chloe302225

[chloe302225]

Little Princess 1

No warnings except that this is NOT a dark fic. Non-dark fics will be tagged as lightficsyouneveraskedfor but will be posted on this blog.

Character: Nick Fowler (The 355)

Trope: Single-dad, live-in nanny

Author’s Note: Thank you to everyone who reads this unusual posting from me. I typically swing in the other direction on fics but something lighter was calling.

Please reblog and leave some feedback if you read. You are appreciated and adored 🩷. Please have a wonderful day, week, year, etc.

“It’s hot,” Violet whines. 

You look up at her above your book. You lower the pages. “Come in the shade.” 

“I don’t want to,” she tramps around, her mary janes scattering pebbles. “I’m bored.” 

You mark your page and close the book. You stand from the iron bench and tuck the novel under your arm. You flick a trickle of sweat from your temple. 

“What then would you like to do?” You ask your ward. 

“I don’t know but I’m bored. Deadly bored.” She bemoans. 

She can be rather dramatic but you might blame yourself for that. When she has the ability to sit still, you read to her from the classics. She enjoys them and likes to re-enact the scenes in her playroom with her dolls. 

“A walk--” 

“No! We already did that,” she crosses her arms. 

“Tea?” 

“It’s too hot for tea.” 

“We could have iced tea, dear,” you suggest. 

“I’m not thirsty,” she looks down and her shoulders slump. 

“Well, whenever you decide on what you’d like to do, let me know and I’ll do my best,” you patiently watch her. 

She peeks up, her eyes are glistening. “I want to see daddy.” 

You steel yourself. You feel horrid for the girl. She’s so obviously lonely and you’re not exactly her peer. You must have a year or two on her father even. Your employer. 

It isn’t pity you hold back. It’s agitation. At times, even anger. You don’t often see the owner of the desolate manner. His daughter sees him no more than you. It makes you wonder how she ever came into being. Or why? 

“Yes, I know, dear. I should like you to see him to. He’s--” 

“Busy. I know. Always busy,” she stomps her foot. 

“Hm, well, suppose we could give him a call?” You offer. 

“Can we try?” She brightens with hope. 

“I don’t see why not,” you sit on the bench and set aside the book.  

You slide free the phone you keep clipped to your belt. You tap on your employer’s name; Nick Fowler. You put the phone on speaker as it dials out. 

Violet comes close and stares at it expectantly. It rolls over to voicemail. You purse your lips and sniff. You end the call and try again. 

“We’ll give him another chance to get to the phone,” you say. 

She leans in, teetering on her toes. Sir, pick up! 

“Fowler,” he answers tersely. 

“Sir, your daughter--” 

“What’s wrong?” He interjects. 

“Hi daddy,” she chimes. 

He sighs. “Is something wrong? I’m working.” 

You look at Violet. She shrinks down. Her cheeks tauten and she blinks furiously. She’d cry if she didn’t share her father’s unyielding pride. 

You tap the speaker and put the phone to your ear. You stand and squeeze Violet’s shoulder as you brush by her. You lower your voice. 

“Sir, your daughter wanted to say hello. I’m certain you have a few minutes--” 

“Are you telling me what I have time for?” Fowler challenges. 

You stop and grit your teeth. “No, sir. I am telling you, your daughter--” 

“Yes, hello.” He snaps dryly. “I’ll be home. Later.” 

He hangs up. You bite down and chew your irritation. You take a deep breath and put away the phone. You swallow down you chagrin and face Violet. 

“Violet, did I ever mention I found this place? You remember that book, The Secret Garden. You liked that one,” you say. 

She perks up and tilts her head. “It was sad.” 

“Would you like to go for a drive? I want to show you.” 

She looks around. The garden on its own is immense; carnations, roses, lilies. It’s a managerie of colours and scents. Still, it isn’t enough to content the listless little girl. 

“Okay,” she drones. “I suppose it’s better than staying in.” 

“Let me call the driver,” you say. “Go get a hat. It’s so sunny out.” 

You retrieve your book and walk her up to the house. You cross the veranda and pull open one of the french doors to let her inside. She flits off on her task and you trawl through the house as you do your own. 

You await her outside. You spend much of your days with the girl, as you’re paid to do, yet she is wildly independent. Clever too. 

The driver, Burton, meets you around front. You get in the back and remind Violet to buckle up. You do the same and specify your destination. 

It’s not very far. You come out in front of the park. Violet sighs. She’s not impressed. 

You persist. You get her out and on her feet. She drags her soles along with you as you lead her through the tall archway. She is unimpressed by the birds bathing in the fountain and the butterflies fluttering over the hedges. 

You take her hand and lead her around to a curtain of vines. She grimaces. You put your finger to your lips and pull it back. You point her through. 

You keep a hold of her as you make your way down the incline. At the bottom, you point her between the narrow line of shrubbery. Deeper and deeper until you’re nearly crushed between it. Then it opens up into the babbling brook beneath the natural flow of water flowing from the earth. 

She gasps. You smile. She spins and takes it all in. 

“How did you find this place?” 

“I wander, on the rare occasion I’m not chasing you, Queen Violet.” 

She giggles. She points as her hand goes to her chest. You follow her finger to the chipmunk scurrying over a thick root. She squeals and smiles. She doesn’t often look so genuinely joyful. 

“We’ll stay a while?” You ask. 

“I never want to go!” She declares. “It’s like... it’s perfect.” She goes to the water and watches the ripples from water strides skimming through. “It’s quiet and cool and... it smells like rain.” 

“It’s a bit of paradise,” you say as you watch her. It’s a good distraction, for both of you. If you hadn’t got away, you might’ve let yourself rage. Just a little. 

👑

You secure the end of the long braid. Violet sits before her, hair damp and tightly plaited. Every night, you brush it one hundred times and twine it up for her. She loves her hair. It’s past her waist. 

She wears a frilly night gown and smells like vanilla. Freshly washed and dressed, you can see the fatigue beneath her bright blue eyes. Just like her father’s. 

“What do you want to read tonight?” You ask. 

“I don’t want to read.” She harrumphs and sits on the side of her bed. 

“You are tired. Straight to bed?” You prompt with a knowing grin. 

“No!” She swings her feet. “I want to see daddy. He hasn’t said good night.” 

Your smile falls. You guessed wrong. You thought she wanted to listen to music, or even sing a little. Her father hasn’t said good night; not today or for the whole week. 

“He’s not in yet, dear,” you say grimly. “I’m so sorry. I called him.” 

She hangs her head. “But he should be.” 

You nod. She’s right. It used to be, you could deflect those moments. That she didn’t notice so succinctly her father’s absence. You didn’t either. Lately, it’s a cloud over both of you. 

“I can call again.” 

“Don’t,” she turns and drags herself up the bed. She falls back against the pillows. “Leave me alone.” 

“Dear, when he does come home--” 

“I don’t care,” she raises her chin defiantly. “Just like he doesn’t. I don’t care.” 

She does. Deeply so. That’s why she’s mad. She has to stay angry so the grief doesn’t come to the surface. It’s hard to mourn someone like that. Someone who just doesn’t want to be there. And when you’re young, you feel everything so much more. 

“What about me, Violet? I need my bedtime story.” You say. 

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. 

“You are teasing.” 

“No, I’m not. I’ve been waiting all day. I won’t be able to sleep without it.” You reach over and grab her favourite book; The Little Princess. “We were right at the best part.” 

She looks at you dully. She huffs and grabs the book. She opens it and finds the last mark. Your cheek dimples. She’ll fall asleep reading, not sad about her errant father. 

[chloe302225]

baby, don’t be scared, i want you everywhere - andrew cody x reader

summary: when Pope is dosed with a drug that requires him to have sex or suffer dire consequences, who else should step up to help him than you?

pairing: Andrew Pope Cody x fem!reader

word count: 4.8k

tags: 18+. MDNI, sex pollen, fuck or die trope, smut (p in v sex like soooo much, cowgirl, mating press and prone bone (we all cheered!)) biting, hickeys, breeding kink for like half a second, non-consensual drug use (mentioned), mentions of cum, no condom use (don’t be like reader! always glove up irl and practice safe sex), basically porn with a sprinkling of plot

authors note: this is my first fic here on Tumblr aaaahhhh! this is my first time writing full blown smut (please be nice). this started because @caterpillarskimono posted about a sex pollen idea for the Pitt and then i started thinking about sex pollen with Pope and it took over my brain. i’d say this is set in season 2 i guess but cath is alive. this is also an anti Baz space, fuck that guy

———————————————————————————————————————

“What are you guys doing out here?”

You’d been looking for Pope all afternoon after he missed your lunch plans and when he didn’t answer any calls or texts you decided to seek him out. A quick stop at Smurf’s house, and Deran’s bar that turned up nothing left Baz’s house as the likely spot to find him. You tried to convince yourself that he had gotten tied up planning for the next job and lost track of time, except Pope would never lose track of time and if he was going to be late or had to cancel he would have called you. Seeing all his brothers standing outside Baz’s with no Pope in sight didn’t do anything to loosen the knot of worry in your stomach.

“We’re dealing with a situation at the moment, you shouldn’t be here.” Baz said dismissively, holding up a hand to ward you off.

“Does the situation involve Pope? Because if it does I should stay.” You looked over at Deran, deciding he’d be the most likely to fess up to whatever’s going on. “He missed our lunch today and he won’t pick up the phone.” Deran looked from you to Baz and back again, shifting on his feet as he weighed his options. You took a page out of Pope’s book and stared firmly at Deran until he broke.

“Pope’s been dosed with V. Accidentally.” Baz groaned at Deran’s admission.

“Dude shut up! We don’t need her to know-”

“V?” You asked, your voice louder than Baz, your eyes wide. “That street drug that’s basically viagra mixed with crack that dials your sex drive up to 1000?” You looked between the three men, completely shocked. The shock quickly melted into agitation as you looked at the other Cody boys standing in front of you, not currently dosed with drugs. “How did that happen? You morons not have his back in a bad situation?” You pointedly turned your accusing gaze on Baz and he frowned.

“You know what-” Baz snapped, his voice rising.

“The ‘how’ doesn’t matter!” Craig yelled, cutting Baz’s argument short. “What matters is how we’re gonna help him. I’ve heard some bad shit about what happens to people who don’t act on their urges under the drug. We gotta find someone for him.” The knot in your stomach twisted and you tilted your head at Craig, not quite believing what you were hearing.

“Someone for him to what? Fuck?” You asked in disbelief.

“Yeah,” He said with a shrug. “Like a hooker.”

“Sex worker.” You corrected him automatically before your head caught up with what he suggested. You shook your head vigorously.

“No, no, no. We are not arranging a sex worker to come here and have sex with Pope in his drugged state.” The idea of some random woman coming over to the house to sleep with Pope when he’s in this compromised state made a wave of nausea roll through you. The fact his brothers seemed to think this was even an option really said a lot about their upbringing and lack of care for their brother. Baz scoffed at your words, rolling his eyes.

“We are not doing anything.” He said, gesturing between the three of them and you. “We are handling it.” He gestured between himself and his brothers. “We will-”

“I’ll do it.” You said suddenly, surprising yourself a little. Your declaration took a moment to settle in your mind and when you realized the gravity of what you said you decided that this was the best solution. Pope was your closest friend, you loved him and you’d treat him with care. You’d talk him through it and make sure he was alright.

“What?” Deran asked, his confusion mirroring his brothers.

“I’ll have sex with Pope and help him through the effects of the drug. I’m his friend, I’ll make sure he’s okay. I’m the best person for this. I’m volunteering.” Baz opened his mouth, likely to object, but Craig interrupted him.

“Works for me!” Craig clapped his hands together in finality, clearly happy to have the problem solved and the rest of his day back. Deran shrugged, agreeing with you, and grabbed Baz to pull him away before he picked a fight for not being the person to solve the issue.

“I’ll text you all tomorrow when the effects have worn off and it’s safe for Baz, Cath, and Lena to come back.” You said as you moved towards the door to the house. Craig paused a bit before leaving, turning towards you.

“By the way, we had to tie him up so he wouldn’t hurt himself, just so you know.” With that last piece of information, the Cody brothers hopped in Deran’s car and drove away.

***

The house was mostly quiet, save for the whimpering and groaning you could hear from the bedroom. As much as you’d wanted to rush to the bedroom to release Pope from his restraints, you knew there were some things you needed to do first.

You closed and locked all the windows and doors, and shut the curtains. You wanted to disturb the neighbours as little as possible. You grabbed two water bottles from the fridge and some energy bars from the cupboard. From what little you’d heard about the effects of this drug, you and Pope were going to be hungry and thirsty when it was all over. You grabbed some spare towels and left them in the bathroom for the shower you’d both inevitably need at the end. You moved as quickly and efficiently as you could, not wanting Pope to wait another moment. You searched briefly for condoms but were unsuccessful. You decided that was probably for the best and since you had an IUD anyways, you weren’t worried.

The moment you crossed the doorway and entered the room, Pope’s eyes were on you.

He was lying on his back, fully clothed, each of his wrists tied with rope that secured him to both bed posts. His grey t-shirt was soaked with sweat, his forehead glistening with it, his face flushed. He was wearing jeans that did nothing to hide the way his cock bulged against the material. The moment he saw you his body moved instinctually to try and get closer to you, only to be stopped by the ropes. The wood creaked as his arms pulled on the restraints. Despite his body practically screaming with want, his face told a different story. His brow was furrowed and his mouth turned down in a look of misery.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Pope choked out the words, his voice rough and low, his breathing heavy. You closed the door behind you and as you moved closer to the bed his hips lifted eagerly without his permission, uncoordinatedly humping into the air for a moment to no satisfaction.

“Pope I know what’s going on. I’m here to help.” You said softly as you reached the edge of the bed.

“Oh god,” Pope whined, his face twisting in a look of torment as his head fell back against the pillows.

“It’s okay.” You said as you toed off your shoes and put down your purse and things from the kitchen. “I want to help.” You looked him over, weighing your options. You knew how strong Pope was and you could see how desperate he was for some relief. You knew Pope would never hurt you, you trusted him, but in this state you needed to help him out a bit before letting him go. “I don’t think I can release the restraints just yet-” Pope’s head snapped up quickly.

“Don’t.” Pope said, his voice strangled. “I told them to tie me up. I could hurt you.” You held Pope’s anguished gaze, his glassy, pleading eyes pulling on your heart.

“Okay.” You said again. “It’s okay. You need to act on the urges the drug is giving you otherwise you might-” You stopped as an unexpected lump formed in your throat. You hadn’t heard much about this drug but what you had wasn’t good. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise. You’re safe with me.” You held Pope’s gaze while he mentally weighed his options. Pope nodded frantically after a moment, letting you know he was alright with you being there. Not wanting to waste anymore time, you reached under the flowy skirt of your short summer dress to pull your panties down and off. Pope’s chest rose and fell quicker as he watched you, the anticipation filling his veins with fire and sending more blood to his already painful erection.

“I can take your pants off but I can’t remove your shirt without releasing your arms.”

“Please,” Pope whined, pulling on the ropes. “Please take my clothes off, it feels like sandpaper on my skin.” Thinking quickly, you grabbed your purse and pulled out the Swiss Army Knife Pope had given you for your last birthday. You returned to the bed and climbed up onto the mattress, making quick work of getting Popes pants and boxers off. He sighed loudly in relief as his cock sprang free, large and aching. You did your best to focus on the task at hand and not his impressive length, with its red, leaking tip, straining against his stomach. You opened the small scissors feature on the Swiss Army Knife and cut as quickly as you could to remove his shirt. When you moved further up his chest, Pope leaned up as best he could, pulling the ropes taut. He extended his neck as much as he could to get his face closer to you, his mouth open and wanting.

“Pope! I could have cut you.” You scolded as you leaned back out of his reach.

“I need to touch you.” Pope begged. “Please. I need you.” His eager tone sent a zap of pleasure straight to your core. You looked over to see how his biceps bulged with the effort to resist his bindings.

“Let…let me touch you.” Pope pleaded, his eyes locked on your lips, his breathing heavy and ragged. You swallowed thickly and licked your lips, eliciting a groan from Pope.

“Fuck.” He whispered.

“If…if you let me remove the rest of your shirt, I’ll give you what you want.” You did your best to keep your voice even despite how fast your heart was racing. Pope nodded slowly in agreement, his eyes never leaving your lips. You reached up cautiously and continued to cut away at his shirt. You leaned closer to get the right angle to make the last cut successfully and Pope took the moment to his advantage, turning his head to push his face into your hair and against your neck. His skin was hot, almost feverish against yours, making you gasp at the contact. You tossed the scissors aside, and they clattered against the hardwood floor as you pulled the scraps of his shirt off. Pope couldn’t hold you with his hands tied so he grabbed you the only way he could.

With his teeth.

Pope bit down on your shoulder, near your neck, making you cry out. He moaned into your skin as you felt a gush of wetness between your thighs. You were learning things about yourself today. Like how Pope’s desperate, almost animalistic energy was a huge turn on. As much as his teeth pressing into your skin felt incredible, you need to get to the main event fast.

You reached forward, one hand threading through Pope’s auburn curls and tugging hard, the other blindly grabbing his cock. Pope let you go with a ragged moan, his head following the path of your tugging hand as his hips rolled into your touch. You managed to get him to lie back down and straddled him before he made any other movements. With one hand bracing on his stomach, you raised up on your knees to situate yourself above his throbbing length.

“Take your dress off. I want to see you.” Pope’s gravelly voice sent a shiver through you as you obediently grabbed the hem of your dress and pulled it up and over your head, discarding it on the floor behind you. You made quick work to remove your bra as well. The moment your breasts were on full display Pope moaned, his hips bucking up into the air. The sudden movement sent you forward, both of your hands bracing on his stomach to keep you from falling on top of him, inadvertently pressing your tits together in the process. Pope was panting at this point, practically drooling at the sight of you, his eyes wide with awe.

“Oh fuck, you’re perfect.”

You couldn’t take it anymore, you needed him in you yesterday.

You grabbed his cock, eliciting another tortured moan from Pope, and guided him to your soaking entrance before sinking down onto him. The two of you moaned in unison, your heads falling back in pleasure. The stretch of him was delicious, filling you completely in ways you’d never experienced. You’d been so turned on it was easy to slide him all the way into you and for you to be fully seated on his cock.

Finally having what he craved, Pope wasted no time planting his feet on the mattress and right as you started to rise up Pope thrusted up into you. He thrusted so hard it almost knocked you off of him and you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow. It took you a moment to get your bearings before you were able to match his rhythm, moving down to meet his upwards thrusts.

It felt amazing.

Pope had been your friend for years but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t wanted to mean more to him. To be more to him. You’d quietly fantasized about being with Pope for the better part of two years now and he’d been the star of every late night fantasy that resulted in an orgasm. His body, his voice, his hands. Everything about him turned you on, including his gentlemanly approach to you like opening doors and carrying you to bed when you’d fall asleep on the couch. His kindness and tender heart made you want to hold him and never let go.

The rest of him made you want to ride him and never let go.

There was time later for a discussion about being more than friends, but right now you needed to focus on helping him through this.

Due to how tightly wound he had been, Pope came quickly, spilling his release inside you as he yelled your name. Despite coming, he was still rock hard inside of you, and continued to desperately drive his hips up into you. The punishing rhythm, Pope’s groaning and whining at the feeling of you, and the rub of your clit against his pelvis at every downward movement had you coming soon too. You cried out as your orgasm overtook you, your walls tightening around his cock as it plunged into you over and over. Pleasure spread through your body, prolonged by Pope’s movements.

“Oh, Andrew.” You moaned, your head tilted back and your eyes closed.

You’d been so preoccupied with your pleasure that you hadn’t heard the creaking and cracking of the bedposts as Pope had pulled on them. You missed the look that crossed his face, the dark, dangerous one that made his nose twitch as his lips curled and his teeth clenched.

He needed to touch you now.

His name spilling from your lips as you rode him through your orgasm, your face slack in the pleasure he gave you, was enough to give him the last bit of strength he needed. Pope pulled hard enough to break the bedposts, the wood giving way under the strain, and freed his arms from their restraints.

Your eyes flew open as you gasped in surprise at the sound. Your brain didn’t have time to comprehend what happened before Pope grabbed you, and flipped you both so he was on top, practically tackling you to the mattress. With his new freedom Pope had the leverage to drive into you as fast and hard as he wanted.

The pace was brutal, his hips slapping hard against yours as you squealed with pleasure at every thrust and you did your best to wrap your legs around his hips. The headboard banged against the wall over and over as he hung his head over you, your foreheads touching.

He hadn’t expected you to walk into the bedroom but he was so glad you did, that of all people it was you who stepped up to help him. While you had volunteered to help him, Pope was sure you hadn’t imagined it would be like this, fast and rough. And he couldn’t stop if he wanted to, you felt too perfect.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Pope said again and again with each drive of his cock into you.

“Don’t be, don’t be, don’t be,” You replied back, breathless. You brought your hands up to his face, making him look at you. You smiled. “I want this. I want you. I’ve wanted us for so long, Andrew.” Pope moaned loudly at the mention of ‘us’ and his eyes rolled back as he came inside you again, his whole body shuddering as his hips slammed into you.

His rhythm slowed after a moment but didn’t stop and you leaned up to kiss him. Pope kissed you back feverishly, his tongue slipping inside your mouth as he pressed you against the mattress. The kisses spurred him on and his thrusts grew in speed again. He was still hard inside of you and you guessed you’d be in for a long night before it was all out of his system. You were able to turn your head to free your lips to speak, which did nothing to deter Pope who began kissing and sucking on your jaw and neck.

“Use me however you want Pope.” That got his attention enough that he pulled back to look at you. You nodded encouragingly. “I’m yours for the night. Use me however you want, however feels good.”

Without a word Pope sat back enough on his knees to pull the remaining rope from his wrists and grabbed your legs to put the backs of your knees over his arms. He leaned back down, pressing your knees to your chest, and pushed himself even deeper inside of you to a spot that had your eyes rolling back. Pope picked up his movement, returning to the previous, frantic thrusts that had the headboard hitting the wall again. The wet sounds of his cock ramming into you joined the sounds of your sweaty skin slapping against each other. You moaned with each brutal push of his cock, your face flushing as your orgasm built. Your nails dug into his beautiful, freckled biceps as your pleasure climbed higher and higher.

“Yes, yes, yes, Andrew!” Your orgasm crashed over you, making your legs tremble and shake in the crook of Pope’s arms, your back arching as much as it could under the weight of him. Pope fucked you through it, as he did your last one, prolonging the warm sparks moving through you. He continued his unrelenting pace, pushing his cock deep inside you. Your limbs felt weak and you could feel how low your energy was with how heavy your eyelids felt. Considering how Pope likely wasn’t anywhere near done, you knew you needed to tell him he could keep going.

“Use me Andrew,” You moaned. “Even if I pass out, use me however you need.” Pope nodded in understanding and thrust into you a few more times before coming again.

For the first time in a while, Pope pulled out of you and you groaned at the loss of his cock inside you, as your legs fell limply on the bed. He grabbed your hips and flipped you over onto your stomach. You could feel his cum leaking out of you, unsurprising considering he came in you three times already. Pope draped himself over your back, lined himself up with your leaking entrance, and slid back in. Your head was turned, cheek pressed against the mattress as you moaned loudly at the feeling of his cock filling you again. Pope began to drive his cock in and out of you again, his hips smacking against your ass every time he pushed inside of you. You could feel the warmth of his skin against your back and his breath in your hair as he leaned his forehead against your temple. He wanted to be close to you, to feel how good he made you feel, to have you.

“Use me.” You whimpered as his cock pumped in and out of you, your clit rubbing against the mattress with the force of his thrusts. “Use me, use me, use me.”

“Yes,” Pope moaned against your skin. “Yes.” Pope continued to fuck you, grunting in your ear as his hips roughly slapped against your ass, jolting your body forward with each thrust, sending sparks of pleasure through you as your hips moved. Pope needed you in this moment like he needed air. He felt like an animal, hungry to take you how he pleased and mark you how he could. He wanted to bite you again. He wanted to suck on your skin until it bruised. He wanted to fill you again and again and again until he physically couldn’t anymore.

“You’re mine.” Pope groaned in your ear.

“Yes,” You sighed against the mattress, your toes and fingers curling with pleasure. Pope pulled back from your head and put his hands on your shoulders to give him leverage for each brutal thrust. The hold pinned you to the mattress, leaving you at Popes mercy.

“You’re mine.” He put more weight on his hands, holding you down. “Mine, mine, mine, mine,” He growled, punctuating the words with each thrust into you.

“Y-yours.” You gasped out. Trapped between Pope and the mattress, you couldn’t have felt safer. The man holding you down was strong (you knew that, he broke the headboard) but his hands weren’t hurting you, they were just keeping you in place. You’d stay between Pope and this mattress forever if you could.

With the two previous orgasms and the constant rubbing of your clit against the sheets, your next orgasm built and burst through you fast, leaving you twitching and trembling on the bed. Exhaustion hit you hard and right before you passed out you heard Pope moan your name, desperately groaning “I’m yours!” to you as he came again.

***

There was soft sunlight coming through the window when you woke up. Pope was asleep next to you, his face relaxed as he calmly breathed in and out. You were a few inches apart and Popes arm was strewn across your waist. It was so rare to see him like this, so peaceful. The sun lit strands of his auburn curls a bright cooper and you couldn’t help but smile. 

Without moving, you knew you were sore, but you also knew you needed to pee and shower. And drink some water. Where were those bottles of water you grabbed before this started? You tried your best to move without waking Pope but when your thighs rubbed together you winced audibly and that roused him. He blinked awake, clearly confused at his surroundings before you watched the night reply in his mind as a dozen emotions crossed his face. It settled on remorseful, which broke your heart.

“Are you okay?” Pope asked as he sat up with a groan, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. You smiled lazily at him.

“I feel fantastic. A little sore but that’s to be expected.” Pope shook his head at your comment.

“I shouldn’t have-”

“I’m going to stop you right there. Pope, I knew what I was getting into by volunteering to have sex with you, and your body was under the effects of a drug. Don’t apologize to me for the best sex of my life so far.” Pope blinked at you for a moment, stunned.

“The best?” He croaked out. You smiled widely, glad he focused on that rather than the guilt he shouldn’t have.

“Yes. So far.” You sat up, wincing a little. “I'm excited to see what you can do when you’re not on a crazy sex drug.” You leaned forward and placed a kiss on his bare, freckled shoulder. When you looked up at his face, you saw surprise and hope in his features. “I’d like to date you Andrew Cody. If that’s okay with you.” Pope smiled sheepishly before he dipped his head to press your foreheads together. Your eyes naturally closed.

“Thank you.” He said to you quietly. You hummed a soft acknowledgement before leaning in and kissing him slowly. You pulled away after a moment, eyes opening to see Popes mouth trying to follow you. You laughed a little at his eagerness, especially after he spent who knows how long last night fucking you.

“How many more times did you come last night after I passed out?” You asked. The tops of Popes ears turned pink.

“I think three.” He glanced down at your naked chest. “I got a bit carried away.” You looked down to see that your tits were covered in hickeys, purple bruising both on and in between your breasts.

“Damn! I can’t believe I missed that. Promise me that next time you give me a hickey, you’ll do it when I’m awake.”

“I promise.” Pope said, his voice rough. You looked back up at Pope to see him staring, his eyes filled with wanting. Your cheeks flushed under Pope’s full attention. You needed to change the subject before you two attempted something your sore body parts might not forgive you for.

“We should have a shower and clean up this place a bit before telling Baz to come back.” Pope nodded in agreement, before his eyes glanced behind you and you turned to follow his gaze. The broken headboard. You cringed as you turned back around.

“Oops. Forgot about that.” Some memories of how the headboard broke flashed in your mind and you blushed even more as you looked at Pope. “That’s on you to pay for. And I think it’s best if we just toss these sheets, for Baz and Cath’s sake.” Pope nodded a bit, holding your gaze before a giggle bubbled up and out of him. You bit your lip to keep from laughing but it escaped you anyways and the two of you sat on the bed in the morning sunlight, laughing together.

***

“Is it safe?” Baz asked as he entered the house, one hand covering his eyes.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have texted you otherwise.” You said in a clipped tone. You muttered ‘asshole’ under your breath for good measure. After the laughing fit, you and Pope had showered together, drank two glasses of water each, and put fresh sheets on the bed. You also remembered to open up every window in the house to get any smell of marathon sex out.

“Hi Uncle Pope.” Lena called out with a wave as Cath carried her inside. Pope was washing the cups you’d used and he waved back.

“Hi Lena.”

“Is that Baz’s shirt?” Cath asked as she set Lena down on one of the kitchen island chairs. You looked over at Pope and back to Cath.

“Yeah, we had to throw away Pope’s shirt. Baz will get his back.”

“What happened to your neck?” Lena asked, staring at the purple mark at the base of your neck. You’d put on Pope’s jacket, zipped up, in an effort to cover your hickeys up but Lena was too observant. You slapped your hand over the bite mark, hiding it from view.

“I got in a fight.” You stated simply as Cath and Baz shared a look.

“One she lost.” Pope joked bluntly as he came to stand beside you.

“I don’t know about that. You’re taking me out to breakfast so I’d say I won. Plus you’re forgetting about that ‘best so far’ comment.” You countered with a smile, which Pope returned. You stared contently at each other for a moment before Baz ruined it.

“What’s going on here?” He asked. You sighed, your mood souring at the sound of Baz’s voice.

“None of your business.” You said firmly. Pope grabbed your bag and handed it to you as you both got ready to leave.

“Bye Lena.” You said with a smile and a wave before turning to Baz and Cath. “Pope will pay for the bed damages and I threw out your bed sheets. You’re welcome.” You patted Baz’s chest in a condescending manner before leaving hand in hand with Pope. Right as you made it to the sidewalk you heard Baz yell “What the fuck!” which sent you and Pope into a fit of laughter as you walked off to have breakfast.

[chloe302225]

Locked Out Of Heaven 14

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, age gap, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father invites a work friend to the neighbourhood barbecue.

Characters: Nick Fowler (Dad’s friend trope)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You dig your teeth into your lower lip, your hand on your other elbow as you take it all in. The beach house is gorgeous. Straight out of the movies. You can hear and smell the ocean and you're here with the most handsome man you've ever seen.

Nick's weight groans subtly in the floorboards. You turn gingerly to see him as he lingers in the doorway. Your thighs ache and your insides are all fuzzy. You can't stop thinking about what you did on the boat.

"This is your place?" You hold back a cringe at how dumb you sound.

"Oh? You think I'm a criminal or something?" He snickers.

You shake your head frantically. "No, I don't mean--"

"I know, baby," he purrs as he shows his palm and nears. He extends his hand to you. He pulls you against him. He smells like sweat and salt. "I'm teasing you. Figured I should get you back."

"What do you mean?"

"You. Teasing me." He wears a crooked grin. "That's all you been doing and left me suffering."

"No, I didn't--"

"Looking the way you do. Acting all sweet. What did you think you were doing?"

"I... I'm sorry," you breathe.

He laughs again. "Don't be. It was worth the wait. Very worth it."

He puts your hand on his chest and watches himself play with your fingers. He brings your hand up and kisses your knuckles. His button-up is wrinkled and left undone to expose his torso. He rocks you with him as he hooks an arm around you.

"That was good," his voice is rocky and low. "Wasn't it?"

Your cheeks burn and you nod shyly. "It felt... Good."

"Oh, I could tell. Those noises," he leans in and kisses your forehead. He hums. "How do you got me wanting even more?"

You bask in his embrace. You try to focus on the moment and not what awaits you. Not how you should be at home. You only want to be here. With him.

"Wanna get washed up?" He brings his hand up to your cheek and cradles your face. He pecks your lips before you can answer, swaying you with him. "Together?"

"Hm," you hum softly. Unsure.

"I smell like sunscreen and... You," he snickers. "Not that I mind."

Your cheeks singe at his insinuation. You feel a sheen over your skin, residue of your indulgence with him. The heat of the sun lingers in you, burning up the last of your energy. A shower sounds nice though you'd prefer it alone.

"Sure," you agree. You can't find it in you to say no.

He smiles and kisses you again. It feels good to make someone happy. To make him happy.

He clasps into your hand as he draws away. He pulls you after him as he leads you further into the beach house. He takes you into the bathroom and a small gasp flutter from you.

One wall is entirely transparent. A window that looks out at the coast and sparkling water, trees swaying as they frame the utopic scenery. The sunset tints the space with shades of coral and amber

Nick turns on a light. Small bulbs in a row overhead that give a hazy natural glow over the evergreen and teak. There is no shower, rather a large square tub at the centre of the space, built into the floor and trimmed in wooden panel to resemble a bath house. The tiles are a mosaic of ivory and deep greens and the fixtures are a deep copper. It's breathtaking. Quite literally as your chest aches from your pent up awe.

Nick rubs between your shoulders and drags his hands down your back. You shiver. You only have the twisted swimsuit and wrinkled coverup. He stands behind you and presses against your back. He kisses your crown and purrs.

"It's nice to getaway, huh?" He growls.

You nod, stuck in place as you stare off through the windowed wall. The desolation sets in on you. The distance from what you know sinks like iron into your stomach.

Nick slips the sheer coverup down your arms. Another ripple rolls over you. He makes quicker work of the bikini barely clinging to your figure.

You hug yourself as he moves past you. He gets down to pull the lever for the stopper and twists on the faucet. The water pours out of two taps opposite each other.

He stands and unbuttons his shirt. He rumples it and tosses it as he approaches you. He stops in front of you as he shoves his shorts down. You at your eyes as he smirks.

"Baby, you're getting me going again," he takes your hands in his and walks backwards

He leads you down into the tub. The water is warm and soothing around your ankles, lapping up higher and higher. He tugs you down with him as he gets to his knees.

You kneel awkwardly then nearly topple as he urges you closer. He spins you and pulls you into his lap. He moves you as easily as a doll

He leans you against his chest as you feel his desire rigid against your bottom. His hands rove up and down your sides as he sighs. You resemble as your core tingles. Despite how raw you are, that need sparks.

Slowly, you ease into him. The heat of the water, the weight of the day, the closeness of his body coil around you. You tilt your head back over his shoulder as he spreads his legs and lets you skip down between his thighs.

You laze against him and close your eyes. Your muscles slacken and you stifle a yawn. Your head is foggy and your nerves fuzzy.

His touch dulls as you drift into a daze. You know he's touching you but you can't stop him. You don't want to. As you fade into a trance, you're all too aware of his fingers crawling down your pelvis.

He leans with you and the water stops flowing. He sits up again and nuzzles your hair.

He rubs between your folds and a moan wafts from you. You drown in the sensation of his gentle tending. Patient but persistent.

You twitch as he brings you again to the peak of delight. You push your head back over his shoulder and sigh. The water stirs as he moves you subtle, lifting you over him. He shifts and lowers you onto his lap. He impales you, choking a squeak from your dry throat.

You wince and your eyes snap open. You're so worn out his intrusion makes you tear up. You whimper and wriggle, only adding to the torment in your walls.

He hushes you as he spreads his hand across your throat. He grips just firm enough to keep you still. His other hand clamps down on your hip and he rocks your pelvis.

You murmur dumbly as your body yields to his control. So much as it hurts, the flames flicker higher and lick up your back and thighs. You want him to stop but keep going. You don't know exactly what you want. You can't think enough to figure that out.

His deep grunts clog in your ear and he dips his head down beside yours. The pinch of his teeth startled you. You clasp onto his thick wrist as he squeezes your throat tighter. He snarls as he moves you faster and faster.

Your breath burns in your chest and throat as you can barely puff past his hold on you. He rolls his hips up into you, burying deeper with each tilt. His body tenses against yours and his nails dig into your skin.

He drones as you feel him unravel. A new slickness spills out around him as he slows your tempo. He slides his hand across your stomach and his other falls away from your neck. He exhales with a rattle.

"Princess..." He utters against your ear. "You're so good to me."

You languish in a stupor. Beneath the dull shell he's made of you, there's a tremour. A fear suddenly lit as that heat of lust recedes.

He's inside you... All of him. He just... And earlier he did the same. You're not on anything to deal with the consequences. Your dad would never allow it.

Your heart clenches and you sit up. He catches you around the waist, wrestling you still. You relent and run your hands over his forearms as he keeps you against him. You don't know how to say it. It's your own fault. You should've thought of it before...

You're too embarrassed at your own stupidity.

"Baby, what's the matter?" He rasps.

Lie. He says you shouldn't but is it so bad if it makes him happy?

"I have to... Pee."

He chuckles. You're on fire. What a bad lie.

"Ha, alright," he lets you go.

You pull off of him and he sputters, "wait--ugh. Baby, you gotta be careful," he groans.

You turn to look at him as he has his hand on his dick, squirming. "I'm sensitive."

"Sorry, I--" you stand and feel his cum trickle out and meld with the water dripping down your thighs. "Oh..."

You look down and he does too. He hums. "I love that, baby. Come here--"

"But--"

"Shh. Hold it." He beckons you closer as he gets to his knees.

He reaches for you and brings you near. He nudges your thighs apart and bends forward. He pushes his face against your cunt and licks up the slick mess between your folds. You yipe and latch onto his head to keep from slipping.

He wiggles his head, rubbing his face against you as he growls. He pulls back at last and looks up at you. His eyes are wild and his stubby beard shines with his cum and yours.

He licks his lips. "Tasty."

You blink and stumble away. He reclined once more as you stagger around. You climb out of the tub and barely keep from slipping. You rush for the door.

"Baby, thought you had to go," he says.

You face him and shake your head. "What?"

He points to the toilet. You cringe.

"In front of you?" You ask.

He snorts. "Princess, with everything we've done, does it matter?"

You sniff. "I don't know if... I can."

"I'll close my eyes, baby." He makes a show of doing so and tilts his head back.

You glance around. You lied but you can't tell him you were panicking. That you just had to get away.

You turn and go to the toilet. You lift the lid and sit. Just think of waterfalls.

Silence. Stillness. You can hear the water sift around him subtly.

Finally, you start and it's more than you expect. It's a deep and almost painful release. You bend over and moan. It feels almost cleansing.

"Better get back here when you're done and really clean up," he taunts. "You dirty, dirty girl."

You sit up and wipe. You stand and flush. Reluctantly, you go back to the tub. You get in and wade around as you watch Nick. He's calm and unmoving.

You go to the side of the tub and grab the dark bottle of soap. His fingertips frighten you as he touches your back. You take the loofah next to the bottle and face him. You need to distract yourself and him.

"I'll clean you up," you offer.

"Sexy," he slithers. "Alright, princess."

You push through the water and sit on your heels. You squeeze soap into the loofah and lather. You start with his shoulders. He purrs.

You focus on the simple task of cleaning him. Your eyes eat up every inch of muscle. You can't help but admire him even if that fear needles in your skull.

"Oh baby," he sighs. "You're going to get me started again."

[chloe302225]

Off the Record 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, age gap, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: James Conrad

Summary: you sign up for the university newspaper and find yourself in controversy. (Professor AU)

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

A crush of bodies moves you like tides. You barely keep from going under as you sidle against the wall, seeking shelter from the crowd as they swirl madly with furor of the first week on campus. Your eyes are pinned to the banner hung from the railing of the overlook, right across the bustling foyer; Student Journalists Needed!

Your heart flips over at the thought. You're a novice at best. You wrote some poetry for a few contests in high school and helped with the yearbook the last two years. Nothing very noteworthy. Still, it's intriguing.

You should do something. Especially after orientation went over like a burnt pancake. A real flop.

You recede into the crowd and let it carry you to the dining hall. You sit at a table as students mill in and out of the cafeteria turnstiles. Your foot wiggles as you contemplate the year ahead. Your eyes wander and take in the haze of strange faces.

You don't know anyone. Not yet. Your efforts at introducing yourself the day before were of little result. Mandy, a pretty tall brunette with glowing auburn skin laughed in your face and Astrid, the artsy one with her sides shaved, rolled her eyes. You didn't try again.

A new city, a new home, a new school. You're terribly lost in it all. You're starting to question why you didn't just settle for the community college in the small town you grew up. At least you know where you stand with the people back home. They don't like you either.

You take out your phone and search for the social events and clubs page in your email. The depth of information sent to you about housing, sports openings, and frosh week is tantamount to spam. You find a link at the bottom of an email and click.

Scrolling and flicking through gets you to the school paper page. A digital banner similar to the one hung in the foyer headlines the page. Below, the mandate of the publication, then a subheading above pictures of the current co-editors and secretary.

Scrolling further to the new section, you stop the page under your thumb.

'Are you a writer? Bring your portfolio to the Stellan Building, room 28a....' Tomorrow. So soon?

You cradle your phone between your hands and sigh. What are the odds you get in? You shake your head. You'll go, embarrass yourself, and next month, it will be just another forgotten calamity.

📰

To your surprise, there is no line up ahead of you as you hurry down the hall. Maybe the unrenovated basement has eluded or even deterred your fellow aspiring journalists. It wasn't exactly hard to find and you're not so sure you're on the right path.

You can't help but be relieved. You're already burnt out from the sheer number of people around you; in class, in the halls, even in your dorm. There's a reason you're interested in writing and not the cheer squad.

You slow as you read the plaque beside them only open door. The rest appear to be storage. 28a. This is it.

You lean forward to peek around the frame. You don't hear anything.

There's a solitary figure in the room. An older man sat in a chair behind one of the tables. The furniture is outdated unlike those in your lecture halls. The surface of the tables is scratched and a few chairs are missing bolts on the back.

The man has a chair pushed back at an angle, his feet set wide as he reads from a faded paperback. His posture is both staunch yet casual.

Hm. Did you read the time right? You pull back and weigh your options.

"Come in. If you like," the deep voice lilts through and sends a shiver up your spine. How did he see you?

You poke your head around again then move into the door frame. You clutch the folder in your hands and look around. You know you're not early. You didn't want to seem too eager.

"Erm, hi. I... Saw a thing about a journalist club..." You begin.

He marks his page and sets the book down. The cover curls up from the pages. He drags his chair closer to the table and folds his hands.

"You are indeed in the right place," he assures you.

"Oh, cool. Right." You exhale.

"Come in. Let's have a look." He gestured to the folder in your hands.

"Sure," you nearly trip over the threshold.

"James Conrad." He stands to introduce himself, extending his hand across the table. "Professor. Writer. There's some other letters they say I should tack on but I've not much concern."

You shake his hand awkwardly. His grip is firm and his long fingers easily wrap up your whole hand. He's taller the closer you get.

"And your name? Best to start there." He drawls and lets you go.

You stutter before you can choke out your name. You can smell his cologne, a soft citrus underlined with something richer.

"Please, sit," he prompts. He waits until you sit before he does the same. "Now then, why are you here?"

"Um... To apply to the paper?"

"Mm, that's all?"

"Oh, uh, well... I want to write. I enjoy it and I thought... I wanted to make some friends and... I don't have much experience." You bite your lip and cringe. You shrug, "I'm sorry."

"No need for sorry," he says and flutters his fingers. "Might I have a look?"

You flinch and look down. You slide the portfolio across the table. You lean forward anxiously

"I don't have much. Poetry mostly but I want to learn." You explain.

He opens the folder, his blue eyes flitting over the first page. Your stomach mulches violently. You class your hands tight and bounce your knee.

"What are you studying?" He asks without looking up.

You look down. "Statistics."

"Why?" He asks.

You shake your head. "Um. Oh. I... My guidance counselor said there were jobs. Or I could apply it to a Master's."

"Sounds practical. Statistics major, writes poetry." He peers up at you, his long nose lending him an intimidating air.

"Yeah, I guess maybe I should join the math club or something." You murmur.

"Practicality is a virtue. You won't make much of a writing degree in this day and age." He leans the folder on the table as he refocuses on you. "Military man myself. Reckless youth. Climbed through the ranks, meandered around in some high level work but I hated the politicking of it all. Spent my last few years of service as a correspondent." He explains lightly. "Suppose this is my retirement. Or penance."

He puts his attention back to the folder. '...wilted and weeping....'" he reads aloud. "Provocative. You have a way with words. It needn't all be dry."

He closes the folder and sets it before you. He keeps his fingers on the edge. He leans forward.

"The editors prefer digital. Might you forward this to my email and I will put in a good word for you." He asks.

You blink. "The editors."

"Oh yes. Students like yourselves. High and above this little meet and greet. I suppose there is some event down along the Greek side of campus." He scoffs.

"I can email," you promise. "Thank you."

"Don't get lost in those numbers, dear," he stands and offers his hand again. "It would be truly tragic for this world not to hear your words. Read them, rather."

"I.. thank you." You shake his hand again. He squeezes before letting go.

"No, thank you. You're the only soul brave enough to show. I fear this paper's time is washing to the wayside." He sighs. "We need a spark. Perhaps you are more a firebrand than you seem."

You smile sheepishly. You don't have the heart to tell him otherwise. You are more the type to stick between the lines.

"I look forward to hearing back from the editors." You say.

"From me likely. These editors are not so good at follow up. You'll find I'm more here as a figurehead." He explains. "It is up to you lot to figure out all that writing."

"Okay, um, got it." You stand and reach for the folder. "Thanks again. Have a good day."

"Actually, do you mind if I borrow this? I'd like some time to read the rest."

"Uh, sure," you rescind your reach. "Er, enjoy."

"How could I not?" He grins as he sits back down. He ignores the paperback and instead takes the folder. "Oh and if you see any lost souls looking for my cave, do try to point them in the right direction."

[chloe302225]

Three Pointer 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: When you go down to see your brother at the basketball courts, you find yourself drawn into a game you don’t quite understand.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes

Note: I think one more part will do the trick.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Photo Sources: #1 #2

"Whatever she said, she's lying," Carter spits.  

You stand, dumbfounded, speechless. You must be imagining it. No way he's talking to them like that. No way they're doing what they're doing. It was only basketball, it was only ice cream.  

"Ha," Bucky scoffs. "She didn't have to say anything. You said it all yourself."  

"Bro? What does that even mean?"  

Steve clucks. "We heard you and your buddies. And we heard the way you talk to her."  

"Whatever. You guys were across the court."  

"Funny thing about super soldiers, we got sharp ears," Bucky snorts.  

"Even if we are old men." Steve chirps.  

"Um, it's... please. It's okay." You say. 

"She's useless," Carter shakes his head. "What's the big deal. Saw you two showing her how to hold the ball. She can't do nothing."  

"You know," Bucky crosses his arms. "I had a sister. Give anything to get her back. Some people just don't got sense."  

"I'm sure she was a lot smarter than here--"  

"On more insult and I'll rip your tongue out," Bucky points at him. "So, step back and shut your mouth. She needs to pack."  

Carter's eyes widen and his cheek twitches. You look at Bucky then Steve. They're staunch and unbending. You never once won an argument with your brother, you don't think you will with them.  

"Come on, sweetheart," Steve beckons you with him as he moves toward the door. "Let's grab your things."  

You nearly tip before you get your feet under you. You gulp as Steve waits, trailing after you as you approach your brother. Carter steps out and stands against the dingy siding.  

"Good luck with her." He huffs and just as soon hacks as Bucky flicks his adam's apple.  

"Warned you," Bucky tuts.  

"Please. Don't hurt him," you beg.  

Bucky raises his palms and backs up. "Sure thing, doll." He sniffs. "You don't got a good thing to say about her and she's still trying to protect you." 

“I don’t need her to protect me,” Carter sneers. 

“Please,” you stop as Steve puts his hand on the door frame. “Carter. Just stop.” 

“Be smart to listen to her,” Bucky drawls. 

You frown and turn away. You shuffle down the hall, Steve right behind you. You shrink down as your eyes wander to the water stain on the wall, then the bit of dust in the corner. You try to keep things tidy but the house is old. 

Steve stands in the doorway of your room as you stop between him and the bed. It’s just that and a two drawer dresser and your bookshelf cluttered with a few novels, a small sewing hoop with an unfinished sunflower cross-stitch, and a crystal vase filled with buttons. Your existence isn’t very glamourous. 

“Steve, I’ll be okay. Carter just says things--” you face him. 

“Just? He’s not very nice. You deserve better.” 

“Look, you’re a nice guy. You are the Captain after all but you don’t need to save me,” you sniff. 

“Maybe I don’t need to. I want to. I don’t like bullies. Never have.” He puts his hands on his hips. 

“He’s my brother.” 

“Family’s more than blood.” He counters. “Look, just a few days. Let him realise he’s being a jerk. How about it?” 

You rub your lips together and dig your toe into the floor. “Why, though?” 

He smiles. “You’re a nice person. You deserve nice things.” He takes a breath. “Go on. Pack a bag.” 

You stare at him for a moment then turn to do as he says. You grab the fraying tote that hangs from the bottom post of your bed. You pack some clothes, a book, and shove your pouch of toiletries on top. You’ll be back. 

You find Steve by your window. His back is to you as he examines the taped edges of the garbage bag that seal out the bugs. He runs his fingers down the plastic. 

“What happened?” He asks. 

“Glass broke,” you say. “Too much money to fix it.” 

“Oh...” he twists at the waist and looks over his shoulder. “How?” 

You look down guiltily. You’re not a snitch. You shrug. 

“Hm, accidents happen, I guess,” he says. “Let’s head out. It’s getting late. We’re all tired.” 

You nod and lead him out of the room. He follows you down the hall to the front door. You find Bucky and Carter glaring at each other. 

Your brother scoffs. “You always were stupid. You dumb girl. What do you think they want from you? You’ll be crawlin’ right back. See if I care. See if I let you back.” 

“Stop while you’re ahead,” Bucky steps up and squares his shoulders. You brother’s about the same height but to skinny to measure up. He doesn’t say anything else. “Thought so.” 

Bucky spins and points down the steps. Steve nudges you. You descend as you hitch the tote up your shoulder.  

You flinch as you feel something brush up your arm. Steve curls his fingers under the strap and lifts it off your shoulder. You let him. You don’t know what to do. Everyone around you is always telling you what to do. You still haven’t figured out how to make them stop. 

🏀

Bucky and Steve’s townhouse is nice. You stand in your socks and take in the front room. There’s a TV mounted above the mantle of the artificial fireplace. Along the ledge, there are oval frames around pictures and ornaments in brass. 

A brown suede couch and matching chairs stand on the vintage rug woven in shades of amber, red, and beige. The tinted sconces on the overhead fixture cast a soft hue over the space and a square coffee table sits at the center of the carpet. The curtains are sheer burgundy and a polished wooden shelf stands against one wall with a curved top and an array of books across its shelves. The room smells faintly of sage. 

“Make yourself at home, doll,” Bucky surprises you as he rubs your arm. “You must be beat. You put up a good game today.” 

“Oh, uh... okay. Um...” 

“Hungry?” He offers. 

“I can make you something,” Steve offers. 

“Oh, no. No, that’s... fine.” You drag your feet into the front room. “I’ll just uh crash on the couch. Keep out of the way.” 

Bucky and Steve step into the archway and share a look between them. 

“The couch? That’s not right. Our mothers would spin in their graves,” Bucky chuckles. 

“Couldn’t let you,” Steve says. “Come on, we’ll show you the bedroom.” 

You nod and go back to them. Steve still has your tote. He goes first and Bucky waits for you to follow before he does the same. You’re led up to the second floor and down to the end of the hall. 

“Grab some extra pillows, Buck,” Steve says. 

Bucky retreats and you hear him open another door as Steve stands in another. He turns and waves you after him. You near and he sidles inside to let you get a view of the room. 

The bed is larger than any you’ve ever seen. Wide; draped in dark blue sheets beneath a grey duvet; striped linen sheathed around the pillows. The night tables match the pale birch of the bed frame beneath sleek azure lamps. The curtains are a similar shade of blue and a long dress supports a row of books between silver bookends and a mounted compass on one end, mirrored by an antique globe at the other. 

“Oh, wow.” 

“Get comfy,” Steve says as he puts your bag on the bed. He takes out the pouch and sifts through the contents. “You got pajamas in here?” 

You scurry forward, shocked at his intrusion. You reach for the bag. “I can find them--” 

“You can have one of my shirts, if you want,” Bucky offers as he leans on the door frame. 

“Um... that’s okay...” 

“Shouldn’t get too cold.” Bucky says. 

“Yeah, we run hot.” Steve agrees as he continues to search your bag. 

“What, er... what do you mean?” 

Steve glances at you then looks past you. You turn to peek at Bucky. He grins. 

“Bed’s big enough. Lotsa room for all of us,” Bucky says. 

“All...” you murmur. “Like I said, I can sleep on the couch--” 

“You won’t. Ladies don’t belong on the couch,” Steve undercuts.  

“But, er...” 

“We’re nice guys. You don’t trust us?” Bucky asks. 

You blink and your lips part. Your eyes dart between them as you swivel your head. “I don’t mean—I just--” 

“We don’t mind,” Bucky pushes away from the door. He reaches for you as he comes close. He caresses your cheek softly. “Find something for her?” 

“Hm,” Steve turns with your striped pajama pants. “No.” 

He tears them down the seam. You gasp. You reach for them and Bucky pulls you back. He presses himself to your back and nuzzles your hair. 

“It’s alright, doll. I said, you can have one of my shirts,” he rasps hotly over your scalp. 

A chill runs up your spine and prickles over your skin. Bucky’s hands knead your shoulders and he purrs.  

Steve’s chin clefts deeply as his grin spreads. “You deserve nice things, sweetheart. We can be nice.” 

What do you say? What can you say? The time for no was back at the house, if you ever had the courage to say so. 

“Worked up a sweat, didn’t you?” Bucky drags his hair up to pet your hair. “You need a nice hot shower.” 

“Me too,” Steve rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. “Think we all do.” 

You would fall over if Bucky didn’t have a hold of you. Steve nears and strokes your chin. He leans in as you’re locked in place. He kisses your forehead. 

“You’ll feel better.” He assures as he pulls away. 

Your skin tingles where his lips touched, a tickle left by his beard. The smell of his sweat mingles with Bucky and clogs your nose. The man behind you squeezes and turns you. Your feet move clumsily at his silent behest. 

Another door opens, this one attached to the bedroom. Steve enters first. The light flicks on and illuminates the pristine bathroom. White tiles trimmed in blue; a large shower booth encased in glass, with no measure of privacy. 

“Towels,” Steve goes to the tall shelf embedded in the wall. He takes three fluffy towels and hangs them near the shower. 

“Um...” you murmur. “Can I... alone?” 

“It’s alright, doll,” Bucky’s hands settle on the sides of your neck. “We’re taking care of you.” 

“Must be new to you, huh?” Steve arches a thick brow. 

“Erm, but...” you babble as your words fade to air. 

Steve peels off his shirt. You gape at him before tearing your eyes away. His torso is as thick as his arms; corded muscle, dark blond hair across his pecks, thinning out down his stomach to the front of his jeans. 

You latch onto Bucky’s hands and draw away. He could keep you there if he wanted, but he doesn’t. Steve unbuttons his fly and you gasp. 

“I can wait my turn,” you offer. 

“You’re afraid? Of us?” Steve looks at you as he pushes down his zipper. 

“I... I...” you sputter and turn around. You nearly run head first into Bucky’s naked torso. He’s as broad as Steve, a little less but dark hair on his chest, and his metal arm contracts as he opens and closes his fist. 

“Shh, you’re okay, doll,” he coaxes. 

He grabs the bottom of your tee shirt and tugs up. You try to stop him with a squeak. There’s pulling at the back too. You twist and squirm as you’re trapped between the two men. 

“Just tryna clean you up. It’s not good to go to bed dirty.” 

“I can do it myself,” you whine as they get your shirt to your chest. “Please--” 

“Shh, sweetheart,” Steve cooes. “Relax.” 

The yank and you twitch. You have no choice but to raise your arms. The strip off your shirt and goosebumps scatter over you. You quiver and cover your flimsy bra. 

Bucky pets your shoulders as Steve pulls at the back of your bra. It slackens and you squeal. What’s happening? 

“You said you’re nice...” you whisper. 

You don’t know if they hear you. Or if they do, that they care. Bucky pulls your wrists down and helps dispose of your bra. Your nipples peak as you’re left exposed to them. 

Steve strips down to nothing then returns his attention to you. You tremble as he rolls down your shorts.  

You snivel and Bucky puts your hands against his chest and holds them there. He guides them over his skin and hums. Your legs shake as your panties are yanked down to your ankles. 

Steve’s large hands cup your bottom. You lean into Bucky without thinking. He spins you to face the other man. You cry out and stumble back into him. He nudges you away. His shorts fall with a soft whoosh. 

“Please, I’m scared,” you say. 

“Why?” Steve tickles down your throat. “Sweetheart, we’re just taking care of you.” 

Slowly, the urge you to the shower between them. Hands wandering and roving over your naked skin as you cower. Steve pulls the door open and Bucky marches you inside. He gets between you and the showerhead and cranks it on. 

Steve crowds you in from behind. The water sprays down from the showerhead mounted from the ceiling. It’s large enough to rain over all of you. You shudder as you resign yourself to their wills. 

They work in tandem. Steve takes the loofa, Bucky offers the shower gel; they take turns lathering up your skin. Bucky, the front, Steve the back. Their hands linger on your curves, delve along the creases. Their voices roll out in soft purrs and growls. 

Bucky pushes the loofa into your hand. He squeezes your fingers around it. You stare at it, your lashes webbed from the downpour.  

He guides you around to face Steve and leads your hand. Steve stands patiently as Bucky helps you scrub him down; neck, shoulders, chest, stomach. The muscles tighten at your touch. 

Steve trails his fingers up your sides as you wash him. Lower and you nearly recoil. His delight isn’t subtle. Like the rest of him, it’s hard to miss. 

You’re dizzy as you’re spun again. This time, Steve helps you with Bucky. He brings your hands to his thick dark hair and guides you in scratching his scalp, his thick locks dripping over his face. 

More hands on you; thighs, hips, stomach, chest. Kneading, feeling, groping. You are nothing more than a toy to them. 

When the water shuts off, you’re left buzzing. Your legs are shaky, your head is spinning, and your skin is alight. You stand on the fluffy bathmat as they dry you off. Your teeth chatter but you’re not cold. 

You look from one to the other. Their eyes are dilated and dark. They are not the friendly men you met on the court. Nor are they the heroes you saw on the news. 

[chloe302225]

Three Pointer 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: When you go down to see your brother at the basketball courts, you find yourself drawn into a game you don't quite understand.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes

Note: I meant this to be one part but it should only be 2 or 3 at most. My mind is a bit addled. Without having to go into the pain, I lost someone dear to me.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Photo Sources: #1 #2

The bounce of rubber on pavement greets your approach. You come to the chain link fence and peer through, searching among the courts for one person in particular. Your brother is there with his usual crowd; three-on-three. 

Your anxiety twists in your gut. There’s always so many people down here. So many strangers. 

You enter through the gate, the hinges whining high, and you pass by the benches of those waiting for their go or watching. As you keep your head low, a whoosh blows past your nose. You step back and look up as the ball bounces off fence behind the benches. 

You glance over as a man catches it. You blanches show your palms. ‘Sorry’, you mouth, your voice trapped up inside your chest. 

He echoes you out loud. “You okay?” 

You stare at him. His dark aviators reflect the sunlight and his sleeves are rolled up over his sweaty shoulders. You finally find the sense to nod. You should pay attention.  

You slowly sidle past him. He backs up and watches you before slowly turning around. He tosses the ball to another man. He catches it and flips it into the net with no effort at all.  

You trip as you notice the other man’s arm. At first you think it’s tattoos but they shine like that. It’s metal. You can see a hint of the scarring where it meets his flesh, just beneath the black cotton of his tank top. 

You turn and put your head down again. It isn’t nice to stare. You know you don’t like when people do. 

Your brother, Carter, is in the next court. As you glance up, he’s squinting at you. You frown. What did you do now? 

You stop at the corner as Trevor calls his name. Carter sneers and turns to grab the ball out of the air. He aims and shoots. It bounces off the backboard and Hakeem catches it with a chirp, “Looking sharp.” 

“Whatever,” Carter puffs. “I need water.” 

He flicks his fingers in frustration and stomps toward you. He wipes his forehead with his arm. He ignores you as he grabs his worn-out gatorade bottle. 

“Chu doin’ here?” He growls before he squirts a stream into his mouth. 

“You said come get you around seven.” 

He swallows loudly, his eyes darting behind you. “Did I?” 

“I thought--” 

“Why were you bugging those guys?” He asks. 

You peek back. The man in the sunglasses makes a three-pointer. You shake your head as you face your brother. 

“I wasn’t--” 

“You needa go home. You don’t even like basketball,” he accuses. “No one needs you in the way. ‘Specially not them.” 

“You never ask me to play,” you shrug. 

“And who wants to play with you?” He rolls his eyes. 

You pout and nod. You wouldn’t be very good, would you? 

“Well, it’s seven. I just came to say so like you wanted.” 

“Sure. If Tonya shows, just send her here.” He spits. 

“Right.” 

You don’t like how he treats you like his time-keeper and his messenger. You don’t like Tonya either. Or many of his friends for that matter. They’re like him. You only live together because you got no choice. You can’t afford your own place. 

You spin and head back for the gate. Before you can reach it, the same man as before approaches you. He uses his shirt to wipe his face. Your eyes stray for just a moment, cheeks tinging at the sight of his muscled stomach. 

“Hey,” he tugs the hem down. “You wanna sub in? I needa sit.” 

“Huh?” You stop short and look at him. “Me?” 

“Sure. If you don’t mind? My buddy hates to wait on me,” he points over his shoulder with his thumb. 

“Well I... I don’t play much. Just come down to watch my brother,” you explain. 

“Oh, well, my buddy isn’t very good either,” he chuckles. “Just for two minutes.” 

You look at him. His beard is damp with sweat and a trickle runs down his temple. You look at the other man dribbling, watching you. 

“Okay.” You don’t like to argue. Carter always wants to and you’re over it. 

“Steve, by the way,” he introduces himself as he grabs his water bottle and sits. 

You give your name before you crane to see across the court. You turn and near the other man, waving shyly. “Uh, hi.” 

“He’s sending in a ringer,” the other man bounces the ball then catches it. “What’s your name, doll?” 

You repeat it again. 

“Bucky,” he replies. You blink as something in your mind tweaks. That’s familiar. “You start.” 

He bounces the ball and you barely get your hands around it. He bends his knees and gets into a guard position. You stare at him. You don’t know what you’re doing. 

You dribble, clumsily, and try to angle around him. He moves easily with you. You try to divert but only get your foot under the ball. It veers off and hurtles into next court. 

Bucky chases it as you scrunch up your hand and press it to your chin. He scoops up the ball and Carter turns. He says something but you can’t make it up. Bucky barely acknowledges and turns, giving a somewhat flummoxed face. 

“I’m sorry,” you eke out. 

Your eyes linger beyond him. Carter watches you with a scowl. He gestures, somewhere between disbelief and agitation. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky says. “Gotta start somewhere. How about we go over the basics before you wipe the floor with me?” 

“I’m not very good,” you mumble. 

“Come on, I’ll show you.” He looks you up and down. “Stand here.” 

He taps the ground with the toe of his sneaker. You shuffle around to stand at the peak of the curved line. He takes the ball and stands parallel to you.  

“Watch my hands,” he directs. 

You do. You try not to gape at his metal knuckles as the plates contract with his movements. 

“Hold like this, then flick your wrist.” He makes the shot easy and the ball pings back to him. “Look at that square above the hoop. That’ll help.” 

He hands over the ball. You hesitate but take it, fingers brushing his. You take a breath and focus on the box on the backboard. 

This is going to be so bad. You were never good in gym class but you liked trying for fun. With all these people around, watching, it’s not so fun. 

You try. That’s all you can do. It hits the backboard, then the hoop, then once more goes to the side. Bucky hurries to catch it. He bounces it as he turns to you again. 

“Close.” 

“I’m taking up your time,” you stand on your toes and teeter. 

“Nah, I don’t mind.” He holds out the ball. Once more, you accept it and resign yourself to failure. He steps back. “Take your time.” 

You do, take your time. You stare, contemplating space and time and all the odds against you. You should’ve just gone home like Carter said. 

You flick your wrist. You look down at the pavement before the ball can deflect. You hear it hit and the net swooshes. 

“Yeah,” Bucky claps. “Good one.” 

You flinch and lift your chin, “it went in?” 

“Sure did,” he grabs the ball. “You’re a natural.” 

“Good job,” Steve praises as he approaches. 

“Oh, um, he showed me how.” You sway. “Thanks uh... for letting me try, but... I’ll leave ya be.” 

“What? You’re just getting started. Come on, I’ll show you a layup,” Steve insists. 

“Well, I don’t know...” you say. 

You hear a snort. You peek over your shoulder. Carter is watching. Bucky twists around to see too. Your brother shies away and smiles at the man. He only gets a shake of the head in return. 

“That one your brother?” Steve nudges you gently. 

“Er, yeah, Carter,” you answer. 

“Why doesn’t he let you play with him?” Bucky asks. 

You chew your lip. “Like I said, I’m not very good.” 

“Not having practice doesn’t mean not good,” Steve says. “Besides, it’s not the NBA. It’s fun.” He takes the ball. “Now let’s work on your layup.” 

🏀

You dribble and stop. You can sense Steve and Bucky coming in from both sides. You hurl the ball up with only the intent to deter them. It spins high into the sky and arcs back down. To your surprise, is drops right through the net. 

“Ha,” Steve stops it between his hands, “got us again.” 

“You don’t have to let me win,” you say. 

“Let you? Nah, we wouldn’t do that.” Bucky says. 

“Even if we are, means we get to buy you celebratory drink, right?” 

“What?” You laugh, “no, you don’t have to--” 

“Hey, sis,” Carter interrupts. “Headed home. You coming?” 

You slowly turn. Really? 

“We can get her home,” Bucky rebuffs. “We’re just wrapping up.” 

“Oh, sure, Barnes,” your brother laughs nervously. “Just didn’t want her walking home alone.” 

Your cheek pinches. Since when was he so concerned? Something else needles in your brain... 

“We can get her home,” Steve intones. 

You glance at him, then Bucky. It dawns on you. You turn to your brother. 

“I’ll be home soon,” you say. 

His face falls, “oh, sure. Just... be safe, sis.” 

“Okay,” you utter. 

He lingers, waiting, and when no one stops him, he goes. You watch him until he’s gone then turn to Bucky. He looks back at you calmly. 

“I know who you are,” you say. “Both of you.” 

“Figured it was obvious,” Bucky laughs. 

“Maybe, but... unexpected.” 

“We’ve been coming to this court since it opened in 1936.” Steve says. 

“Uh, of course,” you cringe. “I only meant... I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Steve chides. “We’ve been away, we know all the best places around, so why don’t we take you for the best drink in the borrough?” 

“That’s... nice. I don’t drink though. Never tried it, to be honest.” 

“How about ice cream, then? Alcohol doesn’t do too much for us. Not with our biology.” Bucky suggests. 

“I... alright.” 

“I know, not much fun hanging out with old men,” Steve snickers. 

“No, I don’t mean...” 

“Kidding,” Steve says. “It’s just around the corner. I’m sure you know the place.” 

Steve keeps the ball and grabs his water bottle from the bench. Bucky takes his bottle too and they walk on either side of you across the courts. As you come out to the street, the evening begins to set in. 

You head north then just around the corner. You’ve been to the ice cream bar before. It’s a bit too expensive for you so you usually get one scoop in a cup, no toppings. 

Steve holds the door. You enter ahead of both of them. You stop and browse the menu. You should try something new. 

“Know what you want?” Bucky asks. “This guy always gets vanilla.” 

“Can’t go wrong with a classic.” Steve says. 

“Nah, just gets boring,” Bucky snorts. “I’m thinking caramel brittle. Sounds interesting.” 

You nod and think. It goes silent as the shop employee awkwardly pretends to stack cups behind the counter. You shift and clear your throat. 

“Strawberries and cream?” You say as you reach into your pocket. 

“Our treat,” Steve insists. “Sprinkles? Waffle cone?” 

“Just a cup is good,” you assure him. 

“Got it. Buck, find a seat.” Steve hands over his water bottle. 

“Come on, doll.” Bucky gestures you away. 

You go back out to the patio area and find a table. Bucky sits across from you and put the bottles on the table. You hook one foot behind the other and lean your elbows on the wood. 

“You live around here?” Bucky asks. You nod and rein in your wandering eyes. “Used to,” he says as he combs back his dark hair. The patch of grey in his beard catches the receding sunlight. “It’s rougher than it was.” 

“It’s not too bad,” you say. You just double check the locks and get home before dark. 

“Things are different for pretty girls. Can never be too careful.” 

Your brows pop up. He means you? 

“Oh, thanks, but... I’m fine, you know?” 

“I’m sure you can take care of yourself,” he grins. 

The door chimes as someone comes out. Steve sits beside you and doles out the ice creams. He got yours in a waffle bowl. That’s the most expensive. 

“Good game,” Steve says. 

“Yeah, fun,” you agree as you poke the ice cream with a spoon. “Thanks for letting me play.” 

“We should do it again. You know, this guy, he’s a bit dull. It’s nice having a buffer.” 

“Me?” Steve exclaims. “Whatever.” 

They both laugh as you can only offer a smile. You like them. Even if you feel like an outsider, it’s not because of them. You just always feel that way. 

🏀

Bucky and Steve walk you home. Another pang of guilt pulls at your chest but you’re happy they came with you. It’s dark. Things are both quiet and too noisy. You swear you can hear other footsteps. 

You stop just at the edge of the overgrown lawn. Carter was supposed to mow it but you’ll probably end up doing it again. You don’t need another notice from the landlord. 

At least it’s dark. They can’t see how cruddy the house really is. You sway. 

“Um, good night, then.” 

“We’ll walk you to the door. It’s only right.” Steve says. 

“We’re old-fashioned like that.” Bucky adds. 

“Oh, alright.” 

You wait a moment then head up the walk. They follow. The front stairs groan under your weight, then theirs. You get to the top and turn around. 

“Thanks again.” You say. “I had a good night.” 

“We did too,” Bucky assures. 

“Sure di--” 

The door behind you opens. Yellow light pores out and casts Carter’s shadow over you. You cringe. 

“About time, sis. You left dishes in the sink—oh, you’re here.” He nearly chokes as he notices the men on the porch with you. 

“You’re not very nice, are you?” Bucky hisses. 

“What? No. I was reminding her. It’s her turn.” He pushes the screen door out and you move out of the way. “You guys wanna come in. I got beer.” 

“You could do the dishes,” Steve growls. 

“Huh? She said--” 

“Please,” you pipe up. “Really, it’s not a big deal. You two should head home. It’s late. Carter, I’ll do the dishes.” 

“They your dishes or his?” Bucky challenges. 

You blanch and shake your head. 

“Um, well, just dishes,” you answer. 

“No way to treat family.” Bucky mutters. 

“No, it’s not,” Steve agrees. 

“I’ll do em,” Carter’s voice squeaks. “It’s no big deal. Come on, sis. You’re right, it’s late--” 

“No. No. She’s not going inside.” Bucky says. 

“What? Really, it’s... fine.” You argue. 

“She’s coming with us. Shouldn’t be living in a place like this,” Steve exhales. 

“It’s--” 

“Not with him.” Bucky snarls. 

“But--” You begin. 

“Doll, you just settle down. This is what we do. We save people.” Bucky drawls. 

“And we know what it looks like when someone needs saving,” Steve puts in. “You come with us.” 

“And you,” Bucky jabs a finger at your brother. “Better not see you again.” 

“Me? She’s my sister--” 

“Nah,” Bucky grabs your arm. “She’s not yours anymore.” 

[chloe302225]

Blurred Lines 9

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your relationship with your boss takes an unpredictable turn.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stir from your brief delve into unconsciousness. You yawn as the motion of the car threatens to lull you back under. You bring your hand up to rub your eye, an unfamiliar voice giving you a start. 

“Nicky, you know I got lots of space. Besides, you owe me.” 

You sit up as your eyes flick open. You look around, it’s only you and Nick. The touchscreen in the dash shows a call in progress. You sit back and relax. Nick glances over subtly before looking back to the road. 

“I wasn’t planning on it--” 

“I know you’re in the area,” the other man insists over the speaker. 

Nick sighs, “it’s not really...” he pauses. “Give me a minute.” 

He taps the mute icon and rests his hand on the shifter. He flutters his fingers in agitation, his other hand firmly gripping the wheel. He exhales as he keeps up with the rush of the highway. 

“Last night I called in a favour. Sort of. Wasn’t expecting to pay it back so soon but...” he sucks his teeth and drags his free hand up to the wheel. “Work, you know?” 

“Right, uh, where are we? I’m sure there’s a train or bus--” 

“Nicky! Hey! Answer me!” The man on the call interjects, ignored by the other. 

“Couple hours this way or that. Longer than it will take to get to his place,” he twists his hand around the wheel. “I know you weren’t planning on this but I don’t think you’ll lose your job over it.” 

You meet his gaze in the rearview as his cheek dimples. You nod. You don’t have much going on, do you? 

“I... guess it would be fine, sir. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your job,” you say. 

He hums, “thanks, honey. You always take care of me.” He unmutes the call. “On my way.” 

Honey. He’s said it a few times. You suppose you shouldn’t think much of it. You do the same quite absent mindedly to cashiers and the like. 

“Keep me in the fucking lurch, why don’t ya--” The caller snarls. 

“See ya then.” Nick hangs up, not letting the man gripe further. 

You figure a brief detour isn’t too much. Considering he rushed all this way for your daughter, you can wait in the car while he deals with it. Those last few chapters can wait. 

“Sleep okay?” He asks. 

“Um, sure. Was I out long?” 

You shift and feel pressure on the edge of your nipple. You look down and try not to draw attention. You tug the jacket snugger and cover your chest as it threatens to spill out. 

“Bout an hour?” He shrugs. “Again, I’m sorry about this. In my line of work, you get a lot of pushy jerks.” 

“Oh, sure,” you nod and watch the traffic through the windshield. “The CIA, right?” 

“Yep,” he replies casually. “Trust me, it’s not as glamorous as it seems.” 

“Bloody,” you say. 

He tilts his head, “sometimes.” 

You’re quiet as you think. It makes a lot of sense. The bruises, the private calls, the nameless guests, and last night. You wonder what would have happened to Barber if you hadn’t stopped him... 

“I’ll try to make it a quick stop,” Nick intones. “Sorry in advance for this. Hansen is... a bit of a character.” 

“I’m sure I can handle it. Messes are my specialty after all,” you kid. 

“I don’t doubt it. I just don’t think you should have to. Not this guy,” he scoffs. 

🔹

Nick shuts off the engine and lets out a sonorous breath. You lean forward to look up at the house. Some fancy second or third property one might call a chateau to sound fancy. It reminds you of a novel you never finished. It was just a bit too silly for your tastes. 

“Nice house,” you remark, sensing Nick’s reticence. 

“He knows how to spend money,” he scoffs as he undoes his seat belt. 

“You should’ve let me take the train,” you gently unbuckle your belt and ease it gently back behind the seat. “I do hate to be in the way.” 

“Not your fault. He’s a stubborn—guy,” he shakes his head. “He gives you any trouble, just ignore him. Or tell me. I know how to deal with him. Hell, give him a smack if you feel like it.” 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’ll make myself sparse,” you assure as you slip your feet into the heels, a twinge pinching in your arch. 

He makes a face and pulls the handle on his door. He pushes it out and climbs off the seat. You open your door and stifle a groan as your hip pangs. As nice as the car is, sitting for so long always settles right in that spot. 

You shut the door and the jacket hangs precariously from your shoulders. You look down and adjust your chest, trying to hide your cleavage under the deep vee as best you can. You lift your chin and tug the lapels together. You wince as you find Nick watching you. 

“Sorry, I’m not meaning to drag my feet,” you say. 

He shrugs. “We’ll just get this over with.” 

He comes around the hood and you meet him there. You walk in tandem up the steps, long slabs of stone arranged between a trickling grotto and trimmed hedges. You can’t help but try to tally up the expense of the decor, let alone the property tax on it all. 

The door opens before you can reach it. A man struts through and booms, “Nicky! ‘Bout time.” 

He charges toward your boss with arms open. Nick catches his hands and keeps him at bay with a growl. “Hansen.” 

“Oh, don’t play coy with me, Nicky,” the man snickers. 

“I’m here. Now what do you want?” Nick retorts. 

The man keeps laughing and rips his hands free. He glances over at you and his blue eyes flash. He sports shaved sides and longer strands combed back on top. His lip is dressed with a thick line of bristly fur to match the chest hair peeking out from under his satin shirt, only a few buttons to hold it closed. He’s not the sort you would associate with your boss. Nick has his moments but maintains a certain standard. 

“And who is this busty babe?” He approaches in a saunter. “Name’s Lloyd but you can call me ‘daddy’." 

“Hansen,” Nick grabs his upper arm before he can get to you. “Reel it in.” 

“Huh? Oh come on. You bring this--” 

“You better choose your next words wisely,” Nick shoves him back. 

“Holy balls,” the man, Lloyd, staggers back and catches his balance. “Fine, fine. I didn’t know you were with someone.” 

Nick scratches behind his ear in agitation as the tension weaves through the air. 

“I’m just his maid,” you explain. “You can just ignore me. He's giving me a ride home.” 

“Huh? You make your maids dress like that?” Lloyd snorts. 

“Been a night,” Nick shakes his head, hands on his hips. “Would you focus? What the hell did I drive all the way out here for?” 

“Alright, Nicky, chill,” Lloyd reaches and rubs Nick’s chest only to be swatted away. “I got a job for you.” 

Nick glances over at you. “Confidential,” he comments. 

“Right, I’ll find her a quiet place and we can discuss. Hey, baby cakes,” Lloyd turns to you, “you like wine?” 

“Oh, I’m fine. I can stay out here and watch the birds,” you offer. 

“Look, I’m a jackass but I’m not a bad host,” he offers his arm, almost gallantly. “I’m gonna get you in that den, all settled with a glass, and then I’ll sort out this grump ass.” 

Your lips twitch. He’s so absurd it’s almost amusing. He’s not the kind of person you’d ever want to be alone with but it’s rare that you ever see anyone fluster your boss. It’s quite the feat. 

You hook your arm through Lloyd’s and let him turn you around. He leads you inside. The interior is just as elaborate as the facade. There’s a sort of wildlife theme going on. Animal prints and polished wood. 

“My shoes,” you try to stop on the mat. 

“Eh, don’t worry about it. Nicky’s not the only guy with cleaners. Mine come early so I don’t gotta deal with them.” 

Cleaners? All the way out here? You don’t know you could be paid enough for that. 

“Just in here,” he points you through a set of open french doors with some exotic animal horns as handles. Please don’t be real. “Red or white? Sparkling?” 

“Really, I’m fine,” you insist. Nick sighs loudly. He’s getting impatient. You just want to sit. “If you don’t mind, I might just close my eyes until you two are done.” 

“Fine with me,” Lloyd unhooks his arm, dragging his touch down yours before he backs up. 

“Hansen,” Nick grits. 

“Oh Nicky, I’m coming,” Lloyd turns and shows his palm. “You are always so demanding. Dom energy.” 

You scrunch up your nose and Nick meets your eyes with exasperation. He’s usually more stoic. He must be as tired as you are. You offer a gentle smile then retreat. 

They head for the door as you sit on the edge of the couch, a silken blanket hangs over the back and pillows in zebra print are piled against the armrests. You lean into the corner and yawn. It’s a lost cozier than the car seat. 

🔹

“Hey,” the gentle squeeze on your shoulder brings you too.  

Your lashes flick open and you flinch as Nick looks down into your eyes. His irises are like hewn azure. You sit up with a gasp. 

“Sorry, sir, I must’ve...” you blink and look around. The large tall window panes are swathed in shades of black and blue, a speckle of lights shining through. “It’s late.” 

“Mm, well, he talks a lot,” Nick withdraws his hand from your shoulder and crosses his arms. “Look, I hate to do this to ya but I’m beat. Last night, driving all day, it wouldn’t be safe to go now.” 

“I could drive, sir,” you offer. 

“You’ve had as much sleep as me. No, don’t worry about it. Hansen, says we can have a room. Get ourselves sorted before we head off.” 

“Sure. Uh, that’s very generous of him,” you stand and grunt, rubbing your lower back as it tightens. 

“You okay?” 

“I’m great, Mr—Nick,” you catch yourself. “At my age, a few aches are nothing.” 

He stares at you. “You’re not that old.” 

You smile, “sir, you really don’t have to say that. I’m not upset. It’s a nice house.” You look around even as the heat of his gaze lingers on you. “I’ve had jobs where I’ve put up with worse.” 

“What’re you? Forty-five?” He wonders. 

You look at him and your cheeks pinch. “Anyone ever tell you not to ask a woman her age?” 

He smirks crookedly. “I know how old you are. I was trying to compliment you. Fifty-two. Not too bad.” 

You bite your tongue. He’s playing with you. Why? 

“Give it fifteen years then tell me how good it is,” you chide. 

He chuckles. “Fourteen, actually.” 

“Uh huh,” you grumble. 

There’s a lull. Long and roiling. You shift around on your heels. 

“Hungry?” He offers. “Hansen had the sense to offer us something.” 

“Now that you say it...” 

“Starving,” he says as he turns and ushers you across the room. “Better not be a protein shake or I might snap.” 

You hum in agreement. Your stomach is clenching. You walk beside him and stiffen as you feel his hand behind you, hovering along your lower back. His proximity is almost suffocating. You’re overthinking; it’s the lack of sleep and the change in routine. Surely. 

“Hansen,” he hollers as you come out into the hallway, “where’d ya go?” 

He stops and listens. The footfalls come a moment later and slap down the stairs. You look up to watch Hansen descend. You look away as soon as you see what he’s wearing; a cheetah-print speedo and slides. 

“I’m hopping in the hot tub. Food’s in the fridge. Labeled. Mabel has it all sorted,” he explains. “When you finish, you’re more than welcome to soak.” 

“I don’t think so,” Nick snips. 

“No swimsuit required,” Lloyd barters. 

“Just go.” Nick barks. 

Lloyd stomps down the last few stairs, “you know, Nicky, you always are such a gracious guest.” He continues past you, his slides slapping loudly. You shift as Nick lets out another irritated huff. 

“If I don’t eat or sleep soon, I’m going to kill him,” he mutters. 

[chloe302225]

Frank Langdon Masterlist

Ivy - Frank gets a tattoo to commerate the woman he loves.

Hypocrite - Frank struggles to make amends for a past wrongs.

Crash - Almost getting you fired wasn't the lowest point of Frank's addiction.

Rock Bottom - Frank hits rock bottom when he sees the devastation his addiction's caused.

Little Black Dress - Frank starts to spiral when he realises you're dating.

Every Damn Day - A drunk text leads to a confession.

Wet Dream (NSFW) - Frank sometimes dreams about the life you had together.

War Stories - A realisation about your coping habits leads you to Frank's door.

The Three Cs - Frank and you finally discuss your issues and pave away towards the future.

The Wall - A date at the climbing wall leads to a revelation from Frank.

Commitment - You create a fun way of showing Frank your commitment to the relationship.

At Your Alter - You discover Frank's tattoo when you undress him for the first time.

All In (NSFW) - You and Frank take a big step forward.

Slut (NSFW) - Frank gets a little bratty after a bad day.

Only Fans - Frank and you discuss adding an extra element to your sex life.

Nightmare Fuel - Frank’s been waiting for the fall to come.

Boo Fucking Hoo - Your forced to defend yourself after you’re attacked outside the hospital.

The Incident - Frank’s world is thrown into turmoil when he learns about your attack.

The Filing Cabinet - Things haven’t been the same between you and Frank since the attack.

The Perfect Storm - Frank’s time in North Carolina almost leads to his downfall.

The House - Frank reflects on his decision to sell the house.

Hawaii - Frank travels to Hawaii to lay it all out on the line.

Wildest Dreams - Frank gets an unexpected surprise in the E.D.

HCs:

What Ivy Was Doing During Pittfest

Showers/Baths

I Love You

Food Fight

Handholding

First Kiss

Frank Langdon's Infinite Playlist

Camera

Good

Horny

Place

Zealous

Dressing Up

Edging

Instigation

Kinky

No

[chloe302225]

Introducing: Just John…the smut edition. wc: 1.4k

Happy Valentines Day :) as a little treat I decided to rewrite my first little John Price Drabble. Enjoy ;)

It had been a long fucking day. You’re exhausted when you finally curl up under the blankets.

Finally your phone is in hand, sleep mode is on, and the newest fanfiction chapter you’ve been waiting for pulled up. You got a notification that it was posted ten minutes before work and had been looking forward to it all day. You just know this is the one where they were finally going to kiss. After all, you're already 15 chapters in..

You’ve settled into the story, the tension building like you had hoped when you start to feel movement behind you. Rough whiskers brush against your neck tickling gently. A strong arm reaches under your chest, and a large warm body scooches across to your side of the king-sized bed, inching you toward the edge.

Looking up from your phone you sigh, “Darling.”

A pause, then a quiet “mumph” sounds from behind you.

“What was the point of a large bed if you shove me off the side every night.”

You feel him shift backward, dragging you along into the center of the mattress.

Sighing you snuggle in, going back to ao3. A couple minutes go by when you start to feel his rough palm sliding underneath your t-shirt pulling even closer against the hardness of his body.

Ignoring the heat pressed behind you, you try to focus on the fic in front of you. The two characters now actively in the miscommunication trope, when you feel a hardness start to rut against the softness of your ass. You smack your phone down on the mattress.

“Jonathan Michael Price.”

The rutting stops as the grown man whines from behind you.

Locking and reaching to set your phone on the nightstand you twist around to face the other side of the bed, being greeted by a pouting bearded face, half hidden in his pillow.

There are days you are so happy that he feels safe and comfortable enough to tear down the walls that were so heavily built up by the years in the military. You’re grateful that he doesn’t feel like he has to be Captain Price in your home or in your bed, that he can be just your John. But on the days you want to read your fanfiction in peace, you wish he had something other than you to keep himself entertained. But even then, your John was hard to resist.

“John.” You say softly, taking in his wide sweet blue eyes and grown out beard as he rubs his face against his pillow like a cat.

“Just missed you lovie.” he rumbles.

“Baby you’ve been home for a month now.”

His voice came out muffled from the pillow his face was shoved into “Still not enough.”

“Hmm.” You reach out, gently brushing your fingers through his hair, pulling the ends gently. He wilts into the touch, shoulders settling back into the bed.

“Just need some attention baby?”

“Mmm.” John unravels his hand from underneath the blankets, blindly reaching out to you, finding your covered chest and groping your breast gently.

Smiling to yourself you move his hand, catching another low whine from him. You hush him as you take off your shirt, your chest bare underneath. Laying down on your side closer to him you bring his hand back up to your chest, letting him feel the warmth of your skin without the barrier of clothes.

Johns large palm cups your breast gently, feeling the weight of it. He squeezes the soft sensitive skin, lifting his head from the pillow to admire you.

His gentle touch sends shivers down your spine, his rough thumb catches against your nipple as he rubs over it gently. A moan catches in your throat at his gentle ministrations and he mirrors the sound, burying his face into the warmth between your breasts, using his weight to push you onto your back.

You move willingly, fanfic long forgotten as your husband hovers over you, his hardness brushing your thighs through his thin pajama pants as he leans down, kissing you deeply, tongue flicking over your top lip.

Arching into his body you trail your hands from his shoulders to his chest, tangling your fingers into the dark hair there. He sighs as you slide lower, following the path of hair to the edge of his pants, now resting low on his hips.

John was hard, had been since he first rolled his hips into you, but now the weight of his erection pressed against the softness of his pants, a wet spot forming near the tip.

You curl a hand around him through the material, a low groan escaping as he murmurs a rough, “Lovie, please.”

“Begging so soon.” You tease, leaning up to brush your lips against his as he pants. As you move your hand along his length, gripping and teasing the sleepy softness in his eyes melts into something desperate and wanting.

Continuing to tease him you run your fingers just barely over the tip of his cock, causing his hips to jerk when suddenly he leans his weight down, pressing against your body, trapping your hand against his cock and stomach. He presses a kiss against your lips, one you match with a smile, shivering at the switch.

Hooking his thumbs into the edge of his pants he pulls them down, rolling onto his back to kick them off his long legs the rest of the way. You slide your own off, the material getting lost under the blankets. You squeal as he rolls over on top of you now fully nude, his hard cock bouncing with the movement. You grip onto his shoulders, suddenly feeling grateful for the giant sized bed as he moves you across it, grunting and pawing at your chest, your hips.

John slides down your body, brushing open mouth kisses against your skin. When he reaches your hips he moves down, pressing your thighs open, parting your pussy for him, already wet. At his grip you whine, arching as he licks firmly against your clit.

“Always so wet for me lovie.” His words send a vibration against your sensitive skin and you quiver. Leaning back up your body he kisses you deeply, letting you taste your own sweetness before he buries his face into your neck, his cock flexing against your thighs.

“Where do you want me baby.” You whisper against his ear, anticipation building as your husband slides his large hands down your body to your hips, flipping you. You gasp as he pulls your hips up, your chest and face pressing down into the mattress automatically.

Knees spreading to accommodate him you shiver with excitment. You love when he gets like this, when he’s your John but with all the control of a Captain who knows what he wants. As one of his hands press against your lower spine you feel his warm cock slide against your arousal, guided by his hand. He presses against your entrance and you moan. You’ve been together for years but each time he enters you the stretch feels like the first.

Your back bows as your hips rise up, his grip against the meat of your waist and ass anchoring you as he pulls back, thrusting all the way in, his balls slapping against your bare skin. You moan, gripping the sheets as he thrusts into you, pushing you across the mattress.

At each thrust you moan, letting your body be under his control as he fucks into to you. Soon his hands loosen and hips slow, and through quiet whispers he encourages your own movement against him.

Gripping the sheets under you for leverage, you press back, fucking yourself against his cock as he matches your rhythm, meeting your thrusts. Heat builds as you move wildly against him, chasing the pleasure building inbetween your hips. Broken moans fall from your lips as the warmth finally spreads, peaking, and your pussy clenches around him.

“Fuck, my lovie.” John growls as he grips your hips again, chasing his own pleasure as your movrments slow. You’re limp with pleasure against the mattress as he finishes inside of you, thrusting through his own final sparks of pleasure. You sigh contentedly as he pulls out, his cum and your arousal dripping from between your legs.

John leans over you as you turn to meet him, pressing your lips against his.

“Alright?” he whispers against your mouth. You smile, closing your eyes.

“I’ve missed you too John.”

You hear him chuckle lightly as he pressing a kiss against your head.

Blinking slowly, fanfic well and truly forgotten, you watch as your John, and the occasional Captain Price, cleans up your shared pleasure between your thighs.

He curls up next to you, and you fall asleep in his arms, grateful for another night where he is in your bed..

[chloe302225]

captain john price x female reader. mentions of sexual actions. those who feel inspired can continue the story bcs i dont feel comfortable writing smut yet <3

It had been a long fucking day. You’re exhausted when you finally curl up on your side of the bed, phone in hand, newest fanfiction chapter pulled up.

The tension is steadily building in your friends to lovers fic when you feel it.

Strong arms wrapping around your waist, hot breath, and rough whiskers against your neck. A warm body pressing itself against your side of the massive king-sized bed.

“Babe.”

“Mumph.”

“What was the point of a king-sized bed if you shove me off the side every night.”

You feel the body shift backward a little bit, bringing you with him into the center of the bed.

Sighing you snuggle in, going back to ao3 as you feel his rough palm sliding across your stomach and waist pulling you closer against the hardness of his body.

Ignoring the heat pressed behind you, you try to focus on the story in front of you. The characters now actively in the miscommunication trope as you feel large hips start to rut against the softness of your ass.

“Johnathan Michael Price.”

The rutting stops as the grown ass man whines from behind you.

Setting your phone on the nightstand stand you shift around, a bearded pouting face looking at you.

There are days you are so happy that he feels safe and comfortable enough to put down the walls and boundaries built up by the military when he’s around you. That he isn’t Captain Price in your home or in this bed.

It’s been an exceptionally long day, however, and patience for the pouting and rutting and touching is at its limit. But his eyes were wide and sweet as he watched you.

“John.” You say softer.

“Just missed you lovie.” His voice rumbled as he rubbed his face against the pillow like a cat.

“Baby you’ve been home for a month now.”

His voice came muffled from the pillow his face was now shoved into “Still not enough.”

“Hmm.” You reach out, brushing your fingers through his chest hair gently. He wilts into it, settling back into the bed.

“Just need some attention baby?”

“Mmm”, a hand reached around to your chest groping gently.

————————————————————————

those who feel inspired can take it from here :)

[chloe302225]

The way this beautiful SAS man took the bullets out has me hypnotized

first off I would like to thank god

[chloe302225]

✭ CRASH ✭ Jack Abbot x F!Reader

When Jack catches you out walking to work in 30-degree weather alone in the fucking dark, he has no choice but to realize his feelings for you are far past romantics and hurdling towards possession. That only becomes more apparent when he catches you on Robby's motorcycle after.

WORD COUNT: 15.7K || Based on the implication we’re gonna see Robby riding a motorcycle in season 2. I am sure Reader's a nurse. dot dot dots like no tomorrow. Graphic depiction of blood, wounds, and vehicular accidents. Inaccurate medical terminology and situations. Age gap between Jack and the reader. Jealousy, possession, romantic entitlement. Dr. Robby x Reader, if you squint like there's no tomorrow. You can read this as a part of the series Lengths, but also not. Might get ocish 🥸🥸. Angst. Jack goes coo coo.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

AUTHOR MASTERLIST THE LENGTHS PART ONE SHIFTING @pearlstiare

PART ONE DESCRIPTION: Jack meets the new nurse Robbie's been fawning over, only to then take the next couple of nights to pathetically cope with what he's feeling for the peppy, sunny young woman he's just met.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Early evening on a Winter Street. Just before he’ll find you at the nurses' station with your glitter pen and the smile he can’t bear with the cheeks he tries to make blush all at once--

The city is already dipped in that steel twilight, where the breath of drunkards fog, the drunkards he’ll probably have to treat deeper in the night. Wind cuts sharp through the collars of late commuters, but Jack? He’s gonna be early to work, probably. Name him trauma attending of the month.

You are the most ridiculous, resentfully genius nurse and woman and person I have ever met. I wish I could blame you for something. 

He’s behind the wheel of his battered black truck, thermos in the cup holder, window down to breathe in the sting of the too-cool air. Jack doesn’t know why he does this, other than the fact that it’s a place where pain can feel good. When does that happen? Not in the Pitt, that’s for fucking sure. It’s against his medical oath to claim pain can be tolerated. But…that’s only in reference to patients, not him, right?

There’s no way you’ve possibly beaten him to the E.R. One thing you resent him for? It’s the way he’s quick. Casually so. And he’s not too humble about that, if Jack says so himself. 

Ah. Fuck. 

Jack shakes his head stiffly; it’s more like one slight jolt to snap him out of it because thinking of you while he’s on his way to work with you is as ridiculous as you are. It’s uncharacteristically pathetic of him, maybe. There. Maybe that’s something he can blame you for. 

“Nice use of your blinker, bmw-bastard-bitch.” 

Jack nearly whispers it, but that asshole of a driver is what gets his mind to slip away from you, so…thank them for that. Traffic’s slow, and he begins flipping through mental protocol for the night. Staffing numbers, open beds, that critical case that might get transferred down from Fox Chapel–

“Dr. Abbot, there is no need to dryly sass me when all I’ve been doing is assisting you like a champ.” 

“...You are. You are assisting me very well, which is why I need to sass you. With all the praise Dr. Robby’s been giving you, I can’t have your ego building on me. 

Jack’s mouth twitches widely before he jolts his head once again to slap whatever was gonna decorate his face. 

Just leave him alone, kid. 

…He hopes you’re still wearing your pink shoes after he teased you about them for the fortieth time. Jack likes them. They’re…visual stimulation for the slow shifts. 

Okay. Traffic? Traffic’s slow. Staffing’s short on him. Of course, but there seemed to be an endless number of open beds last night. That critical case is definitely getting transferred down from Fox Chapel, poor, bare-budget fucks–

“What the fuck?” 

And there. He sees her. 

You. 

Across the street. Walking alone. Head down, coat zipped tight, tote bag slung over one shoulder and a thermos at your hip. But then…Jack’s focus locks in. 

You’re wearing your pink sneakers and a wool beanie with little specks of glitter. Your badge is clipped to your coat, which bounces with every hurried step. You’re tugging your scarf higher, cheeks are flushed from the cold…because, of course, they are. It’s 30 fucking degrees. Your fingers–they’re bare. What the hell? Do you not own gloves?

Jack’s jaw locks. His foot eases off the gas before his eyes narrow like he’s tracking a threat. Because this, sleepy? 

This isn’t cute. It isn’t quaint. It isn’t you not knowing what’s good for you because you believe the world is perfect and kind, and everything Jack could roll his eyes at you for thinking in the first place, only to let up and realize that, eventually, that’s what makes you you. That’s what been prodding at his fucking heart like a badly held needle to skin in all the months he’s known you. 

This? This is dangerous.

Jack slows the truck. Stops. His fingers flex around the steering wheel, because seriously. What the hell are you doing walking alone?

He watches, heartbeat climbing—not from the initial surprise, but from…a casual, dry rage. Hey, if he weren’t in therapy, he probably wouldn’t know how to name that feeling. But you–you’re so damn feminine in the way you move, the bounce in your step, the shiny pastel accessories clipped to your grey scrubs. Even the ridiculous pink thermos swinging at your hip looks out of place in the darkening, frozen street.

“What the hell are you doing?” 

He mutters his question before making the next turn hard and quick, looping the block with what’s probably muscle memory before pulling up to the curb just ahead of your path. He flashes his lights once. 

If you keep walking cause you think he’s some creep, he’s going to drag you into this truck. 

You’re blinking in surprise, and Jack knows you’re hesitating when you don’t recognize the truck just yet. But when you do, you smile as you pick up your pace, jogging the last few steps to him. 

Jack rolls the passenger window down. 

“Hey, Dr. Abbot! What are you doing out here so early? Trying to beat me agai–”

“Get in.” 

Jack says it flatly. Eyes unblinking. He doesn’t care for or about your face wearing confused, slight hurt when he does. 

You flutter those eyelashes quickly, and this time…isn’t gonna work on him, sleepy. Again. Not this time. 

“Wait–what? Jack, I’m only five minutes from the hospital. Ain’t a big deal.”

Jack doesn’t take his eyes off you, because what is wrong with you? Why are you…out here alone, putting yourself in danger? Whether that be the cold or something–someone else. And you don’t accept his first offer? 

His first order. 

His voice goes sharper. 

“It’s below freezing. It’s already dark. You’re walking alone. I said get in. 

Jack doesn’t know there’s something in his voice that silences any further teasing from you, but his eyes flicker to the way there’s hesitation in your hands, and then he uses his to grip the wheel of his truck. 

“Jack, I’m not a baby bird. It’s Pittsburgh. People walk.” 

“Not women alone. Not at night. Not in that. 

Jack gestures to your coat, which is too thin. Your shoes, too pink. 

You frown. “What’s wrong with my coat? And…how are you still finding a moment to get on me for my shoes?” 

“What’s wrong with it? Jesus,–” Your name comes out of his mouth in a near groan, and he doesn’t understand why your mouth parts slightly at that. “You dress like a candy striper in an alleyway. You ever heard of blending in? That maybe, if you’re gonna walk alone in the fucking dark, then try not wear something that screams “I’m the bubbliest woman on earth?" Seriously, sleepy.” 

Your frown deepens, and maybe Jack will feel guilt over that later. But not now. He needs you to understand. 

“Wow. Rude.” 

You’ve never seen him like this before. Sure, he forced you to report that flirtatious old man, whom you swore was just a victim of dementia, who thought you were his wife, to HR. Sure, sometimes you catch the dry snark in his quips whenever you get “too” smiley with your Mel or Dr. Langdon. But this…this confuses you as much as it hurts you. 

“You don’t get to be oblivious. Not out here. You walk like nothing can touch you, like no one’s watching. You’re you. You? You're all…pink shoes and wide eyes, and you talk to strangers like they’re already friends.” 

He breathes in sharply through his nose before he’s not breathing at all.

“And that’s exactly the kind of person who doesn’t come home one night.”

The wind picks up. You stare at him. He doesn’t look away. Not now, but it’s the way there’s difficulty in that, difficulty where there never was with anyone else.

What are you doing to him?

“Jack...you think I’m that careless? I'd never...”

Jack blinks. No. Because you’re fucking perfect. 

It’s nearly gritted. 

“No. I think." Jack's head shifts stiffly. He swallows. "I just...think the world doesn’t deserve someone like you walking through it alone believing in it.”

You’re quiet, and Jack ignores that feeling that he purposefully doesn’t name…because it’s almost something like fear. That he went too far, which he couldn’t possibly have because you need to understand what you’re doing to him–

To yourself.

You’re quiet. Then, almost shyly–something so unlike you unless he’s confident enough to want to make your cheeks flush. “You always this dramatic?”

Jack reaches the other seat to open the passenger door. 

“Get in. You need a ride, you call me.” 

His eyes flicker to the hesitation in your hands, but he can tell you see there’s no point in arguing, which is good. 

Because something in his voice says this isn’t up for debate. 

“Thank you.” 

“Do not worry about that, kid.” 

Jack waits until you're buckled before he pulls back into the lane. His jaw’s still set. His shoulders are still stiff. But when he glances at you, really looks at you, there’s something in his eyes that’s closer to fear than frustration. But you don’t know that. He hopes you...or he never will. 

He rolls up the passenger and driver windows. He turns on the heat with a tense grip on the wheel. His prosthetic aches—not that he feels it under the rush of adrenaline simmering through him just because he found you taking a solo stroll.

“I’ve walked that street a hundred times, Jack. I’m fine.” 

“You ever hear a woman say that when we wheel her into the Pitt with a stab wound? With—”

Jack stops himself. No breath. No sigh. Just a slight head shake.

With severe injuries from sexual assault?

The rest of his question is said dryly. You falter, looking down at your hands. And quietly, almost to himself—

“You don’t get to be 'fine' when it’s dark and cold and you look like you’ve got a target on your back.”

Silence settles between them.

You don’t argue this time. You just sit beside him, small in the passenger seat, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

Jack stares straight ahead...cause he’s realizing something.

This isn’t just about attraction getting the best of his character, or admiration that’s shot in the head when he realizes the perfect, smartest nurse has the bright idea to walk in the cold streets of Pittsburgh after dark. It’s not even that reckless flutter he feels every time you brush past him in the trauma bay.

This is deeper. Sharper. Something dangerous in its own right.

Because you don’t even realize how vulnerable you are. How trusting. How bright in a world that eats people like you alive.

And Jack…he shouldn’t be at the point where he’d burn down the city if it meant keeping you safe, because that’s fucking weird. At most, he should feel…entitlement in his romantics. But this is not romantic. This is protective.

Too protective.

And that realization fucking punches him almost more than seeing you walking alone ever could.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

The hallway’s warmth fogs Mel’s glasses as you see her on her way out. She nods before she greets you and Jack brightly.  The way of her adorable nature is almost enough to forget where you just came from.

But when her smile drops at Jack's inability to really greet her back, it all comes seeping through.

"Don't tell me you forgot how to smile--"

"I'm betting my other leg that that case from Fox Chapel is being transferred down. I heard it's psych-central, and that's your house. You'll be the front nurse on that, I'm sure."

You unwrap your scarf, cheeks still flushed from the cold, while Jack shrugs off his jacket without saying much. You keep glancing sideways at him. 

You still carry the weight of his earlier tone, how surprised you are by how…rattled he got. 

It’s usually not hard for you to make your voice sit light, but here, you push it through your smile. 

“Sooo…you yell at all our nurses for walking to work?”

“No. I would if I caught them.”

You raise your brows, but he doesn’t elaborate when you do. He just fishes through his coat pocket, pulling out gloves. His. 

Worn black leather, and his hands…they’re big. The gloves are too big for you by a mile. He holds them out. 

You smile. 

What is your doctor doing?

“Is this an apology? Or some sort of peace offering?”

You watch his eyes focus on the gloves before they flicker up into yours. And the intensity of his brown eyes is telling you he’s still serious, and you can’t have that. Not after the way he thought you were deserving of…whatever the moment on the street was. 

Maybe he’s just having a bad start to his shift, and you’re receiving the brunt of it, because he cannot be this worried over you, because you’re worth Jack Abbot’s worry. 

You don't deserve his worry, or his casual, dry genius. You don't, and you can't have him pretending that you do.

So, you laugh softly, but Jack doesn’t crack. He just pushes the gloves into your hands more firmly. 

“Keep them.” 

He says it quietly. You blink. Your voice goes startled. 

“Jack, you don’t have to–” 

“I said keep them.”

Your eyes lock for a heartbeat too long. You can feel it in the way yours speed up. You hold the gloves now, your smile gentling. Now? You’re less amused, you guess. More touched and blushed, but Jack’s already looking away, pulling open his locker and putting away his backpack like it’s just another shift, like he didn’t just nearly yell at you on the sidewalk for doing something you’ve done a thousand times before, only to then gift you with something you don’t think he’s ever lent out to anyone. 

“You know, for someone who’s probably the fortieth most dramatic person in the E.R, this is kinda…reactive. Possessive, doc. Where's H.R. when I need them?” 

Truly. You mean it as a tease. Just a soft joke. Not even as something to test the waters, but Jack only crosses his arms against his chest. 

“Just wear them, sleepy. If you paid attention, maybe you'd see that you don't live in the Bahamas."

There. You think he's over it with his dry joke along the slight smirk on his lips.

You slip the gloves on.

"Not now, we are literally about to start our shift-"

"I know, I'm just trying them on."

They hang a little over your fingers. Loose around your palms. You flex both hands. You study the way his warmth feels on your hands.

God. You try not to blush.

What is wrong with this man? What is wrong with you?

...Nothing, really, because who wouldn't feel their heart leap out of their chest when Jack Abbot is like this in his concern? In the slight lines and strong jaw of his face.

You try not to shudder when his hands take yours, casually slipping the gloves to fold them. He shoves them in your tote bag, nothing but the word nothing on his face.

"Does it bother you?"

"What bothers me?"

Jack doesn't blink at your question.

"The reaction." His eyes take a half-second glance at someone passing by, only to face back to you, his head shifted, and his voice is slightly quieter. "Would you rather me not care about you?"

The word not is nearly dragged out in the back of Jack's throat. The entire question is joking. Not teasing. Just asked like it’s nothing.

His mouth twitches when you do end up shuddering, because how can you actually not?

"...I could take it or leave it."

Jack nods with sarcasm in his thinning lips and narrowing eyes. He crosses his arms.

"Yeah. Okay, sleepy."

And Jack doesn’t say another word—he just heads for the trauma bay with that stiff walk, the one that comes when he’s thinking too much, when the limp you wouldn't know was there if you weren't paying attention disappears because he's focused.

You watch him go before you tug out his gloves from your bag. You don't laugh. You don't roll your eyes or come up with an internal quip to lessen whatever's at the pit of your stomach now.

You just put on his gloves to feel the warmth of them.

Of him.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Two days later. Sun is setting, but there is a resentful solace that doesn’t exist in the dark. Jack doesn’t think there’s anything about you he could call dark. He’d kill himself before betting on it. 

Robby’s half-dressed in street clothes, which is pretty unusual for Jack to see. The sweat’s still clinging to the back of his neck from the shift that just ended for him. Jack leans against the lockers, arms crossed, watching his friend shove his scrub bottoms into his bag with a little too much force.

Jack’s not feeling all too swell at a quip from his friend, the friend who’s obviously in a rush to go somewhere, still had time to make. 

“Didn’t know you were on hall patrol now, Abbot.” 

“I’m not?” 

Robby grins stupidly for a second or so. “You sure, brother? Cause I heard…what? A day? Two days ago, Dana saw you with sunshine. Thought you were gonna drag her in by the scarf.” 

Jack doesn’t take to the bait, even though and because it’s fucking stupid. He just picks something off his scrub top and mutters–

“She was walking alone.” 

“I know, that’s what Dana said she told her. And the scarf thing? Her words. Not mine. But uh–” Robby’s head shifts, tilting slightly with his eyes looking to the tile. He zips up his bag. “Walking alone as an adult. I know we don’t usually talk about things like this–I’m in no place to say anything–” 

“And here we are.” 

Jack finally takes himself away from the lockers to put his backpack in his. The pause sits for a minute, and there he thinks about it. 

Justification and defensiveness comes way too easy to him.

“If it was just you peeved enough to make her roll her eyes, that would’ve been that. But with what Dana was saying, just about the way you were acting when you came in…people walk in cities. Like, millions of people do. Every day, Jack.”

Jack doesn’t turn to Robby. He stares at the bottom of his locker. 

Jesus Christ, he wishes he could make this about his disbelief. He wishes how his inability to find this conversation funny and not targeted would be the result of the frustration over why everyone is questioning his frustration–his frustration over an E.R nurse who would know the dangers of walking alone at night as a woman found walking alone at night as a woman. And sure. Yeah. It’s still there in his usual, casual confidence, but–

He knows what this is. He’s known it from the day he found you out in the street. He knows that you could’ve been walking in the middle of the day, sun down upon you and…whatever. You could’ve been with someone. 

And he’d still feel this heaviness in his chest telling him to go after you. 

He’d question if it’s smart for you to walk to work in the heat with scrubs and a sleeved shirt underneath. He’d question who it was you were walking with. He’d lecture you for riding with a stranger if you took an uber. 

It would be easier to not feel so damn guilty about it if he knew you weren’t so damn capable and compentent. That would make his possession over you valid. But…here they are. 

“You wouldn’t stop if you saw one of our nurses or residents taking a thirty minute stroll in the dark while they’re trudging through the snow? That you wouldn’t question their judgement, Robby?”

“...No. No. I would. I’d stop, I’d offer a ride. And walking by yourself when it’s dark out in the cold isn’t the best or most logical situation. Maybe I’d tell her that…I don’t know.” Jack finally turns around, looking Robby in the eyes when he lets him. They stand under that familiar mechanical humming. The walls of the Pitt at work. “For her sake, I’d bring up that I’d rather see her come into work in a cab and not an ambulance that had to have been called because she was robbed and hurt.” 

“There. That is what I am saying. That is–” Jack crosses his arms before sitting down on the bench. “It’s freezing. And dark. And she’s...look, she’s not street-sharp. You know her. Not cautious. Not really. She probably talks to every cab driver like they’re her therapist.” 

“Wouldn’t this not be a situation if she took a cab instead?” 

Jack stops his breath. Smartass. 

“And what about us or the place she’s dedicated her life to scream caution, brother?” 

Jack shakes his head before focusing in on Robby’s face, because as much as this isn’t the most valid anger, it’s also the most valid anger and why can’t Robby see this? 

“...She had no gloves.” 

Jack says it curtly, only going lower and louder on the word had. 

The closest he gets to turning away first is when Robby’s brows raise. 

“...No gloves? That’s your breaking point?” 

No. It’s the point where he realizes you matter more to him than you should, cause you have to matter to him a whole fucking lot–cause he shouldn’t feel like this and the only possible explanation as to why his heart is gonna jump out of his fucking chest at the sight of you is because you made it so he finds himself too worried at every step and too proud at every accomplishment you make with a needle or IV. Because you’re too pretty and competent and bright and everything he can’t handle. So…the most you can do is allow him is worry. 

Even when that worry scares the shit out of him. 

“I am saying, statistically, women alone at night are more likely to–” 

“I know, Abbot. We know. But–” Robby looks up to the ceiling before crossing his arms. Jack laxes his cross to rest his palms on his knees. 

“You were worked up.” 

“How could you know? I didn’t monologue in front of Dana or anyone–” Jack blinks in his breaking. His head tilts before he glances a glare at the door. “...It wasn’t just Evans who mentioned it, was it?” 

Robby doesn’t nod, but his narrowing eyes give way. 

And Jesus Christ, it has to be a good thing. The usual thing of his character–the guilt in the first question Jack asks in his head. The question that’s aided by his hands turning into fists for a second or so. 

It’s not ‘Why would you tell Robby?’. Not ‘Did what he did bother you that much that you brought it up a day or two later?’ 

It’s ‘Why the fuck were you talking to Robby in the first place?’. 

…The guilt makes him aware, right?

“Concern, that’s warranted, Jack. More than. Also, don’t think I’m in a place to care but…I think it’s safe with the way you two act around each other to say that you wouldn’t have reacted like that if it were anyone else. And the way you reacted was a bit…for you, for you–it was just a little over the top. I mean...with the way you've been reacting to her more aggressive patients have been...a lot."

Jack's words come out defensive, fast. And there goes the fucking guilt. 

The patients? Why is he bringing up your slew of sleezy overdoses and drunks?

“You’re right, we’re good with each other, but we don’t usually talk about things like this. But if you’d like to know, I wasn’t that worked up, and even if I was, you are also right on how we don’t need our nurses hitching rides by gurnies.” 

“...You’re worked up right now.” 

…Is he?

Jack gives Robby a look, dry as desert from forever ago. 

“She had no gloves, Robby.” 

He couldn’t know that his fellow attending makes the decision to smile smally, it’s not natural, it’s a choice he makes in chance to have Jack get more worked up. 

What are you exactly doing to this guy?

Maybe the smile becomes more genuine with the question popping into Robby’s head. 

“This interrogation is stopping you from wherever you need to go. Go.” 

It’s definitely more genuine when Jack decides he wants the previous conversation to end. Robby nods his head. 

“...Date?” 

Robby scoffs. “No.” 

“Something with Jake?”

“...Nah–just taking the new bike out. Just got her from a guy upstate. Jack, you gotta see this thing. I’m trying to be casual about it, but I guess, uh, sly biker isn’t my style.” 

…Oh God, Robby.

Jack knows this isn’t a mid-life crisis. Not really, probably. What he knows is that E.R doctors tend to be adrenaline junkies, and sometimes they tend to be adrenaline junkies with the habit of suicidal ideation. Sometimes you get MDs turning into gamblers, sex addicts, drug addicts. Sometimes they put themselves somewhere dangerous. 

Sometimes they buy a motorcycle. 

He watches Robby scratch the back of his neck. His own expression doesn’t shift much, but there’s a delay—just enough time for a beat of concern to flicker behind his eyes because…yeah. A motorcycle.

“You get a helmet too, or just the death wish?”

He tries to say it casually. Robby laughs with a slow blink. “You used to jump out of helicopters. Don’t come for me.”

“Yeah, with a parachute. And orders. And a med evac team on standby. And I’m not exactly bragging about my military resume–” 

Not now. Jack swallows. He pretends Robby doesn’t for the sake of keeping the conversation light. 

“You jealous, man?” 

Jack snorts, lips twitching in something that might be a smile.

“Jealous of bugs in my teeth? No thanks.”

“You’re not invited anyway…” Robby swings his bag over his shoulder. “Grandpa.”

Jack’s head jolts back before he turns his palms up to the ceiling. 

“One, you on every technicality is closer to being a papa more than me. Two, you told me I have to see it. That’s an invitation. I am welcome. Three, I’m saying–you know better. You’ve been in the trauma bay long enough to know that.” 

He knows this conversation won’t exactly go anywhere, because Robby’s stubborn as shit. And that’s okay. He’s an adult. Jack’s sure he won’t be doing any BMX tricks around the block. But still, the reasoning for a sudden motorbike is obvious, and he can’t help but question. But the questions turn into quips, and he’ll…his friend will be okay. 

Robby simply shrugs before grabbing his keys from the locker.

“I need something, Jack. Maybe it’s good to find an outlet that isn’t running laps around the hospital. Like you. And me. And everyone else in here. Just, gotta get the edge of somehow.”

That’s the first time Jack’s posture falters. 

“The edge off what, exactly?”

He sees it quietly and again, Robby gives him a vague, dismissive shrug as he makes his way out. Doesn’t answer. Jack doesn’t push. But he watches.

We don’t need to find each other on the rooftop again. 

“Just–don’t go looking for chaos. You know how it wins. Often. And usually.”

Robby pauses at the door.

“Yeah.” His voice is softer. “I know.”

Then he’s gone. Jack keeps himself there for a bit, standing up to stare at Robby’s empty locker that he never actually locks, his reflection faint in the metal, its decorations of scratches. 

He’s not judging. Seriously. He just knows the feeling too well, and sometimes the feeling takes you over, promises you you deserve to feel it while telling you all the shitty ways you can get rid of it. Some of them get addicted to adrenaline. Some to noise. Some to numbness. Jack isn’t perfect in that department, he can’t be when he finds being co-dependent with his work and the Pitt ideal. That’s not healthy, right? No. It’s not. And he doesn’t care. Still, the guy’s trying to keep his addictions to minimum. 

His head snaps at the sound of a familiar voice trailing past the locker room. Jack makes his way out quickly, ignoring the ache of prosthetic when his does. 

He calls you out by your last name before he turns into the hall.

“When did you start gossiping with Robby–”

He stops when all he finds is Santos. A very confused looking Santos. 

His mouth parts. He grips the door frame before pulling on both ends of his stethoscope.

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else. You can…continue to go wherever you were going.” 

“...You thought I was sunshine?”

“Santos, I am apologizing. Do not push it.” 

“You heard me and you thought I was her? I sound nothing like her...I mean, I feel complimented–” 

“Go. Now. Thank you.” 

Santos leaves with what Jack thinks is a smile. He blinks once. 

He is trying. 

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

The trauma bay smells a little more like antiseptic than usual. An overhead light flickers. The night, as much as it started with Robby’s confrontation, is good. It’s been a long night, but the kind that Jack thrives in. Thrives in exhaustedly, but thrives none-the-hell-less. 

And sure, even with you as his little snitch, it’s easy to stay sharp when you’re across the room. 

“I think I’m having heart palpitations, Dr. Abbot. The means it’s been a good shift, right?” 

You pull off a pair of blood-streaked gloves. You’re breathing a little harder than usual, but of course, you’re smiling that smile of yours that’s somehow more energizing than cocaine. He’s guessing. Whatever the comparison, it’s resentfully more energizing. 

He watches you. As always nowadays. Screw you.

“I’m not saying our nurses fumble their way through central lines. But you? You, sleepy, are like a damn sniper. Solid work tonight.” 

He says it dryly. You raise a brow. 

“A sniper?”

“One shot. Clean. No mess. I blinked and you already had it taped.”

You snort as you toss your gloves and it’s streaky red into a bin. “I know what a sniper is. Just...that is probably the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.” 

Jack shrugs, eyes still on you. 

It’s a compliment. His compliment. Just take it. 

“I meant it as high praise. Snipers are efficient. Focused. Lethal.” He cocks his head to the side. “But unlike you, they’re usually the silent type.” 

You obviously don’t get his little jab is specific to you talking about him with Robby, but he lets that go when you let out a half laugh. 

In the end, he’s sure it’s good that he’d rather have you laughing that tucked away in the corner of his truck. 

“Okay. Doc, you are either flirting with me or insulting me and I genuinely can’t tell which one it is.” 

Jack’s mouth twitches. “That is the beauty of it. I keep you guessing.” 

He doesn’t answer your quip along your grin after. There’s only something quieter in his smirk–something he’s probably not gonna name because tonight was mostly good despite everything and he doesn’t want to ruin them. 

“You are definitely flirting. So, no–I’m not finishing off your charts for you.” 

…Whatever’s the quiet thing in the lines of his face must against his better judgement. It’s what got him flirting with you in the first place, what makes him softly slip up and find confident justification for said slip up later. 

He pretends to focus on a chart that, no, you will not finish. You are bullshitting him. He’s always finishing your ends of a chart. 

“You belong on the night shift.”

It’s an efficient thing inside of him, Jack guesses. It’s really quick to make him confident in his dry, low blurtings. 

You blink. He looks into your eyes. 

“What?” 

“You’re good. Too fast. Again, you’re from a more than capable bunch, but even the best nurses trip over themselves when they get assigned to night. You…adjusted like you didn’t have to.” 

Jack won’t notice the way your smile falters just a little. If he did, there goes his chance of staying confident. But he watches you shrug with folding arms, your soft voice slipping away from him. 

“I learned how to survive in chaos a long time ago.” 

…Yeah. He can tell. It’s why it’s unfortunate that it takes one moment of you out in the dark to know that doesn’t make a difference. 

Beautiful, capable girl. 

His eyes hold yours. He’d thank you for letting him if he didn’t realize the both of you are already post-shift. The morning sky is that bruised purple…like. Lavender. Lavender-grey. There’s headlights blinking down wet, frosted streets. 

“Walking again, sleepy?” 

“Just to the bus station. It’s not far.”

“Still dark out.”

“Thanks for the update, Weatherman. Jack, I promise–I’ll be fine. I’m not walking home, just making my way for the bus.”

He doesn’t smile as the both of you make your way down the hall to find the nurses’s station where you tucked your bag underneath a desk. You always leave him– 

The Pitt so quickly. He watches you tie your scarf with practiced hands. 

He feels himself press something more firm to the bottom of his throat. “I can pick you up. Drop you off. We work the same shifts most nights anyway. It’s just convenient.”

You look at him, and he’s beginning to accept the way your gentle expressions make him…falter’s a weak word. Ew. But also, it would be you, wouldn’t it? 

“Jack–” 

Get in his car. Let him take you home. 

“It’s not a big deal. I’m offering. That’s all.”

It’s obvious you’re hesitating on a reply, but Jack isn’t exactly sure it’s because you don’t believe the concern or…that you can see it all too well. 

“I’m suggesting, really. But–so you know. You don’t need to be out like that again. Not when I’m...when you have people willing to help you out.”

The latter is a bit more heavy on his chest, because that’s more likely to scare you away from him, right? 

“...Okay, Jack. If I need it. I promise.”

Jack nods once, briskly. Like it’s settled. But there’s something tight in his jaw, something he doesn’t say. Another unnameable thing.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Another evening stroll home.

You should’ve called a car.

You’re bundled up, yes–but your pace is one of a slowpoke. You’re tired. You’ve just finished a double, and it’s cold enough to bite at the tip of your nose. That damp Pittsburgh chill that’s seeping through your coat no matter how tightly you wrap it is almost as lovable as Whitaker, or the way Jack smells. 

Golly, you’re smart, aren’t you? 

But you needed the walk, the quiet. The feeling, however temporary, that you can move through the world on your terms. Even if it’s just ten blocks. Even if the reason why you first walked to the Pitt and then home isn’t as poetic. You just missed the bus twice that day. 

You pull your scarf higher over your mouth, hugging yourself as you pass the bar on the corner, one Heather and Co. promised they would take you out to when you first started working in the E.R. You watch a man stumble out, so you’re obviously missing all the fun. You try not to flinch when he shouts something you can’t catch. You don’t really look up, even. It’s just a man being loud, as drunk men are. 

But what’s louder is that rumble of an engine slowing behind you. You can’t help the way your heart skips with a cold spike of adrenaline. That sound–there’s no way you don’t flinch at its rumble. 

…Of course. 

You sigh shakily, watching your breath managing to go cool against your scarf. It’s only a strange mix of relief and frustration tightening at your chest. 

You doesn’t even have to look to know who it is.

“Jeez.”

You steel yourself when Jack’s truck crawls up beside you, the window sliding down with that creaky, mechanical whine. 

Quick, what’s the quickest way you can settle your doctor? 

“Hey…” You look down to your bundled hands. “At least I’m wearing your gloves this time.”

Jack’s pale face wears nothing. Not even a blink. 

“I–” 

“I thought you said if you needed a ride, you’d tell me.” 

You close your eyes for a beat at how sharp Jack’s voice is. You count to three before you look at him. 

Quick, what’s the quickest way you can settle yourself? 

You watch your breath fog the air, scoffing light. “Are you, like, following me now?” 

Inside of you is a wanting you want to berate. That thing–that stupid, anxious flutter it always does around Jack, the thing that almost kills your quips and banter and births blushing and a shyness you can barely handle. It’s still here now. When he’s berating you. For being a grown adult, making the decision to walk home. 

“I just finished a double, you’re on your way to the Pitt…wh-why would I call you? That would make me some…l-leechy asshole. And you're gonna be late for work.” 

Jack nods sharply. Blinks once. Your heart speed up. 

“Leechy asshole. You made a good choice becoming an E.R nurse and not a poet, sleepy. Good choice.” You watch him press a button and faintly hear something like air start to blow. Heat. “Get in.” 

That thing. The flutter. As much as it infuriates you, it’s a small, pathetic part of you that makes you feel safer seeing him here. And if this was any other situation–flirtations in a trauma bay, watching him go stern when a patient hits on you and such, you wouldn’t hate that part of yourself. You usually don’t. 

But that part of you is what makes you almost immediately listen to him. It’s what makes you want to please him, satisfy whatever this is. And that? As much as you like him, you can’t let that happen when it’s not right, right? The way he worries isn’t…normal, right? 

And you’re almost to the point of not caring, of getting in the car, and that can’t happen. 

“You walked past a drunkard stumbling around with a bottle like it’s a damn .47.” 

His voice goes low, irritated. Your jaw tightens. 

You’re already at the point of feeling more embarrassed he caught you walking alone than angry at how he thinks he can act this way with you. And that’s…you’re 90 percent sure that’s not right either. So. 

“That guy from the bar? You noticed tha…” You shake your head. “He didn’t even look at me, Jack.” 

It’s obvious Jack isn’t satisfied with your defensiveness, because his voice lifts just enough that you know this is as close as he gets to raising it. 

“That is not the point. He could’ve. Or–not him, but the next night you decide to play with hypothermia, you find someone who takes advantage of the situation you put yourself in.” 

And there, with Jack’s lowering eyes and stern jaw, you feel your frustration curl into something meaner. Something tired. And you think he can see that, and that he can see why. 

You feel satisfaction swell against the fatigue of having to justify every step you take, of denying any justification of why Jack can act like this. 

“I’m not saying it would be your fault–I will…I am going to backtrack on that.” 

“Yeah, Jack. You better if you want me to get in your truck.” 

You couldn’t know how he takes that as an immediate challenge, even when he cocks his head lower and stiffly. 

“You’re don’t have to assume that every single being on the sidewalk is a threat. I’m just saying I’d rather…I’d rather have someone be there for you if there is.” 

You watch his jaw clench, and for second, you think you see something you’ll ignore. 

An actual raw, ugly fear in his eyes. That, if it’s there, it doesn’t matter how unjustified it is, you think you might have to let Jack have it. 

“I’ve told you this already. You know doctors don’t like to repeat lectures.” The wind gusts between you and the truck. “Get in.”

You look down at your shoes, fighting the way your throat aches, but when you begin to speak, you already know that your voice is gonna be smaller than it wants to be. 

“I said I’d ask when I needed you.”

…You know this can’t just be about tonight, or about the last time he found you one the street. It’s never just one moment about tonight. 

It’s every moment and shift and look you decided to find endearing–the times where Jack is waiting for something to go wrong so he can be the one to fix it. 

And with his soft curls and demanding eyes, you can’t ignore how you feel more grateful than furious. 

“And I said I didn’t want you waiting to you do.”

..It’s why you get in the truck with spite and cause all at once, why you buckle your seatbelt with stiff, careful hands before Jack pulls away from the curb without a word. 

“You’re freezing.”

“...You’re dramatic.” 

Jack pushes the passenger vent towards you, and the other passing car’s headlights catch the faint lines around his mouth, the one’s that appear when he’s close to a smile.

“You wanna talk about dramatic? You catch Robby's ride before he left?”

Both of you. Settled.

You stifle a giggle. "Yep. It’s…nice."

You have to stifle another when Jack’s head snaps at you. 

“Do not tell me you’re a biker girl. Absolutely not–” 

“No. Absolutely not. They are death traps…not that I’m judging your friend!”

The headlights pass, it’s nothing but the dark. You don’t see how Jack’s mouth falters, the way the lines disappear. 

“Well. He’s your friend, too.”

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

He is definitely late for his shift, like you said. But hey…it’s not exactly your fault. The heater hums low, pushing warm air towards you, and with that, the exhaustion you garnered from your double, and your strolling through snow, Jack assumes it’s why you ended up curled into the passenger seat, head tilted against the window, lips parted in a dream or whatever. He doesn’t say a word, he drives. One hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh near where his prosthetic makes him whole. The radio is off, the scanner is off, and both his phone and pager’s been buzzing on the dashboard. Both are ignored. The hospital is long behind both of you. 

And he passed your street ten minutes ago. Hence, his being late isn’t your fault. 

He’ll claim that it isn’t your fault, cause that means the reason as to why he’s not at the job he needs to feel like breathing matters isn’t you. It can’t be. There can’t be any more chances to let you be the one to ruin him. That’s not really fair to you. 

“Sleepy?” 

You’re only stirring. Jack doesn’t sigh, and he doesn’t remember when he decided to keep going…but he did. You’re here. You’re safe. You’re asleep. And Jack…Jack can’t remember when the hell was the last time someone trusted him like this. Outside of the Pitt and off of a gurney, away from charts and recommendation letters. 

He watches your chest rise and fall with every breath, watches as your hair shifts as the truck bumps along a quiet neighborhood road. And really, he’ll tell himself it’s just about the peace in the way he tells him it’s not your fault. It’s cause of the stillness, the calm before a shift full of bleeders and chaos. But shit, when the hell has he ever been one to enjoy that calm?

No. Jack deserves the truth…most of the time. So. He knows it’s not the bullshit stillness or the calm. 

It’s the way you look right now. 

The prettiest, most unguarded thing curled up in his truck. You’re beautiful when you’re too competent for everyone’s good and when you’re the most vulnerable thing on earth. How dare you, kid? 

The realization finds that it isn’t just admiration. It’s not just protectiveness. It’s…oh. God. Fuck him. It’s in the way that says…that says–

You’re mine. And if the world’s too loud, I’ll drive us through the quiet until morning just to prove it, as if the light is where I’ve found solace all along. Crazy. 

He exhales slowly. Looks at the clock. 9:38 P.M.

Yeah, he’s miles past your apartment, nearly at that overlook where he sometimes parks when the weight of the world and past won’t lift. He’ll listen to his police scanner. Eat a ham sandwich.

He lets the truck roll to a gentle stop and puts it in park. He just…sits. He watches you. 

…He lets himself need you, as if it’ll only be this one, unspoken moment he’s indulging in. He lets his chest feel warm and his shoulders roll with what might be a shudder without guilt. Without denial. 

How can someone so beautiful make him feel ugly things?

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

You stir faintly, nose scrunching. You don’t wake. He doesn’t really move. 

He promises he’ll drive you home soon, but not yet. Not while the world still lets you sleep beside him, and not while he’ll let himself feel good about it.

"...You know nothing. How impossible is that?"

His hand flexes. His head cocks as he closes his eyes at a little noise you make. Something like a rumble.

...Not while he feels this good.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

You blink awake on your couch. Not in Jack’s truck or in your bed as if you made it there by yourself. Your couch. A blanket is tucked over yours, and it’s not the one you usually fold on your chair. It’s heavy. Wool and worn. 

Like it’s from Military surplus. 

You realize it has to be Jack. It smells like him–sanitizer and cedar and whatever soap you keep trying to figure out the brand of. The thing that gets Jack to call you a freak. You shift. 

Your shoes at next to the door, and your scarf is folder on the coffee table with your bag and thermos. It’s the pisces your brain has to pull together through the soft haze of the morning sun.

Jack didn’t drop you off at the curb. He didn’t nudge you awake with that gruff, but not unkind efficiency you and others know. You may not remember the ride, and you certainly don’t remember being carried inside, but clearly…you were. 

He took off your shoes. Placed the blanket over you. Tucked you in. 

Jeez, Jack. Why, why, why?

You can’t deny him when he does shit like this, and how can you think it when you end sniffing his blanket as end up wrapping it tighter around yourself, heart pounding quietly in the hush of your apartment. 

“Jack…”

If you end up wrapping yourself in his warmth again, not because he orders you to, but because you want to, then how can you deny both of you?

"Jack."

You breathe in cedar.

"Sleepy, what in the hell is this?"

The next shift is a good shift. The kind that runs smooth and quiet, and Jack feels need in his throat. What, you may ask? Good question. He doesn’t know. But he won’t go looking for an answer. It’s been a good shift. 

Jack, as usual, is dry-witted, and you’ve been laughing in a way that makes Dana more than once, smiling faintly at the inside jokes and medically-based flirtations between the two of you. You bump your shoulder into his when he grumbles at your handwriting on a chart. He tries not to smile and pretends not to watch you when you turn. 

The ease of it all sits under the night he dropped you off and carried you inside, where he had to press his hand against your scrub top to find your keys. Neither of you dares to lift said ease. You both assume it’s because the other doesn’t care to. Both of you are right. So, there’s that usual, perfect rhythm of nurse and doctor, that trust, and now that quiet, dangerous acceptance of whatever the hell you two are seeping through. 

“Your notes are in all caps. Again.”

“That’s just passion. You should try it sometime.”

“If I have passion, it comes in black ink. Not red or pink.” 

“Pity.”

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

You swear you’re not breaking bad. 

You were really planning to get to work with anything that wasn’t your two feet, this time. But for the first time ever, your luck would have you, the bus ends up being twenty minutes early before you can catch it after you were called in. You had to make a choice. Jack…you guess he’d be satifised with the way you thought of his offers (demands) first, but you knew today was his one day off. You would think he appreciates the way you thought about him with consideration. 

An uber would’ve taken twenty minutes to get to you when it would take you twenty or so minutes to find yourself just in time for work. You made a choice, and really, it’s not the worst when you’re walking with the sun coming up instead of going down. It’s beautiful, honestly. You nearly forget what Jack would say, and you definitely can’t focus on the ache in your feet with how the glow of golden rises over Pittsburgh’s steel and brick bones. 

You almost collapse from pure frustration when you hear the rumble pull up to the curb just behind you. 

How? Possibly how? 

You turn, ready to find another excuse for Jack, but you don’t find him, and the slighter engine purr makes sense–because it’s Robby with his motorcycle. He kills the engine. 

…His choice in transport is really something. 

“Hey.” Finding him at your side is less with anxiousness and more with a pleasant, friendly curiosity. More with something casual and less with the need to grasp for what makes you feel…safe. 

“Hey, Robby.”

You smile when Robby does, even though his is slight. 

“Listen, I know Abbot probably sounds like a broken record by now, but I’ll have to agree with him. I don’t know how you find this sort of stroll…suitable. You good?”

“Yep, just got roped into picking up an morning half-shift. I was gonna grab a bus ride and missed it, because I’m the luckiest girl in the world.”

Robby nods, then his noses scrunches under a blink or two. 

“Well, didn’t know I was gonna pick up trouble today. Come on. If you want, but I’ve already found you.” 

You laugh. “You’re a menace.” 

Robby’s smile grows thinner. You watch his hands on his handlebars tighten. 

“You’re flattering.” He says it with a quiet, casual sarcasm before pulling out–oh. Oh no. “We’re both heading to work, and you were lucky enough to not let Pittsburgh Transit devour you up. C’mon, I’ll take you…if you’d like.” 

He holds out his spare helmet. Your hand tightens over the strap of your tote. 

“It hasn’t been used by anyone…so. If you’re, you know, worried about headlice. I’d, uh, hope any future person I’d potentially ride with wouldn’t be likely to have them.” 

Your smile falters. 

“I’ve actually never been on one of those.” 

“Damn, you are a good girl.”

You roll your eyes to the point you can’t see Robby already regretting his own quip, eyes closing shut for a half-second. 

“No, I get it. I’m kinda surprised by how many people at work haven’t ridden one at least once before.” 

“I mean, it is a motorcycle, Robby. And they just always seemed... dangerous.” 

You think Robby’s listening to you in the way he keeps a slight nod before tilting his head from side to side, but if he’s anything like Jack, which God, you know the both of them are like each other more than they want to admit, you know he won’t let it go. He probably won’t end up berating you onto his motorcycle or end up carrying into the Pitt, but you just know he’s gonna push, and it might work, because you’re you and Robby’s Robby. 

Your friend whom you trust.

“I will go slow. Take no unnecessary journeys. And I…drive like I suture.” 

“Jagged?” 

You let yourself laugh when Robby scoffs. “Hey.”

When he hands you the helmet, you study it in your hold before looking at the sidewalk ahead. 

You hear his voice in the back of your head–gruff, dry, concerned and knowing, but you push it down. 

You’ve accepted whatever Jack is to you, and you’ve done more than accept whatever he makes you feel, but the fact his voice is the first to pop in your head at the fear of riding a motorcycle instead swallows you with something overwhelming. 

And also, Robby’s your friend. And to deny him is to deny exceptional E.R skills, or his occasional kindness and constant sharp sarcasm, or the fact you want to get closer to him. Something like that. 

“Okay. Just this once. I better not owe you anymore lemon bars."

Robby’s brows raise when you take the helmet and try to buckle it, and despite everything you just thought to justify this, you nearly regret taking up his offer at the way you’re definitely buckling this thing up wrong. 

“Oh. She trusts me. Let’s not tell Abbot.” 

“I won’t if you won’t.” 

You can tell he’s close to sighing and you know why when his hand is hesitant to reach out. 

“Help me out here, attending.” 

You watch Robby smile the way one does at a stranger they accidentally make eye contact with before dropping it when he gently fixes the buckle. You climb carefully on the back–arms hesitating, then wrapping around his waist, and it’s not so awkward when you can feel his body through the layers of jackets and scrubs and long sleeves over. 

You don’t feel the weight of him, really, and your mind automatically drifts to a question: How did the weight of you feel in Jack’s arms? 

That swallows you too.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

There’s nothing else like spending your night off at work. Jack will feel less about it later, knowing that…what? Therapy sessions and lying at home reading or sleeping isn’t this. Still, he’s thankful for the shift to end, at least lying at home means he can take off his prosthetic for more than ten minutes. He took a guilty twenty in pedes when it was empty. 

He walks out of the entrance with Dana, who’s mid-sentence concerning something ridiculous Whitaker did with charting, because Whitaker on nightshift rotation is hilarious. Whatever the mistake, it was slight enough to go without attending reprimand and humorous enough to make Jack smirk. 

That’s when his eyes flicker toward the far end of the lot. 

Robby’s parking with someone pressed up against his back. 

You.

You pull off a black helmet, your hair tumbling out as you laugh with cheeks flushed from the wind. Robby follows you just after. Also helmeted as he grins slight. He kicks the stand. 

What in the actual fuck?

Jack takes in a breath he doesn’t let go. He slows mid-step. 

“You good, Abbot?” 

When his jaw locks, it almost aches as much as his leg, but he doesn’t even blink as Dana follows his gaze. Jack thinks she’s wincing dramatically in his peripheral. 

“Oh. Oh…no.” Dana puts her hands on her hips. “Calling Nurse and Doctor Sunshine to trauma one, leave the ride behind. Jesus Christ, how’d he get sunbeam on that thing? 

What the fuck are you doing? Why would you do this?

“He wants to die? Okay. That’s unfortunate. He does that?”

His near-casual, throaty spat comes out easier that it would’ve been keeping it in, and maybe there’s something opposite to the external telling Jack what he said was too much, because his shoulders roll, and deep down he knows he’s just being mean as hell to be mean as hell. 

 “Jesus, Jack.”

Evans is the external something. Jack lifts his head back. “It’s the truth. That is…absolute insanity. Dana?”

“...I think I left something inside.” 

Dana disappears back into the E.R and it’s nothing but Jack’s chance to start walking towards the both of you.

For the sake of keeping his anger high, he pretends that this is solely about you getting on a fucking motorcycle. Because it is. Why are you getting on a motorcycle? You. Fucking you. 

Why are you doing this to him. 

“What is this, a midlife crisis field trip?” 

Again. Being mean for the sake of being mean, cause Jack knows it isn’t that, but it’s what gets you to look up at him surprised with Robby sighing something low. 

“Robby, what the hell, man?” His voice goes nearly high. 

“Oh, c’mon, Abbot. She needed a ride–” 

“No. Yeah. As she usually does. But a motorcycle? You–” His head snaps towards you. “Robby, you want to risk your own neck for a Harley, fine–but bringing someone else on that suicide ride? Why the hell would you agree to that?

The words thrown towards both you cut harder than he means it to, but it’s what he feels in his gut, because why?

He keeps himself sturdy when Robby scoffs. 

“Sunshine, help me out here. She is…we’re adults.” Robby crosses his arms. “She needed a ride, Jack. It was either that or be late waiting for a cab or walking again. Which is what you were worked up about. Sooo…don’t really understand the fucking issue. This? This right here is what we talked about–” 

“You talked about this?”

Robby’s reply is what Jack would expect, maybe what he deserves, that voice that’s tingy and knowing, not loud–but definite in a bite. Still. Fuck him. 

His head tilts towards you, voice towards you–

“Why didn’t you call me? Seriously?”

You shift. He watches your arms cross over your chest. “I didn’t know you were working tonight, and again, wouldn’t make sense to make you pick me up to drive to the place you came from. Seriously, you’re not supposed to be working–and we were…safe, Jack. Helmets. He went slow, I held on, I–” 

Just took the first chance to wrap yourself around Robby?

That thought scares Jack as much as it makes his fist clench. 

“You think that matters when a car cuts you off and you skid thirty feet into a curb?” He doesn’t stop eyeing your focus when he hears Robby scoff again. “And hey, okay. You hitched a ride on the back on what you called a deathtrap because you thought you wouldn’t be caught by me?” 

Robby nods shakily. It’s not from nerves, it’s from that growing, steady impatience that’ll probably make his voice go sharp. 

“...Being caught? Jack, what is this? You sound like an aggressive PSA and a dad and it’s as offensive as it is confusing. Definitely wouldn’t have guessed this reaction from the first time I talked to you about my bike. Which. I do prefer honesty. But…you wanted her off the street. We were safe. You shouldn’t even be entitled to my justifications right now. I’m surprised that I even care enough to feel offended, because this conversation should be treated as bullshit…but because I wanted you settled, man–I…she did exactly what you wanted—she took help–”

His eyes don’t leave you, even when bits of Robby’s rant shakes him, triggers him. 

He couldn’t know that you see something feral flickering behind them—something you can’t shake or he can’t help. 

Something he wouldn’t want to help if he could. 

“You think this is help?” He jabs a finger at the motorcycle like it’s something obscene. “You think putting her on the back of that thing is better than a cab? Or the bus?” 

“It was explained. There was no chance for a bus or cab or uber or fucking…you, man.” Robby lifts his hands in what’s probably exasperation. 

Not him. No chance for him, huh? 

“I figured—”

“You figured what?” Jack cuts in, voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “That it’d be fun? That she’d enjoy it? That–” 

“That she’d get to fucking work!” 

Robby’s arms go up as his yell booms across the lot. Jack’s not scared by it. 

…But yeah, even in his stone rage that he’s sure he’s right to have, Jack knows that was warranted. 

What’s warranted to is the feeling of hot coals in his stomach when you grab Robby’s arm, comforting him–like he’s not the one that convinced you to go on a death trap. 

Like Jack’s not the one who’s vision when black when the motorcycle came speeding in. Like it’s not his heart that’s slamming against his fucking ribs for you right now. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? What are you doing to him?

“Robby–” 

Your mutter is barely heard when Robby shifts the weight of his legs, looking up at the sky. “Nothing happened.” 

Robby knows there’s more to say, that really, this shouldn’t matter in the first place, that he should not be on trial and it’s already ridiculous he’s letting himself sit in the face of Jack’s fucking jury, but that’s not gonna do any good, is it? 

“Nothing. Happened.” 

“...That’s not the point, Robby.” 

“The point doesn’t matter, but…I’m gonna ask you what it is anyway. Just so we can get it out of the way.”

Jack opens his mouth. Closes it. 

He sees the real point in the way you keep your hand, which manages to stay soft somehow even though you scrub your palms to shit with antiseptic and sanitizer like everyone else, on Robby’s bicep. 

It’s not that fact something could’ve happened. 

It’s the fact he can’t see you with someone else like this. Even if it’s just a ride. Even if it’s just a ride he’d rather you have than needing to walk alone in the fucking dark. 

Even if it’s Robby. Especially because it’s Robby. And the guy gave you a ride. A thrill–even if he’s just taking you to work as he so humbly did today. 

Something primal and ugly claws up his throat, looking at where you touch him.

“I don’t give a damn what you ride, Robby. But if you convince others to get thrown in what is a statistically dangerous hobby, try remembering they might be worth more intact.”

Robby goes still before he runs a hand down his face. 

And for the first time, Jack doesn’t want to look at you. 

“...Jack–” 

So. He turns away, stalking back to his truck before he can say something worse and learn how to find it the right thing to say later. He climbs in, slams the door.

And when he looks in the mirror, he sees you two standing together—your hand on Robby’s arm? He finds a realization sliding sharp under his ribs. 

He’s not gonna stop wanting you, even if it turns him into a fucking asshole.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

It's the next day. Or the next. Apologies are in order. Are they given? No. Jack will claim this is how men are. But shit, for men? He and Robby do a pretty good job of communicating.

The night shift has finally slowed to a manageable hum, which is not that surprising, even when Robby ended up having to share it with Abbot. They’re mature enough, yeah? Still, he’d be impressed if he found it important. 

God. He’s never seen Jack like that before. Ever. There have been points of time of snappy, semi-quiet bouts of professional frustration, towards him and others, but what happened the other day was…something else. And it’s taking a hold on him. 

Because Robby catches Jack in a supply closet. He’s organizing, settling a neatness between surgical gloves and IV kits–and it’s the 12th weirdest thing he’s ever seen in his life. 

“We good, Abbot? You good?” 

Obviously not, because one of the busiest men on earth, a man who craves chaos as much as it eats at him on occasion is alphabetizing medical supplies. But Robby has to ask anyway. He could pretend he’s better than the ache in his chest rising at the sight–the one that creeped in when you climbed off the back of his bike, hair tangled from the ride, cheeks flushed and alive in a way that could’ve been funny to look at.

That ache that he felt ridiculous for having in the first place when that moment was ruined with the look on Jack’s face. 

Like someone had pulled a pin from a grenade he’d been holding inside. That someone being Robby when he just offered you a fucking ride. 

Robby steps into the supply room, letting the door swing shut behind him before crossing his arms. He can tell Jack’s already tense in the shoulders, his back set like concrete as he rummages in the cabinet. 

“I’m fine, Robby. We’re fine.” 

…Robby’s gonna try for humor first. Try to pretend the knot in his own chest isn’t there and that he’s not expecting an apology. 

“If organizing the supply closets was added onto attending responsibilities, I missed the memo. And I’m also fucked.” 

…No answer. Jack doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. Robby leans one shoulder against the doorframe. 

He should just walk away, because this will die. And it’s not important. 

But he can still see your face when you thanked him for the ride. That sorta…soft and tired and relieved look. And then you looked up at Jack when he came striding across the street. 

Like you knew exactly how bad you were gonna get it for accepting a ride from a person you trusted. 

That can’t happen again. Not just because it’s uncharacteristically unprofessional as shit concerning Jack Abbot, but you don’t deserve that. Nobody deserves that. 

“You came at me like I put her on a live grenade, man. And I know we’ll get over this without dragging it back up, but if she’s gonna get lectured like she’s 12 years old every time she comes into the parking on a ride that isn’t yours–” 

Jack closes the cabinet shut. Not hard enough to be a slam, but loud enough to make a point. He turns to do what he does so well, focus his eyes on anothers. Robby sighs. 

He doesn’t have time for this. But he’s making time for his friend. And you. 

“You put her on a machine with two wheels and no shell. Don’t act like I overreacted. I–”

…Heat crawls up his neck. It’s annoyance, yeah. Maybe, but it’s something that really doesn’t need to be as deep at it is right now. 

But Jack’s a good guy, he owes Robby this much–the ability to see just how fucking annoyed his is. 

“...There were parts of what I was saying that other day that were aggressively…unneeded. I’m not oblivious. The suicide ride quip, that was…” 

“That kinda fucked me up, Jack.” 

“I know. I know–” Jack looks to the ground, eyes straightening out on the tile. “...It’s a motorcycle, Robby. You have every right to ride one. And yeah, she has every right to accept a ride from you or from anyone…but it’s a motorcycle.”

Robby doesn’t nod or shift. He blinks once. “I know.” 

Jack shakes his head stiffly as it lifts back in slight. “...And I just can’t fucking stand it. And I end up overreacting. I give a wonderful performance in our trauma center parking lot because I can’t stand it.” 

“I know.”

“And…you know–” For a rare moment, Jack almost looks uncertain in what he’s gonna say. Crazy stuff, but Robby can make that…it’s not him being unsure in his words, it’s him unsure in if he should say them. 

“...You know how I am with her. You know.” 

Robby’s eyes narrow to the shelf beside them in an instant. He pushes himself off the doorfame, hands in his pockets. 

“No, brother. I don’t.” 

Jack’s brow furrows, the confusion is too obvious flickering across his face. 

“Do not bullshit me, Robby. You, unfortunately, have known me longer than anyone here and it’d be you to pick out what’s exactly going on with me and her–” 

“Yeah. I have. I have, man.” 

He’s known Jack long enough to care about the guy. He’s known him long enough to really, really wish that whatever is going on between you and him is something he couldn’t bother to acknowledge, but it’s something else, something that he and others are gonna be able to ignore anymore. 

Something that Jack stopped ignoring a long time ago, to hold it in his fists. Long, long time ago. 

“I’ve known you long enough to see the way you look at her. Act around her. Sometimes it’s endearing, sometimes it’s concerning! It’s…” 

Robby’s voice is flat, tired. Cause he’s really, really tired. “It’s every patient of hers you deem too aggressive when you don’t even have to be there. It’s that very, very obvious jealousy when she laughs with Whitaker or King.” He counts it off on his fingers. Yeah. Like it’s something he’s rehearsed in his head. “But then you’ll have dry flirtations–” He gestures vaguely to…something. “The little gifts, the dumb as shit nicknames and it’s almost like something people can ignore.”

He pauses, he sits in what he’s just spat out in something that’s nearly facetious, but mostly something that’s making Robby realize what this is. His hands drop, his head drifts to the tile before he remembers he’s an adult, and he should look at the person he’s talking to. 

Jack’s wearing the blankest expression he’s ever seen. 

“...And you get at me in the parking lot because I picked her off the street, something you berated her for. And I could tell you over and over again that I rode safe. Slow, that I wouldn’t have her or anyone else in danger, but I also know that it doesn’t matter to you, because it’s not the fact she took up a ride, it’s because she held onto me. That’s what you saw? That’s what you can’t stand–” 

“Robby.” 

Robby stills in his breath before focusing on how his and Jack’s gaze lock. He’s obviously tired, cornered, but still sharp. 

Desperate to justify something he knows he shouldn’t. 

Robby blinks, his mouth thins. 

“And then you look at her like you’ve already decided something for both of you.” 

Jack closes his eyes. Robby regrets nothing and everyone. 

You wish not to be bothered with acknowledging him and her, but you notice every bit. You are hilarious. 

Jack's voice is ragged when it crawls out of his throat. 

“So you do know.” 

“No.” Robby drops his hands to his sides. “I know what it looks like. But I…I don’t know what to call it, Jack.”

He watches Jack search his face as he runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. 

“I don’t know the name for this because it’s not normal.” He can already feel his voice gentling without a softness Robby doesn’t think he can muster if he tried. “And even if I did know the name, it wouldn’t matter.”

Jack blinks once. 

“Why?”

…Jesus fucking Christ. 

Robby tries to make his gaze steady and unflinching, exhaling with every other way. 

“Because the way you’re starting to act is unacceptable.”

He doesn’t catch it. 

The way Jack flinches. 

“You have to care about that. I’m telling you this as your friend.” He gestures between them, helpless. “This thing you’re doing—hovering over her, cutting off every exit, lashing out at anyone who gets near—”

His jaw tightens. 

“It doesn’t matter what you call it. It doesn’t matter that you know how you are with her. You can’t keep going like this.”

They stand in between the humming of the walls. And yeah. Robby doesn’t feel any better with what he’s said. But hey. It’s communication. 

Jack’s hand comes up on the metal shelf beside him. It flexes. 

“I didn’t ask for this.” 

Robby’s chest goes tight. 

He thinks about the first week he met you, when your skills rivaled those of a 2nd year resident, when you put him under a load of disbelief. 

He thinks about you in his kitchen for five minutes when you dropped off lemon bars just because, as if that’s an actual fucking reason. How you caught him when his loneliness was less casual and more pathetic looking, where his lone microwave was still steaming on the kitchen table, but you smile like you weren’t thinking how fucking alone he was. 

It had been easy it had been to let you in, even when Robby knew he shouldn’t.

When he remembers the feel of your arms around him, your cheek resting against his back. How natural it had felt…how much he’d liked it.

Robby told himself–tells himself it didn’t mean anything. Whatever he felt. 

Doesn’t have to mean anything, no matter what he feels. 

But standing here, watching Jack come apart. God, kid, he’s not so sure anymore.

Yeah. None of us did.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

It’s past midnight, and in the fluorescent glow of every floor, the Pitt feels like it always does at this hour–too bright with man-made sunlight. But earlier, you were laughing with Mel in the hallway, a giddy and awkward rush of shared jokes about a patient who swore the candlestick up his ass got there by accident. 

It’s almost a normal shift, like you’re just another nurse in a chaotic E.R that you wouldn’t choose to escape. You hope your shaking hands don’t look as obvious as they feel. 

But now it’s just you and Jack. And the airy silence, of course. Yippee. 

You know it would’ve had to have been confronted at some point, that you would’ve had to find enough courage in you to make your anger about what happened with him and Robby known. You’re impressed, really. You didn’t think your doctor would beat you to it. 

“ I wasn’t fair. About the bike. About Robby.”

He’s standing by the lockers, arms folded tight across the chest with a scratch to his elbow. He doesn’t look right away, but when he does, you feel it like always. 

His stare goes straight through you. A shiver shoots down your spine. 

You press your thighs together. 

“No, not really.” 

“I shouldn’t have…acted the way I did in the parking out. It wasn’t just unprofessional, it was…mean. See? I know enough to use a juvenile word to describe what an asshole I was.” 

“And why the sudden realization?” 

“...It was brought to my attention, and denial is pointless.” 

You shift your weight, clutching the strap of your bag. 

You feel it–the words you should say pressing down on the pink of your tongue. Something rightfully rational and grown-up. 

Yes. You overreacted. You made me feel like a child. You were awful to Robby in a way I couldn’t think was possible. It isn’t fair. You were an asshole. And I know it’s coming from a place I was to crawl into, but you can’t act like this. 

But no, you step closer instead, because the truth is…

You know now that that part of you is small and shameful. 

It’s what makes you like how much he cares. Even if it comes out wrong or feels too big. 

It’s why you’ve been sleeping with his blanket for the past week. 

“Well…you were just being you.” 

Your throat tightens around the softness of your words. 

“It’s just another end of the gruff, quietly concerned cowboy.” 

And even though you could buckle under his stare, you watch Jack blink in startle. Like he wasn’t expecting her to tease him as she always does. 

Settle. Loosen. 

And even when he’s the one in the wrong, find yourself wanting to make him smirk down at you. 

“Cowboy again?” 

Jack says it dryly. Your mouth curves. 

“Big ol’ boots and an unrelenting stare. Tell me I’m wrong.” 

And you’ll leave it at that, because you don’t think you’ll ever tell him that it’s that stare and the worry and that entitled, raw possession that makes you feel…seen, even when it shouldn’t. 

When it makes you feel wanted. 

Protected. Claimed. 

God, you know–that’s not healthy. You’re not supposed to feel any of it, but hey. At least you can name that part of you now. And you know exactly all the reasons as to why you shouldn’t tell Jack about them. 

Except for one, you couldn’t know. You couldn’t know that if you told him, that’d only fuel him more. 

Jack’s expression softens, and you can tell that he’s trying not to smile. 

He fails. 

“It still doesn’t excuse how I spoke to you. Or Robby. It won’t happen again.”

The locket room hums around the both of you. 

“...Unless you knowingly get on a bike you called a death trap. That, I’ll have to report your lapse in judgement to…someone.”

When he stretches his hand out to pull you up from the bench, you take the moment to study Jack’s face. The lines around his eyes, the tired and chiseled slope of his jaw and shoulders, and the way you don’t think he’ll ever not meet your gaze. 

It’s all that and then some as to why you can’t help but feel warmed at everything he does–everything that should be named a mistake but isn’t. 

It’s why you’ll never waste a moment to see if Jack Abbot can blush–why this moment of bravery exists. 

Why you kiss the back of his hand when you take it. 

His fingers are scarred and strong–and they clench when you press your lips to the soft hairs at his knuckles. 

Cedar. Sweat. And everything nice. 

When you realize how harshly your heart is pounding against your ears, you realize just how stupid this might’ve been. Your eyes widen. 

This assurance in stupidity is especially true when Jack jerks suddenly. Smoothly, but in a second where you’re thinking–

Oh, fuck me. 

You're already pressing fumbled apologies to the back of your teeth, but before you can pull away from the moment where you think it’s like your lips burned him–

Jack’s fingers wrap around your wrist. 

It’s not exactly a grip, but he squeezes. 

Your eyes are already locked on his, and you think they’re darker under the dim light. They have to be. 

You want to collapse. There’s nothing but the feeling of fire against the pit of your belly, and your hands, and your thighs–

“Jack? I–”

Whatever you were going to say, which couldn’t have been anything at all, is broken in the air when Jack begins pulling. Not to stop you. 

…But to turn your palm upward, exposing the soft center of your palm.

Your breath hitches. 

He lowers his mouth to your skin. 

His lips brush the base of your fingers, firm and unshaking, then trail gently to the center of your hand. 

He’s returning your kiss. 

“...I’m working a double. I-I know you’re not–” 

“No.” 

Jack’s eyes close when his mouth presses deeper, like he’s savouring something, and it takes everything in you not to slip a soft moan against this moment. 

And it takes everything in you not to think about the way his voice went high and cracked when he found you on the back of Robby’s bike. How his words hadn’t sounded like anger so much as terror. As both, and how that should’ve made you mad. Maybe it did. 

But it’s so easy to remember that white-hot, belly need to close the distance between the two of you. Say…

It’s okay, Jack. I’m here. And I like that you’re here for me. 

“But we’re coming and leaving at the same time on Tuesday. Right?”

His eyes are unblinking against yours when he opens them again. You nod so quickly that it’ll embarrass you when you think about it before bed. But with the way his mouth feels about your flesh, his dry, deepening lips? The ends justify the means. 

“Well.” 

It’s only fire along every crevice of yours when his nose presses into your knuckles. 

“Thank God for that.”

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

My girl, my girl, my girl.

Jack’s running late. Again. This time, it’s on account of you, sleepy. 

You know him, if there’s anything he takes a sick pride in, it’s his punctuality–but tonight…he lingered in the front of his apartment complex. Just tapping away at the wheel at his other hand rested on the edge of his phone. 

You make him feel like a little boy who can’t sit still. Absolutely ridiculous. He’s nervous. The last time he went to work nervous was…never. Not even on his first day, it’s so expected of Jack that he’s sure he doesn’t take sick pride in that. 

You make him not quite brave enough to text you. Something. Anything. Anything that’ll give him more of you. 

Sleepy, sleepy. 

The way you looked at him yesterday, kid. Smiling in that soft, resigned way when you called him your cowboy, finding your way back to the light or something like it, letting go of his…okay. He’ll call them mistakes. For now. For your sake. 

But the memory and your kiss are what makes him, for the time ever, very sure that he’s allowed to think of you on his way to work. 

“Can afford those rims, but not new headlights? Right. On.” 

…He’s telling himself he’ll do better. So there’s that. 

He’ll stop snapping every time you step out of line when it comes to your safety. He’ll make sure there is no line. That’s weird. He’ll stop you from watching the back of your head across the trauma bay like you’re the only thing tethering him to the fucking floor. That’s weird too, especially when he had his teaching and the good days and his crew and every slight good thing about him tethering him to the floor first. 

He would do better. He will. 

Jack’s not gonna risk whatever you gave me yesterday. Not any way in hell. He owes you that. 

…And with the way you touched him, with the way you didn’t leave after an apology he had to burn out of him–maybe he owes himself that too. 

Jack merges onto the main drag. His hand flexes. When did his hand get so hairy? And scarred?

If I can. 

If I want to– 

“Oh. Very nice on that turn.” He nearly whispers his road rage. “Asshat.”

…He’s not gonna look under the rug of promises. What’s that gonna do?

Under the I’ll be better’s, under the I’ll let you breathe, he’s gonna find some useless truth. 

Something like the idea that he’s not going to want to stop. 

That Jack…likes how it feels to be the one you look to when things get ugly. Because you do, right? You accepted his bare-bones apologies with your lips on his hand. You wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t. 

His eyes glance to the passenger seat, where your hair clip from the night he drove you home lies next to a folder and his ham sandwich. 

He did mean to give it back. 

Maybe I can still be her cowboy. 

It’s a wry thought. 

Just a little less fucking unhinged. 

He doesn’t blink when the scanner crackles dispatch static. It’s something he’s trained himself to tune out unless it catches wind of the worst disasters.

So. Jack doesn’t know why tonight’s words cut through the air. 

“Unit 14, be advised: Motor vehicle accident. Motorcycle involved. Two confirmed. Severe trauma inflicted on female passenger. EMS has arrived on scene.”

Jack’s head cocks to the side as he stares straight forward. It’s his body’s own doing, a reaction he doesn’t understand. 

Because this is Pittsburgh. There’s already been a fire, a stabbing. A car flipped over on 28. It’s a city that never runs out of ways to bleed people dry and keep the beds at the Pitt full. 

“Repeat: Motorcycle collision. Female passenger is unresponsive. Male rider attempting to interfere with EMS. Confirm blocking lanes and priority traffic.”

He knows better, which is why he doesn’t understand how the blood from his knuckles ends up disappearing. He doesn’t understand that until he realizes he’s been gripping the wheel. 

It’s nothing. It is absolutely fucking nothing. Stop the internal panic. Stop acting like you’re gonna fucking collapse. 

…Jack knows better. 

“Confirm accident is at intersection of Carson and 22nd.” 

And on cue, he hears the sirens four blocks away. 

Jack lowers his head in one curt nod as feels his muscles tense in the way they do when he realizes a patient is gonna be more of a challenge than he first thought. That useful, nerved feeling that only gets in the way of logic and ability. 

Anxiety. He can name that. You’ll be proud of him when he sees you in the Pitt. 

Because you will be there, curled up at the nurses station, complaining about the cold as if you didn’t trudge the small of you through it because you’re too good. You will be there. Jack will see you. 

He will see Robby there too, and he’ll pass that sorry sight of a motorcycle crash–one that he’s probably gonna be in charge of by the time he gets to work. 

Yeah. This is it. A ridiculous and unneeded point of anxiety in his chest. One he’s gonna regret by the time he pulls into the Pitt because it is his fault. He shouldn’t be feeling it. 

Jack presses the gas pedal. He runs a red light. He pulls out his phone, eyes flickering up at the window and down at his thigh as he types with a stiff, hot hand. His hand shouldn’t be this hot. 

‘On my way. can meet me at the front ent rance?’

You’re already at the Pitt. Or hell, he’ll catch you walking the streets again. That’s fine too. That’s perfect. 

‘I know this is an od d requst but can you just call me?’

‘Sleepy’ 

And like that, Jack doesn’t even realize he turned onto Carson until he sees the flashing lights. Two ambulances. 

No. God. 

He throws the truck into park. His tires scream as he does. 

It’s like someone put a bomb under Robby’s motorcycle. 

It’s in pieces–half crumbled against a lamppost, the other half smoking in the gutter. Glass and blood make the asphalt glitter. 

The paramedics crouch over two bodies.

Jack shoves the door open as he storms forward. A red haze–red as the road, swims behind his eyes. 

There’s so much blood. 

More blood than he’s seen in his worst cases. Splashed up the curbs, smeared in arcs and black cracks. 

How the hell is it everywhere?

Jack chokes on his own breath as he walks in a stiffened pace that’s telling the ache in his prosthetic to go fuck itself. As he does, he realizes what that cracked-open black half-moon thing is. It’s thirty feet away from the scene. 

The helmet. The helmet you wore. 

There’s a chunk of your hair stuck to the visor.

He shouts out your name. He doesn’t register that it’s almost a cry. 

He crosses the last few feet at a run, not because he recognizes the first body to be Robby. 

“Just le-let me help her, man! I promise…I-I’m a doctor, I work at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center–” 

His face is ash-gray, a strip of skin peeling off his cheekbone. His scrub top is soaked near-black at the shoulder. He’s fighting the medics as they try to pull him onto a gurney. But he’s fighting none-the-fucking-less, streaky gash on the hairline and all. 

The blood on the road can’t possibly all be from him. Why the fuck is there so much of it?

What did he let happen to you?

“We know who you are, Dr. Robinavitch. We’ve met a few times, remember? You need to let them help her and us help you, okay?” 

No. Jack runs with his vision tunneling in and out towards the scene, because the next body he recognizes is you. 

His girl. In all his failure. 

You’re sprawled on your side, crumpled like someone folded you in half and dropped you to watch you spread. Your hair’s soaked red. It streaks your throat. 

He can’t remember if you had your hair in a braid or ponytail yesterday. 

You’re glistening and caked with blood and broken bits in the way he’s only seen patients he ends up coding for hours. You. Sunshine. Sunbeam. Sleepy. 

Oh God. God. Why would you expect him to believe in you when you let this happen to her? 

Why would Jack let this happen to you? 

He stands over you at your right leg–right where it’s twisted at an impossible angle under your hip. Your left leg, your tibia, has snapped against your skin. Not enough to make bone jut out, but enough. 

And your face, your face–

“...I could care that you’re unusually pretty.” 

“No?” 

“Not here. By the end of shift, that face will be covered in blood, vomit, or some other fluid you’d be better off not naming. It doesn’t matter.” 

“...So you’re saying I’d trigger the senses if you took me out of here?” 

“...Can you finish your chart?”

One cheek’s caked in road grime, the other’s split from eyebrow to chin with your eye swollen shut. 

Jack’s focus goes black around the edges, but he catches a drop of water falling to the ground. 

“...Sir?” 

Your abdomen’s rising unevenly and too shallow, and Jack knows without touching you that your lung’s collapsing already. 

But you’re breathing. You’re alive. His girl’s alive. 

“...Dr. Abbot?”

“BP?” 

He doesn’t catch the way the medic startles at the bark. He just drops to his knees to do what he does best. 

“Gloves.” 

“...Dr. Abbot–” 

“Gloves. Now!”

If these medics were any older or more experienced enough to fight Jack’s protocol breach, they’d have a problem on their hands. 

He’s given gloves in a second and putting them on in the next. 

He ignores the cold under his gloves when he presses two fingers to your carotid. Rapid. Thready. He ignores anything that could make him pause or remember just how fucked this situation, because you don’t deserve that. He was already pushing it by standing over you for more than five seconds. 

“Hey…Jack?” 

Robby’s voice is made up of glassy shock. 

And suddenly…Jack feels like his own skull is going to split. 

“She–she was behind me, okay? They ran the light. She–”

It’s slurry and desperate from the throat, and Jack doesn’t look at him. 

Really, he can’t even know how he doesn’t trust what he’d do if he did. 

“Jack. I’m sorry–s-she–”

He can see out of the corner of his eye that Robby’s gesturing at the medic trying to staunch the blood at your scalp. 

“I tried–God, I was trying to…to tell them, they need a thor–”

“Thoracostomy kit. Now.” 

The medic’s blanching. Jack narrows his eyes at them. 

Are you really making me take my eyes off her? 

“Dr. Abbot–” 

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

Jack says it low in his throat, unblinking with a tilted head forward. 

He takes the oxygen mask he’s handed before the kit’s thrust into his palm.

He fits it over your mouth. Rasps out your name. 

Your lashes flutter. Your eyes roll in the back of your back.

No. He’s wrong. 

“Look at me.” 

Jack’s not ignoring the things that could make him collapse, he’s just not collapsing. 

Jack rips the kit open as your blood soaks the knees of his pants. His gloved fingers map your ribs. He counts the intercostal spaces. 

He finds the fifth. He plants his palm. 

He closes his eyes for a second. Then three. 

For the next ten seconds, you’re waiting for him at the Pitt. You walked from your apartment. Your hair is braided. 

You’ll come home with him by the end of the night, but for now, you’re where he can always find you. 

Where you’ll always be able to find him. 

“On my count, pressure release.” 

One. Two. Three. 

Jack makes the incision in a clean, practiced motion. He can hear the blood hissing around his fingers. 

The chest rises a fraction deeper. 

He hunches over before he can hear the medic swallow their spit. 

“We’re gonna load her.”

Nine, ten. 

Jack doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m coming.” 

“Dr. Abbot–

Jack looks up. The ambulance radio crackles. 

When the medic nods, he has to try his hardest not to let his prosthetic disconnect when he rises with no groan. 

“I’m fine, man. I ca-can help her. Everyth-everything on me’s a clean break or a slow bleeder–”

“Dr. Robby, we’re gonna load you in too–”

“We’re going the same way–” 

“Robby.” 

When Robby looks up with glassy eyes and glassed skin, he sees Jack looking at him. 

…Not now, because the pity and worry for Robby that evaporated at the sight of you? 

Every ounce of it finds its way back to Jack when he sees his brother. Still slumped, blinking dully at the wreckage. 

“Shut up and let them help you.”

…Nearly all of it.

He turns back before he can see Robby trying to peek over at where you’re being lifted, and Jack has to flex his hands not to grab onto you. But as they lift you, your limp hand falls against his chest. 

Your little sniper fingers leave a smear of blood over his scrub top. And a second…he’s gotta be allowed to close his hand around yours. Just for a second, kid. 

“...Dr. Abbot, please don’t touch her cheek unless it’s medically needed.”

In the second, he’ll allow a thought, too. And maybe he’ll kill it with his hands. Maybe he won’t. He’s not really thinking about that when he has to make sure you’re alive. And with what Jack saw on the street…

Oh. He’s allowed. 

It’s a clear thought, clear as the sirens screaming in his ears. 

He’s not going to stop. He’s not going to let go. He’s not going to make himself less for the sake of anyone. Because he’d been right. Jack had always been right.

This is what happens when you pretend someone else can keep you safe. And he’s not going to stop needing to be the only one who can keep you safe. 

Because…well. Look. 

When he tries, the world reminds him exactly how close it is to taking you away from him. 

[chloe302225]

the soft blue of a pale moon | Yautja x f!Reader

He keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive.  Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at this creature, this beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones, his pretty pet, his plaything, supplicant by his side. You won't ever submit. Ever. 

warnings: noncon/dubcon. captive reader. predator/prey. forced submission. noncon D/s dynamics. forced mating. rough sex/violent sex. broken bones. belly bulge. biting. size difference. mentions of violence. scent kink (slight). marking/scarring (territorially, possessively). alien biology. alien genitalia. female presenting reader (female anatomy).

Yautja terms:Kainde Amedha — hard meat (refers primarily to xenomorphs)

Ooman — human

lore:

comics, novels. divine wisdom.

this is basically a Dark (from the 2010 avp video game lmao) x Reader fic. Yautja is not an OC. but you don't need to know anything at all from the game to read this.

The bed of furs is soft beneath you.

It's an odd juxtaposition compared to the uncanny harshness of the room you've been left in (held captive for days, weeks, months—) with its severe lines and its stark, unfamiliar geometry. The walls stained a strange, unearthly colour of brownish-gold, towering high into a domed ceiling etched with symbols and runes you've yet to decode. Ones you know you never will.

This whole place is otherworldly. Seemingly beyond the scope of science fiction, or what your meagre imagination can dream up. Reality. Fantasy. The two blend together to form this archaic, rustic interior that's somehow far too futuristic for your mind to understand, and yet shaded in use, in age. Space dust. Caught between old and new—new: unknown, unknowable—and utterly mesmerising despite the garishness of what lies outside beyond the edge of the pelts you rest on. 

Adorning the walls are an uncountable number of skulls and bleached white bones. Weaving spines strung up. Spindly, alien vertebrae. Fantastical creatures. Mythological beasts. It's something only the most inspired minds can conjure—

And yet, it all sits within reach. 

(The human skull on the wall, still attached to its spine, is perched over your head like an omen—)

You tear your gaze away from it, sliding over the trophies immortalised in a shrine dedicated to the prowess of the being who took you. An alien. Yautja, you’ve come to learn. Predatory hunters who roam the galaxies in search of the best prey. A race made of warriors with a strict honour code. 

Though—

You don’t know how honourable keeping captives are to their society, but none of the other massive beings had tried to intervene when he had taken you on the ship, hauled over his shoulder like a conquest, beating furious fists into his broad back. They stood back, chittering to themselves in what you know is laughter. Mocking clicks. Low trills. They thought it all so funny, outlandishly so, to see him stalk through the thick haze of fog that blanketed the ground with a yowling ooman clawing futilely at his back. 

(As if your weak, feeble fists could ever hope to maim, to hurt—)

You don't know why he decided to take you. Even now, aeons later as you pass by an unfathomable number of solar systems, all glimmering like crushed gems just beyond the domed window above your bed, you have no idea what brought this on. What made him look at you, and think—

Pet (mine). 

And it's not for a lack of trying, either. But trying to prise anything out of him is near impossible. Chiselling for gold with a plastic spoon. 

It leaves you with only one other villain in this story, and you very readily blame Weyland-Yutani for this mess—dig deeper, explore faster, mine harder—but yourself, more so, for signing your name on the dotted line in the first place. You knew it was a terrible idea from the beginning. Not too many planets are truly desolate these days. Not with those things, xenomorphs, roaming the solar system unhindered. 

Nothing good ever comes from meeting them. Death, inevitably, follows. 

Though, comparatively, you'd rather be sprawled out—naked, collared—on a bed of strange, soft fur than being used as a breeding sow for a race of parasitic monsters hellbent on devouring the galaxy. 

Panic is white hot, electric. The thought alone makes you lash out, a paroxysm of pure adrenaline, fear. Your hand flies to your chest instantly. Fingers knotting between your heaving breasts, feeling around for any movement under your skin. A beat. Several. All erratic. Thumping harshly against your ribcage. And—

Nothing. Just the erratic flutter of your heart, bragging senselessly in your chest. 

(stupid thing—)

Of course. Of course. 

Out of everyone on the ill-fated expedition, somehow only you survived. Holed up in the armoury, listening to those serpentine creatures tear into the flimsy metal of your ship. Taking out the ones who managed to sneak in with a well-placed shot to their domed heads. Hiding in a corner waiting for them to find you, wondering if the last few bullets should be used on them or yourself. 

It was days of that. Of piling these awful monsters high, and hoping the corrosive blood didn't ruin the hull to make an opening wide enough for them all to pour in, overwhelming you with your dwindling ammo. 

Breathing in ragged breaths, all the while listening to the hisses skirting across metal, grazing talons down your skull. They liked to taunt you, a fact that nearly drove you to the brink when all the meandering words uttered around about their hive-like simplicity, their insectoid stupidity, fell apart. These creatures are deadly, cunning. 

And smart.

They adapted easily to your patterns, overcoming your bullets and your patchwork ingenuity with ease. The only thing that kept them at bay was the metal being too thick to penetrate with their claws. 

(And you watched, helplessly, as they realised this after the second week, and sacrificed the smaller drones to splash their corrosive blood across the thickened alloy, melting it slowly down to nothing—)

They would have gotten you soon enough. 

Had to, really. Because the Queen was waiting. You heard her hisses in your head. Felt her in the air, disturbed and agitated, around you. Pulsing like a heartbeat. Hammering against your resolve with each nightmare she pressed into the folds of your subconsciousness. Luring you to her. Showing you the wonders of giving in, granting her access. 

Coming home—

You don’t know how anyone could withstand her influence. The siren’s call from down the hall, showing you image after image of her children curling protectively over you. Nestled in a tight embrace. Safe and sound from the howling winds and the scorching sun, from the awful hisses outside, and the horrific sound of metal giving way, melting into a puddle on the floor. 

It was madness. One you wanted nothing more than to give into—

And then they came. 

Appearing out of thin air just as your bullet pierced her jaw when she finally came for you, her child—

She fell, taking out several of the others with her—ones not on your list of alien species to look out for—and left behind nothing but a passel of intimidating creatures and you. 

He, their leader, was the first to find you. Grabbing you by the scruff of your neck like a misbehaving kitten, and pulling you close. Taking stock, you think, of the bodies behind you and the holes in the Queen made from your gun. 

An uneasy, stifling silence fell, broken by a series of drawn-out, low clicks. 

You realised then, right as he bent down and tore the claw off of a dead xenomorph, what these beings were. Hunters. Predators. It was rare to see them on earth, but you’d heard of several run-ins with these creatures whenever humans decided to mettle with their preferred prey. 

It was even rarer that any human survived the encounter. 

He cocked his head to the side before pressing the bloody tip to your cheek, branding you with the mark of the blooded. One that matched his own. Purposefully done, of course. 

His crest on your skin, unique as a thumbprint, is the loudest proclamation of his claim. Anyone from any number of clans that roam the heavens in search of prey, of hard meat, know, immediately, that you belong to him. That you bear his mark, branded with the scar of his respect. 

(Respect—such a weighty thing to carry across your shoulders, too. Something you'd been eager to obtain, hungering for it all your life. And now—

The blunt, almost suffocating heft of it feels permanent in a way you can't even begin to unravel.)

He'd taken you, then. Despite thinking of humans as soft meat, cattle, he'd thrown you over his shoulder and marched you to his quarters where he stripped the xenomorphs of their skin, and hung their bones on the wall—your trophies. Sat next to his own. A bold display. A show of respect, however rare—and unwanted. 

And then he'd stared at you through the black slits in his horned mask. Just watching. Studying. It took a great deal of composure not to weep. To beg for—

For something. 

Leniency, maybe. For whatever crimes you inadvertently perpetrated against them. For being here, of all places, because of the insatiable greed of Weyland-Yutani. 

For believing in them in the first place, maybe. Following, desperately, in the footsteps of your fallen idol. 

It never mattered much in the end, though. After a careful, blank scrutinisation, he'd simply reached down, talons digging painfully into your skin, and tossed you into the softest bed of furs—of pure, hedonistic luxury you'd ever felt—and followed you down with an inhuman growl that rattled through your bones. That seemed to echo throughout the ship, shaking the walls, and trembling through the floors.

The kicking and screaming never happened. Futility paints a desperate picture, doesn't it? And in those moments, now lost to time, you knew, somehow, that it was useless. Is useless. 

He wanted you. Him, the captain of this ship you've been left to rot inside of. The one who knows your language, but refuses to speak it. Preferring, instead, to let the guttural clicks and the chirring of his foreign, unspeakable mother tongue take precedence. 

The one who hunts, viciously, and wears his trophies around his neck. Strung up for all to see as they dangle across his broad, mottled chest. Black. Endlessly so. His colouring is shades darker than your own galactic canvas where midnight itself spills across satin, but the comparison itches in your chest, rotting along with your sickening heartbeat. 

And you think he knows this. Because despite his fury as he slashes his way through the oddest assortment of extraterrestrial creatures you've ever laid eyes upon, he's cunning. Smart. Adaptable. 

It's this, the strange, almost preternatural patience he exudes which keeps you where you lay now. The innate knowledge that he's a primal hunter, one who uses both instinct and a keen, calculative sense of awareness to ensnare his victims wholly, unquestionably. One who'd undoubtedly hunt you down to the very edges of the star system you escape into until you're bent down on both knees, supplicant to his prowess.

His little pet. 

And oh, how he luxuriates in it. This little moniker given to you by his clanmates seems to make him preen each time you hear the familiar, rasping click of their scornful mockery. 

Soft ooman. His ugly little trophy. 

He snaps his mandibles at them in response, but keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him—ozone, leather, spice, and a potent musk of mildew and loam, humus; the stagnant waters of a swamp teeming with algae blooms. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive. 

Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at the creature, the beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones. 

You won't ever submit. Ever.

But you can play the part—if only until he eases his grip, allowing you to slip away again. 

With a glower, you lay open kisses along the hard, leathery ridges of his black scute, chasing the oily tang of his musk on your tongue. 

The feel of your soft mouth makes his thighs tense—all firm, corded muscle; raw, primal power sheathed in a thick, aggregate pelt of marbled colours. It feels like warm stone under your fingers. Oiled leather. Crocodilian. 

His maw opens, and the sound that tumbles out is full of fractured syllables and inhuman chirrs, gutteral crepitate. It's not something your human tongue could ever expect to replicate, and your lips tug downward in a sharp frown, your displeasure at this game of his growing by the minute. His staunch refusal to speak your language despite clearly knowing it—and knowing it well—is aggrevating, if only for the sole reason that he kidnapped you. That you being here, listening to him, is not of your own free will. 

The scorn is thick on your tongue, the vitriolic rebuttal taking shape already, but he silences you when his thumb grazes your jaw. The air in your lungs tumbles out in a shudder when you feel the unnaturally soft, yet firm, skin of his palm slide around the back of your nape. 

The fight in you is numbed by the realisation that his hand alone spans the entire length of your shoulders, now curled possessively around your neck. Fingers overlapping, folding over each other easily into a perfect collar. 

His hand closing over your throat draws your eye to the ringed gorget he wears around his neck. 

The comparison makes you sick. 

The talons on his fingers are warm, powder-soft like the beak of a bird, when they tap against your throat as you swallow, thumb still stroking along the ridge of your jaw. It's shockingly intimate, and the humanness of it settles in your stomach like a sinking stone. Granite needling against soft tissue. Mercury bleeding into your guts. You hate it. 

Hate how much you don't hate it. 

The juxtaposition fills you with a fit of vicious anger. You don't want to seek comfort from this beast. 

Your gaze drops, resting churlishly on the thick skin of his belly. Despite the raw, indomitable strength that coils through his muscles, malleable obsidian, when he sits, the softness of his belly pudges out, jutting over the brass-coloured belt of his loincloth. 

It's—

Another marker of his uncanny likeness to the human form. 

But where you might have expected to see coarse hair, his lower belly is sparsely covered by a dense, thick cropping of quills trailing along his abdomen. They feel like softened polymer under your fingertips, but catch on your skin if you're not careful, the sharpened edge digging in. It's not as painful as the press of his nails, but itches like a thorn. Needles of a cactus. 

They stretch upward. Arching along in a perfect mockery of a happy trail that stretches to form a heavy bushel on his chest, small whiskers on his chin, his brow, dotted along the crest of his crown where his tresses fall. 

Dragging your gaze up this path leads you back to piercing amber set deep inside the bracket of his skull. They seem to glow, an unnatural light spilling out of their sockets, highlighting the rigid lines of his bones. 

He's watching you. Always. 

(You blame the rapid thud of your heart on fear.)

Knowing he has your attention now, he makes the noise again. Lower this time. A snarling rasp breaking apart between his flexing mandibles. The sound akin to the rumble of an avalanche; the roaring screams of a forest on fire. 

You have no hope of ever mimicking it—not without drinking down acid to corrode your vocal cords first. The anger that lashes through you is a whipcord cutting its tip against your resolve. 

“What are you saying? I don’t understand—”

His massive crown dips, mandibles clicking. His thumb presses into your skin. Intentional. Pointed. 

It's then you piece together that what he's saying isn't a command or a taunt, but rather his name. One you have no hope of ever repeating unless you want to turn your vocal cords into tatters, strips of unusable tissue. Wasting your words on his name is not something you think you would ever want to do. 

And so, you don't. 

Maybe it's to spite him. Or to put some semblance of distance between yourself and the alien holding you hostage, touching the skin of your neck with a soft sort of reverence you hadn't known he was capable of. Whatever the reason, you twist the ugliness inside of your chest, the rage and sorrow, into a brutal knife, wedging it into the scant space between your bodies, prying them apart in a shallow victory. 

He's a hideous thing, isn't he? This brute. 

Raw power. Untameable malice. All hidden under this pantomime of honour. How laughable, really, to think these beings know anything of the sort. Or maybe it's just him in particular. The outlier of the lot. One with a confounding obsession with ooman pets. 

Ugly, you think, staring up at him. With his sunken eyes, and his mane-like crown. His tusks clicking together in quiet pleasure, smug in his throne of metal and bone. 

Ugly, like the mossy green surface of a still swamp. Stagnant waters. A black lake. Shrouded by a dense, impenetrable cropping of weeping willows and mangroves. Shading the water so much that the algae blooms turn black like tar. 

Dark, like him. 

And so, you whisper it. Not his name, but this vindictive moniker you pieced together thinking of the lingering swamplands covered in moss and peat.

“Dark.”

In response, his nails rake over the back of your neck in both a warning, a reprimand; the same harsh touch used on an unruly cub by its mother. The comparison makes you bristle, hissing out a series of cruel jeers at him, but he barely pays it any mind, too busy chittering to himself now, humoured instead of insulted by this tangentially human name you've bestowed upon him. 

The juxtaposition, the humanness of it all, is almost too much. 

How can a creature that ripped a xenomorph’s jaw apart with his bare hands have these soft rolls along his midsection. Feel humour the same way your friends back home might have at your taunting barbs? 

The contrast is nearly comical. Sour. 

You don't like it when he's too human. When he scratches his warm talons along your nape absently. Thoughtless. A little twitch of his hand offering threadbare comfort in an unconscious whim. When he's tactile with you. Tensile. Gentle. Touching your skin with an exploratory sense of curiosity, of fondness. Laying you down on the furs with a tenderness that is at complete odds to the rough, demanding way he'll inevitably mate with you. 

Mate. Because your coupling is always animalistic. Brutal. There's no tenderness to be found when he presses you into the furs, rutting into you like a beast. Growling, snarling. Making you take, and take, and take until he's satiated—

But you think you like it that way. 

Especially when he's fresh off of a hunt. 

When he fucks you into the mattress with nothing but harrowing, inhuman roars spilling from deep within his heaving, blood-drenched chest. Guttural snarls. Harsh, demanding. Moulding your body to his liking. Grasping you in a crushing clutch, and drawing your aching hips back to swallow down the intense thickness of his cock as it buries deep—impossibly so—inside of you. 

You like him angry. Like him rough. It rents the moments when he's docile with you; bifurcating the peculiar sheen in his beady eyes when he lifts his mask off, placing it on the metal mantle with all the others, content to just stare at you. Looking, watching. Assessing. 

It's the unnatural stillness of his gaze that sets you on edge. The heavy, unerring way he takes you apart with nothing but deep amber drilling through your skin. 

Through because you've pieced enough together to know he can't see you the same way you can see him. That all the sharp angles of your features are hidden. The infinitesimal detailing lost to some wavelength your human eyes can't begin to take apart. 

He hides this weakness by touching you endlessly. Long, sharp talons dragging over the bridge of your nose. The dip in your chin, the angles of your jaw. The plumpness of your cheeks. 

He buries himself inside of you, and plays an exploratory game of committing your topography to memory with the soft, thick palms of his hands. Lets his long, rubbery tresses brush across your face as he sets a maddening pace that promises to one day snap your pelvis in half again, eyes glued to the centre of you where you burn the hottest. 

Between these moments is where you linger the longest. Oscillating between a pet or a mockery of a queen; supplicant to its owner, it's King. Head resting on a terribly massive thigh as he commandeers a ship that makes all the technological advancements of your home world seem rudimentary and crude. A child's rendition of a spaceship brought to life with broken crayons. Left there to bask in his prowess, his glory. Surrounded by artefacts and trophies of all his kills—but considerably lesser than the vastness of his quarters where he keeps his most prized possessions. 

Yourself included. Polished diamond perched on a satin pillow. 

One he keeps dressed up in armour, in plating; decorated in the traditional fabrics of his own kind—mesh netting that keeps you perfectly comfortable, acclimated to the unbearable swelter of their ship, the temperature almost too much for your fragile skin to handle; breastplates over your chest; a bronze loincloth with intricate webbing and a heavy belt to keep it in place. 

Adorned with pretty gems and metal bands around your neck, your arms. His mark on your skin. 

Belly bare, and offered no shoes. But this fact is not a pointed statement about your imprisonment or your status amongst them—it's just for the simple fact that he doesn't wear them, and so: neither should you. The axiom is so irrefutable, that the bare, gnomic revelation is almost obvious in hindsight. 

Obvious. In the same way a lightning strike is. Being torn to pieces for getting between a mother bear and her cubs. Falling off a cliff after dancing too close to the edge. Trying to swim in aerated water. 

Obvious. It's all so obvious, isn't it? 

You spend most of your days in this liminal labyrinth. Lost in your own mind as space flickers past the large window in front of you. Pinpricks of light in the distance of an endless, unfathomable black nothingness. Perched on the precipice of complacency and dread. Never knowing when he'll grow bored of this game, and turn you from a living emblem to a skull on his mantle like all the rest. 

If, of course, you're even worthy enough of a place there.

You just don't know. And that's the crux of it all. Not knowing. Kept on the brink. Shrouded in uncertainty. 

You'd think it intentional if you hadn't seen the way he preens under your stare sometimes. Flexing in his metal throne, showing off his array of scars; the trinkets he picked up on worlds unknown. The open, wanting way he regards you—this little human, barely a scrap of thing compared to him, to the sheer vastitude of his bulk. Hungry. Possessive. Always snapping his mandibles at the other Yautja who get too close, claws raking down flesh, spilling luminescent green blood across the floor. Injuring his own kind for attempting to touch you—

The King’s conquest. 

But his ire doesn't abate for you, either. You've learned the hard way what it means to try and flee from his grasp, and while it wasn't nearly as bloodied, as brutal, as it was for his kin, it was terrifying. 

He'd snatched you by your throat in an instant. His warm, soft palm enclosing over the fragile length of your neck with too much to spare for you to ever be comfortable. Long fingers overlapped across your nape, and he'd heaved you forward, slamming you into the hard plains of his body with a growl. Talons prickling into your skin, spilling blood down your back. He'd snarled so loud that the ship seemed to quiver, quaking under the sheer weight of his anger. 

Amber eyes drilled into you, widened with the fever of his fury, burying deep into your being. Your head wrenched side to side in a slow, agonising jolt as he assessed you. Taking stock of the silly pest that tried to run from him. That had the gall to slink off like an insect scurrying over his feet. Dishonourable.

You thought you were toeing the line before when you'd dig your human deep into his thickened hide as he kept you tucked to his side, on your knees for him; or when you tug so harshly at his tresses that green blood leaks from his skull and he howls in pain, but you realised then that you were wrong. That those little moments of mutiny were akin to foreplay to him. Small, inconsequential. Spilling his blood earned you marginal amounts of his respect, and he showed it by dumping you on his bed, and burying himself inside of you until you'd passed out into the furs. Overwhelmed. Punished. But it wasn't. You weren't being taught obedience by his hand, but rather getting a playful slap for your antics. 

This, though. 

Running from him—

Well.

In that moment, the air wrought with the metallic tang of his indomitable rage, you had thought: this was it. He was going to kill you. Flay your skin from muscle, and hang you in the rafters for the rest to gawk at. Easy prey. A fickle kill. 

And with everything you'd gleaned about this strange tribe and their odd customs, it would have been a mercy. 

But he didn't. 

Doesn't. 

His mandibles flare open, stretching out wide across his boxy jaw. The pinpricks of his teeth gleam in the hazy, saturated light of the ship; white, jagged peaks against fluttering, angry red. It shudders as he growls. The decibels pitched low, unfathomably so. You catch the spear of it rattling through his body, the rasping snark bellowing from the depths of his chest, and shaking the air around you. You can feel it reverberate from his flesh, the tight grip he has on you a conduit funnelling his anger straight into the middle of your throat. 

It reminds you of a territorial crocodile bellowing in the shallow water, making it vibrate and splash around him as the shattering frequency ripples outward. 

It's terrifying. Electric.

You feel it rattle through your bones. Feel the ripples trembling through your flesh. 

It's primal, this fear. Animal. 

But in the end, he doesn't kill you. 

You're simply tossed over his shoulder like a rowdy, misbehaving pest, and taken back to his room, much to the amusement of his gathering tribemates peeking out of their room to see their leader tend to his wilful, misbehaving pet. He strips you of your armour with a careless, almost cruel disregard before pushing you back on the bed. There's a rigid line to his shoulders you'd never seen before; a damning flex to his jaws that make you shake, quivering in fear. 

You know better than to speak, to beg. All it gets you in the end is a mocking series of clicks that you know enough to recognise as laughter. Instead, you take your punishment with your chin in the air, unwilling to submit the way he so clearly wants you to. 

Your supercilious scorn has his mandibles widening in anger once again, and he exercises his control by shoving you face-first into the bed, and burying his tusks into the meat of your shoulder, keeping you still under him. 

It's a clear warning. Move, it says, and his tusks will catch on your spine and rip it clean from your back. You still. Quiet. A prey animal lying prone, unmoving, at the feet of a chuffing predator as he mounts you from behind, rutting into you with a savagery that renders you into nothing more than a ruined heap under his bulk. 

For your attempted escape, you end up with more of his scars on your body, indents in the shape of his flared mandibles on your shoulders, and a fractured pelvis. It could be worse. You could've died. 

Should have, maybe. 

(is that a plea? an orison? 

and if so, why is it drenched in misery?)

And there is something vicious about the way he tends to your broken bones after, plunging the needle into your skin despite your howling, or the way you thrash. It's pure agony. The sensation how you imagine it must feel to be burned alive from the inside out. 

That, you think, is why he has no qualms about leaving you alone now. Wandering off, chasing trophies and honour on a planet just outside of the domed window above your bed. A vicious, red world tidally locked around a small dwarf. One half shrouded endlessly in black while the other burns, charred from the intensity of its star. In the middle, you know, is a small strip. A habitable zone, if only just. 

It's a place where a large, lumbering predator roams. One with towering antlers akin to the moose on earth, and jagged, spiked teeth protruding from its maw. The length is too much like a Sabre-toothed tiger for you to ever want to meet it face-to-face in the dark. 

Proper prey. A worthy trophy, they consider it. 

And, from the chittering you picked up, it seems that xenomorphs—kainde amedha—have found this place as well. 

The thought of them down there—spreading, growing, infecting—fills you with a potent sense of dread, one that gnaws on your insides with serrated teeth. Vicious and ugly, it lingers in crevasses where it pokes and prods at your fear, and your worries, until they split open, leaking putrid rot all over. 

It’s not that you’re worried about him. Not at all. 

(despite the nagging in your chest that whispers you’re a liar when you press your face into his side of the lavish bed of furs, greedily inhaling as much of his lingering musk as you can—)

He's gone off on hunts many times since you've been taken, and most of them end up on worlds already broken apart, infested, by those parasites. 

The notable difference is that brushes with them in the past never incurred much worry from you. If anything, you think you rather preferred it. Enjoyed the respite that came when he was gone, giving you a meagre ounce of freedom to think about all the (futile) ways you could escape. 

And mostly waiting. Waiting for someone at Weyland-Yutani to notice the glaring absence of one of their engineers. 

How laughable, really. Its echo is a false prophet whispering poison into your head, telling you that things will be over soon, that the higher-ups care less about profit margins than a whole fleet that went missing under garish circumstances on a planet you're soon beginning to think you never should have been sent to at all. 

Saves money on wages, you suppose. And the expense of sending a rescue fleet in to investigate costs more than your yearly salary. 

The bold, unignorable truth in that is a cruel, twisting knife to your agency. To the lingering remnants of your humanity, and worst of all, your hope. 

No one is coming. You've known this for a while now. The toxic hisses are part of the reason why you decided to try your luck on a massive, earth-like planet the first (and only) time you've tried to run. Because without that, without this fraudulent hope, what else are you left with if not him?

And now—

It's been an uncountable number of days. Weeks. 

Time in interstellar orbit is inconsequential. The beings themselves—yautja, you remember him hissing; garbled words mangled in his throat, and feel the burn in yours when you try to echo it in his tongue—have no reason to keep time, it seems. And even if they did, it's doubtful you would be able to interpret its abstract meaning. 

But even without traditional clocks or human measures and scales of time, you know that he's been gone much longer than before. Agitation seems to simmer in the air. The yautja—unblooded younglings; juveniles in their comparably archaic youth—that come to deliver your food seem—

Restless. 

Their maskless faces whisked in agitation. Shoulders set in a tense line. Eyes skewed toward the vast windows of the mothership, fraught with an eager sort of intensity. 

You know, first-hand, how brutal their hierarchy tends to be, and have seen Dark use a brute, savage dominance over the younger, disrespectful, ones who ignored his warning in the past. The amalgamation, then, of their excitement and their uncertainty screams one thing: 

he should have been back by now. 

And it—

It does something to you. 

Changes things, maybe. Skews your perspective. 

Because the reality is this: 

As much as you hate your circumstances, you're under no compunction that Dark isn't the sole reason you've been left, untouched, for so long. Why you're allowed to stay alive; to linger in his shadow, trailing after him like a lost dog. And you're barely certain that Dark won't turn around and kill you when the whim strikes him, much less his compatriots. His clanmates. 

It leaves two brutal truisms for you to contend with: that you need him; and that without him, you're dead. 

In that, you find there's almost too much to think about. 

So—

You lean back, staring up at the pale blue moons outside of your prison, and think of nothing because if you can't see the pendulum, if you don't stare down into the maw of the pit, then you can pretend neither are really there at all. 

You wake from a restless slumber to the door opening with a mechanised whirr, the rasp of heavy metals sliding against each other filling the air. A plume of thick fog billows up in response, shrouding the entrance in dense white. 

The cloud conceals their identity, but it doesn't matter much. No one has access to these chambers. No one but him. 

The long, sharpened talons on his toes clink against the floor as he approaches. Each footfall makes your heart jump, scattering in a strange, off-kilter rhythm. 

Through the fog, he appears. Battleworn, and filthy. Splotches of dulled green blood cover his body from head (where you note a few tresses have been ripped off, some at the crown where a pock gapes open, deep forest green, and others at the ends) to toe. The majority of it is covered in the low, angry light of the glowing metal, the colour of molten rock. It's shielded from your prying eyes as he moves forward, strides purposeful as he lugs his wares over the threshold. 

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, broad chest heaving with each breath he takes through the mask still on his face. You take stock of him as he stills, cataloguing each change to his appearance now—a new scar down the length of his chest, blistered and scabbed over from the healing salve they carry on their hunts. Part of it is hidden under a thick patch of burnt skin. The splatter whipping over his lower belly, and raising the toughened skin up half an inch. 

The infliction of both are immediately recognizable in their unmistakable pattern. 

The slash of a xenomorph’s claw ripping through skin, shredding through it like paper; and the jagged, rough burn of their blood as it rained down, unhinged, on bare flesh. 

He fought quite the battle, you note, and pretend the rapidness of your breath doesn't reek of relief. 

His hard-earned victory sits in his hands. 

The skull of a queen. 

The sickly white already polished and primed, ready for its place on his mantle. It should be there already. Should have been his first stop. Per tradition. 

But he breaks it by standing before you now, covered in grime and dried blood. Reeking of stale sweat. Of rot. And holding his wares in his hand for you to see. To take note of. He waits even though you know it costs him a great deal of effort to stand here, beaten, bruised, scarred, burnt as he is. Half of it is the same, undeniable stubbornness that they all seem to inherit; a weaponised sense of pride. The other—

Well.

The significance of this moment, of this break in a sacred routine, isn't lost on you, despite your best efforts to pretend otherwise. As much as you want to ignore it, it itches behind your ribs, pulsing like an infectious wound. 

It's only when he sways slightly in exhaustion, the movement almost indiscernible if you hadn't been watching him so intently, do you release him from this strange moment. Bowing your head down in quiet, muted submission; a reverent surrender to his indomitable prowess. 

This gentle, almost desultory yielding doesn't seem to click at first. He tilts his head down slightly, gazing at you through the black slits in his mask, seemingly uncomprehending as he takes in the sight of you—this errant little human who caused him nothing but trouble, offered nothing but mocking respect—bowing down to him after an indefinite time fighting to free yourself from under his thumb. 

Until—

It does. 

The massive, bleached skull of the queen is shoved in the air in a sudden chirr, pitched to the ceiling as he stomps his feet on the ground in an effort to widen his stance. Knees bent, he throws his head back, and lets out a ravenous, blood-curdling roar of victory. 

It bludgeons into you. The force of it winding when it hits, bruising along your skin in a throbbing ache. 

This doesn't so much as feel like toppling over the precipice, but already being caught in an unstoppable freefall. 

(one you're not sure will be an indefinite fall to the stagnation, stasis; or will send you crashing down to the jagged rock at the bottom of this vertiginous drop. 

the one thing you are certain of is this:

it's much too late to go back when you've already lept off the edge.)

—and so, the pit it is.

His thumbs pitch under the board curve of his mask, grazing the soft underside of his boxed chin. Carefully, he lays down a single finger at a time, resting it against the smooth surface before slowly lifting it off his face. 

When the humid air hits his flesh, his mandibles flare out. Flexing. An unconscious response, you now know, after being folded against his mouth to fit inside the helmet for so long. Joints aching. Muscles hinged with disuse. 

It's with this motion that you notice the absence of his left, lower mandible. The stump a mangled mess of cauterised flesh. It's ugly. Atrocious, even. The scars crisscrossing against moulted skin of pale amber and black are a harrowing emerald smear, an awful amalgamation of dried blood and gnarled tissue. 

The shock of it is dulled under the weight of his success, and it's then that you know you're too far gone to ever go back. Where there should be pity, and—shamefully—disgust, all you feel is an overwhelming sense of borrowed pride. Chiselled from the staunch set of his shoulders, the flex of his muscles, as he openly preens under your stare. Angling his chin downward, giving you a better glimpse of his battle scars. A hard-earned victory. 

A queen is no easy feat, after all. 

His eyes find yours in blood-red gloom. Burning amber, chiselled into the canyons of his unique, unmistakable topography, seems to drill, intensely, into you. They stray, travelling down the length of your nude body, barely covered by the pelts of his conquests. 

You spare a thought to the idea that seeing you this way, wearing nothing at all but his kills, is what makes his broad chest expand suddenly, shoulders pulling back as he preens. Puffing his plumage in a heady pride, a deep satisfaction that runs bone deep. 

Waiting for him, you think. Dressed only in the hide he skinned with his bare hands. 

He rumbles suddenly. Bellowing out a low, steady growl between his sharpened teeth. This noise is unlike anything you'd ever heard before—deep, unfathomably so; but hollow. It echoes, reverberating from his chest in a timorous pitch. 

You could almost mistake it for a leonine pur. 

He stalks towards you, and each step ignites a war within you. The urge to flee from this predator is fierce. Instinctual. It burns through you with a vicious force, but in that rippling intensity, kindling burns in the scorch marks left behind. 

Just as potent as the urge to run is, the want, the desire, to roll over and submit to this massive, powerful creature rages, blistering through you. 

But you force yourself to stay still. To wait as he moves, seamlessly, to you. Lighter now that he's stripped himself of the wrist gauntlets, the cannon mounted to his shoulder, his trophies, his kills—the dangling skulls from around his neck, and waist. The belt and loincloth were the first to go, freeing himself to display his immodesty, completely at ease in his own nudity. The thermal netting peeled off next, and dropped into a pile by his mantle. The chill—if a near-constant swelter could ever be considered such a thing—made his jaws flare out in the only sign of discomfort he would ever give, flexing under the slow acclimation to this balmy heat that clings to air. 

The heat, though—

Such a relentless thing. 

You feel the humidity burn through you as he walks, unashamedly bare, to you. An incredible length of skin unveiled for your prying eyes, glinting a devastating obsidian in the pale luminescence of the locked moons just outside the window. 

In this sparse light that trickles in, you let yourself grow bold, greedy, for the fill of him, and let your gaze trail down the pockets of quills dropping down his chest, his belly, until you meet the thick thatch on his groin. It's here where your breath catches. Hitching loudly in your throat as he comes to a standstill within your reach. 

As human as he sometimes appears—usually in the most inopportune times—you can't deny the obviousness in his extraterrestrial anatomy compared to yours, to human morphology. Birdbeak warm claws, tusk tips on mandibles, leathery skin connected through a series of irregular polygonal shapes in mossy black and blazing amber, baleen teeth sharpened to needlepoints—you would be remiss to think him human in anything other than silhouette. 

But arguably, the biggest shock (outside of his maw) is, of course, his cock. 

Softened, it's kept tucked away inside of a slightly bulging cloaca shaded in the same dark green hue as his outer arms, back, and legs. A dense cluster of quills sit in a thatch around it, protruding near his black, pebbled scute. It's firmer than you'd expected it to be, but softens near the opening where his cock emerges, intimidatingly long, thick. The fattened length of him, too, is foreign. 

The end tapers into a fleshy point. Along his shaft are barbs, small ridges that resemble the scute covering his body, if only softer. The reminder of them makes you tremble, skin heating. Feverish. It's indescribable, really. The way they drag along your sensitive flesh on the outstroke, the sensation dizzying. 

Covering his flesh is an oily, slick substance, and it's really only this natural lubricant that even allows taking the full length of him inside of you possible. The sheen of it glints in the light when he flexes his muscles, and steps closer to the bed, smearing slick against his thighs. Your mouth waters, flooding with the veracity of your insatiable want.  

(You hate him. Hate him. Want so him so badly that it feels like you're burning from the inside out—)

The push-pull of your submission, still at war with your innate sense of self, dims, quieting when he reaches the edge of the bed, cock in full view. The jut of it, now fully extended from his sheath, hangs, heavy and thick, between his legs, bobbing with his movements, twitching in his growing excitement. Prespend, slightly more watery in texture compared to a human man, gathers at the opening, dripping down to the floor beneath his feet. A long, pearlescent strand clings from his weeping slit, dropping to land on the flesh near his knee. 

The sight of it shouldn't be as sinful as it is—you’ve yet to find god amongst the stars and you doubt, very much, you ever will—but seeing the thick glob of his desire spill, leaking steadily from his twitching cock, fills you with a heady sense of want. Desire. 

He hasn't touched himself at all. Content, almost, to stare at you, head cocking to the side as his beady amber eyes drill into your lower belly, fixed on the spot where you burn the hottest. The heat signature you give off, blistering; red-hot, is probably the biggest appeal to a creature like him who sees in shades of yellows and reds. The mismatch of your complexion, the nude state of your body, is inconsequential to him when at your core, you're molten. And all for him. 

He knows this, too. Knows your body well enough to see the unmistakable burn of your desire. Your desperation. The slick growing between your parted thighs turns into a heavy, hot flood; pulsing full of electricity. The depth of your need grows increasingly uncomfortable the longer he waits, watching. You want him. Want this massive beast who stole you away, who held you down and made you take him, made you submit. 

And he wants you back. This Stygian king cut from ashlar, limned in shadows, wants you just as much—if not more. Went out of his way to burrow past your pitiful defences to bury himself as deeply as he could, rearranging your humanity into a likeness of his image; branding you with his mark, dressing you in clothes tailor-made to fit. Giving you the gift of his prowess—bones, skulls: trophies from the most fearsome predators in the galaxy left at your altar—in this mating dance, this outré ritual. 

His desire for you is overwhelming. Dangerous. Your hips twinge at the reminder of when he exercised his punishment, exiguous as it was compared to his sheer strength, smarting with the phantom burn of fractured bones as he gave in, infinitesimally, to this voracious yearning that smoulders, a constant ember, in the sunken depths of his eyes. 

Something surges through you at the thought of him holding back as much as he has, at the way he thickens just at the sight of your blood red need. It's a strange amalgamating of animalism (pure, unquantifiable primalism, bestial in its savagery; feral), and a heightened degree of pride—the sort that leaves you feeling godlike, peerless: transcendent, in the very essence of the word. 

He wants you. You. 

And in that, the vestiges of your control cessate. 

Submission, you find, feels too much like finding sanctuary amidst a raging wildfire.

In response, he trills. The thundering bellow vibrates through the air. An unmistakable pur of a beast successfully conquering its mate. 

He moves—soundless and surprisingly agile for such a mountainous creature; prodigious down to his every atom—and makes a slow, aching crawl to meet you on the bed. His knees, the size of your skull, press down first, making the basin of fur dip under the enormity of his heft. Encompassed in his shadow even with him kneeling before you, it makes the absurdity in your sizes more pronounced. Thighs thicker than the trunks of fir trees. Arms the width of your legs. His chest is the span of your own, just duplicated thrice. 

Dark is a beastly thing up close. 

There's a thrum in your throat; a heady pulse, throbbing with adrenaline cut by dormant fear. As if sensing death so close by, an atavistic caterwaul begins in your hindbrain, screaming at you to run, roll over, submit, play dead—the flickering of these prey responses an instinctual deluge that you quell, half-heartedly, with the knowledge that there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. 

He'll find you. Even if he has to hear the star system apart to do it. 

As if omnipotent to these weeping tendrils of animal fear, his broad chest trembles as he lets out a shallow pur. A softened bellow. The growl of a prowling cat on the Savannah. 

You shiver, fisting the fur in your slick palms until it bulges up between whitening knuckles. 

“Please,” is all you say, and you don't even know if this particular word registers to him at all. He never responded in the past to it (or stop, don't, no) outside of the rare occasion when he kept his helmet on, and mocked you with the garbled mimicry as he buried himself as deep inside of you as he could go. 

This time, though, his mandibles twitch. His maw gapes open, displaying an egregious set of terrifying teeth, and the flutter of his throat grows, undulating in jerking pulses of flesh, sliding over each other until—

Puh–le’e–suh—

It's butchered beyond recognition. Maimed in the flex of his corded, baleen throat. But the intention is there, and the implication more so. 

He spoke. 

And it's a broken, devastating mockery of your mother tongue, but the force of it all is a blow, a bludgeon unlike anything you'd ever felt. 

A whirlwind of emotions rage through you, all congealing into a muddled, indiscernible mess. It slips through your fingers, featherlight, but he doesn’t give you a moment to gather them together between your fists. 

His tresses fall over his broad shoulders as he prowls forward, tiring of this epoch already. The long, tubular strands frame you in a serried curtain of black as he looms—gargantuan, mythical—above you, head dipped down. The massive crown lists to the side when you lean back, instinctively, spine meeting the furs in tandem with his slow advance. 

The absence of his lower mandible when he flexes the others is novice in the liminal light that spills through the bulk of his body. You're not used to seeing him hurt like this. Ragged scars. Scorch marks tearing across his flesh. 

Reflexively, you reach up. The tips of your fingers are feather-soft against the dry tresses just behind the missing cluster. The ends of them are cauterised—a thick, metallic clump glued to the bottoms to keep him from bleeding. Another anatomical anomaly. 

Filled with veins and nerve endings, his tresses are far more sensitive to touch than the coarse hair of primates—the integument is different, too; rubbery to the touch, reminding you of polymer pipes or rubber bands, almost. 

At your gentle touch, he makes a noise, a shallow churr in the back of his throat; mandibles soon folding over his mouth after. Reactive, you find, and endlessly endearing for such a monstrous creature. Cute. 

A smile blooms at the notion of his sudden shyness. Such an outlandish thing for someone whose entire existence is narrowed down to honour and death. The pinch of his tusks elapsing over his maw fills you with a misplaced affection, a foreign growth metastasizing between your ribs. 

You're not sure what it is—survival instinct, maybe. The urge, the drive, to keep living despite yourself; a blot against the harsh reality of your predicament. It feels like the most likely one considering the other is genuine adoration. Unthinkable even now in spite of your willing submission. 

But thinking about this is a jagged dagger cutting through your insides. You shove it aside, hide it away. 

The soft touch—a mere whisper of your fingertips gliding along the surface of his tresses—takes on a more intentional drag, purposeful. You curl your index finger around a corded forelock, giving a small, impish tug just to make him jutter above you. 

His jaws flex, mandibles spreading slowly apart with a quiet, humid hiss. The heat brimming up once more as he curves his long mane over you, chin dipping down to encompass the entirety of your body under his. 

You can't help wondering if this is what it feels like to be devoured. 

And when he reaches the apex, eclipsing everything in your sight with the full, dark heft of him, hands fixed against the soft furs above your head, you think of a sanctum instead of a cage. 

(a swinging pendulum—)

The heat is unbearable with him over you like this. Made worse, somehow, when his hand lifts, falls to your waist. The width of it covers you entirely. Swallowed whole by palm. You tremble, and he eats your anticipation with a distinctive, preening click, turning you on your belly with an ease that knocks the air from your lungs. Barely a featherweight to him. The notion is scorching. 

The name he's given you is full rasping, mangled syllables your fleshy tongue could never begin to wrap around. In the absence of knowing how to speak it, you've begun to call him by your own human version of his namesake. It's this, the shortened, paltry whisper that rolls off your tongue when he presses the tapered tip of his cock against you. 

“Please, Dark—”

At the soft utterance of it, he snaps his hips harshly in retaliation, burrowing his cock inside of you in a quick, jarring thrust. 

It rents you in two, splits you down the middle. Your breaking point is surpassed in an instant; mettle fracturing, shattering on impact. It takes every ounce of willpower to cling to cognisance when he snarls through the last few inches of impaling you entirely. 

In the static tatters of your consciousness, the realisation—a startling polyphony of fear, trepidation, and awe—that this is him holding back lingers on the periphery. That, in itself, is the rekindling of your appetite; hunger gnaws on shallow need, unsatiated by the threadbare scraps it's been given to chew on. 

You say his name again. The whisper of it raw, wounded; scraping against your lacerated vocal cords, torn by the vicious howl, the shriek, that ripped through your chest when he seated himself deep inside of you. 

He responds by snapping his hips into yours, the barbed ridges on his cock licking across your nerve endings in the almost perfect zenith of pleasure and pain. It's nirvana, you think. With hell nipping sharply at its heels. 

The stretch—unlike anything you've ever felt before; incomparable outside of too much—burns furiously. The only thing keeping it from being impossible is the thick oil coating the length of him. The makeup of it must have analgesic properties, or some paralytic agent mixed in, because with each stroke, it soothes your raw flesh, erasing the pain of him inside of you, and leaving nothing but pure, unfettered sensation behind. It's just the thick, unrelenting press of him. The heaviness. The girth. 

It's good. Too good. Overwhelmingly so. 

A series of low clicks spilling out from his broad chest, the chirr of a rattlesnake. He must see it, the way your body floods with endorphins, with heat. The room, kept at an uncomfortable swelter, glues to your skin. Balmy, and achingly hot. The blister of it burrows deep, massing together into a molten core at the very apex of where he's buried inside of you. 

Drawn there, moth to a flame, your hand slides between the damp fur, now drenched in your sweat, and comes to rest on the prominent bulge shifting through your abdomen. His cock. 

Behind you, Dark lets out a susurrus hiss, and pauses the ruinous cants of his hips just long enough to let you feel for yourself how perfectly he changes your shape to fit himself inside. It's unmistakable, of course; but everything outside of raw feeling is liquified. Rendered numb. You know, somewhere, distantly, that this—feeling him through your muscle, your skin so distinctly that you can touch each ridge on his cock—is something that ought to break you, shatter you into pieces. The anatomical anomaly of having him stretch you like this, to this extent, is unfathomable. 

And yet—

He drags his cock out, and you whimper, mindless, stupid, at the sudden loss of him. 

You don't feel complete unless he's buried within you. 

And despite yourself, the somnolence lapping at you, a part of you wonders if this is a symptom of that paralytic agent—musk, pheromones, miasma, poison—blotting out all logic, and inducing a soporific desperation, a vacuous need for him and him alone. One that makes wholeness out of the heavy press of his cock. 

If it is, it doesn't matter much anymore. 

You're too far gone, lost to the throes of it, to care about anything else. 

A good thing, perhaps, because with Dark, it's always a selfish coupling. He pays no real heed to your pleasure, fully under the belief that his cock splitting you apart is enough. 

And damn you—damn your treacherous body—it is. 

Each brutal cant of his powerful hips slamming into you sends waves of pleasure roaring down your spine. To be pried apart, stuffed full of the overwhelming surplus of his girth notches against something inside of you that makes your bones liquid, your marrow running molten. Burning you up from the inside out. 

You clench around him desperately, fingers knotting into the furs below, squeezing it tight in a vice. Trying, futilely, to cling to some sense of cognisance despite the vicious way he takes you apart. Atom by atom. Synapses bloating, crackling under the strain. 

He fucks you like beast. All vicious snarls, guttural rasps; blood is drawn when his claws catch your skin, tearing it open like tissue paper. The sting is buried under the layers of sensation tunnelling through your body. 

Pleasure, pain: equilibrium met on the cusp. Aided, in large part, by the frenzied way he ruts you; fractured, careless. Bullying himself into you until the tapered tip of his cock bruises your cervix—more battering ram than flesh; eager to wrench you open, spill himself inside of your womb. 

You can't imagine what this must be like when he isn't holding back. Horrific, maybe. Blood, bruises. Torn skin. No wonder their hide is so thick. 

But even this—tamed, as it might be—feels like a battle. A war. He spears you open, chirring the whole time as he curls over you, protective and awful, the motion forcing the last few inches of him into you. Bruised, aching, you whimper at the feeling of his sheath, white-hot and soaked with your slick, cupping your drenched cunt. He holds himself there, as deep as he can possibly go—tip a bludgeon against your cervix, stretched wide around the thick of him—and lets out another long, low pur that rumbles through you. Teeth chatter from the vibrations, delirious and bordering on the equinox of absolute damnation, your pussy clenches around his cock, each ridge and divot more pronounced than before. 

Overwrought with bliss, with a nauseating pain, you keen in response to his deep bellow, feeling more animal than ever before. 

Driven purely by instinct, you push back into him, thighs slapping against his own. The power in his muscles, the contrast between your supple, soft body and his, iron wrapped in thick, crocodilian skin, is flint striking steel. 

A mere tinderbox, your body erupts in a devastating heat. 

The burst of molten red makes him reel back, barbs catching on your sensitive skin. It's too much, too much—

He thrusts back into your spasming cunt with a shuddering roar, the sound alone—the lewd, drenched squelch of him splitting you apart—tugs the knot inside of you past its breaking point. As his claws rip through the pretty fawn fur, shredding them to pieces as he grips tight in an effort to piston his cock as fast as he can into your aching pussy, you find yourself tipping over the precipice in a stumbling fall. The force of it, the suddenness, is agonising, edging immediately into overstimulation when the deep, heavy jut of his cock head burrowing into your fluttering walls doesn't cease. It's—

White noise. Static. Your head is galvanised into slush, slurried into liquid pleasure that thrashes and writhes in your core, nerve endings set aflame in a wet, hot inferno under his bulk. 

You puddle under him, burning with the aftershocks. Body melting, useless and spent, into the sheets as he drives into you with the single-minded purpose of reaching his own cataclysmic end. Numbed now, all you feel is an intense, dizzying pressure pulsing molten inside of you. 

Dark braces himself over you, content to just rut deep into you, barely pulling the full, heavy length of himself out of your aching sex. With anyone else, it might be considered sloppy—a messy, desperate coupling, but even this much with him is devastating. Ruinous. 

It's a maelstrom. A bleak, calamitous fall to the bottom of a blackened pit. 

And with a savage, brutal plunge, he buries himself inside of you again, prising the soft plug of your womb open with a brutish roar—deep, broken; bellowed at the heavens—and you feel the steady pulse of him inside of you, filling you. It's too much—his fat, heavy girth, and the copious amounts of his spent stretch you past your limit, teeth raking across your mettle, and the bulge in your lower abdomen grows taut as he floods you with his release. 

The end of the pit looms, and from the chasm, a jagged maw gapes open, gnashing its teeth at you in rapacious anticipation as you careen toward its empty gullet. Falling, falling, falling—

And in the midst of it all, you think this might be what dying feels like.

Your cognisance is drawn together in pieces, inchmeal. 

A slow, gradual crawl out of slumber, the tugging threads of hypnagogia clinging to your rheum-heavy eyes. 

Furs stick to your damp body, some pulling loose when you shift away from the uncomfortable, sweat-soaked puddle of heat beneath you. 

Nausea roils through your belly, pulsing with dreadful synchronicity to the throbbing ache in your pelvis. In an effort to quell the feeling of your insides folding over themselves in a damning knot, you gingerly press the tips of your fingers to the spot that aches the most, feeling the raised indent of a contusion under your pads. 

It makes you blink up at the domed ceiling, head lifting to catch a glimpse of soft flesh near your hip. 

Through the midnight spill of your skin, you can see the tumid ridge bubbling up slightly higher than the rest of your flesh. In the middle is a small dot. An injection sight. 

You realise, with a huff, that he must have broken your pelvis again. Unintentionally, this time. Caught up in your feverish coupling. 

It makes sense. Your bones feel shattered beyond repair, but you know that they're knitted back together, suffused with the medicinal magic their healing injections have. 

The thought should scare you. Be it the ease in which he can break your bones, snapping them into pieces; or whatever it is he's pumping into your body to heal it, but it slips, diaphanous and ephemeral, from your tangled thoughts. Untouchable now, slowly fading into the background. 

The marbled quiet of your mind is broken when you feel him move beside you. His massive paw falls on your crown, covering the entirety of your head with an ease that you can't imagine ever not leaving you a little breathless at the scale, the vastness in your differing sizes. It rests there for a moment, leaching the warmth from your cap like a satiated, languorous reptile. A sluggish snake still digesting its oversized meat. 

A series of clicks spill when you lull your head over to meet the burning yellow of his gaze, everything awash under the heavy scent of sex and loam. Stale sweat, iron. You breathe it in, blinking in the soft blue light of the pale moons spilling in from the window of the ship. 

He lounges like a satiated cat. His legs spread akimbo; his other hand resting on his chest. The narrowing of his eyes, too, reminds you of a well-fed feline, squinting into a dewy oblivion. 

With a deftness you can't keep up with, his hands shift, reaching out to take hold of you when the sleep drips from your eyes. It takes no real effort at all for him to drag you to rest between his spread thighs, head pillowed on the tuffs of quills covering his lower belly. 

There's a twinge in your hips, but it's numbed by the palliative magic of the injection, pulsing like the soft beat of a headache through your bones. It'll hurt something awful later on when it begins to wear off, leaving you feeling more like a massive contusion than a person. But that's later. Much later. And as he rests his palm, warmed by your heat, against your nape, you find you don't mind the tenderness much at all, content to bask in the evidence of your coupling simmering, electric, between you, distinct in the air. An ozoneous tang. Heady. A sour, earthy miasma. 

You breathe it in. Breathe him in. 

And in the slow, soporific spool of your weaving thoughts, you can't help but wonder what he thinks of this, of you, as he reclines in the fur. Nothing at all, perhaps. 

Or maybe something. Something you can't even begin to unravel. An archaic, primordial sort of want—animalistic, alien. The kind that would make him scar his own kind for gnashing their claws at you in anger, indignant over your mere presence in their leader's nest. Who would take a creature not of the same species, and parade them around as they bared his mark for all to see. A mate. A conquest. A queen. A pet. The fickleness of it is not lost on you, but there's something about the knowledge that this is as taboo, as unprecedented for him, for his kind, as it is for you. 

And yet. 

He still picked you. Of all the humans in the galaxy, crawling around like lost, queenless ants, he decided to shun the staples of his culture and take you with him. 

That alone, you think, is enough. 

And so—

You relax. Melting into the wrought iron strength of his frame, liquifying under the raze of his nails grazing your skin, pulling you deeper into this sense of complacency. Where else do you belong, after all? 

You turn your head, nuzzling your nose into his quills. Into his skin. The potency of his smell is stronger here, so close to his groin, and you groan a little at the twinge in your cunt at the heady, briny weight of it settling on the back of your tongue when you breathe in deep. 

He chuffs a bit, quietly pleased by your obvious scenting. The way you bury your nose into the crease where his inner thighs bend, drawing in the pungence of his unwashed flesh. It drags your attention away from his heavy musk, head lifting to catch his blistering, intent gaze. It darkens slightly at the sheen smearing across your chin and nose, covered in the natural oils of his pelt. 

It's unlike yourself, but you find the depth of his intrigue deeply arousing, and slowly lick your stained lips, chasing the taste of him with your tongue. 

A rumble reverberates from his broad chest, shaking the bed with his quiet growl. It's the only warning you get, the only one he'll give, before the other hand folds over your lower back, pushing your belly into his sheath where he swells, hot and thick, between you. 

His eyes glow in the absence of light. Pale amber flickers when you arch into his chest, needy for him, and it unveils a catacomb desire much too primordial for you to ever dream of mapping. The deep pool of it unspools you, and you fall, weightless, to the bottom. 

Ensnared. 

[chloe302225]

Thinking about post-war/70s era Price coming home to an empty house (his wife divorced him while he was overseas) and a child he can't take care of all on his own, and snatching up the sweet little neighbour-next-door as a babysitter.

Temporarily, you stress, all soft smiles and polite little sir's that go straight to his cock. You're going back to university in September, after all. You have big aspirations that go beyond the whims of the men around you, ones who seem to want to confine you to the kitchen where your mother spent most of her life. And he can respect that. He likes people who have that grit. That determination.

But unfortunately for you, he thinks all devotion would be better suited to taking care of a family. Particularly, his.

NONCON. MISOGYNY. AGE GAP.

It's cute, though. The way you keep reminding him that you're going to college when he slips in sly comments about how good you look with his baby in your arms. barefoot in his kitchen as you make him dinner, his child on your hip, babbling at his new mommy. nervously stuttering around the notion that you're going to become something more than a mother, Mr Price. more than this deadbeat town stuck in the fifties, where women wearing pants is still an anomaly that makes men shake their heads and stare disapprovingly.

But you get these notions in your head. These little ideas he finds so adorable, and ones he sees no qualms in manipulating to his advantage—and why would he? You want to act grown, independent, then he'll teach you what happens to silly little girls when they get too deep in over their heads.

(like letting you think this is just a fling. flirting with an much older man is harmless, your friend says with a shrug. a little summer fun.)

And he plays into it, too. humming along dutifully as you stammer out that you don't want children when he shoves his hand under your skirt after steadily chipping down those walls of yours. Or that you don't want to be tied to just one man when he slips a little extra wine in your cup to loosen you up before dragging you upstairs to his bed. You want to experiment and enjoy life as a single woman while you're in college. And this is just a fling, right? Your friend said losing it to an older man was normal. perfectly okay as long as you were safe about it.

But he doesn't have any condoms, and you're too tipsy to put up much of a fight when he pulls you into his bed (beautifully obedient, as always). A nervous little tremble to your voice as you beg him for more—

(and please, please, please, Mr Price, don't put a baby in me—)

You're skittish around him the next morning, but that's fine. It's common for newlyweds, isn't it? And when you try to avoid him, pretending to be sick the day after—

Well. It doesn't hurt to remind your parents just who he is, and who he has stuffed inside his pockets, so he isn't too surprised to see you at his doorstep the next morning, wringing your hands as you apologise for getting sick. An indiscretion that's easily forgiven when you shiver against his hands, nervously asking how you can make it up to him.

(you want autonomy. agency. control. and he's always been the type to coddle, hasn't he? so he teaches you the most powerful position you'll ever be in next to him—on your knees, mouth wide open, begging for him to cum on your face like the naughty thing you keep pretending you want to be.)

It's a much better alternative than taking you over his knee like he was planning when you didn't show up to take care of your child the way a new mother should, and he tells you this after you put the baby to bed. Whispers it into your skin as he grips your hips and makes you take him deeper than you ever did before. Coos softly about places—

(and yours, sweetheart, is under him. takin' his cock like a good little wife should—

wide-eyed and shivering from more than just pleasure as he spells out your future beneath him.)

—something that seems to scare you a bit more than he expected when he finds out you sent your college applications out when he thought you had come to an agreement already. But luckily for you, he knows how to pull strings and keeps you right where you belong: with him.

Of course, the rejections come at the perfect timing, too, and he watches the fight inside of you dwindle to smouldering embers after your father pulled his funding, and even the local college refuses your application.

You just feel so confused, you tell him, biting nervously on your nail as he prowls after you. The baby is in bed. The other in your belly. His glass of whiskey after dinner did little to soothe his hunger when you showed up at his door with red-rimmed eyes and the ghosts of your father's anger snarling down at you. He, too, disapproves of college—and it's just so sudden, Mr Price, because he used to be so encouraging, but now, he's telling me it's not right, and i don't know why—

Everyone around you is pushing you towards the inevitable, it seems. And he manages to feign enough sympathy when you turn to him, teary-eyed, as your carefully laid plans fall to pieces under the weight of his own. Cups the back of your head softly as you weep into his chest over this craziness—this sheer madness, Mr Price, because surely you don't want to even marry me? god. you can't even think straight anymore.

but that's the problem, isn't it? he asks, rapping his knuckles softly against the side of your head before offering a smile oozing with thick patronisation.

"You keep thinkin', mm," he rumbles, chipping away the last of your meagre defences as he pushes you towards the bedroom—your bedroom, now. "Thinkin' 'bout things you don't need to, love. Not anymore. Got all these silly little ideas inside here—" his hand curls around the back of your skull, thumbs stroking your skin in a way that might feel comforting if he hadn't been adding a slow, unrelenting pressure to the cup of his palm. Pushing you down, down—

Your knees hit the carpet in a muted thud, and he doesn't even need to tell you to do anything—your hands are already there, trembling fingers unlatching the clasp of his buckle before clumsily pulling him out. Scared and cornered and with nowhere to go because he changed the locks, didn't he, mm? mum ain't answerin' the door? but that's okay. you belong here, anyway, don't you?

And really. You don't have much of a choice when you wake up feeling sick to your stomach at the end of August. belly already swelling with his second child. Your first. ain't that excitin'? givin' your little baby a brother.

He presses a kiss to your sweat-slicked forehead when he finds you hunched over the toilet that morning, cooing in your ear about how happy he is.

"and jus' think, sweetheart," he murmurs, eyeing the shredded acceptance letter sitting in the trash beside you, the one you tried to sneak past him, with a withering distain before aiming that dulled hostility back towards you, a mockery of a smile toying along the edges of his mouth when you shiver, pushing yourself closer to him. The only thing you have left.

"you thought this—we—would be temporary."

[chloe302225]

Thinking about post-war/70s era Price coming home to an empty house (his wife divorced him while he was overseas) and a child he can't take care of all on his own, and snatching up the sweet little neighbour-next-door as a babysitter.

Temporarily, you stress, all soft smiles and polite little sir's that go straight to his cock. You're going back to university in September, after all. You have big aspirations that go beyond the whims of the men around you, ones who seem to want to confine you to the kitchen where your mother spent most of her life. And he can respect that. He likes people who have that grit. That determination.

But unfortunately for you, he thinks all devotion would be better suited to taking care of a family. Particularly, his.

NONCON. MISOGYNY. AGE GAP.

It's cute, though. The way you keep reminding him that you're going to college when he slips in sly comments about how good you look with his baby in your arms. barefoot in his kitchen as you make him dinner, his child on your hip, babbling at his new mommy. nervously stuttering around the notion that you're going to become something more than a mother, Mr Price. more than this deadbeat town stuck in the fifties, where women wearing pants is still an anomaly that makes men shake their heads and stare disapprovingly.

But you get these notions in your head. These little ideas he finds so adorable, and ones he sees no qualms in manipulating to his advantage—and why would he? You want to act grown, independent, then he'll teach you what happens to silly little girls when they get too deep in over their heads.

(like letting you think this is just a fling. flirting with an much older man is harmless, your friend says with a shrug. a little summer fun.)

And he plays into it, too. humming along dutifully as you stammer out that you don't want children when he shoves his hand under your skirt after steadily chipping down those walls of yours. Or that you don't want to be tied to just one man when he slips a little extra wine in your cup to loosen you up before dragging you upstairs to his bed. You want to experiment and enjoy life as a single woman while you're in college. And this is just a fling, right? Your friend said losing it to an older man was normal. perfectly okay as long as you were safe about it.

But he doesn't have any condoms, and you're too tipsy to put up much of a fight when he pulls you into his bed (beautifully obedient, as always). A nervous little tremble to your voice as you beg him for more—

(and please, please, please, Mr Price, don't put a baby in me—)

You're skittish around him the next morning, but that's fine. It's common for newlyweds, isn't it? And when you try to avoid him, pretending to be sick the day after—

Well. It doesn't hurt to remind your parents just who he is, and who he has stuffed inside his pockets, so he isn't too surprised to see you at his doorstep the next morning, wringing your hands as you apologise for getting sick. An indiscretion that's easily forgiven when you shiver against his hands, nervously asking how you can make it up to him.

(you want autonomy. agency. control. and he's always been the type to coddle, hasn't he? so he teaches you the most powerful position you'll ever be in next to him—on your knees, mouth wide open, begging for him to cum on your face like the naughty thing you keep pretending you want to be.)

It's a much better alternative than taking you over his knee like he was planning when you didn't show up to take care of your child the way a new mother should, and he tells you this after you put the baby to bed. Whispers it into your skin as he grips your hips and makes you take him deeper than you ever did before. Coos softly about places—

(and yours, sweetheart, is under him. takin' his cock like a good little wife should—

wide-eyed and shivering from more than just pleasure as he spells out your future beneath him.)

—something that seems to scare you a bit more than he expected when he finds out you sent your college applications out when he thought you had come to an agreement already. But luckily for you, he knows how to pull strings and keeps you right where you belong: with him.

Of course, the rejections come at the perfect timing, too, and he watches the fight inside of you dwindle to smouldering embers after your father pulled his funding, and even the local college refuses your application.

You just feel so confused, you tell him, biting nervously on your nail as he prowls after you. The baby is in bed. The other in your belly. His glass of whiskey after dinner did little to soothe his hunger when you showed up at his door with red-rimmed eyes and the ghosts of your father's anger snarling down at you. He, too, disapproves of college—and it's just so sudden, Mr Price, because he used to be so encouraging, but now, he's telling me it's not right, and i don't know why—

Everyone around you is pushing you towards the inevitable, it seems. And he manages to feign enough sympathy when you turn to him, teary-eyed, as your carefully laid plans fall to pieces under the weight of his own. Cups the back of your head softly as you weep into his chest over this craziness—this sheer madness, Mr Price, because surely you don't want to even marry me? god. you can't even think straight anymore.

but that's the problem, isn't it? he asks, rapping his knuckles softly against the side of your head before offering a smile oozing with thick patronisation.

"You keep thinkin', mm," he rumbles, chipping away the last of your meagre defences as he pushes you towards the bedroom—your bedroom, now. "Thinkin' 'bout things you don't need to, love. Not anymore. Got all these silly little ideas inside here—" his hand curls around the back of your skull, thumbs stroking your skin in a way that might feel comforting if he hadn't been adding a slow, unrelenting pressure to the cup of his palm. Pushing you down, down—

Your knees hit the carpet in a muted thud, and he doesn't even need to tell you to do anything—your hands are already there, trembling fingers unlatching the clasp of his buckle before clumsily pulling him out. Scared and cornered and with nowhere to go because he changed the locks, didn't he, mm? mum ain't answerin' the door? but that's okay. you belong here, anyway, don't you?

And really. You don't have much of a choice when you wake up feeling sick to your stomach at the end of August. belly already swelling with his second child. Your first. ain't that excitin'? givin' your little baby a brother.

He presses a kiss to your sweat-slicked forehead when he finds you hunched over the toilet that morning, cooing in your ear about how happy he is.

"and jus' think, sweetheart," he murmurs, eyeing the shredded acceptance letter sitting in the trash beside you, the one you tried to sneak past him, with a withering distain before aiming that dulled hostility back towards you, a mockery of a smile toying along the edges of his mouth when you shiver, pushing yourself closer to him. The only thing you have left.

"you thought this—we—would be temporary."

[chloe302225]

brief nanny!reader x price to get the writing juices flowing

18+ (literal porn hardly plot)

vacation.

the white sand of a beach in southern spain. turquoise water, crystal clear, shimmering in the sun.

you could see it from the villa you were staying in, through large sliding doors that opened up onto a private deck. the smell of salt and sandalwood wafted through the air, and the gentle lull of waves on the beach buzzed like white-noise.

heaven on earth, made a whole lot more realistic with john price pressing himself right up against your back.

his bare skin scorched your spine, curled hair cushioning on his chest, but trapping immense heat against you. the sweat build up was nearly unbearable, made worse by the simmering summer sun filtering in the window in a golden haze.

john spread you out across his lap, two large hands pulling apart the fat of your thighs, splitting you open while he rutted his cock against the slick folds of your cunt, now aired to the room around you.

you whimpered softly as he moved slowly against you, lazily, the head of his cock a lurid red, leaking precum as it nudged through your folds.

he had his chin tucked against your neck, huffing quietly into your dewy skin. you imagined his eyes were screwed shut, pleasure coiling deep in the pit of his gut.

“john,” you whispered, grinding your hips against the movements of his cock. your slick soaked him, the movements slipping, the bulbous head prying your cunt apart and making you moan.

he grunted against you. just past midday and he was tired— a day in the sun, buffeted by salty waves, and two young children clinging to his every move sure knocked him around.

clearly not tired enough, though.

“shh, baby,” he cooed as, without warning, the tip of his knock hitched against your pussy, all wet and warm as sin. he nuzzled the side of your neck as he nudged his cock against you. “you’re okay.”

“daddy, please—”

“you’re okay, baby. i’m right here— y’daddy’s right here…” he tapered off as he slowly, gently, pushed his cock into the tight, hot heat of your cunt.

you squirmed against him, moaning out, head resting back on his shoulder. the thick of his cock pushed you apart, split your pretty cunt wide open. your body trembled, growing hot.

he moved slowly. in slight circular motions, too, so that his cock ground up against your sweet spot. you could feel him breathing against the soft skin of your neck, and you could hear him panting. his cock was twitching inside you, and after being ate out on the beach half an hour ago, your pussy was already beginning to spasm around him. excited for what she knew was to come.

“ooh, she’s liking this,” john uttered, as if hearing your internal thoughts. your pussy squeezed around him after a particularly deep thrust from a roll of his hips— her own reply.

“john,” you moaned, meeting his lazy thrusts. your chest was hot. you wanted to come so bad your brain was going fuzzy. “john, baby, please.”

“already, sweetheart?” john chastised, but it was hypocritical, considering the twitching of his cock inside you and the shortness of breath constricting in his chest behind you. he huffed out a moan before continuing, “you just want to give it t’your daddy so bad, huh, baby?”

“yes, fuck— yes, yes, yes—”

“yeah?” he had a finger on your clit now. soft, slow circles. gentle. waves on the beach, lapping gently. “you’ve been such a good girl for me, haven’t you?”

“i have—!”

you feel him smile against you, but you’re too busy focusing on the swell of your orgasm inside of you, ready to break.

“you have, baby, i know. i know— you’re such a good girl,” whispers, hushed, water on sand, foaming white. “so now give it t’ daddy and come all over my cock.”

you did, and then suddenly you were drowning. submerged in pleasure, the waves broke over top of you as your body shook against his. bubbling up and over, gushing over his cock as if he’d fucked you heavy into the mattress. as if he’s pounded into you and taken you within an inch of your life (metaphorically, thank god. although your pussy may say otherwise…).

a sensual, slow fuck had you creaming over his dick like nothing else. and your clit was throbbing (and shiny like a pearl in it’s shell).

behind you, while you fizzled downwards still, john huffed and groaned against you, hips rocking, cock stuffed tight into the velvet heat of your pussy. soft and warm, all his.

and no one else’s.

he stretched out a cuss through a moan, a deep-rooted “fuck” as he reached the precipice of his high. it was steep, a jagged cliff, but he was willing to throw himself over it. for you.

always for you.

“m’kay, sweetheart, say thank you while i fill this pretty pussy,” he grunted, and didn’t wait for a reply before burying himself to the hilt and coming inside.

“thank you,” you moaned. “thank you, daddy, thank you—”

treading water, breathing again. he kissed you to shut you up with his fingers still on your clit and his cock still emptying a load inside you.

ok ending here don’t yell at me i’m tired D:

[chloe302225]

hi im in love with u and ur works ! they make my primal hindbrain go !!!!!!!!captain price!!!!!!!!!!!!!

may i … pls humbly request ….

have you ever seen one of those glass sliding doors that don’t actually let you see inside a person’s house ? Yeah ! Privacy film or wtv. Lets you see out but people can’t see in.

its just i’ve been haunted by the idea of captain price fucking his lover against one of those from the inside and their lover doesnt know about the privacy film that he’s just installed—

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About A Girl pt. 2

Captain John Price x fem!reader

["About A Girl" by Nirvana]

[18+]

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• summary - what the request says lol. • rating - 18+ • wordcount - 777 [so short i'm sorry] • warnings - fem!reader, unprotected piv, praise, strong language

look i've got to the stage where a lot of nirvana song titles are just... absolutely insane 😭 so imma just start doing separate parts for already existing fics lol

this can be read as a stand alone but it takes place in the same "universe" as about a girl x

btw there is no soft launch to this porn. they be straight fucking under the cut !!!

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"P-Price, fuck, s-slow down—" You moaned as Price literally fucked you against the window of his flat.

You had your entire naked front pressed to the cool glass, palms flat and keeping you steady. Price had forced your legs apart with his legs, and was now stuffing you full, grunting into your shoulder.

He was still dressed, too— shirt on, pants barely dropped to his thighs. When he got home from a long day at work to see you in next to nothing on his couch, he short-circuited.

Now, he fucked his fat cock into your wet hole, appreciating the slick glide and the pornographic sounds eliciting from both your mouth and your cunt.

When he first pressed your naked body to the window, you freaked out. His flat was only a couple of storeys from the main road, and with the lights on behind you, you'd surely be illuminated for whoever wanted to look up and appreciate the night sky.

But Price didn't seem at all worried. Hell, he didn't even seem to care. He just speared his cock repeatedly against the spot inside you that had your back arching, the heat from your body fogging up parts of the window.

"P-Price..." you stuttered again, cheek cold to the glass, the rest of your body burning.

He held your hips, keeping you pinned, motionless, to the thick pane of glass as he used you. He was grunting into your shoulder, letting his teeth skim the taut skin over your shoulder blade. His cock rutted into you, desperate, hips slamming to your backside.

"Yeah, darling?"

Your climax approached, dizzying your brain. But still, something in the back of your mind was making your heart flutter anxiously. Price's words were calming, though. Calming your racing heart and reverting your mind back to the numbing pleasure that was fast approaching.

"What— ah, fuck— someone sees— hngh— us— hah, Price, please."

Price chuckled lowly. You could barely get a sentence out; one of his hands snaking around your body, pressing a rough-padded finger to your swollen clit. You mewled, a desperate whiney sound, legs beginning to tremble.

"You scared someone'll see us, eh?" Price whispered low in your ear. "Scared someone'll see how well you take my cock? How desperate you are for it?"

You moaned, loud, cheek pressed to the cool glass. His words made your stomach twist in excitement, amplifying the hot approach of your orgasm. You bucked your hips backwards to meet his thrusts.

"You're not scared, are you, pretty girl? You want everyone to see how good you look all fucked out, stuffed full, eh? 'Course you do. Just look at you. So fucking pretty— so fucking tight—" He grunted into the back of your neck, sucking a kiss there.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you didn't care if anyone saw you. Saw you pressed, naked, against the window, getting completely railed by Price. The thought made your body warm up tenfold, skin shining with sweat.

You whined. "Price, gonna—"

He didn't reply verbally. But he knew, obviously, by the way the finger on your clit redoubled its pace, and his thrusts continued to drive into that spot inside you making you spasm around him. You came with his name on your lips, repeated like a prayer, as he fucked you through your rattling orgasm. Rattling, because you felt as though your entire body was humming against the glass.

"There you go, there you go," Price muttered into the curve of your shoulder as he retracted his hand from your puffy clit, focusing now on grabbing both of your hips. He continued to rut into you, your body rocking against the glass, smears of condensation appearing. "Almost there, darling, almost there. Fuck, just like that. Perfect... perfect... so good for me." His words were almost incoherent, his teeth skimming along your shoulder and neck.

Hopefully he just bit down.

What, who said that? lol

"So good, so good..." He drawled, thrusts becoming sloppier, before he did sink his teeth a bit harder into the curve of your neck to stifle his groans as he came, filling you hot. He laved over the bite mark with his tongue as he lazily thrust into you a couple more times, massaging your hips with his large hands.

He sighed against you as the both of you calmed your breathing, still connected.

"No one can see in, love," Price admitted. "There's a privacy film up. No one can see us."

You chuckled, managing to turn slightly in his hold and press a kiss to his cheek. "I figured as much. I didn't take you for the exhibitionist type anyway, captain."

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ok i ended it here cause i'm lazy lolol hope it was ok mwah x