Sometimes you hear a song and a fic pops into your head full formed. This is a trap. The fic may be fully formed in your brain, but you still Have to write it down. This is an important step that most people forget about.
I think ao3 is literally the only site where no censorship means no censorship. you can post the most vile things on there â things that will get taken down on any other platforms â and ao3 will protect you, your works, and your rights to create whatever you want, however you want.
and no, this isnât me saying âwrite that messed up, disgusting thingâ because while, yes, write it if itâs what you want (I myself enjoy writing dark fics, something I believe would be considered âvileâ to a lot of people), this is me saying in a world of censorship and capitalism, ao3 really is a treasure.
how i feel scrolling through the frank iero x reader tag searching for non incest fics
letâs renormalize content warning and using the keep reading feature
before anyone says âoh my blog is ddneâ iâm not going into those blogs and then complaining itâs on my timeline which i donât care write what you want but be mindful of others and make sure your content warnings are visible
description: you and your attending butt headsâand itâs no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects moreâand youâre done with it. Just as youâre about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patientâand his patientâtests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, youâre both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance (reader is a senior resident but abbot is still technically her boss), quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension tension tensionnn, fine line between hate and horny, headstrong reader, mutual pining
A/N: i DONT WANT TO HEAR IT THAT THIS IS UNREALISTIC. Itâs fun and itâs my fanfic Iâll cry if i want to and u know youâd quarantine in abbotâs house too if given the chance
AS OF 4/9/26 I DONT HAVE A TAGLIST. Pls follow @meep-updates and turn your notifications on <333 the tags arenât fully working so i want to make sure everyone gets notified
exposure || day 1 || day 2 || day 3 || day 4 || day 5 || day 6 || day 7 || day 8 || day 9 (12am) || day 9 || day 10 || day 11 || day 12 || day 13 || day 14 ||
You donât see the window workers until itâs already too late.
Thereâs a shout, somewhere overhead, sharp, distant, dismissed instantly by your brain as background chaos.
Then something shifts overhead.
A shadow.
A sudden loss of control.
Like something heavy slipping when it shouldnât.
You look up.
The bucket tips over the edge, half full, unbalanced, too far gone to recover.
You have no time to react.
It drops straight down.
The impact is immediate and brutal, striking the top of your head with enough force to erase thoughts.
Air leaves you all once.
Your body goes back with force, the concrete of the sidewalks rushing up before you can even register that youâre falling.Â
You donât feel the landing.
Youâre already gone before your body makes contact.
The ambulance door swings open hard.
Two paramedics rush in with a stretcher.
âFemale, roughly mid-thirtiesâstruck by falling debris,â one of the paramedics calls.
Whitaker is already moving.
âTrauma Two is open,â someone shouts from the nursesâ station.
The stretcher rolls in fast.
âUnconscious on scene,â the paramedic continues. âHasnât come around yet. GSC eight.â
Monitors are attached within seconds. An IV is started. Hands move quickly, practiced, efficient.
Whitaker is at the bedside now, eyes already scanning your injuries.
âWitness said that the window cleanerâs bucket fell from a height,â A paramedic informs. âShe went down immediately.â
âID?â Whitaker asks without looking up.
âNone,â the paramedic says, already reaching into his pocket. âBut we found this on her.â
He places a chain into Whitakerâs hand.
Dog tags.
Whitakerâs focus sharpens instantly.
That changes everything.
He takes them without hesitation, already thinking theyâve just been handed the easiest part of the case. A name means history, allergies, blood type, everything they need.
âGood,â he says under his breath, almost relieved. âWe got lucky.â
He flips the broken tags over.
And stops.
Abbot. Jack.
O Negative.
Fuck.
For a second, the noise of the room is completely drowned out, as if it had been pulled underwater.
 He reads it again, more slowly this time, in case the name changes.
It doesnât.
â...Jesus,â He mutters, barely audible.
A nurse glances over. âYou know her?â
Whitaker doesn't answer right away. His grip tightens slightly on the chain, metal pressing into his palm like letting go of it would make this situation even worse.
Because this wasnât luck.
This was a problem.
A large one.
But more importantly, a very specific oneÂ
âPage, Dr. Robby,â he says, voice sharper now. âAnd Dr. Abbot. Now.â
The nurse moves immediately at the order.
Whitaker set the tags down carefully on the tray beside you, as if they were the most important thing in this room.
Robby arrives first.
He doesn't rush in. He lets his residents lead, but the moment he steps into Trauam Two, the atmosphere shifts anyway.
âWhatâve we got?â he asks, pulling on a pair of gloves.
Whitaker doesn't answer right away.Â
Not because he doesn't know what's going on, but because he canât quite find the words that fit.
Instead, he shifts slightly so Robby can see you.
Not the monitors. Not the chart.
You.
ââRobbyâs expression changes instantly. Subtle, but complete. The kind of shift that happens when a doctor stops seeing a case and starts seeing a person.
He steps closer without even thinking.
His hand finds your wrist automatically, checking your pulse. His other hand moves to your eyes, checking pupils, clinical instinct kicking in.
âFound down,â a nurse says quickly. âStruck by falling debrisâwindow cleanerâs bucket. Unconscious on scene, brief loss of consciousness, GCS eight.â
Robby nods, but thereâs a little delay in it, like the information is landing half a beat too slow.
His hand stays on your wrist a fraction longer than necessary.
âI paged Abbot.â
âHowââ he starts, confused, the word barely out.
He doesnât finish.
Because Whitaker lifts his hand, the broken chain rests between his fingers.Â
Just enough for Robby to see it clearly.
Dog tags.
Everything in Robbyâs expression shifts. Not shock. Recognition. Then something worse. Like the entire situation snaps into place all at once.
â...Oh no,â he says quietly.
His eyes flick back to you immediately.
Because this isnât just some random patient.
This is Jackâs wife.
Robby straightened slightly, like his body was trying to catch up with what his brain already knew.
âNo,â he says under his breath, already shaking his head once. âNo-no, noâŠâ
Whitaker starts to say something. âRobbyââ
But Robby isnât listening anymore.
His attention shifts toward the door like he can feel it before it happens.
âHeâs coming,â Robby says, more to himself than anyone else.
A pause.
âFuck.â Robby exhales through his nose, one hand dragging over his face as he looks back at you again.
Youâre still unconscious. Still pale. Still completely unaware of who's about to walk in.
Whitaker tries again. âRobbyââ
And that's when it finally clicks in his head.
âHe canât see her like this,â Robby says, firmer now, like heâs locking onto the only thing that matters.
Not like this.
And heâs already halfway to the door, trying to get there before Jack does.
Robby barely makes it halfway across the room before the door pushes open again.
Jack.
Heâs already moving fast, eyes ready to assess the situation before anyone even speaks.
âWhat do we have?â he asks, breath just slightly off from the rush. âYou paged me.â
Robby steps in front of him, blocking the doorway without hesitation.
âHeyâ
Jack frowns, thrown off more by that than anything else. âWhat are you doing?â
âJack-â
âMove,â Jack says, sharper now, trying to step around him to assist the patient.
Robby doesnât. âYou canât go in there.â
That stops him.
âWhat?â Jack let out a short, disbelieving breath. âRobby, what are you talking about?â
Behind him, the room keeps moving. Voices, monitors, motion, but Jack canât see any of it past the barrier in front of him.
âJustâwait,â Robby says, quieter now.
âNo,â Jack shakes his head, already trying to step around him. âNo, donât page me and then tell me to wait. Move.â
Robby shifts just an inch, and for a split second, it is enough.
An angle opens up.
Just enough for Jack to see.
There are doctors and nurses,
The bed.
You.
Unconscious.Â
Blood matted into your hair, dark against your skin. Clothes still damp, clinging in the wrong places.Â
Everything in him stops.
The sound of the room drops out completely.
ââŠNo,â he breathes.
Robby moves immediately to block his view again.
âJack,â he says firmly. âYou canâtââ
âThatâs my wife,â Jack cuts in, voice breaking under it despite his effort to hold it together. âWhat happened?â
He tries to move forward again. His brain tries to process what he is seeing. His weight shifts subconsciously to his real leg to ground him. But it all hits at once, too fast, too much.
ââŠNo,â he breathes, barely there.
âJack,â he says, low and steady. âYou canâtââ
Robby stops him, hands on his chest this time.
âYou cannot go in there,â Robby says, stronger now. âYou know that.â
âI donât care.â
âI know,â Robby answers. âBut you will if you make a mistake.â
That lands.
Not because it calms Jackâs nerves, but because it forces clarity through the panic.
If he treats you like this⊠he could make it worse.
Jackâs breathing is uneven. His eyes keep trying to find you past Robbyâs shoulder.
But he canât.
âLet us do our job,â Robby says, quieter now. âWeâve got her.â
Jack doesnât move.
Doesnât agree but doesn't try to push past him again either.
A long, stretched-out second passes.
Then Jack steps back.
Just one step.
Like it costs him more than anything else today.
Robby watches him carefully, like he expects him to surge back towards him.
But Jack just⊠goes still.
The fight drains out of him all at once, as something snapped.
He turns away without another word.
The roof is silent when Robby and Whitaker find him.
Jack is at the edge, hands gripping the metal railing, shoulder tight. Not leaning over, just holding on. Like itâs the only thing keeping him in place.
The city stretches out in front og him.
He doesnât turn.
They both know he heard them.
Robby glances once at Whitaker, then back to Jack.
âSheâs stable,â he says.
No response.
Whitaker steps a little closer. âVitals are holding. Weâre sending her for CTâpossible concussion, maybe a small bleed, but nothing immediately life-threatening.â
Still nothing.
Robby moves a little closer, not too fast.
âSheâs going to be okay,â
That gets a reaction.
Barely.
Jack exhales slowly, the sound rough, like heâs been holding it in too long.
He doesnât turn around.
ââŠDid she wake up?â he asks.
âNo,â Whitaker answers. âNot yet.â
Jack nods once.
Silence returns, wind cutting across the roof.
Whitaker hesitates for a second, thenâ
âShe had your tags on.â
That lands differently.
Something in Jack breaks, just a little.
A quiet, breathless laugh slips out of him, completely out of place against everything else.
âYeah,â he says, voice rough.
He shakes his head once, like he canât believe it even now. âShe hates rings.â
A tear slips down before he can stop it.
He doesnât wipe it away.
He just stands there, staring out at the city, holding onto the railing like itâs the only solid thing left.
Back in your room, everything is calmer now.
Monitors still beep steadily, machines still running, but the urgency is gone, replaced with something calmer. Controlled
Jack hesitates in the doorway before stepping in.
He takes you in slowly this time, like heâs afraid moving too fast will break the moment.
A sudden movement pulls his focus.
âHey,â he says softly. âIâm here.â
Your brows pull together slightly, a small reaction to the sounds of his voice.
Then your eyes flutter.
They open slowly.
Heavy.
Disoriented.
A small sound escapes you when the lights make contact with your eyes.
âEasy, babe,â he murmurs. âDonât try to move too fast.â
You blink a few times, trying to focus.
Everything hurts. Itâs too bright, too loud. Your head is throbbing.
â...Jack?â Your voice is rough, barely there.
âYeah,â Jack says quietly, catching it. âHeadâs gonna hurt. You took a bucket to the head.â
Your eyes finally land on him, and you just stare as if your brain is trying to catch up.
âIâm here,â he says again.
Relief flashes across your face. Small. Real. Your shoulder loosens, and seeing him suddenly makes everything feel less chaotic.
âYou look mad,â you murmur weakly. That gets a faint breath out of him, almost a laugh.
âYeah,â he says softly. âI was.â
His hand finds yours carefully, grounding you.
âBut youâre okay,â he adds. âThatâs what matters.â
Your eyes drift shut for half a moment, exhaustion pulling at you.
âMm,â you hum faintly. âFeels like I lost a battle.â
Jack huffs under his breath. âYou did,â he says. âBadly.â
A faint smile tugs at your mouth, even through the ache.
âRude,â you whisper.
Then your fingers shift against the sheet.
âHey,â you say softly.
âYeah?â
Your eyes flick to his chest.
ââŠNot on me,â you murmur.
Jack looks down at you. âWhat?â
âThe tags,â you say, voice still rough but more alert now. âTheyâre not on my neck,â
You expect them to be there; they have been for years.
Jack exhales through his nose, almost amused.
He reaches into his pocket.
Carefully, he pulls out the chain.
His dog tags.
Worn. Familiar. Still his.
He places them gently into your hand.
âThatâs how they identified you, Mrs. Abbot,â he says quietly.
That makes your expression shift, softening, something warm and tried underneath it.
Then your eyes drop the break.
The link halfway down snapped from the impact.
âOh,â you murmur. âItâs broken,âÂ
 âYeah,â he answers. âWeâll fix it.â
You study him for a second, still holding onto the chain lightly as if it grounds you.
âThankfully,â you murmur, âthe government likes labelling their property.â
That gets a quiet breath out of him.
âYeah?â he asks.
You nod faintly.
âVery official,â you add. âImportant documentation.â
Jack shakes his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
âAnd what,â he says, voice lower now, teasing, âare you properly of?â
You donât even hesitate.
âYou.â
The teasing fades out of his expression for a second, something quieter replacing it.
ââŠYeah?â he asks softly.
Your grip on the tags tightens just slightly.
âYeah,â you murmur. âBeen that way for a while.â
He holds your hand a little tighter.
âGood,â he says quietly.
Then, softer:
âKeep it that way.â
Your eyes start to drift again, exhaustion pulling at you.
âWasnât planning on changing it,â you whisper.
