#This is just the Reference for them as a Kid

[sugxto]

flip the switch - eddie/volt/reader

⋆syn: It's Volt's birthday, and he has a special request for his present.

⋆wc: 4.2k

⋆cw: m/m/afab threesome, bottom volt and top eddie, fingering fucking, rimming, cunninglinus, erotic electrostimulation

⋆notes: reader insert uses g/n pronouns and is not described with feminine attributes. AFAB genitalia, terms used include hole, folds, entrance, cunt and clit. e/v masterlist.

this does include dialogue and references from the final day of their route, so if you haven't finished them, i'd avoid for spoilers. there is also a few sentence description of what Volt's realization outfit looks like - they're not being realized, I just want to use the outfit, which you can see here in high res.

⋆snippet:

Before you can blink, Volt's above you, hands on either side of you, and you shudder at his white hot eyes when he says, in a voice smooth as silk, “I would rather love to fuck you, my live wire.”

Okay, that wasn’t too wei--

“While our Eddie fucks me.”

Oh, fuck.

flip the switch

“I didn’t realize it was actually this big of a deal.”

Eddie cranes his head at your voice, only being able to catch a glimpse of you from his precarious angle atop the ladder. “Ah, hey live wire,” he says as he turns back to his task. “Gimme a minute to finish this, yeah?”

He’s hanging a banner across the top shelf of the bar, decorated with bright, hand-painted lightning bolts and stars across the dark fabric. In a darling, cursive font, it reads, “Happy Birthday Volt!”

You look around the empty bar, see the stage adorned with balloons, the tables strewn with party hats and glitter. The Breaker Box, on any given night, is vibrant, lively, electric, but not often is it bright, with an anticipation in the air for celebration. You like it, you think, it’s different, in a way that makes you feel like a kid again.

You hear Eddie sigh, and you turn to see him lean back, survey his work. He studies the banner for a moment before calling over his shoulder, “Hey babe?”

“Yes?”

“Is it straight?”

“As an arrow, Eddie.”

He huffs as he descends the ladder. “Works for me then.”

You meet him behind the bar after he puts the ladder away, and he gives you a kiss on your cheek before he starts to fix himself a drink. “Want anything?” You nod, accept the cocktail he creates, and you lean against the bar with him. He must notice how your eyes keep flitting to the balloons, to the banner, to the white cake box that sits at the end of the bar, because he takes a long sip of his drink before saying, “It, uh, yeah, is a pretty big deal.”

You look over at him, surprised by the shyness in his voice that you haven’t heard notes of in months. “A big deal, because it’s Volt?” you ask, watching his face, see his brows furrow. “I know he’s a diva, he’s our diva, but surely he doesn’t ask for something like this every year.” You pause when Eddie doesn’t answer, only takes another sip. You ask, a bit incredulously, “Does he?”

Eddie sighs, tilts his head back, his grey eyes staring holes into the bottles behind the bar. “It’s not a big deal for us.” His fingers spin the tumbler in his hand, the liquid sloshing around the glass. “It’s… a pretty big deal to the rest of the house. Holly,” he nods at the banner, “Mitchell,” at the white box, “Stefan. Winnie. Mayor Celia.” He shrugs his shoulders, shuffles his weight on his feet. “It means a lot to them, I guess, having someone in the house that was actually… born.”

You blink, the connotation his words registering, aware of the silence that’s growing between you and Eddie, but he seems to pay it no mind, taking small sips of his drinks. Your brows furrow, and you turn your body to face his, steady yourself with one hand on the bar, before you finally ask, “Volt’s… the only one with a birthday.”

It comes out a bit more like a statement than a question, but Eddie nods all the same. “Yeah. Birthday, ‘sparked into existence’ day, whatever you wanna call it.” He puts a hand out in front of him. “There was a time before Volt.” He makes a sweeping arch with the hand. “And then, Volt was here.” Finally, he turns his gaze to yours, his lightning brows arched on his forehead. “That’s as close as we can get, I guess.”

“But what about -”

“Days they joined the house? Dates of manufacturing lots?” Eddie cocks his head, and you can’t quite read the look in his grey eyes, though it almost seems amused. “That doesn’t apply to all of us.”

Us?

Your lips fall open, words stuck on your tongue, and now you’re really, really studying Eddie’s face. “Eddie,” you finally manage, and his brows raise even more, expectantly. “How old are you?”

He chuckles, softly, and raises the glasses to his lips as he asks, “How old’s the house?”

“I… don’t know.”

He nods, the smallest of smirks on the corners of his lips. “Then, I don’t know. Like I said, it’s not so simple for all of us. You wanna ask River how old she is? She’s fucking water, live wire.”

Huh, you think. Guess that was true. 

He finishes his drink, sets it on the bar, and crosses his arms as he turns to face you. “Like I said. He and I would be more than happy to treat it like any other day. Well, maybe me more than him. But the others like…” he pauses, and you can see the wires connect in his mind as he finds the right phrase, “they like the idea that, we could create something. Create life.”

You nod. “But,” you ask, quietly, “can they?”

Eddie inhales deeply, his chest rising before letting it out, heavy through his nose. His own voice is quiet now too. “I don’t know that either.”

You’ve never asked about where Volt really came from, outside of the cursory explanation Eddie had given the night of the reset. That Eddie had split himself, made Volt out of necessity, their very essence comprised of something that powered both of them. “Sparked into existence,” was how they always phrased it, and they never offered more than that.

“But you did.”

Eddie’s quiet at that, but he nods. “Yeah. I did.”

“How?”

Eddie groans, and he rolls his eyes, exaggerates it, before running a hand through the coils of his hair. “I knew one day you’d ask me that. And live wire, I’ll tell you what I tell everyone else.” He points a finger at you, a sparkle in his eye. “That I. Don’t. Know.”

You blink, immediately confused, feeling the gears in your brain try to process. “What?”

“I don’t know how I did it.” He throws his hands up in surrender before dropping them to the bar, leaning against the cold, curved wood. A small veil of something falls over his face, almost always, stoic face, making him look more… contemplative. Yeah, that’s the right word, you decide. “I just… remember the pain. How frayed I was, a fucking dead man walking. And I thought, if I could just,” he gestures with his hands, like tearing a paper, “rip it out of me, split myself off from what was holding me back from doing my literal fucking job…” his hands turn to fists, and he studies them for a moment before dropping them. “I remember wanting, needing that with every electron inside me. And then, there was just this flash of white light. And I woke up,” he nods his head towards the back room, “to a white eyes staring at me.”

You’re quiet, a bit unsure what to say, and waiting to see if he speaks again. You reach out to touch his arm, wanting to be near him, and he settles into your touch, grey eyes finding yours, and a soft smile on his lips.

“Sorry it’s a bit anticlimactic,” he says with a small laugh. “But I’m not harboring any secrets on how household objects can procreate under my sleeves.”

You smile too, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You hear, in the back of your mind, something else they’d said that night - “we’re not one thing, but we’re not two things, either.”

You turn the memory over in your mind, working out how to phrase your next question. You swallow, purse your lips, then say, “Eddie, I don’t want you to be freaked out by what I’m gonna ask.”

He cocks a brow, and a corner of his mouth twitches up, and you see a flash of his canines. “Alright.”

You steel yourself for whatever answer he gives. “What is Volt, to you?”

Eddie licks his lips and studies your face. You see him catch your implication, and he takes a deep breath. “I can tell you what he’s not. He’s not my brother, and he’s not my kid, if that’s what’s suddenly worrying you. Though your timing is a little late in asking that.”

You fight how your eyes want to roll. “But he’s something.”

His eyes soften, and he worries his bottom lip with his teeth before saying, in perhaps the smallest voice you’ve ever heard from him, “I think… I think he’s my soul.” He must notice how wide your eyes get, how high your brows shoot, because he adds, quickly, “Most, or part, of it, at least. I don’t,” he runs a hand through hair again, tugging slightly at the frayed ends, “I don’t know. But, what I feel, what we feel, it’s… deep. Cut from the same thing. So, that’s my best guess.”

The look in Eddie’s eyes makes your heart swell - it threatens to rip itself out of your chest and throw itself at his feet. It’s a look of pure, electric, love, and you, not for the first time, cannot believe that you are lucky enough to be loved by him. By both of them. Because maybe you knew, deep down, that that would be Eddie’s answer, that there was no other explanation for how they literally completed each other. 

And what a privilege, what a wonder, that they thought you completed them.

You bring your hands up to his chest, press yourself against him, needing him, his touch, and he brings his hands to your face without a word, the two of you fitting together with ease. His thumbs run over your cheeks, hot under his touch, and he asks in a teasing voice, “Did that answer your question?”

“Yes,” you admit, your voice full of more emotion than you were expecting. “I love you. I love you both, Eddie.”

He hums as he smiles. “Yeah? Well, we love you too. And I didn’t even have to make you in a blind fury to ease my suffering.”

You try to smack his chest, but he’s too quick, and his lips are on yours before you can retort. He’s warm, always so warm, and you wonder if he’ll truly make you melt one day.

“Kissing our partner before me, live wire? On my own birthday?”

You break away at Volt’s voice, echoing in the unusually empty club, and your breath catches at the sight of him. His usual vest and wired coat have been traded for a stunning black suit, adorned with golden lightning bolts across the shoulders, and his usual copper cuffs replaced with a few gold bangles. He looks lush, expensive, gorgeous, and so fucking hot.

He chuckles at the look on your face, your slack jaw, as he steps to meet you and Eddie. “See something you like, darling?”

“Hell yes,” you say, at the same time that Eddie says, “Fuck you.”

Volt’s grin is devilish, charming, electrifying. “Later, Eddie dear. We have to entertain before I can open my presents.” As he says it, his white eyes rake over your body, taking in every inch of the glam ensemble you’d thrown on for the party, and he licks his lips. “And I think I’ll take my time unwrapping them.”

“Uh huh,” Eddie grumbles, though his eyes sparkle, and he pecks your forehead. “Now I gotta get changed, everyone’ll be here soon.”

He takes a step to leave, but Volt shoots him a teasing look as he blocks him with a hand. “Ah ah, as I said, the birthday boy is lacking in kisses.”

“The ones I give your dick this morning not count?” 

You can’t contain your laugh as, shocked, Volt lets him pass, Eddie not even giving him a glance back. But you stop, immediately, when he turns his attention back to you, and the look on his face is both terrifying and exciting as fuck.

“Fine,” he purrs. “I’ll just have to get my fill from you, then.”

When Eddie comes back downstairs, he has to tear him off you, has to repeat over and over to Volt that no, just because it was his birthday, he still could not eat you out on the bar.

You’ve never seen the Breaker Box as full as it is for Volt’s party. Nearly everyone is here, packed together around the tables, sitting on the edge of the stage, primed with champagne and a charge of excitement you’ve not seen them buzz with before. Volt greets them all with ease, like he was made to mingle - you wonder, actually, if he was. You help Eddie behind the bar, knowing this sort of thing isn’t his forte, though he doesn’t look as fatigued as you expected, even as he serves cocktail after cocktail, as Mitchell grills him on the origin of their citrus, or as Barry talks a mile a minute. 

Mayor Celia makes a small toast, tells a story about how everyone remembers the shock (she gets laughter at that) of Volt’s arrival, and how he truly brings a warmth, an ease, to the house. You and Eddie are with him as she speaks, and after the Cheers!, he kisses you, then Eddie, to whoops and hollers, before pulling both of you onto the dance floor.

It’s late when the crowd finally thins out, and you’re playing some incomprehensible drinking game with Parker and Rainey when Eddie announces last call. Volt’s with him behind the bar, chatting with him while he has yet another slice of cake, and your heart swells again when you glance over at them, in awe of how easy and how right everything is. Volt, ever observant, must feel you looking, and he throws a wink over at you that makes you blush.

When finally, finally, the club is empty again, the three of you are sat at the bar, your bare feet thrown over Volt’s lap, your head resting on Eddie’s shoulder. Connected. Together.

“Volt,” you say, your voice tired, and he hums as he looks up at you. “Did you have fun?”

He smiles, runs a hand over your leg. “Always, little spark. But,” his touch creeps higher up your calf, “don’t I still have my presents to open?”

You’re all up the stairs in a flash, a trail of your clothes on the steps, all of you a mess of hands, lips, teeth, pulling and petting and just wanting to feel each other, and it’s only because you know them so well that you can feel the difference of their skin on yours - Eddie’s, that hums like a current, and Volt’s, that buzzes with power. You melt under their hands, and suddenly, you’re on the bed, watching them kiss, watching them pull each other’s coats off without even parting. 

When Volt’s lips move to Eddie’s neck, Eddie’s steel eyes find yours, and he keeps your gaze as he wraps a hand in Volt’s hair and says into his ear, “Hey birthday boy, you gonna tell ‘em what you want?”

You hear Volt’s chuckle, muffled against Eddie’s skin, before he stands back up and turns to you, his hand hanging off Eddie’s neck. “Mm, I suppose I should.”

Before you can blink, he’s above you, hands on either side of you, and you shudder at his white hot eyes when he says, in a voice smooth as silk, “I would rather love to fuck you, my live wire.”

Okay, that wasn’t too wei--

“While our Eddie fucks me.”

Oh, fuck. 

“Oh, fuuuck,” you moan, your cunt clenching at the thought, the anticipation, and you press your legs together as tight as you can. Volt’s resulting chuckle only makes it worse. 

“Do you think we can do that for me, my darling?” He coos, dipping his head to your ear, the ends of his hair shocking your skin where it tickles your neck. “For my birthday, hm?”

You moan again at this voice, his lips, his fucking everything, a shiver enveloping your body pinned beneath him, and it takes every ounce of your resolve to nod, to moan a, “yes, yes, please.”

Volt’s tongue licks your ear, and you throw your hands up to claw at his chest as your back arches off the bed. “Very good, little spark. How about,” another lick, another plea from your lips, “I finish what we started at the bar? While Eddie gets me ready for him?”

You nod, but then quickly whimper a yes, knowing you’d get a shock to your skin if you didn’t, and he leans up, finds your waist with his hands, and pushes you up the bed. You curse when he spreads your legs, settles on his stomach, and his eyes glimmer at the sight of you, wet and aching for touch.

You see him bite his lip, and there’s a shock to your clit as his fingers find your folds, and you hear him mutter, in a quiet voice, “Happy birthday to me,” and then you scream, because he feasts.

Your back shoots off the bed, your fingers claw at their sheets, and your ankles lock around Volt’s neck as his tongue works you, expertly, knowingly, and the warmth, the current he creates within you travels to every inch of your body. When you feel his fingers press inside you, your eyes open, needing to see him, but it’s then you notice Eddie’s dark hair at the end of the bed, settled between Volt’s legs, having a feast for himself.

You think it might be the fastest you’ve ever cum, screaming their names, and you hear both of them hum as the legs shake, lightning flashing behind your eyes.

But Volt doesn’t let up, doesn’t slow his fingers, and you feel his breath against your throbbing clit as he pulls away, says, “let’s have another, my darling, as a present, hm?” and your throat is raw as he goes right back to giving you long, slow licks, before his tongue practically starts vibrating around you.

You hear him groan after a minute, and through heavy lids, you watch Eddie lift himself up, run his hands over Volt’s ass, before you watch his fingers slide inside, and Volt’s resulting moan sends shockwaves through your belly. 

Eddie’s titanium eyes pin yours down, and his free hand finds the small of Volt’s back, pressing him down when he starts to arch. You know he can see the tears that are pooling at the edge of your eyes, the uncontrollable shake of your leg, and he fucking smiles - you think you hate him, hate both of them, as you feel Volt’s teeth scrape against you.

“They’re close, Volt,” Eddie hums, his grin showing his teeth. “You gonna make them gush for us, birthday boy?”

Volt’s tongue finds a truly brutal pace, his fingers slipping in and out of you with quick, slick sounds, and he does just that. The lightning flashes again, stealing your breath, and your body goes slack as your orgasm rips through every electrified cell in your body.

When you blink, a moment later, Volt is above you again, peppering small kisses to your collarbones, your shoulder. He feels you stir, and white eyes dart to yours. “You, our spark, are the most delectable birthday treat.” A kiss to your cheek. “Now, tell me. How would you like me fuck you? Like this? Or on your stomach?”

Both are equally appealing, you think, but the thought of him plowing your ass into the mattress does reignite the sparks that the orgasms threatened to drain, so you tell him, with a hoarse voice, “stomach, please.”

You’re flipped by four hands in a flash, and your hips are being lifted, just enough for Volt’s hot, aching cock to find the right angle to your entrance, and he slips inside with ease, coating himself with your own climax as he fills you in one sweet thrust. You both gasp at the feeling, the shock of his skin against you. He steadies himself when his hands grasp your waist, and his lips kiss your shoulder blade when he moans.

You feel, a moment later, his arms quiver, and a curse hisses through his teeth, and you know that Eddie must be fulfilling his end of the deal. Volt rocks his hips into you, groans Eddie’s name, and fuck, maybe the stomach was the wrong call, because you wish you could see.

Somewhere, deep in your mind, a little voice tells you that you can, and you remember the mirror on the armoire across the room, and flip your head.

Thank the fucking stars, it’s the perfect angle.

Eddie has one hand on Volt’s waist, and the other encircles his neck, his face hungry, powerful, savoring every little sound the two of you make, and he thrusts inside of Volt, sending Volt deeper inside of you.

One day, these men would be the death of you.

You watch, transfixed, as Eddie finds his pace, languid strokes combined with harsh thrusts, each in turn making Volt’s cock throb inside you, trying as much as he can to set his own pace, but Eddie’s hold on him not allowing for such freedom.

As Eddie moves faster, Volt loses his grip on your waist, his hands falling to the mattress beside your skin, his muscles trembling with the effort to keep himself up, to keep rocking inside you. The room is filled with moans, curses, and the sounds of skin on skin, brutal, relentless, and you wish it could be this way always.

“F-fuck, Eddie, yes, more,” Volt’s usual collected voice is anything but, he’s burning, greedy, and barely hanging on to his composure, and a silent scream leaves your lips when Eddie complies, your body being thrust further and further into the mattress, and you feel drool spill from your lips on the sheets.

Shocks light up your back, and now Volt speaks to you, nearly pleading, “Give me one more, live wire, give you j-just one, fuck, more.”

And it is his birthday, after all.

It’s Eddie’s tell-tale groans that make the spring inside you start to tighten, but it’s Volt’s whimpers, his pleas, and you feel him pump erratically inside you, that bring you to the peak once again, your walls clamping like a vice around Volt as tears from your mix mix with the puddle of drool beneath your cheek. 

Like a tripped circuit, Volt is next - he nearly collapses above your back as he fills you, one of his hands finding your arm and holding on for dear life, and you wouldn’t be surprised to find a hand-shaped burn in the morning (maybe, in fact, you’d welcome it). His whole body shudders as Eddie groans his name, how good he is, what a sweet birthday boy, until finally, he stills too, coming with Volt’s name on his lips.

When, finally, you’re free from the pile of bodies you all created, one of them (you’re not quite cognizant to register which) pulls you to their bathroom, and again, in the shower, you’re between their bodies, each of you helping to rinse off each other between quiet, slow kisses.

Clean in the bed, a new blanket over you, Volt holds you nearly atop his chest, Eddie on his side as he leans over the both of you, and your heart sings at their touches.

But, there’s one thing on your mind.

“It’s not fair,” you say in a small voice, sleep desperately wanting to overtake you.

Volt stills his hand on your back. “What’s not, darling?”

“Eddie’s the only one of us without a birthday.”

They glance at each other, as if it were the first time they realized it - maybe it is, in their world, Volt is the exception - before steel and white eyes find yours, and Eddie says simply, “Then pick a day.”

You raise your head, flick your eyes between them. “Really?”

“Why not,” he says, and you see the hints of a smirk he’s trying to hide. “If tonight was any indication, they certainly have their benefits.”

You smile, knowing without a doubt that you are the luckiest person in this house. “Okay. Um. Do you have a favorite month?”

Eddie chuckles, love and amusement both swimming in his eyes. “Not at all.”

“Well you’re a big help.” You turn to Volt, that same mixture in his eyes. “Volt, pick a month.”

“November.”

“Why November?’ Eddie asks.

“It’s got a V in it, of course.” He winks, and grey eyes roll.

“Alright, November… third,” you decide. “Cuz there’s three of us.”

Both pairs of eyes soften, their faces beaming. 

“Then that’s my birthday,” Eddie hums, his voice laced with devotion, adoration, pride.

Volt cups his cheek and strokes his stubble with his thumb. “I can’t wait, then.” He smiles softly, looks at you both. “Because I thoroughly enjoyed mine, my darlings.”

He kisses you both, and you settle in together, exhausted, but now, you dream of November thirds to come as well.

[starrbishops]

⟡Baby, I'm Yours⟡

(Bob Reynolds x f!Reader)

Summary: You have sex with Bob for the first time. (sequel to Risk but can be read standalone)

Word Count: 4K

Notes: Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, established relationship, SMUT, "what are we gonna do ride Bob" 😏, oral sex (f recieving), fingering, p in v, missionary, cowgirl, multiple rounds (super stamina woohoo!) unproteted sex (wrap it up kids), Bob Reynolds has a big dick fight me on this, references to masturbation and wet dreams, aftercare, Bob's eyes glow when he cums (I warned you all)

a/n: So I finished writing this and then made this silly little textpost and uh. people liked it a lot so i'm proud to present you the basis for it. Just wanna say from the bottom of my heart Bob Reynolds is a little shit from Florida and yes he IS mostly submissive and he DOES whimper during sex but he is NOT an innocent baby boy and he CAN and DOES fuck. Okay rant done enjoy the sex.

You spend the next few minutes wrapped up in each other’s arms in the dim lamplight, kissing and giggling and just being together. It’s intimate, a kind of safety Bob hasn’t felt maybe ever. It's exhilarating, like something out of a dream. You’re really here, kissing him, touching him, wanting him. The thought just plays over and over in his mind. He’s so preoccupied by you, he’s barely aware of the growing hardness in his pants. Which you quickly become aware of.

You pull away mid-kiss, and Bob furrows his brow, worried he did something wrong. Even in the darkness, he can see the confusion on your face. “Um, Bob…” you trail off, not sure how to point it out. Then it hits him.

“Oh!” he scrambles back, grabbing a pillow to cover his lap. “I am so sorry, that, I did not mean to do that, I-”

“Bob.” you chuckle, a reassuring smile on your face. “It’s okay. I was just…surprised.” Bob laughs nervously in response, still clutching the pillow. 

“Do you want to?” Bob tilts his head at your question.

“Want, want to what?”

“Have sex, Bob.” you say, flat out. You’re never one to beat around the bush, you get straight to the point. It’s one of the things he likes about you. 

Still, his brain needs a moment to catch up to what’s happening around him. “Oh, um, do you? Want to?”

You nod. “We don’t have to, I mean, I don’t want to pressure you into-”

“I do!” he exclaims. “Want to. Have sex with you. Now. If you want to.”

You just smile, crawling over to his side of the bed. You unclasp his fingers from the pillow, taking its place in his lap. On instinct he wraps his arms around your waist, resting them just barely on the small of your back. He’s still not sure if he’s allowed to touch you, or should be. You kiss his jaw, gentle and soft, testing the waters. Bob’s breath catches as you do so, and you continue, trailing down his jawline to his neck, pausing at the conjunction of his neck and shoulder, where you begin sucking a bruise into the skin.

Bob releases a broken moan, his hands gripping onto your hips. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, and get a sense of just how big he is. The Sentry Project changed a lot about him, you know that. It’d crossed your mind that it might have affected him down there, but it still surprises you just a bit. Or maybe he’d always been like this. He’s just as incredible to you, powers or not.

Satisfied with yourself, you pull away from Bob’s neck, grinning at the darkening bruise forming there. He moves a hand from you to touch it, as if he’s making sure it’s real. You take his hand in yours, placing it on your face. 

He looks up at you with a hungry gaze, before moving in to devour you once again. Robert Reynolds kisses like a man starved, gorging himself on your affection for fear it’ll vanish once more. You hold him tight, kiss him back as hard as you can. A reassurance, a promise that you’re not going anywhere, not now, not ever if you had it your way.

“Take your clothes off,” you pant out between kisses. It’s not meant to be an order, but Bob certainly takes it as one, immediately rushing to pull off his baggy sweatshirt, followed quickly by his t-shirt underneath. Bob is the last guy anyone would expect to be jacked, but here he is.

You run a hand along the line of his abs, Bob shivering under your touch. “You’re beautiful, y’know?” you whisper, kissing his cheek as you squeeze his shoulder. He chuckles, nervously muttering something under his breath. “You are.” you insist, pulling back to face him. “Not because of your body, but because you’re you, okay?”

He nods, gazing up at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars for him. You’re not sure how to respond to his look of absolute adoration except to once again kiss him senseless. 

He starts tugging on the hem of your shirt, a request. You’re still in your tactical gear, crumpled and dirty from your mission. You pull back, getting to work on removing your various holsters and hidden knives, Bob assisting you to the best of his ability.

“You have so many knives.” he points out, adding number five to the pile that’s begun forming next to where the two of you sit.

“You never know.” you quip as you find your last one, moving the pile over to Bob’s nightstand as he starts yanking your shirt up.

“Only fair.” he points out with a smirk. You raise your arms over your head, allowing him to tug off your suit, leaving just your bra covering your top. You reach behind yourself to unclip it, only for Bob to swat your hand away. “I got it.” he insists, taking only a moment as he unfastens it, tossing it somewhere in the room.

He takes a second to take in the view, his mouth hangs open in the shape of a smile, not sure whether to gape or cheer. He quickly puts his mouth to better use, kissing a trail down your collarbone to your breasts, one hand on each pressing them together as he lavishes them.

“Can I eat you out?” Bob’s voice interrupts the silence, peering up at you from between your breasts. “I-I’m not that great, but I want to try. Please.”

You nod, rolling off of him and laying on your back while Bob settles himself between your legs, busying himself with tugging your pants off. “Have you done this before?”

“Hm?” he snaps out of his focus at the sound of your voice. “Oh, yeah, I just, never really got to do it properly, y’know? Take my time.” He tosses your pants away, fingers hooking under your underwear before pausing. “Do you still want to?”

“Bob, I want you between my legs five minutes ago.” he grins and yanks off your underwear, not even tearing his eyes away from your pussy. Even hidden beneath his shaggy brown hair you can see his dark blue eyes are blown out with lust, lingering carnal desire evident on his face.

Bob doesn’t bother with words. He just goes to work, gripping your thighs in his large hands and licking a stripe up your cunt as you moan, your hands tangling in his hair as he begins to lap at you. It’s messy, imprecise, but god it feels so good. He’s learning, noticing what gets the most reaction and keeping it up. He sees how your breath catches when he just barely flicks his tongue against your clit, filing it away for later. 

“Fuck, Bob, baby…” you pant, gripping his hair like a lifeline. “Not great my ass, you liar…”

Bob interrupts your jokes by sucking on your clit, earning another sudden moan from you before he stops suddenly, perking his head up. “Can I use my fingers?”

“Hell yeah.” you manage to breathe out. He nods and lowers his head back down, this time moving his hand from where it digs into your thigh to swipe through the wetness of your folds. He coats his index finger in your arousal, looking straight in your eyes as he licks it off. 

“You taste so good.” you mumbles as he slowly inserts his finger into you, a choked out moan escaping your throat. Bob’s a big guy, and more than once you’ve imagined those massive hands of his fingering you. Reality is ten times better than any fantasy.

He starts slowly, putting what he's learned into practice and continuing to alternate licking and sucking at your clit while he presses his finger in and out of you. You jerk against his grip, back arching as he hits that perfect spot within you. His grip on your thigh just tightens, and he presses a kiss to your inner thigh. “I got you.” he mutters, adding another finger and speeding up his pace, making sure to hit the spot that seems to make you go wild. It works, judging from the strings of expletives and moans that continue to escape you.

You can feel the knot in your stomach tightening as you writhe under Bob’s touch, every move sending licks of fire through your body. “Bob, Bob, ‘m so close, baby, please…”

Bob cuts you off with a moan between your legs, the vibrations reverberating through you, pushing you closer to your high. His eyes shut in pleasure as he devours you, the sound of you moaning out his name better than any high he’s ever felt.

“‘So close, Bob, please…” 

He takes it as a sign, sucks on your clit even harder, opening his eyes so he can watch you fall apart under him. And you do, crying out his name, one hand with a death grip on his hair and the other gripping the pillows so hard he’s surprised it hasn’t exploded into feathers. 

He keeps it up through your orgasm, slowing down the pace of his fingers and switching from sucking to gentle licks on your clit as you come down. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bob,” you pant, gazing down at the man between your legs.

“Did I do good?” he asks, his voice earnest and hopeful. It’s quite the contrast, the feeling of ecstasy still buzzing in the bones, the sight of your slick all over his chin, compared to the genuine worried look in his eyes as he asks the question.

“Yes, Bob, that was good.” you half-laugh. “I don’t think I’ve cum that hard in a long time.”

He grins, satisfied with his work. “Nice.” he crawls up your body, gingerly pressing a kiss to your lips. You taste yourself on him, the flavor driving you even crazier, making you more desperate for him. You lightly tug on his lower lip, earning a deep groan from Bob.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty.” he mumbles, the kiss becoming a collision of lips and teeth, the two of you stick with saliva and arousal. “You’re so perfect, and you want me.”

“Want you so bad, Bob.” you mutter into his mouth between kisses. “Want your cock, please.”

He moans, pulling away to look at your face, eyes dark with lust, lips kiss-swollen and wet, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “Say it again.”

“God, need your pretty cock inside of me, Bob, baby, please-” he’s smashing his lips against yours again, one hand working on tugging his sweatpants off. He sits up, you joining in assisting him. He pulls his boxers down with them as he finally rids himself of the wretched garments, his cock laying hard and leaking against his perfect abs. It’s better than you could’ve imagined, long and girthy, veins running along it. A small part of you worries about walking tomorrow, but the part of your brain that is so goddamn horny overrules it.

“I got a condom somewhere, I think.” he’s saying, although you barely register it as you stare at his length.

“You’re good!” you snap out of it, Bob turning back to you. “I’m all clean, IUD, you’re good.” you clear your throat, a bit awkwardly, “I’m not planning on being with anyone else, so…”

“Oh my god,” Bob grins, settling himself back on the bed before pulling you into his lap, “I’m clean too, and I don’t want anyone but you. You’re perfect.” he presses a kiss to your temple.

You chuckle as you recall something. “Remember how John was saying we should ride you into the sky?”

Bob looks confused, but nods. You lean in, whispering in his ear. “This is what I was imagining.”

His hands grip your hips, a stuttered breath escaping against your shoulder. He can barely get the words, “oh yeah?” out.

“Yeah.” you whisper, nipping at his neck, before pressing a kiss to it.

He’s hot against your aching cunt as you raise your hips, aligning yourself with his hardened cock. The pre-cum leaking from his tip mixing with the abundance of arousal dripping between your thighs. “Y-you ready? I know it’s kinda a lot, I mean, it always was, and then Sentry, well-”

“Bob, you’re perfect.” you look him right in the eyes, giving him a kind smile, as if he’s not about to fuck you raw. “I want you. All of you.”

He nods, clearly psyching himself up. He’s had flings before, and he knows he’s a lot to take. The Sentry Project enhanced all of him, and he’s doing his best not to hurt you. “Just tell me if you need to stop, okay?” You nod, and with a sharp inhale you begin to lower yourself, the head of his cock breaching your entrance. You gasp, and he pauses, making sure you’re okay. You just nod fervently, unable to form sentences at the feel of him stretching you out. It’s a little painful, which you expected, but the pleasure far outweighs the fact that you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. You continue, brow furrowed in concentration, whimpers escaping Bob beneath you at the feel of your hot cunt squeezing around him.

“Fuck, your pussy feels so good, hooooly shit,” he groans as he shuts his eyes in pleasure, doing his best not to cum when he’s only halfway in you, “you’re so fucking tight, oooh my god, are you okay?” 

You nod, nails digging into his shoulders as you pause, trying to adjust to the feel of him in you. Even only halfway, the stretch is more than you’ve ever had before, and it feels fucking incredible. You start to understand the meaning of being cockdrunk for the first time. 

With a final groan, you settle on Bob’s lap, his cock sheathed in you completely, panting at the feel of you around him. “Holy fuck,” he mutters, head hanging in the crook of your neck. For a few moments, the only sound is your intertwined breaths, your bodies hot and slick with sweat against one another as you sit there.

You roll your hips experimentally, a small moan escaping at the sensation. Bob’s head rolls back against the headboard, his grip on you even tighter than before. You’re gonna have bruises of his handprint for days.

You start slowly, rising and lowering onto his thick length. “Fuck, Bob…” you moan, eyes rolling back as you lose any sense of time and place, the only thing left the feeling of Bob’s body pressed against yours, Bob’s cock splitting you open as you bounce in his lap. 

“You’re gonna kill me, fuck…” he groans into your neck as you quicken your pace, the need for him growing. He bites on your collarbone as another moan escapes his chest, thrusts quickening. He kisses the spot he’s marked, sucking a bruise into it. “You’re so good, so perfect…”

“All yours, Bob.” you pant, one hand turning his face to look at you. “I’m all yours, baby.”

The sound Bob makes borders on animalistic, a whine escaping his lips as he kisses you, sloppy and desperate. “I’m yours,” he murmurs against your lips, “I’m yours forever.”

The lewd sound of wet skin slapping echoes throughout his room interspersed with Bob’s whines and your cries. You look like an angel above him, the golden light illuminating your glassy eyes as you moan with pleasure, your tits bouncing with each movement. You can already feel your second orgasm coming, and from the expletives escaping Bob, he’s fast approaching his as well. And then you notice.

“I-is something wrong? You okay?” Bob murmurs, noticing your confused expression.

“Y-your eyes, Bob, fuck…” 

He doesn’t even realize till now that his eyes are glowing. It’s another thing the Sentry Project changed about him. It happens when he gets too caught up in something, uses his powers, gets frustrated or angry. He’d never realized it happened in situations like this. 

“Fuck, I’m close,” he tells you, clenching his jaw as he tries to hold it together, his eyes buzzing with light, the lamps in the room’s brightness going in and out. “Should I-where should I-”

“In me.” you moan you rapidly bounce yourself up and down, “fuck, Bob, fill me up, please!”

“So good to me, so pretty,” he murmurs as he desperately tries to hold out from his high, his grip on you bruising, quickly losing control of himself as he unwinds. “I’m gonna give you everything. It’s all yours, baby, all for you.”

“Fuck, yes, Bob! Please, please please please-” your babbling moans end with a last scream of his name as you cum, cunt clenching around him as you take him as deep as possible, pelvises flush against each other. Something about the golden glow of his irises, the low rasp in his voice, the words themselves, it all sends you crashing over the edge, an incoherent, animalistic noise escaping you as you cling to Bob, pressing your forehead up against his.

 Bob whimpers, the glow from his eyes illuminating your face as you cum, the way your eyes roll back, the debauched expression you wear. It’s enough to send him over the edge, his eyes buzzing with light as he cums. With a cry of your name, Bob tumbles over the edge, arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. You feel the warm spurts of his cum within you, painting your insides, claiming you for himself. The two of you sit there, panting and sweating as you come down.

“Oh my, fucking god, that was amazing.” he looks up at you, a tired, fucked out expression on his face. “You’re amazing.”

“So are you.” you smile, removing your nails from where they’ve left red crescents on Bob’s shoulder blades, moving to cup his cheek. “So good to me, baby.”

“I-I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks, one hand running down to your waist. 

You shake your head. “Well, I can’t really feel my legs, but I did expect that, so…”

“Sorry.” he says, though that smile on his face says otherwise. He’s proud of himself.

“‘S alright.” you sigh, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. He whines, shifting his head to kiss you properly. He’s still inside of you, and you can feel his cock, still semi-hard within you. Even after two orgasms, you look up at him and want more, wanting to feel him, for the feeling of his skin on yours to never leave. “I could go again, honestly.”

“Really?” he laughs, a little surprised at both your stamina and the fact that you still want him. He sighs, one hand running along your jaw as he feels himself already growing hard once again. “I can’t say no to you.”

“So, yes to round two?”

“If I ever say no to that question, shoot me.” he grins, wrapping his arms around your hips as he rolls you both over, his cock staying in you the whole time. “How’s this?”

You yelp a little from the change in position, landing on your back and wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders once again. 

You’re still sensitive from your first two orgasms, and Bob is aware of that.“I got you.” he whispers into your shoulders, rolling his hips gently. “I’ll take care of you. Promise.” He goes slowly, his eyes locked on yours as you pant under him, head falling back against the pillows.He kisses you again, hungry and desperate, as he sets his pace, dragging his cock out before pushing back in once again. Bob is gentle with you, considerate, a man with the power of a thousand suns turned docile above you.

“So many dirty dreams about you, baby, you’re so much better than any of ‘em.” Bob mutters into your shoulder. He looks up at you, a little unsure, although his pace doesn't change. “Is this a dream? Are you here?”

“I’m here, Bob.” you moan, giving him a small smile as you run a hand through his hair. “I-fuck! I’m here.”

You look like heaven, messy hair framing your face, mouth gaping, eyes shut as you throw your head back. You’re all he wants, everything he needs. He could stay here forever, taking care of you, fucking you, whatever you want. Just as long as you neer stop giving him those sweet smiles, screaming out his name just like that as he fucks you.

“Bob,” you call his name in a breathy whisper, “more, please, baby.”

He nods, speeding up his thrusts, pushing into you with more force. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass as you pull him deeper into you. He breaks eye contact to look down at where your bodies connect, gazing at the sheen of your arousal around his cock, the white ring forming at the base of it. A mixture of both of your cum spurts out around where he’s entering you, and the sight somehow manages to make him even harder.

He’s moaning again, and before you know it his hands are on your face, pulling you up to kiss him as his thrusts grow harder and shallower, barely pulling out before slamming his full length back into you. “Fuck, Bob, yes, just like that, yes!” You scream at the sensation. You couldn’t give a fuck if the others hear when Bob Reynolds is on top of you, pounding his pretty cock into you, whispering dirty nothings in your ear.

One hand leaves your face and returns to the spot between you, rubbing gentle circles on your clit. “Come on, baby, give it to me, please.” he practically begs, dark blue eyes once again shining above you. “Need you to cum for me, come on my cock, please.” You do as he says, the coil in your stomach snapping once more, ecstasy washing over you, your cunt clenching around Bob’s length. Bob curses, pressing his lips against yours as he thrusts as deep as possible, filling you up with his cum once again.

“Fuck.” you groan, barely able to lift your head. “That was cool. The eye thing.” 

“I didn’t know I did that.” he admits, rolling off of you. A small gasp escapes him as he watches his cum spill out of you, sticky and wet between your thighs. “You just look so perfect full of me.”

You smile, taking a deep breath as Bob quickly runs to the bathroom, returning with a warm towel that he uses to wipe you down. “Y’know, I never took you for a talker.”

“What, during sex?” he asks, as if he’s not literally wiping his cum off of you.

“Sex takes some of your brain cells out of you, huh?” you joke, sitting up on your elbows.

Bob chuckles, giving a small shrug. “I think that’s just what you do to me.”

After he’s carried you to the bathroom to pee, gotten you a glass of water, you settle yourself on his bare chest, running your finger along his collarbone as he shuts out the lights.

“You’re amazing.” you tell him between yawns, your eyes closing, exhausted by your activities. “Even if I can’t sit for a week.” you mutter, and then you’re out, breathing slowing as you drift off.

Bob ust smiles at the sight of you, resting against his chest, comfortable and content. Never in a million years did he think he’d have something like this. A home in the tower, a family in the team, and a love in you. “You’re perfect” he says to no one, pressing one last kiss to your hair as he wraps an arm around you, shutting his eyes for the night. “And all mine.”

[twilightofthesandwiches]

Okay so…

Most the TV-Tastic Prizes Tenna lists during the intro of his show are directly related to the Dreemurrs and their interests/personalities. It’s pretty understandable when you think about it, as their household TV, Tenna only has the Dreemurrs as reference to what kind of prizes people would be most interested in.

The Floral Cowboy Bath Curtains obviously references Asgore, it’s a domestic item that combines his well-known love of flowers and his literally-just-now-established fondness for Woody’s Roundup. (From Tenna's perspective, this is just as important, if not more so, than flowers, because he mainly experiences his family through the shows they watch on him.)

The Brand New Family Car might reference the fact that Toriel’s car is getting a bit old, or maybe even it’s slashed tires (if Tenna doesn’t know enough about cars to understand which problems are very easily fixed). But mostly it’s just a generic prize for a family, demonstrating that this is still how Tenna sees the Dreemurrs, as one big happy family. In reality, with only Toriel and Kris living at home, even the car they have now might be a tad oversized, but Tenna is obviously in denial about that.

(The Ice-E decals might be a reference to Asriel’s Ice-E Brand Deodorant, or just the general fact that Ice-E seems to be a popular brand with the children of Hometown, and Tenna’s mental image of Kris and Asriel is still based on how they were as kids.)

The Big Bro’s Talker-Backer, as a goofy tech toy with the words ‘big bro’ right in its name, is based on the kinds of toys Asriel liked when he was young. Again, in Tenna’s (metaphorical) eyes, he and Kris are still the children who watched cartoons and played games on him. He hasn’t fully processed the idea that Asriel is basically an adult now.

The Kitchen Sink Fur-Guard is, well, that’s obviously something the Dreemurrs need.

Since it’s for the Kitchen Sink specifically, it’s probably meant to be a Toriel Prize, since she's the one who loves cooking the most.

… or maybe it's just because that’s the sink closest to Tenna. The bathroom sink is too far away from the living room for Tenna to be aware of it most of the time.

And the Chocolate Chewy Roll-Um’s are obviously for Notorious Sweet-Tooth Kris Dreemurr. Flavored after their second favorite food!

Now… the thing is that this prize roll-call ends with…

Originally, I just wrote off the Genuine Ralsei Plush as a silly meta-joke. Or, like, part of the ongoing thematic thread about Darkner Personhood in this Chapter. Where Tenna and Ralsei, as the two lead Darkners of the Chapter, keep alternating between treating the other as a Person and as an Object.

And like, it is that, but also, there is an in-universe explanation for why Tenna decided to make it one of the main prizes he uses to sell the show. Because Tenna first heard of Ralsei’s existence…

…During Susie and Kris’ little chat on the sofa.

The Ralsei Plush is supposed to be a prize for Susie because the Literally Only Two Things Tenna knew about Susie at the time is “likes Giant Monster Movies” and “has two Darkner friends named Ralsei and Lancer”. The Susiezilla Minigame is Tenna’s attempt to appeal to the former, the Ralsei Plushie is his attempt to appeal to the latter.

Obviously that still loops back to Tenna’s tendency to kinda see Ralsei as an object (the same way Ralsei did to him at the end). He has a much better understanding of the appeal of Kaiju Movies, why Susie loves them and how to replicate that appeal for her in the Dark World.

But then he’s like, well, Susie really likes that Darkner friend of hers… obviously I understand why.... it's because he'd be great as a Marketable Plushie! Obviously the next best thing if she can’t take him to the festival! (I assume he went with Ralsei Plushies cause they seemed much more conventionally marketable to Tenna's Normie Mass-Entertainment Taste.... also from a Doylist perspective this thread of Darkner Personhood isn't as much as a big deal for Lancer's character at the moment)

[enbyorge]

Star Trek.

I hated it.

I also had to literally check every time I had to spell my own middle name. I may have legally changed my name to a way better name, but I will never stop complaining about the spelling I had to double and triple check for most of my life.

[friskalicousbiscuits]

Neglected The Mask!reader x platonic Yan!Batfam

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5

I’d also like to say this Reader is Gender Neutral or at least you can pick your gender. Most of the pronouns are “you” and when they are referred to by other people, its “they” so… Yeah! Have fun reading and tell me if there are any spelling mistakes or things that don’t make sense.

Chapter Four

6:13pm

Today marked the fourth day you possessed the mask. As of now, you were doing your usual jog home. It was about six, which was about as late as you dared to get out of school. Your particular jog this evening was a little closer to a run due to the second newest rogue in Gotham.

The Shadow Thief.

No, no, not that one Hawkman villain who can turn into a shadow and steals from museums and stuff. This Shadow Thief actually steals shadows.

Since yesterday night, a little bit after you retired from being a rogue and singing at the Penguin’s club, multiple people have reported their shadows being stolen. It was all over the news! A mother, a husband, a child, whoever this was clearly had no discrimination. Heck, they’ve even successfully hit Mr Freeze! One of the biggest rogues in Gotham! It was apparently in the middle of a fight with Batman too. According to witnesses, Robin also got his shadow stolen as well, but the Bats left before it could actually be confirmed.

Now as for you? Like mentioned before, you were just running, and praying that this guy doesn’t steal your shadow too.

You were almost home free too. Then, you just happened to turn the corner just as some guy was getting his shadow stolen.

Crappy luck, am I right?

You skid to a stop, wide-eyed as the man thrashed and tried to punch at the shadow thing swarming him.

“Get offa me!” He yelled gruffly before the living shadow’s hands grabbed onto his own shadow. The sound of it peeling away from the man was similar to a shriek. The man’s shadow also clawed at the thing trying to steal it away before it stuffed it into a sack. The man dropped to the ground, arms going around himself. “Cold… fuck, it’s freezing.”

Okay, you need to leave. Now.

You took a step back as quietly as you could. That didn’t stop the shadow from whipping its head towards you. It… stared? It didn’t have a face so you couldn’t really tell, but you got the distinct feeling that it was in fact, staring at you. It fell into a crouch. You thought it was about to lunge at you, but then it jumped. High into the sky until something else, a blur of green and blue could be seen locking elbows with it. They spawn in the air together slowly falling to the ground. It reminded you of leaves.

“What? What’s got you so riled up?” You could now see that the blue and green blur…

…was a kid?

He looked to be around Damian’s age, and while shorter height-wise than your brother, the kid’s hair, that was sticking almost straight up, would’ve surpassed Damian. Speaking of his hair it was a dark blue with whitish streaks.

Almost like he-who-shall-not-be-named.

Though, the kid had two white streaks instead of one. His skin was blue too, lighter than his hair and he was dressed like, well, the closest thing you could compare it to was an edgy Peter Pan, minus the hat. And judging by the way he and, what you’re assuming is his, shadow fell so gracefully? He probably had some fairy dust on him too.

You noticed the shadow start pointing at you, and jumping a little bit as if excited. Oh right. The kid was talking to it.

Could it not talk back?

You watched the kid’s eyes land on you. They very visibly brightened and the next thing you knew, you were being almost tackled by both the kid and his shadow. The kids arms were around your neck, so was the shadow’s but you couldn’t really feel them. The momentum from them running at you and jumping on you caused you to spin for a little bit while they still both held onto you. When you eventually stopped both the spinning and feeling the dizziness from said spinning, you tensed, waiting for it the try and peel your shadow away like plaster.

But nothing came.

“There you are! Marked by the mask! Oh buddy oh pal, it’s so good to see you again!” The kid said with a grin as both he and his shadow let go and dropped back to the ground.

“What?!”

Both the weird, little, blue-skinned child and its shadow started circling you, looking you over. “So what’s the deal this time? You a warlord again?”

“No?”

“Outlaw?”

“No!” You exclaimed, though that one was technically true.

“Tyrant?”

“N—”

The kid held up a hand. “No. I get it.” He and his shadow stopped circling to stand in front of you. “So then what’s your deal now? You’re a little younger than the previous times but…”

“But what? Who even are you?!” You were extremely confused. You were also a little stuck on the marked by the mask thing.

Did that mean what you think it meant?

The kid stared a little dumbly before letting out an “Ooooooooh.” He let out a little laugh. “Right. You’re not Masky right now, that’s my bad. Skillet’s the name and stealing shadows is my game.” Skillet put a hand out for a shake.

You very hesitantly shook it. “You’re the shadow thief?” You asked as you also shook the shadow’s hand. It felt more like shaking air, but you supposed it was the thought that counted.

“Correct-o! Keeps me young. I don’t look a day over 12, do I?” Skillet bragged.

“Not at all.” You said, a little dumbly, still confused. He really did look twelve, but if that was the case… “How old are you then?”

“Four thousand.”

A small silence pooled between you both.

“Four thousand?” You repeated, tone incredulous.

“A shocker, I know.” The kid said with a proud grin as both he and his shadow twin started to float.

He didn’t even sprinkle some fairy dust on himself. Wow.

“Listen Masky, I got places to be shadows to steal, and you can’t become my Masky until nightfall. So…” Skillet spun around until he stopped and pointed at Gotham’s Clocktower. “Ooh! Meet me over there when you put the mask on.”

“Okay?” Wow, you were actually agreeing to this. Meeting up with this random magical kid who steals shadows.

Was this your first villain connection as a rogue?

Was that also appropriate to be happy about if that was the case?

“Great! We’re gonna have so much fun together again! Just you and me! Torturing the innocents!”

“I’m sorry, what?!”

Skillet and the shadow waved in sync. “See ya later!” With that, they flew off, leaving you to watch them go in utter confusion.

Bruce Wayne - Batman POV

10:28pm

Constantine was back in the cave again. After his incoherent rant from yesterday that involved the words mask and Loki, he’d left and said he’d be back the next day to “further ingrain how bloody bad this is”. The aforementioned next day has finally rolled around and here he was acting like a drill sergeant, pacing around the room while Bruce’s family watched the man in all his brilliance, he’d even taken Bruce’s bat-pointer (a laser pointer but instead of a red dot it’s a red bat) so he could point to the screen.

“Okay, so we know of this individual, yes?” The blonde man asked as he circled the newest rogue’s face a couple times with Bruce’s bat-pointer.

Everyone nodded.

“Well, you see, this bloke is someone not to be fucked around with. Do you understand me?” The man said with a serious face.

Tim raised his hand. Constantine sighed in response. “You don’t have to raise your hand, kid. What is it?”

Tim put his hand back down. “What about this guy is so bad exactly? I mean, yeah, their powers are kind of crazy, but all they’ve really done is steal and destroy property.”

That seemed to make Constantine pause. “Really?”

“…yeah?” Tim rose a brow. It wasn’t visible from under his mask.

“Huh.” Constantine turned around to start muttering to himself. Bruce heard the words good and thank the gods.

“What was that? I’d like to know how big of a threat the being in my city that you claim to be dangerous is.” Bruce spoke.

The man turned back around. “Right. So we might’ve just gotten extremely lucky.”

Bruce’s eyes, and by extension his mask’s white eye slits, narrowed. “Explained.”

“If you’re right and the mask has shown no desire to torture, maim, kill, etcetera… a good person might’ve gotten the mask.”

“A good person?”

“Yes, a good person. And if that’s the case, we can ignore them until they do try and kill a man.”

“Wait, ignore them? While they haven’t killed anyone, they’re still a criminal.” Jason spoke up from where he was leant against a desk.

“Yes, but, be that as it may, there’s a bigger threat coming if the Mask of Loki is in Gotham.” Constantine sighed putting the bat-pointer down. “The Prince of Shadowland should be coming any day now.”

“Who?” Stephanie piped up.

“The Prince of Shadowland. He’s, as his name suggests, the Prince of Shadowland, a land of eternal night. The last record of him is from 1880 when Billy the Kid possessed it.”

“Billy the Kid had the same powers as our guy?” Tim asked.

“Yes. And the wizards and witches of that time also recorded him to be a blue-skinned child, bestowed the name Skillet by the outlaw in question. The child went around stealing shadows which resulted in rapid aging of its victims and then death. That’s why he’s the bigger threat. We have to prepare if he comes to Gotham.” The man paced back and forth with a grave expression.

Duke’s phone chiming interrupted the silence after Constantine’s words. “Uh… Constantine?”

“Yes?”

“I think this Skillet guy is already here.” Duke said as he turned the phone around, so the blonde man could see. It was a news report titled Shadow Thief: Gotham’s Second Newest Rogue. “And our mask person might not be so good if they’re hanging around him.” The photo was a picture of The Mask, Bruce supposed he’d just call them that, and this new character, Skillet, eating ice cream on a bench together.

“Fuck me.” Constantine groaned.

Skillet - The Shadow Thief POV

9:42pm

Skillet was waiting, patiently anticipating, the arrival of one of his bestest friends in the whole wide world.

Masky!

He was sitting atop the Clocktower, playing patty cake with his shadow, when finally, finally Masky came. It had been so long since he’d seen his friend! He hasn’t seen his friend since Billy, and who knows how long that’s been in the human world! So that’s why when Masky finally showed up, he was ecstatic. He didn’t even have to run over to hug them either! They came to him!

“Ah! Skillet! Buddy-oh-pal-oh-friend! It’s been so long! I swear, stewing at the bottom of a lake really does suck. So, what’re we gonna do, bud?” Masky picked Skillet up and spun him around a bit before doing the same to Skillet’s shadow. His friend was wearing a black suit with little cartoony ghosts on it. Cool…

“Oh! Well, I was thinking we could go pick up a bunch of innocent people and then torture them together like old times!” Skillet said, his shadow hopping in agreement.

That seemed to make Masky falter. “Eh… Sorry, bud but I don’t think I can do that.”

“Wha— Why? But we always do that together! Well, besides the time you were Honest Abe, but…”

“And that’s my point! It seems that this body also has…” Masky made a show of gagging. “…morals!”

Skillet couldn’t stop the gasp from leaving him. “No!”

“I know. I know.” Masky nodded solemnly. “But don’t fret too much, my young-looking friend. For you see, they aren’t as strong as our old buddy Abe’s.” Masky grinned. “We just have to pick some bad people.”

“Eh... But it’s always more fun inflicting on the innocents. They always go on screaming why why why but…” Skillet trailed off. He did wanna spend his time torturing people with Masky. And sure, it’d be a little harder to weed out the bad apples, but he still wants to spend time with his friend. “I suppose that could do.” He grumbled after his shadow nudged him to answer.

“Great, and we can get ice cream afterwards!” With that, Masky took a few steps back before doing a running jump and swan dive off the Clocktower.

That got both Skillet and his shadow to perk up and jump down after him. “Heck yeah!”

Richard “Dick” Grayson - POV

6:12am - the next day

Patrol was a bust. Well, not entirely. Two-Face tried to rob a bank and he went straight back to Arkham. But… no other information on the Mask and Shadow Thief other than the fact that they might be best friends, spanning, literal generations of mask users.

Dick just hoped this morning wouldn’t be a bust either? Why? Well, he was going to talk to [Name] about their little… talking to themselves problem. He overheard them again last night in their room, and when he cracked the door open to take a peek, he saw you staring at the ceiling, having a conversation with both Ace and someone who definitely wasn’t there. (The Mask would translate for Ace, so it was a respectable three-way conversation.)

He entered the kitchen on a mission. To confront you. Instead, he was confronted himself with a rather cute sight in his opinion. Bruce, you, and Tim, in that order were taking up the seats on the kitchen island. All sleepy-eyed with bed-head and sipping coffee in synchronicity. Bruce and Tim were having a conversation about the case while you were almost nodding off at the table.

…Dick would ask about your mental state another day.

Extra Info:

1.) Skillet is in fact a canon character, though because he doesn’t exactly have much information on him. I added some stuff. Like for example, here’s this, skillet’s name isn’t skillet. He’s 4000 years old, his original language has died out by now. His name will literally be whatever the closest thing to cooking stuff on is. Like in ancient Babylonia, he was called Babylonian for pot. 2.) The scene where the mask and Skillet reunite could be seen through the lens of a divorced dad coming to pick up his kids. 3.) Hi, this is me halfway through the story. His name is Skillit. Not Skillet. I’ll fix it the next chapter. 4.) Next chapter you’ll finally get yandere stuff! Yay!

Taglist: @yourtypicalhuman09 @cupid73 @yhin-gg @galaxypurplerose @xxgrimripp3rxx @hai-there-how-are-you @suckmyballzfr @yarn-mony @patatasolitaria @deathbynarcisstick @depressed--therapist @eyeless-kun @mary-jinx @natllo @d4rkf10w3er @mintynilla @whognuthis @bat1212 @blapbloep @vanessa-boo @randomlyappearingartist @otakusimp1 @iansimpsforeveryone @like-thechocolate @cruzerforce4256

[richeeduvie]

✭ CRASH ✭ Jack Abbot x F!Reader

When Jack catches you out walking to work in 30-degree weather alone in the fucking dark, he has no choice but to realize his feelings for you are far past romantics and hurdling towards possession. That only becomes more apparent when he catches you on Robby's motorcycle after.

WORD COUNT: 15.7K || Based on the implication we’re gonna see Robby riding a motorcycle in season 2. I am sure Reader's a nurse. dot dot dots like no tomorrow. Graphic depiction of blood, wounds, and vehicular accidents. Inaccurate medical terminology and situations. Age gap between Jack and the reader. Jealousy, possession, romantic entitlement. Dr. Robby x Reader, if you squint like there's no tomorrow. You can read this as a part of the series Lengths, but also not. Might get ocish 🥸🥸. Angst. Jack goes coo coo.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

AUTHOR MASTERLIST THE LENGTHS PART ONE SHIFTING @pearlstiare

PART ONE DESCRIPTION: Jack meets the new nurse Robbie's been fawning over, only to then take the next couple of nights to pathetically cope with what he's feeling for the peppy, sunny young woman he's just met.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Early evening on a Winter Street. Just before he’ll find you at the nurses' station with your glitter pen and the smile he can’t bear with the cheeks he tries to make blush all at once--

The city is already dipped in that steel twilight, where the breath of drunkards fog, the drunkards he’ll probably have to treat deeper in the night. Wind cuts sharp through the collars of late commuters, but Jack? He’s gonna be early to work, probably. Name him trauma attending of the month.

You are the most ridiculous, resentfully genius nurse and woman and person I have ever met. I wish I could blame you for something. 

He’s behind the wheel of his battered black truck, thermos in the cup holder, window down to breathe in the sting of the too-cool air. Jack doesn’t know why he does this, other than the fact that it’s a place where pain can feel good. When does that happen? Not in the Pitt, that’s for fucking sure. It’s against his medical oath to claim pain can be tolerated. But…that’s only in reference to patients, not him, right?

There’s no way you’ve possibly beaten him to the E.R. One thing you resent him for? It’s the way he’s quick. Casually so. And he’s not too humble about that, if Jack says so himself. 

Ah. Fuck. 

Jack shakes his head stiffly; it’s more like one slight jolt to snap him out of it because thinking of you while he’s on his way to work with you is as ridiculous as you are. It’s uncharacteristically pathetic of him, maybe. There. Maybe that’s something he can blame you for. 

“Nice use of your blinker, bmw-bastard-bitch.” 

Jack nearly whispers it, but that asshole of a driver is what gets his mind to slip away from you, so…thank them for that. Traffic’s slow, and he begins flipping through mental protocol for the night. Staffing numbers, open beds, that critical case that might get transferred down from Fox Chapel–

“Dr. Abbot, there is no need to dryly sass me when all I’ve been doing is assisting you like a champ.” 

“...You are. You are assisting me very well, which is why I need to sass you. With all the praise Dr. Robby’s been giving you, I can’t have your ego building on me. 

Jack’s mouth twitches widely before he jolts his head once again to slap whatever was gonna decorate his face. 

Just leave him alone, kid. 

…He hopes you’re still wearing your pink shoes after he teased you about them for the fortieth time. Jack likes them. They’re…visual stimulation for the slow shifts. 

Okay. Traffic? Traffic’s slow. Staffing’s short on him. Of course, but there seemed to be an endless number of open beds last night. That critical case is definitely getting transferred down from Fox Chapel, poor, bare-budget fucks–

“What the fuck?” 

And there. He sees her. 

You. 

Across the street. Walking alone. Head down, coat zipped tight, tote bag slung over one shoulder and a thermos at your hip. But then…Jack’s focus locks in. 

You’re wearing your pink sneakers and a wool beanie with little specks of glitter. Your badge is clipped to your coat, which bounces with every hurried step. You’re tugging your scarf higher, cheeks are flushed from the cold…because, of course, they are. It’s 30 fucking degrees. Your fingers–they’re bare. What the hell? Do you not own gloves?

Jack’s jaw locks. His foot eases off the gas before his eyes narrow like he’s tracking a threat. Because this, sleepy? 

This isn’t cute. It isn’t quaint. It isn’t you not knowing what’s good for you because you believe the world is perfect and kind, and everything Jack could roll his eyes at you for thinking in the first place, only to let up and realize that, eventually, that’s what makes you you. That’s what been prodding at his fucking heart like a badly held needle to skin in all the months he’s known you. 

This? This is dangerous.

Jack slows the truck. Stops. His fingers flex around the steering wheel, because seriously. What the hell are you doing walking alone?

He watches, heartbeat climbing—not from the initial surprise, but from…a casual, dry rage. Hey, if he weren’t in therapy, he probably wouldn’t know how to name that feeling. But you–you’re so damn feminine in the way you move, the bounce in your step, the shiny pastel accessories clipped to your grey scrubs. Even the ridiculous pink thermos swinging at your hip looks out of place in the darkening, frozen street.

“What the hell are you doing?” 

He mutters his question before making the next turn hard and quick, looping the block with what’s probably muscle memory before pulling up to the curb just ahead of your path. He flashes his lights once. 

If you keep walking cause you think he’s some creep, he’s going to drag you into this truck. 

You’re blinking in surprise, and Jack knows you’re hesitating when you don’t recognize the truck just yet. But when you do, you smile as you pick up your pace, jogging the last few steps to him. 

Jack rolls the passenger window down. 

“Hey, Dr. Abbot! What are you doing out here so early? Trying to beat me agai–”

“Get in.” 

Jack says it flatly. Eyes unblinking. He doesn’t care for or about your face wearing confused, slight hurt when he does. 

You flutter those eyelashes quickly, and this time…isn’t gonna work on him, sleepy. Again. Not this time. 

“Wait–what? Jack, I’m only five minutes from the hospital. Ain’t a big deal.”

Jack doesn’t take his eyes off you, because what is wrong with you? Why are you…out here alone, putting yourself in danger? Whether that be the cold or something–someone else. And you don’t accept his first offer? 

His first order. 

His voice goes sharper. 

“It’s below freezing. It’s already dark. You’re walking alone. I said get in. 

Jack doesn’t know there’s something in his voice that silences any further teasing from you, but his eyes flicker to the way there’s hesitation in your hands, and then he uses his to grip the wheel of his truck. 

“Jack, I’m not a baby bird. It’s Pittsburgh. People walk.” 

“Not women alone. Not at night. Not in that. 

Jack gestures to your coat, which is too thin. Your shoes, too pink. 

You frown. “What’s wrong with my coat? And…how are you still finding a moment to get on me for my shoes?” 

“What’s wrong with it? Jesus,–” Your name comes out of his mouth in a near groan, and he doesn’t understand why your mouth parts slightly at that. “You dress like a candy striper in an alleyway. You ever heard of blending in? That maybe, if you’re gonna walk alone in the fucking dark, then try not wear something that screams “I’m the bubbliest woman on earth?" Seriously, sleepy.” 

Your frown deepens, and maybe Jack will feel guilt over that later. But not now. He needs you to understand. 

“Wow. Rude.” 

You’ve never seen him like this before. Sure, he forced you to report that flirtatious old man, whom you swore was just a victim of dementia, who thought you were his wife, to HR. Sure, sometimes you catch the dry snark in his quips whenever you get “too” smiley with your Mel or Dr. Langdon. But this…this confuses you as much as it hurts you. 

“You don’t get to be oblivious. Not out here. You walk like nothing can touch you, like no one’s watching. You’re you. You? You're all…pink shoes and wide eyes, and you talk to strangers like they’re already friends.” 

He breathes in sharply through his nose before he’s not breathing at all.

“And that’s exactly the kind of person who doesn’t come home one night.”

The wind picks up. You stare at him. He doesn’t look away. Not now, but it’s the way there’s difficulty in that, difficulty where there never was with anyone else.

What are you doing to him?

“Jack...you think I’m that careless? I'd never...”

Jack blinks. No. Because you’re fucking perfect. 

It’s nearly gritted. 

“No. I think." Jack's head shifts stiffly. He swallows. "I just...think the world doesn’t deserve someone like you walking through it alone believing in it.”

You’re quiet, and Jack ignores that feeling that he purposefully doesn’t name…because it’s almost something like fear. That he went too far, which he couldn’t possibly have because you need to understand what you’re doing to him–

To yourself.

You’re quiet. Then, almost shyly–something so unlike you unless he’s confident enough to want to make your cheeks flush. “You always this dramatic?”

Jack reaches the other seat to open the passenger door. 

“Get in. You need a ride, you call me.” 

His eyes flicker to the hesitation in your hands, but he can tell you see there’s no point in arguing, which is good. 

Because something in his voice says this isn’t up for debate. 

“Thank you.” 

“Do not worry about that, kid.” 

Jack waits until you're buckled before he pulls back into the lane. His jaw’s still set. His shoulders are still stiff. But when he glances at you, really looks at you, there’s something in his eyes that’s closer to fear than frustration. But you don’t know that. He hopes you...or he never will. 

He rolls up the passenger and driver windows. He turns on the heat with a tense grip on the wheel. His prosthetic aches—not that he feels it under the rush of adrenaline simmering through him just because he found you taking a solo stroll.

“I’ve walked that street a hundred times, Jack. I’m fine.” 

“You ever hear a woman say that when we wheel her into the Pitt with a stab wound? With—”

Jack stops himself. No breath. No sigh. Just a slight head shake.

With severe injuries from sexual assault?

The rest of his question is said dryly. You falter, looking down at your hands. And quietly, almost to himself—

“You don’t get to be 'fine' when it’s dark and cold and you look like you’ve got a target on your back.”

Silence settles between them.

You don’t argue this time. You just sit beside him, small in the passenger seat, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

Jack stares straight ahead...cause he’s realizing something.

This isn’t just about attraction getting the best of his character, or admiration that’s shot in the head when he realizes the perfect, smartest nurse has the bright idea to walk in the cold streets of Pittsburgh after dark. It’s not even that reckless flutter he feels every time you brush past him in the trauma bay.

This is deeper. Sharper. Something dangerous in its own right.

Because you don’t even realize how vulnerable you are. How trusting. How bright in a world that eats people like you alive.

And Jack…he shouldn’t be at the point where he’d burn down the city if it meant keeping you safe, because that’s fucking weird. At most, he should feel…entitlement in his romantics. But this is not romantic. This is protective.

Too protective.

And that realization fucking punches him almost more than seeing you walking alone ever could.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

The hallway’s warmth fogs Mel’s glasses as you see her on her way out. She nods before she greets you and Jack brightly.  The way of her adorable nature is almost enough to forget where you just came from.

But when her smile drops at Jack's inability to really greet her back, it all comes seeping through.

"Don't tell me you forgot how to smile--"

"I'm betting my other leg that that case from Fox Chapel is being transferred down. I heard it's psych-central, and that's your house. You'll be the front nurse on that, I'm sure."

You unwrap your scarf, cheeks still flushed from the cold, while Jack shrugs off his jacket without saying much. You keep glancing sideways at him. 

You still carry the weight of his earlier tone, how surprised you are by how…rattled he got. 

It’s usually not hard for you to make your voice sit light, but here, you push it through your smile. 

“Sooo…you yell at all our nurses for walking to work?”

“No. I would if I caught them.”

You raise your brows, but he doesn’t elaborate when you do. He just fishes through his coat pocket, pulling out gloves. His. 

Worn black leather, and his hands…they’re big. The gloves are too big for you by a mile. He holds them out. 

You smile. 

What is your doctor doing?

“Is this an apology? Or some sort of peace offering?”

You watch his eyes focus on the gloves before they flicker up into yours. And the intensity of his brown eyes is telling you he’s still serious, and you can’t have that. Not after the way he thought you were deserving of…whatever the moment on the street was. 

Maybe he’s just having a bad start to his shift, and you’re receiving the brunt of it, because he cannot be this worried over you, because you’re worth Jack Abbot’s worry. 

You don't deserve his worry, or his casual, dry genius. You don't, and you can't have him pretending that you do.

So, you laugh softly, but Jack doesn’t crack. He just pushes the gloves into your hands more firmly. 

“Keep them.” 

He says it quietly. You blink. Your voice goes startled. 

“Jack, you don’t have to–” 

“I said keep them.”

Your eyes lock for a heartbeat too long. You can feel it in the way yours speed up. You hold the gloves now, your smile gentling. Now? You’re less amused, you guess. More touched and blushed, but Jack’s already looking away, pulling open his locker and putting away his backpack like it’s just another shift, like he didn’t just nearly yell at you on the sidewalk for doing something you’ve done a thousand times before, only to then gift you with something you don’t think he’s ever lent out to anyone. 

“You know, for someone who’s probably the fortieth most dramatic person in the E.R, this is kinda…reactive. Possessive, doc. Where's H.R. when I need them?” 

Truly. You mean it as a tease. Just a soft joke. Not even as something to test the waters, but Jack only crosses his arms against his chest. 

“Just wear them, sleepy. If you paid attention, maybe you'd see that you don't live in the Bahamas."

There. You think he's over it with his dry joke along the slight smirk on his lips.

You slip the gloves on.

"Not now, we are literally about to start our shift-"

"I know, I'm just trying them on."

They hang a little over your fingers. Loose around your palms. You flex both hands. You study the way his warmth feels on your hands.

God. You try not to blush.

What is wrong with this man? What is wrong with you?

...Nothing, really, because who wouldn't feel their heart leap out of their chest when Jack Abbot is like this in his concern? In the slight lines and strong jaw of his face.

You try not to shudder when his hands take yours, casually slipping the gloves to fold them. He shoves them in your tote bag, nothing but the word nothing on his face.

"Does it bother you?"

"What bothers me?"

Jack doesn't blink at your question.

"The reaction." His eyes take a half-second glance at someone passing by, only to face back to you, his head shifted, and his voice is slightly quieter. "Would you rather me not care about you?"

The word not is nearly dragged out in the back of Jack's throat. The entire question is joking. Not teasing. Just asked like it’s nothing.

His mouth twitches when you do end up shuddering, because how can you actually not?

"...I could take it or leave it."

Jack nods with sarcasm in his thinning lips and narrowing eyes. He crosses his arms.

"Yeah. Okay, sleepy."

And Jack doesn’t say another word—he just heads for the trauma bay with that stiff walk, the one that comes when he’s thinking too much, when the limp you wouldn't know was there if you weren't paying attention disappears because he's focused.

You watch him go before you tug out his gloves from your bag. You don't laugh. You don't roll your eyes or come up with an internal quip to lessen whatever's at the pit of your stomach now.

You just put on his gloves to feel the warmth of them.

Of him.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Two days later. Sun is setting, but there is a resentful solace that doesn’t exist in the dark. Jack doesn’t think there’s anything about you he could call dark. He’d kill himself before betting on it. 

Robby’s half-dressed in street clothes, which is pretty unusual for Jack to see. The sweat’s still clinging to the back of his neck from the shift that just ended for him. Jack leans against the lockers, arms crossed, watching his friend shove his scrub bottoms into his bag with a little too much force.

Jack’s not feeling all too swell at a quip from his friend, the friend who’s obviously in a rush to go somewhere, still had time to make. 

“Didn’t know you were on hall patrol now, Abbot.” 

“I’m not?” 

Robby grins stupidly for a second or so. “You sure, brother? Cause I heard…what? A day? Two days ago, Dana saw you with sunshine. Thought you were gonna drag her in by the scarf.” 

Jack doesn’t take to the bait, even though and because it’s fucking stupid. He just picks something off his scrub top and mutters–

“She was walking alone.” 

“I know, that’s what Dana said she told her. And the scarf thing? Her words. Not mine. But uh–” Robby’s head shifts, tilting slightly with his eyes looking to the tile. He zips up his bag. “Walking alone as an adult. I know we don’t usually talk about things like this–I’m in no place to say anything–” 

“And here we are.” 

Jack finally takes himself away from the lockers to put his backpack in his. The pause sits for a minute, and there he thinks about it. 

Justification and defensiveness comes way too easy to him.

“If it was just you peeved enough to make her roll her eyes, that would’ve been that. But with what Dana was saying, just about the way you were acting when you came in…people walk in cities. Like, millions of people do. Every day, Jack.”

Jack doesn’t turn to Robby. He stares at the bottom of his locker. 

Jesus Christ, he wishes he could make this about his disbelief. He wishes how his inability to find this conversation funny and not targeted would be the result of the frustration over why everyone is questioning his frustration–his frustration over an E.R nurse who would know the dangers of walking alone at night as a woman found walking alone at night as a woman. And sure. Yeah. It’s still there in his usual, casual confidence, but–

He knows what this is. He’s known it from the day he found you out in the street. He knows that you could’ve been walking in the middle of the day, sun down upon you and…whatever. You could’ve been with someone. 

And he’d still feel this heaviness in his chest telling him to go after you. 

He’d question if it’s smart for you to walk to work in the heat with scrubs and a sleeved shirt underneath. He’d question who it was you were walking with. He’d lecture you for riding with a stranger if you took an uber. 

It would be easier to not feel so damn guilty about it if he knew you weren’t so damn capable and compentent. That would make his possession over you valid. But…here they are. 

“You wouldn’t stop if you saw one of our nurses or residents taking a thirty minute stroll in the dark while they’re trudging through the snow? That you wouldn’t question their judgement, Robby?”

“...No. No. I would. I’d stop, I’d offer a ride. And walking by yourself when it’s dark out in the cold isn’t the best or most logical situation. Maybe I’d tell her that…I don’t know.” Jack finally turns around, looking Robby in the eyes when he lets him. They stand under that familiar mechanical humming. The walls of the Pitt at work. “For her sake, I’d bring up that I’d rather see her come into work in a cab and not an ambulance that had to have been called because she was robbed and hurt.” 

“There. That is what I am saying. That is–” Jack crosses his arms before sitting down on the bench. “It’s freezing. And dark. And she’s...look, she’s not street-sharp. You know her. Not cautious. Not really. She probably talks to every cab driver like they’re her therapist.” 

“Wouldn’t this not be a situation if she took a cab instead?” 

Jack stops his breath. Smartass. 

“And what about us or the place she’s dedicated her life to scream caution, brother?” 

Jack shakes his head before focusing in on Robby’s face, because as much as this isn’t the most valid anger, it’s also the most valid anger and why can’t Robby see this? 

“...She had no gloves.” 

Jack says it curtly, only going lower and louder on the word had. 

The closest he gets to turning away first is when Robby’s brows raise. 

“...No gloves? That’s your breaking point?” 

No. It’s the point where he realizes you matter more to him than you should, cause you have to matter to him a whole fucking lot–cause he shouldn’t feel like this and the only possible explanation as to why his heart is gonna jump out of his fucking chest at the sight of you is because you made it so he finds himself too worried at every step and too proud at every accomplishment you make with a needle or IV. Because you’re too pretty and competent and bright and everything he can’t handle. So…the most you can do is allow him is worry. 

Even when that worry scares the shit out of him. 

“I am saying, statistically, women alone at night are more likely to–” 

“I know, Abbot. We know. But–” Robby looks up to the ceiling before crossing his arms. Jack laxes his cross to rest his palms on his knees. 

“You were worked up.” 

“How could you know? I didn’t monologue in front of Dana or anyone–” Jack blinks in his breaking. His head tilts before he glances a glare at the door. “...It wasn’t just Evans who mentioned it, was it?” 

Robby doesn’t nod, but his narrowing eyes give way. 

And Jesus Christ, it has to be a good thing. The usual thing of his character–the guilt in the first question Jack asks in his head. The question that’s aided by his hands turning into fists for a second or so. 

It’s not ‘Why would you tell Robby?’. Not ‘Did what he did bother you that much that you brought it up a day or two later?’ 

It’s ‘Why the fuck were you talking to Robby in the first place?’. 

…The guilt makes him aware, right?

“Concern, that’s warranted, Jack. More than. Also, don’t think I’m in a place to care but…I think it’s safe with the way you two act around each other to say that you wouldn’t have reacted like that if it were anyone else. And the way you reacted was a bit…for you, for you–it was just a little over the top. I mean...with the way you've been reacting to her more aggressive patients have been...a lot."

Jack's words come out defensive, fast. And there goes the fucking guilt. 

The patients? Why is he bringing up your slew of sleezy overdoses and drunks?

“You’re right, we’re good with each other, but we don’t usually talk about things like this. But if you’d like to know, I wasn’t that worked up, and even if I was, you are also right on how we don’t need our nurses hitching rides by gurnies.” 

“...You’re worked up right now.” 

…Is he?

Jack gives Robby a look, dry as desert from forever ago. 

“She had no gloves, Robby.” 

He couldn’t know that his fellow attending makes the decision to smile smally, it’s not natural, it’s a choice he makes in chance to have Jack get more worked up. 

What are you exactly doing to this guy?

Maybe the smile becomes more genuine with the question popping into Robby’s head. 

“This interrogation is stopping you from wherever you need to go. Go.” 

It’s definitely more genuine when Jack decides he wants the previous conversation to end. Robby nods his head. 

“...Date?” 

Robby scoffs. “No.” 

“Something with Jake?”

“...Nah–just taking the new bike out. Just got her from a guy upstate. Jack, you gotta see this thing. I’m trying to be casual about it, but I guess, uh, sly biker isn’t my style.” 

…Oh God, Robby.

Jack knows this isn’t a mid-life crisis. Not really, probably. What he knows is that E.R doctors tend to be adrenaline junkies, and sometimes they tend to be adrenaline junkies with the habit of suicidal ideation. Sometimes you get MDs turning into gamblers, sex addicts, drug addicts. Sometimes they put themselves somewhere dangerous. 

Sometimes they buy a motorcycle. 

He watches Robby scratch the back of his neck. His own expression doesn’t shift much, but there’s a delay—just enough time for a beat of concern to flicker behind his eyes because…yeah. A motorcycle.

“You get a helmet too, or just the death wish?”

He tries to say it casually. Robby laughs with a slow blink. “You used to jump out of helicopters. Don’t come for me.”

“Yeah, with a parachute. And orders. And a med evac team on standby. And I’m not exactly bragging about my military resume–” 

Not now. Jack swallows. He pretends Robby doesn’t for the sake of keeping the conversation light. 

“You jealous, man?” 

Jack snorts, lips twitching in something that might be a smile.

“Jealous of bugs in my teeth? No thanks.”

“You’re not invited anyway…” Robby swings his bag over his shoulder. “Grandpa.”

Jack’s head jolts back before he turns his palms up to the ceiling. 

“One, you on every technicality is closer to being a papa more than me. Two, you told me I have to see it. That’s an invitation. I am welcome. Three, I’m saying–you know better. You’ve been in the trauma bay long enough to know that.” 

He knows this conversation won’t exactly go anywhere, because Robby’s stubborn as shit. And that’s okay. He’s an adult. Jack’s sure he won’t be doing any BMX tricks around the block. But still, the reasoning for a sudden motorbike is obvious, and he can’t help but question. But the questions turn into quips, and he’ll…his friend will be okay. 

Robby simply shrugs before grabbing his keys from the locker.

“I need something, Jack. Maybe it’s good to find an outlet that isn’t running laps around the hospital. Like you. And me. And everyone else in here. Just, gotta get the edge of somehow.”

That’s the first time Jack’s posture falters. 

“The edge off what, exactly?”

He sees it quietly and again, Robby gives him a vague, dismissive shrug as he makes his way out. Doesn’t answer. Jack doesn’t push. But he watches.

We don’t need to find each other on the rooftop again. 

“Just–don’t go looking for chaos. You know how it wins. Often. And usually.”

Robby pauses at the door.

“Yeah.” His voice is softer. “I know.”

Then he’s gone. Jack keeps himself there for a bit, standing up to stare at Robby’s empty locker that he never actually locks, his reflection faint in the metal, its decorations of scratches. 

He’s not judging. Seriously. He just knows the feeling too well, and sometimes the feeling takes you over, promises you you deserve to feel it while telling you all the shitty ways you can get rid of it. Some of them get addicted to adrenaline. Some to noise. Some to numbness. Jack isn’t perfect in that department, he can’t be when he finds being co-dependent with his work and the Pitt ideal. That’s not healthy, right? No. It’s not. And he doesn’t care. Still, the guy’s trying to keep his addictions to minimum. 

His head snaps at the sound of a familiar voice trailing past the locker room. Jack makes his way out quickly, ignoring the ache of prosthetic when his does. 

He calls you out by your last name before he turns into the hall.

“When did you start gossiping with Robby–”

He stops when all he finds is Santos. A very confused looking Santos. 

His mouth parts. He grips the door frame before pulling on both ends of his stethoscope.

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else. You can…continue to go wherever you were going.” 

“...You thought I was sunshine?”

“Santos, I am apologizing. Do not push it.” 

“You heard me and you thought I was her? I sound nothing like her...I mean, I feel complimented–” 

“Go. Now. Thank you.” 

Santos leaves with what Jack thinks is a smile. He blinks once. 

He is trying. 

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

The trauma bay smells a little more like antiseptic than usual. An overhead light flickers. The night, as much as it started with Robby’s confrontation, is good. It’s been a long night, but the kind that Jack thrives in. Thrives in exhaustedly, but thrives none-the-hell-less. 

And sure, even with you as his little snitch, it’s easy to stay sharp when you’re across the room. 

“I think I’m having heart palpitations, Dr. Abbot. The means it’s been a good shift, right?” 

You pull off a pair of blood-streaked gloves. You’re breathing a little harder than usual, but of course, you’re smiling that smile of yours that’s somehow more energizing than cocaine. He’s guessing. Whatever the comparison, it’s resentfully more energizing. 

He watches you. As always nowadays. Screw you.

“I’m not saying our nurses fumble their way through central lines. But you? You, sleepy, are like a damn sniper. Solid work tonight.” 

He says it dryly. You raise a brow. 

“A sniper?”

“One shot. Clean. No mess. I blinked and you already had it taped.”

You snort as you toss your gloves and it’s streaky red into a bin. “I know what a sniper is. Just...that is probably the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.” 

Jack shrugs, eyes still on you. 

It’s a compliment. His compliment. Just take it. 

“I meant it as high praise. Snipers are efficient. Focused. Lethal.” He cocks his head to the side. “But unlike you, they’re usually the silent type.” 

You obviously don’t get his little jab is specific to you talking about him with Robby, but he lets that go when you let out a half laugh. 

In the end, he’s sure it’s good that he’d rather have you laughing that tucked away in the corner of his truck. 

“Okay. Doc, you are either flirting with me or insulting me and I genuinely can’t tell which one it is.” 

Jack’s mouth twitches. “That is the beauty of it. I keep you guessing.” 

He doesn’t answer your quip along your grin after. There’s only something quieter in his smirk–something he’s probably not gonna name because tonight was mostly good despite everything and he doesn’t want to ruin them. 

“You are definitely flirting. So, no–I’m not finishing off your charts for you.” 

…Whatever’s the quiet thing in the lines of his face must against his better judgement. It’s what got him flirting with you in the first place, what makes him softly slip up and find confident justification for said slip up later. 

He pretends to focus on a chart that, no, you will not finish. You are bullshitting him. He’s always finishing your ends of a chart. 

“You belong on the night shift.”

It’s an efficient thing inside of him, Jack guesses. It’s really quick to make him confident in his dry, low blurtings. 

You blink. He looks into your eyes. 

“What?” 

“You’re good. Too fast. Again, you’re from a more than capable bunch, but even the best nurses trip over themselves when they get assigned to night. You…adjusted like you didn’t have to.” 

Jack won’t notice the way your smile falters just a little. If he did, there goes his chance of staying confident. But he watches you shrug with folding arms, your soft voice slipping away from him. 

“I learned how to survive in chaos a long time ago.” 

…Yeah. He can tell. It’s why it’s unfortunate that it takes one moment of you out in the dark to know that doesn’t make a difference. 

Beautiful, capable girl. 

His eyes hold yours. He’d thank you for letting him if he didn’t realize the both of you are already post-shift. The morning sky is that bruised purple…like. Lavender. Lavender-grey. There’s headlights blinking down wet, frosted streets. 

“Walking again, sleepy?” 

“Just to the bus station. It’s not far.”

“Still dark out.”

“Thanks for the update, Weatherman. Jack, I promise–I’ll be fine. I’m not walking home, just making my way for the bus.”

He doesn’t smile as the both of you make your way down the hall to find the nurses’s station where you tucked your bag underneath a desk. You always leave him– 

The Pitt so quickly. He watches you tie your scarf with practiced hands. 

He feels himself press something more firm to the bottom of his throat. “I can pick you up. Drop you off. We work the same shifts most nights anyway. It’s just convenient.”

You look at him, and he’s beginning to accept the way your gentle expressions make him…falter’s a weak word. Ew. But also, it would be you, wouldn’t it? 

“Jack–” 

Get in his car. Let him take you home. 

“It’s not a big deal. I’m offering. That’s all.”

It’s obvious you’re hesitating on a reply, but Jack isn’t exactly sure it’s because you don’t believe the concern or…that you can see it all too well. 

“I’m suggesting, really. But–so you know. You don’t need to be out like that again. Not when I’m...when you have people willing to help you out.”

The latter is a bit more heavy on his chest, because that’s more likely to scare you away from him, right? 

“...Okay, Jack. If I need it. I promise.”

Jack nods once, briskly. Like it’s settled. But there’s something tight in his jaw, something he doesn’t say. Another unnameable thing.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

Another evening stroll home.

You should’ve called a car.

You’re bundled up, yes–but your pace is one of a slowpoke. You’re tired. You’ve just finished a double, and it’s cold enough to bite at the tip of your nose. That damp Pittsburgh chill that’s seeping through your coat no matter how tightly you wrap it is almost as lovable as Whitaker, or the way Jack smells. 

Golly, you’re smart, aren’t you? 

But you needed the walk, the quiet. The feeling, however temporary, that you can move through the world on your terms. Even if it’s just ten blocks. Even if the reason why you first walked to the Pitt and then home isn’t as poetic. You just missed the bus twice that day. 

You pull your scarf higher over your mouth, hugging yourself as you pass the bar on the corner, one Heather and Co. promised they would take you out to when you first started working in the E.R. You watch a man stumble out, so you’re obviously missing all the fun. You try not to flinch when he shouts something you can’t catch. You don’t really look up, even. It’s just a man being loud, as drunk men are. 

But what’s louder is that rumble of an engine slowing behind you. You can’t help the way your heart skips with a cold spike of adrenaline. That sound–there’s no way you don’t flinch at its rumble. 

…Of course. 

You sigh shakily, watching your breath managing to go cool against your scarf. It’s only a strange mix of relief and frustration tightening at your chest. 

You doesn’t even have to look to know who it is.

“Jeez.”

You steel yourself when Jack’s truck crawls up beside you, the window sliding down with that creaky, mechanical whine. 

Quick, what’s the quickest way you can settle your doctor? 

“Hey…” You look down to your bundled hands. “At least I’m wearing your gloves this time.”

Jack’s pale face wears nothing. Not even a blink. 

“I–” 

“I thought you said if you needed a ride, you’d tell me.” 

You close your eyes for a beat at how sharp Jack’s voice is. You count to three before you look at him. 

Quick, what’s the quickest way you can settle yourself? 

You watch your breath fog the air, scoffing light. “Are you, like, following me now?” 

Inside of you is a wanting you want to berate. That thing–that stupid, anxious flutter it always does around Jack, the thing that almost kills your quips and banter and births blushing and a shyness you can barely handle. It’s still here now. When he’s berating you. For being a grown adult, making the decision to walk home. 

“I just finished a double, you’re on your way to the Pitt…wh-why would I call you? That would make me some…l-leechy asshole. And you're gonna be late for work.” 

Jack nods sharply. Blinks once. Your heart speed up. 

“Leechy asshole. You made a good choice becoming an E.R nurse and not a poet, sleepy. Good choice.” You watch him press a button and faintly hear something like air start to blow. Heat. “Get in.” 

That thing. The flutter. As much as it infuriates you, it’s a small, pathetic part of you that makes you feel safer seeing him here. And if this was any other situation–flirtations in a trauma bay, watching him go stern when a patient hits on you and such, you wouldn’t hate that part of yourself. You usually don’t. 

But that part of you is what makes you almost immediately listen to him. It’s what makes you want to please him, satisfy whatever this is. And that? As much as you like him, you can’t let that happen when it’s not right, right? The way he worries isn’t…normal, right? 

And you’re almost to the point of not caring, of getting in the car, and that can’t happen. 

“You walked past a drunkard stumbling around with a bottle like it’s a damn .47.” 

His voice goes low, irritated. Your jaw tightens. 

You’re already at the point of feeling more embarrassed he caught you walking alone than angry at how he thinks he can act this way with you. And that’s…you’re 90 percent sure that’s not right either. So. 

“That guy from the bar? You noticed tha…” You shake your head. “He didn’t even look at me, Jack.” 

It’s obvious Jack isn’t satisfied with your defensiveness, because his voice lifts just enough that you know this is as close as he gets to raising it. 

“That is not the point. He could’ve. Or–not him, but the next night you decide to play with hypothermia, you find someone who takes advantage of the situation you put yourself in.” 

And there, with Jack’s lowering eyes and stern jaw, you feel your frustration curl into something meaner. Something tired. And you think he can see that, and that he can see why. 

You feel satisfaction swell against the fatigue of having to justify every step you take, of denying any justification of why Jack can act like this. 

“I’m not saying it would be your fault–I will…I am going to backtrack on that.” 

“Yeah, Jack. You better if you want me to get in your truck.” 

You couldn’t know how he takes that as an immediate challenge, even when he cocks his head lower and stiffly. 

“You’re don’t have to assume that every single being on the sidewalk is a threat. I’m just saying I’d rather…I’d rather have someone be there for you if there is.” 

You watch his jaw clench, and for second, you think you see something you’ll ignore. 

An actual raw, ugly fear in his eyes. That, if it’s there, it doesn’t matter how unjustified it is, you think you might have to let Jack have it. 

“I’ve told you this already. You know doctors don’t like to repeat lectures.” The wind gusts between you and the truck. “Get in.”

You look down at your shoes, fighting the way your throat aches, but when you begin to speak, you already know that your voice is gonna be smaller than it wants to be. 

“I said I’d ask when I needed you.”

…You know this can’t just be about tonight, or about the last time he found you one the street. It’s never just one moment about tonight. 

It’s every moment and shift and look you decided to find endearing–the times where Jack is waiting for something to go wrong so he can be the one to fix it. 

And with his soft curls and demanding eyes, you can’t ignore how you feel more grateful than furious. 

“And I said I didn’t want you waiting to you do.”

..It’s why you get in the truck with spite and cause all at once, why you buckle your seatbelt with stiff, careful hands before Jack pulls away from the curb without a word. 

“You’re freezing.”

“...You’re dramatic.” 

Jack pushes the passenger vent towards you, and the other passing car’s headlights catch the faint lines around his mouth, the one’s that appear when he’s close to a smile.

“You wanna talk about dramatic? You catch Robby's ride before he left?”

Both of you. Settled.

You stifle a giggle. "Yep. It’s…nice."

You have to stifle another when Jack’s head snaps at you. 

“Do not tell me you’re a biker girl. Absolutely not–” 

“No. Absolutely not. They are death traps…not that I’m judging your friend!”

The headlights pass, it’s nothing but the dark. You don’t see how Jack’s mouth falters, the way the lines disappear. 

“Well. He’s your friend, too.”

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

He is definitely late for his shift, like you said. But hey…it’s not exactly your fault. The heater hums low, pushing warm air towards you, and with that, the exhaustion you garnered from your double, and your strolling through snow, Jack assumes it’s why you ended up curled into the passenger seat, head tilted against the window, lips parted in a dream or whatever. He doesn’t say a word, he drives. One hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh near where his prosthetic makes him whole. The radio is off, the scanner is off, and both his phone and pager’s been buzzing on the dashboard. Both are ignored. The hospital is long behind both of you. 

And he passed your street ten minutes ago. Hence, his being late isn’t your fault. 

He’ll claim that it isn’t your fault, cause that means the reason as to why he’s not at the job he needs to feel like breathing matters isn’t you. It can’t be. There can’t be any more chances to let you be the one to ruin him. That’s not really fair to you. 

“Sleepy?” 

You’re only stirring. Jack doesn’t sigh, and he doesn’t remember when he decided to keep going…but he did. You’re here. You’re safe. You’re asleep. And Jack…Jack can’t remember when the hell was the last time someone trusted him like this. Outside of the Pitt and off of a gurney, away from charts and recommendation letters. 

He watches your chest rise and fall with every breath, watches as your hair shifts as the truck bumps along a quiet neighborhood road. And really, he’ll tell himself it’s just about the peace in the way he tells him it’s not your fault. It’s cause of the stillness, the calm before a shift full of bleeders and chaos. But shit, when the hell has he ever been one to enjoy that calm?

No. Jack deserves the truth…most of the time. So. He knows it’s not the bullshit stillness or the calm. 

It’s the way you look right now. 

The prettiest, most unguarded thing curled up in his truck. You’re beautiful when you’re too competent for everyone’s good and when you’re the most vulnerable thing on earth. How dare you, kid? 

The realization finds that it isn’t just admiration. It’s not just protectiveness. It’s…oh. God. Fuck him. It’s in the way that says…that says–

You’re mine. And if the world’s too loud, I’ll drive us through the quiet until morning just to prove it, as if the light is where I’ve found solace all along. Crazy. 

He exhales slowly. Looks at the clock. 9:38 P.M.

Yeah, he’s miles past your apartment, nearly at that overlook where he sometimes parks when the weight of the world and past won’t lift. He’ll listen to his police scanner. Eat a ham sandwich.

He lets the truck roll to a gentle stop and puts it in park. He just…sits. He watches you. 

…He lets himself need you, as if it’ll only be this one, unspoken moment he’s indulging in. He lets his chest feel warm and his shoulders roll with what might be a shudder without guilt. Without denial. 

How can someone so beautiful make him feel ugly things?

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

You stir faintly, nose scrunching. You don’t wake. He doesn’t really move. 

He promises he’ll drive you home soon, but not yet. Not while the world still lets you sleep beside him, and not while he’ll let himself feel good about it.

"...You know nothing. How impossible is that?"

His hand flexes. His head cocks as he closes his eyes at a little noise you make. Something like a rumble.

...Not while he feels this good.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

You blink awake on your couch. Not in Jack’s truck or in your bed as if you made it there by yourself. Your couch. A blanket is tucked over yours, and it’s not the one you usually fold on your chair. It’s heavy. Wool and worn. 

Like it’s from Military surplus. 

You realize it has to be Jack. It smells like him–sanitizer and cedar and whatever soap you keep trying to figure out the brand of. The thing that gets Jack to call you a freak. You shift. 

Your shoes at next to the door, and your scarf is folder on the coffee table with your bag and thermos. It’s the pisces your brain has to pull together through the soft haze of the morning sun.

Jack didn’t drop you off at the curb. He didn’t nudge you awake with that gruff, but not unkind efficiency you and others know. You may not remember the ride, and you certainly don’t remember being carried inside, but clearly…you were. 

He took off your shoes. Placed the blanket over you. Tucked you in. 

Jeez, Jack. Why, why, why?

You can’t deny him when he does shit like this, and how can you think it when you end sniffing his blanket as end up wrapping it tighter around yourself, heart pounding quietly in the hush of your apartment. 

“Jack…”

If you end up wrapping yourself in his warmth again, not because he orders you to, but because you want to, then how can you deny both of you?

"Jack."

You breathe in cedar.

"Sleepy, what in the hell is this?"

The next shift is a good shift. The kind that runs smooth and quiet, and Jack feels need in his throat. What, you may ask? Good question. He doesn’t know. But he won’t go looking for an answer. It’s been a good shift. 

Jack, as usual, is dry-witted, and you’ve been laughing in a way that makes Dana more than once, smiling faintly at the inside jokes and medically-based flirtations between the two of you. You bump your shoulder into his when he grumbles at your handwriting on a chart. He tries not to smile and pretends not to watch you when you turn. 

The ease of it all sits under the night he dropped you off and carried you inside, where he had to press his hand against your scrub top to find your keys. Neither of you dares to lift said ease. You both assume it’s because the other doesn’t care to. Both of you are right. So, there’s that usual, perfect rhythm of nurse and doctor, that trust, and now that quiet, dangerous acceptance of whatever the hell you two are seeping through. 

“Your notes are in all caps. Again.”

“That’s just passion. You should try it sometime.”

“If I have passion, it comes in black ink. Not red or pink.” 

“Pity.”

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

You swear you’re not breaking bad. 

You were really planning to get to work with anything that wasn’t your two feet, this time. But for the first time ever, your luck would have you, the bus ends up being twenty minutes early before you can catch it after you were called in. You had to make a choice. Jack…you guess he’d be satifised with the way you thought of his offers (demands) first, but you knew today was his one day off. You would think he appreciates the way you thought about him with consideration. 

An uber would’ve taken twenty minutes to get to you when it would take you twenty or so minutes to find yourself just in time for work. You made a choice, and really, it’s not the worst when you’re walking with the sun coming up instead of going down. It’s beautiful, honestly. You nearly forget what Jack would say, and you definitely can’t focus on the ache in your feet with how the glow of golden rises over Pittsburgh’s steel and brick bones. 

You almost collapse from pure frustration when you hear the rumble pull up to the curb just behind you. 

How? Possibly how? 

You turn, ready to find another excuse for Jack, but you don’t find him, and the slighter engine purr makes sense–because it’s Robby with his motorcycle. He kills the engine. 

…His choice in transport is really something. 

“Hey.” Finding him at your side is less with anxiousness and more with a pleasant, friendly curiosity. More with something casual and less with the need to grasp for what makes you feel…safe. 

“Hey, Robby.”

You smile when Robby does, even though his is slight. 

“Listen, I know Abbot probably sounds like a broken record by now, but I’ll have to agree with him. I don’t know how you find this sort of stroll…suitable. You good?”

“Yep, just got roped into picking up an morning half-shift. I was gonna grab a bus ride and missed it, because I’m the luckiest girl in the world.”

Robby nods, then his noses scrunches under a blink or two. 

“Well, didn’t know I was gonna pick up trouble today. Come on. If you want, but I’ve already found you.” 

You laugh. “You’re a menace.” 

Robby’s smile grows thinner. You watch his hands on his handlebars tighten. 

“You’re flattering.” He says it with a quiet, casual sarcasm before pulling out–oh. Oh no. “We’re both heading to work, and you were lucky enough to not let Pittsburgh Transit devour you up. C’mon, I’ll take you…if you’d like.” 

He holds out his spare helmet. Your hand tightens over the strap of your tote. 

“It hasn’t been used by anyone…so. If you’re, you know, worried about headlice. I’d, uh, hope any future person I’d potentially ride with wouldn’t be likely to have them.” 

Your smile falters. 

“I’ve actually never been on one of those.” 

“Damn, you are a good girl.”

You roll your eyes to the point you can’t see Robby already regretting his own quip, eyes closing shut for a half-second. 

“No, I get it. I’m kinda surprised by how many people at work haven’t ridden one at least once before.” 

“I mean, it is a motorcycle, Robby. And they just always seemed... dangerous.” 

You think Robby’s listening to you in the way he keeps a slight nod before tilting his head from side to side, but if he’s anything like Jack, which God, you know the both of them are like each other more than they want to admit, you know he won’t let it go. He probably won’t end up berating you onto his motorcycle or end up carrying into the Pitt, but you just know he’s gonna push, and it might work, because you’re you and Robby’s Robby. 

Your friend whom you trust.

“I will go slow. Take no unnecessary journeys. And I…drive like I suture.” 

“Jagged?” 

You let yourself laugh when Robby scoffs. “Hey.”

When he hands you the helmet, you study it in your hold before looking at the sidewalk ahead. 

You hear his voice in the back of your head–gruff, dry, concerned and knowing, but you push it down. 

You’ve accepted whatever Jack is to you, and you’ve done more than accept whatever he makes you feel, but the fact his voice is the first to pop in your head at the fear of riding a motorcycle instead swallows you with something overwhelming. 

And also, Robby’s your friend. And to deny him is to deny exceptional E.R skills, or his occasional kindness and constant sharp sarcasm, or the fact you want to get closer to him. Something like that. 

“Okay. Just this once. I better not owe you anymore lemon bars."

Robby’s brows raise when you take the helmet and try to buckle it, and despite everything you just thought to justify this, you nearly regret taking up his offer at the way you’re definitely buckling this thing up wrong. 

“Oh. She trusts me. Let’s not tell Abbot.” 

“I won’t if you won’t.” 

You can tell he’s close to sighing and you know why when his hand is hesitant to reach out. 

“Help me out here, attending.” 

You watch Robby smile the way one does at a stranger they accidentally make eye contact with before dropping it when he gently fixes the buckle. You climb carefully on the back–arms hesitating, then wrapping around his waist, and it’s not so awkward when you can feel his body through the layers of jackets and scrubs and long sleeves over. 

You don’t feel the weight of him, really, and your mind automatically drifts to a question: How did the weight of you feel in Jack’s arms? 

That swallows you too.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

There’s nothing else like spending your night off at work. Jack will feel less about it later, knowing that…what? Therapy sessions and lying at home reading or sleeping isn’t this. Still, he’s thankful for the shift to end, at least lying at home means he can take off his prosthetic for more than ten minutes. He took a guilty twenty in pedes when it was empty. 

He walks out of the entrance with Dana, who’s mid-sentence concerning something ridiculous Whitaker did with charting, because Whitaker on nightshift rotation is hilarious. Whatever the mistake, it was slight enough to go without attending reprimand and humorous enough to make Jack smirk. 

That’s when his eyes flicker toward the far end of the lot. 

Robby’s parking with someone pressed up against his back. 

You.

You pull off a black helmet, your hair tumbling out as you laugh with cheeks flushed from the wind. Robby follows you just after. Also helmeted as he grins slight. He kicks the stand. 

What in the actual fuck?

Jack takes in a breath he doesn’t let go. He slows mid-step. 

“You good, Abbot?” 

When his jaw locks, it almost aches as much as his leg, but he doesn’t even blink as Dana follows his gaze. Jack thinks she’s wincing dramatically in his peripheral. 

“Oh. Oh…no.” Dana puts her hands on her hips. “Calling Nurse and Doctor Sunshine to trauma one, leave the ride behind. Jesus Christ, how’d he get sunbeam on that thing? 

What the fuck are you doing? Why would you do this?

“He wants to die? Okay. That’s unfortunate. He does that?”

His near-casual, throaty spat comes out easier that it would’ve been keeping it in, and maybe there’s something opposite to the external telling Jack what he said was too much, because his shoulders roll, and deep down he knows he’s just being mean as hell to be mean as hell. 

 “Jesus, Jack.”

Evans is the external something. Jack lifts his head back. “It’s the truth. That is…absolute insanity. Dana?”

“...I think I left something inside.” 

Dana disappears back into the E.R and it’s nothing but Jack’s chance to start walking towards the both of you.

For the sake of keeping his anger high, he pretends that this is solely about you getting on a fucking motorcycle. Because it is. Why are you getting on a motorcycle? You. Fucking you. 

Why are you doing this to him. 

“What is this, a midlife crisis field trip?” 

Again. Being mean for the sake of being mean, cause Jack knows it isn’t that, but it’s what gets you to look up at him surprised with Robby sighing something low. 

“Robby, what the hell, man?” His voice goes nearly high. 

“Oh, c’mon, Abbot. She needed a ride–” 

“No. Yeah. As she usually does. But a motorcycle? You–” His head snaps towards you. “Robby, you want to risk your own neck for a Harley, fine–but bringing someone else on that suicide ride? Why the hell would you agree to that?

The words thrown towards both you cut harder than he means it to, but it’s what he feels in his gut, because why?

He keeps himself sturdy when Robby scoffs. 

“Sunshine, help me out here. She is…we’re adults.” Robby crosses his arms. “She needed a ride, Jack. It was either that or be late waiting for a cab or walking again. Which is what you were worked up about. Sooo…don’t really understand the fucking issue. This? This right here is what we talked about–” 

“You talked about this?”

Robby’s reply is what Jack would expect, maybe what he deserves, that voice that’s tingy and knowing, not loud–but definite in a bite. Still. Fuck him. 

His head tilts towards you, voice towards you–

“Why didn’t you call me? Seriously?”

You shift. He watches your arms cross over your chest. “I didn’t know you were working tonight, and again, wouldn’t make sense to make you pick me up to drive to the place you came from. Seriously, you’re not supposed to be working–and we were…safe, Jack. Helmets. He went slow, I held on, I–” 

Just took the first chance to wrap yourself around Robby?

That thought scares Jack as much as it makes his fist clench. 

“You think that matters when a car cuts you off and you skid thirty feet into a curb?” He doesn’t stop eyeing your focus when he hears Robby scoff again. “And hey, okay. You hitched a ride on the back on what you called a deathtrap because you thought you wouldn’t be caught by me?” 

Robby nods shakily. It’s not from nerves, it’s from that growing, steady impatience that’ll probably make his voice go sharp. 

“...Being caught? Jack, what is this? You sound like an aggressive PSA and a dad and it’s as offensive as it is confusing. Definitely wouldn’t have guessed this reaction from the first time I talked to you about my bike. Which. I do prefer honesty. But…you wanted her off the street. We were safe. You shouldn’t even be entitled to my justifications right now. I’m surprised that I even care enough to feel offended, because this conversation should be treated as bullshit…but because I wanted you settled, man–I…she did exactly what you wanted—she took help–”

His eyes don’t leave you, even when bits of Robby’s rant shakes him, triggers him. 

He couldn’t know that you see something feral flickering behind them—something you can’t shake or he can’t help. 

Something he wouldn’t want to help if he could. 

“You think this is help?” He jabs a finger at the motorcycle like it’s something obscene. “You think putting her on the back of that thing is better than a cab? Or the bus?” 

“It was explained. There was no chance for a bus or cab or uber or fucking…you, man.” Robby lifts his hands in what’s probably exasperation. 

Not him. No chance for him, huh? 

“I figured—”

“You figured what?” Jack cuts in, voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “That it’d be fun? That she’d enjoy it? That–” 

“That she’d get to fucking work!” 

Robby’s arms go up as his yell booms across the lot. Jack’s not scared by it. 

…But yeah, even in his stone rage that he’s sure he’s right to have, Jack knows that was warranted. 

What’s warranted to is the feeling of hot coals in his stomach when you grab Robby’s arm, comforting him–like he’s not the one that convinced you to go on a death trap. 

Like Jack’s not the one who’s vision when black when the motorcycle came speeding in. Like it’s not his heart that’s slamming against his fucking ribs for you right now. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? What are you doing to him?

“Robby–” 

Your mutter is barely heard when Robby shifts the weight of his legs, looking up at the sky. “Nothing happened.” 

Robby knows there’s more to say, that really, this shouldn’t matter in the first place, that he should not be on trial and it’s already ridiculous he’s letting himself sit in the face of Jack’s fucking jury, but that’s not gonna do any good, is it? 

“Nothing. Happened.” 

“...That’s not the point, Robby.” 

“The point doesn’t matter, but…I’m gonna ask you what it is anyway. Just so we can get it out of the way.”

Jack opens his mouth. Closes it. 

He sees the real point in the way you keep your hand, which manages to stay soft somehow even though you scrub your palms to shit with antiseptic and sanitizer like everyone else, on Robby’s bicep. 

It’s not that fact something could’ve happened. 

It’s the fact he can’t see you with someone else like this. Even if it’s just a ride. Even if it’s just a ride he’d rather you have than needing to walk alone in the fucking dark. 

Even if it’s Robby. Especially because it’s Robby. And the guy gave you a ride. A thrill–even if he’s just taking you to work as he so humbly did today. 

Something primal and ugly claws up his throat, looking at where you touch him.

“I don’t give a damn what you ride, Robby. But if you convince others to get thrown in what is a statistically dangerous hobby, try remembering they might be worth more intact.”

Robby goes still before he runs a hand down his face. 

And for the first time, Jack doesn’t want to look at you. 

“...Jack–” 

So. He turns away, stalking back to his truck before he can say something worse and learn how to find it the right thing to say later. He climbs in, slams the door.

And when he looks in the mirror, he sees you two standing together—your hand on Robby’s arm? He finds a realization sliding sharp under his ribs. 

He’s not gonna stop wanting you, even if it turns him into a fucking asshole.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

It's the next day. Or the next. Apologies are in order. Are they given? No. Jack will claim this is how men are. But shit, for men? He and Robby do a pretty good job of communicating.

The night shift has finally slowed to a manageable hum, which is not that surprising, even when Robby ended up having to share it with Abbot. They’re mature enough, yeah? Still, he’d be impressed if he found it important. 

God. He’s never seen Jack like that before. Ever. There have been points of time of snappy, semi-quiet bouts of professional frustration, towards him and others, but what happened the other day was…something else. And it’s taking a hold on him. 

Because Robby catches Jack in a supply closet. He’s organizing, settling a neatness between surgical gloves and IV kits–and it’s the 12th weirdest thing he’s ever seen in his life. 

“We good, Abbot? You good?” 

Obviously not, because one of the busiest men on earth, a man who craves chaos as much as it eats at him on occasion is alphabetizing medical supplies. But Robby has to ask anyway. He could pretend he’s better than the ache in his chest rising at the sight–the one that creeped in when you climbed off the back of his bike, hair tangled from the ride, cheeks flushed and alive in a way that could’ve been funny to look at.

That ache that he felt ridiculous for having in the first place when that moment was ruined with the look on Jack’s face. 

Like someone had pulled a pin from a grenade he’d been holding inside. That someone being Robby when he just offered you a fucking ride. 

Robby steps into the supply room, letting the door swing shut behind him before crossing his arms. He can tell Jack’s already tense in the shoulders, his back set like concrete as he rummages in the cabinet. 

“I’m fine, Robby. We’re fine.” 

…Robby’s gonna try for humor first. Try to pretend the knot in his own chest isn’t there and that he’s not expecting an apology. 

“If organizing the supply closets was added onto attending responsibilities, I missed the memo. And I’m also fucked.” 

…No answer. Jack doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. Robby leans one shoulder against the doorframe. 

He should just walk away, because this will die. And it’s not important. 

But he can still see your face when you thanked him for the ride. That sorta…soft and tired and relieved look. And then you looked up at Jack when he came striding across the street. 

Like you knew exactly how bad you were gonna get it for accepting a ride from a person you trusted. 

That can’t happen again. Not just because it’s uncharacteristically unprofessional as shit concerning Jack Abbot, but you don’t deserve that. Nobody deserves that. 

“You came at me like I put her on a live grenade, man. And I know we’ll get over this without dragging it back up, but if she’s gonna get lectured like she’s 12 years old every time she comes into the parking on a ride that isn’t yours–” 

Jack closes the cabinet shut. Not hard enough to be a slam, but loud enough to make a point. He turns to do what he does so well, focus his eyes on anothers. Robby sighs. 

He doesn’t have time for this. But he’s making time for his friend. And you. 

“You put her on a machine with two wheels and no shell. Don’t act like I overreacted. I–”

…Heat crawls up his neck. It’s annoyance, yeah. Maybe, but it’s something that really doesn’t need to be as deep at it is right now. 

But Jack’s a good guy, he owes Robby this much–the ability to see just how fucking annoyed his is. 

“...There were parts of what I was saying that other day that were aggressively…unneeded. I’m not oblivious. The suicide ride quip, that was…” 

“That kinda fucked me up, Jack.” 

“I know. I know–” Jack looks to the ground, eyes straightening out on the tile. “...It’s a motorcycle, Robby. You have every right to ride one. And yeah, she has every right to accept a ride from you or from anyone…but it’s a motorcycle.”

Robby doesn’t nod or shift. He blinks once. “I know.” 

Jack shakes his head stiffly as it lifts back in slight. “...And I just can’t fucking stand it. And I end up overreacting. I give a wonderful performance in our trauma center parking lot because I can’t stand it.” 

“I know.”

“And…you know–” For a rare moment, Jack almost looks uncertain in what he’s gonna say. Crazy stuff, but Robby can make that…it’s not him being unsure in his words, it’s him unsure in if he should say them. 

“...You know how I am with her. You know.” 

Robby’s eyes narrow to the shelf beside them in an instant. He pushes himself off the doorfame, hands in his pockets. 

“No, brother. I don’t.” 

Jack’s brow furrows, the confusion is too obvious flickering across his face. 

“Do not bullshit me, Robby. You, unfortunately, have known me longer than anyone here and it’d be you to pick out what’s exactly going on with me and her–” 

“Yeah. I have. I have, man.” 

He’s known Jack long enough to care about the guy. He’s known him long enough to really, really wish that whatever is going on between you and him is something he couldn’t bother to acknowledge, but it’s something else, something that he and others are gonna be able to ignore anymore. 

Something that Jack stopped ignoring a long time ago, to hold it in his fists. Long, long time ago. 

“I’ve known you long enough to see the way you look at her. Act around her. Sometimes it’s endearing, sometimes it’s concerning! It’s…” 

Robby’s voice is flat, tired. Cause he’s really, really tired. “It’s every patient of hers you deem too aggressive when you don’t even have to be there. It’s that very, very obvious jealousy when she laughs with Whitaker or King.” He counts it off on his fingers. Yeah. Like it’s something he’s rehearsed in his head. “But then you’ll have dry flirtations–” He gestures vaguely to…something. “The little gifts, the dumb as shit nicknames and it’s almost like something people can ignore.”

He pauses, he sits in what he’s just spat out in something that’s nearly facetious, but mostly something that’s making Robby realize what this is. His hands drop, his head drifts to the tile before he remembers he’s an adult, and he should look at the person he’s talking to. 

Jack’s wearing the blankest expression he’s ever seen. 

“...And you get at me in the parking lot because I picked her off the street, something you berated her for. And I could tell you over and over again that I rode safe. Slow, that I wouldn’t have her or anyone else in danger, but I also know that it doesn’t matter to you, because it’s not the fact she took up a ride, it’s because she held onto me. That’s what you saw? That’s what you can’t stand–” 

“Robby.” 

Robby stills in his breath before focusing on how his and Jack’s gaze lock. He’s obviously tired, cornered, but still sharp. 

Desperate to justify something he knows he shouldn’t. 

Robby blinks, his mouth thins. 

“And then you look at her like you’ve already decided something for both of you.” 

Jack closes his eyes. Robby regrets nothing and everyone. 

You wish not to be bothered with acknowledging him and her, but you notice every bit. You are hilarious. 

Jack's voice is ragged when it crawls out of his throat. 

“So you do know.” 

“No.” Robby drops his hands to his sides. “I know what it looks like. But I…I don’t know what to call it, Jack.”

He watches Jack search his face as he runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. 

“I don’t know the name for this because it’s not normal.” He can already feel his voice gentling without a softness Robby doesn’t think he can muster if he tried. “And even if I did know the name, it wouldn’t matter.”

Jack blinks once. 

“Why?”

…Jesus fucking Christ. 

Robby tries to make his gaze steady and unflinching, exhaling with every other way. 

“Because the way you’re starting to act is unacceptable.”

He doesn’t catch it. 

The way Jack flinches. 

“You have to care about that. I’m telling you this as your friend.” He gestures between them, helpless. “This thing you’re doing—hovering over her, cutting off every exit, lashing out at anyone who gets near—”

His jaw tightens. 

“It doesn’t matter what you call it. It doesn’t matter that you know how you are with her. You can’t keep going like this.”

They stand in between the humming of the walls. And yeah. Robby doesn’t feel any better with what he’s said. But hey. It’s communication. 

Jack’s hand comes up on the metal shelf beside him. It flexes. 

“I didn’t ask for this.” 

Robby’s chest goes tight. 

He thinks about the first week he met you, when your skills rivaled those of a 2nd year resident, when you put him under a load of disbelief. 

He thinks about you in his kitchen for five minutes when you dropped off lemon bars just because, as if that’s an actual fucking reason. How you caught him when his loneliness was less casual and more pathetic looking, where his lone microwave was still steaming on the kitchen table, but you smile like you weren’t thinking how fucking alone he was. 

It had been easy it had been to let you in, even when Robby knew he shouldn’t.

When he remembers the feel of your arms around him, your cheek resting against his back. How natural it had felt…how much he’d liked it.

Robby told himself–tells himself it didn’t mean anything. Whatever he felt. 

Doesn’t have to mean anything, no matter what he feels. 

But standing here, watching Jack come apart. God, kid, he’s not so sure anymore.

Yeah. None of us did.

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

It’s past midnight, and in the fluorescent glow of every floor, the Pitt feels like it always does at this hour–too bright with man-made sunlight. But earlier, you were laughing with Mel in the hallway, a giddy and awkward rush of shared jokes about a patient who swore the candlestick up his ass got there by accident. 

It’s almost a normal shift, like you’re just another nurse in a chaotic E.R that you wouldn’t choose to escape. You hope your shaking hands don’t look as obvious as they feel. 

But now it’s just you and Jack. And the airy silence, of course. Yippee. 

You know it would’ve had to have been confronted at some point, that you would’ve had to find enough courage in you to make your anger about what happened with him and Robby known. You’re impressed, really. You didn’t think your doctor would beat you to it. 

“ I wasn’t fair. About the bike. About Robby.”

He’s standing by the lockers, arms folded tight across the chest with a scratch to his elbow. He doesn’t look right away, but when he does, you feel it like always. 

His stare goes straight through you. A shiver shoots down your spine. 

You press your thighs together. 

“No, not really.” 

“I shouldn’t have…acted the way I did in the parking out. It wasn’t just unprofessional, it was…mean. See? I know enough to use a juvenile word to describe what an asshole I was.” 

“And why the sudden realization?” 

“...It was brought to my attention, and denial is pointless.” 

You shift your weight, clutching the strap of your bag. 

You feel it–the words you should say pressing down on the pink of your tongue. Something rightfully rational and grown-up. 

Yes. You overreacted. You made me feel like a child. You were awful to Robby in a way I couldn’t think was possible. It isn’t fair. You were an asshole. And I know it’s coming from a place I was to crawl into, but you can’t act like this. 

But no, you step closer instead, because the truth is…

You know now that that part of you is small and shameful. 

It’s what makes you like how much he cares. Even if it comes out wrong or feels too big. 

It’s why you’ve been sleeping with his blanket for the past week. 

“Well…you were just being you.” 

Your throat tightens around the softness of your words. 

“It’s just another end of the gruff, quietly concerned cowboy.” 

And even though you could buckle under his stare, you watch Jack blink in startle. Like he wasn’t expecting her to tease him as she always does. 

Settle. Loosen. 

And even when he’s the one in the wrong, find yourself wanting to make him smirk down at you. 

“Cowboy again?” 

Jack says it dryly. Your mouth curves. 

“Big ol’ boots and an unrelenting stare. Tell me I’m wrong.” 

And you’ll leave it at that, because you don’t think you’ll ever tell him that it’s that stare and the worry and that entitled, raw possession that makes you feel…seen, even when it shouldn’t. 

When it makes you feel wanted. 

Protected. Claimed. 

God, you know–that’s not healthy. You’re not supposed to feel any of it, but hey. At least you can name that part of you now. And you know exactly all the reasons as to why you shouldn’t tell Jack about them. 

Except for one, you couldn’t know. You couldn’t know that if you told him, that’d only fuel him more. 

Jack’s expression softens, and you can tell that he’s trying not to smile. 

He fails. 

“It still doesn’t excuse how I spoke to you. Or Robby. It won’t happen again.”

The locket room hums around the both of you. 

“...Unless you knowingly get on a bike you called a death trap. That, I’ll have to report your lapse in judgement to…someone.”

When he stretches his hand out to pull you up from the bench, you take the moment to study Jack’s face. The lines around his eyes, the tired and chiseled slope of his jaw and shoulders, and the way you don’t think he’ll ever not meet your gaze. 

It’s all that and then some as to why you can’t help but feel warmed at everything he does–everything that should be named a mistake but isn’t. 

It’s why you’ll never waste a moment to see if Jack Abbot can blush–why this moment of bravery exists. 

Why you kiss the back of his hand when you take it. 

His fingers are scarred and strong–and they clench when you press your lips to the soft hairs at his knuckles. 

Cedar. Sweat. And everything nice. 

When you realize how harshly your heart is pounding against your ears, you realize just how stupid this might’ve been. Your eyes widen. 

This assurance in stupidity is especially true when Jack jerks suddenly. Smoothly, but in a second where you’re thinking–

Oh, fuck me. 

You're already pressing fumbled apologies to the back of your teeth, but before you can pull away from the moment where you think it’s like your lips burned him–

Jack’s fingers wrap around your wrist. 

It’s not exactly a grip, but he squeezes. 

Your eyes are already locked on his, and you think they’re darker under the dim light. They have to be. 

You want to collapse. There’s nothing but the feeling of fire against the pit of your belly, and your hands, and your thighs–

“Jack? I–”

Whatever you were going to say, which couldn’t have been anything at all, is broken in the air when Jack begins pulling. Not to stop you. 

…But to turn your palm upward, exposing the soft center of your palm.

Your breath hitches. 

He lowers his mouth to your skin. 

His lips brush the base of your fingers, firm and unshaking, then trail gently to the center of your hand. 

He’s returning your kiss. 

“...I’m working a double. I-I know you’re not–” 

“No.” 

Jack’s eyes close when his mouth presses deeper, like he’s savouring something, and it takes everything in you not to slip a soft moan against this moment. 

And it takes everything in you not to think about the way his voice went high and cracked when he found you on the back of Robby’s bike. How his words hadn’t sounded like anger so much as terror. As both, and how that should’ve made you mad. Maybe it did. 

But it’s so easy to remember that white-hot, belly need to close the distance between the two of you. Say…

It’s okay, Jack. I’m here. And I like that you’re here for me. 

“But we’re coming and leaving at the same time on Tuesday. Right?”

His eyes are unblinking against yours when he opens them again. You nod so quickly that it’ll embarrass you when you think about it before bed. But with the way his mouth feels about your flesh, his dry, deepening lips? The ends justify the means. 

“Well.” 

It’s only fire along every crevice of yours when his nose presses into your knuckles. 

“Thank God for that.”

✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・✫ ✭・.・

My girl, my girl, my girl.

Jack’s running late. Again. This time, it’s on account of you, sleepy. 

You know him, if there’s anything he takes a sick pride in, it’s his punctuality–but tonight…he lingered in the front of his apartment complex. Just tapping away at the wheel at his other hand rested on the edge of his phone. 

You make him feel like a little boy who can’t sit still. Absolutely ridiculous. He’s nervous. The last time he went to work nervous was…never. Not even on his first day, it’s so expected of Jack that he’s sure he doesn’t take sick pride in that. 

You make him not quite brave enough to text you. Something. Anything. Anything that’ll give him more of you. 

Sleepy, sleepy. 

The way you looked at him yesterday, kid. Smiling in that soft, resigned way when you called him your cowboy, finding your way back to the light or something like it, letting go of his…okay. He’ll call them mistakes. For now. For your sake. 

But the memory and your kiss are what makes him, for the time ever, very sure that he’s allowed to think of you on his way to work. 

“Can afford those rims, but not new headlights? Right. On.” 

…He’s telling himself he’ll do better. So there’s that. 

He’ll stop snapping every time you step out of line when it comes to your safety. He’ll make sure there is no line. That’s weird. He’ll stop you from watching the back of your head across the trauma bay like you’re the only thing tethering him to the fucking floor. That’s weird too, especially when he had his teaching and the good days and his crew and every slight good thing about him tethering him to the floor first. 

He would do better. He will. 

Jack’s not gonna risk whatever you gave me yesterday. Not any way in hell. He owes you that. 

…And with the way you touched him, with the way you didn’t leave after an apology he had to burn out of him–maybe he owes himself that too. 

Jack merges onto the main drag. His hand flexes. When did his hand get so hairy? And scarred?

If I can. 

If I want to– 

“Oh. Very nice on that turn.” He nearly whispers his road rage. “Asshat.”

…He’s not gonna look under the rug of promises. What’s that gonna do?

Under the I’ll be better’s, under the I’ll let you breathe, he’s gonna find some useless truth. 

Something like the idea that he’s not going to want to stop. 

That Jack…likes how it feels to be the one you look to when things get ugly. Because you do, right? You accepted his bare-bones apologies with your lips on his hand. You wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t. 

His eyes glance to the passenger seat, where your hair clip from the night he drove you home lies next to a folder and his ham sandwich. 

He did mean to give it back. 

Maybe I can still be her cowboy. 

It’s a wry thought. 

Just a little less fucking unhinged. 

He doesn’t blink when the scanner crackles dispatch static. It’s something he’s trained himself to tune out unless it catches wind of the worst disasters.

So. Jack doesn’t know why tonight’s words cut through the air. 

“Unit 14, be advised: Motor vehicle accident. Motorcycle involved. Two confirmed. Severe trauma inflicted on female passenger. EMS has arrived on scene.”

Jack’s head cocks to the side as he stares straight forward. It’s his body’s own doing, a reaction he doesn’t understand. 

Because this is Pittsburgh. There’s already been a fire, a stabbing. A car flipped over on 28. It’s a city that never runs out of ways to bleed people dry and keep the beds at the Pitt full. 

“Repeat: Motorcycle collision. Female passenger is unresponsive. Male rider attempting to interfere with EMS. Confirm blocking lanes and priority traffic.”

He knows better, which is why he doesn’t understand how the blood from his knuckles ends up disappearing. He doesn’t understand that until he realizes he’s been gripping the wheel. 

It’s nothing. It is absolutely fucking nothing. Stop the internal panic. Stop acting like you’re gonna fucking collapse. 

…Jack knows better. 

“Confirm accident is at intersection of Carson and 22nd.” 

And on cue, he hears the sirens four blocks away. 

Jack lowers his head in one curt nod as feels his muscles tense in the way they do when he realizes a patient is gonna be more of a challenge than he first thought. That useful, nerved feeling that only gets in the way of logic and ability. 

Anxiety. He can name that. You’ll be proud of him when he sees you in the Pitt. 

Because you will be there, curled up at the nurses station, complaining about the cold as if you didn’t trudge the small of you through it because you’re too good. You will be there. Jack will see you. 

He will see Robby there too, and he’ll pass that sorry sight of a motorcycle crash–one that he’s probably gonna be in charge of by the time he gets to work. 

Yeah. This is it. A ridiculous and unneeded point of anxiety in his chest. One he’s gonna regret by the time he pulls into the Pitt because it is his fault. He shouldn’t be feeling it. 

Jack presses the gas pedal. He runs a red light. He pulls out his phone, eyes flickering up at the window and down at his thigh as he types with a stiff, hot hand. His hand shouldn’t be this hot. 

‘On my way. can meet me at the front ent rance?’

You’re already at the Pitt. Or hell, he’ll catch you walking the streets again. That’s fine too. That’s perfect. 

‘I know this is an od d requst but can you just call me?’

‘Sleepy’ 

And like that, Jack doesn’t even realize he turned onto Carson until he sees the flashing lights. Two ambulances. 

No. God. 

He throws the truck into park. His tires scream as he does. 

It’s like someone put a bomb under Robby’s motorcycle. 

It’s in pieces–half crumbled against a lamppost, the other half smoking in the gutter. Glass and blood make the asphalt glitter. 

The paramedics crouch over two bodies.

Jack shoves the door open as he storms forward. A red haze–red as the road, swims behind his eyes. 

There’s so much blood. 

More blood than he’s seen in his worst cases. Splashed up the curbs, smeared in arcs and black cracks. 

How the hell is it everywhere?

Jack chokes on his own breath as he walks in a stiffened pace that’s telling the ache in his prosthetic to go fuck itself. As he does, he realizes what that cracked-open black half-moon thing is. It’s thirty feet away from the scene. 

The helmet. The helmet you wore. 

There’s a chunk of your hair stuck to the visor.

He shouts out your name. He doesn’t register that it’s almost a cry. 

He crosses the last few feet at a run, not because he recognizes the first body to be Robby. 

“Just le-let me help her, man! I promise…I-I’m a doctor, I work at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center–” 

His face is ash-gray, a strip of skin peeling off his cheekbone. His scrub top is soaked near-black at the shoulder. He’s fighting the medics as they try to pull him onto a gurney. But he’s fighting none-the-fucking-less, streaky gash on the hairline and all. 

The blood on the road can’t possibly all be from him. Why the fuck is there so much of it?

What did he let happen to you?

“We know who you are, Dr. Robinavitch. We’ve met a few times, remember? You need to let them help her and us help you, okay?” 

No. Jack runs with his vision tunneling in and out towards the scene, because the next body he recognizes is you. 

His girl. In all his failure. 

You’re sprawled on your side, crumpled like someone folded you in half and dropped you to watch you spread. Your hair’s soaked red. It streaks your throat. 

He can’t remember if you had your hair in a braid or ponytail yesterday. 

You’re glistening and caked with blood and broken bits in the way he’s only seen patients he ends up coding for hours. You. Sunshine. Sunbeam. Sleepy. 

Oh God. God. Why would you expect him to believe in you when you let this happen to her? 

Why would Jack let this happen to you? 

He stands over you at your right leg–right where it’s twisted at an impossible angle under your hip. Your left leg, your tibia, has snapped against your skin. Not enough to make bone jut out, but enough. 

And your face, your face–

“...I could care that you’re unusually pretty.” 

“No?” 

“Not here. By the end of shift, that face will be covered in blood, vomit, or some other fluid you’d be better off not naming. It doesn’t matter.” 

“...So you’re saying I’d trigger the senses if you took me out of here?” 

“...Can you finish your chart?”

One cheek’s caked in road grime, the other’s split from eyebrow to chin with your eye swollen shut. 

Jack’s focus goes black around the edges, but he catches a drop of water falling to the ground. 

“...Sir?” 

Your abdomen’s rising unevenly and too shallow, and Jack knows without touching you that your lung’s collapsing already. 

But you’re breathing. You’re alive. His girl’s alive. 

“...Dr. Abbot?”

“BP?” 

He doesn’t catch the way the medic startles at the bark. He just drops to his knees to do what he does best. 

“Gloves.” 

“...Dr. Abbot–” 

“Gloves. Now!”

If these medics were any older or more experienced enough to fight Jack’s protocol breach, they’d have a problem on their hands. 

He’s given gloves in a second and putting them on in the next. 

He ignores the cold under his gloves when he presses two fingers to your carotid. Rapid. Thready. He ignores anything that could make him pause or remember just how fucked this situation, because you don’t deserve that. He was already pushing it by standing over you for more than five seconds. 

“Hey…Jack?” 

Robby’s voice is made up of glassy shock. 

And suddenly…Jack feels like his own skull is going to split. 

“She–she was behind me, okay? They ran the light. She–”

It’s slurry and desperate from the throat, and Jack doesn’t look at him. 

Really, he can’t even know how he doesn’t trust what he’d do if he did. 

“Jack. I’m sorry–s-she–”

He can see out of the corner of his eye that Robby’s gesturing at the medic trying to staunch the blood at your scalp. 

“I tried–God, I was trying to…to tell them, they need a thor–”

“Thoracostomy kit. Now.” 

The medic’s blanching. Jack narrows his eyes at them. 

Are you really making me take my eyes off her? 

“Dr. Abbot–” 

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

Jack says it low in his throat, unblinking with a tilted head forward. 

He takes the oxygen mask he’s handed before the kit’s thrust into his palm.

He fits it over your mouth. Rasps out your name. 

Your lashes flutter. Your eyes roll in the back of your back.

No. He’s wrong. 

“Look at me.” 

Jack’s not ignoring the things that could make him collapse, he’s just not collapsing. 

Jack rips the kit open as your blood soaks the knees of his pants. His gloved fingers map your ribs. He counts the intercostal spaces. 

He finds the fifth. He plants his palm. 

He closes his eyes for a second. Then three. 

For the next ten seconds, you’re waiting for him at the Pitt. You walked from your apartment. Your hair is braided. 

You’ll come home with him by the end of the night, but for now, you’re where he can always find you. 

Where you’ll always be able to find him. 

“On my count, pressure release.” 

One. Two. Three. 

Jack makes the incision in a clean, practiced motion. He can hear the blood hissing around his fingers. 

The chest rises a fraction deeper. 

He hunches over before he can hear the medic swallow their spit. 

“We’re gonna load her.”

Nine, ten. 

Jack doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m coming.” 

“Dr. Abbot–

Jack looks up. The ambulance radio crackles. 

When the medic nods, he has to try his hardest not to let his prosthetic disconnect when he rises with no groan. 

“I’m fine, man. I ca-can help her. Everyth-everything on me’s a clean break or a slow bleeder–”

“Dr. Robby, we’re gonna load you in too–”

“We’re going the same way–” 

“Robby.” 

When Robby looks up with glassy eyes and glassed skin, he sees Jack looking at him. 

…Not now, because the pity and worry for Robby that evaporated at the sight of you? 

Every ounce of it finds its way back to Jack when he sees his brother. Still slumped, blinking dully at the wreckage. 

“Shut up and let them help you.”

…Nearly all of it.

He turns back before he can see Robby trying to peek over at where you’re being lifted, and Jack has to flex his hands not to grab onto you. But as they lift you, your limp hand falls against his chest. 

Your little sniper fingers leave a smear of blood over his scrub top. And a second…he’s gotta be allowed to close his hand around yours. Just for a second, kid. 

“...Dr. Abbot, please don’t touch her cheek unless it’s medically needed.”

In the second, he’ll allow a thought, too. And maybe he’ll kill it with his hands. Maybe he won’t. He’s not really thinking about that when he has to make sure you’re alive. And with what Jack saw on the street…

Oh. He’s allowed. 

It’s a clear thought, clear as the sirens screaming in his ears. 

He’s not going to stop. He’s not going to let go. He’s not going to make himself less for the sake of anyone. Because he’d been right. Jack had always been right.

This is what happens when you pretend someone else can keep you safe. And he’s not going to stop needing to be the only one who can keep you safe. 

Because…well. Look. 

When he tries, the world reminds him exactly how close it is to taking you away from him. 

[formulafanfics13]

The reader is Schumacher's daughter, Max's friend since childhood, and she is in love with him. Verstappen has no idea about this, but he is also in love with her. Since he thinks she doesn't feel the same way, he gets involved with someone else (nothing serious, but it's still an involvement). After that, the reader starts avoiding him in every way and he goes crazy without her. She wants him to see that she is living very well and kisses boys and girls to provoke him, but she continues to avoid Max. He confronts her and she tells him to leave, but he doesn't go and they argue, then he confesses and they make up. She does whatever she wants with him, as punishment (🔥)

You Should’ve Known - MV1 🔥

masterlist

Summary You’ve known Max Verstappen your whole life, but when he turns up at a Monaco afterparty with a new girl, it breaks something in you. You vanish from the paddock, punishing him with silence and strategic chaos — until Spa, where he finally corners you, furious and desperate, only to admit he’s loved you since you were kids. The reunion is explosive, emotional, filthy — you punish him with sex and he lets you, whispering that he’s yours. Because he always was.

Warnings explicit smut, emotionally charged sex, dominance and submission, degradation and praise, possession, angst, mutual pining, jealousy, legacy pressure, rough sex, unprotected sex, manipulative undertones, intensity between childhood friends turned lovers, revenge elements, male crying, references to mental exhaustion and emotional repression.

You’d known Max Verstappen since before either of you knew how to drive. Before he was World Champion. Before he was feral and famous and lion-hearted. Before all the noise. When he was just a boy with too many expectations and not enough softness. When your last name still made people flinch.

You were nine and he was ten when your fathers introduced you. Somewhere quiet and snowy in Switzerland. You wore a ski helmet that was too big and he had a tooth missing. You shared gummy bears and didn’t say much, just sat beside each other in the snow like you'd been doing it for years.

He was your first friend. The only one who understood what it meant to live in someone else’s shadow. To exist in a legacy. To be born and already expected to win.

You never fell in love with him. You just were. You existed beside him. Until one day you weren’t sure where your body ended and his began.

But Max? He had no idea.

Which is why when he rocked up to the post-race afterparty in Monaco with that generic blonde thing on his arm, some influencer who wore Mugler like it was her personality and laughed like she’d swallowed a whole TikTok, you’d felt the blood drain from your fucking face.

The whole grid saw it. Charles had done a double-take. George had whispered, “Oh fuck.” Carlos didn’t even pretend to hide the look of pity he threw your way.

You were Michael Schumacher’s daughter, a famous fixture in the paddock, and for the first time in your life, you wished you weren’t. Because being seen meant being known. And everyone knew you loved him.

So you vanished.

You didn’t answer his texts. Didn’t show up to dinner in Barcelona. Skipped out on Silverstone. Declined the invite to Austria. Every race, you were somewhere else — Ibiza, Milan, Paris, your best friend’s villa in Lake Como. Every post you made was calculated: sunglasses and heels, legs in the sun, drink in your hand, arm around someone hot and new.

Men. Women. Didn’t matter. You let them kiss you in frame. Let them touch your waist. Let the world think you were over Max Verstappen and having the time of your life.

Except every kiss made your skin crawl. Every drink left a sour aftertaste. Every DM from Max, growing shorter, sharper, more desperate, made your chest twist and ache like a fracture that wouldn't heal.

Until you returned to Spa.

Because you were your father's daughter. Because legacy mattered. Because it was raining, and your hands were shaking, and you needed to see it again, the track, the ghosts, the place where it all began.

And he found you.

You were standing in the motorhome hallway, damp hair pulled into a braid, fingers trembling from cold and memory. And Max, furious and wild-eyed, cornered you like you were a threat. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he growled, stepping closer. "You disappear for weeks. You ignore every message. You flirt with half of Europe. You kiss that random guy in Rome and let that girl grope you in Saint-Tropez and you think I wouldn’t fucking see it?"

"I didn’t do it for you, Max."

"Bullshit," he snapped. "You’re punishing me. I know you are."

You shoved past him, storming into your room. He followed. "Get out."

"No."

"Get the fuck out."

"You don’t get to ghost me and then kick me out like I’m nothing-"

"I told you to leave!" you screamed, voice breaking, chest heaving with fury and heartbreak and months of swallowed agony.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at you like he was looking through time. "You love me," he said.

You froze.

"You fucking love me. And you didn’t tell me."

You laughed, broken and bitter. "You were too busy with your new girl to notice."

He swallowed. "I didn’t sleep with her."

"Congratulations."

"I couldn’t," he said. “She wasn’t you.”

And suddenly your hands were on his chest, shoving him hard against the wall. He caught your wrists but didn’t stop you. He looked like he was waiting for your wrath.

"You don’t get to want me now," you spat, eyes wild. "You don’t get to come here like a fucking victim after ignoring everything I’ve felt for the last ten fucking years-"

"I’ve loved you since we were kids," he whispered.

You stopped.

"I thought you didn’t feel the same. I thought... I was scared if I tried and it went wrong, I'd lose you."

You stared at him. And then, slowly, deliberately, you shoved your thigh between his legs and pressed him against the door. "You don’t get to be scared anymore," you said, voice low. "You’re mine now."

He nodded, breath shaky. "Yours."

"Say it again."

"I'm yours."

You tugged his shirt off. Scraped your nails down his chest. Bit his lip and shoved him onto the bed like he weighed nothing. Climbed on top of him, knees planted, eyes sharp.

"You're going to let me do whatever I want to you, Max. Because I get to punish you now. And you're going to thank me for it."

His head dropped back. “Yes. Yes, please.”

You kissed down his stomach. Took your time. Let him whine, let him buck up into your hand and beg. You didn’t give him what he wanted, not until he was wrecked and desperate and dripping sweat onto the sheets.

And even then, it wasn’t a gift. It was a lesson.

Every moan he let out was for you. Every twitch, every curse, every tear slipping down the side of his flushed cheek, it was all yours.

He came harder than you’d ever seen. Gripping your hand like he was scared you'd disappear again.

You kissed his cheek after. Tucked yourself into his side. And whispered: "You should’ve known. You were always mine."

And Max, broken and blissed out, smiled through the wreckage.

"I know that now."

[hamilando]

What about an SMAU or so where Max’s wife shows up at the paddock pregnant and glowing and he is full on overprotective husband and (boy) dad to be and maybe his wife is the sister of a hockey player like Nico Hischier or so? For face claims maybe Taylor Hill or Elsa Hosk or someone else you like?

ੈ✩ Ice baby (smau) ੈ✩

pairing : max verstappen x reader

tw : just fluff and chaos

fc : Elsa Hosk

a/n : thank you to whoever requested it and i hope you like it !!! lots of love xoxo, also I used Elsa because I had already Taylor for another smau!

·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ✩ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ

liked by user1, user2, user3 and 347,286 others

f1wags YN Verstappen was seen flaunting her baby belly in the paddock! She is currently expecting her first child with Max Verstappen which was revealed with a joint post last week !

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user1 the bump has got more net worth than my 24 year old ass 😭

user2 the baby won the pole position in sperm race 💀

user3 carrying the next formula one champ like it’s no big deal

user4 I bet max has a closet full of red bull shirts enough for the baby’s livestock

user5 the serious face on max-

user6 touch my woman or child and you die 💀

user7 is max entering is dark romance era ?

user8 more like daddy era 🥱

user9 dilf era 🫦

user10 max really bagged a baddie and went like she is having my kids

user11 fr, imagine bagging the sister of the biggest ice hockey player

user12 the kid’s flex !?

user13 imagine saying Max Verstappen is my dad, Nico Hischier is my uncle, Jos Verstappen is my granddad and not to mention the whole paddock !?

liked by maxverstappen1, alexnadrasaintmieux and 1,562,487 others

ynverstappen when uncle nico gets gifts 🩵

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user1 giving the best education to the baby 🤌🏻

user2 teach them young- the baby is watching in the womb 😭

user3 ICE ICE BABY YEAH

user4 what even is nico doing 😭?

user5 the headband is killing me-

user6 peak sibling behavior ✌️

user7 we need to where the set is from !!!!!

ynverstappen its customized ! nico got it made from one of his friend's if I am not wrong !!

user8 wonder how max will react- f1 vs ice hockey

user9 pretty sure that max would prefer the kid watching ice hockey

user10 the kid is going to a wdc in some sport fs

user11 we need more prego updates!!

liked alexnadrasaintmieux, charlesleclerc, lando, lewishamilton and 3,573,986 others

ynverstappen Alexa, play ' The Boys by Girls Generation'

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user1 that's it, it's over for formula one

user2 we have the 2045 wdc right here ☝🏻

user3 can say I have been a pre-debut fan !

user4 the k-pop reference !?!?!

victoriaverstappen can't wait to be Auntie Verstappen !!!

liked by ynverstappen

user5 imagine all the kids playing together -

alexandrasaintmieux So So So happy !!!

liked by ynverstappen

user6 BRING THE BOYS OUT !!! I WANNA DANCE RIGHT NOW !!!

user7 I couldn't even imagine my dreams that max would a boy dad

lewishamilton congratulations !!! roscoe is excited too !

liked by ynverstappen

lando getting the mclaren contract ready

maxverstappen no.

user8 max 😭🙏🏻

user9 oh lord, that man never repsonds-

user10 it's his child y'all

liked by lando, victoriaverstappen and 2,456,834 others

ynverstappen daddy's baby shower

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user1 max's shirt 😭

user2 how drunk is max !?

user3 that too on his child's baby shower

user4 and there is yn being sober and max drinking on both of their behalf

user5 this is too funny- i can't

user6 the caption 😭

user7 was this even meant to be posted in public !?

user8 on the side note, that cake looks damn good

user9 even i want a piece of the dilf-

user10 daddy fr

liked by victroiaverstappen, charlesleclerc and 4,563,956 others

ynverstappen ayrton marc verstappen

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[harringtonstilinski]

Potion - Steve Harrington (Smut)

Author: @harringtonstilinski​ Characters: Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader Word Count: 4,490 Warnings: fluff, angst, reader is referred to as henderson before nicknames are thrown, Requested: no | yes; requested by the amazing @fandom-princess-forevermore !! this request has been sitting in my inbox for months, and i've finally gotten around to it! i hope you enjoy it, bby!! Smut: no | yes, 18+ MINORS DNI; oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v (pls wrap before you tap), missionary, cowgirl, doggy, sitting up(? i no idea what the name of this position is, lol), shower A/N: Hi, friends! I had a time writing this fic, lol. I'm sorry I haven't posted anything in while; I've been more into reading books than I have fics, or writing fics. Let me know what you thought! If you like this, please do not hesitate to reblog and give some feedback, whether it be in the reblogs, comments, or my inbox. As always, read at your own risk and enjoy 😊

Steve Harrington Masterlist

Steve Harrington Playlist

They say that everything happens for a reason, right? Well… that question and thought has been running through your head all day long at the prospect of hearing and seeing the fireworks at the show The Party has invited you to.

Groaning as you flip over in bed, you could feel your anxiety creeping up on you just at the thought alone of being near Lover’s Lake in a few short hours.

Your anxiety increased tenfold as the phone rang, the noise causing you to jump out of your skin. Getting up out of bed, you sauntered over to the phone that was on your dresser, yawning as you picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“You’re coming to pick me up, right?”

“For what?” you asked, trying to play dumb.

“For the fireworks!!”

Pulling the receiver from your ear, you blinked at the loud voice on the other end before putting the earpiece back to your ear. “Yes. I’ll come pick you up. What time is that again?”

“They start at sundown, which is - what, 8:30? So, pick us up at around 6 so that way we can get everything set up.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at six.” You hung up the phone before they could request anything else, like you getting them snacks from the gas station or grocery store.

Jumping out of your skin again, you placed a hand over your heart and made your way to your front door, opening it to peek outside, only to see Steve standing there with a to-go coffee cup in hand.

“Oh, my stars, you’re the best,” you said, opening the door a little more. “Get in here.”

Chuckling, Steve made his way inside, giving your forehead a kiss as he walked by. “Did you just get up or something?” he asked.

“Yeah. The kids called and basically reminded me about picking them up for the firework display tonight,” you replied, closing the door and walking into the kitchen where Steve stood. “It’s giving me anxiety just thinking about going.”

“Why?” 

Looking up at him, you could also see the same anxiety in his eyes that you felt. “Because of the loud noises and the flashes. Steve, we just survived another stint in the Upside Down. I’m having stupid flashbacks again.”

“And what did I tell you about having them?” He walked over to you, rubbing his hands gently up and down your arms. “To call me. No matter the time of day.”

Sighing, you leaned your forehead against his chest. “I know. But with you working, I don’t want to call the video store and get you fired, or have your parents mad because the phone’s ringing in the middle of the night.”

“Hey, don’t worry about Keith or my parents. They don’t matter at that moment. You do.”

Looking up at him, you smiled a little. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re the bestest friend a person could have?”

Smiling back at you, Steve replied, “Every day since the third grade.”

“I mean it, Steve.”

“I know.”

The small smile that grazed your lips into a full fledged smile. Steve made you one of the happiest people on the planet, and you made him the happiest person on the planet.

“How about this?” he said, placing his hands on your shoulders. Rubbing your upper arms, he explained, “Why don’t we just drop the kids off at Lover’s Lake, then we’ll go back to Family Video and rent a couple of feel good movies, go back to my house and have a little Fourth of July celebration of our own.”

Sighing, you said, “That sounds wonderful.”

“What sounds wonderful?” your mom asked.

“Having a quiet night with Steve, celebrating the Fourth with a movie and some popcorn,” you explained. What you didn’t explain or want to say was Steve and I are having a night in because the boom of the fireworks will cause me to go into panic because of our experience in the Upside Down, but you didn’t. Your mom didn’t need to know everything.

“Oh, won’t that be nice?” she smiled. “Steve, it’ll be nice to have you around for the night. Your best friend here has been so lonely.”

“Oh, my goodness, mother,” you sighed, walking into the dining room to lean against your hands, which you placed on the table, your head hanging between your shoulders.

Although your mother didn’t know that you could still hear her when she said to Steve, “Talk to her about her nightmares, Steven. She wakes me up screaming at night.”

Crossing his arms, he looked over at you, replying to your mother, “She’s screaming?” Looking back at your mother, he added, “What is she screaming about?”

Sighing, your mother looked at your back while saying, “You, Steven.” Looking back at Steve, she tacked on, “She screams about you.” Placing a hand on his arm, she gave a sad smile, one that says I hate hearing my daughter scream and cry at night, so fix her, please.

As your mother walked away, you picked your head up with closed eyes and sighed. Why did she have to tell him that? you thought to yourself. Feeling Steve walk up behind you, you slowly turned around to face him, bracing your hands on the table behind you.

“You’re screaming about me at night?” he asked.

Nodding, you looked at a random spot on his shirt. “Yes.”

Steve looked around, seeing if he could spot your mom. When he couldn’t, he took a step closer and quietly asked, “Are they about the Upside Down? The Bats?”

Again, you nodded your head.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Steve asked, “So, are the nightmares also the flashbacks, or are those completely separate?” He wasn’t mad, just curious.

“It’s both, Steve. I can’t read the word thunder without going back into my mind. I can’t see the color red and not think about the lightning, or the blood that poured from you and Eddie after the Bats tried to make meals out of you two.”

Without so much as thinking about it, Steve wrapped his arms around your shoulders, your forehead immediately going to the center of his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

Scoffing to yourself, you muttered, “I haven’t even asked about you. I’m so selfish.”

Resting his chin on the top of your head, he shook his head, sighing. “I’m not worried about me right now. I’m more worried about you.”

Sighing, you let a tear fall from your lash line, a tear you didn’t even feel building. So quietly, you say, “I love you, Stevie,” before looking up at him. Steve took it as a friendly confession, not one you’re actually meaning.

Your love for Steve grew from friends to love interest when thought he was dead meat when he got dragged into the Upside Down at Watergate. When you found him not dead, you sighed with relief.

Steve, on the other hand, has always loved you as more than a friend. Ever since he found out what it meant to love someone else. Sure, he loved Nancy, but not nearly as much as he loves you. Which is why the only response he gives is a kiss to your forehead, your eyes shutting at the feel of his lips on you.

“Hey, Steve?” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Can we go run our errands now?”

~~~

“This is going to be so much fun!” Dustin exclaimed from the backseat. “The gang all back together again.”

You looked over at Steve, apprehension on your face. “Yeah, about that, Dusty.”

It was quiet for a moment before Dustin whined, “Noooo. You have to go!”

“Dustin, I’m still having those nightmares and flashbacks. I’m not going to scream my head off at a town event and be talked about like I’m like the town freak.”

“Your sister doesn’t need to be tossed in Pennhurst, okay?” Steve said, coming to your defense.

“I mean, I understand it,” Max said. “I wouldn’t want to go there, either.”

“You don’t wanna be there with Mr. Creel?” Lucas asked.

A quick look in the backseat brought a smile to your face, seeing Max give Lucas the bird, but then cuddle up next to him. “You two are so adorable.”

“So, what are you going to do then if you’re not coming to the firework show?” Dustin asked.

“Steve and I went to Family Video earlier and rented some tapes, so we’ll be sitting at one of our houses watching feel good movies and eating some popcorn,” you answered.

It was silent again for a moment before Dustin mumbled, “You two better have clothes on when I come home.”

That statement alone set your cheeks ablaze, and Steve with some ideas before you two chuckled at your brother.

~~~

“Really?” you asked. “Police Academy? Again?”

Chuckling, Steve said, “You watched me pick it up.”

“No, I didn’t. I walked away!”

The two of you ended up going back to Steve’s house. With the plans that Steve has to distract you from any firework sounds, he thought it best to come back to his house to not scar your sweet, sweet mother… and your little brother Dustin.

“You picked up Sixteen Candles again, so why can’t I pick out Police Academy?” he asked.

Tilting your head and forth, you thought about it for a moment. “You have a point there. Steve - 1, me - none.” Leaning back against the cushions after grabbing a handful of popcorn, you placed a few in your mouth, chewing the salty snack.

“Plus,” you added. “Sixteen Candles only has one boob scene. This movie-” You pointed to the screen. “Has a total of three… with sex!”

“What’s wrong with sex?” Steve asked, not thinking.

Shaking your head slowly, you replied, “Not a damn thing.”

With a soft smile to himself, Steve looked at your profile, happy with your answer.

~~~

“And I can’t believe I gave my panties to a geek,” you recited, putting another handful of popcorn into your mouth. “See, this is why I love this movie. It’s got amazing quotes, and it’s funny, too.” Suddenly sitting up, you twisted to look at Steve, asking, “When this is over, can we go back to Family Video and get Weird Science and The Breakfast Club? Ooh! And maybe Back to the Future, too?”

Steve couldn’t help but smile a little at you, moving his hand from the back of the couch where his arm laid to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “We can do whatever you want.”

A soft pop sounded in the air, your body and mind immediately on alert. You could see the same thing on Steve’s face; alert. While Steve’s alertness was more of a protective alert, yours was more of a scared alert. 

The phone ringing had both your heads turning towards the device, Steve deciding to get up and answer it.

“The fireworks just started. You two okay?”

Sighing, Steve closed his eyes and hung his head a little. “Yeah, Hop. We’re okay. For now. Just on high alert.” Hearing whimpers from the living room, Steve’s protectiveness went up tenfold at hearing another soft pop. “Yeah, no, nevermind.”

“Is–”

“Yeah, she’s here. The popping is scaring her. I’ve got a plan to distract us.”

“Well, put that plan into motion, kid. They’re gonna keep popping them off for at least another 10 minutes.”

“Will do. Thanks, Hop.” Hanging up the phone, Steve called your name, your eyes immediately going to his. “Come here.”

You didn’t have to be told twice! Shooting off the couch like a rocket, you made your way into Steve’s arms, wrapping your own around his middle. “You doing okay?” you asked, voice a little muffled from where your face was pressed into his chest.

Rubbing your back, Steve answered, “I’m fine.”

Another pop of a firework had you both tensing.

“Look at me.”

Looking up at Steve, you didn’t have to ask him what was wrong because his lips pressing against yours shocked you more than anything. It didn’t take you long to sink into the kiss, the action going from testing the waters to hungry and needy.

Steve’s hands went from your back to your hips while yours trailed up from his ribs to his cheeks. Without even thinking, Steve bent to place his hands on the backs of your thighs, your body reacting without much thought as you jumped and wrapped your legs around his waist.

Stopping the kiss very briefly, you breathed, “Steve, take me to bed.”

“Oh, I wholeheartedly planned on it.”

Looking at Steve, you couldn’t help but smile at him, a soft laugh from your lips. “Oh, really?”

“Yup,” he replied, walking you towards the stairs and up to his room, your head resting perfectly in the crook of his neck.

Before you knew it, your back was against the mattress. Looking up at him, you threaded your fingers through his hair. “What did you have planned, Harrington?”

Shaking his head softly, he said, “Just planned to distract you once the fireworks started.”

“And yourself. Don’t forget yourself.”

Steve nodded while smiling, bending his elbows to place his lips on yours, the hungry and needy kisses from moments ago now gone. Soft, sensual, loving kisses are now shared between you two.

Before the two of you knew it, you both were panting messes, Steve slotted between your legs, the both of you without any barriers between you; nothing but skin on skin.

“Steve, are you gonna fuck me now?” you asked, fingers carding through his hair once again. 

Placing kisses on your neck, Steve hummed. “Not yet, baby.” Trailing those kisses down your chest and the valley of your breasts, he looked up at you. “I can still hear them going off. Gotta keep distracting you.”

A giggle escaped you before you said, “Well, you’re doing a mighty fine job.”

He smiled before placing a kiss to your stomach, trailing his tongue over your belly button. You smiled as he did, leaning your head back a little, a satisfied noise sounding from your throat.

When you felt his hands spread your legs even further, your head shot up off the pillow, looking down at Steve as he placed kisses along your inner thighs. Bringing your arms underneath you, you rested against your elbows, every bit of confidence you felt now drifting away. “Steve.”

“Yeah, baby?” he replied, still leaving trails of kisses along your skin.

“Uhm, are you… gonna…?”

“Gonna what?”

After a few beats of silence, he looked up at you, seeing nothing but nervousness dancing in your eyes. “What is it?”

“It’s just that… no one’s ever…–”

“Ate you out?”

You shook your head no, nothing but embarrassment seeping through. “I’ve always given a guy head, but he’s never returned the favor.”

Steve rubbed his thumb along the top of your thigh, trying to sooth you. “You don’t have to return the favor tonight.”

“Wh–” Before you could finish the question, Steve’s tongue on your core shut you up with a slow intake of breath. You could feel him smile as he worked his tongue over you, hands coming to rest on either side of your pussy, spreading you open a little bit more for him. “Steve, wha– fuck!” 

As his tongue worked your clit, Steve smiled to himself as he peeked a look at you, seeing that you moved from resting on your elbows to having laid on your back, hands in your hair.

“Oh, my. That’s–” You cut yourself off from finishing that statement with a chuckle. “Oh, my gosh, keep doing that.”

“You like that?” he asked.

“Fuck yes!”

Steve chuckled, looking down at your most intimate area, his tongue going right back to your core, slowly dragging up. Without warning, he entered two fingers into your wet heat.

“Holy shit, Steve,” you said, picking up your head to look at him, his eyes closed to the pure passion he was feeling. “Steve.” A loud moan escaped you, your hands going to your breasts. “Steve, come here. Ste– fuck.” With your head tilted back, you almost screamed as your first orgasm of the night washed through you without much warning, and once it subsided, you looked back down at Steve, a lazy smile on your lips. “Get the fuck up here and kiss me.”

“Your wish is my command,” he replied, smiling. Hovering over you with your hands coming up to his face, the two of you kissed with such passion, it almost felt like you were having an out of body experience.

A laugh bubbled up out of you, the feeling of Steve’s lips on your teeth almost sending you into overdrive. 

“Why are you laughing?” Steve asked, kissing down your cheek to your neck.

“I-I can f-f-f-feel your cock jabbing me in the th-th-th-thigh,” you laughed. “It’s just a weird feeling.” Looking at the unamused look on his face, it made you laugh even more… then your eyes went wide as another firework shot off, this time a little closer. “Put it inside me now to distract me, Steve, or else I’ll hide in your bathroom with the lights on.”

“I don’t have any condoms near me,” he said. “They’re all in the bathroom.”

Without missing a beat, you replied, “I’m clean, and I’m on the pill. I trust you.”

The telltale sign of a firework shooting into the sky had your eyes widening even more as you reached between the two of you to grab Steve’s hard length and lining him up with your entrance. Another squeal in the sky had you looking back into Steve’s eyes. “Steve, I think if you push in, I’ll moan loud enough to drown out that firework that’s about po– oh my god!” 

Steve pushed into you, that loud moan you promised drowning out the firework pop that sounded through the sky. “Damn, baby. You made good on your promise.”

“Steve, this is no time for jokes,” you said. “We both have PTSD from that unforgiving place. Now, please, just… fuck me until the night passes.”

Chuckling, Steve replied, “I’m not sure I can go that many rounds.”

“Well, you fucking better, Harrington.”

With determination, Steve thrust in and out of you, both of you moaning loudly to drown out the sound of the fireworks going off, one right after the other. Neither of you heard the phone ringing downstairs.

At some point, you had rolled the both of you over, your body straddling his hips as you rode him; moving your hips back and forth, bouncing almost like your life depended on it. 

“Fuck, babe, that’s hot,” Steve breathed out.

Leaning forward, you braced your hands on his chest, your fingers carding through his chest hair, breaths heavy as moisture started to build on your forehead and back. “Steve, we have to switch. My legs are getting tired.”

Without missing a beat, Steve leaned forward and wrapped his arm around your back, lips on yours for a moment before he knelt on his bed, gently turning your body to hopefully get you to pick up what he was putting down.

Thankfully, you did. You removed yourself from his grip, turning around and getting on your hands and knees, where Steve grabbed your hips and thrust into again, both of your moans sounding out throughout the room.

His thrusts this time were unrelenting, his orgasm creeping up on him. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last much longer, baby.”

“Neither am I,” you breathed. “Keep going.”

With every thrust, you could feel his balls slapping at your clit, the feeling stimulating you in ways your fingers never could. It doesn’t feel as good as Steve’s tongue on your clit, but nevertheless, the feeling was amazing. “Oh, my god, Steve. That feels amazing. Don’t stop.”

You could feel Steve holding back from releasing his orgasm as you chased yours. Steve reached forward and placed his hand on your stomach, bringing you to sitting up, your hand immediately going to the nape of his neck, feeling his own perspiration there.

Steve rested his chin on your shoulder the best he could, watching your breasts bounce with every thrust. Without warning, his orgasm washed over him, your own following not long after.

Neither of you moved for a second. Neither of you wanted to. You had a feeling that this would change your relationship forever. Steve, on the other hand, wants this to change your relationship forever. He wants to be with you. 

“Hey, Steve?” you whispered.

“Yeah, Henderson?” 

“I have to pee so bad.”

Chuckling, Steve gently leaned you forward, the both of you hissing at the feel of Steve slowly pulling out. Getting off the bed, you waddled your way over to his bathroom, relieving yourself. When you were done and after you washed your hands, you looked at the glass shower door.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah, Henderson?”

“Can I shower?”

Steve walked over to the bathroom door, opening it just a little, seeing you looking at his shower through the mirror. “Yeah.” He walked in and shut the door behind him. “As long as I can join.”

You turned to face him, seeing a smirk on his face. Not being able to help yourself, you laughed lightly, nodding your head. “Yeah. Yeah you can join.”

Steve walked over to you, gently cupping your cheeks before bringing his lips down on yours, you immediately kissing him back. He walked you backwards a few steps before stopping. The only reason he took his lips off yours was so he could open the shower door to turn the water on. Looking back down at you, he said, “Now, I don’t like my water the temperature of hell.”

You laughed loudly, the sound like music to Steve’s ears. “That’s okay. Warm water is best for my hair type, so is cold water.” At Steve’s puzzled look, you explained, “Warm water for washing and conditioning and rinsing like normal, cold water for that final rinse before getting out. Dustin hates it, Eddie’s getting used to it, and I secretly love it.”

“Will it work on mine?” he asked.

Chuckling, you said, “Of course it will. Keep using your Faberge shampoo and conditioner with that final cold rinse and your hair will look better than ever.” You smiled, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair.

Sticking his hand inside the shower, he deemed the temperature to be where he likes it, stepping in before taking your hand and guiding you under the water with him. Without missing a beat, he put his lips back on yours, a searing kiss that had your knees almost buckling. 

Tongues dancing, the sound of the water hitting the tile floor and yours and Steve’s moans sounding between the two of you, Steve was up and ready for round two.

“Thought you said you couldn’t go all night,” you mused. 

“Yeah, well, I can be wrong sometimes,” he said, smiling. He kissed you again after you smiled, both of your bodies and hair soaked from the shower. When you pulled away from him and started kissing down his body, Steve furrowed his brows, wondering what you were doing. 

Steve threw his head back, hands coming up to the top of his head, smoothing his hair back at the feel of your mouth on him. “Goddamn, Henderson. You really know how to put that smart ass mouth to use.”

You almost choked on his cock from letting out a snort before pulling off of him to laugh. “You can’t say shit like that, Steve. I almost died!”

Lifting you off the floor, he wrapped his arms around your middle, your arms resting on his shoulders, a smile on both of your faces. “You’re so dramatic,” he said, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss.

The soft kiss turned into one of hunger and passion. Steve lifted your leg to rest on his hip before swiping the head of his cock between your fold before pushing himself into your sore core, a gasp releasing from you.

“Steve,” you whispered.

“Shhh,” he whispered back. “Just go with it. I’ll be soft, or at least I’ll try to be.”

Nodding, you breathed deep, feeling his soft thrusts. It was almost like the two of you were moving in time, dancing the same steps with the way you were moving in sync with each other. 

Just like before, you both finished together before showering each other off. Before the two of you got out, Steve turned the water on cold for the final rinse for your hair. Steve stepped out first to retrieve towels for the two of you.

Stepping out of the bathroom with the towels wrapped around your bodies, you suddenly remembered that you didn’t have a spare change of clothes, something that Steve also noticed.

Without saying a word, he walked into his closest, grabbing one of his t-shirts and basketball shorts. Looking through his drawers, he grabbed a pair of his boxers for you, handing them to you. 

As he went back into the closet to grab himself some clothes to change into, you went back into the bathroom to change and find a spare toothbrush, which you found under the sink in a storage container.

“Hey, Steve?” you said, voice raised.

“Yeah, Henderson?” he said, standing right next to you.

Jumping, you turned to look at him, hand over your heart. “Oh, my– Shit, I’m sorry. Uhm…–”

“Yes, you can use my toothpaste. I don’t mind. Really.”

Smiling, you whispered your thanks before grabbing the tube off the counter and putting a dollop on your brush after wetting the bristles. You wet the paste before putting it into your mouth, brushing your teeth clean of plaque and food.

Steve did the same, spitting out the foam when necessary. Once done, you both rinsed your mouths out and went back into the bedroom. Sighing, you looked around, not sure of what to do now.

“Uhm…” you said. “We could go finish watching our movies? I’m not supposed to go to bed with wet hair. It’ll flatten my curls.”

“Yeah, of course, whatever you want,” Steve said, smiling. “But before we do, I need to ask you a question.”

“What’s up?”

All of a sudden, he was nervous and embarrassed at the same time, not sure if he could ask the question he wanted to. “How happy do you think Dustin would be if we got together?”

Blinking rapidly, you weren’t expecting the question as you tried to think of an answer. “Uhh… I think he’d be happy. I mean, he fucking adores you. I mean, I adore you, too. You made me come like three times.” You laughed as Steve wrapped you up in his arms, a smile on his face.

“So, is that a yes, Henderson?” he asked.

Cupping his cheeks, you smiled. “Yes, Harrington, that’s a yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N 2:  hi, friends! i'm so so sorry this took forever to get out. writer's block hit me like a brick! plus, i've been reading books like crazy, and i've gone in and out of depression episodes. thanks for sticking around! let me know what you thought! again, please do not hesitate to reblog and give some feedback, whether it be in the reblogs, comments, or my inbox.

Additional Notes: i'm trying to add the character masterlists and playlists onto all my one-shots from here on out! let me know if it makes it easier for y'all to back and choose!

~~~

Forever / Everything Taglist: @stiles-o-dylan24 @stixnstripesworld @fandom-princess-forevermore @quanticobae @mischiefandi @kellyashcroft @lauren-novak​

If you’re tagged and didn’t want to be, please let me know.

Italics wouldn’t let me tag!

~~~

*Please don’t post my writing anywhere else without my consent. The author of this work will always and forever be @harringtonstilinski​.

All characters, story lines, and plot aside from y/n and her storyline & plot, are all of the work of The Duffer Brothers.

*These works contain material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited.

No part of these works may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

Posted on July 2, 2025

[lassie-farce]

writing fic for the pitt is not for the weak because like 99% of the fandom works in healthcare and it feels like being grilled at grand rounds and by whole attending staff tribunal whilst you present your work - your blorbos having wicked sex - and the attendings nod along, but the moment you mention in passing treating a nosocomial staph infection with Cefalexinum and all the eyes turn on you and you know you done fucked up

[ihavenoideahowtodream]

lol

point 1, hey it makes me sad when all these people are calling me a transphobe. babygirl, if one or two people have then thats not something to go off of. if most trans people and trans allies do then honey a spades a spade

point number 2 falling under the same category as the "ladies lets find out what men are comparing us too today!" bit. You dont find dogs fuckable. uhhhh. congrats? whats this gotta do with trans ppl? also ppl have value outside of your desire to fuck them. shocking i know

point number 3 is how all queer phobia works. theres the Het Straights™️ and then there are the trans, cis queers, and allies*. the HS™️ have created arbitrary categories and thats why we are even having this conversation in the first place. it is bigotry at its finest but you are being the bigot because, pardon the star wars reference, anyone not for queer and minority liberation is against us even if you are also queer or minority. inaction to preserve is allowing things to passively degrade and you will end up dying with us just not at the same time. people can only be categorized in one of two groups: alive and dead. negligence causes death more than any active assault. the moment we start putting people in more than those 2 categories is the moment we start killing with negligence.

point 4 back to sex? again? what does sex have to do with the trans life expectancy of 35? sex wasnt even mentioned by op. also trans ppl can be ace

point number 5 is the same argument as when my very Pro-birth ex mom said "my body my choice" when she said she wasnt getting vaccinated for covid. This does not affect only you. these kinds of ideas kills en mass

point number 6 is the tolerance paradox.

so lets sum up. you do not need to be available for sexual consumption or any kind of consumption to have a reason to exist. people upset on an individual level because they have decided a Pro Idea is an Anti Them Idea is how fascism works and gets people in the Pro Idea category, that they have likely been shoved into against their will, killed.

to your credit, you were 100% clear.

*dont @ me about including the allies either. they are vital in our liberation as they are the straight neighbors who teach our kids in school, elect people who make our laws, and provide cover for us when we are in the closet but want to participate in queer gatherings. they are proof to the world you can be straight and accept queer folk so the straights who dont accept us do not have to act the way they do. They dont face the same repercussions as us as severely as we do but they are the person left in the work place that fired us for being queer that decides they are going to change the work place culture so that queer folk dont get fired for being queer again

Ideas are cooking for my pride outfit.

[yourlocallgothamite]

The Demon Spawn Surveillance Strategy (The DSSS)

Chapter 1: The One In Which Jon Kent Fails to Lie

____________

AN: This is my first time writing soo... its not really the best but that's okay. Would love to hear you guys' thoughts!

next chapter ____________ It started with Jon Kent being suspicious.  Which—on its own—wasn’t groundbreaking. Jon was about as subtle as a traffic cone and folded under pressure like origami.

But this? This was different.

The man was fidgeting, avoiding eye contact, and nearly bolting out of every room he entered. Jon was nervous—that much was obvious... But why?

Dick, Jason, and Tim were going to get to the bottom of it. No matter what it took.

⸻

“Damian’s with you again today?” Dick asked casually one afternoon, glancing up from his phone as Jon fumbled with his hands. They were in one of Wayne Manor’s cozier living rooms when Jon walked in, supposedly looking for a charger.

Jon froze mid-step. “Uh. Yeah!” he chirped. Way too loud. Way too nervous. Way too suspicious. “Homework,” he continued quickly. “Group project. Big… uh… chemistry unit coming up. Molecules.”

Dick blinked. “Molecules.”

“Yup! Covalent bonds. Ionic. The works. Chemistry stuff. Hehehe..” He replied, scratching the back of his neck.

Jason squinted from his chair. “Didn’t you nearly set the lab on fire last semester?”

Jon’s face twitched. “That was… unrelated. Different topic. Totally fine now!”

Tim leaned forward slowly, fingers laced. “And this chemistry session is happening at the public library on Main Street?”

Jon swallowed. “Y-yeah. Totally.”

“Funny,” Tim said, eyes narrowing. “Because Damian said you’d be at the Gotham Academy 24/7 library for history.”

Jon froze.

Jason whistled. “Damn. You’re both terrible liars.”

Jon bolted.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

After superspeeding out of Wayne Manor like a man on fire, Jon realized—far too late—that he might’ve slightly overcorrected... and maybe he kinda didn't plan where he was going... and he definitely didn't account for his speed...

He found himself stranded in the streets of Paris.

“…Oh shit.”

As he made his way back home, Jon yanked out his phone and furiously started typing, trying to salvage the situation and alert Damian before the vicious Robin dismembered him.

This was going to be a long day.

But maybe the Batboys wouldn’t look too deep into it?

…Who was he kidding?

He was totally screwed.

⸻

Jonathan Samuel Kent [15:29]: I PANICKED I PANICKED AND I RAN I THINK I’M IN PARIS???

Brooding Batlord 🗡️ [15:31]: You think you’re in Paris? Can you see the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, or the Seine? Confirm your coordinates, imbecile.

Jonathan Samuel Kent [15:31]: I just wanted to get AWAY Now I’m next to a pastry cart and the air smells expensive I made it worse Dami They KNOW something is up

Brooding Batlord 🗡️ [15:32]: Define your intent when using the word “know.”

Jonathan Samuel Kent [15:32]: I said we were studying chemistry You told them it was history TIM CONNECTED THE DOTS IN REAL TIME Jason started whistling And Dick looked at me like I just confessed to murder

Brooding Batlord 🗡️ [15:33]: I should never have entrusted you with this responsibility.

Jonathan Samuel Kent [15:33]: EXCUSE ME I WAS DOING MY BEST

Brooding Batlord 🗡️ [15:33]: Your “best” nearly exposed a covert operation because you cannot lie under mild questioning.

Jonathan Samuel Kent [15:33]: Dick used the “I’m not mad, just disappointed” tone 😭 I almost cried bro And did you just refer to Y/N as a "covert operation" NOWAY 😭😭

Brooding Batlord 🗡️  [15:34]: That tone is a fabrication. He is always both. I shall ignore your commentaries. 

Jonathan Samuel Kent [15:34]: Okay that’s kinda fair but anyway I panicked I ran I’m overseas And your brothers are assembling a crime wall

Brooding Batlord 🗡️  [15:35]: They are not my brothers, merely imbeciles who think they came first. Of course they are "assembling a crime wall." They are hooligans who have no concept of boundaries.

Jonathan Samuel Kent [15:35]: They’re gonna FIND HER They’re gonna SURVEIL HER HOUSE They’re gonna SEE THE PINK FLUFFY BLANKET AND THE TEA AND THE—THE CUTENESS 😭

Brooding Batlord 🗡️  [15:35]: If they even approach her property, I will break their kneecaps. I don’t care how many of them there are. Let them come.

Jonathan Samuel Kent [15:36]: What do we DO??? This is like DEFCON 3 The next phase is PowerPoint presentations

Brooding Batlord 🗡️  [15:36]: Meet me at her residence at 1600 hours. Bring cookies. Do not burn them this time.

Jonathan Samuel Kent [15:36]: You’re being very demanding for someone who’s about to be exposed by a the devil's helpers

Brooding Batlord 🗡️  [15:36]: I will not be exposed. You will be publicly executed via my kryptonite stash.

Jonathan Samuel Kent [15:37]: Tell Y/N I love her Tell her I died protecting the fluffy pink rug 😭😭😭

Brooding Batlord 🗡️  [15:37]: Do not ever use such language regarding Y/N, I am the only one whom she harbours feelings of affection for, understood? If you die, I’ll allow her to sketch your gravestone. Make yourself useful and bring Earl Grey. Do not disgrace me again.

⸻

Jon landed with a graceless thud on the L/N manor’s front lawn, breathless and wild-eyed, clutching a slightly crumpled bakery box so hard it bent at the edges, making him freak out even more. He stared in wonder at the large gates littered with guards. This wasn’t as big as Wayne Manor but still, it was huge. “Man I can’t believe I’ve never been to your girl’s house Dames,” Jon tried to ease his nerves, addressing the Arabian boy with wonder that barely covered his nervousness “I mean how long have you two been together? A year? And I’ve never seen her house? Woah.”

Damian was already waiting by the front gate, arms crossed, jaw clenched, and posture so stiff he looked ready to kill. His eyes took in Jon’s disheveled state with distaste.

“We’ve been together for 18 months and 2 days, and why would you see her house? She is my significant other. On another note, you’re late,” Damian said flatly, eyeing him with judgment people usually reserved for war criminals.

“I GOT LOST IN LUXEMBOURG,” Jon whisper-yelled, flinging the box into Damian’s hands. “Don’t start with me, man.”

“First of all, you have the ability to fly and you have superspeed, how could you get lost, you can literally travel the whole Earth in a matter of seconds.” Damian deadpanned as he opened the box with surgical precision, making note to try and fix its bent edges. “These are store-bought.”

“I didn’t have time to bake! You think I carry cookie dough through international time zones?!”

“You were supposed to bring earl grey tea as well you hoodlum.”

“Oh shit!  I completely forgot!”

“Fine. What have you brought along.”

“Well, I panicked and got—” Jon checked the label, “—chocolate chip… and, uh… something called ‘raspberry bubble-unicorn’?”

Damian gave him a look that could end lives. “You disgrace me.”

Jon clutched his temples. “Damian, please. I’m begging you. Focus. This is bigger than tea. Dick made direct eye contact with my soul. Tim’s probably already hacking my GPS. Jason basically called me a ‘liar.’ They know something is up!”

“They suspect. They do not know,” Damian corrected, tightening his grip on the pastry box. “There is still plausible deniability.”

Jon stared at him. “You lied to them. I lied to them. BADLY. You know Tim’s building a dossier right now. He’s probably typing ‘Y/N’ into ten government databases.”

Damian’s jaw ticked. “If they so much as run a background check—”

“What?” Jon interrupted. “You’ll kill them? Hack the FBI? Blow up a satellite? ‘Break their kneecaps?’”

Damian didn’t answer.

“…That wasn’t a no.”

Damian turned, stalking toward the mansion’s front door with obvious anger bubbling inside him. “They know nothing of Y/N. We stick to the plan. We act natural. You do not speak unless spoken to. And most importantly, stop dishonoring me and stop proving to be a liability.”

“Got it.”

“You do not mention molecules, chemistry, history, or Paris.”

“Right.”

“And if you value your kneecaps—do not say the words 'bubble-unicorn' ever again.”

Jon winced. “Understood.”

Damian raised a hand and rang the bell.

The door opened almost instantly.

There you were. In fuzzy socks, an oversized sweater, and with a warm smile that made Damian’s nerves calm and planted a slight smile on his face.

“Hey you guys!” you beamed. “Come in! I made brownies.”

Damian stepped in with perfect calm, voice smooth. “You look radiant as always, beloved.”

Jon followed behind him, smiling too wide. “Hiyeshello! I’mJonandIloveyourhouse.”

Damian subtly elbowed him in the ribs.

You giggled, holding a hand up to your mouth “I know who you are Jon why are you so nervous it’s just my house.”

The door closed behind them.

The war had begun.

Operation: protect the Dami/N initiative has begun.

The biggest challenge? Not letting Y/N feel like something is off… and of course stopping the three huge manchildren from discovering Dami/N.

⸻

Damian’s head rested in your lap, unnaturally still for someone who claimed to be “relaxing.” His arms were crossed, jaw tight, but he let you run your fingers gently through his hair because how could he deny you? He knew you loved it. (No it’s not him who wants you to stroke his hair, you are the one who likes it.)

Across the room, Jon was sitting on your lounge chair tapping his foot like his life depended on it while desperately trying not to tap it in superspeed in front of you.

As soon as you left the room, with Damian begrudgingly letting you because you needed to use the restroom, Jon started pacing around in superspeed like a madman.

“No, seriously, we need a plan,” Jon muttered, practically vibrating. “They're probably already setting up surveillance. You know Tim has drones. Tiny drones. Owl-sized ones. Spy-level stuff.”

Damian didn’t even lift his head. “If Drake sends anything near this property, I will take joy in slicing his head off.”

“I’m not joking!” Jon whisper-shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “They’re probably building a murder board right now. Red string. Pins. Blueprints. Facial recognition software—”

“They know nothing about Y/N, they don’t even know she exists and it shall stay that way. Anything they ask? We deny deny deny. Now stop panicking or our plan will be compromised.”

“Okay. Okay. It’s Okay, I’ll just never come over to your place ever again. Easy.”

“Perfect.”

You entered the room again, bringing over the brownies and cookies, just barely missing the end of their conversation. “Hey guys! Who’s ready for the best evening of boardgames and cookies ever!”

Across from you Jon shifted in his seat, making an uncomfortable noise as he tried to sound excited, and Damian nearly facepalmed then and there.

“Jon?” You asked, “You sure you’re okay? You seem stressed.”

“Mhmm fine totally absolutely amazing YUP.” The blue-eyed boy said, all too fast.

You squinted at him, suspicious but too tired to press. “Fine. I’ll let you be but I’m your friend okay? You can tell me when you’re not okay. Is this about the school project?”

“WHAT!? NONO no worries! I’m okay!” He freaked out. “Anyway—gonna get a snack. Stress makes me hungry. Not that I’m stressed! Because I’m not. Haha.”

He disappeared down the hallway.

You turned back to Damian. “He’s definitely stressed.”

“Tt.” Damian closed his eyes. “He lacks subtlety.”

“Unlike you, Mr. Broody?”

He didn’t respond, but you saw the way his fingers twitched—just a little—against the pink blanket you kept on the couch. His other hand shifted to subtly clutch the hem of your shirt.

You leaned down and brushed a kiss to the top of his head.

“You sure everything’s okay?”

His lashes fluttered. “If it wasn’t, do you think I’d let Kent hyperventilate in your abode while I lay here with you?”

You laughed softly. “I mean... yeah.”

“…Then don’t worry. Everything is fine.”

From the kitchen, a scream rang out. Something crashed.

You stared toward the hallway.

“Should I be concerned?”

“No,” Damian said instantly. “That was… unrelated.”

Another crash. Then:

Jon Kent [from the kitchen, screaming]: “WHY IS THE KETTLE SPEAKING FRENCH??”

You raised an eyebrow, muffling your incoming laughter with your hand.

Damian sighed, eyes still closed. That man was Done With Jon's Shit. “I told you not to let him near your smart appliances.”

“Dully noted.”

You went back to stroking his hair. He melted just slightly into your touch, the only sign that—under all that calm composure—he was seconds from flipping a table.

As Jon came back, you pretended everything was fine and went to put on a movie.

As you settled back down on your couch, both boys met each other’s eyes behind your back and came to a silent agreement: Denial. Denial. Forever.

And you? You were non-the-wiser.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

“Okay,” Dick muttered later that afternoon, spinning slowly in the worn-out computer chair in the Batcave’s dim glow. His eyes flickered between multiple monitors, each streaming fragments of surveillance footage, social media posts, and cryptic messages. He tried to focus on the case open in front of him, but he just couldn't, finally giving up and swiveling in the chair to look at his brothers. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his racing thoughts. “I don’t wanna be paranoid, but… something about this doesn’t sit right.”

Jason, lounging on the edge of the tech table with a flicker of reckless energy, continuously tossed a Batarang between his fingers. The metal gleamed cold under the cavern’s lights as he caught it again and again with a sharp grin. “No, Dick. Be paranoid. I support this paranoia,” he said, voice amused but certain. 

Tim, perched at the second chair next to dick, fingers flying across the keyboard of his personal computer with practiced ease, pulled up file after file regarding an unsolved murder case, but he, too, was tuned in on their conversation. “Let’s review the data,” he said, eyes narrowing as he sifted through the growing pile of information. “Every little detail, every anomaly. We’re missing something. Where are they now?” "No idea." Dick sighed.

With a determined frown, Tim tuned to the batcomputer, starting his stalking spree and hacking into cameras and enabling his facial recognition feature to try and locate the two liars teens. "Okay, they're not at the public library.." more clicking noises filled the cave "..and they're not at the Gotham Academy library."

Jason chuckled. "Well duh, thought that was obvious."

"Haha, so funny." Tim deadpanned as his clicking got faster "The last working street cams show them heading toward.. 17th St NW"

"Ooh," said Dick "rich neighbourhood~"

"Not too far from here actually," Jason added.

"What are they hiding?" wondered Tim, slowly sipping his coffee.

"Whatever it is, our location is compromised; we can't investigate in the Batcave, Damian has access to that, he can sabotage us." At Dick's words, the three men perked up, deciding the safest location would be one of Jason's unused safehouses.

And just like that—the late night, the murmured suspicions, the compulsive gathering of scraps—the three oldest Batboys’ descent into madness officially began.

⸻

They started small.

Little notes. The facts.

3:01 PM – Damian comes back from school. 3:13 PM - Damian is having lunch with fam. says he is going to the GA library to study history with Jon 3:15 PM - Damian is seen leaving the manor in his personal car, not with Alfred. Weird but okay. 3:17 PM – Disappears off grid. Not on tracker. Sus? 3:26 PM - Jon enters Wayne Manor and goes to the living room looking for his charger... Wasn't he supposed to be with Damian? 3:26 PM - Jon acting super weird 8:59 PM - Damian returns. Ruffled hair?? Acts normal?? 

"Now, what happened between the times 3:17 PM and 8:59 PM? We need a location and we need events," said Tim, ever the detective.

Then came the theories.

“Maybe he’s meeting Ra’s and Talia in secret,” Dick said.

“Maybe he’s in a cult,” Jason offered.

“Maybe,” Tim said slowly, “he’s dating Jon.”

Stunned silence.

“…Oh my god,” Dick whispered.

⸻

Somewhere in the safehouse, a dry erase board appeared overnight.

On it: (Note: Blue marker = Dick, Red marker = Jason, Black marker = Tim)

A yellow sticky-note in the center, "WHAT ARE THEY HIDING!?" written in blue ink and it is cicled intensely in red with black arrows pointing to it.

A blurry photo of Damian walking alone out of the Manor (captioned in blue: “Mid-mission or mid-date??”)

A printed screenshot of Jon nervously sweating, taken from the Wayne Manor security cameras (captioned in blue: "lying liar who lies")

A photo of the car Damian used to leave the manor, a black Rolls-Royce, very expensive (captioned in black: "license plate: GC-319DW - expensive sleek car.") (captioned in red: "Damijon date designated car?")

Blueprints of both the GA library and the public library with each of their addresses (captioned in red: "the crime scene") (captioned in black: "fake coordinates")

A printed photo of Titus, mid-jump, with red and pink ribbons tied around his neck (captioned in blue: “DAMIAN WOULD NEVER PUT THIS ON TITUS!”) (captioned in red: “WHY IS THE DOG IN ON IT!!??”) (captioned in black: “seems unrelated but could have hidden clues. Everything is evidence.”)

on the top right corner, Damian's picture with the printed letters: "MAIN SUSPECT: DAMIAN AL-GHUL WAYNE, ALIAS: DEMON SPAWN, DANGER LEVELS: INFINITE, CRIME: UNKOWN" (captioned in red: “DEMON BRAT UP TO SOMETHING”) (captioned in blue - crossed out in black: “He’s our baby brother 🥺”) (captioned in black: “A suspicious baby brother.”)

and on the bottom right corner, a list of theories:

- Secret boyfriend (in black)

- Secret training (in black)

- Secret assassin stuff (in red)

- Secret hobby? (in blue)

- Secret girlfriend??? (in blue and then striked out in red) Nah not possible (in red) 

- Hypnotized by alien seductress (in red)

- Witchery (in black)

- Gotham Academy has a secret society?? (in blue)

- Cult involvement?? (in red)

- The court of owls?? (in blue)

a sticky note stapled on that list labeled "FACTS:" in black

-- Titus knows (in red)

-- Jon knows, Jon =  weak link (in black)

-- Bruce doesn’t know. He never knows. Don't ask or involve him. (in red)

-- We are not overreacting. (in blue)

-- We are doing our duty as brothers. (in red)

-- ...we are totally overreacting. (in black)

-- Yup but it is fun. :) (in blue)

 Dick (and Jason) added glitter glue. “To make it festive.”

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

(I used ChatGPT and Canva to kinda show you what the whiteboard looks like)

_____________ next chapter

This needs so much editing... but anyways.

[broken-coffee-mug23]

I think it would be funny if Bruce refers to Jason as ‘little one’ or ‘the little one’ this is because he was small and when Bruce gets another kid he does the things that parents do where they forget their kids names and switch them around so it’s both a term of endearment and a description

Bruce trying to find Jason: «  where did *pauses trying to think of the right name and just hand motions to Jason’s height *.. the little one go? »

This is funnier when Jason comes back and is 6 foot 200 lbs of muscle, and Bruce refers to him as little one and anyone who wasn’t around during Jason’s time as robin is confused, cause there is nothing little about him

[jammy-badger]

*cracks knuckles* @deanmarywinchester I'm so glad you asked! This was a special interest of mine as a kid and I still have all the books so it's my time to shine, baby!

1. Yes you can replicate the meals! They are based off Brian Jacques' parents' cookbooks he read as a kid, and there is also an official cookbook although some recipes are incorrect - the moles are based on Cornish people and Deeper 'n' ever pie is based on a Cornish pastie, but the one shown in the recipe book is a cottage pie at best. My family is Cornish and we make our own pasties and I will not stand for this. Please hit me up if you want me to send them to you!

2. Yes, the milk is made from grass - in the books it's actually referred to as 'meadowcream' and 'grassmilk' and is harvested from grass sap. How do they farm it? See point 5.

3. With so many wandering bands and conquering hordes, usually from outside of Mossflower, is it really surprising that permanent settlements haven't been established outside the major strongholds (Redwall and Salamandastron plus Brockhall and the various otter holts)? In Mossflower we see that Kotir used to be one such major settlement demanding tithe from the Mossflower population that has since fallen into disorder (especially since Verdauga Greeneyes grew too old to rule - I believe this history is actually described in Mossflower but it's been a while). Also, despite being barely canon, the original Redwall book mentions major settlements and towns far from Mossflower. So maybe Kotir was the last great major settlement in the Mossflower region?

4. The bad guys are usually attacking the Abbey because they want it as a fortress and/or to enslave the Abbey population to eat their food (they are all literally 'vermin'), which makes sense given the above point - there's very little in terms of land security and if one wanted to establish control over a region Redwall or Salamandastron are the places to control. They do ask for treasure at times though, and it's usually out of a sense of pure greed and decadence, or for a specific purpose (i.e. for the Silth Queen in Marlfox). If the bands are travelling it's likely that they sustain themselves by robbing settlements and potentially trading elsewhere? It's kind of ambiguous.

5. Food production is probably the biggest inconsistency in the series and I mostly put this down to creative license. Jacques wrote all the food scenes based on his own experience of growing up in wartime with very little food and dreaming of all the things he could eat, so the idyllic Redwall simply 'has' these resources. In-universe, there are scattered independent farms around (albeit barely mentioned, and the major mention was in the first book which is dubiously canon), and also encountered by characters (usually they haven't met these farmers before but it makes sense that they wouldn't comment on seeing local farms they already knew about I guess). Usually they don't know about the farms they encounter while travelling but you can assume that they know about some of them as there is a major road outside the Abbey used by travellers and carts, and the first book also has most people visiting from outside the Abbey so this lends to that theory. But again, probably the most obvious issue in the books. There is an orchard and herbalists are shown to forage outside the Abbey but yes, that's not really enough for the scale of food production in the Abbey.

6. Short answer is there are absolutely cross-species relationships, they just don't get mentioned because Jacques only really mentions relationships when they're related to the lineage of specific characters, and different species presumably can't breed. Or, nobody gets together unless there's potential for kids? The whole structure of official marriage barely exists outside of the first few books anyway and the only interspecies relationships I can think of are presented as 'really good friendships' and two of them are gay couples (don't fight me on this, Durry Quill and Rufe Brush were 100% an item) so yeah I guess they don't have much of a concept of traditional family-making outside of what's needed for population? I dunno, personally as an ace person reading these books as a kid I found it pretty refreshing to have barely any romance present!

7. They're all relative to human size and so are trees etc. Generally speaking 'smaller' species like mice are described as shorter than 'larger' species like otters, badgers and cats, but they're all largely standardly-sized around humans. The first book, again, is a little janky in terms of canon as it mentions livestock (and also THE HORSE which we don't talk about) and potentially the existence of humans, but judging by the scale of fruits suggested in the books (i.e. a mouse being about to pop an entire strawberry in its mouth) I'd say the animals are for all intents and purposes human-sized. They're fursonas basically.

Please ask me about Redwall books!!!!!! And if you want any of the recipes hit me up, I might make some and let you know how they go if you like?

hobbies include: close reading the Redwall series to answer my most burning questions. such as:

- can I replicate any of these delicious-sounding foodstuffs and would they in fact be delicious if I was able to

- corollary to the above: are we just supposed to read “oat cream” and “nut cheese” every time we see the words “cream” and “cheese”? I think so. bc if not, what tha hell are their livestock animals

- what is Society like? I don’t think we ever see a Mouse City or even Mouse Town though we do see castles and obviously an abbey. are we supposed to believe that most creatures are either in wandering bands or these societies based around a single structure (castle/abbey?)

- they appear to have an idea of what currency is (the bad guys always want treasure — maybe just to have, not to sell? but less ambiguous is some dialogue I just read, “acorn for your thoughts?” “you can have them for free”) but again, we never see anyone using money or making goods for the market. is this after the fall of Mouse Capitalism? are the bad guys (the idea of rat pirates gives me a headache, vis a vis the political/economic systems needed to power piracy) raiding preindustrial mouse societies for treasure/meat?

- corollary to the above: the abbey creatures have oats and wheat but we don’t see anybody farming or trading for farm goods on a large enough scale. is the abbey “orchard” really a like an indigenous forest farm of mixed foodstuffs? is that possible if you live in the same place the whole year or only if you travel each season? I have to do some googling

- both the lack of mixed-species families and the idea of mixed-species families give me a headache. has a squirrel never fallen for a handsome otter? what is the culture shock like if you marry into a subterranean mole family?

- this is the least “important” question but this read through I’ve been desperately trying to figure out What Size Everything Else Is. i’ve come to the conclusion that everything other than animals are at mouse scale, given that they can make seaworthy vessels their own size (a mouse sized vessel with real-world-sized waves seems impossible) and pick and eat apples and plums. but so far it seems like they’ve avoided mentioning how tall trees are — like a person compared to a tree or a mouse compared to a tree?

[millenianthemums]

ask and you shall recieve (eventually)!

this is referring to my Henchmabel AU, where Mabel was stolen by Bill as a baby and raised as a Henchmaniac. I don’t like the idea of Dipper having to grow up completely alone without her, so I had the idea that their parents, totally shattered by the loss of one of their babies, moved to Gravity Falls so they could be close to Stan, their only remotely nearby family member, while Dipper grew up. They blamed themselves for Mabel disappearing and didn’t ever want the same thing to happen to Dipper, so they wanted to be sure he grew up surrounded by people who would watch out for him.

Stan played a big role in raising Dipper in this continuity. He grew up spending most of his time helping him run the Mystery Shack. He’s a lot more jaded and angsty than in canon, and acts like he can’t stand his uncle, but secretly really looks up to him. He’s also grown up surrounded by weirdness and the paranormal, seeing it as a fact of life by now. Stan was overprotective about it at first, but eventually decided it was better to give him the tools to protect himself. So he taught him how to fight and fend off even some of the most dangerous threats around, supernatural and otherwise, with just a well-placed punch. Nowadays if anyone tries to bully Dipper, he’ll just punch them really hard one time and then he never has to worry about them again. This is also why he doesn’t try to hide his birthmark in this AU.

Dipper’s kind of a rude kid here, almost akin to Robbie with a better vocabulary, but he still has a soft side and he’s grown up with some great friends, especially Soos and Wendy, who are like his honorary big siblings here. Still, he’s always had this weird feeling like there’s something really important in his life that’s missing. And then things get REALLY weird for him when he starts having really vivid lucid dreams about this weird girl his age with neon pink hair who calls herself Mabel. She’s annoying and loud, but somehow he feels like he knows her from somewhere. Like they’ve known each other their whole lives.

Mabel is definitely NOT supposed to be talking to Dipper, btw. Bill has told her tons of times never to go near any of the humans in Gravity Falls, especially the Pines family. But he raised her to be a reckless rule-breaker just like him, so he really should have seen it coming.

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ Crawlin’ back to you (ever thought of calling when you’ve had a few, ‘cause I always do) ❞

Peter Parker x ftm!reader | p*rn with some plot, NSFW, fluff, established relationship, one-shot | reader has had top surgery and significant bottom growth | switch. bttm. reader | written with Marvel Rivals Peter Parker in mind, lmao |  wc: 3.6k

warnings: fingering, shower sex, an attempt at eating r! out, unprotected sex, praise, AFAB terminology (clit referred to as cock/dick/member. Terms like boypussy, cunt, and sex used.)

authors note: this was meant to be a Valentine’s Day fic special, though it lost the patron polls. It’s such a sweet premise, though! So why not write something cute for Pride Month for our favourite spider-boy! Listening to ▸ Do I Wanna Know? — Hozier Cover Patreon | Discord

He’s late. This is the one day he couldn’t afford to be late, and he’s late. Peter is cursing under his breath, leaping over the steps of the winding stairs in such haste that he can feel the boxes of pizzas hit his back. One last delivery — just this one, and he’ll make it. He swung his body over the stair railings, his sneakers barely gripping onto the lacquered wood, and used his momentum to keep himself going further up. 

These old buildings and their hazardous elevators. It wouldn’t be New York without them. He can admit that it has its charms, but he was beginning to think that it was getting ridiculous. 

Peter jumps, the tip of his fingers grasping the edge of the tiled floor above him. With nothing more than a grunt, he pulls himself up. He turns to check the stairs, smiling in relief at the bare steps, until he turns around and sees a boy staring straight at him. 

“Uh, hey,” Peter pants out, leaning his elbow on the railings while crossing his ankles. You live in D-15?” the kid shakes his head, brows scrunched as he takes in Peter's state. He then points to the door at the end of the hallway, so Peter thanks him and awkwardly shuffles towards it. 

“Are you one of those parkour YouTubers?” the kid calls out. Peter nods furiously, adjusting the pizza bag to slide from his back to his front, his knee bent up to balance it on as he leans on the wall. Looking just a bit ridiculous as he answers: “Uh, yeah, yup. I do parkour videos. I’m a professional.”

He might as well be with the way he swings around the city. The back flips and aerobatics he does midair during fights — pesky little bug, as his enemies so fondly refer to him as. 

“Doesn’t pay well, huh?”

Peter pauses, jaw unhinging as he stares at the kid, who casually shrugs and mutters something about his mother being right before he slips into his apartment. 

“Ouch,” he scoffs in disbelief, smiling as he pulls out the two pizza boxes. ”Kids are so mean,” he raps his knuckles on the dark wood and adjusts the pizza bag again. The pink heart and roses on the top of the box's design reminded Peter of something important. 

He’s late. Oh god, he was so late. 

A man answers the door, glaring slightly at Peter, who gives him a shaky grin. “You ordered pepperoni and mushroom, Mr Bird?” 

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles, but he takes — snatches — the box from Peter’s hand. Then shoves the cash in Peter’s hand. He purses his lips, barely mumbling out a ‘thanks’ before the door is slammed in his face. 

“Aaand a Happy Valentine's day to you too,” Peter mumbles dryly. He spins on his heel, exhaling sharply as he glances at his cracked watch. The hand that tells the minutes shakes with every second, and he taps it once and twice. He’s about to descend the steps when the door slams open, nearly blowing off its hinges as Mr Bird yells out.

”Is this some kind of joke!?” Peter’s eyes widen, his arms going up to his chest in alarm. Mr Bird raises the pizza box lid and, for a moment, he doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just the usual beige colour of cardboard. Until the beige begins to slip down and leave a trail of cheese and marinara sauce, two pepperonis and a sad curve of mushrooms decorating the bottom of the lid. 

Peter practically launches down the steps. Ignoring the angry ranting while he leaps over the bannisters.

Peter was late. That was not new. You were as well. That was also nothing new. You land as softly as you can on the fire escape, peering inside the windows to see any signs of Peter while you hitch your fingers underneath the windows. The whole city had been decorated in red and pink, hearts pasted on bodega windows and chalked onto cafe menu boards. 

Deals, couples sales, and roses are being sold in bulk. 

It is the day to celebrate love and for companies to make as much money as possible. You tug your mask off, taking a breath to register the plan. A cosy stay-in date, dinner and a movie on your lumpy couch. Perfect date night for two superheroes. Maybe in another year there’d be a more romantic occasion, though that’s a big if, knowing how bitter this holiday can make your rogue of villains, with a fancier restaurant. 

But there’s no point in focusing on that. You pry your suit off, balancing on one leg as you hop around your sparsely decorated living room-slash-bedroom-slash-kitchen to reach for the built-in closet. The foldable doors rattle as you toss your suit into a growing pile in your hamper, and the lightbulb flickers on tentatively when you turn it on. 

You were so late. So, as guilty as it made you feel, you hoped Spider-Man was getting caught up in another fight so you could set up something sweet for your Peter. 

Your hand brushes against the surface of a box, and you grin to yourself. Surely, you could decorate your apartment and get yourself ready in under an hour. You’d defused bombs, saved hostages, and chased down criminals on foot before; this would be an easy job.

Perhaps chasing down villains was an entirely different skill set to you, or perhaps the art of party decorations simply wasn’t passed down to you. Because after an hour of pacing around and pasting shiny plastic hearts onto the walls, then placing the battery-operated candles here and there, you find yourself stunned at the mocking silence. 

The Valentine's Day decoration pack you picked up was either meant for a much smaller apartment — you shivered at the image — or for a family of rats living in the sewers. You flipped the box upside down, shaking it just to be thorough. Nothing more. 

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you groan in frustration. You scramble your brain for more ideas, but the bedside clock tells you that you are cutting it close. You felt the film of sweat on your skin somehow growing as heavy as the anxiety brewing within you; there was no time! You were late and stinky and most likely a shitty boyfriend!

Your resolve faltered, but this could still work! Peter had promised to bring in dinner; it’d be cold at this point, but that’s what the microwave is for, and maybe if you dimmed the lights enough, the swaying “candlelights” would hide the lame decorations. 

You took a quick whiff of yourself and grimaced, rushing to the bathroom. 

He knows you’re in the shower. The pipe rattles a bit whenever it’s in use, and he’s relieved by it. You probably just got back then. Being a hero put a dent in your time management efforts. It’s dark now, the city illuminating itself with street lights and headlights of cars pressed bumper to bumper, while the trains rush through the subways to whisk everyone back home to celebrate.

He’s at the fire escape when you step out of the shower. For a second, he thinks he’s been caught in this unsuave position, and he frowns under his mask. Just for once, he wanted to be Prince Charming!

But you don’t see him. You chew on your lip as you look at the quaint dining table. He notices the bruising on your back, and his chest squeezes when you grip your shoulder. Suddenly, the aches and bruises on his body ebb away. Peter slips through the open window and clears his throat. 

“Jesus Christ!” You practically jump five feet into the air, gripping onto the towel around your waist until your knuckles turn white as you lift your other hand defensively to your chest. 

“Surprise,” Peter croaks out, settling his ass on the window sill as he leans his head to the frame. ”Back before midnight, though, so happy Valentine's Day.”

”Peter,” you rush to him, cradling his face in your hands as your expression pinches into concern. He has scratches on his shoulder and across his chest. You slip your hands under his mask, rolling it over until his bruised face is revealed. Your thumb ghosts across the darkening bruise on his cheekbones, the sweet honey skin of his marred with dried blood smeared from his nose and the cut lip he had gotten from the fight he’d been in.

”Bank robbers,” he whispers, his breath combing through the fine hairs of your knuckles. “Hostages, the usual.”

”Gun?” You hover your hand over the graze on his shoulder, and he nods, grunting as he peels himself from the window frame and into your hold, swaying on his feet. The slight steam across your skin catches onto the grime he’s brought in, but you press him closer as he moulds his body to yours. He breathed in the smell of your shampoo and his body wash, his muscles felt as though they were unbinding into a mess of yarn at your feet. Peter’s gloved hands run up your spine, just as he murmurs an apology to your skin. 

“I’m getting gun powder residue and blood on you,” he said, despite not moving away from you. A ghost of a smile tugs on your lips, and you press a kiss to his bruised jaw. 

“I don’t mind. Been there, done that.” Peter scoffs at that, his mouth opened to reply with his usual quips, though he grimaces as the cut on his lip reminds him of the sharp grin. 

“Okay, hero. Let’s see what we can do about the boo-boos.” Peter recognises the path your hands are going in — so he tightens his hold around your neck and sighs when his feet lift from the ground. You wrap his legs around you, supporting him as you carry him toward the still-steamy bathroom. 

“Sorry,” you cock a brow at Peter as you settle him on the sink counter. “For what?” he keeps his eyes on your bruised knuckles next to his thighs, and his frown deepens. 

“Tonight was supposed to be romantic. You decorated the apartment!”

You cup his face, pressing a soft kiss on the tip of his nose. Your eyelashes tickle his cheek as you peer at him, sweeping a thumb over his unbruised spots. 

He didn’t know the panic that you had gone through as you cursed out whoever assembled the box of decorations. Or he didn’t care. Because Peter was sweet, caring, and as sarcastic as he could be at times, he was never needlessly cruel to anyone around him. 

“You’re gonna apologise on behalf of the bank robbers, Parker?” 

“Well, they’re not gonna.”

You both laugh at that, leaning into each other as your shoulders shake with glee. Peter takes a moment to check on the bruises on your back, noting the discolouration. He’d checked up for any hardness under your skin earlier, but you could never be too cautious with internal bleeding. He’s glad you’re not wincing with each inhale of laughter, too — broken ribs weren’t fun either. 

He feels you run your hair from the nape of his neck. You’re checking for head injuries, at least as much as you can, as you carefully feel his scalp. 

“This could still be romantic,” Peter murmurs. His heart beating a mile a minute at these simple acts you do for another. “After a couple of stitches, a bit of crying from the antiseptic.”

You pull away, bracing your hands on either side of him as you stare at him incredulously. Peter just shrugs, red pooling in his cheeks, as he leans back. Pretending to act cool despite the way he can barely keep eye contact with you. 

“You’re not saying no,” he curls one leg around your towel-covered waist, and neither of you glances when it slips down. 

“I think the universe just gave us a sign.”

You squint your eyes at him, wrestling back a smile. 

“You’re not concussed, right?”

“I don’t feel concussed…does that count?” 

“...It counts.”

Peter’s mouth tasted like iron and mint. If he was feeling any pain, he gave no such indication. You’re furrowing your brows, keeping your hands on his thighs as he guides your mouth. His pinkie sliding under your jaw, controlling the pace while he brought your crotches together. You gasp into his mouth, and he smiles against you as he slips his eyes open to look at you. 

Everything hurts. Truthfully, his body ached, and his face felt like a giant bruise. But he had you naked in a steamy bathroom. Who was Peter to deny this gift from the heavens?

He pushes you back so he can stand. You take the moment to admire him, being backlit by the lights of your mirror and looking so handsome and tall. He reaches the back of his suit, and you stop him, sharing nothing but a look before he turns his back to you.

It shouldn’t be this sensual, all things considered. His suit was skin-tight, and so peeling it off usually didn’t leave this heavy atmosphere blanketing over you. But it does, and Peter shivers when you trail the curve of your lips to his bare skin. Kissing over the sunspots scattered on his olive-toned skin, brushing over the little nicks and scars he had. You’re reverent in your silent worship of him, whispering soft praises to him as he watches you from the mirror. Your hands run down the bump of his shoulder, slipping under his suit and firmly pushing it down until it gathered at his wrists. 

You slither your hands up his toned arms, briefly squeezing his neck, which causes Peter to groan airily. He can feel you smirk against his shoulder blade, and he tells you to stop teasing him.

“Come on, Spidey. Let’s clean you up.”

The water was still warm when you both stepped in, something he’s thankful for. You admire him, growing envious of the water that trailed down the valleys and curves of Peter’s body. His head is tilted back as he relaxes under the spray. He then tugs you close, his pretty brown eyes pleading for your touch, and you press to him.

Naked chest to naked chest as you claim his lips again. You can feel his cock twitching agaisnt your thigh and he can feel yours under his fingertips beginning to fill. You cling to him, gasping against his neck when he greedily slips his fingers between your folds.

“Sorry, just —” Peter takes a breath, ignoring the pinkish water going down the drain as he lifts one of your legs to hitch onto his hips. “You’re just so sexy.”

You cough out something that sounds like a giggle, but Peter cuts it off and forces a moan out of you as he teases at your entrance. 

“And I miss you, and I love you, and it’s Valentine's Day, and you decorated.”

“Peter,” you whimper out, hips bucking as you feel him inside of you. He’s careful, kissing your temple and cheek as he continues to tell you about how much he loves you. How much he’d worship you, how much he wanted to make you feel good. Peter knows your body — it’s evident in the way he strikes at your weak spots. Curling his fingers in and out in a steady pump, something that makes you press your forehead against his clavicle and just moan.

One finger, then two. Pressing into that bundle of nerves that makes you flushed with a feverish need, you pant and tilt your head back. Peter’s still shy, but this time he keeps his eyes on you as you clench up around him. 

His cock’s hard and aching, twitching as it poked at your dick but he could care less about it. 

You were so close to unravelling because of him. Peter didn’t consider himself a prideful man — most who knew him would agree — but there were moments he felt it. Whenever he took photos for the Daily Bugle, or when he was praised for his scientific experiments by his professors. But especially in these moments, with you. 

When you praised him, in and out of the mask. When you’re in the fray with him and he gets between you and danger, even if you could’ve handled it.

When you cum because of him.

Peter revelled in it. In you. 

“That’s it, baby. Just let go, I've got you. I got you.”

There’s a you-shaped spot on the bed, but neither of you cares much about it. Peter’s on top of you, kissing down your chest as his wet bangs trail a line of water down your skin. They slip down your sides as you breathe, causing your skin to ripple as goosebumps make themselves known. Peter holds your hip in one hand, his thumb rubbing languid circles as he flicks his gaze to you, the tip of his nose pushed to your skin as his tongue tastes the dewdrops of ambrosia on your cunt. 

You spread your legs, fluttering your eyes closed as he savours your taste. 

“Shit, did you get dinner?” You’re reminded of food, as funnily as it sounds, from Peter’s deep groan. He lifts his head from your sex, licking his lips as he simply replies with; 

“Huh?” 

You toss your head back, chuffing in laughter as you lay your legs flat on the bed. 

“Dinner, baby.”

“I’m eating mine already —” you squeeze his head between your thighs and he laughs, tapping the sides of your leg to tap out and you relent, though only after a harder squeeze that simply makes Peter’s grin wider. 

“Ow, ow,” Peter covers his lip, and you lift yourself to sit. 

“No, no, c’mon. Lay down.”

“Your lip is busted open, Peter”, you scold him softly. “I don’t think you can eat me out without risking infection. Spider-Man can’t have infections.”

He looks like he wants to retort, but you crunch your stomach and bring his head closer to you. The move is just as erotic as it was intimidating. You kiss his forehead and his nose to appease him. 

“Besides, you’re leaking onto the bedsheets.” 

Peter grumbles, biting down on the flesh of your thighs before he climbs further up. He cushions your legs over his own, bracing himself on his elbows as he noses at your neck. His hips grind in a smooth rhythm, his cock bumping into yours as he continues to mottle your neck. 

Peter reaches down, gathering your slick onto his tip before he places his tip onto your cunt. 

“Can I?” You nod at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting them on his shoulders. You feel the pressure build, then he slips inside. Both of you gasp at the breach, Peter groaning as his jaw loosens, his hands curling into fists as if this were his first time. You mewl out his name as he inches in some more, intent on milking him as he thrusts shallowly in and out. 

“God, you feel so tight,” You moan in agreement, nodding along to him as you feel yourself getting filled further and further. Peter kisses you, grunting when you squeeze down on him and reprimanding you by giving a sharp thrust. You squeak in glee, laughing breathlessly, which only makes you squeeze down on him more. 

“Fuck, fuck — don’t laugh,” Peter whines with a grin, grimacing as you try to calm down. He shushes you, covering your lips with his own, and you murmur your apologies to him, but he just continues to lock lips with you. 

Peter begins to thrust, the vein on his arms bulging as he loses more of his air to you. It’s thick, coiling in your stomach like a serpent when he continues to pick up the pace. The noises he makes are nearly animalistic as he sloppily makes out with you. Sweat and water are now running down the expanse of his back, and you encourage him with the sweetest noises he’s ever heard. 

“So good, shit — You feel so good.” Peter pulls away enough to reach down, and he folds your leg to your chest. It makes him go even deeper than before, and you toss your head back, panting as your orgasm about to rush through you. His balls swing heavily against you, and Peter thrusts himself to his hilt — his teeth slightly bared as he grinds in as deep as he can. 

“Fuh — Fuck! Pete - Peter, I’m going to —” he nods encouragingly, panting as he draws his hips back and snaps into you again. 

“C’mon, sweetheart. Cum f’me, tell me how good you feel. Fuck, I love you so much.”

Your back arches off the bed, and Peter maintains this pace, watching your body as your orgasm finally brings you to the peak of pleasure. He curses under his breath, losing his rhythm; his hips stuttering before he finally thrusts and fills you up. You shudder at the warmth that floods your insides, going lax as Peter carefully falls on top of you. His weight makes you grunt, but you wrap your arms around him and pepper kisses on his face and neck. He returns the favour, his messy hair tickling your ear and making you squirm enough for him to slip out with a sigh. 

Peter lies on his stomach, while you lie on your back, just allowing yourselves to catch your breath. 

“Was that —” 

You move to lie on your side, facing his smushed face as you flick his forehead.

“It was amazing, baby. Valentine's Day worthy, even,” you coo at him and he turns to hide his face in the pillows, nearly kicking his feet to your amusement. You roll your eyes at him, giggling when he wraps his arms around you to pull you closer to his side. 

“I love you,” he whispers against your forehead, and you slip your eyes closed, sighing softly. 

“I love you, too, Peter.”