#well I will but not for all the shit he did

[reveusism]

cw nsfw. nerdmin!!!!!!!. wet dreams oops. tongue piercing armin

armin had dreams quite often. now, this was not a surprising thing; dreams are caused by the information stored in the depths of one’s mind, and it is well known that armin had a lot of that. it’s rare that he has a night completely dreamless, whether he be plagued by riddles concealed in a story or being chased down a corridor or something humiliating that leaves his face red for the rest of the morning.

recebtly, his subject had been you.

they would change. positions, places, you name it. sometimes he would be between your legs, putting the cool metal ball atop his tongue to work and feeling proud of his reckless decision for once. other times, you would be on your knees, taking care of him and cooing softly with every broken plea that left his lips. he’d take you from behind, in front—make you realize he was more than he seemed. he was useful. he could make you feel good. it was every sick fantasy he had pushed down and suppressed from the moment he first saw you coming back to haunt him in his sleep. occasionally, he would just be lying with you in the aftermath and the bliss of what you had just done. but that one was much more heavy than the rest, so he avoided confronting the meaning.

tonight was no different. he saw you, messy and disheveled and as beautiful as he always thought you were. bare, panting, whispering his name so softly he was sure it was a figment of his imagination (but this all was, so what did it matter?). he ran his hand over every plane and curve he was too shy to touch when he was conscious. his face was in your neck, nose pressing against your pulse as he desperately tried to convince himself this was real, I if only for a moment. you smelled sweet. he had to resist the urge to sink his teeth into you and mark that he was there.

you were with him, wanting him. his head was spinning and his throat raw from the pathetic whimpers bubbling from his throat. he remembers feeling so close, dick twitching desperately with every noise and move you made, but he tried to prolong it. he knew that he would wake the moment he let go and be reminded that this was fake, that he was sweating and panting and hard alone in his own dark room. he was desperate. he had long since accepted that he was nothing if not a loser, at least a bit, but even this had him shrinking on himself in shame.

your voice. it was beautiful, and even more so when broken and saying his name. “armin, ah, i’m-“

he awoke with a gasp. he blinked for a moment, chest heaving, head pounding as was the pulse between his legs. it only took a moment for him to process—he had grown more and more used to these occurrences. even with his less-than-great vision, he could make out the shape of his stiffness as well as the wet patch forming on his pyjama pants.

he was definitely not going to be able to look you in the eyes tomorrow, if not the rest of the week. he was pathetic, and he wanted you so badly. but he would not act on those desires, instead dealing with graphic dreams and radiosilence on the days after. it was not preferable, but he would survive.

his head fell back against the pillow, dragging a hand down his face. “shit.”

[alchemistc]

Based on my own post from earlier this evening because I can't stop thinking about it.

vanilla

He doesn't mean to see it. He swears. It's just - Tommy's laptop is right there and Buck's is all the way in the office and if he doesn't look up the lifespan of a Cecropia moth right now he's going to forget about it for a month only to remember in the middle of something vitally more important than watching Planet Earth reruns.

So he twists the thing around from its spot on the side table, boots it back up, types in Tommy's password (pA$$word3, because no one would ever guess that he'd be both so lazy and so creative in his laziness), and watches Firefox boot itself up. It's an older laptop, and Tommy doesn't take great care of it - case and point, he didn't even close out of his tabs, they're all still there, and - well. Shit.

That's the most ridiculous dildo he's ever seen.

Biggest, too.

Jesus.

Buck immediately forgets 100% of what he was doing.

And - and looking up Tommy's history is absolutely a line crossed - there's no reason for him to fucking spiral just because there's a bright purple dragon something on the screen with a base as wide as Buck's thigh. There's no reason why he should -

He clicks the search history and regrets it pretty immediately.

That kills two hours.

He has three more until Tommy's off shift, and now everything is worse. Because.

Okay so.

Like.

They have a pretty healthy sex life, Buck thinks. A year into Tommy and Buck Part Two and they still can't keep their hands off each other. And - so, like, sue him for preferring all the boring stuff he never really got to enjoy long term - the way he knows Tommy goes a little crazy when they're lying on their sides and Buck can just slip right in and press his lips to Tommy's shoulder, tuck his hand under Tommy's where he's got it on his chest, curl their fingers together and just breath into each thrust. Sue him for liking it when they're face to face and Tommy's looking up at him with the pads of his fingers tracing the shell of Buck's ear and he can see the love love love in his eyes, see the way his tongue curls out Buck's name like a prayer. Sue him for his fantasies always drifting to that sunny afternoon in their bed, Buck on his belly and Tommy everywhere around him, over him, inside of him, humming useless nothings into Buck's ear while the sweat from their skin eased the chafe of being pressed together from pelvis to collarbone.

Buck picks up his phone. Watches the familiar name ring out one, two, three - answered on the fourth ring.

"Am I not kinky enough, do you think?" Buck asks, and gets a drawn out moment of silence.

"Nope," Ravi says, and the call drops.

And who else is he gonna call, really? Hen and Chim? (Hard no, they nipped that in the bud back when Buck and Tommy were still in Part One) Maddie? Another line too far, but this one he doesn't feel like crossing today. Eddie? If he'd even pick up?

Buck dials out again.

Ravi picks up on the second ring. "Buck, I love you man, but I get a front row seat to your little love fest at least once a week, four hours a night. I am not equipped or willing to help you with your sex life."

Fair. That's fair. Boundaries are important. Ravi does an excellent job of setting his up and announcing where they are.

"It's just I found something in Tommy's browser that -."

"Absolutely not. I'll block your number for twenty-four hours."

"Right. Cool. Sure thing." Buck breathes.

"Talk to Tommy, if you're freaking out about it." Ravi caves, just a bit. "Every time. I say this every time, and it always works, doesn't it?"

True. On both accounts. When did Ravi become his go to guy?

(When he started picking up the phone whenever Buck called. When he came to Buck with his own shit and didn't apologize for it.)

"Yeah. You're right. I'm gonna talk to him."

"We're still on for Friday, right?"

Buck has to search his memory to figure out what he's referencing. Tommy's taking Ravi to the farmers market over in Venice Beach that Buck refuses to go to on principle because Sherri's Treats aren't even homemade. She gets the baked goods from Costco and decorates them with store brand icing.

"Talk to Tommy," Buck throws back, just to be a brat, and Ravi sighs.

"Touche."

He's still freaking out when the call ends three minutes later, and he doesn't want to have to pull this trigger.

Except. Like. It's still there. Right on Tommy's screen. Watching him.

The phone rings six times.

He's contemplating how ridiculous it is to leave a voicemail when Lucy answers with a groggy "'lo?"

"Am I not kinky enough?" Buck asks, and gets the start of a cackle and then a long, slow pause.

She's gonna hang up on him. She's absolutely going to -

"It's ten-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday, Buckley."

And it sure is.

God, this would never have happened if he hadn't started an update on his phone mid-episode.

"Walk me through it," she continues, all business, all of a sudden, and so Buck tells her, grateful for her hums and uhuh's as she starts her day. Buck talks over the sound of her brushing her teeth, and pouring her coffee, and absolutely doesn't mention that he thinks she should probably have better sleeping patterns while he spirals about Tommy being unsatisfied with the sex they have.

"Gonna break bro code here a little to tell you you have literally nothing to worry about there. Seriously. You're getting gold stars every night, I promise you."

"He's been looking up gimp suits and gags, Lucy!"

She's quiet on the other end, for a moment.

Then she starts laughing.

Again.

Which is a great feeling for Buck. He loves it when Lucy laughs at him.

"Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry. Honey those aren't for you."

Well, now he's kinda mad at the implication that Tommy would -

"Not for Tommy, either," she interrupts, like she knows where that spiral leads. "I forgot what time of year it was. This is new for you."

"What's new for me?"

He can picture the sly grin on her face as she pours something into a bowl - milk maybe. Then cereal.

God, what a psycho.

"Tommy and an army buddy of his have had this escalating prank war going on for like...seven, eight years? I don't know, I wasn't here at the start of it, but I guess it started as the most heterosexual man you've ever met trying to be a good ally to his newly out buddy and sending a set of butt plugs to the only address of Tommy's he had available."

Weird. But not the weirdest thing he's ever heard. "Which was?"

"Oh, Harbor. Yeah. Got it his first week there. So now every year on the anniversary they try to send each other shit at work that should technically be grounds for a sexual harassment claim from their coworkers. Last year Tommy got a fully custom furry suit. Dude probably dropped thirty grand on that thing."

He shouldn't ask. He definitely shouldn't -

"It was a horse. Because of his big fat -."

"I get the picture, thanks."

"So yeah. It's coming up on time for them to push a boundary a little too far and actually have someone complain about it, this time. They won't stop until one of them gets a write up."

It's kinda funny. Kinda sweet, too, in that really weird way military men are with each other. Irrationally, Buck kinda wants to slew foot the guy for being an unintentionally massive flirt.

Straight dudes are the literal worst at allyship, in the weirdest ways possible.

"He's out of state, so don't go getting territorial, Buckley."

Never gonna live that down.

"But seriously though? Back to the original point. Which is you freaking out that Tommy is unsatisfied in your sex life. Number one: talk to him. You guys are the actual worst. Always gotta have a second opinion before you bite the bullet and do the normal thing. Number two: I know too much. And I know you have nothing to worry about. Number three: when he gets home I want you to record his reaction when you turn the laptop screen on him like a spurned wife and send it to me. I'm having a bad day. I could use the entertainment."

"You just woke up."

"And had to talk an old coworker down from a ledge about how satisfying his sex life is with a current coworker. Bareback, no lube, just wake up and go."

"I think this also counts as sexual harassment."

"You started this conversation with 'am I kinky enough' so I'm not super concerned."

By the time he gets off the phone with Lucy he's very firmly on solid ground. And also wondering exactly how much Tommy actually talks about their sex life when he's not around. Tommy keeps things pretty close to the vest. He can't imagine he's going around bragging about that time he started crying when Buck hit his prostate right as he licked into his mouth and slid a hand up his arm to link their fingers together.

Maybe in less detail.

Something about seeing God, maybe. That seems more like his style.

---

Tommy has a routine, when he gets home from work. Keys hung up, jacket on the coat rack, duffle tucked into one of the cubbies of his makeshift mud room. Shoes under the bench, two minutes of head scritches for Goose as she meows her way down the hall to greet the only man she'll ever love.

(Buck's super cool about the fact that Tommy's breakup cat hates him. Totally chill.)

When Goose has had her fill and darted off to go bounce off the walls of the office, Tommy likes to amble in to whatever room Buck is in and drape himself across Buck's back for a moment, mouth pressed to the knob of Buck's spine, hands roaming for a moment before he manages a greeting.

He's making risotto for dinner when he hears the lock click in the front door.

He's ignoring Lucy's text reminding him to get a reaction shot.

He listens to Tommy talk back to Goose like he understands every "mrow" listens for the shuffle of socked feet down the hall, listens to him pad across the kitchen tiles, braces himself for the dead weight of Tommy against his back.

Tommy's got a hand halfway up his shirt when he mumbles into Buck's ear. "So I hear we have something to talk about."

"Ravi snitched."

"Ravi still thinks I'm the sensible one, of the two of us."

Buck snorts. Tips his head back against Tommy's shoulder and basks in the moment while Tommy buries his nose behind Buck's ear.

"Before I say anything else, I know you said I can use your laptop whenever I want but you should know I definitely snooped where I shouldn't and jumped to some wild conclusions. Which Lucy has already cleared up on your behalf, because apparently we're both too chicken shit to have a conversation without using a lifeline."

Tommy stills. "I didn't close out my browser session last time, did I?"

"You did not."

"And Lucy told you about the horse costume Dom sent me last year."

"She sure did. She very specifically called it a furry suit, though."

Tommy blows out an exasperated breath against his neck. "And you were freaking out because...?"

"I thought maybe you were bored with the sex we have."

That gets Tommy going. He pulls free just to get enough leverage to spin Buck to face him, hands on his hips and eyes catching Buck's like if he doesn't see Buck's eyes in the next five seconds he'll do something crazy, and Buck doesn't really know how he got so lucky but he's not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if it's a furry.

"Evan. Please understand when I say this I'm not exaggerating. Our sex is life altering. I want to have slow, quiet, vanilla sex with you until the day I die."

"Which won't be for like another fifty years."

Tommy hums. "I'm gonna be popping Blue Chew when I'm ninety-five and have two bum hips."

"Oh, so I have to do all the work?"

"Why do you think I dated younger?"

Buck has to kiss him about it. And then he has to pull back and duck his head to remind Tommy of the part he blazed right past. "Full disclosure, when I said I snooped I meant I went into your search history."

Tommy's chuckle shakes them both. "I figured. You go back far enough to find the single porn link in amidst all the shitty plastic used actuators for sale on eBay?"

"I'm not a masochist, Tommy." Figures he'd get so frustrated looking for a part to fix the rattling in the Jeeps dash he'd want to rub one out. Usually takes him more than a single video, though. Probably he'd decided he'd feel too guilty to actually get off until he had the part ordered.

Tommy shifts his weight a bit. Wedges a knee in between Buck's legs. His eyes get that sparkle to them that means he finds Buck to be an adorable menace. "How married to the risotto are you?" he asks, hands shifting from Buck's hips to behind his thighs.

"Not - not terribly." It had been a distraction from thinking about Tommy's army buddy, mostly. The recipe still isn't perfected and even though Tommy's complimented it every time, Buck can tell it's missing something and Tommy is just letting him figure it out on his own.

"Maybe we could order in and I can show you how satisfied I am with your service."

"We - that's definitely an option. On the table."

"How about this very sturdy counter, instead?"

They haven't done it somewhere not-the-bed in months.

Their knees aren't gonna thank them for it.

Buck has to attempt to ignore Tommy mouthing at his neck to remember if there are enough ice packs in the freezer for the both of them, right now.

"Yeah - yep, let's do that instead."

Tommy gets both hands under his ass and lifts.

He doesn't quite swoon over the move, anymore, but it still makes him more than a little giddy.

"Wait, did you decide on the dildo over the gimp suit, because if you're escalating at the same rate as your friend I think -."

"Can we talk about Dom after I get my satisfaction scores in, please?"

"Shutting up now."

"I don't believe that for a second," Tommy says, and then shuts him up with his mouth anyway, just for good measure.

[creamflix]

TALK TOO MUCH ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief did you know there’s a six-foot-something guy in your class who’s smart, suspiciously well-read in your field, and loudly supportive of women’s rights all of a sudden? yeah, he’s also hopelessly in love with you. you’re just trying to get your degree. he’s trying to get your attention. the rest practically writes itself. w.c 7k

risk assessment university au, crack & fluff, female reader, mentions of weed usage, crush at first sight, himbo gojo + sukuna + toji, naoya being sexist as always, slight transphobia, toji + sukuna + gojo are part of the same frat, uraume cameo ft! gojo, naoya, geto, sukuna, toji

a/n this was inspired by the video → jock pretends to be a nerd to impress you (ASMR) ← PLEASE check it out it's very funny.

☆ GOJO SATORU: I JOINED ENGINEERING FOR THE PHYSICS AND SAT FRONT ROW FOR HER, BUT SHE STILL DOESN’T KNOW MY NAME

In Gojo’s defense — and he always had a defense, mind you — he didn’t mean to major in engineering. 

It was a whim, a toss-of-the-coin decision made in the haze of post-exam delusion and overconfidence. Physics had always been his thing. He topped nationally in grade 12, solved kinematics like Sudoku, and made a meme page about Newton's laws that somehow went viral. So Engineering? Duh. Physics, but cooler, right?

Wrong. Very, violently wrong.

No one warned him that Engineering Physics was basically Physics on steroids, combined with linear algebra’s illegitimate child and the unforgiving slap of applied mechanics. Suddenly, instead of tinkering with fun little projectile motion problems, he was deriving partial differential equations for heat transfer while hungover. He didn’t even know what a Lagrangian was, and people were out here minimizing it like they did it for sport.

He should’ve switched majors. Should’ve listened to his friends, to his GPA, to that one TA who told him, “Mr. Gojo, this isn’t a YouTube prank channel. Please stop bringing a lighter to class.”

But then, you walked in during course exploration week — where students from other disciplines could sit in on any class.

You waltzed into his 9 a.m. Electromagnetic theory lecture with a coffee in one hand and a look that said “I am not here to commit.” And Gojo — Gojo who once fell asleep drooling on his differential equations worksheet — sat up straight. Literally front-row, front and center, no sunglasses, no lighter.

He was suddenly alive.

“Professor,” he said, for the first time ever, “Could you please explain how Maxwell's equations relate to boundary conditions at material interfaces?”

The professor nearly fainted.

People turned in their seats. Someone whispered, “What the fuck is wrong with Gojo.” He ignored them. 

You didn’t even look at him.

You were too busy squinting at the whiteboard, taking notes, tilting your head like you were trying to find a flaw in all of electromagnetism itself. And Gojo, high-functioning himbo that he was, had never tried harder to sound like he cared about vector calculus in his entire life. He even stopped asking the dumb hypothetical questions like, “But what if the resistor was alive?”

He asked about displacement currents now. About Poynting vectors. About complex impedance. 

He googled after class. He attended tutorials. He bought a fucking graphing notebook and labeled it “electric love (theory).”

And the irony? You never noticed. Never spared him more than a polite nod when he held the door open. Because, of course, you weren’t here for people. You were here for classes. Just floating through mechanical design, dabbling in Comp Sci, sitting in on Civil Engineering like a butterfly landing on several cursed flowers before committing to bloom.

You did not give a singular shit about Gojo Satoru.

And Gojo — Gojo who had people lining up to cheat off his board exam answers — was now refreshing his attendance portal and manually correcting his MATLAB syntax because a random stranger with wide eyes and a mechanical pencil made engineering look like something worth trying for. 

He once asked a classmate, “Do you think she noticed me when I asked about Gauss’s Law?”

“Who?”

He was doomed. And worse? He kinda liked it.

By Friday, Gojo Satoru was a shell of the man he used to be.

His once-messy notes were now color-coded. His hair, usually in its signature tousled chaos, was combed back like he gave a shit about aerodynamics. The lighter that he once flicked open with one hand under the desk? Confiscated. Twice. 

He hadn’t flirted with a single person in five days. Five.

He even knew what dielectric permittivity meant.

This week had been the longest relationship he’d ever been in.

Because ever since you walked into that lecture hall on Monday — unassuming, curious, tilting your head at inductance like it personally offended you — Gojo had been in crisis mode. A calculated, overachieving, wildly embarrassing crisis. 

He should have just talked to you. Just said hi, cracked a joke, thrown one of his usual cocky smiles your way. But no. No. He doubled down on academic desperation like an unmedicated gifted child.

On Tuesday, he started showing up five minutes early and sitting right in front of you.

On Wednesday, he asked four questions, all relevant, and argued with the professor over the derivation of the Biot–Savart law.

On Thursday, he raised his hand before the professor even finished writing the topic on the board. And today? Today, he stood up mid-lecture, holding his notebook like a thesis, and asked, “Sir, do you want me to take over and explain the derivation?”

The professor stared at him, blinking. “Mr. Gojo,” he said slowly, like addressing a wild animal, “Please be seated. I… I implore you.”

You didn’t even look up. You were too busy cross-checking your notes with the projection, scribbling in the margins like a woman on a mission.

When class finally ended, the professor clapped once, looking exhausted but relieved. “To those of you visiting this week, thank you for attending. It's been wonderful having you.”

Gojo blinked. What?

Oh god. It's the end of exploration week.

His heart jackhammered. He hadn’t even spoken to you, hadn’t even gotten your name. Hadn’t done anything except become a clown in the name of electromagnetic thirst. He watched as students trickled down to the front to sign the attendance sheet, indicating whether or not they’d be continuing with the course. You stood in line, humming under your breath. Calm, like your choice was already made.

Gojo watched your pen touch the paper, and the millisecond you stepped away, he sprinted. Vaulted over a desk, and possibly elbowed some poor sophomore in the ribs. He hovered over the sheet like it was a sacred scroll.

There. Your name, written neatly. Clearly. 

With a little loop at the end of the “yes.”

He read it three times, outright etching it into his brain as he felt his soul realign with the axis of your handwriting.

And as you walked past him on your way out, you glanced at him — just for a second. Just a flicker. And you smiled. Polite. Brief. Maybe a little amused.

You didn’t know. You couldn’t possibly know the chaos you’d just survived. And then the professor, as casually as mentioning the weather, added, “Ah yes — she’s the Dean’s daughter. Naturally, she’s joining engineering.”

Gojo didn’t just cheer. He howled.

“YES!”

He fist-pumped the air.

“FUCK YES, SCIENCE!”

Everyone turned. The professor flinched. You paused at the door, blinking in mild confusion before walking off, slightly faster. Gojo clutched the attendance sheet like a man reborn.

Engineering wasn’t a whim anymore. It was destiny. And her name was you.

☆ NAOYA ZENIN: I CHOSE FEMINISM TO AVOID COOKING AND NOW I’M THE FACE OF TRANS RIGHTS BECAUSE SHE SAT NEXT TO ME

Naoya Zenin was a lot of things: heir to a multi-billion dollar legacy, self-proclaimed alpha male, misogynist extraordinaire with the subtlety of a wrecking ball, and — God help the campus — now a student in WGS 204: Women and Gender in the Modern Age. He sat like he was being punished, slouched so far down his seat it was a miracle he hadn’t slipped to the floor entirely. His expression was one of perpetual disapproval, mouth in a grim line, as if just existing in this class was somehow beneath him. And in his own words, it was.

“Gender is a social construct, not a personality trait,” his professor said, gesturing passionately at a slide on transgender rights and systemic marginalization.

Naoya snorted. Loudly.

“If it’s a construct, maybe they should stop reconstructing it every five seconds.”

A groan passed like a wave through the room, as if half the class had just been collectively punched in the face by pure ignorance. Someone in the back whispered, “Jesus fucking Christ,” and the professor paused, blinking slowly, mouth slightly open like she couldn’t believe she was dealing with this on a Tuesday morning. Naoya sat back, arms crossed. Smug, proud, and very unaware of the thousand-yard stares being directed at the back of his head. And then—

SLAM.

The door cracked open, the light from the hallway pouring in like a spotlight from heaven itself. 

And in you came.

Time slowed.

“Sorry! Sorrysorrysorrysorry — I missed the first bus and then the elevator in hall B broke again and—”

You were flustered, sure — late and breathless — but the chaos only made it worse. The way your hair stuck slightly to your cheek, the way your coat hung off one shoulder, your fingers fumbling to push your ID card into your bag as you mouthed another “sorry!” at the stunned professor like a fever dream in sneakers. You were rambling to her, but she was too busy experiencing ego death in real time to even acknowledge you. It was cinematic.

To Naoya, it was a fucking epiphany.

He sat up.

Fully upright. Spine erect, arms uncrossed, shoulders rolled back like a man coming alive for the first time. Like she’s beauty, she’s grace, she just saved me from a discrimination case.

A miracle.

Your perfume hit him next — not strong, just barely there, but enough. Fuck. It smelled like whatever self-respect he had left was about to rot in hell. You scanned the room, then spotted the empty seat next to him. And Naoya Zenin — top 5 least emotionally available men on campus — made space.

Like, physically moved his things.

A girl behind him gasped.

You slid into the empty seat next to him, dropping your bag and exhaling. Your perfume hit him like a physical slap again. He looked away, then looked again. 

And just like that, the campus’ biggest asshole about feminism, equity, and anything remotely ‘woke’ was suddenly blinking like a deer caught in the bisexual lighting of his conscience. You let out a breathless sigh, and Naoya felt something dislodge in his chest. An organ, maybe. Or a soul. Long gone.

“Hey,” you whispered, brushing hair from your face. “What’d I miss?”

Naoya cleared his throat. The rest of the class was now actively ignoring him — he’d burned his social credibility to the ground ten minutes ago — so they didn’t notice the sudden tonal whiplash.

He blinked twice. His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.

“Uhhh,” he said, scrambling mentally, every hateful comment about this class evaporating into the ether. “We were talking about, uh, trans rights. Y’know. How, uh... society should, like… respect them more. Obviously.” 

You blinked. “Oh wow. Good. That's important.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, voice suddenly patient, hushed. “Like, I think people forget how hard it is, like, navigating identity and all. They don’t choose to be — I mean, no one chooses — like, society just makes it harder, y’know?”

You smiled. Smiled. “Wow. That’s actually really thoughtful.”

Naoya’s brain bluescreened. 

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I think about stuff.”

The irony was thick enough to spread on toast and then chew on. Naoya Zenin, a man who once claimed feminism was “just a phase like astrology” and was “what girls cry about when they can’t lift a dumbbell” was now sitting beside a pretty stranger and reciting Queer Theory 101 like he was born under Judith Butler’s guidance. His voice stayed low the rest of class and occasionally, he even nodded at the professor’s points. Once, he even scribbled something down.

The professor didn’t notice. She was too emotionally dehydrated to engage further with him. The rest of the class assumed he’d finally shut the hell up. But you? You leaned a little closer every time he whispered an explanation, wide-eyed and genuinely interested. “That’s so messed up,” you said once, about a statistic he half-remembered from a slide. “Thank you for telling me.” 

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. He would later Google every slide from today’s class. In private.

And so, the semester began: Naoya Zenin, accidental ally, one seat away from the only person who could make him behave like a human being. The irony? It was just getting started.

Exam season descended like a curse. Students walked around campus in three day old hoodies, clutching caffeine like holy relics, some half-crying, others fully dead inside. And somewhere amidst it all, Naoya Zenin sat in the third-floor library, clutching a copy of “Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center” like it was both radioactive and sacred. He was pale, possibly sweaty. Not from the pressure of exams — no, Naoya didn’t stress. He was genetically and spiritually incapable of caring this much. 

But here he was, highlighting Bell Hooks and mouthing her quotes like incantations. He hadn’t even bought the damn book. As a matter of fact, he refused to. He called it “liberal propaganda” in week one, said it’d “pollute his shelf energy.”

And yet. Here he was, in the trenches of feminism. Elbow-deep in Judith Butler and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. The library copy was so well-worn from his midnight cramming that the spine cracked when he opened it. His bookshelf at home remained a cursed shrine of “The 48 Laws of Power,” “Rich Dad Poor Dad,” and “Why Men Deserve More.” His course textbooks? They lived in the zippered compartment of his backpack, like a dirty secret. But none of that mattered when you smiled and asked, “Can we have another study session?” 

And God. God, he would have written a dissertation on post-structuralist feminist theory if you so much as blinked at him encouragingly.

“Okay,” he said one evening, lounging in the study room like he wasn’t mentally on fire, “Intersectionality. Coined by Kimberlé Crenshaw in 1989, which talks about how overlapping identities like race, gender, and class create complex systems of oppression.”

You blinked. “You know the year?”

“...I know many things,” he said stiffly. 

You nodded, impressed. Naoya felt light-headed.

Another time, you leaned close over your notes and said, “Can you explain ecofeminism again? I didn't get the connection.” And Naoya, Naoya Zenin, who once claimed nature documentaries made him feel “beta,” launched into a whole breakdown on how patriarchal systems exploit both women and the environment, casually referencing Vandana Shiva like she was a friend of the family.

He even made a diagram. A. Fucking. Diagram.

By the third study session, you were calling him “so smart.”

By the fourth, he was rewriting his midterm essay to sound more inclusive.

By the fifth, he was correcting other people in class. 

“Uh, actually,” he said to a guy who confused gender identity with gender expression, “Those are different concepts. Read the module again, bro.” 

The class started. You beamed. Naoya floated.

Exam week hit, and Naoya studied like the fate of your friendship depended on it. Because maybe it did. Maybe if he just got one thing wrong — if he mixed up Judith Butler and Simone de Beauvoir, God forbid — you’d stop looking at him like he was safe. And Naoya, king of masculine fragility, needed you to keep thinking he was worth your time.

He wrote essays in APA format. He cited. He footnoted. And when results day came around, it was biblical. The professor — a woman who once looked at Naoya like he was the living embodiment of male disappointment — cried. Real, unfiltered, mid-forties academic tears. “This—” she sniffled, waving his graded paper like a diploma, “This is why we don’t give up on our students.”

The class was dead silent. Several jaws dropped. Someone clapped. You, glowing beside him, told everyone, “See? I told you Naoya wasn’t that bad. He topped the class!”

Naoya didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His soul had left his body the moment you said topped the class. He sat still, processing the reality: He, Naoya Zenin, was now the official number one feminist in WGS 204. And worse? You were looking at him with literal pride in your eyes.

He was neck-deep in feminist quicksand. And you, smiling, sweet, oblivious you, were pushing him in deeper with every compliment. 

He dry heaved a little as the class passed around his graded essay like it was a sacred relic. You whispered, “You have to help me next semester too.” And he whispered back, “...I hate myself.” 

And you just smiled, so grateful, so fucking proud of him.

He was doomed.

☆ GETO SUGURU: I STOPPED ARGUING IN POLITICAL SCIENCE BECAUSE SHE MADE ONE POINT AND NOW I’M IN LOVE

If there’s one thing Suguru Geto cannot fucking stand, it’s being wrong.

Not even in the conventional, “Oops, I goofed” sense — no, morally, intellectually, ontologically wrong. He prides himself on being the sharpest mind in any room. His thoughts are not just thoughts; they’re theoretical frameworks. His arguments have footnotes. Citations. He quotes Gramsci like he’s invoking scripture and once corrected the professor mid-lecture for misusing “normative.”

He thrives on being right — not just factually, but intellectually, morally, philosophically, even. His brain is a steel trap. His arguments, ironclad. His tone? So assured you’d think he wrote the UN charter himself. In every debate, he's the guy who quotes obscure theorists like he's on a first-name basis with them — "well, as Chantal said in 1985..." — and if someone dares to cut in, God help them. He turns his head slow, neck taut, like he’s physically resisting the urge to pounce.

Debate, to him, is not a discussion. It's a blood sport. And political science? God's playground. His colosseum, even.

A whole class where everyone thinks their opinion is the most nuanced? Perfect. Let him feast. Well, he thought it’d be perfect — a class full of wannabe activists and half-baked libertarians ripe for intellectual evisceration. And for the first few weeks, he was thriving. Sitting in the back, all in black, with a glint in his eye that said, fucking try me. But no. It was more like a zoo of amateur philosophers, liberal arts kids fresh off a summer of reading The Communist Manifesto once, and the occasional future politician who had already learned to speak without saying anything.

Geto, meanwhile, had no patience for “devil’s advocate” takes or vague moral relativism. He’d sit there, rings on his fingers, resting his chin on his hand like a villain plotting a coup d’état, just waiting to be triggered. And when he was, oh boy. He'd raise one eyebrow, shift in his seat, and lace his fingers together like a church steeple. Then he’d go in. His rebuttals weren’t loud — no, they were cutting, calculated. Not once raising his voice, but commanding the room like he’d just cast a spell that made everyone question their degree.

As a matter of fact, he didn’t speak often. But when he did, it was like someone dropped a thesis in the room. He never raised his voice — he didn’t need to. Just leaned back, tapped his pen once, and said shit like: “You’re collapsing the distinction between procedural and substantive democracy. I suggest you revise your understanding of Dahl.”

And then he’d smirk, while the poor soul opposite him melted into their chair. Classic Geto.

So today, when someone dares to refute his point — on transitional justice, no less, one of his strongest suits — he’s already rolling up his rhetorical sleeves. He’s just finished saying, cool as ice: 

“Truth commissions without retributive mechanisms become spectacles of memory. Symbolic, yes. But restorative? Rarely.”

And then someone two rows ahead — a voice he doesn’t recognize — says:

“I actually disagree. I think you’re overestimating the necessity of punitive justice. In societies undergoing democratization, restorative models like the South African TRC weren’t just symbolic. They were foundational to building participatory legitimacy.”

Geto turns his head. Like, snaps it. Because who the fuck—?

But then he sees you.

You, leaning casually on one elbow, speaking like this is a side conversation you’re having with history itself. Sitting there in a dress shirt, one foot tucked under your leg, talking through your point like you were still working it out. Your hair kept falling into your face and you pushed it back absently, totally unaware that the most arrogant man in the department had just gone silent. You don’t have notes, you’re not grandstanding. You’re just explaining. And the worst part? You’re not wrong.

Geto had a retort on his tongue, but it fizzled. Like pop rocks. Sugar, static, and nothing left but the weird sweetness of realizing he was… listening.

He's blinking, staring, processing not just your argument but also the way your hand absentmindedly tugs at your sleeve, the way your brow furrows just slightly when you try to recall a date. He opens his mouth.

“…Huh,” he muttered. You turned slightly to find him staring at you. You blinked. The professor — who had already leaned back, anticipating another of Geto’s intellectual executions — hesitates. “Mr. Geto?”

He blinks again. And then he says, slow but certain:

“She's right.”

Half the class gasps. A pen drops somewhere, and the professor visibly chokes on his thermos tea. Even the guy next to Geto turned and whispered, “What the fuck?”

And you? You turn around slightly, confused for half a second — and then just smile. A soft, polite nod, like this was a normal academic exchange and not the moment Suguru Geto’s personality dissolved in real time. And Geto — the man who’d argued with someone for forty-five minutes over a typo in the syllabus — found himself smiling back.

Like a simp. Like a man who, for once in his life, didn’t need to be right. He just needed to hear you speak again.

You turn back around, and Geto just sits there, staring at the back of your head like it holds the secrets of the polis. He's not even mad. He's fascinated. A bit dazed. Maybe humbled. Definitely down bad. He mutters under his breath, to no one in particular, “...Fuck. I didn't even think of that.”

His friend beside him glances over. 

“You good, bro?”

Geto sighs, leans back in his chair, eyes still fixed on you.

“No, I'm in love.”

Every second after that class was a quiet, invisible vow from Suguru Geto to the universe. He’d rewrite entire political timelines if it meant seeing you right. He’d dismantle historiography itself. Pull out case studies and manipulate them like marionettes until they bowed in favor of your thesis.

Because if you said “reconciliation over retribution,” then he’d drag every ICC ruling through the mud until the literature reflected just that.

You were right. And if you weren’t? Then the world was wrong. It was that simple.

So when you wave him over in the campus library a week later — soft smile, denim jacket sleeves cuffed, highlighter uncapped between your fingers — and ask, tilting your head, “Hey, what was that argument about the other day? Y’know, before you agreed with me in class?” He smiles back, expression unreadable except for the way too long eye contact. 

“Mm. Nothing worth remembering.”

He slides into the seat across from you, loosening his collar, as if the person he verbally decapitated ten minutes before talking to you wasn’t now recovering in the bathroom, sobbing into the syllabus. “Just a poor attempt at claiming that carceral justice should remain the dominant framework in post-conflict states.” He shrugs. “Anyone who reads even one transitional justice ethnography knows that’s laughable.”

You blink. “Oh… okay. I was just wondering. You two looked intense.” You flash him that easy smile again and it slices through his ego like sunlight on ice. And Geto — the man who’s turned entire group discussions into academic tribunals — just laughs softly and shakes his head. “It's fine. People need a reality check.”

And when you frown, lower your eyes to your notes and sigh, “Ugh. I don't think I get this part about deliberative democracy vs participatory democracy. The reading was so vague.” His brows knit together instantly as he already reaches for your printout. 

“No, you’re fine. The text is poorly structured. But your instinct is right — look, here’s how I'd explain it.”

He leans forward, scribbling little diagrams in the margins. “Deliberative focuses on rational discourse, like in institutionalized settings — think Habermas, where consensus is the goal. But participatory democracy leans more on inclusion, on the act of engagement itself, even without formal consensus. They intersect, but they're distinct.”

You nod slowly, chewing on your lip, and he catches the way your brow furrows again — just slightly — and he’s already flipping pages.

“Look, here’s an example. If you're unsure, use the 1989 Brazilian constitution drafting process — that's always solid. And hey,” he lowers his voice, chin propped on his hand, “You’re not wrong. You just need a clearer framework.” You look up at him again, warm with that kind of grateful, unknowing admiration that crushes him every single time. 

“You’re such a good friend, Suguru.”

Oh, God. The f-word. Geto smiles like someone just handed him a live grenade. “Yeah,” he says, voice a little too even. “Friend. Sure.”

But he swallows the chaos in his chest. Now's not the time to blow up the diplomatic bridge. You’ve got a debate to prep for. He's your teammate. You’re going up against third-years. Big names in the department. People who throw around constructivism and realist pluralism like party tricks. But you? You've got Suguru Geto.

And when the day comes, and your voice shakes ever so slightly during your opening statement, he’s already watching from his chair, eyes soft, nodding slowly like he’s willing your words into the world. And later, when you step back and whisper that you’re unsure whether your rebuttal landed—

He leans in, low enough that only you hear it. “You were flawless. And even if you weren’t — don’t worry. I'll dismantle whatever part didn’t land.”

And he does. He tailors his own segment to support yours. Shifts his citations, reframes the argument, creates a neat little circle of theory where your point was not only correct — it was inevitable. By the time the debate ends, the panel is murmuring praise and the audience is lowkey stunned. You beam at him. “We crushed that. Couldn’t have done it without you.”He just shrugs, eyes soft. “Nah, you crushed it. I just made sure the world kept up.”

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA: I SKIPPED A FRAT FIGHT AND BECAME A HISTORY NERD BECAUSE SHE ASKED FOR DIRECTIONS

Sukuna never chose Medieval History. He clicked it.

Half-baked, half-asleep, joints still smouldering in the ashtray of his brain the night before course registration — he saw one of those trippy, animated TED-Ed videos on knights and siege towers, thought “Yo, that’s hard,” and signed himself up like it was a Netflix trial. In theory? Swords, castles, bloodshed. In reality? Feudal structures, canonical texts, and three lectures in a row on land distribution in the Carolingian Empire.

So by week two, he was out. Not officially — he still showed up in the system, technically enrolled — but mentally? He was back on the court, back in his jersey, skipping classes, getting high, hosting parties with themes so stupid it’s a miracle no one died. Medieval History was a minor, anyway. He could flunk and still graduate.

But then there was you. In a sundress and sneakers, map in hand, walking around like the campus was a medieval city-state you were trying to invade. He was heading to the basketball court, already halfway through a protein bar and texting the group chat “yo strt the game w/out m i’m takin a piss” — when you walked up to him and asked, polite and lost, “Hey, sorry, do you know where the Medieval History class is?”

And something in him short-circuited. Because one, you clearly had no clue who he was — no fear, no swooning, no "Omg Sukuna?!" And two, your voice made Charlemagne sound like a relevant topic.

He swallowed his curse and his ego in the same breath. “Oh yeah, yeah — was just headed there.” You blinked. “Really?”

“Mhm,” he nods, all casual, slipping his phone into his pocket and doing the mental math to remember where the fuck that classroom even is. “You new?” he asks, voice lower, smoother, almost soft. 

“Just transferred this week,” you smiled. “It’s kinda hard finding things.” He nods, like he gets it, even though he’s been skipping that specific class for three months.

“C'mon, I'll walk you.”

Then — before he can stop himself —

“You want me to carry your bag or somethin’?”

You laugh, confused but amused. “I think I can manage.” 

He smiles. Charming. Not smug. (He's trying, okay?)

And as the two of you walk, he somehow starts talking about Merovingian succession crises like he didn’t sleep through that entire unit. He's pulling stuff out of his ass — but it sounds right. It sounds smart.

“Yeah, like, the power structures back then were mad fragile. You kill one heir ‘n the whole bloodline goes to shit — like, succession wasn’t even secure ‘cause they didn’t believe in primogeniture yet, y’know?”

“...Huh. That’s actually really interesting.”

He has never tried so hard to sound like he gives a shit about something that wasn’t himself. He even holds the door open for you. 

And when you both walk into the Medieval History classroom — you all wide-eyed, him all tall and smug and trying not to trip over his own ego — the old professor chokes. Literally wheezes, scrambling for his inhaler like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Mr. Sukuna. Good of you to finally grace us with your presence.” 

Sukuna just smiles and shrugs like he wasn’t being summoned in three group chats for a 5v5 scrimmage right now. “Yeah, had to walk someone to class. Wouldn’t want her to miss the lecture on, uh—”

he turns to you with a wink,

 “–Anglo-saxon law codes.”

You laugh, none the wiser. The class stares. The professor stares harder. But Sukuna? Sukuna just drops into the seat next to you, ignoring the buzz of his phone lighting up with texts:

brokie (owes me $30 + $10 + $40) [9:46 am]: bruh get ur ass here rume [9:49 am]: don’t tell me ur skipping for a girl ugly white haired incel [10:00 am]: she better be royal lineage if ur missing this fight

He doesn’t even look. You turn to him mid-lecture and whisper, “What’s up with the prof? He looked like he saw a demon when you walked in.” And Sukuna, with the audacity of a man who rewrote his personality in ten minutes flat, grins and murmurs back, “No clue. Guess he just missed me.” 

And now? He's suddenly very interested in medieval history. He's got sources to cite. He's got seats to sit in. He's got… you.

And for once in his life, Sukuna thinks maybe he won’t drop out of this class. Might even pass it.

You know. For educational purposes.

—

The campus hadn’t seen Ryomen Sukuna in three months.

Not at parties, not at frat meetings, not even in the background of Instagram stories where he’d usually be shirtless and belligerent, chugging out of a funnel or doing shots off someone’s stomach. It was as if the legend of Sukuna — the frat prince, the party tyrant, the undefeated king of keg stands — had simply... evaporated.

By the first month, it was whispers.

“Yo, where’s Sukuna?”

“Dude’s probably in a coma.”

“Nah, I heard he got arrested after that Halloween party. You remember the fire?”

By the second month, it was spiraling.

“I think he dropped out.”

“Dude got expelled.”

“I heard he joined a cult. Medieval-themed or some shit.”

No one had the answer, because no one had seen him — no one that mattered anyway. No one that lived in the party circuit. Because truthfully? Sukuna hadn’t dropped out. He hadn’t died. He hadn’t been abducted by monks.

He was in the library. 

Voluntarily sitting under cold fluorescent lights with you, scribbling notes and memorizing things like the date of the battle of Hastings, and getting smacked on the shoulder when he tried to argue. 

“Okay, but what if I wrote the dates like — right here, see? It’d blend with my tattoos—”

“Are you seriously trying to cheat on a History final by weaponizing your body art?”

“It's not cheating. It’s being resourceful, babe.”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me.”

He pouts like a sad, bruised puppy. A six-foot-four wall of arrogance and ink, deflating when you scold him.

He listens. He rewrites his notes. He even erases his “tattoo calendar.” And when he asks if he can borrow your highlighters, you don’t even blink — because to you, Sukuna is just the guy who sits beside you in Medieval History. Quiet, funny, a little dense, but very determined. You’ve never seen the version of him that the rest of campus swears is a mythological beast. 

You’ve never heard the legends of how he once drank beer out of a traffic cone. How he slept with two rival sorority presidents in the same night. How he literally ran security at every house party because no one would dare challenge him.

Nope. To you, he’s just Sukuna, who says things like “Do you think if I put ‘knights’ as a theme for my next birthday, people’ll bring me swords?” and eats your snacks when you aren’t looking. But to everyone else? 

Ryomen Sukuna’s name showed up on the department topper board and people lost their fucking minds.

It was printed out in clean black ink:

MEDIEVAL HISTORY – SPRING SEMESTER TOPPERS

#2: RYOMEN, SUKUNA – 89.2%

And the scream that left Gojo’s mouth when he passed by the bulletin board nearly broke a window. 

Toji dropped his protein bar. Uraume looked like they had seen the end of days, and even the student union president gasped audibly and had to sit down.

“Is this real?” Gojo whispered.

“Is it a typo?”

“Sukuna?? As in — kegstand-Sukuna???”

Toji muttered under his breath, “No way that bastard beat me in anything.” 

And just like that, a pilgrimage began. Students in sweats, hoodies, and half-dead finals week eyes, flocked to the history board. Phones came out. Pictures were taken. Memes were made in real-time: “Sukuna has upgraded from shots to scholarly citations.” And meanwhile, you were there too — holding your printed essay, scanning the board out of curiosity. 

“Oh hey, Sukuna! Look, you’re number two! That’s so cool.” 

He blinked. “Uh… yeah,” he shrugged, trying not to look like he was having an internal stroke. “Guess the studying paid off.”

“You didn’t even tell me you were that smart!” You looked genuinely impressed, nudging his arm.

“Dunno. Didn’t think it mattered.”

You smile. Behind you, someone takes a photo of him like he’s Bigfoot. And you, ever oblivious, tilt your head. “Why are there so many people looking at you?”

Sukuna shrugs. “No idea. Maybe they just like historians now.”

He grins, and he’ll keep grinning as long as you never find out that fratland has declared him officially missing, and that the guy once known as the king of parties is now spending his nights elbow-deep in primary sources and peer-reviewed articles. God help him if anyone sees the matching medieval-themed bookmarks you gave him last week. He's doomed. 

But then you smile at him again. And really? Maybe it’s worth the death of a legacy.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO: SHE CALLED ME DUMB IN PHYSIOLOGY AND NOW I KNOW WHAT AN ENDOCRINE GLAND IS

Toji Fushiguro chose Human Physiology because, in his words, “Bro, I’m the peak of human physiology.”

Shirtless in his dorm mirror at 12:30am, flexing with a joint hanging off his lips and a bag of Cheetos in hand, he thought it was the smartest idea he ever had. He looked like a walking anatomy chart — biceps shredded, abs defined like a Greek statue, veins prominent enough that someone could probably trace his vascular system with a sharpie.

So when the course application portal blinked open, and Sukuna simply texted,

strawberry shortcake [11:47 pm]: medieval history 

Toji shrugged, selected Human Physiology, took another hit, and muttered, “Guess I'll be the specimen.”

It was all downhill from there.

The first class hit him like a truck. Terms flying over his head like “sarcoplasmic reticulum,” “acetylcholine receptors,” and “sinoatrial node.” The only thing he caught was when someone mentioned “skeletal muscle,” and even then, he leaned to the guy next to him and whispered, “They’re talking about gains, right?” The dude didn’t even respond, just shifted his chair away. 

The professor was a wiry old man who wore Crocs and had the excitement of a caffeinated squirrel. He moved like he had six different tendons operating independently of each other. “Welcome to the miracle of the human body! Today we’re talking about the hypothalamus! Anyone know what that does?”

Toji raised a hand. The professor blinked.

“Yes, Mr. Fushiguro?”

“Does it… help you bulk?”

Dead silence. Someone coughed.

“No,” the professor said slowly, like he was speaking to a dog. “It regulates things like temperature and hunger. Internal balance.” Toji nodded like he understood. 

He did not.

Because everything he knew about homeostasis was just that he sweated a lot at the gym and drank protein shakes. Once someone in class asked about the neuromuscular junction, and Toji genuinely thought it had something to do with a sports injury. The problem was, this course wasn’t about looking good — it was about being a nerd. People in class actually knew the difference between “smooth” and “striated” muscle. They knew that the myelin sheath wasn’t something you picked up at a dentist’s office.

The worst part? No one was fun. Not even hot in an interesting way. Just blank stares, open laptops, and girls with ponytails who chewed gum like it was a form of protest. He leaned back in class one day, muttering under his breath, “This is gonna be a long fuckin’ semester.”

The guy beside him replied without looking up, “Language.”

“Ya wanna step outside, ‘language’?”

“No, I'd like to finish this lecture on vasodilation, thanks.”

Toji groaned. He had once broken someone’s nose in a bar fight and felt less pain than sitting through this.

He missed the frat. He missed Sukuna and the other white-haired freak (though he would never admit that). Hell, he missed failing in peace. And yet, he showed up.  Begrudgingly. With a pocketed switch knife in class, tank tops that showed off his delts, and a water bottle the size of a small child. 

When the professor drew the digestive tract on the board, he muttered, “Yo, that’s me after Taco Bell.” No one laughed, but that was fine. Toji wasn’t here to make friends. He just needed to survive this course. And maybe — just maybe — someone in here would eventually be hot and interesting enough to make him care about the difference between the ileum and the jejunum.

Until then, he’d sit in the back, scroll through Sam Sulek’s TikToks, and occasionally mutter things like, “Yo is it just me or does the sternocleidomastoid sound like a dinosaur?”

—

Toji didn’t get flustered. He got annoyed, he got pissed, he got violent if he really had to — but flustered? Nah.

Until you came along with your smartass remarks and your sharp little grin and your little nerd girl brain that somehow made words like “epithelial tissue” sound like roasts from God himself. You sat next to him out of nowhere one day — no hesitation, no fear, just a bag dropped beside his massive gym duffel and a chirped, “Yo, Popeye. That seat’s not taken, right?”

And Toji, who had barked at three other people for looking in his direction that week, just grunted and nodded. You didn’t ask dumb questions, instead you asked things like, “Did you forget the Mitochondria again or do you just hate the powerhouse of the cell?”

And somehow, that shit landed. He stared at you, blinking once. Then twice.

“You tryna start something?”

“You couldn’t handle it.”

What the fuck. He was supposed to be offended. Instead, he just swallowed his pride and… 

opened his textbook. 

You were dangerous like that.

When he mumbled something about skeletal muscles and their “activation time” being just like his reps, you had the audacity to raise a brow and go, “Oh? So the same muscles that fail on your third rep?” And Toji — Toji Fushiguro — who once body slammed a guy for making a fat joke in the gym, just sank in his chair and muttered, “Man, fuck off.”

The entire row turned like it was a soap opera scene. He had never said that with less venom. And you? You just popped a highlighter cap with your teeth and kept on explaining the muscular system.

He hated it. Hated that you were smart and funny and that your perfume always smelled faintly like citrus and library books. And most of all, that you were the only one in the class who didn’t stare at him like he was a human barbell. Instead, you did things like gently tap his notebook with your pen and say, “So this is the respiratory cycle. Think of it like your pre-workout and cooldown routine. Inhale, exhale, gas exchange. Your lungs are doing cardio for you.”

“So you're saying I got lungs of steel.”

“I'm saying you have no idea what your own body is doing.”

He scratched his head and muttered, “...Damn. Alright.”

What was he supposed to do? You helped him. Not in a “pity the dumb gym bro” kind of way. But like you were actually invested. You explained how lactic acid buildup worked by comparing it to that one time he overdid legs and couldn’t walk for two days. And when he groaned about the endocrine system being boring, you whispered, “You know how you get those ‘gains’? Hormones. Testosterone. Regulated by glands. Do not skip this chapter or you’ll flunk.”

Toji blinked.

“...That’s hot.”

“What, hormones?”

“You talkin’ science like that. I'd almost let you tutor me.”

“Almost?”

“I didn't say I would.”

You threw a pencil at him and he didn’t even dodge. Just caught it, grinning, ears burning under the weight of your teasing. And for the first time in his whole damn academic career, Toji Fushiguro…

actually passed a test. Barely. But the professor handed his paper back with a shocked, “improvement noted,” and a side-eye glance at you like we know who’s responsible. Toji looked at the C+ and muttered, “Yo, you’re a fuckin’ wizard.” 

You just shrugged. “Nah. You’ve got a brain. It’s just hidden under six layers of protein powder and ego.”

God. He'd die for you. But for now? He’d settle for sitting next to you every class, scribbling notes with a confused frown, and letting you roast him with terms like “autonomic nervous system” and “delayed onset muscle soreness.”

It was the closest he’d ever get to falling in love academically.

a/n i don't know what to write here but i'm procrastinating the hate sex fic is what i can tell you..please enjoy this. also sorry i didn't include nanami & choso, i didn't have anything in mind for them </3

[kbunzzi2oa]

Touch of madness

Synopsis☞ Working as a doctor for an asylum was interesting, you had different patients, but one catches your eyes..Yang jungwon a very special patient..

Contains☞ Slow burn, kissing, make out, healing, angst, fluff, unprotected sex, swearing, mentions of killing (a little bit).

W.C☞ 12k..?

Nef notes☞ New jungwon fic based on the CONCEPT PHOTOS, HOLY SHIT, THEY WHERE SO GEWDDD TOO GEEWED! anyways here's some serial killer jungwon, when I saw him hold the chainsaw I had to!..love y'all, reblogs, likes and comments are good for me! feel free to comment!Hope you guys enjoy it (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

The heavy steel door groaned as it closed behind you, a familiar finality echoing off the cold tile walls. The fluorescent lights above buzzed, flickering slightly, casting sterile white over the hallway. The South Wing of the Seoul Psychiatric Detention Center wasn’t a place many dared to linger. Especially not near Room 313.

You weren’t supposed to be here past shift change. But rules had blurred long ago, the first time you made eye contact with Jungwon through that reinforced glass.

He had been transferred under high-security conditions, a 19-year-old with a rap sheet that read like a horror script—four confirmed murders, two suspected, and a trail of evidence so compelling the prosecution hadn’t even bothered with a plea deal. But he was too young for full incarceration. The court ordered psychiatric evaluation instead. Which meant, for now, he belonged in your world.

The first time you'd seen him, he was barefoot, cuffs around his ankles and wrists, still smiling like he'd just walked out of a nightclub. A smile that felt... wrong in all the right ways. Not deranged. Not hollow. But calculated. Charming. Disarming.

You remember looking into his eyes and realizing something terrifying: He knew what you were thinking before you did.

“You’re back early,” his voice drawled through the bars as you stepped into his observation cell.

“I’m late, actually,” you corrected, clutching the clipboard tighter than necessary.

“Late,” he repeated, then slowly sat up from the cot, the faintest sound of chains shifting. “To see me. You know how that makes me feel?”

Your throat dried slightly. You were trained for this. You had degrees, certifications, and months of supervised fieldwork. And still, Jungwon made you feel like the one under observation.

“I’m not here for you,” you said, eyes flicking to the notes in your folder. “Routine wellness check.”

He tilted his head, a slow smirk pulling at his lips.

“You say that every time, Y/N.”

He said your name like a secret he enjoyed unwrapping. Like he had every intention of breaking the rules just to whisper it again.

You didn’t flinch. You’d learned by now that flinching was like blood in the water. But you didn’t have to say anything either, because he leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping.

“Why don’t you tell me the truth, angel?” he purred. “You like watching me. I can feel it when your eyes linger.”

“I watch all the patients.”

“But I’m your favorite.”

You opened your mouth—to deny, to scold, you weren’t sure—but his gaze locked onto yours, and your breath caught.

“I see the way you hesitate outside the glass,” he said softly. “Like you’re trying to convince yourself not to come in.”

He wasn’t wrong. And that’s what made you furious.

Jungwon didn’t just enjoy mind games. He thrived on them. He read body language like poetry. He saw lies like they were highlighted in red.

And lately… he’d turned his attention entirely on you.

You told yourself it was part of the job—understanding him, empathizing just enough to build rapport. You told yourself you weren’t addicted to the electric pull between you, the way his words made your skin feel too tight. You told yourself he didn’t matter.

But that didn’t explain why you started staying past hours.

Didn’t explain why you read his files late into the night, fingers tracing over crime scene photos not in horror—but fascination.

Didn’t explain why, when he smiled, you sometimes smiled back.

“You’re not like them,” he said one night, voice low and silken as rain tapped the windows behind him.

“Like who?”

“The ones who try to fix me. You’re just trying to understand.”

“That’s my job.”

“No, Y/N,” he said, dragging out every syllable. “Your job is to document. But you? You want to know.”

Your silence gave you away.

“And the more you know,” he added, “the more you’ll crave.”

You swallowed. “And what is it I’m supposed to be craving, Jungwon?”

He stood, the chains dragging faintly. There was only a short distance between you now, four thick bars and a lifetime of poor decisions.

“Me,” he whispered.

You tried to pull away. You tried reassignment, switching shifts, working longer with less sleep. It didn’t matter. Jungwon’s voice echoed even in your dreams.

And he noticed.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said one day as you delivered meds to his cell. “Eyes puffy. Little tremble in your hand.”

“I’m fine.”

“You miss me.”

You laughed bitterly. “You’re psychotic.”

He leaned closer. “You keep saying that like it’s a turn-off.”

You hated him. You hated how he saw through everything. And you hated yourself for letting him.

But somewhere between your duty and his obsession, you started wanting the monster.

It came to a head during a lockdown.

A riot broke out in the North Wing. The facility went red-zone, sirens blaring. You were doing rounds, and when the security doors slammed, you were locked in with Jungwon.

The overhead buzzed: “Remain in place. Doors will reopen once clearance is verified.”

You stared at the cell. His door hadn’t locked. Malfunctioning latch. Classic.

And he was watching you. Uncuffed. Smiling. Beautiful and terrifying and real.

“You’re afraid,” he murmured, stepping out of the shadow.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can scream.”

He took a step closer. “And they won’t come.”

Your back hit the wall.

He stopped in front of you, eyes unreadable now. The game dropped. Something deeper took its place.

“I could hurt you,” he said softly.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to.”

You exhaled shakily. “Then don’t.”

His fingers brushed your wrist.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you want this too.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t pull away either.

The kiss was a chemical explosion.

Your hand tangled in the back of his shirt. His lips crashed into yours with fury and restraint, like he wanted to consume you and worship you all at once. You felt teeth, breath the heat he tasted like everything you weren’t supposed to have.

And you let him.

Because the worst part of all this wasn’t that he was a killer.

It was that he made you feel more alive than anyone ever had.

After that, there was no going back.

Late-night visits turned into touches beneath the table. A stolen moment when security cameras glitched. Fingertips brushing across your waist when no one was looking.

You kept his secrets. He kept your sanity.

But the guilt grew.

The lines blurred.

The closer you got to him, the more he opened up. About the pain. The voices. The fear of abandonment that grew claws. He wasn’t proud of what he’d done—but he didn’t regret it either.

“They deserved it,” he told you once. “They hurt people. And no one stopped them.”

“And you think that makes you better?”

He looked at you with those molten eyes.

“No,” he said. “It makes me honest.”

The night you lost control entirely, it was raining.

You’d received notice that Jungwon was being transferred. Maximum security prison. No more therapy. No more contact.

You broke protocol.

You snuck in, unlocked the gate, and stepped into his arms like it was the only place left on Earth that made sense.

“You came,” he whispered.

“I had to.”

There were no more words after that.

Only lips. Tongues. Whispers. Skin. Your body pressed to his, heat searing the cold walls. Chains rattling against the rhythm of your sin. You let him take you, and you took him in return. Like sinners. Like lovers. Like two people who knew they’d burn for this but didn’t care.

He made you cry. He made you scream. He made you feel.

And when he held you after, breathless and shaking, you realized the truth:

You didn’t love him despite the madness.

You loved him because of it.

They found you the next morning, asleep in his arms.

You were stripped of your position. The media swarmed. Your name went viral as "The Angel Who Fell for the Devil."

But he never testified against you.

In fact, he whispered only one thing during his final hearing.

“I would kill for her again.”

Six months later, a body was found near a broken fence line.

Security footage was corrupted.

An empty guard uniform was missing.

And the last thing the night watchman heard before the cameras went dead?

A voice, low and cocky, whispering through static:

“Told you she’d come back for me.”

The motel room was too quiet.

Faded floral curtains. Cheap, flickering light. One bed. A single ticking clock on the wall.

Jungwon stood by the window, shirtless, damp towel around his neck, freshly showered. You sat at the edge of the bed, hands gripping the sheets. The silence between you buzzed louder than the asylum alarms ever had.

“Still think I’m the villain?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

You met his eyes. That same mix of trouble and tenderness. His voice was low, cocky, but not careless.

“No,” you said. “I think you’re something worse.”

He tilted his head. “Oh?”

“Unpredictable.”

Jungwon chuckled. “That’s not always a bad thing, sweetheart.”

He walked toward you, the towel falling from his neck. He wasn’t trying to be seductive. He didn’t need to try. It was in the way he moved confident, controlled, like he could shatter or shelter you at will.

“Why’d you come with me?” he asked.

You didn’t answer right away. Because the truth was messy.

Because part of you wanted to save him. And another part, maybe darker, wanted to belong to the madness too.

“You asked me to,” you whispered.

He knelt in front of you, between your knees. “That all it took?”

You reached for him, fingertips brushing his cheek. “I couldn’t let them take you back.”

“Because you care?”

You nodded.

He leaned in, lips brushing yours, soft, almost reverent. Then he pulled back, gaze suddenly serious.

“You know I’ve killed people,” he said. “Real people. Not just stories on paper.”

“I know.”

“I’m not cured.”

“I know.”

“And I’ll never be what you want me to be.”

You stood and kissed him.

“I never asked you to be.”

The past few weeks where like a fever dream.

They were a tangle of sheets and hands and whispered confessions. Sometimes soft, sometimes desperate. Sometimes violent—not in a way that hurt, but in the way people do when they’re clinging to each other like lifelines.

And then came the nightmares.

Jungwon would wake up gasping, sweating, eyes wild. You’d wrap your arms around him, hold him until he stopped shaking.

“What do you see?” you asked once.

He whispered, “You… leaving.”

You never did.

But peace is temporary when blood’s in your past.

A photo leaked online. Grainy. A gas station security cam. You and Jungwon, buying snacks. It wasn’t a clear shot, but it was enough.

Suddenly, you weren’t ghosts anymore.

You were fugitives.

Jungwon wanted to run. You wanted to plan.

They almost caught you in Denver.

Marked car. Two agents. You had to run through the rain, barefoot, laughing through the panic. You crashed in a stolen car, engine still warm. Jungwon was bleeding from his temple. You stitched him up in the backseat, hands shaking.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, eyes glassy.

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need to.”

Weeks passed.

You became something else. Not quite lovers, not quite fugitives partners in the truest, most terrifying sense.

You learned his patterns.

He learned yours.

He was still dangerous. Still sharp and impulsive and morally gray.

But with you—he tried.

He held your face after kissing you too rough and whispered, “Sorry.”

He stopped running ahead without checking if you could keep up.

He looked at you like you were the last good thing in the world and maybe, for him, you were.

One night, in a cabin deep in the woods of Oregon, you sat by the fire, wrapped in a blanket. Jungwon poured wine into two mismatched mugs.

“You ever think about staying?” he asked.

“Here?”

“Anywhere. Not running. Just… us.”

You stared at the flames. “Every day.”

He sat beside you. “We could fake our deaths.”

You smiled. “You’d love that.”

“I mean it. Burn the car. Leave blood. No more names. Just you. Just me. Forever.”

You looked at him. “Forever’s a long time.”

“I’ve done longer.”

He kissed you—slow this time, hands framing your face. There was no lust behind it. Just… devotion. A promise.

And when he whispered, “I love you,” it wasn’t a trick.

It was the truest thing he’d ever said.

But you knew better than to believe in happy endings.

The fire snapped in the hearth, casting golden light across Jungwon’s bare collarbones. He was lounging beside you on the floor, wine-stained lips curved into a smirk as he watched the flames flicker, though it was clear his attention hadn’t left you for even a second.

“You keep staring,” you said, swirling the last of your wine.

He leaned closer, his voice velvet and smoke. “Because you look like sin in candlelight.”

Your breath hitched as he took the mug from your hand, setting it aside. His fingers brushed yours featherlight, teasing, possessive.

“And I’ve been starving,” he murmured.

You parted your lips, about to speak, but he was already crawling toward you...slow, deliberate. The blanket slipped off your shoulders, and the cold kissed your skin for just a moment before Jungwon's body pressed against yours, warm and familiar and infinitely dangerous.

“You sure?” he asked against your jaw, voice low, teasing, but still asking.

You nodded, barely breathing. “Always.”

That was all he needed.

His mouth crashed into yours, urgent and claiming. He kissed like he wanted to ruin you and worship you in the same breath. His hands slid under your shirt, greedy, tugging until the fabric peeled away and your bare skin met the chill of the room and the heat of his mouth.

He kissed down your neck, softly at first, then with teeth, marking. One hand gripped your waist while the other slid between your thighs, already knowing exactly how to undo you.

“You’re soaked,” he groaned, two fingers pressing lightly against your panties. “All that for me?”

“All for you,” you gasped, hips rocking forward.

He tore the fabric down your legs, lips ghosting over every inch of skin he revealed, until you were sprawled on the soft fur rug...open, panting, waiting.

And then he knelt between your legs, tongue darting out to taste you, slow and devastating. You gasped, back arching, hands clawing at the rug as he licked deeper, then flicked over your clit with maddening rhythm.

“Jungwon—please—” you moaned.

He chuckled against you, the vibration sending shivers up your spine. “God, you sound so good like this. Could record you right now and use it as my new favorite lullaby.”

His fingers replaced his mouth, two sliding in effortlessly as his tongue stayed on your clit, moving in sync. Your body bucked, firelight catching the sweat on your chest, and you came hard, crying out as the heat consumed you from inside out.

But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

Jungwon rose, undressing slowly, like he wanted you to watch, to ache. He was lean muscle and sharp edges, all scars and quiet power, and the moment he lined himself up against your entrance, he looked you dead in the eye.

“This…” he said, pushing in, slow and deep, “is mine now.”

You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, nails sinking in as he filled you completely.

“Yours,” you breathed. “Only yours.”

He started to move, hips rolling, each thrust rougher, deeper, hotter than the last. You wrapped your legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, moaning his name like a prayer.

The fire roared behind him, casting shadows over his face. His expression was dark, hungry, worshipful, like he couldn't decide whether to break you or beg for your soul.

“Say it again,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you cried out. “I’m yours, Jungwon”

He kissed you again, silencing the scream as he drove into you harder, faster, until you were unraveling beneath him, again, trembling and moaning as your second orgasm ripped through you like wildfire.

His pace stuttered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice strangled. “I’m gonna...Y/N—”

“Do it,” you whispered, pulling him in. “Come inside. Fill me.”

And when he did, when he came with a ragged moan, clutching you to his chest like he was afraid you’d vanish, you felt more alive than you ever had.

Like you belonged there. In his arms. In the dark. In the madness.

After, he didn’t speak.

He just held you, bodies tangled on the rug, the firelight fading into embers.

You were sore. Marked. Loved.

And when he whispered, “I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me,”

you believed him.

Because you’d do the same.

Tags☞ None!

[layaispunk]

needs a good fix | jackson!joel miller x fem!virgin!reader

a/n: this idea is by @yxtkiwiyxt !!! i couldn't stop thinking about it.

summary: you can't stop fantasizing about joel taking your virginity.

warnings: UNPROTECTED P IN V SMUT 18+. competency kink. joel is jackson's handyman, reader has no physical description, dry humping, female masturbation, male masturbation, age gap (reader is over 21), reader is a virgin, praise kink, fingering, grinding, aftercare, soft!joel, lmk if i missed anything!!

wc: 4.7k words

Joel was always fixing things around town. 

Ever since Joel Miller showed up in Jackson, folks started calling him the town’s handyman. The way his hands moved, steady and skilled, fixing what needed fixing… he was good. he was good at what he did.

The creak of his boots echoed from the side of the barn as he repaired the gate hinges. A few days ago, it was the broken heater in the art room. Before that, the fencing near the stables. He was the kind of man who did not like to sit still, and Jackson had plenty of things to keep him going. He liked helping around, and it made him feel needed. 

You didn’t mean to notice him every single time. Your eyes just naturally averted to him, every time. At first it was small things.. how he always showed up early in the morning. How he talked to people with that low, Texas drawl, with kindness, and sometimes a little grumpy. It was clear he cared deeply about doing things right. 

His rolled up sleeves, the grunts he made when he was moving, the way his brow furrowed when he was concentrating … it was all too much. He did everything so well, no neighbor ever complained. Every time you saw him with a tool in his hand, or a smudge of grease on his forearm, something inside you twisted. It started as a quite ache, one you could ignore if you distracted yourself enough. But the more you saw him, the worse it got. 

And you… you were a virgin. Growing up in the apocalypse and all, you never really had the chance to get to know someone that intimately, besides, you were very comfortable with your own sexuality, taking care of yourself, and you were quite satisfied. Boys had thrown themselves at you before, but you weren’t into guys your age, immature and inexperienced. You always liked them a bit older, more experienced. You had a thing for competency, and men like him who were good at what they did. blue collar, broad-shouldered, good with their hands. Men who smelled like whiskey, sweat, and knew how to fix shit other people couldn’t. Joel, with that salt and pepper hair and his worn button-ups, the way he moved, was turning you on. You couldn’t look at him without your breath catching and sweat clinging to your forehead, without heat crawling low in your belly. You couldn’t stop thinking about your first time being with him, how protective he’d be, and how good he’d take care of you.

You didn’t live super close to him, but the universe clearly had other plans, because somehow your errands aligned with where he happened to be. And always, he’d greet you. 

Just a “hey”. Simple, and casual. Too casual for the way heat pooled between your legs every single time. You try to keep it cool, offer a quick smile, or a nod, but your words never come out the way you want them. If he had any idea how tightly you had to clench your jaw every time he walked by, he sure as hell didn’t show it. 

He had no idea what he was doing to you. As far as Joel was concerned, you were just another friendly face in town. You were kind to him, sweet even, traded coffee for paint supplies, but you never stayed long enough to hold a conversation. Joel figured maybe he made you didn’t like him, that you, maybe you just weren’t the talkative type. 

He usually worn button-ups, long sleeves rolled up. But with the seasons shifting and the sun hanging higher, he was showing up in tight t-shirts that left little to the imagination. The fabric hugged his arms just right, tracing every muscle and vein, and it was impossible to imagine what those hands could do if they weren’t busy fixing shit. One time, he reached to grab something from a top cabinet, and with his arms stretched high, you caught a perfect glimpse of his waist. The way his shirt rode up just enough to reveal his happy trail leading down, and the waistband of his boxers. It made you feral.

Every night, you thought about him. What his huge hands might feel like. What his calloused fingers would feel like on your body. How his grunts might sound like if he was on top of you, whispering something low and filthy in your ear. Late at night, you let your thoughts slip where they shouldn’t. Under the covers, imagining what it would feel like to have someone there- Joel, instead of your own fingers, moaning and whimpering his name, hoping one day he would just magically show up and fuck you senseless. 

One afternoon, you told yourself you weren’t going to do anything stupid. But it was a hot spring evening, you had two glasses of wine, maybe three, and it was just enough to make you feel courageous. Or reckless. Tipsy, that made your skin feel too hot, your clothes too tight, and your underwear soaked. You didn’t let yourself think it through. You just walked down the street, heart pounding and thighs pressed tight, wearing a top that accentuated your breasts & an old fashioned lie. and knocked on Joel’s door. You told yourself it was innocent. A neighborly thing.  

He answered the door in a t-shirt. Collar a little stretched, fabric clinging to his biceps. You had to force your eyes to stay on his face.

“Hey,” you said, a little breathier than what you meant. “S-Sorry to bug you. I just-uh… my sink’s acting real funny. The one in the kitchen.”

The kitchen sink was fine.

Joel wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. “What’s it doin’?”

You shrugged, toying with the straps of your shirt. “Leaking. Making a sound. I dunno.” you said nervously. 

“I can swing by tomorrow,” he said, nodding.

You licked your lips. “I’ll uh…. I’ll leave the door unlocked. In case I’m out. So you just let yourself in.”

Joel’s brow ticked. “You leavin’ your door open for just anyone, darlin’?”

Your heart stuttered. Was he flirting with you? “Uh… no, no.”

He smiled, “I’m just jokin’.” He clapped his hands. “Alright then, I’ll uh.. see ya tomorrow.”

Before you could respond, you turned around and walked back home, your heart about to rip open your chest.  

The next day crept up slowly. You woke up flushed, replaying yesterday’s interaction in your mind like a dream. 

You told yourself not to get too worked up. Not to overthink it. But by mid-afternoon, you were restless. The house felt too warm, your skin even warmer. You kept checking the clock, hoping his knock might come any second. 

And when it didn’t, you grabbed the wine bottle. To cool you down, ofcourse. To calm your nerves. You’d left the door unlocked like you promised him. Just a crack, enough for him to step inside. The kitchen sink was fine. Didn’t need any fixing. But your body…? That was another matter.

You wandered upstairs to your room, still leaving the door cracked, restless and a little tipsy from the wine. The fan hummed softly overhead, but it did nothing to cool the heat spreading low in your belly. Your clothes clung to you, damp from the warmth… and your wetness. You ran your hands down the front of your thighs, exhaling a shaky breath as your fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. They felt suffocating. You slid them down your legs slowly, the cotton catching slightly on your hips before pooling around your ankles. The air kissed your skin, and you bit the inside of your cheek, goosebumps rising on your legs. 

You sat at the edge of the bed at first, on your back. Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shit. You couldn’t stop thinking about him. The way his biceps flexed. His Texas drawl dipped in honey. The way he said your name. 

Your hand drifted over your stomach, skimming lightly, like even your own touch was too much. You didn’t rush — just let your fingertips trace lazy, aimless patterns, dipping lower each time until they reached the waistband of your underwear. There was a steady warmth pulsing at your core, a heat that had been building all day. You let your fingers press down, through the thin fabric, catching your breath at the feeling. You were already so sensitive, so wound up from hours of wanting, of imagining him. You were pretending your hands were his, touching you like this for the first time. You shifted against the sheets, chasing friction, letting your hips tilt just enough to press into your own hand. It was slow at first, knowing your body too damn well, until you started to rub your clit in small circles and gasping softly, your mouth falling open. 

-

Joel told himself he’d swing by later in the afternoon, but something about the way you looked at him yesterday.. the wine flush on your cheeks, the way your fingers played with your shirt straps… He was confused. He was old. Surely, he didn’t think you were flirting with him. Why would someone so pretty, want someone like him? 

The door was exactly as you left it. Unlocked, cracked open a little bit. He still knocked softly at first.

“Hey,” he called, voice low. “it’s Joel, you home?”

No answer.

So he stepped inside, slow and polite, calling your name softly. And suddenly, he heard it. Faint and breathless.

“Joel.. Oh..”

His heart jumped. You sounded like you were in pain, or crying. The sound of your voice had him moving before he could think. He dropped his tools, boots thudding against the stairs, every protective instinct in him lighting up. Another soft moan. “Oh God...”

He didn’t wait. “Darlin,? You alright?” He pushed the door open with his shoulder, chest tight, eyes scanning …. Until he saw you. laying back against the sheets, legs spread, hand between your thighs. Your shorts discarded on the floor. 

You froze. 

Joel froze too.

He wasn't dumb. He caught on what was happening immediately.

His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, but no words came out. His eyes were wide, locked on yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the silence was thick. 

You sat up in panic, putting your shorts back on. “I-I thought you weren’t coming,” you whispered. 

He looked dazed. He swallowed hard. Took one step closer.

“You left the door open,” he said quietly. “Said I could come in.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think—” You whispered, embarrassment creeping up your cheeks. “Joel, I didn’t think you’d—”

He nodded once, firm, eyes still on you. “You say my name like that all the time when you’re alone?”

You couldn’t speak.

He took another step. “I came to fix the sink, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick with something rough and warm, “but I think we’ve got somethin’ else that needs my attention.” You swallowed hard, heart hammering like it might break through your ribs. 

Your fingers were still trembling from earlier. From the way you’d whispered his name like a fucking prayer. And now he was here. Real. Solid. Broad shoulders taking up half the space in the room.

You felt small. Exposed. And yet… your body ached for him.

Joel’s eyes dragged down your frame, slow and deliberate. His jaw ticked.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he said, voice low. “I just… didn’t know you… felt that way about me.” He swallowed. “I wasn’t supposed to see that.” 

Your back straightened, chest still heaving. “Well, I do.” You blinked. “Joel, you should probably just go,” you stammered, voice shaky. You started rambling under your breath, words tumbling over each other like a flood. “I’m so dumb. I’m sorry, Joel. The sink doesn’t even need fixing. I mean, what was I thinking? I just wanted to see you, like some fuckass teenager with a crush. You don’t even like me like that.” You stared at the floor, too embarrassed to meet his eyes, heart pounding loud in your ears.

Joel shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Darlin’, calm down. I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he said, eyes soft. “I… like you, I’m just surprised,’s all,”

You opened your mouth, words caught in your throat. “I had too much wine. I just need a minute, okay? I’m overwhelmed” 

He nodded, stepping back. “Alright, I’ll head home, okay?” His voice was low, unsure, like he wasn’t quite sure on how to act after that, and neither did you. He slipped quietly without another word. Did you just fuck everything up?

The next day, there was a knock on your door. 

Joel stood there, hand on the back of his head. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Can I…come in for a sec?”

You smiled and stepped aside, still mortified from yesterday. 

He glanced around like he was gathering his thoughts, then finally looked at you. “I been thinkin’ about what happened yesterday.”

You blinked at him, cheeks heating up. Talk about the elephant in the room.  “What do you mean?”

Joel let out a slow breath. “I wanted to apologize. You were embarrassed. Thought I didn’t… want you like that.”

You looked away, heat crawling up your neck.

He continued, gently, “I didn’t mean to walk in on somethin’ so personal. I swear, I only came in ’cause I thought you were hurt. You sounded like you were in pain, and the door was open, and.. I’m sorry.”

You chewed your lip. “Joel, you don’t need to apologize. It’s not your fault, I should have closed the door.” You sighed. “I didn’t mean to make things weird”

“Nothing’s weird,” he said. “I just.. Jesus, I had no idea you felt that way about me. And I’m still tryin’ to wrap my head around it, ‘cause you’re…” he trailed off, eyes on yours, voice soft. “You’re beautiful, and young. I don’t know how in the world you would want someone like me.”

You stared at him. Your heart was thudding in your chest, heat creeping up your neck, wanting to tell him that you’re a virgin and just blurting it out. “I’ve never… had sex.” Your voice barely carried, but it felt like the loudest thing in the room. “I just wanted you to know.” You paused, cheeks burning, then forced the next part out. “I guess... I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I just want to get it over with, with someone more experienced, you know. To know what it feels like. So, um. That’s what I was thinking about. It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

Joel blinked, his gaze holding yours, unreadable for a second. His eyes dropped for a second, then came back to yours, voice rough, blurting out a confession himself too. “I thought about you too, last night.”

You blinked, confused. “what?”

His breath hitched. A humorless little laugh left him as he shook his head. “Couldn’t get the image outta my head. We’re even now. Ain’t gotta be embarrassed.”

You tilted your head, searching his face. “are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

His voice was low, thick with something darker, more vulnerable. “No.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t move. So you kissed him. 

When Joel kissed you back, it was desperate. His hands gripped your waist, rough palms dragging over your back like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Your fingers tangled in his soft curls at the back of his head, tugging him closer, swallowing the low groan he let out when you parted your lips for him. You whimpered softly into his mouth, pressing your chest to his, needing him even closer. He smelled so good. Like whiskey, and soap, and musk. It invaded your senses, and your brain turned into mush. 

His tongue swept over yours before he broke away to kiss along your jaw, then your neck, open mouthed and breathless. 

“Joel…” you moaned, “Fuck,”

Your knees hit the back of the couch, and the two of you stumbled, breathless and tangled in each other until you fell on top of his lap. His arms wrapped around your waist, and he sank back onto the couch, pulling you down with him. Your legs were straddling him, your hands braced around his neck. Kissing you deeper, his hands roamed your back, your waist, your thighs, like he was trying to touch every part of you all at once. 

You rocked against him as he groaned into your mouth, hips bucking up just slightly. His mouth found your neck once again as you kept moving against him achingly, feeling the thick press of his erection beneath you, hard and growing. You were so turned on it hurt. 

“Shit,” Joel rasped, gripping your hips, trying to hold you still. “Baby…”

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t. You needed him. But his hands stilled you.

He leaned his forehead against yours, kissing your head, chest rising and falling under your palms. “Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and steady now, “we gotta slow down.”

You blinked at him with doe eyes, lips still parted. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no,” he said quickly, cupping your cheek. “God, no.” He swallowed, eyes on yours. “It’s just… it’s been a long time. And I want this to be good for you.”

He smiled, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You really want this?” he asked, voice quiet.

You leaned in, lips brushing his, barely above a whisper, “Yeah. I do.”

His chest rose and fell against yours, his eyes flickering down to your lips before dragging back up again like he was trying to memorize you.

He leaned in and kissed you softly, slow and unhurried, letting it linger, letting your fingers drift up the back of his neck and into his hair. He exhaled into your mouth, and you felt the way his hands gripped you just a little tighter.

Then, without a word, you reached down and tugged gently at the hem of his shirt.

Joel paused, eyes searching yours. But he didn’t stop you.

You lifted the fabric slowly, revealing the scarred, strong lines of his chest. Your fingers brushed over his skin as you pulled the shirt over his head and let it fall somewhere behind the couch.

His breath hitched when you leaned down and pressed a kiss to his chest, soft and reverent. Another to his collarbone. Another just above his heart. He wasn’t used to this.

Joel’s eyes fluttered closed for a second, a hand coming up to hold the back of your head like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this.

You sat up, heart pounding, and slowly reached for your own shirt. You watched his face as you peeled it over your head. his eyes widened slightly, lips parting, awe written all over him like you were a dream came true.

You took his hands and placed them on your waist, his palms warm and steady. Then you leaned in again, and he kissed you hard, lips sliding to your jaw, down your neck. When his mouth finally reached your chest, your breath caught. he was kissing you there, slow and gentle, like he was learning the shape of your breasts with his mouth.

A soft moan escaped you, hips shifting instinctively in his lap. You felt the heat building again, sharp and overwhelming. Every place he touched felt like it burned.

“Joel,” you whispered, voice breathless, “need you to touch me…”

One of his hands slid down slowly, carefully, finding the edge of your waistband. His fingers brushed your skin, teasing, and you gasped softly. You could feel the heat between your thighs, a growing ache that had only sharpened since the moment he walked through your door.

“I’ve never—” you whispered, barely audible.

“I know,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of you. We don’t gotta rush a damn thing, sweetheart.”

You nodded, heart pounding, eyes locked with his.

“Jesus,” he rasped, resting his forehead against your chest for a second. “You tell me if anything don’t feel right. Any second. You hear me?”

You nodded again, lips brushing against his temple. “Yeah.”

He leaned back just enough to kiss you again, slower this time like you were something delicate, hands trailing up your spine. You arched slightly as you were dry humping on the couch, gasping at the friction between your core and his erection. You stood up, and discarded your shorts on the floor, just your soaked panties covering you.   When you lowered down on his lap again, your fingers found his, guiding his hand between your thighs.

“You can touch me,” you said quietly. “I—I want you to.”

Joel let out a quiet groan. “You tell me if it feels too much, alright?” he groaned, voice low and full of heat.

His fingers dipped down between your thighs, finding you through the soft fabric of your underwear. He rubbed slow, careful circles against you, patient and steady,  coaxing every sound out of your lips. 

You gasped softly, hips tilting toward his hand without meaning to. “Joel…”

“That feel good?” he rasped, lips brushing your jaw, his voice rough but gentle, making sure you were okay.

You nodded, too breathless to speak. Your fingers curled into his hair, holding on as he kept rubbing you through the thin cotton, your arousal soaking through. He could feel how wet you were, even like this.

“Jesus, baby…” he breathed, his voice thick. “You’re already so worked up for me.”

You whimpered as your hips began moving on their own, grinding against the heel of his hand. Joel’s breath caught, he was getting worked up too, chest rising fast, jaw clenched. His free hand slid up your back, gripping your waist like he needed something to hold onto.

He groaned again, almost like it hurt. “You keep movin’ like that, sweetheart, and I’m gonna cum in my pants.”

Carefully, he slid his hand beneath your waistband, fingers finally touching you bare. You gasped, the heat of his skin against yours sending a shiver up your spine. Then, ever so gently, he slid one thick finger inside you, slow and deliberate.

“Shhh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple as you clenched around him. “You’re alright. Atta girl. Just like that,”

You whimpered again, his finger moving in slow strokes, your hips rocking toward his hand instinctively. He added a second finger, easing you open while his thumb stroked soft circles against your clit.

It was overwhelming, in the best way possible. The stretch, the warmth of him, the way he watched your every reaction like he couldn’t look away. This was so different compared to your own fingers. You knew it would feel good, but not like this. Definitely not like this. 

You whimpered, getting closer, reaching the climax as your hips stuttered against his hand. Joel was whispering quiet praises into your skin, fingers moving slow and steady inside you, coaxing you open like he had all the time in the world. Your thighs trembled, your body arching into his touch, and the pressure inside you built with every breathless second.

“Joel,” you whimpered, voice breaking, eyes squeezing shut. “Oh, my god…”

“Right there?” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re doin’ so good, baby. Just let go for me.”

Your body tightened, back arching, and then the wave came over you. your climax washing over you all at once, sharp and warm, overwhelming and dizzying. You gasped, clinging to him, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as you cried out his name.

Joel groaned, holding you through it, kissing your temple and whispering sweet nothings as your body shook against him.

“That’s it,” he whispered, slowing his fingers as you came down. “You’re alright. I got you.”

You were breathless, body still burning for him, for something more. “Joel… I want to feel you.”

He stilled, lifting his head to meet your eyes. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, fingers curled around his wrist. “I want you inside me.”

His gaze searched yours for any flicker of doubt. There wasn’t any. Just need.

He gently guided you off his lap, helping you lie back along the couch. The cushions dipped under you, the living room warm and quiet except for the sound of your shared breathing.

Joel stood for a moment, just looking at you. Then his hands went to his belt, undoing it slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

You watched as he slid his jeans down, then his boxers, breath catching when you caught sight of him, thick, hard, and flushed at the tip. He knelt between your legs, bracing a hand on the couch beside your head, the other guiding himself gently as he settled over you.

You reached for him, touching his chest, then his face, grounding yourself in the heat of his body.

Joel hovered over you, breathing heavy, gaze locked on yours like he didn’t want to miss a single second. He lined himself up slowly, hand cupping the back of your head against the couch cushion like you were something precious.

When he pushed in slow, careful, giving you time to adjust, you both gasped. Your fingers clutched at his back, nails digging in, and Joel groaned low in his throat, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

Oh my god.

Your thoughts spiraled.

This feels so good.

It was everything you hadn’t let yourself imagine. full, warm, overwhelming in the best way. You couldn’t believe how right it felt, how gentle he was, how every slow thrust was lined with care and need.

This. This is why you waited for someone like him. For Joel.

His body pressed flush against yours, one hand bracing by your head, the other still gently cradling it like he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting you. He rocked into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, his breath ragged against your cheek, whispering your name like a prayer.

“Goddamn,” he groaned. “Such a good girl.”

You whimpered, already fluttering around him, your body starting to tremble again. “I-I think I’m close again,” you whispered, voice breaking.

“Me too, baby,” he murmured, voice cracking as he started to move faster, hips snapping a little deeper now, rougher but still so tender it made your chest ache.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, lips brushing his jaw as your body built toward the edge again. He kept whispering to you, grounding you, worshiping you through every second until everything tightened, and then you broke for the second time.

You came with a cry against his skin, body shaking around him as he groaned loudly, hips stuttering.

“Shit-darlin’, I’m gonna,” Joel gasped, and then you felt him follow, his body trembling with the force of it, buried deep and breathless. It was intense. 

Joel was still above you, calming down his breathing, foreheads pressed together, your bodies tangled and slick with heat. His hand was still cradling your head. 

You could still feel the aftershocks in your thighs, your chest, the gentle tremble in your fingers. Your heart was hammering. You’ve had orgasms before. You touched yourself often. But this was something else. You’ve never had this kind of orgasm before. Every careful touch, every word, every look… he'd made you feel safe. Worshipped. Taken care of.

You blinked up at him through the haze, and he looked down at you like he was in awe.

“You alright?” he murmured.

You nodded, dazed. “Mmmm.”

He exhaled softly, lips brushing your temple, and kissed it. Then your cheek. Then your mouth…slow, like he had all the time in the world now.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” he said against your lips.

You didn’t protest when he gently pulled out, made quick work of cleaning you up as best he could with trembling hands and soft apologies, finding a blanket from your couch to wrap you in.

Then, like it was nothing,he lifted you into his arms. You curled against him instinctively, head tucked beneath his chin, listening to the steady beat of his heart as he carried you upstairs like you weighed nothing.

Your bedroom was dim, bed undone, but it didn’t matter. Joel set you down carefully, then climbed in beside you without a word. One of his arms slid beneath your head, pulling you close, his other hand resting lightly on your stomach beneath the blanket.

You sighed, melting into him.

For a while, neither of you said a thing. Just breathing. Just feeling. His thumb traced lazy little circles against your skin, and you let your eyes drift shut.

thanku for reading!

[docrobinavitch]

i can’t recall if i already put in a suggestion, but my idea is a dr robby girlfriend/wife reader

reader deathly afraid of needles but takes injections every week for migraines. michael takes his “lunch break” to calm reader down and help her through the injection.

hiii bestie thank you so much for the request! i took some liberties with this so i hope that's ok. this should've been a relatively short prompt, but i am apparently incapable of writing anything without establishing backstory!

_______

time after time

dr. robby x wife!reader content: 18+ mdni, swearing, needles (obvie), some canon medical stuff, but barely words: 4.8k

It had been Robby’s idea for you to see a neurologist for your migraines. He had been begging you to for as long as he’d known you.

The first time he came home from a shift to find you laying down in the shower with the lights off, it scared the shit out of him.

“What the fuck?” He flipped the light switch on and dropped to the side of the tub.

But you seemed annoyed and groggy as you squinted against the sudden brightness, “Lights off, please.”

He looked at you incredulously, but since you didn’t seem to be dying, he obeyed, “I thought you fell.” He said, sitting down next to the tub and rubbing at his face.

“The sound of the shower and the feel of it against my head is soothing the pain,” You murmured, “Also,” You gestured to the toilet, “Proximity if I need to puke.”

He shook his head, “You could’ve warned me.”

You hummed, “Lost track of time. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.”

“That’s… mildly concerning.” You didn’t say anything else, but he continued to sit there, unwilling to leave you alone in this state, “Would you see a neurologist if I got you a referral?”

“No.” You said immediately.

“Why not?” He asked, though they had already had this conversation. He wondered, though, if asking while you were in the middle of an episode would change your tune.

“I’ve been dealing with it just fine by myself.”

He huffed a laugh through his nose, “I’m not sure I would call this just fine. Did you take Advil?”

“Yes.”

“Did it work?”

You didn’t answer, which was an answer on its own.

“I hate seeing you like this.” He said quietly.

“Then go in another room.”

He smirked, you were stubborn. To a fault sometimes. But so was he. He would wear you down. Not that day perhaps, but eventually.

“Can’t leave you here unsupervised when you’re like this. You could slip and fall when you try to get out.”

You sighed, “Well then, I guess we’re at an impasse.”

And it went like that for years, Michael repeatedly asking you to see a neurologist, you refusing.

It wasn’t until a year into your marriage that you finally agreed. Lately the attacks had become more frequent and lasting for longer periods.

Michael had been checking on you when he was home, but for the most part you would shrug him off and go back to sleep. It had been days, now since it started. But you wouldn’t listen when he said maybe you should go to the ER for fluids and meds. So he would leave you, putting a security camera in your bedroom so he could check on you while he was at work.

You had rolled your eyes when you watched him angle the camera towards the bed, “You know, baby, we could be doing much more exciting things with a camera in the bedroom than watch me sleep.”

“Yes,” He nodded solemnly, “And it’s a shame that we can’t do any of those fun things because you refuse treatment—“

You groaned and tugged a blanket over your head, “Thank you, Dr. Robinavitch, that’ll be all.”

He had smirked and pulled the blanket back down, kissing your forehead, “You know how to find me if you need me. I love you.”

When he checked a few hours later and you were off camera, he assumed maybe you were feeling better, maybe had gone to eat something. Or, you had gone to lay in the shower in the dark. He sent off a quick text to check in and then jumped back into another case.

But a half hour later, Dana was coming to find him, “I need you in North 11.”

“Just a second.” Robby was gloved up, watching Collins and Santos drain some blood that had collected around a patient’s lungs.

“I really don’t think you want to wait for this one.” He turned and looked at Dana. Her face was hard to read, but she wasn’t one to insist if it wasn’t important.

“Collins, you got this?”

“Sats are rising,” She glanced up at Robby, “We’ll call if we need you.”

“What is it?” Robby said as he degloved and threw away his robe.

Dana sighed, “Your wife is here. She’s fine.” She added at the look on his face, “Well, not fine. But she’ll live. Status migrainosis.” He nodded, but showed no other reaction, “You don’t seem surprised that she’s here.”

“She’s had a migraine for three days now, mostly bed ridden.”

“And you left her at home?”

He huffed a laugh, “When have you ever known my wife to do something just because I suggested it? Do you think I should have tossed her over my shoulder and brought her here against her wishes?”

“Point taken.”

Robby started walking, Dana trailed a step behind, “She brought herself here?”

“I think she Ubered, but she was pretty upset when she got here, it was hard to understand her. She didn’t want you to know she was here.”

Robby slowed and turned back to Dana, “Why wouldn’t she want me to know she was here?”

Dana gave him a knowing look, “Come on, Robby. You’ve been begging her to see a doctor for years now. The two of you are competitive and stubborn as hell. Her being here means you won.”

He gave a short laugh and began walking again, “Well she can’t be that bad if she’s thinking about winning.”

“As if you weren’t thinking about it, too.”

“How dare you. My beautiful wife is in so much pain she’s in my ER and you think I’m thinking about winning?”

“I don’t think,” Dana smirked, “I know.”

Robby pushed back the curtain to see you sniffling, curled on the bed and around a basin you appeared to have been vomiting in. You wore one of his hoodies which was tugged over your head, the strings pulled tight enough that it partially covered your eyes.

He sighed and pulled a stool close to the bed, “Hey, sweetheart.” He said softly stroking a hand on your bare ankle, “I hear you’re in a lot of pain.”

You glared up at Dana, “Traitor.”

“Sorry, kid.” Dana smiled and backed out, pulling the curtain closed behind her.

With just the two of you now, he could see you struggling not to cry, “The pain’s only gotten worse and worse and I couldn’t stop puking and I got scared.”

“It’s okay, you’re probably dehydrated. It’s likely that this was just your normal migraine, but since the pain’s worse than you’re used to, we’re going to run some tests to be sure.” He started to glove up as he spoke, “We’ll give you fluids and some meds intravenously for the pain while we wait for a spot to open up for CT.”

“Intravenously?” You squirmed away from his touch, “Can’t I just take them orally and chug a bunch of water?”

He eyed you strangely, “They won’t work fast enough that way, you’d probably keep puking them up.”

You rubbed a hand at your face, frustrated as tears began flowing again, “I can’t,” You cried.

“What do you mean you can’t?” He asked gently.

“Needles.” You mumbled.

He raised his eyebrows, “You’re afraid of needles?”

You nodded, still sniffling.

He almost laughed, “How did I not know this? In all the time we’ve been together haven’t you gotten vaccines or bloodwork done?”

You sighed and closed your eyes, tilting your head back against the bed, “If I absolutely have to, I wear noise canceling headphones and a blindfold so I don’t know when it’s coming.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?”

You shrugged, “I don’t know, but it’s stopped me from punching healthcare workers involuntarily. They don’t like it when you do that.”

Robby nods solemnly, “Yeah, I can imagine. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.” You sighed helplessly, “I thought maybe you’d think it was silly.”

“It’s not silly,” He said softly, “It’s a very common phobia.”

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back, “I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk to me like I’m a patient you’re trying to soothe.”

He sighed, “Well, right now you are my patient and we have to get those fluids and meds in your body sooner rather than later, so I’m sorry to say, but we’ll have to put an IV in and we’ll have to take some blood too once you’re hydrated—“ You looked at him with horror and he said quickly, “But you probably won’t even feel the second one once you’re hydrated, alright. It’ll be super quick, I promise. And I’ll be here the whole time. I’m gonna go get Dana, okay?”

Robby sighed and walked out of the room.

“How is she?” Dana was immediately next to him.

Robby sighed, “She’s deathly afraid of needles.”

“You’re kidding,” Dana playfully shoved his arm, “You’ve been with her how long and you didn’t know? Some husband you are.”

He nodded and looked at the floor, “I feel awful I didn’t know. It explains why she’s always been so resistant to come here or go to the neurologist.”

“It’s okay, Robby. Happens to the best of us,” She clapped him over the shoulder, “Do you want help with the IV?”

“Yeah, I thought maybe you could do it. I don’t do them often and I don’t want to miss her vein.”

 Dana laughed, “Ah, so if I miss the vein, she can hate me instead.”

“Exactly.” Robby said as they pulled the curtain back around your bed.

You were puking again when they walked in and Robby immediately put a hand to your back to soothe you. It looked like you were vomiting straight bile now, which he imagined was very painful and only further exacerbating your migraine pain.

“Could we… Turn these lights off?” You asked calmly, but tears were streaming down your face and you were shaking.

They couldn’t turn the lights off because you weren’t in a room. “Do we have any private rooms?” He asked Dana quietly.

“Oh, no,” You said immediately, “I don’t want to take that from a patient who actually needs it—“

“You are a patient and you need it.” Robby said, and then turned back to Dana.

“We don’t, but we could put her in the family room. One of them has a little couch she could lay on.”

Robby nodded, “Could you grab a wheelchair?”

Robby fussed over you, carrying you into the wheelchair when you said you could walk. Rubbing your back when you inevitably vomited again. And although Dana would do the IV insertion, Robby disinfected your skin and tied the tourniquet.

Despite your best efforts, you whimpered when the tourniquet tightened. Robby looked up at you, “Did I hurt you?” He asked softly.

You shook your head, but didn’t say anything, worried you’d start sobbing if you tried to speak. You felt silly about how afraid of the needles you were. Anyone else would barely flinch at the thought of it. But it made you feel sick.

Robby came around to your other side, taking the hand that wasn’t about to be poked, “Look at me.” He smiled when you obliged, his eyes warm and loving, “Do you want to know what’s happening or would you prefer not to know?”

You took in a shuddering breath, “Could you distract me, please?”

He held your hand to his mouth, bending his forehead towards yours, “This was supposed to be a surprise, but I booked us an Airbnb in the mountains for Memorial day weekend.”

Your lips turned up just marginally and Robby watched as Dana prepped the IV behind you, “Will there be a hot tub?”

Robby laughed, “Yes, there will be a hot tub and it has an excellent view.”

“That’s good,” You seemed to be relaxing a bit more now, eyes barely opened, muscles deflating, “Because I bought a new bikini last week. I must’ve known subconsciously I would need it.”

He hummed, Dana was getting very close to inserting the needle, “What color is it?”

“It’s blue,” You licked your lips, “I know how you like me in blue.”

He smirked, “I like you in every color.” He said, and at the same time Dana inserted the needle. You jumped just a little, but you weren’t crying anymore.

“All done, sweetheart.” Dana said softly and took off the tourniquet, “You did great.”

Dana left the room, giving them some privacy, and Robby sat in the dark with you for a few minutes.

“You should get back to your patients,” You said, eyes closed.

He watched you carefully, “I’m going to refer you to a neurologist in the hospital. I’ll make sure an appointment gets scheduled where I can go with you. Okay?”

You swallowed and kept your eyes closed, “Okay.”

He leaned over and kissed you lightly, “I love you, I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”

“Okay, love you.”

And so, you had gone to that appointment and had been prescribed Aimovig, a medication that needed to be injected once a month. You had tried to argue your way out of it, but the neurologist insisted it would be your best bet at reducing the number of episodes.

“Baby,” Michael whispered to you, “I can do it for you every time, I promise—“

“You don’t know what I’m like when—“ You sighed, cutting yourself off, “I was in so much pain the last time in the ER, I couldn’t put up much of a fight. What if I hurt you or something?”

He laughed, “You think I’ve never had a combative patient before?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “I’m your wife.”

He leaned in closely, his nose brushing against the shell of your ear, “Can we just try it, honey? It might work so well you find it worth it.”

You swallowed tightly and then clapped your hands together. “Fine.”

Robby had given you the first shot there in the neurologist’s office. The neurologist had left the room.

You were already beginning to shake, watching as Robby put on a pair of gloves.

“I’m going to inject it in the back of your arm, so you’re not going to see me do it.”

You felt a wet cotton pad on the back of your arm, “Now, I want you to try something for me.” He said, and you heard the cap of the injection pop off, “Could you sing our first dance song for me?”

You gave a short laugh of surprise, “You’re serious?”

“Humor me.”

Against your will, you were smiling already. Your wedding had been dreamy and romantic, everything you had wanted. You were married, just the two of you, a photographer, and an ordained minister at the top of a mountain. You had both read your vows through tears. Later, you had dinner and dancing in a garden at the base of the mountain with your friends and family. Your first dance had been to Time After Time, but a more acoustic version of it sung by Lennon Stella. The original version with Cyndi Lauper had played in a bar on one of your first few dates and you had had to coax Michael to the dance floor with you. It had been your first dance then and at your wedding. You had thought yourself very clever for that, but you had kept that secret between you and Michael.

“Fine, but only if you sing it with me.”

He chuckled, “Deal.”

You say go slow I fall behind The second hand unwinds If you’re lost you can look and you will find me Time after time If you fall I will catch you I’ll be waiting Time after time

You winced at the sting of the needle and your heart rate picked up, “Keep singing.” Michael urged.

If you’re lost you can look and you will find me Time after time If you fall I will catch you I’ll be waiting Time after time

As you both finished singing the second chorus, you felt Michael place a bandaid to your arm, “There you go,” He said and gently turned you to face him, “That wasn’t so bad, hm?”

Thirty days had passed since and Michael kept forgetting to help you with the second injection.

“Honey, I am so sorry.” He said that morning, rushing through the house to get ready for shift, “Why don’t you stop by the ER this afternoon and I’ll do it on my lunch break?”

You laughed, not looking up from the novel perched in your hand. It was a Saturday and you were sat at the kitchen table, eating a bagel and sipping your coffee slowly, dressed in only one of Robby’s old T-shirts.

“You forget I have been to the ER,” You swallowed the bagel in your mouth, “I know you don’t get a lunch break, baby.”

He leaned down to kiss you and as he pulled away, booped your nose, “Don’t be a smart ass. Bring the Aimovig and call Dana when you get there, she’ll come find me.”

“Yes, sir.” You mock saluted him and he rolled his eyes.

“Don’t forget it needs to be taken out of the fridge at least 30 minutes before injection.”

“I know.” You said, not looking up from your book.

He paused at the doorway of your home, looking down the entryway, he could see you perched at the kitchen table, your legs pulled tight to your chest. He never understood how you could sit comfortably like that, “You’ll come, right?” He asked, one AirPod in his hand, the other already in his ear, “You won’t pretend that you forgot?”

You looked up from your book to meet his gaze, the beginnings of a smirk on your face. Slowly, you looked to the clock on the wall, “You’re gonna be late.”

He sighed and lightly knocked the heel of his hand against the doorway, “Okay, I’ll see you later.”

“I love you, have a good day!” You shouted after him.

“Love you too,” He replied, closing the door behind him.

***

“Dana,” Robby leaned over the desk at the hub, “My wife may be stopping by at some point today, could you come find me when she gets here?”

“Yeah, sure, everything okay?”

He nodded, “She was prescribed Aimovig for her migraines, I told her to come here so I could inject it for her.”

“Why don’t you just do it at home?”

He sighed heavily, “Because I keep forgetting and I think she keeps allowing me to forget to keep delaying it.”

Dana smirked as they began doing rounds, “If she’s delaying it, what makes you think she’d come here of her own free will?”

“She told me she would,” He shrugged, “I can’t keep treating her like a patient or a rebellious child, I can tell it’s getting on her nerves. She said she would come so I’m taking her at her word.”

“Fair enough.” Dana said, “I’ll let you know when she gets here.”

“Thank you.”

***

When you walked into the ER waiting room, you immediately felt your anxiety tick up. Walking to the window, you knocked sharply to get Lupe’s attention. You gave her a wave and a smile and she waved you through, unlocking the double doors that led to the ER.

Taking a deep breath, you exhaled shakily as you walked over to the hub where you saw Dana.

“How’s my sister wife doing today?” You asked playfully. You knew about the running joke that Dana was Robby’s work wife. When you found out about it, Robby had worried it would make you jealous, but you had only laughed and joked that you always wanted a sister wife.

Dana looked up and smiled, “Mrs. Robinavitch, we weren’t sure you’d show.”

“Ah,” You leaned against the hub, “You mean my husband didn’t believe me when I said I would come.”

“Oh, can you blame him, kid?”

You clasped your hands tightly in front of you to try and stop the shaking, “Did you know he told me to come in during his ‘lunch break’?”

Dana laughed loudly, “Lunch break? He’s lucky if he has time to stop and take a piss.”

You chuckled, “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“Alright, let me go find him, you wait here.”

You nodded, letting the smile fall from your face as Dana left. You were very good at covering up your anxiety when you needed to be, but your breathing trembled and your hands still shook.

“Hey,” A warm hand settled on your shoulder, squeezing lightly, “I’m glad you came.”

You turned to see your husband, “Well, don’t sound so surprised. You asked me to come, I said I would, so I’m here.”

He smiled, “Alright, follow me.”

You trailed behind him through the chaos of the ER.

“Dr. Robby!” You turned at the sound of your husband’s nickname to see what looked like a resident running after him.

“Not now,” He said quickly.

“But, I need—“

“Go ask literally anyone else, I will be with you shortly, Dr. Santos.”

You followed behind him into what you recognized to be the family room. He sighed deeply as he closed the door behind you, muffling the din of the ER.

“I can wait here for you,” You said softly, “If you need to go deal with that.”

“No,” He said and turned to you, smiling, “You have my undivided attention.”

You smiled tightly, “Great.”

“Oh, come on,” He cradled your face gently in his hands and you closed your eyes at his touch, “It’ll be over before you know it. I’ll be very gentle.”

Your eyes watered, but you nodded.

“Did you bring the Aimovig?”

You nodded again, reaching into your bag for it, but your hands were still shaky and as you pulled it out, it fell from your hands. Robby caught it in his hand, eyes focused on you the way they always did when he was worried about you.

“Why don’t you sit down over here?” He guided you gently to a chair, “I brought you some treats.” He pulled out a Polar seltzer can and a small package of Nutter Butters.

You managed a small smile as you took the Seltzer can from him and popped it open, “Thank you.”

He pulled on a pair of gloves while you focused on your breathing, barely taking a sip from your seltzer.

“No Nutter Butters?” He asked mildly, “I thought they were your favorite.”

You take in a shaky breath, “They are, but I am pretty nauseous at the moment. Wouldn’t want to start puking in your ER.”

“I can have Dana grab you some anti nausea meds.”

“No,” You said, “I’ll be fine once it’s done.”

He sat on a stool and rolled over to you, sliding between your knees, “Take a deep breath for me?”

“Michael, I don’t need a diagnosis, I think it’s pretty clear what’s going on with me.”

“Come on, I’ll do it with you,” He slid a hand to your inner knee, “Deep breath.”

You rolled your eyes, but did as you were told. Michael breathed with you, and though you hated to admit it, it was soothing to hear the sound of his breathing in sync with yours. The weight of his hand on your knee and the light circles his thumb made against you grounding.

“Better?”

You nodded, “A little.”

“Good, turn around for me?”

You straddled the back of the chair, taking a deep breath as you felt the wet cotton pad against your skin, “How’s your day so far?” You asked.

He chuckled, “You want to know about my day right now?”

“You act like I never ask you,” You sighed, “I’m asking for you to distract me so I don’t have a full blown panic attack. Who was that resident earlier? I haven’t seen her before.”

“Dr. Santos? New intern.” He pinched the muscle in the back of your arm between two of his fingers and you heard the cap on the injection clatter to the floor. “She’s good. Smart. Observant. Sometimes too ambitious for her own good. More empathetic than people give her credit for.”

You groaned quietly feeling the prick of the needle in your skin, exhaling shakily.

“Just another second, you’re doing so good, baby... And, done.” You felt the bandaid on your skin and heard the snap of Michael’s gloves as he tossed them in the trash.

Then his hands were on you, turning you to look at him, “Hey, you did it. You okay?”

You nodded, your anxiety leaving you in a rush. You felt Robby’s hands on your face again and you leaned into him, “You said I did good?”

He laughed, “Very good,” He grabbed the Nutter Butters and opened the packaging, “Eat.”

Just then the family room door opened and you recognized Dr. Mohan at the door, “Oh, um, Mrs. Robinavitch, I—I didn’t know you were here, sorry to interrupt, I—“

“What do you need, Mohan?” Michael asked and you tried to hide your laugh. It was always like this with the residents. Something about seeing you with Robby really flustered them. You listened as they spoke about a patient and then Mohan was gone.

“What do you do to your residents that they look so goddamn scared whenever they see you with me?”

He rolled his eyes, “Eat your cookie, please, I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on you.”

“You’re insufferable when you baby me.” You said, but took a bite of the cookie anyway.

He kissed the top of your head on his way out, “Complain all you want, I know you like it.”

You smirked as you watched him head back into the ER, Dr. Mohan following him closely.

With Michael gone and your anxiety leaving you, you fully took in the Nutter Butters and seltzer. Your favorite cookies and favorite drink.

You had always been annoyed by his insistence to get you treatment for your migraines. It wasn’t like he had been the first partner of yours to suggest you see a doctor, but he was the first to not give up, despite your stubbornness.

He had pushed, but he had never made you do anything you didn’t agree to. And now, in the face of your silly phobia, he had cared for you with no judgment, and thought to bring your favorite snacks in even in the chaos of his work day.

Obviously, he loved you very much. It had never been up for question, you knew the reason he was so stubborn was because he cared about you and hated seeing you in pain. But still, sometimes, it was nice to be reminded.

After a few minutes, true to his word, Michael returned.

“Feeling better?”

“Much.” You said, and reached for his hand, pulling him down to sit next to you, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course.” He smiled at you, “You’re not lightheaded or dizzy?”

“No,” You said and held up the cookie wrapper, “The cookies really helped.”

His grin widened, “Good. You’re cleared to go home, then.” He kissed your forehead and then stood to go, but you pulled him back down.

“If I’m not gonna see you for another six to seven hours, I’m gonna need a better kiss than that.” You smirked.

He chuckled, but seemed happy to humor you, taking your face in his hands he kissed you, long and slow. He slipped his tongue into your mouth, keeping you anchored to him with a hand at the back of your neck. Your toes curled in your shoes when he sucked your lower lip into his mouth and bit down gently.

As he pulled away, just slightly, you were still leaning into him for more, “Was that better?” He asked, cocky grin on his face.

You cleared your throat, sure you were blushing, “Yeah, that was fine.”

“Well I gotta get back to it now. I’ll see you at home?”

“Um, I have dinner plans with some friends in town so I might be back later than you, but yes.”

He nodded, “Okay,” He kissed your forehead again, “Be careful. I love you.”

“Always. I love you. Make sure you eat something, please.”

He nodded to acknowledge he’d heard you, and then he was gone, back in the thick of it.

[indecisiveavocado]

here's the thing: actual shit--accountants, advertisers, advice columnists, air conditioner installers, airline workers, alarm clock makers, antique shop owners, apartment management, architects, artists, ATM machine fixers, activists, administrators, antitrust lawyers, and that's just the a's--are barely a sliver of the economy.

As of 2023, the last year the World Bank has data, the global GDP was about $107 trillion. Which is, to be fair, a lot (by the way, have I mentioned how the world's billionares have a combined wealth of about $16 trillion, about the same as the market capitalization for the top 10 corporations? No?) But, the same year, estimates for the derivatives market varied from $715 trillion to over a quadrillion (various sources say that, typically in passing).

In other words? The actual economy is outweighed by at least six and possibly up to ten times by the derivatives market.

So, what is it?

The derivatives market is complicated as fuck, but there are some basic types. Let's look at them with examples, but remember that most of these are done at high speeds by machines working for ultra-wealthy corporations/individuals, and so you shouldn't consider it at this scale:

Forwards: Alice wants to buy a bagel from Bob, but she doesn't have the money on her. She agrees to pay Bob the cost of the bagel the next time she sees him.

Futures: Alice decides that she wants a bagel when she gets back from a long trip. She makes a contract with Bob that lets her buy a bagel for $5 when she gets back, regardless of what the 'normal' price is.

Options: Alice decides that she wants a bagel when she gets back from a long trip. She makes a contract with Bob to give her the ability but not the obligation to buy a bagel for $5 when she gets back, regardless of what the 'normal' price is.

Swaps: Alice thinks the price of bagels is likely to go up in the future. Charles thinks it is likely to drop. Seeing that they both get bagels at the same frequency, they both agree that henceforth if Alice wants bagels, Charles will give her whatever the current price is, and if Charles wants bagels, Alice will give him $5. If Alice is right, she saves on bagels; If Charles is right, he profits the bonus.

The key thing? Those can themselves be sold (mostly).

So Alice can sell, say, Denise her $5 bagel future for $2.50 when she gets back, and then Denise can sell it to Eli, and Eli to Fiona, and Fiona to George, and so on--all while not a single bagel changes hands!

It's enough to remind one of the joke (loosely adapted from Nathan Ausubel's Treasury of Jewish Folklore):

Mendel and Yossel co-owned a small inn. One day, they finally scraped together enough to buy a whole keg of whiskey to bring back to the inn, for that was sure to drum up business (it being Russia). But on the way back from where they bought it, the weather turned cold, windy, and generally miserable (even for Russia). How they wanted to drink! But they couldn't; it cost too much. They simply couldn't. Not without wasting so much money... Finally, Yossel had an idea. He rummaged around until he found a lonely five-kopek piece. "Here," he said, handing it to Mendel. "Give me a drink of whiskey from your half of the keg." Mendel, ever the businessman, agreed and poured Yossel a little glassful. After drinking it, Yossel got cheerful. Meanwhile, Mendel was left to suffer from the cold and wind, bitterly thinking about how lucky Yossel, the bastard, was. And then he had the realization: Why can't I buy a drink from him? "Yossel," he said, handing him his five kopeks, "pour me a drink from your half." "All right," Yossel said, and did. And so they kept on buying drinks, so, when they got back to the inn, they were quite drunk, and there was no whiskey left. "Imagine!" cried Yossel. "An entire keg of whiskey, sold for one five-kopek piece!"

In a similar fashion does the financial world work. And if "the economy" includes not just the real world, but also the derivatives market?

Well, then wages, jobs, stocks, everything can be going horribly -- but the derivatives market outweigh world GDP by a factor of six, if not more!

In other words, it needn't be only the rich people's pockets.

In fact it's very little of that.

It's simply that we've created so many derivatives that, as a matter of practice, they've sidelined the real economy--the one that does shit (and note that I'm defining "shit" really broadly here! As far as GDP is concerned blockchain scammers are "doing shit"! I don't even know what the actual numbers are!)

Gotta give it to capitalism: they have essentially created an infinite-money machine with derivatives, and eventually it's going to come crashing down, and guess who's gonna be paying for it?

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can you do more both wet cat Void please! That shit is hilarious

wet cat void is the best thing to ever happen, all powerful diety being a wet cat in silly ways should be the norm.

For a being as powerful, independant and comanding as himself, void happened to be quite...clingy to you. He would appear out of nowhere -within a blink of an eye if you will- mostly when you least expect him to or when you were busy with other things, and just stand close enough that when you moved you were risking the possibility of colliding into him constantly.

Like an black cat who didn't want to stay close by your feet when you were in the kitchenette, being so close that you would effectively trip over your own feet with how close he was, leading you to end up to fall into Void's awaiting arms. Void is amused by this and would do it constantly, finding your little gasp of surpise when you noticed his presence, your face changing from surpise to annoyance and how your hand never left his bicep as though you were still finding a way to support yourself from the fright.

'void.' you said looking at his pinprick eyes that seem to twinkle, showing his humour in all this.

'yes my little dove?' he asks, tilting his head to the side.

'do that again and you're getting the silent treatment.' you warned him and from an outside perspective you telling an shadowy entity who could make shadows out of people that your going to going to 'give him the silent treatment' was enough for people to look at you as though you had grown a second head. However you knew Void loved the attention you gave him, the kisses you give him and the affection you gave him you might as well have been spoiling him rotten with it, it had gotten to the point where void felt entitled to your love whenever he wanted.

If a Void could pout then you knew he was as he burrows his face agaisnt the side of yours, holding your waist tightly, keeping you close to him as your palms were pressed to his chest. 'Must you torture me, make me suffer without your affection for a single second more, how cruel.' He says lowly as though trying to provoke sympathy from you but you weren't buying it, you did so in the past and were left with having to scratch Void's head for hours on end or hold him in your arms until he felt satisfied; and when he was satisfied with the affection, he would wander off wothout a word.

Truely a black cat who was independant but wanted to be swaddled in affection but on their own terms, take that away and soon enough that black cat will become vocal and clingly, much like how Void was being right now.

'Then suffer.' You replied, not giving in nor planning to as you've done so many times in the past and didn't feel like falling into old traps, not when you were all too aware of the fact that you would be stuck cuddiling him for hours on end. 'i have stuff to do and i don't feel like having you try and distract me.' You added with a huff as you finally managed to pull yourself away from Void, but he was still very much stuck to you like glue and refusing to remove his hands from your waist, his grip was like iron as you had him trailing after you like a second shadow but just darker and more menacing and a pair of pinprick eyes.

'little dove.'

no response.

'my love?'

you barely looked up from the massive wall of glass that overlooked the streets of New York, taking slow sips of your drink of choice, taking note of how you should visit that corner store to stock up treats for the next movie night with the rest of the team seeing as John and Alexei ate more then their fair sahre last time. Your poor malteasers.

'My light, my walking daydream do not play such silly games.' Void sounded as though he was pleading as he managed to wrangle you close to his chest once more as the entity pratically swamped you in his entirety. He was cool, almost frigid but you found comfort in his chilled embrace, only to remind yourself that you were still ignoring him and steel your resolve as to not fall for his buttery words and affection; so you merely shrugged in his embrace.

Void huffed and pushed his head futher into your neck. 'this is childish even from you my dear.' he says, voice muffled agaisnt your neck but you didn't respond, merely taking another sip of your drink to hide your amusement of Void’s suddenly clingy and neediness.

Truly a black cat Void was through and through.

[clockwayswrites]

Dead on MAYn '25 Day 2: Bonus Day: "When were you going to tell me that we were married?"

It was crowded. Which, as annoying as it was, made sense. The King of the Infinite Realms and a selection of his cabinet were arriving today. Apparently, the king was finally ready to talk about that whole fuck up with the GIW, the government, and the war that had nearly happened.

Apparently, the King also saw it as a good time for the two sides to mingle and get to know each other. The thought of a multidimensional party did pretty good at drawing a crowd. Hal couldn’t talk, he was there for the free booze.

Well, and because Barry made him come.

On the damn dot, a tear in the air appeared: a diagonal purple splash. It split and tore into a glowing green portal. King Phantom and his ranks stood just on the other side. It wasn’t everyone who stepped through.

King Phantom led the procession, of course. His crown of swirling galaxies barely cleared the edge of the portal. His cloak of stars just brushed the ground. He was flanked by another ghost, one who looked remarkably like him, though the hair was bluer and a red-headed woman who looked remarkable human, other than the green glow to her eyes. A multi-armed giantress, furry being Hal could only think to call a yeti, and a hooded figure followed.

Once the group was through the portal, it snapped closed. The tear remained. A quick out if it was needed, Hal figured.

“Greetings, King Phantom and friends,” Wounder Woman called boisterously, “to Mount Justice! The Justice League and its allies are honored to welcome you all here today.”

The king inclined his head. “And we are humbled to be welcomed. I am sure that you all have questions? Maybe we could get a few of the big ones out of the way instead of having to spend all night answering the same queries.”

“Yeah, I have a question.” The gruff, modulated voice spoke up from further back in the crowd.

People parted like the sea under Aquaman’s command. One of the Bat brood stepped forward. A black and red leather coat with the hood up, mostly shadowing the red mask and respirator.

“The Red Hood,” Barry leaned over and murmured.

“I knew that,” Hal hissed back.

The Red Hood stopped and crossed his arms, making his stupidly broad shoulders look all the wider. Something about the way that he just subtly leaned back seemed threatening.

It was a sharp contrast to the way that Phantom basically perked up like some ill mannered puppy. “Robin!”

“Yeah, not so much anymore, your highness,” the Red Hood grumbled.

Phantom deflated like a balloon with a leak. Really. Hall thought that Phantom might have actually gotten smaller somehow. “Oh, well, right. Um, what was your question?”

“My question,” The Red Hood’s voice through that respirator really was menacing. “is when the fuck were you going to tell me that we were married?”

Phantom blinked his luminescent green eyes. “Married?”

“Ghost married.”

“Holy fuck, you’re ghost married?!” Phantom’s look-alike companion asked gleefully and with a fanged grin.

“I—ghost married?” Phantom squeaked.

“Yep,” the Red Hood said. “'parently we’re soul bonded. Magically fuckery. Ghost fuckery. Both.”

Phantom rubbed at the back of his neck. “We’re, oh… shit, the Cascades?”

The Red Hood just shrugged. “Likely.”

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know,” Phantom pleaded.

The rest of the Batfamily were watching the exchange like it was a tennis match: heads swinging back and forth.

The Red Hood snorted. “No excuse.”

“No excuse?!” Phantom repeated. “All the excuse! I couldn’t tell you if I didn’t know! Look, I’ll talk to CW as soon as I’m back about getting the ghost equivalent of a divorce—”

“Who said I wanted a divorce?”

Phantom froze—like actually froze perfectly still, swirling cap and all, for a moment before he shook himself out of it. “I—you don’t?”

The Red Hood shrugged again. “Haven’t seen you since you were a tiny teenager twink. Figured I should get to know you again at least. You could be a good husband.”

A grin spread over Phantom’s face. “Did you alliterate that on purpose?”

Okay, now the shrugging was just getting repetitive.

Phantom moved forward but didn’t at the same time. It wasn’t as much that he was stretching as that the world seemed to compact around Phantom for a moment, almost like a wormhole. Then the world snapped back into place and Phantom was standing right in front of the Red Hood, leaning close to his face. He was still grinning toothily.

It was vicious looking smile.

Maybe Phantom and the Red Hood were meant for each other after all.

“Oh,” Phantom purred. “You might not be Robin any more, but I don’t think you’re that different. What do I call you now?”

“I’m the Red Hood, but I guess you can call me husband.”

[aurescentia]

Thinking Thoughts about video game designer Eddie accidentally (unintentionally) putting a Steve lookalike in his game.

The kids... notice.

Steve only finds out when Dustin and Lucas are play testing the game before Eddie hands off a pitch for potential funding.

Steve and Eddie aren't even friends yet.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

"Dude, watch it," Lucas mumbles, knocking his shoulder into Dustin's. "Don't kill him before the checkpoint."

"Oh, sorry. How silly of me!" Dustin mutters back, hunching closer to the screen.

"Of course I'm trying to keep Steve alive. Stop backseating and wait your turn."

Steve can practically hear the eye rolls ping-ponging around their side of the room.

Mere moments later, they both let out an exasperated groan and start arguing in earnest as Steve walks over to them, curiosity piqued.

"Dude!! You killed Steve! I just told you to be careful!"

"Obviously I was trying," Dustin grits out, annoyed, "but you kept distracting me!"

"Alright, I'll bite. Why am I dead?" Steve asks, stepping up unnoticed behind them.

They both whip around so fast they nearly knock heads as they look up at Steve, embarrassed.

"Uh."

"Wow, I like- completely forgot you were here," Dustin says, unperturbed.

Like Steve wasn't the one to give him a lift here twenty minutes ago.

"Gee, thanks," Steve says, rolling his eyes. From this vantage, above them at Lucas' desk, he can see the screen they had just been arguing over.

Dropping between them, forcing both to squawk and get out of the way as Steve leans toward the screen. He has to get closer to make sure he's seeing this right.

It's... him. Sort of. A miniature, pixelated version of himself, slumped over, dressed in old timey knight-in-shining-armor shit, his sword leaned on the wall beside him.

He doesn't want to be conceited or anything, but the likeness is... undeniable. Tawny hair, smattering of tiny speck freckles. Hazel eyes that muddle into a greenish gold in pixelated form.

It's Steve, undoubtedly. Dead, with a sword through his heart.

He turns back to Dustin and Lucas, pointing blindly at the monitor.

"Why am I- why is that me?"

They shoot each other looks from over Steve's shoulder, mouths working as they search for a delicate way to phrase it.

"Well... It's not you, explicitly," Dustin starts slowly.

"Or legally. He's legally distinct from you!" Lucas adds, nodding frantically.

"Right, his name's not even actually Steve," Dustin says furtively.

"It's Severian, which he absolutely stole from Shadow of the Torturer, but he said he'd-"

"Gonna stop you right there, Henderson," Steve says, cutting him off before he could go off on some tangent long enough to bore him into distraction.

"Who is this he and why the fuck would he put me/not me into his game?"

Steve has a hunch. More than a hunch, actually. A bone-deep sureness that he needs confirmed about their 'cool, older game designer' friend that they loved to prattle on about all the fucking time.

"Eddie?" Dustin says, visibly cringing.

"But he doesn't know we call his character Steve. I don't think he even realizes it's one-hundred percent, undeniably you," Lucas hurries to clarify.

"It's just an in-joke. Something stupid we do," Dustin adds, nodding his agreement.

Eddie fucking Munson.

They weren't even friends. Not really.

So why did Munson, evidently without realizing, make a whole ass game with Steve as the protagonist?

[themainspoon]

Chat GPT does the thinking for you. If you don't want to utilise your own energy to think about things this probably seems like a good thing. However, the issue is that if you don't do your own thinking, you don't ever actually think about anything.

OP got an A on that essay because she clearly had thoughts and opinions on the topic. The thing that separates essays you write in educational settings from other essays is that educational essays are written so that your educators can check your thinking and understanding. They test for engagement with the topic and concepts. They test to see if you can absorb information on a topic, understand it, put it all together, come to a conclusion, and then support that conclusion.

I only remember getting a 100% mark on an essay one time, it was also a history essay (specifically Modern History). It was in high school, and we were allowed to write about whatever Modern History topic we wanted. I wrote about the role that reforms like Perestroika and Glasnost, as well as the Chernobyl disaster, had in the collapse of the USSR. I had found a quote from Gorbachev himself on the topic, and I thought it would be interesting to evaluate what he said to see if he was right. Now, I don't actually remember what I ended up arguing, but I do remember finding and reading this essay again around 2-3 years later, and being surprised that it got a 100%. It contained some proofreading errors, and I wasn't sure how pursuasive it actually was. It definitely wasn't an argument or stance I would express outside of a highschool classroom.

However, The purpose of highschool essays like that isn't to "be right", it is to show that you're engaged with the topic, that you can form your own ideas and opinions, and then explain and defend them. It didn't matter that my argument wasn't ironclad, or that the writing could have been better. What mattered was that I had clearly engaged with my chosen topic (to the point where I even read a partially declassified CIA report on the event and went down to the Sydney State Library to read translated microfilms of Soviet Newspapers from the time to see how they portrayed the situation), and as a result I had taken a stance that I could explain and justify. I demonstrated a level of engagement beyond what was expected, and so I got full marks.

It did not matter if I was "right" or not, the purpose of assessments are to make sure you're engaging with the content and developing the right skills. No English teacher on earth actually gives a shit about how you specifically interpret Shakespeare. Instead, what they want to see is whether or not you are developing the ability to interpret and literature, to read something and then think more deeply about it. They want to make sure you are developing literacy.

Now, education systems are far from perfect, but it you cheat your way through using Chat GPT, you deny yourself the opportunity to develop those skills, and those are important skills. It sucks, but sometimes the hard way actually is the best way to do something.

"what did students do before chatgpt?" well one time i forgot i had a history essay due at my 10am class the morning of so over the course of my 30 minute bus ride to school i awkwardly used by backpack as a desk, sped wrote the essay, and got an A on it.

six months later i re-read the essay prior to the final exam, went 'ohhhh yeah i remember this', got a question on that topic, and aced it.

point being that actually doing the work is how you learn the material and internalize it. ChatGPT can give you a short cut but you won't build you the the muscles.

[millers-girl]

these violent delights

chapter 9 of willow & whiskey

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: you and Ellie are left to fend for yourselves and in the snow-covered wreckage of a forgotten town, you learn what people are truly capable of... and what you’re capable of, too.

warnings/tags: age gap, adult language, blood and violence, injury, death, castration, mentions of sexual harassment/assault

word count: 5.6k

series masterlist

“Shit,” you mumbled, voice tight, eyes glued to the swollen, tender skin around Joel’s stitches. The area was angry and wet, ringed with red and seeping pus. You glanced up at Ellie. “It’s infected.” 

She was already moving, rifling through the dwindling supplies you’d gathered with frantic hands. “W–well, how do we fix it? What does he need?” 

You laid the back of your hand against Joel’s temple. The heat beneath his damp skin confirmed it – the fever was getting worse. He was burning up. Fading.

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “He needs medicine,” you said softly, defeatedly.

After a pause, Ellie’s breath stuttered.

“Where the fuck are we gonna find that?” 

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice cracking around the edges. You couldn’t look at Joel for too long or you’d fall apart. His face was too still. His chest rose and fell, but shallowly. He was too close to the line.

Your gaze shifted back to Ellie, who was staring at him, eyes wide, jaw clenched, like she was trying to memorize his features – like she was bracing to lose him.

“Why don’t you take the rifle?” you offered gently. “Go hunting. See if you can catch something?” 

She blinked, nodding slowly. But you saw the hesitation in her eyes. 

This wasn’t about food. Not really. It was about getting her out of this suffocating basement – away from Joel’s labored breathing and the quiet dread creeping in like cold through the cracks in the foundation. 

She was a kid. She shouldn’t have to carry this kind of weight.

She climbed to her feet, grabbing the rifle. Her shoulders were stiff as she headed upstairs, glancing over her shoulder before the door closed behind her.

The silence that followed was thick and unnatural. You sat beside Joel, heart tight in your chest. Snow fell softly outside the boarded-up windows, casting faint shadows on the walls.

“I can’t believe I’m finally letting all my emotions out and you’re not even awake to see it,” you muttered under your breath, brushing a curl from his damp forehead. “You practically begged me for it for five days. Now, who’s the stubborn one?” 

Your fingers found his. They’re colder than they should be.

“I was serious about what I said before,” you whispered, quieter now. “You better now fucking die. I didn’t come all this way just to bury you in some fucking basement.” 

The silence stretched. The only reply was the rasp of his breath.

You leaned in close, pressing your forehead lightly to his temple. “I love you.”

It slipped out, almost carelessly – like a secret you didn’t mean to say aloud.

But it wasn’t careless. It was a long time coming.

It was in everything between you two.

In the way he draped his jacket over you as you slept. In the way you made him coffee every morning, even if you didn’t really drink it yourself. In the way he carved the fox for you. In the way you teased him. In the way you treated each other like family, because you were.

“I love you,” you repeated, the words feeling like the most natural thing you’d ever said. “So come back and tell me you love me too.”

You tightened your grip on his hand.

When Ellie returned hours later, she stumbled down the stairs, red-faced and breathless. 

“Holy fucking shit,” she gasped. She rushed to you, clutching two small bottles in her shaking hands. “I got medicine. I got him medicine. Is this okay?” 

You blinked, stunned, as you took them from her. “Ellie… where did you get this?” 

“I ran into people while I was hunting. Shot this deer, tried to trade half of it for medicine, but…” She faltered. “The two men I ran into – they were from the same group. The ones at the university. The guy who stabbed Joel.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?” 

“I’ll explain, can you just – ” She gestured frantically to Joel, and you sprung into action, peeling his shirt up. The sight of the angry wound nearly stopped you, but you steeled yourself. The syringe felt awkward in your hand.

“Where the fuck do I even put this?” you muttered, glancing at Ellie. She just shrugged helplessly.

You took a breath. Fuck it.

You slid the needle into the edge of the wound and injected the penicillin. Joel didn’t even flinch.

“Come on,” you whisper. “Please, Joel. Hold on.” 

You pulled the blanket back over him and pressed a trembling kiss to his temple. He was still burning up.

Ellie curled up beside him, trying to share her body heat. You laid down on the other side, stretching your hand across Joel’s chest until it met hers.

A fragile tinge of hope warmed the coldest place you’d ever know.

“Who were those guys?” you asked softly. “The ones you ran into?” 

“They said they had some small town four miles out.” 

“That’s not far,” you frowned.

“Should we move?” Ellie returned.

“I don’t know. Did they seem… dangerous? Like they were out for revenge?” 

Ellie frowned. “I couldn’t tell.” 

“That’s dangerous.” You closed your eyes. “We should move.” 

You both fell quiet. Joel wheezed faintly in his sleep.

“In the morning,” you decided. “Let’s wait a little, see if the medicine kicks in.”

Ellie nodded in agreement.

Morning came quicker than you anticipated, the air outside brittle and sharp. You and Ellie took turns obsessively checking Joel’s wound. You’d convinced each other that it was getting less red – maybe. Maybe.

You fed the horses in silence, fingers numb, breath visible in the cold.

That’s when the flock of birds over your heads scattered.

You should’ve seen it coming. The moment they scattered, their cawing echoing around you like a warning, your gut coiled tight. Ellie stiffened beside you, hand twitching toward her rifle. 

Then, the first man appeared – half-shadowed in the trees, gun drawn. And then another. And another. Five… six…

You could tell when the leader Ellie had spoken of, David, appeared into view. Calm, steady, like he was taking a stroll through a goddamn churchyard instead of hunting you three down.

“Go,” you mumbled, low enough for only Ellie to hear. “Back to Joel. Run.”

She didn’t move.

“Ellie, I said – ”

“No,” her voice wavered, but her resolve remained strong. “I’m not leaving you.” 

Your eyes didn’t leave David as he lifted his hand, a silent signal. The men fanned out, quiet as ghosts.

You subtly pulled Ellie back towards where Orion was grazing, a few yards away. 

“Clever,” David’s voice cut through the trees. “Hiding your friend in this neighborhood. But didn’t take us long to track you.” 

The conversational tone of his voice made your skin crawl. 

But you didn’t let it distract you as you shoved the reins into Ellie’s hands. “Climb up. Now.”

“What about Joel?” she whispered. 

“We’ll lead them away. He’ll be safer if we’re not here,” you explained, climbing up in front of her and taking the reins.

You turned to face the group. “Hey, assholes!” you shouted. “Come and get us.”

Orion took off like a shot. The wind stung your face as Ellie clutched onto you tightly. 

Then – a gunshot.

Orion reared, screaming. His hooves collapsed beneath you, snow rushing up and Ellie’s arms ripping away as you hit the ground hard. Everything went white and sharp.

“Ellie!” you screamed, scrambling toward her. She was lying crumpled in the snow. Unconscious.

You barely got to her before rough hands grabbed your arms. You pulled your knife, slashing wildly, hitting someone’s ankle – but they overwhelmed you.

Someone grabbed you from behind – strong, fast. Another punched the side of your head, making your vision tilt. 

You hit the ground again, snow in your mouth, blood in your ears. 

“Don’t kill her!” David shouted. “We need them both breathing.” 

Your knife got ripped from your hands and a man hauled you up, struggling and screaming and biting whoever’s flesh was closest to you but you were smaller. Outnumbered. 

Your arms were wrenched behind your back, rope biting into your wrists. A man grabbed your hood, yanking you upright, eye-to-eye with David. He brushed snow from your cheeks, in a gentle and sickening way. 

“You’ll understand soon,” he said softly. “You don’t have to be afraid.” 

You spat in his face.

In retaliation, they dragged you roughly through the snow, letting the forest swallow you whole.

And the last thought that broke through the pain was the one that made your knees go weak. Joel doesn’t even know you’re gone.

The cage you woke up in was cold, barren. You lifted your head first, feeling it pulsing in pain. Your eyes adjusted to see the wire fence caging you in, in a kitchen of sorts. 

Ellie was in the cage beside you, now awake, and when she met your eyes, she rushed over, fingers straining to shove through the bars and meet yours.

“I started worrying you wouldn’t wake up,” David’s voice echoed through the large room, making you snap your head towards him.

“Let us out,” you growled, voice thick with unease.

“Well, that’s certainly the goal… The others, they want me to kill you both for all that’s happened… but I stopped them.” 

You scoffed. “Yeah, out of the goodness of your heart, I’m sure. Fucker.”

He paused for a moment, seemingly taken aback with your potty mouth, and then said, “Why don’t we start with names?” 

“Eat shit,” Ellie retorted, making him glance between you two, considering the dynamic.

“Mom and daughter?” he guessed, before correcting himself, having seemingly had a lightbulb go off in his head. “Sisters.” 

When you didn’t confirm nor deny, he hummed, standing from the stool he was sitting on and stepping closer to the cages. “You two—small, weak, frail—can’t survive on your own.”

“Why don’t you come over here and find out?” you growled at him.

“I can help you,” he insisted. “I can protect you.” 

“We already have someone for that,” you spat. 

“Right,” David said. “Your friend… and how is he?” You didn’t dare let your face give anything away. But Ellie’s hardened look cracked, just a little. “I can see how much you both care about him, so I know it hurts. But even so, you two gotta face reality. That part of your lives, it’s ending. But what I'm offering you is a beginning. You two need to find a way to trust me because, otherwise, yeah – you will be alone.” 

He gave a final, patient smile, as if he was offering you mercy. Then, he turned and left, the heavy door clanking shut behind him, locking you and Ellie back into silence.

You moved first, testing the bars, even though you already knew they were solid. Cold metal bit into your fingers as you pulled, yanked, searched for any weakness. Nothing – just rust and steel and the sharp throb of your own frustration.

Ellie mirrored your efforts on her side, rattling her cage with all the defiance she could muster. “There has to be a way out,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “There has to be.”

You scanned the room – the wooden table in the center stained with dark, dried something; the butcher tools hung meticulously on the walls; the bloodied hooks overhead. 

Every inch of this place screamed something was off, but your brain was still too focused on survival to fully clock it.

Ellie gave the bars one more frustrated shake before slumping to the ground with a groan. You sat too, letting out a long, steadying breath. For a second, the silence stretched between you – thick, aching.

Then Ellie stilled.

She was staring toward the table, brows furrowed, mouth slightly open. “What is that?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

You followed her line of sight. At first, all you saw was the leg of the butcher's table, thick wood and iron bolts. But then your eyes adjusted, and your stomach twisted.

There, lying half-hidden in the shadow beneath the corner of the table, was a human ear. Pale and small. Jagged at the edge, as though it had been crudely sliced off.

You went still. Every sound seemed to drop away as you came to the realization. Your mind tried to reject what you were seeing.

No. No, that can’t be –

Except it could.

The stains. The saws. The bloody hooks hanging from the ceiling. David’s calm insistence that this was a beginning. That you and Ellie had to “face reality.” 

You felt sick.

Just then, the door opened again and David entered slowly, almost serenely, carrying two steaming bowls. The smell hit you first – meat. It might’ve been appetizing if you hadn’t just seen the ear.

David walked up to the cages and crouched down, sliding a bowl under each one through the narrow gap beneath the bars. 

Neither of you reached for it. Neither of you moved. 

He followed your gaze – both of you frozen, eyes still locked on the ear beneath the table. And when he saw it, he sighed. 

Not in panic. Not in apology.

In resignation. 

“For what it’s worth,” he said gently, “this is just deer meat. I swear.”

You stared at the bowl and your stomach dropped, suddenly feeling like the bare contents of it might come back up. “Why the fuck would we believe that?” you spat. “For all we know, we’ll end up chopped into little pieces in your next ‘deer meat’ stew.”

He offered a thin smile, unbothered. “I’d rather not do that.” His voice was maddeningly calm. “Please. Just tell me your names.” You and Ellie stared back, unmoved. David spread his hands as if he were the victim here. “Look, if you wanna judge me – ”

“Judge you?” Ellie barked, snapping. “You’re eating people, you sick fuck!” She kicked the tray, sending it clattering across the floor in a spray of oily broth and stringy meat. The stench turned your stomach once more.

David didn’t flinch. “Yes,” he said simply. “There are only a few of us that know.”

“You're an animal,” you muttered, voice low and seething.

He sighed. “Well, yes, we all are. That’s sort of the point.” His eyes met yours again. “It was a last resort. You think it doesn’t shame me? What was I supposed to do – let them starve? These people who put their lives in my hands, who rely on me, who love me?”

You scoffed, the sound hollow in your throat. “Maybe you should’ve.”

His eyes lingered on you. “You don’t believe that,” he said softly. “And I don’t think your friend would either. Didn’t he take another man’s life to save yours?”

Your heart stuttered. Joel’s face flickered in your mind – bloodied, broken, wild-eyed in the snow. You blinked hard.

“He was defending himself,” Ellie snapped.

“He was defending you.” Curiously, he turned back to you again, gaze almost thoughtful. “You knew that… you see a lot. But she…” He nodded at Ellie. “She reminds me of me. A natural leader, smart… loyal. Violent – dangerous. You think you’re keeping her safe, but I see it clear as day. She’s a threat.” 

You stiffened. “You don’t know shit about us.”

“I know more than you think.” His smile curled into something amused, pitying. “You? You’re all bark. Noise and fury. You hide behind others, probably behind your friend. But she? She’s the one with teeth.”

At the look in his eyes, your fists clenched at your sides. “Try to touch her and I’ll – ”

“You’ll what?” he interrupted, eyes gleaming. “Cry? Shout? Throw another empty threat?” 

Without missing a beat, your voice lowered, threateningly. “I’ll chop your fucking dick off,” you growled.

He let out a single laugh, leaning closer to the bars, voice soothing – condescending. “You’re soft. Maternal. You’re wired for protection, not survival. You’ll scream and spit, sure – but you won’t do what needs to be done. When it comes down to it, you’ll freeze. You’ll beg. You’ll break.” 

Your jaw clenched so hard it ached. But something in your chest twisted – not rage. Not yet.

Shame. Because some part of you feared he was right. That when the moment came, you wouldn’t be fast enough. Brutal enough. 

Joel would be. He’d burn the world down.

“No,” David decided, “you’re not the one I’m worried about. You’re not like me.” He turned to Ellie again, smiling. “But she is.”

He stepped up to Ellie’s cage, meeting her eyes. “Yeah,” he hummed. “You have a violent heart. And I should know – I've always had a violent heart. And I struggled with it for a long time. But then the world ended and I was shown the truth.

“Cordyceps isn’t evil. It's fruitful, it multiplies. It feeds and protects its children and it secures its future with violence, if it must. It loves.”

His voice lowered. “I’m a shepherd surrounded by sheep and all I want is an equal. A friend. Someone who understands what it means to do what’s necessary. I can give you a future, Ellie. You, and the people you care about.” He spared you a glance.

“What about our friend?” Ellie asked, voice careful.

“Loyal,” David nodded. “I can tell the others to stop looking for him. They’ll spare him.”

You scoffed bitterly. “They should be praying he doesn’t find them.”

David ignored you entirely. “They do what I tell them to do. They follow me. And they would follow us. Lord knows I could use the help… think of what we could do together as strong as we are. We’d make this place perfect. Grow, spread out, do whatever we need for our people. Imagine the life we could give them. Imagine the life we could build.” 

He reached again, pressing two fingers to the bars of Ellie’s cage. Your breath caught. 

“Get your fucking hands off of her!” you raged, hands white-knuckled around the bars of your own cage, nails digging into the rusted metal. You tried to use all your force to pry them apart, to get in between your sister and the nightmare of a man before her. 

David hummed in enjoyment, pausing his movements for a second. “Look at you. So angry. So scared. All that fire, and nowhere to put it,” he tutted. 

He turned back to Ellie, who hesitated, then rested her fingers over his. Carefully. Lightly. Then they gripped hard, and all you heard was a snap.

David howled, snapping his hand back and cradling it to his chest as Ellie backed away, triumphant.

“You little cunt,” he snarled, taking a look at his mangled fingers as he retreated toward the exit. “Let’s see what I go tell the others now.”

“Ellie,” she smirked.

“What?”

“Tell them that Ellie is the little girl who broke your fucking finger!” she shouted after him.

David turned slowly at the door, seething. His eyes briefly met yours. “How did you put it? Tiny little pieces?”

And then he was gone.

The fire cracked somewhere in the next room. Outside, the wind howled against the walls. Inside, your hands were trembling. 

You didn’t know if it was from fear… or from the way your vision had gone red when he touched her.

The way his fingers slithered through the cage bars, settling on top of Ellie’s like he was comforting a child. Like he hadn’t just implied the vilest things with a preacher’s calm and a butcher’s smile. That hand didn’t shake. It moved with practiced precision. Like he’d done this before. To another child.

And Ellie—God, Ellie—she played along. And when he screamed and recoiled, he glared at her like it was her fault he tried to touch fire and got burned.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Because in that moment—watching Ellie stand her ground, even in a cage—you felt something shift inside you. Like a lever being pulled. Something old and buried and ruthless unfurling in your chest.

You had always been the calmer one. The caretaker. The one who usually deescalated while someone else did the dirty work. You shot only when you had to.

But this was different.

You had seen men like David before. Heard them call it kindness when they took whatever they wanted. You’d fought them off enough times. But it had never been someone you loved at their mercy.

Until now.

And it clicked – he didn’t see you. Not really. He thought you were weak because your voice trembled when you threatened him. Because you put yourself between him and Ellie like a goddamn shield instead of a weapon. 

He thought Ellie was the fire and you were just the smoke.

But the thing about smoke? It choked. It blinded. It suffocated, slowly.

And he was about to find out you weren’t afraid of something you already knew how to be.

Instinctively, you stepped closer to Ellie. 

You watched her stare out, chest rising and falling rapidly. For a moment, you thought she might collapse from the tension running through her body, but she didn’t. She didn’t move at all.

You reached out for her but stopped yourself at the last second. Ellie was already retreating into herself, expression distant, like she was trying to process something that was too much for her to fully understand at her young age.

“Ellie,” you said, voice low but urgent. “Are you okay?” 

Her eyes flicked toward you, but there was a moment of hesitation before she spoke. The defiance usually lit her up like a Christmas tree, but it was now replaced by something else entirely. Perhaps fear, or shock – or a mix of both.

“I… I didn’t mean to – ” she started, voice trailing off as if she couldn’t figure out a way to finish the sentence.

You knew what she meant.

This was the first time Ellie had truly been forced to confront a kind of danger that wasn’t just physical. The kind of danger that left scars on your soul. The kind you'd tried to shield her from her entire life.

You stepped closer, trying to let your presence be grounding for her. “Ellie,” you said softly, voice steady. “Look at me.” 

When she did, you saw that this was new territory for her. The things she’d faced, the people she’d run from or fought, none of them had been like David.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you assured her, though it felt like an odd thing to say. What had happened wasn’t her fault, but it was something darker than just self-defense. 

Ellie had never had to face a predator like him before, a man who didn’t just want to hurt her physically, but wanted her body for his own. 

You’d always protected her from it. From the men in the QZ who would have taken advantage of her had you not stepped in. You’d kept her hidden, kept her safe, from the ugliest of truths. You’d always known the dangers, but Ellie hadn’t seen them – not fully, not like this.

As she stood there, still silent, hands shaking silent, you watched her come to understand just how dark the world really was.

You couldn’t help but feel a stab of guilt in your chest for not protecting her from this, too. From him.

“Ellie, you’re okay,” you said quietly. “You are gonna be okay. I’m here, alright?” 

Her lips trembled as she nodded, but she didn’t say anything else. The words were stuck in shock, in pain. You could feel the weight of it, like a dark cloud hanging over her head. 

Whatever was left of her innocence was gone.

And all you could do, from your own cage, was hold her gaze in a silent promise to always keep her safe. Even if she had to face this world on her own, you’d be right beside her, every step of the way. 

You barely registered David’s footsteps echoing on the concrete as he returned with his right-hand man. Your hands clenched into trembling fists, wrists still sore from the cage. 

Your thoughts were a pendulum, swinging between cold calculation and rising panic. Your heartbeat sped up, drumming in your ears, as they unlocked both cages, yanking the doors open, and dragged you and Ellie out into the middle of the room.

Ellie bit David’s hand in an attempt at defense.

“Let’s start with her,” he said, shaking out his wrist and nodding at you. “Ellie can watch. Maybe it’ll help her cooperate.”

Your heart stopped.

Ellie’s eyes met yours. Wild. Fierce. Defiant. Shaking her head with a terrified whimper.

David shoved you roughly onto the table, his grip bruising your shoulders. You barely had time to struggle before he raised the cleaver, the blade catching the light. 

“Wait!” Ellie’s voice cracked through the tension, loud enough to make both men freeze for a second. “We’re infected! We’re infected! We got bit. Out hunting. It got her in the leg and it got me here! Look, roll up my sleeve. Look at it – look at it!” 

David hesitated. His grip faltered, and the cleaver thudded onto the table as he reached for her arm. When he saw the mark, confusion darkened his expression.

“I told you,” Ellie sneered, a dry, humourless laugh escaping her. “I’m infected – and now so are you.”

The second-in-command, James, took a step back. “David…” 

“No, no, no. She would’ve turned by now. They both would have. This isn’t real.” 

“It looks pretty fucking real to me,” James pointed, his voice sharper now. 

As they bickered, you met Ellie’s eyes again and motioned, just slightly, toward the cleaver resting by her hand. In the same breath, she grabbed it and buried it in James’s neck.

The sound was wet. Immediate.

You surged forward, slamming your body into David with as much strength as you could muster. His skull cracked against the concrete wall with a sickening thud, giving you just enough time to pull Ellie and bolt out of the room.

You burst through the doors and stumbled into the dining hall that used to be a steakhouse. The booths were overturned, the tables stripped for firewood. Ellie ran to the main doors, finding them all locked, while you sprinted into the kitchen. The smell hit you first – smoke, char, rotting meat.

You grabbed two knives from a butcher block and handed one to her along with a burning log from the spit. It looked like you two were fighting your way out of this one.

The room glowed dim and orange, like it was already in hell. And maybe it was.

David crept through the swinging doors, and Ellie didn’t wait. She hurled the burning log at him. He ducked, but it smashed into the curtain behind him. Fire began tricking upward with eerie slowness, catching the fabric.

The entire wooden structure slowly began to burn.

Smoke filled your lungs with every breath. Your eyes watered. 

“There’s no way out, girls,” he called, a mockery of kindness in his tone. “The doors are locked. And I have the keys.” 

Good, you thought bitterly. You’ll need them – to escape us.

You glanced at Ellie and tilted your head. She nodded before creeping left, and you went right. It was a silent understanding: draw him out, find an opening.

David’s voice echoed between the flames. “Ellie. I know you aren’t infected. No one infected fights this hard to stay alive.”

The fire crackled, eating up the wooden beams along the far wall. The heat made your skin slick with sweat.

“No one likes being humiliated,” he continued, voice raising. “You don’t know how good I am! You don’t know what I could’ve given you – if you just let me…”

The sound of his words turned your stomach.

“Well, I have news for you. Neither one of us is dying today. You see, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided you do need a father. So I’m gonna keep you, and I’m gonna teach you… Ellie. Ellie,” he sang, twisting her name into something grotesque; and it made you rage.

“She already has a dad, you fucking creep!” you roared, seeing nothing but red as you launched yourself at him, swinging your knife. It slashed across his ribs, the tip biting deep. He gasped, staggered, but he was quick to dodge your next attack, twisting and knocking you to the ground. 

“You fucking bitch,” he spat, blood bubbling at his lips. He kicked you hard in the side.

Something cracked.

The pain was blinding.

You choked on air as Ellie screamed and launched at him. She stabbed him in the back, just missing his lungs. He hesitated but was able to spin and throw her off.

Ellie hit the floor with a hard grunt, skidding across broken glass. David turned to you again, a sneer on his face, and kicked you once more – directly where he’d likely already broken a rib. You screamed in agony. 

"I'll deal with you later,” he muttered, “Don't you worry."

Then, he turned to Ellie.

Your mind went dark with horror as he straddled her, pinning her limbs, pressing his weight down while she squirmed and screamed beneath him.

"I thought you knew... the fighting is my favorite part." 

And just when you thought you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, those words lit a fire deep in your gut and something in you snapped.

"Don't be afraid. There's no fear in love,” David hummed.

You forced yourself upright, coughing, choking on smoke, but you couldn’t stop. Your vision tunneled. The pain didn’t matter. You saw his hand at his waistband, going to unbutton his pants, and that was it.

You screamed as you charged at him, no hesitation – just motion. It was instinct at this point, survival, rage in its rawest form. You tackled him off of her, the full weight of your body crashing into his side and sending both of you skidding across the burning floor. 

He snarled, scrambling back to his feet, but you were faster. You rammed your body into his once more, mounting him, and started swinging with a force you didn’t realize you had. Your fists met his face over and over again – bone, teeth, soft flesh. 

Again. Again. Again.

You felt your knuckles split and you didn't stop even then.

Blood gushed from his nose, his mouth. It smeared across your hands, sticky and hot and endless. You didn’t even feel your wounds anymore.

You grabbed the cleaver he’d tossed aside with shaking hands. He tried to crawl away, like the fucking coward he was, but you were on him. You slashed at his chest, once, twice, and when he kicked out to throw you off, you slammed the heel of your boot down on his ankle until you heard a crunch.

“You wanted violent?” you growled, dragging him by the collar back into the center of the room. The fire crept closer now, the heat unbearable, smoke curling into your lungs, but you didn’t care. 

You weren’t done.

You were nowhere near done.

David spat blood, struggling to speak through his broken mouth. “You don’t… have to do this…” 

“I think the fighting might be my favorite part, too,” you snarled, flipping the cleaver in your hand. You crouched over him, dragging the blade slowly, deliberately, up his thigh. He screamed. “You said I was too soft… That I’d freeze.” 

You pressed the blade to his groin and leaned in close. “You said I’d beg.” 

He whimpered. You pressed harder. 

“But I think you're gonna be the one who begs... So beg.” 

He looked up at you, wild-eyed and panting, terror finally eclipsing that smug certainty. “Please,” he sobbed. “Please – don’t – ”

“Louder.” 

“Please! Please don’t – ”

You did it anyway.

You screamed through your teeth as you brought the blade down and castrated him with a sickening, wet slice. His cries didn’t even sound human. They sounded like an animal – fitting.

The cleaver slipped in your hand, his blood warm and thick and coating everything, and still you kept going.

You stabbed. You cut. With each slice, you felt like you were becoming something else—something feral and unrecognizable—and you didn’t even realize when his screams stopped. It wasn’t until Ellie’s hand landed on your shoulder that you stopped to register the carnage.

David was unrecognizable. The fire’s glow cast grotesque shadows across what remained of his face and torso. Your hands were shaking. Your whole body was shaking.

You let the cleaver fall from your grasp and stumbled back, chest heaving.

You were soaked in blood. His. Yours. You didn’t even know anymore.

Ellie was staring at you, eyes small and scared, like she wasn’t sure what you would do next.

You didn’t know either.

You stood, grabbing her hand, and she flinched, just barely. You felt like you might vomit again.

But there was no time.

The fire was spreading fast.

You pulled Ellie to her feet and ran, staggering out into the snow, coughing and gasping for breath. The freezing air stung your lungs, and you welcomed it. Anything to feel clean again. Anything to feel human.

You fell to your knees and retched into the snow, the bile bitter and hot in your throat.

When Ellie screamed again, you lurched to your feet, heart in your throat—body instantly going into fight or flight mode once more—only to see Joel wrapping her up in his arms.

"It's me. Hey, it's me," he kept softly whispering, and Ellie finally stopped squirming and clung to him, sobbing. "It's okay, baby girl."

Your knees buckled, body shaking at the sound of his voice.

Joel turned to you, outstretching his right arm. You instantly fell into him. His arms were strong and shaking. He buried his face in your matted hair, promising, "I got you. I got you both. You’re okay. You’re safe.” 

But you weren’t okay.

Not really.

You were still shaking. Shellshocked. Silent.

Looking down at Ellie, you weren’t sure what scared you more – what almost happened to her… or what you just found out you were capable of.

.

.

.

taglist: @orcasoul @lizlil @littleshadow17 @joeldjarin @mrsyixingunicorn10 @luvwanda @escaping-reality8 @hoddystark @mmkkzz @victoriaholland @xodilfluvr @ilovetoomanymen @21tao @mystickittytaco @keileighr @buckyandlokirunmylife @deesparticus @underchaos @keepingitlokiii @silas-aeiou @underchaos @tjohn63 @princess76179 @umadirectioner

[cantpickyourgenre]

Can I offer up a different view? I actually think Buck and Eddie will NOT be sharing a bed while Buck looks for a place. I think they create a schedule and they buy an air mattress and Maddie is just like, "um why not just share?" like it's easy! Like it's nothing! And Buck stutters and turns pink and changes the subject even though his eye keeps catching on the air mattress and wondering why the idea of sharing a bed with his best friend makes him feel the same nerves he felt when entering confession. Meanwhile Eddie is complaining to Hen about how his shoulder is sore. And Hen is like "maybe you need a new mattress" and Eddie just chuckles and says, "oh, I'm sure it's less about the mattress and more about the air mattress I sleep on every other week." Hen just sort of squints at him and says, "oh I assumed you guys were sharing. Since that's what you did. During Covid. And it was fine then." And Eddie pointedly ignores the implication and moves on. But in his brain it's like...Eddie Brain: You CAN'T share a bed because he'll know. Also Eddie's Brain: Know what? Eddie's Brain: Don't worry about it. Also Eddie's Brain: Okay :) Yay <3 But eventually the team all has a night out and Ravi ends up coming back with them because he wants to finish talking to Eddie about where he should go to get new tires or some shit. And Buck is like sulking, making sure Chris is going to bed and cleaning dishes loudly. By the end of the night they're all a little tipsy, but not drunk and it just makes sense for Ravi to crash there. So he goes to the air mattress that he's been kind enough to NOT mention, but Buck is like "ummm, actually......" because he cannot he can't nope no way share a bed with Eddie. But it's Eddie's week and he doesn't want RAVI to either. But Ravi is like "hell yeah, I'll have a sleepover with Eddie, we can talk more about rock climbing and BASKETBALL" and Eddie is just nodding, happy that bedtime is on the horizon. But Buck is like "NO, you and I WILL share the bed, sorry Eddie air mattress for you" and Eddie says "No I will not, my back NEEDS this week on the bed" and Ravi says "NO I will NOT be sharing a bed or an air mattress or anything with you longlegs." They argue for like half an hour and everyone is getting cranky until Ravi finally decides he will sleep on the air mattress, Eddie will take the bed, and Buck will sleep on the couch. The next morning, Eddie is annoyed by the whole thing even though he too, is terrified of the bed sharing. So after Ravi leaves and Chris is distracted he's like fuck it, we're going to talk about it and he slides a glass of celery juice into Buck's hand and says, "hey, why can't we share a bed like normal friends could?" and well...I think we all know the answer to that.

[th3secr3th1story]

Hello!!! I was wondering if you could write geto and gojo (you write them soooo well!!) getting a call from reader and she’s is walking home alone and feeing unsafe/ got away from a scetchy situation? When reader calls they immediately come pick them and then ends with some fluff/comfort? Maybe college au? It’s really specific but it’s a but self indulgent right now after the week I had (not a good one haha)! Anyways it’s ok if you don’t write it but I’m a sucker for fluffy comfort! Love your writing!!! You will def see more requests from me in the future <333

gojo - getting a call from scared/unsafe reader

it has been...SO long. i dont even know if youre still here, sorry :( but ive finally logged back onto this account and opened up my inbox to see some asks!! woohoo (hopefully staying active for longer now)! also, i hope youre ok, this req seems a lil personal :( stay safe out there guys

summary: you're on the way home from a party when you notice a man behind you following you home. instinctively, you call your boyfriend to come pick you up. college au, hurt/comfort, angst turned fluff, detailed descriptions of being followed so just beware

words: 1602

is he seriously still behind me? you worriedly think to yourself as you speed up your pace down the street. it was the end of a rough finals week, with exams ferociously following each other back to back. your friends invited you out for a few drinks that friday night, marking the end of the stressful exam season. not being one for parties, you were a little cautious to go out, unsure if you'd even have fun.

"why don't you just stay home with me?" gojo pestered you earlier that evening, pulling on your arm pleadingly.

"we can order out, put on a nice movie, and stay in bed," he whined with those big pleading eyes. he peppered kisses all over your face, trying to reel you in with his comforting presence. you let out a pleased sigh, almost giving in until you remembered the reason you weren't staying home in the first place.

"excuse you, satoru, but you couldn't do any of that. you still have that damn final paper to finish. did you already forget how hard you had to beg your professor for an extension?" you quipped, raising an eyebrow at his pleading look.

"i can multitask," he replied with a wide shit-eating grin.

"biggest lie you've ever told me," you retort, giggling out loud as he continued to kiss all over your face.

"just stay home, please," he pressed one final time, knowing deep down it would be better for you to get out of the house. he'd have you to himself later, after all.

oh, how you wish you had caved in.

the sound of feet shuffling behind you snaps you back to the present, stomach jolting as you swear they begin to get closer. you can almost imagine satoru next to you right now. he'd be glaring daggers into the mysterious man behind you, protectively pulling you into his side as he shielded you from any potential harm. in fact, you doubt any creep would be willing to get within fifty feet of you with gojo by your side.

where could you even go? the shitty bar your friends dragged you to was far away from campus, prompting a 30 minute walk on the way there. it was fine getting to the bar, considering the daylight, but you were seriously regretting not pairing up with a friend on the way home. gojo even made you promise to get back to campus with a friend, knowing that the area around the bar was shady. god, he was going to be so mad at you when you got home. if i even get home, your brain thinks before you can stop yourself, sending another jolt straight to your stomach.

hands shaking, your fingers fumble for gojo's contact, which is already starred in the emergency section of your phone. you tap his name as quick as you can, subtly walking a little faster as you wait for him to pick up.

he answers before the first ring finishes; his cheerful voice almost makes you think everything is okay again.

"hi, baby! i am so glad you called, this is the most wonderful distraction from my paper. what's up? did you have fun tonight? you haven't fallen in love with anyone there, right? i'll kill them all. i swear to god, if this atrocious paper is the reason the love of my life breaks up with-"

your words silence him like a knife.

"satoru, please come get me," you murmur into the phone, keeping an eye on the man behind you, who was inching closer and closer since you had left the bar.

he calls out your name sharply, all excitement from earlier gone. you swear you can already hear him gather his belongings.

"are you hurt? are you alone right now? why didn't you walk with a friend? what happened?" his questions fire off rapidly, concern seeping through the phone.

"no, i'm not hurt. yes, i am alone. all my friends who went with me live on the other side of campus so it didn't make sense for me to walk with anyone. sorry. i decided to just walk home alone but ever since i left the bar there's been this guy following me," you blurt out as quiet as you can. after a moment, you add, "i'm scared, satoru."

the other end of the phone stays silent for a few moments, and for just an instant, you worry that he wasn't really coming to get you at all. that he decided you weren't worth it. that he was about to hang up. of course, all of those fears were dispelled the second you hear his car engine roar to life.

"i'm coming to get you. i have your location, so just focus on staying with me for now, okay? i'll be there soon, baby. just stay with me. you'll be okay," he huffs out, unsure of whether he was trying to comfort you or himself.

"i don't know what to do, satoru," you weakly mumble out. "there's no public spots near here, just brick buildings and random empty lots."

"just keep walking, baby. you're doing everything right; i'll be there soon, i promise," he reassures you despite his strained voice.

over the next few minutes, gojo continues to repeat these small phrases back to you, nearly reaching prayers. he doesn't spare you from any you're doing great, just stay with me, or everything will be fine, chanting these gentle commands right into your ear.

you are nearly certain now that the man behind you is closing the gap between the two of you, and your mind starts to race. what if you didn't make it home tonight? what if just a few hours ago was the last time you'd ever see your wonderful boyfriend's face?

just as you feel the unknown man step up right behind you, gojo comes driving down the street, slowing down just a little as he honks his horn over and over again as obnoxiously as he can. both you and the man behind you jump, head spinning to see where the noise is coming from. gojo continues beating down on the poor car horn, staring the man straight in the face with a look so murderous you had never seen before. the man stiffens up, turns around, mutters "fuck this," and books it back down the way you came.

despite the looming threat now gone, your body still trembles with fear as adrenaline courses through your veins. that was close, too close.

you don't notice gojo park his car. you don't notice his large strides as he rushes over to your shell-shocked figure. you almost forget he's even there until a tall body slams into you, gripping you with all his might.

air fills your lungs the moment gojo pulls you into his arms. you barely feel his hands running up and down over your body to make sure you weren't hurt. you simply grip onto his shirt and hold him as close to you as possible. as the scent of your lovely boyfriend fills your senses, you finally take your first deep breath after nearly an hour of pure fear.

"i got you, baby. everything's okay," he whispers into your hair, relief flowing through his body. to be honest, gojo didn't know what he was about to stumble upon when he arrived at the scene. on his way over, his mind was thinking up every scenario possible. the assailant on top of you, you on top of him, or even your body-

no. there's no need to think about that possibility, gojo reminds himself. especially when you're standing right in front of him, perfectly safe.

"i don't know, satoru. i was so scared. he kept getting closer and closer, and i just kept wondering what would happen the moment he reached me. i was thinking of breaking into a sprint, but of course i'm in these stupid fucking heels and i obviously wouldn't have had time to take them off and run. and god, i just kept thinking about you. what if i-"

gojo only holds you tighter. you bury your head in his shoulder, muffling your soft cries as your tears stain through his shirt.

"you're okay, sweets. i'm here now, and you're perfectly safe. we'll head home now, yeah? we can order some food and watch a movie, just like i said earlier. how does that sound?"

unwilling to show your tearful face, you keep your head buried in his shoulder. instead, you mumble out, "did you finish your paper?"

you can feel gojo smile, despite the fact that his shaky hands are still wandering all over your body.

"obviously not! i can't possibly focus without you next to me. what do you say we get out of here and head home?"

you feel a laugh bubble up in your chest.

"yeah, sounds good."

before you can open the car door, gojo grabs your hand and once again pulls you into him. his joking facade chips away as you hear that same strain in his voice. he lets out a long sigh into your hair before speaking up.

"i'm so glad you're okay, baby. i was really worried there for a second," he whispers, voice cracking near the end.

"i was okay because of you, 'toru. thank you for picking up."

"always."

he presses a long kiss to your forehead and then pokes at your side, laughing at your surprised yelp.

"let's go home!" he calls out, intertwining his fingers with yours and pulling you towards his car.

you grin.

[firelilyfox]

Cooldown

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: You are having a migraine and Bucky is happy his bionic arm can do something good.

Words: 1k

Warnings: fluff, migraine, dating Bucky, couple kissing

_______________________________

„Have you seen her today?“ Bucky asked looking for you in the living room. 

Yelena shrugs. „Nah, she haven’t been around all day. But I’ve heard Sam talking to Ava about her having a nasty brain thingy.“ 

„A brain thingy?“ He repeated in confusion and a little alarmed. He’d known that Yelena takes things kinda easy but if y/n had a bullet in her head or something she wouldn’t be this … chill, right? 

„Yeah … like the thing that comes when you are stressed. What is it called?“ She takes a big bite out of the apple in her head searching for the right words to describe it. „A migraine!“ 

„Ah shit. That’s not good.“ Ava takes a sharp inhale in empathy. „Sucks. She must’ve get the real bad ones if she is up there all day. Poor thing.“ 

With each word Bucky gets more nervous about your wellbeing. He had headaches before and bad ones too, but he’d never knew the difference between that and a real migraine. The only thing he knew was that people told him they were way more painful. 

„What do you do to make them go away?“ 

Ava raised her eyebrows. „Make them go away? Ha. Buck you are just to cute!“ She laughs but Bucky wasn’t in the mood for jokes and his expression made it pretty clear that he wasn’t to be fooled around with right now. „Well, you do nothing. You just let them pass.“ 

„So she is just at the mercy of time to pass by?“ 

Yelena chuckles. „Look at you. All worried about your woman.“ 

A slight warmth creeps up his neck and he could feel his cheeks getting warmer too. „She is not my woman.“ 

„Aw cut the shit, Barnes.“ Sam walks in with a big cheeky smile. „We all know you are down bad for this girl.“ He pats Bucky on the back. „And the walls are thin, ya know.“ 

„Alright, alright. Enough“, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighted in surrender. These people will be the death of him. „So what can I do to help her?“ 

„Make sure she drinks some water!“ Ava called. 

„Turn out all the lights. They hurt.“ Yelena adds rising the apple in acknowledgement. 

„And be quiet. Noise is just as painful as light. Especially if it comes from you.“ Sam laughs and gives Bucky another brotherly pat on the shoulder. Bucky flips him off immediately. He had a mission now, so he wouldn’t waste anymore time to talk to this knuckleheads. Bucky wanted to see his girl and make sure you get everything you need. 

The door clicked softly behind him. Your room was all dark except for a little gap in the curtains that let a bit of the sunset in. With a few long and soundless steps he made it over to the window and tucked the curtains tightly together to make sure not one inch would let any light in this room. 

„Mh… Bucky?“ You whimpered so silent he almost clutched his chest. Your pain was clearly hearable in you voice. 

„Yeah it’s me, doll“, he answered careful to not be too loud. „I wanted to check on you. The others told me you got a nasty migraine.“ 

Bucky stepped over to the big kingsized bed that was a big mess of pillows and different blankets. You curled up in the middle like a lost puppy. It was hard to see anything to clear but he could make out your silhouette. He sat down on the edge of the mattress. 

„I got you some water and painkillers just in case. Ava said they don’t work but I though maybe …“ 

„Can you stay? Please.“ You asked and reached blindly for this bionic arm. „I think I could need that right now.“ 

„All you want, doll. Of course.“ He didn’t hesitate and kicked his shoes off to snuggle up behind you. His armes opened wide in an invitation for you to hide away between them. But you had something different in mind. 

„Give me your hand“, you demanded weak. He obeyed without question and reached out his right hand. „No the other one, please.“ 

„What for?“ Bucky asked in confusion but still did as you told him. 

You took his bionic hand in yours and laid it on your forehead. A silent sigh of relief left your mouth. „That’s nice. God i feel like I’m burning up. You have no idea how much i needed you right now.“ 

Bucky chuckles softly. „If that’s what you want, doll, then I am always at your service.“ He places a soft kiss on your cheek while gently massaging your temples and offering you the much needed cooldown. „I’d do anything for you.“ 

„Anything you say?“ You ask with a smile in your voice. 

„Just say a word and you got it.“ 

„Kiss me, please.“ 

„Would that make the pain go away?“ Bucky asks amused and pushed himself up on one elbow. 

You slightly turned your head in his direction. All you could see was his pretty face in the darkness, only touched by the minimal light behind the curtain. „No but it would me help forget it. So will you help me forget?“, you ask sweetly. 

„Yes ma’am.“ 

You could feel his lips touching yours and this time Bucky was the one who sighted in relief. Gently tasting you as if you were the only thing important in this world right now. His cool bionic hand never looses the contact to your skin, worshipping you, protecting you from any harm. And it really worked. The headache slips almost completely in the background of your consciousness. There is only Bucky and his lips on yours. His warm hand on the side of your hip, gently pulling you closer to him. You let your hands wander up his muscled arms, over his strong shoulders and find his defined back. He let himself sink more on to you, followed the pressure of your hands pulling him down to you. 

Bucky pulled away, leaving the two of you a little out of breath. „Did you forget the pain already?“ He asked with a husky voice. 

„You’re a very good kisser.“ 

„That’s too much of praise. I would not say that my mouth can magically heal a migraine“, Bucky shakes his head with a little smile. „You should rest now. For real this time.“ 

You sighted in surrender. „Fine. You’re probably right. But you will still stay with me… right?“ 

Bucky placed a little kiss on the tip of your nose. „I wouldn’t leave you even if my life depended on it.“ 

[mononijikayu]

when twenty year old itadori yuuji told his new found college friends he liked tall women, a tall women with a big ass. well, to be exact he said it the way you would confess about dumb crushes: half-laughing, half-serious, waving it off with a grin.

it wasn’t like he thought the universe was actually listening to him. why would the universe actually be doing something like that? he didn't expect anything out of the universe, especially with his luck.

but the universe had heard him well enough. rather too loud and too clear. and it sent you. you, whom was the tall woman with the big ass. but you were mor than that, he was certain. you were more than the beauty that captured his eyes. and he wanted to know it all. he wanted to know all of you.

he spotted you on a random day across the university gym, standing tall and glorious under the harsh lights, surrounded by weights that would’ve made half the guys in the room cry.

you had on black leggings and a loose tank top that still somehow clung in all the right places. and your ass — good god, your ass — moved with each powerful lift, flexing and perfect.

yuuji froze mid-step, one foot still dangling stupidly in the air. his brain promptly emptied itself like someone had hit the reboot button. you weren’t just tall. you weren’t just strong. you were the blueprint.

and you didn’t even notice him at first. if anything, you were too focused on your form, your breathing, your next lift. it wasn’t until he started hovering nearby (and very badly pretending to stretch) that you finally looked over, pinning him with a curious glance.

caught red-handed all at once.

yuuji panicked. his mouth moved faster than his brain.

you blinked at him, watching the panic happen.

"uh—hi!" he blurted. "you're really strong! like, uh, scary strong! but in a super-hot way! not scary scary, like... cool scary? good scary? shit, i'm so sorry—"

you lowered the barbell with a heavy clang, straightening to your full height. you were tall enough that yuuji had to tip his head back a little to meet your gaze. he gulped, flustered. you were also taller than him. you smirked. a slow, devastating thing.

"are you always this smooth?" you teased, one eyebrow arching up, "or am i just lucky?"

yuuji went brick-red in an instant, maybe redder than the color red. he scratched the back of his neck like it might somehow save him from the crater of embarrassment he was digging.

"uh—depends....." he stammered. "you’re like... really distracting. in a good way! a great way. in an amazing way! fuck, i'm so sorry."

you laughed at his panic. you found it adorable, found him adorable. but all he could focus on was that your laugh sounded so beautiful. it was a warm, rich sound that settled low in his gut, turning nervousness into something electric.

taking a step closer, you leaned in just enough that he caught the scent of your sweat mixed with something sweet, like coconut shampoo. he didn’t know if it was your presence, your voice, or just your proximity, but yuuji could feel his heart slamming against his chest like it was trying to break free.

you tilted your head, mock-studying him. "you lift, too?" you asked, playful. "or are you just here to stare?"

"i—both?" yuuji admitted, laughing a little helplessly. "i mean, i can lift, but it’s...not gonna be as impressive as whatever you just did."

you looked him up and down, slow and obvious, like you were sizing him up from head to toe and whether it was mercy or mischief, you smiled wide enough that it crinkled the corners of your eyes.

"well that's a good thing." you said, mirth beaming from you. "i like a guy who knows when he’s outmatched."

yuuji's mouth suddenly went dry. all of his dignity was long gone, packed its bags and fled the building. all he could do was grin back, dumb and dazzled. all too down bad for you, you who was now the apple of his eye.

"guess i’m about to be your biggest fan, then." he said, flashing that golden retriever smile that made girls melt but this time, it was him who was hopelessly melting for you.

the universe wasn’t just listening. it was setting him up for the best kind of defeat. a defeat he knew that he would accept wholeheartedly. after all, he'll be losing to you and that would be more than worth it to him.

you tossed the towel over your shoulder and leaned your hip against the barbell, giving him a look that was equal parts mischievous and challenging.

"since you're such a big fan of mine, would you mind doing something for me?" you said, voice light, teasing. " how dould you like to spot me?"

yuuji blinked. once. twice. his brain clearly blue-screened for a second. "me? spot you?" he echoed, like you had just asked him to solve quantum physics with a crayon.

you shrugged, casual, but your smile said you knew exactly what you were doing. "well unless you’re scared to do it." you added, sweet and deadly.

that did it. itadori yuuji straightened up immediately, fists clenching at his sides like he was mentally psyching himself up for the battle of a lifetime.

"scared? me? pfft. no way!" he said, chest puffing up in a way that would’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so endearing. "i’m the bravest guy here. totally ready. born ready. yep."

"good to hear." you said, barely hiding your grin. "then come closer."

he scrambled to obey, practically tripping over a nearby dumbbell in his rush to get to you. when he finally positioned himself behind you, it hit him just how close he had to be. and worse, when you bent down to grip the bar again, your ass was right there.

right.

there.

yuuji went rigid. not because he wanted to. no, his body had officially gone into full emergency lockdown. he was sweating harder just standing there than he had during his entire workout.

he tried to focus on literally anything else: counting ceiling tiles, reciting multiplication tables in his head, wondering if he was having a heart attack at twenty years old.

you glanced back over your shoulder, catching the wide-eyed panic on his face. "you good back there, hero?" you teased, your voice dripping with mock innocence.

"y-yeah!" he squeaked, cracking his knuckles unnecessarily. "all good! super good! best spotter ever, that's me!"

you bit your lip to hold back your laughter and refocused, adjusting your grip. your muscles coiled, tense and beautiful, and then you lifted. it was heavy, controlled, powerful. the bar came up smooth and steady, and yuuji remembered just in time to hover his hands close to your sides, ready to assist if you needed it.

(you didn’t. obviously.)

still, when you finished the lift and set the bar down with a satisfying thud, you pushed yourself up slowly, straightening, and your back brushed lightly — deliberately — against yuuji’s chest.

he made a sound. a tiny, choked-off squeak that absolutely murdered whatever was left of his self-respect. you turned around fully, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead, and looked him over with a wicked gleam in your eye.

"not bad, huh?" you said, tapping his chest lightly with one finger. "for your first time spotting me, you didn't pass out. i’m impressed."

"i almost did, i think." he confessed immediately, voice wrecked and breathless.

you laughed once again. perhaps even brighter than ever before. perhaps even brighter than the sun. he knew it was a real, bright laugh from you. and yuuji thought he could live in that sound forever. even if he'd just met you. he knew that laugh would be the path to his future. because the future looked beautiful, knowing, hoping, you would now be in it.

"good thing i’m tough!" you said, tossing your towel over your shoulder again. "otherwise you might've had to catch me."

"catch you, yeah....i will." yuuji repeated, dazed. "i'd catch you."

you looked him up and down again, slow and thoughtful. "yeah." you said, flashing a grin. "i think you would."

then you turned and walked away, hips swaying just a little extra, leaving yuuji standing there, absolutely annihilated, red-faced, and head over heels for you and fully, 100%, your newest and most devoted gym groupie.

the universe didn’t just listen.

it gifted him you in absolute permanence.

and he wasn’t letting go of that miracle anytime soon.

itadori yuuji stayed frozen for a solid thirty seconds after you walked away, staring at the spot you’d been standing like he was trying to memorize the very air you’d touched.

his brain was just a loop of she talked to me, she let me spot her, she didn’t laugh in my face, holy shit she smiled at me—he snapped out of it when he realized he was still standing there looking like a confused puppy.

pull yourself together, idiot! he thought, giving himself a little shake.

he started clumsily gathering up some weights, pretending to be busy, stealing glances at you while you loaded a few more plates onto your barbell. he wasn't slick. not even a little. you caught him instantly.

you set the bar down and walked back over to him, casual, like you hadn't just completely rearranged his universe ten minutes ago. "hey, stranger." you said, stopping right in front of him.

yuuji almost dropped the dumbbell he was holding. "y-yeah?" he squeaked.

you smiled at him beautifully. it was a slow, almost lazy smile that made something crash inside his chest. it was everything and more. he just stared at you enthralled for a while as you pulled out your phone, tapped a few things, then held it out to him.

"put your number in, will you?" you said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

yuuji blinked at it, dumbfounded. "you—me—you want my number?" he stammered.

you laughed, like he was the cutest thing you’d ever seen. "yeah, of course!" you said. "unless you'd rather just keep awkwardly hovering and tripping over dumbbells every time you see me."

he flushed scarlet. "no! i mean yes! i mean—i'll put it in!"

he fumbled his way through typing his number into your phone with trembling hands, somehow managing not to drop it on the floor like an idiot. he handed it back to you, standing so stiff it looked like he’d forgotten how arms worked.

you glanced down, smirking when you saw what he’d saved himself as: yuuji (your #1 fan 🐶)

god, he was hopeless.

you quickly shot him a text almost immediately. it was just a simple "hey 👋" because you couldn't think of anything else.

but the little hey was good enough. you watched his phone buzz in his pocket. he immediately yanked it out like it was on fire, staring at your name on the screen with wide, shining eyes.

he looked up at you like you’d just handed him the winning lottery ticket. "this is real, right?" he blurted. "like, you're actually texting me? you're not gonna... vanish or something?"

you laughed, tossing your towel back over your shoulder again. "i’m real." you said, winking. "and if you’re lucky, you’ll get to spot me again. maybe next time, i’ll even let you take me out for protein shakes."

yuuji made a noise that wasn’t even a word, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, and you turned on your heel and sauntered away before he could embarrass himself any more.

he watched you go, still clutching his phone like it was a sacred artifact. he didn’t know what kind of cosmic miracle he had stumbled into, but one thing was for sure: he was never missing leg day again.