#fast attack vehicles

[captain-price-unofficially]

ROC SOF SC-09A 4WD Special Combat Assault Vehicle (elven mage not included)

[firstoccupier]

Breaking the Blockade: Naval Surface Tactics at the Scarborough Shoal

WPS News Staff ReporterBaybay City, 12/26/2024 In the azure waters off Scarborough Shoal, tension simmers as captains of the Western Pacific Squadron (WPS) prepare to break the blockade imposed by Chinese naval forces. Drawing upon time-honored strategies and innovative tactics, these maritime leaders are gearing up for what may be the region’s most defining naval engagement of the…

[lauraneedstochill]

silence my storm

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: Abbot falls harder for you without even noticing, but he struggles to apologize for what he said. He might lose you before he finds the right words. part 2 of Can’t pretend

warnings: rivals to <friends> to lovers, slow burn, implied age gap (you can ignore it) / descriptions of war; mentions of dr*gs, horrible parenting and losing loved ones, dealing with PTSD and panic attacks / PITTFEST (mass shooting, blood and injuries), ANGST. but there’s a silver lining! ♡ / words: 9.5K / author’s note: I imagine Danny Glover as Donny because that man would def talk some sense into Jack ♡ this part is intense so buckle up! / {you also can read it on AO3}

As long as Abbot can remember, he always managed to stand out. He was unruly as a kid, flouting authority and speaking out against injustice. He got teased for his skin sprinkled with freckles, for curls that turned auburn in the sun; he was hated for his inability to yield. The same attitude got him into the army, the same relentlessness helped him push through the combat training — in ten weeks some men were broken and remolded to fit in; but not Jack. He was resilient and fast and competent — with first aid, hand grenades, and rifles, during the obstacle course and field exercises; he joked that it felt like a summer camp. It also felt like the perfect place for him, and the medic training only strengthened his resolve. He didn’t seek attention but he attracted people with his biting humour and his never-fading perseverance. And he believed he could withstand it all.

Then he got deployed to hotspots, to places where the earth under his feet was scorched by blasts, heat dizzying, pulse throbbing in his head. And he watched as the villages were flattened to the ground, vehicles made of steel reduced to wrecks, and half of the things he’d learned before were proven useless. It left him hardened but it didn’t break him. Because somehow Jack always knew the way and the right words, because if he could save a life a day, it was all worth it.

But then came the war zones, and those weren’t about saving as much as they were about survival: on battlefields, in trenches, on desert wastelands that stretched on for miles, sand swirling in the air, legs heavy with fatigue, skin slick with sweat. And death tore people limb from limb, never a negotiator but a butcher, only allowing Jack to dig more graves. Those years flayed him of his assurance and his ardor, and he was knocked down, beaten, maimed, his body scarred and heart shattered, the damage that seemed irreparable, pain that left so many soldiers hopeless. But Jack got right back up.

And he got rougher at the edges and he talked less, but he decided to give life another chance. Jack studied with the same diligence and he threw himself into his work, as persevering as before, as tough as ever. The patients found his stoic demeanor calming, and other doctors respected him for cutting to the chase and thinking quickly. And undeniably, there is some comfort in being the one people can rely on, a beacon that guides through the darkest nights.

But you make Jack feel like he is invisible. And that’s a first.

It would make sense for you to glare in his direction, to let hostility cut through your tone when he’s around. You do none of that. On Monday, when Robby finally comes back — sunglasses tucked in his hoodie pocket, a giant cup of coffee in his hand, a smile so big his cheeks must hurt — you rush in barely a minute after and greet him, quite warmly. You say nothing to Jack although he’s standing right there next to him. Jack stops himself from following you with his gaze and listens to your retreating footsteps. It’s Dana who is glaring at him.

Robby is yet to notice it, his eyes on the board. “I see, the house is packed as always. How’s everyone been doing?”

“Peachy,” Dana deadpans, then moves a medical tablet to him with one hand. “Enjoy.”

His smile wavers at her tone, his gaze darting from her to Jack. “And how is our new senior resident?”

Abbot doesn’t meet his eyes. “Good.”

“Okay, what’s with the one-word answers?”

Princess rolls her chair closer with a smirk: “She’s very good.” Robby groans and she huffs. “What? It was more than one word! Everyone’s so cranky post-COVID.”

“First of all, my test came back negative so it was not COVID. And I do not appreciate you guys trying to ruin my mood this early in the morning,” Robby remarks although he doesn’t sound offended.

But his gaze wanders back to Jack as if he can read something from his reticence, as if he had suspicions before he even came through the doors. “Dr. Abbot, why don’t you tell me about the patients admitted overnight?” Robby suggests nonchalantly. “Come on, let’s take a walk. I’ve heard it’s good for health.”

Jack’s thinking of an excuse to stay. But then he sees you coming back, fresh scrubs on and face focused, and he almost turns around after you, he almost calls out your name. He has to reason with himself: it shouldn’t be a public conversation, you’d never want it to be. And he is yet to find the words for his regret. So he complies with Robby.

They step away, and Jack looks down at the screen, a colored spreadsheet with names and traumas. Robby cautiously looks around. And then he asks:

“So, back to the new resident. Are you getting along?”

Jack accidentally walks into a gurney someone left behind, curses under his breath and forces out: “Like I said, everything’s good.”

Robby hums, hardly convinced and clearly concerned. But not surprised. “You know what I’ve been thinking of recently?”

“I’m sure you are about to tell me.”

“You coming to work here. Remember your first few weeks?”

Those weren’t easy — not to live through, not to reminiscent of. Jack can recall some bland moments and hollow dialogues, a lot of pitying glances given to him. He had to bury his wife six months prior to that.

“I know I wasn’t a ray of sunshine—”

“You were kinda insufferable,” but Robby’s brown eyes are filled with sympathy as he says that. “I mean, obviously no one blamed you. I can only imagine how hard it was in the beginning.”

A crease settles in between Jack’s brows. “And you are reminding me of it why exactly?”

Robby stops, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder. “Listen, we all adapt to new environment at our own pace. It’s easier for some people but for others, it can take time. And we, as the attendings, should give them that time and not take anything personally or rush to conclusions. If someone isn’t an open book, it may mean they have reasons to keep things to themselves.”

Jack only gives him a confused nod; although the words make sense to him, he can’t grasp their full meaning. “Okay?”

“Glad we are on the same page,” Robby gives him a pat and swiftly turns around.

“What about the patients?”

“Oh, I skimmed through the list, I’ll look up the rest if I need to. Go get some sleep.”

And Jack surely needs it. But Robby’s words stay on his mind, and the incomprehension bugs him, so much so that he comes back to the nurse station. Dana ignores him, loudly tapping on the same one key. He leans to her, lowering his voice:

“Was I insufferable when I first started here?”

“Why the past tense? You aren’t any better now,” she quips dryly.

He can’t hold back a heavy sigh, and when Dana casts a glance at him, he is equally tired and contrite. She grants him some reassurance, albeit begrudgingly.

“You were fine, Jack. All things considered. We knew you’ve been through some tough times. But you are a damn good doctor, and that’s all that matters,” she looks back at the computer. “Although you did scare half of our staff with your silent staring and your tactical knife. Please tell me you don’t have that thing with you.”

“I will refrain from answering that,” Jack straightens up, and her short chuckle gives him hope.

If only approaching you was just as simple.

It’s not that Jack cannot admit that he was in the wrong. Taking accountability for your mistakes helps you to learn from them, his therapist once told him, and words can hurt as much as they can heal. Jack’s had his fair share of hard conversations and harsh truths, and he would never shy away from either. But when he thinks of your heartbroken gaze, his usual equanimity escapes him, and no apology seems good enough to make up for his outburst. Still, he owes it to you to try.

Jack hopes to seize the moment before his night shift, he spends the day gluing together a small speech: he was unfair, he was wrong, he’s sorry. His gaze finds you as soon as he steps into the ER — a habit he doesn’t know how to get out of (nor does he want to). It’s almost laughable how hard it is for him to summon up the courage, it feels like every step to you takes twice as long. He is about to say it — Hey, can we please talk — but you breeze on by him, and then it is too late. Jack persuades himself the timing wasn’t right: he doesn’t want to distract you from your work, he’ll wait until you get a couple of free minutes.

You do not spare him even a second of your time.

It doesn’t seem unfounded: you are busy with patients, you help the nurses with case files, you keep an eye on Whitaker, and offer guidance to anyone who asks for it. Jack’s persuasion wavers but he clings to it, he is dead set on fixing things, he’s never been a quitter.

But your determination is a match for his — and you are awfully proficient at silent treatment.

One day of Jack’s futile attempts bleeds into two, then three, then a full week. And every time you walk past him like he doesn’t exist, like bones and tissues he is made of turned to dust. It should be a relief that you don’t make a scene; instead, your coldness wounds him, a deep incision somewhere at his ribs. And Jack is torn — he wants to put more effort in, he is afraid of taking it too far: it will not help his case if he ruins your lunch break or creeps up on you at the locker room. And it will make him reek of desperation.

But the uncertainty starts gnawing on him, a new bite with each day he fails. The short apology he crafted loops through his mind non-stop — until it sounds like a useless jumble of words, until Jack isn’t even sure him talking to you will not make things worse. You come and leave on time, you offer him no mercy, you master your avoidance as if he is a plague. And Jack is plagued with agitation, and by the third week he is already losing sleep: if he wasn’t desperate before, now he sure as hell is.

Jack checks his phone again because he keeps mixing up the days: it’s Tuesday, he came an hour early and hasn’t seen you yet. He pootles to the vending machine to give coffee another chance to wake him — and suddenly catches a familiar voice.

“Darling, I truly do not want to be a bother, but I have a friend here and I was wondering if you can —”

“Donny?”

It’s been a few years but he hasn’t changed one bit — six feet tall, gaze sharp but eyes warm, russet brown, short grey hair that looks silver against his dark skin, a charming half-smile. He’s also got a huge bruise on his forehead, and there’s a wheelchair he’s ignoring, leaning on the table with one arm.

Princess grins at the man and nods at Jack. “This is the friend?”

“No, this is my biggest pain in the ass,” Donny retorts but his smile grows bigger.

Jack smiles back and walks to him. “Of course, you can’t live out your retirement in peace. Did you head the ball again, sergeant?”

“You’re just jealous 'cause you suck at basketball,” Donny unceremoniously hugs him. But his poise falters slightly when Jack looks closer at his injury. “Apparently, I need a head CT. I keep telling 'em it’s no big deal —”

Jack shakes his head, silently tapping on the chair — Donny rolls his eyes and sits down without protest. “Page me when radiology is ready to take him,” Abbot tells Princess, then smoothly wheels Donny away. “Let’s get you comfortable in the meantime.”

“Do I get a cute nurse?” Donny curiously glances around. “Who can you page to sneak me a Margarita in here?”

“You get me and a cup of ice you can munch on.”

“Jesus, you do know how to kill the buzz.”

“This is me giving you preferential treatment.”

“Aw, you are honoring our unshakable camaraderie? Or have you gotten softer with age, Abbot?”

“It’s neither, but if you die on my watch, Martha will skin me alive.”

“Actually, she’d probably drink to it — we divorced last year.”

“Good for her.”

Donny snorts with laughter, boisterous and unapologetic, slapping Jack’s hand wrapped around the handle. He is about to talk back but then someone catches his attention — Donny turns his head, and his voice turns mellow:

“Oh, here you are, my angel! I was looking for you. Should’ve known the best doctors are the busiest.”

Jack pulls up short — not in reaction to Donny’s words but at the sight of you, standing a few feet away and looking right in his direction. And then the strangest thing happens — a miracle like an oasis in a desert, like a flower blooming in the dead of winter: you smile.

Jack’s breathing hitches.

And he watches like you a blind man who’s seeing sunrise for the first time in his life. It’s faint but undeniably sincere — joy dancing at the corners of your lips as you come near, your gaze kind when you talk to Donny. “Haven’t I told you to take it easy?”

“You know I can’t sit still, I like doing things. I’ll rest when I’m in the grave.”

“And I’d rather it happen later than sooner,” the words are stern but your voice is gentle, caring — something Jack suddenly wishes to deserve too. But you talk to Donny as if there’s just the two of you. “What was it this time?”

“That atrocious painting! I swear Martha superglued that thing to the wall. I spent an hour trying to tear it off, had to go grab a ladder. And I don’t know, maybe I slipped on the puddle of my own sweat,” he grumbles, a tad bit embarrassed. “And now I’m waiting for you guys to stuff me inside that noisy metal barrel. I better not get stuck in that thing.”

“You’ll fit just fine,” you say simply, gaze grazing his head: nothing too alarming for you to stare at. “You can close your eyes and pretend that you’re on a beach. Somewhere in Santa Monica, just like last summer.”

“Yeah, minus the imminent bump on my head,” he cackles. “Do you get lunch breaks in here? Will you come talk to me when you have a minute?”

“I’ll find you after you get a CT,” you promise — and then brush his shoulder with a quiet remark: “You are in good hands.”

And Jack can’t help another glance at you but you already round the corner to disappear somewhere in the hall. So he keeps his face straight and finds Donny a bed, then helps him sit against the pillows.

“You fell off a ladder? Should’ve mentioned it,” Jack takes the tablet and pulls up his medical records.

Donny squints at him. “Hmm, that’s weird. Man, what is this feeling...”

“What, does your head hurt? Vision getting blurry or —”

“It’s the tension between you two!” Donny hisses. “Why were you so awkward around her?”

Jack opens his mouth; then closes it, unsure. He’d love to know how you and Donny met but he doesn’t want to snoop around. His eyes are on the screen, his tone flat:

“Your angel, huh?”

“Oh, I’m sorry I don’t have a cute name for you. Your grumpy face doesn’t exactly call for it.”

“Luckily this face comes with a smart head and steady hands. That’s what you’d want from a doctor.”

“Well, aren’t you a modest one,” Donny doesn’t sound amused. “Now stop deflecting and tell me what’s going on. Were you hard on her, is that it?”

Jack wants to say yes. He was insensitive, he was an idiot, and now you’re giving him a cold shoulder, and it’s been driving him insane. But whining will not make things better. And Donny’s wisdom and support should be offered to you, not Jack.

Donny gives him a level stare. “Listen, I know seventy-eight doesn’t exactly instill fear. But I still can pack a hefty punch. And I swear I’ll punch you if you aren’t treating her right,” — and he immediately relents, his words in between a plea and a request. “Man, I’m serious. Go easy on her, the girl’s been through hell.”

“Haven’t we all?” Jack mumbles.

There is no bitterness and no harbored resentment — it’s just how life has been for Jack. And Donny is aware of that so he isn’t judging. He thinks over what he is about to say. Jack reads his file: irregular pulse, complaints of fatigue, some swelling of the legs.

“You know I’m not the one to sugarcoat all the crap we’ve been through,” Donny tells him bluntly, and it’s the truth. “When I hear random folks raving about their picture-perfect military days, I always call them out on their bullshit. But if there’s one thing I am grateful for, it’s the people. My closest friends are from the army and none are finer,” Donny holds a pause, like he is climbing over an imaginary fence, into an imaginary vault your secret’s hidden in — but not anymore. “Her brother was in the army too.”

Jack stops reading. He hesitates because he realizes right away that this is personal, this isn’t a story meant for just anybody to know. But then again, he knows nothing about you. How bad can this one story be? He looks up, and Donny continues.

“He was definitely one of the good ones. Damn, Sammy was a gem, such an enthusiastic kid. We served in Syria, and it was a shitstorm — well, you know what it’s like — but I can’t remember him complaining once. Good morals, quick reaction, awesome shooter.”

A happy ending is unlikely so Jack calculates the options: killed in combat or crossfire, body delivered in a sealed coffin. Or maybe never found, left somewhere in a foreign land, bones crumbling into dirt, a ghost that haunts his family for years.

“He got sent off to Kabul, a lot of snipers did. Back when Bush thought Al-Qaeda just ambles out in the open, waiting for the brave americans to show up and shoot everyone dead.”

“So, shitty planning?” Jack guesses.

“More like no planning. They got stranded in the mountains, Sammy and his squad. Lost contact with the base, half of them massacred within a week. He dodged a lot of bullets but he took a nasty fall — arm twisted backward, pulled his shoulder out of its socket.”

Jack instinctively grimaces. “That’s 11 out of 10 on the pain scale.”

“He gave it a 100. They were out of meds, completely lost, he was in and out of consciousness. Then, by sheer fucking luck, they found some tiny village, and one of the locals sheltered them. He was no doctor, and I’m sure he meant well... He suggested opium for the pain. The guys agreed.”

Abbot thinks he’d rather step on a landmine again. Any death in combat is a tragedy, but at least it’s quick. Addiction kills you slowly.

“They popped his shoulder back into place but the pain lingered,” — and Jack imagines torn ligaments and damaged blood vessels, the bruising changing color from red to blue. “It was hard to wear a backpack, hard to sleep at night.”

Abbot deduces grimly: “He needed more opium.”

“And he came back an addict,” Donny nods. “It wasn’t just opium, it never is. But Sammy did try to get better, I’ll give him that. Two years in support groups, in therapy, going from one rehab to another. And she would always follow him around, pay him visits, send him letters. She refused to give up on him, and he loved her to pieces, and we all wanted for him to get a grip… I wish I could tell you why he never did. He just kept falling off the wagon, and eventually, he ran out of money. So he borrowed some — from the people you should never be in debt to. And when he didn’t pay in time, they thought: what’s a better bargaining chip than his dear sister?”

Jack wishes he could go back in time and tell Donny he doesn’t want to hear this story. Heavy, hot rage already simmers in him — at the mere thought of someone hurting you; it also pains him deeply.

“They roughed her up, pretty badly. And one of them got out a gun — on trial, they insisted they didn’t mean to fire it, they just wanted to scare Sammy so he’d pay. The guy aimed at her but then a fight broke out, and someone pulled the trigger. Sammy pushed her away at the last second. The bullet went right through his heart. He probably died before those fuckers even managed to escape. When the cops arrived, they had to drag her away from his dead body. She was fifteen.”

Jack wants to bang his head against the wall.

And he thinks of you freezing at the doors, of how your gaze didn’t meet his when you were wiping off his blood, of your strained voice. And you weren’t reckless, weren’t prideful or condescending. You were afraid he might get hurt trying to keep you out of harm’s way. Because it happened to you once before, because it tore your heart in half. And his words made you relive that.

“It’s hard to bounce back after that. I don’t know how she did. Not with her parents' help, that’s for sure.”

Jack clears his throat; his voice is marked by sadness. “They aren’t very close?”

“I still can’t believe they are related,” Donny rants. “I’ve heard that money ruins people but her parents set a new low. Couldn’t say a single good word about their own son at his funeral. Didn’t care to console their daughter. They were ready to fuck off as soon as the priest gave his speech but she didn’t want to go. And they just left her at the cemetery, can you imagine? I was the one to give her a ride home. And I swear, at some point that evening I contemplated murder.”

And he doesn’t say the exact words, but Jack reads between the lines: you’ve got no other family. You had to grow up having no one to rely on.

“They wanted her to get a banking job. Said she shouldn’t spend her life digging into someone’s guts, it is not very lady-like. But she studied day and night, managed to get a scholarship — hell, I didn’t even know they offered those in med schools. The day after she got into residency, she cut ties with her parents. Haven’t spoken to them since. And I guess the silver lining is that she did become a good doctor, despite it all.”

Abbot gets paged to radiology. But his thoughts are far away — in his childhood home, at the dining table in the kitchen: here’s his mother with her contagious laughter, his father with the deep voice and crude jokes, the comfort of a family meal and sharing conversations. There were arguments too, even fights — his dad and he were too alike to compromise sometimes. But he knew that his parents would have his back, and they always did. Not getting that support as a child sounds hard, harrowing. You must’ve been very lonely.

Donny studies him for a moment. “So are you gonna tell me what you did or should I start throwing punches?”

After all the truth he’s just learned, it feels wrong to lie. “I... I did go hard on her. But I will apologize,” Jack says firmly and faithfully, like a vow. And he can’t help but admit: “You are right, she really is great.”

Donny can’t resist a chortle. “I’m always right. You should know by now.”

His CT comes clean but he does reluctantly complain of headache. Jack figures it’s a mild concussion and lists the basics: take paracetamol for the pain, rest for a week, no physical activity. No alcohol.

“Not even a splash of whiskey? Not even a tiny —” Donny reads no from Jack’s unblinking stare. “You are no fun, Abbot. Like, at all.”

“Your liver will thank me.”

“My liver is attached to me, and right now I’m not feeling very grateful,” but Donny isn’t aggrieved either because he swiftly adds: “Where’s that cup of ice I was promised?”

The walk to the ice machine and back takes Jack about five minutes. He hears your voice first — and he can tell you’re smiling just from the sound of it. Jack sees you from afar and gets his hunch confirmed: Donny is scrolling on his phone to show you something, his face expressions eliciting a laugh from you, genuine and carefree. And when you are like this — not wearing your usual defense, not rushing anywhere, not weighted down by every bad thing you had to live through — there’s so much light in you, Jack finds it hard to look away. Warmth threads through him, quiet and calming, and he can’t stop looking.

And he is drawn to steal more glances at you, like would a treasure hunter carefully steal pieces of art.

Jack catches on to small things: you mindlessly tap on the corner of the chart when you’re deep in thoughts, you often bite the inside of your lower lip while you are reading, eyes darting quickly from left to right. And he wonders what your favorite books are, and if you spend your evenings cozied up under the covers in the dim light of your bedroom. But what is readable to him under the LED lamps of the ER is weariness that spills under your eyes and tugs at your limbs, your voice quieter and your pace falling off a little.

On Wednesday you have to stay an extra hour when one of the patients goes into preterm labor: it ends with her hemorrhaging, blood trickling on the floor, and Robby steps in, and everyone is loud and maybe slightly panicking. You aren’t — still steady and unwincing and knowing all the right steps, no guidance needed, no mistakes made. But then you walk out and pull the edges of your sleeves down to your fingers, as if you’re cold, as if your grit is frailing, and it makes Jack’s heart ache. He grabs a knitted blanket he has stacked deep in his locker — thick, soft, bright plaid, a handmade gift from one of the army vets he treated years ago. He leaves it at the nurse station, as if by accident. You almost miss it on your way out, but then your eyes glide over it — and you can’t help but touch it, putting your whole palm onto the fluffy wool. It’s just a speck of comfort before you back away, hands quickly tucked in the small pockets of your denim jacket.

But the next day, when Jack trudges to the ER after another failed attempt to sleep, he sees that you’re already dressed to leave — your hoodie half a size too big, your hair down and head titled as you talk to Dana, — and you are holding to the blanket with your fingers, relaxed or tired enough not to fight a smile. He lingers at the doors and gazes at you for a long minute. And then he sneaks into one of the waiting rooms so your face won’t fall at the sight of him. When he comes out, you are gone, but the blanket still has some of your warmth. And he aches all over.

On Friday there’s a storm alert, and the evening comes dreary and drizzling. Jack isn’t surprised that they get a car crash victim barely ten minutes after he is in. It is a woman in her thirties — with a head injury and three broken ribs, clothes wet with rain and blood, her vitals weak. But somehow her daughter is intact, and she’s brought in by one of the paramedics: six years of age, tight curls and a tiara on her head, poofy dress that’s sky-blue and sparkling. And she can’t stop crying.

People are drawn to help — the nurses come to offer her kind words, to bribe her into calmness with some sweets. But her sobs turn into wails, cheeks red, and body shaking, and she’s too terrified of everything to be reasoned with. And Jack is bothered by how powerless he feels, how much he wants to be of help too but has no clue where to begin. There was a time when he really wanted kids; but recollecting it feels like reopening a wound he spent years on healing.

You emerge out of the trauma room and take the gown off with one swift motion, your gaze already on the girl. But you tread carefully, slowly, waiting until she sees you coming with her teary eyes. Then you crouch down next to her.

“Why is a princess crying in our hall? You are shedding tears all over your beautiful dress,” and your fingers smooth out the layers of satin and tulle, and she glances down at your hands. You give her a small smile: “You look just like Cinderella.”

She stops mid-sob, stares at you, then at her own dress again, bright sparks of glitter caught in the blue. She manages out, sniffling: “S-she is my fav-vorite.”

“Isn’t this what she wore to the ball where she met the prince?”

The girl goes quiet, wipes her nose. She gives you a nod — and then another one, more certain. Her words come out calmer: “Like in the movie.”

“Even prettier up close,” you assure her easily and wipe off her tears with your fingertips. She’s pouting but she isn’t crying anymore. You brush away a curl that stuck to her wet cheek. “I know you must be scared but you are safe now. And our best doctors are trying very hard to make your mom feel better. You just need to hold on for a little longer,” you murmur. Her lower lip trembles yet she fights against it, small hands grabbing the sparkling fabric. Her eyes are woeful but yours are warm, as is your voice. “What is that Cinderella’s mother used to say? Something about being kind and having courage.”

She looks like she’s about to burst into fresh tears. Instead, she shakes her head with defeat, curls bouncing at the movement.

“I don’t— Don’t think I have a lot of courage.”

“It’s okay, honey. You can take some of mine,” you tell her and take her hand in yours, fingers gently massaging the skin above her wrist. Her breath is even, all of the tears dried up; and timidly, she smiles. You get up, your hand still holding hers.

“We have a room with coloring books and a teddy bear who can keep you company. And on the way there I’ll let you pick a jelly, any flavour you like. How does that sound?”

She agrees eagerly, and you breathe out a short laugh, then lead the way. And Jack’s gaze stays on you, his own breath stilled — and a thought crosses his mind before he can stop it, vivid like a falling star: you will be a great mom. And in the next second, he forces himself to look away, to push back a myriad of other thoughts suddenly sparked into existence. Because it is unreasonable, because he fucked up, because it’s wrong to even think of that.

But it doesn’t feel wrong.

He battles with himself for half an hour. The girl’s mother pulls through — Jack learns about it from Robby who goes around looking for the kid.

Dana shrugs with the utmost indifference. “I didn’t see where they went. Dr. Abbot, any chance you did?”

He knows you must be still in the waiting room, and maybe now it’s time — he’ll walk in and make apologies, away from any prying eyes. He will be genuine and repentant, he’ll take all the blame. At this point, he isn’t above begging.

“I’ll bring the girl,” Jack mutters.

His heart rate instantly speeds up as he approaches, throat dry and body stiffening, even before the room comes into view. Jack breathes in and pulls the door handle — and right at the entrance, he comes to a halt.

It’s quiet inside, and on the small uncomfortable couch stuffed in the corner, you and the girl are sitting, covered with his knitted blanket. And you are asleep. The tension in his chest evaporates as he watches you — your head pressed to the wall, your face peaceful, and he wishes for nothing more than for you to always feel like this.

Jack takes one step in, and the girl peeks out from under the blanket. She puts a finger to her mouth, then slowly gets up, the blue dress shimmering and rustling slightly as she moves. The kid confidently struts to Jack, wraps one of her hands around his, holding the teddy bear in another. She looks up at him and whispers: “How is my mom?”

“She’s alright,” Jack whispers back. “You can come see her.”

She tugs at his hand, and Jack glances at you, commits the moment to his memory, convinces himself he’ll make it quick. The girl brims with excitement but she acts polite and walks slowly. And she peppers him with questions: how many rooms are there in the hospital? Can you fix everyone who’s hurt? Can doctors wear dresses at work? Are all of them as tired as the lady who gave her the orange jelly? Jack winces at the last one. But he likes talking to the kid — it’s actually quite easy, fun, not scary at all. When they reach her mother’s room, she turns to look at him again.

“This is Mister Courageous. You can take him,” she gives him the plushie, the bear’s paw pressed into Jack’s palm. The girl beams at him mischievously, and he sees her dimples when she adds: “Maybe you need some courage too.”

But with all his courage, Jack is short on luck: when he rushes back to you, the waiting room is empty, his blanket folded and left lone on the couch. It is upsetting because tomorrow is his day off; but he comes up with a flumsy consolation: he has more time to think over what he should say, to phrase it better. So in between the patients, he mentally constructs another speech, tactful and heartfelt, no less than you deserve to get. His nerves are eased a little by the morning; he gets home and gets about five hours of uninterrupted sleep: no dreams of oceans, no nightmares filled with fog.

The afternoon is sunlit, warm against Jack’s skin when he draws back the curtains. He takes a shower and makes lunch, then does the dishes and the laundry. And he turns on the police scanner — out of boredom, out of habit, just so he’s always in the loop. His day off lasts for about ten more minutes before the PBP frequency roars to life:

Shots fired. Multiple GSW.

He grabs the walkie and turns up the volume. It’s Code 3 — and he knows its meaning from the memo: Backup requested. Proceed immediately. All available units.

Jack gets ready like’s about to go back into combat — he dresses up in under two minutes, with measured breathing, and quick steps, and cold composure. He takes out the bag he’s got packed for emergencies: a mini ultrasound, tactical crickits, tourniquets, hemostatic dressings. He thinks about going to the ER on foot because the roads will get busy in no time. But he decides against it — running the distance with his prosthetics isn’t the wisest choice: it will be a long shift, he’ll need all his strength.

So he gets the keys to his pickup truck, hurries down the stairs and into the parking lot; he slams the driver’s door shut, then his foot presses on the gas. In nine minutes Jack’s already going through the sliding doors — Robby exhales when he sees him.

“Brother, I’m so fucking glad to see you,” he gives Jack a hug, his face laden with worry.

“I heard the news on the police scanner, drove here as fast as I could.”

“Yeah, I figured. You just missed the briefing.”

“Let me guess, colored slap bands? I’m in the red zone?”

“You and me both. Go grab yourself a fancy orange vest,” Robby nods toward the table already crammed with supplies.

“How many are we expecting?”

“I don’t know but it doesn’t sound good. Pittfest must’ve been packed.”

Dana walks past them, visibly nervous and holding up the phone. When Robby looks at her, she shakes her head no.

Abbot gets alarmed. “Wasn’t Jake supposed to go there?”

“He was, I gave him my ticket a month ago so he could take his girlfriend with him. But he went down with a nasty cough, and they had to cancel plans. Apparently, it’s COVID.”

“And he definitely didn’t get it from you,” Jack chuckles.

But Robby isn’t smiling, and Dana doesn’t put the phone away, doesn’t stop calling. And there is a feeling that crawls up Jack’s spine, like winter frost crawls up a window pane:

something is off.

He takes a look around, scanning the crowd of residents and nurses, and everyone is talking in hushed voices, and many faces that he knows now wear the expressions he doesn’t like seeing: fearful, hesitant, dismayed. A few are managing alright — Mateo and McKay are reassuring Javadi, Santos is helping Mel tie a gown, going over the instructions out loud. Whitaker is standing silent, his fingers clasped together and green eyes anxious, like deer’s.

That’s when Jack realizes that you aren’t here.

“Where’s your star resident?”

Robby averts his gaze. “She u-um... Took two days off. I heard that she’s been working overtime, and I didn’t want her to burn out. Seemed like she’s been a bit stressed these days.”

Jack is stung by guilt. Because he suspects it’s not just work that got you so stressed, because he is the one at fault and —

“Whitaker said she planned on going to Pittfest.”

Robby’s words have the effect of a grenade, the air knocked out of Jack’s lungs like doors out of a building by a blast. And he’s left deafened by the shock wave: Jack can see Robby talking but no sounds reach him, drowned out by the ringing in his head. He has to focus to read Robby’s lips — he’s saying you will be alright. You’re a tough kid. You are probably helping everyone who’s injured. You are too busy to pick up the phone.

But Jack’s imagination is adept at picturing the worst: deep wounds, deadly wounds, your heart flatlining, lungs stopping, every hopeless case from the textbook. And even worse is the razor-sharp realization:

he had so many chances to tell you.

Now he may never get another one.

His throat tightens like he’s about to get sick. A nurse bumps a disaster bin into him on accident, and Jack steps aside, unsteady on his feet. He has to bandage the pieces of his composure back together, and he desperately hammers disbelief into his head: no, you might actually survive, there is a good chance that you will.

He holds on to that thought like it’s his lifeline.

Jack gets the gloves and safety glasses, stands closest to the doors, waits for the first wave of injured. And once he sees it — fresh blood, torn flesh — the autopilot finally kicks in: Jack moves like he’s on the battlefield, where time is critical and every second counts. In the ER, it does too. In the red zone, it’s 5 minutes per patient, after that — it’s OR, ICU, or morgue. So Jack gives orders and intubates and cuts into bodies, his hands busy with tubes, bandages, and blades; he fights for every life. But then he notices a gurney fully covered — the first corpse — and he goes to look under the blanket, and his hands shake, a tremor that seeps down to his bones.

And it is getting harder to shake off his fear, to act like all his thoughts aren’t consumed by you.

Unwittingly, Jack looks for hoodies and denim jackets, for your hair color, for anyone whose face resembles yours. In the second hour, two more victims die, both male; in the third, they get a dead body from a civilian’s car — a woman, headshot to the head, a quick death. And every muscle in Jack cramps up when he sees her: it’s not you but it could’ve been. Maybe they’ll bring in your corpse next.

And he can’t take a full breath.

Jack makes up an excuse to leave for just a minute. He walks into the bathroom and presses his head against the cold tile wall. He slowly counts to 60 and gets back out, chugs half a water bottle. Then he sees Robby running out of the corner of his eye. Jack gazes after him — one second, two, three, four. And then his gaze stumbles upon you.

Dark green shirt, sleeves stained with crimson, blood drained from your face. But you are standing on your feet. You are walking on your own.

You are alive.

Relief hits him so hard, he almost chokes on his emotions. The ringing slowly fades as his lungs finally gulp air, his eyes now glued to you. You bring in an old man — one of the guards, shot in the leg: you stopped the bleeding, and he is responsive. Ahmad is following you, his shirt bloodstained too, a mark one of the victims left. He doesn’t care, he keeps mumbling something to you but you weakly wave him off. Your left sleeve is bunched up at the top like there’s a bandage underneath, and your every move is slowed down like you are fighting off exhaustion. Jack’s legs carry him to you with zero hesitation.

Robby glances at him and back at the old man. “I’m taking this one. His vitals are surprisingly good.” Then he barks out at Ahmad: “Go change your shirt, you look like you got stabbed. You’ll give someone a heart attack. C’mon, now!” — and he wheels the old man away, Mel treading on his heels. A nurse groans behind them at the amount of blood splattered all over the floor.

But Jack couldn’t care less about the patients, his focus on you, his voice aching. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

“I’m fine,” you tell him with your hand pressed to the wall, a little breathless, almost soft. Involuntarily so. Because of course he doesn’t deserve any of your softness. “Where’s the pink zone? I want to stick around.”

He wants to argue with you but then you meet his eyes, and your gaze is disarming, striking, and Jack is too guilt-ridden to oppose. So he concedes and points you in the right direction, then watches as your silhouette moves through the waves of white and red until you are out of sight.

Jack drinks more water and helps Mel with intubation. Whitaker passes by, maneuvering between the wheelchairs and the gurneys — he asks for extra bandages, and Robby shouts in reply that he’ll bring some. Princess asks around with irritation who the hell left bloody handprints on the wall.

“Speaking of not getting drenched in blood,” Robby comes running. “I just removed the absolute perfection of a tourniquet. Great placement, no cardiac issues, didn’t get a drop on me. Not that you can tell,” he jests tiredly and changes gowns.

“The old guard from the fest?” Jack asks absentmindedly.

“Yep. We patched him up so good, he’ll be dancing in a month.”

Whitaker’s face is suddenly splashed with incomprehension. “Wait, that can’t be right.”

Robby turns to him, one brow raised in a silent question.

“You just said the tourniquet worked well. But it’s his gurney that left a trail of blood at the entrance, I almost slipped on it,” Dennis explains.

That same feeling bites into Jack again — there’s something wrong. It’s something bad. Ahmad strides into the hall, clean shirt on, still half-unbuttoned because he’s in a rush. And he goes straight to Robby.

“Hey, man, can you reason with your resident? I ain’t no doctor but I’m pretty sure she shouldn’t be running around with a bullet in her shoulder.”

There is a lull — like one before a bomb strikes.

Then Robby roars: “She what?!”

And Jack’s already on the move, looking for you, heart in his throat, blood running cold. You never made it to the pink zone — you stagger in the hallway, holding yourself against a wall, the cotton shirt balled up in your hand. You wear a tank top, and now Jack sees it all so clearly as if he’s looking at an x-ray: your left shoulder slumped down, an entry wound right of your shoulder blade — the bullet must’ve missed the bone because there’s still some movement and you aren’t bent in pain. But dark maroon is smeared down your arm, the bandage soaked, the streaks of blood running to your wrist.

Then you sway slightly on your feet, and Jack reaches you just in time to catch you. Your eyes dip shut, and in a second you are unconscious, your body going limp and lifeless in his hands. Jack searches frantically for a pulse when he notices:

there is no exit wound.

So your shoulder is a minefield, six arteries waiting to explode on contact with the bullet — and now the count goes on for minutes. He knows that, he’s dealt with that, he should get to work. But he can’t move, swept by a wave of horror, dread filling him up like icy seawater.

Someone is yelling.

Someone is running to him.

A gurney hits the nearby wall, the metal screeching against concrete.

“Up, up, up!” McKay moves the gurney closer to him. “Why didn’t anyone check her for wounds? Does she have a pulse?”

“Yes,” Jack manages, voice hoarse, fingers unsteady on your neck. He moves them under your chin — and there is a beating, faint like a ripple on the water, enough for him to let out an exhale. “She does have a pulse.”

He picks you up and places on the gurney, one of his hands immediately slick with blood. McKay swiftly moves you through the hall with Robby running by her side, his face wracked with distress. “She didn’t say anything, she— Fuck, I should’ve asked.”

Jack is wracked with so many feelings that they are tearing him apart. He should’ve asked you too, he should’ve noticed, how could he not. How could he keep his penitence a secret for so long. The trauma room you’re wheeled into quickly fills with people — as if in some unspoken pact, it’s mostly women: Santos, Javadi, Mel; Dana is looming at the doors. Dennis peeks in from behind her back.

But in the sea of faces, Jack is only seeing you.

He registers some fragments, freeze-frame shots flashing through his mind: your body turned on one side, wound splashed with antiseptic, someone’s gloved hand gliding the transducer over. The gel mixes with blood, the clumps of it being wiped off your skin, more bandages pressed to the wound, more fluid leaking, soaking them. He knows the bleeding’s not arterial because it would’ve been much worse. It doesn’t make him feel better.

“Jack!” McKay calls out to him again; he only hears it on her third attempt. There is a rumbling outside — the thunder rolling in, a harbinger of rain.

“She’s O-neg, and we are short on blood bags. That’s your type, right?” Cassie asks louder. “Can you donate?”

“Yeah,” Jack replies distractedly. It takes a few seconds for the words to settle in. “How do you know her blood type?”

“We donated together,” Javadi hurriedly explains. “I mean, technically she was the one donating because I didn’t really— I’m kinda not a fan of needles and— Sorry, doesn’t matter. She’s O-neg.”

Jack gazes from you to Robby. “Did you locate the bullet?”

“It grazed the scapula and snuggled close to the axillary artery. No metal shards,” but the unease flickers through Robby’s concentrated face.

Because it isn’t just the arteries and bones: it’s webs of muscles, nerves and vessels — the bullet going through all that would leave a lot of damage. It can leave you in so much pain, you won’t be able to move your arm. It can put an end to your career.

The thunder claps once more. The nausea threatens to bubble up Jack’s throat again. “What caliber?”

“Pretty sure it’s a .22.”

Robby darts a glance at him, and Jack can read its meaning: a .223 bullet would’ve shattered the bone. Would’ve been lethal. A .22 is smaller, so you have better chances to recover. And Jack will get a chance to —

The monitor starts beeping as your blood pressure drops. More bandages are thrown out wet. The rain outside loudly scuds against the walls and windows.

“You sure the artery’s intact? She is still bleeding,” McKay notes, brows furrowed.

“Arterial comes in a different color,” Robby’s expression mirrors hers. He peers at the image on the screen, eyes narrowing, a moment that is unbearably too long. Then his brows shoot up. “It’s not the artery, it’s the vein.”

Your heart rate is bright before Jack’s eyes, the number inexorably increasing: 120, 124, 127, 130. Robby is aware of it too — he quickly moves the ultrasound machine away. Then puts on a new pair of gloves.

“The ORs are packed so we need to deal with this in here. Cassie, you’re with me, everyone else — get back to your patients. We will update you guys when I’m done.”

Jack’s gaze wanders back to you — your tank top cut in the middle, the fabric ruined, your shoulder marred by the open wound that will leave a lifelong scar. He only now realizes that he’s been holding to your green shirt. He grabs it tighter.

“Let’s do a direct transfusion,” he breathes out.

Robby has no arguments against it, and Dana rushes in without command. She rummages through the supply closet. “Hey cowboy, come sit.”

“I’ll stand—”

“No, you will sit. Don’t waste your time on testing my patience,” she stares him down.

Jack stalks in and takes the chair closest to you, his gaze fixed on you, his voice dull. “You can drain me.”

Dana glances at him with a huff. “I’d like to avoid that.”

She pulls his sleeve up, wipes his arm clean with antiseptic, then works fast: a cannula in, connected to the transfusion tubing, then to your vein. Then Dana gives him another look and asks more quietly: “Are you okay?”

Jack looks numbly at his blood flowing, then to the drops of yours left on the floor, harsh red against the muted blue. Robby inserts a tube into your throat. And Jack is not okay, he is very far from it. “I’m not the one on the table,” he notes despondently.

The fear stays wrapped tight around his ribcage like barbed wire.

Your arm is scrubbed with hydrogen peroxide, and Dana helps to hold it up. Your pulse is thready, and all the sounds are muted in Jack’s head, his mind clouded like the sky before the storm, the waves of agitation churning in. His gaze darts to your vitals then to the instruments — scalpels and forceps catching light, steel stained, dark crimson. He watches Robby work with bated breath: it’s dilute epinephrine irrigation to reduce the bleeding, then suture ligation to make it stop.

The red number of your heart rate is slowly going down. Jack’s nerves are tight like a taut string.

He is too overwhelmed to show any reaction when the bullet is extracted, the edges of your wound sewn, the breathing tube removed. He doesn’t notice when Evans takes the needle out and puts a band-aid on his arm. He barely feels his legs when he stands up, his eyes snag on your body being wheeled out to transfer to your room.

Jack follows you without a doubt, with no questions, in a heartbeat.

He leaves his vest at the nurse station, the reasoning he’s come up with is believable enough: his leg’s been hurting, he just needs a break. He takes the stairs and gets up to the patient’s floor right when McKay is coming out of your room. Jack snaps out of his pensiveness only when he’s sitting by your bed.

And he’s afraid to move.

He can’t concentrate on any thought, he doesn’t dare to make wishes, he’s learned not to rely on prayers. So in the silence that’s broken by the thrumming rain, he watches as your chest falls and rises with each breath. Jack balances right at the very edge of slumber, and the exhaustion is weighing on his body but he doesn’t let it up a bit. It feels like time is stretching into endless hours — in truth, it barely takes one. And then he sees your fingers twitching.

He anxiously drags his gaze — up from your hands to chest to shoulders. When he looks at your face, you are already slowly blinking, eyes on the ceiling. You let out a quiet groan — and unexpectedly, it’s followed by your voice:

“If this is about me being reckless again, I really don’t want to hear it right now.”

The hand Jack reached to you freezes midair.

You aren’t angry or annoyed, just tired — which hurts him more. All the unsaid words feel heavy on his tongue; he swallows them without a sound.

“I’m gonna call Robby,” he mumbles and quickly leaves the room.

Jack pauses when he’s outside, his heart pounding so fast he needs a minute to calm down. He takes a few deep breaths, one thought cycling through his mind like mantra: you are alive, he didn’t lose you, all his apologies can wait.

He doesn’t go back in with Robby. Instead, Jack leans against the wall next to the door and listens in on the conversation you are having. Robby holds back his discontent but you do offer him an explanation: you didn’t want to bother anyone, it didn’t seem too serious, you thought you’d ask for help when the ER’s less busy. Then come the standard questions: how much the shoulder hurts, how freely can you move your injured arm, is there still any discomfort? Jack’s getting mildly irritated with how long this process takes because he thinks you only need more sleep. And he does too. He bites his tongue when Robby finally walks out.

“We’ll monitor her overnight, probably will discharge her in the afternoon,” he taps on the tablet, then stretches his arms. “God, I’d kill for a glass of scotch right now. Wanna make a beeline for the bar across the street? I have about an hour left.”

“I think I’ll stay put. Maybe see if Evans needs some help with paperwork, or check up on Shen,” Jack trails off.

In all honestly, he feels like his legs are filled with lead. As soon as Robby leaves, Jack picks a chair and puts it right next to your room and almost falls on it, his limbs lumbering, his body worn to a frazzle. The floor is quiet, and he tells himself he’ll close his eyes just for a minute.

... He wakes up on inhale.

At first, he doesn’t know why.

The weather has calmed down, the raindrops tapping in the distance, the buzz of people echoing somewhere far enough to not be a bother. Jack rubs the back of his neck, his muscles tense, his mind a little drowsy — and he catches a small sound, something like a gasp. Then comes another one, sharp, desperate, like someone is struggling to breathe. And that someone is in the room he’s sitting next to.

Jack leaps off the chair and thrusts the door open, and instantly he meets your eyes — wide, terrified, lips trembling and parted. You are sitting in bed, one hand pressed to your chest as you are helplessly gasping for air. He rushes up to you, his voice low but firm, calm, coaxing.

“Hey-hey, you need to breathe through your nose,” Jack says, but you only shake your head, your fingers digging into the white hospital gown.

He sits on your bed and takes your hand before you can scratch into your skin through the thin fabric. “Can you think of a phone number? Any number. Try saying it out loud but backward,” he suggests, his gaze never leaving yours. “What’s the last digit? Let’s start with just one. You can do it, c’mon. Think about it and tell me.”

It takes you about a minute — with each new second your panic wanes, slowly but surely, like thick fog giving way to clear skies. Your voice cracks when you force out:

“T-two.”

“Okay, that’s good, you’re doing good,” Jack praises quietly. “And what’s the second to last?”

Without thinking, he brushes the inside of your palm with his thumb. You don’t recoil. You keep looking at him, and your voice grows stronger, and you are letting more and more air in as you name the remaining digits.

Only when he hears the tenth, Jack figures out: “That’s the ER number.”

You drop your gaze. “I don’t know many phone numbers. It was the first one that came to mind.”

But what he hears is that you don’t have many people you can call. He wishes there was a decent reason to share his number but he can’t think of any.

“How are you feeling?” he asks cautiously.

You take a deep breath in, then out. “Better, I guess. Thank you. I didn’t mean to bother you, it was just a bad dream.”

Jack guesses that it’s more than that: more serious, long-lasting, the imprint your trauma leaves behind, not letting you forget. Because he knows — from memories, from the experience, his own included. He almost sounds apologetic when he notes:

“That’s how PTSD usually works.”

“Isn’t this too soon?” you chuckle mirthlessly. “I was hoping I’d get one good night while I’m on morphine.”

But then your gaze flits back to him — and it’s wondering and heedful, like you are afraid to hurt him. Your question comes out in a whisper: “Did you have to deal with it too?”

Jack is taken aback although it’s not offense that paints his features — it’s genuine surprise. Did you ask around about him? How else would you know? You give him an explanation before he can find the words to ask.

“The dog tags. You tug at your chain sometimes when you think things over. That’s how I noticed,” and it’s your turn to be apologetic.

But your reply is softened by a smile, and you don’t move your hand away from his. It’s not the topic Jack likes bringing up: he’s rarely met with understanding, and he hates being pitied. But you don’t give him pity — instead, you look at him like you want to treat him gently. And he feels like he’d talk to you just about anything.

Jack slowly nods. “Hard to avoid PTSD if you’re in the military. But therapy helped. Lots of therapy, lots of patience. The good old recipe.”

“Can’t wait to break the news to my therapist,” you let out half a groan, half a laugh. “I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic.”

“My therapist would’ve loved it,” Jack blurts out.

You give him a puzzled look. But you sound intrigued. “Okay, you need to elaborate on that. Or find a better therapist.”

Jack breathes out a chuckle. “He just likes solving things — problems, puzzles, murder mysteries. And I feel like he’s getting a little bored of me. Sometimes when he is writing in his notebook, I wonder if he’s just got a crossword hidden in there.”

“Oh, mine loves baking. I used to leave with hands full of pastry. I shared it with colleagues, I even started feeding birds. It’s kind of a relief that we switched to online sessions. Pretty sure half of the pigeons in my neighborhood now suffer from obesity.”

A smile crosses Jack’s face — not at the thought of chubby pigeons but at the realization: you find it easy to talk to him too. But then your hand trembles in his, and instantly Jack is on alert for trouble: his eyes dart from your shoulder to the needle taped to your arm.

“Are you in pain?” Jack frowns. “What’s your morphine dosage? You can get a little extra if —”

“No,” you refuse sharply, and Jack’s acutely aware he chose the wrong words. You only sigh and tug at the blanket with your other hand. “It’s not about morphine, it’s just... My blood pressure is usually low so I get cold easily.”

Jack perks up: that’s something he can actually help you with. “Wait, I’ll be right back,” he promises and rushes out like he just got a second wind.

All his enthusiasm is blown out by the chaos in the ER: it takes him a mortifying amount of time to find where his wool blanket disappeared. He searches the entirety of the nurse station, goes through his locker, he checks both bathrooms and even ventures out into the morgue. He’s running past the entrance when he glimpses Shen — with the said blanket thrown over his shoulders.

“Hey man, look what I found!” Shen blithely tells him.

Jack darts to him and yanks the blanket off, his gaze burning. “Don’t. Just don’t ever touch this.”

Shen blinks uncomprehendingly. “What? It’s not like it had your name on it!”

When Jack comes back, he finds you curled up on the bed, the thin bedcover brought up to your neck, hands folded under your cheek. He tiptoes closer and puts the blanket over you, then tucks you in. He’s checking the IV line’s placement when all of a sudden, your fingers catch his palm — as if on impulse, or maybe out of habit you are unconsciously forming.

“You are so warm,” your voice is barely above the whisper.

His hand stays pressed to yours as you doze off, and Jack stands still. For a minute, five, ten; he doesn’t feel like moving.

And then, without letting go of you, he manages to reach the chair and pull it closer to your bed. He sits down and lowers one of the side rails, then leans to you, his elbows sinking into the mattress, your steady breath grazing his skin. Jack rests his chin on his free arm and watches you — with peacefulness that’s akin to tenderness, with some other feeling that fills him up with warmth.

And slowly, he gives in to sleep, lulled by the sounds of the rain and monitors, his hand tangled with yours, his thumb on your pulse.

GSW = gunshot wound / PBP = The Pittsburgh Police;

shout-out to @/thedarkesthistories who made a post about everything Jack’s got in his backpack ♡

I did a lot of research (the FBI agent watching me through my laptop was probably hella confused by me reading case studies and watching surgeries lmao) BUT obviously, I am not a doctor so please forgive me for any inaccuracies;

the title is a quote from “Wake” by SYML ♫

dividers by @/cafekitsune & me.

some bad and good news. the bad: this chapter originally was coming close to 20K and... no, I don’t think many people would’ve read that. so we’ll have 4 chapters in total instead of 3. the good news: the next chapter is half-written so hopefully it won’t take me forever to finish it (fingers crossed).

English is not my first language, so feel free to tell me if you spot any major mistakes!

I also want to take a moment to thank everyone who left a comment and reblogged my fic(s). obviously, I am grateful for every like I get. but if I’m being honest, my imposter syndrome often beats all the motivation out of me, and as much as I enjoy writing, I spend an embarrassing amount of time on self-doubting. I know my fics aren’t everyone’s cup of tea (I rarely write short stories, I don’t include smut in every single one, my writing style might seem overloaded or too detailed... the list goes on), and that’s fine. but I also have an unfortunate habit of joining fandoms a little too late. which feels like walking into a cafeteria where all the tables are already taken, and no one intends to spare you a seat. I don’t feel like a part of a community and at the end of the day, I write for myself. which is why it’s so rewarding when people find the time to say something nice about my fics and to share them. thank you so much to every single one of you, that means a lot to me. ♡

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

༶•┈♛ 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑 ♛┈•༶

𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐭 𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞 ・𝐡.𝐣.

—jisung doesn't know if he hates you or wants to fuck you.

HAN JISUNG has never lost a race. Throned King of Tokyo's Midnight Circuit when he was 17, he hasn't lost the title since—that is until you come into town. You were a fucking icon, utterly anonymous yet beloved by racers all around the world, known for your pink flaming-heart glasses and electric nickname, Neon. Nobody knows who you are or where you came from, but when you wittfully correct his accidental slip-up one night, he quickly realizes two things: you were impossible to flirt with and he's no longer the best racer in town. What will happen when the Queen of Cali challenges the King of Tokyo to a race? Who say's Tokyo can't have a queen too?

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐬・angst, fluff, street racing!AU, 90's AU, enemies to lovers, bad boy!jisung with a soft spot he only shows you, smut...maybe

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬・tbd

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬・panic attacks, anxiety, car chases, street racing (duh), police, being chased by the policed, you are so iconic, illeagal activities, danger smut warnings: kissing, fingering, dirty talk, readers a virgin, jisung is expeirence.... maybe,

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭・shut up and drive - rihanna; california love - 2pac; starboy - the weekend...

𝐚/𝐧・you can thank the movie my fault: london, hans new dazed korea magaizine cover, and the reel skz just posted. also might just make a part 2 with changbin bc he has been looking a little too fine lately. please note this is just a teaser so all of this is subject to change. thank you!

The first time Han Jisung got behind the wheel, he was hooked. It was an addiction, his first win; the way everybody turned and looked at him—eyes wide and jaws slack. There he was, this little 17-year-old boy, 5'4" and a buck fifty soaking wet, yet he had beaten one of the best underground racers in all of Tokyo.

He won his first pink slip that night—a neon orange Ferrari GTO, fully loaded with all the best mods; and his new vehicle. After that, Jisung realized there was only one thing better than winning—and that was racing.

The rush of adrenaline in his veins, the gentle roar of the engine beneath his feet, how his palms rubbed against the leather wheel. His body buzzed with energy, breath coming out in quick spurts.

The world around him was alive, a cacophony of roaring vehicles and deafening cheers. Yet all his worries seemed to fade like the scent of burning tires drifting into the air, and for once, his heart pounded for something he could control.

It took him three races to earn the title "Turbo," and five more to officially become the King of Tokyo's Midnight Circuit. Before he knew it, street racers were coming from all across Japan, begging for a taste of his talent. It became a challenge, a game between him and the rest of the underground.

Who could finally beat Turbo?

For three years, nobody could.

That was until you arrived. Turbo was quickly replaced with Neon, and Han wasn’t the hot new thing anymore. Word spread fast in the shadows, whispers of a girl with pink flaming-heart glasses and an attitude like a whip—some called her iconic, others claimed she was a legend. But the one that hurt Jisung the most was: "she might just be able to beat Turbo."

There was a hierarchy involved with racing; it was delicate, volatile, something he spent years perfecting, and he was going to be damned to let you dethrone him.

hehehe let me know if you wanna be tagged!!

Taglist - @sunnysdiary @estella-novella @lillymochilover @itsannaaa22 @poody1608 @lili-of-the-dream @alisonyus @tillaboo @cheeksung @mirophobic @lze325 @jisungml @jisunglyricist @skzlover24 @bookishcaptain @matchacha65 @viachicag0, @thequibbie, @furioussheepluminary @stayp1eceposts @cherry012309 @sfoster74 @vonvi-blog @verdantchan @deepestmusickid-blog @gnabsrihc @sikebishes @deshnikko @ye0lkkot @mhluvie @peskybirdysya @strayingawayy @heusalettle @sunoosmainchick @tsukiesimp @jeondesu @pochacco-baby @still-a-stray

[mariacallous]

Opening a kosher restaurant in New York City wasn’t always in the cards for Raif Rashed, a Druze from the village of Usfiya in northern Israel.

But as Rashed, the owner of Taboonia — a new Druze restaurant in the Garment District that’s currently seeking kosher certification — will be the first to tell you, sometimes life can take an unexpected turn, especially after a tragedy.

An engineer by trade, Rashed, 40, moved to Hackensack, New Jersey, in 2019 to take a job at an Israeli manufacturing company. In October 2023, he was visiting family in Israel when he extended his trip to could help his brother, Radda — who had run a catering business and food stall there, also called Taboonia, for a decade — work a busy event.

Fatefully, that event was the Nova Music Festival. Intended to be a 15-hour party overnight dance party, the festival was the site of one of the deadliest massacres that occurred when Hamas invaded Israel on Oct. 7, 2023.

During the violent chaos that unfolded, Rashed was separated from his brother, who ultimately survived. He sought cover behind a car belonging to his friend Erick Peretz, who was at the festival with his 16-year-old daughter Ruth, who had cerebral palsy and used a wheelchair. Rashed watched Peretz and his daughter seek cover behind an ambulance, then, to his horror, witnessed Hamas fighters burning the vehicle. Erick and Ruth Peretz’s bodies were identified 12 days later; they were among the more than 380 people murdered at the festival that day.

The experience turned Rashed’s life upside down. “I was in crisis [for] a year,” said Rashed, who added that, in the aftermath of the attack, “I looked middle-aged within hours.”

Rashed was stuck in Israel for several months, as his passport was stolen in the attack. When he finally returned to the United States, he quit his engineering job. Seeking comfort, he found himself cooking the foods of his childhood, like manakish — a type of flatbread served with toppings like za’atar, hummus, and labneh — or the very thin, crispy Druze pita, rolled into a wrap and filled with cucumber and tomato salad, hummus, hard boiled eggs, feta and chickpeas.

The Druze are a small religious and ethnic minority in the Middle East, with a population of about 1 million spread across communities in Syria, Lebanon and Israel. (Israel has vowed to protect the Druze in Syria if they come under attack from the new regime there, and this week Syrian Druze visited a Druze site in Israel for the first time in decades.) In Israel, Druze communities, comprising less than 2% of the population, tend to be patriotic and serve in the military, as Rashed did. “We don’t have [a] country, but we serve the country we live [in],” he said.

Inspired by reconnecting with Druze cuisine, Rashed decided to open an American outpost of Taboonia.

“For me to sell the food from our culture, and especially my mother’s recipes, this is my baby,” he said.

On Oct. 5, 2024 — almost exactly one year after the terrorist attack — he launched the Taboonia food stall, selling Druze food and coffee at the New Meadowlands Market at MetLife Stadium in East Rutherford, New Jersey on Saturdays and at the Grand Bazaar on the Upper West Side of Manhattan on Sundays. It was an instant hit.

The same month he opened his food stall, Rashed met his future business partner, Ray Radwan. Radwan, a Druze born in New Jersey whose family is from Lebanon, works in the restaurant industry, and the pair decided to open a brick-and-mortar outpost of Taboonia at 832 Sixth Ave. Construction on the fast-casual dining space, which seats roughly a dozen people, began last November, and the restaurant had its soft-launch opening last month.

Until recently, the only Druze eatery in New York has Gazala’s, an Upper West Side restaurant run by Gazala Halabi. When Gazala’s was targeted with anti-Israel vandalism in February 2024, scores of local Jews turned out to show support. The pattern repeated that July: Following a Hezbollah rocket attack that took the lives of 12 children and teens in a Druze town in northern Israel, Jewish New Yorkers showed up at Gazala’s in droves.

“It really feels like a family,” Halabi said of the Jewish community’s support at the time. “I really feel, again, like I’m not alone.”

But the city’s significant population of kosher-keeping Jews could not join in the rush. Gazala’s is not kosher and serves shellfish alongside serves Middle Eastern specialties like kibbeh, meat-stuffed grape leaves, shawarma and lamb.

Taboonia is vegetarian, making it relatively easy to achieve kosher certification. Rashed said the restaurant is expected to receive its certification from Rabbi Zev Schwarcz at IKC in the coming weeks, and that there will be a grand opening celebration, likely after Passover. And because Taboonia isn’t owned by a Jew, it should be able to stay open on Shabbat and maintain its kosher status — an added perk.

“See, to be Druze, is a plus,” he said.

Rashed said it’s just good business to seek kosher certification. “Kosher, everyone can eat, OK?” he said. “But not kosher, not everyone can eat.”

But he is also grateful to the support he’s gotten from Jews in New York and beyond — including through a recent viral video that the actress and pro-Israel activist Noa Tishby posted about him on Instagram.

“My community is Jewish,” he said, adding that he attended school alongside Jewish students, and that his Hebrew is better than his Arabic or English. “I am around Jewish since 13 years old.”

Rashed’s six years in New York and New Jersey have influenced his palette, as well as the restaurant’s menu. In addition to traditional Druze foods, Taboonia also serves some cross-cultural treats, like everything bagel-seasoned bourekas, filled with mozzarella cheese.

Rashed hopes that Taboonia will be a place of repast and respite for New Yorkers of all stripes.

“Me and other Druze, Lebanese Druze, we [are] all of us all together [in the] middle of the war, in the middle of New York, to show the world we can make it a different way, and maybe we can make a change for some people, yes?” Rashed said. “Because [in] this place you’re going to hear Arabic, Hebrew, and English. No one is going to judge anyone about anything.”

[miyakiwiii]

"Just a naïve one arent ya?"

=HOSHINA SOSHIRO

Ive had brainrot of this man for the whole days.. also some karasu brainrot.

18+ NSFW. EXPLICIT.

MARKING/BITING, OVERSTIMULATION,P IN V, SLIGHT BONDAGE? BLOOD,INJURY! ,W/PLOT,RAW!,HAIR PULLING, FEM READER!,BOTH PRAISE?, DEGRADE?,RIDING

the vice captain of the third division of the defense force, hoshina soshiro.

Or hoshina fuku taichō.

You were just a normal officer, serving also for the defense force and also in the third division.

You've always admired the vice captain from afar, well he has only greeted you once.... maybe thrice? We dont know.

The kaiju alarm has rang, waking the others up and moving quickly getting ready.

All of you moved fast to reach the vehicle in time. Others are now inside the vehicle, to reach where the kaiju is now attacking. You, also inside the vehicle and took a deep breath and exhale it, You look around inside the vehicle and it stops into the destination on where the kaiju is close, but not close enough to injure all of you inside the vehicle. All of you went outside the vehicle, readying you're guns

Pew pew.

There he was, wearing his armour, and also his double swords noticable,his closed eyes and the mask covering his mouth.

You grip ur gun tighter as the ground rumbles a little bit, due to the kaiju being hella big...

You prepare too shoot incoming kaijus, reloading freezing rounds to slow some of them up.

It was untill one attacked you from behind. As it attacked you, you managed to shoot it off and run away, hiding in a building gripping your bleeding shoulder.

Shit, those kaijus we're fast as fuck.

Your eyes slowly close due too the exhaustion from the blood lost.

But, you suddenly randomly woke up in a bed blah blah blah..

"Oh? Yer' awake! Didnt notice that." hoshina says with his signature smile and closed eyes of course...

Wait did you say hoshina?

ITS HOSHINA.

He sits on the chair beside you as you look at him.

"Uhm.." you say letting out a sound, well not entirely a sound but you dont know if its a word.

He flicks your forehead

"Ow.." you rub the place where he flicked you're forehead

"You're just a naïve one arent ya?" He says, looking at you while laughing " we found you bleeding inside of a random crumbled building, Ya coulda' been injured more!" He says while crossing his hands.

"Im.. sorry vice captain i had no where to go.." you say while sighing and also sweat dropping

"No, no its fine! You could repay me because i saved yer' life." He says while smirking at you.

"What.. kind of repayment..?" You say, swallowing the saliva thats been building up inside ur mouth.

"You'll see." He says while smiling, striking you with his signature smile.

NSFW AHEAD.

And thats how you ended up having your hands tied to ur back while riding your vice captain.. raw

"Yer' doing so well hm? Riding my cock like a fucking slut." He says, gripping your waist like hes holding on for dear life.

"Ah - ah- yes vice captain!" You say, tears welling up in you're eyes as the overstimulation consumes your body.

How many orgasms has it been? Two or three? Maybe even four.

You were slowly turning dizzy from the pleasure, no his pleasure That you were giving him.

He slowly makes his way into ur neck, feeling his warm breath.

He bites down a mark and it makes you arch your back and moan, he was still bouncing you up and down, like a fucking cocksleeve.

"I bet ya like this hm? Sugar?" He says, licking the mark, blood seeping from the mark.

"Y-yes Vice captai- AH!" you say, he moves ur body faster on his cock, there was a ring of white forming on it, due to the past orgasms.

Goddamn this man had a lot of stamina...

Well of course? What would you expect from the vice captain?

He pulls ur hair for a kiss, intertwining your tongues together, he was kissing you like a starved man.

While he was kissing you, his hands slowly made it into your clit, rubbing it in tight cirlces.

He breaks the kiss and opens his eyes. You saw his red eyes staring at yours.

"C-cant do it haaah..." you say feeling exhausted from bouncing on his cock.

"You can do it, just one more... one more.." he still kept rubbing circles on ur core, he was feeling you tightening on his shaft.

He felt good from all of this.

"C-coming!" You say.

"Come. Now." he says making you bounce more faster on him.

"Ngh- aahha!" You came, oh so deliciously on him,he soon followed after you.

You were both panting and huffing.

"Who said we were done yet?"

Hes so ooc for me.. AGGGHHHHH

[ratyts]

Leon Kennedy would be the best person to have around during a zombie apocalypse. Obviously. But like a real apocalypse, like Dawn of the Dead or something. It starts while you're out running errands. Things are a little hectic at the pharmacy. And the supermarket, god, the parking lot is so full you just drive away. It isn't until you're stuck in gridlock traffic heading the highway when you realize something's wrong. You blink and everything's chaos, drivers abandoning their vehicles, sirens coming from every direction. You sat behind the wheel wide eyed and still. Before you knew it, you were being pulled out of your car. You struggled until you realized A) he was a cop and B) a loose eighteen-wheeler had been barreling right towards your car. He answered your dazed "What the fuck? Who are you?" as he pulled you to your feet and took your hand with a haphazardly spoken, "Leon. We need to move." It only took a second of you looking over your shoulder at people(?) attacking each other for you to look ahead and run as fast as you could. Leon dragged you along until you stumbled, letting yourself drop onto the grass as you tried to catch your breath. He was sweating too, clearly without a plan— not that you minded, you were still reeling from the threat of being squished in your car. He sat down next to you, leaning against a tree behind him. That was the first time the two of you really got to talk. You grimaced a little as he spoke, he was cute. Cuter than he should've been considering the circumstances. And you, well, it was hot out, you had just been running for your life— you were grateful for the dwindling composure you had left. As disheveled as you felt, however, Leon didn’t seem to mind. He barely even seemed to notice. You couldn’t have ran into a more polite man in the apocalypse.

masterlist + a/n: a zombie apocalypse au for a resident evil fic is crazy but I hope someone sees my vision. but I just did a midterm on dawn of the dead and regular re is not zombie enough. I feel inclined to make this a real one shot.

[deadpresidents]

I just hope these next 4 years go by fast

This election isn't just about the next four years. With Trump in the White House and a Republican Senate at his side, the MAGA movement can pick up where they left off when it comes to packing the federal judiciary with right-wing judges who will control the Supreme Court and appellate courts throughout the country potentially for the rest of the lives of everyone reading this right now. It's the perfect recipe for them to continue stripping reproductive rights away from women nationwide and gives them the opportunity to turn their attention to the other issues that they have been dying to attack, from voting rights to gay marriage and every other extension of personal freedom that has been won by minorities and marginalized people in hard-fought battles over the past 60 years. This is the nightmare scenario that people have been warning folks about for the past few elections. It's here. And there isn't going to be a way to put the toothpaste back in the tube.

The consequences of this election will have a direct, negative impact on your life -- possibly on the entire remainder of your life. This country just re-elected a President with authoritarian tendencies who is the willing puppet of a dangerous Christian nationalist movement that figured out exactly how to manipulate him (through flattery) for their aims. They have created the perfect vehicle for a genuine cult of personality that they can use to achieve the goals they have been very clear about striving for over the past few years. And you can't blame anybody other than the American voters because they not only elected Trump, but they gave him a fucking mandate, with a Republican Senate and potentially a Republican House. They already have a right-wing dominated Supreme Court for the next few decades, and now they are going to ensure that the entire federal judiciary is in their control for years to come. And don't forget the fact that a few months ago, the Supreme Court handed down a decision that gave Presidents sweeping immunity for a broad (and conveniently undefined) range of "official" acts, so Trump is going to go into this second term knowing that not only does he not have to deal with the "guardrails" of responsible adults he had around him in his first term (Mattis, Tillerson, Kelly, General Milley, etc), but he knows he can get away with virtually anything and everything that he wants to do this time around. If you thought that Trump's first term was bad, just understand that they are prepared this time and now he's surrounded himself with people who will do his bidding -- people who are perfectly willing to let Trump be Donald Trump.

I wish there was a reason to cry foul, lodge protests, and challenge the election's results. But this wasn't a rigged election. There isn't any confusion about what the voters really wanted. The American people did this. People you know and care about and who say they care about you are the people who did this. We need to recognize that these elections aren't outliers anymore. Trump's supporters aren't simply chaos agents who got lucky on a bad day for the Democrats. That's the country we live in now and we have to find a way to resist it that actually makes a difference because now they have the keys to all the doors and all of the alarm codes. This country has normalized the conspiracy theories and nativism and racism that has powered the MAGA movement since the moment Trump came down the elevator at Trump Tower in 2015. He's given those people permission to be open with their hatred towards people who aren't like them, and it's actually become surprising to see how many Americans have been eager to take advantage of that. I didn't think I had any misconceptions about this country before Donald Trump because I recognized this nation's history, but I clearly had some misconceptions about people I thought I knew until I saw them wearing a red MAGA hat or noticed they had a gigantic flag with Trump's name hanging where their U.S. flag used to hang. Once that happened, it was like a switch went off with them and they started saying things in ways that I'd never heard them speak. I feel like that's happened to the entire country. It breaks my heart and it pisses me off.

For the past few years, I've been warning everybody about how elections have consequences. I imagine that there are hundreds of posts on this blog with that phrase in all caps listed with the tags. Now the elections have happened, and we have to live with real fucking consequences. And we're going to pass these consequences on to other generations because this is the one that you can't get a do-over on. When you give a movement like this the power and the mandate that this country just gave them, there is no easily rolling back the things that they end up doing. They are going to fundamentally change the lives of people in this nation and especially change the way the younger generations of Americans live and love and learn for years to come. And you have people in your life who made that happen. It's another disgusting day in America -- a prelude to another reprehensible four years (at the very least) -- and I'm ashamed of tens of millions of my fellow Americans because this one is on them. They know exactly who the man is that they voted for, and now we know exactly who they are, too.

[captain-price-unofficially]

SAS LRDG Jeep modified for long range operations in North Africa, sporting several Vickers K machine-guns and a M3 Browning usually reserved for aircraft. WWII

[starberry-cupcake]

I'm still kinda sick and on antibiotics (hopefully getting better) but I needed to recap because I CANNOT BELIEVE the thing I predicted I 👏 AM👏 LOSING👏 IT👏

previously in nona del 9:

this happened

this is the general tag of all the recaps

CHAPTER 26 (fourth house skull for some reason????)

the party is ready to move and pyrrha is carrying gideon like a sack of papas 🥔

I think pyrrha likes carrying gideon because she's like the child she never had

gideon is playing dead and nona thinks she's very good at it

she's had a lot of practice being dead and not quite dead

we suffer almost has a heart attack when yandere chad's body showed up and palmolive had to explain the situation

looking at it from like a totally uninvolved perspective, what a group of people coming out from the club

here's an artistic rendition I made with markers in 3 minutes

I considered, after making it, doing it properly and not putting out there a 3 minute marker doodle that may embarrass me, but I think this captures it well enough and cringe is dead, anyway

If I messed up anyone's hair, I'm sorry, I sometimes fill in the blanks with my imagination of the appearance details I don't remember

we suffer wants to help treat camilla and she isn't very into it but palmolive orders for all the pain meds they can give

I also want camilla to be well and not suffer but let's try to not get her high as a satellite right now

they have to separate them in to vehicles and camilla decides to go with gideon while pyrrha goes with nona, palmolive, coronabeer, judith, we suffer and tsundere pash

nona wonders if she doesn't want to go with palmolive, since they've been attached by the green thread of the queerplatonic bound since he got inside chad's body

I hope chad is very aware that palmolive got into his body, I hope he knows

camilla says she's getting sick of palmolive and parts with a cute little gentle forehead touch

tsundere pash nope-d out of sharing a car with gideon real fast

they position judith on her side, like I do when I'm not feeling well

and coronabeer is worrying for her wet mouse girlfriend

palmolive can't help judith further, while in chad's body

coronabeer says judith has come so far and fought so hard and palmolive says she's gonna have to fight some more

we suffer asks palmolive about the shuttle and he says "secure" which is the understatement of the century, but that's between him and...maybe not god, in this case

between him and nona

we suffer says that the sixth is being moved around underground like some eternal delivery service

few things are more torturing to me personally than to be moved around in a vehicle for so long

I would never cease throwing up

when they're theorizing about the specific location, nona remembers "fucking nuts man, fucking nutter" and little green fruits

pyrrha says it's a classic BOE move "fucking insane, surprisingly effective, relies on a lot of soldiers pissing in a lot of bottles"

tsundere pash is trying not to laugh at that but we all notice anyway

nona looks at how we suffer sits elegantly and thinks she would learn to imitate that if it was another time, but currently what she feels is "some kind of sorrow related to legs"

nobody is taking nona notes anymore but I am in my head

we suffer thinks that unjust hope

(who seems to be in charge of the merv wing)

(who were the ones doing all that shooting in the school, if memory serves)

is not gonna pull any punches if they're found out

palmolive asks if there's any way to make their odds better and tsundere pash is very rude about it

like, extremely rude

it's wild to me that these people are so rude to people they know for a fact could murder them in the blink of an eye if they wanted

but tsundere pash is nothing if not tsundere

pyrrha is looking at tsundere pash with some sort of softness that tsundere pash also feels very tsundere about and nona doesn't know what to do with it

I need to stop using the word, but that's her true essence

palmolive politely apologizes about his insistence because you can definitely take the chad-ness out of the chad if you put a nerd inside him

or whatever

judith makes a sound like she wanted to laugh at palmolive but is falling apart from inside and coronabeer has to soothe her puddle of a girlfriend

nona offers another one of those bombs she drops every now and then and lets everyone know she is aware of where the convoy was earlier that week

remember honesty's terrible gig that got him punched? it's back!

we suffer doesn't quite trust a kid's intel and nona tells her she can ask angel teacher for confirmation

nona says honesty would never snitch to a cop (good!) and that she doesn't think he'd tell her either, since she's out of the gang for being a zombie

it's been a difficult week for nona

pyrrha volunteers to go with nona to talk to him but nona thinks it'd be best for her to go alone and, if all fails, scream like she did before, because that would impress honesty

she knows her kiddos

nona starts sort of disassociating from her body, recognizing sensations but as if she wasn't the one feeling them

which is something to underline in the nona notes

nona gets to honesty's place and honesty doesn't feel well opening the door to her because he knows what went on in the shooting

nona says she respects him for it, because listening to sriracha girlie is top priority

"if you can push a bullet out your head your hair's probably okay"

honesty is always imparting the wisdom of the common man, I'm here for it

they go back and forth about whether to call this a matter of life and death or non-death or how it'd be appropriate to call it

since death is kind of blurry for nona right now, with all the people not quite dead around her

nona tells him that, after, this, she's going away and she wants him to keep her money and also her cleaning rag with turpentine, which he can sell

turns out sriracha girlie is also there and honesty tells her that he wants to help nona because she cares so much about him being an entrepreneur and is looking out for his business

it's all very cute, minus the part where a minor has to sell drugs and weapons to make a living

nona tells them that it's not only her, that other necromancers are also going to leave after this

sriracha girlie doesn't think it's possible but they decide to help nona with the location

sriracha girlie knows the intel isn't for nona to read, so honesty goes to print it

nona gives sriracha girlie some requests before her leaving, including that the next teacher aide should be nice to the tinies because it's not their fault they're small

are we all crying or is it just me??

nona also asks honesty to not do jobs like the one that got them this intel ever again and that there's enough in her savings for him to stay safe

sriracha girlie tells nona the secret of her name, which is that she likes hot sauce because you can put it on anything

makes sense to me

she also tells nona she'll always love her and nona is now also crying

and that she's in the gang again but on eternal kevin bathroom duty because she's a zombie

we love kevin

hope these kids don't die, I really do, but at this point, we're all in danger

CHAPTER 27 (second house skull!! judith time??? pyrrha time??? who knows!!)

with the intel from honesty, we suffer starts back "operation lock and key"

not to put to shame the entirety of BOE but a bunch of kids just did a better job

pyrrha is chatty towards we suffer about commander amanda wake and says she likes talking to people who knew her

even if she (and og!gideon) killed her

not the most complicated relationship in this book series, even then

pyrrha also mentions that commander abigail wake had tsundere pash's photo on her

and says wake said "if it wasn't for filth like you, nice kids like this wouldn't have to hold these"

kind of wild hearing her having a mentor relationship to a kid whereas gideon was a tool to gain something

tsundere pash says that commander agatha wake was her aunt

gideon now has a dad, a cousin, a stepdadmom, a title and renown but it's not the way she wanted it

hell of a monkey paw

nona keeps having this sort of disconnection from her own body

a ticking time bomb if I've ever seen one, familia

because it wasn't enough chaos already, they start hearing thumps over the vehicle

so pyrrha goes to look at what's going on and comes back with "Sextus, we're fucked"

not those exact words, but that's the sentiment

turns out varun is an RB? was I supposed to assume this???? I didn't think about this

I'm losing my touch over here

pyrrha thought it was going to remain dormant after killing og!gideon because of how things went for cassiopeia when she died

but turns out nope, we don't have that luxury

palmolive doesn't think it's caused by yandere twin's soul

pyrrha says there are already heralds out there and that they'd need at least three fully capable lyctors to attempt to fight back

judging by the display we saw in the last book, not even a bunch of competent lyctors is enough

although judging a lyctor "competent" can be a bit of an oxymoron at times

judith starts trembling violently and coronabeer is trying to hold it together with stern soothing words

their love language

I think everyone is internally judith right now, though

nona stands up and has the opinion that two feet is the worst amount of feet, which also goes to my nona notes

she didn't originally have feet maybe? I'm wondering?

tsundere pash is ready to point her gun but palmolive asks her to put it down and also asks nona to talk to him

but nona isn't listening and she exits the truck's cover

there are a lot of herald pods dropping, which is the sound they've been hearing, so we're not doing well

nona then shouts at varun "You said you wouldn't do anything weird!"

we can't say she didn't try

she did ask him

also, nona has been listening to a resurrection beast this whole time

in comes judith, though, and starts talking again like that time nona heard her and nobody else seemed to

she says "get him" and "he flees" and nona says she doesn't want to

not!judith says "you asked for help" "all for nothing, only pain" "I gave you blood for blood"

is judith varun's voice? is she channeling him or...??

nona says "not like this, I love this place" and not!judith goes "do you love?" to which nona responds "Did I ever know what it meant?"

you know, I've been wondering about that for a minute

not!judith again talks about the "green thing" and says "Green-and-breathing thing, big ghost, the drinker, transformed, what will you eat now? Where will your body go? What did he do to you, to make you this way? You eat yourself. I gorge on unliving marrow"

nona thinks they're talking about judith and asks them to stop hurting her

I thought they were talking about nona at first, because nona is also killing the body she's in, as far as we know

and if it's ice cube barbie with something weird or whatever idk what she is or she was

so it's up in the air to me what it's really about tbh

not!judith who might be varun's voice for all I know says "I crossed the face of the universe, I poison it to match my grief" which would check out with what we know

maybe it's more like this

not!judith that might be varun says "for 8 thousand unjust bodies I will stop"

8 thousand bodies??? in this economy??????

not!judith that might be varun says they came to help and are made a mockery and "they are coming out of their tower, salt thing. There is a hole at the bottom of their tower. I will pull their teeth. I will make it blank for you"

nona argues that nobody has done anything wrong there to deserve it, except for pyrrha, who did a lot of things wrong, but at least she admits it

and that she's ready to die

nona jumps to them and says "help me do this. I might be different...soon"

judith seems to regain control of her own body, looks at nona and says "Harrowhark?"

nona, who's feeling more and more like her body isn't hers and has to feel the different parts isolated to have sensation, goes "No, and I never was"

JOHN 1:20

"He did not fail to confess, but confessed freely, 'I am not the Messiah.'"

nona didn't go to sleep but we've got another johnny boi installment

maybe she passed out

him and not!harrow who might be ice cube barbie are still walking into the building of his past in the post apocalyptic landscape

dr reverend emperor john continues his villain origin story and says that the plan for the first wave exit was still on

he was also still puppeteering the political leader guy, which sometimes led to having to make him say that he had to be stopped

and, while he was at it, in comes mercygirl with some news

the first wave is actually gonna be the only wave because the bazillionares are leaving everyone for dead

wow who would have thought

dr reverend emperor john says he won't let them get away with it

then, they continue the conversation while eating peaches from a can

canned goods take a long time to turn stale but I think these might be expired, johnny man

they decide to alert the government about it, which is a big mistake, it just makes the bazillionares get into a speedrun to get out in space

johnny and the band are really unable to read the room, apparently

cassiopeia asks dr reverend emperor john "can't you do an act of good wizardry?" and isn't that a fantastic question, actually

can you, john? do you want to?

dr reverend emperor john thinks he's limited by the fact that he still can't reach the soul thing

he says there was too much noise around the moment of death in order to pick the soul specifically and retain it

he also mentions that, in case we all forgot, they had a nuke and they might have to use it

he threatens the client government people and says that if they don't stop the ship from going, they're gonna use the nuke they gave them, which would implicate them

meanwhile, nobody suspects the bazillonaires, even if they give the flimsy excuse of "we're just gonna do a test run"

I'd think some people would be rioting on the streets about this, but maybe that's my south american perspective

instead of riots to the government we have cultists turning, though

og!gideon is the one who's gonna take the nuke to the launch

even if pyrrha doesn't want him to go alone

but, before he could go, dr reverend emperor john removed his arm and gave him a new one

because he needed his "material"

"I've got plans for that arm"

and og!gideon was like "alright"

these people are not ok

in the midst of all of this, cassiopeia and nigella get married

btw, I checked back on the dramatis personae in harrowcita to see if I was spelling the name right (since he says N—) and I had totally forgotten for a minute there that Ulysses and Titania the corpses were also a lyctor

fourth house

anyway, they get married like that time there was a marriage ceremony in the courtyard of my uni

dr reverend emperor john makes them a bouquet of roses with teeth

I'm thinking of the awesome fanged flowers by Anastasiya Khramina ( ig @ madame_bloomfang )

I'd screecap them but I've had tumblr block posts from me for similar things before and I don't wanna risk it

when he tells everyone, after the wedding, that he sent og!gideon to his death, everyone goes wild

and he's surprised that they do lmao I hate him

he goes "Guys, it's fine, they're Australian"

is this about that animosity that sometimes comes up between people from New Zealand and people from Australia? I'm sure there's a lot of social and political background about that I'm not aware of

also, to be safe, dr reverend emperor john decides to use his puppet guy to lock himself in with the codes and access the stuff that can blow that whole country to smithereens

everyone thinks this is nuts, except for augustine and mercygirl, who think it's still manageable

I guess it's always those two huh

that's why it bothered him so much that they double crossed him

cassiopeia says "John, your problem is that you care less about being a savior than you do about meting out punishment" "You can be quite the most appallingly vindictive person I have ever met"

this is when the cultists go wild and start killing people

hell of a wedding reception

"I just caught the fucking tooth bouquet at C— and N—'s wedding. What if it didn't matter?"

I want to hurt this man in so many ways

dr reverend emperor john starts using skeletons to fight the cultists but things get out of hand very fast

so he does what he does best, what he did in his bolthole when the beast was coming in, he hid in his room

when dr reverend emperor john and not!harrow who might be ice cube barbie get into the room itself, there's a body in there

the nun goes to ask him to do something and he says he can't find the soul in all the chaos he can sense

the nun is like "brb" and comes back with pyrrha's gun

dr reverend emperor john thinks maybe she wants to kill him, but we aren't so lucky

she says that "fear doesn't help us achieve a state of grace, it deafens the heart", which is very true

she starts praying hail mary/ave maria

and then shoots herself

which like, I want to point out for a moment here, is kind of huge af

considering she was a catholic nun and she killed herself

because she thought that would help him find a way out of this

like, to her beliefs she's knowingly granting him her soul, not only because theoretically she's doing it for him to be able to get how it works, but also because she killed herself

whatever I think about the church's opinion on suicide, for someone who believes in that to knowingly set it aside because they think it might save the world is fucking metal

it's sad that what she did ended up being the catalyst for this douchebag to become what he became

because what she did, for someone with her beliefs, in the midst of chaos, was huge

everyone around this man sacrificed so much for him and he just kept taking, huh

so, he is able to see how it all works and when he touches her soul, he says "I touched you"

"You were so huge and so complicated, and you were screaming. You wouldn't stop screaming. You were so scared. You were so goddamn mad"

remember when I said ice cube barbie could be some sort of earth personification life force thing? should I still put money on that?

DON'T TELL ME

he says that holding a human soul didn't compare to holding "you"

so, dr reverend emperor john exits his room and starts putting souls in bubbles like nega steven universe

augustine and mercygirl are still alive and they hide alongside johnman because the polycule that dies together starts having sex in front of harrow's sopita for distraction together

then he goes "This is the part where I hurt you"

he says he tried to grasp her and that hurt her but he kept trying

the only one alive at that point was og!gideon, so he stopped his heart

he says he ate every single death and that kept hurting her

he also triggered the nukes and the whole chaos that continued erupting further as he went on with the death feast

and that he "helped a hell of a lot of them go before they knew what was happening"

"I put my hands around your neck. I cupped your soul in my hands. I took you into myself and we became one"

he sort of can't keep her inside him though because she (they?) is too immense for that

so he ripped half his ribs and made her out of part of him, sort of eve like

and here he starts describing what he thought about when molding her and he goes "some of Mum's old toys"

no way

"my favorite out of all of them"

NO WAY

"My favorite was her old Hollywood Hair Barbie"

NO FUCKING WAYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

WHATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

FOLKS

FOLKS WHAT???? I CALLED IT????

ICE CUBE BARBIE IS CANON????????????????

THIS IS CRAZY

ok so, wait, I have a lot to say about this

first of, I had replies saying something like "I can't believe you didn't spoil yourself" and I didn't know what it was about

@lady-harrowhark kept screencaps and I was like "please remind me when I get there" and she said something like "oh, you'll know"

I DIDN'T THINK IT WAS THIS!!!! WHAT????????????

YOU GUYS

I LOOKED UP WHEN I STARTED THE ICE CUBE BARBIE THING

IT WAS BACK IN GIDEON!!!!!!!!!! WHAT???????????

BOOK 1?????????????

I even posted it on april fool's lmao what are the odds

GUYS I'VE BEEN CALLING HER BARBIE FOR OVER A YEAR AND YOU GUYS HAD TO SIT THERE AND WAIT FOR ME TO SEE THAT I WAS RIGHT ABOUT SOMETHING SO INCREDIBLY STUPID

so, here's the thing

I knew there would be a hollywood hair barbie reference somewhere in the books because @lady-harrowhark got one a long time ago, before I started reading, and I have very intense feelings about hollywood hair barbie specifically, so I talked to her about it back then

basically I got her for christmas as a kid, I loved her so much and it got stolen from me during a school camp thing and it was all very sad for me

my mom ruined a contact lens trying to get the hair spray to work in christmas night

anyway, I knew there would be a reference but, in my mind, it was going to be like a mad max thing of someone finding one in some sort of post apocalyptic earth and I forgot all about it

I did not, in a million years, connected that to ice cube barbie

you all know because you've been here but I started calling her that because her description reminded me of the Ghost Barbie from the Haunted Beauty Collection, because my references are very eclectic

this one right here

and then it's history and ice cube barbie it was

if you would have told me this would be what I'd get right in this book, I wouldn't have believed you

this is so crazy and stupid, I love it

I want to thank you all personally and kiss your hands tenderly for having lived with the knowledge of this for over a year and not telling me once that I was right about this

because you guys must have been thinking either I was lying out of my ass and had been spoiled in some way or that I was psychic

thank you so so so much for not telling me about this, I know it must have been so hard

I promise you I didn't cheat, this was entirely a coincidence

I wish I had been right about some cool theory rather than this, but I'll take it

I sent @lady-harrowhark a dm immediately when I read it because I couldn't believe it

is this a common experience???? did you guys call it too or was I just hit by that dodgeball real hard?

god, I miss my hollywood hair barbie

she wasn't my #1 favorite barbie (that was my civil war nurse barbie, long story) but she was in my top 10

I got 3 barbies stolen that day, hollywood hair and swim n' dive barbie were two sad losses

ANYWAY

he puts her into the ice cube barbie body (now an officially approved nickname) to house her in (and trap her, I presume)

and once they were together, he became God

then they went planet surfing

(not sure if this has to do with the houses, I still remember that)

but he couldn't catch the ship of the bazillionaires from leaving

she said, at the time "I picked you to change and this is how you repay me?"

"What have you done to me, I am hediousness"

HEY, THAT'S ONE OF MY FAVORITE CHILDHOOD BARBIES YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT

SHE CAME WITH A HAIR STENCIL AND PINK SPRAY

"Where did you put the people? Where did they go?"

"She said, 'I still love you'" "He said, 'You said that too'"

WELL, THAT'S A WRAP ON THIS PART. I need to marinate these things, I feel like everything that was happening before kind of melted the moment I read I was right about Barbie, of all things. HOW DID THAT HAPPEN. Thank you for sticking around and for being so respectful of the no spoilers rule, you're the best ♥

[ihavethedreamiesx]

Desert Dogs | Mingyu [NSFW]

Kim Mingyu - Seventeen

Rating: M (18+) MDNI

Word Count: ~4.6k

Pairing: S.Coups x AFAB!Reader

Genre: Sci-Fi AU!, Reader-Insert, Smut, Some Plot, Hookup/One-Night-Stand/Strangers to Fucking

!!This is smut…if that much isn't clear you should probably leave now!! MDNI!

Warnings: She/Her Pronounces Used, Pet Names (Puppy), Size Kink, Dacryphilia, Degradation, BDSM elements, Breeding Kink (Kinda), Swearing, Spit, Breathplay, Oral (M! Receiving), Deepthroating, Face-fucking, Rough, Spanking, Cockbulge (oops), Hard Dom! Mingyu, Unprotected Sex (Don't), Mingyu calls the reader some not nice things but it's a kink so she's okay with it

Author's Note: The plot of this didn't go exactly as I originally planned, but no one's here for plot anyway... This also doesn't have a ton of sci-fi elements, not like the others, but once again, not here for substance, just smut

-> Hoshi's <-

-> Woozi's <-

-> Wonwoo's <-

-> S.Coup's <- (2)

I am cross-posting this on Archive. Please reblog! Share, even if its to the other sites! Let me know if you want to be on the taglist!

“Ah!? Nonononono-“ You shriek when your rover lets out a loud clunk, followed by several more clangs, a rattle, then it starts to slow. You startle when the tire then blows, the entire back right of the vehicle nearly collapsing and you fall out of your seat, landing against the passenger door with an ‘oof’. You wait until the rover completely stops and even longer for it to stop making noise. When you realize the small creaks will continue, you manage to haul yourself up, reaching for your bag that got snagged on the pedal under the steering wheel.

“Fuck!” You fall back against the glass with a sharp hiss when the rover suddenly tips on its side, a puff of black smoke releasing from the front of the rover. You lay on the door of your rover, regretting your life decisions, wondering why the hell you thought it would be okay to go through an area that clearly had sand worms. Not only did it spit hot acid at the hull of your rover, the acid soaked into the sand had eaten through the thick rubber of the tires. The inside was getting hot fast, because obviously the air conditioning was off if the whole rover was. With a grunt, you get up and crawl up to the back of your rover to get your duffle bag and you throw the back door open, tossing your bags out, then crawl out and land on the sand with a grunt. You stand looking up at the sky for a good two or three minutes…it’s cloudy. Before you can even sigh at your bad luck, the sky roars with thunder and a downpour starts, the hot sky-water soaking through your thin clothes fast.

“You have GOT to be fucking kidding me!” You shout at the sky, and it replies with another loud crack of thunder right as lightning streaks across the sky. Looking around, you’re in the middle of nowhere, miles from even the nearest oasis, let alone a town. You decide it’s better to walk in the rain in the desert than when it was dry and sunny, but you also know the sand could quickly get dangerous, so you have to get to the road fast to avoid any quicksand. Hauling your bag up onto your back, the rain soaking into the burlap makes it even heavier as it soaks everything inside. Because of course, why would a bag meant for desert travel be waterproof? You manage to get back to the road without sinking down into the sandy pits of hell and you debate on whether you should head back to the town you were last in, or go the other direction and just hope you find somewhere. You would use your holo-tracker, but you had broken it a few days prior…Well you didn’t break it, you were savagely attacked by a sand mouse who wanted to steal your lunch and when it jumped at you again, you yeeted the device at it to scare it away and it smashed right into a rock.

You walk for nearly an hour before you see any signs of civilization and it’s only a sign telling you it was going to be another good 40 minutes before you got to anything. You and you’re things are soaked, and it doesn’t look like the rain will stop anytime soon, but then - of course - it wouldn’t for another good three months… Adjusting your bag once again, you continue down the road, getting more and more tired. When you finally see something in the distance, you aren’t for sure what it is, maybe another rover? An oasis? No, it’s in the middle of road… You stop dead in your tracks, eyes narrowing, trying to make it out, not sure if your vision was blurry from exhaustion or the water dripping off your eyelashes. Before you can figure it out, thunder strikes again, and you see a flash of light before you black out.

~

When you wake up, you can still hear the rain, but it’s splattering onto a thatched roof as well as the sand. Grunting, you sit up, feeling very sore, most likely from your rover tipping over in protest of you trying to drive it. You were lying on a wicker cot, and you look around, trying to figure out where you were. You see an oasis out the archway entrance of the little hut you’re in, but there’s none of the tell-tale markers of an oasis outpost. Standing with a groan, you turn to look around, seeing you’re in a sunroom of sorts, another doorway covered with a curtain leading further in. Someone obviously found you, and you hope it’s a really hot guy rather than some sweet old lady-

“Oh, you’re awake.” Your rescuer had pulled the curtain back to stand in the doorway. Hot guy. Very hot guy. Hottest guy you’ve ever seen-

“U-uh…yeah.” You can’t help but gape at him. He was almost as tall as the doorway and built in the best possible way. His face is devastatingly handsome, but his slightly concerned face reminds you more of a puppy than anything.

“You’re lucky I came when I did, you just flopped down onto the road.” He comes over to you, looking over you to see if there was anything visibly wrong.

“Um…h-how long was I out?”

“About 32 hours.”

“WHAT?!” He smiles softly, trying to be reassuring.

“Well, I would imagine anyone who gets that close to getting struck by lightning would be out for a while.”

“I-I…I got struck by lightning?”

“No! No, you just got really, really close… I’m Mingyu.” He scrambles to pull the pendant on his necklace up out of his black tank top, showing an upside-down triangle that’s vaguely familiar.

“I’m a Ranger, I-I promise I don’t have any weird motives.” You honestly wouldn’t care if he did, because you’re starting to get some unsavory motives…

“Oh, uh, (Y/N). I’m a scavenger.” You didn’t know a lot about the Rangers past that they’re do-gooders and vigilantes who are known for helping those in need. It actually did make you feel better.

“What company?”

“I’m technically a freelancer; I work for the Assembly.”

“How did you get out in the middle of the desert like that?”

“My rover…fell apart.”

“Sand worms?”

“Yeah…” You sigh, realizing not only were you without your rover, but it was also your transportation for work. You do have insurance, but you doubt it could get you a whole new one, and paying the difference would clean out your savings.

“Where are you from?”

“Morgran Town.”

“I’m going past there when I leave in a few days, I can drop you off?”

“Really? I…You don’t mind me staying here till you can?”

“Not at all, I can’t leave anyway. Neither of us can.”

“Huh?”

“Apparently, it’s some kind of freak storm that only comes every 70 years or so. Planet-wide and as the rain keeps going, the sand gets dangerous, and it heats back up causing horrible lightning.”

“Great.”

“Well, come on in and eat, you must be hungry.” He smiles and you wonder how someone so hot can be so cute. You follow behind him, feeling absolutely tiny and when you get further into his hut, you realize it’s much bigger than you first thought. And it’s pretty homey. You sit down at the dining table in the room you first enter and your stomach growls as you catch the scent of what he made. You aren’t 100% sure what it is, some kind of rice dish with meat, egg and veggies, but at that point you’d eat just about anything. He huffs a small laugh as he watches you start to eat, clearly famished, and he sits down across from you to eat in a much more civilized manner.

“So why do you live out here by yourself?” You ask him around your food, not thinking he’ll mind your lack of manners. You know them, but using them is a different story.

“Technically I don’t. This is one of the several places us Rangers have spread out through the desert for any of us to use while we travel. We really only have on permanent base, but Hoshi has his own place. Jeonghan won’t let him keep his tiger inside.

“He has a tiger? You know what, I don’t wanna know. How may rangers are there?”

“Here on S.V.T there’s thirteen.”

“So what do you do?”

“I’m the mechanic, I fix things, and I also work with my partner to make machines and mechs and stuff.”

“Why aren’t you with your partner?”

“He’s on some bounty and he told me I’d just get in the way…” Mingyu pouts slightly and you can’t help but melt further, he really is so freaking cute despite being massive. A big ole’ puppy dog.

“I’m not sure I can pay you back…I need all the money I have to get a new rover.”

“I don’t need any money; it’s part of my duty to help.”

“Are you sure?” You low-key, high-key had hoped it would be the stereotypical erotica theme of ‘then pay with your body’ but no, he just had to be genuinely sweet.

~

Because he was so kind in cooking and letting you stay, you insist on doing the dishes and you would offer to clean the hut as well, but it was already immaculate. The sun is starting to set, and he lights some lanterns when, suddenly, the storm gets even worse, the thunder and lightning intensifying.

“We might have to go downstairs…” He mutters.

“Couldn’t that flood?”

“Normally, but it’s more of a bunker-“ A bright flash of lightning closely followed by a sharp crack of thunder cuts him off and the wind speeds up, whistling through the hut.

“Let’s go down.”

“Yeah, yes, yes please.” You grab your bags and follow him into the back hall, and he lifts a wooden panel from the floor and presses his hand against a reader of the sealed door and it hisses open, a metal staircase leading down. You follow him down and the automatic lights turn on as the door seals shut behind you and he leads you further in. The low ceiling of the tunnel forces him to lean forward slightly but you have no trouble, and once you get through another sealed door, the metal-walled bunker opens up into a very nice area. It resembles a studio-style apartment with only the bathroom being separate, and there is even a kitchen.

“We sometimes use this area to house people that need help, mostly slaves that have gotten away.”

“Ah…” You look around, seeing there is only one bed…and not even a couch.

“Um… I can sleep in the armchair.” You offer and he smiles, shaking his head.

“No need.” He goes over to the bed and taps a button with his foot, the bottom drawer sliding out with another mattress.

“Oh. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Thank you, Mingyu~”

“You’re welcome.”

~

While the storm is muffled in the bunker, as it gets worse, you can start to hear it. You’re awoken when a loud clatter triggers some kind of alarm. He startles awake as well, stumbling out of bed to go to the terminal. You take the chance to ogle him, he must’ve shed his shirt after you had fallen asleep because he was just in his pants. You could only see his back, but you were nearly salivating already. The alarm finally stops, and he turns the lights on dimly, continuing to look over the terminal, then he sighs.

“What?”

“The hut is…gone.”

“Gone? How?”

“It’s…on fire. Kinda. The rain is putting it out, but I think the metal of the bunker attracted the lightning, so the hut go struck.”

“Oh.”

“We might be in here for a bit.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s food down here.” He smiles and you sigh in relief.

“Though…the extranet antenna was…on the roof.”

“So…?”

“No entertainment…Not the screen kind.”

“Hm…” You hum, looking around. It’s evident neither of you will get back to sleep, plus it’s only a few hours from morning anyway. You glance back at him, and he’s turned around; your jaw literally drops seeing him.

“Holy fuck…” You say, not quietly at all. He instantly blushes bright red, the tips of his ears the most red.

“S-sorry, I’ll put a shirt on-“

“No! God, no! You’re…fuck-“ You get up off the bed and go over to him. He takes the chance to look over you as well, you’d shed your clothes to sleep as well, just in a breast-band and shorts since all of your other clothes were still in your bag, probably still soaked. You get close enough you can hear him swallow hard, and his blush is starting to seep down over his collar bone. You notice his hand reach out, then he hesitates, then pulls back. You take a step closer, looking up at him. It’s then you notice very thin lines running all over his body, almost imperceptible.

“What are these?” You take the chance to touch him, running your index finger over the line, tracing the pattern over his chest. He lets out a shuddering breath, the muscle under your finger twitching a bit.

“Um…I have cybernetics.”

“You do?”

“Yeah…”

“What for?”

“They…make me stronger… and uh…”

“And what~?” You take another step closer, your single finger tracing becoming all of your fingers.

“Um…build my stamina…”

“So you can…just keep going~?” Your second hand joins and you step even closer, your warm breath on his skin from your proximity making his own hitch.

“I-I guess, yeah…” You take a final step, so your chest presses against his upper stomach, the size difference making your core heat up alone. He can’t help but gawk at just how small you look, and the look on your face-

“C-Can I?” He reaches for you again and you huff with a smirk.

“Please~” Mingyu swallows again and his hand comes up, gently cupping your jaw in his hand, nearly covering the whole half of his face. The softness of the gesture takes you back a bit, and while it’s sweet, you don’t want sweet. You want him to rail you into next week-

You gasp out of soft moan when his hand moves, going down to your neck, his thumb gently pressing against your windpipe and you see the soft, nervous look in his eyes harden into raw heat.

“You think you can handle me?” His voice lowers further, and you swallow hard at the sudden shift in his demeanor. Mingyu acted a bit nervous and shy before, but it’s also obvious he knows how sexy he is, the effect he has…

“You think your tiny cunt can handle my cock?” He presses closer to you, and you gasp, feeling his growing hard-on pressing against your stomach. Even without him being so much bigger, his cock was huge.

“I don’t care if it can’t-“ You’re cut off when he forces your head back with his hand under your chin, the slight pressure on your throat makes your head swim. You open your mouth a bit to get more air in, face going red, heart racing, cunt throbbing. You whimper when he spits down into your mouth and he smirks deviously as you eagerly swallow. You squeak when he shoves you down, your legs buckling till your kneeling, your face right in front of his hard cock straining against his pants. You watch with a dumb gawk on your face as his hands go to the fly of his pants and he shoves both them and his boxers off, his dick slapping against his stomach then bobs against your cheek and your eyes run over him, nearly salivating.

“O-oh…”

“Open.” His order brokers no argument and you eagerly do, tongue slightly out. His smirk grows and he grabs his cock at the base and places the angry head on your tongue. The taste of his skin makes your mouth water more and you whine as you suck the head into your mouth, your jaw slightly protesting. You swirl your tongue over the tip of his dick and your hands go to the floor to keep your balance. His strong fingers weave into your hair, tugging on it and you gag softly when he thrusts, his cock hitting the back of your throat suddenly. You barely have the time to suck air in harshly through your nose before his girth is down your throat, your nose pressing to his groin. You moan around his cock, the vibration making him groan.

“Can’t believe I found myself such an eager little slut~” Mingyu chuckles, hips pulling back so you can suck in air then he fucks back down your throat, causing you to gag softly. You swallow over and over to get used to him, the restriction of your air just making your cunt soak faster, gummy walls clenching at the thought of his fat cock splitting you in half-

“You like my cock that much? You’re drooling like a fucking dog.” He huffs, his other hands going to your hair as well and you focus on breathing when you can as he fucks your face, your chin a mess of spit and pre.

“Bet you’d like to be fucked like one too. Like a little bitch needing to get bred.” You can’t help but moan at the thought, just the idea of him filling you with his hot cum sending burning heat down to your core.

“How’d you like if I kept you, huh? My pretty little puppy, collar and all, ready to suck me off and take my cock whenever I want~?” He chuckles darkly and despite not knowing if he was being serious, his debauched statements just fuel the fire in your own body.

“Be a good puppy and take my cum, yeah~? Swallow it all~” He groans, burying his cock into your throat as far as he can and your eyes nearly roll back as he pumps his hot jizz down your gullet, your vision spotting from need air, as well as the orgasm thudding through your needy cunt. You feel tears prick your eyes and down your cheeks at the overwhelming sensations and he pulls back so you can breathe, half his cock still in your mouth as it still spurts out ropes of cum. Mingyu finally pulls his cock out of your mouth, still half hard, messy with your spit and his cum, just like your face. You look up at him with a hazy, fucked out expression and he huffs a slightly condescending laugh. You gasp when he shoves his foot between your legs, pressing up against your cunt through your thin sleeping shorts, able to feel your wet through the fabric.

“You’re a such a slut; did I seriously get you off cumming down your throat?”

“Y-Yes…” You reply hoarsely and he scoffs.

“I bet you liked my cum, yeah?” You nod in reply.

“Then get on the bed, ass in the air, I’ll breed you, little bitch~” He grins as you scramble to do so, legs a little wobbly and climb onto the bed, then shove your face into the pillow, ass in the air. Neither of you care that your messy face is getting all over the pillowcase and you gasp when he kneels behind you, reaching forward and tears your breast band off. When he said that the cybernetics made him stronger, you weren’t expecting him to rip leather. You’re less surprised when your linen shorts that you wear as underwear are also torn off, but what you aren’t expecting is the head of his cock already at your soaking cunt. Your breath leaves you and your body spasms in shock, cunt fluttering as he fucks his cock into you immediately, his girth lighting your gummy walls on fire at the sudden stretch.

“Safe word is ‘cactus’.” He tells you and you nod. He at least lets you get somewhat used to him, the head of his cock pushing at your cervix, the sting burns but you can’t help but love it. After only about 40 seconds, when he doesn’t hear you say the word, he starts to fuck you. The air you had just caught back leaves you again and he leans over you, hands gripping the rungs of the headboard, the top banging against the wall in rhythm with his hips. Skin slaps through the room and he huffs a laugh at the mess you’ve already made on his cock and groin, your wet dripping from your cunt as it struggles to take his cock.

“M-Mingyu-!” You gasp, your next orgasm coming startlingly fast. You immediately fall over the edge, clit burning, when he smacks your ass hard, you can feel the outline of his hand as it swiftly turns red on your skin.

“The fuck you call me?”

“S-Sir, s-sorry-“

“Nah, not that either.” He spanks the other cheek, and your fingers bury into the sheets, mind already starting to fade as all you can focus on is him rearranging your guts.

“M-Master-“

“Good girl~” He purrs, his hips stuttering slightly before he’s ball’s deep inside you, filling you with more of his hot cum. Your eyes nearly cross as the force of him painting your insides white, so much that it spills out of your pussy around where he’s inside you, your own release dripping down both your thighs as well. Your body goes limp, and his still hard cock slides out of you as your hips fall to the bed. You lay flat there for just a few seconds, brain trying to bring you back to reality, body twitching. You somewhat register him lifting your leg up to his hip, turning you partially onto your side before he’s back inside you, the new angle letting the fat head of this dick to pound at your weak spot over and over.

“Fuck, master~!” You squeal, giggling deliriously, blushing even like you’re totally drunk on his cock.

“You like being my sweet little slut, huh? Like when I fuck you like a bitch?”

“Yes~!” You nearly start to babble in protest when his hips halt but he’s just rolling you onto your back, still buried inside you and then slings your knees over his elbows, folding you in half, his hand coming to grip your throat again. He squeezes just right, your head swimming, but able to breathe enough, and he huffs when your cunt tightens further and more of your release spurts out of your cunt and over both of you, his fat cock just barreling through it. The sharp sting of overstimulation crests, making tears spill over your cheeks and he groans at the sight, leaning down and licking up the tears on your face. The sharp burning crests and fades to please again and he groans, his thrusts growing shallow, buried deep and just battering the tip of his cock against your back wall over and over. Mingyu’s hand leaves your throat, and you gasp as full airflow returns to you, then he shoves his thumb into your mouth, holding it open. He smirks as you reach up to grip at his wrist, but make no move to try and move him, nearly hugging his arm.

“Such a good bitch, tongue out, panting for her master. If you had a tail, it’d be wagging, huh, puppy?” You nod with a whine, spit dripping from the corner of your mouth and he presses his thumb down on the back of your tongue. He pulls his hand back, moving your legs from over his elbows so he can instead sling them over his shoulders, your ankles by his ears. He leans back a bit, forcing your lower back to prop up and he shoves a pillow under you. He groans as he continues to fuck a mess of cum out of your cunt, watching as your lower stomach bulges, your tiny body struggling to accommodate him.

Mingyu keeps going for literal hours, fucking orgasm after orgasm from you, your cunt nearly numb, your head blank, the bed an absolute mess. He had only cum two other times, changing position over and over, bending you over the bed, holding you up over him to thrust up into you, up against the wall, even in the air. Right before he shoves his cock back into your abused hole for the nth time, you tap out.

“C-cactus-!” You gasp out and he immediately snaps out of it, pulling back. He gently rolls you over onto your back, his concerned face softening his dominant stupor immediately.

“Oh, oh…puppy, I’m sorry, are you hurting?”

“S-sore…” you heave out and he sighs, shaking his head.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N), I got carried away-“ You shake your head, humming softly.

“You’re okay~ I just…can’t keep going… I don’t think I can even walk…” He huffs a soft laugh, looking over you at the mess of both of your fluids and the bruises his hands left on your hips.

“You know…”

“Hm?”

“You kept calling be a bitch in heat…but you fucked me like a dog too~” He blinks at you in a bit of shock, then he bursts out into laughter.

“I guess I did~”

Master-List

Taglist: @gaslysainz

[earthsparked]

Four hummingbirds, who also had never met

Chapter 1/2 | Chapter 2/2 (You are here) | (Story on A03)

You guys asked, so here's the continuation and finale! <3

-

It was an ambush, and he should have seen it coming from a mile away. A stray signal appearing at the edge of his radar while out on patrol, in an area that Decepticon activity had been reported a few days prior. But nothing concrete to give a clue at what was going on. Bluestreak had only meant to snoop around at a safe distance with his enhanced vision, then call back to the Ark for an update on his orders. Instead, the second he had passed the perimeter of the old, abandoned fuel depot, he was set on by three Vehicons.

He was a gunner, not a brawler, but he managed to damage one of the ‘cons with quick thinking, and caused a second to spin out and crash in the pursuit. He lost the third by pushing his speed into redline territory. He’d called for backup immediately, though there was a concern Soundwave had managed to tap their frequency that morning. Prowl scrambled the Aerialbots.

All that, while Bluestreak hauled aft out of the more heavily-occupied areas. Mindful the whole time that humans seeing what was happening would not only be bad for the mechs’ continued secrecy on this planet, but also dangerous for the tiny organics who called it home. There were a few close calls early on in the chase, but he’d become familiar enough with the surprisingly good human-made road system that he was able to lead the ‘cons out into the middle of nowhere.

His reaction when he spotted your vehicle coming towards him on an otherwise empty road was an ear-splitting crackle of Cybertronian expletives that most ‘bots probably didn’t even think he knew, much less used. He’d left the remaining Vehicon behind, but he had a bad feeling in his gears that he wasn’t out of the rust-pit yet. When his warning systems stopped fussing at him about pushing himself too fast and started screaming about an incoming missile lock from above, his spark sank into his tires.

No no no no! he moaned, snapping into the comms channel again with a direct line to command. Prowl, priority update! Starscream’s on my aft and there’s a human in the area! Repeat, civilian in danger! I’ll try and draw him off but this is really really really bad! Somebody’s gonna get hurt!

Blue wasn’t a strategist, but he tried his best to figure out a solution. His processors ran through a million calculations. He could pull over, transform and try to get a shot off, but that would both blow his cover and could make Screamer crash right into your oncoming vehicle, which was about as sturdy as a first-frame sparkling compared to himself. He could try and block you from going any further, maybe shield you physically – cover be damned – but that would give the ‘con a two-for-one deal with one shot. Higher chance of you getting killed, or at least seriously injured, and he’d almost certainly get slagged.

Or he could put everything he had into running and hope he could get enough distance between you that you’d be out of the attack range when it came, and that Starscream would choose to target him instead of your dinky organic vehicle.

He could run, but he couldn’t hope to outrun a seeker. Option three had the highest chance of you surviving, and the lowest chance of him getting out of this alive. As he got closer, his audials picked up the sound of human music, and your sweet little voice singing loudly and imperfectly along with it. Any other time he’d have turned around and cruised behind you, posing as a human vehicle so he could listen to you. Feel that mysterious, tiny, but vibrant EM field that he’d so far only been able to sense from a distance. He’d wanted so badly to meet one of your kind…

Whatever the others thought of him, he was an Autobot to his core elements.

Right. Getting slagged it is. He put every bit of energy his frame could muster into speed. He caught only a startled flicker from you as he passed your vehicle, and then heard the screech of your tires as you saw Starscream. No no no no you need to keep driving and get far, far, far away!

He couldn't talk to you, but that didn't mean he couldn't talk. Talking was what he was best at. He threw open a comm line.

Hey, Screamer! Think you can catch me? You’re too slow to catch a virus! You call that peashooter of yours a missile array? I’ve seen minicons with bigger bombs! he taunted, while at the same time, shooting one final SOS to the Ark. Better send a medic. Several.

You impudent little nothing! Starscream screeched back at him. You’re not worth the energon in your fuel tank! How dare you! I’ll turn you into scrap!

They were past you. Not far enough, but past you. But the jet was so, so much faster than he could ever hope to be, and there was nowhere to take cover. The trees along the road and open fields offered no respite. Oh, this was going to hurt.

In the last second before his missile lock system threw a glitch from being too close for it to properly calculate the ballistics, Bluestreak ground his gears and lost some tread off his tires, and pulled off a wild mid-air transformation that he hoped would’ve impressed even Sideswipe. He grabbed the ground with one hand, ripping some of the rubber off his servo, slowing him just enough that he can go for his gun with the other. Maybe get a riposte off –

He's not fast enough. The world explodes, and all he knows is pain.

It’s not his first time getting slagged, but eating a missile straight from a seeker at close range is definitely not an experience he’d like to repeat. If he even lives to get the chance.

Half his systems are knocked out. A quarter of the rest are so damaged they’re not making sense. The remainder are all throwing red, red, red until he finally shuts them off like a drunk trying to slam down their phone alarm.

This is bad. Bad, bad bad bad.

Time goes weird, as more and more of his senses blink out as the mechanics involved in them smoke and go black. He hopes the Aerialbots hurry. He hopes the medics hurry. He hopes –

There’s a tiny brush against his shattered EM field, which is screaming all the pain his busted vocalizer can’t. It’s fear and caution, horror, shock and dread. It takes his increasingly sluggish processor way too long to realize that it’s the human. He can hear you speak, though your voice fades in and out of his audials as things involved in his hearing, spark and sizzle.

Stay back, he tries to say, but can’t get his vocalizer to work. He’s leaking energon and other fluids, there’s so much sharp jagged armor in pieces everywhere, he is overheating from lack of coolant and his fans are down and humans’ skin is so so so fragile. He pushes his worry and concern at you, trying to get you to back away, but you can’t seem to feel it. It really is true – humans have EM fields, but they can’t pick up on his?

He forces something barely, barely intelligible through his vocalizer. Yes, he can hear you. It fritzes out before he can warn you away. To his disappointment and yet, secret joy, you come closer. Your sweet voice shouldn’t be laced with such panic. You’re asking him to move, he grasps. To show you that he’s alive. You sound so confused and upset, it sends a pang through his already overwhelmed spark.

Don’t be afraid, he tries to say, only a few of the syllables screeching out before his vocalizer entirely shorts out, and he can’t communicate any more. Or so he thought. Because all the words he might’ve said are washed away when you go still and sudden realization, surprise, joy, fear, grief blast from you like a detonation. His optics are going, but he catches a glimpse of you. You’re so tiny, and you’re so upset. He wishes he could grab you and take you away from this. That you could both go far, far away to where there isn’t a war, and you wouldn’t be leaking that red liquid from the broken glass that’s cut you.

You’re alive. He has to content himself with that, as his emergency systems begin the countdown to stasis lock. He gets a ping from Ratchet that the medics are on the way, but he ignores it, because you’ve come even closer, and you’re alive. You’re so damn cute. Even with something that must be human sparkache radiating from you…

He reaches out with the last of his strength, wanting to touch you. Just once. If once is all he gets, it’ll be enough. And by some miracle of Primus, you reach back. He would smile if he could. Instead, the soft touch of your little servo on his is the only thing that doesn’t hurt. And then nothing hurts, because it’s all gone black and silent. Stasis lock. It was a mercy, at least, that he didn’t have to see you fold over him and weep like you were the one broken.

-

There’s no sense of time in stasis lock. Coming out of it is always confusing, an unbroken moment of being in pain and danger to being in a medbay, surrounded by medics and friends.  Instinctual programming brings weapons systems back online before nearly anything else, with the result that waking mechs often end up causing more patients, themselves, by behaving as if they were still under attack. That’s why the medics always used override codes to lock those systems down.

Bluestreak was familiar with all of that. So it wasn’t a surprise when his very next experience was that of waking up with every single one of his alarms going off in a cacophony of internal and external chaos.

What was a surprise was, the first thing he saw was you. You were there! You were in danger.

No!

He didn’t have to think about it, only act. One second you were smiling at him with wide, worried, wet little optics, oblivious to the threat; and the next you were safe in his servos, clutched to his chest over his spark where the armor was thickest. His systems fought against the medical overrides, and when they tried to push him back into stasis, he burned out several fresh repairs to override the overrides. He rolled over and came up in a defensive crouch, painfully aware of your sudden spike of fear like a blade to his spark. Unacceptable. You had to be protected, you had to be safe. He burned out several more of the fresh repairs transforming his arm plasma cannon, which whined as the capacitors charged. There was a lot of shouting and emergency codes being thrown at him, which he ignored.

Clank.

Bluestreak blasted the thing that had hit his helm the second it touched the ground. Your little voice shrieked, but he’d pressed you so close that you hadn’t even felt the heat from it.

Then his auditory processors finally kicked back in properly, and the yelling turned into words.

Primus frag it, Bluestreak, that was my favorite spanner! Ratchet bellowed. Blue reset his optics. Ratchet had another spanner in his servos, which were now on his hips, as if he’d thought better about launching another attack. There was a melted puddle of slag at Blue’s pedes where he’d destroyed both the thrown spanner, and part of the Ark’s deck plating. Teletraan wouldn’t be happy about the friendly fire.

But none of that mattered, because tiny human servos clutched at him, shivering in his grasp. A swift-beating human spark thready but strong against his chest. Shallow, quick breaths as you vented in fright. You were alive. He’d protected you. You were okay.

Then the thought hit that you were scared. Of him.

All his weapons systems dropped offline so fast that it made him dizzy, and Blue more or less fell to his knees. Blowing out even more of the fresh welds. He transformed his hand back in a rush to more securely cup you in front of him, so he could look at you.

I’m sorry! he blurted, finding his vocalizer scratchy but working again. I’m sorry, little one, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you! Please don’t be afraid of me! I’d never ever ever hurt you. Are you okay? Are you injured? You were leaking, you looked so sad!

You were still shaking, beyond words (or worse, too hurt to speak). He looked up to quickly take in the rest of the scene. Ratchet was looking on like a looming stormcloud on Jupiter. The other mech in the room, First Aid, was frozen and watching with his EM field the kind intentionally dampened that meant Blue had scared him, too. Was still scaring him. Oh.

Take them, ‘Aid, he urges, gently lifting you up and out. Make sure they’re okay! They’re shaking and their spark is going so fast, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to - !

With Blue back to his senses, First Aid moves smoothly and quickly to reach out for you. But you surprise them all. You burst into tears and cling on to Bluestreak’s hands as if they’re a lifeline. Wrapping yourself up in his touch like the polishing cloth draped around your shoulders. And everything in the room, all three mechs, go still. All focused on you.

-

First Aid had drawn a container of hot water so you could wash all the weird fluids off with a bar of soap from the 32-pack that the “scouts,” whoever they were, had gotten for you. Then with you wrapped in a giant beach towel with brightly colored cartoon fish on them, the medic had carefully given you a look-over with his sensors and scans, and some more gentle poking and prodding. Just to make sure you hadn’t burst anything inside, or broken any ribs or fractured anything else. Like, for instance, your skull.

When you’d finally admitted to having a horrendous headache, and dizziness that the hot bath had seemed to make worse, and a touch of nausea – the medic had visibly had to keep himself from freaking out. More to avoid alarming you than anything, you’re pretty sure.

With a bit of joint research and consultation, and some painless, quick scans that he said could detect changes in temperature and pressure and fluid movement inside your brain, eventually he came to the conclusion you had a bad case of whiplash. But he was going to be re-scanning you every thirty minutes for the next twenty-four hours, to check for any changes to make sure nothing worse was going to happen. If it did, he admitted with a resigned ex-vent, he’d have to hand your care over to a human doctor. That was a worst-case scenario to you, considering you didn’t want to leave. Not while Bluestreak was still in emergency stasis – something like a coma, you’d come to understand with a true sense of the gravity of his condition.

Then began the uncomfortable process of patching up your wounds. You’d had to do some of the doctoring yourself. Even First Aid’s finely-tuned servos weren’t quite able to handle tweezing out tiny shards of glass from your thin skin. There was something he could use to just dissolve the shards, he said, but hesitated to use it when he didn’t know how your body would react. Ratchet – busy tending Bluestreak’s far more critical condition – did have the extra mods to be able to do that sort of delicate surgery, but First Aid didn’t just yet. Something about a lack of resources because of the war, he said, seeming regretful. You patted his hand in sympathy, returning at least a little of the kindness he’d shown you.

You let him help where he could. You allowed him to apply a coating of antibacterial cream to the places you couldn’t reach. A little too enthusiastically, but you tolerated it. You’d realized pretty quickly ‘Aid was the type of person who needed to be needed. Not being perfectly versed in human medicine was driving him up the wall from his desire to help being thwarted.

You didn’t think it was a coincidence that he was studying you the whole while, taking readings (with your enthusiastic permission) and asking questions with the kind of medically detached professionalism that was familiar from any of your past trips to the doctor. You had a feeling he’d be rectifying his lack of knowledge from now on, and decided you’d worry later about probably being turned into a very well-treated guinea pig.

He had topped off the antibacterial cream with a mummifying level of bandages, despite you feeling pretty sure you could get by just fine with band-aids. A few of the deeper cuts on your arms probably needed stitches, but you decided not to mention that, and made do with butterfly bandages. A few scars didn’t seem that important compared to what Bluestreak had suffered.

Finally, after you’d gotten dressed in some very wrong-sized but clean clothes, First Aid had fastened a cervical collar around your neck. Insisting on it, despite your groans that it was uncomfortable. You really weren't sure whether it was necessary, but you were hardly more versed in medicine than he was. And that was when you began to believe 'Aid really was Ratchet’s trainee, because the mech could put his foot down like nobody’s business when necessary. You still couldn’t help scratching at it, feeling rather sorry for all the pets you’d ever forced into a cone of shame, when he shot you a Look every time your hand inched upwards.

A couple of pain pills and one dose of steroids that First Aid very carefully measured out, and every bit of you was just done. No more. You passed out right in his hands. And that was your first day with the Autobots.

The next day sucked. You’d been so sore and stiff you could hardly move, let alone walk. ‘Aid helped you soak in some hot water with Epsom salts, and then had to help you open the packages of food that had mysteriously appeared in a pile. (Bee and Cliff are having fun, he assures you as you tiredly thank him and whoever is running errands for you.) Then you collapse again, but wake up soaked in sweat and screaming with a nightmare. First Aid almost broke the door getting to you. The rest of the night was spent wrapped in a burrito of blankets, drifting in and out against his armor while he read a datapad on human psychology.

The day after that was more of the same, and the one after that, but finally on the fourth day since the Incident you felt sturdy enough on your feet to be up for a little walk around the rest of the medbay. Which was good, because you’d been demanding to see Bluestreak and kept being put off.

He’s still in stasis to give the major repairs time to stabilize, but he’s out of the worst of the danger, First Aid promised you. Until finally he was satisfied with your own recovery enough to give you a hand up to let you perch on the table they called a berth, where you finally got your first good look at Bluestreak.

He wasn’t actually blue, you’d commented, and Ratchet, busy with some task or other at a giant computer, had snorted in such a human way that it had just about given you a second case of whiplash. Not why he’s called that.

You sat with him, admiring what he looked like when he wasn’t that awful, struggling, smoking pile of wreckage. You could see just how much work had gone into fixing him, and had a basis for comparison now of how horribly he’d been hurt. When you wobbled over to his head – helm was the word they used – and curled up beside him, one hand tentatively touching his face, Ratchet had opened his mouth to growl something at you, then thought better of it and turned away to do whatever it was he was doing.

You felt like you weren’t quite real, like all of this was happening to someone else, or that you were seeing it through a screen. Over the next few days, your little circle of unreality expanded. You met Optimus Prime. He’d made one hell of an impression that your dizzy mind was still trying to grasp. He was huge, and deeply kind, and had treated you with a respect that for some reason was nearly shocking. He’d asked after Bluestreak’s status, then your wellbeing, and then gently explained it was too dangerous for them to let you go home just yet. Some of their team had gone out to look for your car and bring it back to base, and found it a smoking, burned-out ruin even less intact than Bluestreak had been. Either Starscream, or some other ‘con had found it and destroyed it. That they’d even bothered meant nothing at all good for you.

He'd left you to numbly process that after asking if you needed anything. You’d asked his help to take care of a few basics – letting your family in another state know you’re fine, you’d just lost your phone, mostly. And letting your job and your part-time delivery gig know you’d been in a bad car wreck and were on sick leave, regardless if it meant getting fired. Because you were not going anywhere, ‘cons or no ‘cons, until you got to finally meet your metal person properly.

You spent so many hours by Bluestreak’s side, despite Ratchet’s huffs about organic contamination, that it started getting a little bit boring. When you started peppering Ratchet with questions, at first he sourly brushed you off.

Why do you want to know? he’d glowered suspiciously.

Because he’s hurt. And I want to know how you helped him. Please?

No. He turned away, making something clatter.

First Aid had eyed him for a time, and then you were pretty sure they’d had an argument over the internal communications system you knew, now, that they all had. It made you feel weird, knowing they were talking in a way you couldn’t understand. The same way it felt strange, knowing that they had an entirely layer of communication wrapped up in some weird energy field that you also had, explaining why it seemed like they could almost read your mind sometimes.

After a few minutes Ratchet had eventually thrown his hands up in a too-human expression of frustration, and gone storming out. But hours later, he came stomping over with a handful of components and devices you’re pretty sure had never been touched by human hands. You sat up, leaning against Blue’s shoulder as he deposited them in front of you.

This is part of a hydraulic system. Bluestreak’s frame has seventeen of them. Most of them non-critical, but necessary. Sixteen of them had to be replaced. I put in emergency fixes to give me time to machine the parts to rebuild the others. I have completed fifteen of the sixteen replacements.

You hopefully hold your breath as he glowers at you. If you can follow directions, not injure yourself more than you already are, and use that crumpled wad of tissue of a processor of yours to a reasonable degree…you can help me with this last one.  

You nearly trip and lose your balance as you stand up too fast, rushing over to wrap yourself around his wrist in a thankful hug. Ratchet! Thank you! So, so much. I’d love to help!

He grumbles something about organic skin oils gumming up his servos but he doesn’t pull away until you do, with a gentle pat to his arm plating. You beam up at him, the first time you’ve really smiled in days, and he’s the first to look away, blue optics turning down as if he’s embarrassed.

My medbay, my rules. Got that, human?

You’ve told him your name, and he hasn’t yet used it, but whatever. You nod enthusiastically, as best you can through the collar of shame, and he narrows his optics as you wince at a twinge of pain. You stop nodding and just tell him yes.

Over the next few days, you learned more than you think you ever did in college. Once the hydraulic replacement was done and neither you nor Bluestreak were on fire or dead, Ratchet seemed to internally upgrade you from “helpless invalid, not to be trusted with own life” to “helpless invalid, not to be trusted with own life, but good with a pair of pliers.”

It turned out that he was a fantastic teacher. Surprisingly patient for a guy who literally threw wrenches at injured mechs. Didn’t blame you for making mistakes and never put you in a position where a mistake could hurt you or someone else. And once you’d gotten past that first hurdle, he never once balked at answering a question. Even the ones that you later wished he hadn’t answered, like how they felt pain, and why they had body parts that turned into weapons, and what happened to their sparks when they died (offlined). But it was a relief that unlike ‘Aid, who was equally curious about humans, Ratchet kept his questions about you related only to your immediate well-being.

Are you refueling enough for your species? Are you recharging enough? You’re not working in my medbay if you’re not. There’s inflammation in your wrist. Does it hurt? What helps it? I’ll get you an ice pack. Take an NSAID. No, put the spanner down, you’re done for the day.

It was nice, really. Your brain fog slowly seemed to melt away as your whiplash injury began to heal, and eventually ‘Aid let you remove your collar of shame. You started feeling more aware and present in your body, and began to wonder if First Aid had had something to do with convincing Ratchet to let you help. As you assisted with small but attention-demanding tasks, all which helped Bluestreak’s recovery, the sense of panic lurking in the back of your mind began to fade. When you fell asleep in First Aid’s clutches, it was because he just felt nice and safe, and clearly enjoyed the company. Not because you’d woken from a nightmare.

Then the day came when they were finally going to let Bluestreak wake up.

-

You’d been allowed to perch nearby, eagerly hoping to see life come back into those optics. Ratchet had explained about the override codes, how they would keep Blue from leaping off the table and shooting anything that moved, because otherwise his defensive systems would kick in immediately and he’d pose an unwitting threat to everyone around him.

After he’d walked you through that, you’d caught ‘Aid looking at Ratchet when the grouchy chief medical officer’s back was turned. First Aid looked oddly smug and pleased, and it dawned on you that maybe he hadn’t just had your well-being in mind when he’d nudged his teacher to take on his first-ever organic student.

And then it all went to shit. One second you were letting your eyes well up with tears at the sight of blue optics flickering on. The next you had been grabbed and rolled over in a dizzying rollercoaster that had you flailing and crying out. It happened so fast and with such force you almost blacked out, your vision going grey around the edges.

Bluestreak! Slag it all, he’s overridden the overrides! How in the PIT! Ratchet snarled, his white and red armor puffed up like a pissed-off rooster. First Aid was trying to calm Blue down, terrified that he might accidentally hurt you, despite clearly trying to protect you. From them. A threat his systems were warning him about, allies that he wasn’t with it enough to grasp were his friends.

Blue, let them go. Please. They’re delicate, and they’ve already been injured once, he pleaded softly, empty servos raised in a display of surrender.

The mech was crouched over you, and when Ratchet swore something foul and did his usual routine of percussive maintenance, the thing they’d been dreading happened as Blue’s plasma cannon fired. You cried out and for an awful second the entire room went still. Ratchet grumbled over his favorite spanner, now a liquid melted into the metal decking (Teletraan crankily sending zaps of electricity to anyone unfortunate enough to be near a terminal, in retribution). First Aid sighed with relief when Bluestreak finally realized where he was and what was going on, and he couldn’t move fast enough to swoop in to rescue you from your rescuer.

Only for you to refuse.

-

You hold on to your metal person. Because even though he scared you, he’d also saved you. Now he was awake after that horrible attack where he’d almost died, and his first instinct is still to save you. You are shaking like a leaf, all that awful adrenaline and fear returned with a vengeance in a way you can't help. But for all that your biology is betraying you, your heart's never felt more full of joy. Because he's alive.

Bluestreak, you say, and he flinches. You don’t like that. You reach for his face, and he slowly obliges, bringing you closer. First Aid and Ratchet hover silently in the background, and you can’t begin to imagine what they’re thinking right now. It would be nifty if you could read their auras or fields or – whatever they were.

Hey, it’s okay, you say, pressing your palm flat against his cheek. A tremor runs through his hands, but you know he won’t drop you. I’m not afraid of you, you just surprised me. You saved my life, Bluestreak. I was so happy to see you for the first time, but you were hurt so bad. I thought, I thought you were dead. Offlined, and that I’d never get to –

That’s as far as you get before you learn that mechs can cry, too, as he pulls you into the shelter of his neck, holding you close and ex-venting roughly. You pat his shoulder, thinking of what the inside of it had looked like when you’d replaced the hydraulics. Wires instead of veins, sure, metal instead of flesh. But even on the inside, you’d been right all along. You’d known, and you’d been right. They are people.

You’re all right? he asks, shakily, and when you murmur an affirmative, his eyes go so bright that you can hardly look at them. You’re not scared of me? But – but you were so so scared, and I couldn’t tell you not to be, and I know we’re really different and I’m so much bigger than you, and I’ve wanted to meet a human ever since we came to earth but Optimus and Jazz and Prowl said I couldn’t, we had to hide, and then Starscream – I couldn’t let him hurt you! You’re just so little, and your voice is so sweet, and you feel so much even though you’re so small. I couldn’t let him hurt you.

He says it like a plea for understanding, and now you’re both crying. You don’t see Ratchet and First Aid share a look, and quietly leave to give you two some privacy, now that they know you’re both stable. You only have eyes for your metal person.

I tried to help you and I didn’t know how, you sniffle, trying not to be embarrassed by how emotional you’ve been the past week. Maybe you can blame it on the trauma and injuries. But your heart’s felt just as bruised as the rest of you. Ratchet’s been teaching me. Does your shoulder feel all right? I helped fix the hydraulics.

Blue rumbles something that you realize is a laugh. It feels great! You did a great job! Wow, the Hatchet really let you work on me? In his medbay?! Do you know how hard First Aid had to work to get him to take him on as a trainee? And you got him to do it in just a few cycles? Wow. You must be really smart. Um, I’m Bluestreak. But you already know that. What’s your name?

You laugh, too, through the flood of happy, confused, exhausted tears, and tell him.

That’s so beautiful! What’s it mean? Do human names have meanings? Where were you going that day? Why were you out in the middle of nowhere? What was that music you were listening to?

He stops short and looks chagrined. Sorry, sorry, I know I talk too much, everybody says I do, I just have so many feelings and questions and –

Bluestreak, you tell him, smiling, as you reach to grab his other hand. He lets you, optics bright, armor spotless. Even if he’s going to have to get yelled at by Ratchet for destroying some of his repairs, he can’t remember ever being this happy.

I’d just found you, just met you, and I lost you. I thought I’d never get to hear you speak again.

You squeeze his hands, the same shape and number of fingers as yours, and capable of both the same violence and the same gentleness. This isn’t the end. There’s a road of healing you’ll both have to walk, but now you know you really aren’t alone. You didn’t know it at the time, but you never were.

Blue, I could listen to you talk forever.

[hijadelverano]

Sunset

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Ex!Red-Cross Nurse

Summary: Luciana, a highly experienced and tough nurse (ex-Red Cross) working in a busy ER, is haunted by traumatic memories from her past humanitarian work in a war zone. One day, during a shift, she is suddenly overwhelmed by flashbacks of a deadly battlefield, reliving the chaos, pain, and loss she witnessed, which causes her to have a panic attack. Thankfully, Jack is there to pull her back.

Warnings: PTSD, panic attacks, war, injuries. Luciana is Latina, so a few words are in Spanish. English is not my main language.

Word count: 2.4k

A/N: it's been a while since I wrote something but I was inspired after watching the Pitt. Also, this is my first time writing in englsih, so forgive my grammar.

Hope you like it!!!

Gif de��emziess

Sometimes, the noises are enough to drag her back—ironic because she works in a place where silence is a pipe dream. If she can’t stand the noise, she shouldn’t work in an ER, but she does and now has to pay the price.

This does not always happen; after all, she’s been in The Pitt for years. What dragged her to the past today was a combination of shouting and the wind hitting the doors. She was so concentrated on looking at the board, analyzing the patients while searching for an opportunity to clear more beds, that she was startled when the wind hit the glass door.

The only thing she can hear is her heart beating strongly and her rapid breaths, but her mind isn’t in the PItt anymore. She’s back in hell, the heat of an explosion surrounding her, making it hard to breathe, bullets everywhere, and the only thing she sees is blood.

Blood in her clothes, in the sand, in her body. 

Blood pouring from a soldier’s leg

“Stay with me!” she hears herself screaming. “Don’t close your eyes!”

She acted fast, making a tourniquet with her belt and using her shirt to bandage the wound. She needs to get him out of here. They were in the open in the middle of a battle between soldiers and terrorists, so she grabbed his arms and tried to ignore his screams while she dragged him to hide behind a vehicle.

“Where the hell is our backup?!” she screams to another soldier. They needed to get the hell out of there if she wanted to save the wounded. 

From a distance, another scream, a familiar one. Miles, a senior doctor, the one who recruited her was now dead. One second, he was helping a soldier, the next he was on the sand with a bullet hole between his eyes.

This was supposed to be another humanitarian mission, like the many others they did in the past; they weren’t even soldiers. They were sent to a small village to help the women and children, the military was just there for protection.

This was supposed to be an offer of peace, but it turned out to be a deadly trap, and she was in the middle of it.

Her body was on autopilot, she couldn't stop to cry over the deaths. There were lives still to be saved. From her pocket, she grabs gauze and uses it to keep the soldier alive. She prayed for the helicopter to arrive soon, the soldier needed surgery fast. The medic looked around, her eyes settling on one of the four soldiers who were still fighting, firing his gun with his right arm while his left was bleeding from a gunshot.

“Hey, you!” she shouted, “come over here!”

The soldier, not much older than her and definitely terrified, crawled faster to her side. When his eyes landed on the man on the ground, he paled.

“Fuck, that’s Abbot, our medic” the soldier, a latin boy she figured by his accent, said barely in a whisper but she managed to hear it.

“Well right now he’s my patient” she snapped, her patience running thin. “I need you to keep his leg elevated and hold pressure on the wound” she told him while looking for more bandages to cover that gunshot wound. But the soldier didn’t answer, his eyes still on Abbot’s leg - or the lack of it.

“Soldado!” She switched to spanish and finally the soldier looked at her. “Necesito que tengas elevada su pierna y hagas presión así puedo revisar tu herida. Can you do that?!”

He gave her a nod and moved quickly to help. The adrenaline was high for him as he didn’t feel the pain when the medic started to apply pressure on his arm. She used her last roll of bandage and prayed to be enough.

“Where’s our damn helicopter?” she asked again, finally getting an answer “Two minutes!”

Two minutes, one hundred and twenty seconds. A lot can happen in that time.

“Grenade!” someone shouts, and she drops to the ground, her body covering the army medic. An explosion steals the air from her lungs, and pain erupts from her side. Something hit her.

“Shit, Abbot!” the young soldier screams, grabbing the medics attention. She didn’t have time to assess the situation, see if any of them were hurt, or determine her own pain;  Abbot was pale as a ghost and wasn’t responding. She quickly pressed two fingers to his throat. There was no pulse

“La puta madre” she cursed and started compressions. “Don’t you dare to fucking die, ¡¿me escuchaste?!”

You are not allowed to give up.

There’s ringing in her ears, and her vision is dizzy, but she only stops to breathe in his mouth and resumes compressions again. That’s when the wind started, making it hard to see anything, but she didn’t stop CPR. They had already lost so much, and the idea of Abbot dying under her hands was a thought she couldn’t conceive. She looked around, searching for something that could help her. She cursed, when did she let go of her medic bag? How could she be so dumb to let go of the most important thing- there it was.

“Somebody fucking get me that bag!” she shouted, hoping to be heard. If she could grab the epi, maybe she could save him.

A hand is on her shoulder, and someone is talking to her.

L-

Luci-

“Luciana!” someone’s shaking her by the arms, and suddenly she isn’t in the desert anymore, fighting to save a life.

No sand surrounded her, just concrete, and the wind wasn’t from a helicopter. She’s back in Pittsburgh, on the rooftop of the hospital where she works. 

How did she get here? 

“Luciana, hey, look at me” A warm hand is on her cheek, guiding her face to the person in front of her.

Brown's eyes met their mirror, and the door guarding her soul was wide open, making her feel bare under his eyes. The thought of being so vulnerable increased the panic in her veins. She’s not used to showing her feelings, always maintaining a stoic face when it comes to her problems. Luciana made empathy her armor, prioritizing other’s problems over hers. That way, her trauma keeps being deep inside and her mind would never have the time to address it.

Luciana Suarez built her personality around being a strong woman who has seen it all and doesn’t shed a single tear about it. When her eyes met Abbot’s, her walls crumbled down into tiny pieces, and her facade no longer existed, making it all worse.

“I need you to breathe,” he instructed her, as he would to any other patient, at least that was what she told herself.

But air seemed like the wrong option when her lungs were burning like a forest in the middle of the summer.

“I - I can’t” It was an impossible task, how can she calm down when everything feels like a nightmare? Her eyes might be seeing Jack in front of her, but her body is still in hell.

Suddenly she felt something cold and her mind stopped. It was unexpected, for a moment all she could feel was the heat - imaginary but nonetheless. When her eyes looked for the source, her heart stopped. A hand she’d seen too many times doing impossible procedures, had grabbed her with such gentleness and placed it on something metal.

It was a prosthetic foot. His prosthetic foot.

“Feel this?” he asked “ I’m alive, we survived”

He wanted to tell her so many things. That his moments on this very roof aren’t a debate over suicide, on the contrary, he’s grateful he’s still breathing and it’s all because of her. Because she didn’t give up on him, she fought and brought him back to the land of living. Yes, he lost his leg but that would never be her fault. Thanks to this angel - as he usually calls her in his mind -, he got to live. Fifteen extra years and plenty of opportunities. 

If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t have married his wife. He wouldn’t be alive to go home, marry Isabel, and live her last years with her. He wouldn’t have met his brother in everything but blood, Robby.

If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t have this job that made him feel useful without putting his life in danger. He isn’t going to lie, some shifts still took a toll on him, where the death felt like a weight he was holding.  Some nights, he was Atlas holding the sky on his shoulders and that’s why he goes back to the roof. And when the sun rise again, she appears and suddenly, the weight isn’t as heavy as before: she’s holding the sky with him, together.

God, she was barely a child when she saved his lame ass. She was twenty years old, a prodigy child who graduated early and just wanted to be a doctor and do humanitarian work he discovered after waking up in a foreign hospital.

Definitely an angel.

As soon as he opened his eyes and learned the news - learned what he’d lost -, she visited him. In his pain, he was surprised: the person who saved him was a young girl… in a wheelchair. A bullet to her back, she had to be operated on twice to get the remains off or she could risk being paralyzed for life.

She was badly hurt while saving his life and she told him all that with a little smile. In the beginning, he hated that smile. How can she be fine after all that? He lost part of his leg and already felt like his life was ending - it took him a very long time, with the help of his therapist and his wife, to make peace with this new and broken body.

It took him a few years to realize she was broken too.

He hates to see his salvation hiding the pain behind a smile, hoping nobody would notice. But he did and did nothing about it: maybe it was because Luciana was too stubborn to accept help and he didn’t know how to act on these feelings. He remembered when he saw her again, a few years ago, when she started working at The Pitt. The world stopped but his heart started beating again after a long time. Regret filled his heart at his cowardice, guilt swimming in his heart. 

Jack let himself be used to toeing between the lines: between being colleagues and something more. He already has a soft spot for her, everyone knows it. Always praising her for her good work, or consolating her when the shift was being a nightmare. He even let his fingers graze her every now and then, a small act of selfishness for his heart. But that was it. When the opportunity of doing something else, of doing something more crossed his mind, he closed the door.

Oh how Jack wished to go back in time, but that was just a fantasy. So, in return, he vowed to not be that version of himself anymore.

A hand brushing the scar on her back made her open her eyes - she didn’t know when she closed them. It took her a few seconds to remember what was happening, her mind shut down when she met the cold of-

Jack

She lifted her gaze and there he was, still looking at her like he could read her mind and maybe he could as he managed to bring her back. 

“Hey”

“Hola” Jack speaking Spanish almost makes her smile again, and he relaxed slightly. “¿Estas bien?”

When did the wind stop?

Lu took a deep breath, something that felt impossible moments ago, and cleaned her tears with her hand. “A little peachy,” she said, giving him a small smile “Sorry you had to come”.  The hate of being a burden was burning her throat.

“Don’t” he interrupted her. “You are not a burden to me, Luciana”. How did he know? She swears every time his eyes found hers, he could read her mind.

She hid her face in his chest and strong arms involved her. She’s not used to opening up about her problems, even though her therapist told her plenty of times that she shouldn’t be embarrassed about her feelings.

She protected her heart because it was too big for her own sake: she felt too much about everything, a curse rather than a gift. That’s why she hid her true feelings, she doesn’t want to suffer.

Maybe that’s why she did nothing about her feelings for Jack. He would never hurt her, she knows that, but what if they weren’t ready? What if she was too much? She would never recover from the bleeding.

“Damm my heart” she murmured, still between his arms. Her hand was still on the prosthetic, the cold metal grounding her

“Hey, don’t be hard on yourself” he rests his chin on top of her head, his fingers running small circles on her scar.

“Jack, I got a panic attack from a little wind, don’t tell me that’s normal”

A hand on her cheek brought her back to the starring contest (when she loses every time).

“You have PTSD, just like I have. You told me plenty of times that there’s nothing wrong with that”.

It’s okay to be broken sometimes.

He hugged her again, knowing she still needed the contention. They stayed like that, feeling each other heartbeat while watching the sunset. That’s when she grabbed the courage.

“I was searching for a place like this”

“A rooftop?” that made her laugh and for Jack it felt like heaven.

“No, tonto. I mean in a metaphorical sense. I was looking for a place to finally wake up and be the full version of myself”

“And where’s that?” he asks, but his eyes are shining like he knows the answer.

“Here, between your arms” there, she finally said it.

“It was time you let me hold the weight with you” he placed a kiss on her forehead and that almost made her cry again “and I intend to do it for as long as you have me”.

“¿Y si digo para siempre?” she asked in her mother language, can’t help but feel a little insecure. She just asked him forever and they haven’t even-

“Then forever it is” and he kissed all her insecurities goodbye.

[michelle-is-writing]

Stunt Driving, Spencer Reid

Word Count: 1.8k~

3rd person, Spencer x fem!reader

Other than Derek Morgan, Spencer didn't know anyone that could drive so recklessly, yet, still be safe at the same time. That was until Agent (Y/n) (L/n) was hired at the BAU. She was intelligent, but she couldn't compare to that of Spencer's list of achievements. (Y/n) didn't graduate high school at age twelve, nor did she have several masters degrees or Ph.D.'s under her belt. Instead, she slightly leisured and worked hard at the same time. She gained her degrees with good grades while making memories with those around her. One person she grew close to was her father.

Being an auto mechanic who worked at home, (Y/n)'s father got to work on a lot of cars, especially those from the seventies and eighties. Once the cars were fixed, (Y/n)'s dad always took it for a drive with her in the passenger seat, and even though it probably wasn't the best idea, he would teach her how to drive fast - whether it be to have fun (again, probably not the best idea) or get out of a dangerous situation. The things learned by (Y/n) would last her a lifetime and would prove to be necessary in this current moment.

Driving one of the FBI's SUV at ninety miles per hour wasn't something that Spencer imagined himself experiencing today, and as he looked at the beautiful woman in the driver's seat beside him, he didn't exactly know what to think. She seemed so focused on what she was doing, and because of the mileage they were reaching, Spencer was thankful for this. However, there was still that screaming statistic in the back of his mind, shouting, "40% of all accidents are caused by speeding over 75 miles per hour!"

"(Y/n), slow down!" Spencer yelled as she swerved in and out of traffic, the unsub's car merely twenty feet away from their vehicle. Gripping the safety handle above him as hard as he could, Spencer felt like he could have a heart attack any moment now. She was unsafe in her driving because of the speed she was traveling at, yet, she was somehow keeping them safe by her constant reflexes and quick reaction times. "You're going to get us killed!"

"Spencer," (Y/n) said his name, swiftly checking her mirrors before speeding into the next lane, the engine screaming as she did so. Looking over into the driver side window, Spencer could see the unsub constantly checking over his shoulder, his panic only growing once he sees the BAU's vehicle next to his. "Do you trust me?"

"What?" Spencer asked his coworker, her gorgeous (e/c) eyes flashing over to his for a quick second. Despite being in such a tense situation, Spencer couldn't help but be lured in by her eyes as his heart had grown for the woman as soon as she started working in the BAU. Fortunately, (Y/n) felt the same, he just didn't know it.

"I need you to trust me," She repeats her words, gaining an almost groan from Spencer. He was trusting her enough by putting his life in her hands at the wheel, what else did she want?

"You know better than anyone how to calculate an unsub's next move," She reminds him, the unsub speeding up to get ahead of their SUV. "And you and I both know he's going to swerve in front of me at some point and slam on his breaks," she points out, frowning as she yanks the car into the same lane as the unsub. "I need you to tell me when you think that's going to happen."

Determination laced throughout her voice, (Y/n)'s eyes stayed glued on the banged-up car in front of her as the RPMs of their vehicle bounced between its high and low numbers. Not knowing what her full plan was, Spencer questioned himself as to why he quietly nodded at her words, but nonetheless, still turned his head to watch the car in front of them. As facts about the unsub came to mind, Spencer compiled everything into one of his long, drawn out equations before estimating when the murderer would do just as (Y/n) had said.

It was only when he saw the unsub sit closer to the wheel with a tighter grip on it that Spencer felt he was going to change his moves. "Now," Spencer told the woman, watching as she slowed their vehicle down only slightly, but still deliberately. Seconds after the SUV reached 80, the car in front of her slammed on the breaks, causing (Y/n) to smirk as she knew her plan was in full effect.

Quickly swerving into the line beside her, she wastes no time before lining her front wheels up to his back ones and slamming into him, effectively making him begin to slide uncontrollably on the road, the side of his vehicle pinned to the front of their SUV. Spencer watched in panic as the unsub tried to regain control of his car, only to swerve away and into a field. Sitting back against his chair with a sigh, Spencer shut his eyes as he felt the car begin to finally slow down. He'd never done a pit maneuver on anyone before, having only read about it before in books or hearing about it in news cases.

For a second, he let himself relax until he felt the SUV start reversing before swerving in a 180 degree motion, making his eyes shoot back open and see their vehicle now facing the same direction as the unsub. The wheels immediately regained traction against the asphalt before lunging into the dirt and across the grass covered field. The unsub had barely any time to react and drive away as the SUV made contact with the front end, pushing it farther into the field all the while further destroying the car and preventing it from driving anymore.

Now stopped, (Y/n) threw her seatbelt off and dashed out of her seat. Once again, Spencer found himself watching the scene unfold in front of him, his eyes glued to the way (Y/n) held her pistol all the while dragging the unsub out of the vehicle. Surprisingly, the man's arms eventually came up to hold his head, showing he was still alive despite being hit twice.

It's only then that Spencer snapped out of his haze, clambering out of the vehicle behind her as she tugged the injured man onto his stomach. Aside from the man's cries, the sound of sirens began to follow them much to Spencer's delight. They couldn't keep up with the unsub, losing him in traffic due to his speeds, but that wasn't a hard challenge for (Y/n).

Clearly.

It was merely thirty seconds later that the rest of the team joined them, followed by several ambulances and police vehicles that promptly looked over the murderer before taking him away to jail. This left both Spencer and (Y/n) to be checked over despite being alright throughout it all. It took hardly any time for Spencer to be declared fine, leaving him to make sure (Y/n) was okay.

Walking over to her ambulance, he saw an EMS worker finish wrapping up (Y/n)'s slightly bleeding wrist, his steps now a bit more panicked as he came closer to her. "I cut my hand on a piece of glass when handcuffing the guy," (Y/n) quickly explained to the worried man, smiling at him. "I'm okay, Spence, really."

Feeling his heart warm up in response to (Y/n) calling him the nickname she adopted for him, he saw himself sitting next to her and sighing. "Where did you...?" Spencer began, not knowing where to go with his question. Instead of waiting for him to continue, she smirked and finished for him.

"Where did I learn to do that?" She asked for clarification, receiving a nod in response. Still smiling, she happily answered him. "When I was younger, my dad fixed cars, but you already knew that," She explained, Spencer nodding along as she spoke.

"Well, he also liked stunts and he taught me a few things too," she shrugged, "The pit maneuver was nothing, but that j-turn was something else," She explained, the Spencer's ears perking up as she answered his next question without him even saying it.

Her smile slowly died down before she slid a hand over to his resting on the ambulance, albeit a bit cautiously. However, his unchanging expression showed her it was okay, and so, she left her hand on top of his.

"I am sorry if I scared you, Spencer," She apologized, "Not everyone's used to... well, my driving, but I can't help it," They both shared a small laugh at this, staring at each other for a few moments before she spoke up once more. "Still, I hope you don't see me as reckless or immature."

In response to her words, Spencer let out a small laugh before wrapping an arm around her back and pulling her close. Perhaps it was the chaotic experience they just faced, or maybe it was the longing stares and touches they sometimes exchanged, but Spencer didn't know where this sudden burst of confidence was coming from. In fact, the only thing that reassured him of his actions was (Y/n) reciprocating them and nuzzling into his side ever so slightly.

"You didn't scare me," Spencer lied, putting on a genuine smile due to the happiness he felt from the combination of (Y/n)'s touch and words. "To be honest, I thought it was kind of hot," The words left his lips as awkward as they could, followed by a dark blush taking over his porcelain cheeks.

Although, (Y/n) paid no mind to his embarrassment, and instead, she couldn't help but lean up and gently kiss Spencer's soft lips. They were slightly swollen from him biting them in the car out of anxiousness and fright, but (Y/n) didn't care. She was happy just to be kissing the man, and even more elated at the sensation of him kissing back.

A small amount of applause filled the area around them, causing the two to part and look around to see their teammates grinning and clapping their hands.

"I knew it!" JJ yelled, clapping her hands together with an excited smile. "This was going to happen sooner or later,"

Beside JJ was Emily, smiling as well while clapping her on the back. Spencer and (Y/n) then began to stutter to Emily that they wouldn't let this interfere with their work, but the dark-haired woman simply held up a hand in response. "It's okay, I know you two, and I know you'll still be the same excellent workers," The smile she wore grew into that of a smirk, anticipating her next reply. "Just a bit more cuddly... and cute."

Relieved, both (Y/n) and Spencer couldn't help but let out a small sigh simultaneously, causing them to look back at each other with sheepish smiles from being caught. Barely any words had been expressed between the two when it came to their new relationship, but one thing was definite: (Y/n)'s motor-loving heart had become entangled with Spencer's chess-loving one, and he was happy.

[shinestarhwaa]

GETAWAY CAR || WOOYOUNG

Genre: Smut, Angst, Fluff

Pairing: Wooyoung x Fem reader

Word Count: 3K

Tags/Warnings: Strangers to lovers, runaway bride y/n, roadtripper Wooyoung, toxic relationship (not woo), corruption, a looot of things wrong with y/n's ex, single bed trope, sexual assault, trauma, traumabonding, oral sex, dirty language, protected sex, praise kink, fingering, biting kink

Taglist: @anyamaris @a-soft-hornytiny @whatudowhennooneseesyou @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @woosanbby @dreamlesswonder86 @changbinslovelylegs @jonghostie @lovjensoo @mjyungi @bratty-tingz @sugarnspice630 @stardragongalaxy @bro-atz @wisejudgedragonhairdo @mingisg00dgirl @vesvosmozhno @therealcuppicake @unholywriters @enbymingi @jjoongstar

ENJOY!

You swore you had never ran this fast before in your life. An occasional jogging session in the park? Sure. Played hide and seek at the age of 7 on the playground? Totally.

But you were sure this must be some kind of personal record. You cursed yourself for picking a big ass ballgown because man, it was heavy just wearing it. And now you were carrying it as you fled the church.

You were breathing so fast you thought you might have a panic attack but you also knew if you stopped now they'd find you in no time. The white heels were slightly too tight but you ran in them nonetheless, surprising yourself with this newfound talent.

Suddenly you noticed a big black van across the street and before thinking you made your way over there. There was a young man inside, handsome, you could already tell. Could be hurt you? Kill you? Yeah, possibly. Likely. But you tapped the window nonetheless.

The guy rolled down the window and raised his eyebrow, watching a young woman with sweat dripping from her forehead and obviously wearing a huge wedding dress cling to the door of his van.

"Can I help you? Drive you to a wedding, perhaps?" He grinned.

"I'm running away from it, actually. Please, I need to get in. I can't marry him, I need... Need to get in."

You looked at him with pleading eyes, grasping the door so tight your knuckles turned white. He looked concerned for a second but he nodded, hopping out of the van and opening the door on the passenger's side.

As you stepped inside and took a seat, the guy helped stuffing your train into the vehicle with you. He slammed the door and sat back behind the wheel. "A runaway bride, huh?"

"Yeah. I don't care where you're going, just drive somewhere, anywhere is better than this horrendous town," you shuddered. "Got ya," he said before starting the car. You took deep breath, calming down from the sprint you took.

"I'm Wooyoung, I'm bored so I am roadtripping" the guy said as he drove out of town, entering the highway. "Y/N," you breathed out, "professional runaway bride."

He laughed, startling you with some kind of witchy-noise or whatever the hell it was. "May I ask what the story is? I love a good story time."

You sighed and brushed your hair out of your face. "Well, I was supposed to marry this guy. This... business guy who I dated for years. This guy I completely wasted my youth on."

"Was he that bad?" Wooyoung asked. You scoffed and rolled your eyes. "Do you have a minute?" "Spill the beans," he said, nodding his head. "He's 7 years older, to start with. He corrupted me, being my first everything basically. We got together when I was 16, he was 23 and I was too in love to notice how wrong that was. No one around me cared, honestly. My parents and his parents are business partners and very good friends and that's how we met."

Wooyoung nodded again, understanding the moral of the story. "They just wanted you to marry well to look good, didn't they?"

You sighed. "That's right. They were planning a huge church wedding for us and it was all so overwhelming. Over the past months I realized I wasn't in a loving relationship. I've been stuck in a trap where I was going to be used as a maid with an available womb. A woman to clean the house, cook, do whatever he wants me to and birth 6 sons or whatever."

"That sounds awful, I'm glad you saw the light, for real." "Me too. I don't know what I'm gonna do now. I don't think I can ever have a functioning relationship with my parents again, or even look them in the eyes. I might need to move continents," you grinned.

"Solid idea, running away from problems is also my solution to everything."

"Oh yeah? What is your story?"

"Well," Wooyoung started, "mostly my family's high expectations of me. They want me to be a lawyer or a doctor but... I don't know. I wanna see the world. I wanna be free."

There was a sense of deep sadness in that last sentence, changing the ambience inside the van. You figured everyone dealt with their own problems as well.

"You felt trapped too?" You asked him, looking at him. He nodded. "I felt trapped too."

•♡○♡○♡•♡○♡•

After an hour of driving Wooyoung parked at a motel. "Really?" You asked him as you looked at the place in disgust. "Well, I'm no billionaire, Y/N." You nodded and followed him inside, where he bargained for a room.

"Congratulations on the wedding," the woman behind the desk said with a bright smile. Not having the energy to explain your story you thanked her and followed Wooyoung to your shared motel room.

It wasn't pretty, or luxurious like you were used to but it did the job. "I'm sorry she said she only has this room, no rooms with two single beds or anything," Wooyoung apologized.

You nodded and sat down on the bed. "I honestly don't care. I just need to sleep." Wooyoung nodded and patted your shoulder lightly. "I'm going to use the bathroom for second," he said before excusing himself.

When Wooyoung came back you were lying on your back, fast asleep. He felt sad, looking at you laying in the motel bed on your wedding day. He looked around in his bag and pulled out some cash money before exiting the room to buy some essentials.

The next morning you woke up, but Wooyoung wasn't next to you. Where did he go? Did that fucker abandon you? You sat up and looked around and noticed Wooyoung bought a bottle of water, a sandwich and a dress for you to wear. You felt tears burn in your eyes and suddenly it was hard to breathe. Pushing away your feelings, you got ready.

Half an hour later you left the room with the dress in your arms. You walked over to the van and noticed Wooyoung sitting inside it with the back doors open. "Hey," he said with a smile. "Hi, what are you doing here? Why did you get me a dress?"

"I couldn't possibly let you wear that wedding dress any longer so I got some from a convenience store last night. And... I slept here." "In the van? On that matrass? Jesus Wooyoung, we had a bed you know." "I couldn't sleep next to you. You're a woman, you were supposed to get married and... I... I didn't want to bother you or make you uncomfortable."

Tears burned in your eyes again and you sight, laying the dress in the van, next to the matrass. "Thank you, I appreciate it..." you mumbled, "Where are we going now? Do we have a plan?"

"Do I look like I plan these things?" He grinned, getting up from the van and closing the backdoor before sitting behind the wheel. You got in too and whipped out your phone, but as you suspected it was dead. Maybe that was for the best anyway.

Later on you and Wooyoung had driven for hours and it was time for a break. You got to know each other well and you thought he was surprisingly fun. It was around 2PM when you got out of the car after whining about being hungry for about 2 hours. You were leaning against the car door while Wooyoung went into the shop at the gas station to get you something to eat and drink.

Wooyoung had only been gone for a few minutes when a guy came up to you. He looked slightly crooked and he gave you an eerie feeling. Uncomfortable, you shifted a little bit and looked around, trying to spot people around you but it was quiet.

"Hey there, gorgeous," the man spoke in a low voice that gave you goosebumps. And not the good kind. You cringed when you smelled the alcohol on his breath. "Hi," you said, trying to sound brave and confident. "Are you all alone here princess?" "Princess?" You scoffed.

"Well aren't you a little princess? I could surely treat you like a princess in bed," he smirked, getting closer. Your body froze and your eyes widened as you felt the man's hands on you. Just when the man was about to touch your chest he got pulled away.

Wooyoung.

"What the hell are you doing man?" He yelled. The man stumbled and fell down, groaning and yelling something that you couldn't understand. Wooyoung nearly pushed you into the van before getting in himself, driving off quickly. He tossed a little plastic bag filled with drinks and snacks into your lap.

"Geez, I'm sorry that happened, did he go far?" "N-no it's okay," you whispered. You wanna be brave about this but the idea of what could have happened if Wooyoung came back a little later. No one else would have been around. "I got scared when I walked out of the shop and saw that man by my van. Then I realized why I didn't see you. That perverted freak was towering all over you. So, I ran. I was not gonna let that happen to you too."

Too? What did he mean by that? You shrugged off the thoughts and thanked Wooyoung before eating one of the sandwiches from the shop. Wooyoung turned back to the highway, driving further to your next stop.

There was a nice little inn right next to the road and you decided to stay the night there. The inn also contained a little restaurant where you were seated, enjoying a nice homecooked meal. You were feeling a little cold, so Wooyoung had thrown his jacket over your shoulders. It hardly worked but the thought of it warmed your heart.

"Wooyoung?" You started when you finished your meal. He nodded and looked up, his eyes finding yours. "What did you mean when you said you didn't want that to happen to me too? Why the too?"

Wooyoung swallowed thickly and sighed, slightly dropping his head before looking at you again. "Because it happened to me, a few years ago. This person... cornered me, before they tried to kiss me and feel me up while I said I didn't want them to. I felt horrible after that and I don't want you to feel that way too. You already have enough family and wedding drama, you don't need assault drama to go with it."

You took Wooyoungs hand and gently squeezed it. "Thank you for sharing that, Woo." Wooyoung kindly smiled and assured you it was all good, and that he's just glad that you are alright.

That night you learned about Wooyoung's playful side after having a couple shots with him in the hotelroom. "So what's your bodycount?" He had asked. "Excuse meee? What kind of question is that!" You yelled, nearly punching him in the face. "Hey I am just curious. I'll tell you mine! It is-" "I do not need to hear it Woo! Fine. It's 1, duh."

"You've only slept with that dickhead?" "Well I was 16 when we got together so yeah?" "Was he any good?"

You sighed and rolled your eyes. "Well I don't really have any comparison? I don't know. I don't really miss it I guess? I like the idea of it but I don't necissarily enjoyed it that much?"

"I bet he didn't use his dick right." "Wooyoung, please."

"I'm serious!" Wooyoung said as he got up. "He probably had no idea how to pleasure a woman. How to make her feel loved and safe while at the same time make her scream out your name and completely ruin her."

Your cheeks heated up when he spoke those words and your eyes scanned Wooyoungs body, unintentionally. "What's that like?" You asked, sounding a little too innocent for your liking.

"Want me to show you?"

Your breath hitched in your throat. You remember what you'd heard people say one day: nothing good starts in a getaway car. Maybe you should run. Maybe you should not travel around with Wooyoung, a stranger. That is what you told yourself. But your heart said differently. Wooyoung wasn't just a stranger. He's your savior. It doesn't matter that he's not perfect, that he is on the run, that he has issues left to work out. He drove your getaway car when you needed it the most. He saved you from a life of unhappiness. You weren't unsafe with him.

And this thought made you fall.

You pulled him on top of you and pressed your lips on his, tasting the alcohol the two of you drank earlier. You weren't drunk but you sure felt lightheaded when Wooyoung slightly bit your lip. He grinned playfully as he slid his knee inbetween your thighs.

His knee gently rubbed against your clothed crotch and you whimpered into his mouth, grinding yourself on it instantly. Wooyoung pulled back from the kiss and his hands skimmed across your clothed breasts. "What a naughty little girl," he smirked, pushing his knee slightly harder into your crotch. You moaned when it triggered your clit, making your cunt clench around nothing.

"Wooyoung, please," you sighed softly. Wooyoung nodded and shifted your dress up to your waist, pulling down your panties. He got on his knees in front of the bed and pulled you closer to the edge, legs over his shoulders as he buried his face into your warmth.

You winced when you felt his teeth graze your clit before sucking lightly on it. "I'm gonna treat this pretty pussy so well, gonna make you come like he never has," he spoke. "H-he's never used his mouth on me so that is a given," you said in a breathy voice.

Wooyoung looked at you, surprised. He kept eye contact as he kept sucking on your sensitive clit, one of his fingers slowly entering your wet hole. Soon enough he slid in a second, pumping and curling them right where you liked it. Wooyoung paid attention to your facial expressions and body language to see what would make you go crazy.

When he started to fuck you with his fingers, his lips and tongue still attached to your clit you started to moan louder, unable to contain the moans that erupted from your throat. The way he pleasured you was nearly poetic. It was calculated, but heartfelt. He knew what he was doing. He knew what he wanted to say. What he wanted you to feel.

You felt your core tighten and you knew you were about to come soon. When you announced your nearing orgasm to Wooyoung he didn't stop. He kept going, ready to take the arousal that you'd give him.

This orgasm was like nothing you had ever experienced before. It started slowly and it was building up until everything crashed down and it seemed to go on endlessly, until Wooyoung pulled away from you. "That's it, that's a good girl," Wooyoung spoke.

You took a deep breath before propping yourself up on your elbows, looking into Wooyoungs eyes. Your dress had slipped down slightly, one of your nipples being visible ever so slightly. It was a sight to behold to Wooyoung. Nothing he had ever seen before felt this erotic. The prettiest, sensitive pussy right there on display for him, the fucked out look on your face. It drove him insane and he had to have you now.

Wooyoung took a condom from his bag and stripped himself bare. You were surprised to see the tattoos on his skin. You wanted to admire them but Wooyoung had put on his condom and lifted up your legs, calves resting against his chest. You nodded quickly, giving him consent to do whatever it was that he wanted to do to you.

Gently, he pushed into your cunt, spread open wide for him. "Oh, Woo!" You cried out when he started moving inside you. You were feeling sensitive after your orgasm and his pelvis brushed against your clit slightly with every thrust.

"That feels so good, k-keep doing that!" You whimpered when he picked up his pace and force. Wooyoung grunted and bit into the skin of your lower leg to surpress his moans. You whined loudly and grabbed the sheets tight into your fists, squeezing until your knuckles turned white.

Something about not being able to see your entire body but still getting the honor of being inside you and rocking your world did something to Wooyoung. It certainly did not take long before he felt himself get close, so he slowed down but immediately you begged him for more.

"Give it to me, give me everything, please!" You begged him, squirming underneath him as he leaned down more. He pounded into you and moaned out your name, his eyebrows furrowed.

"W-Wooyoung please come for me, please come, say my name," you panted out when you felt Wooyoung twitch inside your pussy. Only seconds later Wooyoung screamed out your name, spurting his seeds into the condom.

Wooyoung leaned back and spread your legs a little more so he could reach your clit. He moved his fingers over your sensitive, swollen clit and it only took a minute before you came again with Wooyoungs name on your lips.

He pulled his thick cock out of you and discarded the condom, throwing it in the trash. He placed you properly on the bed before kissing your head and making sure you're doing well.

"That was incredible," you breathed out, "you made me cum twice!"

Wooyoung laughed and stroked your hair. "Well that should be the standard." You grinned and nodded, laying your sleepy head on Wooyoungs chest. Maybe not everything about that getaway car is bad. Maybe something good can come out of it after all.

[yxngbxkkie]

freak accident (b.c)

welcome to the third installment of mechanic!chris 🫢 i had thought of this idea the other day as a way to make it angsty but it's still pretty fucking cute 🤭 i do hope you guys enjoy it! ✨️mechanic chan for life✨️

feedback is greatly appreciated 🥰

You're out shopping for dinner tonight when your phone starts to ring. You furrow your brows, wondering who it could be since Chris is working and Hyunjin's at an art exhibit.

An unknown number is printed on your screen, and you reluctantly answer it. “Hello?” You start walking through the aisles again, waiting for whomever is on the line.

“Hi, this is Dr. Brown at SNUH. Am I speaking to Y/N?” You stop in your tracks at the question, feeling your heart begin to race.

“Yeah, yeah, this is Y/N,” you say to him, moving to a more secluded area in the store.

You can hear the background noise of nurses trying to speak to him, only to be hushed. “I'm calling in regards to Chris. There's been a slight accident at his auto shop and was rushed over here,” he explains the situation.

“Is… is he okay?” You ask, your breathing picking up.

“He's stable. I can give you more information on what happened when you get here,” the doctor states.

You nod your head, abandoning your cart as you rush towards the main doors. “Okay, I'll be there as fast I can,” you mutter before he hangs up.

As you're almost running to your car, you take deep breaths to stop you from having a form of attack. Tears pool in your eyes, every scenario of what could have happened runs through your mind.

The drive to the hospital doesn't take very long, thankful that traffic is on your side today. You quickly lock your vehicle and rush inside, stopping in front of the admitting desk.

“Hi,” you're out of breath, feeling the palms of your hands get sweaty. “I'm here to see Christopher Bang.”

The woman behind the desk nods and types in the patient's name. You tap your fingers against the desk, waiting for her to give you a room number.

“He's in room 203,” she tells you, making quick eye contact.

“Okay, thank you,” you mumble before walking over to the elevators. You take it up to the second floor, finding a sign to where 203 would be as soon as you step off.

You see a doctor and a nurse standing outside one of the rooms, finding out that it's Chris’ room. You walk closer to the pair, capturing the attention of the nuse.

She nudges the doctor, motioning her head in your direction. You clasp your fingers together as you make eye contact with Dr. Brown. “Y/N, yes?” He asks, holding a hand out for you to shake.

“Yes, hi,” you greet him with a bow, shaking the older man's hand. Your gaze flickers toward the small window in the door, seeing Chris lying on the hospital bed. “What happened?”

The doctor releases a deep breath. “He was working on a vehicle when it fell from the lift,” he starts, earning a gasp from you. “Thankfully, he wasn't completely under it and that he's quick on his feet. The situation could've been worse. He broke his left leg in two places.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter while stepping up to the door.

Dr. Brown gently rests one of his hands on your shoulders, reassuring you. “He'll be okay. The surgery went well. He had a couple of plates and screws put in. It'll somewhat be a long road to recovery,” he mentions.

“Is there anything he'll need to do?” You ask, tucking some hair behind your ears.

“There will be some follow-up appointments with orthopedics. But, that won't be for a few weeks. I'll have our nurse write down instructions you'll need for the healing process.”

You nod your head before opening the door. Both the doctor and nurse decide to let you have a moment with Chris alone. You gently shut the door behind you and walk over to the chair next to his bed.

Your eyes look at the cast on his leg, seeing that it's almost up to his knee. A frown, etches itself on your lips as you place your hand on his. You let out a couple of deep breaths, squeezing his hand in yours.

“I'm glad that it's only a broken leg,” you say out loud, not talking to anyone. You bring his hand closer to you, kissing the back of it softly.

Chris’ upper body stirs, making your movements halt. You watch his eyes slowly flutter open, squinting at the bright lights. He releases a tired groan, tilting his head towards you.

“Y/N?” He calls out your name, making your heart flutter.

You scoot closer to the bed and squeeze his hand. “I'm here,” you whisper loud enough for him to hear.

He smiles at you while lacing your fingers together. “I'm so happy to see you,” Chris mutters, turning his head again before closing his eyes.

“I'm happy to see you too, baby. I'm glad you're okay,” you mention, standing up from your chair.

You keep your hands intertwined and bring your free hand to his forehead. You brush the hair out of his face, listening to him hum continuously.

“I don't know what happened,” he mentions, smiling at the touch of your fingers. “It all happened so fast.”

“It's okay. The only thing that matters is that you're alive,” you state before leaning down to kiss his forehead.

A knock on the door captures both of your attention. The nurse from before walks in with a sheet of paper. “This is everything he'll need to do during recovery and the appointments he'll have,” she says to you while handing you the paper.

You grab a hold of it, your thumb stroking the back of his hand as you read through it. “Okay, thank you,” you smile at her, setting the paper on the table beside you. “When is he being discharged?”

“He's all set now. There's a wheelchair and a pair of crutches right outside the door,” she informs you before leaving.

“Chris, baby,” you softly call out his name, watching him open his eyes again. “Do you want to stay at my place during recovery?”

He tilts his head towards you and shakes his head. “You live on the fourth floor,” he mumbles, causing you to chuckle. “I live on the first floor. You can stay at my place. I also have a spare bedroom you can use.”

You laugh some more, combing your fingers through his hair. “What? You don't want to sleep in the same bed as me?” You joke with him, helping him sit up.

“I do, I swear,” Chris groans, leaning into your body. “I didn't know if you wanted to.”

A hum leaves your lips. “Such a sweet man,” you sigh before pulling away slightly. You stroke his cheek, watching him blink. “Are you going to be okay? I gotta grab the wheelchair.”

He nods his head, pursing his lips. You know what he's asking for, and you smile at him before planting a kiss on his plump lips.

“I'll be quick,” you mumble against his lips, placing one more kiss on his forehead.

~

You slowly walk behind Chris, eyeing him as he crutches into the kitchen of his apartment. It's been a few days since he's been discharged from the hospital, and he seems to be taking it really well.

He slumps into the chair, releasing a hefty sigh. “This is exhausting,” Chris laughs, lifting his head to look at you.

“You're doing well, though,” you grin, tapping his chin.

“Thank you for staying with me,” he mentions, grabbing your hand. “I couldn't ask for a better partner.”

Your cheeks blush, and you shrug your shoulders. “Of course, baby. I… I love you,” you tell him for the first time.

It's been a couple of months since the two of you started dating. He's not like any other guy you've been with. He's such a sweetheart, and he treats you like an absolute queen. It didn't take long for you to figure out that you loved him.

Chris stares up at you, his lips parted at the sudden phrase. “You love me?” He whispers, squeezing your hand. You giggle, nodding your head in answer. “Even like this?”

“Chris, baby, yes,” you laugh.

“I love you. I love you so much,” he says while resting his head against your stomach.

You wrap your arms around him, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “Now, what do you want to eat?” You ask him, opening his fridge to take a look inside.

“You wanna just order something? I haven't had the chance to go shopping,” he mentions with a pout.

“Sure, baby. Maybe later I can quickly go get some groceries,” you mention, having him move into the living room.

Chris walks into the living room before lowering himself onto the couch. You grab the pillow beside him and tuck it under his leg, keeping it elevated.

“If you do, I'll give you my card,” he says as you sit down next to him.

He places his hand on your thigh, stroking the inside of it. “I can pay for it, it's okay,” you reassure him, linking your arm with his.

He groans, resting his head against the back of the couch. “Baby, it's my place. Let me pay for my groceries,” he whines.

“You can get them next time,” you wink at him, patting his good leg.

“Fine,” he reluctantly agrees, squeezing your thigh.

You cuddle into his side after grabbing the remote. He combs his fingers through your hair as you find a movie to watch.

Chris looks at his food delivery app, trying to decide what he wants for lunch. “Do you want to get a variety of things?” He asks you, showing you his phone screen.

You quickly glance at the screen and nod your head. “Yeah, that's fine. It is pretty late, and we haven't eaten anything yet,” you tell him, moving your gaze from his phone to his face.

He smiles at you fondly, moving some strands of hair out of your eyes. “Man, I really love you,” Chris sighs, shaking his head. You giggle at his reaction. “I know it's only been a couple of months, but after this is over… I wouldn't mind you staying here.”

Your heart skips a beat, sitting up slightly. “Are you saying you want me to live here?” You ask him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.

“I've enjoyed the past two days even though my leg hurts,” he chuckles.

We'll see when you're all better,” you giggle, patting his chest. “You might get sick of me.”

Chris scoffs and playfully rolls his eyes. He hooks a finger beneath your jaw, turning your head before kissing you. “I'll never get sick of you, baby,” he mumbles against your lips, planting soft pecks after.

You kiss him once more before grinning. “We'll see, lover boy.”

~

tagging: @strawboorybunny @reddesert-healourblues @spacegirlstuff @moon0fthenight @foxinnie8 @like-a-diamondinthesky @prettymiye0n @meloncremesoda