#caffeine can medicate adhd

[karamazovdmitri]

starting 2024 by cooking up a nicotine addiction

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Exploring the possibility that my adhd might not be my brain being entirely broken, but might just be a norepinephrine deficit and I might need to switch meds

[depresseddepot]

coffee is a fucking miracle. I'm so glad I'm one of the people with adhd that caffeine affects like medication

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

I went five days without my adhd medication (I was waking up waaaay too late to take something that could maybe negatively impact my sleep. I already struggle with insomnia. I’m not giving my sleep meds any disadvantage) but today I woke up earlier (by comparison) and I’m vibrating. It will be normal again tomorrow, but I hate when I first take it after missing at least a day. My body decides that I need to speed run my day before it gets normal about it

Me, once again, having missed a few doses before this one, experiencing this:

[somecunttookmyurl]

a fun and fucked up fact about me is that when i was in sixth form (16-18), approximately 10 years prior to being diagnosed ADHD, i drank SO MUCH store brand energy drink that 2 things happened

1) It became such an obvious and well known Thing about me that my tutors started putting "too much red bull can kill you" news articles on the walls. These were not present in rooms I didn't have classes in. It was not a college-wide initiative. That was for me, specifically. Nobody said it but we all knew.

2) Several friends suggested, in all seriousness, I contact the Guinness Book of Records to set a record for "most caffeine consumed with no physical effect" after I had 3x 1 litre bottles in about an hour and my heart rate was still exactly the same and nothing about my demeanour had changed at all. Meanwhile Ryan had 1 bottle and was physically vibrating. Because he's normal.

(I didn't do it because it would require having a medical professional present the whole time to verify and like absolutely nobody with a medical degree is going to do that in good conscience)

[alexaloraetheris]

On the subject of being your own zookeeper, I've been trying it out and it WORKS. One of the obvious ways is to ask 'Have I watered/fed/medicated the beast?' and take care of those needs, and it's great, but another thing I haven't seen mentioned is the Stressors.

So, being a bio grad student, means I also know actual zoologists and zookeepers. And talking with one blew my third eye open. One of the questions the zookeeper always, ALWAYS needs to keep an eye on is 'What is stressing the beast out, and how can I remove it?'

In human terms, it's basically 'This thing is causing me a minor amount of stress, but stress is cumulative, so how many small stressors can I remove so the Big Stress doesn't drain so much of my energy?'

Say you're stressing about an exam/interview/visitors. There's ways to prepare for that, but before you get to that point you also need to look out for small stressors that add to the overall feeling of stress, and the goal is to reduce them FIRST.

Example: You have a big test and it's the day you need to take it. You are already baseline anxious about taking it, and the goal here is to stress as little as possible on the way to school.

You can't eat breakfast because you're late/nauseous? Keep small energy bars in your purse, snack on the way. Gives you a bit of sugar for your brain, doesn't take up time and always on hand. Haven't had time for coffee? Caffeine pills/espresso chocolates. It's cold/raining? Ditch your sneakers and wear rain boots and a warm coat, worry about fashion later. I even carry around a foldable cushion so I can sit while I wait for the bus without freeting my butt off. Haven't had time to brush your teeth? Gum, mints, breath fresheners. Nervous? Fidget toys. Worried about losing an umbrella? Get one of those plastic sleeves so you can put it in your purse even if it's wet. Too damn hot? Mini fan, or even a folding paper fan. Noise level grating on your nerves? Silicone earplugs, or noise-cancelling earbuds/headphones. (I have a big purse I carry all this stuff in so I don't forget, a blessing with ADHD)

Things like that. Small things to mitigate the microstressors so you arrive to your destinations with as little misery as possible.

Apply that to the rest of your life. You have to eat vegetables for your health but you hate them so damn much? Find a way to prepare them in a way that doesn't make you gag. I just throw a bag of frozen pre-chopped veggies in the pan and then throw in spices I like. If I can taste the vegetables in my veggie stir-fry, I haven't seasoned them enough.

Make little medicine bag, the size of your palm. I carry nasal degongestant spray, ibuprofen, eye drops, mini bug spray, a pad and a tampon, a few alcohol wipes and hand cream. Those tiny tester tubes of hand cream? A godsend. Adjust to your needs.

I hate washing dishes. Back hurts and my skin literally peels off my hands from the dryness. Get a bar stool and sit, wear WELL FITTED dish gloves. I got those that go all the way up my elbows in S size and now my kitchen doesn't look like a disaster.

Vacuuming is a pain? Handheld vacuum cleaner you can push around for 15 minutes every day. Expensive? Get a broom and a good dustpan. I emphasize GOOD because it does make a difference. Back hurts if you bend over? Get the dustpan with a long handle.

It's amazing how much difference it makes. Neutralize Murphy's law. A bunch of small stuff going wrong will absolutely tank your energy you need for the big stuff.

TL;DR Identify the things that cause you daily stress, find easy ways to neutralize them. Save your energy for the big stuff. There is nothing noble in suffering. Take care of your zoo animal.

And if you need it, ask for help. Zookeepers often work in pairs.

[bedheaded-league]

I really feel like any modern adaptation of Holmes that has him suffer from exactly the same type of drug addiction he has in canon is missing a really big point: Holmes had bipolar disorder and likely also ADHD in an era before any meaningful treatment for either of those disorders existed.

I have ADHD and depression and I can absolutely see myself getting addicted to hard drugs if I didn't have access to therapy and medication. Both of these conditions are unbearable to live with unmedicated (or at the very least, bearable until you inevitably burn yourself out and crash spectacularly) and it would have been even worse for someone living before anyone even had a basic understanding of how they worked. Even beyond medication, there are so many ways I've learned to cope with my mental illness that I only know about because these are things that people have been studying about for years and we can openly talk about them now. I've gone to support groups for depression/bipolar and I've found community with other ADHD people, and in both instances I've learned so many helpful things about how to manage my conditions and make my life easier. Holmes had none of that.

Cocaine is his main vice, which makes perfect sense - it's a stimulant. And I love this post by @thehmn, which puts it perfectly:

The way that Holmes' drug use is described makes it very clear that he's not doing cocaine for fun, he's self-medicating. He starts to go crazy if he's bored for too long, which is textbook ADHD. Being bored for any prolonged period with ADHD feels like actual fucking torture.

And the morphine makes sense for his bipolar disorder, since it provides a sense of euphoria - perfect for countering his infamous "black moods." It might also help to quiet his brain.

So with all of this in mind, I just can't imagine that a modern day Holmes, with access to Adderall and mood stabilizers/antidepressants, would have the same reliance on cocaine and morphine. It's possible that he might have had troubles with addiction in the past, but if he hadn't gotten a proper diagnosis/prescription by the time he met Watson, there's no way that any doctor worth their salt wouldn't immediately clock him as undiagnosed ADHD/bipolar and insist he get on proper meds.

That isn't to say he wouldn't still be some sort of an addict, though. I just think his modern day addictions would be different. He would definitely still be a smoker, and I think his main addiction would be caffeine. Instead of Watson despairing over him injecting morphine, it would be Watson watching in horror as Holmes slams back his third energy drink of the day (he has not eaten any real food since a single slice of toast at 6am). His go-to coffee order is a cappuccino with four shots of espresso. He pulls out a large flask at cases and the yarders are like "What the fuck, are you drinking on the job?" And Watson just sighs a very long-suffering sigh and tells them that it's actually Redbull.

[madpunks]

i fucking love you if you're someone with ADHD who can't get proper fucking ADHD meds and medicate with caffeine, nicotine or other non prescription stimulants. so many of us do it without realizing it- you're doing your absolute best and it's not your fault what would actually help you is being held beyond your reach for petty reasons, be it poverty, medication shortages, or professionals refusing to prescribe ADHD meds, the system is doing its best to crush you and grind you into a paste but you are resisting and doing the best that you fucking can. i am sorry you've been put into this mess, but I want you to know that you're not alone and if you have to medicate, you have to medicate. it's worse than being miserable, unmotivated, and unable to function or even fucking move sometimes. i love you. stay strong

[scientia-rex]

I had one of those days where I just had too many feelings to fit inside my skin, and I’ll have to recover from it.

Telling a patient she has breast cancer. Telling a patient she has dementia. Calling a patient at 6:30pm, still sitting at my desk, because even though I finished seeing patients at 5pm, I have work to do. Doing an endometrial biopsy on a patient who may have cancer. Calling a company so I can get the password to a website so I can recredential every three months so my clinic can charge for my work. Working with an assistant on whom I’ve also done an endometrial biopsy. My regular MA is out with COVID. I’m getting a year-end bonus for the first time in my life. Some idiot kid thinks I don’t know how ears work. I saw back to back ADHD patients; one is a trans woman who paused her transition because she can’t afford it. One is a kid who did loops around the exam room chairs the whole time I talked to his mother. His mother was frosty towards me at first because I was running late because I was telling a patient she had breast cancer, and she was crying, and her daughter was crying, and when her partner died of a different cancer last year the hospice workers were homophobic and she’s afraid of hospice. A different idiot kid thinks I don’t know how soap works. The ADHD kid’s mom warmed up to me when she realized I cared and knew what I was talking about. The kid said, “AHEM. What’s up, chicken butt?” I laughed and high fived him. I gave his mom the Vanderbilt forms to assess ADD symptoms across multiple environments. I saw a patient who had a certain air about her that I recognized intimately, and at the end I asked what she did, and she was a doctor, too. I knew it had to be something like that. When I explain medical concepts I aim for lay language, but I can see when people get faintly impatient with me for it, and I’ll add in more and more technical language and see when they start looking confused; she didn’t. I could watch every new patient take in my brightly-colored hair, combined with the utterly forgettable rest of me, all browns and grays and dress slacks and comfortable shoes, because the hair is my one concession to my deep need for attention; in the exam room, I need to recede into the background so the patient can be the focus. Studies have shown that patients don’t like it when doctors disclose that they have the same medical issues. It might seem like bonding, but it shifts the focus away from where it belongs: the patient. That island of time is theirs. The breast cancer patient’s daughter said to me, “Thank you for spending the time with us. I know you didn’t have the time.” And I said, “From each according to their something or other, to each according to their needs. It’s lukewarm Marxism.” I don’t think she heard it all, or took it all in, which was good. I had a migraine that made my head feel three sizes too big with a steady drumbeat of pain despite taking two Ubrelvy, two Aleve, and two Tylenol, plus 100mg of caffeine and a propranolol and a Zofran. You have to disconnect each patient from the next. I can’t bring the breast cancer patient’s grief and heaviness into a room where a little boy is doing hand-stands and telling me silly puns. One of the nurses brought me a sublingual Toradol from a stash—someone’s purse, somewhere—because she wanted me to feel better, and I felt tears stinging my eyes because she cared about me. I couldn’t afford to cry. I just told a woman she has dementia and she doesn’t believe me. I told her to bring her husband to our next visit. I ended my clinic day doing an endometrial biopsy, trying to pass a uterine sound through a stenotic cervix, but I’ve done this before enough times to know to have the set of dilators ready. I dilated her cervix gently but firmly, with the back pressure of the tenaculum, until I could get the sound in, and then I left the sound there while my assistant handed me the sampling pipelle, because if you remove it there’s a good chance the cervix will tighten down again and you’ll have to repeat the dilation. The patient was holding her husband’s hand and chanting to him under her breath, in pain despite the Xanax I gave her.

I’m a doctor. It’s everything to me.

[foone]

on "that sounds like me, do I have ADHD?"

So a thing about ADHD (and probably all mental illnesses, but especially ADHD) is that it doesn't really have any hyper-specific symptoms. Like, it's not like you get ADHD and your elbow turns green, which only happens with ADHD.

ADHD describes a bunch of symptoms, some with shared origins, some which might have different origins, but the important thing to remember is that you can have all those symptoms for reasons other than ADHD.

Time blindness? it can happen to anyone because you got caught up in something. being unable to sit still? it can be caused by any number of physical (and mental!) things, not just ADHD. unable to concentrate? that can happen because of chronic pain, depression, brain fogginess, etc.

So the important thing to remember is that if you see someone (like me) ranting about their ADHD experience, if you identify with that situation, it doesn't necessarily mean you have ADHD.

You might have depression (monopolar or bipolar). or be autistic. or some forms of OCD. or have chronic pain.

Now, by all means, go to a doctor, talk about these symptoms, get tested, get medicated, get therapy, whatever! I'm just saying that you shouldn't jump to ADHD as a definite diagnosis.

ADHD is definitely one of those diagnosis where we drew a circle around some symptoms and said "this is ADHD", if there's no other reason to have those symptoms. Like, if you take a person and keep them awake for 36 hours and feed them a ton of coffee they'll probably act very "ADHD", but it doesn't really mean you need to put them on adderal, even if they're showing a lot of the symptoms of ADHD. You should look for other solutions to their problem, like letting them get some sleep and cutting the caffeine.

And the same is true with ADHD. All the symptoms of ADHD are things that you can have for a bunch of other reasons, many of which can be treated (and treated better!) in other ways.

Depression is a good example: Depressed people can have executive dysfunction issues, trouble concentrating, poor planning, difficulty in finishing things. Would giving them stimulants (like Adderal and Ritalin) help? Maybe somewhat... but it wouldn't help the underlying depression problem! Getting therapy and antidepressants is likely going to be much more effective, since you're treating the condition that is causing the ADHD symptoms. (and if those symptoms don't go away when the depression is cured/managed, maybe they also need stimulants!).

ANYWAY to sum up: Don't worry too much if you see someone with ADHD complaining about something that they do because of ADHD and you go "that's just like me". ADHD isn't that kind of condition, just because you have one or several of the symptoms doesn't mean you have it, you could easily have something else that causes the same or similar symptoms.

And finally: This isn't meant as a thinly-veiled "don't self-diagnose" rant. You go ahead and self-diagnose all you want. I'm just saying that you should consider other possibilities before ADHD, because it may be more effective and easier to treat those conditions than to treat ADHD. (And I say that whether you're self-diagnosing or talking to a doctor: Hopefully your doctor is well-informed enough to know there is a lot of overlap between symptoms, and will ask about other possibilities )

[adventuringblind]

Medication Mishaps

Landoscar x Reader

Genre: Fluff and Crack

Summary: When a mix-up in meds leaves her without any, Lando and Oscar are there to her navigate without them.

Warnings:

Notes: for @norizznorris. Sorry I don't do male readers! Regardless, I hope this is what you wanted! :)

Side Note: This one made me laugh the entire time while writing it. My fiancé is unmedicated and very high on the ADHD spectrum. Every day is an adventure!

Masterlist // Request Form // My Website // buy me a Ko-Fi

Ah, the joys of being neurodivergent. When somehow the world is to much and simultaneously to little. When the nagging impulsive thoughts and continues need for caffeine aren't enough, then the interests that lay dormant for years come back swinging; upset they've been neglected for so long.

Medication helps. Which - of course it does - it's engineered brain chemicals in the form of a chalky pill designed to help someone function in a world where only one kind of brain is excepted. It's better than it was, the world has come further in recent years.

yet here she is, taking her last pill from the bottle. A little piece in her cries knowing she'll have to go pick up her new meds today. The pharmacy feels like to much and she'd rather lay in bed and give into the executive dysfunction. Then she remembers she's flying with Lando and Oscar to their race tomorrow.

With that thought in mind, she groans and hauls herself out of bed. The boys are doing factory work today and won't be back until later. Plenty of time to come home and waste away the hours in bed and pray her energy comes back.

~~~~~

She lied to herself earlier. Any optimism for the day has just disappeared.

"What do you mean you don't have my meds?"

"There was a mix-up with the orders, but we'll have them in a few days." The pharmacist gives her a sheepish smile.

She just sighs and turns on the balls of her feet. How she's going to tell her boys, she has no idea yet. The insecurity of them not wanting her around the paddock because of in burns in the back of her mind.

She still has today at least. Maybe she'll just ride it out and not tell them.

That plan fails miserably the second they walk into the flat. The sight of her visibly distressed on the couch alerts them that something is wrong.

The sit down on either side of her. The question trying to escape their mouths. She beats them to it. "There was a mix-up with my meds. I won't have them until after we get back."

"And we'll help you manage, yeah? You'd do the same for us."

"Lan... she has done the same for you, like, daily."

"Rude!"

~~~~~

Sometimes, she's convinced she lives on a different planet entirely. Like the brain and body she has are simply not meant to be here and there must have been a mistake with the storks.

Lando hands her a Redbull, courtesy of Max since he has to many. "I figured this might help?" Seeing as she nearly just threw hands with whoever was chewing unnecessarily loudly, caffeine might help.

She looks at Lando and Oscar, between the three of them, there are seven drinks. Only one of which is the Aussie's. "Oscar is being boring again."

the man in question huffs. "Water is good for you."

"But it's wretched to taste sometimes."

Lando nods at her in agreement. "See Oscar, boring."

"Nothing is ever boring with you two."

~~~~~

The beginning wasn't bad. Not like it is right now with her brain only wanting to do one specific things, she hasn't remember to eat since early this morning, and the tag on her shirt makes her want to pull her skin off.

Oscar looks at her curled up in his drivers room with a horrendous amount of care and sympathy. He slots in next to her and leans his head against the wall. "Hard day?"

"I need like - five pounds of dino nuggies and a nap."

"Anything I can do to help right now? We'll work on food when Lando is done."

She curls up in Oscar's lap like a cat. The lack of regulated sleep finally catching up to her. She's on the verge of sleep when Lando busts through the door yelling about something.

She throws a pillow at him in annoyance. "You owe me food."

Lando pauses. "That sounds brilliant."

Oscar shakes his head in defeat later that night as Lando gradually sneaks food off her plate and pretends they can't see him. If he's not caught then it didn't happen and Jon can't get mad at him.

~~~~~

She hasn't stopped talking with Lando for the last two hours. What exactly they've been going on about, she has no idea at this point. Their original conversation led to rabbit trails and other distractions that got in the way. The original story now long forgotten as they discuss the possibilities for new shoes.

Her phone dings, an automated message alerting her to her refilled meds. She shows Lando in excitement. The joys of functioning like a human again are nearly in her grasp.

Lando and Oscar both look at her in amusement. The latter has been using their conversation as an excuse to read. He sets his book down, a look she hasn't seen before crossing his features.

"Have you ever thought what it would be like if you didn't have to take meds?"

Lando shoots him a nasty glare. "Oi, she can't help-"

"Not what I meant." The Aussie crashes onto the bed with them, book now tucked away. "I just mean that having a different kind of brain shouldn't be such a difficult thing for the world to cope with. But the second someone is different-" He looks at Lando. "-Like they struggle with reading or processing information." Then he turns to her. "Or they struggle to with focusing and sensory things. They are ready to create some kind of fix to make those brains work like theirs." The genuine concern and sadness from him is almost heartbreaking.

"In a perfect world, yes. For now though, I think me and Lando can both settle for having someone who cares as much as you do."

"Just wish I could do more."

Lando hums and, quite literally, rolls over onto Oscar. "Just like our best is enough, so is yours."

"However, if the world could provide me with free drinks, I wouldn't be complaining."

Oscar chuckles and drags her closer despite Lando's weight on him. "I'll make a note of it for when I become ruler of the world."

"You never said you were planning that!"

"It's been my secret plan this whole time."

"... It's always the quiet ones."

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #05 死

† medical emergencies †

"There's something ironic about learning to stitch wounds while he's sitting there half-naked, making your heart do things that probably need medical attention. But hey, at least if you stab yourself with the needle, there's a doctor in the house."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 7,5k

rating: mature

content: V being a menace, worried Chaewon, slaps, stitching practice, getting to know the medical chief aka J-Hope, shirtless stormy men and sexual tension.

☠ author's note ☠

DISCLAIMER TIME! I am not, in fact, a medical student. Shocking, I know. My knowledge of medical procedures comes entirely from watching too much House M.D. and falling down WebMD rabbit holes at 3 AM. So if any actual medical professionals are reading this... I am begging you to suspend your disbelief (；一_一)

I did spend like two hours researching stuff though! That counts for something, right? RIGHT? The things I do for accuracy, I swear. My browser history probably has me on several watch lists by now. Between this and the weapons research for chapter 3... Yeah, I'm definitely getting flagged somewhere (◎_◎;)

BUT ONTO THE GOOD STUFF! Ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between, please welcome our resident grumpy doctor to the stage! My love, my light, the medical chief himself - Jung Hoseok! What are we thinking? Because I'm lowkey living for his whole "I hate everyone but I'll still patch you up while cursing your existence" vibe.

Fun fact: I totally channeled my inner Dr. McCoy from Star Trek for his character. If you know, you know. And if you don't know... well, Spirk are my space parents and Bones is their bratty child. This is the hill I will die on. Do not @ me.

We've still got so many characters to properly introduce though! Remember that info dump in chapter 2? Yeah, we're gonna actually explore all of those personalities. Your girl's got PLANS.

Also, this chapter turned out way longer than expected but like... more content for you guys? You're welcome? I think? Look, my ADHD brain knows no word limits. It's either 500 words or 5000, there is no in between.

Anyways, hope you enjoy this one! Your comments fuel my questionable life choices and enable my caffeine addiction. Much love! (｡♥‿♥｡)

Caffeine addiction can only do so much. Stay tuned! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧​​​​​​​

⚔ socials ⚔

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⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You can't help but roll your eyes as V carries you through the castle like some damsel in distress. His confidence borders on cocky as he navigates the maze-like hallways, cradling you against his chest like you're made of glass. Which you're definitely not.

"Any chance we can skip this knight-in-shining-armor bit and just let me limp my way there?" You grumble, acutely aware of how your ankle throbs with each of his steps. "I promise I won't sue if I faceplant."

V's laugh rumbles through his chest. "And rob myself of playing the dashing hero? I don't think so, love."

His grin is infuriatingly charming as he spirals down another identical-looking hallway. The air smells like industrial cleaner and... cinnamon? You wrinkle your nose, trying to place that oddly familiar scent.

"You do know where you're going, right? Or should I start worrying that we're hopelessly lost?" Your tone is dry enough to kindle a fire as V makes yet another right turn. At this rate, you'll end up back where you started.

"I could navigate this place blindfolded," V assures you with a theatrical wink. "Just thought we'd enjoy the scenic route together."

"Scenic... sure." You emphasize each word with as much sarcasm as you can muster. But dammit, there's something about his playful banter that tugs at the corners of your mouth. You bite the inside of your cheek, determined not to give him the satisfaction of making you smile.

You shift slightly in V's arms, trying to find a position that doesn't make your ankle scream. Each movement is a lovely reminder of how you got into this mess in the first place. t̶h̶a̶n̶k̶s̶ ̶J̶e̶o̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶a̶s̶s̶h̶o̶l̶e̶

The castle halls are alive with activity, but everything seems to pause as V carries you through. Other members stop and stare, probably wondering why one of the most dangerous men in Kkangpae is playing nurse. Their whispers follow you like shadows.

"If you're trying to show off your navigation skills, I should mention we've passed that painting three times now." You eye him skeptically.

"Bold of you to assume I'm trying to impress you." His grin never wavers. "Though I'm flattered you think I'd go to such lengths."

The silence that follows feels loaded. This little detour isn't just about getting you to medical—it's about something else. A game, maybe, or a message. With V, it's hard to tell where the performance ends and reality begins.

"So what's the real reason for the scenic route?" You can't help asking. It's weird how safe you feel in his arms, considering he could probably kill you fifteen different ways without breaking a sweat.

"Call it... building rapport." His voice drips honey-sweet mischief. "You're quite the talk of the castle these days. Thought I'd see what all the fuss is about."

A laugh bubbles up before you can stop it. There's something absurdly hilarious about being carried through the gang's headquarters by one of its most lethal members.

"Well, don't get too attached." The words come out lighter than intended. "This doesn't make us friends."

His chuckle vibrates through his chest. "Give it time." When his eyes meet yours, they're dancing with amusement. "Besides, isn't this more fun than limping alone?"

More members pass by, their stares lingering a bit too long. You know tomorrow the castle will be buzzing with gossip about this little parade, but somehow you can't bring yourself to care.

"Fun's one word for it." You crack a smile despite yourself. "But just so we're clear—I'm staying out of whatever's going on between you and Jeon."

Something dark flickers across his face at the mention of Jeon, his thorny aura constricting for just a second before relaxing again.

"Wouldn't expect anything else." There's actual respect in his voice now. "You've got a mind of your own. That's rare around here."

The infirmary door finally comes into view. This weird little moment of almost-friendship hangs in the air between you.

"End of the line." V announces with theatrical flair. "I must say, this has been delightfully entertaining."

The wooden barrier of the infirmary looms ahead, but V shows no signs of letting you down. Before you can voice your protest, he shifts you slightly to pull out his digital card, swiping it with practiced ease. The panel blinks green, and he sweeps through the door like he's making a grand entrance at a red carpet event.

You're starting to feel less like a patient and more like a prop in V's latest dramatic production.

"Not you again, V. Get out of here."

J-Hope doesn't even bother looking up from his paperwork, his voice dripping with the kind of exasperation that only comes from dealing with V's antics on a regular basis.

"But it's an emergency, Hobs!" V's pout is so exaggerated it should come with its own spotlight. "This young lady has been severely injured."

J-Hope finally turns around, giving you a quick once-over before fixing V with an unimpressed stare. "That's what you say every three business days."

"Ah, but this time it's different, I promise." V's grin could charm snakes, but J-Hope seems immune.

"And why exactly should I believe you?" He crosses his arms. "You know I only handle council cases and actual emergencies."

V sets you down on the nearest bed with surprising gentleness, his playful demeanor dimming just slightly. "I know, I know. But look at her ankle. It's swollen like a balloon. I couldn't just leave her hobbling around, could I?"

J-Hope sighs but steps closer to examine your injury. His touch is clinical and professional as he assesses the damage. "Fine. But this is the last time, V. You can't keep using the infirmary as your personal clinic for every damsel you distress."

"Damsel I distress?" V laughs, eyes dancing with mischief. "That's a new one. But I appreciate your assistance, Hobs. You're a true friend."

"Don't 'true friend' me." J-Hope rolls his eyes, gathering his medical supplies. "I'm only doing this because it's my job. And because she actually looks like she needs help, unlike your usual guests."

V lounges against a counter like he owns the place, watching J-Hope gather supplies. "Come on, give me some credit. I do bring real patients sometimes."

"Yeah, once every solar eclipse." J-Hope doesn't even look up from his medical kit. His earthy, sandalwood scent mixes with the sharp hospital smell of the infirmary.

V just shrugs, that playful grin still plastered on his face.

J-Hope finally turns to you, all business now. "Let's check that ankle." Then to V: "Get out."

"Think I'll stick around." V doesn't budge an inch. "Make sure she's in capable hands and all that."

"Right, because you're such an expert on medical care." J-Hope rolls his eyes. "Just admit you're bored and looking for entertainment."

V's laugh bounces off the sterile walls. "Maybe. Or maybe I just care deeply about my fellow gang members' wellbeing."

"Ignore him," J-Hope tells you, voice gentler than you expected from someone who looks perpetually done with everyone's shit. "This might hurt a bit."

You try to focus on J-Hope's treatment, but it's hard with V hovering nearby, his thorny aura filling the room. There's something almost fascinating about watching these two interact—like they can't stand each other but also can't help falling into this familiar pattern of bickering.

It hits you then, sitting on this hospital bed with one of the gang's most dangerous members playing guard dog while the chief medical officer patches you up—you've somehow stumbled right into the middle of Kkangpae's complicated web of relationships. And judging by the way V's still watching everything like a hawk, you're not getting untangled anytime soon.

The quiet of the infirmary shatters when the door slams open with enough force to make you jump. J-Hope doesn't even flinch—probably used to dramatic entrances by now.

Chaewon bursts in looking like she just ran a marathon, panic written all over her face. When she spots you on the bed with J-Hope working on your ankle and V lounging nearby, that panic turns to pure rage.

She doesn't say a word. Just marches straight up to V and slaps him so hard the sound echoes off the sterile walls. V, being V, doesn't even have the decency to look hurt. Just keeps grinning like this is all terribly amusing.

"Wow, you're feisty today, Chaechae." He rubs his cheek, still smiling. The nickname only seems to piss her off more.

"You absolute asshole." Chaewon's practically vibrating with anger. "I let you handle cross-training with my division for one day and someone gets hurt? What the hell, V?"

V throws his hands up, the picture of innocence. "Hey now, this one's not on me. Blame Jeon."

"Jeon?" She scoffs like the very idea is ridiculous. "Yeah, right."

You figure you should probably step in before Chaewon decides to slap V again. Not that he doesn't deserve it, but your division chief shouldn't have to deal with assault charges today.

"Actually..." You clear your throat. "It kind of was Jeon. I mean, technically it was my fault."

Everyone turns to stare at you. Even J-Hope pauses his ankle-wrapping to raise an eyebrow.

"I tried to ambush him," you explain, heat creeping up your neck. "There were these weird noises in the forest, then footsteps, and I thought maybe it was an enemy or something. Turned out to be Jeon. And then we found out it was all just V's paintball game."

Chaewon's anger dims a little as she looks at you, but when she turns back to V, there's still plenty of bite in her voice. "Paintball? Again? Are you actually five years old?"

"Guilty." V's grin gets wider, if that's even possible. "But you have to admit, it keeps things interesting around here."

"Can we focus on the actual patient?" J-Hope cuts through the tension, sounding like he's one dramatic moment away from throwing everyone out. "You can kill each other later, preferably not in my infirmary."

Chaewon's shoulders drop a little, but you can still see worry lines creasing her forehead as she moves closer to your bed. Her presence feels protective, almost maternal—which is weird considering she can't be that much older than you.

"You okay?" She asks softly, then shoots V a glare that could melt steel. "I should've known better than to let them handle cross-training. Especially those two."

V just keeps grinning like this is the most entertaining show he's watched all week. He steps back, giving Chaewon space, but you notice he doesn't actually leave. Probably hoping for more drama.

"It's fine," you try to sound reassuring. "Just a sprain. Could've happened to anyone."

Chaewon's face says she's not buying it. The look she gives you reminds you of when your mom knew you were lying about doing your homework. Meanwhile, V's just chilling against the wall, watching everything unfold like it's his personal Netflix series.

J-Hope works on your ankle in silence, occasionally muttering what sounds like curses under his breath. The infirmary fills with an awkward mix of Chaewon's worried sighs, J-Hope's grumpy instructions, and V's unhelpful commentary about proper ankle-wrapping technique that makes J-Hope's eye twitch.

"There." J-Hope finally sits back, your ankle wrapped tight in elastic bandage. "Nothing serious, but you need to rest. Keep it elevated above your heart, keep the compression on. Should be fine in a couple weeks."

Your stomach drops. "I'm sorry—did you say weeks?"

"If you're lucky." He stands up with a scoff that suggests he's seen way too many idiots ignore his advice. "Could be longer if you try to play hero."

You look at Chaewon, hoping she'll say something about how that timeline is ridiculous.

Two weeks of no training?

You'll be behind everyone else, t̶o̶t̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶u̶s̶e̶l̶e̶s̶s̶ completely out of practice by the time you're healed.

"I can't just not train for two weeks." The words come out whiny, but you're desperate. Two weeks of doing nothing while everyone else gets stronger? No way.

"Hell fucking no." J-Hope's voice is definite as he digs through medical drawers. "I'm not dealing with Jeon 2.0. You either rest for two weeks or I'll make it two months."

"That's why he avoids this place like the plague." V's still lounging in the doorway like he owns it, looking way too amused by everything.

J-Hope slams a drawer shut. "God forbid that fucker lets me do my actual job." He finally finds what he's looking for—a small bottle of pills. "Here." He tosses them at you with surprising accuracy. "Ibuprofen. One every eight hours. Six if you're dying, which you won't be if you actually rest."

"But—"

"Two. Weeks." Each word comes out like a threat. "Unless you want to become my permanent resident." His scowl could curdle milk. "And you—" He rounds on V, who's still grinning like this is the best entertainment he's had all day. "Get that bastard in here. His check-up's three months late."

V actually laughs at that. "What makes you think I have any control over what Mr. Stick-up-his-ass does?"

"Maybe he'll show up just to spite you." J-Hope's voice is dry as dust.

"Your optimism is adorable."

"Well, hope is literally my name." A rare smirk crosses J-Hope's face before his signature frown returns. "And you owe me, you dramatic little shit."

"As you wish, oh great healer." V throws his hands up in mock surrender, laying the theatrics on thick. "Your humble servant shall attempt this impossible task."

You stare at the bottle of ibuprofen in your hands, turning it over and over like maybe if you fidget with it enough, the label will change from "two weeks rest" to something more bearable. The thought of being benched for that long makes your stomach twist.

Two weeks is forever in gang time. Everyone else will be getting stronger, better, more valuable, while you're stuck playing invalid. By the time you're back on your feet, you'll be so far behind it'll be like starting over.

"Hey." The bed dips as Chaewon sits beside you, her presence grounding and familiar. "I can see those wheels turning. Don't stress. We'll figure something out."

"Actually," J-Hope pipes up from where he's finally managed to shoo V out the door. "You've got cross-training with my division coming up anyway. Could knock that out while you're healing. We always need an extra pair of hands here, and it'll keep you from going stir-crazy."

"Seriously?" You glance between them, hardly daring to hope. Medical training sounds way better than two weeks of staring at your ceiling.

"Makes sense." Chaewon nods, and something in her tone makes you think she's already working out the details in her head. "We can reschedule your Assassination Division training too. They can do individual sessions to work around your injury."

Wait.

Individual sessions? As in... one-on-one training? With V?

With Jeon?

Your brain short-circuits for a second before logic kicks back in. Cross-training exists for a reason—coordination between divisions is crucial in this life-or-death world you've chosen. One wrong move, one miscommunication, and people end up dead. If private lessons are what it takes to stay in the game, then t̶h̶a̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶t̶e̶r̶r̶i̶f̶y̶i̶n̶g̶ that's what you'll do.

"Okay." Your voice comes out smaller than intended, but you mean it.

"Good." J-Hope shoves his hands in his pockets, already looking done with this conversation. "See you tomorrow before lunch then."

"See you tomorrow, chief." You manage a smile, even as your mind races with possibilities—both exciting and terrifying—of what these next two weeks might bring.

Chaewon insists on wheeling you back to your room herself. The halls feel longer from wheelchair height, and her silence as she pushes you isn't helping. You can practically hear the gears turning in her head, probably already reworking training schedules around your stupid ankle.

She swipes her card at the elevator before you can even reach for yours. The ride up is quiet except for the soft hum of machinery and your own thoughts about how spectacularly you managed to mess up your first cross-training session.

The elevator dings open to your division's floor, and immediately you hear laughter spilling out from the lounge. Eunchae and Sakura are sprawled across the couch, but their smiles fade as soon as they spot you rolling in like some kind of injury parade.

"Holy shit, what happened?" Eunchae practically teleports to your side, crouching next to the wheelchair with wide eyes.

"Yeah, we heard all this commotion earlier but then you just... vanished." Sakura hovers nearby, her gaze bouncing between your wrapped ankle and your face like she's trying to piece together what went wrong.

You let out a long breath. "So... funny story. I tried to ambush Jeon during V's paintball game because I thought he was an enemy infiltrator or something."

"Oh no." Sakura's face does this thing where she's trying not to wince but totally failing.

"What the hell?" Eunchae's protective side flares up immediately. "Did that asshole body slam you or something?"

"Actually, no." You can't help but laugh at how ridiculous it all sounds now. "He just... countered me. Really easily. I'm the one who fucked up my landing."

"That's rough, buddy." Eunchae squeezes your shoulder, and you're grateful for how normal she's making this feel. "We played it smart—just hid behind trees and watched everyone else lose their minds."

"Yeah, except someone turned out to be weirdly good with a paintball gun." Eunchae nudges Sakura with her elbow. "Better watch out, Jeon. You've got competition."

Quick footsteps in the hallway make you look up. Yunjin bursts into the lounge like she's being chased, pink hair flying everywhere, face flushed.

"I heard voices and—oh my god, are you okay?" The words tumble out of her in a rush. "I couldn't find you after all that shooting started and I got so worried and—"

"Just a sprained ankle," you cut off her spiral with what you hope is a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, really."

Her shoulders drop a little, but she's still hovering like a concerned mother hen. "I got you dinner from the cafeteria. Figured you might be hungry after... everything."

The gesture makes something warm bloom in your chest. "Thanks, Yun. You're the best."

Chaewon clears her throat, reminding everyone she's still here. "Alright, enough chit-chat. Time to get you to bed. Doctor's orders."

Your little entourage follows as Chaewon wheels you to your room—Yunjin with the food tray balanced carefully in her hands, Eunchae and Sakura trailing behind like excited puppies. The scene would almost be funny if your ankle wasn't throbbing with every tiny bump in the floor.

Once you're settled in bed (after Yunjin fusses with your pillows for a solid minute), everyone finds spots to perch. The food smells amazing, and you realize you're actually starving.

"So what happened after I got taken out?" you ask between bites. "Did anyone else get ambushed by grumpy snipers?"

Sakura practically bounces in her seat. "Oh my god, you missed the best part! V did this insane action-movie roll thing when someone tried to corner him—"

"He looked like a deranged raccoon," Eunchae cuts in, making Yunjin snort water through her nose.

You lean back against your mountain of pillows (thanks, Yunjin), letting their chatter and laughter wash over you. Your ankle still hurts like a bitch, and the thought of dealing with Jeon and V for the next two weeks makes you want to scream a little. But right now, surrounded by these idiots who somehow became your family...

Maybe it won't be completely terrible.

t̶e̶r̶r̶i̶b̶l̶e̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶J̶e̶o̶n̶'̶s̶ ̶s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ ̶p̶e̶r̶f̶e̶c̶t̶ ̶f̶a̶c̶e̶

Morning hits different when your whole body feels like it's been run over by a truck. Between last night's paintball drama and your throbbing ankle, you sleep through your usual breakfast time. Not that there's much point in early rising when you're stuck playing invalid anyway.

By the time you make it to the cafeteria, the morning rush is long gone. Your beloved croissants are just a distant memory, replaced by sad-looking toast and a fried egg that's probably been sitting under the heat lamp for hours. You grab a cup of earl gray because there's no way in hell you're touching that brown water they call coffee at this hour.

At least Eunchae's still around. She's like Yunjin's louder, bolder evil twin—in the best way possible. While Yunjin's off somewhere being productive (thanks to that whole "new year, new me" thing), Eunchae's happy to keep you company, practically writing poetry about her breakfast sandwich. The girl takes her food seriously, and honestly? You respect that.

When breakfast's done, she insists on walking you to the infirmary. You've swapped the wheelchair for crutches because hobbling around on sticks somehow feels less pathetic than being rolled everywhere like some kind of injured parade float.

You slide your card at J-Hope's private wing, expecting rejection—his space is usually reserved for council members and people who are literally dying. But apparently he's added you to his VIP list because the scanner blinks green without hesitation.

J-Hope actually looks pleased when you walk in, which is weird enough to make you do a double-take. Then again, he probably doesn't get many patients who actually follow his instructions. Must be a nice change from dealing with gang leaders who think they're too important for basic medical care.

Eunchae gives you a warm wave and friendly nod before disappearing, leaving you alone with the medical chief. The quiet efficiency of his workspace and his focused presence makes everything feel weirdly... peaceful.

"Nice to see someone following orders for once," he mutters, not looking up from what appears to be a small mountain of paperwork.

"You didn't exactly make it optional." Your lips twitch into a crooked smile.

"Never do." He grunts, shuffling papers. "Some people are just too stubborn to live."

"Can't you pull rank on them? Being head of medicine and all?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

"Oh, I do. More than I'd like." His voice carries years of dealing with difficult patients. "In here, I'm god. They pull rank, I pull rank. Doesn't matter if you're the supreme leader of the universe—I'll uno reverse card your ass so fast your head will spin."

"Bet that goes over well with the big shots."

"Their faces are always priceless." He actually smirks, tapping a stack of papers into perfect alignment. "Now, ready to learn how to not kill people with medical supplies?"

"Born ready." You settle into a chair, trying not to look too eager. After all, how hard can it be?

The infirmary honestly feels very different from the rest of the castle—all sterile air and quiet efficiency. J-Hope moves around like he's performing some kind of medical ballet, laying out supplies with the kind of precision that makes you think he could probably do this in his sleep.

Which, you guess, he probably can.

"Alright, lesson one." He snaps on latex gloves. "Stitching wounds isn't like sewing clothes. You fuck up, get sloppy with cleanliness, and your patient gets an infection. In our line of work, that's not just inconvenient—it's deadly."

You pull on your own gloves, the latex clinging weird and tight to your fingers. J-Hope picks up a suture needle, holding it between you like he's showing off a prized possession.

"What about when we're in the middle of nowhere?" The question slips out before you can stop it. "You know, during missions when shit goes sideways?"

He sets the needle down, and something in his expression shifts. The overhead light catches the tired lines around his eyes—probably from years of patching up stubborn gang members at ungodly hours.

"Field medicine is different," he says, suddenly sounding more like a battle-hardened mentor than a cranky doctor. "Clean is still better, but sometimes you've got to choose between perfect and alive. When someone's bleeding out in some warehouse, you work with what you've got."

He grabs a bottle of disinfectant, tapping it with one finger. "This? This is your new best friend. Small enough to carry anywhere, strong enough to maybe keep someone from dying of infection in a pinch."

"What about stitches?" The question slips out before you can stop it. The thought of someone bleeding out because you don't know what you're doing makes your stomach turn.

J-Hope nods like he gets it. His usual grumpiness softens into something more teacher-like. "In the field? Use whatever you've got—fishing line, clean thread, even fibers from sterilized cloth. Main thing is getting that wound closed before they bleed out or it gets infected."

He lets that sink in for a moment, fiddling with something metallic between his fingers. For all his crankiness, there's something reassuring about how seriously he takes this stuff.

"But the second—and I mean second—you're back, you bring them to me." His voice goes hard again. "This isn't permanent fixing, it's just keeping them alive until they reach actual medical care."

He holds up what looks like a weirdly curved needle. "This is what we use for stitching. Curved makes it easier to control, especially for beginners." His fingers dance over different types of thread. "Absorbable sutures for internal wounds, non-absorbable for surface cuts."

"Yeah, that means absolutely nothing to me."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Right. Let's dumb it down." He reaches for what looks like a small medical kit. "In the field, you won't have time to play doctor. Your emergency kit will have basic curved needles and non-absorbable thread. Simple, reliable, gets the job done."

"And the other kind? The absorbable ones?"

"Those are for surgery—internal stuff. They dissolve on their own." He waves vaguely at the door. "Out there? Stick to non-absorbable. Quick and dirty fixes until you can get them proper help."

"So it's basically just... sewing someone up?" You try not to sound as skeptical as you feel.

"If you want to oversimplify it, sure." His dark eyes lock onto yours, dead serious. "But this isn't patching up your favorite jeans. You've got to line everything up right, make it tight enough to hold but not so tight it causes damage. And for fuck's sake, keep everything as clean as humanly possible."

You nod along, trying to picture yourself actually doing this in the field. The thought of having someone's life literally in your hands makes your stomach do weird flips.

"What about really bad wounds?" The question slips out before you can stop yourself. "Like, really bad."

J-Hope's hands pause over his supplies. Something in his expression shifts, and suddenly you remember he's probably seen exactly what you're imagining.

"Then your priority is keeping them alive long enough to get to me." His voice goes flat, professional. "Stop the bleeding first. Stabilize what you can. Stitches won't mean shit if they bleed out before you finish the first one." He looks you dead in the eye. "I'm good at what I do, but I can't bring back the dead."

The words hit harder than you expected. It's easy to forget sometimes, working in Seduction, that this isn't just some elaborate roleplay. People actually die in this life.

You watch as J-Hope threads the needle easily, his movements quick and precise. When he turns to what looks like a piece of fake skin, you try not to think too hard about where it came from or why it looks so... realistic.

"Pay attention now." He positions the needle above the practice pad. "Basic interrupted suture—it's your best friend in the field. Simple, reliable, gets the job done."

The way he handles the needle is almost mesmerizing. Each movement flows into the next like he's done this a million times before. Which, considering his job, he probably has. The stitches line up perfectly, neat little soldiers in a row.

"The key is entering at a 90-degree angle," he explains, demonstrating another perfect stitch. "Too shallow, it won't hold. Too deep, you cause more damage."

You lean closer, fascinated despite yourself. It's kind of beautiful, in a morbid way. Like some deadly form of embroidery.

"Your turn." He holds out the needle, and suddenly this doesn't seem so fascinating anymore. "Time to see if you've been paying attention."

Your hand definitely doesn't shake when you take it. Not even a little. And if it does? Well, that's between you and whatever poor bastard ends up needing your stitches someday.

You take a deep breath and try to copy J-Hope's movements. Your hands aren't nearly as steady as his, but he guides you with surprising patience, adjusting your grip here and the angle there. For someone so cranky, he's turning out to be a pretty decent teacher.

"Not completely terrible for a first try." The words sound almost like praise coming from him. "This kind of skill? Could mean the difference between life and death out there."

A soft beep cuts through the quiet, followed by the infirmary door swinging open.

Cool air rushes in, making goosebumps rise on your arms.

You don't need to look to know who it is—there's only one person whose presence makes the air feel this heavy, like the moment before rain.

Jeon walks in, all dark clothes and darker mood. His eyes find yours first, something unreadable flickering across his face before he turns to J-Hope.

"Looks like V didn't hold back," J-Hope says with a smirk.

Jeon just grunts, which seems to be his default response to everything.

"Sit." J-Hope points to a nearby chair like he's commanding a particularly stubborn dog. "I'll deal with you in a minute."

You try not to stare as Jeon drops into the chair, but it's hard to ignore how he fills up the space. Everything about him radiates tension—from the set of his jaw to the way his fingers tap against his thigh. The guy looks about as comfortable as a cat in water.

The contrast between them is almost funny—J-Hope moving around with his usual efficient calm while Jeon sits there emanating pure "don't touch me" energy. You catch a whiff of pine and mint when he shifts, and something in your chest does this weird little flip that you choose to ignore.

You try to focus on your suturing practice, but your eyes keep drifting to Jeon. It's weird seeing him like this—quiet, still, almost t̶a̶m̶e̶ docile. The great Chief of Tactical Assassinations, reduced to sitting in a medical chair waiting for J-Hope like some kind of obedient schoolboy.

He looks... different here. Less like the intimidating force of nature who uses you as paintball bait, more like someone who really, really doesn't want to be at the doctor's. His knee bounces slightly—probably the only sign he'll allow of his discomfort.

The door clicks shut behind J-Hope, and suddenly you're very aware that you're alone with Jeon. The silence feels heavy, broken only by the soft rustle of medical supplies and his measured breathing.

You force yourself to concentrate on the needle in your hand. These stitches aren't going to practice themselves, and the last thing you need is to look incompetent in front of him. But it's hard to focus when you can feel him there.

It's just so strange seeing him hold himself back like this. Usually his presence fills any room he's in, but now he seems almost... contained. Like he's trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable.

It doesn't work though—you're still hyper-aware of every tiny movement he makes.

The silence stretches until it feels like another person in the room. You've never been good with awkward silences, but starting a conversation with Jeon feels about as appealing as pulling teeth. Besides, what would you even say?

Thanks for using me as bait earlier, that was super fun?

"How's the ankle?"

His voice catches you off guard—low and quiet, missing that sharp edge he usually carries. For a second, you're not sure if you imagined it.

"It's... getting better," you manage, your voice too loud in the quiet room. "J-Hope knows what he's doing."

The corner of Jeon's mouth twitches up, and for a second he looks almost human. "Yeah, give that man a white coat and suddenly he thinks he runs the place."

There's this weird undertone of respect when he says it though. Like maybe he actually appreciates having someone who isn't afraid to boss him around. You get it —there's something weirdly comforting about J-Hope's no-nonsense attitude, even when he's being a grumpy dictator about your ankle.

"He definitely doesn't take shit from anyone." You find yourself smiling a little, because it's true. Even the mighty Jeon has to sit and wait his turn in here.

Something flickers across his face and he looks away quickly, like he just remembered he's supposed to be an intimidating gang leader, not someone who makes small talk about cranky doctors.

You go back to your stitching, trying to focus on the fake skin instead of how weird it feels to have an almost normal conversation with him. The silence creeps back in, but it's different now. Less like you're both waiting for the other to attack, more like... well, like two people just waiting for the doctor.

You try to focus on your stitching practice, but something feels off. There's a rustle that doesn't quite fit with the usual infirmary sounds—too careful, too measured.

When you glance up, you catch Jeon staring at... a pastry bag? One that definitely wasn't there when he first walked in. Or maybe it was and you were too distracted by his whole everything to notice.

He's looking down at it like it holds the secrets of the universe, brow furrowed in concentration. It's weird seeing the Chief of Tactical Assassinations, terror of rival gangs, looking almost t̶e̶r̶r̶i̶f̶i̶e̶d̶ uncertain about a paper bag.

What could possibly have the human hurricane so wrapped up in thought? The last time you saw him this intense, he was lining up a sniper shot. But now he's just... staring. At pastries.

Before you can ponder this mystery further, J-Hope bursts back in, arms loaded with enough medical supplies to patch up a small army. The sudden entrance makes Jeon flinch—just barely, but you catch it. His eyes snap up like he's been caught doing something wrong.

Then, in a move that feels almost panicked (if Jeon did panic, which he obviously doesn't), he thrusts the bag at J-Hope.

"For you." The words come out gruff and quick. His tattooed hand extends the bag like he's diffusing a bomb, gaze fixed somewhere over J-Hope's left shoulder.

J-Hope freezes mid-step, and honestly? Fair reaction. If this was V pulling something like this, it'd be normal—probably part of some elaborate prank. But Jeon? The same guy who treats medical check-ups like personal attacks? Bringing peace offerings?

"You know I don't even like croissants, right?" J-Hope stares at the bag like it might bite him. The disbelief in his voice makes you pause mid-stitch.

"It was the last one." Jeon crosses his arms, all defensive posture and clenched jaw.

J-Hope holds the pastry bag between two fingers like it's evidence in a crime scene. When he looks up at Jeon, his eyebrows disappear into his hairline. "What's the catch? Trying to bribe your way out of the physical?"

"What am I, V now?" Jeon's shrug carries enough attitude to fill the room. "No catch. Just thought I'd... you know." He waves vaguely at the bag, looking like every word physically pains him.

You focus very intently on your stitching practice, pretending you're not eavesdropping on whatever this weird interaction is. The silence stretches until J-Hope breaks it.

"Right..." He drags the word out like he's talking to a particularly suspicious child. "Since when do you do random acts of kindness?"

Something flickers across Jeon's face. His eyes meet yours for a split second, and your stomach does this weird flip that you choose to blame on hunger. The scent of pine gets stronger as his irritation builds.

"Since now, apparently." His voice could freeze hell over. "If you don't want it, give it to her. I don't give a shit."

J-Hope's eyebrows climb even higher as he turns to you, lips twitching. "Want a potentially poisoned croissant? I can test it first if you're feeling brave."

Your ears definitely perk up at the mention of croissant. After that sad excuse for breakfast this morning, you're practically going through withdrawal. The smell of butter and fresh pastry wafting from the bag is t̶o̶r̶t̶u̶r̶e̶ tempting.

"I'll risk it." You can't help but laugh a little. "Can't say no to a good croissant, even if it comes from suspicious sources."

Jeon's eyes find yours for a split second. Something colors his face—too quick to catch—before that familiar blank mask slides back into place. He doesn't say anything, but some of that rigid tension leaves his shoulders.

J-Hope passes you the bag, but his attention stays locked on Jeon like he's trying to solve a particularly frustrating puzzle. The pastry's still warm when you take it, and honestly? If it's poisoned, at least you'll die happy.

"Right then." J-Hope's voice goes stern. "Your turn, Mr. I-Can-Walk-It-Off. You're three months late for your check-up." He emphasizes each word like he's scolding a child. "Three months, Jeon."

Jeon responds with his signature grunt, finally hauling himself out of the chair. He moves to the medical bed a few meters away from you, and you can smell the pine notes slowly dissipating. Not that you're paying attention to how he smells. Obviously.

The infirmary suddenly feels smaller when Jeon steps into the medical bed area. There's something about the way he moves—all quiet power and deadly grace—that reminds you of his rank. Every single one of his steps looks calculated, like he's constantly ready for anything.

He shrugs off his leather jacket, and you try really hard not to stare. t̶r̶y̶ ̶b̶e̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶k̶e̶y̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶d̶ The movement is unfairly fluid, drawing attention to arms that definitely come from years of training. The kind of definition that makes you think he could probably lift you without breaking a sweat. (You already know he can)

Your eyes drift to his hands—the same ones you've seen wrapped around coffee cups or handling weapons, but never really looked at before. The infirmary's harsh lighting makes the tattoos on his wrists pop, intricate designs disappearing under his black t-shirt like secrets waiting to be discovered. His fingers are long and elegant despite their strength, decorated with simple silver and black rings that somehow make them look even more dangerous.

He grabs the hem of his shirt and—oh.

Oh.

The movement is so casual it's almost offensive, the way he just strips off his shirt like it's nothing. Like he doesn't know exactly what he's doing to your blood pressure right now.

A tattoo catches your eye, peeking above his waistband. "Devil never sleeps" inked in bold letters right above the waistband of his pants, and suddenly you're very interested in what that might mean. t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶s̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶l̶a̶t̶e̶r̶

Your gaze definitely doesn't trail up his torso. You absolutely don't notice the thin silver chain you've never seen before, probably always hidden under that stupid leather jacket. And you certainly don't catalog how the muscles in his chest look strong but not bulky, or how his abs are defined but natural-looking, the kind that come from actual fighting instead of just gym sessions.

And for some stupid reason the pine scent comes back, stronger, and you realize you might be staring. But honestly? If he's going to just casually strip in front of you, he can deal with the consequences. You're only human, after all.

You try to focus on your stitching practice. Really, you do. But there's something magnetic about the way his scars and tattoos map stories across his skin. Each mark feels like a chapter you shouldn't want to read but can't help being curious about. It's not just that he's t̶o̶o̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶ physically impressive—it's the way he wears his battle wounds like armor.

Jeon doesn't seem to notice or care about your wandering eyes. He carries himself with this casual confidence that suggests being shirtless in the infirmary is just another weekday for him. He shifts a bit, settling on the edge of the medical bed.

You snap your attention back to your suture pad so fast you nearly stab yourself with the needle. This is not the time to appreciate how the fluorescent lights catch on his silver chain, or how his muscles shift when he—nope. Absolutely not. Back to stitching.

J-Hope transforms before your eyes, seemingly possessed by professional focus. He grabs his stethoscope with ease, moving toward Jeon like he's approaching any other patient. Not a deadly gang leader who could probably kill someone with his a snap of his fingers.

"Let's check that heart of yours first, Jeon." The words come out clinical, detached.

Jeon just nods, and it's weird seeing him this... compliant. His stormy presence seems to settle into something quieter.

When the stethoscope touches Jeon's chest, the room goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop. You definitely don't notice how the metal disc sits right above one of his tattoos, or how his breathing stays perfectly steady despite the cold touch.

"Heart sounds good, strong and regular." J-Hope moves the stethoscope, all business.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes because of course his heart's perfect too.

Stupid, perfect Jeon with his stupid, perfect everything.

Jeon stares straight ahead at some fascinating spot on the wall, the perfect picture of indifference. His chest rises and falls steadily under J-Hope's stethoscope, and you definitely don't notice how the muscles shift with each breath. Nope. Not at all.

"Deep breaths," J-Hope instructs, all business.

Jeon complies without a word. The movement makes his chest expand more noticeably, and you suddenly find your suturing practice absolutely fascinating.

Super interesting, these fake stitches. Totally worth your complete attention.

Except it's not.

Your hands are going through the motions, but your mind keeps wandering. The needle weaves in and out mechanically while you try really hard not to think about the way the infirmary lights catch on Jeon's silver chain, or how his jaw clenches slightly when J-Hope's stethoscope touches a cold spot.

You feel like you're intruding on something private, which is stupid because it's just a medical exam. But there's something weirdly intimate about watching someone like Jeon—who's usually wrapped in leather and attitude—sitting here half-naked and compliant.

The needle slips.

"Shit—" The sharp sting makes you jump.

A bright red bead of blood wells up on your fingertip, because apparently you can't even do basic stitching when you're t̶o̶o̶ ̶b̶u̶s̶y̶ ̶o̶g̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ slightly distracted.

"You okay over there?" J-Hope looks up from his examination.

You're about to brush it off when you feel it—Jeon's eyes on you. The weight of his gaze hits like a physical thing, dark and heavy and way too knowing. Like he can tell exactly why you stabbed yourself, and t̶h̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶e̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶h̶o̶t̶ that's... interesting.

There's something in that look—something that makes your skin prickle and your breath catch.

Is he annoyed? Amused? Or maybe...

He turns away before you can figure it out, but the heat lingers on your skin like a brand.

Jeon grabs his shirt and pulls it back on in one smooth motion. You try not to notice how the fabric clings slightly before settling into place, or how his hair gets messed up for just a second before he runs his fingers through it. Just like that, the mask slides back on—Chief of Tactical Assassinations restored, that glimpse of something more human safely locked away again.

Your finger throbs, a tiny punishment for letting yourself get distracted.

t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶h̶y̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶n̶i̶c̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶s̶ Real professional, getting caught staring like some rookie. In this life, distractions get people killed. Though usually not by sewing needles.

J-Hope's already moving around the room, putting away his supplies. He definitely catches you trying to hide your pricked finger, because suddenly he's there, slapping a band-aid on it with more force than strictly necessary.

"Pay attention next time," he grumbles, but there's something almost fond in how annoyed he sounds. "These needles aren't toys."

Jeon's already heading for the door, leather jacket back in place. He moves like someone who can't wait to put as much distance between himself and this medical checkup as possible.

Can't really blame him—you'd probably bolt too if you had to deal with J-Hope's judgment this early in the morning.

He pauses at the door though, just for a second. Those dark eyes find yours one last time, and something in your chest does this weird little thing that has nothing to do with the pine and mint scent he leaves behind.

Then he's gone, and you're left wondering what kind of storms are brewing behind those gloomy eyes.

next | index

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[avifaunaa]

how the world spins without you [ n.r. ] [ pt. 5 ]

Authors Note: forgive me for how late this is. It wasn’t intentional and I had meant to get it out sooner. But I’m running on caffeine, bitterness of my breakup, and whatever’s left of the chemicals my ADHD meds gave me before i ran out so . . . 🧍🏻‍♀️

Masterlist

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART SIX

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!reader

Summary: Natasha has found you and it is time to bring you home. The Black Lotus as a threat has been eliminated but her employer has not — which leaves more of a mess to clean up later. But that could wait . . . Natasha did not think she could bare to part from you for a moment.

Content Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, emotional turmoil, aftermath of torture, medical treatment [ r!recieving ], Rio makes an appearance then dips, early symptoms of PTSD [ r ], cuddling, injuries, anxiety attacks, outward expressions of reassurance, love, and safety [ Nat —> R ], Natasha has some sort of mental disassociation about coffee when it’s actually about almost losing R.

Word Count: ~3.8k

5 . . . 4

“She’s crashing!”

“Blood type is —“

“We need to restart her heart!”

1 . . . 2

Electricity jolting through you and echoing into your ribcage, reaching the organ that pumps life giving blood into your veins.

“I will debrief when my partner isn’t lying on the table bleeding out!”

3 . . .

One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three.

Something warm envelops you and you knew nothing but the radiating heat within whatever surrounded you. You did not feel as though you were within your own body anymore, but a spectator to what was being done to save your life.

It changes someone when, you decide, when they have to see their own body lay prone upon the surgery table split open and stitched back together, blood soaking into surgical gloves as wires and tubes kept you somewhat alive.

It was ironic in a way — watching yourself get a blood transfer as you bled almost as quickly as they gave back.

No wonder you were near death. Death?

A feminine form joins you at your side with a ghostly silence, arms folded in front of themselves. They wore a ragged dark green hood that went with silky emerald robes, brushing the floor of the surgical room but didn’t seem to collect dirt or mess.

Waves of cold floated from her and yet — yet you had this primal urge to stay very still.

Like prey attempting to keep itself hidden form a narrow-sighted predator in the brush.

“You’re lucky,” the being finally said, voice echoing in the room. No attention was brought to either of you by your team of nurses and surgeons who worked around you. One of your monitors wailed.

“I think I see myself about to die,” you retort, but it’s sort of an accepted stance on the matter. What can you do? You’re in no state to stop them.

“No,” mused the feminine voice, laughter cold and brutal in the bitterness echoing its edges. “No, you’re about to live. Yet another that I am unable to reclaim.” A pause. “Perhaps it is just not your time.”

“Who can know?” you asked, unflinching as one of the nurses throws another blood soaked rag into the growing pile. “I suppose only gods and celestials.”

“Oh, sweet thing. Not even they know until it is their time.” A chill crept up the back of your neck, the hairs standing up. You turned, expecting to find the being there, but they were now by your head at the surgery table. “But I do.”

“What are you?” you asked as they slowly crossed the threshold of the surgery room in a way that was inhuman.

“Guess. I’ll give you three.” They were more amused by the entire situation than they were annoyed, apparently. She started humming a soft tune as she circled the doctors and nurses surrounding your body.

You watched them further and tried to think, but the tune of their humming was like a throbbing to your soul.

‘nothing satisfies but your soul.’

‘well I am Death, and none can excel.’

You began to open your mouth, but even doing so had resulted in nothing of value.

They did look up at you, though, like they heard whatever you had wanted to say and allowed a smile to curl at their lips, finger going to their lips.

They lifted a dagger and pressed the tip delicately against your forehead as one of the nurses brushed a hand over the spot at the same time.

When you finally managed to catch a glimpse of their face, all you saw was a skull.

You feel so heavy, brain foggy and mouth full of cotton. But you were waking, you think. Or perhaps dying was like waking from the worst nap ever imaginable.

There was an annoying beeping somewhere on your left side that was nagging at your brain. You wanted it to stop — did Natasha forget to turn the alarm off when she woke up early? You’d kill her for it.

But trying to reach your arm up was met with no success. You could hardly find energy to wiggle your fingers even though you threw effort into it.

Then warmth danced across the back of your hand and the sound of screeching on floor. A chair, maybe. Yes.

“Oh, my love.” Natasha, your lovely Natasha. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

Open your eyes? That was a simple ask for one such as you, the great apprentice of Tony Stark. Yet as you made the attempt, you were sure your eyelids were glued shut and were met with a sting when you blinked them open slowly.

It hurt — oh everything hurt. The light was much to bright and blinded you instantly, the edges of your retinas felt like they burned, and the watering that begun was like boiling water.

“You’re doing great, just keep trying,” Natasha coaxed gently, stroking your hair with a heavier hand than you’d like.

“Lights,” you moaned out, squeezing your eyes shut again and turning your face toward the darker section of the room.

“Okay, yeah. They’re not on a bright setting but if you need them off, yeah.” You heard her scrambling and moving around the room, and the pressure on your head lightened after a few seconds.

“Try now?” she murmured from farther away.

You slowly turned your head back and hesitated. You were in so much pain already — why did she insist on adding to it?

Still you made the attempt, blinking slowly open until you saw only the lights coming from outside of the window and cracked door outside of your room. It was considerably less harsh and you didn’t feel like vomiting as much.

“Gnarly.”

Natasha let out a large breath she had apparently been holding. “Gnarly,” she repeated as she retraced her steps back to you.

“I think I died.”

“If you did, sweetheart, I’m glad you didn’t stay dead,” your girlfriend said with conviction. Your hand was scooped into both of hers as she sat back into the chair at your side and pressed her lips against your palm. “So glad.”

“There was a skeleton woman there.”

Natasha releases a shocked, watery laugh. She squeezed your hand so tight you were sure she was doing it for herself rather than for you. “Oh yeah? Was she hot at least?”

You tried to shuffle through your memory of being around your own body, of the cold woman who had you wanting to run away. But that was a fading moment of time and it was fading fast. You hardly even seemed to remember that it was a memory at all.

“I don’t know. Probably not as hot as you,” you decided to respond, eyes hazily flicking to her face. Natasha was crying, lips still pressed to your skin, hair in the messiest updo you’ve ever seen the perfectionist don.

When she didn’t give you anything else in words, you used your free hand to try and get some movement back. Wiggled your fingers and dug them into the hospital grade blanket covering your body, feeling again.

Wetness collected on the back of your hand and you blinked. “You’re leaking on me.”

She sniffled loudly and moved her head up, turning to wipe her nose on her upper arm. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“It was a joke, but at least you leaked on both of us now.”

Natasha didn’t laugh, so you stopped trying to create more humor. A high pitched, one beep signal from the machinery alerted you both to glance over.

“It’s just the automatic dispensary of your painkillers. It’s fine.” She set your hand down and started wiping at her face. You wished she wouldn’t — Natasha was the only thing keeping you believe you were truly alive right now and not in some purgatory hell.

“You almost died.”

You blinked sleepily at her. Her jaw was clenched tight and her knuckles were so white with how she clenched her fists together, chin resting on them.

“I’m sorry,” you rasp. Because what else can you say? You wouldn’t do it again? You’ll do better?

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Natasha whispers, “I want — I need you to get out of this. You were almost gone, you couldn’t even . . .”

It’s a fickle thing, the brain. It’ll do what it has to do to protect itself and the host — the body — and in doing so may create a lapse of memory, a struggle to recall certain things of importance.

And then those things may crop up later in life and cause a whole shit ton of trouble.

You don’t remember much of what happened — you remembered the woman, the dark room, feeling cold and tired. You don’t remember Nat finding you, or anything beyond some hushed voices of the woman as she spoke to you during your captivity.

In the end wouldn’t that be the better result? Your trauma would be limited even if the damage done to your body told an entirely different, more profound story that you couldn’t remember and maybe wanted to make the decision not to.

Whatever had happened to you — you knew it was severe. You knew it paid a hefty price from your entire being. But the look on Natasha’s face and the blacked out corners of your memory that are just as unreachable as your body is broken, it tells a story of its own and you never want to read it again.

“I’m going to get through this,” you vowed in the quietest voice. Your throat still hurt, and your tongue was dry. “We both are. You and I. Me and you.”

“I haven’t tried a new flavor in weeks,” the redhead confessed, leaning closer until she lay half down in your lap. Exposed and vulnerable, yet she allowed it here and now. “Losing you destroyed what it meant to try and be kind to myself, to step outside of a box that contains my comforts and my knows. I couldn’t risk getting hurt if I didn’t try at all.”

You lifted a weak hand, covered in IV’s and monitors, then dropped it non-gracefully into her hair and stroked.

“Are we . . . Talking about coffee? Right now?”

Natasha leaned into your hand, the weight of it, as though begging for it to never leave.

You obliged and kept the pressure, adding to it as you carded your sore fingers through the tresses of hair that were loose enough in the bun she had. You were tempted to undo it entirely, but your fingers may not work well enough and you were growing sleepier by the second with the release of medication.

“I didn’t sleep well without you, and I cancelled the reservation to that Thai place you’d been begging me to try. I couldn’t do it without you,” she blurted out. You paused, fingers dug into her scalp.

“Did you get your money back from the short notice seating?”

“No,” Natasha said dully, and you sighed. “I forgot about it until the night of and they texted the reminder of the time.”

“I always tell you to put reminders on top of reminders in your calendar.”

Natasha whines in response.

“Natasha,” you slurred out, determined to stay awake long enough despite the drugs clawing at your nervous system, “this isn’t about any of that, is it?”

“No, Mayshka,” she whispered so softly you nearly asked her to repeat herself, “I find that I can’t — I can’t do anything new or scary without you by my side. I am one of the most powerful spies in the world and I have defeated likes bigger than most will ever have to face.” A pause, and you wanted so terribly to reach your entire body down and curl over her, “But before you I did not feel human nor did I think I had the need to. I knew what I knew and had what I had. You unravel the worst of me and find that scared part of Natasha that I’ve tried so long to bury away and make her apart of me again. And without you I’m not entirely sure how I can manage it. Because you make me brave. You make me feel again.”

“No,” you murmured, putting enough pressure down so she was forced to lift her head and meet her gaze. “Nat, you met me because you were doing those things. Getting out of your comfort zone, and trying to unravel what you think is the worst of you. Don’t you get it? You were already doing it.”

“With one thing — at one place.” Her chin rested on your clavicle and her eyes shone with unshed tears. “You did what Clint and Steve couldn’t quicker, easier — and all of it . . .”

“I love you,” you said, cutting her off effectively. She didn’t need to have a spiral right now — because that’s what this was turning into and Natasha needed to understand that your role in her life was not changing because of this. “I love you and we’re making it out, do you hear me? If your fear is that I’ll walk away then you can let that go right now.”

She stared at you, blinking the tears down even though some escaped. “I love you too, but sweetheart none of what you said after that was legible.”

It didn’t matter, you were out.

Doctor Cho was a woman of terrifying excellence and extraordinary character. You had never met her in person beforehand — a fact you proudly wore like a pin due to your incredible safety standards in the lab.

But once you started becoming more alert over the next few days, you managed to stay awake long enough for you to meet her at her daily check-ins.

This time your babysitter was Tony. You almost vomited your breakfast on him when he came to relieve Natasha so she could get some rest and TLC at the Compound. You would never protest her actually agreeing to go and take care of herself, but Tony, as deeply as you adored him as your boss and the man you’ve come to see as a friend, would not stop talking.

He had brought one of his miniature holographs and had removed your bedside table, “Oh sure, I was entirely done with my food, Tony,” you said as he wheeled it to the end of your bed, food still half eaten and fork still lifted in the air and in your hand.

He placed the gadget on the table and began fiddling with the settings before pulling up blueprints.

Specifically, your blueprints. Of the project you’d been so busy with for the last two years that it had taken its own team to continue progress on.

These looked different than your designs however, and the math was not correct in the corner of your work.

“Tony,” you started, patience ebbing by the second, “did you steal my project?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, his eyebrows shooting into his slicked up hairline as he crossed his arms and glared at you, “I was bored one evening —“

“— you don’t get bored —“

“ — and I found your project. And I should have, I admit, placed more interest in it with how often you helped me with my arts and crafts.” He rubbed his goatee, then snapped his fingers and started playing around with the holographic designs now activated. “I figured out why your prototypes weren’t working out.”

“Oh, gee,” you said glumly. “What did I miss?”

“It’s not that you missed anything, my young apprentice.” He started zooming into one of the corners of the blueprint. “Do you check your work?”

“Multiple times. Daily.”

“Are you sure?”

You squinted at him. “Yes.”

“Wonderful to hear, because you didn’t on this occasion of this design.” He pulled up the mathematics and pointed to your work. “It’s one of your first ones, and I think you’ve been grazing over it instead of going back to it.”

You trailed your eyes over each mathematical equation, and when you saw the mistake you made you groaned loudly. “Fuck.”

“Not a problem!” Tony replied cheerfully. “I fixed the math, thus fixing your big issue of not producing the right product. When you return to work, there will be the correct blueprints and a 3D printer ready to create a prototype.”

“You’ll have to wait, I’m afraid,” you said, again glumly. “Natasha has informed me that my return to any sort of work is forbidden until Cho signs off on it. Strictly.”

Tony rubbed his goatee again, contemplating. “I can perhaps talk her into allowing you to work from home?”

“That may actually be great. I fear I may go insane if I have nothing to do for six weeks outside of my physical therapy and checkups.”

“Bah.” Tony waved his hand at you as he turned off the hologram and pocketed it, flopping down on the visitors chair next to your bed. “You’ll be right as rain under Cho’s careful guidance.”

“You’d know?” you needled, quirking a brow at him.

He shrugged. “Avengers get hurt.”

You fell asleep sometime into his visit, waking up to Natasha having replaced him once more. She had scooted the chair next to the bed closer than Tony had had it and was reading through some paperwork. She wore a green jacket and her hair was done in a braid down her shoulder.

“Wow, I may go blind from just how pretty you are.”

Natasha let the page in between her fingers drift back down as she looked up and rolled her eyes, ensuring you saw such action. “And I may just cry from how low hanging fruit that was. Even for you. No, especially for you.”

“Leave her alone,” a deeply accented voice drawled from your left, startling you a greater deal than you expected, “she’s likely maintained some brain damage after Stark’s prattling today.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Just Yelena, unfortunately,” Natasha corrected, throwing the paperwork on top of her bag next to the chair as she leaned over to fix your wires after they nearly ripped from your skin.

The blonde in question was leaning against the windowsill, nearly shadowed out from the dipping sunlight and staring at you with a smirk on her face. “Oops.”

“Oops,” you mocked, Russian accent pronounced.

“Twist the IV, Nat,” Yelena says without looking away from you, “make it hurt.”

“Don’t you have some American politicians to terrorize or something?”

“Ha.” Her nose wrinkled in amusement as she pushed herself off and walked closer to you before collapsing at the end of your feet.

“Yelena,” Natasha scolded, though it went ignored. “Get off the bed.”

“Yeah, get off the bed.” You stared at her as Natasha flicked your wrist. “Ow.”

“You’re encouraging her. Enough. Both of you. I need you in almost an entire piece if we want to get you home, and that means Yelena shouldn’t be riling you up,” your girlfriend expressed, shooting daggered glares at the younger of the two.

Who proceeded to throw her hands up like she did nothing wrong in the slightest. “I am entertainment. For funnies.”

“You’re loads of funnies,” you agreed, smile rising up on your face. Natasha grabbed your chin and turned you to her. “And you’re so pretty.”

“She’s dosed,” Natasha concluded, releasing your chin after you leaned in for a kiss. “That’s why she’s entertaining you right now.”

Yelena seemed to find this aspect to be incredibly enticing, and she started trying to ask you questions about weird things like Kate’s favorite bar, and where she liked to go on dates, and —

“Yelena.” Natasha’s tone was sharp. “Stay and turn on the television, and watch it, or leave. I’m serious.”

“You’re always serious.” Yelena frowned at the redhead but skulked over to the free chair, away from you, and requested you turn on the TV.

The three of you watched the television in silence for about thirty minutes when Yelena asked you, “Did you tell them anything about Natasha?”

Natasha was silent, but you could have sworn you heard her inhale a sharp breath from your right.

“I don’t remember a lot,” you admitted to the blonde, finding the courage to look her in the eye. You found an intensity there of a sort — not angry or cold, but curious and questioning. “But I remember that I never said a word about Nat. I refused at every turn.”

Yelena flexes her fingers behind her head, then turned her gaze back to the television and was seemingly satisfied with that answer.

Natasha, however, was not.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you give her what she wanted, if it could have saved your life?”

“Well, I signed an NDA,” you started casually, glancing over to gauge her reaction. When she didn’t give you the response you sought, you close your eyes. “Natasha, why the fuck would I give you up? Explain to me in simple terms, like I’m stupid.”

“I’m not going to insult your intelligence,” she quietly answered, in that dangerous tone you knew from her. “But if she asked you for something — it could have —“

“She was going to kill me anyway,” you said. “She even said she wanted to do it sooner. But my torture — as it was — was prolonged so that you’d have a better chance at getting to me. Seeing the damage. Reacting to it.”

“She wanted to do it sooner,” Natasha echoed, cold.

“She mentioned an employer. I don’t remember much of that conversation,” you said with guilt seeping into your tone, biting the inside of your cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Natasha enveloped your hand in hers and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Don’t be sorry. Nothing you went through is your fault, or worth and apology from your end.”

“Maybe not,” you agreed, still unconvinced. “That doesn’t mean I can’t feel bad for what I couldn’t stop her from doing.”

“That’s my line,” Natasha scolded, shaking her head. “But you’re sweet.”

“Get a room,” Yelena muttered good-naturedly.

“We’re . . . We’re in my room.”

“I never asked,” you said tiredly once you got out of the hospital. “Did the cats . . . They’re okay?”

“Oh, they’re fine,” Natasha said as she drove you home, hand on your thigh, or your hand, or leg. Touching you was more common than it had been before you were taken and tortured. She couldn’t seem to let herself let you go. “They both managed to hide under the bed — though Sam got his hands mangled when he tried to grab them.”

“Oh no.” You smiled a little. “We should write him a card.”

“I think that would piss him off more, honestly.”

Natasha and r will return in part six

PART SIX

[tickfleato]

dude i think caffeine works on me now. Wish the Locked The Fuck In effect didnt cause me to just draw a horny mollusk muppet for 4 hours straight instead of any of the stuff i actually need to work on but good to know theres something i can self medicate with that doesnt have side effects as bad as my actual adhd meds

[radioactive-earthshine]

Hi! Im sorry if this is a silly question but I was wondering if you know what the Flash diabetes thing is? I've seen it around occasionally but never found out if it was a canon one off thing or a fanon group theory because on one hand I can kinda see it making sense although it would probably have to be re-worked to fit a speedsters bodily profile (in terms of their hyper-metabolism and all) but then on the other hand I'm reminded of the times I've read YJ fanfic and out of nowhere Bart is taking ADHD medication and I'm like.. he would not be able to take ADHD meds and actually feel a difference for more than maybe 3 seconds as seen with general painkillers and medication when he had the knee surgery with nothing. I just can't help but feel like, in canon, neither of these theories/situations would be possible but then again fanon is meant to be fun,, not serious etc. How do you draw the line?

Hello!

I have NEVER heard of it phrased as "Flash diabetes" but looking over the meat of your question it appears this is more about their metabolism, so I am approaching this as a metabolism question rather than a blood-sugar question.

When it comes to speedsters and their metabolism in the comics, it is very inconsistent and it honestly depends on the writer and what would be most exciting or inconvenient the most in any given scenario.

On one hand, the prevailing canon is that speedsters heal FAST. Their metabolism is so high they can get over broken bones, lacerations, even gunshots very quickly. We even have instances of them getting over drugs very quickly or drugs just not impacting them the way they should, because they metabolize them too fast for them to work.

The biggest in-comic example of this is Bart's famous knee surgery in Teen Titans v.3 when they were unable to put him under ANY anesthetic because his metabolism would negate its effectiveness.

Teen Titans (2003) #3

(Side note, the amount of laws broken in this scene would have probably shut that entire hospital down, licensees would have been lost, and Cyborg probably should have done jail time or at least been kicked out of the tower because holy shit the ethics.)

Teen Titans (2003) #4

This scene is one of the more poignant and famous examples of speedster metabolism being a medical foil as much as it is an advantage in combat and it is extremely dramatic.

We also have a more recent example of drugs just not working properly on speedsters, from Bart yet again in more recent publication history.

Young Justice (2019) #16

Sedatives or maybe even some sort of anti-psychotics only stayed in Bart's systems for so long before they wore off well before they should have and he was able to just leave.

If these are pushed out of his system prematurely, then it is extremely unlikely any ADHD medication would work on him unless they were specially made for speedsters which is not outside of any realm of possibility in a comic.

However... because these are comics and because these sorts of foils are variable and depend on whoever is writing them we also have some evidence that certain things do work on speedsters... but in heightened ways such as caffeine which makes no sense and yet...

The Flash (2011) #3

Barry had an espresso and got so hopped up and jittery he lost control of his vibrating for a while and ended up through multiple floors. How caffeine works on them, and in extreme ways, but other drugs don't, is something maybe a biochemist can answer which I am not.

We also have decades of publication going back to the silver age of Barry and other speedsters interacting with drugs, poisons, alcohol and them not working or not working properly and the above examples are just those I knew I could cite easily because I think about them a lot.

So returning back to the question of if ADHD medication would work... I feel like again in the comics they wouldn't work how they are supposed to unless they are specialized because even the caffeine did not work how it is supposed to.

But again this is fanfic and fanon so anything is possible and with this particular subject it wouldn't be too outside of canon to have ADHD meds work. Again any writer could also explain them as special speedster-strength medication then it is good to go.

I hope this sort of answers your question?

This is for the comics and the comics alone, no other form of media.

[crazylittlejester]

Wars would buy an energy drink out of necessity and hate every second of it because he thinks they literally taste like acid but he needs the caffeine to form coherent thoughts because he normally uses coffee to self medicate his ADHD but he was running late and there were NO other options and it was either that or suffer, and on the other end of this spectrum is Legend who would’ve made those monster energy candles out of boredom during the pandemic because he has so many empty cans