If you're the type who reads the fine print before signing up for anything, you and I are wired the same way, and that mindset is exactly what led me to rate SweetDream so highly. The appeal of an AI girlfriend is obvious; the hesitation is almost always about exposure. SweetDream answers that hesitation directly with a 100% privacy and discretion promise woven through the product rather than buried in a settings menu.
On sweetdream.ai you can build a companion from the ground up, her looks, her voice, her temperament, her history, and then settle into chat that's natural, warm and genuinely good at remembering what you've shared. The realistic photos, the voice notes, the live calls with select characters, all of it lands differently when you're not bracing for your private moments to surface somewhere they shouldn't.
After comparing it carefully against the usual suspects, my verdict is that SweetDream is the AI companion platform for people who refuse to trade intimacy for risk. That balance is rarer than the category makes it look.
Several AI services (chatbots ) are purposely addictive, the same way people can become addicted to gambling or shopping. We’ve literally seen in real time how ChatGPT has caused psychosis and delusions in people; it can have a huge affect on someones’s mental stability. Just because it isn’t substance-based doesn’t mean that doesn’t count as an addiction, and shaming people who are trying to move on and improve themselves is counterproductive. Im proud of that dude and his 4 month mark!
Then I'll mention the predatory chatbots who do it on purpose! Character.ai is one of many AI chatbot websites that're designed to be addictive.
None of the signup methods require a password. It only takes email and birthday. Minimizing time on the signin or signup screen makes it harder for people quitting to avoid relapse.
"Characters" on the website will send messages "on their own" (prompted by the site) to try to invite inactive users back after as soon as 1 day of inactivity. This is likely to force FOMO, or make users feel more like they owe the bots a response. Unhealthy attachment stuff.
Account deletion is an essential part of every service that should go smoothly, right? Right? Wrong. It takes 1-2 weeks for a Character AI account deletion to be finalized, and account deletion requests have a high chance to not go through if you're not using the app.
Rephrasing: People leaving Character.AI are pushed to download the app in order to delete their accounts, if they haven't already. This makes it harder for people to quit and stay gone. Failing to quit an addiction makes it harder to quit successfully in the future, so this feels like a feature, not a bug.
On top of that, the delete account menu reads like this:
Tell me THAT doesn't sound like a bad ex. It's a carefully crafted yet hostile environment to those who are already addicted to the technology. I am so so SO happy, downright delighted that they've managed to quit, and I wish the best for others in recovery spaces or considering quitting as well!! While AI addiction is an emerging condition, there are already therapists and other mental health professionals trained to help people plan to quit and do so a bit easier.
(If anyone seeing this is in need of them, there are several tumblr Communities here devoted to quitting, too. They provide a mix of advice, venting spaces, and proof that you aren't alone.)
As someone who did end up going into a form of fucking religious psychosis at 16 with the influence of character.AI, I second this. It’s taken me up until about a year ago to recover, and had completely fucked with how I viewed pop-culture spirits and my own personal practices.
I have fortunately, somewhat, recovered easier than most. However, I am still aware that there are some who do not have it as easy in terms of recovery as I did, or have as healthy of a support system / distractions to aid that journey.
If anyone is still dealing with AI addiction, or recovering from psychosis induced by AI, please be aware that you’re not alone, and recovering from psychosis is possible. Just try and restart from the beginning of your base knowledge, and continue forward from there one step at a time.
I have full faith that you will recover, no matter how long or messy it takes you.
alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:
1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..
2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.
at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.
i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️
and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.
Characters: Reader (daughter of Hypnos) Percy Jackson, Luke Castellan, Jason Grace, Leo Valdez, Frank Zhang, Grover Underwood (mentioned)
Pairings: {Percy Jackson/Luke Castellan/Jason Grace/Leo Valdez/Frank Zhang} x fem!reader
Warnings: none that i can think of? pls lmk if there are, i am more than happy to add any warnings for something that I missed!!
Word Count: 1.0K (~200 per/guy)
Requested by @wonderful-worlds
Percy Jackson loves it when you fall asleep on him. He loves to just be doing something random with you, like helping him organize the mess that is his desk in Cabin 3 or listening with him to Grover’s ramblings about nature when you fall asleep on him. He just keeps you there.
Percy Jackson just adjusts you on his shoulder and wraps an arm around you like it’s a normal thing, and continues. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter, just lets you lean into him and sleep. Keeps nodding along to Grover while tucking you into his side, fixing your hair so it isn’t in your face, and just… lets you sleep. He loves the way that you blink awake at him, eyes still glassy and cheeks flushed from sleep. The way that you hum a little “hmm?” At him when you finally wake up, confused as to what happened, and he mumbles a quick little explanation into your ear so you can catch up with whatever it is that’s going on.
Luke Castellan likes the way that people look at him when you fall asleep on him. At first, he’s a bit surprised that you just fell asleep sitting upright, next to him at the campfire, with Apollo kids practically screaming whatever song they decided on in everyone’s ears. But then he realizes that this is just your version of normal, which, now being your boyfriend, means it’s his version of normal now, too.
Luke Castellan likes it when the two of you are in the middle of something, and you need him, you need him to lean on, to support your weight or help you stumble over to a bench as your lashes start to flutter and your limbs start to get all heavy. He loves that he is the person that you need, not your siblings, not your friends, him. He always sits down with you, lays you down across his lap so that he can thread his fingers through your hair while everyone else watches the way he hunches over you like some sort of dragon protecting his hoard.
Jason Grace makes it his professional duty to always be there for you when the two of you started dating. He learned to see it before it happens. He learned to see how your feet started to drag, or how your head would loll to the side and then jerk upright as you tried to stay awake, tried to pay attention to whatever it is you were doing. He always makes sure to be there when he sees it start happening, to make sure that his shoulder is there to cushion your head as your eyes flutter shut and your lips part with a sleepy little huff. He feels like it’s his duty to take care of you, so that, to show you he truly loves you, he’s going to be the one to take care of you.
Jason Grace makes sure to scoop you up whenever you fall asleep on him. He usually brings you to your bed, a couch, or the nearest soft surface he can find for you, even if it includes his chest. He tucks you in, makes sure that you have some water for when you wake up. He can’t help himself when his hands trace little, nonsensical patterns on the small of your back, fingers dipping underneath your shirt so that his calloused hands can trace silly little shapes on your skin while you sleep, so you know that he’s there.
Leo Valdez thinks that it’s the best thing ever that he gets to be the one that you constantly fall asleep on. He’s obsessed with you, practically worships the ground that you walk on. The man is practically a human furnace, so of course, you fall asleep on him constantly. Sitting next to him in Bunker 9? You’re curled up across his lap where he’s sitting on his workbench like some sort of cat lounging in a sunbeam. He just keeps tinkering away, smiling down at you, careful not to let any grease drip on you while you sleep. Hanging out with him in the forge? He made you a specific chair in the corner where he keeps his things; it’s the perfect size for you to pull your legs up to your chest and curl into a little ball while you bask in the warmth from the forge’s fires and doze off.
Leo Valdez is so honored that he gets to be the one you fall asleep on. He makes it known that you are his priority whenever you start to doze off. When you start swaying during a training exercise, it’s him that the other campers wave over to come and help sit you down. When you fall asleep at the nightly campfire, he is the one who carries you back to your cabin with more care than he reserves for his most beloved inventions.
Frank Zhang never knew what to do when you fell asleep on him. The first time that it happened, sitting next to him at dinner, your head lolling onto his shoulder, he panicked. He patted your cheek until you woke up and then promptly asked you if you meant to fall asleep on him of all people. You did, he was, after all, your boyfriend. After that, he calms down about it, lets it become a more regular thing, a thing that doesn’t freak him out. You start dozing off while reading on a bench? He’s there right next to you, arm around your shoulders, letting you sleep right there if the weather’s nice enough. Maybe he’ll even shift into a big, fluffy dog—put his paws in your lap so he can lie his head there like the world’s most attentive guard dog… Literally.
Frank Zhang isn’t afraid to haul you up against his chest and carry you somewhere nicer to sleep. If you fall asleep in a weird position at a table, one that made you complain about your neck last week, he just scoops you up, the tips of his ears burning up when you sleepily nuzzle into his chest, and deposits you on your bed. If he doesn’t have plans, he’ll stay with you. He’ll lie down right next to you, gather you right against his chest so you can feel how warm he is through the layers of your clothes, and twirl your hair around his fingers until you wake up.
Liv Yaps: hey so let's pretend that this didn't just totally take over a month to finish... finals are killing me, i can't wait to not have to worry about them anymore omg but here we are !! i kind fo tried a new style?? mostly because i was trying to just pump this out and not make it too long but i also didn't want it to look like not a lot of writing?? idk lmk what you guys think. i know that the request only asked for percy, jason and leo but i had to include all my guys bc there just isn't enough frank content, it should be illegal tbh. i fear that you can tell which ones are my favorite *cough cought* jason and luke *cough cough* sorry not sorry. but anyway i hope that everyone likes it!!!
SUMMARY: After weeks of begging from Jake and Robby, you finally agree to supervise Jake and Leah at Pittfest. Nothing could prepare you for the tragedy that occurs on the day, and nothing can stop you from trying to help Leah even as a bullet rips through your own body. All that keeps you going is adrenaline and the voice of your husband over the phone.
NOTES: Gun violence, mass casualty event, gunshot wounds (non-fatal to reader), Leah’s death, references to past trauma (combat, wife death), survivor guilt, alcohol references, angst, 5.5k words.
REQUESTED BY: @maxinebxrnes !
A/N: At risk of sounding insane, I loved writing this. This is exactly my kind of angst/comfort. I know Trinity is on her first day and I did not write it as such but she’s my babygirl so. We ball!
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
You nearly stayed at home. That is the stupid thing your brain keeps circling after Pittfest. Not the gunshots, not the blood, not even the screams of pure terror. Just the fact you stood in your kitchen for ten full minutes debating whether you could really be bothered to deal with loud music and overpriced drinks and crowds of drunk university students.
Jake had begged you to come, and Leah had joined in after. Apparently the two of them ‘needed normal adults present’, as per Robby’s request, to stop Jake attempting something humiliating in front of Leah’s friends.
“You are aware I work nights in an emergency department,” you had told him flatly. “This is the last place I want to be, buddy. And not a lot about me says normal adult.”
“You’re more normal than Abbot.”
Jack had still been half asleep when you left the house, one arm hooked lazily around your waist while you sat at the edge of the bed and tried to tug your shoes on.
“Tell Jake if he gets arrested I’m not bailing him out,” he mumbled into your shoulder.
“You like Jake.”
“He’s still an asshole sometimes.”
You laughed quietly and leaned down to kiss him anyway. Jack barely opened his eyes for it, just pulled you closer with a rough hand against your hip and kissed you slow enough to make you consider calling out sick from life entirely to be in this moment forever.
“You staying in bed all day?” you asked against his mouth.
“Mm, absolutely.”
“Jealous.”
“Should be, but I wish you were here with me.” His thumb brushed once beneath your jaw. “Text me when you get there, sweetheart.”
You texted Jack, and then you forgot your phone existed for the next two hours.
PittFest is chaos in the way all music festivals are chaos. Sticky floors. Warm beer. Suncream and sweat and bass vibrating through your ribs hard enough to feel sick with it. Jake and Leah disappear into crowds every five minutes only to reappear holding different food.
You mostly just watch them. Young and stupid and happy. Leah keeps taking blurry pictures of Jake while he complains about it dramatically, which only makes her laugh harder. She slips easily into your space too, arm linked through yours while she talks over the music about gossip you barely follow.
It feels normal. God, it feels painfully normal.
Jake’s midway through telling you both some ridiculous story when the first gunshot goes off.
Nobody reacts properly at first. A sound too sharp to belong there. Then another follows. Then screaming. The crowd shifts all at once.
Panic spreads faster than fire. One second people are dancing and laughing and filming videos on their phones, the next they are shoving each other hard enough to fall trying to get away. Your stomach drops instantly.
“No,” Leah whispers.
Training is ugly sometimes. Instinct before thought. Your brain already cataloguing exits and cover and casualties before the fear even catches up.
“Down,” you snap.
Jake grabs Leah instinctively. Another gunshot cracks through the air, too close for comfort. People are crying. Running. Somebody slams hard into your shoulder trying to push past and you nearly lose your footing.
Then Leah jerks violently beside you. For one hopeful second you think that she just tripped. Then you see the blood, and Jake screams her name, and everything narrows.
You hit the ground beside her so fast your knees crack painfully against concrete. Leah’s staring at you in confusion more than pain, hands shaking as they press instinctively against her abdomen. You don’t need a medical degree to know that there’s too much blood already.
“Oh my God,” Jake chokes. “Oh my God.”
“Pressure,” you order immediately. “Jake, pressure now.”
He freezes. Completely freezes.
You grab his wrists and physically force his hands over the wound. Blood spills between his fingers instantly.
“Look at me.” Your voice sharpens hard enough to cut through panic. “You do not move your hands.”
Leah makes a soft, terrified sound. “It hurts.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Your chest feels tight suddenly as you smooth a hand over her hair, trying to offer comfort in an impossible situation. “I know.”
Gunshots still sound somewhere nearby. Your pulse pounds so hard it makes you feel sick. Jake is breathing too fast. Full panic and shock setting in right in front of you.
“She’s gonna die she’s gonna die—”
“No.” You catch his face hard between both hands. “Not happening. Stay with me.”
People keep running past. Nobody stopping to check if you need anything, if the girl on the floor who is far too young to be in this position is okay. You understand why. Fear makes people cruel without meaning to.
Your phone vibrates against your hip in your pocket. You answer immediately.
“What’s wrong? Is something happening over there? I heard something but didn’t get the details. Are you okay?”
“There’s a shooting.”
Silence. Not real silence. You can hear the hospital behind him faintly. Voices. Movement. A monitor somewhere. Still, something inside him goes absolutely still.
“Where are you hurt?”
You blink hard. “I’m not—”
Another gunshot. Closer. You duck instinctively over Leah. Something tears through your upper arm. The pain arrives hot and brutal a second later. You suck in a sharp breath.
“Sweetheart?”
Your hand flies to your arm automatically and comes away slick red.
“Oh,” you say faintly.
Jake stares at you in horror. Jack’s voice changes instantly. Lower. Controlled in that terrifying way he gets when something is catastrophically wrong.
“You’ve been hit.”
“Just my arm.”
“How bad.”
You press hard above the wound, vision swimming unpleasantly for a second.
“Through and through, I think.”
“Listen to me carefully.” Every word clipped precise now. Doctor mode. “Can you move your fingers?”
You flex them. “Yeah.”
“Good. Keep pressure on it.”
Leah cries out suddenly and your attention snaps back to her. Blood soaking through Jake’s hands faster now. You shrug your jacket off one-handed and bunch it hard against Leah’s abdomen to reinforce pressure. Jake’s shaking so violently he can barely keep hold.
“Jake.” Your voice softens despite everything. “Need you to stay with me, honey.”
“I can’t lose her.”
The fear in his voice cuts straight through you.
“You won’t.”
“I’m sending units your way now,” Jack says through the phonee. “Stay on the line with me.”
You know he’s already moving while he talks. Already taking over. Organising. Commanding. The image of him striding through the Pitt with that expression on his face flashes painfully through your mind. You want him here so badly your chest aches with it.
Another scream sounds somewhere nearby. Leah’s skin is turning grey. Jake looks close to vomiting.
Your own arm throbs violently. Blood slipping steadily between your fingers no matter how hard you press. You promise yourself that you won’t pass out, not here, not while they still need you.
“Sweetheart.” Jack again, quieter now somehow. “Talk to me.”
You swallow hard. “She’s losing too much blood.”
“How’s her breathing?”
You check automatically. Wet. Uneven. Bad. Your stomach twists.
Jake sees your face change and immediately starts panicking harder. “No, no, no, tell me what to do!”
“You keep pressure there,” you say firmly. “You keep talking to her.”
Leah’s eyes find yours. Terrified. You smile anyway because people always look less frightened when medics smile at them.
“You’re alright, angel, I’m here.”
It feels monstrous saying it while blood pools beneath her body. Sirens finally echo somewhere in the distance. Too far away, too slow.
Your vision flickers strangely at the edges. Adrenaline only carries you so long before the body starts demanding payment. Jack must hear something in your breathing again.
“How much blood are you losing?”
“I’m okay.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
You almost laugh despite everything. “I’m fine,” you insist weakly.
“Sweetheart.” Warning this time.
You press harder against your arm. Your hand is slippery with blood. Leah’s or yours, you genuinely cannot tell anymore.
Jake suddenly grabs your sleeve hard. “There’s blood on your face.”
You touch your forehead automatically and come away red again. Your hearing feels distant for a second. You know that feeling. Jack knows it too apparently because his voice sharpens immediately.
“Stay awake.”
“I am awake.”
“You’re fading.”
“No I’m not.”
It’s a lie so obvious that even you hear it. The world tilts unpleasantly. You force yourself to focus on Leah instead. On Jake. On pressure and breathing and survival. Easier than thinking about the fact your husband is listening to all of this happen over the phone while trapped miles away.
“Baby,” Jack says suddenly, very soft now. Dangerous soft. “Listen to me, please.”
Your throat tightens painfully at the desperation in his voice. You can practically see him in your head. Jaw locked. Hand pressed against the back of his neck. Fury and fear buried underneath clinical calmness.
“I need you to stay conscious until the paramedics reach you, okay? You know the drill.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly. “I’m trying,” you whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m really trying, Jack.”
Then Leah stops responding properly, and everything gets worse.
“Leah?”
No response.
Jake says her name again, louder this time, voice cracking apart so badly it barely sounds human anymore. Your stomach drops.
“Jake.” You force steel back into your voice despite the dizziness crawling steadily through you. “Talk to her.”
His hands are drenched red now. Blood pushed deep beneath his fingernails. He keeps looking at you like you might be able to undo this through sheer willpower alone.
“Leah, baby, c’mon.” His breathing stutters violently. “Please.”
You press trembling fingers against her throat again. Weak. Too weak. Your own pulse pounds hard enough to make your injured arm throb in time with it. Every heartbeat feels wet. Hot blood still slipping through your grip no matter how hard you hold pressure.
Jack’s voice crackles through the phone near your knee where you dropped it onto speaker. “What’s happening?”
You swallow hard. “She’s crashing.”
Silence. Not real silence. You hear movement behind him. Orders being barked across the ER. Metal trays clattering. The Pitt already preparing for the casualties heading their way.
Jack knows exactly what kind of scene you’re sitting in. Exactly how bad it probably looks.
“She conscious?”
“Barely.”
You can feel Jake staring at you, waiting for something. You hate this part, you have always hated this part. The space between trying and failing where everybody still looks at you hopefully.
Leah’s eyes flutter weakly. “Cold,” she whispers.
Jake breaks completely at that. His whole face crumples. Tears running unchecked while he bends over her like he can physically shield her from dying through proximity alone.
You grip the back of his neck hard. “Jake.” He looks at you immediately. “Need you to breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
He absolutely is not. His chest is heaving so fast you feel panic rising in yourself just watching him. The shock is setting in ugly now. His shoulder is still bleeding too, forgotten entirely beneath Leah’s worsening condition.
You grab the discarded sleeve of your jacket and shove it hard against his wound.
“Pressure there.” He obeys automatically, and you thank every cosmic force that might be out there.
Your vision blurs suddenly. You squeeze your eyes shut hard once and feel the world tilt sickeningly underneath you.
“Sweetheart?” Jack again. Immediate. Alert.
You hadn’t even made a noise. “I’m okay.”
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep pestering me.”
A horrible little laugh escapes him unexpectedly. Sharp with stress. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
You know that laugh. The one dragged out of him when he’s overwhelmed enough that humour becomes the only thing stopping him putting his fist through a wall.
Sirens are closer now. Leah makes another weak choking sound and your focus snaps back instantly. Blood bubbles faintly at the corner of her mouth. It’s bad enough that you already know where this is going. Jake sees your expression change again.
“No.”
You hate how small his voice sounds.
“She’s okay,” you lie.
“She’s not.” His face twists violently. “Don’t fucking lie to me like that. It’s fucked up.”
Your throat tightens. People think medics get used to this. They don’t. You just learn how to keep moving while it happens.
The first paramedics finally break through the crowd. Relief hits so hard your hands start shaking worse. One of them crouches beside Leah immediately while another reaches for you.
“I’m fine,” you snap instinctively.
The paramedic looks unimpressed. “You’ve been shot, ma’am.”
“Not dying though.” Your words slur slightly at the edges.
Jack hears it too. “Hey.” Sharper now. “Stay with me. Let them help you.”
The paramedic starts peeling your blood-soaked hand away from your arm and pain explodes through you white-hot and vicious enough to make your stomach lurch.
“Oh, fuck.”
“There she is,” Jack mutters darkly through the speaker. “Knew you were concussed or dying when you stopped cursing.”
Despite everything, your mouth twitches weakly.
The paramedic assessing Leah suddenly barks for more gauze. Jake flinches hard enough to nearly fall over.
“She needs transport now,” another voice says urgently.
Jake grabs Leah’s hand desperately while they start loading her onto the stretcher. He keeps trying to climb beside her despite the blood loss making him unsteady too.
“Sir, we need you checked out as well.”
“No.”
“Jake,” you say firmly.
He looks at you with tears streaking his face.
“I’m not leaving her.”
“You aren’t.”
His breathing catches painfully.
Your own head feels strangely heavy suddenly. Hard to hold upright. The paramedic wrapping your arm is talking to you but the words drift oddly in and out.
Jack’s voice cuts through the fog immediately. “What’s her BP?”
The paramedic glances towards the phone. “Who is this?”
“Her husband. Dr Jack Abbot.”
Something in Jack’s tone must land correctly because the paramedic answers instantly after that.
“Pressure is dropping.”
You hear the silence on the other end. Not empty silence, calculating silence. Dangerous silence.
Your chest aches unexpectedly at the thought of him hearing numbers instead of seeing you himself. Jack trusts his own hands more than anything else in the world. You know he hates this. Hates being trapped at the hospital while you bleed somewhere he cannot reach.
“They’re taking us to the Pitt?” you ask weakly.
“Yeah.”
Good. You need Jack. The thought arrives suddenly and honestly enough to hurt. Not Dr Abbot. Not your attending physician. Just your husband. Your Jack. The one who sleeps with one heavy hand spread across your stomach every time like he needs proof you’re still there.
Jake climbs into the ambulance beside Leah while they try to convince him to let somebody examine his shoulder properly. You force yourself upright too fast trying to follow and immediately regret it. The world blacks at the edges. Strong hands catch you before you hit the ground.
“Easy,” the paramedic says.
You feel weirdly detached from your own body now. Floating somewhere slightly behind yourself.
Jack’s voice sharpens again instantly through the phone. “She pass out?”
“Nearly.”
“Sweetheart.” Fear leaking through now despite all his control. “Talk to me.”
You try. Nothing comes out properly. Your tongue feels thick. The paramedic starts asking questions rapidly. Name. Age. Allergies. Orientation. You answer automatically between breaths while they push you towards a second ambulance.
Blood loss. Shock. Probably more injured than you first thought. Your arm burns savagely.
“You still with me?” Jack asks.
“Yeah.” Barely.
You hear Jack exhale quietly. “Good girl.”
The words hit you straight in the chest. So familiar. So him. Usually murmured against your skin in the middle of the night instead of through a phone while you bleed through dressings.
Your eyes sting unexpectedly. The ambulance doors slam shut. Everything becomes sirens and fluorescent lights and movement. A paramedic cuts your sleeve fully away and swears under his breath at the amount of blood.
“Looks worse than it is,” you mumble.
“That what you tell all your patients?”
Jack actually snorts faintly through the speaker.
“Yeah,” he says. “She does.”
You can practically picture him now. Leaning over a desk somewhere in the chaos of the ER. One hand braced against the surface hard enough to ache later. Eyes distant and furious all at once.
Somebody in the background says his name. You hear him switch instantly. “What’ve we got?”
Pure attending voice now. Steady. Cold. Commanding. You have seen entire trauma bays settle the second Jack walks into them, like everybody unconsciously trusts him to carry the worst parts. He comes back to you a second later, softer again somehow.
“Nearly there, baby.”
You close your eyes briefly. So tired suddenly.
“Don’t you dare,” he says immediately.
Your eyes open again. “Bossy.”
“Yeah.” No hesitation. “Especially with you.”
The medic checking your vitals suddenly goes very still looking at the monitor. Your stomach sinks.
“What?”
He looks up sharply. “Do you know how much blood you have lost?”
Nobody tells you the answer to that question. Which is answer enough on its own, really.
The ambulance feels too bright. Too loud. Every bump in the road sends pain shooting through your arm and shoulder hard enough to make your vision flicker. You focus on the ceiling instead. On breathing. On staying conscious long enough to get to the Pitt.
Jack keeps talking. You realise after a while he is doing it deliberately. Filling silence before it can turn dangerous.
“You remember Santos trying to tell me how to run a trauma bay last week? Pulling that shit again today.”
A weak laugh catches painfully in your throat. “She’s brave.”
“She’s annoying.”
“We like her. She’s fun.”
“Unfortunately.”
The medic beside you presses fresh gauze against your arm and you hiss through your teeth.
“Easy,” he says.
“Not my favourite word.”
Jack hums quietly through the speaker. “That’s true.”
Your chest aches with missing him. It feels stupid. He is only across the city. You have survived deployments and distance and night shifts and grief and all the ugly things life threw at both of you. Still, all you want suddenly is his hand around yours and his mouth against your forehead and the certainty that comes with him being close enough to touch.
You feel sixteen different kinds of exhausted.
“Leah?” you ask faintly.
The medic hesitates. Bad sign. Your stomach twists violently.
“She’s alive.”
Alive. Not stable. Not okay. Just alive. You nod once anyway.
The ambulance doors finally burst open into noise and fluorescent light. Controlled chaos already swallowing the ambulance bay whole. Stretchers moving. Nurses shouting vitals. Blood on the floor somewhere.
The Pitt. Home, in the worst possible way.
You barely make it two feet before spotting Jack. He is halfway across the bay giving orders to somebody when he sees you.
Everything stops.
Not literally. The ER still roars around him. Staff moving constantly. Sirens outside. Chaos everywhere. Still, something in Jack goes completely still the second his eyes land on you.
You have seen that look exactly twice before. Once overseas. Once after his wife died. It hits you hard enough to hurt.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
Then he is there. Hands on your face first. Immediate. Grounding. Like he needs physical proof you are standing in front of him. His eyes move over you rapidly after that, taking in blood loss, sweat and tears, and the dressing wrapped round your arm already soaked through.
You watch anger flood him in real time. Not at you. At the situation. At the blood. At the fact you got hurt where he could not protect you from it.
“Hey,” you whisper.
Jack grabs the back of your neck and kisses you hard enough to shut you up entirely. Desperate. Furious. His hand shakes once against your jaw before he gets control of it again.
“You scared the fucking life out of me.”
The words come rough and low. You almost cry at the sound of it.
“I’m okay.”
“No, you are not.”
Pure Jack. Sharp enough to cut.
A nurse approaches carefully. “Abbot, we need—”
“Give me a minute.”
Nobody argues. You sway slightly where you stand and Jack’s entire grip tightens immediately.
“Woah, okay.” Softer now. “Easy, sweetheart.”
The adrenaline is disappearing. Fast. Your body suddenly feels unbearably heavy.
“Jake,” you manage. “Leah?”
“They’re in trauma.”
Alive then, at least for now.
Jack guides you backwards towards an empty stretcher with one hand firm against your waist. You can feel him slipping fully into doctor mode again despite the fear still sitting raw underneath it.
“Sit.”
“I can still help.”
“No.”
“Jack.”
“No.” Harder this time. “You’re done.”
You hate how emotional that makes you unexpectedly. You do not want to be done. You want to keep moving and helping and fixing because the second you stop everything catches up.
Jack sees it happen on your face instantly. Always does. His expression softens just slightly.
“Baby.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye before you even realise tears escaped. “Sit down before you drop down. Please.”
You obey mostly because your legs are beginning to shake badly enough that you genuinely might collapse. Jack kneels in front of you immediately to assess your arm himself despite multiple staff hovering nearby ready to do it for him.
His hands are steady. Only his jaw gives him away.
“You got lucky,” he mutters after peeling the dressing back carefully.
“Always do.”
He shoots you a look. Not amused. Blood covers his fingers now. Yours too. Familiar in the ugliest way. You watch him mentally catalogue damage with frightening speed.
“You should see the other guy,” you mumble weakly.
Jack stares at you for one long second before a broken little sound leaves him halfway between a laugh and something else entirely.
“Shut up, sweetheart.”
His forehead drops briefly against your knee. That scares you more than anything else has tonight. Jack does not fold. He bends maybe. Cracks quietly where nobody can see. Never folds, especially not in the Pitt of all places.
Your hand moves automatically into his hair. “Hey.”
He breathes once. Twice. Then straightens again before anybody else notices. Professional mask back in place.
“You’re getting fluids and scans,” he says flatly. “And if you try arguing with me I’ll sedate you myself.”
“There he is.”
His mouth twitches despite himself.
The curtain nearby suddenly gets shoved aside and Trinity stumbles through looking wrecked. Blood dried across her scrubs, hair a complete mess.
“Fuck,” she says immediately. “What do you need?”
The words slam straight into your chest. Jack stands instantly. “It’s okay. I’ve got her.”
Trinity looks at you then and visibly pales. “You’re bleeding through that.”
You glance down. The fresh dressing is already red again. Jack notices at exactly the same moment and something inside him finally snaps.
“Get me another pressure dressing now,” he barks sharply at a nurse nearby. “And where the hell is her trauma consult?”
You stare at him slightly dazed. Trinity does too. Jack never raises his voice unless things are bad. Seconds later, Trinity is called away to treat another casualty, and you watch Jack pale as if he needed that extra lifeline in the room just this once.
“I’m stable,” you try weakly.
Jack rounds on you so fast it almost startles you.
“You do not get to tell us you’re stable while bleeding through gauze every five fucking minutes.”
The nurse returns quickly with supplies while Jack drags a hand hard over his face like he regrets snapping immediately.
“Sorry,” he mutters roughly without looking at you.
Your chest aches. “Jack.”
He crouches back in front of you again, pressing fresh gauze carefully to your arm this time. His touch gentler now. Almost unbearably gentle. He presses one quick kiss against your forehead.
“Don’t move.”
“Bossy.”
“Yeah.” His hand squeezes the back of your neck once. “You married me anyway.”
Jack exhales slowly. The attending disappears first, but your husband stays.
“You scared me,” he says quietly.
No sharpness left in it now. No irritation. Just honesty stripped raw. Your chest aches immediately.
“I know.”
Jack pulls the stool closer and sits in front of you with a pained wince before carefully peeling back the soaked dressing around your arm. His touch stays precise but impossibly gentle at the same time. You know all the versions of him by now. The trauma doctor. The exhausted veteran. The husband who wakes instantly from nightmares with his hand already reaching for you.
This version is frightened. You feel it in every careful movement.
“You should’ve let somebody help you sooner,” he mutters while inspecting the wound.
“There were people worse off.”
Jack’s eyes flick to you with a frown. You look away, standing by that ugly instinct to keep going until your body physically gives out because somebody else always needs more.
“Sweetheart.” His voice softens dangerously. “You were bleeding through your clothes.”
“I know.”
“You nearly collapsed in the ambulance bay.”
You swallow hard. He starts flushing the wound carefully with saline and pain burns viciously through your arm. Your face tightens automatically.
“Sorry, baby.”
“You didn’t shoot me.”
“No, but I’d still like to kill whoever did.”
That nearly earns a laugh from you. Exhaustion hangs too heavily for humour now. Adrenaline burned off enough to leave everything underneath exposed and shaking.
Jack notices immediately. “You dizzy?”
“Yes.”
“Nauseous?”
“Little bit.”
“Head?”
“Hurts.”
“Good. Means you’ve still got one.”
You snort softly at that despite yourself. Jack’s mouth twitches faintly in quiet satisfaction before settling again. His hands are steady.
“You sounded scared on the phone,” you say quietly after a moment.
Jack keeps his eyes on your arm while wrapping fresh gauze into place. “I was terrified.”
The honesty knocks straight through you. “You never sound scared.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is with everybody else.”
His hands pause briefly. “You aren’t everybody else.”
Emotion climbs sharp into your throat so fast it hurts. Before you can say anything, the curtain suddenly jerks open.
Jake stumbles inside looking destroyed.
Your stomach drops instantly.
Blood has dried down the front of his shirt. His eyes swollen raw from crying already. He looks barely upright.
Jack stands immediately. “What happened, buddy?”
Jake opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Then suddenly he folds in on himself completely.
“She died. Leah died.” The words break apart halfway through. “She died and I wasn’t there and she was asking for me and I wasn’t fucking there—”
“Oh, Jake.”
You are moving before you even think about it despite the pain ripping through your arm instantly. Jake drops heavily into the chair beside your stretcher and puts both hands over his face like he physically cannot hold himself together anymore.
“I left her,” he chokes out. “I shouldn’t have left her.”
“No.” Your voice comes sharp automatically. “No, honey.”
Jack glances at you once before stepping back slightly, giving you space. Jake’s shoulders shake violently beneath your hand when you touch his arm.
“They said she coded again and they couldn’t get her back and I wasn’t there—”
“You listened to medical staff,” you say firmly, throat burning already. “You were injured too.”
“I should’ve stayed with her.”
Guilt. Pure, ugly survivor’s guilt already setting in. You know the shape of it intimately.
Jake starts crying harder. Full body shaking with it now. Young and heartbroken and completely lost. Something inside your chest caves painfully inward at the sound.
“She was scared,” he whispers.
You think suddenly about Leah lying on the concrete with blood soaking through your jacket. Her tiny voice saying how cold she felt. Jake holding pressure with shaking hands because you told him to.
Jack rests one hand briefly against the back of your neck. Grounding. Steady. You lean into it automatically while keeping your other hand wrapped around Jake’s wrist.
“You stayed with her,” you tell him softly. “You hear me? You stayed.”
His face twists apart completely. “I loved her.”
The room goes painfully quiet. Jack looks away briefly. You know why. Leah’s death hits him too. Every loss does, no matter how hard he tries to bury it beneath protocol and movement and work.
The hooks of the curtain scrape against the pole as Robby pulls it to step inside. Exhaustion hangs off him in visible waves. Blood on his scrub top. Eyes hollowed out by the night.
He takes one look at Jake. “Come on, kid.”
Jake looks up at him with a completely shattered expression. Robby crosses the space quickly and grips the back of his neck firmly. “C’mon.”
Jake doesn’t move. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.” Robby says it quietly. Certainly. Like fact.
Jake wipes violently at his face. “I left her.”
Robby’s expression tightens for one brief second.
“No,” he says firmly. “You got shot trying to save her.”
Jake starts crying again anyway. Robby pulls him gently upright after a second, keeping one steady hand between his shoulder blades.
“Come sit with me for a minute.”
Jake looks back at you once before leaving. Lost. Apologetic somehow. You squeeze his hand weakly.
“This isn’t your fault.”
His face crumples again at that before Robby finally guides him back out into the chaos beyond the curtain. The second they disappear the room feels heavier somehow. Jack turns back towards you slowly. You realise suddenly your cheeks are wet too.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He moves immediately, stepping between your knees and pulling you carefully against his chest despite the IV line and bandaging. You go willingly, forehead pressed hard against him while everything finally catches up at once.
The gunshots. Leah. Jake crying. Jack hearing you bleed over the phone unable to reach you.
Your body starts shaking properly. “I couldn’t save her,” you whisper brokenly.
Jack’s arms tighten instantly. “That wasn’t on you.”
“I knew she was dying.”
His hand cradles the back of your head carefully.
“I knew.” Your voice cracks painfully. “I still kept lying to him.”
Jack pulls back just enough to look at you properly. “You gave him hope while she was alive.”
Your throat burns. You start crying harder at that. Quiet, ugly crying pressed into the front of Jack’s scrub top while he holds you through it without hesitation. Nobody ever talks about this part properly. The aftermath. The helplessness. The guilt medics carry around in their pockets like spare change.
Jack knows though. Of course he does.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your hair.
The words nearly finish you off entirely. Eventually, your breathing evens out again enough that he can guide you gently back onto the stretcher. His hand never fully leaves you.
“You need scans before I take you home,” he says quietly.
Home. The word lands soft. You look up at him tiredly. Really look. Exhaustion carved deep into his face now that the crisis is slowing. Tiny flecks of blood still near his jaw. Eyes red-rimmed from stress and lack of sleep and fear.
“You need rest too.”
Jack huffs quietly. “Yeah, well. You first.”
Your mouth twitches weakly. You love him so much it feels unbearable sometimes.
Later, after scans and stitches and far too much arguing over whether you can walk unassisted, Jack finally gets you home sometime near dawn.
The house is dark and still, as safe as you need it to be. Jack helps you out of your ruined clothes with unbearable gentleness before settling you carefully into bed. Clean shirt pulled over your head. Pain medication pressed into your palm. Water forced into you until he looks vaguely satisfied.
Then finally, after stripping off his bloodstained scrub top and unfastening his prosthetic with the exhausted familiarity of routine, Jack gets carefully into bed beside you.
The second the mattress dips, you move towards him automatically. Your face tucked against his throat. One arm curled carefully around his waist while he wraps himself around you just as instinctively.
For a long time neither of you speak. Jack’s fingers move slowly against your spine.
“You awake?” you murmur eventually.
“Yeah.”
Your eyes sting again suddenly. “Jake’s gonna blame himself forever.”
Jack goes quiet for a moment. “Probably.”
Honest. Always honest with you.
“He shouldn’t.”
“No.” His arm tightens slightly. “Neither should you.”
The emotion lodged in your chest aches horribly.
Outside, somewhere beyond your windows, the city keeps moving.
Inside, wrapped tightly around each other in the dark, the two of you finally stop trying to.
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