#and he sometimes got more into it than me

[popcornpoppypop]

Like You

Summary: You're a single mom to an angry teen boy. Jack isn't phased, he can handle the anger. He is there for your son, no matter what. Years later, Pittfest makes them more alike than anyone would wish.

Warnings: Angst, fighting, angry teen, mentions of death, mass shooting, blood, medical inaccuracies, talk of amputation.

There wasn’t a day that passed where you weren’t beyond grateful for Jack Abbot. Most people would have turned and ran the moment they found out you had a 14 year old son. You couldn’t blame them. It’s a lot of baggage. But Jack never blinked.

“Honey, you are the best person I’ve ever met. Why the hell wouldn’t I love someone you made?” He told you the night you had finally let him in.

“He can be angry sometimes, Jack. He might not like you for a while.” You warned, not wanting to sugar coat anything and be left when things got hard.

“I was angry for most of my life. I know what it’s like. I’ll be okay. It’s not about me anyway.” He shrugged.

“Oh my god, just fucking kiss me already.” You sighed as you pulled him into you, his laughter rumbling in his chest,

Your son wasn’t introduced to your boyfriends often. You never really found any that you felt would stand the rough weather. But something in Jack made you trust him. The first meeting went over like a lead balloon. Ended with your son shouting at Jack.

“You don’t care about me! You just want to fuck my mom! Fucking pervert!” Your son,Matt, shouted at him.

“Matthew! Stop that, you don’t speak like to anyone, let alone someone I care about!” You scolded.

“Y/N, it’s okay.” Jack said stroking your arm, trying to calm you down.

“He’s just here to get in your pants! Thinks if he buddies up to me it’ll happen.” Matt growled.

“I know that’s what’s happened in the past, but I promise that is not what I’m doing right now.” Jack raised his hands up like he was calming a wild animal.

“Oh please, you’re just like the rest.” Matt scoffed, pacing back and forth.

“Matt, please just sit down and let’s talk about this.” You plead with the boy.

“Shut up, bitch!” He snapped. Jack stood up fast, the chair flying back from underneath him.

“Hey! You listen to me now! You can talk how you want to me, I don’t care, I can take it. You will never, NEVER, speak to your mother like that. She doesn’t deserve your anger.” Jack growled. Matt stopped looking at Jack in all his intimidating power.

“You’ll never be my father.” Matt whispered before running upstairs. Jack sighed shaking his head.

“I’m so sorry, Jack. I-I didn’t think he’d get this upset. Maybe that was naïve. You didn’t deserve that.” You sighed, head in your hands.

“Honey, I’ve had worst hurled in my direction. He can be angry with me. If that’s what he needs.” He said smoothing your hair from your face.

For months, Jack would come by the house and try to speak with Matt only to be met with insults. Jack saw how it tore you up, tried to console you. You both knew it was part of the process, it didn’t make it easier.

You had to go on a work trip for the weekend, you’d asked Jack to stay at your house to keep an eye on Matt. Matt had broken a glass when you’d told him.

“If I can handle violent psych patients and IEDs, I can handle a teenager.” Jack joked.

Matt had stayed in his room for the most part, running downstairs to grab food and run back to his room. One night, Jack was asleep on the couch, the TV playing old M*A*S*H reruns. His prosthetic leaning against the side table.

Matt watched him for a moment. Seeing the stoic man in such a vulnerable state took him back for a moment. He stalked over, keeping as quiet as he could. He picked up the fake leg and tried to leave with it.

“If you don’t give that back, I’ll have to hop on one leg while I kick your ass and that’ll be embarrassing for both of us.” Jack grumbled as he woke up.  Matt cringed as he brought the leg back. He’d crossed a line he didn’t want to.

“Whatever.” Matt mumbled as he set the leg back down. He stood staring at Jack’s leg for a while. Jack let him, not embarrassed about it, never had been. Occasionally, he’d be insecure when it made certain activities of the sexual nature more difficult. He’d learned how to work around it.

“You can ask.” Jack said, catching Matt off guard.

“What happened? Mom said you were in the Army. It get blown off?” Matt was trying to poke the sensitive parts.

“Yeah. I was a medic on a tour in Iraq. Got shot, blew most of my foot off.” Jack nodded. Matt was somehow not prepared for a blunt answer, even though he got nothing else from Jack.

“What’s it like being less of a man?” Matt hissed.

“I’ll let you know if that happens.” Jack sniffed.

“You’re annoying.”

“Kid, you can say what you want. It’s not going to phase me.” Jack turned the volume up, his ring catching the light.

“Mom said you’re a widow too.”

“Yes.” Jack’s voice ever so slightly tightens, ready for some insult.

“You remember her still?” Matt’s head hung low as he sat at the other end of the couch.

“Every damn day. Always will. Your mother understands.” Jack nodded.

“What happened?” Matt didn’t meet his eyes.

“She got sick. I couldn’t save her.” Jack cleared his throat.

“That’s like your whole thing.”

“Yeah. I know. Some things are beyond our control.” Jack’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“My dad watched this shit too.” Matt nodded to the TV.

“He had good taste.”

“He would have liked you.” Matt huffed. Jack looked over at him, bewildered.

“Yeah? Why?”

“You take good care of us. You’re not a real asshole, just like a surface asshole. You want people to think you are but you’re not.”

“I try my best. I care about you too, Matt. I know it’s hard to believe, but I do.” Jack turned to face the boy. He looked like a child more than he ever had.

“I know. It’s…something in my head makes me want to hate you. Like if…if I don’t I’ll forget him.”

“You won’t. He’ll always be around for you. I’m not him, I wouldn’t try to be. Maybe we can try getting along for a bit, see how it feels. I know it would make your mom’s life easier.” Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Try it out.” He chuckled as he got up and left.

After that night, Matt relaxed a little. You were so grateful to have some relief to his anger. Jack felt that same relief.

Life got a rhythm to it soon after. Jack moved in and Matt didn’t argue so much. They would watch the Steelers together and you’d pretend you wanted to, mostly you just enjoyed being one family for a moment.

Three years on and things were comfortable. Matt asking Jack’s advise about girls and school. They would go out to the batting cage every Sunday. Jack always made sure he had Sundays off, time to spend with his family.

“Jack, I’ll be fine. I have enough sunscreen!” Matt groaned as Jack shoved a can of sunscreen spray into Jacks bag.

“It’s going to be hot and there will no shade. Melanoma ain’t something to fuck around with, Kid.” Jack said.

“Matt, humor him so you can leave.” You laughed as you walked out of the kitchen.

“Look,” Jack whispered looking behind to make sure you were out of ear shot. “not just sunscreen in there. You be careful, I put a couple sizes so we didn’t have to get that personal.” He winked.

“Oh my god! Stop talking!” Matt whined.

“He’s right Sweetie! I see way too many teen boys at the clinic with STDs. It’s no fun.” You chuckled as you walked back in.

“I tried to be subtle, that’s on you.” Jack pointed at Matt. “Jake will be there, if you need someone go find him.”

“It’s a concert. I think I’ll be fine. You two are paranoid.” Matt laughed.

“It’s our job. I see too many things go sideways.” Jack sighed.

“Matty, we just want you to be careful. Be back in this house by 10pm. A second later and I will lose my shit.” You smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Matt rolled his eyes.

“Hey, listen to your mother. You treat that girl well too.” Jack said.

“Girl? What girl?” You asked looking between them.

“Jack! Come on man!”

“Matt, please be careful. Go have fun.” You sighed, not wanting to give yourself more to worry about.

“Call if you need anything.” Jack said. Matt waved you both off as he ran out the door.

“Is 17 too young for a music festival? Did I just make a huge mistake?” You asked, suddenly filled with anxiety.

“Hell if I know. Things are different these days. I would have snuck out to go, so he was probably going either way.” Jack shook his head as he started for the bedroom.

“You want breakfast before you pass out?”

“No. Rough night. Just want sleep.” Jack said. You marveled at how he never let Matt see how heavy his job was. He watched people die and came home and joke about football with Matt. You worked in the low-income clinic attached to PTMC, never seeing half the things he did.

You sat in the sun, enjoying the quiet of the late afternoon. Your garden was the small way you kept your sanity. The flowers blooming made you feel like you weren’t a complete failure at life. You tried to stay out of the house when Jack was sleeping, allowing him some peace.

“Didn’t I just give the melanoma speech this morning?” Jack stood in the patio doorway.

“The day got away from me.” You chuckled.

“Get in here before you fry.” He said, his eyes twinkling.

“Was that an order?” You smirked.

“Yes, it very much was.” He said, he leaned on the doorway, his biceps flexing in the sun. You felt a little dizzy looking at him. You stood, dusting yourself off as you walked up.

“I’m covered in dirt.” You laughed.

“Never minded a little dirt.” He said tilting your chin up with a finger and gently kissing you. His hand tangled in your hair as he deepened the kiss.

“The neighbors are definitely watching.” You smiled.

“Let them.” He said as he pulled you close.

“Take me to the bed, our backs can’t handle the patio bricks.” You chuckled.

“Is that an order?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Sir, it is.” You bit at his bottom lip. In a swift motion he wrapped an arm around your waist and lifted you over his shoulder.

“Yes, Ma’am!” He said taking you towards the bedroom.

“Oh my god! Do not hurt yourself being an idiot!” You giggled.

“I lift patients all day, you think I can’t carry you to bed? Please!” He threw you on the bed.

“Take your shirt off.” You barked, suddenly desperate to see him. He didn’t waste time, threw the shirt onto the floor. His muscles shining in the sunlight.

“Now you.” He was practically drooling as you undid your shirt and let it sink to the floor. He stood between your legs, running his hands up your arms, across your collar bone, taking his time tracing his fingertips up your throat.

“dispatch sending all available units, Signal 36, Pittfest. Shots fired.” The police scanner buzzed with the warning.

“Jack did that just say-”

“Call Matt.” Jack dropped his hands fumbling to find his phone. You scrambled to find your phone, dialing Matt.

“It’s going straight to voicemail.” Your voice shook.

“Dammit! They probably took over the cell signal.” Jack growled.

“Jack, what do I do!?” You’re breath picking up.

“Honey, breathe. You gotta stay calm.” He said, holding your face in his hands. “You keep trying to call him. Once he gets away from the festival grounds, he’ll be able to reach you. You stay here, let all your neighbors know to watch out for him.” He told you.

“What are you doing?” You looked confused as he started dressing.

“Baby, I gotta go into work. They’ll be overwhelmed with patients. He might head there first, I’ll be there if he is.” Jack sighed.

“Jack, what if-”

“No. Don’t go there.” He stopped the thought before you could finish it. “I’ll have someone monitoring my phone if I can’t. You call me the second you see him. I love you.” Jack kissed you as he grabbed his bag and ran out the door.

Jack was right, The Pitt was overwhelmed almost immediately. He kept his head down, going from patient to patient. Kept asking Dana for updates.

“Jake? Jake, where’s Matt?” Jack ran up to the boy, his leg oozing blood.

“I don’t know, man! I lost him in the crowd. I tried to find him.”

“Okay, it’s okay. Sit down, we’ll fix you up.” Jack said as he assessed the leg and ordered treatments,  running back, seeing the state Leah was in. Robby wasn’t going to handle that well. He kept working, all he could do was keep working.

“Jack…” Dana’s voice brought him back, looking over as Robby crumbled.

“Come on man. You’ve done more for her than anyone else. If this was a different day, she still wouldn’t have made it.” Jack said.  Robby kept pushing meds and doing compressions for a moment, Jack’s words settling into him.

“Stop compressions.”

“Want me to call it?” Jack offered. Robby shook his head.

“Time of death 2104.”  Robby shook his head. Jack patted him on the shoulder.

“I got another red! GSW to the abdomen and right leg! Lost a lot of blood in the field.” Shen called as he wheeled in another patient. Jack tossed his gloves off and grabbed new ones. When he turned he saw the shoes. The shoes he bought Matt for his sixteenth birthday. The shoes he had begged for, never giving you or Jack peace until he had them. The white shoes now red.

“No.” He whispered as he ran over. The pale face of Matt knocked the wind out of him.

“Dr. Abbot, IO is placed. Should I start giving blood?” Princess asked. Jack froze. “Dr. Abbot?” Princess asked, looking at him confused.

“uh…yeah, yes. Start giving blood, we have to get his clothes off.” Jack’s voice shook. “Dr. Mohan! I need you here!” He called, his voice sharp and broken making everyone face him.

“Oh god.” Dana gasped.

“Dr. Abbot?” Samira questioned. “Do you need to step away?” She asked.

“I-I…Robby! I need you!” He cried out. Robby turned, his face red and confused until he saw Matt’s face. He ran over, pushing Jack away.

“Dr. Mohan start intubation.” Robby started barking orders. Dana came over and dragged Jack away.

“Call her.” She handed him the phone and ran over to help.

His hands shook as he hit your contact.

“Jack? What’s going on? Is he there?” Your voice is thick with worry.

“Honey, he’s here. He’s hurt.” His voice was so broken, you’d never heard him like that. The fear ran up your spine and grabbed your heart.

“Oh my god. Okay. I’m…fuck. Okay, I’m on my way.” You cried as you hung up the phone and ran to your car.

Jack watched as his friends worked to save his stepson. Watched as Robby did everything he could after just coding his own stepson’s girlfriend. He felt like his heart was in his throat and he was choking.

“Dr. Walsh, admit this one to surgery.” Robby called.

“He’ll be next in line, we’re finishing up with the other now.” She nodded as she walked with the nurses towards the elevators with Matt.

“Dr. Abbot, he’s okay. He’s going to surgery. Damage to the bowel, his right leg has some pretty bad damage, but he’ll survive.” Dr. Mohan told him.

“Jack, get some air.” Dana said. Jack stood, going straight to Robby.

“Brother…thank you…” He said.

“Yeah. You did the same.” Robby nodded. “Jake’s leg is okay?” Robby questioned.

“Yeah, yeah. It’ll be okay, won’t need amputation.” Jack cleared his throat. Robby nodded and walked off.

“Jack! Jack, where is he!?” You came running in, the blood on the floor almost stopping you. Jack ran up and wrapped you in his arms.

“He’s okay! He’s okay! He’s in surgery. Robby saved him.” He told you as you sobbed into his chest.

“Oh my god, thank god!” You cried.

“The leg was pretty bad, Honey. I don’t know if they’ll be able to fix it.” Jack sighed.

“He’s alive, that’s what matters to me.” You said, finally taking in the state of him. You brushed the sweat soaked hair from his face.

“I froze.” He said, his voice catching as he looked away.

“You got the right people to help him. That’s all you needed to do.” You told him.

“I’ve never froze like that.” He said, trying to stop the tears.

“Jack, your son was on the table in front of you. I would have too. Everyone would have. He’s going to be okay, Right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what we need to hold onto right now.” You kissed his temple.

“He’ll be in surgery for a while, you can sit in the break room until I can take you up.” Jack nodded.

“I can help.” You said.

“No, not tonight.” He said as he walked off.

“Hun, come sit with me.” Dana said pulling to the nurses station.

“He’s in shock.” You muttered.

“Yeah. We all are. He loves that boy.” Dana sighed as she handed you a chart to start entering, knowing you’d go crazy if you didn’t do anything.

Jack powered through getting his patients charts in and dealing with any last treatments. His mind clouded but functional.

“Dr. Abbot? Dana said to let you know they called down from surgery for you.” Javadi said.

“Okay. Can you make sure that the patient in bay six gets another round of O-neg.” He ordered as he walked off towards the nurses station.

“He’s getting moved to a room right now. They said Room 314.” Dana told him. You jumped up and followed him to the elevator.

The ride up to the third floor felt like an eternity. The door opened and the quiet on the floor was stunning. You both took a breath before leaving.

“Dr. Abbot, we got your boy over here.” Walsh waved over. “Some damage to the small bowel, we were able to correct, made the repairs to the liver. He’s got a broken rib from the impact. He’ll be on strict rest and NPO for a few days, IV calories strictly so those bowels can heal.” Walsh rattled off.

“Thank you.” You said, wiping the tears from your face.

“Course. I do need to warn you. We did everything we could to save the leg. The damage was too much. We had to amputate. Half way up the shin, like yours.” Walsh nodded. Jack squeezed his eyes shut. He never wanted this for him. He wanted to keep this pain from him.

“Okay. Thank you.” Jack said as if he was still holding his breath. You both entered the room. The breath caught in your throat as you took him in. His face so pale and the wires sticking off of him. The way he lay so still.

“Jack…” You sobbed. He wrapped you up in his arms. His eyes never left Matt’s right leg.

“He’ll be okay.” He said, burying his face in your hair.

You both sat next to him, refusing to leave. He didn’t wake for two days. The agony of waiting was obvious on your face. You were dozing off, head on Jack’s shoulder.

“Mom…” Matt groaned. You both shot awake.

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” You said as you held his face in your hands.

“Mom.” He started to cry. You wrapped him up in the arms. Jack kept a hand on his leg.

“You’re okay, Matty.” You sobbed.

“it hurts.” He groaned, he tried to sit up. Jack put a hand to his chest and pushed him back.

“Take it easy. You gotta stay down for a while.” Jack said as he hit the call button.

“I remember the shots, I heard everyone screaming. There was a burning in my belly and then nothing.” Matt’s voice shook.

“Dr. Abbot?” a nurse came in.

“He’s in pain. Have Walsh put in an order for more morphine please.” He ordered.

“You got shot in the abdomen, Matt. They repaired it, you’ll be able to eat solids in a few days.” Jack explained.

“Okay. My leg hurts though.” Matt looked confused. Jack shook his head looking at the ground.

“Baby, you got shot in the leg. They tried everything, but they couldn’t save it. They had to cut it off at the shin.” You explained, trying to take the burden from Jack. It was heavy, too heavy for anyone but more so for Jack.

“I lost my leg? It’s just gone?” His voice filled with panic and confusion.

“If they left it, you would have been in so much pain.” You told him.

“We’ll help you through this, Kid. You’re strong. Stronger than I was.” Jack told him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m like you?” Matt looked up at Jack, he looked like a child.

“Yeah.” Jack nodded, trying and failing to stop the tears.

“Right now, we focus on getting you better. Then we focus on your leg.” You told him.

“You’ll help me, right?” Matt looked at Jack.

“Always, Matt. I’m always going to help you.” Jack pulled him into a tight hug. The two clung onto each other and cried.

You watched them, your chest tight. The healing would hurt, but you knew your family would make it.

[vanilleandclove]

carried away; jack abbot x f!trauma surgeon!reader 

fourth of july always has always dampened a stain on your relationship, for the betterment of it, it helps you both understand each other a little bit differently.

warnings: ptsd episode. mass casualty event (mce), pregnancy & pregnancy issues, samira deserves a boy/girlfriend outside of the ed THE GIRL NEEDS NORMALITY AND CARE, aggressive patients, a damn bomb, whole lotta robby yap, langdon goes to rehab but is that really a warning, jack is halfway codependent (man has trauma), there will be a fluffy chapter maybe word count: 4.2k notes: had to search up bizarre stories from the emergency room & ask my immigrant, can do no wrong, dad his crazy stories (radiologist in the emergency department), only for him to ask if i was going to give up film school. if you're unfamilar with emergency depts in america, fourth of july is the peak holiday for injurys and chaos, happy summer for me.

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“Hey can I use you during the briefing, the Fourth is always a hectic day here, got some new faces and these kids aren’t familiar with how we run things during the summer” Robby asked you as you walked out of the lounge, seeing you lightly waddle as you needed to pee.

“Robby, these kids survived Pitfest- they can handle an independence day- but, sure, let me just handle this real quick” you grunted, feeling your bladder overwhelming full. This time around the life growing inside of you decided to fill and harass your bladder rather than morning sickness. Week 13, you couldn’t wait to get to at least the second trimester. 

You and Jack decided to tell Dana, Bridget, Robby, and Heather. They were the only ones allowed to know, even though it killed Jack to not tell his mom, slowly hurt you to not tell your sister or mom. Heather was ready to throw you a baby shower by the first day, Dana already bought clothes for your little bean. But Jack, Jack was a nervous wreck. Monitoring you closely while you slept and ate, helped you shower as if it was strenuous. He loved seeing your belly grow as small as it did from week 1 to 13. It felt like a year, to him it felt like time slowed just to spare him any worries. 

From babe; 

How’s work? Anything yet? I just fully clocked in lmao, you coming in today? Probably gonna get called in you know how it is every year Not really, this is the first time we didn’t go on vacation Dr. Abbot  Way too early for the teasing honey. I’ll pick you up if I don’t get called in. I love you and bug. We love you too- would love you more if I got lucky tonight. Depends on if you’re a good girl or not doesn’t it?

The most intimate time you’ve both had in 5 weeks was him giving you a foot rub, other than that nothing. You were either too tired and slept in- the pregnancy pillow he got you works wonders, woke up in the middle of the night with indigestion, or you put the lingerie on and then got emotional seeing him- sometimes all the three. You missed your fiancé more than anything.

Upon exiting the bathroom there was Robby grilling into everybody, “Doctor L/n will give you the rundown on how things go surgical wise on today”. 

“Surgery is usually bombarded- it’s a peak day for the entire ED, night shift comes and helps out when they phase in about two to three hours earlier” you announced, you ran this shit as if it were the Navy- courtesy of your man back at home who taught you how his C.O.s talked to him, “We deal with the stroke & heart related issues- I get the more severe cases therefore I am not always going to be down here”. 

You made your way to the board, “Trauma gets a designated 4 operating rooms today, we have three surgeons on call, all trained under me or my predecessor Doctor Greene- bless our lucky asses, Greene comes in to help every Fourth of July” looking directly into everyone’s eyes, Jack’s habit directly rubbed off on you, “Worst we’ve had was Fourth of July 2022, I was up a near 24 hours. We’ve had someone be given a bomb instead of an illegal firework- didn’t detonate, had to call the bomb squad when we were in the OR”.

“20 year old male, Mark Coleman, mom said he bought fireworks in Texas last week only for the fireworks to be an actual bomb- didn’t detonate in the field, bomb squad is already on the way” The EMT ran over to you keeping his voice lowered in order to not panic the crowd, supplying oxygen from the kids intubation, you nodded and ran over to change your gloves as you saw Jack in a woman’s chest cavity trying to stimulate her heart.

“What do you got?” he asked, thinking it would be more interesting, only to be given a concerned and almost scared look from you, “Doctor Shen, take over” John didn’t hesitate to replace Abbot, “Stimulate for another three, if no response send her up with Walsh and Greene”.

He discarded his gloves and placed a hand on your elbow to follow you to Mark, “Have bomb squad come in through the helipad, we can’t afford freaking out anyone down here, we have to operate on the west surgical wing anyway” you told Dana as she nodded.

“Wait, you're operating?” Jack questioned.

“Bomb squad’s going to be in there with me the entire time, I’m the only surgeon available and willing” you looked into his eyes almost as if you were being stern and for your selfish reasons of looking at him, “This is my department Doctor Abbot, don’t question my job, I won’t question yours”.

“I will question it if you’re putting yourself in immediate danger” he told you, searching for the exact feeling you were hiding, fear. 

“It’s my job Jack” you whispered to him before walking off. 

It was a three hour surgery with no one other than your surgical team and the bomb squad on the floor, Greene came in to help if something were to happen to you. Truth was Jack yelled at him over the phone when he told him that you “had it under control”- which you did, Jack barely built up the courage to open up about his war PTSD since he just started going to therapy, you weren’t exactly someone he wanted to handle a bomb extraction. 

When you went back down, he could breathe again, you took your losses as Mark may not be able to speak again as the bomb landed just in the right spot to strain his larynx. 

“There are also a lot of worried parents with children who are the spawns of satan. I had a mom that same year scream in both mine and Doctor Mohan’s face about her son falling into their active fire pit with soot all over his body, minor burns, earned a beautiful punch in the chest” you told them, seeing the smile on Samira’s face as she recalled the memory on the first year of her residency.

“I don’t give a fuck! He is screaming, just take him!” she screamed at you and Samira as you did the exam while explaining to Samira in passing.

“Ma’am there are no burns on your son, enough for it to be surgical or an emergency, we are currently swamped here. We are going to give you three cold compresses and some cream to help, only use Tylenol to control the pain because NSAIDs can be dangerous if he hit his head while falling in” you told her, giving her son a pat on the back as he shook from the bass of her voice as she screamed. 

“You fucking bitch, I pay your fucking wages through all of those fuckass taxes just for you to dismiss my fucking son?”.

You formed a barrier between you and her, making sure Samira wouldn’t be spat on or hit if the mom became even more aggressive.

“Ma’am I can assure you, you do not pay my wage or my coworkers wage, now please take your leave before I have security come and hold you in front of your son- now would you prefer that or the care we just gave you to handle this at home?” you responded, she got in your face only to take a step back and aim directly for your chest, Samira swore she heard a light crack before she screamed for security.

You were fine, winded, but fine none of the less. Jack spent the whole night back at your home kissing the middle of your chest as it began to bruise. You insisted it was because it gave him free reign to play with and admire your tits.

“It’s a hectic day for everyone, best advice I can give to you is phase your main patient load out of here by 4 or 5 pm, firework shows start around that time, by 8 pm you’re hopefully already home and night shift is here, we get all the road accidents here” you told them, “Just like Pitfest, if you cannot find Doctor Robinavitch, Doctor Collins, Doctor Abbot, or myself, the next level of command is to get approval from Doctor Mohan or- Doctor Langdon. Robby, Abbot, and I run things down here, we’ve been doing this together for the past 6 years, today is just one of those days that gets convoluted, now eat and hydrate, good luck”. 

When Frank got back from rehab, Abbot was impressed he put in the work. Heather and you knew he was going to be given his position back immediately and by May Heather had finally completed her residency program- Frank having to make up for the time lost. 

You all had a calm morning, taking a half day to resort for an oncall schedule. By 4 pm you were at home, resting on the couch as Jack made you the lunch you didn’t have time for at work. 

“So far nothing, might just be a quiet Fourth of July” you shouted at him from the living room. 

“Some of my old buddies from the VA invited us down to grill with them at 6, I told them maybe- depends on my wife” Jack said as he brought your food to you on a tray.

“Baby all of them are your age, so old?” you joked, giving him a kiss as he set down your food on the coffee table, “Also wife, Mrs. Abbot hasn’t even been engraved on my social security or Facebook”. 

“Last time I checked you have an Abbot in you”. 

“Unfortunately not in bed” you teased yet again. 

“Eat. Y’Might just pass out if I ravage you before eating” with every dirty joke you gave, Jack’s stoicism would top it. Made for good laughs over the years. Jack made you pass out once from overstimulation, scared the shit out of him, you found it quite sexy that made you feel that good- ever since then, he makes sure you’re hydrated.

You and him were no strangers to calmness in the cusp of afternoons to evenings, especially since you became pregnant, all you both wanted were quiet times like these. By 5:30, you both had showered and got ready for the barbecue Jack promised to attend. Only before you both got the call from Robby and Gloria to come in as there was a shooting at the Fourth of July firework show. Normally, you admired your fiancés punctuality, but he stood there pondering while staring into your soul. 

“You’re going?”.

“It’s a MCE, of course I’m going” you responded, grabbing your spare scrubs you kept hung up and sneakers, you were on your feet all day.

The reality of it was Jack was worried about another miscarriage, worried about you overworking yourself. He put limits where he knew you misconstrued them. 

“You’re being reckless” he blurted out as you packed your bag, you froze from the words that left his mouth, “I’m sorry honey but-“.

You swallowed the heartbreak that came with your fiancé questioning if you had the strength to get through this while pregnant. Swallowed the doubt that he put on you because he was worried, the doubt that only shined to you where he thought you couldn’t do your job while pregnant. The same doubt men put other women through because they think it’s not their place or they don’t belong. 

“We’ll talk about this later” you told him, shrugging him off as you walked away. Jack knew your limits under the guise of understanding you, though as much as it prided you both it had its repercussions such as right now. 

The car ride was quiet and tense, the air thick and both of your throats dry. You wouldn’t argue before work, everything stayed at home. As much as you knew where  his concern came from, you knew if something were to happen, he’d silently blame you in the deepest part of him even if his body rejected that fact. 

You took your leave ahead of Jack, feeling the light jerks of your stomach, there’s a version of you and Jack and you’re carrying it. You felt the weight of your chest as your breasts were sore from the bra and hormones. You saw both Javadi and Langdon outside as they handled triage, giving them the best of luck.

“What happened?” you asked Dana at her desk.

“Shooting at the park, we’re expecting 67 patients in the ambulances, maybe more depending on transport. You okay honey?” she questioned, seeing the tiredness in your eyes. 

“Yeah, some jerks but at least bean is moving” you lowered your voice. Normally, you wouldn’t feel your baby moving until a few more weeks, with your hyper vigilance and rotations to OB during residency, you knew the movement, the little soft jerks. You also knew you couldn’t wait for your womb to move away from your bladder and for the light aches of your hips to stop. “No sign of Greene? He never misses a year”.

Dana shrugged as she called her family, everyone around you called their loved ones as you just shrugged yours off. When Jack came in, it was your instinct to lean into his close proximity, your own way of telling him “I love you” while on the clock. His breath against the skin of your neck and the squeeze he gave your hand, it was going to be a long night. 

“Okay, this is not the first MCE you all have gone through, I hope we all are familiar with the protocol for tonight. Doctor Abbot, Shen, Collins, and myself are going to stay down here at all times. Your number one determinant for surgical cases will go to Doctor L/n, can’t find her? Go to Walsh, we have three fellows courtesy of Doctor L/n on standby in the ORs, send your patients up immediately, they know you’re coming” Robby announced, “SWAT and the police haven’t identified a shooter therefore they will be collecting any and all fragments of evidence taken from patients, upon extraction give it to an attending. Unfortunately, we are the only trauma center nearby, we are putting ourselves at risk for the shooter to arrive here”. 

Jack felt your body tense from behind him, his knuckles finding their way to rolling against your spine to ease tension. You waited a few seconds before speaking up. 

“Any and all cardio, neuro, pediatric, and advanced traumas go to me. Lower grade trauma, general, ophthalmic, and ortho will be split between Garcia and Walsh. Nipples to navel is no-man’s land if you for any reason believe your patient cannot get the most adequate standard of care for the situation, send them to surgery immediately” you told all of them, “If I am not available or are already in an OR, I can work on up to three patients per OR, I’ve done it before, I can do it again”. 

“You’re authorized for neuro?” Whitaker and Santos both questioned you, slowly being tempted to swap to surgery. 

“Neurosurgeons are hard to come by, no one ever wants to hire more because of pay grade. Therefore everyone else has to pick up the slack” you answered, “Doctor Rios is our attending Neurosurgeon, he taught me everything I need to know”. 

“Doctor Mohan and McKay, you’ll be with me and Walsh” you told both of them, “It’s going to be a long night”.

After dismissal you heard the distant sirens from the ambulances, giving Jack enough time to check up on you. 

“He’ll come by, he never misses a Fourth” Jack reassured you as you rapidly typed on your phone to Greene’s wife.

“His daughter’s family was over there, pretty sure they all went” you told him, shaking your head slightly before putting your phone away, “You sure you’re ready for this?”.

“Nothing we haven’t seen”. 

You looked at him once more, you saw the apprehension. Last Fourth of July he worked, a firework went off in the halls and sent him into a frenzy the rest of the night. You were a senior resident, just before you and Jack decided to finally take things seriously. 

“Doctor Abbot we ran out of chest tubes Princess told me-“ you walked into a room filled with blood all over the floor and no one else but Jack who was sunk down to the floor, prosthetic to the side of him. “Jack?”.

He remained quiet as he picked at his cuticles, blood trickling from his hand, there was a deep gash in the palm of his hand, blood flowing more as he flexed his hand. 

“Jack” you took a step closer just before he fixed his eyes on you, bloodshot and pupils blown. His hair was caked in blood, “Baby let me stitch-“.

“No” he spoke up, eyes never leaving yours. Luckily, it was cooled down outside, nothing too serious to begin with minus the car collisions that sent three families here. Jack had worked on one of the moms, the mom whose blood now coated the floor and him. “I couldn’t save him,” he muttered.

Your eyebrows furrowed, taking a look at the leftover chart to see if the mom was accidentally misplaced. Only to realize Jack wasn’t thinking coherently, “Baby, the Jamison’s mom is with Greene. She’s okay, he does thank you for stabilizing her”. 

“I couldn’t save him” a sob wrecked through his throat. You took your chances and got down on your knees, the blood on the floor staining your scrubs, making yourself be at eye level to him. 

You cautiously snapped your sterile gloves off to cup his face with your hands, only after you placed his spare hand on your chest where your heart was beating- erratically from the subsiding adrenaline. The blood from his hand coated your scrubs.

“Breathe with and repeat after me” you instructed, “Your name is Jack Abbot, you are currently in Pittsburgh as an attending emergency physician, in a trauma room with Y/n”.

He lightly breathed, his breath shuddered as he opened his mouth, “My name is Jack Abbot. I am currently in Pittsburgh and an attending emergency physician, in trauma room 3 with Y/n L/n”. 

“I am not overseas in war”. 

“I am not overseas in war”.

He calmed down as you tested it another three times. Upon the third he got up and let you clean and dress his gash. “What are you thinking?” you asked, silently giving him stitches. 

“I’m lucky to be with you”.

You smiled lightly, “You’re lucky it wasn’t Langdon who came in” chortling quietly, “three more stitches and you should be good cowboy”. 

“70 year old male, multiple GSWs to the chest, wife helped stabilize him on the field”.

“Mrs. Greene?” you called out as you walked away from Jack. 

Doctor Peter Greene was the 70 year old male with the 7 gunshot wounds to his chest. His wife, Lisa, was an anesthesiologist up until last year, she was barely 65.

“Oh my god Y/n” she sobbed before engulfing you into a hug, “Please help him” you nodded as you pulled away running off to the trauma bay they held him.

“Send him to the OR now, Samira you’re scrubbing in with me” you directed, “Cassie, Lisa Greene is out there, she’s bleeding from her legs I think she was shot can you check up on her?” both the girls nodded as you wheeled Greene to the elevator.

“Are you sure you want me to scrub in?” Samira asked as you reached the elevator, it was just you two- well three. 

“Samira, I’m pregnant” you confessed as the elevator doors closed on the two of you, “I’ve already miscarried once, I don’t plan on that again, I’m hoping his stubborn ass pulls through so my baby isn’t distressed from me being stressed, you being there is more than enough”. 

She looked stunned from the confession, smiling in the light of the situation, “Do you want me to get an OB down after just to see where things are?”.

“I may need you to sub in so I can sit down once or twice, I’ll be with you the entire time” you told her, just as you reached the third floor. The surgical wing was scattered as you made it to OR 4, your body stiffened up with worry as you realized it was the same OR. 

4 hours, it took you and Samira 4 hours to get every bullet, repair any tissue. You stood standing the entire time, your heels ached, knees slightly wobbly. Luckily, Greene was stable and okay, the ED only lost 2 patients that day, most non-surgical minus laparotomies split between your fellows and Walsh. You gave your graces to Samira as she beamed with joy, her job was her life, but luckily, you convinced her to finally go on a date every once and awhile.

The most important part, you still felt the light jerks. Peeing finally felt like liberation, what you really wanted was a bath and maybe a soda to substitute the craving for wine. You wanted to talk.

“Abbot?” you asked Bridget as her and Dana contacted the hospital officials to open the emergency department again. Bridget pointed up and you gave her a thumbs up. 

There on the roof, Jack was admiring the skyline with Robby. As the elevator dinged, Robby took his leave, giving you a smile and a nod.

“How’s Greene?”.

“Good, he almost woke up from the anesthesia, but other than that, stubborn bastard is asleep in post-op. His daughter came to drop off some clothes and food” you filled him in, the silence found the both of you in an unwelcoming way, “You doubted me today”.

“I did”.

“I became a surgeon at 22, by 27 I was already an attending” you started, “I’ve also was lucky enough to have Greene and Adamson as mentors, you and Robby as colleagues” you boasted, feeling the wind blow through your hair, “But, you walk into a room and patients don’t doubt you for a singular second. I walk in and it’s always a question of if I belong here- it’s not an age thing, that I learned a long time ago” you licked your lips before continuing, “I can feel our baby moving, at 13 weeks, I can feel it, I didn’t before. I think it’s because I’m a doctor, I am aware of the feeling. Let me put the limit on what I can and can’t do”.

Jack finally looked over at you, “I’m sorry” he started, sighing gently, “I feel you walk away and it scares the living shit out of me” raking his hand through his curls, “I feel selfish a bit, knowing you’re out of reach, that you’re upstairs operating and I don’t know what’s happening”.

You smiled at the sentiment of care, “I’m working” you told him, “I’m doing the job I fell in love with when I was a kid. Now my knees and back hurt both from age and the fact that there is a little Abbot in me” you took a second for him to smile, “This job gave me you, gave me some of the best memories I could imagine, I’d bargain the recklessness every single day if it meant I’m ending up with you”. 

He chuckled, moving away from his spot and climbing over the bars to hold you in his arms. He goes on the roof to admire the city, rather than the want to leave it. 

“Sometimes I feel like I’m back out there, fighting”.

“I know. You talk in your sleep a lot” you told him. 

You saved him as much as he saved you.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[bunny-jpeg]

military things again - simon having his grey shirt with his last name painted across the back of it. thing has been through the wringer all these years and by god is it comfortable on you. the familiar fabric up against your skin, the heather grey colour had been faded and the cotton was stretched for years of wear.

it was a comfortable shirt to wear around the house. baggy enough to cover just below your ass. and it always smelled like your simon. and funny enough, he loved it on you. loved it more than any kind of fancy lingerie you could ever wear.

he was certain if you wanted something pretty to wear that he'd happily get it for you. anything for his dove, but he loved how you looked into the shirt. it should have been thrown out years ago, and he had enough extra ones to give to you. But this one you called your own, it was the one he got when you first started dating.

when he was a new recruit and you were waiting for him after qualification. sometimes he thought you loved the garment more than the pretty wedding ring he eventually proposed with. the gleaming gold band and the bright ruby were pale in comparison to the ratty shirt you loved.

but simon didn't mind, as he watched you get out of bed to get your water bottle off the dresser where the television was. you reached a little to grab it and thus he got a proper look at your behind while the shirt slipped up. made him shift in bed, pull the covers off of him.

you looked good in it, especially when all that was underneath was a simple little pair of panties. excited your husband to no end.

"come here, angel." he said softly before you crawled back into bed with him. he got a strong arm over your shoulders and pulled you in for a heated kiss. he needed to feel you, you felt amazing in his arms. it excited him. he squeezed onto you a little tightly and you giggled as you clinged to him.

you felt right in his arms. then again, of course his wife would feel right in his arms. he peppered your face with kisses while he let his hands wander across your form. you giggled into the kiss.

"that's my girl." he cooed, "fuck, you feel perfect in my arms. who let you be so perfect for me." he squeezed your behind and you giggled into the kiss. he pushed up the shirt a little to get a better feel of you, you only moaned into the kiss. you enjoyed the feeling of his lips against yours.

his hands grazed across your skin, it felt right. so right to have you in his lap. you were the perfect size for him. with curves that drove him wild, he adored you. loved you beyond words. he needed you badly, in that over-sized grey t-shirt. his name across your shoulders, it felt right. so right. you were made to be mrs. simon riley. your place with him, in his arms.

it was almost like you could read his mind, you moved to get out of your panties and then soon the shirt came off as well. he cupped your breasts and licked his lips. you were beyond beautiful, aphrodite incarnate. the most lovely creature he could ever conjure up in his mind, in his arms.

he kissed at you, gave you the quiet affection you deserved. it was a great feeling, he always needed you deeply. your bra soon ended up on the floor and he laid back in the pillows and got his cock out of his sweatpants.

he admired your naked body in the low glow of the television. he licked his lips and put his hands on your hips as you slowly sank down on his cock. while he loved the way his old t-shirt looked on you, you looked better naked. completely nude for him. only for his eyes to admire, his hands to touch. it was his, all his.

in every way one person could have another, he had you.

it was heaven.

the kisses continued, heated with a certain passion that left you achy for more. you needed your man, your husband. the one who brought a sense of light into your life. the one who smothered you in tight hugs and heavy kisses.

"you look good." he said, "with my name across your back. like ya own it. make it seem like riley was your last name from the start."

you giggled as you moved your hips in time with his, "you could have taken my last name."

he chuckled lightly, "too much of a traditionalist, love." he knew that was a lie, he loved his modern woman. and if you asked to keep your name or have him change his, he would have easily complied. he pulled you in for another searing kiss. you moaned into it and he wrapped his strong arms around you.

you held his face while you moved against him. the racing of your heart burned in your soul. you moaned loudly and he leaned in for another hot kiss.

"fuck, si." you moaned.

"i got you, dove. always got ya. all mine, forever. that's why i got that ring on ya." he kissed at your neck as you continued to move up an down on his cock.

you felt the swirl of pleasure in your core as you rutted against him. the feeling felt amazing. there was something so deep about your love for your husband, a feeling he shared with you. you were beautiful on top of him. his hands found your breasts and he pinched the nipples and rolled them between his thumbs and pointer fingers. he groaned as your pussy clenched around him.

it felt good, so good, in the low light of your shared bedroom. to feel his love up against yours, his body so close. the way you always wanted him. you went in for another searing kiss, your short nails dug across his shoulders. he moaned against your lips and you drank in the feeling and sounds of him.

it was heaven, it felt amazing. it stirred in your gut and made your thighs trembled as the two of you continued to make love on your bed.

"my missus." he said lowly, "missus riley, the only woman to love a dog like me," he chuckled lightly before he went in for another hot kiss against your lips. you moaned and held on tighter. the feeling of pleasure crashed over you in a way that kept the two of you moving against one another.

your soft tits pressed against his soft pecs, the two of your melded against one another in a heated bliss. the heat grew between the both of you.

you whined, "my darling, darling husband." you then lightly chuckled as the pleasure grew in you. your thighs clenched around him and you continued to rock against him. you shared another messy kiss as the heat continued to grow.

you knew you weren't going to last much longer. you held onto him tightly and rocked against him. the pleasure bloomed in your core and you felt needy for your beloved husband. you two shared another heated kiss and he held onto you tightly for support as climax washed over you.

"i love you." you squeaked as you moved against him.

he held you close and replied, "i love you too, love you so very much." then kissed at you face as you came. he continued to move against you, "cum for me, angel. let it all out for me." he kissed your lips as you moaned against his lips.

you slowed your pace to a stop and he continued to work himself against you. he peppered your face with kisses as he leaned you back on the bed and he got on top of you for a classic missionary position.

he hiked your hips up and thrusted against you. he pressed himself against you and gave you another messy kiss before he finished inside of you. as he came he looked into your eyes and panted, "that's my girl, that's my girl." then kissed your flushed cheek as he continued to rock his hips against yours.

"my beautiful, lamb." he purred as he kissed your sweaty forehead before he got off of you and had you laid down next to him on top of the pillows once more. he draped an arm over your side as you both laid there sweaty. he kissed you a few more times. he said lowly, "i love you.

"i love you too. now where's that shirt of yours." you tried to go find it in the low light of the bedroom.

he chuckled as he laid back in the pillows and watched you naked and trying to find the t-shirt on the bedroom floor. he remarked, "gonna have that shirt forever."

"yep, and i'm gonna be buried in it too." you said cheekily before you found it.

simon simply smirked, if you were a riley for the rest of your life. then he'd be a very happy man <3

[cafeleningrad]

If it's ok, OP, I would like to add a personal anecdote. (If you feel like it's derailing, please let me know, I can delete my addition.)

So, it took many, many years of development but I ceased being a lonely uncool girl. Not in a "fake it till you make it" way but a mix of circumstances, own behaviours and reactions changed.

For one, the circumstances change. The geographical and social environment, especially school and classmates, that did judge me, did not pick me in sports teams, making it difficult to connect with people because personal background and interest were unusual did change.

Second, I sometimes still feel how I don't cease to be "the weird girl" in other environments. Innate habits like derailed rambling, sometimes lacking tact in preferring pragmatism over feelings, and niche interests that are not common are present in new social environments. But what previously did single me out in excluding ways, at some point became what made me myself, and somehow it does connect to others. I mean sure, I did also learn a bit to rail myself in, how to hold small talk, how to properly sort my arguments but in proper shape it turned out I could hold long talks with other people which were fun and engaging for both parties.

I mean, adults are incredibly varied people. Surely none will get along with everyone but one will find their kin. After years of struggling in school, and my first years in university, I did also make friends along the way who kept in contact over years. The thing is, the interest was mutual. The conversations were kept by a constant exchange of messages or if possible meet-ups, sometimes re-connections after pauses. Or it's meeting acquaintances on the street and having a nice chat - it made me realize, whatever little issues I have, even if for formative years caused isolation, people do remember me more kindly than I possibly think of myself.

By, example a former colleague once straight up told me I was weird, not knowing how deeply it struck. However, he did not mean it negatively. For this one comment, he was also the one helping me as often as possible when I needed help, we talk for hours when I drop by at my old work days, and regularly message each other for life updates. What did render me to self-conscious in my childhood, often being the new girl in class needing to double down on new language skills, evaporated because another friend, and him had been in the exact same situation too. They did survive, and we could share this experience of outsider'ness. Exactly my ramblings is something he seeks out because whenever we discuss social issues my dissection is what he wants to receive a clearer picture, even if we don't draw the same conclusions. In his life I might be the weird girl, but this is the weirdo he enjoys being friends with. I met other friends, and new colleagues at my old work place, and they do recall fun anecdotes from the time we worked together. Again, in which I realize that I'm remembered in a fond way.

Which leads me to third: Self interest. Talking about feeling like the "uncool, lonely girl" inevitably comes with using "I". The frequency of self-reference and limitation is unavoidable... however at some point I needed to unlearn to think of myself when interacting with other people. Granted, food service was personally formative, especially after Covid as guest interactions runs on social protocols. Here I did learn small talk, but also what variation of jokes or formality are apt for each group or person.

To say, social interactions at safe emotional distance can be learnt. More so, at some point I entirely got out of my own head, and primarily thought of: "What do the guests need?" And when guests were nice, I came to enjoy a simple friendly chat was enough to mutually create a lovely interaction in a day. I learnt to simply enjoy the company of someone else. Not "how am I perceived?" which is a feeling I only could formerly only shut-off with close friends or overly pompous internet arguments afforded by anonymity (and not having unlearnt the rage bait of social media attention bait yet...) As I first mentioned in how I got to hold long conversations with others, it came in a bit with learning to learn some etiquette which is all about being a bit more mindful of other people. The don't even need to be strict rules, just a little more consideration in interaction is already a start to not set someone off. Or, even if I still struggle to quickly connect with peers in my age, which were especially lonely years at university first, I did still made friendships that now last for years. These same-age group struggles lead me to connect more easily with older colleagues which was also really helpful. My old colleagues are women who were part of the first generation of women to live on their own, lived through much more sexist times at the workplace. The entire feeling of inadequacy is so far beyond them because there were so many external issues to handle that actions and defiance transformed them. And well yeah, at some age the inverted self-dissection really ceases to be of any matter. When we interact they do judge me what I bring to the table, whom I help, what I say in any given moment. To say, whatever I might feel inside, what one does in correspondence to the people around them is telling much more who they are, than whatever self-image I have.

Some people are really great at reading, and influencing people's perception. I'm not.

But the less I think how I want to be perceived, the less I think about an insecure self-image in fear it gets revealed, or discovered, the more I get to enjoy simply being with people. Experienced taught me: Some people like me, some don't, I know what's proper behavior, so I find my people. The more I get out of myself, the more I simply stay curious for other people, what's new in their life, why are some things going good or not so great at the moment, what do they need, is there a fun topic to share?, the less I do feel lonely, because I'm actually connected.

Uncool is such an irrelevant topic in adulthood.

Only immature, and in truth insecure people care about what's cool as adults. Yes it is a dismissive judgement but I tell you, I've had the misfortune to work with enough influencers, celebrities and their entourage during different catering occasions, whatever they try to represent is a constant gambling for social capital, attention which is for worship, translating into sales for redundant products. Sorry, but the self-contortion of behaviours like entitlement by being careless, very noticeable fake nice behaviour just to keep up good social relationships which can be used for collaboration and association. By all what's good on this earth, witnessing these people was an ideal cure. These people who're considered so aspirational, bombarded with attention and advertisement deals are constantly dancing the line between irrelevance and a possible next deal for income. And that's what their perceived aspiration and coolness is all about. I can tell you, whatever I deemed cool as a child, turned out to be extremely vapid and reckless towards other people. The coolest people who don't know how cool they're to me. Their secret lies in not caring about how they're perceived because they're self-assured in how they act about a certain thing. It's their way and nothing else matters. Sometimes it's having cultivated a self-confidence to do something just the way one does considers right.

Sure, a big Harley Davidson bikes aren't something I consider cool by any means. But anyone who deeply enjoys their ride, working on their bike, telling me about who they met and what they saw on their rides is much more in tune with themselves, are open to the world, and much more interesting as a person than someone who drives a Harley to mark what a tough nut they're. The latter are not really themselves because they're a persona build up with material signifiers.

Getting out of myself was one of the toughest developments possible. It is difficult because my superiority-inferiority complex held up my spine for so long in school, dismantling it meant dismantling the pillars of my self-confidence. In fact, dismantling a big chunk of my self perception. That's not to say we never look back inward for self-reflection we should never do that. However... the isolation that previously protected me, was beginning to suffocate me. By realizing how whatever made me feel singled out negatively, either singled me out positively, or simply wasn't relevant anymore, I also needed to change my outlook on other people. If other people's reactions shaped me before, the people who shape me now are different, so I can't think of them as I did with others previously. I don't have to prove them anything, there is no façade necessary to maintain because the more time I spend on others, the less time I have to think about myself - the more my actions towards the people in my life do prove what matters to me, what I indulge in or not, whom I'd like to help or not. At some point I cannot control how other people see me still they do see what I do in the immediate moment. Whatever I might think of myself, how bad, how brave, how awkward, how self-sufficent I consider myself to be... values are only good when put to test, and this is done by interactions with each other. I might think myself as uncool - to a neighbour I'm the one who helped out with cat sitting and groceries when she broke her arm. To a friend I'm the one who listened when they had relationship problems. What I am, is what I am to other people, small things I do, things I tell.

The worst friendships I had were in retrospect those I made because I was lonely, didn't think I could admit that I was struggling because what gave me a sense of superiority in highschool surely didn't apply in work life, and university anymore. By worrying how I didn't want to be lonely, how I wanted draw people to me by a play-acted off-the-cuffness, I remained awkward because I constantly was re-evaluating myself in interactions, wanted to keep the upper hand, but also needed. Well, in the compensation, I was emotionally at my worst. Further, I wasn't developing. The compensation for the uncool, lonely girl, desperately holding onto connections was grasping onto a friendship that did me no good - in fact I was grinding myself to low energy to prove to myself that I am the friend that always cares. It was not about the friend who took certain acts of helping for granted, if not caring primarily about herself, being flippant, dismissive, and self-righteous in order to maintain her self-image as never getting buttered down. Like, the older I get, the more people I meet, the most harmful behavior comes from people who're stuck on creating/maintaining a self image. Newly rich guests who're extra dismissive to staff because they need to mark how they need to care about other people because everyone submits to the money they pay. Guys who got aggressive when they notice that someone is as smart or smarter than they're but thought of themselves as the stiffest fry in the bag - just to give a few examples how self-curation foregoes actual likeability. In our 20s we're pointed towards many directions: Careerwise, we've new as well as many responsibilities, we should be adults, we should've a social life, be a fully-formed person. As we can see on social media we've many templates/archetypes what certain types of fully fledged people should look like, how they should dress, how they should behave, what the people in their life, and their overall life style should look like. But actually many people are just learning how to live on their own, or to earn their own living, gain an entire new input of ideas, impressions, and responsibilities they've to sort out. None is a fully formed person at this age, even if many feel as if they've figured the world out (they've not). So at this age it is much more important to be actually invested in the world, to go out of one's shell, abandon what they previously believed to be universally true. And by that interest in others, rethinking, rediscovering if you actually like or don't like something, figure out what's important to you yourself, you might discover that you're not the person you believed you were.

Maybe who you were was "lonely, uncool girl" as your environment labeled you this way. Maybe can't easily be someone else however, in a different context, experiencing something else, worrying less that who one is could pose a problem, the easier it might become existing without fearing that one is inadequate.

when you grew up as a lonely uncool girl it will never stop haunting you by the way. you will meet a cool person at a bar or the train station or at a friend's party and you can wear your most stylish outfit and striking eye makeup and you will swear that they can see through all of the facade and see the lonely terribly insecure teenage girl you used to be who desperately wanted to connect and you will swear that they know that there is like an insurmountable gap between you. this will happen forever

[shidoglazer]

sae itoshi smut mdni just pure filth i think

one thing about sae is that he’s extremely disciplined, so you should never expect to catch him masturbating, asking for sex or even watching porn for that matter.

and its quite funny, because sometimes you could see him, early in the morning just going about his day drinking his tea while his morning wood pokes out of his shorts, straining against the fabric. you try to keep your decency and not look, because how can this man be so shameless ?? obviously he’s not dense, he catches on quickly.

“get your mind out of the gutter.” he speaks in his raspy morning voice before walking towards you, giving you a light peck on the head as he heads towards the bathroom to get ready while you’re standing there embarrassed, confused, flustered and blushing.

though, he is just a human. if you tease and poke at him enough, he’ll let you ride his thigh to get off. don’t expect anything from him though, maybe just a few praises here and there— “you’re quite the sight, aren’t you? cmon, lets get you cleaned up.” as he picks you up after cumming on his thigh. nothing more than that.

well, unless you’re in the position where you’re jumping up and down on a silicone toy while moaning his name repeatedly, eyes shut as tears threaten to fall— a pleasant surprise for him when he got back from his training a little earlier than usual. he wouldn’t say anything yet, let alone make a noise, just let him enjoy the sight as his boner builds up.

“ah, sae, sae, sae! s’good s’good, mmaking me feel s’goood!!..”

“am i now?” …. shit.

your grinding stops and your eyes fly open to see your boyfriend crouching right in front of you, you try to muster something, anything, but your effort goes to waste as it transforms into a moan when saes hands trails to the plush of your ass, squeezing them gently as his face nuzzles into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

“did you miss me too much? hadn’t been making a lot of time for you lately, hm?” one of his hands remain at your ass as once reaches up to stroke your back, acting as if a dildo isn’t stuffed in you right now. nevertheless, you nod sheepishly, the side of your head rubbing against his hair as your hands clutch onto his sweat dampened jersey. “..yeah.. missed you, sae. y’re a big fat brute for leaving me alone for so long.” in which he lets out a breathy chuckle, pressing a kiss onto your neck.

“then let me make it up to you. hm?” god, it was embarrassing how fast you nodded without hesitation.

(>﹏<) . . .

a/n im gonna leave you guys on a cliffhanger because i dont feel nice rn if u wanna know what happens next FOLLOW TO SHIDOGLAZER AND LIKE EVERY ONE OF HER POSTS !!!!! 🥰🥰😘😘😍😍

masterlist

[roryknightwrites]

sometimes I forget that Final Victor was the first time Aventurine and Ratio met and I'm like...imagine you're Ratio and you pull up to work and your boss is like 'you're getting a new mission partner' and you're like ugh probably some average boring idiot, another person who will treat me like a cold and off-putting genius, I'd so much rather be by myself god damnit this is going to suck.

Then, in walks an unassuming little blond man who immediately whips out a gun, gives you bedroom eyes while he loads it in front of you, probably blushing and biting his lip and shit like a freak, puts it in your hand, presses it to his chest, intertwines his finger with yours around the trigger, stares you dead in the face, AND I QUOTE, "provocatively", and fires it. Three times. AND THEN HE PROBABLY JUST LEAVES BC IF YOU'RE GONNA PULL SOMETHING LIKE THAT YOU CANT JUST HANG AROUND FOR DRINKS AFTERWARDS YOU GOTTA FLEE AND KEEP UP THE MYSTERY, SO NOW YOU'RE JUST ALONE IN THE ROOM LEFT TO PROCESS WHAT JUST HAPPENED.

Like what do you even do after meeting someone like that ??? Well in Ratio's case I guess you fall in love but I can't even blame him, I wouldn't be able to stop thinking about him either, doc. I can literally picture Ratio in his fucking Ebenezer Scrooge nightcap and gown that same evening, lying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, looking so perturbed just thinking '.....who the hell was that?'

Ratio is probably so used to knowing everybody's next move since he's so smart, people are probably pretty predictable in his eyes. This might have been the first time the man has ever been truly flabbergasted by someone's sheer impulsivity. He met his very first wild card (which honestly just makes me so emo because they get to know each other so well and you know my mushy emo heart thinks nothing is more romantic than truly knowing someone)

Also Aven honey normal people show their new work partners they trust them by like...doing a trust fall or playing charades or buying them a hallmark card or something but forcing someone to shoot you also works I guess I mean you got the man whipped so what the hell do I know

[lazy-ahh]

YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE GOES GOOD WITH GAMING?

pairing mark grayson x male reader

you’ve waited weeks for him to return from his mission, and now he’s here, warm and insistent against you, while your ranked match blares ignored on the screen. the worst part? you don't mind losing. despite the weeks of hard work. you want his lips on yours, his weight pressing you into the chair, the way he murmurs "i missed you" between kisses like it’s a confession. but you’ve clawed your way to this rank-up game, and you never quit—even when mark’s tongue is lapping up the precome leaking from your tip and your fingers are trembling on the keyboard.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

mark’s been gone for weeks—some off-world mission, because apparently, the universe can’t handle itself without him. not that you’d admit it, but you missed him. more than you should. more than you’d ever let him know. you caught yourself staring at your window too often, half-expecting to see his silhouette against the glass, that infuriatingly patient tap-tap-tap before you’d let him in. as if he didn’t know you left the damn thing unlocked for him every night. typical.

everything reminded you of him, which was unacceptable. so you buried yourself in distractions—school, homework, then straight to your pc, booting up marvel rivals before you could even think about how quiet the room felt without him. the game had been his idea, of course. he’d all but shoved it at you, that stupid, eager grin on his face as he said, "just try it. if you hate it, i’ll never bring it up again. but you won’t." as if he hadn’t already known you’d love it.

at first, he was the one explaining everything—mechanics, lore, all that useless trivia he’d absorbed like some kind of nerd-shaped sponge. "see, magik’s portals work like this—" or "no, don’t engage yet, strange’s cooldown is—" annoying. endearing. you’d never admit either out loud. but then you got better. faster. soon, you were the one calling shots, dragging his sorry ass through ranked matches while he laughed in your ear, loud and unguarded, every time you pulled off some insane play. "holy shit—did you just parry that ult?! that’s illegal. you’re actually cracked. YOU JUST SAVED MY LIFE OH BABY I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU-"

he never complained, even when you outclassed him. just watched you with that quiet, proud look, like he’d somehow won just by getting you to play. sometimes, when you were both too tired for another match but not tired enough to log off, he’d let his character idle beside yours in the lobby, humming some off-key tune while you fiddled with skins. "you’re keeping me up," you’d grumble. "then kick me out," he’d shoot back, knowing full well you wouldn’t.

now, with him gone, solo queue was a nightmare. you tried comms, but it was a coin toss—either decent teammates or the kind of toxic dps mains who threw matches the second things went south. you added a few tolerable players, grinding comp at set times, but most of your matches were still solo. and you’d climbed. platinum, after weeks of stubborn, teeth-gritted effort. you could already picture mark’s reaction—that mix of irritation (probably pretend) and admiration he got whenever you outdid him. not that you’d gloat. much.

the real problem would be playing together once you hit diamond. he was still stuck in gold, and you refused to smurf. so for now, you were stuck in elo hell—platinum I to diamond III, then back down again, in a cycle that felt like the universe mocking you. but you’d figure it out. you always did. and when he got back, you’d make sure he knew exactly how much ground he had to cover to keep up.

you were half-heartedly proofreading your essay, the queue timer ticking away in the corner of your screen, when your hand moved before your brain could stop it—grabbing your phone, unlocking it, immediately swiping to mark’s messages like muscle memory. it was a bad habit at this point. every idle moment, every second of downtime, your fingers betrayed you, pulling up his chat like some pathetic reflex. and there they were, still staring back at you: his last messages from weeks ago, before comms cut out and space swallowed him whole.

your thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the timestamp like you could will it to change. then—there. that stupid, stupid one-liner he’d sent right before losing signal: ‘try not to miss me too much!’ as if he hadn’t known exactly what he was doing. as if you weren’t already doing exactly that.

a quiet, involuntary laugh escaped you, sharp and fond all at once. "idiot," you muttered, but the word came out too soft, too warm, and you hated how easily he could drag that out of you. like you were some sappy romance protagonist instead of yourself. you tossed your phone back onto the desk, maybe a little harder than necessary, and forced your eyes back to your essay.

it didn’t work. the words blurred together, your focus already frayed, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. stupid. stupid markus sebastian grayson, turning you into this—some lovesick fool who couldn’t even function right without him around. worst of all? you knew he’d be grinning if he saw you like this. that smug, infuriating look he got when he realized he’d gotten under your skin.

you gritted your teeth and stabbed at your keyboard, queue be damned. you had an essay to finish. and not think about him.

and then—as if the universe itself was mocking you—tap-tap-tap.

your head snapped up so fast your neck protested. for a second, you wondered if you’d finally lost it, conjuring him up out of sheer, pathetic longing. but no. there he was, floating outside your window like some overgrown, dirt-streaked moth, his stupid grin brighter than the goddamn moon behind him.

mark looked wrecked—hair a mess, suit scuffed, one of his lenses cracked—but his smile was the same as always: crooked, too-wide, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made his stupid dimples pop. like he’d been waiting for this moment, like seeing you was the best part of his damn day.

and then—because you were a fool—you scrambled for the window like some desperate rom-com lead, fumbling with the latch like you hadn’t left it unlocked for him on purpose. your face burned. disgraceful.

mark’s expression flickered—confusion, then worry, his smile dropping as he darted forward. "baby? is everything alright?"

before you could even attempt to salvage your dignity, he was inside, his hands cradling your face like you were something fragile. his palms were rough, still warm from flight, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he searched for injuries. "you okay? you look—" he paused, studying your flushed face, the way you were very pointedly not meeting his eyes. then, slowly, his lips twitched. "…oh."

oh. like he’d just figured you out. like he knew.

you wanted to die. "shut up," you muttered, but it lacked any real bite—not when your traitorous heart was pounding loud enough for both of you to hear.

mark’s grin softened, something unbearably fond in his eyes as he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "missed me that much, huh?"

"no," you lied, immediately.

he laughed, quiet and warm, and you hated how it made your chest ache. "liar."

and then—because he was the worst—he kissed your stupid, burning cheeks, one after the other, like he was savoring the way you squirmed. "it’s okay," he murmured, lips brushing your skin. "i missed you too."

you were never living this down.

and then—because he was the absolute worst—he kissed your stupid, burning cheeks, one after the other, lingering just to feel the way you tensed under his touch. "it’s okay," he murmured, lips brushing your skin like he was savoring every second of your embarrassment. "i missed you too."

you were never living this down.

just as you opened your mouth to snap something—anything—to wipe that smug look off his face, your pc chimed. the two of you turned in unison, and there it was, flashing bright and mocking on your screen: match found.

"shit," you hissed, scrambling back toward your desk. "i forgot to fucking cancel queue—"

mark barked out a laugh, loud and delighted. "no way. you’ve been grinding rivals this whole time?" he was already following you, leaning over your shoulder with that infuriating grin. "aw, baby. did you miss me or the game more?"

you elbowed him hard enough to make him oof, but he didn’t budge, just hooked his chin over your shoulder as you frantically clicked to lock in your character. "shut up. i was bored."

"uh-huh," he drawled, eyes scanning the screen. then—"holy shit." his fingers dug into your shoulders. "you’re one game from diamond?!"

you could feel the grin in his voice before you even saw it—that stupid, contagious excitement thrumming through him like a live wire. it was unbearable. worse, it was working, that familiar warmth pooling in your chest despite your best efforts to stomp it out. pathetic. since when did you let him sway you so easily?

"took you long enough to notice," you muttered, aiming for derision but landing somewhere dangerously close to fond. your chest tightened traitorously when he let out that low, impressed whistle—the same one he used when you pulled off something reckless in the field. like you’d impressed him.

"damn. guess i’ve gotta step up my game." his lips brushed your temple, lingering just long enough to make your fingers twitch on the keyboard. you jerked your shoulder up to shove him off, but he just laughed, the vibration of it rattling through your ribs. "carry me when i’m back in gold, yeah?"

"in your fucking dreams," you snarled, but the bite dissolved the second his laugh vibrated through your shoulder—warm and familiar and alive, filling up the hollow spaces his absence had carved into your room for weeks. your traitorous heartbeat steadied against your ribs, and you didn’t shove him off when his chin dug into your shoulder. pathetic.

you’d never admit it out loud—would rather chew glass than acknowledge how much you’d missed this—but his presence at your back, solid and warm and breathing, made your fingers stutter over the character select screen.

then mark, the insufferable bastard, decided words weren’t enough.

his lips found the hinge of your jaw first—soft, teasing—then the corner of your mouth when you tilted your head automatically. "distracting me on purpose?" you muttered, but the protest cracked when his teeth grazed your bottom lip.

"is it working?" he murmured against your mouth, all smugness, and you hated how easily your body betrayed you, leaning towards him with a scoff that turned into a sharp inhale when his tongue swept over yours.

his hands cradled your face like you were something precious, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he kissed you slow and deep, the way he knew unraveled you. your fingers curled around his wrist—anchoring, needing—while your other hand slid up to cup his jaw.

when you finally pulled back to breathe (because unlike him, you were human, damn it), mark didn’t go far. his forehead stayed pressed to yours, lips swollen and curved into that stupid, satisfied smile, his breaths just as uneven as yours. his eyes were half-lidded, dark with something unbearably fond as they traced your face—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your fingers still clung to him like you’d die if he let go.

"missed you," he whispered, like it was a secret.

you swallowed the i missed you more threatening to spill out. "shut up. i’m trying to rank up." you shoved at his chest, but your fingers curled into his suit instead of pushing him away—another pathetic betrayal your body refused to stop committing.

mark’s grin turned wicked, eyes flashing with that infuriating knowing look as he chased your lips before you could even think to turn back to the screen. his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier. his tongue swept against yours, slow and teasing, then insistent when you made a noise embarrassingly close to a whimper.

you could feel his smirk against your mouth, the way his free hand gripped your thigh to pull you closer, his body pressing yours back into the chair until you were arching up into him without thought. his teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make your stomach flip, and when you gasped, he took advantage, licking into your mouth like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

your hands were everywhere—one fisted in his hair, the other clutching at his shoulder, nails digging in when he nipped at your tongue. his breath hitched, and the sound went straight to your already-fogged head. you could feel his heartbeat where your thumb brushed his pulse point, wild and alive, and it made something possessive curl in your chest.

then—

the sudden blare of the match-starting music ripped through the haze.

you jerked back, breath ragged, lips swollen and wet, just in time to see your character standing idle on-screen, the round start timer already counting down.

"fuck," you hissed through gritted teeth, fingers scrambling across the keyboard with desperate precision. mark blinked, dumbfounded as he processed your sudden panic before chuckling, that infuriatingly warm puff of air hitting your pulse point. "seriously?" his arms tightened around your shoulders in protest, nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck like some overgrown cat refusing to move from its favorite spot.

"you're really playing right now?" he murmured, lips forming the words against your skin in a way that made your fingers stutter on the WASD keys. the amusement in his voice was unbearable, especially when you could feel his smirk pressed into your shoulder.

"one game away from diamond," you muttered, the words coming out flatter than you intended. the forced casualness did nothing to mask the frustrated and disappointed edge underneath. "if i leave now, i lose twenty fucking points."

mark sighed dramatically, the full weight of his disappointment radiating through his entire body before he finally—reluctantly—peeled himself away. the sudden absence of his warmth against your back felt criminal, and it took every ounce of your pitiful self-control not to spin your chair around and drag him back by his sinfully narrow waist. "fine, fine," he conceded, stretching with exaggerated resignation. "I'll go shower. but you owe me," he added, pausing just long enough to press one last kiss to the top of your head—chaste but loaded with promise—before sauntering toward the bathroom with that infuriatingly perfect sway to his hips.

you waited until the bathroom door clicked shut before allowing yourself one single, shaky exhale, your fingers finally steadying on the mouse as you looked at your character. the screen blurred for just a second before you violently blinked it back into focus. damn this stupid game. damn mark for being so distracting. and damn you most of all for caring about either.

the match loads in with that familiar chime, and suddenly the world narrows to the glow of your monitor—every neuron firing, every muscle coiled tight with precision. your fingers dance across the keyboard in practiced patterns, movements sharp and lethal despite the phantom heat still burning where mark's lips had been moments ago. focus. you need to focus.

the numbers don't lie—48% ult charge, one teammate already flaming in chat, the enemy hawkeye picking your supports like fucking target practice. your teeth grind together hard enough to hurt. stupid. you never should've filled as support. if you'd locked in iron fist from the start, this match would've been over already.

when the third round starts with another pathetic stagger, you snap. "swap with me," you speak into voice chat, voice steady and determined, already selecting iron fist before the whiny psylocke main can protest. the second the lock-in confirmation pings, your shoulders drop half an inch—better. this you can work with. this you can carry.

your crosshair finds the enemy healer's skull just as—

warm fingers skate up your inner thigh, slow and deliberate. mark's palm presses flush against your leg, his thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of your sweats.

your entire body jerks so hard your knee slams into the desk—mark's suddenly between your legs like some fucking phantom, all sharp teeth and wicked gleam in his eyes as he looks up at you. "what the fuck," you snarl, but he just presses a single finger to his lips, the bastard, like this is some goddamn library and not your room.

"don't let me distract you," he murmurs, voice dripping with false innocence—and then his clever fingers are sliding your sweats down with agonizing slowness. you should shove him off. you should. but your hands stay frozen over the keyboard even as your pulse jackrabbits in your throat.

then his mouth—fuck—his mouth is on you, and the world narrows to the wet heat of his tongue dragging up your cock in one long, filthy lick, from base to tip, slow enough to make your thighs tremble. he lingers at the head, swirling the flat of his tongue over the slit just to hear the choked noise it punches from your throat. bastard.

he does it again—slower this time, savoring the way your hips jerk up, your fingers flexing like you can’t decide whether to shove him off or pull him closer. but mark just hums, amused, and pins you down with one broad hand splayed across your stomach, his grip firm enough to keep you in place but gentle enough that you could break free if you really wanted to. (you don’t.)

then he sinks down, taking you into his mouth inch by inch, his lips stretched tight around you, his tongue pressing up against the underside in a way that makes your vision blur. he pulls off just as slow, dragging his teeth just shy of too much, before diving back down like he’s got all the time in the world. like he wants to ruin you.

and the worst part? he’s watching you the whole time—eyes dark, lashes low, his gaze locked onto your face like he’s memorizing every twitch of your expression, every bitten-off curse. like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

it’s unbearable.

your character dodges a stun on pure muscle memory because christ—the way mark hollows his cheeks, lips stretched obscenely around you, the wet slick sounds filling the room every time he pulls up just to plunge back down. his eyelashes flutter against flushed skin when your thighs instinctively squeeze around his head, and your mouse creaks under your death grip, sweat rolling down your temples as you choke back a moan that's been building in your throat for minutes.

"m-mark—" you hiss through clenched teeth, but he just hums around you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine. your foot kicks out involuntarily, knocking against a wall as he picks up the pace, lips red and slick with spit, watching you unravel above him. the match is chaos—your team screams comms in voice chat, frantic calls to focus the enemy tank, but all you hear is the filthy slide of his mouth and your own ragged breathing.

you're so fucked.

mark's tongue drags along the underside of your cock with practiced precision, swirling around the head before sinking down until your hips twitch against the chair. his throat works around you, warm and tight, and you barely register the kill feed flashing on-screen as your healer dies, leaving you alone on point with the overtime bar bleeding out. for one delirious second, you think there goes my rank-up game—but your hands move anyway, your body reacting on pure instinct as you somehow, somehow clutch the round.

"p-please—" the word tears out of you like a surrender, raw and desperate in a way that would’ve had you recoiling if your brain wasn’t reduced to static. your fingers twist in mark’s hair—pulling? pushing?—as your hips stutter helplessly. "mark, please, go—ah—go easy—" it’s pathetic, how your voice cracks on the last syllable, how your thighs tremble under his palms like you’re some inexperienced kid instead of—

mark listens, but not the way you wanted. he pulls off with a filthy, wet pop, your cock twitching against your stomach, flushed and glistening under the low light. the bastard has the audacity to grin, lips slick and swollen, breath coming in quick puffs against your overheated skin. "that good, huh?" he rasps, dragging his tongue along your length in one torturously slow stripe, savoring the way your abs clench violently.

you barely have time to gasp before he’s mouthing at the head, pressing wet, open kisses along the vein underneath—teasing, always teasing—his breath scorching where you’re oversensitive and throbbing. then—just as the enemy team respawns, just as your team’s frantic pings flood the screen—he swallows you back down in one smooth slide, deep, until his nose brushes your stomach and he stays, throat working around you in slow, deliberate pulses.

your hips jerk instinctively, chasing friction, but mark just digs his fingers into your thighs, pinning you to the chair with infuriating ease. the contrast is maddening—the game’s frantic audio in your headphones, your team’s character voice lines of getting hurt, the enemy pushing point—while mark’s mouth is nothing but molten stillness, his tongue pressing just there every time you twitch. sweat drips down your temple. your knuckles whiten on the mouse. you can’t tell if the choked noise that escapes you is from the hawkeye headshot that just wiped your backline or the way mark breathes through his nose, content to let you unravel in his grip.

his eyes flick up to yours through his lashes—dark, amused, the bastard—lips stretched obscenely around you as he watches your screen with detached interest. like this is just another game to him. like he knows you’re two seconds from either throwing the match or throwing your dignity out the window to fuck into his throat.

somehow—through the haze of sweat and mark’s fucking teeth grazing you on an upstroke, through the way your thighs tremble around his shoulders—you clutch. iron fist’s ult meter hits 100% with a deafening chime. your muscles coil, every fiber taut with tension, and mark’s grip tightens on your hips in warning, nails biting into skin. but you launch yourself into the backline anyway, the kill feed exploding in a burst of color. triple. quad. your team’s hysterical screaming in voice chat drowns out the wet, obscene sound of mark finally moving, sucking you down to the root just as "victory" flashes across the screen in blinding gold.

your team continues to scream—cheering, cracking jokes, their earlier hostility forgotten in the adrenaline rush. you would've thought this was a beautiful moment if you weren't currently being sucked off by your boyfriend. you mutter a breathless "gg" into the mic, lips twitching at the chorus of "holy shit, w fucking iron fist!" before you’re cutting them off with a sharp click of your mouse. the headset hits the desk with a clatter.

you don’t even get to savor the win. mark’s hands are on your hips now, dragging you to the edge of the chair with a roughness that makes your stomach flip. his nose presses into your stomach, lips sealed tight as he swallows around you with a filthy, shuddering groan—like he’s been waiting this whole fucking match to ruin you properly. your back arches off the chair, fingers tangling in his hair hard enough to hurt, but he just moans around you, eyes fluttering shut like this is exactly where he wants to be. like he’d happily die here, between your thighs.

"f-fuck—mark—" you whimper, but it’s too late. he’s not stopping this time.

his tongue drags along the underside of your cock in a slow, filthy stripe before he takes you deep again, one hand sliding up your chest to thumb at your nipple through your shirt. the dual sensation punches a ragged noise from your throat, your hips jerking involuntarily. mark hums in approval, the vibration rippling through you like a live wire. his free hand slips under your thigh, hiking your leg over his shoulder to press you even closer, until you can feel every hitched breath he takes through your skin.

he pulls off just to mouth at the head, tongue circling the slit with agonizing precision, and you whine, high and desperate. his eyes flick up to yours, dark with something unbearably fond even as his lips glisten with spit. "love you like this," he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked. "all mine. fucking perfect. i missed you so much baby, you don't even know the half of it—"

then he’s sinking down again, taking you until his throat flutters around the tip, and you’re gone—fingers tightening in his hair as you spill down his throat with a broken cry. mark swallows every drop, lips staying locked around you until you’re twitching from oversensitivity, until your grip on his hair loosens to cradle his face instead.

when he finally pulls away, his lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed. he rests his forehead against your thigh, breathing hard, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—soft, reverent. like you’re something sacred.

"welcome home," you mutter, voice hoarse.

mark's grin is worth every goddamn second of the wait—all bright-eyed and breathless, his lips kiss-swollen from where you'd bitten them. you're still coming down from your high, chest heaving, fingers trembling against the keyboard where you'd gripped it too tight. you should shove him off. you would shove him off. any second now.

"baby," mark murmurs, and fuck, the way your stupid traitorous heart lurches at that tone—all soft and reverent, like you're something precious instead of a mess of sweat and frustration and arousal. his fingers trail down your stomach, feather-light, and you hate how your body arches into the touch before your brain catches up.

"don't—" you start, but it comes out hoarse, ruined. mark just smiles, that dorky, infuriating smile that makes your chest ache, and presses a kiss to your shoulder while his other hand navigates your mouse with infuriating ease.

"c'mon, diamond boy," he teases, clicking queue with one hand while the other slips lower, fingers tracing your rim in slow, maddening circles. "wouldn't want you to lose your hard-earned rank, would we?"

you choke on air when his fingers slide past your lips—calloused and tasting faintly of salt—pressing down on your tongue with deliberate pressure. "suck," mark murmurs, and your traitorous mouth obeys before your pride can protest, hollowing your cheeks as you work his fingers wet. his breath hitches when your teeth graze his knuckles, his other hand fisting his own cock through his pants at the sight of you—lips stretched, lashes fluttering, teary-eyed, that fucked-out daze already clouding your expression just from this.

then those slick fingers are dragging down your stomach, pushing past your thighs, and—"fuck—" your hips jerk when one curls inside you, crooking just right. "you're insufferable," you spit, but it loses all bite when your hands scramble uselessly between the desk and his wrist, torn between shoving him away and grinding down onto his hand.

mark laughs against your pulse point, the vibration rattling through your ribs as he adds a second finger with that same unbearable patience, stretching you slow. "keep playing," he breathes into your ear, twisting his wrist to drag a broken noise from your throat. "i wanna see you try to focus when i'm fucking you full of my cock."

the match loads in with that obnoxiously bright chime, but the sound barely registers—not when mark’s fingers crook just right, scissoring deep and dragging a broken moan from your throat. your vision whites out for a second, hips jerking uselessly against his hand as he adds a third finger, stretching you with that infuriating, practiced ease.

"fuck, you’re tight," mark murmurs against the shell of your ear, his free hand sliding up to palm your chest, thumb brushing over your nipple. "when was the last time you touched yourself, baby?"

you choke on a gasp when his fingers press deeper, hitting that spot that makes your thighs tremble. "few—fuck—few weeks ago," you manage, voice ragged. "didn’t— didn’t do shit. couldn’t—"

his teeth graze your earlobe, sharp and teasing. "couldn’t what?"

you hate how breathless you sound. "couldn’t reach deep enough. wasn’t—hnng—wasn’t you."

mark groans, low and filthy, his fingers stilling inside you just to feel how you clench around them. "christ, you’re gonna kill me," he mutters, but he’s grinning when he nips at your jaw. "lucky for you, i’m real good at reaching where you need me, huh?"

you scoff, the immersion breaking for a second as you look at him unimpressed, "did you really just say that—ahh—" and then he curls his fingers just so, and you’re pretty sure the entire universe short-circuits.

mark withdraws his fingers with a slick sound, and the emptiness is agony. your head drops forward, teary eyes staring down at yourself—flushed, trembling, needy—and you hate how pathetic you look. how wrecked he’s made you already. his cock twitches in his pants at the sight, and the groan he lets out is filthy. "look at you," he murmurs, voice rough. "all desperate for me."

before you can snap something defensive, his hands are on your hips, hauling you up with that stupid superhuman strength of his. you stumble, legs shaky, but he steadies you effortlessly—then drops into your chair, pulling you down onto his lap in one smooth motion. the heat of him sears through his clothes, and you feel him, hard and eager beneath his boxers, the fabric damp where he’s been leaking for you.

"there," mark murmurs, his breath hot against your ear as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your legs apart wider. you can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, "better view, yeah?" his fingers make quick work of his own pants, shoving them down just enough to free his cock—already hard and leaking against your back. "still gotta pick, baby," he teases, nipping at your earlobe when you hesitate on the character select screen. "unless you wanna dodge? though, i don't think you can dodge in this game."

you scoff, locking in iron fist with more force than necessary. "shut up."

the game loads in a blur of colors and sound, but all you can focus on is mark's teeth sinking into your shoulder as you guide your character toward the point. his hands roam your chest, pinching and teasing until you're squirming in your seat. "f-focus on the fucking game," you mutter, even as your hips push back against him.

mark just laughs, low and dark, before licking a stripe up your neck. "giving yourself pep-talk? how cute."

"i swear to god, markus sebastian grayson, if you say one more cheesy thing i will throw you out of my room."

when the enemy team finally pushes in, bullets and abilities flying across your screen, mark chooses that exact moment to shove two fingers past your lips. "suck," he orders, and you do—tongue swirling around his digits, moaning when he curls them just right. he pulls them out slick with your spit, trailing them down your stomach before reaching between your legs.

"f-fuck—" you choke out as his spit-slick fingers circle your rim, teasing before one pushes in to the second knuckle. your back arches off the chair, thighs spreading wider despite the game still raging onscreen. "mark—!"

"that’s it," he growls, his free hand groping your chest as he works you open again—first one finger, then two, scissoring slow until you’re panting, your neglected cock dripping onto your stomach. his own erection grinds against your lower back, leaking precome onto your skin. "still gonna carry, or am i too distracting?" he taunts, curling his fingers just so until you see white.

you barely register the starlord that flanks your team from behind you, killing your punisher as mark withdraws his fingers, leaving you clenching around nothing. "look at you," he murmurs, lining up his cock—thick and flushed and yours—against your hole. "already fucking yourself back on my fingers like you’re starving for it." he pushes in slow, just the tip at first, and the stretch burns so good your toes curl. "shit—" he groans, hips stuttering when you clench around him. "still so tight, even after i loosened you up. fucking perfect."

he pulls out until just the head remains, those shallow, teasing thrusts making your nails scrape against the keyboard. "more—" you demand, voice cracking, but mark just laughs—bright and smug—keeping the pace agonizingly slow.

"beg prettier," he murmurs against your ear, and you’re going to fucking murder him later.

the thought evaporates when your character dies on screen, a sharp "fuck!" tearing from your throat as your head thuds back against his shoulder. mark’s chuckle vibrates through your spine. "distracted, baby?"

"shut the fuck up," you groan, but your hips twitch back against him instinctively, seeking friction. his hands tighten around your waist, holding you still.

"uh-uh. you wanted to play." his teeth graze your earlobe. "so play."

then your character respawns, and you barely have time to register the 30 SECONDS OF OVERTIME warning before mark slams up into you in one brutal thrust, filling you completely. your back arches as you come with a choked gasp, vision whiting out around the edges—

"that’s it, sweetheart," mark praises, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to bruise before soothing it with his tongue. his arms cage you against the desk, his cock twitching inside you as he murmurs nonsense into your skin: "so good for me, taking me so well—fuck, look at you."

you’re trembling, oversensitive, but the game’s still going. with a shaky breath, you force your hands back onto the keyboard, your movements sluggish as you try to focus past the haze. mark hums approvingly, resting his chin on your shoulder to watch the screen, his cock still buried deep. every slight shift of his hips—every lazy pulse inside you—has your fingers stuttering on the keys.

"c'mon, baby," mark murmurs against your jaw, his breath warm as his fingers trail higher up your thigh. "carry us." his other hand slips around your waist, pulling you back flush against his chest—solid and familiar and home after weeks of empty space and staticky comms. "missed watching you play," he admits quietly, lips brushing your earlobe. "missed watching you win."

you're going to strangle him. after you win.

his nose nuzzles into the space behind your ear, inhaling deeply like he's memorizing your scent. "god, missed you," he continues, voice going rough around the edges. "mission was hell without your voice in my ear. kept thinking about how you'd chew me out for taking stupid risks." a soft laugh vibrates through his chest and into yours. "missed that too."

your fingers hesitate on the keyboard for half a second before you tilt your head just enough to press a grudging kiss to his jaw—the closest part of him you can reach without twisting your entire body. "i missed you too, beloved," you mutter, the endearment slipping out despite yourself. "but right now, i'm trying to focus."

mark makes a wounded noise at the nickname, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "say that again," he demands against your throat, lips dragging wet and insistent over your pulse. "c’mon, sweetheart, just once more—" his hips shift minutely, and fuck, you feel it—the way his cock twitches inside you, already so hard it makes your breath stutter. your grip on the mouse tightens reflexively, knuckles going white around it as you try to focus on the flickering screen instead of the heat of him buried to the hilt.

"later," you rasp, securing a kill and kicking away through sheer muscle memory. "if you can fucking behave."

mark groans like you’ve wounded him, but he mostly stills—except for the way his fingers keep tracing absent, possessive circles low on your stomach, except for the way his lips keep finding patches of skin to suck bruises into between ragged breaths. "better win fast then," he murmurs, teeth scraping your shoulder in warning. "cause i missed all of you, [y/n]."

your eyes flick down instinctively—and there, just below your navel, the faintest swell where the tip of him presses up inside you. the sight punches a shaky noise from your throat, your body clenching around him before you can stop yourself.

"f-fuck—" mark’s whimper is wrecked, his forehead dropping heavily between your shoulder blades as his hips jerk involuntarily. you can feel him throbbing, the slick drag of him as he accidentally pushes deeper. "christ, you’re gonna kill me," he grits out, fingers trembling where they splay across your stomach like he’s mapping the bulge.

you swallow hard, throat bobbing against the thick press of him inside you, forcing your attention back to the screen even as your thighs tremble on top of mark's. "then fucking stop moving," you snap, but your voice fractures halfway through, turning the command into something embarrassingly close to a plea. the kill feed lights up with your username in bold strokes but the victory does nothing to hide how wrecked you already sound, how your walls flutter around him when he chuckles darkly against your neck.

"you're doing so good, baby," mark murmurs, lips dragging along your pulse point as his hands slide up your chest. his thumbs brush over your nipples through your shirt, teasing just enough to make you jolt but not enough to truly distract—not when you're finally gaining ground, finally winning. "carrying this match and taking me so well..."

you bite back a whimper, fingers flying across the keyboard as you cap the point. eight minutes. eight agonizing minutes of mark's cock seated deep inside you, his hips making tiny, barely-there rolls whenever you did something particularly impressive—a well-timed ult, a perfect parry—until you were dripping around him, your sweat-slicked back sticking to his chest. you don't even remember when you (or mark) had taken your shirt off. the start had been a disaster, but after forcing that useless jeff to swap, after taking matters into your own hands, your team steamrolled through the enemy like they were nothing. just like you knew they would.

the victory screen flashes gold, the triumphant DING of your rank-up swallowed whole by the filthy, wet sound of mark’s cock driving into you—deep, too deep, the angle so brutal your vision whites out for a second. his hands lock around your waist, flipping you before you can even process it, and suddenly you’re straddling him, knees digging into your chair as he yanks you down onto him with a groan that rattles your bones.

"fuck, look at you," mark gasps, voice shredded. his fingers scramble over your hips, your stomach, your chest—like he can’t decide where to touch first, like he’s starving for all of you at once. his hips snap up, relentless, the thick drag of him punching a broken noise from your throat. "all mine. perfect for me."

his praise is molten, spilling between feverish kisses, between the slick clash of tongues as he licks into your mouth. you can taste your name on his lips, sweet and desperate. his cock brushes that spot inside you with every thrust, just right, and your back arches on instinct, nails biting into his shoulders hard enough to bruise.

"knew you could do it," he growls, hands fisting in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat to his teeth. "knew you’d win. my brilliant, beautiful boy—"

his voice cracks on the last word, and god, the way he’s looking at you—eyes black with want, lips swollen from kissing you stupid, his usual awkward confidence unraveled into something raw and needy—it’s worse than the pleasure, worse than the way his cock stretches you open. because this? this is mark grayson coming apart beneath you, for you, his breath coming in ragged bursts as his grip on your hips turns possessive.

you’re both a wreck—skin gleaming with sweat, your thighs trembling where they bracket his hips, the filthy, wet sound of him sliding into you over and over until your vision whites out at the edges. his grip on your hips is brutal, thumbs pressing into the bone hard enough to bruise, holding you down as he grinds up with a snap of his hips that punches a sob from your throat. "mark—!" his name comes out broken, slurred between panting breaths, and he’s no better, his voice ragged as he chokes out, "that’s it, baby, take it—fuck, just like that—" like he’s unraveling, like he’s worshipping you.

you cut him off with a sharp roll of your hips, stealing the groan right from his lips as you take control, your fingers tangling in his hair to yank his head back. "shut up," you mutter, but it’s fond, "you’re so fucking loud." his hands scramble at your back, blunt nails dragging red lines down your skin as you ride him with ruthless precision, chasing your own pleasure just as much as his, the whimpers and groans coming from his lips not stopping. the chair creaks dangerously beneath you, your forgotten headset hitting the floor with a clatter, but you don’t care—not when mark’s thrusts are growing erratic, his rhythm faltering under your relentless pace.

you lean in, teeth scraping his cheekbone before you kiss him, messy and biting, swallowing his gasp as you nip at his bottom lip. "gonna come already?" you taunt, voice rough, "thought you had more stamina than that."

mark growls—low and feral, the sound rumbling through your chest like thunder—and suddenly the world tilts. his arm snakes around your waist, hauling you back flush against him with a brutal yank that makes your gaming chair screech in protest. your chest meets his, sweat-slick and heaving, as he manhandles you like you weigh nothing.

one hand fists in your hair, wrenching your head back to expose your throat while the other grabs both your wrists, pinning them behind you with crushing ease. "stay still," he groans against your ear, voice ragged with want, and then he’s moving—snapping his hips up hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, each thrust deeper, meaner, the angle punching ragged moans from your throat.

you’re burning. tears streak down your face, hot and humiliating, but you can’t—fuck, you can’t stop the way your body arches into him, the way your thighs tremble as he fucks up into you with punishing precision. his hand gropes your ass, fingers digging into flesh as he holds you at that perfect, devastating angle, every drag of his cock lighting your nerves on fire.

"that’s it," mark pants, his breath scalding against your shoulder. "take it. fucking take it." his pace turns brutal, the wet slap of skin on skin drowning out the game’s distant lobby music. you don’t care. can’t care. not when he’s ruining you like this, not when every snap of his hips has you sobbing, oversensitive and wrecked but needing more—

"fuck, look at you," he pants against your ear, voice wrecked as he watches his cock disappear into you with every snap of his hips. "taking me so fucking good—god, you feel perfect—" his words dissolve into a whimper when you clench around him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fucks into you with desperate, uneven thrusts.

you can feel him everywhere—the heat of his chest pressed against yours, the bite of his fingers on your wrists, the relentless stretch as he bottoms out again and again. "gonna—fuck—" mark's warning is barely coherent, his whole body tensing as he pulses inside you, his release hot and overwhelming. but he doesn't stop—can't stop, not when you're still clenching around him, not when your own orgasm is so close.

his hand slips between you, calloused fingers wrapping around your neglected cock, and it only takes three rough strokes before you're coming with a broken cry, painting both your stomachs in streaks of white. mark groans as you tighten around him, his hips stuttering through the aftershocks as he mouths at your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach—like he still can't get enough even now.

mark gathers you against his chest as you both come down, his lips pressing shaky, open-mouthed kisses to whatever skin he can reach—the sweat-damp curve of your temple, the corner of your swollen mouth, the frantic rabbit-quick jump of your pulse. "so good," he mumbles against your throat, voice wrecked and raw. "so fucking perfect for me. missed you—god, missed you so much, baby." his arms lock around you like steel bands, all that stupid superhuman strength trembling with the effort of not crushing you.

you feel him shift—his softening cock dragging slow and filthy out of you, the obscene wet sound making your thighs twitch—then pause. his breath hitches when he sees it: his cum starting to leak from your used hole, glistening in the dim light. a rough noise tears from his throat, and before you can even process it, he's pushing back in with one sharp roll of his hips, the thick head of his cock scooping up the spill and stuffing it back inside you where it belongs. "mine," he growls, biting at your shoulder as he seats himself to the hilt again, making sure not a single drop escapes.

you should shove him off. should snap something scathing about his disgusting possessiveness, his pathetic need to keep you full of him. but your traitorous hands fist in his hair instead, dragging his mouth to yours in a biting kiss as your legs lock around his hips. his groan vibrates through your chest when you arch up, taking him deeper—like you couldn't bear to let him pull away either. pathetic. you're both so fucking pathetic.

so. this was supposed to be a quick little 3-4k one-shot. supposed to be. but then reader and mark decided to have feelings (gross) and now here we are at 7.7k words of competitive gaming, unresolved tension, and mark being absolutely insufferable (affectionate). whoops? anyway, hope you enjoyed this self-indulgent mess as much as i enjoyed writing it—because honestly, i have no regrets.

[m-robinavitch]

silent.

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x Female!Reader Summary: No one pisses you off more than Jack. And no one frustrates Jack more than you. Sometimes you just can't take it anymore. Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, age gap (older man/younger woman), mean/dom Abbot

“Can we talk?” Jack’s voice pulled you from your frustration, the keys clattering under your fingers while ordering patient labs. 

“Just a second I’m-”

“Now.” His tone shook you, but didn’t really confused you- because he’s been on edge all fucking shift and now you guess it was your turn to feel his wrath. Good. You can take it. You know all his moods and he’s not going to get to talk to you how he wants.

“Yes Dr. Abbot?” You ask, fake innocence as he pulls you to the stairwell next to the viewing room. His eyes are set- hard and frustrated and you can see that he’s been running his hand through his curls from agitation. 

“Why did you ask Walsh for a consult on Bed 9?” Oh. That’s what this is about? MVC, two restrained passengers- male and female. You had the male and he seemed like he needed a chest tube- Jack told you to send the patient to CT but after Jack got pulled away on the female patient, yours started to crash. You figured his ribs were shoved into his heart and lungs from the force of the airbag- which you were right and CT would’ve just proved it and prolonged the operation. The chest tube wouldn’t have matter when the patient needed emergency surgery to remove the fucking bones from his lungs and heart. Jack knew that. 

“Because surgery was needed.” Was all you said, shrugging and starting to walk off when he grabbed your upper arm. 

“Why didn't you take the patient to CT like I asked?” He was angry now, voice raised a bit and getting into your space. You wrenched your arm free, turning so you can meet his harsh gaze, eyes narrowed and hard. You don’t need his fucking approval to do shit. You put the patient first. Always.

“Because I decided that surgery was necessary.” You’re not arguing this. You’re not justifying patient care to him when the outcome would’ve been the same. CT or no CT.

“CT could have shown something that would make surgery dangerous if they go in blind up there. We need scans to make sure that when they fucking cut into the patient they have the entire picture and they aren’ fucking him up more.” He wasn’t wrong. A scan could have helped out but there was no time. Your patient was crashing and Walsh was ready and the OR was prepped. 

“You need to get your head out of your fucking ass long enough to realize that sometimes fancy surgical procedures are needed to save the patient.” You’re chest to chest now, breathing heavy and so fucking angry because he’s in your face and telling you how disrespectful it was to go over his head to Walsh that way- how he’d expect this from anyone else but you. 

“And I’m telling you that it needs to be cleared by me before any other fucking departments can claim patient care.” Why were you fighting him on this? You know how he works- known for years and it’s pissing him off even more now.

“I’m not your fucking resident anymore Jack-” voice raised that it echoes through the empty hall, “we’re supposed to be equals. Colleagues. I don’t need to wait for your fucking approval anymore.” He scoffs at that, a little laugh because he trained you, taught you throughout your entire residency and- it was hard to see you not need him anymore. He was fucking proud- yes. But it still pissed him off so much how you just decided patient care with Walsh and didn’t think to consult him or listen to his direction. 

“I’m still the supervising attending that is responsible for this ER,” why did you like pissing him off? Why did you go rogue and do things your own way like, like- well like him? “You still need to run your diagn-“

“Do you ask Shen to do that? Or Robby? No?” You cut him off. Pissed and shouting and-

“Lower your voice.” He growls out, his voice low- like he’s daring you to challenge him more. He’s so fucking infuriating and you can see the flash of realization behind his eyes when you speak and- 

“Oh I get it. You think because I’m not one of the boys that I fucking can’t-” you stop, well- you’re stopped by his hand on your mouth. Shoving you into the empty viewing room and he doesn’t bother to turn the light on or lock the door when he kicks it closed. 

“I said lower your fucking voice- see?” He spits out, pushing you back against the empty bed to where you’re just on the edge of it. “You just can’t fucking listen can you?” Jack has his hand flat on your mouth, keeping you from answering him and his other hand comes up to your thigh to widen them- allowing him to push between your thighs. “You need to be taught how to shut the fuck up don’t you? How to listen and understand that you’re not always right?” You’re so fucking mad and in the dark you can’t see him but you can feel him. You can feel the length of him- hard against your clothed center and you thank god he can’t feel how fucking wet you are now and the force of him grinding into you has pushed you up higher on the fucking hospital bed. 

“Jack-“ you whine as he loosens the force of his palm on your mouth, just so he can use both hands to unbuckle his belt and he laughs- something dark and playful because you’re helping him. You’re unzipping his pants and shoving them down his thighs with his boxers and whine at the sight of how hard he is- how he’s leaking at the tip now. He doesn’t let you admire long- no he has a plan of action now. His large hands grab at your waist- finding the waistband of your black scrubs to pull them down to your knees along with your underwear. He doesn’t waste time. He hitches your knees under his elbows so he can shove them back as far as they’ll go and to get impossibly closer and deep once he’s actually inside you. You know it’s going to hurt- but you’re so fucking wet and he’s thick and he’s mad and it stirs something deep inside you now as he replaces his palm back on your mouth- shoving into your tight pussy with little resistance. It was embarrassing that arguing with him made you this wet. That going toe to toe with Dr. Abbot made you so fucking wet and he can feel it and laughs a little when he slide into you. You’re glad he had the foresight to cover your mouth because you can’t stop groaning. You can’t stop the gasps and groans leaving you and he fucking wrecks you with each thrust. They’re hard. Fucking fast and devastating. 

“Fucking little girl- thinks she can decide all for herself what to do?” He groans, finding it harder to keep quiet because your pussy was so fucking tight- even with how wet he made you. He knew it would feel good. As many years as he’s spent mimicking it and fisting his cock in bed thinking about it- he knew you would take him so well right now. But he’s talking too much- fucking Jack Abbot always talks too fucking much and never knowing when to shut the fuck up and you hear someone open the stairwell door so you shove your hand over his mouth as you clamp down on his cock to suppress his loud groan. But he doesn’t stop- he’s fucking into you harder now. Almost even angrier that you’ve silenced his words- but that’s fine. If he can’t tell you how pissed off he is- he’ll make you feel it. 

He pushing through your tightening walls- he’s shoving himself up into your wet cunt and you can only fucking let him. You can let him fuck you but not without some fight because he still fucking pisses you off. You reach up with your hand- fingers threading themselves into those greying curls at the top of his head and you tug, hard. Hard enough that his face screws up into anger and maybe a bit of pleasure. But definitely anger because- how fucking dare you? He’s giving you the best dick of your life right now- and you’re being so ungrateful. And the tug of his hair pulls his head down closer- forehead against your own now and you look into his eyes and for a moment, they soften. They softened and in some sort of desperation, the back of your hands are flush together now in a weird makeshift kiss- because if any of you were to remove your hands then you absolutely could not keep silent anymore. But you’re still angry. Still pissed off at him for being such an asshole that you clamp down- clench around him hard while biting his finger and his eyebrows are knitted together in anger again. Fucking brat. You feel his hips spring forward more- pounding into your cunt and the meat of your ass the only thing that helps dull the force. It's good. It’s so good. It’s so blindingly good. So fucking indulgently good that you feel- embarrassed almost, on how well you’re taking his cock. You can’t cum yet- that would be too fast and it wouldn’t only drive his stupid fucking ego more. 

One hand needs to keep his mouth from giving you both away to the entire Pitt and the other is clawing at his bicep now- trying to keep yourself from being too loud. Because even from under the weight of his heavy hand- you’re whimpering, you’re sighing and trying to not scream because his cock feels so fucking good. It’s thick, You would try to mimic the feeling with your fingers- when it’s early in the morning after your shift and you need to sleep but you’re too busy riding your fingers and biting your shirt so you don’t moan his name too loud. No one would hear it- but you would know that it was the fantasy of your attending, your fucking mentor, that had you fingering yourself, grinding against your pillow and whining as the sun started to peek through your blinds. 

You can hear the slapping of his hips against yours and you have to bite his hand for him to stop- he can’t fuck you that hard, it’ll give it away and fuck- he can’t ever do anything quietly can he? And okay? Well- you want him to not fuck into you as fast? Fine. He tilts his palm a bit so your face can follow and he makes sure you’re looking directly into his eyes as he pulls out- painstakingly slow. You feel every vein, every ridge, every centimeter that his cock has to offer until just the tip is kissing the leaking entrance of your cunt. Fuck. Again- so. Fucking. Slow. He’s sliding into you, shoving himself back into you. The tip breeches your entrance that has only just started to relax from being forced open- the sting just right as it’s adjusting to his girth again. You whine. Whine and sigh into his hand because it’s so fucking good. It’s so deliciously good how you can feel him rub against that spot- having you clench and see stars. Every time you clench you feel his muffled groan- feel him sigh against your palm and he’s trying so fucking hard to not fuck you into the hospital bed right now. You make him so fucking mad and he can’t enjoy this like he’s been thinking of. But he can make you whine. He can make you beg. He can punish you. 

He was fucking biting your hand now, not hard- but enough that if he kept it up for too long then there would be marks. And you’re groaning behind his hand, eyes going cross because he’s hammering inside you harder now and- fuck. You hear the slapping again. It’s so loud and you’re glad someone locked the wheels in the bed or you’re sure you’d be on the other side of the room by the sheer force of his cock spearing into you. Fuck you’re going to cum. His other hand pushes your leg back even farther and the angle has him just an inch deeper and if his hand wasn’t on your mouth the entire ED would hear you yell the name of the exact person who was ramming into your fucking guts right now. 

You can’t open your legs any wider because your scrub pants are around your knees and you’re trying to focus on the impending orgasm that’s coursing through your veins and ready to take root. If he could just- fuck if you could reach your clit maybe- just maybe you can cum because it’s so good but it’s not enough. It’s not enough and Jack doesn’t care. You’re being punished. You don’t deserve to cum. He pulls out of you- forces himself to pull out of your hot, tight, pussy and you groan because you need the sensation at this point. You flutter around nothing and whimper because he’s left you open and exposed. But he’s manhandling you to turn over- forces you to lay with your chest flat on the bed with your ass at his hips. You have a moment to register that your hand isn’t covering his mouth anymore but his is still on yours. Good. Because he's teasing you now- chuckling when you whine behind his palm as he drags the head of his cock up and down your wet folds. Fucking asshole. You groan- scream and wiggle your hips as much as you can. All you can do to indicate to him to fuck you again, to keep fucking you and not to stop even if someone opens that fucking door. They can watch for all you care at this point. And when he finally slams back into your cunt- you scream. You fucking see stars and his pace is brutal again. It’s fast and hard and his mouth is free to fucking spew whatever filth you had been holding back with your hand over his mouth. 

“F-fucking- brat,” he growls out, keeping one hand on your mouth and the other in your hair to pull you back to him. “I’m gonna fill you up with my cum- maybe then you’ll understand who’s in charge? Okay?” He knows you can’t answer him, knows you can’t do more than take what he gives but he stops- pauses the ruthless hammering inside your walls and you clench, spasm and writhe underneath him because he’s not moving anymore and- “I said okay?” Fuck- he wants you to acknowledge him somehow. Nodding- you force yourself to shake your head and whine a barely audible “uh huh” from behind his hand. 

“That’s my girl,” he sounded so fucking condescending and smug and you couldn’t snark back at him. Your weren’t his fucking girl anymore. You weren’t the puppy intern following around her attending- you weren’t pining for your mentor anymore. You’re not his. But fuck- the way he’s pounding into your heat right now? Rearranging your insides to fit all the cock he can shove inside you to where you’re sure nothing will be able to compare anymore? Maybe you were his girl still. Because your body is giving up now. Your body is succumbing to the heat and pleasure and slight pain of him- your pussy has molded itself around his cock and- yes you’re his fucking girl still. You never stopped. 

“That’s my fucking girl. So sweet for me, taking my cock so fucking well. Like you were made for me. Were you baby?” God dammit- he doesn’t stop talking and it’s making you convulse and the palm on your mouth muffles the high pitched whine you’re making. You’re close. You’re so fucking close now. You feel that impending drop- feel your gut lurch up and your lungs sting because you always hold your breath before an orgasm. The same way you did with your hands shoved into your panties early in the afternoon- replaying the way Jack whispered praise in your ear for a job well done. He bites your shoulder when he cums- moaning into your scrub top and whimpering just a bit when you clench around him, milking his cock for every last drop while he keeps thrusting inside you, pushing his cum as far as it’ll go. And you can feel yourself start to spiral and- he pulls out. He fucking- pulls out. No. No. No no no no. You were so fucking close and this bastard is chuckling in your ear again with a soft slap to your ass and-

“Clean yourself up. Get back to the Pitt.” He’s panting, zipping his pants up and redoing his belt and- no? No he’s not- he is. You hear the door open and shut- you’re still bent over the fucking hospital bed panting and- no? You can feel his fucking cum leaking out of you and- you’re pissed. This. Fucking. Bastard. You were turned over but you can imagine the evil fucking smirk on his stupid fucking face and- oh that’s just fucking mean. On shaky legs you stand upright, pulling your scrub pants back over your hips and you sit on the bed for a second. There’s nothing worse than a denied orgasm- you almost want to fucking cry because it was right there. He was about to give it to you and- insufferable asshole. You take a second- redoing your hair because more than a few strands have come loose. You have to finish the rest of your shift with Jack Abbot’s cum leaking out of you. You have 6 more fucking hours to go- buzzing on the energy of a denied orgasm. 

“You good kid?” One of the nurses asks as you try to not fucking hobble to a computer, so you can sit at the hub for a second and will the ache of your throbbing cunt away. 

“She’s fine- Dr. Abbot just needs some caffeine.” Jack answers for you. Insufferable asshole. You’re not sure why you married him at this point. You can hear the shift in his voice- much less tense. At least someone is sated. Maybe he can go the rest of the day without being an asshole now. 

“I’ll get you so coffee love, I need a pick me up anyway.” Patting your shoulder she gets up and- bless Helen. The PM charge nurse who takes care of you too well and treats you like her child. You smile- leaning into her touch and immediately go back to glaring at Jack who can’t hide his expression to save his fucking life. He’s so smug. So fucking pleased with himself. 

“I hope you’re happy.” You grumbled, typing away at your computer to check on your patient’s labs that you ordered right before he jumped on you.. 

“Fucking ecstatic,” He smiles, walking passed you but stops to lean down and press a chaste kiss to your temple. “Saddle up baby, 6 more hours to go.” He was enjoying this far too much for someone who’s sleeping on the couch later.

[klausysworld]

if you could make one where Elijah is a professor at the Salvatore School for the Young and Gifted,and has a favourite f/student

The Heat in His Life

Summary: Elijah has a particularly fiery werewolf student who gets a little extra needy when the full moon is around.

Elijah couldn't explain what he felt for Y/N, she wasn't top of the class or especially talented compared to other students. If anything she was a little trouble maker.

But she wasn't like the other ones in class. When he questioned her, she'd always have something witty to say back.

She almost never had her homework but somehow always knew what the answers were to it, or at least had some sort of answer that would be technically correct so Elijah wouldn't be able to tell her off.

It was as if she knew exactly how to play the system.

Werewolves were always his trickiest students, they got a little more aggressive about things than others and when it got close to the full moon they'd get more and more touchy. But the female werewolf students also got a little more needy around the full moon. Some of them got a couple extra days off school near the time.

When it got close to, Elijah could feel the heat rolling off her. He'd see the boys in the class perk up and get all over her. He'd have to remind everyone back to their seats and try focus back on the lesson.

But at the end he'd see those amber eyes on him, asking for him.

"Y/N, don't you have another lesson?" He questioned, rising from his seat and clearing his throat as he smoothed his tie down.

"No." Her head shook, her eyes looking up at him from her chair. "Don't have to be in lessons this week." She shrugged and he nodded because it was very obvious she was in no state to be in class. She'd barely been conscious the past hour, breathing laboured and eyes trailing over the male wolves but they'd always find their way back to him.

"Yet you've come to mine." He countered, making the brave choice to come to her desk, glancing to the empty pages before her. "Would you like me to call a family member, Y/N?" Elijah questioned, voice laced with concern. Her head shook and he frowned, she was practically curled into her seat, her arms wrapped around her aching tummy. "Maybe a friend?" He offered, squatting down beside her. Her scent was flooding his nose but if anybody had mastered self-control it was Elijah and he'd had many students in heat before.

"Need you." She whined quietly and he softened slightly, his fingers tapping against the desk before he shuffled close enough for her to lean against him. He didn't hug her back but he let her rest against him for a moment.

"You need to get to your dorm, darling. I can go to the nurse's office and get you some meds to calm the heat and the pain down and have a runner bring it to you." He smiled, he knew that isn't what she wanted but he had a class to teach next and he could not be helping a student through a heat. That would cost him his job and compromise his highly regarded morals.

Elijah came to work there to give a little back to the supernatural community and to show some equality to all of the different species. Not to take advantage of his students.

So for a couple of heats he'd just make sure she went back to her dorm and had someone bring her some things to ease off the power of the full moon. And inevitably a few days later when he'd look out of his window in thought, a little wolf would be stood a few metres away from the front porch of his house, just staring up at him.

For the rest of each month she'd have the same fire as usual, fling things across the room just before he could physically see so he couldn't tell her off. Snapping back at anybody that said something she didn't agree with.

Sometimes Elijah tried to convince himself he only felt the attraction when she was in heat but it didn't explain why he'd have his fist around his cock at least twice a week locked in his office after hours with the thought of her in his mind.

Secretly he loved the way she could command a room, rile everybody up, then just walk off like she was the most innocent of angels.

And then she really would look all sweet and soft when she was in heat. It made her weak and needy like a puppy rather than a wolf. He enjoyed both sides of her.

But he had never planned to act on either.

She just wouldn't leave him alone.

He hadn't expected to get to his office, ready to mark all of the dozens of papers, only to find Y/N already in there. The summer made it so much harder. For all the wolves. That's why it had become a breeding season of sorts, the school was starting to get concerned with the amount of wolf pregnancies.

At least Elijah couldn't get her pregnant.

Thank fuck for him he couldn't get her pregnant. Because there was absolutely no chance he was turning her away that time.

He had her bent right over his desk, listening to her whine and beg whilst he knelt down behind her and buried his face between her ass. Tongue lapping up between her folds and groaning at the taste of her.

"More..." She cried, "needa be full."

"I know, angel." He mumbled, sucking on her cunt from behind. And soon enough he gave her what she wanted.

Had her on the carpeted floor, bucking his hips rapidly up into her as she rode his cock desperately. Poor thing was exhausted; Elijah had his hands on her tits, stopping them from bouncing too aggressively.

"You'll hurt yourself, darling." He murmured softly when she tried to spin around, get a new angle. It made Elijah chuckled quietly and lifted her off his cock, shushing her whimpers and flipping her back onto her belly to thrust himself back into her from behind, pounding into her until she was drunk on his cum. So full and whining about being bred.

"Shh.." He'd whisper gently, stroking her hair as she lay half asleep still on his office floor. "It's alright."

"Need 'em." She mumbled, her eyes drooped as she panted quietly and kept reaching for his other hand.

"Such a needy wolf you are." He muttered as he brought his hand back to her swollen pussy, her legs always spreading for his touch. His fingers slipped straight to her entrance, stroking her from the inside and gently bringing her to another climax. Toying with her poor clit until she was just sweat and tears.

By morning he'd brought her to his house. It was too risky going into her dorm room with her, if someone saw he'd be done for, so he brought her somewhere safer. Safer for them both.

And so, she started heading to his home instead of his office each month, trembling in his bed instead of his floor.

Eventually she started going there without the moons pull. Elijah couldn't help but welcome her.

Perhaps his self-control wasn't as faultless as he once believed.

[forgettamouse]

microwave: he loves bombs and wants to eat metal. Can't trust him, keep one eye open when he's working

oven: does its job, but gets bored easily. Decides the answer to boredom is to start fires. more trustworthy than a microwave, but not by much

toaster: pretends she's better than the oven, but I see her sneaking bits of kindling into her room when I'm not looking. I can *usually* trust her alone, as long as she doesn't have enough to start something

kettle: haven't met them, but my friends know them. Maybe we'd get along

stove: Do. Not. Trust. I can tell this one is actively trying to kill me. Left it alone one time and it stole my mom's purse and ate a hole through her wallet. "Simmer 10 minutes" yeah right, you just want a taste of that sweet, sweet drywall while my back is turned. >:(

dishwasher: least offensive of the bunch. He doesn't want to burn my house down, but he does get lazy if I'm not watching. sometimes i swear those things come out dirtier than they went in, but I can't prove anything

slow cooker/pressure cooker: haven't met them, but they seem nice. If they offered me dinner I'd take them up on it

air fryer: used to trust her, but then I woke up to fire alarms at 2 AM with my finals scheduled *that day* at 7 and I realized she was just waiting for the chance to hit me where it hurt. I have never been more betrayed in my life. good at making fish though

the vanilla extract, the champion, my one true companion in a kitchen out to get me: the refrigerator

has not once tried to kill me

actively opposes fire

provides that nectar of the gods, 1 AM ice water

sometimes fails at her job, but you can tell it wasnt her fault and she was doing her best

one time I got home to a freezer entirely filled with ice cubes, like top to bottom completely full. I just know she was hard at work the whole time I was gone cause no one told her to stop

there's ice cream in there. i like ice cream :)

tell me the appliance that is your best friend ever in the kitchen

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

night alarm. l Joel Miller

Summary: the danger has come

Warnings: angst, fluff, hiding pregnancy, Jackson is attacked. guns, shooting, fire, one dead,

A/N:

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

short stories from life. [masterlist]

The next few days passed with palpable tension. Joel had been assigned to guard one of the entrance gates, and patrols left Jackson much more often. Despite your desire, you knew that no one would let you do anything really important. No watches, no patrols, nothing that would tire you out or require much effort. You didn’t fight with Joel or anyone else.

“You’re already doing the most important work, honey,” he said one evening as he went on watch. “Stay home. I’ll feel better knowing you’re here.”

So you stayed. Sometimes you’d visit him on watch, bringing him warm coffee, but the weather was so bad that Joel never let you stay there longer than that.

When the magic date of your second trimester passed, you both breathed a sigh of relief. “We should tell Ellie. She’ll start guessing soon.” You said, looking at the calendar full of crossed-out days.

“We will. When she finally shows up at home.” Joel responded, putting on his jacket.

It was getting dark outside and snow was slowly falling. Joel finally gathered his things and, getting ready to leave, he gave you one more look. The corner of his mouth lifted. "You know... I knew we'd make it this time, but I'm still very happy."

"Me too." You gently touched your belly, which was barely visible for now, but to you it was the center of the world. "Be careful, Joel."

One last kiss and he was gone.

Something suddenly tore you from your sleep. An indescribable explosion, and then another one. You jumped out of bed and ran to the window. What you saw seemed terrifying to you - the fence visible from your window was burning in one place, the sound of the bell echoed throughout the neighborhood, and people ran out into the street. You didn't wait long.

In the darkness, you ran out into the hallway and into Ellie's room.

"Ellie!"

But when you reached the bed, when you grabbed the blanket, you understood immediately - the bed was empty. Ellie probably didn't come back for the night. You fell asleep waiting for her.

Shit.

The sound of the bell pounded in your ears, and you felt your heart doing the same in your chest. Joel had to be alert, you didn't know what was going on there. Ellie left the house, and you promised not to move from there.

"Fuck!" you hissed, throwing yourself around the room, but finally made a decision.

You ran back to the bedroom and quickly started getting dressed. After you zipped up your pants, you went to the closet and took down the box that was lying on the back of the top shelf. Joel kept his revolver there. You started loading it when you heard the front door slam.

"Ellie?!" you screamed, grabbing the extra bullets and quickly leaving the room. You ran down the stairs. "Ellie! Thank God you're here! Joel said we should stay here and..." You looked around and saw someone standing in the middle of the living room. It wasn't Ellie.

It all started so suddenly that Joel didn't immediately realize what was happening. First the sound of the doorbell tore through the darkness of the night, then he heard an explosion and saw fire. At the same time, shots rang out at the side gate. Adrenaline immediately rushed through his blood. People were running, shouting orders, passing weapons to each other.

“They hit the side wall! A few got through!” Jesse shouted.

“Tell Tommy!” Joel shouted back, and pointed to a few men standing next to him. “Come with me! We could use some backup!”

He didn’t have to say it twice. They got into the car and headed toward the burning fence. It wasn’t until they were in the car that Joel realized something that hit him so hard his heart almost stopped—your house was close to where the attackers had broken through.

The lights of another car behind them flashed in the side mirror. No one knew how many had gotten through, but there was no way to risk it. When they stopped at the fence, Joel tightened his grip on his rifle and got out.

“We need to secure this place!” Tommy shouted as he climbed out of the other car. “Move! Move!”

“Do you think there could be more of them?”

“I have no idea. We should check every house, every closet.” He watched the group of men put out the fire, but a moment later someone ran up to them. An older man who lived nearby was wearing a jacket over his pajamas and holding a baseball bat.

“Seven or ten,” he gasped. “They ran between the houses. People barricaded themselves inside, but you never know.”

Tommy looked at the graying man. “Are you sure?”

"Yeah, I saw them from the window. I have trouble sleeping, and the noise was really loud," he confirmed.

Tommy looked at Joel. "We'll have to look around the area. We need more men. It's still a few hours until dawn." Something in his brother's gaze suddenly made him uneasy. He'd seen something like that in his brother's eyes before. He wanted to say something, but then he heard Jesse.

"Ellie?! What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was at Dina's, we were watching some movies and... What the fuck happened?" she said, "Joel?"

Joel stared at her, speechless. If Ellie was here, that meant you were home alone. He turned, looking in the direction where your house stood, a few streets apart. An icy chill ran down his spine.

"We caught two of them! The third one is dead!" someone called out from the darkness.

Tommy was saying something, but he couldn't hear him anymore. The blood was rushing in his ears and his legs were moving on their own. Then he remembered running down the street where people were coming out, where there was constant traffic. But he had to know, had to know that you were safe, that his fears were unfounded. After all, your house wasn't that close to the fence, the chance that someone would reach you, that they would choose this house.

When Joel ran onto your street, he saw the house in darkness. He almost calmed down. He heard Ellie and Dina screaming, trying to catch up with him. Behind them, one of the cars was approaching him.

He took a deep breath, filling his aching lungs with air, it only took a few seconds, and then, as he took a few steps, he heard a shot. And another one, and another.

He didn't remember how he got to the porch. The door almost fell off its hinges when he hit it with his shoulder, breaking the lock. Silence. The darkness and silence were terrifying.

He shouted your name. He saw an overturned chair, some junk scattered on the floor. He heard a noise in the hallway, and went in that direction. In the light of the car headlights that came through the window, he saw you sitting against the wall, still clutching his revolver in your hand.

"Baby!"

In the blink of an eye, he was by your side, kneeling and taking your face in his hands. You were terrified, but you were alive. It took him a moment to see the body of a man lying nearby.

"I thought it was Ellie..." you said quietly, "He surprised me..."

"Did he do something to you?" Joel asked, brushing your hair away from your face, "Are you hurt?"

You shook your head. "He wanted to, but... I had your gun."

"My girl."

Tears welled up in your eyes. Joel hugged you without hesitation, feeling your hands tighten around his jacket. You were safe, you were alive.

Footsteps on the porch signaled that others had arrived at the house as well. Ellie looked like she was on the verge of despair as she fell into your arms.

"You're a fucking badass!" she sobbed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry you were alone."

You hugged her tightly. "You're safe, that's the most important thing." You kissed her on the head. Joel's gaze met yours. The question he wanted to ask you was clear in his eyes. "I'm really okay."

"You should go to the clinic. Morris will check if you and the baby..."

"Baby?!" Ellie sat up and looked at Joel as if he had gone crazy. Her gaze shifted to your face. "Are you... Again? Really?!"

"This is not how you should find out, I'm sorry." You sighed, but Ellie didn't let you finish.

"I'll take you to the clinic. Me and Dina."

Joel nodded. "You'll stay there until I come get you." Seeing your look, he quickly added, "You'll wait for me there. We have to make sure we catch them all."

You knew there was no point in arguing with Joel and you didn't even want to. So you let them take you to the clinic, and Ellie and Dina didn't leave your side for a moment. When Morris examined you and did the ultrasound, both girls were absolutely thrilled when they saw the faint shape on the screen.

"A baby..." Ellie whispered, her eyes widening, "How can someone be so fucking small?"

"You know the baby can hear you too?" Morris asked, still staring intently at the screen.

"Shit! Sorry."

“Don’t worry.” He smiled at Ellie before turning to you. “Everything seems fine. The baby’s growing. How are you feeling?”

“Good. I’m a little more sleepy, but I don’t have any nausea or other discomfort.”

“You almost threw up your stomach last time.” Ellie noticed, and Dina nudged her in the side. “What? That’s true!”

Morris turned off the equipment and handed you some tissues to wipe your stomach. “I think you’re fine. Stay here until the situation in the city clears up. Will Joel come get you?” You nodded. “Good. You’ll get a room and you can rest.”

One of the nurses led you to a room. The clinic was quiet, and the dawn was slowly breaking outside. You weren't sure how long it would take to catch everyone who attacked Jackson. But here you were safe, although your heart was still with Joel and the others.

"So, a baby, huh?" Ellie sat down on the bed.

Dina went to look for something warm to drink and eat, and for the first time you were truly alone. You turned to the girl and smiled slightly.

"What do you think, Ellie?" you asked in a quiet voice.

"That's good, right? I mean, it's like a second chance. Are you afraid?"

"So fucking much." you laughed. "But I guess there's no other way. I just hope that this time..."

"This time everything will be fine, you'll see." the girl interrupted you. You could see the concern in her eyes, but also the certainty of what she was saying: “Joel will take care of you, and I… won’t let anything happen to you or that kid.”

You felt tears well up in your eyes, and your throat tightened painfully. But she noticed, stood up, and came over to hug you.

“You’re going to be fat,” she mumbled, and you giggled. “And Joel will still be crazy about you. You’ll be great parents. You already are.”

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist, i think: @picketniffler @orcasoul @bbyanarchist @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @somedayheaven @underneath-the-sky-again @callmebyyournick-name @hiroikegawa @mandaloriankait @mmmunson @grace-928 @umadirectioner

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSTRAP ONㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : What if you ask if you can peg them?

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Terry McGinnis, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Cassandra Cain, Male Stephanie Brown.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

You ask him in bed one night, very nonchalant.

“Hey, can I peg you?”

He freezes. Like full reboot. The Bat-OS is updating. Bruce.exe has stopped responding.

“...Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I think I deserve it.”

He stares. Silently. A slow blink. His jaw clenches, like he's negotiating peace with an international terrorist. You see the flicker in his eyes—he’s considering it, and that terrifies him more than anything.

Eventually?

“Once. You get one.”

But then he comes back for more. Doesn’t say it out loud. Just lies face-down on the bed like a Greek tragedy and says:

“Don’t talk. Just… do it.”

And you never let him forget it. You slap his ass and he growls like a wild animal. Gotham’s protector? Pegged by his princess.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

You bring it up during foreplay, and his eyes sparkle.

“You wanna what??? …Wait, really? Is that like—hot for you?”

He’s immediately into it. Like too into it. He starts googling positions, stretches, prep routines.

“Do we need a safe word? What’s the etiquette here? Should I make a playlist?”

When the moment comes? He’s spread out like a centerfold, full trust, full glutes.

“I feel so vulnerable. Is this how girls feel all the time??? God, it’s kinda hot—”

He moans so loud. Like theater-level drama. Neighbors can hear. Batfam knows. And Dick? He’s glowing for a week.

“So when’s round two, babe?”

— JASON TODD ⋆

You say it casually while he's cleaning guns.

“Let me peg you sometime.”

He chokes. Gun clatters. You hit a nerve.

“You wanna what???”

He’s mad. Flustered. Pacing. But also blushing. And you notice the way he starts testing the waters—

“If I said yes… hypothetically… would that make me less of a man?”

You just pat his cheek like, “No, baby. It makes you a brave man.”

He glares. And then, eventually, agrees. But he makes it a war zone. He's gripping the headboard, growling like you’re in a gladiator fight.

“You better own it, then. I want bruises, I want pain—do it like you mean it!”

Afterward, he lies there like he got hit by a truck. Whispers:

“...Don’t tell anyone.”

You immediately text the group chat: “Guess who just got wrecked by me.”

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

You hit him with it after a sparring match, while he’s sweaty and happy.

“Can I peg you sometime?”

He short-circuits.

“You wish.”

But he’s curious. You see the gears turning. He starts reading medical journals. Watches porn on mute. The ego battles the intrigue.

One night, he corners you like:

“If you must dominate me… you’ll have to earn it.”

Treats it like a duel. He makes you work for it. Grapples. Resistance. Eye contact like a wolf. But when it finally happens?

He groans. Face buried in the pillow. Tries to act composed, but he’s trembling.

“This… is merely… a power experiment.”

Lies. He loves it. But he’ll never admit it. Until he randomly buys you new gear and says:

“This model is superior. More efficient. Less friction. I did… research.”

— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆

You ask Terry during post-sex pillow talk. He’s already panting, sweaty, pupils dilated.

“Babe… what if next time I hit it?”

He blinks.

“You mean like… role reversal?”

“No, Terry. I mean I peg you.”

Visibly panics. Short circuits. But his toxic trait? He’s a curious little freak.

He’ll act all alpha, but that man grew up on internet forums and old Batman archives. He’s been exposed. He’s thought about it.

“Okay. Okay. I mean… I’m not against it. But like, do I—do I have to do the… arch thing?”

By the time you’ve got him moaning into the mattress, he's lost all higher brain function. Tries to talk tough:

“T-This doesn’t c-change... the fact I’m still B-Batman…”

“Mmhm. Say that again while I hit that spot.”

After everything, cuddly. A little emotionally destroyed. Always asks shyly afterward:

“So... wanna do it again next week?”

— BARRY GORDON ⋆

So Barry's in the chair, coding. You lean over and whisper it in his ear like it's nothing:

“Wanna let me peg you?”

He doesn’t even look up. Just slowly removes his glasses.

“I was wondering when you’d ask.”

“...Wait. That’s a yes?”

“Baby, I can’t walk, but I can take it. Now help me out of these pants.”

This man is confident and freaky. He guides you through. You’re the one sweating and stammering while he talks dirty.

“Mmm, harder. You call that topping? C’mon, use that core strength.”

Afterward he lays there smug mocking you.

“Good job. You get a gold star. Wanna go again or do I have to manspread harder?”

— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆

You say it during your usual makeout, biting his ear:

“Wanna be my pretty little baby?”

Cassian doesn’t speak much. But his eyes go wide. And the blush? It climbs his ears.

At first, he shakes his head—too shy. But a week later, you find him laid out on the bed. On his stomach. Ass up.

Doesn’t say a word. Just… offers himself.

And he’s so sensitive. Bites his knuckle, whimpers through every motion. Has his whole face buried in a pillow, fists clenched, body twitching.

“You’re doing so well, baby…”

Nods frantically. Tries not to cry from how good it feels.

After? Curled into your arms, completely limp, like you just possessed his soul.

— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆

You barely finish the sentence:

“Hey, what if I pegged—”

And he’s ALREADY stripping.

“YES. PLEASE. I WANNA TRY IT. DO I LOOK GOOD LIKE THIS? DO YOU WANT ME TO SHAVE?? I HAVE CANDLES???”

He’s bouncing. Wagging his tail. Sends you like 10 Etsy links for strap-ons. Makes a mood playlist. Packs snacks.

In the bedroom? Drama. Theatrics. Noise.

He’s moaning like a porn star. Gripping the sheets. Begging.

“I’m your good boy! I’m your little toy! Use me, mommy, pleaaaase!”

You have to put a pillow over his mouth because he’s SCREAMING. And afterward, he wants cuddles and tells all his friends:

“I’m in love.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[vainvenus]

jealousy, jealousy. | mv1, cl16, ln4, lh44, op81, gr63 and cs55

drivers: max verstappen, charles leclerc, lando norris, lewis hamilton, oscar piastri, carlos sainz and george russell

synopsis: when another man gets too close, each driver makes sure to remind everyone and you exactly who you belong to.

includings: established relationships, petnames, jealousy, possessive/obsessive behavior, heavy pda, mild threats, not fluff not smut this is kind of just my usual content!

an: wanted to try some drabbles since i've got writers block for my main stories and just need something short and fun to do! i'll probably end up doing the other half of the grid if wnated

꩜ max verstappen.

It started as a harmless chat.

You were in the Redbull hospitality area, talking with the new logistics guy. He was young, eager and maybe a little too confident with how he carried himself but you supposed if you got a position at Redbull of any sort your head would also be huge.

But his confidence was less of the many men you had met while getting familiar with the Redbull garage. Instead of the usual cockiness of the job he seemed more cocky in a flirtatious way. He leaned closer with each comment, laughed a little too loud at your jokes and his gaze seemed too focused on your lips than the actual words leaving them.

You shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his eyes whenever his piercing green eyes locked onto yours for longer than necessary. You weren't stupid. You could practically feel the back of your neck burning from the heat of his gaze.

His gaze of course being Max. He was watching the interaction the entire time. His arms crossed over is chest, jaw tight. He hadn't moved but you could feel the tension in the air coil tighter and tighter.

And then when the guy let out another loud chuckle and touched your wrist as he complimented the Redbull bracelet ( that had Max's initials and number ) it snapped.

Max didn't speak. He didn't even call out your name. He just moved.

You didn't notice him until he was already there with a hand curling around your waist and pulling you back against his chest. The sudden movement made your lips part in surprise, a small gasp leaving your lips and in that moment he cupped your jaw and his mouth was on yours.

Similar to how Max was on the track, the kiss was demanding and quick.

His lips crushed against yours with enough force to make your knees buckle, his tongue forced its way into your mouth like he was tasting something he already owned. It wasn't gentle, it was possessive and rough. His hand moved to hold the back of your neck, keeping you still as he deepened the kiss.

He didn't just want to kiss you, he wanted everybody to know that only he could kiss you like that.

When he pulled back, your breath was caught in your throat. He kept his grip firm yet soft as he turned his head just enough to look at the other man who had gone pale.

His voice was quiet but he made up for it in tone. "Touch her again and I'll make sure you can't even land a job at a rundown hobby lobby."

The guy stumbled over an apology, practically sprinting away without looking back. Max didn't even bother to watch as he walked away, keeping his eyes on you.

"You let him talk to you for so long. Made him think he had a chance or something, how mean."

You frowned, shaking your head. "I wasn't—he's just new and I was making conversation." You huffed. "You can be so jealous sometimes."

Max leaned down again, his mouth brushing across your cheek much slower this time with a tenderness the earlier kiss was lacking.

"You think that was me being jealous?" He whispered before scoffing. "That was me being polite."

꩜ charles leclerc

The paddock was in full swing per usual. You were off to the side, waiting for Charles to finish up a few press duties, just answering a few questions here and there. But your attention was pulled away from him as someone hummed a 'hello' beside you.

He was charming. That kind of sly, media-friendly energy you could spot from a mile away. He wasn't a part of the Ferrari family, you could tell that judging by the Aston Martin cap he was wearing. But he was familiar, from a sponsor dinner. Too many compliments. Too much cologne. And now, too close.

Charles had seen him before, multiple times in fact. He made a mental note of how "friendly" he seemed at the table a few months ago.

But this? This was audacity.

Charles attention drew away from what he was originally supposed to be doing. Ignoring the mic clipped to his collar and the journalists waited a few feet away as his eyes were locked on you. He watches how the guy leaned in and how you gave him a tight smile.

Polite, as always.

He watches how you fidgeted with one of the many bracelets a fan gave to you when you walked through the paddock that day. A small nervous tick of yours.

That did it.

He handed the mic to someone without a word and crossed the distance in a few sharp strides.

He was in front of you in seconds and before you could even open your mouth to ask if he was finished he had kissed you. And it was far from soft or sweet.

He kissed you like you were oxygen and he hadn't been able to breathe for weeks. His mouth pressed against yours, lips parting yours with practiced ease as tongue swept in with a possessive urgency. His fingers curled into your hips as if daring for you to pull away.

When he finally broke the kiss it was slow. He dragged his mouth from yours like he loathed the feeling of letting go. He pulled you close to his side, keeping his hand comfortably on your waist.

Then his eyes slid over to the man that was once beside you.

"i think you've had enough of her time." He said, voice calm. Too calm. "Unless you're wanting to lose more than your dignity today."

The man raised his hands and backed off without a word, not even looking back at you as he turned around and disappeared into the crowd.

Charles exhaled through his nose and turned his head to look back to you, his eyes much softer now.

"Was that really necessary?" You asked.

He tilted his head, brushing your lower lip with his thumb before giving a curt nod. "Absolutely."

"He wasn't even flirting." You murmured. "He was making conversation."

Charles smiled yet you could see that there was no humor behind it. "He thought he had a chance." He hummed, leaning over to press another kiss against your lips. This one much softer than the last, much more innocent. "He won't make that mistake again."

꩜ lando norris

You laughed. The joke wasn't even that funny but you were laughing and of course Lando could hear it.

The guy standing next to you was some guy on McLaren's PR team, cracking jokes and clearly trying too hard to impress you by making you laugh. Lando was a few feet away, pretending to check something on his phone but it was obvious that his eyes were locked on you. And your laugh. Hearing you laugh that hard from a man who wasn't him made something inside of him turn.

Then the guy lightly touched your arm as he laughed with you. Too soft. Too close. Too casual. Too familiar.

He moved.

One moment you were laughing politely and the next, a firm hand wrapped around your waist and spun you around to face him. Lando's mouth was on yours before you could even open your mouth to ask him what was wrong.

His kiss was different. There wasn't any softness, no playful grin pressing against your lips—just hunger.

His tongue swept past your lips with no hesitation. One hand was gently wrapped around the base of your throat while the other held your hip in place as he kissed you like this was going to be the last time he would see you for years. He kissed you until your laughter was gone, replaced by breathless confusion once he pulled away.

He stared down at your lips like he wanted to go for another but he turned his attention back to the other guy.

"You're not funny enough to keep her attention." He said. "So why don't you go joke around with someone who shares your awful sense of humor."

The man blinked and backed off without another word, turning around to leave the room.

You stared up at Lando, blinking. "That was.."

He gave your waist a small squeeze with a hum. "I saw the way he was looking at you. I wasn't just gonna stand there and make him think he had a chance with my girl."

You raised a brow. "Jealous much?"

Lando leaned closer to you, whispering against your lips.

"Jealous would've been watching. That was me making it known you're mine."

꩜ lewis hamilton

It wasn't your fault the guy was flirting with you.

He has cornered you in the lounge during a downtime between practice sessions. At first you thought he was just being nice, trying to make conversation when asking how your weekend was going and what you thought about today's sessions. But then his eyes dropped to your neckline. His hand brushing against your arm when you shifted.

You didn't realize how uncomfortable you were until Lewis walked in, searching for you.

He stopped mid-step.

You felt him before you saw him. His jaw clenched. Something sharp flickered in his eyes as he locked in on the guy like a predator sizing up it's pretty.

"Love," Lewis hummed, voice smooth and calm. Too calm.

You turned your head towards him, opening your mouth to greet him but his mouth was already there on your lips.

It was a slow kiss at first, almost romantic. But then it deepened, tongue sliding into your mouth with deliberate slowness. His hand cupped your jaw while he kissed you hard enough to make sure that the guy got the message.

When he pulled back, your lips were slick and swollen and you could feel your shoulders rising and falling from the breathless kiss he stole from you.

Lewis slowly turned his head towards the guy.

"Back. Off."

There was nothing loud about his voice but it landed like a stone in water.

The guy mumbled an apology before quickly walking away.

You blinked, still catching your breath. "Lew.."

He ran his thumb along your bottom lip, wiping it with a hum. "He knew you weren't his to flirt with. Thought I'd just sit back and not do anything ."

You leaned into him, brows furrowed slightly. "And you had to do...that?"

"He got the memo, didn't he?"

꩜ oscar piastri

Oscar usually didn't react like this. He was calm, collected and smart. He was also very secure in his relationship so he usually didn't act out.

But today? Today, you were talking with a guy from Alpine's crew. Someone Oscar had never liked. You were smiling too politely. And the guy was standing too close. Laughing too hard.

Oscar had seen enough.

He walked up behind you without a word, a hand sliding around your waist like it belonged there. You turn, startled and then his mouth met yours.

Not careful. Not shy. And definitely not calm.

He kissed like a man who had been robbed of one for decades. Tongue tracing yours, his hand gripping onto your jaw. He kissed you like someone who hated being questioned about where you stood with him. like someone who wanted everyone to know where you belonged.

When he pulled back, his hand stayed at your hip as his eyes flickered over to the guy.

"Try that again and I'll make you regret it."

The guy stared, brows furrowed. "Mate, it was just a conversation-"

Oscar's voice cut through his. "Did I fucking stutter? Just walk away already."

And he did without another word, scoffing under his breath.

You looked up at Oscar. "What was that?"

"He thought you were an option." He shrugged, voice much softer than earlier. "I just had to remind him you're not."

꩜ george russell

George always looked and acted like a gentleman. Crisp shirts, polite smiles, soft kisses, perfect posture. So when he crossed the paddock and saw you talking to a guy who clearly didn't know his place, you would have expected him to be rational.

He wasn't.

The man was either a journalist or reporter. Either way he asked too many questions and had that annoying fake charm he hated. He touched your shoulder and all of George's common sense was thrown out the window.

He didn't say a word. He just stormed over, hands sliding around your waist and pulling you into a kiss so quickly you gasped against his lips.

His mouth was hot, demanding, tongue sliding into yours with enough force to have you breathless. He wasn't just trying to kiss you, it was like he was trying to consume you. Possessive. Demanding. As if the guy needed to see every second of it.

When George finally broke the kiss, he turned, his expression clean but eyes burning.

"She's taken."

The guy stammered, confused. 'I didn't mean-"

George didn't even blink. "Then you won't mind walking away before I make a scene."

The man left.

You looked up at him, a bit dazed. "That was a bit... intense."

He adjusted his cufflinks and the hem of your shirt like nothing happened.

"If he touches you again, I won't stop at a kiss."

꩜ carlos sainz

You were laughing. Like, really laughing and Carlos hadn't heard that sound all day. Not towards him, at least

You were sitting at a high top table near the hospitality suite, a drink in hand and some visiting Red Bull junior driver had made himself comfortable across from you. Too young, too smug and far too confident.

Carlos watched from a distance, jaw right and fingers clenched. His arms were crossed but his entire body was coiled as if waiting for an excuse to spring. Your head tilted back when you laughed again, and the guy leaned in too close. Like he thought he was winning.

He wasn't.

Carlos moved like a shadow. One second he was nowhere near and the next he was behind you.

You didn't even have time to turn before he wrapped a hand firmly around your waist and spun your stool to face him and he caught your mouth in a kiss that nearly knocked the air from your lung.

It was deep. Open. Tongue immediately sliding into your mouth like he had been craving you all day. His other hand slipped up your spine, holding the nape of your neck, tilting your head back so he could kiss you harder. Slower. Deeper.

The guy across from the table looked stunned, unsure whether to look away, walk away or stare.

Carlos didn't stop until your hand was gripping his shirt and your breath was gone. He only pulled back an inch, lips brushing against yours. His eyes were locked on you like you were the only thing that existed.

Then, without breaking eye contact with you he spoke to the guy behind you.

"You're trying too hard. It's embarrassing."

He turned his head slightly, voice dropping.

"Sorry you had to learn the hard way that she's taken."

The guy muttered something and got up, fast.

You blinked at Carlos, shaking your head. "Are you serious?"

Carlos tilted his head, as if he wasn't understanding the word coming from your mouth. "You think I didn't see the way e was looking at you?" He scoffed. "You're mine. And I don't share what's mine."

[maisiewriter]

My name is Sarah and I am a 35 year old female supremacist married to a guy called Toby, who is 40 years old. We have been married for 8 years and live a comfortable life in East Anglia. I am a corporate lawyer and work in the city and my husband works in one of my mother's hair stylists as a receptionist and maker of hot drinks. He sometimes also washes the hair of clients, under supervision of course, by one of the Hair Stylists.

I married Toby as I was invited more and more to some very high end events and it was thought a good idea to have a trophy husband to accompany me and to amuse me. Toby is very handsome but is exceedingly under educated, you could call him the equivalent of a bimbo. He is a charming companion and knows how to engage in small talk, he can talk about anything from politics to religion to hemlines and the latest in make up. I have lots of fun with Toby but he knows that ours is a female led marriage.

I own the house and the shares and savings and earn a 7 figure sum with an 8 figure annual bonus. Toby does the housework, the gardening, food shopping, washing and ironing and food preparation. He is the perfect housewife. I am so proud of the way he has taken to his role in our family.

Let me start by describing my life growing up in a female supremacist household.

My dad's name is Jack, but we called him Boy....that is me, my mother, Amelia, and my little sister, Rachel. When I came home from school I would leave my school-bag in the hallway and wander into the kitchen to say hello to Boy and get a drink of milk and a cookie. When I entered Boy would turn to face me and curtsey and wait for me to acknowledge him and and get me my snack and take my school-bag up to my bedroom.

I didn't have much interaction with Boy but sometimes I would chat to him and tell him about my day. This was girlie talk which he loves and he would ask about all the gossip.

My mommy would arrive about six pm from her job as a Hair Stylist, she had just one shop back then, and talk to me and Rachel about our day and our schoolwork.. Boy would announce dinner is served and proceed to serve us three in the dining room, he always ate in the kitchen. Sometimes, on his birthday he was allowed to have a post-dinner cup of tea with us, but this didn't always happen even then. It depended on whether he had been naughty or lazy or disobedient.

I had a happy childhood and learnt how to navigate the world and control the help, such as Boy.

Let me tell you about three incidents in which I quickly learnt my place in the family and how to punish Boy for his naughtiness.

1. I was sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and looking at a textbook on chemistry when I noticed Boy walking from the utility room across the kitchen to the hallway carrying some completed ironing. The problem was he didn't curtsey and wait for me to say "carry on, Boy". I noticed this and said, "what do you think you are doing, Boy? Have you forgotten your manners?" He quickly did as he should have done and I told him to put the incident in the punishment book.

The punishment book is reviewed every Friday after the evening meal and must be kept up to date by Boy.

2. I was in a bad mood because of something that had happened at school and I dumped my bags and went straight up to my bedroom. When I got there I buzzed for Boy to come and serve me. He took ages and when he eventually came into my room he had a bad attitude. I told him to bring my schoolbag up with some tea and biscuits. He knew better than to argue and curtsied and went to do as I had ordered. He still had an attitude though and I told him to put a note in the punishment book that he was too slow in obeying me.

For these two bits of naughtiness he got caned with an extension to his time in his chastity belt.

3. This was a more serious matter. It was a Saturday and I had invited some girlfriends from school over for chat, fruit drinks and cake. Boy had arranged to visit his mother who was in hospital, without telling me or checking if it was convenient. I spoke to mommy and said I needed him to serve my friends and generally be around. She understood and buzzed for Boy to come to the kitchen to discuss what was to be done. It turned out that his mother would only be in hospital for a few days, so it wasn't that serious.

Anyways, he served my friends and me and didn't see his mother. It didn't matter because his job is to serve the family not go off to visit someone as if he were a free man. He was caned for not checking with me as well as mommy.

I sat back and started to work on a report I needed to complete, I am so busy at the moment, but I love my work.

[fic-girlie]

Hidden in plain sight

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader Summary: While promoting Gladiator II, you and Pedro keep your three-year relationship low-key, playing it cool in public. But behind closed doors—especially after the London premiere—passion and love overflow in a night full of intensity, comfort, and quiet devotion. Warnings: fluff, established relationship, explicit smut (18+), soft dom!pedro, unprotected sex, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, language, dirty talk A/N: Thank you @kellyxo1 for the idea, again!

The lighting in the suite is too bright, as always. Cameras click. Laptops clack. The endless rhythm of press junket days, where the same questions are folded into new words and passed across the table like shiny candy. You’re seated on the left, angled ever so slightly toward Pedro, as always. There’s something in that small tilt of your body that comforts him—you don’t say it, but he knows it.

You’ve learned how to make each other laugh without a single word.

Today, he’s in a white button up. Curls tamed but not conquered. He’s got that easy charm dialed up, eyes soft, smile sharp, the kind of presence that people describe as “effortless” even though you know exactly how much effort he puts into staying calm in rooms like this.

The interviewer is young and clearly nervous. She fumbles through a question about character dynamics, some half-formed thought about power and vulnerability, and Pedro saves her with a warm chuckle and that gentle charisma that got him cast in this movie—and half the world’s hearts.

“She throws me to the ground in our second scene together,” he says, tossing a thumb in your direction. His voice is light, playful, but the way he glances at you—quick, fond, proud—makes your stomach flip.

You smirk. “I did not throw you to the ground. I gave you a gentle push. With force.”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “And people wonder why I have trust issues.”

The room laughs. It’s easy. You make it look easy, the way your rhythms lock into each other like pieces that were always meant to fit. It’s not fake. It’s just not everything.

Because when you two share a look like that—one filled with years of stolen mornings, late-night scripts read aloud from opposite ends of a hotel bed, silent dinners when the exhaustion was too much to speak—it’s too much to explain to strangers. So you don’t. You let them see what you want them to see: a friendship that feels alive and quick and perfectly believable. And if someone catches a flicker of something more behind your eyes, that’s their business.

“I will say this,” Pedro continues, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees in that way he does when he’s feeling a little too exposed. “This one—” he gestures toward you, “—she’s dangerous with a sword and devastating with sarcasm. The duality is… genuinely terrifying.”

You laugh again, but the heat crawling up your neck is real. The way he praises you—quietly, gently, under the guise of teasing—always hits harder than it should.

“Better terrifying than boring,” you say smoothly, nudging your knee against his under the table. A soft pressure, fleeting. But he doesn’t shift away.

Your names trend together on social media almost daily now, not because of PDA or big declarations, but because people love trying to decode you. The inside jokes. The way he watches you when you speak, like he’s still discovering new things in your voice. How he sometimes interrupts interviews just to say, “Wait, tell the story about Morocco—the falcon one,” even when it has nothing to do with the question asked.

It’s a game you never meant to play, but now you both know the rules. Keep it fun. Keep it light. Let the world believe they’re watching something spark in real time.

Only you and Pedro know it’s been burning steady for years.

——

The boat had been someone’s spontaneous idea—Fred, probably, or maybe Pedro himself. A rare day off during the Italy shoot, too precious to waste indoors. You’d all been running on fumes, eyelids sunburned, costumes stiff with dust and leather, so the idea of turquoise water and cold drinks had seemed almost holy.

The boat was bigger than you’d expected, but still cozy enough that no one could pretend not to hear the conversations happening across it. A small crew kept to their business, steering and serving and politely pretending not to notice when someone made a bad joke or took too long choosing a playlist.

You wore a black one-piece under an airy linen cover-up. Pedro’s sunglasses had slid low on his nose. He hadn’t stopped smiling since his bare feet hit the deck.

From the start, it was easy. Laughter. Music. Connie swaying to Stevie Nicks with a drink in each hand. Joseph sitting on the edge of the deck, feet dangling above the sea, narrating dramatic fake scenes from the “Gladiator III: Vacation in Capri” as if the camera crew were rolling.

And then there was Pedro.

He hadn’t left your side since you boarded.

His hand brushed the small of your back when you walked. His fingers threaded with yours when you sat. It wasn’t deliberate—at least not for show. It was just who he was around you when no one was watching. Or when he forgot they were.

You found a spot in the bow, a patch of smooth wood catching full sunlight, and settled there with a drink in one hand and Pedro’s thigh beneath the other. He stretched out beside you, skin warm, shirt half-unbuttoned and clinging to the lines of his chest from a splash he'd taken earlier when someone dared him to jump in.

At one point, you laid your head on his shoulder, and his arm slipped around your waist like it belonged there. Like it always had.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed,” you murmured, watching the sunlight scatter diamonds across the waves.

“I’m not,” he said, glancing at you with a lazy smile. “I’m just pretending for your sake.”

“Convincing performance.”

“That’s what the Oscar’s for,” he whispered, and kissed your hair.

It wasn’t until the boat stilled—anchor dropped in some hidden cove off the coast—that the warmth lulled you fully under. Pedro’s heartbeat thudded steady beneath your cheek, and the ocean hummed a lullaby. You meant to just rest your eyes, just for a moment.

But you drifted. The boat rocked softly. The breeze lifted the hem of your cover-up. And you melted into him like he was home.

You woke to hushed voices and a shutter click that made Pedro flinch. One of the crew members quickly apologized, but Pedro just waved it off and tightened his arm around you.

“Sorry,” he whispered when he felt you stir. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

His voice was rough with sleep, lips warm against your temple. He hadn’t moved at all. You realized that—your body had molded to his side, your legs tangled lightly with his, one of your hands curled into the hem of his shirt. He could’ve shifted. He could’ve gotten up. But he hadn’t.

He’d stayed.

“They’re talking about us,” you murmured, voice groggy, heart quickened more from the closeness than the attention.

“They always do,” he said softly. Then, after a beat: “Let ’em.”

You stayed curled against him until the sun dipped low and someone called for group photos. Pedro helped you up, pressed a hand to the small of your back like he was still afraid you’d topple over.

Later that night, back at the little hotel, the whole group gathered around a fire pit in the courtyard. Someone opened wine. Someone else dragged a guitar out of nowhere. You sat beside Pedro again, this time in a dry T-shirt of his and shorts that didn’t quite reach your knees, and the others pretended not to notice how much of the evening you spent tucked into the crook of his arm.

Connie snapped a picture—your legs over Pedro’s lap, his hand on your bare knee, the soft flicker of firelight between you. You didn’t see it until weeks later, posted with the caption “Sunset stunners. Starring: these two, in love and annoying about it.”

The clip started circulating almost immediately. Cast members retelling the boat story on talk shows. Paul grumbling playfully, “I thought I was the romantic lead, but apparently Pedro and his girl stole the whole damn film.” Joseph teasing Pedro about turning to mush the second you fell asleep on him. Connie calling you “the most disgustingly smitten couple on water.”

And every time it came up in interviews, Pedro would laugh. Blush, maybe. Pretend to wave it off. But he never denied a thing.

Not once.

And neither did you.

——

A few months later you were standing in the hotel room, shared with Pedro, getting ready for the London premiere. Of course, you’ve been to red carpets and premieres before, but this one was different. It wasn’t only your movie or his, it was a movie where you both played big roles.

You were looking at yourself in the mirror. You were wearing a black dress with some red details which clung to you perfectly, highlighting the curves of your body. You choose a natural makeup, not wanting to push it too far.

You were just fixing the straps of the dress when Pedro came out of the bathroom. And when you saw him in the mirror you had to take a double look.

The black shirt clung to him like it was made just for him, the V-neck showing the slight dip of his solid chest, making you go feral. The little red pins on his shoulder emphasizing him, but just enough to not stole the spotlight, and the black slacks he was wearing completely tailored for him. His hair was styled perfectly, some silver strands showing and shining in their place.

You turned around and looked at him with admiration in your eyes. He looked like one of those old statues, like a God, who fell from heaven.

“You good?” you ask quietly.

He nods, but it’s a lie.

You know that look. You’ve seen it at events before—press junkets, big tables—when the crowd is too loud and the stakes too high. When the world expects Pedro Pascal to be Pedro Pascal, and some part of him just wants to disappear.

“I will be,” he says.

You walk to him in heels that click softly on marble, stopping close enough to smell the cedar in his cologne and the faint trace of peppermint on his breath.

Your fingers brush the edge of his lapel, straightening it, pretending it needs fixing. “You look ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously handsome or ridiculously nervous?”

You raise an eyebrow.

He huffs a soft laugh through his nose and looks down. “I hate these things.”

“I know.”

“You make them better.”

Your hand slides gently down his chest, lingering over his sternum, right where his heartbeat stutters beneath your touch.

“I’ll be close the whole time.”

He meets your gaze, and the rawness there almost undoes you.

You kiss his cheek. Not the kind that means I love you. The kind that says I know who you are when no one’s looking.

——

The car ride over is quiet.

The city glows wet and golden through the tinted windows — streetlamps like fireflies, crowds already pressing against barricades. You sit with your hands in your lap, and his are resting just inches from yours on the seat, his knee occasionally brushing yours when the car turns.

You don’t speak.

He closes his eyes once, briefly. You reach over without thinking and slide your pinkie around his, just for a second. He exhales.

The carpet is blinding.

A river of flashing lights and calling voices, umbrellas twirling in the crowd, velvet ropes separating fans from stars. You feel the heat of cameras, the electric buzz of names being shouted, the press’s hunger for something worth posting.

You both step out, not quite together.

Pedro takes a moment to square his shoulders. He looks calm again — perfectly composed — but you feel the shift.

You walk a few paces behind, giving the illusion of independence. Of separation. It's part of the game.

Until the angle shifts.

Until the interviewer from Vanity Fair — the one who asked that question last time — waves you both over.

You settle beside him. Close, but not touching.

He glances down at you, voice low enough that it’s lost in the noise: “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

The interview starts light. Jokes. Banter. You’re both good at that. Your timing fits like puzzle pieces — his sarcasm soft and dry, yours sharp and playful. You toss each other softballs, grin at the same questions, answer with that carefully rehearsed mix of camaraderie and mystery.

But then the question shifts.

“What was the most surprising part of working together on this film?”

Pedro looks at you.

Really looks.

And the pause stretches longer than it should.

You meet his gaze and offer the smallest, almost imperceptible nod.

He speaks slowly. Thoughtfully. “I think… the way she carried so much of the weight. Quietly. The emotion she brings—it changes the air around her. I think I forgot how to breathe sometimes.”

The interviewer laughs lightly, not sure if he’s joking.

But he’s not.

You don’t say anything. Just smile—soft, knowing—and step slightly closer. Not enough to raise eyebrows. But enough for him to feel your arm brush his as you walk away from the mic.

He doesn’t let the distance open up again.

You glide through the rest of the carpet like two satellites orbiting the same star. Separate in appearance, but always pulled toward each other when no one’s looking.

When the cameras shift.

When the lights tilt.

And later—when the lights go down inside the theater and the film begins—his fingers find yours in the dark. Silently. Desperately.

You hold on tight.

Because this is how you survive the noise.

Together.

——

You don't even remember crossing the room. One moment he's teasing you about the shirt, about the way you were staring, and the next you’re walking backward as he follows, one slow step at a time, his eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that exists. The soft click of the door sealing shut behind him feels like it closes off the entire world.

The low hum of London still murmurs outside the tall windows, but in here, it’s all dark wood and soft light and the quiet intensity in his gaze.

Pedro doesn't say another word at first. He just watches you with that look—the one that makes your breath catch low in your throat. The one that says he’s seen every part of you and still wants more.

He stands there in that damn shirt, collar open, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. The contrast of the crimson buttons against the dark fabric makes him look sharper somehow, more dangerous. Like he’s the one pulling every invisible string in the room.

And maybe he is.

You shift slightly under the weight of his silence, heat rising behind your ribs. You open your mouth to say something—maybe a joke, maybe nothing at all—but you never get the chance.

He steps in.

His hand curves around your jaw with practiced ease, not rough, not rushed—just firm. Sure. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, slow and deliberate.

"You have any idea how hard it was not to touch you all night?” he murmurs, voice low, thick with restraint. “You, standing next to me in that dress, smiling like that…"

You try to respond, but he’s already kissing you, slow and hot, the kind that robs the breath right out of your lungs. His mouth moves with intent, just enough pressure to make your head spin. He doesn't waste time—his hands are already sliding down your back, finding the zipper, and when he breaks the kiss it’s only to speak against your skin.

“You wore that for me, didn’t you?” he asks, lips brushing your throat. “Knowing I couldn’t do a damn thing about it until we got here.”

Your answer is a shaky inhale. You feel his smirk as he pulls the zipper down, one slow inch at a time.

“I should make you beg for it,” he says, still behind you now, his breath against your neck. “After the way you looked at me all night. Like you knew what you were doing.”

You tilt your head, letting him push the dress from your shoulders. It pools at your feet like a sigh.

“I did know,” you whisper.

Pedro chuckles, low and dark, and his hands are on your hips now—pulling you back against him. You can feel him already, hard through his trousers, and the sound that slips from your mouth makes him groan.

“Then don’t pretend you’re not going to let me have you exactly how I want,” he mutters, one hand skimming up your stomach, the other sliding between your thighs.

His fingers slip beneath the fabric of your underwear, teasing you with maddening patience. Just the graze of his knuckles, slow and purposeful, as if he has all night to unmake you.

"Already wet," he murmurs against the shell of your ear, his voice thick and approving. "You like it when I talk to you like that, don’t you?"

You nod, but he doesn’t let that slide.

"Use your words, cariño," he says, his tone darkening just enough to make you shiver. "You know I want to hear it."

"Yes," you breathe, barely holding on. "I like it… I like when you talk to me like that."

He rewards your honesty with a low growl and two fingers slipping through your slick heat—slow, precise, stroking you just enough to make your knees go weak. His free arm wraps around your waist to steady you, holding you flush to his chest like he’s claiming you in the quiet of this high-rise hotel room.

"You’ve been driving me fucking crazy for weeks," he mutters. "These press tours, pretending we’re just friends. Watching you laugh with the others like you don’t crawl into my bed every night."

His words hit you low in your belly, the possessiveness curling into arousal as his fingers begin to move in earnest—deep, steady, controlled. You moan into the air, unable to keep quiet, and that only spurs him on. He bites gently at your shoulder, his grip tightening just enough to make you gasp.

"Think they know?" he asks against your skin. "Think they’d still see you as sweet if they knew how you sound when I make you come?"

The words drag another helpless sound from your lips. You press back against him, needing more—needing all of him—but he still doesn’t give it. Not yet.

Instead, he pulls his hand away, and before you can beg, he turns you around and kisses you hard—mouth greedy, tongue insistent, as if he's trying to taste every sound you’ve ever made for him.

"Bed," he says roughly, guiding you backward without looking. His hands are already unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it off like it’s nothing, like he isn’t the best-looking man you’ve ever seen with his skin flushed and jaw tense and eyes dark.

You’re still in nothing but your underwear when the backs of your knees hit the mattress. Pedro follows you down, catching your mouth again before trailing kisses to your collarbone, your chest, licking a slow path between your breasts as he peels the last scrap of fabric from your body.

“You’re mine tonight,” he says, looking up at you from between your thighs with something between reverence and hunger. “And I’m going to make sure you feel it tomorrow when we’re pretending again.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot, unrelenting, skilled. He devours you like a man starved, moaning softly against you, like your taste is better than anything the night could offer. His tongue flicks, circles, dives—he doesn’t give you time to adjust, doesn’t give you space to breathe. Just pleasure, building faster than you can process.

You cry out, your hands tangling in his hair, your thighs tightening around his head—but he doesn’t let up. Not until you’re trembling, choking on your own gasps, your orgasm crashing over you with brutal, blinding force.

Only then does he rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, gaze locked on you like he’s not nearly done.

“You still with me?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod, dazed, still panting.

“Good,” he says, undoing his belt with one smooth pull. “Because I’m not finished with you yet.”

You watch him strip the rest of the way, every inch of him revealed in the golden lamplight. His chest rising and falling with quiet tension, his hands still clenched like he’s barely holding himself back.

You sit up slightly on your elbows, eyes trailing over the defined lines of his torso, the heat that rolls off him. His gaze finds yours as he comes forward, slow and purposeful.

“You gonna lay there lookin’ at me like that,” he says lowly, “or are you gonna get up on your knees like a good girl?”

The words hit you like a spark to dry kindling.

You move, heart pounding, turning onto your hands and knees in the center of the bed as he comes behind you. You feel the mattress dip under his weight, feel his warm palm drag slowly down your back, his fingers tracing your spine with almost-too-gentle pressure. Then his hand grips your hip firmly, pulling you back, adjusting your angle like he’s positioning you exactly how he wants.

“You know how beautiful you look like this?” he murmurs, voice ragged. “How good you are for me?”

You start to say something—anything—but then you feel him against you, thick and hard, sliding along your folds without pushing in. Teasing.

You whimper, push back slightly, silently begging, and he chuckles behind you.

“Desperate now?” he says, leaning over your back, his mouth warm against your ear. “I warned you, didn’t I? You show up in that dress and expect me to behave?”

And then—finally—he pushes into you.

A long, slow thrust that fills you completely, taking his time so you feel every inch. Your hands twist in the sheets, a broken sound tumbling from your lips.

“Fuck,” Pedro groans behind you, grip tightening on your hips. “You’re perfect—always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

He pulls out just enough to make you ache before thrusting in again—deeper this time, more force behind it. His pace builds gradually, controlled but hungry, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the quiet room.

You arch your back, moaning with every stroke, and his hand slides up to the back of your neck, holding you gently but firmly in place. Not hurting—just anchoring you. Letting you know exactly who’s in control.

"You take me so well," he growls, hips snapping harder now. “Every fuckin’ time.”

His other hand slides down between your legs, his fingers finding your clit with practiced ease, circling in rhythm with his thrusts. It’s too much and not enough, your body strung tight between the way he’s fucking you and the words spilling from his mouth—rough, reverent, utterly unfiltered.

You can feel your second orgasm rising sharp and fast, your body clenching around him, and he knows. He always knows.

“That’s it,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

You do—helpless and loud and shaking apart beneath him as he rides you through it, his rhythm never faltering. He fucks you through the waves until your legs give out and your arms collapse beneath you, face pressing into the mattress.

Pedro slows just enough to pull you back upright, wrapping one arm around your waist and dragging your body against his chest as he thrusts up into you from behind, now deeper, rougher, needier.

His mouth finds your neck again, his voice broken with restraint.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m so close—wanna come inside you, baby.”

You nod, gasping, grinding back against him.

“Please,” you manage. “Want it… want you to—”

And with a deep, guttural groan, Pedro buries himself to the hilt, his whole body tightening as he comes hard inside you, holding you there, letting you feel every pulsing wave of it.

You both collapse onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and sweat and breathless sounds. His arms curl around you as you come down, his hand sliding up your stomach, holding you close like the world outside the room doesn’t exist.

You can still feel the press of him inside you, warm and full, and the slow kiss he plants behind your ear is a silent promise—one that says this isn’t just about lust or need.

It’s him. It's you. It’s always been more than what anyone sees at a premiere.

[contamination-zone]

5 times Fresh acted like an animal, and 1 time Color 'Got it.'

[first chapter - prev chapter - next chapter]

beta read by @/calamarispider

[UTMV fic] Contains: Platonic Fresh & Color, Fresh & Killer, and Color & Killer, misunderstandings, abuse, food warning [forced to eat dog food] [4,000~ words]

“What would you do if you got out?” It took Fresh a moment to realize it hadn’t imagined Killer speaking. “Nightmare knows we all want out. Saying something to me can’t make this any worse with him.” “I don’t know, run off? Hide in a ditch? What do you want me to say?” Its voice got scratchier and more rough as it spoke, leaving it to end the sentence coughing. Killer was quiet as he watched it, his eyes those same empty black pits. “Okay.” He finally said. What was that supposed to mean? He believed it? Got what he wanted? Just felt like saying that? It stifled a growl and just silently followed him. 

Fic undercut or on ao3!

“You look tired.” From behind him; Killer, he recognized instantly.

Color turned to look at him, smiling something small, “how can you tell? You were looking at the back of my skull.”

The other didn’t answer, just slinking closer so they could settle their head on his shoulder, and their hand on his other. Color laughed; the slant of his shoulders told them all that? Trust his closest friend to always notice when he felt off.

“Is it really that bad…?” He asked. Sometimes it wasn’t. They were scarily observant, and when they pointed things out to Color, it wasn’t always something anyone else would notice.

His hopes were dashed when Killer huffed, annoyed, “Yes.” 

“Sorry about that…” Color said, lifting a hand to cup Killer’s cheek, “you know why.”

He leaned into the touch, but let his eyes fall half-lidded in a ‘done with this’ expression. “If I’d know you’d want to keep it, I wouldn’t have brought it here.”

“Hey!” Color chided, “don’t talk about Fresh like that. And I’m not ‘keeping it,’ it just… needs a little help getting on its feet. I’m sure it’ll strike out on its own when it’s feeling better.”

Killer gave him a piercing stare [it resembled all his other expressions, but Color could guess the intention]. He was still happy they felt comfortable enough to get snippy with him; it hadn’t been too long since Killer got away from Nightmare, and any agency they showed couldn’t help but make him smile.

“Okay,” he huffed, “even if it doesn’t, I’m happy to give it a place to stay. You know that.”

They wrapped their arms around his shoulders, more of a hug than the lean they were doing beforehand. “Yeah yeah, just the type of monster you are.” The words were blasé, nearly apathetic, but Color knew there was affection underneath. It made the guilt worse.

“Yeah.” It felt bad to agree, when he knew Killer clearly felt a little jealous of all the attention Fresh was getting, but he really couldn’t do anything else. Even without the six Soul’s influence, he didn’t think he could leave a monster to flounder without help, let alone one as clearly traumatised as Fresh.

“I’m going out tomorrow,” Color said, instead of any of the words he’d wanted to about duty or greater good, about how really, he was sorry, “just ah, to get clothes for Fresh. Want to come with?”

A silent stare, so he knew Killer was really considering it. Finally, just before he could take it back, affirm that Killer didn’t have to do anything they didn’t feel comfortable with, they answered, “sure, Color. Sounds good.”

He smiled. It’d be nice to spend some time with his best friend.

———

He woke early, because he knew he’d need that sort of energy.

Any type of routine was difficult to manage for him, after so long in a space without time or need for anything of the like, but he thought he’d been getting his morning routine pretty locked down lately. Brushing his teeth, getting dressed, cooking breakfast- all things he’d struggled with right when he got out of the void, but not as much these days. It made him feel good, that he’d made such clear progress, hopeful for those he was helping to be able to do the same.

Of course, there was more than just him who relied on that routine [probably the only reason he tried so hard with it]. With that in mind, he knocked on Killer’s door, letting him know breakfast was ready.

They were opening the door before he even stepped back, already awake and waiting. A little unsettling, but he knew Killer just liked to follow the routine they usually did, even if it wasn’t enforced at all; that meant, of course, leaving his room when Color went to fetch him for breakfast.

“Breakfast is on the table,” he told Killer, already moving to Fresh’s room. Killer followed him instead of heading to eat right away— a clingy mood already, probably because Color promised to hang out.

“Joining me?”

They gently pushed their shoulder to his as they walked, a silent confirmation. He smiled, “Got it.”

He gently rapped his knuckles against the door, with a warning that Killer would be joining as well. 

Fresh made an acknowledging noise, and he wondered if everyone woke up before him.

Just like always, when he entered it regarded him with wide eyes and an attentive posture. Nothing too nervous though, and he smiled at it, glad Killer’s presence didn’t seem to be a problem.

“Morning, Fresh.”

“G’morning.” It mumbled back. It eyed Killer and gave him a slight dip of its head in acknowledgment, to which they regarded it with a blank stare in turn. Neither seemed to be blinking.

“Ooookay-“ Color interrupted, “Got breakfast! Bacon and eggs good?”

It turned its attention right back to Color at that, giving him a shaky nod before standing up, silent in its movements. It was almost alarming how such a large and imposing monster just disappeared into the background. 

On the way to the dining table, Killer and Fresh regarded each other again with nothing but a quick meeting of eyes before their attention went back to him, and he wondered how well they knew each other from before they got out from Nightmare’s thumb. There had to have been a little affection on Killer’s half, else Color didn’t know why he’d decide to take Fresh with him at all. Neither showed it though, barely even acknowledging the other ever, so he wondered if his theory was wrong. Still, the little glances could mean anything. He knew they were both very clever.

They made it to the table before the silence got too awkward, and the three settled in to eat breakfast. He passed Killer the bottle of ketchup for his eggs before he asked.

“We’re, me and Killer,” he said, once they were all sat, “going out to buy you some clothes. Got any preferences?”

It shifted awkwardly at that, frozen with a fork halfway to its mouth. “Uh- I’m good with anything, man.” 

“It likes colorful things.” Killer said as Color was trying to figure out how to press for more info without spooking it.

“Killer,” he hissed, though there was no vitriol. While he did trust Killer to be right about things like this, he just… wanted Fresh to feel the agency of choosing to reveal facts about itself. Make it feel like what he got for it was its choice. 

Killer had no remorse on his face, though he did do a token, “sorry.”

He sighed, though didn’t push further. There was no was no way he’d be able to stay mad at him anyway, and they both knew it.

Looking back at Fresh, it had a pinched look on its face, eyebrows pressed downwards and mouth in a frown. When it noticed him looking, it quickly schooled its face into something more ‘open’ looking [though he doubted it really was].

“Were you confused on something?” He asked.

It was silent for a bit, but after a glance at Killer [for support?], it mumbled, “You ain’t mad? That sorry was sooo off base.”

There was a well of sadness in his chest at that. Did Fresh think he’d get angry at Killer and treat them as badly Nightmare assuredly was when he himself got mad at the two of them?

“No, no,” he reassured it, “I love Killer, he’s my best friend- I just got a little annoyed is all. And even if I did get mad, we’d talk it out.”

Fresh hummed, the picture of easy acceptance, but he could tell it was going to be mulling that over for a while underneath the surface. 

Coughing into its fist, it changed the subject, “I do like colorful things- brighter the better.” More shifting, eyes catching sneak peeks at him before skittering away. He made sure to smile encouragingly. It couldn’t keep eye-contact. “The sweaters you let me borrow were pretty rad too…”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he smiled wide, something settled in him knowing he didn’t shove it into anything it didn’t want to be wearing. His eyes couldn’t help but drift to the collar at that, but he didn’t linger. Anytime it caught him staring it would clutch at the tag and press it close to itself— whatever meager comfort it brought to it, he would never understand. That was okay though, he wasn’t going to force the issue.

It nodded, shy, and didn’t say anything else, fully focusing its attention on breakfast. He didn’t press, letting it retreat out of the conversation.

Breakfast was done quickly and he was left feeling satisfied for more reasons than how good the eggs tasted. Progress was made today, which he was glad for.

Killer had already ambled out of the room, in the direction of the door most likely. Before Color left, he turned to Fresh.

“We’ll only be gone for a few hours, hope you don’t get too bored without us.” He laughed, “you have free reign of the house, just don’t go into either me or Killer’s rooms without a good reason, yeah?”

It nodded, giving him a thumbs up, “you got it. Same as always.”

He… did usually give the same spiral every time he left. “Sorry sorry, repeating myself here” He laughed, “I’ll get outta your hair. Bye Fresh.”

“Ah- see’ya.” It said, awkwardly.

He took that as his cue that he’d probably started to overwhelm it, and left to follow Killer out. 

He’d left it alone in the house a few times already— things were going to be fine, he reminded himself. 

Killer bumped shoulders with him as he got out, and he smiled, relaxing at the support. With his best friend at his side, things felt a lot more manageable. Maybe it really was going to be okay.

———pov: Fresh———

It woke to a kick to its side, and a sharp hiss from above ordering it to get up. It sounded like Killer.

The other must have been on pet duty. Usually he didn’t feel so energetic to it though. Maybe that was because it felt so awful today— it must’ve not woken up when he’d first tried to rouse it. Everything felt kind of hazy, a rare occurrence even though it just woke up; it was almost always quick to categorise its surroundings, it had to to survive.

His hand curled around its collar and dragged it up. Speaking back was usually useless, and it didn’t really want to deal with whatever power trip Killer was on, so it went limp. He wasn’t allowed to harm it too much, so it had some leeway to make his life difficult, at least until Nightmare got back from his trip and heard about its attitude.

This was doing nothing for the phantom of throat pain it was already dealing with, and it choked down any coughs. It needed to look unaffected— coughing and spluttering would be the opposite of that.

A pull, “get up.” The sharp words weren’t helping Fresh want to work with him anymore than the painful tugging.

Still, it noted something; a hint of genuine emotion colored his words. It hadn’t seen that with Killer often, the other usually a mask of empty cheer. “There’s even something innit for you.” He continued.

It regarded him with a half-lidded stare, asking, “What?” in a voice sounding a bit gravelly, and it forced itself not to cringe. Even after years away from its normal act, things that contradicted its image still got to it.

It tried to ignore the discomfort, focusing on the moment at hand, Killer’s offer. There wasn’t much that interested Fresh these days, except the possibility of escape; it highly doubted that was what Killer was suggesting.

“Got a special treat to go with your food today.”

Boring, bordering on insulting. Treating it like a mangy mutt excited for a bigger slice of meat, as if it wasn’t still going to be rotten.

“It’s going to be dog food either way.”

“Cat food.” Killer corrected.

It regarded him like he’d said something particularly stupid, but didn’t argue further. Whether it was dog food or cat food, neither made the idea of a treat alongside it any better. “Fine, fine. Lead the way, ‘boss’”

Killer didn’t take the bait like the other two would. Maybe he really didn’t care how similar to Nightmare he acted. He just pulled harder on its collar until it had no choice but to get its feet under it. At least it could be comforted by the fact Killer was going to be punished for leaving bruises on its neck.

Once up, Killer wasted no time in clipping its leash to the collar, before setting a brisk pace to the kitchen. A no-nonsense attitude. It was both better and worse than the others. They, at least, seemed uncomfortable interacting with it. Still, it meant there was less hesitance, that things would be over with quickly.

It wouldn’t have been able to keep pace if its legs weren’t almost double Killer’s in length. Normally it didn’t have trouble with that, but its joints ached and it felt a headache forming. It didn’t want to be doing this right now.

Its feelings on the matter didn’t matter though, not to anyone but Nightmare anyway [and he certainly cared about them in a way wholly unhelpful to it]. They found themselves at the entrance to the kitchen much quicker than Fresh would have liked.

Killer looped the leash around one of the many knots of stone and wood the castle seemed to  have in abundance [courtesy of being made by Nightmare, a plant adjacent… thing, Fresh thinks], and started prepping Fresh’s ‘meal.’

It hesitated to call it that. Meals were supposed to be alive, squirming, and, most importantly, containing magic. What Nightmare had scheduled it to eat whenever he was gone was not that, not in anyway at all. The cheapest dog or cat food one could buy, usually smushed up with a spoon and mixed with kibble. All served up to it in a little red dog bowl, only labeled ‘pet.’

Another way to demean it, Fresh was sure. When Nightmare was in, he’d only feed it new hosts or sweet treats Nightmare was enjoying himself. An association the guardian of negativity was trying to brute force into existence, that he meant it was getting fed real food. 

It stubbornly refused to wish Nightmare was here so it wouldn’t have to eat this horrid mixture while sick just to spite him, resolving to be extra awful to its ‘owner’ when he got back.

Of course, if Killer really was giving it a treat along with its dish, that could throw a wrench in things. It couldn’t see any reason Nightmare would want it to associate good things with anyone but him. 

It was shaken out of its thoughts by the sound of Killer setting the bowl down on the floor. It was the usual fare, though something about it seemed… off.

“And the treat?”

“It’s in there.” He pointed at the bowl of slop. So the treat was a lie. 

It huffed, but settled on the floor and picked up the bowl to start eating anyway. Killer, similarly, took a seat at the kitchen table.

It couldn’t really refuse to eat, even if the meal served no purpose further than making it suffer. Nightmare would be less than happy to hear it wasn’t following one of His orders. Egotistical prick.

It tipped the bowl and resolutely ignored as much sensory data as it could. It was the same as always, but it couldn’t help but think Nightmare got it the most putrid smelling wet food he could find because he knew its sense of smell was strong. Unfortunately it had no nose to pinch, so it just tried not to breathe until it was done. 

It could feel Killer’s eyes burning into it as it finished. The gaze didn’t wander as it coughed and gagged, nor when it pushed the now empty bowl back in his general direction. What a creep— not as bad as Nightmare, but that would be impossible.

There was a slight, almost imperceptible, sweet after-taste. It didn’t believe Killer would actually put a treat in, so maybe it was a placebo. It didn’t have time to linger though, because Killer was already wrapping the end of the leash back around his clawed hands. And well… tiny sweet aftertaste didn’t make up for the fact that the rest of it tasted rancid.

“What would you do if you got out?” 

It took it a moment to realize it hadn’t imagined Killer speaking, and another to understand he was talking to it. 

“What?” Fresh hissed, eyes narrowed. The words just screamed ‘trap.’ It would make the rest of the day make more sense too; Killer could definitely be trying to influence it into disobedience with the treat and the extra emotion in his voice could be from the stress of the plan. 

He didn’t respond, just looking at it with his awful empty eye-sockets. It glared back, spines raising as he didn’t elaborate or back down.

Eventually, seeming to realize he wasn’t going to get anywhere unless he gave in more, Killer said, “He knows we all want out. Saying something to me can’t make this any worse with him.” There was a gentle tug on the leash, a silent continuation it could practically hear in the air ‘and not answering could make things worse with Killer.’ 

“I don’t know,” it grumbled, annoyed, “run off? Hide in a ditch? Go back to eating people? What do you want me to say.”

Its voice got scratchier and more rough as it spoke, leaving it to end the sentence coughing.

He just hummed, and it felt like tearing something apart with its teeth. Would it kill someone for these people to say what they thought aloud? Did they get some sort of sick thrill in leaving it confused? 

“Okay.” He finally said. If it wasn’t so frustrated with the lack of information it had, it would find that fascinating. What was that supposed to mean, ‘okay.’? He believed it? Got what he wanted? Just felt like saying that?

It stifled a growl and just followed him silently. 

——

It couldn’t stop thinking about the day before Killer took it here, to live with him and Color. Looking back, the signs that something strange was going on were so obvious. He was just digging for information on how it would act once he took it here— see if it would be a good gift for Color, it now knew.

The fact that he did, took that short and angry response and decided it was worth it to steal it away as a gift for his… for Color, it didn’t know how that made it feel.

Insulted, to be treated like a commodity to pass around, or… it shook its head, it couldn’t be thinking about this right now. Already it could hear the gentle knock at the door; Color, coming in for their morning routine and inviting it for breakfast. 

It did as it was bid, replying with polite little one-word answers to all his questions, ignoring how Killer was at Color’s heels. Not regarding them with suspicion like it wanted too. Clearly he was Color’s favorite— it couldn’t get on his bad side.

It kept trading glances with Killer as they made their way to the table, wondering why he decided to follow so closely to Color’s morning routine to even follow him to its room. They gave nothing away, of course, and it nearly stuck its tongue out in annoyance. Nearly, of course, because it still didn’t know these monsters’ preferences, no matter its best efforts. Nightmare would have found the brattiness cute [except the times he very much didn’t], but it couldn’t get a read if the same would hold true for Color— and Killer, but he wasn’t in charge, so it didn’t care for his response much.

The meal turned awkward when a question aimed at it, and that it thought it’d answered… not well, but good enough, was answered by Killer as well. Color hadn’t said he wanted Killer’s opinion.

It froze, carefully still as if that would make it turn invisible. It barely kept in the stressed squeak when Color berated Killer and they gave an absolutely lacklustre apology; Killer was valuable, liked, Color’s favourite, so of course he wouldn’t punish him, but what if Color decided to take out his anger on Fresh instead…?

There wasn’t any type of explosion though, and Color didn’t even seem particularly angry. Just a bit miffed at Killer’s actions. That was- that was just weird!

The emotion must have shown in its face, because Color was asking if it was confused. It felt stupid, but quickly hid anything negative before it could get too annoying.

A response was probably still expected though. It looked at Killer, who didn’t seem stressed at all, and it nervously asked, “You ain’t mad? That sorry was sooo off base.”

There was something so soft on its owner’s face, it felt a little sick looking. “No, no,” he cooed at it, like it was a skittish animal, “I love Killer, he’s my best friend- I just got a little annoyed is all. And even if I did get mad, we’d talk it out.”

That was… really weird. Best friend privileges maybe? It really couldn’t see a world so nice to it that that courtesy would extend to it as well. The information was still useful though, so it stashed it away.

It couldn’t focus on that right now though, remembering the actual focus of the conversation. He’d appreciate it keeping on topic, hopefully. “I do like colorful things- brighter the better,” It mumbled, eyes darting towards him nervously as it tried to gauge his reaction. Neutral still, so it flaked on some flattery, “The sweaters you let me borrow were pretty rad too…”

There it was, a wide satisfied smile. It relaxed as it heard his next words, “I’m glad to hear that,”

Thankfully, it didn’t have to navigate any mine-fields as breakfast was finished and Color told it all the rules for when he was out.

“You have free reign of the house, just don’t go into either me or Killer’s rooms without a good reason, yeah?” He reminded it. He always mentioned the free reign of the house everytime, and it could hear a hidden order when it was given one— it would be expected to not be in its room when he was out. An easy enough task.

After some painfully awkward farewells, it skittered off to the living room and to the couch in front of the TV. It knew it was probably allowed on the furniture, but didn’t really want to do so when Color wasn’t there to invite it on.

Instead, it carefully settled behind the couch, pressed in-between it and the wall. Small and comfortable, a perfect place to wait until Color got back. 

It smiled to itself, feeling proud of how well it had been doing recently. Maybe it could even get as much affection and leniency as Killer. Maybe it could even get more. A pipe-dream, but… it wanted Color to look at it like that too.

Only for its safety of course. Having his affection, his attention, his soft smiles, gentle laughs— it shook its head before settling more comfortably behind the couch. Now was not the time for those thoughts; it didn’t know how it was supposed to compete with Killer and… it already lived a life more pampered here than nearly all its time with Nightmare. 

It let itself relax and get ready for its long wait. It liked this. It didn’t need to sully it with even more wants.