#instant concussion

[cryptophaez]

I've done it, I've gaslit myself into thinking Rise Raph has a big ole gator tail and got momentarily confused when seeing him without it in official art

[lakemojave]

Under PENALTY of INSTANT DEATH do NOT make blackout poetry of my posts. It is improper behavior and makes me wanna explode. You will receive 80 concussions. Don't make me spell it out again

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

gold rush | c. kent

a/n: i LOVED Superman 2025 guys it was so good i saw it twice i have been. thinking a lot of thoughts and krypto is the best character in the film so. in a tag full of clark kent smut i knew i had to write some angst. warnings: cursing, clark being the best boyfriend, angst but also fluff so, head injuries, hospitals, autistic clark i mean what who said that, canon typical violence, torture (nothing too crazy), kidnapping, i do NOT know how photography, darkrooms or concussions work, pet names, nightmares, lots of kissing, established relationship, not proof read, probably some other stuff but oh well <3 wordcount: 6.4k summary: your boyfriend's dog gives you a concussion and it's not even the worst part of your week. now playing: gold rush - taylor swift "what must it be like to grow up that beautiful?/with your hair falling into place like dominoes/my mind turns your life into folklore/i can't dare to dream about you anymore."

MINOR SPOILERS FOR SUPERMAN (2025) AHEAD!

Sunday

The dream starts out like any other. The sun is shining—It’s always shining when Clark dreams. This dream is warm, it feels real.

He’s sitting next to you on a porch swing.

The dreams always start out like this.

Your hand is on his cheek, and he can’t help but lean into your touch.

And in an instant, your hand isn’t your hand anymore—Instead, your skin turns a robotic black and feels like sharp metal against his face. Nanites spread from the tips of your fingers into his nose, and into his mouth—

He’s panicking, using both hands to try and claw the nanites out of his mouth, but they’re like sand, he barely shovels a handful out when twice as many show up, now traveling down his throat to his lungs and up his face.

He can’t breathe. He looks to you for help, but you’re no longer there—The sun is no longer shining, and Superman is all alone. He can’t breathe.

The nanites take over his eyes next and he is plunged into darkness—Alone, scared and unable to breathe. He can’t think, he must be dying. He must be.

“Clark,” He hears a voice from far away. He knows that voice. It’s your voice. “Clark, baby, wake up,” And he can’t tell if he’s imagining it, but the darkness starts to shudder like someone’s shaking him. But he follows your voice, stumbling his way through the darkness, attempting to breath until—

He wakes up gasping for air, sitting up in bed, this panicked, frenzied look in his eyes. His hand comes up to his mouth to check for nanites but all he finds is saliva and tears. His heart is racing, but he needs to check if you’re okay. His head turns towards you, and there you are, hair messy from sleeping, in a Smallville Decathlon tee shirt that he outgrew a few months after he got it, and sleep shorts. 

His hands come up to rub his face as he attempts to refocus. Everything is fine, he reasons. But everything isn’t fine. Superman doesn’t have nightmares.

Your voice cuts through the sound of him trying to steady his breath as your hand rests on his back, rubbing gentle circles on it.

“It’s okay, baby, It was just a nightmare.” Your voice is sleepy and far away, but what little energy you can muster at—Clark checks the time—four thirty-two in the morning is focused on him. So much for sleeping in on a Sunday. And after a few minutes he hears you ask, “Wanna talk about it?”

He wonders how much you already know, if he was talking in his sleep. But he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” His throat feels dry, “I didn’t mean to wake you,”

“Don’t be silly, Clark,” You mumble, your hand traveling up now from his back to the ends of his hair, twisting your fingers between curls. You don’t bother saying that it’s fine to wake you if he’s having a nightmare, that he might be Superman, Krypton’s last son, destined to save humankind, but you’d travel to the ends of the earth to help him get a better night’s sleep. You don’t bother saying it because he already knows it.

He just nods before laying back down, trying to focus on deep, soothing breaths. Your brain searches for anything that could be comforting in this moment, but your brain only finds one thing you could do for him in your sleepy state.

“How about I make you some breakfast?” You wonder, because you know that no matter what he says or does, part of him is still in Kansas, always longing for his Pa’s cooking (and conveniently enough, you had been taught by Pa Kent himself how to make French toast just the way Clark likes it the last time you had visited).

Clark smiles just a little.

“Yeah, that would be great.” He says softly, and you move to get up, but he grabs your arm, “Wait, just..” He avoids your gaze as his thumb rubs your skin, “Just.. lay with me a while?”

You smile.

You don’t hesitate to melt back into bed, finding yourself wrapping your arms around him, and he pulls you close like you’re made of feathers. He pulls you up so your head is on his chest, listening to the sound of his now steady heartbeat. Something about the weight of you on top of him, so alive and real, soothes him.

You both fall asleep with a mumble of a promise to make breakfast in a few hours.

Monday

He had only left the room for a minute!

But, for Krypto, a minute was all he needed. He had only agreed to let Krypto visit his apartment after you begged him all day, having an extreme soft spot for his cousin’s awful dog (whom you couldn’t help but fawn over).

Really, Clark couldn’t find it in himself to deny you anything, especially when you asked with the manners of a lady (even though at lunch that day you had eaten tacos with your hands and gotten siracha all over your face).

But he really needed to go take a shower, so—

“Are you sure you’ll be okay with him while I shower?” He wonders, and you just laugh.

“Clark, I know he’s a handful,” He watches as Krypto tugs you around the room by a length of rope you had bought to play tug of war with him. You giggle and stumble around Clark’s living room, “But he’s just a dog, and he likes me! Watch,” You turn to Krypto and say, “Krypto, Sit!” And after raising his ear to listen to you, he sits easily, mouth still latched onto the rope. You grin and begin to pet him, “Good boy, Krypto, who’s my special man?” You coo, and Clark just rolls his eyes.

He looks to Krypto with a defeated sigh, and points to him.

“Hey, dude,” He starts, but Krypto doesn’t stop wagging his tail and staring at you. “Krypto,” He says, and his attention is finally turned to your boyfriend, “Be good, okay?”

Krypto just lets out a bark in response, before beginning to drag you around the living room, and Clark is comforted as he walks out of the room to the sound of your laughter.

Which lasted all of a minute, while he turned on the shower, took off his glasses and loosened his tie—

Bang!

Something had hit the wall next to the bathroom. Clark doesn’t even bother turning off the shower before running back to the living room, met with the sight of you settling onto the couch with Krypto whining by your feet, a fresh head shaped hole in Clark’s wall.  

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” You coo at the dog, barely noticing Clark, “I’m okay,” But your blinking is slow, and all Clark wants to do was panic. He knows Krypto’s strength, but Krypto hadn’t seemed to realize that you aren’t like him or Kara—your head can’t just take blunt force like theirs could.

“Krypto,” Clark’s voice is sharp in a way neither you nor Krypto are used to, and you just frown,

“It’s not his fault! He just didn’t know,” You start, “Please don’t be mad at him, baby,” You beg. Clark bites the inside of his cheek, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to deny you anything. If Kryptonite was Superman’s only weakness, you are Clark’s.

He goes towards you, looking down to Krypto with an unapproving stare, gently tapping the dog with his foot to get him out of the way. To his credit, Krypto does seem guilty, like he really wasn’t aware of his own strength. With Krypto settled next to your feet, Clark kneels down, his hands resting on your knees.

“Sweetheart,” he starts with his soft, Kansas farm boy voice, and you could melt,

“Hi, baby,” You hum, and he can’t help the slight smile he gives.

“Sweetheart,” he repeats, “We need to get you to the hospital.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“..Why?”

Clark sighs. This is going to be tougher than he thought.

“Because I think Krypto gave you a concussion.”

“…Krypto is here?” You wonder, and that’s when Krypto lets out an ‘arf!’ by your feet, causing you to giggle and go to lean down to him, but Clark’s hand gently comes up to your chin, tilting your head back to look at him.

“Can you focus on me for a second?” His voice is soft, but it demands your attention. “How about we go to the hospital?”

Your face falls into a frown.

“I.. I don’t like hospitals, Clark, you know that.” And he does. Needles frighten you, and it’s often bright and overstimulating in a way he doesn’t know how to fix.

“I know, honey,” He says, “But if you’re hurt, a doctor could help in a way I can’t,” and there’s really no ‘if’ about it, you have all the classic signs of a concussion.

“But you’re superman!” You whine, and Clark nods,

“I am, but Superman doesn’t have a medical license,” He reminds, and you huff. What’s even the point of dating Superman then?

“I’m not going to the hospital,” You grumble, and Clark doesn’t have the heart to tell you he will go put his suit on and fly you over to the hospital if it would make you go.

“C’mon, honey, what can I do that’ll make you go to the hospital?” He wonders, and your hands find his tie, your fingers curl around the silky fabric.

“..Anything?” You wonder, your eyes wandering up to his pretty face. And because Clark is head over heels in love with you, his answer is instantaneous,

“Anything.” Your hands play with his tie as you bite your lip, a mischievous smile on your face. For a second Clark wonders which of your many wild fantasies you’ll pull out, when you say,

“..Will you let me photograph you as Superman?”

Clark is grateful for your concussion because you don’t notice his momentary hesitation. Clark knows that everyone, including you, is jealous of how often Clark is able to ‘interview’ Superman, but it’s different for you than it is for Lois or Jimmy—you have been trying to get a good photo of Superman for years, you couldn’t give less of a fuck about interviewing Superman; but if you could get photos of Superman, you’d be one of a kind. It would do great things for your career.

But you had never asked Clark.  How could you? You didn’t want him to feel like you only started dating him because of his being Superman—It felt wrong. But to be fair, you weren’t exactly in your right mind.

But you hate hospitals.

“Sure.” He says, and it takes you by surprise.

“Really?” And when he nods, you grin and throw your arms around his neck with a giggle. He hugs you tightly, mumbling into your hair,

“I’m going to take you to the hospital now, okay?”

“Okay, baby.”

Tuesday

“Can you tilt your head to the left?”

“Like this?”

“No,” You shake your head with a sigh, stepping towards him and tilting his chin just right in the direction you wanted. He looks ethereal, but real. You snap a few more shots before saying, “Can I get a few shots of your hands?”

Clark’s eyebrows furrow, but he holds out his hands for you.

You had decided that the roof was the best place to take Superman’s picture and today was a bright and sunny day in Metropolis. The cool breeze of late spring moves his cape like he’s the main damn character and you can’t help but wonder if he is.

After a doctor had looked at you and your head yesterday, they also did a couple of scans which did in fact confirm that you had a concussion. But they advised your boyfriend that it wasn’t too bad and that with some rest and Tylenol, it would be good to go back to work on Wednesday.

Clark, being the loving and devoted, and a little overprotective, boyfriend he is, decided to spend the day tending to your every need.

Of course, when you woke up this morning all you wanted (after some Tylenol) was to take pictures of Superman (a deal Clark should’ve known you would remember, despite your concussion). He had managed to get you to relax in the morning, but you were persistent.

“Do our readers want pictures of my hands?” He asked, and you shake your head.

“No, but I really like them, and I am the photographer, so..” You shrugged. You had got plenty of good shots, but you knew you wanted to get the shot. In the rest of the photos that most newspapers, including the Daily Planet, published, Superman is a red and blue streak, barely visible. Which meant that you already had the best shots that anyone in your business had, but you were ambitious—

You wanted the shot of Superman, the one that would be used in years to come, the embodiment of the last son of Krypton.

But you must be staring at him, because he blushes and asks,

“What’s that look for?”

You snap a picture of his pink cheeks.

Then, you say,

“Do me a favor, uh, kind of.. float up a few feet?” You ask, and he does, just a couple of feet off the ground. His cape is still floating in the wind, so you curl your hands into fists and place them on your hips, arms slightly bent. “Okay, pose like this,” Your doting boyfriend obliges and mimics your pose. “Okay, and big smiles,” You direct. Clark attempts to smile, and suddenly you put the camera down, letting it hang around your neck. “Seriously?”

“What—What did I do wrong?” He asks, and you just look at him. His smile was, at best, awkward.

“Your smile, it looks very forced.” You tell him, causing him to sigh.

“It’s hard,” He defends, “I don’t really like getting my picture taken,” And you do know that to be true. When you first started working at the Daily Planet, one of your first assignments was to take updated profile photos for the Daily Planet website. It had made you roll your eyes at first, but in hindsight, you were grateful for it. It was a good way to introduce yourself to everybody.

Lois’ picture came out perfect the first time you took it, her skin practically glowing as you photographed her, asking about your career so far, politely answering questions about hers. You had become fast friends over the ten minutes it took you to capture how beautiful she is. Jimmy used his in his Tinder profile, that is how good you are.

And Clark.

You had immediately been smitten by handsome he was, but you wanted to focus on getting these portraits done. It took you ages to get him to smile in a way that didn’t make him look awkward. Finally, something you had said made him genuinely laugh—

“I guess being that pretty doesn’t mean much when you can’t smile for a picture,” Your voice wasn’t mean, it was actually very warm, and even a bit flirty, “I knew there had to be some kind of catch.”

 You two were fast friends, and then you were fast lovers. Why wait when you know something is good?

And after you started dating, you took plenty of pictures of him; Some with your actual camera, some with your phone, and a couple with your polaroid camera. Clark looked good on vintage film.

But he still hadn’t mastered the concept of smiling on command. Maybe it wasn’t really a thing on Krypton, not second nature like it is for you, but you know it’s a weak excuse. You’re pretty sure your handsome boyfriend is just that awkward and humble.

“But you’re so pretty,” You whine, and you see Clark’s lips tug up a bit. “C’mon, think about something you like. Something that makes you happy.” You request, and you watch as Clark’s eyes shut for a moment, as he takes a deep breath, and then opens his eyes.

When his eyes land on you, a natural, handsome smile falls onto his face. You act quickly then, kneeling next to him and taking a few shots of him where he looks.. heavenly. The sunshine of the photo highlights how super he really is, and you can just tell that you got it.

Clark can tell too, because you watch as he releases the pose he was in and rests his feet on the ground.

“Got what you need, Miss?” The Superman voice makes you smile, and you walk over to him.

“Need just one more thing,” You hum, your arms wrapping around his neck just as his wide hands rest on your sides. He is inhumanly warm. When you lean in to kiss him, he meets you halfway, and suddenly you’re kissing Superman, and he is so good at it—like he is with everything else he does. Except smiling for pictures.

You don’t even mind when you feel your feet being lifted off the ground, too caught up in the way he grips you tighter to distract you.

Wednesday

Not much had changed in the day that you and Clark were out.

Lois and Jimmy bicker, Steve makes fun of your boyfriend (you threaten to kill him), and Cat asks how your day off was. You don’t bother to try to hide your smile as you tell her you got some good pictures.

“I can’t believe on the day you’re supposed to be resting after a concussion; you decide to take pictures.” Lois says, and you shrug, leaning against her desk.

“They’re really good pictures.” You smile, “I got lucky.” And you had, in so many ways. Besides, Lois would do the same thing in your shoes. You glance over to Clark’s desk and see him absent, so you check your watch. He’s twenty minutes late.

There’s a shot he got caught up doing hero things, but there’s just as good of a shot that he got distracted or something, and you’re really not sure when he’ll be here.

“Where’s boy wonder?” Lois asks, following your longing gaze. You shrug with an adoring smile.

“Probably washing his cape, or something.” You say affectionately, and Lois shakes her head. Whipped, the both of you. “Anyways, I’m gonna go to the darkroom to get some good physical versions of these pictures. Need anything before I go?”

It’s a habit of yours to ask—Sometimes you feel like all you do is take and process pictures, like your job is easier than everyone else’s but your coworkers know that’s only because you love your job so much.

Lois shakes her head and tells you she’ll let Clark know where you are when she sees him. You thank her and take your leave, setting up camp in the darkroom, knowing you’d have to take your time to process each photo. Sure, you could just send Perry digital copies, but the presentation of these physical prints would be too good to miss out on.

You’d have people begging to buy these photos, and it thrilled you. You’d have to give Krypto a big treat next time you see him.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed in the darkroom, but you were about three quarters of the way through your process when there’s a gentle knock on the door. You don’t even look up, you know who it is, and it’s only confirmed when warm, strong arms wrap around your torso from behind as you hang a photo to dry.

“Hi,” he says, watching you as you work.

“Hey,” You hum, leaning against him with a soft smile. “Late again, huh?”

“Had to help a little kid repair his solar system project after he dropped it on the way to school.” Your heart melts.

“Well, no wonder you’re late.” You say softly, but before you can say anything else, he turns you around with his hands on your hips before his lips are on yours. He tastes like mints and coffee, and you think you could die and go to heaven right now. Your hands rest on the back of his neck, the tips of your fingers barely brush against his hair.

His hands lift you with ease and sit you on an empty space next to your equipment. He stands between your legs, his glasses pressed against your face, and in between kisses, you push his glasses up to rest in his hair, not wanting the teasing that would come with the mark that they would leave.

He deepens the kiss a bit, but before he can stop himself, he’s mumbling, “Gosh, you’re so pretty,” as he continues to kiss you, and you find yourself smiling against his lips. He’s a sweetheart, your boy.

Your hands travel up a bit, unable to stop yourself from tangling your fingers within his dark curls. He lets out a content sigh against your mouth and you take the opportunity to slip your tongue through his parted lips, and it seems to egg him on more.

After a moment, you realize you need to breathe, but that doesn’t seem to be a concern of Clark’s. Your hands squeeze his biceps, trying to get his attention, but his hands begin to travel up and down your sides, until you eventually pull away, but his mouth chases yours,

“Clark,” You say breathlessly, “Baby, I gotta breathe,” you say, and he just nods,

“Sorry,” he starts, pressing a kiss to your lips quickly, and then to your cheek, “I’m sorry,” and then a kiss to your forehead, “I’m sorry,” and he means it. He forgets that you can’t hold your breath for an hour like he can.

You just smile and lean your forehead against his as you try to catch your breath.

“I’m okay,” You promise, and Clark nods, his lips plump and pink. He looks pretty. After a moment, Clark’s eyebrows furrow when your stomach growls loudly.

“When was the last time you ate?” He wonders, and all you do is shrug. You have that bad habit of forgetting to eat when you get focused on work, and Clark has noticed. Oh, how Clark has noticed.

“Uh,” You shrug, “I had a cup of coffee this morning,”

“That doesn’t count,” He reminds, and then sighs. “Well, I’m starving. Thai or Chinese?” He wonders, and you shrug in response.

“Indian?”

Clark’s lips catch yours in a long, soft kiss. When he pulls away, he says, “Perfect.” But the way he looks at you, you’re not sure he’s talking about the suggestion.

Thursday

You can’t contain the grin on your face as you bounce from Perry’s office back to Clark’s desk. You hold today’s issue of the newspaper, and Clark’s article sits on the front page, with your photograph printed above it. His name and yours sit next to each other on the page and Clark is seriously considering getting it framed.

“It’s a great photo,” Lois compliments, looking at her own copy. You grin to her,

“Thanks,” And that’s when Jimmy sighs as he sits back in his chair. You lean against Clark’s desk, who cannot stop staring at you.

“Alright, I give up.” Jimmy sighs, “You’re the better photographer. I mean, you were able to get Superman to what? Pose for you? How’d you do it?” He wonders, and all you can do is shrug, the way you’re smiling has Clark whipped.

“I know a guy,” You grin, and you don’t even look at Clark. He’s so in love with you.

Lois and Jimmy go back to their work, and you finally turn your attention to your adoring boyfriend.

“We should celebrate.” He grins, “Dinner tonight?” He wonders. Admittedly, the two of you would have dinner either way, whether there was something to celebrate or not.

“Sure. What did you have in mind?” You ask, and he smiles.

“Sushi?”

“Sushi.”

Friday

Sushi does not wind up going as planned. In fact, you don’t make it to dinner at all—You get stuck at work after someone spilt coffee on half your prints, so you resign to the darkroom while Superman fights off some big alien robot—

Clark promises to make it up to you, and you just smile affectionately and tell him to go save lives.

It’s technically Friday when you make your way home, Superman is still fighting that robot, but you were spent. Your eyelids were heavy, and your bones ache. You daydream about a relaxing weekend with your boyfriend, not knowing that the next few hours would be some of the worst of your life.

You listen to the sounds of Superman punching robots while you walk home and you have this goofy smile on your face. You’ve never been so in love, and it makes it hard to focus on much else—

Including the sound of footsteps approaching.

Later, you would kick yourself for your stupidity, for your carelessness. How could you not hear the heavy footsteps of a man with ill intent?

But you’re knocked out by the butt of a gun before you can hear anything other than the sound of your boyfriend’s laser vision from almost a mile away, marking your second head injury of the week.

When you wake up, your head is killing you, and when you go to rub the sleep out of your eyes you find that your arms are tied to the chair you sit in. You blink away exhaustion and realize you have no idea where you are. This warehouse—You assume it’s a warehouse—is dark and smells like the sea. When you look down, you see dried blood on the floor.

Your heart rate begins to increase, pounding against your chest—but you’re comforted, if only briefly, by the fact that you know as soon as he can, Clark will be here to get you. Then, you remember the robot infestation, and his preoccupation. You might be here for a while, and you have no idea who’s taken you.

Your head hurts.

You begin to wiggle your hands and arms, trying to figure any weak spots in the binds, trying to get out of here before Clark even realizes what has happened.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A voice pierces through the darkness, and you freeze. You try to remember what Clark said to do in this situation, but your brain is fuzzy and full of fear.

“Whatever it is you think I have,” You force your voice to be stern, unshaken, “You’re wrong.” You say, and the voice laughs. From the darkness comes a small group of people, three or four of them, all dressed in black. On their necks, you see a tattoo—No, not a tattoo. A brand.. A large ‘L’ encased in a circle is branded on each of their necks.

“We’re going to make this very clear for you.” Another one of them talks, “Answer our questions, and we’ll let you go. Give us bullshit, and well..” She gestures to the biggest of them. He’s as tall as Clark, looks as big as him too. “Our friend here has an anger problem. Would be a shame if he had to take it out on you.”

A shiver runs down your spine.

Where is Clark?

“What do you want from me?” You ask, and one holds up Thursday’s Issue of The Daily Planet. The one with your picture of Superman, his heroic smile as bright as the sun behind him.

“You took this picture, right?”

“That’s my name under it, isn’t it?” You ask, your answer dripping with sarcasm—you can’t help it. Under your fear, you’re angry. What right do these assholes have to torture you? But your sarcasm is met with a sharp slap across your face by the big man you were threatened by. Your ears are starting to ring, and your vision unfocuses for a second, but then you nod, “Yes! Yes, I took that picture, Jesus—” You huff.

Of course this is about the picture. No one else in Metropolis has been able to get Superman to pose for pictures.

“How’d you get Superman to pose for you?” One asks, and you shake your head.

“I-I don’t..” Your throat is dry. How could you tell them that his dog gave you a concussion, so he owed you one, on top of the fact that he was the love of your life?

You don’t get the chance to finish, because the big man’s hand comes down in a powerful fist, and hits you in the stomach. You groan in pain, leaning over as you try to catch your breath. Someone grabs your shoulder and pulls you back up so he can land another punch to your stomach—and you’re gasping for air, trying to catch your breath after hearing a sharp crack! of your ribs.

This is bad.

Where is Clark?

“How’d you get him to pose for you?” They ask, because of your pain, your vision is blurred, so they all blend together as one—except for this big guy, who stands looming over you.

“He.. He saw me.. taking photos on the roof.. asked me.. if I was okay.” The lie comes out between panted, labored breathes, “I asked.. I swear that’s all..” You say, because you feel tears coming on, and you don’t want them to see you cry.

This goes on for a long time—or maybe it’s not long, you really can’t tell, not between the pain and the fear—the fear of dying, the fear of not being able to see Clark again, the fear of accidentally slipping up and telling them exactly what you know—time becomes a blur.

By the time they ask their last question, you feel like you really might die. You spit blood onto the floor, your vision is unfocused, and your entire body is shaking—from the pain or the fear, you do not know.

But the last question really fucking scares you.

“What’s Superman’s secret identity?” They ask, “Who is he?”

Your face is swollen, bruised, and bloody.

“His name… is Kal-El,” You say, because it’s true, it’s what everyone knows, “He comes from the planet Krypton—” You cry out in pain when you’re hit again, and all you can do is cry, because you just cannot help it. You have nothing left.

Where is Clark?

“He has to be someone in his day-to-day life! Who is he?” They ask again, and you shake your head even if it hurts.

“I don’t know!” You cry out, “I don’t fucking know!” And it’s a lie. Of course you know who he is. You know every detail you can possibly maintain about who Superman is when he’s not saving the world. You know how he loves mandarin oranges and how they look so small in his hands, you know how he ‘doesn’t care for’ pickles because he cannot bring himself to really hate anything, you know how one day, he wants to have two kids, a boy and a girl, you know how eye contact turns him on, and you know how gentle he is despite his size. But you can’t tell them any of that.  

You’re about to pass out. You can’t take much more of this, and they know it. Your chest is heaving, up and down with labored breaths. It hurts to breathe. You can barely make out the image of someone pulling out a gun, probably the same gun that had knocked you out earlier.

And then it all happens in an instant.

To your right, you hear the smashing of glass as something—no, someone, someone flies through the window, and before you can even turn your head, strong, warm arms wrap around you, snapping the ropes around your arms and flying off, out of this warehouse and into the sky, filled with the warm yellows and oranges of dawn.

There he is.

Wind whips through your hair, and you relish the idea that you’re alive. You know your injuries are not life threatening, you’ll be okay.

Through the sounds of the wind and the ringing in your ears, you can hear him talking, gently, as if he’s afraid that speaking louder might hurt you, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” and despite how badly you want to reassure him that you’re okay, all you can do is curl into him as your vision fades, and you’re plunged into darkness.

Clark pushes himself to fly faster when he feels you go limp in his arms.

When you wake up, you’re in a hospital.

You hate hospitals.

You’re not strapped down or anything, not hooked up to anything.. but your wounds are cared for, and instead of pain, you feel kind of.. floaty. Whatever they gave you for the pain is working wonders. Maybe hospitals aren’t as bad as you think—

Where is Clark?

As if he can read your thoughts, and in your high on pain killers state, you think maybe he can, he walks back in. He moves quickly to sit by your side, his hands clasping around yours. If he owed you one for Krypto giving you a concussion, he owes you a million for this. He’s sick to his stomach at the sight of you, and all you want to do is pull his stupid glasses off his face.

“Hey,” You smile, and somehow, Clark’s frown only deepens.

“Hi.. How are you feeling?” He asks, and you shrug.

“Mm.. Floaty.” You confess, and it seems to take him off guard.

“Floaty?”

“Yeah, whatever they gave me for the pain is really working.” You confess, and you see him smile just a bit. You think about his awkward forced smile when he’s asked to take a picture, and you begin to giggle, even if it hurts your ribs.

“What’s so funny?” He asks, his chin rests on his hands that encompass yours, and  his voice just a murmur, because nothing about this is funny to him.

You just shake your head, and ask,

“Can we go home?”  His blue eyes stare into yours, and he sighs,

“The doctors say—”

“Clark, I don’t care.” And the slight break in your voice makes him stop, “Please, just.. take me home. I want to shower, and eat something, and—” he nods.

“Okay, yeah. Let’s go home.” He says gently, helping you sit up. He can tell you’re exhausted and even though you’re feeling no pain right now, you’d be much more comfortable at home. Besides, Clark had taken every single word the doctor said to heart, so he knows how to take care of you from here, he could probably recite it in his sleep.

On the way home, Clark fills you in on everything—The people who took and tortured you were Luthorcorp Followers, devoted to find out everything they could about Superman in the name of their old boss. Having taken the only good photos of Superman currently in the press, you had become an immediate target for them. Clark had spent a long time feeling guilty about these facts as he waited for you to wake up.

If your head wasn’t cloudy, you’d notice the longing stare of your boyfriend, who’s fingers twitched to scoop you up and fly you home, keep you there forever, and never give the world the chance to hurt you again. You got hurt because he was Superman, and he’s not sure if he can forgive himself for the position he put you in.

What would have happened if you were more seriously hurt? …What would have happened if he got to you a moment too late?

It’s all Clark can think about as he watches you down the sandwich he made you, hungrier than you had been in ages. And you’re so tired. But you frown when you watch Clark across the table, looking.. sad. But he had saved you, what was there to be sad about?

Wordlessly, you push the plate in front of you with half a sandwich towards him. Immediately, he shakes his head and nudges it back towards you.

“You’re starving,” He reminds, “And besides, I’m not hungry.”

You give him a look.

“You’re always hungry, baby,” You remind, pushing the plate back to him. He shakes his head,

“Not tonight.” He says, and you sigh.

“Denying yourself food won’t change what happened. I’m fine, Clark—”

“But you aren’t.” He says, and his voice is tight like he’s terrified of the reality of it, “You got kidnapped, and.. and really hurt, because I’m Superman, and I can’t.. I couldn’t live with myself if you were hurt worse, or..” He trails off, because even saying it is too real for him. He’s looking at you, cut up and bruised, holding half a grilled cheese, and he wishes he could take this entire week back.

“But I’m okay.” You remind. “And I love you. I know what the risks are, okay? But I love you too much to stay away from you, and I love you too much to ask you to stop fulfilling your life’s purpose. This might have happened anyways.” You say, and nudge the plate towards him. “Here. Eat. For me, please?”

And because Clark can’t deny you anything, he reaches forward and takes the second half of the sandwich, and the two of you eat quietly, tears brimming both of your eyes, the day finally catching up to you.

Saturday

You wake up gasping for air. You can’t remember what your nightmare was about, but Clark’s arms are around you before you even turn your head to look at him.

He holds you close, petting your hair.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.. It was just a nightmare, sweetheart. You’re alright.” He says gently, and he listens to the sound of your heartrate slow. Tears are running down your face, and you attempt to mumble out something—an apology or maybe an explanation—but he just shushes you softly. “It’s okay.” He assures, and it is.

Because Superman protects people—It’s what he does. And you’re his favorite person. He’ll always come to find you, to make sure you’re okay, that you’re safe.

The thought alone is enough to drag you both back to sleep, with a mumble of a promise to make breakfast in a few hours.

[38livesalone-has3cats]

Hiiiii i have a request 😛

bob floyd gets a concussion and is flustered and embarrassed when wife!reader tells him they’re married, and he doesn’t believe her because she’s so pretty

muaahahahaha😈😈😈 I absolutely loveee this !!!

warnings/tags: v minimal hospital stuff, anxious reader, (y/n) used like twice, fluff, bob is sooo in love lololl, very quick nsfw mention, also bob is southern because I SAID SO, reader is lowkey southern too cause i am and i’m projecting🥀

wc: 1.2k

a/n: sighhh i love bob so much, this was so fun to write :] thank you for the req !! plsss keep them comin !

It wasn't very often you were invited on base. You aren't not allowed there, you just never really had much of a reason to spend the day over there. So that's why you're a little fidgety as you make your way through the parking lot of the small hospital on base. That, and you had received a worrying phone call this morning.

You were lounging at home- enjoying your day off- when your phone rang. You recognized the number from the very few times you had been called by one of your husband's supervisors. A doctor had informed you that your husband had had to make an emergency eject during training and hit his head pretty hard.

You had panicked immediately but the doctor assured you Bob would be just fine; he just has a fairly serious concussion and his memory and motor skills are a bit wonky at the moment. You finished up the phone call and rushed over as quickly as you could.

You aren't waiting in the lobby very long before a nurse leads you back to your husband's room. Your heart almost breaks at the sight of him in his hospital bed, looking absolutely pitiful. He's sitting up slightly with his head tilted back facing the ceiling, his eyes closed and his breathing a bit slower than usual.

"Bobby? Honey, how're you feeling?" You're by his side in an instant, one hand caressing his arm and the other brushing along his forehead as his eyes flutter a few times before his head tilts toward you. His eyes are a bit fuzzy, unfocused, but he's still got that light he's always had- like the sun itself has taken root in him and couldn't help but shine through. "'m doin' okay, how're you?" He mumbles, his tone completely serious. You can't help but laugh at him; those southern manners imbedded deep in him. "I'm okay, just worried bout you, Bobby." You run your fingers along the edge of a small bandage on his forehead, before turning and reaching for his glasses.

Carefully, you slide them onto his face and watch in amusement as his mouth drops open. You go to speak, but he beats you to it; "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." A pretty flush rises to his cheeks and his eyes stay wide open, like he doesn't want to blink and miss any microexpression you might make.

"Oh, thank you, handsome." You grin, cupping his chin with one hand and leaning in to brush your lips against his gently. You're shocked when his shaky arms do what they can to push you away- there's not much force behind his wobbly movements, but you back away and look down at him with furrowed brows. "Nonononono, stop stop- 'm married." He frantically tries to get out despite the slur in his voice.

"Baby-" You start, fighting the giggle in your voice. He shakes his head, a beautiful pout taking over his features. "I love my wife. She's perfect- you gotta back up." His eyes screw shut, he turns his head away from you, and his shaky hands rub his eyes. "Her name's (y/n), she's fuckin' great- pardon my l-language." He mumbles, mostly to himself at this point.

"Bob. My name is (y/n). My last name's Floyd. I'm your wife." You reach out to gently grasp his wrists. Bob whips his head toward you so fast he's dizzy for a few moments. You keep your eyes on him, unsure whether to laugh or call for a nurse. Once his eyes really focus on you he seems to deflate, his arms falling to his lap and his cheeks quickly heat up a bright red. He looks.. nervous. "You okay?" You hum, slowly reaching out for him.

A beat of silence passes before he opens his mouth, his bottom lip trembling, "I missed youuu." He finally says- his hand shooting out to meet yours. He overshoots it a bit, though, and smacks your shoulder. You let out a relieved laugh, grabbing his hand and interlacing your fingers together. God, he really scared you for a second. "You're really my wife? How?" He asks, looking absolutely amazed as you run your fingers along his cheekbones.

"It's a very long story, Bobby. But I love you." You grin, leaning down to kiss his forehead. He lets out a dreamy sigh, reaching up with his free hand to grip onto your shoulder. "Yeah? God, you're so pretty." He blinks up at you, unable to fight the smile on his face.

For a moment, you're stunned by just how beautiful he is- pink cheeks, wide eyes, and a boyish grin; a little beat up and bruised but easily the most gorgeous man you've ever seen. You chest seems to swell up with all the love you feel for your husband. You feel a tugging at your shirt and realize he's said something to you. "Sorry, what'd you say, honey?"

"'m tryna sweep you off your feet, sweetheart- you're makin' it hard." Bob grumbles, letting go of your hand to grip at the front of your shirt so he can tug you down with both arms. You let out a breathy laugh, allowing him to pull you closer. "I'm so very sorry." You grin against his lips before giving in.

He tastes the same, he's got the usual enthusiasm, his technique's just a bit wonky. You honestly wouldn't change it for the world. The kiss only breaks when he's gasping and you have to push him away or he won't stop. It's his favorite thing- drowning in you; in your eyes, your lips, your pussy. God, just the thought of having you has blood rushing to his dick so fast he's a bit lightheaded.

You press one last lingering kiss to his lips before you're pulling back and turning to grab a chair. "Doctor said you gotta spend the night here so-"

"Need my pillow- need to move my pillow." Bob's voice is urgent when he interrupts you and you're letting go of the chair and running your eyes over him to see if anything's changed. "Where? Are you okay? You hurting?" You question him as you carefully slide the pillow out from behind him. He just furrows his brows and chews on his lip as you hold the pillow beside him for a moment. "Where do you want it, Bobby?" You repeat, worry clawing up your throat.

"My lap." One of his wobbly arms grabs onto the pillow and tugs it toward him- you don't let go just yet, your fear turning to confusion. A "Huh?" tumbles from your lips and Bob is grinning. "So pretty, my wife.. Gave me a kiss and I popped a boner." He sighs, still fighting with you for the pillow as he starts to giggle to himself over the word 'boner'.

You let go of the pillow with an incredulous laugh and watch as he settles it over his lap. Surely there's no way he's at full mast with all the pain meds in his system- you almost want to check- but you just shake your head and settle into the chair next to his hospital bed. You thread your fingers with his and settle your head onto his boner-hiding pillow, keeping your eyes on his as he traces his unsteady fingers along your features.

Bob stares at you in wonder, wondering what he could've done to ever possibly deserve having you. "My wife." He murmurs, reverently, like he can't quite believe it.

"Maybe we'll renew our vows when you aren't so hopped up on pain meds."

[midniqhtt]

golden trio era recs

masterlist • harry potter universe • 07/20/25

harry potter

𑣲 pretty boy I @msmk11

you love to make your boyfriend embarassed

𑣲 heaven help a fool who falls in love I @fushic0re

a meet cute brings you and the oblivious chosen one together.

𑣲 concussions and interruptions I @yasministration

You aren't expecting to meet Harry's parents for the first time while you share an intimate moment in the hospital wing after he sustains another quidditch injury.

𑣲 summer lovin’ I @/yasministration

you decide to visit harry over the summer, playing the classic 'girl next door' so harry's uncle lets you in.

𑣲 a motherly love I @/yasministration

when harry sends you another owl claiming that professor snape has it out for him, you decide to pay them a short visit

𑣲 love, mum and dad I @/yasministration

Harry gets the memory book you and James made for him to open on his 17th birthday, but he gets it a little sooner, and discovers things about the family he could have had.

𑣲 always the prefects bathroom I @/yasministration

despite harry potter's presence in the prefects bathroom, you aren't stopped from taking a soothing bath

𑣲 do a flip! I @/yasministration

harry tries to find out who your crush is, and you give him a negotiation: you'll tell him if he tells you his. you're confident he doesn't have one, having been dumped only three weeks ago. he proves you wrong.

𑣲 come play mermaids I @/yasministration

harry potter is a distracting menace. but it's okay, because he's hot, and you just want to kiss him.

ron weasley

𑣲 i love you first I @/msmk11

Ron is used to feeling second.

𑣲 sewing kit I @/yasministration

The instant Ron came to you asking for help sewing a rip in his t-shirt, Molly knew you were the woman he was going to marry.

𑣲 the chosen one I @/yasministration

harry may be the chosen one, but he wasn't the one you chose.

george weasley

𑣲 dear diary I @/yasministration

Ron can't help his crush on his older brother's girlfriend, and catches himself in some inconvenient situations

fred weasley

𑣲 metamorphosis I @desideriumwriter

Fred has been acting differently since he got hurt during the War. You're not sure how many more of his outbursts you can handle.

𑣲 a touch that never hurts I @mywhisperingwords

you seem to have fallen for your best friend, which you could handle if only he didn’t constantly touch you

cedric diggory

𑣲 no disturbances I @/yasministration

𑣲 woes of a prefect I @wondernimbus

neville longbottom

𑣲 stranger to friends I @/yasministration

𑣲 obvious enough I @/yasministration

it seems that the only person in the entire castle who doesn't know about your feelings for neville is neville himself. your signals become increasingly more obvious, but even asking him out to hogsmeade doesn't seem to be obvious enough for him.

moved harry and ron to this post*

[ofbatsandballads]

i love you, i’m sorry

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 4.2k

warnings: injured character, explicit descriptions of wounds, brief mention of reader having a panic attack, emotional angst, bad dad Bruce implied

a/n: i just feel like jason showing up half dead at your door would be a massive turning point in your relationship, y’know? can be read as a successor to this or as a standalone.

divider credit: saradika

When Red Hood comes to you, he’s almost always hurt. You’ve learned to keep a first aid kit that would make any hospital jealous and with no formal training you’ve picked up skills that rival that of an army medic. Over the last year, you’ve seen gashes, bruises, concussions, even a dislocated shoulder.

You have never seen anything like this.

You spot him the second you walk through your front door. He’s slumped against the wall just below your window. His armor has gashes in it and blood steadily drips from the tears. There’s more blood dripping down his chest, making the red bat symbol look like it’s melting. More concerning than anything else is the helmet. It’s broken. There’s a huge chunk of it missing on the left side of his head. You can see the red domino mask underneath, the battered skin that’s already coloring the initial red-purple of a black eye, and the blood flowing from a nasty looking cut on his eyebrow.

You freeze. A bolt of panic shoots from your head to your toes. No, not panic. Fear. Pure, undiluted fear. Because he looks like he’s dying. The thought startles you out of your haze and you slam your front door shut, locking the five different locks he’d insisted on installing around three months into your partnership. You run to him. You don’t know what to do. All you know is you need to get to him.

You drop to your knees and place your hands on either side of his head. For the first time, your right hand meets skin instead of cool metal. Maybe another time you’d savor that, but your hand is slick with his blood the second you make contact.

“Red?” you call, voice frantic.

You repeat the nickname over and over, fear rising into your throat when he makes no acknowledgment of you, when there’s no sign of life. You continue to call for him, begin gently shaking his shoulder. Finally, the white lens of the domino mask narrows and expands. A blink. He’s alive.

“Hey.”

His voice is broken, weak, filled with pain. He’s hurt in a way you’ve never seen him hurt. Underneath the fear you feel a surge of anger. Whoever did this to him…you want their head on a pike.

“Hi…hi,” you greet him shakily.

You’re lost. He’s in such bad shape you don’t know where to begin. You decide to look at the wounds on his torso first. There’s many, but the blood that leaks from them is the bright red of surface wounds. Most of the blood he’s drenched in comes from a brutal gash situated just between his helmet and his body armor. It’s a tiny sliver of skin, maybe an inch of exposure, but it’s raggedly cut open.

Whoever hurt him had aimed just right to target the inconspicuous vulnerability. The rage flares again before it’s swallowed up by fear. You press your hand against the wound to stem the flow of thick, dark blood. Your heart breaks at the groan of pain he lets out.

Finally, you look at his head. This is the first time you’ve seen any part of his face. You’ve longed to know who your nighttime companion is, who your friend is. You never wanted to see him like this. The eyebrow cut is long, a slice from just above his eyelid to the middle of his forehead. Bruises cover his brow bone, his cheekbone, his forehead. Every bit of exposed skin looks battered. It clicks in your brain in one horrifying instant.

His wounds aren’t from a shootout or a tussle with a criminal gone south. He’s been beaten. Badly. And there’s only one person who you can think of that would be capable of harming him like this. You pull your curtains shut and say a prayer to whoever’s listening that the World’s Greatest Detective isn’t still hunting him.

“Red? I need to get you to the bathroom, okay?” you ask, the cracking in your voice betraying any sense of strength you were trying to convey.

He doesn’t respond and you feel fear shoot through you again. Then his arm wraps around your waist and you breathe a sigh of relief. You can’t lift him to his feet, nor could you support his weight if you managed it. You realize you’re going to have to crawl to your bathroom.

The process is slow and awkward. Red Hood lifts himself off the wall, slumping forward toward you. You pull his arm over your shoulder, and even with both of you on the ground his weight is heavy against you. You keep one arm wrapped around his waist, the other slowly helping to drag the both of you towards your bathroom.

Your muscles are burning and your arms are shaky when you finally make it. With his help, you manage one last burst of strength to get him into your bathtub. You think that that’s the last bit of help you’ll get from him tonight when he goes limp against the tub wall.

You feel a sudden wave of anxiety come over you. You’re going to need to get his clothes off. Worse, you need the helmet off. You feel wrong even thinking about it. Once when he’d had a bad concussion, you’d woken him every hour on the hour with your eyes closed so as not to see his face.

“Red…I know you’re not going to like this, but I have to take off your helmet, okay? I need to see if there’s any other wounds under there,” you say carefully, slowly, like trying to comfort a wounded animal ready to bite.

You feel his shoulders stiffen under your hands. You wait for him to tell you no, to fight you on it like he has every time before. Instead he gives a nearly imperceptible nod of his head. It makes you feel even worse. You had hoped that if he ever revealed himself to you it would be because he trusted you, not out of necessity.

His hands reach up to push on the undersides of the helmet and you hear the distinct click of it unlatching. He weakly pushes it off his head and drops it on the bathroom floor. It’s more of him than you’ve ever seen and you try not to look too long. But then his hands are up by his face again and you can’t stop the look of shock that creeps on your face as he willingly pulls the domino mask off.

For the first time, you see his eyes. They’re a beautiful seafoam green. You feel your breath catch in your throat. You already felt a fondness in your chest for the man that keeps you safe. He scoffed when you told him that for the first time. Made some snide comment about if you were aware of the fact that he kills people. You just remained steadfast, told him that he protected good people, innocent people. You told him that he was good.

You never doubted the phrase, but now you know firsthand how true it rings. Eyes are the window to the soul. Now there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s good. And no doubt that you care for him deeply. He lets out one shaky breath that pulls you from your trance. He looks a little nervous, a little vulnerable. You suppose he is, so you keep moving.

“Lean forward for me, just a little? I need to see the back of your head,” you murmur.

He obeys, a slight hiss leaving him at having to crane his neck. You’ve got your hand pressed against the cut under his jaw and you feel blood gush as he tilts his head down. Your other hand gently combs through his hair as you look for gashes or bumps. Thankfully you find none, though you suspect he might be concussed.

“I’m gonna patch you up now, but I need to get all this off. Is that okay?” you ask.

He looks extremely put out by the idea of being undressed. The last thing you want to do is make him uncomfortable. After all, you don’t know how thrilled you’d be if you had to strip down in front of him. You think you could stitch him up through the tattered gear, but then he’d need to shower. He can’t even stand by himself right now. He realizes it too. He gives one jerky nod, his sea green eyes staring right through you.

You pull the easiest stuff off first. His boots, socks, and holsters lay abandoned on your bathroom floor next to your small waste bin. You move on to his body armor. He has to help you but you get it off without causing him too much pain. His tactical pants are next. Belt, button, zipper. Simple. You pull them off and add them to the pile of bloodied gear.

Now that he’s undressed you see that your lightbulb moment was correct. Bruises are starting to color across his body, a memento of blunt force. You fix what you can. It’s easy to stitch the little cuts on his torso, slightly harder to close the neck gash. Soon he’s all patched up, the blood beginning to dry on his skin in that uniquely gross sticky-crusty mix.

“Can I—I mean, would it be okay if I ran you a bath?” you ask quietly.

He looks wide eyed at you. You tell him that it’s fine if not, that you can figure something else out. It’s important to you to be careful of his boundaries, always respecting what he was willing to give. Perhaps that’s why he finally gives a slow nod of consent. His final item of clothing comes off and you add his boxers to the literal laundry list of clothing on your floor.

You start running his bath, leaving to grab a washcloth and toss his bloodstained clothing in the washer while the tub fills. As you're setting the cycle to run, your mind flashes with muddled, disjointed thoughts.

Thoughts about pain and sacrifice and betrayal and trust. The Batman did this to him. The Batman also helped him take down a Falcone drug ring three weeks ago. The man in your bathtub was Robin, a bright light in a city so dark that it snuffs any glimmer of hope that shines through. The man in your bathtub is Red Hood, a scourge to the ilk of Gotham with so much blood on his hands that he’s drowning in it. It’s all so much. Then you wonder if anyone has ever extended their hand to him and never curled it into a fist later on. And it hits you hard and soft all at once: you’re in this forever now. You won’t leave him. You love him.

It’s ridiculous. You love this man whose face you had never seen until tonight, whose name you don’t know. But you know that he loves classic literature after the night that he’d browsed your bookshelf after you wrapped his sprained wrist. You know that he has a fondness for chocolate chip cookies after the night he crawled through your window while you were baking a batch. You know he’s kind after the night he came by just to check on you, only to find you having a panic attack on your bathroom floor. You know he’s gentle after he picked you up off the ground and carried you to your bed, after he put your hand to his chest and made you breathe in time with him, after he held you until you fell asleep. And what was a name or a face compared to a heart and soul?

You swallow down the confession you’ve made to yourself and head back to the bathroom because right now it doesn’t matter. He needs help; you can worry about your being in love with him later. The tub is just about full when you get back and you turn the knobs shut. You dip the washcloth beneath the warm water and grab your bottle of soap off the ledge.

“This is all I’ve got, so you may just have to deal with smelling like me for the night,” you say, attempting to crack a joke.

“Well, y’smell nice, so ‘m okay with that,” he mumbles, Gotham accent thicker than you’ve ever heard it.

You can’t see yourself, but you’re pretty sure your face is as red as his helmet. You busy yourself by squeezing an unnecessary amount of soap into the cloth, scrubbing it until it’s more suds than fabric. You begin slowly, making sure his watchful eyes can see every move as you bring the cloth to his neck. You wash the blood and sweat off him gently, careful not to go near the stitched up gash.

“Can you raise your arms for me, Red?” you ask quietly as you run the cloth over his shoulders

“Jason.”

Your head snaps to face him and you feel like someone’s just slapped you.

“My name’s Jason.”

He whispers it like it’s a confession. You smile at him, soft and warm.

“Okay, Jason. Can you lift your arms?”

You spend the better part of an hour bathing him. Once all the blood, sweat, and grime is gone, you give him a towel fresh from the dryer to wrap himself in and leave him to dry off. You give him a thick red hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants you’d bought for him after the concussion incident. You still feel bad about him having to sleep in his gear that night.

You turn your favorite classical music playlist on low volume and the two of you sit comfortably in silence on your couch. You’re reading an Agatha Christie novel and Jason is resting with his eyes closed, no doubt nursing the migraine you gave him some Tylenol for. You think that maybe he dozes off a couple times when his breathing goes even and deep.

You take the time to memorize details of him, uncertain if you’ll ever get the blessing of seeing him as he is again. He’s got inky dark hair that’s on the longer side of short. There’s a stark white tuft in the front that stays neatly curled to itself, not a single hair slipping into the night black mess of waves and curls. His hooked nose and strong jawline give him a striking, rugged handsomeness. Scars litter his face. Some are barely there little white lines, while others are thicker and jagged at the edges.

Scars cover the rest of his body too. Every bit of skin you saw while bathing him has some form of scarring. You recognized healed slashes from knives or glass, thick circles with rough edges from bullet wounds. The one that took you by surprise is the largest of them. It’s red and raised in the shape of a Y, the two forks extending from the edges of his collarbones and meeting in the middle to carve straight down, taking a little curve around his belly button before disappearing into the dark trail of curls that leads to his pelvis. You’ve seen enough NCIS to know what it is: an autopsy scar.

You can’t even begin to fathom how he got an autopsy scar. You quickly remind yourself that it’s none of your business and push the sharp ache in your chest down, down, down. Your mind is still a hazy mess, a deluge of thoughts that leave a faint numbness and sorrow in their wake. You feel so deeply for this man that lies quietly on your couch. You wish you could protect him, as ridiculous as the idea sounds. You don’t even realize you’ve lost yourself to your thoughts until his sweet voice pulls you out.

“You’re in your head again,” he says quietly.

You turn your head to him slowly, still in a daze.

“Sorry, just thinking,” you reply, giving him a strained smile.

Anxiety washes over his face. He pushes himself forward, elbows on his knees like he’s trying to take up less space.

“I’ll get goin’ soon. ‘M sure I’ve wasted enough of your time,” he murmurs.

“Please stay here tonight.”

You spit it out without thinking. The last thing you want is him to think you were spacing out because you didn’t want him here or because he was an inconvenience.

“What?” he asks blankly.

His eyebrows are furrowed and he looks an odd mix of dumbfounded and agitated.

“Please stay. I don’t want you heading back out there tonight. Please, just stay here where you’re safe,” you whisper.

It’s a quiet request, but a desperate one. You need him to stay. You need to know he’ll be safe, that he’ll make it through the night.

“I…” he trails off uncertainly.

“You don’t hafta take care of me, y’know?” he finally spits out, “I’m not somethin’ you can fix.”

You bristle. Is that what he thinks of you? Even after all these months? That he’s some fixer upper to you? Some pet project?

“I’m not trying to fix you, Jason,” you say firmly.

His name is new in your mouth, but it feels natural even in the midst of your frustration.

“Good, ‘cause I can take care of myself. Been doin’ it for years now,” he bites.

Okay, now you’re starting to get a little annoyed. He’s done this a couple of times over the past year. Pushing you away when you just want to help him, just want to make sure he’s okay. And that’s fine. You can handle that most times. But not tonight. Not when you’ve just coaxed him back to life, not when you felt like you were so close to losing him.

“Well, you don’t have to do it alone anymore!” you snap.

You see him tense at your harsh tone and you take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm your storming emotions.

“I…I’m not doing this because I’m trying to fix you. I’m doing this because you’re a human being. That first night…I’m sure you could’ve handled it yourself once you woke up. But I couldn’t leave you alone, hurting. Not then, not now,” you begin, leveling him with a stare so fierce that it holds him in place.

He goes to open his mouth, no doubt to argue, and you hold up a finger to quiet him.

“And I have no illusions that you won’t come back hurting again. None. I know you will. I know we’ll keep doing this over and over and over again. And I don’t care. I’m not leaving you alone. I won’t do it. So push all you want, but I refuse to be anything less than someone you can count on.”

Silence. The weight of your words is heavy in the air. You’re expecting him to leave. Even with his clothes still in your washing machine. You’re sure if he wanted to go, he’d just unplug the thing from the wall and throw his damp gear back on. You brace yourself for it. A small part of you even feels the pang of heartache at the thought that he might never come back.

You’re not expecting him to surge forward and thread his fingers into your hair to pull you into a kiss. You’re not expecting the burning intensity you feel him pour into it. You’re not expecting the warmth of his scarred mouth pressing against your soft lips. You’re not expecting how easy it is to kiss him back, as natural and simple as breathing.

He pulls away all too quickly. Doubt flashes in those sea green eyes and his entire body recoils back from you. You don’t let him run far, fingers curling in his night black mess of hair. You pull him back to you, his forehead resting against yours even as his body is strung tight as a bowstring.

“Well now I can’t let you go,” you whisper.

“I shouldn’ta done that,” he mutters shakily.

“You should do it again.”

You have no idea where the sudden burst of confidence has come from. It’s so very unlike you, you who are normally so passive, so calm and docile. But it seems to bring Jason to his knees because a desperate noise sounds from deep in his chest and his big, warm hands come up to cradle your face as he slots your mouths together again. You sigh his name against his lips when he pulls you closer and then he’s pushing you away. With no effort at all, he picks you up and gently shoves you to the other side of your sofa. He rises too quickly and sways on his feet.

“I can’t–I can’t do this. I won’t do this to you,” he rushes out as he staggers toward your window.

You’re bolting in front of it before you can even think.

“You’re not doing anything to me. You’ve already told me the risks of being associated with you. I’m okay with them. I want this. I want you,” you tell him, and you’re so earnest that it leaves no room for doubt.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for. You can’t just show me a little kindness and fix me up to love you right,” Jason insists.

You should be mad again, but this time his statement lacks all the bite that it held before. Instead, you can hear the self-loathing in his voice, recognize the burn of it from the countless nights you two have sat on your floor debating whether he’s a hero or a necessary evil. And that just won’t do. You cradle his face and angle his head down to lock eyes, anchoring him in place.

“All I want is you, just as you are, come what may.”

There’s a shine to his pretty eyes, soft silver pools in the pale moonlight of the Gotham night. He shakes his head.

“Can’t make me somethin’ I‘m not,” he says, “‘m not made for this.”

And, oh, how your heart aches for this beautiful man. He’s so convinced that he’s violence incarnate, nothing but blood and gunpowder.

“We decide what we’re made for, what we want to be made for. What do you want, Jason?” you ask him softly.

Your hands are so gentle combing through his hair, thumb stroking his cheekbone sweetly. He flinches at the contact and you go to pull away, but he leans into your touch once he recognizes it won’t hurt him.

“I…don’t deserve it,” he whispers.

There’s something unspoken there. Something buried deep down in his chest. It aches to get out. He wants to scream it but the walls he’s built brick by brick around himself muffle the noise. I don’t deserve it, but I want it. He doesn’t have to say it, though. You understand loud and clear. And that alone is comfort to him, that he doesn’t have to say the quiet part out loud, that you just know him. No one has known him in years.

“This isn’t something you have to earn. And even if your answer truly is no, I’ll still be here in any way you want me to be.”

That’s what breaks him. Because it has only ever been something he’s had to earn. He had to earn it from his mother; earned it with cans of stolen soup heated in a rusted pot when Catherine was lost in the fog of her addiction, earned it with each spoonful he held to her mouth. He had to earn it from Bruce; earned it with every case solved, with every batarang that landed home in a bullseye, with every civilian saved. He had to earn it from Talia; earned it with every hit and kick, every blade mastered, every life taken. He’s had to earn love, earn affection, earn open hands instead of curled fists all his life. And you’re here offering up your love for free. You’re not even asking for him to love you back.

So as his defenses scream at him to tell you a thousand words that would cut you to ribbons–I don’t want you at all, go find another soul to save, you’re wasting your time–his heart hammers, demanding he be honest for once. He takes one shuddering breath before he whispers two words that change the trajectory of his life.

“…I’ll stay.”

And he does. He lets you nurse him back to health with water and painkillers. He lets you read to him after he sheepishly asks what your book is about. He lets you sit closer to him, shoulders and knees brushing under the soft blanket you’ve tossed over both of you. He even lets you guide him to your room, lets himself fall asleep tucked under your covers with your pinkies interlocked. It’s the first night that Jason Todd spends in your bed. It will hardly be the last.

[an-abysma1-0bserver]

pleaseeeee can i request thunderbolts!bucky barnes x reader where they basically just act like bobs parents. maybe even a bit of bucky saying “now can daddy get some alone time with mommy”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: After the events with Sentry and the Void, the Thunderbolts* (New Avengers)—Yelena, Bucky, and reader, especially—are trying their damndest to look out for Bob. But what happens when Bucky and reader want some alone time while on Bob duty?

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI). Smut! Allusion to unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it). Mentions of bodily fluids. Oral (f and m receiving). Brief handjob. Language. Established relationship. Possible spoilers for Thunderbolts*. Spelling and punctuation mistakes. Bucky is a warning 👀. Anything else I missed.

Author’s Note: Thanks, @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf, for being my first request! I hope you enjoy this story.

I don’t own the MCU or Marvel Comics in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owners. Similarly, I don’t own any of the gifs or pictures I use for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas (unless otherwise requested).

Word Count: 1,341

Masterlist

Buck let out a shaky breath. His fingers were tangled in your hair, curling gently, giving a soft tug. Your face was buried in his lap, his hardened length in your mouth and your head bobbing. It all happened so fast, so unexpectedly. You and Bucky were on Bob duty while Yelena and the others were off on a mission—someone had to stay behind and keep him company. You’d been injured during the last mission: a few stitches and a mild concussion. You were feeling better now, but Bucky was adamant you sit out of missions for the time being.

Bucky, on the other hand, graciously offered to stay behind and look after you and Bob—purely out of the goodness of his heart, of course. Certainly not so the two of you could finally act on all that pent-up tension—no, never that!

You were in the common area when the team left. Bob was curled up in his reading nook, a book in hand as he tried to keep himself occupied. Bucky had spent most of the morning and early afternoon training. It wasn’t until after your phone buzzed that your stomach did a somersault—Bucky wanted to meet you in your room. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, then turned to Bob. “I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you said. “Do you want me to grab you anything before I go?”

He gave you a small smile and shook his head. It was classic Bob—always reluctant to trouble anyone with his own needs. The gesture made you hesitate for a moment.

“I’m fine, really,” he said with a shrug. “If I need anything, I’ll get it myself.”

You have a small nod. “Just let me know if you need anything—I’m here.”

Bob gave another, slight nod, murmuring a quiet good-bye as you turned and headed to your room.

You didn’t even make it into the shower. Not that you were going to take one to begin with.

The moment you stepped into your room, you saw Bucky sitting at the edge of your bed. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, and his hair was equally tousled and damp. His eyes were dark, his face slightly flushed—and the instant your eyes met, he was on you before you could blink.

Lips met in sloppy, heated kisses as teeth grazed skin and hands clutched each other with urgency, fumbling to shed layers. Bucky broke away just long enough to yank off his shirt, his gaze locked with yours the entire time. His chest was flushed, a light sheen of sweat highlighting every contour. You took a moment to admire him openly before slipping off your own shirt, leaving you in an old bra and sweat pants.

Bucky wasted no time admiring you either. His eyes raked over you before trapping you in another heated kiss. His arms wrapped around your middle and pulled you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as your hands cupped his face. He carefully laid you down on your bed and pulled away from the kiss. His fingers tugged your sweats and underwear down, leaving you exposed to him. Your skin prickled, a soft hum escaping you. Resting on your elbows, you watched as Bucky nudged your legs apart with his vibranium hand. His eyes seemed to darken even more when he saw your glistening core. He looked up at you, almost akin to a predator, wanting to devour you whole. You gave a slight nod.

Bucky gripped your thighs with both hands, spreading your legs further apart. Bucky kissed up your inner thighs; you fell onto your back, your eyes fluttering closed at the sensation. You felt his breath at your core, his ragged breaths and the heat he radiated. Without so much as a warning, Bucky began devouring your cunt like a starved animal. His tongue licked and thrusted into you. He’d occasionally suckle on your clit. Your back arched, whimpers and moans escaping you.

You could feel your release crescendo within you—a steadily rising build in the pit of your stomach. Your breath hitched when you felt Bucky’s fingers along your entrance, teasing you before slowly pushing in. You let out a low whine, your legs trembling as he started a steady rhythm.

“You’re doing so good,” Bucky growled. His mouth was coated with your arousal, eyes wild. You whimpered at the sight, shivering at the almost animalistic look he had. “So fucking gorgeous…”

His mouth latched back to your clit, suckling it, causing that crescendo to peak and teeter on the edge. Bucky’s fingers curled within you, brushing that sensitive spot that had you seeing stars. Your back was arched, hands gripping your bed sheets tightly, looking for some kind of anchor, until you felt that tension snap within you. You let out a cry, your body trembling as a gush of release coated Bucky’s hand. He groaned against you, the vibrations making you moan as you continued to ride out your high.

After a moment, you felt Bucky pull away. You hissed at the feeling, at the emptiness that washed over you. Slowly resting against your elbows, you watched as the former assassin worked to take off the rest of his clothes. You could see his erection straining against his pants, thick and heavy. As Bucky’s pants fell, you hummed at the sight of his member—reddened tip already leaking, the veins and thickness making your mouth water. Maneuvering onto your knees, you pushed Bucky onto the bed. He watched as you clamored off the bed and moved his legs enough for you to kneel between them.

“Doll, you don’t have to—” he started. Your hand wrapped around the base of him, stopping Bucky’s words in his throat.

“I want to,” you murmured, your hand slowly pumping along his length. Bucky let out a low groan, his head falling back. You used his pre-cum as lubricant, working him the way you know he loves. Your pace switched from slow to quick, feeling him twitch in your hand as you edged him to his own release.

“Fuck, baby, just like that,” he groaned. “I-I—You’re so good—Oh my God—”

You hummed. “You’re so big,” you sighed. You gently licked the tip of his cock. He hissed, twitching in your hand. You dragged your lips down his length, continuing to pump him until you reached his sac. It was heavy, full. You gave it a gentle lick, your lips wrapping around it and began suckling. The sounds Bucky let out were borderline pornographic. His thighs tensed, heart jumping in his chest as you brought him so close to the edge.

You released his sac from your mouth. Bucky gasped. You kissed and licked up his cock until you reached his tip, licking the bead of pre-cum off before slowly taking his member into your mouth. Bucky moaned. Your head bobbed, hands gripping Bucky’s thighs like a lifeline. His vibranium hand tangled in your hair, gently tugging on the strands. It didn’t take long for Bucky to feel his balls draw up, his body tensing as his release built up. You could feel it too—the way his vein felt more prominent, how he twitched and tensed beneath you.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he grunted. His hips thrusted up into your mouth, his hand holding you in place as he sought out his release. “Take it—fuck, you’re gonna take it—”

With one final thrust, rope after rope of his cum spurted in your mouth. Bucky gasped and groaned, his hand pushing your face as far as it could go. Your nose nudged against his pubic hair, tears welling in your eyes as he kept cumming. After a minute, he released your hair and you slowly pulled his softening member from your mouth. Wiping your eyes, you swallowed what he gave you with an appreciative sound.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah. You?” He nodded. “You still up for…?”

“You know I am.” A smirk came across the super soldier’s features. “Just let me catch my breath first.”

[vigilante-3073]

Can you please write an imagine in which reader is pregnant with her and house’ kid and something happens and she collapses and gets sent home to bed rest. Perhaps house isn’t there initially, like maybe they work in different departments and he’s with a high priority case and Cuddy isn’t releasing him and then Wilson tells him what’s going on

Bedrest & Complicated Cases

Gregory House x Pregnant Female Doctor Reader

Summary: Y/N is six months pregnant and experiences a complication. House is dealing with a delicate case and Cuddy chooses not to inform him.

TW: Mentions of medical terms/conditions, lying, brief mention of politics/dictatorship.

Y/N worked on patient files quietly in her office after a long day of seeing patients. She shifted in her seat as an uncomfortable sensation began to appear in her stomach and lower back. Y/N took a breath, smoothing a hand over her bump as she waited for it to pass.

Braxton hicks contractions were common, especially as the pregnancy progressed but this felt different. The pain was constant, it felt like her muscles were being torn apart. Y/N stood up from her seat with a grimace, she moved around her desk with a hand on her belly.

Y/N paused, crying out in pain as blood began to soak into the material of her pants. Y/N's hand shot out to her desk, it landed on a pile of stacked files that slipped out from under her palm. Y/N fell, her head collided with the edge of the desk as she landed on the floor.

Y/N had lost consciousness and no one had any idea that she was injured. House was working on a complicated case, Cuddy was supervising him and Wilson was with his patients.

No one had any idea how long she had been on the floor when Wilson finally found her. Y/N was admitted right away and her obstetrician was notified.

Y/N had a partial placental abruption, she lost quite a bit of blood and was having contractions. They were able to get her on a drug called magnesium sulfate in an attempt to stop her labor.

The contractions began to slow, but there was still the potential for an early birth. Y/N was given a blood transfusion and corticosteroids to speed up the baby's lung development.

Wilson stayed by her side throughout everything, "Where is House?" Y/N asked softly. She was weak and exhausted with a possible concussion.

"He's on a case," Wilson said. A pit was beginning to form in his stomach as she looked over at him with a terrified expression.

"Does he know?" She asked.

"Not yet, no," Wilson replied.

Y/N looked down at her bump, hand settling on her skin as she took a shaky breath. Wilson watched her eyes begin to fill with tears as she struggled to keep herself from crying.

"I-I'll go get him," Wilson said, standing up from his seat beside her bed.

"Wait, I don't want to be alone," Y/N mumbled.

"Whatever you need," He nodded, sitting back down.

Wilson pulled out his phone and sent a message to Cuddy.

'She needs him.' He typed.

Cuddy's reply was almost instant, 'How bad is it?' She'd asked.

'Partial abruption, stage two. They were able to stop contractions but are monitoring the baby for distress. She's on magnesium sulfate and corticosteroids but she also needed a transfusion,' Wilson typed back.

'Stay with her. We need him on this case.' She replied, leaving no room for argument

Wilson grimaced before tucking his phone into his pocket, "What's wrong? Is he not coming?" Y/N questioned.

"He's held up with something," Wilson said.

Y/N nodded, fingers brushing lightly across her bump as she sniffled softly.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said.

"It's fine," Y/N said shakily, brushing away a tear with trembling hands.

Wilson couldn't stand to see her upset, the idea of keeping this information from House was eating him up inside. The case that House was dealing with was important, but the life of his wife and child should be more important.

The case was proving to be difficult for the team, their patient was President Dibala and he was an African dictator. Hundreds of thousands of people would lose their lives if he was cured and the ethical dilemma complicated things.

House was able to compartmentalize easily, but Cameron's strong opinions and moral compass made her one of the worst people to be treating the president. Chase tried to keep her in check, but she was struggling to maintain her objectivity.

The last thing Wilson heard was that there was an assassination attempt against Dibala. He could understand why Cuddy wanted House to stay on the case and remain focused, but it still made him uncomfortable.

Wilson stayed by Y/N's side until she eventually fell asleep and he was able to step away. Wilson went straight to House's office, he lingered by the door as they went through another differential.

House noticed him and dismissed his team members, they filed out of the conference room and made their way back to the patient's room.

"House, I need to talk to you," Wilson said.

"I'm in the middle of something, it can wait," House stated, staring at the whiteboard.

"No, it can't... It's Y/N," Wilson said.

House looked over at him, "What happened?" He questioned.

...

Y/N opened her eyes, grimacing as her head pounded under the harsh fluorescent lights. She closed her eyes, hoping that the throbbing in her temples would resolve itself.

"Where does it hurt?" Someone asked.

Y/N opened her eyes, looking over to find House sitting at her bedside. His eyes ran over her body before glancing up at the machines that were keeping track of her and the baby's vitals.

"My head," Y/N mumbled.

"You have a concussion. It's gonna hurt," House stated.

He stood up from his seat, grabbing his cane and moving over to the door. He shut off the lights in the room before returning to his chair.

"Where were you?" Y/N asked.

"Doesn't matter, I'm here now," He said.

Y/N settled back against the pillows, her hands rested on bump as she looked down at herself.

"Is she moving?" House asked, Y/N nodded.

"I was scared that I was going to lose her... The pain was terrible and there was so much blood," She said shakily.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here, but she's okay and you're okay," House stated.

"The doctor put me on bedrest for the remainder of the pregnancy," Y/N said.

"I figured," He nodded.

"How are we going to do this, Greg?" Y/N questioned, already sounding defeated.

"We'll figure it out. I'll reduce my hours and we can hire someone to help around the house in the meantime," House said.

Y/N took a breath, "Don't worry," House stated.

"I'm not," Y/N replied.

"Your heart rate says otherwise," House said, glancing up at the vitals machine.

Y/N smiled slightly, "Well, I'm trying not to worry," She said.

House stayed by her side overnight, his case was overly complicated and resulted in the death of President Dibala. Cuddy was right to encourage House to maintain his focus on the case but it was an impossible situation.

The circumstances surrounding Dibala's death were murky, but House couldn't bring himself to care. It was true that the president was a bad person and his ideas would damage an entire population, but it was still a black mark on his record.

House's significant other and their child needed to take priority.

...

Y/N had been on bedrest for three weeks and she was absolutely miserable. She read every book she had intended to and watched all the trash television that she could stomach.

House did as he promised and limited his hours, during difficult cases he asked Wilson to check up on her. Wilson had been a vital part of their support system in the last few weeks.

Wilson helped them to assemble the furniture for the nursery and finish painting the walls. He cooked for Y/N when House wasn't able to and had just been an incredible help during this time.

Y/N was incredibly bored, but Wilson did everything he could to keep her spirits up. He knew that it must have been awful to be trapped in the house for such a long period of time.

He never came to their home empty-handed, he always brought snacks, gifts or flowers for Y/N. House appreciated his friend's kindness and let Wilson know that their door was always open to him.

House made his way into the apartment, tossing his keys into the dish and shrugging off his coat. House laid it over the back of the couch, pushing the door shut with his cane and making his way down the hallway to the bedroom.

Wilson sat in the chair beside the bed as Y/N sat with her back against the headboard. A laundry basket of various baby items sat on the bed beside her.

Y/N folded the items and set them in a stack on the bed next to her. Wilson folded the items in his own basket, gaze focused on the television.

"She did not sleep with his best friend, did she?" Wilson asked, not daring to pull his eyes away from the screen.

"Oh yeah, they've been sleeping together for at least two seasons in secret," Y/N said.

"No way. The cameras follow them everywhere, how could they find the time?" He questioned.

Y/N shrugged, "They stay up until four in the morning and sleep until two. They start every day with a pilates class and spend hours binge drinking while arguing. All they have is time," She said, folding a fluffy pink blanket.

"Sorry to interrupt your little watch party, but I'm home," House said.

"We're one episode away from the tell all, you have to let us finish the season," Wilson stated, folding up a baby onsie.

"My god, what happened to you?" House muttered, kicking off his shoes and laying down in the bed beside his wife.

"This is the best show to ever be invented," Wilson said, gesturing to the television.

"Sure it is. Wake up me up when it's over," House said, crossing his arms and settling back into the pillows as he closed his eyes.

Things had been complicated, but they were figuring it out and taking things one day at a time. The baby was growing and Y/N hadn't had any bleeding since that first incident.

She had a magnificent support system around her and she leaned on them in her time of need.

House may not have been everyone's favorite person, but Y/N was. She had always been kind and everyone who met her loved her.

It was shocking that he was the one she wound up falling in love with but you can't help it sometimes. House loved her and he was grateful that her and the baby were alright.

[stevebabey]

toothache

summary: Steve gets his wisdom teeth removed. You dote from his bedside, even if, post-anaesthesia, he seems to have completely forgotten you’re his girlfriend.

[3.6k + established!relationship + fem!reader]

There’s a faint beep from a machine tucked in the corner, but other than that the room is quiet.

As quiet as it can be, at least. Hospitals are never truly silent, you think. The whole building hums with the coursing thrum of rushing doctors and the buzz of fluorescent lights; a hive for busy bees.

Steve’s room is decently tucked away from any of the busyness of the some of the more frantic floors, thankfully.

Occasionally, a nurse does a round and you spy them walking by through the slats in the blinds. But besides that, it’s just you and your twiddling thumbs to keep yourself company until Steve wakes up.

The nurse who’d let you in left maybe 20 minutes ago — about how long she said it would take for Steve to wake back up. You don’t have a watch on, but the room has a big clock that ticks silently, the second hand juddering around the clock face.

You’ve been watching it, waiting to put said twiddling thumbs into action the moment Steve stirs.

And if you’re not keeping track of the time, you’re studying your boyfriend’s face.

Steve looks a bit silly and a bit lovely all at once.

He’s out cold in the hospital bed and his cheeks are stuffed with cotton, making him resemble a chipmunk, to stem the bleeding in his mouth. His face is lax and his cheek is slightly squished against the pillow.

There’s a touch of drool from the corner of his mouth. Well, just a touch is generous of you to say.

You’d wiped it away initially, doting and caring, but Christ almighty, he’s definitely out cold. It’s a river of slobber.

Your search for tissues was futile and after the second time you’d wiped it with your sleeve, you decided the pillow is soaking it all up just fine.

He must be on something really strong. Deep roots, the doctor told you whilst explaining why Steve was under so much anaesthesia.

Your lips purse worriedly as your eyes roam over his face. You hope the whole procedure won’t hurt him much.

Steve’s been through the wringer these last couple years, so much that one would expect something as minuscule as a wisdom teeth removal shouldn’t warrant too much worry — except it has the opposite effect on you. Left on your own, your worry grows exponentially.

You eye the clock again.

How long since that nurse left again? How long before Steve’s been asleep for too long? He's had one too many concussions, which you did tell the doctors about, but maybe they missed something. Maybe you should hit the call button anyway.

The clock ticks forward.

A nurse passes by the window.

On the bed, Steve’s fingers twitch.

A breath of sigh presses its way out your lungs, warm relief flushing through your chest, and you reach forward to click the call button in an instant. You’re on your feet quickly, crowding in closer.

The cool bar of the bed presses into your upper thighs as you reach across it to hold Steve’s hand.

Evidently groggy, Stave’s eyelashes flutter open. You’d think he looks like a Disney princess if his mouth wasn’t gaping open and drooling with blood. He groans, long and languid, reeking of pain and the subsequent painkillers.

Before he's even opened his eyes, he's shifting about. The muscles in his neck tense as he tries to lift his head.

“Hey, hey," You speak softly, thumb rubbing gently across the back of his hand. Your other hand brushes against his forehead, urging him to lay back down. "Just take it easy there, tiger."

Steve makes another gravelly groany noise but relents against your touch, sinking back into the pillow in one magnificent slump. His eyes are open, hazel peering at you curiously as he blinks slowly.

"Wuh?" He manages to say, his jaw barely moving.

Despite how you try to resist, an endeared smile pulls at your mouth.

They did say he would be a little dopey when he came to. You're just now finding out how dopey that means.

Glancing at the door, you wonder how long you should wait before hitting the call button again. You're pretty sure Steve, proactive as ever, is gonna start pulling the cotton out of his mouth as soon as he realises its there.

"—Wuh 're 'ou?—"

To Steve, perhaps, those were real words. You're not entirely sure what he's meant to say, though you hazard a guess he's asking who you are.

In the same moment you go to answer, Steve's eyes drift off to the ceiling, unfocussed.

He raises the hand you aren't holding and bumps it against his jaw, then releases a long, drowsy owwwwwww in response.

Are you gonna lose good girlfriend points for laughing at this? Your lips purse together once more, this time buttoning in your laughter.

You rescue Steve from himself, reaching out and grabbing the other hand before he can prod himself in the face again.

"Wah 'appened?" He says, his eyes sluggish as they drag back over to you. It looks like it takes immense effort and you reward him with a loving squeeze of his hand.

"Your wisdom teeth, baby. You got them taken out."

Steve's eyebrows rise at a snail's pace, his face slowly forming an astounded expression.

"My teef?" He says, baffled. "'Ey took them?"

He extracts his hand from yours, raising it back up as if he's going to search his mouth for the very missing teeth.

You capture it midway up, tugging it back down. "Careful, you don't wanna touch it again. It'll be very sore."

Steve, bamboozled by just how exactly his hand rapidly changed course, takes a long moment to register your words. He blinks, one eye at a time, like a frog.

"Ow?"

You can't resist a little grin, nodding. "Yeah, baby, ouch."

That seems to get the message across. Steve doesn't try to raise his hand again, however, instead he realises that you're holding both of them. He's very unsubtle, half-lidded eyes peering down the bed with a suspicious squint to them.

Then, very slowly, he begins to pull both his hands away.

You let him do so, amusedly releasing your soft grip. Maybe hand-holding — usually one of Steve's favourite things — isn't so nice when you're high as a kite. You only want your boyfriend to be as comfortable as possible.

Except, when you glance back up at Steve's face, the narrowed, suspicious gaze is now directed at your face.

"Y'ur nice." He slurs, the compliment completely at odds with his sceptical demeanour. His hands are still pulled to his chest, tucked up awkwardly. "'N gongeous. But—"

He manages to raise one finger up straight, the only movement of his hands.

"Am—"

The end of his sentence is stolen by the hiss of the door, pushed open by the same nurse from earlier. You didn't catch her name.

She's a nice looking woman, dressed in green scrubs, and she smiles upon seeing Steve up and awake on the bed.

"Why hello there, Steve," She greets casually, sidling up to the other side of Steve's bed with a clipboard in hand. "How are we feelin'?"

Steve's turned to face her but you can see the clear hesitation in his face, evidently searching for any hint of recognition.

The hands held up against his chest sway a bit. Steve blinks slow.

"Who 'r 'ou?" He repeats the same question he asked you in the exact same cadence.

The nurse smiles at that, which is a nice way of letting your anxiety know you're not allowed to be too worried.

"I'm your nurse, Marissa. We met a few hours ago before your surgery. Do you remember that?"

It's a careful probe, seeing just how much Steve's recall is working. He thinks about it real hard, eyes staring in the distance as his tongue poking out a bit in concentration, before he moves his head in a way that's probably a no.

"That's okay, Steve. Everyone reacts a little differently to general, but it shouldn't last longer than a few hours." She reassures him.

The clipboard in her hands has a few pieces of paper clipped to it and she flicks through them. You sort of wish you had Steve's hand to hold, just to comfort yourself. The bar on his hospital bed will have to make do.

When Marissa speaks, she glances over at you, talking to both of you. "Looks like everything went to plan, no hitches or issues. You'll be free to take him home in another 20 minutes or so—so long as nothing crops up."

You nod, grateful to hear that. Though, you're not looking forward to wrangling your loopy boyfriend out the door and to the car when he's in this state.

"Thank you very much." You express the gratitude for both you and Steve, knowing he's hardly thinking of manners at the moment. He'll thank you for it later. "I did have a—"

"—pssssssst."

You stop talking at the abrupt interruption, both you and Marissa surprised by Steve's interjection.

His attempt at a psst doesn't quite work to the normal effect and instead, he's painted his bottom lip in a bit of blood.

He's looking at Marissa, not you. One of his bunched up arms raises up to his mouth as though he's trying to cup it and hide his words. You resist the urge to pull it back down, worried he'll knock his jaw again.

Marissa, sharing a playful glance in your direction, smiles kindly at Steve.

"Yes, Steve?"

"Can 'ou tell th' nice lady," He's trying to whisper but failing miserably. "That I'm.... I'm..."

Steve scrunches up his face to try to think of a word. He regrets it quickly, another hissed and sluggish owwww leaking out as pain radiates through his face.

Your fingers curl tighter around the bar. It takes effort not to reach for his hand again — or jump in and ask Steve what he wants to say to you. He's clearly trying to be stealthy for a reason, even if it isn't working.

Marissa's pager beeps. She flashes a quick look at it, silences it, then turns back to Steve.

"I'm... 'ot bullshit." He finally spits out.

That surprises you.

Marissa, conversely, seems to be undeterred by such a proclamation. You wonder what else people have said whilst coming back up from anaesthesia. She pats Steve on the arm gently.

"No you aren't."

Steve appears to be bolstered by her agreement, his own head giving a slow nod. He's still speaking in that groggy way, not at all helped by his cotton-stuffed mouth. "Yuh, and I 'ave a— a girlfiend."

Huh?

Marissa catches on a moment before you do, a certain cheek creeping into her smile. She checks her watch, then focuses back on Steve and nods.

"Uh huh, big guy. Your girlfriend's actually here, did you know?"

As her words sink in, Steve's eyes blow wide. He looks equal parts stunned as he does excited.

You realise why he asked who you were and withdrew his hands all at once.

Your smile dissolves into a giddy grin, entirely too endeared by Steve's unbreaking loyalty to you, even if he is barking up the wrong tree.

"S'e is?"

"Yep." Marissa says. She nods in your direction. "And she's gonna take good care of you, alright?"

You wonder if this is the most fun part of her job.

"My girlfien'..." Steve sighs quietly, his eyes hazy. You don't think you're meant to hear it.

Marissa smiles at that and finally begins to backtrack towards the door. She checks her watch again, then says to you, "15 minutes. Then you're free to go."

She waves at Steve as she's disappearing through the door. "I hope you feel better soon, Steve."

Steve makes a valiant attempt at a wave back, but his hand barely hovers above the sheets for a second before he's dropping it back down.

He sighs loudly and a little more blood freckles his bottom lip. He reaches up for his face again and you intercept.

"It'll hurt more if you touch it." You say to explain, then quickly let go of his arm.

It slumps back down and you watch as Steve's face morphs through several different expressions, from frowning distaste to a disbelieving awe.

"Are 'ou..." He asks, slurring out the word. His hand picks up off the bed to curve up, pointing a finger back at his chest. "My girlfiend?"

It comes out tinged with astonishment. You laugh without meaning to.

"Is that so hard to believe?"

Steve struggles to compute your response, given by how his eyes shift away lazily, then slide back to you, still wide.

"Yurrr lyin'," He lolls out the words. He waves one hand up, as if brushing off the joke you're supposedly telling.

"Am not!" You laugh. Then just to prove your point, you reach out and take his hand in yours, cradling it between your palms. "We're pretty serious, baby."

"Yo're 'etty," Steve counters, though pretty comes out strangely as he tries to not move his lips much.

The fact he can flirt back whilst so out of it is a feat, though it proves some of his charisma is just that inherent.

You notice, as he gazes at you, the surprise from earlier has somewhat sapped away but the awe in his face remains.

Steve's hand in yours turns over and he grips one of your thumbs tightly.

"I s'love... bein' a boyfiend," He says, deadly serious. Another roll of dribble escapes the corner of his mouth, yet somehow you're entirely captivated by his small admittances. He loves being a boyfriend.

"'ut dunno if 'mmm good at it. Am I?"

He wants to know if he's a good boyfriend. There's a little wobble in your heartstrings at his genuine concern.

You curl your fingers back around his hand tighter and nod. "Definitely."

Steve exhales a big sigh of relief, his eyes slipping shut as he gives your thumb a half-hearted squeeze.

"S'good." He mumbles.

As you soothe your fingertips over his hand, you hope his loopy mutterings aren't a manifestation of some constant worry you don't know about. It's normal to want to be a good partner. But Steve's own mention of bullshit is enough to make you unsure.

Is this what worries him? Are you not doing a good job at communicating back just how happy Steve makes you?

On the bed, Steve's eyes open again, seeking you out in languid, sleepy blinks. Upon finding you, he smiles. Well, you think he smiles.

What really happens is his face twitches and then he's making another drawn out owwww as he moves around his fresh wounds too much.

"Try not to move too much," You remind him. "It will keep making it ow, baby."

Despite what you've said, Steve continues to shift about—though you realise he's merely trying to inch closer to you. He's twisted a little, his shoulder curving towards you, but his head still laid flat.

"Can I 'it up?"

His speech is clearing up a bit, the words coming out better formed now. You nod at his request and shake off his grip on your thumb to hold his forearms, gently urging him up. It takes a moment, but he manages.

He's curved over like a shrimp, slumped and struggling to support himself.

You quickly stack the pillows behind him into more of a support and lead him to lean back against them. Steve lets you, gripping your forearms tightly as if he's afraid you'll drop him.

One settled, he releases his tight grip and gives another loud sigh. You're not fast enough to intercept his hand this time, Steve raising the back of it to wipe his mouth with.

It comes away with a smear of blood and saliva.

The volume of it must surprise Steve because he's dragging his hand back from his face, that same suspicious squint back on his face. He spots what he's wiped from his face and his eyebrows crease.

"Eeeew."

A giggle titters out of you. Steve is instantly distracted from his gross hand, his expression smoothing out as his head swings toward you.

"Hafta tell you somethin'," Steve says. His head sways a bit unsteadily as he thinks hard.

His groggy gaze draws down and up your face intently and you realise after a moment, he may have just checked you out.

"Yeah? What do you have to tell me?"

Steve nods as though he's the one who's spoken.

"Yea," He murmurs, then holds his hand up like he wants you to take it. It's the non-slobbered one, thankfully. You do take it, resuming the same soothing hold from earlier, this time intertwining your fingers.

Steve does another frog-blink, staring at your interlaced fingers. He drags his gaze up and slurps a bit as he inhales. "There waz... another lady here. But I tol' her. Tol' her."

He nods seriously, staring at you like he's waiting for you to nod along.

Your mouth twists into a poorly restrained smile. You wonder if he's talking about Marissa or if he's forgotten you were the other lady here earlier too.

"Told her what?"

"Tol' her," Steve repeats surely. He squeezes your hand and then shifts, not liking the intertwined fingers. He resumes his hold around your thumb. "I speaken."

Okay, you're getting a little bit better at decoding loopy Steve-speak, but this one? Lost on you.

You wiggle your thumb in his hold and furrow your brows a bit exaggeratedly so he can catch on that you don't quite understand.

"I," Steve slurs. He's moved his other hand up to jab himself in the chest, referring to himself — then he casts it in the direction of the door. "Taken."

It takes a moment, but his gesture is enough to clue you in. Another sugary, giddy wave singes your nerves. God, he's sweet.

You grin at him adoringly, leaning in to brush a piece of hair back from his face. Steve's skin is warm beneath your touch.

"You're told her you're spoken for, huh?" You coo softly, petting his hair back.

Steve preens at your understanding, managing a nod and a bright-eyed adoring gaze at you.

You run your hand over his hair again because he seems to like it and his eyes flutter under your sweet ministrations. His head nearly lolls back to dip into the pillow, but he catches it at the last moment.

"Yuh," He says absently. He nods again, focusing hard on meeting your eye. "Tol' her." He repeats again.

It seems it's very important to Steve that you know he would never ever think about cheating on you — even if it's with, well, you.

"Thank you, baby," You say, meaning it completely.

Steve smiles as much as he can, a sluggish half-motion that somehow makes him look even dopier. His eyes wander and he catches sight of the glob of blood and spit atop of his hand.

His eyes widen almost comically. He frowns worriedly and picks his hand up, holding it out in front of him, "Oughhh, wuh 'appened?"

The genuine concern in his words and his apparent very short-term memory makes it hard not to snort in amusement. Squeezing his hand again, you try to remain composed.

"Your wisdom teeth, remember? They took them out because they were hurting you."

"You're s' nice," Steve says, dropping his hand limply, the blood on it quickly forgotten. His fingers around your thumb tighten, giving another weak squeeze. "'M glad you're my girlfiend."

"I'm glad you're my boyfriend." You assure him sweetly.

"Yea?" Steve's gone back to that slow blink. He leans forward, shoulder hunched over, the whole motion seeming conspiratorial. He tries to whisper again. "Have'a 'nother secret."

Your brows raise. Another secret?

"Wanna tell me it?" You ask.

Steve nods sagely. He beckons you in closer with a limp wave of his hand, tugging slightly on your thumb. You lean in closer, unable to hide your grin at his antics.

"I," Steve pauses for a long, long moment. You watch as his eyes track back and forth sluggishly, very clearly trying to put his rapidly disappearing thoughts into order.

"I t'ink," He finally says, sounding more sure this time. "I lov' you. But shhhhhh. S'itsa secret."

Oh. Now, that is a secret. You and Steve have been dating for a while now, like you said it's serious, but not quite long enough to exchange any I love you's. Not just yet.

Only it's not really secret after all. You know.

You know in the same way you already know Steve's favourite perfume of yours and the way he likes his coffee in the morning. How he loves to hold your hand and doesn't ask, but loves it when you kiss him on the temple.

You've never asked. Enough time spent together and you just know these things.

Like how you love Steve and he loves you.

You grin brazenly, not even trying to stop it now.

"I'll keep your secret safe," You promise him. "Wanna hear one of my secrets? I love you too."

Steve clings to your hand preciously and his face takes on an expression which you can only describe as utterly starry-eyed. His hazel eyes, bright and less foggy now, stare at you owlishly. You'd give a handful of pennies to know what he's thinking right now.

"S'good," He finally says. Which makes you bark in laughter, as if he's saying glad that's settled.

"Yea' s'good." He inhales a big, slurping kind of breath and exhales. His shoulders sit a little more relaxed now and you wonder how long he's been waiting to tell you that.

You wonder more how he'll react when you tell him he spilled the beans while high out of his mind.

Then, just to spoil it — or sweeten it, depending on how you see it — he leans back over and whispers, "Wha's your name again?"

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Bucky Barnes + Protective x Completely reckless 💕

Ice , Ice , Baby Don’t Fall!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: A winter team-building activity turns into chaos when your reckless streak ends in injury—and Bucky's gruff concern reveals just how much he truly cares.

Word Count: 1.2K+

Content: Mild injury / Swearing / Emotional distress / Light romantic tension / protective behavior / Some medical caretaking

a/n: catching up on all the requests from my 600 follower event! <3 thank you @writing-for-marvel for the request! i hope i did it justice!!

masterlist -- requests/inbox open!

“This is a very , very bad idea.”

Bucky said it with his arms crossed tight , eyes narrowed behind his navy beanie , watching the rink like it was some sort of war zone instead of a holiday team-building activity.

You—cheeks pink from the cold air , red scarf wrapped haphazardly around your neck , grinning ear to ear. You were practically bouncing beside him.

“It’s ice skating, Barnes. Not a tactical op.”

“I’ve seen less risk in tactical ops.”

You laughed , patting his muscular chest with your mitten clad hands. “You’re being dramatic.”

Valentina had demanded the Thunderbolts do something “festive” as a team to show the world the New Avengers were still people , which naturally meant dumping all of you—mercenaries, assassins, emotionally-stunted lunatics—onto a very crowded very public rink with hot chocolate and the subtle threat of photos being snapped the entire time.

Yelena had already hip-checked Alexei into ice twice. John was attempting pirouettes and nearly decapitated a twelve-year-old girl with pigtails while Ava had vanished. Literally.

You laced up your skates , tugging the laces tight with a perfect bow, then straightened up and beamed hands on hips at Bucky. “Come on , Buck. Live a little.”

He stared at you like you’d asked him to bungee jump into an active volcano.

“You’ve never done this before,” he muttered , worry coating the entirety of his handsome face.

“So?”

“So let me show you before you just head out there.”

You rolled your eyes shaking your head. “You gonna give me an ice skating tutorial, soldier boy?”

“Yes.” He dead panned.

You laughed again, grabbing his hand and dragging him toward the rink.

“Okay, okay. Let’s see what you’ve got, Professor.”

Ten Minutes Later

“You’re leaning too far forward,” Bucky grumbled , guiding your hips to be more straight  , gently with both hands. “Center your weight.”

“Mm-hmm.” Your tongue was poked out with concentration.

“Your knees should bend. Don’t lock them.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t take sharp turns–”

You looked over your shoulder, smirking. “You worry too much.”

“That’s because you get hurt too much.”

You gave a dramatic gasp. “I never get hurt.”

“You got a concussion last month from trying to backflip off a moving jeep.”

“I almost landed it , if Alexie kept it steady I would have!”

Bucky growled under his breath before sighing loudly. “Just go slow, okay?”

You winked, skating ahead a little faster, arms out for balance. He followed behind, eye twitching. His eyes never left you. Not for a second.

And that was his fatal flaw.

Because you?

You never listened.

You picked up speed.

It wasn’t graceful—it was like Bambi on espresso , but it was fun. You dodged a cluster of kids of a field trip , made a sharp (and stupid) turn around one of the snowbanks, and then—

Crack-thump.

Pain.

Instant. Hot. Stabbing up your leg from your ankle.

You gasped, fell hard onto your side, skates sprawled out beneath you, eyes squeezing shut , tight.

People gasped as they skated by.

And Bucky?

He ran.

Not skated—ran.

“Doll—doll, hey!”

He dropped to his knees beside you, hands all over, checking, assessing, cataloging damage like he was back on active battlefield. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it hurt worse than you.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he hissed. “Are you—? Did you hit your head? What hurts?”

“My ankle,” you whispered, blinking up at him holding the injured foot.

Your voice was shaky. You hated that.

“I think I twisted it, Buck. I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

“I told you not to make sharp turns,” he bit out, pulling your skate off with slow, careful fingers.

The moment the boot slid off, pain shot through your leg and you whimpered, gripping his coat.

He paled. “Okay. That’s it. We’re done. You’re done.”

“Bucky–”

“No. I knew this would happen.”

“I was just having fun—”

“You don’t need to break your damn ankle to have fun!”

You flinched at his tone. He instantly softened feeling awful.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with his metal fingers. “I just—god, doll, you scared the shit out of me.”

“I’ve scared you worse.”

“Doesn’t mean I ever get used to it.”

He moved slowly, sliding his arms beneath you, and lifted you effortlessly off the ice. You hissed in pain, but curled into him.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold. And injured. And maybe mildly humiliated.”

You buried your face in his scarf, voice muffled.

“I was trying to impress you.”

Bucky blinked. “By giving yourself a sprain?”

“…It sounded better in my head.”

He laughed under his breath, tight and fond and exasperated , and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You impress me by breathing. You don’t have to kill yourself to prove a point.”

“That’s romantic,” you murmured.

“I’m serious.”

You didn’t reply right away.

Instead, you let yourself relax in his hold, cheek pressed to his heartbeat, surrounded by the buzz of the blades on the rink and the sound of snow starting to fall gently around you.

Then—

“I still almost landed that jeep backflip.”

“Dont”

Later That Night

“You need to ice it every hour.”

“Yes,  Bucky.”

“And keep it elevated.”

“Yes, Bucky.”

“And no walking without the brace. I mean it.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re very bossy when I’m injured.”

“I wouldn’t have to be if you weren’t so reckless.”

You smirked from the couch. “You like it.”

He growled, half a glare, half a smile, as he knelt beside you with a fresh ice pack. His hands were gentle on your ankle. Too gentle. You could see the stress in the tight line of his mouth.

“You okay?” you asked.

He looked up, surprised.

“I’m not the one with a busted ankle.”

“No, but you look like i just ran over your cat.”

He exhaled, pressing his forehead to your knee , and mumbled, “I just…I hate seeing you hurt. I really hate it.”

“I know,” you whispered, threading your fingers in his hair.

He looked up again.

“You’re not mad at me for getting upset?” he asked.

“I mean, I’m mad at myself. And at physics. But no , never at you.”

“You’re not gonna listen next time either, are you?”

“…probably not.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“I’ll be there to catch you,” he murmured.

You tilted your head. “Always?”

He leaned in, kissed your bandaged ankle, then your knee, then your hand.

“Always, reckless girl.”

You smiled softly.

And Bucky , the grumpy, protective, old-soul Bucky—sat on the floor beside you all night, grumbling about your poor choices and refilling your hot cocoa every time it got cold.

Because that’s what you do when the love of your life insists on flying headfirst into danger.

You hold them tight. You patch them up.

And you stay ready to catch them every time they fall.

-end

Comments , Likes , Inbox Messages/Asks and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[xoxochb]

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

“okay, I’m leaving in— mphm.”

your sentence is cut short by a warm mouth— a far too familiar pair of lips you’d choose easily over oxygen.

you clutch your hand onto xaden’s shirt to steady yourself with the force at which he kisses you. almost like you’d be leaving for an eternity; though you’d only be gone, at most, two hours.

one of his hands holds the small of your back, the opposite cradling your neck to keep you firmly in place. you were stuck.

for a split second, you’re able to pull away for a ‘I have to—’ before xaden is swiftly chasing your lips once again with his.

he backs you against the door you should be leaving through right now. he protects your head from hitting the wood using his hand once in your neck. though you were far too hazy to care if you ended concussed or not.

but you should leave, really. if you were late to training because of xaden again, imogen would have your head on a stick within seconds.

but gods does he know what he’s doing.

coaxing your lips apart to tangle his tongue with yours in a battle for dominance. which he would win because every muscle in your body feels weak with his touch.

leave leave leave. your mind repeats it as to help you not forget your first task. gradually, it fades and you’ll only be left with a pit in your tummy like you were meaning to do something…

or maybe you weren’t. maybe you just thought you had to do something.

you inhale sharply through your nose when xaden’s fingers fumble with the zipper of your jeans. in an instant it’s tugged down and your button is coming undone.

and may the gods help you, you are too.

no. no no no.

forcefully, you break off the kiss with a glare which xaden is quick to return. but he finds an alternative and begins to kiss your neck instead.

“no, I need to— I have to leave.”

“in how long?”

five minutes at least…

“now!”

“five minutes. I can make you finish in two.”

surely imogen could wait an extra three minutes…

“four minutes, starting now.”

[gh0stsp1d3r]

Perhaps Reader and Zach have just started dating, it is fairly new. They are in the park playing fotball (she sucks at it) and Zach accidently kicks the ball in her face and she gets a concussion. Through out the ordeal of taking her to his car, taking her home, getting her to bed etc, he is very off, a bit moopy and sad, thinking he has fucked up his chance of dating her because he hurt her

accidents happen

warnings: concussions, injury, non-sexual nudity (like in a domestic, getting dressed kinda way), a lil bit of angst but mostly fluff + comfort.

a/n: this is so cute

MASTERLIST

“I knew there was a reason you brought that ball.” You joked when he suggested the idea, him smiling at your reply.

“You just know me so well.”

“I do.” You nodded, giving him a kiss on his cheek before he walked backwards, ball in his hands. “Go easy on me!”

He saluted you, both of you laughing while he dropped the ball to his feet, kicking it up into the air multiple times, then juggling it with his knees.

“You’re just showing off now!” You shouted from across the grass, him looking up at you and smiling with a small shrug, before grabbing it with his hands, and finally kicking it over to you.

You smiled, attempting to kick it back but failing miserably, only kicking it a few feet in front of you, before you sighed in embarrassment. Maybe football wasn’t your thing.

Zach didn’t laugh at you, instead, he told you to keep kicking it till you made it over to him. You did so, and he had it in moments. He held his hand out for you to high five, you holding out your hand and the both of you laughing.

“Not the worst I’ve seen.” He shrugged, you rolling your eyes.

“I never said I would be good.”

You walked back over to where you were before, and he smiled, waiting until you were ready to kick it over to you.

He hasn’t meant to exactly kick it as high up as he had, but as soon as he noticed, his eyes went wide.

He had regretted the kick as soon as he saw it fly into the air and your smile fade as soon as you saw it flying straight towards your face. You began to held out your hands to catch it, but before you could, the ball collided with your face in an instant.

“Shit.” He mumbled, bolting over to you when you hit the ground with a groan. He ignored the ball rolling away, his only focus on you now.

He kneeled down, seeing the way your eyes were fluttering open and closed, him staring down at you, his hand running through his hair as he looked around the park for someone to help. “Shit.” He repeated louder this time, grabbing out his phone to start dialing 911.

He grabbed your hand, beginning to talk to the dispatcher.

“Zach?” You murmured, your eyesight blurry and confused as to where you were for a moment.

“Hey, hey, baby. I’m here, I’m here. You’re okay.”

“What happened?” You asked him with a quiet voice, attempting to sit up before he told you to lay back down.

“Uhm- just stay there, sweetheart.” He told you, you listening with furrowed eyebrows.

“Just… no, no, she’s not bleeding.” He spoke on the phone, checking the back of your head and your forehead, you furrowing your eyebrows.

“Yes. Thank you.” He sighed out, you looking at him with confusion on your face.

The dispatcher told him to stay on the phone, so he put it on speaker while he helped you sit up again, you wrapping your arms around him, taking him aback.

He let you wrap your arms around his body, leaning into his shoulder, until the ambulance came by.

They came up to the both of you, truck not too far away, parked on the side street.

“Hey,” Zach nodded to the woman, who looked down at him. Zach slowly moved, peeling you off from him, and watching as they asked you multiple questions, feeling around your head, and your neck.

Zach watched nervously, biting his fingernails while he watched.

“Does it hurt when I push?” She asked you, to which you nodded.

“Do you know what park you’re at?” She asked, you glancing around, looking at Zach. You nodded again, saying the name of the park. “Do you remember what you were doing before you got hit?”

You still stared at Zach, nodding again. “I think… I was playing soccer? I don’t remember that well.”

Zach nodded at you, sighing in relief that at least you didn’t have memory loss.

“How are you feeling right now?”

“My head really hurts… and I feel a little dizzy.”

“Do you think you’d be able to stand up and walk to my truck?”

“Yeah… I think so.” You told her, she smiled and held her hands out, helping you stand up and walk, Zach following right behind.

They made you fill out a list of symptoms, even more questions and tests, questioning your boyfriend as well to know what happened.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you both were done and you were cleared to go with Zach.

“So, she has a mild concussion at the moment.” The woman explained, him swallowing and nodding, listening to her explain. He felt terrible, and he wanted nothing more than to reverse it.

“Now, it doesn’t look like her symptoms are severe, so as long as they aren’t persistent, and last longer than usual, she should be okay. Just make sure she takes it easy and rests. And if anything gets worse, make sure to take her to the emergency room.”

He nodded, watching you walk up to him, and get closer to him, tiredness visible in all your features.

The ambulance drove away, him sighing and cupping your face in his hands.

“I am so… fucking sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to do that. Like at all-“

You didn’t reply, just giving him a small smile, him giving you another fake one, putting his hand on the small of your back, guiding you into the passenger seat.

He stood outside for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose, annoyed and frustrated with himself. His leg bounced while he drove, the silence in the car slowly killing him. He glanced back at you every once in a while, making sure you were okay, that you were still breathing.

Once he pulled up to his house, he got out and opened the passenger door for you, you staring at him with a dazed smile on your face. He held his hand out for you, helping you out of the car and onto the pavement.

“Are your parents home?” You asked him, him furrowing an eyebrow.

“Out on some vacation.” He replied, pulling out his keys and opening the front door.

“Do you want something to eat? Or drink?” He asked you while kneeling down in front of you to untie your shoes.

“I guess.” You replied, although you wanted to go to sleep, you were hungry after the exhausting day. “Can I get like a tylenol too? My heads killing me.” You mumbled the last part, your hands massaging your temples.

He went into the kitchen, making you the quickest meal he could think of while you sat in his bed.

As he grabbed the tylenol, he swallowed, sighing to himself as he poured two out of the container. He was the cause of it, he was the reason you felt like shit. He was never gonna stop beating himself up over this.

He went into the room, handing the bowl, and a water bottle to you as well as the two pills.

You gave him a small smile, “thank you.” You told him quietly, before beginning to eat. He nodded, giving you a smile back before going into his drawers, searching through his clothes to find something you could wear.

He ended up just giving you a pair of his boxer shorts, as well as a baggy white shirt. After, you stood up to get changed.

Despite saying you didn’t need it, he helped you get dressed anyways. The whole thing felt so… weirdly intimate. It felt domestic.

Zach’s mind continued to wander, thinking about how he was such an idiot, how you probably hated him while you thought of how amazing he was, how he was the sweetest man you think you’ve ever been with.

The both of you got underneath the covers, him staring up at the ceiling while you stared at him with your head slightly tilted to the side, a frown on your face.

“What’re you thinking about?” You asked him quietly, him turning to face you, shaking his head.

“Nothing.”

You raised your eyebrows at him.

“I’m serious. I’m fine. Go to sleep, don’t worry about me.” He mumbled.

“No you’re not, you’ve been off the entire day today.”

“I’m sorry. I just… it’s not you. I just feel bad. And I feel like shit, and I feel like I screwed everything up. But-“

“Zach, you didn’t screw anything up. It was an accident.”

“But- I gave you a concussion. I am the reason you feel like shit.”

“Yeah, you did. But it’s okay. I know you didn’t… mean to. Zach, you’re the sweetest boy I’ve ever met.”

He had a slight pout on his face, moving closer to you now, wrapping his arms around you, you moving your face into the crook of his neck.

“I love you. So much.” He murmured quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“I love you too. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” He replied, his mind finally at ease with your words.

[gf2bellamy]

spencer reid who gets worried whenever the reader gets injured on the field it doesn't matter if it's just a scratch he'd want to make sure she's okay kind of like he did with jj in episode 14 of season 7

https://youtu.be/xpZ_HZ-Tqts?si=N6EUhLy_gLcE9qB4

injured — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship , reader has a couple of cuts and a bruise, also reader is mentioned to be dizzy at some point and having a headache, mention of reader having had a little clash with the unsub , mentions of blood a/n: hii !! spencer is so sweet in that scene <3 i hope you like this !! also i'm no doctor so if i get anything wrong , i'm vv sorry !!

You squinted against the bright sun as you stepped out of the house, raising your hand to shield your eyes.

The door swung open behind you as Derek escorted the unsub out, his hand firmly gripping the man’s arm, pushing him forward toward the awaiting police car.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Derek asked, his voice concerned. He glanced at you briefly, his dark eyes scanning your face before refocusing on the unsub, ensuring he didn’t try anything stupid. 

You forced a smile, though your head throbbed in protest. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks,” you replied.

You stepped back, giving Derek space to handle the unsub, and winced as your fingers brushed against your forehead. Pulling your hand away, you noticed the faint smear of blood on your fingertips. 

The scuffle with the unsub had been more intense than you’d anticipated. He’d caught you off guard, and though you’d managed to hold your own until Derek arrived, the encounter had left its mark.

The sound of tires screeching against asphalt pulled you from your thoughts. You turned to see the BAU’s SUV skid to a halt nearby. Before the vehicle had even fully stopped, Spencer was out of the car.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice tight with worry. He was in front of you in an instant, his hands coming up to gently cradle your face.

His touch was soft, tilting your head up so he could get a better look at the cut on your forehead. His brown eyes scanned your face, taking in every detail, the blood, the bruise already forming, the way you winced when his fingers brushed too close to the wound. 

“I’m fine, Spence,” you said, trying to reassure him. You shook your head, but the movement sent a sharp spike of pain through your skull, and you couldn’t suppress the grimace that followed. You reached out, placing a hand on his forearm to steady yourself. “You know it’s part of the job description.” 

Spencer’s expression darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Yeah, sure,” he mumbled. He wasn’t buying it, and you knew it.

His hands slid down from your face, gently grasping yours as he guided you toward the ambulance parked beside the BAU’s SUV. You didn’t resist, letting him lead you to the back of the ambulance where a paramedic was already waiting, their medical kit open and ready. Spencer helped you sit down on the edge of the ambulance, his hand lingering on your shoulder for a moment longer. The paramedic stepped forward, but Spencer was already speaking. 

“She has two cuts on her forehead,” he began, “and one on her hand. There’s also a bruise forming on her temple.” He gestured toward your injuries as he spoke, his movements precise but slightly frantic.

You blinked, surprised. You hadn’t even noticed the cut on your hand until he mentioned it. Glancing down, you saw the gash across your palm, the blood smeared and drying. 

Spencer wasn’t done.

“The cut on her hand is quite deep. And, uh, I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, but you should probably check her pupils too. She seemed dizzy earlier, and with the head injury, it’s possible she has a mild concussion.” 

The paramedic glanced at Spencer, his expression a mix of amusement and mild exasperation, but he nodded slowly.

You shot Spencer a small, apologetic smile, feeling a pang of guilt for making him worry so much. “I’m fine, Spencer,” you repeated, your voice softer this time. “Really. You don’t have to—” 

“You’re not fine,” he interrupted, his tone sharper than he probably intended. He caught himself almost immediately, his shoulders slumping as he let out a frustrated sigh. “I mean… you’re hurt. And I just… I want to make sure you’re okay.”

You didn’t argue this time. The paramedic began cleaning the cut on your hand.

Meanwhile, Spencer reached for a sterile wipe from the paramedic’s kit, his fingers deftly tearing open the packaging. Without a word, he started dabbing at the cut on your forehead, his touch so light you barely felt it. 

The paramedic didn’t seem fazed by Spencer’s sudden involvement, though he did raise an eyebrow at him. “You sure you’re not a doctor?” he asked, his tone teasing. 

Spencer didn’t look up, his focus entirely on you. “I have a PhD in mathematics, a PhD in chemistry and engineering, and a BA in psychology and sociology,” he said absently, his voice monotone as he recited the facts. “But I’ve also read several medical textbooks, so I’m familiar with basic first aid procedures.” 

The paramedic's eyes slightly widened at that, and you just shrugged your shoulders as you met his eyes with a small smile. Spencer began disinfecting the cut on your forehead, his fingers gently cradling your face to keep you still.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice soft and apologetic as you hissed at the sting of the antiseptic. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone in a soothing gesture, his eyes flickering to yours for a brief moment before refocusing on the task at hand. 

The situation was slightly awkward, there you were, sitting on the edge of the ambulance with a paramedic bandaging the cut on your hand on one side, while Spencer, your ever-diligent boyfriend, tended to your forehead on the other.  

The paramedic finished bandaging your hand quickly, giving you a warm smile as he snapped off his gloves.

“Thank you,” you said, returning the smile gratefully. The paramedic nodded, packing up his kit, but Spencer was still focused on you, as he applied a plaster to the cuts on your forehead. 

You watched him quietly, your eyes tracing the lines of his face, the way his lashes brushed against his cheeks when he blinked, the slight crease between his brows as he concentrated, the way his lips pressed together in a thin line when he was deep in thought. He was so close, his breath warm against your skin.

Finally, Spencer leaned back, his work done. He met your eyes, his expression softening as he brushed his thumbs over your cheeks one last time, as if to reassure himself that you were really okay.

“Are you in a lot of pain?” he asked, his voice low and tinged with concern. He stepped aside to give the paramedic room to shine a light in your eyes, checking for any signs of a concussion. 

“No,” you replied, shaking your head slightly. “It’s just a little sore. Nothing I can’t handle.” 

The paramedic nodded, satisfied with his examination. “Everything looks good,” he said, clicking off the penlight. “Your headache will probably go away in a couple of hours. Just try to rest, okay? And if you feel dizzy or nauseous, get checked out immediately.” 

“Thank you,” you said again, offering the paramedic a grateful smile. He nodded, then glanced at Spencer, clearly picking up on the fact that Spencer wasn’t going to let you move an inch unless he was absolutely sure you were okay. 

“Do you two need anything else?” the paramedic asked, his tone light but knowing. 

Spencer shook his head, though his eyes never left you. “No, thank you,” he said, his voice sincere. He reached out, offering you his hand to help you down from the ambulance. You took it, your fingers intertwining with his as you stood.

“Thank you,” you said to the paramedic once more, your voice warm. He gave you a nod and a smile before heading back to the ambulance, leaving you and Spencer alone. 

Once he was out of earshot, Spencer turned to you, his expression softening. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, his free hand brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

“I’m fine, Spencer,” you assured him, squeezing his hand. “You worry too much.” 

“I can’t help it,” he admitted, as he squeezed your hand back.

“I know,” you said softly, leaning into him slightly. “But I’m okay, thanks to you.” 

Spencer’s lips curved into a small smile, and he let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing. “Come on,” he said, tugging gently on your hand.

[scoupsakakitty]

Hii, I see that your req is open :). Can I request for seventeen 14th member that got into car accident and the other member's reaction?

Signed with Worry | Seventeen x 14thMember | angst, fluff

tw: car accident, hospital

Seungcheol’s phone buzzed on the table, an unknown number flashing on the screen. Frowning, he picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Is this Choi Seungcheol?”

The serious tone of the woman’s voice immediately put him on edge. “Yes, who’s this?”

“This is Nurse Kim from Seoul General Hospital.”

His grip on the phone tightened. “Seoul General? Why—what happened? Is someone hurt?”

There was a brief pause before she responded, voice calm but firm. “I’m calling regarding Y/N. We need you to come in as soon as possible to sign her discharge papers.”

His heart dropped. “Discharge papers? What—why is she there? What happened to her?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but for safety and privacy reasons, I can’t disclose medical details over the phone. The doctor will explain everything once you arrive.”

Seungcheol felt a lump form in his throat. His mind was racing with worst-case scenarios. “But—she’s okay, right? Please, just tell me if it’s serious.”

A small pause. “She’s stable.”

That wasn’t enough. But it was all he was going to get.

“I’ll be there right away.”

By the time he hung up, his face was pale. The room had gone silent, all twelve members staring at him in alarm.

“What’s wrong?” Joshua asked carefully.

“Hospital,” Seungcheol said, his voice tight. “Y/N’s there.”

The reaction was instant.

“What?!” Hoshi’s eyes widened.

“Why?” Mingyu demanded.

“I don’t know.” Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair. “The nurse wouldn’t tell me over the phone.”

That was all it took for them to grab their things and run out the door.

As soon as they arrived at the hospital, the thirteen of them stormed through the entrance, heading straight for the reception desk.

“Y/N L/N,” Seungcheol said breathlessly. “She’s supposed to be discharged. Where is she?”

The nurse behind the desk barely blinked at the group of frantic men in front of her. “She’s in room 304, waiting for her discharge paperwork.”

Before she could say anything else, they were already rushing down the hall.

Pushing open the door to room 304, Seungcheol felt his chest tighten at the sight of Y/N sitting on the hospital bed, fully dressed, a small bandage on her forehead.

She blinked in surprise when she saw all thirteen of them pile into the room.

“Oh,” she said slowly. “I was expecting just Seungcheol.”

“Too bad,” Jeonghan muttered, arms crossed.

“Are you okay?” DK asked immediately, scanning her up and down.

Y/N sighed. “Guys, I’m fine. It was just a small accident.”

“Small accident?!” Seungkwan’s voice cracked. “You’re in a hospital!”

“They’re literally discharging me right now,” she said.

Before the panic could escalate, the doctor walked in, surprised to see so many people squeezed into the small room.

“Ah, you must be Y/N’s family?” he said, glancing at Seungcheol.

“She has thirteen very worried brothers,” Joshua answered.

The doctor chuckled. “Well, to ease your concerns—Y/N was in a minor car accident. She sustained a mild concussion and a small cut on her forehead that required two stitches. Other than that, she’s in good condition and cleared to go home.”

The members let out a collective breath, relief washing over them.

Mingyu, still not convinced, clapped his hands together. “Okay! I’m carrying her to the car.”

“For the last time, no,” Y/N groaned. “I can walk.”

“But—”

“She said no,” Seungcheol cut in, still in protective leader mode. “Let’s just take her home before one of you actually gives the hospital a reason to keep us here.”

As they left the hospital together, the tension finally eased, replaced by their usual playful bickering. Despite everything, Y/N couldn’t help but smile—she might have gotten hurt, but she’d never felt safer.

[whoopsyeahokay]

Fifty Seven

summary: prompt fill. between 1982 and 1983, Wally meets and falls completely head over heels for a girl who changes everything. his biggest fan, his greatest love. you. (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: fluff. AU - pre-canon. dorks falling in love. author doesn't know American football. total disregard for canon lore. HEA.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🏈

Fifty Seven

It was gradual, how things developed between you and Wally. Slow and peripheral at first. Then, like a confetti cannon—pop💥—instant, exciting; a pocket of fresh air in a dense smog. And it was all thanks to Wally's best friend, Rodney.

See, Wally was a baseball guy. Had planned to continue being a baseball guy through high school. He was an excellent pitcher with an impressive BA, and his mama had been over-the-top supportive for Wally to join the team—believed in him so much that she'd even strongarmed Coach Burns to let Wally try out for varsity.

But Rodney? Had wanted to join the football team. And Wally had wanted to do everything with his inseparable since birth best buddy, so he'd found himself donning a helmet and nailing technical drills like it was paint-by-numbers. Obviously, he'd made the team. Had started winning games, gained popularity and praise and attention from girls. Had fast become Coach's MVP only to, in sophomore year, be transferred to the varsity team. Go Devils!

That'd meant training longer, playing harder, and receiving interested elevator-looks from the hottest chicks in school. Seniors who'd graduated out of the awkwardness of puberty and had learned how to flaunt their curves. Don't worry, Rodney had been along for the ride, built like a brick shithouse and equally as formidable on the field, and he'd kept Wally humble.

Not that he'd needed to, because the thing about attention was the more Wally got, the less he was seen.

Yeah, he was the star receiver, the guy whose name everyone knew. But...that was about all they knew about him. People summed him up to the number on his jersey. Shallow. Detached. The girls he took on dates wanted the infamy of having made out with him—"he's such a fantabulous kisser,"—and the guys admired the hell out of him, clapped his back and handed him beers, but no one expressed an interest in peeling back flesh and bone to see what made Wally tick.

Wally wasn't lonely; he had Rodney and Don and Keith. BFFs since kindergarten who gave a real shit about him. It was just that, if people approached him to ask questions, he wanted it to feel less like an interview and more like a connection. Small talk was exhausting.

He'd been contemplating this when you'd first popped onto his radar. Shooting hoops in the gym at lunch to brood over his latest failed effort with a girl—Sarah Miller from History—when, oh shit, look out!, you'd walked through the door the second Wally had decided to unleash his frustration by whipping the ball at the wall. He'd overcompensated. The ball had curved to the left. Smack, you'd taken it square in the head.

Somehow, you hadn't been hurt, though the sound had convinced Wally you should've had a bruise blossoming on the area of impact. He'd run over, eyes wide in panic, visually checking you over to ensure he hadn't concussed you.

He'd rubbed the back of his neck nervously, "Are you okay?"

"Oh yeah," You'd grinned, friendly, not even a little bit upset, "Happens more than you think." Which would've raised flags if Wally hadn't been preoccupied by how your proximity smelled like summer.

After a moment of uncertainty, Wally had stuck out his hand and introduced himself, "I'm Wally Clark. I, uh... I'm better at football." He'd felt like an idiot five seconds later when you'd merrily declared:

"I know," still smiling like he hadn't just thoroughly embarrassed himself. "You always feint left." Then, in general consideration, "I'm surprised no one's figured that out yet."

Wally had stared at you in surprise, "I mean... I do what feels right in the moment."

You'd raised your hands, "I'm just saying, your recovery's weak on your left backfoot, so you might wanna switch it up soon."

Wally had crashed through a gamut of emotions in under a second, beginning with insecurity and ending in shockawe. Because you'd noticed something. And, okay, yes, it'd been jersey-number related, but it hadn't been how well he filled out his uniform.

"You come to the games?" He'd wondered as he'd valiantly ignored how his stomach had started to feel squirmy.

You'd nodded, "You're fun to watch." And you'd said it so...casually. Like it'd been part of the Split River High zeitgeist: The stadium became a sardine can because Number 57, Wally Clark, was fun to watch.

"So, I guess you're gonna be there tomorrow?" He'd asked, the seed of an unfamiliar sense of intrigue planted. He'd watched you tilt your head, watched your eyes light up when you'd smiled. Wally had felt his cheeks heat and his eyes go soppy in response.

"That's the plan, Stan," You'd gleefully confirmed.

That'd been where it'd all started.

You and he hadn't become friends or anything like that, but Wally had felt a connection. Like you and he had clicked. From then on, he'd sought you out in the crowd at every game. Where's Waldo between plays. You'd never been in the same place twice, and as soon as he'd find you, you'd hold up a poster-board boasting a glittery '57' in school blue, and cheer him on with gusto.

It'd swiftly become Wally's favorite part of playing football.

Tonight, Wally was mid-search, batting away Rodney's reminder that the team planned to hit Max's Diner after the game, win or lose, when Number 36, Matt Wilson, advised, "Dude, don't interrupt. It's like a good-luck ritual at this point."

Rodney frowned, "What're talking about?"

Even Wally broke his concentration and swiveled his head to look at Matt in confusion.

With a snort, Matt pointed out, "Clark always looks for the girl, finds her, then plays harder than ever and we win the game. He's been doing it for weeks." He shrugged, "I mean, whatever works, right?"

He did? Huh. He guessed he did...

"You got a girlfriend and didn't say anything?" Rodney accused, a little hurt. "Ouch."

"It's not like that," Wally assured him, though he felt his cheeks flush and his lips curve into a dopey smile.

Rodney studied Wally for a moment and then, "Alright, my man, what's her name?" A big, teasing grin on his face.

Wally opened his mouth to answer before he realized, shit, he actually had no idea. You hadn't given him your name the afternoon he'd accidentally pelted you with a basketball.

"You're not serious." Rodney said flatly, "you don't even know her name?" while Matt slapped his knee and crowed.

Wally was about to defend himself when, just over Rodney's shoulder, there you were, gaze already on him. His insides instantly went gooey, broad smile stretched across his face, and Rodney leveled him with an unimpressed look that Wally refused to acknowledge.

"For the love of God, ask for her name." Rodney commanded before he stuck his mouthguard between his teeth.

The whistle blew and the game continued.

The Devils won.

‗•‗

Taking Rodney's suggestion was somewhat harder than Wally had anticipated. He just couldn't bring himself to do it, nerves piqued whenever he caught sight of you in the hall. He wasn't a nervous guy—Wally was a big, brave boy, thank you very much—but something about you made him stutter and overthink and, aaah, what would he even say!? Hey, thanks for coming to watch me play after I hit you in the face. Also, what's your name, girl who I share a new, ongoing at-game tradition?

Lame.

He needed more information. ✨A r e a s o n✨. Some unavoidable situation wherein Wally had to go up to you that didn't insist upon itself. Or he could actually be a big, brave boy and just say hi as casually as you'd told Wally he was fun to watch.

Between the last game and the next, Wally began gathering facts from a distance (while Rodney's gaze burned a hole into the side of Wally's head).

He learned that you sat with a group of sophomores in the cafeteria, laughing along yet not interjecting, comfortable giving the stage to your friends. Being a year below him explained why Wally hadn't noticed you before, but since that fateful day in the gym, he hadn't been able to stop noticing you.

You were quiet, though not in a shy way. You often spent time in the library—or, rather, you were always in the library when Wally happened to be, nose in a book on the windowsill. You stepped aside to let people go through a door first, and smiled at everyone; and on Mondays and Thursdays your fingers and jeans were smeared with charcoal from your Art class.

Your clothes changed, but your shoes didn't. Beat up Converse you clearly loved to death. You carried around a Sony walkman like the one Keith had, headphones on in the mornings and around your neck in the afternoons. Wally wanted to know what music you listened to.

Truth be told, he wanted to know a lot of things. Like your favorite movie and what you did in your spare time. If you went to parties or preferred to stay home and play boardgames (he wouldn't mind trading a sticky ping-pong ball for a Monopoly shoe). Were you strictly a cassette girl or did you listen to vinyl, too? Bike or license? Star Trek or Star Wars? Tom or Jerry?

God, Wally had it bad. He wanted to know everything. Every detail.

And, finally, after several failed attempts to muster the courage to cold approach you, ✨a r e a s o n✨ fell into Wally's lap and he decided it was now or never.

Practice had just ended. He was loose and warm and in a good mood, and after saying goodbye to the guys on the field, he turned and saw you sitting alone on the bleachers. Headphones on like a headband, the earpieces behind your ears. You scribbled in a notebook, tongue peeking out of the corner of your mouth, clearly 100% focused on whatever you were working on.

Wally's eyes softened and his heartbeat sped up. You were adorable.

Clearing his throat to announce himself, he climbed the bleachers and shuffled across the middle bench to take a seat beside you.

"Hey," He smiled, broad and hopefully not too eager.

Your head lifted and you smiled back.

Wally melted inside.

"Hi, Wally Clark," You said as you closed your notebook and shifted to give him your full attention. "Not practicing your free throws today?" You teased with a glint in your eye.

Wally ducked his head as he chuckled, "Nah, not today. I decided to leave that to the professionals."

"Mm, yeah, that might be for the best," And then, fixing him with a cheeky grin, "You know, if dodgeball ever becomes a recognized sport, you should totally join a team."

Wally pressed his lips together, doing his best to hide how big his smile would be otherwise, before he glanced at you with a raised brow, "Oh. So, you're funny?"

You giggled like sweet melody, "Let's call it observant."

He released his smile, heart fluttering in his chest, eyes flickering across your face to take in every detail. There was something in him—a magnet behind his ribs—that drew Wally toward you. He couldn't explain it. Barely knew you enough to label it as more than attraction, but it was more. His gaze dipped to your lips, traced the shape of your smile, then skirted back up to meet your eyes.

"Alright, let's call it observant." He agreed, his smile somehow widening.

After a moment of comfortable silence, "Your feints are getting better," you commented, "I can't predict which way you're gonna go anymore."

And he positively preened; spine straight, chest puffed out, proud to have earned your admiration. Maybe that's what'd always been missing. He'd never had to work for it, everyone throwing themselves at his feet just for a split second of his attention. Wally had always been approached, never had to do the approaching.

Was that the thrill of the chase?

No. Of course not. You weren't the deer to his crosshairs. But he had to admit, it was nice that he could trust you weren't talking to him to get something out of it. Which is probably why, before he could stop himself, Wally blurted:

"Do you wanna hang out tomorrow?"

You seemed surprised, brows shooting up. Still, your smile remained and, with a chuckle, you nodded, "That would be nice." And then, eyes narrowing, "Nowhere that involves you having to throw things, though, right?"

Hand to his heart, "I'll save it for the field," Wally promised, suddenly feeling giddy and overwhelmed. He had to resist the urge to bite his lip in excitement. Raked his fingers through his hair and glanced bashfully away to compose himself.

"Very appreciated." You bumped your shoulder against his arm.

The brief contact ignited a thousand butterflies to take flight in his belly. He stood, gathered his sports bag and beamed down at you. You looked back, all cute and sweet and appearing nowhere near as affected as Wally felt which made him feel a little silly for the intensity of his body's reactions to you.

"How about the arcade...around 3?" He suggested, putting as much confidence behind his words as he could.

After a moment's thought, "Can we make it in the evening? Say around 6?" You asked.

"Yeah," Wally replied, "Yeah, we can make it 6." He took a couple of backward steps, "I can pick you up at your place."

You shook your head, "I'll meet you there."

"Great, it's a date," He nearly choked when he registered what he'd said, face absolutely flaming, though he didn't take it back. He almost tripped over his own feet when you didn't correct him.

Instead, all you said was, "Can't wait."

You didn't see it—God, he hoped you didn't see it—but as soon as he was off the bleachers and a good enough distance away, Wally fist pumped, practically vibrating out of his skin. Holy crap, he was going on a date with you! He was going to spend time with you, get to know you, connect with you the way he'd always wanted to connect with someone outside of Rodney, Don, and Keith.

It was only when he was in his car and on his way home to shower that he realized he still didn't know your name.

He could hear Rodney's eyeroll from there.

‗•‗

You'd noticed Wally from the start. It was difficult not to, the guy a high-rise human, towering over most of the student body. But, it wasn't just his physical presence. Nor was it how good he was at attracting attention on and off the field with his exuberance and abundance of energy.

It was the moments between the jokes he made with his friends. Between performing for the crowd when he led the Devils to victory. The somber, introspective moments he thought he had to himself. And he did, for the most part. You'd never meant to intrude. It just so happened that he often used the same spaces you did to find peace.

You weren't surprised that he hadn't noticed you before he'd lodged a basketball at your head. Few people did. Not bitterly; that was just simply how things had befallen you and you'd learned to adjust. In fact, you had approximately two people you considered close and had realized that was more than enough. Still, you enjoyed meeting people where you could. They were fascinating. And, these days, none were so fascinating as Wally Clark.

He had hands that swallowed whatever they held; a smile that brightened a room; and eyes that made your skin tingle, their gaze soulful and heavy whenever they landed on you at his games like a prize. You craved those eyes on you, a flower to sunlight, and were excited beyond measure that you'd have them all to yourself for a night.

When he'd asked you out, it'd taken everything in your power not to kick your feet and giggle in delight. Be cool, you'd told yourself, acting as though you hadn't been daydreaming about Wally Clark since you'd first heard his name in the halls. What you wouldn't have given to spend more of Saturday with him, but things were somewhat strange for you, and you'd had to shave the hours down.

As restrictive as it was, you were only able to go out when the town was sleepier. The streets less crowded, the energy laggard; the shadows darker and the moon visible. You had hard rules to follow, but after sundown, you had freedom you didn't otherwise have. You could sneak out unnoticed and do as you pleased so long as you were back before sunrise.

It sucked, but it was what it was and there was nothing you could do about it, so you'd set the time for your date with Wally later and hoped you'd be satisfied with the hours you and he did get to be together.

When you arrived at the arcade, Wally was already there, leaning against the exterior wall, hands shoved in his pockets, his expression transforming from teen mag sultry to puppy bright when he caught sight of you. Don't squeal, don't squeal, don't squeal—you did great, kid—you waved sweetly and took measured steps toward him, matching his expression with a happy one of your own.

"Hey, you made it," Wally said as if he'd been worried you'd flake.

"Like I'd miss the chance to kick your ass at Space Invaders." You scoffed, hands on your hips as you pinned him with a challenging look.

Wally laughed and the sound when straight to your chest, settled between your ribs, and you knew your eyes were likely doing something dreamy and dazed. If he noticed, he didn't comment; held out his arm like a gentleman and escorted you inside.

You did, in fact, kick his ass at Space Invaders.

‗•‗

Whatever, you may have beaten him at Space Invaders, but Wally wiped the floor with you at Time Pilot. To further impress you with his skills, he won you a prize from the claw crane. Overlooking the fact that it'd taken several coins and a lot of cursing, Wally felt like the king of the world having handed over a plastic ball stuffed with enough raffle tickets that you could take home a plastic necklace.

He looked for any and every opportunity to touch you; grazed the back of his hand across yours, then, bolder, squeezed you into his side as you and he moved between machines. Just as you were about to beat his score at Pac Man, he grabbed you around the waist and spun you away from the control panel, watching in triumph when the monitor announced Game Over and Wally's score beat yours by more points than you could come back from.

You shrieked and giggled when he slung you over his shoulder to carry you to the new air hockey table. You sprung into his arms when he defended your honor at the foosball table against another pair of patrons. By the end of the night, he had your hand in his, fingers laced, as he walked you home.

It'd been the most fun he'd had in—God—forever. Yeah, he hung out with the guys, went camping and played videogames and did things. Always busy, always entertained. Or, rather, he did the entertaining. A constant performance to keep people interested. Tonight, with you, it'd been different. He was relaxed, completely at ease, feeling like himself for the first time in too many years. His chest felt lighter.

When you and he reached your house, not too far from the arcade, you stopped and positioned yourself to face him, beautiful smile on your face that softened under his gaze. He didn't want tonight to end. Wished it could go on through tomorrow and the next day and the one after that.

"This was a lot of fun, Wally," You murmured as you stepped closer, bottom lip caught between your teeth in a way that made his heartrate spike and his head foggy.

He nodded, "Yeah," and lifted a hand to trail his fingertips along the slope of your jaw, "I wanna do it again, like, now."

You chuckled, and when did your lips get so close to his? "You just wanna try and beat my Donkey Kong score." You accused, breath hitching when the tip of his nose grazed your cheek.

Wally couldn't refute that, but didn't want to, his mind already on other things. Better things. Things like—his lips brushed yours, soft and gentle at first, testing the waters, and when you gasped so prettily, he pressed in. Kissed you slow, his hand climbing to rest on the back of your head to angle you just right. The kiss let in and took out, over and over, until Wally was breathless and dizzy.

He kept you there, one hand trailing down your side to your hip, the other tangling in your hair, for what felt like hours though it must've only been several minutes. He couldn't let go. Couldn't stop. Your tongue against his the most incredible thing he'd ever tasted.

But, eventually, you had to pull away, "It's late."

He kissed you one more time for the road, watched you stealthily maneuver around the side of your house and disappear around the corner, probably to sneak back into your room before anyone realized you'd been gone. Something about the fact that you'd risked getting in trouble for him thrilled Wally.

Once you were out of sight, Wally turned in the direction of home, an obvious bounce in his step as he replayed the night—the kiss, how your lips had yielded under his—on a loop.

Again, it wasn't until much later that he remembered he still hadn't asked for your name.

Fuck.

‗•‗

In typical 1980s fashion, this movie had a montage that Wally revisited almost obsessively. Sure, things had progressed rather quickly between you and him; one minute you were the stranger he viciously—but not on purpose!—attacked with a ball, and the next you were every thought, desire, emotion, response Wally was capable of.

After sundown, like hoodlums, he took you to the roller rink and skated on legs made of Jell-O because you insisted you needed his limbs to support your stilted efforts. Except, as soon as a single-digit child cried his frustration, there you were, a professional ballerina on wheels, teaching the child how to balance and move. You weren't even sheepish when you fessed up to the ruse.

"I like how it feels," You said simply, shrugged, and tucked yourself into Wally's side to prove the point, "You feel safe."

Yeah, Wally couldn't argue to save his life, addicted to how you felt in his arms as much as you seemed drawn to be there. You and he danced under the colored lights, spun and chased and discoed like divas, deliberately falling into each other at every chance. Wally didn't complain when you brought him to the ground with you after a miscalculated dip.

Days later, you and he jumped and screamed along to live music (the lyrics all totally wrong, but the melody right), crashing bodies pressing you together. Halfway through the concert, the surrounding mania receded as he rocked you gently, kissed you with meaning in the eye of a mosh pit; squawked when you poked his side to tickle him and then booked it through the crowd for an impromptu, wild game of hide-n-seek.

An empty movie theater for a screening of last year's horror films. Popcorn missiles thrown when he dared suggest Halloween was better than My Bloody Valentine. Finger to his lips, his hand firm around yours, crouched as he led you into another theater after the first movie. Four altogether, most of them ignored in favor of making out in the back row until an usher kicked you and Wally out for inappropriate behavior.

Heads close, toes pointed toward opposite walls, listening to Nebraska in a patch of moonlight on Wally's bedroom floor after a grueling week of exams and Wally's mama nagging him to get fitted for new skates before hockey season. He turned his head, admired your profile, lashes fanned on the arches of peach-blushed cheeks. His heart fluttered and his eyes softened as he watched you doze to the music. Between Used Cars and Open All Night, Wally propped himself on an elbow and kissed you upside-down. Chuckled when you nipped his chin and retaliated by adjusting his position, pinning you beneath his body, and kissing you senseless.

Throughout it all, you never missed a game, football or hockey or lacrosse. You'd put an end to the scavenger hunt, now a pillar of motivation—front row, center—and waved that glittery poster with an enthusiasm that outshone his mama's. The new arrangement made it easier for Wally, sweaty and hot, to leap over the barrier and lift and twirl you after each victory. Or, alternatively, for you to hurdle into his arms to comfort and reassure him after each loss.

Over the summer, Wally reminisced fondly on his junior year and everything you and he had done together. He missed you, a deep ache in his heart while your family apparently traveled for the months between school years. You wrote letters and used payphones to speak to him every Wednesday and Saturday, and it helped sustain him until you returned, but, God, he couldn't wait to see you again. To have you cuddled against him on the couch or in his lap on the bleachers at lunch or under him in his bed.

He craved you like a bad habit. Your scent, your touch, your taste. The soft affection you and he traded; lips stamped to a shoulder, fingers carding through each other's hair. How Wally held you, arm banded around your chest, hand under your chin to angle your face up so he could kiss you from behind.

Soon, he reminded himself. Three more days and he'd have his girl at his side again.

His girl whose name continued to elude him.

‗•‗

The night of the '83 Homecoming game, Wally felt a dread unlike he'd ever felt before. A lump of lead in his stomach. He had you in his lap. Light, gentle brushes of his lips memorized the shape of your neck and jaw, his arms tight around you, as you helped distract him from his uncharacteristic pre-game nerves.

"I'll be right there, Wally Clark," You promised with a sweet smile.

And you were. In the seat beside his mama when the crack of bone echoed across the stadium like thunder.

He spent the following weeks oscillating between grief and rage, too consumed by the confusion and fear and loss of his own life to find the strength to seek you out. He didn't want to know how you handled it. Him. His no-longer-thereness. If you were as deeply sad as he was or if you could move on and make it through. Wally didn't think he could handle it if he saw you smile again if he wasn't responsible for it.

Eventually, though, he couldn't deny it anymore. Had to see you. That magnetic pull led him to find you outside, basking in the December sun, no jacket, laying across the middle bench on the bleachers that overlooked the field behind the school.

He climbed up and took a quiet seat beside you. You didn't look any different. Serene, in fact, as you lay there, your notebook rested on the bench above. Wally sighed heavily, traced the air around your cheek as his breath choked and his heart shattered. He had so much he wanted to say to you, but didn't know where to begin—I miss you, I wish I didn't die, I need to hold you again. Sentiments that didn't make a difference anymore. He gazed at your notebook and wondered if you'd written anything about him.

And then, to his surprise:

"I was wondering how long it would take before you'd come find me."

His eyes whipped to you and he saw you staring upside-down at him, neck craned back slightly and a warm grin on your face.

"Y-you can see me!?" Wally gaped as you sat up and scooched closer to him.

"Of course I can." You said so easily that Wally had to think for a second if he was supposed to understand how it was possible. No one else had been able to see him, hear him, feel him.

"...how?"

You giggled, the sound a boon to his despairing soul, "Being dead isn't so bad, you know. I mean, it sucks, but you get used to it pretty quick." Taking his hand in yours, fingers laced, "And, when the memory of you starts to fade, you start to absorb the insane amount of teen angst." You snorted at something Wally assumed was supposed to be funny. "Makes you solid for awhile. You'll even be able leave the school at night which I'd consider something to look forward to, no?"

"I guess," Wally wheezed as his brain tried desperately to catch up to what was happening. He stared at you, bewildered, lost, hopeful, elated, "You're dead?" One, two beats, "You were dead the whole time?"

You smiled and nodded, leaned away from him to hold out your other hand for him to shake. That's when he heard it for the first time, your name, the syllables like angelic melody to his ears. You added, "Class of '57. Nice to meet you."

"But...I walked you home. I saw your house."

"You saw a house." You corrected.

He couldn't believe it. You were dead. You were like Wally. You were with Wally.

Without hesitation, Wally scooped you into his arms and kissed you like he'd wanted to since he'd risen from his body. He soaked up all the comfort and reassurance and love you offered with your lips. The idea of eternity no longer seemed so permanent and awful if you were in it.

You pulled away just enough to bump the tip of your nose against his, that smile he adored melting every worry and fear that'd followed him off the field.

"So, how do you wanna spend your afterlife, Wally Clark? We could play dodgeball now that you know you can't actually hurt me."

He felt a grin form, wide and joyful, and answered, "However you want." After a soft lull that Wally used to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and cup your cheek, "I just wanna spend it with you." His girl, whose name he would treasure forever in his heart.

🏈___________fin.____________

also on AO3!

Order Up! MASTERLIST

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Cuddle Bug.

fluff. smut lite. a flashfic exploration of Wally's inability to be anything but a plural image when you're within reach. aka: he's codependent as fuck and neither you nor he care.

[orellazalonia]

What They Can See

Summary: The Avengers intercept with the evacuation plans and take you in. Not as a teammate, but as a question mark, an echo of someone they failed to see until it was far too late.

Word Count: 3.5k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

The blast came without warning.

Not an explosion meant to kill, but one designed to disable. It was controlled, pinpointed, and unmistakably Stark tech. A pulse charge detonated just ahead of the lead vehicle, and in an instant, everything unraveled. The tires screamed against the dirt, the van fish-tailed with a shriek of momentum before grinding to a shuddering, crooked stop.

Inside the second van, your van, there was a beat of stunned silence. No panic. No screaming. Just the heavy realization of what had happened. They’d found you.

Before the driver could even slam the gear into reverse, a concussive blast rocked the rear tires. Outside, shadows moved with swift, practiced silence. Boots on gravel. Air cutting open with a grappling hook. The whirrrr of wings folding in above the dust.

A moment later, the door was ripped open.

The sunlight poured in like judgment.

“Hands up!” Sam barked, silhouette cutting against the bright sky, gauntlet sparking slightly as his stance remained defensive but ready.

The others in the van reacted out of instinct. One went for a weapon and was instantly stunned by a tranquilizer dart. Another tried to bolt, only to meet the barrel of Natasha’s sidearm as she moved like water, cold, efficient, and already in position.

You didn’t move. Your eyes remained forward. Blank and observing. You heard the familiar shift of Steve’s boots hitting the ground outside, the echo of authority in his stride. His voice followed: low, controlled, unshakable.

“Step out. Now.”

You obeyed and so did the rest. No one had to force you. You moved on your own, stepping out of the vehicle slowly, deliberately with your hands raised, fingers open. You didn’t stumble. You didn’t shrink. You didn’t try to explain.

Which may have been why the silence you brought with you was louder than any fight.

Natasha’s expression cracked first. Her brows pulled in, confused and cautious. Sam’s mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to say something but didn’t have the words ready. Steve watched you the way a soldier might stare at a field that used to be home before it was turned to ash.

And Bucky?

He didn’t speak, barely breathed. He just stared. Because the moment he saw you, really saw you, it hit like a punch to the ribs. The same you, and yet not. You were dressed in plain black tactical gear. No insignia. No visible rank. Your face was unreadable and your posture was calm. Too calm.

Not frightened. Not pleading. Just… present. Present in a way that was devastating. Because you weren’t a hostage and you weren’t broken. You were gone in a way none of them had anticipated. And worse… it looked like you had chosen to be.

A second later, the front cab was forced open. Maren was yanked out, her shoulder bleeding from a clean graze, but her mouth twisted into a half-smile that seemed to mock the whole situation. She was cuffed quickly, pushed to her knees as Natasha kept a watchful eye on the others being subdued around her.

“Guess the rescue party showed up after all,” She muttered, looking up with a smirk. “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Steve didn’t dignify it with a response.

The moment ended without fanfare. Orders were given. Guards cuffed. Others secured. The vehicles were abandoned. And you, once a quiet, unnoticed worker, were walked cuffed and silent into the Quinjet like a piece of evidence.

You walked without looking at the others. Without acknowledging the way they glanced at you from the corners of their eyes, searching for a trace of who you used to be. The girl who fetched their files. Who memorized their preferences. Who spoke only when needed and even then, softly.

They hadn’t seen her before. But now they couldn’t stop looking. You sat when they told you to. A designated seat in the rear of the jet, near the storage hull. Secure and monitored.

Sam sat across from you, adjusting a wrap on his arm. He stared for a while in silence.

Then, gently, “Are you okay?”

You didn’t answer. Not out of defiance, but because what did that even mean? What version of okay could he possibly be asking about?

Okay that they left you? Okay that they forgot? Okay that they were too late to save someone who didn’t need saving anymore?

You turned your head away and stared out the window instead.

Quinjet lifted with a quiet shudder which made you look up, just once.

And there you saw Bucky who sat near the front silently, staring back at you. He didn’t look triumphant. He looked like someone staring at the answer to a question he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.

And still, you gave him nothing. Not a smile. Not a glare. Not even a flicker of emotion. You just turned your gaze away again.

Let them take you back. Let them try to fit you into a puzzle they never understood to begin with. Let them think this was over.

When you all finally made it to the compound, your arrival wasn’t met with alarms.

No red lights. No blaring sirens. No dramatic hallway confrontations. Just silence and a small, reinforced holding room. It wasn’t a cell, exactly, but not a guest suite either. It was simply neutral, clinical, sterile. Possessing a two-way mirror, observation camera, padded bench, and a single table with no sharp edges.

You didn’t complain. You sat quietly, as you always had, hands folded in your lap, looking more like an intern waiting for a meeting than someone fresh out of enemy custody.

Except now, no one could agree on what you were. And the longer you remained quiet, the harder it became for them to pretend you were just another debrief waiting to happen.

Steve paced the briefing room like he was chasing ghosts.

“She hasn’t asked for a lawyer. Hasn’t spoken to anyone,” He said, running a hand through his hair. “She’s not requesting immunity, not requesting to leave. It’s like she’s… waiting.”

“For what?” Sam asked. “Permission to go back?”

“She didn’t try to,” Natasha pointed out. She was seated at the table, arms crossed, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on her sleeve. “We intercepted the evacuation. She was calm and complied, came with us.”

“She came with us,” Bucky echoed quietly from the corner, “But she didn’t come back.”

The room stilled.

Bruce looked up from the file in front of him, his voice low. “She worked with them for almost six months now. Designed their data systems. Improved their evasion tactics. That organization spread faster than we predicted because of her.”

“She’s not a killer,” Bucky said suddenly, sharply.

“No,” Natasha agreed, eyes unreadable. “But she’s not innocent either.”

Silence fell again.

Sam sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “So what now? We charge her? Let the UN poke at her until she shuts down and disappears into some prison for the rest of her life?”

“She’s not some war criminal,” Bucky snapped. “She’s someone we let slip through the cracks.”

“She’s someone who chose to work for the people tearing the world apart,” Steve said. His voice wasn’t angry, just tired. “She made that decision.”

“But why?” Bucky asked, gaze hard. “Because they kidnapped her? Because they brainwashed her? Or because the people who were supposed to look after her treated her like a shadow for years?”

That landed with weight. Steve didn’t argue it. No one did.

Later, the woman Bucky had been seeing slipped into the room with two cups of tea. She set one down beside Steve and held her own with both hands, steam curling softly between her fingers.

“She hasn’t said anything?” She asked lightly.

“No,” Steve murmured, jaw tight.

“Strange,” She said with a soft frown. “I mean, maybe she just doesn’t know what to say. Or who to say it to. Not everyone’s built for pressure, you know.”

Bucky looked at her sharply, but she didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” She added. “But if you guys need help getting through to her… let me know.”

Then she smiled and left.

Sam watched her go, then looked at Bucky. “She’s too curious about all this.”

“She’s always been curious,” Bucky muttered, eyes narrowed. “But now I’m starting to think it wasn’t just about me.”

And in your room, you waited.

You’d been fed. You’d been watched. But no one had come in to speak with you yet. They didn’t know where to start.

Were you a threat? A victim? A former ally gone wrong? Or just a quiet girl who had finally stopped waiting to be seen?

You leaned back against the wall, expression unreadable. They didn’t know what to do with you, but neither did you.

In the late evening, you heard him before you saw him.

Not his voice, his steps. You knew the way he walked. The weight in each step. The pause before the door hissed open like he wasn’t sure if he should come in. Part of you wanted to sit straighter. Fix your posture. Pretend you hadn’t been slumped against the wall like a wilted plant for the last hour.

But you didn’t move. You didn’t look up. Not until he spoke.

“Did you know it was me?” He asked, his voice softer than you expected. Hesitant.

You blinked, still facing the wall. Of course it was him. You’d felt it the second he stepped onto that dirt road. That particular silence he carried, the kind that wrapped around a room instead of filling it.

“When we hit the base,” He added. “Did you know I was there?”

Your throat tightened. You simply shrugged.

The silence between you stretched, awkward but not unfamiliar. He didn’t rush to fill it, didn’t pace or fidget like Steve or Sam might. He just stood there, watching you like you were a stormcloud he’d once walked beneath and couldn’t decide if it had ever really rained.

“You looked different,” He said after a beat. “Not scared. Not… lost. Just… like you’d made a life there.”

That stung more than it should’ve. You turned your head, just a little and met his eyes. And God help you, he still looked like him.

Bucky Barnes. The man you used to think was unreachable. Not because he was distant even though he was, but because even his kindness felt like it was meant for someone else. Someone bolder. Braver. Not the background girl who handed him intel reports with shaking fingers and too many unspoken words.

“That wasn’t a life,” You murmured.

It was the first thing you’d said in a while. Your voice came out rough, unfamiliar even to you.

He froze.

You watched him. Steady and tired.

“They made space for me,” You said quietly. “Gave me work, a purpose. They asked me questions and noticed me.”

He took a step forward, then another.

“You mattered here,” He said gently.

You almost laughed. You really, really almost did.

“To who?” You asked, too softly to be bitter. Just curious now. Exhausted.

Because even after everything, even after all the silence and distance, you still remembered what it felt like to watch him laugh with someone else. To stand near him and never be seen. And to know he’d never love you. Not like that, not the way you had quietly hoped.

Your voice was steady but sharp with the effort it took to keep it that way. “I wasn’t like the rest of you. I didn’t save cities. I didn’t have charm, training, or powers. I didn’t matter until I left.”

His eyes searched yours. “That’s not true.”

You gave him a look, more tired than angry.

“Then why didn’t anyone notice I was gone?”

Bucky looked away first. His silence didn’t sting the way it used to. It just confirmed what you’d already known. They’d missed you the moment they saw what you’d become, not when you were still there.

His mouth pressed into a thin line. You watched the guilt rise in him like steam, curling under his skin.

“I wasn’t angry when I left,” you said. “ I didn’t even plan to. I was just… forgotten. And then someone remembered me. They kept me, treated me like I was useful, even if it was for the wrong reasons. And I kept telling myself I’d leave eventually. But…”

You looked away.

But you didn’t come looking.

Not Bucky. Not Steve. Not anyone. And God, you hated that some small, aching part of you still cared what Bucky thought now. That same part of you that used to wonder if the way he lingered in doorways or offered quiet thank you’s meant anything. That used to hope maybe one day he’d notice you beyond the reports and the routine.

And now here he was. Sitting across from you like you were someone who mattered again. And yet, it was too Too late.

“I never forgot you,” He said suddenly, voice low.

You met his eyes again, and for a moment, something cracked in you. The part that still held onto old feelings. The part that used to whisper: Maybe if you were enough, he’d see you.

He leaned forward slightly, forearms on his knees, and brow drawn with a guilt he wore too well.

“Steve doesn’t know what to do. Neither does Natasha. Sam is worried the UN’s gonna step in and turn this into a case file.”

You didn’t speak.

“They don’t know if you were taken… or if you chose it.”

You swallowed.

“What about you?” You asked quietly. “What do you think?”

He looked at you fully then. Like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or let you go, like someone scared to break something already fractured.

“I think you didn’t have a reason to stay,” He said. “And that’s on us.”

You blinked fast. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not now.

He added, even softer, “I should’ve checked in. Should’ve talked to you more. Noticed more. You were always… there. I just got used to it. I never asked what that cost you.”

You stared at him. Because all those things were true. And none of them fixed anything. And still, some hollow part of you ached to believe him. To believe he meant it. Even now. Even after everything.

He stood slowly. “I don’t know what happens next, but know I’m here for you. Just call.”

You didn’t answer and he left without expecting one. The door hissed closed behind him.

You didn’t move for a long time. Just sat there on the padded bench, wrists still sore from the cuffs. The room smelled like recycled air and too-clean walls.

You could still feel where he’d looked at you.

Not physically, but in that way you knew too well. The way people stared when they noticed you. When they suddenly realized they’d been blind for too long, and it was too late to undo it.

You curled your knees up and rested your chin on them.

He used to smile at the woman who brought him coffee. Not you. She was light, easy with conversation. She’d wear sun-warmed sweaters and brush Bucky’s arm without hesitation. She looked like she belonged.

You were the one who memorized his black coffee order and left it near his door when he was too tired to ask. You were the one who adjusted the lighting in the mission briefings because you noticed he flinched in the brighter rooms. The one who once thought—

Stop.

You squeezed your eyes shut hard, trying to burn the thoughts away. But they came anyway.

You had fallen for a version of him that was never yours to begin with. You’d wanted something gentle, something quiet, something kind. But you’d mistaken his silence for softness. Mistaken his nods for something closer. Mistaken your own loneliness for love.

And now, after all that?

You were back in their hands. Not trusted. Not freed. Just… tolerated. An inconvenient problem with too much history to erase and too little value to keep.

You wiped at your eyes angrily before the tears could fall. You weren’t going to cry. Not for them. Not for him.

Let Bucky feel guilty. Let them all feel it. Because none of them came when it mattered. Not when you started slipping. Not when you stopped showing up in common areas. Not when you left.

They only came when they needed to clean up their own mess.

You weren’t their teammate. You were their oversight.

And now? Now they didn’t know whether to lock you up or pretend they cared.

It was a while later until they brought you into a smaller room this time.

No restraints. Just two guards who didn’t meet your eyes, and a seat bolted to the floor in front of a metal table that had been polished too clean. Across from it were two empty chairs. One for Steve. One for Natasha.

Of course it would be them.

The two who always had to hold the line. Captain America and the spy who never missed anything. Fair. Tactical. Clinical.

Your steps were quieter than theirs. You didn’t need to be announced.

So, you sat.

The room wasn’t cold, but you felt cold anyway. That kind of chill that sinks in from being looked through too many times for too many years. That kind of ache that crept up behind your ribs and made your chest feel hollow.

The door opened softly as Steve entered first, jaw tense, and posture perfect. Natasha followed. Her eyes didn’t flicker toward you immediately, but you knew better. She was already studying everything: your posture, your breathing, and the faint tremor in your fingers.

They sat down with no smiles or greetings.

Steve reached for the file in front of him, but didn’t open it.

“You’ve been quiet since we brought you in,” He said gently, like he didn’t want to push. “We’re hoping you’ll talk now.”

You tilted your head. Not sarcastic. Not cold. Just… blank.

“What exactly do you want me to say?”

It was Natasha who answered. “The truth.”

That made you laugh, quiet and breathless. Not because it was funny. But because it was too late for that.

Your eyes focused on the table instead of them. “Do you want the part where I was kidnapped? Or the part where I didn’t come back because no one noticed I left?”

Natasha didn’t flinch, but Steve did. The truth hit harder than any accusation.

“We noticed,” He said, too quickly. “Eventually.”

You let the pause stretch, slow and cruel.

“Yeah,” You whispered. “Eventually.”

They didn’t speak. You could hear the hum of the security camera above.

And you hated how your voice still shook when you finally asked, “Do you think I’m the enemy now?”

Steve’s eyes softened. That was almost worse.

“No,” He said, and there was truth in it, but also uncertainty. “We think you were used. Maybe manipulated. Maybe… maybe you didn’t see a way out.”

“But I did,” You replied. “Plenty of times. I just stopped looking for one.”

That landed like stone in water. A long silence passed where both of them looked at each other, probably considering what to say next. What could they even say.

You looked up then, straight at Natasha. “Why didn’t you ever talk to me?”

She blinked, slow. But she didn’t dodge the question.

“You didn’t need anyone,” She said. “You were self-sufficient, quiet, and focused. You did your job better than most of the team. We thought you liked it that way.”

You swallowed.

“I thought if I was good enough, someone might—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening. “Forget it.”

“No,” Steve said quietly, leaning forward now. “Say it.”

Your gaze flicked between them. And maybe some stubborn, lonely part of you wanted to say it. Just so they’d hear it out loud. Just so someone could hold the weight of it with you.

“I thought if I was good enough, someone might finally see me.”

The silence that followed cracked something open.

Not in them. In you. You felt it rising all at once. Grief, shame, anger, tight in your throat.

“I gave everything I had to a team that didn’t notice I was drowning,” You whispered. “And then someone threw me a rope. Even if it was a trap, it still looked like kindness.”

Natasha’s voice was quieter now. “And now?”

You looked at her, at both of them.

“I don’t know who I am without them. But I sure as hell don’t want to be who I was before.”

Steve sat back, the words heavy between you. This wasn’t the kind of debrief they could file away. This wasn’t about secrets or plans or threats.

This was about a girl who used to long to belong and the result of what became of her when no one made space for her to stay.

You’re not the villain here. But you’re not their teammate anymore either. And that’s starting to sink in deeper than ever before.

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