#and then he was like u know what.. might as well see if i can play it

[notarmedandnotdangerous]

Ello boss man! Good morning/evening to ya!❗️

Since u mentioned u are open to write just about anything,,,,, what do you think about opening up the can of worms that is omegaverse?

(But also like what do u think about bitching alpha Bucky) AYO WHO SAID THAT 💥💥

- Boss anon :)

good evening! its currently 7pm and i have 0 clue ab what im writing 😥 also yes i love when hes a little cocky like that hell yeah 🙏 also sub!reader cuz you mentioned bitching alpha bucky :) so i made him a little mean (sorry)

anyways this is my first time writing omegaverse so i hope u guys like it :)

+18 mdni! alpha!bucky loses his patience with you.

cw: omegaverse, bratty!omega!m!reader, mean!alpha!bucky, reader pisses bucky off, mention of masturbating, brat taming, edging, scenting, marking, multiple orgasms, knotting, slight dumbification, cock slapping

word count: >4.2k

-------------------------------------------------------

you’re three days post-heat, and you wouldn’t stop testing bucky’s patience. your hormones were sky-high, and you feel invincible.

bucky though? he’s fucking done with your shit.

—

first it was small.

you were walking down the hall behind him, eating a protein bar obnoxiously loud, like you wanted him to hear it.

“barnes?”

bucky doesn’t stop walking.

you keep going, trailing after him.

“you always get this pissy in the mornings? or is it just when i’m with you?”

no answer.

the elevator dings, and bucky steps inside, in hopes of escaping you. unfortunately for him, you followed.

now he’s fucking trapped with that distracting, slick scent of yours.

you stood way too close to him, brushing your elbow against his arm.

“is it the scent? still can’t handle it, huh?”

bucky’s nostrils flare, and you could see the restraint in his clenched jaw.

“you going to growl at me or something, alpha? maybe shove me into a wall again?” you leaned in. “i think about that a lot, you know.”

he exhaled slowly, trying to keep his composure.

“you’re a fucking menace.”

“you’re hard.”

the elevator stops at the third floor.

“get out.”

you step out, winking.

“just say when, alpha.”

—

now you’re lounging on his chair at the table, wearing his tactical vest, way too big for you, but the straps hug your waist.

bucky steps in the meeting room to grab the glass he had left, but stops dead in his tracks.

“hey.”

he’s silent.

“thought i’d help you, you know? team effort?”

he slowly approaches you, grabs the glass, and stares,

“take it off.”

“no, i think i’ll keep it. makes me feel powerful.”

“now.”

“make me.” you leaned back in his chair, and folded your arms.

bucky’s on you in seconds, ripping the vest off of you.

“what the fuck is wrong with you today?”

you pant a little, and shrugged.

“try that shit again, and i’ll-”

“you’ll what? bend me over the table?”

bucky lets out a growl so low it creeps up your spine, before leaving.

you smile to yourself, triumphed.

—

you catch bucky swapping gear between washes.

he doesn’t even notice you until you leaned against the dryer, watching him.

“just a heads up, i put your pillow between my legs last night.” you spoke, nonchalantly. ”i had a lot of feelings, and no patience. your scent helped.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just stares at the shirt in his hands like it had become a weapon.

“i didn’t mean to at first you know? i just grabbed whatever was closest, then i realised it smelled like your shampoo, and your sweat, then-” you glance at him. “well, you get it.”

“you’re disgusting.” he mutters.

“i am, but at least i came twice.”

bucky’s head jerks up so fast you swear you heard his neck crack.

“twice?”

you nodded, like this was the most casual thing ever.

“one from the pillow, one from the thought of you finding out.”

then he stares at you like you’re a fire he can’t extinguish. he turns, and silently begins unloading his wash again like he’s not seconds away from combusting.

“want to take it back now that it’s used? might help you with your ruts.”

bucky slams the dryer shut, and walked out without a word.

you laugh, giddy.

—

then you decide to annoy him at the shooting range. this was probably the place where you really shouldn’t annoy someone, but you did it anyway.

you aimed at your target, but didn’t pull the trigger, not yet at least.

“hey, barnes?”

bucky glances over at you, eyes narrow.

then you fired, dead center.

“i’ve been very bad today.”

“you think i don’t know that?” he spoke while reloading his gun.

“aren’t you going to punish me?”

then he fires, way too aggressively, to the point that the entire range flinches.

you giggle.

“going to scold me, alpha?”

bucky tries to fire again, but his shot goes wide for the first time in years.

you noticed, obviously.

“oops, did i distract you?”

“i need a goddamn muzzle for you, i swear to god.”

“of course you would. that’d be easier than admitting i’m right, wouldn’t it?”

—

now you’re leaning against the wall outside his door, looking casual as hell, like you didn’t plant yourself there on purpose.

bucky opens the door, pauses, and he was about to close the door before you stopped him.

“you keep staring at my lips lately,” you say. “figured i’d just bring it closer, save you all the trouble, hm?”

he exhales slowly.

“go to bed.”

“this is my bed,” you say, sinking down onto the floor. “until you let me use yours.”

“not happening.”

“even though i’ve been so good?”

“you’ve been anything but good, for fuck’s sake.”

you shift, now you’re on your knees.

“then punish me.”

bucky short-circuits, and you can see it happen. his eyes flick down, and he exhales like he’s trying to burn the thought out of his head. he’s trying to stay angry, trying to stay in control, but his gaze keeps dragging back to the way you’re sitting like you belong there.

“get the fuck up.”

you don’t move, just tilted your head, blinked up at him, and smile sweetly. you were acting like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing, like you weren’t corrupting his brain with obscene thoughts of you.

that’s when he steps forward, and he’s crowding into your space.

“you think this is a game?”

“maybe, and i think you’ve been dying to lose.”

bucky growls, actually growls. his pupils were blown, scent thick with frustration, and something feral.

“inside, now. before i forget how patient i’ve been with you.”

you rolled your eyes.

“you sound like a fucking brat who forgot his own place.” he spat.

“maybe you should remind me.”

he turns so fast you flinch, and suddenly you’re shoved against the wall, his chest flush to yours.

“strip.”

you just look at him, defiant, and still.

“fine, have it your way.”

you were about to bite back at him before he shifts.

bucky backs up just enough to hook his fingers into the collar of your shirt, and pulls it up over your head before you could even stop him. then your sweats were yanked down in one rough motion, underwear with them. you stumbled, and cursed at him, but he doesn’t even give you any time to catch your balance before he’s manhandling you onto the bed.

you landed hard on the bed.

he doesn’t touch you yet, just stares down between your thighs.

fuck. you’re already leaking slick.

your heat might be over, but your body’s still open, too soft. your hole slicked up the sheets just from the sound of his voice, and the smell of his pheromones.

bucky hums low in his throat.

“i’ll give you one last chance. one chance to be good, to admit what you are, and to ask for what you need.”

“i dont need anything.” you glare at him.

he sighs, and shakes his head like he’s disappointed, even though he knew you’d say that.

“alright then.”

bucky shifts down the bed, and spreads your thighs with his hands. you try to close them, but he just forces them back open. he hooks one over his shoulder, and gripped the other with a bruising grip.

his mouth drags over your rim slow, and lazy, lapping up your slick with no intention of being gentle. he doesn’t even try to make it feel good, it’s messy, like he’s trying to prove a point.

“still saying you don’t need this?” he murmurs with slick-smeared lips.

“i’m not- fuck, i’m not slick-”

“you are.” he drives two fingers into you without warning. “and you’re about to learn what happens when you lie to your alpha.”

bucky curls his fingers, hard, and you jolt.

“you like being difficult, don’t you?” he growls. “need someone to put you in your place.”

you don’t answer.

he works you right to the edge, and just when your legs shake, he pulls away.

you scream, try to sit up, but he just pushes you back down with one hand on your chest.

“no. not until you’re honest.”

“i am-”

“wrong answer.”

even flushed, and trembling, you’re still defiant, still spitting attitude like you weren’t a dripping mess, laid out on his sheets with your thighs already shining from slick.

he’s edged you already, pulled you up to the edge before ruthlessly yanking it away.

“going to have to try harder than that,” you pant, hips lifting greedily when he presses two fingers in. “didn’t feel like anything.”

“didn’t feel like anything?” his fingers curled, and dragged hard against that sensitive spot deep inside you. “that why your slick’s halfway down the fucking bed?”

you snarl through your teeth.

“just residue.”

“mhm.”

bucky doesn’t believe you. he knows what you need, since the ache of your heat stopped being hormonal, and started being him.

so he edges you again.

you’re close, too close. you’re writhing now, pulsing, and fluttering around his fingers. your thigh was still on his shoulder, and your heel dug into his back. you rolled your hips down onto his hand like you’re starving for it. but just as your orgasm crests, he pulls away.

“you fucking asshole-”

“you don’t get to cum when you’re talking to your alpha like that.” he snarls. “i’m letting you squirm, and soak my sheets like a needy little omega, but you don’t get to finish.”

“i don’t need to, this isn’t even good.”

bucky fucking growls. he uses his fingers again, but harder this time. so much harder, deeper, and meaner. his palm grinds against your balls, as his knuckles slam themselves into you.

your entire body locks up, and you’re crying out, clawing at the sheets, and trembling all over. right as your toes curl, right as your mouth opens, he stops.

you weren’t even moaning anymore, you were fucking wheezing. your hole throbbed from being edged so ruthlessly, and you still won’t say it, still won’t ask for it.

“don’t need to cum, doesn’t matter-”

“no.” his voice was low, rough in a way that scares you. “not hormones, not residue. this is you being a fucking brat, and i’ve been letting you get away with it.”

“i don’t, i’m not even-”

“shut the fuck up.”

you barely get to inhale before he grabs your jaw, turning your head hard.

“what the fuck-”

then bucky rubs his face all over your neck, mouth wide, tongue dragging, lips hot, and open against your gland.

he was fucking scenting you. it wasn’t soft, wasn’t romantic, but more instinctive, and claiming.

“you leave me no fucking choice.” he hisses. “won’t admit it? fine. everyone’ll fucking smell it. i’ll make sure no one gets near you without smelling you.”

“don’t- don’t scent me, bucky, i-”

his fingers continued moving inside you, curling right into your prostate as his teeth scraped against your gland. he was threatening to mark you, as if scenting you wasn’t enough.

you choked on a moan.

“you smell like you want to be bred. i’m just making sure they know who’s going to do it.”

you clench hard around his fingers. you scream, back arching so violently your back leaves the bed. your hands scrabbled uselessly at his arms, your hole gushing with sudden slick as your body reacts.

bucky pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, face flushed, and his scent hovering around you.

“go on, lie to me again.”

you were really crying now, just a little.

“not so mouthy now, are you?”

he lets you lay there, lets your body burn with scent, and ache. only when you calm down does he slide back down your body.

“one more edge, and if you’re still lying to me after that? i’ll fucking mark you instead.”

soft, involuntary tears slid down your cheeks as your body jerks.

“fuck- fuck, bucky, i can’t-”

“you can. you just won’t.”

you whine as bucky shoves his fingers deeper, three of them now, sliding slick back into your hole with easy, and fucking your ass open. the pressure on your prostate was unbearable, perfect, but so cruel.

“you want to be filled so bad you’re shaking, and you still want to lie to me?”

you arch, jaw tight, so close again, but he pulls out. your entire body jerks, and your breath breaks.

that’s when bucky breaks. he moves so fast you don’t even realise it. he grabs your jaw roughly, turns your head to the side, and bites down on your gland, hard.

it wasn’t the soft edge of a kiss, not a tease.

this was a mark, a real one.

his teeth sunk into your neck with a sharp, brutal pressure. it wasn’t deep enough to bleed, of course. he wouldn’t want to hurt his omega at all, not even when he was fucking pissed. it was just deep enough to hurt, to leave it permanent.

and worse? the bastard moaned into your skin.

“fuck, you smell- fuck.”

your scent was changing, right under his tongue. his bite was claiming you, an omega turned inside-out by an alpha’s teeth. the second your scent twists with his, the mix goes straight to his brain like a fucking drug.

“didn’t think i’d like it this much, didn’t fucking mean to.”

bucky tries to deny it, but he’s licking over the mark now, tongue dragging wetly across the tender bite.

“you smell better now, smell perfect. should’ve done this fucking days ago.”

you squirm under him.

“you’re leaking again, what does that say, omega?”

you don’t answer.

“you want to lie?” he hisses, talking into your skin. “fine. lie with my fucking name in your skin.”

your entire body locks up, cock throbbing, hole dripping slick again, even though nothing biological was triggering it. it was him, just him.

“thought so.” he breathes, and then without warning, he slides three fingers back inside you.

“nnh- b-buck-”

“shh, want to see if you get slick faster now. want to see if you’ve learned your place.” his fingers press in deep, curving perfectly to grind into your prostate.

your body clenches so fast you cry out. there wasn’t any resistance anymore, just slick heat.

“oh, that’s it. so good. you’re so good for me now, huh?”

you whine, hardly processing the overwhelming pleasure.

“mark you once, and suddenly your cock’s drooling, fuck.” he thrusts his fingers again, deeper, faster, and you whimper.

bucky keeps mouthing your mark, kissing it, licking it, letting his breath soak into it like it’ll drive his scent in deeper.

“told you it’d happen, told you i’d break you. but you wanted to fight me, didn’t you? wanted me to work for it, wanted me to fucking prove it.”

you try to squirm, but he angles your leg higher up his shoulder, and his fingers angle in deeper.

you’re panting now, moaning. you don’t mean to.

“there he is. there’s my good fucking omega.” he grins. “next time you talk back, i’ll just mark you again. let’s see how much slick that pretty little body of yours can make before it breaks.”

“i-i lost, i lost- alpha, please- please, just fuck me- i can’t-”

bucky growls, and hooks his arm under your leg. he yanks you down the bed, and slaps the tip of his cock against your slick hole.

“yeah you did.”

you’re still panting, legs spread, thighs trembling.

but still, he makes you wait.

he settles in between your thighs, and he leans in to mouth at the mark before rutting the thick tip of his cock in, and out of your hole, getting it drenched in your slick.

“have to see what i do to you. want to feel it from the inside.”

then bucky sinks in, slow. one thick inch at a time, pushing into your stretched, gaping hole with a deep groan, until he’s buried all the way in.

you shudder, and your mouth falls open. you try to breathe, but your body’s already clenching, hard.

he stills, then laughs, warm against the side of your neck.

“already? just got my cock in, and you’re squeezing me like you’re about to fucking cum.” he grinds forward just a little, and your eyes roll back. “oh poor thing. that’s the spot, isn’t it?”

bucky pulls out an inch, and sinks back in.

you gasped, your hole grips him so tight it makes him moan, biting back like he didn’t expect it to feel that good.

“fuck, you’re clenching like you want to keep me in forever,” he growls. “that mark really broke you, huh?”

he starts to move now, not fast, but steady, grinding deep with each thrust. it’s like he’s testing you, watching your body twitch, and fail to keep composure every time he sinks back in.

you tried to keep quiet, keep your moans soft, but your new mark, humming under his tongue, made it absolutely impossible.

every thrust made your cock twitch, and your back arch.

you were soaked, slick turning your inner thighs into a complete mess.

and bucky, like the bastard that he is, is still laughing, still fucking you deep like he’s got all day.

“you always like this post-heat? leaking all over the sheets like this?”

you whined, and he continued bitching about it.

“what would you do if i knotted you right now? if i filled this tight hole, and made it mine for good?”

“a-alpha, please-”

“yeah, that’s what i thought. you fucking love what i do to you.”

the worse part was that he was right.

“b-bucky-”

he feels it, you’re pulsing, clenching down so tight around his cock that he groans like it hurts. your entire body’s twitching beneath as you get closer.

“nope. you’re not cumming like this.”

suddenly, bucky’s hands grab your thighs, throwing your legs over his shoulders, tilting your hips up, and then he slams back in.

you cry out. it’s deep, way too deep.

you whine at each punch to your prostate, your cock jerking untouched as he fucks you through it, fast, brutal, rough.

“want to cum? then do it while i ruin you.” he grunts, and your mark is burning under his breath.

the skin on your neck was raw with how much attention bucky was giving the mark. his stubble dragged across your skin over, and over again. you were certain you were going to get patches of beard burn.

your body seizes, and before you know it, you cum.

your orgasm rips out of you, untouched. your back arched clean off the bed as you clamp down tight.

he slams in one last time with a choked, desperate snarl. then his knot pops, shoved into you fast, locking deep as you scream.

your slick gushed around the base of his knot as you’re tied, and full, so fucked out you can’t think about anything other than him.

bucky’s breathing hard above you, hands gripping your thighs tight as he grinds in deep, knot locked, and pulsing inside you.

“fuck- oh fuck.” he moans through it, hips jerking, and then he groans your name into your throat like a fucking prayer.

his knot throbs in you, and you go completely still.

“that’s it, just like that.” he whispers. “let it take, be good for me.”

the both of you stayed like that, locked together.

your cock was flushed, leaking into the mess on your stomach, even though you just came.

—

you’re limp under him, barely breathing. your hole fluttered around his cock, even though it’s not moving. he can’t move, not while the knot’s so fucking deep inside of you.

you’re so full of him it aches. stuffed to the brim, stretched wide around the thick swell of his cock. every time your muscles flutter, or your hips shift, the knot tugs just slightly inside you, and you gasp.

bucky’s hand was on your thigh, holding you open.

“almost there.”

you don’t answer, because you’re too busy clenching around the knot that’s stretching you wide. then you feel it first, just the barest twitch in his cock, the faintest shift as the knot starts to deflate, and soften.

when he’s finally soft enough to pull free, he does it slowly.

his hips draw back, dragging the length of his cock out inch-by-inch.

when it finally pops free with a soft, slick sound? you leak.

bucky’s cum starts pouring out of you. it was thick, warm, and messy, dripping out of you in slow waves, and puddling onto the sheets beneath you. your hole flutters, clenching around nothing, desperately trying to hold it in. but there’s just too much, it spills out of you, while you twitched.

he watches it all with a dark, satisfied look in his eyes.

“fuck, look at that.”

you whine, trying to close your legs to hide the mess, but he doesn’t let you.

“no. don’t hide it. let me see how fucking messy you are.”

your whole body’s buzzing, limp, and overused. but your cock? it fucking twitches.

unfortunately for you, bucky sees it, that little twitch of your cock, and grins against your neck.

“still twitching, huh?” his voice was soft, and mocking.

your cock twitches again, eagerly.

that’s when bucky slaps it.

“ah-” your hips jerk, and a broken gasp left your throat.

slap. another one, harder this time.

your cock bounces, spilling a fresh bead of pre-cum.

“didn’t i say you needed to learn?” he snarls. “you think i forgot how you acted earlier? the fucking attitude? all those lies?”

slap.

“this cock’s the problem, it’s the one that won’t behave, huh?”

slap. slap.

your entire body shook, each sharp slap sending shocks straight to your core.

“begged for it with your hole, but this cock’s still acting like it gets a say.” he wraps his hand around it suddenly, way too tight, and jerks it once.

you flinched, and your cock just leaks.

”letting this thing do all the thinking for you.”

slap.

“didn’t listen.”

slap.

“didn’t behave.”

“a-alpha-”

“look at you. didn’t listen when i told you to stop talking, didn’t listen when i told you to behave.”

another slap. this one lands straight across the tip.

you’re whining now, biting your lip to keep from moaning. your thighs trembled like you’re about to cum just from this.

“let your cock make every fucking choice for you, so now it gets to take the punishment.”

that’s when bucky actually starts.

he swings a leg over you, and plants his knee right across your lower stomach, not too hard, just enough weight to pin you down, to keep your hips from lifting. your knees were bent, thighs spread wide open.

then, he braces one hand over your chest, flat, firm, and keeps you still.

and his free hand? he uses it to start slapping your cock.

the first one’s slow, flat across the length of it.

your entire body jerks under hm. you gasp, and bite your lip in hopes to silence your noises.

and he sees it. he sees the way your cock pulses in time with your heartbeat, flushed, and soaked, and he just tilts his head.

“bet you’re going to cum just like this huh? haven’t even stroked it yet, and you’re going to spill in my hand like a little bitch just from getting slapped?”

“i-i’m not-” you pant, but he cuts you off.

“you are. you let your cock run the whole fucking show. and all it got you was this sad mess on your stomach.”

bucky does it again, and again. no rhythm, no mercy, just punishment.

“alpha, b-bu-”

“no.”

slap.

“you don’t get to beg, this cock’s been out of control all fucking night.”

slap. slap.

“just kept twitching, hoping i’d touch it.”

bucky slaps the tip next, and you wail. your stomach clenches under his knee, the pressure making it so much harder to endure.

“please, i’m- fuck-”

“don’t deserve it,” he snarls, and keeps going, in an irregular rhythm, so that you wouldn’t know when he’d slap you. his hand comes down again, and again, mean little smack that sting, but your cock wouldn’t stop twitching.

“i’m not even stroking you.”

slap.

“not even jerking you off, and you’re going to cum, aren’t you?”

slap. slap. slap slap slap.

you sob, try to shake your head, but you can’t move.

bucky’s knee pins you perfectly in place, and your hips buck away uselessly while he ruins you.

“fucking pathetic, thinking with your cock instead of your brain.” he growls. “now you’re not even thinking at all, are you?”

slap. slap.

you scream, and before you know it, your entire body seizes. your cock jerks, and then spurts, untouched, and overused. you can’t move, can’t breathe. your back arches, but he holds you down, and forces you to ride it out, writhing under him like you’ve just been fucking broken.

and all the while, bucky doesn’t stop.

not until the last drop’s been slapped out of you, the mess sticky, and hot against your skin.

then finally, he exhales.

“all that intellect.” he leans in, like he’s giving you advice you should’ve known already. “next time? try using that strategist brain you’re so proud of.”

you whine.

“would be a shame to waste it, just because your cock can’t shut the fuck up.” he sighs. “i thought i’d have to outsmart you to get you to behave, turns out i just had to treat you a little mean.”

[bluebnny]

Can u make another luffy fwb smut this time with a fem/plus size/short!reader and they're childhood friends? Doggy style with loads of creampie please and thank u

Fill you up

monkey d luffy x fem!reader

contents: doggy-style sex with luffy. basically what it says in the ask

warnings: smut, MDNI, some size kink, unprotected sex, creampie, a little overstimulation

a/n: yes i can, anon ;) here you go, i hope you like it. i was meaning to post this 2 days ago but got distracted lol. also you mentioned short!reader so for me, that means with a hefty side of size kink <3 hope i went into the plus size aspect enough. Have fun reading!

(Dividers made by me)

word count: 1.164

The floor of the cabin sways violently beneath the bed. It would be enough to make you fall if you weren’t currently on all fours, Luffy’s hands on your hips keeping you firmly in place.

You’re temporarily on his ship as he had offered to help you get to the next island. Since Luffy is a good friend, you had taken him up on the offer. Either way, it’s preferrable to spending your hard-earned money to travel with total strangers.

Although you had been stupid to think that he might not have any ulterior motives in inviting you to stay, you can’t say that you aren’t happy with your current situation. That is, being pounded into oblivion by none other than the captain of the ship himself.

A storm is raging outside, but you barely register the turbulence around you in the dark, hot room. All you can feel is the drag of his cock inside you as he rams into you from behind. Luffy’s never been the delicate type, always breaking stuff, even when you were kids. And you can feel that in the way he’s roughly thrusting into your much smaller frame. Or rather, thrusting your body onto his, because he’s vigorously pulling you back by your hips every time he pushes into you, impaling you on his length. It’s so overwhelming a feeling that you’re whimpering and whining into the mattress beneath you. But you’re not complaining.

You and Luffy had grown up together in the same town, knowing each other from a very young age. You used to be the most inseparable of friends but nowadays, you rarely saw him anymore – the contact between you two becoming sporadic at best after he left your shared hometown to become a pirate. But when you do see him on rare occasions, the night usually ends like this. Something about the distance between you has ironically made you closer. And although it isn’t romantic, there’s a certain spark between you two that makes you end up in his bed time and time again.

Luffy’s hands are digging into the fat of your hips, stinging deliciously as he holds your body in place for him. You couldn’t move away from him even if you tried. So, you’re reduced to taking what he’s giving you while fisting the sheets for purchase.

“You know you look so fucking hot like this?” He’s panting out the words between thrusts.

You can barely respond from how well he’s fucking you. Your brain unable to focus on anything other than the way his tip is kneading into your g-spot with every move of his hips. But Luffy clearly doesn’t expect an answer, because he keeps talking.

“Love seeing you like his. This position- fuck- you’re so hot.”

He’s mesmerized with the way your skin ripples with every hard snap of his hips into your ass. How his fingers make indents in your thighs and hips when he squeezes the plushness there. You think part of him also loves having enough of you to hold on to while also still being able to tease you for being shorter than him. But you stopped being insecure about it a long time ago, now able to fully enjoy the fact that Luffy is almost a head taller than you. A difference in size that definitely makes itself known when he has you going stupid on his cock.

Your back is in the deepest arch to try to accommodate his girth; the top of your stomach touching the bed despite your hips being in the air. Luffy is utterly ruining you, and it feels so good that you can’t form a single coherent thought.

All you can feel is the pressure building in your abdomen. That familiar heat getting more concentrated, ready to explode.

“Ah- Luffy, fuck-” You’re whining out your words, and they barely even make sense to you, but you need to show him how much you need this. “Right there… please-”

“You close?” He lets out his little laugh. The one he only has when he’s reeling from happiness, or in this case, pleasure. “Fuck, me too. Let’s cum together, yeah? Where do you want it?”

“In- inside. Please.”

He only moans at that; and leans down so his chest pressing into the small of your back. He’s got one arm grabbing on to the headboard somewhere above where your head is buried into the mattress, the other snaking around your front to roughly grab a handful of your chest.

“Fuckin’ love these tits. So- so soft f’me...” His face is hovering above your head, and you feel so small buried under him like this. The thought makes you squeeze him even harder, and he lets out another loud moan.

“You like that, yeah?” His voice is breathy. Strained. “Then cum f’me.”

As he says those last words, he starts to rub your nipple messily between his thumb and index finger. The delicious sting shoots straight down to your lower belly and connects to the ocean of pleasure already spilling over there.

Your orgasm hits you, and your vision goes white.

Every nerve in your body is on fire, and all you can do is moan obscenely from the exhilarating high that’s overriding every other sensation. Luffy follows close behind, thrown over the edge by how brutally your smaller body is writing and convulsing beneath his.

The feeling is starting to be too much. When Luffy spills inside of you, he simply keeps going instead of slowing down. Emptying more and more of himself into your tightness, unable to stop when the feeling was so intoxicating.

“Luffy, ‘s too- ‘s too much…” you’re whining from the overstimulation now, body starting to tense despite wanting nothing more than to fall limply to the mattress. You can feel him still cumming into you, thick ropes of it filling you up more than you thought possible.

“One sec. Almost done.” He pants out, hands still tightly gripping the plumpness of your hips, sure to leave massive bruises. After a few seconds that feel like an eternity to your overstimulated senses, he stills his movements.

“You alright there?”

“Y- yeah.” You’re still trembling beneath him, feeling that familiar soothing warmth that comes after an orgasm spread itself to your tired limbs.

Luffy carefully slides out of you but stays where he is to admire his work. “Heh, look at you! Filled you up so fucking good.” A trickle of his cum mixed with your wetness runs down your thigh, but he catches it with his fingers and pushes it back into you with an obscene squelching sound.

“Luffy, stop!” You can’t help but giggle despite your embarrassment. “Help me get cleaned up?”

“’Course I will” And with that, he’s picking you up and carrying you to the bathroom. “So… round 2 after I clean you up?” You’ve known him long enough to know that he’s only half joking.

You’re in for a long night.

thanks for reading! I really hope you liked it!!! <3<3 sorry the title is so bad, i always forget i have to make one for the masterlist 2 seconds before posting lol

(This is my fic, don't repost or use in any AI training programmes! Reblogs are always appreciated <3) Here are my rules, and my masterlist.

[suppose-i-was-worm]

Marzipan Boy part 5

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64048147/chapters/173345350

“So your siblings live in Star City?”

Danny nodded absently, inspecting the parts laid out on the desk in front of him. Tim had invited him to Wayne Industries to look at trial components for his gaming setup- apparently Wayne Electronics was looking into custom computers, and Tim needed a test dummy.

Danny was happy to stress test free tech. Tucker would be ecstatic.

“Yeah- Jazz and Dante are in college there- Jazz has custody of Ellie.”

“Why did you choose Gotham?”

“Sam and Tucker, really. I mean, I’m currently sleeping on their couch, but two years of free rent isn’t something to shake a stick at.”

Tim made an inquisitive noise, and Danny looked over to see the CEO writing some notes on his tablet.

“Long story. In any case, I’m here for college- Gotham U’s Intergalactic Relations program is second only to Metropolis U, and we can’t afford Metropolis.”

“Intergalactic Relations?”

Danny put down the SSD he was toying with and picked up a different one.

“Yeah, figured it would be useful. I don’t like it much, but with my positi- I mean- Well, can’t get to space otherwise.”

“Because of the nerve damage?”

“Exactly. Can’t do a normal spacewalk.”

With a laugh, Tim put down his tablet and wandered over to stand next to Danny- Danny intentionally leaned a little closer to his crush, but not too close as to crowd him.

“I’m sure you’ll do great at Intergalactic Relations.”

“I’m passing so far!”

Danny grinned down at Tim, who handed him a motherboard component.

“Try this one, it’s probably the best for gaming.”

The two of them smiled at each other for a second before they were interrupted by a cough from the door.

“Excuse me, Mr. Drake-Wayne, you’ve got an appointment in fifteen. I’ll give you two time to kiss goodbye.”

Tam winked at Tim as they sheepishly turned toward her, and then closed the door to the office again.

“Sorry about her.”

It was surprising to see Tim flush so deeply, so Danny decided to shoot his shot.

“We can, you know? I wouldn’t be opposed. Unless I’m reading this wrong.”

“I’ll be rude, then.”

“Rude?”

Tim reached up and grabbed the back of Danny’s neck, pulling him into a sweet kiss, which Danny returned enthusiastically. He could survive a little ‘rudeness’, as a treat.

~~~

Phantom wrapped his skeletal form around Phantasm, staring down at the assembled Justice League with an unreadable expression on his gaunt features. Phantasm had her arms crossed, looking belligerent. Bruce resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Welcome, Phantom of the Frozen Citadel. Might I ask why you joined us on the Watchtower?”

Phantom’s great hollow eyes turned to Diana when she spoke. He was much larger than anyone in the room- smaller than when Bruce had first encountered him, but still towering.

“Phantasm forgot her lunch.”

The young ghost in question threw her hands up in exasperation, a gesture Bruce often saw from his own children.

“We would have appreciated prior warning before your arrival- no offense, but you caused great alarm with your approach.”

The surrounding heroes lowered their weapons as Phantom swung his head around to view them.

“Ah. I see- my apologies. I will send warning prior to any future visits.”

Phantom reached inside his chest and pulled out a lunchbag that looked tiny in his hands, balancing it carefully on Phantasm’s head despite the fact that she was covering her face with her hands.

“Do not leave your lunch at home, and I won’t have to visit you at work.”

“Daaad!”

The massive ghost smiled, and Bruce would almost describe the expression as smug.

“If you came to visit more often, I wouldn’t embarrass you in front of your friends.”

Phantasm snatched the lunchbox off of her head.

“Just you wait, I’m gonna crash your next date with your boyfriend.”

Bruce couldn’t help but exchange glances with Diana and Clark- what sort of power might the significant other of such an imposing figure have?

Phantom’s smile grew warmer, the star freckles across his sunken cheeks standing out more and more against his pale green skin.

“I would love that.”

With a shriek, Phantasm shot out of her father’s embrace, dropping her lunchbox as she brought her hands up to cover her mouth.

“You’re actually dating him now?”

The stars got brighter- Bruce surmised a blush, before Phantom blinked out of existence. Phantasm growled and landed.

“Damn him, now I have to visit.”

“Where would you be visiting, Phantom?”

Bless Diana, sneaking in a question about the Infinite Realms while Phantasm was distracted.

“Oh, Gotham. Dad spends most of his time there, after all.”

What.

~~~

Tim donated a few hundred to Danny- He’d been doing it quite often since the kiss, so much so that he had to program a shortkey into his phone so that it only took a few taps. His phone rang shortly after.

“Hey boo!”

“Hey Danny- was just thinking about you.”

“Lucky for you, I was thinking about you too- do you drop money every time you think about me? Is that what that is about?”

With a chuckle, Tim answered the affirmative.

“Of course. I love thinking about you, and I think you deserve good things.”

Danny was silent for a moment.

“Am I your sugar baby?”

“By definition, no,” Tim had looked up the definition. “You’d have to be younger than me for that- aren’t you a few months older?”

His boyfriend started laughing, and Tim grinned smugly. He loved Danny’s laugh.

Said laugh was cut off by Tim’s phone ringing through the call.

“Gotta go, babe, Bruce is calling.”

“Work thing? Knock ‘em dead!”

Tim sent another hundred as his call with Danny hung up, and then answered Bruce’s call.

“Hey B, what’s up?”

“The Voice of the Crown lives in Gotham.”

“Isn’t that a little… He’s a ghost, how can he live anywhere?”

“Tim.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do some research. Do we have a general area, or?”

Bruce grunted a negative, and Tim sighed. Looks like his workload just doubled. Again.

“Send me the info you’ve got, and I’ll start looking.”

[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.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

AUTHOR MASTERLIST THE LENGTHS PART ONE SHIFTING

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.

WORD COUNT: 15.7K || 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 at the end 🥸🥸. Depiction of anxiety and suicidal ideation. Angst. Jack goes coo coo over u.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

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. 

[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

[stoop-fairy]

“love & other variables” — ob87

summary — road to realization with a very oblivious ollie and his best friend! (and her little quotes)

fc & cw — demitra kalogeras. psychology student reader! very self indulgent if u think about the fact that i start uni in 2 months!! one (1) incest joke.. uhm boring? it’s my 1st smau, i don’t know how to be funny.. tumblr quality hates to see me coming. sorry 4 this lame ass thing, i wanted to try it out..

liked by sister1, sister2, olliebearman and 234,567 others

yourinsta back when he was mr ferrari! #theygrowupsofast

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yourinsta “Attachment is the emotional bond that forms between people — the glue of all human relationships.” — Bowlby, 1969 🤍

olliebearman miss freud!

yourinsta ew wtf don’t ever call me that again.

user1 i’m starting uni in a couple months! do u have any advice?

yourinsta ugh baby i’m so excited for you 😭🫶 my best advice?? ask questions!! say hi first!! literally no one knows what they’re doing so u might as well romanticize it. also: you’re allowed to change your mind. like a lot. that’s just part of the whole experience! you’re gonna do so good ok i believe in you 🤍

user2 ollie did not just call her miss freud..

olliebearman okay god forbid a guy don’t know any other psychologists…

user3 no one talks enough about how sweet yn is!!! i met her last week when she was in the paddock and she was so sweet when i asked for a pic :((

liked by sister2, kimi.antonelli, olliebearman and 251,782 others

yourinsta 🤍

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yourinsta “the meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.” — Carl Jung

sister2 okay miss future therapist 🤏

kimi.antonelli i was forced to hang out with you two (ollie and yn)

user5 is her whole personality based around being a psych major???

user4 yeah and it’s still more interesting than your personality being based around hating women online

user6 okay.. double date?

olliebearman for the record, yn and i were third wheeling the whole time

liked by yourinsta, sister1, haasf1team and 267,192 others

olliebearman happy birthday to my absolute favorite person to bother 🧠🎂

i genuinely don’t know what i’d do without you, you’ve been there through everything (even when i definitely didn’t deserve it lol)

you’re the kind of friend everyone wishes they had: smart, loyal, very terrifying, and somehow always right. thank you for being my human comfort zone, hope today is as sweet as you are <3

love you like a sister 🫶

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user7 “love you like a sister” is CRAZY work…

user8 oh. ohohoh.

yourinsta love u too bro, ur trauma makes u fun at parties sometimes 🤝

user2 no pls yn no…. bro…

user9 guys my chest hurts i’m hyperventilating guys guys no guyspls

kimi.antonelli dumbest dumber dumb man 🐻

user10 5th slide is my exact reaction to the caption..

sister1 uploaded to their stories.

yourinsta uploaded to their stories.

SMS. OLLIE & YOU

yourinsta uploaded to their stories.

liked by kimi.antonelli, sister1, sister2 and 327,971 others

olliebearman i really don’t know how to explain it without sounding weird or stupid, but i really think she’s it.

she gets me like no one else does and still sticks around when i’m being annoying or dumb.

life just makes much more sense with her in it <3

see comments

user11 my slow burn of 5 years finally burned 🔥🔥

user12 oh he’s lucky she even looked his way after the like a sister thing..

user3 is this considered incest then????

user7 you’re asking the real questions here

user13 my parasocial relationship with these two just got more real hehe 🤗

yourinsta now i can start bullying you publicly as your girlfriend instead of your friend!!!! so excited

kimi.antonelli oh thank god… sister2 and i have been plotting on forcing you two together if you guys didn’t hurry up..

yourinsta “love is not two people gazing at each other, but two people looking together in the same direction.” — Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

olliebearman i love you too baby

liked by olliebearman and 567,087 others

yourinsta favorite place to be 💌

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yourinsta “love is a process of self-discovery through another person.” — Rollo May

user14 still not over the “love u like a sister post” ..

user15 ynollie nation we keep winning

olliebearman “in case you ever foolishly forget: i am never not thinking of you.” — Virginia Woolf

yourinsta oliver what the fuck

yourinsta oli answer please ollie i’m going crazy i can’t breath

yourinsta i love you what

sister2 real double dates start now .. 😈

kimi.antonelli the only difference is that they’ll be kissing now

[starkeyvhs]

the review is kinda long so I'm putting it under the cut :)

Study your figure in all its glory. The way that skirt sinfully snugs your curves. The way you're subtly shifting your weight from foot to foot to relieve the pressure on your poor heels, the inches too high for him to count. The way your clothes cling to your skin and how your hair has changed since the last time you saw him. The way you're smiling and laughing at something funny your friend said, looking way too fucking pretty to be considered casual.

the way your writing flows is incredible

But Rafe's mind spins when you simply look him up and down, eyes bright and mischievous, before turning back to your friend and continuing with whatever you were saying.

LOVE THE READER

His hand feels like ice against your hot shoulder. "Don't tell me you're too shy to say hi, baby?"

just the beginning of the fic and I'm already done for

"This one's blond," you muse teasingly, loud enough for him to hear and sweet enough to get him to indulge in your little act. "Dirty blond, though. Not to get confused with a Targaryen blond. A head taller than everybody else and a jaw clenched so tight it might break if you call him Rafey."

sigh I don't get to read about these kind of readers often 😓

The curtain bangs and eventual buzz cut are long gone, instead replaced with a short-grown mullet that you've never seen on him yet crave all the same.

MULLET RAFE???? IM ACTUALLY DONE FOR

"You like it?"

"Mhm. Makes you look pretty."

"I didn't wear it for you."

when I say I love a reader like this, I really do mean it cause she's so hot 🫣

It's comical, really, knowing damn well you don't have a roster, nor a list of guys in your phone, but how would he ever know? What's the harm in a bit of play?

OH NONE

“Baby, I’ve been yours since freshman year.”

oh he BOLD bold (I'm in love)

Your relationship is ping pong, tennis, thumb-war. You let him know that he can get close but he can't touch.

LOVE THIS

“Because you’re you,” you deadpan, ignoring the way his facade cracks slightly. “You want what you can’t have, and once you do, you’re onto the next.”

oh- 😃 girl I think u just-

“That’s what you think of me?” Rafe asks gently, more sincere than you’ve ever heard him. “That’s what you think I see you as?”

oh 🥹

Especially when your ex mistakenly gets involved.

GASP

The whole interacting is nothing graceful. He’s drunk and babbling on and on about absolutely nothing at all (you dated for three months and broke up because he was actively sending nudes to his ex girlfriend) so his words don’t really mean anything to you. They’re harmless, really, slurred and incoherent and nothing you really need to pay attention to. Seth is barely a threat.

okay ew

“Hey, baby,” Rafe hums low, baritone enough to make your ex jump in surprise and spin around to face the voice of the culprit. “Ready to go?”

oh my GAWD THIS IS SO HOT

You remember one particular time you drunkenly found him sitting alone on the sand dunes, putting his ice cold beer against a busted knuckle. It was the only time you’ve ever seen him distant, quiet, so unlike the Rafe you’ve grown to know and despise. You asked him if it hurt, he only shrugged. You then asked him why he keeps doing it if it hurts, to which he responded that it’s all he knows. Fighting and putting on a mask are all he knows.

this prompt is making me think so much about their past lore

“You know I’m hard of hearing, baby, lemme hear that voice. Gotta speak up around me.”

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨 sir please sir

Because it makes an idea pop into your head (undoubtedly a stupid one, but a fun one nonetheless) as you take a small step forward, now being the one to crowd his space instead of vice versa. Your chest just barely brushes his, peering up at him through batting lashes and the sweetest smile you can muster. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you bring a hand to skim over his heart, feeling it thump erratically under your palm.

I can FEEL the tension through the screen OHMYFFFFFFFFF

“You know how I feel,” you respond earnestly, and you bite the bullet and twist around in his arms so you’re facing him, chest to chest and peering at his pretty blues under the kaleidoscope of purple, blue, red, green lights. Your hands brace on his chest and his settle on your waist, looking at you ardently with all sighs of sexual frustration gone, instead replaced with seriousness, determination, admiration. “How I’ve always felt.”

I am feeling so much rn

Because when he pulled away, he put on that stupid fucking smirk. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

😭😭😭😭😭😭 of fucking course

“I’ll pluck your balls off like an apple.”

real

And for the second time in your life, you’re gripping his shirt to tug him close and kissing him like your life depends on it.

FINALLYYYYY OH MY GOD WHO CHEERED (I DID)

OH MY GOD I ATE THIS UP!!!!! yes I was multitasking between my online class and this but anyways who cares about data science anyway? I CARE ABOUT THIS. I have soooo much to say and I really want to let you know everything on my mind about this 😭😭

okay so starting off, this is my first time really reading your writing, and I have got to say, it's real damn good!!! it flows so beautifully, and it kept me enthralled so well I didn't realise when I read 7k+ words. the characterization of both rafe and reader was so good. it felt real. they felt like real people and not just some characters I'm reading about. they made normal human mistakes, owned up to them, and learned from them. they fucked up big time but they set out to solve it. I LOVE THAT. the reader especially felt so real, I felt I was seeing myself. i don't get to feel that in many fics so I think you did an absolutely fantastic job with that 💞💞

moving on, their entire lore!!! INSANE. love their entire background story, and especially how (I'm repeating this bit but idc) they made normal!! human!! mistakes!! as teens. they acted on their damn emotions and let those take the front wheel. but when they became mature, they sought out to solve them. SO GOOD, AND AGAIN, SO DAMN REAL, AND SO HUMAN.

AND LAST, i don't read a lot on here, but it's rare that i feel inspired and motivated by reading a fic. this fic, the way you write, the way you explored the characters and bought them to life, it makes me want to write something that can hopefully make someone else feel the way I felt after finishing this. WHAT A GREAT DAMN JOB U DID, AUTHOR!!!! I'm abso fuckin' lutely OBSESSED!!!! and I'm going to be safekeeping your masterlist to get into 💞💞💞💞

and a little ps: if drinking wine makes you write shit as fire as this, I can supply you a lifetime of wine bottles 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

EVER SINCE ROCKY DUNE — RAFE CAMERON ONE SHOT (18+)

SYNOPSIS you and rafe notoriously flirted all-throughout high school, seeing who could rile the other up the most. after not seeing each other for four years, you run into him at a bar and slip into a familiar rhythm of banter. you're surprised to see that he’s not the same frat-prick he was in high school. and rafe realizes that you're exactly the same… except way hotter than the last time he saw you.

WARNINGS fluff, angst, suggestive content but no actual smut. lowkey wrote this off two glasses of wine. i’ll edit in the morning. enjoy. 18+ MDNI.

WORD COUNT 7.7k.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER devil's advocate by the neighborhood

Rafe's been on cloud nine lately.

Work has been going spectacular (as a job really can get), the girl he's been trying to brush off gently has finally gotten the hint that he's just not that into her, the city life has been treating him relatively fairly (as in, he's no longer tied to the confinements of his father's meticulous expectations ever since he moved out and started working onsite in the city, so now he can finally breathe), all of his friends are in one place and he has a great work-play balance that people could only dream of.

He isn't sure if it gets better or worse when he sees you from across the bar.

It's jarring. Especially when he triple takes to make sure it's actually you and not some trick that the tequila is enticing him into, because his vision isn't that great to begin with so it's not a completely foreign concept for him to mistake someone for a different person. He's done that way too many times which called for an astronomical amount of awkward encounters to try and make up for his fuck up.

But no. It's you. Clear as day.

And hotter than he can handle.

Shamelessly, through the crowds of people coming in and out of his focus, all his eyes can do is stay on you.

Study your figure in all its glory. The way that skirt sinfully snugs your curves. The way you're subtly shifting your weight from foot to foot to relieve the pressure on your poor heels, the inches too high for him to count. The way your clothes cling to your skin and how your hair has changed since the last time you saw him. The way you're smiling and laughing at something funny your friend said, looking way too fucking pretty to be considered casual.

It's funny, because all throughout high school, all he could think about was how he couldn't fucking stand you. But not in the way one would expect.

No. In the way he couldn't stand not having you.

Rafe couldn't stand the way you batted your lashes at him every time you (somehow) lured him into another one of your traps, as in getting him to do your homework with a simple squeeze of his bicep or allowing him one slow dance at prom in exchange for some of the shitty weed he used to deal to Kooks (a discounted rate for you, always). You knew all of his nooks and crannies, knew how to play the cards he dealt you, and, boy, you won the game every single time.

Yet now?

He can't look away.

In fact, he's craving the confrontation, almost jittered at the thought of being close to you again after going so long without it. His hands twitch in your direction, a subconscious pull to you that he can't explain. It's as if you're casting a spell on him without even knowing it. Every time you laugh, his heart skips. Every time you take a sip of your drink and he focuses on your lips, his breath hitches. Every time you almost meet his gaze, his knees nearly buckle.

Rafe's been nursing a half-drank tequila soda for the past thirty minutes, since he laid his eyes on you the first time, shamefully staring at you while — maybe — taking three sips in the same time frame.

And — of course — when you happen to look over your shoulder and nonchalantly scan the crowd, your eyes find his as he's downing the rest of his drink.

The shudder that waves over his body is indescribable, and an automatic smirk etches his lips when you fully realize who you're looking at, proud that you finally found him after not being subtle in the slightest. It's his trademark pick up: send a crooked smile to a pretty girl across the bar in hopes it'll get her blushing, get her enticed enough to mosey her way over to him and spark up a conversation, or vice versa where he's practically stalking up to her and preparing his whole entourage.

But Rafe's mind spins when you simply look him up and down, eyes bright and mischievous, before turning back to your friend and continuing with whatever you were saying.

The act stuns him, blinking stupidly and animatedly to make sure he saw that correct. Did you just...brush him off? Acknowledge the guy you flirted with for four years straight with a simple up-down glance? And follow up with nothing? Not even a wave, or nod, or smile?

Topper, who accidentally witnesses the brutal rejection, claps Rafe on the shoulder a little too audaciously to be considered compassionate.

"Damn, bro," he murmurs loud enough for Rafe to hear. "Looks like that move's done. You're buying our next round again, right?"

The words piss Rafe off for a multitude of reasons, the first being that he's never inviting Topper and his other high school friends to stay with him for a weekend ever again, because it's been one day of them visiting and Rafe's already done with their bullshit, the same bullshit they'd pull all those ages ago and the same bullshit that he could never fucking stand. It was a courtesy invite, something to get Topper off his back because he asked to see the city one too many times.

The second reason being the fact that — no — he's not done. Never with you.

(You're the only person he's thought about in years. Even when he had a relatively long-term girlfriend. Even throughout all the hook-ups he's endured only to picture it's you underneath him. It's sinful the amount of times he's imagined you saying his name, clawing his back, imprinting your mark on his skin. No one else's. Only him. Solely him.)

Pathetically, he recounts all the missed opportunities he's had with you. Sitting shoulder to shoulder in honors chemistry and pawning notes off each other. When'd he go home to study for an exam, he'd see your tiny hand-drawn hearts in the corner of his paper that he traced over gently like it was engraved. Purposefully approaching you in the halls or in the courtyard to rile you up just so he could talk to you. Kissing you once and fucking it up all in the same breath. Slow dancing with you at prom as an excuse to hold you, even when he made you think it was in exchange for some free weed.

Christ, he would've given you the weed for free if you simply asked nicely.

Two more shots, thanks to Topper, and Rafe's pushing through the crowd to you.

When your friend sees him approaching with a stone cold expression, she frowns and darts her gaze between the you and him, yet the cautiously growing smile on her face gives away the fact that something interesting is about to happen, so either that's why she doesn't say anything to you — who are talking animatedly about something random — or she simply doesn't care.

His hand feels like ice against your hot shoulder. "Don't tell me you're too shy to say hi, baby?"

You already know the scent of his cologne, the cadence of his voice, without having to turn around. You've known it for years, dreamt about it for years, so sue a girl for thinking it's all a dream when you're actually hearing it after so long.

Your friend, though, is reacting real time. "Baby?" She darts her gaze between you and Rafe, looming behind you like a shadow. "Got a secret boyfriend I don't know about?"

Your finger taps your chin in mock contemplation. "Hm, a few. Hang on, let me guess."

When the pads of his fingertips skin against the small of your back, you stifle a grin.

"This one's blond," you muse teasingly, loud enough for him to hear and sweet enough to get him to indulge in your little act. "Dirty blond, though. Not to get confused with a Targaryen blond. A head taller than everybody else and a jaw clenched so tight it might break if you call him Rafey."

At the nickname, his hand fully presses onto your skin, somehow finding its way under your tank top to seer against your bare skin, burning hot and inviting just for him.

"Easy," he murmurs low and baritone in the shell of your ear. "I have a reputation to uphold."

Your friend, simply third wheeling for the whole occasion, says her parting words. "Some rep." She turns to you. "I'll be at the bar."

With a ferociously beating heart, your eyes follow your friend as she sifts through the crowd, making her eventual way to the bar after pushing through several friend groups who do their best to accommodate her.

Though his palm is branding your skin, ice against your fire, settling under your tank top so shamelessly that you'd think it was meant to stay there. His audaciousness certainly surprises you, as you've only had a few physical instances with him that kept you up at night: his palm somehow finding its way to your jaw during your prom-night slow dance, arms bear-wrapped around you pulling you away from a cat-fight at the Boneyard one summer night before graduation, climbing over his shoulders and settling there for a game of chicken against your friends in the ocean.

The night always ended the same, with a lingering touch and his piercing blue eyes that seemed to stay too long on you, as if he was itching for more.

But now, older and wiser and hotter, he doesn't pull away.

Instead, he holds you firmer.

It makes you hum. "Cameron, you're scaring away my roster."

He's still behind you, a ghost of a man, almost building up the anticipation of actually being face to face with you.

"No need for them anymore," is all he says before moving in front of you.

And — god — if the close proximity isn't fogging your brain.

You always knew he was tall. Hell, you've been closer to him than this before, but the reaffirmation nearly startles you. His shoulders are a bit broader then you remember, biceps more defined and almost begging to burst through the seams of his t-shirt. The curtain bangs and eventual buzz cut are long gone, instead replaced with a short-grown mullet that you've never seen on him yet crave all the same. It makes him look more relaxed, more sure of himself, as if he's venturing out from the cookie-cutter image he's been molded to fit and finding his own style, finding the own beat to his drum.

It's intoxicating. You're addicted.

And Rafe? He looks fucking hypnotized.

You nearly snort when his blue eyes scale your figure up and down slowly, taking you in shamelessly as if he has all the time in the world to do so. All while his hands settle on your waist, and his palms only press harder when you don't push him away and instead invite the contact. Eventually, his blue eyes find yours and a lazy smile etches his lips.

"You're awfully bolder than I remember," you say slowly, drawing out every syllable to fully ingest his attention.

"You're awfully hotter than I remember," he responds quietly, more to himself as he looks at you in awe. "Since when have you been here?"

You frown in faux offense.

"Are you telling me you haven't been keeping tabs on me, Cameron?"

He snorts.

Yet you continue. "I've posted so many Insta stories, and I know you've seen every single one," you add sweetly, a honey-laced cadence to your voice that nearly lures him into a trap.

"Always kept tabs on you, baby," Rafe murmurs methodically, almost in a trance as he tugs on the ends of your tank. "I like this."

"You like it?"

"Mhm. Makes you look pretty."

"I didn't wear it for you."

Rafe's lips twitch. "Who'd you wear it for?"

Your smile widens. "Me. And all the guys in my phone," you muse.

But that only makes Rafe furrow his brows and tilt his head in mock seriousness, hands pressing a little tighter against your bare skin (not that you mind in the slightest) as if he's staking a claim on you, branding you with the marks of his palms and the pattern of his finger prints. You never knew how nice his touch could feel, never knew what you were missing out on all those years spent bickering back and forth, never knew that kind of form he could mold to the sculpture of your figure.

It's comical, really, knowing damn well you don't have a roster, nor a list of guys in your phone, but how would he ever know? What's the harm in a bit of play? Especially when he looks so pathetically cute trying to look serious with a pinched brow and puffy parted lips. He’s not threatening to you in the slightest. Never has been.

"What?" You ask with faux confusion, going as far as jutting out your bottom lip in a pout that he can't help but stare at. "Why are you frowning, baby?"

"Delete their numbers,” he murmurs, looking solely at your mouth that’s growing into a crooked smile. “Just keep mine.”

“Rafe, we haven’t talked in four years, what makes you think you’re mine?”

“Baby, I’ve been yours since freshman year.”

You falter.

Only slightly, as you involuntarily suck in a breath at the ferocity of his confession. Whether it's actually true or not, whether he's just saying these sweet nothings to hopefully get in your pants, whether it's the influence of whatever he's drinking and the excitement of getting laid tonight, it still makes your heart flutter.

Because you think back to all that time ago: fourteen with brightly aligned smiles thanks to the braces that came off a year earlier, refusing to coward under his pretty blue eyes like all the other girls and stand your ground, show your indifference, prove that it's gonna take more than a few slick one liners and a charming smile to lock you down. Not to mention he's tried more than once to score with you, when you were fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

One liners tossed over his shoulder as if its second nature, and you flirting back but never giving him an actual chance, not unless he could change for the better. Your relationship is ping pong, tennis, thumb-war. You let him know that he can get close but he can't touch.

Opposite of what he's doing now, which is cautiously smoothing his palms on the skin under your tank top, fingertips digging gently into your flesh.

And, oh, he sees you falter, even though you hoped it was subtle enough. But nothing gets past him, ever.

Rafe's grin is so fucking pretty it makes you scowl. "C'mon. Don't act like you didn't know."

Deflect. Deflect. Deflect.

"I don't," you deadpan back, though in your attempt to remain stone-cold, your voice is quieter than you intend. "You're full of shit."

"Am I?" He's so fucking close to you. "Here I am, pouring my heart out to you, and you think I'm bluffing?"

You manage to quirk a brow. “I wouldn’t consider the insinuation you want to sleep with me the same as pouring your heart out.”

Rafe’s lips twitch. “No?”

“Nope.”

“Even if I asked nicely?”

“Even if you bought me a car.”

Rafe laughs boisterously, head tipped back at your usual venom cadence that he never takes to heart. It’s almost as if he craves it, loves that you give him a hard time, keep him on his toes and make sure his ego is in check, because lord knows the rest of the female population that he encounters probably don’t have the gall to keep him in line. You never did. Sure, you flirted with him (if your definition of flirting was incessantly insulting him and pissing him off) and had your fun, but there was never the insinuation that he was serious.

The thought of him being serious about you settles a kettlebell in your gut.

“Baby,” he says with a giant grin, and you hate the way your heart skips at the name. “You could slap me and I’d buy you a small country.”

“Oh?” You hum, still aware of his hands on you. “So it’s that easy? Let you fondle me a little, slap you, and walk away with a sovereign nation?”

“Why are you acting like this is news?”

“Because you’re you,” you deadpan, ignoring the way his facade cracks slightly. “You want what you can’t have, and once you do, you’re onto the next.”

His once-charming smirk now morphs into something you can’t describe, perhaps a hint of it left on his lips as his eyes soften with such speed that you nearly have to blink to make sure you’re talking to the same person. All he does is stare at you for a moment, giving you more than enough time to take back what you said and turn it into something he approves of, something that’s true.

But you don’t. You hold your ground and let your words linger in the air. It’s obvious, no? His motive has always been to get what he doesn’t have, which is nearly impossible since he already has what money can buy him. The riches, the trust fund, the dozens of yachts he has all can’t buy what he really wants: you.

“That’s what you think of me?” Rafe asks gently, more sincere than you’ve ever heard him. “That’s what you think I see you as?”

You open your mouth to retort, probably something witty and bitchy and out of tune with the mood of the conversation, but just past Rafe, back at the bar, you notice Topper and two other boneheads from high school you know he used to bum with, staring at the two of you and laughing at the entire interaction. Topper ducks his head to whisper something to his friend, snickering and darting his gaze between you and Rafe as he says something, probably something crude and fucking ridiculous.

It makes your spine straighten.

You're brought back to earth, remembering why you never gave into Rafe's flirting and complex for all these years. He's a cookie-cutter mold of what home is: rich frat assholes who think they can sweet talk their way into getting anything they want. You zoom out, and remind yourself that you only know Rafe on the surface. You don't know what he's like behind closed doors, you don't know how he treats his sisters and any motherly figures in his life. You don't know how he'll treat you after you give him what he wants, which is simply getting his dick wet.

You've only seen this side of him, thinking back on all the times he's openly hit on you and you've hit on him back with those bitter insults you love to throw at him. But whereas he's treating this as a game, to get another token under your belt, you've been treating it as a shield, a mechanism to remind him of what he could have if he wasn't so fucking pretentious.

"Look," you start firmly, flirtatious edge gone as you reach down and peel his wandering hands off your waist. "I'm not sure what kind of caveman-dominance-act you're doing for your friends, but we're grown enough to stop running in circles with this little bit."

Rafe frowns as you place his arms at his side.

“If you want to get your dick wet, there’s plenty of girls here to suffice,” is all you conclude with, offering him a smile that isn't very nice and doesn't reach your eyes before disappearing into the crowd.

Leaving him speechless, hurt, and hard.

You really thought that'd be the end of it.

You said your piece, let him down firm enough so that he won't try the same shit again the next time he sees you. Because, as fun as it is to rile him up and flirt with no consequence, it's getting pretty old putting up with his audacious behavior, especially now that you haven't seen him in how many years, and he's feeling you up as if he ever had any right?

Please.

Rafe’s never been one for commitment. He had one long term (six months, at that) girlfriend in high school, but after an abrupt breakup that he refused to elaborate on with anyone, nothing was stable for him since. A new girl every weekend tucked under his arm, bringing a girl by the hand up to his room only to repeat his same actions with a different girl an hour later. It wasn’t something you ever wanted to involve yourself with, no matter how hard you flirted or how hot he looked on certain days, nothing would actually make you fold.

But tonight?

It’s proving difficult to stick to your word.

Especially when your ex mistakenly gets involved.

You didn’t even see Seth enter the bar, nor did you see the three vodka shots he downed back to back to back, nor did you see him spot your best friend so that, conveniently, means you’re somewhere nearby too. After slithering away from Rafe, you beelined towards your friend and got another drink, moseying out to the outdoor patio to get some fresh air and to decidedly try and ignore whatever the fuck just happened.

It’s when you’re halfway through telling your friend the summarized version of your and Rafe’s lore when your ex decides to approach.

The whole interacting is nothing graceful. He’s drunk and babbling on and on about absolutely nothing at all (you dated for three months and broke up because he was actively sending nudes to his ex girlfriend) so his words don’t really mean anything to you. They’re harmless, really, slurred and incoherent and nothing you really need to pay attention to. Seth is barely a threat.

Although, when ten minutes go by and he’s still not leaving you alone is when you start to get antsy.

You really wish you hadn’t given your friend the it’s okay nod because now she’s nowhere in sight, and you’re on your ninth damn that’s crazy. You only have so many of those left in the chamber, and Seth’s breath reeks of vodka and with every word, despite your constant step back, he’s getting closer. He keeps trying to grab at you, to hold your hand like old times and get you back like he’s been trying to do for a few weeks now.

It’s getting ridiculous. He’s got you caged in a corner and every time you try to duck under his arm and escape, he’s blocking you in, continuing his rambling with more fervor each time. Your eyes scan the patio and the small glass door leading back into the bar for someone, anything, any light at the end of the tunnel to help you get you out of this mess.

When he asks who you keep looking for, the lie rolls easily off your tongue. “My boyfriend.”

You’re not even looking at your ex when his shoulders stiffen. You’re looking past him to search for a viable candidate to try and read your mind, get the hint, and come over here and play the part.

Of course, your ego dies when Rafe enters the patio.

He doesn’t see you immediately, eyes trained on the barely drank beer in his hand and huffing out a low breath. But he’s alone: not surrounded by his degenerate friends and finally having a moment to himself to collect his thoughts, debrief your interaction earlier without Topper chirping in his ear at how funny the whole thing was. For a moment, you slightly pity him and his dejected expression. His pretty blues resemble that of a kicked puppy, and your heart does a weird flutter when you consider the fact that you actually might’ve hurt his feelings.

But when Rafe meet your gaze, it’s a silent exchange.

Your eyes are slightly widened, a wordless help that he seems to understand immediately, wiping the pitiful expression off his face and instantly turning stone cold. The drink in his hand is set down on a table full of random people, getting a few confused looks. But he doesn’t stop to address it, instead eyes staying solely on yours as he approaches the dim corner your ex has you backed into.

Christ. Your dignity is dwindling by the minute.

“Hey, baby,” Rafe hums low, baritone enough to make your ex jump in surprise and spin around to face the voice of the culprit. “Ready to go?”

Not by the minute. By the second.

Before you can open your mouth and humiliate yourself further, Seth scoffs in disbelief as he turns his head between you and your supposed-boyfriend, eyes wide and mouth agape. It takes him one, two moments to fully register what’s going on and react.

“Th—this is your boyfriend?” He splutters with a slur.

The sound makes Rafe rolls his eyes.

“You mind?” He asks coolly, taking an audacious step towards you.

It makes Seth step aside immediately. The cold blue stare plus the added height definitely frightens your ex, as he’s never been the one for confrontation and scoured away anytime there was any inclination for a fight.

But Rafe? No. He craves it.

Fragmented memories scatter your brain. Writing his chemistry notes for him when his knuckles were too busted to hold a pen. Witnessing the Great Boneyard Squabble in real time when he broke Connor Carlone’s jaw yet suffered two broken ribs. Remembering how easy it was for him to throw hands instead of using his words and almost always used fighting as a cop out, because he knew he’d win.

You remember one particular time you drunkenly found him sitting alone on the sand dunes, putting his ice cold beer against a busted knuckle. It was the only time you’ve ever seen him distant, quiet, so unlike the Rafe you’ve grown to know and despise. You asked him if it hurt, he only shrugged. You then asked him why he keeps doing it if it hurts, to which he responded that it’s all he knows. Fighting and putting on a mask are all he knows.

And your ex certainly wants no part of it.

“No. Not at all.” He turns to you and swallows thickly when he watches Rafe slither an arm around your waist. “Uh, I’ll, um, see you?”

Before you can retort something smart, the breath is momentarily sucked out of you when you feel Rafe’s palm tug you taut to his side, still indulging in his little pretend part before it’ll get swept away from him. You can’t say that you blame him, as he’ll take any excuse to get his hands on a girl even if it’s for a glorious sixty seconds. And with you — the girl who never let him get too close — he’s certainly going to extend the short-lived time he has with you as long as he can.

“You won’t,” is all Rafe responds with, and your ex is staggering back, slipping back into the crowd and disappearing before you know it.

You manage to let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, but mask the relief with an eye roll and a gentle shove at his rib cage.

“You didn’t need to do all that,” you murmur, still holding onto the smallest grudge you have with him on his boisterous behavior earlier.

(Despite how fucking nice it feels to have his hands on you).

You hear Rafe snort beside you.

“I got him to fuck off, didn’t I?”

You bite your tongue when a bratty response rises in your throat, only holding back because he’s right. Of course all it took was one glare to get your ex to tuck tail and bolt, whereas your attempts to brush him off and leave proved fruitless. As much as you want to roll your eyes again, say something snotty that’ll either rile him up or piss him off, you hate to acknowledge that Rafe did exactly what you wanted him to do without explicitly having to say anything.

“Yeah,” you murmur quietly, almost frustrated. “Thanks for that.”

Being the prick that he is, Rafe isn’t letting you get away with a half-assed apology muttered under your breath, because suddenly he’s right in front of you, a hint of a grin ghosting his lips as he ducks down to your eye level, making it that much more person than it needs to be.

“What was that?”

You narrow your eyes. “You heard me fine.”

“You know I’m hard of hearing, baby, lemme hear that voice. Gotta speak up around me.”

That abhorrently incriminating nickname turns your heart into a stampede every time, no matter how hard you try to push down the feeling or deny it. Curse Rafe Cameron and his sultry cadence and stupid pretty eyes that are twinkling with delight.

So you do what he asks, and you don’t get flustered (or at least show it). You look him deadpan in the eye, face him square, and put on your sweetest voice.

“Thank you, Rafey.”

But it has the opposite effect. Instead of flustering him, making his breath hitch, throwing him off his game, it only spurs him on further.

He breaks out in a giant fucking grin.

“That so hard, hm?”

Oh, poor choice of words, you think.

Because it makes an idea pop into your head (undoubtedly a stupid one, but a fun one nonetheless) as you take a small step forward, now being the one to crowd his space instead of vice versa. Your chest just barely brushes his, peering up at him through batting lashes and the sweetest smile you can muster. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you bring a hand to skim over his heart, feeling it thump erratically under your palm.

A flicker of surprise coats his features, but you have to admit he masks it quickly with his signature expression, a charming smile and low lidded eyes.

One of his hands cautiously ghosts of your waist, and when you don’t pull back or slap him away, he lets his palm press further into your figure, fingertips slipping under your tank and smoothing over the soft skin of your waist.

Slowly, your other hand skims over his belt loop, just barely dipping your fingertips between the waist band of his pants and his hot skin on his lower abdomen. The unfamiliar contact (from you, especially) makes Rafe suck in a breath in shock, gripping your waist tight and possessive that it makes your heart skip. It only augments when you allow yourself to move forward, fully letting him feel the soft flesh of your breasts press up against his chest.

And that’s when you feel it: the outline of his cock pressing hard against your front.

You peer up at him all pretty and composed, whereas his lips are parted and his blue eyes are nearly blown back with lust, and the sight of him almost makes you fold. Almost. But you zoom out, remember who you’re dealing with, remember all the times he’s left you hot and bothered and aggravated. No matter how big his dick actually feels.

“No,” you murmur softly, responding to his earlier question. “But I know something else that is.”

Rafe opens his mouth to respond, but you’re quicker, taking advantage of his discombobulated state to twist out of his grip and completely remove your hands from his body, stepping out of his grasp and slithering into the crowd.

“Hey—!”

He tries to snatch you, but you’re faster, weaving in and out of friend groups like a snake and not even bothering to check if he’s following you, to see if he’s waiting to press you against a wall and take you in front of all these strangers. You figure that or he’s stuck in the same spot, dumbfounded and hard and annoyed.

You know you’re in trouble when you throw a spare glance over your shoulder before you head back into the bar, suppressing a grin when you spot him through the crowd, eyes solely trained on you with a jaw clenched so tight you’d think it would break.

To elongate his misery, you blow him a kiss before disappearing inside.

Although, it only takes thirty seconds for him to find you again.

You stifle a grin when you feel a calloused hand snatch your hand, fingers lacing through yours without a second thought and tugging you backwards, sending you stumbling back and bumping into his chest hard. Hard enough to turn a few heads.

The music is so loud. Everyone is laughing and singing and talking. The bass is vibrating the floor. But the only thing you can feel is his hot body pressed against your back and the rapid thumping of his heart. All you can hear is his baritone voice ghosting the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine, especially when one of his hands snakes around your body to press against your hip bone, pulling you even closer than you were before so you can feel him against your back, harder than he was before.

“You think you’re funny?” He snaps in your ear, all flirting edge gone and replaced with something else, perhaps frustration.

It only makes you prouder. “A bit.”

He scoffs and it’s nothing nice. “A bit,” he mocks under his breath. “You’re a fucking brat.”

“Yeah,” you muse, wholeheartedly agreeing. “And yet, you can’t seem to stay away, Cameron.”

When you tilt your head away from him to give him access to your neck, Rafe takes the leap of faith, ducking his head to the soft skin and attaching his lips to your vocal cord. And — god — if this is how his mouth feels now, you can only imagine what it’ll feel like against your lips, your chest, your—

“Can’t,” he admits immediately and so certain of himself, especially when he copies your previous action and his fingers dance along the waistband of your skirt almost daringly. “Won’t.”

The sensation makes your heart skip and spine straighten, sucking in a breath when you feel his teeth gently graze the muscle of your vocal chord with the added feeling of his warm fingers meeting the skin of your lower abdomen, and you pray that the act is subtle enough to not alert him that your body is very much reacting to his body.

Of course, he notices.

“This what you needed, baby?” The baritone of his voice against your neck reverberates your nerves. “Some attention?”

All you do is hum, because, yup. Right on the nose. At least you can admit it to yourself.

When he sucks a particularly sweet spot, you let out a quiet noise you didn’t know you were capable of making, quiet enough so no one else at the bar hears it. Well, everyone except for him, who hears it loud and clear and wants to hear it for the rest of his fucking life.

Rafe exhales deeply through his nose, tickling your skin. “I knew you’d sound so pretty.”

“I always sound pretty.”

A chuckle. Not necessarily a nice one. “Can’t believe you never knew.”

You frown even though he can’t see it. “Knew what?”

“How bad I fucking wanted you.”

The confession makes your stomach do a weird flip. “But you—“

It’s as if he knows your thought process, knows the way your brain works, because he answers your question before you can even get it out.

“Always wanted you.” He kisses your neck with surprising chastity. “Want you to drive me nuts for the rest of my fucking life.”

You blink stupidly, praising whatever higher being that he can’t see your face right now. “That’s excessive.”

“It’s what I want,” he albeit murmurs with candor. “And I always get what I want.”

The rational part of you wants to spin around and slap him silly for such an out of touch comment. He’s on top of the world, getting more money than he knows what to do with and only knowing the lifestyle that comes with a silver spoon. Rafe Cameron gets all the material objects he wants. Watches. Boats. Cars. Designer anything. That’s something money can buy, and money he’ll happily spend if it’s something he has his eye on.

But you? You’re the outlier.

You’re the girl he reached for but could never grasp. You gave him glimpses of what he could have if he stopped being such a prick and straightened himself out. You’ve told him time and time again (after he’s asked you out time and time again) that you’ll only ever go for him if he gets his shit together, stops acting like a frat asshole and ditches his degenerate friends who share the same brain cell and only mooch off of him for his money. He’s refused to see it, not wanting to lose the only “friends” he’s ever had, so every time he let you walk away with your ultimatum, hoping the next time he asks you that your stance has changed.

But it never has.

Not even now.

“You know how I feel,” you respond earnestly, and you bite the bullet and twist around in his arms so you’re facing him, chest to chest and peering at his pretty blues under the kaleidoscope of purple, blue, red, green lights. Your hands brace on his chest and his settle on your waist, looking at you ardently with all sighs of sexual frustration gone, instead replaced with seriousness, determination, admiration. “How I’ve always felt.”

“I know,” he answers immediately. “I can be that person.”

You quirk a brow.

He sees your apprehension, your deflection, the same look you always gave him. But it’s different know, especially when you’re in his arms and not dreaming of pulling away, especially when he looks so damn sure of himself in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I’m…trying to be,” he says after a moment. “Ever since Rocky Dune.”

Your spine straightens at the mention, a memory so deep in your brain’s archives that you nearly forgot its entire existence.

It was the summer after senior year, where your graduated class would congregate on a sector of dunes so secluded from civilization it became your uncharted territory, the spot only your class knew about. Everyone would drink and smoke and carry on as usual, just…less chaotic. The music was never too loud. The lights were never too bright. No one shouted and drunkenly sang obnoxiously. People would chat with other people they didn’t really know. It was…nice. Different. Almost nostalgic. Your class’ secret.

You block the memory away because there was one night that you were so fucking nasty to him that it makes your heart lurch.

You were both relatively drunk, not stumbling but tipsy enough to say things from the locked vault of your mind that never should’ve met the light of day. Secluded from the party, you and Rafe sat shoulder to shoulder in the dunes and watched the gently waves lap against the shore, met with the sound of the water and silence.

Where you kissed him.

You were lonely, fresh off a breakup and he was right there. Saying the right things. Being uncharacteristically nice to you after he saw you crying alone. Finally leaning into the real version of himself, the guy you’ve seen glimpses of. He’s softer, dedicated, serious and devoted. You saw him, not the front he always put up. Just Rafe. And for that one kiss, you thought he’d straighten up, finally understand why you’ve never given him the actual time of day beforehand, why you flirted back but never give him a chance. You thought it would click, he’d keep being himself and stop the frat-prick-asshole act to impress his friends.

Yet he had to ruin it.

Because when he pulled away, he put on that stupid fucking smirk. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

And you wished you hadn’t seen a glimpse of the real Rafe at all, because in that moment, you knew you’d never see it again, never see him again, only the persona he’s created to seem cool, nonchalant, like a prince. It broke your heart, humiliated you while you were already so fucking embarrassed when he caught you alone, and it was where you put your foot down.

By this point, you’d already shoved him away and stood up, creating distance. “How stupid of me to think you could ever change.”

You still remember the way his face fell in the moonlight.

And you just had to continue. “If you think acting like this is going to get people to like you, you’re not surviving anything outside this fucking bubble of an island. Stop waving around a wad of cash and let’s see how many people still hang out with you. Grow the fuck up, Cameron.”

The words still haunt you, the expression on his face still haunts you, and the fact that that was the last time you saw him up until this very night haunts you right now. Those were the last words you said to him, your last memory with him, and it’s you saying the worst things he’s probably already thought about himself.

“I never apologized,” you say when you’re brought back to earth. “What I said was—“

“It was what I needed to hear,” Rafe interrupts gently yet firmly, making your apology die in your throat. “It woke me up. When I left for the semester, I straightened out. Focused in school, got good grades, got clean, made friends who actually give a shit about me. You… I should thank you.”

You’re flabbergasted.

Despite it, he continues.

“I want to earn you,” he says softly, as if he’s been itching to say it forever. “I meant what I said. I know I…” His gaze flickers down momentarily. “…seem impatient, but I wanna do this right. With you. If you’ll let me.”

You search his expression for any shroud of doubt, any flickers of playfulness or teasing regard, but you come up short. Instead, you’re met with bright blue eyes that shimmer with certainty, that look at you with such seriousness that it throws your brain for a loop and sets a kettlebell in your stomach.

But the excitement outweighs the uncertainty.

You cave. “One chance.”

Rafe nods immediately.

“One,” you reiterate seriously.

He nods again, emulating the pure embodiment of obedience at the thought of being irrevocably yours.

“If I catch you being a prick,” you continue pointedly, “you’re done.”

“Copy,” he responds earnestly.

“I’ll pluck your balls off like an apple.”

“Whatever you want.”

“I mean it.”

“Baby, I’m about to be on my best behavior, just you wait.”

You quirk a brow as you let a thick silence elongate between the two of you.

The gesture makes Rafe blink, lips twitching. “I can call you baby, right?”

All you can do is give him a pointed look, trying really fucking hard to remain stoic but it’s proving difficult when a smile threatens to creep up, because you have to admit being called such a name, especially with the way it rolls off his tongue with such eased nonchalance that you’d think he was born to say it, makes your heart flutter uncontrollably. Of course he can call you baby. He can call you whatever he wants as long as he never says it to anyone else.

“Yeah,” you find yourself saying. “As long as you say it right.”

And for the second time in your life, you’re gripping his shirt to tug him close and kissing him like your life depends on it.

Rafe responds immediately, mmrphing low into your mouth as his hand comes up to hold the column of your neck, keeping you in place and squeezing just a fraction. The act makes you gasp gently, lips parting at the feeling, but it only allows him more access, slipping his tongue audaciously into your mouth to taste your sweetness in all its glory.

Your hands brace on his chest as some sort of pathetic mechanism to ground yourself, because your heart is leaping out of its chest and the skin that he’s touching of yours is on fire, and you pointedly decide in this moment that you’ve never been kissed like this, so passionately, ardently, gingerly. Frankly, it throws your brain for a loop, especially when he emits a satisfied hum the reverberates in your throat.

You almost forget you’re in the middle of a bad. There’s people all around you, singing and dancing and laughing and completely ignorant to your little moment. The atmosphere is loud and boisterous and unforgiving with its collected heat, but it envelopes you in a blanket, tucked into the warmth that is Rafe, Rafe, Rafe. It’s intoxicating, knowing anyone could be seeing your exchange right now and dismissive to the fact that this is one of the most exhilarating moments of your life.

When you pull away, Rafe’s leaning in for more.

You grin. “Easy, Rafey.”

He mirrors your smile. “You’re gonna kill me. I swear.”

“Your place or mine?”

The words aren’t what he expects, because his brows fly up in surprise as he peers at you with bright blue eyes nearly blown black. He’s trying, he’s trying so fucking hard to do this right, to take his time with you and earn you the way he’s supposed to. The last thing he wants to do is jump the gun and ruin his one chance he has with you, a chance he’s been shooting for since he was fourteen, and if he somehow fucks it up (and knowing him, it’s not unheard of) he’ll probably lose his mind.

“You— But I—“

You interrupt his babbling. “Whatever I want, right?”

Rafe sucks in a breath. “Yeah, fuck, anything.”

Your hands smooth up his chest to rest and you lightly graze your nails along his neck, your fingers moving to the nape and pinching the ends of his overgrown hair delicately. It feels nice to hold him like this, to see what gestures make him fold and see what he positively reacts to. And, so far, any place you’ve been touching him has been fair game. He’s given you the green light without his words, simply showing his affirmation through his actions.

“Okay,” you pointedly decide. “Mine then.”

When you snake your hands down to lace your fingers with his, Rafe doesn’t object. As you weave through the crowd with him in tow towards the exit, he makes no argument. When you slide into his lap in the taxi and cling to him as if your life depends on it, he invites the contact. And when you lead him up to your apartment and shut the door behind him, the feeling he’s had for you for years tenfolds.

And, for once, you’re not pushing him away.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work unless given permission. mdni.

notes yup hey here’s another one shot literally nobody asked for. hope you enjoyed!

[ohmyclematis-alwaysbymyside]

giyuu's idealism and moral compass because my brain will explode (part 2/2) if you stumbled upon this before reading the first part, here.

part two: are giyuu's actions influenced by morality, logic, feelings or intuition? (note: this is my interpretation and is going to be messy)

one of the things I find so interesting about giyuu is how the author placed him out of all the characters in the beginning and end of demon slayer and how we get to see his thoughts while making a choice so that we can learn about him as a character. based off of my experience at least, people see him as either the good guy who does no wrong or the embodiment of hypocrisy. no in between. and I believe this misses the point. let me (peacefully) go through the (two) main dilemmas he's put in

1) you're running to a mission because your ancient crow messed up the orders (again) and find a demon trying to eat someone. when you try decapitating the demon, the human it's trying to eat deflects your attack. like the empath you are, you ask "what the fuck?" and the human ie a teenager replies "that's my sister!!!" and starts rambling on about how she would never kill anyone (she tried eating him). you start projecting a little bit too much and both of you argue for a while and BOOM! HE THROWS AN AXE- SHIT- THE DEMON LEAPS AT HIM! SHE'S ABOUT TO EAT HIM-

it- no no no... she protected him under the impression that he was in danger despite being injured and not a single demon has ever done that before! she really might be different!! do you:

a) spare the demon

pros → she could be different, her brother has great potential and determination (he could become the next water pillar!), she hasn't killed anyone, you protect someone and follow your own principles.

cons → you're going against the rules meaning that there will be consequences, she can kill her brother later, you're going against rules, no one ever dared do this before, urokodaki probably won't help you out

b) kill the demon

pros → you don't break rules, the boy is certainly safe from her, you do your job, this decision is safer

cons → she's an innocent person, her brother lost everyone else (you failed to save them) and he'll probably be depressed, she really could have been different from other demons and it'd be a wasted chance.

in the end, giyuu spares her. his decision ignores what would be deemed as "common sense" just for the possibility of it being ethical and relies on logic as well as a bit of instinct. wouldn't it be terrible of him to kill an innocent girl who ended up unfortunate circumstances that he failed to prevent? anyone would've ended her before even reaching this point but currently he's in a position of a pillar, someone who should support people. sure, he's going against the law but does he care? giyuu abides to his principles strictly but how far will he go to for their sake? choosing not decapitate a demon is to go against everything the corps stands for and lose the respect of basically everyone. the corps exists exclusively for getting rid of demons. on a surface level, his disobedience would be deemed as immoral. but then again, the fundamental reason demons are assassinated is because they kill humans and nezuko has proven that she won't eat humans no matter the circumstances. he saw it with his own eyes. this shows that breaking rules doesn't automatically equate to immorality and they shouldn't be blindly followed. giyuu not letting rules restrict him and choosing to be open minded so that he can do what he deems as the right thing brings me so much life especially considering how the belief that killing without hesitation equates to being powerful is so enforced. giyuu doesn't mindlessly kill. he assesses his situation. he rethinks his choices. days after encountering the kamados, he's still thinking about his decision and mentally reciting tanjiro's words.

do u know the most fever dream-ish thing about this? he's put in another moral dilemma in the end with the same pair of siblings.. except that their dynamic is completely switched. sigh...

2) after the battle has ended, you find the boy whom you might as well refer to as family dead, start crying, and continuously saying sorry in your head and wait? is that a heart beat? blinking? OH SHIT-

TANJIRO TRANSFORMED INTO A DEMON. what do you do :3

a) attack and decapitate him

pros → everyone's efforts to eradicate demons won't all go to waste.

cons → you're probably going to die due to blood loss and exhaustion and the boy whom you protected for so long will die.

b) don't decapitate him

pros → you won't have to go through the mental torment of fighting.

cons → everyone is going to die and demons will continue to exist.

the choice might seem obvious but if you were the only conscious person, on the brink of death, and had to make a decision with such limited possibilities, acting quickly would be difficult. giyuu chooses the former. the deceased slayers and pillars did not die for this. I have seen some ppl call this blatant hypocrisy. "he's trying to kill tanjiro despite loving him" that's the point! does he want tanjiro dead? of course not. and yet, he still has to suck it up and fight him anyways because if he lets their bond affect his next decision, their work will go to waste and the remaining survivors will die. I cannot stress the development in this. before, he used to rethink his decision repeatedly to make sure that he's doing the right thing but now? he doesn't doubt himself and instantly does the right thing. I call this character development. he doesn't give up on the possibility that tanjiro could be kept alive but until that happens, he's making sure that no one dies. overall, his decision in more rational and selfless. he attempts to kill him quickly and-

WAIT- HE'S IMMUNE TO THE SUN? this situation has become hopeless and your chances of winning have been reduced to practically nothing. two more survivors attempt to help you out and BOOM

HE BITES HIS SISTER- WAIT HE'S NOT EATING HER? (this feels like horrible gameplay) so not only is he immortal and immune to the sun, he also has a bda. giyuu has no choice but to cling to the hope that tanjiro might have some humanity left in him and could be turned back into a human just like his sister. is his decision rational? no! nothing logical can be done in this situation anymore and the chances of an outcome that isn't failure is practically non-existent. but maybe he could save everyone. maybe he could turn tanjiro back human. maybe he could protect people and not fail again. he's still doing what he sees as the right thing knowing damn well that he's being irrational. (I genuinely believe that this fight with tanjiro is supposed to parallel his encounter with nezuko in the beginning because he's the person who fights him the most. the same pair of siblings where one of them is a demon while the other is desperately calming them down. no objectively correct choices. yet, he chooses to risk everything for the sake of possibly doing the morally good action and relies on intuition) more fighting happens, kanao arrives, uses medication on him, and with the power of friendship and will to live (and medication), he thankfully turns back to normal.

I love the way the narrative shows us that giyuu did the right thing in the end one way or another. sparing nezuko led to the final battle and eventually muzan's defeat and fighting tanjiro despite their close bond served as a distraction and helped in turning him back human. another cute detail I believe emphasizes this is that in kanji, the gi (義) in giyuu means justice and the yū (勇) translates to courage.

and here's the very last part of my delusional shitpost

giyuu is amazing, wonderful, *insert positive adjective* as a pillar. he understands the position he's in well. but as a coworker and employee? we see giyuu as the good guy because the story is told from tanjiro's pov and most of his actions can be defended because they were done for the greater good but do you know what can be difficult to excuse? his asocial behavior towards everyone (especially the pillars)

imagine you're shinobu here. you're (not so) peacefully doing your job and your coworker who is supposed to be on your side just decides to go against you and let a demon live without explanation. this panel shows how important context is. and do you know who would do literally anything but explain themselves? (tbf, he does try but is cut off. this applies more to his other shenanigans) if we had as much knowledge on this situation as shinobu, giyuu would be the one in the wrong. he somehow gets easier but also harder to defend later on in the meeting. even though giyuu was being a bit of an asshole to tanjiro after the fight with rui, he at least helped him and nezuko get away. when the morning arrives and tanjiro is literally injured, tied up, and surrounded by people who want him dead, giyuu was doing jack shit

he could be doing literally ANYTHING but stare into nothingness like that. buddy fight for your cause. and before anyone says that it's because of his inferiority complex, this is him by the way:

he prevents shinobu from doing her job, he distracts sanemi so that tanjiro can hit him strongly enough, and he grabs iguro's arm while simultaneously cutting the ropes off of tanjiro's wrists. giyuu does have an inferiority complex but he will take measures to get others out of his way if they attempt to harm the kamados ie result in him failing to protect them. if giyuu was actually scared of the pillars, he would not be doing any of this, let alone spare a demon. so giyuu was capable of defending tanjiro from the beginning. he simply chose not to do and only interfered when/after sanemi stabbed nezuko. (😭)

giyuu in general seems to stir up copious amounts of drama with the other pillars and when you reflect on all the shenanigans that happened between them until now, the realization that this is mainly giyuu's fault lowkey dawns upon you. the light novel confirms it

the manga confirms it

and whenever he does choose to speak, it's to insult people.

as we learn later on, giyuu's words were misinterpreted and his social isolation was a result of his imposter syndrome. but how far can this go? the hashira don't have the context that we do and giyuu just plays into their belief of him. if someone states "i'm not like you" anyone would perceive it as condescending especially considering how his facial expression is described to "make others think that he was looking down on them" in the LN. giyuu not wanting to talk to the pillars is one thing but not cooperating with them is a more significant problem. (especially when he refused to participate in the pillar training despite being aware of how much of a dire situation the corps was in. this is arguably the definition of hypocrisy) the LN states that all the pillars put effort into cooperating with each other no matter how hard it was for some of them and that giyuu was the only person who didn't bother doing so. this begs the question, can giyuu's behavior really be excused or defended? nope. don't defend him. he doesn't always have to be the good guy in every conflict. there is literally no logic behind his actions here. some of yall defend him too much especially considering how he canonically isn't the nicest. that's the dude who shamelessly knocked out a 13 year old. sure, his guilt plays a heavy role in his actions but this should only be used as an explanation not an excuse. "giyuu's behavior was heavily influenced by trauma and doesn't inherently mean that he's a bad person" and "giyuu is the person in the wrong and the pillars' hatred towards him is perfectly understandable" are two factual statements that can, in fact, coexist. *cue clapping*

conclusion paragraph? just stop reading!! (giyuu is inherently a good person who strives to do the right thing and values morality and logic regardless of any negative consequences as shown in the manga multiple times. however, he sometimes makes wrong decisions that are influenced by feelings more than anything because at the end of the day, he's meant to be a flawed character and that's fine)

"why is this five days late?" a weird mixture of internet problems, having to urgently travel, and mommy issues. sorry everyone 😔

[writingdarling]

jealous ronin perhaps.. please and thank u 🙏

Jealous Like the Flame

you're so big brained anon...

anything I write with ronin comes off as horny for some reason idk why

also can you tell I just saw that shirtless ronin fanart by munstxr that man makes me slightly insane (praying V oiled-up is next tho you will not hear my ass shut up)

Content Warnings: Suggestive, Suggested Violence, Violence (?)

(Killer Chat) Ronin x Reader

Ronin’s jealousy is bright and burning, something you can't ignore.

And if you do ignore it ?

Well, something (or more often, someone) will be going up in flames (literal and non-literal).

It’s one of those rare times where Ronin actually brought you along to chill at the mechanic shop he works at. The two of you had a date planned after this, some fancy restaurant where you adore all of the food the chef makes, so you’re dressed in your finest.

Ronin isn’t wearing a shirt, claiming that he works better without the heat distracting him and you wonder whether you’d be going to Hell with the way you’re eyeing him up like he’s only a piece of meat.

Oh who are you kidding, you’re dating a serial killer. Pervy glances or not you’re still going to Hell, maybe somewhere even worse if such a thing existed.

Ronin grunts as he stands up straight, hands on his hips as he glares at the offending car’s engine. He turns to you, reaching out for the water bottle you were holding for him, drinking it down like it was the last bit of water on earth.

Lord Jesus Christ, you hate to take his name in vain but-

“I need to go to the front of the shop to grab a tool box darlin’, keep yourself occupied with the thoughts of my glistening bod will ya’ ?”

Ronin bends down, his eyes gleaming mischievously.

“Also my eyes are up here sunshine not down there-”

You hit him with the empty water bottle, feeling the heat in your ears.

“Shoo, shoo ! Go you fucking dog.” You place your hands over your ears, blocking out the literal barking noises Ronin’s making as he walks out of the workshop.

When you’re finally alone, you slump against the chair you’re sitting in and play with your phone, swinging your legs ever so slightly. 

A figure moves in the corner of your eye and you see 3 other mechanics, deep in conversation. After a while, the other 2 shove one in your general direction and the guy seems to be trying to compose himself before he walks up to you.

“Um, hey ?” You look at him, a practiced perfectly social smile glides onto your face. You think of it as meeting a fan. Sweet but impersonal.

“So you, uh, you a friend of that guy huh ?” He leans against the wall, as if that would impress you. You can’t help but look at the sweat stains on his shirt and repress a shudder. Even sweat is so much more attractive on your boyfriend, it’s almost insane.

“He’s my boyfriend.” You offer him a way out, you know damn well if Ronin comes back now…your date night might become a slaughtering type of night.

“You…” He looks you up and down. Like you’re a piece of meat. Once again, only attractive when either you’re doing it to Ronin or vice versa. 

“You can do sooo much better babe.” He leans closer and you wince. 

Of course he doesn’t get the message, fucking cunt.

“I mean that guy, a few screws loose in the brain if you know what I mean.”

You let your smile twist into something more sinister, well-practiced over time with Angel’s help.

“Oh I know, that’s why I like him.”

He gapes at you, but not for long before a familiar hand latches onto his hair and he’s thrown backwards.

Ah, as you predicted, Ronin has his familiar “I’m going to murder someone and I’ll do it happily” look in his eyes, his grin slightly manic. 

“Fuck are you looking at scumbag.” He growls as the man's friends help him up. 

The guy that was talking to you rubs his head furiously and he yells something about telling their boss about Ronin’s behaviour.

Ronin’s hand squeezes the back of your neck, not enough to hurt but enough to send shivers down your spine. It’s a warning in itself, no explanations needed.

“Oh yeah, then I’ll tell him how many times I see you shitstains slackin’ off out back, smokin and leaving your damn cigarette butts everywhere.”

His tone is sharp, leaving no room for argument, as seen by the stunned silence coming from the group.

“Now fuck off to the front, before I stuff your head in the exhaust pipe and start revving.”

The three flee like a pack of rats and you can’t stop the giggle bubbling up in your chest.

Ronan scowls at you and leans down to squish your cheeks, an annoyed look on his face.

“Can’t bring you anywhere without some fuckin’ pervs laying their eyes and hands on you huh.”

He pinches your right cheek incredibly hard, as if releasing some of that anger onto you, in response you bite his palm, making him curse out loud.

“Fuck ! Ok, I deserved that.”

Ronin turns back to the car hood, slamming it down.

“Boss let me go early, wanna get back to my place so I can change and…”

Oh fuck he’s eyeing you in that way.

“I am not missing my damn dinner reservation cause you can’t control your libido.”

You snarl, crossing your arms for good measure.

Ronin pulls on his t-shirt, which does nothing to hide anything underneath it by the way.

“Yeah, yeah.” He extends his hand out to you and you take it, soon you’re pressing your face against his chest, admiring the way his eyes gleam in the light.

“When we get home, your fair game though.”

RAHHHHH

I need more mechanic ronin fics cause I go insane for a hard-working man

anywayyss, since I've done half of the current L.I's, I'll probably do either Angel or Misaki next

So you can look forward to that !

[chrysanthemums-andstars]

Just My Type

Bang Chan x Male!Reader (College AU)

Inspired by: Just My Type by The Vamps (go listen to it it’s really good)

Description: Your complicated relationship with the college campus’ local stoner.

Warnings: This is based on the song and does use edited versions of lyrics from the song as well as the overall vibe. Smoking. Bad boy x student council boy dynamic. No smut but very suggestive. Heavily implied (basically stated at this point) that they have sex but at worst it’s just very passionate making out. This is my first time writing male reader. Use of (your name) instead of y/n. Does imply that Chan is only in it for fun but maybe he does fall for reader a bit.

Divider Credit here by @saradika-graphics

There was always more than meets the eye to your relationship with Bang Chan, or Christopher as teachers called him whenever he got in a fight or was caught smoking in the campus bathrooms. You had first met him when your history teacher had paired you up for a class project. “Please, make sure he gets his work done for once.” She had told you. “If he has a good example to follow he might be able to get better grades.” As if that was your issue to deal with just because you were on the student council. “So…you’re (your name)?” It was the first thing he had said to you. Leaning back in the chair next to yours without a care in the world. The building could’ve caught on fire and he would’ve given less fucks. “Yeah. And you’re Christopher?” You replied, earning a scoff from the grunge boy. “Call me Chan. Christopher is what people call me when they’re mad at me.”

“Good to know, Chan.” You replied, holding your hand out for a handshake. He chuckled and took it. “Oh so you’re that kind of guy? All formal and professional? Cute.” You felt your cheeks heat up a bit. “I’m on the student council.” He hummed and looked down at his paper, which was blank save for his name being written on the top right corner. “I never would’ve guessed.” He replied, his tone slightly mocking you. “So Mr. ‘I’m on the student council’, what do you do for fun when you’re not being a basic goody two shoes?” He asked. “I read.” And you could’ve sworn he rolled his eyes, though he wasn’t being rude this time.

That was the first time you had met. You honestly thought you weren’t going to survive being paired with him on the project. To tell the truth would be a lie but sometimes you’d see him outside your dorm room window, smoking cigarettes or a blunt. He looked lonely, in your opinion. Sometimes he’d be accompanied by other guys who were there to have some fun with him. But he never looked like he was interested in them.

So one night you met him outside. He was sitting on the same old bench, with another cigarette in his hand. “Smoking’s bad for you, you know.” You called out. Chan smiled and rolled his eyes. “Oh god not you too. Felix is already on my ass about this.” He said, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “What?” You teased back, “It’s true. You’re going to get lung cancer before you graduate.” “If I graduate.” He huffed back. In which you smacked his arm in return. “Don’t say that.” Sitting down next to him on the bench you hummed. “(your name)? Have you ever kissed someone?” Chan asked after a couple of minutes. And your face got all red. “No.” He laughed. “You really are a goody two shoes!” He wasn’t mocking you, at least you hoped he wasn’t.

“Would you ever want to try it?” He asked again, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Kissing someone.” You sat there just thinking for a bit. “Maybe.” You replied. “Have you ever done it before?” He nodded. “Oh loads of times.” “What’s it like?” You scooted closer to him on the bench. He turned to look at you and smirked. “Well I can show you, if you’d like.” With your approval he leaned in and kissed you. Things escalated quickly and he ended up tongue deep inside your mouth, for lack of a better term. And he ended up taking you back to his apartment that night.

After that night, you’d hook up with him at least twice a week. Even after finishing the history project which, with your help, he managed to get a hundred on it. You laid next to him in bed, he was shirtless and absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. While you were next to him in one of his hoodies, left wondering if it was casual when he practically shoved it onto you when you said you were cold. “Chan,” you finally muttered, “I need this to be more than just hook up after hook up.” He stopped scrolling and began to pay attention to you. Times like these called for true romance, and you weren’t sure if he was ready for that. “Whenever you bring me back to yours it feels like it’s nothing good.” He nodded.

“You know, when I first met you I thought you were just some random stuck up try hard. Now you’re the only thing still on repeat playing in my head. Sometimes I can’t even sleep thinking of you. And you think it’s not serious?” He whispered. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his lap. “Believe me if I wasn’t interested I’d just leave. I wish I could. But I wouldn’t even dare try, darling.” You huffed playfully and shoved at his chest. “You let me down.” You tease. And he pinched your side. “And you get me high.”

You rolled your eyes. He was bad advice, but you never thought twice. Maybe he was just exactly your type. “I don’t know why, but you’re exactly my type.” He muttered and kissed your forehead.

[keferon]

“Mistakes on mistakes until” ch 69 spoilers below!

Ahahahahahahah here I go again

Mistakes on mistakes until until I can draw Jazz with my eyes closed

I woke up, checked my phone, woke up for real and decided that whatever plans I had for this day yeah no they can wait a little bit kfkgnfk

Also. Consider listening this while reading. Or don't who am I to tell you what to do~

[evanescentdawn]

idea: modern au, kakashi gains custody of sasuke (a blast from the past! I wanted to do one from to do list that was from years ago, was gonna do orv ideas but it didn’t pan put so Naruto it is, the hashimada romeo & Juliet idea was very close to being done but ahaha I ended up choosing this!)

Kakashi wasn’t close to the Uchihas. But he knew Itachi and Obito. Itachi much to a less extent, but he could hardly believe what he hears over the phone. It happened overnight, the entire family including the extended family. Kakashi needs to sit down after he hears it.

Sasuke is the only one left.

[mwagneto]

any time i remember time lord victorious arc i start shaking like a sick fucking dog

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash

Chapters 36-37

Had it been like that in the iron coffin?

Aelin gave no indication that the smothering dark bothered her, and had shown no inclination to illuminate their way. Hadn't even summoned an ember.

But the Little Folk, it seemed, had come prepared. And within heartbeats of entering the pitch-black river passage, blue light had kindled on a lantern dangling over the curved prow. Not light, not even magic. But small worms that glowed pale blue, as if they'd each swallowed the heart of a star. They'd been gathered into the lantern, and their soft light rippled over the water-smooth walls. A gentle, soothing light. At least, for her it was so.

Before Aelin had been given an ancient Faerie Queen's crown, her birthright and heritage.

The queen had stashed Mab's crown in one of their packs, as if it were no more than an extra sword belt. She hadn't spoken, and they had not asked her any questions, either.

Instead, she'd spent these past few hours sitting in the back of the boat, studying her unmarked hands, occasionally peering into the black waters beneath them. What she expected to see beyond her own rippling reflection, Elide didn’t want to know.

He'd crawled after Maeve on the beach to save Aelin. And he had found her during her escape-had ensured Aelin made it out. Did it wipe away what he'd done in summoning Maeve in the first place? Even if Maeve had set the trap, even if he hadn't known what Maeve intended for Aelin, did it erase his decision to call for her?

The last time they'd spoken as friends, it had been aboard that ship in the hours before Maeve's armada had arrived. He'd told her they needed to talk, and she'd assumed it was about their future, about them.

But perhaps he'd been about to tell her what he'd done, that he'd been wrong in acting before Aelin's plans played out. Elide stopped twisting the ring.

He'd done it for her. She knew it.

But the queen sitting silently behind them, no trace of that sharp-edged fire to be seen, nor that wicked grin she'd flashed at all who crossed her path ... Two months with a sadist. With two sadists. That had been the cost, and the burden that Aelin and all of them would bear.

That silence, that banked fire was because of him. Not entirely, but in some ways.

The collar had not been real. But the army Maeve had summoned was.

A blink into the gloom was the only indication that he was aware of her every movement. Aelin breathed in his scent, let its strength settle into her a bit deeper.

Their paths would meet again, or they would not. And if he found the final key and then brought it to her, she would pay what the gods demanded. What she owed Terrasen, the world.

Yet if Dorian chose to end it himself, to forge the Lock ... her stomach churned. He had the power. As much as she did, if not more so.

It was meant to be her sacrifice. Her blood shed to save them all. To let him claim it ... She could. She must. With Erawan no doubt unleashing himself on Terrasen, with Maeve's army likely to cause them untold grief, she could let Dorian do this. She trusted him. Even if she might never forgive herself for it. Her debt, it was supposed to have been her debt to pay.

Perhaps the punishment for failing to do so would be having to live with herself.

Having to live with all that had been done to her these months, too.

The blackness of the subterranean river pressed in, wrapped its arms around her and squeezed.

Different from the blackness of the iron box. The darkness she'd found inside herself.

A place she might never escape, not really.

Her power stirred, awakening. Aelin swallowed, refusing to acknowledge it. Heed it.

She wouldn't. Couldn't. Not yet. Until she was ready.

She had seen Rowan's face when she spoke of what his deception with the collar had prompted her to do. Had noted the way her companions looked at her, pity and fear in their eyes. At what had been done to her, what she'd become.

A new body. A foreign, strange body, as if she'd been ripped from one and shoved into another. Different from moving between her forms, somehow. She hadn't tried shifting into her human body yet. Didn't see the point.

Sitting in silence as the boat was pulled through the gloom, she felt the weight of those stares. Their dread. Felt them wondering just how broken she was.

You do not yield.

She knew that had been true—that it had been her mother's voice who had spoken and none other.

So she would not yield to this. What had been done. What remained. For the companions around her, to lift their despair, their fear, she wouldn't yield.

She'd fight for it, claw her way back to it, who she'd been before. Remember to swagger and grin and wink. She'd fight against that lingering stain on her soul, fight to ignore it. Would use this journey into the dark to piece herself back together-just enough to make it convincing.

Even if this fractured darkness now dwelled within her, even if speech was difficult, she would show them what they wished to see.

An unbroken Fire-Bringer. Aelin of the Wildfire.

She would show the world that lie as well. Make them believe it.

Maybe she'd one day believe it, too.

Days of near-silent travel passed.

Three days, if whatever senses Rowan and Gavriel possessed proved true. Perhaps the latter carried a pocket watch. Aelin didn't particularly care.

She used each of those days to consider what had been done, what lay before her.

Sometimes, the roar of her magic drowned out her thoughts. Sometimes it slumbered. She never heeded it.

They sailed through the darkness, the river below so black that they might as well have been drifting through Hellas's realm.

She hadn't asked him why he remained in his wolf's body. No one asked her why she remained in her Fae form, after all.

Rowan straightened, eyes sparking at her question-or at the fact that she'd spoken at all.

He'd kept by her these days, a silent, steady presence. Even when they'd slept, he'd remained a few feet away, still not touching, but just there. Close enough that the pine-and-snow scent of him eased her into slumber.

Silence at the order, even from Rowan. Aelin pointed to the lip of shore by the cave mouth. "Stop the boat," she repeated.

The queen had been reckless before Cairn and Maeve had worked on her for two months, but it seemed she'd had any bit of common sense flayed from her.

"Well, I don’t have any, so forgive me if I remain alert." No, she'd once told him that while magic flowed in the Lochan bloodline, she had none to speak of. He'd never told her that he'd always considered her cleverness to be a mighty magic on its own, regardless of Anneith's whisperings.

"It will take time for her to readjust."

She stared at him with those damning eyes.

He braced his forearms on his knees. "We got her back. She's with us now. What more do you want?" From me, He didn't need to add Elide straightened.

Elide straightened. "I don't want anything." From you.

This was where they'd have it out, then. "How much longer am I supposed to atone?"

"Are you growing bored with it?" He snarled.

She only glared at him. "I hadn't realized you were even atoning."

"I came here, didn't I?"

"For whom, exactly? Rowan? Aelin?"

"For both of them. And for you." There. Let it be laid before them.

"I told you on that beach: I want nothing to do with you."

"So one mistake and I am your eternal enemy?"

"She is my queen, and you summoned Maeve, then told her where the keys were, and you stood there while they did that to her."

"You have no idea what the blood oath can do. None."

"Fenrys broke the oath. He found a way."

"And had Aelin not been there to offer him another, he would have died." He let out a low, joyless laugh. "Perhaps that's what you would have preferred."

She ignored his last comment. "You didn't even try."

"I did," he snarled. "I fought it with everything I had. And it was not enough. If she'd ordered me to slit your throat, I would have. And if I had found a way to break the oath, I would have died, and she might very well have killed you or taken you afterward. On that beach, my only thought was to get Maeve to forget about you, to let you go-"

"I don't care about me! I didn't care about me on that beach!"

"Well, I do."

This was what came of opening that door to a place inside him that no one had ever breached. This mess, this hollowness in his chest that made him keep needing to make things right.

"Resent me all you like," he said, damning the hoarseness of his words. "I'm sure I'll survive."

Hurt flashed in her eyes. "Fine," she said, her voice brittle.

He hated that brittleness more than anything he'd ever encountered. Hated himself for causing it. But he had limits to how low he'd crawl.

He'd said his piece. If she wanted to wash her hands of him forever, then he would find a way to respect that. Live with it.

Somehow.

Gratitude shone in her eyes.

Rowan only gave her a nod. Don't worry about it.

Yet Aelin turned away, shutting off that silent conversation as she surveyed the space.

Time. It would take time for her to heal.

Even if he knew his Fireheart would pretend otherwise.

So, Rowan looked, too. Across the tomb, beyond the sarcophagus and treasure, an archway opened into another chamber. Perhaps another tomb, or an exit passage.

"We don't have time to find a way out,"

Rowan murmured as she strode into the tomb.

"And the caves remain safer than the surface."

"I'm not looking for a way out," she said in that calm, unmoved voice. She stooped, swiping up a fistful of gold coins stamped with forgotten king's face. "We're going to need to fund our travels. And the gods know what else." Rowan arched a brow. Aelin shrugged and shoved the gold into the pocket of her cloak. "Unless the pitiful clinking I heard from your coin purse didn't indicate you were low on funds."

That spark of wry humor, the taunting … She was trying. For his sake, or the others' maybe her own, she was trying.

Rowan gave the Lion a slashing grin. "You heard the lady."

A flash ruptured from where Fenrys had been sniffing at a trunk of jewels, and then a male was standing there. His gray clothes worn, but intactin better shape than the hollowed-out look in his eyes.

Aelin paused her looting.

Fenrys's throat bobbed, as if trying to remember speech. Then he said hoarsely, "We needed more pockets." He patted his own for emphasis.

Aelin's lips curved in a hint of a smile. She blinked at Fenrys—three times.

Fenrys blinked once in answer.

A code. They'd made up some silent code to communicate when he'd been ordered to remain in his wolf form.

Aelin's smile remained, just barely, as she walked to the golden-haired male, his bronze skin ashen. She opened her arms in silent offer.

To let him decide if he wished for contact. If he could endure it.

Just as Rowan would let her decide if she wished to touch him.

A small sigh broke from Fenrys before he folded Aelin into his arms, a shudder rippling through him. Rowan couldn't see her face, perhaps didn't need to, as her hands gripped Fenrys's jacket, so tightly they were white-knuckled.

A good sign—a small miracle, that either of them wished, could be touched. Rowan reminded himself of it, even while some intrinsic, male part of him tensed at the contact.

A territorial Fae bastard, she'd once called him. He'd do his best not to live up to that title.

"Thank you," Aelin said, her voice small in a way that made Rowan's chest crack further.

Fenrys didn't answer, but from the anguish on his face, Rowan knew no thanks were in order.

They pulled away, and Fenrys cupped her cheek. "When you are ready, we can talk."

About what they'd endured. To unravel all that had happened.

Aelin nodded, blowing out a breath. "Likewise."

She resumed shoving gold into her pockets, but glanced back to Fenrys, his face drawn. "I gave you the blood oath to save your life," she said. "But if you do not want it, Fenrys, I ... we can find some way to free you—"

"I want it," Fenrys said, no trace of his usual swaggering humor. He glanced to Rowan, and bowed his head. "It is my honor to serve this court. And serve you," he added to Aelin.

She waved a hand in dismissal, though Rowan didn't fail to note the sheen in her eyes as she stooped to gather more gold. Giving her a moment, he strode to Fenrys and clasped his shoulder. "It's good to have you back." He added, stumbling a bit on the word, "Brother." For that's what they would be. Had never been before, but what Fenrys had done for Aelin .. Yes, brother was what Rowan would call him. Even if Fenrys's own—

Fenrys's dark eyes flickered. "She killed Connall. Made him stab himself in the heart." A pearl-and-ruby necklace scattered from Gavriel's fingers.

The temperature in the tomb spiked, but there was no flash of flame, no swirl of embers.

As if Aelin's magic had surged, only to be leashed again.

Yet Aelin continued shoving gold and jewels into her pockets.

She'd witnessed it, too. That slaughter.

But it was Gavriel, approaching on silent feet even with the jewels and gold on the floor, who clasped Fenrys's other shoulder. "We will make sure that debt is paid before the end." The Lion had never uttered such words not toward their former queen. But fury burned in Gavriel's tawny gaze. Sorrow and fury.

Fenrys took a steadying breath and stepped away, the loss on his face mingling with something Rowan couldn't place. But now wasn't the time to ask, to pry.

Aelin continued picking her way amongst the treasure, however. She'd been more selective than the rest of them, examining pieces with what Rowan had assumed was a jeweler's eye. The gods knew she'd owned enough finery to tell what would fetch the highest price at market.

"We should go," he said. His own pockets were near to bursting, his every step weighed down.

She rose from a rusted metal chest she'd been riffling through.

Rowan remained still as she approached, something clenched in her palm. It was only when she stopped close enough for him to touch her that she unfurled her fingers.

Two golden rings lay there.

"I don't know the Fae customs," she said.

The thicker ring held an elegantly cut ruby within the band itself, while the smaller one bore a sparkling rectangular emerald mounted atop, the stone as large as her fingernail. "But when humans wed, rings are exchanged." Her fingers trembled-just slightly. Too many unspoken words lay between them. Yet now was not the time for that conversation, for that healing.

Not when they had to be on their way as swiftly as possible, and this offer she'd made him, this proof that she still wanted what lay between them, the vows they'd sworn ...

"I assume the sparkly emerald is for me," Rowan said with a half smile.

She huffed a laugh. The soft, whispered sound was as precious as the rings she'd found for them in this hoard. She took his hand, and he tried not to shudder in relief, tried not to fall to his knees as she slid the ruby ring onto his finger. It fit him perfectly, the ring no doubt forged for the king lying in this barrow.

Silently, Rowan grasped her own hand and eased on the emerald ring. "To whatever end," he whispered.

Silver lined her eyes. "To whatever end." A reminder-and a vow, more sacred than the wedding oaths they'd sworn on that ship.

To walk this path together, back from the darkness of the iron coffin. To face what waited in Terrasen, ancient promises to the gods be damned.

He ran his thumb over the back of her hand.

"I'll make the tattoo again." She swallowed, but nodded. "And," he added, "I'd like to add another. To me—and to you."

Her brows flicked up, but he squeezed her hand. You'll have to wait and see, Princess.

Another hint of a smile. She didn't balk from the silent words this time. Typical.

He opened his mouth to voice the question he'd been dying to ask for days now. May I kiss you? But she pulled her hand from his.

Admiring the wedding band sparkling on her finger, her mouth tightened as she turned over her palm. "I'll need to retrain."

Not a single callus marked her hands.

Aelin frowned at her too-thin body. "And pack on some muscle again." A slight quiver graced her words, but she curled her hands into fists at her sides and smirked at her clothes—the Mistward clothes. "It'll be just like old times."

Trying. She was dredging up that swagger and trying. So he would, too. Until she didn't need to any more.

Rowan gave her a crooked grin. "Just like old times," he said, following her out of the barrow and back toward the ebony river, "but with far less sleep."

He could have sworn the passageway heated. But Aelin kept going.

Later. That conversation, this unfinished business between them, would come later.

[bmpmp3]

Getting into stuff that has a lot of pre-announced release dates is really good for me like vocal synthesizer products and new love live etc franchise music releases....I'll be lying in bed at like 2 AM with ur usual 20-something's fear and existentialism over time and the future and then I'll remember a piece of singing software or a new song related to cartoon characters I like is gonna come out like next month and I'm like 😌

[fappellmoan]

when i say get me OUT OF HERE. yeah ok so i redownloaded the devils app (tinder) and after swiping through all the like spam and couples and random men that popped up and stuff i got to someone and i was like Oh theyre hot they seem cool geeked abt seeing if we match. HALT! is that my friend sams roommate. fuck. right. and is that another gay girl that maybe tried to slide in my dms once but i was so far up film girl's ass at the time i didnt think about it. in their one photo. right. and what's their name? we dont need to talk about it. im sick