#social code

[howifeltabouthim]

And could one tell such a story about a girl, especially if she asked you not to?

Iris Murdoch, from A Fairly Honourable Defeat

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Danny's first thought was that Dora was going to kill him.

His second thought was that Batman was going to kill him.

His third thought was that Batman looked a lot scarier as a pitch black dragon than Danny ever thought he would. Not that Danny really thought about it before he had turned every human in Gotham into dragons.

[jacksabbotts]

. ⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊ ☁︎ DBF!JACK x SW!READER !  ⋆˚࿔ ⋆⁺₊ # 🥼 possible trigger warnings .' mean!jack, readers literally gets stabbed, typical social worker cases ( child abuse and child replacement by cps ), incorrect medical injuries and hospital policy, profanity ( i am a cave man and say fuck every other word ), exactly one mention of the reader being catholic ( blink and you'll miss it ), ( PICTURES ARE FOR VIBES and or AESTHETICS ONLY, THE READER APPEARANCE NOT DESCRIBED !!! HOWEVER, READER IS DESCRIBED AS FEMALE !!! ) ‧ 🔆 ‧ ━━ WC 6.2k

. more jack abbot || inbox ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune + @honeyluvsw + @cursed-carmine

⤷ ✧ . · * . · .  CODE BLUE ( blue fuckin balls ) ━ 𖤓 ° ⋆ .ೃ࿔ * : ･ summary after getting stabbed during a cps intervention gone violently wrong, a chaos-mouthed social work intern wakes up in a trauma bay with her father’s best friend—dr. jack abbot—covered in her blood and absolutely livid. what follows is a spiral of fury, restraint, and inappropriate undressing that might just cost them both everything

the first thing they tell you when you start at the pitt isn’t about safety protocols, hipaa violations, or where to find the best vending machine snacks ( though, you know its in the er, between curtain four and five—dennis guards it like a troll under a bridge ).

it isn’t about how to fill out your casework logs, or what to say to grieving families, or even how to survive your practicum without burning out.

it’s — don’t let the doctors intimidate you.

you laughed when they said it. laughed harder when you met them ( these supposed intimidating doctors ).

because the truth is? it’s not the doctors who scare you. it’s not the blood or the chaos or the screams that spill out from ambulance bay doors at three am on a full moon.

it’s not the waiting room full of addicts or the bruised kids who flinch when you raise your voice too fast. it’s not even the hallway ghosts—those too-far-gone stares of people who’ve lost everything before you’ve had your morning coffee.

what scares you is silence. powerlessness. the inability to stop a cycle you’ve seen destroy too many lives.

so you don’t do silence. not anymore.

you talk. constantly. bluntly. sometimes inappropriately. ( frequently inappropriately. ) and if people mistake your sarcasm for cynicism, fine. you know what you are. you’re chaos in a clipboard. a disaster with a pen. a public health liability with half a master’s degree and zero sense of self-preservation.

but you get the job done.

you’re an intern—barely. midway through your master’s-slash-phd in clinical social work, still neck-deep in psych theory and practicum hour requirements, and somehow lucky ( or cursed ) enough to land your field placement at pittsburgh’s most chaotic level one trauma center.

the pitt.

it’s not glamorous. it’s not safe. but it’s real. raw and bloody and bursting at the seams with broken people and the systems that failed them.

and for someone like you? someone who lives off adrenaline and injustice? it’s perfect.

you work under kiara alfaro, the senior hospital social worker. she’s your mentor, your boss, and possibly the only reason you haven’t been kicked out yet. ( she’s also got a terrifyingly accurate bullshit detector and once body-checked a surgical resident for calling your trauma patient a junkie. you absolutely adore her. )

your caseload isn’t light. you’re not here for the flu patients or twisted ankles. you’re called for the ugly ones. rape kits. suicide watches. pediatric assaults. domestic violence stabbings. drug-induced psychosis. the patients no one wants to deal with but have to.

you talk them down. talk them through. talk them into staying. into breathing. into signing the discharge forms. into reporting the ones who hurt them. sometimes it works. sometimes it doesn’t.

sometimes you cry in the staff bathroom with the broken lock and the rusted sink. sometimes you rage in kiara's office while she hands you a capri sun and tells you to file your notes before you start swinging. sometimes you look in the mirror and think this is going to kill me.

but you keep showing up. because if you don’t—who will?

you’ve been at the pitt for a few months, operating on a strict intern basis. no medical license. no therapy credentialing. no prestige. just you, your badge, your student email, and the right to observe more trauma in a single day than most people will see in a lifetime.

and—against all odds—they keep letting you back in.

you spend most of your time in the er and critical care floors. they don’t trust you on pediatrics anymore ( after the bite incident—your fault, technically, but also his, for underestimating your reflexes ).

you rotate between psychiatric consults and post-trauma debriefings, occasionally shadowing grief counselors or addiction liaison teams. you’ve made a habit of inserting yourself into rounds you weren’t invited to. no one stops you anymore. probably because you’re too loud to ignore.

you argue with surgeons. you charm nurses. you steal pens from the front desk and hoard graham crackers from the break room like currency.

you sign your emails with “please advise,” but you haven’t taken anyone's advice in your life seriously. you are, by all accounts, a walking headache.

and yet—

and yet—

they keep letting you through the double doors.

most days, your outfit is half business casual, half emotional damage. your id badge hangs off a lanyard you’ve drawn on with sharpie ( someone added a devil horn doodle over your face—probably frank ). your shoes are scuffed. your hair's a mess. there’s a dried coffee stain on your clipboard that you think looks like a rorschach blot.

you’re everything a trauma hospital should’ve rejected.

but you’re also damn good at your job.

you don’t flinch. don’t shy away. don’t sugarcoat. you’ve got a mouth on you, sure—but it’s the same mouth that gets seventeen-year-old gang members to open up. the same mouth that gets battered women to sign police reports. the same mouth that gets under jack abbot’s skin so bad he once nearly walked into traffic trying to get away from you.

jack abbot is not your father.

that’s the first—and maybe the only—reason you get away with half the shit you say to him.

he doesn’t ground you. doesn’t bark orders. doesn’t tell you to cover up or smile more or stop swearing like a drunken sailor with unresolved childhood trauma.

( okay. he does tell you to stop swearing. a lot. like he’s in charge of your moral compass or some shit. like you didn’t come out of the womb swinging with a mouth full of curses and contempt. )

but he’s not your father. he’s your father’s best friend.

they met in the army. jack was the cocky field medic with a death wish and a chip on his shoulder; your dad was the steady one, the strategic one, the kind of man who could take down a room full of enemies without breaking a sweat. they weren’t supposed to like each other.

and yet—like most war-forged friendships—they bonded over shared trauma, near-death experiences, and enough black-market whiskey to kill a horse. your father saved jack’s life once, in some no-name desert hellhole you were never allowed to ask about. jack saved his in return, more than once.

they don’t talk about it much. but it’s there—in the way your father’s voice softens when jack’s name comes up. in the old photos buried in storage boxes, the kind you only found once by accident. two men. dirt-streaked. exhausted. bleeding at the edges and smiling.

so when your dad took his final deployment—a favor for an old war buddy, some quiet, off-the-books assignment you weren’t allowed to ask questions about—he came to jack.

told him you’d been placed at the pitt. told him you were a handful. told him—stern-faced, serious as death—“watch over her, please, jackie. she’s all i’ve got.”

and jack, in all his brooding, overworked, emotionally constipated glory? he said yes. of course he did. because he owed your father a life.

even if that life meant you.

from the start, it was a fucking disaster. you, with your sharp mouth and unapologetic stare. him, with his clinical detachment and simmering judgment.

he made it very clear that he didn’t want you there. that interns were a liability. that the er wasn’t a place for untrained, undisciplined brats with hero complexes.

“this isn’t your playground,” he snapped once, mid-code. “then stop acting like the fun police,” you shot back.

you’ve been circling each other like wolves ever since.

he acts like you’re a walking hr violation. like you’re too loud. too reckless. too much. he barks at you to “wash your damn mouth” and threatens to report you to kiara every other shift.

and yet he always asks kiara for a consults because he knows your her shadow. always steps between you and the messier patients. always lingers a little longer than he needs to.

you know what he thinks of you.

at least—you think you do.

you see the way he clenches his jaw when you open your mouth. the way his hands fist at his sides when you make another wildly inappropriate joke during patient intake.

the way he stares at the wall like it personally offended him whenever you show up in ripped jeans and combat boots, badge swinging, lip gloss smeared.

he hates you.

that’s fine.

you don’t like him much either.

except for the part where he’s the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your goddamn life. t’s not a crush. ( don’t be gross. ). its not like you’re in love with jack abbot.

it’s just—

he’s tall. and broad. and built like every repressed catholic fantasy you’ve ever denied having. he’s got those storm-grey curls, the ones that stay tucked behind his ears but go wild when he’s elbow-deep in a trauma bay. the ones you want to tug.

he’s got that scowl. the kind that could ruin someone’s week from across the nurses’ station. the kind that makes your knees go loose and your spine straighten like a challenge.

and his voice—low, gritted, tight with restraint when he says things like “for christ’s sake, show some professionalism.” or “someone outta put you in your fucking place.”

you joke. of course you joke. it’s how you cope. how you flirt. how you keep from actually climbing into his lap during lunch breaks and asking what it would take for him to shut you up with his mouth.

you flirt to cover the fact that your thighs press together every time he growls your name. you make innuendos like it’s a sport, smirk when he turns red with fury—or embarrassment. you push, and push, and push—because that’s the only way to keep the heat from swallowing you whole.

maybe it’s the age difference. the authority. the forbidden-ness of it all. maybe it’s the fact that jack would never touch you. that he’d rather chew off his own hand than admit he wants you back.

or maybe it’s just that you’ve never wanted anyone the way you want him.

and that is deeply humiliating.

but hey.

if he’s going to hate you anyway, you might as well make him sweat.

the er waiting room always hums.

not a pleasant hum. not an organized one. it’s the kind that drills into the softest part of your brain—the pitchy murmur of the too-sick, the too-loud, the too-gone. crying babies. phones ringing. someone yelling at the front desk because triage didn’t call them back fast enough. the buzz of ancient fluorescent lighting overhead, threatening to go out with a cough.

the air smells like bleach and blood and too many lives falling apart at once. it always does.

you’ve gotten used to it. or you’ve told yourself that, anyway.

you’re standing just outside the nurse’s station with kiara, clipboard in hand, trying to keep your voice steady while a man across from you—mid-forties, greasy flannel, bad tattoos—grips the arm of a child hard enough to leave bruises. you clock it instantly. not just the way he holds the kid, but the way he looks at you.

he’s sizing you up. like you’re a problem he could fix with one punch. and you smile at him like you’d throw the first one.

the kid’s maybe five. thin. wide-eyed. a little too quiet.

she’s scurried away to sit in one of the plastic waiting room chairs with a worn stuffed elephant in her lap, thumb in her mouth, skin patchy with what looks like old healing burns beneath her sweater sleeves.

you’d seen the marks during intake—saw the nurse’s note, the mandatory flag. you didn’t have to see more. you knew the minute the man walked in and said, “my niece had an accident,” with a voice that carried too much ownership, that this wasn’t going to end clean.

“mr. marsh,” kiara says, voice smooth as steel. “we’ve reviewed the preliminary findings and spoken with emergency services. given the nature of your niece’s injuries and the statements made by responding personnel, we’re initiating a cps report and placing her in temporary protective custody.”

“the fuck you are.” there it is. the snap. like a bone cracking beneath too much pressure.

you take a step closer, clipboard still clutched to your chest. your voice doesn’t waver. “sir, i am going to need you to remain calm—”

“that’s my family,” he growls, stepping toward the girl. “you don’t get to take her. her mom’s strung out in allegheny county lockup, and i’m the only one left who gives a damn.”

“then maybe,” you say, tone bone-dry, “you shouldn’t have yanked on her arm like it was a doorknob.” kiara shoots you a look. not sharp, just tired. like she doesn’t have the energy to scold you again.

the man’s face reddens. his hand balls into a fist. the girl doesn’t move. she’s frozen, eyes wide, thumb still in her mouth. you crouch slowly, give her a soft smile.

“hey, sweetheart. why don’t you come with me for a minute, okay? we’ve got crayons and popsicles in the back. you ever had a grape one?” she nods—barely. you offer your hand.

“c’mon. i promise we’ll keep mr. elephant safe.” she places her tiny fingers in yours like they weigh the world. you stand. kiara gestures toward nina, another social worker lingering at the edge of the chaos. she whisks the girl away down the corridor, away from the tension. the man’s gaze follows, sharp as a razor.

“you fucking bitch,” he spits, suddenly surging forward. you move to intercept without thinking. kiara’s already trying and failing at stepping in between.

you’ve dealt with aggression before. screaming. threats. broken phones. but there’s something in this man’s eyes—something off.

his face twitches. his fingers twitch. and you realize, far too late, he’s not reaching for the girl. “sir, back up,” kiara warns, hand outstretched, looking around for security. “you’re making this worse than it has to be.”

“you don’t know what worse looks like.” he’s practically vibrating. something clicks in your mind. something primal.

you’ve seen that look before—in addicts cornered during psych evals, in violent exes slamming their fists against locked doors, in men who think the world owes them something and that women are the debt collectors.

your gut twists.

and then you see it, a flicker of silver beneath the hem of his coat. a quick glint. the blade of a pocketknife. your clipboard hits the ground before you realize you dropped it. “hey!” you bark, voice suddenly sharp, not social-worker-soft, not trauma-informed-friendly, just loud. “put it the fuck down—”

and that’s when he lunges. "security!"

you know what no one tells you about being stabbed?

it’s hot.

not sharp. not icy. not cinematic.

just heat. blinding, white-hot, ripping through your side like a flare gun fired point-blank into soft tissue. your nerve endings go haywire, like they can’t agree whether to scream or shut down entirely. your ribs jar against the blow, and for a horrifying half-second, you think maybe the blade's still inside you.

but then—

oh.

no, he pulled it out.

that’s why there’s so much blood.

you stumble backward, hand pressed hard against your ribs, your palm already soaked in wet warmth. it pulses through your fingers like a second heartbeat, fast and panicked and very, very wrong.

you don’t fall gracefully.

you drop like a shot deer—clumsy, knees sideways, landing half on your elbow and half on someone’s crumpled hoodie on the floor. the pain makes you howl. a strangled, animal sound that bursts from your chest unfiltered.

“what the fu—!”

your vision swims. a dark haze edges the corners of your eyes like burnt film. somewhere to your left, kiara is screaming. somewhere to your right, the guy who stabbed you is being tackled by two guards and a passing cna with murder in his eyes.

and you are bleeding out on the floor of a hospital you technically don’t even work at, clutching your side with a hand that won’t stop shaking.

“don’t move—don’t—fuck, nina, get help! get trauma down here—now!” that’s kiara’s voice. commanding. terrified. you’d try to comfort her, if you weren’t so goddamn angry.

“you gotta be some kind of stupid to stab a woman in a hospital?! are you fucking kidding me—!” your voice cracks as it rises, climbing toward hysteria.

you’re not crying. you’re just sweating aggressively out of your eyes, okay? your lungs fight to inflate. you suck in a breath and get half of it before the wound tugs wrong and you double over with a wet groan. you bite it back. barely.

a nurse skids into view, dropping to their knees beside you. young, new and fucking terrified. “okay, okay, okay—you’re okay, we’re gonna—we’re gonna apply pressure—”

“don’t you fucking touch me!” you snarl through gritted teeth. they blink at you, visibly rattled. but nevertheless, the pressure they apply is not gentle.

“jesus fuck—!” you nearly slap them. not on purpose. just a reflex. you reach down, trying to press your own hand harder over theirs, but everything is slippery. the blood just keeps coming. you can feel it soaking through layers—shirt, bra, coat, the fucking bandaid kiara made you slap over your tattoo this morning.

“this is not how i die,” you whisper, wild-eyed. “i am not dying in a polyester blazer with a hot topic pin on it—” the nurse stares at you. “you’re not dying.”

“tell that to my entire blood volume on the ground—!”

another wave of pain rolls through you. it crests in your throat, pushes a sob halfway up your windpipe before you grit it down again. you taste copper. maybe from your split lip, maybe from sheer, molten rage.

kiara’s crouched over you now, speaking fast into a radio clipped to her hip and then yelling at the nurse on the other side of the partition at the front desk. “go get a doctor! and a gurney! now!”

you clutch at her sleeve, your other hand still pinned over your gushing side. “i’m gonna throw up,” you croak.

“don’t you dare,” she says, gripping your wrist. “i mean it,” you say, “right in your lap, kiara—dead center—”

the lights above you seem to buzz louder now. or maybe that’s your ears. or your heart. or your ego leaving your body after the most undignified five minutes of your professional life.

you’re lying in the middle of the er waiting room. you’re covered in your own blood. you’ve officially scared a nurse into silence. and the worst part?

you still haven’t gotten that goddamn cps paperwork filed.

you try to sit up.

that was a big mistake. the pain grabs you by the spine and yanks. your breath catches—snaps, really—and for one awful second, everything goes white. like full-screen, clinical-grade whiteout.

“no—nope, i'm gonna stay down—here . . .”

someone’s hands on your shoulders now. more nurses. more shouting. “where’s the gurney? i called for a gurney—”

you feel the floor shift under your back as someone slides a board beneath you. the cold plastic against your spine makes you shudder. you’re dimly aware of a woman trying to start an iv in your left arm while someone else pinches the skin near your jaw to keep you conscious.

“stay with us, sweetheart—what’s your name?”

“don’t call me sweetheart. i will end your whole bloodline.”

“vitals dropping—systolic’s barely hanging on—”

“i swear to god if you cut this top i’m gonna—fuck—fuck!”

and then—just when you’re about to black out from blood loss, indignation, and the unbearable itch of polyester against your sweat-slicked neck—you hear it.

the er double doors slam open with force. someone stomps in. heavy boots. heavy breath. a voice like a blade drawn clean from its sheath. “move.” and the second you hear it, every cell in your body screams oh no.

because that’s jack.

and you are so fucked.

he doesn’t run. jack doesn’t need to run. he moves like a force of nature—like a landslide with a license to practice medicine and no goddamn patience left. his eyes scan the chaos.

security wrestling with the man who stabbed you. blood smeared on the floor like some fucked-up jackson pollock. kiara kneeling over you, hand pressed to your side.

and then—he sees you.

you’re half-upright on the gurney now, barely. propped on one elbow, trying to stop the nurses from cutting your blazer with a pair of trauma shears. your delirious at this point. “don’t—don’t—i like this outfit, i swear to god i’ll sue someone—”

“she’s in shock,” someone murmurs beside him. “she lost a lot of blood—she needs—”

"i'm not in shock—jack, tell them i'm being fucking serious—ow, ow—!"

“out of my way.” he doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t need to because in an instant, they scatter. and then he’s at your side.

“jesus christ,” he growls, and his hands are already on you—gripping your jaw, tipping your face toward his. checking your pupils. your color. “what the fuck happened?”

you blink up at him. you’re smiling. why are you smiling? your teeth are pink. you can taste your own blood on you tongue. “hi, jackie,” you slur. “you ever see your life flash before your eyes and it’s just thirty seconds of you eating string cheese in a hospital bathroom?”

his nostrils flare. his jaw clicks. his hands tighten just slightly where they hold your face. “what part of ‘stay out of red-level interventions’ did you not fucking understand?”

“what part of ‘this kid was getting beat to hell’ did you miss—ow—fuck, jack—” he’s already assessing the wound. pulling back the soaked fabric. his fingers are too skilled. too gentle. it makes you dizzy in a different way.

“knife wound. lower right quadrant. no visible organ evisceration. bleeding’s heavy but localized." one of the nurses that scattered, called out towards jack. he nod and then yells, "get trauma five ready. now!”

the nurses move like they’ve been struck. someone shoves open the trauma bay doors. the gurney wheels groan. “we were doing our job,” kiara cuts in, still breathless, still covered in your blood. almost as if she knows jack is about to rip her a new one.

jack’s head snaps toward her. his voice drops. “your job was to keep her out of this kind of risk. not to throw her into a cps confrontation without a trained intervention officer or security present.”

“we didn’t know he had a knife.”

“then maybe next time you vet the violent assholes before they get within stabbing distance! she's my responsibility, kiara! 'er dad's my best friend!”

oof.

your heart skips at that one.

kiara looks like she’s been slapped. but Jack’s not done. “you were supposed to keep her out of danger.” his voice breaks slightly—not enough for anyone else to notice.

but you do.

the gurney jerks forward. “you’re gonna be fine,” jack mutters, voice low, tight, as he walks beside you. “you hear me?”

“yeah, but . . . like. hot fine or regular fine? because i feel like i’m leaking in ways that’ll mess up my whole aesthetic—”

“shut up.”

“you’re so mean to me.”

“you got stabbed, you little brat.”

“yeah, but like . . . for justice.”

he looks like he wants to strangle you. or kiss you. or both.

they wheel you through the trauma bay doors. he’s still there. still hovering. still furious. and somewhere, under the pain and the blood and the rising nausea—

you feel safe. which is the most dangerous thing of all. because you did just get fucking stabbed.

the gurney squeals around the corner on uneven wheels, one of them stuck from some ancient collision with a supply cart two years ago. you feel it drag beneath you every few feet, the jolt punching through your spine like a hammer to bone.

you’re vaguely aware of the nurse—jess? jenny?—shouting something about trauma bay five. you think shen is pushing your legs. you think you told him once you liked his cargo boots. maybe you hallucinated that.

you can’t tell.

everything’s red. sticky. pulsing. all too bright.

jack’s hands are still on you. one pressed hard to your side, keeping the pressure constant. the other gripping the metal railing of the gurney like he wants to rip it off. he’s leaning over you, breathing hard, jaw clenched so tight you swear you can hear his molars grinding.

“where the fuck is security?!” his voice ricochets off the corridor walls. “i want them in the trauma bay—now!” shen flinches.

“already called. they're on their way—”

“they should’ve been there before she was stabbed!”

“dr. abbot—”

the rage coming off jack is nuclear.

you’re still bleeding. not as fast as before, but enough that your skin’s gone cold. your lips feel weird. you want to say something sarcastic but it’s like your brain’s swimming through molasses.

jack’s hand—broad, steady, coated in your blood—grips your wrist suddenly, anchoring you to the gurney frame as they jerk you through the trauma bay doors. you know he's looking for a pulse because your eyes have begun to flutter.

“you with me?” he asks, voice rougher now. lower. a crack under all that rage. “don’t you dare close your eyes.”

“s’just… a little nap,” you mumble. “ten minutes, jackie…”

“no. no naps. open your fucking eyes.”

they stop moving. the gurney locks in. the light above you flares on—white, sterile, cruel. but it doesn't matter because you are no longer awake. "fuck!" jack curses when he looks down and immediately notices your eyes have closed and not reopened.

a flurry of movement. gloves. gauze. someone ( shen ) pulls out trauma scissors. jack slaps their hand away. “touch that top and she’ll gut you when she wakes up.”

“it's covered in blood—” shen tries to argue.

“so is everything else in this room. you want to cut something? cut the fuckin' attitude.” he doesn’t stop moving. one hand is pressing gauze to your side, the other already reaching for the overhead tray before the nurse can even finish unwrapping the sterile kit. his voice is tight, rapid, mechanical.

“bp?”

“dropping.”

“push one liter lr wide open, then start the second. two large-bore ivs. i need four-o suture, lidocaine, betadine—now.”

“we called trauma surgery—”

“i've got it! it's not deep enough for surgery, we just gotta stop the bleeding.”

and then the door opens again. security arrives. two of them. maybe three. doesn’t matter. he doesn’t glance up. doesn’t stop.

he’s already cutting away the soaked fabric with steady ( already going against what you wanted and what he told shen not to do ), clinical hands, fingers stained deep rust-red, jaw clenched hard enough to crack enamel. blood sticks to his wrists, smears the dark of his black scrub top.

he leans over your side, peering into the wound, lips pressed into a razor-thin line. the pads of his fingers ghost across your skin—professional, careful, but desperate.

and then, jack rounds on them like a storm.

he looks insane. still gloved—blood dripping. still holding your wrist like a lifeline. “you.” his voice is a snarl now. “how the fuck did a man with a weapon get past you?”

he doesn’t yell it at anyone specific. or maybe he does. maybe it’s aimed at security, still standing by the door like they’re not five seconds away from being flayed alive.

they hesitate.

“no, really—how? was he invisible? did the metal detector take the night off? did someone forget to give a single fuck about basic safety protocol?”

“he wasn’t flagged—he didn’t show signs of escalation—”

“you let him sit ten feet from an unaccompanied minor and a staff intern—are you fucking kidding me?!”

still no pause. no hitch in motion. he injects lidocaine near the wound with terrifying precision. his voice lowers ( just a hair ) when he talks to shen. “local in. she’s stable enough for sutures. five centimeters, shallow, anterior rib margin—start prepping now.”

a nurse scrubs your side. you wince even in unconsciousness.

“he was apprehended—"

“after—she was bleeding. on the floor.”

“dr. abbot—” kiara’s voice behind him is calm, firm, a professional’s warning, dares to speak. “you’re not being rational.”

he spins on her.

“rational?” he echoes, without looking at her. “she’s twenty-four. she’s a grad student. she was assigned to work under you. and now i’m the one threading her skin back together while you stand there acting like this is just another thursday.”

he glares at her. it’s enough to cut through steel. “you want to talk rational? let’s start with what the fuck went wrong on your watch.”

kiara flinches. but says nothing. he goes back to you. “vitals holding,” a nurse says. “we’re okay.”

“she is not fucking okay,” jack mutters. “she’s just not dead yet.”

you blink up at him. your voice is weak. but you can’t help it. “you always this mean to girls who bleed on you?” his eyes flick down. his jaw tightens. but his heart races at the fact that you have come back to consciousness.

“you’re not special.”

“liar.”

his hands don’t tremble. not even a little. but his breathing’s off. you know it is. “you need to stop talking,” he says flatly.

“you need to stop flirting,” a nurse mutters.

“i’m dying, let me have this.”

“you are not dying,” jack grits out. “and you are making this infinitely worse.”

“you’re hot when you’re mad.”

“i’m always mad.”

“yeah, but now you’re mad and wrist-deep in my side, which is kind of hot—ow ow ow okay, okay—” he tightens the last suture knot with a jerk. you yelp. shen snorts in the corner and coughs to cover it.

the room is quieter now. not silent—never in the trauma bay. but steadier. the bleeding’s under control. the adrenaline’s burning off. and jack is still covered in your blood.

“start her on a gram of cefazolin, monitor hourly. no oral intake for the next four. if she tries to leave, fuckin' sedate her. and someone—” he turns to security, eyes like frozen steel. “—better have gotten that fucking asshole outta my waiting room."

he finally stops moving.

finally pulls his gloves off—snap, snap—and tosses them into the bin. then the trauma bay doors shut with a hiss of finality as the nurses and security and shen leave the trauma room.

the moment they do, the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. not from the ac. not from the sterile tile or the sweat drying on your skin.

from jack.

he stands just inside the door, his chest heaving like he sprinted through a war zone—like he’s still in one. his jaw is clenched. his eyes are locked on you.

and you, sprawled across the gurney, still half in your ruined clothes and half in denial, look up at him with a dazed little frown. “Your mad at me?” your voice is quiet and severely lacking all its bravado. he doesn’t answer.

he just strides toward the sink, scrubs his hands again with rough, punishing motions, blood still drying along his forearms. you watch the water swirl red into the drain.

he doesn't speak until his hands are clean. he doesn’t look at you until the blood is off. and even then, it’s not a soft look. “you’re a fucking idiot.”

you blink at him. "because it was my fucking fault i got stabbed."

“don’t start,” he bites, already reaching for the medical wipes and gauze. “you don’t get have an attitude right now.”

“i got stabbed. pretty sure that buys me a little attitude.”

“pretty sure you’re not in charge of anything right now.” he steps to your side, eyes flicking over the damage. your shirt’s cut down the middle, soaked through with dried and tacky blood. your skin is sticky, crusted red in patches, with fresh bruises blooming violet along your ribs.

his lips press into a furious line as he grips the edge of your shirt. “sit up.”

“why?”

“so i can get this off you and clean you up.”

“y’know, if you wanted me naked that badly, you could’ve just asked—”

“sit. the fuck. up.”

you do. slowly. with a hiss and a wince and a muttered insult about men with god complexes. he peels the shirt off of you with surgical precision, muttering something under his breath the whole time.

“stupid. reckless. could’ve punctured a lung. could’ve hit the liver. bleeding like a goddamn faucet and still making fucking jokes—”

you’re stripped down to your bra now. not a cute one. one of the functional, beige, i didn’t think i’d be impaled today variety. blood has soaked halfway down it.

he sees it. he doesn’t react. just throws the shirt aside and grabs a saline wipe. “this’ll sting.”

“oh, now you’re warning me?” the cold hits your ribs and you flinch so hard your elbow nearly clocks him in the chin. he doesn’t back away. he doesn’t soften. his hand goes to your shoulder, presses you down, holds you still.

“do you have any idea what you just did?” his voice is low now. dangerous. “what kind of risk you took?” you look at him. smirk twitching. weak, but still there.

“i saved a kid.”

“you could’ve died.”

“you think i don’t know that?”

“then what the fuck were you thinking?!”

his voice cracks on that last word. not loud. but broken. you go quiet.

his hand on your shoulder trembles once—just once—before tightening again. the saline stings as he wipes more of the blood from your stomach, your ribs, your hip. he moves like he’s trying not to hurt you. but everything about him is rigid.

he tosses the gauze into the bin. grabs the gown from the side tray.

“arms up.”

“bossy.”

“up.”

you raise them.

he slips the gown over your head like he’s furious at the fabric. it’s thin. starched. smells like bleach and regret. yanks the ties into place. tugs the hem down over your thighs with clinical detachment and short, angry motions—like the fabric personally insulted him. you flinch at the tug.

you think that’s it.

you think he’s done.

you think you’re safe.

you are not safe.

“we need to get that bra off.” his voice is flat, cold. utterly clinical. you blink. slowly. “it’s fine,” you lie. “i’ll take care of it later.”

“it’s soaked in blood.”

“a little vintage gore never hurt anybody.”

“it’s sticking to the skin near your wound. if it dries like that, i’ll have to cut it off and re-irrigate. you won’t like that.”

“you could’ve just said you wanted to see me topless.”

he stares at you like he wants to put you back in shock on purpose.

“i'm going to unhook it,” he says, already stepping around the gurney. “don’t make this weird.”

“too late.”

he exhales sharply—through his nose, through gritted teeth—and moves behind you. the room is quiet now. just the soft shuffle of his boots, the faint beeping of the vitals monitor, the rustle of your hospital gown as he pulls it back from your shoulders—just enough to reach the clasp.

your breath hitches. not from pain. from how goddamn careful he is. his fingers graze the curve of your spine—knuckles rough, fingertips clean, not gloved anymore but still stained faintly with your blood.

“tilt forward a little.”

you do.

you feel the graze of his knuckle against your ribs.

your skin lights up under every inch he touches. a wildfire. a problem. “i’m only doing this so it doesn’t stick,” he mutters, as if reading your goddamn mind. “sure,” you whisper, lips dry. “that’s what they all say.”

he doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t scold you for once.

and that? that’s worse.

the clasp clicks open with a soft snap.

he pulls the bra away from your back, one side at a time, fabric peeling slow over the dried blood on your skin. you hiss—part pain, part—well. not pain.

“i’ll throw it out,” he says, folding it into a biohazard bag.

“no ceremony? that thing’s seen more action than my entire dating history.” still no answer. he tugs the gown back up your arms. re-ties it. his fingers brush the nape of your neck. you nearly shiver.

“you’re burning up,” he mutters.

“you’re touching me.”

“you’re delirious.”

“you’re still touching me.”

he pauses. just one breath. just one moment. then, “don’t make this worse than it is.” if you didn't know any better you'd of thought he was begging. you turn your head. “you’re the one undressing me in a trauma bay, jack.”

his jaw tightens. "we’re done here.”

“that’s too bad,” you murmur, “i was starting to like being manhandled.” he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. doesn’t breathe. but when he turns away—you catch it. that twitch of his hand. that flicker of restraint.

that crack.

“you think this is a joke. that bleeding out in my er is some kind of fucking bit.”

“jack—”

“you don’t get it. you don’t.” you stare at him. he’s pacing now. hands on his hips, breathing shallow. “you could’ve died. do you know what that would’ve done to your dad? to me?”

your heart skips. he realizes what he’s said. he closes his eyes. breathes. once. twice. “i’m going to go fill out your chart.”

he turns toward the door.

but not before you whisper, “you were scared.” he stops but he doesn’t turn around. “you were scared for me.”

another pause. “say it, jack.”

silence. then, without turning—“don’t you ever fucking do that again.”

🔖  .   @Princesssunderworld  @mayabbot  @Arigoldsblog  @oldmanbunnylover  @lovelexi717  @peggyofoz  @qtmoonies  @nfwmb-gvf  @babybatreads  @bitteroceanlove  @spooky-librarian-ghost  @gardeniarose13  @kmc1989  @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono  @maiamore  @madzleigh01  @qardasngan  @anxiousfuckupon  @Lumpypoll  @Coldmuffinbanditshoe  @blueliketheseaa  @m14mags  @generalstarlightobject  @Thedamnqueenofhell  @abllor @Loud-mouph @cannonindeez  @Sabi127  @Sammiib444  @painment  @namgification  @Cherry_cosmos  @catmomstyles3 @amindfullofmonsters @moonriseoverkyoto @karavt @beefbaby25 @i-get-obsessed-fast @badwolfvexa @violetswritingg @silas-aeiou @rosellerinfrost @saidinpassing @alldaysdreamers @concentratedconcrete @blackirisesinthesunlight @notgothenough @valkyreally@hiireadstuff @beltzboys2015 @gardeniarose13 @oldmanbunnylover @Anglophileforlife @madprincessinabox @fairygardensss @pope-codys @spooky-librarian-ghost @breegirlxoxo @xxxkat3xxx @fadeinsol @anxious-fuck-upon @gimme1margarita @katydunn67 @lunyyx @charlietriestoshift @soiiifon @beebeechaos @babybatreads

part two??? maybe??? lmk if you want one lmao

[bruciemilf]

Gothamites are soooo normal about the waynes (me when I lie)

[gingerswagfreckles]

Anyone else feel like we're shifting from the "no one supports Hamas" era to the "supporting Hamas isn't antisemitism" era? Like in terms of what antisemitic normies are willing to say on public platforms to Jews' faces.

[whereserpentswalk]

Just saw a "feminist" video essay (by someone who just happens to only talk about feminism in relation to cishet white able bodied women) say that the Hays Code was good for women because it "prevented them from sexualizing women by preventing onscreen depictions of sex". Never before has a video said something that made me vocalize my disgust of it's takes, but this did it.

I didn't think I would have to say this but if you defend the Hays code you are horrible and not in any way progressive. And if you don't know what it is please look it up because it's probably the most important piece of history when it comes to all media analysis in the western world.

[crimson-and-clover-1717]

Stede and Ed are both patient with the other when they don’t understand fully the social codes of a particular setting. They’re so earnest in their suggestions of suitable interactions, and the other with better knowledge, gently steers away without being hurtful.

In 105, Stede advises gently that this is ‘not really the crowd for ‘skull talk’, and ‘eye-gouging’ but doesn’t criticise the story or action itself. Rather, it’s the wrong context being it’s a ship full of French aristocrats.

Similarly, in 108, Ed suggests ‘this crowd’ i.e. pirates, as not being suitable for an insane foliage field trip, but doesn’t criticise the idea itself.

Stede and Ed also operate outside of the group in question. Stede doesn’t align himself with the aristocrats by saying he doesn’t like the anecdote. Likewise, Ed talks as an observer of the Revenge crew in suggesting they might enjoy a different activity (which Jack supplies - yardies). Ed’s not into insane foliage either as demonstrated openly in 107; but when not in that environment directly, he’s able to be much more diplomatic with Stede. He doesn’t mock Stede’s suggestion and seems to find it extremely endearing because it’s so left-field, so Stede.

And I think part of why they’re so patient with the other in navigating social mores is because they don’t come naturally to Stede or Ed. Stede certainly will have had to learn social codes carefully presenting often as neurodiverse. Even he struggles to fit in with the toffs, ending the evening outside, before weaponising his knowledge against them.

It’s less clear the extent to which Ed had to ‘learn pirate behaviour’, but it’s unlikely it came naturally knowing the soft-natured boy Ed was. Ed is a quick study though and would’ve learned how to fit into the world of toxic masculinity because he had to. But it’s not who he is (and it’s killing him slowly), which is why he is able to detach and comment on behaviours in a way Jack never could.

Stede and Ed don’t always get it right in understanding the other’s idiosyncrasies (Stede fails to grasp the significance of ‘stab me’ just as much as Ed fails to understand the treasure hunt at first), but they want to, and more often than not they do. They often protect the other’s self esteem without resorting to undue criticism of things outside their own understanding and experience. And that’s why they’re going to succeed as a couple.

[emilinqa]

star trek tos is deeply entrenched in its identity as a 60s tv show for better or for worse (both) but i think retroactively the city on the edge of forever ends up showcasing this more now since its set in a time we can now as 21st century viewers connect with being closer to the time it was produced, rather than the nebulous 23rd. it's interesting because for me i think the single episode informs the way i connect an imagined future to the actual real 1960s the show was written in, particularly in the language and the way relationships between characters are depicted in the way they speak to one another. in that single episode it suddenly feels that the coded language everyone uses, the subtext, the hints and euphemisms is a necessity of the world rather than a feature of the show. and suddenly (for me, at least) that totally shapes the rest of the way i view the rest of the original series. though the way they speak to one another doesn't really tangibly change all that much, when they're placed in the setting of the 1930s the way that kirk and spock speak to each other and about one another entirely shifts.

edith asks kirk in regards to his relationship with spock "I still have a few questions I'd like to ask about you two. Oh, and don't give me that 'questions about little old us' look, you know as well as I do how out of place you two look here." which. well. hello. and later when she asks "Why does Spock call you captain? Were you in the war together?" and kirk says "we... served together" its like yes the obfuscation of their identities and who they are to one another is a necessity of the plot and time travel reasons but i also can't pretend that particular response doesn't color kirks line 2 episodes later in amok time "you've been called the best first officer in the fleet, that's an... enormous asset to me" in a different light. the necessity of secrets and closed doors and frantically having to conceal themselves and their tiny little apartment with a pair of twin beds and ediths "you, by his side as if you've always been there and always will" and "'Captain'? See, even when he doesn't say it, he does" well i can't act like it doesn't change the way i see their enforced professional distance in other episodes, even when they're back safe in their own century. its why The conversation cut from the original harlon ellison script hits seriously i think. it's like a deeply personal confession of desire for a life that could never be: "On my world the nights are very long. The sound of the silver bird against the sky is very sweet. My people know there is always time enough for everything. You would be comfortable there" and a wistful acceptance ("All the time in the world...") in another time in another life in another place it could be but just not this one. spock's endless resignation. well it just changes everything for me. star trek is about the 1960s!!!!!!

[zorangezest]

Hay faggot, just wanted to know , do you support wavewave? 🤔🤨

ceying. hello dear anon good afternoon. i personally dont ship wavewave (or any soundwave ships) but i have nothing against it and it is extremely funny to think about

[teddiedare]

such a gentleman ♡

inspired by the way these two walk around together and this tweet in particular

[sw4nfire]

so I made the mistake of listening to the character songs sung by the voice actors and it sparked a buggy centric mad max style musician/music au and I cant get it out of my head here is a google doc with all the details and my reasonings

I tried not to change much about one piece's wacky world since I love it so much

[zaebeecee]

No, you don't want the Hays Code to come back.

Listen, I get it. I'm aroace. I don't like sitting through gratuitous sex scenes that do nothing for the plot and exist solely for the purpose of "being a sex scene in the movie". It's lazy writing and a cheap marketing ploy, to be sure, but don't try to fool yourself into believing that a return of the Hays Code will somehow only change this particular aspect of film, and that everything else will be allowed to flourish as a result.

Let's pretend that the Hays Code did come back. If that ever happened, what kinds of things could you expect from all film, going forward? Well, we're going to go on a journey. I'm going to go through the Hays Code (which you can find here in its entirety if you'd like to read it) point by point, and the following list is just what immediately comes to mind while doing that. I promise you, the full list is much, much longer.

Things you could look forward to if the Code came back:

You don't get any more sympathetic villains. The very first rule of the Hays Code is "the sympathy of the audience should never be thrown to the side of crime, wrongdoing, evil or sin".

There will be no more characters who are happily allowed to live any lifestyle alternative to the Average American Nuclear Family With Dad And Mom And 2.5 Kids And A Dog. This includes everything from queer representation to just having a woman who doesn't want to get married (or, Heaven forfend, wants a divorce). Any characters who are living lives like this will either 1) have this rectified by the end of the story, usually by falling in love with the promise of marriage and a family, or 2) die.

There won't be any more criticism of the police or the government unless it comes from villains, at which point the criticism will be so cartoonishly over the top and miss the point so hard it isn't even criticism anymore. If a protagonist holds any of these views, they will very quickly be "set straight".

You won't have any more horror movies with any part of the horror coming from the portrayal of a character's death, because the Code prohibits murder shown in any context that people might theoretically be able to imitate or with any brutality whatsoever. The shower scene in Psycho pushed this rule almost to its breaking point.

All crime procedurals will be barebones by necessity, because even crime on property or non-violent crime (theft/robbery, arson, smuggling, etc) will not be allowed to be presented with any level of detail. Any sort of heist story will not exist for the same reason.

There will be no more action movies with guns in them, as the only presentation of firearms allowed will be "restricted to the essentials".

Not only can smuggling not be portrayed, basically everything about illegal drugs will be banned from film.

Characters will only drink alcohol in any form at all if it's critical to the plot.

No romantic affairs unless they're a vital plot point.

The ban on sex will not be limited to on-scene sex. There will be no kissing or even embracing that could be construed as "lustful", as well as no characters allowed to even hold themselves in a vaguely provocative manner. Also, the very act of seduction is banned, even if it's in a positive light.

Oh, hey, look, a good one: any rape must be essential to the plot, non-explicit in any capacity, and never used for comedy. You get one, Hays.

No more queer people. At all.

The Code explicitly bans the portrayal of "White slavery" and "miscegenation". Know what those are? "A white woman traveling in any capacity with a black man" and "any marriage between a white person and a black person".

No stories of anyone suffering from an STD.

No childbirth. You can't even say the word 'pregnant', and showing a woman who is pregnant is pushing your luck.

Good one number two: no depicting children in an even vaguely suggestive manner. So that's two, Hays.

The points on 'vulgarity' and 'obscenity' are so incredibly vague that basically anything objectionable is subject to being banned depending on the personal opinion of the person making the judgment. Also, no more jokes for parents in kid's movies, and that's not limited to sexual innuendo, because the obscenity clause forbids even the possible suggestion of something that might be considered objectionable even if only a small portion of the audience will understand it.

No profanity, for any reason.

There won't be any costumes that are considered immodest according to the standards of 1930. Also, you can't portray anyone undressing or being exposed to the point of indecency according to the standards of 1930.

No one will be allowed to dance in any way that isn't your basic Jr. High slow "save room for Jesus" type dancing. This includes, but isn't limited to, dances with any sort of sexually provocative moves. For context, it was this restriction that had people calling for Elvis Presley to be arrested and burning his records, because of that basic little back and forth hip movement he did. It wasn't even thrusting, it was mostly side to side.

There will be zero critique of religion. Doesn't matter why. On this note, the only acceptable portrayal of religious figures will be as wise, caring espousers of good advice and wisdom. No religious figures as villains or presented in a comedic light. Also, all religious ceremonies are to be respectful if portrayed and cannot be used for negative plot reasons.

If they show a married couple's bedroom, the couple must have separate beds, because you can't even suggest that a married couple are sleeping together.

Anything relating to the flag of the USA or patriotism will be required to be shown in a positive light. The same can be said of representations of other countries and cultures... according to the standards of 1930.

Good point three: no animal or child cruelty.

"Oh but isn't the next point good" no because "the sale of women" just means prostitution, so yeah, no more sex workers. And not just them actively working, you can't portray them at all.

Medical dramas and war dramas won't be able to portray surgery.

Now, yes, it's true that the Code goes on to clarify points, with things like "it's okay to sympathize with the person committing the crime, just not the crime itself", but these clarifications are always just there to make the Code seem less like a totalitarian dictatorship. Also, do you really think people are going to push their luck and possibly have their work subjected to severe third-party editing or, worse, flat out banned? Of course not. Filmmakers are going to err on the side of caution and not push anything.

You might be looking at this list and thinking, "but I know a lot of characters from the Code era that did all this stuff!" Right. I'm sure you did. And they were villains, by and large. And if they weren't, they were either fixed because it was a dramatic plot point, or they were punished with death.

I'm sure there are things on this list that you think are fine. But I'm just as positive that there's at least one thing that bans something you personally like. And I suggest you just stop for a second and think about all the media you like, and how many of them—under strict adherence to this code—would be banned.

Being in my 30s, some of these might be old or outdated enough to be obscure, but this would ban (or change past the point of recognition) things like Breaking Bad, NBC's Hannibal, Monty Python anything, V for Vendetta, James Bond, everything MCU and DCU, Ocean's 11, The Big Lebowski, The Boondock Saints, The Walking Dead, most every reality show in existence, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, The Substance, Straight Outta Compton, Heretic, Nosferatu, The Hunger Games, Percy Jackson, Salem's Lot, Boardwalk Empire, Wicked, The Passenger, Glass Onion and Knives Out, half of everything the Muppets have ever done, Smile, Skinamarink, The Babadook, Sister Act, The Blues Brothers, Gone Girl, X, Jurassic Park, Death Becomes Her, The Birdcage, Cabaret, Repo! The Genetic Opera, Mrs. Doubtfire, Smokey and the Bandit, Jaws, The Nun, The Amityville Horror, Reefer Madness, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Little Shop of Horrors, Moulin Rouge!, Les Miserables, Chicago, Hamilton, Adventure Time, The Menu, To Wong Foo, Paris is Burning, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, It, The Godfather trilogy, The Thing, Shakespeare in Love, Pirates of the Caribbean, Wilde, To Kill a Mockingbird, Fried Green Tomatoes, Murder She Wrote, and this is just what I can think of at the moment.

Even if you don't like or don't care about most of this list, you can't deny that this is a lot of things from a lot of different genres, many of which have almost nothing sexually provocative in them at all.

The Hays Code didn't make movies better. It isn't the kind of limitation that breeds creativity. The Hays Code existed explicitly to silence absolutely everyone that the Moral Majority didn't like, and I'm sorry to tell you this, but if you're on tumblr then there is a 98% chance that you are one of those people the Code sought to silence. It wasn't made for anyone's benefit except the people who made it and wanted to control as much of the culture as they could.

Things like the Code do not help people, and they do not only hurt people who aren't you. Ultimately, it does nothing except make art unilaterally worse.

[axelboneboy]

Sammie: p-please, don’t kill me

Joan: Kill you? We ain’t with the klan no more

Sammie: Wh-What? R-Really?

Bert: We believe in equality, we ain’t gonna kill you.

Sammie: Huh? If you do then why’d you kidnap me and bring me to the middle of the woods during the night?

Joan: because we’re vampires now and our leader wants you to be his mortal groom so we brought you here to be wed during the full moon.

Sammie: Oh oka-WAIT WHAT!? THAT’S A MILLION TIMES WORSE!

[jacksabbotts]

. ⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊ ☁︎ DBF!JACK x SW!READER !  ⋆˚࿔ ⋆⁺₊ # 🥼 possible trigger warnings .' mean!jack, HEAVY dirty talk, jack is Possessive, piv, nsfw 18+ ‧ 🔆 ‧ ━━ WC 0.4k

. more jack abbot || inbox ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune + @honeyluvsw + @cursed-carmine

you’re straddling him on his couch, still wearing your blouse and nothing underneath. jack's scrub pants are pushed just low enough for his cock to slide right up against the slick mess between your thighs. you haven’t even sunk down on him yet.

you smirk and rake your fingers through his curls.

“god, you’re so—old,” you murmur. it’s a joke. teasing. you’re grinning when you say it.

but jack still goes still under you.

he lifts his head slowly, dark eyes locked on yours like you just lit the fuse on a stick of dynamite.

“yeah?” he says, low and flat. “that right?”

you roll your hips against him again, deliberate. you want him to react. you want him to snap. you want him to stop pretending that this isn’t eating him alive.

“maybe i should start fucking someone younger,” you purr against his jaw. “someone who doesn’t have back problems. one of the guys in my cohort—"

jack growls. actually growls. and the next thing you know, he’s got you flat on your back, blouse shoved up around your shoulders, hands pinning your wrists above your head.

“oh, sweetheart,” he says, voice like gravel as he ruts his cock between your folds, soaking himself in the mess you left on his lap. “you think any of those little grad school boys even know what to do with you?”

he thrusts in hard—no warning, no slow stretch, just buried to the hilt in one brutal motion that makes you sob into the crook of your elbow.

“you think they’d fuck you like this?” he snarls, pounding into you without mercy. “hold your mouth shut while they’re splitting you open on their cock?”

your vision goes white. you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. your legs are shaking, and your back arches off the couch as he grabs your jaw, holding your face still while he fucks you within an inch of your life.

jack’s panting now. angry. sweating. furious that you got under his skin. furious that it worked.

“they don’t know what this pussy sounds like when she cries for it,” he hisses in your ear. “they don’t know how fucking sweet you taste when you’re begging me to finish inside.”

you’re screaming, moaning like a person possessed, and he doesn’t stop.

“let one of your little classmates touch you,” he growls, “and i swear to god, i’ll fuck you in front of him just to prove a fucking point.”

he slams in deep, stays there, and makes you feel it—hips grinding while your nails claw into the couch cushion, while your legs twitch and your body shudders around him.

when he finally pulls out, you’re ruined. boneless. sweaty. half-sobbing. and jack grabs your chin, kisses you like he’s still mad, and mutters against your lips:

“still want someone younger?”

you can’t even answer. you just shake your head—pathetic, wrecked, completely owned.

he chuckles darkly. “didn’t think so.”

authors note : just a lil somethin somethin to tide y'all over until i finish part two 🤪

🔖  .   @Princesssunderworld  @mayabbot  @Arigoldsblog  @oldmanbunnylover  @lovelexi717  @peggyofoz  @qtmoonies  @nfwmb-gvf  @babybatreads  @bitteroceanlove  @spooky-librarian-ghost  @gardeniarose13  @kmc1989  @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono  @maiamore  @madzleigh01  @qardasngan  @anxiousfuckupon  @Lumpypoll  @Coldmuffinbanditshoe  @blueliketheseaa  @m14mags  @generalstarlightobject  @Thedamnqueenofhell  @abllor @Loud-mouph @cannonindeez  @Sabi127  @Sammiib444  @painment  @namgification  @Cherry_cosmos  @catmomstyles3 @amindfullofmonsters @moonriseoverkyoto @karavt @beefbaby25 @i-get-obsessed-fast @badwolfvexa @violetswritingg @silas-aeiou @rosellerinfrost @saidinpassing @alldaysdreamers @concentratedconcrete @blackirisesinthesunlight @notgothenough @valkyreally

@hiireadstuff @beltzboys2015 @gardeniarose13 @oldmanbunnylover @Anglophileforlife @madprincessinabox @fairygardensss @pope-codys @spooky-librarian-ghost @breegirlxoxo @xxxkat3xxx @fadeinsol @anxious-fuck-upon @gimme1margarita @katydunn67 @lunyyx @charlietriestoshift @soiiifon @beebeechaos @babybatreads

[lostl1sbons1ster]

why is it always 0

[lilli-2025]