#or maybe I need a therapist it’s a toss up

[honeydippedfiction]

I need possesive Joe like instantly pleaseeee (“Tell me you’re mine.” “I don’t share.” “Your body is for my eyes only.”) maybe him and reader are in a situationship that's a bit toxic, but she also doesn't take his shit either (“Do you want me to see me try to make you jealous? Because I can do a lot better than this.” “It’s not my fault I’m so hot.” “Aw, baby, what do I need to do to prove I’m yours?” “I’ll wear whatever I want.” “Get off me.”). Or maybe i need to see a therapist...

Bestie we all love a bit of toxicity, especially here on this blog. I made this with LSU!Joe, I hope that's okay🩷

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“Tell me you’re mine.” “I don’t share.” “Your body is for my eyes only.” “Do you want me to see me try to make you jealous? Because I can do a lot better than this.” “It’s not my fault I’m so hot.” “Aw, baby, what do I need to do to prove I’m yours?” “I’ll wear whatever I want.” “Get off me.”

LSU!Joe Burrow x black!femreader

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

There was never a version of LSU where Joe Burrow and Y/N weren’t going to collide.

He was him—the golden boy of Baton Rouge. Star quarterback. Game-changer. The kind of athlete who turned heads just by stepping onto the field. His jersey was sold out in the bookstore before the season even started. Professors knew his name. So did security guards. So did the line cooks at the campus dining hall. Joe had a swagger that could quiet a room and an arm that could command a stadium. Girls wanted him. Guys wanted to be him. Coaches treated him like prophecy in cleats.

And then there was Y/N.

A cheerleader, yes—but not the kind people expected to fade into the background behind pompoms and school spirit. She was all angles and attitude, sharp where others bent. Her presence was felt before it was seen. When she walked into a room, the air shifted—like even gravity paused to pay attention. Every flip she landed on the field was flawless. Every halftime performance was electric. And unlike some of the other girls, she didn’t care about the roster or the locker room whispers.

She didn’t chase players. She didn’t fall for the uniform. Which, naturally, made her the one Joe couldn’t ignore.

Their paths crossed often—too often for either of them to pretend it was accidental. Practices overlapped. Team functions blurred. Pep rallies turned into house parties, and house parties turned into whispered arguments behind closed doors. It started with banter, with the occasional stolen glance or smug compliment.

“Nice game, quarterback,” she’d toss at him after a win, her voice dripping with a challenge.

“Could say the same about your little stunt in the third quarter,” he’d fire back with a grin. “Almost made me miss the snap.”

The tension built fast—too fast. What was supposed to be casual turned complicated. What started as heat turned into something heavier, something murkier. Something they never dared to label.

They weren’t official. Not even close.

He hadn’t asked. She hadn’t offered.

But the way he’d show up at her apartment at 2 a.m. after practice, freshly showered, eyes tired but wanting—that said something. And the way she let him in every time, despite the games, despite the silences, despite the fact that he never stayed for breakfast—that said even more.

It was a situationship. Messy. Addictive. The kind of connection that burned hotter the more they denied it.

Sometimes, it was magnetic. Other times, it was volatile. It always danced the line between passion and chaos.

He liked to control things. She hated being controlled.

He liked her best when she was soft, when her defenses were down, when she let herself be vulnerable for five whole minutes. She liked him best when he was real—when the swagger dropped, when the mask cracked and she could see the boy underneath the legend.

But those moments were rare. Fleeting. Easily overshadowed by arguments that started too easily and ended too late. Still, they kept gravitating back toward each other. Like gravity. Like fate. Like fools.

And now—on this particular Thursday night—the tension that had been simmering all week was just about to boil over.

Y/N stood in her bedroom, surrounded by half-empty makeup palettes and the sweet scent of vanilla and cocoa butter. 

The golden hour sunlight poured through the narrow blinds of Y/N’s campus apartment, casting warm stripes across the floor and glinting off the edge of her vanity mirror. The apartment was modest—two bedrooms, wood floors, furniture they didn’t care enough to match—but it smelled like vanilla, cocoa butter, and the faint echo of coconut-scented body oil. Homey in a way most college apartments never managed to be.

A playlist thrummed lazily in the background, something upbeat and defiant—SZA, probably—bouncing off the white walls as Y/N danced around her bedroom in nothing but a cropped top and her favorite black mini skirt. It was a pregame ritual by now: music loud, gloss glossier, confidence sky-high. She wasn’t dressing for anyone in particular—definitely not for Joe—but damn if she didn’t look good.

She leaned closer to the mirror, lining her lips carefully. Her eyes flicked to the side as her phone vibrated on the dresser. A text from her best friend, Nia: Nia: “Pre-gaming at Lexi’s in 20. Bring that fine ass.”

Y/N smirked, typing back a quick “Bet”, then turned back to her reflection to assess the full effect.

The skirt hugged her hips perfectly. The top—cut just low enough to tease—clung to her curves like it had been made for her. She looked every inch the woman she was: confident, radiant, and absolutely untouchable.

And then the front door opened.

She barely heard the click before it slammed shut hard enough to rattle the keys on the hook by the entryway.

“Seriously?” Joe’s voice echoed through the apartment. “Why the hell is the door unlocked?”

Y/N didn’t turn around. She just rolled her eyes, uncapping her setting spray and giving her face a quick mist.

“Didn’t know you lived here now,” she called out, voice smooth, bored, sharp enough to cut glass.

She could hear the scowl in his footsteps before he even appeared in her doorway—heavy, fast, like he was already pissed off before he saw her. But once he did see her—really saw her—his entire demeanor changed.

Joe Burrow leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His LSU hoodie was slightly wrinkled, and his hair was messy like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. 

His eyes raked over every inch of her—starting at her thighs and lingering far too long on the way her top clung to her chest before snapping back to her lips. His brows pulled together, and she could already see it—the shift. The jealousy. The possessiveness.

And here we go, she thought.

“You wearing that out?” he asked.

It wasn’t really a question. More like a challenge. A warning.

She popped one hip, deliberately ignoring the fire behind his stare. “Yep.”

His gaze darkened. “You got other options.”

“And I chose this one,” she said coolly, turning to grab her earrings from the dresser.

Y/N didn’t even turn around. She kept her eyes locked on her reflection as she slid a hoop through one ear. “Didn’t realize I needed your approval.”

His voice dropped, lower now. More dangerous. “Your body is for my eyes only.”

That made her pause.

She blinked once, slow and deliberate, before finally turning to face him.

“You want to run that by me again?”

Joe’s jaw flexed. He wasn’t the yelling type—he didn’t need to be. His words were measured. Cold. Each one carefully loaded.

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I did,” she shot back, arms crossing under her chest. “And you’ve officially lost your mind.”

He took a step closer. “You don’t see the way guys look at you? They’re gonna be staring all night.”

“And?” she challenged, chin tilted. “Let them look.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You think that’s cute?”

She rolled hers. “Get off me, Joe. I’ll wear whatever the hell I want.”

That set him off.

In two quick strides, he was in front of her—close enough that she had to back up, her spine bumping into the edge of her vanity. He planted one hand on either side of her, caging her in. His body hovered over hers, all tension and heat and frustration barely held together under cotton and muscle.

“Look at me,” he said.

She didn’t.

“Y/N.” His voice was a warning now. Not loud. Just sharp.

So she looked up, locking eyes with him—and damn if she didn’t hate how it made her heart trip.

His gaze burned into her, jaw tight, voice low. “I don’t share.”

She stared up at him, unbothered. Or at least, she looked it.

“And I don’t do leash-wearing,” she shot back. “You want to mark your territory, Burrow? Put a ring on it.”

He didn’t blink. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Her laugh was quick and mocking. “Oh, that’s what this is about?”

Joe’s expression didn’t change, but something in his jaw twitched. He hated when she laughed at him. Hated when she didn’t take him seriously.

Y/N just rolled her eyes again, her attitude growing stronger in response to his.

“Do you want to see me try to make you jealous?” she asked, lifting a brow. “Because I can do a lot better than this.”

With that, she turned away from him like he wasn’t even there, grabbing her brush and running it through her curls with slow, practiced strokes.

Joe didn’t move. Not at first.

Then, with a frustrated exhale, he pushed off the vanity and walked to the bed, dropping down onto the edge with a heavy thump. He sat there, forearms resting on his thighs, eyes tracking her every move like he was watching game tape.

She didn’t have to look to know his jaw was clenched, his brows drawn in, his ego bruising.

She smirked into the mirror, lips curling with satisfaction.

“It’s not my fault I’m so hot,” she said sweetly, still brushing her hair.

Joe let out a dry, humorless laugh and shook his head. “Yeah? Real humble.”

Y/N pouted at him through the mirror, exaggerated and mock-sincere. “Aw, baby,” she cooed, eyes locking with his in the glass, “what do I need to do to prove I’m yours?”

His gaze darkened, but he didn’t speak.

She turned back around, her lip gloss catching the light, and lifted a single brow.

“Well?”

Joe didn’t flinch. Just leaned back on his hands, eyes dragging slowly over her one more time, like he was both pissed and desperate to drag her back into his lap.

But for now, he just sat there, stewing in his silence.

And Y/N?

She was already picking out her shoes.

Joe hadn’t said a word since she turned her back on him.

He just sat there on the edge of her bed, jaw tight, arms crossed, like he was trying to hold something in—or keep something from breaking. The silence buzzed between them, loud in a way the music on her speaker couldn’t drown out. She could feel his stare burning into her back like a weight, heavy and territorial.

And still, she kept her cool.

She slipped on her heels slowly, dragging the moment out just to make him stew. Just to prove a point. She didn’t even bother hiding her smirk.

Joe’s patience finally snapped.

“You think this is funny?”

She straightened up slowly, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “I think you’re funny. Acting like this when I’ve been yours all this time and you haven’t even asked for it.”

He stood. Just like that. No warning. Just rose from the bed and crossed the room in a few long, deliberate steps, tension crackling with every inch he closed between them.

Before she could react, his hand caught her waist and pulled her back against his chest. His other hand slid up, palm splayed across her stomach, keeping her pinned in place.

Her breath caught.

“Don’t walk away from me looking like that,” he muttered, lips brushing her ear.

Her pulse stuttered. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”

“I don’t like when other people look at what’s mine.”

“You don’t own me, Joe.”

“Don’t play like you don’t love it when I get like this.”

She turned in his grip then, facing him fully, their bodies brushing—her eyes narrow, his blazing.

“You think getting possessive and jealous is sexy?” she asked, voice thick with heat and sarcasm.

His eyes dropped to her lips.

“I think you do.”

Before she could fire off another quip, his mouth was on hers—rough, claiming, desperate in the way he always got when he knew she was two seconds from walking out. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him as he backed her toward the vanity again, her hips bumping the edge with a soft thud.

She kissed him back with equal heat, lips parting just enough to let him deepen it, but she wasn’t about to give in completely.

Not yet.

Her hands pressed to his chest, giving just enough resistance to keep him from forgetting who was really in control.

“You don’t get to act like you care when it’s convenient,” she breathed, breaking the kiss just enough to speak.

Joe’s eyes searched hers. “This isn’t convenience. This is me losing my mind thinking about you out there, looking like this, with people trying to touch what I already feel in my bones belongs to me.”

She let that linger for a second, her body still pressed against his, heat radiating between them.

Then her lips quirked, slow and wicked.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You like it.”

“And if I do?” she whispered, her fingers hooking into the hem of his hoodie. “What then?”

Joe dropped his forehead to hers, breathing hard.

“Then I’m not letting you leave this apartment tonight.”

She tilted her chin up, lips brushing his again, but just barely.

“Then stop talking and prove it.”

He kissed her again—hungrier, wilder, his hands tightening on her hips like he wanted to mold her into his body, into his will. She matched him, fingers tangling in his hair, her teeth nipping at his lower lip as he lifted her onto the vanity, his body pressed between her legs, her heels locked around his waist.

His hands roamed over her, possessive, claiming. Hers did the same. He broke the kiss long enough to pull his hoodie over his head, tossing it aside before his mouth found hers again, more frantic this time, like he couldn’t get enough. She felt the same, her body alive in a way it hadn’t been in too long, the heat between them building, building, the need for more coiling tight and electric in her veins.

“Stay with me tonight,” he breathed, his lips trailing down her neck, teeth scraping over her pulse.

She arched into him, her voice a breathy whisper. “No.”

His hands gripped her tighter, his breath hot on her skin. “I won’t ask again.”

She laughed, low and husky. “You won’t have to.”

He drew back suddenly, his eyes wild, his hair a mess. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a maybe.”

“Maybe?” he echoed, voice rough.

She nodded, her lips curving up, eyes never leaving his. “Maybe.”

He stared at her for a second, his chest heaving with every breath, the air around them charged with need and tension.

Then he was kissing her again, lifting her from the vanity with ease, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the bed, laying her down gently, his body settling over hers. She could feel him hard and ready against her, and she rocked up into him, earning a groan against her lips. His hand slipped under her skirt, fingers finding her clit through her thong, making her gasp.

“Joe,” she breathed. “We don’t have time.”

He pulled back, his eyes searching hers, his fingers still working her over, her breath coming faster. “If you think I’m letting you walk out of here without a reminder of what’s waiting for you when you come home, you’re crazy.”

She shook her head, a laugh bubbling up. “Home. As if.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Mmm. I do.” She reached for his sweatpants, dipping her hand inside, wrapping her fingers around his cock. He groaned, hips thrusting into her touch. “But I’m not that easy.”

He stilled. “What?”

“I’m not coming home to you tonight.”

Joe's eyes darkened further, but this time in anger. He reached up and wrapped his hand around her throat, resting it there. "Y/N." His tone was a warning.

"Joe."

"You're mine. You know that. Don't make me have to remind you." He tightened his grip. She felt a thrill race through her at his words, at the possessive tone in his voice, at the way his body was reacting to her.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing hers. "If you don't come home tonight," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "you know what happens."

She arched an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. "Oh yeah? What happens?"

His eyes flicked down to her lips, then back up again. "I'll come find you." He kissed her, slow and deep, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as his fingers continued to work her clit. She moaned against his lips, her hips rocking up into his touch.

When he broke the kiss, she was breathless, her eyes heavy-lidded. "You wouldn't dare," she whispered.

He smirked, his eyes blazing with heat. "Try me." His grip on her throat tightened just enough to make her pulse spike with need. 

She swallowed, her throat working against his palm.  "Is that a threat?"

He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "It's a promise."

He bit her lobe softly, then pulled back, his eyes locked on hers. "Don't make me follow through."

She searched his eyes, seeing the intensity there, the determination. She knew he wasn't bluffing.

And she loved it.

°.✩┈┈∘┈🌙┈∘┈┈✩.°

Y/N was having a blast at the club. Her friends surrounded her, the music thumping in her chest, lights flashing overhead. She’d been trying to shake off the argument with Joe, the way his possessiveness had twisted in her chest, but as the night wore on, she found herself enjoying the freedom. The laughter, the drinks, the music—everything was an escape from the heat and the tension building between them.

She hadn’t even noticed the guy at first. Just a casual glance in her direction, a shy smile, and before she knew it, they were dancing. Nothing serious. Just a flirtatious back-and-forth that never meant anything. Or at least, it shouldn’t have.

But as she moved with the beat, her mind couldn’t shake the memory of Joe’s possessive tone, the way his grip had felt on her throat, how he’d marked her with every kiss. Part of her felt rebellious, like she was daring him to come after her.

Her phone buzzed in her bag, the vibrations pulling her from the moment. She glanced down at it, seeing a notification from one of her friends—an Instagram story.

She clicked it open.

Her heart skipped a beat as the image loaded: a video of her dancing with the guy from earlier, laughing and swaying with him in the crowded club. It was playful—no boundaries crossed—but the sight of her in the arms of another guy, especially after everything that had just happened, made her pulse spike.

She wasn’t the only one who’d seen it.

Joe had. And within seconds, he was already on his feet, moving with purpose. His jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides. The jealousy that had been simmering under the surface since he saw the way that guy had looked at Y/N was now boiling over, uncontainable.

His mind raced, replaying the scene over and over—the guy’s hands on her waist, the way she was laughing, too carefree, too unbothered.

Joe’s grip on his phone tightened as he typed out a message to her, but before he could hit send, his mind snapped into focus. He knew exactly what he had to do.

Miles away, Joe sat on the edge of her bed, scrolling. Shirt off, chain still around his neck, his dark eyes locked on the glowing screen. The video looped. Her smile. That guy’s hand on her waist.

The muscle in Joe’s jaw ticked. Once. Twice.

He didn’t scream. Didn’t even curse. Just stared at the clip like it was telling him something he already knew.

That she was slipping.

That someone else thought they could touch what was his.

He opened his messages, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Typed, deleted. Typed again.

Having fun?

He erased it.

Too soft.

You think I won’t pull up?

Deleted again.

He didn’t need to ask questions.

He already knew what he was going to do.

His face smoothed into something colder, more certain. He slid on a hoodie, grabbed his keys from the desk, and sent just one text.

No punctuation. No fluff.

I warned you

Back at the club, Y/N felt the buzz in her hand before she even looked.

The words blinked up at her, simple and sharp.

Her heart stuttered.

It wasn’t the kind of message that made you roll your eyes and keep dancing. It was the kind that made your pulse quicken, your brain start running through everything you’d done in the last ten minutes.

And she knew.

He was coming.

°.✩┈┈∘┈🌙┈∘┈┈✩.°

The club pulsed with a life of its own, the thundering bass reverberating through the air, shaking the walls and vibrating every inch of her body. Y/N had been swept up in it all, lost in the rhythm, in the laughter, in the heat. Her friends had drifted off to the bar, leaving her floating alone in the crowd, surrounded by strangers and shadows. Her phone buzzed in her hand, the sudden vibration slicing through the haze of the night. For a second, she didn’t react. The music demanded her attention, pulling her deeper into its intoxicating embrace.

Another buzz. Her fingers swiped the screen, distracted. She glanced down and saw the message. Her heart stuttered in her chest.

Don’t make me come find you.

Her pulse kicked up immediately, not just out of surprise but from something else. Something darker, more familiar. The kind of thrill she couldn’t shake—that rush. The one she always felt when Joe decided to make his presence known.

Her lips curled into a smile, though she knew she shouldn’t. It wasn’t fear she felt, not really, but that familiar, twisted excitement—the kind that came with pushing boundaries, with feeling the weight of his gaze even when she couldn’t see him. Joe didn’t do subtle. He didn’t do safe. He did intensity. He did possession.

And she liked it. More than she cared to admit.

Her fingers hovered over the screen as she fought the instinct to text back, to tease him the way she always did. But something inside her twisted at the thought. Not tonight. Not this time.

That push and pull. The way his words could make her stomach flip even when they should’ve chilled her to the core. Joe didn’t do subtle. He didn’t do boundaries. He did heat. Intensity. And she had been burning in it since the first time he’d grabbed her hand under the bleachers and whispered something reckless into her ear after practice. He was the star quarterback—untouchable, magnetic. She was the head cheerleader—visible, envied. Of course they were always near each other, always orbiting. But this wasn’t the fairy-tale version of that story. This was messier. Darker. Addictive.

A second buzz jolted her out of her thoughts. She glanced at her phone. This time, it was a call.

Joe.

His name was bold on the screen. She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the green button, her heart hammering. She knew what would happen if she answered. He would drag her back into his world—the one where everything was a game, and he always won.

With a flick of her finger, she hit ignore. She didn’t need his control tonight. Not this time.

Her smile deepened as she tucked the phone back into her bag, turning her attention back to the guy she’d been dancing with. He was still grinning, oblivious to the storm gathering around her. His hand brushed lightly against hers, his arm wrapping loosely around her waist. The heat of his body felt like nothing compared to the storm inside her. Joe was still there—his presence, thick and suffocating, clouding her thoughts.

“You good?” the guy asked, his voice cutting through the music.

“Yeah,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone. “Just… someone who doesn’t know when to let go.”

He laughed, leaning in closer, too close, his breath hot on her neck. But Y/N barely noticed. Her thoughts were with someone else—someone who could take the heat of this night and turn it into something dangerous. Joe.

Every sway of her hips, every dip and twist of her body, was a defiance, a reminder. She wasn’t his to command. Not tonight. Not like this. Tonight, she was in control. Tonight, she would play the game her way.

But that was the thing with Joe—he always came when she pushed too far.

And that’s when she felt it.

A shift in the air. A heavy, electric charge that sent a shiver down her spine. Her body froze mid-move, a tingle crawling across her skin as a deep instinct screamed—he was here.

Slowly, she turned her head, scanning the crowded entrance. And there he was.

Joe.

Standing just inside the door, his silhouette outlined against the flashing lights. His face was hard, unreadable, but his eyes? Those eyes—dark, narrowed, locked onto her with a predatory intensity. She could feel his gaze as if it were a tangible thing, pressing on her skin, demanding her attention. His body was still, poised like a lion preparing to pounce.

His gaze didn’t move. Not once. Not when people brushed past him. Not even when the guy beside her leaned in again, oblivious. Joe’s jaw was clenched tight, his entire posture carved from tension. He wasn’t storming in. Not yet. He didn’t need to. The look said enough: I see you. 

Her heart thudded in her chest. Every ounce of confidence she had crumbled under that gaze. She hadn’t heard a single word from the guy beside her, hadn’t felt his hand on her hip, hadn’t registered the music around her. All she could do was watch Joe.

He wasn’t moving yet. Not yet. But she knew, deep in her gut, that he would.

The guy beside her seemed to notice the shift, his words trailing off as he sensed something had changed. He leaned in, oblivious, too drunk on the night to realize who he was up against. His hand brushed against her waist again. She stepped back, her eyes still on Joe.

“Something wrong?” he asked, his voice laced with confusion.

“No,” she whispered, the words barely escaping her lips. “I just…”

But she didn’t finish the sentence. Because Joe was moving now. His eyes never left hers, and neither did his steps. Slow. Deliberate. Cutting through the crowd like a predator. People parted for him without thinking, but he didn’t notice them. Didn’t need to. His gaze was locked, singular, as if the world around him didn’t exist.

Y/N’s heart picked up pace again, the thundering beat in her chest a contrast to the hollow emptiness inside her as she realized just how far she’d let this go. The guy beside her stepped back as Joe drew closer, no words spoken. None were needed.

Her phone buzzed again.

You’re mine. And if you’re not coming home to me tonight… I’ll come find you.

The words hit her like a cold wave. She didn’t smile this time. Didn’t feel the thrill. Something was different now. Something had changed. Her defiance was still there, but now, there was a cold weight pressing down on her—something that felt real.

She wanted to run. Wanted to tell Joe to go to hell and keep dancing with the guy beside her, who was still watching her with wide eyes, clueless. But she couldn’t.

Joe’s eyes flicked once toward the guy, sizing him up in an instant. And then, his gaze locked onto hers again. No words. Just that look. Possessive, unyielding.

This wasn’t jealousy anymore. It was a claim.

°.✩┈┈∘┈🌙┈∘┈┈✩.°

Joe was close now.

She could feel it before she saw him. The air around her shifted—thickened—as if the room itself recognized the danger. The crowd seemed to part for him like instinct, people stepping aside without even realizing why. Y/N felt her body tense, but not with fear. It was anticipation. A spark of something twisted and electric. Her breath caught in her throat, but her chin stayed high, jaw clenched in something that resembled defiance—because if Joe was going to bring the storm, she wasn’t going to run from it.

She never ran.

The guy beside her faltered, eyes flicking toward the sudden tension charging the air like static. “Yo, is that—?”

Before he could finish, Joe stepped into her space like he belonged there, like he had every right to erase the distance between them. And maybe, in his head, he did.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

Those dark, burning eyes of his locked onto hers with that look—the one that always told her exactly where she stood. You’re mine. That was the message. Raw, unspoken, and completely unwavering.

Y/N’s heart thudded hard in her chest, but she didn’t look away. Her lips curled upward into a mocking half-smile. “Didn’t think you had the balls to show up.”

Joe’s jaw twitched.

The guy beside her straightened a little, starting to piece together the very obvious tension between them. He opened his mouth again—probably to ask her if she was okay—but he didn’t get the chance.

Joe’s hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist, firm and unflinching. The movement wasn’t violent, but it was decisive. Possessive. He tugged her forward with enough force that she stumbled a step, the heel of her boot scuffing the sticky floor.

“Come on,” he said, voice low, flat, and loaded with warning. “You’re done here.”

Y/N’s head snapped toward him, her tone instantly sharp. “Excuse me?”

Joe didn’t even blink. His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it got tighter.

“You heard me.”

“Let go of me.” She yanked at her wrist, but he held fast. Her voice dropped into a deadly whisper. “You don’t get to just show up and act like I’m yours.”

Joe leaned in, voice cool and steady, but the fire behind his words burned hot. “You are mine, and you know it. So quit playing.”

The guy—clearly out of his depth—backed up, holding his hands in a half-surrender. “Hey, I didn’t know she was with someone, man—”

“She’s not,” Y/N snapped, yanking again at her wrist. “We’re not a thing.”

Joe's laugh was low and humorless. “You really wanna play that game right now? After everything?”

Y/N’s mouth opened to throw something back, something biting—but the words never came. Because despite herself, despite the ache in her pride and the stubborn fire in her chest, there was another part of her—quieter but undeniable—that liked this. That liked him like this.

The side of Joe that didn’t ask. That just took. That made it clear she didn’t get to erase him with a few shots of tequila and a stranger’s hands on her waist.

So when he turned, still holding her wrist, and started walking, she didn’t resist.

Not really.

Her friends stared from across the room, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. One of them—Kayla—mouthed something at her, a silent Are you okay? but Y/N didn’t respond.

She didn’t know if she was okay.

Didn’t know if she was pissed or turned on or just drunk on the energy that came with being near Joe when he was like this—dark and wild and unapologetically territorial.

The crowd closed behind them as they moved, Joe cutting through the club like he owned it, like dragging her out of there wasn’t up for debate. And maybe it wasn’t.

When they hit the cooler air outside, the buzz of the club muffled behind the thick doors, Y/N finally yanked her hand back hard enough to break his grip. She spun on him.

“What the hell, Joe?”

He turned slowly, jaw flexing as he stared at her, unreadable. “What?”

“You can’t just show up and drag me out like I’m some toy you left behind.”

“You looked like you were enjoying being someone else’s toy just fine.”

“God, you’re such a—” She stopped herself, fuming. Her hands shook, half from adrenaline, half from the emotional whiplash. “You don’t own me.”

Joe stepped closer, crowding her space, his voice quiet now—but all the more dangerous for it. “You sure act like I do when you’re underneath me.”

Her breath hitched.

The silence that followed was heavy, electric.

He didn’t touch her—but he didn’t need to. His words pressed against her like a hand to the throat. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. That was Joe’s real power. The way he got inside her head. The way he knew her—all her buttons, all her triggers.

She hated it.

And loved it.

“You done playing?” he asked, voice low. “Because if you wanna keep pretending you don’t want me, I’ll leave right now. But don’t expect me to watch you give my show to someone else.”

Y/N swallowed, her pulse pounding like the music still echoing in her chest. She lifted her chin again, trying to summon the same sharp edge she always wore with him.

But her voice was softer this time. Not weak—just honest.

“What if I’m tired of this game?”

Joe’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. He leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched, his breath warm against her skin.

“Then let me remind you how it ends.”

And before she could come up with a comeback—or an excuse—his lips were on hers.

Not gentle.

Not asking.

Just taking.

And Y/N? She let him.

Because whatever this was—dangerous, toxic, consuming—it was theirs.

And she wasn’t ready to let it go.

Not yet.

[marjoriestotch]

Pls give me your opinions and headcanons about Shelley Marsh

Hooo boy. Where do I begin.

I love Shelly Marsh, and she's an incredibly underrated character within the fanbase and also within the show itself.

It is no secret Trey Parker based Shelly off of his own sister, and his portrayal early on of her is meant to mock his sister and also express his turbulent relationship with her when they were children. He talks in detail in the season 1 commentary track of how his sister used to beat and bully him, so obviously the character Shelly within South Park isn't portrayed favourably. (He also describes with glee on how people in real life mock his sister knowing of the reference of her in South Park, which he says did annoy her. I have feelings about that on it's own but it's besides the point.) She's ugly, anti-social, friendless, a bully, violent, etc.

Though I do want to say that Trey's view on Shelly as a character did seem to shift early on, what with Cat Orgy portraying Shelly as a sympathetic victim, a lonely girl, who is starving for love. I would give Trey a lot more merit for that if that episode isn't then followed up with a huge gap of Shelly having next to no prominence in the show.

I believe that Trey Parker and maybe also Matt Stone started to take a little more interest in Shelly in recent years due to having daughters of their own, wanting and being able to flesh her out more and give an actual relationship to Randy who the show very blatantly states has treated Stan as his only child for many years. I hope they do continue with this trend of Shelly having more prominence - we had her be the inciting incident for Tegridy Farms, being more vocal about her unhappiness being there, her hatred for weed, her terribly relationship with Randy, her interest in music and social media, and Randy seemingly expressing more interest in her.

As for the fandom...I get exhausted if I have to think about how the fandom has treated her for decades. No, she is not the golden child. She is the one who is neglected and forgotten.

Randy outright forgets Shelly exists, and a recent example of Randy cropping Shelly out of the photo they took with the Black family during The Big Fix. Even Sharon neglects her, doting mostly on Stan, which Shelly expresses in her outburst during the season 19 finale. We never see Shelly taken to the doctor or to a therapist (which she desperately needs) when Sharon and Randy rush Stan to both multiple times during the show.

A lot of the time Shelly does not exist within fanart or fanfiction, it really is as if Stan is just an only child. Shelly is nowhere to be seen within or outside of the household, and damned do we find out what she's up to when Stan reaches adulthood. It's Shelly, right, who cares? I care. It upsets me.

I feel they toss her aside because Trey Parker did for many years, which, uh, is not a good excuse in my opinion. There are fans who cling onto s1-3 single episode only characters for DECADES while Shelly had more prominent and genuinely touching moments in that same time frame and beyond. I think we're all afraid to just admit that it's due to misogyny, and I don't want to hear that well South Park is a misogynistic show (and it is) when Trey Parker himself has expressed and provenly demonstrated he is interested in writing female characters more within the show. How are you doing worse than TREY PARKER at writing female characters? Embarrasssing. (That could be a whole post on its own, I digress.)

I feel like I could ramble on and on about this forever, and it's kinda getting exhausting lol, so I'll try and segue into the headcanons.

A recent headcanon I had has to do with Shelly's clear interest in Wicked since we saw her posters of it in her room. Though before this I did imagine Shelly to be averse to the musical given what had happened with Larry, I wonder if perhaps she clings onto the musical in memory of her short lived romance with Larry is one of the reasons she loves it so much. I like to imagine she heavily relates to Elphaba, and that her and Cartman like to act out the songs together with Cartman acting as Glinda (picture his tooth fairy princess costume reused for the Glinda role.)

Adding onto that, while, yes, we don't see them interacting all that much after Cat Orgy, I still like to think that Shelly and Cartman are friends, even distantly, because they bonded over the events in that episode.

Speaking of those events, this fandom glosses over MANY of Shelly's traumas, and being groomed by Skylar is one of them. It frustrates me to no end that we have people in the fandom pontificate over sexual assaults in the show (which are often played comedically) but ignore Shelly outright because she's just not one of the boys. Shelly was groomed by a grown man at 13, and is neglected to the point that none of her family has noticed. We watch him kiss her and grope her, which always makes me feel uncomfortable, much more than any other instances of assault on the show, because it feels so REAL.

Continuing on that, TO THIS DAY Shelly has a picture of Skylar framed in her room. Again, her family isn't shown to wonder why she has this photo or ask her who he is, nothing. The reason I think Shelly clings to this photo of the man who groomed and abused her is because, yes, what he did IS ABUSE, in Shelly's mind, he is the only person who found her desirable, wanted to kiss her, introduced her to his friends and made music with her (which she's clearly passionate about.) Yes, we have Larry, who I miss dearly, but their relationship was unfortunately short lived before any real romance could bloom. And, well, Amir was a boy she talked to online. Skylar, you see, was her first and only real boyfriend, and I think she clings onto that photo to remind herself that maybe she can be loved romantically, which I know is twisted and incredibly sad, but thats just what Shelly is to me.

Speaking of Amir, I like to think Shelly is a little chronically online. We always either see her on her phone or she's reading books (which I'll talk about in a second) when she's not at the dinner table. She has online friends she bonds over music, books, movies and maybe over their own struggles as teenagers. It's an escapism for Shelly when it seems like she's isolated from most of South Park for being known as the ugly bully of her little brother.

She clearly has an affinity for music, I like to think she loves both girl pop (Lorde, Miley Cyrus, etc) while also having an affinity to that teenage girl alternative music (The Smiths, which me and my hubby @bullborn have discussed in great lengths.) She wants to sing! She wants to get lost in daydreaming to music in her room.

Her room is also interesting because we often see horse posters in it, so clearly she is a horse girl of a sort. I'm sure when she was younger she would've learned to love horse riding, but Stan always took priority, so she's left daydreaming with her horesgirl novels and movies.

Shelly is just a very feminine girl, you guys. She loves pink, LOVES pink, loves flowers, loves Live Laugh Love posters, loves pink hearts, rainbows, butterflies, loves girl magazines, just everything girly girl. Even though she is tough, strong, and abrasive, she still has a clear soft feminine side to her that maybe she's afraid to express, what with keeping all this in her room where she feels safe from ridicule and to upkeep her bad reputation.

My favorite part of Marsh family dinners isn't Randy, Sharon and Stan arguing, but watching Shelly and Grandpa Marvin Marsh eat quietly together. I like to think they did have a close relationship, which only lasted briefly before Marvin was taken to an elderly home. I think Marvin still loves Shelly dearly, which is painful when you remember how he wanted to buy her jewelry even though she's outgrown any interest in them. I think it must have hurt Shelly to see the one family member she had a positive relationship with go.

I like to imagine Shelly moving out as soon as she can and going straight for an apartment in a city. She wants to get away from it all, start fresh. Good for her.

Speaking of growing up, I am a sucker for an ugly duckling story for Shelly, where she loses her head gear and grows into her face and body and becomes a beautiful woman, which can be symbolic of her growing out from under a toxic household and reaching her full potential.

I've recently considered that she would become pescetarian, sharing Stan's belief in anti-animal cruelty, etc.

I think Shelly's love of reading is also a form of escapism for her as well as a trait of her more loner self.

I headcanon her as being bisexual and you can't argue with me cuz actually is it true.

This headcanon is moreso my hubby, @bullborn , but I'll say it here. I do like to imagine she was also a girl scout as Stan was a boy scout, being a leader of her den to boot.

Despite everything that I've said before, we finally did get a reveal of Shelly's friend group during the Obesity special (I don't know what the actual name of it is and I don't care 🙄). I want to know more about them!! I doubt we'll get any real depth to them beyond that small appearance. Can we as a fandom turn them into ocs with their own fanlore. Please. I beg.

And I'll tap this off with my list of Shelly ships even though no one asked.

I love Shelly/Scot Tenorman (yes him, again thanks to hubby @bullborn), and Shelly/Tammy Warner, Shelly/Kenny McCormick, and finally....big shocker I know.....Shelly/Tolkien Black. This me coming out with that, I guess. Oh and I do like Shelly/Kevin McCormick, but it's more so platonic thanks to @bullborn 's influence.

And yes I spell her name Shelly. I'm sorry.

If you want me to elaborate on anything go ahead and ask! Hopefully this is a good enough answer for now

[cumironi]

YOU ARE GOOD TO ME jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. “i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life,” you said when your boyfriend have a bad day. why? you too have no idea, maybe because the fact that you don't know how and never once in you life comforting someone. genuinely. again genuinly.

warning. non-sorcerer! jjk men, crack, fluff, petnames,

GOJO SATORU

the apartment door slammed open like he’d just escaped war, and satoru gojo stumbled in dramatically with his white hair sticking out in every possible direction, sunglasses askew, and his coat only halfway on. he groaned as if gravity had quadrupled just for him. “i’m a broken man,” he announced, kicking off one shoe and somehow missing the entire genkan floor, letting it fly into the wall. “a shell. an empty husk. your poor boyfriend’s gonna die, babe.”

you looked up from your laptop on the couch, blanket wrapped around you like a burrito, eyebrows raised. “you say that every time you have to walk up stairs.”

“these weren’t stairs,” he collapsed face-first onto the couch beside you, not even bothering to move your legs—just burying his face right into your thighs like they were some heavenly pillow from ikea. “this was hell disguised as productivity.”

you let your fingers run through his messy hair, watching him melt under the touch. he peeked up at you through the curtain of silver strands and whimpered. “aren’t you gonna comfort me, sweetheart? tell me i’m a strong, hardworking man? kiss my forehead? lick my—”

“i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life,” you interrupted dryly.

satoru paused. blinked. then wheezed out a laugh like he’d just short-circuited. “what kind of weird-ass therapist talk is that? are you trying to seduce me or initiate a cult?”

you shrugged. “i read it online. it’s for people who are bad at comforting others.”

he burst out laughing again, rolling onto his back and yanking you down onto his chest with him, despite your protests about needing to finish your assignment. “baby, that was the worst attempt at comforting i’ve ever received. and also the funniest. you’re not supposed to make me wheeze when i’m dying. you’re supposed to kiss it better. preferably with tongue.”

“you’re so dramatic,” you mumbled against his neck, feeling the vibration of his chuckles under your lips. but he felt warm. exhausted, yes—but warm. arms tight around you like he needed you to keep him from sinking through the earth.

he sighed, running a hand down your back. “you know what, though? i actually like that stupid line. ‘i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.’ that’s hot in a weird way. mysterious. do it again, but whisper it in my ear like you’re about to tie me to a chair and interrogate me.”

you laughed into his collarbone, swatting at his side. “you’re unhinged.”

“and you’re terrible at comforting,” he grinned, lips pressing to your temple. “perfect match.”

he nuzzled into your cheek, breath soft and warm as he murmured, “thanks for not trying to fix it. just… lying here with me. even if you suck at words. i love your stupid mouth anyway.”

you blinked. “is that your version of affection?”

“it’s my version of proposing,” he teased, then added seriously, quieter this time, “you’re my favorite place to fall apart.”

you didn’t need to say anything back. just the way your hand found his and curled your fingers together said enough.

GETO SUGURU

the door to your shared apartment creaked open much slower this time. suguru didn’t have the dramatic flair of gojo—not unless he wanted something—but you could hear the unmistakable sigh as he stepped inside, shoulders heavy under the weight of whatever hell he’d just endured. he didn’t say a word, not even a greeting, just kicked off his boots, loosened the black tie around his neck, and tossed his coat over the armchair like a man who’d just survived an apocalypse and wanted absolutely no questions about it.

you peered up from the floor where you’d been lying belly-down with your laptop, typing an essay due in four hours and slowly accepting your fate. “hey,” you called softly. “you look like a ghost.”

“feel like one,” he muttered, voice hoarse as he stepped over your textbooks and dropped down beside you, his tall frame curling next to yours like he was seconds from passing out right there on the floor. “every joint in my body hates me. my brain is soup. and not even good soup. like lukewarm instant ramen broth.”

you scooted a little closer, until your thighs were touching. you didn’t know what to say. you were never great at comfort—it always felt forced, like reciting lines from a textbook. but you tried. “i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.”

geto froze.

turned his head slowly toward you with a blank stare.

“…what the hell did you just say?”

“it’s a thing!” you defended quickly. “for people who suck at comforting others, you’re supposed to say that. it shows solidarity.”

he blinked once. then again. then he made a deep, guttural sound from his chest—one that started as a chuckle and very quickly turned into a full-blown laugh, his hand dragging down his face like he couldn’t believe he’d just heard that come out of your mouth.

“baby,” he said between breathless laughs, “that sounds like something someone would say to a war criminal before interviewing them on a podcast.”

“well, i’m trying,” you muttered, looking away. “do you want a hug or not?”

he reached for you instantly, arms wrapping around your waist and tugging you into his lap like a man starved for affection. “yes, i want a hug. i want your shitty comfort. i want your confused college girl energy. i want all of it. come here.”

your legs tangled together as he nuzzled into your neck, his voice muffled against your skin. “your awkward little line is staying with me forever, by the way. next time someone tries to lecture me, i’m just gonna stare at them and whisper, ‘i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life,’ and see if they cry.”

“maybe they’ll fall in love with you like i did,” you offered, biting back a grin.

he kissed your shoulder. “they won’t. i’m saving my unhinged affection for you.”

you turned toward him, brows lifted in mock curiosity. “unhinged affection, huh? is that what you call pressing your nose into my cleavage while you sigh dramatically?”

“don’t disrespect my rituals,” he said solemnly, burying his face between your boobs like a man returning to his homeland. “this is how i recharge. spiritual energy. it’s science.”

“you’re ridiculous,” you laughed, letting him pull you fully into his lap, arms tight around your waist.

but he didn’t say anything else for a moment—just held you there, cheek pressed against your chest, breathing steady and warm. when he finally spoke again, it was quiet. tired.

“you don’t have to say the right thing. i just… like when you’re here. even when you’re awkward and quoting therapy twitter. especially then.”

you smiled, combing your fingers through his soft hair, brushing it back from his temple.

“i’d like to join you in acknowledging how bad you are at expressing emotions,” you said sweetly.

“you little shit.”

“you love me.”

“unfortunately, yes,” he whispered, kissing your collarbone. “very much so.”

NANAMI KENTO

you heard the apartment door click shut before the wall clock even hit 8 p.m., which meant something was wrong. nanami was never home this early. it wasn’t his style. he worked late, came back when the world was quiet, shoulders tight and tie loosened, jaw clenched like he was still arguing with someone in his head.

but tonight, it was different. he didn’t say a word when he came in. just walked in like his bones had betrayed him, hands in his pockets, tie already undone, and that golden tan trench coat of his draped over one arm like it weighed fifty pounds.

you sat up from your spot on the floor, where textbooks and half-drunk iced coffee cups surrounded you like a shrine to academic burnout before rise to your feet. “hey…” you said softly. “you’re home early.”

“burned out,” nanami said simply, putting his coat on the back of a chair like he was laying a body to rest. “utterly depleted. mentally, physically, spiritually, emotionally—choose your adjective.”

you stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to do with your arms. you weren’t the best at emotional first aid, and nanami was so… composed. always so damn calm, even when the world around him was on fire. it felt wrong seeing him like this—shoulders slumped, voice dull, his usual neat hair slightly tousled from stress.

so you cleared your throat. “i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.”

nanami froze.

slowly turned his head toward you like you’d just spoken in tongues. “pardon?”

“it’s supposed to be a comforting phrase,” you explained quickly, cheeks heating up. “for people who don’t know what to say but want to be supportive.”

he blinked at you for a long, silent beat.

then, deadpan, he said, “i feel like i just got emotionally mansplained by a motivational instagram reel.”

you sputtered, trying not to laugh. “you’re not helping.”

“no, you’re right,” he sighed, stepping closer until his hands found your waist, his head dipping down to rest on your shoulder. “i appreciate it. even if it sounds like something someone’s overly enthusiastic coworker would say in a corporate support group.”

his arms wrapped around you slowly—deliberately—like this was the only thing anchoring him to the floor. you could feel the tension melt away in pieces, each exhale grounding him a little more in your presence. “you’re terrible at comforting, by the way,” he murmured against your neck. “but you’re warm. and soft. and you smell like that overpriced shampoo i bought you, so i’m not complaining.”

you snorted. “so you do notice when i use it.”

“i notice everything,” he said, leaning back just enough to look down at you. “especially when you walk past me in those little shorts you think i don’t see.”

your mouth dropped open. “nanami kento.”

“i’m tired, not blind,” he muttered, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw. “let me rest my forehead on your boobs and pretend they’re a stress ball.”

you smacked his shoulder, giggling. “you’re supposed to be the mature one.”

“i have a professional reputation,” he mumbled as he guided you to the couch with him, sinking down with a deep, grateful sigh. “but not here. here, i’m your very tired, very needy boyfriend who just wants to be held and babied and—”

“don’t say babied.”

“—and smothered,” he continued stubbornly, resting his head in your lap like it was a luxury pillow. “preferably to death.”

you stroked his hair, soft and slow, and smiled down at him. “you want a bedtime story too?”

“only if it ends with you riding me into the sunset,” he murmured, eyes already half-lidded from comfort.

you blinked. “…sir.”

“you offered. i’m just being imaginative.” he looked up at you with that small, rare smile—the kind he only gave when he was too tired to hide how much he adored you.

“seriously, though,” he added quietly, fingers lacing with yours. “thank you. even when you’re awkward, you’re everything i need.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

he didn’t even knock. he kicked the door open like it owed him money, his tall frame slouched in the doorway, one hand on the back of his neck, the other holding a plastic bag of convenience store food that looked like it had been crushed under his boot.

“hey, baby,” he called out, voice already heavy with exhaustion as he kicked the door shut behind him. “i think i tore my soul today. like, straight up. my legs are vibrating. that ain’t normal, right?”

you looked up from your laptop where you were halfway through a research paper, eyes dry and fingers twitching from too much caffeine. “you look like you just got hit by a truck.”

“mm.” he dropped the bag on the kitchen counter and slumped into the couch like gravity was trying to eat him alive. “probably did. can’t remember. the day was a blur of dumbasses and testosterone.”

you blinked at him. he looked so done—shirt halfway unbuttoned, tie hanging like a noose, hair a mess, one eye twitching from what you could only assume was the sheer mental stamina it took to not punch someone today.

you closed your laptop and stood. time to try.

“i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.”

silence.

toji turned his head very slowly to stare at you from the couch.

“…the fuck was that?”

“it’s a thing,” you said, crossing your arms defensively. “i’m trying to comfort you. don’t make fun of me.”

his lips twitched. you saw it. the way his eyes lit up like he’d just found his new favorite toy. “that was you trying to comfort me?”

“yes.”

he let out a low, slow laugh, leaning his head back against the couch. “baby, i love you, but that sounded like you were about to put on a headset and guide me through a meditation app.”

“okay, rude. i’m literally trying to be there for you.”

he patted his thigh lazily. “then get over here. bring those soft little thighs i like and come help me ‘acknowledge the difficulty of my life.’”

you rolled your eyes but walked over anyway, crawling into his lap and straddling him as his hands immediately settled on your waist like muscle memory. he looked up at you, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth pulled into a lazy grin.

“you’re bad at comforting, but you’re hot, so i’m willing to overlook it,” he said, sliding his palms up your thighs under your oversized shirt. “wanna kiss it better?”

“kiss what better?”

“my brain. my bones. my soul. my—”

“toji—”

“—cock. obviously.” he gave you a smug little smirk, resting his forehead against your chest like he was about to fall asleep right there. “’m serious though. lemme stay here a bit. you’re warm. and soft. and smell better than anyone I’ve touched all day.”

your fingers drifted into his hair without thinking, stroking back the messy strands. “you’re such a menace.”

“yeah,” he mumbled, already dozing, “but i’m your menace. the tired, aching, sex-deprived, emotionally-stunted mess you chose.”

you snorted and kissed the top of his head. “if you weren’t so hot i’d slap you.”

“do both,” he whispered against your chest. “get creative.”

but then, quieter, he added, “thanks for trying. i like it. even when it sounds like a therapy robot malfunctioning.”

you paused. smiled. and hugged him tighter.

“anytime, menace.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you didn’t expect to see him on the couch like that.

sukuna was always loud—annoying and smug, lounging across your bed like he owned the place (because he absolutely believed he did). he talked too much, flirted too shamelessly, and got under your skin so easily it was practically a talent.

but right now? he was quiet.

legs spread wide, forearms resting on his thighs, head tilted back with his eyes shut like he was trying not to bite someone’s head off. the black markings on his skin seemed duller than usual, and his eyes—usually narrowed and gleaming—looked heavy, like the weight of the world had finally pressed down on him for once.

you tiptoed over, unsure, nervous. sukuna wasn’t like anyone else. he didn’t want sympathy. he didn’t even believe in comfort.

but still…

“i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.”

his eyes cracked open.

slowly. like he was wondering if he just hallucinated that.

“…what.”

you shifted on your feet, hands behind your back. “i’m not good at… emotional stuff. but i read that line somewhere. it’s supposed to help.”

he stared at you. dead silent. not blinking. eyes locked onto you with the intensity of a man who had never in his life heard anything so baffling.

and then—

he laughed.

not a chuckle. not a snort. a deep, full-body laugh that came from his chest and shook his shoulders, one hand dragging down his face like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“you’re such a little idiot,” he wheezed, grinning now, eyes gleaming with mischief as he sat up straighter. “what the hell was that? who the fuck wrote that? i wanna thank them for the comedy gold.”

“shut up!” you pouted, smacking his arm. “i’m trying to be supportive!”

“supportive?” he scoffed, grabbing your wrist before you could pull back and yanking you right onto his lap, like he was done pretending to need space. “you sound like you’re reciting a spell to make me spontaneously combust.”

“maybe i am.”

he grinned again. slow and lazy. “you trying to kill me, baby?”

“no,” you muttered, cheeks warm as your legs straddled his thighs, hands braced on his broad shoulders. “just… you looked tired. and i didn’t know what to say.”

he hummed, arms sliding around your waist without hesitation, pressing you closer until your chest touched his. “i am tired. but if you keep climbing on me like this, i’ll forget all about it.”

you rolled your eyes, but your hands slipped up into his hair anyway, tugging gently. “you’re so dramatic.”

“and you’re so soft,” he murmured, burying his face in your neck, his voice suddenly quieter. rougher. “smell nice. feel even better. mm. i should fall apart more often if it means you’ll climb into my lap and say weird shit.”

you felt him exhale, long and slow, against your skin. he was warm. heavy. not just in body but presence—like he carried the weight of centuries and finally, finally let someone else hold him for a minute.

“you okay?” you asked, voice quieter this time.

“i’m fine,” he replied easily. “i’m always fine. just… annoyed. tired of dealing with people. bored. everything feels stupid.”

you nodded. “i get that.”

he pulled back just enough to look at you, two of his fingers tracing along your jaw. “you don’t need to say anything smart, you know. you just gotta be here. let me touch you. let me forget the rest of the world.”

“…you really are a pervert.”

“you say that like you’re not grinding on my lap while calling me tired.”

“sukuna—!”

“you love it,” he smirked, dragging his fingers down your spine until you shivered. “and i love you. even if you say weird comforting lines like some emotional AI.”

you blinked.

“what.”

“don’t make me say it again,” he said, too smoothly. “i’m only saying it once. i’m exhausted, not weak.”

you stared at him. for once, he looked flustered. not red-faced, not babbling, but that little twitch at the corner of his mouth gave it away.

you leaned in, whispered against his lips, “i would like to acknowledge the difficulty of your heart finally admitting that.”

“i swear i’ll spank you right now,” he growled, mouth already crashing against yours, exhausted and starving for you all at once.

SHIU KONG

you heard the door before you saw him—soft click, slow open, followed by the sound of a deep exhale and the thunk of expensive leather shoes being kicked off without care.

he rarely came home this quiet.

you peeked out from behind your textbook, still in your oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, hair up in a lazy bun, half a bag of chips already devoured beside you.

he looked like hell. beautiful, expensive hell. black coat half off his shoulders, tie loose, eyes low-lidded with a dangerous kind of fatigue.

he didn’t even glance at you. just walked straight to the bar cart, poured himself a glass of dark liquor, and sank into the leather armchair like he was made for it.

you padded up to him quietly, awkward and unsure. your lips parted, brain short-circuiting, and then you blurted out, “i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.”

shiu froze mid-sip.

he slowly lowered his glass and turned his head toward you with the slow, deliberate grace of a man wondering if you’d just tried to initiate a séance.

“…what the hell did you just say to me?”

“i’m trying to comfort you,” you said quickly, a little embarrassed now. “i read it online. it’s supposed to validate your emotional experience.”

he blinked.

then—deadpan, flatly—he asked, “are you high?”

“no! i’m being serious. you just look… really exhausted.”

he stared at you for a moment longer before his lips twitched. he took another slow sip of his drink, watching you over the rim of the glass like a predator watching its prey try to act tough.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “because that was the most HR-approved way anyone has ever tried to flirt with me.”

“i wasn’t flirting!” you gasped.

“mm. so you just randomly walk up to me and talk like a guidance counselor in the middle of an emotional crisis?”

you flushed, crossing your arms. “okay, you know what? forget it. next time i’ll just let you rot in your classy little despair cave and do nothing.”

he grabbed your wrist before you could walk away, gently tugging you into his lap with practiced ease. his hand slid under the hem of your hoodie, warm palm splaying against your bare thigh.

“you’re not leaving me alone when i’m like this,” he said, voice dipped in that tired, rich silk tone that made your stomach twist.

you settled against him reluctantly, your head resting on his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt.

“i didn’t know what to say,” you muttered. “i’ve never seen you this tired. you’re always so… put together.”

he chuckled, low and bitter. “baby, you’re the only person i’d even let see me like this. the rest of the world gets the polished version. you get the man underneath the suit.”

“…so you admit you’re actually a cryptid.”

“a very expensive cryptid,” he murmured, letting his lips brush your temple. “one who only wants his bratty little girl curled up on his lap when he feels like throwing someone off a balcony.”

you laughed softly, fingers playing with his tie. “do you feel any better?”

“no,” he said honestly. “but i’m enjoying the view now. keep sitting there like that and i might forget how many people pissed me off today.”

“you’re such a perv.”

“i’m exhausted and in need of emotional support. and by emotional support, i mean your thighs.”

“…you’re impossible.”

“and you love it,” he whispered against your ear, nipping gently. “now be a good girl and keep acknowledging me. preferably without sounding like a therapy hotline next time.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

he didn’t even greet you when he walked through the door.

his shoulders were tight. his expression, unreadable. briefcase in hand, tie loosened just enough to tell you he’d been fighting with it in the elevator. he kicked his shoes off, dropped his keys in the tray, and exhaled like the weight of the whole goddamn justice system had been balanced on his spine.

you blinked from the couch, still in your pajama pants and tanktop at 6 p.m., cuddled up with your laptop and a cup of tea you’d already reheated twice. he hadn’t even looked at you yet.

so you stood up, heart softening, and approached him slowly like he was a wounded animal. his eyes finally met yours—tired, heavy, rimmed with frustration and fatigue.

and you said, completely earnestly, “i would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulty of your life.”

he blinked.

paused.

just stood there, stunned in his wrinkled white dress shirt and undone tie, looking like you’d just offered him a lifeline made out of cling wrap and good intentions.

“…what?” he asked, voice hoarse.

you fidgeted. “it’s supposed to help people feel seen. and supported. and stuff.”

he stared at you.

and then—without a word—he set his briefcase down, stepped forward, and just…

collapsed into you.

face first.

straight into your boobs.

you froze. arms still awkwardly midair. hiromi was usually so composed, so careful about touching you, always asking permission like a gentleman even when his eyes darkened with hunger.

but now? he was clinging to your waist with both arms wrapped tight, burying his face in your chest like it was his only safe haven, letting out a muffled, broken little sigh.

“…you really are something else,” he mumbled into your tits, voice low and muffled by your skin. “who even says that?”

“i was trying to be comforting!” you squeaked, cheeks warm as you slowly wrapped your arms around his shoulders, one hand carding through his soft hair. “this is my first time dating a tired, hot lawyer.”

“you’re doing horribly,” he said, not moving an inch.

“…but you’re still nuzzled into my boobs.”

“they’re warm. soft. significantly better than anything else that happened to me today.”

you smiled, holding him closer. he melted against you, hips pressing to yours like he needed to feel all of you at once, breathing in the scent of your skin like it grounded him. your heart fluttered, cheeks on fire as he sighed again and murmured:

“do you even know what you do to me?”

“uh. judging by the fact that your face is in my cleavage right now, maybe?”

he laughed softly. almost shyly. and then—still with his face hidden—he admitted, quietly, “i was so close to snapping today. just one more word, one more file on my desk, and i think i would’ve lost it.”

you pressed your lips to the top of his head.

“i don’t need you to be perfect, hiromi. just let yourself be held sometimes, okay?”

he didn’t respond at first. just nuzzled in deeper, like he wanted to climb inside your skin and stay there forever.

“…you’re dangerously good at this,” he whispered finally. “even with the weird lines.”

“i practiced in the mirror.”

“adorable.”

“horny.”

“also true.”

he finally tilted his head up, resting his chin against your chest as he looked up at you, eyes softer now. the kind of soft that made your knees go weak. the kind of soft that made you forget he could probably ruin a man in court without blinking.

“can we stay like this for a while?” he asked.

you nodded.

he kissed your sternum, then let his head fall back into place with a content little hum.

“…you smell like cookies.”

“you smell like burnout and moral crisis.”

“perfect. we balance each other out.”

[oceantornadoo]

IDK! HEAR ME OUT THO!!!

Simon, staging the break in and what not so he could push you back into his arms??? INSANE!

Delicious story. Thank you for the food! <3

so originally when i made that last fic (which unexpectedly blew up tysm everyone) i added in the creepy elements almost on accident?? but this and another reply has me thinking...

tw: slight humiliation (but you'll like it)=

simon riley wasn't a bad man. he also wasn't a bad husband. at least that's what he told himself.

when you had presented him with those divorce papers a bit ago (13 months and 4 days, but who was counting), he thought it was a bluff. a joke. he had gone too far in your last argument, and that was your reaction. when he told you he'd go to therapy, you stared at him with a look he'd only see on men in the battlefield. dead all the way through, a walking husk. so he signed them and went to therapy anyways.

the whole time, this whole 13-month break, where you had been 'building a new life' or whatever, he had been planning. internalizing the commentary his therapist would make, and then spitting it back out to you while you moved out of his place. every time you seemed to forget one extra box, and who's to say if he hid a couple in his room? he had a plan.

over time, simon really seemed to have learned so much from therapy. so much about communication. he had become open and welcoming, far from that man who would respond to your complaints with hard stares and a lack of words. so maybe you met for coffee a couple of times and that's how he knew about the cafe by your new place. maybe that's how he tailed you one night after a date, just to make sure this new guy didn't try anything (and not to figure out your unit number). whatever he did, he played a dangerous game by letting you have this illusion of freedom while balancing his presence in your life, just enough to make you want more. after weeks and week of stagnant progress, he needed one extra push. something small, not even a shove.

and if he happened to mention your unit number to a bunch of shady guys that hung out in the alley by your building? happened to brag about your pretty pussy and sweet-smelling panties? maybe mention your habit of not locking the window when you left for work? who's to say. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

and now here you were, back in his arms where you belonged. a little frightened but comforted in the knowledge that he could protect you. the ghost wasn't shed when he took his mask off, but you didn't need to know that.

--

your body was so used to being in simon's arms you didn't even realize you had been grinding on him for the past ten minutes. his boxers you wore were sticky with arousal as you grinded against his clothed cock in the dark. even in your dream, it was simon underneath you, no one else. "si." you panted, a near-whisper that only a military man could have heard. "dove?" he adjusted your sleeping positions, tossing the covers to give you more room to maneuver against him.

"i know i said that thing about the line not being crossed." he gave you a low chuckle. silly little girl. you had finally realized how much you needed him and he was going to milk you for all you were worth. "and?" you stopped. shit. he needed to seem more responsive. he moved you from his thigh to his boner using one arm, the other one snaking its way under your shirt to stroke your back. you moaned as he massaged the tension from the day's earlier events away, giving you sweet relief. the sweetness of the massage made a hard contrast to the friction in your core as he rubbed you against his hardened cock.

"spit it out, baby." he growled. "can you-fuck." his hand had moved to the back of your neck now, holding it in a tight grip. his hand was so large he could feel the pulse points on either side of your jaw, heart racing. finally. "can you get me off? just this once?" he snorted, moving you up and down against him faster, dragging your sensitive clit over and over. "what's the magic word?" he flipped you both around, pressing his body weight on top of you.

simon turned the light on, wanting to see how needy you were. you were panting, shirt sticky with sweat as your chest moved up and down with exertion. he hiked up your shirt and took off your boxers, exposing your sticky cunt to the cool air. he took a sniff of the fabric, noting your small gasp as if you didn't know how obsessed he was with you already. "magic word." your mouth dropped. guess you weren't getting off that easily. "please, simon." he clucked his tongue at that. "ghost?" he left out a short laugh, arms reaching out to tug his shirt off of you. your nipples were so hard, aching to be pinched and sucked just how you liked them. "not ghost." he reached over to his nightstand, pulling something out of the drawer. he fumbled with his hand for a second, then held yours up to the light as he slipped something on it.

"husband." the words left your mouth in a whoosh, eyes transfixed on your wedding ring that was on your hand. the one you had flung at him after he complained about the divorce papers, the one you said you'd rather die than wear again. and here it was, right back on your finger, sparkling in the lamplight.

simon captured your mouth in a rough kiss, entering you with his ring and middle finger at the same time. "so willing for your husband, hm? all puffy and wet. look at your cunt, darling." you both looked down at your pussy at the same time. it was squelching, your vibrator sessions not holding a candle to what your ex husband could do to you. you were almost embarrassed by how desperate your pussy looked, clit enlarged from its earlier friction. his fingers worked in and out of you, wedding ring covered in slick. you watched as he pressed his thumb to your clit in small circles, a tightening sensation in your lower belly rising to the surface. "simon, si-fuck" he gave your pussy a small slap, pulling his fingers out as you addressed him incorrectly. "husband, please." he entered you again roughly, drawing a low moan from you. he captured your nipple in his mouth, teething it just enough to make you hurt. punishment.

"please please please i'm right ther-" he pressed hard against your clit and sent you careening off the edge into your orgasm, back bowing off the bed. simon gave you small love bites as you recovered, hand still working your cunt to draw out your orgasm.

finally, he removed his fingers and drew back from you, forcing eye contact. he put both in his mouth, moaning at the taste of your arousal mixed with the metal from the wedding band. your jaw was still open, looking at him like you had never seen him before. like the sheep's skin had finally been removed, and now only the wolf remained.

"let's get you to bed, wife."

[thecuriousbeauty]

Different Frequencies- Part I (Harry Styles! au x autistic!reader)

A/N:- Hey guys, know it's been a while but I'm back with a short series for you all! This is my first time writing about autism, and I've done quite some research before writing about a particular scene. Just wanted to try something different and push my own personal boundaries and style of writing. Hope you love this, do let me know what you think!

Word count: 6,068

Synopsis- College heartthrob and football captain Harry Styles needs extra credit to survive the year. His only shot? Mentoring Y/N, a brilliant but blunt autistic student who couldn’t care less about his charm. What starts as an obligation soon sparks something neither of them expected. ________________________________

Harry Styles slumped further into the chair, arms crossed, jaw clenched. He hated meetings like this. Academic probation. Extra credit. Assigned tutoring. It all sounded like a punishment for being a guy who just wanted to play ball and mind his own business.

Professor Langley adjusted her glasses and gave him a look that made him feel twelve again. "Harry, you're two percentage points from failing this course. I’m giving you a chance. This assignment could save your season."

"What kind of assignment?" Harry asked, already knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

She slid a form across the desk. "Communication mentorship. You’ll be helping a student with presentation skills. One-on-one. Weekly sessions."

Harry stared at the paper like it might bite. "You’re kidding. That’s not extra credit, that’s babysitting."

Professor Langley raised an eyebrow. “It’s mentoring. And it counts toward your final grade. Besides, she could use someone with confidence. You’ve got that in spades, Mr. Styles.”

He stood, shoving the chair back with a screech. “This is bullsh—” He stopped himself. "Whatever. Fine."

“Her name is y/n y/l/n.” Langley called as he grabbed the door handle. “She’s in your sociology class. You’ll start tomorrow. Try not to scare her off.”

Harry didn't answer. He was already gone.

The locker room was a sanctuary of noise and sweat. The scent of muscle rub and cheap deodorant hit him the second he walked in. His teammates were already tossing towels and talking trash when he dropped his bag by his locker and dropped himself onto the bench with a groan.

“Yo, Styles,” called Jamal, grinning. “You look like someone just told you no more carbs.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, still annoyed. “I just got assigned to tutor someone for extra credit.”

“Pfft, easy points,” said Nate, slapping on his studs. “Who is it? Hot and dumb? Or just dumb?”

“Neither,” Harry muttered. “Some girl named y/n.. She can’t do presentations or something.”

Jamal leaned around the row of lockers. “Wait. y/n y/l/n? The one who sits in the front row and never talks?”

“I don’t know, man. I guess?” Harry sighed. “Langley said she needs help communicating.’ I don’t even know what that means. I'm not a damn therapist.”

“Dude,” Nate snorted. “Maybe she’s just shy. Help her say a few words, get your credit, move on. Could be worse.”

Harry didn’t answer. He stared at the floor, jaw working. This wasn’t part of the plan. He had enough to worry about with playoffs, scouts, and barely passing classes as it was.

“Come on, let’s hit the field. You can worry about your little assignment later.”, Nate brings him out of his thoughts. The boys hit the field for their practice drills. Harry kicked the ball into goals like it didn’t take any effort. The crowd of students lounging on the bleachers erupted into cheers, mostly girls, mostly there for him.

“Harry!” someone shrieked. He didn’t need to look to know who it was, or at least what type. Makeup thick, smiles plastic, phones pointed at him like he was a zoo animal doing tricks.

He gave a wink, then jogged backward with a smirk, tossing the ball lazily to the sideline.

“Styles!” Coach barked. “Focus up. We’re not out here to show off for your little fan club.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, though the grin never left his face. He didn’t need to try. The attention just happened, always had. He’d always been the guy. Campus darling. Locker room legend.

The girls in the stands giggled again when he peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt during water break. He flexed without meaning to, or maybe he did. 

Nate bumped his shoulder. “You ever get tired of being the main character?”

Harry chuckled, wiping his face with his shirt. “Not even a little.”

But the thought of that meeting with Professor Langley poked at the edge of his mind again. Extra credit. y/n. Some awkward girl who probably hated crowds and wouldn’t survive a minute on this field.

He glanced back toward the stands. The noise. The attention. The weight of always being watched. It was exhausting, sometimes. But it was all he knew.

A nerdy girl who didn’t speak much? Probably afraid of her own shadow?

No way she’d survive a day in his world. And no way she belonged in it.Still... if it kept him on the field, he’d do it. How hard could it be?

__________________________________________

The art room smelled like pencil shavings, old paper, and something faintly metallic, maybe the broken sink in the back again. It was quiet, except for the scratch of graphite against textured paper and the distant hum of a fan that had been dying for weeks.

Y/N sat curled over her sketchpad, fingers steady, her pencil dancing in clean, deliberate lines. She had been working on the shading for twenty-two minutes and forty-eight seconds. Her reference photo, a raven mid-flight, was clipped to the corner of her clipboard, but she didn’t need it anymore. The image lived behind her eyes now. What mattered was getting the wings just right.

Light on the top edge. Darker where the feathers tucked under.

One line. Then a pause to smudge with the side of her thumb.

She didn’t blink much when she was like this, didn't notice the fluorescent light flickering above or the scrape of a chair leg from across the room.

Zayn was talking again.

“…and then she said it’s not a date if we’re just studying, but like, we both know she brought two iced coffees, so that is a date, right? I mean, who brings someone iced coffee unless they’re into them?”

Y/N blinked once, just enough to wet her eyes, then continued shading.

He was sitting on the table next to hers, legs swinging, half-laughing at his own ramble. She didn’t need to respond. He didn’t expect her to. That was why he was safe.

The smudge on the raven’s wing was too sharp. She reached for the kneaded eraser and pressed gently to lift the graphite, shaping the light.

Zayn leaned sideways to peek at her drawing. “Yo, that’s creepy good. Like, museum-level bird vibes. You sure you’re not secretly famous on Instagram?”

“Instagram compresses resolution,” she said quietly, eyes never leaving the paper.

Zayn snorted. “Okay, nerd. Still though, you should post it. People like birds. Birds are, like, emotionally safe or whatever.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t want to think about people looking at her art. Looking at her, period. In here, it was just the bird. The sweep of the wing. The pressure of the pencil. She knew how hard to press for light, medium, or dark. It made sense. Unlike faces. Or voices. Or—

“Did you hear me?” Zayn asked, nudging her arm lightly.

“Mm.” She blinked again, and the bird’s eye looked back at her, perfectly round, perfectly sharp. Alive.

“I asked if you’re gonna go to the art show next month. You know, the show? The one you always skip?”

“No.” She moved to the feathers on the tail. “I don’t know how to answer..questions that people ask. They will ask questions, right? Cannot..cannot explain art.”

Zayn stretched out on the table like a cat. “You don’t have to say anything. I’ll be your bodyguard. Scowl at anyone who talks too loud or smells like Axe.”

Y/N’s lip twitched. Barely a smile, but close.

The bird was almost done. She reached for her thin mechanical pencil, the one with the perfect .3mm tip, and started adding the linework on the beak.

Every line she drew quieted the rest of the world. 

______________________________________________

y/n was called to Professor’s Langley’s cabin. She very well knew what for and it was already making her mind spiral. The hallway outside Professor Langley’s cabin-style office was always too bright. The glass walls caught the noon sun and bounced it everywhere, on the floor, on her face, into her eyes. Y/N kept her gaze low, counting her steps, feeling the seams of her jeans scratch against her skin in that way she hated but tolerated.

Her sketchbook was clutched to her chest. Inside: her latest unfinished work, a fox curled in tall grass. Next to it, a small pouch of pencils, a folded note from Zayn, and a lined index card with questions she’d prepared in case she forgot what to say.

Just a few more steps. Just make it to the door.

She didn’t see the trio of girls until it was too late.

“Watch it, weirdo,” one of them said as she bumped into Y/N’s shoulder,  not by accident.

The sketchbook slipped. The pouch hit the floor and exploded. Pencils scattering in every direction.

Y/N froze.

The hallway felt louder all of a sudden. Too loud. Laughter spiked behind her, sharp and bright and jagged.

“Oh my God, is that like, art?” one of the girls snickered, nudging the open sketchbook with the toe of her boot.

Y/N dropped to her knees, not speaking. If she opened her mouth, she wasn’t sure what would come out. Her hands trembled as she reached for her pencils, fingertips fumbling as she tried to sort them by hardness: 4B, HB, 2H, mechanical...

Breathe. Count. Don’t cry here. Don’t.

From the far end of the hall, Harry leaned against the wall, sipping from a sports drink and half-watching the scene. He hadn’t really noticed Y/N before. Just a quiet girl from sociology. But now, with her on the ground, clutching pencils like lifelines while three smug girls mocked her, he felt... something off.

“She’s not bothering anyone,” he muttered under his breath.

Nate was beside him, chewing gum, unimpressed. “That’s y/n y/l/n.” he said, popping a bubble. “Girl you’re paired with.”

Harry blinked. “That’s her?”

“Yep. She’s kind of… different. Smart, though. Professor Langley’s, like, protective of her or whatever.”

Harry watched her gather the last of her things. She didn’t yell. Didn’t snap back. Just moved with quiet, practiced urgency, like she’d done this before. Been knocked down, cleaned it up, said nothing.

He felt a twist in his stomach. Guilt, maybe. Or just the unsettling realization that not everyone was built to survive this place the way he was.

Y/N pressed the sketchbook tightly to her chest again and stood, her breath catching. The lights were buzzing. Her palms were sweaty. Her pencil pouch didn’t zip right anymore.

But she made it to the office door and hurried inside.

Inside, the lights were softer, the air still. Langley sat behind her desk, glasses low on her nose.

“Y/N, I’m glad you came.”

Y/N nodded once, lips pressed into a line.

Langley gestured to the chair. “I won’t keep you long. I wanted to let you know that your communication mentorship is starting this week.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

“I already heard,” she said, voice barely audible.

Langley folded her hands. “Then you know it’s Harry Styles.”

Y/N looked at her hands in her lap. They were still shaking.

“I don’t..I don’t think he’ll take it seriously.”

Langley’s expression softened. “I think you might be surprised. And I think he might be, too.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her brain was still back in the hallway, on the sound of mocking voices and pencils hitting tile.

Langley didn’t push. “You’re not alone in this, Y/N. And you don’t have to change who you are. Just try. That’s all I’m asking.”

Y/N nodded again. She wasn’t sure if it meant “yes” or “I don’t know what else to do.”

Outside, Harry was still leaning against the wall, watching the closed door.

For the first time, he wasn’t thinking about himself.

_____________________________________________

The classroom was too quiet, too echoey, too wrong. Y/N sat in the far-left corner of the room, her usual spot, back against the wall, nearest the window, away from the center of things. Zayn was beside her, sprawled out in the neighboring chair, legs stretched under the table, chewing the edge of his hoodie sleeve like he always did when he was tense.

Y/N’s fingers tapped a rhythm against her thigh. one-two-three, one-two-three. matching the pattern of her heartbeat. Her brain wouldn’t stop.

He’s late. He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Eleven now. Twelve.

“Still no show,” Zayn muttered, glancing at the clock. “Big surprise.”

Y/N didn’t answer. Her thoughts were looping. She had rehearsed the opening of their session, written it down three times in case she forgot. But now she couldn’t even remember the first line.

He won’t take this seriously. What if he makes fun of me? What if he laughs when I try to speak? What if I shut down? What if I say nothing and he tells the professor I’m wasting his time?

“Hey.” Zayn nudged her ankle lightly under the table. “You’re not a problem. You hear me?”

She nodded, eyes locked on the blank page of the notebook in front of her. She’d brought a few prompts, safe topics, simple answers. All neatly organized in a pocket folder. Just in case she couldn't find her words.

Zayn sighed. “Honestly, I don’t even know why Langley thought he was the right person for this. The guy’s a walking ego in cleats.”

The door opened mid-sentence.

Harry Styles stepped in like he’d just rolled off a magazine cover. Wind in his curly brown hair, athletic jacket slung over his shoulder, like he hadn’t kept them waiting fifteen whole minutes.

“Hey,” he said casually, dropping his bag near the door. “Sorry, had practice.”

Zayn stood, instantly.

“So you couldn’t text?” he asked, tone sharp. “You just let her sit here and spiral for a quarter of an hour?”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “Okay, who are you, exactly?”

“I’m the guy who gives a damn when she’s treated like she doesn’t matter,” Zayn shot back. “You’re just some jock who probably thinks this is a charity project.”

Harry’s posture shifted, eyebrows pulling together. “You don’t know me. Don’t act like you do.”

Zayn took a step forward. “I know enough.”

Y/N stood up too fast.

“Zayn, it’s okay,” she said, voice thinner than usual, like it had been folded too many times. “Please. You don’t have to stay.”

He looked at her, jaw tight, clearly unhappy. But her eyes weren’t angry, just overwhelmed. That look he’d seen a thousand times since they were kids. The one that meant: If you stay, I’ll break.

He exhaled through his nose. “Fine. But I’ll be right outside.”

She nodded.

Zayn gave Harry one last look. Not threatening, but not friendly, then walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

The silence that followed felt like a dropped plate.

Harry glanced around, then scratched the back of his neck. “That your boyfriend or something?”

Y/N didn’t look at him. “No. Friend.”

Harry sat down in Zayn’s empty chair and leaned back like this was just another lecture. “He’s got a hell of a chip on his shoulder.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She was reading the first line that she wrote. Hello. My name is Y/N. Thank you for helping me. I am autistic. I do not communicate the same way as everyone else, but I want to try.

Harry sighed and checked the time, mentally preparing himself to sit through an hour. “Right. I’m Harry. I guess Langley’s already told you things?”

She nodded, still not bringing her eyes up to meet his. “y-y/n.”, she says.

“y/n,look,  I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do. I just need to do this so I can continue playing football, okay? I won’t get in your hair, you don’t get in mine, and we both can go back happy-”

“-Get in my hair?”, she wonders out loud. How could someone get in someone’s hair?

Harry blinks, then thinks she didn’t hear him well so he leans closer and explains. “Yes. You can do your thing during our sessions, I won’t bother you. When all our sessions are over, you can tell Langley I did a good job, yeah?”

“No, nope.” She shakes her head and lets out a chuckle.

“Um, no? And what’s funny about this?”, Harry furrows his eyebrows. 

“I need this, um, these sessions. Cannot lie for Harry.”

Harry groans. He thought he could just convince her to get through this somehow but it seems like she actually cares about the session.

“I really thought you’d agree, y/n. Why make it harder for both of us?”

“I told you, I need this. And you need to work for extra credit.”

Harry couldn’t help but smirk at her disapproving tone. “Alright. Then tell me what you want from me.”

Harry’s voice hit her like warm static, low, rough around the edges, too loud even when he wasn’t trying to be. It had that casual, careless rhythm people used when they expected to be listened to. Confident. Unfiltered. Like he’d never once worried about saying the wrong thing.

To Y/N, it wasn’t just a voice. It was texture.

Every syllable scraped against her thoughts like gravel under bare feet. Not painful, exactly but jarring. Distracting. Unpredictable

“Communication. It’s..it’s not easy for me. I’m autistic.”, she tells him, staring at her desk.

Harry sits quietly, then nods because it makes sense how she has not made eye contact with him all this while and how she’s always quiet and in her own world.

“I want to change, come out of my..my comfort uh box?”

“Your comfort zone.”, Harry corrects, a slight smile forming on his face. This was going to be interesting. 

“Oh! This is for you, please..please read.” She pushes a neatly folded piece of paper towards him. He unfolds it and reads through it.

How You Can Help Me:

Please don’t raise your voice, even if you’re not angry.

I need extra time to think before I talk.

If I go quiet, I’m not ignoring you.

Don’t interrupt when I’m speaking. Let me finish.

I use written words when I can’t speak. That’s okay.

Please tell me what we’re doing before we do it.

Ask direct questions. Not vague ones.

Eye contact is hard. I’m still listening.

Harry read it all without saying anything, and that was good. Y/N couldn’t handle talking and being watched at the same time.

When he finally looked up, something in his face had changed. Just slightly.

“Okay,” he said, voice low again. “I can do that.”

He looked like he meant it.

y/n gives him a small nod. 

“So? You like sketching?”

y/n looks up at him for the first time, eyes briefly meeting his. His eyes were green. Not the flat, predictable green of a leaf or a chalkboard, but layered. They reminded her of moss under water, or the kind of glass that looked cracked without actually breaking. There were flecks of gold near the center, like someone had spilled sunlight there and it never quite dried.

She looked away quickly. “How..how do you know?”

“I know a lot of things.”, he replies, smiling wider, happy with the small moment of eye contact. He couldn’t figure out the color.They had that curious look. Wide, but not naïve. Clear, but not soft. Like she was seeing everything at once.

 This was already different from conversations he’s had with other people. He suddenly wanted to know more about her. He couldn’t deny the fact that she was beautiful. 

She had her hair in a braid, not the messy, flirty kind he was used to seeing at parties, but a neat, practical one, the kind someone did because they needed their hair out of the way. No nonsense. No drama. But something about it pulled his eyes.

Maybe it was the way the braid curved over her shoulder like it belonged there, dark against the pale green of her sweater. Maybe it was how a few strands had slipped free near her temple and caught the light like silk thread.

“Cocky. Zayn thinks Harry’s cocky.”, she blurts out, nodding in agreement to herself and Harry laughs. “Does he now? What else did he tell you about me?”

y/n smiles slyly, and shakes her head. She isn’t supposed to tell him, is she? Instead, she slides her laptop towards him. “My presentation.”

“Okay..and what do you want me to do with it?” He obviously knew what to do, he had to help her speak about it. He starts going through the slides as she frowns. “Uh, help? Help, duh?”

“I got that, but I don’t have the patience to go through all this content, so I need you to brief me.”

y/n’s eyes widen. “B-Brief you? Not prepared, I’m not prepared. Just..just read!”

Harry raises his eyebrows, looking at her. “And I don’t like reading! You don’t have to be prepared for this, cherry, I’m asking you to tell me a summary of the content you already know about. Less of reading, more of talking, that’s what we’ll do, alright?”

y/n fiddles with her fingers uneasily, the Harry boy already getting on her nerves, but something else grabs her attention. “Cherry?” Did he call her Cherry?

“Yeah, cherry. Your top. And your cheeks, they’re red.”, he explains so casually. She doesn’t understand if he has a flirty tone or if he is just teasing her. She did wear a white top with cherries printed on them.

“You said you wanted to get out of your comfort zone. This is how we’re gonna do that, okay?”, he feels like he’s speaking to a small child. He remembers the helpless look she had on her face when those girls made her fall that day, and he feels a little sorry for her now, knowing her condition. “Take your time, and tell me about your slides. Then we’ll make a speech, sounds good?”

It didn’t sound good. She was sure she would stutter a million times and test his patience. But like he said, if this was going to help her get out of her comfort zone, she would try.

“I can try.”, she tells him, not promising anything, and he brings up a fist, wanting a fist bump. Zayn sometimes does it with her. She slowly makes a fist, looking at her palm while doing so quickly touches it to Harry’s.

“That has to be the softest fist bump in history. Anyway..”

Harry didn’t know why he suddenly wanted to take this seriously. He didn’t want to push it away like another project. He didn’t understand, or get her, yet. But he wanted to.

____________________________________________________

Y/N was vibrating with energy.

“I didn’t freeze,” she said, eyes wide, hands moving fast as she spoke. “Not once. He read the note and..and actually listened! I thought he’d make fun of it,you know, the list,but he didn’t. He just said ‘Okay’ and didn’t even talk over me.”

Zayn glanced at her, eyebrows raised. She was smiling,a real one. Not the polite, uncertain kind she gave in class. Her fingers were fluttering in her lap, tapping her jeans in a rhythmic pattern he knew well: processing, but happy.

“Oh! And he called me Cherry.”

“Cherry?” Zayn repeated, blinking.

“Because of my top.” She left out the part where he mentioned her cheeks were as red as cherries.

Y/N stared out the window for a second, biting her lip to hold back a grin. 

That should have made him smile too.

But it didn’t.

Instead, his grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly.

“I’m glad it went okay,” he said carefully. “You were really anxious this morning.”

“I know,” she said, nodding. “But it wasn’t bad. He didn’t talk down to me.”

Zayn exhaled slowly through his nose, watching the red light ahead blink to yellow.

He wanted to believe it. He really did.

But he also knew Harry Styles.

Knew how he flirted with anyone who looked in his direction. Knew the trail of rumors. Hookups, half-truths, one-time girls left on read by morning. And Y/N, with her quiet brilliance and straightforward honesty, wasn’t built to play games.

She didn’t see the signs. And if she did, she wouldn’t understand why someone would flirt just to pass the time.

Zayn glanced at her again, her eyes wide, braid a little messy now, cheeks flushed from excitement.

Innocent.

And way too trusting.

“Just…” he said slowly, “be careful, okay?”

Y/N frowned, not understanding. “Careful of what?”

Zayn didn’t answer right away. The light turned green, and he pressed the gas, more gently than usual.

“Just don’t let him make you think he’s something he’s not.”

She looked down at her hands, smile fading just a little. “You think..you think he’s lying?”

“I think he’s used to getting what he wants,” Zayn said quietly. “And I think you deserve better than someone who’s just looking for extra credit.”

Y/N didn’t argue.

But she also didn’t agree.

__________________________________________________

Y/N was already in her usual seat, second row, third from the left, close enough to hear the professor clearly but not so close that she’d be called on. Her notebook was open, her pen uncapped, and her highlighters laid out in a neat line. The class buzzed around her: idle chatter, squeaking chairs, someone’s pen tapping too fast behind her.

She didn’t look up when the door slammed open. She hated the noise.

Late.

Again.

She knew it was him without having to glance. Harry Styles had a specific kind of presence: loud without trying, confident without needing permission. Normally, he sat in the back with his usual crew, too cool to pretend he cared about lectures.

But then-

He was walking toward her row.

He was in her row.

And-

“Hey,” Harry said, casual as ever, standing right beside her. “Can I sit here?”

Y/N blinked.

He was pointing to the empty chair next to her. Her bag was on it. Her sketchbook was resting half-open on top. No one ever sat next to her in this class.

She stared at him, then at the chair, then back at him, fingers hovering mid-air above her notebook.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Cherry. Your stuff.”

Oh.

Right.

She moved slowly, startled. Her fingers weren’t working right. She fumbled the bag as she pulled it into her lap, closed the sketchbook too quickly and creased the corner. Her heart was beating faster than she liked.

He dropped into the chair beside her with that same easy energy, one arm flung across the back of it, like he’d sat there a thousand times.

People were watching. She could feel them watching.

Y/N stared straight ahead, trying to ground herself. One-two-three, one-two-three, deep breath.

Harry leaned slightly closer. Not enough to touch her but just enough so she could hear him.

“I figured if I’m your partner, I should probably sit like it.”

She didn’t answer, but she could feel the heat crawling up her neck. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t mocking her. Just… sitting.

It didn’t make sense.

Harry Styles never sat at the front. He never sat with her.

But today, he did.

And even though her routine was disrupted, and her chest felt too tight, and everyone was probably looking at her. She could feel it.

Eyes.

All around her.

A few turned heads. A few not-so-subtle whispers. The girl who usually chewed gum too loudly two rows over had stopped chewing, which was somehow worse. One of Harry’s football friends sitting in the back nudged the guy beside him with a grin that wasn’t friendly. Someone near the door actually took a photo. She heard the soft click.

Her fingers clenched around her pen.

Harry didn’t seem to notice  or he did and didn’t care. He slouched in the chair like it was his personal throne, one leg stretched out, arms relaxed, like none of it meant anything.

But to Y/N, it meant everything.

This wasn’t part of the plan. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this class. Not in this seat.

She didn’t do unannounced changes. She didn’t do people this close. She didn’t do rumors, or eyes, or questions she couldn’t answer.

She flinched slightly when he leaned in.

“Are they always like this?” he whispered, eyes flicking to the side.

Y/N kept her eyes forward, voice barely audible. “No one’s ever sat here before.”

Harry paused.

“Well… they’ll get used to it.”

She looked at him then,  just briefly and he was already facing the front, smirking faintly, like this was just another game to him.

But it didn’t feel like a game.It felt like he chose to sit beside her.

And that was scarier than the stares.

_______________________________________________

A week went by quickly and it was time for their session again. Harry, surprisingly, wasn’t late this time. He had snatched a paper y/n was reading from, about conversational tone.

“So, according to this, I’m apparently a communication expert now. Might as well open a clinic. Dr. Styles, speech therapist extraordinaire.”

y/n was still pretty displeased about the fact that he had snatched the sheet from her, but she mumbles, “You can’t open a clinic..no. You don’t have a license.”

“Right. I was being sarcastic, Cherry.”, Harry smirks, putting the paper away so he can look at her. He liked observing her facial expressions and reactions. 

y/n’s confused now. “So..you don’t want to open a clinic?”

Harry laughs lightly. “No, I can barely keep a plant alive, let alone run a clinic.”

She blinks, then says earnestly. “Plantopedia, page number 436. Cactus requires the least emotional labor. You should start with that, yeah.” She smiles, pleased with herself for giving him the right information.

Harry’s jaw drops open and he stares at her for a second before he laughs, uncontrollably. y/n looks at him strangely, wondering what she said wrong. Even the page number was surely right.

“God, you’re brilliant. That was gold, seriously.”, Harry says, leaning forward, now chuckling.

“I wasn’t joking. I don’t know how to crack jokes. Don’t get them either.”, she tells him.

“Even better.”, he said quietly, and for a minute they were both silent. 

“B-But..cacti do need a little emotional labor. Just..not often.”

Harry grins. “Noted. I’ll talk to them once a week.”

She looks at him, then closes her mouth slowly as he continues to laugh. “Right. Harry’s not actually going to talk to it. That’s funny.” 

“See? You get it!” 

y/n lets out a small giggle, before going back to her task. She had to tell Harry the first few lines of her speech by the end of this session. Mid way between her speech, she got distracted.

Her gaze drifted to the window beside their study table. A butterfly had landed on the sill, its wings a fragile kaleidoscope of blues and black, gently pulsing in the golden afternoon light.

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just watched.

Her hands, which had been fiddling, stilled completely. Even her breathing seemed to slow, as if matching the rhythm of the butterfly’s wings. Harry followed her gaze wondering what made her stop talking, then looked back at her. And stayed there.

He meant to say something. A joke, maybe. Something to pull her attention back to him. But the words caught in his throat.

She looked... peaceful. Not the kind of calm people fake when they’re trying to seem composed, but the genuine sort that came from being fully present. Like she wasn’t thinking about how she looked or what he might be thinking. The light made her skin glow soft at the edges, and the faint furrow in her brow, curiosity, not worry, gave her a kind of depth that made Harry feel like everything else in the room had faded away.

He’d always been drawn to noise, to people who sparkled loud and fast.

But this… this was different.

“y/n?” he said softly.

She didn’t answer, still watching the butterfly like it was telling her a secret.

Harry leaned his arms on the table, his gaze not on the window, but on her. The soft slope of her nose, the faint press of her lips, the quiet steadiness in her posture. She wasn’t trying to charm him. Wasn’t even aware of him in that moment. And for reasons he didn’t fully understand, he liked that even more.

Finally, the butterfly flickered its wings once more and took off. Y/N blinked like she was coming back from somewhere far away.

She turned to him. “Sorry. I was watching it.”

Harry cleared his throat, suddenly aware that he’d been staring. “Yeah. No, don’t apologize.”

She smiled, brief but genuine. “I like butterflies. Easy to understand.”

He found himself smiling too. “Wish I could say the same about you.”

She didn’t catch the flirtation in his tone. Harry tapped her hand softly, which made her look up at him with a start. She usually didn’t even like small touches like that, but strangely, she didn’t pull her hand back immediately. 

“Do I have your attention now, Cherry? We have got just 10 minutes more.” 

She blinks, still getting used to the nickname. “Over? Speech is over right?”

“Nope, you only said the first two lines. Just two more. Start from the beginning, please.”

She groaned and he laughed, “Hey, no complaining.”

They wrapped up in another ten minutes. Y/N closed her notebook with a sharp snap and began organizing her pens into color-coded rows, her signal that their session was done. Predictable, precise. It shouldn’t have caught him off guard.

“You heading out?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

She nodded without looking up. “Zayn is waiting for me.”

Harry hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah, makes sense.”

He almost didn’t say it, but something nudged him forward.

“You know, if you ever wanted to, uh… watch football practice or something, you could. I mean, I’d wait with you after, or Zayn could meet you later or-”

“I don’t like watching sports,” Y/N said bluntly, slipping her planner into her bag. “And if there is a change in my routine, it makes me anxious. Uh..thank you, though.”

She said it kindly, earnestly. 

Still, Harry nodded a little too quickly, swallowing the unexpected pang in his chest. “Cool. Yeah. No worries.”

Before she leaves, she turns back. “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Uh..thank you, for helping me..this actually helps, I think.” 

Harry beams. “Not a problem, love, I need the extra credit, might as well do it seriously.”

She nods, her watch telling her it’s time to leave. “Okay. Bye Harry.”

“See you, Cherry.”

________________________________

Harry tossed his duffel bag onto the bench beside the practice field, but his heart wasn’t in the drills. Coach had already yelled at him twice for missing passes. He kept thinking about the way she’d looked at him, like she saw right through the sarcasm and flash, straight into the bare, unpolished bits he didn’t usually let anyone see.

“She’s got you in a chokehold already, huh?”

Harry turned to find Nate grinning, water bottle in hand, eyes sharp.

“Shut up,” Harry muttered, kicking a stray ball toward the sideline.

“I’m just saying,” Nate continued, unfazed. “You’ve been weird lately. You, skipping post-practice hangs? You live for an audience.”

Harry shrugged, wiping sweat from his brow. “It’s nothing. She’s just… different.”

“Different how?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He flopped onto the grass, staring up at the sky, the clouds too still for how fast his thoughts were spinning.

“She doesn’t pretend,” he said finally. “She’s not trying to impress anyone. Doesn’t care that I’m… me.”

“That sounds kind of great, actually.”

Harry looked over. “It’s not like that. She’s just a project.”

Nate raised a brow. “Right. And that’s why you’ve brought her up every day this week?”

Harry didn’t respond. Because maybe it had started as extra credit. Just a requirement. But the disappointment when she left today? The stupid hope that she might’ve said yes? That hadn’t felt like schoolwork.

Not even close.

_________________________________________

Like it up and reblog so I can get Part 2 out sooner! Please let me know if there are any changes to be made to the tag list.

Taglist: -@livypops12352568 @harrydeary, @harryswifee, @harrysbxtchh, @gracelovesethan, @kiwitsayedsugar, @angeldavis777,@madstyles3204, @youngpastafanmug, @fruity-harry, @wannaliveinparadise@hermionelove@mayalove014 @vikiii07@ell0ra-br3kk3r @thelooneytoon @charlesleclercwifey, @stylesftcher

[sonotpattismith]

gee willikers, batman!

pairing: boxer!choso x nurse!reader word count: 11k content: fluff, always a lil angsty w/ me, commitment issues, mentions of toxic relationship dynamics, for my girlies w/ a fearful-avoidant attachment style, big brother choso, mentions of abuse and domestic violence, smut, 18+ a/n: not sure if I like how this turned out but alas we shall persevere :')

You desperately needed to develop a better taste in men. Or a therapist. Whichever came to you faster would be best. 

In reality, it should have been a sign early on into your career when you were so drawn toward the Emergency Department specifically that perhaps you had a certain… affinity for the more chaotic things in life. It was evident in your job, and it was evident in your disaster ex-boyfriend who you’d just broken up with a mere week shy of your one year anniversary. 

He, like the many other men you’ve let waltz into your life, might as well have had ‘RED FLAG’ tattooed across his forehead, but it seemed you were never satisfied unless you were on the brink of a complete crash out— at least that was how you’d always felt until now. Maybe you were getting too old for it, all the bad boy types who had you clinging onto your phone in a furious rage most nights arguing over god knows what. It was never simple, but you seemed to enjoy the thrill of the ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ types of attitudes. 

Again, at least until your latest wannabe edge lord candidate had had you so fed up with his overbearing possessiveness that you were sure your nervous system was completely fried. It wasn’t until that last fight though, that ended with your phone screen shattered after he’d tossed it across the room in a child-like tantrum that was just so like him— the one after which you found yourself having to practice the very same fucking grounding techniques you’d show your patients when experiencing panic attacks prior to procedures— you thought perhaps it was time for a change. 

Which was precisely why you couldn’t for the life of you understand why your coworker insisted on taking you here of all places. Ierie had been working with you for a few years now, so she had already heard about every argument, block, and makeup between you and that disaster of an ex-boyfriend of yours. Though she tried (not very hard but tried nonetheless) to conceal her unbridled excitement when you told you that you had ended things, she was practically bursting at the seams. 

After the poorly concealed praise to a higher being she performed following the news, she did still want to be there for you. That was why she insisted on hanging out tonight so you wouldn’t have to be alone on what was supposed to be your one year anniversary. The catch was though, she seemed to have forgotten that she had already promised one of her long time friends from highschool that she’d be at his fight that same night. 

Which led you to the very predicament you were in now, damn near overstimulated by the hollering and sweaty bodies pushing against you in the overcrowded, modestly sized arena that looked like it hadn’t been maintenanced in at least ten years. Ierie’s cold hand was dragging you by the wrist to assure you didn’t get swallowed up by the crowd, claiming that her friend had already reserved two spots toward the front. 

“I know I came here to support him, but I don’t think Suguru is winning this thing.” She shouted over the crowd once you two found your spots, watching as a burly man stalked around the area taking bets for the fight. 

“Geez, some friend you are.” You snorted with an amused shake of your head. “Does he suck or something?”

Truthfully, you knew nothing about boxing. It was never really your thing, even though you seemed to have quite a few mutual friends involved in the local boxing scene. You weren’t sure of the big names that everyone threw around, who was good and who was mediocre. Despite the fact that you’d much rather be rotting in bed, wallowing in your own self-pity right about now, you figured you should at least try to enjoy yourself and understand what you were watching. 

“No, it’s not that.” She shook her head, her neck craning up to watch as the boxers began making their way out. “The guy he’s going up against is like a fucking machine. He never loses— at least I’ve never seen it.”

“Crazy strong?” You assumed, watching as the man you recognized as her friend hopped into the ring, his long hair pulled back into a neat bun out of his face. Shoko hummed unconvincingly. 

“Nah, I heard he’s got a kid or something. So, I think he’s just crazy determined is all.” 

You hummed, suddenly intrigued to see someone going against Geto— who was already scarily large in your book— with nothing but pure motivation to provide under his belt. As they announced his name— Choso— and he ducked into the ring across from his opponent, you realized that he definitely had more on his side than Shoko let on. 

“Holy shit.” You muttered under your breath, lips parting as you watched him shed his jacket. He looked fairly young for a father, but the dark circles under his eyes surely fit the bill. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so shocked given his line of work, but the man was built like a tank, insanely broad shoulders to carry around those down right dangerous biceps of his.

“Eh? Didn’t I say this would take your mind off of what’s his face?” Your friend grinned knowingly with a teasing nudge of her elbow. She jutted her chin toward the ring. “Think his kid needs a step-mom?”

“Ierie,” You flushed with a breathless laugh. Suguru and Choso met in the middle of the ring, touching their gloved fists together as they awaited the match to begin. “Did you not hear me when I said I need a little bit of peace in my life for once?”

She didn’t respond to your rhetorical question though, because the opening bell was ringing and the boxers began dancing around the ring faster than you could process, administering and dodging blows so fluidly it almost looked choreographed. You noticed how Choso protected his face the majority of the match, ducking and dodging far more than actually swinging. When he did swing though, he swung hard. You wondered with your limited knowledge of the sport if his strategy was just tiring his opponent out. 

A few minutes in, you found yourself flinching back with each punch that was thrown his way, but Geto rarely landed one on his opponent. 

“I knew you’d go gaga for this!” Shoko shouted with a delighted laugh. “You love the dangerous ones!” 

“Shut up!” You grumbled back at her, chewing at the side of your thumb anxiously as the two grew closer to the side of the ring you and Shoko were stationed at. 

Of course, they likely knew what they were doing, but you couldn’t help but think of worst case scenario where these two two-hundred plus pound fighters toppled over the ring and onto your unsuspecting and unprepared body. You abruptly stood from your seat as Geto was cornered against the ring, his back facing you just a mere couple feet away. 

From up close as Choso was landing calculated blows on his trapped opponent, you were able to see that subtle pout in his lips that contrasted against the big and scary vibe every other part of him emanated. The mark across his nose scrunched up in sheer focus, stray bangs from his haphazard bun falling across his forehead. 

It only took a second, your abrupt movement shifting in his peripheral. His dark eyes drifted up just over Geto’s shoulder and met yours. The gloved fists that had been raised and shielding his face for nearly the entire match slowly faltered, drifting down in hopes of getting a better look at your wide eyed expression. 

Those glossy eyes were locked on him, and perhaps he was too awestruck to note that— yeah, everyone was looking at him right now— because it truly did feel as though you were the only one in the room for even just a moment. The whiplash hit him straight in the ribs harder than any opponent could land, knocking the air from his lungs as he watched your face morph in horror. It was just milliseconds following the abrupt change that Geto’s glove was hitting him smack-dab in the center of his face. 

You yelled out in surprise as Choso was instantly knocked back, falling onto the unforgiving ground below him while the arena erupted in hollers, because shit, everyone had bet on him. Even Suguru looked taken aback by how quickly his opponent dropped, because he’d fought with him before and definitely knew that he usually kept his stance stiff enough so that blows like that didn’t take him down so easily— and they certainly never kept him down.

The referee had knelt down beside him to count him down, but you were more concerned by the way blood had begun to trickle out of his nose and even the corner of his mouth. His eyes were barely open, squinting blearily at the blinding lights above him. 

“He’s gonna aspirate if they don’t move him off his back.” You shouted desperately at Shoko, clutching anxiously onto her elbow. 

“They have to count him down— rules are rules.” She stated absentmindedly, getting on her tiptoes to get a better look. “You’re off the clock.”

Ten seconds. He could get through it, you tried to convince yourself as you bounced on your heels. Time was moving too slow though, and you watched in dread as his chest heaved with a cough, the blood that had gathered in his mouth sputtering up to paint his chin and cheeks. 

“They’re gonna kill him.” Your frantic declaration had barely processed in your friend's mind before you were hopping through the ropes and hoisting yourself into the ring. She was yelling out to you, and one of the boxer’s cornermen shot forward to stop you, but you had already slid onto your knees beside the referee, who was also trying to push you back. “He’s choking on his blood!” 

They paused at your sudden, furied response, too startled to do anything as you grabbed his shoulder and mustered all your strength to roll him onto his side. Finally on his side, you reached over to pull the guard from his mouth. At once, Choso began sputtering up and coughing, coating the floor with the blood that he had been drowning in.

As he continued clearing his airway, your fingers carefully dug into the back of his head, threading through his hair to check for blood. With the sudden movements, he was slowly beginning to come to, though all he could hear through the ringing in his ears was the muffled uproar from the crowd. Blinking back his delirium, he lazily shifted onto his back once again, eyes drifting back shut.

“No, no, no— sit up for me.” Your voice instructed him through the haze of his attempted slumber. 

Even Geto had shed his gloves and was kneeling down to help you get him upright. 

“I didn’t even hit him that hard.” He explained in bafflement, the most subtle layer of guilt twinging his tone. “It’s like he completely ragdolled for a second.”

It took all the energy Choso had remaining to blink up at you. The sight of you— the same girl who had thrown him out of his zone for likely the first time ever in his career— his consciousness seemed to come flooding back to him. Sitting up quickly with your’s and Geto’s urging hands under his back, he looked around frantically in an attempt to grasp what had happened. 

“Do you feel nauseous?” You asked him as he watched your lips form in a frenzy around the words. 

Blood was beginning to pour from his quickly bruising nose into his lips, and the thus far useless cornermen bounded over with a small towel. Bunching it up, you carefully placed it onto his nose before tilting his head forward to allow it to flow out. 

“I-I don’t—” Choso was stammering, as was so very common for him, but never in the ring, and he was coming to the mortifying revelation that the insanely gorgeous girl just watched him get the lights knocked out of him with a single blow. 

Your brows furrowed as you tried to make sense of his words. You moved the towel aside to hear him better. 

“I don’t usually, uh—” He gulped, face flushing embarrassingly dark for someone who was on the brink of a possible concussion. You tilted your head at him. “Y’know, lose that easy— hah.” 

His attempted nonchalant laughter sounded more like a nervous sigh, but his slurred explanation had an amused smile curling through the concerned pout of your lips. He found himself smiling along with you, blood coating his teeth. 

“So I’ve heard, hot-shot.” You quipped with a shake of your head, pressing the towel back into his nose just as the medic finally hopped into the ring. Your eyes remained on his dopey expression as you tilted your head to the side to address them in a hushed tone. “Check him for a concussion, he’s looking crazy.”

Choso did not, in fact, have a concussion. At least that’s what the medic deduced in the back after having assessed him. Given that there, for some god forsaken reason, only seemed to be one medic present, you aided in transporting him to the back where you stuck around for support. Shoko was rolling her eyes in exasperation, mumbling something incoherent about your never taking a day off. She was however thoroughly entertained by the notion that the Choso Kamo got knocked onto his ass for the first time solely because he got a glimpse of you. Despite the evidence that was pointing there, you vehemently continued to disagree with her on what caused his little hiccup in the ring. 

The medic was packing his things up as you were not-so-subtly re-checking his pupil reactions, because you seriously were questioning the credentials of the supposed medical professional that was about to let the man aspirate right in the ring. Choso didn’t question your insistence on double-checking, his wide, chocolate eyes following your pen light obediently— any excuse to be at the center of your attention for a little longer, right?

“So you’re, um—” His gaze fluttered as you clicked the light off before switching it to your other hand and turning it back on. “You’re a doctor?” 

You smiled fondly and shook your head. 

“An ER nurse— my friend over there’s a doctor though.” You explained, nodding your head back to where Shoko was speaking to Geto. She shouted something about being off the clock before continuing her conversation. 

Choso hummed, blinking away the spots in his eyes left behind by the light. Upon closer inspection, you noted that the mark running jaggedly across his nose and cheeks was a scar, and not an oddly placed tattoo as you had assumed when first seeing it. If he noticed you staring, he made no indication of it— not with the puppy-dog like gaze he still had on you, a small smile on his blood-stained lips. 

His attention was pulled away from you as a ping rang from his dufflebag. Tearing his eyes from yours, he quickly fumbled through his clothes before procuring his cellphone. In a last-ditch effort to make it seem like you weren’t just staring at the man, you busied yourself with cleaning up the blood-soaked towels and tissues that had begun surrounding him. 

“Is everything okay?” Choso had barely glanced at the screen before quickly taking the call. “He’s still not asleep?”

You watched his brows furrow from your peripheral, and you desperately tried to mind your own business. In the louder corners of your mind though, Shoko’s words rang in your mind about his having a child. Despite only having spoken a few words to him, you just couldn’t see how this young, gentle-giant of a man was a father. 

“Yeah,” His voice had become lighter suddenly, an amused smile painting his face so affectionately it damn near gave you baby fever. “Tell him I’m fine— I should be home in a little bit.”

You quickly averted your sidelong glance once he hung up the phone, moving to wash your blood stained hands in the dingy sink that sat in the corner. From the mirror, you could see him digging through his bag to grab a shirt. 

“Sorry— my babysitter called.” He explained as he tugged a baggy, graphic tee over his head. As if it took him a moment to realize how that sounded, his frantic face was quickly popping out the neck of the shirt to clarify. “I take care of my little brother, I mean. I’m not um— y’know, his… dad.”

With a soft hum of acknowledgement, you could have cursed yourself for the subtle excitement brewing in your stomach at the fact that this man was likely single—  and he wanted you to know it, too. Reaching down to grab your bag from the bench, you slung it over your shoulder.  Jumping into action, Choso was quickly picking up his own bag to walk beside you. 

“Big brother’s a boxer, huh? He must think you’re a god.” 

“Oh, he doesn’t know, actually.” He corrected with a subtle flush, his hand fiddling with the strap of his bag. Noting the way your brows rose in surprise, he offered a meek smile. “I just don’t want him getting caught up in all this.”

“And how does he suppose you get all those bruises then?” You teased, but you were quickly putting two and two together that keeping his job a secret from his little brother was likely the reason for his oddly calculated boxing approach. He never seemed to make risky moves, always preferring to protect himself above all else and only striking when he was sure to land it. 

Suddenly, a bashful expression overtook his face, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck sheepishly as his eyes darted away from you. It was undeniably endearing to see such a tall and muscular man so easily flustered, especially considering how solemnly terrifying he appeared in the ring. 

“Well, he…” He scratched at his head before huffing out a chuckle. “He kind of thinks I’m Batman.”

A choked laugh attempted to hide itself within your throat, but it, of course, failed miserably. Choso turned away from you in hopes that you wouldn’t see the maroon color that painted his neck and cheeks. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. That’s just really cute.” You explained through uncontrolled giggles, not missing the way Shoko rose a knowing brow at you as the two of you drew closer. “Well, uh… good luck with that bruise then, Batman.”

“Y-You should let me grab you dinner— y’know to… thank you for not letting me choke.” You turned as Choso chuckled nervously, the hand you had placed on your friend’s arm to head out with her falling. 

 Your gaze fluttered as you looked back at his hopeful expression, but all you could think about was the fact that you’d just broken up with your boyfriend just a week prior because he was no good for you. Staring back at the crusted blood at the corner of his mouth, along with the way his nose was blossoming with a vibrant black and blue hue, you shook your head with an apologetic smile. 

“I’ve got a shift in the morning.” You explained, having to turn away lest your heart break at the way his face seemed to fall ever-so-slightly. “But I hope you feel better!”

As you and Shoko left, she was whisper-shouting over her shoulder an apology to him about your only liking assholes with a feigned subtlety. It was the subdued goodnight that he still called out to you even in the midst of his rejection that had you staring up at your ceiling that night wondering if you’d always be hard-wired to make things difficult for yourself. 

You wished you had had the opportunity to forget about the interaction altogether the following morning at the start of your shift. Typically, working in the ER meant fast-paced, constantly needing to be on edge, and certainly not having the time to think about anything else other than what might be walking through those doors at any moment. As fate would have it though, today was one of the rare instances that your shift was absolutely dragging. 

It was already nearly a quarter of the way into your shift, and all you had triaged so far was an elderly woman with a mild cough, a kid trying to get out of his school’s testing day with a feigned stomach ache, and a hungover college student in desperate need of IV fluids. Needless to say, you were beginning to grow restless. 

You were a mere ten minutes away from throwing in the towel and taking your lunch break early, a luxury you were almost never privileged to, when your pager pinged alerting a new patient. Sitting up with a start, you quickly clicked at your computer to wake it up and check the chart. 

Possible head injury; rule out TBI

Maybe if you hadn’t been so eager to just get up and do something, you would have read into their chart more. For now though, you were avidly collecting your things to check in the first patient you’ve had in the last two hours. Lugging the vitals machine behind you, you offered a soft knock on the wall as you glanced over the chart one more time and slid the curtain open. Your mouth popped open as your eyes finally landed on the name. 

“Choso?” You muttered under your breath, brows furrowing as you looked up from the chart to see the very man you suspected perched upon the sterile bed. 

He almost looked surprised to see you at first, those dewey eyes of his widening ever-so-slightly at the sight of you before a smile spread across his lips. Upon first glance, he looked to be the picture of health (save for the now diabolical bruise spread across the center of his face), smiling and bright eyed with no visible reason for why he’d be complaining of a head injury. As if noting the way your eyes began to narrow doubtfully at him, he quickly attempted to wipe the smile from his face. 

“Um— I was… I was starting to feel symptoms of a concussion.” The burly man stammered out as though rehearsed. 

Barely able to bite back your own amused grin, you tucked the chart under your arm before leaning against the wall expectantly. You made a go on motion with a wave of your hand, but Choso hadn’t expected to be so distracted by the sight of you in your scrubs. Rolling his bottom lip between his thumb and pointer finger, he gulped nervously. 

“Y’know, like a… headache a-and uh…” An anxious smile graced his face as you raised a skeptical brow at him. He couldn’t help it though— not with the way your jogger-style scrub bottoms hugged at your curves so tantalizingly, and you looked so cute with your stethoscope hanging around your neck, the one that would surely catch the way his traitorous heart was racing against his rib cage. 

“How did you know which hospital I worked at, Choso?” You finally interrogated once he’d been stammering a little too long to come up with other relevant symptoms. 

He cast his eyes to the side as you moved to pull the sleeve of his t-shirt up to wrap the blood pressure cuff around his bulging bicep. Though you had already deduced that he was likely fine, he had still been registered as a patient, and now you needed to go through the typical procedures. You wondered if he was even aware of how attractive he was, because the way he remained oblivious to the manner in which you ran a hand unnecessarily down his arm on your way to the pump told you that he had no clue.

“Lucky guess.” He tried to come off as cool, hoping you wouldn’t see through the fact that this was the third emergency room he’d been to today. It wouldn’t let him rest though— the memory of you hovering above him as he came to, the thought that you had jumped into a boxing ring for a stranger and essentially saved his life. “You didn’t let me thank you yesterday. You saved my life.”

“Don’t you have a kid to be taking care of?” You quipped teasingly, a bit flustered at his gratitude as you undid the cuff from his arm. This time around, he did notice the way you rubbed soothingly at the mark left behind by the cuff, and whether conscious or not, he found himself flexing his arm ever-so-slightly just for you.

“Yuji? He’s at school.” Choso explained dismissively before quickly veering back on topic. “I wanted to make sure you were coming to the rematch, but I didn’t have your number.”

He opened his mouth obediently as you nudged the thermometer against his lips, lifting his tongue for you to rest it underneath. The way his pretty, pink lips wrapped around the thermometer made your breath hitch, and you forced yourself to tear your eyes from his as they bore intently into you. You hummed once it beeped, shedding the sterile cover into the bin by the bed. 

“Rematch, huh?” He nodded, fervent eyes following each of your movements as you turned to confirm his vitals into the machine before turning back to face him once again. “I hate to disappoint, but I’m not actually into boxing.”

“You were front row at the match last night.” He rationalized, and his shoulders were slowly falling in disappointment. After a moment, he shook his head before continuing his pursuit. “Then let me take you to dinner at least.”

“Listen, I’m just not really—”

Your excuse was cut off when, after barely a moment of contemplation, Choso grabbed the chart from your hand and tossed it to the floor. A few owlish blinks were sent his way.   

“Your friend said you like assholes.” The man explained simply, but it was clearly eating him alive, evident in the way his determined eyes darted between you and the clipboard that had just got done clattering on the floor. A couple, painfully silent seconds passed before he kissed his teeth quietly, sliding off the bed to pick it back up for you anyway.

Fortunately for him, and unfortunately for your sanity, that little failed stunt worked on you, and Choso bounded out of the ER that afternoon with your contact in his phone. Still, you made it clear to him that you’d reach out to him when you were ready. He nodded along intently as you explained that you had only just gotten out of a relationship, and you didn’t exactly feel that you trusted your ability to pick a man right now. 

It didn’t matter to him though, because you had saved his number under Batman on your phone, and he had never been so proud of the silly persona his baby brother had assigned to him. So, he assured you not to worry, that there was no rush, and that he owed you a dinner whenever it was that you felt like having him.  Sure, the next few days may have been spent glued to his phone in hopes that you’d get over your idiot of an ex-boyfriend sooner rather than later, but he could be patient, right?

It wasn’t until nearly a month later that he began to worry that perhaps you had only taken his number with the hopes that he’d leave you alone. Perhaps you were just letting him down easy. After all, he had shown up to your job after already having gotten a no from you. Choso had never been great with women​​— he’d never had the opportunity to, what with his taking over care for Yuji so early on into what were supposed to be his prime bachelor days. 

Up until now though, it didn’t matter that he hadn’t had the chance to grow out of his awkward, teenage boy cadence, he’d never thought much of it. Sure, he was a man, and he had needs too, but there were always more important things to worry about— like putting food on the table and keeping a roof over the head of his baby brother. His job certainly didn’t require him to be a smooth talker, or a talker at all for that matter. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t read the body language or social cues that women threw at him— not until it was you that he couldn’t get a read on. 

What he didn’t know was that you had spent the month waging war on yourself. The battle consisted of the you that wanted to remain in the familiar arms of men who your commitment fearing heart was sure to see no future with and the you that wondered if taking the hot, kind-eyed boxer’s offer of taking you to dinner and treating you like an adult human being was such a bad thing. 

The decision was proving to be more difficult than you could have ever anticipated, because it was as if your man-child of an ex-boyfriend could smell that you were contemplating doing better for yourself once, and he had been texting you for weeks now. There were apologies, paragraphs sent about how your constant arguments only meant that you two were passionate about one another— ones that had you rolling your eyes while simultaneously thinking that this was the safe option. 

You had come to a fork in the road though, as you stared down at his text asking if you’d meet him at the place you two met— some dingy arcade where you always had to hold your breath in because it seemed none of the men in attendance knew what soap or deodorant were. It was the same place where you remember finding it charming how heated he’d get over losing a game— it was quirky and hot and you couldn’t possibly see how that short-temper might pose a challenge to your relationship. 

Chewing on your bottom lip, your thumbs hovered over the cracked screen that had lain witness to just how un-charming that temper could get. Glancing up at your carefully placed makeup in the mirror, you realized that you had missed getting all done up— missed going out instead of sulking in your apartment and contemplating where your abysmal attachment style could have possibly manifested from. With a shake of your head, you decided that you had put far too much effort into yourself to end up in that cesspool of a joint by the end of the night. 

The cool wind nipped at your cheeks as you tried to borrow yourself deeper into the collar of your coat. You thought that perhaps you should have just waited in the car, but, then again, you weren’t exactly familiar with the protocol for proper dates. The dim lighting offered by the awning outside of the quietly buzzing restaurant cast a soft glow onto the wooden bench you were sitting on as you anxiously peered at the parking lot. 

Just as you were on the brink of losing a toe to hyperthermia, an older looking, black cat peeled into the parking lot, barely coming to a stop before the driver’s door was swinging open. Choso’s frantic gaze caught yours almost instantly, and he almost appeared relieved that you hadn’t left.

“I’m so sorry, I know I’m late.” He babbled, shutting his door firmly before glancing into the back of his car. “Look, I um… I understand if you’re not cool with this, but my babysitter canceled on me last minute.”

In the midst of his hesitant explanation, he was tugging the backseat open, offering you one last apprehensive glance before ducking his head in. When he emerged once again, it was with a pink-haired, bright-eyed toddler in his arms. You stood up as Choso walked your way, whispering something that, by the look of the softly stern expression on his face, looked to be a warning to behave to his little brother before setting him down.

“I’m really sorry about this. If you want to go I—”

“Aren’t you gonna introduce me to my date, Choso?” Your mockingly stern tone halted his mortified rambling. 

The boy, barely reaching his brother’s mid-thigh, was looking up at you with that fiercely curious expression that only a toddler assessing your danger level could pull off. His small, gloved hand was clutching onto Choso’s pointer and middle finger as the fake fur on his tiger beanie swayed with the gust of wind that whipped his way. 

It certainly wasn’t how you had expected to spend your night off, but something about that exasperated guilt in Choso’s tone made your heart clench. All these years you had spent worrying about which douchebag you’d be picking yourself back up over, and this man, who couldn’t have been much older than you at all, had never had that stupid privilege. Such a miniscule act as not raising a fuss over his bringing his baby brother to dinner with him had him staring at you as though you’d hung the stars in the sky, and you suddenly decided that you had made the right decision that night. 

A small, delighted smile tugged at his lips, and he quickly looked down to nudge the boy forward.

“This is Yuji, and he promised he was going to be on his best behavior for our friend tonight, right?” Choso urged with a subtle desperation hidden in his eyes. Your heart nearly melted as he nodded ardently with a soft sneeze.

“Niichan never has girl friends—” 

“Okay, Yuji! Why don’t you show her how you open the door like a gentleman?” He eagerly cut off his brother’s innocent confession with a rapidly flushing face, scooping him up so that he could reach the handle. You offered a knowing, sidelong glance at the flustered man, unable to bite back your tickled smile as you nodded to Yuji in thanks as he held the door open for you with a prideful beam.

Choso had just about jumped out of his skin when your name randomly popped onto his phone. He must have re-read your text twenty times to assure he was understanding correctly, because the girl who had been radio silent for nearly a month was asking if tonight was a good night for her to cash in on the dinner he owed her. 

Truthfully, it wasn’t a good night. He had been expecting to stay home with Yuji tonight given he didn’t have a match, and his brother didn’t have school the next morning. Because of that, he really didn’t have anyone lined up to babysit tonight. He frantically called his usual babysitter, practically begging her to come on such short notice, and he nearly did a backflip when she agreed. 

Yuji was following him around the house with that lighthearted laugh, the kind that made Choso think that maybe he wasn’t doing such a bad job at taking care of him after all, asking him why he was practically bouncing around the house as he rushed to shower and dug recklessly through his closet for something decent to wear. 

It had all come crashing down on him just ten minutes before he was supposed to leave, already having explained to his little brother that his babysitter would be coming tonight, when the woman in question called to let him know that her shift at her full-time job had gone over schedule. He sat hunched over his phone on the couch for what seemed like eternity as he contemplated what to do.

It had taken you an entire month to finally agree to a date with him. Would you change your mind if he canceled on you with such short notice? Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he noted that he was already going to be late, and the thought of leaving you waiting for him at the restaurant had him making the executive decision to bundle his little brother up in his winter clothes and pack him in the car with him. 

Halfway to the restaurant was when it hit him that perhaps this wasn’t the best idea, but it was too late now. He wasn’t sure anything could have prepared him for how quickly you’d let it slide off your shoulders, and certainly not for how easily you’d work Yuji into what was meant to be a date with just you two. 

Here he was though, lips parted stupidly as he watched you allow the boy to steal bites off of your plate (despite how many times he’d already swatted his hand away in mortification) and follow along with all the longwinded stories that toddlers were so good at telling with no real conclusion in sight. It seemed impossible for him to have found you anymore beautiful than he already did, but you were proving him wrong with every affectionate smile sent his way each time Yuji would innocently reveal another humiliating detail about his older brother to you.

“If I had known he was going to woo you so hard I would have left him in the car.” Choso joked with a timid smile, already having had his fill of embarrassment for one night following Yuji’s announcement that he cried everytime he watched Brother Bear with him.

You thought having the five-year-old around helped lessen what typically would have been a painfully awkward first date. Additionally, the seemingly tight-knit relationship they had made you wonder how Choso had found himself with such a responsibility so young in the first place. Of course, with Yuji around, it was hard to veer onto the topic. 

“And how else would I have found out so much about the big, bad Choso Kamo?” You teased as Yuji busied himself with a coloring page the waitress had brought over (much to his brother’s relief). “Brother Bear, huh? Can’t blame you, that one used to get me too.”

“I don’t cry everytime.” 

“Mhmm,” With an unconvinced hum, you peered up at him through the rim of your cup as you took a sip. “So, what turned you into a bear then, hm?”

The fond smile on his face slowly dissipated, leading you to believe that what you thought was a harmlessly joking question held more depth than you gave it credit for. Soon, your smile was quickly falling too as you sat up a little straighter.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay.” He reassured, attempting to bring that same lighthearted nature back around, but his eyes were heavier as he regarded you kindly. “I just… had to be.”

It was the only explanation he offered you, and somehow it was enough for you to understand the gravity of whatever their situation must have been— at least for now.

“So,” Your gaze fluttered about his chiseled face as you tried to rectify the now solemn energy at the table. Glancing toward Yuji, you noted that he was still concentrated on his coloring, a crayon clutched in one hand and a fry in the other. Still, you lowered your voice a bit as you leaned in closer to Choso. “How did your rematch go?”

“Thought you said you weren’t into it.” 

“Didn’t say I wasn’t into you.”

This caught him off guard, whatever fleeting confidence he had to banter back and forth with you flying out the window just as your own words processed back to you. For a fleeting moment, you almost allowed yourself to be embarrassed by your own forwardness. Something about how easily he could be rendered speechless made it worth it though. After a moment, his lips twitched up nervously as he tried to reign in control of the conversation once again. 

“Thought you liked assholes.” Choso whispered, praying his little brother wasn’t going to absorb that word into his subconscious to spring on him later. 

Pursing your lips, you looked down at the cracked phone screen that had pulled you out of your stupor just hours prior. The man followed your eyes, taking note of the way you ran your finger absentmindedly down the shattered glass. You didn’t say anything, but he seemed to have heard it all, his face falling in quiet recognition. He had seen it before— that look of silent defeat in your eyes fighting against a cycle all too familiar to him.

“The rematch was good.” He offered with a soft, knowing smile, hoping to pull you from wherever your thoughts had wandered to. You peered back up at him. “Kicked his ass. I can be an asshole too— just… not to you, yeah?”

Choso couldn’t have known how deep his words burrowed themselves into your mind, replaying on repeat that entire drive home as your heart pounded against your chest. He had walked you to your car after dinner, Yuji clinging onto his back as he drifted off into what looked to be a nasty food coma. The look on his face said that he wasn’t sure what to do next, but you could certainly guess what was on his mind. 

So, you were grateful when his little brother stirred away and tugged at his hair, pouting about it being too cold and wanting to go home. The man’s shoulder’s deflated ever-so-slightly, and he offered an apologetic smile and a promise that he’d text you.

You weren’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. 

Choso Kamo scared you unlike any other raging hot-head had ever managed to in the past. At least with your past… distasteful selections, you could predict their moves, you knew it would only go so far. With him though, you could feel yourself wanting more, because he was sweet and genuine, and he was the type of guy that would make a nest in your heart so as not to disturb your peace rather than shatter it with an attempt to mold it to accommodate the jagged edges he refused to file down.

Without the expected downfalls of the disasters you set yourself up for, how could you prepare yourself if he disappointed you in a way you hadn’t already premeditated? Other men filtered in and out of your life, never leaving an impact heavier than a break of routine in their wake— but Choso? If you allowed him to stay, you knew it would ache in ways you’d never known if Choso left. 

Despite your fear of falling, you couldn’t bring yourself to ignore him when he texted you later that night asking if you'd made it home, or even the next morning when he wished you a good shift. With each affectionate-smiled reply, you could feel your stomach twisting in fear as you hoped you’d snap out of this haze before the shoe dropped. 

It was the very reason that you hesitated when your phone rang just two days later, his name lighting up your phone at an hour far too late at night to be considered friendly. Blinking back the tired haze in your eyes from staring at your television for too long, you felt that familiar anxiety swimming in your throat. Your thumb trembled nervously as it hovered over the button to accept the call. Shaking off your nerves, you swiped to answer the call. 

“Hey, Cho—”

“Hello?” His voice was panicked on the other line, making you sit up from where you had been vegetating on your couch. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know it’s late— I need your help.”

Muffled in the background, you could hear the distinct wailing of a child you assumed to be his little brother. The sound made you kick the blanket off your lap, already breaking out into a nervous cold-sweat. 

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Yuji— he’s sick, and his fever won’t go down, and he’s not keeping down any of his medicine, and—”

“Okay, calm down.” You cut off his nervous rambling as you shoved your boots on under your fleece pajama pants. “How high is his fever? You should take him to urgent care.”

“I’m trying, h-he has a thing with hospitals.” The man sounded as though he was on the brink of tears, panting subtly in a manner that had you wondering how long he had been wrestling with the boy in order to get him to an urgent care before he gave up and called you. “Please, I don’t know what to do.”

Choso could barely hear your knocking over his brother’s incessant crying, and had he been more alert of his surroundings he would have wondered how in the hell his neighbors hadn’t sent in a noise complaint yet. After nearly a minute with no response, you knocked again, more forcefully this time. 

When he finally opened the door, you would have assumed that he was the one battling a flu— what with his flushed face, disheveled locks, and red waterline. Having to endure his brother’s suffering alone was killing him, and he’d never felt more useless than he did tonight. 

“Choso…” You sighed regretfully, nearly reaching up to pull him into a hug, but he was quickly latching onto your wrist to pull you into the living room where Yuji was bundled up on the couch, his little face flaming with a mix of the exertion from his pained wails and the fever that was still ravaging his system. 

Kneeling down beside the couch, you touched your hand against his forehead. Even with the frigidness that still nipped at your hands from the chill outside, it was clear that he was practically scorching.

“He’s burning up, Choso.” You muttered frantically, making quick work to pull the countless blankets off of him. He was kicking out in protest with each layer you removed, and his brother was quickly moving to push his legs down lest you get kicked in the face. “You need to cool him down.”

“He— he kept shivering…” The man was gulping down tears of frustration, because all he was trying to do was to get him to stop crying. It was breaking his heart with each octave he reached, and he was sure that he’d find a way to make the sun rise early if it meant he could have stopped whatever it was that was making Yuji so uncomfortable. 

“It’s okay,” You reassured, taking note of the fragile emotional state this situation had put him in. It was becoming clearer by the minute that Choso was new to doing this on his own. “We need to put him in a cold bath.”

The man nodded in a haze, reaching down to scoop the flailing boy into his arms as he cried out in protest. You followed closely behind him as he made his way to the bathroom and flipped the light on. 

“I’m cold!” Yuji choked out, only making his brother feel that much more guilty as he pried his clothes off of him. You stepped around him to fill the tub with cool water. 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” Choso mumbled despondently, dodging each of his kicks with stunning precision. “We’re trying to help you, buddy, okay?”

“What have you given him?” You questioned, finally shedding your puffer jacket you began to sweat with the frantic movements. 

“Nothing, he’s spitting everything out.” Choso’s voice raised in exasperation, though you knew better than to think it was directed at you. 

You paced out the restroom as he lowered Yuji into the frigid water, and you thought surely his throat would start to bleed soon from the way his screams were scratching it raw. It didn’t take long for you to find the medicine cabinet after rummaging through the kitchen, and you made quick work to toss a fever reducer into a plastic bag to begin crushing it. Peeking your head into the refrigerator, you grabbed the carton of apple juice that was sitting on the shelf. Once your child-proof cocktail was thoroughly mixed, you made your way back down the hall.

“Please, Yuji, just sit still.” You heard Choso pleading desperately, followed by the frantic splashes of the attempted escapee. 

“Let me go!”

“It’ll make you feel better—”

“I want Mom!” 

You paused in the doorway at Yuji’s sobbed request, unsure whether or not to intrude. Clutching the cup to your constricting chest, you leaned against the wall just beside the bathroom door as you heard Choso sigh despairingly.

“Mom’s not here, Yuji. We’ve talked about this, please. Don’t do this to me.” His tone wavered notably, and it was clear that the dam holding up the strongest parts of him was weakening by the second, but his younger brother only repeated his request. 

“Yuji,” You called out, finally stepping in to kneel beside Choso. He quickly cast his gaze down, but not before you caught the tears slipping down his face. Brushing back the pink hair that clung to the boy’s forehead as he panted up at you through choked cries, you showed him the cup. “Look, if you drink all your juice then we’ll get your bed nice and ready for you, okay?” 

He sniffled messily as his blubbering slowed, eyeing you skeptically. 

“It’s apple juice, see?” You tilted the cup closer toward him so he could see the familiar yellow color. Noting his apprehension, you leaned in closer to whisper to him in feigned secrecy. “Niichan can’t protect the city if you don’t get better.”

Through dewy hiccups, he slowly released the grip his little hands had on Choso’s wrists to take the cup from you. Beside you, his brother heaved out a sigh of relief watching as he quickly downed the cup, eager to get into his bed and under the covers as promised. The both of you held your breaths until the last drop was sucked up. 

After running a few more handfuls of cold water over his head for good measure, you nodded at Choso to take him out once his skin was finally a bit cooler to the touch. As he dried and dressed his brother back up to prepare him for bed, you busied yourself with cleaning up the puddles of water Yuji’s thrashing had created on the floor of the bathroom. A good couple of minutes had passed before apprehensive footsteps finally made their way back to the bathroom where you remained kneeled on the floor. 

“I’m sorry.” Choso whispered, slowly lowering himself down beside you. 

You peered over at him as he buried his head into his hands. The t-shirt he wore was clinging to his chest as it still dripped with leftover bath water along with the ends of his loose, tousled hair. His shoulders shook every so often with the sniffles he was trying so desperately to conceal, but it had all been too much for him. 

“I know the last thing you wanted to be doing on your day off was working.” He continued as he finally looked up at you, tears of frustration swimming in his dark, tired eyes. “I just— I didn’t know—”

“Choso?” You whispered, resting a careful hand on his raised knee. He blinked at you in question, swiping furiously at the tear that raced down his flushed cheek at the motion. “How… how did you end up with Yuji?”

His eyes quickly fell, observing the way his knuckles whitened as he clenched and unclenched his hands pensively. 

“He’s my half-brother.” He began quietly. A bitter smile tugged at his lips as he looked back up at you. “Wanna talk assholes? My step-dad— Yuji’s dad— was just…”

You gulped, watching the way his jaw seemed to clench unconsciously at the memory of him. A gradual sense of dread twisted in your stomach as you began to guess where his story would go. 

“We fought all the time. Our mom hated it, but I couldn’t stand the way he treated her, and it—” Taking a deep breath, he looked up at the ceiling to calm the way his tears seemed to continue to betray him. “It killed me that she let him.”

Your gaze fluttered with their own misty haze as his words sunk in, an unnecessary guilt clawing at your chest. Shuddering away the tremble in his tone, he finally looked back down at you. Swiping at his nose with a quick sniffle, he continued. 

“We got into a huge fight a while after I finished school. He was mad about— god, I can’t even remember what had him so heated, but h-he threw a bottle at our mom.”

“Choso…” You sighed shakily, shifting forward to grasp at his hand. Though he made no attempt to halt his story, he accepted your hand, fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly as another tear raced down his face. 

“I told him that if he wanted to throw shit to throw it at me.” With red-splotched eyes, he offered a humorless laugh and gestured toward the jagged scar that ran across his face. It was now you who was failing to hold back stinging tears. “I thought after— I don’t know, twenty stitches that she’d leave, but she didn’t. So, I did.”

His head dropped down toward his chest, shaking side to side regretfully. 

“I left. I wasn’t there for her when she died— I wasn’t there for Yuji.” You quickly climbed over to wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling his face into your chest as you allowed yourself to cry silently along with him. “I left him. He was only three. I left him, I—”

“You came back for him, Choso.” You quickly interjected. 

“I should’ve never left in the first place.” His fingers drifted up to dig into your back as you settled onto his lap. “I thought if I learned how to fight— y’know, got bigger and stronger that he couldn’t hurt me anymore, he couldn’t hurt my mom anymore cause I would finally be able to do something about it, but I was just scared. I was scared, and I left.”

“You were just a kid.” You clarified, sliding your hands down to grip his face and force him to look at you. “And you’re here now.”

The grip you had on his cheeks forced his lips into a smushed pout, his wet lashes emphasizing the dark circles that surrounded his irises. Your thumb grazed gently over the scar on his face, and it broke your heart even more as you pictured it on a smaller, more defenseless version of him. You could see that Choso still ever-present in the fear that lingered in his eyes, in the doubt that clung to his frown that told him that nothing he could do for Yuji would ever be enough. 

“And I’d like to see someone try to lay a finger on Yuji now.” You encouraged with a soft laugh. The tiniest of smiles cracked through his solemn gaze, but he was still searching your eyes with an intensity that nearly knocked you on your ass. 

“Why do you do it?” He questioned, his voice barely above a whisper. You tilted your head at him curiously. “I mean, you have a good job, you’re smart, and pretty, and you’re kind— why give it to people who don’t deserve you?”

His hands dug firmly into your waist as you attempted to lean away from his raw stare. You felt naked— humiliatingly exposed as though you had just been the one to air your dirty laundry out. The hands on your sides drew you in closer and closer with each pathetic open and close of your stammering lips.

“I think I came to terms a long time ago with the fact that I’d never get to understand why my mom stayed. I had to be okay with it.” Choso’s brows were furrowing as his gaze drifted down your face before meeting yours once again. “Then I met you, and… I feel that same frustration I felt when I was a teenager.” 

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” The scarred bridge of his nose grazed against yours as the two of you drew closer. With a strained gulp, you shook your head. “Do you—” He paused as his face flushed, but he fought to push past his timid nature. “Do you want someone to be mean to you? Is that what it is?”

“Choso—”

“Because if that’s the case then let it be me, okay?” His plea had you biting back a wanton whine, because his lips were brushing against yours with all the anticipation of a building promise. Your fingers tangled into the drying hair on his nape. “I’ll be rough with you, and I’ll make you want to cry.”

Leaning forward, he slotted his mouth around your pouted bottom lip, pressing you closer against him as you two pulled at one another despairingly. 

“I’ll be an asshole, but I’ll never hurt you— it’ll always be for you. Is that what you want?”

You could only nod hazily, too lost in the desperation in his tone and the craving he’d instilled in you for the lips you’d only come to know just minutes prior. Without so much as a grunt of effort, he was lifting himself off the ground with you in tow, stumbling toward the hallway in a craven pursuit of his bedroom. The hand holding you up against him squeezed vigorously at your ass, pinching at it until you yelped out into his lips.

“Shh, Yuji’s sleeping.” He still had the nerve to chastise you lowly, using your back to press the door shut. 

With you squeezed between him and the door behind you, he allowed his hand to dance up and grip your jaw, hooking his thumb into the corner of it as his forefinger dug into your bottom lip and pried your mouth ajar. You panted against him, eyes half-lidded as you awaited his next move with baited breath, but as he’d promised, it felt as though he wanted you to cry for him, his lips exploring your neck and jaw at an agonizing pace.

“Choso—” Your plea was cut short by your gasp as he sunk his teeth into your shoulder that had been left exposed in the flimsy tank you had been wearing to bed prior to his call. He moaned against your skin, digging his canines ever-so-slightly deeper into the flesh to feel the way you jolted at the sting. “Ah— ahh!”

The man only hummed contentedly, arm hooking under your thighs once again to pry you from the wall and drop you onto the disheveled covers of his bed and pull the damp shirt from his back. He surveyed the way your eyes ran down his body, your reddened lips parted and your brows drawn softly together, and he deduced that he couldn’t possibly look at you if he was to ravage you like he hated you. 

Dipping down, he flipped you easily onto your stomach, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your pajama pants. Pausing for a moment, he leaned down, and you shuddered at the feeling of his warm chest pressing you against the bed.

“Is this what you wanted?” He whispered into your ear, knowing it would only take a shake of your head for his resolve to crumble. 

Your ribcage expanded and deflated beneath him in tandem with your anticipatory panting, and you could only nod through your flushed face, too embarrassed to confirm your desires aloud, yet your senses too lit ablaze by every inch of muscle you could feel on him to deny yourself the pleasure. There was a longing kiss pressed against your temple— an unspoken promise that he meant it when he said he wouldn’t hurt you— before he slowly pulled away from you to yank your bottoms down. 

Choso bit down on his bottom lip, rough enough to draw blood as he fought to maintain his composure. Running his hands up your thighs until they met the swell of your ass, he raised a knee to rest beside your hip before hiking your ass up. 

“Make me understand it.” He pleaded, a subtle growl laced into his tone as he drew teasingly close to where you were throbbing for him. 

“I don’t know, Choso—” Your voice had raised to an embarrassing pitch as you fisted his sheets between your fingers. They smelled just like him, and it was by no means aiding in your coherent thought process.

“Do you need someone to tell you you’re worth more?” At once, his fingers plunged into your incandescent center, twisting mercilessly as he continued to ration with you. “Because I’ll do it, I’ll remind you every fucking day if I have to.”

But his words were quickly becoming background noise that harmonized sweetly with each of your slack-jawed moans. Reaching back, your fingers barely grazed his wrist in an attempt to gain any semblance of control over his pace, but he quickly collected both your hands in his free one to pin them at the small of your back.

“Is that what you need?” He asked again, and his fingers curled up with a striking precision, drawing a pathetically pitched squeak from the depths of your throat. 

You buried your face into the sheets to conceal the way your eyes began to water at the growing warmth pooling overwhelmingly fast in your stomach. After a moment of your whimpering silence, his fingers abandoned you in favor of a resounding smack against your sensitive core. Your legs seemed to snap shut involuntarily, but it didn’t last long before he pried them open once again. 

“Answer me.” Choso demanded. His tone was barely stern— the fervent desperation to understand more present than anything. He threaded his fingers into your hair to pull your head to the side and reveal your face. “I said is this what you needed?”

“Yes!” You gasped, your hearing feeling as though it had increased tenfold as you listened to his sweatpants rusting while they hit the ground. “Please, please, Choso.” 

Despite his insistence that he’d be rough with you as you so pleased, he couldn’t bring himself to stop the gentle way in which he eased into you, savoring each hitch in your breath. Hooking his arm under your neck, he pulled you up to press flush against his perspiring chest, the slow descent up aiding in burying the last few inches of him into you. 

There was a crack in his resolve, evident in the broken moan that his lips pressed right against your flushed ear. The tears that he had promised you finally slipped down your cheeks. His eyes tracked it with a sharp vigilance, the sight making him pull you in that much closer. With a hand gentler than what he had planned for you, he swiped at the salty stream before allowing his fingers to settle around the column of your throat. 

“Keep crying for me.” 

And he made sure you did, his pace relentless as his sculpted hips slapped against your ass. For each overwhelmed tear of pleasure that escaped you, Choso chased it with a kiss; to your cheek and your jaw, to your helplessly parted lips and temple until there wasn’t an inch of you within his reach that his lips hadn’t become acquainted with. You thought your back would snap in two as you arched against him through your high, yet his furious pace didn’t slow until you slumped back against him, only held up by the hand at your throat and his will. 

The man watched as your head fell back onto his shoulders, eyes half-lidded as they stared at the way his gaze never seemed to falter. Only then did he pause, carefully lowering you to lay on your back against his cool pillows. Crawling over you, it was clear that his intent had shifted with the fulfillment of his goal. 

His hair tickled your cheeks as he leaned down to capture your lips tenderly. Reaching down, he caressed the side of your neck with the same hand he had used to restrain it as he entered you once again, this time with the intent of proving that it didn’t always have to be so merciless. With each purposeful roll of his hips into you he proved that you too were worthy of being handled with all the gentleness he had never been on the receiving end of. 

Choso clung onto you as he finished, and he didn’t leave when you allowed yourself to wrap your arms under his shoulders and press your cheek against his heaving chest. Instead, he pulled the covers up and assured they reached your shoulders that had since broken out into goosebumps— though you weren’t sure you could blame them on the cold. 

He brought your hands up to kiss the parts of your wrists that had been locked in his fierce grip. For the first time in years you weren’t itching to leave before he had the chance to leave you, because all the weight and muscle he’d worked so hard for in order to protect that scared, teenage boy in him were enveloping you with a crushing safety while his faint snores into your ear lulled you to sleep. 

Perhaps Yuji wasn’t so naive in believing his big brother was a superhero.

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[ddejavvu]

Omg! I saw that fic you wrote based on friends tv series and i love it! Its so freaking cute!! Reading that fic remind me of another scene of friends tv series if you dont mind writing it?

Where chandler is having a bath and everyone just comes in at one point and start having conversations in the bathroom.

Maybe reader is like the therapist of the group and everyone wants her opinion on smtg and while reader is taking a bath, one by one just starting to enter and start having conversations with her and the rest until one of marauders (reader’s bf) start shooing everyone out so reader could have a peaceful bath?

i changed this a teeny bit, i'm sorry! but i've never seen friends so i think that's okay

--

"Y/N," Sirius is the first to interrupt your warm bath with James, meant to soothe his sore muscles after Quidditch practice, and lull you to sleep against his chest. Thankfully, James has poured a liberal amount of strawberry bubble bath into the water, so there's foam up to your necks.

"What's'a matter, Pads?" James answers for you while you try clearing the almost-sleep from your brain, but the man scoffs at him.

"Prongs, no offence, but I need help with makeup. And you're the last person in this castle I'd come to for that."

Before James can make an affronted retort, you pipe up, smoothing a soothing hand on James's thigh beneath the bubbles, "What do you need, Sirius?"

"Black or blue liner?" He shows off his outfit, then the two eyeliner pens in his hand.

"Black," You decide with a wrinkled nose, "Blue doesn't match your earrings."

"Thanks," Sirius grins, tossing the blue pen onto the counter and leaving with the black one, "Oh-! Sorry, Rem, go ahead."

Just when you'd been about to settle back against James's chest, Remus steps in, clearly having run into Sirius on the way out. James groans, but Remus incurs less of his wrath than Sirius often does, the price of becoming siblings as well as brothers.

"I left The Nightingale on your bed," Remus informs you, "Can I take Falling Leaves?"

"The smaller one," You nod, "Not the special edition. Sorry, Rem, I know you're careful, but I can't afford a chocolate stain on it."

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but he'll respect your wishes. After all, he's careful in lending out special editions of his books, too.

"Thanks, Y/N!"

"Remus," James calls at the retreating form of his friend, "Do me a favor: close the door behind you!"

Remus does so, and James hooks an arm around your waist beneath the suds. It's warm and slightly pruned, and you sink into it gladly, reclining once more against his bare chest.

"Now that that's over," He gripes, his hand travelling below your waist, fingers hooking into the pudge of your thighs, "We could..."

"Don't even think about it," You pinch his thigh, just above the dome of his kneecap, ignoring his yelp in response, "This bath is to fix your sore muscles, not make new ones."

"I'm fine," James insists, burrowing his nose into the nape of your neck where fine droplets of water cling to your wispy hairs, "Please, darling, I swear I can-"

"Y/N?" Lily calls, the sweet tone of her voice matching the strawberry scent heavy in the air, "I know you're bathing, I'm sorry, but it'll only take a moment."

James holds his breath, but you use yours to call, "Come in, Lily," And he releases his in a scoff, fingers finally abandoning your thigh.

"I was just wondering if I could borrow your green sweater," Lily hums, politely avoiding any eye contact with James's muscled shoulders as he drapes his arms over the sides of the bathtub.

"G'head, babe," You smile sweetly at her, "You going to Hogsmeade?"

"The whole dorm is," She nods excitedly, "You wanna join?"

You consider it despite James's hand plunging back into the water and latching tight to your hip. Finally you decide, "No, but I might end up joining you if James can't learn to keep his hands to himself."

"Hey!" He tears his hand away from you once more, spilling water over the side of the tub when he finds purchase against the edge, "If you keep letting people barge in here, we won't be able to do anything anyways."

"Excellent point," You nod thoughtfully, and James's exasperated groan brings a smile to Lily's face that she shares giddily with you, "Lily, if you happen to see Professor McGonagall on your way over, send her in."

[zepskies]

A Line and a Half

Pairing: Russell Shaw x F. Reader

Summary: When Dory’s eldest brother comes to visit her at Wyoming University, you don’t know quite what to make of Russell Shaw. But he knows exactly what he wants to make of you.

AN: Okay, here’s my first toe-dip into the world of Tracker with Russell Shaw! 1x12 gave me too many ideas not to explore this intriguing character. This is set before episode 12, but I have a little series I want to sketch out that will continue after this one-shot, so think of this as a “Part 1,” if you will. 😉

Word Count: 3.2K

Tags/Warnings: A kind of “meet cute,” attempts at flirting, and hints of setup for more to come…

You watched, silently simmering, as Dr. Goldstein added yet another packet of internship applications from his graduate students onto your desk.

Applicants that he, as the History Department Chairman, was supposed to review himself. Instead, he’d been adding these hours quite literally onto your desk. 

“If you could review these for me as well, sweetheart. Thank you,” he said. “Get ‘em back to me by Thursday, okay?”

As a Professor of History with two doctorates in your name, you once again grated internally at sweetheart, but you tried to keep that cringe off your face as well.

Goldstein barely even met your eyes when he dropped off his burden, and then aimed to leave your office.

“Uh, Paul,” you called out, raising a finger. You stood from your desk as quickly as you could in your pencil skirt, but the man was already out the door. You followed him out, your heels clacking on the tile floor. 

Damn it. Knew I should’ve gone with pants, you said, continuing to hasten after your boss.

“Paul! Just a second,” you said. That finally managed to turn the man’s head off of his phone. He glanced at you while checking his watch.

“About the internship applications…and your midterm exam essays for that matter. Don’t you think—” you started to say, but the man spoke over you.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to run. Meeting my massage therapist at noon,” he said, and rolled a seemingly stiff shoulder under his tailored blazer. “Something’s just not right here after my trip to Cali last weekend. I don’t know what I did, pulled muscle or something. But hey, they do say parasailing is a sport.”

You quirked a brow. “Do they?”

You weren’t sure that being strapped into a parachute for a nice air glide over the Pacific counted as a sport.

Goldstein shrugged at your question and he kept walking down the hall. Though he turned back to toss you a pointed finger.

“Need those by Thursday. Thanks, you’re the best,” he said.

You watched him go, as proverbial steam began to escape through your ears. Slowly you pivoted on your heels, and you went back to your office. You grimaced at the large stack of applications. You were pretty sure he padded them with an extra section of midterm exams.

Tapping your nails on your desk, you grabbed your phone next to your desktop and checked the time. 11:30 a.m.

Screw it. I’m going to lunch, you thought.

Dory had to be out of her Intro Physics class by now, which meant she’d be in her office, ready for you to drop in on her a little early. You took up your purse and almost made it out the door…but at the last moment, your anal brain made you turn back to grab a shoulder bag and the pile of applications. Maybe you could knock out a few during lunch.

Friggin’ doormat, as your brother would say. Laughing at you, probably.

You rolled your eyes and headed back out the door with your haul of papers, purse, work bag, and keys, locking your office behind you.

Why, oh why did the Sciences building have to be on the other side of campus?

It was damn near a mile walk from your Humanities building over to Dory’s office on the second floor. Your hands were laden with packets that couldn’t be contained by your heavy work bag, your purse was slipping off your shoulder, and these heels were killing your feet.

It was a miracle you and Dory had ever met on this campus. On your first day of teaching, you’d of course been hopelessly lost. Somehow you ended up at the tail-end of one of her classes in one of the science auditoriums.

She’d been gracious enough to help you, and even walked you all the way to the Humanities building so you could find your World History class before the students decided to just get up and leave. (And after fifteen minutes, they very well would.)

That day, she became your first real friend at Wyoming University. In the three years since, she’d become your best friend.

And now, her door was mercifully open halfway. You pushed it open and stumbled just a little from the transition of tile to carpet inside her office. Your papers nearly flew from your hands, so you struggled to right yourself and contain them all back into the semblance of neatness.

“Hey, girl. You better be ready for lunch because Jesus fucking Christ. Goldstein’s up my ass again and all I’ve had today is a crusty donut from the teacher’s lounge, which I’m pretty sure was stale,” you said, with your brows furrowed in frustration.

When you finally looked up from your struggles, you realized that Dory wasn’t alone. She smiled at you in amusement, sitting at her desk beside a man who made you pause. Your eyes widened.

He was leaning casually with an elbow propped up on her desk, dressed in jeans and a worn, pale green jacket—a good match for his eyes. He looked a little rugged for Dory’s tastes, but you couldn’t fault her, with the cut of that bearded jaw, and the smile raising the corners of his lips.

“Hey,” Dory laughed. “I see you’re having a good day.”

You bit your lip in embarrassment, probably smudging your lipstick.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve knocked first,” you said, though you could see she seemed to be having an actual good day. Office picnic? Or maybe the handsome stranger was getting ready to take her out.

Dory just waved you in. She stood and set a hand on her companion’s shoulder, and he got up along with her.

“It’s okay. This is my brother, Russell,” she said, and she introduced you in kind.

“Well, hi there,” he said. He subtly took you in with his eyes as he held out his hand. Already you felt your face heating up with more than just embarrassment.

You were a bit shocked as well, to say the least. Dory had told you some…interesting things about her family, including the fact that she had two older brothers. You wondered which one this was, the middle child, or the eldest.

“Hi! Sorry. Again. Nice to meet you,” you said. You tried to hold your hand out to reach his, but a few papers began to spill out. You clutched at them on reflex, but Russell drew in quickly to help you.

“Got yourself a load there,” he said. You agreed with an awkward laugh and a shrug of your shoulders.

“My boss’s idea of extra credit,” you said wryly.

“You can set it down on that chair over there,” Dory said, pointing to one against the back wall, next to a tall filing cabinet.

You and Russell meandered over and managed to set down the stack without casualty. You were able to pull up the straps of your bag and your purse from falling off your shoulder and give him a grateful look.

“Thanks,” you said.

“No problem,” he said, giving you an easy smile back. “I actually crashed in unannounced, so if you two wanna to head to lunch, you go right ahead.”

“Uh, no. I haven’t seen you in months! You should come with us,” Dory said. She grabbed her purse to join you and Russell by the door.

You raised your hands in placation. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude, especially if it’s been a while since you’ve seen each other. You guys should catch up.”

Dory shook her head and grabbed your hand.

“Uh, uh. I want to hear the latest on Paul’s bullshit, and why you’re carrying half your office across campus. Let’s go,” she said, and gestured at your work bag. “Leave that here. You’re gonna eat and talk to me. No working involved.”

You laughed, but you agreed to her cajoling. With another glance at her brother, and those green eyes that seemed to be dancing, you joined them for lunch.

The three of you ended up at a diner that you and Dory frequented at least once a week. The food was good, the service was quick, and it was close to campus. Wins all around. Russell seemed to be enjoying himself, as he hummed in delight after the very first bite of his Philly cheesesteak.

“Sriracha on fries, huh?” you remarked, gesturing at the man’s plate. Your brow was quirked, but he shot you a smile.

“I said avert your eyes,” he teased. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, sweetheart.”

Ugh. Another sweethearting man. You narrowed your own eyes at him a bit. He caught the look and raised a hand in defense (the one that wasn’t holding his cheesesteak).

“Uh oh. What’d I do?” he asked.

“You gave her some PTSD,” Dory said with a laugh. “Dr. Goldstein likes to sugar coat his demands with sexism.”

Russell noted your souring look with apology. You’d just finished recounting your morning for your friend, and recapping years of “sugar-coated demands” for Russell.

“Why don’t you just tell him to cram it up his…uh…” he paused. Seeing his little sister’s look of amusement, he amended. “Or you know, stuff it.”

A smile twitched at your lips. “Oh, believe me, I’d love to tell him to stuff it. But he’s technically my boss, and the department chair. Even though I’ve basically been doing his job for two years now.”

“Well, that sucks,” Russell said. “And I feel for ya. I’ve had my share of shitty bosses in my time.”

You sighed and accepted his commiseration with a nod.

It wasn’t fair, but Goldstein planned to retire early in a few years. Must be nice.

When he did, it would make you the most likely candidate to replace him as department chair. The way you saw it, this was giving you plenty of practice before you (hopefully) inherited the position.

Anyway, you shook your head. You didn’t want to talk about it anymore. You were more curious about one Russell Shaw. You now knew he was an army vet, and he carried himself like one. Calm, controlled, even though his smiles came easy. His tousled hair and beard, while well-trimmed and neat, still gave him a roguish quality.

“So let me guess. You’re…the eldest?” you asked. You blotted at your mouth with a napkin, having finished your chicken panini.

Russell treated you to another one of those smiles, though this one held a hint of more.

“Guilty. Though I’m the handsome one,” he said with a wink.

You found yourself smiling behind your napkin.

“I’m sure,” you replied.

Dory rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind him. Apparently my brother’s an incorrigible flirt.”

He chuckled and sipped at his beer, but then he grimaced.

“Ech. Friggin’ weak,” he said. “I brew better than this outta the trunk of my car.”

 You raised a brow at that. “You make your own beer?”

“Damn straight,” he said. His gaze turned a hint more playful. “Next time I’ll bring you some. You can tell me what you think.”

You shared a telling look with Dory.

“Next time, huh?” you asked.

“Sure,” he inclined his head. “I pop into town from time to time. Gotta check in and pester my little sister, the physics professor.” 

He laid a hand on Dory’s shoulder, squeezing warmly. You could see the pride in his eyes, and it warmed you as well.

She turned to him with a smile, reaching up to cover his hand with hers.

“You don’t pester me. I’d love it if I got to see you more often,” she said.

“Ah, I know, I’m sorry,” he said, releasing her. “My job’s got me all over the place. But I’ll be here for a week or so on this gig.”

That intrigued you. “What do you do for work?”

“Ah, well, you could say I'm a contractor. Private security mainly,” said Russell. His shoulders shifted as he became a little more guarded, you noticed. “My company connects me with the client for as long as the job lasts. Could be a few months, sometimes a few days, depending.”

“Oh, wow. Do you live here in Wyoming?” you asked. He paused, but tilted his head a little, back and forth as he considered your question.

“I kinda bounce around,” he said. “Just go from one job to the next. Sounds a bit unorthodox, I know, but it’s a living.”

“Interesting,” you nodded, but inside, you thought that sounded like a hard way to live.

Unstable…and lonely. 

“You know, it’s amazing how much you and Colter have in common,” Dory said. She folded her hands on the table and met her brother with a pointed look.

He huffed in response, though he glanced at you, then back at his sister. As if he was saying, You really want to do this now?

Dory had told you before that Colter was a “rewardist,” or some kind of bounty hunter. The nature of his work kept him busy, and seemingly too busy for his sister. But you also sensed there was an edgier history here.

For the first time, you felt like you were intruding in a moment between brother and sister that went beyond words.

After a moment, Russell shook his head.

“Look, I tried with him, all right? He won’t talk to me,” he said. He went back to eating, polishing off his fries. He offered you one that was half-smothered in sriracha.

“Come on. Live on the edge with me,” he teased.

You eyed the sauce-covered fry in distaste, but after glancing up at his more playful smile, you accepted his offer. You chewed in contemplation, and found that the tangy hint of kick wasn’t so bad. 

“Eh? Eeeh? Delicious, am I right?” he said, his hands going wide.

You rolled your eyes, but you nodded in agreement.

“It’s all right,” you replied.

“Yes!” Russell’s hands swept up higher, like he was celebrating a touchdown. "See, I told ya."

You couldn’t help but laugh. Dory shook her head fondly and gave him a clean napkin for the bit of schmutz she spotted at the corner of his mouth.

“Here, wipe your sriracha face.”

“You really don’t have to,” you said, as Russell helped you gather your stack of papers and slung your work bag over his shoulder.

“No, no. I’m a bonafide gentleman. Ain’t that right, D?” he asked his sister. She barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes again, but she did give you a knowing smile.

“Oh, his intentions are pure,” she said.

 And by that, you both understood her meaning. His intentions couldn’t be any clearer than a mallet over the head, but you kind of found it endearing.

This man really carried your stuff from the Sciences building across the entire campus to your office. All the while, he asked you about how you and Dory met, the kinds of things you two did together, and if you thought she was happy working here.

You had a feeling he was trying to learn more about his sister’s life. On one hand, it was rather sweet. On the other, it made you realize that there was distance in this family, both literal and figurative. You were glad to hear that Russell, at least, was trying to bridge that gap with his sister. Dory deserved to have more of that in her life.

As you explained to Russell while you led him down the hall to your office, your friendship with her had just…clicked. From the very beginning.

“Dory, you know. She’s more than kind,” you said. “She’s a real one. I can rely on her, even when I can’t rely on my own family.”

Russell hummed at that. “That sounds like a story.”

“Yeah,” you said, glancing away for a moment. You smiled and met his gaze once more. “Maybe one for another time.”

“So you’re on board with a ‘next time.’ Good to know,” Russell remarked. Your smile deepened.

It was good timing when you two finally reached your office. You unlocked it and let him inside, so he could set down your bag, and the god-forsaken stack of internship applications back onto your desk. You’d probably be stuck here working late on those.

“Well, thank you so much. You really didn’t have to schlep for me,” you said.

When you turned, Russell was a bit close. Not uncomfortably so, but enough to make a trill of something zip up your spine. You smelled more intensely his cologne, woodsy and warm. Looking up at him, you once again found his smile.

“It’s no problem,” he said, but his eyes met yours for a moment, as if he lost his train of thought.

“What?” you asked, a bit nervous.

“Anybody ever tell you, you got soulful eyes?” he asked.

It took your brain a second or two to compute, but when his words registered, you had to laugh. You held it behind your hand, while the other went to steady yourself on your desk.

 “Well, that’s a line if I’ve ever heard one,” you said, shading your “soulful” eyes with a hand.

You didn’t know it, but Russell’s face warmed in slight embarrassment. He recovered though, taking in your pretty laugh, and the shade of your hair, let loose around your shoulders, and yes, your eyes, when you let him see them again.

If he hadn’t known before, now he was convinced.

He wanted to see more of you before he left town.

“Hey, now that was 100% genuine,” Russell said, but his grin spoke volumes. When your mirth died down, he scratched the back of his head.

“Okay, cards on the table. Would you be interested in grabbing a drink with me sometime?” he asked.

You took in a breath at that. You actually did consider his offer, because homebrew and sriracha fries be damned, there was something more to him. It was lying in wait, behind those eyes that were drawing you in.

However, this was also a man whose job basically made him a nomad. It didn’t exactly scream relationship material.

Which only left the alternative: something…casual.

You just didn’t know if that alternative was such a good idea. Not with your best friend’s brother.

“Just a drink. No frills, no more grilling you about my sister,” Russell said, breaking you from your deliberation. He gestured a hand between the two of you. “Just this. You and me.”

Eventually, you sighed. Your lips raised into a more genuine smile.

“Sometime, huh?” you asked.

He smiled back. “Tonight?”

You hesitated, but despite your better judgment, you nodded before you could change your mind. You still weren’t sure what to make of this guy, but you were willing to find out.

“Sure,” you said. “Howley’s at eight?”

“Well, all right,” Russell said.

He surprised you by sweeping up your hand into his. You looked up at him, curious, but not wary. Anticipation tingled down your spine.

He pressed his lips to the back of your hand. Soft shock made your eyes widen as you blushed, feeling the subtle graze of his beard against your skin.

Who is this guy, Cary Grant? you thought.

But when he pulled away, you had to remind yourself to breathe. Again, you caught sight of his cheeky grin.   

“See you tonight,” he said.

AN: He is beauty he is grace, he is Mr. Sriracha Face. 😆

Let me know if you guys liked this! 💜 It's my first time writing a character based solely on one episode, but next up is a series that will continue this one-shot. It's called Every Second Counts.

Next Time in Part 1:

“Are you absolutely sure?” you asked, with your hands on your hips. 

You wanted no miscommunication here, no read-between-the-lines mishaps, no subtext or nuance to bite you in the ass later. So here you stood in the middle of your best friend’s office, still on the Wyoming University campus after your last class.

Dory had to laugh at you. She pushed away from her desk and threw her hands up.

“Yes, for the love of God, you can grab a drink with my brother,” she said.

▶️ Keep Reading: Part 1

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Russell Shaw Masterlist

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Russell S. Tag List:

@kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007

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@brianochka @branj19 @hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog @globetrotter28 @charmed-asylum

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@jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @pieandmonsters @lhymer1995 @taehyungxjungkookistaekook @lovelystoriesaj

@nicksalchemy1 @spnwoman @onlyangel-444 @sexyvixen7 @illicithallways

@wolkenprinzessin007 @alwaystiredandconfused @carpenterswife @cheynovak @grilledcheeseandtomato

[dfortrafalgar]

Distraction

Portgas D. Ace x Fem!Reader

You and Ace intended to spend the day at the beach, but he can’t seem to be able to relax.

Warnings: modern au, so much smut. like so much smut. wet, sticky smut. 69-ing briefly. reader is also written to be on the chubbier side (im projecting <3) ace fucks you in the back of his car, basically. MINORS DNI. YOU WILL BE BLOCKED.

I woke up thinking about Ace today so I cranked this out in, like, an hour. It was a nice change of pace while I've been finishing up IMLY and the Luffy fic from my poll, which is almost done! (speaking of which, thank you for 200 followers <3)

Ace hadn’t seen your swimsuit yet.  All he knew about it was that you purchased it recently on a shopping trip with a group of your friends, but it was currently concealed under a light t-shirt and denim shorts.  Throughout the drive to the shoreline, he was anxiously eyeing your bare thighs, his grip on the steering wheel of his station wagon turning his knuckles white.

“What’s got you so nervous over there?”  Your airly voice shook the freckled man out of his daze.  “Eyes on the road, hotshot.”

“It’s nothing,” he blurted, pouting and turning his attention back to the road.  Maybe he should have you sit in the backseat when your skin was exposed.

His own friends often joked that he was no better than a dog.  It wasn’t his fault that his sex drive was higher than cruising altitude… or maybe it was.  But he couldn’t help his wandering eyes when the soft skin of your plush thighs was exposed, or the way your deft hands fiddled with your cuticles as you stared out the window, sparkling eyes taking in the cloudless summer day as the backroads passed by on the drive to the beach.  Most of your evenings together were spent with either his head between your legs, your head between his legs, or your face smushed into a soft pillow while Ace desperately railed you from behind.

It was a good life, that’s for sure.

“It’s been so long since I’ve been to the beach,” you suddenly stated, turning your head to look at your flustered boyfriend.  “I’ve only ever been swimming in pools recently!”

“Yeah, me too,” he replied, his voice shaky.

Your eyebrows furrowed in concern.  “Ace, are you really alright?  Your face is kind of red.”  You reached your hand over to press your palm to his forehead.  “You don’t feel like you have a fever, do you?”

“Nah, I feel fine.  Honestly.  Just… thinking.”  One of his hands left the steering wheel to rub his sweating palm against the fabric of his swim trunks.  All he had on, other than the baggy trunks, was a white tank top that had a very unfortunate oil stain around the chest area.  He was sure his entire upper body was flushing red with the debauched thoughts that plagued his weary brain.  He hadn’t even seen your bathing suit yet and his mind was running in circles.  (He started to debate calling up that therapist that Sabo recommended.)

“Well, tell me if you really don’t feel good.  I don’t want you to force yourself to be out today just because of me,” you cooed, your voice soft and comforting.

He needed to tell you to stop talking.  Even the sound of your voice made butterflies swarm in his gut.

He might as well have been ovulating.

After what felt like an eternity, the trees surrounding the backroad route he had taken began to dissipate, replaced with the beautiful sight of the shoreline.  The ocean spanned outward as far as you could see, disappearing along the horizon and blending in with the bright blue sky.  A few small beach houses dotted the shore.

“You said this was a public beach, right?” you asked curiously.

Ace nodded, swallowing a thick glob of spit.  “Public, but very minimal.  There’s some private properties surrounding it so a lot of people assume the entire place is off-limits to locals, but there’s a small parking lot set back from the beach near a tiny bathroom shack-lookin’ thing.”

You grinned.  “Nice.”

“Do you not like public beaches?” he inquired, tossing you a side eye as he pulled further down the road, approaching the aforementioned parking lot.

“I don’t mind them,” you replied.  “But sometimes really busy beaches make me nervous.  Sometimes I don’t feel comfortable swimming when there’s too many people around… I get self-conscious in my bathing suits!”  Your statement was punctuated with a fluttering, nervous laugh as you involuntarily squeezed the skin of your thighs.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that when I’m here,” Ace replied, flashing you a cheeky grin.

The parking lot seemed sparse.  It was entirely gravel with a few decrepit wooden fences separating where cars could park, some overgrown weeds poking through the impacted dirt here and there.  Sure enough, there was a brown, run-down bathroom shack between the beach and the parking lot.  During high tide, it almost seemed like the entire area would get flooded, but the gravel was drier than bone thanks to the beating sunlight.

You dug through your bag, removing a tube of sunblock.

“I thought you already put on sunscreen before we left,” Ace said, pulling into a spot and putting his beat-up station wagon in park.

“I did, I’m just putting some extra on my face,” you responded, uncapping the tube and squeezing some of the white gel onto your fingers.  You deftly rubbed the lotion onto your skin, across your cheeks and brow, down your nose, and down your neck.  

Ace needed to look away from you as your hands trailed down your neck and across your collarbones, ridding your hands of the excess lotion.  You weren’t provoking him on purpose, he knew that, but clearly his dick was taking charge of the day.

Little prick.

The two of you excitedly exited the car, grabbing your small umbrella and towels to find a nice spot to set up camp on the sand.  You were quick to lay down your towel when you found a spot, Ace digging a deep hole into the ground to mount the umbrella and provide a shelter from the beating sunlight.  Only a few other people were dotted around the beach, mostly older folk who were most certainly retired and enjoying their elderly days basking in the sunlight.  The thought made you smile.  You watched with glittering eyes as Ace pulled his tank top over his lean body, his muscular chest rippling with his movements, letting the cloth fall into his bag in a wrinkled heap.

“Oh, shit, forgot the cooler,” Ace mumbled suddenly.  “I’ll be right back.”  He swiftly turned tail and hiked through the sand back to his car.

You smiled, crawling under the umbrella and feeling the sand beneath the fabric shift below your knees.  You slid your denim shorts down your legs, shifting your weight to pull them off before folding them neatly and tucking them into your beach bag.  Your shirt followed, your hands hooking under the bottom hem and pulling it up over your head, repeating the process of folding it and storing it away.  Weirdly enough, you felt more comfortable on this beach than any other.  While some old folk liked to gab, the sparse population on this beach seemed more than willing to keep to themselves.  And there was no risk of creepy men your age or obnoxious teenagers to toss rogue comments about your body or shitty pick-up lines.

And you had Ace, of course, who would kiss the ground you walked on if you asked.  The thought made your stomach flutter with glee.

Back in the parking lot, Ace was quick to haul open his trunk and grab the small cooler they had packed with water, some sodas, and some light snacks, slinging it over his bare shoulder and slamming the door closed.  The hinges made a terrible squealing noise as the door moved.  He really needed to get that fixed.  He quickly jogged back to the shoreline with the cooler bag in his possession, his sandals making scuff marks in the gravel.

He almost died and came back to life when he saw you from behind.

Your clothes were off, your body hugged in a bikini that looked sculpted for you and only you.  The strawberry-print bodice was tied around your neck and below your shoulder blades with thin straps, the front of the suit being held together in the front with a metal ring between the bust.  Your plump breasts peeked over the seams slightly, making blood rush to Ace’s face.  The solid-colored bottoms squeezed your hips and ass perfectly, with one side open and held together with strings in an intricate criss-cross pattern.

Ace’s feet were moving on their own, his soul ascending from his body as he floated toward you.

You heard the rustle of his swim trunks from behind you as you approached, turning to look at him over your shoulder.  “Hey!  All set with the cooler?”

He plopped to his knees on his own towel, the cooler hitting the ground with a thud.  “Yeah, all set…”  His voice trailed off as if he wanted to say something else.

You gazed at him with confusion painting your features.

“You… you look…”  Ace could barely look at you.  “You look so fucking hot… oh my god.”

Suddenly, his demeanor in the car made much more sense.  The constant red flush painting his adorable freckled cheeks, his mouth in a perpetual tongue-tie, his lips pursing together tightly as he struggled to keep his composure.  Your lips pulled into a bright smile, relishing in the flustered behavior of your boyfriend.

“Aww, thank you, baby!” you cooed, moving closer to him.  Your hands trailed down his arm, ghosting over the tattoo on his bicep before teasingly falling to the cooler and unzipping the top, pulling an orange soda out of the bag.

“Please don’t tease me, I think I might explode,” Ace huffed.

You popped open the can with a satisfying click, taking a quick sip from the opening.  “You know… I don’t think anyone’s going to mess with our stuff if you want to go back to the car…”

Ace’s dark eyes darted toward you, assessing the mischievous expression on your face as you kept the cold soda can pressed against your mouth.  The metal was rapidly developing condensation thanks to the heat in the air, droplets of water dripping down the orange can and onto your fingers, plopping against your folded knees.

He carefully removed the soda from your hands, tucking it back into the cooler to make sure it didn’t spill, before standing up and hauling you to your feet, dragging you by your hand across the hot sand and back to the parking lot for a third time.  He ripped his car keys from the pocket of his swim trunks, shoving the metal key into the door lock to open the vehicle before leading you to the trunk and popping open the door.  You quickly clamored inside, him following behind you and closing the trunk from the inside.  He chucked his keys somewhere towards the front of the car.

He wasted absolutely no time in smashing his lips against yours, making you wince slightly at the feeling of his teeth hitting your own, but the way his long fingers expertly groped the skin of your breasts below your bikini top made you forget about the momentary discomfort.

After a few stifling moments, Ace pulled away and heaved into the skin of your neck, holding you down by your shoulders.

The best part about him owning an old, refurbished station wagon was the ample amount of room in the back, as well as the lack of center console between the two front seats.  It was a car built for fucking.

“Is this what you were thinking of on the ride over here?” you asked, a coy tone on your tongue.  “About what my new swimsuit would look like?”

Ace grumbled, a childish pout on his lips as one of his hot hands continued to rub patterns up and down your side.  Up to your breasts, his thumb ghosting over your concealed nipple, trailing down your waist and groping the plush flesh of your belly, down your thigh to squeeze your ass.  The way the strings on the exposed side of your bottom piece fit into your skin made his cock throb.

“You’re insatiable,” you giggled, your own hands leaving scorching patterns over his shoulders and arms.  “Are you ovulating?  You’re acting like me before my period.”

“Shush,” he grumbled, followed by another sweltering kiss, all tongue.  You felt a dribble of spit leave the corner of your mouth, sticking to the skin of your cheek.  His lips moved against yours, exchanging a blistering heat.  Ace always seemed to radiate warmth even on the coldest days, and his presence in this moment filled your body with a heated, lustful buzz.  Goosebumps rose on your skin when he pulled away from you leaving your front exposed, gently biting your puffy lower lip with his teeth.

“How worried are you about someone messing with our things on the beach?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You adjusted yourself slightly below him, his knees beside your hips caging you onto the floor of his trunk.  “Hmm… not too worried.”

“Perfect,” Ace replied swiftly, tugging his swim trunks down.  

He had such a nice cock, perfectly shaped with a cut tip that flushed a beautiful rosy hue.  A slight upward curve, lean and not too long, perfect.  He was either hard for the entire time you were setting up your small spot on the sand and you hadn’t noticed, or he was fighting with every fiber in his body to keep the erection at bay.  Whatever the circumstance, the fantasy of spontaneously fucking you in the trunk of his car in that sexy bikini of yours that he daydreamed about on the drive down was finally coming true.

Your hands made a move down to your hips to pull on the fabric of your bottoms before his fingers wrapped around your wrists, halting your movement.

“Sorry,” he uttered, his voice a soft whisper filled with a desperation you rarely saw from him.  “Your suit stays on.”

Your mouth morphed into a grin as he released you, leaning back up on his knees and idly stroking his cock with his right hand.  You parted your legs for him, making a show of smushing your breasts together under your tight top.  God, your suit could have been molded onto your body, it looked so good.

“Are you going to stay there and jerk off over me, or are you going to share some of the fun?” you asked deviously, one of your hands crawling below your bottoms and teasing your clit with the slick that had built up.  A pleasant, tingling flutter resonated in your belly and floated down your thighs, but nothing was better than the feeling of his fingers and cock doing the work for you.

“I want to do everything to you,” he muttered, releasing his dick from his slow ministrations.  “I don’t even know where to begin.”

You watched as it bobbed in the air, so hard it held itself out away from Ace’s toned stomach.  You involuntarily licked your lips at the sight.  “You’re so pretty…” you muttered.  You took it upon yourself to sit up, gently pushing against Ace’s shoulders to get him to sit on the trunk floor on his ass, leaning against him further to get the hint to lay down in the position you had just been in.

Neither of you had a strictly dominating or strictly submissive attitude.  Rather, you mutually shared the moment, taking charge when you wanted and snatching the lead away whenever you pleased.  This was one of those moments as you rotated your body on top of his, moving your ass closer to his face as one of your hands ghosted along his hip bone, your other arm supporting you and keeping you upright.

Ace got the hint almost immediately, his greedy hands groping and squeezing your ass as he pulled you downward to rest your clothed cunt against his mouth.  The hotness of his breath and the feeling of his lips against your weeping pussy concealed by the polyester made your breath hitch as your lips traveled closer and closer to the tip of his dick, watching hungrily as it seemed to pulse in the air, desperate for attention.

Your boyfriend made the first move, pulling you down by your hips and resting your cunt over his mouth, his tongue forcing its way between your folds through the suit and quickly finding your clit.  You gasped, your arm shaking somewhat as you quickly followed his lead, wasting no time in taking his cock into your hot, ready mouth.  

And goodness, did he taste good.  A familiar slightly salty musk partnered with the residual scent of his daily body spray, a vanilla and cedar flavor that always made your heart flutter in your chest.  His cock might as well have been burning as you hollowed out your lips and took him further down your mouth, loving the way the organ pulsed against your tongue.  

On the other end, Ace’s fingers had found their way into the fabric of your bathing suit, holding the barrier aside as two of his digits spread your natural slick over your cunt and lubricated his skin before he pressed them into your pussy, addicted to the way your muscles constricted around him.  Your entrance was always on the tighter side no matter how many times you fucked, and it was absolute heaven for him.  He turned the pads of his two fingers forward, pushing gently against the roof of your vagina where he knew you were acutely sensitive, and smirked to himself when your thighs clenched around his head.  Your movements over his cock momentarily stuttered at the feeling of his thumb connecting with your clit to simultaneously stroke the needy bud while passionately fingering your pussy.

He knew you too well.  He knew what you needed.  Ace wasn’t a selfish lover, he had learned your quirks and needs very early on in your relationship.  You loved your clit rubbed in somewhat slow circles, alternating between various pressures.  You responded to his fingers against your g-spot, and you loved when his dick curled upward into the same area.  Not too deep so as to hit your cervix, which hurt you quite a bit, but deep enough to reach those sensitive areas that had your legs shaking.

You learned quickly too, however.  Ace’s tip was the most sensitive part of him, his breaths growing shallow when you delicately sucked your lips around it and trailed your tongue along the slit, collecting the small amount of salty precum that emerged from the tip.  He loved it when you gently fondled his balls, rubbing the wrinkled skin between the pads of your fingers.  He adored the inside of his thighs being caressed, and you tried your best to do both with one hand as the other trembling appendage fought to support your weight as you continued to blow him.

You popped off of his cock momentarily, stroking the base with your hand.  “Did you have fruit recently?” you asked, turning your head somewhat to look over your shoulder.  Not like you could see much.

Ace paused his motions against your pussy.  “... Maybe.”

You grinned, the usually salty, bitter taste of his essence now replaced with something slightly sweeter.  You wanted to egg him on, to ask him if he had planned for this to happen and eaten some pineapple or citrus with his breakfast in preparation, but you decided to keep your inquiries to yourself and return to your task of sucking him off.

Ace was content to keep fingering you, his current position in between your thighs a bit too difficult to involve his tongue, but he knew he could please you regardless.  The circular movements of his calloused thumb against your throbbing clit had you sucking in sharp, lustful breaths through your nose, small whimpers leaving your throat and vibrating down his shaft making him bite his lip and stifle a wheeze.  Your thighs were quivering as he continued to curl his fingers into your g-spot, following the rhythm of your lips around his cock.

After some moments, however, you quickly scrambled off of him, your hand clutching around your stomach as you pivoted above him, capturing his lips in yours.  You ground your clothed cunt over his pulsing cock, keeping it locked between your pussy and his toned abdomen.

“Now who’s the desperate one?” he asked, teasingly, his signature boyish smirk traveling right back to your clit.

“I can’t help it, you’re contagious,” you huffed against the skin of his cheek.

Usually, the two of you used lube.  It didn’t matter how wet you got thanks to foreplay, the sensations were always heightened when there was no risk of chafing.  But clearly, you didn’t have that luxury today.  Nor did you have any condoms.  Instead, you bit down your thoughts, reserved yourself to spending 70 beri on the morning-after pill later that day, and hovered over his cock.  You pulled your swimsuit to the side and took his dick in your hands, wasting no time in slipping it through your folds that were thoroughly drenched thanks to Ace’s expert fingers.  

The first insertion always hurt somewhat.  A slight, red-hot throbbing pain that radiated through your pelvis, followed by a pleasant pressure as his cock slowly intruded into your tight muscle.  The groan that radiated from Ace’s throat made your pussy flutter.  

That was another thing you loved about him.  He was loud.

Maybe on a normal day you’d be worried about someone hearing you, or seeing the way his car shook with the force of your collective moments, but both of you had succumbed to desperation and couldn’t care less.  Traumatize the elderly beach goers who might happen to walk through the gravel parking lot to their own cars.

You sunk fully down onto Ace’s hips, his dick perfectly nestled inside your wet and willing pussy as his hands tightly gripped your hips through your suit bottoms.  You slowly rocked your hips, desperate for some extra friction against your clit.  It was much harder with the fabric covering you, but eventually you found a movement that felt just right.  Edging your hips slightly forward, you rolled your pelvis against his, dragging your clothed slit over the taught skin of his lower abdomen, moaning at the feeling of his dick pulsing within you.

Maybe you really didn’t have to worry about lube today.  Every motion against the walls of your vagina had you biting your lip and arching your back over him.

Ace’s hands assisted with bouncing you on his cock, his voice slowly increasing in volume as he watched you through half-lidded as your breasts jiggled with each movement, how the fat of your belly and thighs rippled so deliciously as you gyrated above him.  His voice was delectable, gruff and whiny, higher-pitched than usual with stuttering breaths and hitches in his throat that had your heart beating a mile a minute.

Your legs were growing tired, and Ace could tell.  He wordlessly beckoned you off of him, being quick to lean you over the back seats and move your suit to the side again, slipping his cock back in between your folds.  This angle always fit the both of you.  As much as Ace loved it when you rode him, taking you from behind came with many more benefits.  His free hand could travel down to dip beneath the cloth of your swimsuit and rub those delicious circles against your clit while simultaneously thrusting his desperate hips against your ass.  His chest pressed into your shoulder blades, his free hand supporting him against the back of the seats as you held onto the leather for dear life, whining with each motion of his cock against your inner walls and his calloused fingers against your clit.

It didn’t take long for you to unravel, the feeling of his rough finger pads against your desperate nub too much to bear.  Your orgasm approached slowly at first, filling your stomach with warmth, the insides of your eyelids flashing purple and indigo, before your body snapped and you were shuddering against Ace, moaning out loud as your pussy involuntarily clenched around his cock, your cunt feeling feather light as it fluttered.  The force of your orgasm caused you to gyrate your hips back against his, weak, airy moans escaping your tongue as the red-hot pleasure radiated through your entire body leaving your pussy buzzing with the aftershocks.

Ace was barely holding it together.  The force of your orgasm causing your pussy to clench around his cock had his arms weakening against the seat, his hips frantically rutting into you as sultry moans left his lips at the feeling of his cock burning inside you, begging for satisfaction.  His fingers never stopped rubbing your clit, caught up in what had essentially become second nature for him.  The overstimulation had you twitching around him, shallow breaths heaving from your lungs.  Ace’s pace increased as did the stuttering of his hips, his thrusts growing more shallow as his own orgasm approached.

“A-Ace… fuck, baby…” you whined, dropping your forehead against the back of the seat.  “You’re gonna make me cum again…”

The man was too caught up in the throes of pleasure.  Calling him desperate earlier was clearly an understatement.  A loud, throaty groan reverberated from his lips as his hips rapidly drilled into you, forcing you against the back of the seat.  His shallow breaths only helped to fuel your second orgasm that rocked you with a sudden wash of white light behind your eyes and you were shuddering against him again, your own moans filling the stifling air of the car.  

Ace barely had time to call out your name before he was thrusting disjointedly into you, crackled, weary moans leaving his lips as he came into your sore cunt, his hands pressing down onto your lower back to keep you still as he buried his cock into you, soaking you more than you already were.  You felt him pull out of you, your cunt fluttering around nothing as the sound of him falling backwards against the closed door of his trunk filled your ears.

Your own spent body dropped to the side, sitting on your hip and barely holding yourself up with one hand.  You slowly picked your head up, gazing at your boyfriend and assessing his condition.

Black hair mussed beyond belief, his freckled cheeks and shoulders flushed with a delicate red hue, his lips wet and swollen parted with the force of his labored breathing.  His eyes were closed, jaw slack as his pelvis continued to twitch from the force of his orgasm.  A few last drops of cum were bubbling from his tip, slowly dripping down his drenched dick that almost glistened, covered in your own fluids.  You felt wet between your legs.  It would have been a nice feeling if you weren’t already so stifling, your entire body feeling sticky.  You finally noticed the way the windows had fogged up.  You didn’t have time to think about carbon dioxide toxicity before Ace’s weary hand traveled up to the back window of his trunk door, blindly popping the window open a crack to let some fresh air flow into the car.  The summer heat felt oddly cool against your sweaty skin.

You slowly crawled closer to Ace, ignoring the way your drenched cunt sat uncomfortably inside your bathing suit.  You combed a damp strand of black hair off of his forehead before delicately pressing your lips against his cheek, encouraging him to finally open his eyes.

“You alright?” you asked, your voice low and quiet.

He finally smiled, his narrow, dark eyes filling your chest with warmth.  “I think my heart almost stopped.”

You giggled, running your sweaty hand up and down his skin.  “Should I wear bathing suits around you more often?  I don’t think you’ve ever fucked me like that.”

Your boyfriend’s humble laughter made you grin.  “For the sake of my health, you probably shouldn’t.”  He finally leaned forward to press a tender kiss against your wet lips.  “Though, if I were to die fucking you in a bikini, I’d die a very, very happy man.”

[lotties-ashwagandha]

DIVINE REASONING (part one of ???)

(adult) lottie matthews x reader. 1.1k words.

after the crash, lottie turned to the divine. you turned to the scientific. either way, years have passed, and neither of you have let it go. in which you were a yellowjacket who survived the plane crash, and now you are a celebrated therapist. but when you arrive at lottie’s wellness center under unusual circumstances, it seems you are the one that needs offered help.

They always pump the air conditioning up too much in the summer. You never say anything, because you’d feel like a real asshole, but every day you compare it to freezing to death.

It’s a good thing someone else already took that for the team.

“I just didn’t think it was a good idea to stay with her,” Bianca shrugs, “given what you told me about boundaries and everything.”

It’s a lie and you fucking know it. Bianca has told you the same thing about her ex-girlfriend four different times this month. By next week’s session, they will be back together.

You tilt your head to the side, hearing the muscles of your neck crackle softly. It only brings you temporary relief — you can feel her gaze cutting into you. After clearing your throat, you nod. “That’s a good practice of setting boundaries.”

Bianca sits up straighter. She looks proud of herself. You want to tell her not to get too high and mighty before she caves again and the whole thing crumbles, because Bianca has about as much self-control as a squirrel.

You look at the clock — two minutes left. Good enough, you think, and stand. You try your best to offer her a smile, one that seems warm and genuine, but you know it’s lacking. “You’ve done some great work. Remember what we talked about last week, being consistent in your self-awareness.”

Bianca nods vigorously and saunters out.

You take a deep breath — not because you are a pillar of strength and mindfulness, but because the air is too crisp and clinical that it’s suffocating.

Your office has always been a place of refuge. You have personalized it to a degree that sometimes you forget you’re a therapist, and the sun comes in just right in the mornings so that your desk is bathed in golden light that would usually make work feel recreational. Yet over the past few months, you’ve been fading. You have been burning out in the way you try to help your clients avoid. You’ve taken up smoking again, you are the therapist that people side-eye when they see you enjoying a cigarette a little too much in the back parking lot. It helps more than you’d like to admit, though, and you have started to understand why smoking was recommended for anxiety back in the day.

Hell, maybe you need therapy with the way things have been going.

Bianca didn’t shut the door after leaving. One of your colleagues raps their knuckles against the doorframe. You smile softly, and you don’t have to turn around to know that it’s Mila.

You stand, meeting her at the door.

“Bianca,” Mila smiles teasingly. “She told me as she walked out that things were over for her and that girlfriend…”

“I am legally bound to silence,” you say. “Bianca certainly is not, and you know what else she’s apparently not bound to?”

“What’s that?”

“Accountability.”

Mila nods, chuckling lowly so that no one else lingering in the hallway suspects the two of you. Colleagues might not be as good of a label as best friends.

Mila tosses some of her auburn hair over her shoulder and then presents you with a stack of fliers she had been holding. “By the way, did you bring these in this morning?”

You take one off the top of the pile. “No, what are they?”

“It looks like an advertisement for a wellness center. Self love, healing, growth… looks a lot like a cult to me, but if you brought them in, I was going to keep them displayed. No one else has claimed them.”

You examine what’s contained in the flier, the images of groups of guests clad in only purple and lists of goals for how the Sunshine Honey Wellness Community aims to pursue every effort to make individuals the best versions of themselves. ”I’ve never heard of these people before.”

“Want me to throw this shit out? What kind of psycho would sneak cult brochures into a mental health clinic?”

You shake your head, and you’re about to respond when you flip over the brochure and the words fade. It’s been over a decade since you last saw her, but you know. You would recognize her even if it had been centuries.

“Are you okay?”

You reach out and take the rest of the brochures from her hands. Your motions are aggressive, and you bump into Mila instead of stepping past her, but you can barely breathe.

You step out of the clinic and look for a number on the back of the brochure. You dial it before you can think this through, before you can escape from the choir of memories screaming at you as they emerge from the back of your mind — they scream as she did at hundreds of reporters when the plane landed, they scream like the people you killed with her in the woods all those years ago.

They scream like you want to when Lottie Matthews picks up the phone and introduces herself and asks in a very extravagant way how she can help you, oh woeful caller.

You can’t speak. You stand there with so many things to say to her, to scream, to cry and sob and wail about. You are silent. The only thing you can manage is a strangled breath.

Lottie is the woman you once believed was a prophet. “Hello?”

You hang up the phone. The fliers, too, escape you. They catch the breeze and scatter around the parking lot.

—

You go straight home after that, denying the rest of the day’s responsibilities and trying to pretend it had been a normal day at the office.

You can’t fall asleep that night, though. You were thinking about her all evening, unable to shake her voice from your head.

Lottie had sounded so centered. So controlled. You could tell why they believed in her as a leader. She was commanding, but soft — she sounded like the sort of person you could lay your heart and soul out bare to and she would handle them with care. She did not sound like someone you had murdered and tortured with.

Your thumb hovers over the button to call her back. It’s late, you shouldn’t call. She probably wouldn’t answer. You wouldn’t be able to speak anyway.

You hit the button.

She answers immediately.

You lie there in bed and wish you’d never called, because she greets you just as cheerfully as the first time and you are just as terrified.

Lottie waits a moment. The silence is patient. Then she sighs heavily and speaks.

“Listen… I know it’s you.”

this is a little series I decided to start bc my best friend and I are both writing fic series to challenge ourselves and give us inspo for non-fanfic related projects :P if you’re into the last of us and love joel, check out my best friend’s series on ao3. even if you’re a dirty little lesbian like me who doesn’t love joel, go and give kudos anyway because she deserves it.

yellowjackets taglist: @webism @ahauandthesun @chaithetics @szczurkanalowy @marleymarleymarleymarley @aphrodyk3 @ludasgf @pnsteblnme @il0veb0ttomsthem0vie

I’m still working on requests btw, hoping to post something else this week as well :)

[mapofsouthdakota]

Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb VII

Synopsis: The café was supposed to be just another coffee shop. For a law student who enjoys her morning coffee and a shy newbie still learning the ropes, it should have been nothing more than part of the daily routine… But then there’s Caleb.

Details: 3300 words (woops sorry). Non-MC!Reader as the law student. Expect flirting, heartstrings tugggg, kind, beautiful, caring barista Caleb and smoool romcom angst, but I promise it’s worth it (like biiig promise!). Caleb x law student special heeeh.

Parts: initial, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 8, part 9

Tags: @gavin3469 @unstablemiss @i-messed-up-big-time @mipov101 @zukini-01 @ariakamil

Fruits of Delusion | pt. 7

You’re not supposed to be here.

No apron. No espresso machine. Just Caleb in a soft tee, one hand casually adjusting a canvas tote on his shoulder like he’s in a lifestyle ad and not casually wrecking your emotional recovery.

Your heart stops.

Then slams back into motion.

And you spin on your heel.

Walk fast. Now. Escape. Evacuate.

But it’s already too late.

You catch the tilt of his head. The way his gaze shifts—searches—and then lands directly on you.

And the worst part?

He smiles.

Like this is normal. Like he’s happy to see you. Like you didn’t just spend twenty minutes pretending to buy basil while trying not to pass out behind a kale stand.

Your heart’s already halfway to a closing argument when—

“Hey,” he calls, voice warm and devastatingly casual. “Golden Girl.”

Your spine straightens like you’re bracing for impact.

You turn, slowly.

He’s already walking toward you, sunlit, smug, and alarmingly real.

“Didn’t think law students came out in daylight.”

Your escape plan?

Denied.

You make a face. “Briefly. A little sun is medically advisable, and I needed overpriced strawberries and a charisma challenge, apparently.”

He laughs—and for a second, it feels normal. Stupidly, unfairly normal. Then he tilts his head, grinning. “Nice running into you without that slick guy tailing you. Kind of refreshing.”

You smile, sweet but sharp. “What, you only approve of my public appearances when I’m unaccompanied?”

There’s a glint in his eyes as he lifts a brow. “I’m just saying, the view’s better.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach does that thing again.

He glances sideways. “You sticking around for a bit?”

You nod, casual. “Yeah. I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Caleb tosses the bag of apples from one hand to the other, grin low and easy. “Mind if I tag along? Unless you’re… meeting someone else here.”

Shoulders lift in a casual shrug, like your heart isn’t pounding out confessions. “I’m… alone. But you can tag along if you promise not to judge my irrational strawberry purchases.”

He gives you a mock-serious nod. “Never. Fruit law is outside my jurisdiction.”

And then you fall into step beside him without even thinking about it. The crowd buzzes around you—children with juice boxes, someone selling soap that smells like your grandma’s bathroom—and Caleb, warm and very much here, carefully sliding the bag of apples into his canvas tote as you walk.

A quick glance his way. “So, this your idea of a wild Saturday? Buying fruit and intimidating civilians with your forearms?”

He snorts. “I’m a man of mystery and nutrition.”

You arch a brow. “You say that like you didn’t buy six apples and a single jar of fancy mustard.”

“Maybe I’m a minimalist.”

“Maybe you’re a serial killer.”

He grins, unbothered. “I could say the same about you. Didn’t peg you for a farmers market type.”

“I’m expanding my public image,” you say. “It’s important for future jury manipulation.”

He makes a soft, amused sound. “Hm. Strategic. I respect that.”

You both pause near a booth selling organic candles with names like Morning Sigh and Birchwood Intimacy. Caleb picks one up, sniffs it, and immediately grimaces.

“That smells like someone’s therapist’s office.”

You lean in. “That smells like heartbreak in a beige apartment.”

He laughs—full-bodied and bright, the kind that starts in his chest and spills into the space between you. And for a second, it’s easy.

Then you raise an eyebrow. “Also, bold of you to have such a specific take. Personal experience, or…?”

A lopsided smile flashes as the candle clinks back onto the table. “Let’s just say I’ve spent enough time around grey trauma furniture to recognize the scent.”

You squint. “Enough time because you’re actually a secret psych patient and this”—you wave a hand at him, the apples, the smugness—“is just your well-funded rehabilitation program?”

He just grins. Doesn’t answer.

Which is very much an answer.

You click your tongue. “Mysterious.”

He shrugs, still smiling. “Or unstable.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Violet eyes meet yours—still playful, but maybe a little too knowing. “No. They’re really not.”

Trauma-scented décor?

Your joke was, obviously, a joke. But still—your brain runs the analysis anyway.

Was that just a throwaway comment? Or a casual nod to whatever psychological minefield he had to dance through in aviation school? Or… something else?

You’re this close to launching into Exhibit G of your ongoing Caleb casefile when—

His phone buzzes.

He glances down, and just like that—the mood shifts. Shoulders stiffen. Eyes flick past you.

“Hey, I should—uh. I’ve gotta run,” he says, already stepping back.

You blink. “Oh.”

Hesitation hangs for half a second before warm fingers find your arm, light but intentional.

“It was really nice talking to you,” he says, a little softer now. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

You nod, trying to play it cool.

But his touch lingers longer than it should.

And then he’s gone.

You stand there for half a second, unmoving.

Then you start walking.

You’re not following. You’re investigating. Which is absolutely different. Or it would be, if you weren’t weaving through shoppers like a trained bloodhound with half a law degree.

You could’ve been a P.I.

You’d have crushed it.

This is fieldwork.

Character research.

This is what you came for.

You spot him across the street.

And then you spot her. The apple girl. It must be.

She’s already walking toward him—dressed like the human embodiment of a picnic daydream. Sundress. Sunglasses pushed up into her hair. That kind of easy beauty that doesn’t even try to compete—it just wins by existing.

Caleb lights up. Literally.

He grins—wide, unguarded, the kind of smile you’ve never seen at full strength.

Then he hugs her. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they do this all the time.

You stop walking.

Your throat goes tight. Like you just swallowed a whole apple core. You look away before they kiss. You don’t know if they do. You don’t want to know.

You turn around. Walk fast. Faster.

You tell yourself you were just on a stroll. That you were curious. That your brain is a courtroom prep, and you were just gathering evidence.

But right now?

Right now, you’re the damn defendant.

And it hurts like hell.

So you run home. Toss your keys on the counter. Gather your books, your charger, your half-dead highlighters.

You don’t stop. You don’t think.

You make it to the study hall.

Sit your ass down like your future depends on it.

Because it does.

Your hands shake as you text the newbie:

you: update: apple girl exists. status: catastrophic

No reply.

You stare at the screen a little too long.

Then flip open your laptop, crack open a textbook, and throw yourself into 200 pages of law history like it’ll fix something.

You read. And read.

And don’t remember a goddamn word.

Just that necklace.

Just the way he looked at her.

The way he hugged her.

And the echo of your own voice, cruel and smug and right—

I’m not going to tank my grades over a guy who’s literally training to fly away.

… I told you so.

——————————————————————————

You walk home from study hall still feeling about as defeated as someone not technically on trial can feel. But spiritually? The jury’s in, and the verdict is tragic.

The Farmers Market incident has been haunting you like a ghost that smells like apples, coffee and smugness. And now, on top of that, your heartbreak induced study session confirms that you are falling behind on tort readings and forgetting basic Latin phrases. Unforgivable.

The outfit had been perfect. A cropped athletic zip-up—fitted, sleek, a little smug. High-waisted black pants. Crisp white sneakers. Hair: tight braid. Lip gloss: subtle shimmer. Jewelry: minimal, coordinated. It had even earned you a wink from Harv as you slipped into the study hall, still a little flushed from the walk over.

But now?

Now it just looks… tired.

The zip-up hugs you like it’s trying to pretend nothing’s wrong. The braid has unraveled into a sad-looking ponytail. The gloss is long gone.

You catch your reflection in a passing window and think: You tried.

But the day has emptied you. No reply from the newbie. No plan.

Just silence, and a very specific ache that settles somewhere between your ribs and your pride.

Honestly, with what little knowledge you have, if you were your own client right now, you’d probably be advising yourself to settle.

But you have a plan. Or… One last, responsible, future-focused move.

You’re going to tell the newbie that you both need to rest your case. Or risk tanking your grades over a man who hugs women at farmers markets and smells like cinnamon betrayal.

You’ll say it in person. Because the lack of replies can only mean one thing: they are spiraling alone.

Which, honestly, makes you the worst kind of co-counsel. So now you owe them a sit-down. A debrief. A legal meltdown with caffeine and solidarity and maybe mild defamation.

Because if Caleb is with her—if apple girl is officially out of the hypothesis phase and fully into confirmed status territory—then the case is closed.

Not in your favor.

And maybe, just maybe, if you say it all out loud— “We need to drop the case.”

—it’ll start to feel real.

Even if it never should’ve been admissible in the first place.

So, you swing by the café. Not dressed to impress. Not even to exist. Just to deliver your quiet little ‘case closed’.

And walk straight into the worst possible plot twist.

The café is empty.

Except for him.

He’s behind the counter, wrist deep in wiping down the espresso machine. Caleb looks up when the bell over the door chimes.

And he sees you.

Like—really sees you. Ponytail slipping. Eyes tired. The kind of defeat that even a strong espresso shot wouldn’t bother trying to fix. He raises an eyebrow, slow. “Didn’t expect to see you again today. Study break? Or did the prosecution finally crack?”

Your whole body reacts before your brain does. You turn on your heel, already halfway out

“I was just looking for the newbie.”

His voice follows you before you can escape:

“Ouch. Not your favorite barista anymore? They’ve surpassed me already?”

You freeze.

Stupid, stupid body.

Then—

Footsteps.

“Got a text from the newbie,” he says, a little closer now. “They weren’t feeling great, asked if I could cover.”

Of course they did.

Of course he showed up.

Because the universe doesn’t believe in restraining orders. Or emotional boundaries. Apparently.

Caleb crosses the room in a few strides and gently grabs your wrist, not tight—just enough to stop you.

You glance down, try to pull your expression together, but it’s too late.

He’s already looking at you.

Really looking.

“Hey,” he says, quiet now. “Are you okay?”

You blink. “Yeah. It’s just—school. Grades. Deadlines.”

He watches you for a moment, eyes scanning your face like he already knows what’s there. Then, gently: “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head before he even finishes the sentence.

But he doesn’t pull back.

He just watches you for a moment, then says—softer, like he’s offering a lifeline without asking for anything back—

“You can… you know… Tell me stuff.”

Your eyes stay fixed on the floor.

He adds, a little crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I’m not saying I give great advice. But I’m an excellent listener. Very judgmental, obviously. But… I’m here.”

Still, you say nothing. You don’t have words yet. Maybe not even thoughts. Just static.

Not because you don’t want to.

Because you can’t.

Because you haven’t had time to come up with a version of the story where you don’t have to say I saw you with her, or you looked so happy it broke me, or you were never mine, and I forgot that for a second.

So instead, you just look down. Shrug. Swallow the lump in your throat like it’s admissible evidence.

“Okay,” he whispers.

And then he reaches out.

No warning. Just a sudden, warm hand resting on top of your head, fingers threading lightly through your hair before settling there.

A gentle, grounding weight.

You freeze.

Then lean into it—helplessly, instinctively—like someone starved for affection, seeking warmth you didn’t realize you missed until it was right there. His palm is steady. His thumb brushes slowly against your temple.

“I know the feeling,” he murmurs. “Flight school finals are brutal. Same kind of pressure. Different altitude.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then, after a beat: “…You leaned into that a little fast.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t ruin it, silly.”

Then you breathe him in, and—yeah. Of course. His wrist smells like coffee. Subtle, warm, familiar. You knew it would. Because of course even that is unfair.

Then, voice low, with the faintest curl of a grin:

“Congratulations, Golden Girl. You’ve been upgraded to first-class comfort.”

Before you can reply, his fingers reach further up—gentle, casual—and give your ponytail a light tug to tighten it.

“I’m also decent at braids, if you ever need a professional,” he murmurs.

You laugh—a real one this time. Small. Shaky. A little bitter at the edges

You probably braid apple girl’s hair every night like you’re auditioning for boyfriend of the year in a Hallmark movie.

He pulls back, eyes scanning your face for a moment, then tips his head toward the bar. “C’mon. You need a distraction. I was about to close and head out, but I make exceptions for exhausted law students.”

You blink. “Are you about to make me your apprentice?”

“Temporary intern,” he says. “Zero pay. Unlimited caffeine.”

Then he gestures you behind the counter like it’s no big deal, and for some reason, you follow. Your bag stays by the door. So does your pride.

Caleb steps behind the counter, opens a drawer, and pulls out an apron.

“Here,” he says, soft.

Before you can protest, he’s behind you—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. He slips the apron over your head, then reaches around, arms brushing your sides as he grabs the ties. His fingers skim your waist as he knots the ends in front of you.

Your pulse trips over itself. He steps back like nothing happened, and you try to pretend you didn’t just forget how to stand upright.

Then he starts walking you through the pour-over—steady, focused, his voice low and even. He talks ratios, temperature, extraction time. How not to burn the beans. It should feel technical. But with him? It sounds like a ritual.

Like he’s teaching you something sacred. And the whole time, you’re aware of the apron cinched at your waist. The ghost of his hands. The heat of him still lingering like steam over hot coffee.

You pretend to listen.

But really?

You’re watching that stupid necklace again.

It catches the light every time he moves—just a glint of silver chain, the dog tag shifting, the apple charm swaying like it knows exactly what it’s doing to you.

You want to ask again. You almost do.

But instead you say: “You ever teach the newbie this?”

He smirks without looking up. “They refuse. Keep saying they’re just here for the vibes.”

You laugh, and he glances at you—just quick, just warm. Like maybe this is his way of showing you what he does when the pressure gets too loud.

And maybe this is what kindness looks like from someone who normally disarms you with charm.

Maybe this is worse.

Because it’s working.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

He walks you through the pour-over like it’s a party trick, talking casually, hands steady.

“You always like this when you’re stressed?” he asks, glancing sideways.

You shrug. “I’m a law student. If I’m not stressed, it means I’m unconscious.”

Caleb chuckles. “Fair. But you’re doing great. Better than the newbie, anyway. Don’t tell them I said that.”

“You’re lying.”

“A little,” he says, voice low and warm against your ear. “But you’ve got good instincts.”

Before you can respond, he leans over you—slow, deliberate—his chest brushing your shoulder as he reaches around to adjust your hand on the kettle. His fingers wrap lightly around yours, steadying the pour, guiding the motion like it matters. Like you matter.

“Slower,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Let it bloom.”

You try to focus. Really. But his breath is on your neck, his voice soaked in something softer than it should be, and the charm sways beneath his collar, catching the light like it’s in on the secret. You huff a laugh—weak, distracted—trying not to drown in the heat of him. Trying not to look at his jawline or the way he’s basically breathing in your thoughts.

The coffee finishes brewing. He sets a mug in front of you.

“No pressure,” he says. “But this cup might turn your whole day around.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You offering a refund if it doesn’t?”

He pretends to think. “No, but I can offer… moral support. Emotional buffering. Maybe a cookie if I dig around.”

You smile despite yourself. Sip. It’s good. Obviously. And for a second, just a second, it’s easy to forget everything else.

He leans on the counter, watching you.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, too easily. “Just nice to see you smile again.”

Your heart does something.

Stupid, stupid heart.

You look back down at your drink, cheeks warm, trying not to smile too wide.

Maybe you are a little pathetic. But it’s fine.

You don’t say much after that.

You don’t need to.

He wipes down the counter while you sip the last of your coffee like it might stall time. But eventually, the clock catches up. The quiet starts to settle into finality.

You turn to say goodnight, maybe thank him, but he steps in just slightly—just enough that your breath catches—and leans in.

A brief, barely-there kiss to your cheek.

Warm. Soft. Gone before you can react.

“Feel better, Golden Girl,” he says, voice low and a little shy now. “Come see me again. I’ve got more of that… upgraded comfort waiting.”

Then, like it’s nothing—like it isn’t about to undo you completely—he reaches into his canvas tote hidden behind the counter. Pulls out an apple. Smooth, golden.

“Picked this up at the farmers market,” he says, holding it out. “Figured you’d appreciate the brand.”

You blink, caught. It’s a Golden Delicious apple.

“A golden apple,” he says, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “For the Golden Girl.”

You take it. Silently. Trying not to show how stupidly much that means.

“Remember to eat,” he adds, already turning toward the entrance, voice gentler than it has any right to be.

You nod once, too stunned to speak.

Caleb opens the door for you.

And you step out into the night, cheeks warm, heart loud.

The air is crisp, your hands still wrapped around that stupid golden apple, and you tell yourself this is fine. Normal. Just coffee. Just golden apples—sweet ones that should taste like summer but land bitter on your tongue. Just a kind, caring barista with a heart already spoken for.

You nod to yourself. Yeah.

You can do this.

You can be a normal customer.

Order takeaway coffee. Smile. Leave. Study for finals. Because you made a decision—and you’re sticking to it.

Because you’re absolutely not going to fall back into his orbit.

A bite of apple, a quick tug to tighten your ponytail like armor, and then forward—no looking back.

You chew, waiting for the bitterness you assumed would be there.

But there’s none.

Just sweetness. Sharp and stubborn and almost cruel in how good it tastes.

And then your phone buzzes.

newbie: kinda had a moment. caleb’s covering for me. so yeah. case = closed, i guess.

You exhale through your nose, a small smile tugging at your lips. Fingers hover for a second before you reply—grateful to have the newbie in your life. Someone who gets it without needing a whole closing argument.

you: yeah. feels closed.

You hit send and keep walking.

——————————————————————————

Part 8

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Aaa, dear me. I hope I didn’t scare anyone off with that little burst of angst from the MC finally revealing herself. But trust me, the arc is arcing, and we’re just starting to brush against the edges of the complex man known as Caleb. This is… still achingly based on a true story aaaaaaa. My college days were the best and worst of days. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[afyrian]

physical therapist! iwaizumi | headcanons

masterlist

- super kind when you first start - soft spoken and gentle hands type of beat - genuinely best physical therapist you’ve ever had for your sports injuries - understanding of when something is too much for you - ‘let’s do something else today, okay? no need to push yourself to more injuries’ [iwaizumi] - makes you scream internally - he’s just doing his job but damn it’s attractive - like the way his hands steady you - and maybe at some point you become more comfortable with each other - connecting outside of physical therapy - towards the beginning, though, you just whine about your crush to yachi - eager to return to therapy - he even makes up games for you to play - they could just be a treasure hunt to help with leg pain - or bean bag toss to help with your wrist - iwaizumi engages you like no one else - ‘if you ever move or i have to get a new p.t., i’ll mourn the loss of you’ [you] - ‘it’s not like i’ll be dead- you could just text me’ [iwaizumi] - waits until he becomes the olympic team’s trainer to ask you out - fearing an odd power imbalance - although he does help with home exercises - and the thigh touches are a little more intentional.. 

[howlingday]

SReducing the Knight

Blake: If we fight him, we WILL die! Can we leave before we lose any MORE limbs?!

Ruby: I'd rather lose a HUNDRED limbs before giving up on this traysure!

Yang: Agreed. We don't have to fight him. (Waves arms) Just DISARM him.

Weiss: She's right. One of us should- Wait, that was funny.

Yang: Thank you. I've been waiting for the right time to say it.

Weiss: Well timed~!

Ruby: Yeah, that was pretty good!

Little: Very funny~!

Blake: It's a good joke.

Weiss: Anyways, it's clear our leader here should try to seduce him.

Ruby: Who, ME?!

Weiss: Yeah. You're a bard, aren't you?

Ruby: I-I mean, I could, but don't you think there's a better girl than-

Ruby: (Hood missing, Corset open, Panicking)

Jaune: (Glaring down at Ruby)

Ruby: H... H-Hey, handsome...

Jaune: (Removes helmet, Grins) Hello, gorgeous~.

Ruby: (Pukes)

Ruby: (With her team) Ah'm showwy...

Weiss: Ugh... Fine... Then I'll have to do it.

Weiss: (Tosses hair) What's a big, strong knight like you doing in a dark, dirty dungeon like this~?

Jaune: ...

Jaune: (Sighs, Sits down) I think it all started when I was 10. I was living a peaceful life until suddenly I woke deep inside this impossible labyrinth...

Weiss: (Sighs as he rambles) I guess this is all I'm good for...

--------------------------------------------------

Weiss: And since it's a labyrinth, and not a maze, he can actually escape really easily. So I just gave him the address to a good therapist nearby, and he just let us go. He seemed like he REALLY needed it.

--------------------------------------------------

Jaune: Well... When I really think about it, maybe everything comes back to my sister? She ALWAYS said her urban landscape was better than my labyrinth.

Goodwitch: I see...

Jaune: Like, why does it have to be a competition?! We have similar lives! Why does it pull us apart instead of pulling us together?

Goodwitch: Well, have you talked to him about these feelings?

Jaune: We haven't talked to each other since... Since the funeral.

Goodwitch: Mm... I see... Do you think that perhaps your father's death may have something to do with this wedge that formed between you?

Jaune: He was a good dad. Just... He was complicated, y'know?

Goodwitch: Mhm... You mentioned last week that throughout your childhood, you and your sisters would play games for him. Games with WINNERS?

Jaune: That's... true. It always felt like whoever won those games got to be his favorite.

Goodwitch: Do you ever think those games ever really stopped?

Jaune: N-No, I... I guess they didn't... (Inhales) You think we could ever-

Goodwitch: I'm sorry, I would love to talk more about Saphron, but I'm afraid we're out of time for this session.

Jaune: O-Oh... Can I book now?

Goodwitch: Of course. Same time?

Jaune: If you can, that works for me.

[rhiannonsknife]

── ❆ DAY 18: movie nights with jackieshauna

— summary: movie nights with jackieshauna hcs.

— warnings: literally nothing but fluff for this one. kind of modern au? some of the movies mentioned in this weren’t out in the teen timeline. gn!reader.

movie nights with jackieshauna…

…usually take place at shauna’s place, carefully scheduled on days when her mom is working late. not that it really matters: shauna’s mom has always been surprisingly understanding. even if she were to come home early, you know she wouldn’t mind finding the three of you sprawled on the couch together. (pushing the shauna’s mom is a sweetheart agenda again!!). shauna had been hesitant at first, not wanting to hear about jackie’s “dramatic commentary” or her “over-the-top snack demands,” but you’d managed to convince her, promising to mediate any arguments and take charge of the snacks.

jackie, of course, doesn’t bring much besides herself and an armful of blankets as she waltzed into shauna’s house. you arrive shortly after, carrying a paper bag of snacks and drinks you’d promised to bring.

jackie and shauna who can never seem to pick a movie.

it doesn’t take long for the debate to start: you’re not even done arranging the coffee table with the snacks you had bought for the night when jackie and shauna start arguing over which movie to watch first. jackie flops onto the couch behind you and announces: “well the first one has to be love, actually”

shauna groans from her spot by the DVD stack. “you only want to watch it so you can rant about how unrealistic it is, jackie”

“and your pick is so much better? let me guess…home alone. again.” jackie crosses her arms and smirks. “it’s a classic!” shauna argues matter of factly. in the end, both girls leave it up to you. “i think we should go with the grinch first,” you suggest diplomatically, hoping to avoid any more bickering. jackie and shauna both groan but eventually give in, with jackie dramatically sighing, “fine, but i’m going second, and it’s love, actually. non-negotiable”

jackie and her endless commentary.

no matter what you end up watching, jackie will start making snarky comments about the plot, critiquing everything from the characters’ fashion choices to their unrealistic romantic decisions 5 minutes into the movie: whether it’s a cheesy romcom or a holiday classic, it doesn’t take long after the opening credits for her to start chiming in with her running commentary. “i’ve seen better haircuts at the boys’ soccer practice” she declares, pointing at the romantic lead on screen with a scoff

you try to ignore her at first, keeping your focus on the movie, but jackie’s comments grow increasingly ridiculous. “oh, sure, because falling in love over one cup of hot cocoa is totally realistic,” she whines, leaning into your side with a grin, clearly entertained by her own observations. shauna, always less patient than you, lets out an exaggerated sigh. “jackie, could you please just watch the movie for once?” she groans, though the slight twitch of her lips betrays her amusement.

“i am watching,” jackie insists with mock-seriousness, tossing a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “i’m just saying, these people clearly need better communication skills. and maybe a therapist, too, while we’re at it”

you glance over jackie’s head at shauna, and she meets your gaze with a knowing smirk. jackie, oblivious to the silent exchange, only continues her relentless critique: “oh, and there it is: the dramatic kiss in the snow. groundbreaking. never seen that before!”

jackie, whose annoyance only worsens as the evening goes on.

you honestly start to wonder why she’s the one who constantly insists on watching romcoms in the first place. you’re half-convinced she only insists on those because she loves having something to complain about. as the movie reaches its overly sentimental climax, jackie lets out a groan and grabs a piece of popcorn from the bowl. with precise aim, she tosses it at the tv, the piece bouncing harmlessly off the screen. “oh, come on,” she says, throwing up her hands. “nobody would actually say that!” shauna, sprawled out on the other side of the couch, laughs. “you know you’re not changing the script by pelting popcorn at it, right?”

jackie ignores her, grabbing another piece of popcorn and holding it up as if contemplating whether it’s worth wasting on the movie’s sappy final kiss. “i’m just…actively watching” she says defensively. you stifle a laugh, nudging her with your elbow. “if you hate it so much, why do you always pick romcoms?”

shauna and you, who finally manage to soothe jackie through the second movie.

as some point during the second movie, jackie stretches out dramatically, sighing as she shifts positions. “ugh, my neck is killing me” and that’s about all of a warning you both get before she takes it upon herself to solve the problem by sliding down and sprawling across both you and shauna. her head finds its way to your lap and her legs drape lazily over shauna’s. jackie lets out a contented hum.

“really, jackie?” shauna mutters, raising an eyebrow as she halfheartedly swats at jackie’s leg. “what?” jakie responds innocently, shifting just enough to make herself even more comfortable. “i don’t take up that much room”

you laugh, and your hand instinctively finds her hair, running your fingers through the soft strands as she settles in. “this is nice” she hums, at least. shauna smirks but doesn’t argue, one hand resting lightly on jackie’s ankle as she keeps her eyes on the screen. jackie shifts again, burrowing deeper into the blanket wrapped around all three of you. “you’re lucky i like you both so much,” she murmurs. “otherwise, you wouldn’t get the privilege of being my human pillows”

“you’re lucky we put up with you,” shauna teases affectionately.

shauna, who can’t help but tease the sleeping beauty between the two of you.

jackie doesn’t last long in this position, tucked cozily between you and shauna. it always starts with a little cuddling, her head resting against your shoulder, but it inevitably ends with her dozing off. “guess the movie wasn’t exciting enough for her,” shauna whispers, just loud enough for you to hear but not enough to rouse jackie. she carefully reaches out, smoothing a strand of her hair, only to arrange it like a little mustache over her upper lip.

you smother a laugh as shauna struggles to keep from giggling herself, covering her mouth when jackie stirs just slightly. she’s not fully awake, though, not yet. moments later, and her head lolls to the side, her lips parting as she murmurs groggily: “i’m not asleep…i’m just resting my eyes, okay?”

“sure you are,” shauna chuckles, leaning forward to grab the half-empty bowl of popcorn from jackie’s lap before it spills everywhere. she barely notices, still half-asleep as she grumbles, “i mean it…” her voice trailing off, and her head falling against your shoulder again.

jackie, who insists on making hot chocolate for the three of you.

between the second and the third movie, jackie is up again and on her way to the kitchen to prepare you drinks.

she talks a big game about her “secret recipe,” (which mainly involves an absurd amount of whipped cream, mini marshmallows, and a sprinkle of cinnamon) “it’s all about the presentation,” she announces confidently as she carefully balances everything on a tray to return to the couch, holding her own mug like it’s a trophy. “admit it. i make the best hot cocoa.” shauna shakes her head, hiding a smile as she takes her mug, while jackie passes yours to you and three of you settle back onto the couch.

jackie’s drink is piled high with whipped cream and sprinkles and she grins when she notices you watching her. “what? this is how you’re supposed to do it,” she says, taking a sip and leaving a dab of whipped cream on her nose.

shauna notices too, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “you’ve got…” she gestures vaguely, but jackie either doesn’t catch on or pretends not to. you lean over, carefully wiping it off with your thumb, and she freezes for a second before breaking into a soft smile.

“okay,” jackie finally says, her voice quieter now. “this might actually be my favorite part of christmas” shauna glances at her but doesn’t say anything, just reaches over to adjust the blanket draped over your legs. for once, there’s no need for teasing or commentary. just the quiet warmth of the three of you together, cups in hands as the movie starts to play.

[brucewaynehater101]

Saw the ask about rogues and civilians thinking Red Robin died while he's off on BruceQuest AND discovering he spent years undercover as a sex worker and thus band together to makes entire sections of the city impossible for other Bats to enter

Fuck, how does this affect Red Hood? From Jason's own personal thoughts on Tim and (how much does he learn?) to his reputation

Yeah when Tim's hero reputation is irreparably FUCKED before he does things himself and goes off on BruceQuest, all hell is breaking loose and now a good chunk of Gotham's people and rogues are . . .

As far as they know right after the kid got Smear Campaigned he fucking DIED

Wtf would they even do after that?

Dick-as-Batman is gonna have it horrifically, how are civilians and rogues gonna treat Damian as Robin? Will they try and kidnap Dami to try and save him from Jane Doe's fate?

What does any major character think of this? Individually or collectively?

How does this affect their relationships with each other? Oh God, Alfred; what about him?

During BruceQuest do rogues and civilians alike try to reach out to the third Robin's associates to see if they need help themselves like Cassie

Joker???? What about him and if this is a timeline where Tim was earlier Joker Junior'd? What will he think when news comes out what will he do?

Does Harley decide, after Red Robin returns and it's revealed the kid is alive and well, to go "Joker is objectively 100% awful but he was up to something" and adopt Tim as her own kid of sorts, but without Joker sharing custody and doing it with her owm friends instead like Ivy?

My brains melting, go crazy go stupid

Alright!!! Let's try to answer the questions ^^

For Jason/Red Hood, it depends on how much RH is associated with the Bats. Before the BruceQuest, it might not be well-known that he's allies with the Bats (especially because he's shot at or tried to beat him up). Depending on how public his aggression towards Robin (now RR) was, this might endear him to the areas that are closed off. As far as emotionally, there Jason had to resort to crime and desperate measures just to eat. Dealer's choice on whether he had to resort to selling himself or not. Regardless, I bet Jason throws up repeatedly in horror and distraught after finding out that Tim has been doing that during his time as Robin (not sure when Tim would have started, but at least as young as 15). There's a bit you can explore there with angst and shit (especially since Jason attacked Tim at the age of 15).

I think that maybe Gothamites would believe that Robin has lost his marbles in grief. However, that makes perfect sense due to everything he's been through (as far as what's publicly known of him being a child therapist, Robin, and losing Batman). Despite them thinking it's possible he did lose himself, at least he wasn't putting people in the hospital like Batman did. I think they would be more upset that RR wasn't supported and how hypocritical everyone was.

It's a toss-up on how they would treat Damian. It probably varies between despising the child for taking over R3's place, wanting to protect him, and being indifferent to Batman throwing another child into the line of fire.

Alfred is debatable. How cruel it is to Alfred and how the old man reacts depends entirely on how he acted to Tim during his years of Robin, whether the 16th birthday incident happened, and whether he intervened when Damian said harsh comments to Tim. That would change Alfred's reaction to being either "fuck it's all my fault" or "what more could I have done so this didn't happen?"

Maybe a rogue or two tries to reach out to RR's non-Gothamite associates. I'm curious how Anarky reacts to all of this.

Adding JJ to this AU would be so fucking cruel to Tim, but I'm down for that. That would give him parent issues with 3 sets of parents, but Harley is just a complicated mess of emotions and shit. I think she would take on more of an aunt role to Tim due to the whole JJ incident. There could be some angst there with Tim calling her Aunt Harley

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 10, Uneasy - Pt. 3

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, mentions of sex, Jade Carthage (sorry), petty behavior.

Word Count: 368

Previously On...: The Lion, the Witch, and the Audacity of this Bitch... Bucky had the balls to answers a call from Jade, abruptly ending sex with you to do so. You contemplated getting back into your old self-harm habits, but decided against it. You and Bucky argued, and it seemed like you really got through to him when you asked him to think of how he'd want you and Steve to interact every time he found himself in a situation with Jade. I'd say it seemed to work, but this is only Chapter 10 out of 28 :(

A/N: As promised, due to my lack of any updates yesterday, here's your second update for today! It's short, I know, but at least you didn't have to wait an entire day to just get < 370 words! :D

I love you! (no question mark) Also, when reviewing it to post, I noticed there was no swearing, and I thought 'can't have that! gotta reputation to maintain!' So I added a 'fucking' at the end, just to keep things on brand.

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Please let me know if you’d like to be added!) @jmeelee @cazellen @blackhawkfanatic @les-sel @marcswife21 @buckybarnessimpp @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @erelierraceala @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @jupiter-107 @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @crist1216 @vicmc624 @sashaisready @j23r23

While Bucky took his shower, you threw on one of his Henleys and made your way to the communal kitchen to grab some snacks for your film. To your disdain, Jade was already there, pouring herself a glass of juice.

“Trouble in paradise?” she asked with a smirk as she put the juice back in the fridge. “I didn’t mean to overhear, but you and Jamie were just arguing so loudly.” 

“We’re fine,” you said. You grabbed a couple of bags of chips, some Twizzlers, chocolate, and some drinks. “But thank you so much for your apparent concern.”

“Didn’t sound fine to me,” she beamed. “You forget, I have super soldier hearing. Maybe you should consider getting a new therapist, since the one you’re seeing now clearly isn’t helping. I’m heading back to my room, but don’t feel the need to keep the fighting down on my account, ‘kay? It’s better than Netflix!” With a wink, she turned and walked out the door, juice in hand.

In your anger, you were gripping one of the bags of chips so tightly, it popped open in your hand. Coming to a quick and, probably stupid decision, you grabbed your snacks and raced back to your room.

Bucky was just coming out of the bathroom, with only a towel around his waist, when you burst through the door, tossing the snacks and drinks onto your nightstand.

“Ready for the movie now, doll?” he asked, toweling off his damp hair.

“Changed my mind,” you said as you started taking off your clothes. “Sex is back on the table.”

Bucky grinned at you, but his face quickly fell. “Are you sure, sweets? What changed all of a sudden?”

You pulled the towel from around his waist, licking your lips as his cock sprung free, already growing hard in front of you. “Just something I heard,” you told him before pouncing on him. “I’m gonna need you to make me scream, Barnes.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, doll,” he said before hoisting you up and kissing you.

You knew you were being petty, and it was not a great quality, but you didn’t care: you were going to make sure Jade Carthage heard every. single. filthy. fucking. thing.

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