#is this how french people feel all the time

[emcaco]

Completely yes! The downside of all those candles and incense and the occasional fire requires cleaning.

But it's also THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION and ...a modern lack of investment in maintenance. Our favorite modern villains.

Malcolm Miller, the tour guide of the Chartres cathedral had some comments:

The industrial revolution also did a nasty number on buildings.

Burning coal to power factories and heat houses or churches created so much air pollution. It was a problem and it made buildings noticably gray and dingy in the course of a generation. Victor Hugo wrote Hunchback of Notre Dame to showcase how beautiful the cathedral once was and shame France into maintaining its old buildings.

Also also, every new era likes to classify previous eras as filthy and ignorant. Never mind that people of today are essentially the same as people from five hundred years ago. We like clean.

And the same civilizations that built these buildings in the first place were capable of cleaning them. Michelangelo built scaffolding to paint the Sistene Chapel. Monks did so to clean their cathedrals. People expected to do regular building maintenance and churches had extremely cheap labor from all their monks.

So you might have the occasional fall but hey, lots of people were willing to join a monastic order for guaranteed food and drink and religious feelings.

Images of scaffolds are from wikipedia's articles on putlogs and scaffolding.

(BY THE WAY APPARENTLY THERE ARE POSSIBLE SCAFFOLD HOLES IN THE LASCAUX CAVES??)

Monks often took on trades like carpentry, masonry and brewing. Cleaning was a daily chore. If the cathedral - an accomplishment of engineering and construction over centuries and a literal physical tribute to their god built from stone and blood - if the cathedral got dirty, they wouldn't just accept that for the goth aesthetic.

If people could build scaffolds to replace their hay roofs, they would build them to clean the gorgeous painted walls.

I expect our dingy image of cathedrals comes more from the decline of monasteries and a steep drop in Catholic recruitment. Combine that with some deadly wars and labor safety, and labor to scrub church walls three stories up gets a lot more expensive.

Britain and France especially had also confiscated Catholic lands and buildings during Henry VIII's time and the French revolution, which would have caused some upheavals in maintenance. It would be interesting to compare cathedral maintenance in other countries.

ACTUALLY LET'S DO THAT

Hungary and the famous Cathedral in Cologne, Germany.

The article from the Independent, which I quoted above for the Chartres tour guide, also notes that it's mostly "British and American lovers of Gothic architecture" who are complaining about the Chartres restoration.

Quote:

The British designer and blogger Adam Nathaniel Furman wrote: “A restoration that eliminates the patina of history, and reinstates an illusory ideal moment in the past ... is an act of destruction dressed up in good intentions.”

And Stefan Evans, an American Gothic art specialist, commented: “Irresponsible restoration is erasing history from a Gothic masterpiece.” He then started an online petition to protest against the work.

Back to Mr Miller the Chartres tour guide, 81 years old, who has written books on Chartres:

Is Mr Miller on the side of light or on the side of darkness? “Just look here,” he said, bouncing angrily towards an uncleaned pillar. He ran his fingers through the grime. “Filth, pure filth,” he said. “Do these people like filth? Do they like cobwebs?

“They talk about the patina of the centuries. Nonsense. Rubbish. This is not the patina of the centuries. It is the rotting remains of a whitewash from the 18th century.”

In short, British and many French cathedrals haven't been maintained consistently, Americans and Brits now think cathedrals are *supposed* to be filthy. And get snippy at the people are doing the housekeeping.

Me: Did you know that medieval cathedrals weren't actually supposed to be dark and rundown places with only stained glass as color? They were bright places full of light... the reason they look like that now is because of the centuries of accumulated grime and dust, here look at this restoration of the Cathedral of Chartres in France:

It's based on actual paint from the times, and when you think about it, it makes a lot more sense, after all a church is supposed to be a bright place of hope. Yet when we think about the middle ages we think about grimy and dark cathedrals. I wonder how much of our conception of history is shaped by our current visions of historical buildings.

My Goth GF: listen, I don't think this thing between us is working,

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

Peace - Act I : Chapter nine

Lottie Matthews x fem!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Reader comes back to her hometown and transfers to Wiskayok High School after getting expelled from her previous high school. Follows Junior year into Senior year, all the way up to the crash. (Eventual NSFW mdni)

Warnings: Deeper look into Lottie's mental health. Talks about medication, bipolar, and schizophrenia.

A/N: I am not an expert on mental health. I'm just a girl with Google and vibes. So please have grace reading this. I apologize in advance if I butchered this. 😭🙏🏼

You’d been there enough to know Lottie wasn’t kidding when she said no one was home. Her house is big, quiet, and a little too clean. You finally set aside your textbooks. You were fucking tired of studying for midterms. How French became so important was beyond you. You sat on the floor of Lottie’s room, her bed against your back.

She had what you thought was jazz music playing softly. Your eyebrows raise as you notice Lottie rifling through a drawer in a hurry.

“Are you okay?” You ask without thinking.

Lottie didn't look up from her hurried search. “Yeah. Just... trying to find something.”

You frown, shrugging and letting her somewhat exasperated tone roll off you. You turn your gaze to her nightstand. Your eyes spot a pill bottle.

Again, without thinking, you open your mouth. “What’s this?” You reach out to pick it up. “Risperidone?”

You look up to see Lottie freeze, and she rushes to snatch it from your hand. You widen your eyes at the sudden motion.

“It’s nothing. Just for sleep.” Lottie says almost too quickly.

You pause, your hands finding themselves at your side. You kept your eyes on her face. The vibe in the room took a complete 180 from the calm and sweetness it once had. You frown, you don't know much about medication, but you knew enough from living with your stubborn, untreated bipolar aunt that is not what that was for.

You soften your eyes and tilt your head to find her eyes that refuse to meet yours. “I know that’s not what it’s usually for.”

Lottie goes still. Her mask slips for a second, eyes tired, jaw tight. Lottie finally meets your gaze sharply. “Please don’t…don’t look it up.” She pleads quietly.

Your heart breaks at the brokenness in her tone. “I won’t. Just... talk to me.” You invite softly.

There’s a long pause as she stands towering over you still. She then, after a moment, sits in front of you. “It’s schizophrenia. I was diagnosed when I was eleven. I’m stable. I take my meds. I do everything I’m supposed to. No one at school knows.” She said it matter-of-factly, voice devoid of all emotion. Her face is hard, and her eyes stare at the bottle in her hand.

If Lottie had the power to, you imagine she would burn up the bottle with one glance. You felt a wave of shock but also almost understanding. Her off moments or “tired” moments clicked for you. You wondered how she made it this long, keeping that in. You felt awe for the girl.

You nod, “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

Lottie snaps her head to you. Eyes narrowed in what you can imagine is a bit of awe and suspicion. “That’s it? You’re not freaking out?”

You frown and give her a confused look. “Should I be?”

“Most people would be,” Lottie says, almost at a loss.

You shrug, “Well, I’m not like most people. I’m your friend.”

The room was quiet again. Not the tense, loaded quiet from earlier, just the kind that settles between people after something honest and hard has been shared. The kind that feels heavier and lighter at the same time.

Lottie placed the bottle back in her drawer and shut it softly, like it had a heartbeat she didn’t want to disturb. When she turned back, you hadn’t moved from your spot on the bed, cross-legged, eyes kind, waiting—not prying, not pitying. Just there.

Lottie didn't know what to do. Does she talk to you more about it? Does she pretend it never happened? But then you look at her with this small reassuring smile.

It felt like without words you were saying it was okay. That it wasn’t the end of the world. The world you had started to build with her. Like you...like you liked her. Like you liked Lottie enough to want to be here still.

Okay. Okay. It was okay. So she should be okay with it too.

“You ever watch Bonanza?” Lottie asked suddenly, flopping next to you and grabbing the remote like nothing earth-shattering had just happened.

You blinked, trying to rack your brain why it sounded familiar. “Is that the one with the brothers and horses?”

“Yep. And really, really questionable facial hair.”

You smiled, letting the moment follow Lottie’s lead. “Sounds like a classic.”

Lottie clicked through the channels until she found some local station replaying an old, grainy western. The volume was just loud enough to hear the bad dubbing and dramatic gunshots. Neither of you said much, just passed a half-eaten bag of pretzels back and forth and let the silence grow safe again.

At some point, your head dipped onto Lottie’s shoulder. Then down to her lap, curled up on her side, one hand still loosely wrapped around the hem of Lottie’s sweatshirt like you were tethering yourself there.

Lottie didn’t move. She barely breathed.

She sat with the weight of you against her, the warmth of you radiating through her jeans, and watched the flickering screen, not really seeing the cowboy standoff playing out in black and white.

Her mind was louder now, full of spirals and static and the sharp memory of how fast people leave when they find out what’s wrong with her. How she’d learned to cut people off before they got the chance. How her parents had made her swear — no one from school could know. Not after what happened in the last town. Not again.

And yet here you were. On her bed. Trusting her. Staying.

Lottie looked down at your sleeping face, peaceful, mouth parted slightly, a smudge of mascara under one eye. You looked young like this. And soft. But not fragile. No, never that.

Lottie brushed a bit of hair from your cheek, careful not to wake you.

“I’m your friend too,” she whispered, like a promise to the dark.

And then she just sat there, still, silent, watching the screen, holding you in that quiet, precious calm. The old western droned on in the background, all dramatic standoffs and dusty landscapes, but Lottie barely heard it now. The room had settled into a hush, the kind that only shows up in the dead of night when everything else has gone still, and someone you didn’t think would stay is still here, breathing easy beside you.

You were asleep, hand still holding the hem of Lottie’s sweatshirt like you didn’t even realize it. Like you trusted it to be there when you woke up. That thought made something burn in Lottie’s throat.

She watched your chest rise and fall, steady, rhythmic. She wondered if you always slept like that — so completely surrendered, like your body didn’t know how to be tense anymore. She wondered if it had always been this easy for you to curl up in a stranger’s bed. Or maybe it wasn’t easy at all. Maybe it was just her.

That made the ache worse.

Lottie leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes for a second. Just one. But the moment she did, her brain flicked on like a static-filled TV channel, flickering images and noise she couldn’t shut off.

They always leave when they find out. Or worse — they stay until they can use it against you.

She rubbed her fingers together, a grounding technique her therapist had taught her. But it didn’t work the same now. Not when you were here, not when Lottie had let the words spill out of her mouth like water from a crack in the dam. She was usually so good at pretending.

But you looked at her like she wasn’t a broken thing. Not once did you flinch. You didn’t act like Lottie was a liability or a tragedy. You didn’t even ask a million questions. You just... stayed.

That was worse, somehow. It made her want to believe it could last.

Lottie looked down at you again, eyes tracing the soft curve of your cheek, the mess of your curls across Lottie’s thigh. Your hand was still there, thumb twitching slightly in sleep. Like you were dreaming something too big to hold.

Lottie let out the tiniest breath. She didn’t want to move. Didn’t want this to end. She pressed her back harder into the wall, trying to slow her pulse.

“I’m your friend too,” she repeated again, this time inside her own head. “I can be that. I am that.”

But even as she said it, that familiar weight crept up her spine, the one that whispered she’d mess this up somehow. That the meds wouldn’t keep working. That you would see a piece of her that couldn’t be hidden, and this beautiful, easy thing between them would crack down the middle.

Still. Right now, you are here. And you looked peaceful. And maybe, just maybe, Lottie could let herself believe that was enough for tonight. She let her eyes drift back to the TV. The cowboys were riding off into the sunset now. And with you sleeping soundly on her lap, Lottie let herself believe, for one quiet, impossible moment — it was going to be okay.

[bellaserina]

2The Leclerc family home in Monaco was warm and familiar, filled with the scent of old books, espresso, and the soft murmurs of French and Italian. It was a rare off-weekend for Charles — no race, no media obligations, just a quiet Sunday lunch with his mother, Pascale, and his brothers.

He should’ve felt relaxed. But all he felt was tension coiling at the base of his spine.

Because her name had almost slipped — last night, on the phone with Arthur — and now he couldn’t shake the feeling that his carefully protected secret was already unraveling.

"So..." Arthur said, watching him over a spoonful of risotto, "any reason you keep vanishing to Milan or Paris after every race?"

Charles didn’t look up. “Team meetings. PR stuff.”

“Sure,” Arthur replied, too casually.

Pascale raised an eyebrow as she poured more water into Charles’s glass. “You’re glowing, mon cœur. Don’t tell me it's the risotto.”

Charles smiled faintly, eyes flicking to his plate. “Maybe I’m just in a good place.”

His older brother, Lorenzo, leaned forward. “You are. We can see it. But there’s a reason. You don’t just start smiling at your phone at midnight because your tire strategy worked out.”

Silence fell — the kind that always came before something heavy.

Pascale placed a hand gently on his arm. “Is there someone, Charles?”

He froze.

He could see Isabella in his mind: sitting on the edge of his hotel bed wearing nothing but one of his team shirts, cigarette between her fingers even though she never lit it, just for the attitude of it. She hated mornings. She hated hiding. But she never complained.

Just once, he wished he could bring her here. Let her sit at this table. Let her be seen.

“There is,” he finally said. Voice low. Soft.

Arthur grinned. Lorenzo leaned back. Pascale just studied him, wise and patient.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

He hesitated.

“It’s… Isabella.”

A long pause.

Pascale blinked. “Moretti?”

His head jerked up. “You know her?”

She gave him a look. “Charles. The world knows her. She’s in every magazine I see at the hair salon.”

Arthur let out a low whistle. “That’s who you’ve been sneaking around with? Damn.”

Charles ran a hand over his face. “It’s not like that.”

“No?” Pascale said gently. “Then what’s it like, mon chéri?”

He looked up — tired, raw, but full of something truer than he’d ever shown them.

“It’s… real,” he said. “But it’s secret. Not because I’m ashamed, but because the world ruins things. It chews up anything tender.”

Pascale’s face softened. “And does she make you happy?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “She drives me mad sometimes, but… I’ve never felt more myself with anyone. With her, I don’t have to be the driver. I’m just Charles.”

Lorenzo spoke quietly. “Then don’t let the fear of losing her stop you from living it out loud.”

Pascale smiled and squeezed his hand. “Bring her next time.”

He blinked, surprised. “Really?”

“We’ve seen you with people before. The smile never reached your eyes,” she said. “Now it does.”

Later, when he stepped out onto the terrace to call her, Isabella answered on the second ring, voice husky with sleep.

“You miss me already, Monaco?”

“I told them about you,” he said simply.

There was a pause on her end — then a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “You did?”

“My mother wants to meet you.”

“Charles…”

He heard the fear in her voice — the same fear he’d been carrying for months. He smiled softly into the evening sky.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We’re allowed to have this.”

She was silent, then: “I don’t know how to be anyone but me.”

“Good,” he said. “Because that’s exactly who I want to bring home

next

[ihateswansmorethananything]

Wild horses from The Rolling Stones blasting on full volume in the distance ‼️💥

A cowboy jack drawing for the soul

[kindaorangey]

hold on wait. wait. regime change between when show!armand leaves delhi, and when he's turned into a vampire. god. i'm thinking about his speech to madeleine, his "what will you do when there is nothing left of your era?". if he tried to visit the village he came from during his time with marius, he will likely have witnessed exactly that. within his mortal life. armand believes he is uniquely suited to endure immortal life, to adapt and survive no matter what. he might have seen the fall of the lodi dynasty while he was in his 20s; maybe that's why. but god. how devastating. his village might even have been destroyed in the fall of the lodi dynasty. what do you do if you are taken from your home and when you finally have the freedom and strength to return to it, it is unrecognisable to you. fuck.

[bogkeep]

realized something earlier today. you know that trope where bilingual characters in fiction will sprinkle their native language into english sentences? and how i personally, while i can't speak for every bilingual person on the planet, don't really see that happening in reality pretty much ever, at least not with people who are passingly fluent in english? anyway i realized i DO mix languages, just the other way. i will happily throw english words and phrases into my daily speech when chatting with my peers in norwegian or czech like it's no biggie. because we all know english here, so it makes sense to swap in words if i'm falling short! but why would i say words other people don't understand in conversation...!

[idontmindifuforgetme]

I admire girls who can pull off long nails bc it literally can never be me. I just don’t get how it works functionally

[coquelicoq]

good morning can i show you guys the christmas card my little sister wrote me in french (she does not know any french)

joyeux Noël, j'espère que vous comprenez ce que je dis compte tenu de la fiabilité de Google Translate. Jespère qu'à l'avenir nous voir plus de deux fois par an. Je ne sais pas vraiment quoi dire d'autre, alors joyeux Noël et j'espère que papa t'a offert. Profitez également des autres choses que je mets sur la carte au lieu de vous ècrire un essai complet.

and then she wrote me a little crossword and a "connect the language to its way of saying 'merry christmas'" game 😭

[cerbreus]

baking never feels more like science to me than when i'm trying to cobble together an intricate multi step recipe together from several different recipes and tutorials online because the recipe I'm imagining doesn't exist....

[goldenstarprincesses]

ok ok I like and prefer older brother America

But i love and am obsessed with older sister America

[la-galaxie-langblr]

maybe i am too disabled for this

[website-com]

devastating: the feminist essay didnt actually watch the movie

[justinefrischmanngf]

i need to get over myself and learn the languages i want to learn if i want to learn them like i just need to do it if i want to learn them then i should go out and learn them and like . fuck whatever else any of it means . yes it IS embarrassing to learn a language like the ones i want to learn as an adult but who CARES and yes i KNOW my grandparents will never want to speak to me in those languages but who CARES if it's important to me it can be important to me anyway

[the-king-of-lemons]

,

[thepencilnerd]

When the Sun Hits

summary: What begins as a hospital-wide power outage leaves you trapped in a supply closet with your emotionally unavailable attending. But when the lights come back on, what lingers between you can’t be shut off so easily. genre/notes: forced proximity, slow burn, panic attack + trauma comfort, domestic fluff, my fave kind of intimacy, mutual pining, humor/crack, soft!Jack that can't flirt for shit, idiots in love but neither of them will admit it, you discover you have a praise kink in the most inconvenient of ways, jack abbot on his knees—literally warnings: references to trauma, depiction of a panic attack, mentions of grief and burnout, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~ 7.2k a/n: down bad for whipped Jack Abbot. p.s., thank you to everyone who reblogs/replies/takes the time to read my brain vomit, i appreciate you more than you know ㅠㅠ <3

You had just turned to ask Jack if he could grab another tray of 32 French chest tubes when the lights cut out.

One second, the supply closet was bathed in its usual flickering overhead light—and the next, everything dropped into darkness. Sharp. Sudden.

You froze, one hand on the bin. Jack swore behind you.

"Shit," he muttered, somewhere just inside the door. The backup emergency lights flickered red from the hallway, but barely touched the cramped space around you.

Then the intercom crackled overhead: Code Yellow. Facility-wide outage. All staff remain on current floors. Secure all medications and patients.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Automatic lock.

You turned just as Jack tried the handle. It didn’t budge.

He sighed. "Well. That’s one way to guarantee a five-minute break."

You looked at him sharply, but he was already scanning the room, looking for anything useful, keeping his voice light.

"Guess we’re stuck for a bit," he added.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The air felt too tight in your lungs, too warm all of a sudden.

Because now, the supply closet didn’t just feel small.

It felt like it was closing in.

It had been a normal day.

Or as normal as anything ever was around here—high-pressure shifts balanced by the strange rhythm you and Jack had settled into over the past few years. You worked together well—efficient, quick to anticipate each other's needs, almost telepathic during traumas. Partners in crime, someone had once joked. Probably Robby.

You’d learned how to read his silences—the kind that weren’t dismissive but deliberate, like he was giving you space without needing to say it aloud. He’d learned how to decode your muttered curses and side glances, how to step in behind you without crowding, how to let his shoulder bump yours during charting when words failed you both.

There was a kind of ease between you, a rhythm that didn’t require explanation. He’d hand you tools before you asked for them. You’d finish his sentences when he gave consults. Even in chaos, your partnership felt oddly... quiet. Intimate, in a way that crept in slowly, like warmth from a mug clasped between two hands after a long shift.

When you were paired on trauma, nurses and med students stopped asking who was lead. They knew you moved as one.

People had started to notice—how the two of you always seemed to stay overtime on the same days, how Jack would make dry, cutting jokes around others but soften them just enough when talking to you. Robby, in particular, teased him about it relentlessly.

"Jack, blink twice if this is you flirting," he’d once called across the ER after Jack mumbled, "Great work Dr. L/N," while watching you tie off a flawless stitch or nailing a differential.

Jack huffed. "It’s efficient. She's efficient."

"God, you’re hopeless," Robby laughed.

"She’s my best resident," Jack shot back, like it explained everything. Like it wasn’t a deflection.

You snorted into your coffee. "You say that like it’s not the fifth time this week."

Jack, without missing a beat: "That’s because it’s true. I value consistency."

He was awful at flirting—stiff and dry and chronically understated—but you’d grown to read the fondness buried in the flat delivery.

Like the morning he handed you your favorite protein bar without a word and then said, as you blinked at him, "Don’t faint. You’ll ruin my numbers."

Or the time he stood outside your call room after a brutal night shift, coffee in hand, and muttered, "You deserve a nap, but I guess you’ll have to settle for caffeine and my sparkling company."

He always made sure to loop you in on the interesting cases—"Figure it’s good for your development," he’d say. But then linger just a little too long after rounds, just to hear your thoughts.

And when you were quiet too long, when something in you withdrew, he never asked outright. Just gave you space—and a clipboard he’d pre-filled, or a shift swap you hadn’t requested, or the gentlest, "You good?" when you passed each other by the scrub sinks.

And now, here you were. Trapped in a closet with the man who rarely made jokes—and never blushed—except when you were around.

Now, you were stuck. Together.

The air felt thin but simultaneously stuffed to the brim.

Jack turned on his penlight, sweeping the beam across the room. "We’re fine," he said, calm and certain. "Generator will kick in soon."

You nodded. Tried to match his steadiness. Failed.

The closet was small. Smaller than it had ever felt before.

The walls crept in.

You didn’t notice the way your hands started to shake until he said your name.

Your vision tunneled. The room blurred at the edges, corners shrinking in like someone was folding the walls inward. The air felt heavy, every breath catching at the top of your throat before it could sink deep enough to matter. It felt like someone had filled your veins with liquid lead, your entire body suddenly weighing too much to hold upright. You staggered back a step, hand scrambling blindly for something to anchor you—shelf, handle, Jack. Your heart was pounding—loud, ragged, out of sync with time itself.

You tried to swallow. Couldn’t.

Sweat prickled your scalp. Your fingers tingled, every nerve on fire. Your knees gave out beneath you, and you crumbled to the floor—head buried between your knees, hands clasped behind your neck, trying to fold yourself into a singularity. Anything to disappear. Anything to slip away from this moment and the way it pressed in on all sides. There was no exit. No sound but your own spiraling thoughts and the slow, careful way Jack said your name again.

You blinked. Your eyes wouldn’t focus.

"Hey," Jack coaxed, his voice cutting through the static—low and steady, somehow still distant. His full attention was on you now, gaze locked in, unmoving. "Breathe."

You couldn’t.

It hit like a wave—sharp and silent, rising in your chest like pressure, no space, no air, no exit.

Jack’s hands found your shoulders. "I’ve got you. You’re okay. Stay with me, yeah?"

He crouched in front of you, grounding you with steady pressure and careful, deliberate calm. His hands—firm, callused, the kind that had seen years of split-second decisions and endless sutures—gripped your upper arms with a touch that was impossibly gentle. Like he could mold you back into yourself with his palms alone. His thumbs brushed lightly, not demanding, just present. Just there.

"Can you breathe with me?" he asked. "In for four. Okay? One, two, three…"

You tried. You really did.

Your chest still felt locked, ribs tight around panic like a vice, but his voice—low and even—threaded through the chaos.

"Out for four," he murmured, exhaling slowly, deliberately, like the sound alone could show your body how to follow. "Good. Just like that."

The faint light dimmed between you, casting his face in half-shadow. He was close now—close enough for you to catch the scent of antiseptic and something warm underneath, something that reminded you of winter nights and clean laundry.

"You’re here," he said again, softer this time. "You’re safe. Nothing’s coming. You’ve got space."

You reached out blindly, fingers finding the edge of his sleeve and clutching it like a lifeline.

"Good girl," Jack said softly, instinctively, like it slipped out without permission.

Your brain short-circuited. Of all things, in all moments—that was what hooked your attention. You let out a strangled little laugh, shaky and almost hysterical. "Fucking hell," you murmured, pressing your face into your arm. "Why is that what got me breathing again?"

Jack blinked, startled for a second—then let out the smallest huff of relief, like he was holding back a smirk. "Hey, if it works, I’ll say it again," he said, a thread of warmth sneaking into his voice.

You groaned, half-burying your face in your elbow. "Please don’t."

He was still crouched in front of you, his tone gentler now, teasing on purpose, like he was giving you something else to hold onto. "Admit it—you just wanted to hear me say something nice for once."

"Jack," you warned, half-laughing, half-crying.

"You’re doing great," he said quietly, real again. "You’re okay. I’ve got you."

And eventually—one shaky inhale at a time—your lungs obeyed.

When the power came back on, you stood side-by-side in the wash of fluorescent light, blinking against it.

You were still trembling faintly, your breaths shallow but more even now. Jack didn’t step away. Not right away.

"Feeling better?" he asked, voice low, steady.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Jack stood slowly, offering a hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. His grip lingered just a second longer than necessary.

Then he tried, awkwardly, to lighten the mood. "If calling you a good girl was really all it took, then I’ve been severely underutilizing my motivational toolkit."

You let out a startled laugh, breath catching mid-sound. "Jesus, don’t start."

He gave you a crooked smile—relieved, even if the corners of it were still tight with concern. "Whatever works, right? Next time I’ll try it with more enthusiasm."

"Next time?" Your eyes widened like saucers—absolutely flabbergasted, half-tempted to dissolve into laughter or hit him with the nearest supply tray.

He shrugged, another smug grin threatening to cross his lips. "Just saying. If you’re going to unravel in a closet, might as well do it with someone who knows where to find the defibrillator."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go of his hand until the light flickered again.

Only then did you both step apart.

You didn’t say much.

He didn’t ask you to.

You’d made it as far as the locker room before the adrenaline crash hit. You rinsed your face, changed into sweats, and shoved your scrubs into your bag with trembling fingers. Jack had walked you out of the department without a word, just a hand hovering near your lower back.

"Thanks," you said quietly, as you scanned out. "For earlier."

Jack shook his head, like it was nothing. "You don’t need to thank me."

"Still," you said. "Just… please don’t mention it to anyone?"

He looked over at you, mouth twitching at the corner. "Mention what?"

That made you laugh—brief, breathless. "Right."

You parted ways near the waiting room, sharing your usual post-shift goodbyes.

Or so you thought.

Jack had been about to leave when he saw you—doubling back through the double doors, slipping through the staff-only entrance and back into the ER.

His brow furrowed.

He hesitated, then turned to follow.

The corridor was quiet. Most of the day shift hadn’t arrived yet, and the call room hallway echoed faintly under his footsteps. He paused outside the on-call room and knocked once, gently. When there was no response, he eased the door open.

The room was cramped and windowless, just enough space for a narrow bunk bed and a scuffed metal chair in the corner. The mattress dipped in the middle, the kind of sag that never quite let you forget your own weight. The attached bathroom offered a stall that barely passed for a shower—low pressure, eternally lukewarm, and loud enough to make you question whether it was working or crying for help. It felt more like a last resort than a place to rest.

Your bag was on the bed. Half-unpacked. Toothbrush laid out. Socks tucked into the corner. Like you were staying in a hotel. Like you’d been staying here.

He was still standing there when the bathroom door cracked open and you stepped out—hair damp, towel knotted tightly around your torso.

You both froze.

Your eyes widened. Jack’s went comically wide before he spun around on instinct, shielding his eyes like it was second nature. "Shit—sorry, I didn’t—"

"What are you doing here?" you asked at the exact same time he blurted, "What are you doing here?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jack cleared his throat, ears bright red. "I… saw you come back in. Just wanted to check."

You were still standing in place like a deer in headlights, towel clutched in a death grip.

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, eyes very pointedly still on the wall, as if the peeling paint had suddenly become the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

Fingers clenched around the edge of the towel, embarrassment prickled across your chest like static. "One second," you murmured, disappearing back into the bathroom before either of you could say anything more.

A minute later, the door creaked open and you stepped out again—now wrapped in an oversized hoodie and soft, baggy sweatpants that made you look small, almost swallowed whole by comfort. Jack’s brain did something deeply inconvenient at the sight.

You lingered in the doorway, sleeves tugged down over your hands, damp hair framing your face. "You can look now," you said, voice softer this time.

Jack didn’t move at first. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat in a way that sounded more like a stall tactic than anything physiological. Only after a beat did he finally turn, cautiously, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He caught himself staring. Made a mental note not to think about it later. Failed almost immediately.

A breath left your lungs, quieter than the room deserved. You crossed to the bunk and sat down on the edge, fingers fidgeting with the seam of your sweatpants. "You can sit, if you want," you said, barely above a whisper.

The mattress shifted a second later as Jack lowered himself beside you, careful, slow—like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get. His knee brushed yours. He didn’t move it. You didn't pull away. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, a long exhale dragging out of you like it had been caught behind your ribs all night. "I’ve been staying here," you said finally. "Not every night. Just... enough of them."

You looked over at him, then down at your hands. "It’s not about work. I just... I didn’t want to go back to an empty place and hear it echo. Didn’t want to hear myself think. Breathe. This place—at least there’s always noise. Even if it’s bad, it’s something."

That made him pause.

"I don’t want to be alone..." you added, quieter.

Jack was quiet for a moment, then nodded once, slow. "Why didn’t you tell me?" he asked, voice quieter than before. "You know I’m always here for you."

You looked down at your lap. "I didn’t want to be a burden."

Your fingers twitched, and before you realized it, you’d started picking at a loose thread along your cuff. Jack’s hands came up gently, catching yours before you could do more than graze your skin. He held them between his palms—warm, steady. Soothing.

His thumbs brushed over your knuckles. "You never have to earn being cared about," he said softly. "Not with me."

A few moments passed in silence. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.

Then, quietly, Jack reached into his pocket.

And handed you a key.

"I have a spare room," he said, voice low. "No expectations. No questions. Just… if you need it."

You stared at the key. Then at him.

He still didn’t look away, even as his voice gentled. "Don’t sleep here. Not if it hurts."

You took the key.

Not right away—but you did. Slipped it into the front pocket of your hoodie like it might vanish otherwise, like the metal might burn a hole through the fabric if you held it too long.

Jack didn’t press. Didn’t ask for promises.

He stood to leave and paused in the doorway.

"I’ll leave the light on," he said. "Just in case."

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded, barely, and stared at the key in your lap long after the door shut behind him.

The call room was quiet after he left.

Too quiet.

You stared at the key until your fingers itched, then tucked it beneath your pillow like it needed protecting—from you, from the space, from the hollow echo of loneliness that filled the room once Jack was gone.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

And two days later—after another long shift, after you’d showered in the same miserable excuse for plumbing, after you’d sat cross-legged on the cot trying to convince yourself to just go home—you took the key out of your pocket.

You didn’t text him.

You just went.

The last time you'd been to his place was different. Less quiet. More raw.

It was the night after a shift that left the entire ER shell-shocked. You'd both ended up at Jack’s apartment with takeout containers and too much to drink. You’d lost a kid—ten years old, blunt trauma, thirty-eight minutes of resuscitation, and it still wasn’t enough. Jack had lost a veteran. OD. The kind of case that stuck to his ribs.

He’d handed you a beer without a word. The two of you had sat on opposite ends of his couch, silence stretching between you like a third presence until you broke it with a hoarse, "I keep hearing his mother scream."

Jack didn’t look away. "I keep thinking I should’ve caught it sooner."

The conversation didn’t get lighter. But it got easier.

At some point, you’d both ended up sitting on the floor, backs against the couch, knees bent and shoulders almost brushing.

He told you about Iraq. About the first time he held pressure on someone’s chest and knew it wouldn’t matter.

You told him about your first code as an intern and the way it rewired something you’ve never quite gotten back.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to. Just passed you another drink and said, "I’m glad you were there today."

And for a while, it was enough—being there, even if neither of you knew how to say why.

You’d gotten absolutely wasted that night. The kind of drunk that swung from giggles to tears and back again. Somewhere between your third drink and fourth emotional whiplash, you started dancing around his living room barefoot, music crackling from his ancient Bluetooth speaker. Tears for Fears was playing—Everybody Wants to Rule the World—and you twirled with your arms raised like the only way to survive grief was to outpace it.

Jack watched from the floor, amused. Smiling to himself. Maybe a little enamored.

You beckoned him up with exaggerated jazz hands. "C’mon, dance with me."

He shook his head, raising both palms. "No one needs to see that."

You marched over, grabbed his hands, and tugged hard enough to get him upright. He stumbled, laughing under his breath, and let you spin him like a carousel horse. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even really dancing. But it was you—vivid and loud and alive—and something in him ached with the sight of it.

He didn’t say anything that night.

But the way he looked at you said enough.

You were still holding his hands from the dance, your breathing slowing, your laughter softening into something tender. The overhead light had gone dim, the playlist shifting into quieter melodies, but you didn’t let go. Your fingers stayed laced behind his neck, your forehead nearly resting against his chest.

Jack’s palms found your waist—not possessive, just steady. Grounding. His thumbs pressed gently against your sides, and for a moment, you swayed in place like the world wasn’t full of ghosts. You were sobering up, but not rushing. Not running.

You hadn’t meant for the dance to turn into this. But he didn’t step away.

Didn’t look away either.

Just held you, as if the act itself might keep you both tethered to something real.

You woke the next morning to the sound of soft clinking—metal against ceramic, a pan being set down gently on the stovetop.

The smell of coffee drifted in first. Then eggs. Something buttery. Your head pounded—dull, insistent—but your body felt warm under the blanket someone had pulled up around your shoulders during the night.

Padding quietly down the hall, you peeked into the kitchen.

Jack stood at the stove, hair ever so slightly tousled from sleep, wearing the same faded t-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants that made your chest ache with something you couldn’t name. He hadn’t seen you yet—was humming under his breath, absently stirring a pan with practiced rhythm.

You leaned against the doorframe.

"Are you seriously making breakfast?"

He turned, eyes crinkling. "You say that like it’s not a medically necessary intervention."

You snorted, stepping in. "You’re using a cast iron. I didn’t even know you owned one."

"Don’t tell Robby. He thinks I survive on rage and vending machine coffee."

You slid onto one of the stools, blinking blearily against the light. Jack set a mug in front of you without being asked—just the way you liked it. Just like always.

"You were a menace last night," he said lightly, pouring eggs into the pan.

You groaned, cupping your hands around the mug. "Oh god. Please don’t recap."

He grinned. "No promises. But the dance moves were impressive. You almost took me out during that one twirl."

"That’s because you wouldn’t dance with me!"

"I was trying to protect my knees."

You laughed, head tipping back slightly. Jack just watched you, eyes soft, like the sound of it made something settle inside him.

And for a moment, the silence that settled between you wasn’t hollow at all.

It was full.

If only tonight's circumstances were different. 

Jack opened the door in sweatpants and a black v-neck that looked older than his medical degree. He blinked when he saw you—then smiled, just a little. Not wide. Not obvious. But real. The kind of expression that said he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to see you until you were there.

He said nothing.

After a slow smile: "Didn’t expect to see you again so soon," he said lightly, trying to break the ice. "Unless you’re here to critique my towel-folding technique."

Lifting your hand slowly, the key warm against your skin, you tilted your head with a deadpan expression. "Wouldn’t dream of it," you said, tone dry—almost too dry—but not quite hiding the twitch of a smile. Jack’s mouth quirked at the corner.

Then you held the key out fully, and he stepped aside without a word.

"Spare room’s on the left," he said. “Bathroom’s across from it. The towels are clean. I think."

You smiled, a little helplessly. "Thanks."

Jack’s voice was soft behind you. "That was a joke, by the way. The towel thing."

You turned slightly. "What?"

He shrugged, almost sheepish. "Trying to lighten the mood," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking anywhere but at you. "Make it... easier. Or, y'know. Less weird. That was the goal."

The admission caught you off guard. Jack Abbot had a tendency to ramble when he was nervous, and this was definitely that.

You didn’t say anything right away, but your smile—this time—was a little steadier. A little sweeter.

"Careful, Jack," you murmured, feigning seriousness. "If you keep being charming, I might start expecting it."

He looked like he wanted to say something else. His mouth opened, then closed again as he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly debating whether to double down or play it cool.

"Guess I’ll go work on my stand-up material," he mumbled, half under his breath.

You bit back a laugh.

He ran a hand through his hair again—classic stall tactic—then finally nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

The room he offered you was small, clearly unused, but tidy in a way that suggested recent care. A folded towel sat at the foot of the bed. A new toothbrush—still in its packaging—rested on the nightstand. The faint scent of cedar lingered in the air, mixing with the soft clean trace of his detergent. The air had that faint freshness of a recently opened window, and the corners were free of dust. Someone had aired it out. Someone had taken the time to make space—room that hadn’t existed before, cleared just enough to let another person in.

You set your bag down and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over the blanket. Everything felt soft. Considered. You stared at the corner of the room like it might give you answers.

It didn’t.

But it didn’t feel like a hospital either.

You took your time in the shower, letting the heat soak into your skin until the mirror fogged over and your thoughts slowed just enough to feel manageable. Jack's body wash smelled different on you—deeper, warmer somehow—and the scent clung faintly to your skin as you pulled on the softest clothes you had packed: shorts and an oversized shirt you barely remembered grabbing.

When you stepped out of the guest room, damp hair still clinging to your neck, the smell of garlic and something gently sizzling greeted you first. Jack was in the kitchen, stirring a pot with practiced ease, the kind of domestic ease that tugged at something inside you.

He turned when he heard your footsteps—and froze for a beat too long.

His eyes swept over you and caught on your hair, your shirt, the visible curve of your collarbone, the quietness about you that hadn't been there earlier. He blinked, clearly trying to recover, and failed miserably.

"Hey," you said gently, brushing some damp strands behind your ear. "Need help with anything?"

Jack cleared his throat—once, then again—and turned back to the stove, ears visibly reddening. "I think I’m good," he said. "Unless you want to make sure I don’t burn the rice."

You crossed the room and leaned against the counter next to him, still slightly bashful yourself. The scent of his soap clung to your sleeves, and Jack caught a trace of it on the air. He said nothing—but stirred a little slower. A little more carefully.

"Your apartment’s just as nice as I remembered," you said, soft and genuine, fingers brushing the edge of the countertop.

Jack glanced over at you, a flicker of something warm behind his eyes. "You mean the sterile surfaces and suspiciously outdated spice rack?"

You gave him a knowing smile. "I mean the parts that feel like you."

That stopped him for a second. His stirring slowed to a halt. He looked back down at the pot, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

"Careful," he murmured, voice low. "If you keep saying things like that, I might start thinking you actually like me."

You nudged his elbow gently. "I might. Don’t let it go to your head."

He smiled to himself, the kind of expression that didn't need to be seen to be felt. And in the soft space between those words, something settled. Easier. Closer.

Dinner was simple—pan-seared salmon, rice, roasted vegetables. Nothing fancy, but everything assembled with care. Jack Abbot, it turned out, could cook.

You said so after the first bite—and let out a soft, involuntary moan. Jack froze mid-chew, raised a brow, and gave you a look.

"Wow," he said dryly, lips twitching. "Should I be offended or flattered?"

You felt heat rise across your cheeks, laughing as you covered your mouth with your napkin. "Don't tell me you're jealous of a piece of salmon?"

He grinned. "I’m a man of many talents," he said dryly, passing you the pepper mill. "Just don’t ask me to bake."

You smiled over your glass of water, a little more relaxed now. "No offense, but I didn’t exactly have ‘culinary savant’ on my Jack Abbot bingo card."

He shot you a look. "What was on the card?"

You hummed, pretending to think. "Chronic insomniac. Secret softie. Closet hoarder of protein bars. Dad joke connoisseur."

Jack snorted, setting down his fork. "You’re lucky the salmon’s good or I’d be deeply offended."

You grinned. "So you admit it."

And he did—not in words, but in the way his gaze lingered a moment too long across the table. In the way he refilled your glass as soon as it dipped below halfway. In the quiet, sheepish curve of his smile when you caught him looking. In the way his laugh lost its usual edge and softened, like maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this.

After dinner, you moved to the sink before Jack could protest. He tried, weakly, something about guests and hospitality, but you waved him off and started rinsing plates.

Jack came up behind you, handing over dishes one by one as you scrubbed and loaded them into the dishwasher to dry. His presence was warm at your back, the occasional graze of his hand or arm sending tiny shivers up your spine. The silence between you was companionable, laced with unspoken things neither of you quite knew how to name.

"You’re seriously not gonna let me help?" he asked, bumping your hip with his.

"This is letting you help," you shot back. "You’re the designated passer."

"Such a glamorous title," he murmured, his voice low near your ear. "Do I get a badge?"

You glanced at him over your shoulder, a smile tugging at your lips. "Only if you survive the suds.

Jack leaned in just as you turned back to the sink, and for a moment, your arms brushed, your shoulders aligned. His gaze lingered on you again—your profile, your damp hair starting to curl at the edges, the stretch of your shirt down your back.

You glanced back at him, close enough now to kiss, breath caught halfway between surprise and anticipation when—

Jack dipped his finger into the soap bubbles and tapped the tip of your nose.

You blinked, stunned. "Did you just—"

Jack held your wide-eyed gaze a beat longer, then said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Nice look, Bubbles."

And the dam broke. You laughed, bright and unguarded, flicking water in his direction.

He dodged each droplet as best he could with a grin, triumphant. "I stand by my methods."

You scooped a pile of bubbles into your hand with deliberate menace.

Jack immediately backed away, holding both palms up like he was under arrest. "No. No no no—"

You grinned, nodding slowly with mock gravity. The chase ensued. He darted around the counter, nearly tripping on the rug as you chased after him, suds in hand and laughter trailing like a siren’s call. He was fast—but you were relentless.

"Truce!" he yelped, dropping to his knees in front of you, hands held high in mock surrender.

You smirked, one brow raised. "Hmm. I don’t know… this feels like a trap."

Jack looked up at you with wide, pleading eyes. "Mercy. Have mercy. I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t soap me."

You hummed, pretending to consider it. "Anything?"

"Within reason. And dignity. Maybe." He started lowering his hands.

You tilted your head, letting the moment draw out. Jack watched you carefully, breath held, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I mean…" he started. "If praise is your thing, you’re doing a fantastic job intimidating me right now."

Your mouth parted, stunned. "Did you just—"

Jack smirked, sensing an opening. "You excel at it. Really. Top tier menace."

You laughed, nearly doubling over. "Oh my god. You’re the worst." The bubbles had dissipated by now, leaving you with only damp hands. 

"And yet, here you are," he said, still kneeling, still grinning.

You shook your head, stray droplets slipping from your hand, your laughter easing into something softer. "Get up, you idiot."

But Jack didn’t—not right away. Still on his knees, he inched closer, crawling forward with slow, deliberate grace. His hands found your thighs, resting there gently, like a prayer. Thumbs stroked the place where skin met fabric, featherlight and reverent.

"I mean it," he said, voice quieter now, almost solemn. "You terrify me."

Your breath caught.

"In the best way," he added, gaze lifting. "You walk into a trauma bay like you own it. You fight like hell for your patients. You get under my skin without even trying."

His hands slid up slowly, still gentle, still hesitant, like waiting for permission. "Sometimes I think the only thing I believe in anymore is you."

Your heart thudded. Your hands, still damp, twitched against your sides.

"You deserve to be worshipped," he murmured, and that was when your knees nearly buckled.

The joke was long forgotten. The laughter faded. All that was left was the way Jack looked at you now—like he wasn’t afraid of the quiet anymore.

His hands had made a slow, reverent climb to your bare skin, thumbs sweeping small, anchoring circles into your skin. You felt the heat of him everywhere, your body taut with anticipation, nerves stretched thin. He didn’t rush. Just looked up at you, drinking in every unsteady breath, every flicker of hesitation in your gaze.

"You’re shaking," he murmured, voice low. If you weren't so dazed, you could've sworn you heard a shadow of amusement. "You want to stop?"

You shook your head—barely—and he nodded like he understood something sacred.

"I want you to feel good," he said softly, leaning in to press the lightest kiss to your thigh, just below the hem of your shirt. "I want to take my time with you. If you’ll let me?"

The question lodged in your chest like a plea. You couldn’t speak, only nodded, and his hands flexed slightly in response. 

Jack stood first, rising fluidly, eyes never leaving yours. As he straightened, your hands found his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands at the base of his neck. That was all it took—the smallest pull, the softest touch—and the space between you collapsed.

Not in chaos, not in desperation, but in something careful. Like reverence wrapped in desire. Like he’d been waiting for this, quietly, for longer than he dared admit.

And when his lips met yours, it was a live wire.

Deep. Soft. Unapologetically tender.

But it didn’t stay chaste. Jack’s hands found your hips, drawing you closer, fitting your bodies together like a secret only the two of you knew how to keep. His tongue brushed yours in a slow, exploratory sweep, and you gasped against his mouth, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt.

The kiss turned hungry, molten—slow-burning restraint giving way to a need you both had held too tightly for too long. Jack’s hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing the curve of your spine, and you arched into him, a quiet gasp slipping free.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured between kisses, voice thick, reverent.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, "Don’t you dare."

That was all he needed.

And when he kissed you again, it was like promise and prayer and everything you hadn’t let yourself want until now.

His hands moved with aching care—one sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck, the other splaying wide at your waist, pulling you flush against him. The heat between you was slow and encompassing, more smolder than spark, until it wasn’t—until it ignited all at once.

Jack walked you backward until your hips bumped the counter, and he pressed into the space you gave him, forehead resting against yours. "You undo me," he whispered, breath trembling against your lips. "Every single time."

You were already breathless, clinging to his shirt, heart pounding in your throat.

His mouth found yours again, deeper this time, hands exploring—confident now, reverent, like he was learning every part of you for the first time and never wanted to forget. You moaned softly into the kiss, and Jack cursed under his breath, low and ragged, like the sound had torn through his composure.

And then there was no more space. No more distance. Just heat, and hunger, and the slow unraveling of restraint as Jack lifted you gently onto the counter, your knees parting for him, his name spilling from your lips like a secret.

You kissed like the world was ending. Like this was your only chance to get it right. He needed to feel you pressed against him to believe it wasn’t just a dream.

The kiss deepened, urgent and breathless, until Jack was devouring every sound you made, like he could live off the way you whimpered into his mouth. He groaned low in his throat when your nails scraped lightly down his back, your body arching into his hands like instinct.

He touched you like a man memorizing, devout and thorough—hands mapping the curve of your waist, mouth dragging heat across your throat. He tasted sweat and shampoo and you, and that alone nearly undid him. You felt the tension coil in his spine, the restraint he was holding like a dam, every movement deliberate.

"God," he rasped, lips at your ear, "you have no idea what you do to me."

And when you gasped again, hips shifting, he exhaled a shaky breath like he was trying not to fall apart just from the sound.

"You smell like my soap," he murmured with a rough chuckle, nosing along your jaw. "But you still taste like you."

You whimpered, and he kissed you again—harder now, letting the hunger break through, swallowing your reaction like a man starved.

He praised you in murmured fragments, over and over, voice low and wrecked.

Beautiful.

Brave.

So fucking good.

Mine.

Each word making your skin feel like it was glowing beneath his hands.

And when he finally took you to bed, it wasn’t rushed or careless—it was everything he hadn’t said before now, every ounce of feeling poured into his mouth on your skin, every whispered breath of worship like he was praying into the hollow of your throat.

Jack kissed you like he needed to memorize the taste of every sound you made, like your skin was the answer to every question he’d never asked out loud. His hands roamed slowly, confidently, with that same quiet focus he wore in trauma bays—except now it was all for you. Every inch of you. His mouth lingered at your collarbone, your ribs, the soft curve of your stomach—pressing his devotion into the places you tried to hide.

You felt undone by how gently he worshipped you, how much he wanted—not just your body, but your breath, your closeness, your everything. He murmured praise against your skin like it was sacred, like you were something holy in his arms.

And when he finally moved over you, hands braced on either side of your head, eyes searching yours like he was asking permission one more time—you nodded.

He exhaled like it hurt to hold back. Then gave you everything.

Every kiss was a promise, every touch a confession. He moved with aching tenderness, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath him, like this wasn’t just sex but something divine. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, breath catching in your throat with every thrust. It wasn’t fast or frantic—it was slow, overwhelming, unbearably close.

He whispered your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to yours, and when you finally came apart beneath him, he followed soon after—undone by the way you sang his name like it was the only thing tethering you to this world.

Later, tangled in blankets and the afterglow, Jack pulled you closer without a word. One hand splayed wide against your back, the other curled around your fingers like he wasn’t ready to let you go—not now, maybe not ever. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the warmth of him, the scent of skin and comfort and safety.

"I’m gonna need you to stop making that noise when you taste food," he murmured eventually, voice sleep-thick and amused.

You huffed a laugh into his shoulder. "Or what?"

"I’ll marry you on the spot. No warning. Just a salmon fillet and a ring pop."

Your laughter shook the bed.

Jack smirked, the ghost of a tease already forming. "If I’d known praise got you going, I’d have started ages ago."

You swatted at his chest, heat blooming across your cheeks. "Don’t you dare weaponize this."

He grinned into your hair, voice low and wrecked and entirely too fond. "Too late. I’m gonna ruin you with kindness."

You huffed, hiding your face in his shoulder.

Jack chuckled and pulled you closer.

You were never going to live this down. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want to.

Because Jack Abbot being a secret softie had officially made its triumphant return to your bingo card—and if you were being honest, it had probably been the center square since day one.

"You know," you murmured against his chest, lips curving into a grin, "for someone who acts so stoic at work, you sure have a lot of secrets."

Jack stirred slightly, arm tightening around your waist. "Yeah? Like what?"

You propped yourself up on one elbow, counting off on your fingers. "Total softie. Great cook. An absolute sex god."

Jack groaned into your shoulder, bashful. "Jesus."

"I'm just saying," you teased. "If there’s a hidden talent for needlepoint or poetry, now would be the time to confess."

He lifted his head, eyes heavy with sleep and amusement. "I used to write really bad song lyrics in middle school. That count?"

You laughed, light and easy, your fingers tracing idle circles on his chest. "God, I bet they were terrible."

Jack smirked. "You’ll never know."

"I’ll find them," you said with mock determination. "I’ll unearth them. Just wait."

He kissed your forehead, chuckling softly. "I’m terrified."

And he was—just not of you. Only of how much he wanted this to last.

Jack smiled into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You're incredible, you know that?"

You shook your head, bashful, eyes cast toward the sheets—but Jack didn’t let it slide. His hand curled tighter around yours, his voice still soft but firm. "Hey. I meant that. You are."

When you didn’t answer right away, he leaned in a little closer, his thumb brushing along your wrist. "I need you to hear it. And believe it. You’re—extraordinary."

The earnestness in his voice left you no room to hide. Slowly, your eyes lifted to meet his.

Jack held your gaze like a promise. "Say okay."

"Okay," you whispered, cheeks burning.

He smiled again, slower this time, and kissed your temple once more. "Good girl."

You didn’t answer—just smiled you were on cloud nine and squeezed his hand a little tighter.

Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, you drifted in and out of sleep wrapped in warm limbs and steadier breath, heart finally quiet for the first time in days. Jack’s hand never left yours, his thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles over your knuckles like he needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

Your limbs were tangled with his beneath the softened hush of early morning, the sheets kicked messily down to the foot of the bed. Skin to skin, steady breathing, fingers still loosely clasped where they had found each other in the dark. He shifted just enough to press a kiss to your shoulder, murmured something you didn’t quite catch—but it didn’t matter. The weight of the night had passed. What remained was warmth. Stillness. Something whole.

You fell asleep like that, curled into each other without pretense. Closer than you'd ever planned, safer than you thought possible. And for the first time in what felt like ages, the quiet wasn’t heavy.

It was home.

[thebubblesareevil]

Annoying villains runs in the family

I need to work on my other fics but had to share this

Danny isn’t doing well in school with all the ghost attacks and constant missions.

His parents don’t know about phantom but blame the ghosts for his grades so they send him to stay with his mother’s cousin.

He had already established a no fighting outside of amity rule with the ghosts so he did start improving in school. He was still exhausted though because those damn speedsters kept messing around with the time stream.

A flash accidentally knocks something over in the 1920s? Danny has to pick it back up before People notice and it fucks up history.

Danny is exhausted.

Needless to say when Danny is stuck on laundry duty one day and finds kid flash’s costume he’s feeling pretty fucking pissed.

He calls a family meeting and throws the costume down in front of Wally and they all think he’s about to confront them about their identities, but no.

Instead all present speedsters are forced to sit through an hour long lecture on not tampering with the time stream without going through the proper channels and do you know how fucking exhausted he is?!?!

Like they can’t even question him on anything because he pulls out a fucking slideshow of cause and effect and they are all just sinking into the couch in shame.

Then some random man walks in and starts a slideshow of all the ways they would have fucked up the timeline if they hadn’t intervened.

After Danny stomps away to take a nap they realize they still have no idea how Danny knows all that or who that man was

Any time they try to ask him though, he just starts a new lecture.

Wally’s given up, he’s tired of being scolded.

Barry is determined though, even if he knows way more about the French revolution now than he ever thought he would.