sixvin

writer. professional thirster. avid smut reader. 24, they/them, The Pitt, Marvel, Supernatural, and more. Masterlist

[sixvin]

sixvin's masterlist

I'm a little slow on updates and posting, so please bear with me! I have a baby and a full-time job (rip) so I don't always have much time to work on my fics.

main fandoms: The Pitt, Supernatural, Marvel, Criminal Minds, The Walking Dead

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THE PITT:

Michael Robinavitch

Pulldrone | Michael Robinavitch x Reader | Angst | 6.7k WC

After being pushed away by Robby, the unthinkable happens, leaving the two of you to pick up the pieces and heal.

Doomsday | Preview | Michael Robinavitch x Reader | Angst | COMING SOON

As you recover from a life altering attack, you and Robby discover what it means to heal and recover the bond you once had.

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[sixvin]

Doomsday Preview

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Sequel to Pulldrone | Michael Robinavitch x Reader

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Everything was still - the world around you trapped in an endless cycle of calm. It was eerie, yet peaceful and forgiving, like nothing bad had happened. Like your entire world hadn’t just fallen apart at a moment's notice. Your eyes flew open at the sudden gain of consciousness. There was a brief moment of respite, an unwillingness to acknowledge your surroundings until the sound of waves broke your stubborn refusal. Slowly, you sat up and found yourself comfortably positioned on soft sand - a paradox that caused an itch of curiosity. You let your gaze fall down onto your hands, the very ones that were flexing into the dark sand, feeling each dampened grain gently lighting the receptors in your brain. Mechanoreceptors, you recalled fondly. 

Your eyes wandered back up to the scene in front of you. Everything was so blue, like a filter someone would apply to a picture in the hopes of it being aesthetic enough to post. And the light fog, that was prominent and oddly soothing. It reminded you of the time you got hooked on watching Twin Peaks, the stunning atmosphere of the Pacific Northwest having been captured in such a breathtaking way. This was similar. It wasn’t unsettling in the slightest, instead it was calming and peaceful. The waves in front of you crashed on the shore just a few feet away, threatening to inch closer until it lapped at your feet, but it never did.

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taglist: @nellabear @nerdwiki @andonly @captain-tch

a/n: I know this was not the update you wanted, simply because it's not the full release of part two. However, I promise I am working diligently on it and I'm so excited for how it's already coming together! I genuinely think this is my favorite work so far. :') thank you for your patience and love! I hope to have part two done by tomorrow or Saturday. I've been incredibly busy, so I apologize for the delay. (I also couldn't help but sneak in a reference to the PNW, my beloved home ☺️)

[rollerskategirl]

Respectfully, Yours

Summary: Letters to one random Folsom prisoner get you to Andrew, who needed you just as much as you need him.

Pairing: andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader

Contains: prison/s1 andrew, fluff, age gap, reader is in college, nickname "andy", dreams of domesticity, smoking (briefly), drinking mentioned, weed/drugs mentioned, touch starved reader & andrew

Word Count: 4.9k

Note: started ak recently ... expect more andrew in the near future ;)

You didn’t mean to get so attached. 

Dear Andrew Cody.

It was a project for your creative writing class. Find an incarcerated person, and write them a letter of encouragement. Push your boundaries, learn how to comfort people. You mostly had done narrative writing for the class, but your professor was looking to expand horizons.

Cycling through the Folsom database, you chose Andrew on a whim, in between puffs of a joint. His mugshot was interesting. He looked angry— who wouldn’t be—, but there was a subtle sadness behind his eyes that you could catch through the black and white grain. You even joked to your friend how cute he was, that he had guard dog face. 

You decided to handwrite it, thinking it would be the least effort you could put in what might be the worst written letter of your life. You wrote the usual “Stay Strong” spiel every example letter you found on the internet started with. 

Throughout the letter, you found yourself trailing off, telling him meaningless information— the weather outside, what songs you listened to sounded like. You tried asking about himself without being too insistent or nosy, though you weren’t even sure if you’d hear back. 

Finishing the letter unsurely, you attempted a friendly goodbye, trying not to seem like you looked down on him or pitied him in any way. 

Respectfully, Yours

You didn’t expect to hear back. 

Two weeks or so passed and an envelope from Folsom found its way into your mailbox. Having forgotten about the letter due to your event-heavy week, the government-style envelope scared you. Sure, you skipped Jury Duty once to go Cabo on Spring Break, but that didn’t warrant a direct summons from jail.

With the furrow of your eyebrows, you tore open the envelope and realized it was from Andrew. His handwriting was neat and meticulous, not messy and boyish like you thought it would be. The weight of the graphite, though, was heavy and strong, like it had been yelling at you.

Thanking you for the letter, he said he was surprised to hear from a stranger. He told you about his family, his mom and brothers, without any explicit details. You mentioned the beach and sunshine in your letter, and Andrew mentioned salt air in his, dropping that he’d grown up in Oceanside.

His letter was quite brief, sentences cut short and proper specificity thrown out the window. He didn’t say much about his conditions but he did end the letter with a

I hope to hear from you again soon. I don’t get many letters.

His slight vulnerability hit your heart with a pang. The honesty from him seemed like he really did need someone to talk to. You could’ve mistaken it as classic sympathy, but something tied you to him.

So, you wrote again, not as an assignment but just for you. Maybe you were lonely too, but a little letter could do no harm.

You told him how the initial letter was for a class, apologizing for formalities. You gave a neutral comment on his family, sharing about yours too. 

Andrew? Isn’t that too formal? Andrew. I feel like I’m scolding you just writing it. Is Andy okay? I hope it is. I won’t use it if it isn’t.

Although he basically had your home address, you shared that you also lived in San Diego, attending the public university. You told him about your classes, your favourite simple things in life. He seemed to enjoy it when you described your scenery to him, so you did. 

Writing back, he said he didn’t mind if you called him Andy. He said that no one really called him that, that his nickname back home was “Pope”— without an explanation. He shared that he didn’t finish high school, again, without an explanation, and said that you must be smart.

The letters flowed, maybe once or twice a month. Check-ins, details about your friends, things Andrew missed about the outside world, postcards, printed photos of the city, doodles of Rottweilers and Pitbulls in the margins (from you). 

You even threw in a photo your friend took of you on Crystal Pier. Wide smile, eyes squinting, skin glowing, and the waves rushing down below. Quickly and dismissively, Andrew had slipped that he thought you were beautiful, which made you blush. (Strangely, this was the most action you were getting lately.) 

Though he didn’t say, he pinned that photo of you up in his cell, and threatened anyone that commented or looked too close. He called you my girl, letting everyone interpret it as they would.

Eventually, it became a weekly thing.

Something about your gel pens scratching across the paper felt romantic to you. You felt like you were waiting for your husband to come back from war. Only, that wasn’t the case. On the off-chance you mentioned it, your friends never failed to remind you that you were writing to a dangerous man in his 30s that was locked up. It only thrilled you more.

Then, you started venting to him, telling him things you had a hard time saying aloud. Letters got deep, talking about your mental state and how you felt isolated. How much you loved San Diego, but was homesick half the time. How you craved proper human connection past fleeting moments at parties or networking around campus.

Andrew answered without judgement. He didn’t have much advice to give, but nonetheless offered his listening ears, or eyes. You never asked, but he told you about the bank robbery, how long they’d keep him in. Again, no details, you figured it was for safety. He told you about jail, the food, the walls, the boring days— nothing that mattered. He said he doesn’t get many visitors and how that made him feel even more lonely.

You shared how you wished you could visit, and you meant it. 

You were acting like one of Andrew’s friends, and not some stranger that wrote to him for a school project. You wished him a happy birthday, as he did you. Although small, you continued sending photocards, ticket stubs to movies you saw, sometimes a lipstick stain if you were feeling cheeky. You grew so attached, yet you didn’t even know him.

One month in particular was rough. Having all your midterms condensed into two weeks drove you insane. You spent most of your time at the library, then holed up in your room if not. All your time went to studying, working, then exhaustion. 

After your last midterm, your friends had mentioned Wine Wednesday and you jumped on the opportunity to go outside, only on principle.

The night was rough. Your friends had met some other people they knew at the party, and you trailed along like a beaten down horse. It was nice meeting new people, but you didn’t get comfortable. You got tipsy, though in a way that was no longer fun. When your adrenaline crashed, you decided it was time to take yourself home.

Missing your bed, you quietly toed into your apartment, locking the door behind. You thanked the gods that your roommates were on their own planets and far from your orbit. You just needed one cigarette, then to collapse and leave everything to the morning.

In your room, you reached for your light switch as you placed your keys on your table. You were mentally drafting how you’d change into your pyjamas, then head to the balcony. 

As you looked up, you saw that the articles of clothing that you had thrown around in search of an outfit hours prior were neatly folded on the bed. In fact, your room was about 50% less messy than you left it. A man had been sitting on the foot of your bed, perfect posture, dark clothes, and watching you.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You flinched as soon as you realized. Your eyebrows furrowed, more angrily than scared this time. You figured it must be a guest of your roommates, they were always bringing interesting characters over. You peered back into the common room, like you missed something, then dipped your head back to look at him. “Who the fuck—“

“You didn’t write last week.” His voice was simple yet gruff as he spoke, standing from his position. He didn’t come towards you and his arms remained at his sides, hands empty and unthreatening.

“What?” You decided you were too tired for this bullshit, sometime in between your breaths. It took you a second, but you squinted your eyes at him when you realized, “Andrew? What the hell are you doing here?”

His name on your tongue struck him harder than he thought it would. He’d lie awake some nights, attempting to give a tone and pitch to you. Were you sweet? Did you have a harsher voice? Or maybe you were loud and obnoxious (he didn’t like this one much, but decided he could live with it). He replayed what he thought your voice sounded like a billion times in his head, but it never matched up to the real thing, to this. 

Andrew would read your letters to himself as if you were reading them aloud to him. Your writing led him to believe you didn’t sound dumb or obnoxious, maybe expressive, maybe relaxed at times. He never really settled on one thing, as your syntax changed day-to-day when he imagined you. What mattered wasn’t the persona he placed you in, just that it was you. 

“You didn’t write last week.” He repeated. 

You placed him side-by-side to his mugshot in your head. His hair was now short, untamed, choppy. His puppy dog eyes looked sweeter in person, even though there seemed to be heat behind them. The crease between his eyebrows was his most distinct tell to you, as was the flat line of his mouth that bordered on upset. He had a dimple on his left cheek, which you couldn’t see in your mental image of the photo.

“What, so you broke out of prison?” You furrowed your eyebrows with a sigh, reaching for your cigarettes and lighter on your dresser. 

“I got out on parole.” 

“You can’t just break into people’s houses, Andy.” You said, as if you forgot that he was a criminal.

“I wasn’t going to.” He offered, though even he knew it wasn’t true. “You’re usually home before this time.”

With a gulp, you nudged your head towards the balcony. 

Sitting side-by-side in your patio chairs, Andrew told you about his good behaviour that allowed his parole, that they let him out after only 3 years. He also told you that he had just gotten back that day.

“You came to see me first?” You smiled before taking a puff of your cigarette. You looked at him, a twinkle surfacing your eyes. “I’m flattered… Even though you broke into my home.”

“It’s hardly a break-in if your balcony door is unlocked.” He stated sarcastically as you passed the cigarette to him. His tight lips had gone where yours had, and he coughed up a little since his lungs weren’t accustomed to the taste anymore.

“I’m on the third floor.” You said as he simply shrugged.

In between puffs and fingers gliding against each others’, he told you what he couldn’t say in letters. Not with visceral detail, but he told you about the guards, the isolation, the torture. There was a point in the conversation where his voice cracked and stalled, like he just might shatter in front of you.

“I did a paper on institutional abuse for my criminal justice class,” You told him quietly, “I’m not going to claim to understand, but it’s rough. I’m sorry you experienced that, Andy. You didn’t deserve it.”

He didn’t say anything, just a singular nod. 

You placed a hand on his, which was resting on his thigh, “We don’t have to talk about it right now, if you don’t want to.”

Andrew’s lips quivered and his eyes hardened as he looked at you. He huffed, hand unmoving and body completely still. He wasn’t used to human touch— hell, it had been years since he'd properly seen a woman, but even before that…  Genuine affection wasn’t a familiar concept. Everything, even a hug from his own mother, bore deadweight or pity. 

When you had started being more than just nice in your letters— sharing how you’d thought of him throughout your day, how you anticipated each letter, how you felt connected to him—, he thought you were expecting something in return, money or whatever. Then, your letters carried on without manipulation. 

It was so overwhelming how much you actually seemed to care about him that it made him lightheaded. Your words, your loopy handwriting, hearts above your i’s, was a drug to him. Hitting each syllable after the next, like it was his only escape. If your letters were a puff of a joint, then your touch was heroin.

You had cased his demeanor and observed his stillness. It was like his brain shut down, eyes vacant and looking into yours. His mouth fell from the paper-thin line he pressed it into as he tried to make sense of the situation.

He was unsure what to do, but then he realized you weren’t asking anything of him or forcing anything out of him— you were giving him grace. His wrist turned over and his fingers grasped yours gently.

“Did you mean it?” He looked into your eyes again. 

“Mean what?” You tilted your head at him.

“If I could, I would visit you. I’d sit with you for as long as possible.” He recited from memory. His eyes stayed on you like a spot. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, or I’d talk your ear off if you’d let me.” 

Of course you meant it, but you winced when he said it, “Was that too much?”

He swore he almost smiled.

“I swear I’m not as cheesy as I come off.” You looked away. “I just like to pretend.”

“Pretend?” He furrowed his eyebrows.

It was embarrassing, the way he made you talk. Andrew made you verbalize and illustrate how you felt in ways you ordinarily weren’t able to. The letters were that escape for you, but now, face-to-face, you felt you knew him too much to have a little whimsy without feeling ridiculous. 

“I don’t know,” you looked back at him and gulped, “Just that I know you differently.”

“Differently?” 

With a hesitant sigh, you admitted, “Like you’re my soldier away at war, and I’m waiting for you to come home… so that we can get married and have a family together.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t mocking, just acknowledging. The way his calloused hand went limp in yours, you didn’t know how to feel. His face was a hard read, always completely still and utterly stoic. Although that was basically what he did too, he didn’t know what to say without sounding insane.

“I know… Playing a fantasy? It’s stupid.” You said dismissively, looking away. 

“No.” 

You looked back at him, not ready for more of your stupidly vast imagination to come to light. His thumb ran over your knuckles as you did so, gently over then back then over again, like he wanted to remember this feeling beneath his fingers. He looked down at your hand, then back at you.

Tapping on your ring finger, “Sorry, I would’ve brought a ring if that was the case,” he joked in that deadpan voice of his.

You smiled, nearly giggled like a schoolgirl then stopped yourself out of embarrassment. You couldn’t even care that he broke into your apartment and most likely went through your things while cleaning. 

Usually, you’d think of what your friends would say, the questions your family would have, the looks you would get, but it all went away. The noise of this is insane was blocked out with his real voice and his tangible body. 

“Do you, um…” You cleared your throat. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

Andrew remained silent, and you figured that was an answer.

You offered him clothes, some of your old boyfriends’ from years past and a big Snoopy t-shirt you got at a blood donation drive. He raised an eyebrow when you handed them to him.

“‘S all I have.” You pursed your lips with a shrug. 

While he was brushing his teeth in your bathroom, you meekly approached the door, rubbing your hands over each other. 

“I, um… I have class in the morning, but we can get lunch together after.”

Looking at you through the mirror, he nodded, face still emotionless. The t-shirt that hung on his frame casually and the loose fit of the sweatpants made him look like he belonged there. Serious face with your purple towels hung behind him and your flouncy shower curtain in the distance. Even with toothpaste on his lips, you couldn’t help but beam inside. Was it weird to extend your paper fantasy to reality? Was this unethical? 

You stared at his hand grasped around your extra toothbrush, the yellow Minions one you had stowed away for no reason in particular. The flex of his forearm intrigued you, and you wanted to reach out and feel it. You wanted to map places you’d take him on the freckles along his skin.

When you realized he was staring at you staring at him, you snapped out of it, nodding and heading back to bed.

Coming out of the bathroom, he was headed for the living room, presumably for the couch.

You don’t know why you said it but it came out anyway, “Can you stay here with me?”

When he remained still and didn’t say anything, you patted the mattress beside you. What gravitated you to his physical presence was beyond you, and it made him furrow his eyebrows. Maybe you were just as touch starved as him, but having him stay might’ve pushed it.

“I shouldn’t.” He said.

With a pause, you asked in a small voice, “But do you want to?” 

Sharply inhaling, he found the space on the left side of your bed. The mattress dipped as he laid down on his side, facing away from you. You watched him, nearly disappointed but glad he took your offer, and got under the covers yourself. 

“Goodnight, Andy.” You whispered before turning off your lamp. With a sigh, you bunched the comforter closer to your skin.

Andrew didn’t sleep until he knew you were. When your breaths slowed, he allowed his to, shutting his eyes like it was medication. It took a few minutes of forcing himself to relax, but your bed was much more comfortable than his jail cell.

At some point in the night, you had unconsciously rolled over to where Andrew was, an arm resting along his waist and your face nudging into his back. You curled up behind him, desperate to feel the heat of him on you. If you knew better and were awake, you would’ve kept to yourself. Nevertheless, his hand rested on yours.

When the sun floated by your blinds, Andrew woke up, stiff under your touch like no time had passed between last night and the morning. He realized your forehead was pressed between his shoulder blades and your hand was clutching his abdomen. He looked over his shoulder as he patted your hand with his, checking if you were awake.

Your hair was a mess over your face, mouth ajar and body relaxed. As Andrew shifted away, you let out a disappointed hum, pawing at his stomach. Although there was a thin layer of cotton beneath your fingertips, his skin burned at the movement of your fingers. 

“Five minutes,” you mumbled, morning voice hoarse and irritated.

He eased, turning over to face you. His eyes surfaced over your eyes shut tight and shoulders shrugged under your t-shirt. Your puffy cheek under the strands of hair, soft and supple, called him. His fingertips grazed over, pushing your hair out of your face and behind your ear.

Eyes fluttering open, you realized you had been clutching his middle and were now pressed against his shoulder. You inhaled sharply, sliding your hand away and onto the sheets.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, “Morning.”

You rubbed your eyes and Andrew watched how your hands came to your face and slipped down. He admired the spread of the thin fabric over your chest as you stretched your arms. He couldn’t believe this was real, that you were real.

“Did you sleep well?” Wide eyes waited for his approval after you adjusted to look at him.

He kept his lips pressed together as he nodded. 

A smile spread across your face as you pulled the blanket tight to your stomach. He felt bewildered, watching the sunrays across your nose and your crinkled eyes. Andrew remembered dreaming of this moment, not exactly but waking up next to you with everyday comfort. The normalcy of your grin and your morning eyes warmed him, face turning hot as your eyes trailed his body.

“You’re beautiful.” He let slip, like his mouth had been connected to his heart.

You wanted to scoff or make some self-deprecating quip, but his honey-glazed eyes pulled you into the moment. With a soft exhale, your lips fell into a softer and more relaxed position.

Timidly, you reached your hand to his face. His eyes followed your fingers, unsure and intrigued. The pads of your fingers reached his hairline and your fingers ran through the short strands to find the back of his head. 

By sheer force of will and desire, you moved closer to him, hovering and resting your arm on his chest. His eyes darted back to yours and, all of a sudden, you were only centimetres away. He held his breath in anticipation. Your lips fell into a pout as your eyes darted to the fine line of his mouth. 

“Andy,” you began, voice hush yet sure, “Is it okay—”

“Yes.”

So, you leaned down and pressed your lips to his. It was less of a kiss, and more of an adjustment. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes shut as he attempted to meet you in the middle. Your lips plush and soft against his, his chin had nudged forward, like he was kissing with his whole head and not his lips. It was like kissing a soldier’s statue, solid, strong, and unbreaking.

When you pulled away, he looked like he was trying, really trying, to please you. He hadn’t kissed anyone in awhile, and when he had, he wasn’t sure if he was doing it correctly. Eyebrows knit, he sought your approval.

“Relax for me, Andy. Please?” Your eyes went wide again, big and twinkling so you could take him in. The stress on his forehead released, as did the crease of his lips. “Open your mouth a little.” You guided, stabilizing yourself over his face.

He followed directions and you dipped your head back in. He followed your lead, allowing the muscle of your lips to guide his. This time, you felt the soft flesh of his lips. Your lips spilled into each others’ as your fingers found his jaw. Soft, testing presses became pleading sucks, then his hand found your neck, urging you towards him by the base of your skull.

Your mouth had fallen open when his grip tightened slightly, causing a noise to spill from your lips. He caught his breath when he pulled back to see you. Eyes shut with need, your mouth chased him with a heavy huff. And in this moment, Andrew discovered his passion for the art of kissing. 

“Good,” You whined, eyes still closed in bliss, “Perfect, Andy.”

He nuzzled himself into you again, placing one kiss after the other, just the way you wanted. 

Your fingers gripped into his hair as your body needily drifted towards him. 

Before you could properly assess what you wanted, your phone buzzed on your nightstand with the voice memo speech your friend recorded while cross-faded. Andrew flinched beneath you and you ripped yourself away from him.

You groaned, “Shit.” 

You rolled away and Andrew felt his skin buzz at the loss of your body. Reaching for your phone, you shut off your alarm and all the ones in 15-minute increments that followed. Placing your phone down, you turned back to him, now sitting up on your knees. He was watching you with those puppy dog eyes, consumed by how you made him feel. 

“Sorry,” you laughed nervously, “I’d skip this lecture, but it’s new content.”

Face soft, he gave you a singular nod, like he’d do anything you said in that moment. He wouldn’t move until you did. He looked too good in your sheets against the morning glow, so you leaned back down, kissing him deeply again before you knew you really had to go.

Andrew ended up walking you to class, or he walked with you and you showed him around. The sun was bright against the white of the buildings and the sky was clear. He largely stayed quiet, observing the throngs of people and the breeze against his freckled skin.

In the middle of the morning foot traffic, he bluntly said he didn’t like the people on your campus, but his eyes said he was fascinated by the skateboards zipping by as you walked. You shrugged and agreed, too enthralled with his face in the sunlight.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him with you. Warm skin, coated in freckles and tough lines on his face, he was more gorgeous than you ever imagined. It was embarrassing to admit, but you’d grown accustomed to daydreaming this situation. You were simply walking with Andrew and your heart felt full at the corporeal image.

Reaching your building, you pressed your hands to his chest and grinned. You hated to know you’d be away, but you loved that he’d be there when you returned.

“I’ll be done in, like, an hour.” You said, reaching your hands to the side of his neck. 

“I’ll be here.” He nodded, lips threatening a smile.

“I’m glad you’re here, Andy.” 

You leaned towards him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. He sighed into you, surfacing an arm on your shoulder. Pulling away, you smiled at him before skipping away to class. 

Andrew wandered around campus, while you learned about the Weimar Republic or whatever. He matched locations to places you described in your letters— the trees under which you liked to write letters at if you weren’t home, the benches where you had an overwhelmed meltdown before a Calculus exam, the booths in the library you fell asleep on for ten minutes at a time, the fast food place that you complained had bitchy cashiers. It was all there, the life before him and now the life with him.

When class ended, you were walking out with one of your friends, talking about the last episode of whatever show you were watching. When you caught Andrew in the corner of your eye, you smiled. 

Angela trailed your eyeline and gasped, hitting your abdomen with her arm.

“No fucking way.”

Andrew was exactly where you left him. He stood with his arms crossed, eyes searching for you in the crowd. She recognized him from the mugshot you showed her, when you drunkenly shared that you were sending letters to a stranger. Looking back at your face, she watched a smile grow from ear-to-ear. 

Scolding your name, she groaned, “Are you fucking serious? You cannot date a criminal.”

“We’re not dating… per se…” You mumbled, shoving your hands in your pockets

“He’s dangerous.” 

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.” 

Softly sighing to yourself, you gazed back over to Andrew, who spotted the two of you among the moving passerbys. He kept that serious stare, not exactly threatening or predatory but saying he could pounce at any moment. His eyebrow rose when you turned away.

“It was cute when it was just letters, but—”

Looking back at her, you shrugged, “You don’t know him, Ang. Not like I do.” 

Before she could respond, you shook your head and started walking away. Andrew tilted his head at you when you approached. Your hand slid into his and urged him to walk away with a slight tug.

“Who’s that?” He followed you slowly, fingers loosely clasping your knuckles.

“Just a friend.” You looked over your shoulder, where Angela was still watching from feet away. 

“Is she causing you trouble?” He stopped you in your tracks with a protective squeeze of your hand.

“Uh,” you looked into his eyes, searching for any sense of seriosity, “No, no. Just some gossip.”

He nodded, allowing you to continue leading him. 

“Are you hungry?” You nudged his shoulder with the side of your jaw. 

“Mmmhmm,” He nodded, feeling the soft breeze against him.

Andrew’s eyes softened as he watched you talk about different food places nearby. Your face amongst the cloud-streaked blue sky, green trees that weren’t withering away, and buildings that didn’t look like security walls and barbed wire. He didn’t really care where you’d take him.

When you caught him staring, you looked down at your hands then back to his face. His cheeks tensed when you smiled at him.

Then, he asked quietly, “How do we do this?”

crossposted to ao3

[bodeckerhedron]

NOAH WYLE as JOHN CARTER

➤• ER (1994-2009)

[sixvin]

I have nothing healthy or appropriate to say right now.

[sixvin]

Currently working on part two of Pulldrone... the angst is so strong with this one.

[sixvin]

Hi! I hope this doesn’t come across as rude, but could you please consider hiding your fic under a read more when you post to a tag? Anyone in that tag has to scroll pasts thousands of words if they’re not interested in reading your work at that time and it’s genuinely quite frustrating as a user.

Oh I'm so sorry! I actually had no idea this was a thing, I was just under the impression that happened automatically. Thank you so much for letting me know, I'll be sure to fix that 😊 I might need to come back to this post and ask how to do that though, but hopefully I can figure it out on my own. I just started using Tumblr so I'm getting used to the layout. So sorry about that.

[puppiegracie]

we neeedddd to bring back ship and let ship and don't like don't interact. the normalization of shitting on something in fandom just because YOU PERSONALLY don't like it has genuinely gotta stop. I'm guilty of it, I've hated on ships before— granted, it's a rare occurrence. but like, seriously. fandom is supposed to be fun. there is no rightest way to do it. the extreme moralization of everything is so exhausting. it's fiction. we are talking fiction. oftentimes, fanmade fiction. don't like? don't interact.

[sixvin]

Pulldrone | Michael Robinavitch x Reader

summary: After being pushed away by Robby, the unthinkable happens, leaving the two of you to pick up the pieces and heal.

a/n: Apparently I love writing angsty stories chalk full of fear. I don't know what that says about me, but here we are. Regardless, this came to me one night when l was listening to Lizzy McAlpine's song 'Doomsday' and (obviously) Ethel Cain's 'Pulldrone'. This is my first short fic so go easy on me! There will definitely be a part two for this. At first, I was just going to post all of it in one go, but I actually think it'll work so much better split up.

wc: 6.7k

tags/content warnings: stalking, psychological terror, violence, descriptions of blood and injuries, reliving trauma, angst, potential medical inaccuracies, reader being put through hell because I'm evil like that, I don't think I described the reader but potential afab!reader undertones, not proofread, hoping I didn't miss any tags

A light buzzing came from the lighting above your hospital bed, solidifying the dread making its home in the pit of your stomach. Everything was too much all at once. The large window replacing a wall to your right. The humming of each machine in your room monitoring any change of how your body was functioning. The muffled sounds coming from beyond the door in the ICU you were residing in. It was all just.. too much. Your body was buzzing, both from unadulterated fear and the remnants of whatever medication they had given you. Then there was your mind. Running amuck, giving you no room to breath as each thought filled you with pure terror. It was constant and loud. Someone was still watching. Someone was still casting a shadow over your shoulder. He was still there. You knew this wasn't true anymore, yet the thoughts still plagued every waking moment you shared with the world.

Movement on both sides of you brought you out of your thoughts. On your left, closer to the foot of your bed, were two police officers. One with dark hair and a bronze complexion, his eyes filled with knowledge only a man who had seen too much could carry - Officer Taylor. He had a file in hand filled with evidence of your terror. The other officer - Officer Lambert - she was ginger haired, green eyes heavy with fatigue, and was the one holding a notepad and pen. On your right, was Michael. Michael Robinavitch. Dr. Robby. The one thing out of all of this that brought solace and some semblance of peace. His brown eyes glimmered with concern. He was studying your face, looking for any sign of a breakdown, a change in your health, anything and everything that he might be able to fix or at least try to. Michael sat in a chair by your hospital bed, elbows on his knees as he was leaning forward slightly. As if he may need to jump into action at any given moment. You couldn't tell if that made you feel better or if that made you feel like a burden.

Officer Taylor cleared his throat, stealing your gaze from Michael's. Your hands remained busy picking at the blanket warming the cold rotting your soul. Everything was cold. Your body shifted every few seconds as though you couldn't sit still. You needed to leave. You needed to get out of here before it was too late.

“I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you. If I could, I would wait to take your statement, but it's imperative that we do this now while it's still fresh.” Officer Taylor stated this with a genuineness that eased your mind, but only just a little.

You nodded your head with tears sitting at the brim of your eyes. This was all too much. This was too much. It is too much.

“If you can start from the beginning, that would be best,” Officer Lambert prompted, “The moment you first noticed him.”

Another nod from you. With your response came a hoarse and shaken voice, clearly still healing from your injuries.

“It wasn't him that I noticed first,” You glanced at Michael before returning your focus to the foot of your bed. “It was the feeling.”

“Feeling?” Officer Taylor encouraged you to go on, sensing a coming pause in your admission.

Another nod.

“It was like- it was like everything shifted. Everything felt different. The walk to the bus, the bus ride to work, even just being at work felt off. And then I would get home or go out with friends or even just go shopping and it was still that same feeling of everything being off.”

A pause.

“The bus used to feel somewhat peaceful. Like a calm before the storm. But at the start of September, it started to feel suffocating. It was like my body knew something was wrong before I did. I kept looking over my shoulder and honestly I don't know why I started to feel like I had to, but that feeling was taking over and I couldn't make it stop.”

Another pause.

“Then things started to go missing.”

You shifted again, this time a little more than the last. What should've been even breathing came a rapid and panicked set of ins and outs. A warmth encasing a small patch of your right arm grounded you. A quick look confirmed that it was Robby's hand on your arm. Despite this, you moved your focus back onto the foot of the bed, refusing to look at anything else.

“At first it was just my spare key. Dennis-”

“Dennis?” Officer Lambert inquired, shaking your thoughts up at the interruption.

“My- my friend and coworker. He used it to grab something my other friend and coworker, Trinity, had left in my apartment. We use each other's spare keys all the time so it wasn't a big deal. But I couldn’t find it when I checked on it to make sure he put it back. He kept telling me he put it under the fake plant by my door, but I figured he forgot to and was just too embarrassed to admit it. So, I just brushed it off. Then my favorite chapstick disappeared. And then my favorite sweatshirt. My favorite-”

This broke you. This next item, the one that made you sick to your stomach just thinking about, broke you. Tears that once threatened to fall were now cascading down your cheeks. A broken sob left your throat and you began to curl in on yourself, but the movement caused a sharp pain in your chest and you were quickly reminded of why you couldn't do that. The hand on your arm squeezed lightly, once more breaking your paranoia. You tried to even your breathing as best as possible, but it took a few seconds before you could continue.

“My favorite pair of underwear,” you sobbed, a slight strain encapsulating your speech, “It was always my favorite stuff. The things I used the most. I kept thinking that maybe work was finally getting to me, maybe I was tired, or maybe it was stress. But I felt like I was losing my mind. Between my things going missing and the constant feeling like something was wrong, I really thought I was losing it. And then-”

Another sob broke through. Your eyes started to search your surroundings, looking for anything out of place, as if someone might jump out and get you.

“After a couple weeks of that, the dreams started. Every night, I would have the same exact dream. One minute I was sleeping, the next I would wake up to someone standing at the foot of my bed. I could never see who it was, but they were just standing there. Watching me sleep. And then I would wake up and it was morning. I started researching sleep paralysis thinking maybe that was it. I really thought I was losing it,” You whispered at the end, not actually wanting to admit that for weeks you thought you were having a mental breakdown.

Another glance at Robby. His hand was still on your forearm, but the other was covering his mouth. A look of reserved fear broke the surface, and you knew that he could finally tell just how bad it had gotten. Maybe he felt a bit of guilt, but most of all you knew he was starting to be equally shaken by everything you were revealing. You looked over at the two officers, nothing standing out other than looks of understanding and concern.

“I thought they were just dreams. But one night, I came home from a hard shift. My head was killing me, probably from how difficult it had been and all of the fluorescent lights. So, before bed, I closed the blinds in my living room and bedroom. There were lights outside that were coming in through the windows, so I just wanted to make everything as dark as possible. My room was pitch black when I fell asleep. And I know- I know- I know I closed those blinds. I know I closed them. I know I closed them.”

You started to rock, sobs escaping your throat every few seconds as you continued to repeat yourself. It was almost a chant at this point, a confirmation to yourself that you were not insane. That this was real, it happened, and you were not insane. Robby shuffled forward in his chair, bringing himself closer to you and bringing your focus to him.

“It's okay. You're okay. He's not here, it's just us. Breathe for me, sweetheart.” Robby cooed, desperately trying to calm you down. A couple minutes of continuous affirmations finally pulled you away from the edge of sheer panic.

“Take your time. When you're ready, you can start from where you left off.” Officer Lambert’s voice had turned soft. It was almost maternal, reminding you of Dana’s when she was worried about someone.

Before you could shut down completely, you forced yourself to spit it out.

“When I went to bed, both blinds were shut, and I had one of those dreams again. But this time,” you shuddered, “When I woke up, the blinds in my room were open.”

It was Robby's turn to shift. His eyes were closed, whether to bring comfort to himself, or because he couldn't bear to look at you. A hand remained plastered to his mouth while the one gripping your arm tightened ever so slightly. Your gaze fell back to the foot of the bed. It was a center point that grounded you, kept you whole, and told you that no one was standing there. He wasn't standing there.

“That's when I knew something was really, really wrong. And part of me knew that I should tell someone, but I was terrified that it was all in my head, that I was just going to be told I was losing it. I couldn't handle that. I didn't want to lose my job or be told that I wasn't in the right mind to keep doing it. It was the only thing keeping me sane at the time. After that night, I stopped sleeping. I mean, every once in a while, after a few days I would collapse in bed from exhaustion, but otherwise I would stay awake for as long as I could. I could usually last four days before I couldn't stay awake any more, but I always made it home before that happened. I knew it was wrong. I knew I was putting myself and patients in danger by not sleeping, but I was terrified. Terrified of telling someone because then it was real. If I told someone, it wouldn't be a possibility anymore, it would just be real.”

The room was quiet, save for the ambience of the hospital.

“The worst part is, I didn't even really keep myself busy to stay awake at night. I just sat on my bed with a knife from the kitchen, and stared at the bedroom door until my alarm went off. My own personal hell for hours on end wondering if that door knob was finally going to turn. But it never did. Which made me feel even more crazy. Like maybe it was just a series of bad dreams. If it weren't for the blinds, I don't think I would've ever known any different.”

The hand on your arm loosened, but the warmth given by those calloused hands never ceased to exist.

“It finally got to a point where I knew I had to tell someone. I'm sure people started noticing anyway, I wasn't myself anymore. I felt like a shell of the person I was before all of this started. As if each time I had one of those dreams or stayed up at night, a part of who I was got leached from me. My next shift-”

The air in your lungs thickened, because this was it. This was the day that would replay in your head until your body was worm ridden six feet in the ground.

“My next shift was on Halloween,” you whispered gently, “So, I told myself that I would tell someone that day. Someone I trusted. But he was so busy and on edge that day. I never got the chance.”

Any movement you made was reminiscent of a body stuck in quicksand. Each step, arm movement, head turn, and even a single intake of air felt slow and heavy. You knew there was no one to blame but yourself, yet that knowledge made it worse. You knew why this was happening, why you felt this way. The reminder sent a shiver up your spine and, almost instinctively, you risked a glance over your shoulder. Nobody there. Just an empty exam room. Looking back at the computer you were charting on, you found yourself hypnotized by the rhythmic blinking of the cursor waiting for text to appear.

The chart was for a simple case of dehydration, causing the afflicted to pass out while grocery shopping. Nothing crazy. Just simple. A round of fluids, a quick lecture on the importance of hydration, and they were on their way. Yet here you were, unable to put pen to paper, or finger to keyboard in this situation.

Despite already being halfway through your shift, time felt as slow as your body did. It was starting to frustrate you. There was a desperation clawing at your mind, reminding you that you needed to talk to Robby. Of course, you were terrified to tell him, but there was always something between the two of you that led you to believe he could be trusted. There was also the hope that somehow, he would protect you. Every time you tried to talk to him a new patient would come in, or his name would be called, or some other random thing caught his attention. Then there was the attitude. He had such a problem with his attitude all morning, and it was starting to piss you off beyond belief. Robby was snapping at everyone, but he was particularly hard on you today. No matter what you did, it wasn't good enough.

You hadn't told Robby your usual morning joke, and even though it wasn't that big of a deal, it was bothering you. What started as a stupid way to break the ice became a beloved routine. At the start of each shift, you would tell him a knock knock joke. It was juvenile, yes, but he seemed to like it. Sometimes, if you forgot to tell him right away, he would ask about it. This morning, however, was different. He hardly even looked your way during the morning report.

“Angel,” Your nickname broke you out of your dazed state, “You have a special delivery!”

Princess stood perched at your side looking more than excited. Her facial expression was almost mischievous, but mostly pleasantly curious. Your brows furrowed at the sentence. You hadn't ordered anything and your parents were back in your home state, so this was not something you were expecting.

“Special delivery?” God you sounded beyond tired, each word coming out slow and drawn out. A flatline cadence compared to the sing-song given by Princess.

“Mhm. It's in the break room lover girl.” Princess practically danced back over to Perlah at the hub, looking back over at you every so often with a glimmer in her eye. Curiosity got the best of you, and you stood slowly from central before dragging your body over to the break room.

It caught your attention immediately as you opened the floor. A giant bouquet of flowers nestled aesthetically into a vase dawning your favorite color. They were your favorite flowers. Each little hair on your body stood up as soon the sight registered in your exhausted mind. A small piece of paper was tucked in-between some of the flowers, a beautiful cursive ink with your name on it.

Something in you told you not to touch it. To not acknowledge its existence, but you did anyway. Picking up the piece of paper carefully, you unfolded it to find a short note.

these smell just like your favorite candle :) enjoy

A chill forced its way across your skin. The candle in question was scented like these flowers, and it was sitting on your coffee table at home. A gasp crawled its way out of your throat before throwing itself into the still air. Without hesitation, you grabbed the vase and note, tossing it into the trash can and ran back to your station. The air had suddenly grown too thick to bear. You were suffocating on the fear that had forced its way into your life almost two months ago. This was too much.

Yet, it continued. An hour later, another delivery came.

“You sure are special to someone, Angel,” Princess giggled as she handed you a bag. You had been monitoring the patient board above the hub, deciding which one you would take over next. Anything to keep you distracted. You looked over at Princess, confusion yet again coming to the forefront of your mind. Confusion that was short lasting. Princess held a takeout bag up towards you. A bag sporting the logo of your favorite restaurant not far from where you lived. Another chill ran through you. You ripped it out of her hands, shaking with both fear and anger this time. Inside the bag was your go to order - and another note.

you haven't eaten yet. you need to eat.

Eyes wide, you ran around the counter at the hub and slammed it into the trash can beside an unsuspecting Dana.

“Jesus, Angel! What're you doin’ that for?” Dana jumped at the intrusive sound. Heat crawled up your neck out of embarrassment, but that fear was still gnawing at you, refusing to let you truly feel ashamed for what you were doing.

Princess was frowning, probably at the waste of good food and at your behavior. She had already confronted you about the flowers being thrown away, but you had refused to budge on the subject. Looking around, you found quite a few eyes on you, one of them being Robby's. You were breathing heavily, a sweaty layer forming over your shaky blanched skin.

Another hour passed. Another delivery appeared. This time it was coffee. This time, it was the last straw.

you look tired

So simply put, yet so haunting. You had decided earlier that you would try talking to Robby tomorrow, that maybe he wouldn't be so grumpy and it would be easier to approach him. But this was too much. Everything was too much. It was too much. Unfiltered panic was causing bile to creep up your throat, threatening to make an appearance at any second. Between suffering from sleep deprivation, hunger, and dealing with a grueling shift, you were starting to lose it. And this completely compounded that fact.

You needed to tell Robby. Something was incredibly wrong.

“Angel,” Dana called out to you from the hub, your chart still remaining unfinished in front of you, “You've got anotha patient in North 4 that needs taken care of.”

One more patient, then you would tell him.

The curtain was already drawn back when you reached North 4, an older priest sitting patiently on the bed. His gentle appearance eased some of the strain you were feeling, but the knowledge that at any moment you might break was still weighing on you.

“Good afternoon, Doctor-” He paused, indicating he was waiting for your name.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” You tell him your name before continuing to apologize for not greeting him right away. It was unlike you to just burst in and not say a word. With Gloria up everyone's ass about patient satisfaction and your natural need to please those around you, not greeting someone with a smile was rare.

“No worries. I can't imagine how tiresome this job must be. You truly are carrying out God's will.” He was oddly cheery for someone with a large gash in the leg. You give a tight little smile and nod at his remark.

“Um. So. I see your leg caught on a broken piece of religious equipment. I'm sorry it took you so long to get back here and be seen. May I take a look?” You took your eyes away from the chart on the screen and over to his wrapped leg.

“Of course,” He waved his hands over his leg as an invitation. You stepped forward and plopped down on the rolling stool to get to a comfortable height, uncaring as to how graceless you are about it. Very gently, you lifted the wrapping around his leg and found yourself looking at a decently sized gash going up his calf. It was swollen, but no clear signs of infection.

“Okay, this looks pretty straight forward. I'm not concerned about any infection right now, but we'll still need to keep an eye on it. Was this religious equipment metal by chance?” You remained solely focused on his wound, determining the best call for action, which was more than likely a fair amount of stitches. Nothing complex, but just enough to keep your mind occupied. The priest chuckled at your question.

“Religious equipment. What a funny way to put that,” You glanced at him apologetically, “Yes, it was metal. One of the altar boys neglected to properly store the thurible stand - it holds the thurible which we use for incense during special Masses. It caught on my leg and, ironically, the cross just about tore my leg up! Slightly poetic if you ask me.” He jested.

This earned a strained laugh from you, though it was gone as quickly as it came. You put the wrapping back over his wound before standing up. 

“It definitely looks like you'll be needing stitches, but that shouldn't take long at all. I'm going to grab a suture kit, clean the wound and surrounding area, then inject some lidocaine to numb the site. After that I will be stitching it up and you'll be good to go after a brief period of observation.” The speech you typically give patients getting sutures fell off your tongue easier than ice melting under the sun. Despite your exhaustion, it came naturally. The priest gave a hum of approval and a beaming grin. 

You turned on your heel, confidently walking over to the supply cart on the right of the bed. But you could hardly see straight. At this point, the exhaustion was beginning to seep into your bones, carrying you more than you were carrying yourself. So, you overshot and ran into the chair beside the bed. A heat creeped up your neck and you quickly apologized to the man. 

“Are you okay?” He had a genuine concern written all over his face, but not a lack of trust in you. 

“Yes, sorry.” Embarrassed, you practically yank the suture kit out of one of the drawers and sit back down by his leg. You were desperately trying to focus on what was in front of you, not wanting to slip up again. This task was proving difficult, your vision starting to blur and double in random increments. You clean his calf after stripping the wrapping completely off, making sure you were doing a thorough job the entire time. 

“You'll feel a small prick and light burning, but it should go away fairly quickly once the lidocaine kicks in.” It was drilled into you from the very beginning to keep patients in the loop with what you were doing. It builds trust in your abilities, as well as keeps them from feeling like they’re being kept in the dark. It was a routine stitch and yet anything that could possibly go wrong was going wrong. Your hands were slower than your mind, which was impressive considering the circumstances, and his skin kept breaking. A huff left your nose as his skin broke again. 

“Is there a problem doctor?” You flushed at the priest's question, humiliated that something so simple was becoming a problem. You shook your head, a desperate attempt at a response and a way to keep your focus on the task at hand. His question must have caught Robby’s attention as he was walking, because suddenly he was stomping over to where you were sitting. 

“Is there a problem here?” Robby echoed the priest's previous sentiments. This time, the flush covering your neck and cheeks was from anger. Robby had practically ignored you all day, but the minute someone was potentially questioning your abilities, there he was. Of course. 

“No, Robby. It's fine.” You gave him a quick glare before sticking the hook back into the epidermis. The suture broke again. 

“Really? Because it looks like you're failing at doing something you were taught in medical school. I expect more from a resident.” Robby's comment made your skin crawl. The heat is settling into every corner of your body at this point. It was one thing to correct or suggest a different approach, but to essentially humiliate you in front of a patient was a line you refused to let get crossed. You set the hook and thread down, looking over at Robby with every ounce of anger you were feeling in that moment. Anger at him. Anger at the fact he had been ignoring you all day. And anger at how scared you were with no one to tell - well, one person, but the fucking sucked at the moment. 

“I'm sorry. Would you like to try, because I highly doubt you could do it any better.” You snapped harder than you intended, but it was deserved in your opinion. Robby’s eyebrows shot up at your response, his jaw ticking so subtly only you would notice. Of course you would notice. The priest was clearly becoming uncomfortable, a quick clearing of his throat revealing as much. 

“Excuse me?” Robby crossed his arms and tilted his head to the side, a clear indicator that you were pushing the limit.

“You're excused.” You turned back towards the priest's leg and picked your utensils up, shaking in the process. 

“You're out of line-” 

“Oh, I'm out of line?” Your voice was getting louder at this point. You were over it. Everything was coming to a head and you just couldn't take it anymore. This was too much. Everything was too much. It was too much. 

“Angel, either take 15 or go home.” Robby was matching your volume now, his voice ice cold with contempt. As you looked around you, most eyes were widened at the scene playing out. Humiliating. 

“Oh go to hell. She's doing just fine. My skin is fragile, sir. Give her a break.” The priest's words caused your head to snap toward him. Shock and fear was written all over your face. You knew his comment was going to set Robby off, but it was also something you weren't expecting at all. A sweet and holy man using words you knew to be believed a sin. It spoke volumes. 

“Take 15. Or. Go. Home.” Robby was now pointing his finger at you, face red with anger. Perhaps it was also some embarrassment on his end, but mostly anger. His mouth was in a thin line no longer leaving any room for argument. 

You stood up abruptly, the stool you had been sitting on flying backwards, but you paid it no attention. Tears were cascading down your face, a waterfall of suppressed emotion making an unwelcome appearance. Refusing to look back, you stormed out of the north end of the ED, going straight for the ambulance bay. The air in the pitt was thick and viscous - full of nothing but wandering eyes and telephoned whispers. 

The doors going out to the ambulance bay were surprisingly empty. Normally, at least two to three paramedics were waiting around for a desperate cry for help, but everyone seemed to be busy at the moment. For you, this was good. It was quiet, but not quiet enough, so you threw yourself out into the brisk October air. Once you found yourself far away from prying eyes, just past the bushes outside the doors, you let yourself completely go. Not a single tear was held back, each sob ripping itself from you as you allowed the shame and frustration to take over. 

You were hurt. Robby was someone you trusted deeply, and even more foolishly you allowed yourself to believe there could be more between the two of you one day. He was always there by your side, never once hesitating to guide you in the right direction, so his snappy demands and accusations bruised you to the core. On top of everything else, there was that sickening betrayal you felt that prevented you from telling him that something was wrong. Someone was watching you. Someone was watching you. 

“For just a few minutes, I forgot. I forgot that I was being watched. I forgot someone was tracking my movements. I forgot someone was obsessing over my existence. It was both maddening and peaceful at the same time. But the moment I remembered why I was so tired, it all came crashing down.”

The air in your lungs stilled as your tears did the same. Any ounce of fear you may have let go for a brief period of time came back full force, crashing into you like an icy tidal wave. The skin covering your shaking flesh became textured as dread took hold. Not a second went by before you heard it. A heavy thudding of footsteps approaching you from behind, quick and methodical in their movement. 

You tried to turn around, you really did, but it was too late. Before a scream could fully slither its way up your throat, arms flew around you with a rag crashing into your mouth. The rag was sickeningly sweet, yet somewhat reminiscent of nail polish remover - the scent itself being a paradox. Both arms tightened around you as you began to thrash around desperately attempting to escape the confines of your attacker. The hand that wasn't on your mouth was wrapped around your waist pushing you against the body behind you. It was so strangely intimate for such a horrific ordeal, the idea of it making you sick. 

Your muffled cries started to lose power as the scent of the rag began warping your mind. Whatever was on it was burning your nose and throat, causing your already sluggish mind to slip into a hazy fog of pure disorientation. Any energy you possessed was being put to work by your kicking and thrashing, refusing to let this person win. The intense feeling of dread continued to ripple through your mind. There were so many ways this could go; the first being your untimely demise caused by some depraved individual, the second was potentially being kidnapped and kept hostage for god knows how long, and the third.. well you didn't really want to think about that possibility. You had seen too many SANE’s faces after leaving an exam room to allow yourself to picture being the one in that room. 

A swift kick you sent backwards managed to hit the person's shin, a cry of pain leaving their throat. Seeing your chance at getting away, you started to run back towards the doors leading into the Pitt, but your body was moving at such an awkward speed. It was like one of those dreams where you couldn't run fast enough from whatever was chasing you. 

“Hel-” Your cry for help was cut short by a hand yanking your head back while clutching your face. Flying back into the body behind you, the both of you collapsed onto the hard ground. All of the air in your lungs was knocked out the second you made contact with the ground, leaving you gasping for some reprieve. That, however, was cut short. Your face had scraped against the exposed aggregate concrete, leaving your skin broken and bleeding. It was evidence of a struggle. Proof that you were fighting to push through and survive the living hell you had been dropped into. A screech broke through your throat as you clawed at the concrete beneath you, trying to gain traction and crawl away back to safety. 

It was daunting - the idea of never getting the chance to be greeted by the crisp smell of antiseptic and sweat ever again. Whatever the outcome, the possibility of that being stolen from you caused such a deeply rooted ache and shiver of fear. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Not now. Not when you were so close to breaking through the barriers of whatever strength Robby had put between the two of you. 

You inched forward, desperately army crawling as the ground beneath stung your torn skin. 

“No!” You howled. Couldn’t someone hear you? Fuck why couldn’t someone just hear your echoing pleas. 

A bruising grip wrapped around your calf, dragging you back and away from the freedom you clung to with foolish hope. Your body bent at an awkward angle as you were flipped back onto your back, finally revealing the last thing you had wanted to see. The person you tried to pass as a figment of your imagination, the product of countless days filled with sleep deprivation and frigid adrenaline. The moment your widened eyes met his, it all came rushing back to you. The nights you gaslit yourself into believing were just episodes of sleep paralysis contained the haunting image of a man obsessed with the very essence of your being. He had a sickly complexion, one riddled with sweat from either excitement or just sheer adrenaline, but it paled his skin in such a disturbing way. The sweat dampening his forehead caused his blonde hair to stick, a small droplet snaking its way down a strand of hair and onto your bleeding cheek. Under the scrutiny of his pale blue eyes, you were forced to face every emotion he was feeling in that moment, anchoring your soul to him in such a perverse way. They say that eyes are the window to the soul - if this is true, his soul was wretched and warped, shaped poorly to fit his morose essence. 

The rag in his hand flew back down onto your face like an anchor thrown into the ocean, settling with a mission to trap and immobilize. Bile filled your throat, the stinging of the chemical soaking your lungs was causing a litany of effects you refused to acknowledge in that moment. You thrashed against him, pushing and pulling every which way to get him off of you, but his weight was more than you had anticipated from such a frail build. One quick elbow movement knocked his hand off of your mouth, sending the rag flying into the bushes beside you. A glimmer of rage flashed across his face which only pushed him further over the edge.

“I don’t want to hurt you! Just let me save you, please.” He cried out in contempt. In a flash, his hands met your throat, gripping like a vice. Dirty nails dug into your skin, his grip instantly bruising as crescent shapes were etched into you with each squeeze. Confusion at his plea crossed your mind for just a moment before your body began involuntarily wriggling around. With each passing second your oxygen supply depleted and the feeling… It was overwhelming. Your face grew hot with strain, a string of drool dripping down your face into your ear, and the world around you was quickly becoming grainy and unstable. Your shaking hands clawed at the ones grasping you. The idea of this being your final moments crept into your mind and gnawed at any piece of hope you had left. A shallow crunch came from your neck as the pressure behind his hands began to peak. 

“I love you. Please don’t make me hurt you. I love you so much. I just want to help you. God, just let me take you away from here. I can make you so happy. Please. Please!” Strings of random prayers for your divine mercy came tumbling out of his throat. Such a hypocritical stance to take when one is actively draining someone of life. Despite your world beginning to fade out, you still put every ounce of energy you had left into fighting for your future, fighting for the right to live just one more god forsaken day on this planet. Fighting to, at the very least, say goodbye to Robby. 

The man's right hand lifted from your throat, allowing a bit of reprieve and letting some oxygen back into your lungs, and reached down to his front pocket.

“Stop fighting! I don’t want to hurt you!” You ignored him, because no rational individual would tell you they didn’t want to hurt you when they had their hands wrapped around your throat. Your legs were kicking every way possible, at one point kneeing him in the back at an awkward angle. More drool pooled out from the sides of your lips, a disturbing sputtering coming from you as you tried not to drown in the fluid filling your mouth. His face was nothing but a blur in this moment, but what you wouldn’t give to know what he could’ve possibly been thinking. Why you? Why now? 

A distant shifting of fabric caught your attention, even more so when you caught a glimpse of a knife heading towards your chest. The tip of his blade caught on the skin directly atop of your sternum, digging in and drawing blood without too far. No man’s land. Your mind went back to PittFest in that moment, a brief glimpse at your lesson on probability of survival based on where a wound was - Mohan sharing your sentiments of confusion as to why you hadn’t already learned about that. You knew it was risky to keep fighting, that the likelihood of this going south because of one small movement was greater than before, but you refused to give up. You refused to let this be the moment you decided you couldn’t keep going. Not now. But of course now. 

Your legs continued to throw themselves around, but this time, you took it too far. Your desperate attempts at getting away backfired astronomically. A small miscalculation on your end. Your foot caught on his, pulling it from beneath him, causing his entire body weight to come crashing down onto you.

It was quick. Quicker than you had anticipated at least. And the sound was deafening despite how quiet it actually was. A sickening squelch and crack followed the sudden movement, leaving no room for argument that there was no going back. Then came the feeling - there was no slicing sensation, no distinct feeling of being cut, but rather it felt as though you had been hit in the chest by a piece of scorching hot metal. A searing heat that grew until it completely enveloped you. You gasped at the unwelcome intrusion, but the gasp crackled and faded. Shock widened your eyes, the prior blur to the world clearing and allowing you to face the man above you. 

His eyes were as wide as yours, if not more so. A soft whimper left him while he shook, tears gathering on his water line as he looked down at the handle sticking out of your chest. Though his tears stayed obediently on his waterline, yours defied and chose to break loose, cascading down your paling face. A small, strangled sound escaped you, the reality of it all crashing over you, pain becoming the forefront of your truth.

Maybe it was time. If anything, it was time to let go of your preconceived notion of what life had in store for you, because surely this was not part of it. To you, life had started to look like endless days of Robby. Endless days of longing for his touch. Not this. No, never this.

[sixvin]

People You'd Like To Get To Know!

oh my goodness I've been summoned (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) thank you @neverendingdreamers

last song: Chosen by Blood Orange ft. Caroline Polacheck

currently watching: The Pitt is always on repeat tbh, and some Supernatural because I'm so behind on it

current obsession: Tumblr, Hucklerobby (release me from this prison 😭), Jack Abbot, Michael Robinavitch, Pope Cody, Ethel Cain music, and the lost goes on and on....

currently reading: lots of Jack Abbot and Dr. Robby fics rn, but a sprinkle of Spencer Reid here and there ✨

currently working on: an angsty af one-shot that has been in my head for weeks.. it'll be my first fic on Tumblr :') I'm excited but have no idea how to work this site so it's a struggle

currently wearing: workout shorts, my JJK Gojo shirt from Hot Topic

last google search: how do conjugal visits work (y'all it was for a fanfic I'm reading and I got curious 🤠)

I don't have a lot of people on here so I'm just going to tag some of those that I'm following ☺️ no biggie if you don't want to participate, I'm just excited to be included in something on here. Please check out the works of everyone tagged below, they're all amazing!!

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

@lincolndjarin @drjabbotswife @sammy-bryant @geminiwritten @rr-after-dark @hirukochan @bambiiette @afterdarkbydel

[neverendingdreamers]

Are there any hot smut where he doesn’t have a condom and she is not on any birth control and they risk it and fuck anyway?? If you’ve seen or wrote any, please comment 💗

Could be: Jack x reader or Robby x reader or Rabbot x reader or Brendon Park x reader

*Bonus: breeding kink, but not necessarily wanting to have a baby.

If you get inspired and write a piece based off of this, please tag me!! 💞

[neverendingdreamers]

Everyone say thank you to @sixvin !!!! They went through their likes😭 to find this

https://www.tumblr.com/feel-in-color/796700662148775936/content-michael-robinavitch-x-afbf-reader?source=share

[fairycosmos]

kills myself on my lunch break then clocks back in

[puppiegracie]

[got-cursed-like-eve-got-bitten]

i log on. i sexualise the old man. i log off

[kupou-deactivated20170806]

life is honestly too short to be embarrassed over anything that sparks even a little happiness in you

[sixvin]

me with my smut 😝

[strwbryshortcakeprincess]

Happy Father’s Day to my daddy’s love you smooches.

[iamaya03]

hi my mohabbot grief has resurfaced ok bye

[voidsagent]

in lieu of talking about jack’s disability/prosthesis; i’ve put together a list of facts specific to him/amputees in general. in ended up being kind of long, so feel free to skip if you want to. but here’s some info i thought could help all of us fic writers out there !!

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

- jack specific facts:

- jack is missing his leg BELOW the knee. around the mid-calf area. his prosthesis is called a transtibial. his specific make/model is unknown. though it looks most like a conventional prosthesis. edit: i’ve been informed his prosthesis is an Enchelon Endolite, not sure what specific model, though it’s a few years old.)

- people with leg prosthetics will often shift their weight on their feet—sometimes almost constantly—to keep their balance. it can also SOMETIMES be called a Trendelenburg gait, and will only worsen over time. but a Trendelenburg gait can also be completely unrelated and different/occurs more at and in the hip area. (thank you to the person who sent in the information about that, it was very helpful !! you can find that here.)

- jack is missing his lower limb which means: he removes it/changes it before bed, showering, swimming, running etc.

- jack/amputees often have a rail or bench specifically made for showering for better accessibility and to keep themselves steady in the shower if they are standing/not wearing a waterproof prosthesis.

- he can sleep with it on, but it’s usually not comfortable & most amputee’s let their limbs air out overnight to reduce swelling, sores/irritation, chafing, etc. it’s feasible that he’d take his limb off right after a shift, and if he doesn’t; be in more pain/uncomfortable with the leg on.

- fluid fluctuates in the limb during the day cause the residual limb to swell/decrease in size, they require the addition or removal of sock “plies” to make sure the limb keeps a snug fit.

- his limb will require daily inspection and massage to check for blisters/keep proper blood flow to the limb.

- also requires daily cleaning of the limb and prosthetic liner to prevent skin breakdown and infection.

- amputation often causes anxiety, depression, and other emotional challenges; it’s reasonable to perceive that jack suffers/has suffered from one or more of these. he goes to therapy canonically.

- phantom pain is a thing !! nerve endings can still fire and cause pain/sensation of a lower limb even after it’s missing. it never goes away. jack has been portrayed with this at the end of pittfest in season 1 !! he absolutely suffers from it, and it’s important to represent !!

facts about prosthetic legs/prosthesis:

- first off; prosthetic vs prosthesis; a prosthetic is the field of study, design, and fitting of the device. a prosthesis is the artificial limb itself.

- the socket is the most critical part; it’s custom molded to fit each person, it connects the prosthesis to to the body.

- the suspension is how the prosthesis is held on; can be put in place by suction, vacuum, or locking pins.

- the pylon in the internal frame or pipe that provides the structural strength.

- modern prosthetic legs feature advanced materials—depending on the amputation level—that’s specialized in knee and ankles.

- temporary prosthetics are given right after amputation, permanent prosthetics are fitted 2-6 months after amputation, when the swelling has gone down.

- all prosthesis are fitted and customized based on each person’s lifestyle and activity level, and physical capabilities; including foot/shoe size.

- a prosthesis and parts usually need replacements over time from wear and tear, even though they are durable. (most last around five years.)

- poor fit can cause blisters, pain, swelling, and skin sores.

- prosthetic weight varies; thermoplastic models often being the lightest.

- amputation often causes anxiety, depression, and other emotional challenges.

- most prosthetics are made of titanium, aluminum, and carbon fiber.

- most regular/everyday prosthetics are not designed to get wet/be submerged and will rust.

- all amputees have to wear a sock or stump shrinker, it prevents swelling in the limb and when the prosthesis is not attached. it’s basically a carbon fiber cup. if the sock does not fit correctly, it can cause restricted blood flow; forcing blood into the distal end and cause more swelling.

- swelling in the residual limb called edema (occurs especially when irritated) can cause the sock and prosthesis to not fit/fit uncomfortably.

- there are special types of prosthesis; including waterproof, adjustable, and microprocessor controlled.

-

different types of below knee prosthesis;

- conventional:

conventional prosthesis are the most traditional prosthetic legs, and are the most common form of below-knee prosthesis. they consist of a plain socket, pylon (the supporting rod), and foot. They are strong and cost-effective, making them a popular option for most users.

a conventional prosthesis is usually constructed from lightweight materials; such as plastic and metal. they are plain with few moving parts, have basic mobility, are ideal for everyday use, and usually cost-effective compared to advanced alternatives.

- endoskeletal prosthetic legs:

endoskeletal prosthetic legs have an internal support-build, usually with a cosmetic outer covering. they are usually made to appear more natural and provide better mobility and comfort.

endoskeletal prosthesis are usually lightweight and flexible, they can be made to look more natural, are usually easier to fit and alter, and are better for individuals who want a more realistic appearance.

- exoskeletal prosthetic legs:

exoskeletal prosthetic legs are usually made of a strong, long-lasting, rigid outer casing, but are not as commonly used today. the prosthesis lacks the internal frame that an endoskeletal prosthetics have. the main structure is instead the rigid outer casing.

exoskeletal prosthesis are usually very hard and long-lasting. they are more damage and wear-resistant. better for those with heavy-duty requirements. are usually less customizable in looks.

- dynamic response prosthetic legs:

also called specialized energy-storing feet, these are created to help more energetic/athletic people move easily. they store energy/movement better when each foot is on the ground release it when each foot is off the ground; making walking and running easier.

a dynamic response prosthesis usually allows for more natural movement, improves walking, can reduce stress on the other leg, and is better for very energetic people; like athletes.

- microprocessor-controlled prosthetic legs:

these legs use more diverse forms of advanced technology to improve mobility and stability within the prosthesis. they usually have sensors that detect movement and can adjust in real-time; they enhance the quality of balance and walking.

microprocessor-controlled prosthesis usually have advanced sensors that respond to changes in movement. they can make you steadier if the ground isn’t flat, put less stress on the joints, are best for active individuals who need movement control, and are rather pricey but still usually efficient.

- waterproof prosthetic legs:

are usually made from materials that are not susceptible to corrosion or wear down. they are intended for people who use their prostheses in aquatic/water filled areas; like pools, or showers.

waterproof prosthesis are made using waterproof materials, can be used in wet conditions, are strong and more resistant to rust, and are best suited for swimmers and water sports athletes.

- adjustable prosthetic legs:

adjustable prosthesis allow a person to change how the socket fits around their limb as needed. they are better for children or those with changing weight/strength.

adjustable prosthesis have an adjustable fit, are a good option for children and people with fluid retention, can provide more support and comfort, and help to prevent discomfort from poor fitting.

- blade prosthetic leg:

a blade prosthesis is a high-performance prosthesis made from carbon fiber, usually designed for running, jumping, and high-intensity sports. similar to a dynamic response prosthesis, but not the same.

blade prosthesis are typically shaped like a “cheetah’s hind leg” to maximize energy return, are lightweight, usually J-shaped, they store energy upon impact and expel to propel the person forward. they act as a type of spring rather than a walking foot. the sole of a running shoe/sneaker can sometimes be glued to the bottom of the blade, as they can be slippery.

- below are pictures of different types of prosthesis:

- conventional prosthesis:

- endoskeletal prosthesis:

- exoskeletal prosthesis:

- dynamic response prosthesis:

- microprocessor-controlled prosthesis:

- waterproof prosthesis:

- adjustable prosthesis:

- blade prosthesis:

- jack’s prosthesis:

if there’s any other questions you have, please let me know and i’ll see if i can figure it out !! i hope this helps some of you and i can’t wait to (hopefully) see more representation of jack’s prosthesis/disability !! i know im going to try my best to include some of this stuff !!

love you all so much !! <3 i hope to have more fic updates for you soon !! :)

[santosscissorsister]

this is your reminder that jack abbot is DISABLED. he is missing the lower half of his right leg which would mess with his balance significantly.

he wouldn’t balance or sit on his knees.

at home, he would probably be on crutches ESPECIALLY if he’s just woken up.

most amputees, from my understanding, wear their prosthetics as little as possible unless they’re out of the house.

also with that said, he’s probably not fucking you or robby or dennis or wherever with it on either. it’d be uncomfortable and inconvenient for him.

he has a shower chair! (thank you for this one @mixedfandomfics )

jack is disabled, don’t erase that part of him. if you’re uncomfortable with that, ask yourself why.

if it’s because you don’t know enough about it, ask questions and do your research. any other reason? maybe do some inner work.

okay, thank you for your time mwah mwah