#IDK if I should put spaces between the names or not | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunsburns · 4 months ago

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forget it — joaquín torres (marvel) !

⟢ synopsis. request: reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!

⟢ contains. spoilers for brave new world! joaquín torres x nurse!reader, so much angst you’re gonna want to block me!! mentions of death, blood, gore, possible inaccurate medical procedures (i am not a nurse idk how that works), open ending but it's honestly realistic and cute.

⟢ word count. 13.7k+

⟢ author’s note. i learned medical terms for this

You like to think that every decision you’ve made has shaped you into the best version of yourself.

A better student, a better nurse, a better person. You’ve spent years honing your skills, pushing yourself past limits, ensuring that when it matters most, you’ll be capable—prepared. You might not have superpowers, enhanced genes, or combat training, but you have your mind, your steady hands, your patience. That’s what makes a difference in the field you’ve chosen. That’s what saves lives.

And it’s paid off. You don’t work at just any hospital—you work at this one. A private facility that caters to soldiers, government agents, and the kind of people who make headlines when things go wrong. The kind of people who disappear into classified reports. The kind of people you don’t expect to see lying unconscious under your care.

But you love your job. You love the structure of it, the control. You love the fact that, in a world constantly spinning off its axis, you can still do something that makes sense. You have your patients, your colleagues, your friends, your family. You still go out when you can, still make time to shop, and still remember to water your plants. Life is steady. Good.

And yet—

There’s something missing.

It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the hospital halls are still, and the steady beep of a heart monitor is the only thing filling the silence. It lingers in the space between breaths, in the pause before you check a chart, in the phantom weight of something you can’t quite name. A presence that once was, or maybe never was, but should have been.

You have everything you’ve ever worked for. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?

You don’t let yourself dwell on it. It’s ridiculous. You have your health. You have your life.

And you know better than anyone how fragile both of those things can be.

You remind yourself of how lucky you are because you’ve seen the alternative too many times. Lives wrecked and ruined by things far beyond anyone’s control. You’ve watched the light fade from seven pairs of eyes. Seven people who didn’t make it. Seven moments that carved themselves into your memory, no matter how hard you try to forget.

You haven’t even been working for three years.

And yet—

You’d hate to see the day when someone you love is one of them.

The thought grips you too tightly, too suddenly, and you only realize you’ve been staring at your hands under the running faucet when the sound of your name cuts through the fog.

“Look what I made!”

You blink, water still rushing over your fingertips, skin already pruning. A slow exhale leaves you as you reach for the faucet, shutting off the tap. The chill lingers on your skin even as you tear a paper towel from the dispenser, crumpling in your damp grip as you turn.

Maria is sitting up in bed, dark eyes bright with excitement as she holds out a carefully folded piece of olive-green paper.

She beams at you, her small fingers cradling the delicate shape with a reverence that makes your heartache. It takes a second for recognition to click. An origami bird.

“What’s this?” you coo, stepping closer.

Maria is a few weeks shy of nine. She should be at home planning her birthday party, picking out a cake, laughing with friends. Instead, she’s here. Confined to this sterile room, surrounded by too-white walls and the soft beeping of machines monitoring the inexplicable changes in her body. She isn’t dying. But she isn’t getting better, either.

Exposure to some strange quantum disturbance in San Francisco had led to her transfer here, to Washington, under your care. Away from reporters, away from speculation, away from anyone who might pry too closely while the government tries to figure out what happened to her.

“It’s a bird. Like the one on TV.” She explains, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the wings.

You glance at the television, expecting to see another nature documentary—the kind she’s grown fond of in the past few weeks. But when your eyes land on the screen, you freeze.

A news channel. A live interview. Captain America and the Falcon, still in their gear, standing at an Air Force base. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a blur. Something about a mission. About another near disaster averted.

Falcon stands just behind Captain America, posture sharp, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression serious but composed. His suit still bears the scuffs of combat, a faint tear along the armoured plating at his ribs. You wonder if it hurts. If he’s bleeding. If he even let anyone check.

A small huff leaves your lips before you can stop it.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him. Now, here he is again, on a screen in a hospital room, larger than life.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” You force a lighter tone, turning back to her, moving to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” you ask, forcing a lighter tone as you move to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“I love superheroes,” she exclaims, voice full of unshakable certainty.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

She watches you closely, studying your face with a look that’s far too perceptive for someone her age. Then, after a beat—

“Who’s your favourite Avenger?”

You pretend to think about it. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe... Hawkeye?”

Maria immediately groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly makes you laugh. “That’s so boring!” She throws her arms up in exasperation, nearly tugging her IV loose in the process.

“Hey, hey—“ you reach out, gently taking her hands, steadying her before she can do any real damage. “You’re really gonna judge me for that?”

“So boring,” she insists, her signature sass making an appearance. “My mom likes Thor because he has big muscles.”

You snort. “Wow. Okay. And what about you?”

Maria’s expression turns mischievous, blushing slightly as she glances back at the screen.

“The Falcon.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays put. You should have seen it coming, the way she lit up at the sight of him on TV, but it still catches you off guard.

Because for Maria, it’s admiration.

For you, it’s something else entirely.

“He’s so cool,” you manage, your voice lighter than you feel. “I don’t think he’s an Avenger, though.”

Unless he is and you have missed that entire chapter of his life. A lot had happened in the last few years—you wouldn’t put it past him to just forget to mention something like that. Not that either of you were on speaking terms anyway.

Maria grins, a small, mischievous thing, and before you can move, she takes your hand in hers and presses something into your palm.

“Here.”

You glance down.

The bird.

You blink at the delicate folds of olive-green paper, the slight tilt of its wings. It’s small, fits perfectly in your hand, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

“You have it.”

You open your mouth—to tell her she should keep it, that it’s hers—but the words never leave your throat. The sincerity in her gaze keeps you quiet, so instead, you close your fingers carefully around the paper bird, holding it like something fragile.

“Thank you, Maria,” you say softly.

You still have the bird.

It sits on your nightstand even now, weeks later, its delicate folds untouched, a reminder of that small moment. Of Maria.

You hadn’t thought much about that conversation at the time. Maria’s gift had been sweet, and you had found it endearing—the kind of innocent kindness that children offered so easily.

It wasn’t every day you cared for someone so young in this hospital, and while that was a blessing, it didn’t make it any easier when that child was rolled in on a stretcher.

And it wasn’t until a week later that you remembered Maria’s words.

Not until you watched a familiar face get wheeled into the hospital.

You had heard about it first—on the news, in passing conversations between coworkers. Another mission. Another near-tragedy. Another casualty.

And then you saw it.

The frantic rush of bodies in the emergency bay. The whine of a helicopter’s rotor blades still echoing through the halls, rattling against the glass doors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burning your nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood—so much blood, too much of it pooling beneath the stretcher, staining the floor, the sheets, the hands of every ER staff trying to keep him together.

Your coworkers moved fast, their voices sharp and urgent as they swarmed the broken, battered body like bees to a collapsing hive. You barely recognized him at first. His suit—scorched in places, torn in others—hung off him in tatters, the once-pristine armour dented and smeared with something dark.

His skin was pale—too pale.

His lips were slightly parted, chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps like every breath cost him something.

The blur of medical jargon barely registered in your mind, words overlapping, breaking, reforming into pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But certain ones still made it through the haze, lodging themselves somewhere deep inside you, where they twisted like a knife.

“Heart palpitations—“

“Severe burns—“

“Broken arm—“

“Breath is weak—“

“We’re gonna need a defibrillator—“

“Won’t make it to the OR—“

Your heart stuttered.

You would’ve rather never seen Joaquín Torres again for the rest of your life than see him like this. Like that.

And after that, you were moving on autopilot.

The rest of the day blurred together, slipping through your fingers like sand. You went through the motions, nodding when spoken to, keeping your hands busy, but nothing really stuck. The only thing that did was time—how it crawled, stretched, and bled into itself.

One hour turned to two.

Two turned to four.

Four turned into a sharp, sickening pause.

You were just about to punch out for the night, car keys hanging loosely from your fingers when you heard it.

“His heart gave out. Medically dead for T-minus 30 seconds. Extra hands needed.”

You froze.

The words echoed, hollow and distant like they were being spoken underwater. A strange ringing had started in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was real or just something inside your own head—maybe both.

You had already been hesitant about leaving without checking in on him. You could’ve gone in. You had clearance. But you didn’t.

And now?

Now, you were hearing his heart gave out?

Your mind ran ahead of you, filling in the gaps before you could stop it—could almost hear the faint, dull whine of the machines, the inevitable, lifeless flatline.

The surgeon calling out the time of death.

Your own heart lurched violently in your chest.

Your feet were moving before you even made the decision, carrying you faster than you thought possible. You nearly crashed into the doors of the emergency wing, swiping your card into the OR viewing room, stumbling into the dimly lit space. Your breath came short, choppy, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your eyes locked onto the glass.

And then—

“Clear!”

Joaquín’s body jerked violently, his back arching off the table before collapsing again.

From where you stood, you couldn’t see or hear the monitor. Couldn’t tell if there was a beat or if it was still that awful, empty silence.

“Clear!”

His body seized again, limbs convulsing before falling limp.

You flinched, a breath hitching painfully somewhere inside you.

The panic clawing up your ribs only loosened when you saw the doctors start to relax, their frantic movements easing back into precision. You watched, rooted to the spot, as they worked—saw the ventilator strapped tightly around Joaquín’s face, the way they were cutting into him, the deep burns covering his side.

But it didn’t feel like him.

He looked dead.

He looked so, so dead.

Your fingers dug into the ledge of the viewing window, knuckles white.

And suddenly you can remember the last time you saw him. A memory that grabs you like a vice.

He was so alive, and he was crying.

His eyes were red and bloodshot, but he wasn’t making a sound. Just staring at you, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands—warm, steady even in their trembling—gripped yours, his touch so familiar, so safe. His fingers curled around your palms like he could keep you here just by holding on tight enough. Like if he let go, he knew he would never get to touch you again.

His skin burned beneath your fingertips.

Like home.

But the warmth of him, the heat of his touch, it didn’t reach his eyes. And you knew—God, you knew—this was the last time.

The ring that sat on your finger was like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

You hadn’t even noticed the way your breath had started to shake, the way your shoulders had drawn in like you could shield yourself from what was coming. The weight of his forehead pressing against yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, the rise and fall of his chest meeting yours in a rhythm that was almost enough to trick you into believing, for just a second, that nothing had to change.

And then he pulled away.

It was slow like he was giving you time to stop him. Like he wanted you to stop him.

But neither of you moved.

His fingers ghosted over your left hand, tracing over the ring like he was committing the shape of it to memory. You swore his breath hitched when he touched it, but he didn’t hesitate. Not when he curled his fingers around the band. Not when he gave the gentlest, barely-there tug.

The metal slipped from your skin.

The absence was instant. A phantom weight. A missing limb.

Your breath stilled.

He turned it over in his palm once, twice, before slipping it into his pocket, the movement almost absentminded. Like he wasn’t crumbling apart inside. Like he wasn’t shattering this thing between you both with his own two hands.

And then you kissed him. And he kissed you back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate. A broken thing—raw, aching, more plea than passion. His lips pressed to yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like regret, like grief, like goodbye. There was no hesitation when his fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, no distance between your bodies when he pulled you in, chests flush, like he was trying to fuse himself to you, trying to rewrite the ending of this moment with the press of his lips alone.

You tasted the salt of tears.

Yours or his, you couldn’t tell.

You felt his hands tremble when they skimmed over your skin. It hurt—fuck, it hurt—the way you knew neither of you wanted to pull away, but you would. You had to.

But you stayed. For a minute. For a breath. Lips lingering, foreheads pressed together, hands gripping tighter even as the seconds slipped away from you both.

He was the first to move.

The absence of his lips was instant—a cold, hollow thing. But he didn’t pull away entirely, not yet. His nose brushed against yours, his fingers curled at the back of your neck, like if he could just stay here for another second, one more second, maybe none of this had to be real.

Then, finally, painfully, he let go.

That kiss was one that lingered, burned, long after he was gone.

He was alive then. And so were you.

But when the door shut, a part of you had died.

And watching his body, motionless on that operating table, you thought maybe a part of him had, too.

It was hard to grieve someone who had never died.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there, staring through the glass, until someone says your name.

Your body jolts, and when you spin around, you're surprised to find Sam Wilson standing a few feet away. His voice had been steady, but his eyes—God, his eyes—heavy with something unspoken, something worn. You wonder how long he’s been there. You think it must’ve been a while, judging by the exhaustion shadowing his face. The bags under his eyes aren’t just from one night of lost sleep.

You’ve met him plenty of times before—hell, you’ve had dinner with the guy on multiple occasions—but something about seeing him now, here, leaves you speechless. Maybe it’s because he’s not just Sam. He’s Captain America, the man Joaquín idolized. And he looks... helpless.

You feel your entire body tense. “Sir—“ Your voice cracks at the word, and you hate it.

Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just... I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and...” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“I…” You swallow thickly. You should say something. Anything. But you don’t know how to find the words.

“Were you working?”

You glance down at your scrubs as if you need to confirm it. “Yeah... I just... I heard about his heart, um... how long was he...?”

Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. But he does. “Two minutes.”

You suck in a breath, sharp and cold, and instinctively look back through the glass. Joaquín is still now, the chaos momentarily subdued. He’s always been restless, always in motion, a man who never seemed to sit still to save his life. And now he’s just... lying there. You feel nauseous.

You don’t know what to say. You think Sam doesn’t either.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry. For Joaquín. I never meant for this to happen. I’m always telling him to be more careful, but you know how he is—”

Do you?

You don’t know how much someone can change in the time you and Joaquín have been apart. You think you still know him. You remember how he used to be—stubborn, hard-headed. Kind, too. Always quick with a response, always teasing. Always warm.

You don’t think you’re remembering him the way Sam asks you to.

“Um... sorry.” You blink, realizing how long you’ve been zoning out. You should say something more. Something meaningful. But your throat is tight, and your hands shake at your sides. Sam looks just as lost as you feel.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Are you okay?”

Sam blinks. He looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Am I—? Are you okay?”

You nod too fast, stuffing your hands into your back pockets. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding you in the moment. “Yeah, I just… You were out there too. Did you get hit? I can check for a concussion.”

Sam says your name, and the way he says it—soft, sad—makes your lip quiver. When he steps forward, you don’t resist. You meet him in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth solid and steady. You tuck your face into his chest, only realizing you’ve been crying when you see the darkened patches on his shirt. He smells like coffee, and—funnily enough—a little bit like Joaquín.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is tight, thick. Like he’s been holding back his own grief for too long.

You hum under his hold. “It’s not your fault,” you say because you think it’s what he needs to hear. You don’t know what happened out there, don’t know who made what call, but Sam relaxes just a fraction at your words. You hug him back.

The hours bleed together after that. You sit with Sam in the waiting area, watching the surgery unfold from a distance. Neither of you leave for long—only to grab coffee, maybe splash cold water on your face—but you don’t sleep. Sam doesn’t either, even when you suggest it. He stays rooted to his chair, jaw clenched, watching the clock.

He doesn’t move until the surgery is almost finished, until the surgeon is finally stitching up Joaquín.

And even then, he stays put.

So do you.

It’s nice, in a way, sitting in this heavy, aching silence. You don’t know what you would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you weren’t.

Sam seems to relax even more when a friend of his shows up—Bucky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in person before, but you recognize the way Sam’s shoulders loosen just slightly like something fragile inside him can take a break. Bucky nods at you, then at Sam, and without a word, he takes a seat next to him.

You don’t say anything either.

Because you don’t need to.

For the first time in hours, Sam exhales like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.

You leave only when he urges you to, though it takes less than a minute after Joaquín is sent out for recovery.

You barely remember the drive home. The world outside the hospital blurs past in streaks of streetlights and empty roads, your hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. Every red light feels longer than it should, every breath harder to take. By the time you step inside your apartment, exhaustion settles in your bones, but sleep never truly comes. You close your eyes and see glimpses of him—Joaquín on the operating table, still and silent in a way he never should be.

You wake up before the sun rises, restless, your body aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.

By the time you return to the hospital, it’s at a strange hour—too early for the day shift, too late for the night crew. The hospital is caught in that eerie in-between where the halls are too quiet, where the few people still moving about do so in hushed voices. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, stark and artificial against the pale blue of the walls.

You’re running on espresso shots and the growing pit in your stomach, a weight that presses heavier with every step.

Joaquín is here. You know that. You have known that for almost twenty-four hours now.

But the thought still makes your hands cold. It was easier when you didn’t know what State he was in, or what he was doing—if he was even in the country.

You don’t let yourself think too much about it. You go through the motions, moving from patient to patient, checking vitals, signing off charts, trying to push through the fog in your mind. It almost works—almost—until you step out of Maria’s room and spot Amanda, the Chief Nursing Officer, walking toward you.

She smiles, clipboard tucked under her arm, but there’s something in the way she looks at you. Something unreadable.

You can already feel the dread start to wrap itself around your ribs.

“Hey, how’s it going?” she asks, falling into step beside you.

“Good,” you reply automatically. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes your tablet, her fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. You furrow your brows, taking it from her, but your stomach twists at the hesitance in her gaze.

“There’s been a bit of a change,” she finally says. “Kit’s taking over Nicholas now.”

That makes you pause.

You've been taking care of Nicholas for a little over a month, an older man who came back from the blip different, well… different was a nice way to put it.

“Oh?”

Amanda nods, opening a new file on your screen before watching you closely. “Here,” she says, passing you the updated patient file. “Your new assignment.”

You take the tablet, adjusting your grip as you glance down at the screen—only to feel the air sucked from your lungs.

Captain Joaquín Torres.

The name alone makes your heart lurch, when did he become a captain? But then your eyes drop to the image beneath it.

You freeze.

Joaquín, unconscious. His skin is bruised, his face pale under the harsh lighting of the hospital room. The ventilator is taped to his mouth, bandages covering his side where the burns must be. He looks… wrong.

Your stomach turns.

“Um.” You barely recognize your own voice. “I don’t think I can take this one.”

Amanda’s brows knit together. “Why not?”

“It’s…” You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how dry your throat feels. “It’s a personal case.”

“I know.”

That makes you look up, and when you do, Amanda is already watching you with that same careful expression—understanding, but unwavering. “That’s why I’m assigning it to you,” she says, soft but firm.

You stare at her, trying to process the words.

“Familiar faces help in recovery,” Amanda says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Waking up to someone he knows might do him some good.”

Your grip tightens around the tablet, fingers pressing into the smooth surface as your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Not everyone gets shot out of the sky by the military and lives to tell the tale.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

But Joaquín isn’t just anyone.

And it’s been a long time since you’ve been a familiar face.

Would he even want to wake up to you?

You don’t ask that. You don’t let yourself. Instead, you swallow around the knot in your throat and force a nod. “Okay.”

Amanda watches you for a moment, searching your face like she can see everything you’re trying to hide. Then, she squeezes your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “You got this.”

You wish you believed her.

You suck in your pride as Amanda walks away and your fingers tighten around the tablet as you glance down at Joaquín’s medical file, his name printed in bold letters at the top. You already know his blood type, his medical history, his baseline vitals—things you shouldn’t still remember but do anyway. It feels strange seeing them laid out so clinically like he’s just another patient.

Your thumb swipes down the screen, scanning through his injuries. Severe burns on the left side of his torso. A broken radius and a fractured humerus on his right arm. The notes estimate he’ll be unconscious for a few more days, maybe a week at most. The doctors don’t think it’ll be a long coma.

He might wake up anytime.

Your stomach twists.

The live security feed on the tablet shows a grainy, black-and-white image of him, still and silent in the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of bandages and hooked up to machines that beep in steady intervals. The sight of him like this, unmoving, is almost more unsettling than the injuries themselves.

The elevator ride to his floor feels endless, but when the doors finally slide open, the hallway ahead stretches on like something out of a dream—too long, too empty, too quiet. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead fills the silence, and your shoes barely make a sound against the polished tile.

You’ve never hesitated like this before. No patient has ever made your heart pound this hard before you’ve even stepped into their room.

You stop in front of the door, your ID card clutched tight between your fingers.

He is hurt, you remind yourself. A wounded soldier. He needs care. That’s all this is. Just do your job.

Your hand trembles slightly as you swipe your card for clearance, and for a second, your eyes flicker down—out of habit, maybe—toward your left hand. The ring is gone. Has been for a long time.

You press your lips together and push the door open.

The room smells like antiseptic and fresh flowers.

Your eyes find him instantly.

He’s barely recognizable beneath the layers of medical care—IV lines, gauze, the rigid brace securing his arm. But it’s still him. His curls have grown out, the longer strands curling over his forehead, though the sides are still neatly trimmed. His face is slack with unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as he breathes in slow, measured rhythms.

There’s already a small collection of bouquets on the bedside table, a mix of bright yellows and deep reds—he always liked bold colours. You know more will come, especially once his mother finds out what happened. You pity whoever has to make that phone call.

Your pulse is loud in your ears as you move toward the sink, washing your hands on autopilot before slipping on a pair of gloves. The scent of hospital soap clings to your skin even beneath the latex.

You set the tablet down and step to his bedside, the weight in your chest settling heavier now that you’re standing this close. You can see the damage now. The discoloration where the burns peak through the bandages, the bruises blooming beneath his skin. His arm rests stiffly in its brace, fingers curled loosely at his side.

You hesitate before touching him.

Then, with careful hands, you reach for the hem of his hospital gown, lifting it just enough to expose the bandages on his torso. The dressings are damp, already beginning to seep through.

Too gentle.

You’re taking too long, moving too carefully. This should be routine—cleaning, reapplying, monitoring for infection. But your hands linger a second too long over his skin, your fingers ghosting over the edge of a bandage before you force yourself to focus.

You work in silence, methodical but deliberate, peeling away the old dressings and replacing them with fresh ones. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your hands, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless body.

When you finish, you pull the blanket up to his chest, tucking it carefully around him.

You don’t leave right away.

You should. You have other patients to see, and other rounds to make. But you linger for a moment longer, just watching him.

Being here—being this close—feels like stepping into something half-forgotten. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to remember.

With a quiet exhale, you turn away, stripping off your gloves and tossing them in the bin before grabbing the tablet again.

This is just a job.

And you have work to do.

The next few days slip into a pattern—one you follow carefully, almost methodically, because routine is easier than thinking too much.

Joaquín remains unconscious, but his condition improves. You can see it in the subtle things: the way his breathing becomes steadier, how his colour starts to return beneath the bruising, how the tension in his features eases little by little. His body is still healing, but it’s doing what it’s supposed to—recovering, piece by piece.

Somewhere along the way, his mother and grandmother are flown in.

You make sure you’re nowhere near the hospital that day. You tell yourself it’s because you need the rest, that you’ve been pulling extra shifts, that you could use the break. But you know the truth.

You aren’t ready to face them.

You can barely bring yourself to stand in the same room as Joaquín, let alone look his mother in the eye. She always had a way of seeing right through you, of reading between the lines of what you said and what you didn’t. You don’t want to know what she’d find if she looked too closely now.

So you take a sick day. You ignore the tight feeling in your chest when you imagine them sitting at his bedside, his mother smoothing down his curls, his grandmother murmuring quiet prayers over him. You wonder if she blames you. If she thinks you should’ve been there when it happened. If she wonders why you’re here now, after all this time.

But you don’t ask. You don’t want the answer.

The next morning, when you step back into Joaquín’s room, there are more flowers.

The table beside his bed is overflowing now—bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, lilies, roses in every colour. Some are from coworkers, others from people you don’t recognize. A small card tucked between them catches your eye. You don’t pick it up, but you already know who it’s from.

His mother’s handwriting is easy to recognize.

A fresh wave of guilt washes over you, but you push it aside. You busy yourself with checking his IV, adjusting his blankets, making sure everything is in order. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, save for the occasional rustling of flower petals when a breeze drifts through the open window.

Sam visits often.

He comes at random hours, able to bypass the strict visiting times the hospital has set up, sometimes lingering for only twenty minutes, sometimes staying for hours at a time. You catch glimpses of him in the security feed before you even enter the room—his tall frame slouched in the chair beside Joaquín’s bed, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a book.

He plays music sometimes, a quiet hum of familiar songs drifting through the room. You recognize the playlist—the same one Joaquín used to blast while working late, the one he’d force you to listen to whenever he got too excited about a new artist. It’s a mix of genres, the kind that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.

You pretend you don’t notice the way Sam watches you when you walk in, his eyes lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something. But he never pushes. He just nods, sometimes offering a small update about Joaquín’s family or a passing comment about work before settling back into his chair.

Neither of you talk about the fact that Joaquín still hasn’t woken up.

Instead, you go through the motions.

His burns are healing faster than you expected. The bandages come off, revealing raw, pink skin that will take time to fade. His arm is no longer suspended from the ceiling, the rigid brace replaced with a looser sling. His body is catching up with itself, putting itself back together the way it always does.

You try to keep the windows open as the sun sets later and the spring weather gets warmer, letting the sun come into the room. You hope it might bring back that golden tan to his skin.

The air in his room changes as the days go by. The tension shifts—subtle, but there.

The sun sets later now, casting golden light through the blinds in the evenings. You start leaving the windows cracked open, letting the spring breeze filter in, replacing the sterile scent of antiseptic with something softer.

It makes the room feel less like a hospital and more like something else. Something warmer.

But warmth can be deceptive.

Because the closer he gets to waking up, the more real this all becomes.

And you still don’t know what’s going to happen when he finally opens his eyes.

One day, while cleaning his burns, you notice something—something small, but enough to make your breath hitch.

The heart monitor.

The steady rhythm you’ve grown so used to suddenly shifts—just a faint change, barely noticeable, but it’s there. You freeze, your gloved hands hovering over his burned skin, waiting to see if it happens again. The beeping stabilizes after a moment, falling back into its familiar, constant pattern.

You swallow hard, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Maybe it was nothing. A fluke. You’ve seen it happen before—small involuntary fluctuations that don’t mean anything. You force yourself to shake it off, to keep going.

But the moment your hands brush against his skin again, the heart monitor spikes.

This time, you see it. The sudden jump, the erratic beep, the undeniable reaction.

You pull back immediately, like you’ve been singed. Your heart lurches, panic flashing through you because—did you hurt him?

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan his face, searching for any sign of pain. His expression doesn’t change. His eyes remain closed, his body still. But the numbers on the monitor flicker with every beat of his heart, betraying what his body won’t show.

And then it hits you.

He feels it.

He’s not just lying there, unaware of the world around him. His body is reacting. It means he’s drifting, slipping from unconsciousness, slowly clawing his way back to waking.

Your chest tightens.

This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you should want.

You should be relieved.

But you’re not.

Because for all the times you’ve wished he’d open his eyes, you never stopped to think about what it would mean when he finally did.

What if the first thing he sees is you?

What if he looks at you and all you find in his face is resentment?

What if he asks why you’re here? Why you even bothered?

Your breath catches in your throat, torn between anticipation and fear. Your fingers curl into your palms, gloves crinkling under the pressure. You wait, holding yourself still, eyes locked on his face, waiting for the inevitable flutter of his eyelids, the slow, unfocused squint as he adjusts to the light.

But it never comes.

His breathing stays even, his lashes unmoving, his expression unchanging. His body is stirring, but his mind isn’t ready yet.

Your hands feel cold.

You force yourself to take a step back, creating distance—just in case. You reach for the tablet to record the change in his vitals, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what almost happened.

You practically jump out of your skin when a voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and frantic.

“¡Mija!”

Before you even see her, you feel her—Esperanza’s presence sweeping toward you like a storm, her heels clicking against the tile. The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in her arms, your face pressed against the soft fabric of her floral blouse, caught in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you.

“Mi amor, ¿cómo andas?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and affection.

You barely have a chance to respond, still stunned by the unexpected embrace. She smells the same—warm vanilla and roses, a scent so deeply tied to holiday dinners that it nearly knocks you off balance.

When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t let you go completely. Her hands clasp yours, fingers curling over your knuckles like she’s afraid to let you slip away again.

“Esperanza,” you manage, breathless.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lips pulling into a grin so familiar it makes your chest ache.

“What are you doing here? Visitors can’t be here for another hour,” you point out, grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, scoffing like the very idea is ridiculous. “Ay, enough with that,” she chides. “When has that ever stopped me?”

And then she stops. Really looks at you.

Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten.

“Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, flustered. “I look like a mess,” you correct, glancing down at yourself. You’re in scrubs, nearing the end of a long shift, and you know you must look exhausted. Especially after dealing with Maria throwing up glowing vomit all over you earlier today. There’s no way you look anything close to hermosa.

But Esperanza just smiles knowingly, squeezing your hands once before tugging you toward the chairs lining the hallway. She sits down, keeping her grip on you like she’s afraid you might disappear through her fingers if she lets go.

You follow, hesitating only slightly before settling into the seat beside her.

"It’s been so long," she says, her brows furrowing with something between disappointment and relief. "You haven’t called in months. I thought you were sick! Do you hate me?"

"I could never hate you," you say quickly, shaking your head, a little horrified she would ever think that.

And then she smacks your arm.

"Then why haven’t you answered my calls?" she scolds, her voice laced with exasperation. "Your mother tells me you moved away and what? I don’t hear a word from you?"

You blink. Your mind stutters at the revelation.

"Wait—" you pause, trying to piece it together. "My mom… and you? You’ve been talking?"

Esperanza gives you a look, like it should be obvious. "Of course," she huffs. "What, you thought just because you and Quino broke up, I was going to stop talking to my comadre?" She rolls her eyes like the very idea is ridiculous. "Por favor."

Your mouth goes dry.

Your mother and Joaquin’s mother—keeping in touch this entire time. Behind your back. Talking about you, probably about him, too.

Your stomach churns, and suddenly, there’s something heavy pressing against your ribs.

You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.

"Oh, lo sé," she sighs, exasperated. "The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If it were up to me, you two would’ve been married by now. Given me a grandchild, too."

Your laugh comes out a little too flustered, a little too forced. You glance around the hallway, avoiding her gaze, trying to ignore the way your heart wrings at the thought.

"Yeah," you mutter because you don’t know what else to say.

Esperanza exhales, her posture softening. She lets go of one of your hands just to reach up and brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same gentle touch Joaquín used to.

The same way he always did when you were talking too much, or overthinking, or when he just wanted an excuse to touch you.

You let out a long, quiet sigh, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

It’s too much.

Too much familiarity, too much of your old life creeping back in all at once. You don’t think you’ve gotten enough sleep to process any of it properly.

"Mija," she murmurs, her voice softer now, more careful. "I don’t care whether you and Quino are together or not. I loved having you around. I still want to have our little chats. You are like one of my own. And when he told me you broke up, I just…" she shakes her head, pressing her lips together like she doesn’t want to say it. "I hate that it took him getting hurt for us to talk again."

"Esperanza…" you start, but she just shakes her head again.

"I know, I know. Perdóname," she says, waving it off as she stands up. She smooths down the front of her dress and sighs. "It’s so good to see you again, mi amor. You keep taking good care of my son. I’ll be in the city for another week, so please—call me. Maybe we can get coffee."

Before you can respond, she scans her visitor’s pass on the key panel and walks into Joaquín’s room, disappearing behind the door without another word.

But she leaves the question hanging in the air, thick with nostalgia and something painfully close to longing.

And she leaves the scent of rosy perfume lingering in her wake.

You stare at the closed door, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest.

You should go. You need to go—your tablet is already beeping, pulling you back to reality, reminding you that there are other patients who need you, that there’s a crisis waiting for you three flights down.

Still, you hesitate for just a second longer, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat before finally turning away.

There’s no time to process this right now.

But you have a feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to shake this conversation anytime soon.

Maria’s hand grips the IV pole tightly, her small fingers curling around the metal as she rolls it beside her, careful not to let the wheels catch on the tile. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a soft glow over her—too pale against her skin, too sterile—but despite it all, she beams.

You’ve never seen someone so excited just to walk.

But today is special. It’s her birthday.

She didn’t ask for much—just this. A chance to stretch her legs, to be somewhere other than her hospital room. Her parents had begged you to keep her busy while they decorated, slipping streamers and balloons inside the room like they could somehow make up for lost time.

Maria hadn’t argued. She had just grinned up at you when you asked if she wanted to go outside.

Now, she’s practically glowing, her feet sinking into the grass as you lead her through the small hospital garden.

She tips her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the breeze ruffles her hospital gown, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Pink cherry blossoms sway on the branches above, petals drifting onto the ground like delicate confetti.

"Did you know cherry blossoms only bloom for a few weeks?" you tell her.

Maria gasps. "Really?"

"Yep. It’s called hanami in Japan. People go outside just to watch them bloom."

Her eyes widen in pure delight. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. They should be watched. They’re so pretty."

You smile. "Yeah, they are."

For a moment, she just stands there, soaking it in. And you let her.

It’s one of those rare times when she doesn’t look like a patient. No tubes, no machines, no sterile smell of antiseptic—just a kid. A kid enjoying the sun, the air, the simple beauty of something fleeting.

She sighs, finally pulling herself away. "Okay. I’m ready to go back in."

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. I don’t wanna get in trouble for being outside too long. It’s my birthday, but I think Nurse Kate would still yell at me."

"Yeah, probably," you say with a chuckle.

The hospital halls are quieter than usual, the usual hum of voices and distant beeping fading into soft background noise. Maria walks beside you, still clinging to her IV pole but with a bit more confidence in her steps.

She doesn’t drag her feet anymore. That’s new.

Her body is stronger than it was weeks ago—no more trembling hands, no more laboured breathing after short walks. It’s a victory, even if it’s small.

Maria suddenly gasps, gripping your arm and her feet skid against the floor. You barely have time to react before she jerks to a halt, her entire body going rigid, eyes locked on something ahead.

Her mouth falls open.

"The Falcon?!"

Your stomach drops.

"Maria—"

"The Falcon is here?!"

Before you can stop her, she takes off, darting toward the digital display outside one of the hospital rooms. The screen flickers with patient information, vitals, and medication logs—

Torres, Joaquín

Maria’s hands slap over her mouth. "Oh my God."

"Maria," you warn, but she’s already clambering onto one of the chairs lined against the wall, pressing her face to the glass window beside the door.

"Oh my God! It's him! It's really him!" She whirls around, panic-stricken. "Is he dead?"

You lurch forward. "What? No." Your hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her before she tips over. "He’s just sleeping."

"Can I go say hi?"

"No."

"It’s my birthday."

"Maria—"

"Please!"

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly.

This was not in your job description.

You glance at the window, frowning. You weren't supposed to let anyone into a patient’s room unless they were authorized. Especially not another patient. There were rules. Strict ones. The last thing you needed was for someone to get sick, for someone to get hurt, for someone to wake Joaquín up before he was ready—

But then you look at Maria.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement, hands clasped tightly like she’s holding back from bouncing on her toes—the youngest patient in the entire building. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, she’s looking at Joaquín because he’s a real-life superhero, someone she’s only ever seen in headlines and shaky phone recordings.

And Joaquín… Joaquín loves kids.

He always has.

You’ve seen it firsthand—the way he kneels when he talks to them, the way his face lights up whenever he makes one laugh, the way he always offers high-fives like it’s second nature. Even now, even unconscious, the thought of him being the reason behind Maria’s uncontainable joy tugs at something deep in your chest.

It feels like something he would want.

And maybe… maybe this is okay. Maybe this is good—a reminder that people out there care about him, even the ones who have never met him.

Still, you hesitate.

You’re comfortable taking care of him now.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

No more denial. No more excuses. No more pretending that seeing him like this—unmoving, caught somewhere between here and wherever his mind has drifted—doesn’t scare the hell out of you. You’ve accepted that you miss him, that you still... care for him, even after everything. But stepping into that room again—with Maria, of all people—feels like a step toward something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Because Joaquín is here. So close. Close enough to reach out and touch, to whisper his name and wait for that slow, teasing smile to appear—the one he always gave you when you were being too serious. Close enough that you should feel relieved.

But he’s also impossibly far.

No teasing smiles. No dumb jokes. No knowing looks from across the room. Not even anger of having you near. Just silence. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the machines working to keep him stable.

For days, you’ve watched him. Sat beside him. Checked his vitals. Changed his bandages. Waited.

But then Maria looks up at you, eyes round and pleading.

"Okay," you exhale, already regretting it. "But you have to be really quiet so he doesn’t wake up, okay?"

She nods, lowering her voice, "Okay."

Maria is practically bouncing with excitement as you swipe your keycard and push open the door. Sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, cutting warm streaks across the floor, across Joaquín’s blankets, across his still form. The midday hum of the hospital filters in from the hallway, muffled but present. The steady beeping of the monitors tracks his heart rate, a slow, even rhythm, while the IV beside him feeds a clear solution into his veins.

Maria tiptoes inside like she’s afraid of disturbing something sacred.

You don’t blame her.

Because up close, he looks even more unreachable. The bruises along his temple have faded from deep purple to a softer yellow-red, but the cuts on his face are healing. His lips are chapped. His hair is messy against the pillow, a sharp contrast to how put-together you remember him.

You move—more out of instinct than anything—because lingering in the doorway makes it worse. The small cart beside his bed is stocked with fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze—everything you’ve used to help keep his wounds clean these past few weeks. Without thinking, you pick up his chart because you've forgotten your tablet, scanning the latest notes, his most recent vitals. Stable. No new concerns. No change.

Maria whispers something, but you don’t catch it.

You blink, glancing at her. "What?"

She’s staring at Joaquín, her small hands gripping the edge of his blanket like she’s afraid to touch him, but wants to.

“He’s even prettier up close,” she breathes.

Despite yourself, you smile. "Yeah? You think so?"

She nods seriously.

There’s something achingly familiar about the way she looks at him—like she’s trying to memorize him, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she blinks.

You know that feeling.

Because you’ve caught yourself staring at him the exact same way.

Like if you look long enough, you might commit him to memory all over again. Like you can make up for the lost time, for the time that has slipped through your fingers. You study him—not just the broad strokes of him, not just the familiarity of his face, but every little thing you’d forgotten during your time apart, the things that had slipped from your mind.

There is a faint stubble that’s started to grow along his jaw. And now you notice little moles dotting his skin, scattered in ways you don’t recognize from your memories or dreams of him—they were always focused on the bigger picture, the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he loved you.

Now, it’s the details that root you to the present.

The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket. The steady hum of the monitors. The warmth of his skin when you reach out, pressing two fingers to his wrist, feeling the familiar, comforting rhythm of his pulse beneath your touch.

You check his vitals—his heart rate is stable, his oxygen levels are good, and his IV fluids are running properly.

Maria exhales softly, still watching him, her voice quiet as a breath.

"I think he’s gonna be okay."

You let out a slow, measured breath, your thumb grazing over the back of Joaquín’s hand—just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of him.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."

It’s enough. For now.

Your fingers slip away from his, the warmth vanishing almost instantly, and you start to usher Maria back toward the door. But as you move, something shifts—so small, so quick, you almost think you imagined it.

Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his.

Your heart stutters.

A rush of warmth blooms in your chest, something fragile and desperate, something that wants to hope, to believe that it means something. That he felt it.

Swallowing, you make a quick note on his chart, recording the small movement even though it could be nothing.

Even though it could be everything.

You exhale, trying to ground yourself, trying to shake off the way your heart is pounding now, loud and heavy in your ears. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Maria tugs at your sleeve, glancing up at you, her own expression somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.

You force yourself to move. To turn away. To guide her toward the door, because whatever flicker of hope just sparked inside you is too fragile to hold.

But then—

A sound.

Low. Faint. Hoarse from weeks of silence.

Your name.

Spoken.

Maria gasps softly.

And you—you freeze.

The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale, and your fingers go rigid against the door handle. A slow, involuntary shiver runs down your spine, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Did you imagine it?

You must have.

But then you feel it—Maria’s small fingers wrapping tightly around your hand, clutching at you with quiet urgency.

Because she heard it too.

Your name. A whisper, raw and barely there, but there.

And it came from him.

Joaquín.

The hospital room feels smaller now, charged with something delicate and terrifying all at once. The air thickens, pressing against your chest as you slowly—slowly—turn around, terrified that if you look, it’ll be gone.

That it was just a trick of your desperate mind.

But it’s not.

Because Joaquín’s fingers twitch again.

His brow furrows, lips parting slightly, throat working as he struggles to form a sound, his voice raw and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.

Maria gasps, gripping your sleeve, her excitement barely contained, but you don’t register it.

Because Joaquín’s eyes are fluttering open.

For a moment, he stares blankly at the ceiling, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven breath. His body remains rigid, like his muscles haven’t caught up with the fact that he’s conscious. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze—just a hazy sort of confusion, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then, he moves.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, then curl. His breath hitches. The faint beeping of the heart monitor quickens. His body tenses, his shoulders pulling in as if bracing for impact.

His gaze shifts—and lands on you.

The second your face comes into focus, his entire body jerks.

A sharp, ragged inhale drags through his chest. His pupils constrict. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach for something—like he’s searching for something solid.

His breathing changes. It’s not just uneven anymore—it’s too fast, too shallow. The rise and fall of his chest is quick, erratic, his ribs barely expanding with each breath.

Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking.

"Me morí."

The words repeat, over and over, almost like a prayer.

"Me morí. Me morí. Me morí."

His voice trembles. His fingers fist the blanket. Tears well in his eyes and slip down his temples, silent, unchecked.

Your heart lurches.

You move instinctively, stepping closer, hands steady even as your pulse pounds in your ears.

"Hey, hey," you soothe, voice low and careful, placing a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe."

Joaquín flinches at the touch, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers. His head turns slightly, his gaze darting, frantic, searching—taking in the room, the medical equipment, the IV in his arm. You can tell his body wants to move, to fight, to run, military instincts kicking in. But he’s still weak, his limbs heavy, uncooperative.

His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. Too fast. His whole body is reacting before his mind can catch up.

"Joaquín." You keep your voice steady, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter him completely. "Can you hear me?"

His gaze snaps back to you.

Something flickers in his expression. Recognition.

His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, his hands still tremble against the sheets, but his shoulders drop just barely. Some of the tension bleeds away.

His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. His throat works through the effort.

Then, at last, a hoarse, broken whisper.

"Hi."

Your breath catches.

Your fingers twitch against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding you as much as you hope you’re grounding him. You press your palm there just a little longer, just to reassure yourself he’s real, that he’s awake.

"Hi," you whisper back.

His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory.

Like he’s afraid you might disappear.

"Hi," he says again, quieter this time.

Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat.

"Hi, Joaquín."

A slow, trembling exhale leaves his lips. His body sags into the pillow, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. His fingers unclench from the blanket, the tension in his muscles fading—but not entirely.

Because when you start to let go, when your fingers begin to lift from his shoulder, he twitches beneath your touch.

The hesitation is so subtle that you almost miss it—almost.

A flicker of something crosses his face, something unspoken, something aching. You worry he's hurting.

It reminds you of another time, a different moment in a different place. Years ago, Joaquín slouched in the passenger seat of your car, showing you his newly earned stitches after getting beat up by a Flag-Smasher, laughing through the pain while you frowned.

"You gotta stop scaring me like this."

"I’m trying, I swear."

You remember the way his eyes had softened in the dim streetlight, the way he had looked at you then. The way he kissed you to take your mind off of his pain—how neither of you had wanted to let go.

And now—now, as your fingers hover over his shoulder, as he doesn’t look away—it feels exactly the same.

Only this time he can't kiss you.

Only this time you can't wipe his tears away.

You force yourself to pull back, to let your fingers drift away, even as your hand aches to stay.

Joaquín swallows hard, blinking sluggishly as his gaze flickers to the IV in his arm, the monitors beside him, then back to you. His lips press together briefly as if he’s gathering himself before a rough, scratchy mutter escapes him.

"Ah, shit. I screwed up so bad."

The sound of his voice—dry, raspy, but carrying the faintest hint of that familiar humour—makes something in your chest crack wide open.

A breathy, wet laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.

"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?"

Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.

You don’t give yourself time to process it.

Instead, you turn, pressing the call button for the doctor. "Come, Maria," you say, voice quieter than before.

Maria, who's gone strangely silent since Joaquín woke up, rushes to your side without hesitation. But she does nearly break her neck to keep looking back at him until you pull the door shut, sealing that moment away.

You exhale, resting your back against the wall for half a second longer than necessary before forcing yourself to move.

The doctor arrives quickly. You straighten up, rattling off Joaquín’s vitals, every detail you can remember—his initial reaction, his moment of panic, his response to stimuli, everything. The words come automatically, like muscle memory, like routine. You focus on that, on the familiar rhythm of procedure, handing off the responsibility to the doctor so she can begin running tests, checking his neurological responses, assessing how much damage—if any—his body has endured after so many days in forced stillness.

The weight of your exhaustion presses heavier against your shoulders as you upload his files to the system, sending them over before turning your attention back to Maria.

"You did good, Maria," you tell her softly as you lead her back to her room.

She just nods, but there’s something distant in her expression now.

You get it.

She’s just witnessed the moment. The one where everything changes.

It’s the moment where the panic stops being panic and turns into something else—something messier, something heavier.

It’s the moment where the question “what if he never wakes up?” turns into something just as terrifying:

“He’s awake. Now what?”

Her parents are waiting when you bring her back, and you don’t stay. You let them have that moment for her birthday, closing the door gently behind you before turning back into the hallway.

And then you’re alone.

For the first time in hours, in days, you’re alone with nothing to distract you.

Your hands are shaking. You hadn’t even noticed at first, but now you can’t not notice—the tremor in your fingers, the way your pulse hammers too fast against your ribs, the way your body suddenly doesn’t know what to do with itself now that you’re not running on pure adrenaline.

You sink into one of the chairs outside Joaquín’s room, bracing your elbows on your knees. The motion feels stiff, foreign—like your body isn’t quite yours anymore.

Your eyes sting.

Joaquín is awake. He’s awake.

He spoke. He looked at you. He recognized you. He remembered you.

You should feel relief. You should feel something good.

And yet.

It’s like coming up for air after being stuck underwater too long—except just as you’re about to take a full breath, it’s ripped away again.

Because now that he’s awake… he can speak to you.

He can react to what you say, to what you do.

Maybe he’ll ask for a different nurse. Maybe he’ll ask to be transferred to another hospital back in Miami or something. Maybe, when his voice isn’t so raw and broken, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks about the fact that you were the one sitting by his bedside all this time.

And God, you don’t know if you can handle that.

You drag your hands down your face, pushing out a breath. You don’t have time for this.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reminds you that Sam—or Joaquín’s mother—is bound to show up any minute now. The news will spread fast, and soon, his room will be filled with people who have been waiting for this moment, praying for this moment.

Shit.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before forcing yourself up. You should be in the room right now with the doctor, checking over Joaquín’s vitals, taking actual notes instead of spiraling in the hallway. Get your shit together and do your job.

Your movements feel sluggish as you reach for your tablet, swiping your ID card at the door. The scanner beeps, and for a split second, you hesitate—your fingers still lingering on the door handle, your chest tight.

Then you force yourself to step inside.

The room is brighter now, bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the window. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the quiet hum of machines. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is too steady, too real.

The doctor is already mid-assessment, having raised Joaquín’s bed into a slightly upright position as she runs through a neurological check-up.

Joaquín is watching you.

His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting.

You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare.

You wonder if you’ll get kicked out for distracting him.

"Oh, great, you’re back," the doctor says, breaking through the static in your brain. "Do you mind grabbing some water for Captain Torres? I’m just about done here. Everything looks good and healthy. He’s recovering well."

You nod, already moving before your thoughts can catch up. Autopilot. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded at this point.

Still, you feel it.

The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.

You crouch, retrieving a bottle from the mini fridge, fingers twisting at the cap before stepping back toward the bed. That’s when it hits you—he can’t take it. His muscles are still sluggish, his coordination not quite there yet.

You pour some into a paper cup instead, stepping closer when the doctor gives a nod of approval. Joaquín doesn’t say anything.

The tremor in your hands is almost imperceptible, but you feel it when you lift the cup to his lips. The moment your fingers brush his skin, a muscle in his jaw tenses.

His heart monitor beside the bed jumps.

Your eyes snap to the screen, but the doctor catches it first.

"Interesting," she hums, her tone just teasing enough to send heat creeping up your neck. But she lets it go.

"So, Joaquín," she continues, "We’re gonna have to do some blood work tomorrow, just to make sure everything is alright internally. We’ll up your dose of painkillers now that you’re awake."

"Awesome," he mutters, voice scratchy but laced with dry sarcasm.

She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."

Then she turns to you.

"I’ll let Amanda know he’s awake. But you did a good job—woke up sooner than we expected."

You blink, caught off guard by the compliment.

"Thanks."

"I’ll come back later for a check-up."

And then she leaves.

The door clicks shut, and there is a silence that follows.

You stand there, hands gripping the tablet against your chest, unsure of what to do. Well, you know what to do—your duty is clear. You should be checking his vitals, updating his chart, making sure he’s comfortable.

But that’s not what’s stopping you.

It’s him.

Awake. Looking at you.

Joaquín Torres, alive and conscious and blinking at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t just another fever dream.

His voice comes quiet, hoarse, a low grumble you barely hear over the rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor.

"You took care of me?"

Your breath catches.

It’s a simple question, but it knocks something loose in your chest. Because it’s him asking. Because he’s here to ask it.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. Your gaze flickers over him—not just the wounds, but all of him. The way the sunlight filters in through the window, warming the stark white of the sheets, reflecting in the deep brown of his eyes. He looks more alive now, and maybe it’s the light or the steady rise and fall of his chest, but for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to believe it.

He’s here.

Breathing. Talking. Alive.

And yet—his dead face still haunts you.

The memory lingers in the corners of your mind, just out of reach but never truly gone. His stillness, the unnatural slack of his features, the too-loud silence of a body that had once been so full of energy, of life. The image is burned into your brain, playing over and over again like a cruel loop. The moment you thought you lost him.

The tears in his mother’s face.

The look of dread on Sam.

The guilt.

"Uh, yeah. I did."

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Joaquín exhales, long and slow, as if processing your words. Then, he tries to smile.

It’s small, faint and unsteady like he isn’t quite sure how to do it yet. The corners of his lips curve, but there’s a hesitation in the movement, like his face isn’t used to the motion after so long.

Still, he tries.

And when his eyes meet yours again, your stomach twists, sinking deep like an anchor dropping into dark water.

"I… I know it’s just your job, but—" His voice falters, but his gaze doesn’t. "Thank you."

Right. Your job.

The words settle into your chest like a weight—familiar, suffocating.

Because you remember the last time he said that to you.

Your last fight.

Well—it wasn’t really a fight, was it?

Not the kind with screaming and shattered glass, not the kind where anger built up and spilled over, reckless and sharp. It was quieter than that. Heavier. Because in the end, it wasn’t about anger.

It was about exhaustion. About wanting so badly to hold on to each other but realizing, little by little, that neither of you had hands free to do it.

You had barely been sleeping.

Between overnight shifts at the hospital, classes, training, and trying to be the best nurse you could be, your time wasn’t your own. It belonged to the people who needed you—the patients, the emergencies, the long nights where your body ached and your mind ran on fumes.

And Joaquín?

He had thrown himself into working with Sam, into proving himself, into becoming something bigger. His missions got longer. The risks got greater. He was gone more often than he was home, and when he was home, he was bruised, exhausted, a shadow of himself trying to piece together the scraps of a normal life between deployments.

You tried to make it work. God, you tried.

You spent so much time missing each other—passing like ships in the night, phone calls that never lasted long enough, conversations cut short by a code blue or a mission call.

At first, you thought it was temporary. That one day, things would slow down. That eventually, you’d find a rhythm that let you breathe with each other again.

But that day never came.

Instead, the gaps between you grew wider.

The distance stretched, and stretched, and stretched—until one night, you were sitting across from each other, and you both knew.

"I can't do this anymore, Joaquín."

You had whispered it.

Not because you didn’t mean it, but because saying it any louder might have broken you.

He had looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back.

Like if he just held on long enough, you’d change your mind.

"I know... You know, I love you," he had said, low, firm, desperate.

And that had been the worst part.

Because love wasn’t the problem.

It had never been the problem.

It was everything else.

Your job. His job.

The nights spent apart, the exhaustion, the never-ending fear of opening your front door to a folded American Flag. You couldn’t stand watching him bleed.

And he couldn’t stand knowing that one day, you might not be there to stitch him back up. That was the last time he said it. "But it’s my job."

Like that was supposed to make it better.

But now, you’re standing in his hospital room, staring at proof that it never got better. Because you had left to protect yourself from seeing him hurt. And now you had seen him dead.

"Of course," you manage to say, wincing when you hear your voice break.

Joaquín hums softly, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s looking for something in your face—like he’s searching through memories neither of you have spoken aloud in years.

But then, his gaze flickers away. Over to the table. To the mess of flowers stacked in unsteady vases, their petals bright in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of display that only happens when someone is lucky enough to wake up.

His brow creases. "How bad was it?"

You swallow, feeling something sharp lodge itself in your throat. "You were shot out of the sky by a missile."

His lips part. "Right."

"It was pretty fucking bad."

A beat.

"Right."

You don’t know what you were expecting. Some kind of reaction, some flicker of acknowledgment for the hell he’s put you through. But instead, he just takes it—like it’s another report, another piece of intel.

You hesitate, something bubbling up inside you. You can’t tell if it’s anger or sorrow. "You died."

The words hit the air, heavier than you expected.

Joaquín blinks, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitch against the blanket.

"I died?"

You nod, biting your cheek so hard you taste iron.

"Yeah," you force out. Your throat tightens. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again. "Two minutes."

He’s staring at you now. Eyes wide. Disbelief creeps into the edges of his expression, but not enough—not enough for someone who actually understands what that means.

What it means to you.

"Oh."

You scoff. "Yeah. Oh."

Your laugh is brittle. Sharp around the edges. Because what else is there to say? Joaquín dies for two minutes, and you’ve spent days living inside them.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

"God," he mutters. "Sam’s gonna be so mad at me."

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because this wasn’t how you imagined seeing him again.

In your head, there were a million other ways this could have gone—maybe you’d run into each other in the future when you were older. When things had settled. When you’d moved on.

Maybe you’d both be married to other people.

The thought makes you sick. But this? This is so much worse.

"Do you, um, do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"

"No."

You nod, but you don’t believe him. Patients are usually peckish when they wake up—a sign of life returning to their bodies, a reassurance that things are moving forward. And while he’s not allowed solid foods for another twenty-four hours, you could bring him a smoothie, something light.

But if he really wants something, he can call you.

You tell yourself that as you turn toward the door.

"Can you stay?"

You linger because you didn’t expect it.

Because you kind of hoped he would ask.

Because he didn’t ask you to stay last time.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, gripping your tablet a little tighter, as if the tension in your body could be contained in that single movement.

"Yeah," you say softly. "I can stay."

You turn back to him, and Joaquín is already looking at you.

His eyes are pleading.

It takes everything in you not to break right there. To not spill over.

You force yourself to move, careful, measured steps toward the chair beside his bed. It feels like you’re wading through something thick, something unseen, like grief or memory or all the what-ifs you’ve tried to bury.

You sink into the chair slowly.

A strand of hair falls into Joaquín’s face as he leans back against the pillows, the bruising on his cheekbone catching the light just enough for you to hate it.

Your fingers twitch again. The urge to brush it back is unbearable. But you don't.

He exhales.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard.

"Last night." you answer, almost automatically.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not really."

A beat.

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that."

"Something on your mind?"

"Lots on my mind."

The words slip out easily, like an old habit. No walls. No defences. It’s like no time has passed at all, like the space between you hasn’t been filled with anger, regret, and time apart. Just raw, open honesty in the quiet of the room.

The weight that’s been crushing you for days feels a little lighter in the space between his questions and your answers. You exhale, and only then do you realize you’re holding back tears.

You wipe at your face absently, surprised to find wetness there. You hadn’t even known you were crying.

Joaquín shifts in the bed, his gaze sharpening. There’s concern in his eyes, guilt, and maybe something else—something deeper. He looks away, clearing his throat, as if trying to fight it.

"I hope it's not me you're worried about,"

"I'm always worried about you."

You glance away from him, pretending it’s nothing, but the words hang between you both, too heavy to ignore.

His breath catches, something in him faltering, and then you catch the slight, almost imperceptible way his fingers curl into the sheets. His ears are pink, the flush spreading down his neck. He’s always been terrible at hiding how he feels, and you’re helpless against it. You always have been.

You can’t look at him. You don’t want to admit how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve been carrying around since the breakup. How much he’s haunted every quiet moment since you walked away.

"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—"

"I miss you."

Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"

"It's true, I do." His voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you again, and I just…" His gaze drifts from yours, like he’s struggling to put it all together. "I couldn't get it out."

You swallow hard, feeling that familiar ache well up in you. “I miss you too. It’s been... it’s been really hard.”

"Yeah." He nods slowly, his voice softer now. "It has. But, you know, I’m the Falcon now. Can you believe that?" He chuckles, but it’s almost nervous, as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make you smile. "I work with Captain America. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I’ve got to show up, but this... this is all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a kid. I’ve got it now. But... there’s something missing."

You look at him, really look at him, seeing the difference in his eyes now—less brash, more tired but still so much the same. "Yeah. Yeah, I feel it too. It’s like a nagging feeling, right? No matter what we do, it’s there."

"Make me feel guilty." His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tired.

"Like I wanna vomit," you reply dryly, the familiar banter slipping back into place before you can stop it.

Joaquín’s eyes soften as he lets out a breath, and there’s an edge of regret in the way he says, “I’m sorry I left.”

Your heart aches at the words, and you feel the old wounds crack open. "I’m sorry I made you leave." You’re not sure whether you’re trying to make him feel better or punish him with your own guilt. Either way, it burns.

“No,” he says quickly, “It doesn’t work that way.”

"But it does," you insist, your voice soft but firm.

He presses his lips together, brow furrowed, as if trying to work through what you’ve just said. "I should’ve fought harder," he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly.

"Joaquín... c’mon. Let’s talk about this later, okay? You just woke up from a coma. I can’t be putting this much stress on your mind."

"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate.

“I know, I do too,” you admit,

“Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.

"Rest first." You place a hand on his shoulder gently, urging him to lay back. “You’ve been through a lot. I can’t let you burn yourself out again.”

“I’ve been resting. Had the best nurse in the world take care of me,” he teases, trying to distract you with a smile.

You feel the tug in your chest at his words. "And I will still take care of you. But you need rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," you confirm, trying to smile, to soothe the tension you’ve both built up.

"Will you still be here?"

You glance down at him, a familiar warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him so vulnerable, so human. "I’m not going anywhere. Will you still be here?"

His smile softens, a quiet promise in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

#listen to blood orange while reading 🫶🏽#they make out and fuck after this i promise #faye’s writing ⭑.ᐟ #joaquín torres #joaquín torres x reader #joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #joaquin torres imagine #joaquin torres fluff #joaquin torres fic #joaquin torres fanfiction #the falcon #the falcon x reader #joaquín torres smut #joaquin torres smut #joaquín’s wings

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burguesinha24 · 5 months ago

Text

KITTY KAT

a/n: I need her… P IS FOR PUSSY P-U-S-S-Y, THAT PUSSY

Pairings: personaltrainer!Vi x f!reader

Warnings: she does indeed take you to pound town, very self indulgent (i hate working out), fingering, oral (you receiving), spitting (tehe), kinda fluffy idk, semi-public sex GRRRAH

Song: Kitty Kat, Megan Thee Stallion (our queen)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The gym.

One of the worst fucking places in existence.

Who the fuck could ever take pleasure in being sweaty and tired and sore?

You, apparently.

You didn’t necessarily like working out. (It was the bane of your existence) But your doctor had said it was healthy, and it was New Year’s, so now was as good a time to start as any. Plus, it gave you an excuse to wear the adorable sports bra and skirt combo your sister had gotten you.

As expected, the gym was absolutely packed. You could see white dudes flexing from every corner, along with a few (glorious) muscle mommies. Unfortunately, the universe did not seem to support your dream (that was whole-heartedly pushed on you by your friends and doctor) of getting fit for the year.

“Apologies, ma’am, but we just don’t have enough space at the moment.” You stared down at the poor, overworked receptionist and frowned, credit card already in hand.

“Really? But I can spot a few extra spaces-”

“It’s a fire hazard, ma’am. You’ll have to wait outside or come back at an earlier time.”

“There’s really no space? At all?” The teenager looked down at the computer in front of him.

“Well, we do have available spots with our private trainers, but you’d have to pay for the session. As well as an extra fee for being so last-minute.” You cursed under your breath, moving to put your credit card back in your bag when someone cut you off.

“I’ll take her.” You looked up at the sound of the voice, only to find piercing blue eyes already staring at you. It was scary, honestly, how fit she was. Her messy pink hair flopped carelessly to the side, over one of her eyes, and her body was littered with tattoos. She was already glowing, probably from an earlier exercise. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her grey sweats as she walked over to the teenager behind the desk.

“You sure, Vi? You don’t usually ta-”

“I said I’ll take her, Ekko.” She glanced up at you again, an easy smile playing on her ridiculously attractive features. “She looks like she’s never stepped foot inside a gym before.” Your face flushed at her absolutely correct observation. Her gaze darted down to take in your appearance, shamelessly dragging up and down your frame. You suddenly felt a little self-aware about the light pink set you had decided to wear, even if your sweater was drowning your figure.

Fuck, I do look like I have no idea what I’m doing.

“I’ve been inside a gym before.” You finally responded, frowning at the way her grin only grew.

“Sure you have, cupcake.” Your heart pounded erratically at the nickname, and you silently cursed the universe for putting you in the position to make a fool of yourself in front of such an attractive woman. The teenager behind the desk, Ekko, glanced between the two of you, sighing and turning back to his computer with a look that said, ‘I-don't-get-paid-enough-for-this’.

“Alright, that’ll be-”

“Free of charge, Ekko.” You tore your gaze from her hypnotic blue eyes to look down at the young man. He raised an eyebrow. “Fine, whatever. I gotta give a reason, though. What should I code in? That you were too horny to-” She coughed loudly, drowning out the rest of his sentence. He smirked at her as she sent him a harsh glare.

“I’ll deal with that later, just give her a damn card.”

One sibling-like argument later and a shiny new membership card in your hand, you found yourself in one of the training rooms with the attractive stranger.

Vi.

Her name echoed in your mind. You wondered what it was short for. Victoria? Vivian? Vienna? She watched as you set your stuff down in the corner of the room, nervously fiddling with your water bottle until it finally decided to stand upright without falling over. She eyed you expectantly as you turned around.

“What?” You finally said, picking at the fabric of your sweatshirt.

“You gonna take that off?” Your cheeks flamed. “I don’t go easy.” She tilted her head. “I would hate for you to get uncomfortable and sweaty before we even start.” Holy shit the way she was talking had you second guessing what you were really here for. You obeyed her request, (because, duh) slowly sliding off your sweatshirt to reveal the set you had chosen out for today. Something flickered in her eyes as she drank in the sight of you.

Shit, she had thought you were hot in the lobby, but this? This was just fucking unfair. You looked like a goddess. Your skirt just barely hung half-way down your thighs, and your bra pushed up your breasts in a way that had her mouth watering. She quickly tore her gaze off of your body as you cleared your throat.

Get it the fuck together, Vi.

“So, what are your goals, hm? Any particular things you want to hit?” She made her way over to the closet in the room, sifting through the selections of weights and trying to ignore the heat thrumming through her body that had nothing to do with her previous workout.

“I don’t really know. I guess just… being healthy?” You sounded so shy, so tentative. She fought the shudder that was threatening to roll down her spine.

“Well, I guess I’ll start you off easy. Work on your core,” Now it was your turn to shudder. “Maybe hit some squats too.” She turned back around, closing the closet and tilting her head to better look at you. “Just to get a lay of the land, hm, cupcake?” Your face felt like it was in a perpetual state of fire. You nodded eagerly.

She made her way over to you after turning on some music that felt way too sensual for a workout. (of this type, anyway.)

“We’re gonna start with some stretching, ok?” You fiddled with your fingers, nodding like a child being instructed by a teacher. Vi circled your form before settling on standing behind you, her hands gently resting on your hips. “Gonna need you to spread your legs for me, pretty.” The words, whispered so softly and so dangerously in your ear, almost made you gasp. You tilted your head to look back at her, eyes blown (adorably, if she might add) wide. She grinned, a seductive, dangerous thing that made your panties drop. (Figuratively). She raised an eyebrow. “What? I don’t want you to pull a hamstring, cupcake.” You swallowed thickly, trying to will away the increasingly inappropriate thoughts that were crowding your mind.

Slowly, slowly, you spread your legs, biting back a whimper as her hand snaked up your back, gently pushing your upper body down into a sort of downward dog position. The burn you felt in your legs was almost embarrassing. The moment you were down, fingertips brushing the floor, Vi’s gaze went straight to your ass.

“Fuck.” The words slipped past her lips before she could even realize what she was doing. She tucked her bottom lip under her teeth, dragging the hand that was on your back higher, just tracing the curve of your ass.

You were wet.

She could see the faintest of outlines through the thin layer of your undershorts.

You whimpered, legs shaking ever so slightly from the strain of the stretch. (You really needed to workout more)

Now she was wet.

Without even thinking, she grabbed you by your ponytail, yanking you up into a standing position. The force of her movement made you stumble, your legs still awkwardly stretched wide. Thankfully, she had stuck out her knee for you to sit on.

“I think,” She breathed in your ear, a hot, heavy thing that sent an embarrassing amount of slick oozing out of your cunt. “That we should focus on a different type of workout, hmm, cupcake?” You nodded slowly, dazed. And fuck, was she a woman starved.

In a second you found yourself on the floor, looking up at her with wide, desperate eyes. You clenched your thighs together, your hips rocking up into the air for some form of friction. She took her time, just staring at you. At the way your hair fanned out around you like a halo, the way your breasts moved with each shuddering breath you took, the way you looked so, so wrecked. A dangerous grin spread across her face.

She was going to ruin you.

There was not a single coherent thought in your mind as she hastily dragged your skirt and panties off of your legs in one, harsh tug. She was manhandling your legs open, and you swore she whined at the sight of your glistening arousal.

“Fuck, baby.” She whispered out hoarsely. You squirmed under her gaze, cheeks burning in embarrassment as you tried to close your legs. “No no no no no, don’t you fucking dare.” She dragged her middle finger down your slit, gathering up your juices before bringing her finger to her mouth and sucking. “Been dreaming of this sweet pussy for so long.” She moaned out.

“B-but, we just met like, h-half an hour ago.” You sputtered out, your cheeks rosy and your eyes hazy with lust and confusion. She grinned again, lowering her head so she was a hair's breadth away from where you needed her most.

“Thirty minutes is a long fucking time, cupcake.” You didn’t even have time to process her words before she was wrapping her lips around your clit, giving it a harsh suck that left you keening.

“Oh, f-fuck!” You gasped out, back arching at how her tongue skillfully lapped at your pussy. She hummed against your burning flesh, the vibrations against your puffy clit making your toes curl. The obscene sounds of slurping and squelching filled the room, and you might have had half a mind to care about it if you weren’t so fucking far gone by the feel of her mouth.

“Taste so good, princess.” She mumbled against your skin. You dared to look down and, fuck, she looked even more wrecked then you were. Her eyes hazy and half-lidded, cheeks flushed and shiny from your juices, and her hair sticking to her face with each deliberate suck. You could vaguely make out how she was grinding against the ground, but she pulled away before you could actually think of helping her as well. You whined at the loss, reaching down to try and tug her closer to you.

“P-please-oh-” You gasped as she spit on your already slobbering cunt, once, twice, three times, before she was satisfied. Your clit twitched as the globs of her saliva attacked it.

“Shh, baby, trying to make sure your nice and messy f’me.” She rubbed a few quick circles on your clit with her thumb before prodding at your entrance with her pointer finger. Her eyes were glued to the way your face contorted as she pressed into your cunt. “Fuck, you’re so tight.” She whispered in awe.

“OhmygodViplease.” Your begging was nothing more than a long string of incoherent words. She chuckled, pressing yet another long, thick finger into your opening.

“Fucked dumb already?” She cooed, thrusting into you shallowly. You almost sobbed. It was only when she added a third finger that she was finally satisfied. Her slow, shallow thrusts turned fucking manic. Her eyes never left your face as she curled her fingers up with each thrust searching for-

“Fuck!” You squealed, your walls clamping down on her like a vice. She crawled up your frame, leaning down to nip at your neck before thrusting in that same spot again.

“Found it.” Her gazed dropped from your face to look down at her fingers as she fucked you, her mouth parting open in awe at how you were swallowing her up, you arousal dripping onto the floor beneath you. It didn’t take long before you were on the very precipice, just dangling off the edge of oblivion. She pressed down harder on your clit, and then you came.

Your back arched into an almost painful position, your fingernails digging into the floor for something to anchor yourself to. She whispered in your ear as you saw white, her fingers still fucking you through your orgasm.

“Shh, I’ve got you, I’ve got you. There we go, perfect fucking pussy.” She finally stopped as you collapsed, boneless on the floor. You turned your head to look up at her, smiling tiredly.

“What’s your name short for?” She grinned.

“Violet.”

“Mm, pretty.” You winced as she closed your legs, then blushed as she sucked her fingers clean. “What about you?” Your brows furrowed as you pushed yourself up by your elbows.

“You can do me later. After our date.” You blinked in surprise, your mind still a little hazy.

“Date?” She stood up, then helped you stand on shaky legs.

“Well, our session has ended, so I figured we could pick things up at your place, maybe. I know a bomb-ass asian restaurant just off Main.” You smiled softly, and it made her beat just a little faster.

“Yeah, alright. I’ll see you then.” You walked out of the private room looking a hell of a lot more disheveled then when you first walked in. Ekko rolled his eyes, praying to whoever was up there that he wouldn’t have to clean any suspicious stains from the floor.

You looked down at your phone as it pinged, smiling to yourself as you read the message.

Hope you enjoyed our workout, cupcake ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: my first ever like actual fic pls don't kill me guys ik its kind of shit, was honestly just trying to get this out of the way so i could work on oil rig worker Vi. ANYWAYS I LUV U ALL MWAH!

#arcane #fanfic #vi #vi x reader #vi x you #violet lanes #smut #smutshot #ekko is in here for like point two seconds #personaltrainer!Vi #sexy ass woman #lesbian #queer #lgbtq #SESBIAN LEX

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tteokdoroki · 2 years ago

Text

☆༉ — SATORU GOJO. pretty brown eyes.

about. gojo might be the one with the six eyes, but there’s nothing special about those. your brown eyes are real weapon, here.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact ! sfw, fluff, hurt comfort. slight hints to insomnia, idk how infinity works sorry, reader has brown eyes, afab!reader.

“you could kill me if you wanted to.”

it’s the dead of night when he whispers your name. though low in volume, his tongue curls around each syllable loud enough for you to hear him. “

“‘toru, what are you on about—” digging the heal of your palm into your eyes, you dislodge the crust from your lash line and groan. the red lines on your digital clock read sometime between three and four am— but the digits blur as your mind swims with sleep.

“your eyes. they’re so perfect.” a loving grin etches itself onto his face when you crack one open to look at him, masking over the exhaustion seeping from his pores and the anxiety that spikes in the sapphire pools of his own eyes. “you should be able to get away with anything because of them.”

“baby,” you reiterate and roll over to face him fully. gojo gets like this when he’s overworked and worried, when there’s something big on his mind you’re not quite sure you’d understand. you move to jab a thumb into his forehead, right between his brows to alleviate the ache in his skull but you don’t let your disappointment show when rough skin meets the dull buzz of his infinity.

you forget that his six eyes flow in the dark — that his blue eyes are not as blue as they seem. “you’re talking nonsense, it’s late. get some sleep.”

“my eyes. they could kill me if i worked too hard.”

satoru’s eyes are a lot stormier than most would expect, they can be dark and cold. like an angry ocean tired of tournament. they can be bright, full of hope and loving — you notice that change whenever he’s with your students. they hide behind the frame of his ability, the one that hardly ever turns off despite how it really could kill him.

his mind is always running, his body almost always on empty.

in the moonlight, you see a faint sliver of silver between the flecks of diamond and stormy skies.

he swipes a gentle thumb just over cheek yours to catch a fallen lash. “but yours,” gojo continues, voice thoughtful and low. tired above all else. “those pretty brown eyes…baby, they’re dangerous in a different way. beautiful in another that makes me feel safe. puts my mind at ease or somethin’. one look ‘nd I’d be doing anything for you,”

there the two of you are, face to face in the dark — cheeks pressed to pillows and heads under the covers as if you’re children shielding yourself from the world. creating the safe space to let satoru confess.

“if those pretty brown eyes were the last thing i got to see before i died. then i think i’d be okay.”

“don’t say that.” your face crumples and his infinity falls away as if gojo had been anticipating your touch, the buzz just shocking through your skin as you wrap your arms around his larger frame, pull his head down to your heart beating in your chest. “you’re not allowed to die, satoru. not yet.”

“i know.” for once he’s grateful he can’t see your eyes — he hates the way they shine when you cry.

“i need you.”

“i know.” he’s quiet. “i need you too.”

“then rest, you don’t have to keep watch.” gojo feels the shake in your lungs as you speak. you worry too much about him. but with your hand cascading through his soft locks, and the other squeezing him close he’s finding it hard to resist.

usually when he lays next to you, he’s stiff as a board, always anticipating whatever danger might come next. but the biggest threat to him of all is you, and those big brown bambi eyes of yours — the way they’re wet with love, shiny with tears because you adore satoru gojo. you care about him way too much for your own good.

those eyes of yours are convincingly treacherous , he can’t help but let his body sag and let go of his cursed technique while you rub his back and soothe him.

“you’re dangerous, yanno,” satoru grunts, lips dragging along your skin with every word. “especially when you look at me like that, with those puppy dog eyes…can’t say no to you.”

but you smile as he drifts off, his tall frame heavy against you — your lashes blinking soft against his forehead as you curl around him protectively. “i’d rather use them to get you to rest, rather than kill you. ‘toru.”

your words are wasted on deaf ears — his deep snore indicating that gojo is finally asleep, doing himself a favour and locking his pretty blue eyes away.

#gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo angst #gojo x yn #satoru gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen x reader #idk im sad and i love him #self indulgent slay #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing #tteokdoroki #✧ ₊˚💭੭ — aali just posted #angelshubnetwork

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kyri45 · 7 months ago

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✨ShadowPeach Bio Parents Bio AU Q&A! 17/11✨

Welcome to the Q&A! A space where I can answer related or similar question about the Shadowpeach Bio Parents AU! If you submitted your ask anonimously, then you’ll have to check the whole post if it’s answered here, if it’s not, worry not! Your asks might have been used for a future comic or just in the queue~

Anonimo ha chiesto: (Baby Mk trying to wake up macaque) Macaque: Wukong your son's awake Wukong: Before sunrise he's your son. Lol lion King reference

Aaaaaaahhh I love it! I was thinking the same!

Anonimo ha chiesto: I wonder if MK is experiencing any other Yaoguai urges? Besides his crush instincts and fun Monkey habits and behaviors.

mmmmm I think he mostly sometimes starts a tantrum in monkey style, where he starts to move a lot and jumps around

Anonimo ha chiesto: So like do macaque and wukong have rings or anything like now I think it would be cute if they renewed their vow.

I think I need to go study traditional chinese weddings traditions

l@ovingshadowpeaches ha chiesto: Ohhh my gosh i finally have the balls to send you this ask!! I adore your shadowpeach bio parents AU SO SO SO MUCH, your art style is so satisfying and mesmerising to look at, the plot is chefs kiss and I hope you know I LOVE all the soysauce duo content i am being fed and our Macaque introject adores it because the MK he knows is his son and your comic makes him feel a lot more valid and closer to his boy, your comic is so comforting to both him and me. I can't wait to see how it all plays out and I can't express enough how much we love love this comic!! All the love!!! GAH!!!

awww tysm for your ask!!!! :')

Anonimo ha chiesto: I think that is hilarious that macaque yoinked the great sage. Also other demons jealous Mac?!?! I need more jealous mac. I can only imagine it went like, Here is a basket of delicious peaches for your enjoyment. Excuse me while I go beat the shit out this demon for trying to take you away (Not that they could even if they got past Macaque).

hehe meanwhile Wukong's ego grows tenfold

Anonimo ha chiesto: SHADOWPEACH BIO PARENT AU The last question had me saying: what was Pigsy's and Tang's reaction to Mk's l̶o̶v̶e̶r̶ crush on Red Son? And also the court napping thing?

I think at first they didn't believe it, then they realized what happened, and didn't know wheter being shocked or not since they should have absolutely saw it coming.

@vex--lynn ha chiesto: Do you find it crazy how much you've affected the Fandom, like you've taken it by storm! It's kinda like when "Garden across our collarbone" took over the Fandom. In the end, we're left crying happy tears. I'm so happy to have found this comic while it was still being made cause I feel like I'm part of the adventure of these crazy monkies! I wish you nothing but the best for you!! <3

BRO u CAN'T JUST PULL OUT THAT NAME AND MINE IN THE SAME CONTEXT. That fic is like an atomic bomb I'm just a humble artist drawing gay monkies.

Anonimo ha chiesto: I just want you to know that your LMK comic is getting me through a really hard time in my life right now. It really helps to have something to smile about and look forward to. Thank you so much for all the recent fluff. It brings me a lot of joy. 💕 Awwww tysm!!

Aww that's so nice to hear!

Anonimo ha chiesto: Okay since mac has 6 sensitive ears... wouldn't be sometimes hard for him...? l mean what if there was very strong noises like fireworks or smt around!? U know what is the best solution for this!! Mac lying down between wukong's arms and put his head on chest and listen to his heartbeat!!! This will absolutely will calm him down right? I WANNA SEE THIS IN YOUR COMICS PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAASS

askjcbaicbasc that's sooooo cute! Maybe, perhaps, in the future, who knows....

Anonimo ha chiesto: Is it slowly building back up to shadowpeach getting back together or? 🤔 idk their relationship status rn

situationship so bad these 2 are sleeping together and have a kid but still are allergic to flirt like normal people.

Anonimo ha chiesto: Got a question about Sun Wukong being trans. I know he probably uses glamour to hide his ✨✨boobies✨✨. But like, is he also using tape or are they kinda just... Out Cause now I'm thinking about the times we've seen him shirtless so like... ???

before he learned to shapeshift he mostly used bandages since that's all he could do at the time. Now MK is teaching him what binders are and he couldn't be more grateful.

@ayrza ha chiesto: I know you may not share it, or even read it, but I need to get it out of me. Do you realize that MK has only had father figures and no mother figures? Which means that the simple word "MAMA" carries too much sentimental weight and that's... 🥹 THIS COULD NOT BE MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN YOU ALREADY MADE IT!!! MY BABY SAID MAMA!!!! 😭✨💖

o my gAAAAHHD I THINK THAT WAS UNINTENTIONAL OF ME BUT THIS CHANGES EVERYTHINGGG

@s-p-r-i-n-g-t-i-m-e ha chiesto: question: what does MK call Pigsy and Tang? Anonimo ha chiesto: I love the new post i am crying 😢 😭 But I do have a question is mac mama and wukong Baba, or is wukong Mama and mac baba this is an important question I have for you???

Pigsy is "Dad" and Tang is "Papa". Mac is "Mama" and Wukong is "Baba"

Anonimo ha chiesto: I’ve seen many many drawings and intereptations of Mac being all piecered, especially on his ears cause if you have six, you gotta use em. Does macaque have any piercings in your au or is his ears too sensitive for that in your mind? Does he like to fidigit with them or any body else?

mmmm he can perfectly have it. I think he would have a few, but only rings and like each of them is far from the others in the lobe area because I can imagine someone with sensitive Hearing wouldn't like to hear the sounds of metal or earrings tingeling every time he moves around.

@alchemical-spill-on-aisle-three ha chiesto: In your shadowpeach comic, is Mei going to help MK with his crush? I just think it would be really funny if they got into hijinks while trying to get MK and Redson together lol

Mei is the one who organized their sparring meetings in the first place. She was Spicynoodle number 1 fan since the beginning.

@straightally2001 ha chiesto: Hmm... if Kai is gonna be MK and Red Son's son does that mean that Nya is gonna be Mei's daughter?

Omg yes. But guys don't tempt me or I might make a "Spicynoodle 50 years later/ninjago crossover" comic the size of the shadowpeach one if we go down this path

Anonimo ha chiesto: If mk is a trans does he still get period?

yes

Anonimo ha chiesto: what is MK’s favorite thing about red boy?

The fact that he tries to hide his emotions but his fire powers reflects them out of his control. MK thinks it's very cute.

Anonimo ha chiesto: So, are you ever going to make a sick episode for the bio dads? I am asking because I am sick, and it would be interesting to see what they are like when sick.

nope sorry. donesn't fit in the current schedule. But MK will go at the hospital at some point if that's of any reassuring.

@sokda-lal-ashes ha chiesto: Do you have why doodles that aren't exactly in the stories but that fits your bio parents au? I love your art so much!! Especially your redson design!!!

Yes but they are spoilers. Sorryyy

Anonimo ha chiesto: Wukong: hay don't forget to eat breakfast. Macaque: what are you talking about I just ate Wukong: you had espresso & anit depressants that is not a meal. Macaque (repeats mocking Wukong) I don't need your judgement I feel like the whole being revived thinks makes macaque sometimes not realize he's hungry or thirsty

ahah how much I relate (I don't take antidepressant but a lot of magnesium bc of mood swings)

@astro-lmk-enjoyer ha chiesto: Wait… if macaque gets his power from a lunar eclipse, does that mean that wukong gets his power from a solar eclipse? Bye <3

Anonimo ha chiesto: Oh so I just had a thought! Since the light hair streaks are being caused by a lunar eclipse because Macaque draws his powers from the moon, is the opposite true for Wukong? Are any of his powers from the sun and would something happen if there was a solar eclipse? Love all the world building in your comics its all so good!!!

mmm I don't think that's how it works.

Anonimo ha chiesto: wait, so since the brotherhood knew about Macaque courtnapping Wukong, did they ever have to witness the monstrosity of cuddles and affection you describe Shadowpeach when they’re together? I could only imagine the awkwardness. Or many they’re totally cool with them being open with each other right in front of them. I know th3 brotherhood won’t show up in your comic as you’ve said before but a fan can only dream.

Oh yeah. O yeah they did.

@shamelesschopshopwasteland ha chiesto: How are Macaque and Wukong? Do they spend time with each other outside of sleeping? (Also I love you AU!!! <3)

Macaque still works from time to time to the Dojo in weekdays, and also likes his alone time, but has been spendind more time with Wukong to help the other monkeys and telling stories about what happened in all those years they missed when they were still enemies.

Anonimo ha chiesto: (I LOVE YOUR ART SM IFDJKEWVJHA, make sure to take breaks!!) Considering Macaque doesn't like the cold. (I love that HC so much, especially because I like to HC that he's freezing 24/7 can only warm up with hot springs and touch but not actual heat/the sun) How would Macaque react in a snowstorm/winter. Would he just bundle up a lot or lock himself in a room or something similar?

3 layers of jackets and self-heating socks when he's going around, otherwise Hot springs every evening.

Anonimo ha chiesto: what other nicknames/pet names does SWK and Macaque have for one another beside peaches and plum?

mmm I think Sun and Moon

@patienceandpokemon ha chiesto: Okay, rip my heart out with happiness in P7 of Monkie trio with the moonlight reveal why don't you?! THANK YOU! But in seriousness, in the latest bit . . Are Mac and MK recharging their shadow powers under the moonlight? Is that why Mac never really attacked in season 1-3 in your AU of LMK, unless there had been a full moon prior? Or am I snowballing into unrelated territory? Anywho, love the comic! He's so fucking fluffy and white like a pearl! And MK, baby fluff!!!!!

Wait he actually did it in the series?? I never noticed!

Anonimo ha chiesto: Soooooo we know Macaque did the courtnapping for shadowpeach so who did the courtnapping for the demon bull family? PIF or DBK👀

I think PIF did?

@boonalina ha chiesto: Question: In your AU, when exactly did Mac and PIF become sworn siblings? Cuz we know Wuk and Mac were sworn bros with DBK, and then DBK "betrayed" them by getting together with PIF. So when exactly would Mac have become sworn siblings with her? Was it like during the time Wukong was under the mountain or smth? Cuz it does seem like Mac drifted apart from the Brotherhood when Wukong was imprisoned.

this is a fandom headcanon, but I believe it was a little after Wukong was imprisoned, and a little after Macaque was revived

#shadowpeach bio parents au #ask box

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danieyells · 11 days ago

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UPCOMING CARD!!(??)

Yes, card singular! They uh. They skipped the Rui card for the episode??? Or maybe they just didn't put it in the same way as the other cards so I can't show it to you?? Maybe they don't have more new cards ready for the month so they decided to space them out more. . .which is fine, gives the artists more time right? And gives rui fans another couple days to get diamonds together! So Thursday should be Rui's bachelor card! Then next week I assume we'll get a rerun before we get the Tanbata episode cards? Just a guess.

ANYWAY. Zenji's birthday is on the 19th!! Which means tarot card today!!!! Can you guess what his card is? Idk what the cards mean but it's always fun to see people who do kinda know talk about them.

FEET FOR FREE AND AT EYE LEVEL. Zenji is so cute gosh--

Character Card: The Knight Of Cups(「聖杯のナイトの誘惑」 "The Allure Of The Knight Of Cups") Skill: (「人形の使い手」 "Doll Wielder") Fully Awakened Skill: Serenading Ghoul(「弾き語るグール」 "Solo Artist Ghoul" so this took longer to put out solely because I was struggling to figure out how to translate 弾き語る which is 弾き語り, "singing/reciting to music that one is playing, especially on a string instrument like a shimasen or biwa" or literally "playing-speaking". I figured "solo artist" doesn't quite do it but emphasizes "zenji is playing the music and singing/speaking as well") Warding Card: Phantasmic Lost Property(「朧気な銀河の落とし物」 "Hazy Galaxy's Lost Property" 'phantasmic' means "ghostly" or "unreal"! If you're my age with a weeb music background you might recognize the word from IOSYS's Phantasmagoria Mystical Expectation)

A cosmic bond is coming as well!! As usual idk who's in these. Based on the name I'm gonna assume Kirisaki brothers, Towa, and. . .Jin maybe?

Between Common Sense And Nonsense (「常識と非常識の狭間で」 "Within The Space Between Common Sense And Irrationality")

Okay, we're done here! 👍🏾 Except my usual reminders and the stats ofc.

Gacha is gambling and gambling is a serious addiction! Don't worry Zenji by being careless with your money--if you're going to spend, spend on real artists and physical goods! But if you plan to spend on the gacha anyway, please be mindful of your spending and stay within the limits you set! Seek help if you're having trouble controlling your spending, even if you feel like it's too late!

Japanese is hard. :(

There are people doing way worse than you and getting paid more to do it--and some people who aren't doing it at all, just taking someone else's credit or using gen ai--so sing and dance and delight and share without shame! Do no harm, take no shit!

Have some card stats and a good start to your week! 🎶

#zenji kotodama #tokyo debunker #tokyo debunker spoilers #datamining cw #danie yells at tokyo debunker

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rosenclaws · 9 months ago

Note

Logan Howlett x gn!reader who’s not a mutant, but has a very high precognitive sense (in which they can sense when a ball might hit someone and catch it without looking / or anything similar to the matter heh)

warnings: gn!reader, the reader is crazy flirty with logan, some drunk assholes being dicks, it gets a little suggestive idk how I keep doing this.

a/n: Okay i can’t lie i was struggling a little bit coming up with an idea but i did my best. Shout out to @huffle-punk for helping me ily bitch

Logan was no stranger to seedy bars. In fact he might call them his home away from home. He just needed an out. A place that actually served alcohol for once. The mansion was nice and all but sometimes the man needed a drink. So he hopped on his motorcycle and rode for a while until he stumbled upon some hole in the wall.

He scoped out the bar as soon as he walked in. Taking note of everyone who was there. It was mostly dead. Some loud assholes by the darts and a few people sitting in the booths but that's about it. He was naturally alert. His kind weren’t always welcome in places like these.

“What can I get for you?" The bartender nods towards him as he sits on one of the bar stools. Logan takes out a 20 and hands it to the guy.

"You got Molson Ex?" The guy nods and cracks one open for him.

"Whiskey sour please." A voice next to him says.

He glances over to see you standing at the bar. Now that peeks his interest. You look too good to be here in a place like this. You catch his glance and smirk.

"Never seen you here before." You take the seat next to him. He was a stranger for sure but a very good looking one. Logan cocks an eyebrow before taking another sip of his beer.

"Not a talker huh handsome?"

"You always this forward with strangers?" Logan asks, slightly amused by your flirting.

"Only when they're hot. You should be flattered."

The bartender comes back with your drink and before you can pay Logan gestures to put it on his tab. You take a sip of your drink and set it down close to his beer. Logan turns his body towards you, letting you see just how built this man was. You bite your lip as you shamelessly look him up and down.

"You got somewhere to be?" Logan asks a playful smirk on his lips.

"Nope."

You don't know how much time has passed since you started talking to Logan. He was one of those mysterious brooding guys, not even a last name as you flirt up a storm. That's okay, you don't need to know his last name. The space between you two got smaller and smaller as the night went on. Moving away from the barstools to the back of the room. More hidden, more private. His hands have found their way to your back. Holding you close as he leans in close.

"Logan..." You hum as you trail your hand up his chest. Gently grabbing onto his shirt. You roll your eyes as the group of guys by the darts start to get rowdier. The more alcohol they have in them the more obnoxious they get.

"We should get out of here." He hums, he registers your words but he doesn't move. Instead leaning closer, his lips ghosting your jaw as he gently nips below your ear.

You body tenses as your hand shoots out before you can even think, catching the dart that was heading directly for Logan's neck. Logan looks at you in slight confusion. How you managed to react so quickly.

"Hey assholes!" You slip out from Logan's arms and march over to them.

"Watch where you're fucking throwing these things." You throw the dart on the table.

"Or what?" One them gets up, he's not as intimidating as he thinks but he's clearly drunk. You roll your eyes and turn to leave. A hand grabs your wrist harshly and pulls you back. In a flash Logan is by your side. Practically ripping the guys hand off you and pushing him into the table.

"Don't fucking touch 'em bub." Logan growls.

Your eyes widen as you see metal peek out from his knuckles. He's a mutant. The drunk guys scramble away from him. You tug on Logan's arm. Noticing stares from the rest of the people, fear in their eyes. "Come on," He sheathes his claws and looks around. Wordlessly he storms out of the bar with you hot on his heels. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a cigar, letting out a small groan as he lights it.

"You alright?" Logan asks, noticing that you've followed him out.

"Yeah I'm okay. Are you?" He takes another puff of his cigar and nods.

"Those are some crazy reflexes."

"Yeah, I don't know I've just always had them but I'm not a..." You trail off as you become unsure if you should say anything.

"A mutant?" He finishes for you. He laughs, shaking his head as he gets on his motorcycle.

"Wait Logan! I, I like you and I'm sorry those assholes ruined our night but I don't want it to end." You place your hand on top of his.

It's been flirty, fun, casual up until now but there's a clear attraction that you can't ignore, you don't want to ignore it.

"You sure you can handle a mutant?" Your hand jerks away as his claws come out. Oh that's how he wants to play it.

"I can handle some kitty claws Logan," You tease, running your fingers along his claws.

"The real question is, can you handle me?"

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x you

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thesightstoshowyou · 9 months ago

Note

Hi hi! I was wondering when you come back to writing requests, could I ask for a Pennywise/Bob Gray FanFiction with a Fem reader sharing her first time with him but it’s noncon but he tries to be gentle with her. She knows about him through the town they live in, reader is home from college which thrills him and finds a way to take her. Maybe some chest play from Penny? I really hope this is okay to ask! I love love love your penny stories there so good! Can’t get enough ❤️❤️

You are an angel for waiting so long for this. Thank you for your patience 🙇🏻‍♀️

Idk if Penny can be considered gentle in this one, but I suppose he’s gentle compared to how I usually write him 😂

Use

Bob Gray/Pennywise x F Reader (NSFW)

Warnings: Noncon in the back of a van baybeee, social anxiety, age difference, objectification, degradation, supernatural elements, nipple play, fingering, loss of virginity, threats, crying, a little daddy kink, put that reader in a mating press—readers love mating press, creampie, cum eating

It starts with a prickle.

The fine hairs on the back of your neck and along your arms raise as your skin tightens and tingles. In your belly, unease writhes like a thousand snakes. Your shoulders tense as your feet dig into aging tile, ready to flee should your nervous system give the order.

Except…. You’re standing in the middle of the grocery store bakery, a warm loaf of freshly baked French bread clutched in your white knuckled grip, paper cover crinkling against your palm. It’s 1:00PM on a Thursday. Why on earth do you feel like a cornered animal here of all places?

Cautiously, you glance to your right. You find nothing more than muffins, croissants, and danishes all gleaming temptingly from their plastic containers. An employee restocks the organic section, her back to you.

To your left….

Your throat goes dry when you meet the piercing blue gaze of the lanky man hovering at the end of the aisle. Buck teeth peek out between full lips, lips that glisten with spit and curl into an unnerving grin. Long fingers slip from a tattered, tweed pocket and raise to greet you with a cartoonish waggle.

Recognition is instant. Robert Gray is unmistakable, even if the last time you saw him was as a child. Though, why the hell he’s staring so intently is beyond you. You barely know the guy.

And he hasn’t aged a day….

Suddenly, the room tilts and your stomach lurches. Your shoes squeak on tile when your legs flail, as though they’ve come unstuck from the ground beneath you. Wildly, you reach out to grip a shelf when you begin to float right up into the air.

You blink.

The feeling vanishes as quickly as it came. Your feet are flat on the floor. On the shelf, your hand shakes as you hold on for dear life.

Had anything even changed at all?

Mr. Gray still leers at you from the end of the aisle. Gasping, trembling, and not knowing what else to do, you raise your own hand and tentatively wave back. He responds with a titter and a wink before slinking away.

Once more you glance around, wondering if anyone else saw this bizarre exchange or your strange behavior. You’re only a little relieved to find yourself alone. Saved from embarrassment, but not the fear that still clings to the back of your throat.

At the checkout sits Marge, as round as ever. You recall the powdery smell of her perfume, unchanged from when you clung to the hem of your mother’s dress as a child. Derry remains as static as ever.

She greets you generically as you set your purchases on the conveyor belt. The beep as your goods are scanned fills the space between the two of you and saves you from conversation. You’re thankful she doesn’t recognize—

“Well, goodness gracious, I hardly recognized you!” You spoke too soon, it seems. Marge says your name like a question and you force a smile and a nod. “Where have you been, missy?”

Awkward chuckle, “Ah, college. Just back for a few weeks, visiting mom.”

“Oh I bet she is loving that.”

“Ha, yeah….”

“You kids just grow up so fast. So, tell me about school! How many boyfriends do you have?” You bite the inside of your cheek when she ends her question with a self-satisfied giggle.

“Oh, no, nothing like that. Just…focusing on school, you know….”

You continue on this like for another agonizing minute or two, forcing out answers to Marge’s barrage of questions until she prattles off your total and hands over your groceries.

“Say hi to your mom for me!”

“Will do, thanks Marge.” The bell above the door jingles as you flee to the parking lot. Afternoon sun catches you full in the face and momentarily blinds you. You manage a scrunched glance left and right before crossing the road to your vehicle.

Strained huffing from somewhere nearby makes you pause. Furiously blinking to adjust to the light, you find Mr. Gray at the rear of the white panel van parked next to your car. The back doors are wide open as he attempts to load what appears to be a folding table all on his own. Attempting, and failing.

You only hesitate for a heartbeat. He’s a weird guy, a bit unnerving with his nineteenth century garb and knowing smile, but he doesn’t deserve to throw his back out.

“Need any help?” you ask, setting your purchases on your trunk and hurrying over to him. Where did he even get this from…?

“What a good girl, gracious little thing, helping old Mr. Gray.” The strange lilt of his voice almost makes you wince. His wide, blue eyes rove over your face and down your neck until the hair on your arms raises in alarm once again. Your own eyes flick down to his wetted bottom lip, so slick it appears drool will spill over any moment. You swallow thickly for him.

“Uh, yeah, let me just, um—

Bob moves to the end of the table still sitting out in the parking lot so you have no choice but to take the other end that is half lodged in the vehicle. It’s awkward, crouching and backing into the van while maneuvering the load, but you manage to shuffle all the way to the front seats until the damn thing comes to rest on the floor of the van. Easy enough—

SLAM.

All at once the sunlight disappears but for the weak imitation trickling in through the windshield. It takes your brain a moment to realize Bob has followed you into the van and slammed the doors shut, though how he managed to move so quickly is beyond you. He now sits between you and the exit, cast in shadow.

“Little treat might be too gracious for her own good, hmm? She makes it too easy for ollllld Mr. Gray.”

‘What are you playing at?!’ The question is there, right on the tip of your tongue, but it freezes and dies when Robert Gray’s eyes glow, glow like golden fire burning unnaturally from the shadowed corner of the van. Terror zips up your spine as you choke on a shout and scramble away, intent on clambering over the center console for the driver’s side door.

Long fingers wrap around your ankle and yank. Your own digits slip on vinyl seats and you crash face first into the accursed table top. Onto your back you roll as Bob slinks over you, wedges his hips between yours, and pins you down with an impossibly strong hand around your neck. Every muscle strains as you try to buck or twist or anything, but he doesn’t even budge, doesn’t even give a millimeter.

How, how…?

Wet warmth splatters onto your cheek. Drool has spilled over his lip, a steady stream of spit that reeks of decay raining down on the side of your face and dripping into your hair. It’s further smeared up to your brow when Bob crushes his lips to the side of your head to noisily inhale. He titters, a little giggle you feel inside your head that rattles your teeth.

“Its fear is unsoiled, yes, fresh like a babe.” Confusion at his words plucks at the back of your mind, but your panic is too intense and overwhelming to spare it full attention.

“What—p-please, please stop, I don’t—

“You don’t, no, no, you haven’t. Have you, little treat?” The deep growl of his voice shakes your own chest. He looks at you expectantly as he speaks, buck teeth on full display, golden eyes wide and staring. One of them drifts to the side and you try your best to melt into the tabletop at your back.

Furiously, you shake your head back and forth and stammer out a, “Bob, please, I d-don’t understand—

“No boyfriends, it says. No fumbling hands that prod and squeeze, no one to use it like the meat it is. Sweet. Untouched. Meat.”

You blink and shake in shock. Your mouth opens but no words escape. Bob laughs, high and piercing and you flinch at the ferocity of it.

How…how could he know that…?

“No hiding from me, little bite. Mr. Gray can see it allllll. Now he has you here, all to himself. And he’s soooo hungry.” The last, rumbled word reverberates around the van and you scream, arch, kick your legs only to freeze in place when Bob ruts against you. The hard girth straining against his trousers slides deliberately along the length of your clothed cunt and, suddenly, the end game becomes frighteningly apparent.

“N-n-no, no, oh god please, don’t—

“Not like you had imagined it, is it, tiny thing? No candlelight. No love. Just old Mr. Gray and his teeth.” He sets them against your cheek, his teeth, as his free hand weasels under your shirt. You loose a protesting grunt when spidery fingers push aside your bra to pinch a nipple between thumb and forefinger. Gently, they tug and, thoughtlessly, you squirm. You tense and fall still when the movement grinds your clit against his bulge, a little zing of pleasure shooting through your belly at the contact.

Bob hums knowingly like he can hear what you’re thinking and twists his fingers ever so slightly. Instead of a grunt, a little whine slips past your quivering lips. More unbidden pleasure, more curling heat where it shouldn’t be.

“Mr. Gray’s good little girl. I can smell it now, needy, needy.” He snuffles along your jaw, and slides his thumb away so he can press slick lips to your fluttering pulse. “You stink like a virgin, too stupid to know what you need, hmm? Let him show you. Let him put your meat to use.”

Again you shake your head and open your mouth to protest, but this time the words are a cry as Bob humps you and tweaks your nipple all at the same time. Your head spins, overwhelmed by new sensation and fear of who…what causes them. Something deep down in your guts knows this is no man hovering over you.

The thing called Bob shifts his hips to the side and you tense to act, to shove, to fight, but he’s so much faster. His hand leaves your breast and burrows into your pants. Tricky fingers find your clit and stroke, perfect pressure that makes your limbs twitch and your lungs gasp. Hands poised to claw just moments ago instead fly to his shoulders and grip on reflex.

His digits sink inside you faster than you can inhale. They curl until they reach some spot you didn’t know existed until now. Even just this stretch is more than you’ve ever experienced, but the surprise comes not in the pain, but the pleasure. It doesn’t hurt, not even a little.

Didn’t they all say it would hurt?

You emit a strangled sound and then, to your dismay, a wanton little mewl follows after as Bob works his hand and rubs euphoric little circles inside you. The nails intent on scratching his eyes out have curled into the fabric of his dingy button-up and your legs fall open like they have a mind of their own. No, no, stop, you’re not enjoying this….

You shouldn’t be enjoying this….

Robert chortles in glee and finger fucks you faster until your eyes go out of focus and you arch—toward, not away this time. Still, your mouth tries to lie about your body’s obvious reaction with a stuttered, “S-Stop, I don’t…want….”

“‘Don’t.’ There’s that silly word again. ‘Don’t!’” He mocks your pathetic timbre. Next, his lips move to yours so he can growl against your panting mouth, “You don’t know what you want. Listen to that slippery little hole, hmm?” He jostles his arm and your cunt squelches in answer. “Desperate for purpose, isn’t it?”

Without warning, he rips his fingers from your channel, grabs hold of the waistband of your pants, and gives three sharp tugs. They’re down and off before you can even think to shriek. Bob grips you behind the knees and shoves, bending you in half and spreading you wide.

Fear returns with the sound of his zipper, trepidation that makes you scramble to grab hold of something and pull yourself away. His iron grip keeps you from budging, however, and you’re helpless when his thick cock lines up with your glistening slit.

“And a one, and a two, and a—

“Wait, wait, wa—

The last ‘wait’ is lost in whatever garbled nonsense escapes your throat when Bob eases forward. Unused muscles part around cock and you experience that foreign stretch and pressure for the very first time. Bob makes an inhuman guttural sound low in his throat when your walls squeeze his girth. It’s a sound that dumps icy terror into your veins, but you think what startles you most is the absence of discomfort.

Maybe it hurts, but the main sensation you feel is…delicious. Blissful. Addictive. You close your eyes to keep them from crossing.

“Useless until I found it,” Bob coos against your lips. Heat jolts in your gut and you can’t help the pitiful moan it brings. Is he the reason you’re reacting this way? Are his horrible words spurring you on? What the hell is wrong with you?

“B-Bob,” you choke out when he bucks his hips. In your shoes, your toes curl. He snickers and does it again, and again, each thrust eliciting more desperate sounds than the last. Moans and cries fill the interior of the vehicle and mingle with the sounds of wet slapping and the harsh grunts escaping from Bob’s throat. Any fight left in your fists is gone, replaced by need that has you gripping his shoulders like you gripped that shelf in the store. You could float away like this….

“Float, yes, that’s right, little girl. You’ll float. But first, you’ll cum on Daddy’s cock.”

“I-I….”

“You want to. Say it.” You shake your head and Bob snarls, “SAY. IT. Or I’ll sink my teeth into that supple little throat and paint us both in pretty red.”

“Iwannacum! I want to, p-please…D-Daddy—

“It’s learning, it’s poliTe.” The “t” sound hurts when it snaps off his tongue and Bob cackles when you jerk and shudder in his grip. Still, you don’t release him. You can’t, the insistent, hot pull in your belly too great to ignore.

Frenzied tears well in your eyes as you beg again, “PLEASE, please, I need…need….”

“Neeeeed, now it knows, now it understands what it NEEDS. Cum for Pennywise, little treat. Give it to Me.”

Pennywise…?

Climax hits you like a runaway train and wipes all sense from your mind. You shake and scream, rippling ecstasy washing over you in wave upon endless wave. Bob follows suit and hilts himself, spilling so deep you feel him twitching behind your navel. There’s so much, too much. It spills over and pools beneath you, a sickly sweet scent filling the air.

Wet fingers prod at your lips and you crack an eyelid open one at a time to find Bob insistently poking at your mouth with slick-covered digits. Not thinking, your lips part and the taste of rancid cotton candy bathes your tongue when the fingers push past your teeth.

You grimace at the flavor. Bob grins, too wide, terrifyingly wide. Fear renews like a bolt of lightening to the heart and rational thought whirs to life in your pleasure-addled brain.

Pennywise…. He’d called himself ‘Pennywise.’ Where had you heard that before?

“Pennywise was right to save you for later, yes, yes he was. Let you marinate. Let your meat age.”

Pennywise…. Pennywise the clown….

Your heart beats so fast you fear it will burst. Bob’s eyes are jaundiced, wide and wild. Familiar.

The clown. The clown from your childhood nightmares. The clown from the house at the end of the street.

Pennywise.

“And now you see it all, don’t you?” Bob’s voice is a warbled whisper, slow and solemn. “Now you know why.”

More tears burn their way down your cheeks.

“Purpose, hmm?” Bob chuckles, light and airy. “You’ll be of good use to IT.”

#thank you for the ask #pennywise the clown #pennywise x reader #bob gray #bob gray x reader #robert gray #robert gray x reader #robert gray it #it movie #it 2017 #it 2019 #thesightstoshowyou #what’s with the low res gif sights #listen I couldn’t find one okay #the way I had to force myself to write this thing #please give me feedback I need it

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sufferingsokkatash · 1 year ago

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THAT famous zukka hug in the atla north and south comic : an essay you did not need, by me.

i was thinking about how, in writing, there should be no accidents or coincidences in how and why something is described, or the detail the writer chooses to use. for example, zuko tapping his hand on his desk would be used to show that he is impatient or anxious about something.

so THEN i decided to apply this to the zukka hug, because why not be delulu about these things idk.

first of all, here are the zukka hug pages for context:

disclaimer: i don’t really know how the fandom feels about the comics. personally i like them, so i will proceed with that bias in mind. also please take this with the humour that is intended, it’s more fun that way.

i go down a sabre tooth moose lion hole below the cut.

this whole scene to me is largely what we all love about atla - humour and good characterisation combined with serious subject matter. king kuei and bosco are the comic relief and oblivious party in the face of quite a complicated issue, as zuko himself acknowledges. this humour then extends to kuei offering zuko the chance to join in on his hug with bosco, which zuko politely refuses. obviously, there is the clear issue of zuko being afraid of being eaten by a bear, but we’ll pretend that ernest hemingway is grading our papers here, okay.

it is a very deliberate writing choice and contrast to have zuko refuse hugs from one person/animal and then immediately and happily accept one from sokka. (see also: sokka running excitedly with a big grin on his face at the bottom of page 17 to greet them, naming zuko first, but remembering that he is a good ambassador to the swt and using their proper titles despite his excitement. more silliness mixed with seriousness. see also, also: HE RAAAAAN!) zuko may be touch averse and not a huggy person, but screw that when it’s sokka who’s offering the hug.

remember there are no accidents in good writing. kuei happily says: hello friends! to which, in both that panel and the next, he is clearly ignored. sokka and zuko are so absorbed in hugging each other that sokka neglects his duties in welcoming them both properly. zuko : 2 swt ambassador role: 0. also ignored is the fact that kuei brought his bear, which would normally be subject to some kind of smartass comment from our boomerang boi, even if he knows he’s obsessed with his pet from the ba sing se episodes.

this could be an actual mistake, but sokka ran towards zuko, who was standing in front of kuei. but in the hug panel, sokka is between them. that means kuei walked all the way around them trying to get their attention, and it still didn’t work. sokka, nor zuko, say a further word to kuei. like exactly how much tunnel vision is there in this, my goddddd.

bosco is protecting kuei and sokka is protecting zuko. could be why they mirrored them and their positions in the hug panel, so not a mistake. a swt person says: protecting foreigners, sokka?! but that is exactly what he does by ignoring the protesters and telling zuko not to worry about them. despite wanting to do his duty to everyone sokka puts zuko first, basically, and doesn’t care about what they all think of him. that’s kind of huge for sokka.

yes, hakoda is injured at this time and yes he’s proud of sokka, but surely as chief he would have gone to meet the earth king and firelord? why did the writers go to so much effort making sure that sokka was there to meet zuko and have them hugging take up a third of an entire page when printing and space in the comics is such a consideration? it is clearly important, y’all.

their faces when they see each other. sokka can’t stop grinning and zuko closes his eyes in relief he’s so happy. enough said.

sokka says: thanks so much for coming! like he doesn’t already know zuko would travel the world just to make him happy or help in what’s important to him. have you forgotten boiling rock, sokka? because that dude you’re wrapped around, acting like he’s been starved of you, sure hasn’t.

this comic is all about nations coming together and traditions being upheld and shared. in other words, marry him sokka. it is in your diplomatic interests to do so.

in utterly insane conclusion:

i am always surprised at how much they made the effort in the writing for this one scene. i don’t see the comics as something that tease ships, they aren’t natla. what i do see is two guys who clearly care about each other, almost to the detriment of their roles and responsibilities, and their relationship was worth the effort taken in the writing and artwork to show that. it is super heckin sweet. does this mean i think zukka is canon or could be? no. maybe did i have fun pretending and overanalyzing every detail? yes.

ps in all seriousness, the answer is that this is about my fav boy and how far he has come in his character growth journey - exhibit a from ‘the avatar returns’ episode:

the end, i am getting blocked and going to jail but it’s okay because zukka is my bosco hug.

#zukka #unhinged ramblings #tash goes feral on nonexistent zukka lore #PLEASE YOUR HONOR #i love sokka so much i want to rip things up when i look at him

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shegatsby · 11 months ago

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Could I possibly request a fic where Hannibal has reader hidden away in a secret room. Like he keeps her there in her own world kinda like a princess in a tower situation. He keeps her there so she’s safe and doesn’t know what he does. She’s actually pretty happy with the situation because she loves him he loves her yadayada and possible smut MAYBE Will gets to meet her🤭 idk I’m new to requesting also I love your stuff man 10/10

Your day started just like the day before but this time you had a dream. It was about the night he brought you here. You were his patient, had a troubled upbringing with drug addict parents, your earliest memory was sitting on a couch, starving, and watching your parents with needles… you were taken to custody but it was too late. You were scarred for life. You focused on your education till one day you snapped and had to find a psychiatrist.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter

You had read his reviews, whatever you could find about him on the Imternet.

You walked to the luxurious bathroom, your mind clouded with the memories of your first session with him.

It was spring and you wore a milkmaid dress. Since his upstanding reputation you wanted to look “sane” and “presentable”

Wiping your palms on your dress you knocked on the grey door, you had noticed the absence of a secretary but didn’t pay much mind. And he opened the door…

You were awe struck to say the least. He easily standing there in his 3 piece suit, clean shaven and inviting you with his dark maroon eyes. “Hello Ms.Y/LN. Please come in.” You smiled gently and entered. He had 2 stores in the office, at the top there was a balcony which looked like a library, books were wall to wall. Down stairs he had a brown desk with organized materials on it, a fire place, paintings on the walls. He gestured you to sit and he sat across you with his black leather notebook. He cleared his throat and crossed his legs, even though he was sitting he still spoke tall. “I must admit,” he began and caught your attention, you found yourself sitting up tall, matching his aura, “ Ms. Y/L/N, you had sent me a very interesting email.” In order for him to accept a client one must sent an email which he replies in 3 days. “How come?”

He looked into your eyes, yes there was space between you two but you could feel his intensity. “You were straightforward, it almost felt as if you wanted to show me how bad your situation is, so that I’ll reject you. Do you often show your bad side for others to rum away, thus, you don’t have to interact with them?”

His questioning made you drop your jaw, this was his deduction from just the email? You wondered if you should continue and expose yourself to him and also face your fears or just get up and leave.

Hannibal noticed the hesitation in your eyes, he put the book away and did something which left you speechless. There was a cabinet on the wall behind him, he opened it and got a bottle of red wine and 2 glasses. He poured one for you and and extended his hand, “No need to fret Ms. Y/L/N,” you got the glass and felt his touch, “after all, I’m here to serve you.” His tone was less formal than before.

And your story began with him, at first you had your session with him once a month, and office hours turned into coffee dates and dinners.

You used to live alone in a one bedroom flat with yur cat Lucifer, he was a huge black cat thus the name Lucifer came.

One night you were out with your pyschiatrist Doctor Lecter. He invited you out for dinner and to be honest he showed off his wealth and refined palate. You found youself admiring his life style, luxurious yet elegant like the royals. He wasn't shy of showing it to you or making you experience it first hand.

The night was amazing, you were like two normal adults having a nice dinner, both of you lost the titles of doctor and patient and enjoyed each other's company, he drove you home and everything happened that night.

''Did you leave your lights on?'' he mentined the yellow lights coming from your flat, ''No.'' an icy feeling entered your chest, ''I'll come with you to check it, stay behind me.'' he said, his protective side showing, you did as he told you and together you rode the elevator and came to your door which was wide open.

Tears filled your eyes when you saw your home, everything was torn and broken, someone came in and did an arduous damage. Hannibal checked to see if someone was still inside. It was empty, ''Where is your cat?'' and with the mention of Lucifer your hands went to your chest and you started calling for Lucifer, you found him hiding, he was shivering.

''I'm also working with FBI, I know people who can help. In the mean time you're staying with me.'' it wasn't a question or a request, he meant what he said.

''O-okay.'' you were shivering. You picked up Lucifer and you felt Hannibal's hand on the small of your bag, ''Let's get you to the car, and I'll call my friends Will and Jack.''

He got you inside the car and left to make a call and the rest was history.

His house felt like a museum at first but it grew on you over your stay. He gave you the guest bedroom which was bigger than your own, he also went out of his way to collect your precious belongings from your robbed house. It wasn't much just a small bag, Lucifer was the most important to you. Hannibal also liked animals and didn't sany anything about your cat, in fact they got along.

After a week you started to look for a new place to stay, you were having breakfast together, ''What are you doing?'' he asked as he poured you coffee, ''House hunting.'' you replied shortly and saw him dropp the spoon he was holding, this was the first time he lost his composure and he cursed himself, ''Clumsy today.'' he joked and continued, ''You shouldn't rush. I am happy to have you, in my home.''

You looked up to meet his maroon eyes, ''Thank you for everything Hannibal but I don't want to be a burden.'' as your therapist he already knew how you felt. His mission was to convince you to stay. Manipulate you even...

Together you went on house huntings, he was there all the time. After every house he would find something bad about it, neighboors, mold, too pricy etc.

One night you were watching a movie together, it was an old Hollywood classic. ''Don't leave.'' you heard him and turned to face him, he was sitting next to you, his arm on your shoulders, ''What?''

You were startled, ''I don't want you to go.'' he puased the movie, his eyes pleading, ''that night when you house was broken into, I swore to protect you and never let you out of my sight.'' he held your hands, ''Its dangerous outside Y/N, I cannot let you go.''

His tone sent shivers down your spine, he was serious. ''Do you want me to-'' he cut you off, ''Be mine.''

and he leaned in for a passionate kiss.

Since then you were with him, he took care of every detail and let you thrive and pursue your passions such as writing and painting. He was a possessive man and never liked to see your attention go to someone else that's why he introduced you to only one person,

Will Graham. His colleague and friend.

Thank you for reading. :)

#fanfiction #fanfic #reader insert #hannibal lecter #reader #hannibal #hannibal x reader #hannibal x you #mads mikkelsen #mads mikkelsen x reader #hannibal nbc #nbc hannibal #mads mikkelsen fanart #mads mikkelsen icons #mads mikkleson #romance fanfic #oneshot fanfiction #oneshot

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justhereformilgram · 8 months ago

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WARNING: Mouthwashing spoilers ahead?? it is a psychological horror game so there is a bit of blood and gore, themes of suicide, cannibalism, all that. So be sure to read the content warnings if you haven’t heard of it before but decide to check it out!

Anyways. I introduce milgramwashing. because I fell down the rabbit hole and loved the complex storytelling and horrific situations of the original game. HOWEVER, for this AU, it definitely will be a different sort of storyline because while I appreciate the hard subject matter Mouthwashing tackles, I don’t feel comfortable putting any of the milgram cast in those positions.. I do love to point out parallels, though, and things will definitely still go terribly wrong.

Just imagine they’re a different branch, a different ship, on the Pony Express— or should I say, the Jackalope Express?

(1) I was torn between making the MILGRAM (replacing Tulpar) just a delivery crew like the OG, or a ship carrying prisoners, closer to MILGRAM. Or prisoners who become a crew after an emergency happens and Es can’t handle it on their own. 🤷 None of this explains putting Es, a 15 year old in charge. Were they a child pilot prodigy? A nepo baby? Who knows. But they are Captain Es.

(2) Next is Yuno, the first one I drew so she’s in color! She’s a psychology intern, just learning the ropes, tagging along because she needs money to provide for her parent and little bro. Also she’s under a false name since idk how legal her side job was in the mouthwashing universe. The Anya parallels are… quite real, though in this case she would’ve gotten pregnant from her clients like in MILGRAM but before she got on the ship, and only realizing later, and then it becomes a whole situation. She becomes an assistant nurse to Shidou after the crash happens.

(3) Fuuta! I think he shares in Swansea’s grumpiness, and it does make sense for him to be an electric engineer or hacker due to his focus in tech. cough. not always for noble means. Haruka will be his intern he has to deal with—though he isn’t middle aged, I think a mentor/older brother and younger brother dynamic mirroring Swansea and Daisuke could be fun and tragic for them. Also Kotoko definitely slices him in the eye. I don’t know why or how, I just feel like it fits pretty well.

(4) As said before, Haruka is another intern without much experience, sent into space because his mother didn’t want to deal with him anymore. Harsh. Meanwhile, after her incident at her school, Muu’s parents paid big money to cover it up then shoehorn her into an “internship” where the authorities can’t get her. She gets the nicest room on the spaceship.

(5) Kazui! The muscle of the group, originally I gave him captain or pilot since he really does give Curly vibes (means well, hurts the women in his life anyways through inaction/telling the truth/lying) and he also has a mid life crisis. then all this happens. I’d imagine he’s fairly level headed and would’ve intervened in the Kotoko incident and the Crash. (Related somehow? I don’t know, I didn’t think the lore all the way through) Not fast enough to spare Mahiru, though… Mikoto is not an intern, but a very stressed mouthwashing sales representative part of the advertising sector. His job still sucks. He’s due for a breakdown at any moment. John was always there, but he probably comes out more during great times of stress, like the Crash. Maybe he’s partly responsible, trying to defend from Kotoko or something. In no way people are letting Amane onto the ship willingly so I made her a stowaway fleeing her conditions under the religious organization after she murdered her mom. She sneaks into a shipment of mouthwash or something idk. Shidou is doctor but in space. I imagine his family passed in a terrible, terrible accident and he did lots of medicine malpractice still.

(6) Finally, Kotoko and Mahiru. Kotoko needs to use that axe, it fits too well.. I do think the Crash, just like Trial 2, is a turning point, so she probably has some hand in the Crash as well, if not purposely then it might be from swinging that around recklessly. She still looks cool doing it, though! And Mahiru. I imagine she pulled a legally blonde and followed in her boyfriend’s footsteps to become a pilot. After he passed, she continued her schooling and ended up as co-pilot on MILGRAM. Tried to stop the ship from crashing from the asteroid, and got caught in the blast zone… I’m sorry Mahiru it’s just you’re the only one with many bandages as a character design element 😭 and it made too much sense 😭😖 I think she’s still cute though. I gave her Daisuke’s hibiscuses since I like that imagery

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m1ckeyb3rry · 1 year ago

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── THE GLASS PRINCESS // FOUR

Series Synopsis: You wake up in a strange room with no memories, broken glass at your bedside, and a prince named Zuko as your only chance at figuring out who you really are.

Chapter Synopsis: You go to the zoo with Ty Lee. Later, you and Jia-Li watch a brutal confrontation between Kaho and an underclassman.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Zuko x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 5.3k

Content Warnings: complicated relationships (strangers to friends to lovers to enemies to strangers to lovers to enemies to lovers), amnesia, alternate universe, lots of secrets and lying and mystery

A/N: big reveal HAHA jia-li is ruon-jian’s sister and kaho is chan’s!! idk if that was what people were expecting or not but i thought it was funny so here we are

To Zuko,

I suppose that, if you really are set on it, it would not hurt me to think of you as my friend. I hope that you are prepared for what that may entail.

I jest. I do not think I am a particularly difficult person to have as a friend, though you might get a more honest review from Ty Lee or Jia-Li. At least in my own opinion (which one might find to be unfairly high), I am agreeable enough to get along with most people — at least those who are agreeable in return (so, not Kaho).

Ty Lee and I went to the zoo. It was entertaining. I am fond of animals, and I found I enjoyed myself more at the zoo than in the academy. At least the birds sound pretty when they screech! The same cannot be said for my dear classmates, who are of the disposition to speak quite incessantly but without anything of substance or value to contribute.

My classes have been going well. I am already at the top of the year, which is partially due to how much I study and partially due to a different factor. I will not call it memory, because it is nothing that that is personal to me, but it is true that at times I will understand something before our teacher has even taught it. I must have been a very learned Fire Nation soldier, indeed.

I had to watch an Agni Kai. One of the girls in the year below us fought Kaho. Of course, she lost. It is such a brutal custom, you know…though of course I understand the cultural significance, it is not a joy to watch. Certainly, I don’t understand how some of the girls were eating snacks and placing bets on the outcome. Luckily, the girl who went against Kaho is alright. Kaho let her off with only a small burn, but it could’ve been much worse.

In better news, Jia-Li has invited me to spend the next break at her house on Ember Island! So I will go there instead of taking up space at the palace. I am excited — I am not sure if I’ve ever been to the ocean or not. It will be exciting to see it for the first time; or, if not for the first time in my life, then for the first time that I will remember. Of course, I will continue to write to you even on vacation, and Jia-Li has already said that I can borrow her clothes and things, so there should be no strain put upon you. If there were, then I would not even suggest it.

The next time I shall see you in person will be after the term is properly over, then. I look forward to it will hopefully be the Fire Nation lady you want me to be by then.

From, Your friend Ursa

P.S. You should not be surprised by what I am about to say: I still don’t remember anything.

“Wow,” Ty Lee said, chewing on a piece of candy as the two of you walked down a gravel pathway together. “I still can’t believe we got free admission!”

“Apparently, all students do,” you said, holding out your hand. She dropped the small, round, fruit-flavored disks in your palm, and you popped it in your mouth, smiling at the burst of flavor. “Though it makes sense they don’t advertise that.”

The Strategy Mistress was sick, so you all had been given leave to spend the afternoon as you pleased. Ty Lee had offered to take you to the zoo with her, remembering that you had mentioned wanting to go when you had woken up in the palace, and you had jumped at the chance to not be in the suffocating dormitory for a little while.

At the moment, you and her were standing in front of the dragon moose enclosure, watching as they grazed. One of the dragon moose had a calf, and it was a sweet looking animal, somehow adorable in its awkward ugliness. As you watched, it had a spurt of energy, jumping and bucking through the pasture, racing along the fence line and only skidding to a stop when it realized it was being ignored. Its ears drooped as it trotted back to its mother’s side, lowering its head to the grass once again.

“These dragon moose look a little different than the ones that pull the carriages,” Ty Lee said.

“Oh, I know why that is,” you said, eager to prove your competence. “Dragon moose are actually only native to one small part of the Fire Nation. The ones that pull our carriages are the offspring of ones that were domesticated many centuries ago. They’ve been selectively bred to best fit our purposes almost since the day our ancestors first tamed them, so they’ve evolved into very different looking animals. The wild dragon moose, such as these ones, never had that push to evolve and optimize to our needs, so they look the same as they have for all of those centuries.”

“You sure do know a lot, Ursa,” Ty Lee said gamely. “Was that school knowledge, book knowledge, or past knowledge?”

“Book knowledge,” you said. “I don’t know if I was that interested in the convergent evolution of domestic and wild dragon moose in my previous life.”

Ever since the first day of your classes, when you had discovered a mysterious aptitude and innate understanding of the rules of etiquette, you and Ty Lee had come up with three categories: school knowledge, book knowledge, and past knowledge. School knowledge referred to the things that you learned in your lessons, the offhand comments and the droning lectures that you remembered better than anyone else in your year. Book knowledge was the summation of the many pages upon pages you had committed to memory, encompassing everything from the political structures of the Fire Nation to the fauna of the Northern Water Tribe. Finally, past knowledge was the most mysterious and ambiguous category, because it meant the random things you just knew in your mind, even though you had no real reason to.

More things than you were really comfortable with fell into that latter category. It really didn’t feel fair — why was it that you could recall the pillars of etiquette and the different battle formations of the Soldiers of Agni, but not anything about who you had been in the past? Why was your identity, which you wanted to know the most, the only thing you could not remember?

In the middle of the zoo was a large, artificial lake. You and Ty Lee stopped at the fence and leaned over to watch the flying dolphin fish leap through the air before diving back into the water with great splashes. A little ways away from you, a child raced up to the fence and gripped it, staring at the flying dolphin fish in awe. One of the fish noticed him and swam over towards him before slamming its tail against the surface of the lake, bowling the child over in a great deluge of salty brine.

You and Ty Lee exchanged looks, neither of you laughing until you saw the other’s face, whereupon you burst into fits of giggles, unable to hold them in any longer.

“Should we go help him?” you gasped out, wiping away the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Ty Lee, who was doubled over at this point, shook her head.

“I think — I think his mother’s got him,” she said breathlessly. True to her word, an adult woman was yelling at the boy as he wailed, still face-down and drenched to the bone.

“He should’ve just stayed with the turtle ducks,” you said, shaking your head and pointing at the small flock floating placidly along, far from the mischievous flying dolphin fish. “They’re so cute!”

“From what I remember, there’s a petting zoo area somewhere in the zoo, if you want to try feeding turtle ducks,” Ty Lee said. “I wasn’t able to see it when I came with Azula and Mai, though, because Azula hates turtle ducks.”

“Hates turtle ducks? How could someone hate them? They’re so sweet and guileless,” you said. “Was she wronged by one as a child?”

“You could say that,” Ty Lee said. She didn’t offer further explanation, but considering you had never even met Princess Azula, you didn’t blame her. Whatever her past with the turtle ducks was, it was the princess’s own secret to keep or share at her own discretion.

It took you a while to find the petting zoo, as they had no signs, so you had to ask people to point you in the correct direction. Unfortunately, most of the people that you asked were other visitors, and by the time you finally found a staff member to take you there, you had all but given up on the prospect of going at all.

“Mostly, the people who come to the petting zoo are kids, or at least have some of their own,” the zookeeper said. Ty Lee scowled at her.

“Some of us are young at heart!” she snapped, earning a snort from you and a bewildered look from the zookeeper, who raised her hands in the air and back away.

“I cannot believe that was your response to her,” you said as you reached the counter where a different zookeeper handed you little bags of food to give to the animals.

“I panicked,” Ty Lee admitted. “But really, she had no reason to be judging us! It’s her own job that relies on visitors like us. Who cares about how old we are?”

“Quite right, Ty Lee, and anyways it can be argued that I have about as much life experience as a child, in one way, so she really has no ground to stand on,” you said.

“I wouldn’t say you’re all too childlike,” Ty Lee said. “You act like most anyone else our age would. Maybe more mature, even, but certainly not less, even though you have no memories.”

“Of course, it isn’t as if the effects of my formative experiences on my psyche have been erased just because I can’t remember them,” you said. “They still shaped my spirit, even if I cannot recall how they did so.”

Unfurling your fingers and offering your hand to one of the dragon moose — which was of the domesticated variety, not one of the wild ones from earlier — you used your other hand to rub its forehead.

“Ew! It slobbered all over me!” Ty Lee said as the dragon moose she was feeding swiped its long tongue over her now-empty palm and then across her cheek, ignoring her attempts to shove it off of her.

“That must mean it likes you,” you said. She stopped trying to shove it away, her expression growing contemplative as the dragon moose used its lips to play with her long braid.

“Aw,” she said. “Now I feel kinda bad for being so mean.”

“I don’t think it’s offended, but maybe you should get your braid out of its mouth before it chews it off,” you said. Ty Lee yelped and yanked her braid out of the dragon moose’s grasp, jumping away to stand behind you.

“As soon as we get back to the academy, I’m going to have to shower,” she said, shuddering.

“You do smell somewhat like dragon moose,” you said, sniffing her delicately and then wrinkling your nose. “Wanna go back to the flying dolphin fish? I’m sure they’d be happy to rinse you off.”

“Very funny!” she said.

“It feels like you don’t think it’s that funny,” you said, snickering. “Which is a shame, because I do.”

“Let’s just go see the turtle ducks. They’re the whole reason we came here,” she said, stomping off.

“You don’t want to visit the hippo cow?” you said, pointing at the enormous beast that was allowing toddlers to clamber over it as it dozed with one eye open.

“I don’t even want to think about how things could go wrong if I go near that,” Ty Lee said. “Turtle ducks are nice and safe and little. As I said, let’s go there.”

These turtle ducks were kept in a pond which had no fence, allowing them to wander about as they pleased, swimming amongst the lilies blooming in the water and hiding in the bulrushes on the part of the bank further from the path.

Crouching, you broke off pieces of lettuce and threw them towards the turtle ducks. They paddled over and began to squabble amongst themselves, racing to snag the treats before their companions.

Ty Lee joined you, and for a little bit, the two of you were quiet, tossing lettuce at the turtle ducks and observing them eat. Only once all of your lettuce had run out did Ty Lee speak again.

“I thought turtle ducks ate bread,” she said.

“They do,” you said. “They love it a lot, which is why people give it to them. But it’s bad for them. Makes their stomachs upset.”

“Then why do they love it?” she said. “If it makes them sick, why do they keep eating it?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “It must taste very nice. Sometimes, it’s like that, I guess. You do things that you know are bad for you because you think that they are good.”

Ty Lee glanced at you out of the corner of her eye. “School knowledge or book knowledge?”

“Neither,” you said. “Past knowledge, I think.”

You couldn’t explain it, but then again, when had you ever been able to explain your past knowledge? Ty Lee exhaled but did not question you, which you were grateful for. You doubted you could’ve explained further, anyways.

“There you are!” Jia-Li hissed when you and Ty Lee walked into the dormitory building together. The light mood of the outing had faded after you had fed the turtle ducks, a pensive melancholy settling over you both in place of the earlier humor as the two of you considered your own respective thoughts.

“What’s wrong?” you said.

“Where have you guys been?” she said.

“We were at the zoo,” Ty Lee said.

“Didn’t I tell you before we left? Did something happen? Oh no, did the Strategy Mistress suddenly feel better and decide to hold class after all?” you said. “We have an exam coming up. If I missed a class, then I’m going to have to double down on my studying.”

“Those are words I never want to hear from your mouth again,” Ty Lee said. “How can you ‘double down’ on your studying when you already spend almost every waking moment doing exactly that? I mean, there’s only so many hours in a day, you know!”

“Never mind all of that!” Jia-Li said. “No, the Strategy Mistress is still sick, so you didn’t miss anything — at least, nothing academic.”

“Good,” you said. “I don’t mind missing anything else. Which I’m assuming we did, considering you look near to fainting, Jia-Li.”

“One of those idiots in the class below us has been spending the entire afternoon antagonizing Kaho! I’m afraid she’s going to blow up, and sooner rather than later,” Jia-Li explained.

“That sounds like something I’d like to be far away from,” you said. “We should’ve stayed at the zoo a bit longer, Ty Lee.”

“Mhm,” Ty Lee said emphatically. “I’d take dragon moose slobber any day!”

“I don’t think this girl realizes what she’s getting into,” Jia-Li said. “See, the thing is, whenever you’re around, Ursa, Kaho’s too busy hating you to get annoyed by anyone else. But since you were gone all afternoon, she’s had nowhere to channel her inner anger.”

You made a face. “So? Are you suggesting that I should’ve stayed around and let her be rude to me or something?”

“Not at all,” Jia-Li reassured you. “It’s more that she’s seemed downright gentle recently — or, I guess, gentler. That’s why that girl thinks she has a chance, but the truth is in terms of Firebending, Kaho is probably the most talented student in the entire academy at the present moment. And when you mix that talent together with an ill temper, it’s a bad combination.”

“Has she challenged her yet?” Ty Lee said.

“Not yet,” Jia-Li said.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Ty Lee said, sighing. “Ugh. This is all so ridiculous! We should all just get along.”

“Let’s just avoid them all for as long as we can and hope everything has smoothed over by the time we go down to eat dinner,” you said. “Ty Lee, you can stay in our room, as long as Jia-Li is okay with it.”

“Of course,” Jia-Li said. “I wouldn’t send you into the dragon’s maw like that.”

“I can handle her if it comes down to it,” Ty Lee said. “And I really need to shower — bad run in with a dragon moose’s tongue, Jia-Li, it’s a bit of a long story. But thanks for offering!”

“What can she do against someone like Kaho?” Jia-Li asked you. You shrugged.

“I have no idea, but she is one of Princess Azula’s closest friends, so she must know a thing or two,” you said.

“That’s true,” Jia-Li said. “Let’s stop talking about Kaho and her idiocy now, though. There’s no point in letting her spoil our time together. Did you have fun at the zoo?”

“I did!” you said. “It was nice to see all the animals, and we got to feed some of them at the petting zoo, which was nice. They were all very friendly.”

Jia-Li smiled fondly. “That’s good. I used to love going to the zoo as a kid. My brother and I used to visit together — his favorite exhibit was the flying dolphin fish, but I always liked going to see the koala sheep.”

“Were you and your brother close?” you said, feeling a pang in your stomach. You had no idea if you had a brother or a sister or any siblings at all. What if you did? Would they be missing you right now, or would they have moved on from you already? Would they resemble you, or would you look completely different? Would they have cared for you in your youth, or would you have cared for them in theirs?

“We used to be,” Jia-Li said. “When we were very young, that is. He was my best friend.”

“What happened?” you said.

“We grew up,” she said, undoing the ribbon tying her hair back and beginning to comb through her long locks. “I came here, and he went to the school for boys. Then I suppose we just learnt to have different interests. He preferred hanging out with his other boy friends, and so I was left to find my own entertainment.”

“That’s sad,” you said. She set down the comb and retied her hair.

“It is,” she said. “What I wouldn’t give to go to the zoo with him again, or some other such activity. Actually, I just wish we were children again…but we are grown now, aren’t we? It’s fine. That’s how life is.”

“Is he much older than us?” you said.

“Only by a couple of years,” she said before brightening. “You should come meet him!”

“Uh,” you said. “Where would we do that, exactly? And why?”

“Our next break is soon. My family has a house on Ember Island; you can come stay with us! Unless you have other plans already or something, of course,” she said.

“I don’t have any plans,” you said. “I probably would’ve ended up going to the palace again, but visiting this Ember Island place sounds a little more appealing, in truth. As long as you and your family are alright with it.”

“My family won’t care,” Jia-Li said, waving you off dismissively. “My father will probably be delighted to have the girl sponsored by the royal family staying in his home, and my mother will just be happy that I’m bringing a friend home. As for my brother…nobody cares about his opinion, anyways! If he wants to complain, then he can just run along and stay at his best friend’s house. They’re going to be on Ember Island then, too.”

“Then I would really love to do that,” you said. “Thank you for inviting me, Jia-Li.”

“Sure, you’re a great roommate, so it’s not an issue,” she said. “I was a little sad about having to leave you during break, but now I’m just excited! You’ll love Ember Island, I promise. It’s so beautiful there.”

“I’m excited, too,” you said. “Actually, I was a little scared about the break — I wasn’t sure if I had a place in the palace or not, and either way, there’s something a little intimidating about staying there. It’ll be much more fun to be with you the whole time, in a place that I can feel somewhat wanted.”

“Of course!” Jia-Li said, growing starry-eyed. “And I can take you to the ocean for the first time! Do you know how to swim? Wait, you probably wouldn’t know if you do or don’t. Well, if you don’t, I’ll teach you, and if you do, we can swim together! You can borrow my things, I think we’re probably close in size.”

“Alright,” you said, overwhelmed by the many plans she was already coming with. “I’ll leave all of that to you. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

“You can count on me,” Jia-Li said, giving you a thumbs up. “I promise it’ll be the best break ever!”

Since Ty Lee had apparently gone to her room after showering, you and Jia-Li decided to make your way to dinner together in the hopes that you’d find her in the dining hall. Both of you were hungry by that point, though, and you unanimously agreed to just eat, even if she wasn’t there.

“I’m surprised,” you said when you walked in and found no traces of Ty Lee anywhere. “She’s normally so timely when it comes to dinner.”

“Yeah, but remember how long it takes her to wash and dry her hair? She probably won’t be down for a while,” Jia-Li reminded you.

“Right, I forgot about that,” you said. Ty Lee took a lot of pride in her personal appearance — rightfully so, of course, given how lovely she was — so her pre and post-shower routines were quite extensive, to say nothing of the actual shower itself. And especially because she had gotten covered in dragon moose saliva at the zoo, Jia-Li was correct to assume that Ty Lee might not be out for quite some time.

“Uh-oh,” Jia-Li said as you two sat down with your dinners. She nodded at the end of the table, where a girl you vaguely remembered being in the year below you was smirking at Kaho, whose jaw muscles were twitching with every word the girl spoke.

“Someone should stop her,” you said, though you made no move to get up, wanting to stay far away from the disaster zone that was about to emerge. Jia-Li hummed in assent, but she obviously had the same idea, remaining firmly put beside you. “It’s like she has a death wish.”

“She’s just trying to prove her superiority,” Jia-Li said. “There’s a clear hierarchy in this school, and right now, Kaho is at the top. She doesn’t like when people come for her spot, but of course, everyone wants to be there, to be number one, so they’re always trying to best her. It’s why she doesn’t like you — you’re beating her in terms of academics, which she hates, because she’s supposed to be the best. At least with you, though, you’re not a bender, so she can console herself with the fact that you’ll never be able to compete with her in any way that matters on that front. This girl, though, is challenging everything that Kaho is. She wants to be the most respected girl in the academy, but to do that, she needs to prove that Kaho isn’t worthy of that place any longer.”

“Can she do it?” you said.

“No,” Jia-Li said bluntly. “Plenty of people have tried. None of them have succeeded, except for Princess Azula, and she’s a special case in that she already was afforded a different status than the rest of us because of her bloodline.”

“Then she’s a fool,” you said.

“There’s more fools in this world than not,” Jia-Li said.

The girl continued to tease Kaho, who was obviously doing her level best to ignore her, not even affording her the dignity of looking at her. One could argue that it was maturity, but you understood it for what it really was: a way to demean her opponent, to prove that the other’s existence was meaningless to her, that she was so insignificant it was as if she truly did not exist in Kaho’s eyes.

“Honestly,” the girl said, voice lilting impishly, “I feel for you, Kaho. I mean, you used to be the top student, and then a girl with amnesia took your spot! It must’ve been embarrassing, losing to someone who doesn’t even have any memories. And to make matters worse, the prince really does seem to favor that girl, and we all know what he thinks of you…”

“What is she talking about?” you whispered under your breath to Jia-Li. “Why is she bringing me into this? What does Prince Zuko have to do with anything?”

“You’d do well to shut up now,” Kaho said, though it was the wrong thing to do, for her reaction was proof that the girl had struck a nerve.

“It’s like I told you,” Jia-Li whispered back. “Kaho is used to being at the top. When we were younger, before everything with the, ah, banishment, she tried very desperately to befriend the royal family. She was never able to endear herself to Princess Azula, but her sights were always on the prince, anyways, so that mattered little to her. It was marriage she sought; the prospect of being Fire Lady was too appealing.”

“I’m assuming she was unsuccessful,” you said. Jia-Li nodded.

“Extremely. It wasn’t even her fault, really; Prince Zuko was always kind, but unattainable for all of us. He had no interest in dallying with girls that went to school with his sister, so Kaho was never able to gain his approval in the way she wanted. Perhaps it might’ve been different if he hadn’t been…you know. They might have grown closer as they grew older simply due to her sheer persistence, but we’ll never know,” she said.

“For being the supposed best of us, you’re not the best at a lot of things,” the girl said. “I mean, I bet you’re not even that good at Firebending!”

Kaho slammed her fist on the table, standing to face the girl and glaring at her.

“Is that the game you want to play?” she said. “Fine. I’ll go along with it. I challenge you to an Agni Kai!”

“I’m assuming that’s not a good outcome,” you said.

“Nope,” Jia-Li said grimly. “Let’s just say that things have gone from bad to worse. Come on.”

“We’re going to watch?” you said.

“It’s all but mandated. I don’t like it, either, but we kind of have to,” Jia-Li said. “Hopefully, it’s over soon. Sometimes, Kaho can be inventive.”

You and Jia-Li stood in the very back of the crowd, though your view was still perfectly unobstructed. You almost wished there was something blocking your vision, though, something in between you and what was surely going to turn out to be a grotesque sight, one way or another.

“Want some?” the girl in front of you said, turning around and proffering a bag of candy to you and Jia-Li.

“No, thank you,” you said, for you were already queasy and knew that sweets would only worsen the effect.

“I’m okay,” Jia-Li said.

“I’m betting on Kaho,” the girl said, grabbing a handful of candy and dropping it all in her mouth. “Wanna join the pool? One of my friends is running it.”

“Like a betting pool?” you said.

“Yup! It’s how I could afford to buy this candy — I won last time,” the girl explained.

“No way,” you said.

“We’re good,” Jia-Li said when the girl looked offended at your short response.

“I can’t believe they’re betting on something like this!” you said.

“It’s common, believe it or not,” Jia-Li said.

“I believe it, sadly, but I wish I didn’t,” you said. “It’s so heartless.”

“That’s just how things are here,” Jia-Li said. You pursed your lips as the fight between the girl and Kaho began, deciding to keep silent, because your words would be wasted when your argument was not even with Jia-Li in the first place.

Even though the girl was no slouch in terms of Firebending, the fight was over almost as soon as it started. Kaho’s power was too much for her opponent, and she seemed bored as she coated her palm in fire and slapped it against the girl’s bicep.

“I got the first burn,” she said, miming a yawn. “So I guess that means I win. Why are you crying like that? Honestly. Just shut up. Why’d you agree to fight me if you couldn’t accept defeat like an adult?”

The skin on the girl’s arm was red and angry, already beginning to blister, but you could tell even without an explanation from Jia-Li that Kaho had been merciful. She could’ve done worse, but she had chosen to let that girl off with a warning. A reminder to never be so daring again.

There was something odd about it all, though. Despite the fact that her opponent was standing across from her, you noticed that it was not the burnt, sobbing girl that Kaho was scowling at so darkly.

It was you.

Ursa,

I’m glad you were able to make it to the zoo. I know you mentioned wanting to go a while back, so it makes me happy to know that that desire of yours was fulfilled. I wish I could’ve been there. Did you get to feed the turtle ducks? I remember doing that when I went, though of course I only visited once, with my mother, and that was a long time ago, so maybe things have changed and they don’t let people do that anymore.

I wish you hadn’t had to see an Agni Kai. They are definitely a darker part of Fire Nation culture. But, then again, for a nation that values honor so greatly, they are just a natural consequence. I hope you haven’t been frightened too terribly. Mai says that Kaho isn’t always so generous with her opponents, so there’s something to be grateful for: at least it was only a small burn. You’re entirely right — it could’ve been worse.

You shouldn’t worry about taking up space at the palace. It would be my our pleasure to host you once again. But Ember Island is a nice place. You will have fun there, I’m sure. The ocean is very, very beautiful. It’s the bluest thing you’ll ever see, and it goes on for what seems to be forever. The Fire Nation is lucky in that our ocean is warm, and the tides are not so vicious — nothing like the poles, where it is so treacherous and cold.

It is nice to know that you are enjoying yourself so thoroughly. That is what I am really concerned with; it matters little to me if you ever become a proper Fire Nation lady or anything along those lines. I would even prefer it if you didn’t. It’s more important that you are happy.

Yours, Zuko

P.S. Perhaps I am not surprised, but I am still disappointed on your behalf.

#zuko x reader #zuko x you #zuko x y/n #zuko #avatar the last airbender #atla #reader insert #canon au #the glass princess #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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