Content: smut, p in v, fingering, squirting, alcohol consumption, hookup culture lol
Masterlist❤︎
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There is nothing better than being fucked completely senseless.
Arguably the best remedy for a chronically overactive mind.
After five straight days of managing passive-aggressive emails and smiling through situations that tested the absolute limits of human sanity, you decided the only cure for this impending mental breakdown was a stiff drink and zero inhibitions on this lovely weekend.
Two shots of whatever was closest, and the company of a man who looked just as desperately in need of a distraction as you, if not more so.
Beautiful was what you initially pegged him as, eyes sweeping along the striking lines of an exhausted face and the stubborn swoop of hair spilling carelessly over his brow. Then you decided he was just prematurely aged. The silver threads catching at his temples and the aggressive shadow of a stubble made him look worn down by a decade of exceptionally bad sleep and even worse stress.
He looked like a man who could fuck good. Looked like he approached sex the exact same way he approached the rest of his miserable life, with unrelenting stamina and a terrifyingly methodical focus designed to dismantle whatever stood before him.
He also looked like an easy target, staring into the amber depths of his glass with a level of sad depression that practically radiated off his shoulders. All it took was you stepping directly into his line of sight, ordering another shot with a dramatic sigh, and offering him a painfully cynical comment about the state of the world (while deliberately showing off your cleavage).
The guarded set of his jaw twitched into the faintest ghost of a smirk.
You offered your name, he offered his (Leon—was it short for Leonard? Leonel?), and he leaned in when you laughed at his terrible attempt at a joke. A genuine chortled laugh because you hadn't expected a dad joke from a man who looked as brooding as he did.
You licked your lips, he followed your tongue.
Hook, line, sinker.
Which explains how you now find yourself trapped in a mating press on a mattress that probably costs more per night than your rent. A dingy, cheap motel would have been your practical choice, but you had noted the expensive gleam of the watch on his wrist within five minutes of sitting next to him. Freaking Hamilton that looked distinctly like a limited edition, judging by the brushed steel and intricate dial.
Frankly, you shouldn't be surprised he carried that much net worth. He’s handsome, weathered beautifully into his age (Late forties? Early fifties?), and clearly paid an exorbitant amount of money to survive whatever horrors are actively ruining his mental health.
What does surprise you is how you’ve underestimated the scope of his physical abilities.
Over the past blurry hour, this complete stranger has effortlessly folded you into positions that defy your understanding of your own flexibility. Knees pressed so securely beside your own ears you start to believe the fee you pay for your weekly reformer pilates class might be a scam.
Apparently what you needed to achieve this level of advanced mobility was the unrelenting dead weight of a very, very capable man. So fucking capable that you’ve genuinely lost count of how many times he’s wrung you out on these expensive sheets.
Four orgasms? Maybe five? Whatever the number is, another one is dangerously crawling up the base of your spine.
Your sanity might be beyond saving at this point. You’re sweating profusely, and the backs of your thighs are screaming in dull protest from being pinned back for god knows how long. Leon pulls out and snaps his hips again with a jarring impact that seems to grow more ruthlessly aggressive with every single grind.
He does it again and again and again until you’re basically screaming from the unavoidable crash of yet another orgasm, toes curling frantically in the suspended air while your nails bite into the heavy muscle of his arms.
This man is something else, obviously nothing akin to the standard parade of disappointing men who talked big but possessed absolutely zero game. They were a flimsy attempt to scratch the very surface of your boredom. Leon, by comparison, is clawing straight down to the bone.
There’s a slowness in his thrusts now, and you blink to find an actual smile breaking through the sweat and exhaustion on his face. The warm puff of a chuckle against your cheek tells you he isn't simply amused. He’s actually entertained.
You huff, making a valiant but entirely useless attempt to mock him, "Stop laughing."
The sweat beading along his heavy brow does absolutely nothing to detract from how devastatingly smug he looks right now. “You’re shaking so much. It’s cute.”
So much for playing the femme fatale act at the bar. He swipes a thumb across your blotchy cheek, courtesy of his rough afternoon shadow.
“You okay?”
You sigh out a harsh breath, blowing a damp strand of hair out of your eyes. “Have you," you manage to wheeze, "even cum yet?”
He shakes his head, blue eyes glinting with unapologetic amusement.
"Are you ever going to?"
His low laughter rumbles warmly in your ears. “Why, you want me to stop already?" he presses a kiss against your jaw. "Thought you were having a good time."
“I’m having a great time.”
“Then what’s with the rush?”
“Maybe we should take a break,” you whine, gasping sharply when the weight of his pelvis rocks aggressively against your lower belly. “I-I need to pee.”
He seems unfazed. Moves like you didn't utter a word to begin with. Instead, what he does is press you even further into the mattress. “Is that right?”
“Fuck—Leon—” You arch your back as he maliciously tilts his hips. “You’re not helping.”
“I actually am,” he argues.
“What—”
“Let's test a theory," he drawls, hot breath ghosting over your pulse. "Do you really think you just need to pee, or are you about to squirt?”
You go completely still for a moment. Considering your track record of thoroughly uninspired hookups and non-lasting relationships, there is absolutely no palpable evidence to suggest you are capable of doing what he’s asking.
“I’m pretty sure I need to pee,” you reason quietly. “I’m not a squirter.”
He pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “You’re telling me you’ve never done that before?”
“I have no prior experience to suggest it's even an option.”
He looks genuinely offended by your answer. “Do you want to try?”
Your head falls back to fully take him in. He really is pretty. Never mind the faint, tired wrinkles bracketing his pale blue eyes, or the harsh features of a man who has clearly seen too much and slept too little. He’s simply too devastatingly gorgeous for his own good.
Even with the fragments of scars you’ve spent the last hour subconsciously counting on his neck, his shoulder, his chest. Scars that make you wonder what kind of terrifying life he leads when he isn't in a hotel room with a stranger, fucking their brains out.
And you’re very much aware you’re one of the few he’s taken to bed.
But is he always this attentive? This generous?
Does he fuck everyone else this hard yet still find the gentle grace to cradle their face and brush the hair out of their eyes?
You instantly hate how territorial you sound. It's wildly hypocritical for someone who values the cheap thrill of a purely physical transaction just as much as he clearly does. He’s just a good lover, you decide. And if tonight is the only night you get to have this man all to yourself, then so be it.
If he thinks he can make you squirt, then who are you to deny?
“You really think I’m about to squirt?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
You frown. “What if it’s just pee?”
He kisses the wrinkled line between your brows. “Make a mess then, I don’t mind.”
Yeah, you’re going to let him absolutely ruin you tonight.
“Then make me squirt, Leon.”
He dips his head, breathing the hot air of his lungs directly into your open mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
Your pussy tightens reflexively at that, which he obviously catches. He catches on to every desperate tell your body gives him, actually. Probably the sole reason why you've already come an embarrassing number of times.
Not enough, apparently, because he’s already moving his hips in rapid rhythms—not too fast or too slow, but enough to have your eyes sliding shut, focusing on the stretch of his cock driving deep in and out of your cunt.
“Fucking beautiful,” he hums, binding your wrists together above your head. “Just lying there looking all pretty."
“H-harder,” you whine, weakly pushing your hips up to meet him.
“Yeah?” He squeezes your wrists together, leaning even more of his massive frame over you. “You like it when I go hard on you?”
Like it? You thrive on it, nodding frantically as your trembling thighs try to lock around his waist. Try is definitely the word when he’s practically flattened you beneath his crushing weight, effortlessly trapping your body. You can feel your limbs turn gooey and powerless, your stomach contrastingly hard.
“I know, baby, I know,” he rasps, ramming his hips harshly against yours. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Ngh—h—”
“That’s it, give it to me. Make a mess on me.”
The panic hits you first, quickly swallowed by an absolute wave of pure heat. Starts as a buzzing ache in your core before violently spiking into an unbearable sensation. Your belly burns, coils, rattles—and you blink your eyes open, brimming with tears. “Leon—”
He instantly reads the panicked clench of your muscles.
“Don't fight it.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
Your groan is feral. “I can’t—”
“Come on, baby, you’ve got to trust me,” he croons softly. “Do you trust me?”
Surprisingly, you do, even if your only judgment on this man comes from the three hours that have passed since you sat down next to him at the bar. “Yes.”
“Good. Then let it happen.”
Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.
“Breathe through your nose.”
He plunges in with a particularly harsh thrust and you gasp. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Oh, fuck—”
“That’s it.” He closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads touching. “Let it go.”
You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding.
It’s like a switch. One moment your muscles are tensed, then a passage of whines pitches upward as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Strong and gut-wrenching. Body hot in bliss and shame—only for two seconds. Quick as it hits, he abruptly pulls out, instantly replacing his cock with two calloused fingers.
Your mouth gapes in a silent scream. Even more so when his offhand curls around your neck. Fingers pressing against the sides of your throat, palm flat against your windpipe, but exercising barely any pressure all the while his fingers fucks your swollen, dripping cunt.
You’ve seen yourself getting wet, you’ve felt yourself getting drenched, but you’ve never experienced anything as wild as this.
Speckles of liquid spatter across the sheets the more he drags his hand in an up-and-down motion, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.
He pushes his palm against your clit.
“Oh fuck! fuckfuckfuck—”
A sudden rush spills over him. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot onto his thighs. He continues to pump his fingers while you lie there—crying openly, violently shuddering. It goes on for what feels like forever until he smoothes out his pressure around your throat, kissing the drool glistening on your lips with a disbelief chuckle.
“Should’ve met you sooner,” he laughs into your mouth, easily slipping his cock back in.
Maybe it’s the bliss completely corrupting your nervous system, or perhaps it’s the overwhelming stretch of his thick cock driving back into your overstimulated cunt. Whatever it is, you completely lose your grip on the casual nature of a one night stand, eager words spilling past your wet lips before you can even screen them.
“Can we meet again?” You pant. “Like—after tonight?”
You’re somewhere right on the edge of a pathetic whimper and a helpless laugh, entirely too pleasured to think straight, dangerously too giddy at the possibility of actually getting to know him. To uncover those scars in daylight, to figure out what kind of hell he had to survive to inherit those devastatingly sad yet kind eyes.
To learn his last name. To unearth his middle.
You gasp when he effortlessly flips you over, twisting his fingers in your hair and pulling it back.
Yeah, you’re going to let him absolutely ruin you tonight—and all the days that follow.
summary Jack has been ignoring you for days and you've finally reached your limit.
word count 2.7k
contains angst and no comfort and of course medical inaccuracies
authors note this is my first ever fic so pls bear with me if it sucks
part one part 2 (coming soon)
After nine months at the pitt, you are finally understanding why everyone says never to date your coworker and especially not to date your own boss. You just wish this realization had come nine months sooner. Maybe it would save you from the elephant’s hoof on your chest right now.
It’s been two weeks since you two last had sex, and it’s been one week since he last looked in your direction. The first two days rolled off your back. He’s probably just stressed. After the third day, your ego took a small hit. He could just have a personal thing going on, he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing with me yet. Days four to six kickstarted a nail-biting habit you never had before, and day seven (today), you are one bad look from an emotional breakdown.
What’s eating you, really eating away at your sanity, is that you have no idea why. If he told you he wanted you completely out of his life accompanied by a reason why, you would be more inclined to understand and maybe move on. No guarantees on that last bit, though.
Now, you are trying to put your mind at ease by burying yourself in charting. Any other day, you would consider this your own personal hell, but today, charting keeps you from witnessing Jack avoid your gaze while coldly barking orders at you. So, today, charting is your best friend.
“And how long are you planning on charting for?” Ellis asked, resting her arms on the ledge above your desk, slightly mischievously swiveling her hips. “I could have something very sexy waiting for you in North 3.”
“Ooo, that’s too bad. Me and charting are having a very passionate love affair today. It’s like that song from Beauty and the Beast. There’s just something there that wasn’t there before!” After hearing all of that, you started to wonder, maybe I talk too much, and he got tired of it?
Ellis gave you a look of disbelief, as if there was no way you just said that. She tapped her fists on the countertop in defeat, “I’ll leave you two love birds alone then. But the next RFB has your name on it!”
“It always does!”
Once Parker was approximately nine feet from your desk, you looked back down at your charts, and all of a sudden, everything was blurry. You couldn’t focus, and neither could your eyes. Fuck.
You just needed something to eat. Yes. That’s it, you haven’t eaten since lunch. You needed a snack.
You uncrossed your double-crossed legs and stood up out of your seat. Quickly scanning the emergency room in hopes fear of accidentally running into him. When you couldn’t see him, you assumed he was busy with a patient somewhere, and you made your way to the break room for something to munch on.
You were so close to letting that breath you’ve been holding in since you started your shift hours ago until you saw him sitting down through the break room window. You saw the chest you once buried your face in, the neck you liked to nibble on, the arms that wrapped around your body to stop you from getting out of bed too early, and the hair... the hair that you loved to run your fingers through while whispering your sweet nothings. Is that why they call it sweet nothings? Sweet to you, but means absolutely nothing to the man you whisper them to?
The bile climbing up your esophagus was telling you to turn around, it's not too late! However, your bones weren't moving. Your brain needed food, and you weren't going to let a very gorgeous man deny you brain power.
Holding your head up high, you walked into the breakroom, shutting the door behind you. You waited a second, waited for some recognition from him. But his eyes didn't even leave his wrist, which was laid on the table in front of him.
You wanted to shout, "Look at me. Look at me. LOOK at me. LOOK AT me. LOOK AT ME!" For fucks sake. After a few seconds of waiting for him to acknowledge your presence, you just scoffed lowly and made your way to the fridge.
Who does he even think he is? You shook your head and headed straight for the refrigerator. Opening the fridge door, shaking your head once again. And as you bent down, you felt it. His eyes on your back. It felt warm, yet it still sent shivers down your spine. You opted to ignore it; if he has something to say, he should just say it. Like a big boy. Then again... you definitely had something to say, but weren't vocalizing it either.
It's not my job to be the bigger person. I wasn't even a thought in my parents' heads when he was going through puberty. You thought to yourself.
Upon realizing there might never be anything appealing to you in that fridge, you slammed it shut and whipped your head around. To see if he was, maybe, still looking at you. But he had already run out, and so had your patience.
"Jack Abbot, consider yourself off the pedestal." You muttered to yourself under your breath as you left the breakroom.
For the remainder of the shift, you just tried to ignore him and shut down any thought of him that came to your mind. These thoughts weren't helpful, and it damn well wasn't productive. It's just- well... why did he feel the need to get to know you? Make you feel safe, special, and loved, if he was just going to toss you aside like roadkill? He was the first and only guy to make you finish, for God's sake, doesn't that mean anything anymore... to anyone?!
Ignoring worked the best it could, right up until it was almost time to head home, when a man came into the ER with an ice pack on his scrotum and with his wife, who had a fork coming out of her neck.
"Would you look at that..." you said as you lightly felt the area around the fork, seeing if it caused any pain.
"Well, it's in there realllyy good. It was smart of you not to remove it. Would've done more harm than good."
In a dramatic fashion, the curtain was torn back with a harsh, grating sound. You don't even have to look up from the fork. There's only one man in the building, currently, with that kind of audacity, "What do we have here?"
You stood, "Female patient, Sylvia Booker, presenting with penetrating neck trauma. Fork lodged laterally in the cervical region, uh- following a romantic... um."
Shaking your head with a small awkward laugh, you pushed through the awkwardness, "According to her husband, the altercation occurred after the patient experienced a sudden jaw clenching. Her husband, Kyle, was brought in as a secondary trauma with contusion and soft tissue injury to the genitalia after sustaining a bit wound during the... incident. EMS reports bleeding was controlled in the field, no evidence of amputation or major vascular compromise, and the injury appears non-life-threatening. He was treated en route and is currently stable."
"It was like a shock went through my body," Sylvia started, "and my jaw just... shut."
While Dr. Abbot and the patient and her husband talked about this "clench". You couldn't be bothered to pay attention to the details. Your shift was two minutes past being over, but you did watch how the couple interacted. They couldn't keep their hands off each other, and it only confused you. How could she almost bite off his dick, and he still be nuzzling his nose into her neck? How could he stab her in the neck, and she still stroked his inner thigh with blushing creeping on her cheeks.
Defeated, your arms fell to your sides. How do they both do arguably the biggest dating no-nos and still be horny teenagers for each other? And you? You did everything right, as far as your knowledge, and all you got was ghosted.
As Jack notified them that another doctor would be picking up their case, you couldn't take the embarrassment any longer and left the room without saying anything. You were going to cry.
Pressing your palms to your eyes, you tried to stop the tears from falling. You weren't going to let yourself cry over him, not here at least. Just have to wait five minutes, then you'll be able to cry in the comfort of your own car.
You passed off your cases and packed up as quickly as humanly possible. The pitt was suffocating you, and you needed air. Leaving the lockers, you ran into him once more. This time, looking up at him, trying to force him to meet your eyes, just once- that's all you needed. He couldn't give that to you.
Watching him walk away, towards the lockers, your face began to heat up with anger as if you were a cartoon cat, constantly being played for a fool by a freaking mouse. Fuck. You made a beeline to the women's restroom, praying it was empty. You needed oxygen, and you needed it badly.
There was no one else in the bathroom, thank God. Allowing you to catch your breath in peace.
You were angry. And only got angrier as the memories started flooding back. The first memory was of the first time he kissed you, outside a diner after he treated you to the breakfast he had been promising you after your first week as an intern. You reached up to your lips, remembering the sparks his lips sent to yours.
As soon as you caught what you were doing, you turned the water on and splashed cold water onto your face.
Head hanging low as your hands gripped the edges of the sink, you repeated to yourself, "Off the pedestal."
The next memory that came in was when he told you he never sleeps over. That, after his wife, it was never his thing. He didn’t want anyone to get close. Not until you. That made you feel special, and now you felt stupid and angry. Really fucking angry. And God, did your face feel really fucking hot.
You splashed water on your face for a second time-- to cool down.
The last memory that came in happened only two weeks prior.
Jack was spending the night at yours on your guys' day off, and he was cuddling you to sleep. His hot breath on your neck and then your ear. Sending the right kind of shocks down your whole body. He whispered to you, "You, me, the earlier bird special in thirty-five years? What do you think about that?" The next morning, when you woke up, he was gone and left no trace of his existence.
"What do I think about that?" You murttered to yourself, "What do I think about that?" Looking at yourself in the mirror, the water splashes had flooded your shirt and your hairline, and had caused your mascara to run. You looked like a mess, and you wouldn't let this go on.
After clearing the runny mascara from under your eyes, you made your way out of the bathroom. Searched for the familiar salt and pepper curls around the ER. Once you realized he wasn't there, you ran through the exit doors. He was not going to get away this time.
As soon as you spotted the backpack hanging off one shoulder, you usurped the confidence of a drunk five-foot-eight frat boy, and you couldn't stop yourself. "Hey!" you called out before placing your palms on your thighs, trying to catch any amount of breath possible.
When he heard your voice, he dropped his head as if he knew this was coming, and he did. He also knew you had every right to throw whatever insults came his way in the next few seconds. He messed up royally and didn’t have an explanation for why. Two weeks ago, after he left your apartment in the middle of the night, he didn’t know what he was feeling. He tried to act as if nothing had changed, but something did change. The second week, he couldn’t keep acting, so he just ignored you that first day, in hopes he could figure out what to say when he explained why he seemed to dodge any plans you tried to make the week before. Every day that went by without him speaking to you, made it even harder to come back from and he was at a loss.
He finally picked up his head and faced you. When he met your eyes and saw the defeat in them, it broke his heart. He did that to you. It was his fault, and right now, he couldn’t imagine a world where he could forgive himself for that.
“Are you at least going to tell me what I did?”
He said your name, and you cut him off immediately. You looked down and raised your hand to cover his face from your eyesight. It all hurt too much, “I mean, what was your endgame here? To screw me until I didn’t stick out to you anymore?”
“What?! No-” He started moving closer to you in hopes that you’d look into his eyes and see that that was never the case. However, you stepped back and refrained from making eye contact because you know, if you did, you’d become a puddle in his hands.
He said your name again, and it stung, “You have to know that was never the case.”
“I have to know that? I have to know that? Is that right? Okay, Jack, this is what I do know. I know that I made space for you in my bed. I know I made space for you in my fridge with your stupid fucking cottage cheese that you add to every dish ever. I know-” that’s when your voice started to break, “I know that made space for you in my heart. I let YOU into my heart, my mind, all of my thoughts and my dreams and- and even my nightmares...”
His heart started to race faster than ever before. He didn’t know what to say, but now he knew what had changed. It wasn’t that he was in love with you, because he knew that after your first date. It was that he was so in love with you, he was scared he was replacing her. And he felt guilty.
He looked down again, his tail between his legs. His voice was a lot softer the next time he spoke. “I know, and I do care about you. I really do. It’s just…”
You gave him a second to finish his thought, but he let that second pass. The tears started streaming down your face, “It’s just what?!”
He stepped closer to you and cupped your cheeks, using his thumb to wipe away some of those tears, but you just turned your head out of his touch, “I’m pouring my heart out to you, Jack. I just need you to let me all the way in. So, let me in. Please! Why can’t you do that for me?”
You pressed the palms of your hands on the middle of his chest, forcibly, trying to shove him away, but he was stronger. He wasn’t just going to go away while you were hurting. He pulled you in really close with one hand resting on the back of your head.
He didn't want to let you go, but now he was thinking it might be for the best. He was 24 years older than you, had enough trauma to pay off his therapist's student loans 10 times over, and he hurt you. Hurting someone as sweet as you should be considered a mortal sin. He was no good for you. So, he kissed your temple and rested his forehead on top of yours.
You held your breath, scared that any sudden movements would disturb this movement.
And then he whispered to you, “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.”
As soon as you heard that, you took it as your answer without a second thought. His heart didn’t beat for you the same way yours did for him. You pushed him off of you and sucked in your tears like the big girl you were.
Without even glancing at the state of him and started the walk to your car, “Yeah, well… I’m sorry, too. Good night.”
Katsuki who cannot get his friends off his trail. They do not believe a word this man says. And for good reason, he's a terrible liar.
Katsuki who attempts to lie to his friends. He just wants to be around you alone for once. Is that too much to ask for? Apparently so. No matter what he says, whatever absurd reason he has for not being able to hang out with them, they don’t buy it. They absolutely know where he’s running off too.
Katsuki who hides from his friends around corners. He’d tell them he was going off to the washroom and then proceed to disappear around the corner. Obviously they know where to find him. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.
Katsuki who isn’t slick. He may personally believe that, but he’s wrong. Mina and Denki have a whole photo album dedicated to pictures of Katsuki staring at you with heart eyes. If anyone dares to point it out Katsuki will gladly take his anger out on them in training.
Katsuki who’s honestly kinda mean to you in public. He doesn’t mean it of course but he’s an asshole when he’s embarrassed. “Why would I ever like someone like them!” or if someone even suggests the two of you being together his go to reply seems to be “Thats fucking disgusting”
Katsuki who could insult the hell out of you and then end up cuddling up on your chest later that night. He’s a softie at heart, he craves the affection he wasn’t showered with as a child. He just feels so safe and comfortable around you. Even after the one time you betrayed him by telling Mina he’d fallen asleep while cuddling, to which she proceeded to break in with Denki, Kiri and Sero just to take incriminating pictures. Needless to say, they know not to do that ever again. (Will they? Probably..)
Katsuki who while embarrassed by the “incident” asked Kiri to send him a few of the pictures. He has it saved as his phone's background. Although he absolutely dies inside everytime someone mentions it.
Katsuki who while “not” being in a relationship will reject every single girl who comes up to him. Most just receive a flat out “No.” but the rare occasion where they seem to be very bold, oh he fucking hates those. But in those instances he gets the closest he ever will to admitting he’s dating you. “I’m talking to someone”
Katsuki who cannot stand when guys talk to you. He cannot and will not stand for it. He will immediately get in their face. And if the other guy mentions how you’re single, Katsuki will simply say he’s protecting his friend. “Fridge protecting the snacks” comments enrage him, he’s had three entire people say that to him and those three entire people no longer attend U.A. (They left out of fear)
Katsuki who’s sanity is wearing thin. He’s honestly thought about just telling people because that would be easier. But his ego can’t take it. He doesn’t want to be seen as vulnerable. But the constant teasing from his classmates is killing him.
Katsuki who loves the little alone time you get, whether or not it’s disturbed. He’s grown more comfortable with himself over the last year. He’s grown more comfortable with the idea of being vulnerable. And he’s starting to realise that maybe everyone else knows about you two, so why not make it official.
Summary: Your car dies in a grocery store parking lot, and Macklin helps you jump it, and he slowly becomes the best part of your life. But then his face shows up on your tv screen you’re hurt that he never trusted you with that part of his life.
It’s currently 4pm and you’re sitting in a grocery store parking lot because your car won’t start. It’s just making this horrendous clicking noise over and over.
The sun is too bright, the ice cream in your back seat is melting, and you have no idea what to do.
“Are you kidding me?” You mutter to yourself, closing the hood of your car and sliding back into the drivers seat.
You try to start it again and click click click. Nothing. You don’t have jumper cables, of course, because why would you be prepared?
You’re trying to decide if you should just live in this parking lot now or call a tow truck when someone taps on your window.
You look up. It’s a guy, a cute guy. And he’s smiling, probably trying to prove he’s not a threat, and he looks a little awkward. You step out of your car.
“Hey, uh,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I couldn’t help but notice the clicking…”
“Yeah, I think it’s possessed.” You laugh
“Or dead.” He supplies. “I have jumper cables in my car. If you want.”
You tell him you’d love that and he goes to get them. As he pulls his car around you swear he’s a gift sent from the gods to rescue you and your melty ice cream.
He hooks up the cables with precision like he’s done this before.
“Okay, now try it.”
And you do, you turn the key in the ignition and the car comes to life.
“Oh my god!” You cheer.
And he’s beaming like he just performed CPR and saved a life, not a car.
“Okay. That’s good. That would’ve been awkward if it didn’t work.”
You’re laughing now. “I owe you. I can pay you, or get you a coffee at least.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” He says, shaking his head.
“I insist. You saved my ice cream that’s in the back seat, and honestly, my sanity too.”
He hesitates a second and then he nods. “Okay, sure. Coffee would be nice.”
You exchange numbers so you can arrange a time, he tells you his name is Macklin.
⊱ —————- °.• ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ •.° —————— ⊰
The coffee date lasts two hours, much longer than either of you anticipates.
He tells you he works “in sports.” And you tease him about how vague that is.
He shrugs. “I gotta keep a little mystery.”
You roll your eyes. “I bet you’re secretly a mascot.”
He laughs so hard at that that he almost knocks over his drink.
“Yeah. That’s it. Big fuzzy shark.”
You assume that by “sports” he probably means like athletic training or coaching or something. He’s young, around your age. He’s normal and funny and he talks with his hands. When he asks questions he actually listens to the answers.
You leave the coffee shop that day with your stomach fluttering because of something other than the caffeine.
⊱ —————- °.• ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ •.° —————— ⊰
Your relationship with Mack develops slowly. You go on late night drives. Grocery store runs that last a lot longer because you wander down all of the aisles. He shows up with takeout when you mention you had a long day.
When he talks about his job, it’s general statements that he’s carefully picked. “Busy lately.” “Some travel.”
You don’t push for more. You like how normal it is. You tease him for being terrible at parallel parking and he just groans.
He sits on your couch with you, knees touching, his arm on the back of the couch. He listens when you tell him about your family, about your sister and what she’s studying in school, about how you broke your leg when you were little jumping on a trampoline. He remembers the little things too. Your favorite type of candy or your order from the coffee place on the corner.
You fall for him without realizing you’re falling. And maybe he does too.
⊱ —————- °.• ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ •.° —————— ⊰
It’s a Tuesday and you’re folding laundry on the couch, the news playing on TV for background noise. It’s some sports segment you’re not familiar with.
“And now,” the anchor says, voice bright and cheery, “the new face of the Sharks franchise. He’s being called the future of hockey.”
You barely glance up. Until his face fills the screen. Your heart actually flips in your chest.
There he is. In his jersey, a helmet tucked under his arm. Another picture, him on the ice, a hockey stick in his hands. Words flash across the screen.
Macklin Celebrini
One of the youngest stars of the league. Future of the San Jose Sharks.
Interview clips come in. Footage from games. Commentators calling him an elite player, cornerstone of the rebuild.
Your stomach twists. No way that it’s–
But it is.
Footage of him laughing at a press conference. The same laugh you’ve heard before, right on this couch. Clips of him skating like he’s been doing it his whole life. Being described as a kid who’s carrying the weight of an entire franchise.
And he didn’t tell you. Not once.
You stand there in your living room, half folded t-shirt still in your hands. And it feels like the room is spinning.
It’s not the fact that he’s famous, it’s that he let you find out like this.
Did he think you wouldn’t be able to handle it? Your feelings would change? You weren’t safe enough for him to trust you with something this big?
The broadcast keeps playing but you grab the tv remote and pause it. His smile frozen on your screen.
You sink onto the couch slowly, chest aching.
⊱ —————- °.• ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ •.° —————— ⊰
There’s a knock on your door later that night. You already know it’s him, he had mentioned that he would stop by.
You open the door and he’s smiling, already starting to tell you about something dumb that happened on his drive today, but his smile falters when he sees the look on your face. Then he sees the TV behind you. Still paused, his own face staring back at him.
“Oh.” He says, so quiet you almost don’t catch it.
You’re not going to yell. You don’t throw things. You just wrap your arms around yourself like they’re holding you together.
“You were going to tell me,” you guess.
It’s not a question. He manages a little nod.
“Yeah.”
“When?”
He doesn’t answer and that’s enough.
“I found out from the news, Macklin.”
“I know, I–“
“You let me sit and joke about you being some mascot.”
He almost smiles at the memory. “I liked that you thought that. It was funny.”
You shake your head, eyes stinging from trying to hold back tears.
“Why didn’t you trust me?”
He starts to step toward you but then he stops, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to right now.
“It wasn’t about trust.” He says.
“It feels like it was.”
He runs a hand through his hair nervously.
“Every time someone finds out, it changes.” He starts, his voice quiet. “They start looking at me differently, or they want something from me, or they act like I’m not even a person anymore.”
He pauses, but you stay quiet.
“When I met you, you were mad about your car. You didn’t care who I was, you just talked to me and let me help you. You saw me as normal.”
His eyes meet yours as the words hang there.
“I didn’t want to lose that.” He admits. “I didn’t want to lose you. I thought if I waited, if you just got to know me first before you knew everything else…maybe it wouldn’t matter.”
“But you didn’t give me the chance,” you say, voice tight. “You made that decision for me. You decided how I would react.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.” He’s whispering now.
Silence settles between you. He looks smaller now, not the face of a franchise, not the future of anything. Just a boy in your living room who was scared.
“I don’t care that you’re famous.” You tell him after a minute. “I care that you didn’t trust me with this.”
He nods, agreeing. No defensiveness, and no excuses.
“You’re right. I was selfish. You’re the only person that looks at me like I’m just me, not like I’m some walking prodigy.”
You glance at the paused TV.
“That’s a lot of weight to carry.” You say.
He gives a faint smile. “Yeah, I know.”
“But you don’t have to deal with it all alone.” You whisper, not sure if you can manage much louder.
His face breaks into a smile. He steps toward you again, more confident this time.
“I don’t want to be the guy that lies to you. I just wanted to be the normal guy who helped you jump your car.”
That makes you laugh. “You are that guy, that hasn’t changed.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You tell him.
And you still feel hurt, that doesn’t just vanish because he’s looking at you like you’re the first solid ground he’s seen in weeks. But it’s honest now, and that has to count for something.
He reaches for your hand hesitantly, and you let him.
“I’m still just me.” He tells you quietly.
“I know,” you say, offering a soft smile.
The TV is still paused behind him, his face still frozen in place, the future of hockey.
But in your living room, he’s just Macklin from the grocery store parking lot.
10 Writing Things That Have Saved My Creative Soul (and Sanity)
↳ If your character’s arc isn’t making you slightly emotional or existential, it’s probably not finished. If they start and end the story the same person, that’s not a character arc—it’s a flatline. Make them squirm, learn, lose, grow. Bonus points if they make you question your own moral compass in the process.
↳ Worldbuilding is not a license to drown your reader in lore like it’s Game of Thrones on steroids. If you have to write a wiki page to understand your own plot, fine...but that doesn’t mean your reader has to read it. Give us breadcrumbs, not a 12-course feast on page one.
↳ If the theme of your story can’t be summed up in one slightly aggressive sticky note, you’re probably overcomplicating it.
(“This book is about choosing yourself even when no one else does”—boom, theme. Now go make your characters suffer for it.)
↳ You will hate your manuscript somewhere between 30k and 50k words. That’s your cue to keep going, not quit. It’s like the literary version of hitting mile 18 in a marathon. Everything hurts, but that means you're doing it right.
↳ That “genius idea” you had at 2 a.m.? Save it. Write it down. But don’t drop everything for it. New ideas are seductive chaos demons. Your current project deserves monogamy… at least until the second draft.
↳ A character’s greatest fear is a shortcut to their heart. Forget favorite color or coffee order...what keeps them up at night? What would destroy them if it came true?
↳ If you don’t know how to end your story, figure out what question it’s been asking the whole time. Once you know the question, the ending becomes the answer. Maybe not a happy answer, but a satisfying one.
↳ No one’s going to write your weird little story the way you will.
That’s your superpower. So go ahead and write the morally gray necromancer love triangle in space. Your people are out there. And they’re hungry for it.
↳ You are allowed to be a slow writer. You are allowed to be a fast writer. You are not allowed to be a cruel writer—to yourself. The world will criticize your art for free. Don’t do their job for them inside your own head.
↳ Some stories just aren’t meant to be novels. And that’s okay.
Maybe it's a short story. A play. A fever dream disguised as a poem. The shape doesn’t matter. The story does. Let it tell you what it wants to be.
A/N: thank you @iluvregulus for requesting "a law x reader fic based on the song Doctor by jack stauber's micropop. I don’t rlly have a plot in mind maybee reader and law r like just role playing basically u can get creativee. Also u can add nsfw parts if youd like but plsplsplss make it mainly fluff." I decided to skip any NSFW because to me it just didn't really fit. I hope you like it.
And I'd like to say that I'm always having trouble writing dialogue focused one shots so i hope it doesn't suck completely
Word Count >4.000
Plot: you are sure you have a really bad sickness and need Law to check on you
Warnings: none really, SFW, maybe a bit of a overdramatic reader, not proofread
Characters: Law x GNReader, cameo by Bepo and Penguin
The Polar Tang had survived sea kings, Marine battles and storms that could have split lesser ships clean in two. What it hadn't survived, at least according to you. was the sudden outbreak of a mysterious, highly inconvenient illness.
You were on your way to the infirmary because that illness was simply getting worse and worse and you needed Law to check on you. Three slow knocks echoed through the infirmary.
"...Come in," came the deep and calm voice of Law from inside. He sounded as calm and level as ever.
You pushed the door open just enough to peek your head inside. Law sat behind his desk, one hand lazily flipping through a thick medical journal while the other scribbled notes into a folder, probably one of the crew's medical chart. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant, old books and fresh tea. It was quiet enough that the hum of the submarine's engines seemed almost soothing.
He didn't look up immediately. "What is it?" he asked sternly, gaze still fixed on the papers before him.
You dramatically grabbed the doorframe. "...Doctor," you huffed, trying to match your voice to your ‘pained’ expression.
Law paused and very slowly, he looked up from the files and to you. "...Yes?"
"I don't think..." You staggered one exaggerated step into the room. "...I'm going to make it."
He stared and raised an eyebrow in a mix of annoyance, confusion and a look that was clearly already questioning your sanity. "...You're walking," he countered flatly.
"Barely," you breathed over the top.
"You walked here."
"I crawled, emotionally," you groaned and a long silence settled between you before Law closed his notebook with a soft thump.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "...Explain."
You shuffled farther into the infirmary, pressing a hand to your chest with theatrical despair. "It started this morning," you recounted.
"What started?" he asked still not buying anything you were saying.
"The symptoms," you said waving your hands theatrically.
"What symptoms?"
"I fear..." You inhaled sharply. "...I'm dying."
Law leaned back in his chair. "I've heard more convincing performances from Penguin."
You gasped, your mouth agap as you looked at him. "I came here seeking medical attention, and you're insulting your patient?"
He groaned and decided to entertain your.....whatever it was you were up to. "You aren't my patient."
"I am now."
"...Unfortunately," he said and you feigned offense. Despite his dry tone, you caught the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.
That was progress and it made you want to go on. "You should really take this more seriously, Doctor."
Law folded his arms. "Fine." He gestured toward the examination table. "Sit down and let me check you then.”
"I knew you'd save me," you purred as you stepped closer to the table.
"I said sit. I didn't say I believed you," he countered as he grabbed his gloves to put them on.
The examination table crinkled beneath you as you hopped onto it. Law wheeled his stool over with practiced ease. "So," he started.
"So,” you repeated, trying not to grin too widely.
"...Symptoms," he ordered, a bit firmer like he would usual do with ‘real’ patients.
"My heart's beating funny," you explained clutching it dramatically to emphasize it.
"When?"
"When I see someone," you mumbled, trying hard not to chuckle.
"Who?"
"...Confidential," you answered after a moment of thinking.
Law gave you an unimpressed look. "Patient confidentiality works the other way around."
"Oh," you huffed "...well, then you."
He blinked once, there was a tiny reaction barely there and those who didn't know him would most likely have missed it but you saw it "Keep going."
"Gladly” you said and did as told. "My face gets hot."
He tapped his pen against his chin. "Hm"
"My stomach feels weird, like there's somehting inside it making it flutter"
He didn't comment on it just listened.
"I smile for no reason," you explained and locked eyes with him so he could see the smile that was currently on your face.
"Hm."
God how that ‘hm' was gnawing at you right now. But you didn't let it stop you, especially since you really liked it when he was being the doctor. "I also become incapable of acting normal."
"I noticed," he said and there was a small smile tugging at his lips.
"You're writing all this down?" you asked.
"I like documenting unusual cases," he told you but somehting in his voice made you question if he was being serious or just messing with you.
You leaned over, trying to peek at his clipboard. The paper contained exactly three words.
‘Patient is dramatic.’
You opened your mouth staring at him and wanting to reach up and nudge his arm but decided against it. "...Rude," you complained with a mock-hurt face
"Accurate," he countered flatly before he reached for his stethoscope. "Lie back."
You obeyed with exaggerated caution. "If I don't survive—"
He cut you off before you could even finish it. "You will."
You ignored him and didn't let him ruin your dramatic moment. "...if I don't survive tell Bepo I loved him."
He sighed and rubbed his temples. "I won't."
"And Ikakku," you continued nonetheless.
"No."
"And Shachi and Penguin."
"Definitely not."
You sighed dramatically, your arm on your forehead like you were going to wither away any second from how he ignored your wishes. "So cold."
"I'm a doctor, not a poet," he grumbled reaching up to remove your arm carefully.
"You could be both."
"I'd rather not," he said and moved.
The moment the cold metal of the stethoscope touched your chest you jumped because in all your antics you weren't really prepared for this. "It's freezing!" you complained.
"It usually is," he said dryly.
"You could've warned me."
"I assumed you were familiar with basic medicine."
"I thought doctors warmed them up first," you said purposely exaggerating.
"Only in children's storybooks," he sighed and ignored your pouting, listening quietly.
The room settled into an unexpected silence. The joking faded as you watched his focused expression. The way his brows furrowed ever so slightly. The concentration in his beautiful eyes. The careful precision with which he worked, even though both of you knew this "checkup" was entirely fabricated.
He moved the cold stethoscope again and then with a thoughtful look paused. "...Your heartbeat is elevated."
"I knew it."
"You also ran down three flights of stairs before coming here," he assumed because your heart was still trying to come down from you moving so hastily.
"...That probably contributed."
"Probably." He removed the stethoscope. "But not entirely."
You blinked confused. "...What?" You were already fearing you were seriously having a problem.
"It increases every time I look at you," he said flatly and you felt heat climb onto your face. Sure you had said that before but hearing him say it was feeling differently.
You tried to stay cool and play it down a tiny bit. "...You're making that up."
"I'm a doctor I don't make things up, besides I didn't say why that is," he explained, making you pause for a moment, your brain needing a few seconds to process everything.
"...Doctor," you finally continued with a cheeky glint in your eyes.
"Hm?"
"You're flirting," you grinned at him.
"No," he protested but you weren’t having any of it.
"You absolutely are."
"I'm making observations."
"Observations that happen to make me blush."
"Interesting." He reached for his clipboard again, steering the conversation away from your teasing.
"What are you writing now?" you asked trying to get a glimpse.
"'Patient blushes easily.'"
You groaned, shaking your head slightly. "Seriously? That’s not even a real diagnosis," you huffed trying to force the smile that threatened to spread on your lips down.
"Yes it is, I’m the doctor whatever I write as a diagnosis is a diagnosis. Now stop whining at let’s move on," he said and held out his hand, making you furrow your eyebrows in confusion. "Your wrist," he added.
"Oh" you breathed and offered it without protest. His fingers wrapped gently around it, checking your pulse. Unlike your ridiculous performance, his touch was steady and careful. Professional, mostly at least.
"...Still fast," he observed.
"I told you."
"You also seem incapable of sitting still."
"I'm nervous."
"Why?"
"Because of you."
His thumb paused ever so slightly against your pulse. "...That's inconvenient."
"For who?"
"...Both of us."
A knock interrupted the moment. Before either of you could answer, the infirmary door slid open. Bepo poked his head inside. "Captain? We were wondering if—" He froze. You were sitting on the examination table. Law was holding your wrist while a clipboard rested on his lap. "...Oh."
Law didn't even look toward the door. "I'm with a patient."
Bepo glanced between the two of you before his eyes stayed on you, looking worried. "Are you okay?” he asked you.
You, obviously, let out the weakest, most pitiful sound imaginable. "I don't have much time..."
Bepo's eyes widened, there was fear in his eyes now. "What happened?!"
You opened your mouth to tell him how horrible you felt but Law didn’t let you answer and instead took over for you. "Nothing, no one’s dying, it’s just a case of severe theatrics," Law grumbled and you sighed.
"Oh," Bepo let out a deep exhale and relaxed immediately.
You pouted and ‘glared’ at your doctor. "I feel really offended. It seems my doctor lacks bedside manners."
"He still has better manners than you." Law countered.
Bepo meanwhile tried very hard not to laugh. "I'll...come back later," he said slipping back out.
"You don't have to—" But Bepo was already gone and the door had closed again.
You smirked sheepishly "...He believed me for a second."
"He's too trusting," Law said before he got up and decided to continue the ‘chek up’. "I should probably perform a neurological assessment." He raised one gloved finger. "Follow my finger."
You obediently tracked it as he moved it from side to side.
"Good." Then, very suddenly, he stopped moving and you continued staring directly at him. "You're supposed to follow the finger's movements."
"I am. I’m staring at it."
"My finger isn't moving."
"I know, that’s why I’m just staring," you deadpanned. "You forgot to tell me to stop looking," you added with a smile that was almost unfair and made Law sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.
"...Neurological function appears intact," he wrote down.
"I passed?" you asked, almost beaming up at him with a pride.
"Barely," he replied and you pouted but he ignored it. "Now answer honestly."
"I always do…...mostly."
He gave you a look that was close to questioning all his life choices that led to this moment. "Then answer ‘mostly’ honestly."
"Fine."
"When did these symptoms begin? And no, I’m not talking about today."
You considered the question, thinking thoughtfully. "...Probably a while ago."
"Define 'a while.'"
You huffed. "I don't know." Which was to be honest a bit of a lie.
"Weeks?"
"...Maybe," you drawled.
"Months?"
"...Maybe."
He looked at you carefully. "You waited months before seeing the doctor?"
"I was hoping it'd go away," you said quietly, though you knew it wasn’t going away.
"And did it?" he asked already knowing the answer.
"...No."
"It got worse?"
"...Much," you agreed.
Law nodded thoughtfully as though considering an actual diagnosis. "I see."
"You do?" you asked surprised.
"I think I've narrowed it down."
Your eyes widened. "You know what I have?"
"I have a theory."
You leaned closer to him, eyes wide. "Tell me," you urged, your voice almost a whisper.
He set the clipboard down. "It's chronic."
Your stomach flipped. "...Chronic? Is it curable?"
"...Possibly."
"What's the treatment?"
"You'll have to follow instructions carefully."
"I'll do anything, though I have to warn you I’m not good at following instructions," you said.
"I know." The certainty in his voice made your heart skip, though you didn’t know if you should have be offended or feel....something else. He walked toward one of the medicinal cabinets. Instead of grabbing bottles or bandages, he returned carrying a folded blanket.
You blinked, now you were truly confused. "...Blanket?"
"Patients should stay warm," he explained simply.
Your brows furrowed, still a bit surprised. "I'm not cold."
"You will be."
"What does that mean? You made that up right?"
"I already told you, I don't make things up."
"You’re also a pirate," you countered and he gave you a small tug at his lips.
"Still counts."
Before you could protest, he draped the blanket around your shoulders. It smelled faintly like clean linen and lavender detergent. And it was so damn comforting.
"...You're humoring me."
"I'm preventing unnecessary complaints."
You stared at him, not believing him a word. "You care."
"I care about maintaining peace and quiet in my infirmary."
"Liar."
"I prefer selective honesty," he said making you let out a soft chuckle as your cheeks heated up.
A few minutes later, a steaming mug appeared in your hands.
"...Tea?"
"Hydration and it also works on dramatic patients."
You smiled into the cup, ignoring that he thought of you as being dramatic, which was definitely…..true if you were being honest. "You really are taking care of me."
Law busied himself reorganizing supplies, pretending not to hear you. The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was comfortable. You watched him move around the room with practiced efficiency, every motion meticulous, every instrument returned to exactly the right place.
"You know," you said softly, "you can be really nice when you’re not scolding me or looking all grumpy."
He paused what he was doing for a moment. "I’m always grumpy."
You laughed at this while your eyes remained fixed on him. "You made me tea."
"...You're occupying my infirmary."
"You tucked me into a blanket."
"I threw a blanket at you."
"But it landed perfectly."
"That was coincidence."
You smiled knowingly. "I don't think it was."
For just a moment, Law met your eyes. The corners of his mouth lifted into the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. "Don't get used to special treatment."
"I was hoping you'd prescribe more."
"We'll see," he grumbled.
You took another sip of tea. "So..."
"So?"
"When's the next part of my examination?"
Law adjusted his heat, looking every bit the composed surgeon, you knew. "I haven't ruled out your diagnosis yet."
"And what's the leading possibility?"
He looked at you for a long moment before answering. "...I'm beginning to suspect this isn't a physical illness at all."
Your gaze softened. "No?"
"...No." He picked up the clipboard one last time and wrote something new.
You leaned over, trying to read it and this time, he didn't stop you. ‘Patient appears healthy. Cause of elevated heart rate remains... under investigation.’
You looked up from the clipboard, a smile tugging at your lips. "So, you're admitting you don't know what's wrong with me?"
Law slipped the clipboard from your hands before you could read anything else. "I said it was under investigation."
"You doctors always say that when you're stumped."
"I'm not stumped. I'm being thorough."
You hummed skeptically, taking another sip of the tea. "I've heard second opinions are important."
"You don't need one."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because I'm the best doctor on this submarine."
"The only doctor on this submarine. You've got quite the monopoly."
The room settled into another comfortable silence. The submarine's engines rumbled softly beneath your feet, and somewhere in the distance you could hear the muffled laughter from Penguin and Shachi.
"You know," you said eventually, "It’s kinda nice and peaceful in here."
"It usually is."
You tilted your head. "Usually?"
"Until someone fakes a terminal illness."
"I resent that accusation."
"You admitted to it."
"I admitted to possible exaggeration."
"You announced your emotional death at the door."
"It was dramatic."
"It was exhausting."
"You still let me in," you said sticking your tongue out.
Law smirked, for real this time, still only a bit but you saw it. "Unfortunately I did."
Another knock echoed through the room. Before either of you could answer, Penguin cracked the door open just enough to poke his head inside.
"Captain?"
Law didn't even glance up. "Yes?"
"We were wondering if your patient is... recovering." His voice sounded suspiciously strained, as though he was trying very hard not to laugh.
You immediately wilted against the pillows. "...Tell my family I fought bravely."
Penguin bit the inside of his cheek. "I... don't think you're dying."
"You can't know that."
"I can literally hear you talking."
"Ghosts can talk too."
"They usually don't ask for tea."
"I needed one last cup."
Law sighed. "Penguin."
"Right. Sorry." He looked between the two of you. "...So... should we postpone card night?"
"Card night?" you asked.
"We thought the captain might be busy."
Law folded his arms. "I am."
Penguin raised an eyebrow. "...Busy treating a menace?"
"...Yes."
"Very serious case?"
"...Extremely."
"What've they got?"
Without missing a beat, Law replied, "Attention deficiency."
You gasped, shocked. "I've never been so insulted in my life."
Penguin burst into laughter. "I knew it!"
"Get out," Law deadpanned at Penguin.
"I'm going!" Penguin said hands raised in mock surrender, still laughing, as he disappeared down the hallway and called for Shachi.
You crossed your arms. "Your crew is mean."
"They learned from experience."
Once the laughter faded, you glanced toward Law. "You didn't have to play along."
"I know."
"But you did."
"I did."
"Why?"
Law busied himself cleaning the stethoscope. The silence stretched just long enough for you to think he wouldn't answer. "Because..."
"Because?"
"You looked like you wanted me to."
Your expression softened. "That's all?"
He paused and exhaled faintly. "Mostly."
A comfortable quiet settled over the infirmary. You swung your legs idly over the edge of the examination table while Law reorganized medicine bottles that were already perfectly organized.
"You know, I've never seen you take a break."
"I take breaks."
"Bepo says your idea of a break is reading different medical books."
"...That's still a break."
"You work too much."
"So I've been told."
You huffed and tilted your head at him. "When was the last time you did something just because it was fun?"
Law thought for a moment. "...I don't remember."
"That's sad."
"I don't need constant entertainment."
"I'm not talking about entertainment." You said and he looked at you curiously. "I'm talking about letting yourself smile. You don't do it enough."
He was quiet again. "You make it sound easy."
"It kind of is."
"For you."
You shrugged. "Maybe." Without warning, you reached over and gently poked his cheek. "There."
Law blinked a tiny bit shocked. "What was that?"
"A smile inspection," you grinned cheekily.
"I wasn't smiling."
"You almost were."
"I almost moved you into the hallway."
"But you didn't," you said triumphantly, feeling almost proud he didn't 'Room' you.
"No."
You liked the way he looked right now and the fact that you felt like you had him right there. "Because you like me," you purred boldly.
"I refuse to answer that."
"I'll take that as a yes."
"You'd take anything as a yes."
"Probably."
Law shook his head before reaching for the stethoscope again. "One final examination."
"Ooh."
"Don't sound so excited."
"I can't help it."
"You absolutely can." He placed the stethoscope against your chest once more. This time neither of you joked. The quiet was almost startling. You watched his expression instead. Focused but gently, almost fond. He listened for several moments before removing it.
"Well?"
"Your heartbeat's still fast."
"Oh no, and here I was thinking it would’ve slowed down after being treated so good by you," you breathed dramatically.
Law rubbed his temples and definitely tried to hide a grin tugging at his lips. "It increases every time you look at me," he observed.
You smiled sheepishly. "I can't control that....It's not bad though is it?"
"No." His answer came softer than before.
"It's actually pretty normal." He explained, making you blink up at him. "For someone who's..." He stopped himself.
"Who's what?" you asked because now you were curious.
"Never mind," he said brushing it off, but you weren’t having it.
"No, finish that sentence," you urged.
Law looked away, adjusting the tubing of the stethoscope with unnecessary precision. "For someone who's in love."
The room became impossibly quiet. The engines seemed farther away. Even the soft clinking of cups in the galley disappeared. You stared at him, your heart now definitely beating a lot faster. "...Doctor, I think you've accidentally diagnosed me."
"I know, it wasn’t an accident."
You laughed quietly, though your face felt impossibly warm. "I wasn't expecting you to actually say it."
"I wasn't planning to."
You slid off the examination table until you were standing in front of him. "So...does this mean I'm incurable?" you asked raising an eyebrow and looking a bit sheepishly at him.
"I didn't say that."
"No?"
"No.” He said as he met your eyes. "It just means the treatment is... unconventional."
"Like?"
"You'll need regular meals."
"I already do."
"Enough sleep."
"I try but I can hear Bepo snoring throughout the walls."
"Less unnecessary worrying."
"I'll work on it, though that one’s tough when you're surrounded by a very chaotic crew and a grumpy doctor," you chirped with an innocent smile.
"And..." He hesitated. "...someone who reminds you to take care of yourself."
You felt something tug in your chest. "That sounds suspiciously specific."
"It's medically recommended."
"By who?"
"Me."
"So your prescription is..."
Law folded his arms, looking so much like a stern and professional doctor. "Care."
Your heart did another flip, and your breath hitched for a moment before you tried to recover. "That's surprisingly sweet."
"It's practical and effective."
"I believe you." You said, your own warm eyes meeting his for a moment before you looked down at the mug still warming your hands. "Can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
You rolled your eyes and deadpanned at him. "You know what I mean."
He nodded once with a tiny smug smirk.
"Since when did you know?"
He leaned back against the desk, considering the question. "Probably before you did."
"What?"
"You've always found excuses to visit the infirmary."
You stared wide eyed at him. "I have not."
"You came in once because you got a paper cut."
"It was deep," you said voice dropping to a dramatic tone.
"It wasn't."
"I needed emotional support."
"You needed a tiny bandage."
"And emotional support."
"You claimed your shoulder hurt after carrying one box," he continued.
"It did hurt."
"You carried it for ten seconds."
You pouted at him and then let out a long deep exhale before you laughed softly. "I can't believe you noticed all of that."
"I notice more than people think." He said, his voice no longer teasing. "I notice when you're tired." You looked at him and your smile faded into something softer. "When you skip meals. When you're quieter than usual. When you pretend you're fine because you don't want anyone worrying."
You hadn't realized he paid that much attention. "Law, if anyone else would have said that I’d call that creepy."
"You take care of everyone else." His gaze finally met yours ignoring your habit of trying to brush it off. "Someone should take care of you too."
For a moment, you couldn't think of anything clever to say. The joking, playing the exaggerating patient, the fake illness, it had all quietly slipped away. A timid knock interrupted the moment.
"...Captain?" Bepo's voice asked quietly. "Can I come in?"
"You may."
The white bear peeked inside. "Is everything okay now? Is the examination completed?"
You looked at Law and then at Bepo. "I think the doctor figured out what was wrong."
Bepo brightened immediately. "Really? What was it?"
Your eyes remained on Law as you couldn't help but smile. "...Turns out my heart was just confused."
Bepo tilted his head. "Oh…..ooooh," Bepo said as he realized what you had meant. "I guess I'll... leave you two alone." He continued now feeling like a third wheel but before shutting the door, he paused. "...Captain?"
"Hm?" Law hummed.
"You're smiling." Bepo declared with a grin and a soft look.
Law instinctively touched his face. "No I'm not."
"You kinda are." The door slid shut before Law could respond and you couldn't help but laugh. "He caught you."
"He didn't catch anything" Law protested crossing his arms over his chest.
You placed a hand over your heart. "I'll treasure this moment forever," you said.
"I was never smiling."
"You absolutely were."
"There is no medical evidence."
"There was a witness."
Law huffed and tried to glare at you but it didn't work, not the slightest bit. "Witness testimony is unreliable."
You rolled your eyes and then stepped closer until only a small space remained between you. "So...am I officially discharged?"
Law pretended to think. "Not yet."
"No?"
"I'd like to keep the patient under observation."
"For how long?"
"As long as necessary."
"And how long is necessary?"
He looked at you with that small, rare smile that hardly anyone else ever got to see. "...I'm still figuring that out."
You reached for his hand, your fingers slipping between his tattooed ones. To your suprise he didn't pull away. Instead, he gave your hand the gentlest squeeze. Your heart immediately betrayed you again. "You know," you murmured, "I think my pulse just sped up."
"I noticed." His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles. "And I think I've finally found the cause."
"And?"
His smile widened just enough to be unmistakable. "...I'd rather not cure this one," he diagnosed and you couldn't help yourself and leaned into him letting your forehead rest against his chest only to realize that his own heart was beating faster than usually.
For the first time all afternoon, neither of you were pretending. The diagnosis had never been mysterious. It had simply taken a very dramatic patient and a grumpy doctor to finally say out loud what had been blooming for some time now.
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