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calamitypod · 2 years ago

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By the Dice: Ten Candles

Heya folks, this is Avery, your friend and dice guy. Let's talk dice stats.

We didn't do this last time as Kingdom is completely diceless---it's a fully narrative engine, and dispenses with the chance element that dice introduce.

Ten Candles does use dice, albeit with a few twists that make analysis interesting, so let's talk about it! As this is lengthy with multiple figures, we'll be doing so below the cut.

Part One: The Basics

Ten Candles operates on a d6 dice pool system, with (usually) between 1 and 10 dice in the pool. Only a 6 counts as a success, and only one success is needed to keep a scene from ending (though rolling fewer 6s than the GM cedes narrative control, which we'll talk about later).

Since each die only has about a 17% chance of rolling a 6, pool size is going to be your best indicator of success, like so:

[fig 1: pool success rate]

Part Two: The Kicker

Each scene starts with a dice pool equal to the number of candles lit, and any 1s rolled during the scene are removed from the pool until the next scene. As such, you're probably only rolling that 10d6 dice pool once, and the longer a scene lasts, the more likely it is to end.

So, question one: how many 1s are you likely to roll, given your pool size? (This is the same answer as 'how many 6s', so we'll be coming back to it in a bit.)

[fig 2: % chance of rolling a certain number of 1s based on pool size.]

And question two: for a given starting pool, how long can you expect a scene to last? Remember, all that's needed to end a scene is a roll with no 6s.

[fig 3: dice rolls before failure, by starting number of dice.]

From this, we could construct a basic game of Ten Candles: we start with a dice pool of 10d6, and for each roll, remove any 1s from the pool. When we fail a roll, we refresh to 9d6 and continue, and so on, until we eventually lose our 1d6 pool and end the game.

We can talk about this distribution in a couple ways. A median dice roll game would look something like 3/3/3/2/2/2/2/1/1/1---but, interestingly, if we sum our games together, the actual median game roll is about 23.

We can also think about this in terms of cumulative probability. The chance that you will have exactly 10 rolls in your game is overall pretty small, but the chance that you will have at least 10 is 100%*. Thus we can get the plot in figure 4b, which might be a more intuitive interpretation.

[fig 4: (a) total anticipated dice rolls; (b) probability of at least x number of rolls occuring.]

*for dice-only purposes; we'll talk about the candles later.

Part Three: But Wait!

One of the core pieces of Ten Candles is that your character sheet is burned as you go. Two of the four parts are traits, which are mechanically straightforward: each trait provides a single opportunity to reroll the 1s in your dice pool. This could save you from ending a scene early, or simply safeguard part of your dice pool for future rolls. Crucially, you can't burn both your traits in the same scene.

So, about those 1s: referencing figure 3 above, we can anticipate any roll that includes a 1 to be available for rerolling, which is higher for earlier scenes/higher starting dice pools. However, as pools shrink, those chances go down.

How often we can expect this come up is something like this:

[fig 5: total valid rerolls per game]

We've got a median of around 13-14, which for a game with median 23 rolls is around 60% of the total rolls in the game.

Of these, a fair number are likely to be rolls that would otherwise end a scene.

[fig 6: total scene-ending rolls that could be rerolled by burning traits]

These are all most likely to happen early: the median breakdown of rerolls per scene is something like 3/2/2/2/1/1/1/1/0/0.

[fig 7: valid rerolls per scene, by number of starting dice]

So how do we think about these? How likely are they to succeed, and how much do they extend a game?

This is where things get trickier, because we have to start considering two new factors: (1) how many players there are, and (2) free will. The problem presented by the number of players is clear---it directly corresponds to the total number of traits that can be burned, and thus the rerolls available. This is something we can implement.

The second problem is more difficult. Unfortunately, I can't simply summon 3-6 of my friends to play several thousand games of Ten Candles with me so I can track when and how often they choose to burn traits, but what we can do is look at a couple possible options:

Part Three-point-One: We Carry On

To start with, let's assume that we only burn traits when an available roll would otherwise end the scene. For the moment, we're also going to assume that rolls align perfectly with people who haven't already burned traits in the scene. So that means:

The total number of rerolls is twice the number of players.

The number of rerolls per scene cannot be more than the number of players.

Keeping in mind that Figure 4a above should hold for any player number provided that they aren't burning traits---and thus represents our sort of minimum median number---when we roll the dice we find the following:

[fig. 8: total anticipated dice rolls, burning traits for valid scene-ending rolls]

What I think is fun about this is that while burning traits does extend the game, by this metric it doesn't really matter how many players you have---the median is up from 23 to 27, and stays there solidly the whole time.

If we think about why this might be, we get a couple possibilities, including that most trait-burning instances are done with small pools and are likely to end in failure. We could get into the average number of traits burned and the average success rate, but frankly this is already long, and we'll cover some of that ground later.

For the moment, then: if burning traits on scene-enders brings the roll count up, but can fall short due to shrinking pool size, let's expand our burning criteria.

Part Three-point-Two: Dice Pool Conservation

While we could theoretically reroll any dice pool with a one in it, for the moment, we're just going to assume that---in addition to any valid failure---we're rerolling any time that there are two or more 1s in the dice pool.

[fig. 9: anticipated total rolls with expanded burn criteria]

So we can see that player number does make a difference, but it's not as big as you'd necessarily think---and rerolling those extra 1s doesn't matter quite as much as one might hope, bringing our medians up to 28 rolls for a 3-player game and 30 for a 6-player.

What's interesting as well is that the chances of burning everyone's traits drops overall as player number increases---it's about 98% for a three player game, 92% for 4, 77% for 5, and only 54% for 6. Which in some ways makes sense---so far we've been increasing the total number of rolls (and thus valid rerolls), but not in a way that's quite proportional with player count.

While we could leave it here, for the curious, we're going to run one more edition of trait burning:

Part Three-point-Three: Maximum Reroll

[fig. 10: anticipated total rolls if rerolling at every opportunity]

If we reroll at every possible opportunity, it turns out that it... doesn't really matter (at least for extending the game)! Our 3-player median roll count actually goes back down to 27.

What it does do is ensure that you're almost certainly going to get through everyone's traits; even a 6-player game has about a 96% chance of getting through all 12 rerolls. Whether that matters is another question, but that's governed by the narrative and not by the dice. Where it makes a difference here is for the other parts of the character sheet.

Which means...

Part Three-point-Four: So That Was A Lie

Whoops, we've got one more thing to consider for traits, which is that we've assumed perfect roll distribution.

In actuality, if one character is particularly active in a scene, there's a reasonable chance (if not necessarily an easily-quantifiable one) that they'll have a reroll-valid roll after already burning a trait in a scene. Likewise, stack order means that characters with moments (we'll get to them) above traits in their stacks are likely to encounter reroll-valid rolls but won't have anything to reroll it with.

As such, the trait-burning numbers above should be a considered a sort of best-possible case, where the rolls magically align with people who have traits to burn. In a real game, that's likely to drop, and the chances of getting through everyone's piles goes down. And while we can't actually simulate the way that a narrative might follow a character through part of a scene, we can simulate stacks.

So, what's that going to look like? Consider the following:

Each player has a possible two rerolls available to them, which cannot be used in the same scene.

Each scene has a number of rolls, which we are going to randomly assign to players. (This is going to be on a per-roll basis, so whether that shakes out to random for the scene overall is its own question that we're not addressing here!)

Because rerolling at every possible point didn't seem to help, we're going to loosen our reroll criteria to scene-enders and situations with 2+ 1s in the pool.

If a player still has traits to burn and has not already burned a trait in the scene, the reroll goes ahead.

[fig. 11: total anticipated rolls with randomized player selection and middle reroll criteria]

Now this is interesting.

But Avery! you say. The last four graphs you've posted all look kind of the same, with small variations that maybe only some kind of pedant would care about!

To which I say: That's fair.

However, note that all of these are back down again: our median rolls are 27/28/28/28. So burning traits is still having a positive impact, but player number doesn't matter quite so much, which makes sense; on the one hand, the chance that a high-reroll scene is going to hit only people who haven't rerolled is low, but on the other, most scenes aren't high-reroll scenes.

The most interesting part about this, though, isn't the total reroll graph; it's the total burns per group. Mean traits burned per group for the above looks like 5.5/6.7/7.6/8.2 (median is 6/7/8/8), and the chance of burning all your traits goes down dramatically for every group, but increasingly for larger groups---it's at 61% for a 3-player group, 25% for 4, 7% for 5, and only 1.3% for a 6-player group.

Compare that to the much higher burn rates for non-randomized rolls following the same burn criteria (it's under Figure 9, but as a reminder: it's 98/92/77/54% for 3/4/5/6 player groups). An actual gameplay scenario is likely going to fall between these two cases---especially with a GM who is paying attention to who hasn't burned their traits yet---but in my opinion, it's going to align more with the randomized case than the idealized.

Part Four: Living Your Moment

The third part of the character sheet is a moment. When lived (and accompanied by a successful dice roll), a moment provides a hope die, which the player in question adds to their pool. This (1) cannot be lost on a roll of 1, and (2) counts a success as a 5 or a 6.

Moments require a conflict roll to successfully live, and furthermore can be placed anywhere in the stack---a moment earlier in the game is more likely to have access to a larger dice pool, and therefore succeed. However, this also requires that it happen, which ends up being a confluence between players, GMs, and plot events, and is not particularly easy to represent in virtual dice.

With that said---that from this point forward, we're moving increasingly far into the realm of the theoretical---let's see what we can say:

In a sort of longest-case scenario, everyone has put their moment under both their traits, which means we'll get our first active moment after at most [player number + 1] rerolls---4 for a 3-player game, 7 for 6 players.

However, because we're assigning rolls to players, and because this would push moments to later stages of the game, we can choose to randomize the stack. We are generally going to be efficient about moments, and assume that the next roll made by the player will be for their moment, but this should hopefully put some into the early game.

That said, because the moment is a narrative moment, we're going to say that they can't be in the first scene, even if they're at the top of the stack. If we wanted to be really stringent about this, we could furthermore say that two moments can't be in the same scene, but maybe that's going too far. So, our criteria:

Each stack has two traits and a moment, with the order randomized.

Each roll will be randomly assigned to a player.

If a player's trait is at the top and their roll either has two 1s or will end the scene, they will burn the trait.

The same player cannot burn both traits in the same scene.

If the player's moment is at the top of their stack, and it is not the first scene, their next roll will be for their moment.

If the player succeeds in their moment, they will gain a hope die, which will be applied to all their future rolls.

The hope die will count as a success on a 5 or a 6, and cannot be lost.

[fig. 12: total anticipated rolls with moments and hope dice]

Okay, this is giving us some interesting stuff to work with!

So first of all, all our medians have gone up---they're all 30 rolls now---but our spread is bigger. Personally, I'm going to hold that this isn't strictly reflective of how most games will go; our randomized stack schema currently means that anyone with a moment at the top of the stack could have it starting in scene 2 (with a starting pool of 9), and this could happen to multiple people, which isn't strictly accurate---most of the time, moments are probably going to happen later.

However, this represents another reduction in the chances of everyone fully burning traits. They're down to 44.5% for 3 players, 12.4% for 4, 2% for 5, and just 0.28% for 6. So although moments---particularly early moments---are likely to lengthen the overall game with the increased chance of success that the hope die provides, they aren't necessarily going to help people burn through their stacks.

Without running the numbers, we can extrapolate about the potential effects of tighter (perhaps more game-like) moment criteria. If we move our first moments back in the game, or assume that two moments can't happen in the same scene, we're probably going to see lower chances of burning everyone's traits (nothing to burn if your moment is on top!), and lower overall roll number (later moments are more likely to fail; can't reroll without a trait). This is likewise true for a more GM-like approach to moment rolls, where rather than the first available roll after the appearance of the moment, they are two, or three, or four rolls later, as the story works its way toward a moment.

All of which is to say that, so far, it seems pretty unlikely that everyone is going to burn through their stacks, but in case they do, we have one more trick up our sleeves, and should see (1) if that's going to happen and (2) how it plays out.

Part Five: On the Brink

The final part of the Ten Candles character sheet is the brink, which is always the last to be used. Hitting a brink allows a full reroll of all dice in a pool, regardless of the number of 1s. Failing a brink roll results in loss of brink, and loss of the hope die, if applicable.

For our longest-case scenario, this means that we at most have to have [player number x 2] rerolls and one moment, successful or not, before a brink is active. For a 3-player group, that's at least 6 rerolls; for a 6-player group, it's 12.

This is where our trait-burning numbers from above become important---a larger group is going to have to work harder to get to their brinks, solely because the number of rerolls doesn't increase much with increasing group size, and roll distribution isn't likely to be optimized for trait burning.

With that in mind, let's turn to our above criteria for moments, with the following additions:

after burning all other traits, the brink becomes active

players hit their brink if the roll would fail, or if there are more than two 1s in the pool (the same as our trait-burning criteria above)

[fig. 13: total anticipated rolls, with the inclusion of brinks]

This gives small groups the advantage, but not by much---their median roll count goes up, but only to 32. This makes sense if we think about it: these groups have the highest chance of hitting multiple brinks, and hitting them early, when there's still a reasonable chance of succeeding on brink rolls.

[fig. 14: Traits burned, using the full game set-up described above.]

Median number of traits burned across the board here are in the 5-7 range; 5 for 3-player groups, 7 for 6-player. Since we're currently assuming fast moment criteria, that means most small groups could be able to get to at least one brink (that's one trait left unburned!), but it's going to be much harder for larger groups. Anything that shortens the game or pushes off players living their moments is going to decrease these chances, while brinks themselves---though an interesting narrative tool---aren't actually likely to extend the game much at all.

Just for fun, though, let's run through one more of these, but with the maximum reroll criteria outlined in Part Three.

[Fig. 14b: Traits burned by player number with more aggressive burn rates]

This doesn't much effect game length, but it gets everyone a little closer to burning through their piles, with an 80% chance that a 3-player group can reveal everyone's brinks. However, that's a 50% chance for 4 players, 23% for 5, and about 8.5% for a six player group, so even aggressive burning won't necessarily help if the rolls don't line up just so. Overall medians here are 6/7/9/9---so, again, close to revealing everyone's brinks, but not quite there, even in a high-burn scenario.

Part Six: Narrative Control

We've now officially left the dice engine proper and gotten into nuance. Crucially, while any 6 rolled indicates a success (and therefore continuation of the scene), rolls are also for narrative control, made against a GM pool of d6 that increases as the player pool decreases.

While this won't make your game end any faster (in a strictly mechanical sense, although losing narrative control may mean that your next roll is coming up fast), it is worth examining, at least briefly.

Fortunately, we've already got the tools to do this. The GM is also rolling a d6 pool, which we have the statistics for, and also counting 6s. However, this starts with no dice and increases by one for every scene, and does not decrease under any circumstance.

[fig. 15: Percent of rolls for which the GM has narrative control, for (a) 3 and (b) 6 players.]

While the above graphs are for test games with both 3 and 6 players, that doesn't make much of a difference overall. The GM is far more likely to gain narrative control over all rolls in a scene as the game moves into its later stages---this is presumably due to both the growing GM pool, and the tendency of later scenes to be shorter. Notably, the GM also has narrative control for scene-ending rolls and for ties.

Part Seven: The World Is Dark

Of course, if you've played Ten Candles, read the rulebook, or listened to our episodes, you are likely aware that a failed dice roll is not the only way to end a scene. Scenes also end if a candle goes out---something that definitely plagued our particularly chatty group, to the point where several scenes didn't happen at all due to multiple candles going out in quick succession.

While the candles are a crucial part of gameplay, their effect is somewhat more difficult to mechanize without making a bunch of assumptions about burn time, average scene length, and dice rolls per minute, so we're not doing it---this is a dice zone, and it's going to stay that way. However, if we're interested in thinking about the effects, keep in mind that the candles are only ever going to make the game shorter, and consider everything discussed above as a functional upper limit.

Part Eight: Conclusions

So, what can we say about the dice engine underlying Ten Candles?

First of all, these simulations are probably closer to upper limits on the game than anything else, but I think they are revealing nonetheless. Real games are more likely to encounter fewer traits burned and fewer dice rolled.

Secondly, while the game length itself is not particularly dependent on group size*, many things in the game directly are, including the chances of seeing moments or brinks in play. The latter in particular drops dramatically as group size increases.

*at least within the parameters here, although we can certainly think of ways in which it would matter more.

All that said, the engine beautifully mechanizes the downward spiral the game wants to represent---the further into the game you are, the less chance you have of narrative control, and the shorter the scenes become. Even using the tools available to you---your traits or your brink---can become mechanically less effectual as your average pool size drops. The horrors will consume you. The dice make sure of it.

#i'd love to keep doing this for more systems as we play them #that said #i anticipate this being one of the longer iterations of dice stats as ten candles is---in terms of its engine---pretty mechanically complex #also: disclaimer!#i'm great at introducing errors into my code #so if you think these numbers look fishy: please reach out!

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alyanas-little-hideout · 7 months ago

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Sorry for posting notes but it's actually worth mentioning that taxonomy is a predecessor for determining how different creatures are related based on shared physical characteristics but, importantly, doesn't presume evolutionary mechanism in the same way that phylogeny- that is, basing the connections between animals on the percentage of shared genome data- does.

Phylogeny has 0 concern for shared physical characteristics- a hyrax and a whale are more closely related than a whale and a shark, for instance, despite the shared body plan and lifestyles of sharks and whales and the completely unrelated body plans of hyraxes and whales.

Also phylogenetically -fish don't exist as a group -lobe-finned fish encompasses all land animals -sharks and ray-finned fish are more distinct than any land animal is from another -trees don't exist as a group -birds are dinosaurs, which are reptiles, which are amphibians.

and other fun oddities of biology.

which of my household appliances am i most closely related to

#they're often taught together but they're different systems with different assumptions and approaches #technically speaking phylogeny doesn't even group things by shared genetic code but is instead the study of evolution through the assumptio #that evolution occurs primarily through changes to DNA sequences over time #which all evidence does support #to be clear #but that is still a core assumption that phylogeny makes #while taxonomy makes the assumption that similar things are related #which is often but not always correct #Like the tree thing #like conceptually we all understand what a tree is #but they aren't like...#related #they're really different plants that have really different evolutionary histories #and convergently evolved to be tall and woody #and even that barely counts as convergent evolution when they're just #so distinct in basically every way outside of an incredibly vague “shape”#even though if you asked anyone on the street whether or not something was a tree they'd answer pretty quick #but when you want to actualy genetically classify them it turns out that they're just....#isn't a unified “tree” branch of the tree of life #also I love that we call it the tree of life then always draw it as a circle #like commit to the bit #make it a tree #make it like a big funnel instead of just making it a circle #like I get that it's a circle cause life diversified to an absurd extent #but like #call it idk the circle of life #wait that's already taken #okay I guess tree can stay #even if we can't define a tree

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lonely-coconut · 3 months ago

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Blinkie.World preview!

Here is a preview of Blinkie.world, my blinkie collecton site! The goal here is to collect every blinkie on earth (but only if they're free to use, and can be credited). They're all sorted into these color pages, and also sorted into tons of sub categories on other pages (like food, animals, holidays, etc etc). This is what some of the color pages look like now! Once I have at least 300 blinkies in each color, then I'll consider the site full enough to go live! I'm aiming to get it online by Art Fight (aka by July this year).

Do note that this isn't actually an accurate representation of how many I have. I have thousands more than this! I just have to code them all in. It's not as quick as just an image tag and a link, because it also needs to be named, linked to it's source, tagged so I know what categories they're in, have a link to a screenshot that proves who the creator is and their terms (in case the credit link dies one day), have alt text, and have hover text which says the creator and a description of what the blinkie says! So, it's not like this:

It's actually like this:

And that's for every blinkie! You can probably see how this is so time consuming, but I think it's worth it. I've never seen a blinkie collection with 6,000+ blinkies, much less every single one credited, and even less sorted into dozens of categories! It's like I have a blinkie for everything, while also knowing the creator of each, and being able to easily search for a specific one via the sorting system! It's especially good for helping others find blinkies, and helping people get the sources for blinkies they already have! It's also great for finding blinkies to use for your ocs (which is my initial reason for doing this).

I'm very excited about this. I really think this could be a very fun resource for people, and that aside, I just really like having so many in my possession. I love to see them. I even have blinkies that I've downloaded before they were deleted off the internet! That's very exciting to me. I have blinkies that are straight up lost media, and I'm happy to be able to preserve them.

Of course as I said, it's going to take forever to add them all, but I'm chipping away at it. I shall not be stopped! Also, if you want a blinkie in any of these screenshots above, just let me know! I'll get it and it's source for you, easy peasy! I'll post more screenshots as significant progress is made, but for now, it's back to downloading blinkies!

#blinkies #blinkie #150x20 #page decor #web graphics #blinkie.world #wip #web resources #carrd resources #reentry resources #neocities #old internet #old web #indie web #unrelated but goes to show how popular the color blue is lol #Or... have I been uploading with a bias?#hm.....

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enavstars · 2 months ago

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(Naruto has specifically also called him "mom" multiple times)

Headcanons time!

After the war Obito is perfectly fine (like in canon as we all know, I'm not delusional at all obviously) and also Sasuke goes out to travel the world.

Obito is kept under house arrest at Kakashi’s for a few years until he's finally set completely free and so immediately marries Kakashi.

On the other hand, Kakashi suggests to Sasuke to stay at his house too whenever he comes back to visit the village since he doesn't have a place anymore (until he starts dating Naruto later). At first everything is awkward because Sasuke and Obito have a complicated relationship (with, you know, the massacre and all) and Kakashi also has other quiet intentions.

Kakashi actually hopes to use this opportunity to apologize to Sasuke for how he treated him. I mean, as much as I love them, Kakashi did treat Sasuke unfairly because he projected himself a little too much onto the boy, and now he just doesn't know how to approach the subject because of his poor social skills. When he finally apologizes, Sasuke does not get his point, getting confused because he believes that the fact that he cared is enough (I mean the boy doesn't really know how a healthy relationship with an (older) adult should look like). But Kakashi doesn't like that answer, so he gently explains how just that is simply not enough. This leads Sasuke to finally reflect on his life and decide to move forward, accepting Kakashi's apology.

Afterwards Kakashi talks to him about what can he do as a Hokage to honor the Uchiha clan (I'm still pissed that they tried to brush off a genocide so I'm fixing it). In the end they settle for a memorial and firing (and hopefully imprisoning) the other two council elders that supported it all.

Meanwhile, Sasuke and Obito's relationship also develops. Sasuke doesn't forgive Obito, and at the same time Obito is working on his own guilt and atonement, so evidently they don’t get along at first. Eventually, when Kakashi truly becomes one of Sasuke's most precious people/bonds, he starts tolerating Obito because he understands he's important to Kakashi. As time goes on Sasuke and Obito slowly manage to cool off their relationship and find some common grounds with everything they’ve been through. Together they eventually reflect on it, little by little, from the many tragedies that stained their lives to the manipulation they have both suffered; by the result of Konoha’s rotten system in one way or another. Although they have much to work on, especially with Obito, how he tried to pull Sasuke’s strings, and his part in the Uchiha massacre, Sasuke chooses to not give in to his hatred. He understands Obito in the end, and is able to move on. And on his part, Obito does make an effort to treat him much better than he used to.

In fact, one way he tries to make up for his mistakes is by telling Sasuke about the Uchiha clan's history and traditions, the stuff that Sasuke could never know before because he was too young, as he thinks that their legacy should be passed down to someone who truthfully honors the clan with their full chest.

Basically Sasuke deserves love so I gave him a father figure (Kakashi), because every other adult has treated him terribly and he desperately needs one. And Obito is now his annoying/weird uncle/stepfather.

I will of course make more comics because they're also very chaotic, being three people in a single house and yet amounting to:

- two war criminals, Uchiha

- two married men

- two moon-coded traumatized people

(worthy of an unhinged Venn Diagram)

#art #naruto #kakashi hatake #obito uchiha #sasuke uchiha #obikaka

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echo-exco · 3 months ago

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❝DOCTOR I CAN’T TELL IF I’M NOT ME.❞

୨⎯ ┊BATFAM X NEGLECTED!HEALER!READER ꒱

✰ ৎ──────SYPNOPSIS: all you ever wanted was a purpose. something that would give meaning to your existence, your power. healing others was the only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed… until you ended up in that awful place.

✰ ৎ────── masterlist. | next.

There is only one thing you ever truly wished for in this life: a purpose.

Something that would justify your existence, that would give meaning to every breath, every wound, every sleepless night.

And you found it. Not in an empty promise or in the affection of others. You found it in your own power.

A selfish desire, yes, but undeniably yours. A purpose born not out of love, but out of need.

From that strange power growing inside you, the one that forced you to look at others’ suffering with cold, almost cynical eyes. As if every wound were a problem only you could solve. As if every scream of pain were a prayer meant solely for you.

You clung to that.

To the idea that your worth existed only in your abilities.

The ability to stop someone from dying in front of you. To rip death from their body with your own hands. To stitch broken flesh with threads that hurt, yes, but worked. That was the only thing that ever made you feel alive. The only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed.

For a while, it was enough.

For a long while, you were selfish.

It didn’t matter if they used you. It didn’t matter if it hurt. If every healing left another scar on you. If every salvation cost you a little more of the little you had left.

As long as you could keep doing it—healing, fixing, protecting— the price didn’t matter.

Because at the end of the day, you could lie down on that mattress of emptiness and tell yourself: “Today, I made it worth it.”

Your existence and your power meant something.

Of course, you didn’t have a mother to share secrets with, nor guardians who offered you love. Only faces that came and went, and the bitter understanding that you were just another burden in a broken system.

Until, by some twisted stroke of fate, you had the “pleasure” of meeting your biological father.

Bruce Wayne.

Billionaire. Philanthropist. Playboy.

Batman.

Even so, none of that really mattered to you. What truly hit you was learning that you had to leave everything behind and go to Gotham.

That cursed city, that concrete jungle drowned in darkness and crime. Where dreams go to die and bodies, if they’re lucky, go to sleep.

Gotham wasn’t a home. It was a prison for someone like you.

A place where meta-humans like you were enemies, threats, problems to be contained.

Your power, your only purpose, was stripped away with nothing more than a change of zip code.

And that was the cruelest part of all.

Not being able to use it.

Not being able to save.

Not being able to be useful.

Your existence, reduced to ashes, like the bodies of those you didn’t reach in time.

It must be poetic, right? The healer who cannot heal. The savior without faith.

They hate you. You've felt it. That visceral resentment from those who survived because of you, but still blame you for what you couldn’t stop. Screams, stares, choked pleas— all of them pierced your soul deeper than any weapon ever could.

For someone who once swore to save lives, it’s only natural that those you vowed and wanted to save now express their utter disgust and despair toward the false, horrific salvation you once offered them.

And now? Now you live among strangers.

An immense mansion full of absences. With brothers who seemingly don’t recognize you, and a father who doesn’t see you.

Your arrival in Gotham wasn’t exactly ideal, at least, that’s how you think you remember it.

It’s hard for you to remember that moment. You don’t hold on to unnecessary memories… none of it will make you feel alive again.

Apparently, your new father figure has several children. Some of them are already adults. With lives of their own far from the mansion, you don’t know much about them, they were almost always too busy to say anything to you.

You can’t understand them, can’t they come up with better excuses? You don’t want these people’s attention.

These people can’t help you with your abilities. They can’t make you believe you’re still allowed to use them freely.

No, these people are just strangers who stumbled into your life overnight and want nothing to do with the problem. Not even your new father had the decency or responsibility to try forming a bond with you.

Bruce Wayne was an absent father. Not in the way someone leaves and disappears completely, but in the kind of absence that feels stronger the closer the person is. A hollow physical presence, like a ghost made of flesh and bone. One who could look you in the eyes and still not see you.

He struggled to communicate, to make time for you, to even remember that there was now one more occupied room in that massive mansion of his.

He doesn’t know how to deal with you, and you don’t know how to deal with him either. At first, you wondered if the problem was you. If you had done something wrong. If the way you talked, walked—even breathed, was so bothersome that he’d rather bury himself in work than give you an hour of his time.

But soon, you realized something even crueler: You don’t need a father. You’re not looking for one. You’re not waiting for one.

What you need is a patient. Someone you can heal. Someone who needs you.

Because that’s what you’ve always done. Heal. And Bruce… Bruce simply refuses to be healed.

But he doesn’t understand.

When you approach him, when you seek him out, when you try to speak to him, all he does is throw up a wall made of cold words, as practical and impersonal as that damn business suit of his.

“I’m busy.”

“Not now.”

“We’ll talk later.”

“It’s for work.”

Always the same. Always excuses with the bitter taste of indifference.

Is this what having a father is supposed to feel like? Because if it is, then it doesn’t feel any different from your days in foster care.

At least there, you knew you were alone. Here, they make you believe you’re not… but you are, more than ever.

You’ve learned to observe the details, as always. It’s one of the few things you’re good at, aside from using your power.

You notice the tired look in his eyes, the dark circles underneath, the way his fingers tense around his pen like he’s trying to crush it. The stack of papers on his desk never gets smaller, it’s like it multiplies just to keep you at a distance.

And the subtle changes… that lower tone in his voice when he sees you, like he can’t even be bothered to raise it for you. The way his eyebrows furrow, not out of anger, just… annoyance. Irritation.

That’s what hurt the most.

So you stopped trying. Because if you kept going, you were only going to be reprimanded by the one you were supposed to please. You convinced yourself that you don’t need his approval. That you don’t need his love. That you’re better off without him.

But then, why is it that every time you walk past his office, you pause for a second, hoping that door opens, just once, without you knocking first?

Why do you still need him to see you?

Richard Grayson is the eldest. The first adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Everyone sees him as a beacon of hope, the moral compass of this family made of shadows and scars. And it makes sense. He has that bright smile, that genuine warmth the others can barely fake. He gives out hugs without being asked, listens patiently, laughs easily, and has that absurd gift of making anyone feel seen, at least, if you’re one of his.

Because with you, it was always different.

From the beginning, Richard seemed kind. Seemed. But between that warmth and you, there was always a distance, like someone had drawn a curtain between the two of you. You heard his apologies more than you heard his actual voice.

“Sorry, I have to head out right now.”

“Sorry, I was already on my way to Blüdhaven.”

“Next time, I promise.”

He was always rushing. Always busy. Always somewhere else. And you… you’re not someone who believes in empty promises.

At first, you thought it was just bad luck. That maybe if you insisted a little, if you found an excuse, if you caught him in the kitchen, he might stay for five minutes. Just five. But those minutes never came. And you started to notice a pattern. How his demeanor shifted the moment you walked into the room. How his smile became more diplomatic. More rehearsed. How his footsteps sped up when he thought you weren’t watching.

You didn’t want to admit it at first, but something inside you began to whisper an uncomfortable truth; He was avoiding you.

And then you understood. If Richard Grayson, the kindest, the most human, the most "big brother" of them all, couldn’t be around you, then what was the point of trying with the others? What could you possibly expect from Jason, who barely speaks to you? From Tim, who seems more invested in his computer than in actual people? From Damian, who can barely tolerate his own shadow?

So you did the same.

You avoided them. One by one.

You decided it wasn’t worth it. That if you weren’t going to be a real part of this family, you weren’t going to pretend.

It’s easier that way. It doesn’t hurt as much if you’re the one walking away first.

But sometimes, when you see them laughing together from the staircase, or hear Richard speaking so fondly of the others, a part of you wonders if it was ever really your choice to walk away, or if they’d been leaving you behind from the very beginning.

Your suspicions didn’t take long to confirm. All it took was talking to a few of your supposed brothers to realize the pattern repeated itself.

Jason, Tim, Damian…

Each one was a story unto themselves. Each one was a maze of traumas, masks, and poorly calibrated emotional responses. But if you had to describe them in one word, it would be: inaccessible.

The second of your brothers was Jason, and from what little you could gather, because no one seemed eager to talk about it much, Jason had died. And then he came back. It wasn’t a metaphor. It wasn’t an exaggeration. He had been buried, and now he was not. That simple statement was enough to provoke a morbid curiosity, almost scientific. What had changed in his body? Did he suffer from partial necrosis? Brain damage? Did his muscles regenerate? What residual effects did resurrection have on human physiology? Everything in you screamed to investigate. To dissect. To understand.

It was a dangerous thought. You knew that. You repeated it to yourself like a mantra: too tempting for your own good.

But what confused you the most wasn’t his condition, it was his behavior toward you. Jason had this aura of latent violence, like dynamite that could explode with the wrong spark. But that wasn’t what kept you away. Not entirely. It was his inexplicable rejection.

You didn’t understand it. You didn’t provoke him. You didn’t talk to him, you didn’t interfere, you didn’t cross the line. And yet, his gaze was always sharp. As if your mere presence triggered something in him. Irritation. Annoyance. Maybe even disdain.

You wondered if it was your fault. If the way you were, the way you spoke, the way you were, simply bothered him. But you couldn’t find an answer. And though you wanted to, you knew that getting closer would be too risky.

Because you’ve seen the broken walls. The misaligned doors. The tables split in two like they were made of paper. You’ve felt the tension in the air when Jason enters a room and isn’t in the mood. And you know, without needing confirmation, that his punches aren’t soft. That his rage doesn’t distinguish between the guilty and the witnesses.

So, you avoid him.

Not out of fear exactly, but out of caution. Self-preservation. You don’t want to be the next crack in the walls of this house.

Tim was a different kind of strange. More than Jason, though in a completely different way. His oddity didn’t stem from aggression or visible trauma. It was more subtle. More internal.

Almost clinical.

You observed him, like you observe everything. With that gaze of yours that searches for patterns, inconsistencies, vulnerabilities. And in him, you found many.

Surprisingly, Tim was brilliant. Not just "smart for his age," but one of those cases where the brain moves faster than the body. Too fast. So much so, that sometimes it seemed like his body gave up halfway through.

The dark circles under his eyes were a constant. His responses were slow, as if they had to pass through a filter of a thousand thoughts before being verbalized. He walked like his mind was too heavy for his spine to carry. A shadow carrying ideas. You were surprised he hadn’t fainted yet from the combination of insomnia, chronic stress, and mild malnutrition.

No one asked you.

No one thanked you.

But still, you started leaving him food. Food that could sustain him without causing a stomach collapse. Nothing too obvious, of course. A yogurt here. Cut fruits there.

Something easy to eat between keystrokes. You allied yourself with Alfred in that small act of silent intervention. The old butler seemed to notice, but he never mentioned it. And you never confirmed it.

Tim would probably assume it was all Alfred’s doing. In fact, you counted on it.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you knew that if he suspected you were behind something so... "thoughtful," it would only make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to respond to care, to the intention behind such detail. Tim doesn’t know how to handle it if that sincere gesture comes from you.

Just like you would if any of them ever tried it with you.

Alfred... Alfred is a different matter.

Of all the people in the house, he’s the only one who acts like your existence isn’t a miscalculation. But he doesn’t fool himself. He doesn’t offer you love, or tenderness. He offers you structure. Routine. Measured phrases and cups of tea.

It’s not affection between you.

It’s a sort of tacit alliance.

Two functional people in the middle of a broken ecosystem.

You know he tries. But you also know it’s not enough for you.

You’ve seen children like you. In hospitals. In refugee camps. In temporary homes. Children who cling to an adult figure as if their life depended on it, and are then destroyed when that figure leaves. Or worse, when they stay but stop looking.

You don’t want that for yourself.

You convince yourself this is better. A working relationship. A dynamic where each one fulfills their role and no one crosses the line into the personal. Because if you get attached, if you let yourself believe this could mean something...

You know how that ends. They can’t give you what you’re looking for.

They can’t give you purpose.

They can’t return what was taken from you when you understood that your value only exists if you can heal, if you can serve, if you can be useful.

You still don’t know who you are when you’re none of that.

Back to the subject of your "family," the last on the list of who your siblings were, was Damian.

The youngest of the group. The second biological son of Bruce Wayne.

You said it out loud once, casually: "Ah, so he is the real one."

No one found it funny.

Unlike the others, Damian didn’t need time to show you that you weren’t welcome. He didn’t bother to fake courtesy or neutrality. From the beginning, he made it clear that your existence was expendable.

Maybe it was your silence. Maybe it was your lack of reaction to his provocations. Maybe he just didn’t like you. But he pointed his katana at you the first month you arrived.

The blade against your neck wasn’t a metaphor. It was real, cold, intimidating contact. You felt a thread of power activate instinctively in your body, a reflex of defense, of desperation. If you had let it go, well, you wouldn’t be here, mentally recalling this account.

You didn’t. Not for him. For you.

Because it wasn’t worth it. Because using your power on someone in your “family” would mean admitting they were important enough to hurt you.

They weren’t. Not yet.

You can’t risk being discovered. No one can know that you actually have this power. None of them can know.

Bruce appeared just in time to prevent the confrontation from escalating. Did he protect you? Not exactly. He simply said something like, “Damian has a complicated history,” as if that justified a death threat in the family kitchen.

Is it common in Gotham to justify a child’s homicidal impulses if they've had a difficult childhood?

That was your question. You didn’t ask it out loud. No one would have liked the answer.

It was also that day you found out that Damian was Bruce’s biological son. And you couldn’t help but think about the irony of it all.

The same Bruce Wayne who, in the public eye, was a scandalous figure, a charming, charismatic playboy billionaire with endless parties, had exactly one biological child. One. Not five. Not a legion of illegitimate children scattered across the world. Just one.

That kid turned out to be a ticking time bomb with a traditional sword.

Everything fit so perfectly wrong that it almost seemed planned.

With the girls, it's complicated. Maybe even more so because, deep down, a part of you thought they could be different.

Stephanie. She was like a female version of Richard, a constant smile, a vibrant energy that everyone seemed to adore, except you.

She greeted you with empty enthusiasm, one that never went beyond the surface. It was easy to see that behind her good mood, there was a locked door she wasn’t going to open for you.

And you understood. Because you'd seen it before.

People who act as if everyone is welcome, except you.

Stephanie was just another confirmation that no matter how hard you tried to fit in, this home was already full. You weren’t in the original plan. You never were.

Barbara, on the other hand, was simpler. She was hardly ever at the mansion. You’d see her sporadically, a red ghost in the shadows of fleeting visits. And still, in that limited time, she always found a way to smile at others, share a joke, a quick conversation, a knowing glance… Never with you.

Not once.

It was as if your presence went by unnoticed, not even worth including out of courtesy.

Cassandra was the most honest, in a way. She didn’t pretend. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak.

She ignored your attempts to help with almost admirable efficiency. You could attribute it to her trauma, her history, her way of seeing the world… but that excuse starts to wear thin when it’s the only one left to justify everything.

Maybe you’re just not interesting. Maybe you don’t even stand out enough to be actively rejected.

Or is it because you don’t even deserve her attention?

It was easier to believe that they all had a reason not to see you.

Easier than admitting that maybe, you weren’t that hard to ignore.

What was dangerous about this family wasn’t the weapons, nor the katanas, nor the fists that had broken ribs more than once.

It was the mask.

It took you time to understand it. First, it was a hunch. Then a suspicion. Finally, a certainty: they were all vigilantes. Heroes of Gotham. The same ones who make your hands tremble when you try to use your power. The ones who make your gift feel useless. As if it were a mistake rather than a blessing.

The irony is so perfect it could almost make you laugh.

You can’t feel useful, can’t do the one thing you know how to do perfectly, because you’re surrounded by those who fight so that people and beings like you are neither necessary nor welcome.

And yet, you prefer them this way.

Cold. Distant. Detached. Unknown. Because connections are dangerous. Because memories weigh. Because at some point, someone taught you that affection is the hook that precedes the pain.

Because you know it better than anyone. When you get attached to someone, it’s not just pain that you feel when you lose them. It’s as if a part of you dies too. Not because you lose them, but because without your power, without that “usefulness,” you feel like you never deserved to have them in the first place.

In Gotham, you can’t do anything.

You can't heal.

You can't save.

You can't be useful.

You can't be loved. Or at least, that’s what they taught you to believe.

Here, you have no parts left that you can afford to lose. Not while you're trapped in this city that doesn’t need what you can give. A family that doesn't know what to do with you. You don’t know what to do with yourself either.

They can’t give you a purpose.

They never could.

They didn’t even try.

You expected so little, that not even that surprised you.

Until you found him.

The only living person who not only recognized your power, but accepted it for what you wanted it to be:

A miracle.

He called himself Doctor Masashi. A kind voice, a serene figure. But behind that calmness was surgical precision. He knew exactly how to shape you. How to rebuild you, only to destroy you again with elegance.

He was the only one who never lied to you about what you were:

A weapon.

A tool.

A precious jewel that only shines when it bleeds for others.

A perfect puppet.

And you, grateful for the strings.

He gave you direction when all you had was guilt.

He gave you structure when all you had was emptiness.

He gave you… meaning. A cruel meaning. A conditioned meaning. But still, you took it.

It can't be that bad, right?

Clinging to that.

Clinging to him.

Clinging to something that tells you that you can still be "something."

Because if someone, even just one person, can look at you and say that you are good for something, then you're not broken.

Then you're not alone. Then everything that hurt was worth it.

Even if guilt drowns you every night.

Even if the nightmares never rest.

Even if the hands you tried to save still drag you from their graves, begging for a second death.

It doesn't matter. As long as someone believes that keeping you alive makes sense... then that’s enough.

Right?

Maybe you're a weapon.

Maybe you're selfish.

Maybe you did it all just out of fear of disappearing, for that unbearable need to feel alive.

The need to feel that you matter. To have a place to fit in.

But at least you're something. In this shattered world, that's already more than many have.

But how much more can you take before you truly break? How much longer before you completely crumble, like so many times you did on the inside? How much will the price of his greed cost… and your desperate desire to remain useful?

Because in the end, it wasn't Bruce.

Nor your brothers.

Nor your sisters.

None of them ever knew who you were.

None of them understood.

Only him. Only Masashi.

That’s what scares you the most. Because if even he can make you believe that’s all you’re worth. If even he manages to make you cling to that idea, then maybe, you were never more than that.

Maybe you were never more than your power, and in Gotham, where you can no longer use it...

Not even that belongs to you.

2K notes · View notes

inlovewithquestionablecharacters · 2 months ago

Text

John Walker X Reader: Code Yellow

a/n: hated this little fucker in fatws but thunderbolts made me feral for him (i probably have issues i know)

Warnings: smut, sex pollen (because i love this shit), penetration (p in v), oral (f receiving), begging, kissing, cursing, sexual activity, friends to lovers (maybe?), mutual pining, hidden feelings, no use of y/n, f!reader.

Word count: 3.1K (well that happened)

Oh, this was bad. This was very, very bad. The dust was fucking everywhere. If you hadn’t inhaled it—which you 100% had—you’d still be fucked, because it had come in contact with your skin. It was in you now, and you were very screwed.

This was a simple mission. All you had to do was sneak into the lab, see if any of the scientists were still around, and take them out. If they weren’t, you just needed to mess around with some reports and go back to the Watchtower. It was initially supposed to be Yelena’s mission, but once you found out it was connected to the Red Room, you’d told her absolutely not.

It was a touchy subject, and Yelena was more than willing to go through her trauma to get the job done—but it felt unnecessary to send her if you could go in her place. Yelena had accepted your suggestion, but not before giving you explicit instructions.

“Don’t touch the yellow vials.” “Why? What are they?” “Just trust me. You don’t want that stuff in your system.”

You looked down at your hands, eyes tracing over where the yellow powder clung to your skin. You hadn’t done it on purpose. The shelf had been in the way, and when you attempted to move it, everything came spilling out onto the floor. You were surrounded by pieces of broken glass and yellow dust.

John had heard the crashing sound, causing him to run out from the room he’d been exploring. His eyes searched for you, expecting you to be in some sort of trouble. But when he finally found your frame, you were just standing still and staring at the floor.

“Hey, you okay?”

Your head snapped up at the sound of his voice, eyes wide as he started to move toward you.

“No! Don’t come closer!”

John stared at you, his body stilling. The desperation in your voice surprised him. You were normally the cool and collected one on missions. Nothing seemed to faze you. But now you looked scared, and that made anxiety spike in John’s system. He watched you look from him to the floor and then back to him. He could tell you were trying to think, so he stayed quiet.

“You need to get out of here.”

“What? No, we—”

“John, shut up!”

Okay, so something was definitely wrong. Walker was an annoying person to work with. He was sarcastic and condescending, but you two always managed to get along. Out of the team, you were the one that least hated working with him. You knew how to handle his mean comments, and he knew how to understand your silent requests.

The way you were behaving wasn’t how you normally acted during missions, so that meant something bad had happened. Walker moved to get closer to you, but you gave him a wide stare, telling him to stop without ever opening your mouth.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

You sighed.

“I spilled some fucking powder.”

John’s face broke into a grin, lips parting to make a joke.

“It’s not funny, John.”

That stopped him in his tracks. Your voice was raw against your throat. Your body shook, and he could tell you were frightened.

“Sorry. Force of habit. Just let me come over there and we can figure it out.”

“No. You have to—” Heat blossomed in your chest, making you close your eyes. Fuck. It was starting. You didn’t know if it would affect John too—him being a super soldier and all—but knowing the Red Room, you didn’t rule out the possibility. You had to get him out of the room before the effects took over your brain and you did something you’d regret later. You let out a shaky sigh, forcing yourself to look at John.

“It’s a sex pollen, John. Lena told me to avoid the yellow stuff, so I got curious and did some research. They made it to help people get horny so they’d be able to sleep with a target if needed.”

John’s eyes raked over your body, observing how much powder clung to your suit and skin. Every time he looked at you, your body longed to close the distance. You pinched your hand, forcing yourself to stay put. The smell of him was overwhelming.

“I need you to get out of here. I don’t know what it’s going to make me do if you’re in the room with me. It’s already starting to become unbearable.”

“You won’t die from it, right?”

The question surprised you. You hadn’t expected Walker to care about your well-being. The thoughtfulness made your core clench.

“No. I’ll just be uncomfortable for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

You bit into your cheek.

“Eight hours.”

“Jesus.”

John looked up at you. There was already sweat forming on your face, and your skin itched beneath your suit. You wanted to rip it off your body. But not while he was still here.

“Please, John, just wait outside. Or go back to the Tower and send backup in a few hours—I don’t know. I just need you to get out.”

“I’m not leaving you. I’ll wait outside the door.”

“Okay.”

John made his way toward the door, pausing as you called out his name.

“Yeah?”

“Whatever I say—don’t come in here.”

John nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.

You didn’t know how much time had passed. The rational part of your brain told you it couldn’t have been more than forty minutes but you felt like you’d been in here for hours. You're stripped down to your underwear, suit discarded somewhere in the room. Your body felt like it was on fire. The worst part wasn’t the heat though. It was the utter need you felt. You were so horny it hurt.

You were laying on the floor, hands stuffed into your underwear as you tried to make yourself cum. You knew your release wouldn’t help dull the effect of the powder but you had to do something or else you’d go insane.

You hadn't told John, because it would put you both in a compromising position, but you knew how to make the effects go away faster. It would take eight hours for it to leave naturally. But if someone were to fuck you…the relief would be instantaneous. You couldn’t do that to him.

You’d started to develop a crush on the super soldier a couple of months ago. Sure he was a piece of work, but your heart didn’t seem to care about that. You let out a frustrated groan, hand retracting from your body as you failed to bring yourself some relief. Your eyes snapped over to the door. You could smell him trough the fucking door and that just about made you go feral.

Walker sat outside the door, head resting on his knee as he waited. He should have called the team to update them on what was going on but he didn’t. A part of him felt like telling them what was going on would make it more real somehow. Another part of him, a very selfish part, wanted to make sure he was the only one you could depend on if needed. John had always found you attractive but things were complicated. His family had left him not long ago and he wasn’t sure he deserved to have a romantic life any time soon. But then you’d look at him a certain way, or you’d lean over his body as you went over plans and his heart would jump into his throat. He never planned on telling you before.

He was starting to rethink that now.

“John.”

His head snapped up at the sound of your voice. He shifted around, lifting himself up.

“John.”

Your voice was breathy, only barely dulled by the metal door that separated the two of you.

“You okay?”

“No. It hurts , I need….”

Your voice trailed off. John pressed his ear to the door trying to listen for you. He could hear you panting, small whimpering leaving your mouth. John's dick jumped in his pants. Quit it.

“Please open the door. Please, I need you so bad. I can smell you out there. Fuck you smell so good.”

John's hands clenched into fists at his side, head leaning against the cool metal. He wanted to open the door. He wanted it so bad but you’d told him not to. So he didn’t.

“John please. Just open the door. I need you.”

“Fuck.”

The word slipped from his mouth before he could stop it.

“You told me to stay out here, remember? I promised you.”

“I was wrong John. Please I’ll be such a good girl I promise.”

That was his breaking point. The way your voice sounded so fucking wrecked, the way you were begging him for help. Who was he to deny you? So he opened the door and the sight before him almost made his brain short circuit.

You were on your knees before him, wearing only your bra and underwear. The moment he opened the door your head shot up to look at his face. Your pupils were blown wide, lips parted as you let out small pants.

Before he could even think about moving you were latching onto him. Your arms wrapped around his legs, head resting against his thigh. You nuzzle your face into his groin and his knees almost buckle. He tugged you off of him, much to your disappointment. You opened your mouth to complain but before you could John had crouched down, making his face level with yours.

“Are you sure you want this?”

He knew you would probably say yes to whatever he asked you but he needed to hear you say it, even in your altered state. He needed to hear you say you needed him. Not because it would flare his ego but because he knew that as soon as he kissed you he would be a gone man. His thoughts would be consumed by you and everything would change between the two of you forever.

“I want you John. I want you so bad.”

That was all he needed. His lips crashed into yours. You met him with desperation, tongue moving against his teeth as he opened his mouth to you. His hands dig into your skin, trying to tether himself to reality. This could be the first, and only, time he had an opportunity like this. He didn’t want to waste it. You grumbled something against his lips, causing him to pull away.

“What did you say?”

“You’re wearing too much shit. Take it off.”

You tugged at his suit in desperation.

“I want to feel your skin against me.”

John nodded, raising for a moment to strip out of his suit. It wasn't an easy task but he managed. Once he was only in his boxers he moved back to the floor, giving you a bruising kiss. He guided your body to lay down, his own caging you against the floor. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, grinding yourself against his growing bulge. Your nails raked against his back as he bit into your lip.

He began moving down your body, lips pressing kisses to every inch he could until he was face to face with your pussy. He could see the wet spot on your underwear. The sight made his dick twitch. John glanced up at you, his fingers gripping onto your waistband.

“Can I take this off?”

You nodded enthusiastically. John couldn’t help but smile at your reaction. With one tug he managed to get your underwear off your body. His eyes widened at the sight before him.

“Jesus. You're soaked.”

You let out a small whine as his fingers moved over your folds.

“Shh, pretty girl. I’m gonna help you out.”

John's head moved between your legs and you swore you had just died and gone to heaven. His beard scraped against your thighs as he ate you out. With every skill full lick John got you closer and closer to your desired release. Your hands weaved into his hair, forcing his head to stay where it was.

“So good John it feels so fucking good.”

The praise went straight to his dick, causing him to rut against the floor. He would fuck you but he needed you to cum on his tongue first. One of his hands moved to your pussy, thumb moving over your clit as he shoved his tongue inside you. Your body locked, hips rising as your orgasm washed over you.

“John!”

John continued to lap at your cunt, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as you tried to squirm away from him. After a moment your body relaxed beneath him and he took it as a sign to stop. He raised his head to look at you expecting to see a blissed out expression but that's not what he saw.

You looked fucking hungry.

Your hands moved to tug John up, lips crashing into his as you tasted yourself on him. You moved one hand down his stomach, fingers tracing over his muscles before finding his boxers. You palm him through the fabric and he groans.

“Put it in me John. Want to feel you inside.”

“Fuck darling. You sure?”

“Please. Need you.”

Yeah there was no way in hell he’d say no to you. He lifted himself up, tugging his dick out from its confines. Your mouth salivated at the sight, core clenching in anticipation. John wrapped his hand around his dick, lining it up with your entrance. He moved in slowly, trying to savour the feeling despite the desparte need to fuck into you. You were a mumbling mess beneath him.

“So big.”

“Yeah? Like it?”

“Love it.”

He snapped his hips, causing you to cry out. Your legs wrapped against his waist, trying to keep him as deep as possible. John began moving in against you. With the way you were clenching around him he wasn't going to be able to keep this up for long.

“Harder.”

“What?”

You grabbed onto his beard, forcing to look at you.

“Fuck me harder.”

Your mouth opened wide as John followed your request. He used his super strength to keep you pinned down as he began to ram into you. Praise slipped from your lips as he fucked you, only spurring him in.

Without so much as a warning your orgasm washed over you. Your body locked up again as you gushed onto John's dick. The moan you let out of his name was enough to make his release come. He painted your walls with his seed, body sagging onto yours as he did.

John forced himself to pull out, much to your dismay. Your body was no longer burning and the ache you’d been feeling was completely gone. You’d fixed one issue while creating a new one entirely.

“I’m sorry.”

John turned to look at you, his chest raising and falling as he tried to compose himself. You lifted your body off the ground, moving to get up. Despite the exhaustion he felt John followed after you, rising from the floor. You had your back turned to him, arms wrapped around your chest.

“Hey.”

John's hand wrapped around your shoulder, lightly tugging you so you’d face him. You glanced up at him, brows furrowed.

“Don’t apologise, it wasn't your fault.”

“Except that it was. I knocked the stupid powder off the shelf. I made you fuck me even-”

“Woah, hold on. You didn’t make me do anything. I did it because I thought maybe it would help. But mostly because I was being selfish.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jesus, you gonna make me spell it out?”

You gave him a shrug. John let out a sigh, hands moving to cross over his chest. He was protecting his heart. Even if he didn’t realise it. He was preparing himself for the possibility that now, without that stuff in your system, you’d be repulsed by him.

“I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time. And yeah i’ve wanted to fuck you for a while. So if anyone should apologise it should be me. Because you-

“Shut up.”

John looked at you, mouth open with unspoken words.

“Just shut up and kiss me Walker.”

And he did. He kissed you like it was the first time. He kissed you like he hadn't been inside you mere moments ago. Kissed you like he’d just taken you out on a date and was saying goodbye at your doorstep. You kissed and kissed and kissed until you couldn’t breathe. Both of you pulled apart for air. You looked up at John with the most love filled eyes he’d ever seen and he couldn’t help but grin down at you.

“I take it you like me too?”

“Thought it was obvious when I was begging for your dick through the door.”

“Just wanted to make sure it was actually you and not the powder.”

You placed another peak to his lips.

“Oh no. It was definitely me.”

John smiled, tugging you into his arms.

The two of you arrived at the Tower three hours later than planned. The team had been about to step out to rescue you when you’d stepped out of the elevator. Your hand was grasped in Walkers as you two made it to the main room. Everyone's eyes snapped to look at you two.

“Where the fuck where you guys?” Yelena asked.

“On the mission.” John answered calmly.

You stifled a laugh, biting into your lip.

“You were supposed to be here three hours ago!”

John let out a small shrug at Bucky's outburst, turning to look at you with a smile.

“Guess we lost track of time.”

You repressed the urge to slap his arm. John turned back to the rest of the team.

“Well i’m gonna take a shower. Ended up working up a sweat.”

A blush coted your cheeks as John gave you a cheeky smirk before making his way towards his room. You watched him go, eyes catching on his ass. You turned back to Yelena, who was just staring at you.

“What the fuck was that?”

You sighed, knowing she’d find out eventually you opted to tell her.

“I touched the yellow shit.”

Yelena's eyes widened in understanding.

“Oh uhg blah! That’s disgusting.”

You just shrug, turning on your heels and walking towards John's room. You were suddenly feeling the need to shower as well.

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mercvry-glow · 3 months ago

Text

you, me, and empty space between us

parings. jack abbot x doctor!reader

warnings. widower!jack, age gap as always (jack late 40s, reader late 20s early 30s), jack literally talks reader off the ledge, undefined relationship but they're clearly in love and going through something, unspecified mental health issues, panic attacks, possible suicidal ideation, talks of losing people, bittersweet ending though.

notes. ever since we learned jack was a widower i've been cursed with angsty thoughts. I think this one is really hard as we see both the reader and jack struggle with each other. I love them your honor, and I'm really in my noah kahan loneliness era for this man. as always any feedback is appreciated and I love all of you!

wc. 2700+

You don’t know when it had become so hard to breathe.

It wasn’t after the first patient death, or even the fourth or fifth. That was just life in the Pitt, and you had grown accustomed to it long ago… at least that’s what you thought.

It certainly wasn’t when he had walked in—Jack Abbot, all swagger and scruff, fresh on shift while you were finishing yours. You truly don’t know when you came to love him as more than a mentor. Maybe it was in the quiet, exhausted nights on his couch, or the rare mornings when your coffee mugs clinked in place of words.

Never open, always tucked away.

And maybe that’s why it hits you like a punch to the chest—because it’s something so small, something that you have no business caring about.

A glint of gold as he reaches for his first chart of the night.

His wedding band.

Still there. Still shining. Still hers.

And your breath just… goes. Like someone pulled the air from your lungs and replaced it with something heavy and wet and cruel.

You don’t even remember walking to the lockers. Just the click of the door behind you, the fluorescent lights buzzing too loud, and the burn behind your eyes as your hands shook, held tight against your sides. Everything became too much all at once.

God, you're so tired.

Tired of the codes and the screaming and the silence that follows. Tired of watching children and parents die and pretending you’re not breaking a little more each time. Tired of watching your friends break each and every day more and more as this job steals their youth like it’s doing to yours. Tired of giving your heart to a man who, no matter how gently he touches you, will never touch you like you’re loved by him.

Not like he touched her.

You don't even cry. Not at first. You just run up the stairs, heart hammering like it's trying to escape, destination both known and unknown to your frazzled brain. Then you do cry—loud, ugly, shoulder-shaking sobs that don't stop. Not even when someone passes. Not even when your pager buzzes again.

You make it up to the roof before anyone sees you.

The cold Pittsburgh wind bites at your cheeks, but at least here, you can breathe again.

Kind of.

You wrap your arms around yourself, eyes burning as you stare out over the city like it's supposed to give you some kind of answer.

But it doesn't.

It never does.

You’re not even sure how long you’ve been up here.

The city stretches out below, distant and indifferent—cars moving like blood cells in some great, uncaring artery. You’ve spent your whole life trying to keep things alive, and now, standing here, arms wrapped around yourself in the wind, you’re not sure how to keep yourself going.

It’s not just Jack.

It’s everything.

You’re tired in your bones. In your soul, if that’s a thing people really have.

Tired of the endless codes that ring like alarms in your dreams. Tired of holding hands that go cold while families scream down the hall. Tired of smiling when you’re empty. Laughing when your throat aches from swallowing everything you can’t say.

Tired of being second.

To a memory.

To a career.

To a system that chews you up and spits you back out with new scars and fewer tears left to give.

You love your job. God, you do. But lately it feels like it’s eating you alive. And no one sees it. No one wants to see it. Because you're the one who keeps it together. The calm in the storm. The smile at the desk. The one who always says, “I’m fine. Go. I’ve got this.”

But you don’t.

You don’t got this. Not anymore

You’re drowning.

And Jack—Jack is just the wound you thought you could bandage, only to realize it was deeper than you ever let yourself admit.

You see the way he softens when he talks about her, the few times you got to hear.

The weight in his voice when he says her name.

And you? You’re the comfort. The quiet. The body he falls into when his ghosts get too loud, too much to handle alone.

But not the one he chooses.

Never the one he chooses.

A sob claws its way up your throat, and this time you don’t stop it. You sink, knees scraped by the roof's edge, standing past the metal railing and let it all go—the grief, the love, the years of being almost enough in every aspect of your life.

You cry until you’re raw. Until your breath hitches like a broken record.

Until you feel like there’s nothing left inside you.

And still, the world keeps turning. The city lights don’t flicker. The wind doesn’t pause.

You are so deeply, achingly alone.

And in this moment, you don't even want to be saved. You just want to rest.

To be done.

“You know,” comes a familiar voice behind you, easy and low, “if you wanted to get me alone on the rooftop , all you had to do was ask. I would’ve brought you coffee.”

You flinch. Just barely. But he sees it.

Jack steps closer, hands tucked in his cargo pockets like he’s just wandered up here on a whim, not after checking every paitent room and hallway trying to find you. There’s that half-smile tugging at his mouth, the one he uses like armor—dry wit and soft hazel eyes, his whole coping mechanism wrapped in a single expression.

But the smile falters when you don’t answer.

When he really looks at you.

You’re standing with your hands pulled to your chest, fingers white-knuckled in your scrubs, eyes red and swollen. Shoulders shaking just enough to make him stop in his tracks after realizing you’re past the guard rail.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time. “What happened?”

You shake your head. A tiny, useless motion. You can't even bring yourself to look at him, back still turned.

He steps toward you, trying to search your face. “Talk to me. Did something happen with a patient? Was it that kid from earlier? Or—”

“No,” you whisper, barely audible. “It’s nothing.”

“That,” he says, voice a touch sharper, “is a lie. And a bad one, kid.”

You let out a bitter little laugh that turns into another sob. “Everything’s just… too much.”

Jack doesn’t speak right away. Just watches you, the tension in his jaw building slowly. “You’re scaring me,” he admits, quietly.

“Fuck,” you snap through the tears. “Now you actually see me?.”

That stuns him. You can sense it—how his shoulders tighten, how his eyes scanning like they’ve missed something right in front of them.

You wobble, or try to move—your knees tremble under you, and Jack moves instantly, hands ready to grab you.

You pull away.

“I’m tired, Jack,” you say, voice breaking. “So goddamn tired. Of being here. Of being overworked. Of watching people die. Of pretending I don’t care that you still wear her ring when you’re in my bed.”

Silence slams between you.

He swallows hard, words clearly stuck in his throat.

“I know she meant everything to you,” you say, softer now. “And I would never try to take her place. But it’s killing me. Being your person… Being the one you come to… but never for.”

His mouth opens, then closes again.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “And look, now I’m making my issues about you again. God, I’m tired of that too.”

Jack steps forward, hesitant, like he’s approaching something fragile. Or dangerous. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“I didn’t want to make it real,” you whisper. “Because if I said it out loud, I’d have to admit that I’m not okay. That this job—this place—you—are breaking me.”

He’s quiet for a long time. The wind whistles around you both, cold and uncaring.

“I didn’t know,” he finally says. “I should’ve. But I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

You look up at him, exhausted and open and completely undone. “I don’t want you to say sorry. I just… I wanted to matter.”

“You do,” he says, quick and firm. “You matter to me,”

You shake your head again, biting back another sob.

He doesn’t try to touch you this time. He just stands there in the silence you’ve created, eyes on yours like they’re the only thing he sees now.

And maybe—for the first time—they are.

Jack exhales slowly, like he’s trying to steady his own heart before he reaches for yours.

“You wanna know something?” he says, his voice rough but quiet. “First week I met you, I thought you weren’t cut out for this. All business, too rigid, straight spine, soft. Honestly? Scared the hell out of me, I thought you’d be gone by the end of the week.”

You huff, tired, but something like a breath of a laugh escapes you.

“But then you stayed two hours after your shift because a twelve-year-old was afraid of needles,” he continues. “And I saw it. That heart of yours—the one you hide behind clipped words and all that damn competence. You care so much it hurts you.”

He pauses, lets that sink in. You turn your face slightly toward him, just enough for him to see your profile in the wind.

“I know you think nobody sees you,” Jack says. “That you’re just some extra in other people’s stories. But I see you. I always see you.”

Your lips part, but no words come.

“You’re the one holding the line when everyone else is cracking. You’re the one who stays up on nights like this, falling apart where no one can find you. But I found you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He steps forward again, slowly, cautiously. Like he’s giving you every chance to step back under the rails and hoping you don’t choose the other way down.

“I don’t wear this ring because I’m not over her,” he says, tugging at the band absently. “I wear it because she made me better. And you… you keep me better.”

That stops your breath cold.

“I never meant to make you feel like you were just something temporary,” he says. “You’re not. Not to me.”

“Then why not just say it?” you choke, voice trembling.

He looks at you like he wants to. Like the words are right there on his tongue—but something stops him. Not fear. Not doubt. Just the weight of everything this moment holds.

“I’m saying what I can,” he says instead. “Until I can say it all.”

He steps closer, right in front of you now, eyes searching yours.

“You matter, okay? Not just as my best resident. Not just as a damn good doctor. You matter to me. You’re not alone in this. Even if you feel like you are.”

Silence again. Heavy, but different this time.

“I don’t know what happens next,” he adds, quieter now. “But I know I don’t want to face it without you.”

You feel something give inside you—something that’s been clinging to the edge for weeks, maybe months. You don’t fall apart again, not this time. But you do lean forward. Just a little. Just enough.

Jack reaches out to touch you, wanting to pull you in. Standing right there on the other side of the guard rails, steady as gravity.

Letting you decide.

You stand there for a second, barely breathing. His words echo in your chest, ringing against all the places that have been cracked and hollowed out.

You matter to me.

It shouldn't be enough. Not after all this. But somehow, it is. Or maybe it’s just enough to stop the bleeding.

Your shoulders slump as the tension you’ve carried finally starts to unwind. You don’t fall into him, not dramatically. You just… lean. Your forehead comes to rest against his chest, tentative, uncertain. But you stay there.

And Jack? He doesn’t hesitate.

His arms move around you with a kind of quiet reverence—gentle but solid, like he’s anchoring you to the hospital roof. One hand settles between your shoulder blades, the other against the back of your head, cradling you like he’s afraid you’ll break again.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he murmurs against your hair.

“I scared myself,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

“You could’ve told me,” he says, not accusing—just brokenhearted.

“I didn’t know how,” you admit. “I thought if I said it out loud, I’d lose everything and never come back together.”

Jack pulls back just enough to look at you. His thumb brushes gently along your wind bitten cheeks, catching a stray tear you didn’t even feel fall.

“You are coming back together,” he says, firm but soft. “Right now. Piece by piece. You’re still here. That’s what matters.”

You nod, barely, like you’re still trying to believe him.

“I don’t need you to be okay all the time,” he continues. “You don’t have to be strong for anyone. You get to fall apart. You get to feel this.”

“But what if it doesn’t stop?” you whisper, voice cracking. “What if it just keeps coming?”

“Then we’ll face it together,” he says, without missing a beat. “Shift by shift. day by day. As long as it takes.”

Your eyes search his, and for once, there’s no hiding behind sarcasm or guarded silences. Just truth. And maybe something deeper behind it—something he’s still not quite ready to name, but it’s there. Burning steady like a soft fire.

You close your eyes, letting yourself rest in the warmth of him, in the safety of this rooftop moment.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you take a full, deep breath.

You both stand like that for a long time—no words, just breath and heartbeat and wind. The hum of the city below feels miles away, like a different world. Up here, it's just the two of you.

Eventually, Jack shifts a little, his arms still around you. His voice is soft, barely above the wind.

“Hey,” he says gently. “How about we get back on the safer side of the rail, yeah?”

You realize, with a sudden twist in your stomach, that you’re still on the wrong side. Still too close to the edge, with nothing but cold air and steel keeping you tethered.

You don’t move right away. Your fingers grip the rail, not because you want to jump—God, no—but because the world still feels unsteady. Like if you let go, you might float off into something you can't control.

Jack doesn’t rush you.

He stays with you, warm and steady at your side, hands never leaving you. “One step,” he says softly. “Just one. I’ve got you.”

You look at him, and there’s nothing performative in his expression. No pity. No fear. Just calm, unwavering care.

You nod once. Then slowly, carefully, you swing your leg over the first bar. He helps you the rest of the way, hands guiding you gently, like you’re something precious. When both feet land solidly on the rooftop again, you don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until it finally releases in a shaky exhale.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Safe and sound. Mostly.”

You laugh, barely. “I must look like a mess.”

“You look like someone who’s been through hell,” Jack says. “And is still standing. That’s not a mess. That’s a goddamn miracle.”

You look up at him, eyes glassy, and something flickers between you. Quiet. Heavy. Unspoken.

His hand lifts slowly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, then lingering—fingertips grazing your jaw, gentle as rain. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

“Can I…” he starts, then stops, catching himself. “I’m not asking to fix it. I just—”

You answer by leaning in.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just soft. Slow. Like an exhale. Like the kind of kiss that says I’m still here. I still want this.

His lips meet yours, warm and steady, one hand still at your waist, the other against your cheek. There’s no fire in it—not tonight. Just light. Just steady comfort.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you breathing a little easier now.

“You sure about this?” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t even blink. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”

You nod. You believe him. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you believe in yourself again, too.

mercvry-glow 2025

#the pitt #the pitt max #the pitt hbo #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbott #jack abbott x reader #jack abbott x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbott x reader #dr. jack abbott x you #❥ - Jack Abbot

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