#Edge Protection System

[emailsicansend]

thinking of a childhood friends au where it's nat and jackie, not shauna and jackie, that become the it duo

[scp-official]

do scp oc´s fall under the same creative commons licence official characters do?

hey contrary 2 popular belief this is not an officially owned scp account, rather a parody account i forgot i had

that being said if i am remembering correctly the answer is yes! it’s why people can use those popular doctor guys, like “vaguely strange ukuele doctor” and “photo butterfly doctor guy” ( although to be fair im not sure if they’re “official”, i do know they started off as ocs )

so anyone can use your work, and other people can use yours. that being said i would imagine it’s frowned upon to take original scp concepts and pass them off as your own - so be nice

[biiformtech]

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[mtandtgroup-blog]

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[rajkaran-12345]

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[ohcroculus]

just a fever ── simon 'ghost' riley

summary; he's not scared of a lot of things. except the first fever of his daughter.

wc; 0.4k

he has faced down barrels of guns with steely calm, walked through burning houses with his mask soaked in soot and blood. fear doesn't live in his bones anymore—at least, not the kind that comes from battlefields or the breath before a bullet flies.

but this... is new.

grace is burning up in his arms, small limbs restless and face flushed red with fever, and simon's chest feels like it's caving in. her breaths come fast and uneven, and her fingers, always clinging to his dog tags when she's sleepy, twitch like she’s too hot to hold onto anything.

she's just a baby. not even two.

he paces the living room barefoot, her little form tucked tight against his chest, his shirt damp where her forehead rests. you're on the phone with the pediatrician, voice calm but tight—trying not to let him hear the edge in it.

but he does. he hears everything at this point, every beat and every breath.

his hands are too rough for this. trained for holding guns, not tiny bodies burning with sickness. he keeps checking her temperature with a trembling hand against her neck, like it'll tell him something new. like anything will change.

watching grace whimper weakly in his arms, no strength to cry—he can’t protect her from this. and it unravels him.

you turn to him, finally off the call.

"they said it's common. her body's just learning how to fight things off. fever's a sign her immune system's working."

he nods slowly, but his eyes—those same eyes that have stared down warlords and monsters in masks— look hollow now.

"grace is strong," you add, gentler, placing a hand on his arm. "just like you".

but simon doesn’t feel strong. he feels helpless.

"she's never been this hot," he mutters, voice low, rough like gravel. "she looked at me like she didn't know who I was."

"she's tired, love. she knows who you are" you say softly, caressing his shoulder "you're her dad. of course she knows."

she stirs then, tiny fingers curling into his shirt again. her lips part and he hears the quietest murmur—“mgh…”

he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for an hour. cradles her closer. he doesn't even notice the wetness in his eyes until your hand brushes it away.

later, when grace is finally resting, fever breaking with a cool damp cloth and a lullaby that only you know how to hum right, simon stays by her crib. mask off. eyes open.

no guns. no enemies. just a man watching the smallest person he’s ever loved fight the first of life’s many battles.

he doesn’t flinch at gunfire.

but he’d rather take a bullet to the chest than watch his little girl suffer again.

a/n: making a series about simon being a dad !!! (probably a series of u meeting him too........ im down for it) (soon the masterlist)

[enigmaris]

Danny Kills the Joker AU

Danny is on the run in gotham, as you do in dpxdc fics. His parents are dead and he is trying to stay out of Vlad's custody. Gotham has plenty of ectoplasm to hide his ecto signature. It also has a high enough population of homeless people that no one would even notice Danny just showing up.

He's been living rough in gotham, mostly sticking to Crime Alley and The Narrows, sleeping in abandoned buildings or in relatively clean parts of the sewer system. He eats what he can find and does his best never to be seen.

Not good enough since he along with like 30 other street kids get picked up by joker goons and tied up. Joker is planning an explosive party for the city to watch and he needed guests. Joker literally set up bombs of joker gas around the city that will go off and send the entire city into pandemonium, killing millions. The only way to stop the bombs is to kill his guests (homeless kids from Crime Alley) which the city can vote on. Kill themselves or kill kids.

Danny is sitting at the edge of the group, listening as Joker televises his new plan to the entire city.

He really, really hates clowns.

He is also not gonna let this guy kill all of these kids. He may not be a hero anymore but those protection instincts didnt die with his parents.

And also fuck that clown.

He phases through his bonds, and then starts asking the various kids to borrow their hat, gloves, and scarf. Gotham street kids take one look at this out of town kid and mentally wish him luck while planning out his funeral. They keep on acting terrified because as stupid as this kid is being, they're not snitches either.

Danny puts on the borrowed clothes to hide his face and hair. He can't be identified, or Vlad is gonna be on his ass tomorrow. Once fully covered he gets up and into view of the camera. The Joker notices him, turns around to laugh and jeer at him. Probably shoot him for being impolite and interrupting him. Danny doesnt even pause just walks right up to the clown and coldcocks him.

Based on the sound of bones snapping Danny admits he might have punched a little too hard. Danny checks the Jokers pulse and immediately panics. Danny has Batman levels of fear around killing and he is panicking about becoming Dan.

"Holy Shit I killed him!" He says, to the entire city because the camera is still rolling.

Cue:

Danny running for his life, trying to hide away from his fear and guilt.

Red Hood becoming like his dad and drawing up mental adoption papers

Harley Quinn also drawing up adoption papers, paper ones, while Poison Ivy changes their home's 'no boys allowed' banner to 'son boy allowed'

Jokers goons trying to find Danny to kill him for killing their boss

City wide pandemonium as the jokers death is confirmed and people are partying in the streets, the mayor is planning on giving the street kid who did it the key to the fucking city

The batfam trying to find Danny to protect him from Jokers Goons (Bruce is third in line for custody not that he knows he is gonna have to fight both Harley and Jason for the honor)

The crime alley kids are still not snitching on the kid who saved them. Anyone who asks them about Danny only respond with 'what are you a cop? Fuck off pig'

Vlad Masters, as someone who has been punched by Danny, immediately recognizes the punch and flies to Gotham to find his wayward 'son'.

Vlad even meets with Brucie Wayne to ask for help in finding Danny. Bruce gets bad vibes from Vlad and is even more invested in finding Danny. The boy has dark hair, blue eyes, and a tragic orphan backstory. Its fate!

Danny meanwhile is hiding in some sewer somewhere breathing into a paper bag as he panics about becoming a world ending threat.

[invincibledc]

Twin!reader who’s easily sick. They can’t be a hero, they can’t fight, they can’t go out on patrols. They have to live that normal life while their whole family and twin fight bad guys. Damian always comes back home, getting dressed to relax. To take care of his beloved twin. He sits on the edge of their bed, making them take medicine, vitamins. You name it. The twin could only frown in sadness, telling Damian that they “don’t need care.” Damian felt a little anger, but was calm on the outside.

It was always his duty to protect his twin. He’s not letting you perish by your weak immune system. You will be healthy, even if it kills him to realize that you are actually dying inside.

His twin…

[ama2024]

https://www.advancemarketanalytics.com/reports/95753-global-edge-protection-system-market

How Edge Protection System Market can become bigger in five years?

Advance Market Analytics released a new market study on Global Edge Protection System Market Research report which presents a complete assessment of the Market and contains a future trend, current growth factors, attentive opinions, facts, and industry validated market data. The research study provides estimates for Global Edge Protection System Forecast till 2029*.

The edge protection system is widely used in the commercial, residential, and other construction application. Different types of edge protection system available are concrete edge protection system, steel edge protection system, and timber edge protection system. Edge protection system market has high growth prospects owing to growth in construction and industrial growth worldwide. Further, increasing demand from the developing economies and technological advancement in the edge protection system expected to drive the demand for edge protection system market over the forecasted period.

Key Players included in the Research Coverage of Edge Protection System Market are:

BrandSafway (United States) , Peri-Werk Artur Schworer Gmbh & Co. KG (Germany), Doka Group (Austria), Altrad Group (France), ULMA (Spain), Rapid-EPS (United Kingdom), SafetyRespect (Sweden), Easi-edge Ltd (United Kingdom), KGUARD International (United Kingdom), TLC Group (India), Ischebeck Titan Limited (United Kingdom),

What's Trending in Market: Rising Applications in the Commercial Buildings Emphasizing On Advancement in the Edge Protection System

Challenges: Lack of Awareness in the Low and Middle Income Group Countries

Opportunities: Increasing Demand for Concrete Edge Protection System Rising Demand from the Developing Economies

Market Growth Drivers: Growth in Construction Infrastructure Globally Rising Focus on Safety Regulations for Infrastructure Projects

The Global Edge Protection System Market segments and Market Data Break Down by Type (Concrete Edge Protection System, Steel Edge Protection System, Timber Edge Protection System), Application (Construction, Infrastructure, Industrial)

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To comprehend Global Edge Protection System market dynamics in the world mainly, the worldwide Edge Protection System market is analyzed across major global regions. AMA also provides customized specific regional and country-level reports for the following areas.

• North America: United States, Canada, and Mexico.

• South & Central America: Argentina, Chile, Colombia and Brazil.

• Middle East & Africa: Saudi Arabia, United Arab Emirates, Israel, Turkey, Egypt and South Africa.

• Europe: United Kingdom, France, Italy, Germany, Spain, Belgium, Netherlands and Russia.

• Asia-Pacific: India, China, Japan, South Korea, Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, and Australia.

[oh-dameron]

SecUnit armour should attach directly to anchor points on the construct. If you're building something designed to wear armour then including couplings for it just makes sense. A human should not physically be able to wear SecUnit armour not because it's too heavy (though it probably would be too heavy/cumbersome to move well in) but because it doesn't have straps and buckles or lock to itself like human armour does: it clips onto the underlying foundation (the SecUnit).

It's disposable plating meant to take hits and then be replaced, but it's also an extension of the construct's body.

I have a lot of Feelings about Murderbot and its armour, how terribly it misses its opaque faceplate and how naked and vulnerable it feels every time it goes into combat without it. How in System Collapse it feels weird about taking Three's armour, and whether that's an extension on how it feels about armour in general, taking Three's specifically, or its evolving feelings about being expected to charge into combat in the first place. It's a component Murderbot lost early on and has never been able to replace, an exoskeleton it's struggling to learn to live without even as the humans around it don't even register it as a loss.

I think it's pretty likely that given the choice, it would generally prefer to chill in the argument lounge in full armour with its faceplate opaqued. Without that option it's been forced out of its comfort zone and has connected with its humans in a way that Mensah correctly predicted it never would have otherwise, which. Yay. But now it's done all this hard work and uncomfortable growth I hope eventually it gets its comfortable shell back.

Not to wear all of the time, because ART's crew uniforms are very soft and don't have seams or logos that it doesn't like, and ART's argument lounge and Preservation Station are safe places where it can be around humans without needing it. But next time shit hits the fan I hope ART gets to do a dramatic reveal of the bleeding edge armour it contacted the PSUMNT AI that has a special interest in materials science to make. It upgraded its fabrication units to be able to build it. It hacked Company blueprints to get a design schematic to scoff at and then improve. It's got the stealth coating they lifted from the NE hostiles. It's got extra data storage and processors tucked in there big enough to carry an ART partition. It comes with a whole fleet of matching drones. It's Perihelion blue. You can't buy armour this good (who would ever spend this much to protect a construct?), but it would hypothetically cost more than a fully kitted-out brand-new top-of-the-line CombatUnit. ART paid for it out of its own accounts and will not be taking questions about PSUMNT mission budgets at this time.

The wall retracts to reveal a secret armoury like in a spy movie, complete with theme music and coloured lighting, both because ART is Extra and because it knows that Murderbot has some mixed feelings about armour and having nice things. Giving it cheesy melodramatic presentation to nitpick and protest over will be comforting, even as they both unironically enjoy the homage to the episode of Timestream Defenders Orion with the chrono-displaced space knights.

This got away from me, but tl;dr: let the awkward turtle have its shell back!

[baskeigh-ball]

4:00 am post? You better believe it

Have a slightly updated Mutant Manhunt Raph design! Don’t worry, his Battle Nexus outfit hasn’t gone anywhere— I just wanted his plastron visible to figure out what scars to add. I would not dare get rid of his drip

Couple of fun facts under the cut

Compared to canon, MM! Raph is slightly smaller and skinnier for a couple of reasons. The biggest being lack of proper nutrition, second being that he’s constantly training and fighting. Being a Nexus Champion and being in your teen years is a bad combination. Because this isn’t just your average exercise, it’s full on gladiatorial fights you’re having to undergo nearly every day, MULTIPLE times a day. Mans is gonna be a little worn thin, let’s be real

Because of his upbringing (the Mud Dogs not having resources due to being, well. Hardened criminals.) Raph never gets braces! So his teeth are a little fucked up, but Big Mama has no intentions of fixing that. He looks MUCH scarier and monstrous with crooked, fang-like teeth, which is exactly what she wants. It’s also useful in fights, so Raph prefers his fangs… even if he’s busted his lip more times than he’d care to count.

If you noticed that scar on the back of his head, you can probably guess where that came from. Having such a sharp shell is both a blessing and a curse: it’s useful until you’ve been flung backwards and your head makes contact with a sharp edge. Ouch.

Because he has to fight so often in a deadly environment, Savage Raph is in control a LOT. He’s also referred to as Raph’s battle persona, the Red Angel. Nearly every fight, he has to take over just to protect Raph’s mental wellbeing. Because of this, Red Angel is more “developed,” in a sense? Which just means he’s not dormant all the time and actually has a chance to experience being in control. Only problem is, he’s only in control when these fights are going down. So it’s gonna be a major shock to his system once he’s on the outside. And you better believe I have a planned scenario where the younger brothers meet Savage/Red Angel

[mtandtgroup-blog]

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[rajkaran-12345]

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A Slab Formwork System is a temporary structure used to support wet concrete while it sets and hardens. It’s essential for forming the shape and strength of concrete slabs, which are a crucial component of any building’s structure. The formwork ensures the concrete is poured into the desired shape and gives it the strength needed to carry heavy loads once it hardens.

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The Slab Tableform System is an innovative solution that speeds up the process of slab construction. Traditional formwork systems can be cumbersome and time-consuming, requiring significant labor and material costs. The Slab Tableform System offers a game-changing approach to formwork by incorporating large, pre-assembled tables that can be easily moved into position for slab construction.

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Key Benefits:

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[luvbabydoll]

What would the 141 boys be like if their girl was drunk and got very flirty/handsy with them?

john price

he’d chuckle low under his breath the first time you slid your hands up his chest, eyes flicking down to you with that half-smile of his.

“easy, love,” he’d murmur, one hand catching your wrist, the other steadying your waist. “didn’t know a few drinks’d turn you into such a flirt.”

you’re leaning in close, whispering something ridiculous in his ear, and he shakes his head, amused but trying to keep you grounded.

“come on then, let’s get you home before you decide to start undressing me in front of the lads.”

he wouldn’t push you away—he likes the attention, really—but he’d tuck you under his arm and guide you somewhere quieter, protectively. his palm would settle warm on your lower back, his tone gentle and low.

“you’re gonna regret sayin’ that tomorrow, sweetheart.”

simon “ghost” riley

simon would freeze when your fingers slide under the hem of his shirt. his shoulders tense. eyes widen just slightly behind the mask.

“what the hell’re you doin’, love?”

your voice is slurred and teasing, and you’re pouting when he tries to step back, so he sighs and lets you cling to him a bit more.

he’s not annoyed—more like confused and trying really hard not to enjoy the way you’re pressed up against him.

“you’re drunk,” he mutters, jaw clenching. “and too bloody handsy for your own good.”

but then you whisper something dirty against the fabric over his neck and he chokes. literally coughs and backs away, cheeks flushed.

“fuckin’ hell. alright. we’re leavin’. now.”

he’d throw his jacket over your shoulders and pick you up if he has to. no chance he’s lettin’ the others hear the filth coming out of your mouth when you’re this tipsy.

johnny “soap” mactavish

oh, he loves it. the second you start getting handsy, giggling and trailing your fingers over his tattoos, he’s beaming.

“whoa there, bonnie,” he laughs, arms wrapping around you without hesitation. “didn’t know ye turned into such a lil’ menace with a drink in ya.”

he lets you touch him, playfully catching your wrists when you get bold, holding them up between you with a wolfish grin.

“behave,” he says, even though he’s definitely not discouraging you.

but he knows you’re drunk, so he won’t let it go too far. he’s still protective—just the type who lets you get it out of your system while teasing you to hell and back.

“you keep talkin’ like that and i’ll have t’ remind you in the mornin’ exactly what you said—word for word.”

phillip graves

graves is leaned back in his chair, drink in hand, boots up on the edge of the fire pit when you stumble over to him with that tipsy grin and all that sweet mischief in your eyes.

“darlin’, you’ve been starin’ at me like i’m dessert all night,” he drawls, lips quirking as you plop yourself right into his lap like you’ve got no shame left in that pretty little body.

you’re giggling, nails dragging lightly over his chest, your words sticky-sweet and slurred.

“you’re so big, phil… jesus, what do they feed you in texas?”

he damn near chokes on his bourbon.

his hand finds your hip, firm but not rough, grounding you as he leans in close with a smirk, voice low and honeyed.

“sugar, you keep talkin’ like that and i’m gonna forget you’re drunk.”

he lets you run your hands over him, lets you press your mouth just shy of his neck, but he ain’t about to take advantage. not his girl.

he’ll shift you so you’re sitting more sideways on his thigh, wrapping an arm around your waist like a seatbelt, fingers tapping against your leg to distract you from grabbing at his belt again.

“alright now, calm down, sweetheart. you’re handsy as hell and we got an audience.”

if anyone dares make a comment, he gives them a look that shuts them up fast. then he’s tilting your chin up, all fondness and southern charm:

“you wanna act like a lil’ tease, baby, that’s fine. just know payback’s a bitch come mornin’. and i got a good memory.”

[abbotjack]

You Knocked, I Let You In

summary : You’re not from his world—you don’t speak in vitals, don’t flinch at blood, don’t belong to the people who call him “Abbot” like it’s both a sentence and a survival tactic. But when he texts—too late, too clipped, too careful—you go. Because Jack Abbot never asks for anything, not really. And tonight, for reasons he won’t say, he wants you. A cherry-red dress. A quiet reservation. A man built to hold pressure, not affection. He’s never been good with words. But he’s about to show you everything he means.

word count : 6,839

content/warnings : 18+ only MDNI, emotionally intense sex, aftercare, oral (f receiving), protected vaginal sex, depiction of PTSD and emotional repression, grief, mention of a patient death (child), emotionally guarded older male character (Jack is in his 40s), younger female character (mid 20s), emotionally soft Jack Abbot, grounded realism, possessive tenderness, trauma-informed characterization, anddddd a lot of smut with feelings.

a/n: this one’s been collecting dust in my google docs for a while—wasn’t sure if it was any good, but figured someone out there might need it as much as I did.

You shouldn’t be here.

That’s the first thing you think when the cab pulls to a stop at the corner of 15th and Vine—where the pavement turns to gravel just before the sidewalk ends and the streetlamp hums like it’s about to go out. There’s no front porch light, no house number you can see, just a dented mailbox with the paint scraped off and a storm door that sticks if you don’t lift it by the handle.

But you’ve been here before.

Not often. Not enough. Just enough to still feel it in your legs.

The house is red brick and slouched. Duplex, probably built in the fifties. One of those old Allegheny Valley homes too stubborn to die. It leans slightly to the right, like maybe the foundation gave up a long time ago but the rest kept going out of spite.

You step out into the drizzle, heels hitting the concrete with a hollow click, and the cold April air clings to your dress like a second skin. It’s too thin for this weather, but you wore it anyway—slippery and low-backed, cherry red and just barely long enough to keep from being indecent. You don’t wear red. You’re not the kind of girl who makes a scene. But tonight you needed him to see you.

You’re still not sure why he texted.

You’re still not sure why you came.

You’re not a fixture here—you’re a flicker. The kind of girl a man like Jack Abbot never plans around. Just thinks about too often. Just calls when it’s too late to be polite.

And maybe that’s what you like about it.

Because you don’t live in a world of routines and rotas and rounds. You’re not in medicine. You don’t know what a central line is or how to read an EKG. You work at the city’s adult literacy nonprofit, helping people who slipped through cracks in the system big enough to bury them. You teach night classes in a fluorescent basement on the North Side, surrounded by broken chairs and stained carpet and students with parole bracelets and kids who need dinner by six.

It’s good work. Quiet work. Important.

But it doesn’t leave much room for wanting things just for yourself.

And Jack Abbot has never once asked you to be small.

You step carefully up the cracked incline of his driveway, heels clicking softly against the uneven concrete. Jack’s truck is parked just slightly crooked, like always—angled enough that the passenger side catches the streetlight, the front end turned a little too close to the retaining wall, like he pulled in fast and didn’t bother correcting.

You slow as you pass it.

The passenger-side mirror is fogged at the edges, streaked faintly from rain, but you lean in anyway, breathing warm against the glass to clear a patch. Your reflection stares back—lipstick still intact, not too bright, not too desperate. You smooth a hand down the front of your dress. It clings a little from the damp.

You don’t touch the mirror. You don’t need to.

Instead, you straighten your spine, cross the last few feet, and raise your hand to knock.

Once. Then again. Knuckles on wood, sharp and clean.

There’s a pause.

Then the soft clatter of a lock, then another.

Then silence.

When the door opens, he doesn’t say anything.

Just stands there.

Jack Abbot isn’t tall enough to tower, but he doesn’t need to. There’s something in the way he carries himself—shoulders slightly hunched, stance uneven from the prosthetic—that makes people instinctively give him space. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. Like they know he’s walked through something hard and quiet and didn’t come out clean on the other side.

He’s still in his black scrubs, the collar rumpled. Underneath, the cuff of a white undershirt is visible—stained faintly at the edge, like he’d wiped his hand on it without realizing. Could be blood. Could be iodine. Could be coffee. He hasn’t shaved in days. There’s a cut healing at his jawline, a bruise blooming high on one forearm. And his eyes—that slow, searching stare that never stays still—carry the quiet of someone who’s watched too many people bleed out under fluorescent light and learned to keep his voice steady anyway.

He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, watching you like he’s waiting to see whether you’ll flinch first.

He looks like he just got off shift.

He looks like he never left it.

“Hi,” you say.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

His gaze drops. Tracks the fabric. The way it clings to your hips. The slit at your thigh. Then climbs again, slowly, until he’s looking at your mouth like he’s remembering something that never should’ve been said out loud.

“I’m not in the mood for small talk,” he says, voice rough and clipped, like it’s meant to keep you at a distance.

You arch a brow. “Relax. I wasn’t planning to ask how your day was. You texted me, remember?”

“That was an hour ago.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

He looks at you, unmoving. “I typed it an hour ago. Hit send ten minutes ago.”

You snort—just barely. “Jesus. You ghost me for a month, then get pissy I didn’t teleport here?”

Jack doesn’t flinch. Just watches you. Like he’s trying to count all the ways this is going to be a bad idea.

You step past him, shoulder brushing his chest. You feel the heat of him—his restraint like a wall you could kick in if you wanted to.

“I’m not here to coddle whatever brooding thing you’ve got going on tonight,” you say, casting a glance back over your shoulder. “If you wanted silence, you could’ve kept the draft in your messages.”

Jack shifts—just enough that you notice. Eyes steady, weight shifted, like he’s tracking something under your skin.

“You wearing anything under that?”

You smile with your teeth. “You planning to find out or just stand there being weird about it?”

He exhales through his nose—short, sharp. Glances down once, then back up.

Then steps aside and pushes the door the rest of the way open.

“You’re still late,” he says.

“And you’re still full of shit,” you reply, walking in without waiting.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You shrug your coat off and let it hang on the crooked hook by the entryway. His silence follows you like steam—slow, clinging, heavy in the chest. You’re halfway into the living room before you realize he hasn’t moved—Jack is staring at you like he’s trying not to say the thing he’ll regret. Like he already knows how this ends and is still pretending he has a choice.

You turn.

You arch a brow. “You gonna hover all night, or…?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just moves—slowly—toward the coffee table. His movements are clipped, functional, like he’s still coming down from shift adrenaline.

“You hungry?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

“I made a reservation.”

You snort. “At a place with silverware?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You—” you blink again, actually thrown for once, “—you made a reservation at a real-ass restaurant.”

“Look, I didn’t expect you to show.”

You tilt your head. “But you made the reservation anyway.”

He scratches at the back of his neck, not looking at you. “They had online booking. It wasn’t emotional.”

“So what? You were gonna eat coq au vin alone and pretend it was character development?”

He finally looks at you, deadpan. “I was gonna sit at the bar, drink overpriced scotch, and ignore the people having birthday dinners behind me. It’s practically therapy.”

You laugh. Actually laugh. And his eyes flick to your mouth like he forgot they do that.

“I thought we were walking,” you say.

“We are,” he says. “To my truck.”

“Oh, romantic.”

“You wanna walk through the Strip District in that dress?” he asks, not even looking at you. “I’m all for a dramatic entrance, but I’m not in the mood to commit a felony in public tonight.”

You smirk. “You think I need a bodyguard?”

“I think if anyone says the wrong thing to you,” Jack mutters, eyes flicking down the length of your dress again, “I’ll end up punching someone in the face—and I’m already covered in someone else’s blood.”

You go still for half a breath.

And he catches it. Like a pulse under your skin.

His jaw works once, then he exhales through his nose—tired, sharp.

“I’ll be quick,” he says. “Don’t touch anything.”

He disappears down the hallway, one boot clunking against the baseboard, prosthetic hissing faintly as it shifts with his stride. You don’t sit. You pace, slow and quiet, absorbing his house like it’s telling you something he won’t.

The walls are neutral. Medical journals stacked beside a box of ammo he hasn’t unpacked. Framed medals, yes—but not displayed. Tucked in a dusty cabinet beside an unopened bottle of whiskey and a Ziploc full of blood donation cards. There’s a water bottle on the counter with his name on the cap in someone else’s handwriting. There’s a sticky note on the fridge that says Don’t forget Friday—Robby.

You lean against the kitchen doorway.

There’s still a black bag by the door. Trauma pack. Half-zipped. Red tape on the handles. He’s always got one ready—even when he’s off.

When he comes back, he’s not dressed for candlelight.

He’s dressed like himself.

Black button-down, sleeves rolled halfway. Dark jeans. That same leather jacket you once saw him use to splint someone’s arm after a three-car pileup. His hair’s still wet, but pushed back now. He smells like cedar soap—something clean, sharp, bought on purpose—and something darker beneath it, like heat and metal and memory. Not cologne. Just him. The kind of scent that lingers even when he doesn’t.

He doesn’t smile when he sees you.

But he does stop. And look.

“You good?” he asks.

You grab your coat from the hook. “Better than you.”

“Doubt that,” he says, already at the door. “I’ve had three cups of hospital coffee and a fentanyl OD cough in my face. That’s called building resilience.”

“I think that’s called exposure therapy.”

“No, that’s what this is,” he mutters, opening the front door for you.

Outside, the rain softens everything—headlights, corners, voices. The kind of night that makes even the city feel like it's whispering.

Jack walks ahead, boots hitting the concrete with that uneven cadence you’ve learned by feel, not sound. You trail behind, pulling your coat tighter, watching his back, the broad line of his shoulders under the jacket. He doesn't glance back, but he doesn’t need to. He knows you're there.

He opens the passenger door to his truck. Holds it open without fanfare.

You hesitate, one foot still on the sidewalk.

“You really made a reservation?” you ask.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t look at you. “Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes, stepping closer. “So we actually have a table?”

He glances at you now, sharp and sure. “If I walk in with you in that dress, they’ll give us one.”

Then he shuts the door gently behind you, like he’s sealing something in.

The restaurant is warm and low-lit, the kind of place where the menu doesn’t have prices and everyone talks like they’re trying not to wake a baby. A converted warehouse with exposed brick, matte silverware, and waitstaff in black aprons who glide, not walk.

You step in first, rain-slick and radiant under the vestibule light, and Jack follows just behind. His presence doesn’t just fill a room. It tilts it.

The hostess does a quick scan, eyes pausing on your dress, then on Jack’s face, then on the two of you together—like she knows better than to ask questions. She checks the list, but Jack cuts in, voice low.

“Abbot. Table for two.”

Her posture straightens. “Right this way.”

The table is small. Intimate. Tucked into a corner where the candlelight flickers just enough to make the shadows feel intentional. You slide into your seat across from him. The tablecloth brushes your thighs. Jack drops into the chair like he’s still trying to convince his body to sit still.

You watch him take in the room like a trauma bay—sizing up exits, memorizing sightlines, cataloguing who’s already drunk and who might start something. You’re not surprised. Jack doesn’t know how to be off-duty. Not really.

“I’ve never seen you eat anywhere with cloth napkins,” you murmur.

He lifts his eyes, deadpan. “I can evolve.”

You lean back. “Is that what this is? Personal growth?”

Jack unfolds his napkin like he’s done it a hundred times. “It’s carbs and a distraction.”

“And me?”

He looks at you for a long second. “A complication.”

You smirk. “Careful. I might put that on a dating profile.”

He doesn’t smile—but his eyes betray him. That flicker of something darker. Hunger, maybe. Or memory.

A waiter appears—tall, the kind of man who probably judges how you hold a fork. He hands you menus and starts his monologue, but you only half-hear it. Your eyes are on Jack. He hasn’t looked away from you once.

When the waiter leaves, Jack doesn’t reach for the menu.

You do.

“What?” you ask, without looking up. “You don’t read?”

“I already know what I want,” he says.

You freeze for half a second.

Then flip the page. “You always this forward in public?”

Jack shrugs. “Just forward enough.”

You glance up. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m trying not to,” he says quietly.

Silence folds in between you—soft, ambient, but charged. You can hear the clink of cutlery, low jazz humming from the ceiling speakers, the faint hiss of water being poured into someone else’s glass. Jack shifts in his seat—not restless, just recalibrating. You recognize that posture. He’s about to say something he’ll pretend didn’t matter.

“You look good,” he says finally.

You meet his eyes. “You already said that.”

“I didn’t.”

You tilt your head. “Thought you didn’t do compliments.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what’s this?”

Jack leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. His voice is quieter now, more grounded.

“This is me trying not to go home with your dress still in the seat crease of my truck.”

You’re warm now. Not from the wine. From him. From the way his gaze doesn’t drop, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t ask.

“I thought you wanted this to be civilized,” you say.

Jack exhales, slow and sharp. “I wanted it to be public. That’s not the same thing.”

You lean in, just enough that the candlelight touches your collarbone.

“So what happens after dessert?” you ask, sweetly.

Jack’s mouth curves—not into a smile. Something more dangerous.

“You think I’m gonna make it to dessert?”

Jack doesn’t touch his wine. Just traces the rim of the glass with the side of his thumb, like he’s giving his hands something to do besides reach for you.

You, on the other hand, sip yours slow. Watch him over the edge like you’re still deciding if you’re going to let this happen.

“You always this twitchy at dinner?” you ask, setting the glass down.

“I’m not twitchy,” he mutters.

You raise your brow.

“I’m alert.”

You grin. “You know what civilians call that?”

“Hypervigilance?”

“Therapy’s working.”

That gets him. Just a flicker—something behind the eyes, that half-breath pause he does when he’s almost about to smile. But he shakes his head like he’s brushing it off. Always brushing it off.

“You’re good at that,” he says.

“At what?”

“Getting under my skin.”

You blink—caught off guard by the honesty in his voice. He doesn’t say it like an accusation. He says it like it’s inevitable. Like it already happened.

“I’m not trying to,” you say, quieter now.

“Yeah,” Jack says, eyes locked on you. “That’s the problem.”

A beat. The waiter brings bread. You ignore it.

Jack leans back a little. Not relaxed—never relaxed—but more settled. Like whatever this is, he’s decided to let it stretch a little longer.

“You like what you do?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “That a real question or small talk?”

“Real,” he says, without missing a beat. “You do this thing where your shoulders drop when you talk about work. Even when you say it’s exhausting. I noticed.”

You go still.

Then—cautious: “You remember what I do?”

Jack meets your eyes, unwavering. “Adult literacy program. GED prep. Half your students can’t keep consistent hours because they work night shifts or care for their kids. One of them asked you to help fill out a DMV form last week and didn’t know how to sign their own name.”

You stare at him.

“I listen,” Jack says, voice steady. “Doesn’t mean I know what to say back.”

You look down for a moment. His words hit somewhere too soft, too unguarded. You weren’t expecting softness—not from him. But here it is, tucked under the barbed wire.

“I thought you were half-listening that night,” you say. “The one where you were icing your shoulder and bleeding into your scrub top.”

“I was bleeding into someone else’s scrub top,” he corrects, dry. “Mine was already ruined.”

You smile. “Still. I thought I was talking to the wall.”

“You were,” he says. Then softer: “But the wall has ears.”

You both fall quiet again—but not from discomfort. From weight.

Jack shifts forward slightly, elbows on the table now, posture subtly open in a way that would go unnoticed by anyone else. But you notice. Because you know how rare it is.

“You ever want to do something else?” he asks.

You shrug. “Sometimes. But I like that I get to be useful. And I like that it’s mine.”

He nods. Absorbs that.

“What about you?” you ask. “You ever think about walking away?”

His fingers tighten just slightly around the water glass.

“Every night,” he says. “But I don’t.”

“Why not?”

Jack looks up at you then, sharp and tired and honest.

“Because the minute I stop showing up,” he says, “someone else has to hold the pressure. And I don’t trust most people to not fuck that up.”

You don’t reply right away.

Instead, you let your foot brush his under the table. Just barely. A whisper of contact.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull back.

“You ever let anyone take care of you?” you ask.

He huffs a breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“You offering?”

“I’m not a nurse.”

“No,” Jack says, voice dropping a register. “You’re worse. You see through it.”

You look at him across the table.

Candlelight catches in the corner of his eye. He’s not looking at your mouth anymore. He’s looking at you like he’s memorizing you in case this is the last time he gets to do it.

That scares you more than anything.

But you don’t look away.

“You want to get out of here?” you ask, voice low.

Jack doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m not rushing.”

You swallow. “Why not?”

He leans in. Just slightly. His voice soft now. Barely a murmur.

“Because if I take you home right now,” he says, “I’m not letting you leave before sunrise. And I’m trying to be good.”

Your heart trips.

“But you’re not good,” you whisper.

Jack stares at you like you’ve already undone him.

“No,” he says. “But I want to be. With you, I want to be.”

Dinner’s done.

The plates are cleared. The wine is low in the glass. Whatever tension was humming earlier has now settled into something denser—gravity, almost. Like the weight of what neither of you is saying has taken up its own seat at the table.

You reach for your purse when the check comes.

Jack watches you. Doesn’t move.

“I’ll get it,” you say.

“No,” he says.

You blink. “Jack—”

He tilts his head—just enough to be a warning. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I invited you.”

“Since when do you play by date rules?”

He leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on you. The collar of his button-down is open just slightly now, sleeves pushed up. His forearms rest against the edge of the table—still, tense. You can see the cut healing along his knuckle, the way his jaw shifts like he’s chewing back a longer sentence.

Then he says, voice low and level:

“I had a kid code on me last night. No warning. Collapsed mid-handoff.”

You stop moving.

Jack doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift.

“You ever do chest compressions on someone who still has their baby teeth?”

The air around you goes sharp. Quiet.

His voice doesn’t waver. “It’s been a long fucking month. And you—” he lifts his chin slightly, like pointing at you without pointing, “—are the first good thing to happen to me that I didn’t have to stitch shut or call time on.”

You don’t speak.

Not right away.

Jack exhales slowly. Not dramatic. Just tired.

“So please,” he finishes, softer now. “Let me pay for your damn meal.”

You sit back, lips parting—but the words don’t come.

He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t soften. He just looks at you like he needs you to let him have this.

So you nod. Once.

“Okay,” you murmur.

Jack signals the waiter with a tilt of his fingers and slides his card into the checkbook before the guy even finishes approaching.

When he turns back to you, his voice is lighter. Barely. “Thanks for not fighting me on it.”

“I figured you’d pull the dead kid card.”

“I didn’t,” he mutters. “I pulled the I care about you card. You just weren’t expecting it.”

You shake your head, smiling now. “I really wasn’t.”

Outside, the streets are still slick. Reflections of stoplights ripple in the puddles. You walk side by side in silence, coats tight, his hand resting near your lower back without ever quite touching. Not possessive. Just... present.

He unlocks the truck with a low beep. You slide in, silk sticking slightly to the seat.

Jack closes the door behind you, then rounds to his side. The interior smells like his jacket. Clean, worn-in, edged with cedar and something darker.

He starts the engine.

Doesn’t drive yet.

His hand rests on the steering wheel. The other on the gearshift.

You’re watching him. And you know he knows.

“You okay?” you ask, voice soft now.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Just taps once on the steering wheel. Then again.

Then: “I haven’t had you in my house since Feburary.”

You tilt your head. “You keeping track?”

“I remember things that mess me up.”

You stare at him. “That what I do?”

Jack finally turns to look at you.

And it’s there—all of it. The restraint, the need, the fear, the ache. The thing in his chest he’s been keeping taped down with dry humor and trauma protocol.

“You make me feel like there’s a version of my life I don’t hate,” he says. “That counts for something.”

Your breath catches.

And that’s when he shifts into gear.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable. Just dense. His hand rests near yours on the console. The city passes by in wet blurs of neon and old brick and memory. And when you reach his street—familiar now, in that strange way trauma and attraction make things sacred—you realize you’re holding your breath.

He parks in the same crooked way he always does.

Then cuts the engine.

But doesn’t move to open the door.

You glance over. “You gonna make me sit here all night?”

He looks at you—long, measured.

Then says, “You sure you’re ready to come back inside?”

You don’t answer.

You just open your door.

The front door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly the quiet feels thick. Like the space inside his house is closing around you both, absorbing what little restraint you walked in with. You’re in the same hallway you stood in earlier—same floorboards, same shadows, same air—but your pulse is different now. Everything is.

Jack tosses his keys into the bowl by the door. The clatter echoes.

He doesn’t turn around right away. Just stands there, head down slightly, like he’s bracing. Rain beads along his collar, catching in his jawline stubble. You can see the tension in the back of his neck, the way his hands flex once at his sides and then still.

You don’t wait for him to move.

You step up behind him slowly, the hem of your dress brushing your knees, heels soundless now on the rug.

“Jack,” you say quietly.

He turns.

And the way he looks at you—it’s not clean. It’s not soft. It’s wrecked. Like you’ve been haunting him for weeks and now you’re finally standing here and he doesn’t know where to put the want.

“I think about you,” he says, voice low, raw. “Every fucking night.”

You stare at him. “Then why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Because I knew I wouldn’t just want to hear your voice.”

That lands between you like weight.

Neither of you speak.

You just look at each other in the dark. And then, without warning, his hand finds your waist.

He pulls you toward him in one solid motion—not rough, just… inevitable. The kind of motion that’s been held back for too long.

Your bodies slot together like you remember each other. Like your hips already know where to rest against his. His hand stays at your waist, fingers firm but not possessive. The other lifts to your jaw, thumb skimming the edge of your cheekbone.

He doesn’t kiss you yet.

He just looks at you.

And it’s too much.

“Say something,” you whisper.

Jack swallows hard. “I’m trying not to fuck this up.”

“Then don’t.”

His fingers tense. You feel it at your hip. In your pulse. In the way your breath catches when he finally closes the last inch of space and kisses you.

It’s slow at first.

Not sweet.

Just devouted.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s trying to memorize the taste, like this is the last time and he wants to make sure it’s enough to live on. His hand slides up the back of your neck, into your hair, anchoring you there like he doesn't trust himself to stop.

You moan softly into him, and his breath catches.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Sure I do,” you breathe. “That’s why I wore the dress.”

He laughs once—low, ragged—but it dies quickly in his throat. The sound is swallowed by your mouth, by the feel of you pressing closer.

You walk him backward without thinking. Past the narrow hallway, past the living room. His hand is on your waist again. Your fingers find the buttons on his shirt but don’t undo them yet.

The house is quiet except for breathing. His and yours. Tangled.

You hit the doorframe of his bedroom.

But he doesn’t open it.

Not yet.

He rests his forehead against yours. He’s breathing hard now—like he’s keeping himself caged on purpose.

“I don’t want to rush it,” he says again. But this time it doesn’t sound like hesitation. It sounds like pain.

“You’re not.”

Jack pulls back half an inch to look at you. His eyes are blown wide. His mouth’s a little open. He looks—not undone—but stripped back.

“I can’t do this halfway,” he says. “Not with you.”

“You’re not supposed to,” you whisper. “That’s the whole point.”

He lets out a long, harsh breath.

And then—finally—he opens the door behind you and pulls you through it like he’s choosing to burn for it.

Jack’s bedroom is dark. Not in a neglectful way—just lived-in. A man’s space. Clean but uncurated. Worn boots under the chair. A folded sweatshirt on the dresser. An open book spine-down on the nightstand: Emergency Procedures & Field Triage. Pages marked in pencil. Of course.

He kicks the door shut behind you.

And for a moment, he just stands there. Breathing. Looking at you like you’re still some unsolvable thing he’s scared to touch wrong.

You move first.

Hands sliding up his chest, fingers finding the edge of his shirt, palms flattening over his heart.

“You sure?” you ask again—voice low, but steady.

Jack’s hands come to your waist, rough and warm. He leans in close, mouth hovering just above yours.

“I’ve been sure since the second you knocked on my door,” he says. Then lower—almost broken: “And I hate that I waited.”

The kiss this time is hungry.

Less control. More need. His tongue slides against yours like he’s chasing something deep, something he couldn’t name even if he tried. You press into him, gasp when his hand fists in the side of your dress, gripping like he’s terrified you’ll vanish mid-breath.

“Take this off,” he murmurs against your mouth. It’s not a question. It’s a plea, said like it’s been echoing in him for weeks.

You reach behind your back, unzip slowly—eyes locked to his the whole time.

Jack steps back half a foot. Watches.

The dress drops. Pools around your ankles.

You’re standing there in lace and nothing else.

He breathes in once, shallow.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You wore that for me.”

You nod. “Of course I did.”

His eyes rake down your body—every curve, every detail. His hand lifts. Hovers near your hip. Doesn’t touch yet.

“I don’t know what I did to get this,” he says.

“You survived,” you whisper. “That’s enough.”

He lets out a harsh breath—something close to a sound of grief. And then his hand lands on your bare waist. Heavy. Certain.

He kisses down your neck—slow, biting when you moan, tongue smoothing after like apology. His hands find your back, unclasping your bra in one practiced motion, sliding the straps down your arms like they’re made of silk. You shiver. Not from cold. From him.

“You’re so warm,” he murmurs against your skin.

“You always run cold,” you whisper back, breath shaking.

Jack sinks to his knees.

You inhale sharply.

“Jack—”

“I need to feel you first,” he mutters. “Need to taste you. You don’t get it—I’ve been thinking about this for months.”

You look down—he’s already kissing the inside of your thigh, just above the lace. Soft at first. Then harder. Like he’s mapping something. Marking you.

You gasp when his teeth graze the edge of your panties.

He groans.

“You’re already shaking,” he says, voice full of that broken admiration he doesn’t know how to hide. “That for me?”

“All for you,” you whisper.

He slides the lace down your legs, slow. Watches you step out of them.

Then his hands grip behind your thighs and he pulls you against his mouth.

His tongue is everywhere. Slow circles, deep flicks, his mouth moving like he’s memorizing you from the inside out. One hand holds your thigh wide, the other digs into your ass. When your hand finds his hair, he groans against you—louder now, messier. You can feel how much he needs this in the way he licks like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

“Jack—Jack,” you gasp, hips twitching, thighs trembling, “I—fuck—I’m close—”

“Good,” he growls. “You should be.”

When you come, you come with your fingers tight in his hair and your head thrown back, gasping his name like it’s a secret you weren’t supposed to tell. He keeps going. Slower. Gentler. Licking you through it with reverence, with dedication, with the kind of awe he’ll never say out loud.

When he stands again, his mouth is wet, jaw flushed, eyes glassy.

You’re breathing hard.

“You okay?” he asks. Quiet. Real.

“Need you to fuck me,” you say. “Now.”

Jack swears. Low and harsh.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

“No,” you whisper, stepping into him again, naked and still shaking. “I’m gonna save you.”

Jack lifts you onto the bed like it’s instinct. His hands under your thighs, his body bracketed against yours—solid, tense, hot. The mattress dips beneath your weight, and you stretch out beneath him, bare and burning, chest rising and falling like your ribs don’t quite know how to contain the want.

You prop yourself on your elbows. “Take your pants off.”

He stares at you for a long beat. His chest rises.

Then—low, cracked: “Say it again.”

“Jack—” you whisper.

“No. Say it like you need it.”

Your breath stutters.

“I need to feel you,” you say, voice raw now. “I need you inside me. Right now.”

He swears under his breath. Voice frayed. “Fuck, okay.”

His jeans are gone fast—belt unclasped, zipper shoved down, cotton briefs pushed low. You watch the whole thing with your bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyes dragging over the hard line of his stomach, the blunt, heavy length of him curved against his thigh. He’s thick. Flushed. And already leaking.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “You were hard the whole time?”

Jack climbs back over you, jaw clenched, one hand bracing beside your head. “Since you knocked on my door.”

You reach down between you, wrap your hand around him.

He groans—full-throated, wrecked—and drops his head to your shoulder like he’s just been shot through.

“Shit. Don’t tease me right now,” he mutters.

“I’m not,” you say. “I want you. Like this.”

He looks up at you. Eyes dark. Pupils blown wide.

“Condom’s in the drawer,” he says roughly. “Top left.”

You nod, stretch, grab it. Tear it open.

Your fingers brush his cock as you roll it on, slow and deliberate, and the hiss he lets out could bring a lesser man to his knees.

You look up at him, chest bare, thighs parted, breath gone.

“Jack. Now.”

He doesn’t tease.

He presses forward, one hand guiding himself to your entrance, the other gripping the back of your thigh to anchor you wide for him. You’re wet—already soaked—and the first push is hard enough to make your whole body arch.

“Fuck—” Jack grits. “You’re—shit, baby—you’re so tight.”

You grab his shoulder, nails digging into skin. “Don’t stop. Don’t even think about stopping.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he growls.

He thrusts in fully, slow and deep, and your body takes him—inch by inch, stretch by stretch, until your hips are flush and his forehead is pressed to your collarbone.

Neither of you moves for a second. You just breathe.

And then he starts to fuck you.

It’s not soft. It’s hungry. Measured. Deep. Like he’s trying to get further inside than flesh will allow. Every snap of his hips pushes a breathless moan from your throat. His hand fists the sheet beside your head; his other arm cages you in. Your legs wrap high around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, like you don’t want a single inch of him wasted.

“You feel—” he grunts, “—so fucking good.”

You rake your nails down his back. “Harder.”

He obeys.

Each thrust now hits deeper, heavier, like he’s giving you every part of himself that the world hasn’t already taken. Your breath breaks. Your thighs tremble. His hand finally slips between you, two fingers finding your clit with brutal precision.

“Jack—Jack—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He’s panting now. Losing rhythm. But he doesn't let up.

“Come on,” he grits. “Let me feel you. Give it to me. Give it.”

You break.

You come hard—legs shaking, hands gripping, eyes squeezed shut, crying out his name like it’s the only one you’ve ever learned how to say.

He follows.

With a hoarse, broken moan, he buries himself deep and stays there—body locked tight against yours, pulse stuttering hard enough to feel in his throat, jaw pressed to your shoulder like the release ripped something loose he didn’t know was still held shut. He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even shift. Just keeps his arms cinched around your waist like he’s bracing for impact that never came.

You thread your fingers through his hair—slow, grounding. He doesn't speak right away. When he does, it’s quiet. Raw.

“I don’t…” He swallows. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”

You press a kiss to his temple. “You don’t have to be,” you whisper. “Just don’t stop trying.”

Jack stays inside you, barely breathing, the tremor still in his chest. His weight settles over you—not heavy, not crushing. Just solid. Protective. One arm under your neck. The other spread wide across your ribs like he’s still counting them to make sure you didn’t break.

You let him stay there. Let him breathe. Let him feel it. Because you know Jack Abbot doesn’t get to feel often—he just responds. Just survives.

Eventually, he lifts his head. Barely.

You meet his eyes.

They’re a little bloodshot. A little dazed. And so fucking open it nearly knocks the wind out of you.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, slow. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter: “Yeah. Just—fuck.”

You smile. “That’s articulate.”

“I’m not built for articulate,” Jack mutters, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Especially not when I’m inside someone who just ruined me.”

You arch a brow. “Ruin’s a strong word.”

“You don’t see what I look like right now.”

“You look good.”

Jack huffs—half a laugh, half a sigh. “I feel like I ran a marathon with a collapsed lung.”

You trace your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He lets you.

“Didn’t peg you as a cuddler,” you murmur.

“I’m not.”

“You haven’t moved.”

“I will,” he says, but doesn’t. His hand flexes on your hip. “Eventually.”

He eases out of you a few minutes later, slowly, carefully—like he’s handling an injury he doesn’t want to aggravate. His fingers trail down your thigh, steady and warm, like he’s checking for damage. When your breath catches, he pauses.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low.

You shake your head. “No. Just… full.”

Jack exhales, something quiet and wrecked. He bends, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. Not performative. Not playful. Just soft. Reflexive. Like his body doesn’t know how else to say I needed this.

Then he’s up. Moving efficiently. Still naked but somehow still Jack—controlled, composed, capable, even after being completely undone.

He comes back with a towel, a glass of water, and one of his black undershirts. Doesn’t make a show of it. Just kneels on the bed and gently wipes between your legs, slow and careful, like you’re something he’d bleed for again if it meant he could keep you whole.

You let him. Let him take care of you the way you knew he would if he ever let you close enough.

You sit back against the headboard once you’re clean, his shirt pulled over your head. Your legs are still shaky. Your breath still catching now and then in your chest.

Jack returns to the bed wordlessly.

He doesn’t sprawl. Doesn’t lean. He sits beside you like something important’s about to come loose in him if he doesn’t say it now.

You look over at him.

“You do this for everyone?” you ask, teasing—but it’s soft, not sharp.

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t take the bait.

He looks at you.

And says, plainly: “I don’t have people over like this.”

That stills you.

He goes on, voice lower now, like it’s hard to say aloud. “You know that. You’ve always known that.”

You don’t reply right away.

Because you do know. You knew the first time he kissed you like he wasn’t supposed to. You knew the second time, when he didn’t say your name but held your hand under the table at a bar. You knew every time he pushed you away and still showed up when it mattered.

“I know,” you say. Quiet. Sure.

He looks at you again—really looks—and it’s all there. The weight of it. The risk. The want.

“I’m not fucking leaving,” Jack says finally. “And you’re not just here for the night. Not after that. I can’t—” He breaks off. Swallows. “I can’t pretend you’re just passing through. I don’t want to.”

You lean into him. Let your head rest on his shoulder. The shirt smells like him—soap, sweat, sex, something that lives deep in the cotton, like the way old homes hold heat.

His arm comes around you without hesitation. Holds you firm. Solid. One hand at the small of your back. Like if he doesn’t keep touching you, it won’t be real.

“Okay,” you whisper.

And he kisses your temple—slow, lingering.

Not like a man who needs sex.

Like a man who needed you.

Like a man who’s been surviving too long alone and finally, finally found something he’s willing to stay for.

[ariestrxsh]

olderbrothersbsf!matt x innocent!reader

જ⁀➴ ♡ content warning: smut, innocence corruption, masturbation, use of toys, oral (f!receiving), fingering, loss of virginity, sneaking around, getting caught, small age gap (both characters are adults), forbidden love

જ⁀➴ ♡ summary: your older brother is back in town for summer vacation, and he brings home his childhood best friend, matt sturniolo, who can't seem to keep his eyes off of you

this fic was requested/inspired by this ask! enjoy. (p.s. sorry i made matt so pervy in this. honestly idk what got into me lmfao)

dividers by @/roseraris

Young God

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |

You were in your room, listening to music, headphones in and volume on full blast while you sat on the edge of your bed, flipping through your playlist when some movement out of the corner of your left eye broke you out of your focus. You glanced up at your partially open door to see your older brother peeking through and tapping on the barrier to try to get your attention.

He was finally home for summer vacation from his second year of college. "Hey!" You jumped up, taking out your earbuds and throwing your arms around him in a big hug. "Hey, little sis. It's been a while," He greeted you, not having seen you since winter vacation earlier that year. Behind him was Matt Sturniolo, his childhood best friend who you hadn't seen in even longer.

"Hey, Matt," you said, your gaze traveling over towards your brother's best friend, who looked as attractive as ever. You'd always had an insatiable crush on him, and it didn't help that he had more facial hair, more tattoos, and a more chiseled jawline since the last time you'd seen each other.

He always hit like a drug, like a habit you couldn't kick, like a long-term addiction you couldn't shake. He flooded your system with cascading waves of dopamine whenever you looked at him and interacted with him. You craved him. However, you knew you couldn't ever pursue him.

Your brother had always warned you about him. "I know as you get older and start developing feelings for boys, you're gonna wanna start dating. But whoever you date, please don't date my friends, especially not Matt Sturniolo. I know he's my best friend, but the kid's bad news. He's only after one thing when it comes to girls, and he's off-limits to you," you recalled your brother saying to you.

After you'd started going through puberty, your brother had been hyperaware of the way your behavior suddenly changed towards his best friend. He'd started picking up on the way you'd been interacting differently with Matt, trying to get his attention more often and trying to find excuses to be in the same room as him, which terrified him.

You didn't know what he meant by that, only after one thing? You didn't know what that one thing was, but you secretly found yourself curious about it, and you wondered if it was something you could give to Matt. But you nodded at your brother, promising to stay away from Matt despite the way your stomach dropped when you looked at his friend.

"Hey, you're all grown up," Matt replied, bringing you back to the present. He subtly checked you out before pulling you into a hug, leaning down, hooking his arms around your waist, and picking you up. He let out a soft grunt as he lifted you into the air. He loved the way your body felt writhing against him as you giggled. "Put me down," you half-heartedly said, secretly loving the you felt in his arms.

Your brother shot him a look as he placed your feet back down on the hardwood floor beneath you. "I'm going off to college after the summer ends. Can you believe it?" You asked, swaying back and forth. "No, I can't. The boys at school are going to adore you," Matt said, nibbling on his lip and doing nothing to conceal the hungry look in his eye.

You didn't notice, but your protective older brother did.

"Hey, Matt and I are gonna go grab some dessert. He's gonna stay the night here. We'll be back," your brother said, wrapping up the conversation so he could go scold Matt in the car and remind him of the rules about hitting on his little sister. "Can I come?" You wondered, your eyes lighting up at a chance to be in Matt's presence once again. "I don't think that's a good idea," your brother started to say.

"Come on. Let her tag along so we can all catch up. I'll buy," Matt offered, looking back over at you with a smug smile. "Fine," your brother hesitantly said, leading the three of you out to the garage. You sat in the backseat in the middle and clicked your seltbelt closed.

On the way to get a sweet treat, Matt sat in the passenger seat with his head craned all the way around, his eyes lingering on your sweet treat between your thighs. You'd forgotten you were in a skirt and were innocently sitting with your legs splayed out while your pink panties peeked out from underneath the short fabric.

Your brother, who was focused on the road, was completely unaware of the show you were unknowingly putting on for Matt.

"So, what have you been up to since the last time I saw you? You got a boyfriend now?" Matt lustfully cooed, not that he cared if you did, while studying the outline of your puffy lips through your underwear. He bit down on his lip while his cock jumped in his jeans at the sight.

Your brother glared over at him, recognizing the tone of voice he was using on you. The same he'd use when trying to take girls to bed. "No. All the boys my age are so immature. I don't want to be with any of them," you said, making a face. "Oh really?" Matt replied in a smug voice.

You guys had arrived at your destination, and after you guys had all ordered your desserts to go, Matt was handing his card over to the employee and giving you sly looks while he undressed you in his mind.

The three of you piled back into the car to head home. Matt watched intently as you swirled your tongue around on your strawberry ice cream, imagining you were lapping up something else. "Thank you for the dessert, Matt. It's so good," you said, letting out a soft moan while you savored the taste. You weren't trying to tease him, but you were driving him wild.

"Oh, a little is dripping onto the sides there," Matt pointed at the melted, pink liquid leaking down the waffle cone, and you licked a long stripe up the dessert, cleaning it off with your tongue. "Almost got it. Give it one more good lick," he urged you.

"That's it. Good girl. You got it," Matt purred, licking hot fudge off his spoon as you dragged your tongue up the length of your cone once more. His eyes flashed back to your panties, and he noted a small damp spot on the front of the pink cotton. Blood rushed to your cheeks as Matt watched you.

Your brother reached over and slugged Matt in the arm, almost making him drop his hot fudge sundae. "Hey!" Matt exclaimed. "Hey, why'd you do that?" You innocently asked, secretly enjoying the way Matt was watching you and talking to you. "Don't worry about it. Matt's just being a perv," your brother scoffed.

You realized where Matt's eyes kept traveling back to when he wasn't watching you clean off your cone. Suddenly, you became self-conscious, slamming your legs shut and going back to eating your ice cream in silence while you looked out the window.

It's not so much that you minded Matt viewing you that way. It's that your brother was picking up on it. You avoided eye contact with both of them, worried that they had noticed how much you liked when Matt had called you good girl.

No one said a word the rest of the awkward car ride home. Later that night, the boys went into your brother's room, which was only ever occupied when he was home from school, to play video games.

You desperately needed to take care of the aching feeling between your legs you'd been wrestling with since Matt had picked you up earlier when you'd hugged him. You reached into your pink panties and started slowly rubbing yourself while you pictured Matt.

On the other side of the wall, Matt and your brother were tapping away on their controllers in front of their game. Your brother was quietly berating Matt for the way he was looking at you and talking to you earlier while they waited for the next round to render.

"Dude, that's my sister. Please don't try anything."

"Relax. I'm just having a little fun making her blush. She's really cute when she gets all worked up," Matt smugly responded. "Gross. Don't talk about her like that. If you lay a finger on her, our friendship is over. I'm serious," your brother said in a somber tone. How about in her? Matt silently wondered, smirking to himself.

"Seriously, I'll kill you if she loses it to you," he told Matt sternly, insinuating you were a virgin. "She hasn't lost it yet?" Matt's gazed off into the distance as a perverted scene unfurled in his mind. "Gross. Forget I told you that. Just stay away from her," your brother said, eating his words after he remembered Matt had a thing for innocence corruption.

"Don't worry," he smirked, holding up both hands up in a defensive position, despite the thoughts going on behind his eyes about stuffing you for the first time. "I'm going to bed after this game. I feel sick after watching you with her today," he grumbled, rolling his eyes.

Matt brushed off his friend's comments. It's not that Matt didn't value his friendship with your brother and love him dearly. It's just that he was weak to his carnal desires, unable to say no to them and unable to turn down temptation when it was taunting him. Especially when it was forbidden fruit.

After they finished their final round, they shut off the light and Matt laid down on the floor next to your brother's bed with a blanket and a pillow. Your brother had fallen asleep and started softly snoring, and right as Matt began to drift off, a low hum woke him up.

At first he thought he was getting a call, but when he peered down at a black screen after picking up his phone, he realized the vibrating was coming from somewhere else entirely. It was low, unwavering, and seemed to be coming from the other side of the wall, in the direction of your bedroom.

Matt stealthily got up and slipped out the room. When he stepped into the hallway, he realized a dim light was pouring out of your room and into the hallway through a crack in your door you'd left open a bit on accident. Matt approached your room and peered in through the sliver of space between the door and the frame.

There you were, bathed in warm candlelight, laying on top of your blanket naked, legs spread, and steadying a vibrator on your clit. Matt smirked to himself as he studied the way your thighs quivered while you used your toy.

Your lips were fixed in an o shape, your cheeks were pink, and your brows were pinched together. You shut your eyes and threw your head back as Matt's name slipped through your slew of whimpers.

He poked his head into your room, pushing the door open, and he slowly invited himself inside, approaching you to get a better look at you. He loved the way your slick folds glistened in the soft lighting, and the way your breasts started to subtly bounce as you started to violently shake.

You were right on the verge of greatness, slowly nearing a climactic ending, when your eyes fluttered open, and you saw Matt standing at the foot of your bed, staring down hungrily at your pussy. Immediately, you grew insecure about being watched, chasing away your orgasm.

"Matt!?" You said his name again, but this time in an aggravated whisper. "Poor thing. All alone in here. Why play with those toys when you could have the real thing?" Matt cooed, reaching for your pink vibrator. You handed it to him while it was still buzzing, and when he rested it back onto your clit, you let out a relieved sigh in response.

"Good girl. Just lay back and relax. Just here to help," he softly directed you. "Oh, Matt," you breathed out softly, lifting your hips up and grinding up against the vibrator in his grip. You glanced down at his smirk and how his eyes were fixed on the way you were clenching around nothing.

With his free hand, he took his middle finger and started teasing your folds with it. Your eyes widened as he sunk his finger into your drooling cunt. For a moment, you thought you must be dreaming. You let out a loud, satisfied sigh as he pushed it all the way in.

"You gotta be quiet, sweet thing. If your brother had any idea what I'm doing to you right now, he'd kill me."

You nodded at him and placed your palm over your mouth to muffle all the noise you couldn't keep yourself from making. "It's gotta be our little secret," he grinned at you as he added another finger, and you could feel the cold metal of his rings on the warm flesh of your thighs as he pumped them back and forth into your heat.

"You're so tight," he whispered, relishing in the way you clenched around his digits while they started to stretch you out. He shut off your toy for a moment, setting it off to the side, and repositioning himself.

He lowered his head between your legs while he fingered you, and he started to work his mouth on your special place, rolling his soft tongue over your clit and manipulating your folds with it. He closed his lips down around your bundle of nerves and gently hummed against it, recreating the feeling of the vibrator, only much better.

You arched your back up off the bed and rolled your hips forward, chasing the sensation of his tongue exploring places no one ever had before. "Like that, princess?" He asked you in between licks. "I love it," you whispered back.

Your eyes rolled back into your head, and your legs started to tremble as he continued stimulating you with his mouth and his fingers. "Good girl. You got this," he cooed while you got close. His fingers curled so perfectly, hitting all the right spots while you kept your hand held tightly over your mouth, desperately trying to avoid waking anyone up.

"That's it, pretty thing. Cum all over my fingers," Matt purred sweet nothings from between your legs while he felt you starting to tighten around his fingers. "Relax. Let it happen. Give in to how good it feels," he talked you through it while you shook beneath him, experiencing your very first orgasm given to you by another person.

You let out a few soft whimpers that you couldn't keep to yourself while you steadily throbbed around Matt's fingers that had slowed to a stop once you'd finished. He licked them clean, and he complimented your flavor as he started pulling his cock out of his sweatpants.

You couldn't see much in the low candlelight, but it was intimidating-looking. You could see the veins that texturized his thick shaft, and you could make out how swollen the mushroom-shaped head was.

"You ever had one of these in here, sweetheart?" Matt cooed, giving you a devilish smile, and introducing his bulbous tip to your slick hole. You bit your lip and shook your head from side to side, confirming your innocence to him.

"Oh, poor thing. Let's fix that. You're way too cute to not be getting fucked," Matt groaned as he pushed it in. You squelched around his thick rod, and he shoved it all the way in until it filled you entirely, the base of his dick resting against your entrance.

You felt your pussy expanding around him as he started rocking his hips back and forth, hitting a pleasant spot deep inside of you. You held your breath for a moment, still adjusting to the size difference between his fingers and his cock, and when you exhaled, a few stifled sounds came through. It hurt so good.

"Good girl. You're taking me so well. Can't believe this is your first dick," he praised you softly while he delivered a few harder thrusts. Soon, there was no pain at all, only pleasure.

He grabbed you by your waist, steadying himself while he started to speed up, getting caught up in how good your virgin hole felt wrapped around him. He watched as he pumped back and forth, fixating on the way you coated his length in your arousal.

"That's it. Take it like the good girl you are. I know you've been dreaming about this for years," he smirked at you, and you eagerly nodded in response. It was like a fantasy come true, losing your virginity to a forbidden man, your brother's best friend, while your brother slept soundly one room over.

The bed started gently rocking and making a soft rhythmic thump thump thump as the headboard made contact with the wall. But each of you were too caught up in how incredible the other person's body parts felt to care about the noises you were making.

Matt picked up your toy again, and after propping your right leg up onto his shoulder to get a deeper stroke, he turned on your vibrator once more and held it on your clit again, sending your eyes rolling back in your head and causing your jaw to fall open in sheer desire. You'd never experienced stimulation quite like this, and you didn't know how badly you craved it until now.

When your gaze shifted back to Matt, he was peering down at you with glossed over eyes and a pleasure-filled expression. You were both at the gates of heaven, about to immerse yourselves into a shared orgasm that neither one of you could fend off any longer.

"That's it. Be a good girl. Finish all over my forbidden cock," Matt whispered, all too aware of the dynamic that existed between you, mocking your brother's attempt to keep you two apart, that instead drove the two of you into each other's arms in a twisted self-fulfilling prophecy.

You both tensed up, Matt injecting you with his seed and filling you to the brim while you throbbed around him, milking him dry. You guys softly moaned in harmony, your bodies moving in unison. The sound of the bed thudding against the wall came to a stop, and the buzzing of your toy dropped off when Matt killed the power on it.

"Wow. Your pussy is so pretty pumped full of my cum," Matt whispered with an edge of thrill in his voice as he pulled his meat out of you and watched the way it leaked out of you while you continued clenching around negative space, recovering from the orgasm Matt had just given you.

He was still admiring the mess he made inside you that started to leak onto your sheets when a stern and infuriated voice boomed from behind him, sending chills down his spine and sending a sobering wave of fear through his system when he realized the two of you had been caught. It was your brother, watching from the door way.

"I thought I fucking told you to stay away from her, Sturniolo."

part two here ❣️

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