#i am so bad at checking docs

[icyfox17]

i love seeing how different people format their drafts/docs for their stories, it's so lovely seeing the personality on the page sobsobsosbos

people are so cool...

[leftoversludge]

the gradual descent from creating a story that was only supposed to be about maybe 5 chapters and becoming a full fleshed novel concept of about 20 chapters is not gradual at all and, in fact, i think i have whip lash now

[zevrans-archive]

.

[mythvoiced]

-. and some more about jiang cheng, he really just does... not win. like, i mean, sure it doesn't get worse i guess, because at the very least the story gets some kind of resolution, but the story is a resolution for wei wuxian, jiang cheng is and remains a secondary character.

he doesn't have villain to unmask and a mystery to solve and a love interest to finally get together with.

i'm not insinuating he needs any of those things, but he also doesn't really get a lot, unless my memory betrays me, other than being 'forced' to realize that his vengeance towards wei wuxian is misguided and misplaced - even though it's completely understandable that he'd feel this way towards him at all, considering, WELL, IYKYK.

he has a future to build, that is true, a nephew to perhaps raise a little gentler as the story goes on, but his prospects aren't as dreamy as, again, wei wuxian's. and maybe jiang cheng doesn't need all of that to be happy, or at least content, or start on a proper path of healing, but isn't it still relatively maddening for him that wei wuxian yet again seems to be simply... more deserving than he is?

sure, that'd be an odd thing to hold onto all the way from his teen years, especially considering what wei wuxian is put through, but things do stick with you, you know?

jiang cheng is by no means fragile, okay, but... he's a good man too, at the end of the day, at the bottom of his heart. doesn't he deserve a lil tenderness 🥺 a little winding down 🥺 a little no more having to fulfill expectations or live according to what is needed in an heir, in a brother, in a figure of authority 🥺

[the-voldsoy]

what

[cressidagrey]

A Pawfect Coincidence

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Margot Bonheur (Original Character)

Summary:

When Arthur Leclerc loses his brother’s emotionally codependent dachshund, he doesn’t just misplace a dog—he accidentally jumpstarts a full-blown Leclerc family crisis. Luckily, Leo is found by Margot Bonheur: local vet, egg chef extraordinaire, and the girl Charles Leclerc was once devastatingly in love with (and never quite got over).

Warnings and Notes: 

I am feeling so bad about bashing Charles in White Horse that I figured I needed a palate cleanser, so I pulled this out of the purgatory that are my Google Docs.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Arthur Leclerc was not in the habit of losing things.

Not his phone, not his keys, and definitely not his older brother’s ridiculously spoiled dachshund, who was currently - oh, merde—nowhere to be seen.

“Leo?” he called, spinning in a slow circle in the middle of the park, panic tightening his chest.

Ten seconds ago, everything had been fine. The sun was sinking, he’d taken a casual detour through Parc Princesse Antoinette, texting a friend back while Leo sniffed a patch of grass for the fifth time. Arthur had only looked away for a moment. A moment.

And now? No leash. No golden tail. No floppy ears. No dog.

Arthur cursed under his breath, scanning every path and hedge. He jogged toward the playground. Nothing. He doubled back to the fountain, heart rate climbing like he was doing qualifying laps in the rain. Still nothing.

“Leo!” he shouted again, louder this time, drawing a few curious glances from an elderly couple and a kid eating ice cream. “Leo, come on! This isn’t funny!”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Charles. Of course.

Charles: All good with Leo?

Arthur stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he shoved the phone back into his pocket, muttering, “I am never going to hear the end of this.”

Because he could already imagine it. Charles’ blank face when Arthur admitted he’d lost the dog. The slow, silent stare of older-sibling disappointment. The inevitable “I asked you for one thing.”

And worst of all—Leo. Leo, who adored Charles more than anyone else in the world, probably off charming some stranger into giving him treats or belly rubs while Arthur had a full-blown anxiety attack in the middle of a public park.

He jogged toward the exit, breath catching. “I swear to God, if I find you eating someone’s sandwich again—”

Nothing.

Just the rustle of leaves. The empty sidewalk. And the slowly dawning realization that Charles’ dog might actually be gone.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, frustration mixing with guilt in his chest.

He was so dead.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: I need you to swear on your life you won’t tell Charles.

Lorenzo: ...what did you do.

Arthur: Hypothetically If someone was walking Leo And he maybe slipped his harness And then vanished into thin air How bad would that be?

Lorenzo: Arthur. Where is Leo.

Arthur: THAT’S THE PROBLEM. I DON’T KNOW.

Lorenzo: You LOST Charles’ dog???

Arthur: No!!! I temporarily misplaced him. There’s a difference. (He’s very small and very fast and honestly too independent for his own good.)

Lorenzo: Do you want to die. Is that it. Is this a cry for help.

Arthur: Please. Help me. I can’t tell Charles. He trusted me. He said “don’t let him eat anything off the street.” He didn’t even think to say “don’t lose him” because he believed in me. And now Leo is GONE.

Lorenzo: Where are you?

Arthur: Parc Princesse Antoinette. I’ve done three laps. I checked the bushes. I even bribed a child with gelato to help me look.

Lorenzo: You bribed a child.

Arthur: WITH GELATO. I’M NOT A MONSTER.

Lorenzo: Okay. Breathe. Dogs like routine. Try retracing the walk. Call shelters. And vets. Someone might bring him in to check the chip.

Arthur: Do you think I should fake an injury so Charles pities me before I break the news?

Lorenzo: Try finding the dog first.

Arthur: Right. Right. Operation Find The Sausage is underway.

***

Arthur retraced his steps.

Twice.

He checked every corner of the park, the shaded paths, the trash bins—because Leo had zero shame when it came to half-eaten food. Nothing. No flash of caramel-colored fur, no jingling of a collar, no yappy bark announcing his tiny reign of chaos.

He even tried bribery. Again.

“Leo,” he called, crouching low with the last bite of a croissant he’d bought from the boulangerie around the corner. “If you come back now, I’ll give you the whole thing. No questions asked. No leash. No walk of shame.”

Silence. A pigeon stared at him, unimpressed.

Arthur groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “You’re not even my dog,” he muttered.

But that wasn’t true, not really. Leo wasn’t his dog, but Charles’ ridiculous little dachshund had somehow made himself part of the entire family. He’d wormed his way into Arthur’s life with stubby legs, sad eyes, and an inexplicable talent for finding the most expensive thing in the apartment to pee on.

Arthur pulled out his phone again, hovering over Charles’ name. His thumb wavered.

Don’t you dare tell him you lost Leo, his brain screamed. He’ll kill you. Or worse—he’ll never let you walk him again.

And he really liked walking Leo. The little guy made strangers smile. Old ladies waved. Children asked to pet him. Once, a girl gave Arthur her number entirely because Leo was wearing a raincoat.

Now he was just a guy pacing a park, sweating through his T-shirt, muttering to himself like he’d lost his mind. Which, fair. He kind of had.

He circled back to the park gate for the third time when a flash of hope struck—a woman with a small dog!—but it wasn’t Leo. Just a fluffy Pomeranian in a pink harness who barked at Arthur like he’d insulted her personally.

“Not helping,” he muttered, stepping aside.

Maybe someone had found Leo. Maybe he was already somewhere safe. Maybe—please, please, please—someone would scan his chip and call Charles.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: It’s getting dark. I’ve checked the entire park. Twice. Then the neighborhood. Then the park again. Still no Leo.

Lorenzo: You haven’t found him at all?

Arthur: Unless he’s developed the ability to turn invisible—NO. I even asked a guy walking a chihuahua if he’d seen a dachshund. He asked if I was okay. I said no.

Lorenzo: You need to call Charles.

Arthur: No. Absolutely not. I will fake my own death before I tell Charles I lost his dog.

Lorenzo: Arthur. It’s LEO. You lost the love of his life. You think this isn’t going to end up in a group chat?

Arthur: I CAN FIX THIS. I just need a little more time. And maybe a tranquillizer dart.

Lorenzo: For Leo??

Arthur: For me. So I can stop panicking for five seconds.

Lorenzo: Okay. Deep breath. Have you called every vet in a 2km radius?

Arthur: Yes. One of them asked if I was crying.

Lorenzo: You're two hours in, and it’s getting late. If someone found him, they’ve probably taken him somewhere. You need to start thinking damage control.

Arthur: You mean like… buy Charles a new dog?

Lorenzo: Arthur. I will block you.

Arthur: Okay okay okay. I’ll call more vets.

Lorenzo: Good. And maybe prepare a will, just in case.

Arthur: Tell Maman I loved her. Tell Charles it was Arthur Jr.’s fault. That’s what I would’ve named the new dog.

***

Margot didn’t notice him at first.

Her hands were full—reusable bags weighed down with vegetables, pasta, a bottle of wine, and the fancy sheep’s cheese she only bought when she was having a day. The sun had long since disappeared behind the hills, the sky settling into a navy velvet dusk as she trudged home through the winding streets above the port.

She was thinking about the silence of her apartment. The way her keys still felt unfamiliar in the lock. The way everything in her life was still slightly off, like a puzzle someone had forced together with the wrong pieces.

And then she heard it.

A tiny, pitiful sneeze.

Margot turned instinctively, eyes scanning the dim sidewalk—and there, right at the edge of a crumbling stone wall, sat a dachshund. Small. Muddied. Trembling slightly.

“Mon dieu,” she whispered, kneeling immediately and setting her bags down. “What are you doing here?”

The dog blinked at her with glossy brown eyes, ears drooping dramatically, like a tragic Victorian heroine.

“No collar,” she murmured, reaching slowly. “No leash. You’ve clearly been on an adventure.”

The dog didn’t flinch when she touched him. He wagged his tail once. Then sneezed again.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s get you inside.”

She looked around—quiet street, no one calling out a name, no footsteps approaching. Whoever he belonged to, they weren’t nearby.

So Margot scooped him up, balancing him against her chest with one arm while gathering her groceries with the other, and started the climb to her apartment.

Her building wasn’t far. Second floor, no elevator, uneven tile floors that made the dachshund snort when she carried him inside. He shook himself out as soon as she set him down, spraying mud across her hallway rug like he was blessing the space.

“Charming,” she muttered, flicking on the bathroom light. “Alright, monsieur, bath time.”

He did not resist. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the warm water, letting her rinse the grime from his fur, soap away the stickiness from his paws. Margot caught herself smiling as she towel-dried him, wrapping him up like a burrito and murmuring nonsense in a voice she hadn’t used in… well, a long time.

It had been almost three months since she’d moved back to Monaco.

Not a dramatic return—no big announcement, no confetti, just a one-way train ticket from Toulouse and a job offer she hadn’t expected to say yes to.

She hadn’t planned on leaving. She loved Toulouse. The city had been hers in a way Monaco never had—full of light and bustle and purpose. She’d built something there. Friends. A job. A future.

A fiancé.

Her smile faded slightly as she rubbed the dog dry.

It still stung, the way it had ended. The too-calm conversation. The finality of the phrase “I think we want different things.” The way he’d packed up and moved out like they’d been roommates all along, not five years of love and shared groceries and weekend hikes.

Margot hadn’t told anyone the full story—not even her mother. Just said she needed a change. A new pace. A return to familiar streets, even if they no longer felt like home.

The dachshund gave a content sigh, now wrapped in a fresh towel, head resting on her thigh like he’d always belonged there.

Margot looked down at him and exhaled.

“Well,” she murmured. “You’re a good distraction.”

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: He’s still not back. It’s been hours. HOURS. What if someone took him? What if he joined a biker gang?

Lorenzo: Arthur. It’s past midnight.

Arthur: YES I KNOW. THE CLOCK IS MOCKING ME. Do you think I could set up one of those “MISSING DOG” posters?? Like old-school. With tabs and everything. “Answers to: Leo. Probably judging you.”

Lorenzo: I’m going to bed. Unless you are calling emergency services, do not text me again.

Arthur: What if he never comes back. What if I have to look Charles in the eye and say, “Sorry, your dog is now one with the Monaco shadows.”

Lorenzo: Did you eat dinner?

Arthur: I shared half a croissant with a pigeon earlier, does that count?

Lorenzo: No. You’re spiraling.

Arthur: I’m spiraling because Charles is going to MURDER me and use my body as a cautionary tale for Pierre or something.

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: WHAT IF HE THINKS I DID IT ON PURPOSE. What if he thinks I took Leo to emotionally sabotage him before a race weekend???

Lorenzo: What race weekend?

Arthur: I DON’T KNOW I PANICKED

Lorenzo: Eat something. Drink water. And stop pacing the same square kilometer like a cartoon.

Arthur: ...how did you know I was pacing?

Lorenzo: Because I know you. And because the last time you panicked this hard was when you lost your passport and it was in your pocket.

Arthur: Okay, that was ONE TIME and the pocket was weirdly deep.

Lorenzo: Look. If someone found him, they probably took him home. It’s late. Vets are closed. You’ll get a call in the morning.

Arthur: What if they don’t call? What if Leo decides he likes his new life better? What if he finds someone who gives him bacon without rules?

Lorenzo: Then you’ll be replaced. Which is fair.

Arthur: ...harsh. But valid.

Lorenzo: Go home, Arthur. Sleep. Or at least lie down and stare into the abyss like the rest of us.

Arthur: Fine. But if I die of guilt in the night, tell Charles I tried my best.

Lorenzo: I’ll tell him you wept nobly into a pile of posters with your own phone number misspelled.

Arthur: Okay that’s accurate.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Joris: Morning. Charles just asked me if you still have Leo. Can I tell him yes and get back to my already overbooked morning?

Arthur: So… funny story.

Joris: No. Absolutely not. I do not have time for a funny story. You either have the dog or you don’t.

Arthur: I don’t. I lost Leo.

Joris: WHAT. You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking. Tell me this is a Leclerc brother prank. I knew I should’ve never let you all have a group chat.

Arthur: I’m not joking. He slipped out of his harness yesterday afternoon in the park. I’ve been searching all night. I didn’t even go home. I’ve walked more than I did during preseason training.

Joris: ARTHUR.

Arthur: I KNOW.

Joris: DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU’VE DONE??? You lost Leo. LEO.

Arthur: I am aware!!!

Joris: Leo is not just a dog. Leo is Charles’ everything right now. You lost the one source of unconditional love he has left since the breakup. The love of his life. The only thing he’s cared about since the breakup. THE DOG WHO HAS HIS OWN MONOGRAMMED TOWEL.

Arthur: Okay in my defense that towel thing is not normal.

Joris: YOU DON’T GET TO JUDGE THE TOWEL WHEN YOU LOST THE DOG.

Joris: He cried watching a dog food commercial three weeks ago. THREE. Leo is the only thing he trusts. Leo is the only one he lets spoon him when he's sad. You lost the love of his life.

Arthur: I didn’t mean to!! I was texting back and he—he just disappeared. It’s like he melted into the pavement!

Joris: Oh my god. Oh my god.

He trusted you.

He handed over his entire emotional support system and said, “don’t let him eat anything off the street.”

And you said, “Great, I’ll just lose him completely.”

Arthur:

I bribed a child with gelato to help search. I tried. Can we not tell him yet? Maybe someone scanned the chip. Maybe he’s safe somewhere!

Joris: I swear, if we find out someone found him and called the chip number and you just didn’t answer, I am personally putting your name on a “Do Not Trust with Pets” list.

Arthur: That’s fair.

Joris: And if someone does call and Leo is fine, I’m still going to be angry. Just less angry.

Arthur: Okay. Please tell me if he’s okay. And, like. Tell Charles gently?

Joris: Gently?? GENTLY??

Arthur: He likes you.

Joris: So did Leo. AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM.

***

Joris had delivered a lot of difficult news in his tenure as Charles Leclerc’s personal assistant.

Travel mishaps. Press obligations. The time a well-meaning sponsor wanted him to pose with a falcon for reasons no one could adequately explain.

But this?

This was worse.

He found Charles outside the simulator room, still in his race suit from that morning’s promo shoot, looking relaxed in that suspiciously unbothered way that only made Joris more tense.

“Hey,” Charles said, wiping sweat from his brow. “Everything okay?”

Joris took a breath. Then another. He held up a hand before Charles could get a word in.

“I need you to remember that you love your brother.”

Charles froze. “What?”

“Just—just hold that thought in your heart for a second,” Joris continued, voice strained, hands gesturing like he was conducting a symphony of impending doom. “Because the thing is, Arthur was walking Leo. And then… he wasn’t.”

Charles blinked. “What do you mean, wasn’t?”

“Leo ran off,” Joris said, with the grave tone of someone delivering a eulogy. “Arthur looked away for maybe thirty seconds. Boom. Gone. No leash. No collar. Just vibes.”

Charles straightened. “You’re telling me Arthur lost my dog?”

Joris winced. “Arthur was walking him yesterday. In the park. And, uh… Leo slipped his harness.”

Silence.

“He what,” Charles said, very quietly.

“He… bolted. Arthur says it happened fast. He’s been searching all night, didn’t even go home. He’s calling shelters and—”

Charles dropped the knife. “He lost my dog?”

Joris took a careful step back. “Temporarily misplaced.”

“Joris.”

“He ran off yesterday evening,” Joris said, hands up in surrender. “Slipped his harness while Arthur was texting in the park. He’s been searching all night. I got the full unhinged confession this morning.”

Charles looked like someone had just unplugged him. All the light behind his eyes dimmed. “Leo has been gone since yesterday?”

“I didn’t know either,” Joris rushed to say. “Arthur didn’t tell me until an hour ago because he was apparently too busy bribing children and interrogating chihuahuas—don’t ask.”

“He lost Leo,” Charles repeated, voice rising. “He lost the only thing in my life that hasn’t let me down in the last six months.”

And there it was.

Joris had been waiting for the breakup to surface again, quietly lurking under every tired sigh, every too-long pause in conversation. Charles hadn’t spoken about her in weeks, but he also hadn’t not spoken about her. He’d just… poured all of it into Leo. Every bit of softness, every ounce of trust.

And now Leo was gone.

“He’s okay,” Joris said quickly. “Probably. He has a chip. He’s smart. And Arthur’s already filed a report and left his number everywhere.”

Charles sat down heavily on the kitchen stool, one hand running over his face.

“I knew it,” he said hoarsely. “I knew Arthur wasn’t ready. He doesn’t even like mornings. Leo’s entire personality is built around 6:45 a.m.”

“I think he genuinely thought he was doing a good job,” Joris offered. “Like… mostly.”

Charles didn’t respond. Just stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.

“He has a monogrammed towel,” he said suddenly, like remembering a lost heirloom. “He sleeps in my bed. He knows how to open the fridge.”

Joris nodded solemnly. “I know. You trained him well.”

“And now he’s alone somewhere. Scared. Probably judging someone else’s cooking.”

There was a long beat. Then Charles’s voice cracked—just a little, just enough.

“I can’t lose him too.”

Joris’s heart ached. He stepped forward, softer this time.

“We’re going to find him. I promise.”

Charles gave a slow nod, silent. His eyes were glassy, and he looked young—too young for the heartbreak in his voice.

***

Group Chat: Leclerc Brothers

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Charles: So. I just spoke to Joris.

Arthur: 🥲

Charles: Tell me that this is some elaborate, deeply stupid prank and Leo is curled up in your apartment right now, wearing his stupid hoodie and judging your coffee table choices.

Arthur: I wish it was. I really, really do. Charles I swear, it happened so fast. I looked away for one second and he was gone. I’ve been searching all night. I didn’t sleep. I filed reports. I called every vet and shelter.

Charles: You lost him yesterday. And didn’t say anything until this morning.

Arthur: I panicked. I thought I could find him before you noticed. Lorenzo told me not to fake a leg injury to get your sympathy, if that helps?

Lorenzo: To be clear, I said that was a bad idea.

Charles: Leo is not just a dog. He’s not a weekend errand or a plant you forget to water. He’s mine. He’s family. He’s the only thing I’ve had that didn’t leave when things got hard.

Arthur: I know. And I’m sorry. Really, truly sorry.

Charles: I trusted you.

Arthur: I didn’t mean to break that. Please believe me.

Lorenzo: He does. He’s just scared right now. We all are.

Charles: If anything happens to him— I don’t know what I’ll do. He’s been the only thing keeping me grounded since everything fell apart.

Arthur: We’re going to find him. I swear it. Even if I have to knock on every door in Monaco and personally interview every dog.

Charles: He knows how to open the fridge, Arthur. You lost a genius.

Lorenzo: Let’s focus. No blame right now. Only action.

Charles: Joris is handling it. Of course. Because Joris always handles what we break.

Arthur: …do I send him flowers?

Charles: Send him a new spine. He probably needs one after carrying our chaos for five years.

Lorenzo: Okay, but seriously—Charles. We will get him back. And when we do, I’m buying that dog a GPS tracker, a backup GPS tracker, and probably a bodyguard.

Arthur: I already picked out a name. Sir Barkalot.

Charles: If I wasn't so emotionally ruined I’d block you.

Arthur: Fair.

Charles: I just want him home.

***

Sunlight streamed through the gauzy curtains, catching on the dust motes in the air and casting soft gold across the hardwood floor. Somewhere outside, a gull screamed at an unreasonable hour, and a scooter rattled down the street, but Margot barely stirred.

She rolled over, blinking sleep from her eyes, the quiet weight of morning settling gently over her shoulders. For a moment, she forgot about everything—about Monaco, about the clinic, about the fact that her life had recently undergone a full-scale emotional implosion.

And then she registered the sound. Not her alarm. Not traffic.

Snuffling.

She squinted down toward the end of the bed.

There, curled up like a smug croissant in the exact center of her duvet, was a caramel coloured dachshund.

Sprawled out on his back, paws in the air, snoring softly, utterly shameless.

Margot groaned, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “You did not start the night there.”

The dog gave a lazy tail thump in response but made no move to vacate the space.

“Oh, I see. You’ve claimed the bed. This is your apartment now,” she muttered, sitting up and stretching.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen,and flicked the switch on the coffee machine. As the familiar hum filled the space, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

The dog trotted in a moment later, completely at ease, and went straight to the spot in front of the window where the morning sun hit just right. He flopped down with a grunt of satisfaction.

Margot stared at him.

“You’ve been here eight hours,” she said. “Eight. You’ve already decided on a sunbathing spot?”

He blinked at her. Yawned. Rolled onto his side and looked deeply unconcerned about the fact that he’d technically been lost less than a day ago.

She crouched beside him. “You know, if you were a person, this would be deeply invasive. Just showing up in someone’s life, taking a bath, stealing the blanket, and claiming the best corner of the apartment.”

The dog offered her a single, slow blink. Margot sighed.

“…but you’re not a person,” she added, rubbing behind his ears. “You’re a spoiled little drama queen with big eyes and too much charm. No wonder someone’s probably out there crying over you.”

Margot watched him for a moment, her heart doing that soft little squeeze it hadn’t done in a while.

He didn’t seem stressed. Or scared. He wasn’t pacing or barking or trying to claw at the door. He was just… here. Cozy. Safe. Like this was temporary housing on his luxury tour of Monaco.

“Okay,” she murmured, “Let’s see if I have anything fit for a prince.”

She dug through the fridge—cheese, eggs, leftover roast chicken—and eventually settled on plain scrambled eggs. Just a little. No salt. Vet-approved. She plated them onto a saucer.

The dachshund sniffed the offering when she set it down on the kitchen floor, tilted his head like he was evaluating her taste level, then devoured it.

“Right,” Margot said. “A culinary success.”

He licked the plate clean and then followed her back into the living room, where he jumped up onto the couch like he paid rent. He curled into the throw blanket she’d left bunched in the corner, eyes half-lidded, already preparing for nap number three.

Margot leaned against the kitchen counter and watched him with a strange tightness in her chest.

He looked like he belonged there. Too easily. Too naturally. Like he’d decided she passed whatever secret dachshund test he’d run last night and now this was his summer home.

And Margot—who hadn’t expected to feel anything but detached competence and maybe a vague professional curiosity—felt something else entirely.

She felt… lighter.

Not fixed. Not whole. But not quite as adrift.

“I can’t keep you,” she said quietly, to no one and only him. “You definitely have someone. And they’re probably losing their mind.”

The dog, naturally, said nothing.

He simply sighed and closed his eyes, like he had all the time in the world.

Margot stared at him for a long moment.

She hesitated. Then added, “But if not… you can stay a little longer.”

***

The clinic smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant, the way it always did first thing in the morning—clean, calm, full of potential chaos that hadn’t yet arrived.

Margot pushed through the door with a reusable tote slung over one shoulder, and the dachshund’s head poking around like that was a completely normal mode of transportation for him. 

“Uh-oh,” Céline called from reception, raising an eyebrow as she spotted them. “You’ve brought in backup.”

“Temporary guest,” Margot said, lifting her hand in greeting. “Found him last night. No collar. Took him home so he wouldn’t end up in traffic or under a Vespa.”

“He’s adorable,” Céline said, already standing up to lean over the counter. “What breed is he? Besides ‘absolute heartthrob.’”

“Dachshund,” Margot replied dryly. “Clearly spoiled. Possibly royalty.”

“I mean, look at him,” Céline whispered as Margot lifted the dog onto the floor. He strutted across the waiting room and flopped into a sunbeam like he was taking a press photo.

Within ten minutes, he’d made the rounds of the break room, had a staff member attempt to make him a tiny paper crown from post-it notes, and somehow convinced the vet tech intern to feed him a single piece of chicken from her sandwich.

Margot watched it all happen with an expression of pure disbelief. “He’s been here twenty minutes.”

“He’s got it,” one of the techs whispered. “Like… star power.”

“I think he winked at me,” another muttered.

Margot rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She finally herded the dachshund into an exam room, gently lifting him onto the table. “Okay, rockstar. Let’s figure out who you are.”

He wagged his tail, smug as ever.

She grabbed the scanner from the wall, swept it slowly over his neck, and waited for the beep.

Beep.

“Good boy,” she said absently, turning to the screen.

The name appeared.

She froze.

LEO — Owner: Charles Leclerc. Contact: +33 —

Margot’s breath caught.

Her fingers hovered above the screen.

No.

No. There was no way.

She read it again.

Charles Leclerc.

She stared at the name, the familiar rhythm of it.

The Charles Leclerc.

As in, Formula One driver. Ferrari. International star.

Of course this was his dog.

Of course this smug, emotionally manipulative, blanket-stealing loaf belonged to him.

To Charles.

As in, the boy she’d kissed under the bleachers behind the tennis courts when she was sixteen. The boy who’d held her hand at the Monaco Grand Prix and whispered that one day, he’d be the one on the podium. The boy she’d cried over for at least three months after they broke up because “life was getting too busy.”

The boy who—apparently—now owned a dachshund named Leo.

“Oh,” she said faintly.

Leo looked up at her and thumped his tail, as if he knew.

Of course he knew.

Because the universe had a twisted sense of humor.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

***

The phone rang just as Joris was mid-scroll through yet another email chain titled “RE: RE: RE: URGENT: Helmet Sponsor Placement Issue.”

He didn’t recognize the number. Monaco area code. That wasn’t unusual—his number was attached to everything from Leo’s microchip registry to Charles’ old tennis club membership.

Still, he hesitated. Then answered, already bracing himself for some kind of insurance call or dog-related ransom demand.

“Bonjour, Joris Trouche speaking.”

There was a pause.

Then: “Hi, um—Joris? It’s Margot. Margot Bonheur.”

Joris blinked.

Margot Bonheur?

He sat up straighter, every neuron in his brain suddenly pinging like a crash at turn one.

“Wait. Margot Margot?”

She gave a slightly breathless laugh. “I… think so? We went to lycée together.”

“Oh my god,” Joris said, stunned. 

There was a short pause. Then a soft voice, low and slightly tentative: “You don’t happen to be missing a dachshund named Leo, do you?”

Joris sat up straight. “You found Leo?”

“Uh, yes. Last night. He sort of… found me, really. He was wandering near Rue Bel Respiro, no collar. I took him home for the night.”

Joris covered the phone’s mouthpiece and mouthed holy shit to the empty office. Then he cleared his throat. “Is he okay?”

“Perfectly fine. He had a bath, has been sleeping, eating scrambled eggs, sunbathing, and judging me silently ever since he woke up.”

Joris huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s him.”

There was a beat of quiet on the line. The kind of silence that stretched just long enough to mean something.

Then Margot said softly, “He’s yours, then?”

Joris’s mouth twitched. “No. He’s Charles’.”

Another pause.

“Ah,” she said. Barely a whisper. “Of course he is.”

Joris leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking toward the ceiling like he might spot the ghost of Monaco high school past hovering above him.

Charles and Margot.

God. He hadn’t thought about that in years. The school hallway hand-holding. The shy smiles.

Margot Bonheur. Margot with the laugh that made Charles forget how to speak in full sentences. Margot who wore oversized cardigans, tied her hair with ribbons, and absolutely ruined Charles for other teenage girls.

Sixteen-year-old Charles, gangly and earnest and completely gone for a girl with curly hair and a laugh that cracked through his walls like sunlight.

Sixteen-year-old Charles, biking all the way across town with a melted chocolate bar in July because he’d heard Margot had a bad day.

Charles, heart-eyed and hopeless, telling Joris at least three times a week, “I think she’s the one, you know?”

And then the silence. The breakup.

Racing had come calling, and Charles—still a boy, really—had chosen speed over stability, pressure over presence. Not because he didn’t love her. Because he did, too much, and thought she deserved better than goodbyes over phone calls and promises he couldn’t keep.

It was the only time Joris had seen Charles cry in a hotel hallway. No cameras. Just him and a cracked iPhone screen with her name still at the top of his pinned messages.

And now?

Now she’d found his dog.

In Monaco.

At a time when Charles was still nursing emotional wounds, pretending he wasn’t sad, and sleeping curled around that ridiculous dachshund like Leo was a weighted blanket for his soul.

Joris stared at the desk.

The universe didn’t send you things like this for no reason.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “He’ll be relieved. He’s been—look, let’s just say the household emotional stability has been tied directly to that dog’s continued existence.”

Margot made a small sound, part sympathetic and part amused. “I figured. He looked very loved.”

“He is. But also? High maintenance. Like his owner.”

Another pause. He could practically hear her raised eyebrow through the line.

“I’ll text you the address,” she said eventually, voice quieter. “I’ll be at the clinic most of the day. You or Charles can come by whenever.”

“Thank you, really,” Joris said. “This means a lot.”

When the call ended, Joris didn’t move for a moment.

Then he stood, walked to Charles’ door, and knocked.

This was going to be interesting.

And if—if—it led to something more?

Well.

He wouldn’t meddle.

Not directly.

But he also wasn’t above “accidentally” scheduling Charles to pick up Leo himself.

***

Charles was halfway through pacing the length of his hotel room for the fourth time when the knock came.

He turned sharply, the pent-up worry already pushing at his chest like pressure before a storm.

“Oui?”

Joris opened the door, face unreadable. “Good news,” he said.

Charles blinked. “You found him?”

“We didn’t,” Joris said. “But someone did.”

The world tilted slightly. His breath caught. “Wait—he’s okay?”

“He’s more than okay,” Joris said. “He was found last night. Someone took him in. He’s safe, healthy, probably being pampered as we speak.”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, barely processing the words. His knees actually went a little weak, and he leaned against the doorframe. “You’re sure?”

Joris nodded. “I spoke to the person directly. They found him near Rue Bel Respiro. No injuries. Fed him scrambled eggs.”

Charles let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “He loves scrambled eggs.”

“I know,” Joris said, softer now. “He’s okay. You can breathe again.”

Charles pressed his hand to his chest like he needed to check that his heart was still there. “I thought—I thought maybe he got out of the city. Or worse. I didn’t know what to do, Joris.”

He nodded, too many thoughts tumbling around in his head. Leo. Safe. Leo, who he’d been picturing lying under a car or lost in some alley. Leo, who had become more than just a dog—his anchor, his post-breakup coping mechanism, the one living being who never asked for anything but a lap and a few treats.

His eyes stung. He scrubbed a hand over them.

“I know,” Joris repeated. “It’s handled. You can pick him up when we’re back in Monaco this evening.”

Charles closed his eyes for a second, letting it sink in. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “He’s really okay?”

“Completely,” Joris confirmed. “He’s just waiting for you.”

Charles looked away, blinking hard. “I thought—I kept thinking about the road. Or if someone tried to take him. Or if he was scared and cold—”

“He wasn’t,” Joris said gently. “Apparently, he made himself at home. Shocker.”

Charles let out a weak laugh, finally sitting down. “God. I feel like an idiot. I should have never let Arthur take him out.”

“No argument there,” Joris muttered.

A pause.

Then Joris added, voice casual: “Oh, and maybe don’t wear that hoodie when you go to pick him up.”

Charles frowned. “Why?”

Joris sipped his espresso. “Just a feeling.”

***

Group Chat: Disaster Mitigation Team

 Members: Joris, Lorenzo, Arthur

Joris: Update: Leo is SAFE. Found last night. Someone took him home, gave him a bath, scrambled eggs, and emotionally supported him through what I assume was a dramatic 12 hours. He’s completely fine. A little smug, but fine.

Arthur: OH THANK GOD. I’m not going to be disowned??? I can come out of hiding???

Lorenzo: Where was he?

Joris: Wandering near Rue Bel Respiro. A vet found him. Took him home for the night.

Lorenzo: This is the best news I’ve heard all week. Tell me who found him so I can send them a fruit basket and/or a handwritten apology.

Joris: …you’re going to want to sit down for this.

Arthur: Bro if you say it was someone from Ferrari PR I will actually combust

Joris: It was Margot.

Arthur: ...

Lorenzo: ...

Arthur: As in Margot Bonheur??

Joris: That would be the one.

Lorenzo: As in “Charles’ teenage girlfriend” Margot?

Arthur: As in “the only girl Charles ever wrote poetry for and then immediately denied it” Margot??

Joris: Yes. THAT Margot.

Arthur: NO WAY. Margot who used to make Charles forget how to speak?? Margot who literally ended all his teen crushes after 2012??

Lorenzo: Margot who knew how to shut him up with one look? That Margot?

Arthur: This is cinematic.

Lorenzo: This is fate.

Joris: I’m not saying I’m thinking about matchmaking but …I’m thinking about matchmaking.

Arthur: YES. FINALLY. She was the best of all of them. And she liked us. Remember when she brought cookies to family lunch and Maman asked if we could keep her?

Joris: The very same. Vet now. Back in Monaco. And apparently, Leo has chosen her as his new emotional support human.

Arthur: She was always my favorite. Honestly, best of all his exes. No contest. 10/10. Would support a redemption arc.

Lorenzo: Same.

Joris: I’m not saying I’m plotting anything. But I may have strategically left out her name when I told him he could pick Leo up tonight. Just… letting fate cook a little.

Arthur: Oh my GOD you’re playing the long game. I’m so proud.

Lorenzo: We support this. You have our blessing. 

Arthur: If they get back together, I’m taking credit. Even though I lost Leo in the first place. Especially because of that.

Joris: Focus, gentlemen. Tonight, Charles picks up Leo. From Margot. Let’s just see what happens.

Lorenzo: You want us on standby?

Joris: No interference. No chaos. Let them talk. Let the dog do his work.

 We may be watching the start of something ridiculous.

Arthur: Or something really, really good.

***

The clinic looked ordinary from the outside—white stone, blue shutters, a potted plant wilting just slightly in the sun. The kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice unless you had a limping retriever or a cat with dietary issues.

Charles had passed it before. Years ago. He hadn’t remembered until he stood outside the door, hand hovering over the handle, heart thudding with the kind of nervous energy he usually reserved for a final lap in the wet.

He wasn’t sure why he felt so anxious. Leo was safe. That’s what mattered.

And yet—he couldn’t shake it.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen Leo in two days. Maybe it was because this whole week had felt like a slow unraveling. Maybe it was because he’d been forced to confront the terrifying truth that he’d built his emotional stability on a dachshund with judgmental eyebrows.

He pushed open the door.

The bell above chimed.

Inside, it smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender. Soft music played overhead. The waiting room was empty, save for a sleepy golden retriever stretched out across the floor tiles and an older man flipping through a dog breed calendar like it contained state secrets.

He wasn’t sure why he was nervous.

It was a veterinary clinic, not a press conference. He wasn’t here to face a grid of rivals or answer uncomfortable questions about tyre strategy or heartbreak.

He was just here for Leo.

That should’ve been it.

But his palms were sweating, and there was something tight in his chest he hadn’t been able to shake since the moment Joris said, “She found him last night.”

She.

He hadn’t asked questions. He’d been too focused on the relief of knowing Leo was safe. Alive. Fed. Unbothered.

But now?

Now, something about the quiet warmth of the waiting room made his heart stutter.

“Bonjour,” a receptionist called from behind the desk. “Can I help you?”

Charles pulled off his sunglasses. “I’m here for Leo. Someone brought him in this morning?”

“Oh! Yes, he’s in the back. Quite the charmer you have there, Mr. Leclerc. Margo found him yesterday. He’s still with Dr. Bonheur. She said to send you through.”

Dr. Bonheur.

Charles blinked.

The name hit like a gear shift slamming into place.

No.

He didn’t move right away—just stood there, rooted to the tile floor, as if his body hadn’t caught up with the memory. The receptionist gestured politely to the hallway, but her voice felt distant, muffled.

Margot Bonheur.

The girl who used to tuck daisy stems behind her ears. The girl who gave him her library card because he kept forgetting his. The girl he’d tried so hard not to look up after the breakup, because he knew he wouldn’t like the feeling if he saw her happy without him.

The girl he hadn’t seen in years.

And she’d found Leo?

Of course she had.

Of course it was her.

Because fate didn’t tap you on the shoulder. It threw your dog into the arms of your teenage heartbreak and waited to see what you’d do next.

Charles swallowed hard and walked toward the back hallway, feet moving before his brain could catch up.

The door to the exam room was ajar.

He pushed it open gently.

And there she was.

Margot stood with her back to him, crouched beside a small exam table where Leo sat like an unbothered loaf. She was tying a bandana around his neck—a soft green one that made him look outrageously smug. The same springy curls. The same soft concentration in her movements. She hadn’t changed.

And then she turned.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, the world tilted.

Margot blinked. “Oh.”

Charles opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave a slow, cautious smile. “Hi, Charles.”

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

Memories rushed in uninvited—bike rides and beach afternoons, shared earphones on the school bus, her handwriting on the corner of his notes. And that goodbye. That stupid, quiet, I don’t want to make you choose kind of goodbye.

Charles couldn’t speak.

He was sixteen again, sunburned and awkward and head over heels. He was seventeen and heartbroken. He was eighteen and too busy pretending he didn’t still think about her. And now he was… what, exactly?

Margot didn’t look away.

She stood, slow and steady, wiping her hands on the hem of her white coat, as if grounding herself in the motion. She looked older, yes—but not in a bad way. She looked like someone who’d lived through things and come out steadier for it.

Leo gave a grunt, apparently offended by being forgotten in the middle of his reunion fanfare, and thumped his tail once against the exam table.

That was what broke the silence.

Charles finally let out a shaky laugh, stepping fully into the room. “He looks like he owns the place.”

Margot smiled softly, folding her arms. “He acted like it. Claimed my couch, my blanket, and the best sunspot in the apartment before I’d even finished putting my groceries away.”

“I believe it,” Charles said, crouching beside Leo. The moment he touched the dachshund’s fur, something in him cracked wide open. “I thought I lost him. I thought—”

“I know,” Margot said gently. “I figured someone would be looking. He’s… unforgettable.”

Charles let his hand rest on Leo’s back. “He’s been everything. These last few months… it’s been hard.”

She didn’t press. She never had.

“I’m glad he found you,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to hers. “I mean—really. Thank you.”

Margot looked at him for a long, quiet beat. “I wasn’t expecting you to walk through that door.”

“Me neither.” He stood slowly. “When Joris said someone found him… I didn’t ask who. I should’ve.”

“Would you have come if you had?” she asked, not accusing, just curious.

Charles met her gaze. “Yeah. I would’ve.”

Her lips curved, a little surprised. A little knowing.

There was a silence, comfortable and awkward all at once. The kind of silence that could only exist between two people who used to know each other completely and now didn’t know how to begin again.

“I heard you were back,” he said eventually. “From my mum, I think. Or someone in town.”

Margot nodded. “Three months ago. I’m working here full time.”

“That’s… that’s good.” Charles shifted his weight. “Toulouse wasn’t forever?”

“No,” she said, quiet. “It was good. Until it wasn’t.”

He understood that far too well.

“Well,” she said, patting Leo’s head, “your prince is in one piece. Clean, fed, slightly spoiled.”

“Always has been.” Charles hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out Leo’s leash. “Can I… take him?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “Though he might pout for a while. I think he liked my eggs.”

Charles bent down, clipping the leash onto Leo’s harness as the dachshund made a snuffling noise of vague disapproval. “I can’t believe you cooked for him.”

“I was trying to win him over,” Margot said. “Turns out he’s an easy bribe.”

Charles glanced up, and for the first time, he smiled. Not the tired, strained smile he’d been wearing lately—but something warmer. Real.

“Can I walk you out?” he asked. “Just… for old time’s sake?”

Margot paused.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

***

Outside, the sunlight hit the street in soft amber as they stepped out together, Leo strutting ahead of them like a celebrity returning from a five-star vacation.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, their footsteps slow and in sync.

“You look well,” she said finally.

“You too,” he answered, and meant it.

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “For back then. For how I ended things.”

Margot looked over, surprised. “That was a long time ago.”

“Still,” he said. “I never said it. And I should have.”

She looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then: “Thank you.”

They reached the corner. Leo stopped, sniffed a bush like it owed him money, and flopped down dramatically on the warm pavement.

Margot laughed. “You may need to carry him. He’s decided he’s done.”

Charles crouched again, scooping Leo up effortlessly. “You really took care of him.”

“I was glad to,” she said.

Their eyes met again.

“Margot,” he said, quietly. “Would you—maybe sometime—want to catch up properly?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like dinner?”

“Or coffee,” he said quickly. “Or a walk. Or, I don’t know. Something.”

She tilted her head, considering him. “Are you asking for you, or for Leo?”

Charles gave a sheepish smile. “Both.”

Margot bit back a grin. “Then maybe.”

Charles smiled back, a little stunned. A little hopeful.

And Leo—smug, full, and freshly bathed—closed his eyes in Charles’ arms, perfectly content.

***

Group Chat: Leclercs & Logistics

 Members: Lorenzo, Arthur, Joris, Charles

Arthur:DID YOU GET HIM???? IS HE OKAY?? IS HE MAD AT ME??

Lorenzo: Photos. Now. I need visual confirmation of the sausage prince’s wellbeing.

Joris: Are you still breathing or do we need to send a second emotional support animal to your location?

Charles: Yes, Leo is back. No, I didn’t cry. Yes, I nearly did.

Arthur: Tell him I love him. Also tell him I’m sorry and that I accept any form of punishment he deems fit.

Lorenzo: Start with a restraining order and work from there.

Joris: And how was Margot?

Charles:Yeah—about that. You could’ve warned me, Joris.

Joris: Warned you about what?

Charles: THAT MARGOT FOUND LEO. You let me walk in there unprepared, like it was any other Tuesday! I could’ve had a heart attack! Or worse—said something weird!

Joris: I believe I said, “someone found him.” That is technically true. I just didn’t say who the someone was.

Charles: YOU LEFT OUT CRUCIAL INFORMATION Like the fact that my teenage heartbreak was about to hand me back my dog.

Arthur: Did a breeze catch in her hair at just the right moment? Was Leo smug about it??

Charles: Yes to both. He refused to leave until she said goodbye. And she tied a stupid little green bandana around his neck that somehow makes him look even more entitled. It was… weird. Familiar. Like nothing changed, but everything had.

Lorenzo: So basically: cinematic.

Joris: So… how did it feel seeing her again?

Charles: Like getting the wind knocked out of me and then immediately wrapped in a warm blanket. She was Margot. Still Margot.

Arthur: CHARLES. ARE YOU IN LOVE AGAIN??

Charles: I never really stopped.

Lorenzo: Oh.

Arthur: OH.

Arthur:Did you ask her out?!?!

Joris:Are we preparing for a slow-burn second-chance narrative?!

Charles: I asked if she wanted to catch up sometime. She said maybe.

Arthur: A MAYBE IS A YES IN DENIAL

Lorenzo: A maybe is the foundation of hope. I approve.

Joris: I’m scheduling you both for a casual Leo-themed coffee run in two days. Nothing obvious. We’re letting the tension simmer.

Arthur: You’re terrifying.

Joris: I’m efficient.

Charles: You’re all insane.

Lorenzo: And yet here you are. Smiling at your phone like a lovesick teenager again.

Joris: We’re not rushing this. No chaos. We give them space. Let Leo work his magic.

Arthur: Can I at least put together a playlist??

Charles: You’re all insane.

Joris: Yes. And we love you. Now take that dog home, feed him something outrageously expensive, and start planning your next casual run-in with Monaco’s most emotionally significant veterinarian.

Lorenzo: I’m so proud. 🥹

Arthur: Tell Leo he’s getting a new raincoat. Embroidered. “Wingman of the Year.”

Charles: He deserves it.

***

Margot had no idea why she was nervous.

It was just coffee.

With her ex-boyfriend.

Her first boyfriend. The one who used to blush when their hands brushed and left flowers in her locker with absolutely illegible notes. The one who broke her heart the way only someone young and kind and convinced he was doing the right thing could

 And now… he was sitting at a tiny café table across from her, stirring sugar into his cappuccino like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like it hadn’t been years.

Like he hadn’t shown up at the clinic two days ago looking like he’d lost his entire world—until Leo launched himself into Charles’ arms, and then everything shifted. Warmth. Relief. Something deeper that still hummed under her skin if she thought about it too long.

“So…” Charles said, glancing up with a shy sort of smile. “I feel like we should start with something safe. Like weather. Or Leo’s digestive schedule.”

Margot snorted into her mug. “It’s Monaco. The weather is always smug. And Leo’s digestive schedule appears to involve manipulating humans into feeding him eggs.”

“I knew that smug face meant he was being spoiled,” Charles muttered, mock-affronted.

She leaned her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. “He was a perfect gentleman. Demanding, slightly judgy, but charming.”

“So basically me at seventeen.”

That made her laugh. “You were never demanding.”

He shrugged, a little sheepish. “Maybe not out loud. But I was kind of... all-in. With you.”

That stilled something in her chest.

She didn’t look away.

“I was too,” she said quietly.

There was a pause—gentle and heavy in equal measure. The little café noise hummed around them: clinking glasses, a scooter rattling by, someone’s dog barking at a pigeon.

Charles cleared his throat, voice softer now. “I’ve thought about reaching out. Before.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He gave her a small, honest smile. “Because I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me. And… I didn’t know if I was someone you’d be glad to hear from.”

She sat with that for a moment. The honesty of it. The way it didn’t sting, because it wasn’t said to wound.

“I was angry,” she admitted. “Back then. Not because you left. I got it. But because I kept waiting for you to stop choosing everything else first.”

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “From the chaos. From me, honestly.”

“I never needed protecting,” she said. “I just wanted honesty.”

Their eyes met. This time, there was something calmer there. Grounded.

“I’m not seventeen anymore,” he said. “I can’t promise I’ll be less chaotic. But I know how to show up now.”

Margot’s lips curved slowly. “Even if I burn the eggs next time?”

He grinned. “Especially then. I feel like Leo would riot otherwise.”

She laughed again, warmth blooming in her chest. “Well. In that case…”

“In that case,” Charles echoed, brushing his fingers against the edge of her mug, just barely, “maybe this doesn’t have to be just coffee.”

Margot looked at him, really looked. And saw not just the boy he was—but the man sitting in front of her now. Tired, maybe. Bruised by life a little. But open. Trying.

And hers, maybe, if she wanted him to be again.

“Maybe it doesn’t,” she said.

And across the city,  snoring on Charles’ couch, Leo Leclerc dreamed smug little dreams of eggs, sunbeams, and the chaos he’d orchestrated to make this happen.

[changeling-droneco]

Hi I'm that person who made the original post about "no doesn mean no" when a small bit of the mr beast company document was leaked, well, now we have the full document (thanks rosanna) so I'm going to go over it. Please note I am not a lawyer or a business man, I'm in college for psychology, so I might misunderstand some things or make the wrong conclusion. However, if this is a document made for the average mr. beast employee, if I cannot understand it properly, then im sure some employees also struggled

First of all, the opening paragraph. Like I get it's supposed to be like, to put people at ease, but

This is so strange? Like, first of all, this is your EMPLOYEE MANUAL, you should have run it through like, a spell check? Or had someone edit it? This is already incredibly unprofessional. Also the promising of a thousand dollars if you pass a quiz on it? It's bizarre and I'd love to see if it's an actual quiz.

Jimmy, hun, please god get an editor for this you're already trying my patience.

YOU SHOULD, you genuinely should, while interconnected these are all COMPLETELY different jobs, if you think you could write a separate manual for each branch you SHOULD

I'm sure I'm about to get an answer but what the fuck is the best YOUTUBE video then? If it's not comedy, its not production, its not quality, its not look, then what the hell is left? (monetization, it's monetization)

First of all, Jimmy, why are you using internet lingo in this, it's not a text message, this is not a place for, idc, and lol, and not capitalizing your headers correctly??? Also like I said, he's chasing trends for monetization, and also he's just wrong, there are plenty of hollywood level shows and the like on youtube. You fully admit you do not care about trends and actively rush things?

This is just fucked??? Like of COURSE IT MATTERS??? Results based company is bullshit, your employees that worked for five weeks and failed aren't "lesser" then James, it's a structural failure! They still worked for HOURS to try and succeed?? That shows merit and loyalty??? What the fuck???

Rosanna covers this one in her video but it's worth restating that this is FUCKED??? It's clear overwork "your job is your family" culture. Especially the use of the word obsessive? If you do not OBSESS over your work, you are considered poisonous. NO WONDER we have so many reports of employees doing things they feel is dangerous or unsafe, if they don't they're considered POISON to the company.

The formatting in this doc continues to fucking kill me, what are you DOING man GET AN EDITOR

This feels like such an easy fix of just...make the thumbnail after the fact? Or only make a rough draft of one first? Like if production makes a red bouncy castle instead of a yellow one, that feels like an easy fix to the thumbnail OR a communication error, and again, that's on management

A lot of the next stuff is like analytics stuff that for the most part I can't really speak on as someone who does not do any of this stuff. There are a few things though

Which like???? what??? a lull??? what do you mean "watching a video without even realizing they are watching a video??" That doesn't scream good or even mediocre content to me. If I'm actively tuning out as I watch a video, that's bad. Especially because there have been plenty of times I've been like half way through a video i go "hey this sucks actually" and click off. They actively want their audience to not be paying attention to the video so it runs all the way through, that's kinda pathetic.

I don't actually know if this is common or not in this industry, but as an outsider this seems INCREDIBLY micromanaging to me, to an immense degree.

Jimmy why are you putting swears in your employee manual?? sir??? and also something about this whole thing icks me out, I don't quite have the words but the whole emphasis on "im different im special no one else can be me" just reeks of something kind of manipulative

Why is production changing so much Jimmy??? Infinite growth is the mindset of a cancer cell Jimmy! This is incredibly unstable working conditions! Also again with the word obsession, if you take time out of your own day on your own time to watch hulu, that's seen as not being obsessed enough for the company. This is nonsensical!

Again, this is INSANELY micromanaging, and also so fucking unhinged??? "God himself couldn't stop you from making this video on time" is NOT a healthy work mindset, things HAPPEN!!!

In this segment he's actually talking normal things but I did just want to highlight his use of "freaken" who the hell puts that in an EMPLOYEE MANUEL

Again with the micromanaging, and the immense pressure on employees for problems OTHER people do. While he's not fully wrong that you should be in more contact with the contractor then the example, this is too much in the other direction. How much time in the day does he think people have?!

My kingdom for a fucking paragraph break dude, my fucking eyes. Also this is a lot of "im so great and do everything and you should do more for me and if i dont know something that's your fault" for something titled "I am not always right"

I'm getting lazy with my highlighting, but again, the micromanaging? If you're SOOO busy, the first question should be the ideal? it's quick and makes a quick decision, while the second one meanders and meanders

Again, Jimmy is pushing blame for HIS mistakes on OTHER PEOPLE. For again, a section called "i am not always right" hes taking NO accountability for that and just making the SAME excuses he's berating in other places.

I can't even tell what he means here AN EDITOR JIMMY

Autism Hell tm, PLEASE email me so I can DOUBLE CHECK IT, things in writing are SO useful

Again the language towards "C-Players" which as mr beast has said, are the people who y'know, are NORMAL employees who DON'T live and breathe this company

Okay first of all, a Lamborghini is like 300k so that's already A REALLY hard task, and i sure hope don't usually put typos in the tasks. SECOND of all the fact he thinks its okay to go "hey if the studio is literally on fire around you and you stop working to get the Lamborghini, you're not doing good enough" even if he claims it as a joke is NOT OKAY what the FUCK

We've covered this before, but to reiterate this segment is named after a sexual assault reference when it could have been named ANYTHING ELSE and harasses employees and pressures them to break rules, don't do that.

I'm not an editor, so maybe this is normal, but as someone from the outside it seems strange to put this much emphasis on dividing focus between so many videos at once.

Jimmy, hun, are you paying extra for this? Because if I'm an editor and you want me FILMING stuff then i want to be paid more for doing TWO jobs and I probably still wont be as skilled a TRAINED CAMERA MAN

First of all now THAT'S a type, consteatants. Also the fact they are aware that leaving contestants out in the sun is bad, why are you not doing MORE TO STOP IT BEYOND "hey maybe giving them three hours of heatstroke is bad, try only two next time"

Don't we love favoritism, more shitty unprofessional writings, and a completely unstable work environment?

If your people have to pull all nighters period something is wrong, and if something happens to an employees car that could have seriously hurt someone, i sure hope you care more then just "LOL FUNNY" Who's picking up the broken glass? Who's reimbursing the car owner? That one meme of "your first care should be commitment to the bit" is a MEME jimmy, it's not ACTUAL ADVICE

Ah shit I hit image limit, well, you've seen enough screenshots to know these are screenshots, we're almost done I'll put them in as quotes

"Let’s say you are tasked with finding us a castle to live in for 50 hours and while doing research you find a castle and a number to call for the owner. So you do call, and he answers. Only problem is he says he quit the castle renting business to pursue his dream of building a 100 foot tall lego catapult. You can obviously tell where i’m going with this. Ideally you’d recognize that’s badass as fuck and try to convince him to let us use it when we do find a castle. This is a bad example because it’s so obvious but if you’re doing your job right you will be doing an absurd amounts of calls and data collecting. While trying to complete your prios and prepare for the video you should always be on the lookout for new things you can bring to your creative team to inspire them. Because just like me, they don’t know what they don’t know and you can’t just say “i’m in production and i’m not very creative” because that’s literally the equivalent of saying I suck at what I do. You also need to apply this same mindset when problem solving because many people lose sight of this stuff when in the weeds. If a problem appears, always always always ask yourself if your new plan is whats best for creative, not just the easiest bandaid."

First of all it's really funny seeing all the red lines pop up, second of all this insistent blurring of everyone's job seems so strange? Again maybe this is normal, but it really feels like Jimmy wants everyone working every job, instead on focusing on what they are actually hired to do.

"What is the goal of our content?

To excite me. The goal of our content is to excite me. That may sound weird to some of you, especially if you’re new but to me it’s what’s most important. If I'm not excited to get in front of that camera and film the video, it’s just simply not going to happen."

That's fucking weirddddd, like I get that he's trying to be like "im authentic" but it always feels like a bad sign when the goal of a company is literally just "What amuses the boss" like...bad sign

"this is youtube and there are constraints. You know the video can’t be a minute so you’re obviously going to need a story to hold the viewers and there are rules to storytelling. Our audience is massive and because of that you have to be simple, for 50 million people to understand something it must be simple. Content can be anything but there is structure and rules that we must mold it into that I want to teach you about, because virality doesn’t just happen. Every frame of our videos will be seen by 10s of millions of people"

Gross

"I'd say the average MrBeast viewer is a teenage memer that likes video games."

Mr Beast is completely aware of his demographic and puts screen shots of it, he is very aware his stuff is aimed at kids, even when its about gambling or hiring people not around near minors

"I feel silly for having to write this but all the time I talk to 32 new people that have at most seen like 5 or 6 of our videos and it’s mind blowing that they don’t see a problem with that lol."

It's almost like your audience is teenage memer and that people who working here are not in fact, teenage memers.

"What you consume on social media, when you watch youtube, tv, the games you play, etc. are what I like to call your information diet.

How do you stay up to date on the latest memes? How do you know what’s going on with celebrities? What’s trending on youtube? What other creators are doing? What’s popping on tik tok? Your information diet. Consume things on a daily basis that help you write better content."

If my job as a creative writer had my boss tell me to have to see whats "popping on tik tok" as part of my job i'd quit also again, the micromanaging of someone's life as well pops up again, it's weirddd

"It’s okay for the boys to be childish

If talent wants to draw a dick on the white board in the video or do something stupid, let them. (assuming they know all the risks and arn’t missing context on why it’s not safe) People like when we are in our natural element of stupidity. Really do everything you can to empower the boys when filming and help them make content. Help them be idiots"

More favoritism

"If you’ve made it this far you are probably at least semi interested in this being your career. So I wanted to chat about it. Because if you're ambitious and want to dedicate your life to work, you picked the best company in America to do it at. I really don’t care to hoard a bunch of money and I deeply believe in rewarding the people that help this business get where it needs to be. But before I get into that, let’s talk about the future. As I write this we have 2 teams, that will grow to 4 in the next year. (and possibly 8 in the next 2 years but I can’t talk about that cause james will kill me haha). We need more leaders in the company. Weneed hard working, obsessive, coachable, intelligent, grinders that can step up and take some of these leadership spots over the next 2 years. Every single department has an opportunity for you to grow in and you’re in luck because we don’t do yearly reviews. We do whenever the fuck you want reviewes"

Lack of communication from management, and more emphasis on grinding and crunch culture, goodie, all while riddled with typos! God.

"I see a world where this company is worth billions and one day 10s of billions. And those of you that help build this will be rewarded. I want nothing more then for you to go all in, obsessive all day everyday, and become so god dam valuable this company can’t operate without you. And in return for becoming so valuable I hope to give you incredible experiences, a fun place to work, and of course, more money then you could ever dream of making at any other company."

I feel like I'm reading a fucking pyramid scheme document here, "youre so so valuable spend literally every minute of every day on this company haha" good GOD man

[makeitmingi]

When Flowers Bloom In The Dark [Chapter 14]

Genre: Romance, Mafia!AU, Violence, Angst, Slow burn

Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Florist!Reader, Mafioso!Hongjoong, Mafioso!Seonghwa, Mafioso!Yunho, Mafioso!Yeosang, Mafioso!San, Mafioso!Mingi, Mafioso!Wooyoung, Mafioso!Jongho

Summary: When you appeared and wept at his mother's funeral, Hongjoong found himself wanting to find out more about you. A regular girl, who owns a flower shop in his territory and has a relationship with the mother that he hasn't spoken to in years, why hasn't he ever noticed you before?

[Warning(s): 18+ for violence, use of weapons, smoking, alcohol consumption, slight gore, gang affiliation, tattoos and character deaths. Minors DNI. This is a work of fiction and does not represent the Ateez members in real life.]

Word count: 3.3K

After Hongjoong gave you a mini tour of the place that day, you honestly couldn't remember all of it. The only place you remembered was the library and Hongjoong's office, in case you ever needed to find him... For whatever reason...

"Have a nice night, (y/n)." Seonghwa smiled as he stood by the front door, watching the chauffeur open the car door for you.

"See you, Seonghwa. Goodnight." You bowed your head and waved before entering the car. The chauffeur bowed to Seonghwa and got in to drive you home.

'She's gone. - Seonghwa'

Seonghwa sent the text and retreated back into the house, the maid closing the door behind him.

"Thanks, Hwa." Hongjoong limped into the house and fell onto the couch. His fringe stuck to his forehead from the sweat since he spent the past 30 minutes waiting in the carpark.

"Damn, they got you bad." Seonghwa frowned as he stood in front of his best friend.

"Yeah, I think I know." Hongjoong winced.

"I already called the doctor." Yeosang said, coming in as he was tucking his phone back into his pocket. Except for the cut on his lip, Hongjoong didn't have any other open wounds so he went to take a shower before the doctor came, he wanted to get the dried blood and grime off his body.

*KNOCK KNOCK*

"Who is it?" Hongjoong asked as he dried his hair.

"Hyung, its me and Doctor Lee." Yeosang's voice was heard on the other side of the door. When Hongjoong let out a sound of acknowledgement, the two came in.

"Good evening, Hongjoong sshi." The doctor bowed and Hongjoong just nodded, moving to sit on his bed.

"Just wanted to make sure there's nothing internal." Yeosang said to the doctor.

"Of course, excuse me, Hongjoong sshi." The doctor wore gloves and began to check Hongjoong's injuries. Yeosang stood across the bed, leaning against the dresser as he watched the doctor work.

"I'll have to remain hidden for a while, especially when (y/n) comes to the house." Hongjoong sighed.

"Why?" Yeosang tilted his head.

"How am I supposed to greet her like this, Yeosang ah? She doesn't know what we do. I can't suddenly see her like this, all beat up and injured. She'll definitely suspect something and I'm not ready to tell her what we do for a living." Hongjoong stated.

"Well, you'll have to tell her some day, cap. You can't hide it from her forever... Especially if you... plan on keeping her around you and us." Yeosang shrugged.

"Don't... say it like that." Hongjoong hissed as the doctor disinfected his wound.

"Ah, you know what I mean." Yeosang rolled his eyes. There was another knock on the door and San came in.

"What's the damage?" He asked Yeosang and the doctor.

"From my assessment, nothing major. Just some minor bruises and cuts but I would advice you to take it easy, Hongjoong sshi. The hit to your knee wasn't major but still bad." The doctor said.

"I know myself. I can't just stop working because you tell me to." Hongjoong scoffed, putting his shirt back on and buttoning it up.

"Besides that, thanks for dropping by, doc. I'll walk you out." Yeosang said and walked the doctor out.

"Easy up, hyung." San chuckled, to whom Hongjoong just rolled his eyes at. He sighed and wanted to get out of bed but winced and just leaned back, letting San come over to fluff his pillow and prop it up for him. With a look of defeat, Hongjoong leaned against the pillow on his headboard.

"Anyway, I've got... not so good news to share..." San said, sitting at the foot of Hongjoong's bed. Hongjoong raised his eyebrows in anticipation of what San had to say.

"My fight club was bugged. I went back and did a sweep, I found bugs in the VIP room." San crossed his arms.

"And we have no clue how long it has been there?" Hongjoong asked.

"I'm having my boys run through the camera videos now but I'm not sure how long that will take. These people wanted something, knowing where the VIP room was and how to bug it." San sighed.

"This is not good. We don't need this now. We need to find out when and who bugged your place." Hongjoong rubbed his temples.

"I'm on it, hyung. I'll get the footage to Yunho and Jongho, see if they can find out where the video was transmitting it." San assured and Hongjoong nodded.

"So, how are you going to face (y/n) like this now?" San changed the topic.

"Gosh it's like you and Yeosang rehearsed what to ask me. I'm not, I'll just stay in my office or say that I'm out working when she comes. I shouldn't take too long to heal up. No big deal." Hongjoong said. San nodded his head slowly, seemingly convinced.

"Woah, where are you going now?" San rushed to Hongjoong's side, seeing him suddenly swing his feet over the side and attempt to stand on his feet.

"My office. I need to get something." Hongjoong mumbled.

"Tell me where and what it is. I can get it for you, you should be resting in bed." San urged.

"I'm fine, San ah. Just let me get it and I'll come back. Don't worry and don't follow me." Hongjoong pointed to the younger, whose hands droppd by his side in defeat.

"Alright, goodnight hyung." San wished and Hongjoong nodded before they split way. He limped to his office and turned the lights on.

"Now, where was it?" He sat at his desk and opened the drawers. Finally, he spotted wha the was looking for.

"There you are." Holding the jar of leftover medical balm that you made in his hand, he smiled with content and stood back up. But when he saw his office door open, he quickly shoved the jar into the pocket of his sweatpants. Seonghwa stood there with a raised eyebrow and folded arms.

"What are you doing in here?" The second in command asked with much suspicion. Seeing Hongjoong so skittish, he knew that the captain must be hiding something.

"Nothing. How did you know I was here? Did San rat me out?" Hongjoong asked back.

"No, I was walking back from the library and saw your office lights on. No one comes in while you're not here." Seonghwa stated.

"Right... I just came to get something and I'll go back to bed." Hongjoong said, limping out from behind his desk, over to the doorway where Seonghwa stood.

"Good, I thought you might have snuck here to continue working." Seonghwa wrapped an arm around Hongjoong to support him.

"No, I wouldn't dare. Not when I know you're awake." Hongjoong teased.

"I only nag you because you don't take care of yourself." Seonghwa sighed, having repeated that line to his best friend since they were much younger. Hongjoong hummed, letting Seonghwa help him back into his room and into bed.

"Just spend the day resting in bed tomorrow, let the rest of us take over what you have to do." Seonghwa said as Hongjoong adjusted his pillows so he wouldn't be in pain.

"I'm fine, Hwa! I swear." Hongjoong grumbled into his pillow. Seonghwa rolled his eyes.

"Goodnight, Joong." He ignored the sulky captain's whining and turned the lights off before leaving the room.

After the door closed, Hongjoong sat up, leaning over to turn the nightstand lamp on. Then he fished out the jar of balm from his pocket and set it there so he could remember to use it tomorrow.

-

It was weird that the other night, Seonghwa was the one that walked you out. You hadn't seen Hongjoong for practically the entire day but you figured he must be busy working.

Then this week, when you went over, Hongjoong wasn't there at all. But you still did your job, with the other boys coming to bother you, occasionally. You wanted to text him or ask the others where he was but after thinking about it, it sounded too clingy so you decided against asking.

Something felt off, not seeing Hongjoong for two weeks when you saw him every week at his house. But you were not in the position to pry about his wareabouts.

"(y/n)!" Nana came into your shop during lunch time. You broke out of your thoughts and looked at her, blinking in confusion.

"What are you doing tonight?" She asked.

"Nothing. Once I close shop, it's just me and my couch. Plus dinner." You chuckled, gesturing for her to take a seat at your work table. She smiled, satisfied with your answer.

"Your smile is scaring me... Why do you ask my plans for tonight?" You asked with caution.

"There's this thing! Like an event of sorts... I wanna take you and Eve to experience it. Perfect that you're free." She clapped her hands.

"What event or thing is this?" You raised an eyebrow.

"Ah, don't ask so many questions! It's a surprise! You'll see when we get there. Just get dolled up, it's an outdoor event. Think... Outdoor party?" She tilted her head.

"That worries me even more." You squinted your eyes at her. Nana merely smiled innocently at you.

"We'll come by your place to pick you up tonight. Be ready by 9!" She patted your hand and left your shop before you could ask her any further questions. You let out a long sigh, shaking your head with a knowing smile.

'Hey, Hongjoong, haven't seen you at the house. Busy with work? Not playing hooky anymore? ;P - (y/n)'

After sending that message to Hongjoong, you put your phone away and went right back to work, preparing orders and attending to walk in clients.

"No, you don't have to!" You shook your head.

"I insisted, (y/n). Anyway thanks to you, my aloe vera is flourishing! So please just take some." The lady slid the bag of aloe vera back.

"Ah, alright. Thank you so much. This is great for treating sunburns and wounds." You smiled, looking at the aloe vera. After that, you walked her to the door to see her off.

"Fresh aloe." You smiled happily and placed the bag into the fridge so you could use it later.

"That's order number #5019 done." You checked off your list on your phone. Curiously, you opened the chat with Hongjoong.

*read*

He had read the message but didn't reply. He could just be really busy with work but then looking back at the message, you realised that maybe you were acting a little too familiar and friendly with him. Maybe you were not at that level of friendship yet and he still viewed you as nothing more than a gardener working at his house.

"Once again, you have overstepped." You scolded yourself with a sigh, tucking your phone into your pocket to finish up your work for the day so you could close.

"Could I maybe add some greenery around the back?" The customer requested.

"Of course. I'll be right back." You went to your bins to retrieve some stalks of green to add to the bouquet.

"You've got a good eye. It compliments the bouquet and flowers nicely." You smiled as you added the extra stalks to the bouquet you had already bundled together.

"Thank you." The male blushed, watching you wrap everything with colourful tissue and securing it together with a pretty ribbon.

"There you go." You handed it to him and sorted out the payment with him.

"Have a nice evening!" You wished. He smiled and bowed while leaving the shop. Once he stepped out, you closed the door and locked it, turning the sign to 'CLOSED'. Now, it was time to pack up and go home.

'(y/n)! No skipping out tonight! See you~ - Nana'

'Yes, yes. Can't wait to see you! And don't try to hide from us, we know where you live... Okay, that sounded a lot more stalkery/ evil than I expected... - Eve'

You laughed at your friends' messages and slung your bag over your shoulder before making your way home.

"What to wear? What to wear?" You sighed.

*KNOCK KNOCK*

"Coming!" You went out, knowing it was your friends at the door. They stood there, all dressed up, staring at you who was still wrapped in your robe.

"I don't know what to wear because I don't know where we are going. You guys need to help me." You said.

"Ask Nana, she picked my clothes. I, too, don't know where we are going, remember?" Eve shrugged, sitting at the edge of your bed.

"Alright, let's see what we have." Nana looked through your closet. You chuckled and sat at your vanity to do your make up, watching as Nana sifted through your closet to put together an outfit for you. Eve watched on with amusement, trying her best to help by giving opinions on colour coordination.

"Yes! This works." Nana smiled proudly and you went over to see the outfit.

"I don't think I've ever worn these clothes before." You chuckled, picking up the skirt. Eve shooed you off to the bathroom and you went to change.

They picked an oxblood leather skirt and a black tube top with a racing jacket to wear over.

"You look cute!" They clapped happily.

"Seriously, where are we going?" You laughed as your friends hurried you to wear your shoes so you could leave.

"You'll see when we get there! Stop asking questions." Nana pushed your out of the house. Typical her, she already had a car waiting for the 3 of you, the driver knowing the destination prior.

"I'm starting to question where we're going..." Eve nudged you, trying to freak you out even more.

"And we're here!" Nana squealed. You and Eve looked out the window, unsure of where you were, but got out of the car anyway. It was a deserted area but there people standing around with the revving of car engines being heard.

"Nana, where are we?" You held her arm.

"Street racing." She grinned. You and Eve stared at her with wide eyes, totally not expecting this. There was a lot of people, cheering for the race that was happening.

"This doesn't feel safe..." You looked around. Nana laughed and led the two of you further in.

"There are bike races and car races." She explained as you watched the two bikers race, getting loud cheers from the crowd.

"How did you find out about this place?" Eve asked.

"From a... friend." Nana grinned, cheering on the bikers like she knew them. You were still a little in shock, this was definitely not legal and you weren't really into racing, cars and bikes to begin with.

"And of course, our winner is still undefeated!" The winning biker removed his helmet. Your eyes nearly bugged out of your skull.

"S-Seonghwa?" You whispered to yourself.

"What did you say?" Your friends turned to you but you shook your head, denying having said anything. If Seonghwa was here, that means the others might be here too. If there's a possibility Hongjoong might be here, you felt your stomach sink a little. You couldn't face him now, at least not here.

"I need to use the bathroom. I see the portable toilets there, I'll be right back." You said, patting your friends on the shoulders before going to the bathroom.

"Gosh, even here, I run into them." You mumbled.

"Hey pretty, what's your na- (y/n)?" Mingi's eyes widened when he saw you. You gave an awkward, shy wave.

"W-What are you doing here?" Now Mingi was stumbling over his words, having dropped his cool guy persona, exactly like the person you knew back at the house.

"Here with some friends. I didn't even know I was coming here, have never been to anything like this before." You chuckled.

"Oh, you've never been to a race before?" He tilted his head. You shook your head.

"Mingi ah! What's taking you so lo- (y/n)?!" San stopped in his tracks, blinking at you like he was dreaming.

"Hey, San. Yes, it's me." You chuckled and waved. San smiled, sending you a friendly wave back. He sent Mingi a look and the taller just shrugged in response. In your head, you wondered if you should ask them if Hongjoong was here.

Then you saw him, dressed in a nice suit and talking to Seonghwa. But you were not staring at that. You were staring at the bruises and cuts on his face, and that he walked with a limp.

"Wait." You spoke. San and Mingi turned around to see what you were staring at and immediately blocked your view.

"Guys, is Hongjoong okay?" You looked at them.

"Uh, yeah! He's fine, you know busy with work at home. He's not even here." San waved you off.

"Yeah, you must be seeing things. It's dark." Mingi added with a smile. You gave them an odd look, wondering why they were lying to you about Hongjoong being here. Or maybe you really were hallucinating.

"Guys, Wooyoung's race is gonna start soon. Oh, (y/n)! What are you doing here?" Yeosang smiled.

"Just here with some friends. Speaking of, I should be getting back to them. Bye..." You waved and left to find your friends.

"Hongjoong hyung, Hongjoong hyung. (y/n)'s here! We just ran into her, she saw you and asked about you." Mingi said with panic. Hongjoong stopped talking to Seonghwa and turned to look at his younger brother with wide eyes of shock. San and Yeosang could only nod to confirm the taller male's statement.

"And what did you say to her?" Seonghwa raised an eyebrow.

"We told her she was seeing things and that you were not here." San replied. The two oldest facepalmed and sighed.

"You guys... Why did you... You know what, nevermind. We're in the VIP area anyway, she won't be able to come look for me. It's fine." Hongjoong assured.

"Wait, you're still avoiding her, hyung?" Yeosang asked.

"I just want to wait until I have recovered then everything will go back to normal." Hongjoong said.

"Yeah, wouldn't want her to see hyung with his grandpa cane." Jongho added with a snicker. Hongjoong glared at the youngest, using his cane to hit Jongho.

"Seonghwa made me use it okay." Hongjoong hissed then turned to glare at his best friend.

"It was a cane or crutches, Joong. You know you're supposed to be resting and keeping your weight off your knee." Seonghwa shrugged.

"Anyway, guys. You know while we're here, we have to avoid her. We cannot be seen with her and she cannot be associated with us, it may put her in danger. We're here as Ateez, not AURORA Corp." Hongjoong reminded. The boys nodded obediently.

"Go, Wooyoung!" San cheered loudly as Wooyoung stepped into his car. As they all cheered Wooyoung on, Hongjoong looked out into the crowd and met eyes with you.

"Get ready, racers!" He tore his eyes away from you and focussed on Wooyoung's race instead.

RINGGGGGG

"Shit. I think there are issues at the club." Hongjoong cursed and excused himself, going to the back of where his brothers was sitting to answer the phone.

"Okay, handle it. If you need me to come down and handle it, call me again." He said to the manager and hung up.

"Hongjoong?" Hongjoong cursed and turned to see you there.

"(y/n)... Didn't know that you were here..." He nodded over to you. Seeing his entire condition, your eyes widened. You didn't see him with a cane earlier but now that you did and you saw his injuries a lot closer, it just made you assume that his condition was a lot worser than you initially thought.

"Hongjoong, actually I-"

"You shouldn't talk to me or approach me." Hongjoong said and turned to walk back to where his brothers were sitting, leaving you there alone.

~

Series masterlist

[anjelicawrites]

Scrapes at the borders of your life

“The giraffe has its heart far away from its thoughts. It has fallen in love yesterday and doesn’t know it yet.”

― Stefano Benni, Ballate

Paring: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x trauma surgeon!reader

Synopsis: Simon has fallen for the trauma surgeon attached to the 141 and believes he has no chances with them, resigning himself in the role of friend and guarding devil, until the truth comes out.

Warnings: angst, stalking (Simon doesn't mean to), medical talk, surgery talk, reference to depression meds, reference to weapons, reference to Simon’s abuse as a child, reference to violence, talk of scars, insecurity, someone gets slapped (reader but not from Simon), someone gets headbutted (not reader, not Simon), Johnny tries to be a wingman, Simon simps a lot, Simon’s fear of not managing a full intercourse, Simon's hit and miss libido, premature ejaculation, kissing, oral (f receiving), fail sex, good sex, P in V sex (protected and unprotected), fingering, overstimulation, cuddling.

A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns used when needed. They're referred as "ma'am" a couple of times.

Word count: 10.293

You check your phone, you’re not late but you need to be out of the locker room in ten minutes, if you want to arrive on time for your date, the one you don’t really want to go to.

You’re still rummaging through your bag as you exit the lockers, when you hear Soap’s Scottish accent and Ghost’s quiet hum of answer: those two are like black and white, yet are joined at the hip like twins.

NSFW and 18+ only please!

The locker room of the male military personnel has recently been moved next to the one used by the civilians working on base, something that most of the men had made crude jokes about; thankfully the task force you’re attached to, the 141, abstained from any remarks. You didn’t know that Simon had rained his irritation on the men who had the gall to repeat the jokes to his face, in the form of exhausting training and fatigue duties, during the next few days, it was something he kept for himself, the same way he did all his thoughts about you.

“So, Johnny, what do you think?

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, doc! Aren’t they not, Lt.?”

The behemoth of a man glances at you, without saying a word.

“If the guy doesn’t beg for a second date, he’s an idiot, doc!”

“That’s not what I need to happen.” You pout. “Mother is hellbent in finding me a partner, I have told her this is the last time I’m going out with someone. I need this date to go bad, so she will stop pestering me when I tell her that I’d rather die alone with forty cats, than with someone I’m not truly interested in.”

“Do you have everything with you?”

You stare at Simon’s masked face, his brown eyes unreadable.

“Simon, really…”

“Do you have it?”

He’s not standing in front of you, blocking your path, but he’s trying to pin you with his stare.

“You’re insufferable!” You rummage in your bag. “See? Pepper spray, teaser and the knife!”

“That’s enough stuff to make any bloke run for his life.” Soap says, eyeing the array of weapons.

“I hope so! This chap is the son of someone mum knows. I have to make sure he runs for the hills the next time he hears my name!”

You walk towards the door, blind to Soap’s grinning, and to the way Simon’s hands have curled into fists.

“See you next week, boys!”

“What?”

You turn around and look at the Scot.

“I’m on annual leave. Try not to go save the word when I am not here to patch you four up, OK?”

The door closes behind you, cutting Soap’s laughter.

“What do you say, Lt.?” He asks, showing him the pictures of what appears to be a Tuscan villa. “You, the doc, and a spring wedding?”

“Fuck you, Johnny.”

Simon keeps telling himself he isn’t truly stalking you. He doesn’t have a tracking device installed in your car, or your phone, because that would be creepy, but he’s well aware of the statistics, how high the numbers are for assaults or, worse, rape and murder, or how those figures sky rocket when it comes to dating.

Simon knows you’re bright, brighter than most, but that doesn’t protect you if one asshole decides he doesn’t like your smart mouth, and bleeding Nora you have opinions and you’re not afraid to voice them! He still remembers the first time he’s met you.

You had emerged from the OR after a five hours long emergency surgery on Gaz. You were still wearing your scrubs and one of the colorful caps you use when you’re operating (it was the pink one with the dogs, Simon would gift you one with skulls and bones after the first routine checkup you did on him).

None of them had ever seen you, you had started at the base while the 141 was deployed; when the pararescue had entrusted Gaz to Dr. Rutherford, you were just one of the medics running to the OR, you were but a scrub, a body among many others, listening to the quick handover and shouting orders as the gurney was speeding down the pale green walls of the military hospital.

“What?”

You had looked at the three of them with weary eyes and furrowed brows, surprised that the soldiers had encircled you and were staring expectantly.

The man you’ll learn to know as Captain Price had asked you about Gaz’s prognosis, the other men crowding around you.

“Hasn’t Dr. Rutherford talked to you?”

“No, ma’am.”

He had sounded tired, he looked like he had been through hell and back. Those three men hadn’t probably hit the showers yet, too worried for their friend.

“Oh bleeding hell!” You had burst out, the peak of adrenaline that had carried you through out the surgery having abated, leaving you sluggish. “OK, gather around children, mother goose is gonna tell you everything.”

You had marched to the closest row of chairs and climbed on top of one: those men were so tall and buff you felt like you couldn’t breathe, nor be heard with them standing around you.

“We’re positive he’s going to be fine.” You had smiled at the collective sigh of relief. “He’s in the recovery room, the nurses there are checking on his vitals, before he gets transferred to the ICU. He’s going to be intubated and sedated for a couple of days, to help his body deal with the pain. His wounds were pretty gnarly, and his appendix was ready to burst. Did he tell any of you if he felt abdominal pain, or nauseous?”

There was a collective shake of heads and surprised stares, even the eyes of the one with the skull mask had widened.

“All things considered, it would have been worse if the appendix had actually burst while you were out. That would have been another bag of cats to handle.”

You had elected not to say anything about the way the small organ had almost exploded as soon as you had gently poked it, or that the sergeant would have had high risks of dying of peritonitis out in the field.

“I’ll tell the nurses to give you all a shout when the sergeant is transferred. You can sit with him outside his room, if you want.”

You had expected them to visit their friend, not to find them sitting on the uncomfortably plastic chairs, still wearing their whole gear, when you had popped by the ICU.

“Doc?”

It was the one you’ll learn to know as Soap that had stared at you, one eye swollen and in dire need of ice: another battle for another day, you had mused.

“I’m not in the habit of abandoning my patients after surgery.”

You had marched to the two chairs right in front of the window into Gaz’s room, and kicked Ghost’s foot out of the way, he was manspreading so much he was occupying two seats (honest to God! Why men need to always do that?). At the time you weren’t aware of his reputation, and even if you were, you wouldn’t have cared, too tired and angry.

“You junk wouldn’t scare death away, soldier.” You had sat next to him. “And we’re not going to open another cycle on my watch tonight.”

You had pulled out your headphones and started blasting music to keep yourself awake, ignoring the surprised stares of the men.

Next to you Ghost was staring at you, wondering if you had a death wish, or if you believed that looking at the little numbers on Gaz’s monitor, as if they owed you money, was the right way to fight death. You were listening to your music with a volume so high he could hear it himself: pop songs from the early 2000s: would that be enough to scare death away, he had wondered.

None of you knew how much time had passed, the minutes bleeding into hours, weariness setting in your bones, the music not helping fight the siren’s song of sleep: you were so tired, the azure number of Gaz’s oxygen saturation, and the constant curves on the monitor were truly hypnotizing you, your eyes were growing heavy and unfocused.

You head had snapped to the right side as soon as you had seen Dr. Rutherford walking down the corridor.

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

You had popped your pink headphones on the uncomfortable chair, the men around you not clocking on the clacking sound of plastic on plastic, but the angry way you were marching towards your colleague, your hands closed in twin fists.

The conversation was carried out in hushed tones, Dr. Rutherford was standing still, his mouth a thin, white line of anger, and you were constantly in his space, a snarl on your face as you growled your words at him.

It was well known that Dr. Rutherford wasn’t liked and that he had the reputation of someone who would pull his rank to cover up his bullying, and his mistakes. He was feared, having managed to ruin other physicians’ careers over the years.

In retrospect Simon had realized this was the moment when he had started to notice you: when he was wondering about your lack of self preservation. To tell the truth, it was what you did seconds after that stole his heart, unbeknownst to him, when Dr. Rutherford had slapped you in the face.

Time could have stopped, for all you knew. You couldn’t hear the surprised shouts of the nurses, nor the scuffing of the men’s boots hitting the ground, only the roar of blood in your ears and the knot of rage exploding in your belly. Seconds, only seconds had passed when your body had decided to act on its own, your forehead crashing on the older man’s nose, Captain John Price’s burly body between yours and Rutherford’s a moment too late.

“Oh crap! I think I have broken my nose. Oh shit!”

You were too busy tenderly touching your face to mind the chaos around you.

“I’ll have you in front of the court martial!” Rutherford had screamed at you.

“I’m a civilian, you buffoon! Your loser grades mean nothing to me!”

Through the pain you had felt a bulky arm curl around your middle to stop you from attacking the other surgeon.

“That’s enough, doc.” The low thunder of Ghost’s voice had rumbled against your back. “Stand down.”

Your vision was blurry, the soldiers tasked with security were tackling Dr. Rutherford, with the help of Soap: the older man was still trying to get to you, he was hurling insults, his voice booming in the crowded corridor.

“I’m not done with you! Did you hear me well? You’ll be fired! You’ll never work in this country ever again!”

“The one who’s never going to work in this country for the rest of his life is you, Rutherford.”

Amidst the chaos, Price was calm, furious but calm, his voice was cutting through Rutherford’s threats and the security men’s shouts.

“I am a major, captain! I can have you transferred in an hour!”

“You can try, major. Hitting a civilian, in front of witnesses?”

“Leaving the OR mid surgery to do God knows what, since I had to talk to these gentlemen about their friend.” You had snarled, the arm around your middle had tensed again. “You manage to fire me? I’ll go back working with Doctors without Borders, but I’ll make sure you’ll lose your license, Rutherford.”

When Ghost’s arm had released you, you had let yourself slide against the wall, after Rutherford had been carried away, your legs having finally given up supporting you. You had needed a minute before letting the nurses do a check up.

“Are you OK over there, doc?”

It had been Soap asking.

“I have been through worse. Jesus Christ what way to present myself!” The men had looked at you puzzled. “I’m the new trauma surgeon attached to the 141. Hi! Usually I am not this violent, or chaotic, I’m sorry you had to see all of that.”

You didn’t fault the men for not knowing: they had been out in the field for months, your predecessor had decided to step down after some serious family issues right after they have left base.

“You should all go home, I’m on call, I’m going to stay with the sergeant. And I’m going to see one lieutenant Riley on Monday? For the routine check up?”

The man with the over the top mask had sighed: lieutenant Riley found!

“If anything comes up, I will contact you all, it’s a promise.”

Simon hates when he has to tail you so close to the city center, there are too many people around and his baklava would stir up too much curiosity, the surgical mask on his face, his baseball cap under the black hood of his hoodie don’t offer enough cover for his face, he feels exposed, even though he’s hiding in the shadows of an alley where he can keep an eye on you.

Your date has picked a table at the window; Simon hates that the prick thinks he can put you on display like that. If he were a different man, he’d bring you to somewhere cozier, smaller, and he wouldn’t show you around like a prize he’s won.

He knows you’re hating every minute you have to spend with the anonymous man who’s boring you with whatever topic he’s prattling about, Simon sees it in the way you are looking outside, or in how many times you grab your phone; from this distance he can’t see your eyes, yet he knows they hold that distant look he’s seen too many times when you have to deal with paperwork. He wonders how long before one of your friends will call you to save you from this dreadful date, or if you’ll suffer through it to make your mother happy; if his circumstances had been different, he wouldn’t bore you to death, you wouldn’t have to use help to finish this date earlier. But Simon knows you’re way out of his league, too much of everything he has never had the chance to be, to ever hope to be. He can only be your patient and, something akin to a friend.

He had knocked at the door of your office on the dot, hating that he had to go through this bullshit check up, but preferring to be done with it as fast as possible.

He had expected the usual flurry of nurses coming and going, making the experience ten times more unpleasant; you were alone, instead. Your cheek was still swollen from the slap and you were sporting a bump on your forehead, right where you had headbutted that prick Rutherford; he half expected you to wear a colorful T-shirt, like the one you wore after Gaz’s surgery: obnoxious pink, the Barbie inspired font composing the phrase ‘Bitch, please’, which should have told him already everything he needed to know about you.

He was almost disappointed by the white button down shirt and black trousers.

He knew he was trying to distract himself from the knot of anxiety churning his stomach: how he hated to be here!

“Lieutenant.” You had looked up at him with the more open expression you could muster. “I will need you to remove your baklava. I have to examine your face.”

“Negative, ma’am.”

He couldn’t let you look at himself and, based on his records, you understood why.

You had tried to transmit him calmness by relaxing your body as much as possible: face open to his scrutiny and slightly pulled to the side to show your neck, your hands palms up.

“Lieutenant. I know this is unpleasant and that I am a stranger to you, but I can’t sign off the paperwork, if you don’t allow me to do my job. I can’t let you out in the field.”

You knew he was observing you, those brown eyes scanning you like he would an enemy, and you let him, you were in no hurry and this man deserved to make up his mind.

The way you had addressed him, the respect you had shown him, had convinced him to unmask himself: you weren’t doing this with ill intent, the matter of fact way you had used, as if you were telling him a known fact ‘Water is wet’, ‘ The sky is blue’, ‘If I can’t do my job, you wouldn’t be able to do yours’ had convinced him: you were one of the few people who weren’t curious about his face. He has encountered too many people who wouldn’t take a no for an answer, who didn’t care about why he wished the mask was his face, instead of seeing his father’s face staring back at him in every mirror, they just wanted to solve the mystery. You were doing your job, with all the sharps edges that it entailed, just like he did his, and that was something he had to respect.

You had been as fast and clinical as possible, the scars didn’t horrify you; based on his paperwork, you could list off all of his injuries as you saw them on his face and, later, his body. What you couldn’t find in his file, it had been easy to infer based on all the x-rays and MRIs, some old injuries impossible for a child to have without some external causes.

“You can put your baklava back on, lieutenant.”

Simon would never be able to put into words how grateful he was that you had kept your examination of his naked face as fast as possible, and that you didn’t force him through the hell that was small talk for the whole ordeal. If you had noticed the way he was staring at you, you didn’t say a single thing, something he was also grateful for, it had helped him bearing with the whole process, than anything else ever did.

On Friday a small packet and a steaming mug of tea were waiting for you on your desk. Carefully folded in the bright paper, an OR cap, black with neon skulls and bones design. On a whim you had told the nurse working with you to hold the fort for a minute, you had forgotten you had to run a little errand.

Said errand was standing in the field, covered in head to toe in black, busy overseeing what you believed was some sort of drill with the younger recruits.

“Thank you for the cap, you didn’t have to, lieutenant.” You couldn’t hide the smile in your voice, you didn’t want to. “How did you manage to discover how I love to take my tea?”

Simon was standing next to you, massive arms crossed on his solid chest, his face slightly turned towards you.

“If I were to tell you, doc, then I would have to kill you.”

Someone else would have been petrified by his words and the deadpan expression in his eyes, you had simply chuckled and had taken a sip from the mug, your personal mug, the one you had brought to use in the kitchen for the medical staff.

“We can’t have that, can we? Now I have to discover how you prefer your tea.”

“Do you like challenges, doc?”

He had turned to look at you and you had fancied you could see amusement in the rich brown of his eyes.

“I live for those, lieutenant.” You had taken a couple of steps towards the medical buildings. “Have a nice day!”

You were already halfway through, when Soap had approached Simon.

“Spring wedding, Lt.?”

“I need a sparring partner, and you just volunteered.”

You were always catching his attention without doing so. You were always at the corner of his eyes, busy working, or chatting with the civilian personnel at the base. He’d be running drills with the new recruits and he’d know you were walking somewhere nearby, he’d be at the canteen and you’d be either leaving the premises, or entering them. You’d pop by the military rec room because “You boys get the better tasting tea!” and he’d be snickering to himself in the shadows.

Unconsciously, he had started using the route passing by your office, to go to his (that he had to enter the medical building and then exiting it was something he actively didn’t want to think about), his eyes taking quick peaks at you through the window, whenever you kept the blinds open; you’d be slaving by your desk, elbow deep in paperwork, brows furrowed in concentration, or typing away at your PC. He’s seen you, during night shift, either working or reading with your legs propped up the desk, munching on something sweet, trying to keep yourself awake, or asleep on your couch, curled under a thick blanket; he had felt something warm unfurl in his chest, you looked so small and defenseless he felt the strange urge to stop and keep guarding your door until you’d wake up.

It had been you who had watched over him after a gnarly injury. He had woken up in a hospital bed, oxygen mask on his face, drips in his arm and too many surgical drains poking him. He was still high on the anesthetic and pain killers, his eyes barely focusing on your face that he had thought he was hallucinating you.

“How are you feeling, lieutenant?”

He had needed a moment to speak, his mouth felt like cement.

“Thirsty.” He had managed to say, ashamed that you were seeing him so weak.

“We’re giving you fluids but you’re not clear for food or water, yet. Squeeze my hand if you understand.”

Your small fingers had wounded around his coarse palm, their dainty touch had grounded him: you were real.

“I managed to remove the bullets from your gut. You have a lovely spleen and gall-bladder.”

Even high as a kite, in that precise moment, Simon’s brain had catch up with his heart and had realized he was in love with you, irrevocably, and that he had zero chances with you.

It wasn’t because you were a genius and he was an idiot, Simon knew well that he had the brains to match his ruthlessness, the issue laid in the fact that you two had less to nothing in common. He had seen you read thick tomes he has never heard of and talk with Gaz about movies he didn’t know ever existed; when he had checked any of the titles out he had realized how wildly your tastes forked: what he liked, you would hate, what you loved, made him fall asleep in ten minutes, like that subtitled movie he had tried to watch during leave, he had conked out five minutes in, and awoke when the end credits were rolling.

In his head he could see how a movie date would end up: he asleep and you wondering why he had asked you to come with him to the movie theater. What did he have to say to you that would interest you in his ugly mug? He was a highly trained killer whose hands were dripping blood, he came with a baggage that would put you in danger, what good could he add to your life? Yet, he was attracted to you like a moth to a flame. Even if he wanted, he wouldn’t be able to stop looking for you at the base, or shadow you when you went home.

It wasn’t a matter of stalking you, Simon fully knew where he stood, and that the only thing he could do for you, was keeping you safe; he would hide in the shadows and follow you home, leaving only when he had seen you safe in the quiet of your apartment. He had gifted you weapons, his heart beating a tad too fast when you didn’t run for the hills when he had given you the knife for your birthday, then the pepper spray and then the teaser. He had scared away a persistent date, a guy who simply didn’t want to understand that you weren’t interested: being your guardian devil was all he could offer you.

Soap didn’t help. He kept trying to push him towards you, trying to make sure his lieutenant was alone with you. One night shift he had gone as far as buying takeout, gave it to Simon when you were passing by with a cheeky “You must be famished doc!” and left Simon standing like a log with too many bags in his hands (he was going to use Johnny for target practice, if he ever survived this ordeal). You had stared at him with a smile, so lovely on your face, that he had wanted to bolt, food and all: you scared him in a way no promise of violence ever could. “You shouldn’t have, Simon!” and he had found himself sitting awkwardly on the too small couch in your office, all the plastic dishes neatly organized on the short table in front of him; you had removed your shoes and were sitting on the armrest, a container and a fork in your hand. Of course you were wearing ridiculous eraser yellow socks with tiny bunnies sketched on the cotton.

“Are you hungry, Simon?”

The way you pronounced his name! The way your voice modulated each and every syllable sent a shiver down his spine.

“Yes.” He had lied, his stomach was a knot.

He had been through hell, he knew you could tell by the scars littering his body. He has had too many close brushes with death than what he cared to count, yet he was petrified by your vicinity, by the fact that he had never been ‘Ghost’ to you, you had progressed from ‘Lieutenant’ to ‘Simon’ effortlessly, that you seemed to be able to read him in ways no one ever could. Were you be able to tell that the silence clothing you two was too deafening to him, the man who was the Reaper for his enemies?

What was he supposed to talk about with you? Why couldn’t he find some inane topic that would make you smile? Even the youngest recruit would be able to simply chat with you, why couldn’t he?

“What’s a cycle?” He had blurted out

“What?” You had started at him, quizzically, mouth around a forkful of food.

Yes, his mind provided, way to pass off as an idiot. He couldn’t possible stay silent, he had to press on even though he could only taste bile, not the food he was trying to chew.

“With Gaz. You said you didn’t want to open another cycle.”

“Oh, that!” You had put the fork in the empty container and stared at him. “It’s one of our superstitions.”

You had gently put the container on the table and grabbed your Coke.

“We actually have many, us who work in hospital, that is. It’s all nonsensical, no actual basis but the mind’s strife to put order in the chaos of life.” You had giggled, staring at him. “Don’t make that face!”

Simon was positive he wasn’t making any face whatsoever, it was well known he was a stone and what could you see? He had lifted his mask over his nose to eat, you couldn’t observe a single thing!

“You have very expressive eyes. And I’m going to tell you, after the shift is over, I’m as superstitious as they come!”

You did tell him, when the sun was grazing the horizon and he was having a smoke, dreading that he had to go home, if his sparse apartment could have been called that.

You were standing next to him, your own cigarette between your fingers, a colorful T-shirt half hidden under your hoodie and leather jacket. He had come to realize you only wore your more professional clothes during the day; when you had to work nights, you preferred more casual stuff, that made you look younger than your years. He hated that he could notice that, and that this information made his black heart swell a little.

“There are a handful of superstitions any hospital worker will tell you are true. The first one, the golden rule, is that you never say that a shift is quiet, not while you’re working, or literal hell will break loose. Second one is the cycle: death comes in clusters of three in a ward. It makes no sense and it’s truly pareidolia at its best, but it’s true: ask anyone working at the hospital on base and they’ll tell you that three people will die in a row, perhaps in a span of a few days, but it will happen, all in the same ward.”

You had puffed a cloud of smoke, staring at the sky.

“The others?” He had heard himself ask.

“Oh, the new moon.” You had smiled at him. “Pregnant people tend to give birth more during that time span. It’s utter and complete crap, on a scientific level, but it’s all true. Also, when you’re walking a deserted ward at night and you hear your name being called? No you don’t. You keep walking and ignore the ghosts.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It is, but we believe in it religiously or the most of us do.”

You two had finished your cigarettes in silence, then you had bid him a good day of sleep; he had wondered if he should follow you home just to see you in your apartment, drinking your tea before trying to get some shut eye.

He had done this countless times, after particularly grueling missions, after you had gave all of them a clean bill of health, scolded Gaz (“Fallen off a chopper again? Is this the Darwin Awards sergeant?”) and Soap (“I swear to God MacTavish, you have fun at getting hit in the head!”) for their bumps and scrapes and asked him if he was sure he didn’t need anything to help him sleep.

He was well aware you had clearance to read his medical files, the list of prescriptions he was under, even the stuff the psychiatrist on base had given him to help him navigate his life; he didn’t want any of that, he only needed to see you safe home, to find the strength to go back to his own, so barren compared to yours.

He hadn’t gone to his hole immediately. He had followed you and hid to watch you brew your morning tea and eat a couple of biscuits. The sky had become overcast, yet to him you were still bathed in sunlight, your cozy apartment filled him with a longing he wasn’t capable to bear: would you let him sleep on your small couch? He wouldn’t do anything else but curl there under one of your quaint blankets (he had a preference for the crochet one, but he would have taken anything, really, a rescued dog would accept any scrap of love it was given), lulled to sleep by your presence.

What a loser, right?

It’s raining by the time your date ends.

Simon can’t hear what the douchebag is telling you, but he can’t help the satisfied smile on his face when he sees the guy leave with his tail between his legs: whatever that is, it didn’t work with you and never will.

He tails you from afar, your obnoxious umbrella dotted with pink hearts is the beacon that helps him spot you amidst all the people running from the rain; he doesn’t care that he’s drenched, he’s been through worse.

He stops and ducks in the alleyway he uses to keep an eye on your apartment, waiting for the right moment to hop on to the small balcony where all your plants live.

He doesn’t usually lets himself get so close to you, tonight he can’t help himself: he’s going to listen to you get ready for bed and then go, he’s become hungrier and hungrier for your presence, looking from afar it’s not cutting it anymore. And he’s not going to see you for a whole week, he needs in his bones to absorb whatever little scrapes of your life he possibly can, until you’re back to the base.

He listens as you walk around the apartment barefoot, your clothes hitting the bathroom floor, the whisper of the clothes you wear at home, when you unfold it from its place on the dresser (once he had almost ogled you when you were changing clothes; he had managed to turn around before he could have seen more than he should have, yet the image of your bare back had hunted him for days), some inane documentary on the telly keeping you company as you remove your makeup. It’s all so familiar, so homely, a routine he knows by heart and that is never going to be his, and that relaxes him: if he were yours he would brush his teeth side by side with you, maybe poke at you with his elbow just to make you laugh, he’d carry you to bed bridal style and keep watch until you fall asleep all curled up in his arms. If he were yours, but he’s never going to belong to you.

“Simon?” Your voice comes from the French doors.

His training doesn’t make him jump in surprise, on the inside his heart is hammering like crazy against his ribs.

He stands still, he doesn’t move a single muscle as he hears you exit the warmth of your apartment to join him where the storm is raging.

You stand next to where he is, the two of you sheltered by the worse of the water by the balcony over yours. With the corner of your eyes you see how drenched he is and you have to fight the instinct to scold him from courting pneumonia.

“I have to admit it has taken me a little to notice what you were doing. I thought I was going mad but then I stumbled upon that guy who didn’t understand I wasn’t interested in him: he was petrified and had begged me not to tell ‘my big friend with the skull mask’ that I had met him by chance while queuing at Costa.”

You stare at his hood, still stubbornly covering his face.

You don’t try to uncover his head, you understand that he needs his space and this silence, broken by the rumbling of a thunder.

You’re not mad at him, puzzled yes, but not angry.

“Is it always going to be like this, Simon? You hiding where the borders of my life begin? What if I meet the right person, what then?”

Your words break the spell that keeps him rooted where he is, he scoffs and turns his head to stare at you; you see something dangle from his face, one of the straps of the surgical mask has broken and now he’s naked in front of you, the darkness of the night his only cover.

You’re so close to him he can make out the soft angles of your face, the warm light in your eyes: you should be screaming at him, call the cops on him, yet you’re staring not precisely at the mangled thing he calls his face. He’s the one who has been hiding in the shadows, yet you’re still giving him his space.

“Would you keep on doing this?” You ask.

You’re so close, closer than he’s ever let most of the people be, so close that he can smell your perfume and your face cream.

“What would you do if I told you to stop?”

“I would.”

Those words cut him like knives: it would kill him to stop hunting for the scraps you had, unintentionally, given him, but he would, for your happiness.

“What if I tell you to come inside?”

“You can’t ask me that.”

His voice trembles and he’s a child again, defenseless in the snares of his father.

“Why?”

You’re fully in his space now, you can feel his warmth and he yours. The cotton of your tracksuit drenched with the raindrops falling from his leather jacket.

“Answer me, Simon.”

Your eyes are still avoiding his face, you’re still granting him this sliver of respect when you shouldn’t.

“Talk to me Simon, please.”

You’re on your tip toes now and he can smell the mint of your toothpaste.

He can’t speak, he can’t breathe.

His hands shoot out to grab your arms, his lips find yours in a kiss that’s almost a bite.

When your taste hits him, it’s like a floodgate is being ripped open by the violence of a flood.

Under his your lips part and your tongue seeks his, snuffing out his groans of pleasure, your arms escape his hold and grab his hair under his drenched hood and cap, your body pulls him forward, guiding him inside the sanctuary of your home.

You almost fall and his hands grab your hips to steady you, his tongue shyly plays with yours, as if he’s still insecure of what you’d do, he submits to you when you pull at his hair so that you have free access to his lax mouth: cigarettes and tea, that’s what you taste, his moans rumble against your chest, until you let go, desperate for air.

The darkness of your apartment is broken by the small light by the sofa, not bright enough to show you completely his face.

“Look at me.”

His gravelly voice makes you shiver, yet your eyes stubbornly land somewhere on his chest.

“Look at me.” He repeats, your name like a prayer on his lips.

You lift your gaze and he moves the two of you where you can see him: all of his scars barren to you, his eyes blazing with his own need.

You can feel his hands tremble on your arms, his teeth chatter and it’s not the cold from his drenched clothes.

“We don’t have to do anything, Simon, you know that.”

And by God you’re not lying. You’d be happy to lay on the couch and talk for the rest of the night, you don’t want him to give you something if he’s not ready.

One of his gloved hands finds your soft cheek and cups your face, his expression has softened, he’s so unguarded and scared now.

“I know.”

He’s not sure his body is up for the task, not with the medication he needs to take daily killing his libido most of the times, but that doesn’t really matter in his book, he doesn’t care if he can’t take pleasure from you, as long as he’s making you feel good.

He feels something warm in his guts stirring awake, but he’s not sure he’s going to manage to go on with it fully. Would you hate him for that?

“Simon?”

Your hand is so soft against the scarred skin of his cheek; he knows you use loads of hand cream to fight against the normal dryness that comes with having surgical gloves on every day, the soft scent hits his nostrils and his desire becomes more solid, it slithers from his belly to his cock, stirring it alive.

“Let me take care of you.”

He’ll live his life for you simply following those words: he’d shelter you from any storm, he’d kill for you, if only you asked. He’d go to hell for you, if that meant that you’d be safe and sound.

You see something shift in his eyes; there’s still insecurity there, but it’s fighting against another emotion, desire maybe?

Under another circumstances you’d tell him that you want to look after him as well, that this thing isn’t only about you, but you think that he needs this, to show you his devotion, if you hope to give him a safe space. Despite the blood on his hands, this man is a nurturer, who doesn’t know how to express himself.

“Yes.”

You’re not surprised that he knows the layout of your apartment, that he doesn’t need to turn on the lights to guide you where your bed is.

You kiss him again when you feel his fingers tremble as they hook the hem of your hoodie to lift it up your body, you murmur soft praises as he divests you and you’re standing naked in front of him.

“May I take your clothes off?”

You wouldn’t mind being the only one naked here, if that helped him feel safer; you two can discuss and explore his hard limits later, now you need to tread carefully.

“Keep the lights off?”

“Anything you need, Simon.”

Outside the storm rages, inside you keep asking him if he’s all right as you slowly peel his clothes off, until he’s barren his scarred body to your touch.

You know how he looks on the inside, what those scars left behind under layers of muscle and bones, you can probably recite all of his wounds alphabetically as you kiss them; he’s so beautiful to you, hard planes of muscles you want to caress and explore, dirty blond hairs on his chest you hope you’ll rub your face against, that thick happy trail guiding your eyes to his half hard cock; you want to caress all of him, make him feel good.

He stops you before you can follow the newest scar on his pectoral with the tip of your finger: you have stitched this one close, managed to pull together the mangled sides of the wound nicely.

“Go lay on the bed.” He tells you, his voice more secure.

He helps you with the ridiculous amount of pillows scattered on the bedding. Lovingly he chooses the ones he thinks will be the best to lift your hips up and to rest your head: he wants you comfortable, and happy with the way he’s treating you.

His eyes drink your lax body open for him. There’s a little light coming from the sky outside, enough for him to make out the soft curves of your body and the patch of hairs at your center. He likes a good bush, when he was younger and his libido not so skewed, he would get it going just because his partner wasn’t completely barren and now he feels his cock stir a little more.

“Like what you see?” You ask, arching your back to entice him.

“Yes.” His head goes up and down dumbly.

“Kiss me?”

He lays on you, his body solid on yours, his weight stealing your breath from you, his rough skin heaven against yours.

You let him take control of the kiss, his tongue less shy as it plays with yours, his moans fuller against your mouth: you have no idea how much he loves your taste.

He maps your body with his lips, in his head he takes notice of the way you keen and arch when he nibbles on your throat or sucks on your nipples. His tongue follows the fat drops of perspiration on your skin, his mouth leaves bruising kisses on your tummy when your hands wind up in his hair to push him to go faster: he’s going to savor you, commit you to his memory.

“Simon please!” You beg, but he’s not deterred. “Need… ah!”

He nibbles your trembling tights, his stubble will leave a rushes on the soft skin and a twisted part of him is proud that you will carry his mark around. His hips kick when your nails scratch his nape: please, yes, brand him as yours, even if you don’t want to keep him, leave the proof of you needing him, even if it is for one time.

You’re already wet when his fingers open your lower lips to his eyes, you’re not drenched yet and he hopes his ministration will get you there so that he can drown in your scent.

The first kiss on your clit is fleeting, shy almost, your body responds by kicking your hips up, needy for more contact and he can’t believe this is happening: he must be dead and landed in heaven, somehow.

“Need you, Simon.” You whimper under his scrutiny.

“I’m here, love.”

His voice is lower, gruff against your folds and you keen, the vibrations torture against your nerves.

Reverent he hoists your legs up his shoulders to open you up properly, his big hands splay on your tummy, your fingers finding his to anchor yourself.

He’s shy at first, exploring your folds with his tongue, playing with your clit slowly, mapping out your response and thank God he’s holding you down because you hips kick up immediately, as soon as his lips wound around your nub to suck softly, your legs clamping around his head and if he’s not dead he wishes you’d snap his neck while he’s eating you out: there’s no better death in his book.

You’re trashing under him, your body arching, feet trying to find purchase on the slick skin of his back, to move away, to gain advantage, you don’t know, your brain is fried, your body a knot of overstimulated nerves, and it’s not because you haven’t had sex in so long. It’s Simon’s mouth on your cunt, it’s his tongue playing with you until you come all over his face, again. It’s his moans of pleasure when your honey hits his taste buds, his wicked fingers exploring your depths, bullying that hidden part of yourself that makes you see stars. It’s his hushed words of praise, his grunts when his cock slaps against his belly with every instinctual kick of his hips against nothing.

You’ve lost your words a couple of orgasms ago, your lungs are too busy trying to pull air in and out to be of any use, your eyes can barely focus on his, dark with hunger, when he looks at you from between your legs.

He needs you ready, wet and loose for him, if his body can keep it up for him to have a full intercourse with you and, if he can’t, he wants you satisfied with what he can give you.

He groans against you when your fingers manage to find purchase on his short hair. He lets you pull his body up to yours, until he’s laying fully on you, your lips seeking his in a hungry kiss that has you keen when you taste yourself on him.

You hiccup his name, cunt rubbing against his erection hastily when his engorged tip slides against your clit.

“Wait!” He chokes out, lifting himself from your body.

Even full of endorphins are you are, alarm bells start ringing in your head at the preoccupation in his tone: did you do something wrong?

In his head Simon is trying to list off the entire armory back at the base, desperate to reel his orgasm in: it has been too bloody long and he feels like he’s sixteen again, popping his cherry with the cashier girl at the news stand at the end of his street.

He’s not sure his body can manage a second round, he doesn’t want to lose this one opportunity to sink inside of you.

“Simon?”

You try to keep the agitation from your voice. If, for whatever reason, he needs to stop, you need to make sure he’s not feeling like he’s leaving you unsatisfied.

Over you, Simon fists the sheets and closes his eyes, head bent so that you can’t see his labored expression. He bullies himself into breathing slowly and steadily, focusing his attention of what his senses tell him: the soft cotton of your bed sheets, your rugged breathing and the sounds of the city spilling in your shared sanctuary.

He needs to control the reactions of his body, center himself on every muscle, every nerve, the same way he does when he’s ready to snipe out an enemy.

“Love.” He groans.

“Do you need to stop?”

His head snaps up, the concern and the affection he sees on your face break him: he shouldn’t make you feel so anxious for him.

“No.” He groans, his body still trying to fight his iron will.

“Simon.” You touch his cheek. “I’m happy if you’re OK, you know that, right?”

Oh Christ he’s going to come untouched if you keep being so gentle with him: he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve you!

“Tell me you have condoms.”

His need for you is a knot of pain sitting in his lower belly, his body is reluctantly following his orders, but his cock aches for you, every breathe he takes is a stab in his gut.

“The lower drawer.”

He stops you from moving. Gritting his teeth he reaches for the knob of the bedside table and fishes in the odds and ends, a light of hope burning wild when he touches the plastic wrapper and grabs it hastily.

He gently moves your hands away when you try to help him roll the condom on his aching erection: he will come if you touch him.

You help him maneuver your legs around his hips, your hamstrings protesting at the angle he has to position you, your cunt flutters when he, slowly, rubs himself against your wetness: he’s prepared you well to take him, you’re drenching him, the wet sounds like music.

He blacks out as soon as he bottoms out, when your cunt clenches around him, stealing his pleasure from him.

The cold wakes you up. Outside the storm is still raging and the bedside lamp is out of commission, it forces you to feel around until you find Simon’s T-shirt, still discarded where you have thrown it. On trembling legs you stand up and wear it, before you paddle to the living room; you’re pleasantly sore, the kind of sweet pain you cherish because it means you’ve been loved well.

“Simon?”

The sound of a glass being deposited on the table makes you turn towards the kitchen: he’s there, his massive form blacker than the night itself.

“You’re out of power.” He rumbles.

He’s dressed back in his jeans and hoodie, the hood back up over his head.

“It’s the power grid of the entire block. Weather like this plunges us back to the Middle Ages.” You try to defuse the tension in the air with your lame joke. “Come back to bed? It’s awfully cold without you.”

You stand in front of him, his body ramrod straight in front of yours.

“You want me there?”

You hate his tone, so clipped and collected. He breaks your heart.

“Why wouldn’t I want you there?”

The way his head turns makes sure you can’t look at his expression, and you can’t have that.

The anxious way he had stared at you after his peak had made all your alarm bells ring in your head. You had hugged him, making sure his face was hidden in the curve of your neck, you had caressed his tensed back until he had relaxed in your embrace, your voice warm with praise for the way he had made you come, repeatedly, on his face.

“I didn’t…” You don’t make him finish.

Boldly you enter his space again, one hand sneaking under his hoodie to find his warm skin; you need to risk it all, if you want to keep whatever link you have with him.

“You didn’t hear me complain, let me finish. You have no idea how hot it was to see you lose control like that, for little old me. You managed what no partner hell! Even my own vibrator ever could, Simon. I lost count of how many times you made me come for you, my maximum is two times in a row, and I needed a moment in between those. It’s not what happened with you.”

His hand snatches yours in a lax hold, you know full well he could break all your bones if only he wanted.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You don’t let the low growl deter you. Slowly, you move your trapped hand, and his, up to your face; you know he’s letting you maneuver him, man his size you wouldn’t be able to otherwise. You’re not sure how much he can see, yet you telegraph your movements anyway, your teeth biting the tip of his gloved middle finger to pull the garment away: if he wants, he can stop you any time.

You let it fall on the floor and guide his scarred hand between your legs.

“Can you feel how wet I still am for you, Simon?” He hiccups on a breathe. “Answer me.”

You can feel his full body shudder at your command, and God isn’t it the hottest thing ever?

“I do.”

His fingers start to explore your folds and you have to steel yourself or you’ll lose your thread.

“Am I lying to you? Is my cunt lying to you?”

“No.”

He’s breathless and, if you’d feel for his heart, you’d hear it thumping wildly against his chest. He needs to remove his fingers from the warm cradle of your cunt, yet his brain is stubbornly refusing to send the information to his hand.

“I don’t care whether or not you rearrange my guts with your cock, Simon. Sex is great, orgasms are amazing, but all of it pales compared to all the time we spent together just talking. Tell me you understand.”

His fingers clench inside of you and you moan.

“I understand.”

“Then, explain to me like I’m stupid, why I wouldn’t want to wake up wrapped around you. Why I wouldn’t want to explore every inch of your skin until you’re too out of it to even beg. You make me come on your cock? That’s a plus. You make me laugh and chat with me during night shift? You, somehow, know how I drink my tea? That’s what I value. You make sure I am home safe? That’s the kind of dedication I have never found in anybody else.”

His free hand grabs your hip to steady you, his fingers, still deep inside of you, haven’t stopped moving, plunging into you inch by inch.

“I wouldn’t mind sitting on your face until you tap out, but I’d be as happy to lay on the sofa and watch this awful storm for the rest of the night.”

There’s another storm wrecking war inside of him, two sides pulling him in two different directions: one that’s screaming that he needs to leave, now, before he embarrasses himself even further, the other is fueling liquid fire in his guts, all his blood tumbling, again, to his cock.

“I don’t need to tap out, I can bench press your weight.”

You don’t have the time to whine at the loss of his fingers, not when he hauls you up and against the nearest wall, knocking your breath out of your lungs.

Simon is fueled by desperation, one hand under your arse to keep you where you should be, the other fishing for his zipper, knuckles knocking against yours in your dual haste: he hasn’t felt like this in ages and, this time, he’s actually in control of his own desire.

“Please!” You beg. “Now Simon!”

“Need to make sure…”

You snap your teeth near his ear, you don’t care if you’re ready or not, the drag of his cock against your folds is driving you mad.

“I swear to God if you don’t put it in immediately I will murder you in your sleep!”

He moans when he breaches you again. Despite his need, he pushes slowly in and out, helping your body accept his intrusion, his mouth overs yours, drinking your shaky breaths.

A juicy curse slips his lips once he’s bottomed out, your cunt trapping him in your depths, warm and silky around his cock.

Your forehead knocks against his, your breaths coming out in harsh puffs as you try to relax your quivering muscles around him and God you wish you could see his face.

“So… warm, ah!” He moans.

You call his name, drunk on the feeling of fullness, of being owned, on his hands grappling the cotton of the T shirt to reach your skin, shredding it to taste you on his tongue again. He’s burning up, he feels too hot and your trembling hands on the hem of his hoodie are a blessing, trying to free him, his scarred torso now crashing against yours, his lips locking with yours as he moves, desperate in and out of you, groaning when you sheath him again in your warmth.

“I can’t! I can’t!” You scream when his rough fingers find your clit again.

He needs you to come all around him the same way he needs air, he’s teetering his own end, those warm flames licking at the edge of his consciousness but he doesn’t want to be selfish, to use you again for his own pleasure.

“Need you.” He keens, broken when the high pitched scream of his name becomes a long wail and your body tries to squirm away from his hold, his fingers grabbing your hip so tightly he knows he’s going to leave bruises on the soft skin.

“Simon! Simon!”

You push with the heels of your feet against his tailbone, desperate to evade his hold, your brutalized clit firing and firing, the pleasure burning through you, his body pulling you closer, his cock pistoning wildly in your warmth, the squelching of your shared pleasure spurring him on, your nails scratching his skin careening him into his own pleasure.

You come, your cunt wounding so tightly around him that he spills with a shout that you don’t hear: you’ve already blacked out.

It’s Wednesday and you haven’t left your apartment. You’ve barely made out of bed to try and sort out the mess the storm has left on the balcony, on Monday, when he had left only to come back with a duffel filled with black, identical clothes (you’ve lost this bet with the nurses at the hospital, indeed he owns the same outfit, go figure!).

He had taken a long look at you, marched to where you were trying to save one of the potted plants smashed on the floor, had manhandled you inside your bedroom (and you were giggling the whole time like a teenager), removed your home clothes looking at them as if they personally offended him and bullied you into one of his black T shirts; only then he had looked at you and growled “That’s better”. And now you’re laying on the bed, cuddled with your head on his shoulder, while you’re browsing on your phone, in the hope to find an online store that isn’t Amazon, to find some surgical masks with sturdier straps than the one he’s currently using.

He’s black mass on the colorful bedding, dressed head to toe in his black clothes, skull baklava to protect his face. Only his hands are free of his gloves and he makes you feel like a Victorian gentleman staring at a naked ankle, your eyes wandering from your phone to his long fingers curled around an e-book reader.

It’s domestic, and all you ever wanted from life, despite being so different from what anyone you know would deem normal.

You two have talked about his whole demeanor of the past years, he’s worshiped your body until you had to beg him to stop, that it was too much; in the dark you have made good on your promise to map out his skin until he was choking on his on breathe, too far gone to even moan.

He hasn’t let you see his body during night time and that’s OK, you don’t expect him to overcome years of life in the span of a couple of days; the fact that he’s lounging with you, that he’s accepting the amount of physical contact that comes with you hugging him and using him as your personal body pillow, it’s a miracle to you. Last night, when you were trying to watch a movie, he had let you follow the paths of his sleeve tattoo, ending up falling asleep, his big body lax in your hold.

“We should go on a date.” You say, turning your head to look at his masked face.

“We have been on dates.”

“Eating take out food Soap has bullied you into buying is not a date.”

You can see his lips break out in a smile under the baklava.

“How is he still alive?”

“He’s a fast bastard.”

“You should thank him.”

“His head would grow ten times the size, you wouldn’t like that, love.”

“We should still go.”

There’s a part of him that still can’t believe this is happening, that you haven’t cussed him out in the rain, that you want to be seen around next to him, skull mask and all. That you’re so accepting of his hit and miss libido: he’s made up in Heaven, somehow, this can’t be his life.

Using your own distraction against you, he rolls you under his body: you look so right wearing his T-shirt and nothing else, it’s a travesty to dress you up in something that doesn’t smell like him.

“And where would you bring me?”

You beam up to him, your hands caressing his sides slowly over the material of his hoodie.

“Wherever you’d like.”

Even if it’s eating out on the balcony, you’d be happy, as long as he’s living his life with you, not hunting for scraps: you want to give him all.

[cherryblossomcowgirl]

Stitches

WC: 1.5k

Trigger warnings: Injury; crash, mentions of death; hospital; FLUFF

.

.

“Okay Lieutenant Commander Seresin, I am Dr. Y/n Y/l/n, let’s take a look at what we have here. Ejection from aircraft?” I flip through the chart, making my way into the small room. Concussion, bruising, lacerations, and some road rash. A feeling of worry spreads over me, an ejection? Not only does it sound dangerous, but it also sounds terrifying. My eyes rise up from the papers, meeting the bright green eyes of my patient. My gorgeous, Ken doll of a patient. He sighs, “How bad is it?” I scan him up and down, “We will need to keep you overnight for observation, but you should be able to go home in the morning. I am going to stitch you up now, your numbing shots should have kicked in.” Sitting beside him, I start to sterilize the wounds. He stares at the needle and I can see the nerves on his face. He gulps, “So, uh, where did you go to med school?” I smile in an attempt to calm him, “University of Texas. How about yourself?” The blonde man winces as I sew the first laceration closed, “Hook ‘em, ma’am.” I smile, “Born in Texas, or a transplant?” “Born and raised. From your accent I am assuming you’re the same?” A laugh escapes my lips as I finish up the second long cut on his arm, “Is it that noticeable?” “Yes ma’am. Now can I ask you something and you won’t get offended?” I raise my eyebrow, “Sure, Lieutenant Commander.” He grits his teeth as I finish up the longest cut on his leg, “How old are you? You look a little young to have graduated from med school.” I knot the stitch, “I am 28. This is my first year of residency. And you? Don’t remember seeing you around campus.” I pat his leg and he smirks, “36, ma’am. I would’ve remembered you.” I blush and start putting away my materials, “Well, uh, sir, I will be checking in during rounds. You can hit the call button if you need anything. Your CT scans should come back soon and I’ll read them for you.” As I walk away I can hear his smile as he says, “Thank you, doc.”

.

.

I knock lightly on the door before opening it, “Hi Lieutenant Commander. Your scans came back clear. We can get you out of here first thing in the morning. How is your pain right now?” He turns to me and smiles, “2/10. And you can call me Jake.” “Well Jake, let me know if you have any other questions.” He clears his throat, “Actually I do. Do doctors wear wedding rings?” I furrow my brow, confused, “Married ones do, why?” A smirk spreads across his face, “So there is no Mr. Dr. Y/l/n?” I laugh, “No, Jake. There is not.” “Well in that case, want to grab dinner once I get out of here?” Heat rises to my cheeks yet again, “Oh, Jake, I can’t..” “So there is a future Mr. Dr. Y/l/n?” I shake my head, “No, it’s just I am only 18 hours into my 72 hour shift.” He thinks for a second, “Well how about in 54 hours, I come back and pick you up? As a thank you.” I fiddle with the chart in my hands, hoping he doesn’t see how red my cheeks are, “Sure, Jake.” His smile spreads as I walk out of the room, “Press the call button if you need anything.”

.

.

When I walk in to sign Jake’s discharge papers, he is already out of his bed and dressed. I sigh, “You took out your IVs?” He laughs, “Yes ma’am.” “That’s my job.” Jake checks his watch, “I will see you in 48 hours, Dr. Y/l/n.” Shaking my head, I giggle, “You can call me Y/n, Jake.” His smirk makes my heart skip a beat, “Have a good shift.” “Thank you.” I walk out of the room, wondering what I am getting myself into. My shift flies by, like usual. I stand in for a couple of surgeries and actually get a few hours of sleep. My eyes keep peeking at my watch. That blonde Texan is taking over my brain. I have never seen such a beautiful man. Blonde hair, green eyes, tan, and oh so muscular. I clock out and change into my outfit. I curse myself for not picking something cuter. Just a pair of jeans and a fitted t-shirt. Heading to the front of the hospital, I realize I don’t have his number to tell him where to pick me up. As I exit through the sliding doors, Jake is sitting on a bench and he’s holding flowers. He sees me and jumps up, “Hey there, doc.” I smile as he hands me the flowers, “A true southern gentleman.” “I didn’t know what your favorite kind was.. and sunflowers remind me of back home.. so I thought I’d grab them.” “You’re sweet. There’s actually a sunflower field on our ranch.” He runs his hand through his hair, “I’m assuming your car is here, but would you like me to drive? I’ve never picked up a girl from a hospital before so I’m not really sure what the protocol is.” I giggle, “I’ll ride with you, thanks.” He leads me to a lifted pickup truck and laughs when he sees my face, “You can take a boy out of Texas, but you can’t take his truck.” Jake opens my door and gives me a hand up. His hand is so large and steady. He starts the engine and starts driving. Country music is playing on the radio. I feel like I am back home, nervous and trying to impress my high school crush. Jake’s hand reaches over and settles on my thigh, “Thank you for stitching me up. They’re healing real nice.” I try to focus on anything other than his hand on me, “You’re welcome. You got pretty banged up.” He pulls into the parking lot of a restaurant and turns to me, “Yeah, dangers of the job. But I hope you like seafood, this spot has the best view in all of North Island.” “Sounds perfect.”

.

.

He opens the door and I follow him in, noticing how broad his shoulders are. Our table is outside, overlooking the ocean. We sit down and I gaze off at the waves, “This is beautiful, Jake.” He smirks and hands me a menu, “Do you like wine?” “I actually don’t drink.” He raises an eyebrow, “Can I ask why?” I laugh, “No deep or interesting tale, I’m just kind of a health freak.” He leans in, intrigued, “Okay give me the rundown.” “No food dyes, no high fructose corn syrup or artificial sweeteners, no seed oils, and I try to avoid very processed foods.” His jaw has dropped, “Okay, that’s amazing. You will be mortified to see how I eat.. a lot of freezer meals.” “Oh Jake.. we have to get you meal prepping.” He shrugs, “You’ll just have to teach me.” “Deal.” The waitress takes our orders and conversation flows so easily. Jake is smart, funny, and very thoughtful when he speaks. The food comes and it is amazing. Jake clears his throat, “I feel like I’ve bombarded you with questions, so it’s your turn.” I think, “Last serious relationship?” I regret asking it immediately. How forward can I be? He smiles, “I’ll be honest with you, it’s been years. My career doesn’t usually mix well with long term relationships. How about you?” I chew on my bottom lip, “I dated a little bit in college, but never anything serious. My whole life I have just been focused on becoming a doctor.” He nods, “I like you. You’re very straightforward.” “Yeah, uh, sorry. Like I said, it’s been a while.” “How was your shift?” I smile, “I got to assist in an aortic repair surgery and a defibrillator placement! The lead surgeon let me remove the damaged valve. I literally had a piece of someone’s heart in my hand.” “So you’re a surgeon?” “Well, first year surgery resident. Usually 75% make it through all 3 years.” His eyes meet mine with a look of genuine admiration, “You’ll make it.” A blush creeps across my face and I look down, “Thank you.” He pays for dinner and stands up, “Can I show you one more thing?” My stomach flutters and I nod, following him back to his truck.

.

.

He drives down the coast, finally pulling in to a quiet park of the beach. He opens my door and grabs my hand, “Watch your step, okay?” He leads us right past the dunes, sitting in the sand. I sit beside him, the crashing waves sending a calm feeling over me. I turn and meet his green eyes, “Were you scared when you had to eject?” He takes a deep breath, “Yes ma’am. That was the second time in my whole career. The lever jammed for a second. Didn’t think I’d make it.” Instinctively, my hand rests on his shoulder, “I’m sorry, Jake.” My thumb traces circles and I can see him relax, “You must be exhausted, I should take you back.” I breathe in the ocean air, “Just one more minute?” He throws his arm around me and pulls me in to lean on his shoulder, “As many more as you’d like.”

[gotta-winwin]

(🎞️) ... hit the road docu.<> if i walked at my own pace

masterlist | cyana's masterlist

word count: 1.8k tw: anxiety, mentions of bullying, panic attacks, sleeping pills italics are interviews cut between scenes + english a/n: we're finally starting to dive into cyana's backstory + the mystery of what happened in LA! if any of the above trigger warnings trigger you - scroll away, stay safe, and come back for the next one 💓

Cyana never really understood how some of the members could stand to watch their own fancams. Sure, she understood that it was a vital part of analyzing their performance, but every time she tried searching up her own fancams, she was greeted with a wave of self-embarrassment and cringe. 

“It won’t be like that forever,” Vernon tried comforting her, pausing his own fancam on his phone to look up at her. “You’ll end up getting used to watching yourself on camera.” 

Cyana shuddered. “I can’t imagine I’d ever get used to that.” Reaching over, she pressed play on his phone. “Other people’s fancams, however, that I like to watch.”

Vernon laughed, his ears turning pink as he adjusted his phone, letting Cyana watch over his shoulder. 

“Woww,” She marveled at the end, quietly applauding the performance. “So cool.”

Vernon smiled, swiping out of the video. “Not bad, huh.”

“Psh.” She smacked his shoulder lightly. “Not bad my ass. Give yourself some more credit, Hansol.” 

His lips quivered into a small smile, amused by how Cyana seamlessly switched to calling him by his Korean name when speaking English. Ironic, but for some reason it fit. 

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” 

Vernon opened the door to the record store, motioning Cyana to head in first. He had promised the girl he’d accompany her to get a couple records, knowing how much she had been looking forward to browsing the New York streets. He was just as excited, shopping for anything music related was probably the only shopping he found himself enjoying. 

“The National.” Cyana said, already flipping through the boxes of records. “The 1975, The Cure, really anything I can get my hands on.” She pulled one out, gasping as she presented it to Vernon. “No way! Look at this.” 

Taking the record from her hands, he turned it over to read out the artist. “The Beatles?” He looked at her, a little confused. “I didn’t think you’d be a big Beatles fan.”

Cyana looked a little offended at his words. “I am. Huge fan. I’m getting that one.” 

Vernon held the record out of her reach, tucking it underneath his arm as he moved to another aisle. “I’ll get it for you, don’t worry about it.”

“Really?”

Vernon hummed, sifting through the boxes, looking for his own purchase. 

“Wow. Look at you,” Cyana tucked into his side, a hand around his lower arm as she browsed the options with him. “So dependable.” 

“How are you feeling?” The doctor prodded at Vernon’s neck and throat. “Any soreness?”

He shook his head, thankful that he wasn’t feeling at all ill, unlike the others. “I’m doing fine, doc.”

He watched as the doctor moved on to Woozi, repeating the same procedure with him and asking the same questions. Pulling out his phone, Vernon scrolled in a daze, allowing his mind to shut off for a little bit before their concert. He liked letting his mind blank out for a moment, like it was rebooting all his thoughts, worries and signals. 

It was Cyana’s quiet voice that pulled him out, most likely because the girl was speaking English.

“Do you think I can get some meds for sleeping?” 

Vernon looked up from his phone, eyebrows furrowed as he watched Cyana interact with the doctor, who was packing up his kit, ready to go. 

“Have you been having trouble sleeping?” The doctor asked her, pausing to give her a proper lookover. 

“A bit.” Cyana mumbled, glancing around, as if to check that no one was listening. Her eyes drifted over Vernon before returning to the floor next to her feet. “Or just in case.” 

Nodding, the doctor pulled out a bottle, shaking it slightly before handing it to her. “Most people in your line of work ask for the same thing, so I always keep it on hand. Take two before bed, three, if it’s not enough. But no more, alright?” 

Vernon watched Cyana slip the pill bottle into her hoodie pocket, thanking the doctor before retreating back into her chair. He frowned before shrugging, returning back to his phone and putting his brain back on airplane mode. It was whatever, right? 

“I could remember our LA show extremely clearly because I remember how Cyana’s face looked minutes before it.” Vernon told the camera, moistening his lips before continuing. “She looked like going on stage would destroy her completely.” 

Even under the dim lights beneath the stage, Vernon could tell there was something different about the way Cyana looked as they waited for the platform to rise with them on top of it. Usually she’d be smiling his way with a bright, dazzling grin, all pumped up for their performance and buzzing with energy. Now however, as Vernon stared at her, she seemed distant - almost muted - as if something had drained all the color from her cheeks. 

He reached over and gently shook her shoulder. “You good?” He mouthed, searching her eyes for an answer.

She shrugged his hand off her shoulder and mouthed back an okay, before turning away and readjusting her mic.

He didn’t believe her one bit.

“I mean,” He tried explaining himself to the camera. “I could relate to her, I guess. I keep things to myself a lot too. If I'm struggling, I won’t hide it, but it’s not like I’ll talk about it either.” He let out a small sigh. “I guess that’s why I didn’t say anything for a long time. I thought maybe silence was just normal for her like it was for me.”

Looking back now, on that concert day in LA, Vernon could remember seeing her hunched over, backstage, after a particularly intense run of Getting Closer. He remembered chalking up her sweat and body chills to mere overexhaustion, simply handing her a bottle of water before going back up for his turn with the Hiphop Unit. 

He also remembered hearing her quiet sobs and harsh breaths from across the room, as they all waited for the Performance Unit to finish with their set. Cyana was mostly covered by a worrying Joshua, fussing over her and whispering something Vernon was too far away to hear. 

He remembered how worried everybody was that day. How DK and Hoshi were unnaturally quiet on the way back to the hotel, their eyes sending fleeting glances over to Cyana, unsure what they could do to help. How Jeonghan and Joshua could only sit and hold her hand, Joshua’s eyes sending signals to Jeonghan that Vernon couldn’t understand. But most of all, he remembered how Dino came to sleep in his room that night, tears tracking down his face as he sobbed over Cyana asking to room alone. The boy couldn’t understand why she had kicked him out - and why they were all useless to stop it. 

“I was already worried about Coups hyung.” Vernon recalled. “We look out of sync when we’re missing someone, and I didn’t want Cyana to need to leave as well.” 

Vernon had no idea what was going on, as he tried meeting Joshua’s eyes to ask him what the hell was up with their youngest member. The older boy infuriatingly refused to meet his eyes, only leaving Cyana’s room to grab food or water for the girl. 

“Just wait.” He told Vernon when Vernon finally got a hold of him, just about to leave the washroom after brushing his teeth. “She’ll explain when she feels better.”

“Why can’t you just tell us now, though?” Vernon asked. “Everyone is going insane. Both DK and Dino went to bed crying last night and Mingyu looks like a kicked puppy waiting outside her door. Seungkwan even told me Wonwoo’s affected, something about how his face is stuck permanently in a worried expression. I’m going insane too, hyung.” He admitted the last part rather timidly.

Joshua looked torn. “I can’t.” He finally said after a painful pause. Moving behind Vernon, Joshua left, leaving him standing in front of the bathroom, looking incredibly stupid and pathetic. 

“I just wanted answers.” Vernon mumbled, not looking at the interviewer or the camera as he spoke. “And it felt like no one really had them. All of us had recounted that day, trying to piece together what could have affected Cyana so terribly - but none of us could think of anything at all.”

Cyana made sure to walk right next to Woozi as they exited the venue in between the barricades holding their fans back. It was rather strategic of her, she knew. Walking next to Woozi would ensure a constant presence - he wasn’t one to run up to the barricades and interact with fans, wasn’t one to draw attention to himself and therefore those around him. Cyana chose to be next to him for send-off for one reason: to not be seen. 

She couldn’t justify the fear to herself - let alone other people - so she kept the fear she knew was irrational and childish hidden. How was she to explain she was afraid of the crowd? Of their beloved fans?

Oh hey, Joshua. Yeah, I can’t do today’s concert because I’m afraid I’ll go up onstage and someone from the crowd will jump me. Or shoot me. Or throw a knife at me. Or throw acid up onstage. Or- anyways, yeah. So I can’t perform today. I feel like I might pass out onstage. Why? Oh- I kinda have people who want to kill me in LA. Yeah- from highschool. Bullies. I know, a long time ago. So it’s irrational. Right? And it’s not like they said they’d kill me. So it should be fine, right?

A swirl of thoughts wrapped around her as she continued to walk, putting one foot in front of the other, trying to block out the loud cheers and screams from the crowd. She had gone through the concert. Now all she needed to do was walk through the sea of fans, enter the company car and go home. 

You have to at least wait till you’re back in the hotel room before you break down. She chided herself. You must.

A scream, not much louder than the rest of the fans, caught her ear. She whipped her head around at the sound of her voice - yelled out through a sea of fans. She knew that voice. Her blood grew cold as her ears rang - muffling the world around her - and Cyana felt as if she was sixteen once again.

Her eyes drifted from face to face in the direction of the scream until it landed on a girl in the front row, holding a bright pink banner with Vernon’s name on it. 

“Cyana!” The girl yelled out again, her eyes twinkling in a way that made Cyana’s skin feel ice cold. 

And she watched, horrified, as the familiar girl mouthed an all too familiar five words at her. I’m going to get you. 

[genericpuff]

r u alive & OK?

i am alive, and sort of okay but also sort of not u.u Been dealing with a looot of jaw pain from teeth problems, and fatigue because I'm switching from Concerta to Wellbutrin so I haven't been taking my meds 🥲

I'll be starting the Wellbutrin tomorrow after my trip to the dentist, I'm nervous but hoping it works to treat my ADHD better. Concerta helped in some ways but it was really unpredictable and inconsistent, and required waaaayyy too many factors to ensure it would do its job, factors that I could just, y'know, implement and rely on without the meds making me feel way too hyper and unfocused (which is really all they were doing, like yeah they were helpful to get my energy up but once my energy was up it was REALLY hard to use it efficiently and wound up just being overstimulating and exhausting x.x)

Concerta did at least help me get some of my shit on track, but it had diminishing returns for me and frustrating side effects sooo my doc and I are hoping that Wellbutrin (a non-stimulant SSRN) will help balance me out better. Might take Concerta again alongside it in the future (but at a lower dose obv) if I need that extra energy boost.

Biggest thing rn though is def my jaw. I've been anywhere from a 4 to an 8 on the pain scale for the last month now, every single day. It's made it very difficult to get work done, esp when I have a tendency to clench my jaw when I'm drawing. No clue if it's bruxism or TMJ or another side effect of the Concerta or just my wisdom teeth stirring up trouble, but I'll be finding out tomorrow. At the very least, the wisdom teeth def need to go, they're in pretty bad shape and I've been putting off extracting them for waaay too long. My husband's gonna be at work so my work husband is coming with me instead lmao

but yeah! that's my lil' life update. shit's hard rn but i'm hoping (begging) it'll ease up soon. at the very least, i am alive and that's what matters 🥲 ty for checking in <3 (and for being patient while i crawl through the shit pipe lmaoo)

[justafreakonline]

“My Current Girlfriend”

summary: my current girlfriend prank on your girlfriend. Pretty self explanatory tbh. But for a few of the UConn girls.

pairings: Morgan x reader, Paige x reader, Nika x reader, KK x reader and Azzi x reader

warnings: none maybe some freaky jokes

word count: 2251

Sorry some are longer than others. I ran out of energy. If there’s grammar errors I don’t care 🫶

Morgan Cheli

“Mo, baby come film a fit check.” I said, she stood in the kitchen wearing a white tube top, baggy blue jeans, a leather jacket that I had thrifted for her and doc martin shoes not boot.  Damn she’s fine. I am very lucky to be her current girlfriend. Damn. 

She looked up from her phone where I’m guessing she was texting her mom or scrolling on Pinterest and smiled softly the way she always did when I called her name. I shot a glance at the camera as Morgan walked over. I smiled gently wrapping my arm around Morgan’s waist and placing one hand on her chest like I wasn’t about to piss her off. 

“Hey guys I’m here with my current girlfriend, we’re about to go on a date. Movie and a dinner the whole shabang. Right baby?” Morgan’s face was completely confused. She looked at me as if I said I was going to join a cult. Not off brand for me but still.

“Hold on… I know I did not hear that right. Let’s try again.” She said. Oh poor innocent baby. Her eyes were on me as I started again. 

“Ok no problem. Hey guys so me and my current girlfriend-“ 

“Y/n” Morgan said cutting me off “What?No…”

I laughed slighting looking at the girl, I raised my eye brow. She was now looking at me like I had something growing out of my ears. I ran my hand down her chest trying to distract her again 

“My full name? That is crazy.” I say gasping in mock offense while looking up at the girl whose eyes were so wide it was laughable. 

“You know what’s crazy? Current girlfriend. Current girlfriend is crazy work.” She said tilting her head.

“Well you’re the girlfriend I have right now, ergo current.” I said biting my cheek so I wouldn’t smile to much

“Do you mean like currently your girlfriend and in the future your wife. Cause there is no way you’re replacing me.” She said placing her hands “If this is some kind of pre-breakup announcement you better say that shit with your chest or not at all.” 

“I just mean you’re the girlfriend I have right now.” I couldn’t help it anymore a smile broke through. 

“Girl…ain’t no way you’re saying this to me. No way you introduced me as a place holder” She said looking at me with an annoyed expression. Her eyes flicked over to the camera “Are you pranking me right now. Y/n this is not funny.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” I said through giggles “You’re it for me. My girlfriend forever and always.”

I pulled her close to me and kissed her cheek softly.

“Nah. I’m your girlfriend right now but someday I’m marrying your dumbass.” She said wrapping her arms around me.

“Oh hell yeah.” I said kissing her

                               ____

Paige Bueckers 

Since Paige has joined the W she’s been much more busy. This isn’t saying she doesn’t give me enough attention. Trust me she does. And after practice she still has energy if you know what I mean. But it does mean she has less time to scroll on social media. 

Which means she doesn’t get half the brainrott jokes you make but it does mean you get to do your new favorite trend on her “My current girlfriend”. You practically jumped up and down with joy when you realized the fact. 

But since you didn’t want be murdered by your girl you got candy to soothe her anger and also an excuse to film a video. Paige say next to you. Her arm resting casually on the back of the couch behind you as she lounged back in her chair. She was eyeing you like you were the candy. Her lip between her teeth.

“Can you stop eye-fucking me so I can start the video?” I ask rolling my eyes as I propped up the camera.

“My bad,” she sat up so her elbows rested on her knees. “Continue.”

“Stop manspreading; you look so gay.” I said rolling my eyes as I fixed my hair. 

“No way. It’s almost like I am.” She laughed. I rolled my eyes and clicked record on my phone.

“So basically I know I’m late to the trend. But me and my current girlfriend-“

“Ah hell nah.” Paige said before I could even finish my sentence. I blinked slowly looking at her.

“Excuse me?” 

“What’s this current girlfriend bull shit? Nah cut the camera.” She said looking at the phone.

“Paige you are my current girlfriend.”

“Girl first of all don’t play with me. Second of all there’s nothing current about this it’s eternal. Yall hear that.” She said looking at the camera. “Yall here this she actin like I’m replaceable. Baby there’s no one better than me.”

“Paige-“ 

“No. No. I’m not done. She’s mine. And she ain’t going no where end of story. This is locked down. We’d be married right now if she let me.”

“Paige-“

“Nothing current about this. If you think other wise you’re gonna be currently sleeping on the couch.l

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Nah. We starting this video over.” She said reaching for the phone. “Current my ass.”

                               ____

KK Arnold

I was hopeful KK hadn’t seen the current girlfriend trend yet. She was online just as much as me, maybe more, but a girl can dream. KK knew I had a habit of filming for “my future kids” or “Our future kids” if you asked KK. So me filming videos while we were out was common.

“Hi kids it’s your mom right now I’m at this adorable ice cream shop.” I said, KK stood next to me. “I got a vanilla cone it’s probably the best I’ve ever had.”

“Ooo oo let me in the video.” She said nudging her self into the frame.

“And my current girlfriend is here.” KK’s smile dropped so fast.

“I know you did not just-uh. I- girl.” Her smilr was dropped and she was completely facing me. “Hold on. Run it back.”

“Sorry did you want to introduce yourself?” She grabbed the phone from my hands so quick I thought it might fam”

“Uh yeah. Gimme that. Hey kids it’s your other mom.” She said side eyeing me “Don’t know what this girls on. Current girlfriend.” She scoffed 

“Anyway I don’t know what your first mom is on. Apparently I’m just the temp girlfriend or somthin’”

“Bae give me my phone back.” I said reaching for my phone

“No! Our children need the truth!” She said taking the phone from my reach “Kids if your mother ever cheats on me I swear it’ll all come back to this moment. Wheres the other hoes? Hmm?” 

“KK I would never cheat on you.”

“Maybe not currently. But I’m just your current girlfriend. What do I know?”

“God you’re so dramatic!” I laugh “it’s a TikTok prank babe.”

“Oh gurl I knew you were plotting something. Been smilin at your phone hella. I knew you’d do something shady.”

                               ____

Nika Mühl

“Hey guys right now me and my current girlfriend are going to dinner. It’s our 2 year anniversary.” 

“Say that again” Nika said her eyes intense on. Ooo that look I could fold any day of the week.

“It’s our two years?”

“Yeahs. Two years. Nothing current about that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said ‘current girlfriend’” she said putting quotations around current girlfriend.

“Well you are. You’re my girlfriend right now. Currently. At this moment.”

“I might not be your current girlfriend tomorrow if you keep this up”

“Girl stop being all dramatic it’s just a figure of speech.”  

“Figure a speech my ass you better start figuring out a back up plan on what you’re doing tonight.”

“I was hoping I’d be doing you.”

“Nah I’m just your current girlfriend. You need to do that with your wife.” 

“Stop being so dramatic. You are my wife.”

“Not legally. Legally I’m single.”

“Not funny.”

“I’m just your current girlfriend, you don’t have to find me funny. Just your future wife.”

“You are my future wife.” You say rolling you eyes.

“Maybe.”

                               ____

Azzi Fudd

“Hey guy . Me and my current girlfriend are getting ready to go watch Paige’s first game.” I said to my phone as I slicked my hair back.

“Who?” Azzi asked sharply, her hand pausing as she applied her lip liner. 

“Hmm?” I said turning to face her

“Who are you with?” She said setting her lip pencil down.

“You.” I said looking at her. Genuinely I was confused by her reaction.

“And who am I?” 

“My girlfriend?” She sucks her teeth and smiles.

“That better. Not a thing current about this.”

“Ok. Ok. My bad.” I say holding my hands up in fake surrender “Forgot who I was dealing with.”

“Got it now?” She asked pulling me in by my hips

“Yes ma’am. I’m here. I’m planted. I ain’t going anywhere. This is a life time subscription. Non refundable and on auto renewal.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear.” She smiled

“It was just a prank you know.” I say pausing the video and looking up at her my hands on her hips.

“I don’t care. Do that shit to me again and you’re dead”

[vaaaaaiolet]

Good thing your doctor's always on speed dial for your health scares, but can he help you out of this one?

gn / m, fluff, romance, hypochondriac reader, leon is your teledoc LMAO, denial of feelings / obliviousness, slightly ooc?? phone call transcript format in lowercase

word count: 1.2k // read on ao3

a/n: for @idyllcy + @hiya-itsamber :3

just a silly scenario i wrote in 2023 when those corny tiktok dual pov slideshows were a thing 😭 leon's dialogue is indented + in blue and nothing is proofread i fear

RINGING… [0:01]

[line connects.]

hi doc, I just wanted to call and tell you that I need to schedule an appointment tomorrow.

     that’s awfully soon, I just saw you last week. what’s wrong?

what’s wrong? more like what isn’t wrong. honestly, I think I’d rather just schedule the appointment and not waste more of your time. are you free at 4 tomorrow?

     my job is to ask you what’s wrong so I can fix it. cut out the middle man and tell me how you’ve been feeling. the poor receptionist needs a break anyway, flu season has her answering calls from her bathroom.

[nervous laughter.]

     are you in the bathroom?

…

     never mind that. do you have any new symptoms or have your old ones worsened?

this has to be against HIPAA or something, doc. I’m telling you, I’ll just call later.

[loud flushing sounds and tap water running.]

     I’m still waiting.

have it your way then.

     mhm.

I have so many symptoms, I don’t even know where to start. you know how I am about cleaning things and staying on top of my health. my chart last appointment was perfect!

     minus the minor cold you had, yes. has your cold not improved?

I’m not sure. the congestion and coughing’s all disappeared, but now I have really bad headaches. and hot flashes.

     headaches?

uh huh.

     what are they like?

they’re…weird. they start in my head, but they spread, like, everywhere.

     I see.

     can you tell me more about how they spread? is it one big headache or a bunch of little ones at a time?

they start in my temples and if I don’t take medicine for them fast enough, they move down to the bridge of my nose and into my cheeks. I swear I can feel these headaches in my chest.

and that’s when I get these hot flashes. like someone’s microwaving me on high, and I get dizzy, and out of breath, and-

     you get headaches in your chest?

in my chest! headaches aren’t supposed to do that right? it feels like my heart jumps. that’s not right, is it?

     [sounds of pen scratching on paper.]

but the curious thing is that I’ve had these symptoms before. they’re not new.

     huh? I thought they started right after your cold.

no no, it’s just that they go away when I have my appointments. I’ve been doing some research online and I think that right at the time you prescribe me my new medicine, they go away. it all lines up with the release time of the inhibi-

     you worry too much. I’m sure it’s not that; none of the medicine I’ve ever given you lines up with your symptoms.

oh.

     why didn’t you tell me this when you first started coming to our office? this is important information that needs to be added to your file.

but it really wasn’t that important-

     you don’t understand. I need your entire medical history to assign you the right medicine.

     I could have triggered some autoimmune disease, or, or, flared up more symptoms.

     god, I should have done the bare minimum and checked with your nurse. Florence, is that her name? I need to make some calls. I’ll call you right back.

hey doc? you’re starting to sound like me. don’t worry, I’m coming in for my appointment anyway tomorrow. you don’t have to get all military about it.

     you’re one of my first patients. I worry about you.

you do?

     it’s my job to worry about you. I quite like my job.

that felt nice to hear.

     it’s the truth.

the reason I didn’t tell you about it earlier is because I got a second opinion and I felt guilty about it. I felt like I was cheating on you, somehow.

     [laughter.]

     what part of your research gave you that idea? you don’t believe I can handle you seeing another healthcare professional?

it’s embarrassing! it wasn’t even a healthcare professional. it was my mom.

     your mom counts as a second opinion?

she’s licensed in all matters of life.

     I see.

…and the heart.

     that so?

she told me it was mmmfmmf [unintelligible].

     hm. I still need to hear about this incredibly important second opinion.

she told me I just had a silly crush. can you believe her?

     and she might have a point, you know. how did she come to that conclusion?

she totally dismissed my hot flashes and told me that it was normal. same with my headaches and what i’m definitely sure is a developing heart arrhythmia.

     that’s…interesting.

I get it, I thought the same thing you’re thinking right now. except she predicted a symptom I didn’t even have when I asked her.

     and what symptom would that be?

insomnia! I can’t even sleep anymore. I stay up all night in bed, thinking.

     and what do you think about?

to be honest, going back to the doctor’s office.

your office.

     my office?

yeah. whenever I go to your appointments, my symptoms go away. it would be stupid to bring up my mom’s theory during checkups, so I’ve never said anything.

     you’ve got to be kidding me.

     your master plan is to keep getting sick and showing up to my office for 20 minutes a month?

well, it sounds stupid when you say it!

     how long did you think this was going to last?

I don’t have a choice. it’s either this or nothing. 20 minutes with you taking my vitals is worth the aches and pains leading up to it because i feel so much better afterwards.

it just feels nice seeing you. i think it’s an environment trigger.

hey doc, you still there?

     tell you what, I think you’re going to have to get that second opinion.

why would I do that? didn’t I just explain to you why I can’t? you’re the only one that makes my mysterious disease go away, and besides, there’s no such thing as a second second opinion.

     listen to me. I can’t continue your current treatment anymore. it'd be breaking HIPAA to treat you like I need to because of the type of disease you have.

     and to be honest, I don’t think it has a cure yet.

are you serious? how much do I need to pay for treatment? what’s my prognosis?

[clattering of pens on desk and line breaks up briefly from movement.]

[quietly.] doc, am I going to live?

     [laughs.] you’ll live. I have no doubts about that.

well then, why can’t you treat me?

     I can treat you. it’s just that I can’t as your doctor.

you’re not making any sense.

     you’re still going to need to schedule that appointment for tomorrow, but it’ll have to be using a different phone number. call XXX-XXX-XXXX.

[furious pen scratching on paper.]

alright, and who am I asking for on the line?

     ask for Leon. and dress nice.

that’s required for the appointment?

     he has special conditions. it’s a quality of service thing.

…and you’ll be there with the doctor at the appointment?

     [light laughter.]

     I will.

okay, see you soon.

     take care.

[line disconnects.]

CALL ENDED WITH: DR. L. KENNEDY M.D. [14:45]

psst, find more of my work here!

comments and reblogs are very much appreciated <3 take care and i love you!

[alienseasfanfics]

Hurt and Comfort (One-shot)

Check out my Bucky Barnes x f!traumatized!reader fic here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x any!reader Overall Summary: After a rough mission leaves you banged up, you and Bucky have to hide out in an abandoned apartment.

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Fluffy, little bit of angst.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Octopi, bodily injury that's kind of described (but Bucky fixes you up), mentions of other near-death instances.

A/N: This was inspired by a headcanon by @z-aeln: "I think that whenever Bucky has to share a bed (be it with a friend, a lover or even a cat), he takes off his arm before going to sleep, just to make sure he won't hurt anyone by mistake." I found it so heartbreaking, so here's something fluffy. A sidenote that I'm always looking for requests/headcanons! Enjoy.

Bucky shoves the door open. Pieces of plaster crumble on your head as you limp inside, shoulder grazing the warped frame. He follows you, closing the door and picking up a splintered wardrobe from the corner of the room, blocking the doorway with it. You hug the wall as you go to the back of the abandoned apartment, trying doors until you find the old, yellowed bathroom. Dragging your bleeding leg behind you, you clamber in, sitting on the toilet with a hiss.

Like a ghost, Bucky follows you, leaning against the door frame as you try and catch your breath.

“I told you not to go in.” He says, and you roll your eyes, stretching your injured leg out in front of you.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know they have an electrified octopus as a guard dog?” The thing was an affront to the universe. One swipe of a tentacle and you received a five-inch gash in your calf, the surrounding skin pockmarked with raw burns from electric suckers. The feeling of your pant leg brushing against them makes you clench your teeth in pain.

“Let me see it.” Bucky mutters, stepping into the bathroom.

“Just give me the medipack.” You extend your hand out but he brushes it away, crouching in front of you on one knee.

“This is going to hurt, and I’m not going to let you pass out alone in a bathroom.” He mutters, taking one of his knives out and slowly starting to cut away the cloth surrounding the wound.

“Oh, how sweet of you.” You say through clenched teeth, the methodical peeling of the fabric feeling like he’s pulling away skin.

“That’s what everybody calls me. Sweetie Bucky Barnes.” He quips dryly, and you let out a light chuckle before wincing again as he grazes a thumb on your newly uncovered cut.

“Watch it doc.” You say, but he ignores you, instead throwing you the medipack and pulling your leg on top of his bent knee.

“Give me the wipes.” He says.

Your breath hissing through your teeth, you do as you’re told, giving him the sanitizing wipes with stuttering hesitation. You know it’s going to hurt, and your body has had enough hurt for today.

He wipes away sticky blood and the burnt cloth remnants that stick to your wounds, and you close your eyes in an effort to hide away from the sensation.

“Burn aid.” He says, and you open your eyes to see him looking up at you, one palm outstretched. Dirt and soot cling to his skin, a bruise forming on his temple and a cut barely bleeding on his lip. A sight you’ve seen a lot before, but rarely with concern knitting his brow. You almost reach up to rub it away, but you hold your hand back.

“Is it bad?” You say breathlessly, and his mouth pinches into a tight line.

“It will be if you don’t give me the burn aid.” He says, and you dig in the pack, tossing him the tube. He catches it with one hand, holding your foot still with the other as he flips it open and readies it above one burn.

“Don’t thrash.” He says before he drops liquid ointment on, and you gasp as if it’s burning you all over again. Reaching out, you grab onto his metal shoulder, digging your fingers into the meld between flesh and machine as you groan. He shuffles slightly closer to you, giving you a better grip.

“Sorry. They’re acid burns. I have to stop the spread.” He says through your moans of pain.

“I’m going to make that damn octopus into takoyaki.” You hiss, and he chuckles as he continues.

“I’ve never seen you cook a damn thing.” He says. You flick his ear and he glares at you.

“Take me on a mission where we end up with a working kitchen, then. The past five places we’ve had to stay in have been basically a hole in the ground. You’ve had to sleep on the ground in three of them.”

“If it was up to me, you wouldn’t be going on missions at all.” He says, and you scoff.

“And what is that supposed to mean? Are you doubting my abilities now? It was one octopus. Which, might I add, I almost killed before you dragged me away.”

“I dragged you away because an 8-foot tentacle latched itself onto your leg and shocked you so bad I saw smoke coming from your skin.” He mutters, turning your calf around to find the rest of the tiny burns that litter your skin.

“Yeah, I got hurt. That’s what happens when you’re on mission.”

“No. You’re not supposed to get hurt. Mission or not.”

“Well, neither are you, but you still come with me every time.”

His eyes flick up to yours, and your breath hitches.

“You’re not supposed to get hurt. I’m there to keep you from being hurt. Whatever happens to me during the course of that, happens. Needle.” He looks back down at your leg, tossing the empty burn aid ointment behind his shoulder and extending a palm towards you again.

You exhale sharply.

“You treat me like I’m a civilian. I’ve fought, you know. Wherever they sent me, I fought. I’m not weak just because I have less experience than you.” You take out the needle and thread pack, slapping them down in his hand. He glances up at you again.

“I never said you were weak.”

You stop talking as soon as he makes the first stitch, your thoughts blinded by pain. You don’t realize you’re white-knuckling his shoulder until he pats your arm with his metal hand.

“Done. How you feeling?” He asks, looking into your face as you look at him blearily. “Because you look like shit.”

“Aw gee, thanks Sweetie Barnes. You really know how to make a gal feel better.” You put on the hokey accent that usually makes him roll his eyes, but he doesn’t now. Concern still knits his forehead as grabs the gauze out of the medipack on your lap, quickly wrapping it tightly around your leg. Your eyes flutter closed again, and he snaps his metal fingers in your face. You open your eyes, annoyed.

“Watch it.” You hiss.

“Don’t fall asleep.”

“I’ll do what I want.”

He tightens the bandages in response, and you curse at him. He smirks.

“Right back at you. Get up.” He takes the medipack off your lap and lets your leg down gently, standing next to you. He leans down, putting his metal arm around your ribs and hoisting you up, his other hand on your waist as you throw your arm over his shoulders.

Together, you limp over to the only bed in the place, an old mattress in the main room in front of a large, dirty window. He leans you against a wall and throws one of your two blankets over its dirty surface, coming back to you to lead you to it.

“Easy.” He mutters as he lowers you gently onto it. You fall back as you land, stretching out your leg and hazily looking up at the ceiling.

The sunset from outside throws diffuse pink and yellow light on the dingy apartment walls, covering the moldy plaster with a heavenly hue. You blink slowly, exhausted, pain radiating from your leg. The world seems to stand still as you look over to him again.

The same light halos Bucky, now looking down at you from beside the mattress, arms crossed. You smile lazily up at him.

“Howdy.” You say.

“What’s so funny?” He asks.

“Nothin’. You look pretty.”

“You’ve lost too much blood.”

“I’m saying the truth!”

“You’re obviously losing it.”

“You don’t think you’re pretty?”

“I’m not the pretty one in the room.”

His cheeks blush a dusty pink as you blink up at him, taken aback even in this dizzy state. He looks away from you, walking away quickly.

“I thought I looked like shit?” You say after him.

“Yeah. You do. Drink this.” He comes back in your vision, crouching down and putting a pouch in your hand. You make a face, knowing what it is instinctively.

“Is it strawberry?” You ask, and he chuckles.

“Of course.”

“It’s the only one that tastes remotely good.”

“I know. Just drink it.”

You sigh as you bring the chalky protein pouch to your mouth, trying to swallow it as fast as you can.

“With all this Stark and government money, you’d think they’d make it taste better.” You choke out, which nets you a chuckle from Bucky. Your heart flutters.

“I guess life-saving EPO smoothie pouches are difficult to make taste good. Are you done?” He holds a hand out for the crumpled pouch. He throws it over his shoulder as soon as you give it to him.

“Littering is bad, you know.” You say.

“I’m a bad guy.”

“No, you’re not.” You furrow your brow and match his silent gaze. His cold blue eyes stay bright in the darkening room, and you’re not sure if its the soft look he’s giving you or the blood loss that makes you feel weightless.

“You should sleep.” He says quietly.

“Finally.” You yawn, breaking eye contact first as you roll away from him, laying on your non-injured side on one half of the mattress. A moment later, a blanket is thrown over you, and you quickly tuck it under your chin, trying to get warmer.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You yawn, and you hear his grunt of affirmation from across the room. You lean up on an elbow to see him sitting against the wall yards away from you, one knee bent up and his metal arm laying on it. At your movement, he looks over at you.

“Yes?” He says, and you pull the blanket back to leave an opening.

“I’m cold.” You say.

“What?”

“And you can’t sleep against the wall.”

“Yes I can.”

Your thoughts whirl out before you can stop any of them.

“You shouldn’t sleep against the wall. You’re old. Maybe you’ll get stuck there. Your knees locking up. Then what’ll happen? Neither of us can get up? We die, starving in this shitty apartment? You want that?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m cold. Please.” You say, quietly. His jaw clenches.

It must be the blood loss that’s letting you plead with him. Usually these raw, aching feelings are ones that you keep to yourself. His silent, watching eye always having to be blanket enough.

But now, the cold is to your bones. And in this open-air apartment, he must be cold too. He watches you, shadows now hiding the expression on his face.

“I’m not old.” He grunts as he gets up. You smile until he reaches a deft finger behind his metal shoulder, pressing an invisible button. His arm pops off with a hiss into his hand.

“What are you doing?” You ask. He looks over at you.

“Taking off my arm. What are you doing?”

“Questioning why you feel the need to do that.” It looks uncanny, him standing there with the limp and lifeless part of him in his hand.

“If I’m getting in bed with you, I have to take off the arm.” He says, slowly.

“Who says that?”

“Me.”

“Well, you’re being stupid.”

“What?”

“What’s the point of taking off your arm?”

“Do you know what I’ve done with this arm?” He shakes it a little in your direction, hand stiff.

“You mean years ago?”

“I beat three men into a pulp with it today.”

“Yeah, after their walking seafood platter tried frying me into oblivion.” You scoff.

He scowls, a beam of moonlight shining across his face and down onto the arm. You lay back down, looking at him as he thinks. He always thinks so deeply, his jaw clenched. You often think about how it would feel to rub the tension out of his expression, running your fingers through his hair and down to his shoulders. Being able to touch him without pretense.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He mutters after minutes of silence. Your heart flutters again as your confusion grows.

“What do you mean, hurt me? You’re not going to hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.” His voice is so soft, it stabs your heart. You sit back up.

“Bucky-”

“I hurt people. That’s what I was made for, and that’s what I do. Whether I want to or not. This arm has-” He cuts himself off, his voice dying in his throat as he clenches his jaw again. “I’m a weapon. And I don’t want to be used against you.”

His words hang heavy in the air, broken when you chuckle and shake your head. He snaps up to look at you.

“You don’t get it, Barnes.” You say.

“And what don’t I get?”

“I trust you.”

“What?”

“Intrinsically. To my core. I trust you. I know you’re not going to hurt me.”

“You can’t know something that I don’t know myself.”

“Bucky, you just stitched up my leg with that arm.”

“That’s what you do if your partner is hurt.”

“You pulled me out of that flaming car in Beirut a month ago, with that arm.”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t speed into the wall.”

“Minor mishap. You pulled that drowning woman out of the sea in Miami. Stopped that runaway train in Bucharest. You even saved that cat in Sheffield, like an honest-to-god superhero. All with that arm.”

He stays silent, looking at you from across the room.

“You’re not a weapon. You’re a person forced into a position that you’ve broken out of. You use your arm as a tool for your own goals, which since I’ve known you, have never been anything except rooted in the care and protection of others.” You say, and he still doesn’t say a word.

“Bucky, I’m not scared of you. I would never be scared of a hero.”

Bucky stands photo-still across the room. Your heart inexplicably beats faster as you grow more tired.

Restlessly, you drop your head back onto the bundle of clothing that acts as your pillow, and pat the empty space behind you as you look at his silhouette.

He slowly clips his arm back on, shrugging his shoulder, and hesitantly walks over to the mattress. It sinks as he sits down on it, taking off his boots with precision. You close your eyes.

Already, you feel warmer.

He lays on his back next to you, his own jacket bundled up under his head, and your skin rejoices at the light touch of his warm arm on your spine as he settles in.

“Better?” He says quietly, and you flush at the feeling of him so close.

“Still cold.” You say, half into the blanket bunched near your face. After a moments hesitation, you hold your palm up to him. “Arm, please.”

“I thought you didn’t want it off.” He says, and you roll your eyes.

“Cuddle me, idiot.”

“What did I just say about hurting you?”

“You’re not going to hurt me. Unless you let me freeze to death.” You chatter your teeth. His eye roll was practically audible. It takes a moment until he brushes your hand aside, turning to press his chest against your back and putting his warm arm curled under his head. He slides his metal one over your waist.

He keeps it there, delicate and uncertain, and you’re hesitant yourself as you reach down to it, pulling it up your body and laying it against your chest. Hugging his forearm, his hand twitches as you kiss his palm gently.

Bucky stiffens behind you, a sharp intake of breath making a small bit of panic flash in your brain, but he doesn’t pull away.

After a moment, he pulls you closer, nestling you into the curve of his body. You drift off to sleep, the ghost of his lips burning a kiss in the delicate skin behind your ear.

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Idk if my pinglist wants to be pinged for regular Bucky things. Let me know if you're down for a general Bucky ping, or just for Friction :)

[goldfishinaplasticbag]

hi! welcome 🐠

about me (speedround):

nice to meet you! i'm goldfishinabag, and please refer to me in any way you fancy. no, really. i don't mind. any variation works. > i'm taiwanese and an adult (20ꜛ). no, i don't draw or reblog NSFW. > i write and draw DC with a heavy focus on the bats, but might have some random fandoms scattered around my blog too. but it should be 99% DC-focused. pinky swear. > proud author of 1-800-GOTHAM! check it out <3 i also have a twitter that i am active on.

general info:

> #my art is my general art tag, #1-800-gotham fanart and #my fic art are for fic-only fanarts! i have several tags pinned on the search, so it should all be there. > i try to answer all asks in my inbox, but i'm VERY bad at replying in a timely manner. please be kind i'm practically geriatric > on that note, my ask/reply tag is #ask n reply! i know, how creative.

FAQ:

what are your pronouns? > any! please feel free to "vibe check" me in terms of what pronouns you use for me. i truly do not care. do you have an update schedule for 1-800-GOTHAM? > unfortunately, my writing is too sporadic for a real schedule. i aim for one chapter a month currently, but don't rely on that. can i draw fanart? can i @ you in other posts? > yes, and yes! no need for my permission for either—draw your fanart (and @ me of course), and if there's something you want me to see, don't hesitate to @ me. what do you use to draw? for writing? > i use procreate and ibispaint x for art, and google docs for writing! simple and easy can i use your art for a pfp/emote/etc? > yup, you never have to ask me for permission nor credit me! free range with my art, just don't sell it i guess lol? are you selling merch? do you have a shop? > i'm currently in the process of opening up an online shop! i would love to sell merch, but it's going to take me a while to get it fully done. thank you for being patient!

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoy your stay on my blog (-: