#scalpel handle

[surgicaltools]

What is a Scalpel Handle Used For?

Scalpel handles are one of the essential tools in the medical field, crucial for facilitating a wide range of surgical procedures. Understanding what a scalpel handle is used for allows us to see how its design, ergonomics, and compatibility with various blades play a vital role in surgical precision, control, and safety. This article will explore every facet of the surgical scalpel handle, from its types and functions to applications in different medical fields, to help medical practitioners make informed choices about this important instrument.

1. What is a Scalpel Handle?

A surgical scalpel handle is the component of a scalpel that provides the base for attaching a surgical blade. While it may look simple, the scalpel handle is meticulously designed to offer comfort and stability, ensuring the surgeon can make precise cuts without experiencing hand fatigue. This handle serves as the grip for the scalpel, which can then be equipped with various blades tailored to different surgical procedures.

The scalpel handle and blade function together as a single unit to create a controlled cutting tool. Often overlooked, the handle plays a significant role in determining how comfortable and stable the scalpel feels during delicate procedures. With numerous sizes, materials, and designs available, each scalpel handle serves a unique purpose in different medical settings, illustrating how crucial it is to know what a scalpel handle is used for.

2. Types of Scalpel Handles

Scalpel handles vary widely to accommodate different surgical applications, blade types, and user preferences. Here’s a breakdown of the major types:

Disposable vs. Reusable Scalpel Handles: Disposable scalpel handles come with a blade attached and are discarded after a single use. They are cost-effective for procedures that don’t require high precision. Reusable handles are typically made from materials like stainless steel, which can be sterilized and reused, making them ideal for surgeries that require utmost precision and flexibility in blade types.

Material Types: Scalpel handles can be made from stainless steel, plastic, or other durable materials. Stainless steel handles are sturdy and provide excellent control, whereas plastic handles are lightweight, cost-effective, and disposable. Metal handles are preferred for high-stakes surgeries where precision is paramount.

Size and Weight Variations: Different sizes are available, such as no. 3, no. 4, and no. 7, which cater to various blade types and surgical procedures. Heavier handles provide greater stability, while lighter handles allow for quick, delicate movements. Understanding these variations helps medical professionals determine exactly what a scalpel handle is used for in various procedures.

Specialized Scalpel Handles: Certain handles are tailored to specific disciplines, such as dermatology and podiatry. For example, podiatry scalpels may feature ergonomic designs for comfortable handling during foot surgeries. Specialized scalpel handles ensure that medical professionals have the right tool for specific areas of the body, further illustrating the importance of knowing what a scalpel handle is used for.

3. Functions of a Scalpel Handle in Surgical Procedures

The primary function of a scalpel handle is to provide a stable, ergonomic base for the surgical blade. Here’s how scalpel handles contribute to successful procedures:

Precision and Control: A well-designed handle enhances the surgeon’s control, allowing for precise cuts. This control is especially vital in surgeries that require exact incisions, such as vascular surgery.

Grip and Stability: Scalpel handles are designed with textured grips that prevent slipping, even in conditions involving moisture or blood. This secure grip allows the surgeon to maintain a steady hand, which is critical for precise and safe cuts.

Blade Positioning: A scalpel handle enables specific blade angles, allowing surgeons to adjust their approach to the target tissue. Knowing what a scalpel handle is used for in terms of positioning helps surgeons align the blade accurately.

Ergonomic Comfort: Surgical procedures can be lengthy, and a well-designed handle helps reduce hand fatigue. The ergonomic design also ensures surgeons can maintain stability and control over extended periods, crucial for procedures requiring prolonged focus.

4. Choosing the Right Scalpel Handle for Specific Procedures

Selecting the correct scalpel handle is essential, as each handle type serves a unique purpose. Here’s a guide on what to consider when determining what scalpel handle is used for in specific procedures:

Handle Size: Different sizes provide various levels of control. Smaller handles (no. 3) are ideal for delicate surgeries, while larger handles (no. 4) work best for deep incisions.

Material and Comfort: Stainless steel handles are recommended for surgeries requiring precision, while plastic handles can be sufficient for disposable, single-use applications.

Blade Compatibility: Certain handles are compatible with specific blade types, so it’s essential to match the handle to the blade required for a procedure. This ensures the scalpel is both safe and effective.

5. Applications of Scalpel Handles Across Different Medical Fields

Scalpel handles have unique applications depending on the medical field:

General Surgery: Common handle sizes such as no. 3 or no. 4 are used with blades designed for abdominal and vascular surgeries. These handle types provide the stability and control needed for intricate procedures.

Podiatry: Specialized scalpel handles are designed for foot-related procedures, offering ergonomic support to prevent hand fatigue.

Dermatology: Dermatological surgeries involve precise, shallow incisions, making lightweight, small scalpel handles ideal. Such handles allow dermatologists to make gentle cuts without exerting excessive force.

Veterinary Medicine: Veterinary surgeries often require versatile scalpel handles that can support different blade types, given the variation in animal anatomy and tissue types.

Dental Surgery: Oral surgeries require compact scalpel handles that enable maneuverability in confined spaces.

Laboratory and Autopsy Applications: In dissections and autopsies, scalpel handles provide the stability necessary for detailed tissue examination and educational purposes.

6. Safety Measures and Best Practices for Using Scalpel Handles

Understanding what a scalpel handle is used for includes knowing proper safety protocols:

Proper Handling: Use a firm but not excessively tight grip to maintain control without straining the hand.

Blade Attachment and Removal: Always attach and remove blades with a tool to avoid direct contact, reducing the risk of accidental cuts.

Safety Features: Many handles now come with locking mechanisms and retractable designs to minimize the risk of injury.

7. Maintenance and Sterilization of Scalpel Handles

To ensure long-lasting use, scalpel handles require proper cleaning, sterilization, and maintenance.

Cleaning Procedures: Reusable handles should be rinsed immediately after use to prevent the buildup of biological material. Proper cleaning is essential for preventing cross-contamination.

Sterilization Techniques: Autoclaving is commonly used to sterilize stainless steel handles, while disposable handles should be discarded according to biohazard protocols.

Inspection and Storage: Regularly inspect reusable scalpel handles for any signs of wear. Store them in sterilized conditions to maintain their quality and readiness for future procedures.

8. Frequently Asked Questions about Scalpel Handles

What is the best material for a scalpel handle? Stainless steel is often preferred for its durability and ease of sterilization.

How do I know which scalpel handle size to use? The procedure and blade type guide the choice. Larger handles are generally for deep incisions, while smaller ones are for delicate work.

Are disposable handles as effective as reusable ones? Disposable handles are cost-effective and ideal for simpler procedures, but reusable stainless steel handles offer better precision and control.

9. Conclusion

Knowing what a scalpel handle is used for allows medical professionals to maximize their efficiency and safety in surgeries. With options available in material, size, and specialty design, the scalpel handle is indispensable to a surgeon’s toolkit, adapting to a range of medical and surgical requirements. Informed selection of a scalpel handle impacts the precision, control, and comfort a surgeon experiences, demonstrating its essential role in modern healthcare.

[joyamedicalsupplies]

KAI Disposable Scalpel No.10 Blades With Handle - Joya Medical Supplies

Buy Kai disposable scalpel blades with handles from Joya Medical Supplies. Enjoy free shipping for orders over $300 across Australia. Place your order today!

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - physical abuse, mentions of kidnapping, themes of marking/ownership. based on this ask.

Suguru has your name tattooed just below his collarbone.

It's subtle. Black ink pressed into neat kanji, bold lettering camouflaged behind the swirls and patterns of his other designs. Yours emerges from the back of a brilliant, white and blue dragon, while Satoru's hangs below, settled into the spiraling pupil of the dragon's eye. You try not to look for it. Really, you try not to look at him at all, but he makes it difficult - always forcing your hand against his chest, always asking you to read out the only names that have or will ever matter to him. It might be a little more romantic if he didn't seem so proud, if he didn't purr out his affirmations of love with quite so much self-satisfaction. He wants evidence of his claim to you, of his right to you, and what could be more telling than carrying your name so close to his heart?

Satoru wears two wedding rings.

Technically four, if you count the engagement bands he keeps on a delicate silver chain around his neck. It's embarrassing, honestly. He'd always been the one to propose - first to Suguru, when they were fresh out of high school, then to you, on the first anniversary of your abduction. The two of you aren't actually married (no, they'd never let you stray far enough from their countryside estate for that), but Satoru likes to pretend, and Suguru likes to indulge him. He calls you by all the right terms of endearment, brings home cake and flowers every few weeks for some invented milestone, whines when he finds your rarely-worn ring stuffed under the mattress or broken into pieces on the floor. He's always wanted something domestic, something mutual. Your continued imprisonment may eliminate any hope for the latter, but he can still try to nudge you towards the former.

They've both carved their names into you.

Suguru's, first, stretching over the small of your back. The lines are jagged, the scarring ugly and only just beginning to heal around the roughest patches. He did it on impulse - as a punishment for trying to run away, as proof that you'd never really be able to get away from them. He wanted to make himself a part of you, and in a way, he did.

Satoru's had to be inflicted later on, after weeks of building jealousy and off-handed comments about how unfair it would be to leave you so lopsided. His name was handled more with more care - engraved in your shared bedroom rather than the back of Suguru's car, using a proper scalpel rather than a rusted pocket knife. Suguru held you while Satoru did the dirty work, nuzzling into your tear-streaked cheeks and promising that they were only doing this because they loved you, because they had to make sure you knew who you belonged with. That did nothing to stop the pain, of course, almost as intense as the bitter hatred you feel every time Satoru presses a line of kisses up the length of your spine or Suguru settles a hand over the ruined mess of skin and flesh that you once called your own. Satoru holds up his rings to your scars, and Suguru offers to get another line of ink, and they try to convince you that you're all on equal ground. You're not, though. Obviously, you're not.

As violently as they refuse to admit it, Satoru can take off his rings, and Suguru can cover up his tattoos. Your claims to them can be removed, or hidden, and if they ever wanted to, they could leave, separate themselves, run.

For whatever reason, you just weren't given the same choice.

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | building legos

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : building legos with your f1 boyfriend ୨ৎ : word count : 1002

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : ive been contemplating getting one of the lego sets but i do not have the dedication to be doing all of that...

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

dead serious from the second you open the box

“we build it exactly like the instructions or we don’t build it at all”

holds up a single sticker for 5 minutes trying to align it perfectly

mildly offended that the lego car doesn’t come with DRS

does not speak the entire build but high-fives you when it’s done

yuki tsunoda

swears 8 minutes in after dropping a tiny piece under the couch

refuses to use the little sticker tool and ends up misplacing like three

makes engine sounds the whole time for vibes

snacks between steps and gets crumbs on the instruction booklet

still insists on putting the minifigure in the seat at the end and says “me.”

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

overconfident at first. “we’ve got this. easy.”

15 minutes in: “i think we skipped step 14.”

reads every single instruction like it’s an ikea manual

makes a whole system for sorting the bricks by color and size

gets genuinely offended if you freestyle any part of the build

kimi antonelli

quiet, focused, lowkey terrifying levels of concentration

absolutely the type to be like “you missed a piece” without even looking up

corrects a misplaced sticker with tweezers and surgical precision

“this is relaxing” he says, fully sweating

secretly keeps the finished car on his desk and won’t let anyone touch it

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

“do we really need to follow the instructions?”

10 minutes later: deep regret

gets dramatic when the stickers start peeling on the corners

flips the box over like it’s going to give him the answers

names the finished car “baby ferrari” and displays it like it’s his child

lewis hamilton

you do the building, he handles the stickers and vibes

puts on music and makes it a whole chill date night

gets way too into picking which minifig is “you” and which is “me”

encourages you the whole way like you’re building a real f1 car

posts the finished build on his story with “teamwork”

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

“easy. we’re finishing this in one hour.”

chaos ensues. one piece gets vacuumed. another disappears into thin air

you’re handling most of it while he’s dramatically reading sticker names aloud like a race intro

tries to modify the car to give it “sidepods with better airflow”

laughs the entire time but genuinely proud of it when it’s done

oscar piastri

reads ahead in the instructions to “strategize” the next three steps

calmly hands you pieces like a surgeon with a scalpel

only loses his cool when a sticker folds, then he just quietly groans

lowkey competes with himself to get it perfect

says “that was fun” but doesn’t touch it again for three days because he’s emotionally recovering

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

critiques the design as if it's a real f1 car

“this suspension would never survive turn 3 at silverstone, just saying”

gets oddly competitive about finishing it quickly

tells you he’s “just watching” and ends up doing 70% of the build

when you finish: “another one?” like he didn’t just age 3 years in stress

lance stroll

chillest builder ever. doesn’t care if stickers are crooked

puts random pieces on top just because “they look cool”

definitely zones out mid-build and makes a coffee without telling you

holds the finished car up like a trophy and says “you crushed that”

more excited about the little lego pieces than the actual car

ʚ・williams

alex albon

very into the details, especially the color coordination

“no no, give me the sticker — i’ll get it lined up perfectly”

halfway through starts giving the car a backstory like it’s a pixar character

lets you fix mistakes even when he already saw them

displays it on his shelf like it's his new prized possession

carlos sainz

extremely precise, very methodical — treats it like a team strategy

puts the sticker on with a ruler. yes, a ruler.

“this piece is off-center.” disassembles entire front wing

gets emotional when it’s finished. “look how beautiful it is.”

lowkey wants to buy the next set before this one’s even done

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

claims he’s built “like every lego set ever”

gets overconfident and skips a step, causing minor panic

absolutely freaks out over missing pieces (they’re not missing, he sat on them)

makes race car noises while testing the wheels

“let’s do another one” 5 minutes after finishing

esteban ocon

reads the instructions like it’s a sacred text

says “wait wait wait” every time you try to jump ahead

makes dramatic eye contact while applying the tiniest sticker

slightly judging you but in a “you’re cute” kind of way

proudest when the tires go on — “now it’s fast.”

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

chill about it until a sticker goes on crooked, then suddenly stressed

“it’s fine” tries to peel it back off for 10 minutes

ends up more invested than he thought he’d be

takes over the trickiest steps so “you don’t get annoyed”

takes 14 pictures of the finished build for absolutely no reason

isack hadjar

talks a big game but lowkey doesn’t know what he’s doing

“i swear this piece doesn’t exist” — it does. it’s upside down.

makes you do the stickers because “your hands are steadier”

gives the car a ridiculous name like “the hadjar hauler”

wants to race it across the table once it’s done

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

chaotic good.

actually good at building, but gets bored halfway and starts joking around

puts the little fire extinguisher piece in the front seat “just in case”

flirtatiously distracts you so he can sneak a piece on your side

once finished: “let’s build another team next”

franco colapinto

giddy like a kid in a toy store

“this is so cool. this is so cool.”

does the engine part twice just to get it extra neat

lets you place the last piece and takes a pic of you doing it

insists the car stays on his nightstand

ʚ・kick sauber

nico hulkenberg

mutters “bloody hell” every time a piece doesn’t snap right

lowkey loves it but refuses to admit it

gets hyper-focused on the tiny spoiler details

ends up building it alone because you gave up and watched

“done. never again. also, let’s get the bigger one next week”

gabriel bortoleto

full golden retriever excitement

“wait this actually looks so good”

applies every sticker with his tongue sticking out in concentration

says “vroom” after every completed step

takes a selfie with the car like he’s on the podium

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[bluelockmaniac]

prisonguard!jjkmen X prisoner!reader ★ slight suggestiveness + gn!reader

prisonguard!satoru who shamelessly makes out with you, unbothered by the agape mouths of the prisoners in the surrounding cells. he shoots them a menacing glare, silently threatening them to keep their tongues locked in their mouths if they know what's best for them. he then gently pulls your curious (and slightly aroused) face closer to his, until your cheeks pressed against the cold metal of the iron bars. despite the barrier, he was able to capture your sweet lips fervently, slightly nibbling on the soft, addictive flesh.

prisonguard!nanami who openly delivers the warmest meals and the comfiest clothes directly to your cell, ignoring the envious gazes of covetous prisoners who were painfully aware of the privileges you had, that they lacked. the other guards held him in high regard due to his intimidating reputation, so when they caught him hauling a thick mattress, coupled with a fluffy pillow and blanket, slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder just for you, they immediately casted you in a new light— surely you were wronged, right?

prisonguard!sukuna who plays a dangerous game, sneaking into your cell late at night in a vulgarly obtrusive manner, as if he held no interest in the possibility of rousing all the vile convicts from their deep slumber. he settles himself homely on the edge of the wooden plank you called your ‘bed’, and while you couldn’t see his face properly due to the dimmed lighting, you can practically feel the smirk forming on his lips as he pulls you onto his lap, whispering temptations laced with a certain bittersweetness, promising that he’ll get you out of here one day—but not yet. he still wants to use you.

prisonguard!toji who couldn't care less about concealing his painfully obvious favoritism towards you. while he cruelly forces the inmates to do all the labour, having them sweep the dirty floors of the institution, scrub the filthy metal toilets of each cell, and handle the reeking laundry, you were innocently seated on his spread lap, in his office. you giggle softly as he plants kisses with blatant intentions on your hair, trailing down to your nape, all while you flip through the brand-new magazine he had bought exclusively for you.

prisonguard!choso whose careful footsteps echo down the walkway early in the morning, drawing closer to your cell as he does every single day. he enters quietly, a smile spreading across his face when he sees you waiting for him on the edge of your dented bed, wide awake, with the scalpel he had gifted you resting lightly in your grip. you quickly stand and move to the cement wall where dates, names, and vulgarity were carved. sighing happily, you feel him standing behind you, his chest pressing against your back. he gently guides your hand with the scalpel to the wall, slowly chipping away at the concrete to write a number. three. you glance back at him with a smirk, which he responds with a ticklish pinch on the plush of your waist. three more days till he gets you the fuck out of here.

prisonguard!suguru who flashes you one of his notorious smiles, your eyes immediately drawn to the prison guard’s uniform hanging from his arm, then to the scarlet-tinted baton he held carelessly in his other hand. your lips curl upwards into a grin of delight, laughing as you fathom the fact that he actually followed through on his promise. you quickly loop your arms around his neck, kissing him softly, before taking the slightly oversized uniform and dressing up while no one, prisoner or guard, was watching. after you were finished, he walked confidently down the hallway with you by his side. no guard bothered to question the unfamiliar face beside him. he didn’t even have to use the excuse of patrol duty. ultimately, he was able to successfully orchestrate your escape. but not to worry, he has you safely and comfortably hidden in his apartment after a search for you was later launched that day.

© 2024 bluelockmaniac — do not repost, copy, translate, modify, etc my work on any platform !

[popcornpoppypop]

We'll Table That

Summary: Callie tries to get her hand stitched without knowing. It does not go well.

Warnings: Blood, medical inaccuracies, shouting?, talks of pregnancy

A/N: Let me know what you think. I can't stop putting this poor character through physical injury, I have a thing for grumpy men taking care of their partners.

“Oh he’ll have my head if I don’t tell him you’re here.” Dr. McKay chuckled, crossing her arms and shaking her head.

“Yeah, no, I know. Just thought it was worth a try.” Callie shrugged. Her hand was wrapped in a pile of gauze that was starting to turn red.

“I may have texted him anyway.” Liz, Callie’s best friend and only reason to keep going back to work, winced from her seat next to the exam chair.

“Lizzy!” Callie scolded.

“Oh please, if the roles were reversed you’d be furious if he didn’t tell you.”

“I just don’t like him fussing. Taking time from patients that deserve his care.” Callie fiddled with the gauze.

“Yeah, well, you deserve his care too. Let him.” McKay gave a kind smile. Before Callie could say anything, the curtain was ripped open to reveal a seething Jack Abbot.

“What the hell happened?” He barked.

“What if I was naked!? You just exposed me to all of your colleagues!”

“Why would you be naked if you hurt your hand?” He grumbled.

“I don’t know. I feel like every time I come in here ya’ll are ripping the clothes off every patient.” Callie shrugged.

“I’ll let you handle this Dr. Abbot.” Mckay made her exit, tugging the curtain closed.

“So?” Jack crossed his arms.

“I caught my hand on a scalpel during surgery.” Callie sighed.

“Callie.” Liz pointed.

“Lizzy.” Callie glared at her.

“Hey! Doctor mode now, okay? I need to know what happened so I can treat you. You complain all the time when clients give you half-truths about their pets, so out with it.” His voice stern in a way Callie wasn’t used to. The voice he used with med students..

“I fell, my hand landed on the instrument tray-”

“She fainted and her hand slammed into the tray and the scalpel sliced her hand open.” Liz crossed her arms. Callie rolled her eyes.

“You fainted? As in lost consciousness?” Jack’s voice though still calm and in ‘doctor mode’ was tight as the worry built up in his chest.

“Only for like thirty seconds.” Callie looked at the floor.

“I had some smelling salts in my emergency kit, they brought her back.” Liz noted.

“It was just my blood sugar. You know I have trouble remembering to eat.”

“That’s why I pack you lunch! All the snacks you could need!” Jack threw his hands in the air.

“I get busy!” Callie shouted.

“Right. Let me look at the hand.” Jack pulled the overhead light down and rolled his stool closer. He unwrapped Callie’s hand, revealing a deep laceration across her palm. “I cleaned it with some chlorohexidine diluted and wrapped it as best she would let me.” Liz said, trying to get an A plus from her friends boyfriend.

“Chill Liz, you’re a lesbian remember?” Callie chuckled.

“Shut up.” Liz shoved her. Liz and Jack started off enemies at first. Liz was protective of Callie, having been her friend for years and seeing the hell she had been through. She was never happy to meet a new boyfriend, they were just pain waiting to happen. But when Jack proved to be a good man, they became thick as thieves. Liz would never call herself a ‘prepper’ but she kind of was. Jack was too. They taught each other about new tech and tools and bored Callie to death with it all. She thought it was too depressing.

“Someone has to pay attention to this stuff if you’re going to keep getting into trouble.” Jack sighed.

“That’s what you two are for.” Callie smirked. Jack and Liz rolled their eyes.

“You need stitches.”

“No shit.”

“You need stitches and bloodwork.” Jack pointed as he stood up.

“What!? No way!”

“Yes way! You fainted!”

“I hadn’t eaten! I just need juice and you know it!”

“I don’t know it that’s what the bloodwork is for!” Jack shouted. Callie was about to yell back when the curtain was pulled open by Robby.

“Hey! Some people think it’s rude to shout in hospitals, something about sick people trying to sleep or something.” He said.

“Sorry.” Callie looked like a scolded child.

“She needs stitches and bloodwork.” Jack stated.

“I don’t need bloodwork.”

“Jesus Christ, Callie! It’s what I’d do for anyone else that fainted!” Jack growled.

“Alright! Stop shouting.” He pointed to Jack before turning to Callie. “You fainted?” Callie nodded her head.

“I saw it.” Liz added.

“He’s right. Anyone who faints gets a work up, even if it’s just a low blood sugar from not eating. Your iron could be low, lots of things could cause you to faint. You’re getting the bloodwork.” Robby stated crossing his arms.

“Fine. But I’m not happy about it.” Callie growled.

“Didn’t say you had to be.” Robby smiled.

“I’ll do it.” Jack said.

“No! That is ridiculous! Let the nurses do their job.” Callie pointed her finger at him.

“I’ll have Dana do it. That work for everyone?” Robby sighed. Heads nodded and he left. Jack came walking up behind him.

“Brother, if you put one of the med students on her stitches I’m going to start throwing things.” Jack growled.

“Calm the hell down.” Robby snapped. “You act like a crazy person when she’s here. I have half a mind to tell her to go anywhere else!”

“That’s not fair-”

“Jack, you can’t act like this here. It’s not okay for the students to see, for the nurses to deal with. She is a grown woman and is allowed to make her own decisions with her care. You need to respect that. If you can’t, you will no longer be her doctor. I don’t pull rank often because it’s stupid, but I will if need be.” Robby sighed. Jack stared at him for a long moment, digesting his words.

“You’re right. I know. I just…the anxiety turns me into something else. I’ll back off. She’s so damn stubborn.” Jack sighed leaning against the nurses station desk.

“Don’t like a taste of your own medicine?” Dana quipped.

“Will you go pull blood on Callie please? Get me 2-0 monocryl to sew her up. 2ml of lidocaine.” Robby asked.

“Only because it’s Callie and I want to see her.” Dana gave Jack’s arm a soft punch.

“Are you two like this at home?” Robby questioned.

“God no. No, we never argue.” Jack shook his head. “She’s only like this here. She doesn’t like people taking care of her because she feels like she doesn’t deserve it and the people who take care of her will resent her.” Jack nodded.

“That’s deep.”

“The therapist said it at our last session.”

“You two are in couples therapy?” Robby looked at him bewildered.

“Hell yeah. We’ve got a lot of fucking baggage man. It keeps us honest with each other, ourselves. Makes communication easier.”

“Good to know.” Robby nodded as he headed back to Callie’s room.

“And when Whittaker slipped in the blood, the tray of juice went with him. Poor kid was covered front and back!” Dana laughed as she bandaged Callie’s arm.

“That poor kid! He can’t catch a break!” Callie chuckled.

“We wouldn’t be gossiping about our coworkers to patients now, would we?” Robby chided.

“Oh don’t be such a party pooper. I’m going to get this running. I’ll swing by with some cranberry juice in a bit.” Dana winked and ran off.

“Alright, let’s get you sewed up.” Robby groaned as he sat down, pulling his glasses on.

“How many do you think?” Callie asked.

“Oh not too many. Probably five or so.” Robby smiled. “This will burn.” He stated before injecting the lidocaine into Callie’s hand. She hissed as the medicine scorched her skin.

“Damn!”

“Yeah, now you know what your patients feel.” Robby chuckled as he started sewing.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with him. He’s such a grouch when I’m here. I told McKay to keep it to herself.”

“Oh that would have gone over like a lead balloon, I don’t blame her.”

“I know he means well. I know it’s because of his wife, he’ll never not blame himself for losing her. I just can’t deal with the overprotective stuff sometimes. It’s too close to the possessive behaviors my ex had.”

“I didn’t know you had a bad ex.” Robby looked over his glasses at her.

“Bad doesn’t begin to cover that fucker.” Liz sneered.

“He wasn’t a great guy to be around.” Callie sighed.

“He beat the shit out of you.” Liz bit.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry. Does Jack know?” Robby asked.

“Yeah. We talk about it in therapy. But old habits die hard, especially when it comes to survival. Both our issues come from survival.” Robby nodded.

“All stitched up. Those will need to get removed in about two weeks. They will itch, do not itch them.” Robby warned as he left. 

Jack was typing up his charts, trying in vain to not think about the bloodwork. His mind always went back to the worst case scenario.

“She’s all stitched up. Once we have her bloodwork she can head home. You can too. They have enough staff for the night.” Robby leaned across the desk.

“Yeah, maybe.” Jack huffed.

“You can go sit with her if you want.”

“I’m giving her space.”

“She is never allowed in here if this is how you act.” Dana snorted.

“I don’t like that I can’t prevent her from getting hurt and it makes me upset when I see it. Sue me.” Jack spit back.

“Easy big guy, I know how hard it is. You need to lighten up, it’s bad for you scrunching up all grumpy all the time.” She smiled.

“Dr. Robby, is Callie your patient or…?” McKay came up with a piece of paper in hand. Jack glared at him, Robby laughed.

“Yeah, she’s mine now.”

“Right. Her bloodwork just came in.” She gave Jack a smile and walked off patting him on the back.

“The hell was that?” He asked.

“Oh you’ll see.” Robby chuckled. “Let’s go, I’m not going over this twice.” He said as he headed for Callie.

“Hey, that was fast.” Callie smiled.

“It’s like pizza, thirty minutes or it’s free on bloodwork on Wednesdays.” Robby smiled. “Liz will you give us a minute? Protocol when going over lab work.” Robby asked. Liz nodded and left.

“Should I be worried?” Callie sat up straighter, looking up to Jack. He took a seat next to her, taking her hand in his.

“No. Your blood sugar was low, nothing too crazy. You will need to be more aware of it moving forward.”

“I told you.” Callie laughed.

“But, the bloodwork also showed an elevation in your human chorionic gonadotropin or hCG levels.” Robby tried to stop the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Jack looked like he had seen a ghost.

“I work with dogs and cats Robby, what the fuck is that? Is it bad?” Callie asked getting worried.

“You’re pregnant.” Jack said.

“Yes. The hCG is the hormone produced by the fetus, it’s how we confirm the urine pregnancy tests. Looking at these levels I’d say around eight weeks or so. They can confirm how far along with ultrasound measurements.” Robby smiled.

“Holy shit.” Callie said.

“I’m going to grab some resources for you, let you two talk. When you’re ready come grab me and we can set up an appointment upstairs for whatever you need.” He gave Callie a pat on the shoulder as he left.

“Holy shit.” Callie repeated.

“Yeah.” Jack grunted.

“Jack?”

“Huh?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Yeah, you are.” Jack felt his hands shaking.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want this?” Callie sniffled, the sound of her crying snapped Jack out of his daze.

“Honey, I love you more than life itself. I would love nothing more than to have a baby with you. My feelings aren’t important here though. This is your decision.” He grabbed her hand with both of his.

“I love you. I’m so fucking scared.” Callie looked away.

“I don’t think any good parent isn’t scared shitless.”

“Good point.” “It happens more than you realize.” He smirked, she laughed. Her laughter soothed something that had been biting at his chest.

“Are we really doing this?”

“That’s your call.”

“You idiot. It’s a team effort.”

“We have a strong team. One more member would only make us better I think.” Jack shrugged.

“Let’s do this. Can’t be worse than my mother.” Callie shrugged.

“Yeah?” Jack sat up straighter in his seat.

“Yeah, let’s have a baby.” Callie chuckled through her tears. Jack pulled her into a passionate kiss before jumping up, suddenly filled with adrenaline.

“WE’RE HAVING A BABY!!” He shouted, the whole ER stopped and turned toward the yelling.

“They can definitely hear you.” Callie laughed.

“I don’t know, I think they might have missed it,” Jack pulled the curtains back and “SHE’S HAVING MY BABY!!” which was met with a round of applause from the staff and confused but amused patients.

“You are never going back to work.” Jack stated out of breath.

“Don’t ruin it.” Callie laughed.

“We’ll table that.” Jack ran up to the desk grabbing his water bottle and keys. “Boss, I’m taking my lady home. I’ll be back on Saturday.” Jack nodded to Robby.

“Congrats, brother. You two may be the only ones that absolutely should have kids.” He smiled. Jack gave him a quick hug, slapping him on the back harder than usual and ran off.

“It’s cute when he’s all excited. He looks like a puppy.” Dana smiled.

“He is going to drive that woman crazy now.” Robby shook is head laughing.

“Oh yeah.”

[cressidagrey]

That Kind of Love

We are interrupting our regularly scheduled programming to celebrate Oscar's 5th career win! (Is this now becoming a weekly thing? apparently.)

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: The most attractive thing about Oscar Piastri wasn’t his appearance. Or his mind, even though he was brilliant. It’s the way he loves his daughter. 

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

​​Felicity has always thought Oscar Piastri was attractive.

Not in the loud, centre-of-the-room kind of way. Not the kind of beauty that turned heads or commands spotlights. He wasn’t fire. He wasn’t thunder.

He was gravity.

The steady kind. The pull-you-in kind. The quiet force that grounds everything in place.

Felicity always been drawn to precision, to stillness in motion. 

Maybe that’s why Oscar had caught her attention in the first place: because he was quietly extraordinary.

She fell in love with his mind first — sharp, methodical, deceptively fast. 

The kind of intelligence that doesn’t flaunt itself, just is. It’s in the way he studies data. The way he absorbed pressure like a sponge and never cracked, even when the world demanded noise.

Oscar didn’t dominate a room. He didn’t chase the spotlight. He just… did what he did. With focus. With grace. With an almost irritating level of control.

His voice — calm, low, always careful with his words. She learned early on that when Oscar spoke, it mattered. That he listened more than he talked. That silence, with him, was never empty.

And then… his hands.

God, his hands.

Not just the way they handle a steering wheel or adjust a headset. But the way they held her waist without thinking. The way they brush her cheek when she’s frowning at a spreadsheet. The way they fit against the small of her back when the world is too loud and he just knows she needs to breathe.

(He’s attractive when he’s angry, too — which was annoying. Because he didn’t yell. He just got cold. Sharp. Icy. Strategic. Like a scalpel — not a hammer. And somehow, that was worse. But also… god, it was hot.)

All of that was attractive.

All of it.

But none of it — none of it — compared to the way Oscar Piastri was a father.

It was the most breathtaking thing Felicity had ever seen.

 When the house was still dim and soft with sleep, and Bee was snuggled under a fuzzy blanket, blinking up at her papa with the kind of trust only children gave freely.

Oscar sat on the living room rug, hair messy, hoodie inside-out, and a plastic hairbrush in one hand while Bee twisted in his lap like a kitten in slow motion.

He held the braid gently, patiently, letting Bee instruct him in quiet whispers:  "Not too tight, Papa. I don’t want my brain to get squished."

And he nodded like it was a reasonable medical concern. "Right. No brain squishing. Got it."

Felicity watched from the doorway, one hand on her coffee mug, heart doing something completely unscientific in her chest.

Because that — that was the most attractive thing about Oscar Piastri.

It was the way he woke up before sunrise just to FaceTime Bee from a hotel room three time zones away because she “wanted to tell Papa about her new socks.”

It was the way he kept that lopsided bead bracelet on his wrist even during press conferences, even when stylists asked him to take it off. “It’s for focus,” he said. And it was.

The way he let her cover him in stickers and never complained.

The way he said, “You’re safe,” like it’s a promise he’ll burn the world to keep.

The way he crouched next to Bee at parks and built leaf piles with full F1 driver focus. 

The way he always, always listened — like everything Bee says is important. Because to him, it is.

It was the way he packed Bee’s backpack for preschool, humming under his breath and double-checking the snacks.

It was how he never forgot the things Felicity hadn’t even meant to ask for.

It was how he showed up, over and over, again and again, for both of them.

No spotlight. No ceremony. Just presence.

Just love.

The most attractive thing about Oscar weren’t the podiums.

 Nor the interviews or the way he could navigate a race track like he was part of it.

Not even the way he looked at Felicity like she was his home.

Not the way he looked in a race suit.

Not the wins.

Not the calm under pressure or the world-class reflexes.

It was the way he loved their daughter.

The way he became her world, every single time she reached out her arms and said, “Papa?”

The way he never made being a father look like a chore.

He never used the word babysitting.

Never “helped” like he was doing Felicity a favor.

He was there. Present. Committed. Gentle in a world that rewarded aggression.

The truth was simple.

Oscar Piastri was a good man. A brilliant man.

But the most devastating, beautiful, breathtakingly attractive thing he had ever become—

Was a father.

Her daughter’s father.

And there was nothing — no podium, no press quote, no perfect sector time — that would ever top that.

***

Bee was asleep upstairs.

The monitor was on. The dishes were done. The lights were low. And Oscar was shirtless.

Not in a flashy way. Not even intentionally.

 Just shirtless in that stupid, casual way that made Felicity want to strangle and kiss him in equal measure.

He was folding laundry, wearing old sweatpants, hair still damp from Bee’s bath — because he had been the one who insisted on “princess shampoo and spa night,” complete with glittery bubbles and a towel crown.

Felicity stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching him fumble with a pair of Bee’s socks. One was missing. It always was.

He looked up and smiled — soft and familiar.

“Hey.”

Felicity leaned against the frame. “You’re ridiculous.”

Oscar arched a brow. “What did I do now?”

She crossed the room and took the sock from his hand, tossing it onto the pile. “You’re folding laundry shirtless and you still don’t realize how distracting that is?”

Oscar smirked. “Didn’t realize it was a crime.”

“It’s not,” she said, stepping closer. “It’s just... unfair.”

He dropped the towel he was folding. “Unfair?”

Felicity shrugged, biting the inside of her cheek. “Because you’re... everything. You’re a world-class driver, you’re brilliant, and calm, and stupidly good at folding our baby’s shirts, and somehow—somehow—you also look like this.” Her hand slid up his chest, slow. “And on top of all that, you’re Bee’s dad.”

Oscar blinked. “You say that like it’s a bonus.”

“No,” she whispered, “I say that like it’s the thing that wrecks me.”

He went very still.

“Watching you with her?” Felicity murmured. “How gentle you are. How patient. How proud. The way you let her wrap you around her little finger and you like it. That’s what gets me. That’s what makes me want to drag you into bed and remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened — barely.

Then he dropped the towel completely.

In the next second, she was in his arms — his hands on her hips, her back hitting the edge of the couch as he kissed her like it was the first time. Like he needed it. Like she’d said the thing he didn’t know he was waiting to hear.

Felicity laughed against his mouth, breathless. “Easy, Oz. You’re going to wake the baby.”

Oscar kissed her harder. “She won’t wake up.”

She tangled her hands in his hair. “You are so—”

 But he swallowed her next words with another kiss, hungry and warm and real, and suddenly they were teenagers again — messy and flushed and reckless, but this time with a house and a baby monitor and years of love built between them like scaffolding.

“God, you’re such a good dad,” she breathed against his mouth.

Oscar groaned. “That is such a weird thing to say while kissing me.”

“You know it’s working.”

He kissed her harder.He kissed her like she was air.

 She kissed him like he was gravity.

[theodorenmyth]

Hello! I heard you wanted requests!

Could you please write some fluff with Law and Ace?

I was thinking about them seeing reader upset/crying about something. how would they confort reader?

Thank you!

. . . LAW AND ACE COMFORTING YOU

summary ; you were upset about something, they noticed immediately of course and tried their best to comfort you.

TRAFALGAR D. WATER LAW ;

Law isn’t the best at handling emotions—his own or others’. He prefers logic, strategy, and practical solutions. But when he walks into his office and sees you curled up on his couch, shoulders shaking, face buried in your hands, he immediately knows that this isn’t something he can fix with a scalpel.

He doesn’t rush to you. Instead, he takes a moment to assess—your breathing is uneven, your hands are clenched too tightly, and there’s an unmistakable tension in your whole body. Whatever is wrong, it’s serious.

“What happened?” His voice is calm, measured, but there’s a subtle softness to it. He crouches down in front of you, golden eyes scanning your face as he gently pries your hands away.

You shake your head, avoiding his gaze. “It’s nothing, Law. Just… forget it.”

He frowns. “That’s not an answer, Y/N.”

Law isn’t one to push, but he is persistent. He lets out a slow breath before settling next to you on the couch. His hand hesitates for a moment before finally resting on yours—a small but grounding touch.

“If you don’t want to talk, I won’t force you,” he says, his tone quieter now. “But don’t tell me it’s ‘nothing’ when it’s clearly something.”

You sniffle, wiping your eyes on your sleeve. “It’s just… everything feels like too much right now. I feel like I can’t do anything right. And no matter how hard I try, nothing changes.”

Law doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he watches you, eyes sharp yet filled with understanding. Then, finally, he speaks.

“I know that feeling.” His voice is low, as if confessing something rare. “Like the weight of everything is pressing down on you. Like no matter what you do, it’s never enough.”

You glance at him in surprise. Law rarely talks about himself like this.

He exhales, leaning back slightly. “I’ve been there, Y/N. More times than I care to admit. And I won’t tell you some meaningless lie like ‘it’ll all be fine soon’ because I know that’s not how it works.”

His fingers tighten slightly around yours, anchoring you. “But you’re not alone in this.”

Your lips tremble, more tears slipping down your cheeks. “I just… I hate feeling like this, Law. I hate being so—so weak.”

His expression darkens slightly at your words. “You’re not weak,” he says firmly. “Crying doesn’t make you weak. Struggling doesn’t make you weak. If anything, it means you’re strong enough to feel. To keep going, even when it’s hard.”

You let out a shaky breath, looking down at where your hands are intertwined. “You make it sound so simple.”

He scoffs lightly. “It’s not. But nothing worth it ever is.”

For a while, the two of you sit in silence. Then, Law shifts, pulling you against him. His arms wrap around you, steady and secure, his chin resting lightly atop your head.

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” he murmurs. “Just let me stay with you.”

You close your eyes, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. “...Thank you, Law.”

He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “Of course, Y/N.”

And he means it.

PORTGAS D. ACE ;

Ace HATES seeing you cry. The moment he notices the way your shoulders shake and hears the uneven breaths you’re trying to control, he feels a sinking weight in his chest.

He doesn’t hesitate—before you can even think about hiding, he’s in front of you, crouching down, his warm hands cupping your cheeks. His thumbs wipe away your tears, even as more spill down your face.

“Whoa, hey—what happened?” His voice is soft, but there’s urgency in it, like he needs to fix whatever’s hurting you right this second.

You shake your head, trying to pull away, but he doesn’t let you. “It’s nothing, Ace. Just—just drop it.”

He scoffs, his brows furrowing. “Yeah, no. That’s not happening.”

His grip is gentle, but firm. He won’t force you to talk, but he’s not leaving until you do.

“C’mon, Y/N,” he murmurs, tilting his head to try and meet your eyes. “You don’t have to deal with this alone. Whatever it is, I’ve got you.”

Your lip trembles, more tears spilling out despite your best efforts. “I just—I feel like I’m drowning, Ace,” you admit in a shaky whisper. “Like no matter what I do, it’s never enough. And I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”

His heart clenches painfully at your words. He knows that feeling too well. The weight of expectations, the fear of never being enough—it’s something he’s battled his entire life.

Without another word, he pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in a tight, warm embrace. His chin rests on your shoulder as his hands rub soothing circles on your back.

“You don’t have to stop feeling like this,” he murmurs. “Not right now. Just let it out, okay? I’ve got you.”

Your hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him like he’s the only solid thing in your world right now. “I don’t want to keep dragging you into my problems…”

Ace pulls back immediately, his freckled face scrunched in disbelief. “Are you serious?” His hands rest on your shoulders as he stares at you. “Y/N, you could never drag me down. You’re not a burden, alright? I want to be here for you.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “But I feel so—so weak.”

His expression softens. “Hey. Listen to me.” He squeezes your shoulders lightly, grounding you. “Crying doesn’t make you weak. Feeling like this doesn’t make you weak. If anything, it makes you stronger because you’re dealing with it.”

He pulls you back into his arms, resting his chin on your shoulder. “And besides, if crying makes you weak, then I must be the biggest crybaby in the world. I cry over my food all the time.”

You let out a wet chuckle. “That’s not the same, Ace.”

“What? Yes, it is!” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wide with mock seriousness. “You ever drop a perfectly grilled skewer into the sea? That’s real pain, Y/N.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

His lips curl into a grin. “Maybe, but at least I got you to smile.”

The both of you sit in silence, Ace hums in thought before tilting his head at you. “Wanna punch something? Or set something on fire? We could go terrorize some Marines.”

Despite everything, another watery chuckle escapes you. “Ace, we are not committing crimes because I had a bad day.”

He grins, obviously pleased with himself for making you laugh. “Fine, fine. But the offer still stands.”

Then, his expression turns serious again. “But for real, Y/N… I don’t care how many times you need to cry, or vent, or just sit in silence. I’ll be here. Always.”

You blink up at him, emotions swelling in your chest. “Ace…”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before pulling you against his chest again. “Now, c’mon,” he says with a warm chuckle. “Let’s get some food in you. Everything feels a little better after a good meal, trust me.”

“You really think food is gonna fix everything?” you ask, still nestled against him.

“No,” he admits, “but it’ll help. And if it doesn’t, then I’ll just keep holding you until you feel better.”

He slings an arm around your shoulders, keeping you close as he leads you away. “Oh! And if you ever need to cry again, just come find me. I’ll hold you as long as you need.”

You smile, the warmth of his embrace seeping into your bones. “Thanks, Ace.”

He grins, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “Anytime, Y/N.”

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter seven

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: rain and roadblocks push you to shelter under jack’s roof, where warmth returns in quiet gestures and shared meals. and for the first time in weeks, you sleep through the storm.

⤿ warning(s): stalking

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 3k

The next two weeks feel like breathing under a heavier moon—same oxygen, unfamiliar pull—and all of it soaked in rain. It has poured every night that week, sluicing down the bay windows in Triage, drumming on the roof so hard the ceiling tiles seem to vibrate. The weather channel drones from the mounted ER TV—flash-flood watches, wind advisories, “worst band of the storm due after midnight.” 

Inside, the shift grinds on. 

You also started power-napping like a resident—ten minutes in a darkened alcove, then snapping awake at the Code-Green chime, running on muscle memory and caffeine-free stubbornness. Tiny wins pile up: you nod off less, your notes stay pristine, and the tremor in your hands is gone by midnight instead of dawn.  

Routines sprout. You haul a travel rice cooker into Margot’s kitchen and start packing real food again—ginger-miso broth, quick stir-fries, onigiri in waxed paper. Dr. Ellis claims it’s pity-fuel for her relentless sarcasm; Dr. Shen bows his head in reverence before inhaling two portions. Jack calls them “midnight bento interventions,” devours whatever’s left, then ribs Dr. Ellis that the sodium will outlive them all. Now and then the three of you share a hard plastic bench in the staff lounge while swapping ER legends—Ellis’s lightning-fast intubations, Shen’s dead-pan one-liners, Jack’s dark-humor field tales—each story punctuated by the usual rattle of The Pitt.

Late Thursday, the bays fall into a lull so thin you can hear the HVAC sigh. You’re restocking the supply alcove, muttering about med students who confuse “return items” with “scatter like confetti,” when a shape darkens the doorway.

He’s gaunt—early twenties at best—paper scrub pants slung low on bony hips, hospital bracelet dangling from one wrist. A gray hoodie swallows his shoulders, the hood half up despite the indoor heat. His eyes jitter from shelf to shelf, never settling.

You straighten, clipboard raised like a polite shield. “Hey there. Are you a patient? Need help getting back?”

He steps closer instead, sweaty fingers pinching a folded slip of paper. “You need to take this.”

Instinct coils tight. You keep your voice even. “Let’s head back to the waiting area. I can page the on-call—”

“Just take it,” he snaps, thrusting the note toward your chest.

Your right hand drops to the Mayo tray, curling around a scalpel before you register the movement. The stainless handle is cool, grounding—and dangerous.

“Take it,” he repeats, voice thin and rising.

Before the tension snaps, Jack glides in—silent and immovable—slotting his body between you and the stranger. No raised volume, no theatrics—just an open palm that fills the space.

“Back up,” Jack says, firm and with no room for rebuttal as a diagnostic tone. His stethoscope glints under the fluorescents, badge swinging against his scrub top.

The young man freezes, eyes flicking to the approaching security guard. Ramirez materializes like clockwork, clamps a steady hand around the kid’s elbow, and steers him away. The note flutters to the linoleum like an exhaled secret.

“I’m not doing anything!” the kid protests, but he goes—casting one slippery look over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

Silence rushes in. Jack turns to you. The scalpel is still white-knuckled in your grip. His fingers curl gently around yours, easing the blade back onto the tray, then wrapping his other hand over your knuckles—warm, solid.

“Breathe.”

You do—shaky, scraping your ribs on the way out.

“Who was he?” you whisper.

“Probably an unknown admission,” Jack answers, eyes scanning your face for fractures. “Security’ll run his chart. Wrong vibe for our stalker, but I don’t like that he got this close.”

Your pulse skitters. Jack’s thumb brushes over your knuckles once, anchoring. “Shift’s almost done. Come help me bully Ellis into eating something green, then we’re clocking out.”

A crooked laugh escapes—thin but real. The discarded note lies forgotten on the floor; Ramirez will bag it for Gloria’s growing file. You let Jack guide you toward the nurses’ station, his presence steady as bedrock, your fingers laced in his like a tether back to solid ground.

. . .

Dawn hovers somewhere beyond the storm, but you wouldn’t know it. At 06:47 the windows above the ambulance bay are opaque with water, sheets of rain slamming so hard the gutters gargle. The TV in Triage flashes a crimson crawl—major street closures, buses rerouted, “historic rainfall rates.” Every few minutes Bridget’s phone pings with another text: stuck in traffic / bus turned around / can someone cover?

You finish resetting Exam 4, peel off gloves, and glance at the clock again. Three minutes crawl by; the storm only deepens. Somewhere overhead thunder rolls so low it vibrates the EKG leads in their drawer.

Your own phone buzzes. Margot.

Gridlock on Saw Mill Run. Ben’s car is crawling. 45 min at least. You okay to wait?

You thumb back Of course. Be safe. And slip the phone away. Easy enough: log a few more notes, check med-cabinet temps, wipe down the bedside computers—overtime in exchange for quiet.

By 07:45 you’re at the meds cart, auditing narc counts, when a shadow looms. Jack—bag slung over one shoulder, scrubs damp at the collar from some errand to Receiving—stares at you with that flat, unimpressed look he reserves for residents who chart “LOL” instead of “little old lady.”

“What,” he asks, deadpan, “are you still doing here?”

You snort softly, ticking a vial into the ledger. “Working? Also waiting. Margot and Ben are stuck on I-376, apparently looks like a parking lot.”

He doesn’t blink. Rain hammers the bay door behind him; lightning flashes, bleaching the hallway for half a heartbeat.

“So you’re pulling overtime and hoping the river doesn’t relocate into South Oakland?”

“Preeeetty much.”

A beat of silence. Then Jack’s hand closes gently around your elbow, firm but not rough, turning you away from the cart. “Grab your bag.”

“I—Jack, it’s fine,” you sputter. “Really. They’ll get here—”

“I’m driving you,” he says, voice calm in a way that brooks no argument. “I have a four-wheel drive. Let’s go.”

You glance at the downpour pelting the loading dock window. “It’s a monsoon out there.”

“Exactly.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Your options are hydroplaning in Ben’s Civic or hydroplaning with me, who at least has combat-driver training.”

“That’s not reassuring,” you mutter, but the small smile tugging at the edge of your lips is undeniable. 

“It’s the best offer on the table.” He presses the narc ledger into your hands, already sealing the drawer for you. “End of shift. Clock out.”

You open your mouth to argue—close it again. The ledger feels heavier than it should, fatigue seeps in now that adrenaline’s ebbing. Outside, thunder cracks like a dropped backboard, and the lights flicker once.

You sigh. “Fine, but breakfast is on me.”

“Deal,” he says, guiding you toward the time clock. 

You clock out, grab your bag and shrug into your jacket, before following him toward the staff exit where rain claws at the glass. Jack tightens the hood of his parka, then holds out an arm as the automatic door slides open, water roaring on the pavement beyond.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod, stepping close under the shelter of his outstretched sleeve. Together you plunge into the downpour—his hand steady at your back, the storm booming overhead, but the path to the truck straight and sure. 

Jack’s pickup squats at the curb, rain sluicing off the cab in curtains. He shoulders your duffel before you can protest, flips the handle, and swings the passenger door wide like it’s muscle memory.

“Watch your step—running board’s slick,” he warns.

You climb in. The cabin greets you with a mingled scent of cedar dash wipes, faint engine oil, and the ever-present whisper of antiseptic from spare trauma kits stashed behind the seats. A police scanner—permanently clipped beneath the center console—chimes with bursts of static and dispatch codes: flooded intersections, disabled vehicles, the city groaning under waterlogged asphalt.

Jack tosses your bag onto the back seat, gives the door a solid push, and rounds the hood. Rain drums so hard on the roof it sounds like popcorn. He slides behind the wheel, shakes his curls once, then flicks on the wipers—long, angry sweeps that barely keep up.

“Seat belt,” he says, already buckling his own.

You latch in. The engine rumbles low, a comforting diesel thrum. He pulls away from the bay, tires hissing through standing water, scanner crackling a heads-up about another closure on Boulevard of the Allies.

Outside, Pittsburgh blurs—streetlights smeared into amber streaks. Traffic is a knot of blinking hazards and stalled buses; every alternate route you suggest is echoed on the scanner as blocked or backed up for miles. Jack makes two turns, meets a wall of brake lights, then inches forward for twenty hopeless minutes.

Finally he exhales through his nose—one sharp huff—and eases into a wet three-point turn.

“Call Margot,” he says, eyes on the mirror. “Tell her you’re crashing at my place.”

Your pulse misfires. “Jack—what? No, it’s fine, just drop me at—”

“Not driving you across town in this while you fight to stay awake,” he cuts in, voice calm but iron-lined. “My spare room’s closer than Margot’s, and it’s got thicker locks. She’ll understand.”

“But—”

He flicks you a sidelong look, soft but unyielding. “Humor me. Call.”

Throat tight, you dial. Margot answers on the second ring, background noise of wipers and Ben’s low grumbling. You relay Jack’s plan. She pauses, then mutters something about common sense finally prevailing, and tells you to send a text when you’re indoors.

You hang up, fingers fluttering against your thigh. Rain hammers the windshield, the scanner mutters more closures, and Jack merges onto a smaller artery that actually flows.

“Tea’s stocked,” he says, like announcing the weather. “Couch pulls out if the guest bed creeps you out. And my dog tags jingle in the closet—ignore them.”

A shaky laugh slips free. The tension in your chest loosens by an inch. Outside, the city is half-submerged, but inside the cab the diesel hum and the steady cadence of the scanner feel almost like a heartbeat—louder than the storm, grounding you mile by mile toward something that feels, against all odds, like refuge.

The storm is still in full throat when Jack noses the truck into a covered slot and lowers the tailgate. A sprint through sheets of rain and a three-floor climb later, you’re inside his apartment—soaked jacket already dripping on the entry mat.

The place is unmistakably a bachelor’s but not a mess: clean lines, muted paint, furniture chosen for function more than style—charcoal sofa, walnut coffee table nicked at the corners, a single reclaimed-wood bookshelf holding medical texts, a weathered guitar, and a row of battered field journals. No curtains on the windows, just industrial blinds rattling in the wind.

The air smells faintly of cedar cleaner and gun oil.

Your gaze lands on the far wall: a framed photo of a unfamiliar person in fatigues, smiling wide under desert sun, Jack’s arm slung around their shoulders. The picture isn’t front-and-center, but it isn’t hidden either—just part of the room, as natural as the oxygen you’re breathing. You feel a pulse of something—respect, maybe; curiosity folded into quiet acknowledgment—then let it settle.

The storm growls and the apartment lights stay dead. Jack mutters, “Of course,” and disappears into a utility closet. A second later a low hum rises; backup battery strips blink to life, powering a lamp and the fridge compressor. Gloom shifts to soft amber.

He reappears, already unzipping a folded camp cot from a hall closet. “Guest room’s down here—ignore the tactical gear box; I was sorting it and never finished.” He keeps talking as he moves—pulling a fresh duvet from a storage bin, snagging spare towels, stacking them on the cot as if building a fortress of linens. It’s the rambling you’ve come to recognize: the babble that sneaks out when his battlefield calm runs up against actual nerves.

“Sheets are hypoallergenic, pillow’s maybe lumpy—Shen says I’m pointless without memory foam, but—uh—water heater’s touchy; you flip the breaker twice if it sputters. Breakfast, though—I’ve got eggs, maybe some questionable bread, instant oatmeal if—”

“Jack.” You cut in, nurse-stern but gentle, palm landing on his forearm. “Kitchen. Now.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Told you breakfast was on me. I’m cooking. You drove through a flood and half of Oakland. Sit, or at least fetch ingredients. Let me do something useful.”

For a heartbeat he looks like he might argue; then his shoulders drop, a wry curve touching his mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

The kitchen continues the theme: uncluttered counters, cast-iron skillet seasoned to midnight black, a French press permanently stationed beside a battered electric kettle. You shed your damp jacket, roll up sleeves, and start inventorying fridge contents by the soft glow of the battery lamp. Eggs, scallions, a solitary bell pepper, leftover rice from who-knows-when—perfect.

Jack lingers like a big, quiet dog at the edge of the doorway until you point a spatula toward a stool. “Park it.”

He obeys, elbows on the island, watching steam fog the window while you whisk eggs and slice vegetables. The generator hum, the sizzling skillet, the rain hammering the glass—they layer into a rhythm that feels, astonishingly, like peace.

You spoon the crispy-bottom rice and silky eggs into two battered blue enamel plates—the kind that look like they’ve survived a few camping trips—and slide one across the island. Jack dives in with the single-minded focus of a man fresh off a twelve‑hour shift and half a gallon of adrenaline. The first mouthful is barely down before he’s humming, eyes shutting like he might float straight off the stool.

“God,” he says, voice muffled around a second bite, “I missed this. You know what this is? This is proof the universe still loves me.”

“Pretty sure that’s just old soy sauce,” you reply, rinsing the spatula.

He points at the food with his fork, earnest. “Recipe. I need measurements—actual numbers, not your ‘dash until it smells right’ nonsense.”

“I’m protecting trade secrets,” you tease, but warmth blooms in your chest. Two weeks ago you could barely boil water without scanning every shadow. Now he’s coaxing you back to habits that meant home.

He polishes the plate until there isn’t a single grain left, then tips it your way so you can see your reflection in the gloss. “Gold standard. Seriously—midnight Bento queen. When you finally retire, you’ll have a food truck empire outside every trauma center.”

You scoff, but your grin is uncontainable. Cooking felt like breathing again—measured, rhythmic, fragrant—and seeing him devour it sparks a glow you haven’t felt since before everything.

After dishes, he pads down the hall and returns with a folded stack: a Navy-gray T‑shirt soft from a hundred wash cycles, and flannel joggers warm as a hug. “These should fit…ish,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. 

You press the clothes to your chest. They smell like cedar, laundry soap, and something unmistakably Jack. He then leads you to his spare room, and hits the  switch by the doorframe, heavy blackout blinds gliding down with a soft electrical hum. The morning storm-light is swallowed whole, plunging the room into a gentle twilight lit only by the hallway spill.

“Told you—better than curtain clips.” He sounds impossibly proud.

You step inside. The guest bed is a double—pillows plump, quilt patterned in muted blues, corners tucked with a soldier’s precision. A battered nightstand holds an alarm clock, a half-read Raymond Chandler paperback, and a small ceramic dish filled with odd coins, medals, and shiny screws—treasures of a magpie life.

The sudden hush steals the breath from your lungs. After weeks of sleepless vigilance, the room feels like slipping into deep water: quiet, cool, encompassing. You don’t realize tears have sprung until he’s there with a box of tissues he seemingly conjures from thin air.

“Need anything else?” he asks, voice gentled down to a murmur.

You shake your head, wiping at your eyes. The exhaustion is total—sinew-deep—but the fear that usually comes with it is absent. In its place sits something fragile and precious: safety.

He hovers one heartbeat longer, as if waiting to be sure. Then he nods, steps back, and eases the door almost—but not fully—closed. His footsteps retreat down the hall—soft thuds on laminate fading into the hush.

You then move to the bathroom, inside waiting a neatly folded washcloth, a still‑wrapped travel toothbrush, and a squat tube of plain mint paste. Everything is utilitarian, almost military in its order, but there’s a care to it that catches your chest.

You run the water—lukewarm thanks to Jack’s fussy heater trick—then scrub away twelve hours of hospital grit. The toothbrush is no‑frills, the soap unscented, yet the feel of clean water over your face is more luxurious than any spa. When the mirror fogs, you swipe a clear line and glimpse eyes already soft with impending sleep instead of panic.

Back in the room, you tug blankets aside but pause. One more thing. By the dim battery lamp you thumb out a text to Margot:

Safe. Jack’s spare room. Power’s out but generator humming. Will call after sleep. 💤

A confirmation bubble flicks up almost instantly: Thank God. Rest. Ben says hi.

You set the phone upside‑down on the nightstand, fold yourself beneath the quilt, and let the mattress cradle sore joints. Water thrums against the windows, the generator hums like distant tide. Somewhere down the hallway cabinet doors click—Jack tidying, grounding himself with small motions—then fall quiet.

Just as your eyelids drift shut, floorboards creak outside your door. His footfall pauses, a silent sentinel. He doesn’t knock, doesn’t speak—simply lingers long enough for you to feel the certainty of guarded space. Another quiet step, and he’s gone.

Your last waking sensations are cedar and rain in the dark, the firm weight of blankets, and the echo of boots walking the watch while you—finally—let go. Sleep rolls over you in a deep, unbroken wave; outside, the storm thrashes, but inside you rest like the dead, safe in the eye of it.

divider credit

[neuvilette-tea-party]

₊ ˙ ⊹Steb x F!reader₊ ˙ ⊹

Headcanons Pre-Relationship SFW

Part 2

I came to realize this format is for shorter stories? But I am an idiot and I cannot stop writing about best boy!

Request open for Best boy Steb <3

As a junior Medic, Steb is your mentor. He silently, but patiently, teaches you. 

Trains with you every day, with a scalpel or boxing gloves. 

Steb is a really good boxer and even better with batons, while you excel in Judo. 

You live life at his pace when you are in the barracks, eating when he eats, training when he trains, sleeping when he sleeps, practicing medicine when he decides it is time to teach you... You become his shadow. 

You practice incisions and stitching wounds on a dummy under his impartial but merciless gaze. He has an unconventional approach to the job himself, but no defective stitches escape his eyes. He asks you to start over each time he finds one, and even if he is instransigent he never refuse to helps, showing you an easier method or a quicker trick.  

You get better and better every day and he appears pleased with you, congratulating you with a nod and a pat on the shoulder. 

When you’re lucky you go on Patrol with him and Maddie, when you are extra lucky only him. But most of the time you are partnered with someone else and you cannot wait to come back to the barracks to train with Steb again! 

He is dead silent but extremely expressive when he wants to be. You learned to decipher every throat muscle contraction, every side eye, every blink, if he uses his third eyelids or not... Every infinitesimal facial twist speaks louder than any word he could say and you’ve gone pro at decoding every single one of them. 

Maddie gets crazy when you have an entire silent conversation with Steb with only raised eyebrows, head tilts, and nods during work. Loris just laughs his ass off at her getting more and more exasperated. 

Steb shows you all the little tricks he learned on the spot and in dire situations, what truly makes the difference between life and death under gunshots, things you do not learn in books or on a dummy. 

He had to stitch some of your wounds after an intense training session, making him softly grin while you sighed deeply, a little bit embarrassed to be so careless. 

You did not know if it was appropriate to eat fish in his presence at first, so you did not. 

He ever so slowly relaxes around you, letting you see his less stoic side from time to time. This is a rarity tho. 

Your unit as a game: the first one to assemble his weapon blindfolded, wins. Steb always beats you with the riffle but you win with the revolver. Loris beats everyone with every weapon. 

Steb keeps you under his wing for months, keeping you company during breaks, playing cards with you, watching movies late at night in the break room, arm wrestling with you when you feel feisty, he cannot beat you to billiards tho but he is good sport. Each days at the barracks you are attached to the hips, so much so that seeing one of you alone raises eyebrows. 

You earned the nickname “Mini-Steb” at the barracks for a time. You find it quite funny but Steb less so. He took the floor, a rarity, and asked your colleagues to respect your individuality and character. This was such a rare occurrence that everyone obeyed without a second word, while you looked at him with round eyes. 

He is a pretty good cook and handles spices at a higher level than any human, that’s why they put a rule in place for him not to spice the dishes himself, this is the only thing he cannot do in the kitchen, cause everyone would have a rough time. You love it when it is your turn to cook with him, Maddie finds it boring because he is even more non-verbal than usual but you love it, you try to match his pace and speed as best you can like a game. 

And because he looks pretty cute in an apron, you have to be honest. 

You discovered Steb had gills on his neck and his ribcage. You noticed the last ones when he took off his shirt during a training session to use the towel on his chest. You went immediately still at that view, completely shocked and hypnotized by that scene. You had to mentally slap yourself to manage to take your eyes off that... beautiful sight and you drank your entire bottle of water in one go, feeling incredibly parched out of a sudden. Maddies asked you why you did not finish your sentence but you could only wipe the sweat off your forehead, trying to make sense of your inner turmoil. 

Him who is usually so modest and rarely if never takes off layers in front of people... You were so unprepared but that sight! 

You both have your habits on patrol, you go to the same cafes, visit the same tea salon and always go to the same bar at the end of a shift. He always asks for a consomme while you change dishes each time. 

You notice that you spoke less and less yourself, mimicking your mentor, finding words more and more superfluous when you could just act on a matter. 

Steb baked you a cake for your birthday, without you having to remind him of the date. 

Excellent chess player, owns several books on different Chess masters that he reads religiously during breaks while also learning to play Go. He goes easy on you with other games but he will hand you your ass without any mercy with those two games. 

You learned he like to spend time in libraries and bookshops during his leaves and crossed paths with him on several occasions with his bag full of new books. 

Never took a puff of tobacco of any sort in his life and heavily avoids any smoking area. His eye twitched once when you revealed to him you tried weed once with friends in high school, but he remained silent, neither approving nor disapproving. 

Drinks alcohol only for big occasions and will limit himself to one glass only. 

Keeps his uniform immaculate, his helmet shiny and his weapons squicky clean. 

Good with cats and animals in general. Owned a bird in his childhood. 

Undisputed champion in the pool. Every once in a while someone thinks that they can outspeed him in water and is immediately proven wrong, but you get the occasion to play the cheerleader to support him each time, so you don’t complain. You handed him his towel when he got out of the pool, water trickling down his well-carved body and your eyes got lost for a second before so much skin, mouth slightly agape before such a spectacle. 

 You are Steb’s perfect assistant in mission, guessing his needs and demands in advance, handing him the correct tools without him having to ask to save your comrades’ or civilians’ lives. You move and think like a single being, creeping out Maddie. She told you you both look like possessed when you save lives together under fire like you were connected like a hivemind. You don't see her problem: you are saving lives! 

After each successful mission on the terrain, Steb pays you a drink, always wrapped in his usual mustism. You take an ale while he usually goes for iced tea or squach, making you giggle as you imagine the thought of the other patrons discovering a 6’1 ft  stern enforcer in full gear sipping sugary juice at the bar with a straw. 

But those drinks are between you and Steb only, between Mentor and Protege 

And maybe a bit more, you bust yourself hoping? 

One day Steb takes you aside in an empty room and hands you a piece of paper. Your official recommendation and aptitude certification to enter the Medic examination of the Enforcers. Signed by his hand. You look up at him with a gasp, full of hope. 

He grabs your shoulder, looking straight into your eyes. and nods with a tight smile. 

[fightingthetoxicallegations]

OPEN STARTER: VOICES.

TW: Delusions, mentions of murder, self harm, blood, mentions of suicide attempts.

Theo hates talking about his past. He's never been much of a talker, anyway. But his past is something he's especially secretive about. He feels as though talking about it makes him weak. Like he can't handle himself good enough to be able to deal with it on his own.

Now, he doesn't want to talk more than ever. About anything. He wants to sink into the ground and disappear forever. The voices in his head got louder recently. Especially his father's. He's been berating Theo basically 24/7 as of late. He tried ignoring it for a while. His sister's voice helped him tune it out. Then, his mother's voice appeared again. And that was hard to ignore.

Bickering. Yelling. Arguing. It won't let him sleep. Worst of all, his sister's been silent for a while now. He's going to go batshit crazy if this continues. He's already dealing with constant headaches from the lack of sleep and nonstop yelling. He just can't deal with it anymore.

One day, he snaps. He starts talking to the voices. Telling them to shut up more frequently. It doesn't help, in fact, it only worsens the problem. His father is now mad, his mother is lamenting. Both are annoying as fuck. Even worse, it's making his skin crawl. He wants to just peel it off and get a new one. It feels like there's bugs crawling underneath it.

You find Theo sitting on the ground, his temples are bleeding, it's almost like something clawed on them. There's a bloodied scalpel on the ground beside him, chunks of skin missing from his forearms, revealing muscle. He's shaking. "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up." He's saying it over and over again, his voice full of venom. He's grabbing at his hair with his blood-stained hands, strands of it sticking together with the green-tinted blood.

Taglist (ask to be added or deleted!!!): @the-great-emperor-commodus @steve-the-union-man @another-argo @literally-tinker-bell @the-son-of-the-sun @roryandthethorns @dad-left-for-the-milk @reyno-solis-real @onlymythologypersonincamp @l0st-child-of-war @lyric-of-the-sun @toxic-daughter-of-love

[allpiesforourown]

*clears throat into microphone* if luo binghe ever witnessed beast peak shen yuan handling a) a scalpel b) holding some kind of collar or c) wearing the teeth of a beast sy killed, luo binghe would simply cream his pants and die immediately afterward. I don’t think any further explanation is needed.

NO FURTHER EXPLANATION NEEDED!

May I add one thing tho: shen yuan taking a dangerous wild beast 3 times his size, subduing it, putting a muzzle on it, and declaring that this will be his next domestication project. Binghe would RUN to the bridal shop and show up at shen yuans door wearing a wedding dress

[prettybugsinbandages]

Blot!reader pt.5

Part 5 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

What a foolish, hollow victory—if it should even be called that. A pyrrhic triumph over peers and acquaintances alike, leaving them stranded in the no-man's-land between your hatred and a sickening semblance of friendship you could never quite trust. The confrontation with Idia, the attack on Ruggie—it was a mess, a tangled web of conflict and resentment.

And yet at least nobody had told.

You hadn't been dragged away by STYX, hadn't been locked up in some sterile, white-walled cell to be picked apart and studied for the rest of your life. That, at least, was something.

Your misanthropy had always been a shield—cold, unwavering, impenetrable. But now, it was a curse. The more you resented others, the more you unraveled. Every conversation, every fleeting glance, every whispered word—each one a scalpel sliding deeper into your skin, peeling you open, exposing too much.

You're tired. So tired.

Your eyes have been open too long, staring too hard, too often. But the worst part? The horrors you see don't lurk in the shadows. They aren't some unspeakable nightmare clawing at the edges of your perception.

No.

The monster was you.

Grotesque. Disgusting. Clawing at your own flesh, as if you could tear through the layers and find something—someone—else beneath. But there's nothing. only guilt, thick and suffocating, warring against the weight of your past, your bitter philosophies, your carefully constructed armor.

And now?

The future looms over you like a coiled serpent, ready to strike. But will you? Can you even lift a finger? The world continues its endless droning, conversations whirling like an unbearable cacophony of false normalcy. All you can do it listen. Nod. Smile. Pretend.

They're noticing.

They know.

Again and again, you perform autopsies on long-passed conversations, dissecting them, sifting through every word, every inflection, searching something—desperate—for any hint of deception. Any sign that someone knows too much. The paranoia festers, warping misanthropy into nemesism, a slow, spiraling collapse into something far worse.

You're cornered.

Pushed further and further until you can see it—two escape routes, each leading to another cage. One path is damnation. The other, salvation. But which voice speaks the truth?

The Blot, which saved your life once, whispering in its sick, twisted devotion? Or the people who ignored you until recently—who now, finally, claim to care?

You think both paths are liars.

You try to push it down—the gnawing, the clawing need to confront it—but Kalim's voice cuts through the noise like sunlight piercing the thick fog. Too bright, too warm, too alive.

His touch is an anchor, grounding you in the present, pulling you away from the grimy wretched thoughts that coil around your mind like ivy. His bright smile nearly soothes the tension in your shoulders. nearly.

He's been talking for the past fifteen minutes, his voice a constant stream of energy, filling the silence with anecdotes and half-finished tangents. no one is really listening. His words blur together, melting into a foreign language you don't quite register.

And thankfully, Kalim, and his fleeting attention span, hasn't caught onto your blank stare.

But Jamil has.

A sharp, dissecting gaze—gray eyes that pin you down like an insect under glass. Another bolt of paranoia crawls up your spine, tearing through the delicate strands holding you together. You feel bare before him, exposed and unraveling, as if he's already seen the cracks beneath your carefully placed mask. Does he know? The thought is suffocating, bile rising at the mere possibility.

You force a façade of normalcy, pushing a curious smile to your lips as you shift your attention back to Kalim, who practically vibrates in place, eager for your acknowledgement, like a starved pet desperate for affection.

In his hands, he holds a small charm, raising it up to the sunlight. The rays filter through the red stained glass, casting fractured, beautiful patterns across his face. The delicate craftsmanship, the way the light dances through it—it's undeniably pretty. Something you could admit you would've liked to have as your own.

"I was so worried I lost it," Kalim sighs, cradling the charm close like a treasured relic. "You still have yours, right? Even Jamil has his."

At the mention of his name, Jamil doesn't look up immediately, his gaze fixed on his phone. but there's a brief flicker—his eyes dart up, assessing. As if to prove Kalim's point, he idly taps the charm dangling from his phone case, his movements slow and calculated. He's watching you. Studying your reaction.

He's not dumb.

Jamil has been noticing something is off. He's ignored it before, brushed it aside as nothing more than stress or fatigue. but it's only getting worse. There's something eating away at you, a secret that is detrimental if you let it slip. And yet you're floundering, barely holding it together.

A weakness.

Your brows furrow, curiosity gnawing at the edges of your mind. "Mine?"

Shifting forward, you lean over Jamil, peering at his charm closely. He stiffens slightly, his fingers tightening around his phone as he raises it a little higher—keeping a small distance between you. A faint flush dusts his complexion. Under different circumstances, his reaction might have been amusing.

But you don't have time to dwell on it.

There's a gap in your memory.

Kalim nods eagerly, his smile wide and unburdened. "Right, when we went to the carnival in town!"

A ghost of a memory slips through your fingers, fragmented and fleeting. Laughter—warm and unrestrained. Close touches and easy smiles. The sticky sweetness of popcorn and candy floss. The world spinning, a song hummed under breaths.

It's warm.

Like something meant for you, a fate you could've had—if not for the unfortunate circumstances you're in now.

"When?" you ask softly.

For a moment, the weight of earlier, the crushing paranoia and gnawing fear, is subdued by that fleeting warmth. but only briefly.

"Yesterday," Jamil interjects, his voice sharper than before, tinged with something unreadable—concern, maybe, or something far heavier. His fingers tighten around his phone as if he could hold onto the memory through sheer force of will alone. "How could you forget an entire night? We had that talk about..."

He trails off. The words slip away before they fully form, vanishing like breath against a mirror. His grip on his phone turns vice-like, knuckles going white as if he's trying to physically pull the recollection back before it disappears entirely.

Beside him, Kalim's usual endless chatter has died. The brightness of his expression dims, his ever-present smile cracking at the edges, like something inside him has soured. His lips part hesitantly, but there's a twitch—something unnatural, like his mind is stumbling over itself, tripping on a step that should be there but isn't.

"We went with... with..."

Silence

The world holds its breath.

Kalim's lips move. A name escapes.

It should be yours.

But it's not.

It's close, familiar in shape, in sound, yet wrong—warped, like a reflection ripping in water. A name that belongs to you yet it doesn't, slipping through your grasp like sand.

An old name.

Jamil stiffens beside him. His brows furrow, his expression shifting—anger, confusion, unease flashing across his face in rapid succession. His eyes flick between Kalim, you, his phone, as if willing reality to correct itself. "That's not—" He stops abruptly, his breath hitching. "That's not right."

And something colder than fear pierces through you.

The name—it should fit, should settle against your ribs like something natural. but it doesn't. Because it's not yours.

And yet, at the same time, it clings to you, molding around your existence like it was meant to be there.

A sickness rises in your gut, curling tight around your spine. In the fragile space between heartbeats, something inside you shatters.

You've been ignoring too much. Brushing things off, making excuses, blaming yourself when cracks showed. Too many things have been wrong, buried under a rug now bulging with hidden lies and misplaced truths. Why had you let it go on for so long? Why had you chosen to turn a blind eye—when the one who holds all the answers lingers on your finger, waiting, curled up in the corners of your room?

Your ears ring. The static hum of something beyond your understanding gnaws at the edges of your mind as you push yourself to your feet. Even the Blot ring on your finger seems to tremble, as if it, too, can feel the wrongness in the air. As if everyone in the room knows something is amiss but cannot grasp What.

"I... need to go." you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

Questions claw at your skull, pressing against the fragile limits of your mind, until you feel like you might burst.

Your legs move before thought can catch up, leading you toward Ramshackle, the only place where you might find the answers. but—no. Ramshackle means the Yuus, Grim, maybe even others visiting. You can't risk it.

You walked and walked.

Through the dense thicket, past the towering silhouettes of trees standing like silent sentinels, bearing witness to your undoing. Head bowed, shoulders heavy, as if an invisible crown of burden laid upon your brow, pressing down against your skull. The world around you blurred into a smear of muted colors, but the sound of your footsteps rang clear—too clear. Foreign to your ears, like an echo that didn't belong to you.

You weren't alone. Yet every glance over your shoulder met nothing but empty space, the stretch of the forest swallowing anything that should have been there. Desolation wrapped around you like a second skin, suffocating, watching. The wind whistled through the leaves, its wailing voice desperate to warn you of something, but the message slipped through the cracks of your understanding.

Even nature forbids your being here.

The gnarled roots and stray branches tangled at your feet, snagging at your ankles as if they, too, wished to keep you away—to shelter you from whatever lay ahead. The trees loomed too tall, their skeletal arms blotting out the sky. The moonlight poured in thin, needle-like strands through the gaps, sharp and cold as if it, too, sought to carve something into you.

And through the tangled wild, you found it.

Ruins—crumbling yet standing, broken yet enduring. Whatever it once was had been devoured by time or perhaps an untold story long lost to history. Even in its decay, the quartz and marble shimmered beneath the moon's gaze, stubborn against the age's relentless grip. Thick vines and sprawling branches crept over the walls like veins, an eerie reclamation of forgotten artistry. You couldn't help but think Malleus would love this.

At the heart of it all, a statue—a grand angel, arms outstretched as if to descend from the heavens, delivering divine whispers to the mortal world. but its head was gone, shattered and lost to time, leaving behind a faceless messenger. A list, etched in Old Runics, lined the pedestal, but the words—words you felt you should know—were now unreadable.

Scattered across the ruin, fragments of stone faces lay strewn like gravestones, watching.

How you wished for any divine being to descend and grant you answers...

But no one would come.

Pushing forward, you dismissed the place's whispers, its heavy history pressing against your skin. You had something more pressing, something that burned hotter than the eerie beauty of forgotten stone and untold stories.

"Out."

Your voice cut through the hush of the ruins, a command wrapped in quiet restraint. The turmoil beneath your skin twisted, writing against the mask of control you forced upon yourself.

Silence stretched, a fraction of a second too long.

Your eyes narrowed, fixed on the darkened edges of the forest, where the trees bent too sharply, where the shadows swayed too unnaturally.

"Come out."

For once, it was you who summoned it. Not in fear. Not in desperation. But in demand—something long overdue. Something you were entitled to.

The Blot unfurled from the ring like ink bleeding into water, its form shifting in the dim moonlight as it fully materialized. For a fleeting moment, it didn't acknowledge you. Instead, its attention was fixed elsewhere—on the ruins surrounding you. It stood unnaturally still, a rare moment where its usual theatricality faded into something... uncertain. Unsettled.

It refused to turn towards the shattered statues. its gaze darted away from the broken faces lining the ground, feet shuffling as it stumbled over a stray stone. A visceral reaction.

You took it all in, gaze sharpening. Did it know this place? Did something about these ruins repel it?

The Blot barely had time to recover its balance before its attention snapped back to you. The discomfort melted into something else—something almost reverent. Relief. Delight.

It reached for you, dark fingers stretching forward, curling as if it could trace the lines of your face. "Yes, my dea—"

You slapped its hand away and the sound echoed, sharp and final.

The Blot froze, staring at the space between you, where your touch rejected it.

"Answers." It took a step back. You took one forward.

For the first time, you were looking at it. Truly looking. And it—it shuddered. Not in fear. No, something worse. Limerence—a dreadful, aching devotion. Like it had been waiting for this moment, dreading it, yearning for it, something twisted and hollow all at once.

"Of course." It breathes, a reverent hush, voice soft and distracted. Its breath was hot against your face—only further invoking your ire.

Why does it get to have warmth while you walk around like some glorified corpse?

The questions rose within you, a flood pressing against the walls of your mind, demanding release. You swallowed them back, choosing carefully.

"Why did you really do it—the contract?"

The Blot exhaled, something between a sigh and a chuckle, dragging a hand down its face. It sank onto a piece of rubble with an ease too practiced, too comfortable, its posture a mockery of casualness.

"It was an attractive opportunity to me. That was all."

Liar.

You felt the lie in your bones, the cold, dead space where something vital should have been. it was too easy. The answer came too smoothly, like a script rehearsed a thousand times over.

"Is that it?" You asked, voice deceptively calm, leashing the fury that clawed at your throat. If you lost control, you lost the game. You needed clarity to cut through its deceptions. "How does this benefit you? A mere test—that is your only motive for helping me?

The Blot tensed.

Not obviously. Not enough for the untrained eye. But you saw it. A subtle shift, a fraction of hesitation, something almost imperceptible. It wasn't your anger that unsettled it, but the fact you were seeing through it.

Something inside it twisted, recoiling. For the first time, you were under its skin.

Like a tick.

"How could I not?" it purred, stepping forward, the distance between you an unbearable thing it sought to close. "Crimson purity staining the snow—doll carnage. You were beautiful. Perfect. I was playing, testing how well magicless bodies full of hatred and despair hold me.

A flowery lie. Flimsy in the same nature.

You heard it in the way its voice wavered when it spoke too loudly, in the way its words slipped, momentarily unguarded. It struggled to lie to you.

And yet, the way it longed for you, ached for you, seeped into your marrow like venom. It adored you in a way that felt like hands slipping between your ribs, prying them open, peeling muscle from bone to cradle your heart in its hands. To own it. To press it close and be the only one privileged enough to hear the final melody of your life before it faded into nothing.

It reached for you again—a deliberate move, a test of control.

This conversation was not just words. It was war. A battle for dominance. A struggle to decide who will belong to whom when it ends—if two of you emerge at all.

"You hold me perfectly," it crooned, its voice weaving through your thoughts like a lullaby, sweet and saccharine and cloying. "So you'll be good for me."

A whisper of something unseen curled around the words, an invisible force creeping in. You felt it now—the subtle manipulations, the tiny, practiced tricks it used to keep you beneath its thumb. Its outstretched hand was not just a gesture. It was a leash waiting to be fastened.

You swatted its hand away, forceful, decisive. Your eyes darkened.

You knew the moment you allowed it to touch you, to warm you, to let its honeyed words wrap around you like a noose—you will lose.

Its expression twitched. The rejection—your sudden, ice-cold shift—had unsettled it.

"Do not mistake my kindness for weakness," it murmured, voice softer, but laced with something colder. A slow, creeping shift beneath its mask. "I'll choke you with the same hand I fed you with, my dear."

The Blot seemed to smile then—if it could be called a smile. A grotesque mockery of the expression, teeth too sharp, eyes to knowing.

"There will always be a next time."

But it didn't sound certain.

You saw it then, the cracks in its confidence. Something crawling beneath the surface of its being—maggots of anxiety writhing beneath void-like flesh.

A brittle laugh tore through you—unnatural, humorless yet not unfamiliar these days.

"You don't really know that, do you?" your voice carried something sharp, something cruel, an edge to it that sent another ripple through the Blot's form. "'Next time?' Can I even still die? Can you manage next time?"

The Blot flickered violently, its form spasming, the darkness around you thickening as if the world itself was recoiling. Its reaction was visceral. Violent.

Fear.

You were slipping away. How could you?

Before it could recover, before it could cobble together a response, you forced a grin—wide, too wide. It pulled at your skin, the expression foreign, almost painful.

"Shall we test it, dear sponsor?"

The way it jolted—a full-body shudder, dark fingers curling into fists—wasn't just fear. It was something deeper. Something primal. Something it didn't want you to see. It didn't want to know. It refused to know.

And that told you everything you needed to hear.

It needed you as much as you needed it.

The Blot refused to meet your gaze. The ring on your finger, normally a passive weight, was cold. Cold enough for you to notice. The band trembled, betraying the entity's emotions in ways it would never admit.

Silence.

Real silence. The kind that stretched too thin, suffocating, when not even the Blot had something to say. When both of you were forced to acknowledge things neither of you ever wanted to think about. You loathed this silence.

Then, finally, the Blot exhaled. A slow, steady thing, like it was forcing itself back into form, fathering the shadows that had momentarily frayed at the edges. When it spoke, its voice was careful, deliberate. "I do not know."

The words were slow. Resigned. It had to force them out, had to drag them into existence.

Then, a pause. A long inhale. It straightened. its gaze sharpened, locking onto you with something unreadable. "I spoil you, my dear."

The shift was subtle but it felt like an iron door slamming shut between you. The fondness was back, creeping in like rot beneath fresh paint, like it hadn't just faltered, like it hadn't just broken for even a second. It leaned in, pressing closer as if seeking warmth you no longer bore. "Keeping your little mortal body alive is... taxing, you know."

Another pause. This one heavier.

"Perhaps you should make it easier for us. Go ahead—test it."

Barbed words—spite wrapped in velvet. A silent accusation. You had defied it too strongly tonight, and it resented you for it. So much was buried beneath its void-like flesh, history it would never share.

And yet, you still reached for it. Greedy, unyielding.

You pressed further, voice even, calculating. "Am I stronger than previous overblots?"

For a moment the tension cracked—not from unease, but from offense.

The Blot scoffed. "Of course—how weak do you think I am?" It straightened fully now, like the question itself was an insult. "I've given you everything. Far more than I'd have given to anybody else."

The words carried a weight—a reminder, a warning. Not of its power, but of your place. Of what it had poured into you, what it had made you. There was something else burned in that patronizing tone, something desperate and unspoken.

It couldn't stomach the thought of you leaving. Not in death. Not in defiance. It would rather have your hate than your absence.

And you—perhaps foolishly—let it pull you down into its grasp. Arms wrapped around you, pulling you to sit amongst the ruins, among the echoes of something long forgotten. It traced the shine of the stone in silence, as if admiring something you couldn't see, before finally resting its head against your shoulder.

The Blot's breathing was soft, Even. Too even.

"Now, now..." It whispered, voice honeyed, too gentle. "You're stressed, little star. I couldn't bear to witness a collapse from all of this..."

A pause. A careful lull in the rhythm of its words.

"Let's talk about it again later, yes?"

The arms tightened around you ever so slightly, as if securing you in place. "I'll walk with you home and—"

Another attempt. Another carefully placed detour. Another desperate bid to lead you away from things that could shatter the delicate illusion around you.

You had pushed too close to breaching something dangerous and now it was scrambling to lead you back.

"If I get rid of you, will I die?" The words were sharp, cutting through the thin air as you tilted your head back, your gaze unwavering. You stared into the vacant spots where its eyes should have been, your own eyes nearly devoid of any semblance of life. The coldness in your voice made it clear; this was no idle question. You were determined now, and the warpath you'd set yourself upon was one of demand. "Will I crumble and fold, returning to the state you found me in?"

It almost chuckled, but the amusement quickly faded into something darker. It was surprised by how much you had become like it, the blank stare, the chilling words wrapped in a thin veneer of a smile—you had become a mirror, and that reflection was something it hadn't anticipated. But beneath that initial amusement, something else coiled in the depths of its being; horror.

The idea of you pulling away, tearing it off of you, and crumbling in the process sent a deep shiver through its form. it couldn't lose you. Not now. Not after everything.

The Blot's grip tightened, just enough to make sure you knew it was still in control, still bound to you. Still connected. "You can't," it stammered, its voice rising in pitch, now tinged with panic. "You don't know how—you can't leave me anymore. You were meant to be here. If you leave me, I'll have to—"

It stopped abruptly, as though the thought was too much to handle. The flicker of its form, the instability in its presence, revealed how deeply that fear ran. The idea of losing you was more than just an inconvenience; it wasn't an existential terror that caused it to falter.

Satisfaction bloomed cold in your chest as you watched it unravel just slightly. The realization that you had more power here, more leverage than you'd ever given yourself credit for, was strangely comforting. but something darker followed—a flicker of unease, a sickening worry that it seemed far too willing to go to extreme lengths to keep you bound to it.

"You belong to me, my dove." Its voice softened, returning to the euphemistic tone it favored, the flowery language dripping with soft, seductive quality. "It's in the contract..." The words were wrapped in honey, almost coaxing you to accept its hold the same way it had when you first met. "I'd hate to see you wither away again. It broke my heart seeing you like that. I worked so hard... bringing some things back from your world. It was difficult, you know. That keychain, that call. I thought you'd be happy having a few things to make this feel like home. Do you know how hard it is to keep you hidden from them?"

Voice dropping lower, breathing blooming against your neck, the words now little more than a whisper meant to burrow beneath your cold flesh. "Stop digging. You will only find rot and carnage."

The words slithered into your ear, a sick, twisted whisper that sent a strange shiver down your spine—one that shouldn't have felt the way it did, but it did anyway. Your neglected heart, long buried beneath layers of apathy and indifference, beat just a little harder in response. You hated it. You certainly hated yourself for responding. This was all so sick

You're both sick.

But enough was enough. Enough rot. Enough desensitization.

You weren't done digging. You weren't done looking for the answers, whether that meant finding a heart that would warm the body against yours—or tearing its chest open until you saw all the lies laid bare, no heart, no warmth, nothing left but an empty, rotting shell.

Your head fell back against its shoulder, a motion that felt almost natural despite the heaviness pressing in around you. You tilted your gaze away from the Blot, eyes sweeping across the ruined remnants of the structure surrounding you. The ruins gleamed in the pale moonlight, fragments of marble and stone reflecting the chill, but the lifelessness of it was undeniable. Once, perhaps, this had been a place alive with warmth and movement—now it was little more than a husk, torn open and emptied, its ribs exposed to the indifferent sky above. The people who once filled it, with their quiet chatter, their bustling lives, were no more.

Just like you.

But the Blot held you in its grasp as if you were the most magnificent thing it had ever laid eyes on—as if you were the sun itself, illuminating the sky, or the moon, shining with a beauty too radiant to touch. To it, you were perfection, a creation so divine it could only have come from the heavens themselves.

"Do you love me? Or at least care for me?" The question slipped from your lips almost without thinking, soft and vulnerable. The words, simple and laden with months of quiet desperation, carried the weight of loneliness you hadn't known how to bear. The months had piled grief and yearning into your chest until it felt like grime, coating every inch of your thoughts, every inch of your soul. Beneath all the hatred, all the rage, there was a simple longing for affection, for anything that resembled warmth, from it or anyone else.

The Blot didn't respond immediately. It didn't move, didn't flinch. its form remained perfectly still as your hand rose slowly, almost instinctively, to trail across its chest, up to its neck.

A heartbeat. A pulse.

Strong and rapid, it thrummed beneath your fingertips like a living thing, blood rushing through its arteries at an unusual pace. "Your heart's beating fast." you noted quietly.

At your touch, the Blot's hand shot up, grabbing your wrist with a force that could have broken bone. It tried to pry you away, but it faltered—its fingers trembled slightly, and its body leaned into your touch, as if unwilling to be let go of. Its neck craned further into your hand, a subtle surrender you could feel even through the tense, frozen air. You could hurt it, squeeze the life from it if you wished, and yet it stayed, willing, waiting—it would let you.

A shuddering breath escaped from its lips. Defeat lingered there, but beneath it, something else. Something like longing. And then, it spoke. The words were soft, dripping with something close to affection. "It is, my love. It is."

It didn't directly answer your earlier question, but its actions told you everything you needed to know. The Blot—this strange, unknowable entity—was more fragile than you had realized. it was closer to mortal than you had ever expected. Perhaps, it was more like you than either of you cared to admit.

The Blot's reticence was exhaustive, yet with every word it avoided, every vague response, only served to further unravel it more, to make it slip further from its carefully constructed façade. And with each fragment of truth revealed, it seemed to grow weaker to you, spilling secrets it desperately wished to hide. You could see it now—how much it feared being vulnerable, how much it needed you to remain close, even if it wouldn't admit it outright.

The air grew thick with silence. In the distance, the sea on Sage Island crashed against the jagged rocks, its roar a distant but constant reminder of something larger than both of you. A cold memory surfaced, one you'd try to bury deep in your mind. You had cast it into the sea, hoping it would be carried away forever, but like the tide, it always returned, washing back up to haunt you.

"So you care." It was a statement, not a question.

The Blot's pulse quickened, the rapid rhythm an unsettling contrast to the tenderness in its voice. "More than you could think." its shadowy fingers moved to cover your hand, pressing your cold touch closer to its neck, as if binding you to it in a way words never could. The pulse beneath your fingertips thrummed louder, faster, as if it was trying to prove something to you. Something it could never say with just words.

It was too much. All of it. And yet, somehow, the weight of its affection—distorted, twisted, and terrifying as it was—felt more real than anything else.

"Have you ever cared for another?" The question slipped from your lips with a quiet force, your gaze unflinching as the Blot's fingers twitched slightly against your hand. Another subtle tell. For a being you had once believed to be a master of deception, impervious to these small signs of weakness, it was becoming more and more apparent that the Blot wasn't as untouchable as it seemed. hesitation lingered in the air between you, the kind of silence that stretched on for far too long. Time itself seemed to drag, the irritation that had once simmered beneath the surface rising again.

"...Once." The response came quietly, almost inaudible. "Long before you. They saw every face I wore and loved me regardless. They loved me. And we were happy." The last part came out with a sharpness that was almost bitter, as if the mere mention of that happiness had reignited something long buried. Something painful. The words, harsh and raw, betrayed a history the Blot had tried to bury, and in its voice, you could hear the wound still fresh and tender.

You didn't let up, your questions firing like arrows aimed to kill. "Who?" "How did you meet?" "What happened to them?" But instead of answering, the Blot chose silence, almost petulantly ignoring you. It let out a disappointed whine when you retracted your hand from it, as if punishing it for not complying.

Frustrated, you pressed further. "Are you all the Blot in the world? Some kind of phantom?"

"I am beyond that," it snapped, its voice growing defensive. "How low do you think I am? The other overblots are handled by the others below me—followers." How else could I dedicate all my time to you, my dear?" There was offense in its tone, as if the suggestion you made had wounded its pride. it seemed to have an image of itself as something greater, something more powerful, and the idea of being reduced to something lesser, something controlled, disturbed it.

Your brows furrowed as the weight of its words began to sink in. A creature beyond the Blot, handling others beneath it, followers that served its whims. It spoke as if it were a rule of the shadows, an entity so ancient that time, the concept of it, no longer mattered. And yet, it had once cared for someone. Someone it loved. That alone contradicted everything you thought you understood.

"What were you before you became this then?" The question, even to your own ears, felt dangerous, too personal. The Blot froze at your words, momentarily stiffening. You could feel its nails dig into your sides, a sudden spike in tension coursing through it.

"What do you think?" The response came back sharp, the anger in its voice barely veiled. "Could you dare to comprehend me?" Its tone was almost accusatory, as if you had crossed some unseen boundary by even suggesting it. "I was beautiful—" it paused, the breath it exhaled coming out ragged, as if that single word had drained something from it. The Blot seemed to shrink in on itself, its presence dimming slightly, before it seemed to collapse into you. It sought comfort, but there was no embrace to give.

"Do you still think I'm beautiful, little star?" The question hung between you, vulnerable in delivery, though it was wrapped in layers of something deeper. A need, an ache that was buried beneath all the darkness, all the endless hunger.

It waited, form tense with anticipation. The mendacious creature seemed to yearn for your acceptance and confirmation, seeking an answer you cannot give. Could a creature of shadow with no appearance be classified as beautiful? Could you consider its nature—one of corruption, a motley of despair as something beautiful?

In the silence that followed, you realized something you hadn't before. You didn't know the Blot at all. its personality, its desires, its nature—all of it remained a mystery to you. It had always been desperate to please, to give, to entertain, and even torment, but beneath it all, there was a deeper need—one that hadn't been satisfied in the way it thought it would be. Every gift, every smile, every word it spoke was given in hope that you might—just once—give something back.

Every sin it bears is for you.

And perhaps that was why, despite all of it, you softened, just slightly for a moment. A fleeting softness that you couldn't control, that you didn't want to have. Perhaps it was why, in the midst of everything, you spoke the words that you knew might not be true, but were still true enough to leave your lips.

"You are."

part six

Thank you to all those that submitted questions!! <3 <3

Hope this goes well. It's really late.. or I guess early for me right now so I might edit this in the morning if I read it again and think its shitty.

Taglist: @tachibubu @shirp-collector-of-fixations @goatsmilksblog @iris-arcadia @pumpkindevil @gabile18 @sugarxrt @fancyhawk45 @mewchiili @olxh @muffinenergy @citrus-cinnamon @boredselkie @tipsyon-tea @blerp-22 @is-it-night-or-day @xinfinityx @ashieeeesh @b0nesandskin @texas-fox @owl778 @ghostlysyntaxed @youwannatrade @jar-03 @brights-place @pebble-bb @boredwithlifeatthispoint @casperandcats @rinart89 @raineondrugs @o-ffic @chloemari-e @roseinbloom02 @mandalay7y @s0up-good @the-unhinged-raccoon @cecil-the-crybaby