#but like. i don't know how to tell you this man. but there are people in real life who are the same. and uh. gotta cope some way.

[rin-may-1103]

Aspiring Escape Artist

(DCxDP) | Masterpost | Next to be written

"Alright, Mr. Fenton," his newest social worker started, turning in her seat so she might actually get him to look at her. Danny continued looking out the window and up at the gigantic building they were parked in front of.

"This is your last chance before the system declares you unfit for foster homes and sends you off to juvie. And before you get all uppitty about it, know this is as much your fault as it is the system's."

Danny rolled his eyes, watching as shadows rushed past windows too tinted to actually see into. Another shadow darted past a lower one, dragging his eyes down and toward the door. The shadow was quickly followed by three more, one of them waving something over their head.

Allowing his hearing to spread out from its usual range, Danny listened as muffled shouts filled the air, quickly turning into clear words.

"GET THE MASK, GET THE MASK!"

"SHIT!" fallowed by a thump and the sound of a large piece of furniture tipping backward and landing.

"I GOT IT!" another voice cried.

"HEY, I HAd that, you little shit-"

Danny quickly pulled his hearing back, not wanting to listen anymore. He already knew he was going to hate it here.

"Now, Mr. Wayne has taken in a lot of kids and has been very gracious to open his home to you. Make no mistakes, young man. You will listen to what he tells you, and so help me, if you cause this man any trouble whatsoever, you will regret it. Stay in the car until I tell you you can get out. I need to go over your file with Mr. Wayne first."

She was acting like Danny was some delinquent picked up fresh from a gang fight. He was half tempted to act like it just to spite her, but bit his tongue and continued looking around the place.

The large garden surrounding the building was obviously well taken care of, the green hummed happily as the (what Danny's gathered) rare sun shone in the sky.

His control over plants still needs work, but he's gotten good enough to connect to the green and get the general feelings. Like how the man who just walked out the front doors was greatly loved by the plants, which meant he was the one taking care of them.

"Are you even listening to me?" the lady huffed, unbuckling herself and shoving the car door open. She was already standing and treating the old man before Danny could respond.

"Hello, Mr. Pennyworth, was it? Hi, I'm Ms. Clance, I'm Danny's social worker. Is Mr. Wayne home?" she slammed the door shut and held her hand out for a handshake.

The older man eyed her hand but otherwise ignored it, instead turning to look at Danny, who was still in the car. "That is correct, Ms. Clance. Master Wayne is in his study; he'll be down in a moment to discourse any last minute things you need to cover. Now, why don't we get Mr. fenton inside and aquanted with the others?"

"Hold on for just a moment," Ms. Clance cut in, sending Danny a nervous glance. Danny raised his brow, but continued to pretend he couldn't hear a word they were saying, 'waiting' for her signal to get out of the car.

The front door opened behind them, three heads popping out in an obvious attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation. There was an older guy, maybe in his mid to late twenties, a blond girl, still in her teens, and a guy with eyebags. Though Danny's were definitely worse, he might have Tucker beat. which was worrying, because what could this guy possibly need to pull three all-nighters for?

"I would like to speak with Mr. Wayne before letting the kid settle in. No offence, but I want to make sure Mr. Wayne is serious in wanting to house the kid. We've already had three other families agree to take him on and then drop him in less than a month."

"I see," Mr. Pennyworth hummed, studying Danny with a sharp eye. Danny studied him back; he had good posture, and his graying hair was slicked back. He had a mustache but no other facial hair, so he obviously kept himself well-maintained. Jazz said people like that were more likely to be well-disciplined and lean toward being blunt and honest.

His stance didn't lean toward classic butler, though; it leaned toward fighting and alert. He had experience in the army or something then, which meant Danny would have to keep an eye on this guy. he probably was the one running the house when Mr. Wayne wasn't around. which meant he'd be the one watching Danny the most.

"I still believe the young man should come inside, master wayne doesn't go back on his words, and he'll unlikely do so now."

Ms. Clance warily glanced at Danny, then back at Mr. Pennyworth, a fake smile plastered on her face, before one of the three spying on the cut in," yeah! I want to meet the little guy!"

The door swung open, allowing even more people to crowd around and watch the scene in front of them.

"And you will," Ms. Clance agreed, turning to face the growing group. "Once I speak to Mr. Wayne. We have to go over a few things in Daniel's file before I can sign off on all of this."

"Like, what?" the blond one asked, her eyes meeting danny's as she skipped down the stairs. Danny could just tell she'd be down for all sorts of chaos. And he could also tell she'd be glued to his side until her interest died, which would take only clockwork knows how long.

Instinctively, Danny reached out and grabbed the door, just as someone tried opening it. Glancing up and to the side, Danny met gray eyes. It was the other girl he had spotted a few minutes before.

She stared at him for a moment before smiling and stepping back. 'You can come out,' she signed. Danny glanced back at Ms. Clance, then back to the girl before sighing and getting out.

Her eyes lit up once he closed the door and turned back to her.

"You know sign," she asked, her voice quiet but not obviously disused.

'absoltly not', danny signed just to be a little shit. Turning back, he stared at his social worker, who was watching them in confused frustration.

"Daniel, what did I say about staying in the car?" She looked ready to march over and smack him.

"I thought you decided I wasn't listening?" Danny pointed out, crossing his arms and leaning back against the car. If she wanted to waste time, then that was perfectly alright with him.

"Never mind," she huffed, turning back to the butler. (he had to be a butler; he looked just like the one at Sam's place or the one his parents employed when they had made that deal with the GIW.)

"You never answered my question," Blondy cut in, smiling sweetly at the frustrated woman.

"Like the plethora of misdemeanors?" Danny asked, watching as everyone turned to look at him. The gray-eyed girl had slowly made her way back to join the others, though she still looked happy for some reason.

"no," ms. Clance huffed, obviously starting to get overwhelmed for some reason. she needed to take a step back and breath, there was literally no reason for her to be this agitated.

"More like we need to go over how many times you snuck out, got seriously injured, seriously injured someone else, and sent your last foster parent to a mental facility."

"All classified as misdemeanors, so obviously not that bad," Danny waved off, rolling his eyes. "And Mr. Thompson deserved it."

"You drove that man insane!" she hissed, swatting a piece of her hair out of her face.

Danny blinked at her, tilting his head to the side in confusion, "He was already insane before I got there, though?" which was actually quite annoying. danny's dealt with enough insane people at this point, he'd rather hug Vlad than deal with another one.

"He was not," Ms. Clance sniffed, trying to straighten herself out.

"he definitely was," Danny argued, pulling his backpack tighter against his back in annoyance. "The dude thought locking me in a room and feeding me white rice once a day was perfectly fine."

Danny ignored the sudden stilted silence at his words, choosing to instead focus on the man slowly making his way outside and over to them.

"Would you stop making things up already?" Ms. Clance huffed, "We've already gone over this. There wasn't a lock on your door, and there was plenty of food in the pantry."

Danny rolled his eyes, going back to studying the gray-eyed girl. The happy sparkle was gone, and she was making hand signals that the others around her were focused on. It wasn't a dialect of sign he knew, most likely a self-made code then.

"Don't need a lock to lock someone up," Danny grumbled, turning back to Ms. Clance, "and if that doesn't count as insane, then talking to the shadows on the wall and claiming to be immortal does. Do you know how many times that man tried jumping in front of cars or out of a window? Way too many. So yeah, he deserved to go to the mental institution, where he'll get some actual help."

"right," ms. clance waved off, turning to continue talking to Mr. pennyworth. danny cut in before she could, "so, do you guys make it a habit; lingering back and listening to conversations?"

The rest blinked, then turned to see who exactly he was talking to, their eyes following his as they finally spotted the man they were all waiting for.

"ah," mr. wayne chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, "sorry, I didn't want to interup. it sounded important."

"Right," Danny huffed, glaring at the man. Honestly, all the eavesdropping and being loud as hell was turning out to be a regular thing based on the fact that no one else was acting like it wasn't.

Yeah, he was going to hate it here if that was true.

[moku-youbi]

I think I commented on this before, IDK, but I'm not going to shut up about it, because no. NO. You didn't WANT to know. Gaiman showed this side of him self *ages* ago. How do I know? 'Cause it was at least 10+ years ago that he encouraged his fans to dox my friend, on twitter, because she had the audacity to speak up about his disgusting, misogynistic comments about an actress at a con. (Basically some gross dude made a comment to her face about how he jerked off to her, and she was trying to be polite but also clearly uncomfortable and Gaiman told her she should take it as a compliment and not get her panties in a bunch, look it's been a minute, I don't remember all the details anymore)

I screamed about this on many of his posts, told people directly when they praised him on here, and never got so much as a peep of a reply. And this was easily confirmable. At least at the time, the tweets were still there, of her (very non-confrontationally calling him out like "hey, this isn't okay." and him going rabid and siccing his fanbase on her). A rich, famous, influential man with an army of fans on twitter went after a random nobody for pointing out this problematic encounter, and NO ONE CARED. Everyone straight up ignored me.

And okay, fine, maybe you didn't see my reblogs or comments, maybe you weren't one of the people I messaged directly. I'm hardly a name on here. BUT, the thing is, he showed this same behaviour ON THIS FUCKING SITE, all the damn time. The way he belittled people who sent him asks was truly disgusting. Ya know, it's fine to not like the questions you're being asked, especially when they feel repetitive, or if they feel intrusive. But the problem is, Gaiman fostered this parasocial relationship with his fans here, and as long as they were appropriately worshipful, he treated them kindly. But the contempt he showed to the socially awkward, and the way he encouraged his huge fanbase on here to dogpile onto his rude, aggressive replies to their asks, is very telling of what sort of person he is. He could have answered those asks privately. He could have ignored and deleted them. He could have give a very simple "I've already answered this" or "I'm not going to answer these sorts of questions." Instead, he chose to regularly excoriate random nobodies who were FANS OF HIS WORK for not interacting with it in the way he wanted, or asking questions that annoyed him. He made himself accessible on this platform and then behaved very irresponsibly with his fame.

And you all don't get to pretend like this is somehow a revelation. Plenty of you reblogged those disgusting answers he gave to asks--that's how I saw them, because I sure as fuck didn't *follow* him, yet people I did follow would reblog them with a gleeful sort of schadenfreude, a "look at this idiot he's tearing apart," instead of "look at this powerful man using his platform to demean and belittle a fan."

You wanted your gay Angel and Demon (and don't EVEN get me started on Good Omens, dear fucking christ, and how that man RUINED my favourite book, and how everything that was good about it, and lovely about Aziraphale/Crowely came from Pratchett), you wanted your emo boy Dream, you wanted to preen at the famous guy who deigned to walk among us on tumblr, all "Notice me, Senpai!" so you chose to ignore all the ugly stuff and the voices quietly railing against him, until there were too many voices, on too large a platform for you to ignore anymore.

I'm not saying there aren't predators who fly below the radar, because sadly there definitely are, and it's scary. But I'm also not about to let the people who sat idly by while Gaiman bullied fans on the regular clutch their pearls and gasp "how could we have ever known?"

(and because I've legit got people come in my messages before about "why are you attacking me personally about this" the 'you' in this is the collective, not a specific individual, and if you're getting defensive, maybe examine why you feel that way...)

I want to step away from the art-vs-artist side of the Gaiman issue for a bit, and talk about, well, the rest of it. Because those emotions you're feeling would be the same without the art; the art just adds another layer.

Source: I worked with a guy who turned out to be heavily involved in an international, multi-state sex-slavery/trafficking ring.

He was really nice.

Yeah.

It hits like a dumptruck of shit. You don't feel stable in your world anymore. How could someone you interacted with, liked, also be a truly horrible person? How could your judgement be that bad? How can real people, not stylized cartoon bogeymen, be actually doing this shit?

You have to sit with the fact that you couldn't, or probably couldn't, have known. You should have no guilt as part of this horror — but guilt is almost certainly part of that mess you're feeling, because our brains do this associative thing, and somehow "I liked [the version of] the guy [that I knew]", or his creations, becomes "I made a horrible mistake and should feel guilty."

You didn't, loves, you didn't.

We're human, and we can only go by the information we have. And the information we have is only the smallest glimpse into someone else's life.

I didn't work closely with the guy I knew at work, but we chatted. He wasn't just nice; he was one of the only people outside my tiny department who seemed genuinely nice in a workplace that was rapidly becoming incredibly toxic. He loaned me a bike trainer. Occasionally he'd see me at the bus stop and give me a lift home.

Yup. I was a young woman in my twenties and rode in this guy's car. More than once.

When I tell this story that part usually makes people gasp. "You must feel so scared about what could have happened to you!" "You're so lucky nothing happened!"

No, that's not how it worked. I was never in danger. This guy targeted Korean women with little-to-no English who were coerced and powerless. A white, fluent, US citizen coworker wasn't a potential victim. I got to be a person, not prey.

Y'know that little warning bell that goes off, when you're around someone who might be a danger to you? That animal sense that says "Something is off here, watch out"?

Yeah, that doesn't ping if the preferred prey isn't around.

That's what rattled me the most about this. I liked to think of myself as willing to stand up for people with less power than me. I worked with Japanese exchange students in college and put myself bodily between them and creeps, and I sure as hell got that little alarm when some asian-schoolgirl fetishist schmoozed on them. But we were all there.

I had to learn that the alarm won't go off when the hunter isn't hunting. That it's not the solid indicator I might've thought it was. That sometimes this is what the privilege of not being prey does; it completely masks your ability to detect the horrors that are going on.

A lot of people point out that 'people like that' have amazing charisma and ability to lie and manipulate, and that's true. Anyone who's gotten away with this shit for decades is going to be way smoother than the pathetic little hangers-on I dealt with in university. But it's not just that. I seriously, deeply believe that he saw me as a person, and he did not extend personhood to his victims. We didn't have a fake coworker relationship. We had a real one. And just like I don't know the ins-and-outs of most of my coworkers lives, I had no idea that what he did on his down time was perpetrate horrors.

I know this is getting off the topic, but it's so very important. Especially as a message to cis guys: please understand that you won't recognize a creep the way you might think you will. If you're not the preferred prey, the hind-brain alarm won't go off. You have to listen to victims, not your gut feeling that the person seems perfectly nice and normal. It doesn't mean there's never a false accusation, but face the fact that it's usually real, and you don't have enough information to say otherwise.

So, yeah. It fucking sucks. Writing about this twists my insides into tense knots, and it was almost a decade ago. I was never in danger. No one I knew was hurt!

Just countless, powerless women, horrifically abused by someone who was nice to me.

You don't trust your own judgement quite the same way, after. And as utterly shitty as it is, as twisted up and unstead-in-the-world as I felt the day I found out — I don't actually think that's a bad thing.

I think we all need to question our own judgement. It makes us better people.

I don't see villains around every corner just because I knew one, once. But I do own the fact that I can't know, really know, about anyone except those closest to me. They have their own full lives. They'll go from the pinnacles of kindness to the depths of depravity — and I won't know.

It's not a failing. It's just being human. Something to remember before you slap labels on people, before you condemn them or idolize them. Think about how much you can't know, and how flawed our judgement always is.

Grieve for victims, and the feeling of betrayal. But maybe let yourself off the hook, and be a bit slower to skewer others on it.

[foxtrology]

saturated (1)

dr!joel x resident!reader

inspired by the pitt on hbo | series | ao3 link

notes: this took me way too long to write. but i had to. couldn't stop watching the pitt and thinking about our old man. joel is basically if dr robby and dr abbot had a morally complicated, emotionally constipated lovechild. also abby does not kill joel in this, everyone is friends! god bless america.

warnings: this contains intense and graphic deceptions of medical trauma, emergency room scenarios, death (including children), physical violence, workplace assault, substance use, bodily fluids, mass casualty events, and realistic portrayals of burnout, grief and PTSD in a high stakes-medical environment.

it also includes themes of misogyny, harassment, and implicit threats of sexual violence. reader discretion is strongly advised. please take care while reading--especially if you are sensitive to medical distress, depictions of pediatric injury or real-time crisis response.

word count: 15.k

─────

The morning of the Fourth of July in Austin, Texas, feels like a moment held in the lung, right before the exhale.

That breathless pause before fireworks, before the sirens scream and the ER radios stuttering with trauma codes and stroke alerts and the endless crush of the heat-baked, alcohol-soaked chaos that follows any major American holiday. It’s always the calm before the storm—if you could even call it calm.

You pull into the staff garage at 5:52 a.m. and sit in the car for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch. Black scrubs still freshly laundered, badge clipped, hair pulled back, and your shoes already forming to your feet like muscle memory. You reach for your tumbler, still warm from the coffee Joel handed you in the kitchen an hour ago, already half-drunk.

There’s that brief moment you consider calling out. Just for today. Just to stay in that house, in that bed with him, where he kisses your bare shoulder before telling you to be safe.

But you won’t. You never do.

Because no matter how bad the ER gets—and it always gets bad—this is the only place that makes any kind of sense to you.

Inside, the air conditioning hits like a slap, and you walk past the security station where Bill gives you a small nod, already sipping from his thermos like a man bracing for war.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says. His voice is gravel, his beard immaculate. “You ready for the circus?”

You offer a tired smile. “You know we don't get clowns. We get drunk uncles with bottle rockets.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he scans another nurse’s badge behind you. “Same difference.”

The ER already smells like overcooked coffee and sterile gauze, and the waiting room—visible through the thick glass partition—looks like an airport at Christmas. People slumped against the wall, some pale, some bleeding, some just desperate for help they��re not sure they need. A woman with a crying toddler in one arm and a vomit bag in the other is standing at the triage desk. Behind her, a man in a tank top clutches his ribs and moans like he’s in labor.

Inside the main ER pod, the low hum of monitors, pagers, and movement never really stops. Maria Miller stands at the hub, perfectly composed, her hands wrapped around a travel mug and a tablet tucked in the crook of her arm. 

“Six a.m. and already short three nurses,” she mutters as you step up beside her. Her eyes flick to you. “Happy Fourth. You look like hell.”

You arch a brow. “Why thank you, Maria.”

She smirks, amused. “I saw your name on the schedule and bumped Henry’s start time earlier. Figured you’d need someone to boss around.”

“Nice. Nothing says holiday spirit like free labor.”

Her mouth twitches into a smile before she heads off toward the trauma bay. You breathe in the scent of antiseptic and coffee. Your shift hasn’t even started, and already you can feel the heat pressing behind your eyes.

“Doc!” Jesse calls out, sliding past with an IV pole in one hand, his badge swinging. “Your favorite guy’s back. Bed three.”

“Which one?”

“Golf cart DUI. Same guy from last month. Says he’s got chest pain.”

You groan, snagging your stethoscope from your pocket and making your way toward the row of curtained bays.

“Hey, doc,” Marlene calls, intercepting you with a chart. “You’ve got a belly pain in seven. NPO since last night, vitals stable, but she’s already mad she’s waited an hour.”

“Great,” you sigh. “Let me guess—says she’s dying?”

“Says she wants to die,” Marlene says dryly. “Progress.”

Inside Bed 3, the familiar face of Mr. Golf Cart is flushed and sweaty, his eyes darting from you to the EKG leads on his chest. He tries to smile through chapped lips. 

“Hey there, doc. Long time no see.”

“It’s been three weeks,” you reply, glancing at the monitor. “You said chest pain?”

“Felt like a raccoon sittin’ on my sternum.”

You don’t bother asking how he knows what that feels like.

“I’ll get your labs and a troponin. Don’t eat or drink anything, and don’t try to leave AMA again.”

“Cross my heart,” he grins.

“You did that last time too.”

Outside the room, Tommy is coming in from the ambulance bay, gloved hands smudged with dried blood, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He spots you and tips his chin up.

“You get the kid with the fireworks burn?”

You didn't fucking get the people who lit up fireworks before the actual holiday.

“Not yet.”

He shrugs. “He’s all yours. Level 2, maybe deeper dermal. Holding it together, though.”

“Great,” you say, and Tommy claps you on the shoulder as he moves past, already shouting something to Frank who’s restocking their rig with trauma dressings.

Frank pauses to shoot you a quick smile. “Morning, doc.”

“You ready for hell?” you ask.

“Born in it,” he replies with a wink, disappearing into the supply closet.

By 6:40, the line to triage has doubled. You slip into Exam 7 where Abby and Mel are squinting at a portable chest X-ray.

“I think it’s a widened mediastinum,” Abby says, uncertain.

Mel frowns. “I think it’s a terrible film.”

You glance between them and sigh. “You’re both right. Let’s get a CT angio. Rule out dissection.”

Abby lets out a breath. Mel nods, jotting it into the chart.

You turn to leave, only to be stopped by Henry in the hallway.

“I finished my charting on the chest pain in four,” he says. “Do you want me to see the laceration in bed nine?”

You nod. “It’s a head lac. Two-centimeter frontal scalp. Walk-in. You can staple it.”

Henry brightens just slightly before hurrying off, excited to staple someone's scalp.

Kathleen stands at the nurse’s station, arms crossed, lips pressed into a line as she watches three nurses hustle to cover six rooms. She barely glances at you, but when she does, her voice is velvet over steel.

“You better love this job, sweetheart. Because it sure as hell doesn’t love us back.”

You offer her a tired grin. “I’m in a toxic relationship with medicine.”

“I’d say get out,” she murmurs, tapping something into the computer, “but I’ve been saying that for twenty years.”

You’re interrupted by Ellie appearing behind you like a caffeinated ghost, her voice quick and panicked. “I just had a guy vomit blood on my shoes and I don’t think that was in the orientation packet.”

You blink. “Was it a large volume?”

“Like a tarantula of blood exploded out of his mouth.”

“Sounds like a GI bleed. Grab Marlene and get him on O2, two large bore IVs, and get a CBC, type and screen, and a bolus of saline.”

Ellie stares at you, eyes wide. “...I love you.”

“You’ll hate me in two hours.”

Dina slides past a moment later, rolling her eyes as she scribbles a note onto a file. “You need me for the kid from the group home?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Bed twelve.”

“I’ll bring stickers,” she mutters, already moving.

You turn a corner to find Riley standing outside a room, fidgeting with her stethoscope.

“I tried to get a BP but the patient wouldn’t stop yelling at me.”

“Welcome to emergency medicine,” you say, opening the curtain.

The hours between 7 and 9 blur into a tangle of trauma activations, overdoses, and one elderly woman who insists she’s seeing angels. Joel appears somewhere around 7:30, silent and gruff, already charting by the trauma desk. His sleeves are rolled up, hair still damp from the shower both of you shared early this morning. He looks at you like he’s already tired for both of you.

You pass behind him and your hand grazes the small of his back, just enough for him to shift his weight and glance at you from the corner of his eye. That’s all. That’s enough.

He doesn’t need to say anything. Nobody talks about it, but everyone knows.

By 9 a.m., you’ve had three traumas, two psych consults, and a toddler with a swallowed battery. A man in a star-spangled bikini was just escorted to the waiting room by Bill, Ellie and Abby giggling in each other's arms watching the scene.

You think you might be sweating through your scrubs.

You duck into the breakroom, finally, and find Tess already in there, sleeves rolled, sipping black coffee and glaring at the microwave like it owes her money.

“Fourth of July,” she says without looking at you. “God bless America.”

You groan and collapse into the chair next to her. “How many stabbings so far?”

“Three. One with a fork. Guy said he was trying to get the last sausage off the grill.”

You snort, leaning back and letting the moment hold. Outside, another ambulance pulls into the bay. The day is only just beginning. And no one’s getting out early.

Just as you sat down, Ellie burst into the break room like her body was still moving faster than her brain could catch up. Her face was flushed with adrenaline, lips parted, hands trembling just enough to tell you this wasn’t a drill.

“Hey—hey—uh—can you—can you come? Right now. It’s that guy in Bay Two. He—he fucking lunged at me.”

Tess straightened up immediately, coffee forgotten. You were already on your feet, coffee sloshing onto the table as you moved past Ellie, her hand catching your elbow.

“I didn’t even touch him. I was just checking his vitals and he went off. Said women shouldn’t be in medicine, shouldn’t ‘touch him,’ called me a goddamn slut, and then he lunged. I didn’t—I mean I moved back—he didn’t land it, but—”

“I’ve got it,” you said, your voice already lowering, the calm hard edge setting in. “You’re okay. You did everything right.”

Tess looked like she wanted to follow, to keep an eye on things, but you shook your head. “Stay here. I got this.”

You headed for Bay Two with a kind of purposeful gait that had nurses flattening themselves against the wall. Marlene caught your eye from the main desk and gave you a look, sharp and knowing. She didn’t need an explanation.

The man in Bay Two was middle-aged, built like someone who spent more time drinking beer than going to the gym, his hands cuffed to the rails, red-faced and sneering. A big, mean, fleshy kind of guy with the kind of grin that made your stomach twist—not in fear, but in a deep, guttural revulsion.

“Here she is,” he crowed when he saw you enter. “Another whore with a stethoscope. They just handing out medical degrees to anyone with a pussy now, huh?”

Your heart didn’t even skip. You had heard worse. But not recently. Not in Joel's ER.

You approached, eyes flicking to the security strap readouts, the monitor, the vitals. Elevated BP, slightly tachycardic, but stable. You stood just out of reach, arms crossed, voice perfectly even.

“Sir, you’re in the emergency department of Austin General. My name is Dr. —”

“Don’t want your fucking name. Don’t want your hands on me either,” he snarled. “Get me a real doctor.”

“That would be me,” you said, unfazed. “You assaulted a medical student. You will now deal with me.”

“You little bitch. You think you got any right to—”

He spat. At you.

The glob landed on your scrub top just left of your collar, thick and glistening.

You didn’t flinch. You refused to give him that.

But when he jerked forward against the cuffs—catching you off guard with a sudden surge of movement—his nail scratched across the base of your neck. Not deep, but enough to burn. Enough to make Marlene, who had followed you at a distance, shout for security.

Enough for Joel, who’d been passing by and caught the tail end of that violent motion, to come to a dead stop at the doorway like a goddamn thundercloud.

“What the fuck did he just do?” Joel’s voice was low, calm. Terrifying.

You blinked, your hand gently coming up to feel the small scratch. Warmth there. Nothing that needed more than a Tegaderm. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

You turned to him, quiet, eyes locking. It was one of those moments where a single breath passed and everything unsaid between you stood on the edge of a blade.

“Let me treat him,” Joel said, stepping closer. His voice wasn’t a request.

“Joel.”

He turned to you—deliberate, slow. “You got a goddamn cut on your neck. You’re not treating him. You treat the people who deserve you.”

And then, to your absolute surprise, Joel stepped in.

The patient was smirking again. “Oh, now we got a real man in here,” he said, a mocking grin. “What are you, her boyfriend? Fucking lucky bastard.”

Joel didn’t say a word. He just walked over, gloved up in one fluid motion, and began to examine the man with a detached, surgical coldness that sent chills down your spine.

“What, she send you in ‘cause she can’t handle me? Tch. Figures. You look like the type to put a leash on your bitch, huh?”

Joel wrapped the BP cuff tight—too tight.

“You son of a—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Joel said evenly.

The man froze.

Joel leaned over the bed, voice low and sharp as a scalpel. “You don’t talk to my staff that way. You sure as hell don’t touch anyone. And if you so much as blink wrong again, you’re not gonna like how I handle it. You understand me?”

“You can’t talk to me like—”

Joel pressed the cuff bulb once more. The man hissed in pain.

“I asked if you understood.”

The man’s breath was shallow, face flushing again. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Jesus. Fine.”

You stood just outside the curtain, your jaw tight, watching Joel work with a professionalism sharpened by fury. You’d seen him rough before—on the job, during trauma—but never like this. Never with his jaw clenched like that. Never with his hands steady as stone but his body bristling with quiet rage.

Kathleen appeared beside you at some point, arms crossed.

“Jesus,” she muttered, watching through the curtain. “What happened?”

“He assaulted Ellie,” you said. “Tried to hit me.”

Kathleen’s eyes flicked to the small scratch at your collar. Her mouth went tight. “Should’ve let Bill loose on him.”

Joel finished dressing the man’s wound with the grace of a wolf playing surgeon. Then he turned, gloves off, and met your gaze. His face was unreadable. But his eyes told you everything.

He was done being polite. For the rest of the shift—and likely the day—he’d be wound tight. He would do his job. But that thin line he normally walked between professionalism and unfiltered rage? It was gone.

You met him halfway in the hall, his hand brushing yours for a second, a brief, nearly invisible contact.

“You okay?” he asked, low, barely audible.

“I’m fine.”

“He hurt you.”

“Barely. Joel—don’t do something that’ll get you written up.”

He exhaled slowly, jaw ticking. “Let ‘em write me up.”

You stared at each other in that fluorescent hallway, footsteps pounding, phones ringing, voices shouting. But all you heard was him.

Behind you, Ellie reappeared, her face tight and pale but determined.

“I’m okay,” she said quietly, more to Joel than you. “He didn’t land it.”

Joel nodded once. “You handled yourself.”

Ellie smiled, just barely. “You going to tell HR about your bedside manner back there?”

He didn’t even look at her. “HR can kiss my ass.”

The ER didn’t slow. The next wave of traumas rolled in before you could even sit. A car crash. A fireworks explosion that nearly cost a teenager his hand. Jesse passed you gauze with one hand and held pressure on a neck wound with the other. Frank and Tommy burst through the ambulance bay doors with another critical, blood on their uniforms, sweat streaking their faces.

The air smelled like burnt flesh and Betadine. The walls were closing in with noise and heat and the never-ending, never fucking ending churn of human pain.

You didn’t stop. You didn’t flinch. Joel didn’t leave your side for more than five minutes at a time. And no one said a word about it. But they all saw. They always did. Even when they pretended they didn’t.

Especially when it came to you and Joel. The glances in the hall, the stillness that took over his body when your name was called out overhead, the way his eyes always found you first, scanning for blood, for bruises, for the smallest fucking thing that might’ve happened in the last ten minutes he hadn’t been watching.

Everyone saw it.

And no one said a goddamn word.

Because Joel Miller didn’t take kindly to anyone prying. And more importantly—he was a better doctor when you were around. They all knew it. It made them like you more. It made them protect you, in a way. Quietly. Stealthily. With a kind of respect that was hard-earned in a place like this.

But respect didn’t stop the world from burning. The ER was a fucking pressure cooker by the time the sun hit its apex. And even though you couldn’t see it from inside—no windows, no light except the harsh fluorescents—the shift in the air was tangible. It was the crescendo. The peak.

The waiting room had filled an hour ago. Now it was bursting. You heard the shouting first. Low and muffled from behind the secured double doors, the ones that kept the main ED from descending into chaos every time someone with a sprained ankle thought they were dying. Then the angry thuds—boots on linoleum, chairs scraping, someone pounding their fist on the glass partition near triage.

You caught the tail end of it from the nurse’s station. Kathleen had her jaw set, arms crossed, standing like a statue of stone as she radioed for Bill. She didn’t flinch as someone outside yelled about waiting four fucking hours with a sick kid. About how the government should burn for the state of the American healthcare system. About how their taxes should be buying better care.

How fucking ironic telling a healthcare worker that.

Jesse muttered under his breath as he wiped his hands on a towel, “People think ERs are fucking drive-thrus now.”

“They’ve always thought that,” Kathleen snapped.

You heard the buzz of the security door unlocking and then saw Bill stride out into the storm, calm as a mountain, broad-shouldered and stone-eyed. The crowd parted enough for him to speak in that deep, measured voice of his. You didn’t hear the words, but the tone was clear—this isn’t a negotiation.

Someone pushed. Big mistake.

Bill moved faster than anyone expected, crowding the man backward with one hand braced on his chest, steering him toward the wall. “Don’t. Touch. My. Staff,” you heard him growl.

The man’s arms lifted—weak, blustering, drunk or angry or both—but Bill wasn’t even winded. He radioed for APD, kept himself between the chaos and the front desk, and when the doors buzzed shut again ten seconds later, the noise behind them didn’t stop—but it dulled.

“Fourth of fucking July,” Marlene muttered as she walked by. “Every goddamn year.”

The real storm, though—the one that mattered—was what came through the ambulance bay.

The first call came at 10:41. Child. Near-drowning. Backyard pool. No adult supervision. ETA: two minutes.

Then another. And another. And another.

You stood in Trauma One as Maria directed the incoming flow like a symphony conductor, her tablet clenched in her hand like a sword. “Put the six-year-old in Trauma Two. Get Pediatrics paged down here. Respiratory on standby. Tell CT we need head and C-spine for all drownings, intubate as needed.”

“Where the fuck are we supposed to put them?” Jesse asked, not even trying to hide his frustration. “We’re at max capacity!”

Maria’s voice sliced through the noise. “Make room. Stack if you have to. Double rooms. Trauma hall overflow. I don’t give a shit. We are not turning away pediatric codes.”

And you were moving before you even processed it. Pulling on gloves, snapping goggles over your eyes, shoving trauma shears into your pocket.

The first kid—boy, seven or eight—was cyanotic, limp, his chest rising only slightly under bag ventilation. Joel took point, barking orders with brutal precision.

“1 mg epinephrine IV push. Get ready to tube. Peds crash cart now. We need a line—Jesse, get that line. You, get that IO if you have to.”

“Got it.”

“Push faster.”

The parents were in the hallway screaming. You didn’t stop. There was no room for that. You could fall apart later.

The second kid—blonde, five, blue lips, vomit around her mouth—was rushed into your room. You caught her from the gurney mid-transfer, nearly dropping to your knees with the dead weight.

“Started CPR on scene,” Tommy said breathlessly. “No pulse for four minutes. They pulled her from the shallow end.”

You moved on instinct. “Start compressions. Get the crash cart. I need 0.01 mg/kg epi. Let’s go.”

You worked until your arms felt like jelly. Until sweat was dripping down your spine, soaking through your black scrubs. Until your fingers ached from bagging, from checking pulses, from writing code notes that your brain refused to absorb. You snapped orders, half-yelled at Abby for hesitating too long on a tube size, and didn’t even feel guilty.

These were kids. And they were dying.

By the time you got the third one—a boy, barely three—he was already cold. Tommy handed you the chart with blood on his cheek, his eyes hollow.

“Nothing in the field,” he said.

You stared at the kid. You didn’t say anything. You intubated anyway. You tried.

Joel came in halfway through and didn’t even look at the clock. He just picked up the ambu bag, his face carved from stone.

“Come on, baby boy,” he murmured, almost too quiet to hear. “Come on. Breathe.”

The rhythm of the bagging. The flatline. The futile compressions.

You heard Mel whisper, “He’s gone.”

But you kept going. Just long enough. Just to make sure.

When you finally called it—when the silence came—you felt it ripple through the room like a knife through skin.

Joel didn’t move. He looked down at the boy for a long time. Then up at you. His jaw clenched.

You looked away. You left the room. And still, the day didn’t stop.

Another crash. Fireworks embedded in a thigh. A man who’d tried to jump a fence with sparklers in both hands and shattered his femur on landing. Someone else with a roman candle burn across their cheek and no fucking idea how they got it.

Again. It was daylight. Why the fuck are people doing fireworks already.

You caught a glimpse of Ellie across the trauma hallway, covered in soot, helping Riley wrap a dressing. Her hands were steady. Her mouth was set.

Marlene passed you a water and said, “You need to drink something or you’re going to pass out.”

You didn’t even realize your hands were shaking.

By the time you made it back to Joel, he was standing at the med station with his palms flat on the counter, shoulders hunched, breathing slow and heavy like a man trying not to crack his ribs from the inside out.

You stood behind him. Quiet. Present.

“He was so young,” you said, voice hoarse.

He nodded once. “I know.”

“We did everything.”

“I know.”

You didn’t touch him. You couldn’t. Not here. But his hand brushed yours when you reached for the pen, just the smallest press of his pinky against your skin. It was enough.

You stayed like that for a breath. Then two. Then the radio crackled again. Another code. Another ambulance. No rest. Not today. And not now.

It was barely past eleven and the ER had transformed from a battlefield into something more biblical. Plagues of chaos. Floods of noise. Screams from the trauma bays, sobbing from the waiting room, blood on the linoleum, and no time to wipe it up before someone else was bleeding over it.

You were halfway through stitching up a forehead lac—nine-year-old girl, tripped chasing her older brother with a sparkler—when your pager buzzed again. Rapid succession. Three back-to-back calls.

You looked down at the kid, her tiny legs swinging off the gurney, lips trembling.

“You’re doing amazing,” you told her. “Almost done, sweetheart. Just five more.”

She gave a brave nod, but her chin wobbled anyway. Jesse handed you the next suture without speaking, the tension behind his eyes saying more than words ever could.

The second the stitches were in, you stripped your gloves and tossed them toward the bin, already moving. The noise hit you in waves as you emerged back into the hallway. Another stretcher wheeled past, pushed by Tommy and Frank, both breathless.

“Sparkler injury!” Frank shouted. “We’ve got a foreign object in the left orbit. Firework’s still in the goddamn eye!”

You blinked. “Still in?”

“It’s lodged. Like a fucking spear.”

They wheeled the teen—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen—into Trauma Four. Blood was pouring from the socket, and he was screaming loud enough to rattle your skull. The jagged metal tip of a bent, burnt-out sparkler jutted from the flesh where his eye should’ve been. His hands were tied down. One eye wide with terror.

“Why the fuck are people lighting fireworks before the sun even sets?” you muttered, pulling on a fresh gown.

“Because Americans are stupid,” Marlene said flatly, handing you saline flushes.

It was chaos in the room. Abby tried to push meds, but the kid kept thrashing.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Abby shouted. “I can’t get the vein!”

“Hold him down,” you snapped. “Get a sedative on board. Joel!”

He was already beside you, steady hands gripping the boy’s shoulders, voice firm and low, “You gotta stay still, kid. We’re gonna fix you up. Just hold still.”

“But my eye! My fucking eye—!”

“We see it,” you said. “You’re not gonna lose more if you let us help. We’ve got you.”

Blood ran down your gloves. The sparkler was still hot when Tommy pulled it from the wound—safely, slowly, with Joel guiding the angle—and the kid passed out from the pain.

You stepped back, adrenaline crashing into your bloodstream. No time to breathe. No time to break. The second you stepped out of Trauma Four, Ellie sprinted up, pale and winded.

“There’s a kid in triage with full-body hives,” she gasped. “Face is like—bad.They think it’s an allergic reaction. Face paint.”

You blinked. “Fucking face paint?”

“Red, white, and blue stripes,” she said, still panting. “Apparently it was ‘organic.’ Mom said he’s never had allergies before.”

“Where is he?”

“Exam 6. Jesse’s already pushing Benadryl but he’s wheezing. He’s scared.Like full-on panicking.”

You followed her down the hall, cutting through noise and stretchers and the rising scent of blood and chlorine and burning hair. The kid was around six, covered in angry red welts, his face ballooning, lips beginning to swell.

His mom was sobbing.

“I didn’t know—oh God, I didn’t know—I thought it was just paint, it was from Whole Foods, it said natural—”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, crouching down. “Hey buddy, can you take a deep breath for me?”

He tried. It wheezed out in a thin rasp.

“Epi,” you said. “Right now. Auto-injector to the thigh. Push fluids. O2.”

Ellie already had the mask on him. Jesse handed you the pen.You jammed the injector into his leg through his shorts. He jolted, eyes wide, and then started to cry. That was a goodsign.

“Good job,” you said, breathless. “You’re gonna be okay, kid. Just keep breathing for me, alright?”

A nurse from Peds rolled in with an Epi drip and you handed off. Your hands were shaking again. You didn’t even realize it until Jesse brushed his fingers against yours.

“You alright?”

You looked down at your scrubs. More blood. More paint. More fucking sweat.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You were lying. Your stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since the last code. But you kept going. Because that’s what everyone here did.

You barely made it two steps out of the room before Henry came barreling up the hallway.

“Doctor!” he wheezed. “We’ve got a—uh—a patient from a hot dog eating contest! They—they passed out mid-competition. Obstructed airway, I think. They’re coding in Bay Eight.”

You ran. By the time you got there, Riley and Mel were already doing compressions. A man—mid-thirties, athletic build—was purple-faced and frothing at the mouth. His stomach was distended and there was a faint smear of ketchup across his cheek.

“Hot dog still in there?” you asked, snapping gloves on.

Riley nodded. “We tried Heimlich. Failed. We’re suctioning but it’s not clearing.”

You stepped up. “Forceps. Laryngoscope. Bag valve.”

You shoved the scope into his mouth, peered past the pink folds of tissue. There it was—a slick, greasy chunk of frankfurter lodged in the airway like a cork.

Joel appeared behind you.

“You good?” he asked.

“Hand me the damn forceps.”

He did. You fished for it—deep, too deep—and pulled it free with a sickening squelch. The hot dog thunked to the floor like something cursed. Mel jumped in with the ambu bag.

“Pulse is back,” she confirmed a moment later. “It’s weak. But it’s back.”

“Never,” Riley panted, sweat plastering her baby hairs to her face, “never fucking entering a hot dog contest. Ever.”

You were leaning against the wall now, chest heaving, and your neck throbbed where that earlier patient had scratched you. You’d forgotten about it. The pain was back now, a dull ache that pulsed with your racing heart.

Joel stood in front of you, brow furrowed. “You’re not okay.”

You looked up. “Neither are you.”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m not the one bleeding.”

You glanced down. The scratch had reopened, blood soaking the collar of your scrub top. Not much. Not dangerous. Just another wound in a long, long list.

You swallowed hard. “Just a scratch.”

Joel didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just stood beside you as the chaos surged around you again.

Because there was no end to it. The doors would keep opening. The stretchers would keep rolling. And you’d keep going. Because no one else could.

That was the brutal, blistering truth of it.

You stood there—goggles tight on your face, blood crusted on your collar, gloves pulled on with a snap and your spine locked straight—not because you had some noble sense of duty or unshakable resolve, but because you couldn’t afford to stop. Because every time you even thought about sitting down, someone coded. Someone crashed. A kid stopped breathing. A man lost an eye. A woman sobbed over her infant’s tiny hand as the nurses tried to get a line in, whispering, “please, please, please” like a rosary.

And now, apparently, someone had blown themselves up in a fucking Porta-Potty.

"Incoming," Tommy said grimly, as the double doors from the bay burst open.

“Trauma One!” Maria barked from across the hub. “Now!”

Frank came in with the gurney, face tight, jaw locked. The smell hit first—burned fabric, scorched hair, shit. Literal human waste, clinging to the burned man’s clothes, his skin. His legs were torn up—open wounds studded with plastic and fragments of shattered porcelain from the toilet itself. One hand was charred black. His skin was red and sloughing, patches of it bubbling.

"Jesus Christ," Jesse muttered, yanking a mask up over his nose.

"Firework in a Porta-John," Tommy said as he wheeled the guy in. "M-80. Don’t ask me how."

"Someone fucking would on the Fourth," you muttered, snapping on another gown. “Where was it placed?”

“In the bowl,” Frank said. “He sat on it.”

“Of course he did.”

Joel was already across from you, snapping on a pair of surgical gloves with a sound that could slice through bone. His jaw was clenched, face unreadable.

"Vitals are trash," Mel said, sliding in with a monitor. "BP’s in the tank. O2 sat’s crashing. We need to intubate now."

You grabbed the laryngoscope while Joel prepped the tube. He was calm—dead calm—the kind of calm that comes before an explosion. His voice cut through the room with that hard, sharp edge.

“Lidocaine in. Cricoid pressure. Bag him.”

Jesse handed you the blade. You guided it into place, careful and precise. The airway was distorted but patent. Joel took over. The tube slid in on the first pass. Of course it did.

You looked down at the man’s legs, charred and littered with embedded shrapnel and what looked like wet confetti.

“Someone tell me that’s not toilet paper in his femoral wound.”

“Oh, it is,” Joel growled.

Marlene gagged.

“Flush the wounds. High-dose antibiotics. He’s septic already, or he’s about to be.”

You cleaned what you could while Kathleen handed you a syringe. “Chemical rash on his back. He landed in the tank.”

“Tank was full,” Tommy added helpfully, stepping out of the way.

“Jesus,” you muttered.

“He’s not gonna make it through the hour,” Joel said, bluntly. “Let’s get plastics and trauma surgery down here. He needs a burn unit bed but I’m betting San Antonio’s full.”

You didn’t ask how he knew that. You just nodded.

“Let’s call it in anyway.”

There wasn’t a single clear patch of this man’s skin left untouched. He looked like the Fourth of July had tried to swallow him whole and shit him back out.

You worked fast, coordinating with a speed that could only be honed by months—years—in this warzone of a hospital. Joel didn’t look at you once, not directly, but he moved around you like gravity, always one step ahead, always covering your blind side. He handled the patient with a kind of ruthless efficiency that others might’ve called cold.

You knew better. Joel wasn’t cold. Joel was focused. He didn’t waste softness on the people who didn’t deserve it. That man on the table? He might have deserved pity. He sure as fuck wasn’t getting it.

Joel tore his gloves off once the patient was stabilized enough for surgery and tossed them in the bin like they’d personally offended him. His hands shook once—barely noticeable—before he shoved them into his pockets.

“Fucking idiot,” he muttered.

You didn’t disagree.

And you didn’t stop moving.

Because the very next second, Ellie poked her head in.

“Uh, we’ve got a kid in Exam 3? Swallowed a toothpick? Like…a flag one. From a cupcake.”

You blinked. “A flag?”

“Yeah, like the American flag. From the dollar store. She’s five.”

“Is she choking?”

“No, but the family’s…a lot.”

“How a lot?”

“You’ll see.”

You left Joel in Trauma One and headed toward Exam 3. You could hear them before you opened the door.

The mother was sobbing. Loudly. Hiccuping breaths and wailing cries like she was auditioning for a soap opera. The father was yelling—at the kid, at the mother, at the air. Clearly drunk already, beer-breath sharp in the room.

“She’s gonna die,” the mom wailed. “My baby’s gonna die from a cupcake!”

“She ain’t fuckin’ dyin’,” the dad snapped, swaying slightly. “Y’all makin’ a big deal about nothin’!”

“Why did you even let her have the cupcake? You always do this—you don’t watch her!”

“She’s five, she can eat a goddamn cupcake! We all did when we were kids!”

“She swallowed a fucking flag, Kyle!”

In the corner, Grandma was sitting in a plastic chair, swaying gently and singing America the Beautiful off-key and with unnerving enthusiasm.

“O beautiful… for spacious skies…”

The child—the only reasonable person in the room—sat on the bed kicking her heels, totally unbothered.

“I feel fine,” she said. “Can I have another cupcake?”

Dina was already in the room, crouched next to the mother, talking in that soft, steady voice she used when everything was teetering on collapse.

“She’s okay,” Dina said. “She’s alert, she’s talking, she’s not choking. Let’s just take a breath, alright?”

The mom sobbed harder. You stepped in, hands in the air like you were entering a hostage negotiation.

“Hi, I’m one of the doctors. I hear we had a little cupcake situation.”

“She swallowed a flag,” the dad said proudly. “America!”

“She’s fine,” the mom cried. “But what if she’s not? What if it cuts her up on the inside?”

“Ma’am,” you said gently, approaching the little girl. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Kaylee.”

“Hi, Kaylee. Can I press on your tummy a little?”

She nodded solemnly. “You’re pretty.”

You smiled. “So are you.”

You examined her—no abdominal tenderness, no signs of perforation, vitals stable. You made a note to get an abdominal X-ray, just to make sure the damn flag wasn’t sharp enough to do damage. But this wasn’t a code. This was a circus.

Dina stood up slowly, easing the mom back onto the chair.

“She’s gonna be fine,” she said firmly. “We’re gonna monitor her and make sure everything passes okay. But you need to breathe.”

The grandma took that moment to hit a high note.

“...for purple mountain majesty…”

You looked at Dina. Dina looked at you.

“I’ll give them some water,” she muttered. “And maybe a Valium.”

You squeezed her arm gently. “You’re a national treasure.”

Dina smirked. “Someone has to be.”

You stepped out of the room and leaned your head against the cool wall for just a moment. Just a moment of silence. Of stillness. But there was no such thing today.

There were voices shouting again. Footsteps pounding. Another trauma called overhead. And Joel’s voice, snapping sharp in the distance—

“Get me a fucking gurney now or I’ll throw this guy over my shoulder myself!”

You straightened your spine. Wiped your hands. And ran toward it.

You didn’t know what room it was yet. You didn’t know who was bleeding, coding, or screaming—but the air in the ER had changed again, like it had decided to climb one more goddamn rung on the ladder to hell.

By now it had bled into noon, and that meant it wasn’t just a peak anymore. This was the full boil. No more build-up. No more lulls. Just the ER at its most unhinged, bloated with bodies and chaos and pain, stinking of chlorine and antiseptic and sunburned skin.

You rounded the corner, expecting another trauma code, expecting the worst—and instead, you got two teenage boys, one on a wheelchair, the other pushing him with the nonchalant energy of a kid who thought his own mortality was at least a decade away.

“We tried to do a Slip ’n Slide,” said the one in the chair, grinning despite the fact that his wrist was visibly fractured and his shoulder was dislocated at an angle that made Jesse wince. “It was sick.”

“We used trash bags and Dawn,” his friend said, absolutely proud of the decision. “It’s, like, eco-friendly, right?”

“Yeah,” the injured one added. “Until he slipped and hit the sprinkler head buried in the lawn. I thought his bone came out of his arm, but it was just soap and panic.”

“Yo, are you my doctor?” the boy said, eyes dropping to your badge, then slowly crawling back up to your eyes. “Because like…you’re so hot.”

You blinked. Behind you, Jesse choked on his laugh.

“Yeah,” the boy continued, winking despite his very obvious pain. “I think I just dislocated my heart.”

“Okay,” you said, stepping in. “We’re going to get your vitals, your arm back in its socket, and absolutely never talk like that to a medical professional again.”

“But if I die—”

“You won’t.”

“—will you come to my funeral?”

“I’ll resuscitate you just to kill you again.”

Jesse wheeled the kid into Exam 5, cackling.

“I love this job sometimes,” he muttered. “Teens flirting with trauma. Classic.”

You didn’t get far before Joel appeared. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

Just looked at the kid, then looked at you, and that single blink—slow and pointed—said all of it.

Joel was not the jealous type.

Joel was the territorial type. Like a wolf. Like a loaded weapon just waiting to be cocked.

“Relax,” you muttered under your breath as you passed him, shoulder brushing his. “He’s seventeen and concussed.”

Joel growled low in his throat. Actually growled. “Little bastard keeps looking at your ass, he’ll leave here with more than a cast.”

You fought back a smirk. “He’s barely out of diapers.”

Joel shot you a look like that wasn’t the goddamn point.

But then Tess was suddenly at your side, moving at speed, hair half-falling from her bun, eyes wild and voice sharp.

“Hey—Miller. You. Room 12. Right now. I don’t have time for this.”

“What is it?” you asked, already falling into step beside her.

She didn’t break stride. “Geriatric. Took too much THC lemonade. She thinks she’s ascending. I need backup before she climbs the fucking bed rails.”

You and Joel both followed.

Inside Room 12 was an elderly woman in a red-white-and-blue shawl, lying in a hospital gown with her arms stretched out like she was ready to be crucified.

“I hear the trumpets,” she whispered, eyes glassy. “They’re calling me home.”

Ellie stood nearby holding an EKG lead in one hand and what looked like an empty bottle of artisanal lemonade in the other. “Her granddaughter brought this,” she said. “She thought it was regular lemonade.”

“I thought it was an Arnold Palmer,” the woman corrected, voice dreamy. “It tasted like freedom.”

“She chugged half the bottle in the sun,” Tess explained. “Heart rate’s 140 and rising.”

Joel moved to the monitor, eyes flicking over the numbers. “BP’s shit too. You got a line?”

“Yeah,” said Mel, double-checking the drip. “But she keeps pulling at it.”

“Ma’am,” you said gently, approaching the bedside. “You’re not dying. You just had too much cannabis.”

Her eyes found Joel. They widened. “Saint Peter?”

Joel stared. “No.”

“Have you come to escort me?” she whispered, reaching out a hand.

Joel took a single step back. 

“I’m ready,” she continued, eyes glistening. “Take me into the light.”

“She needs Ativan,” Abby said, handing it off. “And maybe like…a priest.”

“Just keep her in the bed,” Tess said. “She keeps trying to crawl toward the halogen light in the ceiling.”

Joel turned away, muttering, “I fucking hate this holiday.”

You looked at him, lifting a brow. “You hate every holiday.”

“Yeah,” he said. “And this one’s the worst.”

It would’ve been funny, if the ER hadn’t chosen that exact moment to go off the rails again.

Marlene poked her head in. “You guys got a throat bleeder in Exam 2. Woman swallowed a metal bristle from a grill brush. Says she noticed halfway through her hot dog but didn’t wanna be rude.”

“What the fuck,” you muttered.

“She’s stable,” Marlene added. “But her sister’s already yelling.”

You and Joel exchanged a look. Of course.

You followed Marlene down the hall, Ellie falling in behind you with Riley trailing behind her, both clutching their tablets and trying to finish charting from the last five traumas. Henry passed you in the other direction, visibly sweating, muttering something about a broken ankle in the hallway again.

Inside Exam 2, the patient sat clutching her throat, blood on her napkin. Next to her stood a woman in her fifties with perfectly curled hair, a clipboard, and the righteous fury of a suburban mom who read one article once.

“She swallowed what?” Joel asked, arms folded.

“A grill bristle,” you said, eyeing the bleeding. “Probably from one of those wire brushes. They snap off sometimes. I read about this.”

The sister stepped in front of the bed like a lawyer at a press conference.

“This is why I tell everyone not to use metal tools when cooking. There are non-toxic options. Bamboo. Silicone. But nobody listens to me. And now this happens!”

“Ma’am,” Joel said flatly. “I don’t give a shit about your non toxic options right now. Your sister is bleeding.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” he said, walking past her to check the monitor. “Let the doctors work.”

You fought a smile and grabbed gloves. The woman on the bed gave you a tired, slightly woozy grin.

“I mean, it was a good hot dog,” she rasped. “Didn’t wanna ruin the vibe.”

“Next time,” you said, gently tilting her head, “ruin the vibe.”

She chuckled. Then winced.

Dina appeared at the doorway, her voice a breathless sigh. “There’s a baby on the floor in the waiting room trying to eat a Pop-It firework. No parents in sight.”

“I’m gonna commit a felony,” Joel muttered.

“I’ll hold your pager,” you said.

Everyone laughed. For half a second, it felt like the room wasn’t collapsing. Then the lights flickered. The power hiccupped. And another trauma was called over the PA.

You looked at Joel. He was already moving. And you followed him. Because no one else could.

That sentence followed you like a goddamn shadow.

It echoed in your head as you and Joel passed through the final security doors into the waiting room—a wall of sweaty, shouting, sunburned humanity. It was packed to the gills. Coughing kids, cranky geriatrics, one guy snoring against the vending machine, another pacing the floor in flip-flops and nothing else but an American flag wrapped around his waist like a towel.

The Fourth of July in Texas. The absolute worst kind of magic.

And right in the middle of all of it—by the edge of the grimy tiled floor, next to an overflowing trash can—was a baby. A real-ass baby.

Maybe nine months old. Crawling across the fucking floor with a soggy diaper and an open Pop-It firework gripped in his drool-slick hand like it was a holy relic.

“God damn it,” Joel muttered, and you were already moving.

You scooped the baby up before he could slam the firework into the floor. He shrieked in protest, flailed in your arms, and then—somehow—managed to sneeze directly into your mouth.

You froze.

“Did he just—?”

“He fucking did,” Joel confirmed.

Your jaw clenched.

Joel took the firework from the kid’s hand and hurled it into the nearest trash bin like it had personally offended him. Then he looked around the room with all the tenderness of a hunting dog tracking a wounded deer.

“Whose kid is this?!” he bellowed.

Silence. No one moved. No one looked up.

“I said—whose fucking kid?!”

You rocked the baby gently on your hip. “He doesn’t have a wristband. He’s not registered.”

Joel scanned the crowd, eyes narrowing. “We’re calling CPS.”

“I’ll call 'em,” Dina said, appearing from nowhere, eyes exhausted and jaw tight. “Jesus fucking Christ. This is the third abandoned kid today. Do people think this is a goddamn daycare?”

“Apparently,” Joel growled.

The baby cooed in your arms and drooled on your scrub top.

You sighed. “Okay. This one’s mine now. I’ll call him July.”

Joel looked at the baby. The baby blinked at him, completely unbothered.

Joel didn’t smile. But you could tell he wanted to. He just touched the baby's foot making him giggle.

Then the screaming started. Not from the baby. From the ambulance bay.

You both turned just in time to see Tommy and Frank wheel in a gurney that looked…wrong. The patient wasn’t lying flat. She was…angled? Propped up in some kind of twisted plastic hellscape. And she was howling.

“I’m stuck!” she screeched. “I cannot feel my ass!”

“She got melted into the chair,” Frank explained as they wheeled her past the desk. “Aluminum frame, plastic seat. Left it out in the sun too long. She sat down and… boom. Cheeks fused.”

“She tried to stand up and the chair came with her,” Tommy added, still holding the IV bag. “Had to cut the lawn hose to fit her through the door.”

You blinked. Marlene blinked. Joel’s eye twitched.

“Get her into Procedure Three,” Maria barked from behind the main hub. “And prep a burn tray. This is gonna be a surgical extraction.”

You followed the gurney in, July passed off to Dina, as Joel grabbed the trauma shears. Dina disappeared down the hall to hand the baby off to Social Work. Jesse, Tess, and Riley were already in the room. Henry stood against the wall, pale as a sheet, staring at the patient like she was some rare museum exhibit.

“Don’t just stand there,” Joel snapped at him. “You’ve seen an ass before.”

“Not like this,” Henry whispered.

The patient was red in the face, gripping the sides of the chair like it was a ride at an amusement park. 

“She’s got second-degree burns on the posterior,” Mel said, pulling on gloves. “We’re gonna have to cut the chair off in sections.”

“She’s got third-degree pride damage,” Abby muttered.

“I heard that!” the woman yelled.

“We’ll get you out, ma’am,” Tess said, rolling up her sleeves. “But you need to hold still. If you twist, you’ll rip skin.”

“I’ve been twisted since brunch,” the woman moaned. “Do it fast!”

You stepped in with trauma scissors and started cutting the straps of her sundress where it had fused to the chair legs. Joel knelt at the base, prying at melted plastic.

“Jesse, saline. And get me lidocaine. Abby—scalpel. Riley—monitor. Now.”

They moved. You moved. The chair creaked as Joel wedged the blunt scissors into the side and began to snip.

“You’re gonna feel pressure,” you warned.

“I feel humiliation!” the woman shouted.

The room was chaos. Screams. Grunts. Sweat. Abby nearly slipped in a puddle of saline. Jesse started humming The Star Spangled Banner under his breath like it was going to save his soul.

“Pressure coming,” Joel warned.

“Now,” you said. “Mel—on the back panel.”

One final snap—and the chair split. The woman yelped. Joel caught her before she could slide off the gurney. Burns covered the backs of her thighs and ass. Angry red welts. Plastic still clinging to the skin.

“Get burn cream,” Joel barked. “And wrap it. We’ll get plastics to consult. If this gets infected—”

“It won’t,” you said quickly. “We won’t let it.”

The woman sniffled. “Do I… still have an ass?”

You nodded solemnly. “It’s just less optimistic now.”

Joel gave you a look. But it was almost—almost—amused.

Jesse gently covered her with a sheet. “You’ll be fine, ma’am. But maybe next time, check the chair temperature before you park it.”

“Fuck you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

Tess wiped her forehead. “Somebody better bring me a margarita after this.”

“I got a jug of hospital juice,” Riley offered.

“Go to hell.”

Ellie leaned in through the curtain, tablet clutched in one hand. “Someone just walked in with a buncha sparklers taped to their chest.”

You stared. She stared. You sighed. Then reached for your stethoscope.

You didn’t even get the damn thing around your neck before it happened. The world cracked in half.

A boom, deep and cavernous, roared through the hospital like a goddamn earthquake. The lights flickered. The floor shook. Somewhere far off, car alarms screamed to life. You had just turned to Joel, mouth open to ask what the fuck was that, when the second explosion hit.

It was louder. Closer.

You staggered, caught the edge of the stretcher to steady yourself. From down the hall came the sound of shattering glass. An IV pole tipped, clattered to the floor. Somewhere, someone screamed. The lights dimmed, buzzed, then held steady, flickering like they were considering going out entirely.

Joel was already moving. You didn’t even see him react—just felt it. A hand on your arm. Hard. Gripping. Yanking you in, fast.

He pulled you to him, one arm curling instinctively around your back, his chest flush to yours as the wall behind you both trembled under the blast’s echo.

You could feel his heart racing through his scrubs. His breath was sharp, tight, furious.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was low and sharp, a breath away from a growl.

“No,” you panted. “I’m—what the fuck just happened?”

Across the ER, controlled chaos exploded.

Maria’s voice bellowed from the central hub, clear and commanding, her voice slicing through the panic. “Mass casualty protocol! All trauma bays cleared now. Abby, Mel, start staging the clean beds! Riley, Henry, grab gurneys and start lining the main hallway. Jesse, Marlene, alert radiology and prep the portable X-ray machines—now!”

Joel looked out the window. Smoke. Billowing, black smoke rising from the supermarket lot across the street. People running. Screaming.

“Oh, fuck me,” Kathleen said from the nurse’s desk, eyes wide. “It’s the firework truck.”

“The illegal one,” Marlene added, her voice flat with horror. “That vendor with the fucking tent full of black market shit—it’s gone.”

“Exploded,” said Ellie, appearing at your side, breathless and pale. “It just—exploded. Twice. We felt it inside.”

You looked toward the windows. The supermarket parking lot was chaos. Fireworks still going off mid-air—rockets bursting into reds and greens like it was New Year’s instead of noon. People were running toward the hospital, some limping, some screaming.

A kid was carried by a man soaked in blood.

A woman fell into the bushes near the entrance.

The hospital doors hadn’t even fully opened before Bill was there, already barking into his radio, hand on his hip, stance like a fucking soldier. “We’ve got multiple casualties inbound. Lock this place down, route ‘em to emergency access. Tell APD we need crowd control now. No civilians inside the ER.”

“Tell Fire they’re still igniting,” Tommy shouted as he hauled a backboard off a gurney. “Shit’s not out yet. We’re gonna have more.”

Maria turned to you and Joel. “You two. Trauma Three. First waves’ll be here in thirty seconds.”

The doors burst open again. Sirens now. So many sirens.

Then they came.

The first patient—dragged in by two strangers, clothes still smoking—was screaming, half his face red and blistering, the skin peeling off his arm like plastic wrap. “It was in my goddamn truck!” he yelled. “I told him not to park it next to the propane—”

“Vitals tanking,” Mel called, rushing up with the monitor. “BP 84 over 40!”

“Get fluids. We’re intubating now,” Joel barked. “You—” he pointed at Henry, who flinched— “cut that shirt off and watch for chest expansion.”

“I’ve got an O2 mask!” Ellie shouted, barreling in behind him.

Abby was already trying to start a line, fumbling.

“Abby—center that angle or you’re gonna blow it,” Joel snapped. “Get out of the way. I’ll do it.”

You slipped in with the burn kit, pushing the cart to the side of the bed. “We need lidocaine, silvadene, morphine. He’s gonna crash.”

Second patient came in a minute later.

Woman. Late twenties. Not screaming.

Because she couldn’t breathe.

A rocket had shot straight through the windshield of her car. Glass shredded her chest. One rib cracked. The pressure had collapsed her lung.

“She’s hypoxic,” Jesse called, wheeling her into Trauma Two. “Sat’s in the fifties. Trachea’s shifting. We’ve got a tension pneumo.”

“I’m needling her now!” you said, already gloved up.

Joel moved to your side without hesitation.

“Three fingers below the clavicle. Do it fast or she’s gone,” he said, voice calm, commanding. Like the world wasn’t on fire.

You pierced the chest wall with the needle, felt the rush of air, watched her chest rise.

“She’s stabilizing,” Riley said, breath catching.

Another one.

A child.

Carried in by a stranger, his leg soaked in blood, a metal shard sticking out just above the knee. Screaming. Wailing.

“Shrapnel,” Marlene said. “Straight from the explosion.”

Dina rushed in behind them, voice shaking. “Mom’s not with him. Said she ran off looking for his little brother���he’s alone.”

You pushed the adult crash cart aside, swapping in peds trauma.

“Stay with me, kiddo,” you whispered, eyes locking with his. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Joel appeared beside you, hands already working to stabilize the limb. “Get that pressure dressing on. Marlene—lidocaine local. I’m not cutting metal until he’s numb.”

“Roger that.”

“We can’t pull it here,” you said. “Not without imaging. We don’t know what it’s resting against.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “Then we work around it. Until radiology’s ready.”

The ER was vibrating with sound. The doors slammed open again, and Frank came in pushing another gurney.

“Burns and lacerations,” he said. “Lost a shoe, still has a firework tube in his hand.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Tess muttered, meeting him at the door with a splint and gauze. “Get me a tray. And a scalpel. I think we’re cutting around this one.”

“Where’s Ortho?” Maria asked, hands on her hips. “Someone page Ortho, I want consults in fifteen minutes or I’m dragging them down here myself!”

“Dr. Gail is in surgery!” Riley shouted back. “I’ll grab second call!”

Kathleen blew past the hub with four gurneys trailing behind her like a train, three med techs jogging to keep up. Her face was stone.

“Ten more ambulances on the way,” she called. “The parking lot’s a war zone.They’re staging by triage. We need everyone outside of Trauma Hall to prep overflow.”

You grabbed a portable monitor and a trauma checklist, snapped at Henry to follow.

He hesitated.

Joel barked—“Go.”

Henry went.

You didn’t see where Joel ended up for the next ten minutes. You were too busy. You were stitching, packing wounds, answering rapid-fire questions from Ellie, who was practically vibrating from adrenaline. You passed Jesse in the hallway, sweat pouring down his face, three soaked gowns already in the trash. You heard Abby shouting for a bolus in Room Seven, saw Mel carrying a tray of wrapped scalpels like her life depended on it.

And then—

Joel was beside you again.

You didn’t know how long it had been.

His eyes scanned you fast, checking every inch of you in a breathless beat.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

“You?”

He didn’t answer.

But his fingers brushed your hand for just a second. Just long enough to say still here.

And then more patients poured in.

And you both ran toward it.

There wasn’t even time to think about how long it had been since you’d eaten, or went to the bathroom, or even blinked without your eyeballs stinging. The air in the ER had thickened—hot, metallic, sour with sweat and sterilized burn dressings. Every inch of your black scrubs was soaked in blood, saline, and god knew what else. You couldn’t tell where your pulse stopped and the noise around you began.

There was no clock anymore. Just waves of patients. Gurneys rolling in, IV poles clattering against corners, bloody towels slapping the linoleum. You moved through it like muscle memory—stitching, bagging, ordering scans, barking instructions to interns who hadn’t even hit their first bowel movement on the job.

Joel was a few paces ahead, pulling a C-collar from a wall mount, jaw tight as iron, barking over his shoulder to Riley, who was jogging to keep up with a trauma sheet.

“Have the trauma room ready before I get there, or I’m working on this guy on the floor. Got it?”

“Got it, Dr. Miller,” she said breathlessly, already sprinting down the hall.

You saw Henry leaning into a hallway crash cart, face pale and shiny. He’d just finished assisting with a child whose femur had shattered clean through the skin. His gloved hands were still shaking, and you wanted to say something—something decent—but the next gurney was already coming in, and someone was shouting for an airway and suction, and the moment was gone.

Then the doors opened again.

You heard the change in the room before you saw who it was.

There was a shift—like the sound dropped an octave. Like gravity changed hands.

A firefighter came in.

He wasn’t screaming.

He wasn’t saying anything.

That was worse.

Frank was wheeling him, and the medic at his side looked fucking wrecked.

“Flash burns,” Frank shouted. “Second and third degree, neck down to his hip. Helmet took most of the blast. He was on top of the truck when it popped the second time.”

“Vitals?” Joel asked, already snapping on gloves.

“Dropping. BP’s shit, O2 sat’s low 90s. He needs fluids, airway’s tightening.”

The man’s skin was cracked, dark, curled. Parts of it bubbled, weeping plasma.

“Get him to Trauma One,” Joel barked. “You—” He pointed to Ellie, who was two steps away. “Get Respiratory down here right now.”

“He’s trying to talk,” you said, leaning in.

You crouched beside the gurney as Frank slowed it beside the trauma bay. The firefighter’s lips were blistered. His voice was gravel.

“My…my wife’s here…”

“We’ll find her,” you said. “But you need to stay with us, alright? You’re at Austin General. You’re safe.”

He blinked slowly. “It hurts.”

“I know. I know it does.”

“Push fentanyl, IV,” Joel said, already cutting away what was left of the turnout gear. The skin underneath peeled off with the fabric.

“Motherfucker,” he growled, tossing the gauze aside. “This is third-degree over at least thirty percent. Get the burn team on standby.”

Tess appeared at your side with two nurses and a trauma surgeon. “Ortho’s full upstairs. Trauma Two is open but we’ve got a bleeding scalp lac in there. I’ll switch ‘em if we stabilize him in the next ten.”

You nodded. “I’ll start cooling compresses now.”

You grabbed a silver-coated burn dressing, opened it, and started gently laying it over the exposed tissue. The firefighter didn’t even flinch.

That was the worst part.

The not flinching.

Then came the second shift in the air. The kind you only felt a few times a year.

The doors opened again.

A uniform came through.

Police.

Dragging another.

The cop on the gurney was groaning, blood pouring from a shoulder wound, his vest soaked through, cheek torn open. One of his boots was missing. There was soot on his face.

Joel looked up. Groaned. Loudly.

“Fucking great,” he muttered, wiping his hands on a towel. “Just what we fucking need.”

You barely caught your laugh before it escaped. It wasn’t funny. But it was also so goddamn Joel.

Because whenever a cop rolled through the trauma bay, it meant one thing, the rest of the department was about to show up.

And they’d be in the ER. Hovering. Pacing. Armed.

It turned your trauma bay into a political minefield.

And Joel? Joel didn’t play that game.

“Officer was helping crowd control during the blast,” Tommy reported, voice clipped, wheeling the officer in beside Tess. “Got hit with some shrapnel and then trampled.”

“Vitals?” Joel asked, walking over.

“Stable. But barely. Pressure’s borderline. Laceration on the scalp, and that shoulder’s fucked.”

The officer groaned. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Joel said. “You’ve got a puncture wound half an inch from your subclavian artery, and you’re actively bleeding onto my floor. Shut up and let me work.”

You stepped in behind him, grabbing gauze, gloves already on. “Do you want me to start a second line?”

“Yes. Left AC. Jesse—clamp this.”

“I’m clamping, I’m clamping,” Jesse muttered, hands bloody.

And right on cue, the cavalry came.

Five more officers entered the ER like they owned the place, guns holstered, expressions hard. They didn’t say a word, just hovered outside Trauma Three like sentries.

Dina appeared at your side with an exhausted expression. “I’m going to need a Xanax just from looking at this testosterone.”

“They’re gonna breathe down our necks until this guy’s transferred upstairs,” you muttered, snapping the catheter into place.

Joel didn’t even look up.

“Hey,” he barked, without turning. “One of you pacing jackasses wanna be useful? Go get your boy’s blood type from dispatch and stop fucking crowding my hallway.”

A few of them stiffened.

One opened his mouth.

Joel glared.

The cop closed it again.

Marlene slid in beside you with an extra tray. “You want me to log this guy’s injury for the report?”

“Document it for surgical,” you said. “He’s not going to need an incident report if he bleeds out on the floor.”

“I heard that,” the officer mumbled.

Joel leaned over him. “Good. Maybe you’ll listen better now.”

And then, somehow, like some cruel joke from above, a sixth cop walked in carrying a teenage girl with a bruised face.

“Hit by a rocket while filming a TikTok,” he said. “She’s got glass in her cheek and maybe a concussion.”

Joel blinked.

“Riley. That one’s yours,” he said.

“Me? I—I've never done this before—”

“You’ve got me,” Joel barked. “She’s stable. Triage her. I’ll double-check your assessment before discharge.”

You caught his eye.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to.

You could see it in him—the storm building behind his ribs. The fire that never quite went out. Joel wasn’t just in charge. He was containing the whole fucking hospital with the force of his will.

And still—when his eyes met yours, something shifted.

His jaw relaxed. Just a fraction.

You wiped sweat off your brow and nodded.

He didn’t nod. He just looked at you.

You pressed your glove to the officer’s wound and let yourself feel his gaze for one more second before the chaos swallowed you whole again.

It was four-thirty p.m. now. Or close to it.

The firework truck disaster had slowed—not ended, not resolved, but dulled just enough that you could hear your own breathing again. Maybe even someone else's. EMS was still ferrying in stragglers from the blast radius, but the heavy flow was stemmed. Controlled. Stitched and stapled back into some semblance of order by a crew of exhausted, bloodstained healthcare workers who hadn’t took a break since sunrise.

The ER was open again. Technically.

The triage desk was back on, the phones buzzing, the automatic doors kissing open with every new patient. The city hadn’t paused just because a truck of illegal fireworks blew up across the street. This was Austin. People still choked on hot dogs, burned their hands on grills, took edibles they didn’t understand and panic-texted their exes from Exam room 2.

And every. Single. Fucking. Room was full.

Overflow was full.

Trauma bays were full.

Peds, Ortho, Neuro, Med-Surg, Hall Beds 1 through 5, and the goddamn family bereavement room were full.

You were treading water, heart beating in your ears, sweat soaking your scrubs. There were two paper cups of coffee you hadn’t finished and three patients you hadn’t followed up on yet. Ellie was at the nurse’s station reviewing a chart with one hand and eating a banana with the other, eyes glassy from too much input. Riley had just returned from the stairwell, where she admitted to crying for two minutes, washing her face, and then saying I can do hard things.

That was you during your first year too. 

You hadn’t even taken your gloves off for the last hour. At some point, they just fused to your skin.

But then it happened.

The way it always does.

Sudden.

Loud.

Violent.

The radio crackled in from EMS. The voice was fast, panicked.

“Male, mid-thirties, penetrating chest trauma, left thoracic cavity—multiple stab wounds—no pulse for the last thirty seconds. We’re two minutes out—we’re performing compressions en route but he’s—he’s tanking.”

There was silence for one breath.

Just one.

Then Joel’s voice, low and lethal from the trauma bay, “Clear Trauma One. Now.”

You dropped the file in your hands onto the desk.

Tore off your gloves.

And you ran.

By the time you got to Trauma One, Joel was already there—mask on, arms scrubbed to the elbow, gown halfway tied. His jaw was clenched, eyes scanning the crash cart like he was inventorying a fucking battlefield. The room smelled like sweat and sterile burn cream, and still, something in the air cracked open, the second you stepped in.

Not panic. Not fear.

Something heavier.

Something that whispered this one’s gonna be different.

“Get them all in here,” Joel snapped to Marlene, who stood at the door. “Everyone. Jesse, Abby, Mel, Riley, Henry. Ellie too.”

“They’re not all on rotation for—”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he barked. “They want to work in the field? They want to become doctors? They watch. They help. They need to see this.”

You stepped in beside him, already pulling on a new pair of gloves. “Is it…?”

Joel looked at you. Really looked.

And when he nodded, your pulse jumped.

“Emergency thoracotomy,” he said. “If he arrests, we crack the chest.”

Your heart stuttered.

This was it.

This was the thing you’d been obsessing over for months—talking Joel’s ear off about it over half-empty glasses of whiskey at his kitchen counter, watching old procedural videos while curled up next to him in bed, asking him over and over what was it like the first time you did one? Did it work? Did it feel real? He never answered in full. He just grunted, or said “bloody,” or told you to go the fuck to sleep while he digs his head back into your warm neck.

And now it was happening.

And he was here.

And you were ready.

The doors burst open.

The paramedics wheeled him in at a dead sprint. Literally. Because the man on the gurney was dead.

Pulseless.

Agonal.

The first medic was shouting, “We lost him for thirty—make that forty seconds now. GSW to the chest, left thorax, suspect a knife. Maybe a piece of pipe. Whatever it was—punched straight through.”

Joel was already at the bedside, yanking off the sheet.

You followed without needing to be asked.

“Jesse, get vitals on monitor. Abby, you’re on line. Riley, grab the thoracotomy tray. Henry—”

Henry paled. “Yeah?”

“Don’t fucking faint again.”

“I won’t.”

“You faint, I leave you there.”

He nodded. Swallowed. Backed up.

The man’s skin was waxy. Blue around the lips. The gaping chest wound glistened and bubbled with thick, frothy blood—the worst kind. Pulmonary. Wet. Final.

“We’re cracking,” Joel said to the room. “Now. He’s not coming back with compressions. We open.”

Ellie blinked. “You mean like—like open open?”

“Like ribs-on-display open,” Joel snapped. “Don’t move unless you want your shoes soaked.”

And then—Joel turned to you.

Paused.

Looked at you with that sharp, knowing edge that said this is the moment you've been waiting for.

“Do it,” he said.

You blinked. “Me?”

“You’ve been begging for this for six fucking months. Talking my ear off. You want it—take it.”

The room froze.

Everyone stared at you.

“No pressure,” Mel whispered. “Just someone’s life on the line.”

You didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

You stepped forward, and you cracked his fucking chest.

Joel guided, hands over yours, voice low but never soft. “Midline. Left thoracotomy. Rib spreader. Go now.”

Riley handed it over with trembling hands. Abby dropped suction tubing on the floor and didn’t even pick it up.

You made the incision.

Deep.

Fast.

Confident.

The blood poured.

Joel caught it.

Jesse cursed under his breath. Ellie made a sound like she was swallowing vomit. Henry straight-up whimpered.

You cut through the muscle.

Joel barked again. “Keep going. Don’t stop until you see the goddamn heart.”

You spread the ribs. The crack was wet and obscene and louder than you expected.

It wasn’t like TV.

It was real.

Inside, the left lung was collapsed, the pericardium filling with blood.

You could see the heart.

And it was still.

Joel didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need him to.

You reached in.

Your gloved hand slid into the cavity like a blade. Warm. Tight. Full of potential.

And you found it.

The heart.

“Massage it,” Joel said. “Rhythm. Controlled. You’ve got this.”

You started compressions—internal. Thumb and fingers. Slow, then faster.

Riley was in the corner, trying to stand tall. 

Abby whispered something that sounded like a prayer.

Mel had gone quiet, which was somehow worse.

Henry was gripping the counter, white-knuckled.

Jesse stood frozen until Joel barked at him to bag the fucking patient.

And you—you were the one keeping the man alive.

For ten seconds.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

Then—

Beep.

Faint.

Then stronger.

Joel leaned over the monitor.

“Sinus rhythm,” he said, eyes flicking to you. “Goddamn. You got him back.”

A gasp filled the room.

Abby nearly dropped her syringe.

Mel exhaled like she hadn’t breathed in minutes.

Jesse muttered “holy shit.”

Ellie said, “you just—he was dead. And now he’s not.”

Joel looked at you.

Just for a second.

And his face didn’t soften.

Not quite.

But his jaw relaxed. His eyes cooled.

“Good work,” he said, voice like gravel. “Now close him up.”

You did.

You fucking did.

You closed him. The room moved around you—cleaning, charting, reeling—but you stayed still. Hands deep in blood. Covered in it. Gowned and soaked and shaking just a little.

Joel stepped up beside you.

“Looks good,” he said.

You turned.

“Did I do it right?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He just nodded once.

A single, hard nod that meant more than words ever could.

Everyone else eventually left. One by one. Except Joel.

When it was just the two of you, he reached out and wiped a streak of blood from your cheek with his gloved thumb.

“You’re disgusting,” he said.

You grinned, breathless. “So are you.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

He rolled his eyes.

But then, under his breath, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else,

“Proud of you.”

You almost missed it.

But you didn’t.

You never did.

Because it was Fourth of July, and the world outside was still burning.

But inside this room, for just one breathless moment—

You had brought someone back to life.

And Joel fucking Miller had watched you do it.

And he wasn’t going to forget it.

Joel Miller didn’t say things twice. If he was proud of you, that meant something. That meant everything.

You peeled off your gloves and stepped out of Trauma One with the sting of adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. Your hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the absolute goddamn power of that moment. You’d cracked a chest. You.

And Joel let you. Trusted you.

That kind of trust didn’t come easy from a man like him.

It was 5:00 p.m.

One hour left.

You told yourself you’d make it. You could do another hour. You’d get through whatever the Fourth of July still had left to vomit into your ER. You’d go home, peel off your scrubs, crawl into Joel’s bed, and maybe—maybe—you’d even get to fall asleep with your face buried in his neck before another fucking Code Blue ripped through your subconscious.

You turned the corner and nearly ran into Kathleen, who stood like a weathered pillar of war-torn exhaustion at the nurse’s station. Her face was flushed, arms crossed, brows pulled into a flat, unimpressed line.

“There’s a call for you,” she said. “Line two. Marlene has it.”

You blinked. “Someone called me?”

Kathleen didn’t blink. “Apparently it’s urgent.”

You stared.

She didn’t explain.

Marlene handed you the receiver with the grace of someone physically holding back a cackle.

You pressed it to your ear. “This is—”

“Thank fuck.”

Owen’s voice. Too loud. Too fast.

“Owen?”

“Hey. Yeah. Hi. Listen—I need a huge favor. Massive. I’ll owe you a kidney or three consults, I don’t care, just—please, can you cover the first three hours of my shift?”

You glanced at the clock.

5:01 p.m.

“I’ve been here since five this morning.”

“I know. I know. You’re a goddamn hero. Literally Jesus in black scrubs. Just—three hours. Please. Just until nine. I’ll come in at nine. Nine sharp. Not even a minute late.”

“Why?”

There was a pause.

And then, “I wanna have dinner with Mel.”

You inhaled slowly.

“Seriously?”

“I made a reservation,” Owen said, like that was somehow a valid excuse. “At the fancy new restaurant, the one Joel took you to. I bought cologne. I haven’t eaten real food in two weeks.”

You turned to look behind you.

Abby was standing by the vitals board, arms crossed, trying not to look like she was listening.

But she was.

And her face had gone tight in that way you recognized—the jaw-clench of someone pretending they don’t care.

Shit.

“Owen,” you said carefully. “This is your shift. You’re scheduled. You’re—”

“I’ll trade you! Anything. I’ll do your whole weekend. I’ll take all your psych evals for a month.”

“That’s a bold offer.”

“I’ll clean the vomit buckets in the peds trauma room!”

“You should already be doing that.”

“I will now.”

You sighed. Rubbed your forehead. Glanced at Abby again. She was now fake-charting on a blank clipboard. Poorly.

You shouldn’t do it.

You knew you shouldn’t.

But then Marlene handed you a new chart—incoming trauma. Level 1. ETA five minutes.

“Goddammit,” you muttered. “Fine. Three hours. But you owe me your soul.”

Owen cheered on the other end.

You hung up and looked over at Abby.

She didn’t look up.

You stepped closer. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” she said. Immediately. Too quickly. “Totally fine. Not my business. Not even my night. Just…you know. Cool. Love that for them.”

“Abby.”

“I said I’m fine.” She slammed the clipboard on the desk and walked off, her ears visibly red.

You sighed again.

Before you could process any of it, a stretcher screamed into the trauma bay.

Tommy was at the head, barking orders, and Frank had blood on his shirt again—big surprise.

Teenager. Male. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Slumped over. Screaming.

“Lawnmower accident,” Frank snapped, pushing hard. “Fucking dad didn’t check his blade height—hit a rock, launched it like a missile.”

“Penetrating orbital trauma,” Tommy added. “It hit the kid in the eye. He’s bleeding like hell. Not responsive.”

Jesse was already snapping gloves on beside you. “Tell me that rock didn’t puncture the fucking globe.”

You moved to the side of the bed as the kid’s head rolled. His left eye—Jesus fuck—his left eye was gone. Or at least it looked like it. Crushed inward, blood and viscous fluid pouring down his cheek.

Riley gagged.

Mel paled.

Abby reappeared beside you, full fury now replaced by full panic.

“What the fuck,” she muttered. “People should need a fucking license to own a lawn.”

“Vitals?” Joel’s voice cut through the trauma room as he entered, already gloved, already dark-eyed and tense.

“BP dropping,” Jesse said. “Heart rate climbing. He’s crashing.”

“Jesse, get a line,” Joel barked. “You—” he pointed at you. “Ocular tray, now. I want that eye covered. He so much as twitches and the optic nerve’s gonna shear.”

You grabbed the tray from Riley’s shaking hands. “We’re sedating?”

“If I don’t, he’s gonna start fucking thrashing and drive that rock deeper into his skull.”

The father—still in a goddamn polo shirt and sandals—stood at the door, blood on his arms, face pale.

“I just wanted to mow the yard before the guests came,” he kept whispering. “We were gonna grill—he was helping—I just—”

“Sir,” Joel said coldly, without turning, “if you don’t shut up, I’m going to have you dragged back into the waiting room.”

The dad shut up.

You placed the rigid eye shield over the wound. Blood pooled around the edges. It was already soaking the pillow. The kid groaned, twitching.

“Don’t move,” Joel growled. “Do not fucking move.”

“He’s coding,” Mel snapped. “BP’s bottoming out—seventy over thirty.”

“We need a cric tray ready,” Jesse said. “I can’t get the O2 past the swelling.”

You were moving, hands slick, adrenaline high and sharp.

Joel grabbed the ultrasound probe. “FAST scan. I want to rule out abdominal trauma while we stabilize the head. If that rock skipped through—”

“It didn’t,” Tommy said grimly. “We found the fucking thing in the driveway. Looks like a meteor.”

Joel’s hands moved fast. Surgical. Terrifying.

You mirrored him. Fast. Exact. No room for error.

This wasn’t like the thoracotomy. This was slower. Messier. No clean incisions here. Just trauma. Raw and violent. The kind that steals things. Childhood. Sight. Fucking Fourth of July barbecues.

Abby pressed gauze to the kid’s neck. “He’s tachycardic. We need to intubate.”

“I’ll do it,” Joel said, snapping his fingers. “Get the tube. Bag him. Suction ready.”

“You want me on airway?” you asked, stepping in.

He looked at you. That same look from earlier.

“I trust you.” he said.

So you did it.

You took the tube. You got the line. You shoved the fucking endotracheal tube into a kid who just lost his eye and might still lose his life. You did it because you had to. Because no one else could.

And because Joel trusted you.

You bagged until the O2 sats climbed back out of hell.

Mel ran labs.

Riley got a chest film.

Abby called Ophthalmology.

Jesse finally got the dad escorted to the waiting room by Bill before Joel could murder him with his stare alone.

Joel stood at the foot of the gurney, arms folded, eyes dark and burning.

“He’s stable,” Jesse said, breathless.

“For now,” Joel muttered. “Get imaging. Stat.”

You leaned over the bed, wiped some of the blood from the kid’s temple.

And then you felt Joel behind you.

Close. Not touching. Just there.

“You did good,” he said, low, just for you. “Again.”

You turned slightly, eyes meeting his.

“You keep saying that,” you murmured.

“That’s because it keeps being true.”

And then he was gone.

The kid was wheeled to CT.

You turned to the trauma team, who were collapsing one by one against the wall, soaked in blood and sweat and the sheer weight of almost.

Ellie looked ready to cry. Riley was holding a juice box. Jesse was on his second bottle of water and muttering something about moving to Canada. Abby was pacing, muttering Owen’s name under her breath.

And you?

You checked the clock.

5:43 p.m.

You still had two hours and seventeen minutes left in the shift you weren’tsupposed to work.

And already, it felt like a whole new fucking war had begun.

You cracked your neck. Wiped your forehead. Took a deep breath. And turned toward the doors.

Another stretcher was rolling in. Because of course it was.

Happy Fucking Fourth of July.

It was six when the first wave of soldiers walked off the battlefield.

The day shift clocked out like they were fleeing a warzone—scrubs stained, hair plastered to their foreheads, eyes too wide and hollow to belong to people under thirty. The fluorescent lights had aged them by decades. Some had blood on their shoes. Some had blood in their hair. Some weren’t sure whose blood it was.

Kathleen passed by the desk with her bag over her shoulder, muttering, “If they page me before five tomorrow, I’ll set this place on fire.”

Jesse was limping, dragging one foot behind him like a wounded animal, sipping a smoothie someone handed him two hours ago that had fully liquified into soup. He waved weakly in your direction, eyes dead. "Don't let anyone else swallow a flag," he said. "Just… don’t."

Ellie was practically vibrating on her way out, holding a foil-wrapped bundle that had been a brownie Dina was eyeing earlier. “I’m gonna eat this and then sleep for six days,” she told Riley, who was chewing on ice like it was a coping strategy.

Dina had her phone pressed to her ear, her free hand gesturing wildly as she talked to some poor soul on the other end. “No, I can’t go out tonight, I literally watched a baby eat gunpowder. Yes, literal gunpowder. Like from a firework. I don’t care if it’s rooftop karaoke, I’m not fucking going.”

Mel, fresh scrubs on now but still blotchy from everything, lingered at the front with her bag slung low and her hair half-down. She spotted Dina and beamed like the sun hadn’t just tried to kill everyone inside the ER.

“I’m serious,” Mel gushed, linking her arm with Dina’s as they walked. “Owen made reservations. He was so sweet. I think he even bought a new shirt. He didn’t say it, but it wasn’t wrinkled, so that has to mean something.”

Dina snorted. “Wow. A man wearing a clean shirt. You better marry him.”

You weren’t listening on purpose.

You just…couldn’t not hear it.

Because Abby was two steps behind them, standing by the elevator bank, still in her half-zipped hoodie and Crocs, staring at the tiled floor like she could melt through it.

You stood near her.

Close but not close.

She noticed you before you said anything.

“I’m not gonna cry,” she said flatly. “So don’t say something nice.”

You shrugged. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

She paused.

Then, quietly, “Did you know?”

You didn’t answer. Because you had. Of course you had. The way Owen had started standing closer to Mel. The way he’d brushed Abby off the past two weeks with half-assed excuses.

“I’m not mad at her,” she said, still staring forward. “I mean…maybe I am. But it’s not like she knew.”

You leaned next to her against the wall. “You don’t have to be fine.”

“I know.”

“I’m not fine either.”

She nodded.

And that was enough.

The elevator dinged.

She got in.

Didn’t look back.

You stayed in the hallway for a beat longer, the hum of overhead lights buzzing in your teeth. Your eyes were dry and scratchy. Your hands smelled like latex. There was blood on the cuff of your sleeve again, and you didn’t even remember who it belonged to.

The night shift was officially here now.

Soon the night staff began pooling into the ER.

They shuffled in with the kind of dead-eyed resignation of people who knew exactly what they were walking into. They looked at you with curiosity, confusion.

“You're still here,” one said.

You just nodded. “Still am.”

The ER had quieted in the way a battlefield does after the airstrikes stop—still full of smoke, rubble, and bodies, just… quieter. The screams were fewer. The alarms less frequent. But the stench of bleach and burnt flesh still clung to the walls.

You were working a bay in the corner, checking on a man who’d driven straight into a ditch after swerving to avoid a firework that had launched into the road.

“Wasn’t even my firework,” he mumbled, a gash splitting across his temple, blood matting his hair. “Some asshole two blocks over. Guess they didn’t like my truck.”

You were scanning for signs of concussion, clicking the penlight, asking about nausea, when he squinted at you.

“You’re cute,” he slurred. “Like real cute. Do you—uh—do you always look this good when you save lives?”

You didn’t answer.

He tried again.

“You got a boyfriend?”

You snapped the light off and looked him dead in the eye.

“I’ve got a scalpel,” you said.

He laughed.

You didn’t.

Across the ER, you heard a sharp voice bark, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Your heart skipped.

Joel.

He was back.

Fully suited in trauma gear again, hair still damp with sweat, scrub top stretched over tense muscle. His eyes were already narrowed, fixed on you.

You didn’t even see him walk over—he was just suddenly there, all heat and static and restrained violence. He looked down at the chart in your hand, then up at your face, then over at the patient who still hadn’t stopped smiling.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Joel said, voice low and lethal.

“I’m working,” you said, frowning. “Owen called and asked me to cover—”

“Owen’s a fucking idiot,” Joel snapped. “This isn’t your shift.”

“He begged. He wanted to—”

“See Mel. Yeah, I fucking heard.”

Joel looked down at the driver again, eyes narrowing. The man blinked at him like he wasn’t sure if he was about to be murdered or offered another morphine drip.

“Go,” Joel growled. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“I’m almost done.”

“No. You’re not.”

He stepped forward, crowding your space. Not touching, but too close. His presence filled your lungs like smoke.

“I didn’t let you walk out of that trauma room with your hands inside someone’s goddamn chest just to have you stay late because some piece of shit didn’t want to miss his fucking dinner reservation.”

“I said I’m fine—”

“You’re not. Your face is pale. Your knees are shaking. You’re bleeding from your neck again—”

You touched your collar.

Shit.

The scratch had reopened.

Again.

You hadn’t even noticed.

Joel’s voice dropped lower. Quieter. More dangerous.

“You stay here another hour, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself from saying and doing something that gets me fired.”

You swallowed.

“You need someone to finish the chart.”

“I don’t need anything but you out of this hospital and in my bed before I fucking lose it.”

You blinked.

His eyes locked on yours.

“This isn’t up for debate.”

He turned to the driver without breaking eye contact.

“She’s off,” Joel told him. “She doesn’t work for you. You want someone to hold your hand and stroke your ego, call your fucking wife.”

The man gaped.

Joel turned back to you.

And this time—softer, just slightly—he added, “Go home.”

You didn’t argue.

Because he wasn’t asking.

You peeled your gloves off. Dropped them into the bin.

Your scrubs were soaked. Your throat burned.

And for the first time in hours, you realized how goddamn tired you were.

Joel’s eyes followed you until you reached the staff hallway.

And you could feel the heat of them still burning between your shoulder blades as you stepped into the elevator—

Finally, finally—

Done.

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Pt 4 of forever teen Danny adopted JJ Tim and Red Hood Jason. Sorry if you're a Batman or Nightwing fan, I'm not nice to them in this one.

[Pt3: Here][pt5: coming soon]

The last 4 years have been a riot. Danny has 2 wonderful and slightly unhinged boys that he stole from the Bats. They've gotten in so many shenanigans, between normal vigilante shit, the Bats and/or ghost/supernatural hunters trying to bag them, and them just fucking around.

It's the most fun he's had in a while. They're good kids, but they, of course, have started branching out. They're 19 (Jason) and 17(Tim) now and don't necessarily want their dad following them around. So Danny gave them his personal summons just in case and made them promise to stay close together, the two of them are good at covering for the other's weaknesses. Like how Tim only being Liminal, he can take more hits from the ghost hunters that will clock Jason as a Revenant or Jason's supernatural strength taking out the bigger assholes that target Tim for his small size or Joker mannerisms.

So he tries not to worry, simply going to work and trusting them to either deal with any trouble themselves or summon him. And for 3 months they don't need to summon him once. But at the end of month 3, he feels it.

"Hey, Eddy! I got to go! My kids are in trouble!" Danny calls to his boss, already moving to somewhere there's less witnesses to see him poof.

"Okay! See ya! ...Wait, you have kids?" Danny doesn't answer, letting the summons take ahold and pull him through the fabric of reality.

A fun side effect of being summoned is that he always ends up in his High King form. The form is humanoid in the vaguest of sense. It's also just stars and the void of space. His eyes are giant stars and his mouth is too wide and full of rows and rows of needle-like teeth. A crown of ice smokes like dry ice on his head and the ring of rage is simple stripe of neon green on his right hand's middle finger (he thought it'd be funny to flip people off with it). All in all, he's terrifying for mortals to see unprepared.

And the cussing around him tells the people hassling his sons are NOT prepared.

"HOW THE FUCK DID YOU SUMMON THE GHOST KING???" A very distraught British man shrieks. Danny would feel bad, but this idiot is standing near the Bat and Nightwing AND Danny's sons are tied up in front of them.

"DAaaaAD!" Tim whines, flopping over to look at him. "They're trying to excorise Hoodie!"

"Are they now?" Danny hisses. His voice sounds like glaciers crashing together.

"Bats! What the fuck??? You didn't tell me THAT WAS THEIR DAD!" British man sounds on the brink of a mental breakdown.

"We've never seen this entity." Batman frowns.

"Yeah! They've been calling a ghost kid dad this whole time!" Nightwing defends. "How were we supposed to know they could summon this guy??"

"What...what did you say the "kid"'s name was?" British dude asks faintly.

"We didn't." Batman says.

"Weeell, Johnny-boy!" Jason sounds like he has a shit eating grin. "What they didn't tell you is our sweet ol' adoptive father is called Phantom~!"

"Oh goodie! We're so dead..." "Johnny" says and starts chugging his flask of probably alcohol. It suddenly clicks that this is the fabled John Constantine.

"You should know better than to take a job half-assed, John Constantine." Danny grins with teeth.

"Oh good, he knows my name.." Constantine mumbles to himself.

"Give me one good reason to not kill you all for trying to kill my son and kidnap the other." Danny waves a hand and slices his sons' bindings. "I have only been so patient with you bats because my sons are fond of you, but my patience is running out."

"Tim belongs with us! He needs help and healing!" Nightwing proclaims.

"I talk to a licensed therapist twice a week and take my meds every day! Try again, Big Birdie!!" Tim snarls. "Just because I'm not what you want me to be doesn't mean I'm a broken doll in need of saving!"

"Besides, don't you have a new bird to destroy?" Jason asks with a head tilt. "The second birdie died, the third got mentally fucked, the four died... I think we can count birdie #1 as mentally fucked up, meaning if we follow the pattern, birdie #5 will be mentally fucked by the time he flies the nest."

"How do you know so much about us, Red Hood?" Batman demands with a scowl.

"He doesn't have to tell you anything!" Tim steps in front of Jason and glares.

"I'm still waiting on a reason to not kill you." Danny reminds them. The bats look towards Constantine.

"Don't look at me, mates. That's head bitch of all head bitches. The fact he's letting you plead your case after threatening what he deems as his is a step up huge from most overpowered dead guys. From what I heard, the last guy would have just killed us the moment he was summoned and then destroyed the whole dimension afterwards. This guy beat that guy in single combat." Constantine pulls out a cigarette before addressing Danny, "Your Majesty, I had no idea these were your kids. I was just told a Revenant had kidnapped and "brainwashed" the ex-Robin. Clearly, I wasn't told accurate information."

Nightwing sputters, "What Do You Mean?? Clearly Tim has been brainwashed or something!!"

Constantine whips around to Nightwing, "Oh shut up, you big blue twit! King Phantom DESPISES mind control! Which means your ex-bird is with these two completely willingly."

"There's n-" Nightwing tries, but Constantine bulldozes on.

"I don't know what you did to the kid, nor do I care. But he's considered ROYALTY to the dead and undead now. He doesn't have to have ANYTHING to do with you. If you take him away from his new and apparently accepting family, that's considered an interdimensional crime, and no magician or supernatural or even god-like being will help you." Constantine takes a long drag of his cigarette. "I suggest you apologize, make your excuses, then leave them the fuck alone. Besides, chas been at a record low in Gotham from what I hear. Let them do what they want. "

"That's because Red Hood keeps killing the Rouges!" Nightwing protests. "Who gives him the right to be judge, jury, and executioner???"

Constantine points to Danny and says flatly. "The ruler of basically everything, that's who."

Danny grins at him, his ghost half is very pleased with the man. "I shall spare you, magic man."

Constantine looks like he's going to faint from relief, moving to park himself by the door. "Just fucking apologize and leave them be, Bats."

"But!" Nightwing looks like he's going to cry. He turns his teary eyes to Tim. "Why can't you just come home, Timmy?"

"What home?" Tim stares down his nose at Nightwing, anger clear in his voice. "The Manor was Never my home. I was simply the stand in for your and B's grief for a boy you both pushed to his death. Phantom showed me what family really was. And that was AFTER I was too broken for you to accept. I was NOT Joker Junior then or now. I'm my own fucking person and I'm staying with the family that accepts me for ALL my oddities."

"You tried to put him in Arkham when he tried to go to you." Red Hood growls. "He wanted your support and help and you were going to lock him up and throw away the key."

"We were n-"

"YOU WERE!" Tim starts to trembling in hurt and rage. "You couldn't even look at me! I wanted you so badly to help me and you were going to put me in there right next to Harley! I wanted you to be my family, but I've only ever been a tool to you!"

"You weren't-" Danny doesn't like how the Bats seem ready to jump at his kids, so he freezes the Bats' feet to the floor.

"Shut up, Dickwing." Jason snarls, pulling Tim into a hug. "You lost your chance to be his brother 4 years ago. Go pretend to care about the new cannon fodder. We don't want to hear it."

"Hood." Batman finally speaks. "Who are you?"

"Who do you think, old man?" Jason takes his hood off for the first time ever in front of the Bats. They visibly startle, recognizing him despite all the changes.

"Ja-" The Bat starts.

"Shut up." Jason glares. "You were a shit dad and brother to me in life. I found the BEST family in death."

Danny picks up his boys, deciding to let them decide on the severity of the Bats' punishment. "Maiming or death?"

"... I say maim, but only because I know the newest bird and want him to stay out of the death cult his mother's in." Jason says softly. The Bats sqawk as they Just realize Danny froze their feet to the floor. Mortal tools and fire can't break/melt his ice, but it's amusing to watch the bats try.

Tim is quiet for nearly 3 whole minutes, locked in some sort of internal battle, before he answers. "Maim in a, at least mostly, healable way. Gotham needs Batman, even if we don't."

"Hmm." Danny ignores the Bats' protests to think about what he should do. "Ah! I know exactly what to do!"

He unfreezes their feet and gently forces both to the ground and processes to break both of Nightwing's legs and both of Batman's arms. He pulls one of their coms off and hands it to Tim, he's the only one that sounds normal on normal tech. Jason hasn't been able to use normal tech since Danny fixed his ecto, so Danny modifies anything he or Jason use.

"Hi, Agent A! Batgirl!" Tim's cheerful tone barely hides his seething rage. "You should send a pick up for Dickiebird and B-man! They need medical attention! Ba-bye~!"

Danny can hear the shouting over the com, but Tim simply yeets it towards the Bats instead of listening to whatever they have to say.

"I have a reason for the injuries I picked." Danny informs the room. Jason and Tim look intrigued, Constantine looks exhausted and slightly guilty about the Bats getting hurt on his watch, and the Bats themselves look dazed and in pain, so who knows if they'll remember his reasonings. "Nightwing is an acrobat and truly a bird, so grounding him is cruel, but hopefully he feels as small and helpless as you both did. Grounding him will give him time to think on his actions and their consequences."

Danny's sons look curiously at the grounded Nightwing before looking back to him.

"I broke Batman's arms so that he's forced to ask for help and communicate. He's far too old for his shitty behavior." Danny frowns. "They both need therapy, but I doubt the flying furries will actually get the help they need."

Tim suddenly cackles in delight. "Maybe THEY should check THEMSELVES into Arkham! Ya know! Since they think I, the one ACTUALLY getting help, should be in there!"

Jason starts cackling alongside his brother while Danny chuckles.

"I shall take my children home now, good day." Danny says while wrapping his sons in his invisibility and intangibility and takes them home. A cozy 3 bedroom apartment on the top floor of a building Jason owns as Red Hood.

[so-i-did-this-thing]

How do I stop being anxious all the time in relation to being trans? I have an appointment to go on T in 2 weeks. I'm anxious about coming out. I'm anxious about someone figuring it out before I come out. Ahhhh. I have a therapist for anxiety but I don't think it's helping.

Hoping I don't make you even more anxious, but the bottom line is some folks *will* find out and you just gotta learn to roll with it.

What has helped me:

Getting good at identifying red and green flags in cis people

It's become a habit of mine to scope out people when I join a new community. I look at profiles, what people post, etc. It's a little tiring, but I try to find the allies and other trans asap in a new fandom or whatever.

Planning for the worst

To be trans is to always have a plan to Get Out of Dodge.

A lot of times, The Worst is really only temporary embarassment. I deal with this by keeping my head held high and leaning into the more "don't fuck with me, I am tired" part of my personality.

Fake it 'til you make it -- I used to have a paralyzing fear of public mortification, and over time have ripped that apart. Sticking to my boundaries helps a lot, and I am not afraid to say, "I will not answer that question."

Here's the thing, though -- people tend to be impressed when you weather the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, and you'll likely find yourself as someone to be looked up to. Cis folks routinely ask for my advice about their own Big Life Changes, because they have been impressed to see me go through mine. I've also helped crack a few eggs.

Sometimes The Worst is truly bad, and you should always be vigilant here. Again, I know it is exhausting, but always plan for your personal, emotional, and financial safety. Build an emergency cash fund. Cultivate friends who have your back. Always be looking for new job opportunities. Lots of stuff you can workshop with people.

Cultivating a very matter-of-fact relationship with Coming Out.

I focus on any relevant logistics and keep out my emotional backstory. Most people do not need to know how much of a mess I used to be. And I firmly state what I am doing with my future, rather than ask for permission.

My last HRT-related Coming Out email (to one of my orchestras, which is a very gendered biz) was essentially: "FYI, I am medically and legally transitioning from female to male. Just a heads up, as I'll look and sound a bit different at rehearsal -- I have a tux already for the concert. See you Friday!"

That's it. At a company, you can work with HR on your announcement, assuming one will even be necessary in your case based on your transition timeline.

When I changed my name years later, I was also direct:

"I am legally changing my name to Nicholas. It may take a while to update all my clients, so you're welcome to tell them, "Oh, [deadname] goes by Nicholas now. Thanks!"

And when I came out to my spouse in tumblr chat before our first date, it was literally: "Hey, jsyk, I am 35 and a trans man, in case that changes anything."

It takes a lot of practice to get to this point, and is something you can roleplay with your therapist.

Don't be afraid of your past

I am at a place where I will sometimes casually out myself to make a point ("No one ever needs to change the gender field for this form? I recently needed to.") or a stupid joke ("Ever since I was a little girl, I always wanted to be...").

There is a lot of value in the trans experience. You can decide how much of it you want to casually share, but it does get easier each time.

I hope this helps. Being trans means you will be coming out for the rest of your life (obviously, there are times where stealth = safety), so cultivating a no-nonsense, and even humorous, approach will go a long way for your mental health.

[stilllivinginthesewers]

Let's go with my second most important OC (should I do it with all of them?)

Name : Riley (i asked ChatGPT until i was satisfied with the name 💀)

Age : 17 years old

Love interests : Some guy named Louie, a really good cook scared of any type of firearms (though he becomes the most dangerous man ever if you spoil his food/bother him while he's cooking)

Favourite food : Red Guacamole (red avocadoes exist in this universe as well as blue and green ones, and red ones are sweet and spicy. Still, spices and ingredients are as important in the recipe)

Job : None, they used to study psychology but then stopped and now they just... Hang out with his group of friends (and a literal god also)

Hobbies : Surfing and paintball, mostly

Best at : helping people, whether it's emotionally or physically. He'd do anything to help anyone, even if he has to get hurt, to skip two whole nights of sleep or clean the blood of your worst enemy. He tries to tank almost everything and often forgets that people sometimes didn't ask for help, and that he's not invincible himself.

Loves/Hate : They love seeing people smile, and they hate seeing people suffer, or simply cry. But nothing really bothers him, as long as he knows everyone is going well, he's happy.

Best memory : One day, before his parents divorced, his dad took him to the city for a whole day when his mom wasn't here. It's the first time he really felt happy, and this day he knew how much he meant for his dad.

Worst memory :

(⚠️TW SUIC_DE, skip this part if you don't wanna read this⚠️)

During his studies in college, he met a girl, Sina. She came from another country (which is common knowing his country had the best universities in the world) and since she didn't know anyone, Riley became friends with her. Both of them had the best times together, in spite of Sina's depression. But one night, he received a goodbye message from Sina, and rushed to her apartment to try something. He couldn't find her at home, and decided to look for her on the rooftop. At the very moment he arrived, he could see her fall from the roof.

✨ End of the TW ✨

Design? : Basically, yes. Long dark hair, tanned skin, always wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a long bermuda short, carrying a white and red surfing board. I didn't really draw him yet so it never really changed.

Inspiration : I don't remember, I think it's because I love helping and I thought about a character who would be like this, but pushing this trait a bit further.

Genre : I'm not sure I understand, but he's one of the protagonists (plz someone tell me if I'm mistaken)

Gender/Sexuality : Riley is a man, and is biromantical/allosexual

Siblings : He has a step brother, 10 years older (his name is Alessandro, and is the most important political figure of another country (although he's just a huge troll and is so laid back he shouldn't have his current post)

Relationship with his parents : Riley visits his dad really often and both love seeing each other, whereas he never talked to his mom since she left, but he's okay with it, it's not like he missed her.

Favourite trait of the OC : HIS HAIRRR I WANT THEM OMGGG

Drawing/writing frequency : I write about them quite often compared to the other OCs

Killing the OC? : We're both aged the same, about the same physical strength, but he's really fast and I have asthma so I guess not.

Phobias : None, he's not really scared of anything

Rival : He has no true rival actually

Duration : It's been about a year, something like that i think

Age of creation : 15 or 16, something like that x)

Ask Game for someone’s OC(s)

✨- How did you come up with the OC’s name?

🌼 - How old are they? (Or approximate age range)

🌺- Do they have any love interest(s)?

🍕 - What is their favorite food?

💼 - What do they do for a living?

🎹 - Do they have any hobbies?

🎯 -What do they do best?

🥊 -What do they love to do? What do they hate to do?

❤️ - What is one of your OC’s best memories?

✂️ - What is one of your OC’s worst memories?

🧊 - Is their current design the first one?

🍀 - What originally inspired the OC?

🌂 - What genre do they belong in?

💚 - What is your OC’s gender identity and sexuality?

🙌 - How many sibling does your OC have?

🍎 - What is the OC’s relationship w/their parents like?

🧠 - What do you like most about the OC?

✏️ - How often do you draw/write about the OC?

💎 - Do you ever see yourself killing off the OC?

💀 - Does your OC have any phobias?

🍩 -Who is your OC’s arch-nemesis or rival?

🎓 - How long have you had the OC?

🍥 - What age were you when you created the OC?

[redrosydiaz]

happy warm mouth wednesday friends 👄

walk with me and picture: a post bisexual awakening world — where either tommy doesn't exist or he and buck just kissed and that's it. nothing else. no relationship — but. post bisexual awakening buck, who is considering the fact that being bisexual means sleeping with men. and, he wants that, of course, but it's new to him, so, naturally, he gets in his head about it. and he's like well what if i'm bad at it? what if i don't know how to do it? what if i'm not good at giving blowjobs?

and, this, crucially, is the most upsetting part, because buck loves going down on people — on women. he prides himself on it. he's good at it, like, really good, AND it's just something he loves to do. like he could literally get off on just going down on a girl — not just because he's getting off on giving to his partner and making her feel good first, but also because he just genuinely enjoys the act itself. and so he's like well. it is fundamentally different with a man, it is something new i'll have to learn and — what if i'm bad at it? what if i don't like it?? i don't think i won't like it, but i don't know! and i won't know until i do it! but also i can't be like mid blowjob and realize i hate it!! that's terrible!! and so, in true buck nature, he is toootally spinning himself out about this.

and the thing is — he and eddie never really got detailed about their sex lives with each other. like, eddie would know that buck was sleeping with his girlfriends and buck would know that eddie was too, but outside of like the briefest of mentions of that they were never the sit down with a beer and describe in detail the play by play of the night type of guys. they never really talked about it, and they never really talked about why they never really talked about it either.

but. here buck is. talking about it. even if it is only hypothetically speaking here, but still. it's a lot more detail than eddie is used to. and he— well. buck is painting a picture. and eddie is— not lacking imagination. so he is picturing. and he is. getting hard about it. but eddie is trying so hard (hah) to be a Good Friend about this, and offer advice and keep buck from spiraling further. only— he opens his mouth and what ends up spilling out is "you can practice on me." and it. cuts buck's rambling and his pacing off completely. and he just stares back at eddie, blinking at him like he isn't so sure he heard him correctly. but, oh, he did. he did.

and so. yknow. Practice Blowjobs happen. and after the first time, naturally, it ends with eddie telling buck it was good, really good, but he trails off in a way that suggests there is a but (and, there isn't, not really, because buck WAS really good, actually. but eddie's brain is already two steps ahead trying to figure out a way to make it happen again.) and so buck goes "..... but?" and eddie goes "well. you know, you've got to keep practicing. to keep your skill up. it's like. it's like a muscle, y'know. you gotta keep using it so it doesn't deteriorate. and you don't want your um. blowjob muscle, so to speak, to to deteriorate." and buck is like "mhm mhm you're so right. absolutely. yes. yep. yeah" and eddie's like "welllll. if you ever need a practice buddy........" and buck is like "mhm mhm right. absolutely. yes. yep. yeah."

and OF COURSE it keeps happening.

and i am thinking by like the fourth or fifth time it happens maybe, eddie — in his brain — is like well. actually. what if. what if i wanted to try it. because like. buck makes it look fun. and y'know. it's always good to expand your repertoire. to learn new skills. you never know when you'll need them. mhm mhm. totally normal thought process here.

and so the next time, after they finish, buck sits back on his haunches and wipes his hand over his mouth (obscene) and looks up at eddie with those big eager eyes and he goes "so, how was it?" (because they have Kept Up the "this is for skill practice and improvement" thing) and this time eddie is like "well. it was good. but i was thinking. what if. what if i showed you. um. exactly what i like?" and bucks like "um?" and eddies like "yeah. yeah! i could. y'know. show you. exactly how i like it. so you know. for next time." and bucks like "show me?" — and like he thinks he knows what eddie is getting at here, but also, there's no way eddie is getting at what he thinks he is getting at. that's like. way too good to be true.

but it is. true. and eddie just nods and goes "yeah like. like." and he mimes a blowjob (because he is. a DORK. but also because this feels too precarious and he can't bring himself to actually say blowjob, out loud, in the context of himself. but not because he's scared or ashamed or confused or anything. but because he's just. excited about it. and that makes him nervous but like. in a good way)

and buck is like oh. oh. and then nearly swallows his tongue in his haste to agree like "oh yes yes uh huh sure absolutely that would be. i am a visual learner hah. you should— yes. you should yes. definitely."

and that is how eddie gets his practice in too.

and of course, they are not together yet and they think this is Totally Normal Boy Bestie Behavior — exchanging blowjobs for practice — and they are both catching feelings (or, becoming aware of the feelings they've already caught, really), and recognizing that this is a Dangerous situation, because it's just practice to the other, but it means something more now, to both of them, unknowingly to each other!!

[dexxtrosee]

In the middle of the night

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

TW: mentions of canon violent mass event, panic attack.

He doesn’t talk to you about it.

Days pass and pass, and then they turn into weeks. More patients come, more patients die, more patients live. Jake doesn’t talk to him, Leah's parents invite him to the funeral. Still, he doesn’t tell you about any of it, aside from shaking his head when you ask when Jake's coming over again. It was on the news, he's not stupid enough to think you have no clue about what he went through, you just don't know how bad it was.

You don’t know any of it from his own mouth, and still, it bothers him when you don’t seem even slightly surprised every time he wakes you up with his nightmares and his crying. You just let him hide his face on your neck, let him clutch your body against his while the sobs wreck him. You push his hair back, kiss his forehead, wait until he's calm enough to manhandle him back to lying down. He falls asleep to your fingers tracing the lines of his face more often than not.

One particularly bad night, he manages to wake himself up in silence, petrified. You don’t seem to notice at first, breath soft and slow, still sleeping. He can’t move, can’t make a single sound. His chest feels tight, his head is drowning in screams and sobs and people telling him he's not good enough.

The bed feels too soft, his shirt is choking him. Why couldn't he save them? Why is he even fucking trying? Fuck, he can't breathe. Adamson died on his watch, he made him suffer through a horrible, long death because he couldn't let go. And everyone had to watch him do it again with Leah, cling to an impossible task while docens of people needed him and she was already fucking dead. Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck-

"Robby. Hey, Robby, look at me. Open your eyes love, come on."

Your voice makes him jump. He realizes for the first time he's hyperventilating now, squeezing his eyes shut.

God, he feels pathetic for putting you through this again and again. You're gonna end up leaving him, he's sure. He's too much and too little at the same time, more baggage than man. He can’t keep doing this to you, he can't, he can't he can't-

"Robby, open your eyes."

He feels you grab his arms and pull him into a sitting position. His entire body breaks into shivers, his heart trying its best to burst out of his chest.

"Robby, open your eyes."

When he finally does, he doesn’t like the concern plastered over your features. He pushes you away slightly, bending to the side.

"I-I think I'm gonna be sick."

You don’t seem to listen to him, instead jumping over the blankets until you're kneeling by his side. You push his head back with the heel of your hand, and he closes his eyes again. He doesn’t think he can handle your worry right now.

A balloon stretches inside his throat. His hands fly to clutch at his neck, but your hand grips them both and pushes them down until they're pressed against his legs. You're seeing right through him, right into all the things he's tried hiding from you ever since he met you.

He doesn’t want it to reach you.

"Robby, I think my lip is bleeding. Can you take a look at it?"

Your question freezes him on the spot. Did he accidentally hit you? Oh fuck, fuck-

"I bit my lip too hard earlier today, I was sewing up my green sweater and got lost in my head. It's the one you gave me, remember? The knitted one."

Robby frowns, squeezing your hand tighter. The green one? The one he got in Philly after your third date?

"The one you say feels too rough unles you're wearing it."

Ah, Robby remembers that one. It felt itchy, he asked about it when he gave it to you and you put it on right there. Then you had shaken your head and smiled, telling him it was softer on the inside.

"Open your eyes, babe."

Slowly, he does. You're bent in front of him, and there's a small speck of blood close to the edge of your mouth.

He raises his hand, cleaning it up with shaky fingers. It doesn’t really help, just spreads it over your lower lip and paints it a faint red. It makes him chuckle, but the sound resembles an animal in agony.

Out of nowhere, he feels something cold and metallic press against his neck. He gasps, unintentionally pulling you closer.

You let him. You shuffle closer until you're kneeling between his legs, and he wraps his arms around you. His face is wet, his entire body feels weak, made of paper.

"Where did you even get that sweater from? You may need to buy me a new one if I can’t save this one."

It was a local, old shop. The owner was an older man, running the store on his own, if he had to guess. Full of old furniture, the kind that lasts generations.

"I-I can try and h-help you mend it."

Your chest shakes slightly against his, laughing. He buries his head on your shoulder. "Sure you can, doc."

Minutes pass. Your hand tangles inside his hair, the other caressing his back up and down. Your warmth seeps into his clothes, his body, relaxing it until he feels he can barely stay upright.

You kiss his cheek, his temble, his shoulder. He can’t really help it when he bursts into tears.

"Take a deep breath, it’s okay. I'm right here."

His sobs rock the entire bed. He wishes he could hug you close enough to merge his soul with yours.

"It's okay love, you can let it out."

In the middle of the night, with the other half of his soul wrapped around his, he finally does.

[cherie-doll]

I really really really liked the they are jealous headcanons and I neeeeed a part 2 pleeeease

Maybe with already being in a relationship with them and we are at a fancier party when a random man approaches us and tries to get our number. HOW SID HE NOT KNOW THAT WE ALREADY HAVE A MAN??? What a dumbass.

Anyways so this is what I came up with, I hope it is enough to help u get ✨creative✨

Happy new yearrr

literallllyyy (another request from the bottom of my inbox ToT so sorry ˊᯅˋ )

i didn't proofread it's 3am i just want to sleep

part 1

=͟͟͞♡ Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rudy, Phillip Graves, Makarov, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

ଓ Price was already in a grumpy mood. He wasn't a huge fan of being out so late, especially since he had returned from mission not too long ago and had been looking forward to some rest. Unfortunately, he had been dragged into this. He had planned on staying near you the entire time so whenever he felt like he's had enough; you two could just walk out hand in hand. Simple plan. What was not planned... was him losing sight of you. He had turned to grab another drink, momentarily letting go of you. Only a second and when he turned back to face you, you were no longer by his side. Maybe you had to use the restroom or something. Until he felt an urge to find you, he didn't like not knowing where you were. He wasn't none too happy to find another fellow trying to pull you away, but he didn't feel like dealing with anyone so he just took you back. Grabbed your hand and walked off. Simple plan, remember?

ଓ Simon might seem amused at first. Asking if you were enjoying the attention you were receiving, hinting at the man who had tried hitting on you. But truth was, he nearly saw red when you had politely smiled at the man who had approached you. Simon wondered, if you had smiled because you found the poor attempt at flirting hilarious. He would cross his arms, standing directly behind this man who has no idea. Until he turns around and is met with the tall and intimidating wall that Simon is. The man nearly jumps out of his own skin. After that, Simon doesn't say much, not even to you or anyone. But he does keep an eye on the other guests there, just in case. Don't get him wrong though! He isn't mad at you, just a little irritated that someone would even try.

ଓ Johnny gets sooo visibly upset. Like this man frowns and crosses his arms as if he were a little kid and refuses to talk to anyone. You're stifling your laugh, trying not to worsen his mood but it really is funny watching him sulk. "Come on, it's just some guy I don't even know, I'm not going to take him seriously!" You tell him. Just some guy? Oh honey, don't even get him started! He was completely disregarded, there was no way that random man hadn't seen Johnny sitting there before, and that's what he's mad about. He's got a much friendly disposition and outward appearance, of course he wouldn't be taken as seriously unless he had gotten physical. Just thinking about it makes you want to laugh all over again but you simply bite your lip and look down. Johnny doesn't like that you're laughing because he doesn't find it funny, at all. But what else could he have done? You turned the guy down all by yourself.

ଓ Kyle will ignore the bastard as best as he can; sending a clear message. He'll keep an arm on you for the rest of the night there, and if you say something about it he'll be like "Yeah, and?". Every time your gaze drifts to the sad looking fellow, Kyle will use his hand to tilt your head away from looking that way. His face is right there, don't bother looking over there, yeah? He doesn't want to concern himself with what other people may try tonight, and you shouldn't either. You can try and get him to talk about it later on, maybe when you've made it home but he won't want to bring it up. You never took him for the type to get jealous but maybe it had been a new side you had seen tonight. He ends up forgetting pretty quickly and is content to be at home with you.

ଓ Roach hadn't been too excited to be around so many people, it was sort out of his comfort zone but he ended up going just for you. He had been sort of clingy throughout the evening; too much for your liking, especially being in public. At such a crowded event it was expected for him to get a little overwhelmed. It was only natural that he wanted to stay close to you. "Give me a moment", you had said. You had needed to use the restroom and then you would be back. He had insisted on following you but you firmly told him to wait instead. But he couldn't bear to see guys ogling you and be expected to sit and wait like a dog. He wasn't good at confronting others, but he had pinpointed his targets. One look at his face would keep you from pulling away once he reached you, tugging at your sleeve to leave; his signal to leave. You don't even get a chance to turn the men down as he keeps pulling.

ଓ Alejandro would never get insecure nor take it to heart if some irrelevant were trying to not only dance with you but also wanting to get your number. Alejandro's smoothly sliding up next to you, as if casually joining the conversation. Except he only listens to half of what this person has to say before he's snaking an arm around your waist. He's dropping the sweet nicknames he calls you like "cariño" to give a clear and direct message of you already being taken, in case the fool hasn't already noticed. He doesn't get physical because there doesn't seem to be reason for it, nor does he raise his voice since the man decides to show better judgement and walk away after seeing you welcoming Alejandro's embrace. Well, who wouldn't? You'd have to be crazy to not want to immediately jump into Alejandro's arms the moment he opens them for you.

ଓ Rodolfo had really been looking forward to this romantic candlelit event as a chance to formally take you out. He had envisioned a perfect night with you, because what could go wrong at a preplanned event? You two had been enjoying yourselves, standing on a balcony and enjoying the view over the city. He had left for a few minutes to grab some refreshments. You assumed no one would bother you, but it seems flies have a way of staying hidden and stuck to the wall before launching at any small entrance. You had been left alone and suddenly a couple of men were trying to coax you into joining an after party with them. The crude jokes followed right after. Rodolfo rarely gets visibly angry, but this was shameless disrespect and to you nonetheless. Of course he was going to intervene and create some space, protectively keeping you behind him.

ଓ Phillip doesn't play when it comes to you. Sometimes a Shadow will make a joke in passing about hitting on the commander's s/o and they'll get disciplined for it even if it wasn't serious. So imagine how much more possessive he'd get when a total stranger is being very obvious and insistent about his interest in you. You tell them you have someone and flash the ring at them that Phillip had bought you, of course Phillip always has you decked out in whatever jewelry you like. Still, that isn't enough to get the man off your back. And enter stage right Phillip Graves! "Everything alright, darling?". All tender and caring towards you but narrowing his eyes as a warning to the stranger who doesn't know when to give up. However, your hand resting on his arm as a gentle reminder helps him to not get too carried away.

ଓ Makarov doesn't bother with dealing with those pesky flies that try to get something out of you. You're his, of course there would be people who would try to get with you. But that was usually when it was clear those men couldn't give you what Makarov can. They're all bark but no bite, Makarov on the other hand, has given you everything you've ever wanted and more. At this fancy and exclusive party, there are only people with high status with all of them having deep pockets. Still, he doesn't let that stop him from showing you off like he usually does. Even if it means some might think you're a toy he can share. But here, he’ll show them that even with all their money and charms, you’ll still choose him over them. He’s leaving it to you to hold his arm, stay by his side, ask for his affection.

ଓ Keegan can't stay away for too long before someone is trying to get you to sit at another table or trying to play matchmaker by partnering you up with one of their single, lone friends. Normally, you'd reject their advances too, but part of you wanted to see how Keegan would react. You knew him to be protective of you even when you were only friends, but you wondered how much more intense he'd be now that you were officially a thing. So you played dumb, just a little wouldn't hurt. Keegan wasn't concerned at first, even leaned back and watched expectingly as he drank from his glass. But he nearly choked when you instead of ignoring them, you sat and listened, politely nodding as if you saw no problem. Did you not know they were blatantly flirting with you? Either way, party is over, he's taking you and going home. He didn't bring you here for someone else to take you on a date.

ଓ König wouldn't even have to confront anyone because the moment someone sees his tall frame towering over them, hovering near you like some entity.. they're gone in an instant. No one is sticking around long enough to find out what'll happen if they continue flirting with you. But little do they know, König might've not even noticed them, he's not the best at social cues or socialization in the first place. He would have just assumed you were making friends, unless he caught the way their eyes lingered on you a little too long. Or if their hands seem to have trouble staying at their sides. Then he'll cock his head, staring intensely and trying to read their true intentions. That is usually enough to get the person to feel uncomfortable and drop the act.

ଓ Horangi wouldn't like how many guys have approached you in the span of like half an hour. You look stunning, it's only natural all eyes would be on you, that's why he was so proud to stand by you. But it's like they completely disregarded him because why were people asking for your number? He's making himself known before you can even politely decline, asking "Didn't you see me? I'm their partner-" and you have to tell him to cut it out before he starts a fight with someone. No one hasn't gotten handsy with you yet, so it would be more embarrassing for a fight to break out all because he got jealous. You do have to admit, you sort of like seeing him get protective like this, it's kind hot idk.

ଓ Nikto shouldn't even be feeling this intense selfishness within him. Why does he suddenly dislike others having eyes? But he's not jealous, is he? He's being completely reasonable, those people should back away from you. You're both here to enjoy your time together as a couple, not to be interrupted by others. Why can't people understand that? He gets irritable seeing one person in particular follow you around, not taking your rejection for an answer, he supposes. But Nikto didn't come here to watch others try to court you, he's had enough and is taking you on his way out. He's seen enough, he doesn't want to go to another one of those dinner parties if it means entitled people will want to try their luck with you.

[iri-desky]

Doof: "You see Perry The Platypus, about a few weeks ago I entered The Tumblr Sexyman Showdown. It's a contest for only the sexiest of men-- now now, Perry the Platypus, before you roll your eyes at me, it's not the conventional kind of sexy, no, no! It's the pathetic, the silly, the unconventional! Only for the acquired tastes. Like me~!! So I joined in, and you wouldn't believe it! I plowed through the competition! Bracket after bracket, I dominated the votes. That is, until the final round... when I was put up against Stanley Pines of someplace called 'Gravity Falls'-- for some reason, even though he claimed to come from a place called Gravity Falls and I come from the Tri-State Area, the competition listed me to come from someplace called 'Phineas and Ferb', and I have no idea where that is or who those people are--I was kicked to the curb! He won by a landslide! Well, not literally though, that's a metaphor--that's how Bill Cipher won against Jack Frost from Rise of the Guardians, and I KNOW that place doesn't exist--b-but anyway, Stanley won and I only got second. And it doesn't make any sense! Sure, Stanley is similar to what the true Sexyman is, but he's not the greatest! For one thing, he's not that pathetic--jeez, if anyone is the most pathetic here, it's me! He's not that tragic-backstory-able, or anything, he--and worse yet, he's HOT! I mean, he's not that much of an acquired taste! Sure, he's older, but that's it!! Clearly, the people are biased! Which is why I made...THIS!"

Doof: "BEHOLD! THE UNHANDSOME-INATOR!!!!"

Doof: "With this, I can make anyone ugly--so ugly that their ugliness is JUUUST too ugly to be a Tumblr Sexyman! But too handsome to be truly ugly...and I can also tweak it to make myself just a little more handsome, hehe! With this, I will make the ENTIRE TRI-STATE AREA Sexyman ugly, and shoot myself so I will be the most acquired-taste-handsome out of all of them, winning the love of all of the TRI-STATE AREA, AND ENACTING MY REVENGE AGAINST THE TUMBLR SEXYMAN CONTEST!!!"

Doof: "--Or wait, come to think of it, this isn't really revenge, I mean, the contest's over and it won't come back until next year so this scheme prooobably should've been postponed until then... not to mention this inator isn't exactly that tweaked, it's a rushed job and has some...ahaha...side effects...unless I CRANK UP THE RANGE OF THE INATOR!"

Doof: "Yes, Perry The Platypus, I will become the most tumblr-sexyman handsome by proxy in all of the tri-state area AND GRAVITY FALLS, OREGON!!!"

| Meanwhile In Gravity Falls |

*Stan, reading the paper, suddenly looks up.*

Stan: "Something just happened."

*beat*

Stan: "...Eh. Who cares. Worse has happened in this town. It's probably the heebie jeebies from that German guy from a couple days ago, eugh."

Stan: "Worth it for the prize money, though. I'm still the sexiest man on all of Tumblr! Ahaha!"

*beat*

Stan, still grinning: "...whatever that is."

*A beat. Then the door to the Mystery Shack slams open. It's Ford.*

Ford: "Stanley! I'm back!"

Stanley: "Hey, sixer. Back from another one of your little adventures?"

Ford: "I suppose you could call it that! Ever been to the tri-state area? There are hundreds of anomalies there! Did you know that all the platypuses are teal there?"

Stanley: "Yeah, yeah...well, make sure to tell me later. I'm reading the paper."

Ford: "Well, don't get too absorbed. We're going to Italy tomorrow, remember? We're visiting the Vatican! Lots of great things to explore there! We might even see the pope!"

[steviewashere]

I don't know when I'll have the time to write this, but:

CW: Minor Mentions of Blood, Character Illness (Hanahaki), Use of Queer as a Slur

Hanahaki AU. Steve develops hanahaki over Eddie. It's not because, oh, Eddie's probably straight and doesn't know I'm into guys...

No, it's because, oh, Eddie doesn't want to be very close to me due to previous hangups he has.

Cut to Steve coughing up dark purple, almost black petals. Soft and wet and sticky to his fingers. Then, after some time, they become small buds. Small black rose buds with gentle, prickly thorns sprouting in his throat.

People around them find out quickly, very quickly, that Steve is experiencing Hanahaki. Everybody, sans Eddie himself, finds out they're related to Eddie—even as these black roses symbolize hatred, even as they come close to death and mourning in their meaning—they're still perfectly Eddie in color, shape, and beauty. Obviously, since nobody wants Steve to, y'know, die, they tell him to confess to Eddie.

However, Steve is faced with a secondary option at one of his doctor visits. A surgery. The petals can be removed, the thorns torn out and tossed, his lungs cleared...but his brain shocked empty of all traces of Eddie. All traces. He wouldn't know Eddie as he is now. He wouldn't know Eddie from when Dustin would ramble on and on and on about his new guy best friend. He wouldn't know Eddie as the mischievous troublemaker in high school.

And he especially wouldn't know Eddie as his childhood best friend that he drifted apart from many, many years ago. Nobody but them knows that part.

And soon, through decision, through the fear of death...Steve chooses to forget that part, too. He chooses to remove Eddie from his conscious. Every last part of him. With the decision made, the party members keep Eddie away, Robin goes through Steve's room and hides anything he has of Eddie's—including a little memory box of their childhood photographs, little trinkets he'd receive from Eddie, doodles and crushed flowers...crushed flowers that look similar to the ones Steve coughed up with a note attached to them: "For the prince to my prince. Mama said they're for royal people, and I thought they were beautiful. These are for you, because you're beautiful, too."

Steve kept all of it. Tucked neatly away for nobody but him to see. All these delicate, baby confessions of two queer kids in rural America, waiting for the right moment; though never getting that after a fall out in their relationship.

According to Eddie, the two drifted away due to rhetoric Steve's dad was spouting; rhetoric that was being passed on and spat right at Eddie's face from Steve's mouth. Even if he saw Steve change during and after Vecna, he'll always remember the last big fight in their friendship; the day he was called a queer.

When Eddie finds out, he's beyond devastated that Steve would make the choice to forget him. He gets it, Steve didn't want to die. He knows. But now he doesn't even have a spot in Steve's life? It cuts deep, it hurts.

He knows so much about Steve. Little details. Favorite things. Where his moles are. How he styles his hair. What he looked like before braces, before Tommy, before high school bullshit, before all the traumas. He knows who Steve really is, sweet and nurturing and nearly unbearably kind.

And now Steve doesn't know him. Doesn't love him.

He wishes he knew, because then they wouldn't be in this mess.

But Eddie gets to fall in love with Steve all over again. Shake his hand and introduce himself. Even though he wishes they could meet each other as kids, just like they did. Because Eddie remembers a dorky, geeky, self-conscious, timid little kid quietly asking him if they could play princes on the playground. And Steve remembers Eddie at twenty-one, full grown and stubborn; not the same shy kid, not the bubbly kid...just a man haunted.

But! Plot twist!!!

What if, yeah, Steve does forget Eddie...initially?

He meets Eddie again, for the first time. He gets to know Eddie. He begins a friendship with Eddie.

And then he begins getting these awful...awful migraines being around Eddie. Flashes of fractured, half-formed memories of some kid with big brown eyes and a shaved head, of a kid crouched down in wood chips trying to find a guitar pick he had dropped. Little glimpses of smiles: some with teeth missing, some with teeth growing back in, some with blood-stained lips, some with a blue tint. There's splintering voices, a little boy's and an older man's and a squeaky, pubescent voice—he hears his own name crackled around the edges, hears Prince Stevie cooed and King Steve snarled, soft words whispered through choking sobs and whip wild yelling.

He looks Eddie straight on at one point, his face open with concern, but all he sees is an angry, sobbing, red-faced, wet-faced little Eddie talking with Steve, "You think I'm...I'm a dirty queer? Why would you say that to me? No...no, Steve, keep your voice down, keep your voice"—and then, quieter, a whisper—"I thought I could trust you. I know I like boys, but that was a secret. You're an asshole, Steve. Go fuck yourself."

And when he blinks again, Eddie's concerned face staring back at him, all Steve does is cough and cough and cough. Eventually, he's hunched tight into himself and spitting directly into Eddie's palm. Out comes a fully formed black rose.

A bud that hadn't bloomed, that hadn't been removed. Sharp thorns and wet petals and an eye that swirls and swirls and swirls.

It all comes back to him, then, staring at that flower, floundering backwards, catching Eddie's eyes in a daze.

It all comes back to him.

How much he's always loved Eddie Munson.

Anyway, just like, a hanahaki surgery gone wrong, I guess. Like they all think it works until, y'know, it doesn't. They get close again and it floods back in. The very thing he tried to get away from.

I imagine that after Steve coughs up that fully formed rose, Eddie squishes it in his palm. The thorns cutting up his hand, the petals crushed between his fingers. And then he just...eats it. Like fully puts it on his tongue, chews it up between his teeth, and swallows the whole damn thing—yes, even the thorns. There's blood in his mouth, petals between his teeth, blood and drool on his hand.

And he lunges forward to grab Steve's face, to kiss him so roughly they could be devouring each other. And all they taste in each other are the bittersweet ghosts of black rose petals and the metallic harshness of one another's blood; Steve had hacked up blood, too, from the thorns cutting his throat.

And when they separate?

"You were the first boy I ever fell in love with," Eddie confesses, "you're the only boy I've ever loved. There's been nobody else in that place, Steve. Only you, after everything, have remained."

Okay. Now I'm done. I promise I'm done rambling. Would this be interesting as a fic? I don't know. It's fine.

[filmbyjy]

could we get a poly imagine dating 02z🥹

THREE IS BETTER THAN ONE

a/n: AHHHH, a poly imagine with the 02z? uhh yes please??? (let me just...self-indulge in a way) also i'm so sorry this was short, i've restarted in writing this like 3 times already so this was the best i could do😭 besides, it's also like...been 2 years since this ask was requested for...so sorry🙏🏻

pairing: 02z x fem!reader

genre: polyamorous relationship, fluff

warnings: jakehoon are cute whiny babies bc they love you a lot so idk if that's a turn off to people.

your eyes had adjusted to the lights that were seeping through the blinds. was it the afternoon? morning? you didnt know but what you did know was one of the boys had you wrapped around him. he groans a little and tightens his grip around your waist. you had tapped on his back to get him to wake up but he just wouldn’t.

“10 more minutes.” he says in his deep voice.

“jake, it's-" you had reached over to grab your phone and looked at the time. "10am. Time for you to wake up."

he groans, he doesn't move. "noooo."

"you have football practice."

"let me skip it. being in your bed is the best."

"I am not allowing the captain of the football team not go to his practice. your coach will be texting me if you don't go."

“the coach can go suck a fat one.” he tiredly says. you gasped.

“sim jaeyun.”

“you sound like my mom. baby, please.” jake whines. the bedroom door bursts open. your two other boyfriends entered the room, arguing.

“no, fuck you. you burnt our girlfriend’s breakfast.” jay says. sunghoon argues back. both you and jake stared at each other and deadpanned.

“are you two going to argue like this every morning?” you say. once they both heard your voices, they smiled and went over to you.

“our goddess, here you go.” sunghoon hands you a plate of toast, eggs and sausages. you thanked him and jay.

“sunghoon burnt the first batch. i seriously have zero clue how you can burn eggs when it’s the easiest to make but sunghoon did the impossible.” jay explains. sunghoon gives him the middle finger. you had playfully rolled your eyes as the both of them bicker.

“you two have to stop arguing. i’m both your girlfriends.”

“mine too.” jake wraps his arm around your waist.

“yes. i am all three of your girlfriend. so you guys need to get along and come to an agreement.”

sunghoon and jay grumbles, they were both too stubborn to back off. you had cocked your eyebrow and pressed your tongue against the side of your cheek. "behave you two." you say in a warning tone.

both sunghoon and jay huffed. they both climbed the bed and laid close to you. jay lifts his head up. "love, i don't want to go to classes. I'll miss you."

"me too." sunghoon too looks up. you had looked in between the three boys, all of them pouting and giving you puppy eyes.

"as much as I love you guys, you have to go to classes and I too have to get ready so go bathe."

jay huffs, "fine. enjoy your breakfast and we'll see you during lunch." jay sits up and got off the bed. he leaves a peck on your forehead and goes over to bathe.

"baby, i want a kiss." jake pouts. sunghoon nods. he wanted a kiss too. they looked like puppies, you could almost imagine their tails wagging excitedly.

"fine fine." you leaned over and pecked jake's lips and then sunghoon's. "now go bathe, you stink."

"i am not stinky. it's just the smell of a man." sunghoon folds his arms.

"well, 'man smell' smells like shit. i won't kiss you anymore if you two don't bathe." both jake and sunghoon gasped. they got up from the bed, grabbing their towels.

"I'M BATHING FIRST!"

"NO I AM!"

they both had yelled. jay comes out of the main shower whilst drying off his hair with the towel. he suddenly gets shoved out of the way and the bathroom door slams shut. jay groans and rubs his arm.

"what did you tell them to make them so excited about bathing?" jay questions.

"i told them i won't kiss them anymore if they don't bathe."

jay hums, "luckily i bathed first." he pecks your lips. "my goddess, don't forget to eat, okay? i'll take my leave first since those fuckers are probably gonna take long in the shower."

"alright. take care, darling." he pecks your forehead and then grabs his bag before he left the house.

after 10-15 minutes, both jake and sunghoon left the bathroom. both of their hairs are still wet. they hand you a towel, looking right at you with puppy eyes.

"dry my hair!" they both say at the same time. they looked at each other and glared at one another. you had shook your head.

"come here, sit down on the bed the both of you." you had said. jake and sunghoon both settled on the bed. you had started to dry off sunghoon's hair first. he hums in content, his eyes shutting.

once you were done with sunghoon, you had pecked his cheek. "okay, done. now, go grab your bag and wait outside for jake." sunghoon hums and stands up, he leans down to peck your lips and turns back around to leave the room. you were left with drying off jake's hair. he looks at you with puppy eyes and you start drying off his hair.

"feels so nice to have a girlfriend to dry your hair for you."

"well, it would be nicer if you weren't almost late to class. i feel like a mom with her sons."

"well, you are mama-" he feels you pinch his cheek. "ow! that hurts."

"too bad. now, darling. i'm done, go be with hoon now." you had stopped drying off his hair. he combs his hair a little, making sure he looked fine in your mirror.

"yes, mamas. thanks." he pecks your lips and sits up from your bed. you could hear both jake and sunghoon rushing out of the house. you had assumed they saw the time and had ran out the house.

it almost felt too perfect, to be able to have 3 different boys as your boyfriend. a dream and something you enjoyed. you were forever thankful to be living with these 3.

you had looked up at the clock, your eyes widening a little. you were going to be late and hence you had quickly gotten ready for the day. the door shuts and off you were to continue the rest of your day.

[thebluediner]

COACHELLA HEAT PART 4

explaination: this is written in a form of a tiktoker who comprised fan videos of billie and you at coachella to dissect it and give the interaction meaning. basically like the hailey bieber tiktok series ( that's my inspo)

warning; use of y/n, mention of harrassment and allusions to sexual harrassment

a/n: didn't proof read really sorry I got homework and assignments to do just wanted to give you guys something , mwah

"what a damn week guys. I don't even know where to start with this" the creator says immediately when the video starts. she basically launches into her seat ,the camera being a little rocky, before she settles.

"so I took time off cause things were getting hectic and I mean very fucking hectic " she says her hands trying to gesture how big of a mess the internet has been lately.

"okay so to lets get started, remember the girl who kissed billie?" she asks leaving some for an answer.

"yeah the internet digged deep into her past. apparently they are some cases filled against her already like restraining orders and breaking and entering .miss girl is low-key a sex offender !" the creator exclaims.

a shot of her mug shot invades the screen. she can be seen with a dampened expression looking straight into the camera lens in a skimpy outfit.

"and to add more to that her former friends snicthed on her by exposing her stalker tendencies "

a stitched video of a girl with a washed out turquoise green colour. she starts the video talking about how she feels like what went down at coachella was totally planned by the girl.

the friend later reveals how the girl's name is ella. it's further revealed how ella has an obsession with celebrities. they explain how it started small like going to their shows and then they attended live interviews.

it's said how that wasn't enough for them so they started attended red carpet events they knew they would appear in then to parties they were most likely to attend. long story short she started dm'ing people close to that celebrity and getting access to parties or shows they were gonna attend.

her latest victim is also said to be billie eilish. apparently it started when she saw billie out at our girl y/n's show supporting her. from there on she rocketed into full obssession. the girl on the screen tells how much she was actually getting sick of ella talking about billie leading to their friendship fading.

"and that's exactly how she ended up on that stage with billie. worst of all it's reported billie's coca cola drink was spiked before she drank it " she says her head shaking in disbelief.

she stitches another video of a women analysing the video of billie "kissing" the ella. she basically goes to analyse the body language of both of them. she talks about how the way billie was leaning in wasn't her being touchy she was actually loosing control of her own body.

the women moves on to observe how the way ella was obviously intruding billie's personal space but also boundary by the way she backed away from her way before the kiss. she also added how ella was actually taking control of the whole thing. she could tell all this by how ellla captured billie's lips by cupping her face not so gently when you pay close attention.

"as soon as that video was released the internet was enraged. people started migrating to ella's social media accounts to harrass her some even going as far as signing petitions for her to be arrested" the tiktoker informs.

" it's been days since that happened but two days ago, when the internet was now well informed about the situation, there was information leaked regarding billie filling charges against the girl" the creator mentions.

"through all of this y/n and billie have been quiet nothing from either side and really I think that's best. something devasting and very violating happened to her so she needs time away and be with her loved ones " the creator adds.

"but ofcourse schedule continues and week two of coachella started yesterday and the headliner being y/n she performed" the creator continues to add to the narrative.

"what we didn't expect was for y/n to switch her setlist. we as fans have been told the setlist was prepared and moderated months before coachella so the fact that it changed says a lot"

a video of a fan filming you on stage shows up . your chest heaved with your hair damp even sticking to your face. you look out at the crowd catching your breath before bringing the microphone closer to your lips.

"a very unfortunate event happened to somebody I hold very dear to me..." and with just those words the crowd erupted shouting and screaming as appreciate for you talking about this.

"a lot of you have seen it because unfortunately we have devices that pick up every single thing nowadays... even worse they get posted online so now you got a permanent digital footprint" the video captures you talking out to the crowd. you're standing in one place brushing your hair out of your face.

"wishing that wasn't the case does nothing now so all we can do is take measures from now on... but apart from that I just..." you stopped talking not because of the cord but because your chest felt constricted.

fans cheered you ok sensing that you weren't okay.

" I just wanted to raise awareness that things like this still happen no matter who you are... I know a lot of you in the crowd have dealt with it too " she says looking at the thousands of heads ahead of her.

"I also went through that and even though I couldn't talk about it all those years ago in the long run I did " your voice was shaky making you turn away from the fans.

a roar of cheers appeared once more to support you. it was a way of telling you they were there for you and for her, billie.

"but yeah uhm I write a song about it, if you don't know it let me introduce you to ice cream man " you say a weak smile on your lips.

a few guys from behind the stage came out with a chair for you to sit on while you perform the next song. another set of feet came running handing you a long coat to cover you up through the next performance.

"yeah guys ice cream man is one of my favourites of y/n honestly so glad she performed it and I'm so proud she talked about the incident . and if you paid attention you would've realised she referred to billie as someone she holds dear meaning the relationship between isn't broken" the creator says although her voice a bit weary.

"another suprising fact was that billie was there watching y/n perform. I really didn't think she'd show up but she did because another video of her was taken "

a video that's a little bit grainy with different coloured lights illuminating as it started playing. a small figure on the far corner of the stage standing next to a tal figure , assumed to be her bodyguard, was wearing a dark hoodie and a cap bopping her head to the setlist.

"you cannot tell me that isn't billie that is so her" the creator says a little excited.

"more proof that billie was there is that's the first thing she posted later on coachella week two night one . billie posted a series of pictures of her at coachella mostly with her family and atleast two relating to y/n someway." the tiktoker says showing the pictures in the screen.

" anyways guys that was the update. what's happening regarding ella we don't really know at the moment but since legal action has been taking we're hoping for justice to be served. people need to know when not to cross a line with people you don't even know that well really. but we're grateful that billie is safe and she has a big support system fighting for her " the creators comments onekast time

" okay on that note , that's it. bye guys thank you for tuning in " the creator says with a goodbye wave.

[joelslittlegirl]

Old!joel miller x fem!reader

Minors dni! 𐙚peepaw brainless smut under the cut

Age gap (reader is 20 something and joel is 61), free use, dubon if u squint, squirting, mentions of the word 'daddy', joels a meanie, breeding

I'm ovulating if u couldn't tell (˶˃⤙˂˶)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

If old!joel miller was my husband we'd fuck all day. He has to take viagra every day to keep up with a young thing like me.

Waking up with his dick in me and minutes later he fucks me dumb with it. It's the only time he can fuck me without that little blue pill.

When I make breakfast he takes it along with his other pills for blood pressure and his heart cuz he's a fkng old man. I wear one of his big shirts while making scrambled eggs when he suddenly rams his cock into me, making me almost drop the pan on the floor. I'm going hazy on his cock and grip the counter top and when I finally cream on it, the eggs are burned. His finger picks up my juices and he brings it to his mouth. "Guess my breakfast isn't fucked up after all..."

He's working on his plans to help jackson out with his slutty old man glasses and it turns me on so badly, I start sucking his cock under his desk. It's so warm and heavy in my mouth, and I lick his thick vein slow and deliberate and his hand grabs my hair. "Don't tease me slut, just suck it like a good girl, you are one right?" He says and I nod as he forces his cock down my throat.

It turns me on so much. I'm so thankful to be his personal fucktoy. My panties are always soaked around him. I'm not on birthcontrol so when I'm ovulating, I'm BEGGING for his seed but he doesn't wanna give it to me because "I'm grandpa age, not dad age" as he fucks me dumb. My cunt clenches at his words and he says "fuck that turns you on? Fucking a grandpa? You're such a dirty young thing. Fuck I'm so lucky" i keep begging for his cum and eventually he gives in and fills me up soo good. "Aren't you embarrassed? That everyone will see your swollen belly and know that you fuck such a dirty old man. You're such a fucking whore."

At the new years eve party I wouldn't keep my hands off him. I'd wear a short skirt with no panties and bend in front of him. Even tommy can see my throbbing wet pussy and he gets hard and joel notices and drags me to the toilet where he fucks me so hard, i scream. But joel didn't lock the door, he wanted people to come in and see me cream around an old veiny cock with pigmented spots and grey pubes. All because of that damn pill.

And it's not over. We go back home and as soon as he locks the door he bends me over at the dinner table and fucks me hard again and smacks my ass. He turns me around and rips my dress to get acces to my boobs. I didn't wear a bra either and he sucks my nipples and bites them so hard they start to bleed but it's fine cuz he can do whatever he wants to my body.

As we go to sleep, I sleep in my cute pink top with little bows on it with matching underwear. I'm so tired from all this fucking all day but he isn't. Oh no he took that viagra and will make use of it as much as he can. "Why are you wearing underwear? Thought I said I need acces to you all time. Whenever I want." I was so sleepy but managed to nod and say a soft sorry. "I'll show you how sorry you'll be." He says as he enters his big girthy cock inside me again. He fucked me like a sexdoll. I was just laying there, letting him use me. I couldn't do anything, just be a good girl for him.

His stamina was crazy. "You're 40 years younger than me and can't keep up? You're so useless." He said as he grabbed my one leg and put it over his shoulder, hitting my spot so right I screamed. "Good girl. Cum for me now." He said and my voice broke "i-i can't joel" and he chuckled and rubbed your clit hard and faster "you dumb slut, that's not my name." Tears began to form at my eyes and I came with a heavy cry "D-daddy I'm so sorry." But he didn't stop, no he fucks me like an animal till I squirt and pass out. He still didn't stop. He fucked my unconscious body till he squirted all his load in me. His balls are empty at this point. He pulled out and gave me a kiss on my temple before he laid down next to me.

But before he went to sleep, he grabbed my one leg and entered his cock in me and I softly hummed. I could only sleep like this and he knows it. My pussy squeezes him and he groans. "Fuck are you kidding me?" He says before he starts to trust in me again.

[ineed-to-sleep]

The problem isn't that "some people don't understand a diagnosis is just a part of someone", the problem is looking for an explanation for bad behaviour in a diagnosis in the first place.

Ok, if we look at it objectively. Do you honestly think "diagnosing" Donald Trump is going to help anyone? Do you think telling Donald Trump "hey man, you have NPD! You should get treatment!" Will make him seek out treatment? Do you think it'll make other people with NPD feel encouraged, or inspired to seek out treatment?

Maybe like, 10% of the people who see people doing this will. But the other 90% I'm pretty sure will just feel ashamed and be even more in denial about having any condition, because now they feel that the condition is associated with someone that so many people hate and see as a clearly horrible person.

And maybe understanding someone's relationship with their parents might be an interesting story to look at from the outside and all that, sure. But if we're being realistic, you'll never get the full picture on this man's life. You'll never get the full context necessary to really understand what's going on inside his head. You're probably millions of people far removed from ever meeting this man(hopefully. Thankfully) and trying to understand him on a psychological level is honestly just parasocial.

We all know Trump is a horrible person. Trump is not just a sad person with untreated mental illness. Trump is a selfish, abhorrent person who chooses to act the way he does every day. Many people with similar positions of power to him are just like that- willing to take advantage of people, enthusiastically doing so, trying to get away with shit because they think they won't suffer any consequences(and they often don't, because they have the money and influence to get away with their shitty behaviour), etc etc. I think it's really harmful to associate any of this with any mental illness. This is a problem of people with bad character and entitlement who can get away with taking advantage of others. Many of the rich and powerful are like this. Just look at JKR, or Elon Musk. There's no need to try to diagnose them with anything, you can see the common symptoms among them is that they're rich, powerful, entitled, and they can get away with hurting people.

I understand you have your own mental illnesses, I do too. But it's important to consider how this kind of thing might affect not only yourself, but others, and the way this influences(or feeds into) the negative light in which many people see us. I get that you're looking for a reason why, it honestly baffles me too that some people could be this terrible and I want to understand how someone can get to that point, but I don't think pinning it on a mental illness is ever the answer.

It’s weird that we keep trying to armchair diagnose asshole behaviour with mental health labels and in doing so throw people with mental health conditions under the asshole bus when we could just call a guy an asshole and leave it at that

It just seems far more straightforward, you know

[misskingshit]

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘬 summary: two different worlds, two different people, two different desires...or maybe not so much. note: i love the cliche kook x pogue!reader my favorite definitely, xoxo.

The sun was going down, the day was ending, this was probably your favorite time of the day.

The daily routine during this summer.

First JJ and you would drop John B off at the Cameron mansion because he had to work, then you and JJ would go surfing, he would drop you off at your job, a music store, and after a while he would pick you up there and then pick up John B. Some days Ki was added, who lately was working with his father all day, and Pope, it goes without saying that he was only studying to enter the university.

"Wait, I have to finish packing up a couple of things and then we can go" says John B giving the van door a light knock, starting to walk away.

The blonde replied "...take your time, anyway this dumbass needs me to keep teaching her how to surf" he brings his face closer to yours in a mocking way.

"Shut up, you're just jealous because I surf better than you" he looks at you mockingly "I only fell once, only once" you pushed him more. He took you by the knees carrying you on his shoulder, you took advantage of that opportunity to start hitting his butt "put me down stupid blonde" you laughed "baby, if you keep touching my ass I don’t know what could happen".

It was a joke.

You knew it.

He knew it.

You were the perfect pair of siblings, you couldn't live without each other, but you didn't feel anything beyond platonic... I mean, yeah, you fucked a few times... several times, but you both knew it was just for fun.

There was only one person who couldn't stand what you two had, someone who knows they shouldn't feel that way but can't help it.

You and JJ can feel how big footsteps sounded more and more towards you, your first guess was that it was John B, but the footsteps resounded quite decisively on the floor, not at all like your friend's common calm step.

"Rafe" sighed when you saw him, somewhat scared, you knew well that the cute blond and the big dickhead didn't get along very well and that most of their encounters ended with you acting as JJ's personal nurse.

Because pogues always first, always.

"Look man, we don't want any trouble, we just came to pick up..."

"Sarah is calling for you, she's in the living room" Rafe cuts your friend off and just keeps his jaw clenched, staring at you.

You knew damn well that Sarah was not at home, you assumed that he wanted to tell you something that from the look on his face it would not be good.

You nodded your head, then turned your head to JJ "could you wait for me a few minutes?" you asked him.

You weren't in the mood to take any shit that Rafe tells ya, not with everything you've been feeling lately.

"There's no need for him to wait for you…" Cameron said.

You simply kept your gaze on the beach-boy, ignoring the rich-boy "please?"

"Always" he said simply looking at you.

Rafe followed your steps with determination, even more annoyed by the fact that the blond was still waiting for you outside.

"Something happened?" you asked once inside the house.

"I don't know, you tell me, do you have a boyfriend now?" he smiles sarcastically. "what the fuck are you talking about?" you frowned.

The tension was clear, you realized that he was upset, but you did not know why.

"The pogue garbage that is waiting for you outside...that's what the fuck I'm talking about" he answers even angrier.

You raised your eyebrows, clearly offended. "That's not what I meant," he corrected himself instantly.

"I don’t even know why am I surprised" you laughed sarcastically "not you, ‘m not talking about you" he says quickly.

"I hate to break it to you but let me remember you that I am also a pogue garbage, which reminds me...we should stop...what we do, whatever we have, it ends now" breaks your heart, but you knew it was the wisest decision for your well-being.

His heart broke too, but he wasn't the type to give up so quickly, definitely not. He always gets what he wants.

And he wants you.

"No" he said firmly.

You were trying to hold back a couple of tears, you didn't want him to see you cry, not him.

"What are you gonna do now? pay me to sleep with you, sorry Rafe I'm not a whore you can sleep with whenever you want and then kick out" you said quickly and in a strong voice "and then leave me or avoid me like some kind of bitch that's crazy over you."

"It's not like that..." he sighs "what the fuck are you talking about, it's not like that" he starts to get closer to you but you just move away.

"This doesn't make sense, we're not going to get anywhere Rafe, it's pointless" you raised your shoulders.

"We should just talk more calmly, okay? I want to do things right," Rafe said desperately, moving his hands like he always did when he was uneasy. "There is nothing you can do, for God's sake I don't even know what I was thinking from the beginning" you brought your hands to your face "this is wrong, very wrong, you are bad, a bad person" at this point you were already crying , inevitably Rafe felt like the worst piece of trash "you always look for conflict with my friends, you're into super shady, weird shit" you breathed a little "just... every angle of you is bad." There were a few seconds of silence, he didn't know what to say, you were right in everything you had said, what could he argue? "I know…and I'm very sorry, but I don't know what to do to make you forgive me, to be with me." "Just…don’t make this harder” you sighed and just like that, you left.

------

But again…it’s Rafe fucking Cameron, he gets what he wants.

And Oh Lord, he was gonna get you back.