#I fear this is too obscure

[abbotjack]

This City Doesn’t Forget (part two · 6:00 AM)

read part one here

a/n : ok so this one’s a little unhinged. there’s sex (messy, desperate, not soft), jealousy, manipulation, and jack’s brother being genuinely the worst. it gets dark toward the end—coercion vibes, threats, and that feeling of something way bigger starting to spiral. also yes, the porch scene is that kind of porch scene.

word count : 5192

content warning: emotional manipulation, coercion, implied blackmail, explicit sexual content, stalking, sibling rivalry, obsessive behavior, explicit sexual content (consensual but emotionally intense), sex on a porch (public semi-exposure), vaginal penetration, dominant/submissive language, unprotected sex, mutual desperation, alcohol present but not impairing.

MONDAY – 6:00 A.M.

Hospitals don’t sleep. They hold their breath.

Allegheny General is already alive—buzzing, sterile, too bright. The fluorescents overhead cast no shadows, only a cold kind of clarity. You breathe in recycled air that smells like metal and memory—saline and bleach, the faintest echo of sweat, coffee and loss.

The elevator doors shudder open behind you with a mechanical sigh.

You step out alone.

Your new badge is clipped to the collar of your scrubs, stiff and unfamiliar. Dr. [Y/L/N], PGY-1. It hangs there like a dare. Like something you’re not sure you’ve earned.

You move inside the resident lounge, fingers curled tight around your phone like it might anchor you. The screen’s already gone dim, but you tap it back to life anyway. You scroll the assignment sheet again—like maybe the fifth time will hit softer than the fourth.

It doesn’t.

TRAUMA – Dr. Abbot, J. Residents: [Y/N], T. Santos, V. Javadi, D. Whitaker

Your name next to his. Not even bolded. Just… there.

The coffee in the lounge is burnt, the pot half-empty already. A few early risers shuffle in—Javadi muttering to herself, Santos nursing a Red Bull like it’s the last one she’ll ever have. You try to act like it’s just another Monday. Like it’s not your first shift. Like it’s not him.

You’re mid-sip when the door swings open.

Black scrubs. Jaw set. That gait you’d know blind—shoulders squared, spine rigid, right leg bearing a slight shift in weight. Not a limp. Not a stumble. Just deliberate. Just Jack. Every step measured like he doesn’t waste movement on things that don’t matter.

He walks in like he owns the place. Maybe he does. Not technically, but no one questions it.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Of course he isn't. He meets your eyes once. Just once. And then nods, calm as ever. Like this was always inevitable.

“Rounds in five,” he says to the room. His voice cuts through the low hum of morning chatter. “Get your shit together.”

And that’s it. He turns, and the others fall in line. No one questions him. They never do.

You move to follow, slower than the rest. Deliberate. Like maybe if you take your time, the ache in your ribs will fade, or your legs will remember how to be steady again. But they don’t. Your shoes squeak faintly against the tile as you trail after the others, staying back just enough to avoid the orbit.

You follow last. You always follow last now.

But you watch the way he walks ahead of you—how his hand occasionally brushes the side of his thigh, how he doesn’t glance back once.

HOUR ONE

Jack doesn’t look at you.

But he doesn’t ignore you either.

He does what he’s always done when he wants you to rise to the moment—what he used to do back when you were eighteen and stubborn and still figuring out how to be taken seriously. He doesn’t coddle, never did. He throws you into the deep end and watches to see if you’ll swim.

He asks you the hardest questions. The ones with weight. The ones where the line between right and wrong is thinner than breath—where the answer could be the difference between a pulse and a flatline.

“Y/L/N, what’s your plan?”

No warning. No setup. Not even eye contact.

The question slices clean through the noise of the trauma bay—sharp, surgical, and aimed squarely at you.

You straighten your posture, mask the jolt behind practiced composure. You've had years to perfect it. Your voice doesn’t shake when you answer. You don’t let it.

He nods. Just once. No praise. No correction.

Just keeps going.

Calls on you again ten minutes later. And again after that. Never when your hand is raised. Never when you’re ready. He cuts you open mid-thought, mid-breath, and waits to see if you can stitch yourself back together.

He wants you sharp, perfect, unshakable.

You are. You have to be.

Because if you crack now, it won’t stop at the surface. You’ll bleed through your scrubs, through the silence, and everyone will see just how deep it goes.

Each patient blends into the next—a teenager with a punctured lung, an elderly man whose arm won’t stop spasming, a woman who coded twice before sunrise. Jack moves between traumas with his usual focus: fast, efficient, exacting. He’s the kind of attending who doesn’t waste words unless they’re necessary. Or sharp.

He never corrects you in front of the others. But he never lets you coast either.

“Do better,” he mutters once after a missed detail on an intake report.

It’s not unkind. But, it’s also not soft.

By minute thirty-seven, Santos starts to notice—the way Jack’s questions keep hitting you, deliberate and precise, like stones dropped into still water. Like he’s less interested in your answers and more in watching the ripple.

Like he’s not testing your knowledge at all.

He’s testing how long you can hold your breath.

She quirks an eyebrow after a particularly brutal round of questioning and mouths: Damn.

By minute forty-two, Whitaker’s brows are knit, and he’s side-eyeing you both like he’s mentally building a conspiracy board with red string.

By minute fifty-eight, Robby leans against the trauma bay door, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and Jack like he’s piecing something together. He lets out a low whistle, more observation than surprise.

“Tense crowd this morning,” he murmurs, not really to anyone—but not not to you, either.

You pretend you don’t hear. Just double-check the patient chart and re-wrap a gauze bandage like your hands aren’t trembling just slightly.

You and Jack move like muscle memory—one step apart, never overlapping, never straying too far. It’s precise. Practiced. Like something that used to be intimate and has since calcified into distance.

The space between you hums with it. Not quite anger. Not quite nostalgia. Just the echo of something scorched down to the foundation, still radiating heat.

Once, you moved in sync for different reasons—quiet kitchens, shared secrets, summer nights nobody talks about now.

Now, it’s choreography by necessity.

Now, it’s survival.

After the patient is stabilized and you’re headed toward CT, Santos falls into step beside you, unwrapping a granola bar she has no intention of eating.

“You sure you and Abbot never crossed paths before?” she asks, casual as anything, but her tone says bullshit.

You glance at her. Offer a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“I’m sure,” you lie.

She raises an eyebrow, but you keep walking. No follow-up. No clarification.

Because the truth is messy—threaded through empty parking lots, old voicemail drafts, and all the nights you said too much without saying anything at all.

It lives in the way he used to steady your wrist when you were younger and unraveling, when you hadn’t learned how to hide the panic behind your badge.

In the way he doesn’t reach for you anymore.

No one here knows the girl who met Jack before the scrubs. Before you learned how to keep your voice even and your hands clean.

They don’t know the version of you that belonged to a different life.

And if you can help it, they never will.

FLASHBACK – THE PUNCH : The house smells like mildew, smoke, and something that used to be family.

The kitchen reeked of warm beer and something burned in the toaster two days ago. The linoleum was warped near the fridge. One of the ceiling lights buzzed loud enough to make Jack’s head hurt.

He stood near the sink, arms crossed over his chest, bottle of Yuengling sweating in his hand. The dog tags under his shirt clinked softly when he shifted.

The stereo in the living room crackled with static between tracks—Linkin Park’s Numb, warbled and low. The CD was scratched. Everything in this house was scratched.

His younger brother strolled in like he owned the place—barefoot, jeans half-zipped, red Motorola flip phone in one hand, confidence in the other. Hair sticking up. Eyes still bloodshot from the night before.

He tossed a greasy pizza box onto the counter without looking. “Cold as hell,” he muttered, cracking open a can of Coke. “Still better than whatever powdered crap they feed you in the desert.”

Jack didn’t answer. Just sipped the beer and kept his eyes on the clock.

The phone buzzed in his brother’s hand. He flipped it open. Read the screen. Snorted.

“Jesus,” he muttered, grinning to himself. “Daniella’s still sore from last night.”

Jack didn’t move.

“You’ve got a girlfriend,” he said flatly.

His brother looked up, unbothered. “And?”

Jack stared. “And you’re still sleeping with other people.”

A beat.

His brother shrugged, unapologetic. “It’s not like we’re married.”

Jack turned his head, finally looking at him. “You’re with her.”

His brother scoffed. “Jesus, relax. You act like she’s made of glass or something.”

Jack’s grip tightened around the bottle. His voice didn’t waver.

“She loves you.”

“Yeah? That’s her mistake.”

The stereo crackled in the corner. The room went still, heavy with it.

Jack didn’t blink. “You don’t even feel bad.”

His brother let out a dry laugh. “About cheating? Not really. You being jealous, though? Kinda figured.”

Jack said nothing.

But his silence said everything.

“I see the way you look at her,” his brother said. “Still do. But last summer? The cutoff shorts, her in my lap—you looked like you were about to fall apart.”

Jack’s jaw clenched.

“And she looked back,” his brother went on, like he was proud of it. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You were standing in the dark like a creep, and she couldn’t stop glancing over.”

“Shut up.”

“She bit her lip when you walked past, man. Like she knew she shouldn’t be looking, but did anyway.”

“I said—shut your goddamn mouth.”

His brother grinned wider. “What’s the matter? Pissed because you never got to find out what she sounds like when she—”

The bottle hit the floor before Jack’s fist hit bone.

The punch landed clean—jaw, hard enough to knock him sideways into the fridge. The Motorola flew out of his hand, battery clattering across the floor.

Blood hit the linoleum in sharp, red flecks. His brother let out a grunt, staggered back a step, and caught himself on the edge of the counter, knuckles white against the laminate.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, wiping his mouth and seeing red. “There’s the big brother I remember.”

He looked up. Smirked.

“Thought the Army would’ve taught you how to hit harder.”

Jack moved again—this time fast, all weight and fury. He grabbed the front of his brother’s shirt, yanked him upright, slammed him into the cabinet.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” he said, voice low, rough, almost shaking. “You don’t get to say her name.”

His brother spit blood onto the floor, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why not?” he shot back. “Because she means something to you? Please. She is a break from the noise. Something nice to think about while you are cleaning sand out of your boots.”

Jack didn’t hesitate. His fist connected again—this time slicing open his own knuckles. His brother hit the fridge with a thud, a streak of blood blooming across the dented metal door.

“You cheated on her,” Jack growled. “And you meant to. You wanted to hurt her.”

“Yeah,” his brother coughed. “Maybe I did.”

Jack’s chest heaved.

“You don’t get to say you love her,” he snapped. “You don’t get to walk around like none of it matters. She is—” He caught himself. Jaw clenched. “She is the only good thing in your goddamn life.”

His brother laughed again, voice thin, bloody. “And she still picked me.”

Silence.

Jack didn’t swing again. His brother had found the spot that hit deeper than anything he could’ve thrown.

“She was never yours,” his brother said, eyes gleaming. “And you hate that. Hate watching her kiss me. Cling to me. Like you aren’t in the room.”

Jack’s voice dropped, flat and quiet.

“She trusted you.”

“And you want her,” his brother said, stepping forward, blood trailing down his chin. “Don’t act like you don’t. I see it. The way you look at her legs. The way you stop talking every time she walks in.”

Jack was shaking now. Not from fear. Not from adrenaline. From restraint.

“I’m gonna tell her,” he said. “About Daniella. About everything.”

His brother blinked. “You think that makes you a hero?”

“I don’t care what it makes me.”

“You gonna hold her while she cries? Pretend you weren’t waiting for this exact moment to slide into her bed?”

Jack stepped back, blood on his hands, heat crawling down his spine.

He didn’t speak again.

Just turned and walked out the door, into the heavy summer dark—knuckles burning, jaw clenched, heart pounding with everything he hadn’t said and everything he still could.

He was going to tell you. He was ready to tell you.

But by the time he found you—curled up on the porch in the clothes you’d been crying in, eyes already glassy and far away—it was too late.

You already knew.

Not because Jack told you.

But because his brother beat him to it—mumbled it like a joke, too sloppy to sound honest, too late to sound like regret.

And still—when your eyes met his in the dark, when you blinked and tried to swallow what you were feeling—

Jack knew.

Whatever this was between you… it wasn’t going anywhere.

Not really.

Not ever.

PRESENT – LUNCH HOUR

You’re in the lounge, halfway through your charting, trying to ignore how much your scrubs itch at the collar and how nothing feels like it fits—your body, this badge, this hospital.

The door opens, and you know it’s him before you look.

Black scrubs. Posture still rigid, but slightly more relaxed now that no one’s coding in front of him. The chaos of the shift has passed, but he hasn’t shed it—still wears it in the way his jaw ticks when he sees you.

He walks past the counter. Doesn’t grab coffee. Doesn’t speak.

Just stands across from you. Quiet. Present.

Too close to ignore. Too familiar to look at without unraveling.

You don’t look up. “If you came to say I fumbled the trauma workup, you’re a little late.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “You didn’t fumble it.”

You glance at him, skeptical. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I needed to see where you were,” he says simply.

You blink. “And?”

His gaze holds yours, steady as always. “You’re exactly where I thought.”

That shouldn't sound like anything. But it does. It hits somewhere low, somewhere unguarded.

“Well, I hope that was satisfying.”

Jack crosses his arms, weight shifting slightly onto his left leg. You notice the way he favors the right knee less when he's off-shift. Small things. Things you shouldn’t still track.

“I told you I matched here,” you say. “At the wedding. And you still ran me like I was some clueless walk-in.”

“You told me where you matched,” Jack replies. “You didn’t tell me who you are now.”

That stops you. Briefly.

“I’m a resident,” you say.

Jack nods once. “Exactly.”

“This going to be how it is?” you ask. “You treating me like everyone else?”

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you don’t know the answer. Not really.

Jack exhales through his nose. Not angry. Just tired. Heavy in a way that says he’s thought about this moment a hundred times and still doesn’t know how to hold it.

“You weren’t supposed to end up here,” he says. “Not this hospital. Not this city. Not with me.”

“Well,” you say, standing slowly, “here we are.”

He looks at you. The kind of look that saw straight through you once. The kind that hasn’t touched you in years—but still feels like it remembers.

“I wasn’t trying to punish you this morning,” he says.

“Maybe not,” you answer, voice steady, “but you weren’t trying to protect me either.”

“That’s not my job anymore.”

You almost flinch at that. Almost.

You take a breath. It doesn’t help.

“You were the one who said it couldn’t happen again,” you say quietly. “You made that call.”

Jack doesn’t blink. “And I meant it.”

“Then stop looking at me like you didn’t.”

That does something to him. A fracture you barely catch. Just in his eyes. Just in the space between the words.

“I wasn’t expecting to still feel it,” he admits.

And there it is.

You look at him like he’s a landmine you’ve already stepped on.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my first day, Jack.”

“I know.”

“Because you left.”

“I know.”

You pick up your chart. Your coffee. Whatever’s in reach.

You need to leave before something gives.

But he says one more thing—quiet, and almost too late:

“I didn’t think I deserved you. Especially not after what my brother did. After what my mother said. What she made you feel.”

You freeze in the doorway.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t fill the silence.

Just lets the truth hang there, stripped bare between you.

You don't turn around.

You don't give him the relief of softening.

You just say, steady and quiet:

“You didn’t.”

And then you’re gone. Leaving him standing there in the silence he made.

FLASHBACK – THE PORCH, POST BREAKUP

Summer. Late. The kind of air that tastes like rain and rage and everything falling apart. The porch is still damp from the storm earlier, your bare legs sticking to the wooden step. You’re sitting curled in on yourself, sundress wrinkled, damp at the hem, a phone slipping from your hand and landing face-down beside you.

His voice still echoes in your ears: "I fucked up, but come on, babe. It's not like I don’t love you. We can work through this."

You didn’t shout. You didn’t sob. You ended it like it was a business transaction—calm, efficient, like the weight of it hadn’t just cracked something open inside you.

Then you sat on the porch and sobbed until your throat burned.

Jack's truck pulls up less than twenty minutes later. Fast. Loud. No subtlety, no headlights. The door slams shut and heavy boots hit gravel. You hear the urgency in every step as he climbs the porch.

He doesn't speak. Just hands you a beer, cold and dripping. You take it with shaking fingers.

He sits beside you.

And waits.

No pressure. No questions. Just the steady presence of a man whose hands are still raw from hitting someone who deserved worse.

You sip the beer in silence. So does he.

When the tears finally stop clawing at your chest, you whisper, "He told me. Thought I'd forgive him."

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just mutters, low and sharp, "I broke his nose."

You let out something between a laugh and a sob. Then turn to him.

He’s already watching you. And for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel invisible.

Your hand finds his. You run your thumb over the split skin of his knuckles.

“Thank you,” you whisper—soft, but not fragile. Like the words are heavier than they look.

Jack doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard, throat working like he’s holding something back. Regret. Anger. Want. Maybe all three.

You turn toward him slowly. Your hand is still wrapped around his, your thumb tracing the bruised skin of his knuckles, and you feel it—how warm he is. How solid. How close.

And then you lean in.

You don’t hesitate. Don’t give yourself time to question it.

You kiss him.

It’s not soft. Not shy. Not the kind of kiss you give someone when you’re thinking clearly. It’s desperate. Messy. Like trying to fill a hunger that’s lived under your skin for too long.

You kiss him like you’ve imagined this moment in the dark—like you’ve pictured it while lying next to someone who didn’t deserve your body or your heart. You kiss him like he’s the answer to a question you were never supposed to ask.

And Jack—

Jack responds like he’s been waiting for this since the second he laid eyes on you. Like he’s spent years biting his tongue, burying his hands in his pockets, refusing to look at you for too long because he knew this was what would happen if he did.

He pulls you into his lap like it’s instinct—like his body was always meant to hold yours like this. No hesitation. No breath between cause and effect. One second you’re beside him, and the next you’re straddling him, sundress bunched around your hips, thighs sliding over denim, sticky with sweat and anticipation.

Your knees plant on either side of his hips, and you settle down slow, your core pressed right against the thick, unforgiving length straining behind his fly. He’s already hard. Painfully so. And you feel every inch of him through your soaked panties—thin, useless fabric that does nothing to dull the friction.

Jack groans, low and guttural, his hands flying to your ass, gripping it tight, like he can’t decide if he’s grounding himself or dragging you closer. Maybe both. His fingers dig in like he owns you—like he's been waiting for this moment longer than he’s willing to admit.

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, and the sound that leaves his mouth borders on obscene.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he growls. “You always were.”

He grabs your face with one hand, fingers splayed across your cheek, his palm cradling you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. And then he kisses you—hard. No hesitation. No sweetness. It’s all teeth and breath and years of restraint crashing down in the space between you.

His other hand finds the hem of your dress and shoves it up roughly around your waist, exposing you to the humid night air. You gasp against his mouth, but he doesn’t slow down—just snakes his hand beneath the thin fabric of your panties, fingers slipping between your folds like they belong there.

He groans the moment he feels how wet you are—low and wrecked and filthy.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breath hot against your jaw. “You’re soaked.”

Your head falls back, hips canting forward, needing more—needing him.

“I’ve wanted you since the second I saw you,” you whisper, voice cracking like it’s been caged too long. “Used to stare at you when he wasn’t looking. I wanted it to be you—every fucking time.”

He freezes for half a second. Just half. Then lets out a broken sound, something between a moan and a growl, like the confession punched the air out of his lungs.

“Jesus,” he grits, his thumb dragging hard over your clit. “You have no fucking idea what that does to me.”

His voice is wrecked. His pupils blown. His jaw clenched like he’s hanging on by a thread. “You looked at me like that—walked around in those tiny shorts, laughing with your mouth wide open, and I couldn’t touch. Couldn’t even breathe.”

Your fingers tangle in the back of his hair, tugging him closer, needing to be devoured.

“You can touch now,” you whisper. “No one’s stopping you.”

He fumbles with the fly of his jeans, breath hitching, hands shaking—not from nerves, but from how badly he wants this. Wants you. When he finally frees himself, his cock springs forward—flushed, thick, leaking at the tip. Your eyes flick down, and your breath stutters. God, he’s big. And he’s hard in a way that makes your thighs clench around nothing.

Jack notices. Smirks. But it’s not cocky—it’s wrecked.

He drags his hands up your thighs, slow at first, then rougher as he grips the waistband of your panties. His eyes stay locked on yours as he tugs them down—wet and ruined, sticking slightly to your skin. He peels them off like they’ve kept him from you too long.

You lift your hips, bracing one palm against his shoulder while your other hand wraps around the base of his cock. He’s hot and pulsing in your hand. You guide him to your entrance, slow, teasing, your slick folds already parting for him.

Jack’s jaw clenches. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s anchoring himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he grits. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

And then you sink down.

Slow. Stretching. Devastating.

He groans—low and broken—as your body swallows him inch by inch. Your mouth drops open, eyes fluttering, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

He fills you like no one else ever has. Like he was made for it. Like this is the only place he’s ever belonged.

“That’s it,” Jack growls, voice dark and thick with hunger. “Take it. All of me.”

You drop your forehead to his shoulder, whimpering against his neck as he bottoms out. The pressure. The fullness. The way he doesn’t move—just lets you sit there, trembling around him.

But then he thrusts.

Hard.

Deep.

Brutal.

And all that control shatters.

You cry out, clawing at his back, nails dragging down muscle and cotton.

He grips your hips, guides your rhythm, makes you ride him right there on the porch like you’re the only two people in the world.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growls. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “Jack—I’m yours.”

Your dress is bunched at your waist, your bra yanked down, your breasts bouncing with every slap of skin. His mouth latches to one nipple, sucking hard while his hips slam up into you over and over and over.

“You look like sin like this,” he whispers. “Like everything I’ve ever wanted and never should’ve had.”

“Don’t stop,” you beg. “Please, don’t ever stop.”

He moves faster, snapping his hips up, and your world tilts sideways. You’re close. You’re shaking. The porch creaks beneath you.

“You gonna come for me?” he pants. “Gonna let me feel you lose it?”

You nod wildly, whimpering, and he brings his thumb to your clit.

One circle. Two. Three.

And you break.

You come with a gasp, clenching around him, sobbing into his mouth as he kisses you through it. Jack thrusts twice more, then buries himself to the hilt and comes with a guttural groan, holding you so tight you think you might shatter.

Neither of you speak.

Not for a while.

You stay wrapped around him, forehead to forehead, bodies slick and trembling, the air thick with everything that’s finally been said without words.

And Jack whispers it. Finally.

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

You believe him.

You want to.

PRESENT – NIGHTFALL / PARKING GARAGE

The lowest level of the hospital garage is silent—too silent. The kind of silence that hums, that stalks. Fluorescent lights flicker in the corners. Your footsteps echo against concrete, sharp and too loud, your keys clenched in your fist.

You’re not just tired. You’re unraveling—held together by caffeine and obligation, by the way Jack looked at you earlier like he still remembered the way your breath caught when he was inside you.

You reach your car. Unlock it. Open the door.

And freeze.

There’s a manila envelope sitting on the driver’s seat.

No name. No label. Just waiting.

You glance around the garage. Nothing. No movement. No sound.

Your pulse spikes.

You climb into the car, slam the door, lock it, and tear open the envelope with fingers that won’t stop shaking.

Inside: a photo.

Not just any photo.

You. Jack. That night. That porch.

Your sundress hitched above your hips. His hand gripping your thigh. His mouth on your chest. Your face slack with pleasure. His face buried in the place no one else ever got to see.

The photo is blurry, but not enough. Taken from a side angle. Someone had been outside. Watching.

Watching the moment everything changed. The moment you stopped pretending.

Taped beneath the photo: a line scrawled in thick, angry ink.

Doesn’t look like nothing to me.

You choke on air. Sit back. Your ears ring.

There’s a second note, folded once, paper already creased at the corners. You unfold it with dread curdling in your gut.

The handwriting is familiar. Sloppy. Aggressive.

You were mine first. Jack always takes what’s mine. The Army, med school, the fucking applause. You.

You think I didn’t notice how the whole goddamn room turned when you walked into my wedding? Everyone looking at you like you were the bride. Everyone looking at him like the fucking hero.

You stole the spotlight. He stole everything else.

But I saw it before anyone. The way you looked at him. The way he looked back. Like I didn’t exist.

You should've stayed gone.

The envelope slides off your lap.

Something moves in your periphery.

You snap your head toward the window.

He’s there.

Jack’s brother.

Leaning casually against the wall of the garage, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, like this is just another night and you’re just another conversation.

He steps forward slowly, shadows wrapping around him.

That smile—the one that used to pass for charming in daylight—is something uglier now. Tighter.

“Hell of a photo, huh?” he says. “Shame it wasn’t taken by someone more professional. But the message lands.”

You say nothing.

He laughs. A hollow sound.

“You think Jack protected you by keeping his distance? You think sleeping your way into a white coat gets you immunity?” He shakes his head, then takes another step closer. “No. That’s not how this works. Not anymore. I will make sure that photo ends up in every hospital inbox from here to the board.”

He steps into the light now. You can see the bitterness etched into his face. Not sadness. Not heartbreak.

Rage. Jealousy. Obsession.

“You were supposed to be mine. The one who stuck around. The one who smiled on command, played perfect even when I fucked it all up. But he—he gets to be the hero. The golden boy. The war vet. The guy who swoops in wearing black scrubs like he’s some goddamn knight.”

He sneers.

“You didn’t choose him because he was better. You chose him because I was real and messy and too fucking close to what you didn’t want to admit you were.”

You open the door. Slowly. Controlled.

He blocks it with one hand.

“We’re gonna play by my rules now,” he says. “You want to keep this residency? This clean-slate new-girl reputation? You want to walk through that ER tomorrow with everyone thinking you earned it? Then you’re gonna listen. And you’re gonna be nice. Real nice.”

He leans in closer, breath hot and sour.

“Because if you think I won’t blow it all up just to watch Jack crawl out of the ashes, you’re dead wrong. And you?”

He lifts the photo. Holds it up.

“You’ll be collateral."

You don’t flinch. Not yet. Not until he steps back.

Not until he drops the photo at your feet.

And disappears into the dark.

The only sound left is the flicker of the lights.

And your breath, sharp and shallow.

Because this?

This isn’t over.

It’s just beginning.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

doing chibi is a good design exercise bc it forces u to think on shapes n essential details, essentially thumbnailing ur designs. its also a terrible design exercise bc it ends up looking cute no matter what

[imthenextrobin]

small christmas themed skit before it leaves my mind forever (yes i know it’s november)

The Batfam takes every holiday very seriously. No they don’t i’m lying, they joke every holiday, and it’s the same four people trying to actually make plans within the family. (no i won’t elaborate on who those four are)

However, when it comes to Christmas, they have specifically set rules in every. single. aspect.

Gifts? Rules

Decor? Rules

Invites? Surprisingly lenient in that!

Clothing? SO MANY RULES

(no Dick, you CANNOT wear that sweater. Duke i see you looking online, take it OUT OF YOUR CART!)

Elaborating in the gift rules; Gifting items aren’t required but everyone does it due to the immense amount of guilt tripping everyone does after christmas.

(Jason forgot ONE gift and Steph still brings it up whenever he gets a bit too sassy with her)

Typically, everyone gifts at least 2 per person, one is something bought from a store, no card limit as long as it’s reasonable. (Rule was made after Damian tried buying a whole country. It was for himself.)

However, the second gift would be either self made, or personally altered to fit the person it would be given to. It isn’t an actual rule, being more so something that would be tradition after Cass made everyone cry with a personal painting. (She had teamed with Damian that Christmas)

The second gift would always be more personal, the batfam choose to open those in more private areas in the manor, meeting in sentimental rooms and even privately gifting those to each other prior to the exchange.

Lots of rules are involved in the Christmas fun, and those were just some in the gift giving. Imagine the clothing?

[itskaist]

What is Josiah’s relationship towards his regene tattoos?

Thank you once again for asking! <333 Getting any asks about Josiah always makes my day! Took me a moment to reply because uhhh- [wilhelm scream], but I hope it also gave me the time to ponder some more on this topic.

Under cut as always, though not as long as before. Instead, got… weirder? Question mark?

(tw self-harm, and other Sidestep-typical dissociative issues)

Oh God. He hates them. Burns on his skin, bondage, fish suffocated in plastic. Of course, the most basic reason being that they make it hard to hide, the paranoia seeping in any time there was a rupture in his Sidestep suit. Wearing layers in the Los Diablos heat, too, unbearable. But most of all, the personal - the inhumanity marking him, staining him, can't wash it off, can't cut it out, just like he can't excise his own past. His own nature. The tattoos are a symbol of that, the final leash, a reminder that no matter how far he might run, how thouroughly he might try to remake himself, he will always be a sad little tool in the toolbox. Still cowering in the corner of his cell.

He just can't look at himself. Can't. He will brave it when he needs to, when he needs to sew himself up, but otherwise? Showering in the dark, though to him the tattoos might as well be bioluminescent. An anglerfish. Get close, get bit. Mirrors smashed on a bad day, then covered up in curtains or tape. Can't be bothered to replace them. Shaving in fractured reflections, a thousand funhouse faces. Can't look at his own face, no, no. Having a body at all, a body they made, they groomed, being touched, prodded, examined, evaluated, a racing horse. Gets lame, gets shot. …Proud of every single scar, though, marring their prize pet. Self-harm. Them-harm. A disconnect between the body and mind, body was theirs, I am my thought, I think therefore I am, therefore, therefore, by cutting the body, I am harming them, not myself. Blood down the drain.

The tattoos are an easy scapegoat, too. A convenient excuse. Couldn't get closer to Ortega, no, never, because you could never show skin, and this is what he would want, right? What normal people want. What People want. Not-People don't show skin and he'll either get bored with you and drop you, or get suspicious and drop you. Down, down, down the drain. A solid self-hate spiral, if you dare say so yourself.

Hates seeing his own face in the mirror. Wrong. Boney. Bones… wrong. Set and reset. Can't reset a face. Only, hah, you can. A prettier one. More familiar than this. No need to shave, no scratch, no itch, itch right under your skin that you can never reach. No, no burn; soft, pliant, yielding. Clay in your hands. More... malleable. A remaking, a rebirth. A breath. A step. Steadier legs, standing steady on the ground, no bones set and reset, too long, too tall, standing out. Being seen at last and not hating it. What a novelty. Could you ever do it? …No. Of course not. Only way for you to have is to pretend at pretending at pretending.

Replica of a replica of a replica.

You're Hollow Ground's younger sibling, he says.

Why couldn't it have been you? Why never YOU?

Show him. Show him the truth. Make him curl up in disgust the same way you do, every morning, every evening, every forsaken fucking minute of your sorry life. A burden shared is burden lessened, isn't it, Dr. Finch?

. .. …

…Being seen at last and not hating it. What a novelty indeed.

[hayconrisa]

THE ONLY THINGS THAT COME UP WHEN YOU SEARCH HAYRISA HERE ARE MY POSTS??? HOW AM I THR FIRST ONE and ONLY ONE IN THE TIMELINE OF THIS GOD FORSAKEN FANDOM TO BE THIS ILL ABOUT HAYDEN AND RISAAAAAA WHAT'S GOING ON 😭

[anothermonikan]

Fuck you (Objectumises your Yuri)

+ no-filter as well ;d

[euclydya]

[waves cheerfully!!] ask game ask game!! :3 <33 <22 24. What's your favorite piece of jewelry you own? 25. Favorite niche topic?

hello starlight!! <22 <33!!!

Probably our glow in the dark star necklace! We got it for Christmas a couple years ago, it... DID come from Temu or whatever, and it don't exactly glow in the dark, but it's blue and cute and we lov it HDSBSNDJFJS mom also got us a green one that we just found today!

Though shoutout to our pentagram earrings and our brimstone necklace, those pieces of jewelry are also very important to us even though we don't wear em all that often <3

Not really sure tbh! Perhaps obscure instruments? Or music boxes? We hyperfixated on both HARD a few years ago, hell, we based our whole identity around music boxes around 2019 or so—they're one of our favourite instruments to this day! We probably still remember a lotta fun facts about em and obscure instruments in general tbh but alas our memory is. Not good at all so who knows HFDHSHDJFJ

-Fids

[born-to-lose]

The secret of hyperfixation longevity is having multiple at once

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

Hey, I don't normally make my own posts about this, but.

Do not argue with an anti on their own terms.

Don't get me wrong, I get it. You see the hypocrisy. You see the way they take aim at your favorite ships or characters or tropes while enjoying something similar. And you think "if I can point out to them just how hypocritical and idiotic they look right now, everyone will see our argument, they'll see that the anti is wrong and a hypocrite, and then maybe more people will stop harassing the people who like my thing. Maybe the anti will see the light and stop being a hypocrite."

But it will not work. It will not work.

There is an extremely high chance one of two things will occur:

They will double down on their argument, and ignore what you've said. (Ex. They might say "This relationship has an age gap. That's p3dophi1ia. That's dangerous." And you might say "well you ship something with the same age gap. Is it not p3dophi1ia and dangerous when you do it?" And they will just double down and say "This ship is dangerous. The shippers are grasping at straws to make their p3d0 ship normal.")

They will agree with you, but in the worst way possible. (Ex. Someone says "Ew your ship are basically siblings because they're childhood friends and grew up together. 1nc3st apologist." And you might respond "And yet we allow our most popular ship in this fandom to be popular? They grew up together as childhood friends and were inseparable. Why is that not inc3st?" because you think they'll gain a sense of perspective here. But then that person responds "People who ship that popular ship are freaks too then." Maybe they believed that before the convo or maybe they didn't, but the point now is that (while not your intention or fault by any means) some people have gone on to harass shippers of a ship that aren't doing anything wrong. What you think will bring clarity ends up raising tensions between shippers instead)

Do not meet them where they're at on their preconceived notions. You will not make them believe that they are wrong or hypocrites. Do not concede to their heavy assertions of abuse, p3dophi1ia, 1nc3st, etc levied against the thing you like for the sake of arguing that they are a hypocrite, or with intent to make them feel dumb for inadvertently labeling 80% of a fandom with said labels. They will not "see the light". The best thing you can do, if you have to say anything, is double down with "I'm not hurting anyone and it's fiction. I can do whatever I want" or "I don't give a shit what harmless things people like as long as it's tagged and I can filter out what I dislike" (especially if this is your stance). Then block and move on.

Antis, like trolls, thrive on engagement. They want you to argue so they can continue to point at you or lie about you or make you look bad.

It is in your best interest to pick your battles, and to try to sus out the difference between a friendly argument or standing up for yourself versus feeding the trolls. You won't make the right choice every time, all of us are human after all, but I promise you that ignoring and blocking bad faith actors, deleting their hate anons, etc, is not the coward's way out. Sometimes you don't need to fight. Sometimes keeping yourself from platforming bad faith actors and giving them nothing to go on will do the job (because there are more antis that are just small blogs with little power to do anything than you think, the kinds of people whose inflammatory posts will die if no one touches them).

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

[buskingalbatross]

PHAN LORE ETC ☆ ～('▽^人)

report on your experiences in the tags or the goat demon will come for you 😔 (or won't come for you, depending on your-)

[cerealmonster15]

that being said i am still scared of tentacles. and cephalopods in general. i used to have several tags blocked for a while on tumblr bc of it kjfsdhkljgdfk i think the only reason i dont rn was bc it was back when you couldnt block tumblr tags in tumblr vanilla and i had xkit extension or something and then i changed computers and just never address it again. maybe it was also something i saw more bc i was into homestuck and that overlapped with a lot of ppl that were into tentacles...... but god any time a post w/ video or gifset of a real life octopus or squid or other related cepahlopod gets its 15 minutes of tumblr trending fame im fighting for my life

[robotsafari]

i know riku was pointing at sora’s heart in that one kh2 scene because wordless storytelling is a virtue (and unfortunately becomes straight up nonexistent in modern kh) and like the audience already knows, they dont need to spell it out and its also just a very riku thing to do but…..

can i say something. it’s probably not canon at all but i always found it strange how riku-ansem’s voice went back to riku after the reveal that it was riku. it feels strange, like could he always do this? switch his voices back?

the way riku stays silent most of the time feels like he doesn’t even want to hear ansem’s voice come out of him. but the pointing part with sora (and many other scenes) feels like he only speaks when he finds it necessary, which doesnt feel necessary now that his voice is back to normal, because thats what we hear, and that should be true.. unless you think of it this way:

headcanon: riku’s voice coming out of riku-ansem can only be heard by sora and kairi (and by extension, the audience) after feeling his heart’s connection. (the thing where they closed their eyes and felt his heart)

i like to think that to anyone else he still sounds like ansem, including.. to riku himself. so he does the same as before, because to him, nothing has changed. he feels that hes still not himself, even after his friends know that its him now.

[nem0-nee]

Woah woah woah, hold on... Are you making TWST OCs out of TMA characters???? If so, that's so clever & I love it! Did not know this was a crossover I needed.

Hi hello anon!! And yep that's right! I recently got into TMA and just fell in love with the characters. It was inevitable that I'd make some TWST OCs based out of my personal favorites! Glad you love the concept 😭 🙏

It mainly started as a source of copium for certain characters, and that spiraled into a source of brainrot (oops)

What's real neat about TWST is that you can twist off any character from any fandom, and it'll just work like a charm ✨ It's basically crossover galore in a sense?

Anyway, thanks again anon! May you stick around and look forward to another eyepocalypse whatever's in store ^^ I promise... it won't be as tragic as TMA (maybe idk?? still making my way to MAG 200 🫡)

[talentforlying]

i'm still mostly in waiting mode for the new hellblazer & queueing up a bunch of stuff for when school starts up again in a week & i'll get hellaciously busy again, so i am in & out around here this week. sorry everyone!

but in the meantime i AM poking around on my hellblazer npc multi (@debtsunpaid) if anyone wants to fuck around with the folks over there. i just put up an interest tracker, temp bios are in the pinned, and i'm working on full bios for everyone this week.

[deus-ex-mona]

also!!!!!! there’s finally a way to read this guy’s name!!!!! vol 4 be w i n n i n g

[quibbs126]

Here's an potential idea for how Optimus learns about Lux. Perhaps something happens where she gets hurt/sick really badly. None of the Decepticons have the proper materials to help her. So Megatron has two choices: Let her die or go to Optimus for help

You know honestly, that is a fair idea. And I mean, I did kind of set up the fact that there’s limited medical supplies over in Decepticon base

I really only added that because I have a bunch of random headcanons that sort of just stuck to my interpretation of TF One, such as the Decepticons having a medic that’s basically one more bad day away from snapping, due to the abysmal state of their medical access

But yeah no, fair enough point. Got some spicy drama to it

It absolutely feels like a fanfiction premise, but fair enough, Lux is a fan character, where else would she be? Honestly maybe I should make a fanfic about this premise, because I have been thinking about it a fair bit this morning. I just have to muster the energy to actually do it

Only real issue is now I have to figure out what kind of sicknesses Cybertronians get. All I really know of is cosmic rust, and maybe that’s a little too high stakes. Or maybe that’s high stakes enough? I don’t know