#Chapter Twenty-Two: Drag Me to Hell

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR II

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 4.8k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: I did not expect the amount of love the first chapter got in such a short amount of time, thank you to everyone who took the time to read, reblog and like the story! warnings: sexual innuendos, milo, tooth rotting fluff

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY 

You definitely regretted drinking the moment you dragged yourself into the university the next morning. Every step toward the lecture hall felt like an uphill battle against the thumping in your skull and the dull ache behind your eyes—a painful souvenir from the night before with Milo and Anthony.

But the headache wasn’t the only thing off.

As you strolled through the halls, something felt… strange. Eyes followed you. Smiles lingered longer than usual—both from staff and students alike. A few even nodded in greeting, like you were a celebrity instead of a perpetually tired lecturer with a coffee addiction and zero patience for idiocy before 10 a.m.

“Y/N!” a voice called.

You turned to see one of the biology professors leaning against the doorframe of his lecture hall, his eyes scanning you with a little too much interest. “Can I just say—you look good today.”

You blinked, confused. “Uh. Thank you?” you replied, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. You gave a stiff nod and turned away, hurrying to your own classroom. What the hell was that about?

You hadn’t even dressed up. Just your usual—black slacks, a long-sleeved blouse tucked in neatly, sensible shoes. Your hair was pulled back into a taut bun, and despite your best efforts with concealer, the dark circles under your eyes were still winning the war. You looked worse than usual, if anything. Hungover. Sleep-deprived. Mildly irritated at the world.

And yet…

Your students were acting odd too. Whispering. Staring. One of them winked as he passed by your desk. You blinked at him, uncertain whether you were still drunk or hallucinating from lack of sleep.

The questions today were unusually… stupid. Even for a Thursday.

And then, at the end of class, one of your students—one who had never said more than five words to you before—lingered near your desk.

“Listen,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just gotta say, I am totally down… if you are, Doctor.”

You stared blankly. “Down? Are you catching something?”

His cheeks flushed red. “No—I meant, um—uh, if you’re looking to, like, go on a date—uh, never mind!” He turned on his heel and all but ran from the room, babbling something incoherent.

But you heard it. Just one word.

Dating site.

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, heart skipping a beat as you snatched up your phone and hurried into the hallway, dialing Milo’s number with shaky fingers.

He answered on the third ring, voice groggy. “Hello?”

“What the fuck did you do, Milo?” you hissed into the phone.

There was a pause, then an easy drawl. “Well hello to you too.”

“Milo!”

“Relax,” he said. “I’m doing the Lord’s work. That pussy is growing cobwebs down there and you know it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Please—please do not tell me you did what I think you did.”

“Alright,” Milo said breezily. “I won’t tell you.”

Then the line went dead.

You let out a strangled sound of protest, halfway between a scream and a groan. Before you could redial, your phone vibrated. A message.

One link.

You clicked it—and froze.

“Oh my god.”

There it was. Your face. Your full name. And a profile on some godforsaken dating app with a bio you definitely hadn’t written.

Name: Y/N

Age: Mid-twenties

Occupation: Lecturer

Orientation: Bi-curious

About Me: Former gymnast. Skilled in oral communication. Open-minded, flexible, and always up for a challenge.

Looking for: Something serious… or seriously fun ;)

“Oh my god.” You felt your soul leave your body.

You called Milo again, barely waiting for him to pick up before snapping, “What the hell is wrong with you?! Bi-curious? Gymnastics? Skilled in oral communication?!”

“What?” he replied, completely unfazed. “I didn’t lie. You were a gymnast. And your current job is lecturer. You do communicate. Orally. Often.”

“Bi-curious?” you exclaimed, staring at the profile in horror. “I'm not sure that's even an official orientation!”

“It means you’re flexible, babe,” Milo said, absolutely unbothered. “And hey—you never know, it might be a woman who saves that pussy.”

You gaped at your phone. “Milo—”

“Then we can be one of those powerfully gay couples,” he went on dreamily, “with their iconic gay best friend. Four of us. Taking over brunch. Matching vacation fits. It’s giving legacy.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “This isn’t a Hallmark Pride Month special.”

“Not yet. But give it time.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you growled. “I’m going to end you, slowly.”

“How about thank you?”

You dragged a hand down your face. “You just made everyone I work with—and every guy in my lecture hall—think I’m down to be their naughty professor fantasy!”

“Okay, first of all,” he said, “you teach university, not high school. They’re all consenting adults. Secondly, that’s just good branding. It means you’re open to role play.”

You inhaled slowly. “I’m not sleeping with one of my students.”you snapped. “That’s not just unethical—it’s gross! Have you ever read a university policy?”

“yes, yes, heard it all before, I don’t need to read policy.” he sighed dramatically. “Look, I’m just trying to help you find your future husband—or at the very least, get laid. You’ve been walking around like a haunted Victorian widow.”

“I don’t think my future husband is going to take me seriously when you’ve basically made me sound like a bisexual stripper with a PhD,” you groaned, scrubbing a hand down your face. Your eyes dropped to the profile again—specifically to the picture of you clinging to a pole at Milo and Anthony’s joint bachelor party. You were laughing, clearly drunk, mid-spin.

He had made that the cover photo.

“Milo, I swear to God—”

But then you absently tapped the notifications.

New matches: 7

You scrolled… paused.

And there it was.

A face that made your breath catch.

Messy black hair. Stupidly handsome. Jaw carved by angels—or the devil, you weren’t sure. Those bright, glacier-blue eyes that had no business looking so damn good in a dating profile.

Your mouth went dry.

“Well,” you muttered faintly, “speaking of Dicks…”

“Ooh, I know that tone,” Milo crooned through the phone. “Girl, if you don’t swipe right on him—”

You bit your lip, torn between common sense and sheer thirst. “I don’t know…”

“Don’t what? That man looks like he bench-presses women for sport.” Milo stated, clearly having pulled up your profile from wherever he was lounging. “If you don’t swipe, I will do it for you. Right the fuck now. Don’t forget—I have admin privileges.”

You hesitated. Your thumb hovered.

Your eyes flicked to his profile again.

Dick Grayson.

He really was unfairly attractive. Possibly the hottest man you’d ever seen.

“…Fine!” you huffed. “I’ll go on one date. One. Only because this man looks like he could make me forget my own name.”

“That’s my girl!” Milo whooped like a proud pageant mom. “Thank me later—preferably while holding one of his babies.”

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Oh, and don’t forget—lingerie. And swallow, don’t—”

You hung up at that part, shaking your head—but you were grinning.

God help you.

DICK'S APARTMENT

Dick sighed, dragging a hand down his face. It had been almost ten hours since he and Jason made the discovery—and still, radio silence. No updates, no leads. Just a whole lot of waiting.

He’d given Jason the “don’t get too obsessed” speech, but the truth was, he was just as bad. Maybe worse. Their entire family had a toxic relationship with the word rest, especially when the Joker was involved. That clown had left more scars on them than anyone cared to admit.

Finally, unable to sit still, Dick pulled out his phone and hit call.

“Babs,” he said the moment she picked up, “any news on the case?”

Barbara sighed. “Nothing. Mancini was right about one thing—this guy who stole Joker’s formula? He’s a ghost. Even the Joker’s gone quiet. Bruce and Tim are still digging.”

“Great,” Dick muttered, jaw clenched.

“I know it sucks sitting around,” Barbara said gently. “But we still don’t have confirmation Mancini was telling the truth. You know that.”

“I know.” He rubbed at the tension building at the back of his neck.

There was a beat of silence before she asked, “Hey… when was the last time you actually went out?”

“I go out all the time,” he said defensively.

“Coming home to see your brothers doesn’t count. Neither does hanging out with the team. And don’t even try bringing up Wally.”

He huffed. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were,” she cut in, amused. “But seriously, Dick. When was the last time you did something for you? Had fun. Met someone.”

He exhaled slowly. “There’s no time for that. You know how this life works. It’s not exactly relationship-friendly.”

Barbara didn’t argue. It was the truth—and the reason they’d broken up in the first place. They might always be best friends, always care for each other, but the vigilante life was relentless. Demanding. Even with all their shared understanding, it hadn’t been enough to keep them together.

So Dick kept it casual. One night, rarely ever two. Just enough to feel human. Never enough to drag some poor unsuspecting person into his shit.

“But it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try,” Barbara said, voice soft but firm. “You don’t always have to be Nightwing. Or the responsible older brother. You’re allowed to just be Dick sometimes.”

He let out a low groan. “At this rate, I am going to end up like Bruce.”

“Exactly,” she sighed. “And that is not a compliment.”

“Take that back.” He barked a short laugh, though it lacked bite. “If I end up like Bruce, put me down.”

“Only if you do something about it.”

“I want to. I do. But I can’t.” His voice dipped lower, more tired than he meant it to sound. “There’s just… no time for that stuff.”

“Well, now you’ve got some,” Barbara said, and he didn’t need to see her face to hear the grin curling in her voice.

Dick froze. Suspicion creeping in. “…Babs. What did you do?”

“Well, with the others still working to verify Mancini’s story and both Gotham and Blüdhaven being surprisingly quiet for once,” Barbara said lightly, “you, my friend, are officially off-duty.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “And that means… what exactly?”

“It means,” she continued with that too sweet tone, “you’re free to go out.”

He frowned. “Go out?” He could sense there was more. “Barbara, what did you do?”

“Oh, nothing too scandalous,” she replied airily. “Just… made you a dating profile.”

“You what?!” he barked, half standing from his chair.

“A very tasteful one,” she added quickly, clearly anticipating his outrage. “No shirtless gym selfies, no cheesy pick-up lines. I even used that photo of you from the Wayne Foundation gala last year—black suit, hair slicked back, looking all suave and charming.”

“Barbara,” he growled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Relax! You look great. And I may or may not have… already swiped on someone for you.”

He rubbed at his temples, already feeling the headache forming. “Are you serious right now?”

“You said it yourself. There’s no time. So I’m helping speed along the process. Now you’ve got a reason to go out and be you. Besides, she’s very cute. And smart. You’ll like her.”

Dick groaned. “Babs, this is not—this isn’t—God.” He dropped his head into his hand. “You can’t just sign me up for this stuff.”

“I can and I did. You’re welcome.” 

“I’m beaming with gratitude,” Dick muttered dryly. “Look just cancel the stupid profile.”

“You can’t back out now,” she sing-songed. “It’s already confirmed. Six o’clock. At that bar you like—Brick & Ember.”

Dick let out a slow breath, already resigning himself to the inevitable. He wasn’t the type to ghost someone. Even if the date went south, he’d at least be polite. End things gently. No use in being a dick to some poor girl dragged into Barbara’s scheme.

“Well,” he muttered, “at least you picked a good place.”

“Actually,” Barbara said with a grin in her voice, “she suggested it.”

That made him pause. “…Oh.”

So she had good taste too.

“I haven’t even seen her profile.” He weakly argued.

“Well, maybe you should check your notifications.” Her tone dipped into that singsong territory that meant he had absolutely no escape.

Against his better judgment, Dick pulled his phone away and opened the app she’d clearly installed behind his back. There it was.

One new match.

He clicked it.

And then blinked.

Barbara smirked, already knowing. “Told you she’s cute.”

Dick stared at the profile, brows lifting slightly. She was cute. Striking, actually. Hair loose and open, a sharp jawline softened by a crooked smile in one picture, and in another—God, was she… dancing on a pole?

“What the hell is this photo?”

Barbara’s voice rang in his ear, smug and satisfied. “Told you. Thank me later.”

Before he could respond, the line clicked dead.

Dick sighed, but his eyes drifted back to your photo. His thumb hovered over your name. You were definitely his type. And for the first time in a long while, he actually curious to see how the night might go.

BRICK & EMBER

It was nearly six when Dick grabbed his jacket, heading for the door—only for his phone to buzz in his pocket. He checked the caller ID and sighed.

Jason.

He answered anyway. “What’s up, Little Wing?”

“Any updates?” Jason asked without preamble.

“None so far,” Dick replied, trying to keep his voice even. “I called Babs this morning. She promised to keep me posted.”

“How can you be so calm?” Jason snapped, frustration bleeding through the line. “The Joker is out there, and if what Mancini said is true, we cannot let him get his hands on that formula.”

Dick let out a slow breath. “I’m not as calm as you think, Jay. But until Bruce and Tim dig up something concrete, running around blind isn’t going to help.”

Jason wasn’t convinced. “We don’t have to sit on our asses. We could be out there now. Start shaking the tree. You know how this works. Someone always knows something—you just need to find the right branches to snap.”

“Give it one more day,” Dick said, his voice firm. “If Bruce and Tim don’t find anything by then, we’ll start digging too.”

The last thing he needed was Jason storming off on his own. Not with the Joker possibly in the wind. That wound was still raw—for Jason, for all of them. 

“Besides,” Dick added, “I can’t tonight.”

Jason paused. “Why not?”

“I have a date.”

There was a beat of silence.

“A date?” Jason said flatly. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Dick sighed, already regretting saying anything.

“There’s a chemical weapon on the loose, and the Clown Prince of Batshit is out there hunting God knows what—and you’re going out for tapas?”

“It’s not tapas—”

“You are the reason Bruce has high blood pressure,” Jason muttered darkly.

“First of all, that’s because of you and Damian,” Dick shot back. “And second—look, it’s one date. And if you want to point fingers, blame Barbara. She’s the one who signed me up for the damn dating site.”

Jason let out a short, incredulous snort. “Of course she did. That woman’s probably had a spreadsheet tracking your love life since college.”

“I wouldn’t be shocked if she wired me with a mic just to coach me through the date.”

Jason huffed—something between a laugh and a groan. “So who is it this time? Some socialite with a podcast? A yoga instructor with three divorces?”

Dick grinned. “Actually? She’s a doctor.”

Jason paused. “…Huh. You’re actually going out with someone smart and normal?”

“She teaches at Gotham U.”

“Damn. That’s hot.”

Dick chuckled. “See? You do support me.”

“I didn’t say I supported you,” Jason snapped. “I said she’s hot. Big difference.”

“Mhm,” Dick hummed, smug.

There was a pause. The silence sat for a beat, a little more relaxed now.

Then Jason muttered, “Just… keep your comm on, alright? I’ll be your back up if she turns out to be a psycho.”

Dick laughed under his breath. “Thanks, but I think I can handle dinner with a woman who isn’t actively trying to kill me.”

A beat.

“…Though in Gotham, that might be asking too much.”

Jason chuckled, low and dry. “Exactly. You attract chaos, Grayson. Don’t act surprised if she pulls out a flamethrower over appetizers.”

“If she does, I’ll send you a selfie.”

“Better yet, send me her number.”

“Jay.” Dick said, laughing now.

Jason snorted something that sounded dangerously close to affection before hanging up.

Dick glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. Jason’s call had eaten through his buffer. Grabbing his jacket, he headed out in a rush, weaving through the evening crowd with practiced ease.

He was nearly at the bar when doubt started creeping in.

She sounded perfect. Too perfect. Jason might’ve been joking, but… what if she was a psycho? Or a catfish? Or worse—some bored cougar using decade-old filters and a killer photo angle?

God, if she turned out to be fifty and looking for a sugar baby, Jason would never let him live it down.

The closer he got, the more cautious his steps became. A part of him braced for the worst. There had to be a catch. There always was.

He exhaled and pushed the door open.

Warm light spilled out from within—amber glow, clinking glasses, low laughter threading through ambient music. His blue eyes swept the room, scanning past faces and tables, until they landed on you.

And just like that, the world stopped.

You weren’t a catfish. You weren’t a cougar. You weren’t fifty.

If anything, you were even more stunning in person—hair pulled back just enough to frame your face, posture relaxed but unmistakably poised, fingers curled around a glass you hadn’t touched in a while.

And as if you could feel him watching, you turned.

Your gaze met his. And then you smiled.

It hit him like a punch to the gut—warm, radiant, unexpected.

Yep.

There had to be a catch.

Because no one looked that good—not without hiding something.

He was five minutes late, and you were already beginning to regret letting Milo talk you into this ridiculous scheme. He could’ve been using fake pictures. He could’ve been an old man. Or a serial killer. Or, knowing your luck, both.

If your murder ended up on the evening news, you were going to haunt Milo’s ass for the rest of his damned life.

You were just about to talk yourself out of it—stand up, make a graceful exit, maybe fake a stomach bug—when the bar’s front door chimed open.

Instinctively, you turned.

And there he was.

Relief swept through you like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Not a catfish. Not a creepy older man. Not a serial killer—probably. No, he looked exactly like his profile.

Actually… better.

You slid out of your seat as he approached.

He was taller than his profile made him seem—broad-shouldered in a fitted navy button-down, black jeans, and that kind of easy, confident walk that made it obvious he belonged anywhere he stepped. His dark hair was tousled just enough to look good without trying, and when his eyes met yours, he smiled.

Dimples. Of course he had dimples.

“You must be Y/N,” he said, voice warm, edged with something rougher—like he laughed often, but didn’t sleep enough.

You nodded, sliding your phone into your purse. “And you’re not secretly a 65-year-old retiree named Gerald. So we’re off to a good start.”

He grinned, quick and genuine. “Only on weekends.”

That earned a laugh from you—real, despite yourself. The bartender arrived, sliding two drinks across the bar, and you thanked him as you both began walking to take your seats.

“I was starting to think you weren’t going to show,” you said, tilting your glass toward him, teasing just enough to cover the fact that you’d almost bolted five minutes earlier.

“Traffic was a nightmare,” he replied smoothly, pulling out your chair before settling into his. “Also had to convince my brother I wasn’t walking straight into a potential kidnapping.”

You raised a brow, amused. “Protective, is he?”

He smirked. “Let’s just say he’s got trust issues. I think he genuinely expected you to be an arms dealer with a basement full of body bags.”

You sipped your drink. “So… not far off.”

That pulled a laugh from him.

You grinned. “Well, good to know I wasn’t the only one worried about that… wait—” you narrowed your eyes, leaning forward as if reconsidering, “you’re not a kidnapper, are you?”

He leaned back, one brow arched, eyes sparkling with amusement. “That depends. How do you feel about being lured into vans with puppies and free Wi-Fi?”

You snorted into your drink. “Honestly? That’s a tempting offer after the day I’ve had.”

“Noted,” he said with a mock-serious nod. “Next time, I’ll bring a golden retriever and a mobile hotspot.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You joke, but if you’d been five more minutes late, I was one panic spiral away from texting my best friend to start emotionally drafting my eulogy. He’s the reason I even have that damned profile, if we’re being fully transparent.”

“Well,” he said, lifting his glass slightly, “in the spirit of honesty—same. My best friend is also the reason I had a profile.”

You grinned. “Look at that. We already have more in common than I thought.”

“Mutual best friend peer pressure,” he said dryly. “Truly the bedrock of all great romances.”

You clinked your glass against his, smiling into the rim. “Still. I’m glad he pushed me. Even if I was convinced you were going to ghost me or try to sell me a timeshare.”

Dick smirked. “Oh, I considered it. But then I saw your profile and figured a neuroscientist would be smart enough to spot the pyramid scheme.”

“Smart enough, maybe,” you replied, eyes narrowing playfully. “But I stayed, didn’t I?”

His lips twitched. “Touché.”

He leaned forward just a little, forearms resting on the table, that easy charm sharpening slightly into curiosity. “So… how’s it going so far? On a scale from ‘tragic mistake’ to ‘might not fake an emergency text.’”

You made a show of considering it. “Hmm… somewhere between ‘free food is free food’ and ‘I might actually want to see how this ends.’”

He laughed, low and genuine. “I’ll take it. That’s progress.”

A beat passed. Not awkward. Just…Comfortable.

He leaned in slightly, the teasing softening in his voice. “You seem like someone who doesn’t usually do this kind of thing.”

Your smile faded just a touch, replaced by something quieter. “I don’t. Not really.”

“No horror date stories, then?”

Oh, I have one,” you said, arching a brow. “Three years of one.”

That surprised a laugh out of him, though the look in his eyes shifted—warm, attentive. “Oof. Long-term horror.”

“Yep,” you said, popping the ‘p’ lightly. “But it taught me a lot. Like how to spot a red flag… and never trust a man named Jake.”

Dick laughed, eyes glinting. “Jake, huh? Should I be worried?”

You narrowed your gaze playfully. “Not unless you’re hiding bleached hair and have an ego the size of Wayne Tower under that charm.”

He grinned. “Good news—definitely not blonde. And the ego?” He leaned in just a little, voice dipping playfully. “Mostly under control. Depends on the lighting.”

You laughed. “Ah, so it swells at golden hour. Noted.”

“Only if someone’s complimenting my jawline.”

“Oh, God,” you groaned, but you were smiling. “I walked into this, didn’t I?”

He raised his glass again, eyes glinting. “And now you can’t walk out. Social contract and all.”

You sipped your drink, still grinning. “You’re more charming than I expected.”

“Most people expect broody or boring,” he said with a shrug. “So I like to keep ‘mildly delightful’ in my back pocket.”

“Mildly delightful,” you echoed, amused. “That’s your official rating now.”

“I’ll take it,” he said with mock pride. “Could be worse. So…” He tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Tell me—what makes a brilliant, sharp, slightly intimidating neuroscientist swipe right on a guy with two pictures and a suspiciously short bio?”

You smiled, but this time it carried a note of honesty beneath the humor. “Because he didn’t try too hard. No gym selfies. No weird filters. And his first message actually had punctuation. That’s rare, you know.”

“High standards.”

“I work with brains,” you said simply. “I tried settling once. Never again.”

He gave a small nod, his smile thoughtful now. “A woman who knows what she wants—I respect that.”

It was your turn to tilt your head, curiosity glinting behind your grin. “Alright—your turn. What made you agree to this date? Because I saw the profile Milo made for me and—look, it was a disaster. For the record, I do not make a habit of dancing on poles. That was one time. At his bachelor party. Too many drinks. I got dared.”

He laughed, full and unguarded, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re telling me that wasn’t a career aspiration?”

“Shocking, I know,” you said dryly. “My dreams of becoming a neuroscientist-pole-dancer hybrid never quite took off.”

“Well, that’s disappointing.” He leaned in a little, expression mock-serious. “I was really banking on a lap dance over dessert.”

You nearly choked on your drink, snorting. “That's implying i stay long enough for dessert.”

“Then I guess I better make the main course memorable to convince you,” He smirked, leaning back just slightly, before the humor in his expression giving way to something softer. “But for the record?” A pause. “It was your eyes.”

That made you blink. “My eyes?”

He shrugged, but there was something sincere in his voice now. “Your eyes stood out. They were open. Genuine. Not guarded or jaded like most people in this city. That kind of thing’s basically extinct in Gotham.”

You blinked.

And okay, maybe the wine was hitting, or maybe it was the way he said it—casual but genuine—but your heart did something.

“Don’t ruin it now,” you said lightly, recovering with a smile. “That was dangerously close to poetic.”

“I have layers,” he said, lifting his glass in a lazy half-toast.

“Clearly.”

He smiled again—slower this time. Less of a flirt, more of a study. “I like people who don’t bullshit. You strike me as someone who cuts through it.”

You tapped your glass against the table lightly. “Only when I’m not too busy overanalyzing everything within a five-mile radius.”

“Perfect,” he said, finishing the last of his drink. “You overanalyze. I underreact. Balance.”

You raised your glass. “A healthy relationship dynamic if I’ve ever heard one.”

Dick was utterly smitten by the end of the night.

You were everything he wanted—and nothing he’d expected.

He’d known you were brilliant going in—your profile, however chaotic, couldn’t hide that—but what caught him off guard was everything else. The dry wit. The unapologetic honesty. The way you didn’t flinch from teasing him, even when he gave as good as he got.

You weren’t trying to impress him. You weren’t putting on a act like some of the socialites he’d went out with. You were just you—sharp, bold, genuine—and it was the most refreshing thing he’d felt in a long, long time.

Which was why, when the check had been paid and the last of the drinks were gone, he found himself reluctant to leave. Not literally dragging his feet—but close.

“I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself this much without having to dodge bullets,” he said as you both stepped out into the cool Gotham night.

You grinned, tugging your coat tighter. “Gotham’s highest standard for a good evening.”

He glanced at you, that crooked smile creeping in again. “I mean it. This was… really nice.”

You gave a softer smile this time. “Yeah. It was.”

A small beat of silence passed—once again not awkward, just content.

Then he cleared his throat. “So… I don’t usually say this on first dates—”

You smirked. “That sounds promising.”

“—but I want to see you again.”

You arched a brow. “That’s not scandalous, Dick.”

“I just mean—” he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, “usually I don’t care if there’s a second date. With you, I do.”

Your smile widened, but your voice stayed light. “Well, lucky for you… I don’t usually give second chances.”

He blinked, caught somewhere between amused and confused.

You took your phone out, holding it up between you. “But I’m willing to make an exception.”

He chuckled, pulling his own phone from his pocket and handing it over without hesitation. “You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”

You tilted your head. “Only if you’re lucky.”

Phones were exchanged, numbers saved. As he handed yours back, his fingers brushed yours—just briefly—but the moment lingered.

“I’ll text you,” he said, voice a shade lower now.

You hesitated just a second, like you were weighing something—then stepped forward.

Leaning up onto your toes, your lips brushed the edge of his jaw, featherlight.

You pulled back, biting your lip as if trying to hold back a smile.

“I hope you do,” you murmured.

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[angel06babysworld]

I Blame the 6 Year Old.

singledad!rafe x babysitter!reader

Chapter One

⋆｡°✩₊⭒𖥔⋆˚₊✩˚₊⋆𖥔⭒✩°｡⋆

The interview was supposed to be quick. Ten, fifteen minutes tops—just long enough to get a read on her, hand over the emergency contacts, and confirm she could handle a first grader without losing her mind. Rafe hadn’t planned on offering the job before she even sat down.

But then she smiled. Nervous, a little too wide, chewing on her bottom lip like she was trying to hold something back.

“Hi,” she said, breathless from climbing the porch steps. “Sorry I’m late. The bus broke down a mile out and I didn’t want to reschedule, so I just, um… jogged.”

She was sweating. Her oversized tote bag kept slipping off her shoulder. And she looked painfully young—baby-faced with hopeful eyes and a folder full of printed references clutched to her chest like a shield.

Rafe blinked. “You jogged here?”

“I’m not usually this sweaty when I meet new people,” she promised, trying to laugh it off. “It’s been a long week.”

She looked like a kid. But then again, thirty-two didn’t feel as old as it sounded—until moments like this reminded him how long it had been since he was twenty-one.

He held the door open and nodded her in. “Come on. I’ll grab you some water.”

The inside of the house was quiet. Clean in a way that wasn’t fussy—just lived-in. A pair of glittery sneakers sat by the front door, a pink backpack half-zipped and leaning against the wall. She clocked them instantly.

“You said your daughter’s six?”

“Ellie. She’s in the backyard. Wants to meet you, but she’s pretending not to care.” He handed her the glass of water. “She’ll come in when she’s ready.”

She nodded, took a sip, and offered another small smile—softer this time. “I’m really good with kids. I babysit for a few families already, and I just finished my early childhood development course this spring. Still in school, though. So I’m flexible, just… not rich in free time.”

Rafe leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “What are you studying?”

“Elementary education.”

He let that hang in the air a moment. It made sense. She spoke gently, but with purpose. Like someone who’d taught herself to hold space for little voices, to wait out messy feelings with patience instead of panic. He’d met a lot of babysitters. Not all of them came with that kind of calm.

“I work weekends at the diner on Main,” she added quickly. “But weekday evenings? I’m free. And mornings, if you need help getting her to school.”

“You don’t drive?”

She hesitated. “No. I mean—no, not yet. I’m saving up. Kinda buried in student debt right now.”

Something in Rafe’s chest tugged. He hadn’t expected honesty. Most applicants led with fluff. This girl just laid it bare. And weirdly, he respected it.

Ellie wandered in ten minutes later, dragging a coloring book behind her. She didn’t speak, just climbed into a kitchen chair and stared.

“Hi, Ellie,” the girl said softly. No baby voice. No big performance. Just a smile and a wave, like she’d been waiting. “I like your headband.”

It was shaped like cat ears. Sparkly and crooked. Ellie blinked, narrowed her eyes, and finally—finally—said, “It’s from Target.”

Rafe watched, amazed, as she slid the coloring book across the table toward the girl.

“Do you like dinosaurs?” Ellie asked.

“Love them,” she said without missing a beat. “My favorite’s the parasaurolophus. It’s a long one, but I like the noise it makes.”

Ellie’s whole face lit up. “That’s mine too!”

Rafe didn’t move. Just stood there, arms still crossed, wondering how the hell someone could go from total stranger to Ellie’s favorite person in under five minutes.

He cleared his throat. “So. When can you start?”

She looked up, surprised. “You want to hire me?”

“Ellie,” he said, without looking at her, “what do you think?”

Ellie didn’t even glance away from her coloring. “She’s nice. You should pay her a lot.”

The girl burst into a laugh so soft it made Rafe’s stomach twist. And then she nodded.

“I can start Monday,” she said, smiling again, this time with something steadier behind it. “Thank you. Really.”

He didn’t say what he was thinking. That he hadn’t expected her to be the one. That maybe this job was a bigger deal than she realized—for both of them.

Instead, he just said, “Don’t thank me yet.”

And when she knelt down beside Ellie and started coloring like it was the most natural thing in the world, Rafe realized he’d already made up his mind.

This wasn’t going to be simple. Not with someone like her in his house every day.

But it was already starting to feel right.

And for now, that was enough.

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria @blissfulbutterfliess @sydneysslove @matthewswifeyy

[littlelamy]

◜﹒﹟reading to him﹒drew starkey﹑﹑📚﹗

your finger glides down the page, tracing every word. the paperback copy of pride and prejudice is heavy in your lap, spine cracked and overuse. you’ve read it a dozen times. maybe more.

drew lies on his back beside you on the oversized couch, legs stretched out, socks mismatched, one arm tucked behind his head, trying to hide how interested he is. his other hand rests low on your thigh, thumb circling lazy little patterns. he’s not even pretending to check his phone anymore.

"this is the part where darcy’s a dick," you say, flipping the page.

"i thought he was the love interest."

"he is .. but he starts off as a dick. like most men."

he grins, rolling his eyes, "wow hot start. go on."

you read aloud, giving life to jane austen’s words. drew doesn’t interrupt. much. "‘she is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me’?” he snorts. "fucking ouch. what a way to open."

"i told you .. dick."

"if someone said that about you, i’d body slam them into next week."

you smirk, glancing at him over the top of the page. "you wouldn’t need to .. you know i can handle my own."

"true."

you read more. lizzy’s wit, her defiance, the way she toys with darcy, you can’t help but grin as you read her lines aloud. "God, i love her," you murmur mid-paragraph.

"she reminds me of you."

"because she’s brilliant?"

"because she doesn’t let any man finish a sentence without getting verbally choked out."

"you say that like it’s a bad thing."

"i’m hard just thinking about it."

you roll your eyes, but don’t stop reading. your legs shift under his touch. reminding you that you were wearing an old sleep shirt, that continued to rise whenever you moved. his breathing slows when you get to the letter.

darcy’s first one. "he’s trying so hard not to sound like he’s begging," you say between sentences.

"he is begging."

"he thinks he's above it."

"you think that’s sexy?"

"what, begging with a pride problem?"

"yeah .."

you bite the inside of your cheek. "kinda."

"shit," he mutters, "i knew it. you’re into assholes who talk like they’re above you and then crack under pressure when you glare at them hard enough."

"doesn’t hurt when they have money and trauma."

"so what does that say about me?"

"you’ve got trauma, no money, and no filter."

he laughs, "fuck .. i knew i was the 'bingley.'"

"nah .. you’ve got too much energy. bingley wouldn’t eat me out in a public restroom just because i rolled my eyes at him."

"so i’m .. who? wickham?"

"don’t insult me."

"okay but hold up—how many times have you read this?"

you glance down. "hm, twenty-two."

"jesus christ. twenty-two?"

"it’s comfort food .. like your dumb monster movies."

"hey hey, now, those monsters have range."

"so does austen." he slides his hand up, just barely under your shirt now, palming against the soft skin of your thigh.

"do you get off on this?"

you blink. "on what?"

"reading this smart, fiery shit aloud. being hot and smug about it."

you smile slowly, "maybe."

"fucking hell." he shifts up, kissing your shoulder. a soft peck, then another near your neck, mouth warm and slow.

"keep reading, baby," he murmurs.

"you sure?"

"don’t stop unless you want me to bend you over this couch mid-chapter."

you clear your throat. pick up where you left off. his kisses don’t stop. they trail lower. shoulder to collarbone to the top swell of your tits, lazy little pecks. he’s not distracting you too much. not yet at least.

"fuck, i’d marry you if you read tax code like this."

"you’d marry me if i threatened to throw you off a cliff."

"true." your hand slips into his hair, gentle, nails dragging against his scalp as you finish another page. you were breathless and a little flushed. your voice wavers, just slightly, on the next few lines. he bites your skin once.

"darcy’s jealous," he mutters against your cleavage.

"because he’s repressing a hard-on."

"relatable."

you flick his forehead. "hands to yourself."

"that’s a war i’m losing."

you close the book. place it on the couch arm. he blinks surpised at the action. "wait .. you’re stopping?"

"you said one more page, that was three."

"yeah but—fuck. you can’t just read all sexy and then stop. what kind of edgeplay is this?" you lean forward, straddling his lap and settling your thighs around his hips with your shirt riding high enough he can feel the mold your cunt against his sweats.

"that’s what you get for insulting mr. darcy."

he stares and swallows, his adam's apple bobbing up and down. "i’ll buy the audiobook right now. i’ll recite that fucker's lines like a monologue if it gets you to grind on me while you critique my prose."

"you’re such a slut for literary women."

"i’m a slut for you .. reading about literary women."

you kiss him deeply, allow his hands to move all over you—he grips your hips, pulling you tighter, grinding you down until your breath stutters against his lips. "you gonna read me more later?"

"if you behave."

"define behave."

"don’t cum before chapter thirty-two."

he groans, head dropping back, neck flushed. "fuck .. i’m doomed."

you smile. drag your nails up under his shirt, pressing yourself into his chest just to hear him groan again. "then let’s make it worth it."

❤︎‬ tags below

taglist𑄽𑄺: @rafesbabygirlx @namelesslosers @drewsephrry @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafedaddy01 @rafesangelita @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @@ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @lil-sparklqueen @rafessweetgirl @esquivelbianca @p45510n4f4shi0n @palomavz @cokewithcameron @donaldsonsgirl @yncoded @lilbunnysfics @solaceluna @icaqttt @alphabetically-deranged @wintercrows @st8rkey @nemesyaaa

[foxtrology]

saturated (2)

dr!joel x resident!reader

inspired by the pitt on hbo | series | ao3 link

warnings: this chapter contains graphic depictions of medical trauma, emergency procedures, mass casualty events, and mentions of suicide. it also includes themes of burnout, grief, and ptsd in a high-stakes hospital environment.

reader discretion is advised. please take care while reading.

word count: 14.k

─────

When Joel got home—close to two in the goddamn morning—the whole house was dark.

The silence was thick. The kind that clung to your ribs.

He dropped his keys on the kitchen counter. The house smelled like soap and something vaguely floral—your shampoo, probably. The faint hum of the AC pressed against the windows. The kind of quiet you only got in those brief hours when Austin’s chaos had finally exhausted itself.

He didn’t call your name. Didn’t have to. He knew exactly where you’d be.

Joel stripped in the hallway—peeling off his shirt, the weight of the day sticking to his back like a second skin. His pants followed. Then the socks. By the time he stepped into the bedroom, he was just muscle and scars and the heaviness of too many years in too many trauma bays.

You were already there.

Curled on your side. One of his old shirts stretched over your frame. Face half-buried in his pillow, chest rising and falling with the deep, even rhythm of real sleep. Not a nap. Not collapse. Sleep.

Joel stopped in the doorway. Just stood there. And looked.

The sight of you hit him like a truck. Like adrenaline withdrawal. Like breathing in after hours of smoke.

His jaw twitched.

He didn’t say anything—just moved forward, slow and heavy, and collapsed onto the mattress. His arm slung across your waist automatically, hand spreading over your stomach. He pressed his face into the back of your neck, breathing you in like oxygen.

His other hand found the bandage on your collar. Still there.

His fingers flexed. Jaw locked. But he didn’t wake you. Not yet.

Instead, he held you. Tighter than he probably should’ve. Like if he let go, you’d evaporate. Like the ER might find a way to pull you back inside.

5 AM. That's when your alarm went off like a goddamn war crime.

Some soft piano chime you thought was “gentler” when you set it last week. Now it just sounded smug.

You blinked, groggy, warm, your face mashed into Joel’s shoulder. It took a full breath to realize where you were, what day it was, why you were so sore.

You groaned. Joel didn’t move.

“Alarm,” you croaked.

“Mmph.”

“Joel.”

His grip tightened around your waist. “No.”

“We have day shift.”

“I’ll kill it.”

“You can’t murder the clock.”

“Bet I fuckin’ could.”

You shifted, rolling onto your back. Joel growled low in his throat, dragging you with him, one knee wedging between your thighs, face nuzzled against your throat like you were a pillow made of Valium.

“I have to get up.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.”

“Fucking hell.”

He exhaled against your skin, then rolled back, dragging himself upright like a bear waking from hibernation. His hair was a mess. His eyes were still half-closed. But he stood.

Wordlessly, he offered his hand. You took it.

The walk to the bathroom was slow, your bodies brushing with every step. Joel flipped the light on with a grunt, and both of you flinched.

“God, we look dead,” you muttered, staring at the mirror.

“You look good dead,” Joel grunted, already twisting the shower knob. “Like a real pretty corpse.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me.”

Joel climbed in first, pulling you in after him. The shower was hot. Scalding, almost.

You both stood under the stream for a long moment—silent, eyes closed, just breathing. Letting the water peel the last twenty-four hours off your skin.

Joel’s hands found your hips. Not to pull you close. Not to start anything. Just… to be there. To hold on.

His voice, low and gravel-warm, “That scratch still hurt?”

You touched the bandage near your collarbone. “A little.”

He turned you slowly, gently. Tilted your chin. His fingers traced the edge of the gauze, then peeled it away with surprising tenderness.

The scratch wasn’t deep, but it was angry. Red. A little raw.

Joel hissed through his teeth. “That son of a bitch.”

“Joel.”

He ignored you. Instead, he reached around, grabbed a washcloth, and began cleaning it. Soft. Meticulous. Like you were something fragile.

You stood there, heart knocking against your ribs, while Joel Miller—a man who’d cracked skulls open and stitched arteries in the middle of chaos—washed your fucking neck.

“I’ll put fresh gauze on it after,” he muttered.

“Okay.”

He rinsed the cloth. Pressed it to your shoulder again.

“Doesn’t look infected. But you need to stop fucking touching it.”

“I didn’t touch it.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, once. Maybe twice.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “Stop. Or I’ll tape your whole damn neck shut.”

“Hot.”

“Not a joke.”

You smiled. He kissed you once, slow and tired and deep, water trickling between your bodies. Then he turned off the shower and handed you a towel.

You did your skincare in the mirror while Joel dried off behind you. He didn’t rush. He never did in the mornings. Not with you.

Even when he was grumpy. Even when his shoulder ached or the weather made his knee act up. He always moved slow. Always stayed close.

You patted moisturizer into your face. Joel watched in the mirror.

“You really do all that shit every morning?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“What does that one do?” He pointed at your serum bottle.

“Makes me glow.”

“You already glow.”

You blinked. Joel pretended he didn’t say it. You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and eggs by the time you padded in barefoot, dressed in fresh scrubs, hair still damp.

Joel was at the stove. Mug in one hand. Spatula in the other. His back was bare—broad and solid and scar-laced, a roadmap of every trauma he’d ever lived through.

He flipped the eggs like a man who didn’t give a single fuck what Gordon Ramsay thought.

“Yours are over easy,” he muttered. “Mine broke. Don’t say shit about it.”

You slid into the chair at the counter and wrapped your hands around the coffee he’d already poured for you.

“You didn’t have to cook.”

“You didn’t have to work eighteen hours yesterday.”

He handed you a plate. Sat across from you. Forked into his eggs with quiet aggression.

The silence between you was comfortable. Not empty. Never empty. Just resting.

After a few minutes, Joel reached over, tugged your scrub collar down, and gently pressed a fresh bandage onto your scratch. His fingers were warm. Careful.

He didn’t say anything while he did it. Didn’t need to. You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t expect it.

By 6:30 a.m, you stood in front of the front door, bags slung over your shoulders, Joel double-checking for his badge like it might have betrayed him in the night.

“You ready?” you asked.

Joel didn’t answer. Just looked at you for a second. Really looked.

Then he opened the door.

“Come on,” he grunted. “Let’s go do some damage.”

And you followed him out into the already-waking heat of Austin, the sky pink and soft with the kind of hope that always, always dies by noon.

Another day. Another battlefield. But you weren’t going in alone.

Joel held the car keys like he held trauma shears—tight, deliberate, and like if anyone else touched them, they’d lose a finger.

His truck—gray, dented, stubborn—sat in the driveway like it had been through as much as he had.

You’d only driven in together a handful of times, mostly on mornings after holidays or hellish shifts, or when he’d muttered, “Don’t drive. Just come with me,” while already pulling on his boots.

Today was another one of those days. After everything that happened on the Fourth—an explosion, a thoracotomy, a sparkler in someone’s orbital socket—it made sense. 

“You good?” he asked as you locked the front door behind you.

“I’m not bleeding,” you said. “That’s progress.”

Joel grunted. “Barely.”

He opened the passenger door for you—something he never acknowledged but always did—and waited until you were settled before circling around to the driver’s side. The truck rumbled to life with a grumble and a low groan, like even the engine had seen some shit.

The drive to Austin General was quiet. Not the tense kind. Not the I’m-thinking-of-ten-thousand-things kind either. Just comfortable. The kind of silence that only happens when two people have nothing to prove to each other.

Joel drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, thumb tapping once every few seconds. You drank coffee from the thermos he’d packed. It tasted like Joel—too strong, no sugar, with that bitter edge that clung to your teeth. You didn’t mind.

At a red light, he glanced over.

“You sure you’re up for this?”

You didn’t need to ask what he meant.

You met his gaze. “Are you?”

He exhaled through his nose. Looked back at the road. “Guess we’ll find out.”

By 6:47, you both pulled into the staff garage behind the ambulance bay entrance.

The hospital loomed above like a tired giant. Some of the windows still flickered from the backup generator cycle. Yesterday’s trauma team hadn’t even had time to hose down the exterior concrete where one of the blood trails had baked into the pavement under the sun.

You climbed out of the truck and walked beside Joel in silence.

At the security desk, Bill looked up from his paper cup of coffee and raised one brow. His face remained unreadable, but the faintest twitch of his beard might’ve been a smirk.

“Mornin’,” he said.

“Bill,” Joel grunted.

Bill looked at you. “Y’know, we should just assign you a cot somewhere in trauma. You basically live here.”

Joel’s jaw ticked. “She doesn’t sleep in trauma.”

Bill lifted both hands, innocent. “Didn’t say she did.”

You bit back a laugh. Joel walked a little faster after that.

Inside, the ER was already humming. Not screaming—yet—but definitely buzzing with the kind of low-level chaos that meant the night shift hadn’t completely imploded.

Maria stood at the nurse’s station, arms crossed, tablet in hand, her expression locked somewhere between impressed and murderous. She saw you both and didn’t even blink.

“You’re late,” she said to Joel.

“It’s 6:54,” you said.

“Exactly.”

Maria sipped from her mug. “We’ve had two walk-ins for lacerations, one minor burn from someone reheating their goddamn barbecue ribs, and a psych eval sitting in Bay 3 who thinks he’s Abraham Lincoln.”

“I’ll take Lincoln,” you muttered.

“Be my guest.”

Jesse slid past the station with a chart in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in the other. “Doc,” he said, nodding at you, “what are the odds I can bribe you into seeing my walk-in?”

“Negative a thousand.”

“Worth a shot.”

Ellie arrived next, a little too awake, a little too caffeinated, already bouncing on the balls of her feet. She spotted you and nearly tripped over herself.

“You’re here,” she said. “Didn’t you stay late last night? I thought Joel was gonna drag you out of here by the hair.”

Joel, behind you, muttered something indecipherable under his breath.

You smiled sweetly. “No hair-pulling necessary. I left voluntarily.”

“She was ordered,” Jesse added, grinning.

Ellie gasped. “You listen to him?”

“He's my boss.”

Joel coughed.

“Anyway,” you said quickly, “what did I miss?”

Riley poked her head out from the medication room. “We’re still trying to find where someone put all the tetanus shots. And Henry lost a patient.”

“What?” you and Joel said in unison.

“She walked out,” Riley clarified. “He said she was in Bed Nine, but turns out she got tired of waiting and stole someone’s vape on her way out.”

Joel exhaled sharply. “I swear to God.”

“Henry’s been in the bathroom since,” Riley added helpfully.

Joel growled something that sounded like "fucking hell" and walked toward the staff lounge like he needed to punch a wall.

Abby showed up right then, bag slung over her shoulder, hair still damp from the shower. She caught sight of Joel’s retreating form, then turned to you.

“Still alive?”

“Barely,” you said.

“Cool.” She paused. “Thanks again for yesterday.”

You nodded. “You okay?”

Abby looked down the hall, where Mel was just walking in, laughing at something Dina said.

“I’m working on it.”

You didn’t press. She didn’t offer more. But she stood there with you a moment longer before heading to the lockers.

The first trauma rolled in at 7:11 a.m.

A teenage girl, collapsed at a summer soccer camp from heat stroke. Vitals tanking. GCS of 9. Her skin was dry and hot, lips cracked, and by the time she hit Trauma Two, her body temp had climbed above 104.

You worked fast—Joel barking out orders from the head of the bed, Abby on fluids, Ellie on vitals, Jesse running labs, and you directing the cooling blankets like it was your second job.

Joel watched you the whole time, his jaw tight, but he didn’t correct you.

Didn’t override you. Just moved in sync. By 8:02 a.m., the girl was stable. Still groggy, but breathing on her own.

Joel peeled his gloves off and muttered, “She’ll be fine. Keep an eye on her sodium.”

“Already ordered a BMP,” you said.

He nodded. One of those short, gruff nods that meant good.

The morning passed in pulses. Nothing exploded. Nothing caught fire. It was all… controlled chaos. Predictable. Achievable.

But Joel never let you out of his sight for long. Every time he walked into a trauma bay and didn’t see you, his head would snap around like a predator searching for prey.

When you passed each other in the hallway, his fingers brushed your lower back—just a second, just a breath, always too brief to be obvious.

No one said anything. But they all saw. And no one dared fucking comment.

9:35 a.m. brought the day’s weirdest consult: a man who had somehow—somehow—fallen onto a pool noodle in a way that required a surgical extraction.

“Really?” Tess said, exasperated. “It’s always the pool toys.”

You snorted. “He said he thought it would float better with air pressure.”

Tess stared at you. “Did it?”

“No.”

Joel didn’t speak during the consult, just glared at the chart like it had personally insulted him.

“Can’t people just swim?” he muttered on his way out.

By 10:17 a.m., you had already diagnosed a kidney stone, popped a shoulder back in, and sedated a guy who thought his dog was a government spy.

And then Joel pulled you aside in the trauma hallway.

“You eaten?”

You blinked. “What?”

“It’s been four hours. You eaten?”

“No.”

He handed you a granola bar. “Sit down. Now.”

You didn’t argue. And he didn’t leave.

He sat next to you on the bench outside the medication room, arms crossed, eyes scanning the floor like it had wronged him. You ate in silence.

And then, after a beat, “You still hurtin’?”

You touched your collar. “No. It’s healing.”

Joel’s hand rose, thumb brushing the edge of the gauze. His touch was careful. Calloused.

“You tell me if it doesn’t.”

You nodded. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t stop watching you.

And it hit you all over again...

You were in the middle of a storm, inside a building held together by caffeine, trauma tape, and anger issues—

And still, every time Joel Miller looked at you, it felt like home.

Even here.

Even now—on the worn-out bench outside the medication room, surrounded by the hum of flickering fluorescents and the antiseptic stink of blood crusted into the grout.

Even after eighteen straight hours yesterday, after breaking someone’s chest open with your own hands, after watching a child code and a Roman candle take off someone’s face, Joel still looked at you like you were something safe.

Of course, he wouldn’t say it.

He’d just toss you a granola bar and glare at the floor until you finished eating.

Which, for Joel, was basically a love poem.

You took the last bite, licked peanut butter off your thumb, and leaned back against the wall. He didn’t move. Just watched you quietly, like he was still trying to make sure all your parts were accounted for. You couldn’t help but glance down at the gauze still covering the scratch at the base of your neck.

“Still healing,” you said softly.

“Good,” Joel muttered. “Otherwise I’d have to fire every nurse in this place and start over.”

You rolled your eyes. “Including Marlene?”

“She gets a warning.”

You almost laughed—almost—but before the silence could turn warm, the trauma radio cracked overhead.

“Incoming minor burn trauma. Twelve-year-old male. Backyard explosion. ETA two minutes.”

Joel stiffened.

“Another fucking firework?”

You stood up. “The holiday was yesterday.”

“Yeah. And the idiots were born today.”

The boy came in with his dad, a frazzled man in mismatched socks who kept saying, “I told him not to touch it. I swear to God, I told him.”

You and Joel met the gurney just as it was wheeled into Exam 4, Ellie jogging at your heels with a tray of supplies and Henry clutching an ice pack and his iPad.

The kid was alert. Crying, but not screaming. His arms were mottled red, patches of blistering skin already forming down both forearms. His hair was singed at the front, and the smell—burnt hair and plastic—hit you like a slap.

“Name?” you asked gently.

“Derek,” the kid whimpered.

“How old are you, Derek?”

“T-Twelve.”

You nodded. “Okay. You’re doing really good. We’re going to clean this up and keep you from hurting more. Do you know what kind of firework it was?”

Joel glanced at the dad.

“Big one,” the man muttered. “From yesterday, I think. One of those leftover mortars.”

“You didn’t throw it out?” Joel snapped.

The man flinched. “I thought I did—he found it in the back corner of the yard. I didn’t think—”

“Clearly.”

“Joel,” you said quietly.

He bit back the rest of it and stepped aside, hands flexing at his hips. His jaw ticked.

You went to work. Saline flushes. Cool compresses. Henry handed you a burn dressing, and Ellie worked fast with the IV.

Joel hovered behind you—watching, but not stepping in. He only did that when he trusted you completely.

You caught his eye once, just for a second. He didn’t say a word. But that look? That was him saying: I’ve got your back. I always do.

Derek whimpered. You knelt beside him, brushed the hair back from his sticky forehead.

“Hey. You’re gonna be okay, alright? You scared the hell out of us, but you’re gonna be just fine.”

The kid nodded. Sniffled. “Okay.”

Joel’s voice, low and steady, “We’ll monitor for inhalation injury, but he’s stable. Admit for observation. Abby’ll help you with the burn sheet.”

You nodded, and Joel finally stepped back.

When the door swung shut behind him, Ellie whispered, “He’s so intense. I don’t know how you do it.”

You smiled faintly. “He means well.”

“Yeah. But he says it with, like, a knife.”

You didn’t get a break before the next call hit.

Marlene appeared, holding a file and a cup of hospital coffee so black it looked cursed.

“We’ve got a lady in Exam 2,” she said. “Still drunk from last night. Fell in the shower. Split her head wide open. She’s conscious, but loopy. Needs imaging for a concussion and a shit-ton of sutures.”

“Any chance she’s friendly?”

“She asked if I was her mailman.”

You sighed. “I’ll take it.”

“Atta girl.”

In Exam 2, the woman was sitting up on the gurney, a towel clutched to the side of her face, blood soaking through the edge. Her mascara was halfway down her cheek, and her smile was bleary.

“Hey,” she slurred. “You’re so pretty. Are you a nurse? Or a lifeguard? I fell in the tub and thought I was drowning.”

“I’m a doctor,” you said, pulling on gloves. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Dottie. Like the baseball girl.”

“Okay, Dottie. Can I look at your head?”

“Sure, baby. You can do whatever you want. You’re in charge.”

You stepped closer, peeled the towel back gently. The wound was bad. A long, curved laceration just behind her ear, splitting the skin open like a broken eggshell. Definitely needed imaging. Possibly staples. Definitely stitches.

“Jesus Christ,” Abby muttered, stepping in behind you.

“She fell on the soap dish,” you said.

“Oh God

Riley stuck her head in. “CT’s clear. No bleed.”

“Good,” you said. “Abby, grab the suture kit.”

Dottie blinked at you. “Hey, baby? You married?”

You glanced up. Joel was leaning in the doorway. You didn’t even hear him walk in.

“No,” you said, smiling sweetly. “But taken.”

Joel’s brow arched slightly. His gaze swept over Dottie, then the bloody towel, then your hands, and finally back to your face.

“She stable?”

“Yep.”

“Need anything?”

You shook your head.

Joel lingered just a second longer than necessary. Then he left.

Dottie blinked at the door. “He your boss?”

“Something like that.”

“He looks like he could bench press a firetruck.”

“Only on Mondays.”

By 11:42 a.m., the ER was once again, somehow, overflowing. Tess was yelling at imaging. Mel was arguing with a pharmacist. Jesse was holding two urine samples in one hand and his lunch in the other, looking very scared and conflicted.

You slipped into the breakroom for thirty seconds and collapsed into a chair.

Joel followed. Closed the door.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

“Liar.”

You looked at him. “You okay?”

He paused. Then said, “No.”

You both laughed. It wasn’t even funny.

Joel leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

“I’ve never seen you do a thoracotomy before,” he said. “You handled it better than half the staff.”

“Thanks.”

“I meant that.”

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to let me do it.”

“I didn’t ‘let’ you do shit. You earned it.”

Silence. Warm. Tense. Real.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Joel said quietly. “Yesterday. When he scratched you.”

“I know.”

“I thought if I looked away for a second, you’d be the one on the table.”

“I’m not.”

“I know.”

But his jaw was tight. His hands clenched.

You stood. Crossed the room. And laid your palm over his chest.

His heartbeat was steady. Heavy. A little too fast.

“I’m still here,” you said softly.

His hand covered yours.

“I see you, you know,” he murmured.

You blinked. “What?”

“Even when you think I’m not looking. I always see you.”

Your breath caught. But before anything else could happen—

“Trauma alert. Code yellow. Two incoming. One penetrating, one blunt-force. ETA three minutes.”

Joel’s eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Duty calls,” you whispered.

He nodded once. “Stay close.”

You didn’t need to be told. You always did. Because this was Austin General. And there was no such thing as peace.

Only the seconds between impact.

It was 12:00 p.m. when the ER exhaled again. Not the quiet kind. Not the peaceful kind. Just a different kind of pressure—like a room that had been holding its breath for too long and now didn’t know what to do with all the oxygen.

You glanced up at the wall clock in the trauma hallway. Still ticking like a metronome to madness. The second hand clicked forward and you didn’t even register it anymore.

You lived in 15-minute increments now. The rest of the world could burn as long as you made it to your next trauma bay.

Joel was still beside you, silent after the last code yellow. One penetrating trauma, one blunt-force. Both stable now, upstairs for imaging and consults. Joel hadn’t even taken off his gloves when the doors swung open again.

A wheelchair rolled in. Pushed by Bill.

The man in it had to be at least eighty-five. Skin loose, shoes untied, button-up shirt with the collar wrong on both sides. His face was red, sweat pooled in the lines of his cheeks, and he was gripping his chest like it had insulted him in public.

“Said it was just heartburn,” Bill muttered. “I told him he needed to get checked. He argued. Then he nearly passed out in the lobby next to the vending machine.”

“Probably the vending machine’s fault,” the man wheezed. “Those goddamn Funyuns.”

You stepped forward. “Sir, what’s your name?”

“Leonard.”

“Okay, Leonard. Can you describe the pain?”

Leonard waved you off with a wrinkled hand. “Been having it since last night. Ate my niece’s chili. Too many beans. Feels like somethin’ goin’ on in my chest, but it’s just gas. Happens all the time.”

You blinked. Joel didn’t.

“Put him in Trauma 5,” Joel barked. “Now. Get EKG, draw a troponin. Monitor vitals. Oxygen, nasal cannula. I want a chest X-ray on deck. Now.”

“Joel,” you said softly, “he says it’s just—”

“Silent MI,” Joel growled. “Seen it before. Pressure like gas, no radiating pain, no nausea. Happens all the goddamn time in older men. They die in recliners because no one took ‘heartburn’ seriously.”

Leonard blinked up at him. “You always this dramatic, son?”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “You want to live or not?”

“Suppose I do.”

“Then shut up and let us do our jobs.”

Joel turned on his heel and stalked into the trauma bay, already pulling a fresh pair of gloves on. You followed, heart thudding.

Jesse arrived two minutes later, dragging the portable EKG cart, out of breath and covered in something unidentifiable. “Sorry—somebody vomited in the hallway and I slipped in it. I’m okay. My ego may be injured. But okay.”

Ellie peeked around the curtain. “Did someone say heartburn?”

“Silent MI,” you corrected. “Joel wants labs now.”

She saluted and disappeared.

You stood on the left side of Leonard while Joel worked the right, laying leads, pressing his fingers into the man’s wrist to feel the pulse.

His touch looked rough, but you knew Joel. You knew how careful he actually was. How tightly he held control when something inside him screamed.

“BP’s dropping,” Joel said sharply. “Ninety over sixty. Jesse, get a second line. You—” He jerked his chin at Henry, who had wandered too close. “What do you do when your patient’s having an NSTEMI?”

Henry froze. “Uh—start oxygen, get nitro ready, prepare for aspirin?”

Joel’s face was stone. “Did you say ‘prepare for aspirin’?”

“I—I mean—give it?”

Joel stepped closer, towering over him. “You either know it or you don’t. There’s no ‘prepare’ when your patient’s dying, kid.”

You touched Joel’s arm gently. He glanced at you. His jaw unclenched—just barely—and he stepped back.

You looked at Henry. “Aspirin’s in the second drawer. Grab two, chewable. Go.”

Henry bolted. Joel didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to. The EKG machine began its infernal printing, and you read the strip.

“ST depressions,” you muttered. “It’s real.”

Joel nodded once.

Leonard blinked up at you. “Huh. Not just gas, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Well, fuck me sideways.”

You smiled despite yourself. Joel huffed something that might’ve been a laugh.

You stabilized Leonard. Got him a nitro drip, pain eased, vitals up. He was admitted upstairs to cardiology with a sarcastic goodbye and an invitation to his niece’s funeral chili cookout next Sunday.

Joel didn’t look at you for a few minutes after the bed rolled out, just stood in the trauma bay, eyes on the floor, fists still flexing.

He didn’t like being right when being right meant someone could’ve died.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Old men are stubborn.”

“You’re one of them.”

He looked at you. Finally. “And I’m still alive.”

You shrugged. “For now.”

He smirked. Just a little. You let that be enough.

It was barely 12:35 p.m. when the nurse’s station erupted again.

This time, it was Riley who flagged you down. “We’ve got a walk-in. Kid. Came in with her older brother—he looks like he’s barely older than her. Said she’s been scratching her head for weeks. No insurance. No PCP. No meds.”

“Lice?” you asked.

“Yeah. Like, bad. Real bad.”

Joel was standing next to you, reading a chart. You watched his spine stiffen. He didn’t say anything. But his jaw locked.

You followed Riley to Exam 9.

Inside, the girl was maybe eight. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Her hair was matted and greasy, dark streaks where she’d clearly tried to scratch herself bloody. Her little fingernails were dirty.

She sat on the edge of the bed like she was trying to take up as little space as possible.

Her brother—maybe fifteen—stood in the corner, arms crossed, eyes flicking everywhere but you. His hoodie was ripped. His sneakers had holes.

But he was standing between his sister and the door like he’d fight anyone who looked at her wrong.

You knelt beside the girl. “Hey. I’m one of the doctors. Can I take a look at your head?”

She didn’t speak. Just nodded. Barely.

Joel stood in the doorway. You felt him before you saw him. That dense kind of presence he carried like a loaded weapon.

You parted the girl’s hair. Winced.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Hundreds. Literal hundreds of nits. Clumped at the base of the scalp, crawling along the strands. Her ears were crusted with scabs from scratching. This wasn’t new. This was neglect.

“She’s had it for months,” the brother said. His voice cracked. “I tried. I bought shampoo. She cried. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not a—” His voice broke. “I’m not a mom.”

Joel still hadn’t said a word. But his knuckles were white around the file in his hands.

“She’s not in school?” you asked gently.

“Not since May,” the boy said. “I had to keep her home. They called CPS last time. I can’t—she’s all I have.”

Joel turned. Left the room.

You blinked.

Ten minutes later, he came back. Carrying two pharmacy bags.

He handed them to the brother.

“Shampoo,” he said flatly. “Good kind. Gloves. Shower caps. Combs. Clean pillowcases. Antibiotic cream for the scabs.”

The boy stared. “I—I don’t have—”

Joel stepped forward. Didn’t yell. Didn’t scowl.

Just said, “You’re gonna take her home. You’re gonna wash her hair. You’re gonna follow the instructions. She’s gonna stop scratching. She’s gonna sleep on clean sheets. You’re gonna do all that. And you’re not gonna thank me. You’re just gonna do it.”

The boy swallowed. Joel leaned in, voice low.

“And if your parent lets this happen again, I will call every agency in the goddamn state.”

The boy nodded.

Joel turned to you.

“Discharge her,” he said.

Then walked away.

You caught up with him three rooms down, grabbing his arm.

“Hey.”

He didn’t look at you. You touched the inside of his wrist, where the pulse still jumped.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” you whispered.

He grunted. “Wasn’t trying to.”

You smiled. He didn’t. But his shoulders loosened. And that was something.

It was still 12, but edging closer to 1 p.m.

The air inside Austin General’s emergency wing had shifted—not louder, not even busier, just…stranger. Like the rhythm of the day had slowed just enough to notice it was about to snap.

You were reviewing discharge paperwork for the lice girl when Riley stepped into the nurses' station, looking pale.

“We’ve got a walk-in,” she said. “Elderly. No ID. Found wandering outside the H-E-B on 7th.”

You blinked.

“She walk here?”

“Not sure,” Riley said. “Bill brought her in. She didn’t resist, but she’s confused. Doesn’t know where she is. Keeps repeating the same name.”

Joel, across the station, stiffened.

“Put her in Exam 7,” he ordered. “Monitor vitals. No restraints unless she tries to bolt.”

You followed Riley down the hall, into Exam 7, where the woman sat alone on the gurney. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. Wiry. Her blouse was stained, shoes on the wrong feet, and her white hair was frizzed into soft static. Her hands twisted in her lap like they were searching for something they’d lost decades ago.

You approached slowly. “Hi. I’m one of the doctors. Can I ask your name?”

She looked at you with watery blue eyes that didn’t quite see you.

Her voice came small, papery, “Angie. Angie. Angie.”

She said it again. Then again. Just one name. Over and over. Not in fear. Not in panic. Just…lost.

“She won’t stop saying it,” Riley whispered. “We tried the emergency contact on her bracelet—no answer. No address in the system.”

Joel arrived two minutes later. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood in the doorway. Watching. Like he was trying to remember someone. Then he moved forward. His whole frame tense, jaw tight.

“Ma’am,” he said gently. Gentle, for him. “Do you know where you are?”

“Angie.”

He crouched beside her, his voice lowering.

“Can you tell me who Angie is?”

She reached out. Clutched his forearm. Her grip was strong. Joel didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just sat there and let her hold on.

“She was my girl,” the woman whispered. “She was mine. And I lost her.”

Your throat went tight.

Joel nodded. Quiet. “We’ll find her, alright? We’ll look.”

You blinked hard, looked down at your tablet.

“Vitals stable,” you murmured, clearing your throat. “Labs ordered. Jesse’s on the phone with Adult Protective Services. Henry’s calling nearby care facilities.”

Joel stood slowly. His eyes flicked to you.

“She’s not goin’ anywhere,” he said. “Not ‘til someone claims her.”

You nodded. “And if no one does?”

He didn’t answer. But his hand stayed clenched at his side.

You left the room, heart heavy. And then the trauma doors opened again. Because of course they did.

“Room 3,” Mel said, moving fast beside you. “Sixteen. Football player. Came in with chest pain during summer conditioning drills. Dizzy, shortness of breath. Coach made him come in ‘just to be safe.’”

You blinked. “Vitals?”

“BP 110/72, HR 98. No fever. Clear lungs. Slight systolic murmur on auscultation. No known cardiac history.”

You looked at her sideways. “You said sixteen?”

Mel nodded. You pushed open the curtain.

The kid on the bed looked older than sixteen. Broad-shouldered, lean muscle, tan lines from Texas heat. His football jersey was wadded under his arm. Sweat plastered the front of his undershirt to his chest. His eyes were scared, but trying to play it cool.

“Name?” you asked.

“Cory.”

“Okay, Cory. You said this started during practice?”

“Yeah. We were doing sprints, and my chest felt weird. Like tight. I got dizzy. Coach said maybe it was the heat. But I’ve played through worse.”

You glanced at the monitor. “Has this happened before?”

He hesitated. “...Once. A few weeks ago. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t want them to pull me from reps.”

“Any family history of heart disease?”

He looked down. “My uncle died of a heart thing in his forties. I think.”

You exchanged a glance with Mel. She was already typing.

“Okay,” you said, keeping your tone light. “We’re gonna run some tests. Just to be safe. You’ll be outta here in no time.”

Cory nodded, trying to smile. You stepped outside with Mel.

“Order an ECG,” you said. “Echo, too. Let’s rule out structural causes. Maybe a stress test if cardiology doesn’t scream at us.”

Joel appeared beside you like a shadow. “You talking about the kid in 3?”

You nodded. “Systolic murmur. Episodic chest pain with exertion. Could be heat stroke. Could be anxiety. Could be nothing.”

“Could be HCM,” Joel said flatly.

“Yeah.”

Joel’s jaw tensed. “I’ll get Imaging. We’re not missing this one.”

It didn’t take long. The echo told the truth. Joel called you into the radiology reading room himself.

The image flickered on the screen—thickened ventricular septum, diastolic dysfunction, the unmistakable pattern of hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.

Your stomach dropped. Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the monitor, his arms crossed, tension rippling through every inch of his body.

He finally looked at you. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

“No.”

Joel exhaled, low and slow, “Want me to do it?”

You shook your head. “No. I’ve got it.”

He looked at you—really looked—then nodded. “I’ll be right outside.”

You sat beside Cory on the edge of his bed, the curtain pulled closed to block out the chaos of the ER.

He looked at you like you were about to hand him the keys to his future.

“Good news?” he asked.

You didn’t sugarcoat. You never did.

“We found something.”

He blinked. “Like, something bad?”

You swallowed. “It’s a condition called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It means your heart muscle—specifically the wall between the two lower chambers—is abnormally thick. It makes it harder for your heart to pump blood effectively.”

Cory stared at you.

“No. No, I—I feel fine most days. I’ve always passed physicals.”

“It often doesn’t show up until something triggers it. You’re lucky it did. If you’d passed out without anyone around…”

You let it hang there. He didn’t move. His mouth opened, then closed again.

“So... what does this mean?”

You paused. “It means no more football.”

Silence.

Then, “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. No, no, no. That’s not—” His voice broke. “I’ve been training for this since I was ten. I just got invited to the summer showcase at UT. I’ve got coacheslooking at me. I can’t—I can’t—”

You didn’t stop him. You let him feel it. You stayed right there as he buried his face in his hands.

And when he finally looked up, eyes red, lips trembling, you said, “You’re alive, Cory. You’re going to stay alive. But you have to change course. That’s what matters right now.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t throw anything either. So that was something.

Outside, Joel was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. When he saw your face, he didn’t ask.

Just said, “You did good.”

You shook your head. “I hate this part.”

Joel nodded slowly. “Means you still got a soul.”

You didn’t speak again until you were back at the nurse’s station.

Jesse handed you a chart, Abby appeared with a new tray of IV kits, Ellie was arguing with someone about a urinal, and Henry was missing again.

Just another moment. Another beat. Still 12:57 p.m. Still not screaming. But the wind had shifted. And everyone could feel it.

The shift in the ER—subtle but total. Like someone had cranked the volume of the world to one notch below unbearable. No screaming yet. Just the weight of everything pressing down.

That’s when she came in.

You didn’t catch her name at first. Only her voice—sharp, cracked, desperate—and the unmistakable phrase, already being said before the curtain was even closed,

“I need Dilaudid. Just give me the Dilaudid.”

You looked up from the trauma board.

Across the hall, Jesse stood outside Exam 11, arms crossed, face locked in that uneasy grimace he wore whenever he was trying to hide discomfort behind professionalism.

“She say Dilaudid?” you asked.

Jesse nodded once. “Yelled it. About four times. Then cried.”

Mel passed behind you, muttering under her breath. “This again. Jesus.”

“Vitals?” you asked.

“BP 132/89, HR slightly elevated. Says she’s a chronic pain patient. Fibromyalgia, lower back disc degeneration, migraines. Lists ten meds she’s ‘allergic’ to.”

You winced. That checklist. The impossible one. The one that throws the whole room off-balance.

You stood, snapping on gloves.

“I’ll take it.”

“Of course you will,” Jesse said, smiling faintly. “You’re the only one she hasn’t screamed at yet.”

She was in her late thirties, maybe forty. Hard to tell—her face was drawn, eyes sunken with fatigue. Not from lack of sleep, but from years of wear. Her hair was tied back, but uneven. Her nails were chewed raw. Her hands trembled with the kind of exhaustion that made your throat ache just watching it.

She looked up when you stepped in. Her first words weren’t a greeting.

“Please don’t tell me it’s Tylenol. Please don’t fucking tell me it’s Tylenol again.”

“I’m not telling you anything yet,” you said gently, pulling the curtain closed. “I’m just here to talk.”

Her eyes narrowed, waiting for judgment. You didn’t offer it.

“I’ve been through this a hundred times,” she said. “I get it. You think I’m a junkie. That I’m drug-seeking. That I’m trying to score. But I’m in pain. I’ve been in pain since I was twenty-one. My spine is a fucking mess. My doctor retired last year and I’ve been in withdrawal ever since. No one will touch my chart.”

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s talk about it.”

Joel arrived ten minutes later. You knew he would. He always did when the air got like this—tense, cracked like thunder waiting to fall.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood outside the curtain, arms folded, listening to your voice as you walked the patient through the same set of questions you’d asked every chronic pain case before her...

When did the pain start?

What does it feel like?

What helps?

What’s made it worse?

She cried. Quietly. You stayed still. And Joel finally stepped in.

His eyes flicked from you to the patient and back again.

“What’s your name?” he asked flatly.

“Trina,” she whispered.

“You’ve been here before.”

“I have.”

“You’ve asked for Dilaudid every time.”

“Because it works.”

Joel’s gaze didn’t soften. “You know we’re not a refill station, right?”

“I’m not asking for a month’s supply. I’m asking for one dose. To stop my legs from feeling like they’re being set on fire.”

You saw it. The twitch in Joel’s jaw. That old scar that flared when he gritted his teeth too hard.

“She’s in pain,” you said softly, more for him than for her.

He didn’t look at you. Not yet. But his silence cracked.

“She allergic to morphine?” he asked.

“Yes,” Trina said, too fast.

“Hydrocodone?”

“Also yes.”

Joel exhaled. “What about Toradol?”

“Gives me hives.”

“Tylenol?”

“Do you really think I’d be here if Tylenol worked?”

Joel was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, low, sharp, “Jesse. Get me her chart from the last three visits. I want full tox screens. And a list of filled prescriptions.”

Jesse moved fast.

Trina shook her head. “You think I’m lying.”

“I think we have a system that doesn’t help people like you,” Joel said flatly. “And I think you’ve been burned so many times you stopped trying to prove you’re telling the truth.”

That shut her up.

Joel turned to you. “Walk with me.”

You followed him outside the trauma wing and into the hallway, where the walls weren’t bleeding pain.

He stopped. Looked at you hard.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered. “But I don’t like watching someone twitch like that either.”

“She’s not faking,” you said.

“I know.”

“She’s terrified of being labeled again.”

“She already is.”

He rubbed his hands down his face.

“This system is broken,” he growled. “We treat pain like it’s a negotiation. Like people should earn relief. Like we can guess who’s in agony by how polite they are.”

You blinked. “So…what do we do?”

Joel met your eyes. “We treat the fucking pain.”

When you walked back into Exam 11, Joel was already writing the order. Single dose of IV Dilaudid. Low dose. Under supervision.

Jesse came back with her history—no flagged behaviors, no record of prescription fraud. Just an endless trail of bounced-around providers, ERs, urgent cares, and desperate attempts to find anyone who would believe her.

You administered the dose yourself. Her eyes filled with tears the second it hit.

“I’m not high,” she said. “I’m just…I don’t hurt. For the first time in a week.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

Outside, Joel leaned against the wall, watching the floor. When you came out, he looked up at you. Just once. You nodded.

“She’ll be out in an hour,” you said. “Then Ellie will talk to her about follow-up care.”

Joel nodded. Said nothing. But when you reached for his wrist—quiet, unseen—he let you hold on.

His pulse was steady. But now the screaming had started. And you weren’t letting go.

But the hospital didn’t care about things like stillness, or intimacy, or the fragile moment where you could feel someone’s pulse through your fingertips.

The ER didn’t care that you’d just poured your soul into a woman who hadn’t known if she deserved relief. It was 1:00 p.m. now, and the shift had turned.

Afternoons always brought something. The morning was for predictable chaos—broken bones, missed meds, barbecue injuries, and complications from last night’s poor decisions. But one o’clock? That was when the weird showed up. That was when the city remembered you existed and decided to test your limits.

You were barely logging the Dilaudid patient’s chart when Riley jogged toward you, hands flailing like she was chasing a balloon.

“Influencer in triage,” she hissed.

You stared at her. “What?”

“She’s live-streaming.”

“What?”

“She said it’s very important for her community to see her medical journey in real time. Jesse’s with her. He’s trying not to lose it.”

You followed her back to triage. And there she was.

Hot-pink leggings. Some light thing attached to her phone. False lashes that looked heavy enough to injure someone.

She was sitting on the triage cot like it was her dressing room, iPhone held high in one hand, the other dramatically bandaged with a gauze square the size of a postage stamp.

You heard her before she saw you.

“Hey my babies! So, I was viciously attacked by a bee at Barton Springs—like, full-on survival moment—and now I’m in the ER because I have a severe, deadlyallergy and my throat literally almost closed.”

Jesse was standing beside her, trying to get a blood pressure reading without being captured in the livestream. He looked like he wanted the fluorescent lights to explode and bury him in debris.

You cleared your throat.

The influencer whipped around. “Oh my God—are you my doctor? You look so young. She looks so young, right?” She gestured to the camera. “Everyone say hi!”

You didn’t say hi.

You turned to Jesse. “Vitals?”

“All normal. No swelling. No signs of anaphylaxis. She drove herself here. Took a Benadryl an hour ago.”

“Tongue? Throat?”

He shook his head. “Clear.”

You turned to her.

“You said you have a deadly allergy?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t use your EpiPen?”

She blinked. “I didn’t bring it.”

“You didn’t have someone drive you?”

“I didn’t want to wait.”

“You took Benadryl?”

“Yes.”

“And you can breathe?”

“Obviously.”

You stared at her. She smiled, perfectly white teeth catching the light of her phone. You stepped forward and gently tapped the screen of her phone, turning it off.

She blinked. “Um—what—?”

“You’re in a medical facility,” you said. “Not a film set.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered, scandalized. “You didn’t just touch my—”

“HIPAA,” Jesse muttered like it was a prayer. “HIPAA, HIPAA, HIPAA.”

You turned to Jesse. “Get her a discharge summary and a lollipop.”

The woman gasped. “I’m going to post about this—”

“I encourage it,” you said with a smile.

As you walked away, Jesse fell into step beside you.

“She tried to ask me to pose for a ‘we made it’ selfie.”

“Did you?”

“She said her brand is about healing through visibility. I think I disassociated.”

You reached up and patted his shoulder.

“You’re a soldier.”

He nodded solemnly. “Vietnam flashbacks. Except worse.”

At 1:18 p.m., you barely made it through three bites of a protein bar before Ellie appeared.

“There’s a new mom in 6. Fever. Pain. Baby’s here. She looks rough.”

“How rough?”

Ellie hesitated. “Like... I think she hasn’t slept in a week. She’s got that twitchy eye thing going on. And she’s reallytrying to hold it together.”

You finished the bite and followed her back.

Room 6 was darkened, the baby cradled in a bundle in a too-big hospital bassinet next to the bed.

The woman on the bed looked pale, blotchy, fevered. Her sweat-soaked tank top clung to her back, her breasts visibly swollen beneath it. One side red and inflamed. Her eyes flicked to you like she expected to be judged before you even opened your mouth.

You spoke softly, “Hi. I’m one of the doctors. What’s going on today?”

Her voice broke on the second word. “It hurts. My boob—it’s hot, and red, and he won’t—” she looked at the baby—“he won’t latch, and I’ve tried everything, and I haven’t slept in four days, and I think I’m dying.”

You pulled gloves on. “How old is he?”

“Thirteen days.”

You nodded. “This your first?”

“Yes.”

You glanced at Ellie. She stepped back, knowing this was yours.

You moved slowly. Sat beside the bed.

“You’re not dying,” you said gently. “You have mastitis. It’s a breast tissue infection. It happens, especially when a baby has trouble latching or feedings are inconsistent.”

The woman bit her lip.

“But I’ve been pumping. And massaging. I tried warm compresses. I even—God, this is so stupid—I googled something about cabbage leaves. I’ve been putting lettuce in my bra.”

“That’s not stupid,” you said. “That’s desperate. And you’re allowed to be desperate. You’re exhausted. You’re in pain. You’re feeding a human with your body and nobody told you it would feel like being hit by a truck and then asked to do calculus.”

She started to cry. Not loudly. Just the soft, hiccuping sobs of someone who finally got permission to fall apart. You stayed.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” you said gently. “We’re going to get you on antibiotics. We’re going to get you a lactation consult. We’re going to bring your fever down and manage your pain. And you’re going to sleep. Even if I have to sedate half the wing to give you peace, you are going to rest.”

Her hand gripped yours. Tight.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

You stayed a little longer. Then got up to start her orders. When you turned, Joel was there. Leaning in the hallway. Watching. He didn’t speak. Just met your eyes. And something in his gaze—soft but sharp—wrapped around your ribs like a wire pulled tight.

You walked out into the hallway, toward him.

“She’s gonna be okay,” you said.

Joel nodded.

“She was scared out of her mind.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how people do it. Alone.”

He looked at you. Really looked.

“They shouldn’t have to,” he said.

And he didn’t say more. Because it was the afternoon, high times. And Austin General was still full of screaming. But with him standing there, watching you like that? You weren’t screaming anymore. But the world outside your skin was.

The clock ticked past 1:17 p.m., and Austin General spun on without pause. The afternoon haze crept in through the automatic doors like breath through a cracked rib, uneven, persistent, fragile. The AC buzzed too loud in the nurse’s station. Someone spilled coffee near the crash cart. A fluorescent light in Room 12 flickered so fast it gave Mel a headache.

And the cases? They didn’t slow. They just changed shape.

A post-op patient arrived just after the new hour mark—transferred from another hospital across town.

He came in on a gurney soaked in sweat, with surgical dressing that reeked of necrotic tissue the second it hit air. His wound site—deep in the lower abdomen—was leaking pus that ran dark yellow, laced with streaks of green. Red, angry skin stretched outward from the edges of the incision like it was being peeled from the inside.

He didn’t even try to sit up. Didn’t have the strength.

You read the transfer note. Appendectomy. Four days ago. Complained of fever and worsening pain. Told to "monitor at home."

No antibiotics. No follow-up. Just “Tylenol and fluids,” according to the record.

Joel read it over your shoulder. Said nothing at first.

Then, very quietly, “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You glanced at him. “He should’ve been here days ago.”

“He should’ve been in the OR again days ago.”

He turned and walked out. You followed. He didn’t go to Trauma or Radiology or even the consult rooms.

He went straight to the break room. Shut the door. Pulled out his phone. You heard him dial. Then tap the speakerphone.

“Dr. Kevner.”

Joel’s voice dropped into the register he only used when he was holding a scalpel or about to verbally eviscerate someone.

“Kevner. Miller from Austin General.”

“Joel, hey. You got the transfer?”

“Yeah. The one with the abscess the size of a grapefruit.”

“Right. We figured it was best he go to you guys since you’ve got more trauma coverage—”

“You let a post-op with signs of sepsis walk around for four days?”

“We were monitoring remotely. His vitals weren’t concerning—”

Joel’s fist slammed against the break room table. “You think a rotting gut smells like nothing, Kevner? You know what kind of post-op infection this is? The kind that eats people.”

“Joel—”

“You abandoned this kid. He came in tachycardic, hypotensive, oozing pus out of a dressing that looks like it was stuck on with duct tape. You didn’t even give him Augmentin?”

“We didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think at all. You dumped him on us ‘cause you didn’t want him crashing on your floor.”

“That’s not fair—”

Joel’s voice cut sharp and flat. “He could’ve died in a goddamn Uber, Kevner. So here’s what’s gonna happen, I’m writing a formal review. I’m calling the state board. And if this kid doesn’t walk out of here whole, I’m sending his mom your malpractice address directly.”

Silence on the other end. Then the line clicked dead. Joel stared at the phone. Then looked at you.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

He just shook his head. “I fucking hate this job sometimes.”

And then you heard it. The doors. Bursting open. You turned, gut coiling instinctively.

Frank was running. Covered in blood. Tommy was behind him, hauling the stretcher with a speed that made the wheels scream across tile.

On the gurney, a teen. Seventeen, maybe. Thin. Torn clothes. Blood on the chest. On the jaw. Across what was left of his right leg.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

“Hit by train,” Frank shouted. “Intentional. Jumped. Emergency stop missed. He was trying to die.”

The kid was missing skin. From his hips down. Left thigh torn open, right side fully degloved—flesh ripped back like a sheet, exposing red muscle and shattered bone. The meat of his body was visible. Raw. He looked like a person half-finished.

No pulse. No movement. Nothing.

“We can't give up on him!” Tommy barked. “He was crying when we got to him. He wanted help. He changed his mind!”

You threw your body into motion.

“Get him in Bay 1!” you screamed. “Now!”

Joel was already sprinting beside you, barking orders.

“Massive transfusion protocol! Jesse—run the O-neg. Mel, grab crash kit. Riley—intubation tray. Henry, get out unless you’re ready to bleed.”

Frank stayed. His knuckles were red from where he’d done compressions all the way here. Tommy stood against the wall, hands shaking. You didn’t flinch.

“You’re not dying here,” you whispered to the kid. “Not on my fucking table.”

It was chaos. The kind of chaos that strips the skin off your soul.

You intubated. Jesse missed the first line. You got it on the second. Ellie handed you a chest tube. Blood pooled beneath your shoes.

Joel’s hands were moving fast, precise. His voice was sharp, relentless. Every word from him cut through the noise.

“Three units, wide open.”

“Another 8.5 ET. He’s swelling.”

“Where’s ortho? We need vascular now.”

But you could see it. People were starting to doubt. You saw it in Abby’s eyes. In the silence from Henry. Even Riley flinched when she saw how much of the kid’s leg was just gone.

You stood over him. Chest compressions in progress. Bleeding not slowing. Vitals flatline.

“He’s D.O.A.,” someone whispered.

“No, he’s not,” you snapped. “We’ve got a window. He was alive ten minutes ago. He was crying. We are not letting him die because we’re tired.”

Joel’s voice barked, “You heard her. Move.”

You cracked ribs with your own hands. Pushed epinephrine. Tilted the table.

Blood pressure came back. Faint. But it came back. You felt it. A flutter. A whisper in the radial.

You stared.

“He’s perfusing,” you gasped.

Joel looked up at you. And in that moment, he didn’t look mean. He looked awed.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

But you weren’t done. Not yet.

Not until he was intubated. Not until you had tourniquets in place and trauma had arrived with the crash team. Not until his mother arrived—shaking, sobbing—and saw that her son was still breathing.

You walked out of Trauma 1 covered in blood. You peeled off your gloves in one motion. And Joel was waiting. Right outside the door. He said nothing. Just looked at you.

You wiped your arm on your scrub top. “He wanted help.”

Joel nodded.

“You saved him,” he said.

You stared. “We did.”

Joel stepped closer. There was blood on your cheek. He wiped it with his thumb. Then stepped back.

But his hand lingered a second longer than necessary. You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t need to.

It was still just past two. And you weren’t letting anyone die today. Not if you had anything to do with it. But eventually—because it had to—the adrenaline slowed.

Your body remembered that it was attached to muscles and bones and nerve endings that ached. Your stomach, neglected for the last six hours, growled loud enough to startle Jesse as he walked by with a chart.

And right then—like a miracle made of takeout foil and white plastic forks—the break room door opened to reveal something that almost felt like salvation...

Lunch. Real lunch. Catered. Paid for by the hospital’s owner—someone you’d never met, who apparently existed solely in Board meetings and vague references to lawsuits—but they’d bought food.

For you. For the chaos warriors who’d dragged themselves through yesterday’s Fourth of July madness, who’d patched gunshots and peeled melted plastic off children’s hands, who’d kept hearts beating, lungs breathing, and somehow still made it to work again today.

Jesse poked his head out of the break room. “Sandwiches. Tacos. Pasta. There’s even cold lemonade in one of those big-ass jugs.”

Abby trailed behind him, face flushed, ponytail crooked. “There’s salad too, but it’s Austin. Everything’s got quinoa.”

You finally exhaled.

Then you turned to find Joel—but of course, he wasn’t with the rest of the staff. Not in the hallway. Not near the triage desk. Not hovering beside the trauma bays like he usually was, scanning for errors in posture or medication orders.

Joel was gone.

In the break room, the noise was louder than it had been all day—but it was a different kind of loud.

This wasn’t the shriek of monitors or the scuff of gurney wheels or the metallic ring of dropped surgical tools.

This was laughter. Riley perched on the edge of a chair with her feet on a cooler, stuffing a taco into her mouth and trying to explain something about a failed Tinder date with a guy who claimed to be “emotionally polyamorous but spiritually monogamous.”

Mel snorted lemonade through her nose. Henry looked traumatized but impressed.

Ellie was cutting up her food into impossibly small bites and pretending she wasn’t listening to Maria’s story about a bachelorette party injury involving an ill-advised pole and three tequila shots.

Jesse was leaning back, both feet up on the table, eating pasta like he hadn’t seen carbs in weeks.

You saw Dina step in too—eyeliner smudged, hair pulled back, smiling in that sleepy, warm way she did after hours of difficult conversations with scared families. She grabbed two tacos, no plate, and stood beside the fridge with her hip against the counter, finally letting herself just be for a minute.

Even Tommy and Frank had stopped in—Tommy pulling Frank a chair like he was courting him all over again, both of them sweaty, still in EMS gear, still stained from the train call.

Everyone was here.

Except Joel.

You found a takeout container and began assembling a plate.

You knew what he liked—sliced brisket, no sauce, potato salad, not too much—one of the little cornbread muffins, the kind no one else touched because they looked dry but he liked them anyway.

You wrapped it tightly in foil. Wrote his initials on the top with a Sharpie you borrowed from Jesse, who gave you a knowing smirk and didn’t say a word.

You placed it in the staff fridge like it was sacred. It kind of was. Then, only after, did you sit down. Your feet ached. Your scrubs were stained.

There was dried blood beneath your fingernails and pressure still echoing in your chest from the compressions you'd done less than an hour ago—but for this one breath, this tiny sliver of a break room universe, everything felt normal.

Warm food. Smiling faces. The hum of microwaves and dumb inside jokes. It was the kind of peace that didn’t last long in an ER.

But god, it mattered. And when you finally stood, stretching your arms overhead, the quiet in your limbs was the only thing louder than the laughter.

You didn’t find Joel until almost an hour later, near the ambulance bay.

He was alone, as always, leaning against the edge of the wall like he belonged to the concrete.

You could tell he’d washed his hands—again—because they were still red. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. His expression unreadable.

“You missed lunch,” you said softly.

He glanced at you. Then back at the parking lot.

“You eat?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

There was a beat.

Then you added, “I saved you a plate.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded once.

Then, just barely audible, “Thanks.”

You stepped closer. Not too close. Not where anyone could see. But close enough that he could hear the difference in your breath. Feel the way you looked at him.

“You need to eat, Joel.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Didn’t think I’d survive another one of those cases.”

“But you did.”

He looked at you then. And for just one second, the mean lines in his face softened.

“Because you were there,” he said.

You didn’t smile. But you reached out, your fingers brushing against his wrist. That was enough. No one said anything else.

Not until the alarms blared again, and your pagers lit up, and someone in the nurse’s station called your name.

But in that quiet space between bites and blood, you’d built something. Something soft. And real. And his.

That word sat in the back of your throat for the next twenty minutes. Didn’t leave. Didn’t try to. It just lived there quietly, pressing against your pulse every time you remembered the way Joel had looked at you when he said it.

“Because you were there.”

Because you always were.

That moment might have lasted longer—maybe even slipped into something softer, something even riskier—but just then, the intercom crackled.

“Doctor Miller and third-year, please report to the nurses’ station. Family on line two.”

Joel sighed like it was a personal attack.

You followed him back in, glancing up at the board as you passed, everything still full. Every bed still filled. Every name glowing under fluorescent helllight.

Kathleen was manning the phones even though it was technically not her shift yet. She handed Joel the receiver like she was handing off a grenade.

“It’s the dementia patient’s family,” she said quietly. “Finally called back.”

Joel blinked. “They just now called back?”

“Yeah. Line was disconnected all morning.”

You leaned in, listening.

Joel pressed the receiver to his ear. “This is Dr. Miller.”

The voice that came through was young. Male. Rushed. Guilty.

“Oh my god—I’m so sorry. I just got this message. I—I lost my phone this morning at my son’s soccer practice, and I didn’t realize until after lunch that I’d missed like six calls from the hospital. I just— Is she okay? Is my mom okay?”

Joel’s mouth tightened.

“She’s stable. Came in around noon. No ID besides a bracelet. She’s been repeating the name Angie.”

“Yeah, that’s my daughter. Angie’s her granddaughter. They’re very close.”

Joel glanced at you. You nodded. It made sense now.

“I can be there in twenty minutes. I swear. I—I didn’t mean for her to be alone that long. My wife was watching her during the game and thought she was napping upstairs. But then...”

His voice broke.

Joel exhaled. “She’s safe. Come to the main ER entrance. We’ll walk you back.”

Twenty-five minutes later, a tired man in cleats and a youth league jersey stepped into the unit. One sock still grass-stained. His face drawn with guilt, worry, exhaustion.

You saw him before he saw her. When he did—when she turned toward the doorway, blinking like she was waking from a dream—his whole body just collapsed inward.

He rushed to her side. Kissed her head, “Mom. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Angie’s okay. You’re okay.”

She looked up at him, confused for a second. Then her face changed.

“I missed the game,” she said softly.

The son’s eyes welled. “I know. Its okay.”

“No,” she whispered. “I missed it.”

He crouched beside her, face pressed into her hand. And for a moment, you and Joel just stood there. Silent. Watching.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel murmured. “I’m not made for this part.”

You smiled. “Yes, you are.”

He didn’t argue. The spell didn’t last. It never did.

You were halfway through prepping a patient with an infected foot ulcer when Tess appeared beside you.

“Hey,” she said flatly. “Need your help with a situation.”

You looked up. “What kind of situation?”

“The yelling kind.”

You blinked. “Verbal or physical?”

“Unknown,” Tess said, already walking. “But if it turns physical, I get to hit first.”

Room 9. The door was shut but not sealed, and even from the hallway you could hear the argument happening inside.

You stepped in just behind Tess.

A man in his late forties sat on the edge of the bed, clearly agitated. His chart said “chronic shoulder dislocation,” but you could tell from the way he was gripping the call button that pain was only half the problem.

His eyes locked onto Tess immediately. “I said I wanted another doctor.”

“You got one,” Tess said, pointing at you. “She’s better than me anyway.”

He scoffed. “She’s a kid.”

You didn’t flinch. “I’m a third-year. You’re in a trauma facility. You came to us. So let’s work together.”

He bristled. “You’re gonna listen to me?”

“That depends. You planning on throwing anything at my face?”

“Not unless you treat me like a junkie.”

You met his stare. Dead on.

“Sir, I’m going to treat you like someone in pain. That’s it. You be mean to my staff, I will have you thrown out.”

Tess smirked behind you. The patient didn’t blink. But after a moment—he sighed.

“Fine.”

“Good,” you said. “Now take off your jacket so I can look at your shoulder.”

Twenty minutes later, his shoulder was relocated, the swelling addressed, and he’d even asked if you were “one of the good ones.”

You said, “Aren’t we all?”

He muttered something about you having a better bedside manner than Joel.

You grinned. “Don’t let him hear that.”

When you stepped out, Tess nudged your shoulder with her fist.

“You’re gonna be chief one day,” she muttered.

“I don’t want to be.”

“Yeah, well. That’s why you should be.”

You returned to the nurse’s station, found your coffee from earlier, now lukewarm and neglected.

Joel passed you a fresh cup. Didn’t say a word. Just handed it over. You took it. Sipped. Winced.

“No sugar?”

Joel shrugged. “You’re sweet enough.”

You blinked at him. “Did you hit your head today?”

“Shut up.”

And he walked off. But his hand brushed your back as he did. Just barely. Just enough.

And for now, that was enough. Until it wasn’t. Because the ER never let you be full for long.

Around 3 PM, you got the usual trickle—low-stakes, high-frustration patients who were always sprinkled like salt across your chart. A man who’d had a panic attack on the bus and insisted it was a heart attack. A toddler with a plastic bead up his nose. A woman who demanded stitches be done by a plastic surgeon only,as if this were Beverly Hills and not an Austin trauma bay where blood was still on the floor from a degloving.

At 4 PM, six more beds were filled.

A teenage girl who fainted after fasting for a fitness challenge—Joel had muttered something about the world being broken before ordering a bag of D5 and a banana.

Then a man who’d been trying to remove a mole on his own with a butter knife.

You didn’t ask.

By 5 PM, everyone was tired again. You could feel it. The tension in the staff’s collective shoulders. The quiet way Ellie was curled up in a corner chair with a bag of goldfish and her head against the wall. How Abby and Mel were both standing too still while they wrote up discharge summaries. How even Maria looked like she might consider caffeine an inadequate substitute for a coma.

You were standing at the crash cart, double-checking supplies with Riley, when your pager vibrated hard against your hip.

Trauma incoming. MCI. Multiple victims. Truck rollover I-35. ETA 7 min.

Seven minutes. You didn’t even have time to swear before Joel’s voice cut through the air like a bullet.

“Mass casualty protocol. Jesse, get on the loudspeaker. Ellie—triage out front. Tess, you’re with me. Everyone not actively coding a patient, suit up.”

The break room emptied like floodgates opening. People ran without asking where.

You’d trained for it. You’d run drills. But nothing prepared you for the noise. Nothing will ever prepare you for the noise.

The first ambulance came in like a screaming red siren of the apocalypse. Behind it, a second. Then two more. You heard the unmistakable wail of Tommy’s voice yelling from behind the gurney, “Four trapped under the rig, we got two with crush injuries and one flail chest!”

Frank shouted, “Driver ejected. Helmetless. Pulseless on scene. We brought him anyway!”

Jesse and Kathleen threw triage tags like confetti. Red. Yellow. Black. You watched Riley pale when she saw the black one—expectant. Not saveable.

“Don’t look at the tags,” you muttered to her. “Look at their eyes. Look at their breath.”

You were thrown into Trauma 2 before you could breathe again.

A girl. 22, maybe. Covered in gasoline. Glass embedded in her legs.

Abby was cutting through her jeans with trauma shears. You held pressure on her abdomen. Mel came in behind you with a crash cart and blood.

“She was in the back seat,” Henry said from the doorway. “Not belted. Hit the seat in front of her when the cab rolled.”

Her pulse was thready. Her pupils sluggish.

“She’s tamponading,” you said. “Prep for chest tube.”

Joel’s voice from across the hall, “Do it! Don’t wait for me!”

And so you did. By 6:10, the ER was a battlefield.

Three bays were full. Four more patients were lined against the wall on backboards, IVs taped to their arms like lifelines. Tess had gone through two pairs of gloves and one set of scrubs. Maria had yelled at the ortho resident and then Jesse.

Joel hadn’t stopped moving once.

He was yelling. Barking orders. Throwing himself into the middle of every collapsed airway, every exposed femur, every chest full of blood. He was mean, but he was brilliant. And everyone followed him because he didn’t let people die unless he had to.

You worked on a man who had glass lodged in both hands and a piece of rebar poking from his side.

When he screamed, you leaned into him and whispered, “We’re not going anywhere. You hear me?”

He nodded, tears leaking into the surgical drape.

Outside the trauma bay, Dina was trying to calm a young woman who’d just watched her boyfriend pulled from the wreckage with no face left to recognize. Kathleen held a clipboard like a weapon, ticking off names, counting bodies. Even Bill—the usually stoic, quiet security guard—was hauling gauze boxes and water bottles down the hall like his own life depended on it.

And Tommy?

Tommy had blood on his uniform, his hands, his face. He leaned in the hallway, catching his breath, but when he saw you stumble, he caught your elbow.

“You good?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t smile. Just nodded. “You’re doing good.”

And you moved on. Because more were coming. Always more.

Joel finally paused near the nurses’ station. Just for a second. Just to find you.

And you were there. Bloodied, sweating, but still standing. He looked at you. You looked back. And no words were spoken.

Because you didn’t need them. Because everything you were was in that moment—the carnage, the chaos, the calm between it.

And that look? It said, I’m not letting you go. Not here. Not ever.

The doors opened again. More sirens. More blood. And you went.

Because this didn’t end with quiet. It ended with screaming. And you were still listening. Still moving. Still breathing through blood-soaked gloves and adrenaline that wouldn’t leave your bloodstream even if you begged.

It wasn’t until you caught a glimpse of the clock above the medication room that it hit you...

7:48 p.m. The whole goddamn day had disappeared.

You blinked, chest rising, eyes burning. Your last actual sip of water had been sometime around noon. Your stomach was an empty cavity. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d sat for longer than twenty seconds. And still—you kept going.

Because the truck rollover had swallowed the hospital whole.

No one had noticed time moving. Not you, not Jesse, not Riley or Ellie or Maria or Kathleen, who still had her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose even though she wasn’t reading a damn thing.

Even Joel, who usually noticed everything, had missed it.

The ER had never fully quieted—it just shifted pitch. And then you heard it...

That strange, bittersweet sound of relief.

Night shift was coming in.

You heard Dina first, talking to Gail, the night counterpart.

“Two still critical. Five stable. Four being observed. One transferred to ICU. One—” Dina’s voice dropped—“black tag.”

Gail nodded, already tapping her badge for access. She didn’t flinch. Just stepped into chaos with the deadpan precision of someone used to storms.

“Where’s Joel?” she asked.

“Still barking at the trauma bay,” Dina muttered. “Still bleeding brilliance all over the floor.”

You smiled without meaning to.

Then saw Ellie, shoulders slumped, yawning so hard her mouth cracked like a hinge.

“Go home,” you told her. “You’re done.”

“You sure?”

“Go. Before I sedate you.”

Ellie flashed a thumbs up and disappeared toward the locker rooms.

As the shift change solidified—chart updates being handed off, new meds prepped, triage re-opened—you paused. Just for a second. You leaned against the wall outside Trauma 2 and let your head fall back.

The hallway buzzed in waves. Squeaking shoes, IV pumps clicking, the murmur of names being handed over like heirlooms.

You felt something like satisfaction. And exhaustion. And something else you didn’t want to name yet.

You saw Joel before he saw you.

He was in the far corridor, talking to Tommy and Tess—gesturing with one hand, still wearing a drying bloodstain on his sleeve.

But his eyes shifted. And then, he was walking toward you.

The hallway fell quiet behind him. Just for you.

And when he got close—close enough to make the rest of the world vanish—he tilted his head and said,

“You alive?”

You nodded. “Barely.”

He sighed. “Let’s go.”

You were almost to the exit when you remembered.

You grabbed his plate from the fridge—the one you’d made hours ago with food that was probably tepid and a little sad by now, but it was still his.

Still a reminder that someone had thought of him.

You held it out wordlessly. He took it from you and didn’t say a word either. He didn’t need to.

The parking lot was a dreamscape—soft shadows under orange lights, buzzing insects echoing across the concrete. The world outside didn’t know the trauma that had happened just beyond those double doors.

Joel walked with you in silence.

He wasn’t limping, but he moved like something in him ached. You understood. Your own joints felt like chewed leather.

You reached his truck. He moved to the passenger side and opened the door for you. And just as you turned to climb in, you felt it.

His hand. On your hip.

And then...

His mouth. On yours.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, intimate, full of all the things he hadn’t said today.

His hand slid up your spine, holding you flush to him, his chest still warm from the heat of the hospital. His other hand rested just above your hip, steadying you like he thought maybe you’d fall apart otherwise.

You gasped softly into him. Not because you were surprised.

But because it was the first time all day you’d felt something that wasn’t pain or duty or adrenaline.

You felt like his.

He pulled back just enough to speak against your lips.

“You were a fuckin’ force today,” he murmured. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Your hand clutched the front of his scrub shirt.

“I didn’t want you to.”

He chuckled low. “I know.”

Then pressed his forehead against yours.

“You’re everything in there,” he said. “You know that?”

You nodded.

And whispered, “So are you.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time. Not the kiss of survival. The kiss of belonging.

Then, finally, he helped you into the truck. Closed the door gently. Walked around the front. Climbed in beside you.

And pulled away from the curb—toward home. The hospital shrank behind you in the mirror.

But the blood on your shoes? The pulse in your throat? The memory of your hands holding someone back from the brink?

That stayed. And so did he.

Joel’s truck rumbled beneath you like an old, steady heartbeat. The sun had finally dipped below the skyline, casting Austin in a warm gold that faded fast into dusky blue. The windows were cracked, letting in a breeze that smelled faintly like asphalt and humidity. The AC was on low. One of Joel’s hands was wrapped around the steering wheel.

The other? Firm on your thigh.

His thumb rubbed slow, absentminded circles against your scrub pants, just above your knee. Like he was reminding himself you were real. That you were there, not a ghost of adrenaline or a fleeting high of some trauma-stained day.

Neither of you talked at first.

Not because you didn’t have things to say—God, you both did—but because the quiet between you was too good to break just yet.

You watched the trees pass by, each intersection blinking soft yellow as the city wound down. Joel looked ahead with that same furrow in his brow he always wore post-shift, like he was cataloging every life you’d both touched, every one you couldn’t save.

Eventually, you reached over, fingers brushing his wrist.

“Long day.”

Joel let out a dry breath. “Understatement of the fuckin’ year.”

You smiled, eyes still on the road. “You were incredible.”

He scoffed. “You saved that kid with no pulse. Don’t think I missed that.”

“We all saved him.”

“No,” Joel said, shaking his head once. “You did. You never backed down. I saw you. I always see you.”

The truck slowed at a red light. His hand squeezed your thigh gently.

“You’re the reason I’m still doin’ this,” he said, voice soft enough it barely made it over the hum of the engine.

You turned toward him, brows pulling in slightly.

“I thought you hated this job.”

“I do.”

“Then why stay?”

He finally looked at you. And his voice dropped, low and certain.

“‘Cause it brought me you.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment.

The red light turned green. And the truck rolled forward again.

But you reached for his hand this time—threaded your fingers through his, grounding both of you in something real, something steady.

Something yours.

His house smelled like a mix of you two.

That warm, familiar scent, something earthy, grounded, lived-in. The second you stepped through the door, you peeled off your shoes like they were made of concrete. Joel locked the door behind you, then watched silently as you reached up, untying your scrub top with tired fingers.

He followed suit, tugging his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. He toed off his boots with one heel, not even bothering to look where they landed. The soft thud of fabric on the hardwood floor was the only sound between you.

You met his eyes. No words needed.

Your hands found the hem of your scrub pants. His fingers were already at his waistband.

Every motion was slow. Heavy. Not sexual, not frantic.

Just… tired. Intimate.

A ceremony of shedding.

You padded quietly toward the bathroom together, your bare feet on the cold tile making you shiver slightly—until Joel stepped in behind you and turned the water on, checking it with his wrist before nodding toward the showerhead.

He pulled you into the warm steam with him.

And for a while, nothing existed but the water.

Joel’s hands found your hair first. You leaned forward, eyes closed, and he carefully lathered the shampoo through the strands, massaging slow and patient like he was reading scripture. His fingers were so gentle they almost tickled. You hummed under your breath, leaning into it.

Then he reached for the body wash, poured it into his palm, and rubbed slow circles into your shoulders, down your arms, across your back. Every touch deliberate. Caring.

He kissed your neck once, lingering there like he didn’t want to let go.

You turned and took your turn, washing him the same way.

You traced the scars on his chest like memories. Watched the muscles of his stomach flex under your touch. Washed his hair with care. Rinsed the dried sweat from his collarbones, the bloodstain from his wrist that hadn’t come out yet.

You both stood under the spray for a long time after that. Water pounding against your bodies. No talking. Just existing. Together.

The couch welcomed you both like an old friend.

Joel pulled on a pair of sweats and tossed you one of his ancient, threadbare t-shirts—the gray one with a faded Longhorns logo and a hole near the hem. You crawled beneath the blanket with your knees tucked beside you while Joel microwaved the plate you’d saved him.

The smell of brisket and cornbread filled the room.

He brought it over with a fork.

You both ate, passing the fork back and forth between bites, eating slow, savoring the quiet.

On the TV, some rerun from a cooking competition show played in the background. A judge was yelling about under-seasoned risotto. Neither of you really watched.

Joel looked so different out of the ER. His face a little softer. The worry lines across his forehead had faded just slightly in the warm lamplight. His arm was slung behind your shoulders, fingers occasionally grazing your upper arm like they were drawn there on instinct.

“Didn’t think I’d make it through today. After everything with yesterday...” you murmured, watching him chew.

He swallowed, then passed you the last bite of cornbread.

“But you did.”

“I did.”

“Because you’re tough as hell,” he said.

You looked at him. “Because you were there.”

Joel’s eyes met yours. He leaned forward, kissed your temple, and didn’t move away for a long time.

You didn’t walk to the bedroom. You were carried.

Joel scooped you up the way he had before—one arm under your knees, the other around your back, pressing you to his chest like something sacred.

You buried your face in his shoulder. His skin still smelled faintly like your soap.

He set you down gently on the bed, pulled the covers back, and slipped in behind you without a word.

His body curled around yours instinctively—the big spoon, always—and he dragged one arm over your waist until your back was snug against his chest, your legs tangled, your heartbeat steady.

The house was silent except for the hum of the fan.

His fingers splayed against your stomach. You reached back and rested your hand over his.

And just before you fell asleep, you heard him murmur into your hair...

“I love you.”

You didn’t need to say it back. He already knew.

And the hospital could wait. Because tonight, this was the only shift that mattered.

taglist: @secretlettersfromyourlove @areamir @hermionelove

[prettygirl-gabi]

Chapter 33: Let Me Be There

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Rating: T (for mild language and themes of illness/recovery)

Warnings: Mentions of past harassment/stalking, mild angst, reader being stubborn about their health

Summary: Back in Connecticut, the stress of securing a permanent restraining order against Marcus takes its toll on you.

Welcome to the chapter 33 of Through The Lens. I hope you all enjoy and there is more to come...stay tuned my loveies!! 🏀💕📸

It had been two days since we got back to Connecticut, and in those forty-eight hours, my body had completely betrayed me.

The stress of dealing with the permanent restraining order against Marcus had been weighing me down since we landed. Even though the judge had granted it—thanks to the new evidence against him—it didn’t feel like relief. It felt like a wound that hadn’t even started healing yet.

Between barely eating, hardly sleeping, and pretending everything was fine, my immune system finally gave up.

And now, here I was.

Sick.

Miserable.

Hunched over in my dorm, wrapped in my thickest hoodie, shivering despite the heat being turned up. My throat felt like I had swallowed razor blades, my nose was both stuffy and runny, and my body ached like I had just played a full four quarters alone.

I knew I should tell Paige.

But I wouldn’t.

Because she had DePaul to worry about, and I wasn’t going to distract her.

10:45 AM – Paige’s Dorm

Paige wasn’t buying it.

“You’re sick.” She stood in front of me, arms crossed, brows furrowed in undeniable concern.

“I’m fine,” I croaked, immediately giving myself away. My throat burned like hell, and my voice sounded like I had been chain-smoking for a decade.

Paige’s expression softened, but her stance didn’t budge. “Babe, come on. You look miserable. Let me take care of you.”

I shook my head. “You have a game in two days. You can’t get sick.”

Paige let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through her hair. “So what? You’d rather sit here suffering alone just so I can go hoop?”

I avoided her gaze, suddenly very interested in the loose thread on my sleeve.

“I’ll be fine,” I mumbled. “I just need to sleep it off.”

Paige stared at me, and I could feel the internal battle she was having. She wanted to argue, to fight me on it, but I saw the flicker of hesitation. She really couldn’t afford to get sick, and she knew it.

That didn’t mean she was going to just leave me alone.

“If you won’t let me stay, I’m calling in backup,” Paige declared, already reaching for her phone.

My eyes narrowed. “Paige—”

She smirked. “Too late.”

11:30 AM – My Dorm

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at my door.

When I dragged myself out of bed and opened it, Kayla stood there, grinning like she had just won the lottery.

“You look like hell,” she greeted.

I groaned. “You didn’t have to come.”

“Tell that to your overprotective girlfriend,” Kayla said, stepping inside and shutting the door. “She practically threatened me to get my ass over here.”

I sighed, trudging back toward my bed and collapsing onto it. “She’s dramatic.”

Kayla flopped down into my desk chair. “No, she’s in love with you and wants to make sure you don’t die of self-neglect.”

I buried my face in my pillow. “I hate both of you.”

Kayla laughed. “No, you don’t. Now, let’s get some fluids in you before Paige actually loses her mind.”

3:15 PM – My Dorm Still

“Here. Granny-approved.”

I blinked blearily at the steaming mug Kayla placed in front of me.

“You actually made it?” I rasped.

Kayla gave me a pointed look. “I followed your grandma’s instructions exactly. I even FaceTimed Paige so she could watch me make it.”

I rolled my eyes but took the mug, cradling it in my hands. The scent of citrus, ginger, and warm spices filled my nose. I hesitated before taking a small sip, the heat spreading through my chest immediately.

“Better?” Kayla asked.

I sighed, nodding. “Yeah.”

She grinned. “Good. Now, drink all of it before I call Paige back and tell her you’re being difficult.”

I glared. “You’re evil.”

Kayla smirked. “Nah. I’m just her eyes and ears while she’s gone.”

Game Day – 6:50 AM

I wasn’t 100%, but I was better.

Enough that I convinced Paige—and the coaching staff—that I could travel with the team to DePaul.

I still kept my distance, though.

Even on the bus, I made sure to sit a row behind Paige, by myself, far enough that she wouldn’t be in my germ radius. I avoided the usual pre-game hugs, the playful jabs from the team, even the way Paige reached for my hand as we boarded.

I didn’t miss the way she frowned.

I didn’t miss the way Azzi nudged her, whispering something under her breath.

But I had already made Paige compromise by letting me come. I wasn’t about to make her risk getting sick before an important game.

So, I stayed back.

Even when Paige sighed dramatically and sent me a text.

Paige: stop acting like I’m some fragile little thing. let me love you.

I smiled to myself but didn’t reply.

Because I knew Paige, and I knew she wasn’t going to let this go.

And sure enough, not even ten minutes later, she turned around in her seat, leaned over Azzi, and whispered, “Babe, if you don’t let me sit next to you, I’m making a scene.”

I raised a brow, locking eyes with her. “Make a scene then.”

Paige blinked. “Huh?”

“You heard me,” I challenged. “Go ahead. Make a scene.”

I thought she would back down. I really did.

But I forgot who my girlfriend was.

Without missing a beat, Paige stood up in the middle of the bus, threw her arms up dramatically, and yelled, “MY GIRLFRIEND DOESN’T LOVE ME ANYMORE!”

The entire bus froze.

Azzi immediately facepalmed. KK started wheezing. Ice burst out laughing. And miss Sarah she was giving heavy side eye.

“PAIGE—” I hissed, my face burning as the entire team turned to look at us.

“I just wanna sit next to my sick, stubborn, beautiful girlfriend, but she’s being so cold-hearted!” Paige continued, clutching her chest like she was in a soap opera.

Coach Geno turned from the front of the bus, looking entirely done with her antics. “Bueckers, sit your dramatic ass down.”

Snickering, Paige flopped into the seat beside me, grinning triumphantly. “Told you I’d make a scene.”

I groaned, hiding my face in my hoodie.

Paige just laughed, lacing our fingers together.

I didn’t stop her.

Back at Campus – Paige Bueckers: Full-Time baller, nope. How about Full- Time nurse, Part-Time simp

By now, I’d accepted my fate.

There was no escaping Nurse Paige.

The second we stepped back into my dorm, she had a full recovery plan ready.

Hydration? Handled.

Soup? Cooking in the mini rice cooker.

Medicine? Already sitting on my nightstand.

Cuddles? Pending, until I was “fully healed.”

“You’re worse than my grandma,” I muttered, sitting up in bed as Paige fluffed my pillows for the third time in an hour.

Paige gasped, offended. “Excuse you! I am a loving and attentive girlfriend, not some random granny.”

“That’s debatable.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll withhold the Jolly Ranchers I bought you.”

I gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

Paige smirked. “Try me.”

Before I could argue, my phone buzzed.

Group Chat: ‘UConn’s Finest’

Triple A: Not Paige ghosting us like we don’t have practice tomorrow.

Team mom: Is she even on campus??

Ice cube: She is. She’s just playing housewife rn.

Rah: Oh, she’s 100% in nurse mode. I give it two more hours before she starts spoon-feeding [Reader].

Triple A: Paige, defend yourself.

Paige peeked over my shoulder at my phone, then grinned as she grabbed hers from the nightstand.

A second later, my phone buzzed again.

Hot shot: y’all wish you had a girlfriend to take care of. stay mad. (Except Ayanna)

Fuzzy Fudd: Paige, that’s literally not the point-

Triple A: thanks, you simp. (Knowing I’m a simp too)

Hey Arnold: SIMP, both of y’all jus some simps.

I snorted, locking my phone and setting it aside. “They’re gonna bully you for weeks.”

Paige just shrugged. “Let them. I have more important things to do.”

She then proceeded to tuck me into my blankets like a burrito.

I sighed. This was my life now.

By the next evening, Paige was finally convinced I was on the mend—meaning I was allowed out of bed.

Our first low-energy activity?

Lego building.

Specifically, the tiny flower shop Lego set Paige had bought ‘for us’ but definitely wanted for herself.

“This is actually coming out cute,” I admitted, setting down the last window piece.

Paige beamed. “See? I told you we’re Lego masters.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You dropped a piece under the bed twice.”

“Shhh, it’s called the artistic process.”

I laughed, shaking my head as I reached for the remote. “Okay, what movie?”

“Ratatouille,” Paige said immediately.

“Predictable.”

“Iconic,” she corrected, pulling me into her arms as I hit play. “And the perfect cuddle movie.”

I sighed, relaxing into her hold. Finally, a quiet night.

At least, it was supposed to be.

Because just as we were settling in…

The door BURST open.

“YO, WHAT UP, LIVE?!”

Paige and I whipped around just in time to see KK Arnold standing there, phone in hand, on TikTok Live.

I groaned. “KK, no warning?!”

KK grinned, completely unbothered. “Gotta keep y’all on your toes!”

Before either of us could kick her out, the chat flooded with comments.

“NOT PAIGE BEING DOMESTIC”

“They were def having a date night omg”

“Y/n looks so done”

“KK the real MVP for interrupting them”

Paige facepalmed. “KK, why are you here?”

KK shrugged. “Y’all weren’t answering the group chat, so I figured you needed some excitement.”

I narrowed my eyes. “We were literally about to have a peaceful movie night.”

KK grinned. “Oh, bet! The whole squad’s coming.”

Paige and I froze.

“The what now?” Paige asked, eyes wide.

As if on cue, the door swung open again.

In stormed Caroline, Ice, Morgan, Sarah, Jana, Azzi, Ayanna, and Aubrey—each carrying snacks, drinks, and zero regard for the fact that we were NOT expecting them.

“Hope y’all weren’t planning on keeping this cozy night to yourselves,” Ice teased, plopping onto the floor.

“We brought popcorn,” Morgan added, holding up a bag.

Ayanna smirked. “And we came to see Paige in full simp mode live and in action.”

I groaned, hiding my face in Paige’s hoodie.

Paige, however, just sighed dramatically.

“You know what?” She pulled me closer, chin resting on my head. “Fine. But y’all are building your own Legos.”

Caroline gasped. “You think we came empty-handed?”

And just like that, the quiet night turned into a full-blown UConn team takeover.

9:15 PM – My Dorm (Now a Team Sleepover)

I should’ve known better.

I really should have.

A “quick movie night” with this team was never just a quick movie night. It was an event. A takeover. A full-blown production.

And now, my dorm—which was barely big enough for me and Paige—was packed with the entire squad, each making themselves comfortable like they owned the place.

KK had taken over my desk chair, spinning it in circles while still on TikTok Live, laughing as the chat roasted Paige’s “Full-Time Nurse, Part-Time Simp” status. Azzi and Ice were sprawled out on my floor, already battling in some intense Uno match, while Ayanna sat behind them, eating popcorn like she was watching a championship game.

Caroline, Sarah, and Aubrey had claimed my bed—because of course they did—leaving me exactly nowhere to sit.

And Paige?

Paige was sitting right in the middle of it all, legs stretched out, completely unbothered, holding onto me like I was some oversized teddy bear she had no intentions of letting go.

I sighed. This was my life now.

“So, what’s next?” KK grinned, finally putting her phone down. “I say we make this a game night.”

Paige perked up. “Ooh, Mario Kart?”

“I call Yoshi,” Ice said immediately.

“Bro, you always get Yoshi,” Ayanna groaned.

“Then be quicker next time.”

Azzi snorted. “It’s not even that serious.”

Ice gasped dramatically. “Oh, it is that serious, Fudd. Don’t let me catch you on Rainbow Road.”

Meanwhile, Sarah and Aubrey had started pulling out a deck of cards.

“Spades?” Aubrey suggested, smirking at me.

I raised a brow. “You sure you wanna go there, Griff?”

“Am I sure I wanna school you? Yeah.”

“Oh, bet.”

Caroline clapped her hands. “Alright, we got Mario Kart on one side, Spades on the other. What about Jenga?”

“Jenga?” Paige repeated, looking concerned.

Morgan nodded, already stacking the blocks. “Yeah, the giant kind.”

I groaned. “Oh no.”

I still had PTSD from the last time they played.

Because this wasn’t normal Jenga. No, UConn Jenga was a full-contact sport.

“House rules?” KK asked.

“House rules,” Sarah confirmed.

“Wait, what are house rules?” I asked, immediately regretting it.

Caroline grinned. “Oh, just a little added chaos.”

Aubrey smirked. “You have to remove the blocks with only one hand.”

Azzi added, “And if you make it fall, you have to do a dare.”

I turned to Paige, my last hope for sanity. “And you allow this?”

She shrugged. “I don’t make the rules. I just enjoy the show.”

I groaned again, but there was no stopping them now.

10:30 PM – The Games Begin

First up: Mario Kart.

And let me tell you—Ice did not play around.

By the time the first race ended, she had already hit KK with three shells and sent Ayanna flying off the track twice.

“HOW ARE YOU THIS GOOD?” KK yelled, staring at the screen in disbelief.

Ice grinned, completely smug. “Skill, baby. Try again next time.”

Meanwhile, Spades had gotten… heated.

“You reneged!” Aubrey accused, pointing at Azzi.

Azzi scoffed. “I did not!”

“You did!”

Sarah laughed, shaking her head. “Man, this is why I don’t play with y’all.”

Caroline leaned back, sipping her Gatorade like she was watching a courtroom drama.

And then came Jenga.

It started normal enough. Careful moves, steady hands.

And then Ashlynn decided to get bold.

She tried pulling from the bottom.

Everyone screamed.

The tower wobbled.

For a moment, it looked like she might save it.

And then—BOOM.

Jenga blocks went flying.

Ash sat there, stunned. “…Oops.”

The entire team erupted.

“Dare time!” KK announced.

She sighed. “Fine. Hit me with it.”

Sarah and Ayanna exchanged looks before smirking.

“You have to run down the hall, screaming ‘PAIGE BUECKERS IS MY MOM’ at the top of your lungs.”

The room exploded.

Paige choked on her water. “WHAT?”

Azzi wheezed. “Y’all are evil.”

But Ash? Ashlynn was fearless.

She stood up, cracked her knuckles, and sprinted out the door.

“PAIGE BUECKERS IS MY MOM! PAIGE BUECKERS IS MY MOM!”

We were crying.

Even Paige couldn’t stop laughing. “I hate you guys.”

Caroline wiped tears from her eyes. “Nah, that was legendary.”

1:00 AM – The Aftermath

Eventually, after multiple rematches, way too much yelling, and Ice still dominating in Mario Kart, the exhaustion hit.

One by one, people started crashing.

Azzi was knocked out on the floor, still holding a controller. Sarah and Morgan had taken over my bed, curled up like they owned the place.

KK was half-asleep in my desk chair, mumbling about getting revenge on Ice.

And Paige?

Paige was lying next to me, arms wrapped around my waist, fully content.

“See?” she murmured. “You’re feeling better, and we had fun.”

I sighed, sinking into her warmth. “Yeah, yeah. You win, Nurse Paige.”

She chuckled, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Always.”

And even though my dorm was a mess, even though my bed was stolen, even though KK was probably gonna snore all night…

I smiled. Resting against Paige’s chest and went to a peaceful sleep.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

       -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

Tag list: @sayurireidotcom , @astroeliza , @paxaz535 , @0phantom0 , @yailtsv , @authentic-girl03 , @sevyscoven , @elalfywhore , @sitawita , @jadasogay , @vamptizm .... (more to be added) 

[lovecla]

IF YOU LOVE ME, LET ME KNOW | jack hughes.

chapter five:

<last chapter> <next chapter>

➴ warnings: fighting, misunderstanding, mentions of cheating

➴ word count: 3.2k

➴ author’s note: shit hit the fan yall… who the hell is going to fix this mess..

YOU woke up at ten to two after sleeping for seven hours straight. One thing about stressed you, is that you'd sleep for twenty-four hours if given the opportunity.

But you were thirsty and you needed to get your hands on a glass of water before you died from dehydration.

So, you got up, and made your way to the kitchen, only stopping when you saw your phone blowing up on the counter.

Frowning, you picked it up, confused with the hundreds of notifications on your lock screen.

You completely forgot about your need for water. With your heart on your mouth, you sat on one of your stools, unlocking your phone and texting Grace.

Usually, you didn't care about gossip. You'd always just joke about it on Twitter with your fans and move on.

People liked to invent things and you couldn't exactly stop them. So you just let it happen.

But apparently, Jack was involved in this too. Which left you confused because people didn't know about you two. Or at least, that's what your media team would say, whenever you had a meeting with them— a weekly occurrence, ever since the album was announced.

Typing your name on Google, you didn't have to dig too deep: an article published five hours ago was the first to show up. "Former Flames: NHL Star Jack Hughes Moves On with New Flame After Breakup with Pop Singer, Sophia Montenegro".

What the fuck?

Opening it, you could swear your heart would stop any moment. Hands shaking, you read every line, thinking of everything and nothing at the same time.

It seems love off the ice is just as fast-paced as the action on it for NHL star Jack Hughes. The hockey player, known for his fierce plays and competitive edge, is making headlines for his personal life as well. After a low-profile breakup with pop sensation Sophia Montenegro, Jack Hughes has already moved on-and he's not keeping it a secret.

According to our anonymous sources, the athlete and singer had started dating back in April, after they met at the New Jersey Devils [Jack Hughes' team] charity gala, and kept everything in the dark for six months straight: nothing more than a few Instagram comments and likes to prove anything.

However, despite the chemistry, the relationship ended after Jack was seen with one of his exes last night, Ava Mitchell. Jack Hughes is known for his short-term relationships so it wouldn't be anything new.

We hope Mrs. Montenegro is okay, after her second break-up in less than two years. Maybe our sweet girl, Sophia, has bad luck with relationships.

You didn't bother reading the rest, locking your phone and gently placing it on the counter again.

The rational part of your brain was telling you that none of that was true, and that this was just a gossip magazine doing what’s supposed to be doing, but you recognised the girl in the photo, it was the same girl on Jack’s lap yesterday. And that was obviously Jack, holding her hand like some kind of loving boyfriend.

You sighed, running your hands through your hair. You knew that something like this would happen. All of the good moments you had with Jack apparently were just that: good moments. And now, bad memories.

You knew what you had to do. Keep going, just like you did when Harris broke up with you over text after cheating on you the night before. Keep going, just like you did when your name got dragged into the mud because of that.

But doing that with Jack, for some crazy reason, was harder than you thought it’d be. Maybe because you had a lot of expectations and watching them getting crushed right in front of you sucked.

Your phone buzzed in front of you, Grace’s picture shining. You sighed, before picking it up. “Hi,” you whispered, remembering that you were still thirsty and this was the first word you said in seven hours.

“Hey, baby, how are you?” She sounded worried, and you understood her. This was the first somewhat scandal you’ve had in months. So yeah.

“I just read it…” you took a deep breath. “Gosh, what the hell. What happened after I left?”

You heard Grace move something around before she started speaking again. “Honey, I wish I could tell you something entirely different but… I did see Jack leaving with that girl. I am so sorry. Like, genuinely.”

Your entire body felt like it weighed three times more. Your heart shrank to the size of a pea and you could feel your hand tremble a little bit.

You had seen the picture, you knew that Jack had left the party with the girl but still. It hurt.

“Did you talk to him?” Grace asked, voice worried.

“No, I— Grace, I don’t know what to do,” you whispered, feeling something tickle your cheek. You wiped it with your hands, just to realize that it was tears. You were crying. “I like him so much. I had finally accepted it, I told you— I thought he felt the same.”

“I did too. I don’t know what happened. Maybe… God I hate to say this but maybe you should talk to him?”

You let out a wet laugh. “No way in hell I’m talking to him. I made that mistake with Harris. Every time he’d do something shitty, I’d go after him and talk to him, accept his excuses, his behavior. I’m not that Sophia anymore.”

“I know, I know… I just…” she sounded uncertain. “God. Why are men like this?”

You wiped your tears, smiling for the first time in hours.

“I don’t know.”

“Also, that song you sent me… is it about him?”

You were confused just for a second, before remembering the song you wrote last night— morning?

“Yeah,” you mumbled, feeling just the tiniest bit of embarrassment. “Couldn’t get it out of my head. What’d you think?”

“It’s perfect. Just like everything you write,” you could hear her smiling. You smiled too. “I love you so much, Soph.”

“I love you too, Grace. Don’t worry, I'll be fine,” you sounded like you were trying to convince yourself, and not her. “Let’s just focus on the album and the launching party, right? Fuck Jack Hughes.”

“Yes, you’re right. Fuck him and not in a good way!”

You laughed, feeling the pain inside your chest ease up a little bit.

It was going to be fine.

— ♡

JACK called you three times in the past three days.

You felt shitty not picking up any of his calls because you knew he was away for the entire week, but honestly, you weren’t ready to hear any of his excuses.

So drowning yourself in work was the answer for all of your problems. Day and night, you went to photoshoots and interviews, none of the questions being about you and Jack, thankfully. You knew it was all your team’s doing but still, it felt nice to talk about yourself and your work, and not about men who did nothing but make you hate yourself.

Grace thought you had to at least hear Jack out. But you knew that if you did that, the chances of you forgiving him were high. Higher than they should be. Because you’re still very much in love with him and want to be with him at all times.

“Good work today, guys,” Russel, your choreographer, shouted, everyone clapping together. You were all rehearsing for your launching party, a mini-concert with only a couple hundred people, something to introduce your album.

“Thank you, guys, love you.” You breathed, remembering how you should go back to the gym because singing and dancing at the same time required a lot of effort.

You headed back to your house, staring at the sunset through your car’s window, sighing loudly at the traffic in front of you. It was seven p.m. and you were tired and famished, thinking about all of the take-out options you could order when you got home.

“What the…” you muttered, when you tried entering your garage, but was unable to since there was a car there already. A car that you unfortunately knew very well. “The hell is he doing here?”

Jack was leaning against his car, a crazy thing to do during winter but whatever, wearing a beanie and a Devils hoodie, while looking at something in his phone.

He was supposed to be away. For a week.

Opening your door, you welcomed the cool breeze on your skin. The workout clothes felt too tight on your body and the bag on your hand felt too heavy but you held it tight. He still hadn’t noticed you so maybe you could walk past him without him noticing you?

“Hey, baby,” and yes, of course that didn’t work. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

You looked at him like he was out of his mind, but he just kissed your forehead and grabbed something from inside the car. A Five Guys takeout bag. Fuck him for knowing your favorite burger place.

“I got us food but I think the guy there messed with my order on purpose because he recognised me and he was wearing a Rangers pin which I thought was forbidden during work hours? But I never had a nine to five job so I can’t really tell.”

You continued to move, asking yourself why the hell Jack was so talkative today. Usually, he’d just answer your questions and leave it at that. But he must’ve spent too much time with Luke because damn, this man was a yapper now.

Opening the door, you let him in, not really sure why. Maybe Grace was right and you did need closure, but you expected to have this conversation with him through texts, and not face to face like right now.

He looked so dreamy. He’d shaved, so he looked eighteen years old all over again. His hair, hidden by the beanie, looked longer now and you desperately wanted to run your hands through it. He was standing there, cheeks and lips red, blue eyes looking directly at yours.

Why did he have to be so handsome? It’d all be much easier if he was ugly.

“You’re so quiet today, did something happen?” He asked, yanking you out of the train of thoughts about how handsome he was.

And suddenly, you were back in Harris’ living room, one year ago, watching as the man cried on your lap, apologizing over and over again, saying that he’d never lie to you and that he’d never let you down.

Your stomach was starting to hurt and you felt yourself breathing faster.

“I ran this conversation in my head a thousand times, but I never once imagined you’d just not talk about it and move on, y’know?” You mumbled, heart racing in your chest. “Was it worth it, Jack?”

His confused face made you hurt even more because, somehow, it looked genuine. “What are you talking about? Was what worth it?”

“So you’ll keep denying it?” You raise one eyebrow, feeling the sorrow being replaced by something uglier, something heavier. Something like anger.

“Denying what, Sophia?” He stepped closer, hands reaching to your body, which you dodged. If you’re going to do this, you’ll need every ounce of space in your house. “Sophia, what—”

“I know I have no right to be mad at you for this, because I know we were just fucking,” you smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Hell, I was the one who said I didn’t want a relationship first. So I understand why you didn’t reach out to me, why you’re not apologizing, why you’re playing dumb, but—”

“Sophia,” he cut you off, his voice one octave deeper. You shivered, watching as he frowned at you. “I don’t know why you’re saying all of this shit. What the hell happened?”

You looked at him, analyzing his face and, once again, seeing nothing but pure confusion in his expression. You found it hard to believe that he didn’t know about the article, didn’t know about how people were saying that no one stayed with you for a long time, didn’t know about his ex announcing to everyone on her Instagram page that they were together again.

But unfortunately, you also knew that Jack wasn’t a liar. He’d never been, and probably would never be.

“So you don’t know about the article?”

“Article?” He furrowed his eyebrows. “Are you talking about gossip pages on Instagram? Soph, you know the only thing I do in that fucking app is like your photos, watch the weird ass reels you send me, and send pictures of ugly animals to my brothers and say it looks like them,”

Pulling your phone from your pocket, you google the article that you had every word memorized by now with how much you’ve read it. Showing it to him, you saw his face go through all stages of emotions: confusion, anger and understanding.

“You didn’t know about this?”

“I don’t read the articles people write about me. I don’t give a fuck about people’s opinions,” he growled, handing your phone back to you and taking his beanie off so he could run his hands through his hair. “I don’t know who the hell sent that information about us.”

“Can’t you see that the problem here isn’t people knowing that we were fucking?” You snapped, almost crushing your phone with how hard you were gripping it. “The problem here, Jack, is you leaving that fucking party with your fucking ex, after she spent half of her night on your lap.”

“The hell is wrong with that, Sophia?” He snapped too, looking angry and annoyed at the same time. “You left with fucking Quinn and didn’t even say goodbye to me. Me leaving with Ava isn’t any fucking different.”

“‘Isn’t any fucking different?’ Fuck you, Jack. Fuck,” you touched his chest with your index finger. “You.”

“Sophia, what is going on? You’re mad at me because I left with Ava? She was fucking out of her mind, drunk as hell, and I just took her home!” He raised his arms, like that was enough of an explanation. “It’s not my fault someone took a picture of us leaving and wrote a fucking article about that.”

“I’m not mad at you, Jack,” you whispered, staring into his eyes, losing yourself all over again, just like you did six months ago. “I’m mad at myself for falling in love with you.”

You were both taken aback by your statement. You had zero intentions of telling Jack how you felt about him because that would just be too much humiliation to handle but now the shit hit the fan and he knew.

“It’s…” he stared, biting his lips and averting your gaze. “It’s not like I cheated on you, Sophia. We aren’t dating.”

Oh.

Right.

You knew something like this would happen and still. Your heart hurts all the same. It isn’t that serious, your brain was yelling at you, get a fucking grip.

“I know,” you whispered, trying to count your breathings. “I know that, Jack. You don’t need to tell me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He stepped closer. “About how you feel?”

“Was it going to change anything?” Your voice quivered with sadness and you hated yourself for it. The plan was to tell him to fuck off and leave him but now you were almost crying and losing your shit in front of him.

“Yes, Sophia, fuck,” he put his hands on your arms, squeezing you slightly. “Of course it was!”

“Jack, no,” you freed yourself from his touch, walking around your living room, with your hands on your head. “I didn’t tell you that just to watch you pity me, I was trying to make a point. Don’t start lying now just for the sake of it.”

“Lying? I’m not fucking lying, Sophia,” he sounded angry now. “If you had told me this before, I would’ve—”

“‘Would’ve’ what?” You raised your voice too, tears now streaming down your face freely. “Would’ve said you’re in love with me too? Would’ve abandoned your whore days just to be with me? Fuck off, Hughes, we both know that isn’t true.”

“Just because you like to paint me as the man whore of the Devils it doesn’t mean that that is true,” he snapped, again. “I’ve been with you for six months now, and I never, not even once, touched another woman, or even thought about doing it. Because I just wanted you, Sophia, can’t you fucking see it?”

You sat on the couch, covering your face with your hands, trying to hide the fact that those words affected you more than you would ever admit.

“I get it that your fuckhead ex-boyfriend fucked you up and I am sorry for it, baby, I really am, but I’m not like him—”

“Jack, no,” you stopped him and removed your hands from your face, not caring if you looked ugly or destroyed. “Just leave. It’s better this way.”

“Leave? Are you insane?” He raised his voice. “No, I’m not leaving. I’m telling you that I am in lo—”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Hughes,” you got up, walking until you were toe to toe with him, looking up until your eyes met his. “I don’t want to hear it. Leave, please.”

“What the hell, man, you’re— you’re not even hearing me out!” He sounded desperate.

“I don’t want— I don’t need any more of your lies or pity. Sorry if you lost a good fuck, but I’m sure you’ll find someone else to get your dick wet.” It hurt you saying this but you needed to hurt him in order to make him leave, even if only God knew how much you wanted him to stay.

But the people you loved, the men you loved, never stayed.

Eventually, if you both started dating, he’d get tired of the routine and he’d find someone else. He’d start lying and cheating and apologizing just to do it all again, stepping on your heart like he did to the ice.

So you needed him to leave.

“So you think that you were just that to me?” He scoffed. “A good fuck? I took you to my parents’ house. I introduced you to them. I talked to my friends about you and I made time for something else besides Hockey. I wanted you in my life and now you’re telling me that it was all just sex to me?”

His eyes have never looked bluer. Your entire body felt cold, and you knew it wasn’t because of the weather. It was because you could feel Jack distancing himself from you, and it hurt.

“Leave, Hughes.”

He stared at you for a full minute, the room quiet. Then, he nodded once and twice, before stepping back and making his way to your door.

Opening it, he turned back and looked at you again. “I hope you know that you can’t keep your heart locked away forever, Soph.”

Wanting nothing but to be in his arms, you stared at him until he softly closed the door. You don’t know how much time you spent looking at the wooden entrance, feeling like you just watched your forever walk away.

[gimmethatagustd]

definitely today, satan | knj

After having a strange dream about your hot neighbor, you realize it might be time to finally make your move. Dreams are a sign from the universe, right?

Pairing: DILF Namjoon x Reader (from "all the good girls go to hell")

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Neighbors to lovers, smut, crack

Word Count: 1,077

Content Warning: It's corny and horribly written and I don't know what the fuck came over me when I wrote any of these fics, cunnilingus, nipple play, vaginal fingering, I have a really bad sense humor, reference to NSYNC fanfic

A/N: I'd written this for @mapleleaf000 as the final chapter of what turned into a mini series about the demon DMV lol. Also, yes, there is NSYNC fic on AO3. In case you were curious. 💀

Soundtrack: Dangerous - TEN

Honestly, sometimes your ability to pull hot men shocks you. It doesn’t only happen at night when you’re weirdly dreaming about your hot, daddy-dom neighbor being Satan, tempting you with his sexy biceps and boobs. You’re actually here, in his apartment, sitting on said hot, daddy-dom neighbor’s thick thighs as he sucks on your throat and squeezes your tits. 

Namjoon is even hotter in real life than he was as Satan in your dreams, though you can’t help but think about your dream while he’s pulling off your shirt to trail kisses across your collarbones and reaching around you to unclasp your bra. 

“Fuck, you’re so sexy,” Namjoon moans against your chest as he drags his tongue across one of your nipples, flicking it repeatedly until it’s hard and soaked with his spit. His tongue isn’t pointy and forked like it had been in your dream, but that’s fine!

“Not as sexy as you,” you insist with your fingers threaded through his hair. 

Namjoon’s hair is short and bleached with highlights, and you think he’s probably the only person in the twenty-first century who can pull off bleached tips without looking like Lance from NSYNC. 

Is there any NSYNC fanfiction on AO3? If there is, it’s probably Lance/Justin. 

Not to kink-shame anyone, but ew. 

You’re pulled from your distracting thoughts by Namjoon grabbing your ass and helping you grind against the bulge in his pants. He’s still wearing his slacks, having just come home from work. You were supposed to go on a dinner date since his daughter is staying with her mother over the weekend. 

As a respectful father (hot), Namjoon has avoided mixing his dating life with his family life. It’s what’s best for now since the two of you are still getting to know each other. Only recently did your dreams of Purgatory and Hell push you to ask Namjoon out. It makes sense that he wants to take things slow with introducing you into his daughter’s life. 

You’re definitely not taking things slow in other areas of your dating life, though. 

“Is it weird if I say that I dreamt about this?” you ask when Namjoon hooks his arms around your thighs and carries you out of the living room. His strength is impressive, even if his bedroom isn’t far from where you’d been. 

“Not at all. I’ve dreamt about you, too.” 

Namjoon seems shy when he confesses, but you suppose it actually is kind of weird, and the two of you are probably just weird together. Which is nice. Sexy or not, you wouldn’t be able to vibe with Namjoon if he couldn’t keep up with your weirdness. 

“Oh, did you?” you purr as Namjoon reaches under your miniskirt to pull your thong down your legs. 

“Mhm,” he hums against your neck when he hovers over you, slotting himself between your legs so he can grind his thigh against your exposed pussy. 

One of the buttons on his white work shirt catches on your nipple. The rough drag makes your body shiver with goosebumps. When you try to unbutton his shirt, he grabs your hand and pins it to the bed above your head. 

“Keep it on,” Namjoon whispers in your ear. 

His breath is hot against your face, and his voice is deep and scratchy. If you close your eyes, you can almost imagine something darker in his tone, something demonic. It’s so hot you feel your pussy throb and slick up even more. When Namjoon pulls away, there’s a dark spot on his pants from how wet you are. 

“Can I eat you out?” Namjoon’s request is more like a plea, a hopeful lilt to his voice when he speaks. He runs his palms up your thighs to push your miniskirt further up your waist to expose more of your body.

“You don’t even have to ask a question like that.” 

“From behind?” 

“Fuck, yeah, oh my god.” You throw your head back with a dramatic groan before rolling onto your stomach and transitioning to resting on your forearms and knees. “Please, I didn’t even get to the fucking in my dream about you, so I need this.” 

Squeezing your asscheeks, Namjoon pulls you apart and uses his leg to push your knees apart more to open you. 

“I definitely got to the fucking part in mine,” Namjoon says with a chuckle as he runs his thumb over your pussy, first gathering your arousal from where it leaks at your entrance and gliding it up to wet your clit even more. 

“What,” you swallow the drool you’re afraid might come out of you when Namjoon picks up the pace, “What was your dream like?” 

“I don’t know if I should tell you. It was weird.” 

He circles your clit, occasionally thumbing at it with gentle flicks at the tip that makes your legs shake. When you start kicking your foot and moaning louder, he finally brings his mouth down to where you throb for him. 

“Oh fuck,” you moan against Namjoon’s bed sheets. 

You’ve got your face pressed into the bed because you can’t keep your head up as he fucks his tongue in you while he rubs your clit with his slick fingers. He moans against your pussy when he switches positions so he’s fingering you while he laps at your clit. His movements are languid, which drives you even crazier than if he’d been fingerfucking you hard enough to make your ass jiggle.

“Good?” he murmurs with his lips slick and his fingers still massaging your walls.

“So good, god, your lips are so perfect, fuck,” you moan and push back against his face. “Tell me your dream. Was it like this?”

Namjoon kisses your clit before bringing his other hand to rub it while he still fingers you. Leaning back on his knees, Namjoon increases the speed of his movements as he admits, “You were the Devil, and I fucked you so good that you kept me as a pet.” 

“I WHAT?” 

You turn around to stare at Namjoon with wide eyes and an inability to say anything more as your orgasm rips a whiny moan out of you, legs shaking and threatening to collapse. Namjoon wraps his arm around your waist and keeps rubbing your clit until you wiggle away from him when you grow too sensitive. 

Namjoon wipes his messy fingers on your thigh and shrugs. 

“I told you it was a weird dream.”

@rkiveslibrary @mar-lo-pap

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 23: Extreme Makeover Backyard Edition

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy.  This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter twenty three of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 9.1K

Warnings: I'm going to label this one 18+ because it handles some heavy subjects!  Angst, Cursing, Nudity, Mentions of Abuse (sort of- it's more the reader being used without knowledge of it and I'm not sure what to call that), Numbness, Depression, Mental Health, Brief mentions of graphic death, Brief mentions of graphic torture, Mention of gore, Mention of death, Mentions of character going through some HEAVY EMOTIONS and INTERNAL TRAUMA, Fluff, Sexual References, Family Problems. Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, completely a little OOC. Soldier Boy is really all you need as a warning.

Note: This is told from the Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Reader POV

You fall on your hands and knees in the soft grass of Legend's front yard, falling from the sky like a comet as it's glow fades and burns for the last time before striking the earth. You don't remember how you left Stan's apartment, don't remember flying here, don't feel anything, not the humidity that comes with the rising sun, not the cold kiss of dew against your skin, all you feel is the cold creeping numbness that trickles through your veins.

The memories of what you did come in flashes, but they do nothing. They do not evoke remorse nor pain, they haunt you, but do not bring tears to your eyes.

You open and close your hands, letting the blades of grass crush beneath your fingertips, but you don’t completely comprehend where you are, or how the hell you got here. All you feel is weakness tugging at your every muscle, threatening to drag you under the rising tide. You felt electrified, but so tied at the same time, everything and nothing. What happened seemed centuries ago and also seconds ago.

There was no anger, no remorse, no pain, no horror, no shock, there was nothing, only the chill that clung to your skin on the warm summer morning. You could see Stan’s death in your mind, watch his body collapse in on itself under your power and yet it did nothing to you.

You're not sure of anything anymore. Who you are, who Rosemary is- everything you knew is gone and you're not sure what's left behind, not sure what will come crawling out of the shell you were now. You knew you should be afraid, but another voice in your ear whispered so should they.

Someone grabs you by the shoulders, hauls you up off the ground, raising your gaze from the wet grass.

Ben looks furious, mind you, he always seemed to be angry when it came to you. You wondered if that was because he loved you or if it was because the two of you were fated to kill each other one day.

Or maybe it's a healthy combination of both.

He's wearing his jeans again, his dark hair falling forward into his eyes that burn with the force of his rage, but as soon as he sees the dried blood coating your cheeks, hair, and body, you watch worry begin to spark behind his glowing green eyes.

You register that deep down his anger and worry comes from a place that he'd hidden from you for eighty years, his love for you, the love that he was no longer hiding. But the chill still rose in your chest like the first frost of winter.

"Fuck." Ben mutters, moving his hands along your body, boldly looking for injuries, but he doesn't find any. "What the fuck happened? Why did you leave?"

You don't answer him, instead you take in a shallow breath, filled with the smell of fresh cut grass and Ben's musk. You're trying to find your voice, but it's difficult for you.

"Y/n are you alright?" He asks it, firmly gripping you by the shoulders, trying to shake you back into reality. You can hear the way the anger in his voice has shifted to something else.

"It's not mine Ben." Your voice is no more than a whisper as you stare blankly at him.

"Whose is it?"

You can't answer him, the only thing in your mind is Stan's words to you, the secrets he kept for forty years coming to light, the terrible things that he and Vogelbaum did. You want to tell him, tell him about what you know, but you can't find the words, can't find the thoughts to follow them.

"Sweetheart?" Ben furrows his eyebrows together, tilting your face to look at him. His hand softly strokes against your cheeks not understanding why you’re acting like this. “Are you alright?” 

His voices sound like you’re underwater, a murmur, a buzz, just a shadow of the deep rumble you love so much, the voice you thought you'd never hear every again.

Ben says your name again, with such urgency that it snaps you out of it for only a moment. The smoke clears, but what’s left barely has the strength to cling to him as you collapse into his chest. Your body shakes uncontrollably, tears soaking through his thin t-shirt, unable to do anything else, but clutch him tighter against you.

"He's our son Ben. They stole my-" You can't find the words, can't find your voice, it sounds hollow. "Stan he and Vogel-." But your voice breaks again and you shudder against Ben's chest, the numbness coming back to drag you under.

Ben doesn't hesitate, he picks you up as if you weigh nothing, tucking your head under his chin as he goes and turns back towards the house. You barely register his picking you up, can’t seem to focus on anything, breath coming in shallow gasps, body still shaking. Ben tightens his arms around you as if trying to comfort you as he walks through the front doors.

“Is she alright?” Rosemary’s voice is close, but you don't raise your head from Ben's body.

“Fuck, there’s so much blood.“ Hughie adds and you can imagine him standing beside her, his eyes wide.

Guess that means he survived Mindstorm.

Your only hope was that Lou was already in bed, that she wasn't watching Ben carry you soaked in blood through Legend's house.

“It’s not hers.” Ben replies gruffly, still moving towards the staircase. He wasn't stopping and you were thankful for that, you didn’t want to talk to anyone and didn’t want to have it out with Rosemary. You were so tired, tired of fighting and of trying. You didn’t want to yell at her, didn’t want her to yell at you, all you wanted was to slip deeper into the darkness.

"Shit, she's just as fucking unhinged as Soldier Boy is." Butcher mutters under his breath wherever it is he's standing.

“Wait mom talk to me-“ Rosemary tries again.

“No.” You murmur into Ben’s neck. Stan’s revelation rings in your ears once more, betrayal momentarily clawing its way from the pit before the cold feeling comes back to drag you under.

Because it felt like she had betrayed you. All these years you thought that Vought left the two of you alone, but no, it was a lie. And if she'd done that, what else had she done to ensure your freedom?

“Please-“ She sounds broken, and it strikes something inside, because she's never sounded like that before. Rosemary was strong, stronger than you ever were.

But then the word makes the memory of Stan’s body snapping and twisting beneath your control come roaring back, his pleas for the mercy he didn’t deserve exhaled on his dying breath, as you turned him into nothing more than a lump of flesh.

You gasp, another shudder shaking through your body and you don’t answer and don't raise your head.

"Wait Ben-" She says his name, but Ben doesn't stop.

"She doesn't want to talk right now." Ben's tone is controlled, but you can hear the trickle of his rage just on the edge of his inflection. "And I'm not going to make her." He continues walking down the stairs and Rosemary does not follow.

Ben doesn’t put you down on the bed, instead he takes you to the adjoining bathroom. It’s bigger than your bedroom back at your apartment with a walk in shower big enough for five people to stand in, a giant vanity with two sinks, a jacuzzi, and a bathtub big enough for three. Legend never spared any expense when it came to that sort of thing.

Ben slowly places you on the vanity but when he pulls back you grab the front of his shirt. “No.” You breathe suddenly terrified. The terror of Ben leaving cuts through it all, followed by a wave of horror and fear.

If he leaves they’ll come for me again. They’ll come take me or Lou.

You were afraid to be alone, didn’t want him to go, not after everything that happened.

“Shhh.” Ben soothes you, brushing your hair back, “It’s alright sweetheart I’m just getting a washcloth.”

You relent, hand unfurling from his shirt, and he comes back with it, wetting it with warm water before he begins to drag it over your face as gently as possible. His eyebrows are furrowed with concentration, but you don’t move, you only stare at a point over his left shoulder not really comprehending what’s happening.

What happened to Stan comes back in flashes, black and white photographs followed by the bits of conversation that unmade you, the revelations that would haunt you for the rest of your life.

Ben sighs. “Well. I don’t think this is helping at all.” He throws the washcloth into the sink and gently cups your chin, turning your gaze on him.

You blink a few times to focus your eyes.

“Look sweetheart I know you don’t want me to leave, but you gotta get in the shower. I can’t get it all with this washcloth and the last thing I want is to put you in bed covered in blood.” He searches your gaze trying to make you understand what he was asking but you don’t respond.

He leans his forehead against yours. “Honey please you gotta say something. You’re scaring me.” Ben’s eyes meet yours, wide and for the first time in years you see genuine fear.

You let out a shallow breath, but don’t say anything. You can’t find your voice. Instead you gently touch his chest just over his heart. It’s a small gesture, but it’s enough for Ben.

Ben closes his eyes for a minute as if trying to make sense of it all. “Okay.” He breathes, opening his eyes again to look at you, care and concern charging the air between the two of you. “Can I take off your clothes?”

You nod once, eyes still focused on the white tiled wall behind him.

“Okay.” Ben gently pushes the leather jacket back from your body. It falls back on the counter in a bloody heap, staining the white countertops with flecks of dried reddish-black blood. “I need you to stand up for me sweetheart.” Ben says, holding you firmly by the waist and pulling you off the counter.

You stand there for a moment, unsteady on your feet, staring blankly ahead of you.

“Arms up.” Ben whispers.

You raise them above you head and Ben removes your shirt and bra before moving to your pants. “Hold on to me.” He places your arms around his shoulders as you step out of your shoes, pants, and panties.

If you’d been in your right mind maybe you would have worried about this moment, worried about Ben seeing you naked again after all these years. He’d only ever seen you the one time, but somewhere deep down registered that this was different. It wasn’t sexual. There weren't any expectations and there was nothing to be embarrassed about. This was Ben keeping his promise and taking care of you the way that he always had.

He steps over to the bathtub, running his hand under the stream of water to check the temperature.

"Come on.” Ben gently leads you over, your small hand in his and helps you step over the side of the tub and into the warm water.

Steam rises around your body, but the water feels lukewarm. Your gaze levels at the water that streams from the spout on the edge of the tub, not looking up at Ben as he switches the water to the handheld shower head.

"Tilt your head back for me honey." Ben murmurs, touching your chin with your free hand to tilt it back. "Eyes closed."

You do as he says and feel the water trickle through your hair and down your back, followed by the gentle scrub of Ben beginning to work shampoo through the strands. He works quietly, catching the suds that threaten to fall into your eyes. Your hands are folded in your lap, eyes still closed, feeling the steady way he cleans your hair and then your face.

As you sit there the memory of everything that happened with Stan begins to trickle in, causing an uncontrollable shudder to shake through your body. Ben's ministrations were doing little to make the cold feeling dissipate, if anything you could feel it sinking into your bones.

"It's alright sweetheart, I'm almost done." Ben says, and you feel his thumb stroke against your cheek for a moment before he continues to wash your hair.

"Sit here for a second. I'm going to go get you some clean clothes."

You open your eyes and watch him go. The water in the tub is red now, the last remnants of Stan's blood scrubbed clean from your body.

The fire would destroy any evidence that you'd been there and washing the clothes that you killed him in should take care of any other problems.

When you're dried off and in your own clothes, you stand in the bathroom and catch a glance of yourself in the mirror. You look hollow, broken, eyes miles away, skin a little paler than normal. You don't look like yourself, but you also don't feel like yourself.

"Come on, let's get you to bed." Ben says and you feel him pick you up again, carrying you to the bed as if you weigh nothing.

You mechanically go through the motions of getting under the covers, pulling them up almost over your head as you curl in on yourself, making yourself as small as possible. You shut your eyes to try and make the images of what happened go away, but you can't fight the ebbing darkness that comes to welcome you home. It's familiar. The same one that you fell into when Ben broke your heart and you thought he died. The pit was opening beneath your feet once again, and you wondered if you'd be able to pull yourself out this time.

Ben changes into a pair of faded sweatpants, before he crawls into the bed behind you under the covers, putting his arm up over your waist to pull you into him. You turn in his arms so that you're chest to chest and can bury your face into his shirt, inhaling the familiar scent, trying to rid yourself of the images and of the things you learned a few hours ago.

"It's alright Sweetheart, I'm right here." You can feel the rumble of Ben's voice in the palms of your hands where they curl against his soft shirt. The weight of his arm over your waist is familiar as is the heat of his body, the warmth you expected to wipe away the cold feeling that crept along your spine drowning everything else out of your head.

It's quiet for a few moments. Ben's hand is gently trailing up and down your spine, but sleep is miles away for you.

"I'm trying real hard not to be mad at you Sweetheart, especially when you're like this but-" Ben sighs, rubbing his hand up and down your back. "You lied to me. What were you thinking going off alone and-" His tone has shifted into more of a growl, the one he gets when he's about to yell at you.

If he had yelled at you, you wouldn't have reacted, you were just so tired of everything, couldn't focus on anything.

Ben's body tenses. It was as If he was physically trying to hold himself back from being upset, but you couldn't answer him. It had seemed like a good idea when you went, seemed right, but now you weren't sure.

What you had learned changed you, and you weren't sure if you'd ever be able to go back to the way you were.

He's quiet for a minute, before finally he presses a kiss to your forehead, and you bury yourself further into his chest. "I love you." He murmurs. "I promise I'm not going to go anywhere."

But you barely hear him, the only thing you hear is the low buzz of fluorescent lights and Vogelbaum's voice telling his staff to keep you quiet.

Soldier Boy POV

He didn’t know what to do. In all the years he’d known you, Ben had never seen you like this. He’d seen you upset, angry, sad, but never this.

It had been three days since you came back covered in blood, three days of you laying in bed refusing to speak, curled up into his chest.

Ben had tried to get you to eat something, but when you wouldn’t do it by yourself he had to spoon feed it to you, as if you couldn’t remember how to eat.

It scared him.

Ben hadn’t ever felt fear like this before in his entire life, but now, seeing you so distant and cold, he was terrified. He worried that you’d never come back.

Mindstorm had told him the truth about Homelander and as angry as Ben was about that, he couldn’t understand how Homelander was also your son. He’d never heard you say anything about them taking something from you for genetic testing, never spoken about willingly giving up your genetic material.

So then how the fuck did they get it?

There was something sinister that danced on the edge of his mind, something that seemed too horrible to consider, something that meant that Ben had failed to protect you, had failed to keep the promise he made eighty years ago.

But deep down Ben wondered if it was true, because as much as he knew you hated killing people, this seemed different than you usual reaction.

He held you closer to him, curving his body around your back as you slept soundlessly. You were holding on to his hand while you did, fingers entwined with his, holding it against your chest while you found some peace.

Ben was honestly waiting for another nightmare. Each time you’d fallen asleep over the past three days you’d woken up gasping for air, shaking uncontrollably, with tears rolling down your cheeks. Ben did what he could, brought you into his lap and held you tight, reassuring you that it was okay, that it was only a dream.

He was trying not to be angry, but he was. He was furious when he got back to Legend’s two days ago and discovered that you were gone, that you’d left to go off and do God knows what with Homelander flying around. Rosemary refused to tell him where you were only told him that you left but that you’d be back. Ben hated that you made him wait around like a fucking woman waiting for her husband to come home.

He had intended on yelling at you, at making sure you knew how pissed off he was that you did the one thing he told you not to do, but then he saw you land in Legend’s front yard looking like you had taken a shower in someone’s blood and he couldn’t. Not when he feared that the blood was yours and not when he saw how broken you were.

Ben had loved you for a long time, understood you, saw how strong you were, saw that you always spoke your mind no matter what, and to see you like this was… petrifying. He didn’t know what had happened, didn’t understand how something you learned could effect you this much.

He too was still reeling from the revelation that Homelander was his son, felt an even greater sense of betrayal because Vought should have let him give the team to his son, pass it off like a king giving up his throne. And after the night that he had spent with you all those years ago, Ben was ready to give it up, to walk away and give you the life that you always wanted away from the spotlight.

Ben figured that Stan had told you Homelander was your son, and maybe that’s what this was. Ben had been dreading the conversation with you when he got back to Legends, the conversation in which he was going to have to tell you that Homelander was your son too. He didn’t want to hurt you all over again with news like that.

I guess I don’t have to.

Ben thinks to himself listening to the soft beat of your heart, pushing his face further into your hair where it hangs over your shoulders. But he's not sure that this is better.

When he wakes the bed is empty.

“Sweetheart?” Ben says looking around the bedroom. He strains his hearing to see if you’re in the bathroom or upstairs but he doesn’t hear you. Fear grips his heart.

Fuck. Where did she go?

Thunder shakes the house, rattling the windows as Ben looks around the room, brief flashes of lightning illuminates the vintage furniture, but you aren't sitting on anything. The sliding glass doors on the back wall of the bedroom are open, allowing rain to sweep through onto the carpets, water flooding towards your now cold side of the bed.

Shit.

Ben all but jumps out of the bed and rushes to the sliding glass doors, looking beyond into the darkness of Legend’s backyard. Lightning skates across the night flashing bright white, and catching where you stand in the grass. You’re looking up at the sky, soaked to the bone, but seemingly unnerved by the weather.

“Sweetheart?” Ben shouts over the sound of the thunder, but you don’t move. “Are you okay? Did you have another nightmare?”

“It’s not a nightmare.” You murmur into the storm, your eyes still focused on the sky, looking up at something that he can't see.

“What do you mean?” Ben gets closer to you, his feet sinking into the wet grass, rain saturating his clothes every second he stands out there with you. Ben was trying to understand, was trying his best to do what you needed, but he was worried that he was failing, that maybe he needed to take you to a hospital. He wasn't sure how to explain that to anyone if he did take you to one.

If anything he thought that you'd want to talk things out with Rosemary, but you hadn't wanted anything to do with her at all. That was the most surprising, that you didn't want to speak to her, didn't want her around. She had tried to come down to the bedroom, but you hadn't looked at her, you'd only clung tighter to Ben and said no. He wanted to know why, what Stan had told you to make you not want anything to do with her.

He was happy that Lou hadn't come down with her, he didn't want Lou to see you like this, didn't want it to haunt her the same way it was haunting him. He had heard Lou ask about you when he was laying in the basement beside you, and she had found him in the kitchen getting you something to eat and had hugged him tight and asked where you were. There were tears in her eyes when she did so and Ben told her that you weren't feeling well, but that he was taking care of you. There was a hand-drawn card on your bedside table from her filled with a picture of Lou holding out a bouquet of lavender to you that she asked him to give you.

“It really happened.” You close your eyes, head tilted up at the sky.

Lightning crackles across it, striking close to where you're standing, but you don't move an inch.

Ben stops mid-step. Your words sink into his soul, burn against his ribcage, anger surging up to replace the chill of the rain that clings to his skin. Because it meant he failed. It meant that the promise Ben made to you all those years ago was worthless, that he'd failed to protect you.

He thinks about all the time he wasted with other women, chasing after them, ignoring you. He thinks about all the moments he should have spent with you instead.

Maybe I would have figured it out if I wasn't so damn selfish. If I hadn't fucking cared about those stupid movies, or commercials, or the shitty interviews. I failed because I didn't put her first and I allowed this to happen.

“Stan told me.” You continue. "I wasn’t supposed to remember, but my mind knew. It was trying to tell me all these years but I just ignored it. Fucking pushed it away because I thought my mind was messed up from living this long. But it really happened."

“When?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that he said they did it when you were on location shooting a film. That they were too afraid to take me when you were still there.”  You're still not quite looking at him.

Ben felt the words like a punch to the gut. Why did I ever shoot any of those stupid films? Why didn't I take her with me? Why didn't I make up some stupid reason why I needed her there with me? Why didn't I tell her sooner how much she meant to me?

Ben remembered the first time you had the nightmare in front of him, he had just gotten back from shooting a film overseas, one that he could barely remember only that he literally had sand in every crevice of his body after each day of shooting. He remembered how happy he was to see you when you answered the door of your small apartment, how you smiled at him, but you seemed more tired than usual. Ben had missed you more than he knew, he had tried to call while he was away, but you hadn't picked up. He remember thinking that was odd. You always picked up the phone or at least always called him back, but you hadn't.

“They knew I’d say no. Knew that I wouldn’t want to raise a child under Vought’s watchful eye and instead of respecting that, they-" You stop mid sentence, your body has begun to glow bright purple, not just your eyes, there's a thin film of purple radiating out from your body, tracing your outline with a heavy hand, glowing brighter than the lightning that flashes across the sky. "Stan wasn't even ashamed. He was proud of what they made. Proud of what they did to our son."

As soon as you utter the word 'son', the ground begins to shake under Ben's feet, grass shreds in the air all around him, and the storm grows worse by the second. There's a terrible cracking sound and the trees on the edge of Legend's property snap, loosing their limbs to flashes of purple energy that wash away into the darkness with the force of your power.

Ben could feel the same power trying to push him back from you, push him inside the house, but he fought it, continuing to take more steps towards you.

“After all these years he wasn’t afraid of me. He was afraid that you would show up and make him pay.” Ben can see your body shake. “Everyone was always just afraid of you. All those years I worked so hard to make sure you didn’t kill anyone and for what? So they could take advantage of me?”

Your body begins to rise off the ground, glowing brighter and brighter. Until Ben almost has to look away, his body still being forced backwards. In all his years of watching you use your powers, he's never seen you do anything remotely like this. This didn't seem like just telekinesis and Ben wondered who else had killed you over the years, if it had happened before and you just hadn't cared to tell him, or if it had happened in the years he'd been away.

"Sweetheart please." Ben tries to say again, but it's swallowed up in the howling of the wind.

"All those years I gave Vought everything. I let them dress me, tell me what to say, inject me with that shit. I was everything they wanted me to be, and they used me just like I was a fucking doll for them to play with!" Ben can hear your teeth clenching together in rage, your powers spiking again so that now there is shredded earth, grass, and trees, whirling around the two of you swirling together in a vortex that flashes with purple energy. "But no more. They're all going to pay."

"Y/n-"

You were still rising off the ground getting further and further from Ben's reach and he was scared. He'd never seen you like this before, never seen you lose control or seen you this angry. Sure he pissed you off and you'd occasionally throw a couch around the room, but this was almost insane.

Fuck I should stop pissing her off.

Ben could feel his own rage surging in his chest when he understood exactly what Vought took away from you, when he understood exactly what Vogelbaum had done. But at the same time he was ashamed that he hadn't been there for you, that he hadn't been able to protect you from them, and that he hadn't known the first time you had that fucking nightmare and woke up screaming when he was in bed beside you.

"Sweetheart!" Ben finally shouts, grabbing your hand. As soon as his skin touches yours he feels like he's stuck his finger in an electrical socket,  as if the energy from your body jumping into his is almost painful, but he doesn't let go. He couldn't lose you to this, whatever the hell this was, wouldn't allow himself to lose you again.

Your glowing purple eyes flick to his. "Are you going to tell me that I shouldn't do that?" Your voice is cold. "That my revenge isn't as important as yours?"

"No." Ben shakes his head. "It's important. It's justified. I hate that they did that to you, that I wasn't there to stop them. That I didn't understand until now."

"It's not your fault what happened to me." You shout back, eyes flashing bright purple. "This isn't about you. This isn't your fight!" The vortex swirls faster around the two of you now, blurring everything beyond. "This is about what I need to do!"

"Yes it is!" His hand tightens in yours. "It is my fight if it involves you. I love you and that's what it means. It means us working together-"

"I don't need you to protect me! I am strong enough to do this on my own. I am so sick of people underestimating me and what I can do."

"Y/n please, listen to me!" Ben pleads. He could feel you slipping away and it scared him more than anything he'd been through in his entire life. He wasn't afraid to admit that. The look on your face and the display of power was so different than the person he knew.

You watch him silently, body glowing brightly in the night, floating off the ground as you stare down at him.

"I don't want you to do this alone." Ben says. The storm was still raging, thunder shaking the ground, lightning surging all around him. "I'm asking you to let me help you. Please."

"What?"

"You say that I hide what I'm really feeling, but you do too. You still hide things away from me. You think that you have to be perfect, controlled, some version of yourself that has everything together all the time, but you don't." Ben gently tries to pull you down an inch from the sky. "You've done that since we were kids, always done what you think is expected of you. That's why you almost married that asshole, because you were afraid to just let it go. So I'm asking you to do that now, to let go of all of it, because I promise that I will be right here for through every step of it."

"But-"

"I know I made promises when you chose me, and I'm sorry I let you down, I'm sorry that I let this happen, that I wasn't able to protect you from them." Ben's voice breaks and for a moment he sees a flash of the two of you in your bedroom the night that he asked you to come with him, how young and innocent you were, how much you cared for him reflected in your eyes. "So I'm promising you this now. That I will protect you, that I won't let anything happen to you and that you never have to be alone ever again. Because I love you. So please, just let go and let me in.

The whirlwind slows around the two of you, still ripping up the ground and the grass in the backyard.

"I have to be in control." You say in almost whisper.

"Why?" Ben asks.

"Because if I'm not I don't know what will happen!" You snap. "Someone dies, or you leave again, or they come to take Rosie or Lou away and I can't-" You shake your head, the glow on your body fading for a moment. "I'm not strong enough-"

"Sweetheart, you don't have to be." Ben says, and this time he pulls you from the air so that your bare feet swish in the grass again. His hand falls under your chin to raise your face to his. "That's why I'm here. You don't have to do this alone anymore, you don't have to carry this all on your shoulders. I am here and I am not going anywhere."

"But-"

"Please. I'm asking you to give me your pain, your anger, your burdens, your sorrows. Give me all of you. It's not going to scare me away." Ben whispers, taking your face between his hands. "I know that in the past I haven't been as dependable, but nothing is going to scare me away. I love all of you, even the pieces of yourself you keep from me, that you think you have to, to keep me here with you."

Fuck I sound like a pussy, but it's true. She's all I have and all I've ever wanted. And why shouldn't I say this to her? It's what she says to me. It's what she tells me and I believe her. I believe her when she says that I can rely on her, that I don't have to be strong all the time, that I can break.

He searches your face, brushes his thumbs across your rain soaked cheeks. I just want her to know that she can too and trust that I'll be here for her.

The vortex stops, the pieces of earth, trees, and grass falling to earth, the purple fading from your eyes as they do. You're no longer glowing, no longer a beacon in the night, you're just you, the woman that Ben loves more than life itself, and the woman that he thought he would never have ever again.

"I love you too." You whisper leaning into him, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck to lean your forehead against his.

He can feel the curves of your body against him, your wet clothes sticking like a second skin, hair stuck to your head, but you're just as beautiful as you always have been. And Ben understands that this time, he's not going anywhere, that he's going to stay with you for the rest of his life, and nothing can keep him away.

Reader POV

"Mindstorm told me." Ben says dragging his hand up your arm. You were laying on his chest in the bedroom, hair still wet, but now wearing dry clothes.

The residual thrum from your use of power was still charging through your cells, but lessened. Honestly you didn't remember going outside, didn’t remember standing in the storm, didn't know how long you were out there before Ben came out.

You were glad he did. You weren't in your right mind when you were out there, and if he hadn't come out you were sure that you were going to charge Vought yourself, tear it down and send it to hell where it belonged. You still wanted to, but you wanted Ben to do it with you. He was right, you didn't have to do it alone, and you didn't want to.

You nestled further into him, remembering what he shouted outside, remember how he held your face with the storm raging around him. He looked so afraid. You had only seen him look scared a handful of times in your life, but out there in the storm was different. It shocked you back into reality, brought you back from the pit, made you feel like you again for the first time in days.

And what he said hauled you further out of the darkness. You had said it to him countless times since he came back, that he didn't have to hide away what he was feeling from you, but for him to say it to you meant that he was listening. To you, Ben saying that made all of this more real, that he really wanted every part of you, that he loved you as much as he said.

The storm still raged outside, thunder occasionally shaking the windows, and lightning flashing behind the closed curtains, but you stayed curled up against Ben. Your head was tucked under his chin, arm wrapped over his bare chest. He hadn't put a shirt back on after the two of you changed, but you weren't complaining about that, there wasn't anything to complain about when it came to that. He was just so wonderfully warm, that you didn’t think you would get used to it. You also hoped that you didn't turn radioactive because of him, but you being here with him, laying on his warm chest made it worth it.

"Did he know about what Vogelbaum did?" You whisper.

Ben's muscles tense beneath your body when you ask that question. You knew that it hurt him, that it made him feel like he'd failed to protect you, but you didn't blame him for that. Even if he had been around, you knew that Vogelbaum would have figured out a way to do it, to get around him. And you didn't like it when Ben felt like he failed, it made you think about all the terrible things that his father used to yell at him when he was a kid. Ben had told you bits and pieces, over the years, and it was enough to make you want to travel back in time and kill his father yourself.

Honestly, you thought about killing him all the time when you weren't a supe as well.

"No. He didn't know that. All he knew was that Homelander was our son." When Ben says the word son he hesitates as if it's difficult for him.

It was also difficult for you, understanding that you had another kid and one that you didn't have anything to do with for forty years was hard. You suddenly understood how Ben felt about Rosemary.

"I should have known." You mutter into his chest.

"What do you mean?"

You sigh loudly. "At the premiere, Vogelbaum was pushing for me to come to the lab, said he was working on raising the "next generation of heroes" or whatever. And then Stan tried to come by and get me to do the same thing after you died, but I broke his nose."

"I remember." Ben mutters.

"What do you mean you remember?" You sit up to stare at him.

Ben raises an eyebrow. "I might have been there with Countess, but do you really think I wasn't listening to everything that was happening around you? He was dancing with you, I was making sure that everything was okay." Ben clears his throat awkwardly. "I mean I know that there was a lot happening that night, but I still wanted to make sure that you were okay."

"I wasn't."

"Yeah I-um- I know." His eyes flick away in shame.

"Ben?"

"Yeah?" He murmurs.

You gently turn his face back to look at you, fingertips under his chin. His green eyes are downcast, brows furrowed, lips pulled down into a frown. You knew how much he was still beating himself up for everything that happened in the past, and it was difficult for you to pretend that you didn't still feel the sting. But you knew he wasn't going to do it again, you believed that.

"It's okay. We're starting over. Just you and me." You brush your thumb over his bearded cheek. "No one else. This time what we're doing, it's different, it all feels different. Don't you think so? I mean I still love you just as much as I always have, but I-" You could feel yourself blush just a little, you weren't sure if Ben could feel that too.

"I know. It does." Ben whispers gazing at you. His fingers push back the strands of your hair that have fallen forward into your face. The way he's looking at you is the same way he did the morning you woke up on his chest after you slept together for the firs time. "I love you too Sweetheart." His lips find yours, gently pulling you up further on his chest so he can kiss you deeply, show you how much you mean to him, and you can’t help but smile into his mouth, feeling warm and happy for the first time in ages. His love dragging you out of the darkness that loomed over you and consumed your heart when Stan told you the truth about Homelander's heritage. 

You sit up, folding your legs beneath you, pulling Ben's right hand into your lap, gently tracing the lines with a finger tip, noting the rough callouses that he'd developed over the years. You weren't really sure what to say next.

Ben sits up so that he's leaning towards you. "Are you feeling better?"

"A little." You continue to trace the lines. His hands were so much bigger than yours, everything about Ben was big, but you liked his hands, mostly because how small yours were when you held his. "I think destroying Legend's backyard was just the right amount of therapy."

"That was a little much, but I'm glad you're feeling better. I was-" Ben swallows. "I was really worried about you."

"I know." You whisper. "It's never been that bad before. The last time I got close was-" You stop mid-sentence.

"Forty years ago?" Ben asks quietly.

You nod.

"I figured." Ben scoots closer towards you so that his thigh is brushing against yours. "I'm-"

"No." You squeeze his cheeks, eyes narrowing. "No more saying sorry. Not again."

"Okay." Ben's gaze is still apologetic. He waits for a minute, watching you in the silence. "What are we going to do about Homelander?"

"I don't know."

It was the truth, you had no idea what to do with your supposed son. You had seen the coldness in his eyes, heard about the horrible things that he was doing to other people, the horrible things he had threatened to do, and you'd seen the way he didn’t seem to care about human life.

Then again maybe I can't judge him, not after what I did to Stan. You think, your frown deepening. Stan deserved what I did to him and my only wish is that Vogelbaum somehow survived getting his head fucking blown off so I can make him pay.

"Do you think we should try to talk to him?" Ben asks.

"I don't think that's possible."

"Why not? He's our son, somewhere deep down he's got to be willing to do that." Ben's voice rumbles up through his chest. "Maybe they brainwashed him into the person we saw at Herogasm, maybe he's just being controlled and told what to do just like we were."

"I don't think that’s possible."

"Why not?" There's an urgency in his eyes that is unfamiliar to you, almost as if he's pleading for you to understand.

But why? Yes he's our son by blood but we don't know anything about him. We haven’t been in his life for forty years, we don't have any connections to him.

"You saw how he was at Herogasm. How he was almost happy to kill Butcher, how he was happy when he tried to kill you and me. I don't know what kind of person is okay with that. I mean you and I have killed people and we feel remorse after, or there's some kind of justification, but there was something in his eyes, it's almost not human. It's predatory, it's-" You shake your head trying to comprehend it. "I don't know what the fuck Vogelbaum did to him, but there's something inside Homelander that's not able to be saved."

"You don't know that."

"Ben, do you think that I want to believe that? To believe that our son is not a good person?" You drop his hand from your lap. "It's taking everything I am not to go to him, not to try and work this out. I keep trying to tell myself that maybe all he needs is family, but I don't know."

"My old man said that blood mattered. That it was the only thing that defined family-"

"Now you want to listen to your dad?" You sigh looking at Ben who is frowning at you. "We both know that he's not exactly the best role model."

"Well neither am I okay?" Ben snaps, his eyes flashing. "Maybe he just needed someone and there was no one there. I mean I wasn't there for Rosemary, but she had you and she turned out fine!"

"That's not your fault Ben. It's not your fault that you weren't there. You can't forget that they sent you to Russia to replace you with him."

"I'm not forgetting I'm just saying that they did the same fucking thing to me!"

Your next thought fizzes to a stop in your brain. What is he talking about?

"What are you talking about?" You try to reach for him, but he pulls back from your touch.

"They force fed him all that shit about what it was to be an American, they made him a supe, they brainwashed him with all my old fucking films." He spits. "But in the lab when we got the serum the first time, they did the same thing to me. They told me that I was going to be a god, that I was going to be the symbol that America needed to get through the war, that I was everything that would save America from destruction."

"Ben." You say again, this time taking his hands and he doesn't pull away. "Ben listen to me. You were older when you became a supe, we both were. You knew what reality was, you knew what the world was like when the scientists started spouting all their crap. You were old enough to understand. Homelander was raised in a lab, he didn't have a family, he didn't have friends. He was told that he was a god every day and he's not. He was raised to believe that he was something more than human, something unbeatable."

"But-"

"They told me that too." You push his hair back out of his eyes, trailing your fingers against his forehead. "That I was a god, that everyone would want me, would look at me and understand that I was beyond human. And at the beginning maybe I believed it for a few years, but that doesn't make him anything like you or like me. He's twisted, his mind is gone, any semblance of humanity he had has been warped away into something dark. He never had any light to begin with."

"You don't know that."

"I do. I can see it in his eyes. I saw it when I fought him at the Herogasm. There's nothing left to save. He's done terrible things."

"I have too." Ben mutters.

"No. You lost control, we all do. It's unrealistic to think that it won't happen, especially not for people like us who have lived this long, but him? He did those things of his own volition, because he believed that he should or maybe it was because he believed that no one could stop him." You cup his cheek, pulling his face forward into the space between the two of you. "The things you've done you feel remorse for. I was there for you every time you messed up. I saw what it did to you, saw how broken you were when you hurt someone."

"Because I'm a hero." Ben sighs. 

"Messing up once or twice does not make you less of a hero Ben, it makes you human." You lean your forehead against his, cupping his cheeks with your palms, feeling the way his beard tickles against your skin. "But Homelander, I don't think that there's anything human left."

Ben's hand comes up to hold on to your left wrist. "Then what do we do?"

"I don't know." You sigh. "I wish I did. If you really want to try to talk to him, we can, but I don't think that it's a good idea."

"He's still our son."

"He's our blood, but I don't think that makes him our son." You murmur.

You really didn't know how to deal with any of this. You wanted to believe that there was some semblance of humanity left in Homelander, but you didn't think that there was. You hated that Ben believed that he was like his son. Maybe that was some weird misogynist thing and Ben kept thinking like father like son in his head, but there wasn't any way that Homelander could be anything like Ben. Ben wasn't around for him, wasn't in his life, but maybe.

Ben pulls you back down on his chest once more, and you nestle into him once more, your head directly over his heart, the warmth of his skin comforting against your cheek.

"I think Noir knew." You breathe, tracing your hand over Ben's right pec.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Stan kinda hinted that he did, said that Noir was obsessed with me after I saved his life-"

"When did you save his- oh." Ben sighs.

"I think I should have seen that coming, given how much he kept showing up to my sparring sessions, the interviews, even some of the commercial shoots I had he seemed to always be around." You frown with a sigh. "I can't believe that I didn't know he was stalking me."

"What?"

"Stan said he kept breaking in to my apartment when I wasn't there, that he stole my necklace, you know? The one my dad got me for my birthday-"

Ben sits back so he can look you in the eye. "You're shitting me right?"

"No. That's what Stan said." You shrug. "Might have been just Stan trying to take some of the heat off, but that's what he said."

"That piece of shit." Ben almost growls. You can see the flash of jealousy and possession in his eyes that makes your heart thud a little faster in your chest. He clears his throat. "You-um- you never liked him right?"

"What?"

"The two of you were never that close?"

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Well you did save his life."

"Ben I've saved plenty of people from your temper. But no, I never liked him that way. Irving was sweet, but he was always so eager to prove himself to Stan it was just sad."

"Good."

"Why?" You sit up further, smirking at him. "Does that make you jealous? For you to think that Noir and I were together?"

Ben's eyes darken. "Watch it Sweetheart."

"Watch what?" You bat your eyes innocently. "I'm just asking a simple question."

"You keep poking the bear and you're not gonna like what happens."

"Poking the bear?" You snort sitting up and poke him in the ribs. "Are you the bear in that scenario?" You poke him again with a wicked smirk.

"Yes."

"Hmm. Well I think you're all talk. Because I have definitely poked you several-"

You're on your back in a second with Ben hovering over you, his green eyes shining as he flashes a roughish grin at you. One of his hands is pressed into the pillow next to your head, the other is at your waist, slipping beneath your t-shirt to rub circles over your hip bone with his thumb. "You were saying?" His voice is the low rumble that makes it hard for you to think.

You clear your throat. "I was saying that," You thread your hands behind the back of his head, working your fingers into his hair. "You have nothing to be jealous about."

"Really?"

"Mhhmm." You smile sheepishly. "Because it's always been you. No one else. Not Howard, Not Noir, just you." His hair is soft between your fingertips, his gaze unbreakable.

Ben returns your smile and collapses on top of you. You gasp out a breath, in a loud 'oof' sound as he does. His arms go around your waist and he buries his head in your chest breathing deeply. "I like it when you say that." He murmurs, turning his head so he can look up at you from your chest, with a smile that catches you in your heart.

"I know." You continue to scratch your fingertips through his hair.

"Sweetheart?"

"Yeah?" You breathe as you close your eyes, comforted by the weight of his body on top of yours. It was familiar, almost like he was a weighted blanket that took all your anxiety away. You felt safe with his arms wrapped around your waist, as if no one could touch you. You needed that now, needed that after you learned that without Ben someone had taken you from your home.

"I know that I can't say that there hasn't been anyone else." He whispers. "But you're the only one who mattered. You're the only woman that I've ever loved, and I swear that as long as I live I'll never love anyone else. You are all I've ever wanted and everything I thought I'd never have."

"You have me Ben." You whisper, beginning to fall asleep. "You always have, you always will."

And with those words you drift into the first fulfilling sleep you'd had in days, wrapped in the warm cocoon of Ben's love, allowing it to send you under into oblivion.

A/N: I know this one was mostly fluff and talking, but I thought that the reader deserved that after everything with Stan, and also after she well -you know- made a tornado in Legend's backyard. We're going to pretend that no one else heard it. 😂

As always thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to my taglist please let me know :)

And if you'd like to read something a little more bantery then try my series: Take A Chance On Me

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[bookvvitch]

♡ Kissed By The Baddest Villain ♡

Link To Masterlist

WC: ~3,000

CW: dirty talk, unprotected sex, oral sex, praise kink, fem dom, teasing, heavy petting. Proof read but no beta.

This chapter is possibly the horniest thing I've ever written lmao. Enjoy 💜

Chapter 7: Good Boy

“Gah, son of a bitch!” You drop one of six bags of groceries you’re bringing in at once.

You hate when it’s your turn being the grocery shopper. It seems like you always get stuck with this shitty job, probably because you’re the least recognizable out of everyone—which you do understand. But still, everyone here eats like a horse, so you end up having an entire two carts full of goods to bring in. You’re already pent up and mad just thinking about how you have to put this all away.

Unfortunately, there’s a meeting for the Vanguard Action Squad going on, so while everyone would normally be scrambling to help you bring everything in, you’re dealing with it alone this time. 

“Piss, fuck, shit and hell,” you mutter under your breath as you drag the bag you’ve dropped into the bar with your foot.

Twenty minutes later and you’ve finally got all of the groceries put away. You nod proudly at your work, then turn to see Dabi leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets and blue eyes fixed on your form. 

You startle, “Jesus. How long have you been here?” 

“Long enough,” he rasps, whiffs of smoke on his breath. 

“And you didn’t offer to help me because...?"

Dabi grins like he knows the punchline of a joke he hasn’t even told, “Thought maybe you could use some punishment for going out like that after I told you not to once already,”

Your brows pinch in confusion before you realize he’s talking about the leggings you’re wearing. Regular, commonplace, black leggings that he apparently thinks he can reprimand you for leaving the house in, despite seeing several other women in the exact same pair at the store. 

Right. 

Because he thinks he’s the one in control right now.

That's alright, this can be a good lesson for him.

“Sit on the couch,” your voice has grown husky, low in your chest, sending a shiver of anticipation down his spine. 

He scoffs, “You think I'm just gonna—“

You narrow your eyes and dole out, “I said sit,”

Dabi isn’t sure what the hell has come over him, but he does as he’s told. He listens to your command, skulking silently to the couch, then taking a seat dead in the center as an act of rebellion so you won’t have a seat for yourself. You walk over to him calmly, like a stalking predator, a glint in your gaze that says you’re up to something. He gulps down the knot at his Adam’s apple, doing his best to stay still, concealing the shake in his hands as he peers up at you through his eyelashes. 

“Good boy,” you coo at him with a grin, and his breath hitches, eyes shot wide. 

“Don’t,” he clears his throat, “D-don’t fuckin call me that,”

“You don’t like it?” you tug at his earrings playfully.

He blushes bright pink at your question, pursing his lips, avoiding your eyes in the hopes that looking at the floor will quell the heavy stirring in his pants. He shouldn’t like this. Dabi is the one who should be in charge right now, not you. This is wrong.

So why is he this fucking hard right now?

“I didn’t say that,” his voice cracks, you taking control having made him feel bashful and small. 

“That’s good,” you sit on his lap, eliciting a grunt from him, “Because I think you’re the one that needs punished. But don’t worry,” you lick your lips, “I’ll reward good behavior,”

Your eyes flick towards him from over your shoulder, pupils blown out, the pheromones coming off of you close to knocking him back. 

Okay. Calm down. He’s been through way too much to let this get a rise out of him, and there’s no chance in hell he can give you the satisfaction of knowing that this is absolute torture. He tries to think about horrible things to keep himself from becoming too excited, but it’s too late; you have, quite literally, gotten a rise out of him. You press yourself further into his lap, sighing, planting your hands on either thigh. 

Fuck, okay, just concentrate. 

He shifts to rearrange the pressure in his pants, and a small noise gets caught up in your throat, something breathy, a wisp of a moan. Dabi pauses, aware now that his role is the prey you’ve been stalking in the night, before he gives another experimental nudge of his hips. You sound off with his movements once more, your cheeks pinched rose, lashes fluttering over top those starry eyes. They’re glassy and warm when you look at him, rocking into him with more purpose. 

“Fuuuck,” he smears his face with his hand, sweating, pulse in his fingertips, “If you don’t stop I’m gonna take you seriously,”

Two pairs of eyes meet when you tell him, “Then take me seriously,”

He doesn’t recognize the needy little whimper that rackets from him, rutting his cock against the searing heat of your sex beneath your clothes, matching your thrusts and grinds, eager hands grabbing at the inner plush of your thighs to spread them more. 

“There you go, good boy. Nnn, yeah. You like that?” You slip your clit up and down the length of him lightly as you murmur into his ear. 

He nods his head softly, apprehensive to show you just how much he’s enjoying the dominion you have over him. 

“Say it, then. Say you want my pussy,”

Dabi swallows thickly, maddened by the delicious writhing of your body, by the needful expression you wear in spite of the command in your voice. You haven't hardly touched him and he's already wrecked. And he has a feeling you won't relent until he fully admits that.

“Ahh—God, fuck, I-I want your pussy,” he stammers unsteadily from behind you. 

You trace a featherlight touch up his arm, then guide his hand to your aching cunt, his breaths becoming ragged heaves as you do. He groans when he sees your lids flutter at the way he rubs you in long, laving strokes through your pants, whining and bucking beneath you quite shamelessly now, the fingers of his other hand biting into your hip, unsure if he wants to push you off or hold you in place. You pull down your shirt and place both of his rough hands at your exposed breasts, and he groans, almost painfully, while he tweaks at your nipples. The sound sends a bolt of lightening straight through your center, and you abandon trying to pace yourself, grinding on his cock once more, the noises you’re making sinful and lewd.

“Stop, wait, I—fuck, hold on,” he gasps urgently, and you turn to smile at him with a wanton deviance, ceasing the brutal rocking of your pelvis. 

“What’s gonna happen if I keep going, hmm?” You trace a finger up the pulsing length of him through his pants. 

“Mmhh, gonna.. gonna…” his brows knit, shoulders tight and tense, and you can’t help but giggle at how spent he already looks. 

“Gonna what? What am I gonna make you do?”

He groans, hips twitching involuntarily, “You’re gonna make me cum,”

“Poor thing,” you reach back to card your fingers through his hair, “We can’t have that so soon. Or maybe even at all, since this is a punishment,”

You shift to face him, cupping his cheeks with your hands, then press your lips against his, tongue ring clicking the backs of your teeth, savoring the little grunts that flit from him in gentle puffs. He prods at your cunt sloppily, fingers petting you roughly, and you gasp at the pressure, rolling your hips in little circles to encourage the same movements of his digits. The coil within you tightens, winding deep and close to snapping, worsened by the way he’s panting. His eyes are cracked open just enough to watch your expression as he dips his hand past your waistband, the tip of his index finger working your clit, a pleased gasp escaping you when he moans into your mouth. 

Arousal has clouded his mind until he no longer cares what comes out of him, pleading with you, “Lemme eat your pussy,”

As soon as you nod, he’s got you slung over his shoulder, wordlessly carrying you into his bedroom. He closes the door behind him with his foot, then throws you onto his bed, calloused hands ripping off your leggings and then dragging up your thighs. He pulls you to the edge of the mattress, eye contact unbroken as he takes the elastic of your panties between his teeth, and you yelp when they snap back against you. With a deep inhale, he licks you through the material with one long stroke, palming at his cock as your breath hitches. 

“How do you like it?” He asks darkly, voice having taken an octave lower. 

Your body burns along with the cerulean of his irises, cunt clenching around nothing as you try to hold onto what’s left of your power grab, “Lick my clit and put your fingers inside of me,”

He pulls down the damp panties that cover you, clicking his tongue, breath shaking. 

“And I thought I was worked up,” he murmurs, “You’re fuckin soaked, doll,”

You buck into his face, and he grins wolfishly, the tables having turned now that you’ve shown your hand. He pulls you apart with his thumbs and ghosts his lips across your apex, gentle kisses tracing the little bud, and you writhe at the sensation of his panting against your sex. He chuckles mirthlessly as you let out a heady moan, slides two fingers into the velvet of your walls to feel you clamp around him. 

“You like feelin full?” He asks into your twitching cunt, and your desperate nod has him adding another digit as he growls, “There ya go, babe,”

“Oh, fuck, Dabi,” you mewl, arching your back, toes curling in your socks. 

He flicks his tongue across your clit, slow and methodical, a faint whisper of a touch that has you reeling for more. The ball of his tongue ring grazes you gently, sending your walls fluttering. You're not going to stand being the one getting teased like this. He makes a loud, strangled sound when you grab a fistful of his hair, pressing him by the back of his head into your pussy, muffling his cries as his eyes roll back. 

“Open,” you pat his cheek with your free hand, and he complies, hanging out his tongue so you can glide yourself across it. 

He works his fingers in and out of your sopping cunt, arousal dripping down to his wrist, and he curls his digits into the soft ledge within you until you cry out for him. His eyes are glazed and half-lidded, a groan rippling through his chest, cock pulsing within his pants as you graze your clit over the firm muscle of his tongue. 

“Take your cock out for me,” you yank his hair as you speak. 

“Uh-huh,” he obliges with his mouth full of your pussy, too fucked-out to disagree, his free hand releasing his dick from the confines of his zipper and relieving some of the growing pressure there. 

You yank his hand to your mouth, licking a big, wet stripe up his palm, “Play with it,”

He slams his eyes closed, brows tilted up as he pumps himself, heavy and hard in his hand. 

“Good fucking boy. Ahh—now suck,”

Dabi takes your clit in between his lips, capturing it fully, his tongue laving against the underside as he suckles your swollen bud. The moans pitch higher in your throat, sweeping through gasping exhales, nails scratching at his shoulder blades and causing him to grunt in approval.

“O-oh, just like that—just like that, Dabiii-aahhh!”

He runs his grip harshly over his shaft, thumbing his tip when his hand reaches the top, precum leaking to mix with your spit and lubricate him further. Your legs are shaking, hips stuttering as he coaxes you into an orgasm so intense that you’re seeing stars, and he hums against you when he feels the clamping of your cunt around his fingers, little moans and whimpers slipping pitifully from him as he watches you fall apart all over his face, feels you spasm around him.

You pull at his shoulders until he parts from you, panting, mouth glistening with your slick, his eyes glassy with lust. His length bobs in front of you, long and dripping, rosy and flushed at the tip, curved up slightly and so hard that it touches his stomach when it bounces.

You hum, a bit shocked at the size of him, “Pretty cock for a pretty boy,”

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his face burns pink, stating lowly, “I’m not pretty,”

“You are, though. You’ve got such pretty eyes, pretty lips, a cute little nose,” he looks awkwardly to the side, unsure of what to do with your praise, trying in vain to figure out a way to tell you just how beautiful he thinks you are. These thoughts are knocked loose when you purr, “Now c’mere,"

With shaking arms, you guide him until you’ve lined up his dick to where it rests teasingly between your folds, squeezing him at the base and dragging your still sensitive clit along his length. 

“Hah—lemme fuck you before I bust, holy shit,” He’s close to begging, the words sitting right on the tip of his tongue. 

“Well that doesn’t sound like much of a punishment,” you hiss through your teeth and circle his tip against your apex, the buildup of another orgasm tightening in your cunt, “‘Sides, this feels really good,”

“C’mon, Jesus, mmmnn.. You lemme lick your pussy. F-fuck, please,” his voice falters at the end, dangerously close to cumming his fucking brains out. 

“Did you like it?”

He nods his head, brows knitted, eyes falling closed, “You taste so good. Made all those noises for me. Wanna hear more’a that. Want you bad—want you so bad,”

Unable to withstand the temptation any longer, aching to be filled, you slip him into the damp plush of your center, unraveling as he stuffs himself in to the hilt, broken cries bleating into the air as he gasps at the feeling of being inside you.

“Goddamn, babe, you cummin again already? Fuck, yeah, you are,” he only gets a couple of thrusts in before the dam starts to break, babbling, drunk off of you, “That feels good. Oh, fuck, feels so good, tight little cunt milking my cock like this. You like that, doll? Yeah ya do, just look at you. Gonna cum in this wet pussy while you cream on my fuckin cock—I’m—I’m gonna—ahh, fuck!”

He yanks your legs apart, convulsing atop you, fingers gripping into the meat of your thighs as he whines, ruined, completely broken after experiencing the burning heat of your pleasure. You can feel him pulsing as he empties himself, throbbing, electricity racing up and down his spine. He's never felt anything so good as having you cum all over him.

“Good job,” you pat him on the cheek, “mmm, such a good boy, fucking me with that pretty cock,”

He kisses the side of your neck, chest heaving, bathing in the post-sex bliss of softening within you. 

“You’re so crazy,” he whispers. 

“For sleeping with you or thinking you’re pretty?”

He chuckles under his breath a bit, “Both,”

With a grunt, he pulls from your walls, watching as his cum leaks from your raw pussy, the spasms leftover from your orgasm causing rivets of white to gush onto your thighs. 

“So hot,” he whispers to himself. 

Dabi takes off the shirt he was wearing to dab you clean, careful not hurt you, gentle in a way you hadn’t expected of him. 

“You don’t think you’re pretty?” You ask as he crumples the shirt, throws it to the floor. 

He looks at you as if you’re stupid. 

“Are you stupid?”

Well, you guess you should’ve seen that question coming. 

“No, I just think you’re really cute,”

Dabi snarls, gestures to his entire body, points at the staples on either side of his face. 

“So?” He rolls his eyes at your remark, “No, really, I think you’re cute. Those things just give you character,”

You cuddle up to him, his body stiff as a board, pressing your head to hear the beating of his heart. He tries to shrug you off, but you remain steadfast. 

“This is what matters, even if you don’t think you’re a pretty boy like I do. You’ve got a good heart,”

“Gonna harvest my organs or something?”

Grinning, you tap him playfully on the arm, “No, jackass. I meant you’re a good guy. You’ve been nice to me since I got here. Even that thing you said about not liking the way I dress was because you didn’t want people looking at me,”

“Actually, doll, I didn’t want you figuring out how you drive me wild in those tight clothes,” the words escape his mouth before he can stop himself. 

“Well, either way. Don’t sell yourself short,” you tell him with a stretch. 

“We, uh.. we gonna do this again?” He fidgets with the button on his pants as he asks you this. 

You shrug, “If I feel like it,”

“What? C’mon, that felt good. I know it did, you came twice. I can make it feel even better if you’ll let me fuck you right next time,” he tries not to seem too eager to convince you.

“I dunno,” your voice lilts, “depends on how well you behave for me, I guess,”

“Behave for you?” Dabi repeats, watching you practically skip out of the room.

Behave.

So he has to play along with whatever game you've got in mind for him, then.

You’re going to make him absolutely crazy.

[nephilimeq]

Stuck in the Middle With You

Prompt: Clingy Boyfriend

@bucktommyfluffebruary

A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62721625/chapters/160733068

Buck was annoyed.

No, scratch that—he was pissed.

It had been over seventy-two hours—and he still hadn’t seen his boyfriend. Hell, he had been forced to go back to his apartment because there was no point in going over to Tommy’s house because he wouldn't even be there for another forty-eight hours. Somehow—he had no idea how—the end of Bucks forty-eight had overlapped with the beginning of Tommy’s seventy-two, and the only thing he wanted to do was pull his hair out by the roots and scream into the void.

…But he couldn’t, so instead he was doing the next best thing: drinking with Eddie and complaining about his life.

“Dude, you’ll be fine,” his friend reassured him as he sat next to him at the bar at a quarter past eight. “it’s not like you guys haven’t gone five days without seeing each other since you two started dating…”

Buck didn’t look up at him, casting his eyes down towards his glass.

“Seriously?!”

He let out a whine as he stretched out almost flat against the bar and reluctantly admitted, “Yeah, we’ve kinda been attached at the hip—”

“Or other body parts,” Eddie muttered before taking a swig of his beer and Buck glared at him and said, “Hey! No interrupting!” and threw a rogue peanut shell at him, and then added, “I mean, we still text, call, and video chat, but…god, it’s just not the same, you know?” and then took a long drag of his own beer, thinking about the fact that Tommy would reprimand him for choosing such a generic brand instead of going for one of the nicer craft beers with a better flavor.

But he didn’t want a better flavor, he wanted to drown his sorrows and didn’t need something like flavor getting in the way of that. Besides, he wouldn’t have appreciated the taste anyway, far too focused on trying to numb the longing feeling in his chest that felt as though it was turning into a cavernous hole.

Eddie gave him a look and said, “Look, if you miss him so much, then why don’t you swing by the 217?” and Buck shot him a look.

“Because, they’re on standby for the fires and their schedule is all over the place! And-and I don’t wanna just, you know, show up like the clingiest boyfriend in the world! I’m not some, some…tween girl who’s obsessed, you know?”

“You’re not? Coulda fooled me,” his friend drawled as he turned and leaned with his back to the bar and Buck found himself glaring at him all over again, getting slightly annoyed at his friend’s attitude, and threw another peanut at him, thrilled when it hit his chin and then fell into the front pocket of his flannel, and he muttered into the crook of his folded arm, “Ha, three points,” knowing that if Tommy had been there he would have appreciated him making the basketball joke.

Eddie merely shot him an arched eyebrow.

“You’re acting like Christopher, right now, you do know that, right?” he said as he fished out the peanut and popped it into his mouth.

Buck scoffed and slowly sat up, saying, “If you’re telling me that I have the emotional maturity of a fourteen-year-old, you are way off on that mark. According to Dr. Jensen, I have the emotional maturity of a twenty-five year old.”

“Buck, you’re thirty-four.”

“Yeah, I’m still catching up. So?”

Eddie merely shook his head and took another sip from his beer while Buck cast a glance around the bar, noting that it was still a light crowd. Of course, it was the middle of the week, and eight o’clock on a Wednesday evening wasn’t exactly the hip time for people to be out drinking. God, he was pathetic.

--

“Oh, god, just call him!” Sal said, sounding thoroughly annoyed—but Tommy shook his head and said, “I can’t! He’s out with Eddie and I don’t want to bother him while he’s having a good time off shift, you know?”

“If he’s anything like you, he doesn’t know how to have a good time,” muttered Lucy from behind her cards on the other side of the table, her feet propped up on the edge. “I take that bet and raise you two skittles,” she then said, arching an eyebrow at him, and Tommy knew immediately that she was bluffing and said, “I call.”

She smirked.

“Read ‘em and weep, Kinard.”

She laid down her cards with all the confidence of someone twenty years her senior—and Tommy nodded and said, “Nice hand, Donato. Full house…which would be great if I didn’t have a straight flush,” and he laid down his hand with a smirk, and she let out a huff and dropped her legs and said, “God, I hate your poker face. You’re inscrutable.”

“It’s a gift,” he said, pulling the pile of candy towards him, popping a lemon skittle into his mouth…and found his eyes drifting towards his phone, where he had left it on the table, wondering if he should give Evan a call. He hadn’t been able to spend any time with him for two days already, and now he was stuck with another three days without him. God, he had never gone more than three days without him, and now he was going to be away from him for a total of five fucking days.

His hand twitched—and then Sal said, “For fuck’s sake, just call him!”

“Language Deluca!” shouted their captain, but he simply rolled his eyes and moved over to him, shoving his shoulder up against his.

“Look, have the two of you been apart for very long before? Anything longer than two or three days?” he asked…and Tommy reluctantly admitted, “Uh…no. We’ve never spent more than three days apart since we got back together,” and his friend let out a long sigh that lasted so long it almost seemed as though he was deflating.

He then said, “Mierda…you two are grade-a clingers, aren’t you?”

…and Tommy snorted and started to laugh and through his laughter he managed to say, “Okay, yeah, I guess we are. When we’re at home we do almost everything together,” he admitted, giving Sal a sideways glance. “I think we’re both kinda touch starved and we both need a lot of reassurance after what happened to us all those months ago. I think we’re also both a little bit afraid on some sort of subconscious level that the other person is gonna just up and leave …”

His friend turned so they were both facing the same way and said, “You two are good together. So, why don’t you text him?”

--

“…Because if I text him, then he’ll know that I can’t go more than a couple days at a time without him!” Buck explained as he stood on the other side of the pool table, moving the stick between his hands in an agitated manner. “I don’t want him to think that I’m desperate! Don’t you get that?”

Eddie glanced up at him as he lined up his shot and muttered under his breath, “I get that you’re both grade-a clingers…”

Buck shot him a look.

“You don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head and walking over to where Eddie was lining up his shot. “If I reach out first then that means I’m the clingier one! And I am not the clingier one! You’ve never seen how Tommy follows me around the apartment when he comes over…or how-how whenever I go to his place, he is constantly calling out to check in on where I am just in case so he can find me if he wants to share something with me because he thinks texting across the house is-is too…impersonal!”

At that, Eddie took his shot, missing it, and then straightened and said, “Je-sus, Buck. I’m thinking you two might be a little codependent,” and at that Buck arched an eyebrow at him as he bent over to line up his own shot and said, “Oh, big word for you. Therapy working?”

His friend shrugged.

“Eh, yeah. I guess. Still feels too much like confession to me,” he said with a pointed look, “But I think it’s working. Still—you and Tommy have a weird relationship.”

“No, we don’t,” Buck stressed, taking his own shot and sinking it without even glancing back down at the table. “We have a healthy relationship. I think the two of us are just trying to make up for lost time, you know? Those few months without him were hell for me, and for him, and now we just…I think maybe we’re just scared that one of us might come up with another reason to walk away from it and so we don’t like being away from each other for too long…”

Letting out a sigh, he went to line up his next shot…and then Eddie said, “So you’re not texting him because…?”

--

“Because if I text him, then he’ll know that I can’t go more than a few days without him,” Tommy said to Sal as they got the injured hiker into the medevac chopper. “And if he knows that, then he’ll know that I’m the clingier one, and I’m not! Do you know that Evan tries to text me across the house? I’ve told him to just let me know where he is and I can come to him, but no. He insists on being allowed to text me across the house, which is just…weird.”

From below them, the woman on the gurney lifted up a feeble hand and said, “You know, you and your husband should just sit down and talk about how to communicate when you’re feeling insecure, because that’s what I’m picking up on here,” and he quickly corrected her.

“He’s my boyfriend, not my husband.”

Sal then interjected, “But you want him to be your husband, don’t you?” and Tommy ducked his eyes and moved back to the pilot’s seat, pulling on his headset.

“I’m not talking about this with you, Sal.”

His friend shot him a look and said, “Uh, you kinda are. So just text him, already! You miss him because you love him, that’s not a bad thing,” he said as Tommy lifted the chopper into the air, heading for the hospital. “Love can make you do stupid things—like break up with someone when they ask you to move in with them,” he jabbed at him, and the airman groaned and repeated, “I am not talking with you about this! Evan and I…we can figure it out. We got back together, didn’t we?”

At that, his friend chuckled and said, “Yeah, sure, like you were the one who figured it out. Isn’t the only reason why you two got back together because Howie pulled some underhanded shit with his wife and kid in order to get you and your boy into the same room again?”

Tommy sighed.

Okay, so yeah, it had been because of Howie and Maddie that he and Evan had gotten back together…but it was because of them talking things out that they had finally decided that it was worth it.

Still, as he angled the chopper towards the direction of the hospital he thought about what Sal had been trying to say to him the entire shift—and he hated to admit it, but the man was right. He missed Evan because he was in love with him, and that wasn’t a bad thing. Hell, it was practically expected at this point in their relationship.

Tommy continued to think on it as they dropped off the injured hiker…

…and then as they landed back at the 217, he reluctantly said to Sal over the headset, “Okay, maybe you’re right.”

His friend shot him a far too smug look, and the airman was already regretting his words, especially when the other man said as they sauntered back to the main hangar, “Oh, I want that put onto a t-shirt! ‘Tommy Kinard says that Sal Deluca was right!’ This is a pretty damn good feeling! So…you’re gonna text him, right?” he prodded, and Tommy nodded and reached for his phone, feeling a small sense of relief as he saw the picture of his boyfriend smiling on his lock screen.

He smiled down at it and then swiped his phone open…where Evan was the background, and he continued to smile.

Sal playfully shoved at his shoulder with his own, saying, “Someone’s in lo-ove,” and Tommy shoved him right back, pleased when the other man stumbled.

Hesitantly, he brought up their texts and then stared at them for a moment or two, trying to get up the courage to message him first, noting that their last conversation had been about the shopping list for the cookies that Tommy had baked for the 118.

He stop midstride and stared at it…and then began to type…

--

“He’s bubbling me!” Buck said, staring at his phone in shock. He had finally caved and reached for his phone to text his boyfriend, only to see those little bubbles telling him that Tommy was texting him first.

“Yipee,” Eddie said dryly from the corner of the pool table, looking at it with a curious expression, as if expecting it to rearrange the balls for him so that he would have a better shot.

Buck ignored him and continued to stare at his screen, waiting for the message to show up—and then grinned when the words that popped up said, Hey, thinking about you. Sorry we have to spend so many days apart, babe, and he couldn’t help but feel lucky to have someone in his life who understood just how hard it was for him to be apart from the people he loved for long amounts of time, and he immediately texted back, Thinking about you, too. Miss you, along with a kissy face emoji.

Feeling reassured, he slid his phone back into his pocket and turned his attention back to the game and teased, “You gonna take your shot or what, Diaz?” and Eddie gave him a bitch-face and leaned against his pool stick and said, “Gimme a minute! Your last shot fucked me up…”

Buck rolled his eyes.

“Oh my god, you’re so dramatic! Just take the shot!”

“Well, looks like someone’s in a better mood,” his friend muttered as he bent over and took the shot, letting out another curse when the ball bounced off a bumper and went wide, setting it up perfectly for Buck’s next shot, and he grinned and set it…and in three moves he had finished the game.

Eddie pretended to be annoyed with him, but he was smiling as he said, “So, think you can manage a few more days without him?” and Buck shrugged and said, “I guess so, yeah. I just…I sleep better with him next to me, you know?” and his friend tilted his head and remarked, “Yeah, I guess I can understand that. I remember it was hard for a while after I was deployed to sleep without Shannon next to me, so I get it,” and patted his shoulder.

Buck nodded and turned back to the pool table.

“Wanna go again?”

Eddie smirked.

“Bring it on, lover boy.”

Buck scoffed and said, “Oh, c’mon, I’m not that whipped, am I?” and Eddie lifted an eyebrow and said, “Yeah, you kinda are, but that’s okay. By the way,” he said as he moved around to the other side of the table, “Are you even living at your apartment anymore? Why don’t you just move into his place?” and his heart skipped a beat.

Yeah, okay, he’d thought about it, but it was too soon, and he knew it—he had jumped the gun last time, he wasn’t going to do that again.

“Uh, I still have my lease,” he finally replied, avoiding eye contact, focusing on re-racking the balls for their next game. He didn’t have to look up to know that his friend was giving him a side eye…but Eddie said nothing, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Just three more days.

--

It was three days of torture and the shift from hell, and Tommy couldn’t quite believe that he had managed to survive. Letting out a sigh of relief, he dropped his bag as soon as he stepped inside his front door and kicked his shoes off and tossed his jacket to the side, uncaring of where anything landed…

…and then the next thing he knew, he had his arms full of his boyfriend, who immediately buried his head in his neck.

“God, I missed you,” Evan said, his voice slightly muffled from where it was pressed into his collarbone, and the airman chuckled and wrapped his arms tightly around him and said softly, “I missed you, too, babe,” and pressed a kiss to his damp curls, which told him that Evan had just gotten out of the shower. He took a deep breath, smelling his own soap on his skin, a blend of cedarwood and spearmint, and then nuzzled his nose into his hair, letting out a sigh.

Evan practically melted into him, and the feeling of his body pressed up against his was the best thing he had felt in a long time, having been spending far too much time dealing with Lucy and Sal on either side of him, their presence welcome, but not the same as the man he loved.

“As much as I love this, babe, can we move to the couch? I am beat,” Tommy muttered, and his boyfriend nodded.

Not quite letting go of each other, they made their way to the living room and then promptly crashed onto the couch, Buck laying out flat with Tommy on top of him—

—and god was that nice.

With all of his previous ‘relationships’ he had always been the big spoon because of his height and broad build…but with Evan he was able to relax into another broad chest without having to worry that he was going to crush him.

They lay there for a long while, not saying a single thing, Evan’s fingers carding through his hair, the sensation soft and lulling him into an almost sleep…but then through the haze of exhaustion, he heard him ask, “Am I…am I too clingy for you?” and Tommy snorted and said, “Nope, not at all. Actually, Sal and I talked today, and he says that I’m the clingy one of the two of us,” and he felt a chuckle run through his boyfriend’s chest as he said, “Funny enough, Eddie said the same thing about me…”

He grinned and rubbed his hand over Evan’s side, enjoying every single second of being able to touch him, and softly added, “Well, it seems to be working for us, so I say we keep on doing it.”

Buck chuckled a second time.

“I like that idea.”

He then tucked a finger under the airman’s chin and lifted his head just enough to press a kiss to his lips and Tommy moaned into the kiss and then said as they both pulled back from it, “I’ve never been happier to have a clingy boyfriend,” and Evan gave him a look.

“Damn straight.”

“Damn…gay, actually,” he teased, and was thrilled when his boyfriend groaned and rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, god, I forgot how bad your jokes are.”

“Excuse you, but I am hilarious,” Tommy retorted, lifting himself up slightly to rest his hands on Evan’s chest and prop his chin on top of his clasped hands. “You just don’t appreciate my brand of humor, Evan.”

They shared a look, both of them trying to stare down the other—and then they both broke into giggles, both of them sounding almost manic with the way their giggles dissolved into breathless gulps of laughter, neither of them able to contain themselves. Tommy knew that part of the reason why he was acting so ridiculous was because he always acted punch drunk when he was this tired, and he knew that Evan was just naturally that amused at him.

Eventually it subsided and they rested quietly against each other once more…

…and then Evan said, “I like it when you’re clingy,” and Tommy whispered back, “I like when you’re clingy, too…”

A warm silence fell, and as they lay there the stray thought entered the airman’s mind that Evan always felt like home to him, and that he spent more time at his place than back at his own apartment. Even though it felt too soon, he wanted him to move in…but not yet. It could wait a bit longer, he mused as his felt his boyfriend’s fingers tracing along his spine.

Yeah.

It could wait a bit longer.

[slayfics]

Explosive Tendencies a slow burn fan fiction about the readers developing relationship with Katsuki Bakugo.

Chapter Twenty: Planning for the School Festival.

Chapter links

After Mina dragged you out of Katsuki's room and forced you into what she called "girl's study night" a screaming match ensued between you and her.

She insisted you explain why you went "crawling back" to Katsuki when he didn't even apologize.

You kept telling her that's not how things happened, but she wasn't satisfied. To be fair you weren't giving her the whole story. But- how could you?

Katsuki had come to you confidently to vent about the guilt he had been carrying around due to All Might losing his power. Katsuki assumed it was all his fault for getting kidnapped and had been carrying that weight around all this time.

You weren't about to break his trust and out his vulnerability to all the girls in the class.

Why couldn't Mina just trust you had a good reason to be friends with him again?

"Listen, I get you have a big crush on him but- that doesn't make it ok for you to let him treat you like garbage!" Mina yelled. You felt your face become hot as the rest of the girl's mouths had dropped open. What happened to Mina waiting for you to be ready to say that? This fight was really all it took for her to expose you in front of the rest of the girls? You felt your hands begin to shake with anger.

"I don't know why you're so invested in this Ashido! Is it because you're jealous?! You're the one who's been obsessed with who likes who and going around saying you want to fall in love someday! Why do you even care what I do? It doesn't concern you!" You yelled

Mina stood stunned by your words for a moment before defeatedly exclaiming, "You're right- it doesn't concern me," and walking away.

You two hadn't talked since.

She kept her distance from you in classes and training, and in the common room you could feel her staring daggers at you any time you were near Katsuki.

You tried to brush it off and stay focused on your work, but it became increasingly annoying to feel her negative energy around you every day.

The next day in class Aizawa announced that the School Festival would be occurring as it does every year, and your class needed to choose an event to put on.

The class erupted with ideas and arguments about ideas that never reached a conclusion. Aizawa had told your class that if you didn't have an idea by morning you would be going with his idea of a public lecture.

After class, almost everyone hung around in the common room to discuss ideas. Katsuki walked past everyone discussing and said he was going to sleep.

You looked around and made eye contact with Mina who was giving you a nasty glare. You let out a sigh and followed after Katsuki.

"Tch- following me?" he asked as you stepped into the elevator with him.

"I'm not trying to stay down here with Ashido giving me side eye all night. Besides you heard them in class. They didn't care for our ideas anyway," You responded as Katsuki pressed the elevator button to the fourth floor.

Katsuki grunted in agreement. "Whatever they choose is going to be lame as hell anyway, and I don't give a fuck. I've got enough to deal with from the supplement classes for the provisional license," he said as you both made your way into his dorm.

He sat on his bed, and you sat on his rolling chair.

"How have those been anyway?" You asked, trying to keep the worry out of your voice. You knew it had to be a lot, juggling those classes on top of everything else in the hero courses at U.A. 

"I'm fine- you don't need to ask," Katsuki said then looked away from you glaring at the floor as he contemplated. " You and Raccoon Eyes still haven't talked since that day?" he asked.

Katsuki wasn't dumb, he knew Mina was upset at you because from her perspective it looked like he had ignored you for three days then seemingly came back with no explanation. He knew you didn't tell Mina the truth- how he had cried like a damn baby to you that night shortly after his fight with Deku. He was grateful you didn't- but also felt guilty for putting a wedge in your friendship with Mina.

"No," you answered. "But I don't give a damn, she's just an extra anyway, right?" You teased.

Katsuki let out an amused huff. He knew you were lying. Of course, you cared. He noticed Mina was the only other person in the class you had gotten close to besides him and Eijiro.

"Yeah," he said still staring at the floor. If he could have, he would have thanked you for keeping his privacy and he would have apologized for rupturing your friendship, but... he just couldn't. So instead- "You want to get working on one of the dumb assignments we have due soon?"

"Yeah," You smiled at him excited for the invitation to work with him.

Katsuki glanced at your smile before making his way to grab his study materials. You were always so happy to be around him even when he knew he had to be a miserable company. It didn't make sense to him- but... he didn't hate it.

You two worked on your assignment until Katsuki declared it was getting too late. You looked at your phone and rolled your eyes.

"Still on grandpa time, huh?" you teased.

"Hey! I have a good sleep schedule and I need it with all this extra work alright!" He barked.

"I know I know- I'm just messing with you," you said and began to pack up your study supplies.

Katsuki eyed you putting your stuff away for a moment and then laid down on his bed stretching out.

You swung your backpack on your back, "Get some rest then Grandpa," you said playfully at him.

"Hm?" He said eyeing you. "You- don't have to leave," he said.

You froze and stared at him, returning his gaze. He was asking you to stay?

You dropped your backpack and sat back down on his rolling chair eyeing him curiously.

"You comfortable over there?" He asked.

"Uh-," You mumbled unsure of how to answer. You were unsure what he was trying to get at?

"You fell asleep over here before brat- you can make yourself more comfortable," he said in response to your quizzical look.

You felt your breath catch in your throat. Was he asking you to join him on the bed?

You moved slowly as you sat on the bed awkwardly.

Katsuki scoffed, "So- what stupid event do you think those extras are going to choose?"

"No idea- but if they choose Kaminari's maid cafe, I will be murdering someone," You responded laughing.

"Hm- too bad you wouldn't look bad in a maid outfit," Katsuki said laughing.

A bright blush illuminated your face.

"Oh shit- relax I'm just kidding, no need to turn into a damn tomato," he said laughing again.

You tried to brush off your reaction and turned away to hide your face. "Hey- you sure you want me in here much longer?" You asked.

"The hell do you mean? Would have told you to get the fuck out if I didn't," Katsuki said.

"It's just- I don't know- I'm sure you heard."

"Heard what?" He asked.

"Some of those rumors that spread around when Ashido pulled that stunt and dragged me out of your room when I tried to hide from her in the restroom," You explained After that night when the boys had seen your fight with Ashido, someone had run with some assumptions of why you were hiding in Katsuki's room.

"Oh," Katsuki exclaimed now understanding. "Look you can go if you want. Those extras are nosy as hell and need to mind their damn business. But- I don't give a damn about what any of them have to say so-," Katsuki said.

He was never good at words, so he couldn't just simply say he liked your company and didn't want you to leave. Especially now that you brought up those rumors he heard. He didn't want to feel like he was forcing you to stay.

"Just go if you're uncomfortable," He concluded.

"No! I- I don't care either... I just- whatever it doesn't matter," you said deciding to leave the conversation alone.

To Katsuki's surprise, you laid down next to him, "Ok- so who had the worst idea of an event?" You asked.

Katsuki let out an amused laugh, "Iida, who the fuck would come to a history lesson?!"

You laughed at his response, and the two of you talked until you had both dosed off into sleep.

Tags: @anon-mouse223 @unofficialmuilover @maddietries @sikuthealien @queenpiranhadon @melrs21 @poemzcheng @kazuumii @bakunianadecorazon @ur-crusty-uncle @reads-stuff-quietly @chixkadee @perfectsukii @faetoraa @fem-weeb @nagicats @lees-chaotic-brain @maelibo

Just wanted to thank you all for reading and update you that there are 4 more chapters left!

[wrappedinpinklace]

Out of Bounds, Chapter Six.

(Authors note!! and so it begins 😈 these next few chapters are gonna be a rollercoaster so BUCKLE UP!!! with much love, angel <3 )

The curtains were drawn shut, a dozen charmed candles floating overhead, casting a soft, golden glow over the room. Stephanie was lying upside down on your bed, legs against the wall, munching on chocolate frogs as if the universe hadn’t tilted on its axis in the past twenty-four hours.

Meanwhile, you sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, hugging a pillow to your chest like it could keep your heart from falling out of your ribs.

“So,” Steph said, voice muffled by chocolate. “Library makeout sessions, secret bedroom visits, two boys fighting over you like you’re the Goblet of Fire… You gonna fill me in, or do I have to keep guessing?”

You sighed, dramatically flopping onto your back. “It’s a mess.”

“Uh-huh. Keep going.”

You stared at the ceiling, gathering the storm of memories into something coherent. “Okay. So. It started in Hogsmeade… Nathan was being sweet—really sweet. He walks me to class, remembered I liked strawberry taffies, we talked about magical theory, like, deeply. He’s so smart.”

“He is,” Steph nodded. “Textbook dreamy.”

“But Jason—” You paused, the name itself dragging a sigh from your lungs. “He was there the whole time. Saying less but meaning more. You know? Like, one look from him and I forgot what century I was in. It’s like he’s in my bloodstream.”

Steph smirked. “You’re down bad.”

“I am,” you admitted, groaning into your pillow. “And then after the date—if that’s what it even was—they walked me back to the tower.”

“They?” Steph blinked.

“Both of them.”

“Ohhhh.”

“Yeah.” You sat back up, eyes wide. “And then—later—Jason knocked on my window. I let him in, Steph. I let him in.”

“You let Jason Todd into your dormitory.” She looked like she was witnessing history.

“We kissed.”

“WH—”

“Not loud!” you hissed, lunging to smack her with your pillow. “He saw his robe on my bed and brought up the lake and then—ugh—he kissed me. And I kissed him back. And it was—it was good.”

“Good?” Steph blinked. “You look like you’ve been struck by lightning.”

“It was my first kiss.”

“Oh my god.”

You buried your face in your hands. “And then in the library today, we almost—again—but you showed up.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I should hate him,” you muttered, dropping your hands. “I should want someone like Nathan. He’s kind. Smart. My parents would love him. Jason’s… everything I’m not.”

Stephanie sat up and tossed aside the empty chocolate frog box. “Okay. First of all? You’re not a checklist. You don’t need someone that fits a mold. You need someone that fits you.”

You opened your mouth, but she held up a finger.

“And second of all,” she continued, “You like both. That’s okay. But you need to stop thinking about who you should want and ask yourself—who do you want?”

You bit your lip, chewing on the truth. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” Steph said softly. “Close your eyes. Picture both of them. Now ask yourself… whose name does your heart say first?”

You shut your eyes.

And immediately—

Jason.

The name pulsed through you like magic, like gravity. Like something you couldn’t fight even if you wanted to. You opened your eyes again, shaken but unsurprised.

“…Crap.”

Steph just smiled knowingly. “Yeah. Thought so.”

You flopped back onto the bed, groaning into your pillow again. “But what if I’m just a game to him? What if this is all some long con for his own amusement? I mean, come on, Steph. What would Jason Todd want with me? I’m the rule-following, book-carrying, ‘please return your library books on time’ girl.”

Stephanie pulled the pillow from your face gently. “You’re also brilliant. Brave. Gorgeous. And funny as hell. If he’s into you, it’s because he sees you. Not because of some twisted plan.”

You wanted to believe her. You really did.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, doubt lingered.

Jason Todd was dangerous.

And you were starting to think the most dangerous thing about him… was how much you wanted to believe it wasn’t just a game.

______

The Great Hall buzzed faintly with morning chatter, plates of toast and pumpkin juice clinking against golden goblets. You and Stephanie had just made it down from the common room, your bag slung lazily over your shoulder and your thoughts still full of a certain Slytherin who had no right living in your mind rent-free.

“Okay, but promise me if you see him, you don’t immediately combust,” Steph said under her breath, her arm looped through yours.

You rolled your eyes, though your stomach tightened all the same. “He’s probably off somewhere, charming a snake or setting something on fire.”

Stephanie smirked. “Or maybe thinking about you.”

You were about to respond when—

“Morning, Y/N,” a voice greeted smoothly.

Both your heads turned to see Nathan, standing just a few feet away in his perfectly pressed uniform, hair still slightly damp from a morning shower, looking irritatingly attractive and entirely too awake for this hour.

“Oh,” you managed. “Hi, Nathan.”

Stephanie immediately raised a brow at you, then back at him, then back at you again, smirking as she slowly peeled her arm from yours. “I just remembered I—uh—left my… broomstick in the Astronomy Tower. Alone. Bye.” She winked dramatically and ducked out before you could stop her, throwing a very obvious thumbs-up behind her back.

You glared after her, cheeks warming. Nathan chuckled.

“She’s subtle.”

You smiled sheepishly. “That’s one word for her.”

He fell into step beside you as you continued toward the Gryffindor table. “So, big match tomorrow—Ravenclaw versus Gryffindor,” he said, casually sliding his hands into his pockets. “I know you’ll be cheering for your house, but…” His tone dipped into something more hopeful. “It’d be nice to know you were rooting for me too.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Even if one of my best friends is on the Gryffindor team?”

He grinned, boyish and confident. “Especially then.”

Before you could respond, another voice cut in—cooler, deeper, and familiar in a way that set every nerve in your body on edge.

“If you want to see a real match, sweetheart, you should stick to Slytherin games.”

Jason.

You turned, and there he was, hair mussed like he’d run a hand through it a thousand times already, tie half-loosened, and that signature smirk on his lips—one you couldn’t quite decide if you wanted to punch or kiss.

“Didn’t your team get wrecked by Slytherin last week?” Jason asked, eyes locked on Nathan now, the teasing undercut with a sharper edge.

Nathan’s smile thinned. “It was close.”

“Hmm.” Jason looked at you now, eyes flicking between yours. “Tell her the score again, would you? I think it was… 80 to 130?”

“Jason,” you said flatly.

He raised a brow, feigning innocence. “What? Just saying—if you want to support someone worth your time, don’t waste your voice on someone who fumbles a Quaffle like it’s cursed.”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “It’s too early for this.” You slung your bag higher and shook your head. “I’m going to eat something before you two start swinging your broomsticks at each other.”

Without waiting for a response, you walked away.

You didn’t see the way Jason’s gaze lingered on you. You didn’t hear the way Nathan’s smirk twisted the moment your back was turned.

⸻

Jason’s POV

He watched her walk off, resisting the urge to follow. Damn it. She always left him off balance. One minute, it felt like they were alone in the world, just him and her—and the next, Nathan’s shiny, polite grin was back in the picture like a well-dressed parasite.

“You’re playing the game well,” Nathan said, tone turning, no longer as polished as before.

Jason’s eyes snapped to him. “Excuse me?”

Nathan tilted his head slightly, leaning against the stone archway. “Not Quidditch. The other game.”

Jason didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Nathan continued, unbothered. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think you’d last this long. She’s not exactly your type. Too soft. Too… real.”

Jason’s jaw ticked, but he kept his expression neutral. “Didn’t know we were defining people like property now.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re above it,” Nathan said smoothly. “We both know why this started.”

That was true.

But the problem was… somewhere along the way, it hadn’t felt like a game anymore. Not when she laughed, not when she kissed him, not when she whispered his name like it mattered.

Nathan didn’t seem to notice the shift. Or maybe he didn’t care.

“I’ve got something planned for her,” Nathan said, standing up straighter now. “Something big. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Try me.”

Nathan smirked. “You come in with swagger and bad boy charm, sure. But I can give her stability. I can give her something you never will.”

Jason didn’t flinch.

He just leaned in slightly, voice low. “That’s funny. She doesn’t look bored with me.”

Nathan’s smile twitched, the edges turning cruel. “Let’s see who she picks when it really counts.”

Jason stepped back, turning toward the Great Hall. His heart was beating too fast, and not from adrenaline.

Because what scared him wasn’t the idea of losing the bet.

It was the idea of losing her.

⸻

You weren’t even fully awake when you stepped into the Great Hall that morning, trailing just behind Stephanie, who was about to ask you what Nathan said. You were halfway through a yawn when the loud crash of something—no, someone—colliding with a wooden bench snapped your attention toward the middle of the room.

Students were gathering fast, abandoning their breakfasts as a commotion formed at the far end of the hall. You exchanged a glance with Stephanie, brows drawn tight, before you followed the crowd.

Then you saw it.

Jason.

Nathan.

Fists.

You froze.

Jason was on top of Nathan, arm cocked back, fury contorting his features in a way you had never seen before—wild, raw, visceral. His knuckles were already bloodied, Nathan’s lip was split, and despite it all, Nathan still wore that frustrating smirk like he was winning something, but you didn’t see that.

Students gasped and shouted around you, but your ears were ringing too loud to register what anyone was saying. You watched as two professors rushed in—Professor Gordon and Professor Nygma—each grabbing a shoulder and physically tearing Jason off Nathan.

Jason’s chest heaved, rage still burning in his eyes even as Gordon shoved him back and Edward Nygma bent down beside Nathan, inspecting his bloody nose and bruised cheekbone.

“WHAT the bloody hell is going on here?!” Gordon thundered.

Jason didn’t answer. He just wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, lip bleeding slightly from a lucky hit. His eyes didn’t leave Nathan’s.

“Hospital Wing,” Professor Nygma barked, snapping his fingers toward two Hufflepuff prefects. “Get him up. Now.”

You stepped forward, heart in your throat. “Wait—what happened?”

Jason glanced your way, jaw tightening. But he didn’t say anything.

“Nothing worth your time,” Nathan coughed from the floor, sounding hoarse but composed, even as blood dripped from his chin. “Your boyfriend just lost control.”

Your eyes flicked between them, completely thrown. Jason didn’t even flinch at the word boyfriend. His eyes were trained solely on Nathan like he still hadn’t decided if he was done with him.

You stared at Jason.

“Why would you do this?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Jason’s gaze finally shifted to you—and for a split second, something in him cracked. Regret, maybe. Or disappointment. You weren’t sure.

“Just stay out of it,” he muttered before Gordon pushed him toward the exit, dragging him off by the collar like a misbehaved dog.

You stood there, unmoving, watching him disappear through the double doors.

⸻

Later – Infirmary

Nathan lay propped up against a few pillows, gauze pressed to his nose and a potion-laced cloth against his eye.

You sat beside the bed, your fingers curling tightly in your lap.

“I still don’t get it,” you murmured. “What could’ve possibly made him attack you like that?”

Nathan looked over at you with a gentle, bruised sort of smile. “He’s angry. I was talking to you. He thinks you’re his.”

You frowned. “That’s ridiculous. He knows I’m not—”

“I think it’s more than that,” Nathan said softly, letting his voice dip into something tender. “He’s possessive. Maybe he thought if I was out of the picture, you’d be easier to keep close.”

You stared at him, a pit settling low in your stomach.

“I’m sorry you got dragged into it,” Nathan added, voice low, a little hoarse. “I would’ve never let it get that far if I’d seen it coming. But it was like something just… snapped in him.”

You were quiet for a long time.

Maybe it was true. Jason had a temper. And you knew better than anyone how reckless he could be when emotions took over. But… that? Starting a fight over you?

Or maybe this was who he really was—dangerous, impulsive, the boy everyone warned you about.

Nathan reached out, gently covering your hand with his.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he said.

You looked at his bruised face and felt a pang of guilt. A boy like Nathan—smart, kind, good. He didn’t deserve that. And maybe… maybe neither did you.

So, over the next few days, you stayed closer to Nathan. You sat beside him in lectures. You studied together in the library. You smiled when he offered to carry your books, and you let him walk you to class. It was safe. Comfortable.

But despite your best efforts…

Jason still haunted your thoughts.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know if you were mad at him, or mad at yourself for missing him.

[givethemsmut]

Cody Rhodes x Reader

Made of Gold | Chapter Four

Trigger Warning

- Mention of abortion (not how you think, prob why I hate to give trigger warnings)

C O D Y ‘ S P O V

I was riding the high of being the first man between her legs, still wearing her orgasm on my cock when I yanked the door open enough to see who was standing there.

A middle aged man stood there, dark wild eyes, when his shrill voice hit my eardrums. “Where is my daughter? I know she’s here.”

Barging past the door I gripped the blanket hanging low on my waist, securing it from exposing myself. I was in a state of shock and the urge to fight ignited from the bottom of me like a brush fire. “Excuse me?”

Stepping toe-to-toe with me, whiskey on his breath, “Don’t play dumb. I know she’s been hiding out here. I’ll find her myself.”

He went to move past me but I side stepped, blocking him from the stairs altogether. “I was trying to be nice but I guess you’re picking the hard way. I wouldn’t step another foot inside my house, you might see something you don’t wanna see like your daughter in bed.”

“She’s under age,” his finger dug into my chest and my hand closed into a tight fist. I wanted to lash out but he had a point.

“And ruin the most important night of her life so far? I’m not naked for the fun of it, pal. You are the last person she wants to see after losing her virginity.” My words were sharp, heavy, assaulting the way I meant them to be.

Her father looked up at me as I took another step, towering over him now, “I want her home before I press charges for kidnapping.”

“Family dinner sounds great. How about Friday at your place?” I smirked knowing I won and her father did in fact hate me the way she wanted. I was a family’s dream unless you’re a few months shy of eighteen and a virgin than I’m considered a nightmare.

Heading upstairs I took two at a time and without even making it past the threshold I heard the light sound of her snoring. Wrapped in a blanket that covered only her boobs and pussy she was curled up on her side fast asleep. Exhaling I could sleep easy know she didn’t hear a single part of that chat.

Now I had to convince her to go dinner with people she had been avoiding. People who didn’t make her feel safe or happy.

Hell, I even hated them and I didn’t know them.

I wanted to protect her, keep her from every ounce of harm and I didn’t care how fucking wrong it is that I’m older than her. Age was bullshit concept when we fit together like we did twenty minuets ago before her dad stormed my house like a maniac.

The next morning we fell into our routine of me working out before she woke up and her joining me in the shower. She was washing the shampoo out of her long hair while I scrapped soap around my muscles. “I want to meet your parents…”

She turned out with a hostile look on her face, “Why?”

“You know so much about my family, my dad, my brother and sister. Hell, last time I FaceTimed my mom she wanted to talk to you but I don’t know much about your family.”

We swapped spots under the water and I could feel her resentment on the topic. “They aren’t like your family. There’s not enough good to even tell you about. Let’s just drop it.”

Exhaling I let the water beat on my face, swiping it off, I pushed. “Please. Just call them. Let’s do dinner on Friday.”

“Cody. Why are pushing this? Do you regret what we did and this is your way of pushing me away?”

Fuck.

I had pushed and now she created some monster of an idea why.

Turning around I dragged her close, holding her against me, her perfect ass wedged against me. “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t regret anything. Your dad showed up last night… he’s gonna press charges unless we go to dinner Friday.”

Pushing me away in anger, she shout, “Are you fucking serious?”

Before I could even answer, she had exited the shower, grabbed a towel and slammed the bathroom door. It was our first fight.

Giving her space, I showered like normal and wrapped a towel around my waist all too similarly to last night when her dad showed up. Leaning against the door frame of the bathroom I watched her franticly get her makeup on.

“Babe. I didn’t wanna have to tell you he showed up.”

“You want to meet them so badly then let’s go to dinner tonight. I’m not doing anything on his terms, why, so he can be in control? I don’t think so. Get eady for all your demons to served up with dinner.” Texting furiously, her fingers clicked against every button, before dropping it in her lap.

Moving closer, standing behind her, I softened my face even more. “Just talk to me. I wasn’t going to let him storm our fucking room and harass you ten seconds after losing your virginity. This was settling, a family dinner.”

“You don’t know him. That’s not settling, it’s what he wants and probably to ruin us.” She was still running hot when I gave her space, letting her decompress while I occupied another part of the house. If dinner was all we had to do to make them leave us alone I was willing to do it. I was willing to do a whole hell of a lot more actually.

R E A D E R S P O V

Did I want to be drunk for family dinner? Absolutely. I knew exactly the kind of tactics that would be weaponized for not coming home then to be found with Cody, someone older and not of my father's choosing.

It made our love story seem like a tragedy, the forbidden, albeit taboo relationship when Cody was so much more than that.

He felt safe, something I haven't truly felt since I got old enough to talk back.

My father didn't have expecatations - he had demands and when those demands weren't met, well, than he had retalation. It wasn't a dynamic I wanted Cody to witness and think of our age difference even more.

Doning a simple black maxi dress with an open back and a pair of comfortable heels I finished smearing my lipstick in while Cody changed his tie for the millionth time. He was nervous and I didn't want to make it worse for him.

Taking my hand, wordlessly, I stood up and took the lead down the stairs. "We should do a shot before we go. We both need it," I suggested it but knew my tumblr was already coated in whiskey I had been drinking.

"Maybe you had enough babe."

Disregarding him entirely I poured two healthy shots of Wheatley Vodka and pushed the shotglass towards him. "I don't want you to get in trouble when I pushed you to take my virginity... that's the only reason I am doing this."

Not yet shooting his back he came closer, hands hoovering and his face full of concern. "Just tell me what I need to know before we go over there. Why are you scared of your father? That’s not normal.”

My eyes started to well up rapidly and I kept looking up, avoiding eye contact and the unavoidable tears ruining my makeup. It was too much to explain, too much to live through again as I explained it and the way I knew he could judge me felt like a deathwish on us.

"Let's just go,” I mumbled before downing another shot.

Cody opened every door until I was safely tucked inside his car, foot pressed down on the gas in his truck that felt more like a tank. Sitting back with one hand on the wheel I could feel his eyes glance over at me. His vest tight to his frame and the white button up with the subtle tie only made him look more like a dirty secret. His features were haunting and his toned body only made the threat to devour you seem so much more real. Everything about him scream predator yet all of him was nice enough to care.

“It sounds silly saying it out loud… Every boyfriend I had he would blackmail into dumping me, every friendship ruined, every chance he had to isolate me he did. Controlling, overbearing, abusive. I remember he drugged me just to keep me home after I vanished for a week. I was at Layla’s but it didn’t matter, no permission, no warning was all it took to earn his wrath. I’ve been at your house for much longer, wonder what kind of punishment it will be this time.”

His hand shook my leg like he wanted to wake me up, “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Do you know how hard it was to not hurt him when he showed up? Hurt him for just wanting to drag you away from me.”

Forcing myself to relax, I tried to melt into his touch, keeping my mouth closed and wishing I was more drunk.

By the time we got past the gate that protected their castle I felt my heart pick up speed. I wanted to burn the whole place to the ground and hope the memories went with it.

Taking his hand, I followed his lead, knocking at the door like a gentleman. The door flew open and my mother presented her best rendition of perfect housewife. “Come in, you must be her friend, Cody, right?”

“Yes, ma’am, Cody Runnels.”

She nudged me out, leading him inside and leaving me by the door like discarded trash.

Not bothering to pick up the pace to catch up I strutted behind them, watching her try to dazzle him the way I expected. “Tell me about yourself. Come have a seat.”

“I’m a legacy wrestler, I wrestle for WWE now, I grew up here, my father passed away last year, and I’m falling in love with your daughter.” He sounded so sure and I felt hit by his confession like a ton of bricks.

He falling for me? Did I even want that?

I wanted him to take my virginity so badly I had thought of what I wanted next.

I whispered a warning cry, “Cody…”

His 1000 watt smile flashed in my direction as his hand came up my leg. “We can talk about it later.”

Feeling the air sucked out of the room my father’s signature glass of ice and scotch pierced my ears. “Falling for my daughter? Does she know all the skeletons in your closet, son? No woman should fall for just the good version. They have to love the bad too.”

My mom placed the last dish down on the table and sat down with us when my eyes tried to beg her to hold him off but it was no use. She was brainwashed by the good life and ruining that was never going to happen.

“Everyone had demons, sir.” Cody wasn’t afraid and the puddle in my panties now was distracting. “Like tracking your daughter to my house after losing her virginity? Storming my stairs trying to ruin that moment? Like those kind of demons.”

“Watch your mouth, son. I did some digging on you. Don’t forget you’ve lived a lot of life that my daughter hasn’t at seventeen.” He paused dramatically and Cody goated him to continue. “There’s been a long string of woman, hasn’t there? A few virgins, a few abortions, a dropped compliant after a bar fight with a female. Sounds like you can’t treat woman well so you imagine my surprise when you say you plan to love her.”

Cody shifted in his seat but still not scared of my father the way I was taught. “I can’t warrant any response to that. I’ve been with virgins when I was younger, of course. Are you implying I can tell by glancing at them? Absurd.”

Sipping his scotch until the end, my mom bounced up to get him a refill. “No, son, I’m saying you have a habit of liking young woman who are guaranteed virgins.”

Cody shot up from his seat, “We’re leaving. Come on.”

Dragging me behind him to the door my father matched his energy. Standing with a new glass, shouting after us, “She’s still seventeen, son. That’s still against the law.”

Stopping at the door, he swiftly turned around, taking the steps to stand toe-to-toe with my father. “I already took her virginity, cats out of the bag, she’s eighteen soon and you can’t do anything about it.”

“Son, she’ll get bored of the thrill of you like she always does. This is just a long string of bad behavior to piss me off.”

“Trust me, sir, no one was thinking of you while she was screaming my name.” Cody stood there proudly of those details and I could feel my cheeks flare up red.

“Least wear a condom son, she doesn’t need to be one of those girls you paid to have an abortion,” my dad shouted after us as Cody yanked the door open and the cool night air felt like new oxygen to our lungs.

Neither of us had talked about skeletons, neither of us shared the uncomfortable traits we carried, not yet.

Climbing into the truck Cody nearly did a burn out in the driveway before leaving, scaring their perfect castle. “I didn’t pay anyone to get an abortion. Let’s make that clear. I helped pay for a mutual solution.”

Every part of him was tense, even the muscles around his perfectly chiseled jaw. “Okay, how many?”

“Two.”

Keeping my voice just above a whisper I watched his hands grip the steering wheel hard, “I didn’t expect to be the only virgin, Cody. No one is questioning you. Everyone has a past.”

“He’s trying to imply I seek out fucking virgins. You’ve seen my dick, do you think I need virgins to get off? I didn’t even want to hurt you last night.”

“Cody,” I said sternly trying to keep last night out of my mind because every time I thought of it I got goosebumps and the space between my legs would ache for more.

Glancing over at me he caught me lightly rubbing my legs together and biting my lip. “Oh, shit, babe. You’re still riding that high.”

I felt like I could come just thinking about his cock, about being inside me, feeling those memories wash over me like I was there again. My legs started shaking a little and I tried to compose myself in the passenger seat.

Requested Tags:

@alyyaanna

[anonymousewrites]

Nobody's Soldier (Book 1) Chapter Twenty-Five

Found Family! Supernatural x Teen! Reader

Chapter Twenty-Five: Angel Murders

Summary: The humans aren't the only ones falling to the Apocalypse. The angels are dying, too. But is there more to the story?

            “Ruby will meet us outside Cheyenne,” said Sam as he drove the impala. “She’s been tracking some leads.” (Y/N) and Dean remained silent, and Sam sighed. “Look, I know she’s not exactly your Christmas list, but if she can help us get to Lilith—”

            “Man, work with Ruby, don’t. I don’t really give a rat’s ass,” said Dean, staring out the window.

            “I don’t want to,” said (Y/N) firmly. Sure, killing Lilith was important, but Ruby was just the worst. ((Y/N) was implementing their new “let’s dislike everyone unless they prove they deserve otherwise” policy)

            “What’s your problem?” said Sam.

            “Ruby sucks?” said (Y/N) as if it was obvious. “Like she pops up with a lead, disappears, reappears, I don’t like it.”

            Sam huffed. “We’ve had this discussion—”

            “Pamela didn’t want anything to do with this, and we dragged her into it, Sam,” snapped Dean.

            (Y/N)’s knees went to their chest, and they curled up, holding their necklace tightly.

            Sam’s jaw clenched. “She knew what was at stake.”

            “Oh, yeah, saving the world,” said Dean sarcastically. “And we’re doing such a damn good job of it.”

            “Dean—”

            “I’m tired of burying friends, Sam,” said Dean. Next, it could be Bobby. Or Ellen. Or Jo. Or (Y/N). Dean’s heart clenched.

            “Look, if we catch a fresh trail…” said Sam.

            “We follow it, I know,” said Dean tiredly. “Like I said, I’m just getting tired.”

            “Well, get angry,” said Sam forcefully.

l

            “Home, crappy home,” said Dean as they headed into the motel room. He switched on the light.

            “Winchester and Winchester and (L/N).”

            Dean, Sam, and (Y/N) tensed as Uriel spoke. He and Castiel stood in the motel room with somber gazes.

            “Oh, come on,” groaned Dean.

            “Can we get a moment’s peace?” grumbled (Y/N).

            “You are needed, Dean Winchester,” said Uriel, looking at Dean and ignoring the other two monkeys.

            “Needed?” Dean scoffed. “We just got back from needed!”

            “Now, you mind your tone with me,” scolded Uriel as if speaking to a child.

            “No, you mind your damn tone with us,” seethed Dean, walking towards Uriel boldly. “We just got back from Pamela’s funeral.”

            Sam moved between Dean and Uriel so Dean wouldn’t stupidly attack the angel with bare fists. Uriel raised a brow, no clue as to who he spoke about.

            “Pamela? Psychic Pamela who is the reason we managed to stop Alastair from breaking the last seal?” snapped (Y/N). That deserved some acknowledgment and respect from the dick of an angel.

            “Cas, you remember her,” said Dean. “You burned her eyes out. Remember that? Good times!” His tone rose in indignation. “Yeah, so maybe you can stop pushing us around like chess pieces for five freakin’ minutes!”

            “We raised you out of Hell for our purposes,” said Uriel, not caring a slightest about Dean or (Y/N)’s words.

            “Yeah, and what were those again?” questioned Dean, narrowing his eyes. “What exactly do you want from me?”

            Tessa’s warning. (Y/N) looked at Uriel and watched him square his shoulders instead of replying.

            “Start with gratitude,” said Uriel, voice low in warning.

            Dean scoffed and smiled falsely.

            “Dean, we know this is difficult to understand,” said Castiel.

            At least he doesn’t sound like a condescending prick. (Y/N) still wasn’t a fan of angels, but Castiel wasn’t rude to humans like Uriel was. Still, he wasn’t like Anna, trying to be kind, either.

            “And we…” Uriel looked at Castiel in warning, and Castiel fell silent. “Don’t care.”

            (Y/N) glanced from Uriel to Castiel. Obviously, Castiel’s better view of humans and decent respect of Dean made Uriel dislike him. It wasn’t “angelic” to give basic respect, apparently. Not like he knows what respect means.

            “Now, seven angels have been murdered, all of them from our garrison,” said Uriel. “The last one was killed tonight.”

            “Demons?” said Sam.

            Uriel tilted his head like, “yeah, obviously, stupid human.”

            “How they doing it?” said Dean.

            “We don’t know,” said Uriel.

            “What do you want us to do about it?” said (Y/N), crossing their arms. “We’re the pathetic humans, right? If there’s a demon that can kill an angel, that seems out of our league.” This reeked of Uriel pushing off responsibility or trying something underhanded due to heavenly orders.

            “We can handle the demons,” sneered Uriel.

            “Once we find whoever it is,” clarified Castiel.

            “So you need our help…hunting a demon?” said Dean.

            “Not quite,” said Castiel, moving forward. “We have Alastair.”

            “Great,” said Dean. “He should be able to name your triggerman.”

            “But he won’t talk,” said Castiel. “Alastair’s will is very strong. We’ve arrived at an impasse.”

            “Yeah, well, he’s like a black belt in torture,” said Dean wryly. “I mean, you guys are out of your league.”

            “That’s why we’ve come to his student,” said Uriel. Dean’s face fell, and his gaze became cold. “You happen to be the most qualified interrogator we’ve got.”

            Dean’s grip on the chair he leaned on tightened, and he looked down.

            “Dean…You’re our best hope,” said Castiel solemnly.

            “No,” said Dean. He raised his eyes and met Castiel’s gaze. “You can’t ask me to do this, Cas, not this.”

            Castiel’s gaze softened ever-so-slightly.

            Uriel chuckled condescendingly. “Who said anything about asking?”

            Dean swallowed and looked at Sam and (Y/N), who looked back at him worriedly. Dean opened his mouth, but he, Castiel, and Uriel disappeared before he could speak. They hadn’t given a choice.

            “Damn it!” shouted Sam.

            God, (Y/N) hated angels. “What do we do?” they asked.

            “We find him,” said Sam, gritting his teeth in anger at what his brother was being forced to do. “We’ll need help, though.”

            That meant Ruby. (Y/N) huffed. They could never win, could they?

l

            Sam opened the motel room door, and Ruby walked in. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

            “I can still smell them,” she sneered. “Seriously, Sam, I’m not exactly dying to tangle with angels again.”

            “Okay, and we need you to find Dean,” said (Y/N), crossing their arms. They were super over demons and angels and all the bullshit of being too afraid to act themselves when they made (Y/N), Sam, and Dean fight their battles for them.

            “Not sure I see the problem,” said Ruby, but she looked at the table where Sam had a map out. “They have Alastair strung up six ways from Sunday. Dean cuts himself a slice, Al’s reduced to a quivering heap, and the good guys get the goods. What’s wrong with that?”

            “He can’t do it,” said Sam.

            Ruby sighed. “Look, I get it. I don’t want him going all ‘torture master’ again.” She rolled her eyes.

            “No, I mean, he can’t do it,” said Sam firmly. “He can’t get the job done. Something happened to him downstairs, Ruby. He’s not what he used to be. He’s not strong enough.”

            I thought this would be about the mental issues and trauma from Hell. Dean is always pissed enough at Alastair to torture him. Then again, what did (Y/N) know? They were just along for the ride.

            “And you are?” said Ruby.

            “I will be,” said Sam, not saying more as he glanced at (Y/N) and back to Ruby.

            Ruby sighed. “Okay, okay, I’ll do it. Give me something of Dean’s.” She headed to the map. She pulled a candle from her bag, black and misshapen. She pulled a variety herbs from her bag and poured them into a bowl. Crushing them, she murmured over them. Striking a match, she lit the candle, and she laid it against the edge of map. “Mihi pareas,” she said. “Ubicumque in occultatione sis, defigo te ut mihi pareas.” Fire spread around the edges of the map, controlled and warm. It didn’t spread to the table and instead wavered at the edge. Ruby opened her eyes, black as coal.  “Igni…fiat…notum.” The fire spread inward on the map, consuming the paper. She saw Sam staring at the map. “Relax, the fire is our friend,” she said.

            (Y/N) stared as the map became smaller, zooming in on a single location. Honestly, (Y/N) might not like Ruby, but this was really cool. They were going to keep this spell in mind. If it was one hunters could use, it could be helpful.

            “Besides, the only part of the map we need is the ‘where’s Dean’ part,” said Ruby. “Out.” The fire died, leaving only one part of the map untouched. “There.” Ruby pointed. “Your brother is there. And it’s a good thing angels aren’t concerned with hiding their dirty business. Not used to being spied on. I mean, who’d be stupid enough to try?”

            Sam swallowed, feeling a familiar itch. “(Y/N), can you put the bags in the car? I’ll be right back.” He tossed them the keys.

            “Okay,” said (Y/N), grabbing the bags and lugging them out the door.

            Sam glanced at Ruby, who straightened. He’d have to use this moment wisely.

l

            Sam sped across the backroads, and (Y/N) glanced at him. He had a dark look in his eyes, and it sent chills up (Y/N)’s spine. They swallowed, and one hand went the knife in their belt while the other went to their necklace. They had a bad feeling about whatever they were about to walk into.

l

            (Y/N) got out of the car with Sam, and they looked at the abandoned building. This had to be where Dean, Alastair, and the angels were. It was the only place to torture someone without being overheard. (What the hell was (Y/N)’s life?)

            “Ready?” said Sam, looking at them.

            “Yeah,” said (Y/N), nodding. It was a little bit of a lie, but they wanted to get Dean back, too.

            “Stay behind me.” Sam was eager to get in and kill Alastair with his reenergized power, but he wasn’t going to put (Y/N) in harm’s way. The kid didn’t deserve that.

            (Y/N) nodded, and Sam walked towards the doors. They followed, and they watched him pick the lock. Slowly, he opened the door and slipped inside. (Y/N) snuck in behind him, and they were met with a shocking sight.

            An empty torture rack was surrounded by a broken salt line and devil’s trap. Every single one of the traps for Alastair had been broken. A table of torture devices was overturned, knifes, salt, and holy water jugs all over the ground. Horrifyingly, Alastair, covered in blood, stood over Dean’s fallen body and held Castiel by the throat. Dean and Castiel were bleeding, badly injured and in danger.

            (Y/N) moved on instinct. They grabbed a jug of holy water and tossed it at Alastair. The water fell over him, and he hissed as it burned, letting go of Castiel. He stumbled back, and Castiel fell to his knees. Alastair turned towards (Y/N).

            Oh, shit. Their eyes widened as he raised a hand.

            Sam threw out a hand, and Alastair hit the wall. (Y/N)’s eyes widened, and they looked at Sam. If he was using his powers, that meant—He used me going to the car to drink Ruby’s blood. The lie curled deep in their gut, but (Y/N)’s first concern was Dean. They moved to his side, feeling for a pulse and relaxing as they felt one, even if weak.

            “How are they doing it?” questioned Sam, eyes narrowed.

            “Stupid pet tricks,” spat Alastair against the pressure of Sam’s powers.

            “Who’s murdering the angels?” demanded Sam. “How are they doing it?”

            As he spoke, Castiel watched him, dazed from blood loss.

            “Are you okay?” asked (Y/N), looking at him earnestly.

            Castiel let out a breath and nodded, focused on Sam and his interrogation.

            “You think I’m gonna tell you?” sneered Alastair, smirking.

            “Yeah, I do,” said Sam. He curled his fingers, and Alastair gagged, unable to breathe. “How are the demons killing angels?!” shouted Sam.

            “I…” Alastair fought to speak. “…don’t…know!”

            “Right,” scoffed Sam, twisted his fist.

            “It’s…not…us!” shouted Alastair. “We’re…not doing it!” It seemed like the truth.

            Castiel stared at Alastair at the words. She shakily stood, and (Y/N) remained protectively beside Dean.

            “I don’t believe you,” said Sam. He almost looked pleased as Alastair squirmed and struggled against him.

            (Y/N) would’ve found the same pleasure in hurting such a demon, but they knew how Sam was able to do it, and it made their stomach turn.

            “Lilith…is not behind this!” said Alastair. “She wouldn’t kill seven angels.” He tried to laugh and sneer, but he couldn’t. “She’d kill a hundred! A thousand!”

            (Y/N) furrowed their brow. Seven. An angel number. That was specific. Was it a seal? A coincidence? Was something happening behind the scenes? Were more angels going to be murdered? They were missing information, and (Y/N) didn’t like it.

            Sam let go of Alastair, who coughed for air. Sam took deep breaths, still fueled on adrenaline and fury at his treatment of Dean.

            “Oh, go ahead,” said Alastair, sneering. “Send me back…if you can.”

            “I’m stronger than that now,” said Sam, smirking. “Now I can kill.”

            (Y/N)’s blood ran cold, and they had an identical expression of horror with Castiel as they looked at Sam. He raised a hand, palm open. He closed his eyes and focused. Alastair twitched and shouted. His body contorted, and from inside his body, he lit up—like when the angels had exorcised demons. Alastair screamed, the light brightening and burning his very essence up. The scream died in the air, and Alastair’s body slid to the ground, face still contorted in agony.

            Sam took deep breaths from the exertion, and he looked at Castiel and (Y/N). He didn’t look away from their shocked expressions. He wasn’t ashamed of what he’d done.

            That didn’t take away from (Y/N)’s fear of it, however. It scared them more.

l

            (Y/N) looked at Dean in his hospital bed. He was still unconscious, a breathing tube was in his throat, and an IV was attached to his arm, but he was going to be alright.

            Castiel appeared in the doorway of the hospital corridor, and Sam swallowed as he saw him. Castiel didn’t say anything and stepped away. Sam’s jaw clenched, but he got up and walked out of the room. (Y/N) glanced at Dean, but unable to help themself, they moved to the doorway and looked out.

            “Sam—” began Castiel.

            “Get in there and heal him,” snapped Sam.

            “Please, Castiel,” said (Y/N).

            “I can’t,” said Castiel solemnly.

            “Miracle—now!” said Sam forcefully.

            “No,” said Castiel.

            “You and Uriel put him there!” shouted Sam. “Because you can’t keep a simple devil’s trap together!”

            “I don’t know what happened,” said Castiel, voice rising firmly. “That trap—” He breathed in sharply, looking away from Sam in frustration. “It shouldn’t have broken. I’m sorry.”

            “This whole thing was pointless,” said Sam. “You understand that? The demons aren’t doing the hits. Something else is killing the angels.”

            “Perhaps Alastair was lying,” said Castiel.

            “You know he was telling the truth,” said (Y/N), the only words they said but the one thing Castiel didn’t want to hear.

            Castiel didn’t reply, and Sam’s fists clenched in irritation. He turned away and walked back into Dean’s room. (Y/N) looked at Castiel long and hard.

            “Find out what’s happening,” said (Y/N). “It puts you at danger, too.” And if something is going on, hopefully we’ll find out, too. Castiel might tell Dean. They turned their back on Castiel.

l

            It was late at night when Dean finally opened his eyes, finally off the tube and only having a tube in his nose. He could eat, drink, and breathe on his nose. Still, Sam and (Y/N) were gone, sleeping in a motel room not far from the hospital. Dean blinked, and his eyes landed on the figure sitting and watching over him.

            “Are you alright?” asked Castiel, a faraway look in his eyes. Dean had no idea, but Castiel had just had to kill Uriel with Anna because he was behind the angels’ murders. Uriel was not on Heaven’s side: he wanted to raise Lucifer and kill off humanity because God abandoned them for those inferior beings.

            “No thanks to you,” said Dean.

            Castiel shifted slightly. “You need to be more careful.”

            “You need to learn how to manage a damn devil’s trap,” retorted Dean tiredly.

            “That’s not what I mean,” said Castiel. “Uriel is dead.”

            “Was it demons?” asked Dean.

            “It was disobedience,” said Castiel. He looked at Dean somberly. “He was working against us.”

            Dean swallowed. “Is it true?”

            Castiel looked at him.

            “Did I break the first seal?” Dean’s voice was filled with exhaustion and sadness. “Did I start all this?”

            “Yes.” Castiel wouldn’t lie to him. “When we discovered Lilith’s plan for you, we laid siege to Hell, and we fought our way to get to you before you—”

            “Jump-started the Apocalypse,” said Dean, shame and guilt burdening him even more than before. He despised himself for giving in to Alastair, and now he knew it had been a manipulation far deeper than he ever thought possible, and he had failed in every way to go against it.

            Castiel looked up at the ceiling. “We were too late.”

            “So it was all just a game,” said Dean bitterly. “And everyone knew it but me. This entire thing—” his hand raised and fell back to his side limply “—it’s all just a game the world is playing with me. Hell, Alastair, Uriel, Heaven, everyone. I bet even the kid finding me is some part of the stupid game.”

            “I can assure you, Dean, this is no game,” said Castiel. “And (Y/N) is not another game. They are…a surprise, but they’re their own person. And you…you’re a righteous man who fell.”

            “Why didn’t you just leave me in Hell?” croaked Dean, guilt building around him.”

            “It’s not…blame that falls on you, Dean,” said Castiel slowly. “It’s fate.” Dean’s lip trembled as Castiel spoke. “And the righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it. You have to stop it.”

            “Lucifer?” said Dean. “The Apocalypse? What does that mean?” Castiel looked away. “Hey! Don’t you go disappearing on me, you son of a bitch. What does that mean?”

            “I don’t know,” said Castiel.

            “Bullshit.”

            “I don’t.” Castiel looked back. “Dean, they don’t tell me much. I know…our fate rests with you.”

            “Well, then, you guys are screwed,” said Dean, voice hoarse. “I can’t do it, Cas. It’s too big. Alastair was right. I’m not all there. I’m not-I’m not strong enough.” He swallowed and spoke bitterly, “Well, I guess I’m not the man either of our dad’s wanted me to be. Fine someone else. It’s not me.” A tear fell from his eye.

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[dreaminofdixon]

Twenty.

This is just kind of a fluffy filler chapter. :)

The kitchen was warm—the kind of warmth that came from people working close together, from steam rising off the pot of boiling water on the makeshift stove, and from the rare, fleeting comfort of companionship.

Honestly, it was nice to spend some time with these two. Felt like I hadn’t really talked to Carol and Lori in ages—not like this. Not with laughter and easy conversation and the kind of relaxed silence that made the world outside feel just a little less broken.

I missed them.

That realization hit like a quiet surprise. Soft, but sharp. Was this what having friends felt like? Not just surviving side by side, but sharing something human in the middle of all this ruin?

“It’s almost like a real family dinner,” Carol said, voice light but laced with something deeper.

She stirred a pot of wild greens—hands steady, eyes far away. Some other kitchen. Some other life.

I snorted and glanced down at the rabbit in front of me.

“I mean, I’m not sure about you, but I never had to butcher my own protein for a family dinner.”

I dragged the knife along the rabbit’s skin, trying not to waste anything. The blade caught, and I grimaced.

“As made obvious by my lack of skill in the practice…”

I let out a self-conscious laugh and shook my head at the uneven cuts.

“We’re all learnin’ on the fly,” Lori said, chopping carrots with that steady, mom-who’s-seen-it-all rhythm.

The soft thud of her knife mixed with the fire crackling outside.

“I’ve never had to do half the stuff I’ve done these past few months. Laundry by hand, for one.”

“Washer broke once,” Carol added quietly, rinsing a handful of herbs. “Ed refused to replace it. So I learned how to do it the old-fashioned way. Scrubbing shirts in a bucket until my knuckles were raw.”

She went quiet, her hands pausing in the water. Memory pressed down on her, shadowing the space between us.

I looked up. Her eyes were somewhere else. Her fingers hovered in the basin, herbs dripping, forgotten.

“You never forget,” she said, more to herself than to us.

She shook her head and forced a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“I couldn’t imagine,” Lori murmured. “Carl’s clothes were always a mess. Not having a washer would’ve been a nightmare.”

I nodded, trying to lighten the mood.

“One time, my washer broke and it took a month to get the parts. My apartment looked like a laundromat. I was using a wooden spoon to agitate clothes in the bathtub. Like some kind of pioneer woman.”

I chuckled, the sound weirdly bright in the gloom, and set my knife down with a sigh.

“I’m thankful you learned how to do laundry, Carol. Because you were able to teach us.”

“Mm… thankful now,” Carol said, that familiar glint in her eye. “But at the time, I wanted to wash his clothes in the toilet.”

“That’s one way to get a spin cycle,” I grinned.

We burst into laughter. Loud and echoing. For a moment, we weren’t fighters. Weren’t survivors. Just three women in a kitchen, sharing jokes over dinner prep like the world hadn’t gone to hell.

“What are you ladies laughing at?”

Rick’s voice cut in, warm and teasing.

He stepped inside, boots soft on the floorboards, and wrapped an arm around Lori’s waist. Kissed her temple like it wasn’t a miracle just to still have each other.

“Old days,” Carol said with a smile.

“Old days, huh?” Rick leaned against the counter, giving us a look. “So how far back exactly was it we were doing laundry in the toilet?”

He laughed as Lori swatted at him with a towel. Missed him by inches, but she grinned anyway. The rest of us joined in.

“Anything you need, ladies?”

“No, thank you,” I said, still smiling.

“Alright. I’ll check in with Daryl and Shane about tonight’s watch. Looks like we’re gonna eat well.”

One last kiss on Lori’s head, then he slipped out, door creaking shut behind him.

“Speaking of Daryl…” Carol said.

And just like that, I froze.

Didn’t even have to look up. I felt it. The energy shift. The sideways glances.

“What do you mean?” I asked, aiming for casual. Landed somewhere around guilty teenager.

Carol raised a brow. That smirk forming. The one that meant trouble.

“You and Daryl? You sneak off more than teenagers at a party. What’s goin’ on there?”

“We’re friends,” I said too quickly. “Friends do that.”

“...with benefits?” Lori chimed in, leaning close, eyes wide.

I wiped my hands on the towel, trying to will the heat out of my face.

“Sorry, ladies. I’ve got nothin’ to report.”

“Not even a little something?” Lori pressed.

“Or you know… big?” Carol added, barely holding in her cackle.

My jaw dropped.

“Did you just—?!”

I stared at her in horror. Mortified. Laughing anyway.

“Oh come on,” Lori said. “Please tell me you’re—”

“NO. Oh my God. I cannot with you guys right now.”

I buried my face in my hands, half laughing, half groaning.

“She’s married, and I’m… whatever I am,” Carol smirked. “We need distractions. Give us something.”

“I… I can’t even deal with you two.”

“Just know we’re always watching,” Lori said, ominously.

“You guys are the worst.”

“You’re not a virgin, are you?” Carol asked suddenly, more serious now.

“No,” I said. Quieter. “Definitely not. Just… been a while.”

“Honey, I was married and it’s been a while,” Carol scoffed. “Please tell me you’re planning to…”

I let my head fall back again.

“You are relentless.”

“Alright, Carol, I think she’s had enough,” Lori said, laughing gently. She gave my shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll know, though. Won’t we?”

She winked.

“I’m going full robot from now on,” I warned. “No emotions. No tells. You’ll never know.”

“Sure, sure,” Carol grinned.

The laughter faded. Quiet settled in again.

I reached for a cloth to wipe the counter… then paused. Their teasing had been harmless. Loving. But it clung to me a little—like a song lyric that stuck in your head and meant something you didn’t want to admit.

Was I really that obvious?

Lori stepped a little closer.

“We’re just messin’ with you, sweetie,” she said softly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”

I nodded, offering a small smile, and wiped the counter like it meant something.

“I know. It’s just… nice to have this. You guys. Even if you’re the worst.”

Carol squeezed my arm gently.

“Anytime, hon.”

And as we turned back to the pots, the herbs, the rabbit—and the world outside waited to crash back in—I realized I didn’t have to say anything at all.

They’d be there, either way.

**** So, I decided to cheat...and I asked ChatGPT to format this specifically for Tumblr (pardon my newness to this fantastic tool, but, did you KNOW that it could do that?!). I usually just proof it, edit until I'm tired of reading it, and then make sure it's legible in the post. Do we like this kind of formatting instead? It's easier on the eyes, I think...? I dunno. Not sold.

@imadisneyprincessiswear

@knight-of-the-doctor

@lisluvstwd

*****

[thornsnvultures]

bucky barnes x plus size!fem!reader

cw: smut (18+ minors dni), thigh riding, breast play, fluff, <1k words

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"Honey, I'm home!"

You don't turn from your book, too determined to finish the page you're on before Bucky bogarts your free time. You swear sometimes he's more needy than his precious cat, but really you can't complain.

His keys land in the bowl by the front door as he toes off his heavy boots. You have about five seconds from when they hit the ground to wrap things up before you get a lap full of boyfriend.

"Whatcha readin'?"

You finish just in time, reading the last line of the chapter and shutting the book, flinging your arms open so Bucky can dramatically settle his weight on top of where you're laying on the couch. He always acts like he hasn't seen you in years even if it's only been a day or two, but you wouldn't want to stop being the person he clings to for anything.

"Buck," you laugh, slapping his shoulder as he nuzzles into your neck. "It's too hot, you gotta get up!"

He's blocking the fan you had oscillating next to you while you read and between his body heat and the lack of air flow it feels like the room temperature went up about twenty degrees.

Bucky peels himself off of you, hovering over you with his forearms and biceps bulging. Yeah, it's definitely hotter now that he's here.

Your thighs squeeze together as he takes in your "it's too ungodly hot today" outfit of a tank top and barely-there panties. It's not fair how good he looks, his shaggy hair falling in his face, a light sheen of sweat making him glow. Unlike you, glued to the sofa as you are, feeling sticky from the heat. And he's wearing jeans! It's a crime.

"The a/c still not working, beautiful?" Bucky takes your book and places it on the floor. His knee nudges is way into the space between your legs and you forget what he just asked you. His lips feel too good on your neck, why would anything else matter?

"Y'know you should just move in with me. I've got that fancy central air, keeps the whole apartment cool."

Bucky smiles against your sweat slick skin when you laugh again. Sometimes you forget he's from a different time until he says stuff like that, like it's this new fangled invention that'll rock my socks off.

"You're right," you gasp, his thigh grinding into your core. Your breath stutters when he licks a stripe up from between your breasts where your tank top has ridden down.

"Of course I'm right," Bucky captures your parted, gasping lips in a kiss. Your eyes flutter shut and you melt even further into him, letting your hips grind against his denim clad thigh.

"Please," you whine. It's too hot. The air, his body enveloping yours, your molten core soaking a wet spot into his jeans. All of it. It's too much.

Bucky grips your hip with one hand, digging into the cushion of your flesh so he can help you move faster, harder. You can feel his cock, hard and heavy, pressing against the bulging zipper at the front of his jeans. It digs into the space where your hip and mound meet, thrusting against you in a teasing approximation of what it feels like when he's inside you. Fucking hell, you need him inside you. But right now you need to come, you're so, so close. Your panties are pulled tight between your pussy lips, soaked and dragging against your puffy clit.

"Please, Bucky, pl-aah!"

You cry out, gripping Bucky's biceps to the point of pain as your body seizes.

"That's it. That's it, beautiful. Make a fuckin' mess for me. Come all over me, baby. That's it." Bucky doesn't let you go, his hand on your hip, working you through your orgasm as you slow and twitch under him.

He presses kisses down your cheek, your jaw, down to your breast where he sucks a sensitive, peaked nipple through your thin top. You whine and shudder again, his dick twitching against your thigh. He doesn't seem in a rush to take care of his situation, fully engrossed in circling your nipples with his tongue just to watch your squirm.

"Bucky, what--it's too hot," you whine, trying to push him off now that you're even more sweaty than before.

"Move in with me then," he tosses out before returning to your breasts, happily nibbling and sucking marks into your skin.

You run your fingers through his hair, tugging when he bites a little to hard. Not that you'd want him to stop, he knows your limits.

"I don't know, Bucky." Would you love this kind of treatment every day, all day? Hell yes. Is the idea of taking the next step with this man whose life is constantly on the line, whom you may or may not...love absolutely terrifying? Uh, duh.

"Think about it," Bucky stops his errant tongue for a moment to press a kiss to your forehead. He cradles your face in his big hand and it's so hard to not melt like ice cream. It's a lot, sharing a space with someone, being alone in his home while he's away. It would be your home too, hopefully. Would he let your bring all your plants? Would Alpine eat your plants?

"I'll think about it. I promise," you whisper as you turn your head in his hand to kiss his metal palm. It's surprisingly cool to the touch. "Is not fair you made me come like that before you asked me."

Bucky chuckles and kisses your forehead again before sliding down your body. He gives your thick thighs a squeeze and kisses your mound. Your pussy flutters, clenching and begging for his touch. Bucky inhales deep and smiles at you from between your thighs.

"Oh I'm not done convincing you yet, beautiful. I got a key in my pocket with your name on it."

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🖤