#ive had to just keep going and keep smiling

[mattsvoicemail]

THE SPACE BETWEEN | PT 2 之间的空间

WARNINGS: ONGOING ANGST. AMNESIA/MEMORY LOSS. EMOTIONAL DISTRESS. HOSPITAL SETTING. GRIEF. SUBTLE MEDICAL MENTIONS. FLUFF. HAPPY ENDING.

you go back the next day. and the next. and the next after that.

you bring him stories. photos. playlists. inside jokes he used to quote back to you without thinking. you sit beside him and talk like nothing's wrong—even when it is. especially when it is.

sometimes, he listens. nods along, polite. smiles when you show him pictures of the beach trip from last summer, or when you remind him of the time he fell asleep in the backseat with half a sandwich in his hand. but other days, he's distant. closed off. eyes blank, staring out the window like he's trying to escape a life he doesn't recognize.

and you don't blame him.

not really.

it's just—god, it's exhausting.

to love someone like this.

to hold so tightly to a version of him that only you remember.

some nights you go home and scream into your pillow. some nights you cry so hard your chest physically aches. and sometimes, worst of all, you don't cry at all—you just go still. numb. silent.

like grief has finally swallowed you whole.

but you don't stop going.

even when nick gently suggests you take breaks. even when chris hugs you too long and says, "i hate seein' you like this." even when the nurses start recognizing you by name, even when matt still doesn't.

you go.

because that little sliver of hope?

it's the only thing keeping you alive.

the days stretch. blur. bend.

the bruises on matt's face fade. the bandages come off. he starts to walk again, slowly, carefully. he jokes more with the nurses. gets impatient with the food. his chart improves. but his memories—your memories—stay locked behind glass.

and you're still on the other side.

one afternoon, it's just the two of you again. chris had to leave early. nick's running errands. the hospital's quieter than usual, softer somehow, like the whole building is taking a breath.

you sit beside matt, legs curled beneath you, voice low as you start to talk again. about anything. everything. the night you and him got caught in the rain walking back from that gas station near his old apartment. how you were both soaked, freezing, laughing like idiots. how he wrapped you in a towel and said, "you're the only person i'd ever be this stupid with."

matt's quiet. watching you. there's something in his eyes—tired, maybe, but focused.

and then—

"and then we ordered pizza," he says suddenly. "but the place messed up the toppings. you picked the olives off mine so i'd eat it anyway."

you stop breathing.

your hands freeze in your lap. your heart feels like it just slammed into your ribs at full speed.

your eyes snap to him.

"what?"

matt blinks, like he just realized he said something out loud. "i—sorry, it jus'—popped into my head. like i could see it."

"matt," you whisper, your voice shaking. "you remembered that."

he looks unsure for a second. like maybe he dreamed it. maybe he read it in one of your stories. but then he meets your eyes—really meets them—and something in you shifts.

"yeah," he says quietly. "i think i did."

and suddenly you're crying. not like before. not the grief kind. this is messy, breathless, relieved. you reach for him without thinking, your fingers threading through his, and this time—this time—he holds on.

tight.

like something inside him finally clicked. like he knows you. maybe not everything. maybe not yet. but enough.

enough to start.

you don't let go of his hand.

not for a while.

not even when the nurse comes in to check his iv. not when she glances at the way your fingers are tangled together and politely pretends not to notice. not when matt glances down at your hands like he's trying to figure out when that started feeling right.

because for the first time in weeks, something is right.

he doesn't say much else that afternoon. doesn't try to push it. just sits there with you, his thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles, like he's testing the shape of a memory he doesn't want to lose again.

you don't push either.

you talk about small things. the weather. your drive in. a song you heard that reminded you of him—not in a nostalgic, painful way this time, but softer. lighter.

matt listens.

and more importantly—he looks at you.

really looks. not just like you're someone who visits. not just like you're someone he's supposed to trust. but like someone who matters.

someone who might have mattered all along.

the days keep passing.

and something shifts.

not everything at once. not like in movies where the memories come back all at once with a gasp and a tearful embrace.

no—it's slower than that. quieter.

he starts asking you questions. little ones.

"did we ever go to that diner across from the studio?"

"did i like this show?"

"what was our first fight about?"

and you answer them. always.

sometimes it hurts. sometimes you laugh. sometimes you have to excuse yourself and cry in the hallway because you shouldn't have to re-teach someone how to love you.

but you do. because he's worth it.

because deep down, he's still him.

and sometimes, the remembering sneaks up on him.

like when he's brushing his teeth and suddenly mutters, "you used to steal my toothpaste, didn't you?"

or when a nurse asks what snacks he likes and he automatically says, "anything she brings."

like it's instinct.

like somewhere in the core of him, you never left.

one evening, three weeks in, you bring a movie to play on your laptop. he's in bed, legs stretched, eyes sleepy from a long round of physical therapy. you're beside him, laptop balanced between you both.

it's a film you used to watch together all the time—some dumb, low-budget thriller you both loved to make fun of. and when that one ridiculous line comes on, the one that always made him laugh, he says it with the character before you do.

word for word.

and then he looks at you. startled. then smiles.

that smile—the real one.

the one you haven't seen since before the crash.

"i remembered that," he says, a little breathless. "i didn't even think. it just came out."

you laugh, tearful and soft. "i know."

he stares at you for a long moment. like he's still figuring you out, still drawing the lines of who you were to him—and who you might still be.

and then—gently, quietly—he says your name. like a test. like a question.

you whisper, "yeah?"

he exhales. "i think m'fallin' in love with you again."

you don't say anything at first.

you just look at him—really look. eyes stinging, throat tight, hands folded in your lap like if you move too fast, the moment will break. but it doesn't. it just… sits there, warm and steady and unbelievably real.

"okay," you whisper, voice cracking. "then we'll start there."

he nods. small. almost shy. like he's scared you'll disappear if he says too much. but you don't. you stay.

and from there, it gets easier.

not easy. not perfect. not the way it was before.

but easier.

he remembers how you like your coffee. that you hate mint-flavored gum. that you get carsick if you don't sit in the front. little things. things he never asked to learn the first time, but now listens for like they matter. like they're puzzle pieces.

and he's trying to put the whole picture together.

he starts asking for you when you're not there.

once, you walk into the room and find his head tipped back on the pillow, eyes closed, and you think he's asleep—but he mumbles, "where were you?" like he felt the absence. like it didn't sit right with him.

another time, you're helping him sit up, adjusting his pillows, and he looks at you with this soft, unsure expression.

"can i ask you somethin' kind of… weird?"

you glance at him. "of course."

"did i ever ask you to move in with me?"

you blink, smile tugging at your lips. "once. right before your birthday. you said you were tired of pretending your apartment wasn't half mine already."

he huffs a laugh, a little crooked. "was i romantic about it?"

"no," you grin. "you asked with your mouth full of cereal."

he groans, shaking his head. "jesus. sorry."

"don't be," you say softly. "i loved it."

his gaze lingers on you, and for a second, it feels like the space between past and present collapses entirely. like maybe this is what healing really looks like—not forgetting the pain, but letting it live beside something better.

the next day, he's cleared to walk the halls.

you help him up, one arm around his back, slow and careful. the fluorescent lights above you buzz faintly as you take your time, step by step. nurses pass. other patients. it's a normal afternoon. nothing special.

but to you—it's everything.

at one point, he stops by the window at the end of the hallway. the light hits his profile just right, soft and gold. he looks over at you, eyes squinting a little in the sun.

"do you think we'll be okay?" he asks.

your breath catches.

you step closer, slip your hand into his again.

"i think we already are."

you sit with him one more night before discharge. the room is dim, lit only by the blue glow of a muted tv and the low hum of machines that won't follow him home. his bag is half-packed. there's a paper cup of ginger ale on the tray beside him, untouched.

you're beside him, shoulder to shoulder. close. still.

he's quiet for a long time.

then:

"do you remember when i asked you what we were?"

you glance at him. "when?"

"after the accident. first time i really looked at you. i asked if we were something."

you nod. it hurt like hell. you'll never forget that day.

matt shifts to face you more fully, eyes soft, almost apologetic. "you said yes. almost four years."

you hum. "we were."

"i think we still are," he says quietly. "or maybe we're becoming it again."

your eyes sting, but this time it's not grief. it's relief. it's something like peace. like standing on solid ground again after weeks of drowning.

"i think we never stopped," you whisper.

he exhales, slow. and then—like it's the most natural thing in the world—he leans forward, forehead resting against yours. your eyes flutter closed. the air between you doesn't hurt anymore.

"thank you," he murmurs.

you nod, voice caught in your throat. "for what?"

"for not givin' up on me," he says. "for standin' in the space between who i was and who i am now—and stayin'."

and that's when you realize:

the space between wasn't empty.

it held everything.

every tear. every quiet moment. every second you loved him without being loved back.

and now—it holds you both.

slowly, completely, all over again.

author's note. sorry for the late post, but here's your happy ending!! :)

taglist. @sugarraez @dominicfikeenthusiast @mi-co-uk @zenithsturniolo @tezzzzzzzz @bbgirlmatt @courta13 @grace-sturnz @salaciousxsturniolo @maliaforstvrns @ribbonlovergirl @eyesonmattyb @matts-wife @ariieeesworld @mattybsgroupie @k-pevensie28 ꒱ ₊˚⊹ .ᐟ

to be added to my taglist, please refer to this post.

[wackapedia]

Hospital Barbie 🧰

Dr. John Shen x F admin!reader Word count: 2.2k guess who didnt proofread yes me

When you were assigned to "oBsErVe OpErAtiOns" as part of a vaguely defined Strategic Initiatives role (read: nepotism), no one expects much, least of all, The Pitt's freshest attending, Dr. John Shen, who's too busy keeping patients alive and admins at bay.🥤

Night 1: The elevator takes its time taking you down the lower level floor. Gloria Underwood, the CMO and your direct supervisor, had asked you to observe the emergency department's night shift and take notes. "Don't interfere, don't distract anyone. Just observe, and take notes." Were Gloria's stern instructions. Notes on what? You forgot to ask her. Its too late now though. Admin has clocked out hours ago.

The elevator doors open and you are immediately greeted by the strong smell of saline and disinfectant. You try to stride confidently, staying out of the way as you straighten the "Strategic Initiatives Assistant" badge on your dark blazer, a contrast to your "I 💉 PTMC" shirt underneath. On one hand, you're clutching your notebook, a cold cup of matcha on the other. You approach the central hub to look for an attending.

"Oh my god, we're totally getting shut down." Doctor Parker Ellis notices you walking by. Next to her, Doctor John Shen looks up from the chart. "What?" "She's here! That's the owner's daughter!" Ellis subtly tilts her head to your direction as you introduce yourself to the charge nurse.

John was on the loop with Gloria nagging the day shift about the hospital's satisfaction scores. Robby keeps the groupchat updated as often as he can and Abbot would respond with a thumbs up as soon as he reads it. Looks like its his turn to deal with admin today.

"Actually, not today." John turns away and heads to south when he sees the charge nurse look around for him.

You are offered one of the comfier swivel chairs in the station as you take in the 10pm emergency department war zone of your family's hospital. You were in a good mood, feeling really fortunate to have something to do to help.

"My god, that nepo hire doesnt know what she's doing.." a nurse whispers to John. He chuckles, giving you a quick glance before turning away. "She's smiling like she's watching puppies in a shelter…" he adds, chucking his gloves in the trash.

"Hey. I'm not really sure what's going on, but… you're doing a really good job." You suddenly appear next to Doctor Shen, startling him. "Sorry, what?" He asks, looking confused. "You. All of you. It's kind of amazing. This place is nuts, and you're still here. That's cool." You smile, keeping your hands in your blazer pockets. John blinks. "Oh!" You apologize and introduce yourself. "I'm the Strategic Initiatives Assistant. Gloria sent me here to loiter and write reports about your vibes." You explain. That doesn't make anything clearer for John.

Later in the shift, you return to your perch at the hub. During a lull, a couple of doctors ask you about your suspicious presence. "What, are you gonna write us up for not labeling IV lines fast enough?" Someone asks. "Not at all! I think you guys are very efficient. Its amazing. Great job, thank you for your service." You say sincerely. The nurses side-eye each other.

A few hours past midnight, the entire ED is unsettled with your presence. "Is she still here?" "Maybe she's, like, undercover?" "Do you think she's HR?" "She told me I was doing great. Am I… in trouble?" John tries to calm everyone.

The shift finally wraps up. John did his best to ignore you, even with your odd comments like: "Ooh, nice intubation!" "That was a really smooth IV!" "Your handwriting's actually readable. Iconic." Oh boy. He has a lot to report to the PTMC attendings groupchat.

JACK: "Is that a one time thing or is she observing tonight as well" JACK: "Question"

John huffs. He doesnt want to talk to her but Abbot deserves a heads up since he's taking tonight's shift. So he approaches you.

"Hi, hey uh.. will I see you again tonight-?" John blinks, "That's not what I meant." "I can come back if you want me to!" You laugh, playing along. 'NO! No, I mean, well, my colleague was just checking if are you still observing tonight is all…" John suddenly feels jittery. Shouldn't have had that third cup. "Oh so you won't be here tonight. That's a shame. I guess I'll sit tonight out." You shrug. John pauses. And then asks: "were you flirting with me?" "Ha! You started it!" You laugh. "I- I didn't mean it like that-" He's deadpans, trying not to be flustered.

"Okay fine, I'm flirting because your shoulders are kind of unfair and I think your face is cute when you get annoyed." You answer. He wished you didn't because he might be going into a cardiac arrest right now and he's half-blaming the coffee.

You head back to the administrative floor to hand off the notes you've taken. A gleaming report that concluded in "possible error in data collection and computation of satisfaction ratings" because how can someone be unhappy if they leave the emergency department in one piece?! (Usually)

Emergency Department Night Shift Staff Report

Patient Interactions: Positive! ✨ Responsiveness: Amazing!🤩 Doctor Highlight: Dr. John Shen😍 - composed, efficient, nice hands Notes: • Everyone's doing their best! 👍 • I would trust these people with my life!! 🫰 • One nurse called me 'sweetie.'😘 Loved that. • Did not observe any disorganization.💪 • Maybe a dog mascot would help?🐶

Meanwhile, John also types up his Attendings groupchat report: "She was sitting there. Smiling and being all cute while drinking matcha like it’s a goddamn high school lunch break.”

ROBBY: “And that upset you?” JOHN: “It’s weird. It's unprofessional. It’s distracting. Like, why is she even there?” ROBBY: “Maybe she likes the show. We’re sexy when we’re stressed.” JACK: 👍 ROBBY: “You like her. She's pretty, she's your type." JOHN: ????? ROBBY: “You’ve been talking about her here for the entire duration of your shift. Last week you only said five words to me total. And three of them were ‘need more gauze.’” JOHN: "Would you just get your ass here so I can go home?" ROBBY: "Already rounding the corner, brother😂"

Night 4: You have long abandoned taking notes after your first observation. Gloria didnt have any input on the notes you submitted, probably because she didn't read it in the first place. Of course, no one wants to hear the nepo baby's opinion. You haven't submitted anything since and no one seems to notice. You decide to just enjoy the view, observe the night shift, and watch John Shen.

The doctor in question walks by, and you perk up like a sunflower tracking the sun. John is fast, precise, cool as a cucumber and undeniably good at what he does.

"She's been doodling hearts around your name today…" Doctor Parker walks with him. John sighs and tries to ignore her, until he sees you walking up to him. "Hi, Dr. John!" You smile, like sunshine warming him all over. "oh, hey hospital Barbie…" He tries to keep his neutral expression, making sure his deadpan voice isn't giving away any giddy feelings. You gasp. Oh no, he's ruined it. He's ruined his job and his shot. "Hospital Barbie?! So you think I'm pretty?" You grin, stepping closer. He tries not to panic, pulling a bay curtain between the two of you so John can pretend to look into a patient.

You huff and walk back to the hub, watching the charge nurse pick up the phone. Her expression changes before announcing "guys, MVA inbound, 18 passengers, four confirmed critical."

Yikes. You get up and watch the department buzz to life. Gurneys pulled out, trauma bays restocked, comms explode. "Is there anything I can do to help?" You ask. A nurse glances at you. "Stay out of the way, sweetie." You gulp, feeling like you need to apologize for existing. John sees your reaction and makes his way over to you while putting on fresh gloves. "Hey, you good? There's a social worker on shift. She'll be in the waiting room. Families of the patients are going to start pouring in. You'd be good there." He instructs, firm but calm. You nod, feeling a little lost in his eyes. He quickly makes his way by the entrance as the first of the ambulances roll in.

You split your time between the waiting room and the main floor of the ER. Nurses run here and there, stressed and exhausted, juggling current patients with the MVA patients, making do with the lack of staffing and upstairs beds. It takes hours before it finally calms down. Handing a tissue to one of the families of the victims, you decide to head back to see how things are going.

John's name is already on your lips before you realize you're whispering it. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, but all you hear is the monitors beeping, tools clanking, nurses exchanging jargon. Then you see him: John Shen inside trauma bay 1, sweat lining his brows as he gives chest compressions to the teen laying motionless on the bed. Blood, sweat, and then silence. A nurse helps the attending down the gurney as he calls the time of death.

A gasp escapes your lips. Even when you're outside the bay, John seems to have heard you. He turns, pulls his gloves and gown off and squeezes some disinfectant before approaching you.

"Hey, you alright? Lets get you some air…" he ushers you out after noticing how you went pale.

It was quiet at the parking lot. John leans on one of the cars parked nearby and sighs. "You weren't supposed to see that." He says, suddenly feeling protective of you. "Why not?" You raise an eyebrow, watching him groan as he sits on the curb after being on his feet for hours. He shrugs. "This hospital has my last name on every wall. And I didn't even know what that meant until tonight. That kid… that kid died-" Your voice cracks. You try again. "There weren't enough nurses. There weren't enough beds. If the board had listened, if we actually fixed things instead of-" John takes your cold hand and gently pulls you to sit next to him. He doesn't say anything, and it makes you feel worse.

"I'm sorry. He was your patient. You lost him. And I'm here spiraling like it happened to me." John gives you a tired smile. "It did happen to you. Just differently." "I'm really sorry. How are you holding up?" You find yourself wanting to run your hands through his soft hair. So you do. John almost moans at the sensation. A few quiet beats almost lulls him to sleep as you continue massaging his scalp. "How do you even come back after this?" You whisper. "Sometimes… we win. We save someone who was never supposed to walk out. And it makes nights like this hurt a little less." He sighs, eyes closed. You take in his beautiful features in the low light. His eyelashes over tired eyes, his skin, his whole being. You spend a minute more in the quiet, just breathing, being next to each other, and being each other's support.

Back inside the emergency department, John slips right back to finish the last leg of his shift. Writing notes. Checking in with the residents. Staying naturally sharp and calm. But now he glances at you more often. He chuckles as he sees you nodding off at the hub, your messy bun lopsided, notebook long forgotten.

You are woken up by the man of your dreams about an hour later. John says your name as he gently shakes you awake. "Hey, come on. Let's get you home."

"You done?" You groan, your sore neck complaining as you sit up. "We both are. Come on, I'll drive you home."

You doesn't say a word. Just follow him to the car, and when he opens the door, you sink into the seat like it's where you're meant to be. You take in the smell of his car, his perfume, his coffee, and something rich and fragrant your brain can't name right now.

"Horizons Tower…" you murmur when he buckles up on the driver's seat. John glances over, brows lifting before he schools his expression into something neutral, polite, and professional. 'Of course she lives there.' He chuckles to himself.

You vaguely remember arriving. Maybe you offered him the pull-out couch. Maybe he was too tired to argue. Maybe you handed him a towel after he asked if he could shower first. Maybe he smiled and rolled his eyes at those cow-print pajamas you meant as a joke before disappearing into the shower.

It’s all a blur.

Hours later, you blink awake. Light is blocked out by your thick curtains. John is next to you, peacefully asleep, one arm tossed across your waist, absolutely hogging the blanket.

You don't move.

"I could get used to this." John mumbles. “Me too.”

You both fall quiet again, wrapped in the hush of the afternoon, the kind of silence that feels earned. Sunlight leaks through the gaps of your blackout curtains in lazy streaks, catching the rise and fall of his chest, warming the space between.

Your eyes flutter closed again. You think about snuggling closer. Maybe saying something stupid. Maybe meaning it. Maybe he feels that way too, after tonight. Your hand begins to drag closer to his when you hear a sudden knock on your door.

Your heart skips. Your eyes snap open.

Your phone had been buzzing on the coffee table. Three missed calls. From your dad.

You slowly glance at the door like it might bite and mutter under your breath: “…Please don’t be him.”

------------

I loooove John Shen he's my gummybear

I might come up with a part 2 of this where he meets the dad uwu

[peanutheaddd]

Hiiii peanut!!!!💖💖💖💖💖💖How are you, I hope you're doing well!!! I had a few questions in regards to your aus!!!💖💖💖 My first one was about the swap au: is there anything that would make petey snap in the au? He is a people pleaser to a fault and lets others walk all over him usually, but would there ever be anything that makes him snap out and piss him off/make him raise his voice and get angry at someone?? I thought that could happen during the flippy being evil arc, with lil petey being kidnapped and it being a highly stressful situation, but what about other instances, like while fighting dogman?? And what is dogman's reaction to him ever acting like that?? (being down bad, I'd imagine, HAHAHAHA/SILLY)

My other question was for the muse au!!! Is dogman a good model at first?? That is, can he keep still very well (because of his fighting in the war and being more disciplined than his canon self), or does he struggle with that, moves a lot, gets excited about stuff while modeling, etc.? I'd imagine petey being a bit annoyed and pissed off about it, if he was, but maybe ultimately even get inspired by his energy and get infected by his good mood, pffff-

Thank you for reading, peanut, I hope you have a nice day/night!!!! You're the best, take care!!!! After all, heavy is the crown of the goat, HEHEHEHE💖💖💖💖💖💖

WSGGGG SABBIE MY GOAT!!!!!!!!!!!! im doign awesome now that ive seen this ASK!!!!!!!!!!!!

pts peope pleasing tendencies runs through his entire being . ive thought about this before . and i think theo nly thing that could ever make him snap is if someone threatens lp or (after some time passes) dm.

i think the first time dm kidnaps lp pts Pissed the Fuck Off. but even then hes waaay more scared than angry. and even Then its Very fleeting because lps smiling and havign such a good time and lwk bothering dm like crazy and dm just sits there and lets him bother him and peteys like ?!@?$!# and the fear and anger gives way to . Confusion. LMFAOOOO

but yeah if dm ever did see him pissed the fuck off he would be gay as fuck about it i fear . 😭😭😭 i reckon his brain chemistry lwk changes the first time petey gets protective over him . its a huge thing for him esp bc . he sso used to Being the protective one. so being on the receiving end is. yk. a lot to take in ?

and for muse au... dms Def not a good model KLMFAOOOO i reckon it pisses pt off at first and he keeps telling him to stay still but dm listens to no one LMFAOOOOO. i reckon eventually he finds that he doesnt Want dm to stay still . like when he starts having trouble seeing him in a negative light . smth smth he wants to capture his energy someohw and if dms not candid then thats hard for him . he just starts finding the beauty in all his movement and energy . Ohhhhhh god Are tehy crazy

YOUUUUU HAVE A GOOD NIGHT SABBIE ! ! ! if the goats crown is heavy.... uour neck must hurt so bad.....l. come on.... lets go see a chiropractor together

[nizhspo]

lover, you should've come over.

chapter two: really he has no one

m.list | next

pairing: toji zen'in x f!reader

synopsis: you were a nurse with a steady hand and a soft heart. he was a killer who kept coming back with blood on his shirt and your name in his mouth.

the overnight shift drags.

it’s a double, twelve hours gone, five more to go. the sun’s already up by the time you’re making your last few rounds, clipboard in hand, crocs squeaking, eyes half-closed. your carebear scrubs are wrinkled. your nurse ID is flipped backward. you’ve had half a granola bar and four cups of coffee since midnight. your spine cracks when you stretch at the nurses’ station.

you sigh. check the list.

conservative party figure. the name rings a bell, and you think you remember him from the news, something about taxes and tradition and saying women shouldn’t swear. you grit your teeth. adjust your smile.

you knock politely and step inside.

he’s propped up in the bed, IV running, reading the paper like he owns the building. you greet him, check his vitals, jot a note on your chart.

then you hear it.

“still doing charity work, huh?”

you yelp, a full-body flinch, clipboard nearly flying from your hands, and whirl around.

the source of the voice is leaning against the far wall, half-shadowed by the curtain, black suit crisp, earpiece in.

same scar on his lip. same eyes. same man who bled out in your bathtub and swallowed a curse like it was nothing.

he smirks, hands lifting in mock surrender. “yikes. didn’t mean to startle you, sweetheart.”

his voice is low and teasing, but still, you blink. stare. your brain short-circuits for a second before your mouth catches up.

“you—” you glance at the man in the bed, still reading, oblivious. then back at him. “what are you doing here?”

your mind starts to spiral.

maybe you’re a liability. maybe he came to make sure you stay quiet. maybe he’s here to finish what you never realized had started.

you gulp, throat dry. your fingers tighten around the clipboard like it’ll save you.

he watches your face twist through every worst-case scenario, the panic just barely restrained behind your eyes, and finally, he exhales through his nose, voice low and even.

“relax,” he says. “i’m just doing my job.”

you blink at him, still trying to steady your breath. “this is your job?”

he lifts one shoulder. “well, i did tell you i was good at it.”

you glance at the earpiece, the suit, then back at the man in the bed, still thumbing through the paper, completely unaware.

“…so you’re his bodyguard?” you don’t mean for it to sound like a question, but it comes out small. disoriented.

“not all the time, but something like that,” he says, tone light. “keeps me busy.”

then, with a crooked smirk, “election season pays better than getting shot. plus, no one bleeds on me unless i tell ’em to.”

you don’t respond. just return to your chart, pretending your hands aren’t trembling again. pretending last month’s mistake isn’t standing two feet away in a pressed suit with blood still etched behind his voice.

your mind won’t stop spinning.

if he were just a bodyguard, that would explain… some of it. the suit. the earpiece. the way he blends into the wall like he’s meant to disappear.

but bodyguards don’t kill old women in shitty apartments with half-broken AC units and rusted-out stairwells that stink of piss and mildew. bodyguards don’t bleed out in your tub with a curse eating into their shoulder.

and the politician, the one lying in the bed, smug and oblivious—he doesn’t have any cursed energy. not even a flicker. and you’re not a master at sensing it, not like real jujutsu sorcerers are. but you’ve worked in the cursed wing long enough, healed enough half-dead teenagers with blood dripping from their ears and residual energy buzzing off their skin like static. you’d know if this man had even an ounce of it. he doesn’t.

and that guy?

he said this wasn’t his only job. he said “election season,” like this was just one gig in a long, bloody list.

so what does he actually do? who pays him? who trusts him?

you swallow. the clipboard shakes just a little in your grip.

“cute scrubs,” he says, voice startling you out of your thoughts and pitched just loud enough to make your heart stutter.

“fuck off,” you mutter without looking up.

he laughs, and you hate the way something sounding so easy—so carefree, could come from a killer.

like there’s nothing weighing on him. like blood doesn’t cling to his hands, even when they’re clean. like he could walk into your life, ruin the quiet you’d built, and grin while doing it.

…

two months pass.

long enough for his face to blur. long enough for you to almost convince yourself it never happened, that maybe it was the exhaustion, the overtime, the stains you couldn’t wash out of your scrubs. maybe your brain made him up.

a curse-induced hallucination.

a man you imagined to explain the fear you couldn’t name.

because no one ever said his name. no one came knocking. no one ever found a body in 3C.

just a closed case, and silence.

and tonight you’re back in the cursed wing.

not your favorite place, but they needed extra hands and you’re one of the few who can actually see what’s wrong with these patients.

one of them, a sorcerer, has been on your list for a few days now. young. maybe early twenties. mean, paranoid, and half-lucid at best.

you remember when they wheeled him in: screaming, kicking, trying to curse the staff through blood and spit. said someone was coming for him. begged for a binding seal, then passed out cold.

he never got specific. just kept repeating one name:

“toji.”

you never said anything, just charted the vitals and moved on. figured it was delirium. a hallucination. a ghost.

you still check on him during your rounds. he never wakes up fully. his vitals stay low. the cursed energy in his room is heavy, like something breathing just under the floorboards.

but tonight, everything feels colder.

not just the usual kind of cold. not the sterile chill that clings to metal railings and vinyl floors, not the cursed air that sours the vents and hums through the wing like static.

this is different. this one creeps.

it slides down your back like breath on damp skin. it slinks beneath your scrubs, coils beneath your collarbone. it makes your fingers stiff. your throat dry. it feels like something is watching, but not with eyes. like something is waiting.

you shudder once, shake it off.

you finish your notes. stretch your spine until it pops. sit back down at the desk, tell yourself you’re imagining things. because you always get like this when the hallway’s too quiet and the cursed unit lights flicker.

you open a game on your phone. block puzzle. something mindless. something to keep your fingers busy and your mind blank.

eventually, the chill fades, and fifteen minutes pass. maybe twenty.

then it comes back.

worse this time. stronger.

you feel it rising from the floor, snaking around your ankles, dragging its fingers up your calves and into your spine. it makes the hairs on your arms lift. it sets your teeth on edge.

you glance over your shoulder. nothing.

go back to your screen.

then check again. nothing.

but the air won’t settle. your stomach twists. your ears ring. and just as you look down one last time, trying to convince yourself you’re losing it, a voice sounds behind you, low, smooth, amused:

“seriously? block puzzle? thought you had taste.”

you flinch hard enough to knock your knee into the desk. you spin around, and there he is.

leaning against the wall like he’s been there all night, arms crossed over a plain black shirt, sweatpants low on his hips, scar still visible on his mouth. his hair’s tied back. his eyes are steady.

he looks normal. almost too normal.

“what the fuck—” you start, heart hammering. “what are you doing here?”

“business,” he says, like that should explain everything.

he leans against the nurses’ station, arms crossed, head tilted. his shirt’s tight, sleeves pushed to his forearms, and he looks almost normal in this light. except for the stillness. the way his presence makes the hallway feel three degrees colder.

you stare. “…you’re bodyguarding someone again?”

he shrugs, slow and careless. “not exactly.”

the overhead light flickers once. your skin prickles. you shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying not to stare too long at the curve of his shoulder. trying not to think about the last time you saw him.

“night shift treating you right?” he asks, chin tipping toward your wrinkled strawberry shortcake scrubs, lips twitching faintly at the edges. “you look thrilled.”

you blink. your throat’s dry. your mind’s running. “…you shouldn’t be here.”

he lifts both brows, as if in mock surprise. “probably not.” his eyes drag over you, deliberate, but not leering, and his voice lowers. “but you’re here. so i figured.”

you frown, rolling back in your chair half an inch. “figured what?”

he doesn’t answer.

just watches you. eyes hooded, expression unreadable. there’s something weighty behind it, something that doesn’t match his casual posture, the tilt of his head, the low sound of his breathing.

the silence stretches too long. you hear the EKG down the hall beep in double time. not yours, but close enough to make you jump.

you glance that way. then back at him. “do you… need something?”

he blinks, slow. then lets out a soft exhale, not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff.

“nah,” he murmurs. “just wanted to see if you were still kicking.”

you scowl. “you showed up just for that?”

he tilts his head. “didn’t say just for that.” then, a pause, eyes catching yours again. “you scared of me or something?”

your breath catches, just for a second. you hate that he notices.

his lips twitch. not quite a smile, more like a knowing pull at the corner of his mouth, half amusement, half something darker. the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“relax,” he says, voice softer than you expect. almost teasing. “you’re not the kind of person i’m after.”

you blink, brows furrowing.

he tips his head slightly, like he’s gauging your reaction. like he’s making sure you heard him. “if i wanted to hurt you,” he says, low, steady, “you’d already be on the floor.”

a beat passes.

“but you’re not,” he adds, eyes crinkling faintly at the corners, “so that means we’re good. right?”

you don’t answer that either. you stay where you are, jaw tight. your clipboard’s gone, and you don’t remember setting it down, only the chill still working its way beneath your scrubs.

“you think sneaking around a hospital in the middle of the night is funny?” you ask, voice quieter than before.

he lifts a brow, head tilting just a bit, like he’s trying to decide how serious you are.

“depends,” he says. “you laughing?”

your glare could cut steel.

he grins, slow, wolfish, but not unkind. his eyes flicker toward the ID badge clipped to your pocket, the crease in your scrubs, the way your fists have curled just slightly at your sides. “you always this uptight at work?”

“i’m always uptight around killers.”

that gets him a little.

for a second, his mouth twitches, just barely—something bitter flashing sharp across his face. not a wince. not a flinch. just a crack. brief and telling. but then it’s gone. buried. smoothed over with that same unreadable calm, like he slipped the expression back into his pocket.

“alright,” he mutters, almost too soft to hear.

he finally steps back from the wall, stretching a little, like the conversation’s worn him out. his movements are easy, like he wasn’t just pressed into shadow watching your pulse spike.

he heads toward the door. keys jingle in his hand, keys you didn’t see before. a matte-black carabiner hooked to a loop on his waistband. you blink, thrown. you hadn’t even pegged him as the kind of man who drove, let alone someone who’d carry a carabiner and slip through a hospital unseen.

you didn’t hear him come in. you didn’t see where he came from. you didn’t even know he was there until he wanted you to.

and just before he pushes the door open, one hand braced to leave, he glances back over his shoulder. just enough for you to catch the gleam of his eyes beneath the fluorescent lights.

“by the way,” he says, voice casual, offhand, like he’s mentioning the weather. “you should check on room 214.”

then he’s gone.

the door swings closed behind him, and you stare at it, heart stammering. then your stomach drops.

you run.

the hallway blurs.

your badge clips hard against your hip with every step, a sharp smack that keeps tempo with the thud of your heart. the lights overhead feel too bright now, too sterile, buzzing like hornets. the floor rolls beneath you. your breath comes thin.

your fingers slip on the door handle, but you force it open, and inside, the room is quiet. too quiet.

the sorcerer is still. flatlined.

the monitor above his bed pulses a steady, unwavering zero. no alarms. no blinking lights. no calls for help. just silence.

you don’t reach for his wrist. don’t check the lines. don’t try compressions. you just… stand there. frozen.

because you know he’s gone. and not by accident, either.

no code called. no footsteps fleeing. no sign of struggle. no witnesses. just an empty hallway and a name that had once ripped itself from the boy’s throat in panic:

toji.

that’s who he’d meant. you’re sure of it now. because he was here, and now someone else isn’t.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

HAVNT BEEN ABLE TO DRAW ON MY TABLET AS MUCH LATELY. but i HAVE been able to doodle very much on paper while at work. so i have a massive backlog o traditional art i have yet to post. (its literally all OC stuff) to begin, please say hello to two little characters of mine, Copper and Gossamer

[robotwrangler]

Wow. We’re so back? I don’t know why but I have been feeling so great this week. And not just “okay” but actively happy, giddy, full of zest for life and whatnot!

[megumi-fm]

.

[tirasamu]

ive been in such a transitional period of my life and today i had a convo w someone who i look up to so so much and she told me the industry im switching to will be the perfect fit for me and she thinks im going to thrive there and i just want to burst into tears over it

[rangersoup]

Personal rant in the tags that I’ll probably delete later

[inorganicorgan]

Unclear who's holding who hostage in this relationship (picrew)

WARNING:: BARELY CONTAINED YAPPING

The story: Inessa is OBSESSED with Essex. Terrified to ask them but every time she sees them she experiences the worst bisexual panic known to man. She is INFATUATED for months before Essex even notices that she's stalking them. When they DO notice that Inessa is the one leaving them increasingly more threatening and violent love notes, they assume Inessa is human, just a particularly sick and weird lonely one and decides they want a free meal, because it's been a good long while since they've been properly full.

It's worth noting at this point that Inessa can sense magical or otherwise inhuman people. It's how she instantly sees through Jess-Ava's disguise (if Jess-Ava didn't give it away with her A+ acting). She assumes all vampyrs can do this.

(spoiler alert they can't)

So Essex slides up real smooth next to Inessa and asks for her number. Inessa promptly melts and gives it to them. They text for about thirty seconds before Essex decides it's probably safe to invite Inessa to their house. It is ABSOLUTELY not safe Inessa is insane and shouldn't be trusted even a little bit but they invite her regardless.

When Essex inevitably tries to turn a teenage make-out session into a true crime story, Inessa shoves them off while they spit out all the dust Inessa's rapidly regenerating carotid artery turned into, utterly confused at why Essex would even try that. She then reveals her sixtyfivehead and waits for Essex to tell her that no, they didn't express an interest in her just to eat her because they thought she was human.

They don't.

She runs home and gives herself a pat on the back for keeping it together long enough to make it to Jess-Ava's old cabin. She proceeds to ugly cry for six straight hours.

Essex feels like shit and tries to make it up to her by going on a few real dates, although just as friends. Inessa doesn't let the friends status stay though and they eventually start for real dating after a few months and it's not questionable at all

[seraphidae]

light emeto warning

[tommygotwrittenoff]

i need eddie to get another guy friend in season 8, and buck loses his shit about it (again), so he breaks up with t because he's convinced that the weird feeling he gets when he sees them together is because he is Really attracted to the new guy.

[m340700]

HELLO

okay firstly THANK YOU FOR READING MY SILLY FICS!!! im v v glad u liked them!! that fic in particular that u rbed there is one of my favs personally LMAO creepy sun is so >>>> and secondly.. on my MHA BLOG? MY BAKUGOU WORSHIP BLOG????? ngl i did see u in my notifs over there when i saw ur tags LOL when i tell u i went O.O LMAOOOO. hope u liked them!! some of those r... old writings aldasdlakd. but!! anyways!! hope ur having a wonderful day!! stay swagilicious<3

HI SHAY!! ur silly fics r good argh i bear gifts

i like the way you write them i think the silly dynamics are great !! humans are so vulnerable and you tease the daycare attendant are my favs they did something to my brain actually. and yes you are correct creepy sun >>>>>> your works are nice please have some nice flowers for ur day

[echo-s-land]

Someone told me that he 'like hanging around with me' and he 'love my smile' today

[cielospeaks]

aime tachi plot: everything has to make sense, there are rules for the story even tho its self indulgent, yadda yadda, character development, progression consistency

dreamdom hearts plot: anyways the dream works au versions of fe characters and my oc recruit enjoyable single dw villains to go have slightly creepypasta shenanigans with a presumably dead oc

[81pastrys]

He’s Married?!

Summary— Oscar brings a baby to track and hides the fact it’s his while his wife deems they should tell the world about them

Warnings— secret relationship ; secret baby

A/N— I started writing this and went off-topic but I kept going and couldn’t stop myself 😭 (streamer is sort of like this as well just Lando based)

Oscar One Shots

Dividers @bernardsbendystraws @dollywons

Request— hihi, if possible could you do a oscar piatri fic, in which he married young and forgot to mention it, and the grid finds out (ive read a few fics with this plotline and im in love) -🤍 @fctnllvrs

Oscar was very closed off, meaning absolutely no one expected him to arrive at the paddock with a baby carrier. He doesn’t even have a girlfriend or hookups or even a wife?!

“Mate who got you baby sitting on media day?” Lando joked lightheartedly. Oscar flushed a pink color and laughed it off.

“Not too good of an idea, huh?” He joined Lando’s banter hoping to ward off the ‘it’s actually my kid and I’ve been married since F2’ conversation.

Oscar went about his day, holding the little boy and doing his duties while simultaneously keeping up with the infants needs.

His wife insisted he take the boy for the day, she needed to catch up at home and it was the Australian Grand Prix. Oscar’s mum insisted she stay behind and help with organizing and cleaning up the house with Oscar’s wife.

The reporters were intrigued and asked him questions as well. “Who’s this little one?” Lawrence Baretto asked. Oscar smiled and held his baby boy to show the camera.

“This is Arlo.” Oscar said before returning his son to his chest where the baby sighed contentedly into him. No more questions followed but media had their suspicions.

Socials were no help at all to any fans or media stalkers, Oscar and his wife kept a low private social life. They never officially announced their wedding nor first born anywhere other than texts between families.

Oscar returned to his driver room and started getting Arlo ready for a nap, meaning changing the little boys diaper. If there was one thing the baby absolutely despised, it was getting changed.

There were loud cries and screams as Oscar did so, trying to keep the boy calm. “Such big feelings little man, it’s okay.” He soothed, rubbing the boys tummy when he was done. “Shhh daddy’s got you, it’s alright.” Now that Arlo was dressed and back on Oscar chest, he was calm and no longer a screaming, crying mess.

Oscar did slip up and call himself daddy though, hoping the scream died that out. Until Lando walked in quietly, shutting the door behind him. His face of pure shock and disbelief.

“Sorry, just trying to get him to sleep for a little.” Oscar said quietly with a few nods. Lando’s face softened at the little boy droopy eyed on Oscar’s chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!” Lando whisper yelled, stirring the little one. “I’m sorry little man.” He apologized looking to Arlo after he flinched at Lando’s little shouting.

“Tell you what?” Oscar asked, puzzled. He didn’t realize Lando walked in on him saying ‘daddy’s got you’ so he’s left out of the loop.

“That Arlo is yours! Mate do you even have a girlfriend?” Lando asked, still quiet as for no one else to hear. “Oscar this is fucking huge! You’ve been flaunting him all day too.”

“Language and no I don’t have a girlfriend.” Oscar said to build suspense. Lando looked stressed at that comment. “I have a wife, who was overwhelmed at the mess from looking over him 24/7.” He smiled watching Lando relax.

“God mate you’re insane, how long?” Lando chuckled. He looked to Arlo as a nephew now, the sweet little boy sleeping on Oscar’s chest now a part of the McLaren family.

“4 years next month.” Oscar said looking as if he had to think about it. “Yes, I know. I don’t regret marrying her though.” Lando softened, why had Oscar kept this all a secret for so long?

“Secrets safe with me, but media is going to start speculating little Arlo here.” Lando reminded. Oscar nodded. He knew the risks and felt there wasn’t much need to hide it all anymore.

The day was done and Oscar went home to his wife and mum, a tidy home with barely any evidence that a newborn had taken over.

“How was track today? Was Arlo good?” His wife asked, scooping the newborn from his carrier. Arlo immediately relaxed in his mums hold.

“Good, I mean media is on my ass and Lando knows about us.” Oscar said casually. She hadn’t cared much about keeping it all a secret but she also didn’t want to push Oscar into it. “I was getting Arlo ready for a nap, you know how he is and when I went to calm him down Lando heard me call myself daddy so.” He laughed.

“He won’t tell anyone?” She asked, curious on Lando’s secrecy on things. “I know you trust him.”

“Yeah I mean I don’t see any threats of him just blatantly saying it or anything, it’s only a matter time people find out.” Oscar shrugged.

“Well if you want to do it before he accidentally does, we have hospital or maternity photos you could post.” She smiled, slightly joking. Oscar smiled with her and kissed her head.

“The house looks amazing by the way, you and mum did a good job tidying up.” He praised the cleanliness of the house that was once a mess. “I’ll send some pictures over to my media manager to post tomorrow before practice.”

She was going to be present for the race, but not the extras before. Arlo would not fare well with the long hours of sitting around in an unfamiliar place with loud noises.

Like Oscar said, scheduled posts from the hospital were posted the next day before he arrived at track. Him, his wife, and baby Arlo in their arms while cozied in a hospital bed widespread like wild fire.

Questions galore from reporters, congratulations from other drivers and shock from finding out the last 5 years were kept secret. Headliners read ‘Find out which McLaren driver kept wife and child under wraps for nearly 5 years’ or ‘Papaya driver released surprising post of family’ insanity flooded his phone.

The race day was even more overwhelming, fans and reporters hounding on his wife and Arlo now. Oscar was not having that. “Give them space, back up!” He said annoyed at the proximity of the people. His wife found a comfortable place in the garage where no one would bother her too much and Oscar checked in on her.

“We’re fine Osc, go do your McLaren stuff!” His wife insisted. She knew he had lots to do before a race, but he only seemed concerned on her and Arlo.

“Can I hold him before I have to go out?” Oscar asked. It was 30 minutes until he had to be in his car. She nodded and handed the boy over. “Such a sweet, loving boy.” He cooed. “I’m going to win my home race, just for you and Mama.” He whispered. He kissed the baby’s forehead and handed him back. He gave his wife a kiss as well and headed to his car on the grid.

I’m just getting over a sinus infection so apologies for being inactive.

@il0vereadingstuff @angelluv16 @pandabiiissh @itznotsophia @kallanfiona @chertik-007vvv (its Kinda dad Oscar)