#didn't mean for this to get long I ended up vomiting words

[chasedeys]

https://www.tumblr.com/chasedeys/768170997377597440/httpswwwtumblrcomchasedeys768169507136159744

Oh 100 % I agree that they had a talk afterwards. Both of them have emphasized communication throughout the 6 years they have been “together 😭💀,” so no way they didn’t have a heart to heart they never get like that with each other

they couldn't have not have the talk lbr like that fight was kind of crazy had people talking about bengals downfall burrow-chase connection fallout etc they got to have a heart-to-heart 😭 though i guess it wasn't really actually a fight?? ja'marr just got so fucking angry and joe had to cool him down and the way to cool him down quick was to yk shove at him and yell at him right back ig though 100% nobody else but joe would've away with it on that field lol

i've talked about it a bit here in the end!!

also after that infamous kc game shove, i definitely think they had a very tough heart to heart where ja'marr maybe spills his full feelings over the contract and how he hasn’t been getting the ball to actually make big plays and how his worth as a wr1 is being brought to question and joe probably spills on his own feelings on how ja'marr held out so long and had last minute (?) changes of playing that week one ramps up joe's own anxiety and hang ups like i definitely feel like he had some unchecked anxiety over playing with his wrist that first game that ja'marr probably said something incredibly insane yet uplifting about in response. the next game its like they mended some unseen frayed stitch of their connection! first drive banger of a 41 yarder td for jamarr, two tuddys for the game in fact lol!! joe gets him his deep ball, then the insane way joe rushed at him after his 63 yarder in the next game, its like that first touchdown against minnesota again. i just wish the very best for them, to keep making these insane passes and insane runs they’ve been making since lsu.

that's pretty much it lmao but there's some more word vomit below that might a bit much tbh:

okay like i was new at this during the first few weeks okay I've not been here for their lsu to bengals run and my understanding of their burrow-chase throw-catch connection by which i mean like actual football playing qb-wr gameplay was still being learned!! i absolute did not know any rules of the game that first week i watched 😭 didn't even know how you got 7pts out a touchdown etc etc sorry i really was just there for the pretty men who had their faces covered by helmets 90% of the time lmao and from what i saw it was kind of meh you know???

like I've watched their highlights before don't get me wrong i know they got it. the touchdowns??? the way joe throws and ja'marr runs??? crazyyyyyy how the fuck does joe know exactly where ja'marr was going to run, how the fuck did ja'marr know exactly how far joe was going to throw, and like this could absolutely be attributed to the way they plan things with coaches and play calling etc but!! doesn't change the fact that in the end it just takes two people to do that shit and they've understood each other so well to have done it near perfectly!! like it made me understand why there's so much poetry and romance in sports!!! the trust the connection the whatever i can't find words the point is i didn't really like......see that in the first two games??? like there was some kind of disconnect yk and like idk they played like shit 😭 but keep in mind i was completely unknowledgeable of football like at all and i refuse to rewatch those games so maybe i was just stupid and didn't see it lmao

BUT THEN???? the week 3 game?????? ja'marr's first touchdown of the season???????? THAT was the shit i was waiting for like iirc ja'marr and tee were running their way down by the sidelines getting double teamed (?) each idk ja'marr was definitely double teamed had me doubting they'd make it but joe threw an absolutely beautiful ball at him and ja'marr caught that shit over his shoulder!?!?!?!??! brought it right home too!!!!!!! i was so gassedddddd i was exhilarated like completely 100% fell in love with the sport that was amazing that was literally my first live burrow-chase touchdown!!!!!!

(another fucking list sorry) me being the Master Speculator of Shit that i am made my own stupid ass narratives about how:

they were unsure of their game and each other's lmao hear me out. joe's first game back after the devastating wrist injury that was hell to get back into form to, had to deal with all the noise about him never going to be able to throw the way he used to again and knew just how many fucking eyes would be on him that first game back watching his wrist like bloodthirsty hawks. even if i believe that he's the type of person who can completely block out that noise without flinching, some subconscious and fearful part of him had to have been holding him back. the numerous, numerous, painful clips of him twisting his wrists repeatedly, fidgeting harder than he's ever fidgeted before, the water bottle stupidity that he actually got asked about, etc (god i can't imagine being a celebrity having your anxious shit caught on camera and analyzed so loudly over the internet). and then you add in how ja'marr's been in a contract holdout and clearly bothered as all hell about it because it's just not getting done at all even d-1 of their opening week!! insane. there were questions of ja'marr even playing game 1 and joe of course said unflinchingly that ja'marr would be ready week 1 regardless but completely understandable if he's rattled okay!! if ja'marr wasn't really planning on playing (wasn't he listed as questionable due to illness idk i forgot) suddenly switching up however many hours before to actually playing that's gotta fuck up joe's steady structure that he already prepared beforehand of not playing with ja'marr you know??? like basically a) anxiety over his wrist, b) ja'marr's sudden status as active messing up his pregame, and c) everybody and their grandmothers all up in his business for his first game back.

ja'marr's contract situation. people absolutely saying the foulest shit about his decision to hold out, the amount of money he asked, saying to boot him out, calling him a diva /derogatory, comparing him to justin, tee's contract situation, etc. the fo being the one to open convo about his extension only to not be open to his numbers??? sensible numbers if you think abt it btw and now well lmao good luck fo his agent must be smug as all hell. it maybe planted seeds of doubt and insecurity in him on his worth as WR1 you know?? like why are they acting like he isn't worth all that fucking money. incredibly emotional highly intelligent sensitive pisces that he is gets understandably more and more pissed off and defensive about literally everything but he fucking loves this sport and he loves his guys so he decides to play the game 1 anyway and. well. just. sigh.

the game went to shit and ja'marr played idk better than the rest of the receivers but in all honesty everyone was kind of shit?? and like. they lost to the patriots. who literally got beaten belt to ass by the dolphins last week. but anyways game 2 against ja'marr's most Hated capital h and everything fucking chiefs 😭 yeah with the whole contract situation still up in the air there was no way he wasn't going to have some sort of meltdown tbh. hence the fight....where joe got physical with him.....where his actions definitely contributed heavily to their loss which should have been a win.

and so: the talk. like i said they both talked about their anxieties no holds barred literally all the shit i wrote above and apologized to each other the way men usually do idk bro hugged it out maybe. i genuinely think ja'marr went off on joe on not getting the ball more like????? i can't explain it damn it he definitely chewed him out on it and joe was like 'fuck okay'. ja'marr says he never notices shit about how joe throws the ball so maybe he doesn't notice anything about joe's wrist acting up. but maybe he notices that joe's holding back or there's some sort of hang up over the way he plays and needles it out of him point-blank like the person that he is and joe finally talks about it and ja'marr responds by being 100% insane like he usually does and that sort of devotion and sheer stubbornness on one's belief in who you are has to have some kind of impact on joe damn. they probably got some professional therapy too btw at least i hope so :'). but basically ja'marr just wants the ball more and joe gets him the fucking ball.

ja'marr said something along the lines of him finding joy playing again 😔🤚 this was such a comment like god he hasn't been playing happy at all and when he put to rest the contract shit he finally gets to play a sport he loves with joy!!! him being happy is so fucking important to me wow 😭 i think I've said this before in some post idk but he knows he messed up, he knows the contract negotiation fucked up his emotions so bad he brings it on the field so he nips that shit quick and done. no more contract talks until the next offseason. probably made it clear to joe though that he will not leave but fuck if he's listening to any bullshit from the fo when he's got a game to win and a super bowl to get to and idk about you but that probably healed something in joe like there is the guy who gets him. who's as hungry as he is for a win, for a ring, for a championship. who's got his back, who he can trust to be there on the other end of the field to catch his throws.

the next game!!!!!!!!! god i really am not the person to talk about routes or strategy or whatever but i know for damn sure that that was a beautiful throw and that was a beautiful catch and that was a one-of-a-kind connection. like they fixed something that was unknowingly dented in their connection and like they're finally trusting themselves and each other again to make the big plays they've done before the injury and the contract drama you know????? aurrugrgrhrh i can't word anything out i feel like saying more about this but i cant please get me anyway 😭

this entire emotional roller coaster thing was also the main reason they had those kind of helmet bonks on the next 63 yard td and 70 yard td btw. been a long while since they've had those kind of plays, probably had some unnamed unknowing unacknowledged doubts that they would ever have it again, so it was like the first time all over again lol. (was one of the things joe said to him in that little bubble of their celly after the ravens 70 yarder something like 'see i knew we still got it. i knew you still got it.' god i feel insane)

ok bye......

[absowution]

Thinking of tiny Enver, following helplessly along as he's dragged through the streets by a strong, unrelenting grip. It was the middle of the night when the warlock came for him, darkening the Flymm's doorstep. The only time his mother made a fuss when they handed over their son, sparking a light of hope in Enver's heart that they might've changed their mind, was to ask the warlock if he'd counted the amount of gold correctly. After that they were right as rain.

As the trade concluded his mother never looked at him once.

The moment the door to Flymm's Cobblers closed shut behind them with a sense of finality, his fate well and truly sealed, Enver Flymm's mind was running miles a minute. Thoughts of escape had occurred to him, of course, but even if he were to manage to overpower a warlock twice his size and make a run for it, where would he go? His parents just sold him. If he went back they'd kick him right out the door again, screaming and yelling over what he'd done. He turns his options around in his head repeatedly, but he can't think well when his heart is trying to jump its way up his throat.

They're halfway through the Lower City when the grip on his arm suddenly loosens. He could barely hear a thing at first - the city uncharacteristically quiet even for such late hours. Then, there is a sickening squelch followed by a slight thud as the warlock drops dead to the ground. He sees the vague silhouette of someone on top of the body, a smaller creature dripping with blood as it tears through flesh. It's too dark to see a face, but there is something animalistic about its movements. Either it doesn't notice Enver, or it doesn't care.

Whoever or whatever wild thing it was is gone just as fast. By some God's mercy, it passed right by him.

Enver is left alone with the mangled remains of the man who bought him, whose pockets he rifles through for gold and valuables before disappearing from the scene of the crime. Without a home he has to put his mind to work living on the streets, toiling and climbing his way steadily up so as not to ever be so powerless again. It's not a way of life that comes without soiling your hands, but sometimes the messiest deeds are the cleanest, and vice versa. Stabbed backs and broken souls are left behind in the process when you need a stepping stone or two. He will rob as many people of their freedom as necessary to preserve his own because a miracle like that will never happen again. Even so he is admired. Respected. The people of Baldur's Gate support him now in a way they never would have before.

Years pass but it's impossible to forget what granted him this chance to forge connections and climb his way up to become unreachable in the first place. However oblivious it might have been back then that murderous creature freed him, and while there is little to go on in terms of finding it again he'll never forget the debt he owes.

(It grows into an obsession.)

[lnfours]

us. | l.n

summary: and what seemed like fate becomes "what the hell was i doin'?" ; aka time heals all wounds, so they say, but has it been long enough for it to heal the one he left?

warnings: the highly requested part two to ‘august’, use of she/her pronouns, childhood friends to lovers, second chance romance, oscar giving lando advice bc duh, pining, language, lando absolutely word vomiting when it comes to his feelings, fluff towards the end.

‘august’ | listen | masterlist

oscar piastri took pride in being more observant rather than being the life of the party. he much rather preferred to be labeled as the 'wall hugger' rather than the wild child between him and his teammate. he let lando have that role, opting on sitting on the sidelines more often than not.

but tonight, it was completely different. the aussie driver had agreed to hitting the club in monaco tonight to celebrate charles' first home win and his own second place finish. he couldn't shake the feeling that something was going on with his teammate, eyeing him as he sat down in the lounge area the group had gotten for the evening. something out of the normal for the brit.

he decided to take matters into his own hands, joining his friend on the couch. lando sent a tight lipped smile to his teammate, another red flag the aussie picked up on. he wasn't sporting his usual smile, the one that beamed. one of pure joy.

"you feeling alright, mate?" oscar asked, genuinely concerned.

lando nodded in response, "'m good, just a bit tired."

he hummed, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked out at the dance floor of people. the crowd normally lando would be in the middle of, but not tonight.

"gonna make me pry it out of you or are you just gonna tell me?"

lando chuckled softly, letting out a soft sigh, "y'know that new reporter for sky who was in the media pen earlier?"

oscar furrowed his eyebrows in concentration, trying to remember your name, "think so? shit, what was her name?"

"y/n," lando said and oscar nodded in agreement.

"yeah, that's it," the aussie turned back to look at his teammate, "what about her?"

"well, a few years ago, her and i kind of..." lando trailed off, leaving his teammate to raise his eyebrows.

"you two had a thing?"

lando nodded, "yeah, she had a vacation rental next to mine in the states, and one summer we just really hit it off. y'know, we went on dates and eventually it turned into something more, and... oscar, i was in love with her."

the australian was shocked, "did you tell her?"

"i did," lando nodded, swallowing before continuing, "and i was with her when i got the call that they wanted me to join the team, and i just... i fucking left. i left without waking her up and saying goodbye. the best few months of my entire life, falling in love with someone who has never made me feel more loved and appreciated, and it all went down the drain because i fucked it all up."

oscar sat in silence for a minute, processing what the brit next to him had just told him, "well, do you still love her?"

"i never stopped," lando looked over at his teammate, his expression showing the guilt he still felt for leaving that one night, "i don't think i could ever."

"have you told her?"

he shook his head, "pretty sure she hates my guts, so, no."

oscar sighed, "listen, although she has every reason to hate you, i mean, i would too, doesn't mean deep down that she does. obviously, running into you again has probably brought up all of those feelings she worked to get over, but if you really feel the way you're telling me you feel about her, and it seems like you do, you gotta fight for it. you can't just let her slip through your fingers, again, and live a miserable life. nothing's gonna come out of it if you don't work for it."

lando sat in shock at his teammate, blinking at him like a deer in headlights. he had never known oscar to be this wise when it comes to relationship advice. he truly didn't know he had it in him.

"what?" the aussie laughed, "mate, i've been with lily for five years. you think we haven't had our own fair share of ups and downs?"

"no, i'm just amazed that at your age you're so wise." lando joked back, the two of them laughing.

"yeah, whatever," oscar waved him off, "but seriously, i mean what i said."

he nodded, "i know, i just don't know when i should talk to her."

oscar shrugged, "the sooner the better. that way you stop moping around like a sad, lost puppy."

lando jokingly rolled his eyes, pulling his phone from his pocket, "shut up."

his heart hammered in his chest at the thought of messaging you, opening instagram. but, just when he went to open his messages, your profile picture caught his eye at the top of the screen. he tapped onto the story you had posted not long ago, holding it down so it wouldn't disappear as he scanned over the picture.

you were still at the track, posting a picture from one of the offices. a video from your interviews today sitting on the screen, clear that you had stayed late to finish working on them. a caption written out on the photo.

'in desperate need of another cup of coffee'

he was up on his feet before he could even think through what he was about to do. shoving his phone in his pocket as oscar smiled at him softly.

"where're you heading?"

lando turned, walking backwards away from the lounge area, shouting over the bass of the club music playing loudly through the speakers, "'m feeling like having a cup of coffee! thanks for your help, osc!"

oscar raised his glass in a cheers motion to his teammate, watching him turn around and make a beeline for the exit. lily found her way to the lounge area, sitting next to her boyfriend and jabbing her thumb over her shoulder, motioning towards his teammate.

"where's he heading?"

oscar smiled, swallowing the sip of his drink, "going to get his girl."

the night breeze in the monaco air felt nice on lando's skin, a contrast against the overly warm club he had been in. he pulled his phone out once again, searching for a coffee shop that would still be open at this hour. he found one that looked promising after a few minutes of searching, putting in the directions to it and taking off in the direction.

he ignored the hammering of his heart in his chest as he carefully placed the cup in the holders of his car. was it the best idea to show up unannounced with a coffee in hand, especially when he wasn't sure how you felt about him? probably not. but after the conversation with oscar, all he could think about was how he couldn't lose you again. how even after searching for someone to fill the ache in his heart that was put there by his own doing, no one could compare to you. they couldn't ever be you, even if they tried or if he tried to make it work. it wasn't the same.

he parked the car, heading towards the building he knew all the journalists worked in. some of them still hanging around, sending lando smiles but confusion clear in their eyes as his eyes scanned the room.

"do you know where y/n is?" he asked an older man, a guy he had recognized to be your camera man from earlier. the man nodded, pointing towards the room with glass walls. he could see you in the room, your back facing the door. headphones sitting on top of your head, clearly invested in your work. he swallowed nervously, thanking the man before heading towards the room.

you hadn't noticed he entered the room until a hand placing a coffee next to you caught your attention. you slipped the headphones off, placing them on the desk before turning to see who was standing behind you.

he met your eyes, which were also laced with confusion as you spun around in your chair. he sent you a small, nervous smile. the same smile you had given him in the media pen hours ago.

"lando? what're you doing here?" you asked, "and how did you.."

he smiled softly, "saw your story."

"what is it?" you asked, moving to grab the warm cup, "i mean, i like my coffee-"

"with light cream and two and a half sugars. the pink packets, though, not the white ones."

your heart squeezed in your chest, he remembered the way you liked your coffee.

you took a sip of the warm liquid, tasting exactly the way you liked it. you took in a deep breath, meeting his green eyes once again and you swore you were slowly falling in love with him again. it was like you were back at the beach house, back at the exact moment you had realized you were in love with him.

maybe the feelings you thought had gone away after the years weren't truly gone.

your lipstick left a pretty mark on the white lid and he scanned your facial features. in the dim lighting you were still as gorgeous as the day he met you, pretty colored eyes that complimented the color of the strands of your hair. a pair of glasses sitting comfortably on your face, remembering that you only wore them when your eyes were starting to get irritated after a long day.

your voice was soft, "lando, what're you doing here?" you asked again, still confused on why he had come, "i mean, other than dropping off a coffee, which thank you for, by the way, but shouldn't you be out with the rest of the drivers? y'know, celebrating..?"

"well, i was," lando breathed, ignoring how it came out a little shaky, “but, to be honest, i just.. really want to talk to you.”

everything he rehearsed in his head during the driver over here was going out the window with each passing second. the longer he looked in your eyes the more he wished he had never walked out of that house all those years ago. the more it was eating him up inside that he let the best thing he ever had go, that he never told you why.

you sighed, pointing over your shoulder to the screen behind you, “i really have to finish this,”

“it’ll be quick,” he was almost begging. about to get on his knees if he had to, “promise.”

you nodded, your brain yelling at you for agreeing but your heart almost leaping out of your chest at the fact that he was here. standing in front of you. right now. when he could’ve been at the club, wrapped around some other girl. but he wasn’t.

“okay, just, let me grab my things.”

he nodded, biting down on his lower lip nervously as you saved your work and exited out of the editing software. you packed up everything in your bag, pushing the chair in before grabbing your coffee from the desk.

he held out his hand, “here,”

you furrowed your eyebrows in response. he motioned to the bag and you smiled softly, “oh, thanks,”

he nodded, letting you lead him out of the office. you said goodnight to the crew that was left, not batting an eye at the looks they gave you for having the, arguably, most sought out driver on the grid tailing behind you.

once you were outside, he walked next to you. matching your pace as he looked over at you, “so, uhm, how’re they treating you at sky?”

you nodded, “good,” you smiled softly, “didn’t expect i’d work in the same sport as you, to be honest.”

“you’re telling me you didn’t follow me here to make me realize i’ve been missing out all this time?” he joked and you laughed, shoving his shoulder with yours.

“shut it,”

“sorry, too soon?”

you chuckled, “forever might be too soon.”

he chuckled with you, unlocking the doors to the mclaren. he opened the passenger side door, letting you sit down in the seat. you took your bag from him and smiled, a silent thank you, before he closed the door for you and rounded the front of the car to get in on his side. he started the car, looking back over at you, "hungry?"

you hummed, "starving."

"perfect," he said, putting in the directions for a place he knew you'd like. you rubbed your lips together nervously, watching the monaco lights pass by you. the breeze was nice, something you could get used to.

you cut through the silence that fell over the two of you, speaking over the soft music he had put on for the drive, "so, what did you want to talk about?"

he looked over at you, the red of the stoplight illuminating his face. he had grown into his features, but the boyish things about him was what you loved. the way his dimples deepened the wider his smile was, the moles and freckles that littered his skin like stars, and you had noticed the small scar on the bridge of his nose. one that wasn't there years prior, but you had grown to love. you silently hoped he'd tell you the story sometime. wanting to know every detail of his life the past few years, the years you spent watching from the sidelines.

"about what happened," he said, the light turning green and his attention fixing back to the road, continuing to drive, "i feel like i owe you a very long, detailed, explanation."

you nodded as he pulled into a parking lot, "okay, yeah," you breathed out softly, "sure."

he parked the car, turning the engine off before looking back at you. you turned to face him, giving him a soft smile as he looked at you, eyes dancing around your face before he took a deep breath.

"listen, i know it's been a while and i really wouldn't blame you if you hate my guts, but i just... can't. i can't pretend that i've lived in a world i'm completely satisfied with. and i can't bring myself to fall in love with someone else because no matter what, i find myself wishing i was with you, at that stupid beach house where i first felt what love truly felt like."

you sat in silence, taking in his rambling thoughts. this conversation definitely wasn't going as well as he had rehearsed it in his head, but it was too late to turn back now. he was sitting here, spewing every emotion he's felt over the past couple of years in front of you. it's how he truly felt. no filter, no hoops to jump through, just pure emotion and longing and hints of regret, and true apologies.

"you're the first thing i think of when i wake up and the last thing i think of before i go to bed, and hell, sometimes i even find you in my dreams because for a while that was the only place where you and i co-existed. and i'm so fucking sorry for how i left you, how i packed up and moved on with my life without even considering how you would feel. it makes me sick to my stomach to think about the fact that i've fucked up the part of my life that felt normal. that felt real, and all because i was too much of a coward to tell you what was going on. too scared to drag you into all of this,"

he was still rambling and you couldn't help the way your heart hammered against your chest. the moment you had wished for all these years finally unfolding in front of your eyes and you couldn't help the tears that were starting to prick your eyes.

"but now, you're here, and i'm here, and... holy fuck i'm still so in love with you."

his throat bobbed, swallowing down the nerves as you watched him. you were speechless, unsure how to respond to everything he had just spewed to you. your heart was caught in your throat, the tears closer to spilling over after his rambling. he had said everything he was feeling and little did he know it was the same way you had been feeling too.

after every wish and journal entry wishing he'd waltz back into your life, he finally was here. sitting across from you, and now you were speechless. unable to find the words to tell him you felt the same way.

"i'm sorry," he mumbled, looking away and straight ahead of him, almost as if he was embarrassed to spring all of that onto you, "that was a lot all at once, i'm sorry-"

you leaned over the center console, grabbing his face in your hands, turning him to face you and smashing your lips against his. the tears falling down now at the feeling of having him this close again. the familiar feeling of having his lips on yours again being enough to send them dripping down and onto your shirt.

he was quick to kiss you back, as soon as the initial shock wore off. his hand moving to cup your cheek, deepening the kiss as you grabbed his shirt in your fist, not wanting to let go after he had been away from you all this time.

he pulled away when he needed to catch his breath, forehead resting against yours. you smiled softly, the two of you panting breathless and in love. he brought his thumb up to your cheek, wiping away the few stray tears that were still lingering. you leaned into his touch and he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"i love you," you breathed, nose bumping his, "so much. i never stopped, even after you left."

he smiled, his voice soft, "i'll spend a lifetime making it up to you."

you shook your head, "it doesn't matter. you're here now, that's all that matters."

"can i start with dinner?" he asked, smiling softly and brushing a piece of hair from your face. you hummed and nodded, pulling away from him as he got out of the car, jogging to open your door. you smiled and placed a quick kiss to his lips, joining your hands together. he walked with you into the restaurant, and as he opened the door for you all he could think about how he was the luckiest man on earth.

there was no way he was letting you again. you were incomparable. chemical.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Hi please can u write Edward Cullen x sick reader. Where the reader is stubborn and still shows up at school despite being sick. (I’m sick rn and can’t find any Edward fics) hope u have a nice day

Thank u :))

Nurse

Warnings: none really, sick!reader, potentially getting other people sick 😅, stubborn!reader, firm and patient edward, thank you for the request btw and sorry it took so long for me to get to it ❤️

Words: 1307

Edward knew immediately when you sat in the front passenger seat of his car that you were sick.

His brows draw heavy with concern. "You're-"

"I'm fine." You croak and buckle up. Moreso lying to yourself than to Edward. Your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and you were pretty sure a small fever was beginning to rise on your forehead. Like hell you were missing school that day. You'd studied day and night for your test; was finally confident that you were going to pass.

Reading your thoughts, Edward sighs and leans back into his seat. "(y/n), a test doesn't matter when your health is in question. Your teacher will let you take a makeup test. You need to go back to bed."

There was no energy in you to roll your eyes. "After I take my test then I can rest. I just want to get it over and done with."

"You won't do well if you're si-"

"Edward, please. I know my body. I can survive until second period." Arguing did nothing to help you feel better.

He could just grab you and take you back to your room. Doing that would further enrage you.

"You promise to let me take you home after second period?" The pleading in his voice softens you.

"I promise."

Exhaulting another sigh, Edward nods to himself. "Alright. I'm holding you to that."

A part of you doubts that you'll be able to make it to second period, but you would try to.

Edward may not have fought you more, that didn't mean he was pleased watching you struggle that morning. You were bumping into other students and walls as you lost your balance several times.

Alice pulled Edward aside, her honey eyes narrowed. "Why would you let her come to school like that? She's obviously sick, Ed!"

"I know. Believe me I tried. She promised to let me take her home after her test in second period." Edward lowers his voice, he doubts you can hear him. His gaze is on you as Jasper helps to steady you.

"I don't think she'll make it." Alice frowns and folds her arms in front of her chest. "I don't have to look into the future to see that."

"You try telling her then. See how easy it is."

She wouldn't even try, having experienced your stubborness before. You always wanted to appear tough to the Cullen family as you were selfconcious of being the only human among them. Compared to them you were weak. You compensated by doing whatever you could as a human to appear strong. Including refusing help when you were sick. Edward knew it would wound your pride greatly if he forced you home. So did Alice.

You didn't share first or second period with Edward. He kept tags on you via his mind reading to see how you were faring.

Struggling to stay up in your chair, your eyes were fighting every second to remain focused on the whiteboard at the front of the class. You don't remember much of what the teacher was talking about. Conserving your energy and mentally going over things for your test the following period. You were fading fast. Chugging water helped a little.

When the bell rang, finally alerting of the end of the first period, you were slow to get to your feet. If you tried to move any faster than your current pace, the world would slip from under you.

You use desks to coast your way to the classroom door. Barely making it to the door, there appears Edward. Frazzled when he takes in your flushed face.

Before he could object to you continuing the school day, you stop him by placing a hand on his chest. His mouth closes as he quietly surrenders.

Help me to my next class. Please. You ask him via your thoughts. Doubting you could talk without feeling vomit rise up your throat.

Edward breathes through his nose but doesn't complain about you overworking yourself when you needed rest.

Ever the gentleman, Edward cups your elbow and guides you.

"The moment the class ends, I'm taking you home." He whispers to you as he helps you through the scattering of students running late.

You'd smile if you could. I love you.

You catch the quirk in the corner of his lips and the brightening of his eyes.

It cost you the rest of your strength, but you did it. You fucking did it. All questions answered to the best extent of your knowledge.

There were few steps that were between you and the teacher's desk.

You suck in a breath and stand, hand gripping the edge of your desk for support. Navigating through rows of kids bent over their paper's, you focus ahead of you.

When your teacher notices you, she pauses at the waxen sheen of your face. The moment your test is on the surface of her desk you quietly croak "Can I go to the nurse's office?"

Edward was right outside the door, prepared to take you into his arms. You wanted to laugh.

The thought of a mother hen pops into your mind, making Edward scoff. "If I'm a mother hen so be it." You were unable to protest when he easily scoops you up and dashes to his car. Alice is waiting, rocking back and forth on her feet until she spots the two of you. There's a plastic bag in her hand that looks overly full.

"I'll tell the office." Alice takes Ed's car keys to opening the passenger door for you. Then she places the grocery bag in the back seat. "I googled what made people feel better when they're sick."

"Thank you Alice." You manage to get out as Edward opens the door with just one finger. He sets you down and straps the belt across your chest but not before tossing your backpack into the back seat.

Wondering what Alice had bought you, your forehead presses against the passenger side window, you momentarily fall asleep.

Only waking up when Edward is carefully picking you up from the car's passenger side. He's so careful with you. Always.

You realize when he opens the door that he's brought you to the Cullen house when the front door doesn't match your's.

"I don't want to leave you sick and home alone." He explained while hurrying up the stairs.

And. . .

"Ed. . ." Are you scared?

His jaw clenches. In his room he makes sure you're comfortable with whatever you needed. Water. Pillows. Blankets if you got cold.

Then he settles next to you. His face unreadable. You curl up closer to him and just that mere contact melted him.

"My mother and I. . . we were very sick when I became a vampire." This was something he'd told you a while ago. They'd become sick during the Spanish influenza outbreak. "I know the medical world is much more evolved than it was during my time, but it still terrifies me when you get sick."

"Oh Ed," You sit up even when Edward urges you to lay back down. "I should have-"

He furiously shakes his head. "No. You didn't do anything wrong. Sickness just reminds me how human and fragile you are." Rolling onto his side, you copy him. Head comfortably cradled by a pillow.

Rest.

You could finally rest.

His fingers brush along your brow, soothing your warm skin. You shimmy closer against him. Edward's much larger frame conforms around you.

"I know you won't die from this. Not that I'd let you die from illness." Adding the last part a bit under his breath, you still caught it.

For a second, Edward pulls away from you to retrieve a bottle of medicine from the bag.

"Now be a good girl and take your medicine."

[strawberryspence]

It's weird, Eddie thinks. When Eddie and Steve holds hands, they intertwine it together. However, almost always, Steve ends up untangling it, his hand creeping up and holding him on his wrist instead. It makes Eddie feel like a child, with a mother holding on to him.

He thinks it might be his rings, thinks it might be annoying Steve. But then, he remembers Steve telling him how much he loves them.

He thinks it might be because he sweats when they hold hands for too long. But then, he remembers Steve trying to hug him after work and telling him he couldn't care less if Eddie's sweating or smells like oil.

He thinks it might be— no. He doesn't— Steve might be ashamed of him? And doesn't want to be seen with him, their hands slot together so perfectly the whole world may crumble? No. That's definitely not right. Steve is open to the people who matter, tells Dustin of their last endeavor, tells Robin about how good Eddie is to him, tells Hop that Eddie is good and kind and everything to him. He kisses him in the Wheeler basement, slots his head on his shoulders in between the empty aisles of Family Video, takes Eddie in his arms in the trailer in front of Wayne. That can't be it.

Eddie finds out in the middle of a campaign. Steve, Robin, Max and El hanging out on the sides while the boys busy themselves with defense and strategy. He didn't mean to look Steve’s way, but like a boat, his eyes will always find his lighthouse, bright and guiding in the dark.

Steve is holding Max's wrist, just like he always does with him. At first, it's weird because Max doesn't really like prolonged physical touch. They stay like that for half of the game, whenever Eddie looks back, Steve's hand is still wrapped around Max's wrist.

When Eddie calls for a break, and Steve rushes upstairs to help the boys get a snack, Eddie sits beside Max.

"Hey, Red." Max gives him a nod of acknowledgment as she reads the latest comics.

"Can I ask you a question?" Max hums in agreement, eyes still glued on the page.

"Why was Steve holding your wrist like that?" Max freezes, eyes looking up to meet Eddie's. Eddie is aware of how it sounds like, so he word vomits, "I— I am just curious. He does the same for me and I've never understood why."

Max squints at him behind her thick glasses, "It helps him calm."

Eddie tilts his head in confusion, "Calm?"

Max takes his hands, wrapping a hand around his wrist, just directly above where his pulse is, "When he found us after the Upside Down, we were barely alive. Now, he feels our pulse and it's a reminder that we're alive, we're okay. It calms him down, helps him stay in the moment."

It hits him like a bucket of cold water. How Steve makes it his mission to burrow his head on Eddie's chest, directly above his beating heart, his hand always wrapped just above his pulse, Steve staring at his eyes first thing in the morning like he's looking for something in it.

It's a reminder that Eddie's alive, that Max's alive, that they're all alive and that they get to live and breathe in peace without the impending doom looming over the edge.

Eddie never brings it up. He lets Steve hold his pulse, splay a hand on his chest to feel his heart, lets Steve fall asleep to the sound of Eddie breathing.

Eddie's never gonna bring it up. Steve can do it for the rest of their life for all he cares.

It's the least he can do.

[norrisjpg]

scott street - ᴍᴠ¹

in which, the pressure of the 2024 formula 1 season becomes too much for the dutch driver, so instead of leaning on his best friend for support, he pushes her away.

contains: angst, swearing, crying, unresolved conflict, unhappy ending, shouting, mentions of childhood trauma, depression, jos verstappen mentioned (ew), a gilmore girls reference, not proof-read.

max verstappen x unnamed female character

...

...

she thought something was off, something wasn't right - and she was correct.

it was right after the belgian grand prix, after max had lost another win through no fault of his own, after mclaren had gained a few more points on his beloved oracle red bull racing.

she was there, she always had been, waiting for him after the race like she always did. although she had prepared herself, nothing could have prepared her for this.

he knew he needed her, but he was just so wound up, so tired of the shitty car, so done with the team that he couldn't even bring himself to look at her when he walked into his driver's room.

"hey, are you okay?" she asked softly, standing up with the dutchman entered the room, his usual sadness replaced with something else - he was fuming. "max?"

"i'm fine." he mumbled, discarding his helmet carelessly to the floor.

"do you want to talk about it?" her voice was somewhat comforting, but nowhere near enough to calm the pure rage bubbling in his chest.

"no." max sighed, refusing to turn around and look at his best friend.

she nodded, not that he could see her, but it was more of a nod to herself. okay, he doesn't want to talk, that's okay. but she also wondered if he knew it wasn't his fault, because he couldn't help a ten-place grid penalty brought on by his team, and he certainly couldn't help that the mercedes were exceptionally quick today and being held up by cars he was lapping wasn't helping him either - it just wasn't his fault.

of course, she knew he'd be annoyed about his race - but that wasn't the route of his emotions, his father was. max had obviously told her about the traumatic events of his childhood, long after they'd happened, although she was around when most of them took place.

however, she didn't bring it up.

"max?" she spoke quietly, her voice a little airy. "it's not your fault, you know that, yeah?"

"i know it's not my fucking fault." he spat back quickly.

"come on, max, please talk to me." she pried a little more. "it hurts to see you like this."

"oh, it hurts you?" he scoffed, finally turning around to look at her, anger ever-so-present in his pretty eyes. "how the fuck do you think it makes me feel? you always manage to make everything about you, don't you? just can't stand the attention being away from you for just one fucking second, can you?"

it took everything in her to not physically recoil at his words - he'd never ever been like this, and she wasn't going to lie, her heart shattered at his cold attitude toward her. she was only trying to help him and he was acting like this.

"nothing to say, huh?" he almost laughed, but there was nothing resembling a smile on his face. "you know what? just get out."

"sorry?" was all she could muster, an expression of hurt confusion on her face.

"you heard me, leave." he repeated it, squashing her hopes that he was just angry and didn't mean it, that he'd apologise and lay in her arms and just tell her how he really felt.

she got up, putting her phone back in her pocket, glancing over at him to see that he'd turned back to desk, fiddling with something on there.

hearing the door shut behind her was confirmation of what he'd just done - why the fuck did he do that?

head in his hands, he slumped down on the couch, already missing her presence. clearly, max hadn't meant any of that, but it was like word vomit. he felt as if he was floating outside of his body, watching him shove his best friend away, and he couldn't do anything about it.

outside, she stood there, motionless. what the fuck had just happened? gritting her teeth, delicate tears fell down her cheeks as she started to walk out of the red bull garage in aimless despair.

maybe if she hadn't said anything he wouldn't have lashed out of her? did she pry too much? why wouldn't he just talk to her?

"ah, good afternoon." a familiar voice came from behind her as she stood in the paddock, unsure of what to do with herself.

daniel ricciardo.

"oh, hi daniel." she thumbed away the salty tears and sniffled before she turned around - but it was no use, daniel caught on straight away.

"what's wrong?" he furrowed his eyebrows, putting a hand on her shoulder.

she knew there was no point in lying, daniel would get it out of her eventually. "max kinda... blew up at me? told me that i make everything about me and then told me to leave- don't say anything to him though."

"you know i can't promise that, but are you okay?" he shook his head, mentally noting to bring that up with max in the near future.

"i'm not sure."

...

a pretty afternoon in monaco had brought about a lunch between max verstappen and daniel ricciardo. a whole week had passed since the incident, and neither had spoken to each other - both absolutely terrified of what the other would say.

max was scared that she'd push him away, the same way he did. she was scared that max didn't want her back.

the reality was, max needed help - he needed her back. since his outburst, things had gone downhill. the car wasn't looking as good as he'd hoped in the factory, one of his cats was ill, and someone had rear-ended his car somehow - it was as if the universe was screaming at him to just apologise to her, get in his car and go to her apartment, tell her he didn't mean any of it and then finally tell her how he really felt - but max verstappen had fallen deaf, clearly.

luckily, daniel ricciardo hadn't.

"max, what is going on with you?" he asked as the two sat on the bench, slightly hot from the round of padel they'd just played.

"what?" he scrunched his nose at the australian, glancing at him briefly.

"you." daniel repeated. "you're drinking way more than usual, i'm the only person you've seen other than for work purposes, and then you pushed your best friend away - god, why did you push her away?"

"how the fuck do you know about that?" max snapped, quickly apologising with a look afterward. "sorry, how do you know about that, though?"

"she was crying in the paddock after the race." he nodded, pursing his lips. "told me what you said."

"i didn't mean to, okay? i miss her. i know i shouldn't have said what i said, but i can't undo it. i just... i'm scared- what if this is it? what if she won't take me back this time?"

"max." daniel said firmly. "i promise you, that girl will always take you back - you could kill someone and she'd still stand by your side."

"what have i done, daniel?"

...

she was more okay than she thought she was going to be. monday evenings were always reserved for max - dinners, movie nights, whatever they decided to do, it was together.

this monday night was different though.

there wasn't the familiar dutch laughter bouncing around her apartment. there wasn't the delicious smell of home-cooked food lingering in the corridor. there wasn't the colour of freshly bought tulips adding to her plain white kitchen (max always gave her pretty flowers when he came over.) and there certainly wasn't the comforting smell of max's aftershave stuck on her cushions anymore.

it had been three weeks and no word from him.

maybe it was time to move on. maybe he wasn't coming back this time.

she decided early on that it was his decision to return - he was the one who pushed her away so why should she make an effort? in no way was she saying it was for the better, but she was... relatively okay. yes, of course there were things she missed about him - no one wanted to do anything on a monday evening apparently.

so, she spent her monday evenings alone, drowning herself in blankets and fast food, watching some movie that she would never even the end of of - because she fell asleep every time, without fail.

so she did move on.

max on the other hand? he was moving backwards - rapidly.

he thought he was borderline depressed. rotting in his apartment with his cats, occasionally venturing out of the house to buy food or see daniel and lando - but that was it. it was as if all the life had been sucked out of his existence - all the colour, all the light.

so, when he turned up to her apartment on a rainy monday evening, it was a knife to the heart, to the head, to the gut.

he walked into the lobby, planning on going straight up to her and confessing every single feeling he'd had since that dreadful day in belgium.

but, he was met with an unexpected sight. there she was, smiling, with a man.

she was laughing, with him. they were walking towards her apartment, about to head into the elevator. if they were on normal terms, max would have waltzed right up to her and asked who he was - but he didn't have that privilege anymore, remember?

so, he turned around, shocked and almost reduced to tears, and he left.

if only he knew, she would have run to him in a heartbeat.

but, maybe it was for the better.

...

coming next... novacane, ʟɴ⁴ motion sickness, ᴍᴠ¹ (part two)

[lemoncrushh]

Live From New York

Summary: Harry's on SNL and he gets a little jealous when he thinks you're not there for him.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1313

A/N: Super silly blurb from 2017 after Harry was on SNL. This was a request (some requests were oddly specific back then lol) that you have a bit of a crush on Colin Jost and Michael Che. It also helps that you know a couple of Rolling Stones songs that are mentioned at the end.

We gotta get away from here...

Harry's lyrics were still ringing in your ears as you watched the stage being set up for the next skit. Your stomach flipped when you realized it was going to be the Weekend Update segment. You liked this skit in particular, having always had a little secret crush on Colin Jost and Michael Che. Perhaps it was their humor, and the way they would sometimes roast each other that got your juices flowing, but they always managed to crack you up.

"Hey, come with me," you heard to your left.

You turned your head in time to see Harry walking toward the dressing room. Hesitantly, you followed him, quickly returning your focus to the monitor set up on the wall.

"Sit with me for a minute," he requested, beckoning you to the sofa where he sat.

Smiling, you did what he asked, taking his hand. "You were great."

"Yeah?" he grinned.

"Mmm hmm," you nodded. "I especially liked seeing you in that white Mick Jagger suit."

Harry chuckled. "Maybe I should add one to my wardrobe."

You scooted closer to him, hiking up your leg to lightly brush against his.

"I wouldn't be against it."

Just as Harry leaned in for a kiss, your peripheral vision caught sight of Colin and Michael on the screen.

"Oh!" you squeaked. "This is my favorite!"

"Um...alright," Harry paused as you sat up.

You thought he might've mumbled something under his breath, but then someone else entered the room to tell him to get ready for the next skit. He rose from the couch as you continued to watch the segment, giggling at everything the two comedians said. When it was over, you noticed Harry had left the room. You felt a little guilty, knowing this was his special night and you'd been ogling over two other men. Determined you find him to wish him luck on his next skit, you opened the dressing room door. Just as you stepped out, Colin and Michael were walking down the hall.

"Oh my god, you guys...I love you, you're amazing!" you exclaimed, the word vomit escaping your throat before you had a chance to stop it.

The two men stopped to thank you, and you chatted for longer than you'd expected. So long, in fact, that you missed Harry's next skit. He was just walking off the stage when you caught up to him.

"That was great," you lied, though you were sure it had been considering the comedic faux beard he had on.

"Really?" he asked with sarcasm and a deadpan stare. He knew you hadn't seen one second of the skit.

Unable to speak, you watched as he walked past you to the dressing room. You stood frozen, feeling more guilt ooze throughout your body than you thought possible. You'd hurt him.

"Harry," you muttered when you entered the dressing room.

No response.

"Harry, I'm sorry," you added.

Nothing.

You stepped closer to him, his back to you as he pulled on his slacks.

"Say something."

"'s nothing to say Y/N. You obviously had something more important to do than to be there for me."

"Harry, that's not fair," you argued. "I was there for you. I mean...I'm here! For you!"

He finally turned then, his eyebrow raised in question. "Really?"

"Yes!" When he just continued to glare at you, you shook your head, throwing your hands up. "I can't believe this."

"Can't believe what?"

"You can't be jealous because I was excited to see Colin and Michael."

"Are you fucking kidding me? I'm not jealous."

"Then what is it?"

Harry sighed, dropping his shoulders. "I'm just upset that you missed the skit."

"I said I was sorry. I didn't mean to. You're right, I got caught up in the excitement, but I truly did not do it on purpose. You're the one I'm here for. You're the one I'm immensely proud of! You're the one I'm in love with!"

The last sentence slipped out unwillingly. You couldn't take it back, but you also knew you didn't want to. Harry stared at you, his jaw set but his eyes softening. Then he separated the space between you in one stride, pulling you into his arms and kissing you on the mouth.

"I'm so in love with you," he whispered when your lips separated. He pressed his forehead to yours, cupping your face in his hands. "I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" you choked.

"For..." he paused, "for doubting you."

"No," you shook your head. "I'm sorry. I should have been more considerate. I know you're nervous."

Harry chuckled, stepping back on his heels. "Is it that obvious?"

"Not blatantly," you grinned, running your hands up and down his arms. "But yeah, I can tell."

"'m so bloody nervous, 'm shaking."

"Well, babe, it's live TV. Of course you are! But you're doing amazing, and I'm so so proud of you."

"I still have another song to sing," he remarked.

"And I'm gonna be watching. I promise."

Oh tell me something I don't already know...

The second performance had gone well, and if anyone had really been paying attention, they could hear your claps and cheers the loudest.

You followed Harry back into the dressing room after the finale and credit roll where he had not surprisingly hugged every single member of the crew. You smiled when you sat on the sofa and watched him get undressed.

"So are you as proud of yourself as I am?"

He flashed his dimpled grin and shrugged. "Maybe."

"Are we going to the after party?" you asked cautiously. He hadn't mentioned it, but you'd heard there was one. You didn't want to rock the boat though, after what had happened earlier.

"Do you want to?"

You cocked your head nonchalantly. "It's your call. I'm fine with it. Either way."

Harry smirked. "You're funny."

"Me? Why am I funny?"

"You're trying not to get too excited again. But I know you."

"It's whatever you want, Harry, really. I was just wondering."

Smiling, he took her hand and kissed the back of it. "We can go. I just have to do something first."

"Okay. What's that?"

"Just a minute."

Harry turned toward the rack of clothes at the far end of the room. Then with a smug look on his face, he took something off a hanger, turning again swiftly so you couldn't see. But as soon as he stepped into the trousers, you knew what it was.

"Oh God," you giggled.

Harry looked back at you with a shit-eating grin before pulling on the shirt and jacket.

"C'mere, Mick," you beckoned.

"Wait, I don't have my wig on."

"Don't need it," you commented. "I just want the suit."

Harry finally turned around then to face you, making you grin from ear to ear.

"There he is," you murmured low. "My Midnight Rambler."

"Oh, Jesus," he scoffed which only caused you to giggle more.

"I said, come here," you demanded in a seductive tone.

"Yes, ma'am."

You rose from the sofa as he stepped closer to you. Pulling on the lapels of his jacket, you kissed him on the neck, your tongue licking and sucking his skin, sticky with perspiration.

"Hmm," Harry sounded, turning on his Mick Jagger impression once again. "Looks like someone wants some manky panky."

You laughed under your breath, pulling him backwards towards the couch. Sitting down, you urged him to come with you as you kissed his lips.

"What exactly is manky panky?" you asked. "I thought it was hanky panky."

"I dunno. Is it?"

You laughed harder, sliding your hands down his chest to unfasten the two remaining buttons.

"You fucking Brits," you mocked.

Harry lifted himself up to look you in the eye. "You know what this makes you then, don't you?"

"What?"

"A Starfucker."

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[devilfic]

❝right place, right time❞

VIII. whatever keeps you around.

parts: previously / next plot: bruce has a proposal for you. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: surgeon!reader, secret identities, slow burn, brief discussion of slight suicidal ideation/martyrdom, drug (and the injection of drugs) mentions, you will not guess what trope I managed to include in here. words: 6.9k. a/n: plotting this series makes me feel like charlie day pointing at a wall of red string

“…You won’t like it.”

It's clear what you have to do. You'd realized it when Gordon came to you, so of course Bruce did too. If you were going to make this right, you would have to face this head on. "I know what I have to do," you start, "I need to lure him out."

Bruce's expression shifts. Whatever you've said seems to be the wrong answer, "That... won't be necessary."

"What? What else can I do?"

"What did Gordon tell you about Dimitri?"

Your head throbs as you recall the memory, "Uh... he said he believes I'm next on Dimitri's hit list. He also said Dimitri hadn't anticipated me being at the house."

"Right, because Russo didn't want anyone knowing where he was." Bruce turns to his computer and brings up Russo's file, "After his divorce and the death of his son, he holed up and started erasing himself from the internet. As far as his neighbors know, he was constantly alone. You already know how hard it was to find him on your own, and unless Dimitri knew someone keeping tabs, it doesn't stand to reason that he found him any easier. But you, on the other hand," Bruce opens a search engine and types in your name. You're unsettled when the screen fills with results, most of them news articles from the night you'd been held hostage, "your name and face was everywhere after the gang war."

When the reporters had shoved cameras in your face and begged for you to tell them about Batman's heroic rescue, you hadn't thought twice about it, still fresh from the throes of gore and violence in the ER. Friends, family, coworkers: almost everyone you knew had seen it.

It clicks for you then, "If Dimitri planned on killing us both and I was easiest to find, why didn't he come for me first? I mean... it was me and Alex who ruined his life. If he wanted anyone dead more, wouldn't it be me?"

"I wondered the same thing. With the know-how and the right connections, anyone could find where you live just by name alone. Russo, on the other hand, is almost anonymous. It doesn't make sense why Dimitri would target Russo first."

"Do you think maybe it was a warning? Maybe he wanted to scare me."

"If he wanted to warn you, he wouldn't kill the guy in his house where no one checks up on him. Days would've passed before anyone noticed the flies in the windows."

"I don't get it."

"Do you remember how long it's been since you were taken hostage?"

Your mind lands on a weak estimate, "I don't know, a week and a half?"

"It's been over two weeks. According to the wardens, Dimitri stopped being a problem for them after the first few years. Friends with a rough crowd but he rarely got caught up in anything. Didn't have the heart to. So why, after 17 years, does he break out?"

Your stomach drops, "He saw me."

"And realized that while he was rotting away with nothing to live for, you were a hero," the word sickens you to hear, "on the front lines, saving lives, being saved. Your life went back to normal."

You grip the side of Bruce's desk with the sudden urge to vomit up everything you'd eaten today, which, frankly, wouldn't add up to much more than water and crackers.

You'd said it yourself: you'd gotten to live a life that Natalie, Dimitri, and Alex never would. Of course he wanted you dead. "So then I have to lure him out."

"And put yourself in danger? No."

"I’m already in danger, Bruce. What if he goes after the others? My parents? My coworkers? The other cops at the shootout? We have to end it now."

"This isn't the only way."

"It's the best way."

"Last time he had a knife, you could defend yourself. Barely. What if next time, he has a gun?"

"So what, you just want to do nothing?"

Bruce turns away from you. He gnaws on his lower lip, "No, I want to bide our time. Look into him more. I need to know if he's working with the Vipers again."

You watch him as he begins typing away at his computer, but you can't process what he's looking for through the haze of anger that washes over you. You lean on the desk, craning your neck up at his face to make him look at you, to understand how ridiculous he sounds, "We don't have time for that. His grudge is with me. I should meet him now and end this... either he gets what he wants or- or..."

Or what? Your stubbornness peters out. You don't know what. You see yourself standing face-to-face with Dimitri, his knife raised, ready to bury itself into the cushion of your chest. And nothing.

The you in this vision has no weapon.

"You don't think you're going to survive this." Coming out of your mind, Bruce is now looking at you, brows furrowed. He looks... mortified.

You scramble to cover your tracks, "That's not true. I'd have you there."

"But you don't want me there. You want to go alone. You think you deserve it."

"God, what are you? My therapist?" Your words flit out of your mouth in a rush, tongue nearly slipping up to defend yourself. You push away from the desk when you start feeling overexposed.

Bruce follows you, "You're not 16 anymore, this isn't some gang fight where you throw all your chips in because you can't see a year ahead of you. You've made a life. You've got people to lose, you said so yourself. I know what it's like... the survivor's guilt. You relive that day over and over-"

His words are making you feel sick to your stomach again and you lurch forward, finger in his face, "Don't you fucking preach to me-"

Almost as immediately as you'd raised your finger, Bruce snatches your wrist in his hand, yanking you close enough to be imposing, staring down at you with the same power that the Batman had used. It was so sudden that you quickly fall slack, wrist going limp in his grip.

It had completely sobered you of your tantrum, and for better or for worse, you were forced to listen to him, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself and think. You see this ending with you dead because you want to make up for the shit you did. You think that's what Alex wants? For you to bleed out in an alley like she did?" And just like that, the fire roars in you once more, but your other hand can't slap him across the face before he's caught that one too, "No future? What about all the people you've saved? Could still save? Face it now because you may not get another chance: you're alive. Do you want to be or not?"

You want to hurt him, turn his skin red and give it a place among the other bruises that glitter and glare down his torso, and as your hand shakes in his hold, you are forced to understand that you are angry because he is right.

You'd felt this same anger before. When your parents told you Alex was a bad influence on you. When Russo looked you in the eye and told you that you didn't have it in you to pull the trigger. It was maddening. He had clocked your suicide mission before even you had, had seen you in his mind's eye the way you saw yourself: disarmed, a lamb to the slaughter, a sacrifice for the greater good, a speedbump.

You could see Batman tackling him to the ground over your dying body. You couldn't see yourself getting up the next day.

After the frustration leaves Bruce's eyes, he's looking at you with something softer. You feel known, uncomfortably so, as he waits for you to meet him there.

And when you do, you hate how you collapse into him. Even more, you hate that he takes you up into his arms, holding you steadfast, as understanding as you needed him to be with all your fear of admitting it. The solidness of his body reminds you of the night he'd first held you, and that just makes you cry harder.

It feels different from last time. Where there was armor is now warm skin, the likes of which you hadn't felt in a while. If you had told your past self you'd one day be standing in Batman's cave, hugging Bruce Wayne and crying over the permanence of your mistakes, you might have diagnosed yourself with head trauma.

You screw your eyes shut in a vain attempt to put the tears to rest, your freed hands practically clawing at Bruce's warm back for some purchase, some stability. He doesn't seem to mind. He just holds you closer.

After a few minutes, you force yourself to speak, sniffling away the last remaining tears you'd allow yourself to shed, "You said I wouldn't like it. Your plan. What is it?"

"To disappear."

You wrench yourself back. Bruce is dead serious. "What?"

"I've considered it from all angles-"

"What do you mean, 'disappear'?"

"All but one of the prisoners Dimitri broke out with are still missing. How do we know they're not all working together? How do we know that you luring him out won't draw them out too? You were the easiest target before, not anymore."

"Say what you mean, Bruce. What do you want me to do?"

"I want to hide you here," he winces as he says this, as if aware of his words only now that they're out in the open, "with me."

"You're shitting me."

After a while, Bruce's face hardens, "I told you you wouldn't like it."

Liking it or not liking it was nothing. You'd advanced past "like". You were firmly out of your depth here.

You slip out of Bruce's hold and he lets you, standing rather awkwardly as you rub a hand across your mouth. Despite earlier, it now feels uncomfortably dry. You glance at Bruce and then at his screen, the tab with your name and face plastered all over it hovering in the background. "You want me to disappear off the face of the earth while you track him down. Leave my home, leave the people I care about, abandon my job. You want me to hide."

"I don't know how else to protect you. Not until we figure out what we're up against." Bruce watches you spin away, scoffing into the air, "You noticed it when you fought him off, didn't you? Something was really wrong with him."

You see flashes of Dimitri's feral stare, the way he staggered and swung. He was like a rabid animal in a cage. "Of course there was, he was trying to kill me."

"Beyond that," Bruce insists, "he wasn't right. I've seen it before. He was on something."

"Most people are these days. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd... I don't know, gotten his hands on drops or something-"

"It wasn't drops. Gordon told me."

"The detective?"

"He said they found a syringe with traces of venom in it. Dimitri's shooting up. That's why he was so strong."

Your mouth drops open in disbelief, "Venom? Great. Somehow worse than Drops."

"If he's on that drug, he's definitely addicted. It also means you won't stand a chance against him. This is why I'm telling you to stay here," Bruce steps forward, eyes imploring yours. You're dumbstruck by the heavy earnestness there, "stay in the tower. Hide here for a few days. Let me handle this."

"If he's on venom, it means he doesn't think he can handle you on his own," you wring your hands, flitting through images of the Dimitri you remember, "he was always really small. Even at fourteen, he hadn't really sprung up. He was scrawny and small and couldn't defend himself. Suddenly Gordon's saying he's almost twice the size of what I remember. Have you ever fought someone on venom?"

"Once or twice, somewhere between fixes. Why?"

"General has this kind of... sedative that we use when we get patients dealing with the effects. It's not perfect, but it does help calm them down enough to help them. Maybe we can use it to help him."

"The strain is constantly changing," Bruce watches you deflate and clears his throat, "but if I can get that sedative, I can use it as a base to make a new one."

"You need clearance to get your hands on that stuff. I'm going with you."

"What part of disappear do you not understand?"

"One, I never agreed to do that, and two, if Batman gets caught stealing from a hospital, that'll make you public enemy number one. You need my help, so let me help you."

Bruce is looking away, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth even as you zero in on him. You're getting flashbacks of that same Bruce from when you'd first met him here in this tower. All tender-eyed, even as he tries to put on a face for you, "And I need a drink," you rub your temple next, catching a glimpse of Bruce watching you from his peripheral, "You've got those, don't you?"

It turns out Bruce has plenty. There's a whole cellar full of them, the kinds you see in MTV Cribs with the low recessed lighting and mahogany shelves gleaming with polish. It makes sense for him to have it, but less so when he tells you he doesn't actually drink any of it.

"You weren't drinking at the party, either. Even though everyone else thought you were." You brush your hand along the shelves, careful not to knock any bottles loose. "Is that a trick to keep people spilling secrets? Or to keep from spilling your own?"

Bruce hovers near the entrance with his arms folded and back pressed to the wall, carefully watching you peruse his selection, "Maybe I don't like the taste."

"That's good. Men in Gotham die from alcoholism at a higher rate than any other city in the state."

"Really?"

"Really. You don't smoke either." Bruce blinks at you, "Just get shot at. And stabbed."

He says nothing.

Your hand lands on a red aged older than your mother and you stand to the side, looking expectantly at him. You're afraid that if you try to pick it up, you might knock down the whole row.

Slowly, Bruce pushes himself off the wall and glides over to you, grabbing the neck of the bottle in one hand and looking to you for approval. You try not to shrink yourself when you nod.

You follow him out of the cellar, flinching when the lights dim behind you and the door rolls shut all on its own. He guides you to the kitchen where night still hangs over Gotham outside the window, but the time on the stove clock warns of early morning soon.

Bruce pulls out two glasses and fills yours with wine and his with cranberry juice from the fridge. You could almost laugh at the pairing.

Once he slides your glass to you, you take a seat at the island and take a sip, "I need to ask you something. I get now why you refused me at the station, but then you came back. Why did you change your mind? I mean, neither of us knew Russo would be dead when we got there. Were you just going to let me hate you?"

"Yes." His simple response draws a quick, stifled laugh out of you.

"Are you always this... chaotic?"

Bruce leans his elbows on the countertop, hunching in on himself, "I always meant to tell you who I was. I just didn't know when. And I didn't mind if you hated Bruce Wayne, but... you trusted Batman. I didn't want to break that trust. Even if it meant telling you earlier than I planned, I wanted to give you some closure."

You think about the fear that had paralyzed you back then, thinking that Bruce Wayne was some big, bad criminal hiding behind polite society. Then you think about the real man, hiding behind a mask. You fidget uncomfortably, struggling with feeling somewhere between grateful and nauseous. Your eyes catch the stitches on his shoulder and you itch to wipe away the dried blood that had dribbled from the cut, "You said you were looking for Dimitri when you got that. Did you..."

Bruce catches your eye when you fail to finish your question. "No," he answers solemnly, "which is only part of our problem." He stands to his full height, flexing bruised knuckles against the counter, "I ran into one of the guys that broke out with Dimitri tonight. That's who gave me this. Dimitri isn't working alone."

You frown, "Is he trying to shake you? Why leave clues at all?"

"Because these people want me dead. The guy from tonight? I booked him a year ago for trafficking women. Earlier led me to a fringe group of Falcone's."

"You've been looking for Dimitri all day?"

"I haven't stopped since we found Russo. I couldn't."

You rub your arms, feeling the room grow chiller by the second, "So... so he's leaving clues to people who hate you. To keep you occupied." Bruce nods. "So he can get to me?"

"After last night, he knows the Batman is on your side."

"Dimitri wasn't out when you got on the scene. Do you think maybe he's taking venom because these guys warned him about you?"

Bruce smirks, rolling his eyes as he takes a sip from his glass, "As a precaution, sure. And now he has reason to believe I know you. If he's going to go after you, he's going to shoot up each time."

"That stuff is nasty. You're big and scary when you're on it but as soon as the effects wear off-"

"You deflate like a balloon. It's also stupid expensive, so he's either got real generous prison pals or he's being used. It's why I need to know if he's working with the Vipers. They might be supplying him."

How you'd gone from an ordinary surgeon to a detective in the span of mere weeks was beyond you. You're beyond just treading water. You're diving into the abyss.

Your brain struggles to make real what is before you. Bruce, still shirtless, drinking delicately from a glass as he watches the night sky shimmer from the kitchen window. And you, sitting across from him, cracking open one of his family's expensive bottles that, frankly, puts your pantry vinos to shame. Playing vigilantes like schoolchildren. Except the blood on you both is very real.

Your arm throbs at being remembered for once tonight. Bruce notices you touch it, "You need to get some rest."

You know he's right, and you're not arguing for the sake of arguing when you say, "I can't sleep yet." But he can tell there's more on your mind as he waits silently, almost egging you on to lay yourself bare. You swear you're not arguing just for the sake of arguing, "And I don't want to disappear. I want to be alive."

Bruce says nothing. The silence isn't humiliating like you'd think it be, even if the first few seconds leave you feeling just as laid bare as you thought you would. No. It feels acknowledging. Understanding, even.

For the first time, you look at Bruce and feel like you understand him. If he was really Batman, then he would know better than anyone why you would want to put yourself in danger. But beneath that, with the meager knowledge of who Bruce Wayne is, you also think you understand him too.

He'd mentioned the survivor's guilt. While he'd played a much more innocent role in the whole ordeal, you couldn't imagine the weight on one's chest knowing that two people you love didn't get to go on but you did. It's a lot to ask of a child barely coming to understand the mortality of one's own keepers.

The choice to be alive for someone like that is a deliberate choice. Constantly made every morning.

"There is another way," Bruce muses, "but you'll like it even less."

"Don't leave me hanging."

"We could go public."

"What?"

"You said disappearing would mean abandoning your life. And it would. No one could know where you went, who you were with, but there's always the chance someone might slip up. It's the safest option but it's not what you want. So don't hide." Bruce's eye contact is deep and unwavering. Compared to earlier, he seems to trust you're willing to listen this time, "Be mine."

For the nth time tonight, you are rendered nearly speechless. Nearly. "Are you fucking with me?"

Bruce's eyes narrow, "No."

"Did you just... proposition me?"

"I made a proposal."

"You're asking me to date you."

"Publicly. Batman has more enemies than allies, but Bruce Wayne has the people. If you and I are publicly linked, it tells everyone looking for you that the world is watching. It makes you more visible, as well as anyone who comes after you."

"You haven't slept," you reason, "clearly. And you're delirious."

"I haven't slept, no." But he looks fairly sober for someone who hasn't slept in a day. He is a different breed, this Bruce Wayne.

You peer out the kitchen window and see the black sky dipping into a blue horizon, "Then sleep on it and come up with something better."

Bruce rounds the island until he's standing beside you, looking down at your barely touched wine, "There's some spare rooms upstairs. You can take your pick." It dawns on you that you may not be going back home any time soon. "You know your way around."

You suppose you deserve that dig.

Then he's leaving you, glasses abandoned, home for you to explore. You don't realize how thick the air had gotten with him right next to you until he's gone.

You half-expect Alfred to pop up somewhere nearby, but there's nothing. This far up, there is no city to listen for, no neighbors slamming doors. You are in a cold house all alone. You suddenly wish he'd stayed to keep you company, even if the weight of it was beginning to take its toll on you. Left alone, you only had the sunrise.

You watch until the sky has all but chased the night away, and then you head upstairs.

You didn't think you'd get much sleep in a stranger's bed, but you're being roused by a sharp, successive rapping at your door several hours later. It jolts you awake, kick-starting your heart, and you clumsily tumble out of the million thread count sheets to open the door.

Alfred stands there fully dressed for the day, one hand tucked in his pocket and the other still raised to knock. Upon seeing you, he lowers his fist, "Morning," he starts, looking away as soon as he meets your eyes, "breakfast is ready. Come get it before it's cold."

He does not give you a choice in the matter. He's already limping toward the staircase without another word.

After you get your heart to settle down, you follow after him, preening yourself as you pass hallway mirrors and portraits of the Wayne family through the generations. You hadn't come down this hallway when you'd found the terminus elevator, so you stumble to a stop in front of a portrait of a young Bruce grinning ear to ear.

It startles you. His eyes are soft, a gentle humming blue untouched by wrinkle or darkness. He must've been especially young here. Glancing at a nearby portrait of his parents, you find him the spitting image of his father. You look around and realize there are no portraits of Bruce at this age.

Bruce. He might be at breakfast, and the mere thought of having to discuss what occurred last night almost turns you right back around to the guest room, but your stomach rumbling begs you not to. You still walk quietly, peering around corners in case your stomach changed its mind.

You find you're cautious for naught when the only person standing in the kitchen is Alfred, chopping up fresh fruit.

"I hope you don't mind that I moved your things," he gestures with his paring knife to your surgical tools neatly congregated on the counter, "I cleaned them too."

"Oh. You didn't need to do that."

"There was blood, so I'm afraid I did." Alfred places a bit of pressure on "blood", and you quickly take note of his short tone.

Still, all the same, he then gestures to the island and implores you take a seat in front of an empty plate. Without asking, he begins pushing steaming hot food onto your plate, "Tea or coffee?" He asks, barely looking up at you.

"Uh, coffee is fine. Thanks." You watch Alfred pour you a mug and wonder if the awkwardness with him is any more preferable to the awkwardness with Bruce. Alfred is passive-aggressive, Bruce is... aggressive. You remember how the latter had left off your night together and find yourself feeling warmer toward Alfred. "How long have you been up?"

"Since 6, although I woke a few times through the night."

You wince, "Sorry."

"No need to apologize. I did think Bruce had invited you over under different circumstances, so... not as alarming, all things considered." Your grip on your fork slips and it clatters to the marble. Alfred barely reacts.

"He needed stitches." Is all you can get out.

"Yes, I'm well aware."

You glance up at him, "You saw?"

"When he first arrived home, yes. I was the one who helped stop the bleeding."

You stare at the coffee sweating in your cup, recalling something Bruce had mentioned last night, "Bruce said you were the one who used to stitch him up."

"Yes."

"If you were there, why-"

"It's what he pays you for, isn't it?" Alfred almost snaps back at you, slicing a strawberry into quarters with more edge than needed.

You recall something else next. The softness in Alfred's face the day you first came here, arguing with Bruce in the very room next door. You'd wondered what it had all been about.

"I've done alright, haven't I?"

"He said something else too," you start, careful as you choose your next words, "about how much you worry about him." You fiddle with your mug, pretending not to feel the heat of Alfred's eyes on you, "I think the reason he hired me is because he was worried about you."

You just catch the tail-end of Alfred's frown, "Worried about me? Why?"

You probably aren't close enough to either of these two to laugh about this, but you do anyway, "Isn't it kind of obvious?"

"Nonsense. We always discussed... if it would come to it, that if he were to pursue this life further, that he would recruit professionals who might aid him in his work. It was the natural thing to do."

"Maybe, yeah. But would he have really needed me if you weren't already doing everything else for him? You've taken good care of him this long. I mean, the aftercare you gave his bullet wound was exceptional. I accused him of talking to other doctors."

Alfred busies himself with scraping his strawberry halves into a bowl, "It's basic knowledge. You learn that kind of thing in the service."

"Or when you invited me to watch you two spar. You know his body probably better than he does. You're fantastic, Alfred." You couldn't say you weren't also trying to butter him up to better his feelings toward you, but you were speaking truth all the same.

In a very British way, he rebuts your compliments and spoons some fruit into a glass, beginning to layer some yogurt over top them, "Regardless of reason, you are here now, and I'll have you know that every part of your contract covers this. Wayne Enterprises will exhaust every possible legal tool at our leisure if you speak of any—any—of this to anyone. Master Bruce's identity is safely guarded, and regardless of his trust in you, I will not hesitate-"

"Whoa, whoa, hey. I would never tell anyone. Not after all Batman has done for me." You press a hand over your heart for emphasis, "He is just as much my patient as Bruce Wayne is, and he didn't have to pay me to take care of him."

Alfred still stares you down like a guard dog, paring knife still clutched in his fingers. After a moment, he looks away from you and points at your plate, "Eat. It's getting cold."

So you do. It's good so you say as much, counting any point toward his affection as a good thing. If you could get Alfred to trust you, you'd call that a win.

The tension in the air dissipates over time, and after you've licked your plate clean, you and Alfred are sharing coffee together. "Bruce isn't joining us?"

"I've stopped expecting him to be awake this early." You glance at the clock that reads 10:12. "He has adopted a near-fully nocturnal lifestyle."

"The night that he crawled through my window, he was there at the hospital the next morning like nothing happened. He doesn't do that often?"

"Before last year, it was a rare occurrence. While he's dedicated himself to his role more recently, if he can avoid it, he will."

You think back to what knowledge you do have on Bruce's charity work and his friendship with the Mayor. You'd worked shifts just as long, but you couldn't imagine showing up to work mere hours after getting shot in the stomach and having to put on a brave face about it. You almost feel bad for calling him out on it in front of everyone.

But then again, if you hadn't, would you even be sitting here?

You swirl the last vestiges of coffee in your cup, trying to picture a world in which you'd gone and found that empty office to nap in instead of toddling behind Rudy and Em and Alfred and Batman. The Batman.

The novelty of it brings a fresh wave of dizziness over you. You had been exposed to so much information over the course of the last 12 hours that it hadn't fully settled in on you what Bruce was. You didn't think that your brain would process it even if he was standing in cowl and cape right in front of you.

"I suppose you'll be staying with us for the near future, if Bruce has anything to say about it," Alfred stands from his chair beside you and puts your dishes in the sink, "shall I inform your security detail or would you like to?"

You don't know what to say to that. "I'm... I think I should talk this over with Bruce first. It may not need to come to that."

The butler shrugs. "I'll be attending to some house duties for the rest of the morning. Should you stay for lunch, let Dory know, hm?" You give him a weak nod and watch as he makes his way from the sink and heads down another hallway out of sight.

Not too long after Alfred leaves you, you hear the doorbell ring. Bruce hadn't mentioned to you that any guests would be here today, but then again, the two of you had had more important things to discuss last night. You check your reflection in the glass of the kitchen window, wondering if there were any hidden doors in the bookcases that could hide you from whatever Wayne Enterprises exec that was coming to talk business, but you wouldn't trust yourself not to break something in the process.

You hear two pairs of footsteps approaching from the elevator and turn to see who it might be. You first recognize Dory, fluttering between frantic small talk and making sure not to trip in her kitten heels as she guides her guest into the living room. You stiffen as soon as you see him.

Detective Gordon catches your eyes instantly, his own widening. Dory says something about going to fetch Bruce before she quickly ascends the stairs, leaving you and James staring at each other across the distance. In one hand is a notepad and pencil, and the other fixes his tie, almost as if at a loss for words. He greets you, hesitantly leaving where Dory had left him to approach you, "I saw the boys out front but... I didn't expect to see you here."

"Me neither." You reply. "Is everything okay?"

James glances up at the stairs as he passes underneath, "That depends. I followed up on your request."

Shit. Of course a cop would do their job when you least expect it. You slip out of your chair and rush to meet him halfway into the kitchen, "Did... did you find something?"

"I can't say much right now. I'd like to talk to Mr. Wayne, but-" The sound of Dory's heels clacking against the wooden stairs makes James lower his voice, "-you being here complicates things."

Bruce is wearing a shirt this time, thankfully, though you're not expecting him to look as put together this early after what Alfred had said. He towers behind Dory's much smaller frame in a pair of loose black pants and a matching turtleneck, looking in a fashionable state of undress as he pads barefoot into the room. With hair slicked back and stubble freshly shaved, he doesn't look like someone caught unaware. He's fixing the sleeve of his sweater when he extends a hand to Detective Gordon, bright smile and all, "Detective James Gordon, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Mr. Wayne, I'm sorry for dropping in unannounced. If this is a bad time, I can come back." James gestures to you.

Bruce's look at you is empty, devoid of any detectable emotion or thought. It strikes you as unsettling, the same way a cashier at the end of their shift isn't really looking at you, "Oh, no. I was just on my way to work when I felt unwell. I called my doctor over but it was nothing to worry about. A little stomach bug, is all."

You do look like you'd just come over in a rush. You're still in your lounge clothes from the night before, and your medical supplies are still in the kitchen where Alfred had left them. James seems to notice, but he doesn't look any more relaxed. "That's good to hear. I don't want to keep you too long, but truth is, I have some questions I'd like to ask you if you have the time."

"Is something wrong?" James glances between you and Bruce, something the latter doesn't miss, "is it sensitive?"

"It's about the party you threw here the other night, Mr. Wayne. For Mayor Reál. I hear you invited quite a few Gotham politicians to celebrate the passing of the mayor's new bill, correct?"

"That's correct."

"And I understand you're quite invested in Gotham politics in general, much like your father."

"I am. My mother and father were very interested in the city, and Mayor Reál breathed new life into that for me after the election. I do what I can to support the cause."

"And that cause is...?"

Bruce takes the skeptical tone on the chin, smiling wider, "A safer, fairer Gotham. For everyone."

This Bruce was nothing like the Bruce you had all to yourself. He taps into that persona from the party with ease. Watching him is like watching a performance. "That's good, good. I notice you try to make an effort with charities in the city, donations and the like. You recently donated a new wing to Gotham General."

"I did. Increasing access to medical care for the citizens is important to me. My doctor, a talented surgeon at General, knows this well." You flash a timid smile when both Bruce and James look to you.

"And you also financially support politicians in Gotham."

"Occasionally. Anyone I feel has Gotham's best interests in mind."

"And have you found members of Gotham's political parties to be unusually forward in requesting your support, Mr. Wayne? Perhaps a little too pushy, maybe."

Bruce wears confusion well, "Not necessarily. I'm not easily pressured into doing things I have no interest in."

"Of course. How about any attempts to win over your support? Publicly or otherwise."

"I'm not sure what you're asking, detective. I'd love to help, but I don't think I have the information you're looking for."

James nods, holding his chin high, "My apologies. I should've been clear from the beginning. My question is: have any politicians or members of law enforcement offered you anything in exchange for your financial or public support? I have reason to believe there may be someone with high clearance exchanging confidential information with civilians. Especially ones who can pay. I'm just looking for a lead."

James frames his question well, even though any fat cat familiar with the cops could see the hidden question. Bruce frowns, tilts his head, shaking it slowly, "That's awful. I don't currently know of anyone doing such a thing, to me or anyone else. But I can keep an eye out. I can only imagine how dangerous that might be."

"Exactly. We'd like to nip it in the bud as soon as possible."

"Of course. Do you have a card? Perhaps I can contact you if I hear anything."

James fishes out his card and hands it over, "I don't want to put you in a bad position, only pass along what you know if you feel safe enough to do so."

You notice Bruce is flicking the business card between his fingers as a fidget, though he keeps his attention respectfully on the detective. "Absolutely. Thank you, detective. Dory can show you to the door."

The detective nods and follows Dory out of the room. As soon as the two are out of earshot, Bruce's expression softens as he presses his back into the counter. You wish you could sink into the floor. "To be fair," you begin, "I didn't think he'd find anything."

Bruce side-eyes you, "That was you?"

"I thought my criminal boss was going to blackmail me to keep his secrets."

"Criminal boss." You think he's trying to mock you, but his eyes are surprisingly guilty when he looks at you, "Alfred wasn't kidding. I really didn't handle this well."

"No, not really." You don't mean to kick him while he's down, but you can't lie either. Even now, you were still making meaning out of this whole thing.

By all means, you've gone from knowing nothing about him, to understanding even less, to fearing him, to this. With Batman on the other hand, you'd felt nothing but loyalty and trust in him up until the very last second. Now they were both the same person, and the meager hours of sleep you'd gotten hadn't cleared all that up just yet.

You wonder who you're supposed to see now. Batman or Bruce Wayne? Why was the line separating them blurring the more you thought of them?

"So, did you ever come up with a better idea?"

Bruce does not offer one. You'd dreaded that.

"You already know what I think. No matter how we go about this, there's going to be something. So what do you want to do?" Bruce's eyes follow your ever minute expression, laser-focused on you. "Whatever you choose, I will keep you safe. I promise you."

He feels so staunchly Batman in this moment, even with the soft voice of Bruce, watching over you. Through all your uncertainty, this you believe him on.

And you're exhausted, you find. Your arm is beginning to throb again. You crave the reprieve of a bed but not your own, to your surprise.

"I'm going to trust you, Bruce," your voice wobbles as you say it out loud, "I'm going to trust you like I trust Batman."

Bruce holds eye contact with you for a few moments, "Okay."

"Can I ask... why are you dressed so nice?"

"We're going to get the sedative."

"You're going as Bruce?"

"It's the middle of the day. Yes, I'm going as Bruce. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

You fluster, suddenly reconsidering this entire plan. You'd pictured Batman skulking on the rooftop while you Mission Impossible'd your way into the medicine cabinets for what you needed. Walking in with him—the real him—would draw attention you didn't need, "You're only going to make me look suspicious."

"I'm your patient, and more importantly, I'm a donor."

"You will stick out like a sore thumb."

"That means when people are looking at me, they're not looking at you." You open your mouth to argue but he's already cutting you off, "Do you want me to drop you off at your place or do you want me to send someone to get your things?"

You're aware of what he's really asking.

You heave a sigh, "Drop me off. I can't promise Judith won't hurt someone if she finds a stranger in my house."

a/n: mj stop having the reader move in with bruce when their life is put in imminent danger challenge impossible

[beenadoonabc]

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Uhm.??

🤢🤢🤢

Every single interview I read from this guy just intensifies the ick vibes.

He wants to keep Buck as innocent as possible??? Way to infantilize a 30 something. Buck isn't "innocent" . Buck has experienced emotional neglect (abuse!) at the hands of his parents, physical and mental neglect both on and off the job, and - newsflash! - just because it took him until now to figure out that he isn't straight, doesn't mean he's never been affected by homophobia or biphobia. And if Tommy disregards all of that and is only dating Buck because Buck is "innocent" in his eyes, then Tommy doesn't love him. Tommy fetishizes him, either because of the age gap or because Buck is a baby bi, or maybe both. Icky!!!

Also. Tommy leaves Buck because of "how bad it is dating Tommy"? Huh? So why does he tell Buck that Buck will end up breaking Tommy's heart and not the other way around? Did we watch the same episode? Or has it just been so long since they filmed it all the way back in September that Mr. LFJr just doesn't remember the scene?

The last paragraph is the best one, though. That just reads like straight up gaslighting. Tommy didn't dump Buck because Buck sent a "full on firing range of assault of bad words" (???) at Tommy. Buck wanted to get serious and Tommy bailed on him. Ah yes, true love.

"It's so sad." I agree, Mr. Nepo Baby. It is so sad how so many people spend their actual hard earned money on word vomit like this.

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space (2)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 2 of 3! (part 1)

warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation ( please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries ), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, policeofficer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), pedro-ception aka there's a small cameo of another pedro boy, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, reader is described to have hair and celebrates christmas ( but no mention of the reader's religious beliefs )! smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. hey... hey... how y'all doin'?🧍remember when i said part 2 would be posted a few weeks after part 1? yeah, that was a fucking lie. and, remember when i said it would be 2 parts in total? that was also a lie! the universe is praying on my downfall ( i had a fun mental health episode and fell into a black hole for a few months <3 ) unfortunately, i am very much still alive and kicking, so this is me trying to get the ball rolling again when it comes to posting fics. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it + tumblr will not allow me to post it as a whole due to it's paragaph-count limit, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of. “huh?” “this. us. it could be casual, y’know?”

Golden boy, you dropped the ball I am Annie fucking Hall

The year moves too fast.

It’s like you blink, and suddenly it’s Thanksgiving.

Leaves turn brown. Pumpkins are carved only to rot upon front porches. A gathering of friends, young adults getting their first taste at hosting a thanksgiving meal.

You’re put on dessert duty, which culminates in stressful tears and your mother’s hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, reassuring you that it’s okay, everyone burns their first pie.

No one at the party needs to know the pumpkin pie you brought was a product of your mother’s gentle care.

Then there is actual Thanksgiving, which you celebrate, as always, at your aunt's.

The highlight is, and forever has been, the road-trip out of state, your father making it his mission to deafen you and your mother with his horrific singing.

As they drop you back at your apartment, your father has no qualms leaning out the car window and calling after you.

“I expect to see you cheering me on at the Thanksgiving Touchdown event!”

Which brings you here, to said event, sweater sleeves tugged over cold fingers and a wandering pair of eyes who refuse to comply with your wants.

You want to focus on the ongoing football match- Fire Department vs Police.

Your eyes prefer to follow him, striding up the field, his hair soaked in sweat and his t-shirt long removed.

You’ve no valid reason to roll your eyes at the other women who seem to prefer spectating the sport of Javier Peña. You’re no better than them.

Yet, as one of them let’s out a joyous shriek as he takes a pass at the ball, your eyes roll.

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

At least you have company. An older gentleman, who you caught struggling to pick his wallet up from the floor. He’d smiled as you returned it, and conversation had flowed easily from there.

As the whistle blew, commencing the final match of the local community services’ football league- or, Thanksgiving Touchdown, as your father so aptly named it-, he’d patted the empty seat next to him.

“Hmm?”

He points, and you follow the direction, realising he’s speaking about Javi.

“Him,” he says it with a teasing tone to his voice. It’s like he’s mocking the agent. “Think’s he’s God’s gift, takin’ his top off like that.”

The more you sit with the older gentleman, the more you enjoy his company.

On the field, your dad bellows something at Javi. He replies with a curt salute, and shoots off down the length of it.

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

A force to be reckoned with, keeping pace with rookies half his age.

The vision of him, gun strapped to his leg and a tact vest on his chest, speeding down streets in the columbian heat conjures in your mind.

You wonder how it felt to know him then, if worry kept his companions awake.

It had certainly kept you awake in recent months, and that was with him safe, in Laredo, cooped up in some bachelor pad.

“Surprised he’s not thrown his top to the crowd of screaming ladies!” The gentleman continues his mocking, and it rouses laughter out of both of you.

A whistle is blown, your eyes return to the field and, though he’s quick to look away, you catch the tail end of Javier’s eyes on you.

Fifteen minutes pass, in which you do your best to not stare at him.

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

Eventually, the man next to you coaxes you into getting him a lemonade from the food truck.

You oblige, of course, and deny his attempts to hand you cash, insist it’s on you.

He’s kept you smiling on a rather gloomy day.

You tell him you’ll be right back, smile, and realise you don’t know his name.

“Chucho,” he tells you, and waves you off.

You join the queue, keep your head down, ignore the gossiping women three spots ahead of you, claiming to have each shared an encounter with Javi.

You don’t need to know what he’s been up to.

You don’t want to know who he’s been up to it with.

It happens when you’re finally being served.

There’s no longer a queue, just you, smiling as sweetly as possible. The service industry is rough enough, nevermind on holidays.

You order successfully, both Chucho’s lemonade and a hot chocolate for yourself.

The guy working the truck- young enough, a bit too traditionally good-looking, with coiffed hair and a shaven face- he’s talkative.

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

Even more so after a something that means nothing yet everything ends out of the blue and you’re left reeling over whether or not some part of you is to blame.

So you let him shoot you his dashing smile, and throw in unnecessary pet-names that just feel forced into every sentence he speaks to you, and write his number on the paper cup of your hot chocolate.

“Here you go, pumpkin,” he winks. The pet-name feels a little too on the nose for the season. Couldn’t he have called you sweetheart instead? “A sweet treat for that sweet smile.”

You wonder if he’s allowed to gift the free donut he slides your way.

Your stomach growls and begs for sugary release before you can fully bring yourself to care.

An awkward thanks. Hands reach up to grab the to-go cups, three fingers curling up the bagged donut. 

He helps you get a grip on the beverages, placing them in your hands.

His touch lingers, more than necessary, fingertips brushing over your knuckles as if trapped in slow-motion.

“So, a pretty girl like you got a boyfriend, or are you gonna let me take you out to-”

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

Your father screams one name, loud and clear, down the pitch.

“Peña, get your head out your fucking ass and pick up the ball!”

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

Javier, frozen in place, face an unreadable maze of emotions, eyes staring right at you.

They follow you all the way back to your seat, even as the game picks up again.

Even as you congratulate your dad on another victory for the police department, now the four-time consecutive champions of the Thanksgiving Touchdown.

Even as you head off to your father’s car.

Even when you’re home, curled under a blanket and watching a televised copy of Annie Hall, you feel his eyes on you.

The look of betrayal on Javier Peña haunts you even once you fall asleep.

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

Everything has it’s place, from the books that line your bedside table to the memories inside your mind.

You compartmentalise.

Tucked deep into the right side of your brain, there’s a box.

It’s contents, memories you’ve yet to process.

Moments you know that, if you wish to move on, you’ll have to relive.

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

And, scribbled in bold red marker, April ‘99.

A late night.

You, wide awake, laying on your back and mapping out stars in his ceiling.

Javier fell asleep hours ago and now snores softly against your neck, muscled arm curled around your waist as his legs entangle your own.

The agent is a fiend for cuddling, and so often wraps himself around you like a vine.

You find yourself nestling your hand in his hair, and take note of the sharp breath he intakes.

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

Relax when you feel him snore and press himself even deeper against your naked skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

He hadn’t told you that, but he didn’t need to.

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

In the way he let you take the lead, resting back against the couch to watch how your hips wound down on him.

In the way he got even clingier than usual, dragging you into the shower with him just to have you near, holding you from behind as you washed up the plates he’d used to serve you dinner (a trade-off he’d reluctantly agreed to months ago: he cooks, you clean), laying his head on your lap as you curled up to watch some cheesy horror movie- one you’re bound to fall asleep during and he’s counting on it, glancing up till he spots you slumped over and eyes closed, granting him the perfect excuse to carry you to his bed and nestle himself in beside you.

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

It’s like you’ve forgotten something, misplaced something, and can’t even figure out what it is.

You just know its absence is wrong.

Javi mumbles something, dreaming away, and you feel the subtle press of his lips against your skin.

Fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your (his) shirt.

He can’t get you close enough, it seems.

Playing against his wants, you pull back, slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

There’s a pinch between his brows, furrowed in worry.

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

It’s a selfish act, born purely from your own desire, but you find yourself pressing a kiss against his forehead.

His grip loosens, though slightly.

It gives you enough time to feel a stir between your thighs, a calling coming from your bladder.

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

It’s a struggle that leaves you topless and feeling a pinch of cruelty, standing over the bed as you watch his hand grabbing at the vacant spot you once occupied, your scent and shirt the only traces you leave behind.

You don’t bother turning on a light, make your way to his bathroom with practiced ease.

Pad your way across the cold linoleum floor, sink down onto the porcelain seat- he’d stopped leaving it up when your overnight visits became more frequent. You hadn’t asked- didn’t need to ask-, he’d simply done it.

Closing the door over, yet not enough for the hinges to squeak and the handle to lock, you pray the wood muffles noise of the flushing toilet.

When it stops, you wait a few seconds, until you’re sure there’s no rustling coming from his bedroom.

Then, you open the tap.

The water is barely a trickle, yet you tell yourself its enough.

Lather your hands in soap, sit them under the constant drip of cold water till you feel the suds wash down the drain.

It’s hard to stop yourself from sneaking a glance at the mirror, just as it’s hard to recognise the version of yourself you see.

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

Yhen come the thoughts of Javier, and how he sees you.

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

He’s not said anything. Or done anything, to make you notice a change.

But, then, Maybe it’s been subtle, slow, dragged out long enough it’s not drastic enough for either of you to take note of.

You eye the spare toothbrush he keeps in his bathroom, and try to remember when it became yours.

You don’t remember.

One moment, his toothbrush sat alone. And, the next, you were standing side by side, laughing as you raced to see who could make a foamier mess of the toothpaste.

Corazón, you look like a rabid animal, he’d called you once, laughing through tears as he wiped away the white suds dripping off your chin. You’re lucky that you’re just so cute.

You can recall, even now, how quickly his mouth had found yours that night, with no ulterior motive other than to bask in the minty taste of one another.

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

Only, sweat lines your forehead and your face seems drained of colour.

You make it only two steps back before you’re hurtling across the bathroom floor.

Your knees crash down first, harsh and unforgiving against the tiles.

The first wretch burns, has you coughing over your own gag.

In the dark, it’s hard to see what exactly comes out of you, but you know where it came from.

Your stomach.

Another wave of nausea hits, this one harder, and you’re gripping at the sides of the bowl, spewing into the water below.

A splash meets your cheek, but you’re too out of it to care, wave after wave of nausea leaving you a coughing, gagging, crying mess.

You feel lightheaded, only managing a moment to catch your breath before another wave hits.

It feels like you’re suffocating.

It’s in your throat, in your mouth, in your nose, in your hair.

It feels like it’s never stopping and you’re doomed to spend the rest of your days submitting to the horrors of throwing-

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” warmth, against your naked back.

It’s a nice warmth, not like the one that has you covered in a cold sweat.

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

You try to follow it, match your breathing to the tactile comfort.

“That’s it, baby,” cool air meets your neck, the hairs that stuck to your skin now pulled up and pushed back. “I’m right here, I got you.”

Eventually, all that’s left is the burning of bile at the back of your throat and the dull ache of eyes gone raw with tears.

You’re pulled into a solid mass, naked chest pressed to naked chest as you go slack upon the bathroom floor.

You’re exhausted, and covered in your own sweat, tears and vomit.

Javier doesn’t care, pulling you tighter against him and whispering sweet words you don’t quite pay attention to.

“Woke up and you weren’t there, corazón. Don’t do that again,” even in his attempts to chastise, he’s gentle, brushing the remaining strands of sweat-slicked hair off your face. You must be an awful sight, yet his expressions don’t give way. “You wake up, you wake me up too. ‘Specially if you’re gonna hurl, okay?”

You glance at him, swallow back a lump and deal with the realisation that dawned upon you ten minutes earlier, as you sat hunched over the toilet’s bowl.

“Javi,” he smiles at the way you call his name.

You feel sick all over again at the thought of that changing, everything changing, as you build the courage to speak.

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

You imagine he’ll stand up, pace the floor.

Run his hands through his hair, rant over every thought he has.

Ways to get rid of it, the dangers of your dad finding out.

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

He’ll ask why you weren’t safer, why you forgot to take that morning-after pill, why you played so fast-and-loose with your body.

None of it arrives.

He stands, yes, but only to pull you up with him, tired limbs leaning into his strong build as he drags you both under the heat of a warm shower.

You watch the remnants of your own vomit wash down the drain, and question how he can stand there, not disgusted with you.

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

He’s rougher with himself, scarcely drying properly before he’s carrying you back to his bed, a replay of hours earlier as he lays you down, crawls in behind you and tucks you both under the soft comfort of his worn-out sheets.

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

He so easily nestles himself behind you, dragging you back against him and committing himself to the role of big-spoon.

His hands have always felt large, their touch always electrifying, but nothing compares to the feeling of him splaying one across your lower stomach, a subtle press into where part of him could be growing within you.

“Javi,” you whine, fighting off the sleep your overwhelmed body so badly needs. “I’m sorry.”

You say it because you feel obligated, like it’s your place to be apologetic.

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

“No seas boba (Don’t be silly),” there’s a fresh set of tears already sliding down your cheeks by the time he replies. “Don’t need to be sorry, baby.”

“But I-”

“But, nothing,” his tone feels final, one that tells you you’ll get nowhere arguing against him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, corazón.”

You fall asleep, eventually, soothed by his gentle breathing and the repeated motion of his thumb stroking over your belly.

Yhe next time you awake, there’s a crack of sunlight creeping through his blinds.

Javi’s still in bed, only he’s propped up on his elbow and staring down at you.

His smile stretches a little wider when he spots your open eyes.

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

“I gotta go, corazón,” is met with a protest from you, rolling over to curl into his solid chest.

Expecting it, he wraps you up tighter in his arms, presses an array of chaste kisses to your head.

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

You don’t want him out, in the real world, where the hours you’ve spent cooped up together become more scandalous than the peaceful nature of them.

“I know, I know. Don’t wanna go either, baby,” you wonder if you spoke your thoughts aloud, or if Javi simply knows you so well.

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

Help him tie it, the comforter pooled around your naked waist as you sit criss-cross-apple-sauce and Javi’s at the side of the bed, legs bent at the knee.

He thanks you with a kiss, then asks you to pass him his cologne.

It’s on the other side of the bed- his side of the bed- and you lean over to grab it.

You don’t bother handing him it, spraying it directly onto your own wrist and dabbing it into the skin of his tanned neck.

He lets you, a gentle smile on his face and eyes that pull you in for a hug, burrowing himself between your naked breasts.

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

“You’re gonna smell like me all day, cariño (darling),” he tells you.

“Good,” you reply.

Another hum, this time of approval, and a squeeze to your hip.

When he pulls back, he looks even more reluctant to leave.

Reality rears it’s ugly head, but he pushes it out your mind with the pressing of his hand against your stomach, the same spot he’d held onto all night.

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

Your hands instinctually curl in his hair, and you like to think you leave it a little messy, enough to ward off any of the women he works along side, hopeful eyes hoping to get a taste of the handsome, unmarried cop.

“Stay,” he mumbles against your skin, as if you’re the one who’s about to leave. “Don’t go, ok? I’ll call around lunch.”

He keeps his word.

Calls you, a few minutes past two, interrupting whatever daytime TV you were pretending to watch.

Answering leaves you feeling lightheaded, like you're trapped in a daydream.

Listening to him croon down the line while your finger anxiously tangles in the phone’s wire as you stand in his apartment, it feels domestic, like you’re waiting for him to come back home, a place you share together.

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

“How bout you, corazón?” He knows how to make you melt, picturing him smiling at his desk. “Have you ate yet?”

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

“You need to eat, baby,” you don’t like the fact he uses that pet-name, not right now. “There’s plenty in the fridge. Could make yourself a sandwich, or some toast. Might even have some of that pasta left over. You know, that one you said you liked? Oh, wait, maybe don’t eat that, don’t think uncooked salmon is good for pregn-”

You don’t want him to say the P word, so you cut him off.

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

He says ok, then you hear him take a bite of whatever his lunch is.

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

He tells you a quick story, something about one of the younger guys accidentally stapling his tie to an arrest warrant.

That rouses a laugh out of you, makes you forget all about the massive P word he almost said.

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

A place he’d begged you to stay this morning, safe and tucked away.

“Was thinking we could drive out to the clinic, find out for sure if we’re pr-” he cuts himself off this time, like he knows you’re not ready to hear that word. “Then we’ll take things from there, okay? Whatever you decide you wanna do, corazón, you call the shots.”

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

He walks through the door and welcomes the way you coil yourself around him, humming in delight as he peppers a few kisses over your face.

“Still smell like me,” he says it with approval, takes a purposeful whiff at you as he pulls you tighter against him.

You still smell his cologne on him too, buried beneath a few layers of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Near clinging to one another, it’s a miracle you two make it out his apartment and down the elevator.

An arm around your waist, he guides you over to his car.

Pulls the door open for you, stops you from bumping your head on the way in.

He practically runs round the car’s hood, jumping into the driver’s seat and thrumming the engine to life with the turn of a key.

“You remember to eat?” He asks as he pulls out onto the street.

You nod, then audibly reply.

Tell him you did in fact eat toast, leave out the part where you spewed your guts again twenty minutes later.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, just relaxed, with the radio playing gently and his window rolled down enough to let in some air.

At some point, his hand slides over the console and rests against your thigh.

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

As you watch out the window how he drives past the turning for the local hospital, he must catch your questioning gaze.

“They, uh,” he clears his throat, rings his hand over the steering wheel. A small stain of sweat marks it. “Know your dad pretty well in there. And me. Figure you’d rather he not find out about us like that.”

He’s right.

So you relax back into your seat, accept the fact you’re both driving out of town together.

At some point, the beginning notes of your favourite song play through the stereo.

You instantly perk up, sitting up straighter in your seat and tap your foot a little to the beat.

Javi says nothing, simply peels his hand off you to turn the volume dial up.

Seconds later, he turns his head and throws you a look just asking if he’s done good.

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

A soft squeeze before he pulls them up to his lips, eyes back on the road.

The clinic is bright.

And squeaky, each step you take making you a little more nervous than the last.

Javier, by all accounts, is solid as a rock, signing you both in, picking up a few pamphlets, buying you a can of soda, all while you curl up in some plastic chair and just focus on not spewing your guts out.

You only relax once he’s sat beside you, helping you get a sip of the sugary drink and wrapping a protective arm around you.

You don’t mean to but you fall victim to sleep, the past 24 hours getting the best of you.

You come-to likely not much later, but to the sound of a childish giggle.

Cracking one eye open, just slightly, you notice you’re slumped into Javier, head on his shoulder.

There’s a giggling little girl in front of you both, in purple overalls and with two pigtails to hold her curly hair.

One of her hands is on Javi’s knees, using him to keep herself standing.

“First time?” You snap your eyes shut as a stranger’s voice fills the quiet bustle of the clinic.

A confused sound leaves Javier.

“Yeah, could tell from the look on your lady’s face,” the man continues. “Same one my own wife had during our first visit.”

You want to pay attention to Javi’s response, but you’re a bit busy dealing with the fact he’s not correcting the man, telling him you’re not his lady nor his wife.

His thumb soothes over your hip, and you wonder at what rate you’ll melt away into a pile of nothing thanks to his soft touches.

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

You tell yourself to try harder, to actually pay attention.

You succeed, catch as Javi replies, “a girl.”

“Yeah?” the stranger seems genuinely invested, it almost makes you want to open your eyes, see him for yourself.

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

“Wanted a boy, myself,” that same little girl giggles again and you can’t fight the temptation to peek once more, catch as she crawls into her faceless-father’s lap. “Doc told us it was gonna be a boy, too. Then this one came along and, wouldn’t ya know, not a boy.”

“Surprise!” the little girl squeals, and you feel Javi’s shoulder shake under your head.

God, you want to look at him, see if he’s looking at her with the same adoration that’s festering in your heart.

“Yeah, baby, you’re my little Sarah-Surprise,” the man coos and, despite his rough accent, it suits him. Like he was only ever meant to speak with gentle words and a soft heart, all for his precious daughter. “It’ll get easier, on your lady, just so ya know. Less scary, more exciting. ‘Bout to welcome our second one, and I’ve never seen my wife so happy.”

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

A chair squeaks as pressure is taken off it, the stranger standing.

You peak your eye open in time to see him picking his daughter up, her little legs dangling off his hip.

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

“What,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if it’s of emotion. “What are you hoping for this time?”

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

You’d pretended to wake up to Javier’s coaxing.

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

A smiley nurse handed you a cup, talked you through what you needed to do for your tests.

Took your blood pressure, complimented your earrings, and stepped out the room to give you privacy.

A short while and a reunion with Javi later, you sat in a doctor’s office, both a nervous wreck as you clasped each other’s hand.

“Mrs. peña,” again, Javier does not correct the doctor. And you realise it’s because he filled out the forms, he signed you in. He wrote you down as Peña. “You and your husband are not pregnant.”

What should have followed was a sigh of relief, from both of you.

But all you felt was led drop in your stomach and Javier’s grip tighten on your hand.

“You are, however, displaying symptoms of acute food poisoning, likely salmonella.”

The doctor continues on, detailing a prescription you’re being given.

But it falls on deaf ears, the world around you gone blank as you wrestle with conflicting emotions.

You’re not pregnant.

You should be elated. Jumping, and cheering, and dancing all over the place. Instead, you’re silent, letting yourself be guided back into the car by Javi.

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

He doesn’t explain that he’s taking you back to his place.

Getting you back in his bed, switching off the lights, he curls himself in behind you and splays his hand over your stomach.

Over your empty womb.

For some reason, you find yourself sobbing into your pillow, unaware of the tears from him that stain your neck as he tries to hush you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” the irony of him repeating those very same words last night is not lost on you.

It’s hard to move on, when every month there’s a stabbing pain in your abdomen and a trickle of blood staining your underwear to remind you of April.

And so you keep it locked in it’s box, slapping another caution tape over it’s lid as you groan and roll out your own bed, trudging your way into your bathroom to check if the wetness between your thighs is your monthly visitor.

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

It’s not because he’s done anything to warrant your rejection, but, rather, it’s the forthcoming actions he’ll be guilty of.

See, you know why he’s calling.

Your mom let it slip, over brunch and a few too many glasses of wine.

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

Or, at least, that’s what you were until the last poker night he’d hosted, way back in March.

He slips away, phoned by your tipsy mother and obligated to drive three towns over to go pick her up because she misses him.

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

It was less a suggestion, more of a pleading, his hands already scraping the seat back and awaiting you to plop yourself down.

He leaves you with his hand, his winnings so-far, and a kiss to the top of your head.

“Watch out for Peña,” he whispered, as if you hadn’t been keeping an eye on the agent all evening, clouded by his own cigarette smoke and sitting looser each sip of his whiskey, no ice. “His poker face is dangerous.”

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

Rounds end and rounds start, and you father’s pile of winnings grow more and more.

It’s an ego boost, taking money from these cocky men who look at you as though surely you have no clue what cards you’re holding.

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

Flinging down cards, muttering curses, shoving his cash across the table.

All whilst glaring, at you, eyes black with ire.

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

Nearly an hour’s past since your father left, someone else leaves the table.

Says he needs the toilet, you point him in the direction of it.

You all call for a break, and then you graciously offer a refill on drinks.

It’s what your dad would’ve done, kept them all drinking and lowering their inhibitions, their focus disappearing alongside it.

“I’ll help!” One of the officers exclaims.

He’s on the younger side.

Practically a rookie, it’s only the second poker night he’s attended.

He’s sweet, with his large-framed glasses and his nervous smile.

You both make your way out of the basement- refurbished to be your dad’s man-cave- and head towards the kitchen.

You open the fridge, grab however many bottles of beer you need.

He heads to the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle bourbon.

You beat him at grabbing the whiskey, an unvoiced need to be the one who refills Javi’s glass.

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

Conversation flows naturally between you, in spite of him being a near stranger.

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

You both agree on the fact he’s a pain in the ass.

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

You tell him where to go to get the best club sandwich.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

nNeither of you can tell who causes it, but one of you mispronounces a word and you both wind up in a pile of giggles, falling over yourselves and banging into counters.

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

Through wheezes, he repeats the phrase that left you both in this state.

You laugh harder, louder, warn him to stop before you lose control of your bladder.

Something thuds in the hallway, your eyes shoot up to the kitchen entry and you swear you see Javi’s retreating figure.

Blink a few times, realise there’s no one there.

You both gather some decorum.

He grabs as many of the beer bottles he can manage, and looks at your empty hands in question.

You tell him to head back without you, that you just need to go to the toilet.

Parting ways, you find the both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms occupied.

Sigh in frustration, only to remember your parents en suite.

It’s empty, because of course it is. No one would feel comfortable enough invading the privacy of your parents' bedroom.

You do your business, wash your hands, fix yourself in the mirror.

Decide your lipstick needs a little touch-up, your clothes need straightening out.

And, when you’re done and ready to head back down to the poker table, you hear a thud.

Pull open the bathroom door, expect to find your father struggling to put a tipsy, giggly, clumsy version of your mother into bed.

Instead, there is only a brooding look and disapproving grunt.

A firm grip, on your arm, dragging you right back into the bathroom.

The door slams shut, a little harsher than you’d like, the sound of it surely reaching the ears of those regrouping for the next dealing of the cards.

He doesn’t pounce, like he so usually does when he’s wearing that look of frustration.

He’s simmering in it, teetering on the edge of boiling anger as he smooths a hand over his chin, visibly clenching his jaw, swallowing back whatever it is he wants to say to you.

He takes one step forward, and you go one back.

Then two steps, which you also match.

Your hip smacks into the sink’s counter on your fifth step backwards and it’s enough to finally put his hands on you.

He tugs you right into his chest, one hand soothing over where you’d banged your hip.

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

When he speaks, you nearly melt into a puddle, the heat of him invading your space, face inching close to your own, enough to have you questioning the sanctity of your parents en suite.

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

“Could ask you the same thing, officer,” you make the fatal mistake of giggling, but you’ll blame it on the fruity cider you’d helped yourself to.

He clearly finds no humour, not even as you fiddle with the top button of his shirt and shoot him your best look of innocence.

“Think you’re real fucking funny, don’t you?” His hand, warm and imposing, grips a hold of your face.

It’s almost painful, but you like it, squirming a little at the blunt stab of his nails and the way he smooshes your cheeks, forcing a pout onto your lips.

You try shake your head, his grip won’t let you.

“Sitting in a room full of men, making yourself the centre of attention,” he huffs a breath out of his nose, and you can’t help but compare him to an angry dragon.

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

“What’s the matter, Javi? Jealous you’re not the centre of all those men’s attention?” You’re poking the dragon, teasing him, and it’s an act that may leave you burned and scarred.

Or, as you’re hoping, it’ll win you the ride of a lifetime.

He doesn’t even grace you with a verbal response.

No, he scoffs, as though he’s in physical disbelief at the words you’re saying.

Spins you around, pins you to the sink’s counter, tugs your hair till you’re forced to stare at your reflection.

He’s right behind you, seething in anger, fire in his eyes.

His head dips between you neck and shoulder, brushing his lips against your pulse point.

“Not all of us are attention whores like you,” it’s fleeting, and he’ll deny it if you dare mention it, but he smiles.

Just a second, but you feel it, see it even though he tries so hard to turn his face into your neck.

It’s what lets you know he’s playing, teasing, egging you on to push him over the edge.

“I’ve been with real whores, corazón,” he confesses a sin you already know, eaves-dropping one too many times on your dad fishing stories of Colombia out of him. “Fucked them so often they started doing their nails in colours they knew I wanted to see wrapped around my cock.”

Involuntarily, your back arches, brushing your ass against him and providing him the perfect access to wind his hand up between your heaving breasts, all the way up till his fingers curl round the base of your throat.

In the mirror, the image is one of ownership, of Javi seizing your bodily autonomy. A whore and her gentleman caller.

It’s arousing to think about, Javi and his whores.

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

“And not one of them took half the money you’ve taken from me tonight.”

Oh.

So that’s what this is, his pretty ego, bruised at the hands of you?

Poor Mr. Javier Peña, humiliated in front of all his peers round after round, hundred bill after hundred bill.

You almost taunt him for giving into the temptations of the fragile male ego, but you’re stopped in your tracks.

By him, hands squeezing at you a little tighter as he grinds the unmistakable outline of his hardened cock against you.

That single action changes the game, entirely.

Because this isn’t about you stealing his money and his ego.

No, this is something far filthier, that has your panties growing wetter beneath the skirt of your dress.

“I’m worth every dime though, aren’t I, officer?.”

The grip tightens.

He shoves you harder into the counter, so hard a tub of your mother’s moisturiser topples off.

The hard outline of him is still there, ever-present.

“‘S that what you like, huh, taking my money? Wanna be Javi’s personal little whore?”

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

Certainly not you, reflection mimicking the way you eagerly nod, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a failed attempt to hold back a grin.

Javi notices- of course he notices- and takes his victory, hips rocking even deeper into you.

There’s too many layers between you, a feat on which you both agree, yet neither of you do anything about.

You just savour the friction, instead, pushing and pulling one another to the axis of pleasure.

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

“What’s it gonna cost me to get you bent over and stuffed full of my cum, corazón?” One hand leaves your body. The mirror snitches on him, exposing how he’s reaching into his back pocket. “This?”

He smacks something down, into the bowl of the sink.

It’s his wallet, and you watch the worn leather of it shine with the residue of water on the linoleum.

The hand at your throat pulses a squeeze, his knee nudges you from behind.

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

His mouth, right by your ear, lips tickling you with the subtlest of brushes against it.

His hand guides your own, down into the sink, flipping the wallet open and putting it’s belongings on display.

Bills, some placed neatly, others stuffed in forcefully, edges spilling out the pockets. There’s less in there than when he arrived, courtesy of you.

There’s a few miscellaneous cards. A library card, an ID slip you’re sure he uses for something in the sheriff's station, a loyalty card to some record store.

The picture of his mother sits centre stage, radiant smile and loving eyes grabbing the attention of any who dare open it.

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

And then you notice something else, peeking out from behind his mother’s picture.

You dive into temptation, dart your nosy fingers over to tug at the object, till you realise it’s another picture.

A picture of Javi, and you.

Taken on a polaroid you found under a box of his belongings, you remember the day clear as ever.

The two of you had messed around, captured your sins on film with the promise of destroying it after. It would be too risky a thing, to allow image evidence of the intimate ways in which you knew each other’s bodies.

Javi’s fingers on your skin, your nipple in his mouth, his cock’s outline bulging within your lower abdomen.

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

Fully dressed, eyes fixed on his television, your head lays in his laps while his fingers card through your hair.

It’s captured from above, as if Javi’s own eyes had made a permanent record of his view.

The sweetness of this living on, of Javi taking something sacred for himself to keep hidden in his wallet distracts you for a moment.

He does good to bring you back into the room.

“Take how much you think you’re worth, corazón,” whispered into your ear, as he rips a few of the notes out his wallet.

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

With each bill you count, your internal price shooting up within your head, you try picture his reaction.

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

You, your face, looking at your expressions in a way that reminds you it’s his job to read people.

You decide to be bold, dig into his wallet and, even though your insides twist in anxious turmoil, hold up your hand to present him with your answer.

Resting neatly, between your fore and middle finger, a shiny credit card.

The gleam in Javi’s eyes just about match it, blackened and blown out with lust.

The card is plucked out your hand.

The hand on your neck leaves, in search of your waist.

The fabric of your dress bunches, wrinkling and creasing as his fabric-straining grip inches it’s hem higher and higher.

You feel sexy like this, face heated and breathing heavy.

It’s an effect he has on you, has had on you, forcing you to look at yourself in new lights, in new angles, admiring every out-of-line trace of you for what you are.

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

And every other word under the sun that Javi whispers into your skin with innocence as his body commits sins within you.

At the bottom of the mirror, you watch as the white cotton of your panties comes into view.

Wet, as you both expected, the thin fabric now turned almost sheer, exposing the delectable view of your cunt hugged cutely by the cotton’s tight seams.

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

There’s a strain to his voice, one that would have you worried he’s in pain if it weren’t for the way you’re watching as his face contorts with lust.

His eyes are dark and you study them like he studies his card, contemplating something.

A few seconds pass. 

Tension is puffed out his chest with one exhale, through the nose.

You feel the air tickle your skin.

He nods curtly, to himself, and flickers his gaze back to meet your own in the mirror.

It’s unwavering, even as he brings the black plastic down and smacks it against your mound.

You squeal, he hushes, and you both know he doesn’t mean it at all.

He likes when you gift him noise, a private aria only he has tickets to.

Just as easily as the first time, he snaps the card against you again, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight through your clit.

Just as loudly as the first time, you squeal, a jolt back into his warm, steady, hard embrace.

“What’re you running from, hmm?” His face turns, burrowing itself in the tresses of your hair.

A shallow sniff, and you wonder if he notices the smell of his shampoo on you.

There’s a pressing of lips, against your scalp, and it’s far too gentle of a juxtapose to the imagery of his fingers pulling your panties to the side, exposing your pussy to the bathroom’s cold air and the two pairs of hungry eyes in the mirror.

“You say that this is what you’re worth, and then you don’t want to take it?”

The third spank of the card against your bundle of nerves is harder, louder, echos in the confined space. A moan, minuscule and muffled, slips past tightly shut lips, a look of fear flashing through wide eyes.

Javi’s quick with his reassurance, gentle with his comfort, a hand stroking over your collarbone.

“Don’t worry, no one’s gonna hear you. You just be as loud as you need, hermosa, they’re too busy encouraging that boy-cop to ask you to dinner.”

There’s a tint of jealousy to the way he says boy, and you’re reminded of the image of him in the kitchen doorway.

Smack!

The card strikes down, once more, this time eliciting an open-mouthed gasp. 

He doesn’t let up, repeating the action twice more.

It hurts, in a way that makes your core throb and your toes curl, squirming aimlessly in a grasp he knows you don’t truly want to escape.

But he mocks you, with a hushing noise in your ear and gentle it’s okay, corazón, Javi’s got yous against your neck. His thumb swipes through your folds, coating it in your wetness and dragging itself up to your clit, soaking it in soothing rubs.

His gentle nature lasts mere seconds, his wrist flicking back only to smack the credit card down again. This time, it’s a pattern of three, repeatedly crashing down on your sensitive nerves one after the other.

In the mirror, you watch him observe as he twiddles the card between deft fingers, contemplation on his mind.

The room’s quiet, apart from your shortened breaths and his deep inhales.

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

It must have been a loud cheer, for you to hear them all the way up here.

And, suddenly, the stakes feel higher than when you were sat at the poker table, counting Javi’s coins with every passing round.

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

This doesn’t seem to cross Javier’s mind, who merely twists your head away from the bathroom door and back to the mirror, to where his hungry eyes await.

All contemplation is gone, he’s decided in what he’s going to do, and so you watch as he takes the card and swipes it through your cunt.

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

In fact, it’s rather uncomfortable, the solid plastic hard on your delicate skin.

It’s the arousal of him doing it that gets you weak in the knees, to have him perform such a mundane act- the swiping of his credit card- in such a crass, dirty, wrong way.

Like he’s paying for you, committing a physical transaction in exchange for your body.

It doesn’t matter that he could have you for free, has had you for free.

He wants to pay, wants to reward you in a way that aligns with the capitalistic world.

“Javi…” You whimper, softly, head lulling back against his shoulder as he swipes the card again.

Your eyes, slowly slipping shut, shoot right back open as you feel the rounded corner of the card prod at your opening, as if trying to notch itself within you.

“Think she could take it, corazón?” Javi bites at your ear, teeth clamping down and pulling at it’s lobe. The card sinks in, not even an inch. You nudge back into, your cry circling the room around you both. “I know, baby, I know. It’d be a wide stretch, but ain’t that all pretty whores like you are good for, hmm?”

It’s automatic, the way you bend to his every whim, head nodding without direct orders from your brain, every part of you, conscious or not, ready and willing to prove you could fit his card inside of you.

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

Surprisingly, the hand between your thighs retracts and you watch as he brings the card up to your mouth, glistening with your arousal.

“Open,” the directions are unnecessary, your mouth already dropping open for him in an act of muscle memory.

He hums approvingly, yet his eyes are still fury filled as he slots the card between your lips, lathering your tongue in your own taste. 

“You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, corazón?”

The statement rings true, both ways: as much as you’ll take anything, he’ll give anything.

You don’t tell him that, though, finding it much easier to rest your palms on the countertop, backing your sopping core into him, enticing him with the wiggle of your hips and whines from your lips to take you already.

“Shh, shh, don’t you worry that pretty head. Javi’s gonna feed this greedy little cunt, ok?”

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

Something smashes, in the basement, and it’s enough to have you flinching.

Javi’s touch soothes you, a hand running over the curve of your shoulder as he presses yet another kiss into your neck.

“S’okay, probably just a beer bottle.”

He doesn’t move another inch, not till he sees you nod, melting back into him.

You hear, more than you see, the way he tugs his trousers down, just enough to free his hardened cock from its jean-clad confine. The risky business of a quickie in your parents’ en suite calls for clothing moved aside, and not removed.

Much to your annoyance, his all-encompassing warmth drifts away as he moves back, hands clamping down on your hips. 

He tilts them to the angle he wants, the angle he knows gets him brushing all your sweet-spots.

He tugs the skirt of your dress up, and then readjusts your soiled underwear.

You hear him draw a deep breath and watch his eyes in the mirror, glued to that spot between your legs, entranced.

The drag of his cock over your folds is familiar, the way he smacks the head of it against your clit is welcomed.

He spears you no gentle coaxing, no stretching around his fingers first, coming undone just for him to fill you right back up, this time with his cock.

No, this is a vengeful touch, the kind that’s meant to display his irritation, his fury, for reasons you’ve yet to confirm yet you’re more than willing to accept.

A man like him, so unfairly selfless, taking something in this world for himself, how he wants to and how he likes to.

You’ll be his vice, so long as he grants you his virtues.

Javi fills you with a single thrust, grunting low into your ear as you feel the way the air is physically knocked out both for your lungs.

He’s still, head buried in the crook of your neck as he works on steadying his breathing, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch.

You whine out some version of his name, feel yourself pulse around him.

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

He’s making you wait for it, you think, torturing you with an impending paradise.

He’s savouring the feel of you, he thinks, taking advantage of the few moments alone he wins with you.

"Javi,” he barely lets you part from him to speak, chasing a trail of kisses down your jaw. “This isn’t the time to develop patience.”

The snide remark earns you a bite, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. You squeal, try remind yourself to be quiet, only to squeal louder when his hands tickle at your waist.

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

His hips roll back, slowly, but it’s better than nothing, better than when he wasn’t moving at all.

Still, he makes you squirm a little longer, moan his name a little louder.

Only then does his fake resolve snap and he’s fucking into you at a brain melting pace in the blink of an eye.

Javier does his best to keep quiet, at first, biting down on his lip and your neck just to contain all those melodies he usually makes.

You can’t say the same for yourself as, despite your efforts, broken moan after broken moan tumbles out your mouth and into the sink, filling and filling and filling it in sync with how Javi your cunt.

You wonder how long till it all spills over the edge.

“Joder (Fuck),” he groans as you unconsciously squeeze him tighter, pulling him deeper into your walls. serves him right, for the teasing and the torturing. “Tienes el coño más lindo en todo el mundo. (You have the prettiest cunt in the whole world.)”

You feel lightheaded.

Warm, sweaty, covered in the fingerprints of a lover you shouldn’t be with.

The bathroom fills with an array of sounds. The slapping of skin against skin, the broken cries of an agent’s name, the mindless rambling of a man drunk on pleasure.

“So good to me, baby. Always so fucking good to me.”

“Gonna stay here forever, fuck. That sound good to you, corazón, hmm? Full of my cock always?”

“Look at yourself… Pura belleza (Pure beauty).”

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

There’s no worrying about the happenings around the poker table, no listening out for your father’s car pulling in the driveway, no worrying about your tousled hair or sweating skin.

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

“Please, please, Javi-“ The words all melt together, pleads becoming his name, his name becoming pleads.

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

It’s okay though, Javi always knows what you need.

“I know, amor (love), I know,” he murmurs into your skin, butterfly kisses so gentle you wonder how they come from the same man that’s pistoning his hips into you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. “Let go, c’mon. Show me how much you love this cock, how much you love-”

He’s cut off by his own groan, you cunt fluttering around him as you inch closer and closer to the edge of euphoria.

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

It brings a welcomed cushioning, shielding you from repeatedly bumping against the marble of the countertop.

Your legs part further, eagerly, an easy pathway for his yearning fingers to seek out the wonders of the female body as they brush over your clit.

The gentle tactile that he strokes over your bundle of nerves, partnered with the repeated brushing of his cock against that spot that makes you weak in the knees, drool out your mouth, it’s becoming too much.

Eyes glancing in the mirror, you wonder if yours is the same image of the whores who’d warmed his Colombian nights: sweat soaked skin, hooded eyes, messed up hair, wrinkled clothing.

He tilts your hips, a deeper angle to fuck into you that has you perching up onto the tips of your toes, fighting with the chance of losing balance.

He’d catch you, if you fell.

Wrap you up in an embrace that’s more familiar than your own.

“I’m gonna- Fuck! Corazón, need you to cum. Now, please. Please. Need to feel you-”

He’s babbling, losing composure and revealing the side of him you pray he never showed those other women: the side that needs, the side that longs, the side that begs to see you cum before he allows himself to, before he’s able to.

“Javi,” it’s a struggle to speak, but you endure, fighting off your orgasm and holding back tears. There’s something you need from him too. “Cum with me. Wanna be full of you, all of you-”

“¿Sí? (Yeah?)” He pleads back, thrusts already getting a little sloppier, hands a little shakier in the way they touch you. Much like his poker face, you know how to read the face he wears moments before he falls apart. “¿Eso es lo que quiere mi corazón? (Is that what my sweetheart wants?) Want me to cum in you, hm?”

“Yes, oh god yes! So bad, Javi, I want it so bad!”

“Ay, bebesita, no llores. (Aw, baby girl, don't cry.)” He coos, a condescending lilt to his words that has you falling into a bigger mess. “Shh, don’t worry, baby. Gonna fill you right up, so my cum’s dripping down your thighs when that poor kid asks you for your number. Thinks he’s got a shot with you cause he made you laugh, poor boy wouldn’t know how to deal with all the noises I get out of you.”

Javi divulges into a spine-tingling rant of burning hot jealousy, the kind that leaves your cheeks burning and your heart scorching, lit under a flame of your desire for more of him. To have him, equal parts physical and emotional.

You try warn him of the bubble that’s about to burst, the feeling in your loins building and building till it’s seconds way from toppling over. 

“That’s it, baby, squeeze my cock. Lemme feel it,” He urges, heart pounding out his chest against your back, hands tightening their grip on your hips. “Need to feel you cum, ‘s all I want.”

You both crash and burn, together.

You fall first, a chaos of unfinished words, crying out for Javi.

He follows close behind, body pressed against your own like he’s willing you to fuse together, to become to entangled in one another that all possibilities of separation become void.

“Take it, cora-” He’s in your ears, in your head, in your heart. Inside of you, consuming you, as eagerly as he’s willing to be consumed by you, fingerprints on hips and teeth-marks in necks. “Take it, take it, take it.”

Arms envelop you from behind, crossing over your chest to pin you back against him.

He’s nearly stagnant, nothing but the twitch of his cock and the shallow thrusts he fucks you deeper with, filling you with another, another, another pump of his cum.

“So good,” Javi’s voice persists, teeth gritting as he bites back the need to be loud, to be heard, to lay a claim on you so blatant no one could deny hearing it. Your relationship with your father is the only thing that holds him back. “Good to me, baby. Always… Good… Díos. (God.)”

Craning your neck to the side, you manage to pull him in for a kiss.

It’s something he accepts easily, lips parting and melting into a dance against your own.

One of his hands falls over your jaw, twisting your face even closer to him.

The kiss dies slowly, with each of you refusing to truly part, pecks being splattered messily against the other’s mouth.

“Was I,” Javi interrupts you with another kiss, his free hand smoothing up and down your side, his hips still slowly rocking into yours, a delicious sting of overstimulation biting at your core. “Am I worth it?”

He pulls back, tired gaze warm as it takes in your messed features.

With the smile that stretches over his lips, however, one would think you were the prettiest creature in all the world.

He calls your name, calmly, slowly, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of it on his tongue. “You’re worth everything I could give, and more.”

There’s something behind the ways he says it that makes you believe him.

With little will to do so, you peel apart from each other, his hands moving quick to adjust your underwear as his cum starts to leak out onto your folds.

He exits the bathroom first, a final kiss placed on your cheek before your left alone, forced to confront the wrecked version of you that will never see your parent’s en suite in the same light.

Your dad arrives back just in time to see you slipping back down to sit at the poker table, no seat left for him to take but the one between his sweet daughter and his loyal best friend.

If only he knew he was placing you both where you most wanted to be when he suggested Javi give you a ride home, waving you both off through the car window with no idea Javi's cum sat dripping out your cunt, staining the car seat.

Your phone buzzes to life in your hand, slipping you out of your memories.

Your father’s contact name reads clearly on the screen.

Hitting decline one more time, you roll over and try ignore the gathering slick between your thighs.

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

Mr, I don’t want a label You made me a little miss unstable (And it)

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

Pick out a tree, synthetic, and lump the box up the countless stairs to your apartment.

Try not to think of how he would’ve insisted on helping, refused to let you carry it.

Even if it culminated in him doubled over in pain, clutching his lower back.

Lights, baubles, action.

The tree’s smaller than you expect, barely reaching your hip, but it’s green, tree-shaped and festive. It’s enough.

Your decorations are minimal, a few inconsequential things you picked out your parents’ stash. There’s a Santa hat, frayed with time. A few cracked baubles, with string so thin you suspect they’ll snap off. A gingerbread man ornament, a glass snow-flake. A crooked star, missing one of its points, tops the tree.

A homemade snowman, one you’d gifted your parents after a busy day in nursery. Neither of them had the heart to tell you you’d made its nose a rather phallic shape.

And then there's the red phone-box, nestled somewhere in the middle, an etching of LONDON brandishing it as a reminder of your trip.

You’d picked it up in a tiny bookstore, right next door to The Distillery Club.

The winter season has never felt so lonesome, tucked away in your grown-up apartment. 

There’s no fireplace to warm your hands, no hot cocoa boiling on the stove. No cheesy hallmark movies to laugh at with your mother, no racing past your father to grab the last slice of dessert.

It’s just you, alone, with only your wandering mind as company.

Sometimes, more often than not, it wanders to him. To if he’s alone.

To if he’s filling his heart as easily as he fills his bed.

To if he’s finally bought a second seat for his dingy balcony.

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

He hums, brows furrowing, lips pouting, smoke dragging into his lungs.

The cigarette sits perched between two fingers of the hand resting on your knee, his other curled around your waist.

“Some what?”

“Tactic,” you repeat. Watch him blow a puff a smoke, taste his ash at the back of your throat. “Only having one chair, so pretty girls have no choice but to sit in your lap.”

He lets his gaze wander away from the streets below and up to you, sitting pretty in his lap. Like a cat, draped over his thighs.

Nothing but his own rumpled, inside-out shirt to cover your skin.

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

Fingerprint bruises littering your hips, bitemarks etched into your collarbone.

“I gave you a choice,” he speaks with a reservation he didn’t have before, when he’d offered you a ride home from the bar. There’s an etching of something that’s diluting his expressions, sinking him deeper and deeper into his own pensive mind. “You were the one who insisted on sitting on me.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

Nails pinch at your thigh, causing a squeal out of you.

A few birds fly off a nearby wire, a head or two turn in the street below.

They don’t see you, or Javi, or the lack of clothing that sits between you.

“Neither were you. In fact, you were a little busy fucking my fac-”

“Stop!” Your sudden modesty feels unearned, yet that does nothing to stop you from placing your hand over his mouth.

He licks at it, you grimace, he licks again.

Then takes another breath of nicotine, as you wipe the remnants of his spit onto his naked thigh.

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

The whiff of Javi’s post-sex smell- muted cologne, matted sweat, burnt ash- steals your senses, reminds you you’ve already done enough to disappoint your father, a cigarette can’t do much damage.

So you let him hold it up to your mouth and inhale it’s poison.

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

But that was supposed to stay in Vermont, tucked between snowy slopes and wooden cabins. Existing in a timeline separate from your reality, where you are your father’s precious daughter and Javi is his trustworthy colleague and friend, that is where it should have stayed.

And it had, for two weeks. Sixteen days, specifically. 

You’d returned to classes, to sharing lunch breaks with your father in his office, to slowly moving more of your things out the family home and into your new apartment.

And Javi, from what you heard, had returned to keeping civilians safe, to sharing a drink or two with your father at the end of the work week, to flirting with every secretary within a mile radius.

Neither of your crossed paths and, when you nearly did, the other made the effort to turn a corner, shut a door, hide behind a wall.

Until tonight.

Until you ditched your mediocre date, some lame excuse of having a last-minute paper due.

Until you’d gone to console yourself over your failing love life, unknowingly sliding into a bar stool right next to the most desired cop in town.

Until he’d turned to you, tilted his head, and asked “d’you wanna get out of here?”

He’d offered to take you home.

The drive was quiet, tense, until his hand drifted over the gearstick and you dragged it down onto your thigh.

He squeezed.

You inched it further up, till the tips of his fingers brushed at the edge of your dress.

He took the invitation, took a turning towards his own place.

Brought you into his apartment, drowned you in his fountain of kisses, begged you to sit upon his face. He’d made you see stars beneath a roofed sky, eyes rolling so far back they threatened to get stuck there.

With barely a moments recovery from a third blinding orgasm, he dragged you down the expanse of his body, sat you down on his cock and refused to help your overstimulated, puddle-brained self ride him, grinning cunningly with his back pressed against the mattress as you struggled through shaky legs.

Eventually, he tired and launched himself, arms tangling behind your back, feet planted flat behind you, hips fucking up into your battered cunt until you both came to a haltering crescendo.

He’d layed you down to rest, cleaned you of any mess, and then wandered out to his balcony, inviting you to join him when the feeling returned to your legs.

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of.

“Huh?”

“This. Us. It could be casual, y’know?” Another puff of smoke slips right through his lips. “If that’s what you’re worrying about… your dad, and all that other stuff. I don’t need a label, not if it means I get to have… We could keep it casual, if that’s what you want.”

It takes a few moments for you to fully register his words, and then a few more to formulate a response.

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

Because what else could Javier Peña, notorious womaniser, want with you if not a casual, no-strings-attached permit to sleep with you, as many times as he sees fit, without the risk of losing his job or, worse, his best friend?

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

Within a half’s hour, he’s got your hands white knuckling as they grip the metal bannister of his balcony, his own hands busy pulling your hips back to meet each of his desperate thrusts, not even the cool air of the night enough to soothe the flaming desire that burns between you.

Your stomach twists, your mouth dries, your eyes water at the thought of him out on that balcony now.

Somebody else, some new body sat in your spot, upon his lap as they exchange smoke rings and warm mouths.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think i’m alright

The Laredo sheriff’s department is known best for three things: its lack of parking, its swoon-worthy ex-DEA agent, and its office holiday parties.

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

A Christmas wreath, mistletoe hanging from every doorway, egg-nog and mulled wine.

It’s not just Christmas.

It’s menorahs, and ficus trees, and a statues of different gods.

Each piece of culture, tradition, holiday that makes up the people that inhabit the station, day in and day out, behind desks and in cop cars, filing paperwork and fetching coffees, represented in some way, celebrated.

Each member of staff is encouraged to bring their friends, their family.

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

Then there’s the gift exchange, a Secret Santa system, optional for each member of staff.

It’s the part you look forward to most.

Crowding your dad the minute he gets home on the first of December, poking and prodding till he lets it spill who he’s got.

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

Drawing up a list, made of details and anecdotes your father remembers of his target.

Dragging your shop-avoidant father down to the mall, for a day of gift hunting and sweet-tooth indulging.

Getting to watch your father’s coworker open their gift, eyes lighting up as you once again knock the ball out the park and gift them something perfectly tailored to them, winning your dad the spot of top gift-giver year after year.

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

No trying to crack just what exactly your dad should gift his person.

No waiting with baited breath to watch them open it, heart racing with that little fear of them not liking it, of you failing.

No, the moment that name fell from your father’s mouth, you knew what he needed to get.

Hinted at it, slightly.

Claimed you’d smelt it on a friend, thought it would be a good idea.

Sipping on some wine and picking at the buffet, you watch him pick up his gift.

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

Look down at the box, confused, then tear into the wrapping paper.

The whole room stops.

Not really, but it feels like it does, as somewhere across the room Javier Peña holds up a bottle of that damn cologne.

And, when his eyes instinctively find yours, it feels like everything else fades away.

Fades to grey.

It’s just him, and you. The only two within the room, holding a secret too heavy on the tongue to ever speak it aloud.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

Knows you’d watched him spray it on his skin, day in, and day out.

Knows you’d worn it on your own, sunk it deep into your pores after intertwining your souls upon wrinkled sheets.

Knows you’d watch its contents decrease over time, time you’d spent with him.

That bottle of cologne reminiscent of a timer on you both, that morning before the hospital trip becoming the last few sprays he got out of it.

Colour returns to the world that surrounds you as your dad steps into view.

He’s hugging Javi, pathetically tipsy and ignorant to the lipstick stain on his cheek, no doubt ingrained to his skin with how hell-bent he is on having your mother kiss him beneath each mistletoe.

They’re exchanging words you don’t hear, slapping one another on the back.

You turn on your heel, insides twisting as nausea overcomes you at the scene.

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

You’re trying to leave, tempted to take the good old Irish exit and just slip out a back door.

But your parents- ne, your father- are so busy show-ponying you around the room, that you fail to take a single step that goes unnoticed.

“There she is!” Your father calls out, somewhere behind you, as you slip your hand into the arm of your coat. This act sparks outrage, a frown birthing onto his face. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving too.”

You say you’re tired.

He boos, loudly, like he’s not the chief of police and a whole grown adult.

Grabs at you, lovingly, trying to pry the coat out of your hands.

The effort is minimum, and you know he’s only messing around.

You can leave, if you want to, even if he’d rather you stay.

“It’s not even midnight and you two buzzkills are leaving!” He wails, all the while he’s reaching around and helping you slip your other arm into the coat.

That’s when Javi’s face comes into view, over the arch of your dad’s shoulder, sporting a smile and a pair of keys dangling off one finger.

You try your best to counter his smile with your own, though your throat feels dry and your cheeks feel tight.

“I can’t believe I’m being betrayed like this by two of my favourite people!” The smile slips before you can catch it, eyes widening at your father’s words.

Words you’d spent months agonising over the thought of hearing. Picturing the circumstances in which he’d find out. Imagining the horrendous fallout, a red slash over Javier’s reputation. Swearing you’d quit it, quit him, and then winding up tangled in his sheets again, head pressed to his chest, eyes closed in the soundest of sleeps.

Javi plays it cool.

Nudges your dad’s shoulder, shakes his head and tells him to “quit the dramatics, viejo (old man).”

“I gotta head out to my pop’s first thing in the morning, he’s wanting me to help him rewire some of the fences.” Comes out as his excuse, one your dad can’t really argue against.

He knows better than anyone that Javi drops everything for his dad.

Well, better than anyone but you.

Your excuse, however, falls a little short, a consequence of the last minute conjuring of the lie.

“I’ve, uh, got an early class. Don’t wanna flunk out in my last year, right?”

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

And that’s how you know you’re screwed.

“Class? I thought you were on winter break.”

Javi takes the momentary distraction to shrug his coat on, over those broad shoulders.

Shoulders that twist with the rest of him, as he makes space for you in the doorway, nodding you over. Here, he’s saying without really speaking, escape with me.

So you do, tiptoeing past your parents as though, the slower and quieter you move, the less they’ll notice your approach to the exit.

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

“The library, it’s still open for the graduate students,” Javi swoops in effortlessly, dragging the spotlight off you.

He takes hold of your jacket, too, slipping the zip into place and dragging it up the length of your torso, over your chest, till it rests snuggly at your sternum.

A little too snug, making each new inhale deeper, harder, practically heaving the air into your lungs.

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

You don’t get to dwell on it too long, fortunately, for your mother lets out a gasp.

She points, eyes a little widened by excitement, at the both of you and nudges at your father.

“Look!” She tells him, and you watch in confusion as he displays her same reaction, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Then comes the laughter, straight out the depths of your dad’s belly and right to your weak heart, a melody that reminds you so much of easy Sundays and curling up next to him on the sofa, watching kids’ shows that seemed to entertain him more than you.

“Oh that’s just,” he takes a laugh break, doubling over slightly, his own finger joined in pointing at you two, beneath the doorway. “Too perfect!”

Before you can inquire on either of your parents bizarre reactions, Javi’s eyes are staring into your own and pointing upwards.

Wrapped with a red bow and barely hanging onto the door frame with a single strip of tape, a mistletoe stares down at you, two white berries like mini eyes.

When you glance at the agent once more, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking.

His shoulders are tense, his lips are pursed, his brows are furrowed. But, his eyes.

His eyes burn you with an unspoken intensity, a look he should never possess in front of your parents.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” You mom, camera in hand, urges you both, a wide grin cast upon her face.

You dad is in no better state, rushing forward to squeeze you both closer, one hand clasped over the back of Javi’s head.

When the once-agent exhales a nerve-striken breath, the warmth of it, of him, hits your neck.

“Dad, c’mon, stop-” you’ve never imagined yourself stuck like this, your mother and father both urging you to kiss a man you spent months tossing and turning in bedsheets with behind their back.

The creatively deviant part of your brain tells you this is how it could be, maybe, in some other life.

Some other life, where Javi’s not a cop, you’re new in town, and you both bump into each other at the grocery store.

Both of you reaching out for the same apple, or box of cereal, or bottle of milk.

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

He’d charm you, easily as he always has.

Get your number and then, the next day, a date.

One date leading to two, three, four, more dates.

Till you bring him home to meet your parents at last, squeezing his hand tighter when he tries to pry it away as the door opens to your father’s stern face.

It would take a while, you reckon, for your dad to see past the difference in years.

Your mother wouldn’t care, wouldn’t spare a second thought to it, not when she notices how much he makes you laugh and how he can’t keep his eyes off of you in any room you occupy.

This could be your first Christmas together, your parents begging for one sweet photo of you under the mistletoe, before you both head off to spend the rest of the holiday season with Javi’s father.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“C’mon, it’s bad luck not to!” Back in the present, in reality, your dad’s found his way over to your mother’s side. “Peña, just kiss the girl on the cheek for Christ sake, I ain’t gonna bite your head off for it this one time!”

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

Gentle, a hint of warmth, a tickle from the wisps of his well-groomed moustache.

“Get a bit closer, you’re not fully in frame!”

The flash goes off on your mother’s camera, and the two give a little cheer, and Javi wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you a little closer.

When all is said and done, your mother’s forcing you both to stare at the camera screen, a perfect picture of the most doomed couple to ever grace this Earth.

Such dramatics in your thoughts reminds you of the copious glasses of prosecco you’d downed throughout the night, and of your intentions to get yourself home before you done something stupid.

Like stand under the mistletoe with your former casual lover, the very same man your father calls for golf matches and March Madness debriefs.

Javi offers you a ride home, an idea your father approves of.

“I’m heading that way anyway, gotta pick up a few things before I drive out to the ranch.”

A part of you thinks he’s lying, wanting any excuse for a moment alone with you, but then that’s the kind of delusions you shouldn’t be feeding into.

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

You part ways at the door, your father watching you from inside.

Javi calls your name, before you can take more than a few steps.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then his arms are pulling you in, and he’s got you right against his steady chest, and he’s resting his head atop your own, arms squeezing tightly at your sides.

“Get home safe.”

He walks away before you can tell him to do the same, the door slamming to his car the last thing you hear as you pull out your phone and call a cab.

It takes twenty minutes for it to appear, in which the rain starts and your clothes get soaked, but all that and the fifteen dollar fare are a cheaper price to pay than the torture of letting Javier Peña drive you home.

Crawl up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, drop your clothes onto the floor.

You find sanctuary under the shower, soap suds and boiling water, a dynamic duo that scrub off any remnants of his skin against yours.

Even as you step out, fully cleaned and towel wrapped around yourself, you catch a hint of his cologne, the very same one you’d made sure your dad picked out for him.

And as you pick your coat off the ground, a distant voice that sounds much like your mother scolding you for leaving such a mess, you notice it.

First, just a little extra weight.

Then, scratchy paper as your hand dives into the left pocket.

The wrapping is haphazard, with an uneven bow tied atop it, but that’s not what matters.

You tear away at it, let the paper fall to the floor at your feet.

Then you’re met with a small box, which you tear open too. 

And find it sitting neatly among balls of yarn, the prettiest, most delicate looking glass bauble.

It’s ribbon a deep green, and it’s centre an image of mountain slopes, backed by a green forest and a valley full of wooden lodges.

It shakes in your grasp, and you spy the snowglobe-esque white foam that dances around within it.

In it’s centre, in bold, italic and green, Vermont.

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

You fish it out in one breath, hold it up to read what it says.

Corazón, For your tree. I hope there’s still space.

[dandylovesturtles]

I should be in bed lol but I wanted to write a turtle tot sick fic so here

I went into this with no plan and it ended up uh. way sadder than I intended. whoops.

cw: mentions of vomit

...

Blue slept through naptime. That should have been Splinter's first clue.

In the moment, he'd just been so happy to actually have four sleeping children that he'd taken the opportunity for his own nap, the old, tattered storybook he'd been reading them draped over his face. He never managed to get Blue to wind down enough to sleep, so he usually had to quietly entertain him with books or the tv on low until the others woke up. But his Baby Blue had conked out almost immediately today, and soon Splinter was snoozing right along with them.

Blue was also the last to wake up. That should have been the second clue.

Splinter was woken up by Orange, talking in loud, disjointed sentences with plenty of nonsense words as he played with an old plastic telephone Splinter had found them. Red was racing his toy cars, making his own sound effects as they skid across the floor and crashed into the wall. Only Purple was quiet, industriously sorting his legos by color and size.

Splinter sat up, letting the book slide off his face, and took stock. It was surprising to see Blue still curled up against his leg even in the midst of all the racket his brothers were making. "Blue?" he said softly, giving the little turtle a nudge. Blue blinked his eyes open, groggily looking around. "Naptime is over."

Blue pushed himself up into a sitting position, then rubbed clumsily at his eyes. He looked so tired still that Splinter debated telling him he could keep sleeping, even if it might make putting him to bed later more difficult.

But once Blue was up, he saw Red racing his cars and pushed quickly to his feet, hurrying over to join in the game. Almost immediately he was demanding Red hand over one of the cars and setting up an elaborate make-believe track for their race, so Splinter let it go.

Thirty minutes later, Blue tugged on Splinter's old sweatpants and said, "Daddy, my tummy hurts." In hindsight, this is exactly when Splinter should have put it together.

But the kids rarely got sick - a benefit of whatever Draxum had put in the gunk that turned them into this, Splinter assumed. Which was a blessing, because he was pretty limited in what medicine he could get in his condition. The boys having a hearty immune system was one of the few things Splinter had going for him.

So he hadn't moved to that conclusion. Instead he said, "Do you need to go potty?" and Blue had considered that very seriously for a few seconds before nodding and rushing off to the bathroom.

Orange threw the plastic phone into Purple's meticulously organized lego piles and Splinter moved on to the next crisis without another thought.

It was at dinner, when he caught Blue pushing his food (mac'n'cheese!) around without interest, that it finally clicked that maybe he should be worried.

"Blue, what's wrong?"

Blue didn't so much as look up. He shrugged, swirling his noodles around and around.

Splinter would be embarrassed to admit how long it took him to remember their earlier conversation, but it eventually came back to him. "Ah... Is your stomach still hurting?"

Blue's face scrunched up in misery, and he nodded.

Splinter groaned in exasperation. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did!"

"I mean after you went potty."

Blue grimaced. Instead of answering, he scooped up some mac'n'cheese and stuffed it in his mouth. He looked like he regretted it as soon as he'd done it.

"Do not spit that out," said Splinter immediately, because mac'n'cheese was one of the few things Purple would eat and if Blue spat it out in front of him it would go on his Bad Foods list for at least a month. And Orange had a habit of mimicking anything Blue did, which would only compound the problem.

Blue chewed and swallowed the mouthful agonizingly slowly. He looked so miserable afterward that Splinter felt bad about it.

"Are you going to throw up, Blue?" he asked, and got a furious head shake in response. "Are you just telling me that?" Another shake. "Do you want to keep eating?" A third shake. Splinter sighed and took his bowl from him. "Alright. I'll put this in the fridge, if you want it later."

Their mini-fridge was already stuffed full, but Splinter would simply have to make space, or throw all this mac'n'cheese out. He wished they had a bigger fridge, but just getting this back to the juncture in the sewers he called a home had been difficult enough.

He wished he had a bigger fridge. He wished he had a house. He wished he had a pediatrician to take Blue to. He wished he wasn't a rat man. He wished he and his kids were... normal.

It was a bad thought. He knew that as soon as he thought it, and he tried to push it down. The kids didn't need to know they weren't normal. That none of this was normal. He knew that, but...

"Throw up?" he heard Purple say, and then the telltale sound of him pushing his bowl away. Mac'n'cheese was on the Bad Foods list. Splinter groaned.

...

He found their old thermometer after the boys were finished eating. Getting a temperature from Blue was near impossible because he moved it around too much or spat it out before time was up, but Splinter would have to do his best.

After three tries, he got a reading that seemed accurate enough. Blue's body ran colder than a human child's, and it had taken observation and trial and error for Splinter to learn what constituted as a fever. As it was, Blue was only two degrees above his normal. So at least that wasn't too worrying.

He was still complaining that his stomach hurt, though. A stomach bug, then? Or just something he ate? Usually Red was the one who would put random things in his mouth unless Splinter kept a careful watch, but Blue and Orange were... adventurous eaters, too. It was possible.

They continued with their normal bedtime routine. Another thing Splinter had going for him was that his boys loved baths; getting them into their makeshift tub, even with lukewarm water, was always easy. From his research, Red, Blue, and Purple were all aquatic turtles, and Orange was not one to be left out of his brothers’ games no matter his biology.

Blue wasn't excited for bath time tonight, though. He sat quietly in the tub, making grumpy noises anytime he got splashed and playing only with his favorite blue shark toy, ignoring everything else. He definitely felt bad. Splinter was feeling increasingly terrible that he hadn't noticed.

He got them all toweled off and into their pajamas. Then into the pallet beds he had for them, all in one big shared alcove, a tattered curtain strung up for a semblance of privacy. They would need something more as they got older, but for now the boys seemed content to share space.

He tucked Red, Purple, and Orange in, then turned his attention to Blue. He had found an old bucket earlier that he (theoretically) used for mopping, and this he presented to Blue.

"If you are going to throw up, please do it in this," he told Blue. "We don't have any spare sheets."

"Not gonna," said Blue grumpily, pushing the bucket away.

"Ewww," whined Purple. "I don't want to share with Leo if he throws up."

"Not gonna!" Blue insisted, glaring at Purple, who glared back. Splinter sighed and pushed the bucket at Blue again.

"I am serious, Leonardo," he said, and that got Blue's attention. "If you throw up, do it in this bucket."

Instead of answering, Blue rolled over and scrunched himself up in a ball. That was the best Splinter was going to get, he supposed, so he just sighed and put the bucket next to Blue's bed.

"Good night, boys," he said as he got to his feet, ignoring the crackles from his back and knees.

"Good niiiight," came three echoes. Blue was giving him the silent treatment. Alright.

He went back to his own bed, sectioned off by an old divider screen he'd managed to find. Hopefully they could at least get through the night without disaster striking.

...

According to his beat up alarm clock, it was only two hours later when Red showed up by his bedside, shaking him awake urgently.

Splinter groaned his way into consciousness, blinking groggy eyes until his eldest son came into focus.

"Leo threw up," came Red's predictable report.

Splinter sighed, pushing his sheets aside and rising from his futon. "Did he make it in the bucket?"

Red's expression was not encouraging.

...

He had not made it in the bucket.

Blue sat stock still in the puddle of his own sick, eyes teary and expression a mix between stunned and embarrassed. Purple was pressed as close to the opposite wall as he could get, hands pressed tight over his nose and mouth. Orange was at Blue's side, patting his arm with his chubby little hand.

"Blue," Splinter snapped as soon as he saw the mess. "Why didn't you throw up in the bucket!?"

"Didn't think I was gonna," Blue croaked.

"Well, you did. All over your sheets." Splinter ran his hands over his tired eyes. "Now you have nothing for tonight. And who knows if I'll even be able to get the stain out. I may have to go all the way to the surface to get new ones, and do you know what a hassle that is!? The bucket was right here, Blue!"

"I'm sorry."

The miserable hiccup in Blue's voice effectively stopped Splinter's tirade, and he refocused on his son. Blue's tears had spilled over, streaking down his miserable face. He was shivering, hands clutching the fabric of his ruined sheets, wringing them tight. He looked terrified.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," he repeated. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Something inside Splinter cracked.

Leo was only four, by his best guess. He was a baby, still. A sick baby, and Splinter was yelling at him about... about bed sheets?

Blue didn't know that Splinter would have to steal him new sheets. He didn't know that Splinter feared every time he did something so risky, that it might expose their tiny family to hostile forces - the human authorities, Big Mama's goons, Draxum's gargoyles. He didn't know that Splinter should be taking him to a doctor right now. He didn't know that sleeping on a pallet bed in the sewers wasn't normal.

He just knew that he had thrown up, and his dad was mad about it.

Immediately, Splinter stooped and scooped the still-apologizing Blue into his arms. He was getting bigger all the time, and, somehow, Splinter was getting smaller, but he could still hold his boys in his arms, still cradle them against his chest.

"Blue... Leo, listen to me."

"I'm sorry," Blue mumbled again, followed by a sad, wet hiccup.

"Shh, shh, no, my son, please listen." He waited until teary eyes were turned on him to continue. "You don't need to apologize. You did nothing wrong."

"Missed the bucket," said Blue, and Splinter shook his head.

"That's alright. You're sick. It is my job to take care of these things." He scratched at the back of Blue's shell with the arm holding him, something he knew always calmed Blue down. Sure enough, he felt his boy begin to relax. "Do not worry about the sheets. If Daddy needs to get more, he will. For now we will all share."

Blue sniffed, and buried his face in Splinter's chest. That was a good sign. Splinter kept up the scraching.

"I'm sorry I yelled. You aren't in trouble, Blue. You're alright."

Blue sniffled again. Hiccupped one last time. His tears were drying up, and his little voice said, "S'okay, Daddy."

"Oh, my Baby Blue... Thank you."

He still felt terrible as he lowered Leo back to his bed and started to strip away the soiled sheets, but Leo had calmed down considerably. He kept the bucket close, though, even as he laid back down again on his pillow.

"Leo can have my blanket," said Red, already pulling the old thing over. Splinter smiled gratefully at him.

"Thank you, Red. Blue, do you think you will throw up again?"

Blue shrugged. "Dunno."

"That's alright. It's okay if you do." Splinter smoothed the blanket over Blue, not tucking him in so he could move if he needed to. "I'll get this sheet washed out and be back, alright?"

Blue nodded. He was still gripping the bucket with one hand. Splinter rubbed his head, then stood up with his bundle of soiled sheets.

When he returned, with water for Blue, he'd thrown up again - in the bucket, this time. Orange was still by him, rubbing his arm, while Red sat behind him, supporting his back. Even Purple had come close, awkwardly patting at Blue's leg while pointedly avoiding looking at the bucket.

"Thank you for taking such good care of Blue," he told them, getting three beaming smiles in return.

They were all going to have the bug by tomorrow. Splinter would need to find more buckets.

[gladiatorcunt]

Okay everyone walk w me here..

HEAR. ME OUT.

Its the peacekeeper era. Sej and Coryo are bunkmates w benefits if you catch my drift, and by that i mean Coryo is a bottom bitch for Sej bcs c'mon look at him. You call up Sejanus one night (ur his gf, lets pretend he doesn't get nerfed) all needy and just overall upset because you miss him!!

And since Sej hasn't heard your lovely sleepy voice in so so long, he gets all worked up over it. And one thing leads to another and Coryo is sat there sucking off Sej as he pays no mind to the blonde boy beneath him, he's simply stood there cooing at you for being such a brave girl for being on your own and talking you through an orgasm as he has his own <3

toxic sej bandwagon everyone jump on rn

this was word vomit so i hope u get my vision

thank u for listening 🗣

(that picture is so me, like look at me admiring my bf y’all)

sejanus with reader: 😍💍💋

sejanus with coryo: 😴😒🐕‍🦺

This is so crazy, I love toxic Sej and I kind of like to think of the scenario as one where since Sej and reader are apart, he uses Coryo like a toy. And Coryo's fine with it at the end of the day, because when your voice is coming through the phone over his head, it's the closest he'll ever get to having you both, but he knows Sej wouldn't let him touch you. (or would he) He jerks himself off after Sej has fallen asleep with you on the phone and hangs up for him (which makes Sej fuck his mouth harder the next night).

It's so bizarre bc to Sej, no part of the situation is that big of a deal and you'd never need to know what went down in the bunk beds because it's not like he cheated or anything.

When they return to the capitol (both alive lmao), it would be so funny if Sejanus just dropped Coryo because he didn't need him anymore. Now Coryo can't entertain himself with his delusions and he'll have to cum alone without Sej's touch or your voice, and this is when he kind of snaps and falls into more of his canon behavior and develops a psychosexual obsession with the two of you.

Begs him to let Coryo suck him off on the train ride back one last time, bottles Sej's cum to lube up his cock when Coryo inevitably has enough and gets you alone so he can breed you. He claims that way the baby would share dna with both him AND Sej, he might genuinely believe it too. Sejanus had called you as soon as he realized Coryo was heading to your place, hoping that you would get distracted and leave the line open. Or maybe he had no idea what would happen, you'd certainly never expect him to be an instigator.

[wosoamazing]

First Game

Summary: You are getting to go to your Mums' game for the first time, but it isn't any ordinary game it is the Conti Cup Final

Warnings: Mention of vomiting (Alessia spins reader and Katie warns that she might throw up - thats it)

A/N: I know I said date night would be out first but this came to mind, it is a skip in time but I will go back and fill in. It's only short... Also if you have any ideas please send them through.

Today was the first time you were going to an Arsenal game. Katie and Caitlin wanted to wait a bit, well more like 2 years, before you came to their games, so every game day you were left at home with your babysitter, or occasionally with their friends but more recently it was Ella, one of your Ma’s many sisters. But today was different, they dressed you in a pair of black leggings, and the mini Arsenal Jersey they bought for you, your Ma had done your hair in plaited pigtails clipping two red bows at the top of them, and your Mum put you in your baby Nike Airs, much to your displease. They loaded you up in the car, it was only a short trip, but then you were put on a bus, it was longer, and you got very bored.

_____

“Wan” you said as you pointed to the jacket your Ma was wearing, your Mum handed her your jumper and tried to put it on you, “no,” you pouted as you stamped your foot. “Wan yours” “no, you can have yours or none,” your Ma told you, “hmf” you grunted in reply before crossing your arms and walking away, over to Kyra and Alessia. Your Mum’s had turned their backs and so Kyra quickly slipped her jacket on you, causing you to beam at her. “What, how?” “Kywa,” you pointed, still grinning ear to ear, your Mum glared at Kyra before picking you and walking out to the bench with you. Today the coaches walked out with the teams, something was said about it being a final, something about a cup.

You didn’t quite understand what was going on but it was all very tense, you sat intensely watching the ball, which Steph found very cute, as did all the other players, Caitlin was actually kind of relieved that you had the large puffy jacket on, which was way oversized, as it created a shield around your face, meaning you were safe from the public's phones. Your Mum had to go warm up and so you were handed to Leah, who you decided to have a short nap on, considering the game had been going for some time. At the 105th minute you were handed to your Ma as she was subbed off, which caused you to wake up, just 11 minutes later the stadium erupted in cheers as Stina scored the first goal of the game, putting Arsenal in front.

The full time whistle was blown and everyone jumped up, running to celebrate, you were handed off between staff members before you somehow ended up in Sam’s arms, but you weren’t mad, you quite liked Sam, and she was part of the blue team, blue was your favourite colour.

“Ma, Mummy” you cried out at one stage realising you didn't know where they were. “Hey y/n, its okay they’re over there, see” she said pointing and you nodded.

“I be wif em?” Sam shook her head, “no, because you see soon they are going to spray an adult drink on them and you are only little so you have to stay with me, but then soon you can go back with them,” you pouted as you gave her a small nod.

Not long after you Ma came running over, “Ma” you yelled, “Hi munchkin, do you want to go see Mummy and everyone else,” you nodded eagerly, “Thank you Sam,” she said as she walked away.

You were passed around player to player, them all celebrating with you and getting photos with you, Kyra put you on her shoulders and ran around causing you to giggle, Alessia threw you up into the air and then spun you around before she was cautioned by your Ma to stop, “If she throws up its your fault and you’re cleaning it,” those words caused Alessia to immediately stop and place you onto her hip, you just curled into her side, relaxing, she didn't mind at all.

The bus ride home was very noisy but you didn’t mind it, you just joined in the celebrations jumping up and down the aisle of the bus. Once you arrived home your Mum got you changed as your Ma filled a sippy cup up with milk, once you were changed into your comfy PJs you promptly climbed into their bed, right in the middle. “Oh do you want to sleep with us?” “Weep, ogether?” you asked with your best puppy dog eyes, “Of course,” You Ma said as she handed you your milk, they got under the covers, you laid in the middle of them as you watched a bluey episode, sipping on your milk.

“Its safe to say this wasn't how I planned on celebrating, especially considering we leave for international break tomorrow.” Your Mum chuckled, as she leant towards your Ma, who placed a soft kiss on her lips, “I know, but how could we say no to her?” “She really is adorable isn't she,”

[kittysarchive]

Corruption with seungmin! <3

Seungmin from skz? 😂

You were so innocent...so wet and so unsure. You were more then just a Virgin, and that whole idea made Seungmin want to corrupt, and so he did.

Hips plunging into your virgin pussy, you cried out. Seungmin told you it would feel so good, so why did it feel like you were bleeding? He continued to thrust into you, it hurt so much....you started to cry, Seungmin said that was normal.

"Keep whining like a slut baby" His grip was firm on your hair as his hips futtered into you, like the crazed animal he was.

"So dirty" He remarked, hips crashing into yours. Feeling his tip constantly prod at your cervix, you felt like vomiting....it felt weird, it hurt, he was mean....but you liked it?

Hearing you no longer cry for him to stop, to rest, to get off, he felt like he had done his job right.

"You like this?" Seungmin teased, his cock filling you up. Nodding your head fast, you felt a bulge in your stomach, he was so big, so dominate, so powerful, he held so much control over you.

"D-don't stop" You speak out, moaning as he speeds up his thrusts. Never regretting your words, you clench hard around him. For you first time, your body knew what to do.

"Such a slut, clenching around my thick cock, am I filling you up well?" Whining loudly, you loved how he treated you. For your first time, you didn't mind all the insults....

"Y-yes Daddy" Hearing the words fall out of your mouth, his hips snapped forward. Such a slut....Such a whore calling him daddy this early on.

"Open your mouth baby" And you did so, swallowing his spit with a smile on your face. Fuck, you looked so cute, so sluty...so corrupted. The round cumming to an end, he needed to cum hard, and soon.

"Where do you want it slut?" Seeing your smile, seeing how you clenched hard around him, your innocent smile, innocent virgin pussy had long gone, all in the span of a few minutes....you were learning so quickly.

"My face...." He felt butterflies, hearing you flirty voice, he quickly pulled out of your slightly bleeding pussy. Cumming hard over your face, his seed was decorated with red.

His seed falling onto your closed eyes, mouth and cheeks. Fuck you looked so beautiful like this. Opening your eyes, you licked your lips, tasting his cum. Salty and thick....just how you liked it.

[thatwritterbeach]

one messed up bat .6

Dc masterlist

batfam x reader x jason

Summary: a relapse, some comforting words and breakfast that doesn't go to plan

Warnings: sa, talk of assault, self harm, self hate, semi-comfort, dissociation kind of a long episode, self harm during said episode, mention of vomit vague, anxiety attack, panic, blood, eating disorder (none, restrictive or compulsive, meal tracking)

A/N: I do not own dc boo hoo

It was their fault really. I mean they were supposed to be watching her, Jason was supposed to be sharing a bed with her. It's hardly her fault that upon waking up alone from one of the worst nightmares she'd ever had her first thought was an old comfortable habit. And that my dear friend is how she found herself curled up on the bathroom floor, the door locked, and a pocket knife she didn't remember stashing clutched in a shaky hand. She should call for help, should put in the minimal effort of simply sending an sos text. Two words, sos bathroom, not that hard. Certainly easier than standing and walking through the halls in search of somebody. She figured a few of them were out on patrol and had hoped at least Jason would be home, but she knew he could only be cooped up for so long and he probably assumed one of the others would stay with her. Maybe they expected Damian to keep her company. No matter, there wasn't anybody here and if she didn't do something she was gonna pass out from a panic attack so oh well.

"Just one," she promised herself quietly before fumbling to get her pants off while she was still sitting. (hard to write angsty y'all with why'd you only call me when you're high playing)

Blade clean and legs clean and the floor not so clean and breathes coming so fast she was shaking she slashed once at her inner thigh, high up enough all her shorts would cover it. The relief was a flood, all consuming and as beautiful as crashing waves to the point it brought her to tears. She'd missed it, missed the rush, and the high, and calm.

Yeah one wasn't gonna cut it, pun intended.

Guilt was tickling the back of her hazy mind but she could worry about that later. Finally after fifteen or so shallow cuts she was cool as a cucumber. There was hardly any blood, all of them barely bubbling up from her careful and light pressure. She stood up to clean herself off and nearly fell back down when someone knocked.

"Hey, you alive in there. My shift," came Dick's voice.

"Just a sec." Well crap.

"Sorry I'm late, Jay didn't tell me he wasn't here until like twenty minutes ago and I have no idea how long he's been gone but I was out and-"

"It's fine Dickie, I'm not gonna blow up or nothin'."

"Don't joke."

She opened the door after cleaning up her mess with a quick eye roll where he could see then she was showing him her arms and the tops on her thighs with and easily forced bored expression.

"What about your ribs?"

Another eyroll while she held up her shirt.

"Wanna see more ya gotta buy me dinner."

"Eww, don't joke like that I'm your brother."

"I gotta be uncomfy you gotta be," she said with a shrug and slid past him to get her bed.

"So dramatic," he said flopping himself down on the mattress.

"Looks who's talking," she snarked grabbing the throw blanket at the end to toss over him.

"No cuddles," he said with a pout.

"Had a bad dream, don't feel all that cuddly."

"Sorry."

"Didn't know you were sand man," she snorted climbing under the covers putting a good amount of space between them.

"I got promoted, or demoted depending on how you look at it."

"Demoted," she agreed laying down and facing away from him. He lasted all of two minutes before she heard him shift and just knew she wasn't gonna like it.

"We used to talk," he said softly.

"Dick don't-"

"I know I've slacked off, ok, I moved away and stopped checking in, and then I only heard from you once a month and I tried even less with Tim. And I went back through and you were the one to start the conversation, every time, and I feel like shit about that, I know that's on me. Then you tried to reach out for help and I was an ass." He scrubbed a hand down his face and through his hair and she knew has was consciously stopping himself from hugging her, he was touchy person.

"Is there a point to this?'

"Before I was an ass, back when we talked once a week why didn't you tell me. I would have helped, would have let you move in or convinced B you needed your own place or-"

"Dick, I've been doing this for so long I stopped caring about getting better. I only called you because...pinkie swear you won't repeat this," she said holding her arm behind her in the general direction of his. His pinkie found hers in seconds.

"Being, benched, grounded if you will...it made me feel small, like a kid being scolded for touching a hot stove or... I don't know but it was jarring and I forgot that I was an adult. And I just remember us being so close when I was younger, and you always gave the best hugs, and I kept thinking...maybe if I told you, you could fix it, my big brother. I knew you were upset about what happened but you've never held onto anything too long and I thought you'd be cooled off. Sorry." His hand enveloped hers.

"I'm such a bitch." She snorted.

"Not gonna argue with that."

"I know nothing I say is gonna make it better. I was criminally neglectful-"

"You're not my parent."

"No, but I am your big brother and I shouldn't have snapped at you. You should feel like you can always talk to me, always. Even if you got a hangnail and wanna complain about it-"

"Not doing that."

"You should! You should snap me or dm me or hell send me an email with a picture of your nail with the caption 'this bitch' and I should respond with a 'yeah can't believe that what a ho' and we should be able to have easy fun and flowing conversation again. But you should also feel ok bringing me the heavier stuff. You should know that if you sent me an sos I would be there. Or if you have a nightmare," he gave her hand a pointed squeeze," you should be able to call me and we can talk until the sun comes up and hate ourselves for the drousyness the next day-"

"Dick I'm not calling you for a -"

"You should! Damnit You're my little sister and I love you. I shouldn't have, fuck I shouldn't have let you go so long without making you know you could turn to me. I know it's tense between me and B but that has nothing to do with you or the others. If you need, if you or Tim or the others," he amended," need me to come to the manor I will. If you need to come stay the night or an ice cream run or a fucking pen you call me, text me, send a carrier pigeon." He was getting louder with each sentence and she half expecting him to start yelling and shaking her shoulders. She'll blame the nostalgia of having her brother there for what comes out of her mouth.

"I relapsed," she said simply, quietly.

"I'm proud of you for telling me." No lecture, no demanding to see them, just acceptance for who she was and where she was at. It made her throat tight.

"Say sike right now," she joked, finally rolling over to look at him. The soft smile on his face hardly visible in the dark but it made her insides churn. She didn't deserve it damnit. She didn't deserve his dismissal over the years but she couldn't handle him like this.

"Did you clean them?"

"No," she admitted trying to take her hand back from his but he used it to pull her towards him instead. His arms were like chains, she knew from experience, there was no escaping a Grayson hugtm.

"Are they deep?"

"No."

"then we can handle it later, or Jay can, or Tim, or Alfred, or whoever you want to. Hell you can clean them and I'll take your word for it."

"Why," she asked into his chest.

"What do you mean?"

"I've been keeping secrets for years and am notably a good liar so why?"

"Because you are a good liar, you could have easily kept your relapse to yourself, but you didn't. It would be ideal to know before you try something but I'm proud of you for being honest after the fact," he said before she felt a slight pressure on her scalp and if she felt a few tears she wasn't gonna bring it up.

___

When she woke up a green eyed Jason was watching her from the floor where he sat with his chin on the mattress.

"Do you need to punch something," she asked pointing to her own eyes. he blinked the pit fueled haze left. "You're getting better at that. 'M proud."

"Need me to hit him," he asked using his eyes to gesture to Dick who was passed out sideways on the bed his arms wrapped around her waist and his head on the bed next to her. It looked like he was gonna have a neck ache and she couldn't remember him getting into the position but oh well not her problem.

"Neh, we were up kinda late talking, just help me escape."

"Anytime princess." He grabbed a pillow to ease under Dick's arm over her stomach and pried up so she could roll out before Dick clamped down onto the pillow and let out a sigh.

"M up."

"Well why didn't you let go, I've had to pee for like an hour," she hissed at his flicking his shoulder.

"You coulda' said 'at."

"Yeah whatever, for my ailment I require at least two pancakes and," she paused to tap her chin even though only Jay could see," you get to hold the apple when I next throw knives circus boy."

"Nope, no knives nice try though," Jason tisked at her tossing her over his shoulder and walking the few steps to her bathroom. He plunked her down on the floor, pecked her on the nose and promptly closed the door in her face. The shock had her blinking at the wood before she shrugged and handled her business. She could hear them talking but not what was being said and they weren't beating down the door yet so she opted to clean and bandage her cuts. They weren't bad and had no risk of infection, she wasn't stupid, so she just used and alcohol wipe and slapped a large bandaid on the area then used a sports wrap for good measure before sliding her (Jason's) boxers back on and washing her hands. There was no longer talking in the other room. She opened the door and pumped some lotion onto her dry hands, she hated touching door handles with anything on her hands, and headed into the room while she rubbed the lemon scented lovelyness in.

"So, my pancakes," she asked with a head tilt and a few toe taps. Both men were on the bed and looked at her with slightly unequal fondness. Jason with heart eyes and Dick with older brother love. Jason made grabby hands at her.

"Hugs first," he demanded with a pout," Dickibird had you all night." She rolled her eyes but allowed herself to be pulled down onto his leg his arms coming around her and his face getting buried into her neck. He sniffed before pulling her hand up to his face and inhaling deeply.

"Weirdo, it's just lemon," she chided but didn't take her hand back.

"Smells like sugar."

"Dick tell your brother to stop sniffing me."

"Uh uh, nope, he's your responsibility now, remember to feed and water him," Dick said hopping off the bed and ditching.

"That true," she asked Jay carding her free hand through his hair," or can you feed and water yourself." The tone was light with an underlying seriousness. He could have gotten hurt on patrol of wherever the hell he had gone and he wouldn't ever tell her, the hypocrite.

"Might need some water every once in a while," he said softly.

"Need some now?"

"Yeah," he said on a sigh.

"Where?"

"Ma shoulder." She hummed and gently rolled the sleeve of his t-shirt up to examine his left. Nothing. On to the right and yep there was brushing.

"D'ya pop it back in?"

"Didn' pop out, just hit a wall too hard swingin'."

Not taking his word for it she gently poked and prodded to be sure and was sickened when he didn't so much as shudder in pain. She crossed her fingers it was the pit healing and he hadn't taken too much of something. Satisfied it was only really bad bruising she gave the area a kiss and rolled his sleeve back down.

"All better," he said with a smile. And so was born the code water, not the best but it was more an inside joke than anything.

"I uh, got my own water but you can check if you want," she said tapping her own thigh.

"Dickie check 'em?"

"No, said he trusted me to clean them."

"Good 'nough for me."

"Are you using your accent more on purpose?"

"Why, don't like it?"

"Love it," she said getting a fist full of his hair to guide his lips to hers. The kiss was soft and slow even with her fingers tangled in his scalp and his own on her back and hip. The dreamy eyed look he gave her when she ran out of air had her stomach rolling with guilt from her relapse and she dropped her head to his chest unable to maintain eye contact.

"Can I have my pancakes now?" It was a small request, one she didn't even truly mean but he saw it for what it was, she wanted out of her room on her terms, not dragged out and forced to socialize against her will.

"Yeah, 'm sure Dick told Alf." He went to stand with her in his arms but she squeaked and wiggled to floor before he could.

"Your shoulder," she tisked at him gently, opting to hold his hand instead and lead him out of the room.

"Yes mom."

"Want me to bend you over my knee," she asked looking at him with the most innocent eyes. He shuddered and she smirked.

"None of that for a long time," he said bumping his hip into her.

"Thanks," she said bumping him back. She could tease all day but they'd already agreed to wait, she got sick just thinking about taking her clothes off for someone and he said that was fine. Of course her brain didn't believe that. the dude lied and went off to kill the joker without her. She knew he's had...relations, since coming back from the dead. Knew he was familiar with his body and how to use it in a way she envied. She wasn't blind, he was hot, pitfire hot, and he was a drug lord and he frequented bars and she really shouldn't have been surprised the first time she saw him leave with girl way prettier than her, and it shouldn't have hurt the second time. The third sent her sprinting for a place to empty her stomach and she couldn't eat for two days after, picturing the girls trim waist and ignoring her own which was well muscled and she would have loved on anyone but herself. The fourth time she watched him take a girl home she laid into her flesh with a blade like she hadn't in years and-

"-oll, sweetheart, babydoll, honeypumpkin, Y/n!" Oh that was Jason.

"Huh," she asked dumbly her eyes unfocused and breathing painful now that she thought about it.

"Deep breath, we got pancaked to eat," he demanded holding her hand to his chest and taking overly dramatic breaths. She blinked at him and realized with complete and all consuming self hatred they were in the kitchen and their were too many eyes on her and she was too hot and her skin itched and her eyes burned and head hurt and she needed out. Out of her own skin and away from them and-

"-p, stop, please be careful." It was Jason again that much she knew, but she wasn't sure what he wanted her to stop doing, she was just scratching her arms in panic and...oh, she realized her fingers felt cool and a glance down showed blood.

"Huh," she mummbled again, still blinking too fast, or was it too slow?

He was holding both her hands to his chest again and she could feel the rise and fall it felt the same as he own so she couldn't understand why he was talking about deep breaths. She was breathing which she apparently said out loud because a reply came from behind her.

"No you're not, kid come on in and out." The new voice pulled her back tight against a firm chest and the smell of lavender made her head hurt more. Dick.

"C'n't, m head. Sm'l, s'too strong," the last word the clearest as she forced it past her aching lungs and huh guess she wasn't breathing. He vision swam as Dick was replaced with someone not wearing too much lavender hair gel but this someone was shorter. Her height ish but the chest was still firm and the arms around her toned.

"You're gonna pass out." Oh, that was Tim.

"T'm?"

"Yep, that's me I'm here, come on you nerd just breathe, if you pass out I'm eating every pancake and waffle."

Right pancakes. She could smell them now, along with different versions of sugary syrup and fruit. She focused on the smell of fake strawberries, and pictured the red syrup-nope, nope, nothing red, that makes her vision swim more. Blueberries, she could think of blueberries, not her favorite syrup flavor but doable, if Damian didn't eat it all, he loved his fruit. She hoped he wasn't here to see this. The smells got stronger as she was moved further into the room and she tried to reach for the bottles she could see to her left. She was in Bruce's lap, she realized Jason crouched in front of her and her wrists still in his grasp. Damnit, she wanted the syrup. She wanted her pancakes. At least she could see them now, her vision returning and ears not ringing as loud. Her chest hurt but she was taking easier breathes and she looked around to get her bearings. Dick was on the other side of the kitchen washing his hair out in the sink while Alfred helped. She was still sitting in Bruce's lap, Tim was gently wiping her forearms, Jason was sitting now, still holding her hands but less from. Damian was crying two seats over, and-wait, Damian was crying two seats over!

"Dami," she croaked clearing her throat to try again. "Dami, I'm ok now, promise." She knew she looked like shit and it made the statement all but useless. He ran from the room followed quickly by Alfred. Dick took the seat next to her.

"That sucked," she said head drooping onto her adopted father's shoulder against her will. She was still pissed at him, but she was so tired.

"What triggered it," Jason asked with concealed panic. Right she'd probably made him blame himself. And given him a heart attack. She didn't answer just closed her eyes and took gloriously easy breathes.

"Sorry, I forgot you don't like lavender," Dick said. He had a dish towel around his shoulders catching the water droplets from his sink bath.

"Gives me a headache,' she supplied giving him a thumbs up.

"I'll toss it."

She gave another less stable thumbs up and forced herself to sit up straight.

"Can I have my pancakes now?" They all jumped to say no, afraid she might not keep them down but Bruce beat them to it readjusting her like she was still a kid and fed her from his plate. He got syrup on her shirt, just a drop, but she hated being dirty in her pj's and her hands clenched and un-clenched nervously at her side making the next few bites hard to swallow. Half a pancake later she felt human, aside from the syrup drop taunting her, the other had moved away to their seats to taking slow bites of their own food. Jason looked like hell and she knew she couldn't explain why she'd had her freak out.

"Has this happened before," Bruce asked, eating after she'd shook her head at another bite.

"I don't think so, but it could have. Sometimes I space out, but it's never lasted so long. Never in the field," she was quick to say.

"What brought it on," Jason tried again, and the look in his made the pancakes roll in the stomach.

"Can I have some water," she asked in reply. He looked torn, but grabbed a bottle from the fridge and set it in front of his chair. She tilted her head at him but he ignored the look and took her from Bruce to have in his own lap. She flinched when he sat and her mind started up again calling her overweight, saying she would hurt his leg. He held her to one side and grabbed the water before she could reach for it. She took it from him and tried to twist the cap, but her hands weren't working yet, the girl strength in her fingers gone. She grew frustrated the longer she tried. Her jaw ticked and she was seconds from throwing it in a fit when Jason took pity and opened it, going so far as to hold it to her lips. Her family treating her like a child and passing her around the table was pissing her off but she didn't fight him and took slow sips until he seemed pleased and set it on the table. She didn't dare pick it up, she'd probably spill it.

She fished her phone out of Jason's pocket where she knew it to be so she could check the time but he snatched it back before she could even push the button.

"Hey," she grumbled. He slid it to Dick who pocketed the device.

"Not till you talk, what made you-"

"Freak out like a weirdo?"

"Have a physical reaction to a mental problem you need help with." She snorted at his phrasing. She was fading into sleep again, the sugar keeping her lucid this long, but she fought to keep her eyes open and on his.

"Wanna tell me and not these losers," Tim asked over his cup of coffee. "It's decaf," he lied when she squinted at the mug.

"I...think I wanna talk to Alfred," she said gently, testing the waters.

"Ok, that's ok, s'long as you talk to somebody," Jason said grabbing one of her hands where she'd started to pick her cuticles.

"But not till he's done with Damian, poor kid shouldn't have to keep seeing what a fuck up I am."

"Don't say that," Bruce chided.

"The kid found me in a pink tub."

"Which is fucked, I'll agree but it made us pay attention to something we should have seen long ago. Some detectives we are," Dick said still shoving his face with pancakes. She wondered not for the first time where he put it, dude was fit, and ate like a horse. She couldn't so much as smell sugar without feeling it go to her waist.

"How do you do that," she said then smacked her free hand over her mouth. Oops, that was an inside thought, guess a tired y/n is an honest one.

"Do what," he asked, tilting his head like the massive puppy he is. Jason gently pried her hand down.

"Eat so much and not get fat?"

"So much. Kid I've done the calculations, with what I burn nearly every night I eat perfectly if not under what I should." His head tilted the other way, stupid puppy eyes.

"But..." She couldn't think of a way to phrase it to make them understand, stupid men and their stupid better metabolism.

"Sweetheart, how many calories do you eat in a day?"

"Two-thousand-one-hundred. Ten carbs, no less than a hundred grams of protein, and whatever fiber is in my protein shake," she said automatically. She didn't have a problem, she ate fine, she ate just right for her job. She was careful. Didn't stop the voices in her head from shouting every time she passed a mirror though.

"That's...specific," Dick said with uncertainty.

"Do you keep a journal," Bruce asked clearing plates.

"A feeling journal, no."

"I meant a food journal."

"Oh, yeah, nothing weird about that plenty of people have one," she jumped to defend herself. She was so tired and they just wouldn't let her be, she wanted to curl into her boyfriend, heh boyfriend, and sleep for days. Distantly she knew that wasn't a good thought.

"Yes they do, and there's nothing wrong with it just wondered if you would mind sharing it."

"No," she said without hesitation.

"We just wanna make sure you're ok," Tim said gently.

"I just wanna go to sleep. I'm tired from my freak out, please can I take a nap in the library or something," she whined using her own puppy eyes on Jason. He sighed and finished his coffee like a shot then eased her off his lap to stand.

'Want me to carry you," Dick asked, knowing about his brothers bruised shoulder.

"I've been tossed around like a toddler enough for now, thank you."

10-16-24

@stormz369

[roosterforme]

Batting Practice Part 13 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: You don't show up to the game the next day, and Bradley has to face Molly's wrath when she comes in your place. His heart is broken as he feels the consequences of his words, but he finally realizes just how much you and Everett mean to him. Then he sees you at Everett's Career Day, but you're not making it easy on him.

Warnings: Angst, swearing

Length: 5300 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female single!mom Reader

Check my masterlist for more Top Gun fun! Batting Practice masterlist.

Bradley sat up most of the night in his sad apartment, sipping on a bottle of bourbon and feeling like a prize asshole. He had finally found a woman he thought he could settle down with, thought the three of you could maybe be a family, but he managed to fuck all of it up before you were even properly dating him.

This was just so on brand for him, it was laughable. Every bad decision that could be made about women, well he made them. He just had to go spouting off for weeks on end that he didn't date moms with baggage, and now Jake had made everything blow up in his face. 

The problem was, Bradley actually had said all of that shit, but that was before he really got to know you and Everett. It made him sick now to think about the implications of what he had said. 

You hated him now. He knew you must. He had managed to hurt your feelings so deeply, he didn't know if you would ever look at him again. But the truth was, Bradley was the one with all the baggage. He was the one who didn't know how to make the right decisions. He was the one who made everything too complicated. Not you. Not Everett. The two of you were perfect. And he thought for a moment that he could have you. But now he knew he had been wrong again.

And there was no doubt in his mind that Carole Bradshaw would be so disappointed in him right now. Because she would have reacted the same way that you had. She would have stood up for her only son and protected him no matter what.

He groaned as he got to his feet, swaying as he set down his half empty bottle of alcohol on the kitchen counter. He needed to get it together and make it to the tee ball game in six hours. 

You would be there! He could try to talk to you then. Unless you kept Everett home instead. Bradley felt like crying, so he just dragged himself to his bed and passed out with his uniform pants still on.

Bradley's alarm barely woke him up as he dragged his sandpaper tongue across his teeth and moaned. His head was throbbing, but he managed to get up and get right in the shower at the prospect of seeing you. He didn't have time to shave or eat, but he did make it to the ballfield early, just in case.

"You look like shit," Bob told him, and his expression was something akin to disappointment.

Bradley closed his eyes briefly. "I feel worse. Promise."

"Did you talk to her?" Bob asked. Bradley wasn't exactly sure how much everyone knew. He hadn't stayed at the bar for very long after you left, preferring to drink at home alone. Chalk that up to another poor decision made. 

"She doesn't want to talk to me. I'm such an idiot."

Bob just kind of shrugged as he set things up for their game against the Tiny Blue Jays. "Molly is angry, too," Bob informed him. "She's barely texted me back since yesterday." 

Now Bradley felt even worse, because Bob's relationship with your sister shouldn't have to be the collateral damage of his word vomit. "I'm so sorry."

"I'll figure it out," Bob mumbled. "And you need to apologize to Team Mom until she forgives you. Did you tell her that you said all of that stuff a long time ago? You barely even knew her then."

"Yeah, but I still said it," Bradley replied, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. "And between the slap to my face and the valid points she was yelling at me, I didn't get a chance to try to explain myself. But she's not going to want to hear it anyway."

Then Bradley's heart was skipping erratically in his chest, making his head throb more. When he saw Everett in his blue uniform, he squinted against the sunlight and almost took off running. But it wasn't you. It was Molly. And she looked pissed as hell. 

"I'll be right back," Bob mumbled and headed for her instead. Which was fine with Bradley, because now something much worse was happening. Everett was bounding toward him, and he didn't know how he was supposed to react. He just braced himself for the pain.

"Hi, Coach Bradley! See? I remembered to call you Coach Bradley instead of just Bradley since it's a tee ball day. When can we go back to the park again?"

Bradley wanted to cry. "Hey, kiddo. I missed you all week when I was away." And that was the honest truth. 

Everett just shrugged. "Practice was still fun, because my mom made it funny. And we won our last game, even though you weren't there. Do you think you can still win Coach of the Year if you missed a game?"

Bradley reached for Everett and pulled him in for a brief hug while Molly glared at him right past Bob's elbow. 

"Where's your mom, kiddo? Is she coming?"

Everett shook his head. "No, she was crying this morning, even though she didn't want me to know it. She does that sometimes, but it's usually only right after we see my dad."

Fuck. Bradley made you cry as hard as Danny did. Just when he thought he couldn't possibly feel worse, the honest words from a first grader twisted the knife a little deeper. Bradley had assured you that he was better than both Frank and Danny, but he was actually the worst one of the bunch. 

"You want me to help you with your cleats?" Bradley asked, and soon he was changing Everett's shoes while Molly kissed Bob on the cheek. He felt a tiny bit better that maybe he didn't fuck things up for Bob as well as himself. But then Everett said something that made him want to drink another bottle of bourbon and pass out. 

"Coach Bradley, are you still excited for the Phillies game next weekend?"

Bradley froze with the laces halfway tired on Everett's right shoe. He swallowed hard; in all of his fucking up, Bradley had forgotten about the upcoming game. He was going to have to disappoint Everett, because there was no way you would let him take your son to the game now. 

But he didn't know what to say other than, "So excited, kiddo." Then he sent Everett to start warming up while he pulled out his phone and tried to call you again. Voicemail. A second time. Voicemail. He'd left you so many messages already, but he decided to leave another one.

"Kitten. I'm sorry. I miss you. Please, Kitten. Please, call me back."

Bradley was surprised the Tiny Eagles managed to win the game. He was having such a hard time focusing as Molly's glare was burning a hole in his back. But every time he turned toward her, she was looking elsewhere. When the game ended, he took off in her direction, leaving Bob to clean everything up. 

"Where is she? Is she okay? Is she at home?" he asked Molly, who was finally looking directly at him as she stood up. 

"That's none of your business," she said, and Bradley knew he wasn't going to get anywhere with her, but he was going to try anyway.

"Molly, listen, I fucked up. I said that shit before I really knew her. Before I really knew what I wanted."

She crossed her arms over her chest, and the look on her face had Bradley taking a step backwards. "You called Everett baggage," she hissed as her eyes flashed. And if her sister was a Kitten, then Molly was a feral street cat that desperately wanted to give Bradley rabies. 

"Please, I'm begging you. Will you talk to her for me? Ask her to call me back?"

Molly's harsh laugh had him feeling hopeless. "She doesn't owe you anything, and neither do I. She's not your girlfriend. And now she's never going to be your girlfriend."

"Molly! What do I have to do to get her to talk to me?" Bradley asked, ready to beg on his knees for the chance to explain himself. "I made a mistake. But I care about her. And Ev."

Molly shook her head sadly at him. "Even Frank wasn't this bad. At least he didn't mind that she has a son. Who, by the way, is the sweetest child in existence." Now Molly looked like she was going to cry.

Bradley took his hat off and balled it up in his hands. He realized he probably looked insane right now, but he just needed to know how to get you to listen. "I can explain myself to her. I'll beg her to listen to me. I'll bring more flowers and more baseball cards for Ev. I'll-"

Molly cut him off with a jab of her index finger to his chest. "You can bring all the flowers and cards you want, but that doesn't change the fact that you're not good enough for her. You're not good enough for them!"

His voice was soft now, because he knew she was right. "Molly, please help me talk to her."

"You know, she wants to pull Ev from the team," Molly replied, picking up his gear bag as he ran over. Bradley felt sick; he wouldn't get to see you or Everett anymore. "The only reason she's not going to pull him is because of the friends he's made, and because she's a better person than you. But she thought about it. I hope you know you hurt her that bad."

Everett plopped down on the bench, and Bradley watched Molly instantly switch modes and turn into the loving aunt that she normally was. He really was bringing out the worst in everyone right now. 

When Everett was all ready to leave, and he and Molly were heading for her car, Bradley jogged up next to him. "Kiddo? Can you tell your mom something for me?"

"Sure, Coach," he replied, smiling up at Bradley like he always did. 

Molly was staring daggers at him again as he said, "Tell her I was wrong before, but now I have my priorities straight."

"Come on, Ev," Molly told him, taking him by the hand and pulling him along. "We need to go."

Bradley knew he wasn't like Danny or Frank, and he just needed an opportunity to prove it. But he didn't want to upset Everett who was looking back at him with wide eyes. "Tell her I miss her, and I can't wait to see her next time! Bye, Kiddo!"

"Bye, Coach!"

-------------------------------

Luckily Molly was working overnight tonight and offered to take Everett to his game, because you were in no way ready to see Bradley today. Your heart was actually broken, and you were just so embarrassed. 

Your kid's hot tee ball coach. Could you possibly be any more predictable? Any more of a chiche?

You were still in your pajamas forcing down some toast when Molly brought Everett back home around noon. "We ate lunch," she told you. "Everett wanted the baseball Happy Meal toy."

"Thanks," you mumbled, knowing that your little sister who spent the night holding your hand wouldn't judge you for looking like a mess right now.

"Mommy, are you sick today?" Ev asked, and your heart sank.

"Yeah, Ev. I'm not feeling great."

He set his Happy Meal toy down and started taking off his shoes. "I know what will make you feel better! Coach said he missed you! And he can't wait to see you next time. And that he has his prior tires straight."

Molly sighed and shook her head. "He means priorities."

"Yeah. Priorities," Everett said, agreeing with her. 

You felt like crying all over again, and now your phone was vibrating with another call from him. You ignored it as Molly told Everett to grab a snack and eat it out on the back deck. Once he was out of earshot, you told your sister, "He keeps calling and texting me. I don't understand why he cares so much, since I'm clearly a joke to him and all of his friends."

Molly sprawled out on your couch. "He actually seems upset, and I am telling you that begrudgingly, because I want to hate him."

You twisted your fingers together, afraid to know, but you asked anyway. "Did he say anything to you?" 

"Yeah," Molly said with a laugh. "Plenty. He begged me to get you to talk to him. I honestly thought he was going to plead on his knees. He said he made a mistake, and he doesn't feel that way now at all."

Oh. Well that was interesting. Your phone vibrated again. 

"And Bob said Bradley is an idiot, but he didn't think he was actually trying to hurt you," Molly added. "Of course I also asked Bob if he knew that Bradley felt like kids were baggage and moms were a waste of time."

"What did he say?" you whispered, setting your phone down before you caved and answered it.

"Bob said he would find it hard to believe that Bradley actually felt that way now, based on how much he loves you and Everett. He used those words, not me."

Your heart was pounding as your doorbell rang, and Molly sprang up to answer it. "Oh, shit," Molly mumbled as she carried several huge bouquets of colorful flowers into the kitchen.

As you opened the card attached to the first one you picked up, your eyes went wide. All of the cards said the same thing, written in Bradley's handwriting. 

I'm so sorry, Kitten. You and Everett are NOT baggage. You're perfect. I didn't mean it. Please, talk to me.

"Well, you don't need all of these flowers, so I'm taking some to my apartment," Molly said, kissing your cheek as she scooped up a few bouquets. "I'll come by in the morning after work."

And then she was gone, and you were sitting inside a massive floral display with very mixed emotions. 

-----------------------------

Bradley went home and drank the rest of Saturday away until he was asleep. If Molly wasn't willing to help him, and he could understand why she wasn't, then he would have to figure this out on his own. Because at this point, he didn't know what he was going to do without you and Everett. He needed you. He needed to fix this. 

On Sunday morning, he took a shower and got himself cleaned up. Two days of looking like a disaster was enough, so he dumped the rest of the bourbon down the drain as well. Then he grabbed the one thing he needed and drove to your house, nervous as hell that you wouldn't answer the door for him even if you were home.

He parked behind Molly's car and sighed. She was acting as your bodyguard right now, that's how badly he had fucked up. Either you or Molly didn't want you to be left alone. He climbed out of his Bronco with the binder tucked under his arm, and he made his way up to your front porch.

Before he could even knock, the door swung open to reveal an exhausted looking Molly in wrinkled scrubs holding a cup of coffee. "What do you want now?" she asked, and Bradley stood back far enough that she would probably miss him if she tossed the coffee. 

"Will you please tell her I'm here?"

"She's not home," Molly replied coolly. 

"Her car is in the driveway," he replied.

Molly sighed. "She's soaking in the tub, and she doesn't want to talk to you."

Bradley ran his hand over his face, unsure how much he should push. But then Everett came bounding out onto the porch and into Bradley's arms.

"Coach! I mean Bradley! What are you doing here? The Phillies game isn't until next Sunday! And Career Day isn't until Wednesday!"

Bradley's heart clenched with need. If he couldn't take Everett to the Phillies game, he didn't know what he would do. The kid would be crushed, and truthfully, so would he. 

He knelt on the porch and held up the binder. "I just came by to give you this," Bradley told him, really examining his face. He looked so much like you. He could see some of Danny there as well, but there was no denying that Everett took after his mom. 

"What is it?" Everett asked, but when he opened it and saw the plastic pages filled with baseball cards, his eyes went wide. "No way! Are these for me?"

"Yep. All yours, kiddo." Bradley had grabbed one of his binders at random, and probably just handed a six year old a collection worth a thousand dollars. But he didn't care. It didn't matter. Bradley swallowed hard and glanced at Molly before he asked Everett, "How's your mom?"

Everett just shrugged while he looked at the baseball cards. "She said she doesn't feel good. Something must be hurting her, because she keeps crying sometimes."

Bradley let the feeling of dread wash over him as Molly sipped her coffee. "Do you think she would let me take you to the park and pitch some balls?" he asked. But before Everett could even get excited, Molly cut him off.

"Not today, Ev. Remember, I'm taking you to the movies after lunch."

Bradley pressed his lips together and patted Everett on the shoulder as he stood up. "Another day, then."

When Bradley pulled away from the curb, Everett was waving to him while holding the baseball card binder, and Molly was standing behind her nephew, flipping Bradley the middle finger. 

---------------------------------

On Monday, Bradley flew like shit. He couldn't pay attention, and he was honestly a little nervous that someone was going to get hurt. 

"What the fuck was that?" Nat asked him once they were back on the tarmac. "I'm team leader! You need to listen to me!"

"I'm sorry," he told her. "You're absolutely right. I'm just distracted today."

"If this is about your Team Mom, you need to leave it on the ground." Nat was seething, and she had every right to be. "I know Jake blew your cover, but I tried to tell you from the start that if you were interested in her, you needed to get used to the fact that she has a kid!"

Now Bradley was seething too, because nobody seemed to want to listen to his side of things. "I am used to it, Nat! I got used to it real quick! And I wouldn't want it any other way!"

"Then sort your shit out or leave it on the ground!" She stormed away from him without another word. 

Then Bradley saw Maverick strolling his way and he tightened his grip on his helmet. "Listen, Bradley. I don't know what the hell happened to you in Lemoore or what your weekend was like, but you can't be flying like that. It's a liability. I'm grounding you for the week."

"What the fuck, Mav!"

But he just held up his hand. "There's no point in arguing with me. The Admirals don't want you in the air for a few days." Then he turned and headed back to the tower leaving Bradley alone in the bright sunlight. 

---------------------------

You skipped practice on Monday. It had been three days since Bradley had seen you, and the only thing holding his heart together was the fact that Everett was still happy to see him. 

"Hi, Coach Bradley!" he called with a wave as he ran ahead of Molly. 

When Bradley headed toward the bleachers to help him change his cleats, Bob grabbed him by the shoulder to stop him. "Hey, I'd steer clear of Molly if I were you. She's not your biggest fan at the moment." At least Bob's face looked sympathetic. 

"Yeah, I noticed."

Bob just kind of shrugged. "I took her out for dinner last night, and I tried my best to let her know you're not going to hurt her sister."

"Thanks," Bradley muttered. At least there was one person who didn't think he was horrible. 

Molly stood to the side and let Bradley tie Everett's cleats while he rambled on about how excited he was for Career Day. When he paused to take a breath, Bradley asked, "How's your mom, kiddo? She feeling better?"

"She's at a work meeting with someone named Frank," Everett replied, putting his Phillies cap on backwards to match with Bradley. He didn't like hearing that you were with Frank, potentially alone. But then Everett added, "She's still sad, too. She took my stuffed Phanatic to sleep with it. I think she remembered that you said it was good for if you're having a hard time."

Bradley closed his eyes for a beat. "You should go start warming up," he whispered, and Everett was off like a rocket running toward Bob. 

"She did give me a message for you," Molly told him as she sat on the bleachers and blew a kiss to Bob, who immediately started blushing. 

"What did she say?" he asked, preparing himself to beg her. 

"She wants you to stop sending flowers. I took some home, and she donated the rest to a nursing home. She said if you can't seem to stop, you can just send them directly to Bright Senior Living so she doesn't have to drive them there herself."

"Fuck," he growled, dropping down on the bench next to her and burying his face in his hands. He sat there for a bit as Bob started practice without him. He was so far out of his element. He had never chased a woman before in his life. He never saw the point in it until now. If he could figure out what to do, he would do it immediately. 

"You actually care about her?" Molly asked softly, and Bradley turned to look at her. 

"Not just her. Everett too. I can't get enough of either of them." His eyes were stinging as he watched Everett round the bases. 

"Then why did you call him baggage?"

Bradley stared at the turf. "Because I was terrified of falling for someone who was outside of my wheelhouse. Someone with more substance. Someone who would make it impossible to stop thinking about them." He stood, realizing it was time to go help Bob. "I'm an idiot. Truly, Molly, I do understand that. But I said all of that shit weeks and weeks ago, when I was just starting to realize that your sister meant something to me."

Molly nodded at him, and just as he was turning to head toward home plate, she said, "Then show her you care about them. And tell her what you told me. I'll let her know I can't bring Ev to practice on Thursday. And I'm pretty sure you're still on the roster for Career Day on Wednesday."

Bradley's heartbeat was speeding up. He felt more alive than he had since he was with you at the Hard Deck. "Thanks, Molly."

"Don't thank me. I'm still pissed at you. I just want my sister and nephew to be happy."

---------------------------

You left work at lunchtime on Wednesday and headed to Everett's school. When you planned out a five minute presentation for his class, you realized he was right: you did have a boring job. How you were supposed to make accounting interesting for a bunch of six and seven year olds was beyond you. It also didn't help that you were having the shittiest week ever. 

Not only were you missing Bradley and trying to get over him, you had been forced to stay late and work with Frank on Monday. Well, he had volunteered to stay late when he heard you were going to. And now you couldn't even lie to him and say you were seeing Bradley to get him off your back. 

With a deep sigh, you opened your car door and headed across the parking lot in your suit and high heels, the hot sun making you uncomfortable in your long sleeves. 

And then you heard his voice in person for the first time since Friday night. "Kitten."

You turned to see Bradley walking up the sidewalk in his flight suit, boots, and aviators looking impossibly handsome. You had been listening to his voicemail apologies last night, but the way he sounded in person made your spine tingle with need. 

You tamped it down. "What are you doing here?" you asked, not bothering to look at him as he caught up to you.

He was silent for a beat. "Everett invited me."

You scoffed. "Well, I'm uninviting you."

"Kitten. Please."

"No," you said sternly. "Why even bother if he's just my excess baggage?"

Bradley stopped walking, and when you turned to look at him, he had the same expression he had worn after you slapped him across his cheek. "He's not," Bradley rasped. "He's perfect. And so are you. And I don't want to make him upset if I don't show up."

You rolled your eyes. "Come on." He followed you like your shadow, his warmth at your back. You thought maybe he was going to touch you when you signed both of them in at the office and got name tags. It seemed like he wanted to, like maybe he was holding back. And as much as you wanted to scream in his face, your body was betraying you by craving his touch.

"This way," you told him, and when you entered Everett's classroom with Bradley next to you, your son's eyes lit up. He waved at both of you from his seat, and you had to plaster on a smile. Before giving it too much thought, you grabbed one of the empty seats between two other parents, leaving Bradley to fend for himself. 

You sat politely and listened to Harper's mom talk about neurosurgery. Then Peyton's dad talked about construction equipment. You gave everyone your full attention, firmly ignoring Bradley. You didn't even look at him once while you stood in front of the class and talked about how important math is. 

Once you were finished, you kissed Everett's forehead before you returned to your seat. But then it was Bradley's turn, and you couldn't help but look at him.

"Hi, I'm Lieutenant Bradshaw, and Everett invited me here to talk about flying jets called Super Hornets." Every pair of eyes was glued to him as he gave a riveting presentation. Everett was practically vibrating with excitement at his desk, clearly so proud to have brought the most interesting adult to Career Day. You also noted that every woman was drooling over Bradley, including Everett's teacher. 

It was crazy to think that for a short time, you thought he was going to be yours. 

When everyone was done speaking, you popped out of your seat and told Everett you'd pick him up in a few hours, and then you were making a beeline for the door. You could hear Bradley calling your name, but you just kept going all the way to your car. 

"Kitten, please!" He was right behind you now, and you saw his big hand shoot past your shoulder and hold your door firmly closed. "Can we talk?"

You turned to face him, and you were taken back to every single time he had walked you and Everett to your car after tee ball practice. 

"About what?" you whispered. He had caught you off guard. You meant to start yelling, but all of the warm feelings he gave you were right there at the surface.

His eyes went a little wide as his lips parted, seemingly surprised you weren't shouting at him. "I'm sorry, Kitten. I fucked up. I should have never said those things, because I didn't even mean them."

You couldn't meet his eyes as you asked him, "Why did you say that to your friends? I feel humiliated. I feel like you think Everett and I are a joke."

"No!" he said, keeping his hand against the door and leaning a little closer to you. "You're not. And he's not. I said that so long ago, because I was instantly attracted to you, Kitten. And that terrified me."

You felt the fight draining out of you, and you knew you needed to get in your car and leave before he saw you crying. But instead you said, "Maybe you're right though. We're a lot to handle. I shouldn't have expected things to be easy."

When you turned and tried to open your door, Bradley held it shut. "Will you look at me?" You glanced at him over your shoulder as you felt tears stinging your eyes. "You and Everett are not a lot to handle. You're the perfect amount. Being around both of you makes me feel so good, Kitten." 

You swallowed hard and shook your head. "Thanks for coming today, I guess. It made him happy."

He let go of the door and ran his thumb across your jaw. "I don't think I would be able to live with myself if I made him cry."

You nodded and ducked away from his hand. "I'll figure it out. Make it so that this doesn't break his heart."

"Don't say that, Kitten. I still want to take him to the Phillies game on Sunday. I want all three of us to go," he whispered as you turned your back fully to him again. 

"I don't think that's a good idea."

You could feel his frustration rolling off of him, and his voice sounded panicked. "Where does that leave us, Kitten? Do I even stand a chance now?"

"I don't know. I need to get back to work. Bye, Coach."

This time he let you open the door, and he closed it softly once you were inside. When you pulled away, he just stood in the parking spot watching you. 

--------------------------

Bradley ended up at the Hard Deck after Career Day at Everett's school. He was grounded from flying, you'd just told him you didn't know where he stood with you, and he was probably going to make Everett cry at some point this week.

He ran his hands over his face and nursed a beer for a while. When Nat and Jake showed up, eyeing him cautiously, he thought it would be to his advantage to just head home. He handed Penny some cash, but Nat rubbed his shoulder. 

"I'm sorry I screamed at you on Monday."

"I deserved it," Bradley replied. "I wasn't being safe."

"You look fucking miserable," Jake drawled, leaning on the bar next to Bradley.

"You're literally the last person I want to talk to right now," Bradley replied through gritted teeth. "Thanks for Friday night."

Jake just shook his head. "Hey, I was just trying to get in her pants, okay? She's gorgeous, and you made it pretty clear the last time we talked about her that you were not interested."

Bradley couldn't even get mad, because Jake was actually right. "Well I'm pretty fucking interested in her now, okay? Stay out of her pants."

Jake just grinned. "I think I know what might help."

"This sounds suspicious," Bradley muttered, eyeing Jake cautiously. "Let's hear it."

"You still planning on going to that Padres game this weekend?"

"I don't know," Bradley groaned, pushing his fingers through his hair in frustration. 

"Well," Jake said as he signalled Penny for a drink. "My landlord's son is the head groundskeeper at Petco Park. I can try to pull some strings if you think it will help."

Bradley gaped at him. "Do it."

---------------------------

Molly is the sister I wish I had! Thanks to @beyondthesefourwalls and @mak-32!

PART 14

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