#symptoms of writing

[eqt-95]

a new kind of romance, pt 7

part 6 | cuddles - - - -

🎁 | mistletoe magic

“Ooh, look she’s doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Kara asked, shrugging off her jacket to join Nia and Brainy at a hightop laden with empty glasses.

“Mistletoe magic,” Nia sighed fondly.

“Mistletoe what-?” Kara glanced at Brainy who looked flush with a smudge of Nia’s shade of red on his own lips, and then her eyes tracked to Kelly and Alex two tables away giggling under the glowing branch of green leaves that glistened with the telltale golden sparks of magic. Of Lena’s magic. “Oh.”

She found the culprit loitering on the far end of the bar nursing a drink, smiling, and looking totally and completely huggable, and Kara’s mood immediately brightened. Not that it was sour: it was Al’s holiday party after all.

Kara’s natural reaction to seeing Lena was to superspeed over and engulf her into a super-sized hug and hope the burst of surprise and laughter would land quiet and private into the crook of her neck. 

She very nearly did exactly that except just as she was about to shift into sixth gear and race over Kara realized Lena wasn’t alone. More specifically, she was bookended by two people: Sam and... Andrea.

Which was… fine. Kara loved Sam and all the support she had for Lena. But Andrea? Kara was trying to find warmth for Andrea.

“How long has she been here?” Kara asked before the green-eyed monster could be swallowed down.

“Who?” Nia asked, distracted by a stuffed potato skin.

“No one," Kara blinked, brushing away imaginary crumbs from the table, "nothing. Forget it-”

“I believe Kara is referring to either Ms. Rojas or Ms. Arias,” Brainy interrupted, being all correct and stuff. Kara shot him a dark look that went missed because he was still trying to rub off remnants of lipstick.

“Oh, dunno,” Nia replied with a shrug. “I think they came together?”

“Sam and Andrea?” Kara asked for confirmation even though she definitely didn’t care.

“No, Andrea and Lena.”

“Oh. Sure. Right.”

Positively, absolutely, for sure wasn’t bothered by that.

“Why?” Kara asked nearly a minute later, interrupting a conversation she wasn’t listening to.

Nia paused mid-sentence and glanced at a very distraught-looking Kara. “Why what?”

“Why did they come together?”

“Who?”

“I believe Kara is referring to Ms. Rojas and-”

“Did they have a work meeting?” Kara interrupted, eyes jumping back toward Andrea who was far too cozy and far too close to Lena which was… fine. It was. It really was.

Nia’s mouth opened to respond. Then it closed. Then her eyes narrowed. Then they lifted. Then a smirk the size of the Nile spread across her face. “Why do you care?”

And Kara didn’t like the Nile-sized smile. She didn’t like it one bit. “No reason.”

“I dunno. Brainy, does she look a bit jealous to you?”

“I’m not-” Kara tried to cut in - whined, practically.

“Kara, you do look rather, as they say, ‘put-out’.”

“Does it have anything to do with Andrea subtly guiding Lena toward that mistletoe next to them-?”

“What? She isn’t-”

“Or are you just jealous Lena’s full attention is on her ex at all?”

Two things happened next: the first was that Kara fish-mouthed and blushed furiously because yea, obviously she was jealous. Who wouldn’t be jealous of someone getting Lena’s time. Not that Kara wanted to control her time or who she spent it with or…

And then the second thing happened. And that second thing was like an Acme anvil falling on her Wile E. Coyote state of confusion: she registered Nia's actual words.

“Her ex? Who’s ex? Sam’s ex? You… you mean Sam and Andrea, right? They’re exes?” 

Right? she shouted in her brain and maybe out loud.

The look on Nia’s face did not support this thesis because the look on Nia’s face was like she was looking at an alien, which technically Kara was, but ‘idioms’. 

“I don't know about Ms. Aria, but Ms. Rojas dated Lena for a number of years at boarding school,” Brainy confirmed and shattered Kara’s hopes and dreams and maybe her heart too just a little bit because at that exact moment Lena burst into laughter and Andrea looked so proud for being the source of said laughter and no, Kara’s eyes were not glowing red that would be preposterous but if they were it’s not like anyone would notice with all the colorful lights hung everywhere-

“Hey you know your eyes are glowing, right?” Nia asked before sucking up a bright purple drink from a tiny blue straw and smiling like the dang cheshire cat. 

Ok, so yea, maybe her eyes glowing red wasn’t, like, the greatest. 

“I need to get some food,” Kara mumbled, abandoning Brainy and Nia for the bar where M’gann was telling off a drunk Haverack wobbling on of his stool and J’onn was stepping up to intervene. Before his stony disposition could do its trick though, a tickle of gold flecks from overhead stalled the entire confrontation.

Kara wasn’t going to pout. She wouldn’t do that. She was a way calmer, cooler, collected-er kryptonian than that. 

What Kara was going to do though was lean against the bar and stare longingly at M’gann laughing when J’onn pointed to the glowing mistletoe that had not-so-subtly appeared above them.

The Haverack fell off his stool again, but that wasn’t what kept Kara’s attention.

“I’m sure M’gann is willing to share, darling.”

It wasn’t fair that Lena could make Kara jump and send her super calm, cool, collected demeanor catapulting out the nearest window with a little whisper. It also wasn’t fair that Lena was so so pretty leaning in next to her while wearing nothing more than a simple pair of jeans and sweater. A sweater that was too long in the arms and bunched at Lena’s wrists and made Kara want to pull her close and fly her home and wrap them both in a blanket for the rest of eternity.

Naturally Kara replied with a stammer and in a fit of indecision, she grabbed Lena's hand and also winked and then booped her head against Lena's shoulder.

Which was far from normal. It was because Lena was so pretty tonight.

But Lena was always pretty. She could make cardboard overalls look good. And sure, Kara had seen from a distance that she was just as jaw-dropping as ever, but seeing her up close? in Kara’s own space? where she could get lost in Lena’s soft pretty skin? where she could feel the piercing meant-only-for-her gaze and get all sorts of weak-kneed and breathless? where she could take in the perfect shampoo-perfumey-Lena mix that couldn’t be imitated because Kara, curious and missing Lena while she was off saving acquisitions and mergers once in Shanghai, had tried recreating the scent but failed? 

“I thought you weren’t going to make it. Duty calling and all that.”

“I’ve got one ear on the city, and deadlines can wait one more night,” Kara explained, trying to ignore the distraction that was Lena. Always Lena.

"Don't let Cat hear you say that," Lena smirked.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Just the usual: M’gann’s eggnog has half the bar dancing, though it looks like some hit it a bit too hard,” Lena said with a nod toward the passed-out Haverack, “and Nia is dragging Brainy under every green leaf in the place,” Lena chuckled. "Not sure whose going to tap out first."

“It sounds like someone is to blame for that ‘mistletoe magic’,” Kara replied, nudging Lena with her shoulder.

Lena hummed, her feigned ignorance betrayed by a revealing smirk. 

“Care for some?”

“S-some?” Kara choked, ears ringing.

“Mistletoe magic,” Lena explained slowly, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arching with the elegance of a chandelier or an umbrella or hand-painted porcelain or-or… Kara didn’t know. She wasn’t thinking clearly.

Kara glanced across the bar toward Alex who was giving her a knowing stare and supportive smile that really looked more like a grimace mixed with nausea which meant only one thing: here it was, the chance. The chance Kara had spent minutes and hours and days pacing and hoping and yammering Alex’s ear off for. 

She had gone through every stage of fretting and panicking and unintentionally tearing her couch cushions in half before Kelly’s calmer touch gave her the confidence to believe in her own feelings and maybe - maybe - even Lena's.

Because that’s what Lena was implying now, right?

It was a frosting-covered finger. It was an intimately placed zipper. It was nonexistent personal boundaries that Kara wanted and wanted and wanted.

Now was the chance to put those feelings in motion. It was the perfect setting: holiday tunes were playing, lights were twinkling, the laughter and raucous of friends and family surrounded them. It couldn’t be any better, which was why Kara took a readying breath, propped herself against the bar in a way she hoped looked confident, and offered what Alex would later call the most manic-looking smile she’d ever seen.

“Well if it’s on the table…” Kara began bravely with a throat-clearing to steady herself, “uh, do I get to… er, you know,” she continued with the elegance of a newborn calf taking its first steps, “to pick?”

The wagging eyebrows probably didn’t help her efforts because she was met with a small Lena scowl that made Kara swallow and mutter some incoherent set of sounds and extend her finger toward the sprinkle of mistletoe hanging around the bar like Lena didn’t understand.

But then Lena said “oh” in this small sort of way that made Kara think that maybe Lena didn’t understand. So she clarified: 

“Put me in, coach!” Kara said, puffing up her chest with the kind of confidence reserved only for superheroes and poorly thought through actions.

And technically they were words. Maybe not the best words. Definitely not her best words. But together, it made a semi-coherent sentence that surely - definitely - made her intentions clear.

“Put you… in? I wasn’t… I meant-”

“You meant that since everyone else is… you know...” Kara said conspiratorially with a hand gesture that was meant to say everything else. “I don’t wanna miss out on that holiday spirit, right?”

“I didn’t, uh,” Lena began, a small cough and blush making her discomfort clear which made Kara want to hoover back those misguided intentions real fast and keep her dumb mouth shut. 

Then Lena’s scowl deepened to a version Kara wasn’t familiar with and definitely couldn’t identify which made Kara’s heart plummet. “Right, of course. Who did you-”

“I call dibs!” came an excited shout from behind Lena. 

And yea, maybe Kara should’ve been better at observing her surroundings because there was Sam. 

Who was standing on the other side of Lena. 

The whole time.

Not like it could be Kara’s fault though: Lena just had a way of making the rest of the world disappear. 

“Uh- '' Kara stammered because that technically - definitely - was not what she meant and having Sam sidekick her way through Kara’s ‘feelings’ reveal was not the chance she had pictured. But from the look of tempered frustration on Lena’s face, maybe she should be thanking Sam.

“Pucker up babes,” Sam said, dancing around Lena to split the two. “Lena, you don’t mind, right?” Sam asked, eyes bright and mischievous and far too excited for Kara’s waning courage.

“I don’t really think Kara needs my permission,” Lena replied with a tone that sounded… mad? Was Lena mad? 

“I meant the green leafy goods; get your magic hands moving, Luthor,” Sam said, jazz hands waving at her own sides.

“I-I'd only meant it for, uh, real couples-”

“Oh,” Kara answered while a ton of metaphorical bricks squeezed her chest empty of air and hope and confidence. 

Kara peered past Sam toward Lena who looked flush and annoyed and her jaw was clenched like a vice and, oh gosh, Kara had misread the whole situation. 

Maybe it wasn’t a frosting-covered finger or an intimately placed zipper or nonexistent personal boundaries that Kara wanted and wanted and wanted.

Maybe Kelly and Alex had talked her into a false sense of security. Maybe she had just barged in and ruined a perfectly good time. Had she just ruined a perfectly good friendship? Kara didn’t have an answer so instead she stared at the floor which was peppered with fallen mistletoe leaves and dirty napkins and cobwebs and… was that a ring?

“Oh relax, Lena. What’s the harm in a little-”

“Sam, enough-”

“I was kidding,” Kara practically shouted as an uncomfortable hand fidgeted with a pair of absent glasses. 

For having super hearing, Kara could only make out pin-drop silence, Sam’s shocked “what?” and Lena’s racing heartbeat.

“There isn’t, you know… I was just kidding. Can you imagine that? Supergirl kissing someone? Here? And-and besides, Lena’s right - you’re right,” Kara rambled, looking at her best friend who was decidedly not looking at her, “real couples only, and there isn’t, you know, anyone here who… uhm, yea.”

And then she forced a laugh because she wanted all of it to end.

It sort of did after that: 

Awkwardness ensued through silent sips and half-glances. Sam did her best to rope in the others, but Kara couldn’t shake the discomfort. 

Then Alex and Kelly offered their goodbyes - “babysitters are expensive!” - with Kara getting a tighter hug than usual from Alex that didn't make anything feel better.

Sam followed moments later with a matching reason and what looked like an apologetic smile - “minus the babysitter part. Ruby would skin me alive if I hired a babysitter. She already thinks she’s twenty.”

Nia, with Brainy in tow, made some excuse about needing to replace a lightbulb that no one believed because by then the color Nia’s lips had started the night with was now the color of Brainy's face, neck, and collar.

Which left Kara and Lena, and boy did Kara want to apologize for overstepping. Her fingers tapped on a bottle she didn’t remember getting while mustering the courage and bravery she thought she remembered having. She almost found it again.

Almost.

Except that’s the exact moment Kara realized it wasn’t just her and Lena, because Andrea picked that exact moment to reappear.

“Where’d everyone go?”

Lena said words and Kara nodded but didn’t hear. What she did hear was Andrea’s suggestion that they call it a night. Then she heard Andrea propose she and Lena share a cab - “we live two blocks apart, after all” - and within seconds had both jackets at the ready. 

Then Lena, who hadn’t said another word to Kara all night, looked briefly conflicted toward Kara before nodding.

“Goodnight, Kara.”

And then it did end. It ended without the right words or a hug and definitely not a kiss. It ended before it even began with Kara standing alone under a branch of forgotten mistletoe.

- - - - - - part 8 | new years

[jilyandbambi]

I really wish the Yellowjackets fandom could accept Shauna is mentally ill in the same way Lottie is.

Obviously, yes, all of the Yellowjackets have severe PTSD. But it's like people get that Lottie is schizophrenic and that Tai suffers from some unspecified/undiagnosed dissociative disorder on top of having PTSD while Shauna's postpartum psychosis--the symptoms of which include but aren't limited to:

hallucinations

increased agitation/irritability

paranoia

persecutory delusions/feeling that others are out to get you

disruptive or aggressive behavior

withdrawing from loved ones & social activities

--is largely overlooked and instead her actions are treated as the result of her grief over losing Jackie and her baby.

Although it's understood that Shauna's labor and resulting stillbirth were uniquely damaging experiences that compounded her trauma in ways the others were spared from, she still gets lumped in with the other Yellowjackets as "only" suffering from PTSD. She just has *extra* PTSD. She suffered the most and it turned her into The Most Deranged and Bloodthirsty Yellowjacket.

But how would discussion of Shauna's season 3 arc look if her lashing out at Nat, her fixation on Ben as the culprit behind the cabin fire, her withdrawing socially from the group, and, yes, her extremely (often disproportionate) violent behavior were seen as being driven by her postpartum psychosis the way Lottie's faith in the wilderness is understood to be driven by her schizophrenia?

I don't know where I'm going with this, to be honest. I guess my point is that I think the fandom views the loss of wilderness baby as just a tragic event that compounded Shauna's grief and trauma when what we're actually seeing is the effects of an untreated severe mental health emergency not unlike Lottie's deterioration since running out of her meds.

[tobiosbbyghorl]

SYMPTOMS OF YOU | psh

600 followers special!

pairing:doctor!sunghoon x patient!reader

synopsis: When a clumsy act of heroism lands Y/N in the ER, she doesn’t expect to fall—literally and emotionally—for the handsome Dr. Park Sunghoon. What begins with one injury turns into flirty check-ups, midnight snacks, and unexpected visits. Somewhere between planned accidents and shared coffee, a soft, slow-burning romance begins to bloom—proving some symptoms are only cured by love.

The baby stroller rolled like it had a vendetta.

You didn’t know how or why,one second you were exiting the grocery store with your snacks and sanity intact, and the next, you saw it. A rogue stroller speeding down the sloped parking lot, gaining momentum as it charged toward oncoming traffic.

There was no baby inside, thank God, but still. The thought of it smashing into a car or someone else sent your instincts into overdrive.

You dropped your shopping bag without a second thought and sprinted after it.

Your ankle did not approve of this decision.

You made the save, barely. You managed to intercept the stroller before it reached the road, but your foot twisted on the uneven pavement. A sharp, nauseating pain shot up your leg as you crumpled to the ground with a dramatic yelp.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?!” someone shouted.

No. No, you were not okay.

You weren’t dying, but lying on your back in a parking lot, cradling your throbbing ankle while your chips rolled away into the distance, you did feel a little pathetic.

Which is how you ended up here, sitting in the emergency room of a general hospital, your foot elevated, your ego bruised, and your snack plans obliterated.

And then, as if someone upstairs decided to throw you a bone for your noble sacrifice, he walked in.

“Ms.L/N?” a smooth voice asked.

You looked up from your mildly tear-streaked haze.

And forgot how to breathe.

Towering in the doorway stood a man who looked like he had no business working in a hospital unless it was on the cover of a magazine. Dark, soft hair fell perfectly over his forehead. He wore navy scrubs that fit far too well for your sanity and had a stethoscope slung casually around his neck. His face was both beautiful and serious, like he’d been born to be in a drama where he saves lives and hearts at the same time.

You blinked dumbly. “Uh… y-yeah. That’s me.”

“I’m Dr. Park Sunghoon. I’ll be treating you today.” He glanced at your chart, then at your swollen ankle. “Oof. That doesn’t look too fun.”

“I like to make an entrance,” you joked weakly, trying not to wince as he gently touched the injured area.

His eyes flicked up to yours, and you swore you saw a hint of amusement. “What happened?”

You told him the story, the rogue stroller, your heroic dash, the betrayal of your ankle. He listened, nodding occasionally, lips twitching in barely-contained amusement.

“You saved an empty stroller?” he asked after a beat.

“It could’ve had a baby!” you defended. “It’s the thought that counts!”

That made him laugh. A soft, low chuckle that sent warm little fizzles down your spine.

“Well, hero,” he said, reaching for his tablet, “you’ve got a hairline fracture. Nothing too serious, but we’re going to keep you overnight for observation and pain management.”

“Overnight?” you echoed, startled.

He nodded. “Just a precaution. We’ll get you a boot and some ice, and I’ll swing by later to check in, alright?”

You tried to act cool. Normal. Not like your body was actively combusting.

“Thanks, Doctor.”

“Call me Sunghoon,” he said with a soft smile. “I’m the only Park on call tonight.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you wondering if the throbbing in your chest was worse than the pain in your ankle.

You were supposed to leave the next morning.

Just one night under observation, a brace for your semi-broken ankle, and you’d be back home with your pillows and your half-watched dramas.

But apparently, your ankle had other plans. By the time the nurse came back to check your vitals in the morning, your foot had gone from “mildly annoyed” to “dramatic and swollen.” Sunghoon reviewed your case again, brows furrowed, then gave you a sheepish but sincere look.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he said, hands tucked into his coat pockets, “but looks like you’ll be staying a bit longer.”

“How long is a bit?”

“A few more days. Maybe the week. Just to make sure you don’t break it again chasing airborne shopping carts.”

You groaned and flopped back on the pillows.

He gave you a crooked smile. “I promise to make the food almost tolerable while you’re here.”

You peeked up at him. “Are you allowed to offer bribes?”

He leaned closer, voice lowering slightly. “Only to my favorite patient.”

That was the first time he made your heart trip harder than your ankle.

The days passed slowly, but they weren’t boring. Not with Sunghoon visiting you regularly.

It became a routine. He always came in right after morning rounds, clipboard in hand, coffee in the other. You got used to the way he tapped his pen against the paper when he was reading your vitals. The way his voice softened when he asked how you were feeling. The way he always gave a quick smile at the end of each check-up, even when he was clearly exhausted.

He was calm. Steady. But not cold—there was a warmth tucked under that smooth professionalism, like he was always one sarcastic comment away from teasing you.

Sometimes, he gave in.

“Still alive?” he’d say when he walked in.

“Barely. Your jello tried to kill me again.”

“Ruthless. I’ll have a word with the kitchen.”

On day three, you were watching a cooking show on the tiny hospital TV when he walked in and paused mid-step.

“Is that... a flaming baked Alaska?”

You grinned. “You know it?”

“I’ve failed to make it twice.”

You scooted over on the bed slightly. “Wanna sit and learn from the pros?”

He hesitated for a heartbeat, then walked over and leaned against the side table instead. “If my boss finds out I’m watching baking shows with patients, I’ll get roasted harder than that meringue.”

“You mean you’re not always this charmingly unprofessional?”

He laughed—soft and real. “Only with special cases.”

—

Your favorite moments, though, were the midnight ones.

It started accidentally.

One night, around 2 a.m., you couldn’t sleep. Between the aching foot, the stiff pillows, and the weird smell of hospital bleach, you gave up. You carefully slid out of bed, crutches in hand, and made your slow way down the hallway to the vending machines.

You stood there debating between cookies and chips when a voice cut through the quiet:

“What are you doing out of bed?”

You spun so fast your crutches wobbled.

Sunghoon stood a few steps away, looking like a half-sleeping model—messy hair, coffee cup in hand, coat slung over his arm.

“Uh,” you blurted, caught. “I… I was just stretching?”

He gave you a look.

You sighed. “Okay, I was getting snacks.”

“Ah,” he said, stepping closer to the machine. “A woman of culture.”

You watched as he pressed a few buttons and retrieved a pack of peanut butter cookies. Then, with a soft smile, he handed them to you.

“They’re better than the hospital pudding. Trust me.”

You stared at the cookies, stunned. “I didn’t peg you for a vending machine connoisseur.”

“Oh, I’m a man of many talents,” he said, sipping his coffee. “And cookie wisdom is one of them.”

That night, you sat side-by-side on a bench in the hallway, quietly eating snacks under the dull hospital lights. You talked about random things—horrible date stories, the most absurd ER injuries he’s seen (“a man once tried to wax his legs with candle wax… while drunk”), your fear of geese, his inability to whistle.

When he got paged, he stood, gave you a nod, and said, “Same time tomorrow?”

You grinned. “Only if you bring better snacks.”

—

And he did.

Over the next few nights, it became a pattern. You’d sneak out—quietly, always watching out for the night nurse—and you’d find him already there, waiting near the vending machine or sitting on the bench with his tie slightly loosened.

One night, as you talked about favorite movies, he leaned back and looked at you sideways.

“You know,” he said, “you’re braver than most people.”

You blinked. “Because I like horror movies?”

“No,” he said, “because you threw yourself into traffic for a stroller. Even an empty one.”

You flushed. “That was dumb, honestly.”

He tilted his head. “It was impulsive. But good people do dumb things sometimes.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…Was that your way of saying I’m a good person?” you teased gently.

His lips twitched. “I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

On the fifth night, he walked in during your nap.

You were curled on your side, blanket tucked up to your chin. He entered quietly, looked at your chart, and checked the monitor. Then—thinking you were still asleep—he brushed a hand down the side rail and whispered with a soft chuckle:

“You’re seriously too cute for your own good.”

Your eyes snapped open—but you kept them shut. Barely breathing.

You heard him step back, heard the quiet rustle of his coat, and then the door click softly behind him.

You grinned into your pillow for twenty minutes straight.

Leaving the hospital felt… wrong.

Your ankle was better. Not perfect, but healed enough to survive without nightly cookie rendezvous or soft-eyed doctors checking your pulse like they cared more than they let on. The nurse gave you a cheery goodbye, and Sunghoon—cool and professional till the very end—stood at your door with your discharge papers.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You’re officially free.”

You took the folder from his hands, trying not to let your smile falter. “Freedom tastes suspiciously like sadness.”

He chuckled, eyes scanning your face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were going to miss this place.”

“I’m going to miss snacks at 2 a.m. and cookie confessions.”

A glint sparked in his gaze. “You say that like you didn’t just come here for me.”

You froze. Then burst into a laugh. “Cocky, Dr. Park.”

“Confident,” he corrected, and that stupid, beautiful smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “But hey—don’t break any more bones to see me, alright? There are easier ways.”

“Like what?”

His voice dropped just a little. “You could just… visit.”

Your heart did a weird little stutter. “Noted.”

But the moment you stepped outside the building, real life rushed back in—loud, busy, filled with people who weren’t Park Sunghoon. The city buzzed with a rhythm you didn’t want to return to. And by the time you got home, all you could think about was his voice, his smile, the way he leaned against the vending machine like it was a lounge chair meant only for two.

You lasted four days.

Four. Long. Torturous days.

And then you snapped.

Your first plan was harmless: stub your toe on purpose.

You spent ten minutes mentally preparing, then bumped it against your kitchen table. Mild pain. No bruise. Not enough. You tried again. Harder. It swelled a little—enough to limp convincingly—but the guilt was louder than the ache.

Still, you went.

The hospital lobby felt like enemy territory and home all at once. You limped in dramatically, rehearsing your lines. “I’m not sure if it’s broken,” you told the nurse at the ER check-in. “I slammed it on something hard, and now it’s hard to walk.”

Within twenty minutes, you were in a room.

Within twenty-five, he was there.

Dr. Park Sunghoon entered with a slow blink and a lifted brow.

“I told you not to break anything.”

“I didn’t,” you said sweetly. “Just bruised it. Mildly. Accidentally.”

He narrowed his eyes.

You gave your best innocent smile. “Are you accusing me of doing this just to see you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re thinking it.”

He sighed and knelt down to check your foot, the back of his hand brushing your skin. “This is ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled.

He looked up. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

That incident ended with a mild toe wrap and a warning: “Next time, just visit like a normal person. You don’t have to fake an injury to see me.”

You promised you wouldn’t.

And you meant it.

Until you didn’t.

The second injury was supposed to be even less dramatic. You “accidentally” scraped your elbow on a rough door frame. Just a scratch, barely worth a bandage. But you showed up again anyway, cheeks flushed, proudly displaying your battle wound like a badge of affection.

He sighed the entire time he wrapped the gauze around your elbow, clearly trying to look stern and professional, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him with the way they kept twitching upward.

“Don’t say it,” you muttered.

“I haven’t said anything,” he replied, taping the end of the bandage. “Yet.”

“You’re thinking it again.”

“I’m always thinking it when it comes to you.”

You blinked. “What does that mean?”

He straightened up, clicking the cap back onto the ointment tube. “It means you’re the most stubborn patient I’ve ever had—and possibly the most charming.” His voice lowered slightly, teasing. “Even if you fake your injuries to come see me.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. “…You really are cocky.”

He laughed. “Alright,” he said, tugging off his gloves and tossing them into the bin. “Since you’re clearly going to find more creative ways to end up in my ER, I might as well save us both the trouble.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pen, and grabbed the corner of the gauze packet. He scribbled something quickly, then folded it in half and handed it to you.

“What’s this?”

“My number,” he said. “Use it the next time you want to see me.”

You blinked, startled. “You’re giving me your number?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did you not want it?”

“No! I mean—yes. I mean—” You gave up and smiled like an idiot. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and his voice turned almost boyish. “Now go before I change my mind and file this as an official nuisance case.”

You snorted. “Is that your way of flirting?”

“It’s a very niche love language,” he deadpanned.

Later That Night…

You stared at your phone, thumb hovering over the number.

And then you typed:

Y/N: this is the burrito girl.

Y/N: just making sure the number isn’t secretly a prank hotline.

Seconds later, a reply.

Dr. Park: depends. do you need emotional support or a burrito wrap?

Y/N: both.

Dr. Park: lucky for you, i’m trained in both areas.

And just like that, the texting began.

He wasn’t always fast, but he always replied. Sometimes with dry humor. Sometimes with sleepy emojis sent between rounds. Sometimes with little updates:

Dr. Park: just had a 5hr surgery. caffeine is my blood type now.

Dr. Park: saw a kid eat a crayon today. that was the highlight.

Dr. Park: also. been thinking about you.

Dr. Park: not in a weird way.

Dr. Park: okay maybe a little.

You replied with your own updates:

Y/N: almost broke my other ankle tripping over my cat today. thought you’d be proud.

Y/N: saw a donut that reminded me of you. sweet and dangerous.

Y/N: not gonna lie. i kinda miss the vending machine.

He started sending photos too—his office coffee, a crooked name tag, a sleepy selfie with his face half covered by a mask.

And one day, just a few days later, he texted:

Dr. Park: you don’t have to injure yourself, you know.

Dr. Park: if you ever feel like it… you could just drop by.

The Honest Visit

It took courage to walk into that hospital with no bruises or sprains or fractures. Just nerves.

You wore your cutest non-patient outfit and held a coffee cup like it was a peace offering. When you showed up at the nurses’ station, one of them lit up immediately.

“Oh—you’re her.”

You blinked. “Her?”

“Dr. Park talks about you more than he talks about patient charts.”

You tried not to melt. “Is he here?”

“He’s on rounds, but I’ll let him know you’re waiting.”

Fifteen minutes passed before you heard his voice.

“I thought I told you—no more injuries.”

You turned, already smiling.

He was wearing his white coat, stethoscope slung around his neck, hair slightly tousled from a long day. His eyes softened the moment they landed on you.

“No injuries,” you said, lifting the coffee cup. “Just visiting.”

He looked genuinely surprised—and so genuinely happy.

“Wow,” he said. “You actually came.”

“You invited me.”

“I didn’t think you’d take me seriously.”

You grinned. “Well, I’m full of surprises.”

He stepped closer, gaze flicking to your hands. “Did you… bring that for me?”

“Of course. I bribed a barista to write ‘World’s Hottest Doctor’ on the cup.”

He chuckled and took it, his fingers brushing yours. “You’re something else.”

You sat together for twenty minutes in the break lounge—him sipping coffee, you sharing a muffin you’d smuggled in. It was quiet and sweet and real, and for the first time, you weren’t just some girl who faked injuries.

You were someone he wanted to see.

Sunghoon had gotten a little too comfortable crashing at your place. What started as a once-in-a-while couch visit after his hellish 12-hour shifts became more frequent. He always texted first—“You up? Don’t feel like driving home.”—and you always answered with “Door’s open. Blanket’s clean.”

The first two nights, he knocked out on the couch within minutes, still in scrubs, his phone falling to the floor as he curled up like a cat. The third night, though, you woke up sometime around 3 a.m. to the sound of shuffling.

Your bedroom door creaked open, followed by a low, sheepish voice.

“…Y/N?”

You squinted through the dark. “Sunghoon?”

“I, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes barely adjusting. “The couch is killing my spine. Can I—?”

Without another word, you scooted over in bed, lifting the blanket in silent invitation.

He hesitated, then smiled softly. “Respectfully… I love you.”

“You’re not even fully conscious,” you mumbled, rolling over. “Just get in.”

He climbed in beside you—fully clothed, smelling like hand sanitizer and fatigue. The bed dipped slightly as he settled on his side, keeping a polite distance, until your sleepy voice broke the silence again.

“You don’t have to act like I’m made of glass.”

That was all it took for him to scoot closer, just enough for your back to brush against his chest. You fell asleep to the sound of his breathing and the occasional murmur of his dreams.

After that, the couch was history.

⸻

It had been a good few weeks—injury-free and drama-free. You had your routines: texts at odd hours, his hoodie now permanently yours, regular lunch drop-offs at the hospital, and sleepy nights curled up on your bed, whispering until one of you drifted off.

So, of course, that peace didn’t last.

You were crossing the street one evening with a bag of takeout—your usual hospital dinner delivery—when a motorbike came out of nowhere. You managed to jump back, but the bag slipped from your hands, and in a graceless scramble, you hit the pavement hard.

Your elbow got the worst of it—scraped raw—and your knee throbbed instantly. Some kind strangers helped you up, and a nurse passing by recognized you. The ER wasn’t far. You figured you’d stop in, just to be safe.

But you knew one thing for sure:

Sunghoon was going to kill you.

⸻

He was in the middle of his evening rounds when a nurse sprinted toward him.

“Dr. Park—you should come to the ER.”

He barely looked up. “Why?”

The nurse panted. “It’s Y/N.”

His heart stopped.

In an instant, he abandoned the clipboard, sprinting down the hall like his life depended on it.

By the time he found your room, he was breathless, coat flapping behind him, eyes wild.

“Y/N!”

You turned your head. “Oh—hey, Hoon.”

You were propped on a bed, bandages already on your arm and a cold pack on your knee. Eating an apple like nothing happened.

He looked at you, chest heaving. “Are you okay?”

“Better now,” you said, smiling gently. “It’s really not that bad.”

He strode over, cupping your face with both hands, scanning for injuries like he didn’t believe you.

“I thought it was something serious. They said it was a street accident, and I—God, I thought you were—” His voice cracked. “You said you wouldn’t plan an injury again.”

“I didn’t,” you said. “This one was real. I was just… unlucky.”

He let out a shaky breath and rested his forehead against yours for a moment.

“I swear,” he whispered. “One more scare like this, and I’ll admit myself into psych.”

You smiled, placing your hand over his heart. “You care that much, huh?”

He looked at you then—really looked.

“I care more than I wanted to.”

⸻

Later that night, after you’d been properly checked, bandaged, and cleared to go home, he insisted on walking you back to your apartment.

Inside, you curled up on your couch while he poured water into a glass with the familiarity of someone who now knew your kitchen layout.

You watched him quietly, heart pounding.

“Sunghoon?”

He turned, looking exhausted but beautiful.

“Yeah?”

You swallowed. “I know we joke a lot. But… I’ve really grown to like you. Like, a lot. I don’t want to keep pretending that I don’t miss you when we don’t talk. Or that your voice doesn’t make me feel better after a bad day.”

He set the glass down and crossed the room slowly.

“I’m glad you said that,” he said, settling beside you. “Because I’ve been scared to say it first. But I feel the same.”

He brushed his thumb along your cheek, gaze soft. “You’ve become the best part of my day, Y/N. Even when you’re uninjured.”

You laughed tearfully. “Guess that means I don’t need to throw myself into traffic anymore.”

“No,” he said, grinning. “You really don’t.”

He leaned in then, gently, and kissed you.

No rush. No hospital beeps. Just quiet warmth and a soft press of lips that said everything he’d held in until now.

—

Two weeks later, with your knee fully healed and your elbow down to a pink scar, Sunghoon showed up at your door—button-down shirt, flowers in hand, and a giddy, nervous smile.

“You look handsome,” you said, accepting the bouquet.

“You look like trouble,” he grinned.

He took you to a rooftop restaurant, just the two of you under soft lights and city breeze. You laughed over shared dishes, teased him about his flirty doctor voice, and he listened to your stories like you were the only voice in the world.

After dessert, he reached across the table, brushing your hand.

“Can I take you on many more dates?” he asked, genuine and hopeful.

“You better,” you said. “You still owe me dinner for the spilled takeout.”

He laughed and leaned in, kissing you slow and soft—just like that first one, but deeper now. Certain.

The couch stayed empty after that.

Your bed became his default crash spot, though he started staying awake long enough to cuddle and steal a few kisses before passing out.

You brought dinner to the hospital every few nights. Nurses winked when they saw you walk in with two coffees and a thermos of stew.

He left his toothbrush at your place.

You kept his name saved in your phone with a heart.

And once, in the middle of the night, while half-asleep and tangled with you in bed, he murmured, “Still the best emergency that’s ever walked into my ER.”

You kissed his forehead, whispering, “Still the best reason I’ve ever risked a sprained ankle.”

And this time—thankfully—no injuries were involved.

Bonus Scene: Doctor Down

It started with a sneeze.

Just one, muffled and polite, during your late-night call. You didn’t think much of it—until the fifth one happened.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing your teeth over FaceTime.

“I’m fine,” Sunghoon said, blinking at the screen. His nose was pink, his voice a little hoarse, and his eyes—normally sharp—were glazed and half-lidded. “Probably just allergies.”

You stared at him.

“Hoon.”

He sniffled.

“Hoon.”

“…Maybe a cold.”

⸻

By the time you reached his place the next morning, it was worse. He opened the door wrapped in a blanket like a sad, oversized burrito. His hair was floppy and unstyled, his voice all raspy grumbles.

“I’m dying.”

“You have a cold.”

“A severe cold. Near-death.”

“You’re dramatic.”

He blinked slowly. “You still like me when I’m like this?”

You held up the tote bag filled with supplies: porridge, honey lemon tea, meds, menthol rub, tissues, and a forehead thermometer”

“Guess you’ll have to see.”

⸻

He crashed on the couch while you set things up. When you returned with tea and a warm compress, he blinked up at you with the most pitiful expression you’d ever seen.

“My head hurts.”

“I know, baby,” you cooed, setting the tea down and sitting beside him. “Tilt your head. I’ll put the compress on.”

He obeyed, resting against your thigh like a cat. “If I die, delete my browsing history.”

“You searched ‘how to tell if I have the plague’ at 3 a.m.,” you said with a grin, adjusting the compress.

“I was being proactive.”

“You were being dramatic.”

He sniffled.

You leaned down and kissed his forehead gently. “Still love you, though.”

⸻

He instructed you like a needy patient from a rom-com.

“Y/N, two teaspoons, not one. Don’t underdose me.”

“Can you fluff the pillow again? It lost its bounce.”

“Why does tea taste like wet socks today?”

“Can you rub my chest—no, not like that, like with the vapor rub!”

But then, between the silly requests and pouty whines, there were soft little moments:

Him curling into your lap without a word.

Him falling asleep mid-sentence, hand resting over yours.

Him muttering, “You’re the best medicine,” against your hoodie while you tucked the blanket higher on his chest.

⸻

That night, you stayed over—because he refused to let you leave, even in his sick state.

“I need to see you when I wake up,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, already half asleep as you slid into bed beside him.

“You will,” you promised, brushing the hair from his face.

And sure enough, the next morning, when he blinked awake with a scratchy throat and puffy eyes, you were still there—smiling sleepily beside him.

“Morning, Dr. Drama,” you teased.

“Morning, Nurse Pretty,” he rasped, curling into you again.

No vitals needed. Just soft touches, lazy cuddles, and the comfort of love—stronger than any medicine.

tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

taglist: @papichulomacy @Iveegsoi @howdyflwr @ueilux @weyukinluv @raavenarmy-blog @doririsstuff @vrusha01 @sievenderz @moon368 @selenaxnguyen-blog@urmomssneakylink @chvconn3 @k1ttyjwon @luimiinaa @stwrlightt @maewphoria @cyjhhyj @bussolares @doririsstuff

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee @morganaawriterr @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12 @pocketzlocket

[inkskinned]

crows use tools and like to slide down snowy hills. today we saw a goose with a hurt foot who was kept safe by his flock - before taking off, they waited for him to catch up. there are colors only butterflies see. reindeer are matriarchical. cows have best friends and 4 stomachs and like jazz music. i watched a video recently of an octopus making himself a door out of a coconut shell.

i am a little soft, okay. but sometimes i can't talk either. the world is like fractal light to me, and passes through my skin in tendrils. i feel certain small things like a catapult; i skirt around the big things and somehow arrive in crisis without ever realizing i'm in pain.

in 5th grade we read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Night-time, which is about a young autistic boy. it is how they introduced us to empathy about neurotypes, which was well-timed: around 10 years old was when i started having my life fully ruined by symptoms. people started noticing.

i wonder if birds can tell if another bird is odd. like the phrase odd duck. i have to believe that all odd ducks are still very much loved by the other normal ducks. i have to believe that, or i will cry.

i remember my 5th grade teacher holding the curious incident up, dazzled by the language written by someone who is neurotypical. my teacher said: "sometimes i want to cut open their mind to know exactly how autistics are thinking. it's just so different! they must see the world so strangely!" later, at 22, in my education classes, we were taught to say a person with autism or a person on the spectrum or neurodivergent. i actually personally kind of like person-first language - it implies the other person is trying to protect me from myself. i know they had to teach themselves that pattern of speech, is all, and it shows they're at least trying. and i was a person first, even if i wasn't good at it.

plants learn information. they must encode data somehow, but where would they store it? when you cut open a sapling, you cannot find the how they think - if they "think" at all. they learn, but do not think. i want to paint that process - i think it would be mostly purple and blue.

the book was not about me, it was about a young boy. his life was patterned into a different set of categories. he did not cry about the tag on his shirt. i remember reading it and saying to myself: i am wrong, and broken, but it isn't in this way. something else is wrong with me instead. later, in that same person-first education class, my teacher would bring up the curious incident and mention that it is now widely panned as being inaccurate and stereotypical. she frowned and said we might not know how a person with autism thinks, but it is unlikely to be expressed in that way. this book was written with the best intentions by a special-ed teacher, but there's some debate as to if somebody who was on the spectrum would be even able to write something like this.

we might not understand it, but crows and ravens have developed their own language. this is also true of whales, dolphins, and many other species. i do not know how a crow thinks, but we do know they can problem solve. (is "thinking" equal to "problem solving"? or is "thinking" data processing? data management?) i do not know how my dog thinks, either, but we "talk" all the same - i know what he is asking for, even if he only asks once.

i am not a dolphin or reindeer or a dog in the nighttime, but i am an odd duck. in the ugly duckling, she grows up and comes home and is beautiful and finds her soulmate. all that ugliness she experienced lives in downy feathers inside of her, staining everything a muted grey. she is beautiful eventually, though, so she is loved. they do not want to cut her open to see how she thinks.

a while ago i got into an argument with a classmate about that weird sia music video about autism. my classmate said she thought it was good to raise awareness. i told her they should have just hired someone else to do it. she said it's not fair to an autistic person to expect them to be able to handle that kind of a thing.

today i saw a goose, and he was limping. i want to be loved like a flock loves a wounded creature: the phrase taken under a wing. which is to say i have always known i am not normal. desperate, mewling - i want to be loved beyond words.

loved beyond thinking.

[a-b-riddle]

So if you’re writing about pregnancy, here are some other “fun” symptoms to write about instead of morning sickness (which doesn’t just happen in the morning) and I thought that these could be put to good use.

Lightning crotch: it feels like you are getting tazed in the vagina. I folded like a fucking lawn chair the first time it happen my knees literally buckled.

Bloating: not even later on. Like 5-7 weeks into this shit and you can bloat to the point where it’s painful.

Cramping: yes. You still cramp while pregnant. You will cramp in areas you didn’t know could cramp. The only thing to worry about is if there is blood or anything past mild discomfort. Anything more and you need to book it to an OB or the ER.

Peeing: You don’t just pee a lot when you’re further along and the baby is pressing on your bladder. It started for me at 5 weeks.

Pregnancy rage: you will feel like you can fight a grown man with the rage that courses through you over little things.

Appetite changes: you either want to eat everything or nothing. You could be eating something delicious but by the third bite you suddenly feel like you’re eating literal garbage.

And my favorite (not) symptom that landed me in the ER today:

Rashes: you can develop rashes. Heat rash. PUPPP. Hives. You can randomly be allergic to something you’ve never been to allergic to in your life. It can hurt so bad to the point of tears. Yay.

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

manmade monsters Sun/Moon au. bc i have no self control lol

i also mentally call it the 'why are there giant robot monsters in my shed' au lol

idk what else to say so uh. enjoy

[marzipanandminutiae]

I don't go here but uh

me: oh no so all the Black Widows had ovary-removing hysterectomies? are they on HRT, since they need to be conventionally attractive, conventionally feminine women and there's a risk of hormone changes compromising that? they also have increased danger of bone density loss, mood swings, pelvic organ prolapse, sexual dysfunction...you're going to get into that right? because I fully believe that a secret Soviet assassin factory would do involuntary, unnecessary hysterectomies, but they'd also want their Sexy Assassins at peak Sexy Assassin performance. and even the women who've gotten out probably don't want to deal with those symptoms if they come up. so are we going to see Natasha taking estrogen, or...?

Marvel: no, they just can't :( have babies :( and by the way they sometimes think they're monsters because of that :( but that's all a hysterectomy does and we would know because we are very smart cis men!!!!

[sensitiveheartless]

Probably an unnecessary PSA for anyone who isn't me, but don't try to run across those yellow truncated domes on the sidewalk when it's been raining, the ones in my area at least can get extremely slippery apparently — I slipped, fell, and gave myself a concussion by hitting my chin too hard on the pavement lol

It was a mild concussion, and I am otherwise fine apart from a few bumps and bruises and mildly displaced teeth, but still! Concussions are not fun, 0/10 would not recommend, it's been more than a couple days and I still keep having to go lie down in a dark room.

So just a heads up that I'll remain slow to post for a bit, brain still isn't 100% down with screens, but hopefully that'll improve soon

Hope y'all are doing alright!

[dyl-z]

178 | 179 | 180

cw: mental health issues, disjointed thinking, fluctuating self-worth, paranoia, disassociation, light suicidal ideation

Sirius is very much an unreliable narrator

[sadisthetic]

limewire virus

[funkily]

i feel like Manic is a word often used to describe e1 fwhip (for good reason) but i feel like we need to explore this more . his egos already pretty big, you know as soon as he gets a manic episode he feels like a god . someone notices hes chattier and, like . smiling and theyre like alright . should probably keep an eye on that

[saccharinosis]

Thaumo from @symptomsofdeceit :))

This has been sitting in IBIS Paint for. many months because I started colouring and could not figure out how to 😭😭 I am still not happy with the colouring and I rushed it a lot but I will take it as a learning lesson and experiment with more yan characters (my laundry list of victims after spending so long on this)

I love this squishy guy

[jasperthejester]

me: finally accepting theres a good chance im autistic and starting to work up the courage to ask my parents to see if i could get a diagnoses but being scared to

my mom: do you ever think you have adhd? if you want to do a screening for add next time your at the doctors you can

me:

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

whump fic where whumpee is being held captive by whumper and continually tries to escape to find where caretaker is being held so they can get out of here together, but as the story progresses it becomes more clear that whumpee is a victim of stockholm syndrome/brainwashing by "caretaker" and is actually being rehabilitated by "whumper" after being rescued, not kidnapped

[spineless-lobster]

Get to know your moots better!!!

Thanks for the tags @arcangelise and @goldenjuniper !!!

Last song: I shit you not Out Of Tartarus from the hades soundtrack 😭 I am a parody of myself it seems lmao

Favourite colour: GREEENNNNNN!!!!!! Or PURPLEEEEEEE I like both :3

Last book: A collection of euripides’ plays! (Alcestis is a banger you should read it)

Last movie: The Labyrinth!

Last show: Yellowjackets!!!!!

Sweet/spicy/savoury: Savoury all the way babeyyyy

Relationship: married to the grind 💪🔥‼️🗣️ (not in nor seeking a relationship lol)

Last google search: symptoms of a panic attack (I promise I’m fine I just needed it for writing lmao)

No pressure tags: @vampishdyke @doctor-whomst-the-fuck-asked @mt-isnothere12 @anthollogy @diarunas @darlingfreddie @supernova3space @somereaderinblue @ghostprincessworld @winterbunz @coco6420 @hikar-y and anyone else who wants to join!!!!

[symptomsofdeceit]

What would Thaumo and Nalis do if I just went up to them sniffed their head and said “ew do you not take showers????” and proceed to stare at them with the most deadpan look

Thaumo would stare at you with that stunned confused look he sometimes gets for a minute. He’d then try to pull off a pitiful/pathetic expression & insist that he tried… if it wasn’t good enough maybe you should help him next time he is so obvious it is hurting me

Nalis would be more genuinely stunned and worried & immediately smell himself.

• if there’s a strange smell but it’s not coming from him, Nalis would immediately lead you out of the room, then go back & look for the cause of it.

• if there’s no strange smell he’ll accept your teasing & try to tease you back later in the day.

• there’s a small chance that Nalis got too caught up in his work & didn’t go home to shower or sleep that night. If this is the case he’d be kinda embarrassed, mumble that something work related came up, and sulk off for the rest of the day. The following day he’d show up at your desk, freshly showered & carrying your favorite drink, and in a much better mood again.