#but will probably do a different post for that | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

incognit0slut · 2 days ago

Text

Devil’s advocate

Softcore Spencer doesn't feel any remorse when it comes to this strange arrangement involving sex. Neither do you.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 3.6k Content: fem!reader, dom!spencer, bratty reader if you will, implied age gap, unprotected p in v, spit kink, overstimulation, squirting, and kinda fwb or (more precisely) not-exactly-friends with benefits a/n: it took me more than 3 months to post again and it will probably take me another for the next post (kidding) (maybe not). try to imagine this spencer for a better experience

Spencer isn’t a good man.

A quiet verdict, a fault line.

A truth etched into the grain of his being that is unmoved no matter how many times people say otherwise.

He’s made a habit of the dissection — words, meanings, intent. A lexical autopsy, combing through every definition in the dictionary if it meant finding just one that could give weight to the well intentioned affirmations spoken by those who’ve shared his life through fourteen years of cases. From friends to mentors. From people he considers family. Even his mother has taken part in the exercise in her own way, quietly revising the definition of goodness to fit the shape of her son.

His love for her isn’t enough to convince him.

And he loves her, deeply, enough to bear the fragmented reality she clings to without complaint. Still, her confidence sounds like a desperate attempt to defend a virtue that, as far as he can tell, simply doesn't exist. Her faith in him is stubbornly rooted in wishes rather than proof. Pretty, fragile things wilting from reality. She doesn’t see the cracks hidden behind the glassy surface of his supposedly endearing charm.

Like most people never do. The brilliance of his brain blinds them. They think his mastery of facts or ability to weave information into careful answers is a reflection of some deeper moral foundation. Assuming that the man who can recite obscure case law from memory and deconstruct a lie with nothing but tone and syntax must also be someone incapable of harm. That someone who thinks in algorithms surely knows the difference between right and wrong and essentially follows it. Articulate, therefore righteous.

What lazy math that they run.

The truth, however, is far less romantic.

If there’s anything genuinely good left in him, he likes to believe it’s the act of waiting. Patience still sounds noble enough. It casts him as a silent benefactor, gifting others the space to sketch their own truths while he quietly collects their misconceptions and spends them like counterfeit bills.

He’s getting good at it, too.

Exchange his intelligence for wisdom.

Detachment for strength.

Emptiness for depth.

Little trades, so small and constant they almost feel natural now. As long as he keeps showing them the version they’ve come to accept, no one pauses to wonder if those long months locked inside his own head have carved him down to something less than whole. Selfish, perhaps, letting them cling to these illusions. But it’s a comfortable deception. They get the man they want, he keeps the truth to himself, paying nothing but time and silence for whatever reward comes from that carefully preserved silence.

After all, waiting is nothing more than delayed gratification, isn't it?

And this right here is what he’s waited for, to have you like this — warm and wet and dangling precariously off his bed.

A decadent reward for every second of restraint.

Purely carnal. Blasphemous in its perfection.

Your body curves at an angle that looks uncomfortable, a leg hooked over his shoulder, another barely hanging onto the edge of the mattress with the cool air licking your calf. Common sense tells him a complaint is warranted, yet not a murmur of discomfort escapes your pretty lips. You seem perfectly content to let him mold you into whatever shape he wants. Harmless, he insists, just a mutual indulgence between two consenting adults.

But morality has a way of souring sweet things — and maybe he should be ashamed.

Should be embarrassed at the way he finds satisfaction in this.

Should feel something other than pride watching your brows pinch together in pleasure.

Should care that he’s reduced to fucking you with all the desperation of a man who likes being selfish. It’s statistically uncommon for someone with his level of empathy, yet he stitches hunger into the tender curve of your body, scoring endless sensation with needles that prick and sting but never draw enough blood to slow him. Only if he distanced himself from you could he see the cruelty he’s gouging into the very seams of your skin.

He does no such thing.

He can’t. Not when he’s buried inside you like this, when your breath splits apart into fragile little pieces with weak fingers clawing at his back. Not when his selfishness feels bottomless, a craving so raw and wide and insatiable he's never dared give it a name — but somehow you seem to understand.

Understand what, though?

That he can’t help himself? That despite all the logic, all the reasons why he shouldn’t let himself have you, he does?

That he doesn’t regret it, not even a little?

No.

Good men don’t do this.

But you’re no saint either.

Innocence wears your face, but never fit so poorly. You’re trouble in its finest form — beautifully packaged, masterfully delivered with a smokey laugh that glides over the fine shiver pebbling across his skin as you offer a sly, “You’re getting sloppy.”

The smug little curl of your lips has his heart leaping in his throat, and he would have joined in your laughter if it weren’t for the way your breathless tone slithered into his ears. His brows draw together, sweat dripping down nose as he shakes his head to free the damp strands of hair clinging to his skin.

“Am I?”

“Mm.” You tip your head back against the bed, exposing the lovely curve of your neck. "Your age is starting to show.”

He finally huffs a laugh, lowers the leg hooked over his shoulder and trails up the inside of your thigh. “That’s not very nice.”

Your teeth briefly catch your lower lip.

“Neither is slowing down right when it’s getting good.”

“You think I’m slowing down?”

You faintly nod. “It’s actually cute how you’re pacing yourself. Should I be worried about your knees?”

That earns a sharp, almost affronted look before his palms grip both your inner thighs, followed by a sudden thrust that sends you back against the mattress. He thinks he’s regained some semblance of power over himself, until you let out a breathless little moan and continue to taunt him, arching your back with full insolence but only half the mockery. Docile in appearance alone when you’re flaunting your nipples in blatant invitation.

“That the best you can do?”

A hand flies to your breast, curling around the supple meat as he catches the stiff bud between his knuckles. “You’re acting brave tonight.”

“Sexually frustrated,” you admit with an exasperated sigh, rolling your hips. Urging him to move again. “Spent the whole day picturing you fucking me stupid and got exactly nothing.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Nothing feels almost insulting considering how easily he coaxed you through his apartment.

He tries to bend lower, and sure enough, there’s something that feels suspiciously like age nipping at his lower back. A dull throb he quickly swallows as his mouth find your nipple. And toys with it, rolling the taut peak between wet tongue and wetter teeth, each slow suck a deliberate rebuttal that the way he’s been driving his cock into you for the past twenty minutes is anything but nothing.

Your fingers slip into the softest surface of hair.

“Fuck me harder.”

He turns his attention to your other nipple. “That still wasn’t enough for you?”

“If you have to ask, then clearly not.”

His mouth closes around you again, laps slow, teasing circles, all the while you grind your hips, shamelessly trying to fuck yourself with every delicious tug of his lips.

Instinctively, he starts rutting his hips in response. Little thrusts of his cock easing inside you inch by inch. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I have every intention of finding out,” you counter, pulling him by his curls. “I know you can do better.”

His gaze touches yours.

You smile lazily.

“Go on. Show me.”

His eyelids dip in a slow, dangerous blink, and lets his nose brush the soft swell of your breast. Lingers. Smells the powdery scent of jasmine and honey consuming his senses.

What part of himself can he exchange this time? What currency of half-truths still has any value left?

The answer, adamantly, is etched in the narrow space of his mouth and your skin, a hush too charged to disguise. He doesn't think he owes you anything in counterfeit tonight. No borrowed patience. No repurposed kindness polished thin by repetition. The second you ask for more when he’s been giving you nothing less is the moment every polished veneer he’s spent years perfecting shatters like chipped glass.

So he gives you the one thing he’s never bartered — himself, stripped of caution.

Because no matter how many labels others slap on his name, you’ve never bought into a single one.

Not entirely. You catch the edges that don’t quite align, the rougher layers hidden beneath his careful composure. You see past the softness everyone assumes is the entirety of him, the reputation they’ve stitched together from fragments pieced carefully since he was an innocent young boy with oversized glasses and a penchant for knowledge.

Rationally, he is soft. He’s spent a lifetime wrapped in the belief that his gentleness is his sole trait. That it’s all he can embody.

But not with you.

With you, he's whatever he needs to be.

He's whatever he wants to be.

He pulls back just enough to watch your body seize around him, and drags his tongue over his chapped lips, tastes the salt of effort and the musky smell of sex before channeling what’s left of his energy into his core. Then fucks you harder. Shoving every inch back with a strangled noise of his own, savoring the tight pull of your dripping cunt. Relishing the slight roll of your eyes as he pushes deeper, harder, with a savagery that rips breathless whimpers from the back of your throat with each jarring thrust.

Your moans ride every groaning hinge of the mattress, too, then linger, fogging the dark walls of his room as the wet slap of skin bounces off every surface. Stepping three beats out of time with reason, maybe more, for the way his eyes chase that music down the slope of your belly, following the trail of his thumbs over your mound, over your stretched folds, and pulls the soft skin apart.

His throat rises and falls in time with the motion of his cock — in, out, in, out. For someone so famously averse to germs, the streaks of your slick smearing across his skin outweigh every compulsion, so much so he pries you open even wider and lets a hot ribbon of saliva pool in his mouth. Watches it dribble over your clit. He’s nowhere near coherent enough to care about cleanliness when he can tell how much the slow trickle of his spit sliding down your swollen flesh — a foamy mess now resting heavily on his cock — only seem to intensify your thirst.

You squirm when he moves closer, fingers clawing around his wrist like you’re on the verge of asking for more but can’t bring yourself to say.

Stubborn, he's not surprised.

But he knows you well enough to understand the subtle shifts in your expression. He takes that slightly jutting lower lip of yours as a plea for him to give you what you need, so he smears the extra coat of lube over your clit and rubs frantically. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it too, not when he’s seen how much you like it under rough hands. He’s proven right when he notices your muscles tensing up.

Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.

He rubs your clit with more pressure. “Good enough for you?”

You swallow thickly, blinking up at him through heavy lids. “Still—fuck—”

“What was that?”

“Still—think you can—do better,” you retort, hiccupping through your words.

It’s beyond him that you’re still functioning. Your hair clings messily to your forehead, damp strands caught in a tangled halo around your face. Your cheeks are blotchy from where his stubble scraped across your skin, lips kiss-bruised and swollen and somehow still trying to get the last word.

You should be done by now. Boneless, reduced to little more than trembling limbs, yet you still have bits of reason floating around that mush he’s turned your brain into. There’s a spark of energy left to bait him. Foolish, he decides, but if there’s even a sliver of you left untouched, he’ll gladly take every fragment that dares to surface.

He wrenches off your body just long enough to fist his cock, dragging his bulbous tip through the sticky fluids down to the puckered hole beneath, then slaps himself through the mess. If it weren’t for your hips bucking shamelessly, he’d think he was wrong for indulging such filthy impulses he’s never dared to overstep. You can’t seem to discern whether the sharp throb is pain or pleasure, but your cunt flutters around emptiness and aches like it's grieving the loss of him.

One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s right back where you need him, hammering into that devastating spot that sends your pupils scattering upward, leaving nothing but the whites of your eyes. He pulls out and does it again.

And again.

And again, until he’s certain all your senses have braided into one indistinguishable pulse.

“Oh God,” you moan, trying to press your thighs together out of reflex, but his grip tightens as he pries them open once more.

You feel lightheaded. Your belly rolls, your cheeks burn, drool slips from the corner of your mouth. You’re so far gone you don’t even notice. Too wrapped up in the desperate drag of breath through your parted lips, too busy chasing the dizzy spark bursting behind your eyes. You’re nothing short of raw nerves, lost in the punishing rhythm that keeps tearing you open and stitching you together in the same brutal stroke.

It doesn’t take long for a high, agonizing squeal to wrench free from your throat as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Steals your breath away, leaving behind only a splintered string of gasps and trembling cries that fall recklessly from your lips as his pelvis hammers into the curve of your hip bone.

And he catches every fractured syllable and synchronizes his thrusts to the quiver of your voice, or maybe he’s simply addicted to the jagged rise and fall of your moans — like a direct stroke to his ego, trophies he hoards greedily.

He ponders how many more of those rewards he can coax from you tonight, how many more heights your body can scale before it finally gives way. He assumes it’s too much to ask, yet the greedy pulse in his veins insists there’s always more shiver to claim, another breathless note to add to his growing collection.

It turns out to be unnervingly easy.

Your second climax arrives in the span of a single heartbeat.

The third steals in like an electric stab, splintering along your spine as he pins you down and pounds hard into you.

By the fourth, your cunt swells and clenches around him in frantic pulses, yet he’s still fucking you relentlessly as if one more keepsake will finally satiate his greed.

Your hand shake when you lift one to trace his bicep, though it ends up as more of a twitchy pawing than anything resembling grace before you blindly scramble up his shoulder, finding his damp mess of curls again. Its wild, humid knot of heat tangles between your fingers as the most wrecked little whine trembles in your throat.

“P-Pee.”

He blinks, straining to pluck your voice over the rush in his ears. The words barely register at first, but when they do, his own pulse comes apart in a hot scatter mess.

“Need to pee,” you fluster again.

And if that doesn’t unravel him to his bones, he doesn’t know what will.

He tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs. “‘S not pee.”

“What?”

The confusion in your voice is almost cute for someone who usually acts like they know everything. Adorable how you’ve been nothing but provocative all night, only to falter gradually.

“You don’t need to pee,” he rasps. The grip behind your knees tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh as he drives deeper with all the focus he can muster. He’s holding back by sheer will alone now, even when the familiar feeling of his balls growing taut creeps up, but that ache is a small price to pay when he’s painfully aware of what your body is capable of giving.

His cock strikes a deep, delicious spot inside you.

Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him.

“Fuck,” you croak. “I’m gonna piss your bed.”

“It’s not pee.”

His words barely register when your whole body winds so tightly that your face doesn’t even look like yours anymore. Eyes unfocused, spine bowing, throat bared. The muscles in your neck tighten like cords that it’s clear you’re still trying to fight whatever pressure you’re under.

“You need to relax,” he urges, finding your clit once again. Wide eyes flutter over intense brown orbs.

“Wait wait wait—gonna pee—”

“You’re gonna come again,” he corrects. He sees you puff out a long breath, which is nothing less strained than his own. “Female ejaculation, different glands. Less than—”

His words catch in a groan as your cunt flutters around his thickness.

“…less than ten percent of the fluid is even related to—to urine.”

Annoyed, you tug on his curls and whine, “This isn’t the time.”

“No better time than now.” His hips continue to buck into you with a sharp, hungry rhythm. “You’ll understand if you stop fighting it.”

“I can’t!”

“You can.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. “You will.”

The sound of his balls slapping against the wet cradle of your ass is making you delirious. Even more so when a warm, buzzing sensation sparks in your core and rushes outward, blooming into this intense prick that spreads across your lower belly with startling speed.

“Oh—shitshitshit—”

“That’s it, just breathe through your nose.”

His words falls on deaf ears. “I-I can’t hold it any longer.”

“You’re not supposed to hold it in.”

"I—wa—wait—Spencer!”

“Let it out,” he frets, and closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads nearly touching, brows pulling together in quiet frustration. “Need you to trust me for once.”

“I don’t—fuck! I am NOT pissing on you—”

“Do it.”

“I can’t—”

“C’mon,” he prods. “Give it to me.”

You sniff a strangled sob.

“Do it.”

You claw at his hair once more, and any semblance of control that you clung to shatters immensely.

You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding. A passage of whines pitches upward as his thumb swipes side to side over your tight nub while he slams into you. Once, twice, over and over — until a concentrated surge of pressure around his cock urges him to pull out.

Warm bursts of liquid splashes onto him. Streaks down his damp thighs, the flushed skin of his skin. Seeps deep into the cotton fabric of his sheets with muffled sounds as your heart thunders wildly in your chest. He doesn’t even try to fight the smile that pulls at his mouth the second your eyes flicker with disbelief, or the lazy circle his thumb traces around your sensitive, overstimulated clit. He’s too focused on the way your release continues to mark the bed he intends to sleep in.

"There it is,” he hums proudly, "knew you could do it."

He did. He knew this would happen the moment your breath stuttered into helpless little gasps, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality. His lust blooms unchecked, a fever behind molten eyes, something his vision can’t seem to outrun. Even as his gaze blurs over your dripping hole puckering around nothing, over the tiny bead of precum trickling down your cleft, he’s stunned into silence.

You’re a ravishing mess, and he’s never seen anything so pretty.

You’re on another level of divine that it makes something in his head tick just from the sight. His cock twitches helplessly as he unconsciously inserts himself back through the warm puddle of your flesh, and swears he can still feel you fluttering. Feels the tremor in your sweet, sopping cunt. Hears the faint splatter of droplets beating the sheets with every deliberate stroke of his hips.

He’s long since fallen behind in being a good man, but you certainly deserve something in return for listening to him. So he reaches out, cradles your face between palms that have never claimed to be gentle, and drinks deeply. Tries to steal back the breath you robbed from him.

Kiss, taste, repeat.

Touch, grab, repeat.

But it’s not enough.

He doesn’t think it ever will be.

The dopamine surge won’t last, a notion as clear as the haze of your sweat gluing to his skin. He’s even sure he could rattle off half a dozen papers about reward circuits and compulsive behavior, recite the exact millisecond window in which the pleasure centers will spike and fall. None of it matters when your mouth parts for him and your breath warms his cheeks.

He tries to catalog the way your pulse thumps beneath his thumb, the microscopic tremor in your lashes, the sweetness of carbon dioxide exhaled against his tongue. It becomes another unsolved equation, a tangle of variables his doctorate never prepared him to parse. There’s only the thunderous beat of his own heart and the simple, staggering fact that you’re here, giving when he has taken so much.

But there is no safe dosage of you that will let him step back unscathed. One hit becomes two, two becomes habit, soon habit feels indistinguishable from necessity. An addiction he can’t refuse when it would only mean denying himself the only thing that makes him feel alive.

And if that makes him weak, he might as well be weak for you — again and again until there’s nothing left of him that doesn’t carry the imprint of your name. To ruin or to worship, it makes no difference to him.

He’ll fall to his knees just the same.

Your pulse begins to settle into a calmer rhythm in the hush that follows, and he scatters small kisses along the corner of your jaw, up the sweep of your cheekbone, pausing at the hinge of your lips. The gentle weight of his mouth has you shifting along wet sheets, every muscle tensing at the unexpected softness threaded through his touch.

Tenderness, in your world, feels foreign. Unfamiliar. Ill-fitting. And truthfully, he isn’t much better when it comes to you. Sharper tongues seem to be the better fit for two people who know how to fight more than they know how to surrender.

His lips skate beneath your chin instead, slides along the sweat slick column of your throat and hums, “Think you can do that again?”

Avoidance. It’s the language you both speak fluently.

The stiffness in your body bleeds out with your next exhale.

“…depends on your skill, old man.”

That's it. He can take another one of your barbed little comments. Another sly jab delivered with that pretty pout of your mouth. In fact, he finds himself almost craving it. Your taunts fuel the heat beneath his skin as much as they test his patience, and patience is something he's mastered after all. So he continues to grind his hips. Rubs the tip of your clit with the fine coarse of hair dusting his belly before you’re writhing again.

Peculiar, how easily his selfishness devours reason. Logic. Decorum. How quickly a man who’s built his life on discipline can find himself unraveling for something as simple and devastating as the way you gasp his name.

A good man would’ve stopped at the soft mist pooling in your eyes.

Spencer keeps going.

"If a God is a dog and a man is a fraud then I'm a lost cause." Devil’s Advocate—The Neighbourhood

#lou writes #♾️#spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid x fem!reader smut #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds smut

463 notes · View notes

twohearts-hs · 2 days ago

Text

Dove & Captain: 7 - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader Series

Words in Total: 11.9k

Pairings: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Synopsis: She's his Dove. The ER nurse who is the definition of chaos, trauma and humour in scrubs. He's her Captain, gruff, emotionally guarded war veteran with a prosthetic leg and completely in love with her. Six years together, a mortgage, four dogs and the ability to conquer anything. This is a story of their life in one day. He is 49, she's 30. This is one day of their life based on the 15 episodes of 'The Pitt'. There will be little imagines of their relationship over the years.

Warnings: Swearing, Age Gap, Trauma, Medical Language/Procedure, Pregnancy, Miscarriage, etc.

A/N: This is a complete series of ~60k. I will post a few snapshots of their relationship over the six+ years they've been together.

Hope you enjoy :)

Series Masterlist

2000

It was now eight o’clock. An hour passed the time Y/N was supposed to be off. Another hour into this mass casualty.

Y/N was on another patient. Jack was behind her with a different patient. Dr. Mohan was with her as they worked alongside one another.

“This is weird,” Dr. Mohan called out.

“What?” Jack asked, looking over.

“Shot in the chest but nothing out of the thoracostomy tube,” Dr. Mohan said to Jack as he came over.

Leaning over, Jack looked at the tube going into the patient. “You got through the pleura, ok?” he asked.

“Yeah, I definitely felt the lung with my finger,” Dr. Mohan replied.

Y/N was working around them, then glanced up. “Hey, I lost the radial pulse. I got a femoral though,” she stated, looking at the two doctors. “I think he’s bleeding out.”

Jack nodded. “Indeed, he is. Probably tore through the spleen,” he said.

“How?” Mohan asked.

“Ok,” Jack hummed, “nipples to navel is no man’s land. If he got shot while exhaling, the bullet possibly passed below the diaphragm.” He glanced over to Mohan. “Start a second IO, transfuse two units O-positive. Where’s Robby? Let’s find him and call Walsh. This guy needs the next OR immediately.” Then Jack was gone, moving to the next patient.

Y/N went straight back to her work.

Y/N continued to follow Mohan around. She was a great doctor, an excellent doctor and the more Y/N worked with her, the more impressed she was.

They were in a trauma room stabilising a patient when Jack opened the door and came in, pulling his gloves on as he entered.

“Tapping in,” he expressed.

“Thanks, brother,” Shen responded, patting Jack on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” Jack grunted, coming over to the side.

“EFAST normal. No abdominal haemorrhage, no tamponade,” Mohan stated, trying to catch Jack up to speed. Jack glanced at the monitors.

Jack looked at the wound before Y/N spoke up. “Pulse ox borderline, 89% on 15 litres,” she stated as they made eye contact. “BP’s only 95 over 58,” she finished, looking over at the monitor before going back to her work on the patient.

“Vinny Rivera…is he here?” the patient asked, looking over to them.

“I’m not sure, man,” Jack replied.

“I’m so sleepy,” the patient muttered.

“Were you tired right after you got shot?” Mohan asked. The monitors continued to repeatedly beep.

“Uh, no,” he muttered back. “I helped move 20, 30 people.”

Y/N continued to do her nursing duties as Jack analysed the monitor, brain trying to calculate.

“What’s causing his oxygen levels to tank?” Mohan asked.

“Up the oxygen!” Jack ordered, looking at Y/N.

She went over to the machine, trying to adjust it. “Abbot, 15’s as high as it goes,” she replied.

Jack walked over to her. “Gauge only goes to 15. Keep cranking, Kid,” he fired back. “You can get to 50.” Y/N nodded, going back to the machine.

Just then, the door opened and a woman appeared. “Brian?” she asked. Lupe was there too. Y/N and Jack both turned around. Jack stood there like he was in the military, hands behind his back as he stared at Y/N, then at the patient.

“Vinny got shot. I sent him with the first car I saw,” the patient stated, voice breathy. “Is he ok?”

The woman looked at Jack, then to Brian, leaning over. “You fight, Brian, ok? You fight like the stubborn bastard you are.”

“I tried, Whit,” Brian replied. “I tried,” he cried.

They continued to work with Brian, but the monitor continued to rapidly beep. No one had an idea of what was happening. Y/N glanced at the monitor and than to Jack and Mohan.

“He’s on 100% oxygen,” she stated. “His pulse ox is still only 88.”

Jack nodded, listening to the patient’s chest when Walsh came into the trauma room. “How’s it going upstairs?” Jack called over his shoulder.

“Regular spa day at the OR,” Walsh replied. Y/N was grabbing IV bags, changing them. “42 ex-laps and thoracotomies.”

“Impressive,” Mohan replied.

“What do you got?” Walsh asked, grabbing gloves.

“GSW through and through the thigh, not arterial, now hypotensive and hypoxic,” Jack replied, walking around the patient and trading spots with Mohan.

“Sounds like blood loss,” Walsh replied.

“No. Haemoglobin times 2 is stable,” Mohan stated, glancing over to Walsh. “Vena cava is plump. It would be flat with haemorrhage.”

Jack stared at the screen where the ultrasound was presented. “It’s actually a little too plump. Let me see the phased array probe,” Jack stated, grabbing the probe.

“Any history of heart disease?” Walsh called out.

“Not sure, but he’s a strong guy,” Y/N replied. “Got shot, strapped a t-shirt and belt around his thigh and ran around helping people for a few hours.”

Jack then gasped quietly. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed. “Check out the four chamber apical view.”

Y/N turned her head to look at the monitors.

“Dilated right atrium and right ventricle. Right-sided strain with vowing of the septum,” Mohan stated, reading the scan.

“Sounds like a PE,” Walsh added. “He threw a clot from having the tourniquet on?”

Jack shook his head. “Way too soon for a DVT. Ok, let’s get him in left lateral decubitus,” Jack stated, moving the probe before handing it back to Y/N. “One, two…” Y/N grasped the patient’s side and helped roll him over. “Trendelenburg ASAP.”

“What for?” Mohan asked.

“Intracardiac air embolism. All that running around introduced air into the femoral vein right up to the heart. Now it’s blocking blood flow to the lungs,” Jack told them.

“You need a CT to confirm,” Walsh replied.

“They’re still backed up with other patients,” Y/N said to Walsh.

Walsh looked at her. “Well, then maybe the cath lab can take them. They have fluoro. I’ll go check!” she called out, walking away.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Jack retorted, then he met Y/N’s eyes. “Kid, get me a central line kit and a 5 French pigtail catheter, please.”

“Yes, Captain,” she hummed, walking to grab supplies. Jack looked at her, sending her a hard glare. She was not allowed to use that nickname at work.

“Y/N,” he warned, raising a brow. Voice was low and sharp.

She smirked over her shoulder, already grabbing supplies. “You said please,” she replied sweetly. “I’m being polite.”

Jack stared at her again. “Y/N. Don’t.”

Mohan looked between them before looking at Jack. “He doesn’t have a collapsed lung,” she told him.

Jack grunted. “Yeah?”

“So, what are you going to do?” Mohan asked.

Jack glanced over, standing up straight as he stared at her. “I’m not going to do anything. You are.”

Y/N looked between the two of them, holding the supplies. She chuckled, shaking her head as she watched Mohan’s shock take over her face.

Y/N was watching, doing her job as Jack and Mohn were performing whatever they were performing.

“Got the IJ,” Mohan stated, placing a needle inside the patient while Jack held the probe.

“Ok, back to business as usual, thank God,” he stated, looking at the ultrasound. “Guidewire and introducer,” he began, grabbing the supplies on the tray behind him.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dr. Walsh spoke up as she entered the room.

“Dr. Mohan is about to pull air from the right atrium and right ventricle,” Jack stated, annoyance in his tone but also his damn stubbornness.

“With what?” Walsh barked.

“Five French Pigtail catheter,” Mohan replied.

“Inside the heart?” Walsh asked, voice sharp.

“It’s so cool,” Y/N replied, looking over her shoulder. “I want to do this.”

Jack glanced at Y/N. “You’re a nurse, Kid. Dummies is all you get,” he mumbled.

Y/N frowned. “Way to kill a girl’s ambition.” Jack just let out a low chuckle.

“Multiple side-holes gives you a better shot at suck out all the air,” Jack explained, watching the procedure be done.

Mohan glanced up. “Dr. Abbot showed me a case report from South Korea–“ Mohan tried.

“What the actual fuck?” Walsh barked, pushing Y/N out of the way.

“Woah, girl,” she muttered.

“Hey,” Jack stated. “Be gentle.”

Walsh glared. “I just talked to cardiology. They want a CT scan. If it’s showing air, then you need to dive him in the hyperbaric chamber,” she said, looking at the procedure.

“He’ll be dead by then,” Jack barked.

“Not if you kill him first with this banana-pants procedure,” Walsh fired back.

Jack was getting agitated. Y/N could tell. His brows were furrowed, his jaw was tight. “We don’t have time to wait for your fancy-pants machine,” he replied, tone sharp but low. “If we don’t get the air out of his heart, he’ll die.”

“This is not the standard of care,” Walsh replied lowly.

Jack shot up to look at Walsh, eyes glaring at her as if she had stolen the last cookie from the cookie jar. “Oh, fuck standard of care. If we want to save him, we go in now.” His eyes were glaring holes into Walsh.

Mohan was uncomfortable. “Maybe I should–“

Jack glanced at Mohan. “Thread in the pigtail?” he hummed, mocking Walsh. “Excellent idea, Dr. Mohan.” Jack grabbed the supplies before handing them to Mohan, sending her a reassuring nod.

Gentle beeping was heard as Mohan took the pigtail and continued to work under Jack’s supervision and words.

“Go down to 24 centimetres, and then we’ll confirm with X-ray,” he told her, watching as she did what he told her to do. “Good.”

“Think I’ll stick around in case you need another set of hands to resuscitate your patient when he crashes,” she remarked, then looked at Y/N. “Nurse, gloves.”

Y/N stayed there for a moment, raising a brow. “A please would be nice,” she muttered, walking away to grab gloves before handing it to her. She took them. “And a thank you would suffice. Mother never taught you manners, Walsh?” she hummed with a smirk.

Jack glanced up, smiling lightly but the average folk wouldn’t know. But Y/N, she knew.

Walsh looked over to her. Staring hard but didn’t respond as she snapped her gloves on.

“Pigtail’s in the right atrium, good position,” Jack said after they took an X-ray. “Aspirate, see what you get.”

Y/N was there, helping Mohan as she glanced up to see Jack staring at them. He was gowned up in blue, surgical gloves on and safety glasses. His hands were close to his chest, but far away to make sure its sterile.

“Pulling back blood from the heart…” Mohan muttered holding the syringe and pulling its trigger. “Along with some air,” she said then looked back at Jack.

Jack smirked, looked at Walsh. “How about that?” he snarked before walking back over.

“BP’s still only 85 systolic,” Y/N called out.

“No improvement,” Walsh stated the obvious.

Y/N let out a sharp breath, trying to keep her cool. Jack ignored her comment.

“Advance slowly into the right ventricle,” he told Mohan.

“How do I know when I’m–“

“PVCs–“ Y/N tried, looking at the monitor.

“That’s how you know. Aspirate again,” Jack stated.

“Run of three,” Y/N hummed as the alarm blared from the machine.

“More blood and air coming out,” Mohan replied, pulling more on the syringe.

“Run of five,” Y/N said.

“Non-sustained V tach. Charge to 200 for when he deteriorates,” Walsh commanded.

Y/N stared at her for a moment, and she raised a brow. Y/N then promptly nodded, moving away from the table and doing her orders and going to the crash cart.

“Mainly blood now,” Mohan explained.

Jack nodded. “Pull the pigtail back to the RA.”

“Step aside,” Walsh barked.

“Pull the pigtail, Dr. Mohan,” he commanded, looking at the monitor again.

“Step aside!” Walsh yelled, holding panels, however Jack took a step to block her.

“You got this,” he stated, looking at Mohan. Then Mohan pulled the pigtail.

Y/N smiled where she was. “Normal sinus rhythm, 92,” she called out as the beeping stopped. “Pulse ox is improving. BP’s 112 over 84.” She stared at the monitor.

Walsh stepped down. The patient stabilised and Jack was full-blown smirking. He turned his head slightly to look at Walsh. “Not too shabby, huh, Dr. Walsh?” he hummed. “I think we can admit him to General Surgery now.”

“Hell no,” Walsh replied.

Jack’s brows furrowed. “He’s a gunshot victim.”

“Admit him to the cardiac ICU. We’ll consult from there,” she barked back.

Jack hummed, shrugging. “Well, you can admit him yourself, with Cardiology consulting. I thought you liked flying the plane.”

Walsh took a step up to him, lowering her voice. “Not when it’s gonna crash.” Then she glared at Mohan and Y/N before leaving.

Jack turned back to Mohan. “Solid work.”

“That was your save, not mine,” Mohan replied, shaking her head.

Jack smirked. “Take the win, Dr. Mohan,” he hummed.

�� “Thanks,” she said, voice light and happy.

“Besides, it was a little too risky for me to do myself,” he hummed, looking down. Y/N watched them, working around them, shaking her. What an ass he was…a little shit.

“What?” Mohan breathed.

“Kid, suture?” he called over his shoulder.

Y/N chuckled, grabbing the supplies before handing Jack them. “So, you’re allowed to make jokes mid-procedure now? Is that what we’re doing now, Abbot?” she asked, smirking.

Jack didn’t look up as he took the suture kit. “When I’m saving lives? Yes, when you’re mouthing off at me? Never.”

Y/N smirked. “So, I can’t make comedy in your trauma room?” she hummed.

Jack looked at her. “Kid,” he warned, then shook his head. “Keep it to the stage but thank you for your application in entertaining me while I’m working. It’s in the trash.”

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. They were back to normal. Their banter was there, and Jack was actually letting loose at work. It was as if he wasn’t pissed off at her an hour ago, though she knows the lecture is coming.

Mohan blinked at them, pausing her movements. “Um, I’m sorry, but like you two close?” she asked.

“Y/N was part of the night shift for a long time,” Jack said, handing Mohan the suture kit. “Suture.”

“You two used to work nights together?” she hummed, brows furrowing.

Jack nodded. “Yeah, she was my charge nurse until she was moved back to days like two weeks ago,” he stated, watching Mohan.

Mohan shook her head. “Ok,” she muttered, looking down then back up, “Kid and Captain?” she asked, raising a brow.

“What do you mean?” Y/N asked, crossing her arms.

“He calls you kid like he’s your dad–“

“I am not her fucking dad,” Jack bit. “Not even fucking close.”

Mohan slowly nodded.

“Do not mix Abbot’s and I’s relationship with the word ‘dad’,” Y/N warned as she went to check his IV and change the bags.

“Right, so Captain and Kid,” she muttered as she began to suture.

“Ask the question, Mohan,” Jack stated, watching. “It’s burning.”

“You two are close?” Mohan whispered. “Like close? Because you act like a divorce couple who have joint custody of a dog.”

Jack chuckled lowly, shaking his head. “We have four dogs,” he whispered. “We share them. No joint custody where we trade off to different houses. We have one house.”

Y/N bit back her grin and chimed in casually. “And a mortgage.”

Mohan froze; mouth slightly open. “Wait…what?”

Jack stood straight up, peeling his gloves and gown off as he through them in the trash as he looked over. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Four dogs, a mortgage,” he muttered.

Y/N then smirked. “He may be the boss here, but I’m the boss in the bedroom,” she hummed, winking.

“Y/N!” Jack bit, snapping his head and hissing. “Shut it.”

Y/N just smiled like a kid with candy.

Mohan looked between them. “Oh my God, you’re the partner! I thought you were some metaphor. You know, like the ‘mysterious old guy with a truck and a grumpy demeanour’ genre.”

Jack snapped his head at Y/N. “One, talking about me when I’m not there?” he scolded, raising a brow. “Second,” he looked at Mohan, “I’m not a genre.”

“He is a genre, fulfils all my smutty romance kindle book fantasy,” she hummed, winking.

Jack shot his head back to her. “Y/N,” he warned. “We are at work. This is a resident at work. We are in a trauma room with a patient.”

Y/N stared at him. “God, you’re boring.” Then she rolled her eyes.

Mohan looked between them; brows furrowed. “You guys are so professional, it’s honestly disturbing.”

Y/N chuckled. “That’s trauma bonding for you, doll,” she hummed, winking.

Jack ignored Y/N’s comment and looked at Mohan. “No, seriously, good job. You killed it,” he stated with a smile before walking out of the room.

Mohan, who was still suturing, looked at Y/N. “So, that’s him?”

“Yeah, that’s my Old Man, McVeteran, McGrump. Who scolds me for reading kinky books, leaving messes, banned me from his fancy truck but loves me till the world ends,” she whispered, smirking. “I’m a lucky girl.”

Mohan nodded. “You’re the definition of one.”

“I think he’s lucky, cause who’d want to be with that?” she joked, pointing to the doors. “Kidding, he’s the love of my life.”

Mohan nodded. “I thought you were secretly with Robby,” she stated.

Y/N cackled, full blown cackled. “Don’t tell Jack that.”

Jack walked by the nurses’ station while Y/N was still with a patient in the trauma room. He brushed his arm against Dana. “Hey, you got a second?” he asked.

Dana turned to him. “Yeah,” she hummed, glasses on her nose. She turned to face him, taking off the glasses as she stared at Jack.

“What is up with Robby?” Jack whispered.

Dana shrugged. “He’s been better. I’m really worried about him. Maybe Y/N can get it out of him?” she said. “Use her psych degree and mental health background. Manipulate him into expressing his feelings.”

Jack snorted. “Yeah, she’s good at that,” he muttered.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” Dana stated, looking Jack in the eye. “Have you?”

“No,” he said simply. “How about you, slugger?” he hummed, smirking.

Dana scoffed. “Been better.”

Jack nodded. “Preach,” he hummed. Dana nodded, patting him on the arm. Then Jack got serious. “Y/N told me,” he whispered.

Dana raised her brow. “About?”

He tilted his head and raised a brow. “Pregnancy. Miscarriage,” he said. “She told me cause I kept budging. I asked her why she couldn’t give blood, and eventually she broke.” Dana blinked. Slowly. Then she took a deep breath. She crossed her arms as her face went serious. “Yeah,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. “She said she’d tell you. Robby and I both–“

“Robby knew?” he asked, brows furrowing.

Dana sighed. “Robby figured it out. He was there to give her the ultrasound today to confirm it was a miscarriage,” she said, voice low. “Don’t blame her. Don’t. She’s a survivor. You know that. I don’t know her story as much as you, but she’s not good with relying on someone when she needs emotional support.”

Jack nodded. He knew. He knew her well. “I know. I’ve been teaching her these years that I’m here and not going anywhere…”

“Marry her then, you grump,” she stated, nudging her.

Jack nodded. “I know. I will,” he said. “We aren’t focused on that right now. Fuck,” he muttered, “didn’t even had a single clue she could be pregnant. I track her cycle, and I know her body–“

“She wasn’t far. She was seven weeks,” Dana responded. “She found out yesterday when she puked everything up.” Jack nodded. “She was going to tell you, ok? Don’t think she was hiding this from you. And don’t ask me why I didn’t tell you…Abbot, this is her story…even if you were the father, it’s her body, her story.”

Jack nodded again before dragging a hand over his face. “Yeah, it is. She doesn’t deserve this. She’s had a rough go at her life–“

“Yes, but life has been good for her since you met her. She was what, twenty-one when she did her practicum for like six weeks. Then you swept her off her feet few years later, and life has been great for her,” Dana hummed. “Maybe before that was hard, but now she’s good. She’s not the same girl compared to when I met her. Now, she’s a–“

“Gremlin,” he stated with a chuckle. “She’s a gremlin and her brother is a goblin who crashes at our house, drinks my beer and eats my snacks while talking quantum physics to her and I have no idea what they are saying.”

Dana chuckled. “Those two are a team. She raised him since she was fourteen.”

Jack nodded. “I know.”

“She’s a mom, Jack. To Beckett. But believe me,” she looked around, voice low, “she always wanted a baby of her own.”

Jack nodded.

“And she has tried,” she whispered.

Jack’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“It’s not her first miscarriage,” she whispered. “Talk to her.”

Jack froze. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. His brows furrowed; jaw tightened. “Dana, are you saying she’d miscarried before?”

Dana’s face softened. She reached out, touching his arm gently. “Twenty-two was the last time. Then nineteen.”

His breath caught in his chest. “Two?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Three,” he then said, before breaking eye contact. “She’s been pregnant three times,” he muttered.

Dana nodded. “Talk to her. She loves you with everything in her, and she is not planning on ever leaving you. You’re the thing she needed in her fucked-up life. For her and for her brother.”

Jack nodded.

“She didn’t want you to go through another loss,” Dana added. “She didn’t want that on your conscious. Especially with losing your wife,” Dana muttered.

“I lost Grace nine years ago,” Jack said. “I’ve been with Y/N for six. Known her for eight.”

Dana nodded. She reached out, squeezing his arm. “Take her home. Make her a mean meal. Run her a bath. Buy her a fancy bottle of wine. Let all the dogs on the bed. Hold her. She’s going to need you. All of you. The quiet parts. The ones you keep locked away. It’s been a day. It’s been a lifetime for her,” she whispered. “And, don’t be mad at Robby for figuring it out and supporting her before you could. Don’t take it personally, ok?”

Jack just nodded, sending her a smile. “I don’t like it when she hides things,” he muttered.

“Jack…you and I come from different worlds. We had a childhood, a teenagerhood, a life. A mother, a father, siblings, a roof on our head and education. She was in survival. She worried how to raise a four-year-old at fourteen when druggy Mom ran away to New Mexico with a boyfriend who she met at casino. She learnt how to count cards so she could win in poker matches to put food on the table and pay rent. She dodged CPS and social workers until she got the law involved with becoming Beckett’s guardian which was finally granted when she was nineteen. She did shit to survive. She’s not your average folk. She’s a trooper. But no one knows the real story.”

Jack just nodded. “I know. Not all of it. But enough,” he stated. “I just,” he sighed, “I worry about her all the damn time.”

Dana shrugged. “She’s your girl. Your partner. Of course you do, but be patient. Talk to her. Let her tell you more when she’s ready, but don’t pressure her.”

Jack nodded. “Thanks, Dana,” he stated. “Thank you, really.”

“Be patient,” she said lowly. “But let’s see if Y/N could crack Robby.”

2100

Y/N came over after finishing with a patient to see McKay being arrested. Quick on her feet, she hurried to where Jack stood. Hands on his hips, a death glare given.

“Woah, what’s happening?” she asked, halting.

“I disabled my ankle monitor because it was going off,” McKay said then looking over to the officers, “and fucking with our ability to help patients during the mass casualty.”

McKay was in cuffs. Y/N was behind Jack, brushing his arm as he glanced at her. “Tell that to your judge,” the officer stated to McKay.

Y/N watched, arms crossed now as she looked between Robby, McKay and the officers.

“This is my resident. I need her,” Robby stated, voice serious and stern. Then he glanced over to Dana. “Call Gloria. You can at least wait a second to speak to our chief medical officer?”

The officer shook his head. “No, but they can call the Department if they have any questions.”

Robby’s jaw was shut tight, taking a deep breath, trying to contain himself. “We just came through the worst mass casualty incident in this city’s history, and you two are fucking around with this? Are you serious?” Robby stated, raising a brow. “You don’t have anything better to do?”

Just then, a group of officers walked by. The one’s who partner was rushed to surgery and Jack preformed a crike on him. Robby grabbed their attention.

“Officer Harrelson, can you please,” Robby grabbed his attention as the officer came over.

“Is there a problem here?” Officer Harrelson asked, glancing around at the group of medical professionals and additional officers while McKay was handcuffed.

“She disabled her ankle monitor,” the officer holding McKay in handcuffs responded.

“It was malfunctioning,” McKay replied.

“She’s in a custody battle with a restraining order and is considered a flight risk,” the other officer responded.

“A flight risk?” Y/N gasped. “McKay? No,” she muttered, looking at Jack, who remained focused on the scene.

“Bullshit,” McKay muttered. “That is bullshit.”

Robby nodded, crossing his arms as he looked at Harrelson. “It was interfering with our ability to treat patients. I’m not sure we could have saved Officer Stefano if she hadn’t disabled the damn thing,” Robby replied, pointing to the monitor, voice low.

“Is that true?” the officer asked.

“They saved Stefano’s life,” the other officer replied. “They saved a lot of lives.”

The older officer looked at McKay. “Take care of this first thing tomorrow morning?” he asked her.

“I swear,” McKay replied, voice full of promises.

“Take the cuffs off.”

McKay turned while her handcuffs were removed, giving her gratitude to everyone.

Robby shook the officer’s hand. “Thank you,” Robby replied.

“Thank you, for everything you did here tonight,” he responded, patting Robby’s shoulder before all the officers walked away.

Y/N got called to the code tan – a case of someone getting hurt in the hospital. Usually, fainting or a fall. She was wheeling the gurney when she looked up to see Robby.

“Robby! Pelvis crush injury,” she called out.

Robby was talking to Langdon about what Y/N knew, but didn’t want to think about it. Instead, she continued to move the patient to a bay area.

“Thought we were closed to trauma,” Robby replied, walking over.

“Well, code tan,” Y/N muttered. “He got pinned behind a truck backing up with replacement supplies,” she explained. “Oops. But, pulse is weak and tready, tachy at…”

They got into the trauma room, instantly gloves on and Y/N began to cut the clothes away from the patient.

“Grab me some monitor leads, please,” someone called out.

“100% non-rebreather,” Robby stated. “Let’s draw up 120 of ketamine, 100 of rock, and page trauma surgery, please.” He was pulling his gloves on.

Jack was across from Y/N, helping with removing the clothes off the patient. “The hell did this guy come from?” he asked.

“Our loading dock,” Y/N replied.

“Oh my God,” Jack muttered as they continued to work.

“Ok, I got the EFAST. Grab a binder. Obvious pelvic fracture,” Jack called out.

“I’m in a lot of pain!” the patient called out.

Y/N grabbed the supplies, handing them to Jack and Robby.

“You taking any medications?” Robby asked.

“Crestor,” the patient replied as they wrapped the binder around him.

“Any drug allergies?” Robby asked.

“No. Am I gonna be ok?” the patient asked.

Robby was using the ultrasound on the pelvis, trying to figure out what was wrong and how to fix it.

“Absolutely,” Robby replied, looking at the monitor.

“We got you, Hector,” Jack stated, looking at the screen too.

“BP 68 over 42, pulse 130,” Y/N called out as she glanced at the monitors. “I got a 14 gauge in the left AC.” Y/N was placing the IV in.

“Whole blood massive transfusion protocol,” Jack stated.

“Jack, we’ve got whole blood coming in from Erie and Youngstown. However, I’m not sure if it’s here yet,” Y/N stated, glancing up to look at Jack and shaking her head.

“Let’s go one-to-one-to-one, red cells, platelets and plasma. We’ve got that,” Robby called out. “Let’s place an IJ after the intubation, please.”

“Affirmative, Cowboy,” Y/N stated, turning away and grabbing the supplies.

Jack glanced up at Y/N as she went to get the supplies, shaking his head with light chuckle. “We are in a trauma, Y/N,” he muttered. “Not the time to be calling the chief nicknames.”

Y/N chuckled. “Oh, shut it. He loves it,” she hummed.

Robby glanced at her for a moment, shaking his head.

“Ok, EFAST negative,” Jack stated. “It’s all retroperitoneal. No blood at the meatus. Kid, Foley,” Jack called out.

Y/N was back, handing supplies. “Can’t call him cowboy but can call me kid?” she hummed.

“Not the time, Y/N,” Jack stated, voice low.

“Hector, you crushed all the bones in your pelvis, and you’ve got some internal bleeding. We need to sedate you to treat you,” Robby said as the machines beeped rapidly.

“Hurts a lot!” Hector replied.

“When you wake up, you’re not gonna be able to talk. You’re going to have a breathing tube in your throat,” Robby stated as Y/N continued to work alongside them.

“Can I speak to my wife first?” Hector asked.

“Afraid we have to move now, Hector,” Jack stated, looking at the patient.

“First unit of packed cells in the infuser,” Y/N stated from her corner.

Just then, the doors opened, and Dr. Parker Ellis and Dr. John Shen came in, smirking. “What have we here?” Ellis asked.

“It looks like two old white guys poached our patient,” Shen replied.

Instantly, Y/N glanced up, hearing those words. Biting down on her bottom lip, she tried to hide her chuckle, but it came out loud. Jack hated when people called him old, except when it was Y/N. Y/N constantly called him her old man and Jack tolerates it. While Robby, well, Robby got offended as well. To them, they weren’t old, but both approaching or over fifty anyway.

Jack and Robby instantly looked at one another as Y/N stared at them.

“Oh, I know you’re not talking about us,” Robby replied, voice low as he went back to intubation.

Jack looked at the two doctors. “Well, I know he’s definitely not talking about me,” Jack stated, shaking his head.

“Back off, you two, leave the senior citizens alone. They’re sensitive today,” Y/N barked, smirking.

Jack just looked at Y/N, sending her a hard glare. “Jesus, Kid,” he muttered. Then he told them the case, “Crushed pelvis, haemorrhagic shock.”

“MTP, pelvis binder. I’m doing an intubation, about to place an IJ,” Robby replied as Y/N grabbed saline and other medicines for the IV. “Ace, behave.”

“You need us?” Shen asked, raising a brow.

“We got this for now. Hold down the fort,” Jack fired back. “Get caught up on the day shift’s remaining PittFest patients, and we’ll get this guy stabilised.”

They continued to work on Hector, trying their best to stabilise him. Jack got gowned up, mask on, safety glasses and X-ray vest.

“Central line is in,” Jack called out.

“Let’s hook up the rapid infuser over to the IJ, and then we can shoot the film,” Robby muttered as Y/N and he fixed the lines.

“Clear for X-ray.”

The x-ray tech moved the x-ray machine over the patient as Y/N took a step back. The beeping was still rapid from the machines. Y/N walked over to Robby, who was stretching in the corner.

“How are you holding up, Cowboy?” she asked, nudging her hip in his.

He looked over to her, and it was all in his eyes. “Fine,” he eventually said.

Y/N just hummed. “Don’t believe it for a second,” she responded.

They shot the X-ray while Jack continued to work on the patient.

Robby looked at her. “I could say the same for you,” he replied. Y/N just nodded.

“Jack knows,” she whispered to him as Jack continued to be busy. “Found out during the mass casualty. I couldn’t give blood, and he dug into me,” she said lowly.

Robby glanced over to her and just nodded. “Good.”

“Clear!” the tech called back out.

Y/N and Robby walked over to the X-ray screen. Pulling out his glasses, Robby leaned over to look at the screen.

“Oh, that ain’t good,” he muttered. Y/N nodded too.

“Shit,” she muttered before walking over to the phone on the wall.

Jack glanced up to them, pulling his mask off as he came over. “What have you got?” he took one look at the screen and groaned. “Widened symphysis pubis anteriorly. “

“Distorted sacroiliac posteriorly,” Robby replied.

Jack shook his head. “Guy’s bleeding like a stuck pig,” Jack muttered.

“I got Dr. Walsh on speakerphone from the OR,” Y/N called out from the phone, holding it close to her ear before pressing a button and putting the phone back.

“Hey, guys, what’s up?” Dr. Walsh asked over the phone.

“We’ve got an unstable pelvis ring fracture, systolic of 68, EFAST negative,” Robby called out as they went back to the patient.

“Thought we were closed for trauma,” Walsh replied.

“Hospital worker versus reversing supply truck. MTP and pelvic binder in place,” Jack said.

“TXA?”

“Gave it,” Jack replied.

“Stable for CT angiogram?” Walsh asked.

“Uh, not at the moment, no,” Robby replied.

“Keep transfusing,” Walsh replied as they continued to stabilise the patient.

“The blood bank is still waiting on a delivery, unless you have some upstairs,” Robby replied, walking over to the phone.

“He doesn’t need surgery,” Walsh stated. “He needs interventional radiology to embolise the bleeders.”

Robby was leaning against one of the machines, glancing back at Jack.

“They don’t like unstable patients,” Jack stated, confused by her comment.

“They will tonight,” Walsh replied. “I’ll be down as soon as I finish this grade 5 liver lac.” Then Robby hung up on her.

They were continuing, but the patient was not stabilising. Minutes went by. However, Mel walked into the room, looking at them.

“54 after 3 rounds packed cells, FFP, and platelets,” Jack called out.

“Not too shabby,” Ellis responded.

Y/N glanced up when she spotted Mel, raising a brow. “Our measles kid’s parents are trying to move him to West Penn,” Mel said.

Robby, Jack and Y/N stared at her. However, Jack and Y/N went back to work as Robby yelled out, “Let them!” Shaking his head, he sighed. “They’ve been warned multiple times. I even took the father into the PittFest morgue to drive the point home.” Instantly, Jack and Y/N snapped their heads to Robby. “You what?” they said at the same time.

“Yeah, I doubt any hospital will take him without a spinal tap,” Ellis responded. Robby was still on the phone.

“I’ll be there in a minute. Don’t let them move that kid,” Shen stated.

Robby hung up the phone and looked at the crowd of medical professionals. “They can see this guy in 45 minutes in Interventional Radiology.”

“That’s a long time for this guy,” Shen replied.

“They’re just starting a REBOA,” Robby muttered.

“A REBOA? Who did a REBOA during a mass casualty?” Y/N asked, looking at Robby.

Jack smirked at Y/N. “One of his interns did,” he snickered.

“Santos?” Y/N asked, looking at Robby who was groaning in the corner. “Jesus, she’s gonna kill someone.”

“Shut up,” Ellis responded.

“I was busy,” Robby muttered, raising a brow.

“That was ballsy,” Shen responded. “Yeah, we can babysit this guy until IR is ready. You guys are three hours post-shift.”

“Whoo!” Robby exclaimed, throwing his hands up.

“This was supposed to be my day off,” Jack muttered, taking his gloves off, “bought steak and lobster. Was gonna grill and have wine.”

“I would love wine. Wine in bed. Wine with blankets. Wine with dogs and a good hot fucking shower,” Y/N muttered, stretching her neck.

“We got this,” Ellis stated.

Y/N was pulling her gloves off too now.

“Hasta la vista, vatos,” Jack called out as he threw his gloves in the bin. Jack’s hand came over, barely brushing Y/N’s back as they left the room.

“Talking Spanish at work, Old Man?” she hummed in his ear. “Talk to me dirty,” she whispered and smirked.

Jack glanced at her. “Y/N,” he whispered. “We are at work. Work.”

Y/N groaned. “Boring,” she muttered, rolling her eyes as she went to a computer. However, Jack grasped her arm for a second, pulling her back.

“When we get home,” he began, voice low, “we are going to talk. We are going to sit. We are going to have a conversation where we are going to be honest and listen to one another,” he said. “It’s been a day for you. You kept me in the dark.”

Y/N stared at him for a moment. He wanted to talk about the miscarriage that happened today. How she didn’t tell him. How she kept it from him.

“Serious talk. No jokes. No, trying to mask your feelings. Serious talk,” he said, raising a brow.

Y/N just nodded. “Yeah, you’re right,” she whispered. “We will talk.”

Jack nodded. “Good.” Then he went to leave, but she stopped him.

“When I’m ready,” she responded when he glanced away to leave her. “When I’m ready, Jack.”

Jack paused mid-step. His jaw tensed, that square silhouette of his back going rigid under his dark scrubs. For a second, he didn’t turn, just stood there with his hand curled at his side, as if deciding whether to push or leave it alone.

Then finally, he nodded once, slowly. Barely perceptible.

“Ok,” he said. His voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold. Just rough. Quiet. “When you’re ready.”

“We are ok, though, right?” she asked, voice breaking.

Jack looked at her, seeing the fear in her eyes for a moment, then he sent her a smile. “We will always be alright, Dove,” he whispered. “Just don’t suffer alone.”

Y/N nodded as he left to go to a computer to write his patients notes. A loud exhale came from her as she pulled her hair out of the elastic, running her fingers through the long locks as she looked around her. What a fucking day.

Robby came back from the ambulance bay. Y/N was sitting at the nurses’ station, pink water bottle in hand as she sipped through the straw and wrote out her notes. Finishing off everything that needed to be done.

Jack was by her at the standing computer. “Doing ok, man?” he asked as Robby walked by.

Y/N glanced up, looking at Robby and his tired state.

“Why do you keep asking me that?” Robby responded, walking into the nurses’ station before looking at the board.

Y/N turned her chair to look at them.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jack muttered. “You did take the parent of a patient into our makeshift morgue,” Jack hissed, staring at Robby. “Forget that its technically a fucking crime scene. That’s just not cool, man.”

Dana was next to Y/N, reading something as she slowly turned to look at Robby. Y/N was glancing between Jack and Robby now. Tension there.

Just then, Gloria walked up. “Just the two heroes I wanted to see. We’re holding a press conference in the education auditorium,” she said, looking between Jack and Robby.

Robby shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“I know you hate this stuff, but it’s important for this department and the hospital,” Gloria began.

Robby was breaking down. Y/N could see it. Jack could see it. He was rolling his shoulders back, looking at the ceiling as he took a sharp breath. “Trust me, Gloria. You don’t want me speaking to the press right now,” Robby said, sternly.

“Or ever,” Jack spoke up. Robby was running a hand down his face.

“Look, as much as you ER cowboys are a pain in my ass, what you and your department did here tonight was nothing short of miraculous. People need to know that,” Gloria stated, looking them over. “Take the win.”

She had no idea. Not a single clue of what truly happened there that day.

Ellis opened the door to Trauma 1, yelling out, “Need a second round of MTP.”

Jack glanced up. “What the fuck?” he muttered before walking over. Y/N stayed where she was as she already had her hand over to the night nurses.

Y/N was still at the nurses’ station. Cops came to talk to Dana about Doug Driscoll. Y/N continued with her finishing up.

“Kid,” she heard behind her. Y/N glanced over her shoulder as Jack had his hands on the top of her chair.

“Yes, my dear,” she hummed before going back to her computer. Jack’s hand came over, grabbing the water bottle that was next to her. Her giant pink one as he took a sip from it.

“You missed out on something good,” he whispered as he looked over at her computer.

“Do tell.”

“I did preperitoneal packing,” he whispered in her ear.

Y/N instantly turned her chair to look at him. Her mouth fell open as she crossed her arms. He stood there holding her water bottle, smirking at her. “That’s an OR procedure,” she whispered.

Jack nodded, raised his brows before shrugging. “Sure is, but I did one. Here. Done hundreds at the combat hospitals, but just did one here,” he told her. Then he smirked again. “And you missed out because you’re too busy tip-tapping on your computer.”

Y/N groaned. “Ugh, I did my hand off,” she muttered. “I should’ve been there. I would’ve loved to witness it.”

Jack leaned against the wall now, smug as hell, sipping her pink water bottle like it was a celebratory cocktail.

“You’d have loved it,” he murmured. “Patient was crashing. Abdomen tight. Blood pressure in the toilet. Had to act fast.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. “God, you’re the devil. Just showing off now.”

“Oh, yeah,” he admitted easily. “It was glorious.”

“You’re unbearable,” she muttered. “Give me that,” she muttered, taking the water bottle back and sipping it with exaggerated drama.

“What’s in there? It takes like berries,” he muttered.

“Robby put electrolytes in it and other fancy jazz a few hours ago,” she responded, sipping her drink.

He slowly nodded. “Good,” he hummed. They stayed quiet for a second as she turned back to her computer. “Almost done?”

“Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “Not too much left. Normally, I’m faster. But my four cups of coffee have exited my system, I’m running on like 3% of serotonin and residual adrenaline.”

Jack nodded. “Once you’re done, let’s go home. I’ll pick up something on the way home for us to eat, as I can’t be assed to cook.”

Y/N hummed, not answering right away. “Sushi,” she said eventually. “Or burritos. Or Chinese. But I feel like sushi,” she muttered. “Just order something you know I’ll eat. You pick, I’m easy.”

He nodded before brushing his knuckles along her arm for a second. “We will eat and talk,” he whispered.

“Yes, Captain,” she said. “Now scram and let me finish this.”

He nodded before walking away to the other computer to finish his own patient notes and logging the procedures he did. Y/N stared at him for a moment before turning back to her screen.

Next to her, Dana, glanced over. “You ok?” she asked.

Y/N glanced over. “I will be.”

She nodded. “Go home, sweetheart,” she muttered, nudging her. “Sleep. Talk. Eat. Cry if you need to. Shower. Then go lie on your old man’s chest and make him watch some reality TV.”

Y/N smiled, chuckling. “Let’s see if he allows me to eat in bed. What a grump,” she muttered. “Military man and all his fucking rules. I pay half the mortgage, too.”

Eventually, it was time to leave. Robby wanted to give a speech to everyone before they left. Y/N walked over from the nurses’ station, standing across from Jack and Robby, who were preparing for a little speech.

“Alright, everybody!” Dana called out. “Listen up!”

All eyes went on them.

“Today should never have happened,” Robby began. Y/N looked at him, then to Jack, who had his arms crossed. “It’s impossible to imagine that would possess somebody to commit such a horrific act. It’s the worst of humanity, but it brought out the best in the rest of us. We saw our better angels come to aid of our patients. Each of you rose to the occasion. And I can’t…can’t tell you how proud I am of all of you,” Robby expressed, looking all of them over, voice filled with emotion. “This place will break your heart. But it is also full of miracles, and that is a testament to all of you coming together and doing what we do best. Thank you for everything you did here today. We saw 112 mass casualty patients come through here in the last four hours, and 106 of them are gonna live.” Robby stopped, tears coming to his eyes as he glanced down. His voice broke. “None of us are gonna forget today…Even if we really, really want to.” Robby had tears in his eyes. Actual tears. Y/N bit down on her bottom lip, glancing at the floor as she took a breath. “So go home. Let yourselves cry. You’ll feel better. It’s just grief leaving the body.” Robby did one final nod before Jack patted him on the back as Robby walked away.

Robby was on the roof when Jack came up. Y/N was finishing off something and Jack saw Robby sneak off somewhere. He followed. Silent footsteps as Robby heard him eventually halt.

Robby let out a sigh.

“You’re in my spot,” Jack stated, nodding to where Robby was standing on the roof, hands on his lips. Robby was past the safety rails; however, he didn’t respond. “Just so you know, Grubhub will not deliver to the roof, but there is a DoorDash guy…uh…Marco, who will trek up here for an extra ten bucks, twenty if you want beer.”

Robby didn’t say anything for a moment, focusing on the city skyline and the bright lights while the darkness slept. Jack walked a little further up, grasping the rails, then glanced at his best mate. “Nice speech down there. Wish I had given it.”

Robby shook his head, still looking ahead. “No, you don’t.”

Jack scoffed, shaking his head. “No. Fuck, no. But I’m glad somebody did.” Then he leaned over, looking over the railing to the fall. “Yeah,” he hummed. “I think I finally understand why I keep coming back now,” he said, taking a moment as Robby glanced at him quickly. “It’s in our DNA. It’s what we do. We can’t help it. We’re the…we’re the bees that protect the hive.”

Robby sniffled, nodding as tears came down his face. However, he shook his head. “Maybe you, not me.”

“What are you talking about?” Jack asked.

“You know damn well what I’m talk–“ he halted, glancing away. “I’m talking about.” Robby continued to shake his head. “I broke.”

“You didn’t break,” Jack muttered, voice stern. “You didn’t break,” he repeated.

“I shut down. At the moment, everybody needed me the most, I wasn’t there. I couldn’t do it. I choked.”

Jack’s brows furrowed. “For what, for forty seconds?” Robby stayed quiet. “Three minutes? Ten minutes?” Robby turned to look at Jack. “So, fucking what? We all have that. That is what happens when you’re in a war and nothing makes sense.” Robby was running his hands through his hair. “We survived as a species because we learned how to cooperate and communicate, so when we’re in the middle of killing each other, it divides the very logic of our existence. Your brain starts to short-circuit. All you can do is focus on the medicine. The medicine’s the only thing that saves the patient and your sanity.”

Robby nodded along. “I’m gonna need a drink if you keep talking,” he muttered.

Jack glanced over. “You get what I’m saying, right?” Jack asked, voice low and brow raised. He leaned in, tone going serious. “You rocked that shit down there tonight.” Then a beat as he tried to get Robby to make eye contact. “Yeah? You rocked that shit down there tonight. We all did. Now that is a compliment. Accept the damn compliment for once.”

Robby looked back at Jack. “What if we just didn’t talk for a minute?” Robby muttered.

“I’m just trying to help,” Jack replied.

“I know.”

“I appreciate you–“

“Still talking,” Robby muttered, glancing away.

Jack nodded, looking away as he stayed quiet. “Sorry.”

Silence happened for a few minutes as the two of them took steady breathes and thought for a moment. Robby groaned lightly as Jack just stared at the horizon. After about thirty seconds, Jack looked up from looking at his feet. “I know you said not to talk, but I do need to thank you,” he began.

Robby looked over. “For what?”

“Being there for Y/N today,” Jack responded.

Robby didn’t say anything right away. His jaw flexed once, then again. He looked away again, back to the skyline, like it was safer than the weight in Jack’s voice.

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose. “I was mad,” he admitted, voice quiet now. “Fuck, I was mad. Not because I thought you did anything wrong or she did anything wrong, but because I wasn’t there. She needed someone, and I wasn’t the one there. And it killed me because the minute she was mine, I made a promise to myself that she’d never have to suffer alone again. But you were there and Dana.”

Robby swallowed hard. His lips parted like he might say something, but then he just shook his head and blinked rapidly.

“Never thought we would have an experience like this,” Jack admitted. “She has endo, severely, and I knew the chances of her getting pregnant were slim, and her carrying to full term was even slimmer. But,” he sighed, “it happened, and you were there. You were the one who figured it out before me, who gave her the ultrasound. You were the one who didn’t press, didn’t push. You just sat there with her. And when I couldn’t… When I didn’t even know what was going on, you had her back. So, thank you.” Jack found Robby’s eyes again.

Robby was quiet again, his chest rising a little harder now. And then, he broke, tears coming down.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said hoarsely. “I did it because I care about her. I’ve always cared about her.”

Jack nodded. “I know,” he muttered.

“I tried not to,” Robby whispered, looking away. “After you two got serious. I told myself I was over it. That I was just her friend. That I was her partner’s best mate. That I was her boss. But watching her today,” he stopped, rubbing at his eyes. “Watching her go through that. Alone. Quiet. Acting like she was fine. It,” he stopped and took a breath, “killed me.” He took a sharp breath. “Then she threatened me to never mention it again. That she was never going to tell you–“

“What?” Jack muttered.

Robby bit his bottom lip. “She was going through it. It was conflicting in her brain. She didn’t want you to go through loss again.” Jack nodded. “I love her too, you know,” Robby whispered. “Just not the way you do. Not anymore. But she’s family. She’s always been family.”

Jack didn’t speak at first.

He looked at Robby, really looked at him. The way his shoulders shook despite his effort to hide it, the way he wiped at his eyes without thinking, the way his voice stayed hoarse like something had torn through his chest. And Jack felt it in his own ribs, too. That ache. The familiar pain of watching Y/N suffer and knowing there was nothing he could do to take it away.

Jack nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered finally. “She’s family. That and her goblin brother,” he added with a chuckle. Then he shrugged. “Fucking genius that kid is. Scares me. The two of them. But I love that kid too. Even if he crashes in my bed when I work nights or steals my beer when I’m not looking or wrestles me when I’m in the middle of doing something.”

Robby nodded, chuckling. “That’s her kid,” he muttered. “And we will never know the real story.”

Jack shook his head. “No, we never will. I know enough, but not all of it. Don’t know where she lived between fourteen and eighteen when she raised him or how she fed him or…” he stopped and sighed. “I just know there was a woman named Charlotte.”

Robby nodded as he grasped the railing. “I didn’t want to be the one there,” he confessed. “I would’ve rather it been you. She should’ve had you. But when I saw her, fuck,” he muttered, “she was lecturing me and then doubled over in pain. I found her grabbing an ultrasound machine, and I pushed myself into the room and made her let me do it. I didn’t want her to suffer alone. And she just shrank…she was so small. And she said she was fine, but you could tell–“

“Yeah, she hides,” Jack muttered.

“She wants to be a mom” Robby muttered.

Jack nodded. “It fucking destroys me that I can’t give her that,” he muttered. “I would. I would do anything for her to be a mother…despite my age,” Jack chuckled.

Robby nodded. “I didn’t want her to look at the screen,” Robby continued. “But she did. I saw the sac, she did too. Saw the lack of rhythm. I just…” he stopped himself, voice breaking. “And she didn’t even cry. She just…thanked me. Thanked me. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Jack’s voice came out like sandpaper. “She does that. She thanks you when she doesn’t know how to feel.” Robby nodded. Jack bit down his bottom lip. “She said we’d talk. When she’s ready.”

Robby shook his head. “She won’t be,” he muttered. “Not fully. But she’ll try. For you.”

Jack nodded. “Get that drink now?” he asked.

Robby nodded. “Yeah.”

Y/N was at the nurses’ station on her phone. Hot pink cardigan on and her giant handbag that fits her whole life beside her. She leaned back as Jack and Robby appeared.

“Where’d you two old men run away to?” she called out, raising a brow as she pocketed her phone. “I feel left out. Complete FOMO.”

Jack’s brows furrowed. “FOMO?” he asked.

“Fear of missing out. Get with the language,” she hummed, smirking. “Seriously, where’d you fuck off to?”

“Roof,” Jack stated.

“Damn, where was my invitation?” she asked as she got up to walk to them, grabbing her bag off the floor.

“Kids aren’t allowed there,” Jack stated as they began to walk to the lockers.

Robby rolled his eyes, rubbing his face. “You wouldn’t have liked it anyway. It was mostly us bonding over trauma and failing mental health.”

Y/N chuckled, pushing her bag over her shoulder, but Jack took it off, holding the massive bag in his hands. “So…a brooding pity party with a skyline view? Sounds romantic? Were the clothes on or off?” she asked, smirking.

“Kid,” Jack hissed. “Enough.”

“What? I love a little guy-on-guy action,” she chuckled, nudging their arms. “Favourite porn category.”

“I am going to put a muzzle on you,” Jack muttered as they grabbed their things.

She groaned. “Ugh, fine. I prefer lesbian action anyway,” she muttered as they walked to the exit after Jack grabbed his backpack and Robby too.

Jack sent her a death glare while Robby just threw his head back in laughter. “I don’t know how you live with her, man,” he muttered, shaking his head before patting Jack on the back.

“I don’t either,” Jack deadpanned. “I survive her.”

Y/N beamed like he’d just given her a compliment. “Oh, you love me, Captain. I’m a full-time adventurer. Keeps you young.”

“You’re a full-time migraine, is what you are,” Jack muttered as they left the ER into the waiting room, still holding her bag in his hand. “Whoa,” Jack mumbled as they entered the waiting room. “It didn’t take long to fill up in here.”

“Never does,” Robby responded as they walked through it in a single line, Y/N in front.

“How long until we run out of boarding beds?” Jack asked over his shoulder.

“Probably sunrise,” Robby responded.

They were walking when Jack halted with Robby. Y/N looked from behind them as Myrna came in with a police officer. Dressed in sparkles and chaos, she grinned at the doctors while the police officer had her bag slung over his shoulder.

“She had a seizure,” the officer said to them.

“Of course she did,” Robby replied.

Myrna looked Jack up and down, smirking. “Looking good, Dr. Abbot,” she hummed, winking.

Jack nodded to her. “You too, Myrna,” he replied respectfully.

“Oh, thanks,” she hummed back. Then she saw Y/N. “Cupcake,” she muttered.

“Hiya,” Y/N replied, grasping onto Jack’s bag with her hand. His camo one with his last name embroidered on it. “Dabbling in nighttime mischief?” she replied.

“Always,” Myrna muttered, winking. Then she saw Robby as he walked away. She called over her shoulder. “Hey, Fruitcake. Fruitcake and Cupcake, my favourite bakery.”

Y/N called over her shoulder. “Want sprinkles with that attitude, Myrna?” Then she heard a cackle.

“You keep that sass up, Cupcake, and I’m gonna put you in my will. Leave you my collection of bedazzled ashtrays and felony charges.”

Y/N snorted as she continued to walk with Jack and Robby.

“Don’t harass my nurse, Myrna,” Robby called over his shoulder.

Then Jack looked at Robby. “Fruitcake?” he hummed then looked at Y/N. “Cupcake?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

“She reminds me of my mother,” Y/N muttered. “Without the pills. But attitude, absolutely. And the desire to show everyone her vagina.”

They all started chuckling. They exited the hospital; Jack placed his hand on Y/N’s back as they walked across the street to the park. It was dark, Jack dropped his hand as they got closer to the park bench. Y/N brought her cardigan closer. It was a Friday night in September, the breeze was there. Jack, who wore no jacket, wasn’t bothered.

“Cold?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “I’m right,” he muttered. She just nodded but rubbed her hand up and down his bare arm.

They got to the park bench. Princess and Donnie were there. Smiles went around.

“Hey, hide the hard drugs, kids,” Donnie said as he threw a beer to Robby. Then he threw one to Jack, who missed.

“Oh, nice catch,” Robby muttered.

“Loser,” Y/N muttered before perfectly catching hers.

Jack sat on the edge of the bench, placing his bag on the ground with Y/N’s before grabbing the back of Y/N’s caridgan to pull her next to him. She sat down as Robby sat next to her.

“Man,” Robby groaned as he took a deep breath.

Jack was playing with his prosthetic. He rolled up his cargo pants, revealing his transformer leg. Y/N glanced over to watch him.

Princess sighed before Donnie shook his head. “Today was a motherfucker,” he muttered.

“You in pain?” Y/N asked, looking at him. “How’s your hip?” she asked as he began to undo the leg.

“I’m fine,” Jack muttered. Y/N just nodded.

“You sure?”

“Grand, Kid,” he said as he got it off and handed it to her. Y/N took it, placing it in her lap as if it were nothing. It was normal for them.

Donnie looked at Jack. “Have you ever been in anything like that before?” he asked.

Jack began to massage his leg, and Y/N grasped his hand. “I’ll massage it tonight,” she muttered, bringing his left hand to her lips and kissing it. It was quiet enough for them to only hear. He was still wearing his wedding ring, but she was not bothered by it.

“Let’s hope none of us ever had to again,” Robby replied.

Princess shook her head. “No shit.”

Jack glanced up from massaging his leg. “We probably will,” he stated, voice gruffy and blunt. “If not us, others.” Then he grabbed his beer, cracking it.

Y/N cracked hers, bringing it to her lips. A subtle groan came from her lips. “Ugh, divine.”

“Yeah, but we survived that craziness, right?” Donnie hummed, nodding.

Jack just nodded, eyes directly on the nurse. Eye contact always.

“To the Pitt crew,” Donnie stated, taking his can up to the sky to toast.

“To all the people we saved,” Princess added, holding her beer up.

“Here, here,” Robby muttered.

“And the ones we couldn’t,” Jack added.

“To chaos, blood, gore and drama. We slayed that puppy like it’s a motherfucker,” Y/N muttered.

Then they took a sip, smiling at one another.

A few figures appeared as they drank their beer.

“Is this where all the cool kids hang out?” Samira (Mohan) expressed, smirking as she came up with Javadi and Mateo.

“Oh, you know it,” Donnie replied, opening the cooler to throw them a beer.

“Nice of you to join us,” Princess said.

“If there ever was a day,” Samira muttered as Donnie and each threw them a beer.

Javadi got a beer, and she shook her head. “Actually, sorry, I don’t drink,” she muttered. “I don’t know why I took that.” Then she handed it to Mateo.

“She’s not old enough,” Princess muttered.

“I’d say if she is old enough to put in a chest tube and intubate, she’d old enough to drink a beer,” Robby muttered.

“Kudos,” Y/N replied. “How old are you, Kid?” she asked.

“Twenty,” Javadi muttered.

“Holy shit,” Y/N replied. “Youngling. My brother is turning twenty soon, he drinks beer. Well,” she looked over to Jack who was looking at the ground, “Jack’s beer.” Then she chuckled.

“We won’t tell your mom,” Mateo stated, handing her a beer.

Javadi looked between them. How Jack placed his hand on Y/N’s thigh, squeezing it.

“Wait, you two are together?” Javadi gasped looking between Jack and Y/N.

Y/N smirked, taking a sip of her beer. She lowered it and raised a brow. “What gave that away?” she hummed.

Jack didn’t even look up, just took another sip of his beer, hand still resting on Y/N’s thigh possessively.

“I thought…” Javadi trailed off, looking at Robby with a confused expression. “I thought you and Dr. Robby were a thing.”

Robby choked on his beer.

Y/N let out a loud chuckle. “Oh my God,” she mumbled. “I did hear that rumour today,” she hummed. “Best entertainment.”

Robby chuckled, shaking his head. “No, Ace and I,” he looked at Y/N. “Good mates.”

Javadi’s brows furrowed. “You called him, ‘Cowboy’,” she stated. “Repeatly.”

Y/N shrugged. “Been at this ER for eight years. Everyone gets a nickname,” she hummed and looking at Jack. “Old man and Captain,” she hummed as Jack met her eyes. “What else do I call you?” Then she patted his thigh.

Jack muttered. “Six years,” he said, glancing up. “Been tolerating her bullshit for six years.”

Y/N hummed with her beer and hand, prosthetic on her lap. “Robby and I are close. Best mates with a dysfunctional but healthy relationship. However, I’m more into emotionally constipated war veterans with truck obsessions, collects emergency medicine kits and superiority complexes.”

Jack snorted. “You forgot the prosthetic.”

“Oh yeah,” she hummed. “That’s the best part. Real kink starter,” she stated, smirking.

Everyone snorted on their drink while Jack did a simple, “Y/N,” hiss.

Javadi blinked. “There’s a…a vibe between you two,” she muttered, looking between Y/N and Robby.

Jack stayed quiet, looking at the floor.

“Just wait till they work together,” Princess stated, pointing to Jack and Y/N. “They read each other’s minds,” she whispered, smirking. Princess then handed Jack some wipes.

“Thank you,” he replied, taking them.

“You guys do this after every shift?” Samira asked.

Jack took the prosthetic from Y/N’s lap and began to clean the shoe on it.

“Not always,” Y/N replied.

“Usually, it’s a little more lively,” Donnie stated.

“The emergency department throws wicked parties.”

Y/N watched Jack clean the blood off his shoes. Then he gestured to her with the wipes. She shook her head. “Not now.” He then nodded. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“It’s going to stain,” he whispered. She nodded and squeezed his hand.

“Just adds to the fear of me,” she replied.

Just then, Robby began to cackle. Loud laughter. Y/N glanced over to him.

“What’s so funny?” Samira asked.

Robby ran a hand through his hair and beard before looking at Javadi. “I just realised this is your first shift,” he said, looking at the med student.

Y/N’s eyes widened while Jack continued to focus on his shoes.

“Yeah,” Javadi muttered.

Then everyone began to laugh together. Jack smirked. “That was baptism by fire, baby,” he hummed, holding his beer up and a toasting moment.

“I can pretty much guarantee you the next one will be easier,” Robby added.

Javadi stared at Robby before nodding. “I really fucking hope so,” she stated, sternly.

“You’ll love it soon,” Y/N replied. “If you want to do ED. You’ll fall in love with it. Its gore, chaos, disorganisation and blood. You’ll be addicted to it without even realising it. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else,” she said, nodding. Then chuckled. “Maybe plastics. You can make so much money in plastics.”

“You’re not leaving the ER,” Robby and Jack stated at the same time.

“Doll,” Y/N stated, looking at Javadi, “take it from me. You’re twenty. Finishing your medical degree. Mama is a hot-shot surgeon. There’s an expectation for greatness from your environment.” Javadi stared at her. “Pick something you love. That makes you excited every day. That fills your bucket. Don’t live for other people. You’re the maker of your own destiny.”

Javadi blinked at her like she’d never heard someone say that out loud before. Slowly, she nodded, then glanced down at her beer in her hands, her eyes glassy with overwhelm. “Thanks,” she muttered, voice small but grateful. “I need to hear that.”

Y/N nodded. “You remind me of my brother. He’s incredibly intelligent and I tell him that its ok to fuck up, its ok to not know but its ok to take time to figure it out. You have the privilege to do that. You have the time. So, if ER is not for you, then find something you love, and if medicine isn’t for you, then there are other ways to help people.”

Javadi nodded. “Thanks,” she muttered. “I don’t know if I want be a doctor after today,” she admitted.

“Because today isn’t normal,” Y/N replied. “You’re here for a few weeks for your rotation, you’ll see normal. But you were great today. Excellent. You’re a great doctor, Victoria.”

She just sent a smile to Y/N. “Thanks.”

Jack looked over to Y/N. “You know this is a park hangout with beer not a TED talk, right?” he hummed, smirking.

“Oh, shut up. You love my inspirational moments,” Y/N replied. “Got to use the psych degree somehow.”

“You have a psych degree?” Javadi asked.

Y/N smiled. “I have a double major in nursing and psychology with honours. An IQ of 178 and an eidetic memory. Don’t let the charisma, humour and the massive rack confuse you, Doll.”

Javadi’s mouth opened, then closed again like her brain had stalled. “You’re kidding. Why aren’t you a doctor?” she asked, shrugging.

Jack and Robby both looked at Y/N, who stayed quiet. She stared at Javadi for a moment. “That’s where we are different, Victoria. I didn’t have the privilege to be one. But you do,” she stated, smiling. “So, make it your bitch. Because if I was in your position. I would’ve been a fucking goddamn award-winning surgeon.”

Javadi swallowed hard, her face falling a little with the weight of Y/N’s words. “Sorry,” she muttered, genuinely, cheeks tinged with pink. “I didn’t–“

Y/N cut her off with a soft smile and shake of her head. “Doll, it’s grand. This isn’t a pity party. This is me being a mom for a moment who is like ‘hey, make the world your bitch and bend it over so you can peg it’. I’ve given the same speech to my brother. You should meet. He’s a quantum physics major with a…well, debating between psychology or math as a minor. Honours as well. His IQ is 174, though. However, I’ve saved hundreds of lives and I’m happy so that’s what matters. I love what I do, and I love my life. I boss everyone around. So, don’t worry, ok?”

Javadi just nodded.

“You boss all of us around,” Robby muttered, lifting his beer. “Like an emotional support dominatrix.”

Y/N gasped. “Jesus, Cowboy, want me to pull out the leather outfit as well and the whip?” she hummed. Robby just chuckled, shaking his head. Y/N glanced back at Javadi then Samira. “Don’t talk to your attendings the way I do,” she said seriously. “It will probably get you fired.”

Jack sighed. “Behave, Y/N. Enough of the TED talks,” he stated, sipping his beer. “It’s too late.”

“Fine, I’ll save it for the pillow talk,” Y/N hummed, sipping her beer now. Jack rolled his eyes. “I bring it all. The speeches. The depth. The rack. What do you bring, McGrumpy?” she hummed, looking at her man.

Jack just stated, very seriously. “The retirement plan.”

Robby snorted beer out of his nose.

Donnie then hummed. “Hey, at least you didn’t get pissed on,” he added to Javadi.

“Oh my God, the kid got peed on, didn’t he?” Y/N chuckled.

“Who?” Jack whispered to her.

“Whitaker. Poor Whitaker,” Y/N muttered. “Med student.”

“Where is he?” Princess asked.

“Yeah, probably quit,” Donnie stated.

Robby shook his head, groaning. “No… Oh, that kid’s tough. He’ll be back. Just like the rest of us.”

Everyone nodded, however, an ambulance came by. The loud sirens were echoing.

“Home?” Jack whispered to Y/N. She nodded.

“Ok, that’s it for me,” Robby muttered, standing up as he grabbed his backpack.

“Want a ride, Cowboy?” Y/N asked. “Jack is going to get us food. He has the truck; I have the Bronco. So, I can drop you home.”

Robby looked at Y/N and nodded. “Yeah, sure, Ace. That’ll be great.” He stood up and looked at everyone. “Goodnight. Get some rest. Tomorrow is another day.”

taglist:

@bubbleraccoon00

@beebeechaos

@travelingmypassion

@kaisanpoint

@sweetwanderlust05

@kmc1989

@hiireadstuff

@dizzybee03

@keileighr

@wolfbc97

@introvertathome

@sharkluver

@katydunn047-blog

@kenzimae67

@qardasngan

@rosieposie88

@samanthadegaro

@meowmeowyoongles

@ego-allie-bap

@loud-mouph

@jojodojo02

Hope you enjoyed. xoxo

Send in imagine requests for Dove & Captain!

Ava <3

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader

373 notes · View notes

yepmadness · 2 days ago

Text

Hey so—this guy is neat. I think. Personally.

128 notes · View notes

bastardlybonkers · 2 days ago

Note

Would the headlights on Bee's wings count as biolights? And if so, would that make his wings anymore attractive? I'd assume they work like birds, the prettier and brighter they are the more attractive. Considering Bee is bright yellow and has lights on his wings would he be considered attractive to other fliers? Thank you

ooh alright so this ask gives me an opportunity to do another little analysis/hc dump, this time on cybertronian beauty standards! lemme start with the basics first

-personally, i dont think of fliers like birds, though ik bird behaviors is a pretty popular hc for fliers lol. i think a lot of them like wings because that means they can fly (cool flying alt, can fly together) and because theyre nice to touch and be touched!

-i think cybertronians find faces attractive due to the increase in expressiveness, so theres a cultural bias towards finding faces attractive. however, faceplates are still appreciated, and as james roberts has confirmed, those without lip mouths have the most erotic mouth build 😏 so that lends a huge bonus to faceplates, evening them out a bit in terms of beauty standards

-lights and bright plating colors are probably attractive, but id say really anything that isnt grey and lightless is probably handsome (grey looks like dead bodies to them)

-some helm shapes are just not very flattering, at least to cybertronians. pre-ghost, bumblebee's helm was probably considered extremely average looking, but post-ghost whoever built his body decided to upgrade his helm a bit lol

now for starbee specifically...

-starscream and bee are both obviously affected by the beauty standards of their culture, so theres definitely some aspects that carry over. however, theres things that they dont really care about either (for example, bumblebee doesnt really care how shiny starscreams plating is)

-i couldnt for the life of me find the lights on bees wings youre referring to in the ask 😭 i looked at all my refs but i dont see them 😔 he does have lights on his legs, which starscream probably does like, as he likes bright and pretty things in general (both on others and himself)

-starscream has never particularly cared about wheels, hes far more interested in bees doorwings. personally bumblebee would like a little more wheel attention 😂

-bumblebee finds stars wings cute, which is different from most people who like wings, who like them for the power they represent (he also likes the powerful jet alt mode but he likes getting a rise out of starscream even more)

-heel thrusters are a unique thing to cybertronians, and are probably considered a more niche attraction

#transformers #maccadams #transformers idw #starscream #bumblebee #starbee #tf #this is a mix of hcs and observations from reading the comics #like which characters they refer to as attractive #what traits they have in common #and what design elements are most prominent among transformers #im having fun im having a ball #my art

315 notes · View notes

baigepueckers · 1 day ago

Text

Caitlin Clark X Reader

Out of Frame

It’s not a flashy job, not in the way people outside of pro sports might think. But it matters. You handle content planning, player interviews, behind the scenes footage, postgame edits and those little viral moments that somehow make fans feel like they’re part of something bigger. You know when to post, how to frame a win, how to soften a loss. You’re always watching, always chasing that perfect 30 seconds that tells the story better than stats ever could.

You’re used to being needed. Not in the loud, dramatic sense, but in the way a team needs structure. Someone to tell the story right. Someone to catch the best moments as they happen and spin them into something fans can feel. You don’t need the spotlight…you just make sure it shines in the right direction.

Which is probably why you don’t notice the way Caitlin looks at you. Not really.

You see her, of course. You’re always seeing her. Behind your lens. In your peripheral. In the center of every thumbnail. But the way she sees you? That’s something different entirely.

To Caitlin, you’re not just a camera or a job title. You’re gravity.

She’s quiet about it, at first. Respectful. You’re staff. Professional. Probably out of reach. She tells herself it’s a harmless crush…something that will fade once the season gets hectic.

But it doesn’t.

It gets worse.

It starts in the gym. A week into the season, she catches sight of you perched on a stool near the wall, camera poised, headphones in. You’re laughing quietly at something Kelsey said…shoulders shaking, head tipped back…and the sound is muffled but real. You’re not looking at Caitlin. You’re not looking at anyone.

And she can’t look away.

Later, she can’t even remember if her shot went in. She only remembers the angle of your smile and the flutter of her stomach that followed.

You become a constant in her world. The season blurs…practice, travel, games, media obligations. She barely remembers what city she’s in most days. But then you walk into the room with your laptop and your clipboard and your hoodie sleeves baggy at your wrists, and suddenly she’s grounded again.

There’s a moment…three games in, when you adjust her mic for a postgame interview. Your fingers graze her collarbone. Barely a touch. She doesn’t breathe for five seconds.

She replays it in her head that night like it meant something. Like you felt it too.

She doesn’t sleep.

She finds excuses to talk to you. Always small. Always careful.

“Hey, that edit was sick, what song was that?”

“Mind if I tag you in this repost?”

“Do I look weird in that warmup shot, or is it just me?”

You always answer patiently, kindly, like you’re just doing your job. Which you are. But every time you speak to her…Caitlin feels like she’s winning something.

Every time you smile at her, it burns.

She starts to memorize things..your go to drink, the song you hum under your breath while editing, the way you chew the inside of your cheek when something’s not syncing right. She notices that you wear the same vintage Fever hoodie on road trips and that your phone screen is cracked in the corner and that your laugh gets softer when it’s late and you’re tired.

She knows it’s dangerous, how much she notices. How much she wants to notice.

How much she wants you.

One night in June, she walks past the media room at 11:42 PM. Lights off, but you’re still inside…just the glow of your laptop on your face, headphones around your neck. She shouldn’t knock. She should go to bed.

Instead, she lingers. Watching you work, jaw clenched in focus, hair pulled up in a way that drives her insane. She presses her fingers into the edge of the doorframe until they ache.

You look up.

She nearly turns around.

But then you smile.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice quiet in the dark.

She shrugs. “Something like that.”

You tilt your head. “Wanna sit?”

She does.

You don’t notice it, but she looks at you like she’s memorizing. Like she’s cataloguing every part of you for the nights she’ll be alone. She watches the way your fingers fly across the keyboard. The way your lips press together when you’re deep in concentration. The way your leg bounces softly under the table, probably to whatever beat you’re hearing in your headphones.

“You’re really good at this,” she murmurs after a while.

You glance at her. “At editing?”

“At… all of it. Telling stories. Capturing people. Making us look like more than stats.”

Your lips tug into a smile. “Thanks.”

She wants to say, You make it hard not to notice you.

She wants to say, I think about you when I should be thinking about basketball.

She wants to say, I’m falling for you and you don’t even see it, do you?

Instead, she says, “You ever film yourself?”

You blink, confused. “No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is low. Careful. “Just think it’s a shame. You’re always behind the scenes. Someone should show your side.”

You shake your head, smiling softly. “I’m better off out of frame.”

She swallows. Doesn’t argue.

But the thought claws at her the rest of the night.

Because you don’t know it, but you’re the whole picture to her.

A week later, Caitlin gets fouled hard mid game. She hits the court. Slides. The arena gasps. You gasp.

She doesn’t get up right away.

She hears her name shouted, hears her teammates’ voices, but the first one she really hears is yours. From the baseline. Soft, strained. Desperate.

“Caitlin.”

You’re not supposed to be that close. Not supposed to sound that shaken.

Later, after the trainers clear her, after she’s checked and iced and fine, she catches you watching her. From behind your camera, lips pressed tight, brow furrowed.

She waves a small “I’m okay” toward you.

And you…you smile. It’s brief. But it means everything.

She clings to it like a lifeline.

She starts drafting texts she’ll never send.

“You made me feel seen today. I don’t think I’ve ever had that before.”

“I keep trying to be normal around you and failing spectacularly.”

“Tell me to stop and I will. But God, I hope you don’t.”

She deletes them all.

She can’t risk it. Not yet. You’re too important. Too good. Too… unreachable.

But the yearning? The wanting?

It’s constant.

It’s everything.

#nika muhl x reader #ncaa wbb #nika muhl #paige bueckers x reader #caitlin clark #wbb x reader #caitlin clark x reader #paige bueckers #caitlin x reader #ncaa women’s basketball #kate martin x reader #indiana fever #wnba x reader #wnba basketball #wnba players #iowa wbb

182 notes · View notes

sprachspieler · 20 hours ago

Text

Good morning and thank you for the picture of the bee! I didn't know anything about carpenter bees, but they are quite interesting.

Structuring the posts is probably a good idea. So I'll start with some minor comments, then there's the main section about money creation, and lastly a brief note about money-as-power.

Minor comments

You see both check and cheque in NZ. For that sort of word, I think generally older people use the British spelling and older people the American spelling. Though it's sort of a moot point, since they've pretty much entirely disappeared in the last few years.

A note about small transactions: I can definitely see that it'd be difficult to get the police to go after someone for stealing a small amount. My disagreement is that I don't think this makes sense as a cause of inflation. I doubt any firm (or whoever sets the prices) has thought, "Oh, there's a lot of money around nowadays. The government won't be able to enforce the value of all of it. I'd better raise prices." Possibly it works as an abstract interpretation of what inflation represents, like a sort of metaphor. But then we get into very philosophical questions about how theories relate to the world.

Money creation

I'm not really sure if you don't understand how commercial banks create (non-physical) money or if you do understand the process but just view it differently, so I'll try to cover both possibilities.

Say Alice, Bob, and Carol all have an (at the moment) empty bank account with the same bank. The government prints $100 and gives it to Alice (I suppose she works for the government). She deposits the $100 in the bank, so the bank records $100 in Alice's account. The bank might then loan Bob $50, which it does by just recording in its ledgers that Bob has $50 in his account and owes the bank $50 at a later point in time. Alice and Bob then buy goods from Carol, which costs them all their money. The bank records that Carol has $150 and Alice and Bob have $0 each.

The crucial step for commercial bank money creation is the loan to Bob. When a bank lends, it just declares that the borrower has however much money in their account. They need to have enough currency in their possession to allow for withdrawals, but beyond that the sum of demand deposits is not limited by currency. That's how money is created.

I think you probably view the extra $50 as fake? I argue that a definition of money where that's the case is suboptimal* because (1) people can actually spend it to buy goods and services (favours if you want to be an engineer about it), (2) they can do this simultaneously (without the extra $50 being backed by an extra $50 of currency), and (3) it comprises the majority of money in our economies and is the way in which most transactions take place** (and the definition of money ought to recognise how transactions actually occur).

*I think definitions can't really be false, but they can be worse in various ways.

**It might differ in the US, but I don't even remember the last time that I used cash.

There is a sense in which the money is in a superposition of states that might collapse (or something; I don't know physics), but that is specifically if Alice and Bob want to convert their money into currency. As long as they're happy to keep it in a demand deposit, it's all fine. (And I wouldn't characterise money in a bank account as being unobserved, since it can still be spent, as above.)

Summarising, my contention is that:

Banks create more demand deposits than the amount of currency that exists.

Even when multiple people's money 'comes from' the same currency, they can still spend all of that money.

Because this money can be spent, it is 'real' money.

So not all 'real' money is created by the government.

Last bit

I think also I might've been conflating your theories about power/money and those about where money comes from. I don't have much of a specific disagreement with the former, but I have a technical disagreement (or maybe it's just semantics) with the latter. There is some connection between the two, but I don't think they're the same. You can still understand money as power without asserting it is all created by the government.

It's so weird to me when people are like 'but that will cost the government money!' So what? They're the government, they're supposed to be spending money. What, you want them to take your tax dollars and then do nothing with it? Lock it all up in a big government vault and just look at it? Why are you so scared of giving a third grader lunch or a homeless person a house.

#economics #banking #money #originally I assumed you had read some MMT and that was the basis of your views #I don't think universities teach MMT #at least mine doesn't #also you say it's bad for a government and society if people start accepting their currency at lower rates #this is either inflation or exchange rate depreciation #neither is unambiguously bad #some countries intervene to weaken their exchange rate to boost exports #China is the obvious example #and central banks target a positive level of inflation #though I think that's because the negative effects are considered to be outweighed by the fact that the central bank becomes more flexible #in its ability to stimulate the economy #I don't know what you already know about central banking so I don't want to try explaining it #also it's not relevant #it's to avoid something called the zero lower bound though #also to be pedantic NZ does not have a federal government because we are not a federation of states #I think it's a unitary government technically or something #people here just say “the government” or maybe “central government” to distinguish from like city councils #also writing in the tags is kind of annoying so I'm not sure why I wrote so much here #hope your sea work goes well #and the political situation improves somehow

58K notes · View notes

zeisoul · 2 days ago

Text

⌗﹔tiptoeing ☄️⸝⸝

박지성 park jisung x reader ⋮ the rain keeps falling, the screen keeps flickering, and somewhere between comfort and curiosity, you and jisung cross a line you’ve both been tiptoeing around.

‎੭୧ warning ━━━ virgin!jisung, softdom!jisung, virgin!reader, best friends to lovers, first time sex, unprotected sex ( pls dont do that. ), lap-sitting, straddling, deep open-mouthed kissing, grinding in underwear, erection-through-clothes tension, praising, dirty talk, handjob with lots of mutual touching, fingering, overstimulation, post-orgasm cuddling, cum inside, and fluff !!

the rain’s been falling for over an hour now, tapping soft against the window like a lullaby. the living room glows dim from the tv, flickering light spilling over your socks, the blanket stretched over both your legs, and the half-empty bowl of popcorn between you.

jisung’s beside you, hood up, one knee bent on the couch, the other leg tapping restlessly to the beat of whatever song is playing faint in the background. he’s close — maybe a little closer than usual. or maybe it just feels that way tonight.

you’ve done this before. a hundred times, probably. movie nights with snacks and hoodies and dumb arguments over which version of spider-man is best. but tonight, something’s different. there’s a tension humming beneath it all — soft, almost shy, like neither of you want to say it first, but you’re both painfully aware.

you shift to get more comfortable, and your fingers brush. barely. but it’s enough to make him freeze.

you glance at him. “you okay?”

his eyes flick to yours, wide and startled like you just caught a secret spilling out of his chest. “yeah,” he says too quickly. then adds, quieter, “just cold.”

you nod, but your heart’s already thudding louder than the rain. you should leave it there — you know you should. but your fingers twitch, and then… you’re moving.

you climb into his lap, slowly, testing, your weight settling over his thighs with a soft shift of fabric. he stiffens beneath you like he’s trying not to breathe too loud.

“is this okay?” you whisper.

he swallows hard. his hands hover like he doesn’t know where to put them. “y-yeah. it’s… yeah.”

you smile, just a little. lean in, noses brushing. “then relax.”

you don’t move right away. just sit there, nestled in his lap, arms looped gently around his neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. jisung’s hands stay planted on the couch, like touching you would make this real, would cross some line neither of you can uncross. he’s looking at you like you’re made of something breakable. or maybe like he is.

the rain keeps falling, steady and quiet in the background, a soft rhythm that matches the thrum under your skin. the movie still plays, but you’ve both stopped watching. the only thing that exists now is the warm press of your thighs around his, and the slight tremble in his breath every time your hips shift just a little.

his hoodie bunches where your arms rest, fabric soft beneath your fingertips. you toy with the seam near his shoulder. “you’re really warm,” you murmur, more to fill the space than anything else.

he lets out a quiet laugh — breathless and almost nervous. “you’re… sitting on me.”

you grin, but you don’t move. “am i making it hard to focus?”

his eyes flick down to your mouth, then quickly back up. “i haven’t been focused since you got here.”

that catches you. your stomach flips, heat curling low. you don’t tease him for it. instead, you lean in slowly — giving him time, space to pull back if he wants — and press your forehead gently to his.

“me neither,” you whisper.

his hands finally move. one settles at your waist, tentative, the other sliding up your spine so lightly it makes you shiver. he pulls you a little closer, noses brushing, and when your lips finally meet, it’s soft. careful. like neither of you want to scare the moment away.

he kisses you like he’s learning how. and maybe he is — because this is new. not the being close, not the warmth, but the kiss. the way your lips part for his. the way you sigh into it when his fingers curl against your hoodie. the way his breath stutters when you shift your hips just slightly, just enough to make him feel it.

he pulls back a fraction, eyes glassy, lips kiss-bitten. “can i…?”

you nod, already breathless. “please.”

his hand trembles just a little as it slides under the hem of your hoodie, fingertips grazing the warm skin just above your waistband. you feel it — the hesitation, the weight of what this means. it’s not just touching. it’s letting go of all the fear that’s held you both back until now.

you exhale slowly, leaning forward until your nose brushes his again, lips barely a breath apart. “it’s okay,” you whisper.

he swallows hard. his other hand moves too, lifting until his palm rests against the small of your back, holding you to him like he needs the contact to believe this is happening. you guide one of his hands up a little further, under your hoodie, until he’s tracing your spine with the lightest pressure.

your own hands move then — slow, exploring. fingers brushing his jaw, the curve of his neck, the slope of his shoulder. he shivers under your touch, breath catching when your thumbs graze over his collarbone through the fabric.

“you’re shaking,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“you’re in my lap,” he says softly, trying to smile. “and you’re touching me like that.”

you hum, amused, kissing him again — a little deeper this time. your tongue grazes his lower lip, just a tease, and he makes a sound you’ve never heard from him before — something between a gasp and a whimper. it punches heat through you instantly.

your hands drift lower, over his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing under your palms. you push at the hem of his hoodie gently, and he lifts his arms without a word, letting you pull it over his head. his hair is a little messy afterward, cheeks flushed and eyes wide.

you take a moment to just look.

he’s beautiful like this — bare-chested and slightly nervous, all soft lines and smooth skin, like he’s never been touched like this before. and maybe he hasn’t. not like this.

your fingers trace along his ribs, up to his chest, and he bites his lip to keep from moaning.

“you okay?” you ask.

he nods too fast. “yeah. yeah, i just… you’re really… it feels good.”

you smile, pressing a kiss to his jaw, then lower — the curve of his neck, the hollow of his throat. he tilts his head to let you, fingers digging into your waist now, like he doesn’t know what else to do with the ache building in his chest.

you shift again, straddling him more fully, and both of you suck in quiet breaths at the friction it causes — the unmistakable pressure of him, hard beneath his sweats, pressed against you through layers of cotton.

his head tips back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “fuck…”

you reach for the hem of your own hoodie, eyes on him. “can i?”

he opens his eyes, pupils blown. “please.”

you peel it off slowly, shy under his gaze even now. but the way he looks at you — mouth parted, chest rising and falling quick — makes it easier.

his hands move again, gently cupping your waist, thumbs stroking just under your bra. “you’re so…” he doesn’t finish. maybe he can’t.

instead, he leans up to kiss you again — deeper this time, more sure. his hands are learning you now. your curves, your warmth, the soft sounds you make when he touches just right.

and beneath all of it, the tension keeps pulling tighter. softer. hotter.

you can feel how hard he is through the thin layers between you, the slow grind of your hips making him twitch every time your weight shifts. his mouth is locked on yours now — desperate, open, deep — like he’s trying to breathe you in.

when you finally pull away, his lips are pink and swollen, his voice barely steady. “baby… i wanna touch you.”

your stomach flips at the way he says it — low and breathless, like it’s killing him to hold back.

you nod, voice gone soft. “please.”

he doesn’t rush. just keeps kissing you slow while his hand slides down between your bodies, slipping past the waistband of your shorts. his fingers find the warmth there instantly — the damp heat of your pussy soaking through your underwear.

he lets out a shaky breath. “fuck, you’re wet.”

you whimper as he presses a little more firmly, rubbing slow circles over your clit through the fabric. your hips jerk forward and he grips your waist to keep you steady.

“you like that?” he asks, voice wrecked already. “you been sitting on my lap like this, needing it?”

“yes, yes, i—” you can’t even finish. he pushes your panties to the side and slides one finger down, parting your folds so gently it makes you shake.

and then he’s touching your bare clit — slow, teasing strokes, just enough pressure to keep you gasping.

“fuck, baby… you’re so soft. so pretty right here,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to watch his fingers move. “i’ve never done this, but i swear— i wanna make you feel so good.”

you let out a broken moan as he slips a finger inside you, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. he watches your face carefully, like every twitch and sigh is the most important thing in the world.

“so fucking tight,” he groans. “you’re gripping me so hard already, shit.”

he starts to move it — slow at first, dragging his knuckle with each thrust — and you swear you see stars. a second finger comes next, and the stretch has you clutching at his shoulders.

“that’s it, baby,” he breathes, kissing your jaw. “you’re taking me so well.”

his thumb finds your clit again, circling gently while his fingers curl just right inside you, coaxing out breathy gasps and needy little whines. your hips grind down on him helplessly, chasing more.

“please, jisung,” you whisper, voice cracking. “don’t stop.”

he leans in, voice right by your ear now. “i won’t, baby. i’m gonna make you cum on my fingers first, then you can ride my cock, yeah? you want that?”

“yes—fuck—yes, please,” you whimper, thighs trembling.

he groans into your neck, picking up the pace just a little. “god, you’re so good like this. such a good girl for me. letting me feel your perfect little pussy before i even get to fuck it.”

you cry out when his fingers hit a spot that makes your vision blur, your back arching instinctively.

“there,” he says, lips brushing your cheek. “right there, baby? yeah? that’s it?”

you nod frantically, breath stuttering, nails digging into his arms as the tension in your stomach coils tighter and tighter.

“cum for me,” he whispers. “let me feel you. make a mess all over my fucking hand.”

you do — hard.

your whole body shakes as you fall apart in his lap, cunt clenching tight around his fingers, gasping his name like a prayer. he keeps working you through it, rubbing your clit slow as your orgasm crashes over you.

when it finally fades, you collapse against him, panting, forehead pressed to his shoulder. he kisses your temple, still stroking you gently, so careful even when his cock is straining hard against you through his sweats.

“you okay, baby?” he murmurs.

you nod, dazed. “so good. too good.”

he grins, pulling his fingers out slowly, holding them up just to see the slick coating them. “fuck.”

you reach between you and palm him through his sweats. he groans, hips jerking into your touch.

“need you inside me,” you whisper. “please.”

he leans back just enough to get a good look at you — flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, lips still parted as you catch your breath. and when your hand wraps around the thick outline of his cock, pressing through the soft fabric of his sweats, jisung lets out a ragged groan that vibrates in his chest.

“baby,” he pants, grabbing your wrist gently, “if you keep doing that, i’m gonna cum before i even get inside you.”

you give him a lazy little smile, rubbing slow just to tease. “maybe i want you to.”

he growls — soft but real — then lifts you just enough to strip you fully, underwear and shorts left in a careless pile at your side. your hoodie rides up, and he helps you peel it off, letting his hands drag along your skin like he’s memorizing every inch.

then he’s flipping you carefully onto your back, laying you across the mess of blankets and pillows with the movie still flickering behind you. he pushes his sweats down far enough to free his cock — flushed, thick, already leaking at the tip.

you gasp a little when you see it, not out of fear, but anticipation. “want it,” you whisper. “please, jisung.”

he shudders. “fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.”

he kneels between your thighs, stroking himself slowly while his eyes rake over your body. “you’re so fucking pretty. i’ve thought about this— about you— for so long, baby.”

you open your legs for him instinctively, watching the way his gaze drops straight to your soaked pussy.

“look at you,” he groans. “all wet for me already. you want my cock that bad?”

“yes,” you breathe. “need to feel you. want you to fuck me.”

he doesn’t make you wait.

jisung leans down, lining himself up, tip nudging through your folds with the slick already dripping down your thighs. he hisses through his teeth. “you’re so wet— it’s gonna slide right in, baby. you ready?”

you nod, breath caught in your throat.

and then he’s pushing in, inch by slow inch, thick and hot and so careful — until he’s buried deep inside you, hips flush against yours, his cock stretching you open in the most delicious way.

you moan, legs wrapping around his waist.

he’s trembling a little above you, holding himself still. “fuck. you’re so tight,” he breathes. “feels like heaven.”

you squeeze around him and he gasps, eyes fluttering shut. “baby— don’t do that, i’m barely holding on.”

you giggle, a breathless little sound, and he smiles down at you — a little dazed, a little wrecked — before pulling his hips back slowly and thrusting in again.

“god,” he groans, “you feel so fucking good. pussy’s gripping me like you never wanna let go.”

he starts to move, slow but deep, each thrust hitting all the right spots. the sound of skin against skin mixes with the low moans slipping from both of you, the wet slick of your cunt taking him so easily echoing between gasps.

“such a good girl,” jisung pants. “taking my cock so well. look at you, baby. fuck, i’m never gonna forget this.”

you’re clinging to him now, nails digging into his back, every thrust pushing little whimpers from your lips.

“more,” you beg, voice cracking. “don’t stop, jisung, please.”

he kisses you hard, swallowing your cries, hips starting to move faster — still deep, still controlled, but with a hunger he’s not hiding anymore.

“you’re mine,” he growls against your mouth. “this pussy’s mine now. no one else gets to touch you like this. no one else gets to fuck you like this.”

“yours,” you gasp. “only yours.”

he reaches down between you and rubs your clit again, making your whole body jolt. “gonna cum again for me, baby? want you to cum all over my cock. make a mess.”

you’re already close — the pressure building fast, unbearable in the best way.

“i—i’m gonna—!”

“cum, baby,” he urges, hips snapping harder now. “cum on my dick. let me feel you.”

you fall apart under him, pussy clenching tight as your orgasm rips through you, back arching, eyes rolling back. you scream his name, hands scrambling for something to hold onto.

jisung groans loud and deep, cock twitching inside you.

“fuck— i’m cumming—”

he slams in one last time and spills inside you, warm and thick, filling you up as he gasps through it, body shaking from the force of it.

he stays there for a long moment, buried deep, breathing hard against your skin.

“holy shit,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. “that was… fuck.”

you’re too gone to answer right away, just wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him close.

your bodies are still tangled, chest to chest, limbs limp with the weight of release. jisung hasn’t moved much, still deep inside you, his cock softening slowly as his breath evens out against your cheek.

your limbs are heavy with the kind of exhaustion that feels good — a little shaky, a little sore, but wrapped in something deeper. comfort. closeness. everything still smells like sex and skin, but it’s not overwhelming. it’s grounding.

jisung’s arms never left you. he’s curled around your body like instinct, face buried in your hair, breathing in slow through his nose as if trying to remember this moment forever.

“you okay?” he asks again, voice quieter now. there’s no edge to it. just care.

“i’m okay,” you say softly, brushing your fingers up and down his back. “i feel… warm. floaty.”

he lets out a breath of relief. “good. i was trying to be careful. you know… since it was both of our first time.”

you smile into his chest. “you were perfect.”

his hand rubs up and down your side under the hoodie, lazy and soft, like he’s still calming you down even though you’re already melted into him. your thighs are still a little sticky, sore in the best way, but his presence — the solid feel of him, the weight of his hand, the beat of his heart under your cheek — makes all of it feel safe. good.

he looks down at you like you’ve just won a war for him. “i love you, you know.”

you blink up at him, lips parting just slightly. “you do?”

“mhm,” he hums, smiling so softly it makes your chest ache. “i’ve known. i think i’ve just been too scared to ruin the best thing in my life.”

you prop your chin on his chest. “jisung…”

his fingers tuck your hair behind your ear. “and now i’ve had you like this… all of you. and i still feel like the luckiest idiot on the planet.”

you kiss him. slow, deep, full of the kind of love you’ve been holding onto in pieces for too long. he breathes into it like it’s saving him.

“we’re okay,” you whisper. “we’re more than okay.”

“yeah.” he brushes his nose against yours. “we’re so fucking okay.”

you both lie there for a while. the storm’s softened into a drizzle now. the movie is long over. the glow of the room is dim and warm, wrapping you both in something that feels like forever.

his hand strokes over your bare thigh, thumb smoothing circles there. “still comfortable?”

“mm,” you nod. “just a little sore.”

he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “let me know if it’s too much, okay? we’ll stay like this as long as you need.”

“i like this,” you say, letting your leg drape over his. “you. the rain. your arms.”

he hums, content. and then… you shift just slightly — thighs brushing his again — and pause. you blink. then blink again. you’re not imagining it.

the press of something firm against your hip.

you glance down.

and then look up at him with a teasing little raise of your brow.

“jisung…”

he makes a strangled sound and hides his face against your neck.

“don’t,” he whines softly. “don’t say it—i swear i’m not a perv, i just… i can’t help it.”

“you’re getting hard again.”