#all of this is to say that I think this might work out?

[xoxojisu]

TIRED !

synopsis: katsuki starts to pull back and you wonder if he's just overwhelmed and tired, or maybe tired of you.

notes: just a short lil drabble <3 apologies ik ive alr written like this exact thing. but this time there's COMMUNICATION? IN A JISU FIC?? well tbf it doesn't happen right away but guys open communication is insane. gn reader!

you don’t know when it started. the shift.

maybe a week ago. maybe more.

but suddenly, katsuki’s kisses were shorter. distracted. his replies came late, if at all. and when you curled into him at night, he didn’t always curl back.

you tried not to overthink. he’s busy. he’s tired. he’s katsuki. always intense, always chasing something, and you knew that when you fell for him.

but sometimes, it’s hard not to wonder.

did i do something wrong?

you think you're the exception for him. you're his lover, after all. but you feel the doubt creep in during the smaller moments.

when you rest your head on his chest and he doesn't automatically put his arm around your waist in return. when you say "i love you" as an easy given and he grunts out a response you can't really make out. when you act sweet and lovey-dovey and he just sort of sits there, looking a little annoyed.

you start pulling back a little. just in case.

you don’t want to be annoying.

you hesitate before texting him first now. you wait for him to initiate touch, which he barely does. and when you finally say "goodnight, love you," he just grunts in response, already turned away in bed.

you stare at the ceiling long after, heart aching in that quiet, sharp way.

you used to fall asleep tangled in him. breathing him in and feeling so utterly loved. now you lie perfectly still, like your presence might be too much. thinking thoughts you'd never thought before, like: "maybe he doesn't like cuddling" and "should i sleep in my own room tonight?"

you shake your head. you're being stupid. insecure.

..but then again, he hasn’t kissed your forehead in days.

he hasn’t called you baby or sweetheart in that uncharacteristically soft voice.

he hasn’t looked at you with that soft gaze he used to save just for you.

you still bring him his water when he forgets it. still fix his uniform when it's out of place. still buy that cinnamon gum you don't even like that much but get because katsuki likes it.

and still, you wonder:

is he just tired?

or is he tired of me?

-

he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

that might be the worst part.

he doesn’t notice how he’s been pulling away. how the warmth in his touches has faded, how he’s stopped saying the soft things that used to slip out when he was too tired to keep his walls up. how you, who used to fit into him like something natural, now hover a few inches away.

he’s just been tired lately.

not the kind of tired a good nap can fix, but the kind that builds and builds and builds until even breathing feels like a task. training’s been brutal. pressure mounting. grades to maintain. responsibilities stacking one after the other until his brain buzzes like static.

and when katsuki gets overwhelmed, it overwhelms his entire being.

it doesn't happen super often. katsuki is determined and driven and he's got a heart of steel. he's not usually one to get swept up like this.

or at least, not anymore. not since you.

but when it does happen, he is overwhelmed in all senses of the word. he gets terrible tunnel vision and forgets to pay attention to his surroundings. all he can think of is hero work, and even that's a stretch. his brain is on constant low-functioning mode and he feels foggy all the time.

so, being so absorbed in himself, he didn’t see the way your smile faltered.

didn’t catch how you flinched. barely, but enough, when he brushed off your hands with a muttered, “not right now.”

didn't catch how you didn't automatically curl up into his side like usual when you'd sit down together, and so pulling you close and dispelling your doubt didn't even cross his mind.

didn't catch how you were slowly pulling back, physically and emotionally. didn't catch how you were starting to doubt yourself.

until he finally looked up.

until he goes to your dorm late, bags under his eyes, heart hammering from some training that went sideways, a little confused why you weren't in his dorm, and sees you in bed. on your side of it, even though he's not there, hugging your own pillow like it’s some kind of stand-in.

you wake at the sound of the door. you turn your head when he enters, give him that same soft smile you always do, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“hey,” you say. “you okay?”

he nods, robotic. “yeah. just tired.”

and you nod back. not pushing. not getting up. not offering a hug or kiss or teasing nudge like you always would.

and it hits him then. the quiet. the distance. the way your affection hasn’t smothered him lately. no, the way it hasn’t even touched him.

and he realizes:

you’ve stopped trying.

and he thinks, suddenly panicked, how did i let it get this bad?

he moves before he can talk himself out of it. just crawls into bed and pulls you into his chest, tight. arms locked around you like you might disappear if he hesitates.

you tense for half a second.

“…katsuki?”

he exhales, shuddering. like he’s been holding it in.

“i’ve been a shithead,” he mutters against your shoulder.

you blink.

“what?”

“i didn’t mean to make you feel like… like i didn’t want you. i do. i just…” he groans, frustrated with himself. “there’s been so much going on. and when things get loud in my head, i forget how to… be. i get overwhelmed and i shut down and i didn’t mean to take that out on you.”

your fingers curl into his hoodie slowly.

he doesn’t stop.

“you didn’t do anything wrong. i was so stupid and up in my own head that i didn't realize you were hurtin' and i think i fucked it up.”

you’re quiet for a beat.

then, softly, “you didn’t fuck it up.”

his arms tighten around you.

you turn in his embrace, nose bumping his, eyes searching.

“…i thought i was annoying you,” you admit. “like maybe i was too clingy. too much. so i started holding back. well, you already said that, so i guess you noticed.”

he closes his eyes like it hurts.

“don’t,” he breathes, feeling so guilty that it's gotten to this point. “please don’t hold back. not with me.”

“then don’t shut me out.”

“i’ won't. i promise. just.. fuck, 'm sorry. for real.”

you press your forehead to his.

“thank you. i love you.”

and this time, he says it back. and he rubs soothing circles on your back the way he knows you like. and he kisses your forehead. slow. deliberate. like he’s making up for every time he didn’t.

like he knows now.

and won’t forget again.

masterlist reblogs + comments super duper appreciated! <3

[richeeduvie]

✭ 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. 

[thefrogman]

So... I'm the porn photography nerd guy now.

And a lot of people are happy to hear I am not dead.

I have not stopped posting in over a decade, but I sort of retired from the viral comedy I used to make, so I guess it makes sense that people haven't seen me around as much.

My personal tumblr is @sirfrogsworth where I post more frequently. And I have a photography Instagram here. But I promise I am still alive.

ANYWAY...

This post has made me think deeply about porn lighting.

And I thought even deeply-er about how I would actually light a porn.

I think it would be an interesting challenge but the one time I took a topless photo I was uncomfortable the entire time. I suppose that is something I'd have to get used to with experience, but I'm generally more interested in other types of photography.

But light is light, and I am always happy to help people get better results. I've even thought about starting a consulting business where I help people pick out lighting and gear and advise them how best to use it for their circumstances. I think there are a lot of small creators who could seriously up their production value with a small investment and some knowledge. YouTubers, streamers, and OF models who want an edge.

I'll try to give some general advice in this post. But if anyone is interested in a more specific solution, feel free to message me.

This post is about lighting entire bodies.

Quick review...

Large light source = soft light.

Small light source = hard light.

You can make a light larger by moving it closer, adding a modifier (softbox/umbrella), or bouncing it off a surface.

You make the light smaller by moving it farther away, adding a reflector, a grid, or a snoot.

Most lighting is designed for faces and maybe torsos. But when you need to light entire people, you are going to need more than a ring light. Ideally, you are going to want a light source at least as big as what you want to light. You'll notice a ring light is a little bigger than a face. A beauty dish covers head and shoulders. An octobox is roughly the size of a torso. After that, modifiers can get large and unwieldy, so you may have to think about bouncing light off walls and ceilings.

I was going to show some examples, but then I realized Tumblr would give me the naughty tag for this post. So I'll try to be creative about keeping this safe for work.

First, let's quickly expand on why ring lights are not ideal for photos and videos of entire bodies that are... comingling.

Ring lights are not bad. They were just designed to do something very specific. In the beginning, they were actually used by dentists to help photograph teeth without any shadows obstructing the view.

The magic of a ring light is shining light from all directions from the camera's POV in order to get a shadowless effect. You also get circle catchlights in the eyes which some people enjoy.

In order for this to work, the camera needs to be in the hole, and the light needs to be close enough to be directional.

The inverse square law says that when you move a light farther away, all of the photons start to spread out. Imagine a donut expanding inward. Eventually the hole in the middle closes up. It becomes no different than any other light at that distance. And since it has that hole in the middle, there is less surface area casting light.

Depending on the size of the ring light, you're only going to get those special, shadowless lighting properties for a head and chest photo. You might be able to get the boobies within the effect if you have a larger ring light, but it is mostly meant for faces.

Just to compare...

Ring light on the face, close up, with camera in the hole...

Ring light far away, off to the side, camera not in the hole...

You can see her. She is lit. But that ring light "magic" is no longer happening.

It's less flattering.

"Flattering" in the photography world just means that detail and textures are going to be less prominent. Flattering light is not inherently good or bad. If you want to show off a cool pattern or texture, or even a grizzled old man's face, you might actually want a hard light look. Hard light can also be very dramatic and boost contrast, but you may need heavy makeup or flawless skin (or just retouch it afterwards).

Small, hard light causes dark, crisp shadows. Think about what a wrinkle is. A fold in your skin causing a shadow. Think about what a pore is. A pit in your skin causing a shadow. The darker these shadows, the more apparent they are in the photo.

You can even enhance this effect by using "raking" light. Which is just hard light at a steep angle.

If you imagine this was a face or acne scarring or cellulite or a throbbing, veiny bicep, this might look rather unflattering.

Raking light is still useful in a lot of applications. Art conservators use raking light to analyze brush strokes on paintings.

So all types of light can be used for something cool, but unflattering light usually isn't ideal for skin without expertise on how to leverage it.

The good news... if you use your ring light straight on, even from a distance, you can minimize the crisp, hard shadows in places you don't want them. The more raking or off-axis the light, the more flaws will be exaggerated.

You can also attach a cheap shoot-through umbrella to enlarge the light source and soften it.

The bad news... small far away lights increase specular reflections. If you have shiny skin, this may cause big spots of glare. It can also reflect harshly off moisture. And if you are hot and sweaty... for reasons... you might end up looking a little rough.

John Mulaney discovered this when he gave an outdoor speech in front of a distant spotlight.

People thought he was back on drugs.

Nope!

It was just a warm night and hard light reflects sweat and moisture very intensely.

The next day under soft studio lights, he either sobered up overnight...

Or people sometimes fail to realize just how much lighting can affect one's appearance. (This was during a rehearsal so he wasn't even wearing makeup yet.)

Soft light is flattering because it reduces and fills in shadows and evens out specular highlights.

Many people think diffused light is soft light. But any large light source will produce soft light. Diffusion is just a tool to help create a larger light source.

But if you put diffusion on a tiny light...

It ain't going to be soft.

People also assume that soft, flattering light is "better" and that isn't always the case. Sometimes soft light is kinda boring.

The hard light photo is much more interesting and dramatic, but you can already see how much shinier her forehead is. If her photo was taken with hard light directly after... sweaty activities... it would probably not be as appealing.

And that is why most pornography is blasted with soft light.

If you actually ignore the porn and pay attention to the quality of the lighting, it is usually pretty boring and flat. But it is very soft and very shadowless.

I call this "sitcom lighting."

Light is blasted everywhere from all directions. Sitcoms did this because they needed every place on the set to have adequate lighting for every camera position.

I suspect porn adopted sitcom lighting for two reasons.

1.) Porn directors want you to be able to see *everything* very clearly no matter what angle they point the camera. No body part is to be mired in shadow.

2.) If you blast light from every direction, you get a super ring light effect where all shadows are minimal. So wrinkles, pores, veins, sweat, moisture are all reduced. It's super flattering but a little dull.

This is accomplished in a few ways.

Have you ever noticed a lot of higher budget porn videos take place in nice rented houses with a ton of windows?

Ted Cruz knows what I'm talking about.

That's because all of that window lighting is essentially one big light source.

Imagine those windows as softboxes. You are just filling the room with soft sunlight. But if you actually go outside, the sun becomes a small light source with harsh shadows. You need the windows to "modify" the light and make it large and homogenous.

So if you have access to a space with a lot of windows and you don't mind being naked in front of them, you're all set to porn.

The next technique is to just use huge softboxes and umbrellas all around the room.

This is my 7 foot umbrella that I got for under a hundred bucks.

I mainly use it for outdoor lighting.

But, I mean... it'd be great for other stuff too.

And then there is bouncing light. This is how you get truly huge light sources. You can shoot lights into walls or up into the ceiling. This is especially good for videos in bed.

You can combine window lights, giant umbrellas, and bounce lights if you want.

I was watching a Gerald Undone video where he toured the Gamers Nexus studio. Steve clearly didn't know anything about lighting. And so he just put lights EVERYWHERE from every direction.

He accidentally porn lit his studio.

One difference you might notice between Steve and the young woman who is innocently talking on the phone and definitely not about to have sex with her stepbrother...

She seems a little more... smooth.

A little less... 4K.

Enter soft focus filters!

Soft focus is sometimes called the Vaseline effect or the Barbara Walters effect.

This is a filter you can put on your lens to knock the detail back a bit. It keeps everything in focus, but smooths out the edges a bit.

An optical Facetune, if you will.

It tends to look a little more organic and authentic than digital smoothing. But you have to pick the right strength or you will end up making everyone seem like they are glowing like Barbara.

If I am being honest, I don't really like standard porn lighting. But it is hard to suggest something better. Video is just difficult to light artistically without a budget and a lighting expert. When you look at how movies are lit behind the scenes, you can see how complicated it can get.

So I'm afraid I can't give specific advice on how to artistically light porn. It depends on the room and the vibe and what gear you have to work with.

The best I can do is to advise you to get a very large light source as your main light. If you don't have a large white wall or ceiling, you'll want a 7 foot umbrella or the biggest softbox you can afford. And then I would add backlighting. I think that is the element a lot of porn is missing. Shining light from behind and creating nice highlights can really elevate things. You can even make the lights part of the video.

Erotic still photography is a little easier to pull off without much experience.

There are two popular forms of boudoir photography.

There is dramatic side lighting as you can see with this pussy.

And there is more environmental erotica where you decorate a room like a theater set or find a fancy hotel.

So you can make the lighting cool or the environment cool. Or both.

But if you don't have good lighting and you don't have a cool environment, there is one more aspect that can improve your nudes.

Angles and posing.

I'm afraid this is a concept lost on a lot of straight men—as demonstrated by Reece in this dick pic parody.

Finding good angles and choosing good poses can often overcome bad lighting. The easiest thing to do is copy someone else. Find a pose you like and try to recreate it.

And learn how to take pictures without holding your phone. Get a tripod or a phone stand. There are very few sexy poses you can accomplish when you are tethered to your phone. And if you move the phone a little farther away, you can avoid distortion as well.

And now for my most important advice...

NO MACRO PHOTOS OF YOUR JUNK.

If a doctor could diagnose a medical condition, it's too close.

Most people enjoy seeing nude photos in the context of your entire... you. Your eyes, your smile, your belly, and your various private areas.

Unless the intended audience is specifically into detached, close up photos of your bits and holes, it is usually best to keep things zoomed out. Communicate and verify before shoving a camera between your legs.

I'm just saying, when I can see past someone's asterisk directly into their colon... my light gets soft.

None of this answers the question... how would I light porn?

I'd probably delve into experimental lighting. There is this lighting technique where you put a black background directly behind your subject and block the light so it can only peek around the sides. It creates this perfect outline of whatever you are photographing.

This is my pocket knife sitting on top of a light.

And then in post processing, you just expand the black to the edges of the frame.

I want to try and upscale this effect to work on humans.

Okay, that's a lie.

I mostly want to try it on fuzzy cats.

But naked humans might also look cool.

And I'm just imagining if I were to make a video of two people... wrestling... it would look like two human shaped outlines were merging and separating in all kinds of interesting ways.

So the people would just kinda look like this, but it would be an in-camera effect.

I dunno, I think that would be cool.

If you want to learn more about light...

This is a really cool post I wrote about the Inverse Square Law. I know it sounds mathmatical and complicated, but I promise it is not. And it will help you improvise lighting solutions with a lot less trial and error.

In this post I explain more about hard and soft light. I also go more in depth about ring lights and what to do if you already bought one.

And in this post I recommend pro lights as well as budget lights and even some DIY lighting solutions.

In that post I link to a big round streamer light, but it is for the white version, which is not in stock yet. The black version is available right now.

I hope some of this was enlightening.

Go forth and porn.

Ironically, hard light is bad for recording sexy time.

It will highlight every pore, every vein, every wrinkle on your nutsack.

One day I will end this ring light fad. It is my ultimate side quest.

[honey-on-your-tongue]

You wear a nightie for Joel

Jackson is cold tonight, the winter going strong. He returns home, back aching, feet tired. All he wants is to cuddle up with you, kiss your temple, feel you in his arms.

“Sugar?” he calls as he walks farther into the house. He finds you in front of the fireplace, and he stops dead in his tracks.

You're lying on the sofa, that sweet body of yours all but naked except for the baby pink nightie you've got on. It's all lace, see through, and Joel's eyes look you up and down, mouth watering at the sight.

“Hi,” you greet, feigning innocence. Joel's mind grows fuzzy with desire.

He walks over to you, sits down on the edge of the couch, your knees pressing against his lower back. He gently caresses your soft thigh with a large hand. “Where'd you even get this from, baby?” he asks, feeling his cock stir in his jeans as his eyes catch on your nipples, visible through the lace.

“Found it on patrol a few days ago,” you reply quietly. “I thought you might like it.”

“Like it?” he echoes, voice growing rough as his hand slides higher. He places his hand on your stomach, the soft lace doing nothing to hide the warmth of your skin. His hand moves down, over your mound, and he can feel the slight cushion of the coarse hairs there. “I love it.”

He leans over you, kissing your jaw, his hand slipping under the hem of the nightie to touch your pussy. Your legs spread with ease, your breathing heavy as his rough fingers find your clit.

“I missed you so much, sugar. This was such a nice surprise. So, so nice,” he murmurs into your neck, spreading your folds, finger sliding up your slit.

You let out little whines, eyes fluttering.

He slips a finger into you. You're wet, ready, and he smirks against your neck. “You've been thinking about this, hm? Getting yourself all worked up, sugar?”

“Yeah,” you say breathlessly, hips rolling against his hand as you moan quietly. “Yes.”

He pulls his finger out and sits on the couch, pulling you onto his lap. “You make me crazy, girl. Crazy.”

He pulls the neckline of the nightie down, your bare tits bouncing free. He grunts, mouth immediately moving to kiss and lick at them as his hand occupies itself between your thighs again.

He works you up, stretches you open with his fingers, and teases you until you're mewling and whining.

“Please, please. Daddy, please, I need your cock,” you whimper, your face nuzzled into his neck, voice breathy and weak. “Please.”

And Joel can't say no to you. He can't say no when you beg and call him daddy. It simply undoes him.

He reaches down, undoing the front of his pants and pushes them off enough to pull his hard cock free. He lifts the edge of your nightie with one hand, only enough for him to see your pussy, while his other hand guides his cock to press against your slit.

“You sure you can take it, sugar?” he asks, his eyes rising to find yours.

You nod, enthusiastic. “’m sure, daddy.”

Joel grunts in acknowledgement. “Lift your hips.” When you're up on your knees, he aligns his cock to your entrance, the hand on your waist pulling you down onto him.

He groans as he fills you, wet, warm cunt tight around him as you take him inch by inch. “Atta girl,” he praises through clenched teeth, his eyes watching as he disappears into your perfect cunt.

When you're all the way on him, he kisses your forehead. “Whenever you wanna, girl, you can move. I'll wait.”

But you're so eager. You start bouncing on his cock as soon as you can, moaning and whimpering.

He watches, grunting and groaning as he feels your pussy milk his cock.

“Fuck, sugar. ‘s perfect. You do it so well,” he says quietly, leaning in to nibble at your jaw. “Don't you stop riding that cock, girl. Don't you stop.”

He riddles your face with kisses, your neck, your shoulders, the top of your tits. He leaves kisses, bite marks, hickeys everywhere he can reach. He wants to leave proof that he's yours, a silent claim over his girl.

You're moaning into his ear, your hands holding onto his shoulders, nails digging into the skin there. He feels your legs tremble, rhythm falter.

He reaches a hand down, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it just how he knows you like it. “Come on my cock, sugar. Give it to me, nice and messy. Be my good girl and make daddy feel good, yeah?”

It doesn't take long for you to come. Your body shudders, squeaks and mewls leaving your lips as your cunt clenches around his cock tight. He feels your slick gushing around him and he has to make an effort to keep himself from cumming.

He lets you come down from your high and catch your breath some. He pulls you off his cock, laying you down on the couch as he positions himself on top of you. He admires you for a moment before he slips his cock back into you and pounds away.

He's grunting like an animal, his eyes dark and crazed, his body shaking, a light layer of sweat on his skin.

You're squealing, gasping and trembling as he fucks you hard, fast, deep. He needs to come.

His orgasm wrecks him, makes him see stars and has his ears ringing as he spills rope after rope of thick cum into you. It fills you, warm and sticky, and you shiver at the sensation.

He pulls out before lying down next to you, holding you to him. After a moment of silence, he grabs the edge of the nightie in his hand, fingers toying with the material.

“I'm gonna have to find more of these for you, sugar,” he says, voice rough still. “Can't guarantee I won't tear this one off your body next time. Or come all over it.”

---

Taglist

@joeldjarin @whitewolfstar01 @ashleyfilm @cumberstarkispunk 

*if you wanna be added to my Joel taglist, lmk 💛

---

The Last of Us masterlist

[chimielie]

"Isn't it a little much?" You pause your step on your way into the elevator, blinking at your coworker. Rinne, a pretty girl with light eyes and a perpetual hand on her hip, smiles at you as she pushes past, her lips stretching over her teeth. "I saw Rin-kun's Instagram."

Her casual reference to your boyfriend takes you aback. You didn't know they were so close.

"Ha, I'm sure," you say. "He likes posting a lot, doesn't he?" Rintarō fancies himself a photographer. Mostly, he takes mirror selfies and turns the exposure down very low. He sends you three a day minimum. You, trapped in a cubicle, are only able to sneak away to the bathroom to reciprocate once on average.

"He has a great eye for aesthetics," she nods. "His feed is very satisfying. You're lucky to have him."

"Eh," you shrug. For some reason, she emits a noise something like a whistling kettle.

"So mean!" She shakes her head. You snort. Rintarō gets annoyed with people who are too nice. He thinks they leave a bad taste in his mouth, like eating sugar before bed without brushing your teeth. "You force him to put you in his bio and then act ungrateful? Someone else might come and take him from you."

"What?" you say. The elevator dings, signifying that you've reached the lobby. "He's, like, super whipped."

The doors slide open and you step through, turning when you notice that she hasn't followed. She's hanging out in the elevator, her mouth open like you said something shocking. You wonder momentarily if you had—but shouldn't partners be obsessed with each other?

You forget about it as soon as you see him. Rintarō's bangs are falling into his eyes as he leans over the receptionist's desk, looking ridiculously large as he braces his forearms on the low white marble counter to bend to her level. You quicken your step and he whirls around just before you can make contact, scooping you up and sighing happily as you throw your arms around his neck.

Rinne is almost out the door of the building. You shout a goodbye after her, but she must not hear you, because she doesn't respond.

"Did you have a good day?" Rintarō asks as you bow goodbye to the receptionist.

"No," you say. "You didn't replace the toilet paper after you used up the last roll and it ruined everything."

It's not until you're back home, lying comfortably with your head on him so his heartbeat is there, loud and clear and strong in your ear, that you remember.

"Hey," you say, taking the hand holding yours up to your mouth and biting lightly, lower teeth on the pulse point. You can hear his heartbeat kick up, which makes you grin. "What's your Instagram bio?"

He laughs, a quiet chuff that makes you feel like you've stepped into the sun from an air conditioned building. How lucky you are, to love this man in a language all your own.

"Who told you about that?"

"One of the girls at work asked," you say. "I had no idea you and Rinne were friends."

"Who?" He squints. "I don't know anyone with that name. The annoying one from the last holiday function?"

You swat at him but don't correct him. "Yeah. She said you have a satisfying feed."

He rolls his eyes, his mouth still kicked up in a smile so you can see his sharp right canine. Unfairly attractive, your man is.

"I like that you don't give a shit about pissing on your territory, you know that?"

You frown.

"Gross! What're you even talking about?"

He doesn't answer, infuriatingly. He just types something in and hands you his phone.

His bio reads: sunarin: my girlfriend is cooler.

Your account is tagged, but you rarely use Instagram and you don't even have the app, so you rely on him to hunt down all the good reels and help you stalk people from high school and whatever else you might need it for. It's sweet. His feed is nice enough, you think, not half as good as the album of pictures of his sleeping face that rotate as your lockscreen.

"No wonder people think I'm some kind of crazy girlfriend," you say, handing the phone back to him. He sets it aside and puts his hand on your back, warm and solid. "You're making me enemies at work."

"Aren't you gonna say I'm sweet?" He goads.

"For stating facts? It's not out of the goodness of your heart," you poke him. "It's just true."

[ddarker-dreams]

Afterimage.

Yan Anaxa x Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, and imbalanced power dynamics. Word count: 1k.

Anaxa scoffs at your resolve to prolong this stalemate. 

His attempts to get you to stop ignoring him have proven unsuccessful thus far. Nonetheless, for an academic of his caliber, persevering despite numerous setbacks is second nature. His eye devours your being, cataloging every minor reaction as he verbally pokes and prods at you. He’s tested multiple methods to get you talking. Condescension, subtle and not-so-subtle threats, and even negotiation. His methods grow more refined with each subsequent attempt. He’ll discard what didn’t work and expand upon what did. 

Through all this, you’ve learned that you may be stubborn, but so is he.

“Your petulance is losing its charm,” Anaxa remarks. 

His fingers drum along the fine wood of his desk, a habit he adopts when seriously displeased. You don’t so much as acknowledge him with a glance. Instead, you turn the page of your book, even though the contents are mostly lost on you. It’s scrawled in a foreign script, like many of the tomes in his possession. At least this one has diagrams to look at, even if they instill you with a vague sense of foreboding.

You can hear the frown in his voice when he says your name. Resolute, you act like it was nothing more than the wind. 

Your stomach turns inside out at the sound of his chair scraping, indicating that he’s getting up. He approaches in slow, steady steps, his shadow enveloping your form. Curiosity gets the better of you; you’re unable to stop yourself from sneaking a glance. He’s always had a weighty presence. His unbridled thirst for knowledge gives him an air of gravitas, demanding respect even from those who rebuke him. You’re no different. Deep down, you think you’ll always admire his intellect to some extent. It’s a sickness without a cure. 

“Shall I take this as an admission of your defeat?” he asks. His provocation has its intended effect; you scrunch up your nose and furrow your eyebrows. “No? It’s the only conclusion I can arrive at. Your vow of silence must be owing to my superiority as a rhetorician; why else would you be so hesitant to contradict me?” 

He’s trying to rile you up, you think. Don’t fall for it. For him to stoop to this level, he must be at his wits’ end…

“Come now, apologize, and all will be forgiven. Though you might be acting like one, you’re no fool. Surely you’re aware that there’s nothing to be gained from this stunt.” 

You must be getting under his skin. He never talks down to you like this, even when you ask inane questions to get on his nerves. Great professors have an infinite well of patience to draw from. He might not mince his words, but there’s no cruelty behind them, only a desire to see you learn and grow. 

You’re veering into uncharted territory. 

You pull back from your book, giving the impression that you’re considering his offer. In reality, his condescension has strengthened your determination. It took every ounce of self-control you have not to chuck this ridiculously heavy tome at him during his diatribe. Irritated or not, for him to frame it like he’s doing you a favor by offering ‘forgiveness’ is inconceivable. The room’s tension eases as you feign thoughtfulness. Then, just out of spite, you exaggeratedly flip to the next page, amplifying the sound. 

The silence that ensues is deafening. 

In a flash, your book is snatched away, putting you face to face with a seething Anaxa. 

“Twenty hours, forty minutes and thirty-two seconds,” he practically hisses out. “That’s how long I’ve entertained this folly. No more. I’ve learned my lesson — so shall you.” 

The fear written over your countenance is reflected in his burning pupil. Seeing it, he pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and sighing. Nothing can diminish the affection he holds for you, it seems. You were never grateful for it before, but you’re clinging to it like a lifeline now. 

The wrath that struck him like lightning… you never want to witness it again. 

“You’ve been keeping track of the time, Prof?” Your voice is slightly hoarse from disuse. His eye widens slightly, then narrows, apparently not finding the comment as amusing as you do. “Are you moonlighting as a clock these days?” 

“Brazen beyond belief,” he shakes his head. “Of course, the first words you’d speak would be at my expense.” 

“Flattery may have broken me sooner.” 

He barks out a ‘hah!’ 

“I wrote verses for you before. If memory serves, you found creative uses for them.” 

You forgot about that. Admittedly, they were well-written and imbued with a cleverness only he could offer. They still ended up serving as fodder for various crafts and machinations. Origami, kindling for a fire, papier-mâché… You clear your throat. He’s still upset with you, bringing up those past endeavors isn’t in your best interest. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No, you aren’t.” 

You shift in your seat, his antagonism making you uncomfortable. You’ve always wondered how far you could push him. It’s gratifying in a way — tormenting your tormentor. There are few outlets for your frustration that work as well. Now, however, you have to admit he was right when he said you stood to gain nothing from this. 

You hug yourself and look at the floor. “What now?” 

He goes quiet. Eventually, he takes a seat beside you and crosses his legs. Your gaze at his side profile, noting how he’s staring straight ahead instead of maintaining eye contact. That’s unusual. As if sensing your thoughts, he turns to face you, his visage unreadable. All you can discern is a faint pink hue on his cheeks. Has all this conflict gotten him flustered? That doesn’t fit the image you have of him in your head.

“There were nights where our discussions went into the morning,” he says. The yearning in his voice isn’t lost on you. “Heh. Especially when you were determined to prove me wrong about something. I’d refuse to concede, just so I could hear you a while longer.” 

You stare at him in disbelief, a faint ache rippling throughout your chest. 

 “Let’s talk, as we once did.” 

"About what?" you ask.

"Anything," he replies without hesitation. “So long as I can hear your voice… anything will suffice.”

[lilpaigeywbb]

☆✷ relief ✷☆

➜ summary: paige is on her period, so you have to make her feel better and loved.

➜ warnings: period sex (sorry if you're not into that), smut, fluff, fingering (p receiving), not proofread (duh)

➜ pairing: sub!paige bueckers x reader

➜ author's note: sorry this took so long!!!! idk what else to say other than enjoy :) might take me longer to get some other stuff out bc i have work all weekend so bear w me plsssss k bye

you found her curled up on the couch, her face in the pillows. paige had had a stressful day; between getting her period, one of her best friends and teammates being traded, and being named an all-star starter, she was breaking down. you could see the outline of a heating pad under her hoodie. she barely acknowledged you when you came back into your shared apartment.

“bad day?” you asked, gently moving to kneel beside her. paige nodded, nose scrunched. “cramps,” she mumbled. “lyss is gone, six-flags was chaotic, and everything hurts. ‘nd my body’s bein’ mean… but hey, at least i’m an all-star.”

you brushed some hair from her forehead, feeling the heat of the heating pad even through the fabric of her hoodie. “you are an all-star,” you said softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “and even all-stars are allowed to have really crappy days.” she smiled and hummed, grateful for your understanding, but then she pouted.

“i feel gross,” she murmured, huffing and hiding her face in the pillows of the couch. “you look beautiful,” you said without hesitation, letting your fingers trace gently over her arm. she smiled and blushed a bit. she always got soft and less dominant during this time. “lemme take care of you tonight, p,” you purred, your voice smooth in her ear.

paige knew that voice all too well. it was the one you used when you wanted sex, and it made her blush even more. “you don’t have to…” she whispered, the embarrassment and hesitation clear in her voice. “but i want to. and just because you’re on your period doesn’t mean i think you’re any less sexy.” she huffed and her blush grew. “fine.”

she wanted to take a bath first, so you obliged, turning the water on to the perfect temperature and adding her favorite scented bath salts. you helped her undress with the utmost care; it was almost overwhelming for her. she settled in the tub once she was fully naked, feeling the warm water soothe her body. she watched intently as you stripped, feeling something warm in her tummy, but she tried to ignore it.

you got in behind her, wrapping your arms around her middle and resting your hands on her abs. she sighed happily and leaned back against you with ease. she always felt safe and content when she was in your arms. your hands slid lower, just under her belly button, and as you caressed her skin, you could feel her squirm - just slightly - but enough to know that she liked what you were doing.

her head lolled back against your shoulder, her lips finding your jaw, and she began to leave sloppy kisses all over it. this was your sign that it was okay to continue, but just to be sure, you whispered in her ear, “can i make you feel better, baby?” she whined and nodded instantly.

it was rare for paige to ever let you touch her on her period, mostly because she found herself gross, but she was also embarrassed by how submissive she would get. for some reason, today was different. maybe she was just horny as hell, or maybe she got over her embarrassment.

your hand slid lower, just barely ghosting over her pussy but enough to make her squirm and whine out your name. her hand gripped your wrist, a desperate motion to let you know that she wanted needed more, so you gave it to her. 

your fingers slowly touched her clit, causing a soft moan to escape her lips, so you started moving your fingers in gentle yet calculated circles. you wanted to make sure she felt as good as possible, especially since she was so sensitive during this time. 

paige’s whines and moans grew more frequent, her hips shifting up and causing the water to lap around you two in the tub. “relax, baby… you’re gonna get water everywhere,” you murmured, moving your fingers faster against her. she moaned and huffed, “can’t help it… you feel too good. feel like i could cum alre-” you cut her off by stopping your movements, prompting her to whine pathetically loud.

“no!” she all but squealed, grabbing your hand and putting it back in place. she guided your movements, her hand over yours, making you rub her clit at just the right speed. you smiled and started nipping at her neck, allowing her to take control for now.

she sighed in relief and continued to let out mini-moans and whimpers, her hand gradually moving faster. “you want more?” you breathed in her ear, prompting her to nod and gasp, pushing your fingers into her and letting you take the lead again.

your fingers moved in and out of her, the only sounds being her heavy breathing, whines, and the bathwater lapping around you. she felt a sudden wave of embarrassment, grabbing your wrist to stop your movements, “don’t…”

you paused and obliged, stopping your movements. your eyebrows furrowed, and you kissed her cheek. “baby, what’s wrong?” she huffed and looked down at the water, almost bashfully. “i just- i feel gross. i’m probably just gonna bleed all over your fingers and-” “baby, stop.” you interjected, letting your hands caress her thighs. “you’re beautiful no matter what, okay? even if you’re bleeding. i don’t care. i still and always will think you’re perfect.”

she was a goner.

she pushed your fingers back in, whimpering and gasping. you started pounding her shit, knowing she didn’t need time to adjust. she was ready for you, and she made it known. her moans grew louder, her pussy tightened around you, and she was whispering your name like a prayer.

you loved her like this, all needy and vulnerable for you. it was a side she rarely showed. her lips found your jaw again, craning her neck so she could kiss your soft skin. as her bites got harder, you knew she was close. you sped up your fingers, curling them deep until you found that perfect spongy spot within her.

paige whined and her mouth hung open, so you caught it in a kiss, tongue sliding into her mouth with practiced ease. she whined again against your mouth, allowing you to swallow all of her beautiful sounds. your fingers sped up even more, her pussy clenching around them so tight until she came.

she looked like an angel, her head tilted back against your shoulder as the most beautiful noises came out of her mouth. your free hand caressed her side as your fingers slowed, her pussy fluttering around them as she came down from her high. you slowly removed them and held her closer. she sighed and leaned back against you, just wanting to be in this moment forever.

you helped her stand, draining the tub and turning on the shower. you wouldn’t let her move an inch, wanting to take care of her. you washed every inch of her milky skin until she was clean, massaging her head as you scrubbed her scalp, all while pressing soft kisses to her shoulders or neck. 

paige was quite pliable like this, just willing to do whatever you asked. you helped to dry her, get her in new clothes, and make sure she was comfy in bed. you offered to get her a heating pad and a drink, but she refused. “you’re all i need,” she murmured, snuggling into your chest. you held her close, combing your fingers through her wet, blonde strands. 

“i love you always,” you whispered, kissing her head. she smiled up at you and kissed your lips gently. “thank you. i love you too, always.” she paused before adding, “thank you for always making me feel beautiful.” your heart melted, and you kissed her again, this time longer. “you are beautiful. you deserve to know and be reminded on a daily basis.” and she was.

paige was always reminded that she was beautiful because of you, and what more could she ask for?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Day of Days

Warnings: non/dubcon, public sexual acts, 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.

Characters: biker!Steve Rogers

Based on this ask": "Scary biker!Steve with a surprisingly soft touch who gifts himself you for his birthday 🥴🫠" from @stargazingfangirl18

Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STEVERINO. I know this is late but I didn't get to start it when I planned to due to some terrible circumstances.

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 ❤️

The bell on the shop door jingles. You crane to see the new customer as Arlene steps up to the counter. The owner hovers her hands over the edge as she freezes in surprise. You can only see the back of her head but you can tell how she gapes. 

You look past her again. The man is tall, bearded, and stoic. His expression is both cryptic yet deters approach. In the small sewing shop, his leather vest has him out-of-place. 

Arlene coughs before she can get her words out. She drops her hands behind the counter and wrings them. She’s a kind woman, in her late fifties, but she’s quiet. She keeps to her sewing mostly and barks at those who come in with gossip to keep it to themselves. 

“Sir,” she greets the man as he strides evenly across the shop. Three whole steps. Most of the space is shelves of watches and yards, and mannequins for display. “How might I help you today?” 

Her voice is wobbly, betraying her fear. You frown. She’s quiet but never afraid. At times, she’s even stern. When it comes to work, she’ll never shy away from telling you to redo a stitch. 

The man considers her. His eyes scan around and snag on you. It’s too late to feign ignorance. You can’t just turn around and go back to sorting spools. 

“Her.” He points. 

“Sir?” Arlene sniffs. 

“She can help me,” he insists. 

Arlene glances over at you. She nods as her lips tug down. She backs away from the counter and nears you. She touches your arm, an unusual gesture for her. 

“Do whatever he says, honey.” 

The tender epithet further tweaks your uncertainty. Who is this man? Why is she so afraid? 

She turns to flatten herself against the shelves to let you pass. You sidle by and approach the man. Her anxiety has your brewing with a whirlwind. 

“Hello, sir,” you greet him. 

“Steve,” he insists. You nod and repeat his name. He glances once more at Arlene. “She doesn’t need help.” 

You peek over as Arlene flinches. Her eyes flick between you and the man as her face lines with concern. Her lips open and the lower one quivers. She shuts her mouth and nods. She turns and goes into the backroom. 

What the heck is going on? 

You face the man again. His dark blond hair is thick. The tails at the back flip out a little and his beard is grown long, curling around the shape of his jaw. His eyes are a bold blue and his thick brows add to his stern look. His nose is long and defined, complimenting his chiseled features.  

He shrugs and slips his vest down his arms. You watch him. He strips the vest off entirely and lays it on the counter. His scent tickles your nose as it clings to the leather. 

“Fix it.” He demands. 

You lower your eyes slowly to the vest. You lean in and reach for it warily. You peek at him, thinking he might snatch it back. He just stares at you. Your forehead speckles with heat. 

You focus on the vest and touch the seams at the shoulder. You cautiously examine every inch. On the back, a large emblem is imprinted on the leather. You touch the flaking decal. A print that was never going to last on the fabric. There’s only a bit of blue and red around the rings that incase an entirely black star. 

You step back and look under the counter. You reach beneath and he shifts. “What are you doing?” 

You pause and look up at him. You blink. “Getting my notebook so I can make notes.” 

He dips his chin and his forehead lines. You take your notebook and flip through to a blank page. You grab a pencil and start your notes. 

He sighs, “it’s only this.” He taps the emblem. 

“Oh, sure,” you scribble that down. “The patch here,” you extend the chest of the vest, “the thread is loose here. It will come off soon.” You gentle touch the collar, “may I turn it over?” 

He shrugs and and waves his hand derisively. You turn over the vest. As you expect, the lining shows its use. “I can redo the lining. I could show you some options.” You point across to the rolls of fabric. “As for the back, it might be best to go with an embroidery pattern rather than a print. We don’t do prints.” 

He puts his hands on the counter, fingers curled, tattoos above each knuckle. On his middle finger, you see the pommel of a sword, the blade extended down his finger but hidden in his fist. Your neck tingles hotly. Is he one of them? 

“How much are you gonna rob me for to do that?” He snips. 

“Mostly your time,” you answer thinly. “It takes time but I can do it.” You turn the vest again and feel along the remnants of the print. “One moment, please.” 

You look up at him. His eyes are unreadable. He tilts his head. 

You grab your pencil and bend over your notebook. You do your best to recreate what you can make out of the emblem. When you finish, you stand and show him the page. 

“Does that look correct?” 

He nods. 

“Alright, I can do that,” you assure him and set the pencil down. You frame the old print with your hands, “this is a good size?” 

He dips his chin again.  

Before you can retract your hand to make another note, he grabs it. You squeak and tug only once. He pulls your hand closer and with his other, extends your thumb. It’s swollen and poked up from your stubbornness. You forget your thimble often. 

“Looks painful,” he says. 

“My fault,” you assure him.  

His strength has you trapped. His hands are much large than yours, rough too. He lets you go and grips his hips as he blows out another breath through his nose. 

“How long?” He asks. 

“Not today, but when’s best for you, sir?” 

He considers you. Silently. You dare to look up and meet his blue irises. You still cannot read him. 

“July 4th. I need it then.” 

“I can have it done on the third. We’re closed for the 4th, sir.” 

He tuts. 

“The 4th.” He repeats, adding your name on the end. You nearly gasp at that before you remember your name tag pinned to your blouse. 

You hesitate. “Okay, I can meet you out front with it.” 

His eyes drift down and back up. He reaches up to his chest then stops himself. He grabs the vest and slides his hand into the lining. He slips free his wallet and unfolds it. He takes out several bills and holds them out. 

“That enough?” 

You look at them and pluck only three. “I’ll get you change.” 

“Keep it,” he grits. 

“Sir.”  

You fold up the money in your hand. He spins on his heel and marches to the door. You wait for him to turn back. Your heart is racing, you don’t know why. He leaves without another word or look. 

You stand in silence. You can’t move. You look down at the vest slowly then the money in your hand. 

“Honey...” Arlene’s voice startles you, her appearance more so as she emerges from the backroom with fright in her eyes. “Are you okay?” 

You face her and hold out the money. “He just needs an alteration.” 

She nears and takes the bills. Her cheeks are dimpled with chagrin. “Alright then, you do that for him. I’ll take on the rest of your tasks.” 

“Arlene, I can--” 

“No, you must do it right,” she says. “Be sure you do.” 

⭐

There’s a parade on the main street. You can hear it even from there. Three blocks down to the east.  

You wait outside the sewing shop as promised. You have a hanger with a garment bag draped over it. You have it hook over your fingers as you cross your arms and sway anxiously. 

A rumble cuts through the distant din of the celebrations. You turn and watch the motorcycle and its rider roll down the avenue. It steers toward the curb before you and you back up. You nearly collide with the brick wall behind you. 

You realise then it’s that man. Steve. He plants his feet and shuts off the roaring engine. He kicks the stand down and reaches for the strap of his helmet. He takes it off, his hair mussed and slightly shiny with his sweat. 

He climbs off the motorcycle and faces you. He hangs his helmet from the handlebar. He steps over the curb and approaches you. You make yourself move away from the wall. 

You hold up the hanger dumbly. You can’t speak. His arms are bare. He wears a navy shirt without sleeves, a small vee cut into the round neckline, a silver chain peeking out over a hint of his chest hair. His jeans are dark and worn out to fading, and his leather boots are studded with flat silver studs. 

He hooks two fingers in the top of the garment bag and tugs. You wince. 

“What’s this?” He growls. 

You gulp and fumble to unzip the bag. You nearly drop it all as you reach inside and struggle to free his vest. You slide it free. It’s heavy in just one hand. Real leather, you know. You were careful in your work. 

He takes it and you stare. He holds it up and examines the liner first, then the patches. You fixed more than one. He turns it and brings it closer to his face to check the emblem. He drapes it on his forearm and feels the thread; rich royal red and a bold blue, ivory too. 

He clicks his tongue. His eyes meet yours and he stands up straight. You feel smaller as he does. He puts the vest on. 

“Good work,” he praises. 

“Thanks, sir.” You fold the garment bag over the hanger. You peer up and down the street. “Well... happy 4th!” 

You teeter, ready to go. He stares at you. Or is he glaring? It’s hard to tell. His silence is as sweltering as the sun. 

“It’s my birthday.” He says. 

“Oh...happy birthday.” 

His gaze stays on you. Like an animal in a trap, you just stare back. He moves towards you suddenly. You swallow a squeak and lean back on your heels. He snatches the garment bag and the hanger. He marches down to the metal trash bin and stuffs it inside. 

“I-- sir?” 

“Can’t ride with all that,” he struts back toward you. 

You blink, confused. You watch him. 

He goes to his bike and grabs his helmet. He offers it to you. You look at it, then him. 

His mouth slants. He flips the helmet over and puts it on your head. His thumb brushes your chin as he secures the strap in the buckle. You stare at the crook of his neck. What’s happening? 

The same scent that wafted from his vest stains the helmet. It’s all you can smell. He backs up and taps the helmet lightly with his knuckles. 

He’s smirking at you. You shiver at the crack in his mask. That can’t be good. 

He turns and straddles the motorcycle. He looks over at you expectantly. You push your shoulders up. 

“Get on,” he demands. 

Your feet are stuck to the pavement. You were going to head down to the parade. Maybe by some funnel cake and slushie before you go hide at home. 

He watches you. You lift one foot, then the other. Your legs are heavy. Your mind screams ‘run’ but your body is bound up in terror. 

He kicks up the stands and straightens the motorcycle. He keeps it steady as you approach. You look at him then the seat behind him. 

“Grab onto my shoulder,” he commands. 

You obey. You use him to haul yourself up. You barely keep your skirt from flying up and flashing the neighbourhood... if anyone were there to see. They're all at the parade. 

You sit stiffly behind him. 

“Get close and hold on,” he demands over his shoulder. “You’ll fall off.” 

You carefully slide closer to him. You put your hands on his sides. He scoffs. He grabs your hands and pulls your arms around them, placing your palms on his stomach. You’re flush to him as he squeezes your fingers. 

You stay like that, turning your head so the helmet touches his back. He twists the throttle to kickstart the engine and you close your eyes. He steers the bike as he walks it away from the curb, then sets off down the street with a tear of diesel. 

You don’t know what scares you more; the motorcycle or the man. 

⭐

The bar looks old. The blend of wood and brick suggests a foundation built at least two centuries ago. The dimples in the pavement outside lend to its antiquity. You take it all in as Steve leads you up to the door. 

There’s a man in leather leaning against the wall, puffing on a thick cigar. He puffs out a cloud of grey and Steve swats him away. “Do that somewhere else.” 

The man quickly moves away, holding in his next exhale until he’s well away. Steve opens the door and nudges your lower back. You wince and stagger ahead. What are you doing here? 

The interior matches the exterior. Almost to a farcical degree. An old bar with leather trim and a man with a braided goatee behind it. All sorts of characters line the stools as they shout their orders, chatter incessantly at their companions, or drink grimly from a tall pint. 

A pool table clacks and a jukebox drones. Shelves of tinted bottles and portraits of a bygone error line the walls. The lighting is dim so that it all feels smoky. 

You glance back at the door. Steve snakes his arm around you and curls his fingers around your hip. You put your hand on his and squirm. 

“What--” you bite down on your question. 

“Don’t want to have my birthday drink alone.” He says plainly. 

He walks you across the bar. As he does, you notice the looks in his direction and how those who get in his path are just as quickly out of it. They know who he is and you are only getting the gist. He must be dangerous. 

He takes you to a table in the corner. A cushioned bench lines the corner of the wall. He points you in and quickly follows. He stretches his arm across the seat above you. You twiddle your thumbs and glance around. People pretend not to look but do. 

“Um...” you whittle away in the silence. “Do you like your vest?” 

He snorts. He bends his arm and touches your cap sleeve. A white blouse, simple, and a floral skirt with a bit of flare above your knees. You must stick out sorely among the denim and leather. 

“I like this,” he diverts. “Pretty.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Steve,” he insists. 

“Steve,” you utter and cower as a man approaches the tables. 

“Usual for me,” Steve says to the man. “And something sweet for her.” 

The man nods and just as quickly stalks away. You shrink down even further. This must be some sort of game to him. 

“I like the vest,” he says at last. “I can see all that care you put into it.” He reaches to take your hand. He brushes your swollen thumb with his. “Blood, sweat, and all.” 

You stare at your hand in his. He brings it closer and kisses your soft skin. He purrs. You shake and he chuckles as he lowers your hand to rest on his thigh. 

“Can’t be alone on my birthday, can I?” 

You shake your head. He hums again and pulls you closer. The man returns with the drinks. A short, wide glass for Steve with black liquor; something red in a tall glass for you. The man ducks down and retreats. 

He lifts his glass and raises it. He hovers it. You take the other glass then slowly it clicks it. You clink it against his. 

“Happy birthday,” you murmur. 

“So far,” he drawls before he takes a swig. 

⭐

As soon as you reach the bottom of your glass, another appears. Three? Four? You’re not so sure. 

The alcohol softens the hard edges of the bar, and your anxiety. Still, you can’t help but be unsettled by the man at your side. His arm on your shoulders as he keeps you close like a possession. 

“Sweet enough for you?” He slides the drink closer. 

You shake your head sit back, your head pressing into his arm. “I think I need water.” 

He chuckles and lifts the glass. He brings it close to your lips. You seal them for just a moment then put them to the glass. He tips it and you drink. Half or so before he relents. 

You cover your mouth as a bubble works it way up to your throat. You exhale through the gas and cough.  

“Please, no more,” you beg. “I’m dizzy.” 

He puts the drink down and rubs your arm with his other hand. “You don’t wanna celebrate with me, sweetheart?” 

“I... am. I just...” you blink heavily. “I can’t...” you touch your forehead. “Oof.” 

“It’s okay, sweetheart, I got you,” he rubs your thigh and you flinch. You slap your hand down on his and tense. “Gonna be okay. So long as you’re with me.” 

You look up at him as his fingertips caress you through your skirt. You squirm and latch onto his thick fingers. Your head wobbles. 

“What?” You babble. 

“You know what these other men would do if you weren’t on my arm?” He growls as his nose presses to your cheekbone. “I won’t let them get their paws on you.” 

“Huh?” You utter. 

“Trust me, sweetheart, okay?” 

“I don’t... understand.” 

“Shh,” his hand slips from beneath yours. “You just be a good girl, alright, and give me my birthday present.” 

His fingers dance down your skirt to the hem. He delves below and tickles up your thigh. You wiggle and push on his forearm. You squeeze your legs together. 

“Steve?” You squeak. 

“You’re gonna wanna be quiet unless you want an audience, sweetheart,” he coaxes as he pets your upper thigh. “Now open up.” 

“Why-what--” 

He pushes his fingers between your thighs until it hurts. You grip his arm tight as your eyes sting. Your legs shake as fear courses through you. The tension lets out as you’re drained of all courage and strength. 

He shoves his hand between your legs as they slacken. You hold your breath as he pushes his fingers along the front of your cotton panties. His arm curls around your neck as he presses his lips to your temple and snarl. 

He rubs you through the fabric. As the friction builds, the cotton clings to your wet folds. He pushes your panties between your lips as the heat of his touch burns through. You hiccup and your head lolls into him. 

He brings his arm up to hug your head, petting your hair with his fingers. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he traces along the edge of your panties. “Be good for the birthday boy.” 

He pulls your panties to the side and his fingers glide up and down your folds. He teases you as you squirm. He flicks your clit and you spasm, choking on a whimper. He rolls his fingertips around as you writhe. 

You bat your lashes. There are shadows around you but you can’t see their eyes. You hope they’re not looking. You close your eyes and hide. From them, from him. 

He drags his fingers up and down, spreading your shame across your cunt. He angles his hand down and prods at your entrance. He dips a finger into you, wiggling as he slowly pushes deeper and deeper. 

He cradles your head in his large hand and exhales into your hair as he plays with you. He pulls his finger out and adds a second. He dives into you until the heel of his hand is against your clit. 

You bite your lip as your eyes roll back. Your head stirs in delirious delight as he plucks at your nerves. He rocks his hand as your thighs clench around him and you arch your back. He lets your head fall back and he kisses your throat. 

You moan as you fall into his embrace, too drunk to resist. His rhythm shakes your entire body on the bench as it quickens. You heave out breaths as you cover the back of his hand with your palm, urging him on mindlessly. 

“I want my gift, sweetheart. You gonna cum?” He rasps into you ear. “Go on and cum for the birthday boy.” 

You dig your nails into his hand and your hips buck. You quiver and push your head into his other hand as your orgasm bursts from your core. A ripple swells and spills from you, gushing out around his fingers. 

He purrs and chuckles against your cheek. 

“Mm, happy birthday to me, huh, sweetheart?” 

[abbotjack]

Hi Syd baby, hope you’re doing okay. 🫶 You were greatly missed on this little side of the internet. I wanted to put a little thought, you don’t have to take it or write anything for it, but just an image in your head.

Imagine Pope putting on the biggest fireworks display on the waterfront for his baby girl to see all of the colors in the sky? Him and his brothers went on a heist, took all of the fireworks they could find, and put on a big show for everyone but especially for his daughter.

(Ofc just a disclaimer, I’m not patriotic lmfao.)

It starts with a grunt.

Not a request. Not an invitation. Just “Be at the beach. Sunset.” And that’s all Pope gives you.

Which, for him, is basically a love letter.

You bring a blanket. Your daughter's favorite stuffed elephant with the chewed-up ear. You expect maybe a bonfire, maybe one of Craig’s half-assed ideas or a pack of cheap sparklers from Deran’s bar stash. Something low-key. Quiet. Practical.

But then the sky cracks open.

Red first. Then blue. A whole blast of color launched so fast and so loud it makes your daughter gasp. She’s barely three, still figuring out what the sky even is, and now it’s full of stars that burst and bloom just for her.

You look over your shoulder, and he’s already watching her. That Pope sort of stillness, like he’s trying to burn the moment into his bones without actually getting too close. His hands are shoved into the pockets of that same old black hoodie, and you can tell, he’s vibrating under the surface. Nervous. Hopeful. Like he built this moment and doesn’t know if it's sustainable.

“She likes it,” you say, because you need him to hear it.

Because he won’t ask.

His jaw works, and for a second, you think he might crack a smile.

He doesn’t. But he comes over. Kneels beside her. Close but not too close. Just enough that she can reach out and wrap her tiny fingers around one of his.

“She’s not scared,” he says, like that’s the part he can’t wrap his head around.

“Why would she be?” you whisper.

And he looks at you then. That raw, unspeakable thing in his eyes, the part that always seems to be waiting for something to go wrong. Like joy is a test and he’s already bracing to fail it.

“I was scared of everything,” he says. “When I was her age.”

You press your hand to the back of his neck, soft and warm, and lean in until your forehead touches his. “Yeah, but she's not you.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just closes his eyes, breath stuttering the tiniest bit. Your daughter is babbling now, reaching for the next burst of fireworks like she could catch them if she just believed hard enough. He watches her the way other men look at saints. Not like he deserves her. Like he’d burn the whole world down just to keep the bad parts from getting in.

“You stole all of these,” you murmur, lips brushing his ear.

“Didn’t steal. Liberated.”

“From where?”

He shrugs. “Three separate warehouses. J drove. Craig loaded. Deran....” He pauses. “Deran mostly just yelled.”

You laugh. Because of course he coordinated an entire operation just to give his daughter a sky full of light.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say. But your voice cracks, just a little, because this is the same man who doesn’t let you leave the house without a flashlight and pepper spray in the glove compartment. The same man who triple checks the locks even when he’s half-asleep. The same man who looks at your daughter like he’s terrified to break her, but more terrified of the world if he doesn't keep her in his arms.

You pull him in then, his head tucked into the crook of your neck. He’s trembling, just faintly. You can feel his pulse. “She’s gonna remember this,” you whisper.

“I hope not,” he says quietly. “I hope she just thinks it’s normal. That this is what life’s like. That the world lights up when she laughs.”

You don’t say anything.

And when the last firework fades, Pope doesn’t let go of your hand. Not even when the others starts to drift away. Not even when your daughter falls asleep in his lap, cheek pressed to his chest like it’s the safest place she’s ever known.

Because maybe it is.

And maybe he’s starting to believe he can be that safe place.... even if no one ever was for him.

[fotibrit]

i think tony has a thing for grafiti.

i think he carved his name into the walls of that cave in the hopes that, if his body isn’t found, at least his name will be.

and ever since, when he sees words and names splattered on walls, he can’t help but think of a person who just wants proof that they were there.

spots where only one person has gotten up make him think of the lonely night picking out a spot in the wall that isn’t likely to be destroyed. the quiet of scratching his own name in. What it might have felt like to get up there, alone.

I think he’d find it fascinating. An art form that is “destructive” in its creation. Proof of life and a signal that one exists.

He’d never admit it. He’d never say as much. He certainly never told anyone of the “TONY” carved in the Afghan wall, or how he long debated if he should have put “STARK”, and the way he wonders if his name is still there somehow and survived the explosion.

If a piece of him is still in that cave.

If these artists whose tags are up all around him are still alive, if they know that their work is still up, if they remember it.

He still wonders. he wouldn’t admit it. But he notices as much if it as he can, and tries to remember the tags, just in case.

He notices new ones, if they’re prominent enough. If it’s an area he sees regularly, and a tag he’s never seen before. He adds it to his mental list of people to not forget, just in case they’re gone like he thought he was back in that cave.

So when “PETE” starts popping up in red and blue with white lines through it, he notices. He doesn’t know of anyone named Pete, save Peter quill, and he wonders.

Who is it that hopes not to be forgotten? Who is it that’s started leaving pieces of themself through the city?

[cocoa-dile]

Would they really stay with you if you asked for a few more minutes in bed? (TWST)

With every student except for Ortho :)

Next post will be another Sebek Zigvolt I think, except headcanons this time around :)

Warnings / Notes: Complete fluff, OOC for everyone to differing degrees, gn! reader, reference to the menstrual cycle in Jack's (but only as a hypothetical situation, nothing detailed or anything like that), my second time writing anything fan fic related (:O), all just for fun and not meant to be taken super seriously. If you have any feedback, please leave it in the comments down below, as well as any requests (which can also be done by clicking the "requests" button on my profile)! I'm also sure that this isn't a unique idea, I think I've seen it done by a few other much more skilled writers so I encourage you to find theirs if you enjoy mine at all :)

Not proofread! I apologize in advance for any mistakes, if there's anything you think needs to be fixed just let me know. Also you would think that because each one is just a few sentences long this would've taken like maybe an hour at most but no this took wayyy too long for what it is

Relationship between reader and character is romantic

Heartslaybul

Riddle: No, probably not. He might let you stay in bed for a couple more minutes as he gets ready for the day, but he probably won't be staying in bed with you - he has a schedule to follow, after all! Riddle has been working more on being a bit lax with following rules, so I think as time goes on you might get lucky, but be patient with him.

Deuce: Ace and Deuce are probably pretty similar here - Deuce would stay in bed with you unless you both overslept already and will be late to class if you stay in bed any longer. Unless he thinks Riddle will get on him or the both of you for staying in bed or waking up late, he'll gladly stay under the covers.

Ace: Yes, most likely. Unless the both of you overslept horrifically, he'll probably want to sleep or be close to you for a couple more minutes anyway. I feel like Ace is the type of person who will continuously push the snooze button on the alarm clock at least 3 times.

Cater: Cater is likely to say yes to this I think, he'd appreciate the time and attention. He likes it when there's some quiet time with just the two of you, where he doesn't have to pretend and can just relax next to you.

Trey: Bakers get up really early so I think out of habit he's up with the sun. On top of that, as vice housewarden to Heartslaybul, he has a lot to take care of. Trey might be willing to spare a few minutes, but if he's got some baking to do or tensions to smooth over he won't be sleeping in. He'd love to make it up to you with some extra time together or a treat that he made special for you.

Savanaclaw

Leona: I feel like this one is so obvious it's not even a question. Yes, he would absolutely stay in the bed for extra sleep or cuddle time. In many cases, he's probably the one asking you.

Jack: I think this is another probably not, leaning towards a maybe. Jack has been shown to highly value his schedule, and takes his time very seriously - maybe if you're still in bed by the time he's done he'll join you again, but I think he would remain a bit steadfast with his "it's time to get up" and "it's time to go to bed". I do think there would be some circumstances that this wouldn't be the case - if you're going through your menstrual cycle (if you have one), if you just need a bit of support or have had a rough couple of days, etc. I think that Jack would highly value the time he spends with his S/O, and wants to be there when you need him.

Ruggie: As long as he doesn't have something to deal with in relation to Leona, I think he probably would. Ruggie seems like someone who has quite a bit on his hands, but if you're his S/O I think that even those small moments and time that you can steal away for each other is really important to him.

Octavinelle

Azul: Probably yes. I think part of the requirements to be Azul's S/O is that he needs to feel comfortable with being vulnerable with you, and even enjoy that vulnerability. Cuddling / sleeping together is one of those activities that creates that feeling of gentle care and love that he really appreciates and makes him feel safe. If it's too late, however, I think he would want to get up - he has business to handle, and Jade and Floyd aren't always the most reliable.

Jade: In most cases, yes, but if it's a day where he plans on going up to the mountain early or has to handle the Lounge, he's off (in some cases maybe even before you wake up).

Floyd: Depends on how he's feeling, but most likely yes. I don't think he really cares about being on time for the Mostro Lounge, and everything else is probably background noise for him. Floyd would probably hold you down in the bed with him as you attempted to escape because he likes feeling you squirm around.

Scarabia

Kalim: Yes, he absolutely would. Kalim is a ball of sunshine who's head over heels for you and is willing to do anything to make you happy. If just a few more minutes in bed is enough, who is he to say no?

Jamil: Jamil has a high level of responsibility within Scarabia, so I imagine that he's another one who has to get up on time and get to work. However, I think that when the stress is getting particularly bad he'd fold and stay with you for a bit before going back to his duties.

Pomefiore

Vil: I'm kind of conflicted on Vil to be honest, on the one hand I think he would value his beauty sleep and a few more minutes couldn't hurt but on the other I feel like he's another person whose pretty particular about when he wakes up, when he does his skin, hair, etc. For Vil, it might be more of a case-by-case basis like with Jack - if you need him, he's there, and if he needs a few more minutes with you, he'd hope that you'd stay for him in turn.

Epel: Another yes, I think Epel would really like doing this sort of thing with you because he likes the idea of being the chivalrous boyfriend who does whatever his S/O asks of him. It makes him feel reassured in his relationship and like you know you can count on him.

Rook: You wouldn't even have to ask, he's already woken up before you and has enjoyed admiring your features. A few more minutes marveling at your beauty surely wouldn't hurt.

Ignihyde

Idia: Most likely, yes. He doesn't leave his room for classes anyway, so unless it's for a super big event going on in one of his video games I think he'd be happy to spend some more time with you. He's touch starved and wants to be near you, so what's the harm in a few more minutes anyway?

Diasomnia

Malleus: Yes, absolutely. My personal bias is definitely going to slip out here, but I really do love the headcanon that Malleus will follow the traits typically associated with dragons, such as being possessive, enjoying collecting things (particularly shiny things), etc. Another common trait many people accept with dragons is that they enjoy being either on top of or very near their hoard. As his S/O, you are incredibly important to Malleus - the most important shiny thing, if you will. Similar to Idia, Malleus is touch starved and wants to be given affection and attention from you specifically. To Malleus, a few minutes is truly nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Silver: Yes, probably. He'd probably end up falling asleep again anyway, so it's good that you're there with him. He doesn't mind a few extra minutes with his beloved, even if Sebek gets on him for being a little bit late to patrol.

Sebek: As much as I absolutely love Sebek, I really don't think so. You might be able to seduce him back under the covers when it's cold out (given that crocodiles are cold blooded creatures, and you're assumedly much warmer than he is), but usually, he stays pretty rigid with his routine. Wake up on time, morning routine with his skin and fixing his hair, and then take care of Malleus. I think he'd make it up to you with some quiet time together, but I doubt that he'd allow himself to sleep in at all.

Lilia: Yes, because I don't think this old man really cares anymore. Nowhere that he needs to be comes before you, and like with Malleus, a few minutes really isn't anything anymore.

[vvvchu]

# ⋆ Shit… S’good… Can’t—Can’t Stop—Fuck!

synopsis ★ he's not saying he’s p𖹭ssy drunk. but baby, it’s written all over his face.

ও featuring : 𝕷.𝕾.kennedy ⋆ 𝕮.redfield

ও content : nsfw—mdni ⋆ fem!reader. ⋆ pussy drunk men. ⋆ clingy!leon. ⋆ whimpering!chris. ⋆ overstimulation. ⋆ body worship. ⋆ creampie(s). ⋆ eye contact. ⋆ dumbification. ⋆ cockwarming. ⋆ scratching. ⋆ excessive cum. ⋆ grinding. ⋆ drool. ⋆ tears. ⋆ broken speech. ⋆ brain-melting.

ও a.n : hope y'all enjoy^^

LEON S. KENNEDY ༄.°

He finished inside you ten minutes ago.

You’re breathless, sweaty, wrecked.

But Leon?

He’s still on top of you.

Still inside. Still moving. Barely.

Just these tiny, slow, helpless little thrusts.

His arms are shaking.

Chest rising too fast.

Forehead pressed to your shoulder like he’s ashamed but also can’t fucking stop.

“L-Leon,” you whisper, gently. “You… you already came, baby.”

His fingers dig into your thighs.

You hear him breathe in through his nose like he’s trying to calm down. He’s not calm.

“I—I know. I know, I just…”

He cuts off. Shivers.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

All he knows is you’re warm, wet, wrapped around him, and he can’t think.

“Just a little longer,” he mumbles.

“Don’t wanna pull out yet.”

He’s not even looking at you.

He’s staring down at where his cock is still buried in you, lips parted, eyes glassy like he’s stoned on you.

Not even blinking.

“Fuck…”

“You’re still so warm…”

“Still squeezing me…”

He moans. Soft. Desperate.

And he grinds in deeper.

His rhythm is off.

He keeps twitching inside you.

Like his body’s fighting itself — overstimulated but desperate to stay connected.

His hips do this slow roll, and you whimper. Your cunt flutters.

That’s it. That’s what breaks him.

He whines — fucking whines — and sinks all the way in, body collapsing.

“Oh f-fuck—d-don’t do that—can’t—can’t take it—”

You reach up and stroke his hair.

He’s soaked. Shaking. Breathing hard.

“Leon. Look at me.”

He does.

Eyes wet. Lips trembling. Completely gone.

“You’re so good,” he says, voice wrecked.

“So good. Can’t stop thinking about how you feel.”

“Woke up hard, went to sleep hard, couldn’t even breathe today without remembering this—you—”

“I feel fucking high.”

He kisses you.

Messy. Sloppy. Tongue too desperate.

His body is still moving. Still chasing another orgasm he doesn’t even have the stamina for.

“I-I think I came too fast,” he whispers into your mouth.

“Didn’t get to memorize it. The way you—shit—fuck—I need it again—just once—just…”

And then he cums again.

Just from your walls fluttering around him.

Barely even thrusting.

He groans against your mouth and spills into you again with a pathetic little gasp.

“Shitshitshit—’m sorry—can’t help it—y-you’re too good, you’re too—”

After that, he goes limp.

But doesn’t pull out.

Just lays on top of you. Face pressed between your tits. Arms wrapped around your waist like a child.

He’s silent for a long time.

Still inside. Still twitching.

Still catching his breath.

Then:

“If you leave me… I’m gonna die.”

You laugh.

“Jesus, Leon.”

“I’m serious. Don’t even joke about getting up.”

CHRIS REDFIELD ༄.°

You're not sure which round this is.

Your brain won’t do numbers anymore.

Your legs have stopped working.

Your skin feels raw. Oversensitive. Like you’ve been stripped to the nerve.

And Chris is still fucking you.

Not with thrusts.

Not with rhythm.

Just this slow, desperate, mindless grind.

Slippery. Sticky. Filthy.

The weight of his body pressing yours down, sweat dripping off his jaw onto your collarbone, the stretch of him never-ending.

He came inside you—

Once.

Twice.

Maybe three times?

You don’t know.

You can still feel it leaking out.

You can feel his cock still thick, still twitching, still rubbing into that same bruised, swollen spot with every drag of his hips.

He won’t speak.

Not properly.

Just:

“Ngh… fuck—mmf—just… warm—warm, you’re s’fucking warm—don’t—don’t stop—don’t push me out—”

His voice sounds wrecked.

Like he’s been crying or screaming for hours.

He might have.

You might have.

Neither of you knows anymore.

You try to say his name, but it comes out as a wet gasp. Your mouth won’t close. You feel his hand slide under your neck, just holding, and his other hand grabs at your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“You’re still there…” he slurs into your shoulder. “Still tight—still inside—still mine—mine mine mine—”

You think you blacked out for a second.

When you come back to, your thighs are shaking and his hips are still moving.

Not even thrusting — just rubbing, mindlessly rutting, cock pushing slow and messy into overstimulated, slick-soaked heat.

You hear a wet sound and realize it’s him. Crying.

Just a little.

Breathing all fucked up. Drool on your chest. Words choked and broken and ruined.

“F-Feels so—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—can’t feel anything but you—nothin’ else matters—fuckfuckfuck—”

He’s humping into your body like you’re a hole in the world that he can’t escape.

“Feels like I’m dying,” he sobs. “Dyin’ in it. D-dyin’ and it’s—good—so good—don’t take it away—don’t take—”

Your fingers find his back.

Scratch him open. You’re not gentle. You’re not anything anymore.

He gasps. Moans. Twitches.

And cums again.

No warning. Just this sudden, pathetic stutter of his hips, a broken sound in his throat, and then hot, thick, flooding.

You feel it pulse inside you. Spill out around him.

You don’t react. You can’t.

There’s too much.

Too much cum, too much sweat, too much of him—

Too much.

He doesn’t pull out.

He just collapses.

Full weight. Still inside. Still twitching. Still grinding.

“...don’t… don’t move…”

“Don’t go yet… don’t… j-just lemme stay…”

You don’t answer.

You couldn’t if you tried.

Your mouth is open. Your eyes are barely open.

You’re drooling too. And you don’t care.

Chris is kissing your throat. Licking salt from your skin. His hips jerk every few seconds.

“Still there…” he mumbles. “Still tight… can feel it… can still feel—”

You're not even fucking anymore.

You’re just locked together. Fused by heat and mess and exhaustion.

And the worst part?

He’s getting hard again.

৻ꪆ © vvvchu. do not repost, use, modify, translate or plagiarize any of my works here or any other websites, especially ai.

[l4ndoflove]

liked songs

🔀 ▶️

artists

@isaadore the sweetest angel with the prettiest blog ever 🩷🌸

@lvrclerc every single one of her oscar works is a PIECE. OF. ART.

@maxtermind may i introduce you to THE QUEEN OF TEXT FICS 💋💌

@norrisradio @tsunodaradio tumblr's poets (proceed with caution, you might fall in love with their writing)

@sharlsworld you will never find one bad smau here

@uglyducklingofthe2000s too many good works to pick a favorite

@vettelsvee amazing writing, even more amazing writer 🙂‍↕️🫶

one-shots

▶️ alta suciedad • @moviestarmartini [E]

DARE I SAY ONE OF THE BEST FC43 SMUT EVER!?

▶️ always been you • @sunsetcupid

oscar x "best friends to lovers" has me melting 🫠💞

▶️ bunny! • @leclerc-hs [E]

the chokehold this one has on me is VERY mildly concerning to feminism (i guess it's the lando effect)

▶️ butterflies • @inkandapex

"stream madness" might be more popular but lando crushing on the reader will ALWAYS be my favorite

▶️ cooldown • @mywritersmind [E]

the holy grail of landoscar™

▶️ greed • @cherry-leclerc [E]

IF YOU STILL HAVEN'T READ THIS OSCAR (...) WORTHY PIECE PLEASE DO IT'S LIFE CHANGING

▶️ let's get messy • @norristrii

it was incredibly hard to choose only one of her amazing works but lando angst always gets me 🤧💔

▶️ naked in manhattan • @piastriprincess [E]

F1 MOVIE PREMIERE LANDO SAVE ME OMG 🫡🛐

▶️ no babysitter needed • @theonottsbxtch

my comfort fic to say the least i literally fell in love with the writing and how wholesome lando is 🥹❤️‍🩹

▶️ vanilla and strawberries • @p1astr81

short n' sweet <3

series

▶️ but daddy i love him • @harrysfolklore

ok not really a series but i think it's one of her best works ever like the way she writes max??? perfection

▶️ it's nice to have a friend • @luvstappen

now this is THE oscar series. MASTERPIECE 🙏🙇‍♀️

▶️ little miss wingwoman • @everythingne

i love lando and p's dynamic irl so this is *chef's kiss*

▶️ walls are way too thin • @papayainsectorone [E]

SOUL CRUSHING LANDO ANGST my favorite ✌️😍

▶️ when it happened to me (we hug now) • @gr4cier4cie

THIS HAD ME BAWLING MY EYES OUT FOR SOME REASON IT'S SO GOOD (and i love teammate!lando)

smaus

▶️ 2 hands • @tsunomenom

10/10 AAA TATE AND OSCAR MY BELOVEDS 🥴❣️

▶️ you're dating him?! • @landoughnut

the chaotic summer vibes are absolutely immaculate

© 2025 l4ndoflove. all rights reserved.

[bottledfool]

I don't see any point to you getting pedantic over the word "galaxy," since you used it in the post I was replying to, but yes, you're right, Union doesn't actually control an entire galaxy, not that it actually matters for the sake of the discussion. There also isn't a frame called the Infant Immolater, either, but you didn't seem to care as much about that one.

Anyway, to clarify, when I said "despite what the lore insists," I was referring to the fact that the lore's extremely whitewashed description of Union's actions post Sec-com is ridiculous to the point that it can easily be interpreted as in-universe propaganda. Despite verbally renouncing Sec-Comm's actions, Third Comm still benefits from and continues many of their colonialist projects from that era.

The fact that they have a really good reason for why they definitely need to keep working with slavers does not make integrating slavery into their economy any less evil. Sec-Comm undoubtedly had just as many reasons for why they had to do the same thing, and those reasons would have been just as valid. Instead of just accepting that it's a necessary evil, it might be more productive to consider what sort of government considers slavery to be acceptable as long as it doesn't have to look at it very often. In fact, I'm willing to bet the average Union official personally despises slavery (or at least they'd say they do), but they're not losing any sleep over the fact that Third Committee is allowing it to happen as long as it benefits the economy.

This is what I mean when I say they're Sec-Comm "with the visible edges sanded off:" They still do most of the awful things Sec-Comm did - they're still a neoliberal government entity who rules through the use of a corpo state, so unless one were to throw absolutely all logic out of the setting, it's undeniable that they do - but they no longer have the appearance of an overtly-fascistic government. They're palatable to the average citizen and maybe even to some of the people outside Union. But the long arm of Union colonization still very much exists, and the moment someone doesn't fall in line, it'll reach out and crush them.

The core issue with arguing that Third-Comm are good is that they have an extremely clear real-world equivalent: The EU. On the surface, the EU does a very good job of appearing reasonable and good, but anyone who has paid attention to the history of European politics understands that the EU was formed largely by colonial powers, and despite (frustratingly) gradual efforts at decolonization across the world, the EU's laws were still originally drafted with a colonialist mindset and designed to benefit the countries that formed it. Even setting all that aside, the EU has done some pretty reprehensible things over its lifespan, largely by funding and enabling smaller world powers to conduct these atrocities for them, thereby exporting political violence to a place where they can benefit from it but don't have to look at it.

When I say the lore insists otherwise, I mean that it lists multiple examples of exactly this sort of thing happening under Third-Comm, but just sort of handwaves it away as necessary and tragic. Despite the lore's insistence that these are unimportant when characterizing Union, I would argue that the actions of a government are, in fact, the most important thing to consider when characterizing a government.

And to your final point, yes, my point was that the government owns one of the four corpo states that rule just about everything in the setting. So, like I said, whether you prefer to think of the power structure in Lancer being four corpo states or one corpo states that three others rely on, it doesn't actually matter, because neither is good.

At the end of the day, you can come up with whatever interpretation you would like to use. But if you're planning on discussing the political messaging in a setting, you may want to take a look at what others have said about government entities that function very similarly to the one we're talking about. Look beyond the words the author wrote about their future utopia, especially when their idea of a future utopia is the EU. It might annoy you when some people characterize Lancer that way, but there are a lot of very good reasons for why they do that.

Armored Core: you're a cog in the death machine of capitalism and freedom lies in the hands of those strong enough jam the gears and break the apparatus. you should def use the Baby Flayer 9000 to achieve that goal btw

Gundam: war is fucked man, so much senselss death and killing all in the name of lofty ideals. anyway we'll be rolling out the orphan thresher as soon as next quarter

[sqquidinc]

I like to think....

that when Tenna got his arms chopped, he dropped himself out of kris' pocket to wait till the gang and... others were far enough away that he could drag tenna away from it all, so that he could start patching him up. To me something in that moment changed him.

Tenna, in Darkworld, is being patched by spamton, and maybe in the real world metta is just trying to get some entertainment, maybe good ol Tenna & Spammy are getting along again because mr ton uses different electronics a lot, maybe they get to rekindle.

I think it'd be painful but, he'd watch Tenna get working back in order. He might not end up making a full recovery but at least now they won't be alone. And, I do think, hopefully at least. That while Tenna is down and out, he'd speak his many thoughts, he'd think out loud about their golden days, on AIR and not. I'd like to think he probably apologizes a million times over.

I'd have to wonder if Tenna would remember it all, if he'd sit there and respond, even a whisper, even somehow text, on his screen. He'd repond in his head when he can't get the words across in any meaningful manner. And when he's finally loud enough he might say "I'm sorry" too.

I don't think either of them would know where to start but they'd know they'd want to start over, after losing eachother, maybe even permanently, to being able to be brought back.

Things would be okay though, Tenna would recover and over time, things would be different, end up different. I'd like to think that they'd learn to love again, it'd be softer, genuine.

Tenna would learn to care for Spamton after being taken care of by him for so long, he would've learned about the acid, the call, maybe he'd end up learning all the wrongs and would start to make them rights.

Maybe in the end, after lots of time, it'd be okay. They'd be able to rest easy knowing they have eachother and they'd be able to entertain a new guest, maybe a few but they would be enough for someone.

But thats just some thoughts I had, I want them to be okay because things CAN get better.

[kxsagi]

hey hey !! 😋

wanted to request this before you don't take requests anymore !! (thank you for your hard work you're my favorite writer (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠))

do u think you could write Sae x reader where reader has to tutor Sae on his academics since it's been stated that Sae literally knows NOTHING besides soccer loll,, you can make them in a relationship or pre-relationship whatever you feel like writing 😋

thanks!!

“𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐱 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲(𝐨𝐮)”

a/n: THANK YOU SMMM, SENDING SO MUCH LOVE TO YOU IN RETURN AND I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!! <333

ac goes to katstrife on X!

sae itoshi knows exactly three things. 

one: soccer. 

two: how to give people the cold shoulder. 

three: that this stupid math assignment should be illegal. 

he stares blankly at the worksheet in front of him, dead-eyed like he’s preparing to sue the education system for emotional damages. you, sitting across from him in the school library, press your lips together to stop from laughing. 

"you've been staring at the same question for seven minutes," you say. 

“i’m thinking,” he replies flatly, pencil untouched. 

“thinking? i’m pretty sure your brain logged out the second i said the word ‘exponents.’” 

sae slouches deeper into his seat, arms crossed. “you’re annoying.” 

“you’re failing math.” 

“so? i don’t need this crap to play for real madrid.” 

you sigh and lean forward, tapping his worksheet. “you do need this crap to graduate, and your coach already said you’re off the field until your grades improve.” 

he visibly flinches at the reminder. his jaw clenches, the tip of his pencil finally pressing into the page like it's a battle of wills. he might be arrogant, but he’s not stupid, he knows how much his future depends on this. and that’s probably the only reason he hasn’t left already. 

well. that, and you. 

he won’t say it out loud (ever), but you're the only person in this entire school he can stand talking to for more than thirty seconds. you're also the only one willing to sit with him twice a week and try to make sense of letters pretending to be numbers. 

“i hate this,” he mutters. 

“i know. but look, it’s not so bad.” you reach over, lightly tapping his notebook. “okay, take this one: 4 to the power of 3. do you remember what that means?” 

he glances at you. "... twelve?" 

you pause. “no. i mean, i’m glad you guessed confidently, but no.” 

“so what is it then?” 

“it’s four times four times four. so, sixteen times four. try again.” 

he grumbles under his breath but scribbles it down anyway, then pauses. “… sixty-four?” 

you beam. “yes! see, you’re not totally hopeless.” 

he rolls his eyes, but the tips of his ears go slightly pink. “whatever.” 

you suppress a grin and nudge his eraser toward him. “let’s do the next one.” 

the session drags on like molasses, mostly because sae acts like every equation personally offended him. but to his credit, he’s trying. somewhere between slumped sarcasm and scribbled formulas, you notice he’s leaning in more, muttering numbers under his breath, fingers twitching when he gets one wrong. 

and then, somewhere between problem five and six, he says: “you don’t have to do this, y’know.” 

you glance up. “do what?” 

“waste your time tutoring me.” his voice is quieter now, almost indifferent, but you can tell it’s something else. something less bulletproof than usual. “i’m not… good at this. i won’t magically get smarter overnight.” 

you close your notebook. “sae. i’m not here because i think you’re stupid.” 

he lifts his head, finally meeting your gaze. and his expression, usually so unreadable, softens, just barely. 

“then why?” 

you blink. “because i want to help.” 

he doesn’t reply. doesn’t look away either. for a second, the air shifts. it’s like the library fades into the background, the high ceilings and quiet whispers and dusty fluorescent lights all falling away until it’s just you and him. your knee brushing his under the table. his hand frozen halfway between writing and fidgeting. 

you don’t say anything. neither does he. 

but it hangs there, quiet and loud all at once. 

and maybe it’s not just about math anymore. 

by the fourth tutoring session, you catch him studying before you arrive. 

he’s hunched over a worksheet, pencil in hand, muttering like he’s trying to manifest brain cells. it’s actually kind of cute. he looks up when you sit beside him and immediately says, “i got five answers right. on my own.” 

you raise your brows. “what, no ‘you’re late?’ no ‘i hate this class?’ who are you and what have you done with sae?” 

“shut up,” he mutters, ears turning red again. 

you grin. “i’m proud of you, dumbass.” 

he looks away, but the corner of his mouth twitches. 

eventually, it stops being just tutoring. 

you still go over formulas and grammar worksheets, sure, but there’s more laughter now. more inside jokes. more lingering glances when you explain something, and more quiet watching when he thinks you won’t notice. 

he starts walking you to your class afterwards. offers to carry your bag sometimes, even though you’re pretty sure he just wants an excuse to hold something that belongs to you. one day, he brings you a sports drink with your favorite flavor. doesn’t say anything, just drops it on the table like it’s no big deal. 

you don’t mention the way his hand brushes yours when you take it. 

you don’t mention how he doesn’t pull away. 

one day, while you’re packing up your notebooks, you say: “hey, i know you think you suck at this, but... i like tutoring you.” 

he looks at you. really looks at you. and after a second, he says, voice low: “i like when you do, too.” 

and then, almost shyly– 

“... not just because of the tutoring.” 

your heart skips. you bite back a smile, trying to play it cool. “oh? so, what else is it?” 

he shrugs, eyes flicking down to your hands as you gather your books. 

“… you make it easier to think. even when i’m not good at this, you still... believe i can be.” 

you stop, just for a beat. the words land softer than you expect, all hushed and sincere and awkwardly beautiful coming from someone like him. 

when you look up, he’s already staring – cheeks pink, jaw tense like he wants to say more. 

so you reach over, close his math book gently, and murmur: “you’re getting better. and... you’re not the only one who looks forward to this.” 

he blinks. your fingers brush his, and this time, neither of you pull away. 

maybe he only knew three things before. 

but now? he’s starting to learn a fourth: you. 

and honestly, it’s the best subject yet. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢