#and all the well-wishes and personal notes

[lauraneedstochill]

mad about you

pairing: Jack Abbot x lawyer!reader summary: it was supposed to be a one-night stand but Jack can’t stop thinking about you. what he expects the least is for you to arrive at his ER — and not as a patient. (or, alternatively: Jack meets the right person at the right time. and he lets love in)

warnings: 🔞 descriptions of injuries / smut (some teasing, fingering, p in v), Jack being touch-starved and a little rusty (or so he thinks ;). an unexpected amount of domestic fluff, mentions of Jack losing his wife and being shy about his prosthesis / words: 17K / author’s note: I love me a bossy reader but most importantly, I wanted to write someone who can appreciate Jack for the hot man that he is (yes, I got carried away with smut and softness... OH WELL) ♡ {read on AO3}

There is a feeling that’s been growing roots in Jack — it’s agitation that’s akin to premonition. His recent shifts have been too quiet, uneventful, downright boring. With hands trained to save lives, Jack has to spend his nights treating mild burns and accidental cuts, a few drunkards with bruises and concussions, appendicitis being the most exciting diagnosis he made this week. Any sane doctor would be glad to get a break, but Jack finds it annoying.

Because he needs work to keep his head busy, to have something else occupy his thoughts. He wants his hands sweating in gloves, covered in blood — so he’d have an excuse to wash them clean, so he’d get a chance to scrub off the feeling of your body under his fingers—

Jack shakes his head, a movement barely visible, quick like a flinch. He tries shaking off the memories of you — and he keeps failing. Because it feels like they are tucked away in every corner of his flat, and even when exhaustion manages to drag him into sleep, you are the only thing he dreams of. He always wakes up hard. His bedcovers all wet, breath heavy, mind clouded, heart pounding. And what he brims with is not lust but yearning, so strong that he’d go to the other side of town on foot if he could get another chance to see you.

But he’s got no address he can come to, and no phone number he can dial just to hear your voice.

So Jack saddles himself with work — however temporary this fix is, he’s got no other in the meantime. He picks up extra hours, covers extra patients. It isn’t nearly enough. And he is mildly annoyed at this predicament he’s stuck in, at the repeating cycle of the same bland days — nothing to challenge him or bring a speckle of relief. Or keep his mind from wandering back to that moment with you — it’s not the filthiest he can remember but the one he wishes to relive the most:

the hair around your face is damp, and you’re a little breathless — he feels your chest heaving, still pressed to his, arms wrapped around his neck, a tight embrace neither of you wants to break. The bedroom’s dark but he forgot to draw the curtains, and the gloaming light traces your curves and sparkles on your skin that’s glistening with sweat, still heated in every place he touched it. And Jack’s completely spent but something’s kindling in his ribcage — a fire breathed into the embers, the warmth he thought he’d never feel again — it’s growing every time he looks at you — and every time you glance right back at him, and smile at him, and kiss him, and—

“Will you stop fidgeting?” Dana snaps at him mid-yawn. “It’s 7 am, and just looking at you gives me a headache.”

“Then look somewhere else,” Jack flings back. He instantly feels guilty and puts the tablet down. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, fingers unwittingly tapping on the table.

“Oh, someone’s snappy,” but she doesn’t take offence — instead she turns her chair to him, eyes slightly narrowed. “You’ve been walking around all tense and brooding these past few weeks, don’t think I haven’t noticed. Wanna talk about it?”

“It’s nothing,” Jack mumbles. He almost grimaces at his own lie, at how far from reality it is. So he grudgingly sprinkles some truth in: “I guess I’m just bored. Haven’t got much to do. It’s been too qui—”

Dana springs out of her chair and covers his mouth with her palm. “Nope. My shift just started and you already want to jinx it? How about you save that enthusiasm until the night rolls in, and then you can have planes falling from the skies for all I care.”

“I see you finally took matters into your own hands,” Robby strides in with his backpack and takes off the sunglasses, his brown eyes on Dana. “Was he trying to pass on his existential crisis?”

“Can we muzzle him?”

“And put him on a leash? I thought about it. But he will probably escape, and we’ll have an angry dog on the loose and barking,” he grins, gaze darting to Abbot, and Dana laughs.

“You think you’re so fucking funny,” Jack mumbles.

His agitation ebbs a little — enough for him to take a breath as he stretches his back. But your touches must be etched into his muscles because he’s momentarily reminded of your fingertips ghosting his shoulder blades, of your lips trailing for the pulse point on his neck — and what was once a bliss is now a torment he is powerless against. Abbot exhales with exasperation.

The phone rings. Dana loses her smile and gives Jack a glare. “This better not be a mass casualty event,” she whispers before picking it up. But her concerns aren’t brought into existence — her face is only half-focused, mostly apathetic as she informs:

“A shooting at the county court. One victim, GSW to the chest and —” her brows knit together at whatever details she’s receiving. “So it’s two?... Well, it ain’t nuclear physics, just count them. I’d like to know how many people we’re getting... Alrighty, we’ll do the counting ourselves,” she hangs up and clicks her tongue.

McKay runs by to say hi before resuming the heated conversation she is having on the phone. Langdon comes in unhurriedly, hands in his pockets, his eyes drawn to the board. Santos is next, Whitaker trailing after her — he’s always half-asleep, she’s never not excited to get to work.

“Any interesting cases this morning?”

“Waiting for a GSW. Apparently, the main witness on some case — shot in the chest and leg, it’s not looking good. Said they couldn’t use a D-fib on him because he’s coming with a company.”

Robby sends Dana an inquiring glance. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Fuck if I know. I haven’t even gotten my first cup of coffee yet,” she looks at Jack — pensive, stiff, barely listening to her — and snaps her fingers in his face. “Hey, midnight ranger, isn’t it time for you to clock out? We’ve got a whole team, we’ll manage. Go home.”

“I plan on doing that once I finish the paperwork,” he replies flatly, tapping on the screen.

“If that’s what you are into, you can do mine too. Wanna also file my taxes while you’re at it?”

“I’ll gladly tell the IRS to lock you up for tax fraud to get you off my back,” Abbot deadpans, earning a dry laugh from her.

“Gunshot is boring,” Langdon muses.

Dana’s laugh turns into a groan. “Not this again. Why can’t you guys enjoy the peace and quiet?”

“I mean, if he doesn’t die, he’ll go straight to the OR, not much for us to do. I was hoping for something more—” he suddenly stops talking. There is a sound of wheels gliding across the floor, and a pause sweeps over the hall — the conversations die down, the movements halted — and then Jack hears Frank muttering: “What the hell?”

So Abbot absentmindedly follows his gaze. And just like everyone around him, he is left speechless.

The gunshot victim is a man: mid-sixty, stubby-looking, pale-faced and breathing only by some miracle. But he isn’t wheeled in alone — there is a woman sitting right on top of him, her stark white blouse doused with blood, one of her hands pressed to his chest, three of her fingers shoved into his wound. The crimson droplets glisten in her hair, the same color smeared over her hands up to the wrists, but she’s not scared or appalled. There’s not a single crack in her composure, no quiver in her body or her face —

Jack recognizes you in barely a heartbeat.

And he is frozen not out of surprise. He’s marveling at you like you’re under a spotlight and he’s in a daze, and there is no one else left in the hall. Because you look the exact same you did all these days back, the first time that he saw you. The one time he’ll never forget.

Jack met you over three weeks ago (24 days to be exact, not that he’s been counting). It was supposed to be a one-night stand—

No, actually, scratch that.

It was an evening Abbot didn’t plan on spending with anyone but a glass of whiskey. It was the only remedy that he could think of after the shift he had.

A couple was brought in at 4 am: in their early thirties, newlywed — their car swerved off the road, rolled over four times before hitting a tree. The guy died at the scene, his wife crashed twice on the way to the ER. She was three months pregnant. Jack spent oven an hour coding her; she spent twice as much time in the OR. Two blood transfusions, one kidney out, three broken ribs, dozen of stitches on her stomach and her head. He watched her being transferred to the ICU, then he made calls to notify both families: there were heartbreaking cries, prayers he feared would be left unanswered. Jack came up to the roof to catch his breath — the air outside was moist and stifling, the sky draped with the clouds the sun couldn’t plough through. It was his day off but he didn’t leave — instead Jack walked the stairs and halls until his legs ached, until he could do nothing else but pass out in the call room.

He wakes up in the evening, hardly rested — the female patient still hasn’t woken up. And there is a chance she never will. But if she does, he knows that the reality will hurt her worse than broken ribs and bruises.

When he walks out of the ER, the rain is pouring and his head is pounding, and he thinks if he just goes home, the silence would feel too suffocating to let him fall asleep. He’s too distraught to change out of scrubs, he cares not about the cold droplets hitting his face like needles. He wipes them off and runs into the closest bar — he’s met with semi-darkness and cool air, no blaring music and no flashing neon signs. The quiet is comforting, veiled with the faint sounds of jazz, the place smelling of wood and orange peel and liquor. It’s too early for the crowds to swarm it, but Jack pays no attention to the few people that came in. He strides straight to the counter and orders whiskey — double with no ice, then picks a small table in the farthest corner. He’s a few steps away from reaching it when his eye catches on your blouse — silk, silvery, fitted so well around your waist. But he doesn’t allow his gaze to linger. That’s not what he came for, that’s not what he is interested in.

He sits down with a heavy sigh and a heavy heart. He takes the first sip, then the second one. The alcohol spreads slowly through him, wicks up the bitterness of disappointment threatening to clot his blood like poison. Jack breathes a little easier by the time he drinks half of his glass. His gaze sweeps over his surroundings — distractedly, uncaring — before it’s drawn to you again.

You’re sitting on a bar stool with your back to him. You brought your work with you — a small black laptop on the counter, the keyboard soundless under your fingers, eyes on the screen. Occasionally, you reach for the same lowball glass — with ice and lemon, half-full — he guesses it’s a gin tonic. You are too locked in to take notice of what’s going on around you. With each new minute Jack finds it harder to look away.

He tells himself the lighting is to blame — it scatters all over your blouse, drips over every crinkle, making the fabric look like molten metal, like white gold. It’s neatly tucked into the waistband of your pants: dark blue, formal, perfectly tight around your thighs. His eyes snag on them — he feels a flash of hunger, a heat that swiftly spills into his bloodstream.

On the periphery of his vision, Jack sees a guy coming your way. He wears a smirk, eyes roaming over you — he takes a moment to appreciate your curves too, before his gaze lazily moves higher, to your face and to whatever you’re working on —

And then he yelps.

A few heads turn in his direction, but you don’t move a muscle, don’t even send him a half-glance. The guy abruptly loses all his feigned determination. But Jack’s determined like no other.

Because now he is curious. Now he has a better reason to keep looking.

Jack straightens on his seat. He searches eagerly for clues — but you don’t give them out easily: no badge, no uniform, no logo of the company you work for. And there’s confidence in your relaxed pose and posture, a hint of cockiness in the slight curve of your back. Two more guys try to hit on you: the first peeks through your shoulder and retreats with a horrified grimace, the second one manages a word or two before you cut him off, and he has to leave with nothing.

And Jack doesn’t even try to rationalize his actions — the pull he feels is the mere reason he stands up, glass in his hand, eyes fixed on you.

He gets the explanation for everyone’s dismay when your laptop’s screen comes into his view. It’s crime scene photos — bright, brutal, bloody: a dead body, deep and frantic wounds left by a knife. Jack’s seen enough of those in real life to not be bothered. But he thinks it’s impressive how unbothered you are.

He leans on the counter, one stool in between you, his voice nonchalant. “That looks like someone’s getting buried in a closed casket.”

“Yes, 17 stab wounds do that to a person,” you reply curtly, fingers flying over the keys.

His eyes flick down your profile and over every feature of your face — your cool demeanor invites no conversation. His gaze darts back at the stained flesh and scattering of cuts.

“It’s not the stabbing that killed her though.”

“Correct,” you still refuse to spare him a glance.

But Jack’s not used to giving up so fast. And maybe he is champing at the bit to glimpse a part of you no one in here was in luck to see.

“Most wounds are in her stomach area. Was she pregnant?”

Your fingers pause at his remark — for just a moment, yet he notices. A corner of his mouth curls. You keep typing but your voice loses a layer of indifference.

“Careful, you already sound smarter than the entire defense team.”

“Now I am tempted to continue. The suspect is a male, I reckon? A boyfriend or a husband?”

You huff a laugh at his insistence. Jack takes half a step closer. And then you turn to get a look at him, at that man who dared to move into your space.

Your gaze is direct, dissecting — like he is on the operation table, and you’re about to masterfully cut him into parts. It is a gaze that doesn’t make apologies for bluntness, it can effortlessly give warnings and make treats. But you choose to show him mercy.

“She wanted to get married. Naively hoped a baby would encourage him to.”

“And he never wanted kids,” Abbot deduces, not hiding his disapproval. “Did he try an impromptu mix of pills for an abortion?”

“That would require some research and also him having more than one brain cell,” your disapproval sounds like dislike. “He just emptied half a bag of heroin into her tea. She, unsurprisingly, OD’ed. Instead of calling 911, he tried to cover it up.”

“So his one brain cell wasn’t present,” Jack gives a snort of disgust. “And what’s his lawyer’s take?”

“He claims she took the drugs herself, then caused a fight. While being on the brink of death, yes,” there is a furrow in your brow, your tone sharp, simmering. “He wants it classified as a third-degree murder, so in a decade his asshole client can walk out on the promise of good behavior. I want him charged with two counts of first-degree murder. Life sentence with no parole.”

You take your cocktail and finish it in barely two sips, then ask the bartender for a third one. You catch Jack’s gaze, and he notes incredulously: “You seem stone-cold sober.”

“Can say the same about you.”

He looks down at his whiskey like he almost forgot he had it. “It’s actually my first.”

You look at him like you are making an incision and carefully assessing his internal damage. When you get your drink — poured over lemon slices and crushed ice — you swiftly move the glass to him. “You should give mine a try.”

“I’m not sure mixing drinks is a good idea—”

“Trust me on this,” you insist, eyes darting to the badge on his black scrubs, the syllables of his last name softly rolling off your tongue. “Dr. Abbot.”

The sound ripples through his chest, like you just pulled a heartstring that no one’s touched in years. “Jack,” he corrects. “Less formal.”

He asks for your name in return and takes your cocktail, gives it a swirl then has a sip. Jack raises his eyebrow at the taste. He tries some more to get a confirmation.

“This is... plain water?”

You nod with a small smile, without a hint of shame. “I don’t enjoy being drunk. But if I sit here with a bottle of Perrier, that would raise questions.”

“So you ask to make it look fancy, like a cocktail,” Jack figures out, then chuckles. “And you suggest that I stop drinking.”

“You haven’t touched your glass in the last 10 minutes. My guess is that you don’t really want to.”

When your eyes meet, he feels like you can see right through, bypassing all the locks he’s been meticulously putting over his emotions. It’s strange, it’s very new to him. It’s also somewhat thrilling.

Jack finally sits on the bar stool next to you. There is a small space between his legs and yours — he doesn’t cross it. You don’t move away. His hand stays clasped around his glass.

“The first half of it felt nice. Like maybe it could dull things down a little. But I don’t like getting drunk, too.”

“Having trouble at work?” you ask simply, with no pity and no pressure.

He thinks it over like he is looking at the baggage — of his past and present, bad and worse, deciding what bag he can open first. Which one’s less scary. “I work night shifts. The last one was pretty rough.”

But you prefer to start with the worst one — eyes trained on the ring he’s wearing. “So you came here to blow off some steam instead of coming home to your wife?”

The words hit him — not like a punch but like a stream of ice-cold water. He isn’t hurt, he’s startled — by how fast you notice things, how straightforward you are with voicing them. Nothing escapes your eye, no matter how deep it’s been buried. And it’s the grave that he almost laid himself in.

The ring was once a promise, then a wound — after his wife’s death, the metal band only reminded of the pain, of how impossible it seemed to ever heal. He knew the exact time she passed, he counted days and hours he managed to survive alone. It was unbearable and crushing, it felt hopeless. Now he only thinks about her once a year.

Jack doesn’t ponder over his answer for too long. He shares the truth as if he’s offering his palms — so you can read the lines and see the scars he usually keeps hidden.

“I’m a widower. This is just...” he twists the ring slowly with his thumb. “Out of a habit, I suppose.”

You turn your whole body to him, your back straight and hands locked together. Like you are about to interrogate him. “And how long you’ve been a widower?”

Jack doesn’t break eye contact. “Five years.”

“What happened?” you hold his gaze with ease.

“Glioblastoma. She was gone in seven months.”

He sees it flicker across your face — the ache of sympathy for him after what he’s been through. The unexpected understanding of what it feels like.

“That is a tough one. It doesn’t leave much at the end,” your voice softens and so does your gaze. “It’s hard to watch someone die like that. I’m really sorry.”

“Someone you knew also had it?” he takes another guess.

He’s on a lucky streak — you drop your gaze because he’s right again. He wishes that he wasn’t.

“My mentor, the first man I worked for. The best one, I think,” your finger traces the cold rim of your glass. Jack almost reaches out to take your hand. “He was too busy to take care of himself, got diagnosed when it was too late for any treatments. He made it to eight months.”

Jack moves his whiskey to your water, clinks his glass with yours. The look you give him offers an apology. He doesn’t need it — the words he gives you only offer kindness:

“I’m sorry you had to see that too.”

There is a lull in your conversation but it’s not awkward, isn’t heavy. It feels like clearing up the space the grief used to take up. It feels a little bit like hope.

Jack clears his throat and points at the gruesome photos on your screen. “Are you even allowed to open these in public?”

You chuckle dryly and roll your eyes. “The case’s been all over the news because his daddy is some pop music producer. You can find the photos on TMZ.” Then you consider him — a night-shift doctor, a tired man, a stranger who tasted the same pain you did. “Although you are probably too busy for stuff like that.”

You close your laptop with one hand, your sharp attention now all on him. Your knees brush his, and you don’t seem uncomfortable with it.

“What happened to you at work?”

Jack lets out a sigh, twiddles with the black band of his watch. “Got a car crash victim. Not sure she will pull through. She also lost her husband and her baby so waking up won’t be much of a relief either.”

“Was there anything you didn’t do? That could’ve saved any of them?”

“No,” he says without a doubt, although with sadness. “He died on impact. She was three months pregnant, so the baby didn’t have a chance.”

“Which means that none of it is your fault. You didn’t kill anyone, you are actually the reason she did get a chance to live,” you tell him calmly.

Jack shakes his head. “Maybe she won’t.”

“Maybe she will.”

“You are being optimistic,” he argues, a tad glum.

“I’m being rational. Give it a try,” you retort.

“Yes, I’m sure that some good-old rationalizing will make me feel a lot better,” his words don’t bite, but there’s frustration in his gaze, in how he rubs the back of his neck.

“Okay, I’ll do it for you,” and then you lean to him, one knee sliding in between his two, your perfume redolent of bergamot and jasmine, fresh and a tad sweet. Jack is dumbfounded by how close you are, how casually you do it. He makes an effort not to follow the streak of light that sneaks down your neckline. Your eyes are set firmly on him like you’re dead set on changing his whole world. He lets you.

“How many patients did you treat this week? I don’t need the exact number, an approximate will do.”

“I don’t know, over 40. Maybe 50.”

“Let’s say it’s 45. How many of them died? Just those two?” — he gives you a short nod. You move an inch closer so he can hear you over the other voices that already fill the bar. “How many of them were women of fertile age?”

“What?” he blinks with pure puzzlement, his hand going from his neck back to the counter, bumping into yours. “How would I know that, I don’t really—”

“In the US, females outnumber males by less than 1%, and about one-third of them are over 65. Which means around 16 women you treated probably can have kids,” the space between you is shortened by another inch. “Let’s say 10 of them want to and they will. That’s at least 10 babies that will be born because you didn’t fuck up. 10 babies after just one week of you being a good doctor. 40 babies after a month and 480 in one year.”

He doesn’t bother with the counting — instead, he notices: the fragrance you’re wearing also has notes of peach and lilies. And your close presence and your voice make all the noise around him disappear.

“You’re good with numbers,” Jack says with quiet fascination.

“I’m good at recognizing shitty people,” you tell him plainly, your thumb brushing his wrist — on accident, he thinks, but his whole arm warms up. “I’ve dealt with doctors who maimed their patients like it meant nothing. I’ve seen them make the stupidest mistakes they didn’t think twice about. But if you care too much, you need to rewire your brain to make it easier to function,” and when your palm covers his hand — it’s unmistakably intentional, it is a feeling he forgot existed: the comfort of a simple touch. “So next time things don’t work out — not even because of something you did, but because shit happens, — instead of wearing sackcloth and ashes, think of the dozens of chubby babies and dozens of families you gave a chance at happiness because you did everything right.”

You tell it to him like it’s indisputable, the truth that’s carved in stone. Deep down, he is aware that he’s good at what he does and bad at taking credit for it, sometimes downright refusing. But he couldn’t argue with you even if he wanted. Because Jack’s struggling to get his head together — the struggle comes from your hand still being pressed to his. And now that he knows the feeling of your skin, it���s hard to act like just one touch will be enough. Like he isn’t in dire need of more.

“I’ve never thought about it like that,” Jack manages, and it isn’t a lie. The truth lies deeper: he never thought he’d want someone like that, never imagined feeling so touch-starved.

“You should. Maybe you’re single-handedly responsible for keeping this city’s population up,” you smile at him, and it’s sincere. But you’re looking at him like he’s an open book and his feelings are as clear as ink on paper.

And you don’t take your hand away, and Jack can feel the pull again. He welcomes it.

“You keep saying things like that, and it will get to my head,” his voice gets low too — and it’s him who is leaning forward.

Your gaze isn’t wavering from his. “And what’s the worst thing that can happen?”

He doesn’t waver when he says: “I’ll dare to take more risks.”

“What will the first one be?”

“Asking if I can take you home.”

You aren’t surprised and aren’t scandalized. You don’t even take time to think. “Are you suggesting I should wrap up my work session?”

“I think you already did,” a smile ghosts Jack’s lips.

The effect whiskey had on him was fleeting. You are way more intoxicating. Your palm is at his elbow, and his pulse is racing, and for how rational and logic-driven he usually is, this time he doesn’t want to be: he thinks of taking you away from prying eyes, he thinks of kissing you, he thinks he can give one-night stands a go —

There is a sound of sottish laughter, then something splashing and someone cursing. Not much liquid gets on your blouse but Jack gets on his foot like he’s about to get into a fight. The guy who spilled his cocktail on you is too slow-witted to access the threat. You quickly put yourself between them, your hand blindly finding Jack’s, your fingers on his wrist. And instantly his anger goes down by half.

The clumsy partygoer sends you a smirk. “Your man looks like he wants to say somethin'.”

“And you look like someone who doesn’t want to be thrown out of the bar on a random Thursday. Keep walking,” you tell him in a tone so cold, he sobers up, losing his smirk. The guy apologizes incoherently and darts away to blend into the crowd.

When you turn to Jack, he is already looking at you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m pretty sure it was a Mojito, and he mostly spilled the ice. It won’t even leave a stain. I’m just gonna pay a visit to the hand dryer in the bathroom,” you put the laptop in its slim black bag and leave a few bills on the counter. “You probably should wait outside,” and then your hand glides lightly over his chest, like you’re smoothing out his shirt. “Wouldn’t want any drinks spilled on you.”

And as Jack watches you walk — each step with purpose, hips swaying — he surely feels like he needs some air.

By now, the rain has eased, and through the thinned-out clouds he can see wisps of sunset, beads of pink and yellow. And in the chill of the approaching night, his confidence wanes just a little. Isn’t he too old for this? Aren’t you too good for him? How long has it been since he had someone in his bed? The last one he actually knows a clear answer to. It’s hardly reassuring.

Jack catches the sound of your heeled boots before you come out — with no stain on the blouse, no hesitation in your gaze. He knows the more he waits, the less likely he is to go through with it. So he says it — quickly, like ripping off a bandaid:

“My apartment is just around the corner.”

And he thinks you are about to decline. His misperception lasts for barely five seconds — and then your face splits into a smile: not pitying, not forced, but bright like the sunlight he’s been missing. Your words come out a tad pensive:

“You know, I was having such a bad day when I came to the bar.”

“Was?” Jack echoes, eyes on you, all his uncertainty replaced by skin-prickling excitement. He will have you, even if only once. Because you want this, too.

“I think my night might be way better,” you come closer as you give him confirmation: it’s in your mellow gaze, in fingers raring to touch him — they graze his arm, shoulder, base of his neck. The smile never leaves your face. “Your apartment sounds like a good start.”

And Jack wants to kiss you so fucking badly. But not on the steps of some overcrowded bar.

Not while you’re rushing through the drizzle, and your hand catches his, and he holds onto it without thinking. Not at the bus stop where you take a break, and you soak up the fading sunshine with your eyes closed, your skin glowing, his heart skipping a beat, twice. Not in the lobby of his building you walk through hand in hand. Not in the elevator — not even when you press the top button without asking.

“How did you guess?” he wonders, his gaze focused on your lips. He catches you looking at his before you give a reply.

“I just prefer the top floor, too.”

Jack lets you in first and locks the door behind him, not in a hurry but a little bit on edge. He’s trying not to be self-conscious about every part of his apartment. You take your shoes off, your laptop and your phone left on the hinged shelf at the entrance. And then you take it all in, but you aren’t scrutinizing or perplexed or judging. You look around like it’s exactly how you pictured it, like everything about his place makes sense.

The contrast of light walls and dark parquet, a small amount of furniture — minimalistic, spotless, simple. But there is a scattering of things that catch your gaze. A stack of old CDs and a small Sony player, the plastic case already rubbed off at the corners. A tier of books with countless bookmarks tucked between the pages. A pile of med journals and printouts of studies with his jotting in the margins, a dozen multi-colored pens stacked into a whiskey glass. A coffee table that you can tell was made by hand — black walnut wood, coarse-grained, a few tool marks around the apron. You delicately trace them with your finger in silent appreciation of his dedication and his skill. Jack barely can remember why he was even worried.

And then you step into his bedroom, and he can think of nothing else.

It’s half-dark, the floor windows left uncovered because he was in a rush to leave. You keep the lights off. You walk to where the twilight is bleeding through the glass, the hues of red and violet covering the floor. The dim light contours the collar of your blouse, the specks of silver shimmering like moonlight on the water. Jack is so mesmerized, he doesn’t catch it right away — the way your fingers move down to the row of buttons. You turn to face him with the first one carelessly undone.

“I thought you’d want to take this off yourself,” you then unbutton the second one — and look him in the eye. “Do you?”

“You can’t seriously have doubts,” he rasps, his pupils blown wide, mouth craving yours — or any part of you that you can give him.

Your hands stop. And then your voice drops, beckoning. “What are you waiting for?”

Jack crosses the distance in a heartbeat.

It’s not a crash — it feels like it’s a fusion, your body molding perfectly against his as soon as he pulls you closer by the hips. You meet him not with hesitation but with need, your lips sure, soft, searing — he kisses you back so fervently, it makes his head dizzy. It makes him want you more. Your every move sets fire in him, and you tend to it with skill: you grip his shirt with one hand, the other tracing up his spine — until it settles at his nape, your fingers threading through his hair, and his breath hitches. You only pull away to give him air and guide both of his hands up to your blouse. His frail composure barely lasts another minute while he works the buttons — until he sees your bra: thin black lace.

“You wear this on a random Thursday?” Jack groans, then dips his head to leave hot open-mouth kisses down your chest. He tugs at the lace slightly with his teeth, and you tug at his hair.

“Try not to tear it apart,” you tell him, half a joke and half a warning; but your tone suggests that you won’t mind.

His lips find yours again because he can’t stop craving them, hands wandering under your blouse as he walks you blindly to the bed. You’re a step away, and his imagination already paints the picture — your body naked and writhing under his mouth — but then you grab into his clothes, maneuvering him to turn — and in a second he is pushed onto the mattress. Time freezes for the shortest moment as you look him over, your lips parted, your fingertips skating up his cheek, and Jack leans instantly into your touch. With the same hand you bring his mouth back to yours, and now you share the same hunger: you straddle him and tug at the black scrubs and the white t-shirt he wears under, and Jack is fumbling with your bra clasp, too eager and too lost in you —

The pain’s not sharp but sudden. It shoots from his knee up to the hip, and Jack flinches with a hiss, breaking the kiss.

“What’s wrong?” you instantly pull back, studying his face.

Jack feels blood rushing to his cheeks. He shifts uncomfortably in place. “It’s my leg.”

You look down. “Which one?”

He stifles an embarrassed sigh and grudgingly hitches up his right pant leg, revealing the prosthesis. “My muscles cramp up sometimes when I bend the knee,” Jack moves one hand down to help stretch his leg forward, the metal frame catching the light.

You keep your eyes on it as you say musingly: “Oh, you are full of surprises, Dr. Abbot.”

You make a face he can’t match to an emotion — is it regret? Are you disappointed? Will you leave now? But then you reach your hand to where the prosthesis meets the limb and carefully trace the scarred tissue. Your touch is light at first, but slowly you apply more pressure, your thumb and middle finger massaging the sides of his leg.

“Do you need to remove it?” you ask, not bothered in the slightest.

“Not yet,” Jack breathes out in relief, feeling the pain and tension fading — as is his shame.

And when he meets your gaze, you read him once again: his fears, his insecurities, everything he’s used to hide and overthink. And your eyes sparkle with an intent to prove him wrong. You move your fingers up his leg, unhurriedly, unwavering, making a teasing stop to dip your thumb under the waistband of his pants. He almost bucks up his hips. You hitch his shirts up and drag over his head, then throw aside with one quick motion — and when your fingertips skim under his navel, Jack lets out a quivering exhale. Your hands slide up his chest, his every muscle tensing under your touch, your body leaning closer inch by inch, until he feels your breath fanning his face.

Your words are quiet but they burn his mouth: “There isn’t a part of you I don’t find hot.”

Jack can’t think of a time he ever felt so wanted. He also can’t do much thinking when you are kissing him, your tongue darting between his lips, your hips grinding against him, and he is getting harder with each second, with each movement.

“Sorry, should’ve told you sooner,” he mumbles when you break apart. “Didn’t want to ruin the moment.”

Your laughter tickles in the crook between his neck and shoulder, your lips mapping a route to the hollow of his throat. And then your kisses travel higher — the slope of his jaw, the spot behind his ear — and he is aching to get more, and he can never get enough.

“You can’t possibly ruin this,” your eyes are locked on him again so he knows that you mean it. “You barely touched me, and I’m already soaked.”

Jack sucks in a breath. His palm moves to lay flat against your stomach, then glides behind your waistband, to where you’re waiting for his touch. He feels the wetness through the lace — you spread your legs wider — and he pushes the black material aside to find you slick, warm, already throbbing.

His eyes look a shade darker in the amber of the dusk. “This all for me?” Jack asks dazedly, his finger teasing at your entrance.

“Wanna do something about it?” you murmur.

He slips a finger in, drawing a moan from your lips — the sound goes straight to his cock. His other hand moves to your hip, presses you into him so you can feel the bulge beneath his pants. And then Jack starts thrusting into you, precise and fast, his tentativeness melting away like ice on fire.

“How am I doing?” his tone teases.

And he already has his answer — it’s in the sounds you make, in how your hips are moving eagerly to meet his finger. He adds a second one and hears you gasp.

“Good, s-so— fucking good,” you babble. “Didn’t expect— o-ooh anything less.”

It fuels his confidence like nothing else. He leans to you a little, his voice is thick with lust. “Take the blouse off. I don’t want to ruin it.”

Although he sounds pretty ruined himself. And you aren’t shy about reveling in it. Slowly, you let the silver fabric fall halfway down your back — and then your fingers run over your bra and tug roughly at your nipples. Jack watches, spellbound, not blinking, as they harden under the lace.

At last, he yields to his desire since it can no longer be contained. And Jack is nothing if not ravenous for you.

He pulls your bra straps down with his teeth — one then the other — and then his lips are on your skin, leaving a wet trail between your breasts; he pumps his fingers in and out, and they go knuckles-deep. He adds a third, his tongue flickering over your nipple before he gives it a light bite — and you are withering, and struggling for breath, and pleading — yes, please, Jack, d-don’t stop — and he can cum just from you gasping out his name. It doesn’t take much longer: he hits the right spot, not randomly but expertly, his thumb pressed to your clit, his every stroke commanding you to let go — and you do. Your mouth falls slack and your whole body stills, like you are struck by lightning, electric currents rippling through your veins until your blood is sweltering like you’re caught on fire.

Your thighs tremble when he pulls his fingers out. And through the half-closed eyes, you watch as his tongue darts to taste your wetness that his hand is drenched in. You reach for it without warning and lick his fingers clean. Jack groans at the sight — and then you’re swallowing that sound with your mouth. The kiss is messy, tongues and teeth — your blouse and bra join his clothes on the floor before Jack lifts you off him and drops on onto the bed. He gets your pants and panties off, tosses aside and spreads your legs — you are left fully naked, and he drinks you up: your skin the heat is rising off, the parts of you he is desperate to put his mouth on. He readily bends towards you, his kisses climbing higher — from your calf to your knee to the inside of your thigh —

“Come up,” you whisper like an order, and he obeys with bated breath.

Your lips collide, and there is intensity that makes the world around him fade, the vestiges of his old doubts reduced to ashes. You don’t feel like a blaze that scorches and leaves marks — no scratches on his back, no bruises where you touch him — instead, your hands are tender. And he is melting all the same. So when you push him on his side, then on his back, and sit on top of him, Jack voices no complaints.

You aren’t hasty with his remaining clothes — you drag the pants down first, careful around his prosthesis, curios about the traces of his past: your fingers run over the scar on his left knee, over the other on his thigh. And then your eyes move to his briefs, to the sharp outline of his cock. You pull the fabric down to free him — thick, leaking, reddened at the tip. It takes you one — two — three slow strokes — and Jack is trembling all over, his quiet exhale breaking into a low moan.

He points at the bedside table, stumbling over the words. “I forgot to— You should— Top drawer.”

You find them in the bottom one — a couple of condoms shoved into the corner like he thought they’d never be of use. You pick one, sit back on the bed, and tear the wrapper open. And then you put the condom in between your lips and teeth. You purposefully keep eye contact as you get lower — and take him in your mouth, pushing the condom slowly over his cock. Jack flinches, and his head falls back, a loud gasp ripped from his throat.

“F-fucking hell.”

You hollow your cheeks on your way up, then pull off and use your fingers to roll the condom down to the base. He stays still, hands clutching the sheets so hard, the lines of veins pop on his arms, his stomach muscles tense — as is his voice. “Don’t,” Jack pleads through gritted teeth, “I won’t last a minute.”

A grin touches your lips like you already knew he wouldn’t. Your hands go higher so he can take a breath. Your fingertips ghost across his chest, unspooling stiffness from his body and waiting for his reticence to vanish like dew in heat. And when it does, Jack pulls you closer by the arm, pulls you into a kiss that steals the air from your lungs and tastes like pure need. And it’s a need you share.

You promptly grind your hips against his, coating his cock in your arousal, only a few quick moves before you lift your thighs and slip him inside. A shudder travels through your body as he stretches you, as he finally fills you, the pleasure so intense it stuns you both. It takes you a good minute to regain your senses. You roll your hips a couple of times and then start riding him — and almost effortlessly, you find the rhythm that leaves Jack in raptures. It feels electrifying, all-consuming, desire flaring up his every cell, spreading down to his bones. And then you’re both aflame.

Jack sits up, hands roaming over you — his fingers on your hips to help you move, then toying with your nipples to make you gasp. His lips are on your throat where your rugged breath mixes with moans. You try to find the words for it — this feels s-so — fuck, Jack, you are sooo — but you are too overwhelmed to speak, and he is too transfixed on you to care. He feels that you’re getting close — your pace quickens and your voice quavers, hands clinging to his shoulders for support. And he is barrelling toward his orgasm just as fast. He breathes you in and holds you tight, heat trapped between your skin and his as you are arching into him, so soft and pliant and cock-drunk.

It is the friction of your body against his that throws you over the edge — you cry out, face buried in the curve of his neck like you are seeking shelter, unraveling so helplessly and willingly like he’s the only one allowed to have you like this. And in a second the orgasm rips through Jack — euphoric, blinding, emptying, the closest that he’s ever been to ecstasy and to losing his mind.

You are both panting, limbs entangled, your chest still pressed to his.

“I think I need a moment,” you mumble, your fingertips grazing his shoulder blades.

“Yeah, same,” Jack breathes out. “Feeling a little rusty after all these years.”

He doesn’t register the meaning of his words until you slightly pull away. The room is slipping into darkness, but he can see emotions in your eyes, like glints of the sun setting: amazement first, too obvious to hide — was he alone for five whole years? But then there is empathy and an unspoken gratitude — for you being the one that he decided to let in.

You move your hand to cup his face, a smile pulling at the edges of your mouth. “You are very far from rusty, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack leans in first, like he can’t help it — your lips meet his like you want nothing else. And you kiss him so softly, so unhurriedly, it is the kind of fondness that soothes wounds. When he draws back, he is suffused with peace, like all the damage he’s been carrying no longer weighs on him.

Jack puts the blanket over you, up to the very shoulders, and pecks your lips. “Stay right here.”

Begrudgingly, he slides out of you and snaps off the condom, then pulls up his briefs and staggers to his feet. He finds your panties and helps you put them on, his palms following the contours of your thighs like he’s appreciating art. Jack chugs some water in the kitchen, then pours you a glass — and on his way back, he rummages through his wardrobe and drags out a clean t-shirt.

“In case you want something to sleep in,” he offers as you empty the glass. “I don’t know if—”

You take the shirt without question and put it on — and then you take his hand and pull him into bed. He lies down on his back and takes off the prosthesis, letting it slide down to the floor. You drape your arm over his chest and snuggle up to him, already heavy-eyed. You trace his shoulder with your finger, then press a small kiss on it.

“I really like your arms,” you murmur sleepily.

He really likes holding you in these arms, Jack realizes. He is amazed at how easy it comes, of how much he doesn’t want to let you go.

And it feels ridiculous to ask but he can’t help it. “What about my arms?”

He can tell by your slowing breath that you are dozing off. Still, you manage in a whisper: “They are very... steady.”

He thinks about asking for your phone number. And then his mind is flooded by the faded fantasies that promptly take on color: tables for two at restaurants, fresh flowers wrapped in kraft paper, your hands that fit so well in his. Jack gently brushes a stray hair from your forehead when his eye catches on his wedding ring. He looks at it for a few seconds — but the metal band has long lost its meaning. So Jack takes the ring off and carefully turns in bed to put it in the top drawer. And then he tugs you closer, your body warm against his as he falls into the comforting embrace of sleep.

When he wakes up, the warmth’s still there.

His legs are humming, but he isn’t weary, like all the tension’s been unweaved from his sore muscles. Like he’s just had the best sleep in months. But when his hand moves to the side, he finds the bed empty — and instantly he’s overcome with what feels like loss, although he knows it shouldn’t. Because one-night stands aren’t supposed to last. Your scent still lingers on the pillowcase — crisp, clean, raindrops caught in the petals at the sunrise. He turns his head to breathe it in, eyes slowly falling shut —

And then Jack hears it.

The clinking.

The sound usually made by forks, knives, plates. The sound that’s coming from his kitchen.

Jack rubs his eyes and sits up, the remnants of his sleep dissolving in the air. He notices his clothes left neatly folded on the dresser, the prosthesis propped against his side of the bed. And his heart rushes at the thought: you did this for him. And you didn’t leave.

He gets up and gets dressed — but his every move is quiet. Quieter than usual. It is anxiety that turns into anticipation with every step he takes to where the small noises come from. And then he walks into the kitchen like he is walking into a dream he never thought would come to life.

The place is sunlit, the bright rays sprinkling specks of gold on every surface: the metal handles of the cupboards, the scuffed edges of the chairs, the glass table, and the plates on it. And then there’s you, bathing in sunlight, legs bare and hair loose — and his breath catches at the sight. You move around like you’ve already been here, like it’s a habit you just naturally follow: preparing a breakfast for him, in his kitchen, in his clothes. You are still wearing the t-shirt — it hangs loosely around your shoulders but sits tighter at your hips. Jack thinks he’d like to see all of his shirts on you.

“Did I wake you up?” you ask without turning to him, still stirring something in the pan.

“No,” his voice is hoarse from sleep. His nose picks up the smells of sizzling bacon, of something frying, sweet and spicy. “I see, you found the spatula. I genuinely thought I lost it.”

Jack hears the smile in your voice. “It’s not too complicated of a system you’ve got in here.”

Is there a system? He wasn’t aware. He unintentionally says it out loud, and you laugh softly.

“I mean, I see the logic behind it. Knives in the top drawer because you use them the most. Sometimes instead of forks, I’m guessing, because the forks were pushed so deep into the second drawer, like they hadn’t seen the light in weeks. Teaspoons stored in one of your three mugs since you only use them to stir coffee. Two tablespoons were probably left there by accident — and these are all you have, so I suspect you are no fan of soups,” you turn the stove off and move the pan onto the metal trivet, the sun beams skimming up your legs. “I do appreciate that you store all plates and bowls in one place. Although that is the only cupboard that doesn’t creak, so I am a little bit concerned by how often you actually use your dishes. The spatula was in the frying pan, by the way.”

Jack feels his heart swell with a feeling he is yet to name. You look at him over your shoulder as if you didn’t sort through his decades of chaos in a minute. “Come here, try this.”

And you don’t have to ask him twice because he’s always eager to cross the distance.

Jack walks closer, his chest brushing your back, arm circling around your waist. You scoop some food and bring it into his mouth. And almost instantly, involuntarily, he can’t hold back a hum of satisfaction.

“Wait, what is this?”

He sees your lips curling into a smile. “Food, Jack. Eggs and bacon and the two tomatoes that looked edible.”

“That’s not how they usually taste.”

You fully turn to him, another spoonful disappearing into his mouth. “Ever heard of the word flavor? You do know spices exist, right?”

He is a little torn between wanting to kiss you and stealing yet another bite. “I just use salt.”

“I figured. Your salt container is almost empty,” your smile grows wider. You wipe the corner of his mouth with your finger. “But I found a jar of Taco Seasoning in your top cupboard, so I guess you have your moments of enlightenment.”

“Got it for free when I bought a new frying pan. Half a year ago,” and you two move as if you share an instinct: he takes you by the hips, and you step back, ass pressed against the counter — and then you swiftly sit on it, and he stands in between your legs.

You pick a crispy bacon strip — he bites off a half and you eat the rest. His hands stay on your thighs as you give him two more.

“What did you do with the bacon?”

“I baked it,” your phone buzzes nearby but you ignore it, instead reaching for the pan. Jack takes it, and he doesn’t bother with the plates: he feeds you scrambled eggs himself with the utmost diligence. On the fourth spoon you lean to peck his lips, and a smile breaks across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. And suddenly he is so palpably aware of how much he wants more mornings spent like this. With you.

You give him more bacon, and he can’t refuse it, your fingertips brushing his lips as he takes hungry bites. “It feels less greasy. In a good way.”

“Because I didn’t add too much oil. There is already fat in bacon,” you take the spoon from him and scrape the leftovers off the pan, maneuvering the food into his mouth before he can protest. “Just so you know, I think that not having toasted bread at breakfast is a crime. I’m only cutting you some slack because you had a tough shift.”

He’s struggling to hide a grin. Jack drops the dishes in the sink, then moves closer to you, hands clasped around your waist. He leaves a light kiss on your shoulder.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

“A lot of my clients are immigrants. They often bring me meals as a thank you, and I always ask what they put in,” you gently comb your fingers through the grey curls framing his forehead. Jack leans in, and you bump your nose into his. “Now, I’m not gonna open a Mexican restaurant anytime soon... But I do know my spices.”

Your phone buzzes again, and when Jack’s gaze falls on the screen, he reads the words out loud without a second thought.

“You just received a file called SA (identified 14/01–20),” and then his smile fades. “Does that mean sexual assault?”

Immediately, your face changes — from relaxed to focused: you quickly get off the counter and grab your phone. Jack manages to catch the names of two more files: 10/21–40, 18/41–60.

“That’s classified,” you don’t sound angry but your tone loses its warmth.

You get another notification, your face tensing with concentration. Jack doesn’t want to interrupt but there’s an inkling tugging at his chest.

“It must be something bad,” he remarks.

“It is,” you tell him matter-of-factly, eyes on the screen. It takes a long moment for you to add. “Involves sex trafficking. That’s all I can say.”

A bad feeling creeps over him like frost. He’s got no explanation for it, no real reason to ask questions. So he keeps them to himself. “Sounds like a difficult case.”

Jack isn’t sure you can hear him, your finger sliding over the screen as you keep reading, mindless of the minutes flying by. In about ten you finally look up, gaze distant, wheels in your head turning, some kind of critical decision taking shape. And then it’s not exactly a relief — but clarity that he sees in your eyes, courage and sharp resolve.

“For almost a year it was an impossible case. Now I think I’ve got a real chance at it,” you share with him, half a confession, half a hope. “I have to go,” you sigh, then put the phone down and move to take the clean plates left forgotten on the table.

Jack catches your hand. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll do it.”

He watches you run toward the bedroom, then he pensively takes the plates away. And the unnerving questions keep swarming his head: how dangerous exactly is your job? Are there any safety measures you should take? Do you? It’s probably not his place to ask. It doesn’t make him any less concerned.

He looks at the jar of Taco Seasoning. He thinks of you folding his clothes, easing his fears. Of your laugh brushing his shoulder. Of how easily you fit everywhere in his life, like you are the only part that he’s been missing. He really should ask for your number.

You run back fully dressed — the pants you look sinfully good in, the blouse glistening like liquid silver. Your collarbones peek through, and Jack wants to place a kiss on each.

“You’re now out of mouthwash, so here’s a reminder,” you place a post-it note on his fridge, a few words you wrote in cursive. “And I almost forgot my phone.”

You rush to take it, you are just about to leave. But then you turn on your heels and quickly walk back to Jack, eyes on his mouth — until your lips are too. The kiss is soft for barely a second — and then it’s hot and deep, and Jack’s mind instantly goes blank.

“Don’t forget you’re the best doctor in town,” you smile against his mouth.

You walk out, and he’s left standing in the kitchen, wrapped up in pure bliss. His lips still tingle from the kiss, his body warm all over, the time melting away under the bright sunlight. But soon the realization cuts through his oblivion like a knife through cotton:

he didn’t get your number.

He has no clue where to find you.

Jack literally facepalms himself. And unsurprisingly, he doesn’t find you outside when he runs out of his flat, out of the building. And there are no crumbs that he can follow. Of course, he goes back to the bar — you paid in cash, no card info, they didn’t even ask for your ID. The bartender assures that you’ve never visited before. When Jack learns there are over 7000 lawyers in Pittsburgh, it feels like a lost cause. But he’s not used to giving up so fast. So he spends his free time searching the web: he googles law firms in the area, looks through the countless photos on their sites. And every time he’s in his kitchen, he stares at the blue note left on the fridge:

Buy a mouthwash (and some bread. Carbs are good for you!)

He buys both. One of his pillows smells like you, and he sleeps on the other; your perfume fades in 11 days. And in two weeks his hope starts fading too. He does attempt to look for the bright side of things — now he has something to remember, a reassurance that he isn’t too old for trying something new — but all the memories inevitably lead to one conclusion: he doesn’t want to try again. He just wants you.

And maybe there is a slim chance that you will come back to the bar, Jack tells himself. He goes there in his free evenings, his order boringly the same: just water, but throw some ice and lemon in. The bartender takes pity on him and doesn’t charge him half the time. And Jack keeps looking through the faces on the streets, in the ER, even while he’s driving down the road.

But never in a million years he expected this.

The people he’s surrounded with also find your current situation unexpected. You look up at them, gaze filled with the same unswerving perseverance. Your tone carries just the right amount of sharpness:

“Doesn’t E in the ER stand for emergency? Can we move?”

You don’t see him yet. Jack still can’t look away.

Langdon comes to his senses first. He grabs fresh gloves and rushes to you. “Okay, what am I looking at?”

You glance at him like he is looking stupid.

“Gunshot wounds. We stopped the bleeding from his leg, about 30 minutes ago. But the other one was worse, blood started spurting everywhere. And you can’t put a tourniquet over the chest. So I improvised.”

Frank quirks a brow. “And your first instinct was to stick your fingers in him?”

“You want me to remove them?”

“Do not!” Robby firmly cuts in. “Dr. Langdon just poorly phrased his appreciation for your quick thinking,” he glowers at him. Then finally, they wheel away the gurney you are on. “Let’s take you to trauma#1.”

Your shoulders fall a little — just enough for Jack to notice, your free hand holding tight to one of the side rails. He reads it in your body language: the tension from the inconvenient position, the stress of not knowing what happens next. As you pass by, for only a brief moment your eyes meet. And it’s pathetic how much he cares what you think. If you remember him. If you’ve been reliving that one night too. He discerns glimmers in your gaze — of recognition and surprise, of what he dares to believe is joy —

but then you break eye contact. And Jack follows you with zero hesitation.

The man’s blood pressure plummets on your way to the room. When you are all in, Robby does his best to navigate the turmoil:

“The bullet must’ve nicked an artery. We might need to open him up.”

“They’ll do that in the OR. If he lives for that long,” Frank says while intubating.

“Shouldn’t you take the bullet out?” Jesse is putting an IV line in.

“What are his chances?” you ask quietly. They don’t hear it, but Jack does. He’s standing at the doors, eyes darting from the patient’s vitals back to you. The one person that he cares for is not the injured man.

“We don’t have time to look for a bullet. Once she takes her hand out, he’ll bleed out within 5 minutes,” Frank notes grimly.

Robby is looking at the ultrasound image on the screen: heart and lungs miraculously unharmed. “Then we have 5 minutes to clamp the artery.”

“It can also be 2. We don’t know how much blood he lost,” Frank glances at the gurney doused with crimson. “My guess is that it’s a lot.”

“Do you have anything to offer apart from your pessimism? We’ll clamp the artery and hook him to another blood bag, that’s the plan.”

“And if he goes into cardiac arrest?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“We can’t use a D-fib while her hand is in.”

“Then she’ll take it out, that’s not exactly a complicated process.”

“Do we know if he’s a donor? Because chances are that —”

“He can’t die!” you snap, and there’s so much emotion in your voice, the room goes quiet for a moment.

Jack steps closer, then grabs a gown and gloves on autopilot, but his gaze is riveted to you. You’re only looking at the man who very much is on the verge of dying.

“He’s got a family. He’s been married since 22, she is the love of his life, they have two kids — both miracle babies, a boy and a girl, and they love them to pieces. And he knew that testifying publicly would be dangerous — but he still agreed. He said what if that was my baby, what if someone did that to her? How can I stay silent?” you recollect ruefully but your words are measured. “He can’t die. Not just because I have my whole case built on his testimony but because he was brave enough to do the right thing when no one else wanted to. I can’t let him die for that. Please, you have to do something.”

“Damn, I wish you were my lawyer,” Frank blurts out.

And you answer in an instant, not even looking at him. “Deal.”

“... Really?”

“Save him, and I’ll help any of you, doesn’t matter what’s it about. I take cases pro bono, so it will be one of those.”

Langdon narrows his eyes as if he doesn’t buy it, his voice a mix of skeptical and wry. “Can I have that in writing?”

If looks could cut, Frank would’ve been hemorrhaging on the floor. You glance at him from under your brows, your stare is withering and sharp, a blade that’s glowing red. His face changes like he’s regretting everything he said. And Jack can’t stop the thought: you can be drenched in blood and fuming — and he still won’t look at anybody else.

“My hands are a little busy at the moment,” you tell Frank dryly. “But you have my word. Now the ball is in your field.”

Jack makes a step to you. “You are into soccer?”

When your gaze darts to him, it isn’t cutting — but more so daring. “I’m into winning.”

“Makes two of us,” Abbot notes smoothly.

Robby’s eyes move from you to Jack, like he can glimpse something he doesn’t know what he should call. Frank looks between you like he’s connecting two big dots barely an inch apart. He bites back a smirk.

The monitors get loud as the man goes into cardiac arrest. Robby immediately pushes the ultrasound machine away. “You need to remove your hand now.”

“I’ll help her down,” Jack rushes up to you, and you watch as the others cut off the man’s clothes, preparing defibrillator pads, an intubation tube, clean cloths.

When they’re ready, Robby grabs a hemostat — and steps close. “Okay, move.”

You take your fingers out — Jack hooks his arm around your waist and swiftly drags you backward. Your legs tingle from the rush of blood, your feet a little bit unsteady when you stand. Jack’s palm lays firmly at your lower back, his voice quiet.

“You alright?”

You freeze for a few seconds, staring straight ahead — at the blood pouring, staining the skin, the metal pads, the gurney — the D-fib is charged once — twice — electric shocks sent to the heart. Then Jesse charges the machine again — and on the third attempt the loud beeping gives way to a more measured sound. The intricacies of dealing with a bleed are left to your imagination because you can’t see anything from behind the doctors' backs.

You slowly turn to Jack, as if you’re still thinking over the answer to his question. You can’t come up with a reply concise enough to fit all of your feelings in. You just nod — he doesn’t push for more, his hand on you drawing small circles.

“The bathroom is down the hall to your left. You can hang out at the nurse station while he’s in here.”

You look down at your blooded shirt, then at your palms. “Do you think he’ll make it?” you ask him in a whisper, unprompted, knowing full well that he won’t lie.

And Jack doesn’t.

“At his age and with how much blood he lost, it is a miracle he’s still alive. Which I think means he’s actually got a chance. If they manage to stabilize him—”

Robby half-turns to look at him. “Jack, we really need an extra pair of hands here!” and there’s an urging in his voice, a red splatter on his gown.

“Guess now I’m a part of the saving team,” Abbot mumbles, changing gloves again, wishing he could give you more — if not a promise then at least some hope.

Surely, Jack’s had his fair share of cases more unhopeful — he’s usually good at keeping a cool head, he’s skilled enough to keep his nerves in check. And yet, he feels a pinprick of anxiety: this case is different because he can’t allow himself to fail you.

But when Jack glances at you, the look you give him is not expectant — it’s encouraging. “Seems like his chances just got better,” you manage a small smile. “I’ll let you get to work.”

Him being able to shift focus to the patient is actually another miracle. And work he does: there is more blood because the artery’s too fragile — they change the clamps, they try the wound packing; it’s equally unhelpful. Jack ends up sticking his own fingers in while Robby calls Garcia. She shows up not only quickly but also uncharacteristically excited.

Yolanda flips open an instrument container she brought in. “Aortic hydragrip clamps, they’re gentler. Should work,” then she sees Jack and chuckles. “Of course, you’d be the one to clamp it with your hand. Just like in the good old military days?”

“Can’t say I’ve missed those,” Abbot remarks, and he is void of bitterness: the military did give him plenty of experience so it’s not something he regrets. But he is honest when he says he doesn’t want to go back.

And neither does he want any memories to pop up, so Jack’s mind hooks on the task that calls for his attention. They move with coordination honed over the years: he takes his hand out — Robby goes in with the clamp — Jack takes the second one — the ruptured artery is occluded in barely 20 seconds. They watch it for 10 more to make sure no more blood is coming out.

Robby allows himself a sigh of relief while Jesse suctions the excessive blood. Langdon inspects the leg wound: the bullet went right through, the bone’s intact. He checks the tourniquet — good placement, tight enough, so he just leaves it on.

Garcia comes closer, with an unbothered kind of curiosity, like a cat’s. “I heard the man made quite an entrance.”

Frank huffs. “You should’ve seen his lawyer.”

“The one in the blooded shirt? Oh, yeah, she’s hard to miss,” Yolanda smirks, dark eyes darting to you.

Jack can’t stop himself from looking in the same direction. You’re in the hall talking to Dana, your hands folded over your chest. The blood on you dried up; still, it strikes the eye — a big splotch of dark maroon on the white fabric, and every time Jack looks at you, it startles him a little.

“What now?” he asks. Mostly to make Garcia stop staring at you.

She does, her gaze on the unconscious man again. And her decision-making process is rather quick. “Suture the origin of the artery with pledgets on the aortic wall, then do a bypass between the ascending aorta and the subclavian. For the anastomosis, I’m thinking a termino-lateral type would do the job.”

It’s rare for Frank to be impressed by someone, yet his tone suggests that he most definitely is. “You can do all that?”

She stares him down silently. Then she looks at Robby. “You shocked him how many times? Twice?”

“Three times. 11 units of blood used so far.”

“This is one hell of a lucky man if I’ve ever seen one,” she notes, then looks down at her pager. “The OR will be ready in 5. Check the clamps again, I don’t want him to bleed out in the elevator. I’ll go talk to the lawyer and bring her up in the ICU. We’ve got a room for him so she can wait there.”

She turns to leave, and Langdon glances after her, then mutters, mostly to himself. “Why does everyone keep giving me weird looks today? Like I’m saying something stupid.”

“It’s because you are,” Garcia snickers before going through the doors.

Robby and Jesse check the vitals and the instruments' position, but Jack only catches bits of their conversation — because he’s watching you again: you listen carefully to Garcia’s explanation, the concern on your face dissolving slowly. But not entirely — it would be too soon for that. Garcia walks you to the elevators and out of Jack’s sight; still, his eyes stay on the spot you stood at.

He wishes that he was the one to talk to you. And he wishes he could do much more.

Jack comes back to reality when he catches movement — the gurney being wheeled out of the room.

“Wait, I can —”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll ride up with him,” Robby assures. “Your shift ended hours ago, just go get some rest, man.”

Jack needs no persuasion — he all but runs out, removes the gown and gloves, then goes to the staff’s kitchen. He’s out in five minutes but he stops at the stairs as an idea lits up in his head. Jack walks back to the lockers, unlocks his and takes out a spare clean shirt. He has to slow down then, imagining the likely steps: it takes a minute to get to the upper floor and get you to the right room; a few more minutes for you to ask more questions while the man is being prepped. The surgery will take at least 2 hours — he doesn’t want to waste a second of that time.

Jack finds you sitting in the hall, typing away at your smartphone, fidgeting slightly in your chair. And his determination is diluted with unease — should he interrupt you? Would you even want to chat? He tells himself that he can manage some small talk, that it’s not a big deal. He’s good at this.

Jack walks toward you, trying not to give away his haste. “So, do you stick your fingers into all of your clients?”

You turn to him, your face swept with confusion.

Oh no. He isn’t good at this at all.

“Fuck, sorry. I don’t why I said that, it was —”

And then you laugh. It’s quiet, more so a sound of relief, a little bit amused by him. But you aren’t irritated or displeased.

“Believe it or not, that was my first time. And hopefully, the last.”

Jack takes your calm voice as a good sign. Almost instinctively, he sits right next to you, as if the very thought of putting any distance in between you is downright absurd.

“Coffee. Figured you’d need it,” he hands you a plastic cup, and your fingers brush his when you take it.

And Jack is painfully aware that the brown-colored drink hardly tastes great. But you take sips with zero fuss.

“A caffeine IV would’ve been great, but this is the next best thing. Thank you so much,” your gaze warms up. Then it drops to the piece of clothing he is holding.

“I thought maybe you’d like to change into something that isn’t drenched in blood? I keep a clean t-shirt in case I get some fluids on me. It’s not the most fashionable choice, I know—”

You take it before he even finishes the sentence — your thumb gently brushing the folded cotton fabric, your face breaking into a grateful smile. Jack’s eyes are drawn to it, and he remembers so distinctly how your lips taste. And you look like you know he does.

“Wish I could put it on right now. But I’m counting on my blooded shirt to make me look more intimidating to the DA. Once he wakes up and deigns to text me back.”

Jack moves closer, lowering his voice like he’s protective of a secret you are about to let him in on. “What do you need the DA for?”

Your smile widens as if you find his curiosity endearing. “I need to get Bruno into witness protection. DA’s recommendation will help speed up the process.”

“Will the prosecutor back you up on this?”

“He passed out in the court at the sight of blood. He’ll back me up just fine.”

“So what’s the overall plan?” he drapes an arm across the back of your chair. You don’t mind.

“I’m Bruno’s legal representative, I can apply for the program on his behalf. They’ll also need his family to complete an application form. So once the DA gives me the green light, I have to make a beeline for the closest police station, then dash to their apartment, deal with the paperwork, and help his wife pack. Maybe she can visit him once he’s out of surgery.”

“She must be pretty shaken up,” Jack muses.

You reign your feelings well but he still catches hints of them: sadness, disappointment. Guilt. “The worst part is, she didn’t even sound surprised when I called her. Wasn’t upset with me either. She just asked, Will he pull through? And I had to make her believe that he would.”

He moves his hand up, his palm grazing your back, words sitting on the tip of his tongue: it’s not your fault, you aren’t the one to blame. You helped to save his life. But you shake off your misery, so easily like it’s a long-established habit.

“How’s your tough case, by the way? Did she wake up?”

You are deflecting, he can tell. He also has no wish to make you more upset so Jack holds back his consolations.

“She did, got her discharged a week ago. And the rehabilitation seems to be going well.”

Your grin very clearly says I told you so but you don’t say the words out loud. Instead, you place your hand above his knee — the right one, your touch not fleeting but reassuring and warm. The smile leaps out of him before he can stop it. “How’s the asshole with no brain cells?”

You let out a long-drawn sigh. “He fled the state. Which was a violation of the bail conditions. Then his attorney tried to flee, got wasted on the flight to Cincinnati — one of the CBP officers clocked him at the airport because he kept dropping his carry-on. Turns out, he snuck in a hunting knife, a whole-ass 6-inch blade. And then he got into a fight with them. Mind you, he is 5’3 and had a half-bottle of whiskey in him. I can’t even begin to comprehend that level of dumbassery. I had to visit him in jail four times before the court assigned a new lawyer to replace him. I don’t want to board another plane for at least a month.”

Jack doesn’t say anything at first, but his mouth twitches like he’s suppressing laughter. And then he can discern something unlooked-for in your face — the very evident abashment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to vent.”

He leans to you and caresses your back. He wishes he could kiss you — on your forehead and cheeks and corners of your mouth, to smooth out every line of worry on your face. So that you don’t hesitate to open up again.

“Wasn’t a vent,” Jack argues. “I am actually very invested now. How did he manage to bring a knife on board?”

“Bribed a couple of nut heads from the PIT security,” you share gladly. “I asked him, Man, ever heard about checked baggage? Who in their right mind puts knives in a carry-on? And he told me — dead serious — that TSA is infiltrated by a gang of international smugglers, so he can’t trust them.”

“Of course you asked,” Jack notes warmly.

“I mean, he’s absolutely useless as a lawyer, at least I had something to laugh at. Besides, the Boone county jail can easily rank first in the list of the dullest places in the States.”

“So it’s the lack of brightness that’s the main problem, not that it’s packed with criminals,” Jack shakes his head in disbelief. “Worrying about you must be someone’s part-time job.”

You are startled for a moment. And then you’re beaming. “Is this you casually trying to find out if I have a boyfriend?”

“Guilty as charged,” Jack’s hand stops at your back, his gaze a cautious revelation. “But I don’t do casual.”

“Neither do I,” you tell him quietly, resting your chin on his shoulder. “And I would’ve never come to your apartment if I had anyone waiting for me at home.”

Your faces are separated by some minuscule inches. This is your second meeting — and yet, to Jack it comes as second nature: holding you close and leaning in, settling into your space as easily as you do in his, like two stars that fall into each other’s orbit. His hand is on your waist and yours moved to his shoulder; he can smell blood on you but then your scent cuts through — jasmine and bergamot and peaches, things they don’t have in hospitals, the fresh sweetness that makes him think of spring and sun. And everywhere you touch him, he feels lighter. In just a second his lips will be on yours—

Someone blows into the hall — very decisive and walking toward you, by the sound of it — but stops midway, so suddenly you hear screeching of the rubber soles against the floor. Then the footsteps retreat, and everything is quiet again, no other visitors or interferences. And yet, the moment’s gone. Jack can’t hold back a groan. You bring your fingers to his face, your thumb skating over his jaw, your body still so close to his. But your watchful eyes dart behind his back.

“The redhead keeps coming back like she’s looking for an excuse to start a conversation. What does she need a lawyer for?”

“That’s Cassie. She’s in the middle of a custody battle over her son. Her ex-husband is a douchebag with a douchebag girlfriend, so it’s messy.”

You look at Jack again. “And what’s the deal with that other doctor? Dark-haired, overly confident. Mildly annoying.”

“Frank,” he chuckles, his index finger drawing numbers on your lower back. “His marriage is in shambles, been like that for a while. But Abby loves him, and he’s not a bad dad. If it ever gets to a divorce, I don’t think she’ll take the kid away from him.”

You ruminate on this but not for long. “Can you please tell Cassie that I won’t bite her head off?”

Jack doesn’t want to move away from you so he only tilts his head back, not in disbelief but in careful wonder. “You’ll help her?”

And he can tell from your firm gaze that you aren’t doing this to please him — you want that case, you are already going through the strategies and options in your head, you grab at every chance to help people like hungry dogs grab bones. “I have about half an hour before the DA gets out of bed. Plenty of time for her to give me the details. Besides, I really enjoy going against douchebag exes.”

“Why is that?” Jack asks with a grin.

You shamelessly grin back at him. “They usually come with douchebag lawyers. It’s always fun to kick their ass in court.”

And as on cue, there are footsteps again — your face confirms it’s the same visitor, and Jack gives in: it’s for a good cause, after all, and he will get more time with you later today. His palm brushes the side of your waist, one touch replacing all the words he is afraid to say too soon: I’ve missed you, I want to spend many more days with you. He has to get up, holding back a sigh, before his feelings burst out. Jack turns around — and, unsurprisingly, Cassie is standing sheepishly at the end of the hall.

“Sorry, did I interrupt you guys?” she asks him with an awkward smile when he comes closer. “Cause it seemed like—”

“Just go talk to her,” he grumbles. When she doesn’t move, Jack softens his approach. “She’ll be happy to help you out, McKay.”

Cassie’s smile turns grateful, and then she strides across the hall to you. Jack offers you some privacy and takes the stairs to the ER. And even though exhaustion is already nipping at him, he’s in no hurry to go home, he doesn’t even feel the weight of it. He also doesn’t notice Dana’s gaze that lands on him when he comes in. He’s blithely unaware for about 15 minutes — Jack gets himself a cup of coffee, relaxes in the quiet of the empty kitchen, stretches his legs and arms.

Dana walks up to him the second he comes back to the nurse station.

“Now, will look at that. A smile on your face? I must be dreamin',” she teases, always astute in her assumptions. “It’s the hot lawyer, isn’t it?”

He’s battling a smile, indeed. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Well, you see how my mouth’s moving? This means I’m talking, and you are giving me replies. Which does sound like a conversation to me,” Dana playfully bumps his shoulder. “Hey, she ticks all the boxes: smart, brave, stubborn. Did I mention that she’s hot?”

Jack doesn’t meet her gaze as his face gets warm. “Can’t argue with any of that.”

Princess peeks curiously at them from behind the monitor. Dana cackles. “Jesus, are you blushing? That’s so cute. I’m marking this day in my calendar.”

“What are we celebrating?” Perlah swings by.

“Dr. Abbot apparently got himself a date,” Princess reveals, wiggling her brows.

“With the lawyer? And she agreed?” Perlah asks in a doubtful tone.

“Frank said they were flirting in the trauma room,” Dana informs them conspiratorially, earning two hums of approval — and one groan from Jack.

“Are you aware I’m still here? Langdon has no clue what he’s talking about,” but his voice doesn’t sound angry — he’s in too good of a mood for that.

“I hear someone spreading slander behind my back,” Frank stops by.

“It’s hardly slander when you’re an asshole,” Princess glares at him. “Only a senile patient would flirt with you.”

“Is this open hostility at a workplace?” he fakes a gasp. “I don’t need anyone to flirt with me, I’m married. And if you’re talking about the lawyer, she surely seemed thrilled to leave this place.”

Both Jack and Dana look at him. She is the one who asks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just saw her at the parking lot. She ran out and got into a cab so fast, like someone’s chasing her. Or maybe she is chasing someone? Wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Well, no chasing needed for our cowboy,” Dana chuckles with her gaze on Abbot. “Did you choose where you’ll take her? Want me to ask around for recommendations so you can text her a couple of options?”

Jack wants someone to smack him in the head, hard. Because he surely needs to straighten up his mind. Not asking for your number the first time could be blamed on a lapse of sanity, but two times in a row? That’s what you would call a rare level of dumbassery.

As Dana sees his face fall, her own gets visibly confused — then shocked upon realization. “What, you don’t have her number?”

And everyone instantly mirrors her concern.

“You didn’t take it?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Jack is flabbergasted for a second. “Why is this a public discussion?!”

“Man, we were rooting for you!” Langdon throws up his hands.

“They were placing bets on how long it’d take you to get her number,” Dana snorts.

“They,” Frank mimics her. “As if you weren’t!”

Jack wearily covers his face with both palms, not in despair but with disappointment. In himself. There’s still some hope for him to cling to — they’ve got Bruno up in the OR, and you will probably come back to visit him. That was your plan, right? And what will his be if you never show up?

“What are we mourning over?” Robby nonchalantly comes by.

“My loss of 100 bucks,” Frank walks away, disgruntled.

“I only bet 15, you’re real bad at counting!” Dana shouts after him. Then she gives a joyless explanation. “No one won, though.”

Jack looks at Robby through his fingers. “Were you involved in this too?”

“Nah. I said you’d probably need a third chance.”

Abbot lowers his hands, brows furrowed in incomprehension.

“One of the ICU nurses saw you two getting all cozy with each other,” Robby keeps his voice down but still elicits a few giggles. He stares at Perlah and Princess, and they pretend to get back to work. “I figured you wouldn’t do that on day one. So there must be some history between you. And you know what they say, third time’s the charm,” he pats Jack’s shoulder reassuringly. “Do you at least know the name of her law firm?”

He is already taking lungfuls of air for a heavy sigh — because of course he didn’t ask about the firm, he is the top contender for the dumbass of the month award — but then the elevator dings. And Cassie walks into the hall, cheery as she hasn’t been in months.

Abbot gets an idea. And now he has more than a delusive hope.

“I know where I can find it out.”

McKay doesn’t take much convincing. She tells him that you gave her your assistant’s number — it’s not the answer he expected, but Jack’s grasping for straws. He makes the call with no delays, and the assistant picks up almost instantly. She’s got a thick accent that isn’t American, the vowels in her speech sound a little shorter. But her English is pretty good and so are her manners — because no one before has told Jack to fuck off so courteously. Whatever arguments he brings to get your number, she just refuses to relent: yes, sir, I understand the urgency. But you must know it’s private information, and I cannot verify your identity over the phone. Yes-yes, I’ll check the hospital website. But your photo doesn’t come with a voice recording, does it? That is unfortunate. You see, we really value our attorneys' privacy and safety. And there’s been a disturbing accident... Which I can’t talk to you about. Yes, I will let her know you called. I promise, sir. Yes, I’ll tell her that you called four times, that is an important detail, indeed.

And Jack is back to square one — still no clue where to find you, no last name and no address he can look up on Google. Bruno stays in their ICU for just one afternoon, and then Jack comes to work to learn he was transported to the other hospital — by helicopter and with a police escort that was too tight-lipped and fast to bother. Which robs Jack of the only hope he had, and he is too worn out to drown himself in work. So he takes two days off, gets eight hours of sleep, gets busy with mundane chores that make for a poor distraction.

His doorbell rings around 6 pm. He’s not expecting anyone — Robby is still at work, and a few other friends he’s got would’ve announced their visit. So Jack thinks someone must’ve gotten the wrong door, and he opens it without even looking in the peephole.

Instead of seeing some unbidden stranger, he sees you.

You’re standing at the door of his apartment. Wearing his shirt. The dark material is tucked carefully into your jeans, your hair undone. You greet Jack with a smile, a little tired and leaning on his doorframe.

“You made a lasting impression on my secretary.”

He has to take a breath and blink — once, twice — to make sure this is happening. There is a trace of a smile already on his face, he just can’t stop it. “You mean she was planning on filing a police report because she thinks I’m stalking you?”

“Actually, she liked you from the moment she figured you’re a doctor. Keeps asking if you are married or not.”

Jack puts his right hand up to show you — readily, happily, like he removed the curse that’s been tormenting him for years. “I’m not.”

And you see that he isn’t wearing the ring. He never put it back on — by now, there’s no mark left where it used to be, the white line faded with no trace. You watch his face for any hints of doubt or regret but he has none. The hint he gives you suggests the opposite: Jack steps back in a silent invitation, makes space for you to come in. To come back to.

You don’t rush in although it does look like you want to. Instead, you’ve got a suggestion of your own.

“I feel like I know more about you than you know about me. So ask me something. Anything, whatever you want to know,” your gaze is locked with his. “Before I come in.”

Because after you do, there will not be much talking. Not for the first few hours, Jack thinks. And he will gladly take ten times as long as to find out everything there is to know about you — he’ll take days, weeks, months, years. He is already sure there is nothing that can scare him away.

So what he asks about is not a deal-breaker — more so a mystery Jack can’t wrap his head around.

“How the hell are you still single?”

It’s not a hard question, and it’s the truth that you don’t shy away from — as easily as he once did, you open up to him, with honesty that he can read in your voice, eyes, face.

“I work a lot. There are always extra hours, sleepless nights, late calls from my clients who have no one else to talk to. I’m bad at taking breaks. I am... not good at asking for help. And I guess I’m used to prioritizing work because that’s what I’m left with when people leave. Not everyone will have the patience for that,” you try for your smile not to look sad but it’s the first thing that you fail at. “So I’m a handful.”

He’s quiet for barely two seconds. Then his lips curl into a grin.

“Well, I’ve got two hands. And some say that my arms look very steady,” he takes a step to you, and now instead of sadness, there’s glee — in your soft laugh and in your eyes that stay on him. “I will need one thing from you, though. Before you come in,” another step, so that he’s standing right in front of you. “I need your number.”

“Give me your phone.”

He does — you add the number to his contacts, then dial it so you can have his too. You hand his phone back, still smiling. “There you have it.”

“I plan on memorizing it,” Jack takes a quick look at the screen and then puts the device away.

He needs his hands free, he has no other words to add. He cannot tear his gaze away from you.

“Any other questions or requests?” you ask him quietly.

Jack shakes his head. And then it’s you who finally crosses the distance.

He reaches out a hand behind your back to close the door. As soon as you hear the locker click, that same hand pulls you into him. And then he kisses you — so ardently and deeply like he’s famished, like in your absence he struggled to survive. You let him take the lead — it’s your quiet surrender, it’s his most rewarding win; he savors it until you’re out of breath. Then you kick off your shoes, and Jack yanks off your t-shirt — you stop his hands and fold the piece of clothing and leave it on the first flat surface you can find — you aren’t sure if it’s a table or a shelf because he’s kissing you again, all the while you are stumbling your way through his apartment.

Jack does pause when you reach the bedroom — the city skyline stretched out behind the windows, the light already darkening from gold to copper as the evening comes. The rays cascade across the floor and walls — you are admiring the view, and he’s admiring you. It’s soft before it’s sexual: he lowers his head and drags his lips over your collarbone, then over another one. Then he moves higher — your throat, your jaw, your cheek.

“You’re staying,” he murmurs.

And even though it’s not really a question, you nod, fingers grazing the back of his neck. “Sorry for coming empty-handed. I should’ve brought some take-out.”

Jack moves one of his hands down to the button on your jeans, undoes it, two of his fingers slipping in, tracing the line of your lace panties. He didn’t get a chance to taste you last time, and now he’s twice as eager. “You brought me dessert.”

You laugh against his mouth and take his shirt off, your touches gentle but leaving goosebumps on his skin, making his heart race. He lays you down on his bed to get rid of your jeans, his voice muffled when he leaves a kiss on your hipbone.

“And breakfast is on me this time. It’s non-negotiable.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows. “You are saying there’s actual food in your fridge?”

“A terribly big amount of food. Also picked a bunch of spices from the Mexican aisle, and I have no clue how to use half of them,” his mouth comes back to yours, back to his new favorite flavors: of your lips, your smile, your moans he knows how to draw out. And you are both left breathless and desirous of more.

“So you were counting on us meeting again?” you tease.

“I was hoping for it,” Jack says truthfully. “Got pretty close to praying, actually.”

Pads of your fingers glide across his cheekbone. “You don’t strike me as a religious type.”

He doesn’t answer right away — but not out of hesitation or the lack of words. He doesn’t need many. He’s known the answer ever since he saw you in his kitchen, he’s been carrying his feelings for so long that now he’s threaded with them like the night sky with bright stars.

Jack tells you with raw candor, with a faint smile. “I’m not. But I believe you are a godsend.”

You trace the freckles under his left eye, your whisper and your gaze are filled with tenderness. “I kept thinking of an excuse to show up at your apartment.”

He lowers his face closer to yours and turns to place a soft kiss on your wrist, his hazel eyes with hints of green spilling more of his secrets: they say that he’s been looking for you everywhere. Then Jack speaks with words.

“I kept thinking I was a fucking idiot for not getting your number,” and his mouth hovers over yours before he adds, his voice hushed as if he’s still not fully convinced he has you. “I want to take you out.”

Jack looks at the specks of gold caught in your lashes and your eyes, the sunlight streaming through the glass, your bodies and his bedroom bathing in it. He feels his heart pounding.

“Am I being too old-school for aski—”

You close the gap between you, and this kiss is better than a dream: it feels like finding gravity and oxygen, like summer coming after years of winter, like now instead of hope there’s certainty, a future that is bright with possibilities. When Jack opens his eyes, he finds you smiling, and you’re brimming with it — the undeterred fondness, the warmth that says that you’ve been looking for him too.

“I’d love to go on a date with you, Jack Abbot.”

And he knows it will be just the first of many.

you’d never be able to tell but this was supposed to be porn with no plot... which I am apparently fcking incapable of. I want to write part 2 because I love them!

two gifsets that inspired this fic: x, x ♡

I have a mini-series about Jack x resident!reader that is very dear to me (I’ll make a masterlist for my Jack’s fics soon. there aren’t many but it will be easier to just add a link instead of me yapping);

SHOCKINGLY, I’m almost done with another Jack one-shot, and oh my god, I love it to pieces. reading it feels like a gut punch but in the best way possible. I can’t wait to share it ♡

dividers by @/cafekitsune, @/saradika-graphics & me.

♡ English is not my first language, so feel free to tell me if you spot any mistakes. comments and reblogs are very appreciated! let me know if you want to be tagged ♡

[binmeister]

Some headcanons for Bodyguard!Reader

Huntr/x / Saja Boys x Bodyguard!Reader

A doodle from your author parent - i can't draw men well but for YOU!!! I attempted it.

I’ve decided that Bodyguard!Reader is now my son, I have adopted you and I want to shower you with love. Let me spoil you.

have some headcanons - maybe more in future maybe not

CW: not proofread, mostly fluff, potentially considered crackfic but mainly fluff and me rambling

What’re you like?

As said in a previous post Bodyguard!Reader is hardworking, upbringing thanks to your mother made you a stickler for rules but something that differs between your mother and you is that you’re willing to change your mindset - new information that contradicts something you’re so sure of? You’ll look into it and change how you think because you’d like to think you’re a fairly flexible person

You mentally take note of things for people, whether its their interests or likes and dislikes, if you can’t remember it off the top of your head you’ve written it down in a little notebook you keep at home or you have a notes app on your phone that keeps track of little tidbits of information of the people you work with because you wanna make sure that you can treat them to something they like - it’s a small little love language

What’re your fans like?

Have you guys ever seen the way people praise IU’s bodyguard? It’s like that - your fans gush over you frequently, wishing that they could get the princess treatment that you give the girls and that they wished more guys existed like you

You definitely have a few that are.. creepy.. a little overly invasive but you’ve never personally interacted with them - they’re usually lurking in live streams and asking cryptic questions that the girls will shut down and berate them about being polite and respectful of your privacy

You’ve unfortunately got a lot of aunties that looooove you a little too much but you’ve lucked out that they’ve never pestered you at events to meet their daughters or nieces because it’s evident to them as well that you’re clearly off the market - kinda crazy to offer up their niece when you literally work with idols right?

The fans that are on the spicier side of things are surprisingly respectful, being mindful to make it hard for you to easily find any thirst posts they might make of you and even have a nickname / pseudonym that makes it easy for fans to find but not for you to find - the girls found it easily though

How do the girls mess with you?

It was basically part of their unofficial contract with you: they had to mess with you and they sure as hell loved to do it

Out of all the girls I think Zoey is the most likely to kiss you - not on the lips, usually on the cheek or forehead and there’s even been an instance where she took a photo of it where you were caught off guard and she planted a big ol smooch on your temple during one of her infamous ‘koala Zoey!’ moments

That photo was trending for a while - she had an arm wrapped loosely round your neck, hand clutching onto the collar of your shirt, her legs wrapped tight around your waist and one of your hands had instinctively grabbed onto one of her thighs to hold her weight as her other hand was outstretched with her phone to take the photo while your other hand had grabbed hers on your collar

Mira is the one that posts thirst pics of you without you knowing, when you step out from a fresh shower and your shirt is in your hand because you were too lazy to put it on in the bathroom and you’re ruffling your hair down - towel obscuring your face - oh yeah. that’s getting posted.

I think Rumi is the one to post the least flattering pics of you - though scarcely on her public profile but there’s definitely a picture of where you’re covered in marker doodles and stickers, food coma on your birthday dinner because the girls’ had been so adamant that they’re gonna treat you to some CRAZY good food, where they’re posed over top of you - peace signs and all smiles as you’re completely knocked out on the couch with an arm covering your face

Dynamics with the girls?

As mentioned before - Zoey is probably the most physically affectionate with you; she’s just got so much love to give and likes to hug the people she cares about

Frequently likes to hug you from behind because she loves how safe it feels, the comfort from your sturdy back and it was definitely not because she gets to nuzzle her face into your back muscles without being swatted away - in reality it helps ground her when she’s anxious and a little too frazzled about if she was doing too much because you simply let her, voice low and soft to ask if she’s okay and she’d just nod into your back and you’d stand there for a while to let her recharge as she needed

Mira is the roughest out of the girls in terms of personality, so often you’ll argue but never enough that it gets heated and personal but there has been a time or two where it did get personal. The family insults came out and the tension in the apartment was palpable because you could be just as stubborn as she could. But then you had time to cool off after the argument, gone to the store to clear your head and came back with her favourite ramyeon and some snacks for the other girls too as you quietly cooked up some food to hand it to Mira as your little peace offering. 

You didn’t verbally apologise to each other - actions meaning more than words sometimes because you knew she struggled to express herself without sarcasm and you knew she wouldn’t hear you out if you tried to reason with her because sometimes your tendency to be passive or people please meant you were dishonest

There are times where she just wants to be in your space so occasionally there are nights where you hear your door click open and she’s just there, you nod to let her know she’s fine to come in and she’ll come in and crash on the foot of your bed or at your desk chair and just exist in your space - you two aren’t too physically affectionate with each other but this works best for you guys

When it comes to Rumi it’s a mixed bag. She’s affectionate with you and you tease her like the older brother you are, and then when you’re affectionate to her she’s complaining that you’re so gross and that eeewww why’re you so smelly?

You’re close though, there’d been many the time where you would argue back to your mother Celine in defence of Rumi - not the smartest thing you’ve ever done but it helped reassure her that you were in her corner, which means more than you’d really understand 

How do the guys mess with you?

Baby takes sweet twisted joy at making you his personal steed whenever you’re working an event for them, hovers around you and tends to lean on you when he’s not able to get a free piggy back ride - there’s been a few instances where he tries to cause trouble and you pick him up by the collar of his top and physically stop him before he can do anything stupid

Abby surprisingly doesn’t mess with you that much, not intentionally at least because he just kinda enjoys hanging out with you - the only one out of the guys willing to work out with him is maybe Jinu on a good day and those windows are rare - when he does mess with you it’s mostly because he’s trying to do too much fan service which makes your job stressful when you need to make sure no one acts up and does something that could harm themselves OR the idols you’re supposed to protect

Romance is such an attention seeker when you’re around, because its a double win - he gets your attention AND he gets to make the hunter girls mad! There’s no way he’d miss such a pristine opportunity

He really likes to play up whatever imaginary injury he’s got to get Mira in trouble (cry wolf kinda kid) and at first you’d be a little sceptical and then you catch on that he’s lying but sometimes you indulge him. Hold his hand where he’s saying he got a booboo and when you feel a little cheeky? You peck the tip of his finger and say ‘there there, all better sweetie.’ in a mockingly sweet tone but it just makes him want more attention in the end

Dynamics with some of the guys?

Abby likes to wrestle with you - lives for it because FINALLY someone who doesn’t make him feel like he’s a schoolyard bully, yeah he can playfight with the other guys but it feels like he’s some jock picking on a random band geek... he feels bad about it sometimes

He’s the one that gets your number first out of the guys, but doesn’t tell anyone else that he has it, he managed to convince you to go to the gym with him and you’d both kinda just agreed to going together at least once a week - you’d become one anothers’ spotter and hype man for when you wanted to set a new PR

Jinu likes to joke around with you a lot, like a lot or just likes to strike up conversation with you. Whenever you’re at an event and he spots you he jogs over to have a chat, about what? No clue but you guys just talk about life - not even related to demons or hunters anymore just daily life and what you’re up to or what he’s up to when you’re done for the day

He judges the guys a lot when they’re being their chaotic selves and you both take turns reeling the chaotic kids together so they can behave and NOT break that piece of furniture because it’s going to come out of your paycheck and not theirs which isn’t cool

He’s the second to get your number because you both realised it’d make more sense if he could contact you directly for any schedules rather than go through Bobby and then to you, he’s respectful of not making things too personal and does mostly message you in regards to work but occasionally you’ll get a message from him asking if you just wanna hang out for a bit and go for a walk - works out pretty nicely

Baby is.. you don’t really know still. He likes to be held or carried, probably just doesn’t like having to stand if he is given the choice and it seems he really enjoys this odd power dynamic because of it. You don’t necessarily say no when he asks for a piggy back ride and he seems aware enough to not ask when you’re clearly busy or if it’s an inappropriate time - aside from the first time he jumped on without permission and no proper warning

It still happens now where he doesn’t talk to you and just goes through the motions of jumping up onto your back but usually he at least greets you first before doing so, he listens to you when you tell him off about his posture then when you turn your back he slowly starts to slouch again out of habit but it’s progress at least

Thank you guys for giving me motivation to write more for Bodyguard!Reader - it's been really fun

[purplecoffee13]

NFWMB - PART SEVEN*

Summary: “When Y/N confesses she needs Harry’s toolbox, he comes rushing to give it to her…” (I’m sorry this summary is so fucking stupid lmfao😭)

Wc: 5.2k

Tropes: boxer!Harry x innocent!reader

Warnings: mention of sexual harassment/assault, bit of angst, SMUT, praise kink, sub/dom dynamics, teehee🤭

A/N: helloooo as promised, here is a new chapter of NFWMB in celebration of me getting my bachelor’s degree (woo🥳)! Thank you for being patient with me💞 I love these two they are so cutiepatootie, so happy reading!

Series Masterlist

General Masterlist

Harry was the luckiest son of a bitch in the world.

Ever since Y/N had told him she wanted him, he had been floating on a cloud of ecstasy.

Sure, his original intention was to do it all the old-fashioned traditional way. Take her out to dinner, take it slow, really court her. But when Y/N said she didn't like the pressure of dating, he knew he needed to act quick in order to not fully lose her. He'd do anything in any way she wanted, as long as he could get a chance to show her how much he wanted her.

Now, this was definitely not the traditional way, but Harry hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. The sole idea of Y/N in that intimate capacity had the ability to send him to the edge. He needed to actively seek distractions in order not to think about it all day.

But when he wasn't thinking of Y/N's beauty or the agreement they made, his mind would float to that pathetic rat that had dared to make her feel unsafe. That had... touched her. He couldn't think about it too long either, not wanting to do anything rash and disrespecting Y/N's wish for him to let her handle the situation.

He just felt so angry and frustrated, and he wanted to her help her so bad, but he just didn't know how. Teaching her to defend herself was the help he was able to give for now, but he was hoping for her to let him in and let him offer her more emotional support as well.

All in good time, he thought.

For now, he was trying to focus on giving his client all of his attention while he was doing his exercises. He was a personal trainer for a select group of people who paid a significant amount to get the most detailed training, so the time-slots with these clients required his full focus.

"All right, good form Brady. That was the last one for today. I still see some restraints when you jump, which is coming from a lack of focus on hip exercises, so we're going to be incorporating those from Friday onward. Sound good?"

The sixty-five year old man smiled at Harry. He had come in here about four months earlier, wanting intensive personal training after five years of not working out because he had decided he was going to run a marathon by the end of the year. He'd later told Harry that his daughter was training for the marathon, and since they used to run together when she was little, he'd wanted to surprise her. Harry immediately signed himself on as Brady's personal trainer.

"I mean that's what I pay you for, right?" Brady joked, wiping off some sweat with the small towel around his neck. Harry huffed out a laugh, humming in agreement and handing Brady his water bottle. Suddenly, he heard a 'ping' sound coming from his pockets.

Turning on his phone, Harry frowned at seeing he had two message notifications from an unknown number.

Unknown

Heyy, I'm so sorry to bother you but I have kind of a weird question.

My bathroom cabinet door just kind of fell off its hinges and Sophie said you had a toolbox. And since I do not have one of my own, nor know how to fix this, I was wondering if maybe you had time to come over and help me somewhere later today?

This is Y/N, by the way. Sorry I should have started with that.

Harry hadn't realized how wide his smile was until Brady flicked him with his towel.

"What are you smirking at?" The man asked, raising an eyebrow. Harry looked at his client and noted the playful glint in his eyes. "I thought you were a bit different the last few sessions, now I know why."

Harry rolled his eyes, not really saying something. Brady sniffed a laugh and turned to gather his things.

"If she makes you smile like that then you better go for it." He said, and Harry was glad that Brady wasn't looking at him because he felt his cheeks turning a little red. "Because I did, and let me tell you... best decision of my life."

A wide smile spread on Harry's face as he listened to the advice of his client. He didn't even try to deny it, just took it with a smile and a nod. Brady only winked at him before walking off to the lockers. Harry immediately opened the chat with Y/N and put her into his contact list.

Harry

Hey

Of course, I'm free for the rest of the day, so just let me know when I can come by.

He quickly shut off his phone before he could overthink his text too much, and scurried off to his office to stress out in private. By the time he whipped his phone out again, he had a text from Y/N.

Y/N

Really? That'd be great, thank you!

I'm working from home today so you could swing by at like 4 if you want?

Fuck yeah, Harry thought.

Harry

Alright, see you in a bit.

With toolbox.

Y/N

Thanks! You're a life saver!

Harry beamed the whole way home. In his car, while he sought the toolbox, as he put the car in the toolbox. He just couldn't stop being giddy over the fact that Y/N had called him a life saver. It was kind of terrifying; how much an impact she had on his mood. Then again, he was too damn happy to worry about it.

It was only a fifteen minute drive from Harry's place to Y/N's. He wondered how it was possible that they'd only recently crossed paths. Maybe it was some kind of faith. Maybe they had come into each other's life at the exact right time.

Harry forced himself to stop pondering as he rang the downstairs doorbell. Taking a deep breath, he waited for Y/N to open the door. When the buzzer went off, Harry was quick to push the door open and hurry upstairs to her apartment.

Y/N was standing in the door opening, smiling as Harry walked up to her. She gave him a small wave, cracking a smile out of him too. She was just so adorable.

That was until his eyes traveled down to her legs, which were barely covered. She was only wearing tiny shorts and a large cardigan. And there was absolutely nothing adorable about those legs.

"Hey." She said when he was finally close enough. Her gaze dropped down to the toolbox in Harry's hand. It was a gift from his dad that he had gotten when he'd just moved out, but the box was huge. It did come in handy whenever something broke, though. Harry barely ever had to run to the store.

"I said bring a toolbox, not the entire hardware store." Y/N joked, stepping aside to let him in. Harry faked a gasp as he stepped into the apartment, his stomach swirling at the memory of the last time he was here.

"Are you making fun of my toolbox, Y/N?" He raised a playful brow, the insinuation floating between the two of them. Y/N stepped closer to Harry.

"I wouldn't dare to make fun of your toolbox." She replied cheekily. Harry's eyes slightly widened at her words. He had expected her to get a bit shy like she always did, but he was pleasantly surprised by her surge of confidence.

It took Harry a few seconds to regain himself, delaying his response. "So, where's the broken cabinet?"

Y/N pointed to a door on her right, and Harry immediately walked towards the bathroom. She was really looking too beautiful today but he needed to focus on fixing this cabinet before he could divide his entire attention to every inch of her skin, despite how badly he wanted to abandon everything and just spend the rest of his life in these four walls admiring her.

He went to work quickly, and Y/N brought him a glass of water while he began rummaging through the toolbox to find the right hinges and screwdrivers. Y/N sat leaned forward on the edge of her bathtub, head leaning on her hands as her stare burned a hole in his brain. He felt his ears turning red at the feeling of being watched by her, but he liked it too much to say anything about it.

"All done." Harry said after ten minutes, turning to see a gaping Y/N looking at the fixed cabinet door. She gasped as she got down to the floor and sat next to Harry, fascinated by the working door.

"Oh my god, you're so fast!" Y/N said with a wide smile as her fingers grazed over the new hinges. Just for good measure, she opened and closed the cabinet. Her gaze flicked over to Harry, the closeness between them suddenly very obvious.

"Thank you." She said softly. Her shy smile made the urge to kiss her almost too big to bear. Harry found himself automatically starting to lean in when Y/N suddenly pulled away and turned back with a glass of water in her hand.

"You didn't drink anything yet." She stated, her big eyes looking up at him. Y/N was back to being her skittish self, and for some reason, when she nervously bit her lip, Harry couldn't handle it anymore.

Leaping forward, he grabbed her face and put her lips on his. Slightly taken aback by the impact of the movement, Y/N let out a small noise, combining a yelp and a moan, but she immediately kissed him back. It was only because Harry felt something dripping from his elbow, that he leaned back from the phenomenal kiss.

Splattered all over Y/N's cardigan was the water that had once been in the glass she still holding. It must've tipped over when Harry launched toward her. She looked down and let out a small laugh.

"Oh, you made me all wet!" She giggled, trying to wipe over her cardigan as if it would help the situation. Harry groaned at Y/N's words, his cock suddenly straining way too much in his pants.

"Fucking hell..." he cursed under his breath, hoping it was subtle enough. Y/N heard it anyway, a frown on her face as she met the eyes of the pained man in front of her. Only when a few seconds had passed, she realized the double meaning of her sentence.

"Oh." was the only thing that came out of her mouth as she stared blankly at Harry. Slowly, he began to worry. Had he made her uncomfortable? He couldn't read her face expression.

He was about to ask if everything was okay, when Y/N's hands slowly floated to the button of her cardigan. Harry's eyes followed suit, and his heart rate began to pick up as she began to unbutton her cardigan.

Harry had to actively keep his mouth closed as he watched her take off the cardigan to reveal nothing but a yellow lace bra underneath it. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to touch her in any way he could, but he waited. Either for a signal or to ask for her consent. Just because she was taking off her cardigan didn't mean he'd suddenly gained the right to touch her.

He'd do anything to earn it, though. He'd get on his damn knees to beg for it if he had to.

"Better to take it off, right?" She whispered, a bit uncertainty lacing her words. She was timid; it was the first time she'd really initiated something in this manner.

"Right." Harry whispered back, making sure to keep his eyes on hers. Y/N frowned a bit.

"I bought this yesterday, do you like it?" She ran her fingers over the lace of the bra. Harry's eyes lowered, and he took his time to observe every inch of her breasts and the lace that covered them. His cock was growing painfully hard, but he had to be patient.

"I love it. Fits you perfectly." He rasped. He glanced at Y/N, who swallowed at his words. When his gaze traveled back to her chest, he could see the quickened breaths she was taking.

"Does it make you want to touch me?"

Harry could've melted at the shy words that left Y/N's mouth. He took a deep breath, restraining himself.

"Y/N, everything about you makes me want to touch you." He said, his stomach fluttering as he saw a smile grow on her face. He smirked, leaning closer until his lips were mere inches away from hers. "Can I touch you, darling?"

"Please."

Harry needed nothing more to immediately go in for the kill. He planted hungry kisses on her chin and jaw, working his way down to her neck, Y/N ragged breathing and stifled moans only encouraging him more. His hands traveled up to her chest, cupping one of her breasts and softly squeezing it has he worked to leave bruises on her neck.

"I— Ah... I bought it for you." Y/N croaked out in between moans, her hands searching for any part of Harry's body to hold onto.

Harry groaned into her neck, the confession making him go crazy. Wrapping both his arms around Y/N waist, he pulled her into his lap, placing her right on his hardened cock.

"Yeah? Just for me?" He asked, looking up at her as his fingers trailed the bare skin on her back. Y/N hummed, unconsciously rolling her hips against him to get closer. "How'd you know yellow is my favorite color?"

Y/N sniffed a laugh, her cheeks turning red. "I didn't know it was."

"It is now." Harry said, diving his head in between her breast to leave kisses all over her chest. Y/N grabbed Harry's hair, slightly tugging on it as his mouth touched her all over.

"Harry, please..." She sighed, trying not to moan too loudly. He backed away, looking up at the panting girl in front of him.

"What is it darling? What d'you need?"

Y/N let out a huff. "You know what..."

"No I don't." Harry shrugged, shaking his head. "If you want something you gotta tell me. I always need to know you want it."

Y/N's face was puzzled, and possibly a bit taken aback by Harry's stern statement. He could see her trying to scramble the words in her brain. He knew it wouldn't be easy for a shy girl like her, but he hoped that learning to voice her needs would help her become more confident. In all aspects of her life.

"I... I want you to touch me."

"I am touching you." He took it a little further. Y/N groaned.

"I mean—" she dropped her shoulders. "I want you to touch me.... down there... if you want! Of course. I don't—"

Harry was quick to grab her face. "I want to do whatever you ask of me, don't worry about that. Just tell me what you want, you're doing good baby."

Y/N nodded, looking away as she scraped together some courage. She swallowed before locking eyes with Harry again.

"I want you to touch my pussy with your fingers... please." She said, her eyes wide as she waited for Harry's reaction.

Suddenly, Harry stood up. Y/N clung to him as he went to stand straight and planted her in front of the counter next to the sink. He could tell she was confused when he took a step away from her.

"Take off your shorts and your panties." Was all he said. Y/N did as she was told, quickly taking off her clothes and throwing them to the side. Harry admired her body as she stood there in front of him, waiting for his next move.

"Good girl." He said before grabbing her hips and turning her around to face the mirror in front of them. She was so tiny compared to him. It wasn't that she was extremely short, but his muscles made him way broader in comparison to her frame. But still it was perfect, she was perfect for him.

"See yourself, baby?" He said, lowering his head to plant a kiss in her neck while his arms snaked around her waist. He looked at her through the mirror, seeing her nod in agreement. "You look so perfect, don't you? Tell yourself you look perfect."

Y/N brows creased. "W— what?"

"Tell yourself you look perfect." Harry repeated matter-of-factly, stunning Y/N a bit. She opened her mouth but no sound came out; she was contemplating.

"I look... perfect?" She tilted her head slightly as she did what he asked, but Harry just scoffed.

"A little more conviction, please."

Y/N sighed, hesitantly biting her lip. "I look perfect."

Harry's fingers dug into the sides of her waist, and pulled her into him. In the way her eyes widened slightly, he figured she could feel the bulge that was hiding in his jeans.

"That's it, baby. Yeah you do." He encouraged her with a smile, causing Y/N cheeks to turn red a bit and look down. She gasped when he suddenly slipped his hand into her panties, the sudden touch on her clit causing her to lean into him. Y/N's eyes fluttered shut as she tried not to make too much noise as Harry's fingers explored her cunt.

"Just when I thought it couldn't get more perfect..." Harry said, planting a kiss on her neck before suddenly sticking a finger inside of her. Y/N's hips bucked slightly at the sudden intrusion, and she was quick to grab onto the counter in front of her.

"Shit..." she whispered, breathing becoming more heavy as Harry added a finger. The wet noises of Y/N pussy filled the room, and Harry's pants tightened even more at the sound of it.

Needing her to come desperately before he was going to cream his own pants, Harry picked up his pace. Y/N let out a whine at the speed of his fingers, and began to clench around them.

"You gonna come for me baby?" He took it as a sign, and by the way Y/N's head was hanging low with nothing but small moans leaving her lips, he was interpreting it just right. She quickly nodded in response, keeping her eyes closed as her face began to scrunch up. Harry eyed the counter she was holding onto, and spotted her white knuckled hands.

"You're doing so good, you can come for me." He motivated her. It didn't take more than a few seconds for her to start spasming around his fingers. Y/N's body fell forward a bit, her shaky legs barely being able to keep her up as she came around Harry's fingers. He was quick to pull her back into him, forcing her to hold onto to his arm as she rode out her orgasm on his hand.

Whispering sweet nothings in her ear, Harry took his time to let Y/N come down from her orgasm. When she finally opened her eyes, and Harry's spotted the dazed look in her eyes, he couldn't help but smile.

"There she is." He teased. Her cheeks were a bright pink from the orgasm she just had, and a small giggle left her mouth. "Was that good for you? Was that what you wanted?"

Y/N said nothing, solely smiling as she turned around to face Harry. His brows furrowed slightly as the silence went on, but he froze when she suddenly began to sink to her knees.

"Baby, you don't have to feel obligated to—"

Immediately, her smile dropped, much like Harry's heart. She looked up at him with those doe eyes of her, looking disappointed.

"You don't want that?" She asked, and Harry was pretty sure a piece of his heart cracked at hearing the tone of her voice.

"I want everything from you. I just don't want you to feel like you have to make me feel good just because I make you feel good, okay?" He explained, hoping she would understand.

Y/N tilted her head. "But... I want it."

Harry thought it over for a minute, then answered.

"Do you want me to fuck you?"

Y/N swallowed, then nodded. Harry quirked up a brow.

"Yes." She voiced quickly, instantly understanding his silent demand for verbal consent.

"And you wanna suck me off?"

Again, Y/N nodded. "Yes."

"Greedy girl." Harry's lips quirked up, and he pushed back a strand of hair behind Y/N's ear. "Alright, who am I to say no? But just for a little bit, I don't think I'll last long."

Y/N hummed eagerly, immediately reaching for Harry's pants. He was shocked at her sudden burst of confidence when she turned them around so Harry could lean against the counter. He wondered where she'd learned that move, and then he quickly took that thought back, because he didn't want to think about Y/N making this move on other men.

All racing thoughts were thrown out the window when Y/N pulled down Harry's boxers. He could tell she was a bit surprised, and he would be lying if he said it didn't inflate his ego just a bit.

"You still sure about this?" He asked for good measure. Y/N looked at him, a bit... annoyed?

Harry didn't have much time to figure out what the expression on her face meant, because before he knew it, she licked a long stripe from his base the way to the tip of cock. Harry hissed, gripping onto the counter as she began to kitten lick the tip.

Fuck, he wasn't gonna last long like this at all.

When Y/N properly put her lips around him and began to really suck him off, Harry had to do everything in his power not to come in the spot. Automatically, he threw his head back, but as soon as he realized he was missing the view of the most beautiful angel he'd ever seen giving him a blowjob, his eyes traveled back to her.

"Fucking— hell..."

Looking up through her lashes, Y/N was sucking on Harry, taking care of what she couldn't take in her mouth with her hand. And then, when she began to speed up, Harry couldn't take it anymore.

Leaning forward, he pulled Y/N off his cock and got her to stand up straight. She yelped at the sudden movement, and she looked slightly offended to be disturbed during her performance of a lifetime. Somehow, when he lifted her up, she knew to wrap her legs around him. She held on tightly as he moved out of the bathroom and made his way over to the couch.

"I have a condom with me."

Y/N tilted her head. "I’m on contraceptives."

"Okay." Harry said. "I haven't been with anyone in like, three months. I got tested then, and I'm clean."

Y/N nodded. "Right... well I haven't been with anyone for like, two years, so I'm definitely clean."

Again, Harry would have been lying if he said that didn't made him feel a bit better about the two of them. But that was not the focus of right now.

"Alright, no condom then?" He asked.

"No condom." Y/N repeated, and that was that.

Sitting down with Y/N on his lap, Harry let her go at her own pace as she grabbed his cock and lined it up with her pussy. It was difficult not to dig his nails into her when she pushed his cock into her. Her jaw was slack, definitely getting used to the size and girth of the man she was pushing inside of her.

It was a matter of patience, but Y/N's tight walls, that patience was running thin. When Harry was about halfway in, he couldn't take it anymore.

"Want me to help?" Harry asked, and when Y/N nodded, he bucked his hips up, impaling her on his dick. She let out a loud a moan at the harshness, throwing her head back. But Harry didn't stop, he began to fuck up into her.

He was mesmerized, watching her tits bounce from the impact, her head back and her neck on display. She was a sight for sore eyes and he couldn't believe he was lucky enough to see her like this.

"Fuck, angel, you feel so good." The nickname slipped out like it was the most normal thing on earth. Harry was pleasantly surprised to feel her clenching around him in response, her nails digging into his shoulders.

"D'you like that? When I call you angel?" He began to provoke her. She nodded.

"I love it." The confession slipped past her lips. She opened her eyes, gazing into Harry's. "Again, please."

"Yeah? Want me to call you angel?" He asked, the rhetoric question earning some groans from Y/N's side. "You know why I call you angel, baby?"

"Why?" Her voice was soft, breath hitching as she began bouncing on Harry's cock more now that he had slowed his pace.

"Because the first time I saw you I thought I was dreaming." Harry said, holding onto her waist. Y/N let out a small moan. "You have this radiation about you, angel. You light up every room you’re in."

"Fuck..." Y/N cursed under her breath. "I can't— I need more, please, please..."

Harry groaned at the sheer desperation in her voice, pulling out to switch positions and laying Y/N on her back. When he entered her again, he didn't waste much time before pounding into her.

"Needed this angel? Needed me so bad, huh?" He asked, watching Y/N's eyes roll back as she tried to hold onto anything she could in order not to fall off the couch.

"Harry— oh my god!" She cried out helplessly, clawing onto his chest and arms. She wrapped her legs around Harry's torso, and he leaned forward to go even deeper, his cross chain dangling above her mouth.

Harry about lost it when she took the chain between her teeth and used it to pull him closer before putting her lips on his. All the sounds that left their mouths entered each other, their pleasure flowing between bodies like a steady wave.

Harry wasn't surprised that Y/N stopped kissing him, having felt her clench around his hard cock. She couldn't even get a word out, but Harry knew enough.

"C'mon angel, come for me." He growled, beginning to chase his own high as Y/N came around him.

Harry's orgasm followed not long after, and he was quick to pull out, his seed coating her lower stomach. Both were breathing heavily, not really speaking to each other as they came down from their highs. After a minute or two, Harry leaned forward and planted a kiss on Y/N's forehead before getting up from the couch.

Y/N was too dazed to say anything about it, but she didn't have to wait long before Harry returned with paper towels to clean up the mess he made. He praised her casually as he wiped her stomach clean.

When he was done, he pulled her to sit up straight on the couch and got a glass of water for the both of them. Again, Y/N could only nod. He sat back down, handing one of the glasses to the girl next to him and watched her take some big sips before grabbing the glasses again and putting it back on the table. He was shocked when Y/N suddenly spoke up.

"I think I'm gonna quit my job." She said, staring at the wall in front of her. Harry put down his drink as well, re-positioning himself on the couch so he was sitting towards her.

"Y/N..." He was speechless. Seeing the look on her face, hearing those words come out of her mouth, it hurt him to see her like that. She finally turned to look at him.

"I can't... I can't be in the same space as him." She looked down at her fiddling hands, and Harry spotted the tears welling in her eyes. "I'm just so afraid all the time."

Fuck.

He didn't know how much quicker he could've pulled her into a hug. Y/N didn't particularly hug him back, but she rested her head on his shoulder as she accepted his embrace.

"I'm sorry." Y/N mumbled, barely cohesive as her words were muffled by Harry's shoulder. He pulled away from the hug. "I didn't meant to ruin the vibe."

"You have nothing to be sorry for." He reminded her, wiping a tear away from her cheek. "I'm glad you felt safe enough to tell me."

Y/N sighed. "It's gonna be hard as shit to find a new job here, though."

It was so incredibly unfair that Y/N had to be the one to switch jobs. Harry's jaw clenched. "Are you sure you don't want to talk to HR? They might be able to do something."

Y/N shook her head. "I don't have proof."

"Sexual harassment isn't about proof. If someone makes you uncomfortable, whether they intend to or not, that is sexual harassment." Harry said. He had a zero tolerance policy at the gym, and unfortunately had a sexual harassment situation once at work when a personal trainer kept making inappropriate comments towards one of the cleaners. He was very thankful that the woman felt safe enough to inform him, and he hated that Y/N didn't have that.

"It's complicated. I went on a date with him, that doesn't make me look very good." She replied. The look in her eyes was hopeless, and it scared him that this situation had been draining her so much.

"I still think you should consider it." Harry insisted anyway, hoping she would keep the option in the back of her mind at the very least.

Y/N shrugged. "I'll see."

The silence loomed over the both of them, and Harry didn't know what to do. He wanted to comfort her, tell her all the right things she wanted to hear. But he wasn't sure what she did or didn't want to hear.

Instead, Harry leaned forward, his hand cupping her jaw. Her eyes fluttered closed, head tilting towards his hand. In turn, his stomach fluttered.

"You're going to be okay, no matter what." He assured her. Sure, he didn't know what she was going to do or how everything was going to turn out, but he felt very strongly that things would be fine.

"Thank you." Y/N whispered sweetly, her eyes still closed.

Harry smiled. She looked safe now.

Taglist: @meetmeatyourworst @mema10 @seafoamwhispers @namoreno @inkedskin @fangirl509east @mellamolayla @lizsogolden @prettydelilah @kierramcduffie @harry2121 @babegoals @hermionelove@bitchidontpost @lomlolivia @harringtonhundreds @fruit-harry

[ao3commentoftheday]

I am having issues being nice to people in my ao3 comments. Most of the time people are perfectly lovely and I love having interactions with them. It's really important to me that when I'm on my writer tumblr instead of my main and on my ao3, I foster a kind and gentle community. I feel like that starts with me and that is the sort of environment I want to create.

Now, the problem is this fic I wrote. It's for a pretry big fandom and it got a lot of traction (like first page when sorting by hits while there are tens of thousands of fics) and it's been wild. Mostly great... except this one arc I wrote where character A, who is mentally ill and gets triggered into a spiral acts mentally ill, which negatively impacts people around him, including character B (it's a ship fic), who while not responsible is making it worse and making the active choice to stay, because he also has his own issues. The fic explores the aftermath of that as well, but for a few chapters it's just the downward spiral. And while it isn't all condoned, I give character A understanding due to the situation as well as a healing journey, wherein he apologizes and does better and makes up for it.

Sadly for me, character B is the fandom's favorite white boy, who is always the hurt victim in every situation and has no responsibility ever. So me also stating how character B is in part responsible forthe situation ending up getting as bad is a no go and people are very angry at me. On top of that, I based a lot of character A's struggles on my own, which makes it even less pleasant to get detailed comments about how he deserves to be beaten up for his actions and left by all his friends and family to stew in the guilt for the rest of forever all alone, less than fun.

I don't want to have to tell people about my own personal struggles and I am tired of explaining that it is a character arc and a nuanced and complex situation wherein multiple parties are at fault. And I have chronic have to reply even when I know ignoring it is better syndrome. At what point does it become acceptable to just be a fucking bitch to people?

First of all, lemme give you a hug 💗 It's never fun when people misunderstand your message and it's even worse when there's a personal element to it as well.

The way I see it, your comments section belongs to you. It's an extension of your fic and it's a place where every message left gets dropped into your inbox. If there's something you don't want to see in your comments section? Delete it. If there's someone who won't stop misinterpreting you/your characterization or someone who is being an asshat? Block them. Then delete their comment.

I know people get hung up on whether or not they should do that, but I'm here to tell you that if I didn't delete hate and block haters, this blog would have shut down in 2020, if not earlier. You need to take care of yourself, and if that means removing that part of your comments then so be it.

I also prefer to lead with empathy and understanding. I believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt. I work very hard at taking the best interpretation possible of scenarios that people write me about. But that doesn't mean I need to put up with hate or with willful ignorance or with snarky "ironic" dystopian takes on my attempts to be sincere and helpful. Those things all make it harder for me to continue this hobby I love, and therefore I delete and I block and I move on in the direction I'm going.

I definitely understand the desire to be a heinous bitch in response. I've even given into it a few times. But I also remember those times because I'm not proud of myself for losing my temper. I look back on them and wish that I hadn't chosen a good burn over my principles.

Don't share anything that you don't actually want to share with strangers on the internet. Don't keep comments around that make you feel bad. Put an author's note at the bottom of the chapter explaining what you're going for and letting readers know that you don't want comments like the ones you describe here - and delete them if they come in despite that.

Sometimes you just have to clean house, anon, and get rid of some of the cruft.

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Bonding Exercise Part One

Robert Reynolds x Reader

Words: 3091

Summary: For some reason, someone thought it would be a good idea for you to all go camping together… big mistake. 

Notes: Oh look another imagine I had to split into two parts or else it was going to be way too long. Oops. I got this idea right before going to Yellowstone with my sisters and I couldn’t resist. This gives me classic Avengers Tower fic vibes and I am here for it. Let me know what you think! 

More Thunderbolts and Marvel: HERE

-

“The next person who breathes in my direction is never breathing again,” Ava snapped, glowering at the back row of seats through the rearview mirror.

Walker opened his mouth to speak–probably to point out that you and Bob were too focused on each other to be huffing on the back of her neck, but she turned her icy stare on him and he decided to sit quietly. Wise, considering he was the closest to her. 

Alexei drove, so Yelena claimed ‘daughter privilege’ to the front seat. Walker and Ava took the center row, leaving you and your boyfriend to squeeze into the back with all the supplies that didn’t fit in the trunk. 

Bucky did the smart thing and said he’d just take his motorcycle. You were definitely wishing you had chosen to ride separately right about now.

“No making out in the back of van!” Alexei called out, sending you a smirk.

Bob blushed. You buried your face in your hands. 

“I only kissed her a little bit,” Bob murmured, earning disgusted noises from Ava and Walker.

You rolled your eyes. “Are we almost there?”

“Very close according to my GPS,” Alexei said. His GPS was a map on the dashboard with liquids you didn’t want to identify staining the corners. “Two-ish hours.”

The crowd in the car collectively groaned. 

“Please tell me someone brought alcohol,” Ava said.

Everyone but Bob’s hands shot up. You leaned over, giving his hand a slight squeeze.

“I brought those fizzy drinks that you like,” you whispered. You’d found these non-alcoholic sparkling punch drinks that Bob had really liked. He brought your hand to his lips. Walker gagged.

“Can we ban them from sitting together for the rest of this stupid trip?”

“Just because your heart is dead, Walker, does not mean theirs has to be,” Yelena said. She flipped around in her seat. “Even if it is a little nauseating.” 

You were grateful no one mentioned that the two of you were the reason you were in this mess to begin with. For a long time, you and Bob kept your feelings for each other between yourselves. Things were complicated enough, and you didn’t want to deal with the possibility of Valentina turning you into some kind of super couple. The attention was bad enough. You wouldn’t drag Bob into that. 

Unfortunately, the team wasn’t overly thrilled to find out you’d been going behind their backs for nearly a year. 

You’d gone to a very small pizza place on Staten Island to celebrate another year of Sobriety for Bob, and Walker, Bucky, and Ava found you. Needless to say, it did not go well. 

With a very public blow-up now circulating about the New Avengers, Valentine said something needed to be done. Mel gave you two solutions: a spiritual bonding retreat or camping. The group unanimously decided. 

You understood why they thought it was a bad idea, Bucky especially. He’d been around long enough to know there was no such thing as a happy ending. But was it too much to ask for a happy middle? 

As if sensing where your mind had taken you, Bob moved his thumb back and forth against the back of your hand. 

“What if we get attacked by a bear?” Ava asked. “Do any of us actually have a clue what we’re doing?”

“We were taught how to survive in the wild in case we had to go on the run,” Yelena said. “I could skin a rabbit faster than anyone else.”

“I don’t want to skin a rabbit,” Bob said.

“We have plenty of food,” you assured him.

“I will fight off any bear that comes near Lena,” Alexei said, patting her on the shoulder. She grimaced and turned to the window.

“Why do you care?” Walker asked. “You can just materialize away from it.”

“Maybe the bear would be friendly.”

“Bears are not friendly, Bob.” Walker snapped. “They are killing machines.”

“I thought that’s what we were,” you muttered.

The rest of the ride was held in irritated silence, with the occasional anecdote from Aleix, which just made you more and more confused about his past. You listened, though, to every word. Every time one of them talked about where they came from, you wondered if your story was the same. Were you changed in some lab? Or were you put through a program like the Black Widows? All you knew was that you woke up one day in a clearing surrounded by a circle of bodies–a SWAT team–and you could control liquid. Including making human blood boil. The rest, who you were before that day, you couldn’t remember. All this power, all the pressure to be something great, and you didn’t even know your last name.

“Are you sure this is the road?” Yelena asked. She had the map spread over her lap, tracing her fingers over the lines that marked the paths. 

“I know exactly where we are going.” Alexei made an abrupt turn, launching you into Bob’s lap, and a case of tent spikes into your back. 

He grunted, taking a shoulder to the ribs. 

“Isn’t there supposed to be a lake?” 

“Who let him drive?” Walker exclaimed. 

Bob helped steady you back into the seat, sliding his arm behind you to both keep you steady against Alexei’s driving and to ease the anxiety building in his chest. 

He didn’t have fond memories of family trips. Or camping. Or anything involving other people in general.

“We are definitely in the wrong place,” Yelena said. “Just go to where I tell you.”

“Fine, fine.” Alexei whipped the car around. Bob had to hold onto Walker’s headrest so he wouldn’t slide into you. “I was taking the scenic route.”

“Buck is going to think we got attacked or something,” Bob snickered.

“I’m sure he’s thrilled to have the time away from us,” you said. 

Bob leaned in, whispering. “He needs his old man alone time.”

You snorted, which made Ava glower again. You both tried to hold your breath, which just made you laugh harder.

“That’s it.” Ava clicked her seat belt and started to climb over the seat, Walker, and you both tried to hold her back from tackling Bob.

-

Bucky, sure enough, was waiting at the campsite by the time Alexei found the right dirt road- after almost driving you all into a river. Bucky sat next to a perfectly made tent in front of a perfectly made fire, cooking a can of soup. He glanced up when the van skidded to a stop in front of him, frowning.

“The team is all together!” Alexei cheered. 

Bucky raised a brow. “You were supposed to be here three hours ago.”

“Yeah.” Walker climbed out of the car. “We know.”

Ava was next. Then you. Then Bob, who had a little red mark on his forehead where Ava flicked him. When he scrunched from the back seat, he took in the scene around you. Everywhere were tall trees with leaves that caught the sun like emeralds. Down a makeshift path of stones was a beach next to a crystal blue lake. Most of all, there was quiet unlike anything he’d ever known before. His whole life had been noise. It felt strange, almost unsettling, to take that away. But he was drawn to it anyway. 

You breathed in the smell of damp earth and were grateful it wasn’t trash on the street for once. Part of you wished the change would help you remember. Were you an outdoorsy kid? 

“Alright.” Yelena hopped down from the passenger seat. “Now, we set up.” 

Bucky slurped a spoonful of soup. “Done.”

“Yes, well, we have to decide who is sharing,” Yelena said. "There are only three more tents.” 

Alexei held up a hand. 

“No,” Yelena said.

He put his hand back down. 

“Bucky, Walker, you’ve known each other the longest,” Ava said.

“Only because we beat the shit out of each other a couple years ago. That shouldn’t count.” Walk said. “Why can’t you and Yelena share? Have a ‘girls night’ or whatever.”

“Do you think all women are just dying to have sleepovers with each other?” She fired back. 

“Bob and I will share,” you finally blurted.

The others went quiet. Bucky looked away. You hated how they all acted like your relationship was some taboo subject. The second it wasn't just something to joke about, they just wanted to pretend it wasn’t real. Like it was something they could all just forget about. 

Screw that. You knew what it was like to really forget.

Nudging Bob with your arm, you started for the trunk of the van. 

“Come on. We can set up by the lake.” You grabbed the biggest tent and set of spikes. 

Bob glanced at the others, then at you, then at the lake. It did look like a nice spot. He followed you through the small opening in the trees to a wide section of smooth gravel on the beach. 

Walker snagged his arm before he could step out of the brush. 

“I swear, if I have to listen to the two of you-” He inhaled sharply, “canoodling all night, I will kill you in your sleep. Got it?” 

“I don’t think I can actually-”

“Got it!” Walker just seemed so irritated, Bob decided to just nod. He hurried after you. 

“You okay?” You asked, spotting Walker’s retreating form.

“Yeah.” Bob’s brows furrowed. “I just don’t think I’ve ever heard a grown man say ‘canoodling’.” 

You snorted and rolled your eyes for the thousandth time since the trip started.

“That’s because Walker isn’t a grown man. He’s a twelve-year-old bully trapped in a super soldier’s body.” You placed the first tent spike and realized you forgot a hammer. “Little help?” 

Bob crouched down beside you and pressed the stake into the ground with ease, doing the same for each corner and on the sides. It was actually kind of fun, and when you were finished, the tent was sturdy and in place. Bob felt a flicker of accomplishment. It was something so normal and yet, it wasn’t anything he’d done before. Maybe this trip wouldn't be so bad after all.

“Hey.” Bob caught your hand, tugging you gently toward him. “I know they’re still kind of pissed at us, but I’m happy I get to be out here with you.” He smiled his sweet, crooked smile and kissed your cheek.

You leaned into him, relaxing for the first time since the fight with the others in front of that stupid pizza place. Between his presence and the quiet rush of waves from the lake, you could actually breathe again. 

“We should get back,” you said, reluctantly turning away. “The others will think we’re up to something scandalous.”

Bob hesitated. He pulled you closer to him, hugging you from behind so you were both facing the water. 

“Just a little longer,” he pleaded softly, pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. He snuggled into you the way he often did right before he fell asleep, taking you in as much as his senses let him. You smelled like fresh rain, your skin soft against his, your voice calming in his ears. He wanted to savor every second.

“Do you have extra tent spikes?” Yelena poked her head out from the trees. “Alexei managed to break all of his.”

“I’m sorry I’m too strong for little plastic pokey sticks!”

Your light laugh vibrated against Bob's chest. 

“We’ll be right there,” you said. 

Bob loosened his hold, and the two of you made your way back to the main camp.

“Oh no.” You muttered, finding you’d left behind complete and utter chaos. “You guys, we were gone for five minutes!” 

Before you sat two piles that might have been tents and a set of charred hot dogs next to the fire. Alexei was still trying to put the rods of his tent together and Walker was failing to give him instructions in any sort of calm, helpful manner whatsoever. Ava had gotten into the beers and was watching it all next to Bucky. All they needed was popcorn. 

You let your palm hit your forehead and slid your hand down your face. Bob just stood next to you, blinking.” 

“Do you think we should help them?” He whispered. 

You sighed and walked over to the first failed attempt at shelter. Using the same patience and method as before, you and Bob managed to put both up by the time Alexei fixed his. 

“You cheated,” he huffed. “He can fly.”

How that helped put a tent together, you weren't sure, but you decided not to argue anyway. You instead focused on getting yourself a drink. A strong one. You handed Bob one of his punches and he took it like a kid taking candy. 

“Thanks,” he muttered, taking a sip with a content smile. Bob watched you make a drink and sit in front of the fire, waiting a moment before joining you. He liked the way the flame made your eyes glow, how it warmed your skin, and flickered at the shadows around you. 

Bucky cleared his throat, making Bob jump. The old soldier raised a brow. Bob gave him a smile, tight lipped smile. 

“Did you, uh,” he took another sip for courage, “have a nice ride out here?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes like he was suspicious of the question. But after a second, he eased. 

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s good to get out of the city for once.”

“It’s so quiet,” Bob awed. “And it smells so good. I forgot how good trees smell, you know?”

Bucky glanced at him for a long while- not out of annoyance. Appreciation. He found a strange sense of comfort in seeing the kid so happy. 

“Yeah,” he said finally. “It’s nice.”

Bob took a breath. “So about the other day-”

“Nope.” Bucky shook his head briskly and stalked off.

Bob deflated a little and went to join you. 

You stared into the fire, trying to ignore the cold creeping into the air. Ever since you gained your powers, even the slightest chill sank down to your bones, like ice taking over your body. Maybe you were always like that. Maybe not.

“Are you cold?” Bob asked.

You hadn’t realized how much you started shivering.

“Oh! Here.” He jumped up to grab something from the van. He came back with a massive, fluffy blanket that he usually kept on his bed. “I brought this for you because you always forget and you’re always cold.” Bob wrapped it around your shoulders, letting his hands linger to rub warmth into your arms. “I hope that helps.”

“It’s perfect.” You tilted your head back to look at him. “Thank you.” 

He sat beside you. You tucked the blanket around him, too.

The others all gathered around the fire and for a while, it all felt weirdly… normal. Like you really were just a regular family on summer vacation. Alexei started telling another one of his stories and Yelena kept pointing out everything he got wrong, which made you all laugh. Bucky made everyone’s hot dogs because he was the only one who could manage not to burn them. Even Walker seemed to have a decent time. He heated a pot of coffee over the fire and poured you a cup.

“This’ll warm you up,” he said. His gaze darted between you and Bob. You hadn’t realized how much you were snuggled into him, still shivering. But Walker didn’t make any snide remarks or roll his eyes, he just held out the steaming mug.

You grasped it with both hands, letting it warm your palms. “Thanks.” 

He nodded and turned back to the conversation- something about new weapons from somewhere or something. 

“Ugh, I thought we came out here so we didn't have to talk about work,” Ava whined. Everyone paused. You each looked around the group. 

Bucky raised a brow. “What else are we going to talk about?”

Ava rested her chin on her hand, frowning. “You make us sound so pathetic.”

Another pause. The group collectively shrugged. 

“I watched a pretty cool movie on Netflix the other night while you guys were out,” Bob chimed in. “It was about–”

“She kinda has a point,” Walker interrupted. “None of us really has a life anymore.

“You say that like we had one before,” Yelena said. You could tell this wasn’t going to be a pleasant topic. 

“I did.” 

“Good for you, Walker,” she huffed. “Tell us another story of your time in the American military. We’re all dying to know.”

“I think that’s a little uncalled for-” Bob started, but was silenced again as their argument erupted. Ava jumped in. Bucky tried to get them to shut up, which roped him in, too.

“Are we going to do this every time?” You exclaimed over the commotion. “Rehash the same things like we’re all broken records of tragic backstories?”

It must have been the drive. Or maybe the situation in general. But Yelena was annoyed and wasn’t thinking. 

“It must be nice not to remember,” she fired back. As soon as she said it, a deadly quiet fell over all of you. Her eyes widened, processing what she’d done.

Bob tried to hold you closer, to remind you he was there, but you stood and walked away, letting the blanket fall around him. 

“Y/N, wait!” Yelena called. 

You disappeared into the dark and the trees. Overhead, thunder boomed. Bob and Yelena jumped to their feet. 

“Let her go,” Bucky said. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. 

Silence came again. 

Alexei let out a low, long breath, shaking his head. “I knew I should have brought he board games.”

Yelena sat back down, head in her hands, but Bob stayed. He wanted to run after you, but his feet wouldn't move. He couldn’t see you anymore. It made him nervous. It wasn’t as though this was the first time it had come up, but he knew each time that it did was another shot of ice through you. Another brick for you to build the wall around your heart. He just hoped this time he could do something to stop it. You were always there for him. He didn’t want you to get lost in the same shadows. 

“I’m making another drink,” Ava said. “Who wants–” Before she even finished, hands shot into the air, Bucky’s metal one glinting in the crackling light of the fire. 

[anyoldfandom]

Spoilered for more Isleweaver thoughts!

I think the the "Glory" that was "working" inside us was despair. Another parent dead, one we personally know and love. Because, despite getting mad at us at times - I think Wally doesn't actually wish the Drifter harm.

He mimics us in face sometimes, he turns Rusalka into a host he has never seen before, wears her like we wear our Warframes.

But he also turns into Entrati just as much. He was BORN of Entrati's fears of the Void, both the Void itself and also a manifestation, according to Entrati'a notes and Sythel. And I think it's very relevant to this that Wally has such a focus on parenthood, sees us and Rusalka sympathetically. Wally's own "father" chopped off his fingers, ran in fear from him - how could parents not be failures? This Void manifestation's first moments of "existence" had his father chop off fingers, something Wally returns to over and over again. It's a betrayal, and all parents fear and hate their children. What happened to us was said to be an experiment, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was just born of Wally being a creature of despair and not being able to see past how not just he was hurt by Entrati, but BORN of Entrati's fear - the fear of a character who we are first introduced to as a father himself. And Rusalka, an orphan again who was "failed" by her adoptive parents, not stopped from joining the Scaldra - well, she's sympathetic too, isn't she? A child who spent so much of her life afraid, eventually running into the embrace of despair. A child so like us, an orphan whose new parents (Ordis and Lotus) didn't try to stop from running back to the past to stop Wally alone - something the Drifter does struggle with I think, considering that one convo with Quincy where he (with the best intentions) points out that it is kinda fucked that we were sent to the past, that no one protested or tried to stop us.

But also, we have a special connection to Wally because we were always nurtured by the Void. Even as we piss off and refuse to share with and fight against Wally, he gives us chance and chance again to return - isn't that nice? Isn't that better than any father would be? No matter how much we fight, Wally really does just want us to come home to him.

I think Wally well and truly just...adores us still. Especially the Drifter. We see it with how focused Rusalka is on us too, how the poor naive Orphan in the story just needs to learn the way things work.

I think that explains at least some of the contradictions - Wally hates parents, loves family. At least, he loves what he thinks are HIS family - Rusalka, who embraces him now, and the Drifter, who embraced him (despair) for untold time in Duviri. A runaway child that just needs to come back to him, and he will take away all their anger, their sorrow, fear, jealousy, and fleeting joy.

(The Operator, now, I wonder if Wally still loves them - or views their relationship with Ordis and Lotus, consistently choosing to fill their life with new parents, as a betrayal. Or if attempting to "consume" them, as the Lotus called it, is a way to "bring them back" into the family in their eyes, to return them to the family since they are so stalwart and far less likely to be depressed with their support system. Love putting them out of Wally's reach - just like Entrati says. That also makes me wonder if Wally also hates the Hex so much because of that, uses Rusalka to call them freaks when she asks who's protecting them while we're in Duviri. If the Operator is so far out of reach now, with their parents - maybe Wally is fearing we will be, too.)

(I also think it is ironic but very telling of his origins that despite this hatred for Entrati, Wally still has put himself in a parental role in this hypothetical family. I think, once more, to the repeating idea in Isleweaver - that one day, the spider children will eat their parents and grow stronger for it.)

I want to throw my thoughts out there and gush about how good this update is even though there is no quest

SPOILERS FOR ISLEWEAVER OFC

Lore wise spiders appeared in Warframe a few times (Chains of Harrow*, Lettie using them as a metaphor for depression); the 15 fragments seem to be Rusalka's autobiographical version of the tales of Duviri: she ran away from her emotions untill she had nowhere else to go, nothing to "fill her life up with", and the indifference jumped at her moment of weakness. Ofc the spider (Wally) saying he could "eat up" all of her worries and finally eating her is just a perfect fairytale way to put her fate into words. Instead of fixing the things that make her sad, envious, angry, he "kills" her, then she can't feel bad anymore. Here's a KIM chat with Lettie that explains it well:

Drifter: You've mentioned the spiders before, a metaphor for depression, I assume?

Lettie: Ay si. Something I've had all my life. Stupid little things in my head that tell me lies. Little things that whisper to me things that I believe when I am too stupid and fall for it.

[...]

Lettie: Then you truly understand what it's like, mi corazon. They are little pinches cabronas. But they are liars remember that always. This kind of sadness is small but it can be a poison if you let it get too strong**. Mi mama had it all her life so I have seen the toll it takes.

Lettie: But here is why I call them spiders. Because you can take a newspaper can roll it up into a tube. And CRUSH THEM. They are small and easily broken.

Lettie points out that this destructive force (depression in her case, indifference in the story at large) is not that strong, but it's steady and unrelenting. Kinda like how the murmur's assault on Albrecht's lab is described in the codex. **I also think that Rusalka slowly poisoning herself with effervon is just another nice symbolic layer to this.

When she brings her self-poisoning up, she also says that the indifference offered her new life. It made a pact the same way it did with the tenno, catching her at the lowest point in her life. We have no idea what the nature of her (and ours tbh) deal really is so this is heavy speculation. I don't think Rusalka is all gone (the secret message for her parents and some of her dialogue in Duviri make it seem like she's working with Wally, instead of being a hollowed out meatsuit). The man in the wall is using her, she's sort of given up on herself. She saw no other way out of her situation in Höllvania. She ran off to Duviri with Wally believing there is no possibility of things getting better. The fragments are a tragic realization of what got her up to that point of no return.

*The story of the corpses on the other hand plays well with what we hear from Rell. He mentions baby spiders eating their mother. Wally definitely remembers this since he was stuck hyper focusing on Rell for a long time. Velimir's and Minerva's corpse entries? stories? what am I writing... are obviously both about parenthood.

Minerva's directly mentions baby spiders eating their mother to "become strong" (I don't remember well but maybe Erra says something like that to Lotus... the scope of this post is beyond me rn). I have a feeling that what Wally did with the Tenno was an experiment****. Nature vs nurture sort of thing. How would two identical children turn out if they grew up in totally different environments (Drifter and the Operator ofc). Idk why the indifference decided the parents must die in both cases, at that point, but since the void exists outside of time it's hard to say anything concrete really.

In Velimir's fragment the queen emphasizes how the parents turned on their children first, not just all adults.

(Screenshots from @tennospaceboots)

Tagfer theorized that Wally just wants to know about humans, the real world. So I don't think it's out of the question he used the Zariman as a fucked up experiment on human nature. I think the last line from Velimir's fragment speaks volumes:

The same crack runs through everything, kiddo, she explained. You want to deny it, that's on you.

I think what we see in these fragments is Wally speaking through Rusalka, as opposed to the fragments which are purely Rusalka. In that quote Wally gives his "thesis" on the human condition. Human nature is contradictory, as an outsider he sees all happiness as fleeting, and a cause for further suffering. He cannot wrap his head around this contradiction***, of love causing pain (parents holding themselves to a too high standard [the final secret Kim chat with Minerva and Velimir show that ultimately, even thought their family was torn apart, they still found peace], lovers separated [Albrecht and Loid]), he cannot see how it could be worth it. It's probably by his nature, he's the indifference after all. Makes me wonder if he considers, after seeing the differences between Drifter and Operator, if he could have been completely different if the circumstances of his "coming into being" were changed. If his body wasn't torn and stolen from him, used by unknown others, abused by Entrati. I prefer to interpret Albrecht's first meeting with the indifference as unfortunate, I don't think he could have reacted differently, he was probably like 2% as afraid as were the Cavia when he met face to face with Wally for the first time. I have plenty sympathy for him, which is why I love the story of Warframe so much. You can have sympathy for everyone EXCEPT THE OROKIN, THE HUMAN ROOT OF ALL EVIL.

***As a sidenote maybe that's why he hates us mixing elements into more complicated forms, symbolism etc. idk it's 4 am now.

****I think the line "No one has a greater imagination than a scared child" is backing this up, good God why doesn't the wiki have the quotes yet.... : (

I think when we find out more about his deal with the Lotus this whole thing will be more fleshed out. Is Wally saying (in the Minerva fragment) that we will learn that lesson by "eating" her? (Lotus eaters hello) I sure hope not. The sentients have the most cool, unusual and amazing family relations so I'm excited how DE will explore that.

This could be a whole fucking video at this point, Socratetris and Stallord I'm coming for your gig (no I'm not).

Now for the most important part of the post:

The forefathers of your forefathers looked into the shining heart of an atom, scribbled their clever equations, and ripped it apart. Did they spare a thought for the age-old love between proton and neutron? Or did they only think of the bountiful energy they could harvest?

I've been emotional about Warframe a few times but this hit me harder than a ton of Quorvexeseses. It's so simple yet so beautifully poetic I'm not even going to try to give a shitty explanation. Wally I love you and I'm so sorry.

And here I'll throw some random extra thoughts that are unrefined (I know the shit above is also unrefined but you know):

I think people have a tendency to overcomplicate things with Warframe's story, which I don't blame them, the story is a mess lol. But some of the theories I've seen on Oraxia's origin are jumping through too many hoops (am I a hypocrite now). I think she was a guardian Warframe for Entrati the same way Protea was for Parvos Granum. He was the most important scientist in the empire, seems logical that Ballas would give him a guardian.

Also wtf does Thrax mean that he was the most of a father we ever got.

A strange idea came into the Orphan's mind. The Queen knew at once that the Glory was at work within them, just as it worked within her, but she held her peace. - this line still puzzles me, ofc we see the indifference exercising control over Rusalka and the glory is a name the indifference chose for, well indifference, but what idea came into the orphan's mind?

It's kinda interesting that Wally himself seems kind of contradictive. If he's indifferent why does he even bother interacting with humanity? Why is conceptual embodiment a thing if the void "craves stillness, emptiness". He is so interesting. Maybe he wants to be human. He wants the contrast. He wants what he doesn't, and maybe even, can't have.

[altkys]

You knew better than to expect a party. But silence? That was new.

You sat alone at the edge of the quad, plastic fork scraping lukewarm rice from a soggy takeout box. Your name wasn’t called when they passed out cupcakes — they said your portion had been “pre-gifted,” whatever the hell that meant. You smiled anyway. Shrugged it off. Pretended you weren’t watching when two of your closest friends slipped out without a word and came back twenty minutes later, arms full of drinks and snacks—for everyone but you.

Someone — barely more than a mutual — said “Happy Birthday” in the hallway between fourth and fifth period. It echoed just a bit. Loud enough to alert the others. Loud enough for them to blink like they'd forgotten you were a real person.

“Oh my god, is it today?” “Wait— really?” “Happy birthday, haha.” “Sorry I didn’t bring anything, it’s shipping.”

Shipping. Right. So were all the smiles you forced and all the trust you’d offered them, apparently.

You found out you were failing two subjects by email. Teacher comments were polite, too polite. You're not lazy, just scattered. Just tired. Just sitting in the back corner of your life, watching it go on without you.

Your siblings texted around 5:00. “hbd. mind if I eat the cake? no icecream”

You didn’t answer. Fuck them, honestly — there was no time for crying either. You had takeout to eat with your parents, who only remembered your birthday when they saw the date on the receipt.

They tried to make it sound fun. “Surprise!” They said. “You always love Thai food, right?”

“I did,” you replied, “when I was twelve.”

By the time He found you, you were lying on your bed, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling like the cracks in it might finally split open and swallow you.

He didn’t knock. Just let himself in like he always did — like the room was his, too. A breath, a pause, and the slight dip of the mattress beside your hip.

“You gonna talk,” he asked, “or am I just here to be atmospheric?”

You didn’t move. “I think I’m haunting myself.”

He leaned back on his elbows, eyes on you. “That so?”

“I think I died. Or fell out of frame. Either way, nobody noticed.”

It wasn’t said cruelly. Just... soft. Detached, like your voice had finally given up being angry and settled into hollow.

He didn’t say anything for a long minute. Then:

“They forgot, didn’t they?”

You didn’t answer. That was enough.

He slid something from their pocket and dropped it on your chest. A tiny plastic ring, the kind from a vending machine or party favor bag. Sparkly. Childish. Stupid.

“You’re joking.”

“I got it out of that rigged claw machine by the gas station,” he said flatly. “Spent like ten bucks. You better cherish it.”

You stared at it. Gaudy pink. Heart-shaped gem.

Then you laughed. Not because it was funny—because it was the first thing today that was yours. Ugly and honest and desperate.

You twisted to face him. “You know I’m failing maths?”

“I’d say I’m shocked, but…” He flicked your forehead. “You spend half the time doodling on your notes and the other half dissociating.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

You were silent again, but it felt different now. Shared. Softer at the edges.

He nudged your shoulder. “Sweet sixteen, huh? You gonna be justified and have a breakdown or just rot here in peace?”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Thinking about doing both.”

He reached for your hand. Just held it. Not like he was fixing anything. Not like he had to. Just there. Warm.

“Well,” he said, “at least let me rot with you. Happy damn birthday.”

You’re not their fucking afterthought.

wish he was actually real. or that I wasn’t. happy birthday to me

[2morefrenchfry]

Lets talk about the dumbassery of artemis crock, a half vietnamese character, having natural blonde hair. DONT start at me with the “aSiAN PeOplE aRe DiVeRsE” and “GeNeTicS ArE WeIrD.” BOTH are true BUT.

1.Genetic diversity can and does exist without major phenotypic variation (see: africans are the most diverse race but have limited common phenotypic variation)

2. Do NOTTT cite the 0.00001 instances of asian people having blodne hair/blue eyes to me.

3. I KNOW artemis is half white/biracial but that simply isnt how genetics work. Black hair and black eyes are dominant over blonde and blue. And i know genetics are weird and sometimes mixed people are born with different hair/eye colors but artemis had DARK DARK BROWN/black eyes and blonde hair past puberty. That pairing simply does not exist, like not even in white people. At least not to sny dtatistical significance.

4. There is an observed pattern of feeling the need to give poc characters white-afjacent/lighter features to make them more aesthetically pleasing. I think thats lame and should change .more poc characters should be añlowed to look unambiguously poc. (And i know artemis is only half poc but pls understsnd my point.)

5. They clearly wanted to keep her blonde hair as a callbsck to whatever comic character dhe was inspired by. Thats fine. Do you know the extremely easy solution here? MAKE IT CLEAR HER HAIR WAS BLEACHED/DYED. Show child!art with a more realistic hair color!!! I MEAN CAHM ON MAN.

6. I know i know its not same grand racist conspiracy on why shes blonde and not brown haired (brown hair instead of black couldve been a cool way to signify her mixed heritage snd show hiw she takes after her dad looks wise more than jade.) but BEAR WITH ME FOR A SEC. HUMOR ME. LET IR BE THAT DEEP, i BEG YOU. I just wish her heritage was considered more when they crafted her character design. Thas all. Natural brunette artemis is so real to me. Ok.

BONUS; on a more postive note- i think they thought more in depth about the crock-nguyen family’s mixed heritage when creating Lian. She has reddish sorta strawberry blonde hair. You may ask why im not bitching that jades black hair should be dominant over roys red. Well bestie thatd because recessive genetixs where B = Black and b = blonde and jsde as a biracial person id Bb. Because the B is doninant its what shows but she still has the blonde gene. She had equal chances of passing on the black or blonde gene snd happened to pass fown the blonde to lian. I think thats cool.

Anyway thanks for coming to my ted talk follow for more YJ yap and general dumbassery ily

[xglamcow]

Hardwood Headcanons!! ( Bc I think Tony and Dorian should kiss <3 🚪🧰)

Note!! This is a VERY LONG POST!! So keep that in mind pls 😭 Solo Headcanons, SFW. These are all my personal thoughts and feelings towards the two, and I’m sorry if I get smth wrong!! I may make nsfw Headcanons in the future about them, so look out for that lolol. I love these two, and thanks for reading <33

|| Okay, before we even pop OFF:

Dorian — He/Him, Bisexual, Demiromantic, Polyam

Tony — He/Him, queer or “who the fuck cares??”, female lean but he loves all, Polyam

So yeah, we got that out the way, let’s start!!

Solo Headcanons!

Tony !!

So, off rip, from that lil tid bit we get from Rainey about Tony’s “soprano” in the game, I think Tony sings! He ain’t AMAZING at it, but he can hold a tune. He def sings higher than his range tho— not as a joke but he genuinely wishes he had a higher range.

Rainey and him actually sing together all the time!! I think they’re besties ( Or besties with benefits. I also think he had or has a lil crush on her ! )

Okay, but speaking of love, I think he means well in his teachings, he’s just a man set on making himself look cool.

I sense a bit of insecurity, a little bit of fear of commitment, and a longing for someone to allow him to be himself. That “looks matter” isn’t from him being hateful and stuck up— it’s personal insecurity.

Under all that terrible love advice is a man who loves hard. He doesn’t get it right all the time, but when he loves someone, he’s loyal to a fault. Much like Dorian, but he’s more fun with it.

Isn’t nonchalant in the SLIGHTEST. He pretends to be, definitely ( according to his love workshop ), but that man feels deeply. He’s eccentric and loud, teaching a form of love that pertains to his ego, not to him. He doesn’t understand when the player denounces the teachings until he actually feels it.

With that being said, the man is a real big flirt. He will flirt EVERYWHERE!! No matter the time or place. He loves flustering his S/O.

Expect LOTS of cuddles and physical touch! The man is touchy. He’ll act like he ain’t, but he is.

Physical touch and words of affirmation is his love languages I think!!

okay, onto less love stuff. He’s a big family / Community man. Cares about his family, friends, loved ones to an INSANE degree.

A very stubborn man. You played the game ( or… watched someone else play the game ). That man is STUBBORN. If he believes it, he’s dead set on it. He’ll be like “I’m not wrong, so…” He won’t understand where ur coming from until he REALLY thinks about it. Then, AND ONLY THEN, will he apologize in his own special way. Probably a well thought out gift and a “You’re… not wrong.. 😒😓”

He gives EVERYONE nicknames! You get a nickname! You get a nickname! He loves nicknames, it’s efficient to him. Especially since he forgets names.

He talks to the TV / whatever he’s watching. He’ll be like “NOOO DONT FUCKIN DO THAT!! CMAHHH WHATS WRONG WITH YOUUUU 😭😭” It’s cute how invested he gets. Reality TV is a guilty pleasure.

As we know in the game, he loves Rock music!! All types probably, but I think he realllyyy likes dad rock. I also think he likes 2000s boy bands too. Just because they’re so stupidly hype.

|| SPOILERS !! ||

Pertaining his realized ending, he’s either decent at cooking and just goes “yeah, whipped smth up”, or he’s fucking terrible at it and his ego makes him think he’s Gordon fucking Ramsey. Both are funny in their own right.

Dorian !!

He’s SO deadpan. That’s his humor. Deadpan and sarcastic. It’s absolutely hilarious.

He’s very emotional. Not in an outside way, but he feels things very deeply. More internal with the things he feels.

With that being said, he has no problem expressing his feelings at all. He knows his boundaries, he knows his limits, he knows his feelings. He will not sugar coat nor hide how he feels, even if it’s hard to talk about. He takes his time, and he opens up when he’s ready.

With his boundaries, you can see that the man is very headstrong. Years of experience, and a lover gone wrong ( Keith.. 😒 ) shapes a man into a splintering wood.

Through his tough demeanor, he’s a very sweet man. He’s big and strong and very protective of all his friends and family around the house.

Not talkative, but he will listen to you or anything else in the house yap like crazy. He kinda has to, being the bouncer of every single room, but he has no problem with it. He likes knowing what goes on in the house.

Secret guilty pleasure tho? Likes to hear about the drama in the house. Hates tomfoolery, but will softly go “oooo.. 🫢” or “hm 😟” under his breath if he hears something INSANE.

The man hears all, sees all, knows all. He knows EVERYTHING that goes on in that house. He’s not one for gossip, but… once in a while he’ll give you a little heads up. Maybe a “before you go in there, those two have been.. on edge lately. Proceed with caution.” He won’t *say* what it is, but it’s always implied.

With that, I think it’s safe to say he knows everything in the house. Relationship wise, he only has a few close friends, but he knows everyone. He’s very passionate about protecting the house and everything in it, even if he doesn’t like some of the things in there.

Has always been demiromantic, his distrust of others just started with Keith. After Keith used him, in his emotional state he personally vowed to never fall in love again. Then, in a more calm and leveled state, he told himself he’d wait a long time until it happened again. He has always wanted people to get to know him before any romance blossomed at all, and it never changed. He just got more strict with himself because of Keith and his bullshit.

Gets so annoyed if you make fun of him being British. The thing about it is, it’s a specific thing. If you two are close, friends or lovers, he’ll let it slide ( give a little “alright..” ) because he knows you’re joking, and you two have a relationship. If you make fun of him without even knowing the guy? Oh, he doesn’t like you. Boundaries.

Another boundary he has is playing into jealousy. He doesn’t like it. The man doesn’t get jealous much actually, so if you try to make him jealous, it really makes him uncomfortable and upset more than angry. He won’t be possessive or let it turn into some kink thing, he’ll straight up just tell you that it hurt him and not to do it again. Simple.

Resting bitch face. We been knew. He is a smirker though. Getting him to really SMILE is a tough feat. And laugh? Oh, your work is cut out for you. Not to say he never laughs, he’s wood not stone, but is a hard thing to do.

|| SPOILERS!! ||

Okay, related to his personal realized ending? I think he can FIGHT. He probably boxes, definitely works out, and can throw a punch or break up a fight if he needs to. Helps a lot in the job he does, being a bouncer sometimes causes for someone strong to handle rowdy situations. Or people. Either or.

Now, for the ship!!

Hardwood Headcanons !!

Platonic and romantic mixed in!!

First off, I think they are very opposites attract, Sunshine x grumpy coded. But in a different way than ur typical sunshine x grumpy. More like.. upbeat x stoic. Eh, I’ll work on it.

But to the ship!! I personally think that Dorian, at first, tolerates Tony. The toolbox is DEFINITELY someone Dorian has to really warm up to. Especially when he won’t shut up about his stupid love workshop. But the more Tony runs his mouth, the more Dorian finds himself… not mad about it. Sure, Tony has terrible ideas about love, but listening to his thought process has helped Dorian come to his own conclusions.

Tony, ofc, liked Dorian from day one. He’s everywhere in the house, so Tony definitely yaps to Dorian about making improvements to the house when there’s no one else to talk to— and being in the upstairs closet? Sometimes there isn’t anyone to talk to. He appreciates Dorian’s warm presence.

I’d like to say that Dorian would gossip with Tony.. but that would be a lie. Because Tony CANNOT close his mouth nor keep a juicy secret!! Dorian wouldn’t tell that man shit no matter how much he begged to know, because he knows Tony ain’t gonna keep his mouth shut. He’ll subtly hint at certain things, but he definitely won’t outright say anything. He lets Tony come to conclusions on his own.

Tony’s silly nature rubs off on Dorian ALOT. Tony genuinely makes him chuckle with how all over the place he is ( his structured chaos, Tony’s brand. ) and he finds himself sometimes saying to others “You know what I’m talking about, right?” Only Rainey is like “…did you get that saying from Tony?” Then after that, Dorian flusters and denies it.

Dorian also finds himself really laughing at the man’s antics. There’s not many things in the house that makes him laugh.. and Tony is one of them!! First time Tony makes Dorian laugh— seeing the stoic man all happy— was probably the day Tony figured out his feelings.

From then on, Tony and Dorian kept a really good friendship— but Tony’s feelings for Dorian grew and grew. The man found himself being a bit sad that he was being “friend zoned”. Rainey and Bev comfort him on routine LMAO ( being in love wasn’t on his construction worker bingo card. )

Even with that, him and Dorian are good friends. Canonly, Tony the toolbox had probably only been there for a couple of years, so using that knowledge, he ain’t a veteran. But he’s not completely new either. It took awhile for Dorian to warm up to him, and Dorian considers him a good friend. Who he goes to for a little laugh. Who brightens up his day. Tony’s just happy that they’re friends at this point.

Until.. the line blurs.

One of the doors in the house get a little stuck, and it’s Tony’s job to fix it. Now, I have no idea what it implies.. if Tony.. “fixes” Dorian, since in the real world, you’re just using tools to fix a door. But an intimate thing probably happened between them, and now things are changing.

Dorian isn’t one to have issues with intimacy. He doesn’t. He’s completely fine with friends with benefits (which we will get more into later) so it doesn’t bother him. But Tony??? Oh he’s bothered. Whatever happened between them got him good. And he’s insanely infatuated now.

Tony isn’t one for good advice, especially not when it comes to love. He’s terrible at it, his advice sucks. So he really finds himself at a dilemma when it comes to Dorian. Dorian has been really showing him a different type of love. Pleasure in connection. Comfort in venerability. Like I said, Dorian knows himself enough to communicate, so it throws Tony for a little loop.

Tony, with his stubborn ass, doesn’t know HOW to be venerable. So it’s a little hard for him. Honestly, the man probably makes a buncha innuendoes and teases Dorian on the regular now that they’re.. something… and Dorian simply smirks. He either replies ( making Tony INSANELY FLUSTERED ) or he just says “I’m working, Tony.” And Tony respects it. He’s a workin man too.

So, that’s their thing. Tony makes sex jokes, deepens his voice, makes it all smooth and giggles when Dorian smirks back at him. That’s what they do for a hot minute. Dorian makes it clear that they’re still friends, but they have a lil thing going on.

Honestly? I think Dorian is the one to bring up romance and all of that. He doesn’t accept Tony right away, but he really does tell the guy that he’s been hurt before, and he really likes Tony, but he needs some time. So that’s what they take. Time.

And when Dorian brings it up again, they finally grow into something more ( and the people are happy about it LMAO. I know Rainey and Bev drink to that. )

Now, them as a couple is a bit hard at first, Tony with his stubbornness and trying to look cool to make sure Dorian doesn’t get bored of him, and Dorian constantly telling him he doesn’t care about all that and loves Tony for who he is. Just alot of stubbornness on Tony’s side. They get through it though, Tony really leans into being more himself, just as he was when he and Dorian were friends.

Tony is Dorian’s light. The toolbox really knows how to make Dorian at least smirk when he’s in a bad mood, and laugh when he’s in a good one. Tony being his goofy himbo self— even when he doesn’t mean to be— makes Dorian happy.

That doesn’t mean Dorian doesn’t take Tony seriously though. Because of Tony being a bit off on things ( “whose philip? What’s wrong with his head?” Come on.. ) people tend to not take him seriously when he needs to be heard. Dorian makes sure that need is met. Dorian is a great listener, so he listens whenever Tony needs it.

Tony doesn’t pry about Keith. Doesn’t even want to speak that man’s name into existence.. he really hates the guy for what he did to Dorian, even though he doesn’t even know him. He knows what happened with Dorian, and what happened with you ( the player ), so he hates the mother fucker.

People think Dorian is more protective, but they’re both protective over eachother in their own right. Dorian is quite protective— a look or a slight squint of the eye will tell you to fuck off and leave Tony alone. Tony, on the other hand, is loud with his protective nature. He WILL yell at whoever’s being an asshole to Dorian or his loved ones.

They’re not a really “you belong to me” type of couple. They’re both not for that. They’re more of a “I’m happy I’m yours.” Type of couple. Which is better for them.

Argument wise, I think Dorian doesn’t have arguments with people. I think he’s a “sit down and talk about it” type of guy, no matter how angry he gets. Tony gets VERY heated, but is easily talked down by Dorian ( I would be too with that deep British accent HELLO?? ) and Dorian always gives Tony space after a discussion. They both come back better. Tony’s adapting to Dorian’s methods.. but he likes it better than yelling. It makes him think twice before he says something stupid.

I think Tony is definitely the flirt as I’ve mentioned— but Dorian’s the one that gets him in check. Tony will say something UNHINGED, and Dorian will reply with something even worse, and Tony will curl up in a flustered ball while he tries to process.

They are FREAKY. Bitch, Tony probably had to fix trap Dorian once… we all know how that went..

Speaking of fixing doors, I really think those two are kinda the two helpers of the house! Tony can fix almost everything, Dorian keeps the house safe. They ARE the dream team!!

Dorian is AGGRESSIVELY British. Tony is AGGRESSIVELY New York. One of them says something pertaining to it, and the other is like “what the fuck, no, that’s not how you say that.” They probably go hours laughing at the certain words and slang they use for different things. It’s actually pretty fun as an activity.

Dorian, at some point, started calling Tony sunshine. Tony almost sobbed because “HE GAVE ME A NICKNAME AAAAA”. Dorian regrets it…. not that much.

They are THE Masc4Masc couple lmao. I love them. I live I live <33

Tony rants and talks most of his shit to Dorian. Dorian isn’t one for gossip… but… he may creak in interest. Like I said, he’s gonna let out a lil “ooo..🫢” every once in a while!!

I honestly don’t know if the Objects can move by themselves— it’s implied they have souls— I’m not sure. But going off the idea that they can move by themselves? Tony’s toolbox definitely opens and closes multiple times just to annoy Dorian. Dorian stands there, probably opens and shuts a door to get Tony to shut up. Tony does, in fact, shut up LMAO

Overall? They’re cute asf. Tony brings light into Dorian’s door life by being himself. Dorian brings peace into Tony’s life by being a secure constant. They balance eachother out well.

This was my LONGEST post ever lmao— insane. Talkin about a door and a toolbox.. that’s really smth..

Lmao anyway

Thanks for reading HEHEHEHE !!

[hestzhyen]

Chapter 84 Legacy Posting

Oh boy, here we go dear void. Short entry this time (by my standards at least).

Editor's Notes: First Page: 対峙する二人... [taiji suru futari...] "The two face off..." Last Page: 想い乗せた一撃が届く... [omoi noseta ichigeki ga todoku...] "A decisive blow brimming with emotions reaches him..."

A Declaration

Go, Chihiro, go!

And here we have the ultimate rebuttal to Samura's stubborn insistence on solving everything by himself: Chihiro has a personal stake in all of this as the son of Rokuhira Kunishige. He doesn't have to bear the burden, but he's refusing Samrua's (misguided) kindness and taking everything on.

I do like the framing of all of this duty as the choice of the children involved. Usually there's a heavy tilt towards "children should be responsible for their parent's mistakes/burdens" or "children must choose their own paths", but Kagurabachi threads the needle and says "it's not that simple".

Chihiro chooses to honour his father's wishes. He understands very well the pain that he's taking on, and he's learning that his father isn't the infallible man he looked up to when he was younger, but he decides to do it anyway. Meanwhile, Hakuri decided to tear it all down- and it wasn't framed as him shirking his duty or atoning for his father's sins. It was the right thing to do. So far, Iori wanted to be like Samura and protect him. Her decision might change depending on how this fight turns out, but it's not going to be some heavy-handed message about how she's responsible for what he did.

It's always framed as a choice the kids are making based on what they know and believe. They aren't responsible for their parent's actions but choose to act based on the results of them. I love it. I'll admit my life experience makes me extremely skeptical of stories that try to say kids must fix the problems their parents caused- it's a strong bias I always have. So Kagurabachi framing things as kids consciously choosing to do what they can to make the world a better place is very satisfying. People are trying to say "no you don't need to, live your life" and they're saying "I want to help make the world a better place". Well, Hakuri was denied his chance, but it was a good thing in that case. Regardless, inter-generation cooperation is the way to go!

Echoes

The future is now, old man.

There's something to be said for how goddamn stubborn Samura is. It's beyond reason, right? Like holy shit you're blind not deaf, listen to all the people who care about you and want you to live instead of going on some suicidal atonement mission. Your freakin' daughter wants and needs you in her life! The little girl you promised your ex-wife you'd protect!

As a friend mentioned, Samura's mindset strongly echoes someone who's mentally ill. I'm pretty sure everyone's been down in the dumps once in their life- everything sucks, nothing's okay, and it never will be. But we get over it with some time and (ideally) support. Samura, though, is in the fucking depths. Anyone who's thought the world would genuinely be better off without them, that's him. The mind is a shitshow sometimes and it will tell some of us "hey, they love you, so stop being a burden and make their lives easier by offing yourself already". Which is a bunch of nonsense but it's compelling nonsense that feels right. Nothing really gets through that fog without treatment and a hell of a lot of persistence.

So while it's a bit annoying as a reader to see this guy dig in his heels and refuse the hope that everyone around him's trying to shove in his arms, I get it. He's guilty AF about the past and feels like he can't be redeemed- and that his presence is a burden on Iori. So if he dies and takes out the Sword Master with him then yay yippie everyone can be happy.

It's not that simple nor is that actually a good solution (which I talked a bit about last chapter). It's just the one that feels right to Samura so Chihiro will literally have to break Tobimune to stop this guy.

Which he... might have done this chapter? Maybe he just nicked or fractured it? It looks like Chihiro's will got through to Samura at least a little bit. Only breaking Tobimune in full will really stop Samura in full but maybe damaging it will give Iori and the Masumi an opening to be heard.

The Masumi!

I missed you guys too!

Not much to say other than I'm glad they're in this fight and that Ro pointed out the obvious: if Samura healed his own goddamn eyes, then the Masumi's ninja tactics wouldn't be much of a hindrance to him. But he wants to remain blind (symbolism!) and so he can't see what's really important. But Ro's got a more accurate measure of him now that one of his sunglass lenses is broken. Really nice touch in the art this chapter.

One MORE Thing, Jackieee

Is that Chihiro's "aura", as the kids say?

Samura trying to spare the kids is noble, yes. Gone over that a bunch. And Chihiro's rebuttal is basically an emphatic let us get hurt.

Parents often try to prevent their kids from experiencing the same problems in the same ways that they did- abuse, war, etc. They generally want their kids lives to be better than theirs were.

But.

If those parents who had rough lives don't get help and work on their own issues, they will just pass the trauma on in a different way. Like here: Samura tried to spare Iori, but he just reinforced her trauma of loved ones leaving/abandoning her. He needs ALL the fucking therapy and to give a massive apology to her- then commit to working on his issues.

Because as sympathetic as he is, as understandable as his actions and beliefs are at this point, they're still wrong. He's doing wrong by Iori, Inori's memory, Chihiro, Uruha, the Masumi, even Kunishige's memory at this point. What Chihiro's trying to get through to Samura here is, in my mind, the idea that it's better to live with the pain and stay with what you find hope in than give it all up and assume it'll improve other people's lives. Just fucking live, bro! Iori needs you even if you've got a mountain of grief that makes you want to die. She needs you as you are and who you can be, not who you think you are. Share that pain with her so she can understand and help you.

Obviously this isn't advocating for parents to treat their kids like therapists or act like emotional vampires (been there, it screws a kid up). But being open that you're not okay is okay. Letting Iori know you've got a bad past that you need to overcome is okay. Letting her find ways that she wants to help is okay. Share the past and prevent a warped future in truth. Because right now Samura's just sending Iori (and the other young people who care about him) down a different fucked up path than the one he was on instead of truly creating something better.

Okay... hoping for glimpses of Hakuri and Uruha and maybe even Azami next week, but not betting on it. Take care of yourself dear void- you deserve it.

[z0mb13n3rgy]

"𝘌𝘹𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

𝘚𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶,

𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦.

𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘰𝘧�� 𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴, 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶

𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥.

𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦,

𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥."

-𝘙𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘙𝘪𝘭𝘬𝘦

Ⓘ WARNING: Some scenarios will incorporate some form of Dead Dove, which include and is not limited to the following; Gore, Improper use of wounds, stalking, manipulative behavior, psychological abuse and more.

Please read each scenario's description carefully and take care of your mental health and wellness.

Ⓘ 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗘: All character scenarios are created with the expectation that readers understand the character’s age and background.

These scenarios and characters are fictitious and should not be interpreted as real.

Ⓘ SIDE NOTE: Never under any circumstances will I be writing female reader x characters.

Love, the purest form of yourself that you can give to someone. To want, to need them at every waking moment and crave their hands to roam freely as they like everywhere upon you, leaving a trail of a burning sensation behind each stroke and touch, whether it be delicate or rough.

To want them to a fault, which Abby was no stranger to feeling. His obsession with [M/N] grew day by day, night by night, his own hands in places where he wished others' hands were at. Terrifyingly enough, Abby began to visit the exact places [M/N] did, against Jinu's orders, of course, but he didn't listen. He didn't care to listen. Why would he? Such a negative thought of never being allowed to be near [M/N] caused him great heartache.

[M/N] was a producer and being a producer meant that he'd be near others; talking, laughing, just the thought of it annoys Abby. Who gave those rodents the right to speak to his beloved, let alone to make him laugh? Sure he and [M/N] aren't official. But that's beside the point. Surely [M/N] would notice him, right? I mean who could resist Abby? Just the sight of his face and body makes people swoon and fall? However, whenever he does get the chance to see him, all he gets is a curt nod or mumbled "Yo". It irked Abby, why won't he just glance his way?

He should be lucky that he even has someone who's desperately trying to get noticed by him! Let alone a popular idol with a sizable fan base who would kill to be noticed! So just why won't [M/N] notice him.?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The reason is strange yet simple. [M/N] had already noticed him far before Abby's obsession started. For [M/N], it inadvertently began right when the Saja Boys decided to sign with the music label he worked at. Being able to witness Abby sing was mesmerizing to him, watching him sing without pressure and getting it right on a couple first takes. The others were good, but to [M/N] nobody was comparable to Abby. He was the muse that he needed.

Gradually [M/N]'s journal that held lyrics was replaced with weird and slightly intimate notes about Abby, personal information that any regular person wouldn't want anyone to know. You'd think that such a book would be hidden but no, [M/N] had the done the grave mistake of leaving out yet closed on the table. Abby and the others, walking by and seeing it left out, had the great idea of reading through it.

"Abby don't, just leave it." Jinu spoke sternly. "We have far more important things to focus on than to read a lousy journal." Jinu reached to grab the book, but Abby turned away, already a few pages deep. "Yeah yeah in a minute, let me just finish this-" he was abruptly cut off by Mystery who had quietly stalked over and snatched the journal away, bringing it over to Jinu who glanced over the page, reading the contents.

His eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped, being curious as to what could've caused such a reaction from Jinu. Mystery, Baby and Romance looked over his shoulder, but before getting a glimpse of what was in there, Jinu shut the journal. He calmly headed towards [M/N]'s backpack and put it away. Zipping it up with a firm tug, his head turned towards Abby, who had a shit eating grin spread across his face for a split second.

Jinu, with furrowed brows and about to speak, was interrupted by the door to the studio opening. Who else but [M/N] walked in a bag of snacks and drinks in hand, looking unbothered as usual. "I brought snacks." He held up the bag, then went towards the table where his journal should've been. He set the bag down, beginning to take the drinks and snacks out of the bag. The others, including [M/N], began talking among themselves except for Jinu, who glared at Abby and Abby, who gave a mocking smile in return, before he sauntered over and joined the others, standing close to [M/N]. Abby brazenly put his arm over his shoulder as if it were natural.

Jinu could only roll his eyes, taking a mental note to watch Abby's behavior closely in case anything escalates later on and report it to Gwi-ma, yet this could come in handy later..

[munsonsmixtapes]

Hi! can I get an order of the buttered popcorn with a milkshake with a ticket to the swings??

Come on down to the fair!

Order up: Eddie Munson with hurt/comfort and miscommunication

Summary: After he introduces you as his girlfriend without talking to you first, you and Eddie have to have a conversation about where your relationship is going.

The bar is packed as you sit and watch Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin get on stage. This is definitely a bigger crowd than usual and that’s because you took it upon yourself to put out flyers advertising the show tonight. You know people love live music and you thought this would be a great way to get the band some new fans. It’s the least you could do for your-well, you don’t exactly know what Eddie is to you because you never discussed it. You’ve been hanging out and sure, you’ve slept together quite a few times, but you’re still unsure.

The lights go down and you turn, giving the band your undivided attention. You sip on your drink as a spotlight shines down on Eddie. Now he’s the only other person in the room as everyone else seems to disappear. That’s how it always is when the two of you are in the same room together. It’s almost like no one else matters.

He turns to his left and gives you a smile as he sings one of the many songs he wrote for you directly to you. You hope to talk about where your relationship stands after the show. You know you like each other, but the status still hasn’t become clear. You just want to know what it is so you can stop thinking about it. It’s taken up every inch of your brain but you’re actually too scared to ask him.

Eddie has been head over heels for you since the second he saw you sitting on that very stool all those months ago. He wants to tell you that he loves you-that he wants to be more than-well, whatever you are. He wants to be able to introduce you as his girlfriend even though he’s more than nervous to do so.

He’s never felt this way before. He’s never actually fallen for anyone he’s hooked up with. He wasn’t supposed to fall for you, but god, did he. And he fell hard. When he thinks about his future, all he can see is the two of you together. He pictures you on the road with the band, cheering him on. He sees the two of you getting married and having kids-if you want them. Even though you’ve only known each other for a couple months, he’s in this for life.

Their short performance ends pretty quickly and Eddie makes a beeline for you as soon as the last note is sung. He pulls you in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek before throwing an arm over your shoulder.

“Guys,” he says as you make eye contact with his three band members. “This is y/n, my girlfriend.” Everything goes still as the words leave his mouth. You’re trying to play it off like he’s said those words a million times, but you’re actually mentally freaking out. You wish he would have at least talked to you first before introducing you as his girlfriend to his closest friends.

They all tell you that it’s nice to meet you and you feel like a dick for basically ignoring them, but you’re too in your head right now. You’re honestly just trying to think about how you want to go about bringing it up to him. He obviously seemed really excited to use the word in reference to you, but you guess it just caught you off guard.

You’re both silent when you leave the bar and head to Eddie’s van. He’s embarrassed that you were so rude to his friends. He doesn’t usually introduce his hookups to them, but thought you were different. And he still thinks that you are but that it was just a bad night.

You sit in the van, still both quiet as Eddie puts the keys in the ignition but he doesn’t crank it. You turn to him and he gives you his undivided attention as he prepares for whatever you’re going to say. Even though he has a pretty good idea. You’re going to break up with him. This is it. The end. Why else would you be acting so weird?

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, breaking the silence. “I just-I wish you would have talked to me before introducing me as your girlfriend.” He didn’t even think about that. He honestly thought that the two of you were on the same page. He was sure that you were just as into him as he was to you-that you were together and just didn’t need to discuss the specifics.

“I really like you, Eddie, and I do want to be your girlfriend, but I just wish you would have talked to me first.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies, scooting closer to you. He takes your hands in his and looks you directly in the eyes, his pretty brown ones boring into yours. “I won’t ever do that again. I was just-excited and I really wanted you to meet my friends.”

“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have been so rude to them. I’ll fix it next time. That is, if you want to give this a shot?”

“I’d love nothing more,” he says, leaning in for a kiss. You both smile into it-your first one as a couple. And all of that anger melts away as you pour everything into it, feeling like nothing but the luckiest people on the planet.

[diaryofaweirdooo]

𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭?

….

𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝! 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐨

Author’s note (𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃!): This is not a fully finished fic ! I just really need some tips on writing since I don’t have any experience on being a writer, if there’s any mistakes, or something I could do better, please lmk!!

You were a very sensitive girl. You were told that ever since you could comprehend sentences. You had a strong felt heart in such an evil world. Most of your friends found you dramatic in a way because you would cry, always feel strongly about such odd things. A sad movie (finding nemo, you cried like 6 times but who’s counting?), a stupid sad videos online that you know aren’t really true.

Little things mattered to you. Handmade gifts, love notes, flowers, even a small tiny bud of a flower would make your day. You were thought of and that was all that could matter to you.

You loved when people recognized you as a person and learn to not judge you, many people did not do so which was why you keep your group small. But even in your small group there was always somebody who stood out to you. Matt. A kind hearted man who was raised well.

You grew up with Matt and since you grew up with Matt, you grew up with his brothers but they didn’t have that compatible close friend spark like you and Matt did with each other. Even the two triplets themselves knew this.

Matt knew you better than he knew himself. He knew your favorite movies, the ones that made you sad, the ones that made you laugh so hard to the point where you had actual tears rolling down your face. He knew how quickly you could shut down when things were too much, overstimulating or when you felt disrespected. He knew deep down that your poor heart couldn’t handle those heavy matters.

That’s why Matt always chose peace with you. Never too overbearing when he felt like making you aware of your wrongs and rights, making sure that it wouldn’t hurt you. Oh how badly Matt hated seeing you cry. He hated every negative emotion you had within yourself because deep down he knew that you didn’t want to feel the way you did when it came to the tears, the horrible sobs that made your stomach hurt, the ones that made you feel guilt until that kicked you in a small hole.

But then, the more you and Matt grew up, the more he realized who he really wanted his girl to be. He didn’t really dated much, maybe two or three girlfriends in the span and of middle school and high school.

Not because he was uninterested or not attracted to them, but because he wanted you, but you were too unaware. So unaware of his feelings you unintentionally friendzone him. “Me and Matt are just friends.., that’s it.” or maybe hit him a little deeper with a sentence upon the words, “I grew up with him. I couldn’t look at him more than a brother, too awkward and out of place for me.”

Matt knew you didn’t know and that’s how he planned to keep it until he gained courage to tell you feelings, but he also didn’t know if you would feel the same way. He didn’t want to scare you away after having you around for so many years. Sharing so many memories, having so many first-time experiences together. If hiding his true feelings meant keeping you, he’d do it. In every single universe there would ever be.

Then James came. Where did you find James? Why him? Was he better than Matt? Could Matt compete with him? What was so different about James that led him having you wrapped up so quick in just the blink of an eye? What did he do that Matt couldn’t gain the guts to do? He needed answers but couldn’t ask them.

But in your eyes, James was like another Matt to you, a bit different in looks (barely), he understood you. Why? God you wish you knew. After being told all your life how difficult you could be when it came to feelings you couldn’t really tell why you caught James eye.

[preemptivejustice]

Arthur didn’t speak. Not to the technicians, not to the intercom, not even to himself. He sat in the dim light of the observation room, chin once again resting on folded hands and his eyes tracking every tick of the other. He had long since filled the margins of his notes; the pen was capped and quiet. Now was the easier part, the part where he simply watched. 

It was fascinating, how Kane didn’t move. It was the stillness of someone at peace, of someone waiting; worse, it might be someone conserving. Like an animal in a cage that knew it had no way out, so instead it just allowed time to pass. Not asleep, not alert - just present. 

It was, again, unsettling. It wasn’t threatening, but it was the silence of something either meditating or malfunctioning; neither of those options boded well for him. 

The unnatural striations of color remained in the subject’s eyes, however, and was noted again. It reminded Arthur of heat mirages, of oil slicks in puddles - surfaces that lied about their depth. A refraction of some… underlying fracture, some molecular contradiction. It made it hard to look, just as it made it hard to look away; Arthur’s fingers pushed slightly harder against the underside of his chin. 

The trance broke eventually. There was nothing dramatic - eyes closed for long enough to be noticed, and when they opened the glimmer was gone. Arthur almost wished that it had stayed - at least it had been something to track. A metric, a variable. He liked variables. 

Kane moved, finally, and Arthur’s eyes followed him. He stood, he drank, he went to the bathroom. No resistance, no signs of protectiveness, modesty, rebellion, nothing; it was strange. Most people would be hesitant to use the half-private restroom. 

This one didn’t care, or didn’t know - or he had weighed it and found it irrelevant. Would Kane have found it irrelevant, though? It was possible. Men who were in military-like settings often found themselves uncaring if others saw them in more private moments. 

The mimicry was so precise, though, so casual, that once again he was scraping the edge of believability. Arthur watched the ghost of movement distort behind the partition, but not much else came from it; Arthur sat back. He reached down, rubbed at his calf just above the knee - nerves were sparking, sharp for a moment and then dull. 

...The meal was served. There was something interesting in how the man chose to eat it. Separating the food, and then consuming it in a strange order. One that was incorrect, by every cultural norm Arthur could recall. There was a childlike aspect to it, an impulse toward pattern - but was it childish? Or was it a ritual? Preference? An algorithm? 

The disgust was subtle but unmistakable. Arthur caught it, of course; the purse of lips, the tension between brows. Disdain for pork, of all things. It didn’t matter what Kane liked, but it mattered that there was an opinion. A preference. A decision. 

Arthur rubbed a hand over his mouth, as the night came to an end. The tray was taken away, and Kane returned to the same position. He didn’t like it, every time the subject’s gaze aligned with his.  Even knowing that he wasn’t visible, the alignment of gaze made his skin crawl. 

The subject turned in after a while, curling up in bed as if there were privacy to be found there. He watched until the lights dimmed automatically, the room falling into a scheduled circadian hush. It was possible that Kane was sleeping. It was possible he wasn’t. There was no way to tell. 

He would file his report tonight, even though it would be far from finished. For now, he was still thinking. Still deciding if the thing in the other room was a person - or just doing a good impression of one. 

─── ⋆⋅⚖️⋅⋆ ─────────────────

Arthur’s second visit began with him entering the room again, around the same time as before. He entered with a messenger bag slung across one shoulder, and a box tucked under his arm; once again, he looked to the subject, giving him a familiar smile. 

“Good morning.” 

He walked into the room, sitting down on the floor with plenty of room in front of himself. He lowered himself carefully, one knee first before the rest of him, with a practiced sort of effort. The square box was placed between himself and Kane, in front of Arthur’s crossed legs. His bag stayed on him, his fingers drumming softly against the top of the box. 

“Sit,” he said after a beat, motioning loosely to the floor across from himself. “Here.” There was no edge in his tone, no command; It was just an offering. The door is open. His hands moved back to his lap, the messenger bag shifting against his hip. 

The box between them was plain. No image, no brand, no instructions. Just smooth, off-white cardboard with faint scuffs along the corners; it was something that could be anything. 

“I’ve brought something that I want to observe,” he said calmly. “Something that we’re going to do together - though I’d like for you to do most of it. I’ll only be here to help if you need it.” 

He didn’t open the box. But inside was a puzzle; several smooth, wooden pieces, that interlocked in strange shapes. There was no photo to go by, nothing to suggest any kind of color or image. It was just form, shape. It was a test, one of the first of a few today. 

“Did you sleep alright, last night?” 

When the whole of their conversation comes to an end, with Dr. Harrow leaving the room, Kane... remains seated, doesn't move at first. He breathes, in and out, gaze focused on where the other had stayed for a little longer, listening to the request that had been made; Relief is there, Kane thinks, but he cannot be too sure - he does know, however, that the confirmation of that man telling whoever talkes to Lena about Kane having cared, takes away another portion of that weight that seems to exist within the center of his chest still.

Silence follows, the exchange of words, syllables, information, data now gone, erased, nonexistent. Silence stretches, interrupted by the sound his lungs make whenever air is sucked into them, then pressed back out... and Kane swallows, then blinks and closes his eyes for a moment, allows himself, his thoughts, that feeling, the reality of the situation, to linger for a bit more.

A lot to take in. A lot to learn, to internalize. And so much of what he'd gotten to know feels foreign still, new, concepts upon concepts upon hypotheses.

---When he opens his eyes again, the motion slow and smooth, his eyes shimmer again - a bright purple, a bit of pink and blue. That shimmer remains for quite a while as he just... stares ahead. Stares, stares, and stares some more.

Kane remains seated like that for some time - for a couple of hours actually, all of them passing by without the man attempting to get off the bed even once, to do anything else than to stare, to blink, to shift a bit on his seat from time to time, change the placement of his hands. Perhaps he himself isn't even aware of how much time is passing; That expression on his features blank, neutral, yet tense in a way that could hint at him thinking. Processing. Working through the meeting by himself, quiet, secluded...

And that shimmer within those irises, replacing brown with vibrant hues of all colors imaginable, stays with him for the whole of that timeframe - swirling like the surface of crystal clear water being hit by rays of sunlight, like air curling and moving when rising from overheated surfaces. --- Only disappearing once a pair of eyes opens back up after having fallen closed for a prolonged amount of time, complete with Kane seemingly waking from that trance-like state he'd been in ever since Harrow had left. He moves, rolls his shoulders, and seems to be more... alert. Taking in his surroundings instead of an imaginary point on the wall across the room.

Since the room he exists within is rather barren, however, Kane ends up doing... not so much. Perhaps less than expected, even. There's a couple of magazines resting on the small bedside table, together with his half-empty glass of water; The liquid is consumed at some point, the magazines left untouched, a gaze just trailing and flicking as his head turns - looking, observing, even though he's already seen it all.

Waiting, he seems to be. Just... waiting, allowing time to pass. Gazing over at where the one-way mirror is, unbeknownst to him. Maybe his eyes even make accidental contact with Harrow's own; He obviously has no knowledge of the other being there, so that stare does not linger for too long, just continues to trail, to slide over walls, the floor, the bed he's sitting upon.

---At some point he does get up then, makes his way to the small bathroom; It offers some privacy, but the wall separating it from the rest is made of textured glass instead of a solid wall - a safety measure, in case anything might be either going wrong or happening to the subject while he's in there rather than within the main room equipped with cameras and micophones; His heavily distorted shape can still be seen this way, observed.

In case it bothers Kane, the fact that his privacy is a bit... invaded, nothing about his behavior indicates such at all. He does not seem to be bothered, doesn't hesitate, doesn't show any signs of discomfort whenever he's in there, then comes back out. And while his movements do seem to be rather measured still, stiff... there is something to them that shows a less robotic way of acting than expected, perhaps - like fingers that reach for the glass when he moves past, digits trailing along the textured surface before letting go. Entirely unnecessary as a whole, yet Kane does it anyways.

And until dinner is served to him, Kane remains sitting on his bed once again - perhaps he's unsure what else to do, where else to sit, to exist. He's even eating in bed, with his meal being served on an additional table on wheels which he pulls over, close to himself; Even though Kane now knows how to use cutlery, his movements carefully studied, they're still a little... uneven, perhaps - like a kid still needing to practice a bit more before becoming fully confident.

He eats without rushing, but doesn't take too long either - seemingly preferring to eat each part of his meal separately than to mix it all up. Any vegetables are consumed first, followed by whatever starchy dish is being served alongside them (potatoes today), and any meat is only eaten once everything else has gone; Kane even consumes his dessert before going for the pork chop, a joghurt cup (strawberry flavored). ---He looks like he might not be the biggest fan of said pork chop, but consumes it anyways. Maybe it's that urge inside him to take whatever he can get in an attempt to learn that prevents him from not eating the piece of meat, even though his expression - a knit of brows, a purse of lips - is telling of his displeasure with an surprising amount of definiteness.

And, once done, he... just sits there, again. On his bed. Unmoving, hands folded onto his lap. The emptied plate as well as that table on wheels are taken away at some point, silence returning, the loneliness of a subject made to just exist for the sake of... well, existing. Another gaze is thrown over at that one-way mirror Kane himself only thinks of as a wall... and yet he looks at it for some long minutes, expression heavy-lidded, tired, but most likely not in a physical sense. A jaw works as he swallows, thumbs twirling...

Kane does not really know what it means to be bored. Dr. Harrow had asked him about it before - are you bored? - and yet Kane hadn't given an answer. Hadn't been able to understand the concept of it.

So he does not know that what he feels at that moment could be translated into boredom. He's read those magazines three times already, and whenever he goes for them again, they give him less and less to work with - no new data to explore, no new information to be taken in.

---He does lay down after a while, on his back, staring up at the ceiling. But he eventually rolls onto his side instead, away from the room, facing the wall close to his bed - knees pulled up, an arm curled around his pillow, the other folded in front of his chest.

Whether he's actually falling asleep or not remains unclear.

[micia-posts-stuff]

THE FINAL DEV-ELOPMENT part 26

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[sellieloves]

happy april fool's!! for the occasion i shall NOT be posting art today, but rather:

Japanese First + Second Person Pronouns the Ancients and Beasts use!

*i have to clarify that these interpretations of the language they use is mine alone, and that what pronouns they use imply is highly situational!! The same pronoun can have different meanings depending on situation and who's using it, it's a bit complicated to explain.... it's very if you get it you get it (?)

*disclaimer no 2 i may be inaccurate in conveying some of the nuances and for that i apologize ;;

it'll go first person pronoun (I/me) first and then second person pronoun (you)

Pure Vanilla Cookie

僕 (boku), a more polite, somewhat gender neutral first person pronoun (although it's considered more masculine than feminine).

君 (kimi), a polite way of saying “you”.

Hollyberry Cookie

あたし (atashi), a more casual and informal feminine first person pronoun

あんた (anta), a more informal form of “anata (あなた)”, which is the classic way of saying "you" for a more feminine person

Dark Cacao Cookie

私 (watashi), a formal first person pronoun. Feminine-presenting people also use it casually, however with more masculine-leaning people like Dark Cacao it gives off an air of formality

お前 (omae), from someone like Dark Cacao, "omae" signals his high status as a king, and has an air of assertiveness. He’s also been shown to switch to the more rude 貴様 (kisama) when he hates someone/feels greatly offended

Golden Cheese Cookie

Uses the more polite and formal 私 (watashi) for the most part, however in informal settings with her fellow Ancients she uses the more casual あたし (atashi)

お前 (omae), it carries a similar meaning to Dark Cacao's use of "omae" for "you" in that it implies her high status. She still uses "omae" even with her friends, although in this case it could be interpreted as it's a very informal setting with people she's close to

White Lily Cookie

私 (watashi), a more classically feminine first person pronoun

あなた (anata), a polite way of saying “you”

-

Mystic Flour Cookie

私 (watashi), a classically feminine and formal first person pronoun

そなた (sonata), a very archaic word for “you”

Burning Spice Cookie

俺 (ore), an informal and more masculine way to refer to oneself

貴様 (kisama), a way of saying “you” that's considered pretty rude generally, and even a bit aggressive (?)

Shadow Milk Cookie

Normally uses 俺 (ore), an informal, masculine pronoun (fun fact even his Sage of Truth form uses "ore"). However, he uses わたくし (watakushi), a more formal form of “watashi” when performing or narrating in his little plays.

お前 (omae), a somewhat assertive way of saying "you"