i can handle one (1) Event™ per day. whether it be a phone call, an appointment, trip to the grocery store, play date with a friend, etc. only one, that's it. any more than that and i am Stressed
☁️ pairings: frat vice president!nanami x f!reader
☁️ vice president of sigma phi tau, nanami kento is widely known on campus as “mr. no bullshit,” “mr. 5.0,” “mr. 4x deans/presidents list.” at first, it came as a shock when nanami pledged phi tau. everyone was talking about him, but he shot that down immediately because he does not play about his reputation.
he holds himself accountable for every single thing, and he isn't very fond of being sloppy drunk. too many variables in the equation could equal making a fool of himself. that is until he finds himself belligerently drunk one night, (note to self: DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH NAOYA ZENIN, he WILL make you drink) and tangled up in the sheets with a certain mystery girl.
firefighter!reiner who thought he was having an actual heart attack when he first met you. he'd never seen anyone like you before and after he finally got the courage to speak to you, he thought he was in heaven.
firefighter!reiner who has the most terrible luck when going on any kind of hangout with you after work. whenever the two of you try, someone ends up getting a callback.
firefighter!reiner who gets teased on off times at work about you all the time. they pranked him into doing fireman "training" with you where he basically held you in fireman's carry while everybody else laughed and took pictures. it's still framed on the breakroom refrigerator at the station.
firefighter!reiner who always flexes his muscules when you're around, even if it's just to get a kitten out of a tree.
firefighter!reiner who offered to be the "sexy firefighter" for your birth month on the calendar. of course he claimed to have no intention of that, it was simply a pleasant coincidence you'd see him oiled up and shirtless on your birthday.
firefighter!reiner who gets super squeamish around blood even though he's a literal emergency services worker. he leaves that sort of thing up to you. at least it's a reason to call right?
firefighter!reiner who finally got the courage to ask you on a date. only this time, absolutely no interruptions. you teased him and said it was the universe saying you should go on dates more often, for the good of the people of course.
i'm not an emt, i'm not training to be, and the sight of blood makes me want to faint. all of my knowledge comes from my moms stories from when she was an emt thank u for reading my disclaimer <3
-`♡´- Your girl-friend a menace..! :: 18+ :: gf!shoko x fem!reader :: getting handsy in a bathroom stall for the most part..xo ::
Shoko Ieiri had always been the kind of girlfriend who made your heart race in the quietest moments. Sweet and a little older, she carried herself with that effortless calm that hid just how insatiable she truly was for you. Tonight was no different, the apartment lights were dimmed low. The clock had ticked past midnight, hours ago, you lay back against the soft pillows while she hovered over you with that familiar lazy smile playing on her lips.
Her hands moved first. Gentle yet possessive and she cupped your breasts and squeezed them together creating the perfect plush valley for her mouth to explore. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks immediately, embarrassment flooded through you even as your body arched toward her touch. Shoko noticed of course. She always did.
"So pretty like this for me princess," she murmured against your skin. Her voice was low and warm. She leaned in and took one nipple between her lips, sucking slowly and deeply. The wet heat of her mouth made you whimper, then she switched to the other breast lavishing it with the same attention. Her tongue swirled around the sensitive peak while her fingers kept your soft heavy tits pressed close for her.
She pulled back just enough to admire them. Her eyes lingering on the slight difference in size. One was always a little fuller than the other. She loved that imperfection. It made her smile widen every single time. "My favorite thing," she whispered before leaning down again. This time she focused on the pretty brown of your areolas. The color was rich and warm. She had confessed once that it was her favorite shade in the whole world.
You remembered the way she would match it to her makeup. In the mornings she would carefully line her eyes or her lips with a soft brown that echoed the exact hue of your nipples. It was her little secret ritual. One that always left you flustered when she explained it out loud.
Earlier that evening you both wandered through a high end boutique together. Shoko was browsing through lipstick shades, warm rich tones of browns and reds, when another customer in the store asked her what color her lipliner was.
Shoko gave you a look of pure amusement before opening her mouth and uttering,“Oh its actually the color of my girlfriends ni-" before Shoko could finish the rest of that sentence, a small squeak escaped you and your hand raised up to give a sharp tug to her sleeve, making her laugh the rest of what she was saying, off.
God she almost said it so casually, and you went red in the face out of pure embarrassment. Shoko had a big smile on her lips and you pouted instantly, stammering something incoherent while she just chuckled.
The customer blinked in polite confusion but Shoko simply waved it off with a soft laugh. Her hand found yours right after and she tugged you along like nothing had happened. Yet the flush on your cheeks stayed warm all the way out the boutique doors.
Two minutes later she was dragging you toward the nearest bathroom stall. Her hand was firm around your wrist. The door clicked shut behind you both, and Shoko wasted no time, pushing you gently against the cool wall and kissing you stupid. Her mouth was hungry and insistent, tongue sliding against yours in deep licks that left your knees weak.
You could barely catch your breath when her lovely fingers were already slipping down into your pants, moving with practiced ease, unbuttoning and then hooking under the edge of your panties, pulling the fabric aside. The cool air hit your sensitive skin for only a second before her fingertips found your twitching clit, rubbing slow circles at first, teasing, building you up till your cunt was slick and soaking her fingers.
"You get so wet for me so fast," she breathed against your ear. Her voice was full of affection and heat. She pressed harder now, fingers dipping lower gathering the slickness that was already dripping from you. She used it to glide back up and stroke your clit with perfect pressure. Your hips jerked forward chasing her touch, the sounds of your soft gasps filled the enclosed stall.
Shoko didn't let up. She kissed you again swallowing every little moan. Her free hand stayed at your chest squeezing and kneading the fat plush of your breasts while her fingers worked between your thighs. She loved how responsive you were, how your body trembled and soaked her hand. She circled faster, then slower. Drawing it out until you were a mess of whimpers and dripping arousal.
"Come on baby," she coaxed sweetly. "Let me feel you cum. Just once for me, right here pretty. I need it." Her fingers pressed and rubbed with expert care. The tension coiled tighter inside you, your thighs shook and she kept you pinned there with her body and her kisses until the pleasure crashed over you hard. You came with a muffled cry against her mouth. Wetness flooded her fingers and dripped down your thighs making an undeniable mess.
Shoko hummed happily and didn't pull away just yet. Instead she kept touching you through the aftershocks. Gentle strokes that prolonged the bliss. Her mouth moved back down to your breasts sucking softly on one nipple then the other. She worshiped.
When you finally caught your breath she kissed your forehead. "Good girl. But we're not done, baby. I can never get enough of you." Her eyes sparkled with that sweet possessive love as she helped fix your clothes just enough to get you both back home safely. The night was still young and Shoko had every intention of spending the rest of it buried between your plush curves making you cum again and again until you were utterly spent and glowing.
She was your sweet older girlfriend after all. And she lived for moments exactly like this.
summary: After Park the Shark gets a little too forward with you in the ER Jack starts to question himself and your relationship.
contains: MDNI! Angst, Fluff, a little allusion to smut because I just can't help myself.
word count: 2.4k
author's note: just a short and sweet little jack fic-let to try and work myself out of a writers block. please leave a comment if this speaks to you in any way! having a little crisis of confidence over here lol
The ER hummed with anticipation as you waited for the waterpark victims to be wheeled into the ED. As the first ambulance pulls up Robby grabs you, motioning for Whitaker, and Ogilvie to follow, directing traffic towards trauma one.
“What do we have?” Whitaker asks.
“A fall from 10 feet onto a metal fence. Right below the knee. Unconscious, maybe from the pain. Good vitals.” Robby says.
“Good lung sliding right and left,” Whitaker says with this stethoscope pressed to her chest.
“Airway patent, breath sounds bilaterally.” You add, nodding in agreement with the R1 across from you.
“Two view tib-fib.” Robby says looking down at the patient.
“Pushing cefazolin and gent now,” you say, attaching the syringe to the IV, pumping the fluid in one at a time.
“Why do we take down the tourniquet, Whitaker?” Robby looks down at the R1.
“To give the residual limb blood flow,” Whitaker nods, “just two little pumpers.”
“A couple of figure eights ought to take care of those. Park,” Robby greets the ortho surgeon as he steps into the trauma room.
“Park the Shark, orthopedic surgeon.” Whitaker leans over to Ogilvie, speaking low. Park gives you a once over.
“What are you doing later?” He nods at you, a small smirk on his face.
“Not you.” You don’t even look up from the computer, Robby chuckles behind you, as you push the scans towards Park to show him the x-ray, “favorable amputation for reattachment, pretty clean cut. Fence sliced through like a guillotine.”
“Not too bad,” Park agrees, wandering towards where Whitaker and Ogilvie sit beside the patient.
“Just tying off a couple arterioles,” Whitaker offers.
“I'm not blind.” Park says flatly, “where's the amputated leg?"
“Double bagged on ice,” you say, watching him with a hand on your hip.
“Sterile saline on the inner bag. Ice water in the outer bag. No direct ice-on-skin contact.” Whitaker says as Park slips the leg out of the bag, examining it closely.
“We spent a lot of time prepping-” Ogilvie starts.
“He still needs to look,” Whitaker mumbles.
“Antibiotics?” Park asks curtly.
“Cefazolin and gent,” you say with the same affect, “we've cleared her chest, abdomen, and pelvis.”
“Clean wound, no crush injury, rapid transport time. Replantation is a go. I'll book an OR. Irrigate the hell out of this with 3 liters.” Shark nods at you, as if you had done the entire case alone.
“3 liters?” Whitaker confirms, confused by the large quantity.
“Of saline, genius.” Shark says, voice flat.
“Thanks, Shark.” Robby says.
“Bye doctor,” Park nods at you.
“Ok,” you say, not bothering to look up at him as he leaves.
“I knew he meant saline,” Whitaker looks between you and Robby asking for confirmation that you know he’s not an idiot.
“Ignore him,” you say, still sounding agitated at the whole interaction.
“Yeah, Shark doesn’t really like anyone,” Robby offers the two, slightly shaken, young doctors sitting in front of him.
“He seems to like her just fine,” Ogilvie points a gloved finger to you and you scoff.
“That’s just because he wants to f-” you cut yourself of realizing your chief attending is standing right next to you, “I think I hear someone calling my name out there, yeah no, I gotta-” you push out the door, everyone in the room knowing that no one was calling you.
“She was going to say fuck her,” Ogilvie says.
“Thank you for clarifying Ogilvie,” Robby says, giving a curt nod.
You don’t usually work the day shift but after McKay got a call from Harrison’s school she had to bow out for the day. Robby is certainly excited to work with you and get to know you a little better, you are his best friend's favorite resident, in more ways than one. Robby knows that Jack is seeing you, however the exact parameters of your relationship are unclear to the chief attending. He’s tried to spot slip ups between the two of you during hand-offs, any indication that you two are anything more than co-workers, but you are entirely unflappable and Jack is the same. He assumes the secrecy is because you and Jack want to keep things in your private lives private but the truth is Jack himself is unsure of the exact nature of your relationship.
The two of you are having sex, hot, passionate sex, on a regular basis. He feels like a teenager again, desperate to have his mouth on yours, his hands on your body, his cock in your tight pussy. The first shift after the two of you hooked up Jack could barely look at you, his ears flushing red every time he saw you, thinking of the day before when you were panting and whimpering beneath him, squeezing him like a vice, letting him come inside you... Over time he got better at staying composed. No one at the hospital had suspected anything, he maintained his cool outer shell without an issue, but for those first couple of weeks he had felt like he was melting inside. More recently the two of you started getting breakfast together after a shift, staying at each other’s places, lingering near one another in the ER…
“Your little resident is fiery, I like her for you,” Robby smirks as Jack stands next to him at the hub, the senior attendings preparing to start hand-offs.
“Oh yeah? What’d she do to get you so wound up?” The corner of Jack’s mouth curves up ever so slightly.
“Just put Shark in his place this afternoon,” Robby says, pushing his glasses up to rest on his head.
“Park? Why? Was he bothering her?” Jack’s mouth drops, imperceptible to a passerby but Robby notices. Shit. He had just meant to tease his friend a little, not wind him up before a shift.
“Nah he’s just- he just seems to be uh, interested, but she shut him down,” Jack gives him a look, waiting for Robby to elaborate, “no he just- he just asked her what she was doing later,”
“Well, what did she say?” Jack crosses his arms over his broad chest.
“Man, you should just talk to her,” Robby sighs, regretting saying anything.
“Robby,” Jack looks at him with a hard stare.
“She said ‘not you,’” Robby shrugs, “‘what are you doing later?’ ‘not you,’ that was it- it was funnier when she said it.”
Jack’s mouth is in a firm line.
“Fuckin’ ortho surgeons,” Jack mumbles.
“I mean… glass houses, brother.” Robby says, again without thinking.
Jack raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest, silently prompting Robby to explain himself.
“You, you have been known to try to charm the odd patient… or nurse… or doctor…” Robby tries to placate him.
“That's different.” Jack’s head pulls back slightly.
“Why?” Robby scrunches his eyebrows.
“Because- because I'm seeing her.” Jack says, dropping his voice low.
“You weren’t always seeing her.” Robby pauses, looking in the distance, “actually now that I think about it she’s the only person I haven’t seen you make eyes at."
“What do you mean? You don’t think she’s charmed by me?” Jack cocks an eyebrow.
“Yeah but you don’t do the whole Dr.-Jack-Abbot-thing with her, there’s no smoke or mirrors, you’re just… being Jack.”
“Hey,” you slide next to Jack where he stands at the hub, resting your hands on the desk dangerously close to his, “heard you’re taking Dr. Al for a beer, can you put in a good word for me?”
“With Al-Hashimi? Why?” Jack turns away from you, starting to walk towards the ambulance bay.
“Uh, because she’s a smart, assertive attending with a cool, humanitarian background? I mean the AI shit is lame but I don't know, I feel like I could learn some stuff from her,” you chatter away, following him closely, not entirely picking up on his foul mood. “Not that I don’t love to learn from you but- I don't know, men have been in charge of me my whole life, it would be nice to have another woman be a mentor figure. And I wanna do a slash trach.”
“Why don’t you ask Shark to teach you?” Jack says with a little bite once the two of you step outside.
“Shark? Yeah I’ll ask him for help if I ever need to use a hammer,” you breathe out a laugh, “He’s… how do i say this professionally….” you purse your lips and tap your chin, pretending to think, “he’s the worst.”
“Yeah well he thinks very highly of you,” Jack mutters.
“Oh my god. Has Robby been whispering in your ear? Jack, it was a non-event. He does it all the time. I’m used to brushing him off.” You say sympathetically.
“He does it all the time?” Jack head snaps to you.
“Not literally,” you sigh, “you have no reason to worry about Shark, I can't stand him, there’s nothing to be jealous about,”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s jealous,” Jack turns away from you slightly, his comment prompting you to let out a sharp breath as a laugh.
“Who am I supposed to be jealous of?” You say incredulously.
“I’m not having this conversation right now,” Jack rubs his hands over his face.
“Oh my god.” you let out a breathy laugh, “you want me to be jealous. Why?”
“You’re acting like a child.” He turns to you.
“Me? Are you serious right now?” You cross your arms, staring at him with your eyebrows raised. Jack says nothing, starting to turn back into the hospital.
“Jack,” you grab onto his arm, keeping him from walking inside, “talk. It's just me.”
“Yeah that’s the problem," Jack snaps, "you’re the problem."
Your face falls at his words.
“Wh-what did I do?” You say suddenly seeming very small.
“No- you didn’t-” Jack lets out a frustrated breath, rubbing his hands down his face, “look- you’re young- god- you’re so young, and I know dating has changed since I was doing it twenty years ago but I don’t know how to do this with you- I don’t know how to see more than one person-”
“I’m not seeing more than one person-” you cut Jack off from his spiral.
“What?” He looks at you blankly.
“I’m not seeing more than one person,” you say again, sounding a little more bold, a little more like yourself, “I'm only seeing you. I only want to see you. You thought I was seeing other people? Are you?”
“No- I don’t- I don’t know-” Jack stammers.
“You don’t know if you’re seeing other people?” You raise an eyebrow.
“No- of course I’m not- I just didn’t know if-” Jack struggles to articulate himself.
“Why didn’t you just talk to me?” You say gently.
“You seriously need to ask me that?” Jack finally turns to look at you, “I’m a widower, I’m a vet, I’m an amputee. I’m a night shift ER doctor, you should know what that says about me, better than most people. I’m twenty years older than you… I’m punching above my weight here… I- I figured I’d take what I could get.”
You don’t say anything. You can’t think of anything to say. That’s how he thinks of himself? Damaged goods? He is the most confident, borderline arrogant, doctor you know and he ought to be, he really is that good. And he’s just as good of a person. Sure, he had some walls up but slowly he was letting you in, showing you his entire self, something you felt privileged to have access to...
“Come with me,” you take his arm pulling him back towards the hospital. He pauses slightly, not exactly sure what you’re about to do, “Jack, can you just- please?”
He follows you silently to the elevator which takes the pair of you to the third floor where the orthopedics department is located. The ride up is silent as you tap your foot, arms crossed tightly across your chest. The elevator dings and you step out with a determined stride, scanning the floor. You spot Park standing with two other ortho surgeons.
“Park!” you shout across the room, “we need to talk.”
Park smirks as you beeline towards him. The poor sucker, Jack thinks, slowly following you at a safe distance, stopping at the nurses station, resting his elbows on the counter, not even bothering trying to hide his interest in this interaction. The other two surgeons skulk away, god, Jack wishes he could see your face right now
“Stop smiling,” you say as you stand in front of him and his smile immediately drops, “you need to stop asking me out. First, I’m with someone, and I’m not sure he’d like it if he knew you were bothering me every time you’re in the ER. Second, even if I was single it would never happen with you and me. If we were the last two people alive it wouldn’t happen. And third, it’s fucking unprofessional. I’m a doctor, not your groupie. Am I making myself clear?”
He swallows hard, then nods.
“Say: yes doctor,” you say, looking him right in the eyes.
“Yes, doctor, it won’t happen again,” Park looks almost sheepish. Jack can’t think of a time he’s seen him look like this… ever. Despite his imposing frame, Park seems so small right now.
“Good,” you smile and turn on your heels walking back towards the elevator where Jack stands with his mouth agape. You take his hand pulling him towards the stairwell, the door dropping shut behind you.
“Can I get in trouble for that?” You turn to Jack with a slightly anxious expression.
“I was with you for the last hour and didn’t even see you go up to Ortho.” Jack smirks at you.
“Hm,” you smirk back, grabbing the back of his neck, placing a quick kiss on his lips. He keeps leaning towards you as you pull back.
“Jack,” you smile, pushing him away lightly, stepping down one stair so he towers over you.
“So who’s this mysterious person you’re ‘with’?” He gazes down at you with his hands in his pockets as you bite your lip.
“Mm,” you hum, toying with his ID that sits against his hip, “he’s just this older guy, really fuckin’ smart, measured, competent…” you pull his badge toward you examining the photo, “he’s sexy, even when he gets a little jealous,” you let go of his ID badge letting it snap against him sharply, he winces slightly at the stinging sensation but keeps gazing down at you with adoration. Your eyes flick up to his.
“And I really like him,” you finish, a small smile on the corner of your lips. Jack takes a step down so you’re eye to eye.
“Am I allowed to just say we’re dating? All these code words ‘seeing,’ ‘with,’ ‘exclusive…’ I just-” Jack cuts himself off with a shake of his head.
“Mm it depends,” you hum, a playful grin on your face, “are we dating?”
“Yes,” he squeezes your hip.
“Then you’re allowed to say it,” you say, looking up and then down the stairs, seeing that you’re still alone, placing another more lingering kiss on his mouth, your lips soft against his. You pull back and see the tips of his ears turn bright red, making you blush as well.
“But we’re not telling anyone down there,” you clarify.
“Oh fuck no, they’re all crazy,” Jack scrunches his eyebrows in agreement.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x resident!reader
Warnings: none, fluff and comfort, slight nervousness/panic.
Summary: When a fever leaves you completely exhausted, Abbot steps in to take care of you; unbeknownst to you, entirely validating a hospital wide betting pool on his secret crush.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
A/N I had an idea in mind but I feel it didn't turn out well, like when you plan an outfit and then the clothes don't match lol but anyway, I hope you enjoy it!!!
🎀 based on this request 🎀
The ER was always noisy, but tonight it felt like a physical burden. Going back to work after four days with a fever meant being completely exhausted after five hour. At a certain point, exhaustion stops being a feeling and becomes a physical ache in your bones.
You leaned against the central nurse station, staring blankly at a patient chart on the monitor. A tear of fatigue slipped down your cheek.
You quickly wiped it away, hoping no one saw.
But of course, he did.
Across the desk, Lena caught your eye. But she looked at you with the expression of someone watching a romantic tragedy unfold in real time. She nudged the resident next to her, who glanced up, saw you, and immediately checked his watch.
"Any minute now," Lena murmured softly.
"What happens at any minute?" you asked, your voice raspy.
Before Lena could answer, Dr. Jack Abbot walked out from a trauma bay. The second his eyes scanned the floor and landed on you, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The entire nursing station went quiet.
You didn't notice.
You just thought everyone was as tired as you were.
Jack handed the papers he had on his hands to a passing intern without looking and detoured straight toward you.
"Hey," he said. "You look like you're about to collapse into the desk."
"I'm fine, Dr. Abbot," you breathed. "Just trying to finish up a discharge."
Jack looked at the dark circles under your eyes, the slight tremble in your hand, and the absolute exhaustion radiating from you.
A protective frown line appeared between his brows.
"Lena," Jack said, his eyes never leaving your face. "Who is covering the east wing for the next hour?"
"Dr. Langdon’s doing night shift today," Lena replied instantly, a small smirk playing on her lips. "And I can handle the paperwork. Go ahead, Abbot."
"Great. You're off the clock for sixty minutes," Jack told you, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Breakroom. Now."
You blinked, panic instantly cutting through your fatigue. You stood up on shaky legs, your heart hammering against your ribs as you followed him down the hallway.
Behind your back, Lena silently handed a five dollar bill to a nurse. “Told you he’d break protocol to get her off her feet before 2 AM,” she whispered.
Unaware of the betting pool you were currently central to, you walked into the breakroom. He closed the door behind you.
"Dr. Abbot, if I made a mistake on the trauma intake—"
"Oh, no, no," Jack interrupted gently, putting a hand out to stop you. "You didn't make a mistake. You've been on your feet for five hours, non stop, after days of fever. This is an intervention."
He reached into the cupboard and pulled out a protein bar along with a bottle of water, and placed them on the table.
"Take a break," he commanded softly.
You took the food and sank down onto the sofa; the relief of finally sitting up was so intense it made your head spin. Jack stepped out for a second and returned with a jacket in his hand. Without a word, he placed it on your lap. It was warm and smelled of his cologne.
"Jack, I can't sleep, I have patients," you whispered, using his first name only because the walls of the room felt like a safe haven. "It looks bad. The other residents..."
Jack chuckled and sat down in one of the chairs, elbows resting on his knees. "Let them talk. I’m the attending. If anyone has a problem with me making sure my best resident doesn't faint on a patient, they should talk to me."
Jack's gaze was entirely focused on you. He wanted to reach out, to pull you against him and tell you that he’d carry the weight of the whole hospital if it meant you could rest.
But he didn't. He kept his hands to himself, clamping down on the feelings he'd been harboring for months. You were his resident; there were lines he couldn't cross, no matter how much his chest ached every time he saw you smile or, worse, saw you cry.
"Eat. Drink. Rest for an hour at least," Jack said, his voice a low, soothing anchor. "I'll be out there handling everything. Nobody is going to disturb you."
"Thank you, Jack," you murmured, tearing open the wrapper with clumsy fingers. You looked up at him. "You're a really amazing mentor. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Jack's heart did a painful twist. Mentor.
He offered you a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just doing my job. Get some rest."
He left the room and crossed paths with Frank as he reached the central desk. Frank glanced at him sideways, letting out a sigh.
"You've got it bad, Abbot," Frank whispered. "You know the entire night shift is currently running a pool on when you're actually going to tell her, right?"
Jack’s jaw tightened, his cheeks flushing slightly. "She's exhausted Leave it alone, Langdon."
"I'm just saying, the girl is brilliant, but she’s medically blind to the fact that you look at her like she hung the moon," Frank countered with a smirk. "You're going to have to spell it out for her. Preferably after she graduates residency."
"She needs to focus on her career. She doesn't need the complication of an attending crossing lines," Jack said. "And right now, she just needs a safe place to rest. That’s all I’m giving her."
Frank stared at him for a second. He patted Jack on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Jack. A miserable, pining man, but a good one. I'll cover her for the next hour."
"Thanks," Jack muttered.
At 7:30 AM, you were waiting for the day shift to finish taking report. You reached into your scrubs pocket for a pen, only to realize you were wearing Jack’s jacket. You smiled faintly, the scent of him clinging to the fabric.
"Alright, pay up," a loud whisper hissed from around the corner of the desk.
You paused, your hand still on the zipper of the jacket.
Lena was holding her palm out toward Mateo. He was grumbling under his breath as he fished a ten dollar bill out of his wallet and slapped it into her hand.
"I still say it’s cheating," Mateo complained. "You had inside information."
"I didn't have inside information, I have eyes and know how to bet," Lena countered smoothly, pocketing the cash. "He didn't just give her a nap break; he gave her his jacket."
You blinked, standing entirely still. His jacket?
Slowly, you stepped around the corner. "Is there a problem with Dr. Abbot''s jacket?"
Both Lena and Mateo froze. Mateo immediately looked down at the clipboard, suddenly fascinated by a trauma intake form.
"I definitely didn't say anything about a bet." Lena said. "Aren't you leaving? It's 7:30 already."
"Lena," you said, your eyebrows knitting together as you looked between her and the dollar bill sticking out of her pocket. "What bet? Were you guys betting on this jacket?"
"Oh, honey. Not just the jacket," Lena said, leaning her elbows on the counter and looking at you with a mixture of affection and disbelief. "We’ve been betting on the entire ecosystem of your life for the last four months."
"My life? Why?"
Lena let out a laugh. She looked at Mateo. "She’s serious. She really doesn't know."
"Know what?" you asked, a sudden spike of anxiety hitting your stomach. "Did I do something? Is there a rumor about me?"
Lena’s expression softened instantly. Seeing your genuine panic, she reached across the desk and gently patted your arm. "Hey, no. It’s not a bad rumor. It’s just... sweetie, how can someone so brilliant in the trauma bay be so blind?"
You stared at her, completely lost. "Blind to what?"
Lena sighed, shaking her head. "To Dr. Abbot, darling. To Jack."
The name made your heart skip a beat, though you tried to keep your face completely neutral. "What about Dr. Abbot? He’s a great attending. He’s incredibly supportive of my residency—"
"He is completely wrapped around your finger," Lena interrupted bluntly.
Your jaw tightened slightly. "What? No, he’s not. He’s just a mentor. He does things for everyone."
"Oh, really?" Mateo chimed in, unable to keep quiet any longer. "He didn't bring me a specific brand of protein bar last week just because I said I liked it."
"And the jacket," Lena pointed to the one you were currently wearing. "Jack Abbot is very serious when it comes to his personal stuff. I once saw a medical student accidentally knock a smoothie onto that exact jacket, and Jack looked like he was going to perform an unanesthetized appendectomy on the kid. And tonight he literally tucked you in with it."
You looked down at the jacket, your mind racing, replaying a dozen different interactions over the last few months.
The way he always happened to be near the desk when your shift ended.
The way his voice grew remarkably quiet and gentle whenever he spoke to you, completely different from his sharp and commanding attending persona.
The way he’d look at you when he thought you weren't paying attention.
"Everyone knows," Lena said softly. "Nurses, residents, security staff. We actually have a timeline. Langdon put twenty bucks on 'After Graduation,' but I’m rooting for you two to figure it out by the end of the month."
"He... he has a crush on me?" you breathed, the words feeling entirely surreal on your tongue.
"Crush is a word for teenagers, sweetie," Lena said, looking at you with a gentle smile. "What Jack Abbot has for you is a profound case of being completely gone. He’s just too much of a gentleman, and too worried about crossing professional lines, to tell you himself."
Your hands gripped the edge of Jack's jacket, the warmth of it suddenly feeling entirely different. It felt like a protective shield of a man who was desperately trying to take care of you from a distance.
--
For days, you were a walking disaster of nervous energy and Jack noticed every single second of it.
Whenever he walked into a room, you suddenly found a patient chart that desperately needed your attention across the floor.
When you handed him a suture kit in the trauma bay, your fingers brushed, and you jumped as if you’d been zapped by a defibrillator.
You couldn't look him in the eye for more than two seconds without your face turning red.
A week later, the tension was unbearable. Jack was quietly losing his mind, convinced he had somehow crossed a line or made you uncomfortable during your shift.
Needing air, Jack retreated to the roof, the only place in the hospital where the noise couldn't reach him. The cool wind whipped at his scrub shirt as he leaned against the metal railing, his mind completely consumed by thoughts of you.
The door to the roof groaned open.
Jack turned, his breath catching when he saw you step out. You were holding his jacket tightly against your chest.
"Hey," Jack said softly. He took a step toward you, his eyes scanning your face, filled with worry.
"Lena said you came up here," you breathed, the wind catching your hair.
Jack stopped a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to keep from reaching out to you. "Look, we need to talk. You’ve been... avoiding me? For days. If I did something to upset you, or if I made you uncomfortable by putting my jacket on you the other night, I need you to tell me. I’ll back off. I swear I will. Just please tell me what’s wrong between us."
The panic in his eyes broke the dam. You gripped his jacket tighter, took a sharp breath, and the words just tumbled out of you.
"It makes me nervous being around you because you like me and I like you and they have a bet about you with me, did you know that?"
Jack froze. He stared at you, his brain completely stalling out as he tried to process the words that had just exploded from your mouth.
"I... what?" Jack stammered.
"The nurses! And residents! And even security!" you blurted out, your face burning so hot it made your cheeks hurt. "They bet on what time you’d kick me out of the floor to take a break, they bet on when you’d give me your jacket, and they told me you bought a specific protein bar for me, and Langdon has twenty dollars on us figuring it out after I graduate!"
You stopped to gasp for air. "I didn't know, Jack. I swear. But now I do, and every time you look at me I forget how to read a lab report, and it just makes me so nervous because I do like you, and I didn't think you liked me back, and now I know everyone in the whole hospital is watching us and can't even look at you without blushing."
Silence fell over the roof, save for the sound of traffic below.
You squeezed your eyes shut, suddenly wishing the roof would open up and swallow you whole.
Great.
You just broke the professional boundary.
And sounded like a lunatic doing it.
Then, you heard him.
You opened your eyes. Jack was smiling. He let out a disbelieving laugh, his frown completely vanishing. What Langdon said the other day, "preferably after she graduates", kept echoing in his head for a couple of days.
"Frank put twenty on it?" Jack asked.
"That’s the part you’re focusing on?!" you wailed, hiding your burning face into his jacket.
Jack closed the distance between you. He grasped your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. You looked up and his soft eyes made your knees weak.
"No," Jack whispered, his thumbs softly tracing the inside of your wrists, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. "That’s not the part I’m focusing on."
He took a deep breath, stepping even closer.
"You like me?" he asked, as if he needed to hear the words clearly just to believe they were real.
"Yes," you whispered, feeling nervous and a little dizzy. "I like you, Jack."
"Good," Jack murmured, his hands sliding up from your wrists to cup your face, his palms warm against your cheeks. "I like you, too. Langdon was right. I am completely gone over you. I’ve been trying to be the responsible attending, keeping my distance because I didn't want to complicate your residency. But it has been absolute torture."
"So... you're not mad about the betting pool?" you asked softly, staring into his eyes.
Jack laughed softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned down, his forehead gently resting against yours.
"Oh, I'm furious!" Jack joked, his warm breath against your skin. "Especially because Frank made a bet about not having the guts to tell you I like you before you graduate. We're going downstairs, I'm going to kiss you right in front of them and make sure Lena gets all the credit."
You let out a soft laughter, the tension completely evaporating into the cool night air.
"Wait," you murmured, your hands finding their way to the lapels of his scrub shirt. "If you kiss me in front of them now, Frank loses his twenty bucks, sure, but Lena wins. And as much as I love her, she's been smug about this for days. Want her to suffer a little bit."
Jack paused, a spark lit up his dark eyes. "You want to see Lena loose her mind? You're evil," Jack whispered. "An absolute menace."
"I learned from the best attending in the hospital," you countered softly.
"Alright," Jack agreed, his hands sliding from your cheeks down to your waist, pulling you against him. "We keep it a secret a few days. No hand holding, no extra protein bars, and absolute professionalism in front of them."
"Deal," you smiled. "But, can you kiss me now? There aren't any cameras up here."
"No, there aren't." He didn't hesitate and leaned down, putting one of his hand on your chin to capture your lips. His hands held you firmly, securely, as if he were making sure you wouldn't walk away from him. You melted into him, your fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his neck, completely lost in him.
When he pulled back, his breathing was shallow, and your eyes were shining. He pressed one last kiss to your lips before pulling away.
"Keep the jacket," Jack murmured, as he looked down at the jacket still clutched between your chests. "Looks good on you, baby."
You blushed and bit your lip as you walked back towards the rooftop door, Jack's fingers intertwined with yours for a moment, before he let go and took a step back to let you through the door first.
jack abbot + established relationship prompts clearing a drawer for them / asking them to move in 🫶🏼
writing prompts / masterlist
text key - Jack / You
When you finally got your day off, you didn’t expect yourself to feel so miserable. Since you started dating Jack, you’ve become a little obsessed with spending every free second you had with him. You would feel anxious of being too clingy with Jack if he wasn’t the exact same way with you. It was no surprise to anyone that Jack tried to keep himself as busy as possible, an adrenaline junkie who was scared of the quiet but found solace in the darkness.
But then he met you, and while his solace was still found in the dark since you joined the night shift, he also learned to appreciate the art of being home. It’d been awhile since he was in a relationship, the last real one he was in was his marriage. He was worried about re-learning how to date and the idea of having to figure out different places to take you. And then after the third-date sleepover, when you begged him to stay in bed all day and suggested you two have more lowkey date nights (because you were selfish and wanted Jack to yourself, but you never told him that), he felt like he was in heaven.
Since that discovery, Jack usually held you (willingly) captive in his house: dinners you two took turns cooking or cooked together, movie nights where he showed you one of his favorite older films and you showed him your favorite modern movies, trying new take-out mom and pop’s being built around his neighborhood. Anything you could do in the comfort of his home, you two did it.
But now you have a day off that doesn’t match with his for the first time in a long time and you feel lost, which should feel like a problem, but you’re too busy missing your boyfriend to notice. Plus, you’re used to being at his place, but you felt weird being at his place without him there since you didn’t technically live there, despite how often you were there. You’re interrupted from your thoughts momentarily by the sound of your phone going off.
Shift from hell. Glad you weren’t here to witness it, but seeing you would’ve made it a lot better.
You frown at the message, your fingers hovering to reply to Jack.
want me to come over after your shift?we can order in
You’re not there right now?
Your chest warms at Jack assuming you would be spending your day off lounging in his space. Your phone goes off again before you can reply.
Are you busy? Could you be there when I get home?Or maybe I can meet you at your place if you’re busy?
not busy. i’ll be there, Jackie :)
see you soon, love you
I love you.
See you soon.
You’re quick to grab your overnight bag you usually take when you stay with Jack, planning to just stay with him the rest of the weekend. But as you go to pack you realize everything you would take you already have an extra at his place: toothbrush, face wash, shampoo, conditioner, a hair brush.
Jack had surprised you after you spent your first full weekend at his place and hadn’t packed for it. The next time he stopped by your place to pick you up for date night, he purposefully showed up early and asked to use your restroom in order to take pictures of everything you stocked so he could stock it for you at his place, already anticipating keeping you hostage at his place more often than not.
You end up just packing enough clothes to get you through the next couple of days, opting out of pajamas since you’ll likely just steal something from Jack.
Forty minutes later, Jack walks through his front door to the sound of the TV in his living room and the faint smell of a barbecue chicken pizza, his shoulders drop and he can already feel the headache pulsing behind his eyes starting to dull. He silently lays his bag in front of the hallway closet, next to your empty weekend bag. He continues his routine, toeing off his shoes before removing his scrub top, leaving him in just his undershirt and scrub pants. When he wanders over toward the couch his breath stutters when he sees you in one of his shirts and a pair of his sweatpants, laying under your favorite throw of his. He always feels breathless when he sees you, but especially like this: soft and comfortable in his space, like you belong there. Because to him, you do.
“Hey, honey,” he calls softly, watching your head lift to glance at him, a small smile gracing your pretty features. “I’m home,” he sighs out, lifting your legs to sit down and placing them back on top of his lap.
“Wanna talk about it?” You frown when he shakes his head, one of his hands coming up to run over his face. He bends forward to grab a slice from the box that feels like it was just delivered under ten minutes ago, which means you timed ordering it so it would get here closer to when he got home.
“Later,” he promises, speaking around a bite of pizza, a groan leaving him as he sinks further into the couch, his free hand coming up to massage your thigh. “Just wanna be here with you. No hospital talk.” His head lulls to the side against the cushion so he can see you. “Missed you.”
“Missed you,” you say, your voice dropped to a whisper. “Wanna go to your bed?”
Jack frowns at the wording. “Our bed,” he chides softly, squeezing your thigh.
“Oh?” You laugh lightly, lifting one of your legs to nudge his thigh. “Our bed?”
“Yes,” he grunts out, lifting your other leg to get out from under you. “I’m going to shower. You go get comfy in our bed and wait for me, baby. I don’t plan on letting you out of it for the next twenty-four hours so plan accordingly,” he taps your refillable water bottle as a hint to hydrate, smiling when it pulls a laugh out of you.
You pick up your cup to refill and grab the pizza box to put in the fridge as Jack retreats into his room. When Jack walks into the room and sees the clothes he assumes you packed for the weekend sitting on the chair near the window, he frowns. You’ve stayed here plenty of times, but you never fully let yourself settle here with him. With a huff, he grabs your clothes and opens one of his drawers, emptying it out into the drawer below it before placing your clothes in the now empty one.
“Better,” he mumbles under his breath, smiling at more proof of your in his space before he gets back to the task of showering.
When he emerges from the bathroom no more than seven minutes later, he sees you in just his shirt now, pulling back the comforter and grabbing the remote for the blackout curtains so you two can nap together. You turn at the sound of Jack opening his underwear drawer.
“Where are you keeping my clothes hostage?”
“They’re in your drawer,” he says simply, tapping the top drawer next to him.
“I have a drawer and a bed here now?” You tease, but the flutter in your stomach makes you feel like you’re floating. “Maybe I should just move in.”
“Okay,” he replies, again way too easily.
“Jack!” You call out around a disbelieving laugh. “I was kidding.”
“I’m not,” he shrugs, leaning his crutch against the side table of his bed and shuffling into bed, sighing when his head hits the cool side of the pillow. When he notices you not getting into bed, he pivots so he’s facing you, reading the semi-shocked expression on your face. “What? The worst part of you staying here is that you end up leaving eventually,” he almost whines. His arm stretches out toward you, tugging you onto the bed when you wrap your hand around his.
“That’s the worst part?” You ask lightheartedly, pulling the comforter up and around both of you. “Not the hair I leave in the shower? Or when I forget to put the dishes in the dishwasher? Or when I leave the volume on your speaker too loud?”
“All signs of you being in the house,” he responds, a tired smile on his face as he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer toward him so your fronts are basically pressed together. “The only part I hate is when you leave.” His hand drags from your waist to your thigh, hoisting it up so it wraps around his hip. “Clog my drain, never wash a dish, blow out my speaker. Just stop leaving,” he whispers, brushing his lips against yours. “Stay,” he basically begs, giving you a firmer kiss.
“Okay,” you try to say, but it’s muffled against the kiss so you just respond with a return kiss, your leg tightening around him and your hand coming up to rest against his throat.
“Okay?” He asks, pulling away to pepper kisses across your cheek and jaw, his grip on you tightening when you nod. “God, I love you.” He smiles against your skin when you yelp at him suddenly shifting on his back and pulling you to lay on top of him.
“I love you too,” you sigh, leaning down so your lips brush the shell of his ear, “roomie.”
# DIFFERENT JJK MEN WHEN YOU TRY TO PAY ON A DATE ── .✦. ( including’ gojo, geto, nanami, megumi, toji, choso, yuji )
˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ wow guys two posts in a row in two days I’m actually killing it, i lowkey keep seeing that trend with girls trying to pay with seashells to their man during a date and just thought of these men.. like lowkey !!
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
GOJO SATORU
the second you reach for your wallet he looks personally offended, like you just slapped him
“excuse me?? mrs gojo does not pay for anything ever” while dramatically pushing your hand away with his large ahh hands and fingers
he’ll literally teleport the bill away or use infinity to keep your card in your bag
ends up paying with a black card and then teases you the whole night about how “cute it is that you thought you could pay”
GETO SUGURU
calm but firm he gives you that soft dangerous smile and gently takes your wallet out of your hand
“let me take care of you, love” in that velvet voice that makes you weak
if you insist he’ll let you pay once… then the next ten dates he pays double just to “make up for it”
MEGUMI FUSHIGURO
goes completely silent and stares at the table like it personally betrayed him
quietly pays before you can even open your wallet, then mutters “don’t do that again” with pink ears
he’s not mad, he’s just embarrassed that you even tried he wants to be the one providing
NANAMI KENTO
looks at you like you just suggested something insane
“absolutely not” in that serious overtime voice while already handing his card over
explains very calmly that as your boyfriend it’s his responsibility and pleasure to take care of you
TOJI FUSHIGURO
laughs in your face like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week
“you think you’re paying? with what money, doll?” while stealing your wallet and putting it in his pocket
he’s broke half the time but still refuses to let you pay pride thing
CHOSO KAMO
gets all soft and confused, tilting his head like a confused puppy
“but… i wanted to treat you, you don’t have to be embarrassed this is the bare minimum really” with those big sad eyes until you feel bad for even trying
he’s so earnest about it that you end up letting him pay every time because he looks genuinely happy when he does
YUJII ITADORI
his eyes go wide like you just suggested something crazy and he immediately starts waving his hands
“no no no!! i invited you, i’m paying!!” while practically shoving his card at the waiter
gets all blushy and determined, telling you “you always do so much for me, let me do this one thing okay?” with that bright puppy smile
if you keep trying he’ll get genuinely upset (in the cutest way) and say “please? i wanna be the boyfriend who takes care of you…” until you give in
afterwards he’s all proud of himself and holds your hand the whole way home like he just won a tournament
minors DNI this fic is 18+, by continuing to read you consent to reading adult content
tattoo artist gojo x reader
smut, gojoxreader, tattoo shop au, fem reader, oral sex, p in v sex, creampie, praise kink
The buzz of the needle tingled more than actually hurt. Satoru Gojo, was diligently working on a piece for your inner thigh, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he worked. You didn't look down at him, you knew better than that but his slender fingers were caressing your skin above where he was working on the tattoo. An innocent touch for sure, he wasn't the type to do that on purpose, but intention aside the effect was the same. The touch sent an electric shock through your whole body and you had to fight the urge to snap your legs shut.
"Sorry pretty, I know it's kind of a sensitive area, but keep your legs open and relax," he said looking up at you his white hair bouncing up in a way that made you want to curl your fingers in it. You bite the inside of your cheek and force your body to relax. "Good girl," he adds smiling before pushing his glasses back up.
"Don't say that," you say but it sounds a bit too breathy to come across as genuinely annoyed. He smiles, this cocky little smirk that you never see outside of the studio and runs his hand over your leg in a way that can only be teasing. "'Toru," you try to warn, even to you, it sounds more needy than anything and suddenly he looks as flushed as you feel. The hint of pink on the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears contrasting starkly against his pale skin. You swallow before speaking again, the tension in the air suddenly palpable. He's still looking at your face but his gaze starts going down and you can't help but feel naked.
Satoru stands up from his stool, pushing your leg up with one hand. You let out a small gasp as he gets impossibly close to you. With your hips still at the edge of the tattoo chair, you can feel when he presses against you. He was hard.
His hand didn't leave you leg, but he towered over you and his other hand moved up your other leg until finally stopping at the hem of your shirt. He was giving you a chance to stop him, to tell him you didn't want him the same way he clearly wanted you. His expression carried layers, you could read, his arousal, but under that was nervousness and hope.
You let your arms come up, not to stop him, but to wrap around his neck, to pull him in. You press your lips to his, and he freezes, his hand on your hip tightening enough to leave finger prints. You pull back, afraid you read him wrong, but as soon as your lips are off of his, he comes to life chasing your mouth with his. He uses the tip of his tongue to motion for you to part your lips, to let him in. You do and his tongue immediately finds yours. He tastes like mint and something sweet, but you don't care to figure out what it is right now, not with the way his hand is snaking up your shirt until it reaches your breast. Not with the way you can feel how hard he is even through his skinny jeans.
You roll your hips flush against his and he lets out a sinful moan. He lifts you up enough to take your shirt and bra off in one go and then presses his lips against your neck, tracing the veins with his tongue. He works his way lower while his hands fumble with your shorts. When he can't get them, he lets out a frustrated groan and you take over, lifting your hips to slide them off. He helps make sure they don't touch the unfinished tattoo on your thigh and then with far more accuracy, he sheds his own shirt and pulls his pants down just enough to get his cock out.
He has a cocky grin on his face when he sees the wet spot in your panties. "So pretty," he mutters, more to himself than you. Then he smiles up at you before kissing the wet spot over your clit. You let out a small whine and he pulls back. "Shh, there's other people here you have to be quiet baby," he teases before going back to kissing and sucking your clit through your panties. When he finally comes up, they're ruined and he slides them off all the way, throwing them into some corner of his studio.
The cold air only serves to make you wetter, and he starts kissing your thighs teasingly. You try to push his face closer to the spot you really want him to be, but pulls off and looks at you. "don't be a brat baby, let me enjoy you," he whispers. You must pout because his hand comes up to the sweet spot between your legs and rubs your clit a little before pulling back off.
"'Toruuu," you whine again. This time he smirks and gives you what you want. His long fingers rub your clit as he buries his face in your cunt. He uses his tongue to clean the mess that was dripping out of you before pushing into you. You automatically wrap your fingers in his hair, pushing his face closer, until he's practically suffocating. He lets out a moan that's muffled by your body. As he starts fucking you faster on his tongue, your thighs close shut around his head. You can feel his confident smile against your most sensitive spots and his free hand wraps around your thigh. You feel your imminent orgasm and try to warn him, but he keeps going until you're biting your bottom lip to keep a moan from escaping.
When you've ridden out your orgasm, he licks you clean again before coming up. His glasses are sitting funny on his face and he has this dopey grin about him as he licks his lips clean. You don't hold back your urge to reach out and fix his glasses, and when you do, he leans in and kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
His erection rubs against the inside of your thigh as his tongue pushes on the inside of your mouth. He makes soft unintentional whines that shoot straight through your body into your cunt. Without opening your eyes you start feeling for the hem of his boxers, rubbing against his erection, eliciting another delicious whine in the process. After fumbling around for longer than necessary, you guide the boxers down over his impressive erection. He moans into your mouth and grips the base as soon as his cock is free. You pull back enough to get a glance at the monstrous cock in front of you. Your nervousness must show because when he captures your mouth again, he's smiling.
He pulls back, "come on baby, I'll be gentle," he practically whines against your lips before slotting his back against yours, as if the kiss in it of itself is a promise. You nod, and one of his hands moves down to your hips, the other still tightly wrapped around the base of his cock as he slaps it against your sensitive hole a few times, smiling at how it causes your vaginal muscles to contract in anticipation. He spits in his hand and rubs it up and down the length of his cock before teasing you further with the tip.
"'Toruuu," you practically purr, he groans and finally pushes in, painstakingly slow, as if hes afraid he's gonna hurt you. "Please stop teasing me," you ask, your voice tight.
"I'm not trying to tease you pretty girl, please I wanna savor it," his words come out a bit slurred and breathy as he finally gets all the way in. "Y'urr so-,"he starts before letting out a groan, "squeezing me too tight, relax baby, please," he begs, his voice tight as he grits his teeth. "Please baby, I can't last if you don't relax."
You relax your hips and your muscles as you accommodate his size. He wasn't the thickest but his length more than made up for that. He pulled out until only the tip was still inside you and then thrust back in quickly, it felt as if his cock was all the way inside your stomach causing you to bite your lip to avoid moaning too loudly.
He pulled back out, only the mushroom tip still inside you and then thrust again, biting back a moan of his own. "Fuck pretty girl, you're so perfect," he half whispered. His pet names for you sent a reaction coursing through your body that you're sure didn't go unnoticed by him. He began thrusting a little faster, expletives and pet names exiting his mouth in hushed whispers and nearly silent whines. As the room filled with the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, you found yourself unable to remain as silent as you would have liked. You wince and whine trying to avoid any guttural moans, this was still a public place after all. His thrusts were getting faster and you felt hotter, more desperate.
You could practically see when Satoru lost the rest of his self control, and you definitely could feel it in the way his hips lost the crescendo of the rhythm he had set. When his body started moving of it's own accord chasing after his pleasure. He bit your lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough that you could feel his desperation kicking in. His glasses were barely on his face now, and when he pulled back you noticed he was nearly silently pleading with you about something. You try to listen in, try to hear it, when you finally do it's not what you were expecting.
"Please pretty please let me cum inside you. Please I— I need to, I don- don't think I can stop," he whimpered. You nod slightly, and he loses it, his lips find yours again and he pushes against them hard as his erratic movements start slowing down just enough to keep him on the edge.
"Please Satoru, p— please you have to keep going," you beg, grinding your hips against his chasing your own release. He picks his pace back up, this time not giving you and time to prepare as he goes until you can feel his cock swelling and burning up inside you. You know you're close too, you feel the way your muscles have contracted around his erection, the way it was getting harder for him to thrust. He takes his thumb and starts massaging your clit. It doesn't take long before you reach your peak, and he follows suit immediately. He paints your insides white with rope after rope of his warm cum, until it's leaking out around his cock. He finishes riding out both of your orgasms and when his cock finally starts to soften up, he pulls out to see the damage. Immediately more of his cum leaks out until it's dripping on the tattoo chair underneath you.
You're both panting, your eyes glazed over from pleasure. After a few minutes, Satoru comes to and finds a clean towel to wipe you down with. As he goes to grab the towel, you notice movement near the doorway. It's at this point you realize your mistake. Neither of you had bothered to close the door, as quiet as you were, the man standing tall in the doorway had still heard you. His long hair was pulled back in a bun with a piece in the front sticking out and when he smirked at you, his snake bites shown in way that meant this was none other than Suguru Geto.
i wonder what will happen next! No beta reader we die like everyone in JJK.
minors DNI this fic is 18+, by continuing to read you consent to reading adult content
piercer geto x reader
smut, gojoxgetoxreader, tattoo shop au, fem reader, p in v sex, threesome
part 2 of this
When you started getting your tattoo's done with Satoru, he had offered his best friend Suguru if you ever needed any piercings done. Now he was standing in front of you as you pant, cum still dripping out of you. You didn't bother hiding, you knew it was too late for modesty.
"Oh?" he asked a small smile creeping up on his face. "Satoru, in your place of employment, have you no shame?" he chided, but it sounded more amused and teasing than genuinely disgusted or even surprised. Satoru for all his quieter tendencies outside the studio had no shame either, he just flashed a cocky smile to Suguru.
"Oh come on Suguru, don't be jealous, you're still my favorite," he teased back, blowing Suguru a kiss. The dark haired man left his post by the doorway to step inside the room, effortlessly pushing the door closed with his leg before taking long, slow strides until he was standing right in front of you.
"Oh Satoru, it's not nice to leave a girl so messy," he chided again before his long fingers touch the lips of your cunt. He spreads it open with one hand and smiles at your slight wince. He takes his other hand and uses his finger to scoop up some of the other man's release, licking his finger clean afterwards. You look between the two men, your eyebrow raised.
"Is this common for you guys? Are y'all gay or something?" you ask noticing the way their eyes seemed to hold an entire conversation in front of you. They both laugh and you feel a bit silly.
"No, Satoru and I, we don't mind sharing when we find a particularly beautiful flower," Suguru purrs, his large hand running down your leg. You nod and he raises an eyebrow asking you a silent question. You look at him for a second trying to decipher it before nodding. He was asking if you would be okay with playing with both him and Satoru.
"Perfect," he says that small knowing smile still on his face. Satoru watched with renewed interest as Suguru leans down to press light feathery kisses to your abdomen and hips. You shiver at the way his very touch contrasts Satoru's. Where Satoru was leaving fingerprint shaped bruises in your hips, Suguru was kissing them better.
One of his hands slid up until it was touching your breast, playing with your pierced nipple as he rolled and squeezed it in between his fingers. You let out a soft moan and looked over to see Satoru palming at his new erection. Suguru looked over at him for a second before focusing his attention back on you, as if putting a show on for him.
With his other hand Suguru starts tugging at his own erection through his grey sweatpants. You tug at his black hoodie, a silent plea to get him to take it off. You knew his nipples were pierced you, he had done it himself when he was learning how to pierce. He pulls his lips off of the space where your hip connects to your leg admiring the small dark mark he had left in his stead before appeasing you by sliding his hoodie off and tossing it somewhere off to the side. His black band t shirt was slightly lifted, giving you a hint of a tattoo on his hip, leading down his leg.
You needed to see more, you wanted to trace the lines of the cybersigilistic ink that adorned him. You sit up slightly to pull him close enough that you can hook your fingertips on the hem of his boxers, swiftly pulling both his boxers and sweats off in one go. His cock sprang up immediately, and you could tell he was thicker than Satoru, but about an inch shorter. More interestingly, was the silver ball at the end of his tip, you realized even his cock was pierced. He realized what you were looking at and smiled that same all knowing smile that made you want to kiss it off of him.
Before you can even say anything, or kiss him, or anything, he grips his cock in his hand and presses the pierced tip against you clit, the metal eliciting a different kind of pleasure. Your whole body shakes and your eyes roll back as he starts rolling his hips against yours. Where Satoru's teasing touches bordered on torture, Suguru was not as patient. Once he was sure you were wet enough, he wasted no time pushing into you. His thickness meant you had to accommodate to the new size and Satoru watched with a blissful expression on his face. Finally, Suguru motioned for him to get closer to you both. Once he was in arms reach, Suguru pulled him in by the back of his head and kissed him, their tongues intertwining with a soft moan from the white haired man. You watched both in surprise and arousal, the heat flooding the area between your legs.
When Satoru pulls back, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are swollen. He clumsily moves up near your head and takes his glasses off before kissing you too, as if he was transferring Suguru's kiss over. One of his hands traveled down to the breast that was currently being neglected and he started pulling and squeezing it, while his tongue fucked your mouth. Your cunt was soaked again and Suguru picks up the pace as he starts thrusting more purposefully. You don't know what to focus on, the tongue that was wrapping around yours, your mouths hot all over each other, or the cock that was currently pistoning inside your poor cunt.
Satoru pulls his mouth off of yours and starts pressing open mouthed kisses down your neck until his face meets where his hand was teasing your breast. Without hesitating, he tugs your nipple between his fingers once more before sucking it into his mouth. The change causes you to let out a pleasured hiss as you try to keep quiet. Suguru pulls his hand off your other breast, Satoru's hand taking over as the dark haired man takes his hand and rests it on your hips, his thumb rubbing your clit lazily as his thrusts keep going, his pace just slow enough that you can feel his cock everywhere, driving you mad. You were teetering the edge of overstimulation and the men seemed desperate to push you over.
When he noticed the way your muscles started contracting around his erection and the way your breathing got heavier, Suguru finally sped up, sending you into a desperate orgasm. With the added stimulation on both your breasts and your clit, the pressure felt too intense causing you to squirt all over the chair with a nearly silent cry. Suguru let you ride it out and then without a break pressed back against your tight hole.
He notices the fucked out look on your face and doesn't push back inside you. Instead he starts violently jerking himself off over your twitching hole until he's letting out groans with each stroke. He cums on your poor cunt, the warm ropes making your muscles contract. He pulls back finally and looks at the mess before letting Satoru take his spot. The white haired man pulls away from your bruised and sore breasts and climbs back between your legs taking a second to look at the mess before Suguru wraps a tight fist around Satoru's cock and tugs it with enough force to make him whine. He jerks Satoru off quickly even as Satoru tells him it's too much, too fast. With another whine, Satoru releases a watery load right over the one Suguru just left.
While you and Satoru recover from the intensity of the session, Suguru has already grabbed a clean towel and dampens it to carefully clean you up. Even with his featherlight touches, you wince in overstimulation. He's careful, and when you're finally clean Satoru helps sit you back up. You give both men a weak smile, it's all you can really muster up. They help slide your shorts and shirt back on doing their best to not move you.
You'll have to finish your tattoo another time, now you needed time to recover so your legs stopped feeling like jelly.
the next time you see satoru, hes wearing sugurus hoodie and your panties
⋆˙⟡ synopsis: when red hood stumbles into your shitty convenience store at 2 am looking for marlboros, you don’t expect him to come back—but he does, except now he’s jason, your cute regular.
⋆˙⟡ author’s notes: i’ve probably said this like fifty times, but i’m restarting my dcu taglist. i’ll make a proper post soon, but if anyone is interested you could leave a comment or send me an ask. even though there is a afab presenting picture in the moodboard, that does not dictate reader’s gender—i have always written gen!reader.
✏ read part two───EXCUSE ME, I’M OUT OF RHYTHM! ౄ
Your clenched hand bangs on the “OPEN” sign for the third time this night. One letter is always burnt out—the “O”, to be specific. As a result, the small convenience store you work for has the word “PEN” basically written on its front door. Let’s say it doesn’t naturally garner any paying customers after normal shopping hours. Well, any normal customers, that is. You’re pretty much desensitised to every stranger who walks through the door.
“Does this make my store look like we sell dirty magazines?” Your manager, an old lady whom you’ve just learned to call ma’am instead of her real name—Marjorie—barks your way before opening the door to finally head home.
How nice that she never stays around for the night shift. Fantastic choice of words to end her stay here for tonight, too.
“More like a stationery shop,” you say, trying to align the sign to the center of the door, “I’m not sure people expect us to be selling anything… mature at a convenience store. You know, with there being aisles full of groceries.”
“I’ll be damned if a stupid sign ruins the reputation of this store, do you hear me? This building has been in my family for generations.” She’s still pointing at you, even though she’s half out of the door. “Take care of the place, don’t forget to clean up.”
“Sure, ma’am.” You try your best to hold back the sarcasm in your voice, but it fails, and you receive a nasty side glare from the woman.
You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. It’s made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the cameras—inside and out—are definitely fake.
There’s an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isn’t ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.
Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.
You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorie’s scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever she’ll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.
The person who walks through the door isn’t the short, hot-tempered old lady you’ve been working with for the past few months.
No.
You first notice the blood. The way it’s still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You don’t have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you haven’t spotted yet.
You’ve seen freaks in this shop—the guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.
But you haven’t seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell don’t know how to handle him.
What the actual hell? Marjorie didn’t train you for this. There isn’t a “how to deal with a vigilante showing up” section in any manual.
You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. You’re sure the metal cans won’t save you now.
You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it won’t really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.
God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?
What are you even thinking right now?
It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. There’s a small… handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.
Oh, that’s where the knife is. Lucky you.
You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you won’t try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.
You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.
So, he finds this funny, huh.
“I’m not going to bite your head off.” He speaks first, because you sure as hell won’t talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.
“So the knife there is just for show?” The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.
“I do love a good accessory,” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s being hilarious.
He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. They’re dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.
“You can drop your hands,” his voice breaks you out of your thoughts… about his arms?
“So, you aren’t suspicious or anything?” You drop your hands to your sides, “What if I—”
“You don’t scare me, sweetheart. It’s mostly the other way around.” He says the word “sweetheart” a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didn’t have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe you’d even blush.
You hope you aren’t visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.
“I could call the cops,” you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.
“And they’d definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But I’d already have taken what I came here for.”
Yep, he’s actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesn’t warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. You’re sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.
“And what would that be?”
If you’re going to be beaten up or robbed by Gotham’s most smart-mouthed vigilante, you’re not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.
He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think he’s reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.
“I want a cigarette.”
What.
“You want a what?”
Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The “21+” sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.
He wants a fucking cigarette. And he’s saying all of this as if he didn’t just threaten you a moment ago.
“Seriously?”
“I am over twenty-one, if you’re wondering.”
“That’s not,” you groan. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.
“I can’t show you my ID, unfortunately,” he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that he’s not reaching for a weapon. “Secret identity and all. You understand, no?”
“You just had to mess with me, huh?”
“Couldn’t help myself.”
You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didn’t do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you he’s not going for his weapons. He’s looking away like a child caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. It’s not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like he’s actually a customer. A weird one, but it’s Gotham. You’re not surprised.
“Smoking is bad for you, y’know,” you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.
“You worried, sweetheart?”
“Oh, of course,” you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. “Who else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?”
He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadn’t noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isn’t bloodied.
“Next time at…” he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that it’s eight pm now. “How does five sound?”
“If you don’t come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.”
You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. It’s like he’s surprised and flustered by the contact.
“A deal breaker, then?” He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.
You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasn’t expressed any discomfort yet.
“No,” you answer. “Not exactly…”
God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?
He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; he’s now twirling it between his fingers.
Yep, you’re never leaving your apartment ever again.
He does have big hands, though.
“Five o’clock, then,” he says, like it’s already decided. Like you already said yes.
“I didn’t agree to anything.”
“You didn’t say no either, sweetheart.”
There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like he’s known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you can’t even see his face.
He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.
You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.
“Same time tomorrow,” he says from the door. The bell hasn’t rung yet. He’s waiting. For what, you don’t know.
“Same blood?” you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.
He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.
“Maybe less. If you’re lucky.”
The bell rings. He’s gone.
You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.
Then back at the door.
What the hell just happened?
You grab the nearest energy drink can—not to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.
And you hate yourself a little for already knowing you’ll be here at five o’clock tomorrow.
+++
“Wait, say that again,” Marjorie points at your face, as if you’re in the wrong. “A vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?”
“He didn’t really threaten me,” you point out, but the exasperated look on the woman’s face makes you backtrack. “I mean, he looked scary. He didn’t lay a hand on me, though.”
Unfortunately.
You should have stayed home.
“You said he had a gun!”
“And a knife.”
“Oh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.”
“I don’t think his smoking is the main issue here,” you move past the counter to the aisles.
You didn’t call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isn’t bleeding or broken, calling isn’t necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe he’ll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.
Now you’re here, the next day. You’ve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. You’ve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.
Marjorie’s incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the cooler’s rattle.
“Did he hurt you?” She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.
“Aw,” you coo, “you do care about me, Marj.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, idiot,” she scowls. “Who else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?”
“No. He didn’t hurt me,” you deadpan. “He didn’t take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.”
You haven’t mentioned the fact that he might visit again. You’re not planning on Marjorie finding out. She’ll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face you’ve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.
God, what are you doing?
“Marlboro?” Marjorie raises a brow. “He doesn’t even have taste. He should have gotten one of those… what are they called?”
“Yellow Spirits?”
“Yes, those.”
“You’re only saying that because they cost more.”
“If he’s bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.”
You bend down to the box near your feet. It’s full of some brand of cereal you can’t remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.
Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if she’s actually worried.
She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what she’s doing. She pulls out something that looks like a… taser?
“Marjorie, what is that?”
“Kid, we both know I don’t have the means to get you a gun,” she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, “but this should do the trick. It ain’t one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.”
You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you don’t think you’ll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he won’t give you a reason to use it. Secondly, you’re sure it won’t work against a man shaped like a mountain.
“Thanks, Marj,” you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.
“It’s Marjorie,” she scoffs. “Now, I’ll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.”
As if she’s the one restocking.
She’s already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that she’d say it back. So much for her poor knees.
You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so you’re not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.
You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. There’s a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.
This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that they’ve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. It’s almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.
To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; you’re not sure what people like him get up to.
Your heart is beating against your chest. There’s something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but you’re already in the line of sight of the entrance.
He already saw you.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, sweetheart.”
The “he” turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regular—Jason Todd. You still don’t understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes it’s because he finds the cashier, you, cute.
He’s wearing a black T-shirt. It’s cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. You’ve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.
This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.
Wow. Both him and Red Hood. That’s low. Even for you.
You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But it’s not like he owed you anything.
Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. You’re sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.
“Jason,” you finally get the words past your lips, “it’s just you.”
“Just me?” he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.
He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. You’re sure you’re shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.
You can see the way Jason’s face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. He’s always so perceptive, a trait you haven’t yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.
No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.
He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesn’t tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show he’s trying to calm you down.
“You okay?” He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I feel like a million bucks.”
Who even says that?
You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.
“So,” you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. “What can I get you?”
By the look on Jason’s concerned face, you’re sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You can’t take your anger out on him. It’s unfair.
“Is there anything I can do?” Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.
For a moment, you wonder why he’s so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.
“It’s nothing,” you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. “Rough night. You know how it is.”
“I don’t,” he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. “But I’ve got time if you wanna talk about it.”
“You’re buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isn’t therapy.”
“Same thing, sweetheart.”
There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you remember—Jason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.
It doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself. It’s just a word.
“You’re staring,” Jason says, amused.
“I’m obviously glaring,” you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. “There’s a big difference.”
He doesn’t reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his head—and there. That’s the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.
“You glare at all your customers like that, or just me?”
Two can play that game.
“Just the ones who show up at five o’clock looking like that.”
“Like what?”
You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.
“Like you just walked off a movie set.”
Jason’s grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like you’re back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and you’re not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.
God, you’re going to hell. If there’s even one.
“So you have noticed.”
‘I notice when my regulars change their look,” you say, deflecting. “New shirt?”
“This old thing?” He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if he’s nervous. “You like it?”
Jason—to your surprise and amusement—sounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.
“I liked the leather jacket better.”
“Noted.”
He’s still not taking the cigarettes. He’s just looking at you. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at you—like you were interesting. Like you weren’t just another cashier.
“You’re doing it again,” you say.
“Doing what?”
"Looking at me like I’m hiding something. Which I am definitely not."
Jason laughs. It’s low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.
“Maybe you are hiding something,” he says. “You’re harder to figure out than most.”
“That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever received.”
“It’s not backhanded,” he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. “I’m just bad at words.”
“You’re a regular. You come here three times a week. I’ve learned that you’re not bad at anything.”
His eyebrows go up. “Anything?”
Shit.
“I meant—talking. I meant talking.”
“Sure you did.”
He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yours—deliberate this time. You’re sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way that’s longer than necessary.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.
“You’re already here today.”
“And?”
You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.
“You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?” you say.
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
“Fine. Same time tomorrow.”
“Good.”
He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of his—
Stop it.
But he’s totally doing this on purpose.
Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. There’s a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know he’s hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.
You can see the muscles in Jason’s shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you haven’t seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.
He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.
You pick it up. It’s heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise lettering—worn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someone’s hands.
“What’s this say?”
“Something stupid that I got when I was nineteen.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Light it up for me?”
You look up. “What?”
“The cigarette.” He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocket—when did he grab that?—and taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesn’t move to light it himself, just looks at you. “You’ve got the lighter.”
“You have hands.”
“And you’re holding it.”
The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe that’s just the angle. Or maybe you’re hallucinating because of what is happening right now.
“You want me to light your cigarette,” you say slowly, “over the counter. In the middle of my shift.”
“I want a lot of things,” he says. “Right now I’m just asking for a light.”
Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.
Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes don’t leave yours. You can’t take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.
The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your face—polite, even now—and the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.
“Same time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.”
“You’re already here today.”
“And?”
You can’t think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter that’s no longer in your hand.
“Fine,” you manage. “Same time tomorrow.”
“Good.”
He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. He’s halfway to the door when you call out.
“You forgot your cigarettes.”
He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.
“No, I didn’t.”
The bell rings.
He’s gone.
+++
The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didn’t drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.
You feel lonely.
Ridiculous.
Maybe it’s because Jason didn’t show up today, and you’ve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. You’ve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, you’re just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.
You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you don’t really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. It’s all like an ambience you want to shut out.
The bell rings.
Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.
A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that don’t quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold—or against something else. You can’t tell. His face is the kind you’d forget five seconds after looking away.
Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.
You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. “Don’t slouch,” she’d say. “Makes you look like you don’t care. Customers can smell apathy.”
“Evening,” you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.
He grunts. Doesn’t look at you. Wanders the aisles like he’s searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatorade—blue, the electrolyte one—he holds onto that one.
His hands are shaking.
Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when you’re running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Don’t judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.
He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminate—harder than it needs to.
“That everything?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.
“Sir?”
He looks up.
And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. He’s not looking at you like a customer—he’s looking at you like you’re not even there.
“Two eighty-nine,” you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.
He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.
You make a change and slide it across. He doesn’t take it.
“Sir? Your change.”
He blinks and pockets the money without counting. “Thanks.”
Then he walks to the door.
Good, you think. He’s leaving. You were wrong. He’s just some guy.
He stops at the door and doesn’t turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.
A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Call—
He turns around.
The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.
He walks back, and not slow this time—fast. His footsteps don’t echo—they thud. Every step is a warning call.
“I changed my mind,” he says.
“About the Gatorade?”
“About all of it.”
His hand goes to his waistband.
You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.
The gun is small and black. It’s the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yet—but the threat is there.
“Open the register,” he says. His voice isn’t flat anymore; it’s shaking.
A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.
Your hands go up automatically. “Okay,” you say. “All right. I’m opening it.”
Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You don’t look away from him. Never look away from the gun.
The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching that’s never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.
“Take it,” you say. “It’s all there. I’m not going to stop you.”
He steps closer, and the gun comes up. It’s pointed at your chest now.
“The safe,” he says. “Open the safe.”
“I don’t have the code. The manager—she doesn’t give it to the night shift. I swear.”
His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.
This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says “PEN” on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I’m not. Please—”
He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.
“Then you’re gonna call her. Right now. And you’re gonna get the code.”
“She won’t—she’s asleep, she’s old, she won’t—”
He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.
“I said call her.”
Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. You’re not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.
The bell rings.
You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.
But he does.
The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.
And then he’s not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.
Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes can’t even catch up with his movements.
One second, he’s at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robber’s wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screams—a high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.
You’re on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. There’s blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.
Oh, you think. That’s not good.
Red Hood doesn’t say a word—he just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he can’t catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.
You try to push yourself up. Your arms won’t cooperate. They’re shaking. Everything is shaking.
“Stay down,” Hood says. His voice is modulated. But there’s something underneath it. “Don’t move your head.”
You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his boots—heavy, and splattered with something dark—stepping over the robber’s body, coming towards you.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey. Look at me.”
You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of blood—not his, not his—on his chest plate.
“There you go,” he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator can’t hide that. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
“You came back,” you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.
“Of course I came back.” He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know where it’s safe. “I said five o’clock, didn’t I?”
“You’re late. So fucking late.”
A sound from under the helmet—a laugh, a broken one. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”
Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.
The lighter.
The silver one. The engraved one. Jason’s.
Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. That’s—that’s his. That’s the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.
“That’s,” you start, but the words won’t come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. “That’s Jason’s.”
Hood goes very still.
“Jason,” you repeat, because it’s the only word that matters. “You’re—you’re him. You’re—… oh my god.”
“Don’t,” he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. “Don’t talk. Just stay awake. Please.”
You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighter—silver and warm and his—sitting on the dirty floor between you.
The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.
“Stay with me. Don’t—shit. Stay awake. Please.”
Then nothing.
+++
The beeping is the first thing you hear.
You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. There’s a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.
The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.
And, you’re in it.
You look to the side of the bed. There’s a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and it’s a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorie’s handwriting.
Get well soon, kid. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while you’re at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when you’re ready to talk.
— Marj.
You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.
Fuck.
You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you don’t even know the code to.
You thought you were going to die.
Until he showed up.
You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.
You look around. You’re in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the store’s lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe you’re in the wrong bed. Maybe—
The window.
There’s something at the window.
A shape, dark against the night sky. You’re on the third floor—you remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with me—
The shape moves.
A tap, glass against knuckle.
You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but you’d know that silhouette anywhere—the shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.
Jason is standing on the fire escape.
He doesn’t come in. Just stands there and watches you.
You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.
You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsy—the head injury, probably—but you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.
“You’re not supposed to be on a fire escape,” you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. “Looks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and they’d drag you out of here.”
“You wouldn’t,” he tilts his head, like he’s daring you to try.
He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. He’d have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.
Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?
“Are you gonna come in?” you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. “Or are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?”
His hair is a mess—curls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. He’s wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. You’re sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.
“You look like shit,” you say.
He laughs. “You’re one to talk.”
“Fair.”
He climbs through the window, but doesn’t sit on the bed—stands near it, like he’s not sure he’s allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if he’s wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, he’s just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.
“The lighter,” you say.
He goes still.
“It fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.”
Jason stares at you. Something passes over his face—fear, maybe, or relief. You still haven’t quite figured that one out, yet.
“I know,” he says.
“Is that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?”
He flinches. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. I—” He stops. His jaw tightens, as if he’s chewing on words he can’t bring himself to say.
“You what?”
“I panicked.” The words come out rough. Broken. “I don’t panic. I don’t. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thought—I thought you were—” He can’t finish the sentence.
You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are cold—from the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.
“I’m not dead,” you say.
“I can see that. And you’re not good at bedside manners.”
“So stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear. Plus, I’m the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, it’s you.” You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.
Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.
He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.
He doesn’t talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around you—gently, like he’s afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, he’s holding the lighter.
The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.
“I came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.”
“So you didn’t come to see me?”
He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why I’m here.
“I came to see you,” he says. “I’ve been out there for three hours.”
“Three hours?”
“You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”
You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like it’s your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window at—what, two in the morning?—just to make sure you were okay.
“You’re an idiot,” you say.
“I’ve been told.”
“A stupid idiot.”
“Also been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.”
You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumbles—actually stumbles, like you’ve caught him off guard—and ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. It’s intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.
“You’re staying,” you say.
“I can’t—”
“You can. The nurses don’t come in until six. That’s—” you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, “—four hours. You’re staying for four hours.”
“Four hours,” he repeats.
“And then you’re gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And you’re gonna keep coming back until I’m out of here. And then you’re gonna come to the store. And you’re gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I don’t care. And you’re gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.”
“I’m very good at multitasking.”
He laughs again, and it’s louder this time.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Okay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.”
He doesn’t leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.
The nurses find him there in the morning— asleep in the visitor’s chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.
They don’t ask questions. Thank god.
This is Gotham, after all.
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