#x: bitches and stitches

[raspberryconverse]

WTAF, Etsy?!

So a few weeks ago, I sold a cross stitch pattern on my Etsy shop and realized it'd been so long since I sold anything, my bank has actually been closed for over a year. I never had checks for this bank and I didn't have the routing/account number written down anywhere because it was in the app. I went into my seller account and apparently in order to change your deposit account, you need to enter the old account number.

I went back and forth with customer service, even showing them the letter saying the bank was closing. They still stood firmly and said that if I can't enter the old account number, I can't change my deposit account. They even tried to send it to the closed account and it obviously got returned, just like I said it would. The only thing they said I could do was open a new store. They'd help me transfer everything to a new store and refund any listing fees that were leftover from the old store.

Obviously, this was a ridiculous thing to have to do. Especially since I have a listing in my drafts for the absurd amount of metal circular needles I'm getting rid of (they hurt my hands).

Today at work, I was cleaning off my computer desktop and realized I have a few tax returns and W2s saved on there. It occurred to me that if I could find my taxes from a year when I still had that account, I could finally enter it in and change my account.

I went upstairs to our file box and found a tax return with the account number. Then, I opened my Etsy finances and clicked "edit" next to the old deposit account number. Instead of asking me for the old account number, it directs me to Plaid, where I can login to my current bank account. Within a few clicks, I was able to switch to my current bank account.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

I spent several days going back and forth, pleading with Etsy to let me change my deposit account because the bank was closed and I had plenty of proof to show them that was the case, just not an account number and no one to call to get it. Then, I dig out a tax return that has the account number I must enter to change my account and all I had to do was login via Plaid and it changed it without a problem.

Fuck you, Etsy. All this for $1.86.

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ playing dangerous ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ player 177. your assigned number. the three digits stitched in stark white thread on the coarse forest-green tracksuit now clinging to your body. you didn’t remember putting it on. you didn’t remember anything between falling asleep in your cramped apartment and waking up in this sterile, alabaster void. the tracksuit was loose in some places, tight in others, the fabric rough against your skin, a similar sensation for the discomfort that had settled deep into your bones.

˚ ༘♡ the air here was heavy, oppressive. tension hung over the room like a storm cloud, pressing down on everyone in its path. you sat on the thin mattress of your cot, the iron bars of the bedframe biting into your back as you leaned against them. your throat was dry, your lips chapped, and a faint crust of dried blood clung to the edge of your mouth, an unpleasant reminder of the chaos you’d barely survived. in your lap rested a cold metal bento box, unopened. the thought of eating its contents of rubbery eggs and starchy rice, made your stomach churn. it wasn’t hunger gnawing at you but dread. eating felt like acknowledging the possibility of another day here, in this place where death lingered so close you could almost taste it.

˚ ༘♡ death. it wasn’t something you’d ever had to think about seriously before. you were young, healthy enough, aside from the occasional winter flu. life’s struggles had been mundane, bills, work, nothing quite noteworthy. you’d thought financial trouble was the worst of your problems. how naive that seemed now. the sharp crack of gunfire still rang in your ears, and the memory of bodies crumpling mid-run played in an endless loop in your mind. every scream, every desperate gasp for air as life left someone’s body, was etched into your mind.

˚ ༘♡ this wasn’t life. it was survival, twisted into something grotesque. children’s games weaponized against desperate people for the amusement of others, with the promise of money as bait. one hundred million won for every life taken. your own life, reduced to a figure on a balance sheet. you’d survived the first game, the horrifying version of red light, green light, but at what cost? surely, after witnessing such carnage, the others would have voted to leave. you’d been certain of it. but the desperation was stronger. greed was stronger. most players had chosen to stay, ignoring the horrors of what lay ahead.

˚ ༘♡ “the next game,” player 456 had said, “will be cutting shapes out of dalgona candy. pick the triangle. it’s the easiest.” his voice had carried a strange conviction, and he claimed to know these games intimately, even to have won before. but how could you trust him? maybe he was lying, or maybe it didn’t matter. maybe none of you were meant to leave this place alive.

˚ ༘♡ “hey, 177!” the crude voice shattered your thoughts, dragging you back to the present.

˚ ༘♡ you glanced up to see player 230, “thanos,” as he called himself, sauntering toward you. his garish purple hair stood out like a bruise against the sterile backdrop, and his brightly colored nails flashed as he gestured. he’d painted them to match the infinity stones, leaning fully into the nickname he’d given himself. behind him, player 124 followed, all sharp angles and slicked-back hair, his grin as eager and sly as ever.

˚ ༘♡ “why didn’t you vote for one more game, huh?” thanos sneered, his voice laced with mockery. “you had no problem playing foul last round.”

˚ ༘♡ you frowned, rising slowly to your feet. “you and i both know it was an accident,” you replied steadily. “everyone was running for their lives. i didn’t block your way on purpose. we both finished in time, didn’t we? no harm done.”

˚ ༘♡ he rolled his eyes, his expression exaggerated and spontaneous. “yeah, sure, whatever. typical cold-hearted bitch behavior.”

˚ ༘♡ player 124 cackled at the insult, his laughter harsh and grating. “that’s right. cold, stuck-up bitch,” he echoed, his voice dripping with scorn.

˚ ༘♡ their taunts were designed to provoke you, but you refused to give them the satisfaction. your hands curled into fists, but you forced yourself to relax them, forced yourself to breathe. these two thrived on conflict, and the best thing you could do was walk away. you turned on your heel, ignoring their shouts, and started to move toward the far corner of the room.

˚ ༘♡ “hey! i’m talking to you!” thanos barked, stumbling after you with heavy, uncoordinated steps. he didn’t get far. player 001 stepped into his path, his expression stoic and unyielding.

˚ ༘♡ “don’t you boys have any respect?” player 001 asked, his voice quiet but firm. there was something about him, an emanation of authority that made everyone within earshot pause.

˚ ༘♡ thanos bristled, his arrogance faltering for just a moment. “mind your own damn business, old man,” he snapped, jerking forward.

˚ ༘♡ player 001 didn’t flinch. when thanos lunged at him, the older man moved with startling precision, sidestepping the punch with ease. he grabbed thanos by the wrist mid-swing and twisted sharply, forcing a guttural yelp from the younger man as his knees buckled. with a swift motion, player 001 yanked him forward and drove an elbow into his chest, the dull, cracking impact echoing in the room. thanos collapsed onto the floor, clutching his ribs and coughing violently.

˚ ༘♡ player 124 scrambled forward, his face twisted in fury. “bastard!” he yelled, charging with reckless abandon. player 001 turned just in time, catching the younger man by the collar and using his momentum against him. a sharp twist and a well-placed shove sent player 124 sprawling into the edge of a nearby cot, the metal frame rattling as he hit it with a thud.

˚ ༘♡ the fight wasn’t over. thanos struggled to his feet, his face contorted in pain and rage. “you’re gonna regret that, old man,” he spat, lunging again. this time, player 001’s response was more deliberate. he ducked under thanos’s wild swing, stepped inside his reach, and delivered a devastating blow to his lower torso. the younger man doubled over, gasping, before player 001 swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor once more.

˚ ༘♡ not finished, player 124 staggered up again, charging at player 001 with fists raised. the older man sidestepped and grabbed player 124 by the arm, wrenching it behind his back and forcing him to the ground with a hoarse cry of pain. he planted a knee firmly against player 124’s spine, holding him there as the younger man squirmed and cursed.

˚ ༘♡ thanos, blood now trickling from his nose, crawled toward his friend, wheezing apologies and swearing obscenities all at once. player 001 released player 124 with a shove, stepping back as the two younger men lay crumpled together on the floor.

˚ ༘♡ the room was silent, every player watching in stunned awe. then, slowly, the silence broke into cheers and clapping. player 001 straightened his posture, his expression as calm and inscrutable as ever. without a word, he turned and walked back to where player 456 and a few others were gathered, leaving the two troublemakers to nurse their wounds.

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated, then followed him. when you reached his side, you spoke softly. “i wanted to thank you, sir. if you hadn’t stepped in, they wouldn’t have stopped harassing me and disturbing the peace. you’ve done us all a favor.”

˚ ༘♡ player 001 turned to look at you, his dark eyes meeting yours briefly before he nodded. he said nothing, his expression unreadable. there was something deeply weary about him, a weight that seemed to press down on his shoulders. his posture was rigid, his face lined with exhaustion, and though he was relatively handsome, it was the kind of masculine appeal eroded by time and hardship.

˚ ༘♡ you wondered what had brought him here, what had led him to the point where he’d chosen, or been pushed into, to enter this place. you didn’t ask. prying into his past would be an impolite gesture and an indignity for what he had done for you.

a/n: my first squid game fanfiction! i definitely want to write more for hwang in-ho in the future so let me know if you have any requests! 🤍

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

STITCHED TOGETHER

PAIRING: michael “robby” robinavitch x female reader

RATING: explicit

WORD COUNT: 6.1k

SUMMARY:

after accidentally cutting your hand, you seek out your neighbor for help. a favor becomes a friendship and a friendship becomes something more.

TAGS/WARNINGS:

no use of y/n, dual pov, mentions of blood/wounds, mentions of domestic/child abuse (a case at the hospital), hurt/comfort, neighbors to lovers, baked goods as a flirting mechanism, explicit sexual content (18+ mdni), vaginal fingering, edging, oral - f receiving, light choking, praise kink, dirty talk, kissing, begging, p in v, multiple positions - missionary and cowgirl, a sprinkle of domesticity

Your hand pulses with pain. The dish towel you’ve wrapped tightly around your palm is now stained with blood. You raise your fist to knock on your neighbor’s door, hoping that he’s home. You don’t know much about Robby, but you know he works long shifts at the ER, always leaving the apartment with a thermos of coffee and coming home late with shadows under his eyes.

There’s no answer to your knock, no sounds of movement from behind the door, and you mumble a curse beneath your breath. You lift the towel from your palm to check the wound, the fabric sticking slightly to your skin and making you wince. It’s still just as deep as it felt and you’re pretty sure you need stitches but—

“Everything okay?”

You look up. Robby is standing at the end of the hall, the door to the stairwell closing behind him. He must have just finished at work since he’s still dressed in a pair of wrinkled scrubs, exhaustion dragging his shoulders down. You suddenly feel very guilty for bothering him.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reply, aiming for nonchalant. His eyes catch on your hand where you have it cradled close to your body. Something shifts in him, like a switch flips and suddenly he’s not Robby, your neighbor, but Dr. Robby.

“Did you hurt yourself?” He asks, long strides carrying him down the hall. He drops the backpack on his shoulder to the floor, all his attention zeroed in on your hand. “Let me see.”

You hold your hand out. He carefully unwraps the towel.

“It’s fine, really, I was just going to ask if you think I need stitches—“

“You do.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I guess I better—“

“I can do it.”

“No, no, that’s okay, I can just —“ Robby looks up at you, still holding your hand, and you feel your heart lurch at the sharp edge in his eye. The rest of your words fade away.

“Come on, I’ve got a suture kit under the sink,” he says, grabbing his bag and digging his keys from the front pocket. He unlocks the door to his apartment, leaving it open behind him in a clear invitation. After a second of hesitation, you follow him, shutting the door behind you.

Robby’s apartment is a mirror image of yours. Open concept, with the living room blending into a dining area that opens up to the kitchen. There’s not much in the way of decoration, but it’s clearly lived in — a stack of magazines on a low coffee table, a comfortable looking leather couch with a blanket draped over the back, and a small collection of empty coffee cups on the counter by the sink.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says, crouching down to fetch the aforementioned suture kit. “Bring your hand over the sink for me.”

You do as you’re asked, unwrapping the towel and setting it on the counter. Robby washes his hands and dries them with a paper towel before pulling on some blue gloves, his motions steadfast and efficient. He picks up a squeeze bottle with a long, curved tip and holds out a hand for yours.

He squeezes the contents of the bottle over your wound, using it to wash away some of the dried blood. When it’s clean, he sets the bottle down.

“Good news is that you didn’t manage to hit any tendons,” he says. “Bad news is that hand injuries hurt like a bitch.” He picks up a syringe, uncapping it and sticking it into a vial of clear fluid. “Some lidocaine will help while I stitch you up. When it wears off, you’ll need some Tylenol. You got any at your place?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

He sticks the needle into your palm and you resist the urge to flinch. Each time he repositions it, you hold your breath.

“You gotta breathe for me. I know it hurts, but when it kicks in you’ll feel a lot better.”

You take a deep breath, the exhale shaky. Finally, he finishes with the needle. The pain has eased considerably as the anesthetic begins to do its job.

“Have a seat at the table for me,” Robby says, tilting his head toward the dining area. You settle into one of the chairs and he drags another close to you, setting a sterile bag on the table before taking a seat.

Peeling the bag open, he methodically removes the contents. First the blue sheet that he unfolds and lays on the table, followed by the tray of utensils. He pats the sheet and you set your hand, palm up, on it.

“So, you gonna tell me how you did this?” He asks, opening a swab stained with brown liquid that he runs over the edges of your wound.

“You’re going to think I’m an idiot,” you reply, heat rising to your cheeks. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a little smile.

“I’ve seen some stupid stuff. Promise this won’t even phase me.”

You sigh. “I was cutting an avocado.”

“Did you mistake your hand for it instead?”

“Hey!”

“Sorry.” He rips open a small package, pulling out a curved needle with a length of string already attached. “Finish the story.”

“I was holding it and sliced a little too deep. Went straight through the avocado skin and right into mine.”

“I wasn’t too far off. First stitch,” he says, sticking the needle through the edge of the cut. “Good thing I got home when I did.”

“I would have just gone to the ER if you didn’t.”

“Yeah, and you would have been waiting a few hours to get seen.”

“I feel bad. You’re off the clock. I’m sure you had things you wanted to do.”

“Had a hot date with my shower and some pizza rolls. I think they’ll forgive me for being late.”

You laugh and his eyes flick up, watching you for a brief moment before returning to the task at hand. A comfortable silence settles between you and you take the opportunity to really look at Robby.

He’s older than you by a few years if the grey in his beard is anything to go by. His dark hair looks like it’s grown out a bit from a shorter style and is a little messy, like maybe he’s run his fingers through it a few times. There are faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that grow deeper when his lips curl up in a smile. He’s handsome, you’ve thought as much since introducing yourself when you moved in, but up close and hunched over your hand, helping you with a gentle touch, he’s nearly devastating.

“Done,” he announces, reaching for the surgical scissors on the tray and snipping the end of the suture. “These are meant to fall out as the wound heals, so unless you notice any signs of infection, you shouldn’t need any follow up.”

“That was fast,” you say, looking over the neat row of stitches appreciatively.

“Years of practice.” He wraps a roll of gauze around your palm. “Keep the bandage on for at least twenty-four hours. After that, you can take it off but keep the area clean. Don’t soak it in anything. Try not to move your hand too much so they don’t pop. Alternate between Tylenol and Motrin for the pain.”

“I really can’t thank you enough,” you tell him. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I try to be.”

Though he’s trying to make a joke, his tone sounds despondent. He clears his throat and busies himself with cleaning up the table, avoiding your gaze. You decide not to press him for an explanation. He hardly owes you one.

Later, back in your apartment and lying in your bed, you replay every moment of your interaction with Robby. The way he gently held your hand to check the wound, the confidence with which he moved, the sadness in his voice. You decide that you have to repay him for his help and you know just the way to do it.

Robby is half asleep on the couch when there’s a knock at the door. He checks his watch and frowns. It’s just after eight, the sky dark outside the window, and he’d taken an unexpected nap after his shift. His stomach grumbles, the aching hunger he’d felt when falling asleep returning with a vengeance.

He stands and stretches, rubbing the back of his neck as it cracks and shuffling down the hall to open the door. You’re standing across the threshold with a plate in your hands and a bright smile on your face.

“Hey! I hope I’m not bothering you,” you say, smile faltering as you take him in. “Did I just wake you up?”

“Just from a nap,” he replies, willing himself to look less grumpy. Based on the way your smile dips into a frown, he’s probably not doing a great job. “It’s fine, I promise.”

“I brought cookies. As a thank you. For fixing my hand.” You hold the plate out toward him and he takes it. The bottom is warm. “Chocolate chip.”

The scent reaches him and he nearly groans. “Thank you, but I can’t take these.”

“Are you gluten free? Shit, I should have asked before making something.”

“No, I just mean you don’t need to thank me.”

“Of course I do!”

At that moment, his stomach betrays him, audibly announcing his hunger. You raise an eyebrow at him, hands on your hips, and he knows he’s lost this argument.

“Fine. If you’ll come in and eat one, too,” he says. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond, turning to head toward his kitchen and hoping you’ll follow. When the door shuts and the soft sound of footsteps grows louder, he fights back a victorious smile.

He sets the plate on the counter and pulls off the aluminum foil on top. A small pile of golden brown chocolate chip cookies sits on the ceramic. You stand on the other side of the island, watching him. He picks one of the cookies up and takes a bite, groaning at how delicious it is.

“Christ, that’s good,” he says, punctuating the compliment with another bite. “You made these?”

“Yep. Even used the good chocolate. The real secret is a sprinkle of fancy sea salt.” You reach across the counter and pluck one of the cookies from the pile for yourself.

“How’s your hand doing?” Robby asks. You hold the hand in question out towards him. It’s been a little over a week and some of the stitches have started to dissolve, two of them still hanging on near the deeper part of your wound. “Looks good.”

“Thanks to a good doctor,” you say. He snorts, the sound self-deprecating even to his own ears. You frown, but don’t try to dig, which is nice. He’s so used to being around people who want him to be an open book when he’d rather sit quietly on a shelf, handling things on his own.

“I need to order dinner.” He turns his back to you, rifling through his junk drawer for the menu of the Chinese place down the street.

“I’ll just—“

“You wanna stay?” He asks, cutting you off. Your eyes go wide with surprise and he begins to internally berate himself when your expression shifts, going soft and warm.

“Sure. What are we ordering?”

It becomes a thing.

The first batch of cookies was a thank you. The second batch was a recipe test. Your excuse for the third batch was that you just made too many and would he want some?

He never turns you away, even if he looks dead on his feet from a long shift. He perks up when he spots the plate in your hands and invites you inside, singing your praises as he tries the recipe of the week. At the rate you’re going through sugar and butter and flour, you’ll need a membership to one of those bulk stores by the end of the month.

Robby doesn’t knock on your door, never seeks you out himself, but he does ask you to stay whenever you stop by. Over dinner, he’ll ask you about your week and listen as you talk about your job or the plans you made with your friends. He doesn’t talk about his own work much, not unless he’s got a funny story to share. You have a feeling he keeps the difficulty of his job close to his chest, shouldering the concern on his own.

That changes on a Friday night.

It’s late, nearly midnight, and you’re reading in bed, a half drunk glass of wine on your nightstand. A sound breaks through your concentration and you pause your reading, listening for it again.

It’s a knock. Soft, so soft you can barely hear it, three taps against your door, followed by silence. You scramble from your bed, nearly tripping on the duvet in the process, and rush down the hall.

When you open the door, Robby is there. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you, and you know without asking that he’s had a tough night. It’s in the set of his shoulders and the tension in his jaw, the way he’s staring at you without really seeing.

“Come inside,” you tell him. He nods and walks past you, pausing in your living room. Compared to his apartment, yours exudes personality. Mismatched furniture and bookshelves full of memories, photographs and art on the walls.

He takes it in while you head to the kitchen, pulling together a sandwich from the contents of your fridge and filling a glass with water. You bring the plate of food and the glass to the living room, placing both on the coffee table and settling yourself on the couch, legs crossed under you. When he doesn’t move, you pat the cushion next to you.

“Eat,” you command.

Robby does as you ask and starts with the water. He drains the glass in a few desperate gulps and you refill it for him while he starts on the sandwich. You turn the TV on to fill the silence, putting on a nature documentary. You watch the show, your attention half on the eating habits of pangolins and half on the man beside you, concern creeping up your spine.

He still hasn’t said anything.

When the plate and glass are both empty, you start to get up to clear them away, but a warm hand on your wrist holds you in place. Your gaze locked with Robby’s, you slowly sit back down. He releases your wrist and you bring your hand up, settling it on the back of his neck and gently tugging him towards you, urging him to lie down. His head is on your lap, pillowed on your bare thighs, and he brings his knees close to his chest to fit the rest of his body on the couch.

You run your hands through his hair, fingernails scratching lightly against his scalp. The tension eases from his body, like a balloon slowly losing air. His eyelids flutter and his lips part on a contented sigh.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask.

“Not really.”

“Because you don’t want to or because you think I wouldn’t want to hear about it?”

He sighs. “You don't want to hear this shit. Trust me.”

“We’re friends, Robby. You can talk to me.”

“Friends, huh?”

“Yeah. Friends,” you reply, despite the sudden dryness of your mouth and the racing of your pulse. He’s quiet for a long moment and you think maybe he still won’t open up but then he takes a deep breath and clears his throat.

“Lost a patient today. A teenager who got between his mom and his piece of shit dad that was wailing on her. The guy pulled a gun on his own son and ran.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He turns, lying more on his back. His eyes are wet with tears that have gathered but refuse to fall. “We did everything we could do. I know that. But I had to look that mom in the eyes that her husband bruised and tell her that her baby was gone.”

There’s nothing you could say to take the pain away, so you don’t. But, you sit through it with him.

Sometimes, that can be enough.

Robby paces the length of his apartment from the door to the kitchen. It’s been a week since that night in your apartment and he can’t get it out of his head.

First he was stuck on the way you took care of him, how you knew what he needed without having to say anything. You were the calm to the storm in his head, the one that raged despite every strong command given to his team in an effort to save the boy’s life that day. He tends to shoulder the responsibility and, subsequently, the guilt on his own but it had been surprisingly helpful to let someone else in, someone who wanted to be there for him without a shared trauma bond. He felt lighter when he returned to his apartment that night.

Over the last couple days, however, the fixation shifted to the way your hands felt on him. The memory of your fingers dragging through his hair, though soothing in the moment, has morphed into something more. It’s no longer a gentle caress in his mind, but a sharp tug while he’s got his face between your thighs, tongue diving deep and desperate.

Despite these thoughts, he’s hesitant to reach out again, especially with these new ideas for how to spend his time with you in his head. But you also hadn’t come over in a week and he worries that maybe you view him differently now that he’s let the wall down a little, he probably should have just—

“Achoo!”

Robby pauses, his attention gripped by the sudden sound that came from the direction of your apartment. He drifts closer to his living room wall.

“Achoo!”

Another sneeze, followed by a pained groan. Are you…sick? Is that why you haven’t come around yet? Before he can overthink it, he’s leaving his apartment and knocking on your door.

When you answer with a blanket held tight around you and a tissue clenched in your hand, he feels a conflicting rush of relief and concern. You sniffle loudly.

“Robby? What are you doing here?”

“I heard you sneeze.” You blink at him, wobbling a bit on the spot. He reaches out to steady you, hands on your shoulders. Gently, he urges you back inside your apartment. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

He leads you to your room, the same as his but infinitely more comfortable. While he furnished his apartment, he didn’t take care to really make it a home, not when he spends so many hours at work. He didn’t see the point. Stepping into your room, it’s the opposite, facets of your personality in every corner.

He sits you down on the edge of the bed. A pile of tissues has taken up residence on your nightstand and he gathers them up while you make a feeble attempt to stop him.

“That’s gross, don’t touch those,” you whine. “I can clean them up.”

“Lie down,” he commands.

“Bossy, bossy.”

Robby hides his smile by leaving the room to throw the tissues in the trash. While in the kitchen, he finds your cabinet of mismatched cups and fills one with water. Rummaging through the pantry, he finds an open box of crackers that he brings back to your room.

“Where’s your medicine?” He asks. You gesture towards the bathroom and he digs through the cabinets until he finds a bottle of Tylenol. He shakes out a few into his palm and brings them back to you. “Take these.”

“If I had a nickel for every time you told me to take Tylenol, I’d have two nickels.”

He laughs as he watches you swallow down the medicine and drink half of the glass of water. He hands you a sleeve of crackers.

“Eat a couple of those so that you don’t end up with an upset stomach.”

When you’ve finished, you set the remaining crackers on your nightstand and wiggle down the bed, bringing your blanket up to your chin. Robby sets a palm on your forehead and you watch him with an expression he can’t name.

“Am I gonna be alright, doc?” You ask. He smiles.

“Yeah, I think you’ll pull through.”

“Will you stay with me?”

Rather than respond, he walks around your bed to the other side and toes off his sneakers. He gets on the bed, staying on top of your blankets as he makes himself comfortable. You turn on your side to look at him.

“Thanks for coming,” you whisper.

“That’s what friends do.”

You wake to a heavy weight around your waist and warmth at your back. At first you’re confused until the memory of asking Robby to stay with you comes into focus. You remember him getting in bed with you, keeping himself on top of the covers while you snuggled underneath to fight off the constant chill your fever brought on.

You turn over slowly, careful not to disturb him. He’s still on top of the covers but he’s curled himself around you, his head nearly on your pillow in an effort to get closer. His chest rises and falls with deep, even breaths and his features are soft with sleep.

The shrill beep of an alarm breaks the silence and Robby wakes with a sharp inhale. You quickly close your eyes, pretending to be asleep as he moves around, presumably trying to get his phone out to shut off the alarm. The noise abruptly cuts off and you hear him let out a deep breath.

He shifts beside you. A palm is pressed to your forehead and his touch lingers for a moment, his fingers tracing your cheek as he pulls away. You fight to keep your breathing slow and even despite the fierce pounding of your heart against your ribs.

Robby gets up from the bed, the mattress creaking as his weight lifts from it. You hear his light footsteps around the room, followed by the quiet click of your door being shut. With him gone, you turn onto your back and stare up at the ceiling.

You know he had to leave, he probably had to get ready for work, but you wish he didn’t. A fantasy plays out in your head, one where he gets to sleep in and you wake up before him, sneaking into the kitchen to make coffee. He wakes up while you’re waiting for it to finish brewing, strong arms wrapping around your waist and his beard tickling your neck when he kisses your neck. The image fades as sleep catches up to your exhausted body, pulling you back into its embrace for the rest of the morning.

“Dr. Robby?”

Robby shakes his head free of his thoughts and looks to his left. Mel’s got a clipboard in her hands and a question in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” She asks in that blunt but empathetic way of hers.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks in return. She blinks.

“Oh, uh, it’s just…you seem distracted?”

He is distracted. There’s been a restless fire in his veins ever since he woke up beside you, holding you close. He hasn’t seen you in a couple days now, giving you the space to get over your cold, and it has him growing a bit desperate, though he would never admit as much out loud and especially not to one of the med students.

“Everything is fine, Dr. King. Whatcha got for me?”

Mel launches into a presentation on a twenty-three year old female that was triaged for abdominal pain. Robby listens attentively and joins her at the patient’s bedside as she delivers a diagnosis and describes the treatment plan. One patient turns into…somewhere around thirty, he thinks. He lost count.

Finally, he finishes his shift and heads out into the night. Back in his apartment, he showers, changes his clothes, and brushes his teeth for good measure. He’s rushing through the after work motions, an energy in him that he only feels when he’s making a split second call that could mean life or death in the ER.

Basic needs met, he gets his shoes on and leaves his apartment. Five quick steps have him knocking at your door. His pulse kicks into high gear when he hears your footsteps on the other side.

You open the door and your smile lights up your face when you see him and he knows you’re saying something but his focus is entirely zeroed in on your lips and how he desperately needs to feel them against his. He reaches out, framing your face between his palms. There’s a flash of surprise in your eyes but then he’s kissing you.

Finally.

“Hey! I was just about—“

Your words are cut off by Robby kissing you.

Robby is kissing you.

With his hands on your jaw, he urges you back inside your apartment and kicks the door shut behind him. One large palm moves cradles the back of your head, cushioning the blow when your back hits the wall and he presses his body close to yours, chest to chest and a thigh between your legs.

You’re in sensory overload, overwhelmed by the feel of his broad shoulders beneath your hands, the smell of his shampoo, and the faint taste of mint when his tongue tangles with yours. His hand settles on the side of your neck and you wonder if he can feel the way he makes your heart race beneath his palm.

When he pulls back, he traces a thumb over your lips, open admiration in his gaze. He presses down on your lower lip and you obey the silent command to open up, let him in, give him more. His breath stutters when you close your lips around his thumb and suck. He pulls it free with a lewd pop, dragging his hand down your neck, squeezing lightly at the base of your throat. Before you can react, his touch ventures lower and you gasp when he roughly palms your breast. Your hips flex against his thigh in a bid for friction.

All of a sudden, Robby steps back, taking your hand in his and leading you down the hall to your bedroom.

“Get on the bed,” he says, voice low and rough. You hurry to comply, crawling up the mattress and lying back on the pillows, anticipation and the hungry look on his face making the ache between your thighs nearly unbearable.

He joins you on the bed, on his knees between your legs, and runs his hands over your thighs and beneath the fabric of your shorts. You arch your back when his thumbs dig into the crease of your thigh, so close to where you want him, but not close enough. A whine escapes you.

“What do you want, baby?” He asks.

“Want you to fuck me,” you tell him, lifting your hips.

“Can’t do that yet.”

You frown. “Why not?”

Robby’s fingers curl into the elastic of your shorts, pulling the fabric down. You lift your hips again so that he can pull them off and toss them to the floor, leaving you in your underwear. His hand presses one of your thighs to the mattress, keeping you spread open for him as he drags his thumb over your pussy, starting at the damp spot near your entrance until he reaches your clit.

“You have to cum on my fingers,” he presses down against your clit, “and my mouth first. Think you can do that?”

When you don’t respond to his question, the deep pressure of his thumb is replaced by a light smack of his fingers. You gasp at the sharp contrast in sensation and try to close your legs instinctively, only to be blocked by his body and the firm grip of the hand still on your thigh.

“Answer me,” he demands, removing his hands from you and raising an expectant eyebrow.

“Yes,” you tell him. You’re pretty sure you would do anything this man asks as long as he touches you again. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a smirk.

“Good girl.”

Those two little words are like a bolt of lightning straight to your core and he knows it, his knowing gaze making you feel hot and flustered. He removes your underwear and with the last barrier gone, he drops to his stomach and brings his face mere inches from your soaked pussy.

His breath fans across your heated skin and that’s the only warm up you get before his mouth is on you, his tongue circling your clit and lapping at your entrance. Your hands are drawn to his hair, fingers gripping the short strands. He looks up at you as he sucks your clit between his lips and groans when you pull sharply on his hair in response.

If you thought Robby would finish this quickly to get on to the main event, you were incredibly mistaken. The man between your legs brings you to the brink of release before dragging you back from the edge more times than you can count, to the point where tears gather in the corners of your eyes and you let out a pained groan of frustration.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” He asks, lifting his head but keeping up steady circles of his thumb against your clit. Not fast enough to bring you off, just enough to keep your need simmering at the surface. You glare at him.

“Let me come already,” you say through gritted teeth. He laughs.

“You could try asking nicely. Say please.”

You stare at him, mouth opening and closing around words that won’t form. He brings his mouth back to your abused bundle of nerves, licking with broad circles that have you seeing stars. You’re so close, just a little more—

He starts to pull back. The pressure of his tongue grows lighter. You drop your head to the mattress and one of those trapped tears finally escapes, rolling down your temple. You’ve never begged a man for anything before but there’s a first time for everything.

“Please, please, please,” you gasp. “Robby, please.”

Two fingers press against your entrance and slide inside, the sudden stretch making you gasp. He curls them against your inner walls with each drag of his hand from your body. The pressure and speed of his tongue on your clit increases. Your thighs start to shake as the thread of tension in your core tightens until it finally snaps and you come with a strangled shout of his name.

Robby doesn’t stop touching you. He keeps his fingers buried in your cunt and his mouth busy by gently licking you through the waves of your orgasm. Finally, he sits up. You watch as he takes off his shirt and stands up quickly to remove his shoes and sweatpants. His cock bobs free and your mouth practically waters at the sight of it. Not excessively long but he is thick and if you thought his fingers were a stretch, his cock might just split you in half. A bead of precum has gathered at the slit and you watch him smooth his thumb through it before dragging his fist over his length with a groan.

“Condoms?” He asks.

“Top drawer.”

He grabs a foil packet and tosses it on the bed before crawling over you, settling his body over yours. He kisses you, deep and slow, grinding his hips into yours and dragging his cock through the mess he’s made of you. His lips deliver the taste of you to your tongue, earthy and erotic. You moan into the kiss when he drags against your clit.

Keeping himself balanced with one elbow on the bed beside your head, he uses his free hand to hitch your leg over his hip, opening you wider and bringing you closer. His lips find your neck, lavishing your sensitive skin with kisses and nips of his teeth. You need this man inside of you now.

“Robby, please.”

He nods against your neck, sitting up only long enough to roll the condom down his length before his weight is back on you, pressing you into the mattress. He flexes his hips against you but this time, the thick head of his cock catches against your entrance and he starts to ease inside, achingly slow. His eyes stay fixed to yours as he does.

“You feel so fucking good,” Robby says, face buried against your neck. You clench around him in response and he chokes on a groan. “Don’t do that, I’m trying not to embarrass myself here.”

You do it again for good measure.

He lifts his head, eyes narrowed at you, and pulls his hips back, his cock dragging against the same spot that made you come on his fingers. He thrusts forward with a sharp snap of his hips that punches the air from your lungs.

He sets a pace that has you seeing stars and moaning his name like a prayer. Your orgasm builds, coiling tight in your center, but you’re not ready for the release. You push against Robby’s shoulder and his expression grows concerned, a deep crease forming between his brows as he pulls back, allowing you room to sit up.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks.

“No, no,” you assure him. “I just…can I get on top?”

A boyish grin chases the worry from his face and he flops onto his back in the empty space on the mattress. You laugh as you straddle his hips though it turns into moan when you sink down onto his cock. The angle is deeper and there’s an added friction to your clit with every roll of your hips. Robby’s hands are everywhere, squeezing your ass roughly or pinching a tight nipple between his fingers.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, head pressed back into the pillow, the long line of his neck on display. “Just like that.”

You place your hands on his chest for balance, the dusting of coarse hair tickling your palms. When you lean forward, he meets you in a kiss that’s mostly shared breath. Your pace slows and Robby takes over, his feet planted on the mattress to thrust up into you.

“Come for me,” he says against your lips. “I need it, sweetheart, come on.”

You drop your head against his neck, licking at the sweat damp skin as your orgasm returns, no longer a slow building wave but a tsunami that floods your nerves and leaves you drowning in sensation. Your walls tighten around his cock and he groans, dragging you down onto his lap and holding you there as he pulses inside of you.

Sweat cools on your skin. Your breathing slows. His hands trail up and down your back, the gentle touch and cold air of your room making your skin prickle. You lift your head and press your forehead against his.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble.

“Just Robby is fine,” he says.

You lift your head so that he can see you roll your eyes before slowly getting up, a satisfying ache in your muscles and between your legs. You go to the bathroom and Robby comes in as you’re washing your hands, tossing the condom in the trash and washing his hands as well.

You return to bed, crawling beneath the blankets. Robby joins you, lying on his back so that you can rest your head on his chest, your eyelids already heavy with exhaustion.

“Will you stay with me?”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

Robby wakes to sunlight and the smell of coffee. He stretches before finally rolling out of bed and finding his sweatpants on the floor, pulling them on to follow the scent of dark roast straight to the kitchen.

He finds you at the counter, your hips swaying to a song that plays at a low volume from a bluetooth speaker on your dining table. A pan sizzles on the stove and you pour the contents of a bowl into it. He steps up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your neck. You turn in his hold and kiss him, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He could get used to mornings like this.

When you turn back around, you pick up a knife and reach for the basket of fruit on the counter, plucking something from the pile.

“I hope that’s not an avocado.”

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or commenting 💕

Masterlists

[kysstar]

SALT ON YOUR CROWN | KIM HONGJOONG

pairing : : pirate!kim hongjoong x princess!reader

genre/trope : : pirate au, enemies to lovers, slow burn, captor x captive (kinda?)

warnings : : cursing, blood, violence, torture, forced marriage etc.

author's note : : another series *sigh* someone needs to strap me down istg. anygays, ateez, and pirate aus? a classic. pirate x princess? nothing new. im a basic bitch alright? also, you'll have to imagine you have an older brother here!! for plot purposes. comment if you want to be added to the taglist!

OOO. SYNOPSIS

Captain Hongjoong didn’t mean to kidnap a princess.

They were after a merchant’s daughter—an easy snatch-and-sail job. Hold her for ransom, get paid, vanish with gold in their pockets. What they dragged aboard instead was a princess. A real one. Draped in silk, sharp in the eyes, and far too calm for someone who’d just been kidnapped.

Captain Hongjoong wants nothing to do with her. He hates crowns, hates what they stand for, hates the smug tilt of her chin. He’s ready to toss her back into the sea or straight onto a palace doorstep.

But then she offers him a bargain: one month of hiding, until the wedding she never asked for is over, and she’ll pay double what she’s worth.

He agrees—for the gold. Not for her.

She’s meant to be lying low, staying quiet. Instead, she lingers at the edges of their heists, learning the ropes, laughing with the crew, slipping out of her royal skin day by day. It should bother him. It does.

She’s fire in velvet. Trouble in disguise. And she doesn’t belong on his ship.

But the sea doesn’t care for rules. And some mistakes are harder to throw overboard than others.

OOO. CHAPTERS

chapter one : : plan gone south

chapter two : : silk to stitch

chapter three : : dark corners

chapter four : : ?? [coming soon!]

© kysstar

[godjustkys]

THEME: it's just hate sex with dean..

CHARACTER: male reader x dean winchester

NOTE: as promised, dean winchester one shot. also!! requests are open.

WARNING: breeding kink,, clothed sex,, dirty talk,, degradation,, slight dacryphilia,, hair pulling,, short and not proof-read :(

“..hhhfuck—” dean breathed out lowly, grasping onto the table's edge for dear life. his back was arched slightly, forehead pressed against the wooden surface itself.

dean was bent over a table, and you were fucking him from behind. your hands holding his hips firmly, thrusting in and out at a steady pace. sure, it was stable, but it wasn't fast enough for dean. he wanted you to be rougher. “Don't be a bitch, dean.” you cooed gently, pushing one hand up dean's spine, the action more sensual than anything. “let me hear you.” in response, the other just gritted his teeth, letting out a small frustrated groan. how could he let this happen? he hated you, he hated every single bone of your body.

“you- fuck like a virgin.” dean mumbled out, his tone bitter. ��this your first time? you experimenting, huh?” he quipped, lifting his head up and turning it to the side, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. You let out an amused scoff in response, suddenly pushing your hips forward, the action harsh and quick. it made dean stumble, knees buckling for a moment, his grip on the edge tightening. he turned his head away immediately clenching his jaw.

“don't try to taunt me, dean. you're the one taking my cock like a damn slut right now. i can feel you clenching around me,” you spoke, leaning forward, your chest just above his back. “shh-shut the fuck up, you son of a bitch—” dean responded with a strained voice, his face twitching in annoyance. or maybe from the fact that he was holding back so many sounds. he pretended like he didn't like what you said, but god, he only got harder. his abdomen tensed too. fuck. “listen to yourself right now..” you muttered, your lips right next to his ear. “the little gasps? yeah, you love this,” your tone took a more confident edge.

dean hadn't even realized that he was gasping, letting out soft breaths that soon evolved to pants. “Mmhhm—” he let out an agitated groan that turned into a humourless chuckle. “you- keep telling yourself that-” he choked out. “oh, I don't need to. you think I would've been able to get you into this position if you didn't want it? aren't you a big, strong hunter?” you teased, moving one hand to the back of his neck. soon enough, you gripped his hair, pulling his head back. “so, tell me,” you urged him, pressing a kiss to his throat. “tell me how much you want this. how much you want my cock, how good you feel right now.”

dean kept quiet, his breathing laboured and heavy. his eyes fluttered shut as you continued kissing his throat, eyebrows stitched together. “go to hell.” he spoke as he tried to squirm out of your grip. “no, no dean,” you pressed gentle kisses against his skin again, making your way from his throat to the nape of his neck, letting go of his messy hair. “not what i asked for,” the moment you said the word 'asked' you thrusted in deeper, as if enunciating your point, making dean squirm even more. “but I'll let it slide.” you breathed out, eyes boring into the back of his head.

“shhh..shit. fuck fuck fuck-” dean groaned out, his eyes screwed shut. “you're a bastard-” he said before letting out a mewl, of all things. you let out a small chuckle, letting your pace increase - you couldn't torture dean for long, you were starting to feel bad with all his jittery squirming. “mhm? what else?” you inquired softly, so innocently, as if you weren't pounding him from the back. dean could take this, of course he could. But then, both of your hands moved back to dean's hips, grip firm, as you pulled him against you. essentially, making his ass meet your pelvis.

“hhn!” he gritted out, his fingers curling up around the edge of the table. “d- don't you manhandle me.” he protested weakly, his thighs tensing and hips stuttering. “that's not manhandling, dean. d'you want me to, though?” you asked gently, keeping your pace steady. of course, no response from the man under you. he'd be lying through his teeth if he said he wasn't curious as to what manhandling felt like, but he didn't have it in him to ask for that. let alone from you, someone he loathed. he's chastising himself for even letting this happen. his pride - wounded.

as dean continued his silent treatment of sorts, you decided for him. why the fuck not? gotta have some fun in a way, right? you pulled out, only momentarily, as you flipped dean over to his back with ease, earning a small, barely even audible yelp from the hunter. you pushed your way back in with slight resistance, dean's abdomen tensing as you did, his hands scrambling to grasp at something. well shit, his hands couldn't reach the table's edge anymore. and reaching for the edge above him would be uncomfortable. you noted his actions, realising immediately that he didn't want to touch you.

“damn, not even gonna put your hands on me?” you asked with a slightly offended tone, shifting on your feet to find a better, more comfortable angle. “c'mon..” you groaned out, one hand gripping dean's still clothed thigh, the other moving up to grip his jaw. “you want to, right? fuck your ego, dean. just do it.” you urged, your face so close to his. his vision was slightly unfocused, his toes curling just a bit. the thought was so tempting. his mind was starting to get lost in the pleasure you were providing, his skin tingling under your touch. “ain't happening.” he managed weakly, his face a.. a scowl? seriously?

“what a bitch,” you muttered in disbelief. “i've already got you where I wanted to, what's the point of giving me attitude, hm?” you pressed, the sound of your (unbuckled) belt buckle getting progressively louder due to your thrusts getting deeper. the slick sound of your cock going in and out of dean's hole progressing in volume, too. dean almost bit his tongue while trying to contain his noises. he wasn't going to give it to you. “baby, you've gotta be more compliant than that..” you cooed gently, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips that dean didn't return. he wanted to. fuck you were so hot. soft groans escaped his throat, his lips pressed to a thin line as his hands gripped at literally nothing.

“how 'bout we make a deal, hm?” you suggested suddenly, your thrusts slowing down but not stopping. that grabbed dean's interest. “you stop holding back.. and I won't mention this, ever again.” he shot you a skeptical look. you? not talking about this? what a joke. “i promise.” you added, your tone almost pleading. “i just gotta know how good I make you feel. that's enough for me.” you breathed out, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the skin of his thigh. “i'll kill you- if- if you don't keep that stupid promise.” dean threatened, albeit with a shaky voice. he was far too easy to deal with.

finally, after what seemed an eternity, one of dean's hands found their way to your shoulder, the other reaching to hold onto your waist - or more so your shirt. due to his newfound compliance, you could give it your all without him trying to hold back. you pushed your cock all the way in, because you hadn't yet. safe to say that the man you were currently fucking the living daylight out of didn't know you weren't bottoming out. “Ah!- motherfuckerrrr-- mmhh—” he whimpered out in a broken voice, his hand moving from your shoulder to the side of your neck. his face was scrunched up, eyes shut tightly.

what heavenly sounds. you let a smile creep up onto your face as you kissed him, passionately, this time dean reciprocating the kiss even if he was a bit late. he let out deep grunts every time you thrusted in, your mouth just devouring the damned sounds. you didn't waste a second, pushing your tongue into his mouth and swirling it against his. dean's breath stuttered, almost feeling overwhelmed, his thighs aching beyond belief. when you pulled away from the kiss to catch your breath, dean spoke up. “are you fucking trying to suck out my soul?” he seethed, panting heavily.

“somethin' like that, yeah.” you breathed out, your eyes locked onto his neck as your hand that was on his jaw just ran over his torso. eventually, it ended up at the hem of his shirt. you simply pushed the shirt up to his collarbone, dean's facial expression shifting to a more confused one. the moment your mouth landed on his nipple, he forced himself to hold in a girlish shriek. he wasn't used to his nipples being played with. both of the latter's hands gripped at your hair, in an attempt to ground himself but also pull you away if needed. “wh- what the fuck, man?” dean got out, his voice strained, maybe a pitch higher.

the sensation of you sucking on his nipple and pounding into him ruthlessly made him let out continuous moans, his voice breaking more with each other. eventually, he let out a sob, his fingers tightening in your hair, the stinging pain making you groan against dean's skin. you could feel his thighs trembling against your pelvis. you didn't stop though, as dean made no protest. but what you took notice of was his whiny moan of your name. it made your gaze shift to his face. god, it made you wish you had a camera just to take a photo and hang it on your wall. his eyes welled up with tears, just barely, his mouth agape, drool on the corners of his lips, all pretty, just for you. you trailed up kisses from his chest to his face, the action more gentle than you anticipated but oh well. “fuck, you're such a slut.” you mumbled against his cheek, your eyes closed as you got lost on the bliss that were dean's sounds, his hopeless squirming and trembling. “takin' me so well, like you were made for this.” you continued. “were you?” you inquired, your tone too sweet compared to your words.

a fucking whimper was what you got in response, his hips shamelessly rocking against yours, as if seeking friction. he wasn't getting enough? “you tryna get off, huh?” you leaned back up, gazing down at him. “ugh, I wanna breed you.” you rasped out, too lost in your own fantasies. “just imagine it, me filling you up, to the brim. with my cum. mine.” dean's face contorted an almost concerned facial expression. the worst thing was was that he didn't even hate what you said, he wasn't against it. he might've actually liked it. he pulled you down as his hands remained in your hair, still, his mouth latching onto your neck as he sucked hickeys onto your skin. you hummed out a sound in response, twitching inside dean. he only continued making sounds against your skin. he seemed desperate to have some sense of control.

dean kept his head buried into your shoulder, as the numerous and various moans, whines and whimpers escaped his lips. he was trying so hard to catch his breath, his thighs tensing around your waist. “who knew such a deep voiced hunter would make such girlish moans?” you teased mindlessly, your only focus now to just breed the fuck outta him. it was at this point that dean didn't even bother responding, frantically holding you close, his hands trembling. oh god you were too much. not that he'd admit that. the more you continued thrusting into him, the more he cried out. yes, cried. sure, tears weren't rolling down his face, but they were there, you knew they were. you could recognise it, the way his voice got high pitched and so eager.

eventually, the overwhelming heat that was pooling in your lower stomach was getting even stronger, and you were close. not even warning dean, you gave harsh thrusts, the other's body twitching helplessly in response as he gasped. you came inside with a groan, your hands holding dean's waist so severel that it might've even left bruises. dean let out a sharp hiss before it turned into a mewl, once again, and he couldn't help but get even more turned on by the liquid that was inside of him. he came, untouched, his arms wrapping around your shoulders as his blunt nails dug into your shirt. he was sweating, his head lowered.

“this ain't 'nough.” you mumbled weakly, starting to move again. goddamn it, dean was in for a night.

[cheftsunoda]

I loved you dnf story 😊

Would you write one for Lewis Hamilton, where the reader is Charles friend and he is absolut smitten with her 😊

This would be lovely 😊

smitten—lh44

smau + blurbs

lewis hamilton x !leclerc best friend reader

charles leclerc x !best friend reader

yn and charles have been best friends since childhood— he would do absolutely anything for her and she would do the same for him. charles notices that yn has been extremely stressed recently as she is in her 3rd year of surgical residency and it hasn’t been easy on her— he needs a date to the f175 event and she needs a night out. what happens when yn meets charles’ new teammate who becomes infatuated with her?

fc : kendall jenner

(a/n) : thank u for the love anon. such a cute idea:) hope you enjoy!!

—

dr_yn_ln

london, england 📍

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, carlossainz55 and 1,205,007 others.

dr_yn_ln : ate charles up at his own event tonight and gonna be in the OR tomorrow. boss girl status

tagged : charles_leclerc

—

view 127,003 other comments.

charles_leclerc : remind me why i thought bringing you was a good idea

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : because you’re emotionally dependent on me and i’m hot and you needed some eye candy on your arm.

liked by arthur_leclerc

↳ charles_leclerc : you were supposed to support me not outshine me

↳ dr_yn_ln : i was doing both.

liked by charles_leclerc and arthur_leclerc

lando : charles was just your accessory for the night

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : yes except my chanel bag doesn’t bitch and complain as much as him

liked by lando

carlossainz55 : the true smooth OPERATOR

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : love u chili 💙 will miss you this season

liked by carlossainz55

leclerc_pascale : ma belle fille ❤️

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : je t’aime maman 🥺

username0 : this is the girl that charles was with last night? she’s a doctor?

username15 : she is charles’ childhood best friend— she is a surgical resident. so yes she is a doctor.

username0 : hm. they looked cute together

franciscagomes : forever confused if i want to date you or be you.

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : leave the frenchie and run away with me

liked by franciscagomes

pierregasly : ynnnnn i know that you are a surgeon and save lives and do really cool things everyday but let me keep my girlfriend

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : no

lewishamilton : Very nice to meet you, beautiful. 🖤

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : best part of my night 🤍

liked by lewishamilton

username00 : OHHHHH oh

—

The zipper is stuck. Of course, it is. Because God has a sense of humor, and because Charles Leclerc has the upper body strength of a wet sock.

“Why is this dress built like a vault?” he grunts behind me, tugging again. My entire body jerks backward like I’ve just been possessed.

“Because it’s couture, not a jumpsuit from Zara,” I snap, bracing myself against the bathroom sink. “Can you please be gentler? That’s my spine, those are not exactly easy to fix by the way.”

Charles mutters something in French that I don’t catch, and I don’t want to, because I’m already trying not to laugh.

“This would be easier if we just stitched you into it,” he says, giving one final tug. The zipper finally gives in. “Voilà.”

I turn to face him. He’s already in his tuxedo, perfectly pressed and annoyingly smug. I swear the only thing keeping him humble is me.

“You look—ugh, whatever,” he says, making a face like looking at me is physically painful. “Hot. I guess.”

I grin. “Try not to cry about it.”

“I will cry about it,” he retorts, grabbing his cologne from the counter. “You’re going to make me look like your security guard.”

I grab my lipstick and lean over to check the mirror. “You’re lucky I’m even going. I have a 10 a.m. call at the hospital. The fact that I’m wearing heels tonight should qualify me for sainthood.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Please. You’ve stitched arteries on no sleep. You’ll survive an event.”

“And yet I might not survive you,” I mutter, dodging him as he leans in dramatically for a selfie.

“Smile, YN. We’re going to look iconic.”

“You’re going to look like a proud boyfriend and confuse the entire internet again.”

“That’s half the fun.”

We snap a few photos — him doing the classic Charles smirk, me holding a champagne glass. He scrolls through them with a satisfied nod.

“Okay, ready?” he asks, offering me his arm like we’re in a rom-com.

“No,” I reply. “But my dress is tight enough that I can’t sit, so we might as well leave.”

Charles laughs, leading me toward the door. “You’re going to outshine me tonight, aren’t you?”

I smirk. “Charles, darling… that was never in question.”

—

I lose Charles approximately four minutes into the event. One second, he’s beside me, making some snide comment about the appetizers being too small, and the next, he’s whisked away by a publicist who definitely threatened him with a smile.

I hover near the edge of the venue, sipping champagne, trying not to think about the fact that I have to scrub in for surgery in less than twelve hours and my feet are already screaming. It’s fine. I look hot. That’s what counts.

“Long night ahead?”

The voice is low, warm, and British in a way that makes me blink twice. I turn slightly — and there he is. Lewis Hamilton. Oh. I don’t know what I expected — something glossier, maybe. Untouchable. But there’s something… quiet about him in person. Intentionally lowkey. Until he looks at you — and then it’s like the world zooms in.

“Only if you count a 10 a.m. surgical rotation as fun,” I reply, offering a wry smile.

His gaze drops briefly to my glass, then back to my face. “That explains the minimal champagne.”

“That and the fact that Charles will cry if I leave him at this party alone.”

Lewis huffs a laugh. “So you’re the infamous best friend.”

“In the flesh,” I say, tilting my head. “And you must be the new teammate. The one Charles was pretending not to be nervous about meeting.”

He smiles — all soft charm and good energy. “I wasn’t sure you were real. He talks about you like you’re some mythological figure. The perfect hybrid between chaos and competence.”

I snort. “Well, I am in heels, fully glam, and technically still on call. So he’s not entirely wrong.”

There’s a pause. He’s still looking at me — in that calm, deliberate way that feels… different. Not surface-level. Like he’s filing things away.

“Well,” he says after a beat, “chaos and competence suits you.”

“You’re not too bad yourself,” I reply, raising a brow. “Though I’m still not sure if I like you yet.”

That makes him grin, something slightly crooked and entirely lethal.

“Challenge accepted, doctor.”

And just like that, Charles reappears — hair windblown, tie askew, muttering something about media interviews being invented by demons. He opens his mouth to speak, then stops. Looks at Lewis. Looks at me. Looks back at Lewis.

“Oh no,” Charles says dramatically. “I was gone for seven minutes.”

—

The party is dimming — not done, but definitely winding down. The lights are softer now. The photographers have mostly disappeared. People are half-drunk, laughing too loud, shoes quietly coming off under tables. Charles is deep in conversation across the room, talking animatedly with someone in Ferrari red. I slip away. No drama, no announcement — just a quiet exit toward the side hallway, where the noise drops off behind thick doors and everything feels… still. I find the terrace by instinct, the same way I find a break room at the hospital when I need five minutes to breathe. It’s empty, quiet, with city lights stretching out beneath the railing.

Except it’s not totally empty. Lewis is already out there. He’s leaning on the stone balustrade, one hand in the pocket of his suit, his bowtie untied and hanging loose around his collar. He turns slightly when I step outside. His smile is immediate. Soft. Familiar in a way I wasn’t expecting.

“Escaping?” he asks.

I shrug, walking to the edge. “Resetting.”

“Same,” he says, eyes back on the skyline. “Events are good… until they’re not.”

I laugh under my breath. “That’s exactly how I feel about 48-hour shifts.”

His gaze flicks over to me — curious. “You really love it, don’t you? Surgery.”

“Most days,” I say truthfully. “Some days it breaks you. But I think the best things always do, in a way.”

Lewis nods, quiet for a second. “Charles wasn’t exaggerating.”

“About what?”

“That you’re sharp as hell.”

That makes me smile. I tilt my head toward him. “Did he also mention that I’m usually the reason he’s late to things and that I once made him cry laughing during a press conference?”

“That part he did mention.”

We share a look, and it’s easy — the kind of ease that doesn’t feel forced. It settles into the air between us, warm and slow.

“Charles told me you’d hate this kind of event,” Lewis says after a beat. “Said he had to bribe you with food and the promise of no press.”

“I told him I’d only come if he let me insult him in public at least once,” I reply. “Which I did. Twice, actually.”

His laugh is low and genuine. “You’ve got him wrapped around your finger.”

“I was here first,” I say simply. “You’re just the shiny new teammate.”

“Mm,” he hums. “I’m not sure that’s the only reason you’re watching me like that.”

My stomach flips, and I blink. “I wasn’t—”

“You are now.”

He turns to face me fully, and suddenly the air feels different — heavier but not uncomfortable. His voice drops just slightly, not for effect, but like he’s being honest in a way not everyone gets.

“I like you,” he says. “I don’t know how else to say it. You walk into a room and the whole thing shifts.”

I swallow. “You’ve known me for like… an hour.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about you since minute ten.”

I look at him for a long moment — the kind of look that weighs the risk, the timing, the absolutely horrible idea this could be… and how much I don’t care.

“You’re not just saying that because I look like a Bond girl tonight?”

His smile tugs wider, slow and soft. “I think you’d be dangerous even in scrubs.”

I step closer, just slightly — the space between us narrowing, but not quite gone.

“You’re not what I expected,” I murmur.

He tilts his head. “Good or bad?”

“I don’t know yet,” I whisper, smiling. “Ask me again in the morning.”

Lewis leans in, but not fully — waiting, giving me the moment. So I close the distance. The kiss is slow — unhurried, thoughtful. Like we’re both aware this could change everything. And maybe we want it to. When we pull back, I stay close, forehead against his.

“You realize Charles is going to lose his mind, right?” I breathe.

“I’ll survive,” Lewis says quietly. “Will he?”

We both laugh — quietly, together — and in the distance, I hear someone call my name. Probably Charles, looking for me with a plate of dessert and twenty questions.

—

The hallway is quiet when I step out of the elevator, heels in one hand, the other gently smoothing out my dress that’s seen better hours. I slip the key card into the door, trying to be quiet—though the dramatic click of the lock disengaging kind of ruins that plan. I step in and immediately freeze. Charles is sitting on the edge of the bed. Not lounging. Not half-asleep. No.

He’s sitting upright, arms crossed, still fully dressed down to his cufflinks, like some kind of tired but deeply judgmental dad whose teenage daughter missed curfew. He says nothing at first. Just raises his brows.

I blink. “…Hi?”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Oh my God,” I groan, dropping my heels and heading straight to my suitcase. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” he says. “Just sitting. Watching. Processing.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Because someone vanished halfway through the night and never came back. Then someone didn’t answer their phone. Then someone made me look like a concerned husband in front of team management when I asked if anyone had seen my best friend.”

I unzip my garment bag and pull out my travel sweats. “Well, someone was having a perfectly nice conversation with your teammate until it got very late.”

Charles inhales like he’s trying to center himself.

“Define nice,” he says finally.

I toss him a glance. “Charles.”

“I’m just asking,” he says, throwing his hands up. “Asking. In a nonjudgmental way. As your lifelong friend who also happens to know the man you were very clearly flirting with across the room for two hours—”

“Oh my God, shut up,” I mutter, grabbing my toiletry bag and heading for the bathroom. “Don’t go full protective brother on me. You literally invited me to this.”

“I invited you for a night out, not to elope with Lewis Hamilton,” he calls after me.

I shout back, “You’re being dramatic.”

He mutters something in French. I ignore it.

When I come back out, freshly changed and makeup wiped off, he’s still sitting there. I zip up my duffel bag and check the time.

4:38 AM.

The jet he arranged is wheels-up in just under two hours so I can get back to the hospital in time for rounds. No sleep for me. Again.

Charles watches me fuss with my charger cord for a moment before asking quietly, “So… are you okay?”

I stop, meeting his eyes. That’s the thing about Charles. Under all the teasing and fake-older-brother energy, he knows me too well. Knows when to joke, when to pry, and when to just… check in.

“I’m okay,” I say honestly. “It was just… nice. To not be a resident. Or a surgeon. Or anything else, for a few hours.”

He nods.

“Also,” I add as I grab my bag, “Lewis told me he wants to kiss me again when we aren't hiding from you.”

Charles makes a noise like he’s physically in pain.

“Goodnight, Charles,” I say sweetly, walking past him.

“Have a safe flight,” he groans, flopping backward onto the bed like a man defeated. “And if I see one headline, I’m telling your attending you flew to London while on call and made out with a 7 time world champ.”

“You’d have to prove it,” I smirk, blowing him a kiss before shutting the door behind me.

—

dr_yn_ln

liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton, arthur_leclerc & 1,708,443 others.

dr_yn_ln : i haven’t slept in 48 hours HELP

—

view 125,034 other comments.

lando : why do you still look this good on no sleep REF DO SOMETHING 🗣️

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : DO SOMETHING REF (me after i’m put on for another 4am surgery) (george when max comes near him)

liked by lando, maxverstappen1 and charles_leclerc

username0 : i can’t with her she is so fucking funny

arthur_leclerc : ynnnn remember how you said i can borrow the porsche

liked by dr_yn_ln

↳ dr_yn_ln : sadly yes i do recall

arthur_leclerc : 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

↳ dr_yn_ln : sigh. it is with me at the hospital. come get her. im having someone pick me up anyways.

arthur_leclerc : 🏃🏻

↳ dr_yn_ln : he’s a runner he’s a trackstar

liked by arthur_leclerc

charles_leclerc : WHO is coming to pick you up because i know it isn’t me

↳ dr_yn_ln : he gon run away when it gets hard

liked by arthur_leclerc

charles_leclerc : YN MN LN now.

username0 : her blatantly ignoring charles is taking me out

username15 : i wish her and charles would just date. they are so cute

↳ charles_leclerc : maman and arthur have been trying for years — it will never happen.

↳ dr_yn_ln : charles is hot but he annoys tf outta me

liked by charles_leclerc

arthur_leclerc : i literally gave a whole presentation on why you two would work. neither of you took it seriously. i had slides.

↳ dr_yn_ln : you had transitions and background music.

↳ charles_leclerc : he made us hold hands and look into each others eyes like it was couples therapy. i still have not recovered.

↳ arthur_leclerc : love is real and you two are cowards.

lilymhe : gorg and can save a life. lethal combo

liked by dr_yn_ln

lewishamilton : see you soon 🤍

liked by dr_yn_ln

—

There’s a very specific kind of exhaustion that hits after a 48-hour call shift — a dull throb behind the eyes, like my brain is trying to shut down completely but the rest of me is too wired on bad coffee and adrenaline to let it. So when I stumble out of the hospital’s staff entrance with my hair tied up, eyes puffy, and scrubs looking like they’ve been through a war zone, I am not prepared for what’s waiting by the curb. Arthur. Leaning dramatically against my Porsche like he owns it, wearing sunglasses even though it’s overcast, chewing gum like he’s in a teen romcom.

“Bonjour, Docteur Boss,” he says, arms crossed. “Did you save lives and break hearts today?”

“I’m too tired to punch you,” I mutter, handing him the keys. “So you’re lucky.”

He catches the keys midair.

“This is the coolest I’ve ever felt,” he says, sliding into the driver’s seat but leaving the door open. “I’m taking the roof down and playing French rap at full volume.”

"I will physically end you if you scratch it."

“You’re so violent for someone who takes oaths,” he says sweetly.

I groaned and rolled my eyes, trying to keep myself up right.

Arthur eyes me for a beat. “Soooooo…”

I crack one eye open. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

“You were going to ask about Lewis.”

He gasps, scandalized. “I was—but now that you’ve brought him up, yes. Did he kiss you again? Is this a thing? Do I have to start emotionally preparing for you to date the GOAT?”

I give him a look. “Why are you acting like you’re about to walk me down the aisle?”

“I just think he’d be a great brother-in-law,” he says with a shrug. “Very respectful. Very cool. Good jawline.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I know,” he grins, then glances down the street. “Speaking of your soulmate…”

I turn, and sure enough, there he is. Lewis. Looking stupidly good in a hoodie and sweatpants like he didn’t just wake up early to pick me up after the longest shift of my life. Roscoe’s in the back seat of his car with his tongue out, already happy to see me. He spots me, smiles that slow, soft smile — the one that makes my tired bones ache in a completely different way — and gives a little wave. Arthur watches the whole thing unfold like he’s watching the finale of a romance drama.

“Tell him I said hi,” he says dreamily, already putting the car in drive.

“You’re being weird.”

“Tell him,” Arthur insists as he pulls off, windows down, blasting Aya Nakamura at full volume.

I shake my head and cross the sidewalk toward Lewis’s car. He gets out and meets me halfway, pulling me into a hug before I can say anything. His arms are warm and his hoodie smells like laundry and eucalyptus. I kind of melt into him.

“Hey, doc,” he murmurs into my hair. “Rough shift?”

“Brutal,” I sigh. “I think I forgot what sleep is.”

“I’ve got smoothies, your favorite protein bar, and Roscoe’s been practicing his ‘cheer up’ face.”

I pull back just enough to smile at him.

“You’re unreal.”

Lewis grins. “Get in the car. You’re done being a superhero for today.”

I nod, finally letting myself relax as he guides me into the passenger seat, like I didn’t just spend two days elbow-deep in someone’s abdomen. Roscoe licks my arm. I don’t even flinch. And as we pull away from the hospital, I text Arthur.

“he says hi, btw. now please don’t crash my car or play your sad boy shit in it.”

“no promises. also i already named it. she’s called La Baddie.”

—

The world feels a little floaty when I step out of the shower — the kind of tired that’s deeper than sleep, woven into my muscles and bones. My skin’s still damp, and my hair’s twisted into a bun on top of my head with a claw clip I nearly dropped into the toilet twice. Everything aches. But when I walk into Lewis’s bedroom, the lights are low and golden, the bed already turned down. My favorite show is queued up on the TV, paused at the opening screen. And there — neatly folded on the edge of the bed — is one of Lewis’s old t-shirts. Soft. Faded. Worn in all the best ways. I don’t even have to ask if it was for me. Of course it was. Roscoe lifts his head from his bed in the corner and gives me a sleepy tail wag, then goes back to snoring. I change slowly, my body stiff, and when I pull the t-shirt over my head, it falls mid-thigh and smells like Lewis. That clean, citrusy scent that always clings to his hoodies and pillows. I crawl into bed and instantly sigh into the pillows — it’s like sinking into a cloud. The door creaks softly a moment later.

Lewis walks in with a glass of water and my lip balm, because he knows I’ll forget both. He doesn’t say anything, just sets them down on the bedside table, pulls the covers up over me, and leans down to press a kiss to my temple.

“Come here,” I mumble sleepily, reaching for him.

He chuckles under his breath — low and warm — and climbs in beside me, one arm wrapping around my waist and pulling me close until my head’s tucked under his chin and my legs are tangled with his. His fingers stroke slow, soothing lines down my back.

“You did good, sweetheart,” he whispers, like he knows I need to hear it.

I hum against his chest, eyelids already heavy. “Mmm… you’re warm. And big.”

Lewis laughs again, soft and quiet. “You’re delirious.”

“You love it,” I murmur, drifting.

“I do,” he says, no hesitation.

I fall asleep in his arms before the episode even starts. And for the first time in 48 hours, everything feels still.

—

I wake up slowly — the kind of slow where you don’t even realize you’ve opened your eyes until the sunlight starts to sting a little. The bed smells like eucalyptus and detergent, and the t-shirt I fell asleep in is soft against my skin, worn-in in the way only his clothes are. The first thing I notice? Silence. No pagers. No monitors. No trauma codes being yelled down a hallway. Just a low hum of music from the kitchen and the sound of a spatula hitting a pan. I stretch, bones cracking like an old house settling. Roscoe lifts his head from his bed near the door and wags his tail lazily, like he’s been up for hours but didn’t want to wake me. Bless that dog. The smell hits me next — pancakes, cinnamon, maybe… caramelized bananas?

I shuffle out of the bed in just Lewis’s oversized tee, feet cold on the hardwood as I pad toward the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. And there he is. Lewis, barefoot, shirtless, wearing gray sweatpants and an apron that says “Kiss the Chef” with a ridiculous grin on his face as he flips pancakes like he’s in a Michelin-star kitchen.

“Good morning, Doc,” he says without turning around.

“You’re unreal,” I mumble, slumping against the kitchen island. “Tell me I didn’t hallucinate this.”

“You didn’t. You did, however, sleep for fourteen hours.”

My jaw drops. “No.”

“Roscoe took shifts watching over you. I made him head of security.”

Roscoe woofs softly from his corner like he’s confirming his job title.

I blink blearily at Lewis as he plates two golden, perfect pancakes and tops them with a ridiculous amount of whipped cream. “Why are you like this?”

“Because you don’t know how to rest, so someone’s gotta teach you.”

He places the plate in front of me and slides a glass of fresh juice next to it.

I raise a suspicious eyebrow. “Are you fattening me up to make me take a nap again?”

“Not quite,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “I have a full spa day booked for us. At-home. Massages, facials, steam diffuser thingies. You’re not allowed to lift a finger.”

My eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He leans back on the counter, arms folded and smirking. “I even stocked the fridge with all your weird juice bar orders and bought that overpriced candle you cried over in London.”

“You remembered the candle?!”

Lewis shrugs like it’s nothing. “You looked like it meant a lot.”

I could cry again. I might cry again. Instead, I just stare at him, overwhelmed and speechless, and say the only thing that comes to mind.

“You’re my favorite person.”

“Good,” he says, tapping the plate. “Now eat your pancakes and prepare to be pampered. Doctor’s orders.”

—

I’m pretty sure Lewis missed his calling as a wellness guru. Because after breakfast, I’m wrapped in a plush robe that smells like lavender, sitting cross-legged on his couch with one of those fancy golden face masks on — the kind I always scroll past because they’re “too expensive” but still cry over when they’re sold out.

The lights are dimmed, there are no fewer than eleven candles lit, and there’s some soft R&B playing from his speaker. Roscoe is curled up nearby like a sleepy little bean, also living his best life.

“I’m going to fall asleep again,” I mumble through the mask as Lewis pads in from the kitchen with a tray of tea and fruit. “This is too much. You’ve created a nap trap.”

He grins and sets the tray down with practiced hands. “That’s the point. Recovery phase.”

“Recovery from what? Being alive?”

“Exactly. You’re under intensive care.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s hard to fight the smile tugging at my lips. Especially when he kneels in front of me and starts painting my nails — light, sheer pink. The kind I never wear because I don’t have time, and gloves make it pointless.

“Where did you even find this color?”

“You mentioned it once.”

I blink down at him. “I was ranting about how surgical gloves make manicures a waste of time.”

“And I remembered. Because you still looked really pretty while ranting.”

I pause. He doesn’t meet my eyes, too focused on making sure the polish doesn’t streak.

The silence buzzes for a second before I crack. “Okay, now you’re just trying to make me fall in love with you.”

He smirks — cocky, devastating, and so smug it makes me want to flick him in the forehead. “Is it working?”

I groan and flop back onto the couch. “It’s working too well, I need an emotional support dog.”

Roscoe lets out a soft snore. Useless. After the nails, there’s a massage. Lewis sets everything up in the guest room like he’s been doing this for years — soft towels, diffuser going, and the most relaxing playlist I’ve ever heard.

I lie face down and barely manage to mumble, “You’re taking this overachiever thing a little far,” before I completely melt into the table.

His hands are warm and skilled, pressing into all the right spots with practiced gentleness, careful around the tension in my shoulders. Somewhere between the lavender oil and his fingers stroking slow circles down my spine, I feel my eyes drift shut again. When I wake up, I’m tucked back into his bed, the candles are still burning low, and Lewis is curled around me — arms tight, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. And I think — if this is what rest feels like, maybe I could get used to it. Maybe I could get used to him.

—

By the time I’m slipping into the dress Lewis left hanging in the closet for me — a silky black number that fits too well for it to be a coincidence — I know something’s up. He hasn’t told me much about where we’re going. Just, “Wear something that makes you feel like the main character. I’ve got everything else.” When I walk out, he’s standing by the door in a crisp black suit, no tie, just enough cologne to make me dizzy. His eyes sweep over me slowly, like he wants to remember it.

“Damn,” he breathes, smile crooked. “You’re gonna ruin me tonight.”

“Big talk,” I tease, grabbing my clutch. “You haven’t even fed me yet.”

The drive is quiet. Peaceful. We don’t play music — we just exist in this calm little bubble, where the world feels too soft to touch us. He pulls into a private villa outside the city, the kind tucked behind high hedges with a single lantern-lit path winding toward a glass-walled restaurant overlooking a private garden. There are no other guests. Just a table set for two beneath a canopy of fairy lights. My stomach does a weird flip.

“I told them I wanted it quiet,” he says, hand on my lower back as he guides me forward. “Didn’t want to share you with the world tonight.”

I laugh, but it comes out softer than I expect. “You’re being weirdly romantic.”

He just shrugs, eyes not leaving mine. “Weird’s better than too late.”

Dinner is soft conversation and slow bites, the kind where you don’t even realize you’re smiling until your cheeks hurt. He watches me the whole time — not like I’m something to figure out, but like I’m something he already knows by heart. When dessert comes — a tiny chocolate something I barely touch — he reaches across the table and takes my hand.

“Can I say something?” he asks, voice lower now.

I nod, suddenly very aware of my heartbeat.

“I’ve liked you for a while.” He smiles a little. “But I didn’t want to be another thing pulling at your time. You already give so much of yourself to everything and everyone.”

I can’t speak. I just look at him, blinking, heart thudding like it’s trying to get out.

“But that night,” he goes on, thumb brushing my knuckles, “watching you talk with everyone, hearing you laugh like you hadn’t in weeks… I just knew. I didn’t want to be on the outside of your life anymore. I want in. All the way in.”

I finally manage a whisper. “Lewis…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says quickly. “I know you’ve got a million things pulling you in every direction. I just needed you to know where I stand.”

I squeeze his hand. “I’ve been standing in the same spot this whole time. Just didn’t know I was allowed to look your way.”

The tension breaks — just like that. He exhales, eyes crinkling as he leans across the table and presses a kiss to my hand.

“I’m looking,” he murmurs. “And I’m not looking away.”

—

f1gossipgirls

257,054 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Lewis Hamilton in love? Lewis has been seen out multiple days in a row with none other than Charles Leclerc’s childhood best friend, Dr. Yn Ln. The two were seen multiple times in Monaco, either shopping, having dinner together or leaving in his car. What do we think about this couple?

—

view 10,347 other comments. 

username00 : honestly i am down bc yn is the sweetest and she is a literal doctor. rather her than another random model.

username15 : i just know charles is STRESSED

username8 : poor arthur. he pulled out all the stops to try and get yn with charles only for her to end up with his teammate LMAO

username7 : this is so cute i am obsessed with these two

username5 : power couple

usenrame20 : @/arthur_leclerc how is charles??

↳ arthur_leclerc : he is…well. charles. 

username17 : she is exactly who i always wanted lewis to end up with. i think she is good for him. 

—

My phone buzzed across the nightstand just as I was settling into bed with a mug of coffee and a very ambitious plan to ignore the world for at least 30 minutes. I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. Only one person FaceTimed like a man on the verge of an emotional breakdown.

Charles Leclerc wants to FaceTime.

I picked up, sighing, and immediately winced as his face filled the screen—hair wild, hoodie halfway off, eyes wide with panic as he paced around his kitchen like he was prepping for trial.

“YN. Tell me that article is lying. Multiple dates? Leaving in his car?! WITH LEWIS?!”

“Hi, Charles,” I said flatly, sipping my coffee.

“Don’t ‘hi’ me. What is going on?! Why am I finding out through gossip pages that my best friend is starring in her own rom-com with my teammate?!”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You were shopping. With. Lewis. Hamilton. And then dinner? And the paparazzi caught him opening your car door. Who even does that anymore?!”

I raised a brow. “Chivalry?”

“Conspiracy. That’s what it is,” Charles muttered. “And betrayal.”

I blinked. “You introduced us.”

“As friends! Not—whatever this is!” He gestured wildly. “I should’ve known when he started asking me what your favorite coffee order was. I thought he was being nice. He was plotting.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but then the screen glitched and suddenly a second face popped up beside Charles, looking far too pleased. Arthur.

“Oh no,” I groaned. “They’ve joined forces.”

“You knew and didn’t tell me?!” Arthur gasped. “Charles was spiraling and you just let him suffer? You’re evil.”

“You’re loving this.”

“I am,” Arthur grinned. “Honestly, I thought it’d happen sooner. Lewis looks at her like she hung the stars. And he brought her pastries last week—pastries, Charles. That’s endgame behavior.”

“He brought almond croissants from that place in Menton,” Charles said hollowly, like he’d just lost a war.

Arthur gasped again. “The ones with the flaky top and the powdered sugar?!”

“Yes.”

I blinked. “Do you two want to date him or—?”

“Don’t deflect!” Charles shouted. “You are not allowed to distract me with logic. I’ve known you since you had braces. I deserve a heads-up before my teammate starts making heart eyes at you in public.”

“I’ve seen your iCloud history, Charles,” I said sweetly. “We don’t owe each other anything.”

Arthur cackled.

“Okay, but seriously,” Charles said, softer now, “Is it real? You and Lewis?”

I paused, a little stunned by how quiet he sounded. “…It might be.”

He groaned and sank to the floor, off-screen. “I need a therapist.”

Arthur tilted his head with a chuckle.

“I want updates,” Charles added from the floor. “I want a full timeline. If I find out on Instagram that he’s kissed you, I’ll slash his tires in front of the FIA building.”

“Add me to the group chat,” Arthur said. “I wanna send memes.”

I shook my head and laughed, setting my mug down. “You two are ridiculous.”

Just then, the door creaked open and Lewis stepped inside, holding two takeaway bags and kicking off his shoes. His eyes landed on me—and then on my phone, where the brothers were still onscreen and very clearly squinting at him.

He blinked. “Do I… say hi or back out slowly?”

Arthur perked up. “Is that Lewis? Hey, lover boy.”

Charles sat up instantly. “Are those almond croissants?! You’re bribing her again?!”

Lewis gave me a long-suffering look. “Should I come back later?”

I grinned. “Nope. You’re in it now.”

Arthur leaned into the screen. “Lewis, welcome to the Leclerc interrogation. Please state your intentions and whether or not you believe you are boyfriend material.”

Lewis just smiled, leaned down to kiss the top of my head, and calmly replied, “Well, I did bring almond croissants again.”

Charles shrieked. Arthur cheered. And I took another sip of my coffee, already exhausted.

—

f1gossipgirls

325,074 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Dr. Yn Ln has been spotted in the paddock the last two days. There have been rumors swirling for months on whether she is currently dating Lewis Hamilton or not. She was seen in the Ferrari garage and then was seen with Susie Wolff and Lewis’ Ex Teammate, George Russell. She was seen with Lewis quite a few times during the weekend. We are still unsure at this time where these two stand.

—

view 53,098 other comments.

username00 : why was she with susie??

↳ username13 : her father is a huge investor and has known the wolff family for years. 

username00 : ah that makes sense

username15 : she is so beautiful it is unfair

username20 : they are def dating idc. i don’t want to hear anymore arguments.

username14 : they are ENDGAMEEEEE

username27 : i’m still not over her and george laughing like old friends and susie hugging her. this woman is networking on an elite level.

username16 : imagine dating lewis hamilton, being charles leclerc’s best friend, AND looking like that??? it should be illegal to be this powerful.

username22 : y’all notice how lewis magically appears every time she’s spotted? this is the most consistent thing we’ve seen from him since 2021 😭

username30 : she’s in her surgical residency and still had time to serve looks and cause grid-wide chaos? she’s not real. —

twitter!

@/scuderiaferrari : Best Friend Vs Boyfriend with Dr. YN and our drivers out now! 

Link below! 🏎️

—

The moment I walked into the Ferrari media room and saw both Charles and Lewis already sitting in front of two whiteboards with markers in hand, I knew I had made a grave mistake.

“You said this was just a fun interview,” I hissed at the poor media girl who had tricked me into this.

“It is!” she chirped. “Fun! Cute! Viral content!”

Charles was already grinning like he knew he was about to embarrass me publicly. “I’m so ready for this. I raised her. This man,” he pointed at Lewis dramatically, “has no idea what he’s in for.”

Lewis looked calm, borderline smug. “I literally spent forty-five minutes organizing her fridge last night because I knew it would make you feel better after her shift. I’m good.”

“I taught her how to ride a bike,” Charles countered, puffing his chest.

I sighed and dropped into the seat between them. “You also told me gum would stay in my stomach for seven years and convinced me to eat dirt because it would ‘build immunity.’”

“That sounds like a Charles thing,” Lewis agreed, smirking.

Charles looked offended. “It was organic dirt.”

"All dirt is organic, Cha."

I was starting to regret everything.

“Okay!” the producer called cheerily. “Let’s begin! Who knows YN best- her lifelong best friend or her seven-time world champion boyfriend?”

Lewis raised his brows at me like, No pressure, and I just gave the camera my best deadpan stare. It’s been 48 hours since I slept properly and I was about to moderate a public quiz about my own life.

What’s YN’s go-to comfort food after a long shift?

Lewis wrote immediately. Charles squinted like he was doing quantum mechanics.

“Three… two… one!”

They flipped their boards.

Lewis: Peanut butter toast with banana and honey.

Charles: Pizza. Always.

I blinked. “Okay, technically, Charles is right if I’m in a spiral. But Lewis is right if I’m functioning like a real adult.”

“Half point each?” the producer asked.

“No,” Charles said dramatically. “I am her day-one. I knew about the pizza thing since she was twelve.”

“Her metabolism thanks me,” Lewis said, giving him a dry smile.

I groaned. “Next question!”

What is YN’s irrational fear?

Charles was cackling before the question even finished. Lewis looked thoughtful.

“Three, two, one.”

Lewis: Getting stuck in a lift with strangers.

Charles: Fish with human-like teeth.

“Charles!” I yelped, smacking his arm. “I told you that in confidence!”

Lewis leaned over to look at his board. “That… that is terrifying, actually.”

“She sent me an article about it at 2am once,” Charles said. “She couldn’t sleep after seeing a picture on Twitter.”

“I was vulnerable.”

What’s YN’s guilty pleasure TV show?

Charles was scribbling so hard the marker squeaked. Lewis tapped his marker dramatically before flipping his board.

Charles: Selling Sunset.

Lewis: Selling Sunset. (She pretends she hates it.)

I covered my face. “I do not—okay, I do. But only for the outfits and chaos.”

“They’ve watched entire seasons together,” Charles whispered to the camera, as if reporting from the front lines. “She quotes Christine.”

“Only ironically!” I defended.

Lewis gave the camera a side glance. “She also paused one episode to explain the psychology of twin dynamics using the Oppenheim brothers as examples.”

Charles burst out laughing.

What’s YN’s biggest pet peeve?

“Oh, I know this,” Lewis said confidently.

Charles just stared at me, then slowly started writing. “If this is wrong, I’m sorry in advance.”

They flipped.

Lewis: People talking over others in group conversations.

Charles: When people interrupt her while she’s diagnosing herself on WebMD.

I let out a snort.

“She once made a PowerPoint about how she thought she had scurvy,” Charles said fondly. “All because she didn’t eat fruit for like two days.”

Lewis looked at me. “That’s concerning but also… weirdly on brand.”

The camera stopped rolling after a final round of chaotic banter, Charles pouting over his technical win because he got more questions right, while Lewis was busy feeding me strawberries from the snack table.

“You two are insufferable,” I told them.

Charles threw an arm around my shoulders. “You’re lucky we love you.”

Lewis smiled, stepping beside me and slipping a hand around my waist. “Very lucky.”

I leaned back against both of them, overwhelmed in that stupidly warm, quiet way I always get around the people who know me best. Yeah, I was lucky. Wildly, unbelievably lucky. Even if they did both remember the fish thing.

—

lewishamilton

liked by dr_yn_ln, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63 & 5,090,001 others.

lewishamilton : got a new teammate and found my soulmate in the same season.

tagged : dr_yn_ln

—

dr_yn_ln : charles and i are sadly a package deal. in many ways

liked by charles_leclerc and lewishamilton

↳ charles_leclerc : i don't go anywhere without my emotional support yn

liked by dr_yn_ln and lewishamilton

↳ lewishamilton : i am learning that.

arthur_leclerc : yn is a leclerc - basically. she knows all of our secrets.

liked by dr_yn_ln and lewishamilton

lando : woah woah woah. if i knew yn was not off limits i would've made moves years ago.

↳ charles_leclerc : she was never not off limits. especially for you.

lando : oh well. happy for you guys! i too would pick lewis hamilton over me.

liked by dr_yn_ln and lewishamilton

georgerussell63 : you old softie

liked by dr_yn_ln and lewishamilton

—

[southernimpala]

i love you, stupid

sam winchester x fem!reader

summary ↬ sam gets a bit too drunk after you get hurt and you're left to take care of him

notice ↬ she has finally posted!! a little angst if you squint, fluffy as always, sam being drunk, descriptions of injury nothing too crazy, writers block is a bitch (and so is finals week(but dean smut coming soon :)), no use of y/n, lowercase intended !

wordcount ↬ 3.2k

the motel bathroom smells medicinal like antiseptic, burning your nose and causing tears to flood your waterline. 

well, you aren’t sure if it’s the rubbing alcohol or the stinging from your head wound that’s making you cry. probably both.

the hunt was a success; a few stubborn vampires taking teenage girls as their victims in a nowhere town in oaklahoma, nothing you and the boys couldn’t handle. except, when a vampire manages to get their hands on you, that’s a cause for disaster. 

“can you be any more rough?” you groan. you’re sitting on top of the sink, gripping hard around the porcelain under you as dean closes the nasty gash decorating your forehead, “you stitch yourself up like this?”

 he sticks his tongue out in concentration, not bothering to entertain your words laced with pain, “almost done.” 

“i can’t believe the thing managed to throw me down a flight of stairs,” you chuckle mirthlessly, the ache stemming from your back coursing through the rest of your body as you recall the incident, “couldn’t even do its job right and just bite me.” 

dean laughs. sam, who is leaning against the bathroom door frame, doesn’t.

instead, he scoffs, “did you want it to?” 

you furrow your eyebrows, “no, sam, i was kidding—” you hiss as dean threads the last needle through, “—fuck, that stings.” 

he still doesn’t appear amused. his eyes fall to his shoes, arms crossed over his broad chest as he avoids your confused gaze, looking like a kid whose just been scolded.

you know sam doesn’t take people close to him getting hurt lightly, especially you, for a reason you can’t pinpoint. but, nothing tragic happened. you’d just been shoved and knocked out; hit your head on the last step before tumbling all the way down. compared to what else the three of you have been put through, that seems miniscule. 

except, sam isn’t taking it like some tiny paper cut or bruise. and truthfully, you were trying to make yourself feel better about the situation. losing consciousness for an hour and waking up with a much too deep tear in your forehead was enough to spook even you. but, you were fine. alive and breathing. 

“well,” dean starts, noticing the awkward tension suffocating the room, “you probably still have a concussion, so i’d take it easy tonight, see how you feel in the morning.” 

“great,” you huff sarcastically, letting him help you off the counter, “i was planning on getting plastered.” 

sam scoffs again, his eyes, weighted by something, glaring at your figure as you move to sit on one of the motel beds, “you aren’t funny.” 

“alright, what’s your problem?” you ask, now slightly annoyed at the coldness bleeding from his tone. 

“nothing,” he brushes off, “just wish you’d take this more seriously.”

“more seriously?” you repeat, surprised, and now, completely frustrated, “what do you want me to do? sulk about a scratch on my forehead?” 

“it isn’t a scratch,” he retorts, voice picking up.

“well, it certainly isn’t fatal!” you argue louder. your head starts to spin. 

“could’ve been!” 

“could not!” spots dot your vision. 

suddenly, dean moves to step in between the two of you just before you can attempt to stand up and escalate the situation. 

“alright, alright, you two, will you both calm down,” dean intervenes, like a parent taking control of his two children, his hands stopped in front of both of your chests, “she’s fine, sammy, take it easy on her, alright?” 

sam bites the inside of his cheek, looking away and nodding angrily. it takes all but a minute of silence for him to break it, “i’m going out,” he announces, words thick with emotion. 

your expression softens slightly as you hear the slight shake in his voice and see the bob in his throat as he swallows whatever is lodged there. your mouth opens and closes like a fly trap, trying to muster something to say to diffuse whatever the hell that was before he walks out. 

you jump as the door slams shut, and suddenly, all the blood—red hot with frustration and confusion—rushes back to your wound as you begin to wobble on weak legs. dean grabs your arm to stabilize you— “woah, you’re okay,”—helping you sit back on the bed as you take your head in your hands, squeezing your eyes shut as your vision blurs and spins.

you muster a laugh, “guess it’s worse off than we thought.” 

“well, gettin’ yourself all worked up will do that,” dean says, his eyebrows now creased in newfound concern at your worsening state. your eyes start to become heavy. dean notices. 

he helps you lay back against the pillows, “try and get some rest.” 

you nestle your face into the floral fabric, trying to ignore the musty smell and the ache in your chest as you take a deep breath, flashes of sam’s face, so melted in emotion and anger, burn your eyelids, “is he alright, dean?” 

“he’s fine and so are you,” dean hushes quickly, bringing the covers up over your shoulder, “i’ll go talk to him; you don’t worry ‘bout a thing but gettin’ better.” 

 at his voice’s soft assuredness, you manage to sink yourself into your drowsiness, sleep overtaking your aching body. 

when you awake, you’re immediately drawn to the dull throbbing in your temple, traveling down your arms—bruises starting to form along your skin—all the way to the bottom of your back. you groan, bringing a hand to shield your sensitive eyes from the gross, yellow light emitting from the bedside lamp, bulb flickering shadows onto the dark walls. 

the ac is loud, too loud for the migraine you’re experiencing. and the disorientation that comes after a concussion-induced nap consumes you. 

as you try to adjust your eyes and ears, you begin to sit up, looking around the room. and that’s when you realize you’re alone. 

you sigh. at least with the room to yourself you could go back to sleep easier, no snoring or loud breathing to annoy you as you heal. but as you move to turn the lamp off, you notice a note scribbled in dean’s handwriting and another room key.  

found sam. he’s at the bar. got me and him the next room over to give you space. 

if you’re reading this, go back to bed. 

you want to smile at the thoughtfulness, but ‘found sam. he’s at the bar’ causes your insides to twist. 

your eyes glance at the old digital clock beside the note, the blinking red numbers reading 4:41. you assume dean managed to drag his ass back to the new room, both probably passed out asleep at this point. you’d slept for four hours. a lot could happen in four hours. 

just make sure he’s back home, you think to yourself as you make your weak legs get out of bed. another blood rush forces you to grip the nightstand, steadying yourself as much as possible as you blink away more spots. just make sure he’s alright. 

 you leave the room, chilly june wind swirling around you under the bright moonlight, which is peeking through tree silhouettes from the nearby woods. 

the dive bar across the parking lot catches your eye, but you force yourself into the next room. unlocking the door with the spare key next to the note, your heart sinks as you creak it open and see dean, sprawled on the far right bed, passed out and snoring in the dark room, with sam nowhere to be found. 

you curse to yourself, shutting the door gently so as not to wake him. you look over at the bar again and your stomach knots. god knows what sort of state he’s in; drunk out of his mind, maybe in the middle of a fistfight with a biker gang. it all seems so much more dean winchester, but the look in sam’s eye before he left told you he wasn’t in the right state of mind, wasn’t sam. 

the loud classic rock blasting through the jukebox in the dingy bar was enough to make your head spin again. you blink rapidly to keep your vision stable as you search each face for the hazel eyes you catch yourself staring into, for the soft hair you only wish you could run your fingers through, and the smile that amplifies your pulse. 

it takes a while to find him in the crowded, small room, but sudden shouting erupting from a pool table in the far corner perks your ears.

“you think you can hustle me?” a gruff voice shouts.  

“nooooo, i knowww i can hustle youuuu,” another slurs. you recognize that voice. 

pool cues clatter on the floor. loud boots stomp. a fist connects to a face. 

your heart drops as sam’s body stumbles back into the billiard table. without hesitation, you’re pushing through the bulky crowd with newfound adrenaline. before the large, tatted man can get another hit on sam, you stand between them, shielding his body with yours, broken and bruised. 

“stop!” you yell, digging your hand into sam’s chest to keep him against the table, “he’s leaving okay, he’s leaving.” 

you can’t look at sam’s face, but you feel his eyes, hooded with impairment, burning holes into your figure.

“look at this,” the man laughs grossly, “this one’s got a bitch saving his ass.” 

sam wrestles against your hold, “shut up!” 

“what was that boy?” the man takes another burley step toward you, but you hold your ground.

“get away from us,” you demand. the man’s face twists as your vision blurs again, “we’re leaving.” 

you grab sam’s shoulders firmly, forcing him out as he struggles to break free, “let go of me!” 

ignoring his feeble attempts at rushing back to the man—his body shaking with rage against you—you manage to make it out of the bar and into the brisk night air again. 

“sam, can you—” you grunt as you heave his arm higher around yours, struggling under the deadweight, “—can you help me out a little here?” 

his breath reeks of whiskey as it fans across your face, “that jackasssss—should’ve shown h-him who i—” he hiccups, “—ammm!” 

“god, how much did you drink?” you think aloud, the motel room getting closer. 

he giggles drunkenly, “not enough!” 

you roll your eyes, propping him up on the dirty brick as you unlock the door, sam instantly bursting inside. he stumbles into a dusty lamp, laughing to himself as he trips about the room. he eventually lands on the mattress, sprawling out and staring at the ceiling. 

you take a wobbly seat in the chair across the beds, rubbing a stressed hand across your forehead, careful not to graze over the fresh stitches in your skin. 

“this bed is comfortable!” he shouts, forcing you to shush him harshly. 

the small bit of relief you feel now that sam’s in your sights, alive and not getting his ass handed to him in some back alley behind the bar, fades quickly as he starts rambling, giggling, and  acting like dean after a rough bender. 

“sam, what the hell is wrong with you?” you ask exasperatedly. 

“what do you mean?” he asks, clueless, “i feel great!” 

your tongue pokes your cheek, “why did dean leave you in that bar?” 

sam smiles strangely, “he didn’t leaveeee, i made him.” 

“yeah, and how did you do that?” you ask, unbelieving. you know dean would never leave his brother in this state regardless of how hard sam tries to shoo him off. 

“well, i wasn’t like this,” he states, as if you should’ve known that already. he shrugs, “i just told him i’d be back in an hour… like three hours ago,” a giggle bursts past his whisky lips, “what an idiot!” 

“this isn’t like you,” you huff, standing up to help him sit upright; just in case he starts vomiting. 

 “why can’t it be like me?” he hiccups, “oh, so—dean’s the only one to have all the fun?” 

“no, i—” suddenly, waking dean and letting him handle whatever the hell is happening with his brother seems like your favorite way of dealing with this. “i just wanna know what’s wrong.” 

 under the dim light illuminating half of his face, reflecting off the green and yellow in his iris, you finally notice how tired he looks. and not so much physically. emotionally, it seems like he went through a trainwreck—baggy under eyes, flushed cheeks, waterline rimmed red. 

“you,” he whines, mind still in a brandy induced fog. 

you bite your lip, “you can hate me for dragging you out of there sam, but, i still need to know what’s—” 

“yeah, you!” his voice picks up again. 

you wonder if it’s your head trauma or the confusion causing your head to spin

“sam, i don’t—” 

“i couldn’t even stitch you up myself,” he mumbles, words dipped in delirium, “hands were shake—” he hiccups again, “—my hands were shaking and i knew i couldn’t so dean had to.” 

 you’re silent as he rambles and runs a stressed hand through his tousled brown hair, soft despite the sweat accumulating by his temple, “i wanted to do it but i couldn’t stop remembering you falling down those—” another hiccup, “—down those stairs.” 

without warning, sadness crashes over his face like a tidal wave, the giddy drunken smile morphing into a depressed frown, brows furrowed, eyes now heavy and teary-eyed, “i thought you were done; all the blood from your head and how many steps you fell down and then you didn’t wake up—” he cuts himself off with a choked sob, “and i was too late.” 

your ribs gripped your heart in a clenched fist, “what do you mean, ‘too late’, sam?” 

another pained gasp slips from his lips, “i saw it, saw you about to fall, saw that vamp put its hands on you and i froze.” 

in an instant, your mind flashes to right before you were shoved, and then you remember. sam’s broad figure looming down the hallway, watching with wide eyes, frozen in fear. realistically, there was no way he could make it to you in time regardless, but you felt the weight of his guilt. and then it all makes sense. 

“sam—” 

“don’t,” he interrupts, sniffling, and you can tell the rush of emotion forced him to sober up a bit, “it was my fault.” 

you purse your lips, swallowing down whatever multitude of protests are dying to be let out. you know that’s the last thing he needs, and the uneasy look on his face as he wobbles in his seat confirms that for you. 

he almost topples forward, reminiscent of how you were after dean had patched you up, but you catch his shoulders, easing him back down on the floral sheets and onto his side. 

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering as he fights sleep.

“nothing to be sorry for, sammy,” you say, trying to keep your composure.

he looks so soft and innocent, the way his eyelashes fan against his blushed cheek sending your brain scrambling again. you run a warm hand down his forearm, easing him into some kind of relaxation. 

sam tries to fight it, swallowing dryly as he looks at you through hooded lids, “i won’t freeze next time,” he exhales. 

as he drifts off to sleep under your steady hand, you pray your heart isn’t thumping loud enough for him to hear through your chest, because you certainly can.

your fingers move to trace the fresh, bumpy, and definitely uneven stitches along your forehead, and can’t help the bittersweet grin that forms on your face as his words settle.

the buzz of the dingy diner the next morning is not the wakeup call neither you or sam need, heads in a tizzy from the debilitating hangover and your little trip downstairs. you’re both squished in the red booth beside each other, twirling your fork in your eggs—a sickening yellow color that makes your guts twist—and sam, gulping down water like a starved man. 

not to mention, you were both running on four hours of sleep. 

dean looks between the two of you, “jesus, what the hell happened to you two last night?” 

you groan, sliding your head into your hands, “too much.” 

“way too much,” sam adds, voice muffled by the plastic cup. 

“i knew i shouldn’t have left you,” dean says, taking a hefty forkful of pancakes, “either of you because this—”  he points to the two of you with his utensil, “—this is what happens.”

the look on dean’s face when he walked into your room this morning, dumbfounded at the sight before him: you and sam sleeping beside each other, not touching but certainly close enough, might be ingrained in your memory forever. 

“i took care of it,” you assure. 

“only did so with a concussion,” he argues, stabbing his breakfast again, “what the hell happened?” 

you try to hide the pink arising on your cheeks, sinking into the ripped up booth, attempting to catch sam’s expression out of the corner of your eye. you can tell he’s trying to hide the fact that he remembers everything, the words he spoke bordering on some kind of confession still lingering on his tongue. you ache to hear them, to know why he lost himself last night because you were hurt. 

certainly, it wasn’t just because you were friends. and the rose color dusting over his nose confirms that for you. 

“nothing,” you clear your throat, sitting up straighter, “just got him to bed and passed out again.” 

“yeah,” dean mumbles, unconvinced, “yeah, alright.” 

he gets a head start to the car as you and sam pay the bill at the front, anxiety crawling up your stomach and settling in your chest as you rack your brain on anything to say to him. 

“so,” you start, walking out of the diner, “don’t remember a thing, either?”

sam stops, grabbing your elbow softly to pull you out of dean’s view, shielding yourselves on the side of the building. you press up against the brick, watching as his tongue pokes at his cheek in thought. 

“you have no idea how sorry i am about last night,” he says quickly, face flushed, “you were hurt and you had to take care of me and listen to me spew all this self loathing crap, and—” 

“sam,” you stop him, bringing a hand to his solid chest, feeling the thump thump of his heart as it races under your palm, “was it all true?” 

his eyebrows furrow before falling softly in realization and remembrance. 

“about you freezing and caring and worrying,” you add, voice a note higher than a whisper, “was it true?” 

he looks away, then slowly begins to nod. 

all the blood in your body rushes to your feet, almost giving you a feeling of weightlessness, and before you can back down, you bring your lips up softly to his, pressing deep into his mouth as his part in shock. 

then, he melts, a large hand falling behind your head, fingers threaded through your hair. 

you feel him smile against your own, prompting you to bring a palm up to his jaw, the kiss deepening—

a loud honk blares through the chirping birds and rustling trees. you both jump apart, lips swollen and eyes bulged. 

dean pulls the car up, watching you through the impala windows as he honks again, beckoning you both. 

you swallow down the lump in your throat as everything dean winchester is going to say about what he’s seen rushes through your mind. 

yeah, you’re both done for.

but, it’s so worth it.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ sam winchester masterlist !

[jollyhunter]

Shower Reliever

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE Dean Winchester x f!Reader

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS SMUT 18+ MDNI, established relationship, menstruating (evil cramps!!), tooth-rotting sweet fluff, mention of blood (light), Dean being dorky and cute, guided masturbation in the shower? (idk how to tag this sryyy), Dean’s misuse of a shower head as a magic wand, no use of Y/N, English isn’t my native language

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY It’s that time of the month; Cramps are tormenting you, but Dean’s there to cheer you up and look after you by giving you some relief. ♡ ⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 4,2k

It’s afternoon. Or maybe it’s evening.

How are you supposed to know when you’re surrounded by the bunker’s concrete and artificial light all day?

A pathetic, writhing-weeping blood sacrifice wrapped up in bed sheets like a burrito. That’s what you are. Ready to be served. Honestly, though? Big Hellhound pupper toying with your guts suddenly seems much more appealing than a day ago. At least the doggo wouldn’t take three damn days to rip your innards out.

But you won’t complain. Because right now? Things seemed oddly… okay? It’s almost suspicious.

A deep sigh of relief falls of your lips and you dare to sprawl out on the mattress. Star-fish formation. Plain ceiling staring back down at you.

You’re maybe 5 seconds into your newfound content - and then the little bitch ruins it by raking her peeler down your walls. A sharp hiss presses past your clenched teeth.

Nevermind. Here she goes again.

Peeling your uterus out from the inside. Like Lilith herself is down there, having a feast on your unborn – and very non-existent – baby.

Muffled by Dean’s pillow, you scream. Fuck that time of the month.

Why’s it always that time of the month? Again and again and again.

Why can’t you just get the period twice a year like a bitch and get on with it? It’s not like you signed up for this. In fact, you’d very much like to file a complaint.

Not that Chuck would care. “That bastard knows why he doesn’t own an uterus...” you grumble.

A hot flush shoots through your body. Wheezing takes over your breathing. The bedsheets go flying along some of the pillows you’d burrowed yourself in.

Burning up. Hot. Your body feels like your ovaries decided to have a meltdown.

You roll around the bed, aimlessly. A ball of messy hair. Entangled in the sweat-drenched pyjama you couldn’t get yourself to change from. Arms clutched around your stomach, fingers clawing at the hot-water bag which so far hasn’t done much more than give you third-degree burns and only add to the feverish heat steaming beneath your skin.

When the door to your and Dean’s bedroom opens, you can’t even bring yourself to lift your head. Instead you’re curled up like a salted snail, squirming, each and every noise escaping from you thick with pain.

“Hey baby, ‘m back…” Dean greets you from across the room, his voice dying down as he spots you on the bed just where he'd left you this morning.

Your face plants into the sheets when you double over from another stab to your uterus.

“It’s trying to kill me, Dean,” you whimper into the mattress. Dean’s face contorts at your strangled sound.

“That bad?” It’s a stupid question, and he realizes it the moment it leaves his mouth. Of course it’s bad. You look like hell.

And worst is, it’s been going like this the entire day already. First time Dean’s witnessing it from the start, too. You’d been together for a couple of months now, but you being you, you’d so far managed to slip away just in time before your period kicked down the door.

Now that you moved in with the boys in the bunker that didn’t seem an option any longer.

You watch Dean’s face harden, the way it always does when he starts to feel helpless.

Indeed, Dean could feel the frustration claw on the inside of his chest. To the point he secretly wished your state would just be the aftermath of a hunt gone wrong.

At least he would know what to do then, y’know? Clean your wounds, stitch you back together if needed – maybe it wouldn’t look as neat as when you did it, but it’d do the job – because that’s what he’s good at.

But this? He didn’t quite know how to work with this.

There’s no injury he could just patch up. No swig of whiskey to dampen the pain. No way for him to help. And watching you writhe like you were being tortured from the inside, was killing him.

He sighs. The shopping bag in his hand gets dropped to the floor and he rounds the bed to your side. A frustrated hand ruffles back his hair. His eyes taking in the battlefield you’ve caused. And they come to rest on your crumpled form, smack in the middle of it all.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart…” he mutters softly. And he means it. You know he does. The words were simple, yet you know that if he could, he’d take your pain away in a heartbeat. But he can’t. Because for some reason, despite all the supernatural crap you get to deal with on a daily basis, this isn’t an option.

Damn you Chuck.

You make a sound between a whine and a sigh at the grave conclusion, at which Dean’s eyebrows pull together.

The bed dips down beside you and next moment the warmth of his body presses against your side. He slowly runs his hand over your shoulders to rub your back in soothing circles.

“Anything I can do to make you feel better..?” he asks.

“Rip it out. Use it for your next blood sacrifice. Sell it to Crowley. I don’t care- I don’t want it no more,” you wail while crawling into his lap, your face burying into his grey shirt and the blue jacket that’s partially covering it.

“Jesus,”– Dean laughs softly, his deep voice rumbling under your cheeks –“Yeah, not happening.”

His arms wrap around you to pull you closer. The familiar smell of his fills your senses when you nuzzle your nose into the fabric of his clothes. A combination of his musk, fresh lemon and a hint of sweetness of his cologne clouds your mind.

Your muscles relax for a fraction. Melting into his heavy embrace. It’s odd how just a smell can have such a calming effect. As of right now, you wished you could just climb into his shirt, buttoned-up, and pressed flush against his body. All safe, warm and fuzzy.

But Uterus-Lilith had different plans. The sharp wince you try to bite back, doesn’t go unnoticed by Dean.

“My poor baby… C’mere…” He leans down to place a tender kiss onto your crown while he cradles you on his lap like a wounded animal.

His chin comes to rest on top of your head. Lips press against your hair. “It’ll pass… You’ll feel better soon… My brave girl…” he murmurs softly and you sigh.

Another twinge to your abdomen. Your body jolts, then caves in. Dean startles for a moment but then tightens his arms around you, pulling you up against his chest.

While he continues to rub your back, his other hand begins to card through the back of your hair. “Shhh, it’s okay… I got you…”

“It’s like the damn thing is committing sepukku,” you lament with fingers curled into his shirt. Nose buried in his chest. Trying everything to physically ground you until the cramp goes by.

At that comparison, Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and his lips twitch into a pressed smirk. “Damn it, don’t make me laugh.” His stomach contracts and shakes beneath you.

In response, a disgruntled noise gets huffed into his chest. And Dean can’t help a short, surprised snort.

“Sepukku?” He tries so hard to sound serious and to hold in his chuckles, but finally loses his battle. “Seriously?” He shakes his head lightly and his green eyes crinkle slightly when he continues to tease you, “You telling me, you got a wee little Samurai down there?”

A wee little Samurai throwing a tantrum in your uterus? Okay, that image carried a smile to your lips. Sounds a lot cooler than Lilith feeding on your unborn child.

Unfortunately the wee little Samurai was not amused and rammed its katana once more into your uterus.

Another jolt goes through your body. Another strangled sound follows. You burrow your face even further into his arms in hopes that his smell will just work like some narcotics.

Perhaps it’ll just knock me out when I dig my face deep enough into his shirt? A weird thought. But you guess that’s just what menstrual hormones mixed with pain does.

“Yes,” you wince, “And it failed to conceive a child,” then groan in agony, “So now it wants to punish me for it.”

Now Dean actually has to bite back a hearty laughter. “Oh, sweetie,”– he taps your head lightly with his finger –“Look on the bright side. At least we know I didn't knock you up. It's like a free monthly pregnancy test.“

That jab would have earned him a deadpan glare of yours if it wasn’t for the next attack on your inner walls and your body jerked into his arms this time.

Dean’s light-hearted expression contorts into a pained one. Jaws clenched with a twinge of guilt.

“Want me to get you some painkillers? Or – uh – maybe some whisky?” he inquires, his head tilted down in an attempt to meet your gaze. But your eyes are scrunched up, face still hidden in his bunched up shirt.

“Baby, can you look at me for a sec?” he pleads, while his hands slip underneath to cradle your chin now, coaxing you out of your den. You lift your head, just enough to meet his concerned eyes.

“None of that helps…” you mutter. Although you did wonder whether whiskey might even do the trick. Get the wee little samurai bitch a little tipsy down there, hm? Maybe it would pass out?

No – no, now you’re thinking like Dean. That’s a terrible idea.

“Imagine you’re getting stabbed in the stomach and the blade gets twisted. Repeatedly. For hours.”

Dean winces inwardly at your description. A hand instinctively clutches his stomach. He doesn’t have to imagine what that pain feels like. He knows.

He shakes his head like he’s trying to snap out of some memories from downstairs, his eyes back on you just when you writhe again with a stifled groan.

“Okay, that‘s enough. I‘m getting you off the rack,” he declares and you don’t even get the chance to react when he’s already scooping your curled up form up into his arms.

“W-what? What are you going to do, Dean?” you ask confused while he pulls you to your feet and starts leading you out the bedroom and down the bunker's hallway.

"I'm going to distract you," he replies, glancing back over his shoulder at you while he leads you to the main bathroom, "I did some digging this morning... to see what I could do to help with your period cramps, and it looks like an orgasm might do the trick."

You stop in your tracks. Quick enough for Dean to almost stumble into the bathrooms doorframe.

"N-no," you squeak, eyes wide.

"No, what? No it won't work or no you don't-"

"No, I'm fine."

"So it does work?"

"Well- uh-" you trip over your words when the heat rushes to your cheeks, "It's - it's different when I... uh..."

"Hey, it's okay. Nothing to be ashamed of," he chuckles softly and brings up his hand to cup your cheek, "Is it 'cuz of the blood? You do know I don't care about it, right? You really think I won't touch you just 'cause you're on your period?"

"No, but... it's awkward... and gross..." you mumble, eyes averted as you can feel the heat going both ways now.

Because, even if you wouldn't admit it, you did feel a bit horny. It's just one of those many fluctuating emotions a period entails. In those blessed days, it feels like your mood is being regulated by a pinball machine. And as of right now, it hit the tingling nub at the very bottom.

"Gross? Honey, I've been covered in guts, sludge, crap and all sorts of other nasty stuff. Do you honestly think a little blood's gonna phase me?" He tilts your head up to make you look at him, his lips twitch in amusement but his words are genuine, "You're not gross, sweetheart. Not to me..."

"But-" the next argument forms on your lips when he dives down to muffle them with a kiss. Your cheeks cradled by his large hands. Tender, soft, but enough to shut you up and make you melt into him.

When he finally pulls back, his plump lips still hovering inches from yours, he speaks softly.

“Why don’t you just let me take care of you?”

His green eyes flick back and forth between yours, intense and yet calming. And really, how could you ever say no to him when he looks at you like you'll break his heart if you don't let him help you.

A sudden twinge in your stomach has you hunch over, and it's enough to finally convince you to let go of your tribulations with a weak nod of yours.

“Okay," you wince under your sharp exhale. The pain in your voice has Dean's hands dart down, one to your contracted stomach and one to the small of your back.

"Alright then, c'mon, sweetheart..." he mutters. Then gently guides you towards the shower after he closed and locked the door behind you.

When he notices how your teeth pull at your lower lip the way they always do when you're overthinking things, he grabs both of your hands. He squeezes them to get you to look at him, just to bestow you with one of his trademark grins. Confident, cheeky and oh so lovable.

“You trust me, right? It won't be awkward, promise. Nothing wrong with giving my girl some relief. Besides... This is purely therapeutic,” he quips and winks at you.

Once both of your clothes are piled up in a corner, you pad over the cold tiles and into the shower. Dean slides in after you, his naked body flush against your skin, his body heat a warm welcome in the cold air of the large bathroom. His arms envelop you from behind, one hand splayed out on your stomach to try and sooth your cramps, the other reaching for the shower head to pull it from its holder.

“Lean back, I got you baby,” he assures you while tugging you gently further back into his chest.

He turns on the shower, tests the temperature until it's the perfect heat and then slowly brings it down to the level of your stomach with the spray of water still pointed to the floor.

“Spread your legs a bit for me, sweetie,” he gently nudges his knee between your thighs, coaxing you into a wider stance while he continues to hum above you, “Mhm, that's it. Now just relax and lemme take care of you...”

Dean rests his chin on top of your head, the stubbles tingling your scalp as he does so. The air around you slowly begins to mix with steam while his body holds you close. Save and protected. The world reduced to just the two of you and the warmth hugging you from head to toe. Your thoughts and worries are drowned out by the rhythmic pattering of the droplets hitting the smooth shower floor as the sound echoes off of the tiled bunker walls all around you.

You feel yourself relax against him, despite the occasional, small jolts of pain which keep reminding you of that fact.

At last, a heavy sigh drops off your lips. The signal Dean has been waiting for.

He tugs at the hose, just enough to guide the water up your legs, then your thighs...

When the first jet of water hits right on your bundle of nerves, you almost buckle over with a gasped, “Oh shit-”

Your fingernails bite into the skin of his forearms, drawing a hiss from him. He moves his free hand to your hip, his grip on your squishy flesh gentle but strong. Steadying and grounding you.

“Feels good?” he asks while playing with the angle of the shower head.

You nod. Jolting whenever one of the water jets grazes your sensitive spot.

“Want me to keep goin‘?”

“Mhm,” you hum.

The hand on your hips slides over the bump on your bones and dips down between your legs. Next moment, calloused fingers slip along your folds to spread them open.

You shiver under the touch of his rough fingertips and at the feeling of him coating them in some of your arousal.

He angles the shower head slightly lower now, until a row of water jets skim your entrance. Your breath hitches. Then comes out in a shaky whimper.

Your legs start to go weak, feeling like jello.

Dean gently tugs you up again and pulls your back flush into his chest to keep you upright, making sure he's your anchor in this tidal wave of pleasure he's drowning you in.

“Just let go... that’s it…” he coos, now his head angled to nuzzle his nose against your temple.

Another shockwave travels through your body and tightens your coil even more, to the point it feels like it’s going to explode soon.

Your head drops back onto Dean‘s shoulder. Neck draped over his collarbone, just where his anti-possession tat lays. Shaky and ragged breaths mingle in the damp air of the shower.

“Just relax,” he places a kiss to your temple, his stubbles tingling the wet skin as he murmurs, “I got you.”

His fingers spread you further while he brings the shower head closer, allowing some of the water to push past your entrance.

“Oh fuck- Dean-” you gasp and whine at the same time.

„Language, young lady,“ he chides playfully, „This is purely therapeutical, remember?“

You choke on a giggle when he moves the shower head a fraction lower and the water jet grazes your sensitive nub just the right way, enough to send an intense jolt of pleasure through your body.

“Ah, so that's the magic angle, huh?” Dean laughs softly, his chest rumbling against your back.

“Uh-huh,” you manage to get out in a weak whimper as Dean's making sure to keep the right angle.

The intensity has your nerves on fire, like your core's being hooked up to electricity with hundreds of little needles tingling your most sensitive spot.

“M-move - p-please,” you beg in a shaky voice that has Dean's smile next to your cheek widen.

“Guide me,” he prompts softly, the hand on the shower head waiting for your instructions. You slip your hand along his strong arm, over the bump of his wrist, until you cover his hand with your tender fingers.

Slowly you begin to guide his hand into small, circular motions. The water jets brush your nub now from all sides, the overwhelming sensation enough to make you whimper weakly and your head loll to the side to bury your nose under his jaw.

“Too much?” he asks, his head tips to the side to look down into your eyes. You shake your head, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as they meet his. Hair’s stuck to your damp, flushed, skin, pupils blown wide, gaze intoxicated from pleasure.

The corner of his lips tugs into a smirk at your blissful expression. It's such a stark contrast to what you'd looked like moments ago when you were doubling over from pain. And if it wasn’t for the special circumstances, he’d make sure to keep you in this state all day and night. The growing pressure of his own arousal heavy against your back is evidence of his thoughts.

But this is about you now. His needs will just have to wait for – for… how long did a period even last? A day? Two? Hm, maybe if you’d feel comfortable enough, he wouldn’t need to wait this long. But one step at a time.

When your legs begin to shake, Dean presses his lips to your ear, murmuring into it, deep and hoarse from his own arousal.

“You’re doing so well for me… Now close your eyes, sweetheart. I want you to just relax and feel…”

You don't have to be told twice. The intensity is enough to make your eyes flutter close, squinting them even as your face contorts from the jolts of pleasure coursing through your body like a firework.

“Now I want you to imagine it's my mouth down there...”

While he keeps you distracted with the images he's painting in his husky voice, the hand on your folds leaves you and he reaches for the tap, increasing the water pressure.

“Y'know... the way I like to wrap my lips around you… and suck on that cute little bean 'til you're sobbing.”

“O-oh my God-” you mewl after the hard jet of water swallows your pulsing nub, causing your legs to buckle. The feeling's like a lightning bolt has just hit you. And it just keeps striking. Your other hand darts to his thigh behind you, fingernails biting into his skin in an attempt to ground you. But the jolts of pleasure set the nerves down your legs on hot white fire now, with everything from your stomach downwards tingling.

“That’s the reaction I was hoping for…” he chuckles and keeps going with his sweet words of praise somewhere outside of your clouded mind.

Images of Dean kneeling between your legs pulse under your eyelids. How his broad shoulders shove your knees apart, keeping your legs spread as they begin to fight him from the intensity of his mouth on your core. How the soft flesh of your thighs is squished under the force of his fingers, how you witness the veins on his arms pop as his muscles work relentlessly to prevent you from squirming away. How he holds your gaze the entire time, pupils blown up wide from hunger and lust as they eat away the deep emerald pools circling them.

Ragged breaths leave your lips. Another row of jolts has your body shaking in his arms. Each one driving you closer to your climax until you’re teetering on the edge. When your body begins to fight him and thrash around, Dean quickly tightens his grip around your hips to hold you in place.

He moves his lips to your temple, planting a tender kiss there, prickling stubbles brush the side of your face while he continues to talk you through it.

“You're doing so well... Let go for me, sweetheart... I've got you, I'll catch you, promise.”

Just when you feel yourself tip over, his free hand leaves your core to the constant onslaught of the circling water jets and moves it to your hand. His fingers slide between yours, intertwining them.

Then the tidal wave crashes down on you.

Dean's hand squeezes yours. The corner of his lips still pressed to your temple.

A guttural sound leaves the back of your throat when waves after waves of ecstasy course through you, enough for your knees to give in as your body goes limp.

“Oh- we goin' down?” he jokes softly as he follows your movement.

As promised, Dean catches you right after you've dropped some inches. Chuckling lightly above you as he pulls you back to your feet. Legs still shaky like a newborn foal’s.

“C'mon, bambi...” - he teases and slides the shower head back into place before he wraps both of his arms around your waist and turns you to face you with a soft smile - “…there you go.” You smile back at him, your hands finding purchase on his hips, gaze still a bit woozy.

He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, head tilted down to your eye-level, “Hey there, sweetie. You feeling better?”

“Yes,” you sigh, one of relief at the missing pain. At least for the moment. You melt into his embrace, feeling how your wet and naked bodies lock together like a perfect puzzle piece. “So much better.”

“Good, that’s good…” he murmurs into your hair after your forehead had dropped to his chest.

After a moment of peaceful silence, a mischievous grin creeps onto his face.

He clears his throat.

“You want me to battle that wee little samurai with my sword now?”

It takes your dazed mind a moment to catch up with his rather creative innuendo.

Once it hits you, you sputter an amused chuckle, “Please don’t.”

Dean huffs through his nose, feigning disappointment.

“Aw c’mon… Y'know, I’ve always wanted to fight a samurai… I’d make a pretty good Nathan Algren, don’t ya think?” he quips, then his lips quirk into a boyish, innocent grin as he adds, “...and my sword wouldn't mind getting bloody either.”

Now this has you raise your head to meet his cheeky expression and burst out in laughter.

“You do us both a favour and keep your mighty sword in your pants for now, you hear me? Idiot-” you playfully slap his chest, the wet sound echoing off the bathroom tiles. Dean’s grin doesn’t waver, instead his hands on your back slide down your spine until they reach your ass cheeks.

He clicks his tongue.

“Hey, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, s’all I’m sayin’,” he jabs softly as he pats both your ass cheeks. His eyes crinkle at the corner, and he's got a secret smile on his face, proud of how he made you not only smile, but laugh, despite the hell trip you’re on. Maybe he’s not as helpless as he thought.

His features suddenly harden, eyes narrowed as they dart down to your stomach, a pointed finger now prodding the spot below your bellybutton.

“Now back to you,” he growls, you giggle, and he has to fight to keep a straight face and his voice especially low and warning as he continues, “You leave my girl alone now. Or else I’ll personally come down there and take care of you, Tom Cruise style. You hear me you evil little bitch?”

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES May Dean bring some relief to all of you poor, fellow victims of Uterus Lilith. <3

And thank you, @ambiguous-avery for your help with the correct name for the shower head lol 😌

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[augustwinesworld]

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description: 

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x  female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? angsty, building up for that confrontation...

notes: omg never get two concussions within a six month period, 0/10 do not recommended. Not gonna lie, this was a bitch to write, but i like it. can't wait for the next part :)

word count: 4.9 k.

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ (kofi)

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

You kept your hands firm on the rails of the stretcher as you pushed through the corridor, dodging a med cart and a nurse hustling with a specimen tray.

Someone shouted orders two bays down. A phone rang. Monitors beeped and screeched.

The place smelled like antiseptic, like every hallway had just barely missed being a battlefield.

It was the middle of everything, and yet somehow, you felt nowhere at all.

The wheels of the stretcher clattered over a threshold, jarring enough to snap you out of the fog for a second.

You looked down at him. Noah. Your son, still, scarily still, on the gurney. The splint on his leg looked too big for him. His skin was pale, except where it was bruised, scraped, swollen.

There was blood in his hair. Blood in his ear.

But his breathing was even. Pupils reactive.

Alive.

He got hit by a fucking car, you thought, dizzy. And he’s alive.

That fact repeated itself over and over in your mind like a glitch: He’s breathing. He’s alive. He’s breathing. He’s alive.

You didn’t know if it was a comfort or a curse.

You adjusted the corner of the blanket over his shoulder—just to have something to do with your hands. It was ridiculous, really.

He’d broken bones, maybe worse, and here you were tucking him in like it would fix it. Like it would undo it. 

He used to kick off every blanket you gave him. Even as a baby. Hated feeling trapped.

You remembered that stubborn, wiggling heat under the muslin swaddles, how he’d flail until he was free, frowning and loud. You’d laughed at the time. Now it clawed at your chest. You just wanted him to move. Make a sound. Give you something. Anything.

The hallway bent, and the trauma bay came into view—curtains half-drawn, shadows behind them shifting like memories too close to the surface. You tightened your grip on the rails.

Fuck.

Of all the wings in the hospital, this one still stung. You’d worked in rooms like this before—had stitched and suctioned and cracked open ribs on metal tables barely wide enough to hold the grief. You’d written your name in adrenaline a thousand times over.

But this was different. Personal. Too close. 

The door opened as you approached, someone stepping out with a chart in hand. Dr. King again. She gave a nod, held the door open for you and Whitaker to wheel Noah inside.

“You can sit with him as long as you need,” she said quietly. “We’ll be down the hall.”

You nodded. They left. The door shut behind them with a quiet thud.

And for a moment, it was just the two of you again.

You sank into the chair beside his stretcher, pulled it close enough to rest your hand over his. His fingers twitched faintly under yours.

You paused, just for a second. Watched a resident laugh too loud at something their attending said. Watched a janitor mop around a candy wrapper near the vending machine. Watched an orderly restock gloves like it was just any other shift.

To them, maybe it was.

To you, it felt like the end of the world.

You didn’t realize you were crying until the tears reached your lips—salty and stunned, like your body hadn’t caught up to the relief yet.

Maybe you should’ve gone home. Should’ve showered. Slept. Screamed into a pillow. But instead, you sat. Still. Hands folded in your lap. Breath thin. The lights overhead hummed, and something about the rhythm pulled you backward—years, maybe.

To that time when you found out you were pregnant. 

And now here he was. All those years later. Flesh and bone and blood and stillness.

You leaned in, brushed a thumb over the edge of his brow. Whispered his name, soft like a prayer.

"Noah."

His lashes didn’t flicker. But the monitor beside him beeped steady.

Ten years and one month ago…

...you knew.

Not thought. Not guessed. Knew.

It bloomed through you, like a sunrise after the end of the world. No trumpet, no flash—just the light creeping in, undeniable and final.

You were pregnant.

The words didn’t form in your mouth, but they echoed anyway, bouncing off your ribs and trying to claw out your throat.

He left, and you were fucking pregnant.

You were the intern who got pregnant by her attending. Except he fucking left—and left you with all of this. So now you weren’t just the intern who fell for him. You were the idiot who got left behind. Pathetic.

And worst of all, you’re the moron who loved him anyway and is now sobbing in her bathroom floor, what a fucking cliché. 

It might’ve been funny if it weren’t so humiliating. If it weren’t real. If it weren’t you.

God.

You knew better. You knew him. Didn’t you?

Or maybe you just wanted to believe someone could look at you the way he did and actually mean it. Maybe that was your real crime—not the sex, not the mistake, but the hope. The stupid, dangerous hope.

And now here you were.

Pregnant. Alone. Crying on tile that still smelled like bleach. 

And somehow, still in love with a man who walked out like you were nothing.

How poetic. How fucking predictable.

You blinked. Once. Twice. The mirror swam. The bathroom spun again, not from nausea this time, but from the weight of it all. The nausea had just been the overture—this was the real collapse.

The test was still hidden under the sink. You’d bought it two days ago. Maybe three. On a whim—on an instinct you didn’t want to name.

You hadn't even opened the box. Just shoved it beneath the extra toilet paper, like if you hid it long enough, you could pretend you didn’t already know.

But you did. 

You must’ve made a sound, because your sister tensed beside you on the cold tile.

“What is it?”

Your voice barely made it out. “I need to check.”

She didn’t ask. Just helped you up slowly, gently, like you were made of glass. And maybe you were. Maybe you had been for weeks. 

Hair still pulled back, shoulders hunched forward, you moved like your bones didn’t belong to you anymore.

You knelt again—this time in front of the cabinet. Hesitated. Let your hand rest on the handle a second longer than it needed to. 

Your sister stayed behind you. Just watching. Though her presence was enough to calm some of your nerves. 

You opened the cabinet slowly, with the same care someone would use when handling a bomb.

Reached past the old mouthwash, the bent razor, the lavender-scented wipes you bought six months ago because they were on sale. Reached past everything familiar until your fingers grazed the box—blue with white letters. 

It looked smaller than you remembered, but still felt heavier than it should’ve.

You stared at it. You couldn’t remember picking it up, or even deciding to. Just the feeling: the buzzing in your fingertips, the weight in your chest. Like your body had known before your mind did. 

Your fingers shook as you tore it open. Your hands were shaking as the plastic wrapper inside crackled too loud, the noise filling the room. 

You took it with your sister inside the room—her back turned, as she stared at one of the walls. You peed. Washed your hands automatically, like your body had done this before. Like it was just any other day. Then the waiting.

The longest minutes of your life unfurled in silence. 

You didn’t speak, and neither did she. She sat behind you, her back against the bathroom door. Legs drawn in. Like she was guarding the world from coming in too fast.

You stared at the little window, willing it to lie. Wishing it would. But it didn’t.

The little window filled slowly. Lines bleeding across like spider cracks in ice.

One line. 

Then—the second.

Two lines.

You stared. Long enough for the moment to crystallize. Long enough for the heat to drain from your body. 

Two lines.

Clear as day.

Positive.

Positive.

It was like time had split open. Like the silence came back, louder than ever, pressing in from all sides.

Your sister leaned in. “Is it—”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. So you just nodded, barely.

Her breath hitched. Then she whispered, “Oh.” And an even softer, “Oh, sweetheart.”

You didn’t cry. Not yet. Just sat there. Eyes on the floor, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you could hold everything in if you just held still.

The test was still digging itself into your palm. Scorching hot and branding your skin with all that could’ve been and would never be again.

The tile under your knees. The cheap plastic in your hand. The warm body of your sister behind you. And inside you—something entirely other.

It wasn’t heartbreak, yet not exactly grief either. 

Not a hole. Not an absence.

But a presence.

Something had stayed.

He had left, and something had stayed behind.

You could still feel the imprint of him—his voice, his hands, his shape melted into your mattress. But this…wasn’t him. Or well, it wasn’t just him. This was yours too. 

Your sister moved closer, kneeling beside you now. She put a hand on your back. Said nothing. Just breathed with you and laid a comforting hand on your upper back.

You kept staring at the test. You couldn’t look away. You didn’t know how.

The silence roared in your ears.

And in your head, over and over, the same thought spun through your head:

What the fuck do I do now?

Turns out, you did what needed to be done. 

One hour. Then one day. Then one month.

You kept breathing. Kept moving. Kept showing up.

Not because it ever got easier. It didn’t—but because he was there. 

He became your reason, even when you had none for yourself. You built a life one brick at a time. Held together with cracked cement, sleepless nights, and the kind of love that didn’t ask for permission. 

You didn’t feel strong, didn’t feel brave. But somehow, you were still standing. 

You learned what he liked and what he didn’t. Decoded his cries, packed his lunches, braided his hair. 

You learned that children don’t just grow up—they teach you how to. 

Now, almost a decade later, here you are.

You sit at his bedside and watch his lashes flicker—so dark, so long, just like his father’s. He stirs, just barely, like some part of him knows you’re near, even in his sleep.

The hospital light is bright, almost incandescent. Machines hum around you, and you can hear the faint screams happening outside in the ER. His hand is small but not tiny anymore—boyish now, almost too long for the body that used to fit in the crook of your arm.

And for a moment—just one brief, shattering second—you remember it all.

You reach for his hand again. This time, you don’t let go.

Nine years and six months ago…

It was your third day in a row on trauma. Third trimester. Twenty-eight weeks and change.

You were running on fumes and decaf. The kind of tired that settled in your bones and pulsed behind your eyes. The kind that made every choice around you feel like you were swimming in cement. 

The OR was freezing, loud, and too bright. The overhead lights glared off the metal trays, sending sharp little stabs into your retinas. Your compression socks were cutting into your calves, and your scrubs, once fairly loose, clung to every inch of your overheated body, already damp with sweat.

Someone cracked a joke about you “scrubbing in with a plus one,” and you laughed, because it was easier than not.

Because if you didn’t laugh, you’d cry. Or scream. Or bolt out of the room. Maybe the state. 

But instead, you blinked hard, once, twice—then turned and dry-heaved into the nearest sink.

“Again?” Mary asked. “That baby better come out with a fellowship in general surgery.”

You wiped your mouth with the sleeve of your gown, tasting antiseptic and bile, and forced yourself upright. Your lower back felt like it had been compressed into fucking sawdust.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“You should sit,” someone murmured.

“I’m fine.”

And maybe you were—until you weren’t.

Between cases, you collapsed onto a rolling stool, your knees practically buckling under you.

You leaned your head back against the wall, pressing into it like it might hold you upright through sheer force of will.

Your back was on fire. Your hips throbbed. And your feet didn’t feel like feet anymore. Replaced by two aching blocks of pressure and heat.

The baby shifted slightly higher, compressing your ribs. Breathing became effortful—short little gasps between charting lines. You scribbled your notes in a haze: vitals, GCS, blood loss, incisions, retractors, Apgar scores, OR in, OR out. It blurred. You blurred.

The door swung open. Liz, your co-resident, breezed in and tossed something in your lap—a chocolate-coconut granola bar.

“You look like you might eat a clamp if I don’t intervene.”

You blinked down at it, then up at her. “Thanks.”

You unwrapped it slowly, fingers trembling, and took a bite without tasting it. Chewed out of habit, not hunger. Your mouth was dry. Your tongue heavy.

Charting came next. Pages and pages, everything blurring into codes and times and blood loss and Apgars. Somewhere in the middle of dictating a post-op note, you felt the faintest thump low in your belly—then another.

You froze.

Your hand drifted to your stomach, palm flat. Waiting. 

There it was. Again. Soft but certain. Like a tiny drumroll beneath your ribs.

You fumbled for your phone and hit play on the playlist you’d made weeks ago, on a late night. Just a little something for nights like that one, where your body wouldn’t let you sleep. For the mornings you woke up crying.

ABBA. Of course.

Because why not. Because something about the harmony, the baseline, the sheer ridiculous joy of it made him kick—and that brought a smile to your face. 

You didn’t know how or why, but he loved it.

It made you laugh just how much the little guy loved moving to their songs. 

Especially “Dancing Queen.”

It worked. As soon as it hit the chorus, he was at it again—tiny heel, tiny elbow, someone inside you dancing in time with the world.

You laughed. A real one this time. Sharp and sudden and kind of insane.

The nurse across the station glanced over. “You good?”

You pressed a hand to your side, feeling another kick, a slow roll.

“Yeah,” you said, breath catching. “Yeah. I think I am.”

You almost forgot what it felt like.

The weight. The worry. The quiet joy of those impossible months. The ache behind your eyes from nights you didn’t sleep.

You almost forgot how it felt to wake up and wonder how much more of yourself you could give before there was nothing left. 

It wasn’t the first time you’d see him like this. He had been so small that time. Hooked to a thousand different machines. 

Even as a doctor, if they’d had asked you what they were for, you wouldn’t have been able to answer.

But then—now—you glance at him. His chest rises under the hospital blanket, no strain, no wheeze. His lungs are clear. His color’s better now.

And just like that, the memory unspools again, slow and merciless.

You’re not wearing sweats to the hospital. No blood under your nails. No charting mid-contraction. But he’s still here—still yours.

You brush your fingers over his hair, soft from sleep, and feel it again. That same impossible pull toward something you built on your own. With your own hands. Something no one else could take credit for.

He looks like him when he sleeps.

Not always. But sometimes—when the light hits just right, when the furrow between his brows softens—you see it. Robby.

You hate it. You need it. You wished it didn’t still feel like a wound.

You watch Noah breathe and wonder, not for the first time, if that resemblance is a gift or a punishment.

Because even though you’d never say it out loud, sometimes there’s a flicker—just a flicker—when you look at Noah and see him.

The same tilt of the head. The same frown when he concentrates.

And it’s not that it hurts, exactly.

It’s just...complicated.

Like loving your son means loving a part of someone you’re supposed to have let go.

Like no matter how much time has passed, some part of your heart is still dragging its feet, refusing to let Robby go all the way.

Not out of longing, not anymore.

But memory. Muscle. Something older than choice.

Some days, he’s just your son.

Other days, he’s a walking echo of the man who left you behind without a word, holding the future in both hands.

And maybe he thought you’d be fine. Maybe he trusted that you’d keep it together, because you always did.

Or maybe he just didn’t care.

That thought—the one you choke back more often than you’d admit—cuts the deepest. That maybe Robby knew exactly what he was walking away from, and still decided it was easier.

Still decided you were easier to leave.

But right now, it’s quiet. 

Just the two of you again. Like it was in the beginning. Like it always comes back to.

And for now—for this one breathless second—you let yourself believe that’s enough.

Noah stirs.

You shift closer, instinctual, and hum something low under your breath. Just a few quiet notes. A lullaby with no name, just shape. Something from the early days—half Chiquitita, half stress-induced improvisation. He quiets at once, and you smile, barely.

You wonder if he remembers it. You don’t even know if you do. But your body does. The rhythm. The holding. The waiting.

God, the waiting.

Waiting for the second line on the stick. Waiting for the first kick. Waiting for him to call you back. Waiting for him to walk through the door and say anything—I’m scared, I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to stay. But all you ever got was silence.

Again. Pathetic right?

But that was another life. You don’t wait anymore. You don’t beg. You don’t hope for explanations that never come.

You have someone else to think about other than yourself. Someone who solely relies on you. And needing doesn’t scare you the way it used to.

It had all blurred together, back then.

Nine years and eight months ago…

Nursing with a textbook balanced on one knee, highlighter clutched between your teeth. Changing diapers with procedure recordings playing in the background. Falling asleep on the kitchen counter at 4 a.m., head pillowed on a pile of notes, milk stains on your shirt.

You learned to chart one-handed. To sleep in thirty-minute stretches. To carry both your stethoscope and your breast pump like extensions of your own limbs.

The program didn’t make it easy, nor did the whispers. Or the silence he left behind.

There were days you couldn’t even say his name. Couldn’t afford to. Saying it meant admitting what he did. What you still carried. What you missed, even if you didn’t want to.

But you didn’t do it alone.

Your sister showed up every weekend without asking, groceries already unpacked, laundry already sorted. Your mother held Noah while you studied, whispering hushed prayers over his locks, as if her faith could hold you all together.

Liz smuggled you snacks between cases and covered your post-op charts when Noah had his first cold. She never said his name. 

Neither did Mary, who let you cry once in the on-call room, no questions asked, no judgment. Just handed you her coffee. 

Isabella—the chief no one dared cross—softened whenever she saw you struggling to keep your eyes open. She started blocking your twelve-hour shifts into tens.

Quiet kindness, no announcements. But when someone once tried to ask what really happened, Isabella cut them off with one look.

Kai cracked jokes and made sure you always had a chair. Dr. Ramos gave you a key to his office “just in case,” and never mentioned it again.

There were others, too. People who never said what they were thinking but showed you in every way that they knew.

They all knew. About the way he left. About the fact that he was older, higher up. That maybe the both of you should’ve known better. And that you hadn’t even known you were pregnant when he disappeared.

That you had once looked at him like he hung the moon, and then woke up one morning to a blank sky.

They knew you’d loved him. That you'd wanted forever. But they’d seen the aftermath too. The missed calls. The radio silence. The vanishing act.

And for all their professionalism, their restraint, no one really forgave him for that. 

Not for leaving you. Not for leaving Noah.

And honestly? You’re not sure you ever did either.

You made it through on caffeine, pure stubbornness, and the kind of love that rewires your insides. The kind that sings in your bloodstream when a small hand finds yours. The kind that makes you believe you’re doing something holy, even when you’re covered in spit-up and panic.

And sometimes, when the nights were particularly long—when Noah cried until his chest hiccupped and your own body ached from holding so much—you'd look down at him and think:

Everything was worth it if it got us here.

You get up, carefully. The fever’s breaking now—thank God. His forehead is cooler when you press your lips to it. His breath is steadier, heat fading from his cheeks. The worst of it is over.

“You’re okay,” you whisper. You kiss him again, softer. “You’re okay.”

And you realize—you are too. Not whole, maybe. But okay.

And that’s more than enough.

You thought you’d buried that part of your life.

Boxed it up in late-night feedings and Match Day anxiety, in checklists and pediatric milestones.

Some days, you almost forget what it felt like. 

Searching for him in every place you visited. Kind of hoping he’d be there, if only to curse him out in front of a crowd.

You were angry. You still are, sometimes. But mostly, you just got tired.

So you let it go—bit by bit.

You stopped looking for him.

Until one day, you didn’t have to look. 

He was just there.

Six years ago…

It was late October. That golden stretch of fall just before everything goes cold and gray. The kind of light that makes everything look softer than it really is—especially the farmer’s market. 

You’d just bought apples—Honeycrisps, overpriced, but Noah liked the crunch—and he was tugging at your hand in that impatient way toddlers do. 

Mittened fingers curled around yours, cheeks warm from the cold, a sticky ring of cider at the corner of his mouth. You were laughing at something he said. Something about pumpkins being “sleeping people in disguise.” You’d almost felt happy.

And then—you saw him.

Turning, just ahead. 

Profile turned toward the baked goods stand. That familiar set of shoulders. That tilt of the head, slightly to the right, the way he always did when he was reading a sign or weighing a decision.

Your laughter died in your throat.

You froze. The bags dug into your wrist, the apples suddenly too heavy. Your pulse kicked up so fast you felt dizzy. You blinked, once. Twice. Still him. The back of his neck. The shape of him. The impossible fact of him.

You said his name. Just once. Soft. Like a prayer you’d sworn never to say again.

“Robby.”

Noah looked up at you, confused. “Mama?”

But when you blinked again—

He was gone. Again.

You rounded the corner like someone in a dream, your feet slow, hesitant. The crowd shifted around you—mothers and strollers, college kids with tote bags, an old man with a harmonica—and none of them were him.

Just a swirl of movement and noise and the smell of kettle corn.

Gone.

You stood there, staring at the place where he should have been. Where, for a second, you were sure he'd been. Heart thundering, throat dry, lungs locked.

Like the past had torn open its chest and said, look, look what you could have had if he’d stayed.

Noah tugged your hand again. “Mama, what’s wrong?”

You looked down at him. His wide eyes. His tiny hat with the ears on top. And for a second, your knees almost buckled. Because if it had been him—if you had seen Robby—he’d been this close to his son and still walked away. Again.

You knelt. Your voice was too calm. “Nothing, baby. Just thought I saw someone.”

You told yourself it was a trick of the light. A shadow. A memory shaped like a man. Because the alternative was worse.

Because if it had been real—if he’d seen you, seen Noah, and still turned away—then that would mean he didn’t just leave.

He stayed gone. Chose gone. 

You didn’t cry. Not then. Not with Noah watching. But the cider curdled in your stomach. You stood, straightened your coat, and kept walking.

You told yourself, If I ever saw him again, I’d walk away.

And you believed that. You did.

But a part of you—ashamed, buried, furious—knew it wasn’t true. Not completely. Because even in that moment, with the ghost of him fading into the crowd, your first instinct had been to reach for him. To say his name. To hope.

And that terrified you.

Because it meant that after everything—after the silence, the vanishing, the endless nights—you still hadn’t managed to kill that last, fragile thread.

You still remembered how it felt to love him. And worse—you still wanted him to love you back.

Even now. Even then. Even when you knew better.

So you walked Noah home that day. Pretended the sun on your shoulders didn’t feel like a lie. Told yourself he wasn’t real. That maybe you were tired. That maybe you were slipping. And maybe you were.

But deep down, you knew. 

He’d been there. And he hadn’t stopped walking.

The trauma room door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud. A sound you’ve heard a hundred times before—but tonight, somehow, it lands differently. 

You exhale. Shoulders low. Muscles warm with exhaustion, limbs half-buzzing with the tail-end of adrenaline. Noah’s doing good, great even. You did what you always do—you held it together.

The corridor is dim, lit only by the low fluorescents humming overhead. A slow hour in a long night. Nurses’ shoes squeak softly in the distance. Somewhere, a machine beeps in a rhythmic, unhurried pattern. The quiet is thick. Pressurized.

You turn.

And freeze.

He’s there. Again.

Just a few feet away.

Black scrubs. An old hoodie you—frayed at the cuffs, faded where he used to roll up the sleeves. His hair is shorter now, dark and sleep-ruffled. There’s stubble along his jaw, a tiredness beneath his eyes that wasn't there before.

Or maybe it was, and you were just too in love to see it.

You blink once. Slowly. As if your body needs time to believe it’s real. As if any sudden movement might scatter him like smoke.

Michael. 

You taste his name before you even think it.

Older. Thinner.

He’s holding something in his hands—gloves, maybe, or a folded chart—but it doesn’t matter.

It’s the way he’s standing. 

Your mouth goes dry. Your heart stutters, then lurches into a rhythm that feels embarrassingly human.

You want to say something. Anything.

Ask if he knew. If he suspected. 

If he ever looked. If he even tried.

You want to scream at him. You want to fall into him. You want to walk away. The same way he did all those years ago.

But you don’t move. Neither does he.

You drink him in. Slowly. Not like before. Not like memory.

There’s a line between his brows now. A small scar on the side of his neck you don’t recognize. His hands are the same—long fingers, pale knuckles, veins like cords. You used to trace them while he slept.

For a split second, you're back in that bed—early morning light, his back warm against your chest, the city moving on the other side of the window. The sound of his laugh in your ear. The promise of something ordinary and endless.

But then the moment buckles. Fractures under its own weight.

He left.

He left you when you needed him most. 

And now he’s here. 

Once again, a protagonist in one of the worst times of your life. 

You don’t know if you want answers or just closure. But you know this:

This time, you don’t blink.

You hold his gaze. You let him see the hurt. The history. The steel in your spine.

And he doesn’t run.

He just stands there, like maybe he’s been waiting for you to look at him like this. Like he doesn’t quite know how to take the next step—but he wants to.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough to keep you standing, too.

next chapter ↠

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© AUGUSTWINESWORLD : no translation, plagiarism, or cross posting.

[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Don't Go where I Can't Follow Part 2/2

pairing: Dr. Jack Abbott x F!Nurse!Ex-militaryReader

summary: You join Jack at the hospital after waking up alone, and the activities of the day bring up bad memories as the shooter closes in on the hospital

(Warning for normal Pitt mayhem, and gun violence. I know nothing about medical procedures, nor do I know anything about the military. Reader is Australian because I am a self indulgent bitch)

Jack had just needed to steal an intern.

That was why he wandered into the yellow zone, he had no internal warning that sent him there, just a need for another set of hands to hold bodies together while he and Robby stitched them back together.

That's how he ended up with the strangers back to him and you in his eyeline.

You, who looked so completely calm, as you placed Santos at your back, with your calm voice that he hadn’t heard since your days in the military.

Calm.

Controlled.

Scared.

He could tell you were scared, could tell how your fingers curled in on themselves as if you were crossing your own fingers that this would end okay. 

Then the gun went off.

A bullet sped to your chest before he could never blink. Time didn’t slow, it didn’t give him a moment to do anything but run to your side.

But hands grabbed at him, Dana and Robby, grabbing at him as he pulled and pushed them off him. Jack could hear screaming, someone cursing over and over again but he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

You fell beautifully, as if choreographed from a movie. First to your knees, hands raised to your chest, as you tried to push the blood back in. Then straight over onto the floor.

Jack pulled from Robby's grasp, elbowing his nose in the process but he didn’t care, he had to get to you.

“Jack- Stop!” Suddenly Dana is in front of him, grabbing his face to pull his gaze from you to her, “You can’t help her right now, Robby is.” And he watched as his best friend started barking orders, a wad of gauze shoved up his nose to stop the bleeding.

He took a moment, closing his eyes and counting to ten. He needed to ground himself before everything threatened to take over. He allowed Dana to pull him away, until he was seated in her chair, she forced his body like a pretzel until his arms rested on his knees and his head was almost between his knees. 

“The shooter?”

“Landon has him, SWAT got him good but the fucker is going to live.”

“Good.” was his only response, because of course it was, no matter the crimes committed by the monster, this hospital was not going to be where his trial and execution would be held.

“Dana-” he whispered, ripping off the gloves he still wore, covered in so much blood the blue material was no longer visible.

“Yeah Honey?”

“If she dies-”

“She won’t die!”

“If she dies, I won’t make it back- you know that don’t you.”

“Jack-”

“I barely survived it last time, this time I won’t.”

The charge nurse knelt in front of him and grasped his knees, squeezing tight until he looked up at her.

“That girl has survived so much fucking much, between a bullet wound, a bombing and whatever the fuck you two have going on, this- this won’t kill her.”

But Jack didn’t hear her, his mind already racing back to another time.

--------------------------------

“Have you heard from the aussies?” He asked, between baskets as him and the communication officer wasted their downtime with a pick up game.

“Not yet- but you know them, their satellites get pointed in the wrong direction every time there’s a football game on.”

Jack laughed and threw the ball into the basket, missing completely.

Basketball was not his sport of choice, give him a hockey stick anyday over this, but beggars can’t be choosers.

It had been quiet for a few days here and he knew that in other parts of the country there had been some action but no one could confirm where and with whom so a pit formed in his stomach as the hours went by and he hadn’t received an update on your location.

It had been months since you two had last seen each other, and even then it had been only one day where you two had been working in the same village, not getting more than five minutes to feel each other up in the back of a jeep.

“ABBOTT!” The Sergeant of the unit called his name, his face usually one with a smile no matter the situation was missing his characteristic smile as Jack wandered over, throwing the basketball back to the communications officer not looking to see if it was caught.

Once in the tent the Sergeant had commandeered as his office, Jack sat down fiddling with a pen and leaning back in the chair. It was not abnormal for him to be called to this office, it could be for anything from supply requirements, a mission or simply because the man before him had received a secret supply of scotch and didn’t want to drink alone.

But today he settled not in his overly comfortable chair behind the desk but in the fold out chair next to Jack, his hands knitted tightly together in his lap as he clears his throat.

“At 1300 hours yesterday there was a shooting on a medical unit about eight hundred clicks from here. Allied medical officers were shot, one englishman dead and-”

Jack swore, “She got shot?”

“The reports that are coming out said she got shot in the shoulder, the right side, with little injuries elsewhere other than a bump on the head.”

Jack nodded slowly, taking it all in. A shoulder wound was not something to be trifled with, if left unchecked it could lead to loss of limb or mobility. But you are not dumb, he knows this, you would be pedantic about physical therapy.

“Ok, so is she in Cairo or a medicentre here?”

“Abbott- Jack, there's more. At 1500 her medivac convoy was driving through hostile lands and reports are saying there was a drone.”

“Reports? From survivors?”

“Aerial support from our own drones, there were no survivors.”

No survivors.

No survivors.

No survivors.

The words were not sinking in, he needed to move, he needed to get up from this chair and get to the communication centre. They would patch him through to you and everything would be fine.

“No Sir, I’m sorry but no she can’t be gone.”

“Jack, son… She’s gone.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------

“Jack, honey, She’s gone-”

He roared back to reality, jumping from the chair and grabbing Dana by the shoulders, her words unfinished.

“She is not gone!”

“To surgery you idiot! She has gone up to surgery!” Dana said, darting out of his touch and forcing him back into the chair.

Surgery, you were going to surgery, he kept telling himself, you were not dead and you were not gone. 

“How is she?” his voice was broken, nothing but a whisper of air.

“Alive, the bullet entered her chest just above her heart and tore through and out. Santos got hit too in the shoulder but she only just told us. Crazy kid kept going until we had your girl up in the elevators.”

Jack let out the breath he had been holding and he took a moment to gather himself. The ER was a buzz of people, packing away the equipment no longer needed, the overlooked clean up crews were working tirelessly to mop up the blood while the police fenced off where the shooting had happened.

Someone was drawing an outline of where you fell on the lino and he had to look away.

“Dr Abbott-” someone called his name, weak and with a little bit of fear coated his name as he turned around.

He finally saw her, Santos, with her scrub top off and her tank top covered in blood, your blood. But it was the bandage and sling that really caught his eye.

Dana had mentioned Santos had been shot.

“Are you okay?”

The girl nodded her eyes filling with tears as she tried to push them away with her one good hand, “Because of her I am. She was yelling at me and then she stepped in front of me.”

He nodded and sat on the small wheelie chair by Santos bed.

“I don’t understand, why would she do that for me?”

Jack took his time to answer, looking anywhere but at the young girl before him, her tears making his own threaten to fall.

“She is tough, a tough nurse and an even tougher teacher.But she has seen things, gone through things that would keep anyone up at night. But she would do it all again, go through all the pain, to make sure someone else doesn’t.”

Santos went to speak but Robby appeared from nowhere, his presence ending the conversation. 

“You okay Kid?” he asked Santos, before turning to Jack not really waiting for an answer, “Are you going up?”

Jack looked around again, at the quieting ER and the people making themselves useful. According to the clock on the wall his shift would have technically started an hour ago now, but the time had gone by without any truly noticing or the day shift making tracks to leave.

“I should stay here, my shift just started.”

“Jack-”

“I either stay down here or I go up there and sit in an awful chair and stew.”

“You can stew, you can sit in that godawful chair and you can wait for her.”

“Robby, I-”

“Jack, she’s your person, your thing.” The other doctor moved his hands around while trying to word your relationship, “go, I’ve already called in help.”

Robby pulled Jack to his feet and manhandled him to the elevator, pressing the button to surgery and stepping out as the doors shut.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Everything hurts as you blink yourself awake, your limbs feeling heavy and your head pounding.

Pain bloomed behind your eyes as the fluorescent lights hit your eyes.

“Fuuuuuck!” you thought but couldn’t speak, every breath hindered by a tube down your throat. Panic set in, as the pain grew in your chest, and your head. Black dots dance in your vision as you try to blink away all the pain.

Hands grab you but you can’t see who it is, they are firm as they hold your hands to your side and a voice that is warm like honey tea fills your ears but the words are nothing but sound.

You can’t understand what the person is saying and the panic gets worse, you scramble to try and get away from their touch but they hold firm, their thumbs working circles around your wrists, and their own breath now warm against your skin. 

“Baby-”

Lemongrass, lemongrass and sweat filled your nose and the panic subsided because he was there.

Jack.

Holding you down and saying your name like a prayer, he was there.

You let out a moan, or a cry, with the tube down your throat you wouldn’t know which. Tears fell as you grabbed at his hands, his face now coming into focus.

Jack was here.

You had once woken in a hospital room, with a tube down your throat and your body on fire, with no one by your side. A handful of old friends came to say hello, your commanding officer came to give you a medal and your discharge papers, but no one stood there and held you while you wept that you were alive.

But here he was now, Jack with his own tears, holding you and reminding you you are alive.

“You're here baby, you’re okay.”

You nod slowly, finally taking it all in, you were intubated, with your chest half exposed and bandaged up. You could just see your feet, giving them a wiggle to confirm movement.

You are alive.

You are alive and Jack is here.

“You kept your promise.” he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours.

I’m not going anywhere.

[muniimyg]

𐙚₊˚⊹ boxer!jungkook (2) ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

series m.list // taglist closed

boxer jk x neuro doctor oc

post match vibes

warning: mentions of stitches, needle, and blood

note: 2/5 parts for this mini series! thanks for the love w pt1! mwah

//

jungkook sits on the edge of the ever-so-familiar hospital bed.

his legs are spread, hands draped over his knees, and he fights the urge to shut his eyes as the overhead light casts sharp shadows over the planes of his face.

he can feel it—his blood dripping down the sides of his face. the fresh cut on his forehead stark against his skin and the throbbing almost makes him feel like shit. jungkook takes a deep breath and stays still as you prep the needle. though the sterile scent of disinfectant settles between you, jungkook is doing his absolute best to memorize the way you smell.

you smell so freaking good.

"i thought you said you were good at boxing."

your voice is light, but the weight of it presses against his ribs. he grins, dimples threatening to form despite the sting above his brow.

"i am."

"so i'm stitching you up because?"

his gaze flickers to you, dark and intent. "i've been lacking the motivation."

"to win?"

"to focus,” he confesses. “how long has it been, doc? 3 months? shit. haven’t been myself since then. every day i hoped someone would beat the shit out of me so i could have an excuse to see you.”

"so you got yourself beaten up just to see me? is that supposed to impress me?" you ask him unamused.

he shakes his head. "no, but my dedication to seeing you again is."

"do you ever take no for an answer?"

"did you even really say no to me, though?"

the air stills.

then, you exhale through your nose. pretending to be unimpressed at him before pressing the needle to his skin. as you wait for his reaction, you run through different comebacks.

but you're out of time. in fact, you barely had any.

jungkook doesn’t flinch.

it truly does impress you because this shot is a bitch. yet, you notice how his fingers curl into a fist against the sheets.

"it's okay if it hurts," you murmur. "it's not supposed to be painless."

his jaw flexes. 

"i can handle hits. stitches? easy."

"i never said you couldn't handle it. i said it's okay if it hurts."

jungkook isn’t sure what it is… but silence drapes over the room. like a heavy mist or early moving fog.

it’s thick and weighted. 

jungkook swallows. his throat feels dry. his mind races. 

all his life, pain has been an afterthought—background noise to the only thing that’s ever mattered; winning. to jungkook, if he isn’t bruised, battered, and bleeding by the end of a fight, he hasn’t fought hard enough. pain isn’t something to be acknowledged and dwelled on. it’s a consequence. a transaction. 

but now, here you are… speaking about it so simply and coated in acceptance and warmth. then, there’s also your motherfucking gaze. 

so soft. 

so kind. 

so present. 

all of these things mixed together make his stomach twist. he doesn’t know how to act. he does’t know what to say. he doesn’t know what to feel.

he wonders if this is what pain really feels like—not the kind he’s trained to endure, but the kind that sneaks up on you, curling around your ribs when you least expect it. he wonders if it’s because he’s spent so long numbing himself to it… or if it’s because, for the first time, he’s realized something worse than losing a fight…

losing the chance to keep seeing you.

because holy fuck. 

where have you been his entire life? 

seriously.

jungkook clears his throat, stretching out his fingers, forcing the tension from his knuckles. "so, doc," he starts, a smirk playing at his lips, "do you date doctors?"

you blink. "pardon me?"

"you don’t date patients, right? well, everyone is a patient at some point, but not everyone is a doctor. so, do you only date doctors?"

you almost laugh. 

almost.

"you just got seven stitches on your forehead and you're concerned about whether or not i date doctors?"

jungkook shrugs before dropping the most nonchalant information about himself; "i have a degree in nutrition, you know. used to specialize in sports nutrition. just wanted to give boxing a shot—"

"wow. i didn't know that. that’s really cool." you say, genuinely intrigued, "what school did you go to—"

"i won't quit boxing... at least, not yet... but if i ever do, just know that i can be a doctor too… if that’s who you date and shit."

“and shit?”

“and shit.”

this time, you do laugh. 

it’s so pretty. 

the sound of it and the sight of it—mesmerizing. 

it catches jungkook off guard. his eyes flickering over your face, lingering a second too long. he looks at you… he really looks at you and it’s like he just won the best thing in the world. like he’s a kid who won BINGO in his class for the first time and got to choose the scented eraser as his prize. 

he watches you and thinks; to have you is to win. 

you’re the only victory he wants. 

as he shifts forward to hop off the bed, your hands move on instinct, catching him before he can fully rise. your fingers press lightly against the firm muscle of his forearm, his skin warm beneath your touch. he stills at the contact, his gaze flicking down to where your hands steady him, then back up to your face.

for a beat, neither of you move.

the air shifts—thickens—his breath slowing as he watches you, unreadable. your pulse kicks up, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. but then jungkook smirks, lazy and knowing, the tension splintering just as quickly as it built.

"careful, doc," he murmurs, voice lower now, laced with something teasing, something else. "if you keep holding onto me like that, i might start thinking you care."

"you shouldn’t be jumping off like that so fast—"

"okay. whatever you say. hey, look at me," he says, voice quieter now, more deliberate. your fingers still against his arm. "i'm not bad looking, right? i have an education. i follow my passion, and it's going well—"

"again," you interject, "i just gave you seven stitches."

"again," he repeats, "i just needed a reason to see you."

"you requested me and refused to be treated by namjoon," you point out.

"exactly," jungkook smirks.

you bite your bottom lip, catching yourself before you react. suddenly, you’re aware of how close you are—his warmth pressing into your space, the scent of sweat and antiseptic clinging to him. his eyes are locked on yours, waiting, watching.

"___—"

"doctor ___," you correct, stepping back, straightening your coat, severing whatever was hanging between you.

"doctor ___..." he tests the words on his tongue, then nods. "i’d really appreciate it if you could reconsider the whole... only dating a doctor thing. honestly? i don’t mind school. i just don’t want to go back and be old by the time i get to your level… but if that’s really the only way you’ll go out with me—"

rolling your eyes, you brush off your coat, turning toward the door—just like last time. pushing it open, you pause before you step through. taking one final glance at him, you titl your head ever so slightly. 

jungkook mirrors you. 

"no, mr. jeon," you say, voice laced with amusement. "i do not just date doctors. in fact, i avoid dating them."

then, the door swings shut behind you.

jungkook exhales, pressing his tongue against his cheek, shaking his head as he lets out a breathless chuckle.

hope. 

that’s what this feels like.

he’s had victories before, ones that have left him bruised and battered, ones that have left him undefeated. but this? this is something else entirely. something he’s willing to lose for. something he knows, in the deepest part of his chest, he can’t afford to.

not this time.

not when it’s you.

[jks1uv]

𝐶𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑟 ; jack reacher | one-shot |

summary: one eventful night brings you closer to your gentle giant.

pairing: fem!reader x ritchson!jack reacher.

trope: skilled ex-military man meets ordinary civilian & they fall in love while on a dangerous mission.

genre: fluff + romance.

warnings‼️: crude language + mentions of blood + mentions of violence (3 dudes harassing reader turns into an ugly bar fight but nun too graphic) a guy calls reader a bitch + a knife + patching up wounds + a kiss scene + my first time writing / describing tension & i tried my best so i’m very sorry if it’s a flop 😭 + things get a lil… heated (🌚) but it’s still sfw for the most part!

word count: 1,393.

random disclaimerrr: god he’s so hot i just had to write smth else for him 🫦 s1 reacher you’ll always be famous. happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jks1uv

It’s quiet.

The only sources of sound are the crickets chirping outside and the occasional crack and snap of a worn out engine in an old ass vehicle.

You’ve washed your face and changed into some pajama pants and a tank top. You're sat atop your and Reacher's shared bed in some 3 star hotel room, wondering how fucked up tonight got.

It was supposed to be a simple stakeout. You and Reacher were meeting with someone at a bar a little outside of Margrave.

But of course, shit hit the fan as soon as possible.

You were drinking a soda, waiting on Reacher to finish conducting his little interview when jackass and friends came over.

“Why you drinkin’ all by your lonesome, hun?”

You act deaf but that just pissed them off.

“Hey. You fuckin’ deaf or somethin’?”

You look at them sideways which makes them laugh and oddly enough, think you’re playing hard to get.

“Come on now, baby, don’t be like that.”

“Yeahh, we could show you a real good time.”

The one that looks like the leader of the trio winks at you and you just can’t stand it anymore.

You pay for your soda, get off the stool and turn around to walk away when one of the 3 stooges grab your wrist, causing you to be yanked back.

“What the fuck—?!”

“Where you goin’?” He doesn’t sound so pleased but you don’t give a fuck.

You punch the guy restraining you in the nose, hard.

“You fuckin’ bitch.”

“You’re gonna pay for that.”

You blink and feel yourself being shielded.

Reacher.

You feel his large hand on your arm, maneuvering you behind him as he takes on the 3 short and scrawny (compared to mountain man over here) bastards quite easily.

Obviously, it’s not a bar fight without somebody playing dirty and pulling out a weapon at their convenience, and that’s exactly what happened!

Reacher is nicked along the lines of his abs before he snaps the guy’s wrist, jamming the knife into the other dude’s shoulder.

You winced and looked away.

Reacher rounds up the last dickhead and turns his lights off (temporarily) before you both skedaddle outta there.

And now you’re here.

Reacher opens the bathroom door to let some steam out, you observe his shirtless and injured state.

“Reacher...” Your guilt shows.

“Don’t worry about it, Y/n. I’ll be fine. I was just doing—”

“Please don’t say ‘my job’.”

He looks at you with an amused smile. The mountain man takes out the first aid kit and starts disinfecting his wounds.

You walk over and sit beside him on the counter, taking the alcohol soaked cotton ball and dab it gently.

It’s quiet again for a few minutes, no sign of awkward silence.

It’s strange, you didn’t even know this man a few weeks prior and now you’re cleaning his wounds. Not to mention, you’ve never seen the guy half-naked before and hot damn is he built like a Greek God. You’re basically heating up! (from the steam, of course...)

“It doesn’t look like it’ll need stitches, right?”

Reacher’s too busy staring at you. Your fixated eyes, your furrowed brows in concentration. He lowers his eyes towards your lips, slightly bitten in focus.

“Reacher?” You blink up at him.

“No.”

The husk in his voice catches you off guard. You gulp harshly, focusing back on the task at hand.

“You didn’t have to go that hard, you know.” You change the topic, dismissing the almost electric atmosphere.

He tilts his head at you like a confused dog.

“Those bastards were harassing you, so I handled it.”

He says it with such clarity that you’d think it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You shake your head playfully, a smile tugging at your lips from his show of ferocity for you.

“And I appreciate it, I do.”

“I sense a rebuttal.” He quips.

You laugh through your nose. “I just wanted to say that despite your valiant efforts,” You pause to press a bandaid on his abs.

“Uh huh.”

“I was doing just fine.”

“That you were.” He agrees.

He says it like he’s proud, like he’s so relieved to see you have your own back and toughen up when it’s time.

You know the world is a cruel place and that sometimes, only the strong survive. But you proved your strength and he recognizes it.

You meet his eyes and see him staring back into them. You see the different shade of blue in this light and angle; a dimly lit orange hue casts a nice glow onto his freshly shaved, chiseled face.

“I never noticed the many,” He inhales. “Freckles and moles and little scars on your face.”

“Now that I think about it, your nose is kind of big.” You humor him.

He squints his eyes playfully.

You really hope he picks up on the fact that you’re flirting. You want him to break the ice; to make the first move but would he be so willing? You think he’d be a tease and let you grow frustrated before appeasing.

“What are you thinking about?”

His hand comes up to rub the ends of some strands of your hair together, liking the softness of it.

“You.” You boldly answer.

He raises an eyebrow at your declaration. “What about me?”

There’s that voice again, god. The low timbre with the breathy whisper.

The smell of wood and cologne, everything clouds your senses.

Your breathing quickens just a tad when you feel the feathery touch from his fingers touch the sliver of exposed skin on your hip. You wore the tank top because you were comfortable but now you applaud yourself for the smart choice.

He inches closer and closer; you could just push yourself up on your heels and meet him halfway. Your eyelids flutter, fighting the battle between closing them to enjoy the moment or keeping them open to see the suspense.

Will he, won't he?

Suddenly, he leans back with a tube of Neosporin, screwing the cap back on. Your eyes open up and he stares down at the tube, pretending he wasn't just about to indulge you in your wildest fantasies.

“Really.”

You know he knows, but he just has to be a teasing little shit about it.

His face cracks and his lips split open to reveal the most beautiful smile; it makes you smile a little, too.

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop.” He croons.

He leans forward and grips the countertop, trapping you between him. His gaze dart around your face before landing on your lips. He takes a deep breath.

“Can I—”

“Yes!” You pull his face in with both hands, not wasting any more time.

He laughs into your mouth and you find yourself wanting to hear more of it.

You’re lifted from the countertop with such ease, you’re reminded of his strength. Time and time again, his strength makes an appearance enabling your attraction to him increase.

Reacher’s hands squeeze at your hips when you lick his bottom lip, wanting a little taste of something more. He nips at your throat, leaving love bites messily across your neck and soothing the pleasurable pain with the coolness of his tongue.

You bring him back to you and kiss him with tongue and teeth, feeling your nerves on fire and your heart about to burst.

He groans when your legs tighten around his core. “You keep doing that, I won’t last.”

You giggle at the that and think about teasing but your resolve is weak when he lays you down on the bed.

You see a sparkle in his eyes, the kind that hypnotizes you; makes you want to swim in the turquoise waters of his mind.

“I’m so down bad for you.” You softly admit.

Your hands are in his hair, softly toying with the brown strands.

He kisses you with such fervor, you can feel everything he’s ever wanted to say. You can feel his desperation, his devotion, his care for you. You feel the longing in the way he holds you, in the way he kisses you soft and slow. He pours his emotions into the searing kiss and you can cry from joy.

To know someone cares for you as much as you do for them is rare, but never not found.

[cherryblossom-heart]

I hate you (7.5/?)

modern!Sukuna x Reader

The night that changed everything

Content Warning: Angst, Enemies to lovers, Sukuna is his own warning, Reader gets assaulted but it's not graphic, it goes more into her mental state Sexual content, slut shaming (both sides). This is a +18 post so MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Reader gets assaulted but it's not graphic, it goes more into her mental state. If I catch any minor or ageless blog interacting with this series I will block you. Not proofread so sorry for any mistakes

W.C: 5.8K

A/N: Hi besties! Here we have the night they spent together. I hope you guys enjoy it!

<Previous Chapter. Next Chapter>

8:25 p.m.

“Are you sure we can’t just order takeout?”

Sukunas eyes met yours.

“No. We’re staying to eat.”

Sukuna was used to your insults. The oh so clever ways you found to call him an idiot, a manwhore, a joke. He was used to the rage you put behind your words whenever he found a way to get under your skin. He even was used to the physical violence you enforced against him, a small scar over his left eyebrow served as an amusing reminder of the time you threw a vase at his face for “accidentally” dropping hot sauce all over you before you went out with your friends. The three stitches his wound required had been worth it as soon as he saw you coming out of your room with a different dress, the amount of exposed skin turned down a notch.

Sukuna was used to receive and be the source of your rage. It was fun. It was entertaining. It was comfortable.

What Sukuna wasn’t used to was the emptiness behind your eyes. Ever since that night the spark he liked ignite was gone, almost as it had been sucked out of you. The memory of that night replayed constantly on his mind.

“Get the fuck of me!”

“I’m going to fucking kill you!”

A curling scream echoed in the alley behind the bar.

Sukunas heart rose to his throat. He couldn’t think straight, he couldn’t even remember where he had placed his keys or his gun, a kitchen knife in his hand as he had left his apartment in a rush. He hadn’t even bothered putting on shoes or a shirt, nothing more than just a pair of black sweatpants and desperation joined him as he ran through the dark streets of Tokyo.

Ryomen Sukuna was a man with many faults. Prone to anger. Sociopathic tendencies. Narcisism in its most pure form. He wasn’t a stranger to rage or violence but the wrath that rose in him the moment he heard your scream wasn’t of this world. Worlds could be burned just by the mere touch of the fire of his rage.

“Get off!”

The back door had been locked, probably by one bastard inside. His body smashed again and again against the door unsuccessfully, the metal bolt stopping him from wreaking havoc inside. You must’ve been close to the back door as he heard you calling for him.

“Sukuna!”

“Shut the fuck up, bitch!”

He heard the echo of a slap.

Tick

There had been few instances where Sukuna had blacked out because of anger. There had been one time when his little brother Jin had been pushed into a wall by a group of older kids, his head hitting the concrete.

That had been the first time Sukuna had ever been arrested.

The second time had happened more recently. He had been foolish, unprepared for betrayal. Jogo, a strange guy that he had dealt with in the past and a guy that claimed to be his ally, had tried to put a leash on him. He had dared to use his family and friends to control him, threatening everyone from Uraume to his little nephew Yuji. No one had found Jogo’s corpse yet.

This time had been different. Usually, he retained a couple of the memories of what had transpired, he remembered the screams of those kids, he remembered the look in Jogo’s eyes as life left his body. He remembered them begging, pleading him to stop.

This time he didn’t remember running to the front door, his body smashing against the glass of one of the shop windows making sharp little pieces of crystal collide against his skin, leaving trails of blood behind. He didn’t even remember feeling the same pieces of glass crunching under his bare feet, painfully digging in his skin.

He didn’t even remember your cries or screams, neither the silence his entrance had caused. The only thing he remembered was the image that welcomed him when he finally went through the kitchen doors. Three men were in the kitchen with you, pressing your body against the bar. Tears ran down your face as struggled against them, sheer panic plastered all over your face. He remembered how wide your eyes had been as one of the men pressed a blade against your neck, stopping Sukuna in his tracks.

He remembered your tears. He remembered your fear. He remembered your anger. He remembered the way you had grabbed a knife, stabbing them man that held you hostage in the side of his torso.

He didn’t wake up until your voice called his name once more, stopping him from his frenzy as his fist collided again and again against the man’s face. Your face was drenched covered in blood, purple and black spots already forming along your cheek. His knuckles were raw and broken, the man under him more likely than not dead. They didn’t hurt him as much as the pain the sight of your bruised face brought him.

“Sukuna…” your voice died on your lips.

His hands reached out to you and for the first time you had recoiled before he could even touch you.

He was going to kill them, all of them.

“Are you ready to order?” A feminine voice brought him out of his thoughts. A pretty waitress stood in front of them, her smile directed towards him.

“Two miso soups” He grunted.

Usually, his unfriendly demeanor was enough for people to leave him alone. Unfortunately, the waitress had been too focused on his physique to be deterred by his personality.

“Coming right up.” She said as she finished writing on her notebook. She pushed her short black hair behind her ears, a blush spreading through her face. “I like your tattoos”

“Mmm”

His eyes fell on his cellphone, hoping she would get the message.

She didn’t.

“I have a couple of them myself. I have two on my arm and one… well I couldn’t show you where the other one is.”

Any other day Sukuna would’ve taken the bait, even better with you watching. But when the corner of his eye caught you staring through the window, any sort of satisfaction left his body.

You weren’t even looking at him.

“Mmm”

He didn’t spare her a glance.

The waitress opened her mouth one last time, hoping that to at least get his attention.

“It’s nice of you to take your sister out to eat. Not a lot of brothers are this nice.”

Tick.

“What the fuck makes you think she’s my sister?”

The waitress had finally caught his indifference… a little too late.

“N-no, I’m sorry. I was just– “

“I know what the fuck you’re trying to do.” Sukuna cut her off, his eyes burning through the girls skull. “I don’t do desperate sluts, especially not the ones that whore themselves out when I already have company.”

“I-I’m sorry, I– “

“I don’t give a fuck about your apologies.” Sukunas eyes burned with fire, his fist hitting the table gathering everyone’s attention. “What makes you think I, let alone anyone in this restaurant with functioning eyes and a sense of smell, would even touch you? You think an ugly, desperate, fish smelling skank like you can–”

Your hand reached to his “Enough.”

A battle of stares ensued. Carmin eyes stared at yours, the anger they carried could’ve made even the strongest man shiver under them. Not you. Never you. Not even when yours where void of any emotion.

As always, you won.

“Go. Ask another waitress to bring our food.” You told the girl, eyes still focused on him. “I already have enough fish in my soup.”

Sukuna chuckled.

A few moments later two steaming bowls of miso were dropped off at your table by a male waiter.

“I don’t like miso soup.” You broke the silence.

“Lie. You don’t like porridge.”

“How do you even know that?”

For a second, Sukunas heart began racing, an annoying habit it had acquired for the past few months.

“I know everything you hate just in case I have to use it.”

“Asshole.”

He brought the white bowl to his lips, the savory taste of the broth lingering on his mouth. He had never considered himself well-mannered so it wasn’t a surprise when mere seconds later, the bowl was emptied from any liquid.

Yours, on the other hand, remained intact. Your eyes had gone back to the window, thoughts lost so far Sukuna couldn’t decipher them. The dark circles below them were poorly concealed, the darker tone crashing against whatever makeup product you were using to cover them.

“Brat.”

You didn’t turn to him, but he knew you were listening.

“Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.” You mumbled.

Tick

Sukunas laugh filled the air, his head pulled back as he rubbed his eyes. Your head finally snapped to his direction, eyebrows furrowing with frustration the longer his laugh continued.

Thirty seconds was all it took for your patience to run out.

“What’s so funny?”

He took a deep breath, his hand holding his stomach as the pain from laughing too much took over his abdomen.

“You.”

You scoffed “What about me?”

Sukunas smile widened with the cockiness that’s characterized him.

“I never took you for a weakling.”

Your jaw hardened, teeth grinding so hard he could almost hear your enamel disintegrating itself away.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Fire.

Scalding, raging fire. Your eyes opened wide, burning everything on their path.

Sukunas skin filled with goosebumps.

“You’re going to let a couple of fat, weak, disgusting pigs beat you?”

Your breathing hitched before your hands turned into fists.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He leaned in.

“All I see is someone who’s letting herself be controlled. Look at yourself.” His eyes traveled along your face and your clothes, earning yourself an eye roll. “You’re starving yourself away, not sleeping, pretending you're fine as if nothing happened or at least trying to. They couldn’t hurt your body but you’re letting them kill away your mind?”

His words weakened your anger, your eyes watering a second later. Sukunas chest ached uncomfortably, as his mind told him to turn away from the source of his pain. He hated it. He wanted it gone. Whatever strange concoction of feelings you brought was foreign to him, but it was powerful enough to make him lose focus.

“You want to prove me wrong?”

He didn’t give you time to answer.

“Eat. Now.”

10:17 p.m.

“What are we doing here?”

Sukunas foot stepped on the rear brake making the motorcycle coming to a stop. He parked a couple of streets away, making you both walk until you reached a small white house in the outskirts of Tokyo.

You both walked to the white mid-size sedan parked outsides, making your way to the driver’s door. Your hands stopped him when he took off his jacket and wrapped it around his elbow

“What the fuck Sukuna? You’re going to get us arrested.”

“Not if you shut the fuck up.” He whispered, shaking your hand off. “You don’t remember this car, do you?”

Your eyes scanned the vehicle, looking through the window for any clues. Once your eyes landed on the driver seat where a chocolate axe body spray laid, they lit up with recognition and disgust.

“Daichi? My ex-manager?”

He tied one last knot.

“Remember the scrap yard Uraume and I used to hang out around when we were kids?”

“Yeah?”

He threw his keys at you, barely giving you time to catch them.

“Take my bike and meet me there.”

You stood there frozen as you processed what he said but Sukuna didn’t have time to wait for your brain to finally start working.

“Go! Now!”

His elbow crashed against the crystal, shattering everything on its path. The alarm went off, finally snapping you out of it. It didn’t take him longer than 3 minutes to silence the alarm and have the vehicle up and running. After years of experience taking bigger and better vehicles, a 2005 dodge wasn’t going to be a problem, it had almost been boring. You were long gone once the porch lights turned on, the echo of his bike speeding away filling the streets instead.

A short man with dark hair and an overhanging stomach came out screaming, a broomstick in his hands. Sukuna’s right foot dug in the gas pedal leaving the smell of burnt tire’s behind as his middle finger stuck out of the window.

10:41 p.m.

 The rubble pathway to the boneyard made Sukuna remember why he preferred his bike over a constricted, heavy, metal box. Every rock sent the stability of the vehicle out the window making it seem as he was using the car to swim against the current, the two sixpacks of beer clashing against each other in the back.

Five minutes later he finally found you, his bike resting next to a torn down SUV as you paced back and forth. He didn’t had time to get both feet out of the car before you came to face him.

“What the fuck?” You yelled; your breathing heavy as your hands shook. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

Perfect, he thought to himself.

“Out of the way, slut.”

You scoffed, not before closing the door on him. The door collided against his hand and the brewing anger only you could pull out of him came to surface. His first instinct was to grab you by the throat, wishing nothing more than throwing you to the ground. Instead, he smashed the door closed as the back of his mind pleaded him not to upset you.

Upset you.

Since when did he care?

Throughout the years he had never cared for your emotions other than your anger. Your anger has always been the prime source of his entertainment, the things he had said, the things he had done, all for his own sake. He had pulled tears from your eyes, he had hurt you emotionally and sometimes physically just to pull a good laugh from himself.

He didn’t care about you.

But why did your tears haunt his dreams ever since that night?

“You’re fucking insane! We could get arrested!”

He scoffed, opening the passenger door. “Calm your tits, brat. No one is getting arrested.”

“You fucking calm your tits when I tear your head off for sending me to prison.” You turned away from him.

He took out the packs of beer along with a metal bat he had paid the liquor store owner for. He cracked open a can, the shaking of the car taking effect in the drink making it explode as soon as he opened it.

Sukuna welcomed the bitter taste of the liquor, anything that could distract him from the nuisance your presence brought him.

 “Here.” He placed a metal bat in your hands.

“What am I supposed to with this?”

“Hit the car.” Sukuna said as if it was obvious.

“What?” You looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “No, what the hell?”

“Hit the fucking car.”

You pushed the bat back to his chest, forcing him to hold it. “I’m not hitting the fucking car, idiot.”

“Alright, if you’re not hitting the car then you have to admit you’re not ok.”

“What?”

Your tone hardened and he could almost see the walls building themselves back up.

“You heard me.” Sukuna repeated, opening a new can as he crushed the first one. “Hit the car or tell the truth.”

“I’m not doing shit.” You turned to his bike, your hands digging in your pockets.

Sukuna pulled you back by the arm, his hand snatching his keys out of your fingers.

“You’re not going anywhere until you either beat the shit out of this car or you fucking tell the truth.”

You tried to pull yourself free, but his grip was made from steel.

“Let me go”

“Make me.” 

His eyes wondered down your face, staying on your lips for only a quarter of a second. You moved yourself closer to him and for a moment Sukuna thought you might kiss him. His body unconsciously filled with anticipation, only to have you snatch the bat out of his hands.

Hard, heavy footsteps carried you away until you reached the front of the car. You got into position, your hands gripping the handle so tightly he thought you might hurt yourself. You looked back at him one last time, only turning once he gave you a small nod.

Smash.

“Again.” He barked. Sukuna had expected you to fight back but the sound of the metal colliding against metal surprised him.

Smash.

“Again.”

Smash

“Again.”

Smash

“Fuck your job.” You yelled, your voice cracking in the last word.

Smash

“Fuck your pathetic life.”

Smash

“Fuck you, you mother fucking abortion looking like bastard!”

Smash

“Fuck you!

Fuck you!

Fuck you!”

Your angry screams had turned into wails, each one more painful than the other. The more you hit the car the faster your façade fell, showing him every dark thought you had forcefully hidden away from everyone. His heart began pounding against his chest, his own heartbeat deafening him from your suffering.

Something unexpected happened to Sukuna that night.

Physical touch for him mostly meant sex, or at least with the intention to end in sex. Sukuna was rough edges and violence; kindness and tenderness were never part of vocabulary and he preferred it that way. Why would he spend time in something he never saw a useful purpose for? Love meant weakness, and weakness was dangerous for men like him.

If love was useless to Sukuna, then why did he reach out for you? Why did he pulled the bat away, throwing it to the side as his arms wrapped around you? Why did he pushed your face to his chest, hoping his shirt would wipe your tears away so he wouldn’t have to see them?

“Stop it!” You fought back. “Let me go. Let me fucking go!”

He didn’t budge.

Eventually you wrapped your arms around him, holding onto him like he was your lifesaver. He could tell you were still struggling, fighting with everything in you to keep the tears inside. Even after finally breaking apart you still tried to find strength to not collapse.

He liked that about you, even if he would never admit it. Not even to himself.

“Why are you doing this to me?” You asked as you pulled back from his embrace, but his arms wouldn’t release you. “Why do you care?”

Sukuna was left speechless for the first time in his life.

What was he even trying to get out of this? Didn’t he hate you? With everything that had happened between you, why did he go out of his way to help you and expected nothing in return?

“I don’t know.” He finally answered. Red, slightly swollen eyes looked back at him and the pain in his chest intensified. “All I know is I don’t like seeing you like this.”

He would destroy worlds to erase the sadness behind your eyes.

11:03 p.m.

“Isn’t it weird we’ve known each other for almost a decade, and this is the first time we’ve actually hung out? Outside of sex of course.”

“Don’t get used to it.” He said as he drank the last sip of the last beer.

A mountain of smashed cans rested beside him as you both laid down in the hood of the now broken up car with the word “Rapist” scratched up in all sides. Both your jackets laid below you to protect you from the coldness of the metal as you looked at the dark sky.

“Why do you think that is?”

 He looked at you, laying on your back and staring at the stars, your eyes finally lost in something else other than the darkness in your head. He could almost see the real you again.

“Because you’re a pain in the ass.”

You laughed.

“Yeah well, you’re not a spring breeze yourself.” You countered asclosed your eyes, a smile adorning your face.

Sukunas hand itched with the need to touch you, almost as if it had a mind of his own. This wouldn’t have bothered him as much if what he wanted to touch were your breasts or reach for that sweet spot between your legs, he would even be ok if it was your thighs, the soft sensitive skin along them always calling for him.

Instead, he wanted to reach for your face, trace along the path of your tears all the way down to your lips. He wanted to reach out for your hand, figure out if entwining his fingers with yours would be as great as he pictured in his imagination.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.” You said with a smirk.

He was glad your eyes were still closed, or you would’ve seen the slight blush crossing his face.

“As if, brat. I would go blind if I looked at you for too long.”

You scoffed. “Then why haven’t you? I see you looking at me all the time.”

His brain froze, his heart missing a heartbeat.

“Keep it up and I might think you actually like me, pretty boy.”

“I haven’t reached rock bottom yet. Maybe then you might have a chance.”

“Asshole.” You mumbled.

Sukuna laid back down on the car as he forced his heart to stop beating so fast. He wasn’t wrong when he said you were a pain in the ass, especially now that he couldn’t even control his body.

“I know that you burned down the store I used to work in.”

He didn’t answer, unsure on why you were bringing it up.

“Why did you do it?”

Another thing he wasn’t sure of. Somehow, when it came to you, he wasn’t sure of a lot of things.

He couldn’t tell you that, though.

“As much as I hate you, you’re Uraume’s sister.” He took a deep breath, hoping his lie would be believable enough. “They’re like family to me.”

“So, I’m like family to you too?”

“No.” He answered too fast for his liking. “You’re more like a pebble in my shoe that for some reason Uraume loves.”

“Is that the only reason why you did it?” You kept questioning to his dismay.

Did you know? There was no way you could know, right?

“Why else would I do it? You’re my friends annoying little sister and a slut I’ve fucked a couple of times; there’s nothing more to it.”

His words seemed to end the discussion, but he had his own questions brewing.

“Are you planning on telling Uraume?”

He felt your body tense up.

“No. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“I–“ you cut yourself off, searching for the right words. “I don’t want them in all of this. Want it or not, you killed a guy, Sukuna. I might have too, we don’t know.”

“I handled it.” He interjected but that wasn’t enough for you.

“It doesn’t matter.” You turned to your side, facing him. “If I tell Uraume two things could happen and both of them end with them going to prison.”

“You don’t give them enough credit if you think Uraume would get caught.”

“It’s not about that, Sukuna. If I can stop them from getting in more trouble than they already are, I’ll do it.”

Even if it didn’t make sense to him, he could understand the thought process behind it. He didn’t know how aware you were of the “business” him and Uraume dealt with, or how deep in the neck they were. But he understood your desire to protect them even if they had committed far worse crimes.

And with that a thought popped in his head.

“You not being able to sleep… is it because I killed that guy in front of you?”

“No. Well– not in the way you think.”

He gave you a look, telling you to continue.

“When you killed that guy… I didn’t feel sad or scared.” You took a deep breath. “I-I felt relieved, so fucking relieved. It was almost like I enjoyed it, which I guess it makes sense with all things considered but–”

You hesitated, and Sukuna could sense the silent battle you were having over whether to speak or not.

"I was angry too. I was angry I didn’t kill him myself. I was angry I couldn’t see his eyes drain of life and… I was angry I wouldn’t be the last thing he saw when he died.”

Sukuna could sense the shame in your words, the guilt of your feelings filling you again. He wanted to reach out to you, engulf you in a tight embrace again but he stopped himself from it.

“You… you think that makes me a monster?” You asked.

He wiped away a lonely tear that fell from your left eye.

“I know monsters and you’re not one of them. You’re just human.”

 “Yeah, a fucked up one.”

“Not as fucked up as me, right?” He shrugged.

You chuckled at his words. “Yeah, that bit is true.”

In a surprising move from your part, your fingers found his hand as you entwined them with his. Your warmth invading Sukunas senses as he tried to make sense of what was happening.

“Thanks.” You whispered. “For all of this.”

He could only bring himself to say one word.

“Sure.”

12:38 a.m.

“How are we going to get in? I don’t even have the right clothes.”

“Shut it. I know a way.”

After asking to go somewhere different, Sukuna wanted to know what you had in mind. When you said dancing, it was obvious it wasn’t what he had hoped for. He had hoped your idea of somewhere different would be his apartment, particularly his bed but he wasn’t too picky with the surface.

Instead he found himself guiding you through an alley behind The Underworld, a popular night club in the middle of Tokyo. After he found the back door he looked on windows near the backroom, finding one of them unlatched. He pulled it open, moving to the side as he waited for you to jump in.

“You’re not really serious, are you?” You asked incredulously.

“You in or not?”

You looked through the alley, searching for any unwanted spectator. After finding nothing, you rolled your eyes before walking to him “Fine, whatever.”

Both of you came out of the backroom, Sukuna guiding you both to the employees only resting area with a door that guided to the bar area. Darkness barely lit up by strobe lights and a couple of ambiance light welcomed you as soon as you crossed the door. The bass music hit your bodies through the air, each low down filtering through your bones.

You were clearly underdressed, both of you wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, his only possible salvation the black leather jacket he carried most places. Theres was nothing to worry though, the darkness in the club were enough to cover you from everyone else’s eyes.

Passing next to the bar, Sukuna managed to swipe a bottle some poor bartender had left unattended, rushing you to the other side of the establishment. You took charge once you were at a safe distance, guiding him to the middle of the dance floor. Red, purple and blue lights hit you in the face and he thought he had never seen anyone as majestic.

Every thought he had of you confused him, some of them even sending him to a panic, but he also knew he enjoyed them. He enjoyed the fire you once again carried inside you, the way your eyebrows furrowed whenever he would spout hateful names towards you, or the way your eyes crinkle when he had pissed you off too much.

He liked the way your lips moaned his name when he fucked you silly.

You had started dancing, arms in the air as you swayed your hips. Of course, you also danced like a slut, hypnotizing him as you enjoyed the music. He took a sip of the vodka bottle he carried, his carnal instincts taking over finally. It had been almost too long since the last time he had felt you around his cock and now that you were here, he wanted nothing more than taking you to the bathroom and make you scream his name.

He stalked you, like a predator waiting to catch his prey, anticipation overfilling him the longer you kept your eyes closed. You lifted your arms a little too high, revealing to him the black laced thong you were wearing.

He lost control.

Sukuna spun you around, grabbing your hips between his hands. You had gasped when he had grabbed you, but once you recognized him you went back to your dancing, hips now moving along with his touch. Your ass pressed against his crotch, effectively springing up his cock as soon as he felt your warmth. His hands wondered up your body, squeezing your tits on the way up to your neck, pushing you more against him.

He didn’t care if everyone could see you and for the way you looked at him, neither did you. Somehow his brain had been taken over by his basic instincts, his body craving more and more like a thirsty animal. Your eyes traveled down to his lips as you leaned in close enough for him to almost taste you.

Finally, after so long.

However, you pulled away, a sultry smirk on your lips.

“Can you go get a glass with ice? I like my vodka cold.”

He was going to fucking kill you. He tried grabbing you but you scaped his touch, your smile getting wider.

“Nuh huh, ice first.”

Fucking bitch.

Sukuna scoffed as he turned away, trying to find a table where to swipe the glass with ice so he could go back and put you in your place. With the corner of his eye he could see you looking at him, still dancing in the middle of the floor. You were riling him up, the playful look in your eyes telling him you wanted him too. Fine, he would play your game if you accepted the consequences.

After what it seemed like the hundredth table, he finally got the stupid glass filled with ice. He turned around, ready to make his way up to you but the sight of you pushing a guy away stopped him in his tracks.

Tick

He threw the bottle along with the cup, the people surrounding him complaining as they got splashed. Sukuna made his way to you, pushing people to both side to get them out of the way. Your jaw was tightened as you backed away from the guy.

The unknown man didn’t see it coming, two hands grabbing him by the shirt and smashing him against the wall, Sukunas body and strength caging him in a dangerous position.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” You yelled in the guys face.

“I–I’m sorry, I–“ The man tried to explain but his words were met with another shove, leaving his lungs without air.

Sukuna pulled out a knife he kept with himself at all times, the spade blade touching the guys neck.

“I’m going to fucking kill you for touching her.”

Whatever pathetic words he was about to plead with died in his throat as you called for Sukuna’s attention.

“Stop it.” You pulled on his shoulder.

Sukuna pressed the guys neck more, surely blocking his airways. He would’ve kept going if it wasn’t for the second pull you gave him, this time strong enough to move him. He released the man, the later collapsing to the floor.

“Let’s go.” He said as pulled you by your hand. You were about to say something when a couple of tall, well built men stopped you in your tracks. They had to be the bouncers.

“You’re going to have to go with me, kids.”

Sukuna laughed. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll beat you up in front of your girlfriend.”

He gave you a look with the corner of his eye, your eyes wide and open. At first he thought you were scared of the confrontation, he found that thought deeply offensive, as if he couldn’t take a couple of old, wasted, meatheads. But once he saw the way your lips commissure raised, he recognized the look you gave him.

You were having fun.

“Run!”

Your fingers laced with his as you pulled him forward.

Sukuna had to give it to you, when it came to running no one could beat you. Ever since you were kids it had always been a bitch to play with you. Somehow even at eight years old you had figured out how to turn into Usain Bolt, your little legs driving you too far for him to catch you.

You swerved through the sea of people, pushing some of them on your way as you tried to put as many obstacles between the men and you. Your escape was cut short by a big man jumping on your way, trying to catch you in his arms. Sukunas heart raced as he saw you almost getting caught so he smashed himself against the man, pushing both of them to the floor. You looked in shock as the chairs flew out of the way, hitting many people on their path.

“Go!” He yelled at you before standing up, pulling you with him.

You ran past the doors, jumping over the crowd control rope so you both run down the street towards Sukunas bike. Four men were now on your persuit, their footsteps heavy and slow compared to yours.

“Get back here, fuckers!” One of them yelled once you were too far away to be caught.

Both of you hopped on his bike, leaving tire smoke and stains behind as he raced through the empty streets in Tokyo.

“I can’t believe we did that!” You cheered as you held onto him.

“I forgot you turn into Usain Bolt when you run.”

You chuckled. “Shut up.”

Sukuna felt the weight of your head on his back as your arms grew tights around him. You took a deep breath, almost as if you were inhaling his scent, before liberating the air, your body relaxing against his.

“I think I’m ready to go home.”

His heart dropped down, he assumed because he could not get laid tonight, having played along you game for nothing. That must be why, he told himself. Except the back of his brain already craved your presence even if you were still next to him.

“Alright.” Was his only response.

It didn’t matter anyways, he would get his chance another day.

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[redbird-tf]

Wild dog

dean x little sister

synopsis; A vampire hunt goes horribly wrong, leaving you injured in more ways the one, by the person you'd least expect.

inspired by

Word count; 2.6k (officially my longest story, please dont let it flop)

Warning: hurt/comfort, injury, john, violence, language

No no no, this couldnt be happening. You all knew taking on a vampire nest was a dangerous mission, but this mistake should have never happened. Now, here you lay on the cold, hay-covered floor of an old barn. Pain pulses through your body, your mind teetering on the edge of consciousness, and Dean looming over you.

The barn was crawling with those nasty blood-sucking monsters—20, maybe more. You three had been tracking them for weeks and prepared well. Hiding in the bushes, you waited until the nest was deep in slumber before making your move. You had to move quietly. Killing as many in their sleep as possible until one awoke. Its shrill scream shattered the silence, jolting the rest of the nest awake. "Split!" Dean's voice rang out, and in an instant, you all scattered.

Dean skidded to a stop as he faced a dead end. His grip tightened around the machete, turning to face the vamps closing in. “come get it you sick son of a bitch” he growled. He swung in every direction, blood soaking his clothes. When Dean got like this he turned into a killing machine. No thoughts just, swing-hit-kill, swing-hit-kill. A vamp hurled down at him from the ceiling, yet without flinching Dean grabbed it by the throat slamming it against the wall behind him and slicing its head clean off. Only when the head rolled past his feet did he take a breath and allow his shoulder to slump.

The sound of fast footsteps made him whirl around, swinging his machete wildly, his fist connecting with the creature's face, sending it crashing to the ground. “Dean stop!” Sams horrified voice rang pulling Dean from his soilder like state. Deans eyes widened in shock and the machete slipped from his hand. “Oh my god” his voice broke. It was you. You who was running up on him. You who’s side he sliced into. It was you who lay in front of him now.

Dean collapsed to his knees, and his hands came up to cradle your face “Sweetheart, sweetheart can you hear me” he begged with desperation. You let out a painful groan, and Dean let out a heavy sigh of relief. Sam lifted your shirt, inspecting the cut that was pouring blood. His concerned gaze met Dean, “What?” Dean demanded, panic rising in his chest. “We can’t stitch this dean, we need to take her to the hospital now” Sam replied with quick urgency. He pushed Dean aside, scooping you into his arms. You let out another agonizing moan. “Sorry bug” Sam whispered. “And say what?” Dean frantically snapped while darting toward the car. “I don't know Dean, let's worry about that when our sisters insides aren’t visible!” Sam shouted in frustration.

————-

When they reached the hospital, Dean shouted for help, and within seconds doctors surrounded them, lifting your limp body from Sam's arms and onto a bed. Deans eyes never left you as you were wheeled away, only breaking when pushed past white doors. It was then the adrenaline wore off and guilt flooded his body. He stood frozen, Sam’s voice was mumbled trying to convince the nurse it had been a bear or something.

“Sir, sir, SIR” Dean's trance was broken by the nurse's voice. “Does your hand feel alright?” She asked kindly. Dean furrowed his brows in confusion, then looked down at his fist. His knuckles were bruised and the image of his fist connecting with your face made his lip quiver.

Dean and Sam sat in the silence of the waiting room. Dean's head hung low, his thumb rubbing over his bandaged hand. Sams head jerked up at the sound of heavy footsteps, “what the hell” he muttered. Deans eyes widened at the sight of John. They both quickly stood from their seat “Dad what are you-“Sam was cut off. “What the hell happened?” John asked sternly, gazing between the brothers. There was a tense pause before Dean spoke up “It was me… she ran up from behind me. i should have been more careful…” Dean spoke quietly, half to keep the nurses from hearing and half because he couldn’t raise his voice without the risk of breaking down. John sighed heavily “How many goddamn times have i told her not to do that-“John started “It's not her fault” Dean quickly rebutted. John opened his mouth but fell silent at the sight of a nurse approaching. “How is she?” John asked, his body tensed, bracing for the worst. “Shell be alright” the boys shoulders dropped. “Shell have to take it easy for a few months to prevent tearing stitches….” The nurse paused, hesitating to continue “Her injury was very severe, it's a miracle she's still alive” The room fell silent again. “Can we see her?” Sam asked in an urgent tone.

The three of them hurried to your room. Sam and John rushed to your bedside, except for Dean who stood frozen in the doorway, watching you slowly gain consciousness.” what happened?” You asked groggily. Sam spoke softly to you but the Anastasia still weighed heavy, making it hard to understand his words. A shiver ran through your body and your head cocked to the side catching a glimpse of Dean. Dean jumped out of sight, pressing his back against the wall. He swallowed sharply, his heart hammering in his chest. “De…” he heard you call. “Dean” again, and again. A moment later John stepped out, “she's cold. She wants a jacket” he stated firmly. Without a word, Dean shrugged off his jacket and pushed it into John's hand. “Go home. We’ll talk later” he ordered. “Yes sir,” Dean said lowly, his hand dragged down his face, then he turned his heel.

—————-

“What do you remember?” Sam asked, sitting at the edge of your bed. You thought for a moment, your mind capturing bits and pieces. A look of shock came over your face. “I was running to Dean and then…” Your breath hitched and your hand clutched your side “he didn't mean to” you whispered with turned-up brows. Sams brows furrowed in contrast “Of course he didn’t” he reassured you, placing his hand over yours. “Here you go kid” John stepped forward, passing Dean's jacket to you. “Where's Dean?” You asked. “Let's get going before the cops get here” John continued ignoring your question. “He didn't mean to Dad! It's my fault” you blurted out. Johns's gaze sharpened “you were reckless. and he acted like a goddamn wild dog. This is on both of you, i hope you've learned something. Now come on” he snapped coldly, turning his back.

——

The drive back to the motel in John's truck was silent with unbearable tension. When John pulled into the lot you noticed Dean's impala was nowhere in sight. “I'll check into another room. You two go to bed,” John said gruffly, pointing between you and Sam before walking off. Sam carried the bags into the room as you limped in behind him. “Where Dean?” You asked, turning to Sam with a confused look. “He’s probably just grabbing a drink” he explained, while unpacking his bag. “Can we call him, just to make sure” you nervously fidgeted with your fingers, “let's just give him some space right now,” Sam spoke quietly, giving you sympathetic eyes.

You had been tossing and turning for hours. Unable to sleep thanks to the pain meds wearing off. You stared at the ceiling until the glow of headlights flickered into the room. You listened closely to the squeak of brakes, followed by the jingles of keys. You quickly closed your eyes pretending to sleep. Footsteps crept their way into the room, then faded back out. You peeked around the room, seeing nothing changed. Slowly you sat up, cradling your side as you pushed yourself from the bed. Grabbing Dean's jacket from the nightstand, you tiptoed to the door making sure not to wake Sammy while you slipped out.

The wind bit at your cheeks. You quickly draped the jacket over your shoulders, pulling it tight. The Impala was parked in front of you, but no still dean in sight. Your eyes scanned the lot. It wasn't until you squinted your eyes that you spotted a figure in the distance, sitting on a bench, beneath a large oak tree. After a few minutes of limping, and grunting, you finally reached the bench. Dean swung around at the sound. “I got your jacket…” you said awkwardly. “Keep it,” he muttered after giving you a once over and taking a sip of his drink. You slowly took a seat next to him. The rustle of the tree blowing in the wind surrounding you two. “I shouldn’t have run up on you-“ you tried to reason “It's not your fault” Dean cut you off, his voice firm, eyes locked on the ground. “You've told me over and over again not to “ “so i should have known. I shouldn’t have looked before…” his voice strained.

Another silence settled. “I don't blame you Dean” you stated softly. “Well, i do.” He replied sharply, taking another swing of his drink. You watched him for a moment before shifting closer, resting your head on his shoulder. You could feel him relax beneath your touch. “You know when we were younger, I'd come home from school and Dad would be gone, but you'd be there.” You kept your voice steady. “Then Sam left, and i was sure you would to…but you never did. You've always been there for me Dean” you spoke softly. You saw his grip tighten around the bottle. “You know what hurt most of all” your voice barely a whisper. “when i called for you from the bed…and you didn't come” Your voice wavered before you could stop it and you bit down on your lip. Deans body stiffened. For the first time that night, he looked you in the eyes. His green eyes were a storm of emotions. “I'm sorry, kid” his voice painfully sincere. He lifted his hand to cradle the side of your face, his thumb smoothing over the bruise beneath your eye. “Dean i know you won't forgive yourself, but can you make me a promise” Your voice shook terribly, trying to keep your tears at bay. Dean nodded immediately. “promise you'll always come when i call you” you pleaded. Dean's face cringed realizing the pain he caused you, some worse than the physical. “I promise, baby” His voice was firm, unwavering. A gust of wind cut through the air causing you both to shiver violently. “We should go in now” Dean suggested to which you quickly nodded, earning a soft chuckle from him.

As You both stood up, a sharp pain radiated down your side, stopping you in your tracks. Dean turned to you in an instant, hearing you wince. “what's wrong?” He asked concerned. “My side” you breathed out, clutching at your ribs while bent over. Dean crouched down in front of you “How about i give you a ride” Dean recommended. You couldn’t help but smile as you wrapped your arms around his shoulder, allowing him to slowly lift you off the ground. His warmth engulfed you. Your eyes grew heavy, sleep pulling you in as you rested against him. until his voice pulled you back. “You know I'll always protect you too. Even if that means from me sometimes” he said quietly, but his voice laced with a sense of seriousness. You pressed your face into his shoulder, letting yourself relax again before softly murmuring.

“Dean Winchester, my own wild dog”

[chevroletdean]

Safe With Me

nsfw prompts, send in a character + a number

PAIRING: Sam x Fem!Reader GENRE: Smut (18+ CONTENT) TO NOTE/WARNINGS: PWP, established relationship, oral (fem receiving), fingering, angsty undertones, stitching up wounds, hurt/comfort WORD COUNT: 2k PROMPT: 4) slow sex while one or both of are injured (bonus points if it's after a battle or after they've patched up each other's wounds) A/N: thanks for requesting @gublernatural CREDIT & LINKS: dividers by cafekitsune ─〃★ join the taglist ─〃★ Sam Masterlist

“C’mon, Sammy,” you huffed, the reassuring tone you aimed for missing its mark. Instead, you mumbled your half-assed excused through gritted teeth and under the suppression of a wince. “I’m okay, ‘s not even that bad.”

Except it definitely was.

Not only did it hurt like a bitch, the adrenaline was slowly wearing off. Meaning, you struggled to keep your trembling in check. Honestly, you were a mess, hiding behind a tense mask of faux bravado.

You couldn’t fool anyone with that tough act. Least of all your boyfriend, whose lips twitched into that characteristic half-scoff half-chuckle of his. Of course, Sam saw right through you, noticing the unsteady rhythm of your breath and how clammy your palms were.

As if to test your claim, his fingers pulled the needle just a little bit tighter—never with the intent of actually hurting you, only to see you squirm and prove your theory wrong.

You could sit in front of him insisting you were fine all you wanted. At the end of the day you were still bleeding heavily, with the color drained from your face and your breathing shallow as if the smallest movement made your whole body ache.

You were having a tough time just sitting on the edge of the motel bed, Sam crouching in front of you. He briefly blinked up at you from between your knees and were it not for the gravity of your situation, you would’ve definitely teased him for the proximity.

“You will be okay,” Sam responded with a short nod. Not so much an agreeing statement as it was a promise. He’d make sure you’d be alright. He always does.

“Just hold still f’me, ‘kay?,” Sam sighed, brows furrowed and concern still swirled into the hazel of his eyes. He soothed over the edge of your fresh stitches after, his thumb barely grazing your bruised, sensitive skin there. Whether or not you usually disliked being treated like some delicate porcelain doll, you were in no position to complain now.

You owed him the chance of tracing your warmth, of reminding himself that you were still here. Hurt, sure. But at least alive.

Silence occupied the room then, Sam’s sole focus on closing the wound, on letting the warmth of his fingers linger against your skin in hopes of magically absorbing some of your pain.

You both knew when to argue and now was not the time.

Sam could’ve easily scolded you for your reckless actions and he’d have every right to be mad at you for risking your life like that. But how could he stay mad at you when your soft fingers curled in his shirt like that? Your grip tightening every time he worked the needle into another stitch through your skin.

The wound was deep, a nasty gash raking across your ribs, stopping just shy of the dip above your hips. The longer he looked at it, even while cleaning and patching you up with utmost care, the harder the realization hit him.

He was mostly done cleaning the cut, but the deep crimson gushing from your injury was ingrained deeply into his mind. Surely it would be for a while.

You’ve seen each other beaten up and bruised and hurt, but tonight—the image of you nearly bleeding out back there was a gut punch like none other.

Sam almost lost you today. For good.

The danger of hunting was always on both your minds, but there’s a difference between knowing something could theoretically happen and something actually happening.

It all transpired so fast, too. A hunt almost gone wrong, that creature slashing you with its claws—if he started thinking about what would’ve happened if any of your vital organs would’ve been hit, if Sam hadn’t taped you up on the spot and rushed back to the motel with you…

“Sam,” your voice, though weary, interrupted the spiral of his mind.

He lifted his gaze, his eyes meeting yours and looking into them as if he wanted to drown in their color. He didn’t even want to think about how close of a call this case was. How that light in your eyes might’ve almost been snuffed out. How that would’ve changed the trajectory of his entire life. Of everything.

“I mean it,” you continued, soft-spoken, apologetic, almost a whisper. One hand of yours gently cupping his jaw. “I’m okay.”

Your hand brushed over the side of his neck, further south across his arm, all the way down to his hand that just finished tying the stitches together. You carefully took the needle from his grip and replaced the object with your own hand, letting it rest in his.

Your other hand found home in the nape of his neck, slowly pulling him closer. Though the frown never disappeared from Sam’s face, he gave in, letting you hold him closer.

Naturally, his arm slipped around your waist, supporting your weight by splaying a large hand across the small of your back. You melted into the touch, like always, letting yourself sink back into the mattress. Though your ministrations were slower than usual, given your battered state. Sam noticed, carefully readjusting your posture until the clench in your jaw softened.

Against his better judgement, he allowed you to pull him on top of you, meeting you halfway by climbing onto the bed and settling between your legs. Though he did his best not to crush you with his weight, not wanting to put any pressure on your fresh bandages, Sam could relate to your need for closeness all too well.

You tangled your limbs with his, clingy as always, though he’d never complain about it.

Except this time—

“You need some rest, sweetheart,” Sam whispered, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

His breath was warm and soothing against your skin, and triggering you to pout softly and shake your head.

“Need you, Sammy,” you breathed.

And, God, he needed you too. To feel your pulse quicken under his touch. To feel your pulse at all. To hear your breath hitch when you’d gasp his name. To hear your lungs pumping to begin with.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, baby,” he mumbled.

“You won’t,” you replied, so matter-of-factly, so earnestly, that the blind trust you had in him made him melt.

You leaned forward just a bit, as much as you could, your mouth tickling the corner of his lips. Your fingers slipped under his flannel, peeling the fabric off his shoulders. The newly exposed skin was immediately covered in feather light kisses, down his jaw and neck, to his collarbone.

Sam gently, but firmly took your wrists, pinning them above your head. Not to stop this, just to stop you—from getting ahead of yourself. From forgetting it was supposed to be him taking care of you.

Sam’s lips claimed yours in a deep kiss, tasting the sweetness of your tongue against his, drinking up your small mewls and whimpers. You were impossibly soft and warm, inviting him in even further.

You clung to him as if your life depended on it, pressing your chest up against his with the purpose to transfer the rhythm of your heartbeat.

His ministrations were the perfect blend of careful and firm. He was exploring your body with purpose, holding you close with the intent of not letting go, while making sure not to cause any more damage. He only so much as brushed his fingers across your bruised skin, the ghost of his touch making you shiver nonetheless.

When you flinched ever so slightly, he pressed an apologetic kiss to your shoulder and rubbed soothing circles over your tender sides.

“Almost scared me to death,” he mumbled, deep voice muffled by the warmth of your skin.

“Didn’t mean to, ‘m sorry,” you whispered in breathless fashion and wrapped your legs around him more tightly, wanting to remind you that you were right here with him. Right by his side. Always.

Sam eagerly soaked up your unspoken promise, accepting your vow by sliding his palms over your thighs, sealing the promise with hot open-mouthed kisses across your collarbone. He spread you open, placing a pillow under you as if to say ‘Sit back and let me handle this.’

You didn’t even have to lift a finger, let alone your hips. Not that the iron grip he had on your hips would’ve granted you much movement anyway. He pulled you closer, peeling off the rest of your clothes and worshipping every newly exposed inch of skin with his tongue.

You squirmed under him, barely, triggering him to hold you down even more as his kisses carved a path down your body. Over the swell of your chest, further south to your navel. Sam’s strength had you arch instinctively, like you could let yourself fall into his arms.

“Stay still f’me, baby,” he repeated under a rasp, repeating his earlier command.

You threw your head back into the pillows with a whine, giving in only reluctantly. He was asking the impossible, basically. So, if only out of habit, both of your hands reached out to him, settling on your lower stomach.

Sam understood immediately, shifting slightly between your trembling thighs. One of his hands grasped both of yours, tightly, long fingers wrapping around your soft ones as if swallowing them. His other hand teased your inner thigh, coaxing you open even more.

“Please,” you whimpered, only for him to gently push your form further into the mattress, preventing you from squirming too much.

Sam’s teeth grazed over the apex of your thigh, darkened eyes glued to your reactions. His fingers curled around your leg, fingers digging into the plush of your flesh. Usually he’d take his time with you more, teasing you as much as he can—not tonight.

Squeezing your hands to ground you, his tongue dove into your folds. His mouth spread you open like you were a flower with honey beneath its petals. You sure tasted just as sweet, so how could he not dig in deeper?

The gasps and moans falling from your lips were just as delicious, spurring him on until the sharp of his nose pressed against your sensitive clit.

“So wet for me,” he purred, the vibrations of his voice directly on your core, earning him a shudder.

While Sam did not waste any time taking you apart, he did take his time worshipping you thoroughly. One of his long fingers joined his tongue, circling your entrance before pushing in. A second followed, both of them curling inside of you expertly.

“Sam—”

Your soft cries indicated your nearing orgasm.

Sam did not let up, licking slow circles over your bundle of nerves and steadily pumping his digits. Your thighs tensed around his head, jaw falling open without any sound making it past your throat. If anything, a broken gasp rattled you—somehow both soft and intense at the same time.

A wave of white crashed through you as you fell and shattered, your first climax rushing over you like a tidal wave. Sam continued eating you out like a man starved, eagerly lapping up all you had to offer. Even when you were nothing but a twitching, sensitive mess at his mercy, he kept you close, mouth relentless and grip unyielding.

When he granted you only a second to catch your breath before diving back in, you knew you had a long night ahead of you.

Ever the man with a plan, Sam knew he wanted to show you just how much he needed you—how upset the sheer thought of losing you made him. He’d mend your pain in any way he could, letting the pleasure overshadow it entirely. Stitch for stitch, orgasm for orgasm, until both of you’d be convinced that you were safe, protected, and taken care of in his embrace.

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The Incident: Frank Langdon x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @julessworldd @yousigned-upforthis @travelingmypassion @julius-ceasar

Summary: Frank's world is thrown into turmoil when he learns about your attack.

Companion piece to:

Ivy - Frank gets a tattoo to commerate the woman he loves.

Hypocrite - Frank struggles to make amends for a past wrongs.

Crash - Almost getting you fired wasn't the lowest point of Frank's addiction.

Rock Bottom - Frank hits rock bottom when he sees the devastation his addiction's caused.

Little Black Dress - Frank starts to spiral when he realises you're dating.

Every Damn Day - A drunk text leads to a confession.

Wet Dream (NSFW) - Frank sometimes dreams about the life you had together.

War Stories - A realisation about your coping habits leads you to Frank's door.

The Three Cs - Frank and you finally discuss your issues and pave away towards the future.

The Wall - A date at the climbing wall leads to a revelation from Frank.

Commitment - You create a fun way of showing Frank your commitment to the relationship.

At Your Alter - You discover Frank's tattoo when you undress him for the first time.

All In (NSFW) - You and Frank take a big step forward.

Slut (NSFW) - Frank gets a little bratty after a bad day.

Nightmare Fuel - Frank’s been waiting for the fall to come.

Boo Fucking Hoo - Your forced to defend yourself after you’re attacked outside the hospital.

Frank finds out about ‘the incident’ when he walks in on one of Gloria and Robby’s arguments in the corridor that leads to the ambulance bay. He’s on his way to meet you for a break when he almost slips on the smear of blood on the tiles, tuning into their conversation.

“You need to take Ivy’s fucking photo down from the website like I told you to when you decided to put the fucking things up. She’s the only SANE in this hospital and you just put a target on her back. It shouldn’t take two incidents for you to actually listen to me. This guy could have killed her.” Robby snarls at their Chief Medical Officer, his hands on his hips. “You are damn near lucky-”

And that’s when Robby sees Frank standing there, the colour draining from his face because that first incident, it still haunts Frank. It took him a long time and a lot of therapy to chase away the flashbacks of seeing you coming out of that stairwell, scrubs covered in blood, your whole body trembling as you begged for help.  

He can’t describe how it feels to know that something so fucking horrible happened to someone you love. How helpless it makes you feel, how devastated, how angry.

 “What the happened to Ivy?” He erupts, barging between the two of them, his voice edged with hysteria. “Tell me what the fuck happened to Ivy?”

Robby shoots Gloria a hostile look before his hand grips Frank’s shoulder, steering him towards one of the empty treatment bays.

The story he tells does nothing to put his mind at ease as he paces the confined space like an apex predator, stalking back and forth.

“She’s been taken upstairs for a head CT.” Robby says, his eyes following Frank’s motions, waiting for the moment he unravels. “She says she’s fine but she threw up a couple of minutes after I stitched the wound on the back of her head so we just wanna make sure there’s nothing else going on there.”

“What about Him?” Frank snarls, his furious gaze turning onto Robby as he rakes a hand through his dark hair. “What about the asshole that hurt her?”

Robby clasps his hands together behind his head before looking up at the ceiling as if he can see through the five floors above him.

“He is up in Urology having surgery to have one of his testicles removed. She managed to rupture it so badly they didn’t have a chance in hell of saving it.” Robby informs him. “Officer Underwood is in the waiting room up there, ready to read that son of a bitch his rights as soon as he wakes up. He says with the video it’ll be in his best interest to plead out so she won’t have to go to court.”

That had been the worst part last time, reliving it. As soon as you felt like you were putting it all behind you, the court date had come up and you’d had to face the man who tried to hurt you, the one that had stabbed Jesse three times in the abdomen for intervening. Your fellow nurse had lost a kidney and almost his life stopping that attack. You’d struggled to reconcile with it in the aftermath.

“Look.” Robby says, clasping Frank’s shoulder, stilling his movements. He ducks his head, making direct eye contact bringing Frank back here to the present. “This isn’t like the first time. I looked her over myself and she’s ok, I promise you.”

You’d been so fucking traumatised back then, the nightmares hadn’t stopped for months, not until you and Jesse had a heart to heart. You’d felt so damn guilty because you’d frozen when it happened.

It had started when the husband of the patient you’d been working with tried to kiss you on the stairwell. You’d told him it was inappropriate and it was like a switch had flipped. You hadn’t expected to jam his hand between your legs, to try to tug off your scrubs.

Jesse had interrupted the whole thing on his way back down from Psych, doing bed reconnaissance. He’d torn the son of a bitch off you and ended up being stabbed three times with a utility knife before being shoved down the stairs and left for dead. You’d tried to suppress the bleeding the best you could before you went for help.

“There’s three responses when something like that happens.” You had told Frank in the aftermath, your entire body vibrating against him as he cradled you close. “Fight, flight or freeze and I froze because it was the last thing I expected from the man who had just been told his wife may be paraplegic.”

Sexual assaults they’re all about power. That man was losing his so he decided to take yours. He’s now serving twenty years for his actions while his wife recovers in a rehabilitation facility Kiara helped set her up in.

“I know that this is hard.” Robby’s voice filters through Frank’s thoughts drawing his attention back to him. “But she’s really gonna need you to keep your shit together after something like this. She can’t be worrying that you’re about to go off the rails while she’s trying to process it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Don’t use this as an excuse to go on a bender.” Frank summarises as he catches a flash of that Medusa tattoo through the glass. “Yea got it.”

“Frank…” Robby begins but Frank’s already out the door, striding towards you.  You’re standing in front of the screens depicting today’s patient lists, your arms folded tightly over your chest.

He takes up residence alongside of you like a sentry, standing close enough to be reassuring, to let you know that he’s there if you need him.

“Everything good?” He asks, tilting his head to study the profile of your features. His jaw tightens as he takes in the figure marks that blemish your throat, their dark stains bleeding into your skin.

“No brain injury or concussion, the vomiting was a reaction to being in that position again.” You inform him, your voice barely more than a rasp as you gesture towards your throat. “I sound like a phone sex operator.”

“Or like you smoke 80 a day.” He counters, the edges of his mouth tipping up into a strained smile. “You want me to take you home?”

“No.” You say shaking your head. “I wanna finish out my shift, return in a few days, do it all again.”

Frank gets it. It took you a month to come back to The Pitt last time and now you’re terrified of sliding back into that place, of letting the assholes win again. Your resilience, it astounds him, he feels like he’s falling to pieces and you’re still standing strong.

“You got any objections to working the rest of your shift with me?” He prompts, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“I’m okay Frank.” You assure him, tilting your face up to meet his tempestuous blue eyes.

“I know.” He says softly. “But I’m not.”

He needs to attend a meeting after this. He hates that Robby’s concerns back in the treatment room were valid. Something like this is the perfect excuse to pick up a couple of benzos to take the edge off, his fingers are already twitching thinking about it. Your hand slips into his and for the first time since he heard about ‘the incident’  it doesn’t feel like there’s an 18 wheeler slowly rolling over his chest.

“You'll be ok.” You promise him, squeezing his hand tightly. “Just like I will be too.”

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