#and it just doesn't get any easier does it... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nyheartbreak · 3 days ago

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follow up to sammy bryant x miserable state defense attorney. almost 3k (!)

you don't show up for a week after. and of course, sammy blames himself. what else is there to do? he’s itchy to find out why you aren't there, too. he could call you, he is sure he has your number saved somewhere on the mess that is his desk, but that's probably your work number and even so it kinda makes him freeze when he finds himself dialing the first few digits. so he doesn't. and he doesn't ask the guys if they have seen you around because if he did, everyone at the station would be on his case like fucking bloodhounds.

because let's be real, everyone here knows everyone's business. cops are prone to this, to not being exactly the careful type when it comes to these things, affairs are the hottest ticket. and he doesn't want that to happen with you. though it's not like he is having an affair with you, right? it is just a one time thing, a disjointed night in the already very chaotic 365 nights of his year, a moment that got out of control without any good reason for it.

because yes, he could blame it on the shit he sees everyday, on the things he has to get done whether he wants it or not. and it is that, but it's also that something you have on your face, eyes seemingly always on the verge of tears. the tired stance whenever you sort through your briefcase in the seats of the waiting room. its the way he wants to smooth the hair out of your face and tell you that he is there.

he doesn’t call nor he doesn’t ask because he knows that it should be a one time thing. he has a warm body back home. the woman he married. that supposedly loves him and he supposedly loves back. but things have been quieter, easier with tammy, since, well. you know. fucking cliché it is, sammy’s aware. and he finds it funny that this calm is because he can't stop thinking of you touching his lips with your fingertips and kissing him under his jaw as he replays the night over and over again. he shouldn't but he does.

so he sits still. he doesn’t do anything. he wakes up, kisses his wife goodbye, does his fucking job and doesn’t let himself mutter your name in the quiet of his car when he is alone and drives through the LA streets to castaic at night, like he did that early morning after he left your apartment. he doesn't.

but there's the catch. if he thinks of you, he is done for. and if he doesn’t, how is he supposed to stay sane?

***

you come back during a slow wednesday morning. seemingly out of nowhere, it desorients him for a hot second. sammy sees you signing your entrance and walking through the security doors and his eyes trace your figure as you begin your way to the cells with an officer. you don’t look his way, but he notices you don't look as tired as the last time he saw you and there's some color in your cheeks. your hair is different too. on the other side of the phone, tammy has to call his name three times before he finally reacts.

if you had come for one of his arrests, he would know. therefore you are not here for him. however much he would like that. so he waits to see who goes after you. stares hard at that corner and nate has to grab his bouncing leg to stop him. saddle up cowboy, we just got called. and the chance he had been praying for, just to talk— to watch you for a second longer, is snatched from his fingers.

it doesn't happen again. the two of you. like that. or, more likely, you agree to not do it again. both of you. not in a real conversation or any of that. it's more like… tacit in the way your eyes meet, longing but clearly guilty— he hates that you feel guilty too because if you didn’t at least it would be easier. but you two work together. and it's a job steeped in animosity. you should at least discuss it, have a civilized talk over coffee. but sammy has enough shoulds and shouldn'ts to deal with already. and you are both adult enough to just let things go. right?

there’s a string of cases where he doesn’t get to see you. and as time passes the constraints he sets for himself start to wear out. each fight with tammy, each hard case, each no and we can't do that he gets from his superiors.

he is a weak man, so he goes back to you. to the thought of you that is starting to feel like a drug. like when he used pot during his whole senior year of high school. sammy has to remind himself sometimes that he doesn't know you all that well, to see if the rush settles (it doesn’t) even when it’s been weeks and he swears he can still feel the curve of your body against his, he doesn't know anything about you at all.

and then you do get your conversation. sort of.

he finds you outside at the station’s parking lot, wedged quietly between the corner of a column and a wall. you are smoking. arm around your body, eyes on the floor. he wants to talk to you so badly, but you are both still on the clock, technically, and he has been distracted by you enough. still, you look up when you see a pair of black shoes on the edge of your vision. sammy leans back against the wall by your side.

i would share but i don't think i've seen you smoke. sammy likes the implication in your words. you've been watching too.

i used to smoke weed. back in the day.

i can't smoke that. fucks with my head. for me it's just wine and this. to unwind, you must mean. sammy wouldn't mind working himself up to the top of your unwinding habit list.

i haven’t seen you around.

i wasn’t avoiding you. you know? that week after.

i didn’t say that.

had to fly to new jersey. family stuff. he likes that you keep littering the conversation with bits about yourself. he doesn't push it though, or maybe a little.

why are you hiding here?

you sniff quietly and then you shake your head. and when you look up he notices that there’s some tear stains on your cheeks.

shitty morning.

why keep doing this?

what do you mean? it's the only thing I know how to do.

you do realize it makes you miserable, right? you laugh at his words, at how he says them so casually like you’ve been friends for years. you stub your smoke out on the pavement and you don't answer him. but you do hold his eyes for a moment and then, as the silence of the lonely parking garage stretches around you, sammy watches you look down, mulling his words over. has nobody ever asked you this question? has nobody ever seen the suffering in your pretty face?

sammy does this thing then, which he shouldn't be doing here at all. anybody could walk on you at any given moment now. but he still passes a hand through your hair, his palm gently cupping the side of your face to get you to look at him. it holds more familiarity and intimacy than he has ever felt or thought he needed. and then you lean your face against his hand, eyes closed, and you look like you are on the verge of letting out a moan. and he curses everyone that has made you feel this way and he wishes he could just take you home and make you better.

the sound of a car starting somewhere snatches the two of you away from one another and the spell is broken. but sammy knows this is far from over. he thought of himself as a man of his word but he can't say he won't do this anymore and mean it.

come on. let me buy you lunch. he watches you hesitate. just lunch.

you casually sneak out in your car. and you drive to this small diner a little far from skid row, just in case. sammy watches you stealing a few casual glances at him as he takes off his jacket, which he leaves on your back seat, and his tie— which he absentmindedly puts on your glove compartment, a habit from when he goes to lunch with nate.

and then you sit down and he watches you eat. and it's mostly like back at the bar. little conversation though now he gets to look at you in the daylight. and if he thinks he can come off unharmed from this, he is wrong.

we can be friends, right? he says after a while.

you look up and watch the gold band on his finger for a moment before your eyes meet his. your lips are greasy from the fries you just had and he has the urge to clean you up with a kiss.

i think we are way past that, don't you think? i think we should be two people who work together.

if this is you trying to look out for him. it makes him just want to fuck you harder. so, nothing happens.

***

an officer has taken a suspect into custody. the fucker had asked, no— demanded, for a public defender the minute they put the handcuffs on him and, of course, you were on call. on a difficult night like this. nate is filling you in on some details of the case, what they can, at least. sammy is talking to another detective about a house search to get what they need to charge him officially. but from the corner of his eye he sees nate arguing? with you. and the more you try to make your point— looking like you are suffering through the whole exchange— the angrier nate gets.

nate’s saying we’re close, just let us—

you can’t hide exculpatory evidence and expect me to give you more time. if you have something, show it to me and i'll happily let you keep him in that cell.

we’re not hiding evide—- nate laughs frustratedly. this has been a difficult case for him, it has gotten him to this point where he doesn’t seem like nate at all. we are just not ready. but believe me. he fucking did it.

sammy throws his jacket on his chair and walks over the two of you. what's going on? eyeing you carefully. to the outsider it could seem like the usual untrusting look that cops give defence lawyers. but it's bound to be different with you. he knows you know. nate explains the situation and of course, sammy sides with his partner. to let go of this guy means hours of work thrown away to the trash.

sammy tries to play mediator, which he almost never does. he always gets a bit mad before he compromises. tonight is not the case. let’s call the DA, get an emergency extension. and then nate snaps at him. we are almost there! she is just being fucking difficult.

your job is to be difficult, whether you want it or not. sammy clenches his jaw and gives you another glance. you look like you want to hide forever.

he doesn't get to say anything more because nate is throwing his hands up, saying have a nice time having this on your conscience to you and walking away, leaving the two of you alone. sammy opens his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it, your voice soft, not daring to look him in the eye. i’ll make a call and then you can tell me what you are doing.

nate holds his words until after they watch you leave, suspect released. if anyone is to blame, it is them. too eager that they blew their own case to pieces. but nate is still mad. sammy too. not at you, at least not directly. but nate waits, doesn't say anything until they are both in the station parking lot, each about to get into their cars. a few meters away, sammy can see the spot where he touched your cheek.

what was that, huh? why didn't you press her harder? you know how she folds sometimes.

the condescending tone irks him. but he definitely doesn't want to fight with him now. not after this fucking night.

hey man, these things happen. we will get him. don't worry.

you fucking her?

the accusation comes out too suddenly for sammy to even think of a way to play cool about it. he opens and closes his mouth like a fish. saying what?! no! and he isn't exactly lying because he isn’t fucking you now, though he thinks about it all the fucking time.

don't fucking lie to me, sammy. i’ve been watching how you follow that girl around like a fucking lap dog. and i know that things with tammy ain't so good. but don't make that mistake, man. don't be that guy.

and when nate, his partner, his friend, says it like that. it just makes him feel like the biggest piece of shit on earth. but nate doesn't see what sammy sees. nate didn't feel the absolutely maddening warmth of your hand on his chest that night. or seen the way you hid your face on the crook of his neck, too shy to look at him even when his dick was buried deep inside you. the night has been mayhem, he doesn't need more of it. so sammy allows himself to slam his car door shut with rage and drives off without even taken a glance at nate. because nate doesn't know shit.

***

tammi is away at a photography retreat in the desert for the weekend, his free weekend. she insists that she had told him, repeatedly. but he thinks, he knows, that he would remember something like that. he is a detective, he doesn’t forget things that easily. so, he is sprawled on the couch watching tv. richter asleep by his feet. a bag of chips and a few cans of beer on the coffee table. watching an old rerun of a football match he missed. one they lost.

so when the blue light of the display of his phone wakes him up he hopes its work, begs even, to have something to do. he picks up expecting a case and instead he hears your voice. sorry, i don't have anyone else to call.

he speeds his way through half los angeles to get to you. because he can’t have you stuck in the middle of the 110 and manchester ave. alone. no fucking way. you are in your car when he gets there, and you only come out when he does— stay inside, for your safety, it makes his dick twitch a bit. your obedience. it makes him think of nate’s words. lap dog. you meet halfway, and he watches you give him a smile — so sweet, so grateful, a bit sheepish too, but that’s just how you are. he sees you, and in that instant, he knows: if he weren’t strong enough (he isn’t, by the way; he’s here after all), he would fall to his knees and thank God for it.

lap dog lap dog lap dog

you tell him you called the tow but they told you it takes 3 and a half hours to get there, if they get there at all. so he gets his hands into the greasy mess of motor oil, touching around. maybe it’s the fuel line, maybe a loose connection. he knows you need the car, you got places to be.

you got a dead alternator, he says as he straightens up with a grunt. he tsks, puts his hands on his sides, hooking the fingers of his right hand on his holster as he thinks. there’s a soft smirk on your face that tells him you know it’s mostly just, a show off thing. but you don’t say anything. you observe him carefully. (he always look good in a suit, but you are obsessed with his casual clothes, tight by the way, and his policeman stance. a nice mix. trying so desperately to fix your car for you.)

sammy calls a guy he knows. much more quicker than any insurance tow and tells you he will personally ensure they fix it in a few days without charging you too much. and when it’s all wrapped up, he opens the door of his car for you and gets you home.

and it's you now, mostly, who lingers on goodbye. he watches your hand hover the door handle for too long. in silence. giving you time. because he signed off on his fate long ago. he just needs you to agree to it too.

you should come up to wash your hands.

so you are inviting me to your apartment?

i cleaned up a bit. bought coffee too.

for me?

i told you, i don't have anyone else to call.

you don't even get to make the coffee. because by the time he steps out of your bathroom, he sees his tie— the one he left on your car— neatly rolled on your bedside table and he gets a bit lightheaded. you confess to him between kisses that you use it, sometimes. you don't say what for. but he doesn't have to ask. and he thinks that after he has fucked you two or three times tonight, he intends to use his tie to fuck you a fourth.

***

thank you for getting all the way down here and if you liked it, I would really really love to hear your thoughts :)

#she is kinda bad at her job if you didn't notice #and sammy can find thousands of ways to excuse her.......... kinda #sammy has a little power play thing going on too.#and nate is a bit oc so sorry about that #again i know very little of how attorneys work i did some real shallow research but i beg of you to grant me #the courtesy of some suspension of disbelief. this is about the yearning the obsession!!!!!#proofread by my tired eyes #sammy bryant #shawn hatosy #shawn hatosy x reader #sammy bryant x reader #southland #jack abbot x reader

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ryker-writes · 2 days ago

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Ello! Stranger I totally dont know :D

I have a request for thee!

Could you write about how ppl would react to a mute person. You can choose the characters and how many ^w^

Love the writing keep it up! ❤️

Hello stranger I totally don't know and talk to on a daily basis! I would love to write about how people would react to a mute reader thank you very much UwU. I choose to do this in a way that could be seen as platonic or romantic

For you, I chose Lilia, Leona, and Idia because they gender and, because I said so, you get me. That's right. I write fics for twst!Ryker. Try not to swoon (/joking)

anyway

Request rules and Masterlists

Mute reader (Lilia, Leona, Idia, Ryker)

Lilia:

he's a military man, of course he knows how to communicate without words

though military hand signals are a bit different than sign language, he easily adapts and learns it

He's actually very respectful, and doesn't even blink at the fact that you don't speak

Lilia's met all kinds of people, so he knows about some people being mute for a variety of different reasons

I mentioned this in my deaf reader post with Malleus, but fae in Brair Valley use magic for almost everything, so they probably use it to communicate without words too

if you're capable of magic, he'd help you learn how the fae communicate silently so you can have an easier time communicating with others without speaking

that being said, if you don't want to, he's got absolutely no problem communicating with you however you want to

heck, he'd play charades if that's what you wanted to do, and he'd have a blast with it

He has no problem helping you communicate and speak with others when they struggle to understand or try talking to you and expecting you to speak

He's one that can easily fill any awkward silence and make it fun and quickly drop any tension

if you wanted to speak someday, he's positive there's a way. I mean, he's close with the top mages of the world and knows a thing or two that can help

But if you're fine and don't care for it, by all means, he's happy just the way things are

Leona:

HAH

Okay in a not mean way, he loves it

Leona doesn't like loud people, and prefers the quiet and calm, so you two get along well

You're free to communicate however you want, but he'll probably not pay much attention

That doesn't mean he doesn't understand you though!

Leona is very good at reading body language and expressions (including micro-expressions), so he does often know how you're feeling or what's on your mind!

it's okay though, because you can read him too without much effort. He's not super expressive, but his tail gives away how he's feeling (and he's a simple man)

so most of the time it's like silent conversations between the two of you where neither of you needs to speak

if he sees someone struggling to communicate with you, he'll be watching with a smug smirk because he knows how to

only after a few minutes of watching with great amusement will he actually step in and help, and then tell them to find a better way to communicate

It doesn't matter to him if you're selectively mute or if there's a physical cause for it, he's not going to ask anyway

if it's possible someday for you to speak, and you want to, he'd help you practice in private, but he'd never push you or ask you to

he'll just keep having these silent conversations with you and speaking without words

Idia:

this man has never met a mute person in his life, but great seven he wishes it was him sometimes

he's used to communicating without words, so he's got this

though he does feel awkward being the only one talking, so he talks with his tablet and lets you talk with it too if you want

He's full of anxiety about doing something wrong or offensive, so he's researching mute people on the internet once he's alone

Later, he comes to you with a custom tablet to help you communicate with other quickly without the full effort of typing each time

honestly, most of the student body knows he communicates using his tablet to speak, so they're pretty used to it if that's how you do too

but if you use sign language, he develops an app to translate it automatically in real time for him and others to understand

Idia can't even pressure himself into doing things, so there's no chance he's gonna pressure you to try and speak or anything. The idea of even suggesting makes him want to disappear into the earth

the same goes for asking questions, like he thinks it'll be so embarrassing or he'll upset you by asking how/why, so he avoids asking and just accepts it

Twst! Ryker:

I actually do know a little bit of sign language!

my sister helped teach me some a long time ago

I don't know a lot of words, so he'd probably use a phone or paper to help us talk

To be honest, I didn't know much about being mute before making this, so twst! Ryker wouldn't either

Twst! Ryker would try to ask questions in the nicest way to not offend but also learn about it

Twst! Ryker will have no issue filling the silence and talking non-stop if you let him

Bad at studying reactions, so if you need a moment or to interrupt for a sec, hold up a hand or to be honest, just slap a hand over his mouth

Twst! Ryker is trying his best, and would only help if you asked or invited him over to help communicating

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threeriver · 2 days ago

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just need a win

jack abbot x samira mohan

7k | ao3

cw: explicit sex. dacryphilia. descriptions of trauma. MDNI

it's the blood on his shoes that does it, he thinks.

he's not well before that. (of course he's not, how could he be?) but he can keep himself in check when it's needed, when the team is falling apart and the closest thing they have to a leader is unraveling. so he holds himself together with copper sutures and staples, just as ad-hoc and reliable as the maneuvers he pulls throughout the night, results more important than his ability to justify them later. it works - on himself, on robby. on the fucking pelvic obliteration that should have never been.

it works until it doesn't really, blood on his shoe and robby's retreating back. he eyes the collection of young faces around him and sees that same hollow look he knows so well, the bravado that will only cover it for so long and the pallid resignation of those who've only now figured out the kind of lifetime they've signed themselves up for.

jack's in no better shape.

later, his therapist will tell him there's nothing wrong with this - that being of a level with day one residents just shows his humanity, means he's not grown calloused and immune to the endless suffering he's borne witness to. he knows this, truly, knows what a shit doctor he'd be without that reserve of sympathy he's taken with him his whole life - a baggage that felt too heavy in the aftermath of his tours, and his leg, and his everything.

that doesn't make it any easier when he's stuck on a park bench surrounded by people he's supposed to be some sort of mentor for and he can't even haul himself off the seat to have his breakdown somewhere private because they'll all see how his hands shake when he tries to reattach his prosthetic.

sometimes it's like this. often, it's worse. jack has the unique advantage of combat, of knowing where his career and his past overlap. he knows what it is, knows his therapist will disagree when he says the easiest ways around it are a fight or a fuck. (knows he almost had the prior when those fucking cops had tried to come for mckay, if only.) he knows when he sees it in others, too.

dr. mohan's eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused when she takes robby's vacated spot. she misses the beer when it's tossed her way, her fingers just as shaky as his. she's stiff in picking it up, hasty in opening. delayed in her laugh when it sprays across the chest of her sweatshirt. she's tired, undoubtedly; crashing from that last leg where she'd flit around the ED desperate to keep herself attached to the ground however she could - tied down by a tourniquet if need be.

she needs a rest, sure. and probably some food, too. she needs something else worse.

jack knocks his knee against hers when she goes three full minutes without so much as a sip from her fresh beer. she jumps before he can even get a word out, big dark eyes turning on him in some confusing mix of accusation and fear. more suds line the folds of her sweatshirt, fizzing out alongside her tension when he holds up a placating hand. "easy," he murmurs, low enough he's not sure she can even hear him, voice gone thin and ragged from years of tobacco use.

(he wishes he had a cigarette now, misses the way he could externalize his symptoms when the nicotine had him shaking and sweating worse than the trauma did.)

"can i -?"

help you, probably, pretty lips pursed in concern. he tells himself it's the aversion to making her help anyone else tonight that has his chest constricting. "how you holding up?"

it's like he's asked her what year it was, like he has reason to initiate concussion protocol and she's been left out of the loop. "how am i… holding up?"

jack nods, patient. dr. mohan drifts untethered for a moment as she considers his question. "i'm… okay."

his laugh is jagged, too abrupt even for his own ears; like it started in his finger tips and pulled all sensation with it as it rattled around his brittle costals and knocked some teeth loose on its way out. he swallows down the next batch, jaw flexing uncomfortably with the effort. he thinks, now, he's been on the edge of this ever since he first heard the call on the scanner - earlier, maybe, not quite slept off after robby found him on the roof.

he needs to get home.

"samira," he tries again, keeps his tone level like he's guiding her hands through another home brew angioplasty. she looks at him just the same, too; trusting, awed. it's the only thing that staves off the tic in his jaw he might be developing. "how are you holding up?"

she's pretty when she cries because of course she is, though words seem to get a bit difficult for her. she barely needs them, though, not when he knows. not when they all know, apparently, the group around them offering thin but appreciated platitudes. what she's got ain't nothing new, and she knows just as well as him that she'll be better come next shift, too brilliant and talented to be kept down for long.

that doesn't help tonight, not when she sits with him long enough for all the rest to fade away, quiet well wishes and 'sleep tight's offered in passing and all the while she shakesshakesshakes. she won't take his hoodie, not even when he points out she'll make herself sick sitting in that beer-soaked thing.

she just sniffles, tears finally drying, though he suspects that's more to do with dehydration than it is a genuine improvement in her mental state. "you're not cold?" she counters, and he shrugs.

"freezing."

she scoffs, rounds on him with that same manic intensity from earlier, if a little thinner; watered down by her own tears. "oh my god, robby was right, wasn't he? i do talk too much. oh, i'm so sorry! you must be exhausted! look how late i've kept -!"

he can't really feel her pulse when he manages to corral the arm that swings wildly toward his temple, a prospect that has his nerves frazzling ever further before he remembers how his extremities had been prickling earlier, that numbing itch that had left him clumsy and floundering. he's shushing her before he can think better of it, cringing because he knows in any other circumstances she'd rightfully hand him his head for doing so.

tonight, she just obliges, breath catching as she hangs on his every word. she knows what he'll say, clever thing. he tries not to think too much about what it does to him, knowing she wants to hear it. "you're okay, samira. you're fine," he mutters. (he might not want to think about it, but that doesn't mean he can stop himself doing it.) "you're not botherin' me."

"but, you -?"

jack shakes his head before she can even finish that thought, grip adjusting on her arm until he can feel it, that steady pulse hitched rapid and thready, running on fumes. "i'm right where i wanna be," he assures, watches her eyes track between his and the park bench with so much sudden clarity he'd be worried about his position come tomorrow if he wasn't also so tightly wound.

it's not what she deserves, but they both know the appeal of results over practice on nights like tonight.

"you want to be here?" she challenges, the first he's heard her voice so level since that last batch of wounded had been sorted.

he shrugs, palm scraping against his stubble. "guess i'd rather be home," he concedes, too many ways to tell her she's right tying his tongue.

"am i keeping you?"

she says it like a challenge, too confident to doubt her instincts, no matter how robby tries to ruin it. he'll make it up to her, piling on as he's about to. "your bag is on my leg."

it's strange how much he misses her eye contact, considering she only blinks away for a moment. there's a yelp and a quick shuffling. she springs from the bench with the sort of agility people train for their whole lives, graceful even here, at the end of her rope.

but not graceful enough to stop the clattering of his leg, carbon fiber clanging as it bounces off the pavement. her hands cover her mouth in shock, holding back the string of expletives like a dam, though it doesn't it apparently doesn't do much good as she can't seem to hear his laughter over her own embarrassment.

"i'm so sorry," she gushes again, bending to retrieve the appendage for him even as he leans to do the same. there's a small clambering of limbs, her fingers tangling in his as she continues to apologize, a litany of 'let me's.

there's a warm glow of streetlamps haloing her iridial ring, the fine curls around her face an untamed riot and yet still so soft, light enough to catch and pull in the night breeze, obscure her vision for a moment before being blown away with an impatient huff, as if she can't bare to keep her eyes off him another moment. he remembers how she'd held his gaze when walsh had been spouting off hesitations and the kind of stringent procedural processes that would have let their man die. he can practically feel her taking something from him, gives it to her just as freely now as he did then, and her lips part in wonder, just the same.

"samira," he tries, voice gone gritty and thin with the glass he's sure he's swallowed tonight. she blinks up at him slowly, and he wonders if she knows her fingers are tracing along his own. "you don't have to."

it puts her back in her body, at least, her brow pulling tight as her situation comes slamming back into reality. she seems to take a minute to collect herself, noting her position kneeling on the ground before him in the park just outside their place of mutual employment. there's problems with this, ethics and repercussions to consider above the mutual need for control and the lack of it. he doesn't bother outlining them for her, trusts she knows what she's doing here same as anywhere. everywhere.

and she does, of course she does; better than him, even, the strength of surety returning to her grip as she adjusts it, pulls his prosthetic fully from his own hands. he lets her, one hand falling to the bench beside himself as the other fists uselessly in front of him, the tic on beat with the agitated flexing of his jaw. dr. mohan knows better than to take it for apprehension, or worse. there's a bit of a learning curve to her fumbling, but he doesn't offer help. selfish, maybe, enjoying the feel of her dexterous fingers against the tight, dry scar tissue. mostly he just doesn't think she needs it.

"and risk my impeccable customer satisfaction score?" she quips, manhandling his leg into a position that suits her with the kind of strength and abruptness that makes the mark of any emergency care doctor. he's known practitioners who hand wring over things like this, sincerely believe patient autonomy trumps all else. it's a nice sentiment, but means little more than that when most of their patients cannot move themselves even if they wanted.

he'd be embarrassed by the snort it earns if they hadn't already seen each other at their absolute most basic functions tonight. "you're right. what would robby say?"

her smile is less manic as she pats his leg, encouraging him to inspect her work. her breath catches when he nods his approval and he does her the courtesy of pretending not to notice.

"excellent as always, mohan." a beat passes, another. even in the stillness, his skin feels stretched thin, drum-tight and trembling with each pulse. his jaw is flexing uncontrollably now, his fist following suit, but there's no amount of tremors that can stave off the numbness, his body confused about the cause.

"he's only just come around to my particular brand of care," mohan concedes. "wouldn't want to disappoint."

jack doesn't quite care for this train of conversation, though he struggles to articulate why. "i wouldn't worry about robby. he'll -."

"i don't think it's actually robby's opinion i'm worried about at the moment."

and brilliant doctor that she is, she sorts his twitchiness with enough ease. he watches her, while she patently avoids his gaze. it's not something he usually abides, but he won't ask her for more than she can give right now.

her own dark eyes draw across the skyline as if she's only just noticed that evening has come. "night shift," she comments blithely, the intensity of her glare cutting when she turns it back on him, well worth the wait. "in your hands now, isn't it?"

any other night and he'd make her say it, outline specifics and triple check their math before providing the assist. any other night, that type of studiousness would make a mass casualty event that much more massive.

his hands drive them back to his, white knuckles flexing the whole way. the steering wheel creaks under his grip, barely audible over the sound of the heater running. the weather's nice enough for an early summer evening in pittsburgh, but mohan's tremors rival his own, the adrenaline having eaten through every ounce of fuel her body could provide. if he were a better man he'd be thinking about how to get her restocked - what he could make her, where he could tuck her in. but that man, the one he's shaped himself into with meticulous care, pleached and inosculated, has been burnt away, too, the evening all-consuming.

(a controlled burn, his therapist will call it, probably. necessary for growth. he'll have to take notes to share with robby.)

and that might be true, but it doesn't help him tonight, roots exposed and sapped. he can make her cry so easily like this, monsoon in a drought, wants to see how far she can bend with all her bark stripped away; greenstick fracture, easily set.

there's an established flow to this, a give and take. check points they're skipping, but he trusts her. samirah mohan isn't in the habit of being rushed when she needs time; knows when to dig her heels in and is learning when to push when necessary. it means she trusts him, too, and that's -. that's…

she doesn't ask for a drink. she doesn't ask for anything. just stands there in his kitchen all wide-eyed and pretty, keeps his gaze as he deposits his keys in the tray, his bag and her sweatshirt onto the hooks next to the parka he really needs to store for the season. in his hands. his voice barely sounds human when he asks if she wants a shower, jumbled and thin from disuse, or too much use, or maybe just the fry of… everything, and perhaps she doesn't trust her voice either because she neglects to answer, simply tucks her fingers under the hem of her t-shirt and pulls it up over her head, expects him to get the message despite the sight of her taut belly rendering higher brain functions defunct. but it's little more than instinct to reach out, let his thumb follow the line of her iliac crest as he pulls her a half step closer. her shoes stumble over his own, the phantom pressure of her treading on toes which are no longer there. she knows better than to apologize, the words breaking off in a thready whisper, so close he can feel the shape of them against his lips.

she still hasn't looked away, eyes never once darting to catalog the jumping cords of his neck; that same undivided attention and devotion she'd given him when he'd held up a pigtail catheter and asked for her trust. jack thinks maybe they'd been doomed since the moment she nodded, crowded close so he could hook his jaw over her shoulder, all the better to guide you with, my dear.

he doesn't kiss her, takes a cruel sort of pleasure in the unmoored way her eyes widen when he tilts his chin up, lets his lips graze the soft skin between her brow as he tells her where she can find the restroom with a gentle push to her hip. "top of the stairs. on your left."

it's short-lived, as she's not someone often dismissed. "need one worse than me, old man," she counters, eyes flicking to the specks of blood he knows still mat the stubble under his jaw. it will take some adjusting to remember whatever control he might glean from her is only ever freely given. and he was going to see about that drink or maybe a snack, but he remembers how she'd ignored her beer so he jack takes her lead, more than earned, and hooks his thumbs into the back of his collar to pull it up and over his head. when he resurfaces, she's already moved on, hips swaying enticingly as she begins to climb the stairs he steadfastly refuses to have an aid installed into for another five years, at least, bum fucking knee be damned.

he stares too long, evidently, eyes darting up to meet hers when she turns to ask if he's coming.

with any luck.

samira isn't sure if she should be surprised by the quality product lining the tub or not. it's not that dr. abbot has ever appeared anything less than immaculately coiffed, she's just unused to men knowing anything other than five-in-one, let alone the secrets of proper curl maintenance. not that she expects she'll be doing a full routine tonight, but it's nice to know there are contingencies. she'd left the shower curtain open behind herself, expecting him to join, and can feel abbot watching her take it all in, unable to look away since she started stripping. before that, even.

he's… intense. the very model for that old school ER cowboy industry standard she's been working against her whole life. but that didn't stop him from being a damn good doctor, nor herself from being wrong about him. he's like robby, in that, though robby could stand to prove her wrong a few more times.

but she doesn't want to think about robby right now, finds she can't really when abbot's shirtless before her and staring at her like he wants to follow the line of runoff that flows down the valley of her chest with an oscillating saw, get to the core of her via entry points he himself would carve. it's strange, thinking she'd trust him to.

he needs a new water softener, the taste bitter on her tongue when she licks her lips and drops her gaze to his low slung waistband. he's a little hairier than she expected, a fine line of steel wool beginning just above his bellybutton and disappearing below his hem. his fingers thumb the button of his jeans, hesitant in a way she hasn't seen him all night and she shivers despite the warmth of the shower, scared he will simply leave her to it, drop a stack of linens on the couch and sleep away the rest of his off-shift holed up in his bedroom alone, resting easy with the knowledge his job will remain safe.

"fuck," he grunts when she shivers again, his pants pooling on the tile. he goes to step out and then sits on the toilet seat when he remembers his shoes, eyes still glued to her. she only remembers herself after he gets the first one off, bending to unclasp his prosthetic instead of bothering to unlace the shoe itself.

"let me-," she starts, water sloshing onto the tile as she goes to help him.

"stay," he commands, and following his direction has worked out well for her so far, so she does.

he's methodical as in all things. doesn't have a care for show or finesse. pants and sock (she braces herself for the inevitable double the milage joke she's sure she'll hear at some point if she's ever lucky enough to buy him a pack one day) shed, abbot stands and shucks his boxer briefs and doesn't give her so much as a second to appreciate him before he's leaning forward to grab the handles on either side of the stall, first one and then the other.

samira has no doubt he does not need the support, but she gives it anyway, appreciates the fact that he lets her. she helps guide him to the bench but he doesn't sit for another moment, lets himself sag slightly into her space and press his nose to her temple, the hand not currently anchoring him to the grab bar rising until he can cup the back of her head. she doesn't know what to do with the fact that he hasn't even kissed her yet; with the fact that he still doesn't. she's not sure if she's ever been wanted in this way.

his name feels strange on her tongue. it's a sharp name, all awkward, bludgeoning consonants; heavy with implication. she's too tired to care, just wants to know if it's okay to sink into him.

he doesn't respond in kind, simply falls away from her until he's properly seated, his hands staying rooted to her hips to pull her closer, position her between his spread legs. her hands fall to his hair when he rests his cheek against her diaphragm, the curls winding around her fingers without her conscious input, and time melts away a bit with the residue that clings to them - not wholly, still observable, but distant and diluted, a thin rainbow of disinfectant washing down the drain. it should be nice. should be a much needed moment of reprieve after one of the most trying days of samira's life. instead, she feels untethered without his eyes on her, without the rough edge of his voice reassuring her. samira shifts on her feet, trying to swallow back the panic that's been rolling like a tide in the pit of her stomach for hours now: here tame and low-level, revealing all the washed up debris for her careful inspection should she so choose; there overspilling the breakers, an endless well she's powerless to stave off herself.

it's building to the latter when abbot's palm slips up her side, presses firmly against her sternum. when she snaps back to focus, his eyes are heavy on hers again, protected from the spray of the shower by the curtain of her hair. she hadn't realized she'd bent herself so far over him. his hand slips higher, fingers framing her jaw, base of his thumb pressed flush against her carotid like a brand, somehow warmer than the water.

"i want to see you cry," he informs her simply, a depth to the request she can't quite plumb.

she thinks she might already be when she nods.

she thought she'd had enough of it, thought maybe she'd nothing left to give, even if the release had sounded appealing when he'd said it.

that was before jack abbot had her sprawled out on his bed with his fingers buried in her pussy, whispering a steady string of words against the crown of her head compounded specifically to take her apart.

it's not what she expects, though so few things about him are. he lets her take his weight as they stumble into the bedroom, his crutches not having made it to the bath with them. she straddles his thighs, her adductors trembling with the stretch and the stress, just to take stock of him, trail her fingers over the rolling dips of his impressive musculature until finally she plants her palms on either side of his head. he doesn't let her hover, forearms folding over her back to pull her fully onto him, bodies slotting together deliciously. he's only partially erect against her belly, though he seems in no great need to hurry things along.

one hand finds the side of his face, familiarizes itself with the stubble there. "can i -?" she manages before words fail her, and her finger slides over the ridge of his malar bone, down to brush feather light over his philtrum.

"of course, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips quirking like he's holding back a laugh - like the answer should have been obvious. "whatever you need, baby. you've earned it."

she may have miscalculated the nature of his request to see her cry, she realizes with a sudden, unfortunate lurch. raw, animal need for an outlet she can weather. intense, direct affection and praise -?

abbot gives her no time to reconsider, one hand skirting up her spine to grab her by the nape of her neck. she doesn't fight him and he rewards her with a sweet, chaste kiss, quiet approval leaking out the sides of his mouth whenever she tries to deepen it, desperate to distract him. did so good today. so fucking perfect. looked so pretty out there, in your element.

the swell of panic climbs up her throat, brackish water that chokes her, makes her gasp and sob before she even realizes it's upon her.

"that's it, baby," he whispers, his lips following the trail of tears with devastating care. "let it all out for me. i've got you."

and he does.

the worst (best) part is that he won't shut up, weak voice only made all the more jagged from the long night, and the quiet way he talks to her, trying to be gentle. she cuts herself on it anyway, words tearing at her softest spots - uneven sutures she'd applied long before she'd ever properly learned, reinforced with steri-strips and staples along the way. of course he finds the frayed edges, peels them back to check for infection. she's never been with another doctor. med students, yes, fellow fledglings who had been too distracted by their own make-shift care to notice her's. it's not that she believes for a second that abbot has sorted his own old wounds out completely, but she knows longevity starts with stability, and his hands are weathered enough to prove the effort he's put in.

samira watches them now, firm but careful on her sternum, between her breasts with his thumb framing the bottom of her left, as if supporting her heart. she wants to feel them pinching her nipples, but she likes how careful he is with her too much to stop him, especially when the things he says have her so..

"jack -."

"what do you need, baby? hm? tell me."

she needs him to shut up before she ruins the whole evening, breaks down worse than she did in the restroom earlier. "can i -? your mouth -?"

abbot's grin transforms his whole face, cheeks crinkling endearingly as his dark eyes bore holes into her. she realizes with a jolt of fear that he's still going to be able to see her - will probably keep staring at her the whole time with that unbearable intensity.

too late.

his hands turn insistent on her hips, pull her forward until her legs struggle to straddle the breadth of his chest. "you got it, honey," he grits, too much, too much, too much. "come here and take it. need me to kiss it better?"

and that's not something she can stand another word of, so she hauls herself the rest of the way with a strong grip on the headboard, and lowers herself unceremoniously onto his mouth.

and he moans like a whore.

in only seconds samira can tell she's never been with anyone who likes giving head as much as jack abbot. with his eyes closed she can almost stand it, the slight divot between his brows as he concentrates, his strong hands traveling up her back to keep her firmly in place. it's good - good - and she rocks her hips down, testing, and his eyes flick open to see - watch her move, check in, she doesn't know; doesn't matter when the effects the same - pinned in place for the hundredth him tonight by his unwavering gaze.

trusting, challenging. a dangerous cocktail designed specifically for her, has her drunk with it in record time.

"fuck," she hisses, and jack's mouth opens wide, sloppy, completely lost in it.

it's so different from how she's used to seeing him - intense, focused in a way that honestly intimidates her. here he's pliant, doesn't have much of a goal beyond making her feel good and enjoying himself as well, evidently. it's intense, in it's lack of intensity. she's unused to this languid speed, quick and easy trysts with partners she knew she wouldn't be keeping around never preparing her for this. it's a sobering amount of power to hold over a man like jack abbot.

(and not one he lets her keep for long.)

her hands land on his taut belly for leverage, hips working the firm line of his lips insistently. as she leans back, her fingers graze a familiar spot of stickiness and she cranes her neck to see, delighted to find him fully hard and twitching against his hip. it looks heavy, and samira takes advantage of her position to find out, lets her legs bear more weight as her fingertips skirt over the softened ledge of his inguinal ligament, flatten feather light over the heft of his cock. she hears him sigh into her cunt, breathy and unabashed, and she smiles in that way that only ever happens like this, stripped bare, the kind of openness that doesn't permit self-consciousness or smiles trained to hold the perfect amount of tooth-to-gum ratio. abbot's stomach twitches on her first stroke, and samira readjusts her grip, settling in.

it's an awkward angle, but worth it. like this, smothering him and working his cock, jack seems almost as lost as her. she revels in the change, watches down the long line of her own body to see his eyes go soft and unfocused, his tongue getting lazier and less coordinated until he gives up altogether, his grip changing to keep her locked in place just above him, her hips working against nothing as he stares - embarrassingly, reverently - up at her drooling cunt.

it gets worse when he remembers his mouth is no longer busy.

"samira." it shouldn't sound that good in his gravel-rough voice, lilting syllables turned clunky and grating. but dr. abbot's tone is soft as ever, private, something only for her to hear, and she knows - she knows - she shouldn't be thinking of anything but this moment, shouldn't be sinking herself further into that attending/resident cliche, but she remembers how he stepped between her and walsh earlier, close and broad enough to block out the whole room. just them and a man who desperately needed their help.

'you've got this,' when what he meant was, 'i've got you.'

it's not the first time she's heard it. not even the first time a partner has said it. but it is the first time she's believed it, and samira -.

of course he notices. the way he fucking stares, there's no way he'd miss it. one hand skirts up her thigh, palm settling against her mons as his thumb works her clit in the kind of tight, direct circles that she's helpless against and of course, he doesn't stop talking. "feel so fucking good, honey. so clever, aren't you? don't need to help you at all, hm? fucking perfect."

honestly, it's just not fair how easily that rips through her, pulls a sob with it as it goes.

she's flipped with the sort of ease she's ashamed to admit she didn't think him capable of, at least not with his leg still abandoned in the bathroom. but his hand plants on her chest pushes, and she feels the broad belt of his rectus abdominus flexing before he's even out from under her, and then his hand's there to cradle her head as she slips sideways, sprawled out on the bed with gangly limbs being tucked one by one under his body, cocooned in his hold with her hands trapped between their chests to prevent her from tucking herself away. not that there's any hiding form him anyway, not when his face nuzzles into hers, susurrations pressed into her cheek, nearly too quiet to make out. you're alright. i've got you.

she knows.

with one hand keeping her from turning away, the other drifts lower, calms her trembling with a broad, warm palm. it settles in the cradle of her hips - not pushing, just resting - and he waits, with all the time in the world, for her to meet his gaze.

"there you are," he mutters, thumbing the steady font of tears as if it hadn't been his singular purpose to earn them. his next question is pressed into the crook of her nose, chapped lips absorbing salty tears. "needed that, didn't you?"

she can only nod, distrusting her voice. the motion brings her mouth up to his and he indulges her, his tongue slipping easily past her lips to make her taste herself.

he doesn't let her settle into it, pulls away just to butt his forehead against her. "i'll make it better," he promises, before promptly making it worse.

he's just so unbearably close. doesn't even give her enough room to catch her breath properly. samira hiccups when he slides back in, yet still she doesn't force him away when she gets one hand free. instead slips it up his chest to cup his neck and pull him closer, pants into his mouth as he just keeps pushing.

"so pretty, samira. just let me in."

she's not sure how else she can without giving him the scalpel and outlining where to start the y-incision. she settles for hitching one leg higher, up and over his elbow. doesn't quite manage to suppress the tremor when he thanks her.

thanks her. she should tell walsh about that one. maybe when coherence returns to her, if ever that is. no time soon at least, not when he's got all the leverage he needed apparently, clever fingers crooking until she feels full, his thumb pressed tight against her clit. it's good, but his voice is better, a steady constant as he works her over, leads her right up to the edge and gives her the strength to fall.

"you're right there, baby. can feel it. you feel it too, hm? feel how tight you are around me? you've got this. i'm right here, let it go -."

she'd feel bad about the flood of tears that goes with it, if not for how eagerly he groans in her ear, leaning his whole weight against her to better kiss them away. he's too heavy, her breath forced shallow and ragged, but it takes her a moment to even notice because he doesn't stop, and she assumes the hitching and the shaking are because he's got his fingers set hard against that spot that makes her want to flinch away but he won't let her, keeps her pinned so he can lap up the tears streaming down her face and swallow down her sobs.

he pulls away when the fingers on his neck threaten to draw blood, a line of little crescents lining his levator scapulae she'll find it within herself to regret tomorrow. for the moment, it's beyond her.

then the realization he hasn't cum yet crashes through her come down like a bull through the hall. one moment she's basking in the breath he finally lets her catch, and the next she feels him, hot and heavy against her hip and she groans, her throat feeling ragged and raw.

asshole that he is, he only chuckles, breath huffing across her cheek because he still hasn't stopped peppering kisses over her face and if she thinks about that for longer than two consecutive seconds she'll start crying all over again, so she doesn't. just holds him close and enjoys it for as long as she can.

of course, he misunderstands. "we can be done," he offers sweetly, and samira kind of wants to choke him again, though it's hard to articulate why when her thoughts feel like wool being spun. too tender, maybe. too much. at the end of his rope and in need of a win of his own, yet unwilling to take it. he seems the sort, self sacrificing to a fault. she knows it well.

"i thought you were gonna make it better?" she challenges, makes no effort to cover the raw edge of her voice.

jack sighs and leans their heads together again, eyes unfocused with nearness and still unblinking. "yeah," he mutters, lining himself up. "i've got you."

here is the patience he didn't show before, fishing delicately to the bottom of an overused bedside drawer to find a condom before sinking into her so slowly she thinks he's maybe waiting for her to confirm every centimeter. might be, considering how much he seems to enjoy the high, thin whine he pulls from her.

"that's it, honey. let me hear you."

she can hardly do anything but, breath hitching when his hips do, making any hope of keeping herself quiet much too difficult to bother. she's rewarded with a warm palm tilting her chin up, his hips halting when he bottoms out. he takes a minute just to look at her, tuts when she can't maintain eye contact because he's just too much like this.

of course, he's not pleased with this. "you're gonna look at me when i make you cum," he threatens - promises. he thumbs away the tears that are already building along her lash line and watches as they disappear into the dry, flaky skin at the edge of his nail. she hadn't even noticed them falling, too tired to care. easy target.

it's easier to watch him like this, with his gaze lowered. she takes in his damp curls, threads of silver catching the low light filtering in from the hall, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, inviting where his rigid military bearing had once frightened her away. she can only nod when he looks back, tongue tracing the salt from his skin.

there's not much left of that kind attending when he begins to fuck her, the slow roll of his hips mounting quickly into something that leaves her scrambling to keep up, her pleasure building before she even realizes it's there. but she's helpless in the face of it, so full she swears she can feel his pulse.

she's close, somehow, jack's will winning out against her body's every natural instinct to just be fucking done already, and she snakes her hand between them to hurry it along, fingers barely even reaching the edge of her trimmed curls before he's dropping to his elbow, his weight dispersed so he can chase her hand away and crush it to the pillow above her head, a cruel chuckle ringing in her ear when she wails in frustration.

abbot's teeth graze her ear, voice so close she swears she can feel his humid breath on her tympanic membrane. "slow, mo."

she should shove him off. she should call him an asshole and storm out of here, crawl into her own bed and sleep for three months and wake up in a world where she no longer holds a position under him, or fucking robby, or alongside anyone else at that godforsaken joint; where she can find a new career helping marginalized individuals struggling to find effective care because of ER cowboys like the man currently making a name for himself inside her fucking womb, it feels like.

and she may yet. one day. tonight, she's gonna let him pick up the fucking mess he made because she certainly isn't in any shape to do it herself.

she thinks she manages to tell him to fuck himself, but it garners no reaction beyond a breath punched through grit teeth, so probably all she's accomplished is a garbled moan, and by the time she realizes that she's already forgotten what she was so mad about so she gives it up, her hips flexing futilely off the bed in an attempt to speed him along. still, jack goes at his own pace - brutal, but effective. results oriented.

"you can do it, baby. know you can. just like this, i'll show you, hm?"

english is hard to parse, his voice even harder. samira shakes her head anyway, instinctive.

then he's gone from her and that's worse, her hands following after to grip the strong forearm by her head, plaster flat against the soft wall of abs flexing above her, anywhere at all just to pull him close, within touch, keep his hands on her -

one finds her jaw, insistent but soft as he tilts her face up. she can feel the film of something between them. perspiration and something similar, the grit of saline. her diaphragm buckles when she tries to speak and she abandons the attempt just as quickly as it came, meeting his eyes instead and hoping he has enough words for the both of them.

devastating mistake.

"you've got this, samira."

and of course she does, because jack's got her.

it leaves her breathless, but it's more than just that, the gasps she can manage only making her spiral further. pleasure mixes with pain, her body run ragged. there's a desperate, panicked edge as well, her inability to draw a full breath leaving her shaking in confusion. but it's good. great. more than she can handle on her own, but he's right there, catching her. his hips still with a groan as he seats himself deep within her, little aborted thrusts timed with the way she can't stop trying to milk him. when he sits back, his hands run over her thighs, pull her closer by a firm grip on her hips.

he makes her wait until she can meet his gaze as best she can, her vision watery and unfocused.

"christ, you're pretty," he mumbles, almost to himself. the shape of him blurs until it blocks out the rest of the room, his body warm where he folds himself over her to pepper more kisses over her cheek. "hiding all these away in some bathroom, weren't you? next time you have a fucking breakdown at work, you'll come see me, hm? i'll make it better."

she wants to be snarky. yes, doctor. more than that, she wants him to be nice. her curls are gonna be a mess, scraped across his pillow as she nods.

"you gonna be okay if i get up, or do you wanna be held a bit longer?"

and that's a bold question to be asking when he's not even really holding her now, so samira reaches up behind him and pulls until he flops, considerable weight pressing her into the mattress. (firm. excellent back support. old bastard.)

jack doesn't laugh at her, just turns so he can kiss her cheek, her temple, his other hand threading into her hair to keep her close. "you're okay, samira. did so good today."

"you did too," she manages, sniffles abated just long enough to eek it out.

she expects resistance, robby's typical rebuff. but jack just presses a smile to her hairline, nods. she forgets sometimes how vocal he is about attending therapy. "we all did," he agrees. "hell of a team we got."

and she wants to ask if that's what they are, a team, but when jack pulls away he only tosses the condom and fishes out some sleepwear for both of them, tucking himself up behind her before setting an alarm on his watch that makes her cringe, and she reasons she'll have time to ask tomorrow when he tells her not to worry about it.

"not for you. just my morning run."

she hopes she never lives to handle shit like tonight as well as he does.

#samira mohan x jack abbot #jack abbot x samira mohan #mine #the pitt fic #mohabbot #abbot x mohan #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbott #samira mohan

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daveth-isnt-dead · 1 day ago

Text

Overlock Stitch Part 3/?

Summary:

Viktor is just trying his best to survive his years as a student at the academy when a girl studying textiles suddenly begs him to let her tailor his uniform. She is right, it doesn't fit, but he isn't in the business of accepting charity from strangers. "Please?" She asks, "It would be fully anonymous on your part and we would both be better off." Then again, but with feeling, "please?" Viktor eyes her again and against his better judgement, presents an undeserved olive branch, "Will you be here tomorrow?" Her smile is so wide it almost makes him want to recoil. He wonders if her cheeks hurt.

Contains: Third person POV, She/Her Pronouns for reader

Word Count: 3,991

Read on AO3

She doesn't see Viktor for a few weeks after that, he came by to collect his uniform and allowed her to take her photos before offering little more than a curt 'thank you' and disappearing through the door. She tries her best not to be too hurt by this, after all, one forced, awkward interaction where she could accidentally stab him with a pin at any moment is not exactly the usual first step in making friends. Not that she has ever been good at following that particular rule-book anyway.

If she pokes her head out at the right time on Thursday she sometimes still catches him on his walk through the fine art wing. One time she was brave enough to wave at him, but he either didn't see her, or did and pretended he didn't. Regardless, she couldn't find the courage to try again. The few times she has seen him, she hasn't been able to resist admiring how utterly stunning he looks in his properly fitting uniform. She just hopes that is has helped somehow, that he gets fewer stares in the hallways and most importantly, that the alterations she made to his trousers make it easier for him to get ready in the mornings. Especially now that the cold outside is biting.

It's still another fortnight before her final assignment for the term is due and she has been working on cataloguing both photos and sketches for all the tailoring work she has done. It is mostly alterations made for her father, some fittings for classmates, one wedding dress alteration, and the work she did for Viktor. The photos of his uniform turned out nicely despite her difficulties getting the film into the camera. Her heart does perform a traitorous little flutter each time she glances at any of them, the photo of his waistline post-tailoring is especially perilous, she tries not to look at it.

It's early evening and the sun has already well set outside the academy, but she knows that she wont get any more work done if she goes back to her dorm. Her radiator has been playing up and she has been avoiding contacting academy maintenance about it for the last few months. She doesn't feel like she belongs here half the time already, the last thing she needs is the academy thinking she is some sort of nuisance. With how cold it is tonight, all she will manage to do back home is climb into bed. So she stays late in the warm textiles workshop, sketching and annotating in preparation for her assignment. It's also nice to have the place to herself, even for just a few hours. She is usually forced to engage in exhausting faux polite conversation with Eliza and her other classmates. It gives her a headache, makes her teeth hurt. She has grown quite comfortable in the silence, sitting in the low light of her worktable's lamp as she works to arrange her portfolio. So the sound of the door to the workshop opening has her yelping and knocking half her photos and sketches off the desk. She whips around, quickly trying to come up with a polite way to tell whatever classmate has interrupted her to get lost, only to freeze in place when she sees that it is Viktor lurking in the doorway.

"Hello!" She squeaks, immediately regretting everything about her delivery of the single word.

Viktor's brows draw together, "Hello. I-" His eyes dart down to the pile of photos at her feet, "I am sorry for startling you."

Oh. She hadn't been expecting an apology. A nervous giggle escapes her, "It's alright, really! I'm easily startled."

Viktor laughs too, it's warm and sounds surprisingly genuine, "Yes, you certainly are."

They both sit in a lingering, uncomfortable silence for a moment. She can't manage to figure out why exactly he is standing here in the workshop, can't think of what she is supposed to say, what he wants her to say.

"I'm-"

"You-"

They both laugh at the failed start, and the energy in the room feels suddenly lighter. Viktor inclines his head towards her, "You first."

"Oh, okay, um." She chews her lower lip, it had been easier to say when it was off the cuff, but now that she's had a moment to think about it, she suddenly feels like it is far too presumptuous, "I'm happy to see you again, that's all." she says quickly, picking at her cuticles.

Viktor hums, his intense eyes peeling back her layers again. It makes her hands grow clammy.

"You did an impressive job with my uniform. That is what I was going to say." He replies.

Her stomach flips and she clutches her hands tightly in her lap, "Th-Thank you, I'm glad." She's nervous and her mouth moves faster than her brain, "I've been thinking about you, I-I mean, your uniform and I was really hoping that it had helped. It means everything to me, it really does."

An almost smirk tugs at the corners of Viktor's mouth, "You have been thinking about me?"

Sudden heat rushes to her cheeks, "About you uniform! That's what I said!"

Viktor shrugs a shoulder, "Suit yourself." he takes a few steps forward, allowing the door to slide shut behind him, "What are your going rates when it comes to favours?" He asks evenly.

She blinks at him, confused, "I'm sorry?"

"Topsiders rarely offer an act of kindness without a charge. The values and complicated, payment does not come back until months down the line when they need something from you." He steps over to her, ducking down and collecting her mess of photographs into a neat pile before handing it back to her, "One of my classmates gave me directions to my first lecture and then about two months later he all but ordered me to complete his assignment for him. I would not assign those two acts equal value, personally, though, maybe topsiders have found a way to charge interest on favours, it would not surprise me."

He speaks clearly, succinctly, and she realises that this is the most he has ever said to her, by a wide margin.

She swallows, hoping that she knows the right way to respond, "Eliza, my classmate, brought me a pastry before the end of first semester last year. She still holds it over my head anytime she needs something from me. The funny thing is, had she just been genuinely friendly to me, I would have helped without the need for threatening pretence." She gains the confidence to meet Viktor's eyes and finds his appraising expression encouraging, "It's exhausting, playing these games every day. I'm just not cut out for it. So my going rates for favours is complimentary, as it should be."

Viktor's lips quirk up in a smile, wide enough that for the first time, she catches a glimpse of his teeth. They're crooked, lacking the benefits of modern Piltover dentistry and she is enchanted by them, can't help picturing the shape of the imprint his bite would leave behind

"That is good." He says with a nod, "Very good."

He leans against her worktable, peering down at where she still sits in her chair, she gulps, averting her eyes, "I take it you need something from me, then?"

Viktor turns his head and crosses his arms. His open, almost playful posture tightens into something far more self conscious.

"I meant what I said." he beings, rapping his fingers against his arm, "My uniform is far more comfortable now and those eh, alterations you made were very-" He brow creases, "Accommodating.'

She can feel herself relaxing, unfurling almost, hearing that her work had managed to help, that it had meant something to someone.

Viktor looks at her out of the corner of his eye before continuing, "I told you I was not interested in charity when we first spoke and that is still true, but I am hoping you might be interested in getting some more practice, as it were."

She smiles wide, she can't help it, "Do you want more alterations? Is that what you're saying?

Viktor's next smile is shockingly warm, "Ah, there is that spark of yours. Yes, the rest of my wardrobe now feels woefully inept."

She quickly darts her eyes up to the clock and back, "The wing is going to be closed in a few hours, it's probably not enough time…but I would love to! Maybe tomorrow? Or the day after?"

Viktor barks a laugh, "I did not mean now."

Her enthusiasm gets away from her, she can't help it, "But if you have time now, then we could, or I mean, you could always-" too familiar, too familiar by far, she freezes, staring down at her toes, "Sorry. Never mind, I'm just overexcited, forget all of that."

Viktor's brows draw together and his jaw tightens, "Stop doing that around me, I am not one of your Piltie classmates, I despise it just as much as you do." He spits, "Do not dissimulate, just tell me what you want, is it really so difficult?"

It is. It is. Every bone in her body tenses and panics and tells her that this is exactly the sort of thing that makes one a social pariah, that gets them ridiculed by classmates for seeing friendship where there is none. She balls her hands into fists, sucks in a deep breath and says, "I have sewing supplies in my dorm. If you would like me to do the alterations now, you can come back with me."

When Viktor doesn't immediately start laughing at her, she gains enough courage to look up at him. His expression is thoughtful and not at all mocking. At the sight of him, all the nervous, electric tension suddenly melts from her body. Unlearning years of Piltover fake politeness feels a bit like pulling out rotten teeth. Painful at first, but a relief afterwards.

Viktor thinks her offer over a little longer, casting a considering glance in the direction of the clock before returning his attention to her, "I would have to collect my things first. Give me your address, I'll meet you there."

~~~

Viktor barely understands why he agreed to this. Locking his door behind himself and preparing to navigate the maze-like block of dorms under the cover of darkness. It is a clear night, at least, the moon provides a good deal of light and like the rest of the Piltover's streets, the footpaths surrounding the dorms are lit with streetlights, casting a pale orange light across the ground. His leg complains when he starts walking in the cold air, less than it was complaining yesterday, if that was not the case he definitely would have turned her down. But it's a rare good day and so much of the student body seems to wish they were anywhere other than the academy that speaking with someone who actually cares about what they are studying is refreshing.

Her block of dorms actually ends up being quite a bit closer than the main academy buildings are, so Viktor is at least grateful for that despite the confusion he feels at his own sudden acquiescence. Agreeing to her first tailoring felt a lot like peeling back his fingernails, it was painful, it ached, it was shameful. So what changed, really? She doesn't have any sort of ill intent, that much is plain as day, but there is still no real reason for him to be trudging himself through the cold air in the dark of night. This could have been handled in the morning. It should have been, but when she smiles the way she does, the way that makes his cheeks hurt empathically, he finds it difficult not to keep that smile lit as long as possible. It's far realer than any of that achingly false pretence she slips in and out of, maybe her smile reminds him of home. Just a little.

The set of buttons she had affixed into the inseam of his trousers were another reason he agreed. It was a defensive mechanism, to far understate just how useful he had found them in even just the past few weeks. Despite her insistence that she doesn't charge for favours like so many Pilties do, he still can't shake the feeling that letting her know just how much he owes her would be dangerous. Because he does owe her, he owes her a great deal. Every evening when the cold has left his leg stiff and uncooperative, when he would usually need to spend almost half an hour massaging muscles before being able to undress for bed, he was instead able to unsnap the fasteners with one tug, and the trousers would slide right off. He had been fine without her help, he would have continued being fine without it. But now, he is more than fine, just a little bit, an almost inscrutable amount, a decimal place somewhere within the nebulous number defining just how bad a day can be. It is a small change, but it is one he has noticed and that is significant.

Her dorm is one of the street-facing buildings and on the ground floor, which makes it easy to find. The lights are on in the windows and as she had described very explicitly, there are several bunches of dried flowers hanging from the door frame. Viktor also almost knocks over a dish of water on the doorstep that he can only assume she has left out for the cats he sometimes sees roaming around the academy grounds. The groundskeepers are always trying to chase the cats off campus, but it's no wonder they keep coming back if she is doting on them the way he is certain she is.

She comes to the door just a few seconds after he knocks. He hears the sound of a chain-lock frantically undoing and then the door quickly swings open.

"Hello!" She exclaims in her usual rush, out of breath and smiling wide. Her hair is down, still awkwardly kinked from being in an up-do all day and kicking up around her collarbone. Viktor finds that he likes it a lot more this way and doesn't appreciate how that thought twists at his gut.

"Hello, yourself." He replies, peering past her into the softly lit room beyond.

She follows his line of sight with a whip of messy hair, laughing a little before turning back and chewing her lower lip, it's chapped and red in places, it gives the impression that she is nervously chewing more often than not, "I tidied before you got here. I don't really ever have people over"

He doesn't doubt it. She is dithering in the front door like she isn't even sure how to welcome him inside. Viktor saves her the trouble, taking another step closer and peering down at her. She blinks again, in that mousy way and he inclines his head towards the doorway, "May I come in?"

Her wide smile comes back, "Yes! Please do!" and she quickly presses herself against the wall, motioning for Viktor to walk in through the gap.

He had been hoping for her to vacate the doorway entirely, but the way she clings to the wall and sucks in all her vital organs does at least give him enough room to squeeze past her and into the dorm. From what he can see, it seems to be the same layout as his own room but in reverse, the small kitchenette is off to the left and there's a rickety looking wooden divider separating the small alcove where her bed is from the rest of the dorm. Viktor hears the door lock behind him and she darts out and around him, standing expectantly in the middle of the room with her hands clasped in front of her. She is especially nervous now, it's all over her face.

"Do, um-" her face pinches, it's as if she is trying to remember exactly what she has been taught to say when she has a guest over, "Do you want something to drink? I only have tea, unfortunately, coffee makes me nauseous."

"Tea would be fine." Viktor says, eyeing the large collection of dried flowers in various cups and vases throughout the room, "you don't keep any living plants?"

She blinks, "Um, no I don't. I always over water them and kill them."

Not forgetful, then. Viktor muses, just overly doting.

"I'll go brew the tea, then." She says quickly, "Take a seat on the sofa if you want, oh! and leave your clothes that need altering on the armchair, I'll get to them in a moment."

Viktor nods and watches as she darts her way over to the kitchenette and starts heating some water on the stove. She's still in her uniform, he can only assume that she was so busy tidying that she didn't have any time to change. He finds the armchair sitting by the radiator and removes the clothes from his bag, folding them over the armrest. Now that he is standing so close to it, he realises that there is no heat at all emanating from the radiator, the room is at least marginally warmer than outside, warm enough that he didn't notice anything was wrong at first. He peers over his shoulder, she is in the middle of reaching for a pair of matching teacups from the top shelf, he decides not to bother her. Instead he rests his cane against the armchair and crouches down, careful with the weight distribution on his right leg. It still hurts enough for him to wince involuntarily, but it could be far worse. He turns the valve carefully and finds no resistance.

"Are you having problems with your radiator?" He asks

He hears her squeak from across the room, followed by quick footsteps and the sound of her putting a jar of sugar down on the coffee table, "Yes, I'm sorry. Are you cold? I have blankets."

"No. No I am okay for the moment." He turns to look at her over his shoulder, her cheeks flush involuntarily at the attention, "How long have you been experiencing these issues?"

"Since it started getting cold this year, it hasn't been much of a problem until now because it hasn't been too chilly." She shrugs, "I just, I don't know, I didn't want to make a big deal out of it."

"Have you noticed anything strange when you try to turn it on?"

"Um, it sometimes makes sounds? Creaking or hissing. I was worried I might break it so I've mostly taken to leaving it off."

"Aha. You must have air in the pipes." He stands from the ground, "I can fix it."

"W-Wait! You don't-" She sputters, chasing after him as he heads over to her kitchen

"Your boiler should be in the bottom of the pantry, if your dorm is the same as mine." He says quickly, deciding that it's best to cut her polite refusal off at the root instead of entertaining it, "I'll need to turn it off for a moment"

She stares at him open mouthed for a moment, but then seems to decide pushing back isn't worth it and follows after him, dithering over his shoulder as he crouches down, using the second to last shelf in the pantry for balance and turning off the gas. His heart races when he realises that she is leaning in so close to him that he can feel her hair brushing against the side of his neck.

"Can I help somehow?" She asks quietly, he can feel her breath in his ear.

Viktor swallows, clenches and un-clenches his hands, "Do you have a Flathead screwdriver?"

She shifts backward, and he suddenly feels like he can breathe again, "I have a fork that works in a pinch! Let me see if I can find it."

He peers over his shoulder and waits until he can see that she is busy digging through the drawers before pulling himself back to his feet. His leg complains, a little worse than the first time, but only marginally. He is glad she wasn't watching. As he steps towards her, she whips around with one of her enormous smiles, clutching a fork in her hand.

"This should do the trick, I had to tighten the towel rack in my bathroom and it worked a charm."

Viktor feels that urge again, the one in the base of his stomach that wants him to soften in the warmth of her gaze. The same urge that begged him to call her Myšičko last time they spoke despite the cloying affection behind the diminutive word, "Thank you." He says instead, taking the fork from her outstretched hand and walking back over to the radiator. Resting a hand on it, he finds it quite cool, it must have been that way for a long time based on when she says it stopped working, but turning off the boiler practically negates the possibility of him burning his hands. Working quickly, Viktor sticks the square end of the fork into the screw keeping the bleed valve sealed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips when he realises just how perfectly the fork fits.

"Well you were not kidding about this fork working in- what was it you said? A pinch?"

He hears a laugh from somewhere behind him, the teapot on the stove must have finished boiling because when he looks backward he sees her pouring tea at the kitchen bench, "I told you!"

He exhales an amused breath, "So you did."

It only takes a few turns to loosen the bleed valve enough for air to begin escaping, just as he has expected. After a few seconds a thin stream of water spills down from the valve and Viktor quickly re-tightens the screw before any further water gets lost. Easy.

He stands from the floor with a wince, using the armrest of the chair for balance, "That should work now. Give it a few minutes and then we can turn the boiler back on." He grabs his cane and readjusts himself, turning to see that she is crossing the room with both cups of tea, gently resting them on the coffee table.

"I-" She starts, eyes darting around the room skittishly, "Thank you. I didn't mean to invite you over to fix things for me."

"No." Viktor says, unable to help the smile climbing up his cheeks as he rounds the coffee table and takes a seat on the sofa, crossing his right leg over his left, "In fact, I think you'll find I came around so you would fix something." He shrugs, "I suppose I was feeling generous."

Generous is too non-committal a term for how he is feeling. How he has been feeling all evening. Warm? Comfortable? Something in that realm. Something ill-advised and guaranteed to end in suffering, that's what the terrified voice in the back of his head says, the one that always hears alarm bells where there aren't any.

"Oh! Yes! I'm sorry!" She says in a near panic, darting over to the desk up against the wall and grabbing an embroidered sewing kit, "I was so busy with the tea and being a good host and- wait, you don't have anywhere to be do you?" and then faster, almost out of breath, "You can leave if you need to! I can drop everything off at your dorm tomorrow!"

Viktor leans forward and scoops several spoons of sugar into one of the teacups before grabbing it by the handle and sinking backward into the sofa. He takes a sip and suddenly finds that he doesn't feel like going anywhere at all, "No rush." He says, surprised to realise he means it, "I am all yours."

#bree writes occasionally #overlock stitch #viktor x reader #viktor/reader #arcane x reader #arcane/reader

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fae-morrigan · 2 days ago

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So! Secret Six. Why did Jay do this, other than the fact he's the funniest man alive?

I feel its fairly straightforward.

One: Jon is the most important person to him on this team. That's the love of his life, for better or worse. Protecting Jon and staying in goods with him is more valuable to him than Nia's non-apology. And he's petty, obviously.

Two, and the more poignant reason: Jay kills Waller. What then?

So, Jay kills Waller like Nia wants. Waller then dies with basically all the dirty details of what Nia did under her tenure, and Jay, an asian man from an ethic minority racialized as terrorists, is now at the complete mercy of the United States Justice System. Rather than there being any systemic change like what would likely be possible out of a proper hearing, Jay becomes the new scapegoat, and Nia gets to wipe her hands free of dirt and ride off into the sunset with Jon or whatever.

From Jay's point of view, it isn't just that he hates Nia- He likely thinks it goes both ways. Knowing that the above situation is the likely outcome of what Nia wanted him to do, he reads Nia not as genuinely apologetic, but as actively manipulating him into shooting himself in the foot. You know- Instead of a proper apology like Jay VERY obviously wants, which would be way easier if, in Jays mind, she was actually sorry.

I think Jay really does believe that Nia is his enemy because she keeps MOVING like an enemy even if she, in her heart, is not trying to. And for Jay, this is completely expected. If Jon is getting frustrated with Nia for how she works outside the system, Jay is frustrated with Nia because he knows she is the system. For him, anyways. (The white supremacy that has dictated his life is upheld most viciously by those who are marginalized in other ways.)

Three: We have no idea what Jays end goals are here. Of all the six, his motivations for being here are the least transparent (intangible, you can say). Why was he watching Waller? Why didn't he go home when Jon proposed it? Why didn't Nia ask him what HE wants to do with Waller? This I think really fuels point two. If Nia actually cared about getting Jay justice, wouldn't she have asked him what he wanted to do? What DOES Jay want to do with Waller?

Like I said in my last post, Nias vision at the start of issue one really changes how we, the audience view all this. Her trying to get that gun into Jays hands takes a different meaning considering she had a vision of Jay shooting her in the fucking face. But Jay doesn't know that: all he can see is that Nia might be still trying to hurt him.

#jay nakamura #jaynia #nia nal #secret six 2025 #wednesday spoilers

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almostswagkid · 2 days ago

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I feel like a lot of people miss one thing in Rodigor dynamic

Let's start with a little bit off topic, just so I can get that out of my system: Rodya knows Gregor's boundaries and doesn't overstep them. In fact, her teasing towards him is way softer. Gregor allows Rodya way more than he allows others. Plus, he couple of times teased her too (but more often than not he just ignores her attempts to get under his skin)

Now, let's assume they fell in love at the same time. And a lot of people think that Gregor would be the anxious lovesick one, desperate for Rodya's attention while she just uses him to get the praises she needs

But, what people miss is that Gregor wouldn't be like that. You see, the only thing he knows is to accept and adapt. No matter how strong his feelings would be, Gregor would very quickly find a way to just accept it as a fact and move on with his life. Just remember how he reacted to Yuri's death: he very quickly got over. How fast he just calms down in stressful situations (just remember Canto 1). Same thing with love. Gregor wants connections with people but still holds them at arms length, not hoping to build any relationships with them (Angela reference hehe ((they are WAY too similar, my god))

On top of everything he doesn't know what he's losing, thus it's easier for him to let go. Why would he try to hold onto love if he doesn't know what it's like?

In fact, Rodya would be the anxious one. A lot of people, sadly, miss the detail that Rodya's not good at hiding her fear and anxiety (in snake inquisitor's ((or whatever he's called)) logs she mentioned how she cried from the fear). That's the main reason her story even happened (otherwise she would've just go on with her life after murder). Rodya is not morally strong, that's the entire point. Plus, she doesn't have experience with acceptance, that's her main struggle as a character: she's stuck in denial, not knowing what to do with her emotions and how to get out. She's been running away from her feelings, not accepting them like Gregor. If it is like that for one emotion, why wouldn't it be like that for the other one?

Plus, one thing that seemingly everyone missed: during April Fools event Rodya specifically said that she feels iffy around Gregor, because she doesn't know what to expect from him. Let's not get into why exactly she feels that way (because I have a lot to say about it), but I brought that up because she said it herself: she's uncomfortable around him. And yet she's helplessly drawn to him

In conclusion, I see their dynamic like that: Rodya's helplessly in love, but due to her own insecurities, she doesn't understand what to do with those feelings and does what she always did - covers it with a joke. Gregor is in love too, but due to his trauma and cynical worldview, he can't allow himself to open up to her, constantly trying to push away his emotions like he always did. And most likely succeeding, unlike Rodya

#limbus company #rodigor

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rabbits-bad-habit · 3 days ago

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Evan Myers Headcanons- SFW & NSFW

TW: Knife play, pred/prey, and talk of blood

A/N: Hello Evan (not Habit) nation! Hope you enjoy!! This is long as fuck because Ev is one of my favorite characters literally ever. I haven't rewatched in a bit so I hope it's not too ooc. As for the Rory followers, welcome to the source of my user, hope this inspires you to look at EMH :p

Sfw-

Evan Myers possibly takes the cake for the most protective and caring partners you could have. He’s not dating anyone he doesn’t care about, and when he cares about someone or something he will go to whatever lengths necessary to protect that. We’ve all seen him take a swing at literally Slenderman, he’s not afraid to stand up for his loved ones, and especially you. It breaks him to see you the least bit uncomfortable, if you get hurt- god forbid if someone hurts you -it fills him with such an indescribable seethe. Not at you, never at you, more at whatever may have harmed you. He thinks you are amazing, practically worships you. Not only does he see you as absolutely stunning, but you're with him, willing to put up with him and all the shit that comes with that. The only thing he wants is for you to feel safe and loved with him, it becomes his full time job because you just deserve it.

Will drag you to the most random places because he found them and think they would be nice to hang out in. An entirely off-the-path clearing in the woods right next to a stream, an abandoned diner that still has its power on, a hotel that he knows keeps their roof door unlocked. His constant wandering gets him to the most interesting, romantic in the way the apocalypse is romantic sort of way, types of places. Every time he finds a new one he hangs around for a few days just to make sure that it's safe, maybe brings Vinny and Jeff around to see what they think, and then will bring you. Just the two of you, so you can walk and talk and poke at one another with no interruptions, for as long as you like. He knows how dangerous some of the nooks and crannies he finds can be, he makes complete sure that it will be safe for you, in whatever way that means, before he even thinks about bringing you. There are a good few of these spots of his that you’ve never even heard about because he just doesn’t trust the area enough.

He's gonna do things for you, he always is. He likes taking care of people, he likes making sure he is useful. Again, it’s his job to make sure not only are you safe but looked after. That you feel like you’re cared for. If you're on a hike and you get tired, he's hoisting you on his back and carrying you the whole way back. Wanting something specific for dinner? Don't have the energy to make anything? He's sitting you on the counter and forcing you to yap at him while he cooks. He’ll drive you wherever you need to be, even if you have your own mode of transportation. Even if you could do it yourself, why would you do anything when he could? That’s his thought, at least. He has a love for showering together and that falls under this. Something about running soap over your body or working shampoo into your hair makes him feel like he's genuinely useful. It’s so intimate and he hopes it allows you the little escape from the world that it does for him. He'll let you wash his as well if you offer but it's kind of for him to begin with, he'll never expect it. He tries not to baby you or come across as condescending, he certainly isn't doing any of this because he thinks you are incapable or anything. He just likes being useful for the ones he loves, making their lives that much bit easier. Definitely big on the acts of service above anything else, he's a typical guy in that way.

You are either actively together or you aren't speaking. That isn't because he doesn't want to talk, rather, this fucker barely knows how to use his phone for phone reasons. Getting any more than a few simple responses from him over text is impossible. He'll call you, for sure! He can do that! In fact, he loves phone calls when they come from you. Late at night, you're both bored or working on things. Talking about absolutely nothing at all for hours at a time. Long distance parallel play, if you will. You can't catch him on AOL or anything of the sort, though, any form of instant message is kinda overwhelming. So he simply doesn't until the advent of smart phones, and simpler to use keyboards. He is still the type to just call you to relay something he could have easily said over text, though. He mostly uses texts for sending photos back and forth, or simple information, but he will use it! Video calls are the one thing he's truly down for with the changing of times. If you haven't been able to be together for a bit for any reason, he can still see your sweet face while you talk, and he honestly couldn't ask for more from a handheld computer.

Evan is always getting you to wear his clothes. Despite his height, dude is stupid amounts of jacked. Not to mention he gets a lot of stuff oversized for him. Everything still ends up being bigger on you. It gives him cuteness aggression. He gives you his t-shirts and hoodies all the time, and yet he still nearly tackles you every single time. It's actually something Habit ends up leveraging against him. Pretending to be Evan, giving you something that he's added to Evan's closet, just so he can have the memory of you in Habit's clothes and not his. Just a way to torment him in his own brain good god ow.

You don't HAVE to get along with his friends, but the first thing he's gonna do is introduce you. He's always around them, so you're likely just going to meld into the group like you were always there. He loves when you just hang out with them, even if you aren't participating in whatever they are doing. Sitting next to him and watching as they play video games, having to put up with his lighthearted yelling. Being nearby when they make videos, or observing their live streaming habits just off screen, maybe providing bits of commentary when you feel up to it. Evan wants you to fit into his life like you have always been there, wants you to feel so comfortable with every aspect that you forget there's anything bad outside of the time you spend with him. He gets so giddy when you start opening up to his friends, too.

Music is incredibly important to him, the albums he sees as his favorites have influenced him more than he knows how to explain. He honestly couldn’t date one of those people that doesn’t listen to music, it’s too integrated into his life. Animal Collective, Rob Zombie, Nine Inch Nails, and of course Motörhead, just the tip of the artists he listens to in his day to day. Having the same taste as him isn't entirely required, his music taste spans a lot further than you'd think, but he lights up when you show interest in the music he likes. He's always putting together playlists and burning CDs, he will actually jump at the opportunity to make you one. If you aren't into the kind of music he is, but if you're looking to get into it, he puts together such detailed playlists for you to introduce you to it in a way that won't just throw you into the deep end of mid-00s metal. It's one of his main ways of communicating his feelings, pointing out songs and albums that correlate with whatever he's going through.

He loves all sorts of horror and disturbing media. Movies, shows, books. All sorts of sub-genres. His whole friend group does, they're always watching and discussing horror. He likes comedy horror, slashers, and exploitation films the most. Though, he'll engage in just about anything that includes zombies. He has extremely detailed thoughts about zombies and how they should be used in media, and what they should represent. He will love you forever if you listen to all of his opinions and rambling. If you're afraid of horror, he actually finds that kind of adorable. Pulling you into his side when you're watching them together, reminding you that he'll keep you safe, letting you hide your face in his chest when you get too scared. He can't help himself, seeing you scared like that makes his heart melt, and he won't pass up the opportunity to protect you even if it's a fictional threat.

He keeps you away from the dangers he and the guys are in until he literally no longer can. He recognized what was going on immediately, he clocked it the second it happened. As far as you will be aware, though, there was a break in at his house from someone that had seen their Youtube videos and they had it sorted. On the occasions he got hurt, or was just so tired he couldn’t handle it anymore, he would blame it on his job or a bad hike or some unspoken-of family issue. You are the most important thing to him, he isn’t going to drag you into all of it. There’s also a part of him that’s afraid you’ll think he’s insane and leave him, especially in the earlier days. He’d likely end up telling you once people start dying, he may wait long enough that Habit can take the chance for him, though. Under no circumstances is he letting you help them unless you are given something, and once they figure out Habits symbiotic nature, he will refuse to see you. Whatever it takes to make sure you’re not one of those that’s killed or worse as a result of his situation.

At the end of the day, he's a rough around the edges kind of guy. He hunts for fun, he gets himself into fights, he can be easy to anger. His favorite objects are hunting knives, he finds joy in fictional bodies being torn apart. He drops a lot of that around you, though. Not entirely, of course he's still Evan no matter who he's speaking to, but when he finds himself liking someone romantically, he just ends up treating them softer than he does others. Being a bit softer than he usually is. Trying his best not to piss people off when he's with you, trying even harder not to piss you off, because the last thing he wants is to see you truly upset. His teases become a lot less mean-spirited, even if still an attempt to annoy you. He gets as vulnerable as his brain allows when he is with you. He'll actually talk through his feelings instead of always turning to a punching bag or chucking knives at trees, even if he's not very good at verbalizing his feelings, he tries because he knows you will let him and you will understand. When he just can't force himself to speak, he'll curl up with you for hours, pressing his face into your chest and listening to you breathe. That’s enough for him.

Nsfw-

For the most part, he’s a soft-dom. Not that he won’t participate in harder kinks, but he always goes about these scenes with some sort of visible affection. Always with the interests of his partners in mind and less his own. He gives the utmost praise and respect he can to who he is with, even if he's playing a cruel part, he could never be truly cruel. A certified service top, who specializes in brats, masochists, and prey. That’s all. He is extremely knowledgeable in kink and BDSM, as well. Often the “buzzkill” in the room, making sure everything is proper and safe. He takes “safe, sane, and consensual” so very seriously. Which is a good thing, all things considered, but there are times it can feel like he’s the erotic hall monitor about it.

Just because he's dominant doesn't mean he is exclusively a top. He is far from afraid to let you fuck him, he's down, but know it will be so humiliating for you. He's a fan of leashing his sub-tops, yanking them closer to pull them further inside of him. Groaning into your ear, biting into your shoulders and neck. Saying shit like "Just keep fuckin' into me. Good bitch." and "You can do better than that. C'mon- harder." He is also so unbelievably fond of convincing bottoms to top for him. Telling you over and over that it's okay, that you're just being dramatic and you can do it. He's still in control, you don't have to think any more than you normally do. Just try it once. Keeping his hands on your hips, guiding you into his, teasing at every opportunity. His language gets a lot softer, saying everything with an almost-proud smile. "That's your dick inside me, hon." and "Ya' gonna fuck me good, huh?" He is a menace when he gets the chance to bottom, frankly.

Getting the obvious out of the way, he’s a fan of knives. In fact, maybe more than just a fan, it’s his absolute favorite kink to participate in despite how rarely he gets to truly indulge. The entire process is a turn on for him. Procuring proper blades, cleaning and maintaining them, dragging their sharpened edges across skin, drawing blood. The pause in breath when someone is waiting to see if he'll cut or not, the way they hiss when he does. The way little pricks of blood pop through the shallow wounds. The only less-safe kink habit of his is licking cuts, he just can’t help himself. It’s so erotic, you’ve already trusted him enough to let him pull a knife on you, and now he’s lapping up your blood and it’s all because he loves you. He likes the aftercare just as much, though. Holding his partner to his chest after it's over, repeating praises. "You did so fuckin' good for me" and "you don't know how hot that was" in that low, loving voice of his. He always makes sure to bring cleaning and dressing supplies wherever you’re doing this so you don’t have to move a single inch once he’s done with you.

Of course, he’s got his sadistic side, but that doesn’t mean he’s entirely opposed to pain himself. If you were to drag your nails across his back or bite into the side of his neck, he couldn’t hold himself back. It’s the only time you can ever actually get him whiny, you may even get a whimper out of him if he’s close enough to climax. He’s only ever really for it if it’s incidental like that, but when it does happen, it drives him crazy. He has a thing for seeing the marks on himself, the small bruises and scratches, something about it makes him feel nice. He likes having the little reminder throughout the day! You’re etched into his skin until it heals, he thinks it’s so sweet! It’s also a good contrast to the frequent unpleasant pain he experiences, it’s different when it comes out of such intense need and love.

King of the chase, he absolutely thrives in a predator role. He can't help who he becomes if you agree to a predator/prey scene, it’s a time he can safely explore the part of him that craves that kind of hunt. He becomes a feral little monster once he has you labelled as "prey" in his mind. Tends to prefer doing something of the sort inside, one of your houses is ideal, but he wont inherently say no to a chase through the woods. He knows the chances of either of you getting hurt is a lot lower if you're inside, somewhere you both know the layout of, however, the realism of being out in the woods makes it all the more exciting. More places to hide, much easier to conceal your location. Especially in the early fall when it’s briskly cold at night, seeing your breath in the air when he pounces is addicting.

He always, always, has music on when you fuck. Hell, he probably had it on before anything was even initiated. Absolutely not the usual bedroom soundtrack. Of course it's not, this is Evan. No sultry pop or jazz, he always puts on the most vulgar rock or metal if he has any say in it. A lot of it is the same stuff he listens to elsewhere, it's just a whole lot easier to notice how unbelievably horny these lyrics are when you're actively being touched. White Zombie, Nine Inch Nails, he'll pull for Korn at times. If you're in a chase in the house, or he's got a blade to your skin; in some intense scene. The music choices can totally change the energy, and he takes pride in getting the exact situation he wants laid out, down to the soundtrack.

Cannot help but love overstimming partners. He can't get enough of seeing them come undone, unable to think about anything outside of the room. Why do it once when he can do that thrice! Or more for that matter!! You actually have to be the one to tell him when it's getting too much, because he could pleasure you for as long as you will let him. His favorite sight is you fucked out, calling his name, clawing at him, not even sure if you’re asking him to stop or keep going anymore. If there is ever a time you don’t want to cum so many times over that you can’t even speak, you gotta tell him ahead of time, or he will get carried away.

He never shuts up, ever, and that does include during sex. Praise, a few insults here and there, so much shushing and false sympathy. He isn't exactly great at what most would consider "dirty talk" either, but that doesn't stop him from simply letting whatever come out of his mouth. "Fuck- you're grippin' me, dude." and "Do you know how fuckin' hot you are?" He's fond of mixing praise with insults. Saying the sweetest thing, but punctuating it by calling you "bitch" or "whore" or talking to you with a tone that's so utterly caring while he's saying stuff like "You're nothing but a dumb slut, do you know that?" He loves seeing the emotional whiplash as his partner tries to figure out whether they should feel degraded or loved. The intention is to fuck with your head in a way that says- both!

Roleplay! Oh my god please engage in cheesy roleplay with him! He doesn't exactly take it too seriously, but it's Evan we're talking about here. The guy who canonically leads DND campaigns and plays RPGs, of course he finds himself enjoying a little bit of roleplay in the bedroom. Never the serious stuff, no costumes or anything, but the idea of having some prompt is just appealing to him. It’s fun to be different people for a little while! You're no longer established partners, you just met at a bar and are having some wild one night stand, or you're both having some secret affair, or he's an incubus and you've summoned him. Whatever you haven't thought of yet is always going to be his first pick, it's fun to just be in A Situation to him. He's also unbelievably good at making this feel natural, on all fronts. He wasn’t a theater kid, but you’d think he was with how easy he makes it.

As much as he participates in serious kink, elaborate scenes and learned skill, he's a sucker for simple sweet sex. Pulling you as close as possible, keeping you between his arms, mumbling about how much he loves you. Going on about how beautiful he finds you, how utterly lovely you are. Slow movements and grabbing at each other, not a moment lacking contact. Your bodies going warm, and the only sound in the room becomes your shared gasps and desperate moans. No crazy rules or roles, just pleasure and loving touch. It doesn't happen that often, but it definitely happens more once the events of the channel start. Just a need to be close to you, be reminded that you're still there with him, make sure you know how much he treasures you, even when he's so occupied with the serious circumstances he is in.

#haiii old emh moots i know ur gonna see this #i literally could go on about him #i could do another full one of these #fic #mine #evan myers #evan myers smut #evan myers x reader #everymanhybrid #emh #everymanhybrid smut #emh smut #emh fanfic #everymanhybrid fanfic

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