synopsis: In an attempt to uncover an image-destroying scandal of rival rock band Heartsteel, you are tasked with worming your way into the life (and heart) of the band's elusive and magnetic frontman Baekhyun. The problem? Baekhyun is your childhood best friend, and he currently hates your fucking guts.

content: Baekhyun x f!reader | rock!au | smut throughout, angst | childhood friends ⟶ enemies ⟶ ???? | content and smut warnings to be posted with each part

chapters:

01. i'ma show you how to crash a party

02. got dirt on my name, six feet in the ground

03. two sides to a story, but they never tell my side

a/n: hi bffs! i didn't expect to be writing something so soon, especially something longer and more involved than anything i've written before but the title came to me in a prophetic trance and i was like... i MUST write a rock au neowwww. please let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list <3

teaser below (light 18+, profanity - reminder that the full fic will be very explicit so please mdni, even now!)

summary: dr whitaker thinks he has a pretty good handle on his crush on you, until he sees you out of your scrubs for the first time.

pairing: fem!reader x dennis whitaker

warnings/tags: dennis being the little nervous cutie that he is, alcohol consumption, flirting, fluff, swearing, usual medical descriptions that you'd expect from the pitt!

notes: i can't believe it's taken me this long to write for the pitt, I love it sm <3

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

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masterlist

Growing up on a farm, Dennis Whitaker learnt early on the benefits of effectively compartmentalising things.

Like a flick of a switch, he could shut off one part of his brain when he went into work and could switch it back on when he stepped out of the PTMC doors.

It was a skill that served him well as an ER resident. A place where you were literally in sink or swim, life or death situations for 12 hours straight.

Steady hands, steady voice, steady mind. No matter how intense things got, how quickly he needed to react, he handled it.

Which is why his very manageable, very under-control crush on you had never been a problem.

Jack Abbot x F!Reader MDNI 18+ wc:5.5k summary: It’s your birthday, and you’re out with the only people who really matter. The night is a blur of drinks and music until a stranger gets too close, and Jack has seen enough. He steps in, cuts your night short, and pulls you out to his truck. You’re ready to lay into him for ruining your party, but the heavy silence in the cab says everything. Looking at him, you realize he was jealous. The realization shifts the air between you instantly. You’re done waiting for him to catch up, so you close the gap and finally make the first move. c/w: language, p in v, dirty talk, riding abbot in his truck ;) cross posted on ao3

It’s your birthday, and the Pitt has officially taken over the bar. You’re tucked into a corner of the counter between Santos and Mohan, feeling the vibrations of the music through the soles of your shoes. Santos is in rare form tonight, acting out a play-by-play of the morning’s most chaotic patient while Samira tries her best to shut her down with the actual facts. It’s a losing battle, though, because Santos is already three beers deep and committed to the story. You find yourself caught in the middle of their leaning shoulders and loud voices, but you don't mind the lack of personal space. The drink in your hand has done its job of taking the sting out of the day, leaving you in that sweet spot where the room feels bright and the laughter feels genuine. You’re not quite at the point of being tipsy yet, but you’re definitely happy to let them do all the talking.

Behind you, the rest of the group is making enough noise to rival the jukebox. Dana’s laughing so hard her hair is practically glowing under the bar lights, while Cassie has long since abandoned her shoes under the table. Robby looks totally at home, lounging back with one arm over his chair and a smirk that says he’s enjoying the show. Jack sits nearby, looking like he’s still waiting for his pager to go off. Whittaker is mid-story again, gesturing wildly to emphasize a point. It gives you a warm, tight feeling in your chest to see them all there together. They actually showed up for you, even the ones who usually stay home.

Santos bumps her shoulder into yours and says, "You realize this is your fault, right?"

"Wait, my fault?"

"Yeah, you’ve created a monster. Dana’s already talking about making this an annual tradition."

"Absolutely not," you groan, though you aren't really complaining.

"It’s totally happening," Samira says, lifting her glass. "To the birthday girl. May her trauma bays be calm and her patients be compliant."

"You've got to dream bigger than that," you tell her, but you still clink your glass against theirs anyway.

Time just sort of slips away when the drinks are flowing, and before you know it, Santos is handing you a shot of tequila that you don't recall ordering. You knock it back anyway, ignoring the burn while she celebrates the feat, and then you find yourself tucked back at the table between Cassie and Robby. Cassie is in a particularly loving mood, leaning into your side and telling you how great you are in a "whisper" that half the bar can probably hear. Beside you, Robby keeps bumping his knee against yours whenever you get particularly loud, his quiet way of checking in while he watches the chaos with that lazy grin. 

You aren't sure if you've had three or four drinks, but you definitely feel the sway of the room when you eventually get up to find some space. You end up back at the bar, enjoying the quiet for a moment until the bartender asks if you're ready for another. Your cheeks are flushed, and you feel good, but you can tell you're right on the line between a fun buzz and a rough morning. Instead of pushing it, you decide to play it safe and ask for water. The bartender doesn't even look surprised as he starts filling a glass for you.

You rest your forearms on the bar again, exhaling slowly. The coolness of the wood feels good against your skin. You can still hear your table behind you, Robby’s low voice cutting through the noise, Dana’s unmistakable laugh following right after.

A gentle, familiar hand on your back brings you out of your thoughts. You turn to find Dana beside you. She looks a little tired, her lipstick worn, but she’s still got that steady presence that makes her the backbone of the unit.

“Hey, birthday girl,” she says with a firm squeeze to your shoulder. “I’m heading out. I wanted to say goodnight.”

“Already?” You turn your stool to give her your full attention.

Dana gives you a weary, knowing smile. “Some of us are not twenty-five anymore.”

“You’re not old,” you remind her.

“I didn’t say I was old,” she says smoothly. “I said I’m tired.”

You smile and squeeze her hand. “Thanks for being here. I know the bar scene isn't exactly your favorite.”

She softens, the professional mask slipping for a second. “Of course I’m here. It’s your birthday. That’s not optional.”

Your throat feels a little tight at the sincerity in her voice. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow,” you say.

“Bright and early. Try not to come in hungover; I won’t save you.”

“You always save me.”

Dana huffs, unimpressed. “Go drink your water.” She leans in, presses a quick kiss to the top of your head, and then weaves her way toward the exit. You watch her purposeful stride until the door swings shut, leaving you with that warm, full feeling in your chest again.

Then it’s back to just you. The bartender slides your water a bit closer, and you take a long sip, letting the coldness settle the buzz under your skin. The bar noise is still everywhere, but the laughter and the music feel a little further away now, like you’re just hovering over the scene. 

Another year older. You let the thought sit there for a minute, realizing you don’t feel old, just a lot more solid than you used to. You know how fragile life is and how fast it can go sideways, especially after holding so many hands in those bright hospital rooms. But looking around, you realize you’ve actually built a life. You glance back at the table, and you can’t help but smile.

Mohan is leaning in close, clearly deep in a story with her hands moving as she talks. Santos is right there egging her on, nodding with a look of exaggerated seriousness that has Cassie covering her mouth to keep from losing it. Whatever they’re saying has picked up momentum now, and the three of them are locked in with that shared mischief that always means someone is about to get called out.

Robby throws his head back and laughs, loud and unrestrained, like he doesn't have a care in the world. It carries over the music so easily that he has to wipe at his eyes, looking like the laughter actually hurts.

Whittaker, on the other hand, looks like he’s reconsidering every life choice that brought him here. His face is flushed, and his jaw is set, one hand dragging down his cheek in a slow swipe of secondhand humiliation while he stares at the table as if he’s hoping it opens up and swallows him whole.

Santos points a finger at him.

Cassie leans across the table, saying something you can’t quite hear over the noise.

Mohan finishes the story, and Robby nearly chokes on his drink because he's laughing so hard.

Whittaker just drops his head into his hands.

They showed up for you.

Not because they had to, or because it was the expected thing to do, but because somewhere between the codes and the chaos and all those cups of shared coffee, you became theirs and they became yours.

Found family feels a little dramatic when you think about it, but there’s no better way to describe it. These are the people who’ve been there for the worst of it, seeing you covered in blood or holding it together after a call. They're the ones you've laughed with in a supply closet because you knew if you didn’t, you might just crack. You never expected to find this, or to feel this lucky to have them. Your chest tightens, but in a good way. 

You turn back to the bar.

“You celebrating something?”

The voice comes from your right. You look over to find a stranger leaning against the bar, angled toward you as if he’s been waiting for a chance to speak. He looks to be in his late twenties, well-dressed and carrying himself with a practiced, easy sort of confidence.

“Something like that,” you say, your voice polite but neutral.

He smiles, looking amused. “You don’t sound very convinced.”

“It’s my birthday.”

His eyebrows lift. “No way. Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Well,” he says, straightening up from the bar. “That’s a crime.”

“A crime?”

“Yeah. A birthday girl shouldn’t be sitting alone at a bar.”

You look down at your water and then back up at him. “I’m not alone. My friends are here.”

He follows your gaze toward the loud table of medical professionals who look like they could handle a mass casualty event, despite every one of them being in different states of inebriation.

“Ah,” he says, nodding slowly. “So I’ve got competition.”

You don't say a word, opting to take another sip of water instead.

He doesn’t take the hint.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

You hesitate for a beat. You aren't interested, you're just busy calculating how much energy you want to waste on this. He shifts a little closer, close enough that his sharp, clean cologne fills the air between you.

“Come on,” he says, flashing that practiced smile again. “It’s your birthday. Let me at least buy you a drink.”

You give him the small, polite smile you save for pharmaceutical reps who won't leave the nursing station.

“That’s nice of you,” you say, lifting your water slightly. “But I’m good.”

He looks at your glass like it’s a personal affront. “That doesn’t count. It’s your birthday. Let me upgrade you.”

“I don’t need an upgrade.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to order you.”

You huff a quiet, tired laugh. “Exactly.”

He doesn’t take the hint at all. He just leans in, bracing his elbow on the wood and looking relaxed, though there's a stubbornness in his eyes now.

“So what? You’re just going to sit here with a water all night?”

“I’ve had plenty,” you answer.

“Come on. One more drink won’t hurt.”

You can feel the moment the conversation turns. The charm is disappearing, replaced by a pushiness that makes your skin crawl. His smile tightens because you aren't following the script, and he treats your boundaries like they're just obstacles to get past.

“I said I’m good,” you say again. You keep your voice steady, refusing to give him any more than that.

He just tilts his head. “You always this hard to convince?”

You turn toward him, keeping your tone light but very clear. “I’m not being convinced. That’s the whole point.”

Behind you, your friends are still laughing, and the music hasn't stopped, but your internal alarm is officially going off.

He signals the bartender anyway.

“Hey,” you say quickly. “Seriously, don’t.”

“It’s fine,” he says, dismissive as he looks at the bartender. “You don’t even have to drink it. Just let me buy it.”

“I don’t want you to.”

That finally hits home. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't quit. He tries one more time, keeping his voice soft. “Okay. Then how about you just give me your name? We can start there.”

You hesitate, but your patience is gone. You don't owe this guy anything, not your name and definitely not a fake smile to ease the tension. “I’m actually going to head back to my friends,” you say, sliding off the stool and ending the conversation.

You don’t wait for him to reply. You grab your bag and turn around, but you don't get more than a step before you walk right into someone. Your hands hit a broad, solid chest, and you stumble back slightly.

“Sorry, I didn’t see, I…”

You look up and see Jack. He’s standing closer than usual, his jaw tight and a muscle ticking in his neck. His eyes are sharp, locked on you for a split second before they flick over your shoulder to the man at the bar. You don't have to look back to feel the temperature in the room drop.

His hand finds yours, gripping it with a firm, possessive heat. “Ready to go, babe?”

His voice is so calm it’s almost scary, and it’s low enough that only you can hear it. You just stare at him, your heart thumping against your ribs. “What?”

Jack doesn't blink. He’s looking right over your head at the guy behind you, his jaw tight and his eyes sharp. “Thought you were finished here,” he says easily. “I’m taking you home.”

The guy at the bar goes dead silent. You can feel the predatory energy Jack is putting off, and when his thumb presses into your wrist, you realize he’s waiting for you to jump in. You take a breath and force a smile. “Yeah, okay. I’m ready to go.”

Jack nods, looking satisfied for the first time all night. He ignores the stranger entirely and guides you through the small crowd near the bar, acting like a human shield. It isn’t until you’re outside in the crisp night air that he lets out a breath. His grip loosens a little, but he keeps his hand in yours as the door shuts, muffling the music until it’s just a distant thud.

Jack doesn't let go of your hand even after you've cleared the bar's exit. He keeps walking with a purpose, leading you toward the back of the parking lot while you scramble to keep up with his long strides.

“Hey,” you say gently. “Thank you, really.”

He stays quiet for a moment, his eyes scanning the cars around you.

“For stepping in,” you clarify. “You didn't have to go that far.”

His jaw tightens. You catch the movement under the streetlights, that look he gets when he’s holding something back. “I did,” is all he says.

“He wasn’t actually going to do anything,” you say, trying to lighten the mood.

Jack’s hand gives yours a firm squeeze. Not enough to be rough, but enough to make you stop talking. “You don’t know that.”

When you reach his truck, he opens the passenger door and waits for you to get in. He shuts it quietly, almost carefully, before rounding the front and climbing into the driver’s side. The cab feels tight and warm, the engine's low hum the only sound in the silence.

“Jack,” you say, turning in your seat to look at him.

He puts the truck in gear, but he doesn't look over. He’s staring out at the road like it’s the only thing that matters.

“I really do mean it,” you say. “I appreciate you. That guy was definitely starting to get on my nerves.”

You notice it immediately when his knuckles go white against the steering wheel. “You shouldn’t have had to deal with that,” he says, his tone clipped.

“I was dealing with it fine.”

“You were being polite,” he counters, and there’s a weight to the way he says it that feels personal.

You watch him as he navigates out of the parking lot. His jaw is set so hard it looks painful, and his whole body is tense. “Jack,” you say, leaning toward him a little. “It honestly wasn't a big deal.”

He takes a slow, steady breath. “It was to me.”

You let that sink in for a moment, watching him flex his hands against the leather. He keeps checking the mirrors, his protective instincts still dialed all the way up. Deciding to poke at the tension, you add, “You didn’t have to go the full 'babe' route, you know.”

He doesn't laugh. If anything, his jaw just gets tighter.

The truck continues down the dark road, the rhythmic flash of the streetlights illuminating the frustration etched into his features. You swallow hard, feeling the air in the cab grow thick.

“Jack,” you try again, your voice barely a whisper. “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t say a word. The only sound is the faint creak of the steering wheel as he grips it even harder. He isn't relaxing, and the silence between you is starting to feel very pointed.

You shift in your seat, studying him. His jaw is clenched, you can see tension in his shoulders, and his hands are practically fused to the steering wheel. It clicks then, this isn't just adrenaline. It’s jealousy.

You lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m driving,” he says, his tone flat.

“No. You’re sulking.”

His mouth thins. “I’m not sulking.”

“You are 100% sulking.”

He doesn't say a word, just hits the blinker and turns the truck. You stare at him, feeling the heat of frustration rising. “It’s not my fault some guy walked up to me.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault.”

“You’re acting like it is, though.”

He flexes his fingers on the leather of the wheel. “I’m not.”

“You kind of are, Jack.”

He exhales through his nose, a sharp, controlled sound. “He wasn’t taking the hint.”

“I was handling it,” you insist.

“The guy ordered you a drink after you said no.”

“And I told him not to!” you say, matching his intensity.

“And he did it anyway,” Jack says, finally looking at you for a split second before hitting the brakes at a red light.

“And I was two seconds away from walking back to the table.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

You let out a long, frustrated sigh. “That’s not how the real world works, Jack. You can’t just shield me from every annoying guy.”

The truck goes silent again, but the air feels different now… charged and tight. You look out at the passing streetlights then back at him. “You didn’t even check to see if I wanted to leave yet.”

His jaw tightens.

“You just grabbed my hand and hauled me out of there,” you say. “I didn’t even say goodbye to everyone.”

“I told them,” he says, his tone clipped.

You blink at him, confused. “Wait, what?”

“I told them I was taking you home.”

“You told them that while I was still standing at the bar?”

“Yes.”

You stare at him, feeling a wave of disbelief. “So you just decided that was it? For everyone?”

“You were done,” he says, his tone clipped and final.

“I was just getting some water.”

“You’d had enough for the night.”

“That doesn’t mean I was done celebrating my birthday,” you snap back. The word birthday hangs in the air, making the tension feel even more pointed.

His grip on the wheel is so tight the leather actually creaks.

You shake your head, letting your irritation show. “I basically disappeared from my own party without even saying a real goodbye.”

“You didn’t disappear,” he says, his voice rising. “You left with me.”

“That’s not the point and you know it.”

He finally glances at you, and there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before... raw, unmeasured, and completely reactive. “I saw him step up to you,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “I saw how close he got. I saw that he wouldn’t back off.”

“I told you, I had it handled.”

“He kept pushing you.”

“Yes, and I kept saying no!”

“And he kept standing there,” Jack says, his voice thick with a frustration he can't seem to shake.

The only sound in the cab is the engine and the tires on the asphalt. You watch the side of his face, the hard line of his mouth, the way his shoulders haven't relaxed an inch. He didn't think; he just saw you with someone else and reacted on instinct.

“You didn’t even think,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

His jaw ticks. “No,” he admits. “I didn’t.”

The honesty helps, but you're still frustrated. “You don’t get to make those calls for me. I can handle a pushy guy at a bar.”

“I know you can,” he repeats.

“Then prove it.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, his pulse visible in his neck. “I didn’t like it,” he says finally, the words sounding forced.

“Didn’t like what, Jack?”

“The way he was looking at you.”

There it is. No more excuses. It’s just jealousy, plain and simple. He’s still bracing himself against the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

“And your big solution was calling me babe and dragging me to the parking lot?” you ask, still feeling the heat of the argument.

He doesn’t even look ashamed. “It worked.”

You stare at him for three beats. “Pull over.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost it. “What?”

“Pull the truck over, Jack.”

“We’re two minutes from your place.”

“Pull. Over.” You aren't yelling, but you're firm. You've made up your mind.

“Why?” he asks, but he’s already slowing down.

“Just do it.” You can see him wanting to fight it, wanting to maintain that stoic control he always has.

“Jack,” you say, sharper now.

He huffs a breath through his nose and turns into a quiet, dark parking lot off the main road. He shifts into park but leaves the engine running. “Well? What is it?”

Instead of saying anything, you unbuckle your seatbelt.

His eyes drop to the belt and then back to your face. “What are you doing?”

You turn toward him, feeling the adrenaline spike. “You were jealous.”

“I was not,” he says, though his jaw tells a different story.

“You were.”

“I was making sure you were safe.”

“No,” you counter. “You were marking your territory.”

That hits home. He goes motionless, his hands finally loosening on the wheel as he stares at you.

You don’t give him time to recover. You push yourself up from your seat and climb across the console in one smooth movement. His hands come up instinctively, gripping your waist to steady you, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hip bones. The heat of him seeps through the thin fabric of your dress, his chest rising and falling faster than it was a second ago.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “What are you…?”

You settle in his lap, straddling him. The words die in his throat.

His hands are still on you. Warm. Solid. Not pushing you away. Your knees press into the seat on either side of his hips. You can feel the tension in him up close now, in his chest, the way he’s breathing a little heavier.

You reach up and grab his face, fingers curling along his jaw. “Don’t you dare act like I did something wrong,” you tell him quietly.

His eyes darken. “I didn’t.”

“You did.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off by pressing your lips to his. It’s not gentle. Not soft. Not tentative. It’s not sweet. It’s heat and frustration, teeth and tongues, and something that’s been simmering under the surface for longer than either of you has admitted. He groans into your mouth, low and rough. His hands slide down to grab your ass hard enough to make you gasp, hard enough to rock your hips forward without meaning to. 

The first grind is accidental; the second isn’t.

His cock is already half-hard beneath you, thickening fast as you roll your hips, the friction of the denim against cotton making your clit throb. You break the kiss just long enough to drag in a ragged breath, and his mouth finds your neck, his teeth scraping over your pulse point before he sucks hard, leaving a mark you’ll feel for days. 

“Fuck, baby,” he growls against your skin, his voice thick with want. 

You laugh, breathless, and grind down again, the wet heat between your thighs making the fabric of your panties stick to you.

His hands tighten on your ass, fingers digging in as he pulls you flush against him. The ridge of his cock is right there, trapped between your bodies, and when you rock forward, the friction makes your toes curl in your boots.

“Jack,” you whine, the sound high and needy even to your own ears.

“Yeah?” His mouth is on your collarbone now, his tongue tracing the line of it before he bites down just enough to sting. “Tell me what you want.”

You don’t hesitate. Your fingers fumble with the button of his jeans, the zipper coming down with a sharp snick that sounds obscene in the quiet truck. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, the head flushed dark, a bead of precum already welling at the slit. You wrap your fingers around the base, marveling at the weight of him, the heat. Jack groans, his head falling back against the seat as you stroke him, your thumb swiping over the wet tip. You stroke him again, and again, just to watch his eyes darken, just to feel the way his breath hitches.

“Push my panties aside,” you order, lifting your hips just enough to give him access.

He doesn’t waste time. His fingers hook into the lace, dragging it to the side before his thumb finds your clit, already swollen and slick. He circles it once, twice, his touch maddeningly light.

“Jack,” you snap, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Patience,” he murmurs, but his voice is strained, his cock jerking in your grip. He’s not as in control as he pretends to be.

You don’t give him the chance to prove it.

Rising up on your knees, you position him at your entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against your folds. You’re soaked, dripping down your thighs, but he’s big, and the stretch burns as you sink down, inch by slow inch, your breath coming in sharp little gasps.

“Fuck, fuck…” His hands move to your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he tries to still you, but you don’t stop, not until you’re fully seated, his cock buried to the hilt inside you, the stretch of him making your vision blur at the edges.

His thumbs rub slow circles through the fabric of your dress. “Breathe, baby.”

In your rush to take him all at once, to feel every inch and prove you could, you hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until your lungs started to burn. You let it out in a shaky exhale, forehead dipping to his shoulder as you force yourself to inhale slowly this time, filling your lungs the way he told you to.

For a second, neither of you moves. You can feel his pulse in his cock, the way his chest heaves against yours, the way his breath is hot against your neck.

Then you move.

It’s slow at first, a testing roll of your hips, but the second his thumb finds your clit again, all pretense of control shatters. You ride him in earnest, your dress bunched around your waist, your tits bouncing with every downward stroke. The truck creaks beneath you, the leather seats squeaking in time with the wet, obscene sounds of your body taking his.

“That’s it,” he groans, his voice rough as gravel. “Fuck, you take my cock so good.”

His free hand slides up your back, tangling in your hair as he pulls you down for another kiss, this one filthy and open-mouthed, his tongue fucking into your mouth in time with your hips. You can taste whiskey and something darker, something him, and when his teeth graze your lower lip, you moan into his mouth, your nails raking down his chest.

“Harder,” you demand, your voice breaking. “I want it harder.”

He growls, low and primal, and his grip on your hip tightens, bordering on too rough as he slams you down onto his cock, the impact driving a broken cry from your throat. His thumb works your clit in tight, relentless circles, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping up the pace.

“C’mon,” he urges, his voice a dark murmur against your ear. “Be a good girl and come on my cock. Let me feel that tight little cunt milking me.” He punctuates that by giving your ass a sharp slap on one cheek. 

The words send a jolt of heat straight to your core, and when his teeth sink into the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, the pain and pleasure collide, sending you tumbling over the edge. The orgasm that’s been building slowly hits you full force, your back arching, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders as you scream, the sound raw and unfiltered in the confined space of the truck.

Jack doesn’t let up. He keeps fucking you through it, his cock pistoning up into you as your walls clamp down around him, milking him for every last drop of pleasure. 

Your thighs start to tremble before you want to admit it. The stretch, the effort of keeping yourself steady, the slow burn building higher and higher until it’s impossible to ignore. You try to push through it, stubborn, determined not to lose the rhythm you set.

Jack notices immediately. His hands slide more firmly onto your hips, fingers spreading wide, thumbs pressing into the soft curve of you like he’s grounding you there. His grip tightens when your movements falter. “You’re shaking,” he says, voice low, almost a warning.

“I’m fine,” you manage, breath uneven.

His jaw shifts, eyes dark and focused on your face. He doesn’t argue with you. He just takes over. His hands anchor you, guiding your hips with deliberate control when your thighs start to burn too badly to keep up. He adjusts you without hesitation, setting a new pace, one that’s all him. Steady. Certain. Strong.

You gasp at the shift, the sudden loss of control, mixing with the relief of it.

“Let me,” he murmurs, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you who’s moving you now.

Your muscles finally get a break, but the intensity doesn’t lessen. If anything, it deepens under his hands, every movement measured and intentional as he keeps you exactly where he wants you. He keeps driving his hips up into you, controlled but relentless, working with the cramped space of the driver’s seat and refusing to let it slow him down.

He leaned in closer, his stubbled jaw brushing against your neck as he nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin. “You’re doing so fucking good, sweetheart,” he praised as he continued to thrust up inside your tight heat. 

You can feel him swelling inside you, his breath coming in sharp, stuttering gasps as his own release crashes over him. “Fuck!” His voice is a guttural groan, his body going taut beneath you as he thrusts deep one last time, his cock pulsing inside you, filling you with thick, hot spurts that make you whimper at the sensation.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re draped over him, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, your breath coming in ragged little pants. His heart hammers against your chest, his cock still twitching inside you, his cum leaking out around him, slick and warm against your thighs.

Then his hand is in your hair again, tilting your face up so he can press a slow, filthy kiss to your swollen lips.

The kiss isn’t frantic anymore. The sharp edge from earlier has dulled into something deeper, something that lingers. His mouth moves against yours with unhurried intent, like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you. Like he needs the reminder that you’re right here.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. He keeps his forehead against yours, his breathing still rough and jagged.

“What do you say, babe?” he murmurs. This time, the name sounds right. It sounds like it belongs to you. “Can I take you home with me?”

You study his face. His eyes are dark, but the wild look from the bar has been replaced by something vulnerable and honest.

“You’re still jealous,” you say softly.

His jaw ticks, but he doesn't flinch.

“Yeah.” The word is an admission that feels warm and heavy in the small space.

You trace your fingers down the front of his shirt, feeling his chest heave. “Next time,” you tell him, “just ask me if I need a rescue.”

His hand moves from your hair to your hip, his thumb pressing in with a slow, deliberate pressure.

“Next time,” he says, his voice low and absolutely certain, “I won’t be pretending you’re mine.”

It isn’t a loud declaration. It isn’t a dramatic scene. It’s worse.

Your pulse jumps.

Carefully, you move back to your side of the truck, settling into the passenger seat and smoothing your dress. You try to look like you're steady, even though his last words are still echoing in your head.

Jack stays still for a second, resetting himself with a hand through his hair before his fingers find the steering wheel. Before the truck can move, you lean in one last time. You brush a soft kiss against his cheek, your hand resting at the nape of his neck, letting the touch linger.

“Okay, Jack,” you whisper. “Take me home with you.”

The hitch in his breath tells you everything you need to know.

It was all predicted, and no one did a thing

Rafah is now the most densely populated place in the world, with a population of about 1.5 million and prehaps more in 64 km2. About 25 miles squere.

25 miles squere

hi everyone. i can’t believe i have to do this but i’m i’m really desperate need for some help. a couple days ago i had $2400 stolen from me… yeah i know. this all happening right before my birthday and right before i’m getting ready to move out into a new place. i’m honestly super distraught right now and i’ve been on the phone crying to the bank trying to get the situation solved to no avail. if i can’t get the money back that i worked so hard to save i’m afraid i’ll end up with nowhere to live in a couple months. i know everyone’s going through tough times but if you have the means i beg you to consider donating to my ko-fi

if you can’t help i understand but if you don’t mind boosting this i would be eternally grateful to you. thank you all and sorry for bringing all this to your attentions but i honestly don’t know what else to do.

KO-FI

GOAL: $0/2400

the full story for context

There should be widespread outrage right now. Instead, there were a couple small protests.

blushing yuuta okkotsu ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

blushing yuuta okkotsu ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

In all honesty, he quite likes things being the way that they are. Having a—somewhat, most of the time—normal routine he can follow. Clock in and clock out and pick up takeout from that one restaurant on the corner on his way home. Make sure Power and Denji don’t try to steal the ramen shop’s cat as they pass by. It’s relatively nice, he thinks. Having a day to day.

But now he’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror and he just.. wonders.

“Power knocked Denji through the bedroom wall again. So we gotta fix it, again,” you sigh as you come in and lean your head on his shoulder. “And Meowy’s stuck on the fridge and won’t come down, so I might need your help with that.”

Aki hums, nods. He figures he can stop by the hardware store to buy more drywall tomorrow after work. And he doesn’t mind to come rescue the cat off the top of the fridge. But he doesn’t move, just tips his head at himself in the mirror.

He's been told many times that it wouldn’t kill him to loosen up, but he doesn’t think he’s all that stoic. Yes, he agrees he is blunt, but he is still soft for those he cares about, no? Is that not enough? Shouldn’t it be?

“Do you think I'm too uptight?”

The question comes out low, like he didn’t mean to even say it out loud, and you catch his gaze in the mirror. No, he decides, it is not enough that he thinks that way. He needs to make sure someone else does, too.

He needs to make sure you do.

“That depends, are we talking on bill day, or?” You’re joking with him, and normally he likes that. but now he just shifts his eyes off you in the mirror back to his own face. You frown, tug at his shirt sleeve until he looks down at you fully. “No. I think you’re curt and honest and take things seriously, but not in a bad way. You’re not like that deep down because you care. Why are you even asking that?”

He blinks at you. Once, twice, three times. He doesn’t particularly want to answer that question because now as he thinks about the reasoning behind what’s got him thinking this way it just seems silly. And what if you laugh at him, heaven forbid?

But he finds it hard to not be honest with you. It's like you’ve signed a contract with an honesty devil, because you somehow always make him sing like a bird regardless of whether he wants to or not. And right now is no different.

“A colleague at work said that I was more uptight than my topknot.” He cuts his eyes from you, because it sounds even more minute coming out of his mouth. “So, I just thought..”

“What?” And your hands are on him, now. running up his chest and smoothing over his shoulders in the way you know soothes him after long and tiring days. He sighs into your touch, remembers his walls do not have to be up here, and lets you in.

“I think I'd like to cut my hair.”