it yourself. No, this is caring- he even brings out your pink and white plushy that you’ve been given back at the hospital, before he smiles at you who moves to crawl beneath the blankets. “if you need another blanket, there’s one on the couch. And if you end up not liking it here just wake me up and I’ll help you set up your bed in your room again-“ he explains, when your tail just starts wagging wildly beneath the thick bedding.

“Thank you “ You say, and he smiles gently, before he leaves you be.

Even long after he’s switched off his own lights as well, you’re still awake, watching the people down below go about their late night activities. From groups of friends drunkenly stumbling home to couples holding hands, office workers waving for a cab home and policemen patrolling to make sure everything’s alright.

You feel like right now, you’re just one of them as well. Just another being, existing in the same world and same universe as them, experiencing your own life.

And with Jungkook at your side, you already feel like this is going to be the best life ever.

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When you wake up the next morning, it’s slow. Steady. A smooth transition from dreaming to becoming conscious.

Your eyes are still closed while you realize someone’s touching you- but with no ill intentions. Instead, the hands simply adjust the blanket over your body, tucking it back into place so you won’t get cold. He makes no efforts to wake you up at all, instead, Jungkook simply rests a hand on you shoulder for a moment, before he leaves you be.

You can hear him do something in the open kitchen nearby. Your ears tilt towards him, a reaction out of your control.

When he sits down wit his coffee in hand on the couch nearby to watch TV, he catches your now opened eyes- and he smiles. “Good morning.” He offers, and your tail can’t help but react to it as it begins to wag beneath the covers. “slept well?” He asks, and you nod.

You look around for a clock.

“It’s a little past one PM.” He tells you, and you sit up straight at that, shocked. “don’t worry- if I’d wanted you to wake up earlier, I wouldn’t have let you sleep this long.” He reassures you, setting his mug down on the coffee table in front of him. “But it looked like you needed some proper rest, so I let you.”

“I'm sorry.” You mumble, looking to the other side to see the windows show almost nothing from the world outside, fog thick and heavy in the air.

“No need to be.” Jungkook promises. “if you want we can go out later- but the weather isn’t too nice, so we could also very much just stay in today.” He says.

“Don’t you have to work?” You ask, wondering how this will work out in the future as well. Will you have to stay home alone often? Will he at least let you look out of the windows in that case?

“I took my vacation and I’m also finally working on getting rid of all the overtime I’ve collected this year.” He chuckles. “Mostly to help you get used to things, and to.. You know, have you get to know me better.” Jungkook explains, and you nod.

“So... when you go to work again, I’ll stay at home?” You wonder, now relaxing again as a yawn interrupts your words a little, before you stretch your limbs, falling back down onto your makeshift bed.

“We’ll see. I might have someone check in on you once during the day, or I’ll take you to work with me. I’m not too sure about that yet- but we’ll figure it out along the way.” He reassures you. “Right now I believe you should get up and wake up properly, huh?” He laughs, as you nod, slowly standing up to roll up your bedding, struggling a bit to hold it all at once, before you walk into what he showed you is technically your room.

Jungkook smiles. Of course, you don’t have to do this- you could very much just leave it right there and he wouldn’t be bothered, but if this is something you want to do willingly, he will let you. It’ll be very helpful to get you into a comfortable routine as quickly as possible, so he can figure out if he can leave you by yourself, and if so, for how long.

He knows you’re a lot more independent and intelligent than your past owner thought you were- but you still haven’t ever had to live completely on your own, so no one, not even you yourself, knows how you’d handle that. If something was to happen, lets say you drop something in the kitchen and it breaks, it could very much send you into a panic and cause you to get hurt unintentionally. And with him not being home, this could become a problem.

But thats only something in his mind for now. He’ll figure this out somehow.

He has to.

When you come back out the bathroom after getting ready for the day, Jungkook can’t help but laugh a little, waving you closer to where he’s sitting on the sofa. “Turn around for me.” He chuckles, properly pulling your tail out through the designated opening in the back of your shorts. “There we go.” He says, and you sit down next to him now, looking at the windows.

“Why can’t I see the city anymore?” You ask him, and he sets down his coffee, cup now empty.

“Because the clouds are too thick.” He explains. “We’re basically in the middle of them, so that’s why you can’t see.”

“We’re in the clouds?” You ask, mesmerized, and he nods.

“We are.” He agrees.

“So if I went on the balcony, I could touch them?” You wonder, and he laughs.

“I mean, technically? But they’re not soft or anything, so you might be disappointed.” He warns you.

“But you’d let me on the balcony?” You ask, and he nods.

“Clouds are just wet though. You’ll just get a shower, basically.” He laughs under his breath, though he does walk into your room with you, to unlock the glass door to the balcony with a key. “Careful though. Can I hold your hand?” He asks, and you nod, though you clearly look confused. “Just so I feel a bit calmer.”

“Why you?” You ask, not really sure why he’d feel any better holding your hand. “Are you scared of the balcony?” You question him, but he shakes his head with a smile.

“No, but I’m scared of you falling.” He reveals.

“Oh.” You simply answer, taking his hand at that, before you step out into the cloudy outdoors-

But just for a moment, because you quickly realize that Jungkook was right-

Clouds aren’t all that fluffy at all.

⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅

You’re out for the first time with Jungkook, and he has to admit, you’re nothing like he thought you’d be like.

You’re so incredibly great at controlling yourself and your reactions to things, always almost instinctively reaching for him if something becomes too much or if something makes you unsure. It makes him feel incredibly proud- because you clearly already have accepted him as your safety person, always relying on him if you feel like you can’t handle something. You always trust that he will do it for you- and he does, even if he only notices doing it in hindsight.

You sometimes seem to get a bit overwhelmed with eye contact from other hybrids and even humans, and he also notices the way you visibly shrink away from anybody trying to talk to you directly. Its most likely a trained response, taught to you with simple conditioning, and he feels a bit upset about it. But its not all that bad as he thought it might be- overall, you’re handling this day out very well.

You’re currently sitting in a hybrid friendly cafe, your eyes wide as you look at the delicately decorated milk foam on top of your hot chocolate that’s specifically made so that you won’t end up with a stomachache. Jungkook can’t help his smile as he watches you enjoy your little treat- the slice of cake you’re eating clearly being enjoyed to its maximum as you savor every bite.

“Did you know you can actually order all by yourself here?” Jungkook tells you, and your ears instantly tilt towards him at that, as you lick your lips clean of the milk foam from your cup.

“Really?” You wonder. “Me too?” You ask him, knowing very well that technically, hybrids of your category aren’t usually allowed to make any purchases by themselves.

But Jungkook nods. “They have a program here.” He explains. “Basically, I’ll pay upfront, and they’ll take your photo and ID so you can get food or something to drink here anytime you’d like, all on your own.” He informs you, and you nod, amazed.

He noticed that things like that make you feel good. Giving you any form of independence, even if it’s just a somewhat illusion, boosts your confidence. And he loves seeing that.

“But I always want to come here with you though.” You say.

“We can.” He nods happily.

“But I can order?” You ask, making him grin.

“Of course.” The doctor agrees. “I can get you an independence card too, once we both got more comfortable with each other.” He tells you.

“Why’re you doing all that?” You ask, a bit confused as you cut another piece of your slice of cake. “Like.. I always thought guys like it when their hybrids are all.. Dependent and stuff.” You shrug.

“Hm. Maybe because I like seeing you happy. And offering you these things makes you happy.” He explains his intentions.

“Would you ever like me as a girlfriend?” You bluntly ask, and Jungkook stutters in his movements a bit, caught entirely off guard. He’s never really ever thought about that at all, and he’s not sure if he really could- but he can’t deny that he does like you, a lot, already. Not to that degree, but he has to admit-

That could change.

“I’m.. Not sure yet.” He admits. “I can’t tell you a full on answer yet. Why do you ask?” He wonders, and you shrug.

“Just asking.” You tell him. “I’ve been told that hybrids can’t be real girlfriends.” You just say, and he fills in the blanks inside his head by deciding that this narrative must’ve been fed to you by your past owner. It’s a common thing a lot of people who’ve never met any hybrid personally say- because they believe that hybrids are nothing but abominations, or forever unable to really decide anything for themselves, when in reality, this isn’t true at all. Just like regular people, hybrids are all different- some will always have to rely on people, while others don’t need any help at all. There’s even hybrids who have full work permits, live on their own, have families and normal average lifes. It’s more common than one might think.

“That’s not true.” Jungkook denies.

“But like, could a hybrid and a normal person even have children?” You ask, and Jungkook nods.

“There’s evidence that hybrid-human pregnancies are generally safe and usually progress normally. The children inherit some hybrid traits depending on gender of the parent and child themselves, but it’s a lot less and therefore especially the visual traits are typically a lot less prominent.” He rants, taking a sip of his iced coffee before he continues. “It’s actually really interesting, because the children usually end up a lot more resilient to common infections like the flu or the common cold- but it’s not very clear as to why. I personally think it might be because viruses that infect humans behave differently in hybrids- so maybe because of that they’re less vulnerable to these things. They do however show up with problems more common in hybrids though, like eye problems or psychological issues.” He continues, and only after a moment or two does he notice you’ve stopped eating, now just watching him with a smile on your face. “...sorry. I was kind of getting lost there..” He apologizes, but you just laugh, tail wagging wildly.

“No, no, go on!” You cheer him on. “I love that face you make when you talk about stuff you like.” You say.

“The face I make?” He chuckles. “What face do I make?”

“I don’t know- your eyes sparkle, and they get all round. And you gesture with your hands.” You explain. “I didn’t understand most of it, but I’ll still listen.”

And Jungkook smiles.

Because honestly-

That's all he could ever ask for.

⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅

Jungkook has definitely changed his mind on you now, almost a month after living together with you.

You’re very open with your affection towards him, a whole lot better at sensing someone’s attraction than a normal human would be, since you don’t really care about what he could be implying with his words- you only take into account what you know how to interpret. And that’s other cues, like body language, scent, and actions.

You don’t try and read between the lines- you just see things for what they are. And apparently, he’s not very good at hiding any of his growing feelings towards you at all.

And with your confidence rising under his care, you’ve become a real threat to his sanity he feels like- because you’re actively flirting with him, finding way after way to make him flustered left and right, always catching you off guard. And the worst part is that he slowly leans into it, accepting it, and also has begun to initiate such contact as well.

Well, its not really a ‘worst’ part. If anything, it feels like he finally found what he’s subconsciously always been looking for.

You’ve been sneaking your way into his bed at night- and somehow, that evolved into you permanently sleeping next to him in his bed, something that you both just quietly agreed on. This is however, right now, the first time you’re both actively cuddling- slowly testing the water so to speak as you quietly take new steps towards each other. Nothing has to be said in this moment- there's no words needed to really communicate with each other.

He’s never seen you this close, and neither have you.

His hand slowly moves to hold yours, before you place your palm on his, comparing your hand sizes before you giggle still a little sleepy. He doesn’t know why, but somehow, he just feels like its the right thing to do in this moment, as he pulls your hand closer to kiss the back of it, eye contact he holds with you visibly sending out the message he wants to with success as your eyes widen, before you smile a bit shy.

He already has plans on how to incorporate you into his work in the future, so he can always have you somewhat at his side, while also giving you a genuine task you can manage.

You suddenly move closer to him, as he lays on his back now, you hugging him closely so you’re almost halfway on top of him, basking in the physical contact you have with him. You’re both only dressed in comfortable sleeping clothes, nothing but underwear and lazy shirts, and you love this. It’s like you’re currently living in a vacuum, time having no meaning, outside world simply waiting for you both to be ready to continue at any time.

But for now, you just want to stay like this. Close to him.

And its also very clear that he doesn’t mind this situation either- not one bit, as he initiates contact as well, hand running over the length of your arm as he leans his head close to yours. “We have to get up soon.” He tells you, and your ears instantly move towards the sound of his voice, though you whine in protest, clinging to him now. “We can’t stay in bed all day.”

“Why not?” You wonder, leaning your chin on his shoulder. “I like being in bed with you.” You say, wagging tail making it clear that you’re very aware of how this sentence could also be interpreted.

“Do you?” He answers, not backing down anymore as he usually would. “we’re just being lazy. That’s boring, no?” He asks, and you laugh a little, before turning onto your back next to him.

“Well, yeah. But it doesn’t have to be.” You propose, and at that he moves now, leaning over you ad he looks at you beneath him.

“You’re right.” He agrees, voice low because with you being this close, there’s no need for much volume in his words. “I could think of a few things we could do.” He purrs down at you, and you grin, comfortable and even excited. You know exactly what this could mean, and you’re actively seeking this out- you know he likes you in a more personal manner than just hybrid and caretaker. This is so much more than that already.

He just needs to give you a sign- and this might be it.

“Such as?” You ask him, clearly expecting something from him. And he knows what it is.

Wordlessly leaning in to kiss you-

An action that’s instantly returned, in a silent confession of love.

⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅

“this is such a genius idea.” Jimin says, watching you effortlessly keep the young hybrids occupied in the waiting area, while Jungkook goes through patient after patient. “They’re so calm like this. No wonder you’ve become the most sought after doctor for young hybrids.” He tells the younger doctor, who smiles at the scene in the waiting room- all the usually very fidgety hybrids of different kinds listening to you telling them a story, visualized by some stuffed animals you’re holding.

“I couldn’t do it without her.” Jungkook simply says.

“Well, I’ll have to go start my shift in the ER, or Yoongi will rip my head off.” Jimin laughs, before he waves at you, and then Jungkook. “take care!” He says as he leaves-

And Jungkook smiles, as he waves his friend and former coworker goodbye.

"Take care.”

[delulu4dean]

“Withdrawals”

Warnings: suicide, depression, anxiety

Pairings: Dean Winchester x sister!reader, Sam Winchester x sister!reader

Prompt: withdrawal from Cymbalta. Based on my own experience

Word Count: 3,624

You are all packed up to go with your older brothers. They were going all the way to the Redwood Forest, and you didn’t want to be in the bunker all alone.

You aren’t a hunter like them, not yet at least. You’ve studied the lore, and you’ve trained a bit, because after all, you are a Winchester. And the name alone is like wearing a giant “kick me” sign if it said “kill me” instead. No, you’re a student, getting your associates online in the exploratory major because you have no idea what you would want to do other than hunt with your brothers.

Sam and Dean promised John they’ll never let you into the life. Your mom died shortly after you were born. Your dad met your mom on a hunt nineteen years ago. She was a nurse in a hospital. There was one patient who was wrongfully treated, and died due to medical negligence. And boy does a vengeful spirit do a lot of damage. John saved your mom’s life, and they celebrated that night. She got pregnant, and she kept John’s number so nine months later, he picks up the phone to find out he’s got a daughter. Dean overheard the conversation and when John said he wouldn’t go, Dean said he has to. It resulted in a huge argument. John eventually gave in, and they went to the hospital to see you, and Dean knew right there and then he’d do anything to protect his little sister.

Your mom killed herself after she brought you home. Family history of mental illness was bad enough, but the postpartum depression pushed her over the edge.

It was not easy showing up at Stanford trying to explain to Sam that he had a baby sister, and that also your dad was missing. It was especially not easy looking for your dad while they had to take care of a baby. Dean often got babysitters to watch you in the motels they stayed in.

And now here you are, nineteen years old, aimlessly walking through life. You’re getting an associates in nothing specific just to get some general education done. And that history of mental illness in your family is hitting you hard. You’re on antidepressants, a specific one that treats your depression and anxiety.

Dean parks at the motel, and goes to get keys for a room. You don’t mind sleeping on the couch, out of the three of you it only makes sense, you got tall and taller with you, and it just doesn’t seem fair to make them sleep on the couch when you fit so well on it.

Sam and Dean throw on their FBI getup and go start asking questions while you connect your laptop to the motel wifi. Yay statistics, said no one ever. You’re only doing this to make your brothers happy, you don’t see a reason to get a degree. They say it’s useful to get some sort of decent job, or to one day get a further education when you decide what you want to do. But you already know what you want to do, you want to hunt with them.

You don’t know how you ended up on the couch. One moment you were doing homework and… yeah, that’s enough to make you snooze. You look at the time and it’s 8am the next day. You look into your bag and your eyes wide as you realize you left your antidepressants in the bunker.

“Shit!”

Your sudden outburst awakens your brothers as they both shoot up to see what’s wrong with you.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Sam asks as they both run to your side.

“I forgot my meds at home,” you pout.

“Your meds?” Dean raises an eyebrow.

“My antidepressants,” you clarify.

Dean makes an “O” shape with his mouth in response.

“Have you ever missed a day before?” Sam asks you.

“No, and this is going to be longer than a day. How am I going to manage without it?”

“Managing your existing problems is the least of your worries kiddo. You’re going to go through withdrawals,” Dean takes a seat next to you. “One of us can stay with you.”

“I’ll be fine, let’s get breakfast, you guys do your research and then I get back and work on more homework, I’ll keep myself occupied,” you assure your brother. They give each other a worried look, not feeling too sure, but you insist you’ll be fine.

The three of you head to a diner, and you check out the menu while Dean checks out the waitress.

“Perv,” you mumble under your breath.

“Good morning, what can I get for you?”

Dean orders the greasiest breakfast on the menu, with bacon of course. Sam orders some omelette made with just egg whites.

“And for you, hun?” the waitress looks at you with a smile.

“I’d like a plate of eggs, over easy, and sausages. And an order of chocolate chip pancakes with extra whipped cream if that’s possible. And a cup of coffee if that isn’t too much trouble,” you order.

“Coming right up!”

After a couple of minutes the coffee is ready and she serves you and your brothers your coffee. You add a couple of vanilla creamers. You take your first sip, and immediately regret not blowing on it first. The hot liquid burns your tongue. You set your cup down as your stomach growls, begging to be fed.

On a normal day, you could be patient, wait for your food. But today isn’t a normal day, and even though it’s probably a five minute wait, ten at most, you need the food now. Your leg bounces up and down, as your fingers tap on the table.

“Hey kid, are you alright?” Dean asks you.

“Mmhm. Just hungry.”

“The food will be out any minute,” Sam assures you. You nod but it doesn’t make the time pass by any quicker for you.

You watch as the waitress walks over to your table with your food and you sit up. The moment she places your place in front of you, you dig in. Your brothers watch as you focus on your meal. They’ve never seen you eat like this. Normally you try to stay neat and clean while you eat. You talk to them. But right now, your brothers know better than to comment on you eating.

It’s not Dean doesn’t go crazy about food either. It’s just out of the ordinary for you, and you’re off your meds for the next few days, so they’re worried. Eventually they start getting to their research.

After breakfast, your brothers drop you off at the motel, and get on with the case. You open your laptop, log into your student portal, and look at your assignments. This is going to be a long day.

✰✰✰✰✰

You’re sat on the chair in front of your laptop, as you have been all day. It’s been hard to concentrate, you kept checking your phone, playing games. Every time your brothers texted to check in on you, you used it as an excuse to be on your phone again. And then when you finally started concentrating, you didn’t understand it.

You’re sat on your chair, tears streaming down your face. Hugging your knees, you just stare at the screen as the numbers blur together. Math was frustrating. It’s not like you’re bad at it, you’re actually great at it. But your mind is cloudy, and even reading over everything again and again, you’re not processing anything.

You barely made it through your other assignments, and this is all you have left for the day. You’ve been going at it since breakfast, you even skipped lunch to make up for the distractions.

The motel door clicks and creaks open, and footsteps enter the room. You don’t look up from your screen, you just hope they don’t notice your damp face.

“We got dinner,” Dean says, placing the bag on the table in front of you.

“ ‘M-not hungry,” you mumble.

“What do you mean you’re not hungry, what did you have for lunch?” Dean sits at the table, and Sam joins.

You still don’t look up as your brothers take out their food from the take out bag. Dean places your food in front of you as you push it away.

“I’ve been doing homework all day, no time to eat,” you attempt to speak but it all came out in a raspy whisper.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Sam scoots closed to you, placing his hand on your shoulder.

“I’m stupid, that’s what’s wrong,” you break down into sobs. “I can’t do simple math equations.”

“You’re great at math,” Dean tries to assure you, but it doesn’t help.

“But I can’t do it today.”

“Hey, hey. You're off your meds. You’re not stupid, you're just not in the right state right now,” Sam tells you, and you nod. “Eat up, and after dinner, I’ll help you with your math, and anything else you need help with.”

Your sobs become small whimpers until you stop crying altogether. You sniffle before grabbing the dinner your brothers got for your. Sam sits next to you and reads over your math homework and explains things. Just reading it didn’t process, but hearing it out loud, from your brother, that helped process what you were actually looking at. Not long after, you finish your homework.

“Thank you, Sammy,” you hug your brother, tightly, and he hugs you back.

“Of course, (Y/N/N),” he keeps you close.

✰✰✰✰✰

You toss and turn, unable to sleep. You’re really starting to miss your antidepressants. Huffing, you get up from the couch, throw on your slip on vans, and take one of the motel key cards. Maybe a walk with some therapeutic music will help you feel better. It really sucks how just after 24 hours, the withdrawal kicks in. You throw in your earbuds and start walking around the block.

Your skin feels all tingly and a burning sensation travels up your leg but you ignore your body screaming. Maybe the walk is what you need. You've been sitting all day, no wonder you can’t sleep.

You put your hands in your pocket as you sing along to the next song under your breath.

“Running low, on serotonin. Chemical imbalance got me twisting things. Stabilize with medicine, there’s no depth to these feelings. Dig deep, can’t hide from the corners of my mind. I’m terrified of what’s inside.”

You take in a deep breath, letting the cool air fill your lungs.

“Please don’t let me go crazy. Put me if a field with daisies, might not work but I’ll take a maybe.”

As the song ends, you reach the motel door, but before you can use your key card, the door opens. You look up to see Dean frantically walking out until he sees you.

“Y/N! Where were you?” He whisper-shouts.

“I just went on a walk,” you explain. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought it would tire me out.”

“How are you feeling?” he asks you, putting his hand on your back, bringing you inside.

“Honestly my legs hurt, my skin feels all tingly, and my head is starting to hurt.”

“Come on, you’re sleeping in my bed tonight. We can tell each other ghost stories until we fall asleep.”

You smile softly, remembering that’s what Dean would do to get you to bed growing up. You lay down underneath the cover and look at the ceiling.

“Instead of a ghost story, you can catch me up on what you and Sammy have figured out about the case,” you suggest.

And so Dean goes into detail about his day, and how he things by tomorrow night things should be done. Dean is thinking it’s a siren, since these victims were last seen talking about seeing a pretty woman.

“But what were the victims doing before they got killed?” you pose a question.

“One was smoking, another littered, the third being really disruptive,” your eldest brother answers you.

“Hm. Could be a dryad,” you tell Dean.

“A what?”

“A dryad, forest nymph, not a fairy or a goddess but sort of in between. Magical, gorgeous women. There are different nymphs, like water nymphs for example.”

“How do you kill a nymph?” Dean asks you.

“She’s just protecting the forest,” you pout.

“She’s killing people.”

“Talk to her.”

“How do you kill her?” Dean presses.

“You don’t,” you finally give in. “Not without killing nature. Do you want to burn down a tree, Dean?”

“… no.”

“Thought so.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Technically if you can find the one tree she’s attached to, you can kill her. But you shouldn’t.”

“I’ll try talking to her, for you.”

“Thanks Dean.”

✰✰✰✰✰

The next morning you and Dean are both awaken by Sam, who brings you breakfast burritos.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Mmm morning,” you yawn.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Sam asks.

“No, I just couldn’t sleep. So Dean caught me up on your case.”

Sam nods. After breakfast and some research, Sam and Dean get what they need to summon her.

“Since it’s not that dangerous, maybe I can come along,” you offer.

“Homework for the week all done?” Sam asks.

You nod.

“Legs feeling better?” Dean asks.

You nod again.

“You’re lying,” he squints his eyes at you.

“How would you know?”

“The second nod was slower and less confident.”

You groan.

“If you need one of us to stay with you, we can arrange that. If what you said is true, it will be easy enough for just one of us,” Sam suggests.

“I’m fine,” you lie. You’re not fine. Your body is aching, and the anxiety and depression are starting to really sink in.

“Sam, you’re better at talking things out than I am. I’ll drop you off, then head back here. You can call me if you need backup,” Dean says.

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam nods.

The two of them leave the room and you sigh, laying down. You can’t just stay sitting in this room the whole time. You’re at a bear themed motel close to the redwood forest. You need to experience the nature. You’re feeling trapped and panicked. Your breathing accelerates and you sit up. Pacing back and forth for the next forty minutes, you wait for Dean to get back.

The door opens and he walks in with a bag in hand.

“You’re five minutes late!” you yell at him.

“I just stopped to get some pie,” he sets down the bag. “I got you powdered donuts.”

You nod.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m just feeling really trapped in here. Think we can go for a walk, or a drive at least?”

“A drive sounds good,” Dean nods. “But eat the donuts before. No powder on Baby.” He points a finger at you.

“Yes sir,” you grab your donuts and eat, while dean digs into his pie.

After dessert, you two get into Baby. You look out the window as he pulls out of the motel parking lot.

“You want to play some music?” Dean asks you.

“What happened to driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole?”

“This is a one time opportunity, Y/N. You don’t wanna miss it,” he nudges you.

You use a cassette adapter to connect your phone. You continue the playlist you were playing last night.

“You wanna listen to sad music?” Dean raises an eyebrow.

“I am sad. I don’t have my happy pills,” you mumble.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Honestly? I just want to cry. For absolutely no reason. Well there is a reason, withdrawals.”

Tears well up, and you take a shaky sigh.

“I’m sorry kid. I’ll make sure we get home as soon as possible.”

You just nod. The medication doesn’t stop the bad thoughts from happening, but they stop them from hurting as much. The problem was the medication isn’t as effective anymore either. You’ve built a tolerance, so right now the only difference is instead of mild depression, you want to kill yourself. You hate how you look, I mean both of your brothers are considered attractive and you feel like you look… dorky. School is stressful especially when you’re working towards a degree you don’t want.

And then you think of your brothers, who swooped in to take care of you. John wasn’t a terrible father to you, but you know he was too tough on Sam and Dean especially when it came to you. And then when John died, Dean became basically like your dad. He already raised Sam during his youth and then he had to take care of you. You couldn’t help but think that Sam and Dean would have it so much easier without you.

You try to hide your cries, looking out the window, letting tears stream down your face.

“Y/N/N? Talk to me,” Dean coaxes you. “What are you thinking about.”

Your silent cries become wails and sobs. And the crying triggers a headache and you feel nauseous and everything is just awful.

“Dean, why do you keep me around?” You take a deep breath trying to calm yourself but it doesn’t work. “I’m a burden. You don’t need to be taking care of me, especially when I’m an adult. I’m just dragging you down,” you cry out. “If I were dead, or never born, you’d be so much happier!”

“Woah woah!” Dean pulls over, then looks over at you. “I would not be happier without you. We don’t keep you around to take care of you. You’re grown, independent. We love you. And we’re happy you like being around us too. You’re our family.”

You look up at him, and you can almost see his heart breaks as he looks at your face. He wipes your tears and pulls you in for a hug.

“Are you thinking of hurting yourself? Are the suicidal thoughts back?”

You nod, crying into the crook of his neck.

“I’m sorry.”

“Shh. You have nothing to be sorry about, baby, these thoughts aren’t your fault.”

You feel something going on in your throat, and you pull away quickly, opening the door, emptying the contents from your stomach. Dean quickly gets out from the drivers side and runs over to you.

“Ew,” you cry. “God that’s gross. I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders continue to shake as you resume crying. Your older brother crouches down (avoiding where you threw up) and pushes your hair back behind your ears.

“You don’t need to say sorry.”

“I might have gotten some on Baby,” you say, looking around to make sure.

“I can clean it. It’s just a car. You’re my baby sister.”

You sniffle as a smile creeps on your face.

“You do really love me. You’d never say she’s just a car unless it was that serious.”

“Of course it’s that serious. You’re having withdrawals. Now lets get something in that tummy,” he pokes your stomach. “Something light and comforting. You can wash up in the bathroom. And then we can get Sam and get you home.”

You nod and the drive resumes. You head back to the diner you had breakfast at yesterday. For lunch you get a grilled cheese and tomato soup. Dean gets a burger, obviously. As you wait for the food, you head into the bathroom and wash up.

After lunch, Sam gives Dean a call, saying it’s all over, and to also check up on you. You guys go on your way to pick up Sam. Dean hands the key over to Sam and Sam looks at Dean confused.

“Long drive from California to Kansas. Don’t want to leave her alone. After dinner we can switch off and you can sit in the back if you want,” Dean explains.

“It’s fine, it looks like you got control of the situation.” Sam looks over to you. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling like absolute shit. But better than before.”

“When we get home, you take your meds, get your sleep, then we can do a movie night,��� Sam suggests.

“That sounds great Sammy,” you smile. You kiss his cheek before going into the back seat with Dean.

“Thanks for being here for me Dean,” you say, kissing his cheek as well.

“Of course. I’ve been here since day one,” he ruffles your hair.

✰✰✰✰✰

The next 21 hours end up being hell. Dean said the wrong thing while trying to comfort you, sending you spiraling. That’s when Sam sat in the back while Dean sat up front beating himself up over it as he drives the rest of the way home. You apologized for being a difficult kid and Dean didn’t deny you were difficult, he just said easy is boring.

Now Dean pulls into the bunker garage, and you run to your room to get your medicine and take it. Dean follows you, wanting to apologize.

“Hey, Y/N, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. You aren’t a difficult kid. You were a great kid. Fun, and a great listener.”

“It’s okay Dean, I’m over it. Really.”

He nods.

“Can you stay with me until I sleep though? You and Sam? I want to hear about the dryad!”

“Sure thing. Sammy!”

Sam runs up to you guys.

“She wants you to tell us about the dryad.”

“Was she pretty?” you ask.

“Yes, she was very pretty.”

You lay in bed as your brothers sit on each side of you. Sam talks about how your plan to talk to her actually worked, and how the conversation went down. You smile as you listen. Your eyelids get heavy and soon you’re out.

[julietcpulet]

What do u think is the difference between the Apothecary diaries world and our current world's reality? Is the modern world we live in now, capitalistic as a primary? What do you think Jinshi and Maomao's position would be in our world? Given that our world would be more technologically dependant for AI revolution, after 5 years.

These are some interesting questions! I’ll try my best to answer but Ill admit I’m not the best at in-world to modern stuff as I tend to do speculations on in-world plots most. (Spoilers below)

Our world is based in capitalism and I would argue that the world of Apothecary Diaries is also. Even though they have an agricultural system and the Imperial Dynasty holds relationships with other nations through trade, there is still the capitalist mindset in the often everyday dealings of the populace. Take for instance how Maomao often seeks to find ways to make a profit herself. Like when she receives all of the Go books from Lakan in LN 8 and makes a deal with En’en to find the best way to increase supply and demand to turn a profit. The same goes for her stall at the Verdigris House where she doesn’t just give away free medical services. Also Maomao mentions how the madam of the House finds ways to turn her own profit by increasing the value of a deal through Maomao or bargaining for the best with other merchants, something Maomao herself does when she’s seen to go about her purchasing. These are all evidences of a capitalist mindset even if the society itself in the novels may be more trade oriented as a whole.

People want to say having that completion in a capitalist society or private ownership is a bad thing but I don’t agree, even for the world of the novels, without competition there would be no push to make a better product for the populace. Again in LN 8 when Maomao takes Yao to a store where she can purchase makeup and discovers that there are shelves empty due to the risk of toxic face powder, this woman’s business has succeeed without it because she makes superior product. It’s said that others are still selling the poisoned product because either they lack money or are unscrupulous but without the competition for better people wouldn’t have been pushed to stop using what may have been harmful to turn a profit, instead they had to come up with newer and better solutions which only happened because of the capitalist system. In this way I think Apothecary Diaries shows a good mix of our modern world and the historical one since there is still a basis in the government setting prices based on agricultural yield while at the same time the people have no problems using supply and demand along with private holding of products to increase the value of their own goods.

As for what Maomao and Jinshi would be in the modern world, this is just fun speculation or really fanfic cause speculation is more based in actual plot and this is just me making stuff up haha. I’m actually drawing from a Reddit post I saw awhile back and liked their idea so I’ll expand upon that. It started with Jinshi being the son of a hospital CEO and Maomao a nurse practitioner at the hospital. Given the general storyline Jinshi would be pushed into administration despite not wanting to take over as the CEO. Currently he’s working as a Resident in the hospital and is Maomao’s boss. She’s seeking to become a doctor and her adopted father, Luomen, is the owner of a holistic medicine facility where she learned a lot of her early medicine. Her mother is a terminal cancer patient she’s been treating on one of the lower floors in service to her grams who she isn’t related to but helped raise her along with her three “sisters”. They all work at a local drinking establishment and live in a series of connected apartments above it. Her biological father Lakan is the CEO of a pharmaceutical research facility and would like Maomao to come and work for him which she rejects but she does occasionally volunteer to be the test subject for the company’s latest drug trials. That’s as far as I get in modern AU speculation 😂 I don’t tend to do very good with fanfic so I hope that’s not terrible and some of what you were looking for haha.

As for their use of technology or AI, I think both would probably reject it. Maomao has always been such a hands on person. She doesn’t like to take shortcuts or feel like she hasn’t been thorough in examining every aspect of a case presented to her. Like in LN 7 when she suspected the shrine maiden was going to commit suicide, she put the poisoned spoon in her own mouth. We could argue this is her own funny proclivity to test the medicine because she wants to feel its effects but also I think it’s her desire to be sure of her own conclusions by testing the method herself vs just stating it without conclusive evidence. Technology wouldn’t give her the proof she’d always be looking for.

Jinshi is much the same way. Part of the reason he’s so overworked once he takes over his role as the Moon Prince is because he has a hard time delegating difficult tasks to subordinates and believes it inappropriate to do so. I don’t think he’d view it as ok to let AI do parts of his work or even certain technological advancements help him unless it’s only like spell check because he’d be too concerned about lives being at risk given the importance of his assignments due to his station. Jinshi wants to be assured that if he puts his name to something he’s done it right and been diligent in taking care of all aspects of the situation. I doubt technology would give him that sense and would probably make him feel as if he’d taken unnecessary shortcuts.

So overall no I don’t think Maomao or Jinshi would use much technology or AI given their personalities and commitment related to their work. They’re both simply too devoted to making sure they come to the right conclusions and don’t risk other people in the process. I feel they wouldn’t want to involve technology as it takes away that human element which allows for deeper reasoning and thoughtfulness vs easy answers.

Thanks for the thoughtful questions! Hopefully my answers covered the bases somewhat 😆