#as in: doctors know something is wrong but not what

[pucksandpower]

The Ghosts We Carry

Charles Leclerc x Bianchi!Reader

Summary: it’s funny, really, how the same tragedy can have such different effects on two people. Jules’ death drove Charles to chase the finish line with more fervor than ever, but also drove his sister as far away from any reminder of racing as possible … until their worlds collide again for the first time in nearly a decade and the flames of each other’s first loves are fanned once more

Warnings: descriptions of PTSD, panic attacks, a fatal crash, grief, and emotional abuse

“You’re doing it again.”

You don’t look up from the sink. The dishes aren’t even dirty — just rinsed glasses from this morning’s coffee — but your hands are shaking, and you need something to hold. Something to do. Something that isn’t the conversation you’ve been dodging for the last three days.

“Doing what?” You ask. Water keeps running over your fingers like it might rinse away the dread crawling under your skin.

“Zoning out.” Vincent’s voice echoes across the apartment. It’s that particular brand of annoyed he reserves just for you. “It’s like talking to a brick wall lately.”

You clench your jaw. You count to three. “I’m just tired.”

“Tired,” he repeats, laughing under his breath like you’ve told a joke. “You’re always tired.”

You turn off the tap. The silence is sudden and thick.

He’s sitting at the tiny kitchen table, all angles and Hugo Boss, scrolling through his phone like you’re an app he’s already bored of. His blazer’s still on from work. There’s a wine glass in front of him, untouched, because red doesn’t pair with takeout. You ordered Thai. He said it was too spicy. Again.

You dry your hands slowly. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“You never sleep well.” He doesn’t look up. “You should talk to someone about that. A doctor. Or maybe just try magnesium or something. That stuff’s meant to help.”

It’s always solutions with Vincent. Never space. Never softness.

You swallow. The kitchen’s warm, but your arms break out in goosebumps. “I don’t need magnesium. I need-”

“What?” His gaze flicks up. “What do you need?”

You hesitate. You hate the way his eyes sharpen like that — cool and assessing, like he’s gearing up to debate, not to listen. 

Vincent stands. Moves toward you. “Hey,” he says, softer now. Calculated. “I didn’t mean to be a dick.”

You flinch when his hand reaches for your arm. You hope he doesn’t notice.

“I’m just stressed with work,” he continues. “The agency’s putting pressure on the team and then my parents started going on about the summer, and now that the invitations are here-”

You freeze. “What invitations?”

He blinks, like he didn’t mean to say it. “Monaco.”

Your chest tightens instantly. The air tilts. You grip the edge of the counter to stay upright. “What do you mean Monaco?”

He sighs, pushing a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “The Grand Prix. My parents got us tickets. You know they go every year. They want us there.”

“No.”

It’s out before you can stop it. Reflexive. Immediate.

Vincent’s jaw twitches. “Come on.”

“I’m not going.”

“You haven’t even heard-”

“I don’t need to hear it.” Your voice shakes now, uneven. “You said you’d never ask me to go back.”

“That was years ago,” he says, as if grief has an expiration date.

You blink fast. The room starts to distort at the edges, just slightly. The refrigerator hum is too loud. There’s a faint rumble from outside — a motorcycle or maybe a sports car tearing through the Marais — and it hits you so hard your stomach flips. Your breath stutters.

Vincent notices. His expression hardens.

“I told you,” you whisper, bracing yourself on the counter again. “I can’t. I can’t be near that again.”

“You can’t live your whole life avoiding it.” His voice is cold again. “Jesus, it’s been over ten years.”

You flinch like he’s hit you.

He must see it, because he sighs and rubs his eyes. “Okay. Okay, that came out wrong.”

You say nothing.

“I just …” Vincent tries again. “This is important to me.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

He steps closer. “They’ll all be there. My team. My boss. Clients. It’s not just a race — it’s a whole weekend of networking.”

“Then go,” you say quietly.

“You’re my girlfriend.”

You stare at him. You want to scream. You want to run. You want to rewind the last five minutes and toss the whole conversation in the Seine.

Instead, you whisper, “I can’t watch cars go in circles without thinking about the one that didn’t come back.”

Vincent’s face changes for a beat — pity, or guilt, or something in between — but it vanishes fast. Replaced with that tired look again. The one that tells you he’s had this conversation too many times. The one that says you’re exhausting.

“I’m not asking you to sit in the grandstands,” he says, trying for gentler. “We’ll stay at the hotel. Go to a few dinners. Smile for some pictures. You don’t even have to go near the track if you don’t want to.”

You’re already shaking your head.

“There’ll be music. Parties. Beach things. You love the Riviera.” He smiles, like he’s selling it. “And it’s been a decade. You can’t even hear the engines from most of the town.”

“That’s not-” You cut yourself off. Your throat is tight.

Vincent tilts his head. “It’s not like Jules would want you to-”

“Don’t,” you snap.

He stops.

“Don’t bring him into this. Don’t you dare.”

Vincent exhales slowly, hands raised in mock surrender. “Fine. Okay. I won’t.”

The silence sits between you, thick with everything unsaid.

You press your palms to your eyes. The tile floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Your heart is thudding in your throat, and your chest still hasn’t unclenched from that sound outside.

You haven’t been back to Monaco in ten years. Not since the funeral in Nice. Not since the longest week of your life, when everything smelled like sea salt and grief and lilies. You were sixteen and trying to remember how to breathe while everyone else wore sunglasses and whispered in corners. Charles had cried through his eulogy. You’d left before the after-service lunch.

Vincent’s voice cuts back in, low now. Measured. “Look. I know it’s hard for you. But I’m asking for one weekend. That’s all. One weekend for me.”

You stare at him. There’s a buzzing in your ears.

“I’ll make it easy,” he adds. “We’ll do dinners. Some yacht party. You don’t even have to wear heels.”

You almost laugh. But you’re tired. Not just today. All the time. Of fighting, explaining, flinching at shadows.

So you nod. Slowly. “Just the weekend.”

His smile is quick, triumphant. “I’ll let my parents know.”

You don’t say anything else. You don’t trust your voice.

Vincent returns to the table, already texting. Probably confirming dinner reservations. You stay in the kitchen. You rinse the same glass for the third time. The water’s ice-cold now, but you can’t feel your hands.

Across the apartment, the TV turns on. A broadcaster’s voice echoes faintly: “… Monaco, always a spectacle, and this year promises no less …” The roar of engines rises underneath it, and you clamp your eyes shut.

You can’t breathe. You stare at the sink. At your shaking hands. At the suds circling the drain.

You think about Jules. About his last voicemail. About the way he used to tap your helmet before every karting session and say, “Don’t think. Just feel.”

You feel everything now. And it’s all too much. But still, you said yes. And Monaco is waiting.

***

The plane lands in Nice just after noon. You stare straight ahead, knuckles white on the armrest. Vincent is already checking his emails before the wheels even touch the runway.

Outside the window, the coastline yawns out in sun-washed glory. But all you can think about is how the air feels too close, too thick. You’re breathing, but it doesn’t feel like it’s working.

“You okay?” Vincent asks without looking up.

You nod once, lie through your teeth. “Fine.”

The drive to Monaco is exactly as you remember it — winding, glittering, cruel. The sea on one side, too beautiful, too eternal. And the rocks on the other, jagged like teeth.

You keep your gaze low. You used to watch this road with Jules, your noses pressed to the window of your father’s car, pointing out yachts and motorcycles. You used to count Ferraris like they were constellations. Now every curve makes your stomach twist.

Vincent talks most of the ride. Something about his boss. Something about dinner tonight. Something about a rooftop brunch where “you’ll love the view.” He doesn’t notice that your hands won’t stop fidgeting or that your voice has gone flat.

By the time you pass the faded billboard for Cap d’Ail, your chest is so tight you think it might crack.

***

Monaco looks the same. Worse, it feels the same.

A sunlit dollhouse of wealth and nostalgia. Bougainvillea climbing balconies. Pastries too pretty to eat. The glint of gold and sea spray. And underneath it all, the faint hum of something mechanical — unavoidable, omnipresent. Like a ghost just under the surface.

Vincent’s phone rings as you cross into the city. “It’s my mother,” he says. “She’s already at the hotel. Do you mind if I-”

You wave him off, still staring out the window. Still trying not to break.

The car snakes through the streets, past boutiques and awnings and roads you once knew by heart. You blink, and there it is: Rue Grimaldi. You see a little girl standing on a balcony, holding a homemade Ferrari flag, her dad lifting her onto his shoulders.

Your lungs stutter. You were that girl once.

You used to scream yourself hoarse every May, wedged between Jules and Charles, arms tangled, cheeks sunburnt. The Bianchi and Leclerc families shared a balcony back then — one big mess of folding chairs and paper cups and your father shouting split times in overly excited French. You remember laughing so hard at Charles’ sunhat once that you fell off the cooler you were sitting on and scraped your knee. Jules gave you his bandana and told you it made you look fast.

You press a hand to your chest now, like it might stop the memory from flooding your ribs.

“Hotel de Paris,” the driver says gently, pulling up to the curb.

You step out, and the heat hits you like a slap. Monaco in May always felt like standing in a champagne bottle just before the cork blows — glittering, effervescent, almost unbearable.

Vincent is already halfway through the revolving doors, still on the phone.

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you follow.

***

The hotel is chaos in designer clothing. People check in with luggage the size of coffins, draped in linen and logos. Somewhere behind you, a woman with a British accent is yelling about VIP passes.

You stare at the chandelier.

It’s the same one from your childhood. Jules once dared Charles to touch it, and Charles tried — jumped off a bench and nearly broke his arm. You can still hear the thud, the scream, your mother’s gasp.

You can’t do this.

You turn toward Vincent, who’s wrapping up his call. “I need air.”

He glances up. “Now?”

“I’ll just be a second.”

He doesn’t argue, just nods and mouths don’t get lost like you’re a child.

You walk fast. Out the doors. Down the steps. Past the tourists and the flower carts and the too-bright race banners strung between buildings like celebration scars.

You keep going. Every corner has a memory. The bakery where Jules used to buy raspberry tarts before karting practice. The alley where you and Charles once skipped an entire dinner party and got caught kissing behind a Vespa. The gelato stand with the chipped blue awning where Jules taught you how to say “stracciatella” without sounding like a tourist.

You stop. The stand’s still there. Same old man, same tiny freezer. His hair’s gone grey, but his hands are the same — broad and kind.

He looks up. “Ciao, piccola.”

Your throat closes.

He stares a beat longer, recognition flickering. “La sorellina di Jules?”

You nod slowly. “Hi.”

He smiles, small and sad. “You’ve grown.”

You almost laugh. You want to ask how long it’s been. If he still thinks about Jules. If the whole town does. But all you can say is, “Do you still have stracciatella?”

He hands it to you without a word.

***

You walk and eat and try to feel normal. You fail.

The streets are already crowded. Men in branded polos. Girls in vintage sunglasses. Kids in Ferrari hats dart between tables and café chairs, holding autograph books with hope heavy in their hands.

You should turn around. You should go back to the hotel. Instead, you find yourself outside the building where Charles used to live.

It’s quiet here. Tucked between a pharmacy and a florist, just above a steep stone staircase. You and Charles used to race down it when you were kids, then beg for granita from the stall at the bottom.

You stare up at the second-floor windows. The old shutters are still crooked. One is open. A white curtain dances in the breeze like it remembers you.

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. Sharp. Painful.

“You okay?”

You jump.

It’s a woman — early thirties, glossy ponytail, holding a toddler in one arm and a baguette in the other. She smiles at you with the kind of easy concern strangers in small towns reserve for familiar ghosts.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”

She tilts her head. “You look like someone I used to know.”

You force a smile. “Maybe.”

The toddler tugs her sleeve. “Maman, vite!”

The woman glances back, then looks at you again. “Take care, d’accord?”

You nod. And then they’re gone.

***

By the time you get back to the hotel, Vincent’s already changed for dinner.

He frowns when you walk in. “Where did you go?”

“Out.”

“You disappeared.”

“I texted.”

“You didn’t.”

You hold up your phone. He doesn’t check.

Instead, he moves toward you, all polished concern. “You look pale.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired,” he says again, softer this time, but it still cuts. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll just do the brunch and skip the paddock.”

You stiffen. “There was never going to be a paddock.”

He raises his hands. “Right. Sorry.”

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare out the window. The view is cruel — Port Hercules and all its glittering arrogance. The stands are already half up. You can see the trace of the track running like a scar through the city.

It feels like someone’s cracked your ribs open and stuffed Monaco inside.

Vincent is talking again. Outfit choices. Restaurant menus. Who’s coming tonight.

You hear none of it. Your eyes are fixed on the sea. On the curve of the road near the tunnel entrance. You remember the exact angle. You remember the call. The scream. The silence.

“I saw someone today,” you say, cutting through his monologue.

He pauses. “Who?”

“Just … someone from before.”

He looks confused. “From school?”

“No. From before that.”

A beat.

“Does it feel weird?” He asks, and it takes you a second to realize he’s trying. “Being back?”

You nod once. “It feels like being inside a snow globe someone won’t stop shaking.”

He doesn’t laugh. You don’t expect him to.

Vincent sits beside you, hands folded. He doesn’t touch you. Just says, “We can leave after Sunday. First thing Monday morning.”

You nod again. But deep down, you already know that something’s shifting. You felt it in the curve of that staircase. In the cracked window shutters. In the taste of stracciatella that still melts the same way it did when you were twelve.

You came back to survive a weekend. But Monaco remembers everything.And it’s not done with you yet.

***

“You’ll want to wear flats,” Vincent says, rifling through his cologne collection. “There’s a lot of walking.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, frozen with one shoe in your hand. “Flats for brunch?”

He doesn’t look up. “Change after. We’re heading to the paddock first.”

Your stomach drops.

“No,” you say quickly, standing. “You said we weren’t doing the paddock.”

Vincent straightens his tie. “Change of plans.”

Your voice cracks. “Vincent.”

“They’re expecting us.” He finally glances at you, holding his phone like a shield. “I wasn’t going to, but then Julien texted — he got us on the list. It’s not like we have to stay long.”

You’re already shaking your head. “I told you I can’t go.”

“It’s not the race yet,” he says, too casually. “It’s just the setup. Garage tours. Some driver meet-and-greets. It’ll be fun.”

Your jaw clenches. “Fun?”

He moves toward you, adjusting your hair like it’s a stray thread. “You’re being dramatic.”

You pull away. “You said I wouldn’t have to-”

“It’s been ten years, babe.” He sighs. “You’re still letting this control you.”

You stare at him, something hot and acidic rising in your chest. “This?”

He doesn’t flinch.

You walk to the window, heart hammering. The harbor below is crowded with floating palaces and people in team colors. A roar rises in the distance — an engine firing up, aggressive and guttural. You grip the windowsill. Your nails dig into the wood.

Vincent’s voice softens. “I thought if you saw it up close, maybe it wouldn’t feel so … big anymore.”

The buzzing starts in your ears. You barely hear him now.

“Babe,” he adds gently, like that might help. “You can handle it.”

But you can’t. You know that already. Still, you nod. What else can you do? You nod, and you smile, and you tell him, “Just for a few minutes.”

He kisses your cheek like you’ve just agreed to champagne, not psychological warfare.

***

The walk to the paddock is short, but every step feels like glass. The closer you get, the louder it becomes — mechanics shouting, tires screeching against pavement, that ever-present metallic scream of engines revving to life. It’s everywhere, all at once. Surrounding you.

Vincent keeps his hand at the small of your back like you’re a purse he doesn’t want to lose.

The VIP gate is chaos. Wristbands, security, lanyards that smell like sunscreen and stress. You’re barely listening. Your focus narrows to the sounds — the clang of metal tools, the sharp whoosh of a pit gun. You feel it all in your teeth.

“Hey,” Vincent whispers. “Smile.”

You try. It doesn’t work.

Then you step inside. And the past slams into you like a wave.

Ferrari red. McLaren papaya. Red Bull navy. The garage walls bleed color and history, the logos shouting louder than the engines. The track is just beyond the chainlink, but the paddock buzzes like its own electric storm.

You smell fuel.You smell burning rubber. You smell 2004, and Jules holding your hand, and Charles swinging your arms between his like a human jump rope.

You stop walking.

“I need a second,” you whisper.

Vincent barely hears you over the roar of another engine coming to life. “What?”

“I just need-”

Too late.

There’s a cluster of photographers ahead, flashes going off in rapid bursts. A driver walks by, helmet under his arm. You barely register who it is — dark hair, sunglasses, some grin that probably belongs on billboards.

You turn the other way.

And that’s when you hear it.

“Y/N?”

It’s your name, but it doesn’t sound like it’s being said for the first time. It sounds like it’s being remembered.

You freeze. It’s not a hallucination.

It’s Charles.

The voice is unmistakable. Deeper now, but still threaded with that old warmth. You don’t turn around. You can’t.

“Y/N, wait!”

You don’t wait. You bolt.

Vincent calls after you, but his voice is drowned by the chaos. Your feet slap the pavement as you duck behind a Mercedes display, then slip through a tent flap like it’s a back door out of a nightmare.

You find yourself in a quiet corridor behind one of the media rooms. Empty. Dim. The sound muffled just enough that you can hear your heartbeat over it.

You press yourself against the wall. Breathe.

In. Out. In.

It doesn’t work.

Your palms are sweating. Your chest is too tight. Your vision starts to tunnel. You close your eyes and try to count — five things you can see, four things you can touch-

But everything’s vibrating. Inside and out.

You slide down the wall, fingers gripping your knees.

You feel twelve. You feel seventeen. You feel the moment the phone rang. You hear the doctor’s voice. You see your mother’s face. You hear Charles’ sobs when they lowered the casket.

You press your hands to your ears. “Stop,” you whisper. “Stop it.”

But your body doesn’t listen. The panic blooms like wildfire.

***

You don’t know how long you sit there. Could be five minutes. Could be twenty.

Eventually, the sounds dim. Your breathing evens. Your hands stop shaking enough to pull your phone from your purse.

You have eight missed calls from Vincent. You ignore them. Instead, you call a car.

***

Back at the hotel, the silence feels dangerous. Too still. Too clean.

You kick off your shoes and sit on the floor beside the bed. Cold marble against your spine. You stare at the ceiling and try not to cry. You fail.

By the time Vincent storms in, your mascara’s dried in streaks and your hands are still trembling.

“Are you kidding me?”

You don’t respond.

He slams the door. “You ran.”

You flinch. He notices. Pauses. Swears under his breath.

“Do you know how bad that looked?” He snaps. “Julien was trying to introduce you, and suddenly you’re gone? I had to make excuses for ten minutes-”

“I had a panic attack.”

That stops him cold.

You barely whisper it, but it’s enough.

His mouth opens. Then shuts.

You look up at him. “My first one in three years.”

Vincent blinks. “I didn’t-”

“No. You didn’t.”

He kneels in front of you, cautious now. “I thought maybe it would help.”

“You lied.”

“I was trying to help you move on.”

You laugh, hollow. “You don’t get to decide how I heal.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Y/N. I didn’t mean for-”

You stand before he can finish. “I’m going to lie down.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad. I’m exhausted.”

He stares at you like you’re a puzzle he’s finally realizing he’ll never solve.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “I’ll be at dinner.”

You don’t answer.

When the door shuts behind him, you let yourself fall back into the pillows. The quiet creeps in again, and this time you let it.

Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number.

Are you okay?

You stare.

No name. But you know who it’s from. Charles found your number.

Your heart lurches in your chest, but you don’t answer.

Not yet. You’re not ready for that. Not tonight.

But the part of you that ran? The part that saw him and felt everything all over again? That part is still burning.

***

The morning of the race arrives like a cruel joke.

You wake to the sound of engines — distant, but unmistakable. They start early, echoing up from the hills like thunder rehearsing for disaster. You squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in the pillow. If you don’t open them, maybe you won’t have to exist.

But then Vincent speaks.

“We should leave by ten,” he says casually, like he’s talking about brunch. “Traffic will be hell.”

You stiffen. “Leave for where?”

He’s at the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks. “The paddock club.”

Your stomach churns.

“We agreed we weren’t doing this again,” you say slowly.

“I know, but Julien insisted. And now that you’ve already met some of the team, it’ll be easier. Plus, you’ll be in the suite this time. Glass walls. Air conditioning. Free champagne.” He glances at you like that last part might sweeten the poison.

“I can’t.”

Vincent exhales, tight and impatient. “You said that yesterday.”

“I had a panic attack yesterday.”

“I’m not asking you to watch the race,” he snaps, then softens his voice like he didn’t. “You’ll be safe. You’ll be inside. You don’t even have to look at the track.”

You wrap your arms around your knees. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s been ten years. And because you can’t keep living like this.”

You say nothing. What can you say? You’re not winning this fight. He’s already picking out your dress.

***

The paddock club is worse than you expected.

Polished and gleaming, every inch of it a performance — glass walls, white leather chairs, waiters in pressed uniforms offering trays of delicate things you can’t name. The race hasn’t started yet, but it feels like a warzone already. Noise everywhere. People everywhere. A camera crew in the corner. Laughter that doesn’t sound real.

You sit in the back, clutching your phone like a weapon. Your breathing is already too fast.

“Smile,” Vincent murmurs. “At least try to look like you’re not in mourning.”

You turn to him. “I am.”

He blinks. You look away before he can say anything.

The noise builds. You hear tire warmups. Practice start simulations. Over the loudspeakers: the deep, cinematic voice of the announcer calling out the grid, each driver’s name met with cheers that rattle the windows.

And then- 

“Charles Leclerc. Monaco.”

The suite erupts.

The walls are glass, but you swear they close in. Your lungs aren’t working. Your hands are clammy. Your mouth tastes like metal.

Someone bumps into you. Laughs. Another cheer.

You stand. Too fast.

“Excuse me,” you murmur, stumbling toward the hallway. “I need … I need-”

But no one hears you.

You make it halfway to the corridor before the world spins. The lights blur. Your knees buckle. The floor tilts.

You collapse against the wall just outside the suite, trembling. Hands shaking, vision fractured.

You can’t breathe. You’re not here. You’re back there.

The hospital. The priest. Your mother screaming. The casket. The dirt. Charles gripping your hand so hard you bruised.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You gasp — once, twice — but the air doesn’t come. Your skin tingles, numb and hot at once. You try to speak, to scream, to something, but your body is locked.

And that’s when you finally break.

You fall. Down to the cold cement, curled between two hospitality tents like debris, your body giving out the way buildings do in earthquakes. Silent. Sudden. Devastating.

You cry until you choke.

***

It’s hours before he finds you.

Long after the chequered flag. After the roar dies down and the fans start to leave. After the interviews, the champagne, the national anthem played on home ground for the second time in his name.

Charles moves through the back corridor like a man searching for something lost.

And he finds you there — collapsed, silent now, forehead pressed to your knees, mascara streaked to your collarbones, dress crumpled like paper.

He freezes. Then steps closer, slowly.

“Kot doudou,” he whispers, crouching down. Sweetheart.

You flinch.

“Shhh,” he says quickly, gently. “C’est moi. C’est Charles.”

Your breathing hitches.

You don’t look up.

He doesn’t touch you — not yet — but his voice softens into something only you’ve ever known.

“Je suis là, d’accord? I’m here. Tu n’es pas seule. You’re not alone.”

Tears slip down your cheeks again.

“Regarde-moi. Look at me, please.”

Your head lifts.

And there he is. The same green eyes. The same scar above his eyebrow. But older. Wiser. Softer. Still him.

Charles reaches out, so slowly, fingers hovering just above your wrist.

“Puis-je? Can I?”

You nod.

His hand wraps around yours — warm, steady, real.

“You’re okay,” he says softly. “Tu es en sécurité maintenant. You’re safe now.”

A sob escapes your lips, sharp and desperate.

He pulls you into him.

You don’t even realize it’s happening until you’re wrapped in his arms, clinging to the white of his race suit like a lifeline. He cradles you with both hands, holding your head against his chest.

“Respire avec moi, d’accord? Breathe with me.”

In. Out.

“Comme ça. Like that.”

You match his rhythm, barely.

His voice is a metronome.

“Tu te souviens quand on courait dans les escaliers derrière l'appartement de ma mère? Do you remember those stairs we used to race down behind my mom’s flat?”

You nod, weakly.

“You used to cheat,” he says, smiling gently. “Tu criais ‘regarde!’ et puis tu me doublais.”

That pulls a tiny laugh from your throat. Barely there. But it’s something.

Charles strokes your back slowly.

“Et Jules te portait toujours quand tu tombais. You always made him carry you back up.”

Another breath. This one deeper.

“Il serait si fier de toi, tu sais? He’d be so proud of you.”

Your tears come harder then. Not like a collapse this time — but like a release.

And still, Charles doesn’t let go.

“Come with me,” he says finally, standing slowly, guiding you up with him. “I have a room. You can sit. Breathe.”

You nod again, unable to speak.

He leads you gently through the maze of tents, hands warm and grounding.

***

The driver’s room is small, private, cool. One chair. One couch. A fridge full of untouched water bottles.

He closes the door quietly behind you.

“Stay here,” Charles says. “I have ten minutes of press left. Maybe fifteen. I’ll be back before you miss me.”

You glance at him, voice raw. “You don’t have to-”

He holds up a finger. “Non. No arguing. Just sit. Rest.”

You sit.

He turns to go, but pauses in the doorway.

“I won,” he says quietly.

You blink.

“What?”

“The race,” he says, almost shy. “I won.”

A beat.

Your eyes widen.

“You — Charles.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. But his smile says everything.

“You should be celebrating,” you say quickly, standing. “This is — this is huge. It’s Monaco, your home! Go-”

He steps forward.

“No.”

You stop.

“I’ve waited all season for that win,” he says softly. “And when it happened, I looked around and still didn’t feel complete. You know when I did?”

Your throat tightens.

He steps closer.

“When I saw you again.”

You try to look away.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“I don’t want champagne,” he murmurs. “I want to know you’re breathing.”

You look up at him — really look.

And the boy you knew is still there.

Not buried. Not broken.

Just older. Like you.

You nod, slowly.

“I’m breathing,” you whisper.

His voice breaks a little. “Bon.”

Then he kisses your forehead, and everything in you finally, finally quiets.

***

The ride to Charles’ apartment is slow, winding through sleepy post-race Monaco. The streets are still littered with confetti, fencing half-disassembled, tourists wandering in a daze of heat and champagne. You sit in the passenger seat of his matte black Ferrari, window cracked, fingers curled into your lap. Still silent. Still unsure if this is real.

Charles drives one-handed, his wrist slung casually over the steering wheel like it’s second nature. It probably is.

He glances at you at a red light.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You don’t have to pretend.”

You exhale, looking down at your fingers. “I don’t know what I am.”

“That’s okay,” he says, voice low and warm. “You’re allowed not to know.”

The light turns green.

The hum of the engine should set you off again, but somehow it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the calmness of his presence. Maybe it’s the way he keeps the radio off, lets the city sounds fill the silence without trying to fix it.

His apartment is tucked up in the hills, away from the yacht parties and billionaire noise. It’s quiet, modern, all warm neutrals and clean edges, but lived-in. There’s a pair of sneakers by the door, a hoodie crumpled on a chair, a water bottle half-full on the counter. It smells like citrus and laundry detergent.

And dog.

Because the moment you step inside, there’s a scrabbling of little paws.

“Leo!” Charles laughs as a beige blur launches toward you, tongue out, tail whipping like a metronome. “Gentil! Doucement!”

Leo the dachshund ignores all commands and beelines straight for your knees, snuffling at your dress with single-minded joy.

You blink down at him. “You got a dog?”

Charles shuts the door behind you. “Last year. He picked me.”

“He’s …” You crouch slowly, letting the dog sniff your fingers. “He’s got no sense of personal space.”

“He’s a Leclerc.”

You snort. “Touché.”

Leo plops on your foot, satisfied. You scratch behind his ears. Something in your chest softens.

Charles watches you with that quiet expression you remember so well. Thoughtful. Open.

“Come,” he says gently. “You need to eat.”

***

The kitchen is bright, sun-washed even at this hour. He pours you a glass of water before he even offers you anything else. Puts it in your hand like it’s sacred.

You sip, then drain the whole glass.

“I ordered from Il Giardino,” he says, sitting across from you at the marble island. “You remember?”

Your eyes widen. “Are you serious? That place is still open?”

“Best pizza in Monaco. Of course it is.”

“You used to eat half a pie in one minute.”

He grins. “Don’t challenge me.”

The pizzas arrive ten minutes later, delivered by someone who knows him well enough not to ask for a photo. You both sit cross-legged on the floor like teenagers, plates balanced on your knees.

You don’t speak at first.

The food is too good.

Or maybe it’s that you haven’t eaten a full meal in three days and your body is finally remembering it needs to survive.

Charles watches you as you eat. Not in a weird way, just … like it matters to him that you're eating at all.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” you say quietly, after the second slice. “About the race. The panic. I ruined your day.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“You won Monaco.”

“And I found you again.”

Your heart stumbles.

He adds, softer, “It feels like one miracle deserved another.”

You look down at your plate. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

His voice is low. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I ran.”

“I ran too. Just in a different direction.”

You blink.

He leans back on one arm. “You left, I know. But I stayed and buried myself in the thing that hurt most.”

You watch him carefully. He’s not looking at you anymore, just out the window, where the lights from the harbor flicker like memory.

“I used to think that if I won enough, drove fast enough, gave enough interviews saying I was okay … it would mean I was.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t work.”

Silence stretches between you, tender and wide.

“I couldn’t look at a track,” you admit. “I couldn’t even listen to the commentary on TV.”

“I know.”

You glance at him. “You do?”

He nods, eyes still distant. “I saw photos of you once, maybe two years after. In Paris. Some event. You looked so far away.”

You don’t remember the event, but the far away part tracks.

“I thought about calling you,” he continues. “A hundred times.”

“So why didn’t you?”

His smile is sad. “Because I was angry.”

You nod. “Me too.”

He turns back to you.

“Were you angry at Jules?” He asks.

You hesitate.

“Yes. And at myself. And at God. And the FIA. And time. And physics. And the rain. And anyone who said, he died doing what he loved.”

Charles swallows. “I hate that.”

“Me too.”

His voice is quiet. “I still talk to him, sometimes.”

You blink. “You do?”

“When I’m driving.” He shrugs. “Before a quali lap. After I fuck up. He’s there. Always.”

You nod, tears pricking again. “I still wear his bracelet.”

He looks at your wrist. The woven red one, frayed and delicate now.

“I remember when he gave you that,” Charles says. “You were mad because he stole your gelato that day.”

“I threw a spoon at him.”

“And he said you’d go to jail, since you assaulted him.”

You laugh — really laugh — and cover your face.

Charles grins. “You told him I was the only person dumb enough to get arrested.”

You glance up at him.

The look between you settles deep.

Warm. Familiar. Real.

He picks up Leo, who immediately tries to chew on a crust, then sighs and burrows into Charles’ hoodie like he’s lived there for years.

Charles strokes behind the dog’s ears, voice softer now.

“I’m glad you came.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“I know,” he says. “But you did.”

You feel yourself cracking open again, but not in the way you did yesterday.

Not like glass.

Like thaw.

Like something cold finally learning warmth again.

You set your plate down and lean back against the wall, full and exhausted and strangely weightless.

“I haven’t eaten like that in a week,” you admit.

“You probably haven’t slept in a week either,” he says gently.

You want to argue, but you’re already yawning.

Charles stands, then holds out a hand. “Come on. You can have the guest room.”

You take it without question.

***

The room is simple. A white bed, soft sheets, windows left open to the sea air. You sit on the edge and kick off your shoes.

Charles lingers in the doorway, Leo still under one arm like a loaf of warm bread.

“I’ll be just down the hall,” he says. “If you need anything.”

You nod. Then pause.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For not making me feel broken.”

“You’re not broken,” he says immediately.

You look at him.

“You’re just grieving,” he adds. “And grief isn’t linear.”

You nod.

He starts to leave, then turns back.

“I meant what I said,” he says. “Seeing you again … it mattered. More than winning.”

You blink slowly, too tired to fight the emotion in your throat.

“You always mattered more.”

He smiles. Small. Real.

“Bonne nuit, mon étoile,” he says.

The door clicks softly behind him.

You curl into the covers, still in your dress. And sleep.

***

Back then, everything was simpler.

You’re fourteen. He’s fifteen. You’re sitting on the roof of his mother’s apartment in the old part of Monaco, knees pulled to your chest, elbows brushing as you both watch the sea below shimmer in silver-blue streaks. The track’s still being built for the Grand Prix — steel scaffolding half-draped along the waterfront, familiar and loud and full of promise.

“Do you think we’ll remember this?” You ask, swinging your ankle in slow, lazy arcs. “When we’re old and boring?”

Charles glances at you, his hair sticking up at the crown where you’d mussed it earlier. “How old?”

“Like … twenty-five.”

He snorts. “That’s not old.”

You grin. “Feels ancient.”

He nudges your shoulder with his. “I’ll remember. Even if I’m ninety.”

You rest your chin on your knees. “What if we don’t see each other anymore? What if we grow up and forget?”

“I won’t forget you,” he says, just like that. No hesitation. “Not even if you forget me first.”

You go quiet.

He’s quiet too, but he shifts closer, like his body can’t help it. His shoulder touches yours again.

You whisper, “You’re my best friend.”

“I know,” he says. “You’re mine too.”

Your heart beats like a drumroll. Your stomach feels like fireworks.

He looks at you then — really looks.

And it’s not a surprise when he leans in.

It’s a promise.

Your first kiss is shy and warm and a little clumsy. His lips taste like the peach ice cream he stole from your cone ten minutes ago. Your fingers curl in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re anchoring yourself to this exact second, because you are.

You pull back and grin. “You taste like sugar.”

He laughs. “You taste like you’re going to break my heart someday.”

“Never.”

You meant it. So did he.

***

You wake to the smell of something warm and savory. The soft sound of music drifting in from the kitchen — a scratchy vinyl piano cover of some piece you don’t recognize. There are birds outside, faint seagulls, and for a second you have no idea where you are.

And then-

Leo jumps onto the guest bed with all the enthusiasm of a creature five times his size. He licks your cheek once, then sneezes into the pillow beside your face.

“Gross,” you mumble, pushing him off with one hand. “Rude.”

The door creaks open.

“You’re awake.”

Charles is holding a tray.

“Hi,” you say, rubbing your eyes.

His hair is a mess. He’s wearing a hoodie and the most ridiculous socks — Ferrari red with little dogs on them.

“I brought you sustenance,” he says, setting the tray down on the bedside table.

You blink at it. Fresh-cut flowers in a mug. A slice of quiche on a ceramic plate. A to-go cup of coffee with your name spelled right for once.

“Jules’ favorite,” Charles adds, tapping the crust with a fork. “You remember? The one from the market on Rue Grimaldi. They still make it with the caramelized onions.”

You sit up slowly, heart already twisting. “You went to the market?”

“I go every Monday.”

You look down at the plate. It smells like childhood.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” You ask quietly.

Charles shrugs. “Because you deserve it.”

You look at him. Hard.

He holds your gaze.

“Because I missed you,” he adds.

You bite your lip.

“I looked for you,” he says. “In every city I raced in. I’d check cafés and train stations. Not because I thought you were there, exactly … I just hoped.”

Your chest tightens.

“Even when I was in Paris,” he continues. “I’d take extra long walks. Through Saint-Germain, the Marais. Hoping you’d just … be there. Like magic.”

You stare at the tray again.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Why?”

“Because I wasn’t finished knowing you.”

You press your palm over your heart like it might quiet the noise.

Charles kneels beside the bed, not touching you, just … there.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

You shake your head. “It’s too much.”

“I can take it.”

You exhale, staring at your hands.

“I’ve been walking through life like a ghost,” you say. “Just … watching things happen around me. Letting Vincent tell me what I need, what I can’t handle, what would be good for me. And I believed him.”

Charles tilts his head. “He doesn’t see you.”

“No,” you whisper. “He sees a broken version of me. One he can fix. Or at least manage.”

“Fuck that.”

You blink.

He says it again. Softer, but just as sure. “Fuck that.”

A shaky laugh escapes your lips. “He made me feel crazy for still missing Jules. For not wanting to go to the races. For not getting over it fast enough.”

“I still cry,” Charles says simply. “All the time.”

You look at him.

“I hear certain songs, or see someone with his shoulders, or walk into a hotel and remember we stayed there during karting once. I cry,” he says. “I miss him in a way that doesn’t shrink with time. It just … stretches.”

You nod, fast, eyes blurry.

“I thought maybe I was stuck,” you whisper. “But maybe I’m just grieving. Still. Just like you.”

He smiles softly. “Exactly like me.”

You pick up the quiche and take a small bite. It’s still warm. Still perfect.

“I loved him so much,” you say, voice breaking. “I still do.”

“I know.”

Charles doesn’t fill the silence that follows. He just lets you sit with it.

Leo curls up at your feet. The music hums along in the background.

And for the first time in years, the grief doesn’t feel like a wall.

It feels like a bridge.

***

Later, you're curled up on Charles’ couch in a pair of his old sweatpants and a borrowed hoodie. Your hair’s in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean. He brings you another coffee and settles beside you with a bowl of cereal, Leo now draped across both your shins like a blanket.

“Remember that summer when we tried to build a treehouse?” You ask.

“In the olive grove,” he says immediately. “We got through two planks and a ladder.”

“And then you fell.”

“I leapt.”

“You cried.”

“I landed emotionally.”

You burst out laughing. It feels like the first real laugh you’ve had in months.

Charles grins, slouched and easy.

“Do you ever wish we could go back?” You ask.

He leans his head back. “To when we were kids?”

“Yeah. Before everything.”

“Sometimes,” he says. “But then I think … maybe we had to get lost before we could find each other again.”

You fall quiet.

You’re starting to feel it, this pull in your chest. Not just toward him, but away from everything that’s kept you small and afraid. Vincent. The routines that numb. The excuses that sound like truths. You’re starting to question it all.

You sip your coffee and ask, “What if I’m not ready?”

“For what?” Charles asks.

“To feel this again.”

He shrugs. “Then don’t. Just feel whatever you feel. No rules.”

You stare at him. “You’re infuriatingly healthy now.”

He chuckles. “Leo’s my therapist.”

The dachshund barks on cue.

You smile.

“You should stay the night again,” Charles says suddenly.

Your brows rise.

He rushes, “Not like that. I mean — just stay. Rest. We’ll order something. Watch a film.”

You hesitate.

Then nod. “Okay.”

A beat.

Charles grins. “You want to wear the dog socks?”

You shake your head. “I want my own pair.”

He pretends to think. “We’ll see if you’ve earned them.”

***

The walk to Pascale’s apartment is warm and golden, the kind of afternoon Monaco only gifts to those it’s missed. The harbor glints. The sea air tastes like old summers. And Charles, walking beside you with a cloth bag of strawberries and flowers slung over one shoulder, is humming something under his breath.

You don’t ask what it is. You already know. It’s the same melody he used to hum in the kitchen of his family’s apartment when you were fourteen, waiting for crêpes and poking Jules in the ribs with a spatula until he yelled.

“Are you nervous?” Charles asks quietly.

You nod. “A little. I haven’t seen her since …”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to.

He reaches for your hand. Not in a way that demands anything, just enough for your fingertips to brush. “She missed you. She asks about you every time I go home.”

You glance sideways. “You told her you found me?”

“She figured it out,” he says with a wry smile. “I didn’t come home after the race. Then I texted her to ask if she still made that orange cake you liked. She said, ‘How long is she staying?’”

You bite your lip.

“She loved you, you know,” he adds, softer now. “Still does.”

You nod, chest tight.

The wind tugs your hair across your face. You brush it back. You feel grounded. Fragile, but grounded. Like this walk is one step further away from the version of yourself who couldn’t imagine standing on this street ever again.

And then-

“Y/N?”

You stop cold.

You know that voice.

Charles turns with you, brow furrowed.

Vincent is standing just outside a cafe patio, phone still in his hand. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. His expression freezes the moment he registers the scene.

You. Charles. Together. Laughing. Comfortable.

He blinks once. Then twice.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Vincent says slowly. “Him?”

The air shifts.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Charles steps subtly in front of you — not enough to block, but enough to signal. “This isn’t the time.”

Vincent ignores him completely. “This is where you’ve been? I’ve been calling you for two days.”

“I turned off my phone,” you say, voice hoarse.

His eyes narrow. “And didn’t think to let me know you were with Monaco’s golden boy?”

“Vincent-”

“Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

Charles says your name gently. You glance at him, and that’s when Vincent loses it.

“Oh, don’t look at him like that,” he snaps. “You think he’s your savior now? The famous, hot, emotionally available Charles Leclerc swooped in the second you cried on a racetrack? That’s cute.”

“Stop,” you say, voice cracking.

“No,” he says. “No, because I’ve been dealing with your silence, your triggers, your shutdowns for years, and the second someone shiny from your past shows up, you run to him?”

You flinch.

Charles says, more firmly, “That’s enough.”

Vincent laughs bitterly. “You think you can just slot back into his life? You think he actually wants this long-term? You’re-” he hesitates, then lowers his voice to something sharper, quieter. “You’re too broken, Y/N.”

Silence.

The world tilts.

Vincent takes a step forward. “You know it’s true. You can’t even watch a race without hyperventilating. You barely eat, you don’t sleep. You-”

“I left because of you,” you whisper.

He blinks.

“I wasn’t planning to stay,” you go on, voice trembling. “But then you made it so clear I wasn’t safe with you.”

Vincent’s mouth opens. Closes.

“You made me feel like grief was a burden,” you say. “Like Jules should be ancient history. Like my pain was something to manage.”

He glares at Charles. “So what, he’s different?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

Charles puts a hand on your back, grounding, steady.

Vincent exhales through his nose and mutters something you don’t quite catch. Then, in a tired voice, he says, “Let’s just talk. Alone.”

You glance at Charles.

“Go if you want to,” he says, calm and clear. “But not because you think you owe him something.”

That does something to you.

But you nod. Because you need to say this. You need to end this in a way that’s yours.

You follow Vincent a few steps away, to the mouth of a side street.

“I loved you,” he says. “I tried.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you loved a version of me I don’t even recognize.”

He swallows.

“I’m not broken,” you add. “I’m grieving. There’s a difference.”

“Then why do you always fall apart?” He asks, voice almost desperate. “Why do I always have to pick up the pieces?”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

He doesn’t reply. And you don’t wait. You walk away. You don’t look back.

***

That night, you don’t go back to Charles’ place.

You don’t go back to the hotel either.

You go where you always go when everything feels too loud: the cemetery.

Jules’ memorial stone is worn at the edges now. There are new flowers — someone’s always bringing them, sometimes fans, sometimes friends. But you kneel anyway and set down the tiny bouquet of wildflowers you picked from a wall on the walk.

You sit cross-legged. You stare at his name. You breathe.

You whisper, “I’m so tired.”

And then — finally — after days of tears caught behind your ribs, you cry.

Not quiet. Not graceful.

You cry like your body is being wrung out from the inside.

You cry until your chest hurts and your palms dig into the gravel and your vision goes blurry with salt and moonlight.

And when a voice whispers, “Chérie …” you don’t even flinch.

He finds you there, curled in on yourself.

You don’t look up.

Charles kneels beside you, gently pressing a hand to your back.

You exhale, broken and sharp.

“Respire avec moi,” he murmurs. “Un … deux … trois …”

He matches his breath to yours.

You inhale.

Exhale.

Again.

Again.

Your body starts to slow.

You lean into him.

“Je suis là,” he whispers. I’m here.

You nod into his chest.

He rubs small, slow circles into your shoulder. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t speak again for a long time.

When you finally sit up, eyes puffy, hands trembling, you say, “I don’t know who I am if I’m not sad.”

He looks at you gently. “You’re not just sad.”

You shake your head. “But I don’t know how to be without it. Grief has been my entire personality since I was seventeen.”

“I get it,” he says. “I do.”

You look at him. “How did you do it? How did you keep going?”

He exhales. “I didn’t have a choice. I had a contract. Expectations. A whole family who needed me to be okay. But I wasn’t.”

He pauses.

“I drove through the pain,” he adds. “Not because it healed me. But because it was the only way I could be close to him. On track, he’s still with me.”

You close your eyes.

“But I’ve had moments,” he says. “Nights where I broke down in hotel rooms. Days I couldn’t speak to anyone. And in all of that, I realized … Jules wouldn’t have wanted us to live half-lives just because he didn’t get to finish his.”

You whisper, “But he was so good.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to be like him.”

“You were.”

You finally meet his eyes.

Charles reaches for your hand. “He loved you. He’d want you to love yourself. Even the parts that still hurt.”

Tears prick your eyes again. But they’re softer now.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you say.

“You don’t need to,” he replies. “You just have to keep walking. One step at a time.”

***

You don’t mean to cry the first time you sit across from the therapist in Paris.

But something about the quiet room, the glass of water on the table, the soft hum of a sound machine in the corner — it cracks you open before a single word is spoken. You cry quietly. Silently. The tears just fall, like they’ve been waiting for you to stop running long enough to let them catch up.

The therapist — Marion — is in her forties, maybe. Calm eyes, soft voice. She doesn’t flinch.

“That’s okay,” she says. “Take your time.”

You nod. You wipe at your face with the edge of your sleeve.

It’s your first session in years. The last time you tried, you’d walked out after twenty minutes. The therapist had said the word closure and you’d nearly laughed in her face.

But Charles had sat with you the night before this appointment, legs folded beneath him on your couch in Paris, Leo asleep in a little croissant shape beside him. He’d held your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and whispered, “You don’t have to fix everything overnight. Just try.”

So you’re here. And you’re trying.

You don’t talk about Jules in the first session. Or Monaco. Or Charles.

You talk about the little things: the engine sounds that make your stomach turn. The blackouts. The way your chest tightens in traffic. The dreams you can’t always remember but wake up from with your hands clenched into fists.

Marion doesn’t push.

Instead, she introduces something called EMDR.

“It works differently than traditional talk therapy,” she explains. “The idea is to reprocess traumatic memories while stimulating the brain bilaterally. Often through eye movements, tapping, or sound.”

You nod, even though it sounds a bit like science fiction.

“It’s not about erasing the memories,” she says. “It’s about giving your brain a way to move through them instead of staying stuck in the moment of impact.”

You sit with that. Let it settle in your bones.

“I want to try,” you say.

And for the first time in years, you mean it.

***

Charles starts flying to Paris on his free weekends.

It’s never anything dramatic. No declarations. No grand gestures.

Just soft knock-knocks on your door at noon. Croissants from the place downstairs. Leo waddling in like he owns the apartment. Charles curling up beside you on the couch, watching documentaries or whatever terrible movie you picked out of nostalgia.

He doesn’t ask too many questions.

He doesn’t hover.

He’s just there.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks one Saturday evening as you lean against him, the leftover sushi untouched on the table.

You hesitate. Then you say, “I remembered the way the radio sounded. The moment it cut out during Jules’ crash. That silence. That pause.”

He nods.

“And then the static. I can’t unhear it.”

“I know.”

“I hated that I couldn’t do anything,” you whisper. “I just sat in my room, watching the feed freeze, and I knew. I knew.”

Charles exhales slowly.

You feel his breath against your hair.

“I dreamt about it last night,” you add. “In the dream, I’m running across the track. But I never get there in time.”

He closes his eyes. You feel him wrap his arms around you. Tight. Steady.

“You can say it,” you murmur. “You dream too, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “Sometimes I hear his laugh and wake up with my pillow soaked.”

You squeeze his hand.

That night, he stays in the guest room again. And even though he’s just down the hall, you sleep like you haven’t in years.

***

The EMDR sessions become a rhythm.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Back and forth. Left and right.

You track the movement of Marion’s fingers with your eyes. You speak. You breathe. You reprocess.

It’s brutal. Some days, you leave feeling like you’ve been scraped hollow.

But other days, there’s a weightlessness to it. Like a memory that used to feel like drowning now floats a little.

You tell Charles about it over the phone when he’s in Baku.

“I didn’t dissociate today,” you say, voice shaking with pride.

“Chérie, that’s amazing,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

You smile at the ceiling.

And when he says, “Next time I’m back, I’ll take you out to dinner. Somewhere loud,” you don’t panic. You nod.

Because maybe you’re getting there. Maybe, slowly, you’re learning how to live in the world again.

***

Vincent texts twice.

The first is vague.

We should talk.

The second is manipulative.

I’m worried about you. You isolate when you’re spiraling. I just want to help.

You don’t answer.

You don’t owe him that anymore.

Instead, you text Charles.

Still hate the sound of engines. But I don’t want to run anymore.

He sends back.

Come to Fiorano.

You blink at the screen.

Fiorano?

Private Pirelli tire test. Just a few laps. I can keep everyone away. You won’t have to talk to anyone.

You stare at the message.

I’ll think about it.

But you already know you’re going.

***

It takes three trains to get to Maranello.

You wear headphones the entire ride. Not because of noise, just because you need a barrier. Something that says I’m not ready yet. Please come back later.

When you arrive at Fiorano, the sun is setting behind a curtain of red and gold. The track is quiet, save for the low rumble of distant engines. You flinch once. Then breathe.

A Ferrari staff member meets you at the gate. She smiles warmly, checks your name, and says, “He’s just finishing his run. You can watch from the platform up ahead.”

You nod.

You walk slowly. One foot in front of the other. Grass crunching beneath your shoes.

When you reach the edge of the platform, the view takes your breath away.

Charles is out there.

Not Charles your childhood best friend.

Not Charles your heartbreak.

Not Charles your anchor.

Charles the driver. The one Jules believed in. The one who used pain like fuel.

The SF-25 glints like molten fire as it tears around the corner. The sound — once unbearable — is dulled by your earbuds. You leave them in. But you don’t turn away.

You watch.

He’s graceful. Aggressive. Focused.

You’ve never seen anyone so alive.

Your heart beats fast, but not from panic. From something closer to awe.

You stay there until the car slows, until the engine cuts.

And when he climbs out, helmet off, curls sweat-dampened and grin bright under the golden sky, he sees you.

He doesn’t wave.

He just nods. Like he knew you’d come.

You stay on the platform until the sky deepens into twilight.

And for the first time, the sound of an engine doesn’t feel like a threat.

It feels like memory.

It feels like home.

***

The house in Nice is smaller than you remember.

You don’t know if it’s the time away or the grief that made it feel so much bigger in your mind, but when the cab pulls up to the curb and you step out onto the sun-warmed pavement, all you can think is God, I was just a kid.

The shutters are the same pale green. The mailbox still has the dent Jules put in it when he tried to do a wheelie on a borrowed scooter. The garden’s overgrown, the way it always was. Your dad never did win that war with the weeds.

You hover at the gate longer than you should.

And then the front door opens and Christine is running down the steps, arms open wide, her voice breaking-

“Ma chérie-”

You go.

You don’t think, you just move. And suddenly you’re wrapped in her arms, your mother’s perfume the same as it’s been since you were nine. She holds you like she might never let go. You let her.

Philippe is on the porch, quiet. When you pull back, he’s already coming down the steps too, slower, more careful. He kisses your forehead and doesn’t say anything, but his eyes say it all.

There’s grief there.

And love.

And something like relief.

“You look thin,” Christine says when you’re finally inside, brushing your hair from your face like she used to when you were sick.

“I eat now,” you say. “Mostly pizza.”

“Charles?”

You nod.

She smiles.

The house smells like rosemary and garlic. Like home. Like a past you thought you left behind but somehow still carries your shape.

You don’t go upstairs.

Not yet.

Instead, you sit at the long, chipped dining table that still has Jules’ initials scratched into the corner. You help your mother slice lemons, and you listen as your father and Charles talk about Monaco like it doesn’t ache anymore.

***

Pascale arrives first, arms full of wine and flowers, her laugh trailing through the doorway.

“Mon dieu, look at you,” she says, hugging you so tight your back cracks.

Then Arthur and Lorenzo crash in behind her, both taller than they used to be, both grinning wide. Arthur pulls you into a hug so forceful it nearly knocks you over.

“Tu m’as manqué,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

You laugh, a little breathless. “You’re stronger than you used to be.”

“I train now,” he says, smug.

Lorenzo kisses both your cheeks and gives you a long look.

“You okay?”

“Better,” you say. “Getting there.”

He nods. That’s enough.

The dinner is loud. Warm. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

You learn that Pascale still makes her own tomato sauce because store-bought is “for lazy people.” Arthur’s trying to learn Korean. Your dad finally fixed the kitchen faucet after ten years.

You laugh too much. You drink too fast.

Charles sits beside you. His knee brushes yours beneath the table every few minutes — accidentally at first. Then not.

At one point, you catch him watching you.

He doesn’t look away.

***

After dessert, your parents bring out old photo albums.

You see pictures of yourself in a pink karting helmet, grinning with a gap-toothed smile beside Charles. Jules with his arm slung around Charles’ shoulders like a brother. All of you in matching red on the streets of Monaco, back when the race was magic and not ruin.

Arthur makes fun of your childhood haircut. You threaten to cut his while he sleeps. Lorenzo finds a photo of you and Charles at fifteen, forehead to forehead, and whistles low.

“Were you-”

“No,” Charles says, too fast.

“Yes,” you say, at the same time.

Everyone laughs. Charles flushes. You almost do, too.

But it doesn’t ache the way it used to.

***

Later, the house grows quiet.

Pascale leaves with Arthur and Lorenzo, but not before hugging you again and whispering, “Come home more, okay?”

Your parents retreat to their room, sleepy from wine and joy.

And then it’s just you and Charles, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs.

“I should — I haven’t been up there,” you say.

“To your room?”

You nod.

He hesitates, then, “Want me to come with you?”

You nod again.

***

Your bedroom is a time capsule.

The posters, the mismatched furniture, the bookshelf filled with old notebooks and ballet shoes and books with folded corners.

Charles walks in slowly, reverently, like the room might collapse under the weight of what it held.

He turns in a slow circle. “It’s exactly the same.”

“I couldn’t come back,” you say. “Not after.”

“I know.”

You sit on the edge of the bed. It creaks familiarly. “I kept thinking I’d break if I saw all of this again.”

“Are you?”

You look around. “No. But I thought I would.”

Charles kneels in front of you, resting his arms on your knees.

“I hated that you disappeared,” he says. “After Jules. I hated it for a long time.”

Your chest tightens.

“I know.”

“But I also knew why.”

You stare at the floor between you.

“I didn’t know how to stay,” you whisper. “Not without him. You — God, Charles, you looked so much like him some days. The way you laughed, the way you grieved, the way you drove. I couldn’t breathe near you without remembering him.”

He doesn’t move.

“I was so angry,” you admit. “Not at you. At everything. At racing. At the world. At the fact that everyone kept going like he hadn’t just-” Your voice breaks. You swallow. “I thought maybe if I left, I could outrun it.”

“Did you?”

“No. But I tried. I thought if I saw you, I’d fall apart,” you say. “Turns out I was already broken. Just didn’t want to admit it.”

He lifts your hand. Kisses your knuckles.

You watch him. Watch the way his lashes brush his cheeks. The way his hands shake just slightly when they touch yours.

“I still love you,” he says quietly. “I think I always did.”

It hits like a second heartbeat.

You close your eyes.

“I don’t know who I am without grief,” you whisper. “But I want to try. I want — God, Charles, I want something that doesn’t hurt.”

He leans closer. “This doesn’t have to hurt.”

You look at him. Really look.

“I’m scared,” you say.

“So am I,” he murmurs.

And then-

Then he kisses you.

Soft. Hesitant. His hand cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he touches too fast.

You kiss him back.

There’s no music, no fireworks, no perfect movie lighting.

Just the creak of the old bed. The sound of your breath catching. The quiet thud of his heart against yours.

You pull back first, eyes wide.

“I-”

But he shushes you gently, forehead resting against yours.

“Don’t say it yet,” he murmurs. “Just stay.”

You do.

You stay.

***

It’s been a year.

Three hundred sixty-five days since your heart broke open on the edge of a paddock, between a thousand voices and the ghosts you couldn’t keep away. A year since the screaming engines sent you spiraling and Charles found you curled between hospitality tents, unable to breathe.

Now, you stand in the Monaco paddock again — upright. Whole. Not unscarred, but standing.

Charles’ pass hangs around your neck, warm against your skin.

A Marussia cap is in your hands. The red one. The one with the white trim and the subtle stitching of Jules’ name on the inside of the brim. It’s a little faded. The black marker signature has started to bleed through the fabric, but the weight of it — it’s as heavy as it was ten years ago.

“Is this real?” You ask.

Andrea nods. His smile is tired but kind. He looks at you the same way he did when you were fourteen and clumsy, following Jules into the gym with your ballet flats and a book.

“He left it in my car that weekend,” Andrea says. “Said he wanted to bring it back home, for good luck.”

You look up. Your throat tightens.

“I kept it in the glovebox for a while. Couldn’t let it go,” Andrea adds softly. “But I think maybe it was meant for you all along.”

You press the cap to your chest. Your fingers are trembling.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Andrea nods and reaches out to squeeze your shoulder. “He’d be proud, you know.”

You blink fast. “Of Charles?”

“Of both of you.”

***

You’re in the Ferrari garage by the time engines fire.

The roar still knocks something loose inside you. But it doesn’t take you under anymore. Not like it used to.

You breathe through it. Slow. Grounded.

The cap is on your head now. It smells like the past — faint motor oil and leather and something sweet you can’t place. You roll the brim between your fingers. Familiar. Safe.

From your seat behind the engineers’ monitors, you watch the red car on track. Fast. Fluid. Like it was born to be here.

You think of Charles at fifteen, grinning with a mouthful of braces and a heart too big for his body.

You think of Jules lifting you onto his shoulders so you could see the cars from the balcony when you were seven.

You think of standing in this same paddock a year ago, barely breathing, Charles’ voice anchoring you in a storm you thought you wouldn’t survive.

Now-

You watch him fly.

***

Lap after lap.

Pit stops. Unsuccessful attempts at overtakes. Strategy calls in quick, sharp Italian over the radio.

You don’t flinch at the crashes. Not even when a car goes sideways at the chicane, barely missing the barrier.

You look at the screen and you don’t see Jules. You don’t see blood. You don’t see the worst day of your life on repeat.

You see Charles.

You see yourself.

You see surviving.

***

He crosses the finish line first.

The garage explodes in noise.

People are yelling. Jumping. Champagne is already being cracked open somewhere. Hugs and high fives and radio static flood the air.

You don’t move.

Not at first.

You just sit there, the cap tight on your head, and close your eyes.

Then a hand grabs yours.

It’s Andrea again, laughing. “Come on. He’ll want to see you first.”

***

The pit lane is chaos.

Charles’ car rolls into the parc fermé, and he’s out of it in seconds, tearing off the helmet, curls wild, face flushed with victory and disbelief.

The team swarms him. You stay back. You let them have their moment.

He’s doused in champagne before he even makes it to the cool-down room.

You think maybe he’s forgotten. That you’ll see him later, after the podium, after the press, after the fanfare.

But then-

He turns.

And his eyes find you like they always do.

He doesn’t walk.

He runs.

He pushes past mechanics and engineers and the cameras flashing around him, dripping champagne and laughter and something else — something you can’t name because you’re already crying.

“You made it,” he says.

You laugh, broken and breathless and soaked now, too, because he’s got his arms around you and he doesn’t care who’s watching.

“So did you.”

He kisses you.

Right there in front of the world, with the brim of Jules’ cap brushing against his cheek and the crowd around you going still.

It’s not hesitant this time.

It’s sure. It’s full. It’s home.

***

Afterward, you stand against the garage wall, fingers laced through his.

He’s still shaking. From adrenaline, from victory, from you.

“How did it feel?” You ask, voice low.

“Winning Monaco?”

You nod.

He glances at you. Smiles.

“Better with you here.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m proud of you,” you say.

His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “I’m proud of you. You fought for this. For yourself. I just showed up.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “You never just show up.”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “I am pretty charming.”

You grin. “So modest.”

He looks at you. Really looks. Then pulls you in again.

Quietly, just for you, he says, “I think we both made it.”

And you believe him.

For the first time, you really do.

[erwinsvow]

𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 — 𝐣.𝐚.

summary: you're too young for me and this is wrong and i'm supposed to be teaching you float around jack abbot's head. but every time, knowing that he shouldn't, he still leans in to kiss you.

word count: 17.9k

tags: first year!reader (but no age mentioned + she has a stupid nickname), illicit workplace relationship, lots of guilt/we shouldn't do this (mostly from jack), yearning/pining, shea's version of slowburn and a bubbly reader and much too much dialogue, regular hospital talk/mention of injuries/death and fourth of july special scene <3 maybe out of character for the other doctors but i tried my best!, smut (fingering, orgasm denial, dirty on-call room sex, creampie because.. duh).

note: based off of the intern baking for jack during his bad week blurb, also known as i can't help myself

jack abbot stares at you, then down at the containers in his hand filled with cookies that you baked for him after he spent the better part of a week yelling at you, and then back at you. 

and then he laughs for the first time all week and wonders to himself—what the hell am i going to do with you?

because truly, you are something else. jack’s seen you in passing during day shift sign-offs at seven pm, and occasionally walking to the lockers a touch early. reflecting back, while placing the yellow tupperware into his own locker, he thinks he’s even seen you as early as six-thirty in the morning some day, if not most days.

he can’t resist—who told you about his sweet tooth, he’s not actually sure—but he opens up the lid. just like you had told him before you walked away to start your shift, the round chocolate-chip cookies don’t have any sea salt on them, not that he minds.

he bites into one and chews on it while trying to remember what else he knows about you—all that comes to mind is your teary eyes day before last when he yelled at you over something he can’t remember right now.

it hadn’t been that big of a deal—there was a patient presenting with disrupted kidney function and you hadn’t discontinued their nsaids on your initial evaluation. the solution, usually, is a stern conversation and to inform you for next time. no ibuprofen for the guy with bad kidneys, something you would have figured out in the next hour even if they hadn’t immediately caught it.

but for some reason (he knows the reason, he thinks grimly) he had yelled instead. raised his voice, caused a scene. every nurse nearby had looked up and started whispering—and he knows how the gossip goes in this place.

even ellis had intervened and dragged you away, glancing back to give him a look something akin to what the fuck, man? 

because he doesn’t yell—it’s not hardwired in him to do so. he was raised in a loud house but he’d almost looked to avoid it everywhere he went, trying his hardest to not become like his father in that way. 

the realization that he never yelled when his wife was still alive hits him like a slap to the face every time. he can’t help it, and he’s sure everyone justifies it for him. even when he’d yelled at you and you’d stood in front of him like a kicked, teary-eyed puppy, he hadn’t realized he’d done it again—taken out his frustration on the nearest thing. he’s sure that parker’s with you in some corner, telling you how he usually never yells and it’s his week from hell and you’ll see the real abbot next week. 

that doesn’t take away from the fact that he made you cry, though. 

nor does it erase the fact that you made him cookies. quite frankly, delicious cookies. maybe the best ones he’s ever had. soft and chewy and made with semisweet chocolate chips. before he realizes it, it’s seven pm sharp and he’s eaten the whole thing, shoving his go-bag into the locker carefully on top of the container you gave him and going out to join you for sign-offs.

and he doesn’t realize it either, not until you stare at him for a moment too long, garnering a cough from mckay as she tries to tell you about the patients from the chairs, the ones that you’ll be following up on and taking care of for the rest of the evening. 

there’s chocolate smudged on his fingers, and he’s licking it off, trying to pay attention to robby—who looks at him confused, and then glances at you, and turns back to jack almost… knowingly—while you’re paying attention to him.

and jack, well, everyone knows about jack’s staring thing. they call it just that—he has a problem with overdoing eye contact. he doesn’t know when he picked it up, though he’s sure it’s another one of those military attributes he pretends he doesn’t have. what he does know is that he’s always been able to tell when someone’s looking at him, like you are now.

jack turns his head just to look in your direction for a moment and he finds you already facing in his direction. your gaze quickly goes from his eyes to his fingers and then back to cassie, and he doesn’t have to be near you to know that you’re flushed.

then he stops himself—he doesn’t have any business digging around in your thoughts, wondering what exactly made you look away, was it the fact that he turned to look or that he already knew you were staring—and for the first time all night, he tries to pay attention to robby.

fuck. is this what it’s going to be like for the rest of your time on nights? resisting the urge to turn and lock eyes with you, to make sure you’re there and make sure you’re looking, even when he knows you are? 

no, no. he’s not that guy. he’s not the guy who obsesses over the nice, pretty intern and accepts her cookies when he’s the one who made her cry to begin with. 

you have a place in this hospital, and it’s to learn and grow and better yourself under his guidance, not stay nestled in his thoughts that linger somewhere between inappropriate and really inappropriate.

no, what jack wants to do is get you alone somewhere quiet so he can apologize, and make sure that you believe him. 

rarely does jack abbot get what he wants.

you’re talking with mckay still, going on about something at a mile a minute, in more of a carefree tone that he’s never been on the receiving side of. every time he’d spoken to you the previous week, he’d been angry and you’d been dejected. it’s not how teaching is supposed to be, especially not jack’s teaching. he’s always been proud of how he treats residents, how they flourish under him, how they end up liking nights like john and parker did. 

he catches the ending half of your conversation with cassie.

“-but the recipe doubles really, really easily, so if you make them and you feel like you want more, because, i mean, i made them for a bake sale once-”

“and it’s always a crowd pleaser?” cassie asks, tilting her head at you, looking as focused as jack has ever seen her. he doesn’t know the context, though he’s sure it has something to do with harrison and his school. 

you, on the other hand, are completely engrossed in the conversation. as though cassie’s son and his school’s bake sale are the most important things on the planet.

“always! it’s so good. but just make a test batch—it’s so easy. half the recipe, try it out, and then if you like it, you can use the extras to let people try it before they buy it-” you’re interrupted, parker calls out your name somewhere in the distance.

the day shift has began to filter out. robby pats jack’s shoulder firmly before muttering i’m outta here, but jack stands frozen in place, wanting for some reason, to hear the end of your conversation.

he didn’t know people could be so passionate about baked goods—but he guesses it makes sense. for you, that is.

“actually, that’s not a bad idea. you sent me the recipe already?”

“yes, i texted it. but i can email it if you want, or i-”

jack actually laughs—you’re so eager to get cassie this recipe. he thinks you have more energy right now than he’s had all day.

he hears cassie thank you, and he gets a glimpse of you beaming at her, a bright, pretty smile, before the charge nurse calls out his name and his shift really starts. 

shen jumps on with him and he sees you somewhere in the distance, probably running through your game plan for some patient in the chairs with ellis. you smile brightly at her too, and for the first time in a long time, jack has a thought that he deems in the category of uncontrollable. 

he’s a disciplined guy, always has been. thoughts don’t consume him like wildfire, rather they run through a series of checks and balances before he even fully thinks them. last week his system had been all off, leading to you getting yelled at in the first place, and right now, the whole thing seems like it’s gone haywire, focused on one thing in particular.

what does he have to do to get you to smile at him like that?

+

the night shift is a place of routine. jack wants to get you on a trauma with him, wants to show you what he’s like when he’s of sound mind and not thinking about how last week, a couple of years ago, he had the worst day of his life. and then a couple years before that, another worst day of his life. 

he has an overpowering urge to show you what he’s like on a normal week. he can even picture it in his head—handing you gloves and asking you questions that help you run the trauma, to get you in the habit of approaching the cases like he does. the questions are to make you believe in yourself—if you know the answers, you could have run this whole thing by yourself. if you get something wrong or don’t know, he throws in an easier one next time. 

you might be a little worried at first but you’d get the hang of it. and then, after the patient was stable and he got to tell you good job, you’d do it. smile at him, beam up at him like you’ve been doing to the others. the kind that makes your eyes light up, makes little lines crinkle in the corners of your face, lets him see your lips—well, that’s not important.

what is important is that you realize that jack abbot is there to help you, not to make things worse. that’s the side of him he wants you to see.

but unfortunately, the night shift is a place of routine. interns are on chairs, getting every move double-checked by a senior resident. there’s enough hands on the day shift to allow first years to jump on every incoming but nights are not nearly as well distributed.

so, you and jack fall into a routine—you both show up early for your shifts, walk to the lockers together in silence. sometimes you stare and he catches you, and other times you catch him. you think about asking him what he thought about the cookies, or if you can get your tupperware back, but then you stay silent and head out into the chaos.

one day at six forty-five, he sees you looking at him while mel is trying to tell you something that you are decidedly not paying attention to. after he looks your way, you turn back to her and start profusely apologizing.

he turns back to robby, missing half of what he said. 

“you okay?” robby asks, gaze flickering towards jack, and then back at you, somewhere in the distance. jack nods. “how’s she been doing?”

he doesn’t have to say your name for jack to know who he’s talking about.

“fine. good. i haven’t gotten much of a chance to teach her, so-”

“right. teach.” robby says it and looks at jack differently—as if he’s amused. 

“what?” jack snaps, suddenly irritated by the line of questioning.

“nothing. this week’s probably gonna be her last on nights, just so you know.” before jack can respond, robby puts his hands up in defense. “don’t shoot the messenger. apparently we’re supposed to be cycling interns and r-twos so they all get to experience nights. something about equality and fairness. i don’t know but you can read the memo.”

“fairness?” jack grumbles, though it’s mostly to himself. he’s annoyed, and he knows why, and he doesn’t like the reason why. “they used to put us on nights for three months at a time and the only memo i ever got was too bad.” 

“careful, jack,” robby says, a little too sing-songy for his current mood. “you keep talking like that and she’s gonna think you’re an old grump.”

jack glares up at robby, wanting to reply but nothing biting comes to mind. 

“you have a good night, jack,” robby says and jack mutters back a yeah, yeah. he turns to watch robby leave, but somehow, his gaze still ends up back on you, like it always does. it’s harder still throughout the course of the night, nerves somehow taking over him every time he wants to tell you to drop whatever patient’s hand you’re stitching and jump on this trauma with him. 

the vision he’s been chasing, aimlessly at that, seems further and further away as the hours pass each night. your shift is filled with first degree burns and sprained ankles and kind-of, sort-of allergic reactions, when it should be spent by his side, learning everything he has to offer you before you’re back with the day shift.

because that’s why he’s so invested in making sure you’re on a trauma with him—because of how much he has to teach. parker and john haven’t said a bad thing about you, and even the day crew during passing exchanges—nothing besides wondering how you have so much energy at seven am without a cup of coffee in your system. 

that is why he’s so invested—right?

on your last shift of nights for this block, you show up a little extra early. you think you can avoid jack by doing so, but he comes early too, wanting to catch you alone, if just for a moment. 

you walk with your hands filled with more tupperware that he recognizes. the very same containers are sitting on his countertop right now, the contents mostly eaten. he doesn’t want to finish the last of your cookies even though they’ll get stale soon. and why that is, he pretends to not know the answer.

he follows you into the break room at six twenty-five while you open the lids and set out napkins. 

“oh,” you say, surprised when you hear the door click behind you. you didn’t think anyone would have noticed you sneaking in there. “dr. abbot-”

“listen, kid, i need to-” jack’s eyes, without intending to, fall from your confused expression to the table in the room. you have more cookies—maybe snickerdoodle—in the containers. “what’s this for?”

“it’s my last day on nights.”

“so you made cookies?”

“it’s to thank everyone,” you ramble on, like you have to justify the idea to jack. “for being so patient with me. interns are already so annoying and then on top of that when they’re not sleeping. i just thought it would be nice. and there’s no nuts or chocolate so it’s more allergy friendly, you know. i-i’m gonna stop talking now.”

“no-” he says, too quickly, and you look just as confused as ever. your eyebrows knit and your mouth opens a bit and he stares at you, while you stare at him. in fact, jack wishes you wouldn’t look at him like this—cute and confused and too nice for your own good. “no, i mean-” 

what does he mean? what he really wants to say is please don’t stop talking, but all that comes out is—

“that’s…nice. i’m sure they’ll appreciate it. and interns, well, they’re supposed to be annoying. that’s how you learn.” jack pauses, thinking he’s done well, that this is a good place to stop. “not that you’re annoying, that’s not what i-”

“thank you, dr. abbot,” you supply, smiling at him. and god, if it isn’t exactly how he thought it’d be—your bright smile feels like it sends a halo of warmth over the person you’re looking at, and this time, it’s lucky him. your face changes too, the confusion and concern melt away and are replaced with sheer joy, like you’re thankful for every bumbling word in a fairly awkward conversation. 

he’s never been like this, he thinks, or maybe the confidence that surged through him during every trauma had nestled somewhere permanently, constantly hitched along into his real life. he’s never considered himself a don juan but he’s not a stranger to women either—and he certainly doesn’t stutter through sentences and backtrack because he’s worried he’s offended you. that doesn’t happen to him. it’s never happened to him.

but he supposes, taking in how you smile with your entire face and what else he can do to get you to stay smiling, that there’s a first time for everything.

“you were saying something? when you came in?” you ask.

“yes, uh-” 

damn it. what was he saying? he can’t remember. it’s distracting—you, the cookies, your radiant smile, all of it. especially when he thinks about a week ago today, when you were standing in front of him with your wet eyes and wobbly chin, when he was angry about something he can’t even piece together right now. right—the apology. 

“i just wanted to apologize for my behavior last week. i-i hope you-”

but before he can finish the sentence the door opens. it’s dana.

“jack, robby’s asking for you. three incoming mvc’s and mckay left early for something with her son and no one else is here yet, and-” she stops, glancing between you, jack, and the cookies on the table. “hey, kid. you jumping in?” 

you glance to jack when dana asks that, big eyes staring at him for permission. you really shouldn’t have done that, because he thinks you’re only making all the rest of this much worse, whatever he’s been pushing down and burying for the last week that seems determined to hit the surface today. 

“tell him we’re coming,” jack says, and though he had more to say to you, he has to stop for now. on the walk to the trauma bay, jack recaps how he runs through traumas with you. he ties your gown while you pull gloves in his size, and then the ones in your size.

when you hand him the gloves, he gets a look into your eyes—pretty, nervous, excited. in that order.

“what do we have?” jack asks, and trail behind him momentarily, taking a big breath before walking out and following him into the trauma bay. robby jumps on the first ambulance with heather and leaves the second to you and jack. you see frank and mel walking towards the third one, still driving up.

the paramedic starts rattling off the vitals and the patient keeps speaking over him, thrashing up and trying to crane her neck despite the c-spine collar wrapped around it. 

you know what you’re trained to do in these situations—listen to ems, treat the patient, figure out what she keeps interrupting for after you’re positive that she’s not going to die on your table. but some part of you just can’t let it sit like that. you can’t stand when someone thinks you’ve ignored a part of their sentence, much less ignore them entirely.

“wait, wait,” you tell the paramedic as they’re wheeling the gurney into one of the trauma rooms. all around you, the nurses have started their work, setting up iv’s and rolling in portable x-rays. they set aside blood and wait by the phone to call for the surgical consult or to clear up ct as soon as you and jack decide the patient needs one.

“excuse me?” he replies, turning to look at jack with an expression that asks are we listening to her? and even jack looks at you a little confused while you get closer to the patient, until you’re in her line of sight and she stops moving so much. the noise around you will never fully go quiet, but it dims down for thirty seconds.

“you have to stop moving so much, ma’am. what are you trying to say?”

“i really think we should-” the paramedic interjects, but you snap your head towards him, trying to figure out how to say shut up without really saying it.

“can you please, just give me a second?”

“my daughter, my daughter, she’s hurt, please-” she responds, not thrashing anymore, just crying.

jack looks between you and the patient for a moment. this case is surgical—she practically went through the windshield. there’s glass that needs to be removed, a concussion, possibly a chest tube, and an airway if she crashes. 

“you guys need hands in here?” you hear trinity ask from somewhere behind you.

jack knows you have a choice here, and he thinks, for a moment, you’ll tell her to find the daughter while you finish this trauma with him. it’s for your own learning, your education. it’s to show you what the some of the worst outcomes from car accidents look like, things to check for in the future even if your patient looks fine.

“i’m gonna find your daughter, okay? but i need you to stop moving so they can take care of you. because she needs her mom, too.” you turn to santos, and trinity jumps in while you walk out. jack catches one glimpse of you before turning to his patient, laying still and compliant, crying silently. 

an hour later, most of the day shift has gone home. trinity even stops at bed 19 where you’re suturing the little girl’s arm while she drinks a juice box and waits for a head ct in case she has a concussion too. 

“when is it gonna be my turn on nights? abbot is so cool. i put in the chest tube and got to bring her up to surgery.”

you get an uneasy feeling in your chest thinking about someone else on nights with jack in your position—not the yelling, but rather the apology he never got to finish. how sincerely he looked at you when you left to find the daughter instead of finishing up with your patient—maybe it was a mistake. maybe he’ll be upset with you, but it doesn’t matter, since it’s your last shift, anyways.

“and those cookies are fantastic. alright, thanks bubbles. i’ll see you back on days.”

“bubbles? wait, those cookies weren’t for you-” you call out after her, but she walks away without responding. you turn back to the little girl.

“there’s cookies?”

“yes,” you sigh, taking your seat again. her arm is nearly done, just needs a bandage. dad is on his way, the social worker is informed, and someone should be coming over to take over to watch her until ct is ready. “i can give you one after your dad gets here, if he’s okay with it. but for now you have to rest.”

she asks you if her mom is going to be okay, and in truth, you don’t know the answer. you should, but you don’t. you excuse yourself when one of the nurses gets there to monitor her, and try to find parker so you can move onto the next. 

jack must be in another trauma, because you don’t see him anywhere and though you’re not eager to get yelled at again, you do need to finish the conversation from earlier.

and you need your tupperware back.

you end up seeing six patients, getting four of them ready to be sent home and two waiting for beds upstairs and consults that are taking far too long. parker pulls you aside while she chews on one of your snickerdoodles.

“can you do nights more often? these cookies are great, bubbles.” 

“okay, when did this catch on? i know trinity likes her nicknames but this is the first time i’ve heard it. also, what the hell does it even mean?”

parker looks at you with a tilt of her head.

“seriously?”

“bubbles? maybe something like, i don’t know, crybaby, i would have understood.” you pause, hesitating, and then glancing up from the screen you’ve been staring at, your half-assed attempt at a proper note. “wait, how long has she been calling me that?”

“since your first day. but it doesn’t sound like nearly as much of an insult as it used to.”

at least parker will give it to you straight.

“can i ask you something? about dr. abbot?” you don’t know where the surge of confidence comes from, but you think you need to ride the wave to some answers before your shift ends. you glance at your watch while parker does the same. almost midnight.

“i’ll give you five minutes. by the way, he was in the break room if you want to ask him directly.”

“really?

“yeah. shoveling down cookies. you’re gonna give him pre-diabetes.”

“really?” and it’s hard to hide your smile, entire face lighting up. “it’s my favorite recipe. well, second favorite, i guess. my roommate in medical school had a nut allergy so i always made snickerdoodles for her, but those brownies i made for him are probably are my actual favorite-”

parker’s expression changes.

“you made him brownies?”

“yeah?” fuck. “it-it was to apologize. for last week, the nsaids thing.”

“he yelled at you.” she pauses, staring at you a little more quizzically. “he made you cry.”

“he was having a bad week?” you offer sheepishly. 

“right.” another pause. “what was your question?”

“i don’t remember. i’m gonna go see a patient now.” you save the contents of your note and decide to finish it later, during the three am lull with a hot cup of coffee and a cookie if there’s any left.

your question was going to be disguised with a ramble of some sort, asking ellis if she thinks jack abbot is the type to apologize for yelling at her or if there was something else he was going to tell her before those traumas came rolling in.

but lucky for you, you get your answer. four am, in the break room, running a little late on finishing your notes, behind on a schedule that you had invented in your own head. the last patient you saw had been really frightened of the hospital, as well as a language barrier that you had to wait thirty minutes to find a translator for at this hour.

you need a coffee, a cookie, and a computer to finish your notes. and then you need to leave the night shift and not be stuck in the hospital with jack abbot for twelve hours.

though there’s a smile on your face when you open the door, at the very idea that jack liked your snickerdoodles enough to shovel them down, or whatever parker had said. you look up and your smile gets replaced with surprise at the man standing in front of you.

it’s mental beetlejuice, or something. every time you think about him, boom, there he is. facing the counter, pouring black coffee into his steel gray tumbler.

“oh. hi.” how can you be so shocked that he’s in here? it’s four am with no incomings and it’s really not that big of a department. you passed the other two doctors on with you on the walk here—parker at central talking to a nurse and shen at a computer eating a granola bar.

“hey, kid. coffee? just made a pot.”

“yes, please.” you walk over, fetching your yellow mug from the cabinet. you glance at the table—your containers empty save for the crumbs of cinnamon sugar on the bottom. “was gonna have a cookie too. i should have made more.” jack pours you a cup and then hands you the creamer and the sugar. you notice that his own coffee is drunk just black though.

“it’s john, i’m telling you. he’s got a sweet tooth worse than mine. and don’t let parker fool you. i saw her in here three times tonight.” jack takes a seat in one of the chairs, but first he pulls one out for you.

you sit down and smile, laughing at his comment.

“well, she said that you were in here shoveling them down, so, i don’t know who to believe.”

“she said that?” you nod, taking a sip of your sweet coffee.

the coffee in the break room is notorious for being just fine. it’s never great, or even just good, it’s just fuel. but it tastes a lot better today.

“i’m gonna plead the fifth on that one.” 

you laugh again. you look over, realizing there’s one cookie left in the container.

“one left. but you can have it,” you say, the caffeine and this conversation doing wonders for your energy levels. “i had a bunch at home earlier today and i make them all the time, so-”

“nah, kid. we’ll split it.” jack breaks it in half and slides it towards you on a napkin, and you smile at him again—warm, generous, compassionate. 

a lot of big words to describe the smile of a resident he just got to know better this week, but he can’t turn it off. the radar in his head alerting him that the person he’s been thinking about for hours is sitting in front of him now, nibbling on half a cookie.

“that was a nice thing you did, earlier. with the mom and the daughter. she was completely compliant after.”

“i figured. i can’t believe the paramedic didn’t listen to her the whole ride in, though.” you take another sip of coffee before putting your mug down on the table. “not that he did something wrong. i know he was trying to help and they’re trained to focus on the patient and all that. but she was moving around in a c-collar, so i figured-well, i’ll stop rambling. they said the surgery went good so that’s all that matters, i guess.” you go quiet, taking another bite just so you stop yourself from talking too much again.

“both things can be true. he should have listened and he did his job. how’s the daughter?”

“good, good. i gave her stitches and she had some minor cuts. i think the mom thought she was bleeding a lot worse. dad’s with her, so…” 

“you had the chance to jump on the trauma but you left to take care of the kid.” jack doesn’t say it with any sort of tone, presents it to you plainly, like a statement.

“is this the part where you’re gonna yell at me?” you blink up at him, worried again.

“no, no. i just-” he pauses, thinking about his words carefully. he smiles, like he’s about to laugh. “it’s just the sort of thing i can’t teach, so-”

there’s a knock on the door, and you audibly sigh. is it the worst thing in the world to ask for some privacy for five minutes in this place, to be able to finish a conversation with your attending for once?

it’s john.

“incoming. three minutes out. aw, man, are those the last of the cookies?”

you do get to jump on the case with shen and abbot, though the man isn’t in bad condition at all. took a spill on his kid’s toys and bruised his tailbone, but his wife called for an ambulance. he waits for a head ct and x-ray and the room clears out, and you wonder if you’ll get a chance to finish out your conversation with jack abbot.

you don’t.

he stays behind to tell robby something and parker and john usher you out for a celebratory latte—decaf, obviously—to finish your first small taste of nights. you carry your empty containers in the tote bag you brought them in, and realize you didn’t even get a chance to tell him to bring your containers back.

(whether you want the containers or an excuse to talk to him again, you don’t know. it’s a can of worms not worth opening now that nights are done—though you’re sure he must have finished the contents by now. the idea of your yellow tupperware sitting on his counter or his kitchen table, well… it leads your mind to wonder about other things.

what does his place look like? did he sit on his couch with brownies and farmer needs a wife, like you had suggested? what about in his bed? jack doesn’t seem the type to have a television in his bedroom, or the type to eat in bed, though sometimes you’ll make an exception for dessert, and maybe he can be convinced.

and then you cut the entire thought out of your head, because it’s downright unprofessional and you have no business spending time wondering about his bed or his couch or anything else. stupid tupperware. and what’s even worse is going home with the realization you might not get to find out what jack was going to say to you in the break room, either time.)

+

if you ask a hundred emergency room doctors what the worst day of the year is, you’ll get a hundred different answers. halloween, thanksgiving, and new year’s are all up there. 

but jack abbot’s answer has never changed—fourth of july. 

a day littered with sunshine, grilling, and sparklers. to any emergency medicine specialist, it’s more about sun-poisoning, choking on hot dogs, and burn injuries from at-home fireworks. the hospital is flooded with back-to-back traumas, ranging from people passing out at the beach in the afternoon to full body burns by the evening.

you had always predicted the worst part is how a lot of the injuries are on children. they’re the ones left unattended while mom and dad drink themselves silly or let them play with firecrackers on the pavement, assuming they’ll be fine. you’ve done two emergency medicine rotations in school and you think you know what the fourth will be like, that you’ll be unnerved the entire day by the sound of crying children and trying to hold back anger on the irresponsible parents.

but walking through the doors of the hospital on your second week back on days, you realize you really don’t know much. 

like, for example, that jack abbot walks in beside you and mel at six forty-five. you look at him confused, and then turn to mel, who doesn’t match your expression but is also confused, you’re sure. jack is quick by the lockers—takes off his backpack and heads straight back out. 

mel speaks up first.

“i didn’t know dr. abbot does days,” she says, taking off her jacket and folding it neatly. 

“i didn’t either. do you know why?” it’s really an unnecessary question—it shouldn’t matter to you at all. but it does, and you’re terrible at burying things. it’s written all over your face that you want to know the answer why.

“well it’s likely just for overflow. i’m sure they’re expecting double the amount of patients today.”

“right. yeah, that makes sense.” 

“though it is surprising-”

“what is?”

“-that he didn’t take the day off, i suppose.”

“why’s that?” you ask, and mel shrugs.

“fourth of july is a usually tough day for a lot of veterans. when i was at the va hospital, some of the other doctors who had served would stay at home with their families. and the noise from the fireworks, too-”

mel goes on, but you have a hard time paying attention to the rest of her story. one thought washes over you, filling you with enough dread to last all day, making your blood feel icy cold in your veins. jack doesn’t have any family to spend the day with at home, so instead he’s here for the day shift, to help with the extra patients.

“i hadn’t thought about that.” you say quietly. you put your stethoscope around your neck and hold the familiar container in your hands.

“that’s okay, a lot of people don’t. i don’t think i did before my year there. wait, are those more cookies?”

it seems that robby shares some of your dread. you head out with mel, putting the star shaped sugar cookies with red and blue frosting in the break room. during sign-offs you tell parker and john to grab a few—just a few! leave some for the rest of us—before they head home. you smile politely at frank, who seems very concerned with making sure mel knows how hectic this holiday gets in the pitt and ask cassie how that bake sale went.

and then robby pulls you aside, leading you in front of central.

“i brought sugar cookies, i hope that’s okay. is something wrong?” you ask, gauging how robby is looking at you right now.

“yeah, everything’s fine.” he looks around distractedly, or maybe like he’s trying to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “listen, i know you just got back from nights-”

“are you sending me back? to nights?”

“what? no, no, we need you on days. i mean, you just finished nights and you were with abbot for a bit. how’d that go, by the way?”

“dr. abbot?”

“nights.”

“oh,” you say, feeling yourself flush. warmth spreads over you despite how cold it runs in the hospital. flustered, you continue. “it was good. um, busy and i learned a lot.”

“and you got to spend some time working with abbot, right?”

“yeah. some-uh, yes. i did.”

“great. because today is a bit of a weird day for him. he’s not used to days and we get overwhelmed pretty quickly. he’s here to help and it’s always great to have extra hands, especially his hands, but-” you zone out for a moment at the thought of jack’s hands. “-he seems a bit off and i want to make sure he’s doing okay, and he’ll just ignore me if i ask. so if you could—?”

robby trails off and you stare at him blankly, blinking after fifteen seconds of silence.

“if i could what?”

“just, check on him, y’know, throughout the day. just make sure he’s alright. thanks a ton kid, i knew i could count on you.” 

“wait, what-” but then robby is gone, and you’re left at central with dana behind you, handing you a tablet with a patient’s name on it and somewhere to your left is jack, immersed in a conversation with heather. you stare at him, and the he notices you looking, and looks back.

any other day, you’d turn and go straight to your patient, but not today.

today your attending has given you a task—check in on jack. make sure jack’s okay. and you are not the type of person to disappoint your superior.

you walk over to them, smile at both, and then watch as heather excuses herself. had robby told her about the task he’d assigned you?

“hey, kid. don’t tell me—america themed cookies?” 

you shirk under his gaze, the idea that felt very cute last night suddenly seeming exceedingly corny.

“it’s just festive,” you argue. “the frosting is made with blueberries and strawberries instead of food coloring. it’s healthier, i mean, it’s practically like eating fruit.”

“i don’t think you’re winning that argument, but sure, whatever you say. if parker and john left any for the rest of us.”

“i made a bunch this time. i figured there’d be more hands on deck today, i guess.”

(you hadn’t figured that. your logic with doubling the recipe and yielding twice as many cookies was that maybe there’d be some leftover for the night shift to take home with them—specifically one salt and pepper attending who already has two containers of yours at his home. what’s a third?)

“smart. we’ll need them. it’s gonna be a busy day.”

“that’s what i’ve heard,” you look up at jack again with a small smile—trying to disarm him without alerting him of your motive from robby. “how are you feeling, by the way?”

jack knits his eyebrows together.

“how am i feeling?”

“are you okay? do-do you need anything? i can go get you a cookie now, if you want, before they’re all gone. it’s not just the night shift, you know, trinity plows through them. and mel doesn’t have as much of a sweet tooth but since it has the fruit frosting, you know, i think she’ll like them.”

jack looks at you with a twinkle in his eyes, like he’s holding back a laugh, stopping it short at just a smile.

“i’m, i’m fine, kid. and that’s alright, i’ll go get one in a bit.”

“oh. okay. well that’s good.”

“are you okay?”

“yeah, why wouldn’t i be?” you lock eyes with him again.

“no reason. well, maybe we can go get that-”

“dr. abbot?” someone says, and you hold back the groan. it’s getting harder and harder to keep it inside. 

the people in this hospital really don’t want you to finish a conversation with your attending.

“yeah?”

he gets pulled up, and you do too—back to the chairs. it’s the usual residual patients from last night, but as the hours pass, you get more injuries related to the holiday. the allergic reactions and sprained wrists turn into burns from the grill and heat exhaustion. 

you find jack three more times in between seven patients—asking him he’s okay, how his patients are, if he wants that cookie now, or maybe water? all these people are dehydrated, it’s no good if their doctors are too, right? 

the next time you do it, he locks eyes with robby right after. you sneak your way past moving gurneys and crying patients, just to tap his shoulder and check in one last time before you sit down to debride a severe burn, one that’ll have you gone for at least an hour. 

“what the hell did you do, robby?” he asks, while they monitor a man who came in on the ambulance after setting half his body on fire trying to grill hot dogs.

“what do you mean? nothing.”

“that kid has-”

“did you try those cookies? they’re fantastic. no wonder you want her back on nights.”

maybe another two hours later, during a surge of ambulances, you realize you haven’t seen jack in a while. 

you pat your patient on the shoulder—a little girl with her mom who took a spill on the pavement while chasing her sister—and tell them you’ll send the nurse over with their discharge papers, and set out to find jack before sitting down with yet another burn—your tenth or so at least so far today. you close the curtain and look at the chaos in front of you—gurneys lined up against walls, patients crying and the entire place smelling of burnt flesh and salt water. 

dr. abbot is by the trauma bay, organizing patients as they come, and the whole thing feels more like a triage unit than it does an emergency room. 

you see trinity seeing the others from the chairs, heather jumping onto an incoming with robby. mel and frank are in one trauma room and jack is standing in the middle of everything.

is it the best time to ask him how he’s doing? no. that much is clear to anyone with a functioning frontal lobe.

but you are not just anyone, you’re you. you get slightly muddled in the head when it comes to jack abbot, and you definitely are not going to disappoint robby when he put you in charge of checking in on him.

you weave your way through the floor, avoiding nurses walking through with supplies in their hands and telling whoever you were supposed to be checking in with that you’ll be right back.

you dodge two gurneys that almost took your knees out just to get close enough to say his name and for him to hear you. you don’t see the one rolling right behind you.

“dr. abbot, are-” you’re interrupted by the sound of your own yelp, when jack reaches out to clasp his hand around your arm. he yanks you hard, pulling you out of the way, and suddenly, all the noises of the emergency room die down.

you hear the paramedic behind you, apologizing as he wheels the gurney out and back to the ambulance bay. you hear dana shouting from central to you—watch out, kid!—and even the wails coming from the trauma room robby and heather are in—a woman crying. 

but you don’t really hear any of it. your eyes are locked on jack’s hazel ones, his fingers still tight against your bare skin. his hands are softer than you’d imagined.

you blink at him stupidly, mouth falling open a little. you must look as dumb as you feel, almost getting hit by a gurney in the middle of a very busy shift. it’s like intern 101—things to avoid doing, especially in front of your attendings.

but jack doesn’t seem mad. he looks at you with concerned, pretty eyes, a focused expression. and then, at the same time—

“are you okay?” 

you both stare at each other for a while. you must look the equivalent of someone starstruck, staring with sparkling eyes, looking almost as grateful for him as you feel. that gurney would have taken you out of commission—at the very least you’d hit your head and be filling out paperwork under gloria’s watchful eye. 

but you’re fine, save for a large bruise forming on your upper arm with each second that passes by as you continue stare at jack.

“you two!” dana shouts over the other commotion, effectively snapping you out of it. all the noises return at once, making you wince, and what’s worse is that people are staring. “incoming, two minutes out. the rest of you, back to work-”

“come on, kid. you’re with me.”

you most certainly are.

+

at around quarter past eight on the fourth of july, you’re seated across from jack abbot at his favorite twenty-four hour diner. 

well, to be fair, you’re making more assumptions in the thirty minutes you’ve been sitting here with him than you have for the entire time you’ve know him. first—that this is his favorite diner. second—that he’s as interested in you as you are in him. and third—that you’ll finally get to finish the multiple conversations you’ve started with him and been unable to finish due to interruptions.

but there’s no interruptions here. post dinner rush, with a group of teenagers a few tables away and a couple in business clothes eating on the stools by the counter. there’s no nosy residents or gossipy nurses or incoming traumas. it’s just starting to get dark out, and you know the fireworks will start soon.

what you don’t know is if jack is going to be completely okay tonight. you don't care if you’re a temporary distraction from the noise, but you do care if you’ll be enough of a distraction for him.

the two of you order enough food to feed the entirety of the night shift at the hospital right now. the short staffing is the reason why you didn’t sit down to eat until seven forty-five, but it’s fine. as long as you’re here with him now.

you justify it mentally while jack steals one of your french fries—the ones he said he didn’t want half of when you asked—that you just need to finish the conversations from earlier. that it’s not wrong or inherently bad to order half the menu with your attending, one that was responsible for all of your anxiety three weeks ago. 

but staring at him like this, you wonder what you had been so worried about. in fact, over the last few weeks, you’ve realized he’s nothing like what you thought at first. 

“okay, i know this must be sound terrible,” you start, setting down your soda and reaching for another salty fry. “but that was amazing. like, the thrilling kind of amazing. does that make sense?” you stare at jack while you await his response.

“yes, it makes sense,” he says, but he can’t contain the laugh anymore. it comes out from his chest—unadulterated laughter, the rumble taking over his entire body.

“you’re laughing at me?” you ask, though you don’t actually seem upset about it. it’s hard to feel any sort of upset when you’re listening to what may be your new favorite sound in the world.

“no, no, i promise i’m not. you’re just so… you. even on a day like today.”

“what does that mean?” you reply quickly, sitting up straighter in your seat, expression turning deadly serious. “god, i’m so sorry. is that completely insensitive? i know it can be a hard day, i mean, well i didn’t know know. but mel brought it up this morning when we saw you and then robby told me to check on you and i thought i was helping until that stupid gurney almost took me out. but i just meant after that! the traumas and doing them with you. i-i hadn’t done any yet, with you, so i-” 

“when do you breathe?”

“sorry,” you sigh. “it’s a bad habit.”

“don’t apologize to me, please. it’s-” jack goes quiet, his mind searching to fill in the blank but coming up empty. 

it’s nice, he thinks. sweet. refreshing. funny. you’re all of those things and more. you don’t bite your tongue and hold back thoughts. you ramble until he can step into your thoughts completely—see it from your perspective like he’s inside your brain.

and jack—well, jack has friends. army buddies, guys he used to study with during medical school, a couple people from his residency that he stays in touch with. he has robby, though his friendship with him is going to be on thin ice after what he put you up to earlier, and dana. his parents are gone and so are his in-laws but he calls his sister when he really needs to talk about something and he checks in with his wife’s siblings once or twice a year, usually around the anniversary of her death.

(he hadn’t done it a few weeks ago, though, and he has trouble figuring out if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. but then he stares up at you, sipping your drink, patiently waiting for him to finish his sentence, before you, undoubtedly, ask him if he’s okay again. like if he tells you that he’s not—because really, he’s not—that you’ll make it your personal mission to make sure that he is. and that, well, what is he supposed to do with that?)

luckily the waitress interrupts the silence with the rest of the food—grilled cheese and waffles and whatever else sounded appealing in a hunger-driven craze—and he doesn’t have to finish the thought.

you two do talk about other things—how he’s sorry about yelling that week and how you completely didn’t deserve it. you tell him it’s fine and that he had a bad week and that you’re not upset, that it would feel wrong to hold that against him. he tells you about how good the brownies and the cookies were, and you beam at him with that smile again.

the conversations ebbs and flows—how it was nice of you to take care of that woman’s daughter. how great you did in the traumas today. how stupid robby is for asking you to check in on him—don’t listen to him ever again, just, come to me first next time. 

and then once the food is eaten and your drinks run empty, and the sound of fireworks is littering your eardrums, you just say it.

“i don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

“i’ve spent lots of july fourths alone, kid. i’ll be fine.”

he probably will be fine. he has noise cancelling headphones and though his apartment is close to the park where the fireworks are held—an oversight he didn’t think of when he moved in—he can distract himself enough to get through the night. he’s been doing it for years—taking care of himself when it comes to things like this.

“no, i-i know you will be. i just don’t think you should be alone.”

and then, for a split second, the force of your caring, of your affection for him hits him like a blow. it rushes over him—the feeling of how easy it might be to let you take care of him. to let someone else do it for once. reality seeps back in slowly, bringing his senses back one by one.

the first thing it does is remind him that you’re an intern.

“kid,” jack says firmly, sitting up straighter in the booth. he rests his elbows against the table, staring straight at you, boring into your soul like he always does. “i don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“why not?”

“well, for one, i’m your attending.”

“oh, who cares about stuff like that? it’s not like i’m gonna tell anyone,” you reply, as though the words had come to you quickly, like you really believed them. 

as if you’d already put some thought into your response before he’d asked you the question.

you don’t seem the least bit hesitant about basically telling him to spend the night with you—whatever that might mean to you. he doesn’t want to assume things, but it’s been a while since he’s done something like this. he doesn’t know what’s changed in the last decade and he certainly has never done something like this with a resident, much less an intern.

the whole thing is seeming much too bill clinton to him. he wants to express the thought to you, though it doesn’t make much sense—he’s not married and he’s not the president but you’re an intern and he was raised right so it feels wrong—and then he realizes it quickly. are you even old enough to remember that scandal? he shakes his head, as though he can dispel the thought by physically removing it.

“i care about stuff like that. there’s a power imbalance here, and-”

“i’m not even on nights anymore!”

“but you will be on nights again in the future. in a few months from now, when you’re a second year. you’ll do a whole month of nights in third year, too.” 

your lips curve up into a playful smile.

“getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?”

“kid-”

“i said you shouldn’t spend tonight alone. you’re thinking three years ahead. i mean, don’t get me wrong, jack, i’m totally flattered, but i think you should scale it down. one day at a time and all that.” his expression changes and so does yours—it’s the first time you’ve ever called him anything other than dr. abbot. “i’m sorry. is that completely unprofessional? oh my god, am i one of those people? is that harassment?” you whisper the last part, as though you’re worried he’ll leave to report you this instant.

jack wants to bang his head against the table. he thinks, not for the first time and certainly not for the last time about what he’s going to do with you. 

the waitress brings the check and he places his card in her hand before you can so much as glance at it.

“i… i just meant that, i think it’s a bad idea if you spend tonight alone. we can watch a movie or make cookies or whatever you want to do. it’s just-” you trail off, suddenly quiet.

“it’s just what?”

“if we both go home alone, i’m just gonna spend the whole time worrying about you, anyways. might as well worry about you while i’m sitting next to you.” you stare at the table the whole time you say it, and then your gaze flickers up at him before looking back down quickly. “that must sound crazy. i’m sorry-”

“stop apologizing to me, kid.” 

it’s hard on a regular day to resist the urge to listen to everything you say, to comply since he knows how good you are. made of a kind of sweetness that he really doesn’t know the first thing about—how you got to be this way, with an abundance of compassion, enough to make him feel like he’ll explode from the sheer strength of it.

what jack does know is that he wants to find out.

you both get up, and you put on your pullover from what can only be your alma mater, grabbing the containers you’d brought into the break room this morning. he swings on his backpack and you both walk outside. it’s dark now, and you can hear fireworks somewhere in the distance. the noise is loud and uncomfortable even to you, and you briefly wonder how it might sound to jack, and decide again that you really, really don’t want him to be alone tonight.

“listen, kid. i don’t want you to waste your night worrying about me. you should-”

“oh, trust me, it’s not a waste. i have an ulterior motive for wanting to go back to your place,” you say, nodding when jack tilts his head at you in confusion, wondering if he’ll bite.

“yeah? and what’s that?”

“i need my tupperware back.”

+

your back thuds against the wall beside jack abbot’s apartment door. you’ve never been here but you try to blink open your eyes to take it in, to see if it’s just as you thought it’d be while his lips—soft and wanton and kissing you—stay against yours.

it’s stupid—why are you worried about his apartment when your attending is kissing you like you belong to him? but then you remember something frank had once told you during your first week, something about adhd and how all of you probably have it, and then you start giggling against jack abbot’s lips.

his fingertips, which were brushing against the skin of your waist after sneaking under your shirt, tighten around the soft skin there. you can feel them digging in, but stupidly, deliriously, and a little light headed, you wonder if you’ll bruise if he pushes hard enough.

“y’know, kid,” he mumbles against your mouth, pulling away for just a second. his breath is hot against your lips and his touch makes goosebumps rise all over you, makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up tall. “i haven’t done this in a while but if you’re laughing, i must be doing something wrong.”

you should say something, say anything, so he stops talking and keeps kissing you, but nothing comes out besides another laugh. 

“i’m sorry,” you say, trying to catch your breath while jack’s hands hover over your hips. “i-” you glance up to lock eyes again, but when you see the way he’s looking at you, you stop laughing completely. 

“if you’re uncomfortable, we can stop. you don’t have to-”

“no! no, i’m not uncomfortable. i-i’m laughing because this is so funny. you’re my attending and now we’re kissing and i’m in your apartment and it looks, exactly how i pictured it. and you’re so nice to me, but it’s the fourth of july and i want to make sure you’re okay because-” 

jack interrupts you with another kiss, his lips pressing against yours. this time he doesn’t let up, his tongue slipping into your mouth while you collapse against the wall, knees suddenly very weak.

but it’s alright, because jack’s got you. he holds you up by your hips and your legs mindlessly wrap around him, his hands going to your ass to hoist you up and secure you around him. he lifts you up and starts walking, and you whine against him, impatient and fairly comfortable where you were.

it’s like he’s a mind reader.

“our first time is not going to be against a wall,” he mutters, mouth on the column on your neck, tracing kisses from your collarbone to your cheek and then back to your lips. you want to reply, you want to tell him that you would have been perfectly content against that wall, or the door, or the couch, or even the floor, but nothing comes out.

you pull away just for a moment to look at him in the dim light of his bedroom—flushed cheeks, breathing heavy, taking a moment to push a piece of your hair behind your ear before kissing you again. and then with his mouth on yours again, you realize that jack abbot has discovered some way to turn your brain off. 

his touch is rough on your skin—when your scrubs got peeled off of you, you don’t actually know. he throws them somewhere on the ground and you paw at his shirt until he gives in and takes it off. 

it should be slower, he thinks briefly, he should slow down and take his time and not even give in and slip inside of you until you’re already a writhing, aching mess. he’s out of practice but he knows how you are, knows what would make you fall apart piece by piece.

that’s what he thinks of when your hands go to the button and zipper of his pants. for everything he knows about you, you’re also impatient. and lucky for you, he is too.

jack is out of practice, but it doesn’t mean he’s forgotten everything.

“c’mon, kid,” he breathes against your collarbone, wrestling your hands away from and then pinning them over your head. “be patient.”

“i’ve been patient—!” you whine, but he doesn’t give in just yet.

“it’ll hurt, sweetheart. i have to stretch you out first,” he says, and you feel dizzy with lust. it washes over you and makes you dumb, and you, for everything you are, are not a dumb girl. at least—not normally.

jack skips the teasing this time, trailing fingers down your chest, between the valley of your breasts and over your stomach. when he gets to your leaking cunt, he collects the wetness there with two fingers, and when you start whining again, impatient and antsy and your entire body humming with want, he does it again.

reminds you to be patient, and then plunges a finger inside of you. a moan leaves your throat—choked and loud, but he wants you to be even louder. you don’t know when he adds a second, and then a third, but you feel the delicious stretch of your walls, how his palm stays in place for you to grind up against. your hips buck up and you’re ruining his sheets and crying for more though you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

and jack takes it all in. how wet you feel against his fingers, how beautiful the noises that you’re making are. so focused on you—the sheen of sweat on your skin and how responsive you are to his touch, the noises outside his walls get drowned out. 

“jack, jack, more—” you plead, but jack doesn’t listen. everything in your body feels ready to finish. your muscles ache, the knot in your belly tightens, and heat washes over you while your toes curl in anticipation.

and then jack just stops.

“no—” you whine, the rush disappearing all at once. “no, no, jack!”

“patience, kid.”

“you’re being unfair-”

“no, i’m not.”

“then why’d you-”

“because the first time i make you finish is going to be when i’m inside of you. understood?”

and for once, you’re silent.

+

“i would have gone to the roof, probably.”

you blink open your sleepy eyes. you’re pressed against jack’s chest, your head resting there while he trails his fingers through your hair. you’re wearing his shirt, sleeping in his sheets, a cup of water that he got you from his kitchen resting on the nightstand.

you can’t feel your legs, but that’s a problem for tomorrow—but at least you know now that you might have bitten off more than you can chew. 

“what do you mean?” you ask quietly. the fireworks stopped an hour or so ago, and the only noise you hear now is jack’s heartbeat thudding against your ear.

“the rooftop, at the hospital. i go there after my shifts sometimes.” 

a lot of the time—but you don’t need to know that. from the way you immediately sit up in bed, his sheets slipping a little and exposing more of your soft skin that you don’t seem to care about, he can tell you’re concerned already. 

his shirt looks good on you. 

“tell me it’s just for fresh air?” you ask, reaching your hand over to run your fingers through the hair near his temple. his eyes close when feels your touch there, and suddenly, it feels more intimate than it has all evening. jack takes a deep breath, and then sighs.

“something like that.”

“jack-”

“it’s just… i don’t know. i got used to it, i guess. at first it was just to see what it felt like being up there. then it just turned into something else. i go up there after a bad shift and look at all the people below and… decide if it’s still worth it, i guess.” his hazel eyes look towards you and jack nestles himself more comfortably against your hand that hasn’t left him. 

“what’s gonna happen if you decide it’s not worth it one day?” you ask quietly, wet eyes sparkling up at him.

teary-eyed and flushed in his bed, all for him. you feel your emotions so strongly that he can watch them flooding your body, taking their course, almost sense them radiating from you. 

that’s the second time you’ve cried because of him, and he decides he’s not going to let it happen a third time.

he takes the hand that you had extended against him into his own and presses a kiss against your palm. 

“i don’t think i have to worry about that anymore.”

+

you get back to your apartment around four in the afternoon—you have a rare day off today. jack’s back on the night shift at seven, and though he offered to let you stay the night while he was gone, you wanted to give him time to get ready before going into the hospital. everyone has a pre-shift routine, even if they don’t recognize it. 

now that you’re back on days, yours consists of waking up early to stretch and eat a big breakfast and leave enough time lay in bed for an extra ten minutes before you actually have to get up.

you don’t know what jack’s is but you’re sure you’ll find out soon enough. 

the two of you slept in, courtesy of his black out curtains. you’re more of a get up with the sun person, but exceptions can be made.

(you’ll be making a lot of them from now on. jack abbot made you cum three times in his bed and once in the shower, and then he washed your body with his soap, the one you can still smell on your skin now. he kissed you while making you breakfast—eggs and bacon—and then told you to stop apologizing every time you accidentally hit your foot against his prosthetic under his dining table. and finally, he gave you one of your containers to take back home, and said he’s keeping the other one here. why? you’d asked. insurance, he’d replied.)

so you go back home, make dinner for yourself and wash your singular yellow tupperware and text jack to have a good shift tonight. 

you set an alarm for five, get out of bed at five-fifteen and get ready for work, more giddy for a shift than you have been since your first day of intern year.

when you walk into the hospital, early like always, you see jack talking to parker. he looks in your direction and even parker can notice his gaze following something, but she doesn’t say anything. you look away before smiling to yourself, the grin being glued to your face the entire walk to the lockers as you recall memories of the last time you saw jack.

one of the perks of always being early is that there’s no one by the lockers when you arrive.

(you’ve never thought of it as a perk until now though.)

jack walks in behind you a few minutes later—right as you’ve tucked away your pullover and your bag and he stands beside you as you reach to pick up your stethoscope. 

“ah, hold on,” he says, taking the stethoscope of your hand and into his. he loops it around your neck carefully, setting it in place for you. “there you go.”

“really?” you ask with a laugh, closing the door to your locker. “when you walked in here i thought i was gonna get a kiss. wait, what did you tell parker-”

“c’mon, kid,” jack says, looking at you with an expression you’re not sure you could ever get tired of. “i’m not that obvious.” you stare at him. “yeah, okay. i told her to go finish the note from the last trauma.”

“lucky for you, i’m your best resident. these other chums don’t show up until much closer to seven. actually, one time, santos came five minutes late. so-”

and for the second time, jack interrupts you with a kiss. he leans in, pressing his lips against yours, and your hands go slack by your side. his mouth tastes like coffee and even after a twelve hour shift he still smells like jack, the way his sheets and his soap and his shirt had smelled when you wore it.

he pulls away, and your eyes blink open slowly, like you’re figuring out where you are. fluorescent lights and the smell of the alcohol wipes they use to clean everything lingers around you.

and, of course, your attending, the one who sneaks into the locker rooms before shift change to give you secret and likely highly forbidden kisses.

“my lips are sticky,” jack says, bringing a finger to his mouth and rubbing it against another. you can’t bear to look at his hands right now, so you look away, at the risk of being useless for at least the next hour.

“it’s this lip peptide thingy. i don’t know, it’s good for them, i think. better than chapstick and they have all these flavors. they say it-” you trail off, staring at jack while he stares at you. he licks his lips.

“tastes good, kid. see you out there.”

oh god. you lean against your locker and watch jack leave. a minute later, mel walks in with trinity.

“i don’t want to hear it, bubbles. i’m here extra early, and not just to prove a point-”

“well, actually, i think it is to prove a point, but not-”

“what’s wrong? did the cat finally get your tongue?”

“i never understood what that meant-”

oh god. it’s going to be a long shift.

and outside the lockers, robby finds jack.

“so?” robby asks, leaning against the counter while jack sorts through tablets. he hands one to parker and then another to john, and they go off to pass on their patients to everyone arriving. 

“am i supposed to know what you’re talking about?” jack replies, noticing you from the corner of his eye. 

you’re coming out with santos and king, a water bottle in your hand. he had filled it for you before you left his apartment, after you’d refused his offer of walking you home. you look in his direction, and then you both look away at the same time. jack picks up his coffee cup to take another sip—if he doesn’t get the taste of you and your lip peptide thingy out of his mouth, he’s going to have a freudian slip in front of robby.

“i’m talking about you and the kid.” jack sputters, choking on his drink mid-swallow. “woah. you okay?”

“f-fine. uh, what? me and the kid?”

“yeah. since the fourth, you know, are you two good again?” 

robby looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to fill in the silence with an answer. 

“uh, yes. yeah, of course.”

“good. that was my goal. she started on nights at a bad time, and uh, i mean no one blames you. but we don't want to scare away all our interns, either.”

“right.” jack looks back at robby. “anything else?”

“no.” robby arches a brow at him. “you sure you’re okay? because she’s back on nights soon, and i don’t want-”

“i’m good, robby.” 

“alright then. where are we with sign-offs?”

you on the day shift is something manageable. something he can handle, something that shouldn’t be too terrible for you two to figure out. you always come early and he always stays a little late, and he’s sure that it won’t look suspicious. 

if you’re on days, then he’s not the one primarily in charge of your post-graduate medical education. that falls to robby and heather and frank, and he can trust that none of them are going to accidentally interfere with you learning everything you need to learn to be a good resident. 

to be a great resident—because he knows you have it in you. you’re made of the stuff it takes to be teaching other interns one day—compassion and kindness and how to treat the person while you’re fixing the patient. 

robby and heather and frank can help you with that. but if you’re on nights, it’s an entirely different ball game. he’s responsible for your education, for approving your notes and questioning your decisions and making you jump onto incoming traumas and justify every choice you make. he’s also responsible for correcting you when you’ve made a mistake. making you drink a cup of coffee if he thinks you’re getting tired. waking you up if you fall asleep at your desk at three in the morning.

and that’s just the problem. for the first time, jack abbot wonders if he can do all of those things if you’re the intern he has to do them to. 

for god’s sake—he couldn’t even wake you up to ask how you wanted your eggs. 

that’s the conundrum he’s facing when you come back home that night, near seven thirty. he’s off tonight and back tomorrow night, which means he gets about eleven or so hours with you until you leave tomorrow morning.

“hi,” you breathe, when he opens the door to let you inside. you’re clad in your pullover and you drop your bag by the front door when you come inside. “it feels weird to not go straight home.”

“oh, sweetheart, you could have gone home. i could have met you there-”

“no, no, it’s okay. i have a noisy neighbor and, well-” you drift off, smiling up at him the way you usually do.

“well?”

“i’d rather wear your clothes anyways.” 

what’s he supposed to do when you say things like that? a couple of words that make him happier than he’s felt in years, lifting the storm cloud that’s been following him around since the conversation with robby this morning. 

but it’s an important conversation, one that needs to be had. jack is a lot of things, but he is absolutely not a meddler in the lives of pretty interns or in the business of hindering their education.

“did, uh, robby say anything to you today?”

“jack,” you start slowly, turning on the couch to face him completely. “he’s not a mind-reader, you know.”

“no, i know. i just meant—well, did he?”

“no. he was normal. he even apologized for giving me side quests on an already busy day.”

“oh. that’s good.” 

you bring your hand to his hair again, running your fingers through it. it’s almost an instinct to him now—jack closes his eyes for a moment and you watch his shoulders relax.

“what’s wrong? what’re you thinking about?” his pretty hazel eyes meet yours.

“i just want us to be careful-”

“hey, you’re the one who kissed me this morning-”

“i know, i know. i need to be careful, too. i don’t want-”

“i understand. i wouldn’t want everyone knowing i’m screwing the intern either. it’s kind of a cliche, honestly, we’re no better than-”

“what? no, no. i don’t want anyone to say anything that could hurt you, or for this to interfere with your education. it is a cliche, and i know you’re close with the others and people can act very differently when they think that-”

“jack,” you start, moving yourself closer until you can crawl into his lap. his eyes flick over you, settling to watch your lips before he locks eyes again.

“yeah?” he asks, his throat dry.

“in five minutes, i’m going to be wet and naked in your shower. you can either keep talking about this or you can come join me.” then you lean in to press a kiss to his cheek. “c’mon, i wanna hear all about how you spend your days off, old man.” 

and then you get up, peeling off your sweatshirt, and then your shirt, and leaving him a trail of your clothes that ends with your panties on his bathroom tile. 

jack is a lot of things. but stupid isn’t one of them—so he follows you in there and leaves the rest of the conversation for another day.

but that day doesn’t end up coming that quickly.

as it turns out, interns on day shift barely get to spend time with their attendings from the night shift. on top of that, he has no idea how anyone manages to have an affair with a resident—they’re at the hospital every single day, pulling eighty hour weeks and coming home, if jack is even at home, completely exhausted.

but he also learns that glimpses of you at shift change and sign-offs at seven am and seven pm are enough to sustain the two of you. 

it starts with conversations in the locker room before your shift starts. he makes sure his residents are distracted before sneaking away to get a kiss or two and leaning against the metal lockers like a lovesick high schooler.

“you know that patient i was telling you about yesterday? with the bleeder? well, i came to change my scrubs and trin was grabbing something and she saw me and asked if i was mauled by a bear.”

“oh, god,” jacks says from his position, watching you do the same thing you do every morning. put away your hoodie, grab your protein bar for later, tell him whatever you’ve been thinking about since he left you yesterday night. “what’d you tell her?”

you smile.

“something like that.” you laugh, so then jack laughs.

“that’s a little dramatic, no?”

“i also told her i’m clumsy, but i think she’s come to the conclusion that i’m a sex freak.” you close your locker, facing your boyfriend-slash-attending.

“well, i mean-”

“shut up. do not-” you start with another laugh, but your smile fades when you see mel walking in with frank.

“uh, make sure to check that with ellis, alright?”

“yes, i will, dr. abbot.” jack leaves, smiling politely at frank and mel and turning back to look at you once. he really shouldn’t but he’s gotten in a bad habit of it, even though one day, someone is going to notice.

“did you just tell abbot to ‘shut up’?” frank questions, and they both look at you, waiting for your answer.

“no! no, of course not. i was just telling him about something a patient said and, um, dr. ellis wants to document it. yeah, she wants, like, really thorough notes, so he was just telling me. about that. um-”

mel looks at you thoughtfully, before bringing her hand to frank’s arm.

“i have noticed that she writes her patient encounters in a very specific format,” she says, and you sigh without realizing it. you let her carry the conversation into how frank’s notes could use some work, and then the two tease each other while you quietly make your exit.

+

another morning, jack stands at central with dana and robby, filling both of them in on two patients who are due to come back in the afternoon and the three patients still waiting for a bed upstairs.

heather and frank are bickering next to the three of them like they always do, like they’re siblings fighting in front of the parents, when he hears what they’re talking about.

“well, now i feel bad, ‘cause she’s mel’s friend, but i don’t even have that kind of energy after two red bulls, so-” frank starts, before heather interjects.

“it’s not about energy, it’s just a conversation about burn-out. candles don’t burn on both ends for a reason.”

“okay, you lost me with the metaphor.”

“you can’t be that nice to every patient forever. at some point you have to pick.”

“be nice or save their life?” frank supplies. “so basically, when is she gonna become like the rest of us?”

“i mean…” heather trails off, turning to dana. “what do you think?”

“i think they call her bubbles for a reason,” dana says, pushing up her glasses. she cranes her neck to stare at the screen of patients, looking for the next empty bed. “and i think north-two needs to be discharged, so if you two are done-”

“let me test our theory,” frank says. he waves over the lot of you coming in for your shift—you, cassie, mel, and trinity. you look over at jack, and he looks over at you, before you focus back on frank. “need someone to discharge this bed and then go grab the next patient from chairs. dana—?” he holds the clipboard and looks over at all of you, but it’s only half a second before you chirp up.

“i can do it,” you say brightly. you smile at frank and dana, reaching for the clipboard, while jack watches it happen.

“thanks bubbles,” trinity says, while the others dissipate. you make a slightly dampened face at the use of the nickname.

“one other thing,” heather asks. “when are we gonna get more cookies?”

“oh! i’m so glad you guys liked them. i guess another holiday, if there’s one coming up? or someone’s birthday? actually, i think there’s just labor day and i don’t know what kind of themed cookies i’d make. well, chocolate chip cookie day is in august, i think-”

“kid?” dana asks. “the patient? north-two?”

“right. i’m sorry. i’ll come check in after i bring the new patient back,” you say, still smiling when you walk away with the clipboard in your hand.

“what exactly were you testing?” heather asks.

“i don’t know, but she’s definitely doing whatever your metaphor meant. are we taking bets yet? i wonder how long she’ll last-”

“alright, enough,” jack snaps. “do you two not have anything better to do? who’s this helping?”

“jack?” robby questions, his eyes flicking towards dana, who looks back at him with a shrug.

“why would you want her to be jaded? isn’t it better for our patients that she stays like that for as long as she can? i thought you’d try to keep her that way, but i guess-”

“jack-” robby interrupts. 

“you two, go help somebody,” dana says to heather and frank, before turning to jack. “what the hell was that about?” 

jack sighs, not realizing when his hand had turned into a fist. probably when your name was brought up.

“nothing, i just- bad night. that’s all.”

“o-kay,” robby whistles. “you going up to the roof, or?”

“no. no, i’m going home.”

jack walks away, not in the direction of the door, but rather towards the beds on the north side, almost instinctively.

“what the hell’s wrong with him?” dana asks.

“i don’t know. since when does he just go straight home after a bad shift?”

“i have no idea.”

(that night at six-fifty, trinity pulls you aside before you two head home. you’re antsy since you want to get a couple of quiet minutes with jack before you have to leave, but when she starts talking, you forget all about it. listen, trin says, i’m sorry about the whole bubbles thing, i didn’t think it was bothering you. but collins told me that abbot was yelling at them about it and he was pretty upset, so i- but sadly, you don’t hear much of the rest of the conversation.)

you walk away from her after she finishes, reassuring her that you’re fine, before setting out to find jack. he’s putting his backpack under the desk at the hub, and you go straight to him, not entirely caring that people can see the two of you, supposing it’s fine as long as they don’t hear you.

“what’s the matter?” jack asks, and then much quieter—”everything okay, sweetheart?”

“you defended me?” you ask softly. you’re normally full of words but it feels hard to find them just now, your head feeling cloudy. 

“no, no, i just told them to knock it off.”

“was it something bad?” you question, your expression knitting into worry. 

this is exactly why he got upset—why he didn’t like their conversation from the jump, why he knew that he wanted frank and heather to stop talking before someone else overheard and jumped in and you found out what they were saying.

it’s not bad, even you wouldn’t think it’s bad. but jack doesn’t like it. he doesn’t like anyone speaking of you in any way that he doesn’t like and he especially hates the idea that you’d be upset when you found out. 

“no. i just-” jack trails off.

“you just?”

“i don’t like anyone talking about you. and i don’t like that stupid nickname, so-”

you smile at him, not the sort of innocent smile one casts at their attending—the result of being told good job on a case or have a good night on your way out. no, you smile at jack the way you do everything—with the full force of every emotion behind it, wearing your heart on your sleeve. 

and jack couldn’t look away from you, even if he wanted to.

(the two of you look like idiots—googly eyed and lovestruck and every other way to describe people who like each other a bit too much. this time it’s dana who sees the two of you. she does a double take on her way to hand a stack of tablets to the night shift charge nurse and blinks twice to make sure she’s seeing the right thing. jack abbot, a regular on the roof, and the intern who they call bubbles, looking at each other like the rest of the hospital has faded away into nothing. and then she walks away, and decides she’ll wait for robby to bring it up.)

+

it’s mel next—she’s incredibly observant as it is, but even more so when it comes to someone she considers a friend, someone like you. trinity jokes about the continual bear attacks that explain the hickies on your neck and chest when you change out of your scrub top and pull on your hoodie, but mel knows it’s more than that.

she’s always known you get to work early, but recently, every time mel comes in to put away her belongings, the space that you usually occupy is already empty. your things put away, locker closed and locked, your yellow water bottle already resting by the computer that you usually write your notes at. 

and after that, it’s just a game of paying slightly closer attention. you walk out from behind a curtained bed and come say hi to mel, ask her how her evening was, how becca is doing. but when mel glances up at the screen to see what patient you were with behind that curtain, it’s empty.

that bed was empty. and well, mel’s not much of an detective (though she has her moments), but it’s worth a shot. waste a few minutes, stare at that curtain to see if she can figure out what, or rather who is behind it. she’s almost about to call it quits, frank was running late but he’s here now and there’s an incoming so she should start moving and then—

dr. abbot comes out from behind that same curtain. he leaves it open, comes to the hub, smiles politely at mel and tells her to have a good day, dr. king, and then he walks away.

more specifically, he walks in your direction. the back of his head moves slightly in your direction. you beam at the tablet in your hands. and then—

“mel? you okay?” frank asks, and she’s snapped out of it.

(she could have figured it out ages ago, she thinks afterward, reflecting on how dr. abbot never used to tell anyone to have a good day or hum while finalizing notes or look up and smile in your general direction before looking back down at whatever’s in his hands. the first time she met him, she thought he was the type of person you categorize in the debbie downer sort of group, whereas from the moment she met you, you were clearly more of a chatty cathy. but you’re her friend. and when she had told you about her feelings for frank, you had listened and supported her and never made her feel that it was anything less than okay.)

so the next time she sees you at seven am, already out by your computer or walking back from around an empty corner, when she notices dr. abbot trailing behind you, she doesn’t say anything. when dr. abbot hangs around late finishing up a trauma and you go ask him for his opinion on whatever patient you’re seeing, even when robby is free just over there, she doesn’t say anything.

even when frank brings it up over dinner with her and becca, a side conversation while they eat spaghetti—you noticed anything different with abbot recently?—she doesn’t say anything. 

in fact, the closest she gets to saying anything is when dr. abbot comes in early—maybe around five-thirty one evening—because they’re getting swamped and heather and cassie have the flu and it’s been a terrible mess of a day.

you and mel have been running around the entire shift, barely stopping to drink water or eat something. when jack shows up and flocks straight to you and leans in to tell you something, your hand moves to touch his arm for half a second before you remember where you are and put it down. jack pulls out a granola bar from his pocket and leaves you with it to jump on the next incoming.

mel watches the encounter and puts her head down when you look her way, pretending that she’s drinking her water and staring at a tablet. when she looks up, you’re gone in another direction, but dana stares at mel, both with an understanding of what they just saw.

and then they go on with their shift.

+

it all comes crashing down, just as it had the first time, after a particularly terrible night shift. it’s always hard when someone dies in the first few hours, leaves a horrible, bitter taste in his mouth that makes him want to walk outside and not come back in. 

it’s even worse when he knows he did everything he could, that there was no way this patient was making it off the table. that the devastated husband and the crying kids were completely unavoidable, that he still has to go back and jump on the next case and start fresh and try to drown out those noises.

drowning, drowning, drowning. he’s always trying to drown out something. if it’s not the fireworks then it’s the kids sobbing over their dead parent, and if it’s not that, then it’s how he relives his own worst day of my life every time someone’s wife dies in front of him. 

it’s been one of those days. you’re due to start on nights in two shifts from now, and he still has no idea how he’ll manage to be any less obvious when it comes to you.

(the last thing he keeps trying to drown out is how wrong this is. the voice in the back of his head keeps reminding him, seemingly unable to stop, no noise being loud enough to get it to stop repeating itself. you’re still a while away from being a second year, but is that even any better? or is that another excuse he’s invented to stop feeling so guilty about the fact that you sleep in his apartment every night and leave cookies for him on the counter so he has something nice to come home to? jack doesn’t know.)

you show up at six-thirty, smiling sweetly at parker and john, telling them to grab a cookie on their way out. parker asks you why and you tell her just because, and you want five minutes alone with your boyfriend before he leaves.

you’re impatient, always have been and always will be, especially when it comes to any and all matters related to jack abbot. you’re eager to go back on the night shift because you think you’ll be able to appreciate it so much more now—learning under his tutelage, being able to discuss those foreign medical journals he shares with you over coffee at four in the morning rather than through his illegible, scribbled print on post-its and your neat handwriting in the margins. 

you want it all, and you want it now.

so you made more cookies—oatmeal raisin—to make jack’s apartment smell nice, and you pack several of them to have a valid reason to distract the others so you can get those five minutes, maybe ten, in peace.

“hi,” you sing, while jack stands in front of you, tablet in his hand and blood on his shoes. “how was your night?” he doesn’t look up, but you don’t wait for an answer. “i made oatmeal raisin last night and i put some in the break room so i think we have five minutes. i want ten but i won’t be greedy, i mean, we’ll be on nights together soon, so at least that’ll be-”

“we need to talk, kid,” jack says, looking up at you with an expression you don’t recognize.

“what’s wrong ja- dr. abbot?” a nurse walks by just as you start your sentence, changing it mid-way. 

“that,” he says, coming out a bit louder than he meant it to. “that’s what’s wrong.” 

“jack?” you say it quietly. he doesn’t mean it like that—he doesn’t want you to be upset and worried about him when you have a whole shift ahead of you, one that you show up early to with distractions so the two of you can have a few minutes alone.

it’s all of it—it’s the fact that you even have to do things like that to get five minutes alone with him. it’s that you can’t let someone overhear you calling him anything besides dr. abbot.

it’s the realization that you deserve much better than what jack abbot can give you. more than five minutes behind a curtain or a couple minutes in the break room or thirty seconds at central hub before the charge nurse comes in with another incoming. 

“come on,” he says, leading you away for a moment. you have twenty-five minutes before your shift starts and he has two senior residents who can run the show until robby walks in. he leads you to the on-call room, four walls enclosing four beds. surgery has rooms of their own, but sometimes the trauma surgeon on deck will crash in there waiting for the next page, so he checks the room before letting you into it, closing and locking the door behind him.

“i thought you were gonna yell at me. this is so much better,” you say.

your mouth has gotten you into trouble before, especially with dr. abbot. in fact, it’s what got you into this whole thing to begin with, but where you expect jack to laugh in the privacy of this room, he doesn’t.

“kid, we need to have a serious talk about this.”

“about what?”

“this. us.”

“oh, jack, come on-”

“no, i-i’m being serious. this is not okay, it’s not sustainable.”

“you’re upset because we don’t see each other? honey, i start on nights in two days, i think we can make it,” you say, coming in closer to bring your hand to jack’s shoulder. “what’s going on? really?”

“don’t you think that… what i’m doing is wrong? you’re an intern. this is about your education, i-”

“why do you think you’re disrupting my medical education just because you’re my attending? i know i get stupid around you but i promise, i’m not gonna stop paying attention to my patient because you’re standing near me. i am a doctor, you know-”

“kid, i-”

“no, stop. half this hospital is dating each other. robby is heather’s attending and i don’t see you storming them into on-call rooms to debate about his influence on her medical education-”

“that doesn’t even make sense-”

“it doesn’t have to,” you sigh, out of breath and a little winded from how loud you’re being. “we make sense. you and me. we’re good together. a lot of things in this place don’t make sense but we do. people die everyday and i don’t want to die wondering what could have been if i’d just-”

“don’t,” jack interrupts, his hands coming to your waist. they feel tight, like the first time he’d help you like this. he brings his face closer to yours, foreheads almost touching. “don’t say that.”

“oh my god. i am so sorry. that must sound so insensitive, i just meant-”

“stop talking.”

“but i-” 

and this time, he doesn’t give you a choice, pressing his lips against yours quickly. you mumble against else against his mouth, but he can’t make it out, choosing instead to ignore it. like always, jack’s mouth tastes like coffee and you take it in—your boyfriend, your attending, and whatever else jack abbot is to you, kissing you like he’s finally realizing that he belongs to you, just as much as you belong to him. 

jack’s fingertips travel under your scrub top, hands roaming the expanse of your back and then settling onto your waist again while you keep kissing, realizing that when you go back out there, you’ll be flushed and warm and your lips will be swollen.

and then you realize that you don’t care, and you let your body lean against jack’s. he pulls away for a moment, but you don’t let him get the chance to stop, leaning in to resume the kiss, desperate to feel his tongue against yours again. 

jack does pull away finally, holding your jaw with his hand.

“this is so much better,” you mumble again.

“kid, we can’t-”

“yes, we can. we have so much time, jack,” you say, trying your best to sound convincing. 

“it’s seven in the morning,” jack argues, though he doesn’t resist when you pull his navy shirt off and over his head, exposing his chest to you. you run your fingers down the exposed skin, pressing your mouth against his shoulder.

“no it’s not,” you reply, leading hot, open-mouthed kisses from his collarbone to his neck, back up to his lips. “it’s six forty-something.”

“someone’s gonna-”

“no one’s gonna,” you say, smiling in that way that you do, the way that makes it impossible for him to say no. “not unless you stop talking, old man.” 

“oh. that’s how you wanna do this?”

“i’m not doing anything,” you say, pulling off your own scrub top, and then your shoes. 

“you’re gonna kill me, kid,” leaves his mouth as your hands go to the tie of his scrub bottoms, undoing the knot. jack brings his hands to either side of your waist and lifts, bringing you down onto one of the beds with all of his strength, making you squeal as your head hits the pillow. 

he starts with a kiss to your jaw, and then your neck, trailing down between your breasts while he undoes your bra. your hands find his shoulders, gripping him tight while he works his way down, littering your stomach with kisses until he gets to the drawstring of your pants. 

his fingers work on undoing it while you whine, and then try to push yourself to sit up against jack’s weight on top of you.

“oh my god, this is so embarrassing. i didn’t know we were doing all this. i have so many matching sets of underwear for this very occasion and the one day-”

“sweetheart, i love you, but you really need to stop talking right now.”

“you love me?” you repeat back. “you love me. oh my god, i-”

you lean in, lips crashing together hard, until jack moves and he’s on top of you again. he slides off your bottoms first, his fingers dancing around the waistband of your panties—navy blue with lace on the sides and he thinks they’re awfully great so he’s not sure what you were talking about—and then you start giggling. nearly uncontrollable.

“kid, that’s twice now you’ve done that-”

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry jack,” you plead, trying to keep a straight face but being unable to stop laughing. “i can’t believe this is how we’re saying i love you to each other-”

“you’re the one who wanted to date your attending-”

you burst into another fit of giggles, which jack effectively silences by kissing you again.

“one day,” jack starts, tugging your underwear down until it’s discarded somewhere by your feet, or maybe somewhere on the floor next to your clothes. “i’ll get to take my time with you again.”

that sentence leaving jack’s mouth makes your entire body tense up, a flood of want washing over you until you feel loopy. 

you pull him in for another kiss, and you feel him against you, memories of the first time he stretched you out on his fingers running through your mind. you two don’t have enough time for that today, and you both know it, but it still makes your cunt throb with anticipation.

jack lines himself up against you, running his thick tip over your opening, collecting wetness and making pleasure course through your body when he bumps against your clit. it’s electric—like a live wire hitting your nerves and making everything feel like lightening.

your limbs already feel like jelly, and you let jack maneuver your legs up onto his shoulders, watching him while he looks down at where you two are connected. 

he pushes inside and you moan—loudly and unfiltered—feeling that ridiculously amazing stretch again, your toes curling and every muscle tensing. jack leans in to kiss you and swallow the noises you make, but you still think it might not be enough.

when he pushes all the way in, your eyes roll all the way to the back of your head. 

“i’m sorry, kid, we can’t be loud,” he breathes, followed by a groan. he uses his hand to cover your mouth, pulling out and then thrusting back in all at once. the bed creaks as jack starts fucking you with an intense rhythm, the thin wooden frame hitting against the wall repetitively. 

you lock eyes with jack, moaning against his hand, feeling how big he is like it’s the first time all over again. 

every ridge and vein makes you see stars while you focus on how full you feel—full of jack, how you want stay like this forever if he’ll let you—in a tiny on call room with the door locked and people looking for the two of you. 

you repeat it against his palm—jack, jack, jack—while he keeps fucking you with an intensity that makes the coil in your belly keep tightening. he’s so deep inside of you that you’re sure you won’t be able to walk after this, let alone finish your shift, but the thought drifts somewhere far away when he changes the angle slightly. 

jack pushes his hand against your lower belly and thrusts back into you, while your back arches and tries to fight him. maybe you’re trying to get away from how good it feels, that overwhelming sensation that the ground is about to give out beneath the two of you. you stare up at jack through teary eyes, taking in how he looks hovering over you, taking care of you and watching out for you and thinking about you first like he always does. 

and then it happens, the hot sensation in your belly tenses, and then snaps, and it washes over you like a current. you feel it—the ringing in your ears feels like it’s making its way through your entire body and your walls clench and pulse around jack’s girth. 

your eyes snap shut but when they open, you keep looking up at jack, finally forcing his hand away from your mouth. 

“jack,” you get out, your throat dry and sore and lips aching. “i love you too-”

you hear jack groan, a noise that makes your walls flutter, and then you feel it again—jack’s hips stuttering, his grip on you tightening, and then warmth filling you, hot streams of cum coating your walls until it’s leaking out of you. 

you take deep breaths, head hitting the pillow while jack collapses on top of you, and then rolls over until he’s beside you. 

the room is silent besides the two of you breathing, until of course, you speak up.

“i can’t believe this is how we said i love you.”

“you already said that, kid.”

“i know. i just really can’t believe it. i figured it would at least be outside of the hospital, but, i guess that wouldn’t feel right.” 

“sweetheart-”

“am i doing it again? the not knowing when to be quiet thing?”

“no, but i-”

“wait,” you cry out, sitting up immediately. “what time is it? oh my god-”

“don’t worry about that right now. i gotta get you cleaned up before-”

“jack, i have never been late for a shift before.” you sigh dramatically before you keep going. “i just knew it. this relationship is completely affecting my medical education-”

jack shuts you up with a kiss before you can finish the sentence, capturing your laugh against his mouth. 

he starts making half a plan in his head, though what he wants to do is take you home with him right now.

“i think i’m ready for you to be back on nights now.”

“yeah? why’s that?”

“because at least we can sleep next to each other if you-”

“jack!” he hears robby’s voice shouting from the other side of the door, followed by three pounds that rattle the wood. “do not tell me that my intern is in there.”

“fuck,” jack whispers, while you stare at him with wide eyes.

“what should we do?” you mouth, while jack gets up, finding your scrubs and pocketing your underwear while he pulls on his own clothes.

“stay in here,” he tells you quietly. “just take your time.” 

“okay,” you whisper back, leaning in for another kiss with a smile. “i love you.”

“i love you too.”

jack pulls on his shirt and unlocks the door, closing it quickly behind him as he steps out to meet robby on the other side. 

“you’re kidding me, right?”

“i can explain, robby. we-”

“i don’t want to hear it. the on-call room? that’s disgusting, you know.”

“robby, i-”

“go talk to hr before gloria gets on my ass about this.” robby walks away, shaking his head. 

you open the door, poking your head out, and jack turns back to look at you.

“gosh. i sure hope hr doesn't think you’re interfering with my medical education-”

♡ thanks for reading!

[thatonegrimm]

The fic you wrote about eating the soul was funny as hell

But I'm talking biting the Saja boys themselves, latching on and not letting go 👹

Thanks for the request! 💌

Biting?? Bold of you to assume that’s not a courting ritual 😈

Here you go!❤️

🌙Saja Boys React to You Biting Them Like an Unsupervised Gremlin

You latch on. You bite. You don’t let go. How do they respond?

-----------------------------------------

🧿 Jinu 

He was mid-sentence. Just talking. Nothing dramatic. Explaining the plot of a crime show you had not asked about but he was so passionate, voice soft, hands gesturing like the fate of the world depended on this fictional detective’s arc.

You were mostly listening.

Mostly.

But his sleeve had slipped down, and his arm was right there. Warm. Close. Distracting.

So you bit him.

Mid-word. Mid-breath.

You just leaned in and bit his forearm.

He made the most startled noise—part gasp, part high-pitched yelp—and immediately froze.

“Did—did you just bite me?!”

You didn’t answer.

Still latched.

He blinked at you. Panic creeping into his voice.

“I—I didn’t do anything! Did I say something wrong? Did I forget something important? Are you protesting my theories?!”

Still no answer.

Just your eyes locked with his and your teeth firmly in place.

Jinu sat there, utterly still. Like any sudden movement might make the bite worse.

“…Should I—should I be calling someone? A doctor? Abby? Your mom?!”

You finally released him, slowly, like a feral squirrel letting go of a power cable. Then you patted the spot gently.

“There,” you said. “Now you’re marked.”

Jinu stared at the bite mark like it might start glowing.

His brain visibly tried to reboot.

“Marked?” he repeated.

“For love,” you said simply.

His ears went bright red.

“Oh,” he whispered, eyes very big. “Okay. Wow. That’s—that’s fine. That’s—you can do that? You’re allowed?”

You shrugged. “You didn’t say no.”

“I didn’t know biting was on the table!”

“Now you do.”

He clutched his arm. Blinked a few more times. Looked genuinely rattled.

“…So just to clarify,” he said finally, very seriously, “are we dating? Or are you starting a collection?”

You leaned in like you were going to bite him again.

He immediately hid his arm behind his back.

“Okay! Dating it is!” he squeaked.

-----------------------------------------

💪 Abby 

It happened during cooldown stretches.

He was mid-quad pull, tank top clinging to his back, sweat glistening across those obnoxiously sculpted shoulders, giving you a perfect, golden view of his bicep as it flexed.

You were supposed to be stretching too.

Instead?

You launched.

Wrapped your arms around his side and sank your teeth into his shoulder like a starved koala.

He flinched. Nearly lost his balance. “Wha—?! Babe?!”

You stayed latched on, low growl in your throat, biting like it was your sacred duty.

He burst out laughing—big, full-chested laughter that made his entire body shake.

“You BIT ME,” he gasped, still half-doubled over. “You gremlin! What even—was that revenge? Was that love?? Are you hungry?!”

You mumbled something against his skin.

He couldn’t hear it. You weren’t letting go.

“I give you one protein bar and you decide I’m the snack?” he teased, grinning like a golden retriever with a chew toy.

He gently peeled you off and cradled your face with both massive hands.

“You wanna talk about it? Or do I need to start carrying trail mix in my pockets?”

You glared. “You stole my last fruit pouch.”

“Oh my god,” he laughed, “this is about juice?!”

You crossed your arms. “It was grape. You knew it was my favorite.”

He leaned down—forehead to yours, voice soft.

“You’re right. That was unforgivable. You may bite me once a week in vengeance. Official policy.”

You smirked. “Once a week? You think I’m holding back?”

He grinned wider. “Oh, you’re about to earn your gym nickname.”

“…Which is?”

He stood to full height, flexing dramatically.

“The Bite-Sized Brawler.”

You swore. Loudly.

He winked. “Don’t test me. I’ll put it on your shaker bottle.”

-----------------------------------------

📚 Mystery 

It wasn’t planned.

Mystery was sprawled on the floor, hoodie sleeves bunched at his elbows, eyes glued to an old spellbook. His bangs hung in his eyes. He was tracing something—a sigil, maybe—with one ink-stained fingertip, completely zoned out.

He looked so peaceful.

So biteable.

So you did.

You crawled across the room and bit the side of his neck. No warning. No buildup. No hesitation.

Just—chomp.

He froze.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t yelp.

Didn’t even turn around.

You stayed there, teeth locked in place like a sleepy gremlin on autopilot.

Then, after a long pause, his voice—flat and calm—floated out:

“You’re biting me.”

Still latched. You nodded.

“...Are you angry?” he asked. “Hungry? Or do you just need to assert dominance?”

Another nod. Maybe all three.

Mystery tilted his head just slightly—offering more skin.

“You can go deeper,” he murmured. “If you’re claiming something.”

You blinked. Froze.

Wait. Was he... enjoying this?

You released him—finally—and sat back.

He turned his head toward you, golden eyes low-lidded beneath his fringe. His hand lifted to where your teeth had left faint imprints.

Then he smiled.

Soft. Small. Unnerving.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I like when things leave marks. Means they were real.”

You swallowed.

He turned back to his book, resumed tracing the sigil like nothing happened.

And later that night—after you’d completely forgotten the incident—you found a faint red bite mark on your wrist.

Not yours.

You hadn’t even felt it happen.

But it was there. Sharp. Deliberate.

You looked up to find Mystery across the room.

He raised his eyes to yours. No smile. No wink.

Just a quiet, unnerving:

“Now we match.”

-----------------------------------------

💋 Romance  

It started innocently. You were in his lap, curled sideways, legs thrown over his thighs while he played some rom-com on the TV. His hand was stroking your hair. Your head was tucked under his chin. Warm. Cozy. Boring.

He stretched.

And his shirt slipped off his shoulder.

That collarbone was asking for it.

So you did the logical thing.

You bit it.

Hard enough to make a statement. Not enough to leave a scar.

He gasped. Loud. Like you’d just committed a war crime.

“OH,” he cried. “My heart! You—what have you done?!”

You didn’t move. Just stayed there. Teeth in his shoulder.

Romance clutched at the bite like he’d been mortally wounded. “I’ve been attacked in my own home. Violated! Betrayed! By the one I trusted most!”

Still. You did not let go.

He paused. His hand hovered over your head. Then he blinked.

“…Wait.”

You adjusted your jaw slightly. Firmed the bite.

His whole body shivered.

“…Are you… still biting me?”

You nodded—still latched on.

And just like that, his entire demeanor flipped like a cursed light switch.

“Oh,” he purred. “This is flirting.”

He slowly leaned back on the couch, chest rising. Let his shirt fall further down, exposing more skin. “You could’ve just said you wanted a taste. But this?”

He grinned—half chaos, half invitation.

“This is seduction by teeth. Old-fashioned. Classic. Hot.”

You finally let go, trailing your lips off his skin like it meant nothing.

He made the most offended noise you’d ever heard.

“Excuse me?! I was enjoying that.”

You leaned in close, lips at his jaw. “You were talking too much.”

He made a small, wounded noise. “You bite me to shut me up?”

“No,” you whispered. “I bite you to remind you.”

His breath caught.

And from that moment on, you had access to the bite zone. Front row. VIP. And every time you leaned in during cuddles, you’d hear him sigh, “Go ahead, baby. I’ve been so good today.”

-----------------------------------------

🔥 Baby 

It was supposed to be a chill night.

You were both curled up on the couch, lights low, reruns playing. Baby had a massive bag of spicy ramen chips, legs sprawled out like he owned the place. You reached for the bag once—he snatched it away with a smug grin.

“Nope. These are mine.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I bought those.”

“I opened them. Finders keepers.”

You stared at him. He crunched louder. Louder.

Something inside you snapped.

Without warning, you lunged and bit his upper arm. Full jaw. Clamped down with slow, vengeful intent.

“—WHAT THE HELL?!”

His whole body jolted. He looked down at you, eyes wide in horror. “Are you biting me right now?!”

You nodded. Still latched on. Muffled: “You earned this.”

“You bit me… over chips?!”

You didn’t respond.

He looked like he was going to combust—eyes blazing, hair spiking slightly.

“You’re so lucky I didn’t drop the bag,” he muttered. “I should light you on fire. I could. I won’t, but I could.”

You stayed latched for another five seconds, just to prove a point. Then released him with a satisfied chomp-pop noise and sat back, smug.

Baby stared at the faint bite marks forming on his skin, rubbing the spot with a baffled scoff.

“…You’re actually insane,” he muttered. “Freakin’ possessed.”

Then he did something unhinged.

He bit you back.

Right on the shoulder. Short, sharp, unapologetic.

You froze.

He leaned close, eyes gleaming.

“Now we’re even.”

The next ten minutes were spent trying to out-bite each other before Abby came in, saw the chaos, and yelled, “Are you guys feral-mating again?! I told you to take it outside!”

You both shouted, “NO!” at the same time.

Then Baby stole your chips.

Again.

-----------------------------------------

M-List

[popcornpoppypop]

You're a Good Man, Jack Abbot

Summary: Ashley suffers from Endometriosis and Ovarian Cysts. When she's having a bad flare-up on a day when her partner, Jack Abbot, is covering another department, she has to deal with dismissive doctors.

Warnings: Endometriosis, ovarian cysts, vomit, medical neglect, surgery

A/N: I thought I had posted this forever ago, but I guess I forgot. Anyway, enjoy some protective Jack "I stand ten toes on business" Abbot.

The pain had hit hard and fast, something that Ashley was familiar with. She had Endometriosis and ovarian cysts on top of that. She knew pain, it was a constant visitor. Tonight it was different, worsening to a point that she hadn’t dealt with. She was barely able to stand upright; that was the final straw. She tried to stay away from the hospital as much as possible. When she got serious with Dr. Jack Abbot, he made that more possible. He took care of her at home most of the time. He was currently on shift, helping cover in the ICU.

Ashley made her way slowly but surely to PTMC. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the staff, but she hadn’t hung out much with them. Being a social worker for foster children kept her pretty exhausted, her and Jack crashed most nights. When she walked in, Lupe clocked her immediately.

“Hey, girl what’s got you coming in?” She smiled.

“Hi, Lupe. I’m in a lot of pain. Not sure what’s going on.” Ashley gritted her teeth.

“Let’s get you back, Ash.” She buzzed the door open and Ashley hobbled her way back.

“Hey! Ash! Shit, you look bad.” Mateo greeted her as he brought a wheelchair towards her.

“I feel it.” Ashley groaned as she sat down.

“Did you let Abbot know you’re here?” He wheeled her over to a private room, knowing that when Abbot eventually found out she was here, there would be hell if she didn’t have her own room.

“Not yet. Wanted to see what was going on first.” Ashley got into the bed with Mateo’s assistance.

“Make sure you tell him that when he comes down. We all like our heads on our shoulders down here.” Mateo chuckled.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll protect you guys from big, bad Dr. Abbot.” Ashley laughed but was overcome with pain and bent over in pain.

“Whoa, take it easy. I’ll dial down the charm for you, no more laughing.” Mateo put the monitoring leads on her. “Vitals all normal, heart rate is a bit high but not bad. You’re probably getting one of the interns tonight, just so you know.” Mateo gave her an apologetic look and shrugged.

“Well, they gotta learn some time, I guess.” She sighed. She had a hard enough time getting regular doctors to listen to her, let alone students.

“We’ll do our best to keep an eye on them. Let me know if you need anything.” Mateo sauntered off for his next patient.

Ashely couldn’t get comfortable at all. She flipped and flopped and turned in every direction, nothing helped.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Whitaker. I’ll be taking care of you today.” A young, blonde boy walked in. Ashley was already unamused.

“Hi. Can I get something to help with the pain? It’s getting worse.” She winced.

“Once I do my exam, we’ll discuss options.” He gave a thin-lipped smile that she recognized as disbelief.

“Yeah, sure.”

“What’s going on today?”  He gloved up and started looking over her body.

“I have endometriosis and ovarian cysts, so I thought it was just a flare-up. But the pain is worse than it’s ever been. It keeps getting worse and none of my regular remedies are doing anything.” Ashley yelped as Whitaker pressed on her abdomen.

“Okay, well I’ll order some blood tests. But I think you’re right, it’s just a flare-up and there isn’t much to do.” He nodded.

“No, this isn’t what my flare-ups feel like. Something is wrong.”

“Well, let’s get the blood going and we’ll go from there.”

“I want an ultrasound at least.” Ashley groaned.

“I don’t think that’s necessary at this point. I’ll have Mateo bring you in some Tylenol.” He nodded and left. Ashley groaned in frustration. She was about to text Jack when a wave of pain made her double over and drop her phone. She knew she couldn’t get out of bed to grab it. The call button was nowhere to be found, wrapped on some far-off piece of equipment.

She felt the bile building up in her throat; she fought it as hard as she could, but another crash of pain made her vomit over the side of the bed.

“Okay, Ash- oh shit!” Mateo came running over to help her sit back up and wiped her mouth.

“S-sorry.” She whined through the pain.

“No, nothing to be sorry for. Damn, this is bad.” Mateo cleaned up the mess and saw how sweaty and pale she had become.

“Mateo…call Jack…Please…” She choked out, pointing to her phone. Mateo ran over and brought it to her. She unlocked it and handed it back. “Can’t…talk…hurts…” She cried.

“Okay, okay. I got you. I thought Whitaker had more brain cells than this.” Mateo grumbled as he hit Jack’s contact.

“Hey, Honey. I’m not getting off for a few more hours. What’s up?” Jack answered.

“Dr. Abbot, it’s Mateo-”

“Why the fuck are you on Ashely’s phone?” Jack’s voice was stern, angry and worried.

“She’s in the ED. She’s in a lot of pain. I think you should come down here.” Mateo handed Ashley an emesis bag.

“On my way.” Jack hung up the phone before anyone could reply.

“I’m getting Ellis until Abbot gets here. Tylenol ain’t gonna cut it.” Mateo ran out of the room. Ashley cried as the pain wracked her body, she began shaking.

“Oh shit. Yeah, Mateo let’s her some morphine, now.” Ellis came in, her blood ran cold at the sight of Ashley. She ran over and started assessing her.

“T-thank you…”

“I’m sorry, Ash. I’m ordering an ultrasound. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” Ellis said. The door flew open, and Jack came barreling in. “Jesus! Honey!” He took in the pale, shaking form of his girlfriend and was filled with worry and rage. He ran over to her, brushing the sweat-matted hair from her face.

“Got the morphine on board.” Mateo said as he came running in and administered the drug.

“What the hell is going on that she looks like this!?” Abbot barked.

“Whitaker was on the case. I thought he could handle it.” Ellis said, standing in wait for her dressing down.

“Clearly not! Mateo, get him in here. NOW!” Jack yelled.

“Grab the ultrasound for me, too,” Ellis instructed as Mateo did everything he could to not be in that room.

“I’m so sorry, Honey.” Jack held her shaking hand in his. “The morphine isn’t touching her. Fuck.” He started grinding his teeth.

“Dr. Abbot? Mateo said you wanted to see me?” Whitaker came in, the fear evident on his face.

“What the hell would possess you to give such half-assed treatment to a patient?” Jack growled.

“I-I did what I thought was best practice.”

“In what world is a woman pale, shaking in pain with her history being treated with Tylenol and blood work, no ultrasound, no imaging at all, best practice!?” Jack stood, his anger radiating off of him.

“I thought…I didn’t know your relationship.” Whitaker cleared his throat.

“Why does that matter? I want your reasoning for treatment.” Jack’s voice was low, controlled and dangerous. Ellis had her arms crossed and head bowed, knowing she would be next.

“I thought she was drug seeking.” Whitaker tried to sound confident. It fell flat. Jack marched over, toe to toe with the boy. Jack wasn’t a tall man, but he didn’t need to be; he knew how to make people feel small.

“You’re not to touch her, look at her, speak to her again. You are off her case. You will learn to treat people better, Dr. Whitaker.” Jack growled, his breath making Whitaker’s eyes water from the closeness.

“Dr. Abbot…I don’t think you can make that call with how close you are to the patient.” Whitaker was trying to stand his ground and it was not going well.

“Whitaker, stop talking.” Ellis snapped.

“The only cases you will have from now on are constipation and enemas. Until you can be trusted to properly treat pain and care for patients in distress, scut work.” Jack hissed. “Get out of my sight!” Whitaker ran out of the room.

“Got the ultrasound.” Mateo wheeled the machine in.

“I’ll deal with you in a minute.” He pointed to Ellis as he got the ultrasound ready.

“Mateo let’s up the morphine dose.” Ellis instructed.

“I got to put pressure on your belly, I’m sorry Baby.” Jack said as he pushed the wand across Ashley’s abdomen. She let out a cry as he moved it across her body. “Shit.” He sighed.

“Ovarian torsion. Dammit.” Ellis looked over Jack’s shoulder at the screen.

“You’re going to have to get surgery.” Jack said wiping the gel from her belly.

“Just make it stop.” She sobbed.

“I know, baby. I’m going to.” He kissed her forehead. “Call up, get Walsh to put her to the front of line. If she gives lip, tell her she can come down here and talk to me.” Jack told Mateo who nodded and scrambled out of the room.

“I thought he knew better. I should have been in the room with him.” Ellis shook her head.

“Where the fuck were you?” Jack sighed, crossing his arms as he turned to her.

“I had a febrile toddler.”

“Is that patient also being neglected now?”

“No, sir. She just had an ear infection.”

“Good.” Jack paced in front of her. “I expect more from you, Ellis. You’re better than this. You dropped the ball tonight. If I hadn’t been upstairs, what would have happened? If it wasn’t Mateo, who knows her history and keeps an eye on everyone, what the hell would have happened!?”

“I need to keep better track of my students. I’ll be making sure all treatment plans are run by me for approval from now on.” She nodded.

“That should have already been the standard! Your job is to teach AND supervise! Do better! Get out of here.” Jack sighed.

“Ashley, I’m so sorry.” Ellis sighed as she left.

Jack sat next to the bed, doing his best to console Ashley, knowing it was fruitless with the pain she was in.

“If I wasn’t in so much pain…I’d jump you right now. That was hot.” Ashley gave a weak smile.

“Oh yeah? Next time you drop off my coffee, I’ll make sure there’s an intern around to yell at.” Jack chuckled.

“No, you standing up for me when I couldn’t.”

“I’ll always do my best to take care of you.” He kissed her forehead. The door opened and Dr. Walsh came sauntering in.

“Abbot. Thought I’d come down and escort our VIP myself.” She said, her tone laced with sarcasm.

“You dare to mingle with us ED weirdos. You’re too kind.” Jack smirked.

“Ashley, let’s get you out of here so we can both get some peace and quiet.” Walsh nodded to the nurses to start wheeling her out of the room. “You’re not allowed in the OR. Just setting boundaries.”

“No. I couldn’t do that anyway.”

“Can’t handle it?”

“Not with her.” Jack said as he let go of her hand. “I’ll be waiting for you when you wake up.” He called after her.

Jack marched back into the Pitt, his anger not diminished. He saw Dr. Shen exiting the break room and zeroed in.

“Hey, Jack. Thought you were upstairs.” Shen’s smile started to fade as he realized the anger that was rushing toward him like a freight train.

“You are the attending tonight, yes?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“So, do you want to tell me how one of your interns ordered Tylenol and blood work for an ovarian torsion case? No pain management, no imaging.” Jack looked like a raging bull, puffing air out of his nose to try and keep his temper in check.

“What? We don’t have an ovarian torsion case-”

“Yes, you did! Ellis dropped the ball; you are supposed to pick it up. Where were you!?”

“I was just…I, um, making coffee.” Shen hung his head, knowing that was a stupid excuse.

“Coffee. Ashley was writhing in pain, and you were making coffee!?”

“Oh shit. It was Ashley? Jack, I didn’t know!” John put his hands up.

“I have given you grace for too damn long. Robby and I will be discussing how to rectify your lackadaisical attitude.” Jack growled as he turned and stomped off.

“Fuck.” John sighed. He was shaken, having never been yelled at like that by Abbot.

“That man is terrifying. Like, for real.” Mateo shook his head as he walked by. “Glad it wasn’t my head on the chopping block.” He laughed as he went back to his patients.

Jack did his best to get back to work, making sure the ICU was taken care of. His mind was in the operating room with Ashley.

“Jack, we’ve got everything taken care of. Ashley will be out of surgery soon. Go, we can cover the rest.” One of the ICU doctors came up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, okay.” They scoffed. “Well, I don’t need you and Gloria will have my ass if I keep a doctor overtime more than necessary. Go.” They pushed his shoulder toward the elevator.

“You’re a dick.” Jack smirked. “Fine. Thank you.” He nodded his gratitude and made his way up to the surgery floor.

Jack was never good at sitting in waiting rooms. He was used to being on the other side of the door, preferred it that way.  Luckily, at this time of night, or rather morning, no one else was there. He paced back and forth, his mind starting to take off with itself.

“You want to stop burning a hole in the tile, Abbot?” Walsh came through the doors.

“Everything okay?” Jack ran up to her.

“Who are you talking to? Of course, it went okay.” Walsh smirked. “She did fine during the surgery. We were able to repair the damage to the ovary and fallopian tube. I can’t guarantee there won’t be some troubles with it in the future if you two ever decide to procreate. God help us if you do.”

“Easy, Emery. I’m not my usual sunshiny self tonight.” Jack warned.

“Okay, okay. Since you are her medical proxy, I should also tell you that she’s going to need another surgery at some point. Jack, the endo was everywhere. I don’t know how that girl isn’t rolling around in pain every day.” Walsh shook her head. “I got out as much as I could but we went in laparoscopically. We weren’t prepared for it to be that much.”

“Fuck. She’s been having a harder time, but she never mentioned feeling that much worse.” Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank you.  Can I see her?”

“Yeah, she’s just waking up.” Walsh led him down the hall.

Jack tiptoed into the room, and Ashley was starting to blink awake. Her head lolling back and forth as she fought the remnants of anesthesia. Jack moved the chair closer to the bed and held her hand.

“Jack?” Ashley groaned, scrunching her face in discomfort.

“Hey, how you feeling?” He brushed the strands of hair from her forehead.

“Mmm…like they cut me open and flipped my insides around.” She sighed.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. How’s the pain?” Jack ran his hand up and down her arm, the sensation soothing to Ashley, grounding her and helping her wake up.

“S’okay. I’ve had worse.” She smiled up at him. “When can I go home?”

“We’ll send you home in about an hour. I trust Jack to make sure your taken care of at home.” Walsh nodded.

“Thank you, Dr. Walsh.”

“Ashley, the Endo is getting worse. There was a lot when I was in there. You need to let your provider know when it’s getting bad. There’s no reason for you to be in that much pain all the time. No more downplaying your symptoms.” Walsh warned.

“Okay. I promise.” Ashley nodded.

“I’ll have the nurse come in with discharge instructions in a bit.” Walsh made her way out of the room.

“She’s soft on you.” Jack chuckled.

“She has to be hard around you. She’s a woman in a man’s field. If she was soft downstairs, she wouldn’t hear the end of it.” Ashley tried to adjust but stopped as the pain pulled at her abdomen.

“Fair point.”

“How many people did you yell at downstairs? Are they all shaking in their boots?” She chuckled.

“The ones that deserved to be yelled at were dealt with.” He stated, not wanting to go further into detail. Ashley had a knack for making Jack feel bad for reprimanding his residents and interns.

“They’re still learning. I don’t think they’ll forget this lesson, though.” She chuckled. “I thought you were going to pop a blood vessel.”

“Seeing you like that made my blood run cold. I never want you to be in pain, but Jesus, Ash, you were so pale. I couldn’t stop the panic.” Jack shook his head. Ashley reached over and held his face in her hand.

“I’m okay. I’m here and I’m okay.” She told him, knowing that he had a hard time seeing her sick. It would, on occasion, cause his PTSD to act up. Jack leaned into her touch.

“There is no excuse for how they treated you. I don’t want this to happen to anyone else, especially if I’m not there to rectify it.” He took her hand, kissing the palm of it.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Jack leaned over to kiss her.

“Even if all of this means I can’t give you a family?” Ashley’s voice cracked. Walsh telling her that the endometriosis was getting worse, something she knew would happen, reminded her that it was a slim chance they would have.

“Ashley. I love you. You are my family. You are all I need, all I want. If we have a kid at some point, that’s great. But it’s not a caveat for my love. I’m fulfilled with you and our life.” He promised. Ashley pulled into a wet kiss, her tears streaking down her face.

“You’re a good man, Jack Abbot.”

“I try to be, for you.”

[sbcdh]

Professor Imanaga was scared. I don’t think he really understood what he saw. 

Was he prone to visions? 

No, not at all. I mean, not that I know of. I worked with him back in the 90s, when he was still writing The Final Republic. I did hypnoregulatory work for like half my professors, but I didn’t become friends with them. Professor Imanaga was different. He was always such a friendly, level-headed guy. You know, I don’t think he really understood what his book would do. 

What it would do?

You know, all of it. Intellectuals don’t get attention like that. You might publish something that gets cited in congress. If you’re lucky, you might get interviewed on the news, but you don’t stick around. I don’t think Professor Imanaga was expecting to be –I dunno– elected? As the representative for Equilibralism. 

Public attention can be stressful. How did he handle it?

I think he liked it, in his own way. He was used to talking in front of people, and he could handle an interview. Even back in the 90s he was the type of guy to answer “I don’t know” or “let me think about it.” He would start every conversation with “well, let us define our terms-” that sorta thing. He’s always had that whole thoughtful grandpa vibe. I think that’s part of why he handled the success of Final Republic so well.

I imagine the professor has a complicated relationship to his work. 

Eh. I think he stands by the thesis. You gotta remember, he wrote Final Republic back in 94. The wall just fell. Everyone was liberalizing. Liberalizing and hypnoeconomizing. Before that, damn near every intellectual was saying that some system would eventually show up to eclipse liberal democracy. It really did seem like the future was gonna be liberal democracy hooked up to a hypnoeconomy. I don’t think he was wrong. The world is still mostly equilibral systems. Most people seemed to agree.

It must have been a strange time for him, getting so much attention as a professor. 

Maybe? It was kinda sweet. He would call me every weekend, to tell me stories of all the talk shows and panels and dinners he was asked to be on. Half the time I already saw them on TV, but it was nice to hear him talk. He was so excited! Sometimes he would even invite me as a plus-one when he needed a hypnoregulatory specialist. He was always more interested in the sociological side of things. He left the nitty-gritty of hypnoregulation to the doctorate students. 

Dinners?

Oh yeah. People were always inviting him to stuff. You know one time, we were in Cambridge, just wandering around looking for a bite to eat. So we walked into some restaurant. Waiter asks if we have a reservation. We say no we don’t have a reservation. Hes about to turn us away when –get this– Henry fucking Kissinger walks up to professor Imanaga, shakes his hand, and invites him to come sit down for dinner with the owner of the restaurant! The whole time we just kept looking at each other like we just got a free ticket to Disneyland. Food was great too. Thats where he met Krauthammer. 

That is journalist Charles Krauthammer? 

Yeah. Pretty soon he was hanging out with all those guys. Kept inviting the professor to state dinners. Lotta country clubs. All that stuff. Every friday I’d get weekend updates about the people he met and who he was talking to. It was like getting a whole second education in American politics. He’d tell me how many politicians loved his book, how popular it was. 

If I recall correctly, professor Imanaga has attempted to distance himself from Equilibralism as an ideology. 

Oh he hates the term. He never used it himself. It was some columnist from the New Left Review who actually came up with it. The principle is more or less the same; liberal democracy hooked up to a hypnoregulated economy. Actually…no. Now that I think about it, he wouldn’t use the word hate. He would always say he “strongly disliked” stuff. He’d say equilibralism is imprecise. It implies a see-saw relationship rather than symbiotic relationship.

I see. What would you say turned the professor away from contemporary Equilibralism?

Iraq. 

You sound very sure. 

Iraq. He called me up one night. I think it was 2004. I think he had been crying. Like, he wasn’t crying on the phone, but he had been crying earlier. I’d never heard him like that before. Not until, well, you know. He told me about this dinner. He told me “They were all cheering.” you know, cheering for the war, for the whole new “unipolar” world. He said it was all one big blunder. He hasn’t talked to Wolfowitz or Cheney or any of those guys since. 

I see. 

I think it was, I dunno, sudden for him. It was a surprise. He sounded like he just learned an old friend had fallen off the wagon. Or like- Nah I dunno. I dunno. I can’t tell you what was in his mind. But he felt confused and betrayed. He said he was gonna head out to- Oh my god. Oh my god he said he was gonna go to his house in Reno. 

Reno?

Yeah. He had a little desert ranch way out in Reno. He’d go out there in winter when he needed to relax. You know, I think- yeah. Yeah he invited me out for Christmas that year. I remember he didn’t seem 100%, but having people around seemed to help his mood. I remember it was late and we’d been drinking wine. Once the sun had set he asked me about religion. 

Was he religious? 

Well, thats the thing. He didn’t really go to church but his father was a minister. I was just surprised because he never talked about it. He never seemed remotely interested in religion. He never brought it up again I just- I think thats when he had his vision. He didn’t tell me until years later but I think thats when it happened. Oh my god, that’s when he must’ve wrecked his car too. It has to be. He told me he wrecked his car on the way to Reno. 

Slow down. Start at the beginning.

Okay. Okay. I think, in February of 2004, Professor Imanaga goes to this dinner. It upsets him, and he wants to go out to his house in Reno to calm down. He totals his car and has a near-death experience. He sees something, but he keeps it quiet. Later he invites me to Christmas, and he tries to tell me but hes nervous about –I dunno– being seen as crazy? Then a few days ago, he left me a voicemail where he tells me the story. So I come to you people.

He didn’t tell his children? His wife?

No. I think…I think he was worried he would come off as crazy. And you know, I was his touchstone for hypnoeconomic matters. Its kinda intimate, doing someones taxes, its kinda like being in their brain. 

Do you have the voicemail with you?

Yes, here give me a moment. Here.

“-eant to tell you a long time ago. It was early in the morning. The sun hadn’t come up yet. I was driving in from Tahoe and there was something in my headlights. It was some sort of reptile, a big fat iguana or something like that. I swerved to avoid it, and rolled the car bad. 

I think I was thrown. The next thing I know, I was lying facedown in the dirt. I couldn’t feel a thing. To- to tell you the truth I thought I might’ve died. I could’ve sworn I wore my seatbelt. That was my first thought, honest. I could’ve sworn I wore my seatbelt. I never drive without it, but I was thrown clear. I think I was in shock. I couldn’t move, or speak, or call for help. All I could do was lay there and watch the car burn. But then- 

I wasn’t thinking straight. I couldn’t have. But I remember it so clearly. Sitting there on the burning undercarriage. It was a lamb. It had a little golden bell around its neck like they have in cartoons, and it- I swear on my life it was smoking a cigarette. Just…balanced there in its little hoof. I remember it so clearly, like it’s still right there in front of me. Everything else is so hazy and the lamb just, isn’t. 

It talked to me. It said –and I remember this clearly– It said “A storm is blowing from Las Vegas, Thomas. It’s blowing so hard the planes can only fly one way.” And it kept looking over its shoulder. I could see over its shoulder. There was nothing there! So I asked it. I asked “What are you looking at? What is back there?” And the lamb looked at me. I think it was crying. It looked at me and took a long drag on the cigarette and it said “Everything, Thomas.”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Good god, its like I’m back there again. I’ve never told anyone about this. Not one. But I have to tell someone. The next thing I remember is the ambulance. The lamb was there. One of the paramedics was holding it like a child. It said “Don’t worry Thomas. You’ve done nothing wrong.” I- I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong. Have I done something wrong? I just don’t understand. 

I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I thought this sort of thing would fade with age. But it hasn’t. It just hasn’t. I swear on my life this was the first and only time. That morning in the ambulance. That was the last time I ever dreamed like this.”

That’s where it ends. 

Have you spoken with Professor Imanaga about this? 

That’s part of why I came to you. Probably hasn’t hit the news yet. I went over to Thomas’s house just this morning. He passed last night. Peacefully, in his sleep. 

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

a long-awaited lesson

a/n: oh, how i've longed to summon this demon of a plot point... (oh, and btw i'm posting the next instalment already tomorrow)

summary: “I’ll do it. I’ll teach you.”

warnings: innocent!reader x professor!reed richards, frat!bucky barnes, stepbro!steve rogers, smut, dark content, dubcon, college au, polyamory, corruption kink, sugar daddy!reed richards, student/teacher relationship, forbidden romance, age gap, kissing, semi-public sex, dirty talk, size kink, manhandling, sir kink, doctor kink, choking, impact play, pussy inspection, masturbation, fingering, pussyjob, cumplay, overstimulation

word count: 3480

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

take her under your wing au masterlist | 101, intro to the au

masterlist | join my taglist 

“Where’s the rest of it?”

“Where’s the rest–,” Bucky repeated after you’d caught the navy dress he’d tossed you, “ha-ha, very funny.”

You couldn’t believe you’d have to endure this kind of treatment for the remainder of the month. As one of the echoes from that dreadful night in the fraternity’s basement, all of the members had been on rotation, each morning since, one of them popping by your dorm room to pick out and decide what you would wear. Although, this morning wasn’t like the rest. When your stepbrother’s best friend had banged on your door, he didn’t immediately tear open your closet, but instead reached within a shopping bag he clutched, finding a loophole to force you to wear something much more inappropriate than what could be found in your own modest wardrobe.

“What are you waiting for? Put it on, dummy,” he scoffed as you continued to gawk down at the tiny scrap of fabric in your grasp, “I thought you were the one complaining about being late for class.”

“Well, you were twenty minutes late!” you pointed out frustratingly, “plus, someone stole my bike the other day,” you muttered as you begrudgingly put on the dark blue dress, “so I can’t cross the campus as fast as usual,” tugging at the ridiculously short hem, a groan vibrated in your chest as it almost looked as if you were merely wearing a shirt, “do I seriously have to wear this thing? I’ll freeze my ass off.”

“Calm your tits,” Bucky murmured with a roll of his eyes, “here,” he chucked you a pair of tall socks.

“Oh, right,” you blinked down at them before uttering sarcastically, “because this is gonna make all of the difference.”

“What, would you rather just go to class stark naked?” Bucky’s features hardened as he took a slow step towards you, “or perhaps just miss it entirely, because that’s what’ll happen if you keep running your mouth like that. I don’t mind, it won’t be my ass that’ll be bruised.”

Not only were you late for your advanced neurobiology class, but you had also been so frazzled that you completely forgot the paper that was due, as you hadn’t just neglected to bring it with you, but had spaced out entirely and hadn’t even written the first sentence.

So naturally, once the lecture was over, Professor Richards waved you down for a word before you could slip out among the crowd.

“Do you know how many students would kill to have your spot in my class?”

“I-I–,” you tried, though his harsh tone swiftly cut you off.

“If you’re gonna be here, then you gotta do better than this,” he leaned against the desk that stood in the sliver of space between your forms, “slacking off? Late to class? Not turning in assignments? I thought you were better than this. I thought you were one of my students who actually had a single grain of potential, but perhaps I was wrong.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” mortification trickled down your spine as you felt your eyes well up with tears, “I don’t know how this happened, I just–”

“No,” he cut you off with a bark, “if you’re gonna act like this, then you don’t belong in my class.”

“Please! No!” you gasped, taking a desperate step towards him as he began to pack up his bag, “I want to be here, more than anything! I’ll be better, I swear. Just give me a chance.”

A low exhale then flowed out past the doctor’s lips before his eyes slowly drifted up your form, momentarily lingering over the revealing outfit you’d been forced to wear.

“…please?” your bottom lip quivered as his gaze finally met your own.

And as he averted his glare once again, a low murmur found your ears, “fine…” his sigh instantly lit up your gloomy features, “you can do some extra credit to make up for the paper.”

Rain pattered against the window that stood tall behind Doctor Richard’s desk. His office had too succumbed to the darkness of the night that had swallowed the rest of the quiet campus, with only the dusty banker’s lamp on the table providing enough of a glow the both of you.

While you were concentrated, scribbling down the missed assignment he’d luckily given you an extension for, his own gaze was less glued upon the medical notes stacked before him that were supposed to help him brush up on the surgeries that he had scheduled for the remainder of the week when he wasn’t at the university, but instead at the hospital.

“So,” his murmur cut through the thick silence as his gaze once again flickered up to sneak a brash peek down the neckline of the silly excuse for a dress you still wore, “I know that you forgot the paper, but are you gonna tell me why you were late for class today? You’re usually here before even I am.”

Your eyes briefly fluttered up to cast him a glance before they drifted back down to the pencil in between your fingers, “well, it was partly because of a friend of mine, but mostly it was because my bicycle was stolen earlier this week. I always ride it everywhere, and I guess I haven’t gotten used to the amount of time walking takes in comparison…”

“Well, then, you should get a new one.”

“It’s not that simple. I can’t afford a new one, I mean, I can barely afford the crazy expensive textbooks I’m supposed to get for when next semester rolls around, much less a brand new bike,” you exhaled.

“Well, couldn’t your parents help you out?”

“My mom? No, she wouldn’t just give me that much without seriously having to work for it. And my stepfather? Definitely not,” you refused, “no way in hell am I asking him.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he suddenly scoffed, causing you to blink up at him, “you’re one of my best students, by far, and if this is all that it’s about, well then I’ll just give it to you,” he uttered as if it wasn’t a problem at all.

Nearly choking on your own spit, you coughed, “I’m sorry, what?”

“You need a new bike in order to get to class on time, and I can afford one,” he stated plainly.

“You–, what?” you struggled to comprehend the offer that rolled off his tongue.

“And when you need new books, I can get you those as well.”

“I–…” your eyes were as wide as saucers, “why?”

“Well, you’re not only smart, you’re special,” the older man’s low tone caused goosebumps to erupt across your flesh, “hell, perhaps you even have the potential to be more than just one of my students… I mean, if going down the neurosurgeon road is something you’re considering, then maybe I could become your mentor. And none of that can happen if you can’t afford the things you need.”

“But–…” you nearly sounded out if breath as your heart hammered in your chest, “I–… you’d really do that? Just up and give me a new bike?”

“Yeah, of course I would,” he leaned his burly forearms against the tabletop as his stare slowly dipped down your frame, “as long as you give me something else in return… make it a fair trade…”

“Wha–…” your voice was as small as a little mouse, “what do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” he exhaled and a faint smile tugged at his lips, “perhaps something along the lines of what you have no problem handing out to an entire fraternity…” his words instantly caused your eyes to widen, “what? You didn’t know I knew? Oh, kid… I’m Kappa Alpha Nu’s faculty advisor. They share everything with me… stories… pictures… videos…”

Mouth agape, you stayed frozen in your seat even though you longed for nothing more than to run and hide.

“Y-you want me t-to–…” the rest of the mortifyingly inappropriate sentence fell from your lips, “I–I can’t…”

“Can’t or won’t?” Reed cocked his head as the storm outside bustled against the window.

“I–…” your chest rose and fell rapidly as your cunt clenched around nothing, “…y-you’re my teacher…”

“What, you’ve never slept with one before? Don’t lie to me, I already told you, the boys tell me everything…” he then leaned back in, close enough for his hot breath his kiss your cheeks, “come on, don’t you want my help? I know you wanna be a doctor, and sure, on your own, you could become an alright one, but if you say yes, if you let me mould you, well… kiddo…” his dark eyes briefly dipped to your parted lips, “I could make you a great one… perhaps one day, you could even be better than me.”

Blinking back at him, your teeth then caught your bottom lip before you breathed once again, “sir, I still can’t sleep with you…” as your nerves nearly ate you alive.

His jaw briefly clenched to silence a groan at the respectful term you kept on calling him, before he murmured, “alright…” his head slowly tilting to the side, “if you can’t do that, then maybe you could do something else for me…”

Your eyes flickered between each of his own a moment before you uttered, “like what?”

The corner of his lips twitched before he said, “you could let me watch.”

“Watch what?” you quietly asked.

“You want me to spell it out for you, sweetheart?” he asked as your innocence bloomed a proper smile upon his lips, “okay, I can do that,” he nodded before uttering in a crystal clear tone, “I want you to sit right here on my desk, spread those little legs of yours, and show me how you make yourself cum.”

“You want me to–… but I’m not supposed to do that for another three days…” you recalled one of the other punishments that was still in effect from last week.

“Well, I won’t tell if you won’t… it can be our little secret…” he smirked, “come on, just let me see how pretty you are when you make yourself cum, and then I promise I’ll give you anything you want, you have my word…”

Dizzy as you nearly shared his breath, you then heard yourself admitting, “but I–… professor… I don’t know how to do that… I can’t–, I–I’ve never–…”

“Wait, hold on,” he backed up a smidge, “are you saying you’ve never had an orgasm before?”

“No,” you panted, your cheeks aflame, “I mean, I’ve never been able to do it to myself. I-I don’t know how–, I mean, I know how it feels, I know what it’s like, but for some reason, I still chicken out when I try on my own.”

“Haven’t the boys taught you how?” Reed’s brows knit together, “I thought that a proper tutorial on that would have been one of the first things they did… or–, well… now that I think about it,” he paused for a second, “it actually makes a lot of sense. Why teach you when you could instead be forced to crawl back to them each time you wanted to feel good… it’s kinda genius when you think about it,” he cocked his head, “but even so, I mean, you gotta learn how to do it. Even just for the fact that it’s not healthy for you to be so in the dark,” he murmured before then deciding, “I’ll do it. I’ll teach you.”

“W-what?”

“I’m sorry, do you not trust me to do it?” he teased, “I am a doctor. If anyone’s qualified to do so, then it sure as fuck would be me,” he chuckled cockily, “what do you say?”

“I-I–…” your voice trembled before you felt your head begin to tilt in a nod, “alright…”

“Yeah?” he smirked as the back of his curved finger floated up to graze against your chin, “good,” you nearly thought he would abandon the rest of the space between you and crash his lips against your own, but instead, just as you began to flutter your eyes closed in anticipation, his touch faded as he leaned back in his chair and uttered, “come here. Up on the table,” his palm tapped the cluttered surface.

Sucking in a sharp breath, you nearly felt drunk as you found yourself not curving around the desk to get to his side, but instead you hazily crawled atop of it and over the short piles of paper to sit before him.

Both of his hands tickled your calves as they dangled off the table on either side of his knees, before he then gently began to push them further apart, his grin growing as the hem of your short dress rose from the movement.

And as he propped one of your feet up to balance on the desk’s edge, a low groan rumbled in his chest as his gaze fell upon your covered core.

“Go on, it’s okay. Move them aside,” he nodded with slight impatience, “I can already see how much she wants this,” he grinned at how your panties were already so embarrassingly soaked that they had practically become see-through. Reaching down a shaky hand, you timidly caught the edge of the cotton and slowly peeled the gusset to the side, “oh, look at you… fuck…”

You swore you felt yourself leak onto his desk at the silky tone of his deep voice, huskily grunting in enthusiasm.

A breath filled your lungs as he then bent down closer to your cunt to get a better look, though just as you hoped that he would reach out and touch you, it never so much as ghosted against your skin.

“Well, aren’t you just perfect…” he purred as he briefly tore his stare away from your centre to catch your eye, “perfect little pussy, just as I thought…” and what he then murmured next naturally came out in a professional tone, his medical experience seeping through in his voice, “now, I assume you have tried to touch yourself before, am I right? Don’t lie to me.”

“Mhm,” you nodded foggily as you blinked down at him.

“Then show me,” he commanded, “show me how you touch yourself.”

With your fingers still clutching the soaked cotton of your panties, trapping them to the side in your grasp, your other hand then shyly crept down between your thighs to fulfil his wish.

Lightly grazing the tips of your touch against your puffy pearl, sticky strings of desire swiftly clung to your digits and created a slick sound as you began to pet yourself.

“There you go,” he uttered as your lips parted in a silenced moan, “is that how you make yourself feel good, huh? You rub that cute clit of yours?”

“Y-yeah,” you panted as your fingertips rolled the bud.

“What if you stuffed a few of your fingers inside that little hole?” he suggested as your opening clenched around nothing and winked back at him, officially dripping down upon his papers in the process and sainting them with your want, “I think your pussy would just love that.”

Carefully sweeping your touch further down, you gasped lightly as you sank the very tip of your middle finger inside of your leaky entrance, “like this?” you asked softly as you briefly lifted your gaze from between your legs.

“Yeah, slowly…” he suddenly reached out to gently grasp your arm, “like you’re giving yourself a gentle little massage…” he encouraged as his palm slid down to rest atop your own in an effort to guide you.

Though he never touched you directly, he still steered your fingers, showing you the perfect pace, pressure and pattern to make your heart race. Once he’d made you add another digit, he curved your thumb back up to tickle your clit, grazing against it each time you sank your fingers back inside, making your eyes flutter closed at the pleasure.

However, when his helping hand soon faded and the sound of a zipper ripping open found your ears, your touch locked up as your eyes flew back open.

“P-professor, what are you doing?” you asked as you gawked down at the throbbing girth he boldly began to stroke “you said you just wanted–”

“Don’t stop,” he grunted as he only leaned back in his chair to enjoy the show, “keep fucking playing with yourself.”

Though briefly stunned by the unexpected move, you soon regained control of your frozen limbs, promptly picking the very same pattern back up till you swiftly found yourself nearing that edge you never before could cross on your own.

“I-I think I’m close,” you whimpered as your thighs began to tremble, “but I don’t know if I can–”

“You can and you will, don’t you dare fucking stop,” the older man growled, “if you do, then I’ll back out of our deal. No mentoring and certainly no new bike. If I’m gonna be your sugar daddy, then you better fucking cum, right damn now,” he ordered, though the unfamiliar term he called himself flew completely over your head as you promptly tumbled over the edge.

Your wide eyes stared down at your throbbing pussy once you tore your fevered touch away, “oh my god! I did it!” pure surprise shined through your pride, “I actually did it!”

“Yeah you fucking did,” he breathed as he watched you beam, “christ, that was hot, fuck,” the doctor murmured before he snapped, rose from his seat and rushed to you.

Your eyes widened slightly at the sudden proximity, his grasp swiftly finding your legs before he yanked you closer to the edge of the desk, “oh, hello–, ah!” you gasped as he then suddenly began to drag his thick cock through your petals, overstimulating your pussy as he nudged against your slick softness, “what are you–”

“Shh, shh, just let me have this,” he muttered huskily before his fingers mindlessly soared up to grasp your neck, choking out a small squeak as his grip flexed around you.

His eyes fluttered shut as he savoured the sensation, desperately gliding the bullous tip of him against your sensitive heat, sloppy sounds filling his office with each fevered flick as his fat girth split open your petals.

Tightening his hold around your throat, your professor then pulled you closer till your lips came crashing against his own. It was desperate and messy, tongues sloppily colliding in a dance to the muffled tones of each of your hot moans.

When he then finally eased up on his possessive grip and let go of your neck, his lips too faded from your own, although before you even managed to blink your eyes back open, his fingers had drifted up to stuff your mouth. Giving you something to suck on, he let his imagination run wild as your silky tongue swiftly fluttered against the rough pads of his digits.

“Fuck… you’re so wet, kiddo…” he glanced down to where your bodies met, his cock still tight in his grasp as he tapped the weight of it messily against your puffy pearl, “I could just slip right in.”

“Don’t! You can’t!” you swiftly tilted your chin to free your mouth from his fingers, “please, sir, you don’t get it. The guys were so mad the last time I so much as kissed a guy that they didn’t approve first, I am not repeating that mistake again.”

But instead of settling your worry, Reed simply chuckled before kissing you once more.

And soon, when you cast a glance down between your bodies in amazement, hazy mutters tumbled out past your lips, “this is crazy… you’re too old for me… you’re my professor… you’re married…” you whispered as your thoughts too drifted back to less than a week ago when you’d kissed his brother-in-law.

“I know…” he smirked faintly, as if those hard truths only turned him on that much more, a theory that was swiftly verified as it drove him over the edge.

For a moment, he dragged his sensitive cock through the cum that now decorated your glistening cunt, like a sticky Jackson Pollock painting between your trembling thighs. But then, just as soft moans began to seep from your mouth, he let your soaked panties snap back into place over the mess, making you jump slightly as he swatted his palm over your core, landing a few quick slaps against your pussy till his load beneath darked the cotton.

“Say hi to the boys from me,” he uttered as he grabbed your chin to steal one last swift peck, “oh, and remember, this is our little secret. For all they know, you’re still just an innocent little flower who can’t make herself cum…”

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[meadowfics]

unexpected newcomer

kang dae-ho x f!pregnant!mother!reader

this is a chapter to my 'KANG FAMILY' series linked here!

synopsis: a trip to the doctor confirms why you've been so sick lately

it’s been a week since byeol’s first birthday, and the house still feels like it’s glowing from the memory of her smashing that cake, her tiny hands covered in pink frosting.

unfortunately the glow in your heart is tempered by the nausea that’s been haunting you, creeping up at the worst moments.

you’ve been brushing it off, blaming bad food, stress, anything but what it might really be.

you don’t want to worry dae-ho since he’s already got enough on his plate with taking care of you and the girls. so you keep quiet, swallowing the unease, wiping your mouth after each trip to the bathroom, and pasting on a smile when he’s around.

this morning, though, you’re not so lucky.

you’re in the bathroom, kneeling on the cool tile, your stomach churning as you lean over the toilet.

the wave hits hard, and you’re too focused on breathing through it to hear seo-ah’s soft footsteps.

she’s supposed to be in the living room, coloring with byeol, but her little voice cuts through the fog of your nausea.

“mama?” she says, her tone small and very worried, “are you okay?”

you freeze, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your heart sinking.

“i’m fine, sweetie,” you manage, your voice shaky as you turn to her. her big eyes are wide, her pigtails slightly messy from playing.

“just… just a little sick. go back to byeolie, okay?”

seo-ah’s not convinced.

she’s five, but she’s smart and gifted for her age. the worry on her face is too much for you to bear. before you can stop her, she’s gone, her little feet pattering down the hall.

“appa!” she calls, her voice high and urgent, “mama’s sick!”

you groan, leaning back against the bathtub, your head spinning. you didn’t want dae-ho to know, not yet, not when you’re still telling yourself it’s nothing.

it’s too late. you hear his heavy footsteps, the familiar creak of the floorboards, and then he’s in the doorway, his face etched with concern.

he wears black sweatpants, his black shirt flows as he looks at you with concern. too much concern.

“y/n,” he says, his voice low and steady, but you can hear the edge of worry. he kneels beside you, his hand gentle on your back.

“what’s going on? seo-ah said you’re throwing up again and you are.”

you shake your head, forcing a weak smile.

“it’s nothing, dae-ho. again, it was probably just that tteokbokki from last week. i’ll be fine.”

he frowns, his eyes searching yours.

“babe, this is the third time I've seen you throw up this week. you’re not fine.” he brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch soft but firm.

“we’re going to the doctor, okay? we need to know whats wrong with my wife.”

you open your mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes stops you. it’s not just worry...it’s determination, the kind he gets when he’s decided something’s non-negotiable.

you sigh, nodding slowly.

“okay,” you say while your voice is quiet, “but i don’t want the girls to worry.”

“they won’t,” he says, helping you to your feet.

“we’ll call hyunju. she’ll take them for the afternoon.”

you nod, leaning into him as he pulls you into a gentle hug. his familiar scent which is sandalwood and coffee grounds you, and you close your eyes, letting yourself feel safe for a moment.

“thank you,” you whisper, your voice muffled against his chest.

he kisses the top of your head.

“always,” he says simply, “now let’s get you cleaned up.”

you’re still trembling as you lean against the sink cabinet, the bitter taste of bile lingering in your mouth.

the bathroom feels too small, but dae-ho’s presence helps you to remember that you're safe.

he’s kneeling beside you, one hand gently holding your hair back, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back.

“i’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs, his voice soft but unwavering, like he’s promising to hold the world together for you.

he reaches for a damp washcloth, his movements careful as he presses it to your forehead, the coolness easing the heat in your skin.

“just breathe, okay? you’re gonna be alright and the doctor will tell us what is wrong.”

he helps you sit on the edge of the bathtub, carrying you to it. daeho's hands are gentle as he wipes your face, the cloth gliding over your cheeks and chin with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

“there we go,” he says, his eyes meeting yours, warm and full of love.

he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering there, and you lean into his touch, feeling safe in a way only he can make you feel.

daeho leaves for just thirty seconds, grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen, holding it to your lips, encouraging you to take small sips.

“no rush,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your hand.

“i’m right here.”

the nausea feels less overwhelming now.

an hour later, hyunju’s at the house.

she’s got ji-yeong with her, and seo-ah’s already dragging her 'cousin' to the backyard to show her the new slide.

byeol’s in hyunju’s arms, babbling happily as hyunju coos at her.

“don’t worry about a thing,” hyunju says, giving you a reassuring smile, “you two go figure out what’s going on.”

however, hyunju says that with an underlying tone in her voice. it is like she already knows what is up with you.

you manage a smile, though your stomach’s still uneasy.

“thanks, juju,” you say, using the nickname the seo-ah gave her.

“we won’t be long.”

dae-ho grabs his keys, his hand finding yours as you head to the car. the drive to the doctor’s office is quiet, the radio playing softly in the background.

you stare out the window, watching seoul blur past, your mind racing.

you’re scared of not just of being sick, but of what it might mean.

you’ve been through too much to let fear take over, but it’s there.

at the clinic, the waiting room is sterile and cold, the kind of place that makes you want to hold your breath.

dae-ho’s beside you, his hand warm around yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

when the nurse calls your name, he stands with you, never letting go.

the doctor, a kind woman with a gentle smile. you've seen her many times throughout the last few years.

she asks you about your symptoms...nausea, vomiting, fatigue.

you list them off, still clinging to the idea of bad food, but her questions are pointed, and you start to feel a flicker of something else.

“let’s run a few tests,” she says while her voice is calm and collected, “just to rule some things out.”

you nod, your throat tight, and dae-ho squeezes your hand.

the tests are a quick blood draw, and a urine sample. after, you’re back in the exam room, waiting.

dae-ho’s quiet, but his presence is steady, grounding.

when the doctor returns, her smile is wider, her eyes bright.

“well,” she says, sitting across from you, “i have some news. we ruled out all bacterial and viral illnesses. however, you did test positive for high hCG, which means that you’re pregnant!”

your jaw drops, just slightly, and the world seems to tilt.

pregnant?

you blink, your mind scrambling to catch up.

dae-ho’s hand tightens around yours, and when you glance at him, his eyes are glistening, a mix of shock and joy.

“what?,” he breathes, his voice quivering with emotion, “another baby?”

“a baby,” the doctor confirms, her smile warm.

“we can suspect that due to your last period you've recorded, you could be about four months along. i can set you up in the ultrasound room shortly to confirm everything.”

you’re stunned, your heart racing as you try to process it.

a third baby.

seo-ah’s five, byeol’s just turned one, and now… another?

the gap between seo-ah and byeol felt like forever, a carefully planned four years.

this one is so close to byeol, less than two years apart...it’s overwhelming, but the happiness bubbling up inside you is undeniable.

you turn to dae-ho, and he’s already pulling you into a hug, his arms strong and warm around you.

“another baby,” he whispers, his voice shaking with joy.

“y/n, we’re having another baby.”

you laugh, a shaky sound, and bury your face in his neck, breathing in his scent.

“i can’t believe it,” you murmur, your words muffled.

“i didn’t even… i mean, it’s so soon.”

a/n: (this is so funny considering we know what happened in this fic here)

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands cupping your face.

“it’s perfect,” he says, “you’re perfect and we’re gonna be okay.”

daeho's hand moves to your lower stomach, gentle and reverent, and you feel a rush of vulnerability, the kind that comes with carrying his babies.

he’s always been your protector, your safe place, and you can already feel him stepping into that role again, his love wrapping around you like a shield.

“i love you,” you say, your voice soft, and he kisses you, slow and tender, his lips tasting of salt from the tears he’s holding back.

“I love you too,” he says, his forehead resting against yours.

“always.”

the ultrasound room is small, the lights dim, and the technician’s voice is soothing as she spreads gel on your stomach.

you’re lying on the table, dae-ho’s hand in yours, his eyes fixed on the screen. when the image appears, a tiny, flickering heartbeat, you both gasp.

it’s real...your baby. the technician confirms that you are already four months along, a small miracle you didn’t even know was growing inside you.

“you’re just into the second trimester,” the technician says, smiling.

“two days in, actually. the morning sickness should start easing up soon.”

you nod, your eyes locked on the screen.

with seo-ah, you didn’t know you were pregnant until five months, before the stuff with the games happened. you were barely surviving. your body was always hungry and overworked.

with byeol, you knew at four weeks, planned and hoped for.

this baby, sneaking up on you, already so far along...it feels like a gift, unexpected and overwhelming.

you're healthy now, but you still didn't figure it out.

“i had no idea,” you say softly, “four months?”

“it happens sometimes,” the technician says kindly.

“especially if you’re busy with little ones. also due to your past history, it looks like your body doesn't like displaying symptoms until much later on. however, everything looks good, though. strong heartbeat, good growth.”

dae-ho’s grip on your hand tightens, and you glance at him. he’s staring at the screen, his eyes wet, a smile trembling on his lips.

"look at that," he whispers, seeing the fetus' face on the screen.

the technician finishes, and the doctor returns with another suggestion.

“you're in the second trimester which means that the baby's gender can be tester accurately. we can do a blood test to determine the that, if you’d like,” she says, “it’s quick, and we’ll have results before you leave.”

you and dae-ho exchange a look, and you nod.

“let’s do it,” you say, your heart pounding with anticipation.

another child, another piece of your family...what will they be?

back in the waiting room, you sit close to dae-ho, his arm around your shoulders.

you’re both quiet, processing the news, the weight of it settling in.

a third baby.

you think of seo-ah and byeol, their laughter, their tiny hands, and your heart swells at the thought of adding another.

it’s daunting, too since byeol’s only one, still so little, and the idea of another baby so soon makes your head spin.

“you okay?” dae-ho asks, his voice soft as he brushes a thumb across your cheek.

“yeah,” you say, leaning into him, “just… a lot. but i’m happy. really happy.”

he smiles, kissing your temple.

“me too,” he says, “three kids. we’re gonna need a bigger car.”

you laugh, the sound easing the tension in your chest.

“and a bigger house,” you add, and he chuckles loudly, pulling you closer.

when the nurse hands you the envelope with the blood test results, your hands shake slightly.

you thank her, your voice barely above a whisper, and dae-ho guides you to the car, his hand steady on your back.

you don’t open the envelope yet.

you’re not sure why, but you want to be home, surrounded by the warmth of your life, when you find out.

the drive is quiet, dae-ho’s hand resting on your thigh, his fingers tracing lazy circles.

when you pull into the driveway, hyunju’s car is still there, and you can hear seo-ah’s laughter from the backyard.

you smile, the sound grounding you, and dae-ho takes your hand as you walk inside.

hyunju’s in the living room, byeol in her lap, seo-ah showing ji-yeong a new drawing.

“you’re back!” hyunju says, her eyes bright, “everything okay?”

“yeah,” you say, your voice soft, “just… something big. we’ll tell you later.”

she nods, sensing the weight of the moment, and herds the girls to the kitchen for a snack.

you and dae-ho sit on the couch, the envelope between you.

“you want to read it first?” you ask, your voice trembling with nerves and excitement.

he hesitates, his eyes searching yours.

"you sure?” he asks, and you nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

you want to see his face, to read his reaction.

he takes the envelope, his hands steady but his breath uneven, and opens it, pulling out the paper.

you watch him, your heart pounding.

daeho's eyes scan the page, and then they fill with tears.

not sad, not scared, but a mix of joy and something deeper. its like deja-vu in his mind almost.

he covers his face with one hand, the paper shaking in the other, and you know before you even look.

“what is it?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

daeho hands you the paper, his eyes locked on yours.

“it’s a boy,” he says, his voice breaking in a sob, “our first boy.”

you take the paper, your hands trembling as you read the words.

X and Y chromosomes. a boy.

your heart leaps, and you feel tears spill down your cheeks as you look at dae-ho.

he’s crying too, happy tears, scared tears, the kind that come from a love so big it’s almost too much.

you drop the paper and throw your arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder.

“a boy,” you whisper, your voice muffled.

“dae-ho, we’re having a boy!”

he holds you tight, his hand cradling the back of your head, his other hand resting on your stomach.

“i know, I can't believe this.” he says, his voice thick.

you pull back, looking into his eyes, and see everything...his love, his fear, his hope.

everything is overwhelming for the two of you.

you know what this means to him, to be the father his own father never was to his son. you reach up, touching his face, your thumb brushing away a tear.

“you’re gonna be the best dad to this boy,” you say softly.

he nods, his jaw tight as he lays down on the couch pressing his forehead to your stomach.

he doesn’t say anything, but you know what he’s thinking, what he’s promising.

daeho is vowing to be there, to love this boy, to give him everything he never had.

the man's father always loved his sisters, but never him.

you run your fingers through his hair, your heart so full it hurts.

you think of seo-ah and byeol, your girls, and wonder how they’ll take the news.

seo-ah’s always talked about sisters, her little world built around being the big sister to byeol.

a brother might throw her for a loop, but you know she’ll love him, just like she loves byeol.

you can’t wait to tell them, to see their faces, to watch your family grow.

for now, it’s just you, the fetus of your baby boy, and dae-ho, holding each other in the quiet of your living room.

full family series masterlist linked here

[snail-day]

i am OBSSESSED with the nurse!geto and doctor!gojo x reader series like genuinely pls take all my love, appreciation, money, sOUL CLOTHES OFF MY BACK MY FUTURE KIDS HEKQJDJWJS this isn't really an actual request but i really hope we get more snippets of them (its okay if you aren't up for it though !! this isn't to pressure u 🥹)

which brings me to my question !! when reader does get pregnant (either planned or unplanned honestly with both geto and gojo we never know) who do you think would notice first? the doctor, the nurse, or reader herself?

thank you and i hope you have a phenomenal day 🫶 ily

AHHH OKAY OKAY OKAY, you’re so sweet ILYSM. Sending you so many smoochies!!

So pregnancy arc is coming up!! I’m thinking 2–3 fics, drabbles, or blurbos. I’ve got all the ideas bouncing around in my noggin, just haven’t had the chance to sit down and start writing yet.

The plan is: miscarriage, the actual pregnancy, and then recovery (oh yeah, we’re getting hella Nurse Geto for that one)

As for who notices first? It’s you and it’s unplanned. Like, you guys have been generally safe, and you’ve been talking about trying. So you gets off birth control, but you know how it is, it usually takes a while for your body to regulate (like 6 months or so), so none of you are really expecting anything to happen right away. No one’s tracking super closely.

So when it does happen, you’re kind of in denial. A little terrified. And you hide it for a bit, the pregnancy test tucked behind the cleaning supplies under the sink. Avoiding eye contact. Saying you’re just “tired” when your mood shifts.

But the thing you completely forget about is that Geto has that little period tracker app. (Satoru does too, but he forgets to check it unless you get crabby, and then he’s like “Yeah okay that makes sense.”)

And one day, Geto casually asks, “Hey, love, do you need anything? Pads? Tampons?” while he’s checking the app, head tilted in that sweet little nurse-y way, and you just - break.

Like full-on waterworks. Hands trembling. Mouth trying to form words but just stuttering and sobbing and wiping your face on your sleeve like a child.

“W-why - why would you - hic - you’re so nice - I didn’t even - hic hic - I was gonna tell you - I'm sorry - I didn’t mean to - !”

Geto is panicking but staying calm on the outside, crouching down in front of you while you’re sobbing against the bathroom sink. “Sweetheart, baby, slow down - breathe, okay? You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He’s holding your arms gently, rubbing soothing circles into your wrists while you cry so hard your chest hiccups.

“Try again for me, love. What’s wrong?” He’s brushing the hair out of your face, voice low and velvety and so gentle that it makes you cry even harder.

And eventually, finally, the words come out, strangled and warbled: “I’m... I’m pregnant.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then his whole face changes, softens in a way you’ve never seen before. Like the sun just cracked open inside him. He lets out the tiniest, shakiest laugh and pulls you into his arms, kissing your forehead over and over and over.

“You’re pregnant?” he whispers, and when you nod into his chest, he lets out a breathy, teary, “We’re gonna have a baby.”

And just like that, all your fear disappears, because his hands are warm, his arms are strong, and you’re not alone.

But when you turn around, Satoru is standing in the doorway.

He’s not smiling.

His mouth is slightly open, like he forgot how to breathe for a second. Those blue eyes - bright and trembling and impossibly wide - are locked on yours. And you expect him to make a joke, something stupid, something to lighten the moment.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he steps forward on unsteady feet, blinking quickly like he doesn’t quite believe what he just heard. “Really?” he whispers. “You’re... we’re really having a baby?”

You nod, eyes wet and heart aching, and his whole expression crumbles. His shoulders sag, a choked little sound escaping him as he drops to his knees right in front of you.

You don’t even get a word out before he wraps his arms around your waist, pressing his face to your belly, trembling fingers spreading over the soft cotton of your shirt.

“I’m gonna be a dad,” he says, more to himself than to you. “You’re gonna be a mom. Oh my god. Oh my god, I love you. I love you so much.”

And when you run your fingers through his fluffy hair, when you feel Geto’s hand settle gently at the small of your back and Satoru’s tears soaking through your shirt.

That’s kind of when you know that this is the right time and that baby is going to be so loved.

[theradiodaemon]

Part 1 of 2

The Ballad of the Boba and the Baguette (By @larryisnotagirl )

All right, I’m going to regale you all with the ridiculous story that inspired this comic. About 4 weeks ago, I was sitting on the couch drinking a delicious brown sugar boba tea from our local tea shop and watching a compilation of “Hilarious Ancient Vines” on Youtube. The Vines were in fact quite hilarious and during the course of the video I laughed while I had a mouth full of tapioca and managed to inhale one of the bobas. I coughed a bit and assumed like all the times before that I had something go “down the wrong pipe” that I had coughed it up and managed to have it continue on its merry way down my esophagus. Alas, this was not the case, as later that night I had very vivid dreams about choking on an egg and kept waking up gagging and coughing. I realized with horror that the boba was STILL in my throat.

Over the next few days I tried everything to get it out. Hanging upside down off my bed while coughing as hard as I could, having my partner do back blows (which he had just trained for in a first aid class) and drinking copious amounts of liquid in big gulps to try to dislodge it. Unfortunately nothing worked and I realized with increasing horror that I was going to have to tell a medical professional about this. I saw a doctor the next day and explained my issue through embarrassed laughter. She made an attempt to see it herself, but the boba was slightly too far down for her to help. I was scheduled for an x-ray, but also warned that if I still felt it there in 48 hours I needed to go to the ER to have my throat scoped.

The thought of going to the ER for this ridiculous problem and having to explain why I was there in front of who knows how many nurses and doctors was enough to have me Googling every possible tactic for getting a stuck object out of one’s throat. The best (and yummiest) option I found was bread and carbonated beverages. So one case of Bubly and a baguette later, I was ready for “Operation Abort the Boba Throat Baby”. The carbonated water is self-explanatory, but the technique for the bread is not (apparently, haha). Basically, chew a large piece of bread just enough to be able to swallow it and hope that it catches the offending object (usually a pill) on the way down. We are now one week into this ordeal btw, so I’m getting desperate. Over the course of the weekend, I ate an entire baguette in this manner and exclusively drank cherry Bubly. I was fairly sure it was successful but it was hard to tell right away since my entire throat was sore and scratchy. I opted to wait another few days before going to the ER to see if my bread and Bubly diet worked.

So how does this lead to Blitz deepthroating a baguette you may ask? In two separate conversations, one with a co-worker and one with some Tumblr mooties- I explained that I bought a baguette to help me dislodge the boba and both times the other person envisioned me using the baguette as a plunger of sorts- like using the entire loaf of bread to push the boba down to its final destination. This was absolutely hysterical to me and my brain rot being what it is- led me to saying out loud to my partner “Why does this sound like something Blitz would do?” He immediately sketched out the comic you see above.

The moral of this story is simple- DRINKING BOBA IS SERIOUS BUSINESS. DO NOT LAUGH WHILE CONSUMING.

Thank you for reading my silly but absolutely true story. Sorry it got so long, lol.

————————-

Thank you to my partner @larryisnotagirl for the explanation of the inspiration for this comic.

PART 2 coming SOON (the story CONTINUES!)

Until then be safe and protect yourselves from rogue Bobas! 😱

[scary-grace]

Designated Villain (Chapter 4) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

You loved BNHA's ending, mostly, but a few weeks after the last chapter is published, you get isekaied into BNHA on the day the story begins. That would be a dream come true, except you ended up in the body of a common criminal, and instead of enjoying life in your favorite fictional world, you find yourself struggling to survive in a world that's much crueler than you ever imagined. Armed with nothing more than BNHA Tumblr brainrot and a highly suspicious iPod Shuffle, you set out to fix the few things that are wrong with BNHA's ending. But as you learn more about the villains you hated and every change you make pushes the plot further off the canon storyline, it's not long before your feelings about the ending start to change. (cross-posted to Ao3)

(dividers by @cafekitsune)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4

Chapter 4

You’re not sure why you’re so intent on hiding. Shigaraki’s been shot four times. He’s not in any shape to chase you. It’s not until you’re tucked into a corner behind the TV cart that you remember where the certainty’s coming from. Some x reader headcanon post that broke containment, talking about how All For One would totally let Shigaraki fall in love with somebody just to let the heroes kill them, so he could cement Shigaraki’s hatred even more. Shigaraki’s not going to fall in love with you or anyone. That’s not in his programming. But all the same — you can’t shake the feeling that being spotted by All For One or Dr. Garaki right now would be a really bad thing.

Being spotted by any of these people is a bad thing, and Kurogiri already saw you. All you can do is hope that he keeps his mouth shut until the TV’s turned off.

Shigaraki doesn’t try to get to his feet. He’s lying almost facedown, a puddle of blood spreading beneath his hand, complaining about how All For One set him up to fail and All Might wasn’t any weaker at all. The TV comes to life and you hear All For One’s voice for the first time. What happens to you is exactly like what happens to Deku and the others when they hear his voice during the Kamino incident. It makes your skin crawl and your stomach lurch, and it fills your mind with fear-soaked fog. If you hadn’t hidden already, you’d be doomed, because it would paralyze you on the spot. It’s the worst sound you’ve ever heard.

No, it isn’t. You know the worst sound you’ve ever heard, and as horrible as it is, thinking of the crowd crush grounds you ever so slightly. That was the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. At least if Shigaraki kills you, it’ll be quick.

Kurogiri is speaking now. You haven’t heard him talk yet, and his voice scares you a little less than the others. “What about Shigaraki Tomura’s injuries, doctor? I can transport him to you at once.”

“No,” the doctor says after a moment, “they’re mild. They can be treated at home.”

“I got shot,” Shigaraki says from the floor. “With a gun. Twice. You aren’t even going to –”

“Think of it as an exercise in self-sufficiency. Your master has always handled his minor wounds alone.” The doctor sounds like he couldn’t care less. You can see Shigaraki’s face from your hiding spot, and you see a weird expression flit across it — confusion, and something else. “If they become infected, Kurogiri, then you may bring him by.”

The TV switches off with a pop, and the room goes silent other than Shigaraki’s ragged breathing and the sound of your heartbeat, so loud that it’s impossible to imagine the other two haven’t heard it. Kurogiri breaks the silence. “You may come out now,” he says, and you freeze. “We will need your assistance.”

“What?” Shigaraki struggles to his hands and knees. He looks right, then left, and then he spots you. His face distorts into a snarl at once. “Why are you here?”

He doesn’t even know you. You thought he’d kill you out of indifference, if he was going to kill you. Why is he mad? Shigaraki tries to stand, fails, then starts crawling across the floor towards you like some kind of monster out of a horror movie. “Why are you here?” Shigaraki snarls again. He’s almost within reach, and you could hit him with a flash before he can touch you — but where would you go afterwards? You’ve got nowhere to run. “Why didn’t you help?”

Help with what? You shake your head, mute and terrified, and Kurogiri fills the gap. “The flash of light which blinded Snipe came from her. It is likely that you would have been shot at least four times if she had not intervened.”

He did get shot four times. Didn’t he? “I still got shot twice,” Shigaraki spits. “You’re useless. Kurogiri, get rid of her. Or I will.”

“Shigaraki Tomura, I understand your frustration.” Kurogiri crouches down at Shigaraki’s side. “But even in your frustration, you have the ability to think strategically. Killing her may be satisfying in this moment, but in the long run, you will need allies. And in the very short term, we need someone who can move undetected in public. Your injuries are too severe to be treated with a simple first aid kit.”

“The doctor said they’re minor.” Shigaraki says, resentful. “We don’t need her.”

“I am charged with your welfare. For the moment, we do.” Kurogiri looks up at you. “I require supplies to treat Shigaraki Tomura’s injuries. You will procure them.”

From where? With what money? You don’t have a chance to ask, because he starts rattling off a list, and it’s all you can do to memorize it. You’re not going to get a choice in the matter, but you need to change some things about your appearance if you’re going to go undetected. You take off your goggles and drop them, then unpin the wig and cap and run your hands through your hair, trying to fluff it up. It’s not until you’ve been warped into an alley next to a drugstore that you realize you’re still wearing your mask.

Oops. You leave it on — without the wig and goggles, it’ll be harder for people to connect the dots, on the off chance your picture’s already been released — and get to work collecting everything on Kurogiri’s list. You like having a job to do. It means you don’t have to think.

But you can’t shut your brain off entirely, and it occurs to you as you’re piling things up in a basket that what you’re buying looks really suspicious. A ton of heavy-duty medical supplies and nothing else? You might as well wear a sign that says ‘I’m a minion shopping for my villain boss’. You need to add some cover items so the person checking you out will think — anything but that. On your way to the cash register you grab a chocolate bar, some sweet and sour candies, and a bottle of premade green tea on a whim. Now your cart says ‘I’m a minion making my villain boss a care package’. You need something weirder. Feeling unbelievably awkward, you detour into the next aisle and drop a box of condoms on top of the pile.

The clerk hits you with some serious side-eye while you’re checking out, paying with the money you lifted off the other villain right before the attack. You can’t tell if he’s suspicious of you or not. Would you be suspicious of you right now, if you were the clerk? No, you’d be weirded out, and that’s it. Now you just need to make it stick.

The clerk scans the condoms last, and takes a really long time doing it. He glances at you one more time, and you make eye contact. Your mouth is hidden under your mask, but you grin anyway. “It’s going to be a really good night.”

The clerk grimaces and chucks the condoms into the bag. You pay cash and leave, feeling weirdly accomplished.

The accomplishment fades when you step into the alleyway. A warp gate is waiting there, and you hesitate for long moments before stepping through it. Ultimately, though, you did your job — and you don’t want Shigaraki coming after you for skipping out once he’s healed. You step through, not into the bar but into a darkened, musty bedroom. Shigaraki is sprawled out on the unmade bed and Kurogiri is beside him, trying to compress the wound in his upper thigh. Neither of them notice you until you clear your throat. You hold up the bag awkwardly. “I got the stuff.”

Kurogiri beckons you forwards, and you obey, wincing every time you kick an empty can or step on a wrapper on the floor. “Unpack that,” Kurogiri orders you. “My hands are clean, and the field must be sterile. Give me the antiseptic wipes first.”

Right. You shift through the bag for the wipes, pry them open, and hand them off before sorting through the bag. You hear Shigaraki curse at Kurogiri, probably because the antiseptic stings, and scoot a little farther away. You don’t want to be within easy reach. “This is likely to be uncomfortable,” Kurogiri tells Shigaraki, who swears at him again. “It may help to distract yourself.”

“With what?” Shigaraki demands. Kurogiri nods at you.

So that’s why Kurogiri brought you back here — as a punching bag, something for Shigaraki to take his rage out on. Shigaraki props himself up on one elbow and glares at you from behind the hand. “Kurogiri didn’t tell you to buy yourself a snack.”

His voice is heavy with disdain. You aren’t some kind of clueless Shigaraki fan. You never headcanoned him as anything but a dick. But he’s being such an asshole, and you haven’t done anything except try to help. You want to cry. “It’s not for me.”

You don’t feel like explaining the cover item thing. It won’t matter to him. It’s quiet for a second, other than Kurogiri fussing with a package of sterile pads. You think you see Shigaraki’s expression shift behind the hand, but whatever it is, it’s gone fast. “A snack, and condoms. What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s a cover item,” you say. “Something for the clerk to focus on that’s not all the medical supplies I was buying. Those by themselves looked suspicious. Those plus a box of condoms is just weird.”

“No shit,” Shigaraki mumbles. He looks pretty weirded out himself. You move the condoms and the snacks to one side and start opening the boxes Kurogiri’s going to need to bandage the wounds. When Shigaraki barks another question at you, you almost jump out of your skin. “Hey. What were you doing on my mission?”

You don’t have a good answer. Thankfully, the bad answer makes you sound like the kind of criminal who belongs in the first iteration of the League of Villains. “Someone said there was a job. I needed money, and with my record I can’t really work a normal job.”

“What’s your record?”

“Forty-seven thefts, nineteen assaults, eighty-nine counts of unauthorized quirk usage with malicious intent,” you say. Shigaraki makes a surprised sound, and some insane part of you decides to flex. “And I broke out of jail six months ago. I don’t know what they charged me with for that.”

“That is an impressive record for someone your age,” Kurogiri remarks.

“I got an early start.” That makes you sound way more hardcore than you actually are. Back in your world you’ve never even gotten a parking ticket. You��ve finished unpacking. You sit back. “Is there anything else I can help with?”

The instant you ask the question, you kick yourself over it. You don’t want to keep helping them. You want to get the hell out of here with what’s left of the money and try desperately to undo the damage you just did to your attempt to figure out why you’re here. So far you’ve only influenced the way one event played out, and you influenced it the wrong way. Shigaraki got shot four times in canon. In this alternate timeline, he only got shot twice. Thanks to you.

“What’s your quirk?” Shigaraki asks you. “I need to know if you’re useful or not.”

“I can make light.” You’re not useful at all. “The flashes only last for three seconds. I can control how intense they are, sort of, but the more intense they get the shorter they are. A flash like the one I used while you were escaping is as big as I can go.”

“You can go bigger. If you train.” Shigaraki sounds way too confident. Maybe it’s because Kurogiri’s finally finished tending to his wounds. “What else can you do?”

“Steal,” you say. Why are you trying to convince him? This is a job interview. You really don’t want this job. “You don’t want me. I’m not minion material.”

Kurogiri snickers. Shigaraki glances at him, then back at you. “Minion is a stupid word,” he says. Really? That’s what he’s picking on? You muffle a snort of your own. “If you don’t want to be part of the League of Villains, why did you follow me through the gate?“

“It was follow you or go to jail,” you say. Your stomach clenches. “I’m not going back to jail.”

It’s quiet again. “Take your mask off.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Take your mask off,” Shigaraki says. You hesitate, and you hesitate too long. Shigaraki sits all the way up in a single unsteady motion, reaches out, and grabs your mask with all five fingers.

It Decays away from your face, and you cough on the dust. Shigaraki studies you for a moment. “You’re not going back to jail,” he says, and your heart seizes in your chest. “You’re part of the League.”

No. You don’t want to be part of the League. That’s not why you’re here. You’re supposed to be with the heroes, helping the heroes — saving Midnight, saving Sir Nighteye, making sure Hawks keeps his wings, making sure Deku keeps One For All. The League of Villains is the last place in the world you should be. “Um —“

“You’re welcome.” Shigaraki slumps back, eyes closed. “Kurogiri, make sure she stays here.”

You look hopelessly at Kurogiri. “I imagine you have belongings stashed somewhere. I will retrieve them,” he says. “Where were you staying previously?”

You’d be happy to throw everything you own to the wind if it would mean getting out of here, but you’re not going to be able to escape right away. And the longer you stick around, the more information you’ll have to offer the heroes when you do get free. You tell Kurogiri the address of the capsule hotel, as well as which capsule is yours, and he disappears, leaving you with nothing to do but begin to clear away the medical supplies. The bandages on Shigaraki’s hand and leg are the cleanest things in the room, and that includes you. You feel gross just being in here. You feel even worse when you think about what you did to get here in the first place. And yet — when you think about the jail, when you think about the crush, that still feels like the worst thing of all.

You lift the stupid box of cover-item condoms off the bed and chuck it into the bag with a vengeance, then go for the snacks. “Leave those,” Shigaraki says without opening his eyes. “How’d you know?”

“Huh?”

“Which ones I like.”

For a second you’re baffled. Then you remember what you said when Shigaraki took you to task over the snacks: It’s not for me. You meant that they were a cover item. Shigaraki thought you got them for him.

The idea of doing something nice for a villain pisses you off. The idea that you’d do something nice for Shigaraki specifically after he maimed Aizawa, tried to murder a bunch of kids, and threatened to kill you for helping him pisses you off even more. But even through your frustration, you’re able to recognize that Shigaraki’s assumption is working in your favor. That means it’s not one you should disprove. “Just a lucky guess.”

It wasn’t a lucky guess. You weren’t thinking about it consciously, but now that you think about it, you remember reading somewhere — probably some villain-stan post that broke containment and contaminated your dashboard — that Shigaraki has a sweet tooth, and likes green tea. That’s not the kind of detail you should remember, when there are so many other important things about BNHA that need to stick in your head. Maybe you should start trying to write them all down somewhere. It wouldn’t hurt to be able to see it on paper.

You leave Shigaraki in his filthy room with the snacks he picked on you for buying and step out in the hall. Kurogiri’s out there, dropping your bag and backpack just inside an open door on the opposite side from Shigaraki. “You’ll stay here,” he instructs. “I have procured basic necessities for now.”

The room is tiny. Bigger than your capsule at the hotel, though, so you’ll call it an upgrade. It looks like Kurogiri extracted the entire contents of your capsule and set it down inside the room, mattress and blanket and pillow and bedside lamp included. It says something about how far your standards have dropped that your first thought is about how the setup could be a lot worse.

You nudge your belongings inside. “The bathroom is down the hall,” Kurogiri continues. “You will be sharing with Shigaraki Tomura. I apologize.”

You decide not to think about that until you have to. You nod, and Kurogiri keeps talking. “Food will be provided. Other necessities are your responsibility.”

“If it’s my responsibility, am I allowed to leave?”

Kurogiri gives you a look. You think. It’s hard to tell if he’s giving you a look or just looking at you. “I would suggest combining errands with the ones you will need to run for Tomura.”

So you’re going to be Shigaraki’s errand girl while he’s recovering from his gunshot wounds. Or forever, because he’s shown himself now, and people — everybody — will be looking for him. It sounds like hell. On the bright side, though, it means you’ll have lots of trips outside. Lots of unsupervised trips outside. Time you could use to warn the heroes, or use to plan your escape.

You can think about that later. “Okay.” As far as you’re concerned, that’s the end of the conversation, but Kurogiri keeps looking at you. “What?”

“Shigaraki Tomura is not at his best today,” Kurogiri says. No kidding. “He is disappointed, and he is injured. The more time you spend around him, the more he will improve.”

“Okay,” you say. You doubt it. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“I do not know what instinct guided you to hide where you did when we arrived,” Kurogiri says, “but it was the correct one. Prove yourself to Shigaraki Tomura, but do not attract the attention of his master.”

A bunch of angsty Tumblr posts and sneakily tagged x reader fics flash through your head. “Why?”

“You do not want to find out.”

He’s right. Of all the things that have happened today that you haven’t wanted — ending up at USJ, assaulting another hero, joining the League — attracting All For One’s notice is the one you don’t want the most. You nod, and turn to step into your room, only to freeze in your tracks when a shout emanates from Shigaraki’s room. “Kurogiri! I lost — one’s missing — if Sensei finds out —”

Kurogiri visibly winces. “Where did you lose it?”

“Where do you think?” Shigaraki’s voice cracks. “The fucking heroes have it. They’ll never give it back, and Sensei will —”

He breaks off in a frustrated sound, and it occurs to you what he’s looking for. You pull your hand down over your sleeve, reach into the inside pocket of your coat, and fish out the hand. Kurogiri’s eyes widen when he sees it. He snatches it from you and disappears back into Shigaraki’s room. You take the opportunity to disappear into yours.

Yours smells like cleaning supplies. It probably used to be a closet. You leave the door open to let it air out and find yourself inadvertently eavesdropping on Shigaraki and Kurogiri. “Why?” Shigaraki is asking.

“Why what?”

His voice drops out of range, then comes back. “— think to grab that. And the snacks —”

“Considering the theft charges, she is likely skilled at cold-reading,” Kurogiri says. You wish. You always thought that would be kind of cool. “If she stayed hidden during the attack, she would have had ample opportunity to observe you. As for the snacks — your room contains more than enough evidence of your preferences for her to make an educated guess.”

“Shut up about my room.” Quiet again. “It’s weird.”

“Still, she did you a service in retrieving this.” You picture Kurogiri indicating the hand. “Would you like me to thank her, or would you prefer to do it yourself?”

“No.”

You don’t care if Shigaraki never thanks you. You’d love it if Shigaraki never talked to you again, forgot you existed, and drank so much BNHA world-equivalent Red Bull that he had a heart attack and died. You nudge your door the rest of the way shut, dig into your backpack, and extract your Shuffle and headphones. Although you never use more than one earbud when you’re listening at the hotel or out in public, you jam both of them into your ears and hit play. Closing time, open all the doors and let you out into the world. Closing time, turn all of the lights on over every boy and every girl —

Weird pick. You’ve wondered more than once if the order of songs is significant, if there’s a reason why each one comes up when it does, but you doubt it. The chorus comes and you squeeze your eyes shut. I know who I want to take me home, I know who I want to take me home —

You don’t, but you’d settle for anybody. And home? You aren’t dumb enough to wish for that any longer, so you’ll take anywhere. Anywhere that isn’t jail is better than here.

You stagger out of the free clinic, feeling like you’ve been stabbed in the gut — no, not the gut. Lower than that. Right through the stupid uterus, and because you did your errands in the wrong order, you now have to drag yourself to the goddamn game store with shooting pains from the goddamn IUD you just had shoved through your goddamn cervix. Like a lot of things you’ve done since getting isekaied, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

You didn’t get it because you’re expecting to actually need birth control — you got it to stop your periods, because you’re now stuck sharing a bathroom with Shigaraki and you don’t want to deal with the questions that will come up if he finds a box of pads or tampons under the sink. Sharing a bathroom with Shigaraki is awful enough as it is. No matter how carefully you time things, you’re somehow always in there when he needs it, and if you happen to be in the shower instead of actually on the toilet, he’ll just come in anyway. Not to use the bathroom. Usually to throw up. He throws up a lot.

When you’re feeling psychologically resilient, you admit the reality of the situation. The rest of the time, you pretend you’re just dealing with a couple of really bad roommates. Kurogiri isn’t the worst, but he’s the one who makes food most of the time, and he’s not a good cook. He’s also the one who gives you most of your orders, which means you’re annoyed at him most of the time on principle. Shigaraki, on the other hand — whenever you’re not running errands, you’re doing your best to stay out of his way. He’s still injured, so it’s easy. You’re dreading what will happen once he’s healed. You’ll be in more danger, sure, but the bigger problem is BNHA’s plot. It’s officially in motion now, and you’re here, much closer to the middle of it than you should be. You were brought here for a reason. What are you supposed to do?

You don’t know. In the meantime, you’re doing what Kurogiri and Shigaraki tell you to do, wedging your own needs and plans into the space that’s left over. Today that means getting your goddamn IUD. And then going to the goddamn game store.

The doctor said the cramps would ease up. They aren’t easing up. The cramps are the only reason you’re convinced it hasn’t just fallen out — your body is locked up so tight with pain that nobody could get the thing out even if they wanted to. You stop every block or so for a break, huffing and puffing like you’re in a Lamaze class, until you reach the game store. Shigaraki sent you to retrieve a specific edition of a specific game, and while you see lots of games with the right title and cover art, you can’t find the one he asked for. Then you remember that it’s supposed to be limited edition. Limited edition. Which means that there aren’t many. Which means you missed grabbing one. Which means that Shigaraki is going to kill you. You feel a surge of panic, but you force it down. Freaking out and doing something stupid is the kind of thing the person whose place you took would do, and you know better. You make your way gingerly towards the front desk. You’ll ask them to check availability at other stores, put it on hold somewhere, and go get it. It’ll be fine.

Then you spot something in the basket of the person ahead of you — a rich kid with a pile of games. And there, right on top, is a copy of the game Shigaraki wants. Limited edition. In fact, the kid has at least four of them.

You grit your teeth. You could ask, but you have a bad feeling about this kid — he looks like a reseller, somebody who buys out entire stocks of things to sell online with the price jacked up. Your best chance is to get one of the games away from him without him noticing, but how are you going to do that? The old flash-some-light, hey-look-at-that trick could work, but it works best without an audience, and there are other people in the store. Your disguise today is pretty solid — it had to hold up through an IUD placement — but it’s not your hot-girl disguise. Not that you have a hot-girl disguise. You’d have to be hot to make that work, and you aren’t. What are you going to do?

“Hey,” someone barks from behind you, and you almost jump out of your skin. Another kid, this one younger, brushes past you, aiming for the first kid. “Hey, asshole. Buy the whole store, why don’t you?”

“What’s it to you? I got here first.”

“Man, what is your problem? I want one. Hand it over.”

The rich kid sneers. “Or what?”

The other kid bulks out, suddenly. He’s activated his quirk. “Or I’m taking one. Your choice.”

The rich kid must not have a quirk that would let him compete. He starts blustering, swinging the basket behind him to keep it away, and you seize your chance. You step sideways to avoid the confrontation, pinch a copy of the game out of the basket, and book it up to the counter. “Hi. Just this today.”

You start feeling guilty on the way back to the hideout, but you talk yourself out of more easily than you used to. You didn’t actually steal it — the kid hadn’t bought it yet — and even if you had, he had three more of them, and you have a boss who was probably going to kill you if you came back without the game. You didn’t do anything wrong. So far, today’s biggest mistake is the IUD, and you can fix that by getting back to the hideout and laying down. Otherwise you nailed it.

You nailed it, and you deserve a reward. You duck into a convenience store to grab a snack — and before you check out, you remember to grab something for Shigaraki, too. If he associates you with video games and snacks, maybe he’ll be less likely to murder you if you screw up in the future.

It sounds reasonable, but as you sneak back into the hideout, it occurs to you that it isn’t. You’re trying to classically condition Shigaraki. He’s not a dog. He’s a person who can theoretically be reasoned with — at least he can later on in the storyline. At this point you’re probably safer with the conditioning.

He never leaves his room. You knock on the door. Shigaraki’s voice rattles out. “Go away, Kurogiri.”

“It’s not Kurogiri,” you say. There’s a thud from inside the room. “It’s, um –”

The door opens suddenly. “Did you get it?” Shigaraki demands.

“Do you think I’d have come back if I hadn’t?” You already separated your snacks and dumped his into the bag with the game. “Here.”

Shigaraki grimaces as he takes the bag from you. His right hand is still bandaged. Kurogiri changes it every day, and you make sure you’re somewhere else while it happens. “Was it hard to get? You were gone a long time.”

“It wasn’t hard. I lifted it off a reseller while we were still in line.”

“And then you bought it?” Shigaraki gives you a weird look. “Why?”

“The security tags,” you say. A cramp hits and you clench your jaw. “It was faster.”

“That must have been some line. You were gone all day.”

He got the game anyway. Why does it matter? Another cramp hits, worse this time, and you stagger. Shigaraki’s gaze sharpens. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” you say. “Don’t worry about it.”

The cramp’s not letting up. You press your hand against your lower abdomen, trying to relieve it, with absolutely no improvement. “Don’t lie,” Shigaraki says. “You look like you’re hurt. Are you hurt?”

“I’m not — hurt.” You can’t figure out why Shigaraki won’t drop it. He got his game and you brought him snacks. This interaction should have ended a minute ago. “It’s girl stuff. It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean, girl stuff?” Shigaraki says, irritated. You straighten up, turn, and start shuffling back across the hall to your room. “Hey. Did I say you could go?”

“Is there anything else you need from me?”

“I want you to answer my question.”

So, no. “There are snacks in the bag. Have fun.”

You shut the door while Shigaraki’s still talking. It’s a high-risk maneuver to be sure, but you know his leg hurts, and the likelihood that he’ll actually leave his room to come bother you is low. He’s not irritated enough. And in spite of the various Tumblr posts you’ve seen about how the League would be soooooo nice about periods, you know he doesn’t care.

You’re right about the latter but wrong about the former. The door opens before you’ve even sat down. “You’re in my party. If you have a status effect, I need to know about it,” Shigaraki says. He’s glaring at you. “What’s wrong with you?”

You need to get rid of him. You decide all at once that it doesn’t matter how you do it. “Before I went to get your game, I got an IUD, because it’ll be easier on everybody if I don’t get my periods anymore. The IUD isn’t the most comfortable thing on the planet. Okay?”

Shigaraki’s expression went from irritable to blank a second or two into your explanation, and it hasn’t bounced back. “What?”

“Ask Kurogiri,” you say, losing patience. Shigaraki shuts the door.

It doesn’t occur to you until after you’ve laid down that Kurogiri, whose personality was at least partially constructed out of a teenage boy, probably won’t know anything more about IUDs and periods than Shigaraki does. And that’s fine. If neither of them knows, then they’ll leave you alone about it.

You’re trying to sleep it off, and part of the way there, when the door to your room opens again. “I looked it up,” Shigaraki says. You can’t muster a response. “You went and got birth control? You think you’re getting laid?”

“What?”

“Is that why it takes so long when you go out? Because you’re –”

“No,” you snap. “I didn’t get it to get laid. I got it so I wouldn’t have periods anymore.”

“I looked those up, too,” Shigaraki says. You cringe. “Why would it be easier for everybody if you didn’t have it?

“Because I didn’t want to have to put pads in the bathroom and have you ask me about them.”

Talk about influencing the story in a bad way — Shigaraki didn’t know about periods in canon, and now he knows, courtesy of you. He’s giving you a weird look. “Why would I care about that?”

“Because it’s girl stuff.”

“I care about if you can do your job,” Shigaraki says. Weirdly enough, you think you might believe him. “How long is this supposed to last?”

He’s gesturing at you. “The doctor said I’d be okay by tomorrow.”

“Good,” Shigaraki says. “I have a job for you the day after that. So don’t do anything else today.”

You weren’t going to, but you don’t need to tell him that, do you? “Okay.”

Shigaraki leaves without shutting the door, and you let your head fall back to the pillow, deciding to deal with it when you’ve had a second to rest. When you wake up again, the door’s shut. Kurogiri must have come by and shut it for you, right around when he came by to bring Shigaraki’s evening meal. And he brought yours, too. It’s sitting next to you on a tray.

That’s — nice. You pull the tray towards you, sit up, and start eating. Kurogiri’s not a great cook, but it’s not the food that’s leaving a weird taste in your mouth. You didn’t do all that much thinking about the villains when you were reading BNHA, but you remember a couple posts where villain fans were arguing with hero fans about whether Shigaraki was a bad boss, a creep, and a misogynistic incel who hates women. Unfortunately you’ve found yourself in a position to answer that question, and while the fact that you’re consistently worried about pissing off Shigaraki to the point that he kills you doesn’t speak well for his personnel management skills, he’s not a creep. When he barges into the bathroom while you’re showering, it’s to throw up, not to stare at you. And based on his response to the whole IUD thing, he doesn’t have a problem with women.

That doesn’t change anything. He’s still a villain, and as soon as your uterus gets used to the piece of plastic you jammed into it, you need to get back to finding a way to take him down. He’s got a job for you in a day or two. Maybe you can use that to find a way out.

<- Chapter 3

taglist: @lacrimae-lotos @baking-ghoul @cheeseonatower @clemsoup @absurdlogik @shigarakislaughter @chimaerakirin @lvtuss @commercialbreakings @deadhands69 @f3r4lfr0gg3r @shiggy-my-babygirl @hayesemmanuel @minniessskii @dance-with-me-in-hell @issaortiz @aikakuro33 @valentineshearts @stardustdreamersisi @xeveryxstarfallx @fiiveweeniies @boogiemansbitch @evilcookie5 @koohiii @sobaism @shikiblessed @warxhammer @sota-soka @agente707 @handumb @babybehh @atspiss @aslutforfictionalmen @frog-fans-unite @doumadono

[strawbairicake]

the brightest star- dr. ratio x reader

synopsis: your beloved husband bringing you some comfort after a rough day. hurt/comfort (i think?).

warnings: possibly ooc ratio, but i think he would be very soft and sweet to his s/o! so none!

word count: 545

author’s note: this is set in a modern au! hope you enjoy! <3

taglist: @axolotsofluv, @sqgeism, @vyyper, @your-sleeparalysisdem0n, @cmiru, @corvies, @sheyfu, @threnodians, @sswrillya, @strwbrydreamz, @chokifandom, @sillyseraphie, @riaruu, + @m1ckeyb3rry! lmk if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 

today could not get any worse. first it was spilling coffee on your shirt, then you got yelled at for something that wasn’t your fault. next thing you know, lunch rolls around and you forgot your lunch. whatever, the shitty day made you lose your appetite anyway. your husband typically messaged you during lunch, since somehow and some way you had the same lunch time. but he didn’t message you today. you couldn’t lie- it stung a little bit. surely it doesn’t get worse, right?

wrong.

following lunch, two coworkers snapped at you for no fucking reason. and because you were the professional you were, you kept your very not work-friendly retorts to yourself and just kept dealing with your day. and right before you left work to head home, your headphones died. and typically this wouldn’t be a problem, but today was just so overstimulating that this was the final straw. 

so when you finally reach your shared home, you’re a bit shocked to see Vertias’s shoes by the door. odd, he typically doesn’t arrive home before you. he’s in the kitchen, prepping your favorite meal. he turns around to face you, and you swear the troubles of the day almost wash off. almost. he comes and greets you by the door, pressing a short and sweet kiss on your forehead.

“you’re just in time, my love. i’m almost done cooking your favorite meal for dinner.” he looks over at you, and the tears start ebbing in your eyes. Veritas looks at you, a bit confused.

“what’s wrong, love? talk to me.” he asked.

and the tears let themselves out like an overflowing dam. you rushed into his arms and just cried. Veritas looked down at you and simply held you. sometimes words didn’t need to be exchanged. after a few minutes, your sobs turned into hiccups and then said hiccups subsided just enough for you to talk to your husband. 

“i spilled coffee on myself first thing in the morning, got yelled at by a coworker, forgot my lunch, and then two other coworkers snapped at me for something that wasn’t my fault. you didn’t text me at lunch, either…” you admitted the last part a bit shyly. your husband’s eyes widened a bit. 

“i’m so sorry, my love. i completely was sidetracked at work today and didn’t get to message you before your break was over. but i figured coming home early and prepping your favorite meal would make you feel better. i figured you had a bad day when you walked in. you’re typically much happier and cheery. i was quite concerned. please don’t hold back your feelings from me,” he said. you nodded, and part of you swooned at his words. for an arrogant doctor, he sure did know how to make you feel better. he was so kind and gentle with you, you wondered how his coworkers wouldn’t like him. he leaves your side and puts two plates of food on the kitchen table and grabs your hand and leading you to eat.

“come, my love. let’s eat. and while we eat, you can tell me all about your troubles. it’s the least i can do as your husband.”

he really knows how to make your day better, huh?

©2025 strawbairicake. do not repost, copy, translate, modify, or use for AI.

[camficdiner]

1.6, 2.11, shy/oblivious reader, down bad Mack, 3.6, 4.2👯‍♀️👯‍♀️

☕️ cams fic diner �� order 107

🍒 thank you: to the shy girls who never realize he’s been looking at you like that.to the ones who wear scrubs and blush when he flirts —and finally say yes when he asks, do you feel it too?

💬 “On Your Treatment Plan”

✨ description & prompts:

character: Macklin Celebrini

prompt: 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚋 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍.

tropes: forced proximity, oblivious crush, misread signals

tags: fluff + smut, soft and slow and a little awkward in the best way

smut level: 1.2k

✨🧁🍒🛼

You’re not supposed to notice.

He’s your patient.

He’s technically not yours anymore — his protocol’s nearly over, his mobility’s back, his game clearance imminent — but Macklin still insists on doing his final check-ins with you. You tell yourself it’s professional. That you’re just the most familiar face. That you’re imagining the way he looks at you.

You have to believe that. Because anything else would be…

Unethical.

You don’t see it.

You don’t see the way he watches you when you’re reading over his chart. You don’t notice how he mirrors your posture when you pace the exam room. You definitely don’t realize you’re the reason he wears cologne to rehab sessions now, or why he keeps scheduling extra recovery scans he doesn’t technically need.

You’re too busy worrying about doing something wrong.

Too busy reminding yourself: he’s a pro athlete. You’re the girl with the clipboard. The girl who blushes when he winks. The girl who stammers when she catches him shirtless and sweaty on the treadmill.

You’re not his anything.

Right?

⸻

“You okay?”

It’s a rainy Thursday when it happens.

You’re walking him through final mobility testing, holding a checklist in one hand and a resistance band in the other. He’s on the mat, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You look up. Blink. “What?”

“I said, are you okay?”

You nod, flustered. “Yes. Sorry. I was just—uh—thinking.”

“You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Get lost in your head.”

“I—” You pause. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “It’s cute.”

Cute?

Your heart stutters. You laugh nervously, half shrugging like he didn’t just casually detonate your brain.

He pushes up on his elbows. Sweat clings to his neck. “You never answer me when I flirt with you.”

“You don’t flirt with me.”

His smile grows. “Babe. I flirt with you constantly.”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

“I’m not crazy,” he continues. “You feel it too, right?”

You hesitate. “We shouldn’t.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Your silence says everything.

He exhales slowly, pushing off the mat, walking toward you. “You’re not my doctor anymore after tomorrow.”

“That’s still not—”

“I like you.”

His voice is softer now. Barely there.

“I’ve liked you.”

You finally meet his eyes.

He looks serious.

Hopeful.

And something else you can’t name.

“Say something,” he says.

You blink. “I’m bad at this.”

“I know,” he says, laughing gently. “That’s why I like you.”

⸻

It happens fast.

You don’t remember walking into the empty exam room, just the sound of the door shutting behind you. The quiet click of the lock. The way he caged you against the counter — slow, cautious, still giving you room to say no.

You don’t say it.

His hands cup your face. His thumbs brush your cheeks.

He kisses you once — slow, testing — before deepening it, tugging your hips forward.

Your hands go to his hoodie. His breath stutters when you kiss him back harder.

“Mack—”

“Tell me if you want to stop.”

You shake your head. “Don’t want to.”

That’s all he needs.

He lifts you onto the counter, mouth finding your neck, hands tugging up your scrub top — slow, reverent, warm fingers splaying across your stomach. You feel small beneath his touch. Revered.

“You’re so fucking soft,” he whispers, kissing down your collarbone.

Your legs fall open. He drags your underwear down and groans when he sees how wet you are.

“God,” he mutters, voice dark. “You really didn’t know what you were doing to me?”

You whimper. “No.”

He kisses your thigh, then higher. His mouth is warm and sinful, tongue working you open with practiced control. You clutch the counter, gasping when he moans against you.

You come once like that — wrecked and surprised.

Then he’s standing, pulling his pants down just enough to free himself, stroking his cock slowly while he kisses you again.

“This okay?”

You nod, dazed. “Please.”

He enters you slow, hands trembling.

You exhale on a moan. He swears under his breath.

“You’re perfect,” he says, burying his face in your neck.

His pace is gentle, deep — more feeling than fucking — like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

You wrap your arms around his neck and hold him as you fall apart again.

He finishes not long after — softly gasping your name, whispering thank you against your skin like it’s prayer.

⸻

You lie there a while, still on the counter, your limbs shaking.

Mack kisses your cheek.

“Still think I don’t flirt with you?” he says.

You laugh breathlessly. “I believe you now.”

“You should probably stop being my doctor.”

You nod. “I think we crossed that bridge.”

He grins. “So does that mean I can take you out?”

You pause. Blush. Nod again.

He helps you off the counter like you’re something breakable.

You don’t feel like his rehab specialist anymore.

You just feel like his.

[honne-ga-deru]

? I was already aware of the fraud. You...are aware that there isn't just one piece of research that exists at a time, right? Right?

?? Yes, that's the fundamental basis of literally all fields of science. Hypothesis, research, theory, more research, conclusion and further research. That's what science literally is - proposing a way something works (hypothesis), researching it, applying fundamental truths to your proposal (thesis), then more research, then coming to a "conclusion" which in science actually only means "as far as we know".

You also seem to be confusing psychiatry, which is based on actual science, with psychoanalysis, which is absolutely bullshit some coked-up nutcase that caught traction because it was popular at the time. It has absolutely no bases in science, nor even psychology.

...Again, that's how scientific progression works..."this was factual, until we did research that proved it is not". It's like...entry-level knowledge. Medieval medicine believed that illnesses were caused by imbalances in the humours, because that is, at the time, what was scientifically believed to be true.

What you are doing, essentially, is throwing some kind of weird, anti-scientific tantrum about how "it's egotistical for modern doctors to claim that actually it wasn't correct".

Not that long ago, AIDS was considered to be, factually, a fatal illness. Are you going to cry and whine about how today, doctors can say "we were wrong, because now people with AIDS can live full lives"?

Do you, like, live in some kind of cave? Are you perhaps Mormon? Amish-adjacent? Some kind of sect member from the Children of God cult?

You didn't get my point. Ok. Did you know that the first person who put down the hypothesis that the world was made of atoms lived in ancient Greece and was literally "making shit up" that couldn't be proven for another several hundred years? A hypothesis isn't meant to be backed by hard fact, that's literally what makes the difference between a hypothesis and a theory. Theories are based on fact. A hypothesis is "something i think could be true, and i will do research to either prove or disprove" which is, again, how literally all fields of science work. Including chemistry, geology, biology, and yes, psychology.

Psychiatry also bases a lot of research on visible evidence. Hence why i mentioned neuropsychiatrists...the reason we know what chemicals to use in drugs at all is because of neuropsychiatric work. Like without neuropsychiatrists we wouldn't know that, like, people with ADHD tend to be emotionally more vulnerable to extremes because the biggest part of the loss of neurological connection (visible through very simple scans of brain wave electricity patterns) is in the frontal cortex, which is where the emotional center of the brain is. All that is psychiatric work, and is essential to their job and to pharmaceutical progress as well as progress in understanding how mental illnesses develop in the brain.

There's cognitive behavioural therapy (personally helped me, who has chronic depression, go from having a panic attack a week to going nearly a whole year without one), psychoeducative apps, therapy via gaming/virtual exposure therapy (which has shown excellent results in helping people with alzheimer's and PTSD, the first by encouraging brain activity and the second by helping them seperate fiction from reality via games), mindfulness (which doesn't work well with all pathologies, especially ADHD, but mindfullness helped me overcome my anger problems), neurofeedback/micro-current neuromodulation...

I don't know what your personal issue is, but you're clearly just burnt out from seeing shit psychs. My current psych helped me better control my ADHD symptoms without me always needing my meds, helped me get over my dependency on said meds and I've become more self-confident and less anxious. None of it was through meds, but by a mix and match of some of the therapies I've mentionned.

It's cute and all that you're so adamant it doesn't work, but many people, including me, were able to live better thanks to psychiatric help. There is no cure for mental illness, you just learn to handle to symptoms as best you can. Like i am genetically predisposed to depression. Sometimes I get depressed and have panic attacks. But instead of lasting a whole week like it used to, through therapy and specifically cognitive behavioural therapy, my panic attacks will only last about an hour or so before I realise I'll actually be fine.

Ultimately, you sound like a very bitter person who just needs someone to blame. Instead of blaming the terrible psychiatrists you've probably seen, you're blaming the entire job, which is literally what Scientologist founder Hubbard did when he didn't get the diagnosis he wanted. So. There's that.

The psychiatric project really loves imprisoning and forcibly drugging people so I can't exactly say I'm a fan and yet from a purely knowledge-seeking perspective I think it's undeniably the most serious project for understanding the way the human mind can be harmful to itself. Like this is not to say it's GOOD at this job, it is bad at this job. But it is BETTER at this job than academic psychology, or the psychoanalysis of old, or more literary critique style analysis, etc. The competition is not stiff!

[bunnylives]

Hi, i hope i'm not bothering you too much, i just really like when you yap about your work and your visions, so I am just curious. I remember you started to create a drama love triangle between Fernando, Lance and Esteban and you said that some of Lance's kids are from Fernando and some from Esteban, so I am curious do you have a vision of how their kids look? Or if you have some headcanons about their kids? I am just so invested in this bizarre love triangle and i loved when you posted your visions of Carlos' kids with his lovely omega wifes, so I am highly interested in your thoughts.

So in my au Lance got to marry Fernando literally as a present for his 18th birthday. I know it's messy to literally buy an alpha for your little omega son but hey Lawrence wants to give everything to his little princess Lancey. Now when it was announced on Lance's birthday that he gets THE Fernando Alonso as a husband, the icon that has been plastered from magazine cutouts and posters on his wall, the one he was his first ever star crush Lance wanted to jump out of his skin both from joy and embarrassment. He thought nothing could top having the Jonas Brothers perform at his bar mitzvah on the scale of public embarrassment but he was wrong. The problem is that his father loves him so much he'd give him anything Lance wanted even if he didn't ask for. And this was at the top of that chart. Not only that but him and Esteban were secretly dating behind the scenes, their little puppy love just taking off and now it could never come to fruition because Lance was basically sold off into or well an alpha was sold off into marrying him. Lance was far too embarrassed at the moment to ask his father to stop the celebration and he was reserved to awkwardly fiddle with his dress and stare at his fingers or the wall or anywhere but at Esteban across the room just as shocked as he was. Lance tried to ask his father to call off the wedding afterwards, which felt like pure torture being in a salon with his parents and the star world-champion alpha they just paid off to marry him but it was to no avail. Both of his parents deemed alonso a better fit for Lance than Esteban ever could be considering his background and prospects.

Alonso wasn't the nicest of alphas back then mind you, he had his own agenda and ailments. The omegas he loved and\or had his children all kept it under the radar and married different alphas as if he was some sort of embarrassment to them and he was sick and tired of not being proudly showed off as he deserved, and hey he could play the good guy and step up to defend Ocon, he himself came from nothing, but why would he blow such a good deal away just to be fucking nice? He gets paid a handsome amount, has job security for life, gets his fair share from the family fortune and gets to marry a young gorgeous although still gangly and pimply little omega heiress. Sure Lance was an awkward teenager but he would grow into his features and grow out of that embarrassing behaviour of his. And it wasn't like Alonso signed a deal for complete loyalty, if he wanted to he could still roam the town like the hound dog he was. He just had to put a baby in Lancey and all was good, his husbandly duties done and dealt with.

So that's what he did on the honeymoon. Fernando Jr was a healthy strong alpha boy born 2017 and everything Fernando wanted. A child he can show to the world that it was his own born out of a legitimate marriage. He loved his other children too, God knows he did, but Jr was something special and he was so delighted by him he actually started falling for that annoying little tart that was the mother of his son. Lance was a beauty pregnant and freshly after giving birth and not even God could have held him back from putting another baby in him as soon as the doctor approved and Sephora was born in 2018.

Now Alonso realized he was growing soft on Lance. Every time the boy would say he loved him Alonso would get cold feet and try to somehow avoid answering, as if saying it back would make him a lesser man. All he could think about when Lance said those words were the times Alonso himself got left hanging or worse laughed at when he said them in the past. Michael was his icon, his idol when he was Lance's age and when he got to actually bed the world champion omega back in the day, he was over the moon with emotion and kept telling him he loved him without any filter, which amused Michael thoroughly and he kept calling him a silly boy for it. Even though he gave him a son, Michael still would never say it back. Nor would Kimi, no matter how many times Alonso begged him to, no matter how many children they had together. Jenson would say it, but only to humor him, and that somehow hurt worse, so Alonso didn't dare to utter them again, which of course made their young marriage bed grow cold. Hence why it was a surprise when Gabriel, another alpha boy was born in 2020 when the months couldn't have possibly added up to make Fernando the father and they both knew it. Lance didn't say anything at first but Alonso noticed how Lance's old puppy love loomed around him, Ocon not even subtle when he was holding the child in his arms that bore Alonso's last name but Esteban's eyes. Two years later in 2022 Delilah, an omega girl was born already in France to Lance and Alonso thought enough was enough, sure he didn't say he loved Lance and he himself fucked around but his wife bearing children to some other alpha was seriously pissing him off.

Levi, an omega son, was born in 2024, bearing all of Fernando's charm and could never be questioned on who his daddy is. As retaliation, Lance is currently pregnant with Emmanuel, another omega son but to Ocon this time, and he'll be due in December of 2025.

So currently Lance has five babies with one on the way but he'll have four more: Eli, from Alonso, Electra from Ocon, Estèe again from Alonso and Isaac from Ocon. A total of ten kids with five being from Fernando and five from Esteban, and they have the strangest but considering the circumstances on the grid the most well balanced love/hate triangle.

Sorry for yapping so much lmao it's just really fun to explain

[summerhalder]

why are you pretending to be sad about grigor everyone knows you guys are just happy jannik won a match he rightfully should have lost

well anon, let me tell you something. I'm a doctor. i operate on and rehabilitate patients with muscle tears, ligament tears, and other injuries on the daily. i've lived through my own injuries. i know what it's like to be in that position all too well, and it is horrible. as soon as it happened it was quite clear to me what had happened but i was hoping that for once I'd be wrong because no one, NO ONE but especially not someone who has chronically suffered from injuries, deserves this. was i sad jannik was losing? yes. but even though it would pass like a kidney stone it would have passed and it would have been an extremely deserved win for grigor. so no, I'm not happy, no one is. no one should have to forfeit a match like this. it's truly unfortunate what happened and instead of spending your energy pointlessly baiting people, please consider using it to wish someone a speedy recovery.

[junplusone]

don't lie! a svt interactive series | ROUND 3

chapter warnings: language, main character death chapter word count: 2.2k

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[The bar is deathly silent. What little trust there may have been in the air is immediately evaporated. Nobody knows who is voting for who. Any of the eleven left could be next.]

“THE DISCUSSION PERIOD HAS NOW CONCLUDED. PLAYER 009, A CIVILIAN, HAS BEEN ELIMINATED.”

[The color drains from MINGYU’s face. He looks towards 002 and SEOKMIN, who are equally stunned. Yet they are powerless. The game is a force in and of itself. It cannot be stopped.]

002: What? This is an error, right?

009 | MINGYU, to 002: Jeonghan hyung…

010 | SEOKMIN, angrily: Are you guys happy now? Why would you think it was a good idea to listen to Soonyoung, when he was throwing out accusations left and right?

009 | MINGYU: Guys, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I dragged us here. We should have turned around and left, Seokmin, you were right. I’m so sorry.

010 | SEOKMIN: No, Gyu, it’s not your fault. Please don’t apologize. Please.

[SOONYOUNG himself is shocked into silence. He sits motionlessly, staring at MINGYU. However, he only sees JIHOON in his mind’s eye.]

005 | SOONYOUNG: It can’t be. It had to have been him.

010 | SEOKMIN: Well, you were fucking wrong! 

[A loud bang! interrupts the conversation. SEOKMIN flinches violently at the sound that indicates that his friend is no more. JEONGHAN keeps his eyes screwed shut, tears beginning to gather at his lash line. SOONYOUNG still hasn’t moved an inch.]

010 | SEOKMIN, in tears: I’m going to be so surprised if he’s not the mafia. There’s no way, right? He got Mingyu voted off! A civilian.

008 | MINGHAO: We’ll have time to discuss this later. But it’s something to keep in mind, for sure.

[Everyone is clearly wary of SOONYOUNG. There is only one player who seems utterly confused by this chain of events, but he remains silent for now.]

“NIGHT HAS FALLEN. EVERYONE, LOWER YOUR HEADS.”

002 | JEONGHAN: Maybe this is just a bad dream. Maybe I’ll get chosen, and I’ll get shot by the laser, and I’ll wake up back in my own bed. Everything will be just fine.

004 | JUNHUI: Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen. But I really do wish you were right.

“MAFIA, RAISE YOUR HEADS. ON YOUR DEVICE, SELECT ONE PLAYER YOU WOULD LIKE TO ELIMINATE.”

[Silence. SEOKMIN shudders, murmuring a silent prayer under his breath.]

“MAFIA, LOWER YOUR HEADS. DETECTIVE, RAISE YOUR HEAD AND SELECT ONE PLAYER ON YOUR DEVICE WHOSE IDENTITY YOU WOULD LIKE TO REVEAL.”

[The detective thinks long and hard. After all, a good choice could change the trajectory of the entire game, and a bad one could lead him astray. The detective might be given an additional ability, but he is not more protected than the civilians. At the end of the day, the detective just wants to live.]

“DETECTIVE, LOWER YOUR HEAD. DOCTOR, RAISE YOUR HEAD AND SELECT A PLAYER ON YOUR DEVICE YOU WOULD LIKE TO SAVE.”

[Despite himself, the doctor looks quite troubled. Something is telling him that the same player he chose last round will need his help once more. But the game will not allow it. Resigned, he selects his second choice number and hopes he’s made the right choice.]

“DOCTOR, LOWER YOUR HEAD. MORNING HAS COME. EVERYONE, RAISE YOUR HEADS.”

005 | SOONYOUNG: It’s going to be me. I just know it.

012 | SEUNGKWAN, snarkily: How can it be you? Mafias can’t eliminate each other, remember?

“THE MAFIA HAS ELIMINATED PLAYER 001.”

[Everyone waits with bated breath, for a reaction. SEUNGCHEOL does not show any signs of surprise. He only uncrosses his legs to stretch them out slightly. Only the doctor looks particularly surprised at the result.]

001 | SEUNGCHEOL: Ah, well. I knew this was going to happen. 

008 | MINGHAO: Don’t say that.

001 | SEUNGCHEOL: It’s true. I suppose I’ve played too many games, overstayed my welcome. Pity, though. I was kind of hoping to get that ten-day visa out of this game.

[It is somewhat of a sad sight, to see him so resigned. He is here alone. No companion to brave the borderlands with, no brother by his side. Still, he has not come to the end of his life entirely friendless.]

004 | SEUNGCHEOL, to JUNHUI: Anyways, thanks for saving my ass during that last game. Didn’t think I’d see you again here. But I’m glad you’re alive.

004 | JUNHUI, tearing up: Thank you. I hope you know it took every ounce of strength in my body to hold you up from falling.

[SEUNGCHEOL laughs.]

001 | SEUNGCHEOL: I appreciate it. You too, Xu Minghao. I hope you guys find a way out of here, whatever it is.

[It does not matter that JUNHUI and MINGHAO have seen many, many deaths before now. It is still difficult to witness. They bow their heads as the laser shoots through the ceiling and takes SEUNGCHEOL’s life with it. JUNHUI presses his face into his dear friend’s shoulder, unable to watch the scene that unfolds in front of him.]

“EVERYONE, YOUR THIRTY MINUTE DISCUSSION PERIOD BEGINS NOW.”

008 | MINGHAO: I hate it here. I hate these stupid, heartless games.

005 | SOONYOUNG: Me, too.

002 | JEONGHAN: How could you say such a thing immediately after targeting an innocent man and having him killed?

005 | SOONYOUNG, on the verge of tears: I didn’t mean to! I really, really thought it was him!

010 | SEOKMIN: Clearly, your hunch wasn’t enough proof!

006 | WONWOO: Guys, please. Let’s not yell.

012 | SEUNGKWAN: So, who are we voting for? Soonyoung?

005 | SOONYOUNG: Guys, it’s really not me! Trust me!

[Everyone stares at each other carefully. There are only two players who seem sure of themselves.]

008 | MINGHAO: First, can we go around saying our roles, just to be sure everyone is what they say they are?

012 | SEUNGKWAN: And what are you?

008 | MINGHAO: I’m a civilian.

004 | JUNHUI: Me, too.

003: Okay, I’m just going to say this now, then. I’m the doctor.

002 | JEONGHAN: Wait, what? I’m the doctor.

011 | VERNON: You’re lying, aren’t you? Joshua’s the doctor, I trust him.

006 | WONWOO: I’m confused.

012 | SEUNGKWAN: And do we still not know who the detective is?

010 | SEOKMIN: Dude, why would the detective reveal himself? 003’s life is already at stake after whatever he just said.

002 | JEONGHAN: No, Seokmin, it’s not. Because I’m the doctor, and he isn’t. He’s clearly lying. Just look at him!

003 | JOSHUA, incredulous. Are you crazy? I am the doctor! I even chose to save you in the first round!

004 | JUNHUI: Guys, let’s just be clear about this. Please. 

003 | JOSHUA: I’m trying, but this crazy guy is claiming to be the doctor instead of me! What am I supposed to even do?

002 | JEONGHAN: Oh, wait. Sorry, guys. I’m actually the pharmacist. I got the roles mixed up.

[Everybody stops and stares at him in complete silence. When they speak again, all hell breaks loose.]

004 | JUNHUI: Are you actually crazy?

012 | SEUNGKWAN: What the hell does that mean? Pharmacist?

006 | WONWOO: Such a role doesn’t even exist in this game, or the rules would have said it. He’s obviously lying.

002 | JEONGHAN: No, it’s real. I swear!

012 | SEUNGKWAN: So who are we supposed to vote for now? This lunatic, or Soonyoung?

008 | MINGHAO: Well, Soonyoung is also a lunatic.

005 | SOONYOUNG, in desperation: I swear it’s not me, guys. I swear!

008 | MINGHAO: See? Lunatic.

004 | JUNHUI: For me, I think I’m suspicious of Soonyoung, and then players 002 and 006.

[The final addition is an unexpected statement. JUNHUI turns heads with his sentence.]

006 | WONWOO: Huh?

008 | MINGHAO, intrigued: Wait, why 006?

004 | JUNHUI: I don’t know, I just have a feeling. You don’t have to take everything I say for granted, you know.

008 | MINGHAO, gently: No, it’s not like that. I just asked because there’s a clear reason why the other two are suspicious, but not him.

004 | JUNHUI: Again, just a feeling.

[MINGHAO ponders this for a while, and then turns to everyone else. He observes the room with his shrewd eyes, darting from player to player, until something dawns on him suddenly.]

008 | MINGHAO, with newly equipped information: Ah, okay. I’ve made my choice now.

012 | SEUNGKWAN: Well, it can’t be Wonwoo hyung. I’m betting on either of these two.

002 | JEONGHAN: I’m really a pharmacist! I already told you!

003 | JOSHUA: I’m so confused, I don’t even know who I’m supposed to believe right now.

004 | JUNHUI: I’m just saying 006 as a suggestion. Like I said, none of you have to believe me. I’m not asking you to.

012 | SEUNGKWAN: Okay, we get it! It’s just a feeling! You already said this so many times, stop repeating what we already know!

[SEOKMIN has clearly had enough of the confusion. He stands up, taking hold of JEONGHAN’s wrist and pulling him to the side, where they can speak freely between them.]

010 | SEOKMIN: Hyung, what are you doing? You told me you were a civilian!

002 | JEONGHAN: I am!

010 | SEOKMIN: But you said you’re the doctor, and now you’re on about some made-up role nobody knows of. Why are you lying?

[JEONGHAN raises an eyebrow.]

002 | JEONGHAN: Lying? Who said I’m lying?

APPROXIMATELY ONE AND A HALF HOUR AGO:

[JEONGHAN sits patiently beside SEOKMIN, waiting for the roles to be assigned. This will be fun, he thinks. He likes games. His screen suddenly flashes with words, capturing his attention, and he reads them carefully.]

SECRET ROLE: PHARMACIST

FACTION: UNCLEAR

ABILITY: AS THE TOWN’S PHARMACIST, YOU HAVE A STORE OF PRESCRIPTION DRUGS AT YOUR DISPOSAL. EACH NIGHT, YOU MAY CHOOSE TO USE A PILL ON A PLAYER OF YOUR CHOICE. THIS WILL RESULT IN THE PLAYER’S ABILITY BEING BLOCKED, IF ANY. YOU MUST MAKE YOUR CHOICE BETWEEN THE END OF THE VOTING PERIOD AND NIGHTFALL. YOU MAY ALSO CHOOSE TO REFRAIN FROM USING THE PILL IF YOU WISH TO DO SO.

PROHIBITED ACTIONS: YOU MAY ONLY USE THE PILL ON EACH PLAYER ONCE.

[An interesting turn of events. JEONGHAN wonders if anyone else might be aware that this role exists. He wants nothing more than to tell SEOKMIN and MINGYU, but he knows he cannot.]

002 | JEONGHAN, to himself: ‘Remember, things may not always be as they seem.’ How interesting.

PRESENT TIME:

010 | SEOKMIN: Okay. Okay, I got it. But unless you reveal this to everyone, they’re going to try and vote you off. They’re already kind of suspicious of you.

002 | JEONGHAN: Hey, it’s alright. It’ll be fine.

010 | SEOKMIN: It’s not fine! Hyung, I… can’t. I can’t lose you too. 

002 | JEONGHAN: You won’t, Seokmin. 

010 | SEOKMIN: I can’t do this alone. I can’t keep playing these games alone. I’m not strong enough on my own.

002 | JEONGHAN: You know, Seokmin, I’ve always thought this. You’re a lot stronger than you let yourself believe.

[The clock has only got ten minutes left to it. The others are still deliberating on who needs to get voted off.]

012 | SEUNGKWAN: I’m sorry, I still can’t ignore the fact that Soonyoung had an innocent man voted off purely based on a hunch.

005 | SOONYOUNG: I don’t know how many more times I need to say it’s not me! I’m just a civilian!

011 | VERNON: Why are you so sure it’s Soonyoung? I get why you might suspect him, but we also have two other mafias to think about it. There’s no concrete evidence pointing to him.

012 | SEUNGKWAN: Mingyu dying wasn’t concrete evidence to you?

004 | JUNHUI, quietly: Does nobody else seriously think 006 is even a little off?

003 | JOSHUA: He could be. He hasn’t spoken much this entire time.

011 | VERNON: Well, isn’t that why 007 got voted off? And he was innocent, wasn’t he?

[JUNHUI throws VERNON a vexed glance that only MINGHAO seems to understand.]

012 | SEUNGKWAN, to JUNHUI: Why are you so keen on Wonwoo hyung, anyways? Isn’t Soonyoung the obvious answer?

004 | JUNHUI, irritated: I already said I’m not asking you to agree with me! That’s just what I think! Am I not allowed to have an opinion?

008 | MINGHAO, quietly: Jun, calm down. I trust you. But even if you think you’re right, you can’t afford to start an argument now. Or you’ll be the one who gets voted off.

[JUNHUI huffs in frustration, but he knows MINGHAO is right. Slowly, JEONGHAN and SEOKMIN return to the center table. The clock shows only a few minutes left.]

012 | SEUNGKWAN: You’re all messing with my head. I don’t know who to vote for.

005 | SOONYOUNG: I’m really not it, guys. Seriously.

011 | VERNON: Weirdly, the more he talks, the less I think it’s him.

003 | JOSHUA: Are we sure that’s not just a tactic?

008 | MINGHAO: He seems like too much of a lunatic to care about tactics, don’t you think?

[The buzzer sounds like a death bell when the clock is finally up. JUNHUI sighs heavily, leaning into MINGHAO for support. His eyes are zeroed in on one player with a firm conviction. Meanwhile, SOONYOUNG can only pray that he lives to see the next round, and JEONGHAN hopes that his harmless lie has not cost him his life.]

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