#daffodil (she/any)

[localceilingdevil]

slimerancher....

two of my ocs as ranchers up in the far, far range !!! they are best friends. donny cultivates honey slimes and the occasional puddle or two, whereas daf keeps mosaic slimes and other dangerous variants :]

[ssecond-hand-faith]

Boyfriends are a hassle sometimes

Clove belongs to @dread0narrival

[supurrb]

my dad: if u somehow got into a huge house u would never see ur cats, u would always be looking for them

me and my cats:

[atomiccocktailhangover]

11 for all of them, please... and (I'm choosing without looking at the list) 7 for Daffodil & partner.

Another late response, but I had a lotta fun with these ones! ~

11. Are they into dirty talk?

Daffodil/Deacon: Unfortunately, yes! So much! To the dismay of anybody who happens to be in earshot.

Deacon has a hard time being sincere, so he gets more playful than serious in bed. Daffodil loves it - she’s glad he’s comfortable enough to still joke around even when he’s this vulnerable with her. Also she thinks he’s SO funny. Being theatrical as she is, she rolls with it and “yes, and--” 's him until they’ve full on veered into Porn Parody Dialogue territory.

Tuesday/Danse and Tuesday/Rhys response under the cut

Tuesday’s way into it. She’s raunchy as hell with it, too. No coyness or double-entendre here, just pure sleaze. And she doesn’t keep it exclusively in the bedroom - her idea of flirting with her partner is to nonchalantly whisper something x-rated in their ear and hope it gets them all hot and bothered. Sometimes her timing’s off, though, and they’re just like “Jesus, Tuesday, not now.” It’s a real kick to her ego.

Paladin Danse is. Well. About what you’d expect. He’s not much of a talker in bed, though when he is he’s direct with his wants and intentions. Tuesday likes encouraging him to talk nasty to her, and he’ll comply in the moment but feel embarrassed about it later on. He’s also not very good at it. Sometimes she’ll make him say what he wants to do to her, and he’ll come back with something like “I want to have intercourse with you.” He tries his best.

When Rhys was alive, he could match her energy. He matched it a little too well, even - she’d try to order him around, he’d try to assert dominance, half the time their dirty-talk just sounded like another one of their arguments. The other half of the time they really were just arguing in the middle of sex.

7. What is their favorite intimately non-sexual thing to do with their partner?

They like to bathe together. It’s rare that they have access to running water, so when they find a shower or tub they make the most of it. Daffodil’s a bubble bath with rose petals kinda gal (though usually the best she can find is some soap and dried hubflowers), she’ll make a whole spa day out of it when she’s able. And Deacon provides the snacks. He’s a bath-snacker. Which Daffodil was iffy on until she kicked back with a glass of wine and a fresh mutfruit, and now she’ll never go back.

But even on days when all they have is a bucket of water and a rag, they like to turn on the radio and scrub each others’ backs. Deacon has a hard time letting himself be taken care of, so he tells himself its an exercise in team-building so he won’t feel too guilty about it. Daffodil doesn’t really know how much it means to him, because to her it just feels natural - of course they deserve a relaxing soak after a long day of wasteland adventures! Everybody deserves to pamper themselves!

[scratching92]

A quick thing I wrote for a Lancer pilot I've been working on. I don't even know if this is 100% the backstory I want to go with for her, but it's something.

She had first met CM-4418 when she had completed her Onboarding. Aside from his being the first non-labcoat she had ever met, there was nothing special to the meeting. They explained that she would be joining a Team, that he would be her Team Leader, and that he would handle all future queries about the job. CM-4418 had smiled a lot throughout the meeting. She remembered disliking that smile. He had also called her “Kid”. She had disliked that, too.

He had shadowed her almost constantly from that point. CM-4418 had said he was simply looking out for his juniors, but she was not convinced. She had asked him if she was making mistakes in the field. He had said no. Then she asked him if he felt she was not performing adequately in some aspect of the role. He had told her no, of course not. She then asked him if SSC felt she was inadequate. CM-4418 had told her no, not at all - they were thrilled with her performance. So she told him, if she was performing so well, why did he insist on shadowing her?

CM-4418 had not had an answer for her.

Once, when they had chosen callsigns for themselves, he had taken an interest in her choice. “There are all sorts of stories about Daffodils on Cradle,” he’d told her. “There was one about a man who saw his own reflection, and was so stunned that he’d neglected his hunger, his thirst, his own life in favour of gazing upon that perfection. Before even Union, it was his name they had given to Daffodils”.

She had simply said that she was not familiar with such Cradelian fables.

The perfection of the human form was their driving goal. Each of them - CM-4418 and CM-7510, and the rest of the team - had been put together piece by piece to bring about that perfection, down to the genetic level. Every secret stolen, every rat squashed, every voice muted by a bullet - it was all so that a more perfect world could take its place. They were perfect beings, created to perfectly kill imperfection itself.

If she had ever been unhurried in the completion of her orders - found hesitance in the finger that pulled the trigger just a little too slowly - it had only been because this imperfect world fought with every tooth and nail to make her forget herself. Forget her goals. Forget perfection. She did not forget their vision of a perfect world.

CM-4418 did.

CM-4418 had debased himself. Cast off his wings to become a rat. He had turned his eyes away from perfection, and now had to be eliminated. The job, then, had fallen to her - the new Team Leader. She remembered accepting the job with a nod of the head. Her throat had felt strangely parched.

They had caught him attempting to sneak aboard a vessel bound for non-Constellar space. There had been a fight. There had been bullets. There had been blood. He had attempted to flee, and she had watched him from her scope. Crimson blossoms had bloomed from his skull, and he had run no more.

She had never liked his smile. She had never liked the way he called her “Kid”. She had not cared for his Cradelian fables. But for some reason, when she had returned to her dorm, she did not see perfection in the mirror - only the streaks of tears. Only a wretched flower.

[psychoticallytrans]

A commonly overlooked symptom of depression is anhedonia, the inability to feel joy or pleasure. The reason that it's easy to overlook is that it's easier to miss the absence of something that's not around all the time than it is to miss a symptom that causes active distress, such as feeling tired and miserable all the time.

Anhedonia is good at being a persistent undercurrent to your life. My aunt, who has major depressive disorder, related to me that she figured out that something was wrong when she looked at the daffodils she had planted blooming, and couldn't recognize the emotion that she felt when she looked at them. It had been long enough since she had felt happy that she lost the ability to recognize the emotion.

It's a particularly dangerous depressive symptom, because it robs you of the ability to feel those little spots of joy that keep a lot of people going, while not doing anything to impair your ability to function. If you don't know that this is a treatable symptom of depression, it's easy to assume that your ability to feel good is permanently broken, and decide to commit suicide because you don't want to live like that. It's not an irrational conclusion, but it is an uninformed one, and everyone deserves to have all the information when making a major decision.

This is what a lot of questionnaires are trying to look for when they ask about "loss of enjoyment". If you can't remember a loss of enjoyment because you can't remember enjoyment, then you probably have anhedonia. If you struggle to define how it is to feel "happy", "content", or "good", or how it feels when you feel those emotions, you probably have anhedonia. If you can't remember feeling any of those emotions for a week or more, you probably have anhedonia.

Symptoms commonly co-occurring with anhedonia are fatigue (often the cause), clear and thoughtful consideration of suicide, loss of desire to socialize or do activities that used to make you happy, and weight loss (due to lack of enjoyment of food).

This section is anecdotal. In what I have observed, anhedonia due to fatigue rarely responds well to depression treatment unless depression was causing the fatigue. If fatigue and anhedonia are co-occurring and are not both alleviated by depression treatment, consider other causes for the fatigue.

[butyoudidthis4what]

No Man's Land Part 2

Jack Abbot x f!reader || Part 1

18.6k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: mentions of blood, mentions of bones breaking, mentions of guns/shootings/gunshot wounds, mentions and discussions of suicide/suicidal ideation, CPR, mentions/discussions of jack's injury and losing his foot, anxiety about partner's safety, angst, Jack's traumatized, everyone's traumatized honestly, probably incorrect description of medical events, potentially incorrect medical descriptions/knowledge, PIV sex, mentions of morphine and alcohol, age gap referenced in passing once kind of, reader loves Paris and the Louvre, reader's favorite flowers are daffodils, I had this idea and started drafting before we knew Jack was a widow so in this world he has never been married, no use of y/n or related.

Summary: The aftermath of you being shot and collapsing in the trauma room and a new reality.

AN: I'm a certified yapper like our man, so I apologize for how long this is.

You drop at just the right point in your swaying that you fall backwards, head first. You hit the floor back of your skull first with a sickening crack. 

Everyone in the room knows what that was the sound of - your skull cracking.

“Fuck me!” “Fucking shit!” “Holy fuck!” “Oh god!” “Was that her fucking skull?” Verbalized reactions fill the air from Robby, Dana, Heather, Mel and Santos, respectively. Jack is silent. He’s not even sure he’s breathing. He’s frozen as he looks at you, both struggling to process what has happened and already understanding what has happened at once, hearing dulled as he focuses on you. 

Things have now gone from really fucking bad to somehow a lot fucking worse in a matter of seconds.

A head injury was the last thing you needed. And it was preventable. He should have prevented it. He should have stayed with you, told Robby to handle the code on his own, kept holding you, actually looked you over before letting you go but he didn’t. 

“Somebody get a fucking gurney in here!” Dana yells out the door. 

“Collins, you handle this. Mohan, you’re with me!” Robby orders. Once your neck is secured in a c-collar and you’re on a gurney you’re rushed into trauma two, the team swarming you just like they do any other unfortunate soul who ends up here. 

Jack suddenly finds himself again, hearing no longer dampened and follows your gurney into trauma two. “Mannitol-”

“Get out Jack!” Robby shouts at him amid the chaos of getting you hooked up to monitors and IVs going. “You can’t be in here!”

“And yet here I fucking am.” Jack almost snarls back at him as he takes a place on the other side of you. 

“Dana.” Robby shoots her a look and she steps back and away from you, peeling her gloves off and tossing them to the floor. 

“Jack,” she says softly to him, rests a hand on his bicep and squeezes gently. “Let’s step out.”

He shrugs her hand off. “No. No fucking way. Somebody…” He trails off as he looks down at you, freezing again. More blood pours from your mouth, and now your nose. He looks down and sure enough, it’s dripping out of your ear too, not unsurprising given the head trauma, but still. The image is seared in his brain.  

“Fuck!” Robby yells. “She’s in DIC.” He takes a look at your vitals. To say they’re abysmal would be a gross understatement. “Okay, massive transfusion protocol now, people! I wanna do two to one to one with how much blood she’s lost. Set up for a central line.” 

“Push etomidate and roc!” Mohan yells into the chaos. “7.0 ET please.”

“Jack, you have to move, okay? They need access to her.” Dana grabs Jack’s arm again and is able to pull him to the side. “Once she’s intubated you can sit by her, okay?” 

He gives a single nod in response, sits automatically when Dana pushes the stool into the back of his knees. It doesn’t take the team long to get you intubated and Dana helps him move so that he sits at the top of your head. 

Everything and everyone else fades away as he looks down at your face, your beautiful blood smeared face. He leans in towards you a little. He has so much he wants to say and yet he can’t get a word out. 

“We’re taking her up to surgery, Jack.” Robby is suddenly leaning down next to him. “We have to stop the internal bleeding before we can image her head.” 

“She’s in DIC. She has a subdural from the fall, I’m sure. Fractured skull. We have to address it.” Jack almost mumbles it as he watches them put the bed rails up and start to move you. 

“I know,” Robby tells him gently, “but if the major source of bleeding isn’t stopped, you and I both know that the skull fracture and subdural aren’t going to matter.”

Jack just nods and stands, follows your gurney in silence up to the OR floor. He hates it but he has to take one last look at you before turning to go into a locker room to grab a fresh pair of scrubs. He changes fast, finds Garcia and Shamsi in the scrub room. 

“What are you doing Jack?” Garcia asks him, sharing a look with Shamsi. “You’re not coming in the OR.”

“Yes I am.” He ignores her, grabs a pack and starts to scrub. The door opens again and Jack doesn’t need to turn to know it’s Robby. 

“You guys go.” Robby nods at Garcia and Shamsi. “Jack, come on. Let’s go to the gallery or waiting room.”

“Fuck that!” Jack yells as they walk in. He’s still scrubbing furiously. “I’m not going to watch them hack her-”

“You and I both know they’re not going to ‘hack her’ and that there’s nobody else you’d rather have operating on her. You need to let them do their work.” Robby stops next to the sink Jack is scrubbing at. “That is the best thing you can do for her right now. Let them work.”

Jack keeps scrubbing for a minute, jaw clenched tight. But then he stops. He knows Robby is right. Knows that scrubbing in and being in the OR isn’t going to fix you. It isn’t going to let him make up for not noticing you were shot earlier, before you were already half dead on the floor with a broken fucking skull he could have prevented. 

The combination of emotions is crushing. He throws the soap at one of the doors in the scrub room and yells a “fuck!” There’s a moment of silence and then a whispered “fuck,” that his voice crack on half way through. 

“Come on.” Robby picks up the soap and throws it away, throws a towel at Jack for his hands. “Let’s get some air.” 

“I’m going to obs.” Jack tells him. Robby tries to speak. “No. If I don’t get to be in the OR with her I at least get to fucking watch over her from obs.”

“No, Jack! I’m not letting you fucking torture yourself by watching this. She wouldn’t want that. She wouldn’t want you seeing her like this-”

“You don’t fucking know her!” Jack seethes, getting up in Robby’s face, chests touching. “So stop fucking acting like you do.”

A tense silence passes, a staring match before Robby holds his hands up in defeat and looks away. “Alright. I’m sorry.” 

“I have to watch her die, Robby. I have to have been there for her. Been there with her. I am not letting her go alone.” Jack shakes his head, eyes red rimmed and glassy but more serious than Robby has ever seen him before. 

“I know.” Robby opens the door of the observation suite for him. “If something happens and they get close to calling it you can go be with your girl, okay?”

“No.” Jack huffs, treading water more and more to try and stay above the flood of emotions. “No it’s not fucking okay! None of this is fucking okay! She’s not okay! I’m not okay!” Jack takes in a shuddery breath and turns his back on Robby. “None of this is okay,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion and tears that can no longer be held back. 

Robby lets Jack have a minute to try and pull himself together. He knows that right now is not the time to have some sort of heart to heart with Jack. Instead he puts the intercom on so that they can hear what’s happening in the OR but the OR can’t hear them. 

It’s not good but it’s not bad, you’re not dead. There’s no conversation between the two men, just Jack up almost pressed into the glass to watch while Robby observes him more than the surgery.

“So,” Robby says casually after a couple of minutes. “Peter?”

Jack huffs, shaking his head and coming to sit next to Robby. “Don’t ask.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I really like this little routine, you know?” You smile at Jack as he peruses the shelves, coffee in one hand and your hand in the other. You’re back at the bookstore where you met, off in the back shelves where it’s quieter, fewer people. You’re alone in the aisle. 

“Coming here?”

“Mhmm.” You nod at him. “It was a really good idea.” 

Somewhere between dates number three and four Jack had suggested you guys go back to the bookstore once a week. Make it a thing. Get coffee, pick out books together. Just walk around. How could you ever say no?

“I have one every now and then.” He smiles at you. 

You point to a book, say the title. “That looks interesting.” 

Jack looks at the book. It’s on the bottom shelf. You didn’t ask for him to bend down and get it for you but he will anyway. And you knew when you said it that he would. He’s just a gentleman like that. And so he does. Sets his coffee on the shelf and bends down to get it for you. 

“Why is it that every book you want is always on the bottom shelf?” He feigns a huff.

“Because I like making you bend down so that I can check out your ass.”

He freezes for a second. It was so not the answer he was expecting. He’s not sure he was expecting an answer. But then you come out with that. Always keeping him on his toes. 

He grabs the book and stands back up, smirking as he hands it to you. His fingers find the belt loops of your jeans and pull you close to him, lips brushing against yours. “You like my ass?” 

You giggle against his lips and kiss him. “I do.” 

“You’re terrible, woman.” He gives you another kiss. 

“More like your terrible woman.” You can feel his jaw clench at that and he holds you a little tighter. Oh he liked that. A lot. It makes you smirk. 

“Damn right you are.” One last kiss and then you break apart.

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Peter.”

He cocks his head at the name. “Peter? Should I be concerned you can’t keep your men straight?” He doesn’t mean it, nor does any anxiety roll through him. He knows you, knows it was deliberate, and knows you’re about to give him some ridiculous explanation. 

“Rabbit,” you grin. “Peter Rabbit. Abbot. Jack Abbot always makes me want to call you Jack rabbit. Ergo, Peter.” You run the back of your second knuckle on your index finger over his shirt. “Inspired by the book.” You nod and look to the side. He follows your eyes to the display you look over at where, sure enough, a copy of Peter Rabbit sits.

He groans and makes a face. “Really?” He grimaces. But you both know it’s fake. His eyes are too sparkly and the ghost of a smile is too present on his face. It’s so ridiculous. If anyone else dared to call him that he would hate it and they would know it.  

“Really, Peter. Better get used to it.” You wink and start walking down another aisle. 

“I think I’ve already fallen in love with you, Doll.” Jack whispers to himself. “You’re not allowed to go anywhere on me.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake with a start, your body jerking for a second before pain rips through your stomach and head. It’s bright. So so bright. Your eyes instinctively close and you pull your head back, trying to get away from the tube that feels like it’s down your throat but it follows. You start panicking. 

It filters back in. What happened. Passing out in the trauma room. Jack’s face. The pain. The bullet hole you’d felt on your skin.

“Honey?” A voice you can’t place calls out your name. A woman’s voice. “It’s okay.” You know she’s trying to be reassuring but at the moment it’s not. There’s only one voice you want to hear and it’s not hers and you panic more when you don’t hear his because where is he? Did something happen to him? Maybe he’s here and you just can’t hear him. One way to find out. 

Your eyes blink back open to an unfamiliar face above you. After you adjust to the light you quickly look around as much as you can without moving too much. 

Jack isn’t here. 

The woman above you smiles down at you. “I’m Dana. Jack just stepped out to shower and I said I’d stay with you. He’s going to kill me for convincing him to go and you waking up while he wasn’t here. It was his nightmare. He’s on his way. Knowing him he’s liable to just have a towel wrapped around him and soap in his hair because god knows if he wasn’t finished showering he wasn’t going to finish when he heard you’re awake.” 

You blink a few times, start to calm. Dana. She has a calming presence. Jack told you about her. You trust her. “Good, that’s good. He’s going to be here any second. And I’m going to get your doctor and see what we can do about getting this tube out of your throat, yeah?” 

You can hear Jack before you see him. Hear him running down the hall towards you. He’s panting when he runs into your room, looks at you, your vitals, Dana and then back to you. “You’re awake.”

All you can really do is look at him with wide eyes. He’s over by you in a second, taking Dana’s place as she goes to find your doctor. One of his hands finds yours, squeezes reassuringly. “I’m here. God I’m so sorry I wasn’t when you woke up, I didn’t want to go but they convinced me and-”

You squeeze his hand and then let go, make a motion like writing. “You want to write? Hopefully you can be extubated soon, you might be breathing over the vent already, I can look.”

You squeeze his hand again and it focuses him back on you. “Shit. Yes, um…” He feels all the pockets on his scrub pants until he finds the little notebook and pen. He gives you the pen and holds the book for you. 

Scared.

A piece of his heart shatters when he reads the word. 

“I know Doll, I know. It’s okay.” He strokes your hair gently. “I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I love you.” Jack’s eyes bore into yours and in the moment you’re so grateful for his need for direct eye contact. It’s reassuring in a way you can’t describe. Even if he hadn’t said anything. If he had just looked at you like he is now it would have been enough to calm your fears. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay?”

“I heard she’s awake?” Your eyes leave Jack’s and look over at the man who entered, but Jack’s eyes never leave you. 

“Yeah, she is. This is Robby, sweetheart.” You blink slowly. 

It’s a lot. Everything is a lot and there’s a tube in your throat and more people walk in, Dana again and your doctor, a nurse. You’re overwhelmed. You just want it to be you and Jack and you want to be at home cuddled in bed together, both of you perfectly fine. You don’t want this. It makes you kind of dizzy. And your inability to express yourself makes it all that much more difficult.

You focus on Jack’s eyes, try to block everything else out. Focus on his touch. His hand holding yours, the other stroking your hair. There’s a faint buzz of the others talking together and you know it’s about you but you remain centered on Jack. “That’s right, Doll,” he murmurs, voice low, just between the two of you. “Just focus on me. I’m right here. You’re okay. We’re okay.” 

“She’s breathing over.” Robby says quietly. “We can pull it.”

Jack raises his eyebrows at you and nods his head a little. “That’s good. We’re going to get the tube out, okay? Then you’ll be able to talk.” 

Your eyes widen a bit and you move your hand towards the notebook again, point at the word. 

Scared. 

“I know. I know it’s all scary, and I know thinking about having the tube out is scary. But you’re safe, okay? If you need it back in then we will put it back in okay?” He squeezes your hand. You give the smallest nod. 

Jack explains what will happen to you and then they do it. It hurts and is uncomfortable and you panic for a minute after it’s out because you’re coughing and it feels like you can’t breathe. Jack puts an oxygen mask to your face. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe. You’re just coughing, it’s okay. It’ll be better in a minute. I promise.” 

And just like he promises it does get better. “How about we switch this,” he takes the oxygen mask from your face and hands it to Dana while taking the nasal cannula from her, “with this.” He gets the cannula adjusted under your nose and over your ears and then smiles at you. 

You still haven’t spoken. You can’t find words. You don’t know what to say. 

Robby hands Jack a cup of water with a straw silently before he, Dana, your doctor and the other nurse slip out. 

“Here, I’m sure your throat is dry.” Jack holds the straw for you. “Small sips.”

You take a few before pulling back a little. “Thank you.” You’re quite hoarse and make a face at the sound of your voice but Jack. Jack beams. It makes you smile, makes everything start to melt away. You’re here and awake and Jack is here and everything is okay. “I love you too.” 

You press your lips out a little and it hits him. He can kiss you now and he does, soft but lingering. He never wants to pull away. 

“How long was I out?’’

“Since surgery?” Jack glances down at his watch. “Sixteen hours and thirty seven minutes. Give or take ten seconds.”

You smile. It’s a little weak which shoots a bit of a pang through him, but it’s okay because you’re smiling at him. “Not that you were counting.”

He laughs and rolls his eyes at you, eyes watery. “I’m really fucking glad you’re okay.” 

You get a little teary. “I’m really glad you’re here. I was really fucking scared Jack.” You let out a breath and a few tears. 

“There is nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side.” He leans back in, kisses you again, kisses all the tears away. “There is nowhere else I will be, okay?” 

You nod a little. You want to ask him what happened, what your injuries are but you can’t bring yourself to. You don’t want to know. Not now. 

Jack doesn’t volunteer anything. He figures that you’ll ask when you’re ready. He knows what it’s like to have it shoved in your face when you’re scared and drugged out on morphine and other medications and overwhelmed and not in a mental place to process it. 

You can’t have been awake for more than thirty or forty minutes but you’re already so tired again. Jack can tell.

“Sleepy?” 

“A little.” You pause. Then, a whispered admission. “Kind of scared to go back to sleep.”

Jack’s heart squeezes. “That’s understandable,” he nods. He knows the answer is no but he asks anyway. “Can I do anything?”

“Hold me.” Your words are out before he finishes his questions. His eyebrows raise. He wasn’t expecting that. 

You can see him thinking. Thinking about how to say no. His face is pained and he tilts it. You know he’s afraid to hurt you. “Please.” He bites his bottom lip. “I need this Jack,” you whisper. “You need this.” 

“If I hurt you at all you have to tell me, okay? If anything feels like it’s tearing or pulling or ripping, you have to tell me immediately.” He gives you a serious look, fear blazing in his eyes.

“I promise.”

He nods. “Okay.” It takes a while for him to help shift you over a bit and move all the wires and lines but eventually he’s in bed with you, holding you. 

“Thanks Peter.” It’s completely sleep garbled but so precious and he has to laugh because even with all that’s happened you’re still calling him that name.  

“You’re welcome, Doll.”

Once he’s sure you’re asleep Jack sobs as quietly as he can as he holds you. Lets himself process the emotions that he has tried to keep himself walled off from since you went down in the trauma room. He doesn’t want you to see, doesn’t want you to have to deal with him right now when you need to focus on yourself and recovering. He doesn’t want you to feel guilty, because he knows you and he knows you already feel bad about all of this. Like it’s your fault. 

Jack doesn’t know it but you wake when you feel him start to tremble. You hear and feel every sob. A little piece of you dies inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack leans against one of the windows in his apartment, stares out into the dark city and alternates watching the rain fall under the light of the street lamps and tracking drops that slide down the window. The bedroom is dark, only illuminated by the light of the city that pours in. He’s half dressed, shirtless, a pair of flannel pajama pants. The window is cold against his arm but he likes it. It reminds him in the moment that he can still feel. 

You watch him from the bathroom doorway. You’ve been together seven and a bit months now.

You’re struck by how beautiful he looks in the backlighting. Struck by how sad and conflicted he looks. 

You walk over to him quietly, but making your footsteps just heavy enough so that you don’t startle him when you wrap your arms around him from behind, rest the side of your head on the smooth skin of his back. Always so warm, your Jack, even now in the chill of the rainy night. 

He leans back into you for just a second, just long enough to acknowledge that he knows you’re there, appreciates it. 

Neither of you say anything for a few minutes before his voice interrupts the patter of the raindrops hitting the window.

“I’m sorry.”

Your brows furrow. “For what?”

“Being like this,” he shrugs. “It’s been so long. It shouldn’t still affect me like this.”

“Well first, should is a stupid word. Nothing should or shouldn’t be. Things just are. And it’s okay for them to be as they are. It’s okay for this to be as it is.” You lift your head from his back and gently pull at his torso a bit to get him to turn and look at you. He tries to avoid that eye contact he normally needs but you don’t let him. “Second, you have nothing to apologize for. And third, I don’t know Jack, I’d almost be more concerned if the anniversary of the day you lost a piece of yourself, literally, and woke up alone and terrified in a hospital bed ever stopped affecting you.”

As difficult as it is to hear, he likes that you just say it, say what happened. You don’t shy away from it, don’t avoid talking about it or speak about it without actually saying it. You never have. You’ve always just accepted it as part of him. He takes in a deep breath and then grabs your hand, leads you over to bed with him and waits for you to get in. 

But you give him a look, a slight raise of your eyebrows and nod. He sits on the edge like you wordlessly asked. You kneel before him and it makes his heart pound, blood rush towards his groin even though he knows this isn’t going there. It’s just instinctual. 

Jack watches you with glassy eyes as you push his pant leg up and remove his prosthetic for him, set it aside. You don’t have to ask if it’s hurting, of course it is. It’s the anniversary of losing his foot. Even when there’s no real reason for it to be causing him pain it is anyway. You know it. He knows you know it. 

You open the drawer of his nightstand and pull out the balm he has, get a little bit and warm it between your hands before placing them there. You glance up at him. You always do. Always make sure it’s okay. You know how hard it can be for him to have you touching there sometimes if he’s too in his head. He just barely narrows his eyes before letting them go back to being wide and round as he watches. An unspoken please. 

You start massaging gently and he takes another big breath in and holds it for a moment before letting it out and leaning into your hands slightly. “Mirror?”

He knows you’re asking if the pain is bad enough for him to want to do mirror therapy. He shakes his head. “No. It’s not that bad.” He gives you a small smile, cups your face with a hand. “Especially not now. You make it better. You always make it better, make everything better.” 

A slow smile spreads over your face. You work on him a little more before his hands are on yours and pulling you towards him a little. He slides into bed and you follow. 

You lay on your sides looking at each other. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not right now, no.” He swallows hard, looks like he’s waiting for you to be upset. “Is that okay?”

“Course it is. I’m never going to force you to talk about it with me.” You already have talked about it. You know everything, every detail he can remember and was told about what happened. About his hospital stay at Landstuhl, transfer to Walter-Reed. How depressed he got, the survivor’s guilt, the wishing he had just died instead.

But he knows what you mean. You don’t have to talk about it now, about his feelings, what he’s carrying in his chest and mind at the moment. You lean in and kiss him. “We can whenever. If and when you’re ready. Or you can talk to your therapist. It doesn’t have to be me.”

The way he looks at you makes your stomach flip. Like you’re the most important thing in his world, like you hung the moon and stars for him, like he’s amazed by you. Like you’re helping to heal him.

He reaches out to cup your face again, runs a thumb over your cheek. “I want you.”

You smile at him, soft and small, befitting of the moment. “You have me. You’ll always have me. No matter what.”

He gives you a look that acknowledges your words. “You know what I mean.” His hand starts to wander down to the hem of his shirt you wear. “I need to turn that part of my brain off. Get lost in you.”

“God, what a tough ask,” you click your tongue, voice teasing and full of feigned exasperation. “Such a real hardship for me.”

He laughs a little. “I’ll make it up to you.” 

“Oh no Dr. Abbot,” you move closer to him and push at his chest so he rolls on his back, straddle his hips and bring your chest to his, lean in to kiss him but stop short, just let your lips move against his, “this is all about you.”

Jack groans from somewhere deep in his chest. “You know what doctor does to me,” he murmurs before he kisses you hard, possessively, holding the back of your head with one hand so you can’t move away, not that you’d ever want to. 

“Indeed I do, sir.” Another groan from him and a smirk from you as you sit up and push the covers back, pull his pajama pants and boxer briefs down all at once. 

Jack swears you spend hours lavishing him in attention, kissing every inch of him, every scar. Even that one. 

By the time you guide him inside of you you’re the only thing on his mind. You ride him slow, just fast enough to not be teasing, at the rhythm and pace you’ve learned he loves, let him watch as he slides in and out of you because you know how much he loves it. 

You lean back at one point, rest your hands on both his thighs and something about the move and the way you’re not afraid to get close to the missing part of him heals him and makes him lose it. 

After, you lay on his chest, absentmindedly draw random shapes on his skin while he runs a hand up and down your back. “This part always feels just as good but in a different way,” you murmur. 

“Cuddling releases oxytocin. Oxytocin makes you feel happy, helps you heal, reduces stress, bonds you to the one you’re snuggling with. It’s called the love hormone.” Jack always makes you laugh when he does that, explains something medically, biologically. You like him sharing his knowledge, little pieces of his job with you, and you like that he’s not condescending about it, just tells you it like you’re a student.

You laugh a little. “That tracks then.”

You sit in a comfortable silence for a bit. Jack thinks about everything you’ve done for him tonight, over the past seven months, how you feel laying here on his chest. A surge of oxytocin hits him and he’s overwhelmed by it, how much he loves you, how much you do for him, care for him.

“I don’t deserve you.” He says it quietly, almost like he doesn’t mean to speak the thought out loud.

You stop tracing shapes, furrow your brows and lift yourself up to look down at him sternly, eyes burning with love. “I’m not even gracing that absolute bullshit with a reply tonight Peter.” You kiss him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Four days pass. Things are simultaneously getting better and increasingly harder. 

You meet everyone, the entire ED, you swear, everyone Jack has ever talked about. They’re all lovely and genuine. You hit it off with them all despite the circumstances. Part of you worries though, that they only like you because they pity you and because you’re in the hospital and what else can they do. Jack reassures you that you’re one of them now, you’re Pitt family, that even when they didn’t know you or about you and had never met you, you already were.

Jack helps you shower. Really Jack showers you. Does it all for you. It’s one of those most intimate things you’ve experienced with him. Him taking care of you like this, when you can’t take care of yourself. He takes his time washing your hair and body gently, like you’ll break if he touches you just a little too hard. He makes sure your stitches and central line stay dry. Makes sure you don’t lean your head back too far and aggravate your skull fracture. 

Physically you’re doing okay. Improving. Maybe not as fast as everyone, Jack especially, would like. But you’re not getting worse. 

Mentally, however, things are devolving. Rapidly. 

Once the initial shock and happiness at being alive wore off you’re left with reality. 

A nurse from the floor comes in to take vitals like they do a couple of times a day. Jack steps out to go grab a drink from the vending machine while you and the nurse chat a little. You ask her if you can move into the chair, go sit by the window. She says of course, unhooks you from some monitors and helps you move over. She takes your dinner and sets it on the table in front of you. You thank her and wait for Jack to come back.

Dusk is falling over the city. It’s easier to sit and look outside when it’s not so bright. You keep the lighting in your room low to help with the headaches you’re still fighting. You suppose a broken skull will do that to you.

You haven’t felt well all day, have slept more than usual. You’re sure it’s just depression from being here and all the changes and mostly, probably, seeing what all of this already has done and continues to do to Jack, physically and mentally. Your stomach turns at the thought and you shiver despite your cheeks burning. You’re so uncomfortable and there’s no end in sight and you don’t want to keep doing this to Jack, keep asking him to be here and sleep here. The logical and rational part of your brain knows that you’re not asking him to do anything. He’s doing it because he wants to, because he loves you. 

“You need to eat,” Jack reminds you as he walks back in the room. 

“I’m not hungry,” you murmur, continue to look out the window. 

“I know, Doll, but you’ve gotta eat to keep your strength up.” Jack says softly as he pulls up a chair to sit across from you. You nod a little at him but don’t move to start eating. “What’s wrong?” he finally whispers. 

It takes a moment but eventually you shrug. You don’t want to burden him with it. 

“Talk to me. Please. Even if just a little.” 

“I don’t know… I’m just tired, I think.” 

He tilts his head at you, eyes appraising and clinically evaluating you. Something is off, something has been off, he’s just struggling to figure out what. 

“Don’t look at me like that, please,” you whisper. 

He furrows his brows. “Like what?”

“Like I’m a patient who needs to be evaluated.” 

“I can’t help it. It helps reassure me that you’re okay.” He lets out a bit of a breath. “I’m worried about you right now. Is everything okay? Do you feel okay?”

You take in a big breath of air and fight back the wince before letting it out. “I’m just… I don’t know Jack. I’m sad. I’m fucking sad. All the time.”

Ah. Depression. 

He knows it intimately and chastises himself mentally a bit for not realizing it sooner, not recognizing it. Not anticipating it from minute one. He gives you a moment to see if you want to say more. 

“I… I feel sorry for myself, yes, but it’s more than that. I see what it’s doing to you, the pain it’s causing, I’m causing you. Physically, having to sleep here. I can practically see your back and hip hurting, Jack. I can see the overcompensation when you walk. I know you cried. I was awake. And I didn’t want to make it a thing and pressure you into talking to me. But I see how scared and on edge you are, all the time. Because of me-”

“No.” He doesn’t mean to interrupt but he has to right there. “Not because of you. This is not your fault. None of this is. This isn’t because of you, it’s because of what happened to you.”

You shake your head. “No, Jack, it’s me. It is me. I feel like I’m sucking the fucking life out of you. Dealing with me is exhausting. I can’t keep asking you to do this, be here and take care of me. It’s not fair.” You sniffle and wipe some tears you didn’t know fell with the back of your hand. “I mean, Jesus, Jack, I’m exhausted and all I have to do is sit in bed all day. I hate it.” The tears fall a little faster and he gives you space to let it all out. Your emotional brain takes his silence as some sort of tacit and silent agreement. That you are hurting him, that it is exhausting him, that you are sucking the life out of him. 

The rational part of your brain is right there but you’re too exhausted to listen to it, to fight your emotional brain on it. So it all consumes you. 

“I sit here and sometimes I just wish it would stop, wish it would be over, for both of us. Wish I had never even made it out of the OR, fuck out of the courthouse. You could be properly grieving already and working towards mo-”

“What the fuck?” It falls out of his mouth before he can even stop it. “Are you for fucking real?” He knows this reaction is wrong, that he should be validating your feelings. He knows far too well what it’s like to be depressed in a hospital bed wishing that you had died instead. But it’s too much for him because he already lived so intimately with the possibility of that reality. Of you dying. And so to have it brought up and brought up by you. All rational thought and ability to control himself disappears. “Properly grieving? You think I’d be properly grieving? Jesus fucking Christ, Robby would have had to beat me to the fucking roof or they’d be burying us together!”

You shake your head, tears falling harder. “I don’t want that, I would never want you to do that. I’d want you to take care of yourself! I’d want you to live for me. For us. Find-”

“No.” He shakes his head, runs both of his hands over his face, heel of his palms pressing into his eyes for a moment. “No. I can’t fucking-” He has to swallow hard through the intense nausea that threatens to make him dry heave. Just thinking about this, let alone living it. He knows this is not his finest moment, not a good reaction, that it’s a really really fucking bad one, but he can’t think about it right now, about an alternate reality where you died, where he was anywhere other than right next to your side in this moment. It’s too much. And so he reverts back a bit, starts to completely emotionally shut down. You’ve never seen him like this before. “I can’t fucking talk about this right now.” 

A knock on the door interrupts you and you both look up and over at a smiling Robby. “Hey! Look who’s awake! How are you feeling sleepy? You’ve been asleep every time I’ve come to visit today.” He starts making his way closer. 

“We can talk about this more later,” Jack mutters at you under his breath. His tone is a little sharper and more brusque than he means or even realizes. 

But with your emotions where they are already it feels a little like he’s pulled a piece of your heart away. You wonder if this is it. If he’s finally had enough of all of this. Of you. 

He didn’t sign up for this. There haven’t been any vows of sickness and health. 

The adrenaline runs icy through your fingers and toes and sits like a rock in the back of your throat, hugging tightly around your stomach so much that your incision burns and itches. It gets hard to breathe. It’s panic, you tell yourself. You nod silently, fidget with your fingers and whisper the smallest “okay.”

You’re thankful for the low lighting and the cover it gives you and your tears. “Sorry about that,” you force a small laugh at Robby. “Just one of those days I guess.” You force a yawn this time. “Honestly I’m actually a little sleepy again,” you admit sheepishly. “I think I might get back in bed.” 

There’s a pause as Robby waits for Jack to react. But Jack says nothing, and the look on his face tells Robby he’s a million miles away. You getting up is what brings Jack back to himself somewhat and he’s up and hovering behind you to make sure you don’t fall in an instant. 

“Um, well.” Robby runs a hand through his hair and over his beard. “Jack, if you wanted we’re pretty backlogged down there, we could use someone for even just a few hours to help out. I just wanted to offer. We’ll be fine if you don’t.” Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you. “Thought it might be a good way to help transition back to full shifts eventually.” He coughs awkwardly. 

Jack looks at you with his eyebrows slightly raised, like he’ll do whatever you say as opposed to what he actually wants. Despite looking at you it’s like he doesn’t consciously take in your face at the moment, how hurt you look, how small, the tears lining your eyes, how scared you look, how anxious, how questioning. 

“Up to you.” You give him a strained smile. “I’m just going to sleep, so it’s not like you’re going to miss much here. Robby is right, might be a good way to help transition.”

Jack nods. “Okay. Okay, yeah.”

“Fuck, thank you so much,” Robby sighs in relief. “It’s pretty bad honestly.” He looks at you with a soft smile. “Sleep well and I’ll keep an eye on him for you.” 

You give him a forced smile back and nod, waiting for Jack to come say goodbye before following Robby out the door. But Jack is so shut down and on autopilot he doesn’t even give you a kiss or say anything other than an absent, “sleep well,” before he follows Robby out of the room. The sound of the door closing behind him may as well be the sound of your heart shattering.

Hours pass. 

Hours you do not in fact spend sleeping but instead wide awake feeling like you’ve got the flu. Everything hurts, you shake, you’re sweaty because you’re so hot but you feel so cold. You just feel so weak. You’re so miserable you’re not even aware of the way breathing takes more effort and seems less effective, how much it hurts. Hours enough for you to miss Jack and wish he was here and want to call down and beg him to please come back up. But not quite enough hours for the next vitals check.

The hours are quick for Jack. Work helps him. It keeps his mind busy. The more and more he comes back to himself fully and opens back up with clear eyes the more desperate he is to get up to you and apologize. He feels awful about actually deciding to come down here. How could he leave you? He knows he didn’t react well. It just caught him so off guard and he reverted back to a previous version of himself. All he can do is hope you’ll forgive him, but he knows you well enough to know that you’ll understand and be able to put yourself in his shoes and forgive him and you guys can talk. 

He volunteers to take one last ambulance coming in. He goes outside to wait for it, to get some fresh air. To be out of the hospital if only for a moment.

Mel runs through the automatic door, head on a swivel to find him. She starts running to him when she sees him. “Dr. Abbot!” 

Jack turns his head, thinks Mel’s voice is off, but he guesses it’s been a bit since he’s heard it down here. But when he sees her face, the way she’s running towards him, his heart speeds up and he shakes his head a little as she approaches him. Mel’s eyes are wide, just the slightest bit wet.  

“Dr. Abbot,” Mel breathes. “She’s crashing. Robby went up to see her and she crashed.”

“What?” It’s whispered. Jack’s whole world stops again. He doesn’t even wait for an answer, is sprinting inside and screaming to hold the elevator because he knows it’ll be faster than he can take all the flights up to your room. He tries to hold onto hope. Mel had said crashing not coding.

This would fucking happen. This would fucking happen. He leaves you and then you crash. The realizations hit him when he gets in the elevator and presses the door closed button over and over. That the last thing you said to him was that small, barely audible “okay.” That your last interaction was an almost fight in a way, was him upset when you were telling him what was on your mind when that’s what he has been begging you to do. That he walked out of your room without saying goodbye, without giving you a kiss, without telling you he loved you.

Sleep well.

That could be the last fucking thing he ever said to you. Sleep well. He pictures your face when he looked at you that last time, near tears, scared, small, anxious, questioning. Probably questioning whether he was going to come back or whether he loved you or whether he still wanted to be with you after so clearly hitting a nerve with him. Especially on top of all the guilt you were already feeling before that conversation. The guilt you were telling him about when he shut down. 

The world already gave him a second chance with you and he fucked it all up in a minute. Somewhere deep in his bones he knows “sleep well” will be the last thing he ever said to you, that your last interaction together will be a quasi-argument. Because if you’re crashing at this point, this far out from surgery, something bad is happening. Differential diagnoses flip through his mind. Pulmonary embolism, having somehow reopened one of your internal wounds and bleeding out, sepsis, delayed collapsed lung, drug reaction, the list goes on and on. None of them are good. All of them would require you to fight hard to pull through. 

And with fucking “sleep well” as the last thing he said to you after he practically jumped in your shit you probably think you have nothing left to fight for. 

You’re vaguely aware of Robby coming into your room and talking to you even though you can’t make out any words at first. But then you become acutely aware of him screaming about you crashing and somebody call Jack. 

Jack. 

Robby says something about intubation but you get a hand up, cling to the fabric on the arm of that blue sweatshirt he always wears. “Wait,” you choke out, wondering when it got so hard to breathe and how you’re just noticing. “Jack,” you force out in a wheeze, “want to talk,” you look up at Robby with terrified eyes he’s seen hundreds of times in patients who think they’re about to die, only yours have a slight look of determination. “Please.” 

He hesitates for just a second. “Okay,” he nods, looking down at you. “Okay. But only if he’s here within the next two minutes. I’m counting.” He grabs an oxygen mask and holds it over your mouth and nose. Your eyes say ‘thank you’ in the most heartbreaking of ways. You both know he’ll be there with one minute and fifty six or seven seconds to spare. 

The elevator door opens on your floor and Jack’s sprinting out of it to your room, praying that maybe you’ll still be alive when he gets there. He could talk to you, tell you he’s sorry and he loves you and please fight. He’s panting when he runs into your room, looks at you, your vitals, and then Robby. “Why the fuck isn’t she intubated yet?!”

“She wanted to be able to say something to you,” Robby tells him as he pushes drugs, barks out orders and gets ready to intubate you. “She’s totally fucking septic Jack, out of fucking nowhere,” he calls back over his shoulder. “She must have thrown a septic PE.” Robby pulls the oxygen mask away from your face.

Jack looks back at you as he moves closer. You lick your lips and rub them together a little, trying to get them wet and unstuck from each other. You look terrified but try to offer him a brave smile anyway. “I love you,” you manage to mouth before everything is consumed by black and quiet.

Where everything goes black and quiet for you, Jack’s senses are overwhelmed by the look on your face, the way your eyes shut, the way Robby’s hands so gently turn your head back so he can intubate you and seconds later by the high pitched whine coming from your patient monitor announcing you’ve flatlined and Robby yelling for someone to start compressions. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s not exactly looking for it when he spots it as he walks down a street to pick up the take out you ordered on his way home. But it’s there and it makes him think of you. It’s almost perfect. Almost. 

He slips inside, gets in a conversation with the store owner. They can customize it for him. He thinks you’ll love that, the idea that nobody has the same engagement ring as you. The owner says he’ll get him some sketches. Jack puts down a deposit. You text asking if he’s okay. 

He says a quick goodbye to the owner and that he’ll be back and runs to get the food and back to you. He’s known for a while now that he wants to ask, wants to marry you. You just get him in a way he can’t describe and knows he’ll never find again. 

That night in bed he lays awake spooning you and thinking about how to propose. You wouldn’t want something too big and flashy. But he doesn’t think you’d hate it being in public necessarily. God, what if you say no? What if you’re not ready or it’s too fast or he’s too old, too broken? 

No. He knows you don’t think he’s too old or broken at all. He knows you’ll say yes, knows you’ll cry. But how to do it. Where to do it. 

The bookstore with the ring in the book feels like too much, a little too on the nose. You wouldn’t hate it by any means but it doesn’t feel right. 

He thinks about a conversation you had in the travel section at the bookstore. 

“I love travelling.” You say it as you look over the shelves. “Especially internationally.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmmm,” you hum. “We should go somewhere.” You hand him a book on Paris. “I love Paris. Have you been?”

Jack shakes his head, starts thumbing through the book. “Can’t say that I have.”

“I would love to show you around. It’s just so pretty. The Eiffel Tower sparkles and they light up all the buildings at night and I swear almost every building looks so beautifully historic. And the Louvre. I love the Louvre. I don’t even really know why, I just do. I like the inverted pyramids by the entrance and I like how you just get lost in there.” You’re flipping through your own book, this one about France in general. “We could do a France tour. Start in Nice or somewhere and work our way up.” You look up at him, and when he looks up from his book at you he’s surprised to see nerves. “If you would want to, of course. Obviously. There’s no pressure. I know you’d have to take time off from work and you love work and it would waste a lot of time off, probably depending on how long we went for. If we did. So it’s okay. I could go by myself or with a friend if I got desperate enough.” You give a breathy, anxious laugh and fiddle with the book. 

Jack gives you a little smile and puts the book back where it belongs. “It might shock you to hear this but I have maxed out the amount of annual leave time off I can accrue. I donate everything I have leftover at the end of the year. I’ve donated all of it for a couple of years now because I can’t accrue it anymore.”

“Oh, well,” you clear your throat and it would almost be funny and adorable if he didn’t hate seeing you in distress. “That’s very nice of you. You’re a very good man Peter.”

“I want to go with you.” Your lips twitch up and eyebrows raise. “I want us to do that.”

“Yeah?” You beam at him and it’s straight sunshine. You’re too good for him, he swears. 

“Yeah,” he nods, returns your smile, kisses you quickly. “Robby might try to kiss you like that for getting me to go. He’s always on me about taking a vacation.” 

Yes. In Paris. That would be perfect. You haven’t started planning the trip because life has gotten busy for both of you, but he mentions it enough to make sure you know he hasn’t forgotten, you talk about when you’ll start planning it some nights but often fall asleep mid conversation, exhausted from your day. 

In front of the inverted pyramids at the Louvre. He can hire a photographer and they won’t even look suspicious. Just like someone taking photos of the Louvre. 

He starts planning it, the France trip. Doesn’t tell you. Reaches out to your boss who he has met to make sure you can get the time off. He’ll surprise you with it soon, he tells himself. He’ll tell you soon now that he has the ring hidden away in a box in a closet that you can’t reach easily. 

Soon. He knows he can’t keep putting it off, can just hear Dana and Robby in his ear if they knew, telling him to grow a pair and do it, that tomorrow isn’t promised, that he should do it here at the hospital so they can finally fucking meet you. That, while they don’t know you, Dana would give him a sharp look then, they know you’ll love it. 

You’ll be at the courthouse tomorrow. It’s not too far from his place. He could surprise you and pick you up, take you out somewhere nice. He has the day off too so he could go get the book you handed him, put the tickets and copy of the itinerary he’s planned so far in it. 

He smiles to himself as he imagines the shock on your face, the way you’ll struggle for words and repeat a bunch of one syllable ones for thirty seconds before the ability to form real sentences comes back to you. Yeah, that’ll work. 

Tomorrow. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a perfect day. Not too hot and not too cold. Like that Miss Congeniality bullshit that you made him watch and he secretly and surprisingly enjoyed.

It’s your perfect day. 

Jack thinks that’s real fucking ironic. 

Sleep well. 

Jack was right.

Those were in fact the last words he ever spoke to you. 

While you were conscious anyway. It’s all he can think about as he sits here in his dress blues at your fucking funeral. He couldn’t bring himself to buy a plain navy suit for the occasion. 

No, that day he had said a lot more words to your unconscious self up by your head as Robby and the team tried and succeeded at stabilizing you enough to get you to the OR. And he had said a lot more words when they let him in the OR so that he could hold your hand and talk to you for just a bit longer before they called it. Somehow in the moment he had managed to block out Garcia standing on the other side across from him with her hand in your chest, manually beating your heart to give him more time with you. 

And then he had said a lot more words to your dead body.

He must have sat in that stupid operating room with you for hours just holding you once they had closed your chest and sat the OR bed up a bit for him. He thinks he must have cycled through every stage of grief with you in his arms. 

Denial. All he could do for a while was mumble to himself that this couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. You weren’t really dead. This is some twisted fucking joke you’re trying to play. To see if you could get him to cry. You can stop playing now, Doll, you got me to cry. Okay so not an elaborate joke. Well, you’d wake up in his arms any second now, shock everyone, the whole medical community with your recovery. Because this simply could not be fucking happening.  

Anger. He yelled at you to wake up and not do this to him, to think about how unfair and selfish you were being, how fucking dare you. How dare you leave him here alone. How dare you for talking about him properly grieving. Does it look like he’s properly fucking grieving to you? And he knew, he fucking knew you were about to say moving on, that he could be working towards moving on as if he’s ever going to fucking move on, fuck you for that. He was supposed to propose and you ruined it. You left him How. Fucking. Dare. You.

Bargaining. He negotiated with himself. He should have looked you over before stepping away from you, should have taken you right into an exam room and checked every inch of you for injury before leaving you. If he could go back he would. He would do it all differently. He wouldn’t let you out of the house, would have insisted you skip work that day. He’s not a particularly religious man but he’s praying, bargaining with a God he’s not sure he believes in to bring you back to him. Take his other foot, take his hands, take his ability to be a doctor, take anything and everything that’s enough to bring you back. 

Depression. Crushing and all consuming. The reality that this was happening. A sadness so deep in his soul and causing so much physical pain in his heart that for one glimmer of a second he thought maybe he was suffering from broken heart syndrome, that maybe if he could keep himself worked up and sobbing it would kill him. A sadness so consuming he’d never pull himself out of it. There would never be enough tears shed or enough therapy or enough anything to make any of it better. 

Acceptance. Eventually it washed over him. You were dead in his arms. He was holding your lifeless body. This was his new reality. One without you in it.

But mostly he just sat there and cried over you. Cried for you. Buried his face in your neck at times to muffle the screaming sobs that made him shake. Rocked you and held the side of your face against his when his sobs became so deep they were soundless.

For a while he thought Robby and Dana were going to have to drag him out of there, drag you out of his arms. But at some point he just broke in a different way. Became some sort of numb. Resigned. So he forced himself to leave.

The only thing he could think to do at the end as he laid you back down was to try and make them better. Those two words. 

Brushing some hair back from your face and running his thumb over your jaw he had told you that he loves you and that he always will. He whispered for you to rest now, gave you one last unreciprocated kiss, and then murmured “sleep well.”

He had to damn near drag himself out of the OR after that. Robby knew it. Dana knew it. They were both right there waiting for him. He had needed to get the fuck out of the hospital and to somewhere he could just send himself into oblivion because he had no fucking idea how to deal with the pain, with the loss of you. 

Dana’s hand on his arm grounded him a little. Enough that he heard Robby say quietly, “let’s get you home.” 

Home. 

Jack had realized in that moment that he didn’t have a home. You were his home. Your heartbeat. The one that was now gone. That simply no longer existed. That had been thrown away by the universe like it meant nothing when it meant everything to him. 

Yes, he realized he had an apartment, he had somewhere to go. But that was the apartment that he was supposed to have shared with you. The apartment with all of his things, all of your things, still in boxes. You had been planning on spending the weekend unpacking and painting and getting furniture where you wanted it. You had been planning on making it your home. Together. And then you got shot.

And now, Jack had realized, there was no more together. There was simply an apartment full of boxes of shit and furniture haphazardly placed just to get it in. 

He had had to laugh about it, it was so fucked up. He had barely even realized that he, Dana, and Robby had made it outside somehow, through a side door so that he didn’t have to walk through the entire Pitt. And so out there on the sidewalk in the sun - because of course it couldn’t have been night, he couldn’t have had one thing to give him comfort - he’d broken down in a fit of laughter for a moment that quickly devolved into sobs. 

Big wracking ones that required Robby to hold him up until he had let Jack slide down the side wall onto the ground where the sobs came so hard they were silent. It hadn’t been just you he was weeping for at that point. It had been for you and for himself and for the future you should have had together. For the apartment whose lease would be broken and the trip to Paris he had planned to surprise you with that would never be gone on. For the engagement ring that would never grace your finger. For everything that could have been. For everything that already was.

He’d stopped crying at some point. Dana had gotten her car and driven him and Robby to Robby’s place. Everything since then had more or less blurred together. 

Schedules had been changed so that Dana and Robby worked opposite shifts so that one of them could always be with him. Always watching him. Acutely aware what was likely to happen if they didn’t.

You had no family so everything had been left to Jack, which meant it really had been left to Dana because Jack was barely functioning. Funeral planning. Burial or cremation. Dealing with all of your things.

Unsure of your preferences Dana had picked burial, found a cemetery, bought a plot, gotten it all arranged. Unbeknownst to Dana the one thing Jack had managed to do during all of this was purchase the burial plot next to yours. Only time would tell how long that space next to you would remain empty. Not long if Jack had it his way.

And so here they all were. At the cemetery. On your perfect day.

The funeral was to be held graveside and then back to somewhere for the celebration of life, Dana told him where at one point but he doesn’t remember. Somewhere in his mind he notes that it feels like the entire damn department is here and he can’t help but wonder who the fuck is staffing it right now. As if it matters. As if he’ll ever bring himself back to that hospital. 

Jack’s completely zoned out, unaware of what’s being said, if anything is being said. Your casket is right there. With you in it. He wants to climb inside with you and let them bury you both with him alive. He wants to let your grave smother him to death. He realizes it already is in its own way. So then he might as well be with you, right? No. You’d specifically told him you wouldn’t want that. You said you’d want him to take care of himself and live for you, for the two of you.  But he doesn’t fucking want to. He just wants to be with you.

He tracks your casket as it lowers six feet down. He wants to dive in after you. After a moment Dana nudges him. Right. It’s time. Time for him to throw a flower and some dirt on the top of your grave. 

He forces himself to stand, takes the two daffodils from Dana and approaches your grave. One for him and one for you. They’re your favorite. He stops for a second and just stares down at the wooden box that houses you. Some sort of broken and raw moan slips out before he can stop it, a whimper just a second long, just enough to prove to himself that he’s alive and you’re not standing next to him and there to comfort him and make it all better. He can’t cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all of these people. 

He brings a shaky hand up and reaches under his overly pressed shirt until he finds the chain, pulls his dog tags up and over his head, wraps them around the stems of the two daffodils. His chin trembles as he tosses them on top of your casket before following with a little dirt. He thought about tossing the ring he bought you in too, but instead he wears it on a different chain around his neck for now. 

The symbolic burial of himself with you through his dog tags doesn’t escape anyone’s notice and if anyone present wasn’t crying already they were now. Robby and Dana share a heavy tear blurred look with each other. He still can’t be alone. 

Jack just stares down. Can’t bring himself to move. To go sit back down. So the funeral ends with him standing there, looking down at you. 

Robby and Dana give him a few minutes. As he senses people leave he lets the tears slide down his face silently but copiously. His shirt is darkened by his tears quickly. Eventually Robby clears his throat and steps up behind him. 

“Jack?” Robby says his name softly at first. Jack doesn’t respond. “Jack, come on.” It’s a bit louder this time, but still nothing. Robby grabs his shoulder and gives it a little squeeze, is much louder now. “Jack!” 

“What? What happened?” Jack’s head snaps up, the rest of his body following and pushing him out of the chair in seconds. His neck twinges from the awkward angle as his two fingers curl over your wrist automatically, finding your pulse as his vision clears and the patient monitor showing your vitals becomes readable.

All your vitals are normal. Stable.

Your eyes remain closed. Comatose. 

“Nothing,” Robby says quietly, squeezing his shoulder again. “You fell asleep. It didn’t look comfortable. You’re going to fuck your neck if you’re not careful.”

“Jesus fucking christ,” Jack pants, the sheer amount of adrenaline spreading through his system so fast making him shake. He closes his eyes as he tries to bring his heart rate and breathing back to normal. He takes a second to focus and it’s there, under his two fingers thumping along in time with the reading on the patient monitor. Your heartbeat. 

“Fuck.” Jack brings his free hand up and uses it to wipe away the tears itching his face. His chest is wet, shirt undoubtedly darkened by his tears. 

“Another one?” Robby gives him a knowing look. “Funeral again?” 

Jack just nods. It’s not the first nightmare Robby has woken him from in the last three days. It’s not the first time Robby has woken him up from that nightmare. 

“You talked to your therapist recently?” Robby asks as he sits in the other chair near your bed. 

“I don’t have fucking time for the psych-bullshit right now, Robby.” Jack huffs as he sits back in his chair, stretching out his neck. “And I don’t need therapy. I need her to wake the fuck up and come back to me.” He leans forward to kiss your hand, gives it a squeeze and holds his breath that you’ll squeeze back. You don’t. “It’s been five days Robby. Five fucking days.”

Robby nods slowly. “I know. Her body has been through a lot. Sepsis on top of a gunshot and skull fracture is a lot and brain bleed is a lot. And she had a PE, and they had to crack her chest, Jack.” You got lucky and didn’t need surgery to fix the brain bleed. And nobody had wanted to do a thoracotomy on you, not while you were septic, but with your other injuries they had to be careful with blood thinners and the thoracotomy quickly became the only real option. The last ditch option. “All of that is a lot. She needs time. And it’s not bad news. She’s been extubated. That’s a big thing, you know that.” 

“I know,” Jack sighs. It’s small and as exhausted as he sounds and makes him deflate into the chair. “I just… can’t Robby. I can’t keep having that nightmare. I need to hear her voice. I need to know she heard something from me other than fucking ‘sleep well.’ I need this to have never fucking happened!”

Robby doesn’t reply immediately, gives Jack a few minutes to come back down. “She knows you love her, Jack. She knows that you guys would have worked through whatever it was. Deep down she knows that, even if in the moment she was having anxiety.” 

“You don’t even fucking know her. You can’t say that.” Jack shakes his head at Robby “You have no fucking idea.” 

Robby just raises his eyebrows and gives him a resigned look, lets the silence take back over. 

“I need to get back down there, but Dana is going to come up in a bit,” Robby tells him as he stands up. 

“I don’t need babysat.” Jack huffs. 

Robby walks by and squeezes Jack’s shoulder again. “There’s a difference between being babysat and your friends wanting to sit with you to be with you through a difficult time, Jack. We just want to help and right now all we can really do is be here. It’s not babysitting. It’s being a friend. It’s loving a friend. Let us do it, okay?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before walking out. 

And so here you are again. Just the two of you. Only one of you conscious. Jack runs a hand through his hair, moves his chair back closer to your bed and holds your hand. He’s exhausted but terrified to sleep. It always ends the same. 

He’s hardly aware of time passing but knows it must because Dana walks in, hands him a cup of tea. “How’re you?” Jack shrugs. Dana lets him. “Drink the tea.”

He takes a sip, if for nothing more than to get her off his back about it. They sit mostly in silence. Sometimes Dana volunteers a funny story or tells him about some ridiculous patient they had, keeps him up to date on the Pitt gossip. 

“You should shower,” she suggests to him. She’d gone over to your guy’s place at some point and brought in toiletries, fresh clothes for you both. “I’ll sit with her.”

“I’m fine. It’s not like I do anything other than sit here.” 

“Still, it’s a good place to take a minute to yourself. Clear your head.” Dana tilts her head at him. “Look at me.” 

After a second he does, tears his eyes from you to look at her. “She’d want you to take care of yourself.” 

Her words are a little too close to what you had said to him and he bristles, looks back at you. “Nerve there,” Dana observes, always perceptive. “I know I’m right. I know she must have told you that at some point or it wouldn’t have pulled whatever that reaction was.” 

“I’m not leaving her. I don’t care if I can use the shower in her room.” All he can think about is showering you there, watching the pink water go down the drain as he got all of the blood out of your hair and off the rest of your body, the way you melted into his touch and thanked him. How intimate it was. Potentially one of your last moments of intimacy. 

“And the last time I gave into you and showered she fucking woke up without me.” The words hit him and he looks at Dana. “The last time I showered she woke up,” he whispers. He’s not really one to normally believe in such a thing but right now he’s clinging to anything. “I should shower.”

Dana gives him a long nod with a small smile. “Yeah.”

So he does. Tries to split the difference between quickly so that he doesn’t have to spend too much time alone thinking but slow enough to give you time to wake up. But when he turns the water off and doesn’t hear Dana talking he already knows. 

You haven’t woken up. 

“I’m sorry, hon. I was hoping it would work.” Dana looks at him apologetically. 

He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

Dana nods a bit and walks out. 

Jack finds it hard to talk to you like this. He doesn’t really know why. Maybe it’s just too hard for him to stand the silence he gets in return. 

Sometimes he’ll read to you. That feels nice. You go on and on sometimes about how much you love his voice. You guys met at a bookstore, both love reading. So it just feels right. And he doesn’t have to stop talking and forget and be waiting for a reply that you won’t give him. He can just read. 

He picks up whatever he had been reading to you and starts back up. He doesn’t make it through much though because he just can’t. The sun is setting outside again, another whole day of you in a coma almost finished and he can’t stand it. 

It burns him from the inside, makes him feel like he needs to crawl out of his skin. He needs you to wake up. He needs to fix you. He’s a doctor. Fixing is what he does. He’s fixed countless people. 

But he simply cannot fix you. The only one that matters.

“You know,” he starts, leans back in his chair and looks at you. He scoffs. “God I don’t even know. I don’t know how to do this. What to say to you.” He shakes his head. “And I hate that,” he whispers. 

He sets the book down and the author’s name catches his eye. He moves in closer to you, gets up and sits on the edge of your bed, leans his head in a bit towards you as he holds one of your hands. He needs you to hear this. “I’ve decided that if you don’t wake the fuck up soon I’m going to have no choice but to have someone bring me that book and start reading it to you.” He squeezes your hand and shrugs. “So there. That’s my motivating wake up talk.” Tears hit his eyes and his lips wobble a little. “Wake the fuck up or I’m reading you the god damn book.” 

Jack watches you for a moment and sighs. He leans in and gives your cheek the lightest kiss. He can’t bring himself to kiss your lips again and not feel yours move back against his. He settles back in his chair and picks up the book he was reading. Instead of opening though he just vaguely hits himself straight in the face with it a few times. He doesn’t even know why. He just has the impulse. It’s not hard, it doesn’t do anything. It’s just tapping, just something to ground him maybe. He rests it on his face, closes his eyes and leans his forehead into the cover just to feel the resistance when he pushes the back against him a bit. Maybe he tries to pretend it’s your forehead and the way you lean into each other with your foreheads together sometimes. 

“Should I be jealous of the book Peter?” Your voice is barely audible with how cracked and dry your throat is. 

It takes a second for the book to drop out of Jack’s hands and hit the floor. “Holy fucking shit,” he breathes. “You’re awake.” 

He’s frozen for a minute, shaking hard as adrenaline pours into his system and he feels every emotion he can think of at once. 

“Fuck me,” he huffs. “Really? All I had to do was threaten to read that stupid book to get you to wake up?”

You give him a pained smile and small laugh. It sends him into action. 

“What can I say? I really hate that book. Couldn’t have you torture both of us. I think I’m doing that enough to the both of us right now.” You lick your lips and try to swallow. “Water?” You whisper at him. 

He brings you a cup quickly, holds the straw for you. “Sips,” he says softly. “Little sips right now, okay?” You do as he says, eventually nodding for him to take it away. “Pain? Are you in pain?” He looks on your bed and finds the remote. “Here.” He puts it in your hand, your thumb on top of the red button. “If you need a booster of morphine press the button.” 

You’re immediately pressing it over and over. “What happened?” You groan slightly. “My chest, Jack. It’s so bad. It hurts to breathe, like a weight’s on it.” Your words are a little slurred as the boost of morphine hits. It takes him back to the way you slurred in the trauma room and he has to fight not to go right back there in his mind. You need him. 

“I know.” He strokes your hair. “I know, I’m so sorry.” He looks over at one of your IV pumps. “I can ask them about upping your dose now that you’re awake, okay?”

You nod, blink at him. Your hand drops the button and finds one of his and gives it a little squeeze. “What happened?”

He searches your eyes with his, lets them flit about your face. His lip trembles. It breaks your heart. Whatever it was destroyed him. 

He sits back in his chair, moves it as close to you as he can get it. You reach up to cup his face with your hand and he leans into it immediately, puts both of his hands over yours. “You went septic. Threw a clot. It was bad. It was really bad. You coded. They had to crack your chest to get you back. So that’s why your chest hurts so bad. You’ve been in a coma for five days. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, “I’m so sorry I didn’t-”

“Hey, hey,” you whisper back to him. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize. None of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything, didn’t cause this.” 

“No,” he sniffles, “I know, but I just… I…” Tears start to stream down his face as he looks at you helplessly and shrugs. “I couldn’t…”

“Jack.” The way you say his name shatters him and he folds, buries his head in your lap, wary of hurting you, and sobs as he keeps squeezing your hand. “It’s okay,” you whisper, run your free hand through his hair. You both know its a lie. Nothing is okay right now. 

But you’re awake. 

He doesn’t cry for long, too conscious of how exhausted you must be, how he doesn’t want this to be how he spends the time he just got back with you. Not right now anyway. There will be time for tears and emotions and processing later. 

He rubs his face in your lap a bit to wipe his eyes and then lifts his head before resting it on its side against your legs. “I’m just so happy you’re awake.” 

“Me too.” You give him a sleepy smile. “Was always going to wake up, couldn’t leave you here alone could I?”

He gives a little half laugh, half sob. “Good. Because I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You want to tell him he’d figure it out but you don’t. 

“You gonna give me a kiss now Jack Abbot? I know I haven’t brushed-”

He’s moving the second you say kiss. He feels bad it didn’t occur to him immediately but he was just so overwhelmed with you being awake. His lips against yours cut you off. It’s not just one kiss, it’s two and three and you lose count. 

Soft ones, small, just long enough. They say more than he could figure out how to say with his words right now. Each one is perfect in its simplicity.

“You should rest,” he murmurs against your lips. You hum at him in response, eyes already fluttering closed. “You know I love you right? More than anything. More than I deserve.” 

You open your eyes back up and look at him. “Course I know that,” you murmur. “You know I love you right?”

He smiles at you. It’s a little watery, a little trembly. “Course I know that.” 

You swallow hard, just from all the meds and fighting the exhaustion. “Get in bed.” Your tone doesn’t leave much room to argue but he does anyway. 

“No. It’s not safe. I could hurt you. You need to heal a bit more.” He squeezes your hand. “But believe me, I want to, more than anything.”

“You won’t hurt me. Didn’t last time.” You look at him with big sleepy eyes that kill him. “Heal better with you in bed with me.” He bites his lip, torn, so scared of causing you any pain and so desperate to give you what you want. To give himself what he wants. “You’re the one that said oxytocin helps healing…” Your eyes flutter closed again. 

He has to laugh through some tears. “God, you really do listen and learn don’t you?”

You hum at him. “Someone has to be your best student. And it better always be me Dr. Abbot.” 

He laughs at that. It’s so you, such a you thing to say. For the first time in days he really laughs even with as short as it is. For the first time in days he feels hope. Hope that everything is going to be okay and you’re going to go home together and unpack and set up your place and paint and just be together.  

“You’re my best everything,” he murmurs as he gently shifts you and all your wires and climbs carefully into bed next to you. He needs it. And you need it. And so he lets you both have it. He lets himself hold you as best he can while keeping you in a neutral position that won’t hurt you. Your head falls to rest on his shoulder and you sigh softly as you fall asleep. Jack kisses the top of your head, lets his lips linger. 

“Sleep well.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Doll, I am not a dancer. I promise you. Nobody wants to see it.” 

“I don’t believe you,” you pout at him. “And I’ve seen those hips in action Peter. I know how much control you have over them. How you can isolate all the little muscles in them.”

“None of the muscles in your hips are particularly little-”

“You’re not changing the subject,” you cut him off. “It’s a wedding. We’re going to have to dance. At least to the slow songs.” 

“Are you sure you really want to take me?” He doesn’t even really mean to ask it, it just comes out. 

You look up at him and pause, drop his comforter that you were pulling back to get into his bed. “I… Is it too soon? Too serious too soon? I guess going to a wedding together is kind of…” you trail off looking for the word. “I don’t know a thing.”

“No!” He’s quick to reassure you. He leans up and pulls the comforter back for you. “Get in bed.” 

You do as he says. “It’s not too soon, and I want to go with you, trust me. Even under threat of dancing. I just wanted to make sure you don’t feel like you have to take me. I know a lot of your friends will be there and if you’re not ready to make those introductions, that’s okay,” he explains as he pulls you to him, arms wrapping around you but loose enough so that you can see each other. 

“I don’t feel like I have to take you. I want to. I want people to meet you. I want to show you off.” One of your hands slips into the back of his hair and plays with it, ruffles the curls and scratches at his scalp on and off as you look at each other. 

“Show me off?” He smirks at you. “You wanna show me off?”

“My intelligent, thoughtful, hot as all fuck doctor of a boyfriend? Yeah. I wanna show you off.” You grab at the old shirt he’s wearing to sleep in and give it and him a look of mock offense at it being on but pull him to you by it anyway. “Wanna see you in a partial suit. Nice slim fit pants, collared shirt, a tie, one or two buttons open at the reception and the tie shoved in your pocket to use on me later.” 

Jack sucks in a sharp breath of air and you just give him a little raise of your eyebrow, start to roll onto your back. He’s on top of you and kissing you and has his hands roaming all over you the second your head hits the pillow. 

He always pauses for a moment and makes eye contact with you before letting himself collapse on top of you after he’s done fucking you like this. The intimacy of that quick moment always makes your heart metaphorically skip a beat. This time is no exception. 

Jack snuggles into your chest, kissing at the top of your breasts as he does before he settles. You run your hands through his hair, are always running them through his hair or up and down his back or both. He loves it. 

“Hey Jack?” He’ll never get used to hearing his name come off your tongue.

He makes a little hum of acknowledgment, still blissed out and coming down. 

“We’re dancing at the wedding.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Days blur together. 

Your Pitt family rallies around both of you. 

You start seeing a therapist and it helps, you improve some, mentally. Jack finally makes an appointment with his therapist and it helps him. 

Everyone helps distract you, but it’s not just sitting in your room with you. One night Samira, Javadi, McKay, Mel and Heather show up in your room with painting supplies, easels, foldable stools, and a woman you’ve never met before. 

Paint and sip, they explain. You’re doing a paint and sip right here in your room, minus the sipping, unfortunately, because of your meds. It’s so sweet and thoughtful it makes you teary. Jack will never admit it but it may or may not have made him a little teary as he gave you a kiss and walked out to be with Robby for a bit as you guys did your painting. 

There are more things. There are a lot more things that they all do for you, and for Jack. Robby forces Jack to leave the hospital, just to go home, get more things for you, pick up food you like, small things. The first time is rough for both of you. But it gets better.

Of course, the most special though, the one that helps your mental health the most, is what Jack does for you. 

One night a good two and a half weeks into your hospital stay, Jack goes out to pick up dinner and Dana, Samira and Heather show up in your room again, but this time they have clothes for you. Nice clothes. A nice dress, the one you were going to wear to the wedding. Nice shoes. Make-up. Perfume. 

The Pitt is having a little get together on the roof and you should come, they explain. You worry that Jack is not going to be happy with you out of your room and on the roof, that it’ll scare him and you don’t want to scare him any more than you already have. They convince you that it’s okay, that Robby called Jack already and told him and so he knows to meet you up there. You’re confused by it all but don’t feel you’re in a position to really question anything and also very excited about the prospect of getting to be out on the roof in fresh air and city noise. 

The girls help you get dressed and your makeup and hair done nicely. Dana sprays some perfume on you. It makes you smile. 

“What?” She asks, but it’s a little too knowing. 

“I wore this perfume on Jack and I’s first date.” 

She hums. “Well isn’t that special? You’ll have to see if he remembers.” 

Heather and Samira disappear, say they’ll meet you up there, they’re going to go change. Dana brings you up, opens the roof door and tells you to go, she’s gotta go change. You look at her confused and shaking your head and now you know something is up. But she’s off before you can question her.

You turn around and walk out onto the roof a little, around a little corner and there’s Jack. 

There’s Jack standing next to a dinner table with a white linen tablecloth with candles on it, fairy lights strung up on the guard rail. There’s Jack holding a bouquet of daffodils for you and looking at you like you’re a vision. There’s Jack standing in front of you in nice slim fit pants, a collared shirt with two buttons undone. 

You look shocked because you are so far fucking beyond shocked you didn’t even know it was possible. He did this for you. 

“We didn’t get to go to the wedding,” he calls to you as he walks over while you walk to him. “You look gorgeous.”

You’re speechless. Beyond. You’re thoughtless, struggling to process this, all this work that he did for you.

“I promise to give you a raincheck on the tie,” he smirks as he reaches you, leans in and kisses you. He pulls back, brows furrowed like he’s confused and it makes you laugh a little because how the hell is he the confused one now. “You smell like our first date.”

“I…Jack, this is… Yeah, it’s the same perfume. Dana brought it.” You pause, think back on your conversations with Dana. She dragged it out of you so casually one day you thought nothing of it. You shake your head and laugh a little. “She asked me about it one day and I didn’t even think about it.

“She’s pretty good, isn’t she?” Jack laughs. You nod. 

“Jack, I’m,” you look around, hold onto his forearms to ground you. You’re teary. Of course. “You did all this? For me?”

“Well I certainly had many co-conspirators who helped me get it all set up, but yeah. It was my idea. You needed it. I needed it. We needed it. A date night. And this was the only place we could get in.” He hands you the daffodils, grabs your hand and leads you over to the table where you stop.

“I…” You look around again. “It’s safe? For me?” You look back at him and he knows from the look in your eye that you’re not asking because you’re worried about yourself. You’re asking because you’re worried about him, worried about putting him through more trauma and more pain if something were to happen to you up here. 

“Yes.” He helps you into the chair. “You’re probably the safest diner in all of Pittsburgh tonight. You’ve got a physician’s supervision.” He smirks at you. His eyes flick to the ground on the side. His go-bag. He’s prepared, just in case. That brings you back to reality, brings you back to yourself, makes you smile and give a soft laugh. 

He sits down opposite you, starts to take a drink of water. “Have I ever told you how hot I find it that you’re a doctor?”

Jack chokes, starts coughing and it makes you giggle.

“What?” You draw the word out with a bit of that shit-eating grin he loves. “What did you expect me to say?” 

“I don’t fucking know but not that! You were so speechless a minute ago!” He’s laughing a bit now, looking at you like you’re one of the seven wonders of the world. 

“It’s just the truth!” you say through a laugh. He reveals dinner to you. Your favorite dish from your favorite place. You thank him for this, all of it, you keep saying it because you’re so blown away. 

You eat dinner. You eat all of yours for the first time in two weeks and it makes Jack so incredibly happy and relieved. After you’re done with dinner you sit for a bit, chat a little before Jack stands up and holds out his hand to you. You raise an eyebrow at him. 

He takes his phone out and thirty seconds later your guy's song, soft and slow, starts playing from a speaker he had hidden under the table. He offers you his hand again. 

“Oh Jack.” You pull the words out a little bit as you start to cry.

Through tears you take it and let him pull you close into a dancing hold. “I hope they’re good tears,” Jack murmurs as he holds you close.

“They’re the best,” you sniffle. “I love you so much.”

Jack kisses your temple at the side of your eyebrow. “I love you more.”

The song plays on a loop. Jack dances with you until you admit you’re tired and need to rest. It’s not even really dancing more than just swaying together, him holding you close, murmured conversation. But it’s everything. He’s everything. 

You’re there for weeks. Weeks that are beautifully uneventful, the only exception being when you hit some milestones in your recovery. 

And then one day is eventful again because a word starts being used. The word you’ve both been desperate to hear. 

Home. 

You’re desperate to get out of the hospital and home. Jack is just as desperate to get you there. He never wants to let you out of it again, but that’s a conversation for a later day. He’s dreading when you have to go back to work, back to that courthouse. Rationally he knows with the increased security since the shooting it’s probably one of the safest places for you to be but his emotional brain doesn’t give a single fuck about that. 

You laugh about it with Jack one day, how you’re going to go home to your apartment that’s still in boxes with furniture pushed to the center of rooms so you could paint. “It’s okay, we can wait to paint or I can make Robby help. And then you can just boss me around and tell me where to put things as I unpack while you rest on the couch.”

He gives you a very pointed look. 

“I think I’ll be okay to help you unpack. At least some things and at least for a while. If I get tired I’ll rest and I won’t go lifting a box of books, okay?” You give him a reassuring smile. 

“No.” 

You let out a deep sigh. “Jack, we’ve talked about this. You can’t treat me like I’m glass forever. Especially once we’re home.” 

“Why not? And it’s not even treating you like glass, it’s making sure you take it easy and recover.” His face is set, but not quite as hard as it has been when you’ve had this conversation in the past. 

“I will take it easy. And I will recover. And you will be there to make sure I do both of those things. But being active, to an extent, I know, is important. Robby has said it. Dana. Heather, Mel, Santos, Shen, Parker, Perlah, Princess, Shamsi, Whitaker, Garcia, Javadi, Mohan, Mateo, everyone who has ever stepped in this room. Even you told me that, back when I didn’t want to get out of bed.” You run your hands over his chest, try to be soothing. You don’t want to upset him. “I know you have been through a lot with this. I know I have been. I know we have a lot to process and work through together and individually. I don’t want to argue. And I know that if our positions were reversed I would be the exact same way towards you, and that if anything you have it worse because you’re a doctor and so you know way too much about the things that could go wrong. But I’m okay. I will be okay. You tell me everyday how I’m getting stronger.”

Jack settles his hands on your hips, rests his forehead against yours. “I know. I just… struggle. Because you were better and then you weren’t. And I am terrified that’s going to happen again even though I know the chances at this point are so low.” His hands squeeze your hips. “I think maybe seeing you out of here will help. Seeing you at home. It’ll make it more real. That you’re really okay.” He pulls his head from yours. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey,” you cup his face with both of your hands. “I don’t want you to be sorry, Jack. Not for caring so much, for loving so much. Because that’s what this is and I know it. It’s not micromanaging or not trusting me or wanting to control me. I know that. I promise. I know this is motivated by fear and by love. We’re going to get through this together, okay?”

He nods because he knows it’s true. 

And then there’s another eventful day, with a phrase you’ve both been itching to hear. 

Discharge instructions. 

They let Robby give you them even though he’s not technically your doctor. He gives them to you even though he doesn’t need to because you have Jack who’s going to be all over you and enforce stricter ones. But you still appreciate hearing them so that you have some idea of what’s okay and what isn’t and what appointments you have scheduled for follow ups and the meds they’re sending you home with. 

You ask about sex. 

Jack almost drops the bottle he’s packing away for you. “Why, please tell me why on earth,” he draws the word out, “you’re thinking about sex? And not recovering.”

You look at him, hold a finger up and then riffle through the bag next to you on the bed. You take out the small stand mirror Dana had brought you so that you could do your makeup that one night. You open it and hand it to Jack. “Take a look in the mirror Dr. Abbot.”

You’re so nonchalant with how you say it, like it’s obvious and just a fact and nothing you should really have to be explaining. 

“Oh my god,” he mutters. 

Robby ends up totally snorting his laugh because he tried to stifle it for Jack for a minute but it’s too good, it’s too funny. Robby smiles at you as he pulls it together, thinks how good you are for Jack. How you’re what he needed.

“You could have just asked me, you know! I’m a doctor! I know you know that, you tell me how hot it is all the time! We didn’t have to fucking drag Michael into this,” he huffs. But all of you know it’s not serious. He’s not really mad. He’s just worried and scared and wants to protect you and doesn’t want anything to happen to you and more than anything he doesn’t want to hurt you. But there’s the subtlest tinge to his voice that reflects his lust, his want, his desire to have you like that again. 

“Yes, but I don’t trust you to give me a straight answer right now,” he goes to interrupt you but you shake your head and continue, speaking over him, and Jack pouts. Truly pouts. “And you know that’s valid and you would have given me the most conservative answer possible. And it’s Robby,” you shrug, “he’s a doctor and your best friend and obviously knows we’re having sex, or were before all of this. Plus he saw my tits when he coded me, I think we lost some boundaries when that happened.”

“They’re very nice b-”

Jack shoots him a glare, one that would have Robby dead on the floor if looks could kill.

Robby stops talking and clears his throat. “Right, well, uh,” Robby hugs his tablet to him and rocks back and forth a bit. “I mean as soon as you’re ready and feel up to it.” You look over at Jack and flash a pleased smile, raise your eyebrows. “But nothing too rough or overly strenuous. Keep it soft, slow. You know real love-making-”

“I’m going to fucking quit if you keep talking.” Jack interrupts Robby who wears the biggest self-satisfied shit eating grin. 

You snort a laugh because the whole situation is so fucking absurd. “Thank you, Robby.”  

“Of course.” He opens his arms and you hug. “Don’t take this the wrong way but I am really fucking glad I won’t see either of you tomorrow.” 

The three of you share a laugh. “Ready?” Jack asks you. It’s funny how in the moment you’ve been dying for you’re suddenly terrified and unsure. The hospital is safe. There are doctors and medications. 

You remind yourself that there’s a doctor and medications at home too and the thought lets you smile at Jack and nod.

He flicks his chin to the wheelchair. “Oh you cannot be serious. That is so unnecessary.”

“Hospital policy.” Jack shrugs. 

“Hospital policy or Jack policy?”

“That one actually is hospital policy.” Robby confirms. 

Jack gives you a triumphant smirk and you roll your eyes and stick your tongue out at him. He does it back. 

And then he wheels you out.

Being home is strange. It’s a whole new normal to get used to again. There are lots of emotions. You’re all over the place, somehow more emotional labile the first two days at home than you ever were in the hospital. 

Despite his own emotions Jack is your rock through it and things start to get better. He paints with Robby’s help. You talk him into letting you paint. You direct Jack and Robby on where furniture should go, with Jack’s input of course. You and Jack unpack boxes together. 

Six or seven days after you came home you’re down to just two boxes left. All books. You and Jack are unpacking them together, him bending to get them out of the box and you alphabetizing as you put them on the shelves. 

Jack picks up a book. The book. The one that started it all. The one ‘Move in with me?’ is written in. He stares down at it. 

Earlier today he’d unpacked the box where he’d hidden the ring. The ring box is in his pocket, pants loose enough to hide it. 

“Peter?” You hold a hand out behind you to get the next book from him but Jack doesn’t put one in your hand or say anything. “Jack?” you repeat as you turn around to him staring at the book. He has a weird look that you can’t really place. Your brows furrow in concern. “Are you okay?”

He sets the book back in the box and looks up at you for a second. And then he’s sliding down to one knee and your eyes widen. “Jack,” you whisper, already teary. 

“We’re going on the France trip,” he starts. “It’s all planned. You should be well enough to travel by then and we can adjust to take it easier if we need.” Your mouth drops open a little. “I had this all planned too. Proposing. I was going to take you to the Louvre, propose in front of the inverted pyramids, have a photographer. I had planned to tell you about the trip the night of the day you got shot. And then the entire time you were in the hospital I wanted to ask but I didn’t want it to feel like I was asking because you were in the hospital and things were scary.” 

You bring a trembling hand to your mouth. “But I can’t wait anymore. I can’t wait for Paris. You know this has nothing to do with what happened. I had planned this before what happened. I knew I wanted to marry you within a month. That time you met me outside of the hospital after I coded that vet at the very end of my shift. We had spoken on the phone for less than a minute, I didn’t tell you about it or say anything was wrong and yet you just showed up. In your work clothes. When I asked why you were there you said you could hear it in my voice, that I needed someone, needed to not be alone and so you took the day off, and it’s funny because up until you said it I had been telling myself that I needed to be alone. But you were right. When I started to argue you just put a hand to my chest and kissed me, told me that it was already done, you’d already let your boss know, grabbed my hand and started walking to my place. And that’s when I realized you knew me better than I knew myself and that you weren’t afraid to just do things for me, that you weren’t going to make me ask, ever, for anything, when you knew I wouldn’t be able to. You weren’t going to make me struggle, force me to either open up or not get what I need from you. That’s when I knew I wanted to marry you.” He pauses and swallows, trying to clear the tears that line his eyes from his voice. “There’s so much I wanted to say in this moment, so much you deserve to hear” he laughs a little, the sound wet with tears, “but everything has fallen out of my mind. I promise though that, if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of our lives making sure you hear them and know how important and necessary you are to me, how much I love you.” 

Tears stream down your face. They have been for a while now. Your mouth and chin tremble under your hand. 

Jack gets the box from his pocket and opens it.

The way Jack says your name is etched into your memory. Then. “Will you marry me?”

You move your hand from your mouth, give him a look and move your shoulders in a way that says he didn’t even have to ask. 

“Yes.” 

It’s not exactly whispered, your voice is just so choked with tears it makes it sound like it. Jack’s face breaks out into the biggest teary smile and yours matches. Shaking hands get the ring on your finger and then Jack is standing up, arms going straight to hold your face and he kisses you like he never has before. It’s indescribable. It’s perfect. 

You hug him tightly for a minute before you both pull away. “Is it okay? The ring?”

“Oh,” you sniffle, try and wipe at your eyes with your hands. “You’re going to laugh,” your voice gets a little more high pitched as another wave of emotion hits you. “The tears, there’s too many, I haven’t been able to see it.” You cover your mouth with your hand. 

And Jack, Jack starts laughing. Because it’s so you, from being too teary to see it to the way you got even more emotional when you told him. You laugh-cry with him. 

The entirety of the proposal is perfect. 

As is what follows once you’ve seen the ring, almost screamed about it and how perfect it is, and gushed about it for several minutes to him. 

Jack takes your hand and leads you to your bedroom. Your shared bedroom. He lays you down on soft sheets. It’s your first time after what happened. 

He takes his time with you. Kisses every inch of you, every scar, new and old, lingers on the new ones. He worships you. Takes you apart and puts you back together again. Lets you do the same to him. 

The groan of relief that comes from his chest when he finally pushes inside of you is unholy. He holds you tight to him. He adjusts so that he’s on top of you, arms under your shoulders with his elbows supporting him, holding your face in his hands. It’s all panting and breathy and sloppy kisses and uncontrollable groans and moans and warm sweaty skin and eye contact and Jack slowly losing it and groaning nonstop as he fucks you and chases your hips harder and harder, moving you both up the bed a bit as he tries to get deeper and closer to you. 

You take a bath after to clean the sweat off of you both and just to feel each other. He pours in so much epsom salts to help you heal that you tease him you’re going to float in the water. It’s so warm and his touch is so relaxing that you actually fall asleep leaning back against him for a few minutes. He lets you sleep. Tries to commit the moment to memory. 

You decide to have a housewarming party. You invite everyone from the Pitt, time it so that the night shifters can drop by for a little bit before their shift starts if they want. You invite some of your friends too. 

You use it to announce your engagement. Every time someone knocks you and Jack go get them and you hold your left hand up. Everyone is happy for you. Some cry which makes you get teary. Jack hears you discussing the ring with Dana, Samira, McKay, and Javadi, you holding your hand out and all of them looking closely at it. He can’t hear the conversation but he catches, “he custom designed it,” and “it’s so perfect, just like him.”

He stands alone for a minute watching you and the party. He smiles as you walk up to him, arms automatically opening for you to step into. “And how is my beautiful fiancée doing?” You giggle at the word. Fianceé. It makes it so real. “Tired?” He’s checking in on you and you know he’d have all of these people out in a literal minute if you said you were tired and needed to rest. 

“No, I’m okay, I promise.” You lean up and give him a kiss. “How’s my handsome fiancé?” 

“I’m pretty perfect, Doll.” He gives your hip a squeeze. “Thank you.”

“For what?” You cock your head at him a little and he melts even more for you somehow. 

“For everything.” Jack kisses you. “For saying yes.” Another kiss. “For waking up.” Another kiss. “And for telling me that book wasn’t worth it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wanted both without having to destroy Jack because he deserves everything so here we are. I hope it was okay! Please let me know your thoughts and comments!! Liking, replies and reblogging are so so appreciated! My inbox and requests are open (see masterlist for more)! Thank you for reading all of this, I know it was long!

Part 3 is up!

And let me know if you'd like to see more of these two! Wedding, more before reader is shot, just little domestic moments between the two? I'm hoping to do a follow up to Perfumer and maybe a few more shorter things, maybe some Robby? Who knows, certainly not I.

Thank you again for reading and your support!

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

flowers 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒

Summary: y/n gets flowers for lando after every podium and win he's had in 2024.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ln x reader ִ ࣪𖤐

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ fluff ִ ࣪𖤐

masterlist ☾☼

"what's your favourite flower?"

"hm?"

"what's your favourite flower?"

"don't have one,"

"why not?"

"never got any flowers,"

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

australia p3 - daffodils [new beginnings]

the start of the season was decent, according to lando. getting his first podium of the season was good. he was proud of it, of course he was. and to celebrate with one of his closest friends on the top step was even more special.

the car was getting better, but he knew there was a lot more still left to do. his mechanics had told him, had explained to him that it's difficult, and it's all theoretical. lando understood that. it wasn't necessary that the car that would be faster in theory would work practically as well. but, lando tried his best to give as much feedback as he could.

he was sticky with champagne, and after all the media duties and celebrations, he just wanted to escape. he wanted to escape to his driver room, and call his girlfriend and maybe his mum as well.

"good race, man," one of his mechanics congratulated him as he walked to his driver's room.

"thanks, mate," lando responded, smiling, and clapping his hand against the others in a bro handshake thing.

it didn't have a name.

finally reaching his driver room, lando opened the door and stopped short.

on the table in the corner had a bouquet of flowers. flowers he had never seen before in person. flowers he hadn't ordered, and knew jon wouldn't order for him.

slowly, he walked closer to the bouquet, and picked up the card hidden in the flowers.

"for your first podium of 2024, it's a new beginning. i love you. y/n <3"

lando smiled, a bright, shining smile. he'd just received flowers. for possibly the first time ever. immediately finding his phone, he video called his girlfriend.

"hi, baby! congratulations!" she said immediately as she answered the call.

"thank you for the flowers, my love," lando said softly, still admiring the flowers.

"they're daffodils! do you like them?"

"they're absolutely beautiful,"

she smiled, and it filled lando with a warm feeling. "i'm glad,"

lando sat on the little bench, craddling the bouquet against his chest like it was the podium trophy, and the two lost themselves in conversations and laughter and love.

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

china p2 - iris [hope]

his second podium of the season. lando wasn't feeling particularly confident. with himself or the car. he knew that there was still a long way to go. the car felt a little alive, but nearly not enough for winning races.

he finished almost 14 seconds behind max, and that didn't make him feel very good from the team perspective. sure, it was important points he got for the wcc, but again, not nearly enough especially with checo coming in third, five or seconds behind him.

lando hoped that he could get mclaren in top 3 again at the very least, but he was already losing hope, and the season had just begun.

trudging back to his drivers room, lando opened the door, entering and quickly shutting it behind him. he needed some time to think, some time to himself.

as he sat down on the little bench thing, he noticed something purple and fragile peeking from his packed bag. he didn't have the energy to move, really. but something about it forced him to move.

slowly unzipping the bag, he pulled out the flowers. irises. he knew these. how? he didn't know.

his face broke into a smile again. taking the card attached, he read, "p2, baby! lfg! don't lose hope. your time will come! i love you. y/n <3"

he quickly snapped a picture, and sent it to his sleeping girlfriend, thanking her, and telling her that he would call her first thing once she was awake.

a knock on the door told him that it was time to leave, to go back to the hotel to pack, before their flight. zipping his bag up again, but keeping the flowers in his hand, lando picked up his stuff, and exited the room, still delicately holding the irises.

his beautiful, hopeful irises.

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

miami p1 - lilac [first love]

oh, lando wished this feeling would never go away. it was a mix of relief and feeling proud of himself.

he was sticky with champagne, but for once, he didn't care, because, fuck, he was a race winner. he was a fucking race winner.

seven years he'd been with mclaren, and five years driving. his sixth year, he'd finally won. fucking finally won a race.

he couldn't stop smiling, couldn't stop laughing, he was so happy. so fucking happy. he was proud of himself, and he was so thankful for everyone who had stuck by him throughout his career, before f1 and during.

the celebrations were long, as they should be. his team was so happy for him, he'd spoken to his family on call in a few quiet moments, and he'd had max on a video call for most part of the celebration, desperately wishing he was there as well. aarav, niran, ria were there, but honestly, they weren't max. no one could ever be max.

this was also the race that his girlfriend had attended. he'd wanted her there, told her specifically to fly out because he had a good feeling in his gut.

and what a good feeling it was.

throughout the celebrations, lando kept her somewhere in his line of sight, needing to make sure that she was comfortable. someone had gotten her a bottle of champagne too, and every time the team sprayed him with it, she joined in on the fun, laughing with him and his team.

later, both of them sticky and smelling of champagne, they walked back to his driver room. his arm was across her shoulder, and hers was wrapped around his waist.

as soon as he opened the door, his eyes widened, "oh my god,"

y/n was looking at his expectantly, biting her lip to gauge his reaction. he slowly removed his arm from her shoulder as he walked in the two steps of space the room had left.

"oh my fucking god," he muttered, still taking it all in.

"do you like it?" she whispered.

the room was full of bouquets of lilacs, each one bright and blooming. there wasn't much space left in the room, but god, it looked so beautiful.

lando immediately turned around, wrapping his arms around her waist as he buried his head in her neck and picked her up. "i love it so much,"

her fingers were in his curls as she said, "they're lilacs. to remind you of your first love: racing."

lando pulled back from the hug, settling her down, "thank you so much. i love it. i love you. fuck, i love you," grabbing her face in his hands, he kissed her, long and slow, wanting to cherish the moment.

later on, when the two of them had changed, they slowly picked up all the bouquets, and lando handed out three stems to each of his mechanics and his engineers, and anyone who was in lando norris' team, and then gave two stems each to the rest of them. he gave four to zak, and the man had laughed and wrapped lando in another hug.

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

emilia-romagna p2 - gladiolus [believing in yourself]

he was so close. fuck, he was so goddamn close to winning again. 0.752 seconds behind, he was so close.

he was happy for max v, of course he was. he was happy with p2 as well. there was no doubt in that. but, when p1 was so close, and lando knows he could've pushed just a little harder, it does settle a sense of disappointment in his gut.

with a p2 and a p4, it was a lot of points for mclaren, and as much as that excited lando, he was also afraid. he wasn't sure if he could really continue to keep performing so well, or as well as he wanted to. he wanted to go out and win, and he wanted to make his team proud, but fuck, was he good enough for it? would he ever be good enough for it?

his head was swimming with self-doubt, and it was slowly overshadowing his happiness of p2. it was annoying, and he was frustrated. he wanted to be happy about the podium, and the points, and all of that. he so desperately wanted to. but the questions, the what ifs just never stopped in his head.

opening the door to his driver room, he stopped. slowly he remembered. the flowers. his girlfriend. there was a bouquet of flowers he didn't know kept neatly in a vase. he assumed jon had done that.

removing his race suit, and quickly changing into fresher clothes, he picked up the bouquet, finding the note attached, "these are gladiolus. they're a reminder that you need to believe in your yourself. i love you. y/n <3"

lando laughed. how his girlfriend knew what was going on in his brain, he didn't know, but he was forever grateful that she was some sort of mind reader.

quickly snapping a picture and sending it to her, he hugged the flowers against his chest, wishing that she was there to hug him.

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

canada p2 - poppy [strength]

lando walked into his driving room with his back still heavy from the intense race he had. the rain made it a battle to stay on the track; the visibility wasn't good, and the grip could be anywhere; the race felt like having a war with nature. still, he held steady enough to finish in p2, an impressive result if he said so himself.

as he shut the door, his eyes alighted on something that immediately threw a smile to his face. on the little table in the middle of the room was an exquisite bouquet of red poppies. the striking flowers stood out starkly against the antiseptic ambiance of the room, their radiant petals glowing brightly under the subdued lighting. alongside them rested a note.

lando stepped closer, picking up the card, and his heart gave a slight lurch when he saw her familiar handwriting.

"for your strength, my love. you showed it today, just like I know you always will. i'm so proud of you. you've got this, no matter what the track throws at you. i love you. y/n <3"

he let the words sink in, the weight of the race lightening for a moment as the warmth of her support surrounded him. the poppy—symbolizing strength, resilience, and overcoming adversity—was the perfect gesture for a race like this. the rain-soaked chaos of canada had tested him, yet here he was, with a podium finish in his grasp.

lando swept a hand back through his drenched hair, letting out an exasperated sigh as he leaned back into the wall. it wasn't just the soggy track, or the keen competition that had made the race so hard today—it was always the pressure; the little things that crept in with each lap. yet now, his hands wrapped about the bouquet before him, with her words going round in his head, gave him a deep quiet strength.

he placed the flowers gently on the windowsill, then took a minute to absorb the comfort in that gesture. she wasn't there, but somehow in that little room, she was. she was with him and reminded him of when he would go through some really tough days; he would know he was capable of holding it together.

the poppies, resplendent even in the rain, were the perfect symbol of how far he'd come—and how far he would still go.

"thanks, lovie," he whispered to the empty room, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he stared out the window at the distant lights of the circuit.

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

spain p2 - orchids [remain positive]

p2 in spain. what a wonderful day. and he had managed to get the fastest lap. that, he liked the most for some reason.

he was desperate for another win. well, actually, no. he wasn't desperate for it. he wanted to win, yes, and he knew that he would have to be patient for it, and work on it himself.

the bottom line was, he wanted to win.

he trusted the car, and he trusted his team. he would get opportunities in the future, and he will be able to win, he knows that. somewhere in his brain, he knows that.

yet, sometimes, there's a little crack in that knowing. that little fear of the unknown, that what if he doesn't win again till next season? or the season after that?

no. no. that wasn't true. lando was a good driver. he was adapting to being in a fast car, but he was a good driver, and he would get another win soon. yes. that's what he needed to believe, that's what he needed to tell himself over and over again.

jon did a good job of reminding him of that too. he somehow always knew when lando's thoughts were beginning to spiral, and pulled him out before it happened. thank god for jon, really.

when he stepped off the podium, his trophy in hand, jon stood there with a bouquet of orchids. lando smiled instantly, despite the exhaustion.

lando handed the trophy to jon, and took the bouquet from him, as he was escorted to the conference room for the interviews.

he stared at his flowers, as the interview began.

"we wanted to start with max, but lando, you've captured our attention," ted kravitz started.

lando immediately looked up. "huh?"

"we see you've got some flowers. any idea who they're from or is it a secret admirer?"

lando laughed, "no, they're from my girlfriend. she gets me flowers for every podium i get,"

"kelly's never got me flowers," max added from beside him.

"yeah? she's got to step up her game, mate," lando joked.

"definitely, man. kelly, if you're watching this, i want flowers,"

the room laughed.

"they're orchids, aren't they?" lewis asked.

lando nodded, "yeah. my girlfriend said it's so that i remain positive because there's a lot more races to come,"

"that's sweet, man," lewis said, as he leaned back.

lando bit his lip, as he nodded. cause, yeah. that is sweet. his girlfriend is sweet.

"anything you want to say to your girlfriend, lando? while we're here," ted asked.

"um, just wanna thank her, really. i get more excited about the flowers now, than the trophy,"

the crowd laughed again, and the interviews shifted to max.

lando continued to stare at his orchids.

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

silverstone p3 - periwinkle [home]

it was his home race. he wanted to do well in his home race. and he did. p3 was not bad. he was proud of himself, and a little disappointed for not winning, but he was much happier for lewis.

lewis had driven amazingly, and despite the fact that he was lando's competitor, lando couldn't help but applaud for him.

at the parc ferme, he met with his team, hugging them, and then hugged his girlfriend for a little longer. she had pressed a kiss to his helmet, and he winked at her.

max and he were talking when lewis came, and the two immediately congratulated the brit on his drive. lewis looked like he was about to cry, and lando wondered if he would ever feel like that, that emotion of winning at a home race.

after the podium celebrations, lando went for media duties, feeling sticky and in a desperate need of a shower. when he returned, he quickly found his girlfriend, giving her a little kiss, before promising her to be back in a few.

opening the door to his driver's room, he smiled at the bouquet kept beside his trophy. picking them up, he smiled at the periwinkles.

"periwinkles for your home race," y/n's voice was heard from behind him, and he turned around to see her leaning against the door frame.

he smiled, walking towards her, as he wrapped her in a loose hug, and said, "home is where you are, baby,"

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

hungary p2 - lotus [righteousness]

the team had fucked him over. the team had fucked him over so bad.

he didn't blame oscar. it wasn't oscar's fault. their strategy had been wrong, and they made a mistake. he was angry. he was angry at will for putting him in a position where either options felt wrong and right at the same time. he would never burst out on will, of course, and he knew he needed to control himself, but fuck fuck fuck, his team had fucked up.

lando reminded himself that he was the older driver now, the veteran. that meant it was upto him to make sure that oscar knew that the two of them were okay. and he did just that. he told oscar, showed him that there was no bad blood between the two of them, and lando wasn't mad at him.

he knew he was going to have to talk to andrea about the team orders later, but the exhaustion of the race was settling on his shoulders and he didn't want to do anything except go back home and cuddle with y/n.

that would fix everything.

after the celebrations, and the interviews, all lando wanted to do was go back to the hotel room and call y/n or max, and just rant. but, as soon as he walked in, a sort of disappointment added to the weight of his feelings already.

there was no bouquet. he'd gotten a podium. wasn't that the pattern that y/n was following? every time he got on the podium, she sent him flowers, right?

but, this time, there was nothing but one lone flower that wasn't even blooming. a deep hurt settled in his gut as he realised that maybe even his girlfriend was mad at him about the race and the way he responded with not giving oscar the position back immediately.

that somehow felt worse than the hate comments he'd been receiving on social media.

picking up the flower, he turned the card attached to it and read, "a lotus to represent the righteousness you showed on track. you did the right thing. i'm proud of you. would have been proud of you, regardless. i love you. y/n <3"

lando breathed a little easier. he let himself smile a little. she was proud of him. she thought he did the right thing. she was on his side.

how silly of him to think otherwise.

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

netherlands p1 - amaryllis [to sparkle]

he did it. he did it again. yes, he lost the lead, but he got it back, and he created a 22 second gap, and he won. again.

finally.

he was happy, of course he was. though, what excited him more were the inevitable bouquet of flowers that would be in his drivers room. he couldn't wait to see what his girlfriend had chosen this time.

the trophy was huge, and it was heavy, but it was easily his favourite. the words written were all things he could relate to, and he was sure that every other driver could relate to it as well. it made him happy that there was someone out there, recognising the things they went through as sportsmen, or as a sportsperson.

excitedly, after the team celebrations, he ran to his drivers room, finding it full of flowers again, and he couldn't help but smile bigger than he already was.

it was just like miami, but this time, his girlfriend wasn't there with him. god, he missed her.

he video called her while he looked for the note, and just as he found it, her face filled his screen.

"lan!" she exclaimed, "you were so goddamn good! i'm so proud of you!"

"thank you, my lovie. hold on, i gotta read the card,"

"did you just get to the drivers room?"

lando nodded, as he flipped open the card.

it said, "hot damn, you were shining out there. some amaryllis for you to keep sparkling. i love you. y/n <3"

"y'know, this is my favourite part of getting on podiums now," lando said, as he pocketed the note.

"what? getting the flowers?" y/n joked.

"yes. getting the flowers from you." lando stared at her face on the screen, wishing he could kiss her in that moment.

"you're just saying that,"

"i'm really not," he settled on the floor, exhausted from the race, but he had a new found energy as he talked with his girlfriend. she was too excited to contain her reactions or yapping, and lando loved her more than anything to listen to every bit of it.

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

italy p3 - lavender [calmness]

he didn't know what to feel. he was feeling a lot of things at the same time, and he didn't know which one to focus on first.

on one hand, he didn't blame oscar for wanting to prove himself to the world. he knew what it was like to enter the world of formula one with expectations on your shoulders that had no real reason being there. he knew that some of the fan comments had gotten to oscar, about how hungary was a gifted win and not earned on his own merit. he understood, really.

but that didn't mean that he was okay with the move he pulled on lando going into turn one. he had gotten way too close to lando's car, and if lando hadn't backed out even a little bit, the two would've crashed.

there was a championship fight on his shoulders, one that he didn't expect and didn't want. while he didn't want to win by his teammate letting him pass, he also did not expect his own teammate to pull a risky move like that.

the plan was a 1-2. they got a 2-3. it was a lot of points, but nearly not as much a 1-2 would have been.

really, lando would have been okay with only oscar had overtaken him. he would have been fine with that. what he wasn't okay with, was the fact that the move led to their competitor also overtaking them both.

that pissed him off a little bit.

he remained respectful in all the post race interviews, he praised his teammate, he did what was expected of him. he always did.

later, when he had a moment to himself in the drivers room, a knock interrupted him, and lando almost told the person to go away. he didn't want to deal with humans right now.

"lando? got something for you here," jon's voice rang.

sighing, lando stood up and opened the door. jon stood at the door, with a bouquet of lavenders in his hand.

"this got delivered for you. the delivery guy said that there was too much traffic on the way, so he couldn't get it on time, but here," jon gave the bouquet to lando before walking off.

lando stared at the flowers, as he closed the door and went back to his seat.

finding the folded note, it said, "lavenders for how calm you've been about it. good thing i wasn't there. i love oscar, i love you more. y/n <3"

lando smiled, and felt a little better. maybe a little more than just a little.

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

singapore p1 - orange lilies [confidence]

lando was dizzy. singapore was always a difficult race physically, but it was always so fulfilling.

he led all 62 laps, created a 20 second gap. yes, he made some mistakes at a few places, but he was learning. lando was learning and he was proud of himself. he was so fucking proud of himself.

lando was thankful that max was here to watch him race. he needed that support. unfortunately, y/n couldn't be there, and as much as she tried to change her schedule to fit the race weekend, it just didn't work.

nevertheless, he'd spoken to her as soon as he got off the top step with his trophy in hand. how could he not?

later, when he found max, he laughed upon seeing his best friend. max fewtrell stood there with a bouquet of orange lilies in his hands, looking annoyed and endeared.

"mate, someone got me flowers but i have no idea who! pietra said it wasn't her!" max said, as soon as lando was close enough.

lando laughed, feeling a little bad as he was about break his best friend's heart, "max, they're not for you,"

"yes, they are! a random dude found me, asked if i was max fewtrell, and i said, yes, and he handed me this and walked off!"

"right. i love you, man, but did you see if there was a note by chance?"

max paused, before he checked the bouquet and found a folded note hidden.

lando wanted to tell him to hand it over. he didn't want anyone else to read what y/n had written for him, but he also knew that max wouldn't believe him unless he saw it with his own eyes.

"orange lilies because my god, you were so confident on track, im gonna jump you as soon as youre back. i love you. y/n." max read.

the two men paused, lando trying not to laugh as max stared at nothing for a few seconds.

and then, he pushed the bouquet against lando's chest and said, "i think these might be for you."

lando burst out laughing, as he accepted the bouquet.

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

mexico p2 - yellow roses [friendship]

lando was so proud of carlos. his heart was bursting from the happiness he had for his friend.

it had been a shock at the start of the year when his friends had told him that carlos was no longer signed with ferrari. he hadn't been expecting it.

now, though, watching his friend win for what might be the last time for a while, because even though carlos fucking sainz is going to williams, their car isn't going to magically be one of the best next season. it's going to take time. but, williams now has carlos fucking sainz, so it might just happen sooner than they think.

the plan was that in the evening, the sainz family, and lando and luigi would go out for dinner, and then maybe hit a club after the older-older members of the family had gone back to the hotel.

for lando, all of them were old.

smiling wide, he stepped into his drivers room, ready to take a shower, and get ready for the evening dinner, when he saw the bouquet on the table.

yellow roses.

opening the card, it said, "for your carlando love. it might just be greater than landoy/n but i'm okay with that ;) give him a few of these from me, would you? i love you. y/n."

keeping the bouquet back carefully, he quickly got ready and removed a few of the flowers from the bouquet for carlos, before handing the actual bouquet to jon to keep at his hotel room safely.

later, carlos sent a picture to y/n, a selfie of carlos and lando, and the yellow roses between them.

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

abu dhabi p1 - nasturtium [victory]

she stood near the paddock, patiently waiting for lando, with a bouquet of nasturtiums in her hands. this one, she wanted to give in person.

she had taken a chance when ordering the flowers. sure, there was a chance that mclaren wouldn't have won the constructors, and while it was a small chance, she didn't want to jinx anything accidentally.

but lando had been confident, and y/n knew that if lando was feeling confident while being under so much pressure, there was nothing that could stop him from achieving his dream today.

y/n chatted with his mum and sister, all of three of them smiling so widely. the three women recounted specific parts of the races, every thought process that was going on during the race, the adrenaline, the anxiety, everything.

when lando finally found the three of them together, he hugged his mum first, and y/n smiled. she watched the sweet interaction between them, before he moved on to his sister, who joked with him but told him how proud she was.

finally, he turned to her, smiling so wide, eyes shining, and a relief in his shoulders. she pushed the flowers towards him, and said, "they're called nasturtium. for your victory, for your team's victory."

lando accepted the flowers, smiling softly as he looked at the bouquet. he took a step towards his girlfriend, wrapping his arms around her waist, as she wrapped hers around his neck. she could feel the bouquet against her back, and the two of them just seemed to just move side to side a little.

"thank you for being here," he whispered in her ear.

"where else would i be?" she whispered back.

he pressed a kiss against her neck, before he pulled back and kissed her once. just a little peck of i love you.

smiling, she slid her hand down to his heart, and said, "you did it."

he smiled, "we did it."

𐙚. ݁₊⋆❀˖°

"what are these?"

"petals,"

"i see that, lando. where are they from?"

"a petal from every flower you've gifted me this year,"

"you saved them?"

"of course."

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊

fun fact: the spain gp on 2024 was on my birthday! anyways, i feel like this got a little repetitive, but like, if kando was real, i'd buy him flowers all the time! i probably have messed up somewhere with the details, but i'm too far gone to make edits. sorry 🤷‍♀️ lemme know what you think of it! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @greantii ; @anamiad00msday ; @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @justaf1girl ; @peterholland04 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry

i'd love your support! https://ko-fi.com/kavi2305

[decembermoonskz]

so uh 📝

[bullet-prooflove]

Courting: Jack Abbot x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @flyinglama @yousigned-upforthis @gabsgabsvaz @fadeinsol

Summary: You don't realise that Jack's courting you.

Companion piece to:

Tummy Tingles - Jack feels his first flush of desire since Maria's death.

Go Your Own Way - Jack struggles with his feelings for you.

The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.

You don’t realise that Jack is courting you.

If he’s honest Jack doesn’t realise it either. He just knows that he enjoys spending his Saturdays trawling late night vintage record shops with you, flicking through the vinyls trying to find the missing ones for your collections, listening to a track through the same set of headphones. It takes a while for him to realise that maybe he’s not actually looking for that rare Bob Dylan pressing, that maybe he just likes spending time with you.

Those evenings, they usually bleed into nights, to dinner at diners and late night double features at the movie theatre just a couple of blocks from your house.

“If we keep this up and I’m gonna start thinking we’re dating.” You tease as his palm comes to rest on your lower back guiding you towards your row of seats. He laughs but that’s exactly what he thought the two of you were doing. Taking it slow, working towards something.

I’m an idiot, he thinks as he sits next to you, his gaze focused on the screen. A woman like you, so smart and fucking pretty, she wouldn’t date an asshole like him.

He feigns disinterest the next time you ask him about record shopping, there’s a few new places you want to try, you think you’ve got a lead on that missing Fleetwood Mac album you’ve chasing. It’s all too much for Jack, he’s too wounded, too heartbroken to pretend it doesn’t eviscerate him to be around you.

“I don’t think I can go.” He tells you, keeping his focus on the patient chart in front of him.

“It doesn’t have to be record shopping if you’re getting bored of that.” You say, leaning over the desk so your face is close to his. He can smell the delicate scent of your perfume, it reminds him of daffodils swaying gently in a meadow during the first throes of spring. He wants to press his face into your neck, to inhale it as his mouth ghosts over the slender column of your throat. “We can see another movie, Unforgiven is playing…”

“I said I’m busy.” He says with a ferocity that makes you flinch. He hates himself for that, for snapping at you, for making you pull away as suddenly as you do. “I don’t want to be your friend Faye. I don’t want anything from you.”

You stare at him like you’ve never seen him before, like you don’t know the man that’s standing in front of you. Your jaw clenches as you look away, nodding your head in understanding.  

“Yeah.” You say as you turn your back on him and walk away. “I’m starting to get that.”

It’s five seconds later he feels a kick to his prosthetic leg, the damn thing nearly goes out from underneath him with the force of it. He twists his head to see Myrna sitting there in her wheelchair, her expression one of extreme dismay as she stares at him.

“What the hell was that?”

“None of your damn business.” Jack snaps, placing his good foot on the front of her wheelchair and pushing her away from him.

“Sweetcheeks…” She begins but Jack shakes his head as he picks up the tablet once more to review his patient’s chart.

No.” He says firmly, scrolling through the details on the screen, blocking her out. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Love Jack? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Hay Fever.

Pairing: Yandere!Spring Spirit x Reader (OC).

Word Count: 2.1k.

TW: Obsessive Behavior, Mentions of Death, Manipulation, Purposeful Endangerment, and Implied Kidnapping.

[Winter]

You met her in the garden.

Well, in your garden, technically. You’d been tending to it all day, weeding the primrose and cutting back the daffodils, but it was hard to think of much of anything as yours when she sat among the flowers as if she’d grown them herself, when the trees spared her their shade so willingly and every stalk seemed to bend to her in reverence. Her checkered blanket was spread over the grass, no wrinkle left unsmoothed. A bottle of red wine sat near the center, but the two glasses nearby were untouched.

It struck you, first, that there was a woman in your garden. A woman you didn’t know.

It struck you, second, that there was a very beautiful woman in your garden. A very beautiful women you still, unfortunately, didn’t know.

Her expression was distant, but not apathetic, falling closer to forlorn than unfeeling. Black hair fell in tight coils to her waist, dripping over her shoulders, melding with the dark tone of her complexion. It was hard to tell if she was dressed for a picnic or a funeral, her sundress pitch-black and long enough to pool around her legs, her jewelry all emeralds and rubies and other precious stones you’d only break out for the rarest occasion. It was only when she seemed to drift out of her thoughts and look towards that you noticed the harshest juxtaposition – her eyes, their color so bright and so golden, you blinked against it on instinct, like you’d caught yourself staring at the sun.

It never occurred to you to ask her to leave. She was not one of your flowers. You hadn’t planted her. And yet, she was here, and any nagging reminder that she shouldn’t be was quickly resigned to a closed-off, muted corner of your mind, all-but snuffed out entirely by the time she opened her mouth.

“This is your garden, isn’t it?”

It was. Obviously, it was. There was still dirt on your knees from kneeling in your seedbeds, a spade in your left hand that you’d planned to uproot a spring of rosemary with. Still, you nodded frantically, like desperation alone would be enough to please her. “Y-yes. I’m sorry for the state of things. The property’s so big, and I only got here—”

“It’s lovely.” And then, with the same despondent melancholy. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

“I—” A pressure behind your eyes, a pin catching your throat. You forced a smile, and she let her head tilt to the side. “I really don’t think I should.”

Those strange eyes raked over you. After a moment, she picked up one of the two wine glasses and shook her head. “No, I suppose you shouldn’t.”

 It was like a spell had been dropped, a trance broken, a leash allowed to go lax. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you turned on your heel and retreated back in the direction of the mansion.

~

She told you her name was Bacchus. Or, she thought it might be, at least.

“Chloris rings a bell,” she said, watching from her rounded patio table as you searched for the hornworms that’d been harassing your tomato stalks, recently. “And Ostara. And Persephone. But no one’s called me much of anything in quite some time.”

You couldn’t imagine why. When you were in your garden, she always seemed to be just over your shoulder – sitting patiently and waiting for someone settle her golden gaze onto. It would’ve been impossible not to notice her, not to name her.

“I’m sorry. That must get lonely.”

“It doesn’t. The company I keep has no need for names.” She paused to take a long sip of wine. It was a white, today, not her usual red. She tended to favor richness over sweetness, but saccharine wasn’t a bad look on her. It matched the untouched bowl of strawberries sitting in her lap, too. “You’re very lonely.”

It wasn’t a question. She tended not to ask things she didn’t already know the answer to.

“I’m the only one here,” you explained, nodding back to the mansion – a sprawling, looming abstraction of wood and cement and paint. You occupied as much of it as you could, but if pressed, you’d only be able to describe a handful of its countless rooms. It was too big, too empty. If you hadn’t known it would end so poorly, you might’ve been tempted to invite her in. If only to fill that much more empty space. “I’m just taking care of it until the owners come back for the summer. The gardens honestly the only thing that needs attention, but—” You shrugged, managing an airy laugh. “A job is a job, right? It’s not like a lot of people need landscape artists, not after such a long winter.”

“Winter is a cruel and heartless tyrant. Those who attempt to rebuild after his annual rampage deserve worship equivalent to that of the divine.” It was the most you’d ever heard her say at one time, and yet her tone never changed. “The others are nearly as bad, in their own ways. Vile little parasites, the lot of them.”

Found one. Careful to avoid its barb, you plucked the caterpillar from its leaf and tossed it as far as you could into the nearest vacant plot of grass. You tried not to kill pests, when you could help it. “I wouldn’t call this ‘rebuilding’, ma’am. Like I said, it’s honestly just a job.”

“You keep using that word. Job.”

“Do you… not know what a job is?”

There was a long beat of silence.

Finally, she pursed her lips. “I believe it has something to do with receiving silver coins.”

For the first time in as long as you could remember, you laughed – genuinely, wholeheartedly laughed. Bacchus’ eyes widened, but she settled into herself quickly. Carefully, the strawberries were removed from her lap, her glass set beside them. She rose to her feet, her eyes flickering from spot to spot in front of her, as if considering where to step next. Eventually, she came to kneel next to you, her thigh nearly pressing into yours.

“Your stakes are weakly planted.” She reached out, fingers brushing gingerly against one of the wooden pikes set up by the previous gardener. “May I help you correct them?”

You couldn’t help yourself – grinning like an idiot. Of course, she wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t already know what your answer would be.

 ~

“Would you forgive me?”

Her fingers raked delicately through your hair, nails brushing against your scalp. You shifted where you laid – body stretched across the rocking bench, your head resting in her lap – to get a better look at her. “For what?”

“Burning it down.” The weight of her palm moved over the top of your head. “Making way for something new.”

You let out a deep breath. She was beautiful, even in her more homicidal moods. “If you had to, I might. I’d rather not get hurt, though.”

“A shame.” There was the hint of a smile in her tone, even if her expression held true to its usual state of downcast. “You’d make a lovely seedbed.”

Bacchus tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and you settled against her. Sleeping in the mansion’s guestroom had become impossible, the air too stagnant and the silence too stifling. That paired with the headaches you’d get whenever you spent more than a few minutes indoors made it hard to get much rest, to ease the death-dark circles under your eyes. If it wasn’t for her, you might not have been able to sleep at all.

None of it had anything to do with her, of course. She was too good for that, too kind, too nurturing. You were sure, despite everything, that she wouldn’t hurt. You were sure, and yet…

And yet.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Needles stabbing at the inside of your throat, stinging insects pricking at the branches of your lungs, your body fighting back against your mind’s betrayal. She only hummed, reaching to the side.

You watched from the corner of your eye as she took a pomegranate (Did you grow pomegranates? You had to, where else would she have gotten it?) in both hands, wrenching the fruit apart as easily as you might’ve been able to separate the segments of an orange. Violet gore and colorless pulp dripped from her fingertips, and from the mangled corpse, she took a single seed – perfect in its individuality. The rest of the pomegranate was allowed to fall to the grass. You would find it rotting the next day.

You felt her thumb press into your lips, and opened your mouth willingly. The seed slipped onto your tongue. “Close your eyes and eat. Nothing will harm you so long as I’m here.”

She didn’t have to promise anything. You were already splitting the seed between your molars, letting its bitter tinge wash over you before you stopped thinking altogether.

~

The garden was on fire.

The mansion, too. You were still trying to cough the smoke out of your lungs by the time you stumbled down the marble steps, your hazy vision impaired further by the black veil of night. Where there wasn’t darkness – inky, all-consuming darkness – there was flame, racing up the snapdragons, flitting over your azaleas. It was awful. It was everywhere. It was—

It was her fault.

You tripped over the last step, landing on your knees in the soil. On instinct, you shrunk into yourself, a hand darting to your collar to pull your shirt over your nose and mouth, but you weren’t left to your own devices for very long. Something hooked under your arms and dragged you back to your feet – not hands, but something else, something more solid. You started to turn your head, but stopped as soon as it breached your peripheral.

A man, well over six feet tall and made entirely out of gnarled, dirt-encrusted tree roots stood behind you, slowly pulling away. You snapped forward, but it didn’t do any good. You could see the dancers clearly, now.

Treading over the remains of forget-me-nots, circling the foxglove, forming tight rings around the bonfire that’d once been your prized dogwood. Stags and wolves on their hind legs, swarms of insects and piles of forest debris coaxed into more humanoid forms. In the center of it all, of course, was Baccus – sitting cross-legged on a throne that shimmered gold in the firelight, dressed only in the draped fur of some black furred, green-eyed beast. Her chin was propped on her left fist, and in her right, she clutched a half-empty bottle of wine so rich and so red, you might’ve mistaken it for blood. The sweeter variety must not have been to her tastes, after all.

She didn’t stand up when she saw you. Rather, with some vague gesture on her part, the root creature hooked an arm around yours and dragged you to the foot of her throne. You collapsed in front of her, still fighting against the smoke, the exhaustion, the shock. You should’ve expected this, you should’ve expected her, but really, how could you ever have been asked to?

She’d always been so fucking beautiful.

Bacchus leaned down to meet you, golden eyes wide and bright. “My seedling, my blossom, my dear,” she muttered, cupping your cheek. “You’ve kept me waiting.”

“The garden, I couldn’t—”

“Pay it no mind. Come next Spring, I’ll make something wonderful grows in its place.” For the first time, you watched as her lips split apart, forming the widest of grins. She brought the rim of her bottle to your lips. “Drink and be merry, love. Be with me.”

It wasn’t much of a choice. The rim was lodged between your teeth, her hand positioned under your chin to better hold you still. Wine poured down your throat, slipping past the corners of your mouth, flooding your senses with bitterness and burning. Relief only came after the final drop had been drained, and Bacchus let the bottle fall to the ground below.

She cupped your face in both hands as you gasped for breath, pressing her forehead into yours. There was no nuzzling, no caresses, no attempt at comfort – only the heat of her skin where it met yours, the bitterness on her lips as she pulled you into a sharpened, burning kiss. Despite yourself, you melted into it, shutting your eyes and going limp in her embrace.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever been able to resist beautiful things.

[sugudoe]

᭡ ★ ׁ ׅ 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐒 ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ ᝰ gojo satoru used to be a lonely child, that was until you started to be there for him — to hear his complains, to run away from the clan for a few hours, and to decorate his hair with flowers. you are his most sacred person, he is your most loved one.

ᡴꪫ a/n: bring me back my man, gege!!! this was inspired by the confirmation he would sneak away from home and this, he would’ve been a mama’s boy. @emilyywhyy. using new tag, masterlist.

ᡴꪫ c/w: child!gojo, teen!gojo \\ child!reader, teen!reader \\ fluff and angst \\ bittersweet ending, but happy. \\ gender neutral!reader \\ 1.3k words.

They say the day Gojo Satoru was born, the balance of the world shifted. Everyone would stare at him with reverence, as if he was a a saint and the gift from the gods, when in fact he was a martyr, born to suffer. For you, though, he was just a boy — just your Satoru.

You had been by his side for a long time, being born in a world where his presence was constant, just a couple months older than you. You father was an experienced teacher for the clan, and your mother their most loyal historian. Both of them had been tasked with helping Gojo to understand his powers and control it, and you, always so curious, stayed by their side. Quietly and cautious, staring at him.

White hair, blue eyes, stoic face and strange ways. Sometimes, too rude, others, too playful. Inside of him there were two personalities in constant crash, one that longed to be just a child and other that was meant to be the strongest.

He envied you for many reasons. You could play with the other children, your tasks seemed less rough than his, and… Oh, he envied how loved you were by your parents. When you would accompany him in one of his classes, arriving in your messy hair and dirty kimono for playing too much, eyes filled with happiness and your parents would beam at you, they lovely child.

Would they have sold you, had you been the strongest of your family? Or would they have fought? How much money, status and power would it take for any good person in this world to be corrupted?

Satoru didn’t want to know the answer to those questions, he likes you and your parents that way — warm hugs and sweet kisses. Never would Satoru trade places with you, for him, you were so pure to deal with what he has been going through.

You were the one to approach him first, finding him hiding between the trees that surrounded the clan’s houses, tears guarded by his hands, and he was betrayed by his trembling shoulders.

“Why are you crying?” You stepped closer very slowly, as if approaching a scared animal.

“I want to go home.” Satoru answers, making your small child mind wander what he meant. Isn’t this the Gojo’s lands? “I want my mommy.”

Oh.

Even naive as you were, you understood right away. You have seen her before, one of the most beautiful woman you have ever met. Quiet, walking around the gardens, her pale skin in contrast with the roses, but everything about her and around seems dull. Maybe it’s the lack of her child that makes her like this. No money in the world could replace it, and she was only a woman in a world controlled by men. Her wishes and demands wouldn’t be heard, never.

“Sometimes, they let us see each other.” You are putting daffodils on Satoru’s hair when he starts talking again. “She pretends she is fine, and tells me how proud she is. Her hugs are longer each time, and the meetings are less as well.”

“And how about your dad?” You ask, when he is the one decorating your hair with trembling fingers.

“He…” Satoru sighs. “He is just there. Tells me to listen to the maesters, to your father. That one day I’ll make everyone proud, and be the strongest.”

“I’m proud of you.” You feel the need to say it, so you do. And maybe, it’s what you had to do, Satoru smiles slightly, before raising to his feet and grabbing you with him. He starts to run in a direction you have never been before. “Where are we going?”

“Trust me.” You do. That moment and every moment forward, you would trust Gojo.

You both arrived in the city after an hour of walking and running, babbling about your favorites everything.

His favorite animal is a dog, but he can’t have one. His favorite food is taiyaki, but he never tasted it. And, his favorite color, he stops to think and stare at you for a while, before going with the one you think looks exactly as your eyes. You tell him yours, and that you both can fix all his curiosities, right now.

With your little purses, coins clicking inside as you run through the streets, buying whatever he needs and has never experienced before, Satoru learns that he doesn’t like taiyaki, rather he finds his favorite being Kikufuku.

Sharing a strawberry ice cream, Gojo halts his movements, and you sense something coming from him — it’s what makes him being called the stronger one, the so long awaited hero. Like gravity has gone away, and the sky is falling on top of you, ready to crush everything.

“They are watching us. Let’s go home.” Had he been alone, that wouldn’t bother him, but you were still innocent, not yet developed your technique.

So, with daffodils still in your heads, you both return home to disapproving looks and a stomach filled with sugar.

Inside the groves, a tradition was born. If the weight of the world became too much to bear, Satoru would find you there. You always knew when he needed you the most, like a calling only you could sense. It burned in your chest until you reached him, and in front of Gojo, you would pick flowers and decorate his wild hair with it, or teach him how to make flower crowns or… rings.

“I wish I could burn this whole place to the ground.” He says once, while admiring the petals on your finger, he proudly made. Anger had been his friend for a while now, when he learned he would go to Jujutsu tech. He was happy and scared, and already missing you. “Except you, of course, and your parents, and my mom and… and this woods. This is ours, right?”

“Yes, ‘Toru. This is ours.” You hold his cold face with your other hand, while smiling calmly. “It will always be ours.” Closing the gap, you rest your head on his. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“I’m not going away forever. It feels like it, but I’ll be back, every weekend, I promise. And… I could exchange to the Kyoto school.”

“No, Satoru. You need freedom.”

“I need you as well.” He counterparts. “I’ll never be free from the expectations of the world, we could, at least, be stuck together.” He is nearly crying again.

“They won’t accept me, my cursed technique is nothing too special.” You sigh, falling in the grass, and he goes behind.

“I disagree. You will see, they will come begging for you, and you will tell them to go fu…” You raise your hands to his mouth, giggling as if you were seven, and not a nearly fifteen years old girl. “I’ll make them come for you, and if they don’t, I will. I’ll always come to you, and our daffodils.”

And indeed, he does. He comes for you months later, accompanied by two other kids and round sunglasses you’ve never seen before. Gojo Satoru comes for you, to grab your hands, pack your clothes, kiss his mothers cheeks knowing that won’t ever happen again, even if he wants so much.

She tells she is proud of him, his father tell him he is nearly there. Gojo wonders what would be enough to be enough. He tries not to care, inside the car with you, hands interlocked, jokes being shared and daffodils, always them, on both your heads and fingers.

You’re proud of him, and he is nowhere near his freedom, but the responsibilities feel less strong, his sadness less real. You’re here, always will be.

﹙⠀ ᭡ ࣪˖ 🍋.⠀﹚ 20243008⠀─┈ ⭑⠀ ͏͏

[7s3ven]

ONE CUP OF COFFEE. theodore nott

( master list )

IN WHICH… Theodore Nott can’t stand the idea of actually falling in love but he finds himself questioning his choices after a series of rather comforting conversation with a Hufflepuff.

“Do you hate me so much that you can’t stand having one coffee with me?”

Warnings: Smoking, mentioning of throwing up, mentioning of weed, swearing here and there, mentioning of hooking (pretty tame for a Theodore Nott fic tbh)

—

“One coffee. Black. No milk or sugar. Make it hotter than usual.” Theodore Nott wasted no time in repeating his order to the worker behind the counter. A new coffee shop had opened inside of Hogsmeade and in the Slytherin’s opinion, their drinks were better than any muggle one.

He tossed a few golden coins onto the table before walking away and taking a seat in a deserted corner. He liked to be away from people because despite being part of a popular Slytherin group and partying often, he wasn’t a social person.

The quiet lulling of muggle songs played around in the cafe, bouncing off the walls. Theodore pulled his turtle neck up higher, covering his bare skin from the cold air. It nipped at his slim fingers and he wished he had taken a pair of Draco’s Dior gloves now.

The rusted bell attached to the door dully rang as someone else entered. The cafe wasn’t too crowded. There were a few other students scattered here and there but not many people were willing to freeze just to grab a coffee.

Melted snow dripped off Theodore’s boots as his observant eyes followed the actions of the newcomer. He couldn’t tell what house she was in because she was wearing all white, but she definitely wasn’t a Slytherin. The girls clad in green and silver had a certain aura; an unfriendly, poisonous, and addictive one.

This girl radiated off sunshine and daffodils and basking in the warmth of a crackling fire. Theodore guessed she was in Hufflepuff because she had a certain charm to her bright smile.

“One cinnamon chai latte.” She ordered, kindly handing the cashier a few coins. She was practically the opposite of Theodore.

“Name?” The cashier asked, much comfortable in her presence as opposed to the Slytherin who sat a few feet away.

“Y/N.”

Her name jogged Theodore’s memory. She was the girl Lorenzo had been paired with in herbology. It was quite a long and dragged out assignment so whenever Lorenzo wasn’t hanging out with his friends, he was with her.

Theodore subconsciously sat up straighter and leaned forward to get a better look at Y/N. Lorenzo described her as a pretty and bright girl with a warm perspective on life. Instead of saying “what’s the worst that could happen?” She always said “what’s the best that could happen?”

Theodore was somewhat impressed by how positive a person could be.

He didn’t notice he had been staring until Y/N turned her head, innocent E/C eyes burning holes into his. Theodore almost jumped. He quickly adverted his gaze, clenching his jaw.

Out of the corner of his vision, he could see Y/N sit at the table beside him. She sat with her legs oddly crossed and her body was turned so she could look at him.

“Theodore Nott, right? Enzo’s friend?” Her voice was gentle, like a meadow full of daisies and glittering ponds of water.

Theodore thickly swallowed before he nodded. “Yeah. Lo’s talked about you. You were his partner for potions.” The brunette had never heard anybody call Lorenzo by Y/N’s nickname, but maybe that was because he didn’t allow anybody to call him that. Unless it was Y/N, of course.

The poor boy was smitten with her during fifth year but he shyly backed off when he realised he had too much competition. To this day, Draco was still trying to convince him to man up.

“He talked about me?”

“Only once or twice.” Theodore lied through his teeth. He may be a tease, but he refused to out his friend.

“The assignment we did was so annoying. I’m glad I had him as my partner. If it was anybody else, I would’ve gone mad.” Y/N signed and a small laugh slipped past her pink-tinted lips.

“You practically saved his herbology grades. Lo is smart but his plant knowledge is in the negatives.” Theodore huffed in amusement, his mouth curving into a sly smirk.

“He’s good with everything else, though.” Y/N uttered. Out of the whole Slytherin group, Lorenzo, Draco, and Pansy had the highest grades. Blaise couldn’t care less; he still scored pretty high but grades weren’t his whole life. And Matteo and Theodore, the players they were, didn’t even bother studying for exams.

“Black coffee.” The barista suddenly called out, making Theodore realise he had never given the worker his name.

“That must be your’s.” Y/N said, nodding over at the steaming drink. She smiled, which almost set Theodore’s heart alight. It was already drowning in gasoline and her damn grin may as well be the flaming match. “Theo?” She waved a hand in front of his face as he spaced out.

“Huh?” Finally, his blank eyes shifted to stare at her.

“Your coffee.” Y/N reminded him.

“Oh. Right. I’ll see you later.” Theodore was quick to stand up and grab his drink, the paper cup burning the palm of his hand.

“See you later, Theo!” Y/N called out, not seeming to notice his uneasy mood.

Theodore sped walked out of the coffee shop, holding a hand to his chest. His stomach sank as dread overwhelmed him.

Him and Matteo were like two peas on a pod. They shared the same habits too, like drinking their sorrows away and smoking until their lungs burned. And let’s not forget their infamous reputations as playboys. Theodore Nott didn’t do relationships so he refused to let a soft Hufflepuff change his mind.

Despite shoving down whatever warm feeling he felt when he was next to Y/N, Theodore couldn’t help but crane his head in search for a certain flash of H/C hair.

“Black coffee. Extra hot.” He muttered absentmindedly to the same cashier who had served him a week before.

“Name?” She asked, bored eyes gazing up at him.

“Theo.” He quickly replied, turning his head again when he thought he saw Y/N. He felt disappointed when it wasn’t her. The worker seemed to notice.

“Are you looking for that Hufflepuff you were talking to last time?” She questioned, arching a thin brown eyebrow. Theodore glanced down at her name tag that read Eulia.

“No.” He quickly denied her inquiry, wrapping his long Slytherin scarf tighter around his bare neck.

“She comes in every week around this time. She’ll be here soon.” Eulia said, glancing over Theodore’s shoulder to take in the growing line. She cleared her throat, reminding Theodore of where he was.

As usual, he threw some coins onto the countertop and walked away to the same table he sat at before. His head perked up when he heard the sound of familiar laughter.

Y/N walked in, waving good-bye to her Ravenclaw friend. “The usual, Y/N?” Eulia asked, already typing her order into the monitor.

Y/N practically bounced over to Theodore, taking a seat in front of him. “Hey, long time no see. I thought I’d see you at school but I guess not.”

“I was busy.” Theodore lied. In truth, he had been hauled up in his dorm and listening to Draco rant about Pansy.

“Doing what?” Y/N innocently tilted her head to the side, genuinely curious.

Theodore, as blunt and brainless as ever, blurted out the first thing he could think of. “Weed, drugs, and smoking.” He wanted to bash his head into the table. What kind of response was that?

Yes, he used to do all those things but he had toned it down. The only addiction he had was smoking now.

“I don’t know why I said that. It was the first thing that popped up in the mind.” He admitted, scratching the back of his head.

“I’m not judging you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Y/N laughed, “By the way, your cigarettes are about to fall.” She pointed to the packet that was lazily shoved into Theodore’s pocket. He quickly caught it.

“I don’t do weed or drugs anymore.” He uttered, “Just so you know.”

From the coffee machines, Eulia rolled her eyes. “Coffee for Theo. Cinnamon chai latte for Y/N.” She called out, placing the drinks down.

Theodore quickly stood up. “I’ll get them.” He offered, not waiting for a response.

“Smooth.” Eulia said as he grabbed the drinks.

“Cut me some slack. I’m used to hooking up with toxic girls, not chatting over coffee with a sweet Hufflepuff.” Theodore lightly scoffed.

“So, Theo, what do you want to do when you graduate?” Y/N asked as soon as he sat back down again.

He shrugged. “I don’t know.” In all his years of Hogwarts, he had never thought about it. “What about you?”

“I want to open a bakery.” Y/N said like she had been waiting the question to come up.

Theodore raised his eyebrows. “You like baking?”

“Yup! I’ll bake you something next week. Do you like chocolate?”

“Who doesn’t?” Theodore only knew one person who didn’t like chocolate, and that was Pansy. But to be fair, she had gotten food poisoning from spiked chocolate in third year.

It was safe to say that she spent most of that day hunched over the toilet while Matteo held back her hair and Lorenzo gently got her to drink water, which she threw up too but it’s the thought that counts.

“Great! I have to go now. I’m meeting up with another friend. See you at school, Theo!” Y/N effortlessly chugged her scorching hot drink. She slammed the cup against the table, grinning.

“What the…” Theodore was still trying to process what had just happened as he watched Y/N run out of the cafe and into the arms of her friend

The next week, Y/N arrived earlier than Theodore. He had been held up by Blaise, who was curious as to why he was visiting the same coffee shop three times in a row.

Theodore entered the store after managing to shake Blaise off. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shivering despite the atmosphere being warm.

Eulia, who seemed to be on duty every day, had already made his drink and placed it in front of Y/N. She was too busy doodling on his cup with a permanent marker to notice his sudden appearance.

“Cute outfit.” He said as he sat down, the legs of his chair scraping against the tilted floor. Y/N’s face visibly lit up at his small compliment. Theodore observed her pink sweater with little bows sewn on it and her short white skirt with fleece leggings lining her legs.

“As promised, your cookie.” Y/N slid the box over to Theodore, smiling. “I would recommend heating it up. A warm cookie is better than a cold and hard one.”

“Do you bake often?” Theodore asked, taking the box and letting it rest on his lap.

“I try to bake as much as I can. I like helping the house elves too.” Y/N began to fondly talk about her love for baking and as much as Theodore tried to focus on her words, his gaze wandered to a suspicious group huddled in the opposite corner.

Once Theodore looked past their dark sunglasses and large coats, he recognised them as his friends. He saw Draco shove past Pansy and he surely pointed at Y/N then at Theodore before slapped his hands together.

Theodore stared at him, puzzled. And it showed as he furrowed his eyebrows and frowned. Y/N didn’t seem to notice his wavering attention, much to his relief.

“Do you want to bake together sometime, Theo?” Y/N asked, bringing him back to their conversation. He felt a little guilty because he hadn’t heard another word of what she had said.

“Sure. Though, I don’t think I’d be much help. Matt and I tried making edibles once and we messed that shit up.”

From behind Draco, Matteo glared at Theodore. It was your fault, he mouthed. He wasn’t lying, Theodore had gotten just about every ingredient in the recipe wrong.

“Edibles?” Y/N tilted her head to the side.

“Weed brownies.” Theodore elaborated, “But that was last year. I don’t do that anymore, remember? I only party and smoke.”

“I know. You told me.” Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. Y/N’s gaze flickered to his packed of cigarettes that always looked like it was about to fall out.

“Would you like to come to a party with me?” Theodore asked, leaning forward. There was one in the Slytherin common room next week. Normally, people from other houses weren’t invited but if you had the right connections, you’d be let in.

“Parties aren’t my thing. I… don’t like the vibe. You know?”

“That’s fine. You ever tried smoking?”

“No. Cedric offered to teach me but I declined.” Y/N frowned at the lost opportunity.

“I’ll teach you.” Theodore said a little too quickly. He cleared his throat. “I mean, you keeping me company wouldn’t be so bad.” He grabbed his packet, sliding it across the table. “These are my good ones. Keep ‘em and whenever you’re having a bad day or just wanna have a smoke, find me. I’ll light one for you.”

From across the room, Matteo lightly gasped. Theodore never ever shared his good cigarettes with anyone, not even him.

“Really?” Y/N picked up the worn-out box, staring at it.

“Yeah. I gotta get going. My friends are probably wondering where I am.” Theodore, once again, lied through his teeth. He knew his friends had questions and he didn’t want to keep them waiting. He stood up, feeling Pansy’s gaze burn a hole through him.

“Enjoy the cookie!” Y/N exclaimed, grinning and waving him off.

Theodore smiled. “I’m sure I will, love.” He walked out of the cafe, his friends following close behind and bombarding him just like he had predicted.

“You clearly have some sort of feelings towards her.” Panay said as she poked the brunette beside him. All throughout breakfast, Panay had been trying to get Theodore to admit his growing affection for Y/N. He denied it every time.

“I don’t.” He said for the third time, leaning down to stuff some bacon into his mouth. As he quickly chewed, his gaze flickered to Y/N.

“You’re looking at her again!” Pansy exclaimed, huffing. “It’s so obvious you like her!”

“Where’s Lo and Draco?” Theodore changed the subject, realising the two boys were missing.

“You can’t change the topic. You like her and you know it.” Unfortunately for Theodore, Pansy was persistent. Maybe a little too much.

“Theo likes who?” Lorenzo tilted his head to the side in curiosity. The whole group, even Blaise who laughed at awkward situations, froze.

Nobody responded for a moment before Blaise put down his fork. “Y/N. He likes Y/N L/N.” Theodore glared at the boy, wondering why on hell he’d even tell Lorenzo the truth.

“… Oh.” Lorenzo didn’t say much as he sat down, glancing over at Y/N. “You’re not going to break her heart, right?”

“I don’t like her. End of conversation.” Theodore groaned, taking a huge gulp from his goblet.

“I don’t believe you.” Lorenzo uttered, pointing his fork at Theodore’s eyes, “Your eyes say it all. You keep looking at her every minute and when you do, your eyes soften.”

Pansy snickered, nudging Theodore. “Told you.”

“If you don’t like her, then you wouldn’t mind if someone else asked her out, would you?” Matteo piped up.

“You aren’t her type.” Theodore immediately replied, scoffing.

“We’re practically the same, Theo. If I’m not her type then you aren’t. She’s pretty and all but I don’t date. That guy, on the other hand, seems like he does.” Matteo pointed over to a Ravenclaw boy approaching Y/N. The whole Slytherin group watched as he nervously asked her something and when she slowly nodded, his face lit up.

Theodore clenched his hands into fists. “Did he just ask her out?” He seethed, clenching his jaw.

“You don’t like her, remember? You shouldn’t care.” As usual, Matteo had that same infuriating smirk on his face. “Anyway, what are we doing for the party tonight?”

Theodore had forgotten all about it. He faintly remembered Y/N saying parties weren’t her thing. Did she like guys who didn’t party? That Ravenclaw boy looked like he didn’t. Is that why she said yes?

“I’m not doing. Not really my thing.” He uttered, shrugging. His friends looked at him in disbelief.

“Not your thing?” Matteo stammered, “Mate, the only thing you do is party! What’s gotten into you?!”

“He’s trying to turn into Y/N’s ideal type.” Pansy snickered, “He knows he isn’t the blueprint and he can’t see her with anyone else so he’s improving himself.”

“Respect, bro. But what about Izzi?” Matteo motioned to the Slytherin girl down a few rows who was Theodore’s favourite hookup.

“I don’t care about her.”

“What about the drinks?”

“I need to cut my alcohol intake.”

“Smoking? You can’t give up smoking! You’re addicted!”

“Y/N has my cigs. When she wants to learn, I’ll teach her.”

“And if she never wants to learn?”

“Then I won’t pester her. Not smoking for a while might do me some good.” Theodore on the brink of giving up smoking for some girl was a huge deal.

Matteo leaned over to Draco, “Is he sick?”

Pansy lightly snorted and she teasingly grinned, “If you mean lovesick, then yeah.”

To be honest, Theodore didn’t even know what he was doing. His head tried to convince him to return to the common room and drink like he usually did, but his heart said no.

That’s how he ended up in the courtyard, enjoying the fresh breeze.

“Theo?” An all too familiar voice called out. He practically spun around, facing Y/N. “I thought you’d be at your party.” She stared at him, confused.

“I’m taking a break from all that.” He said. Y/N silently sat beside him on the stone bench.

“I still have your cigarettes if you want them.” Y/N said, handing the packet over. “I thought about it and I don’t think I want to smoke just yet.”

“Thanks, love.” Theodore took the box, shoving it into his pocket without hesitation. Normally, he’d take one out and light it up but tonight was different.

“So, that Ravenclaw boy.” Theodore drawled. “He asked you out, huh?”

“Hm? Oh, Rowan? Yeah. I only said yes to be nice though because he helped me with some work last year.”

“You’re too kind, love. You need to know your boundaries.”

Y/N’s cheeks heated up at the sound of his endearing nickname. “I can’t say no now. It’ll just be one date then I’ll say it didn’t work out.”

“What if he wants a second date? What will you do?” Theodore moved closer to Y/N so he could feel the warmth radiating off her body. His heart jumped at their close proximity.

“Then I’ll tell him I don’t want one.” Y/N whispered, staring up at Theodore with those gentle eyes he liked so much.

“I liked your cookie, by the way.” Theodore slowly smiled, “It was good.”

“I’ll bake you a few more next time.” Y/N beamed. “I’m trying a new recipe for a brownie so I’ll give you one too!” Theodore smiled as she jumped into another rant about baking. This time, he could actually listen without being pestered by his friends.

Theodore, as usual, walked into the cafe around the same time he usually did. Eulia spotted him and subtly waved. “Has Y/N come in yet?” He asked.

Eulia hesitated before she pointed over at Y/N and Rowan. Theodore visibly deflated. He knew Y/N was only being nice to the Ravenclaw but he still felt a twinge of sadness.

“I’m sorry, Theo. If it makes you feel better, she hasn’t looked like she’s enjoyed the date. She looks much happier talking to you.” Eulia handed him his coffee.

“Right.” He sat down at a nearby table, glancing over at Y/N every so often. The slight pang in his heart reminded him of why he never dated in the first place. He quietly cleared his throat, deciding that whatever butterflies he felt for Y/N had to be drowned.

He stood up and Y/N immediately caught his gaze. She smiled and waved when Rowan wasn’t looking, but Theodore ignored her. Slowly, she lowered her hand.

As Rowan ranted on about how Ravenclaw was the best house, Y/N couldn’t help but think of what she had done to possibly anger Theodore. So much that he ignored her when he usually enjoyed her small smiles and secretive waves. She blocked out Rowan’s voice, frowning. He couldn’t grab her attention like Theodore could.

If only she knew that Theodore was simply trying not to fall in love.

Theodore avoided her for the rest of the week. Whenever she tried to approach him, he’d walk away. Even his friends were puzzled. After another failed attempt of trying to talk to Theodore, Pansy placed a hand on her shoulder.

“We’ll talk to him.” She said.

“I don’t know what I did wrong. He’s been acting so moody all of a sudden.” Y/N sighed and pouted.

“Maybe he’s on his period.” Matteo snickered at his own joke but immediately stopped when nobody else laughed with him. “I mean, Theo hasn’t had a good drink, fuck, or smoke since Monday. And all he did on that day was smoke for five minutes before he got caught.”

“I thought he liked doing all those things. Why’d he stop if it’s just going to make him grumpy?” Y/N murmured, playing with the hem of her blouse. Matteo and Pansy exchanged a glance, knowing they shouldn’t expose Theodore so early.

“He’s just being unreasonable. Don’t worry, we’ll get through to him.” Matteo grinned, his eyes flickered to the box in Y/N’s hands. “More cookies for him?”

She nodded. “Could you give this to him? It might make him feel better.” Matteo lowly hummed, taking the box. He and Pansy walked off after Theodore, muttering to each other about what could possibly be wrong with their friend.

“Theo.” Matteo called out as they entered the Slytherin Chamber. They found him sprawled out on the couch, a burning cigarette in his mouth. “Y/N made you cookies.”

Theodore looked at the box in Matteo’s outstretched arms. “I don’t want ‘em.” He said with a lazy flick of his hands.

“But you said you love her cookies. Jeez, dude, what’s gotten into you?” Matteo scoffed as he grabbed one, shoving it into his mouth. “If a girl made me cookies like these, I’d fall in love.”

“That’s the problem!” Theodore exclaimed loudly. “I’m Theodore Nott, Hogwarts resident fuck boy. I don’t do relationships! But Y/N- Y/N is making me feel things I shouldn’t!” He groaned, pulling at the ends of his hair.

“That’s the problem?” Pansy huffed, taking a seat beside him. “Theo, look at yourself. You haven’t partied in ages, you haven’t drank, you haven’t had sex with any other girl since last month. And you haven’t been smoking up until now! If you’re willing to stop all that shit for Y/N then you obviously like her!”

“What if I’m just concealing it, huh? What if I haven’t changed and if I date Y/N, then I hurt her? I don’t care about any other girl’s feelings but Y/N, fuck. I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Figure your feelings out then decide what you want to do. Easy peasy.” Matteo shrugged, eating another cookie. Theodore clicked his tongue, snatching the box out of his hands.

“It better be easy or I’m going to smoke all your favourite cigs, Matt.”

Matteo was lying. It was not easy to figure out how he felt towards Y/N. Every time he got close to her, he changed his mind last minute and rushed off. It earned him some weird looks but he couldn’t care less.

“Have you even slept lately?” Matteo questioned, slamming a cup of coffee in front of Theodore. He groaned.

“Do I look like I’ve slept?” He muttered, glowing at Matteo.

���Like a baby.” His friend teased, cruelly laughing. Lorenzo glanced over Theodore’s shoulder, clearing his throat.

“Y/N’s coming this way.” He whispered, kicking Theodore.

“What?” He looked around, panicked. Y/N was indeed walking towards him. He grabbed his coffee, splashing it onto Matteo’s wrinkled blouse.

“Yo! What the fuck, dude? That’s hot!” Matteo seethed, resisting the urge to peel his wet shirt off. Some girls hoped he would.

“Sorry, Matt. It was an accident. I’ll help you clean up.” Theodore tried to play his stunt off as an accident while practically dragging Matteo out of the hall.

“Okay, seriously, what was that all about?”

“I needed an excuse to get away.”

“So you spilled hot coffee on me?!”

“I would’ve let you do the same.” Theodore glared at his friend as he sat down and slumped. “She’s everywhere. How is she so social? I can’t get away from her.” He ran a hand through his messy hair.

“Have you been running away from Y/N this whole time?” Matteo questioned, arching an eyebrow. “It’s hilarious to imagine you running away from a girl.”

“Shut up. I’m processing things.” Theodore sighed.

“Just talk to her, Theo.” Matteo lightly nudged his leg, “What else can you lose? You’ve already lost your dignity.”

It had been a few weeks since Theodore had returned to the coffee shop. But finally, he strutted through the doorway with his usual uncaring demeanour.

Someone else entered as Theodore stood in the middle of the room, taking in everything he had missed about this cafe.

“Theo?” Y/N asked, peering over his shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in a while.” He stiffened and slowly turned around. “Are you having a coffee?”

“I’ve already had one, actually. I was just seeing if this place had changed.” Theodore wanted to walk away but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Y/N’s eyes.

“Well, there’s no harm in having another one, right? It’s on me.” Y/N smiled at Eulia, “One cinnamon chai latte and…” She thought for a moment, glancing over at Theodore, “You’ve already had a coffee so one cream latte as well!”

Y/N paid and brushed past Theodore.

“Kiss her.” Eulia hissed, harshly poking Theodore’s shoulder.

“I’m not kissing her.” Theodore replied back in a hushed whisper.

“Theo, you coming?” Y/N called out, looking over her shoulder.

There was barely anybody in the cafe and even if there was, Eulia would’ve ignored their drinks to make Y/N and Theodore’s.

Theodore reached out to grab his but Y/N was quicker. She grasped both drinks, smiling at him. “We don’t have to be back at school for a while so let’s sit here.”

Theodore nervously followed behind Y/N to their usual table. He sat down, rigid and stiff. He saw his cup and glared at Eulia, who laughed. She had written a message on the cardboard, kiss her, and Theodore was quick to cover it.

He looked out the window, almost jumping with joy when he saw Matteo. “Oh! Matt! I need to talk to him! Sorry, Y/N. I’ll see you later!” He ran out of the cafe, crashing into his friend.

“Matteo! Quick! Do something!” Theodore shook his friend, urging him to create a distraction.

“Is this about Y/N?” He asked.

“She’s in the coffee shop- don’t look!” Theodore shoved his friend.

“And you need me to something stupid?”

Theodore eagerly nodded but was unprepared when Matteo pushed him forward and down a snowy hill. “Theo! Sorry! My hand slipped! I’m coming!” Matteo yelled out in a fake worried voice as Theodore rolled and got a mouthful of snow.

Y/N watched their strange interaction as she sipped on her drink. “… He didn’t call me love like he usually does.”

Y/N hummed to herself as she slipped on a pair of mittens and took out a tray of cookies. She placed the hot metal tray on the counter, the smell of baked goods wafting through the air.

She poured herself a cup of light coffee and sat down, swinging her legs. She lifted her head when she heard the sound of quiet swearing and smelled the scent of cigarettes and cologne.

“Theo?” She asked, tilting her head to the side. It was silent for a moment before the boy sheepishly pushed the kitchen doors open.

“I was looking for a snack for Pansy. She’s not feeling well.” He looked around, staring at everything but Y/N.

“I would offer her a cookie but she doesn’t really like chocolate, does she?” Y/N circled her finger around the rim of her cup, “Would you like some coffee? I made it myself.”

Theodore found himself sitting across from her against his will. He watched as she poured him a cup, softly smiling.

“Thanks.” He stammered, grabbing the white mug and gulping it down.

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Careful! Isn’t it hot?”

Theodore slammed the cup down, ignoring the burning sensation on his tongue. “No.” He wheezed, his vocal cords threatening to give up on him, “I’m fine. Tastes great.”

“You’ve spilled some.” Y/N said. She leaned forward, pointing at his collar. His top two buttons were undone and hot coffee trickled down his skin. “That must hurt. Here, let me help.”

Y/N dabbed a tissue against Theodore’s collar and he flinched as her fingers came in contact with his exposed skin. She noticed, peeking up at him through her lashes.

“Do you hate me so much that you can’t stand having one coffee with me?” She asked, taking a small step back.

“What?” Theodore choked. He didn’t hate her, quite the opposite to be honest.

“You keep running away from me. And you left me in the cafe the other day. And you didn’t wave back. Do you hate me?”

Theodore hated how he could see her E/C eyes glass over. He fiddled with his mug, tapping his nails against the porcelain.

“I… have to go. Pansy needs me.” He stood up, leaving without another word. He was doing what he did best; running away from his problems.

With Theodore out of the picture, Y/N felt lonely. She dug around in her pocket, confused when she fished out a cigarette. “Oh… it must’ve fallen out.” She murmured.

She was on her way to the cafe, but not to meet up with Theodore. The day after he had walked out on her, again, a Gryffindor had approached her and asked her out. She said yes in hopes this date would be better than her date with Rowan.

Spoiler alert, it wasn’t. In fact, she felt like it was worse. Y/N stared at her cup as the boy beside her talked on and on about his love for quidditch.

“What’s your hobby?” He suddenly asked.

“Baking.” Y/N answered absentmindedly.

“Oh, that’s kind of boring. Quidditch is better, don’t you think?”

Y/N resisted the urge to sigh. Theodore never insulted her love for baking.

“Do you do anything else?” The boy questioned.

“I study.”

“Jeez, you really are boring. You wanna come to a party with me? I know a guy who’ll hook us up with some coke.”

“No thanks.” Y/N rested her cheek in the palm of her hand, watching the clock closely so she could dart away as soon as the date was over.

Someone suddenly pulled up a chair in front of Y/N. “Coke is boring.” Theodore uttered, “Baking is better.”

Y/N tried to conceal her smile since she was still upset with him, but when he winked at her, she couldn’t help it.

“What are you doing here, Nott?” The Gryffindor sneered.

“I’m here to thank you for keeping my girl company.” Theodore grinned, showing off his pearly white teeth. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.” He grabbed Y/N by the wrist, tugging her out of the cafe.

“Why do you choose the shittiest guys to go out with?” Theodore asked.

Y/N lightly huffed. “It’s not like I mean to. At least they don’t walk away from me when I’m trying to talk, though.”

“You still upset with me, love?”

“You hurt my feelings, Nott.” Y/N pulled out the lone cigarette, shoving it into Theodore’s hand, before hurrying off.

He quickly placed it between his lips and lit it. “Let me explain, love!” He exclaimed, chasing after her. He breathed out a mouthful of smoke.

“Okay. Then explain.” Y/N folded her arms over her chest.

“What? Here? Now?” When Theodore saw the unamused look on Y/N’s face, he sighed. “Fine, but this is going to sound stupid.” He took another hit from his cigarette, needing all the courage he could get.

He took a deep breath. “I think you’re wonderful person and I didn’t want to risk hurting you so I tried to distance myself but that backfired and I was trying to process my feelings because I’m Theodore Nott. I don’t do relationships. But you made me want to give it a go so I got scared and that made me do stupid shit like spilling coffee on Matt or running away or allowing Matt to push me down a hill.”

Y/N furrowed her brows. “What are you trying to say?”

“I like you, Y/N! I like the way you smile and the way your eyes light up and I like how you look and me and how fond you are of baking! I like how you take the time to make me cookies because it makes me feel special! You treat me so differently from other girls and that’s how I know you aren’t just around for a hook up! I like your perfume and your hair and your outfits and the way you skip when you’re happy and how you read classic Muggle books because you want a cute teen romance!”

“You noticed all of that… about me?”

“How could I not? You have such a charming aura and I can’t stand it because no matter how much I try to deny it, I like you.”

“You really like me?” Y/N knew about Theodore’s reputation and she’d be lying if she didn’t feel the same way. But what if he was just toying with her?

“I do.”

“Okay then. Hug me!” Y/N exclaimed, confident he was joking. Theodore shrugged before embracing her tightly. “Uh… hold my hand!” He intertwined their fingers without hesitation. “Kiss me!” Y/N was sure he wouldn’t do it but when he leaned down and pecked her lips, she froze.

“Are you done? There’s a lot more things I’d do for you, Y/N.”

“Are you sure you like me? Like, really? Because what if we get married and you decide you don’t like me but we already have two kids and a cat together? Who will keep the cat? Or will we have shared custody over it?” Y/N spoke so fast Theodore could hardly understand her.

“What about the children?” He asked, tilting his head to the side.

“What about the cat, Theo?”

“I really do like you, Y/N. Believe it or not. I’m willing to give dating a try… if it makes I can date you.”

“Please don’t break my heart, Theo.”

“I won’t.”

“Can we finally drink coffee together without you running off?” Y/N questioned, which earned her a small chuckle from Theodore.

“I won’t run away this time, love. I promise.”

[dreaming-tonite]

The Necessity of Old-School Dating

— A relationship should start with flowers and a proper confession.

A/N: I just finished x-men 97 and my crush on Kurt when I was like 15 came back in full force. Like, you cannot tell me this man would not go to lengths trying to charm you.

Pairing: Kurt Wagner x reader

Warning: (1) German pet name in the feminine form that hopefully will not ruin this for any German speakers

Word count: ~1.5k

When Kurt Wagner was in love with you, the entire world would know.

He had a lot of love to give, knocking people off their feet (quite literally) when he made his sudden appearances and tackled his friends with full-body hugs. But with you, he was always more careful. While he made no hesitation in finding his way to you in a puff of purple smoke the second he saw you, he always landed just a step away from you.

He grinned ear to ear, glowing eyes curled into thin moons just at the sight of you. His body leaned towards you slightly, aching to be close to you but restraining himself until you reached out for him first. The heat radiating off his body tempted you to close your eyes and allow your mind to sink into his embrace when he immediately pulled you in after getting the go-ahead.

“It is good to see you.” His voice was soft in your ear, the vibrations from his chest seeping into your skin.

He made sure to tell you that every time, even though he must be aware that you already knew how often he told you that. But to him, it was important that you hear it from him.

Kurt never pulls away until you do and the lingering of his touch on your back when he does always leaves your skin tingling.

A true gentleman but with a trickster’s spirit nonetheless. Your back bumped into his anticipating tail, respectfully curved around your form. You gasped when it presented you with a bunch of flowers that he seemingly pulled out of nowhere, the end of his tail holding at the stems.

“Oh, you really shouldn’t have,” you sheepishly said, “today is not even anything special!”

“I like that they make you happy,” he mused, his gaze so soft that it made your face burn, “is that not enough of a reason?”

“They make me very happy,” you smiled and took the bouquet, his tail gently recoiling from behind you to sit neatly against its owner. You pressed the flowers against your chest, the faint scent of petals tucking at your senses, “Thank you, Kurt.”

You did not remember a moment when your room was void of flowers since the very first time he ever gave you any (in fact, you did not even have a vase before that and now it was reserved specifically for flowers he brought you). Some days it was a properly wrapped bouquet, some times it seemed he just saw a daisy on his way and plucked it when he thought of you.

It was a fluttering feeling to be treated special, to have someone show you that you were always on their mind. As much as it was a sweet gesture, it sure was a smart one too. Flowers sitting at the corner of your room reminded you of him whenever your gaze flickered towards them, and it brought a smile to your face whether you intended to or not.

("That brother of mine sure got you smitten for him, doesn't he?"

The sugar-sweet voice broke you out of your trance and you subconsciously stopped toying with the daffodil you had been twirling between your fingers. "I have no idea what you are talking about," you quipped, avoiding Anna-Marie's amused stare.

"Why, is that so?" she crossed her arms in front of her chest in fake thoughtfulness before it broke into a smirk, "Then care to explain what is so special about some little flower that it got you smiling like a fool?"

Your eyes went wide, the smile on your face that you weren't even aware was there dropping in an instant as the realisation hit you in full force.

"Sugar," she said, a loop-sided grin tucked at the corner of her lips, "I know the look of someone in love when I see one.")

They said that if their heart was in the right place then you would never doubt, and he made sure that his intentions were clear from the very moment you caught his eye.

He remembered things you said in passing, asked you to go out for dinners and subtly took note of items your eyes lingered on when you passed by store windows even before there was a proper label to your connection.

Kurt always managed to find excuses to take the long route when he walked with you back to the school. Sure, he could, and usually would, skip the unnecessary process of walking. But the minutes that were saved would be a waste of precious time he could spend with you.

The world was quiet and all was good in these rare moments when you were alone, talking about nothing and everything and all that fell between. He fell a little bit more in love every time you laughed as if his heart was not already threatening to burst out of his chest. He preened in moments like this, standing a little taller and a little closer to you until your shoulders nearly bumped with each slow stride.

And if the knuckle of your fingers happened to brush against his, then he would allow himself to be a bit bold under the disguise of the starry sky to hold your hand.

Kurt was a true believer in the importance of proper courting, putting in the effort and letting the effort be felt. But as much as he enjoyed the tip-toeing and the words that were left unsaid, there came moments when the passion was too much to bear.

It was a night much like any other. You had thought that things were going well, there was laughter and he was being his usual charming self until the two of you started heading back. Under the silver moonlight, he was... quiet. Your gaze flickered towards him in concern but seemingly, he was too deep in his thoughts to notice.

So instead of speaking, you reached for his hand and his walls came crumbling down.

"I wanted to take things slow so that you could consider if my affections, my— my love is worthy for you." He blurted out, accent thicker than usual in a moment of vulnerability. "But recently, I have been plagued by my own selfishness, that the more you have allowed me in your life, the more I crave to have you all to myself."

"Ah, entschuldige, I am rambling," he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling and guiding your hand so that he faced you properly. You reached out to hold his face and he leaned into the touch, sighing in content at the contact and all the more certain that close could never be close enough when it came to you.

"I like to think that any relationship, any romance, should start with flowers and a proper confession, and you deserve nothing less." he paused, his hand reaching up to hold yours firmly. "My heart is in your hands, mein liebe."

Time stopped, and all was still.

The thudding of your heart was the only thing in your ear as he waited for your answer with bated breath.

The first touch was so light he could barely feel it. Your body reacted before your mind could keep up and at the first brush of your cupid's bow against his lips, perhaps the bravest thing you had ever done even though you had been on literal battlefields, your reason immediately got ahold of the better of you. But before you could start to pull away, doubt and logic melted into a puddle when he crashed into you, strong arms holding you firmly as he returned the kiss with one much deeper than the one before.

He kissed you again, and again, getting light-headed when you pressed your palm flat against his chest and kissed him back every single time.

You gasped when you suddenly felt the ground disappearing from under your feet, purple smoke blurring your vision and your feet stumbling when gravity weighted you down once more. Kurt didn't seem to notice it at all, too drunk in having your body flushed against his.

Bamf, bamf, bamf. You nearly stumbled when you landed one last time, his hand finding its way to hold you by the small of your back before you could fall.

He was out of breath and if you could see under the blue fur of his cheeks you were sure he must be blushing like mad. Still heaving, he pressed his forehead against yours.

"Forgive me, I lost control of myself," he closed his eyes, the tip of his nose touching yours, "you have no idea how happy you make me."

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you decided that a proper confession deserved a proper answer.

"I love you," you said, "it would be a blessing to call you mine."

He chuckled before leaning in once more, this time soft and tender.

"And me, yours."

[fatliberation]

Freddie Mercury was bisexual though

Nope, this is false! 🏳️‍🌈 Freddie was gay, there’s a lot of misinformation out there about his non-existent affairs with women, and much of it can be chalked up to a shit biographer named Lesley Ann Jones (aka my arch nemesis).

I've been deeply fascinated by Freddie Mercury and studying his personal life for years and years so excuse the following infodump (or jump in for a queer history lesson!)

Contrary to popular belief, Freddie was an out gay man. “Gay as a daffodil, my dear!” He’s clearly stated his sexuality in a handful of interviews; “I’ve done all that but I’m gay. Mary was my last woman.” (This interview was removed from youtube but you can find it mentioned in Freddie Mercury: A Life, in His Own Words which is a compilation of his actual quotes from interviews over the years.) Those statements got buried from the media in favor of promoting his more promiscuous quotes like "Darling, I'm doing everything with everybody." (Journalists LOVE to include this quote when talking about his AIDS...) He did purposely retain an aura of mystique around his sexuality, especially because it was much safer (trendy, even) for musicians to flirt with bisexuality than to be openly homosexual back then.

Here's a quote from Peter "Phoebe" Freestone, Freddie's personal assistant of twelve years, close friend, and "agony aunt" in his memoir, Freddie Mercury: An Intimate Memoir by the Man Who Knew Him Best:

"When the interview appeared, it was half the length that he imagined it would be. When confronted, Judy Wade said that it would have been impossible to have printed the whole text. She said she was holding back for his benefit, not for hers. Admissions such as, ‘I'm just going for a line and I'll be back in half-a-minute,’ would not have done anyone any good. However, she was fully prepared to underline in her second sentence that admission of being a fully 'out' gay man, although this does not lay the later myth which was popular which claimed that Freddie had never admitted his gayness."

Freddie's close friend Thor Arnold, a gay man and member of the "New York Daughters" (Freddie's gay friend group in NYC, of course Freddie was "mother!") corrected misinformation when fans on the Queenzone forum argued that Freddie was bi:

"Freddie NEVER tried to hide to his friends that he was TOTALLY gay. In his industry, he had to hide it to some extent although as I have said before, he certainly gave clues. This is the same man who came up with the name QUEEN for his band. This is the man who dressed very sexually, ambiguously 'glam' up until 1980. This is the man who threw an Easter bonnet party and had us all create Easter hats. This is the man who used the term darling (or Dahling) more than he used proper names, and renamed his friends with old actresses names (…) I've never seen Freddie look twice at a woman but I have seen him look 3 or 4 times at an attractive man and say, 'Thor, Thor... Oh just look at him... Just gorgeous. I'd love some of THAT' We were genuine friends of Freddie and he would never hide that he was really bi. FREDDIE WAS A GAY MAN through and through...everyone...please get used to it."

LAJ, the biographer I previously mentioned, worked VERY hard to straight-wash Freddie in her book by erasing his gay relationships. She was obsessed with his relationship with Mary Austin and is the main reason modern journalists consider Freddie to have been in profound, romantic love with her his whole life. In reality, they dated for a few years in the 70s and remained close friends after they split up (because Freddie was having affairs with his boyfriend). However, he did rely on her as his "beard" to keep up with appearances for the press.

LAJ completely skipped over Freddie's first official boyfriend, saying it was "a covert fling with a young theatre." His name was David Minns. Freddie loved him so much he left Mary to be with him. They were in a serious relationship for three years.

If you're a Freddie fan, you're familiar with Mary's story of him coming out to her, saying "I think I'm bisexual," and her response, "I think you're gay." This story is probably not the truth. Mary has been very inconsistent with her story of how Freddie came out to her.

Another version she told for BBC Radio:

"I don’t know what sparked the conversation. But I remember standing in the kitchen and he was trying desperately to articulate how he was feeling, and his lifestyle and I just said, 'so you are telling me you're gay?' And he just smiled and 'we'll take it as a yes, you know, we'll leave it at that.' And that was it, it has been a long road getting to that point."

Honestly, I am a bit mistrustful of Mary Austin's intentions in general. If you're curious as to why, this post is a good primer on the ways she might have betrayed Freddie's wishes, namely being cruel to his chosen family after his passing.

Freddie only had one other girlfriend before Mary in college, Rosemary Pearson. When asked about Freddie on ITV's This Morning show, she said that he was more interested in her male friends than in her, and she suspected then that he was gay. This was in the 60s.

LAJ refers to his relationships with women throughout her book, but she doesn't list any names. That's because they don't exist. I could name at least seven of Freddie's boyfriends off of the top of my head. Minnsy. Joe Fanelli. Tony Bastin. Vince the Barman. Bill Reid. Winnie Kirchberger. And of course, his husband Jim Hutton, whom he spent the last six years of his life with.

There is one name that LAJ has chosen to platform and exaggerate her importance, and that's German pornstar Barbara Valentin. If you've heard of her, you might think she had a relationship with Freddie in the 80s, you might have heard the story where he had wild threesomes with her, that they lived together, that he even proposed to her. Not one word of it is true. Freddie hung around Barbara during his time in Munich because she was his 'in' to gay clubs and cocaine dealers. She also served as his English translator and conveniently, another beard for the press.

Not a single person in Freddie’s life has ever corroborated that Freddie and Barbara were anything but friends. As for the claim they lived together, according to Peter Freestone:

“In the event, Freddie never actually lived there although Barbara fulfilled a huge role in Freddie’s life at that time… Freddie became very disillusioned when with more and more frequency articles were appearing in the German press’s gossip columns… about the relationship between him and Barbara… After one article claiming to have knowledge of him and Barbara getting married, Freddie concluded that it could only be Barbara who was providing the information.”

(He was actually living with his Bavarian boyfriend of the time, Winnie Kirchberger.) Freddie stopped seeing Barbara after he found out she was gossiping about being his lover and these stories started appearing in the newspapers. Barbara continued these lies after Freddie's death, making up ludicrous lies like how Freddie tried to kill her by smothering her with a pillow?? She also claimed that he put her at risk of contracting AIDS by having sex with her after his diagnosis in 1987, which is the lie that burns the most. Freddie stopped having sex altogether before his diagnosis because he was terrified of contracting it. Before there was any information of how it was transferred, he showered compulsively. There is such a fucked up narrative that Freddie threw caution to the wind and wasn't careful during the epidemic, that it somehow fits this twisted narrative that his death was a result of his immoral lifestyle. That's the pervasive homophobia that stained the Bohemian Rhapsody biopic.

LAJ is one of those biographers who publishes their books after the celebrity has died, so they wouldn’t be able to deny the information being written in the book. So if there's anything to learn here, is that you can't always trust a biography!

Anyway, Freddie was gay as a daffodil my dears, and he deserved better.

[halfbloodfics]

Hi! Yeah, so I desperately need a Pillow Fucking Snape who's needy for his Y/N as your sub!Snape headcannon made him 🥹👏 Skipping all the pleasantries here 'cus holy moly you got me with those headcannons and since you sent me here from the comments I went straight in for the request 👀❤️

A/N: {i have been wanting to write this, a sinfully long time. he's so sub its actually tragic. this is REALLY long im so sorry, but i really wanted to make it a sweet, long buildup of how much Sev really wants this woman :') Sev is literally like a feral cat experiencing love for the first time in this lmao}

title: let me get what i want

18+ minors dni

rating/tw: explicit, smut, brief mention of suicidal thoughts in very beginning

tags: solo smut, solo snape, sub!snape, snape centric pov, masterbation, insecurity, guilt, shame, kinda angsty, snape is touch starved, female professor reader

song: please, please, please let me get what i want by the smiths

MASTERLIST

~

Severus was a man not known for his indulgences. Everyone knew that. He knew that.

Gratification was a luxury he could never afford.

Growing up poor, Severus learned quick that what you desire is often not what you get. He had desired a lot of things before, certainly. To say he hadn't would be nothing but a lie. In the nights in his bedroom in that dusty old house on Spinners End, cowering in the corner, he desired for the drink in his fathers hand to put him to sleep at last. In his fifth year, glaring at the smirking upside down face of James Potter and Sirius black, he desired revenge. At 21, in the doorway of Dumbledore's office, when he learned the consequences of trust, he desired his death.

He had lived his entire life chasing his desires like a dog chasing the moon, knowing it was out of reach and yet too unevolved to understand how.

And yet... He had never felt his desire so, within grasp until he had met her. Those things of the past, poisonous, intangible pleasures, dark or light, had never been even remotely in reach.

She came into his life like a meteror, completely dashing across his sky, ripping him from the endless chase he had partoke in his entire life. Leading him on a completely seperate path, one he had never thought would ever find him...

True, honest, burning, desire.

The day she started teaching at Hogwarts in the middle of the year was a day like any other. Professor Sprout having retired rather abruptly, Severus didn't even spare a single thought at who would replace her. Why would he? For what reason? The weight of returning responsibilies lay heavy on his left forearm. Harry's 4th year, the emergence of his name from that god foresaken over-glorified cup; the promise of danger, the threat of a decade old vow..

The moment she walked in and sat beside him at the Professors table was hardly memorable, aside for the absolutely obnoxious outfit she were wearing.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye as he ate, interested only in seeing the face stupid enough to wear the brightest possible shade of yellow, in his presence, none the less.

When he found a rather young woman smiling at him, his gaze flicked away back to his plate. He had no interest. No desire, for conversation. And certainly not with someone resembling an overgrown daffodil.

It was barely the end of the first week when she had knocked on his door. Opening it and finding no one at his eye level, he glanced down.

Why on Earth, was she always wearing the horribly bright shade of yellow?

After she had given him an obscure collection of herbs, Severus thanked her with a brief nod before promptly closing the door on her face. He'd expected as much, Sprout and him had always had a decent, professional relationship. Their disciplines somewhat intertwined, Sprout had always provided him with the clippings of plants he needed, and in turn Severus had always provided her with whatever potions he could brew to help her plants. It wasn't the act that surprised him, but the way this new professor went about it.

She smiled a smile as bright as her shirt, every cursed night she knocked on his door. It was always something with this woman. A clipping, an herb, an old book. It was as if all things useful to him kept apparating in her office with a giant note saying "GIVE THIS TO THE GRUMPY GIT DOWN THE HALL."

Often times these gifts came along with unwanted and frankly unnecessary conversation. At first it was small talk, questions about his day, brief statements about yours. Often times she told him things about herself he didn't particularly care to know; such as what book she was reading, or how her vacation back home for the Holidays was.

What Severus did care for, was eye contact. It could have been the Occlumens in him, his guarded persona trying to gain some sense of dominance over the conversations where he usually felt none, an oppertunity to control.. to read.

And yet everytime he looked at her, he found her shining eyes looking right back up at him with a confidence that unnerved him. She stared him right in the eyes as he talked, not with a malice he had seen before, not with a fear he had grown accostomed to seeing and not even with an expectancy that so many demanded of him.

She looked at him like she could see right through him. As if she could see into every desire he ever had, as if his Occlumency skills were pointless against the skill of a 20 something year old Herbology Professor who hadn't even fought in the first Wizarding War.

And so reluctantly, as Severus took every gift with a nod and eventually a brief thanks, offering his own potions occasionally in return as he had so many times before despite feeling slightly unnerved.

The simple, professional relationship seemed to teeter on the edge of what was almost a-

"Friendship," She'd described it once in the doorway of his office. "It's a nice friendship we've got going on here, Severus. Thank you, for helping me, I appreciate it."

That was a word Severus hadn't clung to for quite some time.

He blinked, silent for several moments, for the first time in a long time almost uncertain of what to say. He hadn't considered her a friend, had he? Even as the months of the academic year had passed by, even as the conversation began to drift from work to hints of her personal life. Even as he found the corners of his lips occasionally twitching up in a smirk as she laughed her obnoxiously cheerful, loud laugh. Even after he began knocking on her door as she had knocked on his..

He hadn't even considered that she might have desired to be his friend. Or that he might have desired to be hers.

And in the months that passed by after that casual conversation, the one she had let slip likely without thinking twice, Severus found himself replaying the moment over and over in his head.

He found himself walking down the corridors between his lectures, expecting to see the young witch in that painfully bright yellow dress he'd somehow grown to tolerate.

He had even wiithout fully relising it himself, grown to desire it. her presence, her friendship.

And it had gone completely under that Roman nose until that one evening in March in the Great Hall for supper. Sitting beside her, Severus looked across the hall as he ate and she talked his ear off, a habit of avoiding her gaze he'd begun to pick up. It was only when she brushed her long hair off her neck and took a sip of her wine that Severus glanced at her for longer than a moment.

His heart stopped involuntarily in his chest.

Her neck, the soft, delicate flesh, was marked with a bruise of broken blood vessels. It was small, almost hidden towards the back of her neck, but that dark red mark stuck out like a thorn against the warm shade of yellow.

He didn't understand the sinking in his stomach he hadn't felt in over a decade. There was no reason for his jaw to clench as he looked back at his plate, no reason why his appetite was somehow ruined.

And all of a sudden, on a simple Tuesday in March, did Severus understand that he had grown to desire something...

"Gratification was a luxury he could not afford"

The weeks after that were nothing short of torture, for a magnitude of reasons. The dark mark on his arm burned stronger with each passing day; Karkaroff's words from the Yule Ball hung heavy in the air of his chamber, late at night when he couldn't sleep. The second task of the Triwizard tournament was a moment still echoing in his crowded mind. Who was stealing gillyweed? Why was Harry's name actually put in the goblet of fire?

And yet, out all of the absolute bullshit fighting for dominance in his crowded mind, did his thoughts always trail back to her.

Like a lovestruck idiot, he couldn't stop thinking of her. Or more so, thinking about that damned lovebite on her neck.

Why did he even care?

If Sprout had had a lovebite on her neck would he have even thought more of it other than the intial disgust?

Was this friendship? The concept was so foreign to him for so long he didn't even know. All he knew was that for the next several weeks, like a hormonal teenager, his body reacted to her presence quicker than his mind.

Every time she knocked on his door and looked up at him with those big bright eyes, he felt it. The lurch of his chest, the sinking in his gut.

He couldn't ignore it, the twitch of his jaw when he'd let his guard down and snuck glances at her neck. What was he hoping to find there anyway? More marks? Or was he hoping to find a blank canvas, the silk of her skin untouched, the possibilities of tracing his own lips down the curve of her neck-

No.

Her voice snapped him out of his tortured thoughts.

"Severus?" She spoke. "You alright?"

They were sitting in her office on a Friday night, a rather recent development in their "friendship" that Severus was unsure how he felt.

He blinked, met her gaze and then looked back at the fire, sipping his tea and putting his Occlumency shields back up, cursing himself at the fact he'd let them fall.

"Yes." He said, his voice low.

And that was when she did it, she touched him. Gently, as if he was something fragile, something delicate that could break under her soft fingertips. And Merlin, the feeling nearly made him gasp out loud. He tore his gaze from her hand placed on his left forearm and looked into her eyes for longer than he had in quite some time.

Her lips curled into a soft smile. "You know Severus.. I know these past few months have been chaotic, with the tournament, but I think you're dealing quite well."

Severus blinked. She didn't know of the darkening tattoo under her very fingertips. What did she know about what he was dealing with? What did she know about anything that he had ever dealt with? Who was she to say he was... doing well?

Why did a heat begin to grow in his lower abdomenon? Why did her touch feel heavier on that cursed mark? Why crave her to say it again?

She pulled her delicate touch away as if it was a fleeting, minute thing that had never meant to be anything more than what it was.

Friendship.

That night, Severus let the door to his chamber slam shut behind him. He detatched the cloak from his robes and hung it on the door, reaching his bedroom in a few quick strides and letting that door slam shut as well.

As soon as he was alone, truly alone, he sunk down on the bed.

He may not have been not the most emotionally intune, but he was intelligent. Severus was no fool to longing. He had, afterall, longed for his whole life. But the feeling possessing him now; the raw, burning in his chest when he looked at her, the way his chest fluttered..

It wasn't the longing he was afraid of. It was the hope.

The smile on her face as she looked at him, as if he was something as bright as she was... The gentle tone of her voice as she coaxed more and more information out of his guarded frame then he'd care to admit..

It was the hope that all these things were her desiring him.

Severus ran his hands through his hair. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he tried desperetely to ignore the restlessness inside him.

What was he doing? He was a man of control, a skilled Occlumens, able to lie straight to the face of the Dark Lord and live to tell the tale, and yet here he was, in the suffocating darkness of his lonely chamber that had never bothered him until now, feeling absolutely on fire.

Was that what it took to break him? A man of his talents reduced to a fluttering, pathetic mess at the mere, single touch of a pretty woman?

The heat in his lower abdomen was not foreign, but it was unwelcome all the less. Of course he knew sexual desire. It wasn't as if he hadn't indulged before.. Occasional, late nights where he had lost control.. Where he'd succumbed to the feeling of his right hand in his trousers. It was the shame afterwards, the disgust for himself that prevented him from making it a regular habit.

In fact, now that he thought of it... When was the last time he had allowed himself release?

Certainly it had been awhile since he felt such... Yearning. And certainly he'd never felt it to such degree before but thinking of it now, his head in his hands, Severus relised it had been years.

Years.

The pent up tension, the reemergence of past lust he thought he'd long buried, the sheer strength of it this time was enough to make him begin to pace in his room.

Breathing through gritted teeth, he paced in circles, running his hands through the strands of raven hair. This need was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. Lust and hope combined was never something he'd experienced together.

Would those same lips that are always smiling at his sarcastic remarks kiss his? How would she taste? Would she kiss him softly, gently? Succumb to the power imbalences between them?

Or..

Would she kiss him hungrily? Would she take control, weaving her soft fingers through his hair and tugging? Would her lips whisper praises like the one she'd said that day?

Severus groaned, sitting back down on the bed. He'd never craved to be... taken like this. He'd had fantasies of course, things he thought of on the rare occasions he indulged in his need, all ideas of exercising the control he so often craved.

And yet now, feeling so powerless, so torn, it began to dawn on him that that's what he craved... To be freed from the guilt of his own desires. Have any sembelence of control taken so far from him he could do nothing but take it, take her.

He couldn't ignore the strain in his trousers. It had been so long...

He shifted his weight, not trusting his fraying control enough to get into proper sleepwear, he layed down on his back on top of the sheets, staring up at the ceiling and trying desperately to ignore the aching in his groin.

It'd been so.... long..

"No." He murmered, but the word came out weak.

No, he thought to himself, Absolutely not.

Severus rolled onto his side, trying desperetely just to close his eyes and beacon forth the sleep he knew wouldn't come. He knew deep down, he could just take a simple sleeping potion, it wouldn't be the first time.

But as he shifted, he felt the strain of his cock in his trousers brush against the firm matrress. Almost immediately his breath hitched. His slender fingers tightened around the messy sheets, his jaw clenched.

Every muscle in his tired body seemed to clench. It didn't help that all his mind could so was replay that moment over and over again. The weight of her hand on his forearm... The way she looked up at him so gently.. Her words... What was it she had said? He was handling it... Well?

She had praised him.

Pathetic. He thought, letting out a sharp exhale. A mere compliment she hadn't thought twice of was his undoing?

But the voice in the back of his mind, the one that had begun to threaten his control, whispered: "What if she had meant it? What if she had meant more?"

And it was this hope, this foolish hope he hadn't allowed himself to indulge in years that seemed to set him on fire.

He stared at the wall of his dark chamber. Even in the night of his room, he never felt safe from the invisible eyes of others, not even his own.

If he.. indulged... How could he look at himself in the mirror?

How could he look at her?

But the weight of her touch on his arm was a heavy burden his mind couldn't afford to ignore. Every shift of his weight on the bed sent a spark up his spine, every minute, tiny brush of the sheets against his cock made it throb.

Sleep.

Sleep would not find him. He laid completely still for what felt like an eternity, and yet the ache in his pants would not go away. It only seemed to grow stronger.

Frustrated, Severus rolled over to his stomach and immedietly let out a sharp hiss. The friction between his clothed groin and the mattress sent a bolt of pleasure up him he hadn't felt in years.

He'd forgotten what pleasure could feel like.

And for the first time in a long time, Severus acted without thinking. His hips rolled almost involuntarily against the mattress, a single, simple grinding motion that drew another ragged gasp from his lips.

Another jolt... Another roll of his hips...

Remembering the constant feeling of eyes on him, he buried his face in the pillow and stopped his movements all together.

What the fuck was he doing?

It wasn't just the burning desire, or the pleasure of friction he'd so long denied himself. It was the exhaustion. He was tired. Tired of being in control over everything in his life, day after day, year after year. Tired of fighting that clench in his gut that he felt everytime she looked up at him. Tired of refusing to be selfish.

He tore his head from the pillow, reaching both hands up to grasp the sheets around it.

"Fuck it." He whispered to himself.

He didn't fight the next wave of pleasure that crashed over him as he rolled his hips against the mattress again. The sigh that lleft his lips left so on his own accord. As if his whispered permission was enough for all reason to flee him, he began to grind his clothed erection against the firm mattress again, his movements still slow, but deliberate.

God.. It had been... So.... Long...

He began to pant, short, quick breaths coming out quickly as his movements picked up pace. The pleasure that each thrust sent through him could have been enough to pull him over the edge, but it wasn't enough for him.

He had to feel it... Just once, just this once and then he could go back to whatever sense of celibacy he had adopted over the years. Just for tonight, he had to feel it.

Severus propped himself up on one elbow and used his other hand to unbutton his trousers. His fingers hastly unzipped it, reaching into his boxers as if he unconciously feared his mind may deny himself again if he allowed it the time to.

The very second his fingers wrapped themselves around his cock he gasped. The sound was ragged, strained as he pulled himself out, pushing down his trousers and boxers the very least he could. The cold dungeon air of his bed chamber immediately contrasted against the warmth of his skin and even that simple sensation felt as though it had been amplified.

Without wasting a second, Severus tore his hand away to join his other in gripping the sheets and began to buck his bare erection against the mattress.

Another torn gasp. Another shudder. His fingers tightened their grip around the sheets, his hips rolling faster, feverishly in time with his panting.

"Fuck," He hissed, his head falling down against the pillow as he moved.

He could still feel it. Her touch on his left forearm.

And perhaps thats what drove his next action. It certainly wasn't reason, or shame, those things he had so long clung onto having abandoned him. He tossed, rolling over to his side and began to pump his cock with his left hand.

It wasn't his dominant hand, but he used it none the less. Shamelessly bucking his hips against his fist, his grip tight as he stroked himself desperately. Deep down he knew that the only thing on top that forearm in that moment was the Dark Mark, but the only thing he felt, was her hand.

He imagined her touch again. Her soft fingers on his clothed skin. Gods.. What would it feel like without any barriers whatsoever? What would it feel like to have her fingers trail up that arm, down his chest, his abdomen-

"Fuck," He grunted, louder this time as his grip on his cock tightened and his hips continued to buck against his hand, "Fuck."

With his eyes screwed shut, Severus pictured her eyes staring back up at him as she whispered more praises. What he would do to hear more of them... What he would do to coax those words from her lips, no, what he would do to make her moan them.. If he was inside her, if it was his cock, his movements, making her praise him...

His control snapped. In an instant he moved, thoughtless, completely slave to the desires he'd repressed for so long; he pushed himself up, bunching the sheets up and bringing them under his hips.

Without thinking, Severus took his cock in his right hand and lined it up with the crease of the rolled up sheets and pushed in.

"Shit!" He hissed, his head collapsing against them as he supported his weight on his left forearm. His other arm reached down to hold the sheets steady as he began to fuck them shamelessly.

The gasps that flew from his lips were sinfully loud, a string of curses and her name as he chased the release he'd denied himself for so long. He pictured her body beneath him, the possibilities of feeling so much more of her soft skin. How her walls would welcome him... Wet and warm around his cock, how those delicate hands would cling to him as she looked up at him with those bright eyes that seemed to only see good in him.

And stars, did he want to be good for her.

"You're doing so well, Severus," Her voice rang out in his mind as he screwed his eyes shut, "Feels so good..."

His breath coming in quick short gasps, his grip on the sheets tightened even further, his knuckles white. The headboard creeked against the stone wall with every thrust of his hips, but the only thing in his mind was her voice. That wretched, soft, voice..

"Severus!" She moaned in his mind. His name, on her lips. He was coaxing those moans. He was giving her that pleasure.

What would it feel like to give her more? What would it feel like to watch her face as she came around him? He'd read about sex, sure. Heard about it, in the boys dorms in school, from Lucius' wild adventures, from the Death Eaters. But what would it feel like to have her come for him? The tightening of her around him, the sound of his name on her lips as she gushed arou-

The thought was too much for him to bear. Soft, high whimpers flew from his quivering lips as he came into the sheets. The orgasm crashed over him seemingly out of nowhere fast enough that he wasn't prepared for it. His entire body shook, hips faltering and chest heaving as he thrusted sloppily into the sheets as he filled them with his cum.

Her name left his mouth like a broken prayer, chanted breathlessly, even as his thrusts slowed down and he stilled against the sheets.

Severus panted, sweat clinging to his forehead, his raven hair. For as long as he could, he lay completely still against the messy sheets, almost frightened to move and face what he had done.

When he finally did open his eyes, he pushed himself up on shaky arms to look down. The black sheets were painted white with his cum, glistening in the faint glow of the room.

Not bearing to look at it any longer, he reached for his wand and cleaned up the evidence. Tossing it to the side, he shoved his softening cock back in his trousers and collapsed on the once again clean sheets to stare at the ceiling.

Shame and guilt coursed through the back of his mind, but at the forefront of it all, was the absolute sheer exhaustion.

The prayer in his mind was only her name, the scripture only her praise. He drifted off begging, to who, he wasn't sure. But for the first time, in years, Severus slept peacefully.

~

well im sorry that was seven decades long. haven't yall had a pretty lady touch you once and then immediately gone feral?

no?

just me?

oh

~

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