#zero liability

[dailyfinancial]

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[eta-volantis]

People being mad that Phaeton is now out with the agents is wild to me like they didn't go to Yi Xuan to learn to fight specifically but to control ether. Their ability to control ether is valuable but also Eous also can't fight!!? Did they forget that Eous is constantly protected by everyone, too!?? Did they forget the Ballet Twins!!?? Lycaon literally jumped to put himself around Eous to protect Eous from explosion and when Eous was running around, the whole Victoria Housekeeping was protecting Eous. Bruh.

[greater-than-the-sword]

Hillsdale U's new op ed says that military drones should (or must inevitably) be equipped with AI to "make the kinds of decisions that are currently made by soldiers, pilots and command centers". And you thought that it was bad when decisions on whom to kill were made by a desk jockey. Don't we have entire book and movie series explaining why this is a bad idea

[ellcrys]

another $500 repair on my car lmao

[jaagrukbharat]

Customer Have Zero Liability In Unauthorized Transactions: A Bombay High Court Ruling

India is a big country with different religions, cast, creeds, etc. This is what makes India such a beautiful and secular country. But, India needs its rights in place in case of any disputes. This is why the fundamental rights were implemented. Fundamental rights are to protect the liberty of the citizens of India.

[homunculus-argument]

Zombie/other post-apocalyptic story character concept: The unsettling optimist.

The protagonists of this story encounter an oddly formal loner who seems creepily happy-go-lucky to be wandering alone out there all alone, and assume that this poor fellow is just flat-out insane. A lot of people lost their minds when the world collapsed. An argument is had about whether they can spare the resources to take in somebody who might be a liability, but eventually a consensus is reached that if this mf has been surviving just fine all by themselves so far, surely they're not completely off their roller.

Besides, they don't seem to be out of touch with reality, just... Weirdly cheerful about it. Like wandering around a zombie-infested wasteland is the best thing that ever happened to them. Like it's a privilege to get to eat questionable canned food, to wander from half-collapsed building to another, to argue about where the group is supposed to be going. Like it's a pleasure to be there, and they don't mean it with sarcasm.

And one time when they manage to kill an animal for food, the newcomer volunteers to butcher it like that's a totally normal task that they're used to doing. And working with sure hands and a casual smile, they offhandedly remark how interestingly different it feels to butcher an animal. Full record scratch when everyone within earshot pauses to process what the fuck they just said. How exactly is someone who's clearly that familiar with taking apart meat from bones unaccustomed to butchering animals?

Well, you know how every post-apocalyptic/zombie story seems to have that one place that seems like a clean and tidy wonderful utopia on the surface, but turns out that they're cannibals that eat people? Yeah, that guy is from there. Escaped from there, in fact, and not long before the protagonists found them. And the reason why they've been over the moon about getting to be a part of the whole post-apocalyptic roving band of survivors is the freedom. They get to choose what miserable cans to eat, what miserable ruins to sleep in for the night, what hopeless direction they will miserably trek. And the zombies? The zombies are the best part.

Imagine the joy and luxury of knowing for sure for the first time, that there is absolutely zero overlap between the people who form the community that you rely on to survive, and the people who will kill and eat you if you make one single mistake.

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

It happened after another op.

You were off somewhere, scrubbing blood from your knives and humming to yourself while the rest of the team limped back to base like they’d barely survived a hurricane.

Price had watched it happen in slow motion—watched you tear through an entire outpost with zero backup, watched Soap watch you like he wanted to offer you his last name and soul in a gift box.

And then later? He saw Soap sneak into your quarters when he thought no one was paying attention.

So now, Price sat in the mess hall, cigar unlit between his fingers, watching Soap stir his coffee with the nervous energy of a man about to be confronted.

“MacTavish,” Price finally said. Low. Even. I’m your captain but also your disappointed dad tone.

Soap looked up. Froze. “Sir?”

“We need to talk.”

Soap shifted in his seat. “This about the op?”

“No,” Price said. “This is about her.”

Soap blinked. “...Ah.”

Price leaned forward, arms on the table. “Look, I get it. She’s got that… thing. That blood-soaked, thousand-yard stare, ‘I might kill you or kiss you’ vibe.”

“She’s… brilliant,” Soap offered, voice already soft. “And terrifying. In a good way.”

“That’s the problem,” Price snapped. “She is terrifying. She’s unpredictable. Detached. She doesn’t feel things the way we do—she feels after the fact. And even then, not like the rest of us.”

Soap swallowed. “She feels things with me.”

Price stared at him. “And when she decides you’re a liability?”

“She won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

Soap’s jaw clenched. “No. But I know her. I know the way she touches me when she thinks I’m asleep. I know the way she goes quiet when she’s scared she’s gone too far. I know how hard she fights—and how hard she holds on when she finally lets herself feel safe.”

There was a long pause.

Price sighed, leaning back. “She almost gutted her last boyfriend.”

“She told me,” Soap said. Then added, “...Also said he deserved it.”

“She always says that.”

Another silence. Then:

Price exhaled through his nose. “Alright. Fine. Just… be smart. Keep your head. And don’t think she’s some fairytale. She’s a storm in human skin.”

Soap smiled, crooked and certain. “Aye. I’m good in storms.”

Price shook his head, muttering under his breath. “If you die, I’m not cleaning it up.”

[jacksabbotts]

. ⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊ ☁︎ DBF!JACK x SW!READER !  ⋆˚࿔ ⋆⁺₊ # 🥼 possible trigger warnings .' mean!jack, readers literally gets stabbed, typical social worker cases ( child abuse and child replacement by cps ), incorrect medical injuries and hospital policy, profanity ( i am a cave man and say fuck every other word ), exactly one mention of the reader being catholic ( blink and you'll miss it ), ( PICTURES ARE FOR VIBES and or AESTHETICS ONLY, THE READER APPEARANCE NOT DESCRIBED !!! HOWEVER, READER IS DESCRIBED AS FEMALE !!! ) ‧ 🔆 ‧ ━━ WC 6.2k

. more jack abbot || inbox ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune + @honeyluvsw + @cursed-carmine

⤷ ✧ . · * . · .  CODE BLUE ( blue fuckin balls ) ━ 𖤓 ° ⋆ .ೃ࿔ * : ･ summary after getting stabbed during a cps intervention gone violently wrong, a chaos-mouthed social work intern wakes up in a trauma bay with her father’s best friend—dr. jack abbot—covered in her blood and absolutely livid. what follows is a spiral of fury, restraint, and inappropriate undressing that might just cost them both everything

the first thing they tell you when you start at the pitt isn’t about safety protocols, hipaa violations, or where to find the best vending machine snacks ( though, you know its in the er, between curtain four and five—dennis guards it like a troll under a bridge ).

it isn’t about how to fill out your casework logs, or what to say to grieving families, or even how to survive your practicum without burning out.

it’s — don’t let the doctors intimidate you.

you laughed when they said it. laughed harder when you met them ( these supposed intimidating doctors ).

because the truth is? it’s not the doctors who scare you. it’s not the blood or the chaos or the screams that spill out from ambulance bay doors at three am on a full moon.

it’s not the waiting room full of addicts or the bruised kids who flinch when you raise your voice too fast. it’s not even the hallway ghosts—those too-far-gone stares of people who’ve lost everything before you’ve had your morning coffee.

what scares you is silence. powerlessness. the inability to stop a cycle you’ve seen destroy too many lives.

so you don’t do silence. not anymore.

you talk. constantly. bluntly. sometimes inappropriately. ( frequently inappropriately. ) and if people mistake your sarcasm for cynicism, fine. you know what you are. you’re chaos in a clipboard. a disaster with a pen. a public health liability with half a master’s degree and zero sense of self-preservation.

but you get the job done.

you’re an intern—barely. midway through your master’s-slash-phd in clinical social work, still neck-deep in psych theory and practicum hour requirements, and somehow lucky ( or cursed ) enough to land your field placement at pittsburgh’s most chaotic level one trauma center.

the pitt.

it’s not glamorous. it’s not safe. but it’s real. raw and bloody and bursting at the seams with broken people and the systems that failed them.

and for someone like you? someone who lives off adrenaline and injustice? it’s perfect.

you work under kiara alfaro, the senior hospital social worker. she’s your mentor, your boss, and possibly the only reason you haven’t been kicked out yet. ( she’s also got a terrifyingly accurate bullshit detector and once body-checked a surgical resident for calling your trauma patient a junkie. you absolutely adore her. )

your caseload isn’t light. you’re not here for the flu patients or twisted ankles. you’re called for the ugly ones. rape kits. suicide watches. pediatric assaults. domestic violence stabbings. drug-induced psychosis. the patients no one wants to deal with but have to.

you talk them down. talk them through. talk them into staying. into breathing. into signing the discharge forms. into reporting the ones who hurt them. sometimes it works. sometimes it doesn’t.

sometimes you cry in the staff bathroom with the broken lock and the rusted sink. sometimes you rage in kiara's office while she hands you a capri sun and tells you to file your notes before you start swinging. sometimes you look in the mirror and think this is going to kill me.

but you keep showing up. because if you don’t—who will?

you’ve been at the pitt for a few months, operating on a strict intern basis. no medical license. no therapy credentialing. no prestige. just you, your badge, your student email, and the right to observe more trauma in a single day than most people will see in a lifetime.

and—against all odds—they keep letting you back in.

you spend most of your time in the er and critical care floors. they don’t trust you on pediatrics anymore ( after the bite incident—your fault, technically, but also his, for underestimating your reflexes ).

you rotate between psychiatric consults and post-trauma debriefings, occasionally shadowing grief counselors or addiction liaison teams. you’ve made a habit of inserting yourself into rounds you weren’t invited to. no one stops you anymore. probably because you’re too loud to ignore.

you argue with surgeons. you charm nurses. you steal pens from the front desk and hoard graham crackers from the break room like currency.

you sign your emails with “please advise,” but you haven’t taken anyone's advice in your life seriously. you are, by all accounts, a walking headache.

and yet—

and yet—

they keep letting you through the double doors.

most days, your outfit is half business casual, half emotional damage. your id badge hangs off a lanyard you’ve drawn on with sharpie ( someone added a devil horn doodle over your face—probably frank ). your shoes are scuffed. your hair's a mess. there’s a dried coffee stain on your clipboard that you think looks like a rorschach blot.

you’re everything a trauma hospital should’ve rejected.

but you’re also damn good at your job.

you don’t flinch. don’t shy away. don’t sugarcoat. you’ve got a mouth on you, sure—but it’s the same mouth that gets seventeen-year-old gang members to open up. the same mouth that gets battered women to sign police reports. the same mouth that gets under jack abbot’s skin so bad he once nearly walked into traffic trying to get away from you.

jack abbot is not your father.

that’s the first—and maybe the only—reason you get away with half the shit you say to him.

he doesn’t ground you. doesn’t bark orders. doesn’t tell you to cover up or smile more or stop swearing like a drunken sailor with unresolved childhood trauma.

( okay. he does tell you to stop swearing. a lot. like he’s in charge of your moral compass or some shit. like you didn’t come out of the womb swinging with a mouth full of curses and contempt. )

but he’s not your father. he’s your father’s best friend.

they met in the army. jack was the cocky field medic with a death wish and a chip on his shoulder; your dad was the steady one, the strategic one, the kind of man who could take down a room full of enemies without breaking a sweat. they weren’t supposed to like each other.

and yet—like most war-forged friendships—they bonded over shared trauma, near-death experiences, and enough black-market whiskey to kill a horse. your father saved jack’s life once, in some no-name desert hellhole you were never allowed to ask about. jack saved his in return, more than once.

they don’t talk about it much. but it’s there—in the way your father’s voice softens when jack’s name comes up. in the old photos buried in storage boxes, the kind you only found once by accident. two men. dirt-streaked. exhausted. bleeding at the edges and smiling.

so when your dad took his final deployment—a favor for an old war buddy, some quiet, off-the-books assignment you weren’t allowed to ask questions about—he came to jack.

told him you’d been placed at the pitt. told him you were a handful. told him—stern-faced, serious as death—“watch over her, please, jackie. she’s all i’ve got.”

and jack, in all his brooding, overworked, emotionally constipated glory? he said yes. of course he did. because he owed your father a life.

even if that life meant you.

from the start, it was a fucking disaster. you, with your sharp mouth and unapologetic stare. him, with his clinical detachment and simmering judgment.

he made it very clear that he didn’t want you there. that interns were a liability. that the er wasn’t a place for untrained, undisciplined brats with hero complexes.

“this isn’t your playground,” he snapped once, mid-code. “then stop acting like the fun police,” you shot back.

you’ve been circling each other like wolves ever since.

he acts like you’re a walking hr violation. like you’re too loud. too reckless. too much. he barks at you to “wash your damn mouth” and threatens to report you to kiara every other shift.

and yet he always asks kiara for a consults because he knows your her shadow. always steps between you and the messier patients. always lingers a little longer than he needs to.

you know what he thinks of you.

at least—you think you do.

you see the way he clenches his jaw when you open your mouth. the way his hands fist at his sides when you make another wildly inappropriate joke during patient intake.

the way he stares at the wall like it personally offended him whenever you show up in ripped jeans and combat boots, badge swinging, lip gloss smeared.

he hates you.

that’s fine.

you don’t like him much either.

except for the part where he’s the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your goddamn life. t’s not a crush. ( don’t be gross. ). its not like you’re in love with jack abbot.

it’s just—

he’s tall. and broad. and built like every repressed catholic fantasy you’ve ever denied having. he’s got those storm-grey curls, the ones that stay tucked behind his ears but go wild when he’s elbow-deep in a trauma bay. the ones you want to tug.

he’s got that scowl. the kind that could ruin someone’s week from across the nurses’ station. the kind that makes your knees go loose and your spine straighten like a challenge.

and his voice—low, gritted, tight with restraint when he says things like “for christ’s sake, show some professionalism.” or “someone outta put you in your fucking place.”

you joke. of course you joke. it’s how you cope. how you flirt. how you keep from actually climbing into his lap during lunch breaks and asking what it would take for him to shut you up with his mouth.

you flirt to cover the fact that your thighs press together every time he growls your name. you make innuendos like it’s a sport, smirk when he turns red with fury—or embarrassment. you push, and push, and push—because that’s the only way to keep the heat from swallowing you whole.

maybe it’s the age difference. the authority. the forbidden-ness of it all. maybe it’s the fact that jack would never touch you. that he’d rather chew off his own hand than admit he wants you back.

or maybe it’s just that you’ve never wanted anyone the way you want him.

and that is deeply humiliating.

but hey.

if he’s going to hate you anyway, you might as well make him sweat.

the er waiting room always hums.

not a pleasant hum. not an organized one. it’s the kind that drills into the softest part of your brain—the pitchy murmur of the too-sick, the too-loud, the too-gone. crying babies. phones ringing. someone yelling at the front desk because triage didn’t call them back fast enough. the buzz of ancient fluorescent lighting overhead, threatening to go out with a cough.

the air smells like bleach and blood and too many lives falling apart at once. it always does.

you’ve gotten used to it. or you’ve told yourself that, anyway.

you’re standing just outside the nurse’s station with kiara, clipboard in hand, trying to keep your voice steady while a man across from you—mid-forties, greasy flannel, bad tattoos—grips the arm of a child hard enough to leave bruises. you clock it instantly. not just the way he holds the kid, but the way he looks at you.

he’s sizing you up. like you’re a problem he could fix with one punch. and you smile at him like you’d throw the first one.

the kid’s maybe five. thin. wide-eyed. a little too quiet.

she’s scurried away to sit in one of the plastic waiting room chairs with a worn stuffed elephant in her lap, thumb in her mouth, skin patchy with what looks like old healing burns beneath her sweater sleeves.

you’d seen the marks during intake—saw the nurse’s note, the mandatory flag. you didn’t have to see more. you knew the minute the man walked in and said, “my niece had an accident,” with a voice that carried too much ownership, that this wasn’t going to end clean.

“mr. marsh,” kiara says, voice smooth as steel. “we’ve reviewed the preliminary findings and spoken with emergency services. given the nature of your niece’s injuries and the statements made by responding personnel, we’re initiating a cps report and placing her in temporary protective custody.”

“the fuck you are.” there it is. the snap. like a bone cracking beneath too much pressure.

you take a step closer, clipboard still clutched to your chest. your voice doesn’t waver. “sir, i am going to need you to remain calm—”

“that’s my family,” he growls, stepping toward the girl. “you don’t get to take her. her mom’s strung out in allegheny county lockup, and i’m the only one left who gives a damn.”

“then maybe,” you say, tone bone-dry, “you shouldn’t have yanked on her arm like it was a doorknob.” kiara shoots you a look. not sharp, just tired. like she doesn’t have the energy to scold you again.

the man’s face reddens. his hand balls into a fist. the girl doesn’t move. she’s frozen, eyes wide, thumb still in her mouth. you crouch slowly, give her a soft smile.

“hey, sweetheart. why don’t you come with me for a minute, okay? we’ve got crayons and popsicles in the back. you ever had a grape one?” she nods—barely. you offer your hand.

“c’mon. i promise we’ll keep mr. elephant safe.” she places her tiny fingers in yours like they weigh the world. you stand. kiara gestures toward nina, another social worker lingering at the edge of the chaos. she whisks the girl away down the corridor, away from the tension. the man’s gaze follows, sharp as a razor.

“you fucking bitch,” he spits, suddenly surging forward. you move to intercept without thinking. kiara’s already trying and failing at stepping in between.

you’ve dealt with aggression before. screaming. threats. broken phones. but there’s something in this man’s eyes—something off.

his face twitches. his fingers twitch. and you realize, far too late, he’s not reaching for the girl. “sir, back up,” kiara warns, hand outstretched, looking around for security. “you’re making this worse than it has to be.”

“you don’t know what worse looks like.” he’s practically vibrating. something clicks in your mind. something primal.

you’ve seen that look before—in addicts cornered during psych evals, in violent exes slamming their fists against locked doors, in men who think the world owes them something and that women are the debt collectors.

your gut twists.

and then you see it, a flicker of silver beneath the hem of his coat. a quick glint. the blade of a pocketknife. your clipboard hits the ground before you realize you dropped it. “hey!” you bark, voice suddenly sharp, not social-worker-soft, not trauma-informed-friendly, just loud. “put it the fuck down—”

and that’s when he lunges. "security!"

you know what no one tells you about being stabbed?

it’s hot.

not sharp. not icy. not cinematic.

just heat. blinding, white-hot, ripping through your side like a flare gun fired point-blank into soft tissue. your nerve endings go haywire, like they can’t agree whether to scream or shut down entirely. your ribs jar against the blow, and for a horrifying half-second, you think maybe the blade's still inside you.

but then—

oh.

no, he pulled it out.

that’s why there’s so much blood.

you stumble backward, hand pressed hard against your ribs, your palm already soaked in wet warmth. it pulses through your fingers like a second heartbeat, fast and panicked and very, very wrong.

you don’t fall gracefully.

you drop like a shot deer—clumsy, knees sideways, landing half on your elbow and half on someone’s crumpled hoodie on the floor. the pain makes you howl. a strangled, animal sound that bursts from your chest unfiltered.

“what the fu—!”

your vision swims. a dark haze edges the corners of your eyes like burnt film. somewhere to your left, kiara is screaming. somewhere to your right, the guy who stabbed you is being tackled by two guards and a passing cna with murder in his eyes.

and you are bleeding out on the floor of a hospital you technically don’t even work at, clutching your side with a hand that won’t stop shaking.

“don’t move—don’t—fuck, nina, get help! get trauma down here—now!” that’s kiara’s voice. commanding. terrified. you’d try to comfort her, if you weren’t so goddamn angry.

“you gotta be some kind of stupid to stab a woman in a hospital?! are you fucking kidding me—!” your voice cracks as it rises, climbing toward hysteria.

you’re not crying. you’re just sweating aggressively out of your eyes, okay? your lungs fight to inflate. you suck in a breath and get half of it before the wound tugs wrong and you double over with a wet groan. you bite it back. barely.

a nurse skids into view, dropping to their knees beside you. young, new and fucking terrified. “okay, okay, okay—you’re okay, we’re gonna—we’re gonna apply pressure—”

“don’t you fucking touch me!” you snarl through gritted teeth. they blink at you, visibly rattled. but nevertheless, the pressure they apply is not gentle.

“jesus fuck—!” you nearly slap them. not on purpose. just a reflex. you reach down, trying to press your own hand harder over theirs, but everything is slippery. the blood just keeps coming. you can feel it soaking through layers—shirt, bra, coat, the fucking bandaid kiara made you slap over your tattoo this morning.

“this is not how i die,” you whisper, wild-eyed. “i am not dying in a polyester blazer with a hot topic pin on it—” the nurse stares at you. “you’re not dying.”

“tell that to my entire blood volume on the ground—!”

another wave of pain rolls through you. it crests in your throat, pushes a sob halfway up your windpipe before you grit it down again. you taste copper. maybe from your split lip, maybe from sheer, molten rage.

kiara’s crouched over you now, speaking fast into a radio clipped to her hip and then yelling at the nurse on the other side of the partition at the front desk. “go get a doctor! and a gurney! now!”

you clutch at her sleeve, your other hand still pinned over your gushing side. “i’m gonna throw up,” you croak.

“don’t you dare,” she says, gripping your wrist. “i mean it,” you say, “right in your lap, kiara—dead center—”

the lights above you seem to buzz louder now. or maybe that’s your ears. or your heart. or your ego leaving your body after the most undignified five minutes of your professional life.

you’re lying in the middle of the er waiting room. you’re covered in your own blood. you’ve officially scared a nurse into silence. and the worst part?

you still haven’t gotten that goddamn cps paperwork filed.

you try to sit up.

that was a big mistake. the pain grabs you by the spine and yanks. your breath catches—snaps, really—and for one awful second, everything goes white. like full-screen, clinical-grade whiteout.

“no—nope, i'm gonna stay down—here . . .”

someone’s hands on your shoulders now. more nurses. more shouting. “where’s the gurney? i called for a gurney—”

you feel the floor shift under your back as someone slides a board beneath you. the cold plastic against your spine makes you shudder. you’re dimly aware of a woman trying to start an iv in your left arm while someone else pinches the skin near your jaw to keep you conscious.

“stay with us, sweetheart—what’s your name?”

“don’t call me sweetheart. i will end your whole bloodline.”

“vitals dropping—systolic’s barely hanging on—”

“i swear to god if you cut this top i’m gonna—fuck—fuck!”

and then—just when you’re about to black out from blood loss, indignation, and the unbearable itch of polyester against your sweat-slicked neck—you hear it.

the er double doors slam open with force. someone stomps in. heavy boots. heavy breath. a voice like a blade drawn clean from its sheath. “move.” and the second you hear it, every cell in your body screams oh no.

because that’s jack.

and you are so fucked.

he doesn’t run. jack doesn’t need to run. he moves like a force of nature—like a landslide with a license to practice medicine and no goddamn patience left. his eyes scan the chaos.

security wrestling with the man who stabbed you. blood smeared on the floor like some fucked-up jackson pollock. kiara kneeling over you, hand pressed to your side.

and then—he sees you.

you’re half-upright on the gurney now, barely. propped on one elbow, trying to stop the nurses from cutting your blazer with a pair of trauma shears. your delirious at this point. “don’t—don’t—i like this outfit, i swear to god i’ll sue someone—”

“she’s in shock,” someone murmurs beside him. “she lost a lot of blood—she needs—”

"i'm not in shock—jack, tell them i'm being fucking serious—ow, ow—!"

“out of my way.” he doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t need to because in an instant, they scatter. and then he’s at your side.

“jesus christ,” he growls, and his hands are already on you—gripping your jaw, tipping your face toward his. checking your pupils. your color. “what the fuck happened?”

you blink up at him. you’re smiling. why are you smiling? your teeth are pink. you can taste your own blood on you tongue. “hi, jackie,” you slur. “you ever see your life flash before your eyes and it’s just thirty seconds of you eating string cheese in a hospital bathroom?”

his nostrils flare. his jaw clicks. his hands tighten just slightly where they hold your face. “what part of ‘stay out of red-level interventions’ did you not fucking understand?”

“what part of ‘this kid was getting beat to hell’ did you miss—ow—fuck, jack—” he’s already assessing the wound. pulling back the soaked fabric. his fingers are too skilled. too gentle. it makes you dizzy in a different way.

“knife wound. lower right quadrant. no visible organ evisceration. bleeding’s heavy but localized." one of the nurses that scattered, called out towards jack. he nod and then yells, "get trauma five ready. now!”

the nurses move like they’ve been struck. someone shoves open the trauma bay doors. the gurney wheels groan. “we were doing our job,” kiara cuts in, still breathless, still covered in your blood. almost as if she knows jack is about to rip her a new one.

jack’s head snaps toward her. his voice drops. “your job was to keep her out of this kind of risk. not to throw her into a cps confrontation without a trained intervention officer or security present.”

“we didn’t know he had a knife.”

“then maybe next time you vet the violent assholes before they get within stabbing distance! she's my responsibility, kiara! 'er dad's my best friend!”

oof.

your heart skips at that one.

kiara looks like she’s been slapped. but Jack’s not done. “you were supposed to keep her out of danger.” his voice breaks slightly—not enough for anyone else to notice.

but you do.

the gurney jerks forward. “you’re gonna be fine,” jack mutters, voice low, tight, as he walks beside you. “you hear me?”

“yeah, but . . . like. hot fine or regular fine? because i feel like i’m leaking in ways that’ll mess up my whole aesthetic—”

“shut up.”

“you’re so mean to me.”

“you got stabbed, you little brat.”

“yeah, but like . . . for justice.”

he looks like he wants to strangle you. or kiss you. or both.

they wheel you through the trauma bay doors. he’s still there. still hovering. still furious. and somewhere, under the pain and the blood and the rising nausea—

you feel safe. which is the most dangerous thing of all. because you did just get fucking stabbed.

the gurney squeals around the corner on uneven wheels, one of them stuck from some ancient collision with a supply cart two years ago. you feel it drag beneath you every few feet, the jolt punching through your spine like a hammer to bone.

you’re vaguely aware of the nurse—jess? jenny?—shouting something about trauma bay five. you think shen is pushing your legs. you think you told him once you liked his cargo boots. maybe you hallucinated that.

you can’t tell.

everything’s red. sticky. pulsing. all too bright.

jack’s hands are still on you. one pressed hard to your side, keeping the pressure constant. the other gripping the metal railing of the gurney like he wants to rip it off. he’s leaning over you, breathing hard, jaw clenched so tight you swear you can hear his molars grinding.

“where the fuck is security?!” his voice ricochets off the corridor walls. “i want them in the trauma bay—now!” shen flinches.

“already called. they're on their way—”

“they should’ve been there before she was stabbed!”

“dr. abbot—”

the rage coming off jack is nuclear.

you’re still bleeding. not as fast as before, but enough that your skin’s gone cold. your lips feel weird. you want to say something sarcastic but it’s like your brain’s swimming through molasses.

jack’s hand—broad, steady, coated in your blood—grips your wrist suddenly, anchoring you to the gurney frame as they jerk you through the trauma bay doors. you know he's looking for a pulse because your eyes have begun to flutter.

“you with me?” he asks, voice rougher now. lower. a crack under all that rage. “don’t you dare close your eyes.”

“s’just… a little nap,” you mumble. “ten minutes, jackie…”

“no. no naps. open your fucking eyes.”

they stop moving. the gurney locks in. the light above you flares on—white, sterile, cruel. but it doesn't matter because you are no longer awake. "fuck!" jack curses when he looks down and immediately notices your eyes have closed and not reopened.

a flurry of movement. gloves. gauze. someone ( shen ) pulls out trauma scissors. jack slaps their hand away. “touch that top and she’ll gut you when she wakes up.”

“it's covered in blood—” shen tries to argue.

“so is everything else in this room. you want to cut something? cut the fuckin' attitude.” he doesn’t stop moving. one hand is pressing gauze to your side, the other already reaching for the overhead tray before the nurse can even finish unwrapping the sterile kit. his voice is tight, rapid, mechanical.

“bp?”

“dropping.”

“push one liter lr wide open, then start the second. two large-bore ivs. i need four-o suture, lidocaine, betadine—now.”

“we called trauma surgery—”

“i've got it! it's not deep enough for surgery, we just gotta stop the bleeding.”

and then the door opens again. security arrives. two of them. maybe three. doesn’t matter. he doesn’t glance up. doesn’t stop.

he’s already cutting away the soaked fabric with steady ( already going against what you wanted and what he told shen not to do ), clinical hands, fingers stained deep rust-red, jaw clenched hard enough to crack enamel. blood sticks to his wrists, smears the dark of his black scrub top.

he leans over your side, peering into the wound, lips pressed into a razor-thin line. the pads of his fingers ghost across your skin—professional, careful, but desperate.

and then, jack rounds on them like a storm.

he looks insane. still gloved—blood dripping. still holding your wrist like a lifeline. “you.” his voice is a snarl now. “how the fuck did a man with a weapon get past you?”

he doesn’t yell it at anyone specific. or maybe he does. maybe it’s aimed at security, still standing by the door like they’re not five seconds away from being flayed alive.

they hesitate.

“no, really—how? was he invisible? did the metal detector take the night off? did someone forget to give a single fuck about basic safety protocol?”

“he wasn’t flagged—he didn’t show signs of escalation—”

“you let him sit ten feet from an unaccompanied minor and a staff intern—are you fucking kidding me?!”

still no pause. no hitch in motion. he injects lidocaine near the wound with terrifying precision. his voice lowers ( just a hair ) when he talks to shen. “local in. she’s stable enough for sutures. five centimeters, shallow, anterior rib margin—start prepping now.”

a nurse scrubs your side. you wince even in unconsciousness.

“he was apprehended—"

“after—she was bleeding. on the floor.”

“dr. abbot—” kiara’s voice behind him is calm, firm, a professional’s warning, dares to speak. “you’re not being rational.”

he spins on her.

“rational?” he echoes, without looking at her. “she’s twenty-four. she’s a grad student. she was assigned to work under you. and now i’m the one threading her skin back together while you stand there acting like this is just another thursday.”

he glares at her. it’s enough to cut through steel. “you want to talk rational? let’s start with what the fuck went wrong on your watch.”

kiara flinches. but says nothing. he goes back to you. “vitals holding,” a nurse says. “we’re okay.”

“she is not fucking okay,” jack mutters. “she’s just not dead yet.”

you blink up at him. your voice is weak. but you can’t help it. “you always this mean to girls who bleed on you?” his eyes flick down. his jaw tightens. but his heart races at the fact that you have come back to consciousness.

“you’re not special.”

“liar.”

his hands don’t tremble. not even a little. but his breathing’s off. you know it is. “you need to stop talking,” he says flatly.

“you need to stop flirting,” a nurse mutters.

“i’m dying, let me have this.”

“you are not dying,” jack grits out. “and you are making this infinitely worse.”

“you’re hot when you’re mad.”

“i’m always mad.”

“yeah, but now you’re mad and wrist-deep in my side, which is kind of hot—ow ow ow okay, okay—” he tightens the last suture knot with a jerk. you yelp. shen snorts in the corner and coughs to cover it.

the room is quieter now. not silent—never in the trauma bay. but steadier. the bleeding’s under control. the adrenaline’s burning off. and jack is still covered in your blood.

“start her on a gram of cefazolin, monitor hourly. no oral intake for the next four. if she tries to leave, fuckin' sedate her. and someone—” he turns to security, eyes like frozen steel. “—better have gotten that fucking asshole outta my waiting room."

he finally stops moving.

finally pulls his gloves off—snap, snap—and tosses them into the bin. then the trauma bay doors shut with a hiss of finality as the nurses and security and shen leave the trauma room.

the moment they do, the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. not from the ac. not from the sterile tile or the sweat drying on your skin.

from jack.

he stands just inside the door, his chest heaving like he sprinted through a war zone—like he’s still in one. his jaw is clenched. his eyes are locked on you.

and you, sprawled across the gurney, still half in your ruined clothes and half in denial, look up at him with a dazed little frown. “Your mad at me?” your voice is quiet and severely lacking all its bravado. he doesn’t answer.

he just strides toward the sink, scrubs his hands again with rough, punishing motions, blood still drying along his forearms. you watch the water swirl red into the drain.

he doesn't speak until his hands are clean. he doesn’t look at you until the blood is off. and even then, it’s not a soft look. “you’re a fucking idiot.”

you blink at him. "because it was my fucking fault i got stabbed."

“don’t start,” he bites, already reaching for the medical wipes and gauze. “you don’t get have an attitude right now.”

“i got stabbed. pretty sure that buys me a little attitude.”

“pretty sure you’re not in charge of anything right now.” he steps to your side, eyes flicking over the damage. your shirt’s cut down the middle, soaked through with dried and tacky blood. your skin is sticky, crusted red in patches, with fresh bruises blooming violet along your ribs.

his lips press into a furious line as he grips the edge of your shirt. “sit up.”

“why?”

“so i can get this off you and clean you up.”

“y’know, if you wanted me naked that badly, you could’ve just asked—”

“sit. the fuck. up.”

you do. slowly. with a hiss and a wince and a muttered insult about men with god complexes. he peels the shirt off of you with surgical precision, muttering something under his breath the whole time.

“stupid. reckless. could’ve punctured a lung. could’ve hit the liver. bleeding like a goddamn faucet and still making fucking jokes—”

you’re stripped down to your bra now. not a cute one. one of the functional, beige, i didn’t think i’d be impaled today variety. blood has soaked halfway down it.

he sees it. he doesn’t react. just throws the shirt aside and grabs a saline wipe. “this’ll sting.”

“oh, now you’re warning me?” the cold hits your ribs and you flinch so hard your elbow nearly clocks him in the chin. he doesn’t back away. he doesn’t soften. his hand goes to your shoulder, presses you down, holds you still.

“do you have any idea what you just did?” his voice is low now. dangerous. “what kind of risk you took?” you look at him. smirk twitching. weak, but still there.

“i saved a kid.”

“you could’ve died.”

“you think i don’t know that?”

“then what the fuck were you thinking?!”

his voice cracks on that last word. not loud. but broken. you go quiet.

his hand on your shoulder trembles once—just once—before tightening again. the saline stings as he wipes more of the blood from your stomach, your ribs, your hip. he moves like he’s trying not to hurt you. but everything about him is rigid.

he tosses the gauze into the bin. grabs the gown from the side tray.

“arms up.”

“bossy.”

“up.”

you raise them.

he slips the gown over your head like he’s furious at the fabric. it’s thin. starched. smells like bleach and regret. yanks the ties into place. tugs the hem down over your thighs with clinical detachment and short, angry motions—like the fabric personally insulted him. you flinch at the tug.

you think that’s it.

you think he’s done.

you think you’re safe.

you are not safe.

“we need to get that bra off.” his voice is flat, cold. utterly clinical. you blink. slowly. “it’s fine,” you lie. “i’ll take care of it later.”

“it’s soaked in blood.”

“a little vintage gore never hurt anybody.”

“it’s sticking to the skin near your wound. if it dries like that, i’ll have to cut it off and re-irrigate. you won’t like that.”

“you could’ve just said you wanted to see me topless.”

he stares at you like he wants to put you back in shock on purpose.

“i'm going to unhook it,” he says, already stepping around the gurney. “don’t make this weird.”

“too late.”

he exhales sharply—through his nose, through gritted teeth—and moves behind you. the room is quiet now. just the soft shuffle of his boots, the faint beeping of the vitals monitor, the rustle of your hospital gown as he pulls it back from your shoulders—just enough to reach the clasp.

your breath hitches. not from pain. from how goddamn careful he is. his fingers graze the curve of your spine—knuckles rough, fingertips clean, not gloved anymore but still stained faintly with your blood.

“tilt forward a little.”

you do.

you feel the graze of his knuckle against your ribs.

your skin lights up under every inch he touches. a wildfire. a problem. “i’m only doing this so it doesn’t stick,” he mutters, as if reading your goddamn mind. “sure,” you whisper, lips dry. “that’s what they all say.”

he doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t scold you for once.

and that? that’s worse.

the clasp clicks open with a soft snap.

he pulls the bra away from your back, one side at a time, fabric peeling slow over the dried blood on your skin. you hiss—part pain, part—well. not pain.

“i’ll throw it out,” he says, folding it into a biohazard bag.

“no ceremony? that thing’s seen more action than my entire dating history.” still no answer. he tugs the gown back up your arms. re-ties it. his fingers brush the nape of your neck. you nearly shiver.

“you’re burning up,” he mutters.

“you’re touching me.”

“you’re delirious.”

“you’re still touching me.”

he pauses. just one breath. just one moment. then, “don’t make this worse than it is.” if you didn't know any better you'd of thought he was begging. you turn your head. “you’re the one undressing me in a trauma bay, jack.”

his jaw tightens. "we’re done here.”

“that’s too bad,” you murmur, “i was starting to like being manhandled.” he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. doesn’t breathe. but when he turns away—you catch it. that twitch of his hand. that flicker of restraint.

that crack.

“you think this is a joke. that bleeding out in my er is some kind of fucking bit.”

“jack—”

“you don’t get it. you don’t.” you stare at him. he’s pacing now. hands on his hips, breathing shallow. “you could’ve died. do you know what that would’ve done to your dad? to me?”

your heart skips. he realizes what he’s said. he closes his eyes. breathes. once. twice. “i’m going to go fill out your chart.”

he turns toward the door.

but not before you whisper, “you were scared.” he stops but he doesn’t turn around. “you were scared for me.”

another pause. “say it, jack.”

silence. then, without turning—“don’t you ever fucking do that again.”

🔖  .   @Princesssunderworld  @mayabbot  @Arigoldsblog  @oldmanbunnylover  @lovelexi717  @peggyofoz  @qtmoonies  @nfwmb-gvf  @babybatreads  @bitteroceanlove  @spooky-librarian-ghost  @gardeniarose13  @kmc1989  @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono  @maiamore  @madzleigh01  @qardasngan  @anxiousfuckupon  @Lumpypoll  @Coldmuffinbanditshoe  @blueliketheseaa  @m14mags  @generalstarlightobject  @Thedamnqueenofhell  @abllor @Loud-mouph @cannonindeez  @Sabi127  @Sammiib444  @painment  @namgification  @Cherry_cosmos  @catmomstyles3 @amindfullofmonsters @moonriseoverkyoto @karavt @beefbaby25 @i-get-obsessed-fast @badwolfvexa @violetswritingg @silas-aeiou @rosellerinfrost @saidinpassing @alldaysdreamers @concentratedconcrete @blackirisesinthesunlight @notgothenough @valkyreally@hiireadstuff @beltzboys2015 @gardeniarose13 @oldmanbunnylover @Anglophileforlife @madprincessinabox @fairygardensss @pope-codys @spooky-librarian-ghost @breegirlxoxo @xxxkat3xxx @fadeinsol @anxious-fuck-upon @gimme1margarita @katydunn67 @lunyyx @charlietriestoshift @soiiifon @beebeechaos @babybatreads

part two??? maybe??? lmk if you want one lmao

[mariasont]

Casualties Of Control - A.H

caught in a moment of panic, you freeze, but hotch guides your next moves, revealing just how comforting surrendering control can be

pairings: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader warnings: age gap, power imbalance, sexual tension, anxiety/self-doubt galore, gun violence, near-death experience, hurt/comfort, depictions of trauma responses, authority kink, themes of submission and control, brief mention of parental emotional neglect wc: 3k request: here

You were starting to think someone should stage an intervention, maybe Garcia or JJ, because this is getting borderline pathetic. More specifically, you, are getting borderline pathetic.

The second Hotch speaks, reality melts into background noise, and you’re zeroed in on the column of his throat, the subtle movement of muscle beneath perfectly pressed shirt collars.

You’re standing in the middle of a crime scene, dirt kicking up around your sensible shoes, yet all you can think about is the shift of tension in his jaw. Tighten, loosen, swallow — rinse and repeat. It’s mortifying, really, this fixation.

You wonder why it happens or if he even realizes he’s doing it. Maybe it’s an unconscious reflex, his overwhelming need for control compressed into a single, visible place. Authority, responsibility, and his entire leadership style condensed into that twitch. It’d be poetic if it wasn’t so distracting.

And really, truly, genuinely, you need to pull yourself together because Morgan is giving you a side-eye that suggests he’s not only noticed your gawking, but worse, has developed several theories about it.

Hotch’s instructions spill out rapid fire, and you’re halfway to zoning out, catching snippets — Morgan, perimeter. Reid, coordinate with local PD. 

You force yourself to tune in just in time to realize you’ve missed most of what he’s saying, something vaguely alarming about the missing witness slipping past your ears. When Hotch says your name, you flinch, probably visibly, and snap upright, trying (likely failing spectacularly) to look alert.

“You’re with me.”

And then he’s turning, moving, and naturally, instinctively, you fall into step beside him.

It’s fine, you reason, it’s not that you mind. You really don’t. Still, there’s a small part of you, buried beneath layers of admiration and self-doubt, that’s starting to twitch with impatience. You’ve been here for five cases now and you assumed by this point you’d graduate from perpetual trainee shadow to, well, anything else.

You remember Reid telling you he earned independence fairly quickly, and Morgan practically started the job fully formed. But you’re still following dutifully in Hotch’s shadow, like a duckling too nervous to swim on its own. Is it him? Is it you? Is there some glaring flaw he sees, something that screams liability, too-green-to-function-alone? You bite the inside of your cheek, silencing your insecurities before they start screaming louder.

You’re practically speed-walking at this point, struggling to match Hotch’s long strides as the sun cooks your brain into a scrambled mush.

Your fingertips shield your eyes, squinting hard against the glare, cursing your impulsiveness — rushing out this morning after the team like a lovesick intern, leaving behind basic necessities like water. Rookie mistake. You’ll be dehydrated and delirious by noon, hallucinating your own incompetence in vivid detail.

Hotch doesn't even spare you a sidelong glance your way when he thrusts a water bottle toward you, eyes still scanning the horizon, speaking into his radio.

You stare dumbly at it for a second, and he must sense your confusion, because he tacks on, “You always forget to grab one. Drink.”

It sounds more gentle chiding than reprimand, but your face warms all the same.

The moment the bottle touches your lips, your body moves on autopilot, obeying Hotch’s casual command like it’s ingrained in your DNA. You’re pretty sure that’s concerning, how effortlessly you bend to his wishes, but introspection on that front can wait, especially since you’re burning alive under more than just the summer heat.

Without conscious thought, you offer the bottle back to him. 

Hotch pauses mid-sentence, the radio chatter fading momentarily as he eyes the bottle in mild confusion. 

But he takes it, pressing his mouth exactly where yours had been just seconds ago.

The simple action triggers a cascade of horribly inappropriate thoughts — mostly involving other, much less professional ways you’d rather be sharing space with his lips. Your imagination provides a cinematic experience of saliva exchange methods that have absolutely nothing to do with staying hydrated.

Wonderful. 

Your brain officially needs adult supervision.

Hotch, unfortunately observant, asks immediately, “You okay?”

“Fine!” Your voice pitches too high. Words tumble recklessly from your lips, an avalanche of rational-sounding nonsense designed solely to bury the fact that you’ve gone and made this weird. “Actually, if the unsub abducted the witness from the parking lot instead of her home, doesn’t that significantly change the risk factor? Public place, daylight — it would require confidence. That implies either past experiences or familiarity with the location —,”

You’re practically tripping over your own tongue, but your reasoning sounds airtight, thankfully. Because while your mouth may be spewing perfectly acceptable analysis, your brain is still utterly fixated on Hotch’s lips and their newly established indirect intimacy. 

Please let him not notice that.

Hotch considers your point, oblivious to your internal meltdown — or mercifully pretending to be. “That’s a good point.”

You’re in said parking lot before you realize it, baking on the blacktop, the car ride here an absolute blank.

It’s so hot your shoes practically fuse with the pavement, sticking with every step. Hastily shoving sunglasses onto your nose provides some mercy, but it does little to shield you from the full-body assault of sunlight, droplets of sweat quickly making trails down your collarbones. 

Reid would undoubtedly be rattling off something about albedo, thermal something-or-other, or some complicated explanation he pulled from a random academic paper. You simply classify it as outrageously, freakishly hot.

Hotch stands near the SUV, jacket discarded in favor of rolled-up sleeves. 

You discreetly pop open two buttons at your collar, self-consciousness momentarily forgotten in your bid for self-preservation, fingers grazing sweaty skin. 

Hotch’s mild, pointed throat-clear pulls your attention sharply, and your hands fall innocently back to your sides. 

He returns his gaze to the lot, brow furrowed in thought as he begins, “So, our unsub takes a woman from a busy parking lot in broad daylight, and nobody notices. What’s your read on that?”

You swallow painfully.

“Either he’s invisible, or everyone else is oblivious. Maybe both. More realistically, he’s non-threatening — at least initially. Approachable, trustworthy enough to not raise any red flags.”

His eyes flicker to the security cameras. “The unsub knew enough to pick a blind spot and a busy hour. Probably wasn’t his first time.”

“Right,” you agree. “Plus, no personal items were left behind, her keys, phone, everything gone with her. She went willingly at first.”

“Or he was convincing enough to make it appear that way,” Hotch adds.

Sweat trickles annoyingly down your spine, pooling uncomfortably between your shoulder blades. You glance sideways at Hotch, baffled by how unfazed he seems, looking like he’s casually waiting in a nice, breezy room rather than cooking alive in this inferno masquerading as a parking lot.

“I want you to check the eastern side, see if local PD missed anything.”

There’s a flash of doubt, a brief impulse to argue that maybe your efforts would be better spent elsewhere. A tiny voice in the back of your mind suggests hesitantly that maybe you’d earn his respect if, just once, you challenged his orders instead of quietly complying. But that impulse quickly wilts under the addictive rush you feel in gaining his approval.

It’s uncomfortable to admit, even privately, that you like the certainty of following his lead. You trust his judgment implicitly, which is a dangerous revelation you haven’t been able to shake. But even as the realization unsettles you, you’re already heading toward the eastern side, willingly and undeniably eager to please.

You’ve built your whole identity around color-coded calendars, neatly ordered lists, and near-pathological insistence on control. Yet, somehow, here you are, feeling embarrassingly grateful, borderline euphoric, simply because Aaron Hotchner told you exactly where to stand. You’ve either hit rock bottom or stumbled onto a whole new level of pathetic, jury’s still out. Deep down, you suspect you should be significantly more concerned about your state of mind than you actually are.

After a fruitless couple of hours spent cooking yourself alive on the asphalt, Hotch finally takes mercy on you, shepherding you back into the blessed relief of the artificially cooled paradise of the station.

You have a complicated relationship with local police stations. Sure, they’re usually air-conditioned, blessedly cool havens compared to the heat simmering outside. But then again, they’re always saturated with that same smell of charred coffee and day-old donuts. This station, particularly, is no exception. 

You push aside your petty complaints, focusing instead on Hotch’s directive to pair up with Prentiss and sift through alibis the local PD has halfheartedly checked.

You had gotten straight to work, ostensibly because it was necessary but mostly to distract yourself from the soul-crushing awareness Emily’s presence always inspired. She’d always been calm, collected, entirely too put-together, a combination that paradoxically eased your mind while also amplifying every self-conscious insecurity you owned.

You vividly recall your first few interactions with her, particularly the time she’d gently pointed out you’d been reading the map upside-down for five solid minutes.

The memory makes you cringe even now, but Emily had laughed with you, not at you, instantly easing your embarrassment. From the start, she’d balanced teasing and patience, correcting your mistakes without ever making you feel incompetent. It only deepened your appreciation, and, if you were being honest, your mild hero-worship of her.

Your nostalgic reverie about Emily implodes instantly, ruthlessly obliterated by the sudden deafening crack of gunfire. 

The room seems to tumble sideways, your equilibrium evaporation, replaced by sickening vertigo. 

The bullet glimmers so close to your temple that it nudges your hair, a grotesque mockery of intimacy. 

Your mind barely has time to piece together what’s happened before the shouting starts, voices exploding around you. In a dizzy blur, uniforms flood the space, tackling the unsub to the ground.

You stare forward, dazed, your senses dialed down to a murmur as if you’ve sunken underwater without realizing it. Emily materializes in front of you, blurred at first, then rapidly sharpening into focus, her lips moving quickly, shaping syllables you can’t fully grasp. Her face reflects fierce urgency, her stance instinctively protective, something that vaguely registers, but your thoughts stay stubbornly cloudly, lost somewhere between numb disbelief and fragmented comprehension.

Reality rushes back in as Emily’s voice finally floods your ears, her gaze anxiously probing yours for confirmation that you’re alright.

“I’m fine,” you reassure quickly, the words steady enough that they almost convince even you. “What do you need me to do?”

How could you freeze like that?

Breathe in. Count to three. Exhale slowly. You push the panic bubbling up into a box neatly stored behind well-worn barriers of composure. Control slides gracefully back into position, a transparent illusion spun from willpower alone. 

Your mother had been your first and relentless instructor, composure valued above tenderness, flawlessness demanded before comfort was ever considered. Beneath perfectly pinned-up hair and practiced smiles, she’d etched these lessons deeply. You’ve always been made from shards, a careful mosaic of concealed fractures, sewn together by unsaid apologies and quiet disappointments.

You learned early on that the safest place was behind a perfected facade.

She places a hand on your arm. “Maybe you should sit down for a minute.”

“Really, Em, I’m okay,” you assure her quickly. It fits perfectly, even if it feels painfully dishonest now. “Just tell me what you need next.”

You feel your reassurance wobbling like a well-used record, repetitive and empty, but you don’t trust yourself to say anything else. If you speak too openly, you risk Emily seeing the brittleness beneath your words, the terrifying image branded behind your eyes — your body lying cold, lifeless on the station floor, if you had just been one inch to the left. Your father would’ve gotten that call, your desk would’ve been quietly emptied, and your entire life would’ve ended mid-sentence. 

Hotch moves purposefully into your line of sight.

Your attention snags on the empty space where Emily had just stood. You hadn’t noticed her leaving, but that’s typical — Hotch tends to clear the space around you, intentional or not, whenever he addresses you directly. You wonder briefly if it’s because he senses your tendency to falter under scrutiny, or perhaps because he expects you to embarrass yourself again.

How long has he been standing there, waiting patiently for your response?

“Sorry,” you say quickly, refocusing on his face. “Could you repeat that?”

His voice is steady as he repeats, more gently this time, “I asked if you’re hurt.”

“No.”

You glance down quickly immediately afterward. You’re not even sure that’s true — had you actually checked, or had the adrenaline blocked out any injuries? You scan yourself quickly, a little unsure, a lot overwhelmed. Nothing seems wrong, at least nothing visible, but then your attention flits anxiously around the room, eyes instinctively looking for the unsub.

They tackled him, right? So where did they take him afterward — was he cuffed, detained, secured? More importantly, did they figure out why he barged in and opened fire? 

Hotch’s gaze sweeps quickly over you before his hands are gently tipping your head, his fingertips lightly exploring the place where the bullet almost found its mark. Warm fingers carefully part your hair, brushing just above your ear, and suddenly, you’re painfully aware of how tender he’s being, despite everything.

“Just to be safe, the EMTs will check you out,” he says, confident you’re unharmed but cautious nonetheless.

You nod, but you know exactly what he’s thinking, exactly what he must have seen. You were careless, oblivious — frozen solid at the worst possible moment. You’d slipped, and it almost cost everything. Your incompetence nearly ended your life, it could’ve endangered Emily, Hotch, the team. 

How could he trust you after this? Shame blooms hotly, choking your breath, because you know better.

This job doesn’t allow second chances, and you nearly used yours up.

“I’ll just — let me find Emily, then we can —,”

“You’re not doing anything right now.” Hotch’s interruption is firm, an immovable wall you know you can’t scale. “You’re staying exactly here until I say otherwise.”

You feel the sting of his words, immediately interpreting them as proof he no longer trusts you. 

“I’m not restricting you because of anything you did or didn’t do,” he says firmly, understanding clear in his eyes. “You’ve just experienced severe trauma. The EMTs will check you out first, then I’ll bring you up to speed. You’re not being sidelined. I’m going to handle the scene, and once everything is secure, we will regroup and go from there. Do you understand?”

You nod, but your trust feels tissue-thin, easily shredded by self-doubt. Hotch studies you carefully, eyes narrowing just enough to communicate clearly that he knows exactly how hollow your assurance really is.

Still, he nods back gently, pulling out a chair. You sit.

Hotch effortlessly stepped into the space your panic had left open. You watched as he moved calmly through the room, issuing commands. He spoke briefly with the EMTs first, outlining precisely what they needed to check, sparing you the uncomfortable necessity of trying to articulate your confusion.

Moments later, another water bottle appeared in your grapes, placed decisively by Hotch, who barely broke stride in his quiet management of everything around you.

He anticipated your questions and worries before you could voice them, confirming that the unsub was secure and that no one else was injured. 

Each directive he gave on your behalf made you aware of just how badly you needed this — someone stronger, steadier, more certain than yourself, carefully taking control away.

Discovering that surrendering control could feel like finally breathing after holding your breath for far too long was unsettling yet profoundly comforting.

The EMT now moves cautiously around you, examining the side of your head, brushing your hair aside to search for injuries you know aren’t there. Still, you remain perfectly still.

You find Hotch standing nearby, arms loosely crossed, fixed on the EMT’s every movement. He occasionally interrupts with instructions, and the micromanagement that should feel excessive but instead makes you feel grateful.

“I’m sorry,” you finally blurt out. “I completely blanked today. I didn’t respond when I should’ve, and it put everyone in danger. I should’ve been more alert, and…” 

You swallow thickly, shame edging painfully into your words, gaze fixed stubbornly downward.

“You didn’t blank,” Hotch interrupts. “You experienced something called perceptual narrowing. It’s common under severe stress, especially when you’re caught completely off-guard. Your brain was trying to process too much at once, it’s an instinctive reaction, not a failure.” 

You nod hesitantly, biting your lip as you struggle to voice your lingering frustration. “I know that makes sense, but it’s more than just freezing. It’s afterward when I realized how little I actually contributed.”

“You weren’t supposed to contribute right then,” Hotch reminds you. “You were under strict instructions to stay exactly here and let me handle the rest. Trust me, I can manage just fine.” His eyes glimmer briefly with amusement. “Unless you’re saying you don’t trust me to take control?”

You quickly shake your head, cheeks burning hotter now that the EMT has moved away, leaving no buffer between you and Hotch.

“No — no, that’s not what I meant,” you stammer. “Of course I trust you. Probably more than —” You catch yourself abruptly, clearing your throat awkwardly. “I mean, I trust your judgment completely.”

Hotch regards you for a moment, a faint, knowing smile ghosting briefly across his lips before he masks it again.

“I know what you meant,” he says evenly, though the warmth in his voice suggests he heard far more than your careful correction. “I appreciate your trust.” He pauses briefly. “I’ll try not to abuse it.”

Abuse it. That is such a potent phrase. Could he? Would he? The rational answer is no, but another voice counters with maybe. The potential hangs there, tantalizing and terrifying in equal measure. You’ve handed him someone precious, breakable, and yet the risk of abuse feels softer, sweeter, when it’s him.

“You wouldn’t,” you whisper after a moment. “But I think even if you did, I might forgive you.”

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[damneddamsy]

FALLING. RATING Explicit (18+ only) PAIRING Joel Miller x BIPOC OFC (Leela) FORMAT & SETTING Joel's POV & Post-TLOU Jackson AU WORD COUNT PER CHAPTER approx. 12,000+ STATUS Complete

SUMMARY It is said that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future. Now, Joel Miller wasn’t looking to be a saint. Trust was a liability. Love, a memory too painful to keep. But if a sinner like him still had some future, and if that future starts with one night—a baby’s relentless cries cracking through his walls and breaking him open—then maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t lost everything yet. Against all instincts, he steps into that big, white house across his street. Nothing drives Joel to linger, but he does. For the baby at first—nascent Maya, with her bright eyes and fistfuls of Joel’s collar. Then, the strange new mother. What begins as an uneasy coexistence grows into something deeper, which neither of them dares name. Haunted by a narrative she never chose, brilliant but reclusive, Leela’s mind runs into the theoretical—proofs, patterns, chasing solutions to an unsolvable equation—while Joel’s hands are scarred by the practical: protecting, killing, enduring. When that peace becomes fleeting, when a fragile hope in the shape of a mathematical discovery begins to bloom, and the world, as always, threatens to take it away, Joel confronts what it means to fall—not just into the impossible, but into love, into hope, into the fragile rhythms of Leela and Maya’s life, and their quiet home that becomes a rare thing in this decaying tomorrow: a reason to stay. This is a story of healing, found family, and the abnormal, slow math of love—how we factor grief, multiply hope, balance the unknowns, it never adds up but somehow makes perfect sense.

INDEX (might be subject to change as the story progresses.)

part i -> EVENT HORIZON

part ii -> MICROFRACTURE

part iii -> FALSE EQUILIBRIUM

part iv -> MINIMUM VIABLE HOPE

part v -> RECONSTRUCTION ALGORITHM

part vi -> LIMIT APPROACHES GRACE

part vii -> FREEFALL FUNCTION

part viii -> SOFT INFINITY

part ix -> STITCH THEORY

interlude

part x -> DECOHERENCE

part xi -> ZERO CROSSING

part xii -> THEOREM OF BECOMING

part xiii -> HEURISTIC BLOOM

part xiv -> THE FINAL INTEGRATION

epilogue

acknowledgements

FALLING MOODBOARD (a huge bear hug, thank you and shoutout to the incredible @jolapeno !!)

FALLING MOODBOARD (2) (so many kisses and so much love to the talented, sweet @mrsmando !!)

CHARACTER STUDY A deep dive into Joel, Maya, and Leela, answering an ask from one of my sweetheart friends @jodiswiftle who followed along!

AUTHOR'S NOTE Have loads of fun with this masterlist! took me a while to think up a different way to potray these chapters, I'm so glad it came through so great!

TAGS your (ultimate) fix-it fic, The Dad™️ Joel, softest Joel you've ever seen, he is also an old yearner cuntstruck hardass, Joel being down bad for a teeny baby girl, OFC is arabic, OFC being an academic nerd and STEM girlie, the cutest baby (Maya) ever, baby is an actual character, Miller family dynamics, Tommy-Joel-Ellie hooliganisms, life in Jackson town, Ellie being the generally awesome older sister, neighbours-to-lovers trope, found family, slowburn, a lot of math references, lotsa door metaphors, epistolary interlude.

CONTENT WARNINGS eventual smut (the whole kaboodle), big griefs, depression, unbearable angst, violence, gore, blood, alcoholism, substance abuse, post-natal depression, the pains of motherhood, mentions of rape and suicide, childbirth.

[dailyfinancial]

The Bank Won’t Investigate Debit Card Fraud Under ₹1,000 - Is It True!

Do banks ignore debit card fraud under ₹1,000? Learn how Indian banks investigate all fraud cases, RBI guidelines, and tips to protect your finances. Stay informed with the latest 2025 data and secure your money today! Debit card fraud is a growing concern in India, with cybercriminals becoming more sophisticated. A common myth circulating among Indian consumers is that banks won’t investigate…

[astrabear]

Joe can be as sad as he wants (I have big brown eyes myself, they don't work on me), but the events of TOG2 prove that the exile was the right thing to do.

Regardless of how anyone felt about him personally, they were not safe around him. The moment he had an opportunity to get what he wanted, he abandoned a mission in which ten million lives were at stake and left the team vulnerable to capture (again). His death scene was filmed as though it had weight, but it accomplished nothing and had zero strategic value. He just bailed.

They were right not to trust him. They were right not to keep him around. He was dangerous to them, he was a liability. True, they could have stayed in touch with him while still keeping him off the team, and that's basically what Joe did (making no difference whatsoever), but it's also fair and reasonable to want to take more than six months away from someone who has hurt and betrayed you. "How can we trust you not to sell us out again?" You can't. He did.

[stillalivebydemand893]

Say a prayer,but let the good times roll...

Part 1🤭

18+!! SPICY !!READ WITH CAUTION (my fav so far)

Two roommates .Zero boundaries.

What started as a teasing turns into a filthy war of desire.

You were lounging on the couch when the front door slammed shut so hard the walls practically shook.

“Jesus fuck-what the hell?” you shouted, peering over the couch just in time to see Erik storm into the apartment, gagging like a man possessed as he stumbled to the kitchen sink.

He shoved the faucet on and started rinsing his mouth, hacking like something unholy had crawled into him.

“What the hell is going on with you?” you asked, still seated, half-concerned, half-mortified.

Living with a guy was never on your bucket list, but two months in and Erik had proved himself surprisingly tolerable,clean, domestic, even helpful. Plus, since you started playing Until Dawn every night, you’d both ended up sleeping on the couch together like scared kids, too spooked to turn the lights off.

“It was that date I told you about,” he choked out between gags.

“Julia’s friend.”

You cringed.

“And what the hell did she do to you?” you got up, heading to the fridge to grab him a lemon to suck on.

“She. Puked. In. My. Mouth.”

Another gag.

You froze.

“Oh my God. MOVE.”

You shoved him out of the way and dry-heaved into the sink beside him.

“We’re gonna have to burn this whole fucking sink now.”

“I know,” he croaked, already sliding to the kitchen floor, holding the lemon like it was a holy relic.

You joined him, both of you dizzy, halfway dead.

“You know… some people are into that. It’s, like, top ten in porn categories.”

You smirked, biting the inside of your cheek.

Erik stared at you in horror.

“Why the hell do you know that?”

“I have cousins I disown.” You sighed.

“Was she drunk?”

“Was she drunk?” he scoffed. “She projectile-vomited her soul into my mouth and then asked if I’d cover my tattoos for our wedding. Who says that?!”

You burst out laughing.

“Please. I’d put you in a crop top just to show off your tattoos. That girl’s clinically unwell.”

“RIGHT?!” He pulled up his shirt, revealing the skull inked on his stomach.

“This is art, not a liability.”

Your eyes lingered for just a second too long. You coughed, turning away abruptly.

“Come on, Kiki. Let’s restart the night. A proper night in.”

He disappeared into his bathroom, and you headed into yours to shower the trauma away.

You knocked on his door once you were done, but the music inside was blaring. He didn’t answer. The door was slightly open, and curiosity got the better of you.

You peeked in.

And saw everything.

Erik stood under the shower, one hand braced against the wall, the other stroking his cock,hard, thick, gleaming with water and precum. His breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling. You watched, transfixed, as he ran a thumb over the tip, teasing the piercing with a low groan that made your knees tremble.

Your panties were already soaked.

You opened the door a little more, stepping into the steam.

“Need some help with that?” you asked, voice like a sin, leaning in the doorway like temptation itself.

He jumped, nearly yanking his piercing off.

“Jesus Christ! Are you trying to kill me?”

Then he processed your words,his cock still rock-hard in his hand.

His smirk returned.

You stepped forward, wearing just tiny shorts and a sports bra, letting the water soak you as much as him.

“What are you doing, Peach?” he asked, grabbing your waist, pulling you closer. His cock rubbed against your shorts, sending fire up your spine.

“Trying to kill me and then use me?”

You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw.

“No,” you whispered.

“I think I just want to use you for now. Can I?”

You dropped to your knees.

“Fuck,” he groaned, tossing his head back.

“You don’t even have to ask. It’s all yours, sweetheart.”

His hand instinctively gripped your hair into a makeshift ponytail. You opened your mouth and took him in,warm, wet, your tongue playing with the piercing.

“That’s it, baby,” he moaned. “You’re doing so fucking good.”

He couldn’t tell if he was in heaven or if he’d slipped and cracked his skull and this was the afterlife. Either way, he didn’t want it to end.

You played with the ring, your tongue circling it as you sucked hard, using your hand at the base. His moans filled the shower like music.

“Fuck, Peach. If you don’t stop, I’m gonna-”

You popped him out of your mouth, lips swollen and innocent.

“That’s the fucking point, baby.”

You took him again, this time deeper. He let out a choked moan and came, hips jerking forward, fingers tightening in your hair.

“Shit, don’t-don’t swallow that” he gasped, dropping to his knees.

He opened your mouth to see it, groaning.

“Fuck, I got distracted. Sorry”

You spat it into the drain and collapsed next to him, giggling.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, still catching his breath.

“We just acted like we were in the worst porn parody ever.”

He laughed too, breathless. His cock, still red and hard, twitched against his thigh.

“You sucked the soul out of me. Want me to fix your car next? We can roleplay it properly.”

“Why are you still hard?” you asked, staring.

He smirked.

“Because you walked in here looking like my fantasy, then dropped to your knees and ruined me. That’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. This is your fault.”

He tucked a piece of wet hair behind your ear, fingers brushing your cheek.

“I enjoyed the show too much. I had to,” you teased, licking your lips slowly,watching his eyes track every second of it.

“Consider it a pity blowjob for your failed date.” You winked, getting up.

But before you could leave, he grabbed your wrist and spun you around, your back slamming against the tiled wall. His body pressed into yours, hard and hungry.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled. “I’m not done with you yet.”

His hand slid over your soaked bra, brushing your breast, then down to your shorts. He slipped his fingers inside your panties and into you in one fluid motion.

Your head fell back, a moan slipping from your lips.

“Fuuuck, Erik-”

“So wet for me?Good girl” he murmured, slipping another finger in. You whimpered, legs shaking.

Then he pulled his fingers out, leaving you empty.

“What the fuck,why did you stopped-” you started, only to freeze as he brought them to his lips and sucked.

“Sweet,” he muttered with a wicked smirk.

Your knees nearly buckled.

“Hot,” you whispered, breathless.

He pulled you back in, hips grinding into yours.

“If I knew my pretty little roommate was such a sex freak, I never would've gone on that date.”

You grinned, breath shaking.

“I had to let you go see what you were missing out on.”

He groaned, impossibly harder.

“Never again,” he growled, mouth crashing into yours.

His lips were on yours before you could catch your breath,urgent, consuming, filthy.

He kissed like he was starving. Like he’d waited months for this. Like tasting you was the only thing tethering him to earth.

Your back hit the shower wall again, water still pouring down both of you, making everything slick and sinful.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he groaned into your mouth, grinding against your soaked panties, his cock twitching between your thighs.

“You walk around this apartment half-naked, stealing my hoodies, giving me those fucking looks,and now you’re gonna pretend you’re done?”

You smirked, grabbing his jaw with one hand, the other running down his chest, nails scraping lightly over his abs.

“Who said I was done?” you whispered, dragging your lips across his throat, biting the skin just hard enough to make him hiss.

He let out a broken moan, hand sliding under your bra, thumbing your nipple until you arched into him.

“You’re a menace,” he whispered.

“Say it.”

You bit his earlobe.

“I’m your fucking menace.”

That was it. That broke him.

He turned you around, pressing your chest against the slick, cold tile, his body caging yours in from behind. You could feel his cock hot and thick between your cheeks, sliding teasingly under your soaked shorts.

“Tell me how much you want it Sweets.”

You looked over your shoulder, lips parted, eyes dark.

“I need it, Erik.Ruin me.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling your shorts down, panties with them, exposing your ass to the steam and his hungry hands.

He knelt, gripping your thighs, spreading you just enough to tease your entrance with his tongue.

You cried out, head knocking against the tile.

“You taste like everything I’ve ever wanted,” he muttered against you, tongue flicking and licking until your legs trembled.

Your fingers scraped down the wall.

“Erik-fuck, I’m gonna-”

But he stopped.

You whimpered, twisting to look at him.

He stood, licking his lips, smug.

“Not yet, baby. Not until I’m inside you.”

He lined himself up behind you, his cock hot and heavy against your dripping entrance, and you pushed back on instinct, desperate, needy.

“Please,” you whispered.

“Beg prettier,” he growled in your ear, biting your shoulder.

You moaned, pushing your hips into his.

“Please, Erik. Fuck me like you mean it.”

He snapped his hips forward and buried himself in one thrust.

You both gasped-him at how tight you were, you at how fucking full he made you feel.

“Holy shit, Peach…” he whispered, his voice wrecked.

He didn’t give you time to adjust.

He started thrusting,slow at first, then harder, deeper, punishing.

Your moans bounced off the tiles, mixing with the slap of wet skin and the hiss of the water.

His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back so he could kiss your neck, biting, marking.

You could barely speak.

“I wanted this-I wanted you like this,for so long…” you cried out as he hit that spot that made your knees go weak.

“Then take it,” he growled. “Take all of me.”

His hand slid down to your clit, rubbing tight circles as he fucked you from behind.

“Come for me, baby. Make a mess all over my cock. Show me how much you needed this.”

You shattered, crying out his name, legs trembling, walls clenching around him.

“Erik fuck-I’m -”

He came with a groan, spilling into you as he kept thrusting through both your highs, grinding until you were both wrecked, breathless, bodies trembling against the wall.

For a long moment, all that existed was the water, the heat, and the sound of your breathing.

He pulled you back against his chest, wrapping his arms around you.

“So,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear.

“Still think we’re just roommates?”

You laughed, breathless, head falling back against his shoulder.

“I think we’re done with dating apps’’

Steam still clung to your skin as you stepped out of the bathroom, towel barely secured around you. Erik trailed behind you like a shadow, only a towel around his hips, water dripping from his hair, eyes locked on your ass like he couldn’t look anywhere else.

You paused at the hallway mirror, catching his gaze through the reflection.

“You still staring?”

“Can you blame me?” he grinned.

“I’m trying to sear this into memory in case I die tonight.”

You rolled your eyes but bit back a smile.

“Come on. Let’s watch a movie like we didn’t just defile the entire shower.”

“Just watch a movie huh.” he muttered under his breath, following you to the living room.

You threw on a pair of tiny shorts and one of Eriks’ shirt, pretending not to notice how Erik’s jaw clenched when he sat down beside you. The couch still had that lived-in warmth from countless shared nights playing games, eating takeout… but now it felt charged. Like the air itself knew what was coming next.

He draped a blanket across your lap like a formality and tossed on a horror movie. You leaned into him, and he opened his arm for you to curl against his chest like it was habit.

And it was. But now? Now you were both too aware.

The first scream from the movie hit just as you shifted,your hand brushed over the growing bulge in his grey sweatpants. He flinched.

“You okay there?” you teased, voice innocent, eyes anything but.

“Peach…” he warned.

You climbed into his lap. Slowly. Deliberately.

His breath caught as your knees caged his thighs and you settled on top of him, grinding just slightly for the fun of watching his control crack.

“Thought we were watching the movie,” he said through clenched teeth, his hands already sliding up your bare thighs under the blanket.

“I am watching,” you whispered, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“But I think I found a better show.”

You rocked your hips once and felt his cock twitch beneath you. His boxers had slide down, and now you were grinding against his bare, hard length through the thin fabric of your shorts.

He groaned, head dropping back.

“You’re playing with fire.”

“Then burn me.”

He grabbed your waist and slammed your hips down on him, making you gasp. His cock was hot, thick, and you could feel the pressure of it rubbing perfectly where you needed.

You slid your shorts to the side and sank down onto him in one slow, aching motion.

Both of you moaned.

“Fuuuck, Peach…”

His head fell forward, lips brushing against your collarbone.

“You feel unreal.”

You rolled your hips, slow and deep, grinding down on him like you wanted to break him open and crawl inside.

His hands were everywhere,palming your ass, squeezing your hips, gripping your thighs like you were something sacred and forbidden.

You pressed your forehead to his, breathing in sync.

“Eyes on me baby.”

He looked up, pupils blown wide, lips parted.

You started riding him.

Not fast.

Not frantic.

Rhythmic.

Cruel.

Unholy.

His hands dropped limp to his sides for a second like he was in awe, letting you take over,your movements fluid and confident, grinding in a way that made him twitch inside you.

“That’s it,” he groaned.

“Fucking ride me like you own me.”

You smirked.

“I do own you.”

You took his hands and placed them on your breasts, arching into his palms, moving faster now, slapping against him with every bounce of your hips.

His moans turned raw.

You leaned down and kissed him, wet and sloppy, tongues colliding like a fight neither of you wanted to win.

You broke the kiss, breathless, sweat slicking your skin.

“You’re close, aren’t you?”

He nodded, forehead pressed to your chest.

“So fucking close. Don’t stop. Please-don’t”

He reached down between you, rubbed your clit in quick circles as you bounced harder, his name falling from your lips like prayer.

He grabbed your hips, met your thrusts.

You clenched around him,tight.

“Holy shit, Peach”

He came with a broken moan, hips jerking, cock pulsing inside you.

You followed seconds later, gasping his name as your climax slammed through you, thighs trembling.

Silence fell.

Only the sound of the movie still playing in the background, completely forgotten.

You collapsed onto his chest, both of you panting like you’d run a marathon, not just had the filthiest sex of your lives on a couch you once built IKEA furniture on.

He kissed the top of your head.

“Best movie night ever.”

You smirked, eyelids fluttering shut.

“Shut up. We’re rewatching it tomorrow.”

You and Erik were half-naked and tangled in bed when your phones started blowing up like a fire alarm.

Mom: We’re 45 minutes away! Can’t wait to meet Erik’s family 💖

Erik’s Mom: Tell Peach’s parents we brought banana bread. 😌

You both bolted upright like you’d been shot.

“Your parents are coming?”

“Yours are too??”

A beat. Then in perfect unison:

“NO SEX THIS WEEKEND.”

You pointed at him.

He pointed at you.

You both started laughing nervously, even though your bodies were already betraying you.

You hadn’t even finished round four yet.

By noon, the apartment was packed with polite conversation, banana bread, and doom.

Erik’s mom brought a fruit tray.

Your mom brought Jesus.

Both dads brought absolutely zero self-awareness.

You sat on the couch next to Erik, acting normal while your knees touched under the blanket and he was rock hard for absolutely no reason except you existed.

He leaned over.

“If you exhale on me again, I’m gonna need a priest.”

You blinked. “You’re hard?”

He nodded. “Since your mom said ‘blessed union.’”

You sat next to Erik at the dinner table,which was a tactical error.

You were wearing the skirt.

The little black one that Erik had literally threatened to burn because he “couldn’t look at it without getting a boner and accidentally ruining your grandma’s throw pillows.”

The no-sex rule?

Dead.

Gone.

Buried.

This was no longer about “respecting our parents.”

This was war.

A silent, sexy war of “who breaks first.”

His mom, sweet as sugar, beamed across the table.

“So sweetie, has my boy been behaving himself?”

Before you could answer, Erik’s hand slid up your thigh under the table, fingers gliding along your bare skin like he wasn’t sitting next to his own mother.

You choked on your water, then recovered like a champ.

“Yes, ma’am. He’s very useful around the house.”

You side-eyed Erik and squeezed his hand as a warning.

“He’s got amazing hands. Really knows how to use them.”

Erik choked on his pie so hard his dad had to pat him on the back.

“He even helped me install some shelves last week.”

You smiled sweetly, slapped Erik lightly on the cheek, and he just stared at you like a man one second away from flipping the table and bending you over it.

“Now that’s my boy,” his dad said proudly.

Your mom, already one glass of wine in, glanced around the room.

“You know what this place is missing? A Bible. I haven’t seen one anywhere.”

You winced. Erik grinned like the devil himself.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said, sipping his water like it was holy.

“She prays every night. Loudly. I’ve had to tell her to quiet down a few times.”

You nearly fell out of your chair.

“Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” he added, sliding his fingers just a little higher.

You elbowed him so hard he wheezed.

Then your dad, looking serious as ever, turned to Erik.

“Now son, I was thinking of changing out those old pipes in the bathroom. I noticed they were leaking.”

You glared at Erik, your fork shaking.

“I’ve told Peach many times to be more mindful of water waste. It’s expensive these days.”

You gave your dad an innocent smile.

“It’s not my fault. Erik’s the one who takes forever in the shower.”

You turned to Erik, smirking.

“His self-care routine takes too long.”

Erik’s jaw clenched.

His eyes screamed "I'm going to rail you into the drywall."

“Yes, sir,” he said, keeping his voice calm.

“She’s very helpful, though. Offers to help me out. Knows exactly what creams to use.”

You blinked.

He wasn’t done.

“Real gentle with my toner. Knows her way around SPF. Gets the job done. Every time.”

You were going to kill him.

Or ride him under this damn table.

Maybe both.

Your parents were too busy planning a family trip to Italy to notice the sexual battlefield happening two feet away.

Erik leaned in close, whispering low in your ear.

“Brats like you get punished.”

He pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.

His thumb pressed into the inside of your thigh, right where he knew you were already wet.

You turned, lips grazing his ear.

Your hand slid into his lap.

Found his bulge.

Squeezed.

He flinched, let out a weird coughing noise to cover it, and glared at you like you just ran over his childhood dog.

You leaned in with a smug smile.

“No other brat is like me, baby.”

Then you retracted your hand and took a sip of wine like nothing happened.

He turned to you slowly.

Murder in his eyes.

Lust in his veins.

His fork broke in half in his hand.

Your victory?

Short-lived.

Because the second those parents were asleep?

You were done for.

Your parents were tucked into the guest room with their matching pajamas and bedtime tea.

Erik’s parents were settled in his room, probably talking about crossword puzzles and fiber.

And Erik?

Erik was supposed to be sleeping on the couch.

So why was he suddenly behind you in the hallway?

He didn’t say a word.

Just grabbed your wrist and yanked you into the closet like a man possessed.

Dark. Tight. Warm.

You opened your mouth to protest—and his hand covered it instantly, firm, fingers splayed over your lips.

“You really thought,” he whispered against your ear, “that you could pull that shit at dinner and not get punished?”

You shivered.

Your mom’s voice floated in from the kitchen:

“Do we have oat milk or just the boring kind?”

“Shh.” Erik pressed you back against the wall, his palm still over your mouth.

“You know I respect you, right?” he murmured.

You nodded,barely.

He leaned in, grabbed your bottom lip with his teeth, bit, and kissed you like it was the last time he’d ever get the chance.

“Good,” he breathed.

“Because when we’re finally alone, I’m going to fuck you like I don’t.”

He dropped one last kiss on your neck, slow and almost too soft for the threat he just made—and then he was gone.

Just… vanished.

Left you in the dark.

Panting. Shaking. Wrecked.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stared into the darkness for a full five seconds before muttering:

“Oh, that smug little shit.”

You stumbled out of the closet on wobbly knees, horny, ruined, and out for revenge.

You grabbed the closest stack of towels,clearly just for cover, because what were you gonna say?

“Oh, I was just… having a religious experience in the closet”? Right.

Hair in a ponytail.

Face flushed.

Thighs clenched.

You tiptoed toward the laundry basket like you weren’t combusting internally.

Then-

“Sweetie, what are you doing?”

Your mom appeared behind you, clutching a wine glass and a judgmental aura.

You flinched so hard you nearly ate a shelf.

“Mom!” you squeaked. “God, announce yourself. Jesus.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You’re acting suspicious. Are you hiding snacks again?”

“I-no, I’m just grabbing towels. For… wiping stuff.”

Her eyes narrowed.

You panicked.

“Tears! For wiping tears. You know how I get emotional about… textures.”

She took a towel, felt it between her fingers, then sighed dramatically.

“I told you to buy the softer ones from Target. These feel like loofahs for criminals.”

You nodded aggressively, hoping the topic would change before she detected the scent of sin and closet lust.

“Yeah, we’ll get the good ones next time, promise.”

“And stop slamming around. I could hear thumping earlier.”

You froze.

She sipped her wine, squinting at you.

“Unless Erik dropped something. Or maybe you two were…”

She paused.

You both stood there.

Silence.

“…reorganizing?”

You laughed. Loud. Too loud.

“Totally reorganizing.”

You clutched the towels like a body shield.

“So much organization. Gonna start a Pinterest board.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She gave you the most suspicious mom look of all time and disappeared toward the guest room.

You exhaled.

Then you whispered under your breath:

“Okay, Kiki. War is ON.”

Because Erik might have left you trembling in a closet.

But this battle?

Wasn’t over.

The next morning, you woke up mad.

Not just “he-left-me-hanging-in-a-closet” mad.

You woke up with a mission.

Erik was going to pay.

Not with pain.

But with suffering.

The good kind.

You strolled into the kitchen.

No bra.

Wearing his vintage band tee from high school,the one that clung to your chest like a prayer and barely covered the tops of your thighs.

Your hair in a high ponytail. (He once admitted that does things to him. You remember everything.)

Erik was pouring himself orange juice.

He froze mid-pour.

Some of it overflowed onto the counter. He didn’t even blink.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he said, voice low, already wrecked.

You tilted your head sweetly, like butter wouldn’t melt on your tongue.

“Doing what?”

He groaned. Actually groaned. Like someone had just stepped on his soul.

You leaned in just a little. Smirked.

And then“accidentally”you spilled a little more juice.

“Oops.”

You brushed past him, chest grazing his arm, and bent over the island to reach the sink for a wipe.

Your shirt rode up just enough to reveal the curve of your lower back and the hem of shorts so tiny they may as well have been a rumor.

Erik made a sound behind you that could only be described as a cry for help.

When you finished your cleaning duty, you turned to him like nothing happened.

He was gripping his glass with the intensity of someone who might shatter ceramic with his horniness.

You tiptoed to his ear, your lips brushing his skin.

“Cat got your tongue, baby?” you whispered, devilish.

Before he could growl a reply, your mom shouted from the couch:

“Children, we’re going for a walk! Want to join?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I can’t,” you called sweetly. “I’ve got a work assignment. But Erik will. Won’t you, Kiki?” You knew Erik would say yes,he had to,unless he wanted to be interrogated by your entire bloodline.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, innocent as sin.

His jaw twitched.

You could practically hear his soul leaving his body.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a fake smile so tight it could cut glass.

“He’s such a sweet boy,” your mom beamed.

“Always so kind,” her bestie added.

You gave him one last smirk as you strolled out of the kitchen, hips swinging like victory.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

And you knew he’d make you pay for it.

Two hours later.

The front door slammed hard.

“Mom?” you called lazily, pretending you weren’t already smirking.

“No.”

Erik’s voice growled from the hall.

“But you’ll sure beg for her Bible when I’m done with you.”

You turned the corner.

He stood there,muddy, sweaty, his hair disheveled, his eyes blazing like a man who’d just crawled out of hell .

“The fuck happened to you?” you asked, staring.

(It was annoying how hot he looked like this. Feral. Furious. Ferociously damp.)

“What happened to me?” he repeated, eyebrows high.

“I sprinted through half the woods, lied to both our parents about having explosive diarrhea, and nearly rolled my ankle in a puddle,just so I could come back here and teach you a fucking lesson.”

He stepped forward, looming over you.

“Your dad is still texting me asking if I need Imodium or chamomile tea.”

You burst out laughing. You couldn’t help it.

But the moment your eyes met his, the air shifted.

The laughter faded.

The smirk stayed.

Because now you were alone.

And he was pissed.

And you were so ready.

He closed the distance between you in two strides, grabbing your jaw, backing you up into the hallway wall.

“Still feeling smug?” he muttered, lips hovering over yours.

His body pressed into yours, his hands finding your hips like they belonged there.

You inhaled shakily.

“Only a little.”

He kissed you hard.

No warning. No pretense.

"What, are you going to punish me?"

You smirked against his lips, your breath hot, taunting, feral.

"Make me go to my room? Have I been that bad?"

He didn’t smile.

Didn’t blink.

His hand came up, slow and lethal, his fingertip dragging across your upper lip.

His voice dropped so low it scraped down your spine .

“It’s really a shame, Peach.”

His thumb rested just under your chin.

“You got all dolled up… just for me to ruin you.”

Your knees buckled. Your blood ignited. Your entire body turned traitor for him.

You clutched at his shirt, voice nothing more than a desperate whimper.

“Please… I’ll be good. Just fuck me. Please.”

Your words were a surrender.

You were hanging by a thread, and he was holding the scissors.

He leaned into your ear, his lips brushing your skin.

“Oh, that’s exactly what I’m planning to do.”

In one swift movement, he grabbed you by your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist like instinct.

Your mouths stayed locked, breath hot and mouths greedy as he walked you through the hall, kicking your door open like a man with purpose.

He dropped you on the bed.

“You are such a fucking menace,” he growled, grinding against you, his hands everywhere,gripping, teasing, claiming.

“Can you blame me?” you moaned, breathless, as he sucked on your neck hard enough to mark it.

Your body arched beneath him, his name whispered like a prayer every time his mouth moved lower.

“You’re so hot… I can’t contain myself.”

He pulled back slightly, enough to look down at you,flushed, eyes half-lidded, wild.

And then you said it.

“You made me so addicted to you, I don’t know if I can live without you anymore.”

That stopped him.

His mouth hovered inches from your collarbone, his breath ragged. His pupils blown wide. His whole body tensed like you’d just snapped a wire he didn’t know existed.

Then-

“I love you.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

You gulped hard, the moment instantly charged, electric, terrifying.

He was your best friend.

The one person who knew your soul. The one you broke for.

And you just handed him your heart like it was nothing.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

You watched him breathe-shallow, heavy.

His face was flushed, his brows furrowed, his lips parted.

Then he looked straight at you, eyes wide and wrecked.

“I-”

[homunculus-argument]

Being an ADHD adult is fun when people seem to get... personally offended when you are aware that you've failed, forgotten, or neglected something before, and plan your life with that awareness in mind. Like how does that work, that being able to plan and prepare for things not working out as intended is mature and responsible, acknowledging your own faults and flaws is mature and responsible, but somehow it's childish and immature to acknowledge that you are the liability in every situation, and prepare accordingly?

Like they'll look at you like you just called their dog a slur and just go "don't just already assume that you're going to [have a symptom], just don't [have the symptom] in the first place!" Like oh shit right damn. Titanic only sank because of the lifeboats. If there had been zero lifeboats on the ship, the crew would have been more motivated to do their jobs perfectly and everything would have been fine. Failsafe plans are demons that summon failure, the only sensible thing is to only plan for perfection and naturally assume that everything can only go flawlessly.

Like bruh.

[delilahsturniolo]

⟡ ݁₊ welcome to the end of the world! (please leave your sanity at the door.)

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 . . . four friends: nick, matt, chris, and you—find themselves stuck together at the end of the world, trying to survive a zombie apocalypse with nothing but their wits, a questionable supply of snacks, and zero emotional maturity. you’re just trying to stay alive without losing your mind—or falling for someone on the team.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . violence, mentions of weapons, cursing, romantic tension, slow burn.

CHAPTER TWO: BEAN COVERED ZOMBIES

read more parts here

you’ve seen some weird stuff since the world went sideways—zombies in bathrobes, a guy trying to trade a bag of toenail clippers for beef jerky, chris wearing a traffic cone as a hat for two full days—but nothing quite prepared you for the chaos that was today.

the four of you are huddled behind a tipped-over dumpster outside what used to be a convenience store. it smells like melted slushie, wet cardboard, and regret. chris is holding lieutenant whiskers like he’s a sacred relic. matt is peeking around the side of the dumpster, gripping his crowbar like it’s about to audition for america’s got talent. nick is furiously scribbling something on his clipboard even though you’re currently under attack.

“how are you writing right now?” you whisper-shout.

“documentation is essential,” nick hisses. “if we don’t track patterns, how will we optimize our future looting runs?”

“we’re literally hiding behind trash while zombies sniff the air for our brains,” you say. “read the room.”

“ooo! write that down,” chris adds helpfully. “that was a good line.”

you risk a peek around the dumpster. three zombies. slow ones, thank god, but still enough to ruin your day (and your limbs). one of them is wearing a cheerleader uniform. you don’t know why that makes it worse, but it does. you were never a cheerleader. too much enthusiasm. not enough sarcasm.

“we can take them,” matt says, eyes flicking between the group.

“we as in all of us, or we as in you beat the undead to a pulp while we awkwardly flail and yell things like ‘nice swing’ and ‘watch out for the one with half a jaw’?” you ask. he looks at you, that tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “flailing’s part of the plan.”

your heart does that annoying flutter again. it’s fine. you’re just sleep-deprived. and possibly emotionally compromised. definitely not because matt keeps looking at you like you’re not just a liability with decent knife skills.

“okay,” nick says, “here’s the plan—”

before he can finish, chris stands up, hurls a can of beans directly at a zombie’s head. typical chris. the can makes impact with a loud thunk. the zombie stumbles, wobbles, and then goes down. the other two immediately groan and start dragging their crusty bodies in your direction.

“you absolute menace.” nick hisses.

“that was kind of impressive.” you admit.

“it was a precision strike,” chris says proudly, cradling lieutenant whiskers like a proud parent. “he’ll learn this technique when he’s older.”

matt doesn’t waste time. he moves like a storm—fast, focused, and slightly terrifying. his crowbar meets zombie skull with a crunch that makes your stomach lurch, but also maybe… swoon a little? okay, gross. focus.

you dive in to help, blade in hand, and together you take out the last one with minimal screaming and only one scraped elbow (yours, naturally). when it’s over, you’re panting, hands shaking a little, adrenaline buzzing through your veins like cheap coffee.

“we’re alive,” you breathe.

“of course we are,” matt says, brushing zombie gunk off your shoulder. “you did good.”

it’s two words. you did good. but coming from him? it feels like a poem. or a confession. you didn’t know, but it felt amazing.

“uh… thanks,” you say, trying not to smile like an idiot. you fail. just a little.

you all shuffle into the store, stepping over the fallen, bean-covered zombie. inside, the air smells like stale chips and apocalypse. shelves are mostly empty, but you find a few cans of soup, a bag of marshmallows, and—miraculously—two rolls of toilet paper. nick looks like he might cry.

“this is the most beautiful thing i’ve seen in weeks,” he says, clutching the toilet paper like it’s made of gold. matt tosses you a bottle of water from behind the counter. “you okay?” he asks, voice low, casual.

“yeah. you?”

he nods. “you’re getting better with that knife.”

you shrug. “guess i’ve had a good teacher.”

he looks at you for a beat longer than necessary. “you’re easy to teach.”

your cheeks feel warm. definitely the post-fight adrenaline. definitely not that look. god, why does the apocalypse have to come with feelings? nick interrupts your spiraling with a triumphant, “we’re done here. let’s go before chris tries to tame a raccoon or starts a cult.”

“i’d be a great cult leader,” chris says, stuffing marshmallows into his hoodie pocket.

you head back toward your makeshift base as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows on broken streets. your group walks in that familiar, weirdly comforting formation—nick mumbling to himself about inventory, chris humming the jurassic park theme song, matt walking quietly beside you, close enough that your arms occasionally brush.

maybe the world ended. maybe everything is broken. but you’ve got food, friends, and feelings you’re not ready to name. and, apparently, a cat named lieutenant whiskers. so yeah. not a bad day, all things considered, except maybe for the zombie that’s now following you from two blocks away.

but that’s definitely a tomorrow problem.

© delilahsturniolo

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

candy-floss dealer

Pairing: William Butcher x Bubblegum!Reader

Summary: Butcher's sick of seeing you around the safehouse. He's had words with Frenchie, he thinks he oughta have words with you.

Warnings: 18+!, language, Butcher being Butcher, implied/referenced drug taking, smut (p in v, rough sex), I think that's it?

Word Count: 6,527

He'd seen her before. More than once, actually. Slipping out the safehouse door like a cherry-scented ghost, glitter stuck to her cheekbone and a vape pen swinging from her fingers like a bloody talisman. Always after sunset. Always with Frenchie trailing behind, grinning like a lovesick dog and waving her off like they'd just shared tea and crumpets instead of whatever illicit shit they'd actually been up to.

And every single time, Butcher had words.

"Who the fuck is she?" "She's safe." "She's a liability." "She brings me things I need." "Yeah? 'N I'll bring you a fuckin' lobotomy if you keep lettin' fuckin' strays into a CIA-sanctioned op site."

But it never stuck. Frenchie had that look in his eye—the feral kind that said he'd cut a man's throat with a butter knife if it meant protecting the little bubblegum-coloured fox he'd adopted. And Kimiko didn't exactly help, nodding along in quiet, wordless approval, like the girl was family or some shit.

Butcher never spoke to her. Didn't need to. What was there to say to a creature like that? She looked like she belonged on a sticker pack. Like the kind of bird who smelled like cupcakes and talked like a toddler. Useless, probably. A sugar-coated liability with zero survival instincts.

Still. He noticed.

He noticed the swing in her step, the way her skirt bounced when she walked, like she had no business moving like that through a world this cruel. He noticed how she never looked back. Not even once. Never glanced his way—not to flirt, not to flinch. Nothing. Like she knew he was there and didn't give a single shiny fuck.

That... pissed him off more than he liked.

There was something wrong about her, in that bright, beautiful way things get right before the world wrecks them. Something out of place. Like finding a goddamn Fabergé egg in the middle of a minefield.

And Butcher didn't trust pretty things that wandered into warzones and walked out smiling.

He smelled the change before he saw it.

Cheap weed. Burnt ramen. Something saccharine clinging to the walls like a sticky fingerprint. The kind of scent that didn't belong in a place like this. Not in a CIA-sanctioned safehouse with bullet-scarred plaster and a fridge that wheezed like it had asthma.

Butcher's boots hit the floor heavy, deliberate. Not creeping. Just announcing. And still—none of the fuckers looked up.

Frenchie was splayed on the battered couch, a grin stretched wide across his face like he'd just snorted joy itself. Kimiko sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, tapping her fingers to the rhythm of some cartoon bullshit flashing across the telly. And you—

There you were.

Perched on the coffee table like you owned it, delicate fingers unscrewing a little glass bottle filled with something neon and definitely illegal. Pink hoodie half-zipped, lollipop handle poking out the side of your glossed mouth, socks covered in anime kittens. You were all bubblegum and bare thighs and sin someone hadn't quite named yet.

And you were laughing. Laughing with Frenchie like the world outside wasn't rotting, like you weren't trespassing in a fucking war zone.

That was the last straw.

"The fuck is this, then?" Butcher barked, stepping into the room like the embodiment of a migraine. "Slumber party, is it?"

The air didn't shift. You didn't flinch. You just looked up, slow and lazy, like you'd been expecting him.

"Oh look," you said, voice syrup-sweet and soaked in venom. "The human yeast infection speaks."

Frenchie cackled. Kimiko smirked.

Butcher blinked. Once. Twice.

"Sorry—who the fuck invited Barbie back in?"

"I did," Frenchie said without missing a beat, reaching out to take the bottle from your hand. "She brings me the good things. You want me clean, non? This is the price."

"The price," Butcher repeated, voice low and sour, "is that I don't throw your candy-floss dealer headfirst out the nearest fuckin' window."

You sucked loudly on the lollipop, leaned back on your hands, and stared straight into his soul.

"Try it, and I bite."

Butcher stared. He wasn't sure if the heat rising in his chest was rage or something worse.

Jesus fuckin' Christ. She's got fangs under all that frosting.

Frenchie was grinning again, clearly delighted.

"I tell you every time, mon frère," he said. "She is safe. Like a kitten. A kitten with knives."

Butcher's jaw ticked. Something dark and electric curled low in his gut as you kept smiling at him like you knew he was already lost.

He hated you. Hated how curious you made him feel. Hated that the only thing louder than your laugh was the sudden, sick twist of interest in his chest.

And for the first time—he didn't say a word back.

You didn't look at him again. Not once.

Instead, you turned back to Frenchie with a swing of your legs and a soft hum, like nothing had happened, like you hadn't just sunk your teeth into the walking plague of the room and left him bleeding quietly in the doorway.

"Anyway," you said, uncapping the little glass bottle with a delicate flick of your thumb. "This'll keep your brain from eating itself, but only if you don't mix it with vodka or benzos or... whatever radioactive trash you've been putting in your system lately."

Frenchie took the bottle with both hands like it was holy. "You are an angel. Une bénédiction." He kissed your knuckles dramatically, then tapped the side of his nose. "I do not mix anymore. I am a new man."

"You're a lying little goblin," you said sweetly, plucking a vape from the floor beside you. "And the last time you took this, you tried to reorganise the entire fridge alphabetically and then fell asleep in it."

Kimiko, seated on the floor with her knees hugged to her chest, let out a soft breath of laughter. She hadn't taken her eyes off the TV, but her smile had been there the whole time. Quiet. Comfortable.

"I told you I would make a spreadsheet," Frenchie insisted.

You grinned, soft and sharp all at once. "You tried to use croutons as dividers."

"It was an experiment in modular nutrition," he said with mock offence, clutching his heart.

Butcher watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, unmoving. The kind of stillness that wasn't calm—just compressed pressure. He didn't know what pissed him off more: how easily you fit here, or how clearly they let you.

The air smelled like weed and detergent. The overhead light buzzed like it was dying. And there you were, right in the centre of it all—bubblegum and bare thighs and kitten socks with little skulls on the toes.

You weren't just in their space. You were part of it.

And Butcher hated it.

Too soft. Too loud. Too fucking bright. And they let you in anyway.

You zipped your hoodie halfway, slipped the glass bottle back into your glittery pouch, and tucked it into your bag with a practiced little shuffle. Then, as if remembering something, you stood with a bounce and pulled your vape from your bra—dragged a long inhale and blew a ring toward the ceiling.

"Alright, boys and ghouls," you chirped. "I got other degenerates to tend to. Try not to die while I'm gone, yeah?"

Frenchie stood and saluted. "If I do, I will haunt you from beyond the grave."

You ruffled his hair. "You already do, sweetheart."

Kimiko gave a small wave—thumb and pinky out, the casual shaka—and you shot her a wink before adjusting your bag across your chest.

And that's when the temperature shifted. It was subtle. A prickle across the spine. The kind of silence that came just before something broke.

He knew you felt it before you heard him.

"Oi."

One syllable. Snarled like a hook in the back of your neck.

You turned your head slowly toward the hallway—where he stood, arms crossed, still planted in the same goddamn spot like rot in the foundation.

"You always that mouthy," Butcher said, voice low and edged in challenge, "or just when you've got yer fuckin' fan club around?"

His tone wasn't raised. Didn't need to be. It coiled through the room like smoke.

Frenchie's smile faltered—just for a second. But you? You didn't miss a beat. You met Butcher's stare with a tilt of your head, as if sizing up a joke before the punchline.

"You always that constipated," you said, slow and syrup-slick, "or just when someone prettier than you walks into the room?"

Frenchie howled. Kimiko barked out a laugh so sharp it startled even herself. And Butcher—

Butcher said nothing. Didn't move. Didn't blink. But something in his face twitched—an almost-smile that died before it was born.

You gave them both a little wave and turned back toward the door.

"See ya, sweets," you murmured to Frenchie. "Don't snort the fun pills. That one's oral only."

"You wound me," he called after you, clutching his chest again. "I am mature now."

"Uh-huh," you said over your shoulder. "Call me when you relapse. I'll bring snacks."

And then you stepped into the hallway—and the door clicked shut behind you.

Silence. No laughter now. No safe little buffer. Just you, your boots against creaky tiles, and the sound of someone stepping right behind you.

You didn't turn. Not yet.

"What is it now, Butcher?" You sighed, letting your bag slip down your shoulder as you faced the wall. "Forgot to tell me I'm a security risk again?"

He said nothing. So you turned. And there he was, closer now. Arms still crossed. Eyes still storm-dark. But that little twitch in his jaw told you what you needed to know.

He hadn't followed you out here for national security.

"You like mouthing off?" He asked. "That it?"

You smirked. "I like watching grumpy old men pretend they're intimidating."

"You think I'm grumpy?"

"I think you're dying to see what I say when no one's around to protect you."

That landed. His shoulders shifted. His mouth curved—not a smile, not really, but something darker.

"You think I need protection?"

"I think you need a hobby," you said, stepping into his space. "Or maybe a good fuck. Either way, I'm not giving you either."

He leaned down, inches from your mouth. The air was warm. Charged. Electric.

"Y'know what I think?"

"I'm shaking."

"I think you talk like that 'cause you want someone to shut you up."

You looked him straight in the eye, popped your lollipop from your mouth with a slick little pop, and said:

"Try me, Big Bad."

And then you walked away.

Butcher didn't follow. Not because he didn't want to. But because for the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure what the fuck he'd do if he caught you.

It'd been weeks.

Weeks without the glitter girl. Weeks without the sticky-sweet scent clinging to the curtains or the cartoon giggle echoing down the halls. Weeks without the fucking war crime of a vape trail you left behind.

And Butcher had been glad for it. That's what he told himself, anyway.

But when he stepped into the safehouse and caught the scent of some sickly-sweet body spray clinging to the stale air—he paused. Knew what it meant before he saw it. Before he saw you.

And fuck him—you were right back on the coffee table.

Like you'd never left.

Boots tucked under you, hoodie halfway unzipped, some horror of a pink pouch open on your lap, and that ridiculous glossy lollipop hanging from your lips. You were talking, chipper as a cartoon. Giving Frenchie the rundown on some new bottle of god-knows-what you'd brought him, like you were prescribing vitamins instead of illicit pharmaceuticals.

Frenchie and Kimiko were already there. Frenchie perched on the arm of the couch, laughing with his whole chest. Kimiko stretched across the floor like a cat, nodding absently at the screen. And there you were, in the middle of it all—knees tucked under you on the coffee table again, back arched, lip glossed, smiling like sin.

But this time?

This time he was here too.

Soldier Boy. Sitting in the goddamn recliner like it was a throne, one arm tossed over the back, the other nursing a beer. Aviators still on indoors, like a right twat. T-shirt too tight, ego tighter.

"So you're like a drug fairy or some shit?" Soldier Boy was asking, giving you that lazy up-and-down. "You sprinkle a little happy dust and poof—Frenchie stops twitchin'?"

You popped your gum. "Something like that. Depends how nice he is to me that week."

"And what about me, sweetheart?" Soldier Boy drawled. "I get a discount if I smile real pretty?"

Frenchie rolled his eyes. "You smile like a serial killer."

"A fuckin' charmin' one," Soldier Boy said without missing a beat.

And you—you laughed. Not the fake kind either. A real laugh. Light and bright and warm enough that Butcher felt it sting.

Felt it in his teeth. In his fuckin' chest.

No. Absolutely not. Fuck off with that.

He hated how it made him feel. Hated how Soldier Boy looked at you like you were dessert. Hated how you didn't shut it down.

But then you caught his eye. And Butcher watched it happen. Watched the moment your gaze snagged on his, held just long enough to feel deliberate, and then—

Something changed.

Your smile stayed, but the edge dulled. You shifted back slightly. Crossed one leg over the other. Still playful. Still glitter and pink sugar and dangerous calm—but not available.

And Butcher—fuck him—felt something twist in his gut.

You turned back to Frenchie, opened your pouch, and began pulling out a new set of bottles and blister packs.

"Okay, new rules," you said, clicking your tongue as you sorted. "Yellow ones are daytime only. No alcohol. Blue tabs are for emergencies only—no more than one every eight hours or you will absolutely start hallucinating your trauma."

Frenchie nodded, suddenly dead serious. "And the green ones?"

"Don't touch the green ones unless you're dying or planning to astral project. Either way, text me first."

Butcher watched your lips as you spoke, the occasional pop of your gum as you listed dos and don'ts.

"Pink tabs are serotonin pushers," you were saying, voice all sugar and sharp. "Good for when you're low, but they'll kill your appetite, so eat something or you'll look like an extra from Trainspotting by morning."

Frenchie nodded solemnly. "I will make toast. Emotional toast."

Kimiko laughed. Butcher didn't. Instead, Butcher's voice cut through the air like a blade.

"And how the fuck do you know what any of that does?"

The room quieted. All eyes on him.

You didn't look up from your bag.

"Excuse me?"

"You don't look like you use this shit," Butcher said, stepping further into the room. "But you rattle off side effects like you wrote the fuckin' labels. So what is it? You playing scientist? Little bit of pretend chemistry? Or just parroting what your dealer told ya?"

You looked up then. Slow. Controlled. Cold.

"It's not any of your fucking business," you said flatly. "But if you must know—I'm good with chemicals. Pharmaceutical chemistry. Human biology. Neuropharmacology. Pick one. I've got credits in all of 'em."

Soldier Boy let out a low whistle. "Shit, that's hot."

You shot him a look. "Don't make it weird."

But he wasn't done. Of course not. He leaned back with that lazy grin, turned his face slightly—but his eyes stayed on Butcher.

"Didn't realise we had to clear our jokes with the watchdog first."

Butcher curled his lip.

"Flirt all you want. Just don't drag your clap through the furniture."

Frenchie choked. Kimiko looked mildly horrified. But Soldier Boy only leaned in more.

"Told you, sweetheart," he drawled, flashing you a grin that belonged in a mugshot. "You're wasted on these pricks. You ever wanna deal with real men, you let me know."

And you?

You didn't blink. Just cracked your gum once—loud. Then:

"You two wanna whip 'em out already?" You asked, slow and sweet. "Should I get a ruler?"

Butcher nearly choked. Frenchie wheezed laughter. Kimiko covered her face. Soldier Boy grinned like a devil.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ." Soldier Boy chuckled low. "What's wrong, Butcher? Gonna lose on length and charm?"

Butcher's voice cut sharp.

"Heard your brain's three inches shorter than your dick. And that's still not sayin' much."

That shut the room up.

Soldier Boy's smile dropped. Beer bottle thunked down on the table. "You wanna take this outside, pussy?"

But then you stood. Bag over your shoulder. Boots firm against the tile. Chin high.

"I'm not a fucking prize for you two to arm-wrestle over." You turned to Frenchie, soft again. "Text me if the green ones make you time travel."

He nodded, still blinking, like you'd stunned him. You looked at Butcher next—just long enough to let the venom simmer—then at Soldier Boy.

"But hey—thanks for reminding me why I prefer chemicals to men."

Snap.

Your gum cracked like a pistol shot in the quiet. And you turned your eyes—straight to Butcher. Locked on like a scope.

"So," you said, voice smooth and sweet like poison in honey. "Is the grumpy old man gonna walk me to my car?"

Butcher froze.

The fuck did you just—

"I can do that," Soldier Boy cut in instantly, sitting forward. "Glad to."

But you didn't even look at him. You just lifted a hand—graceful, slow—and held it out in a stop without taking your eyes off Butcher for a single second.

"I wasn't talking to you," you murmured. "But I'll keep that in mind for next time."

The room went quiet. Butcher felt it in his spine. The tension. The heat. Like someone'd just lit a match behind his ribs.

And then you cocked a brow. Head tilted. That bubblegum pop mouth twisted into something almost smug. Almost dangerous.

"Well?" You said.

Fuck.

He didn't say a word. Didn't move when you cocked that brow, didn't answer when you tossed the challenge across the room like a lit match. Just watched as you turned with a toss of your hair, hips swaying like you knew he was going to follow.

And fuck him—he did.

Of course he did.

He trailed behind you as the door shut, boots heavy on the scuffed linoleum, and you? You were a fucking vision of chaos in motion. Half his size, all legs and attitude, miniskirt bouncing, pink hoodie riding up the curve of your back. You walked like the hallway belonged to you. Like you'd paved the fucking floor with your own glitter.

He kept his distance. Just a few steps back. Far enough to pretend it was casual. Close enough to clock the way you popped your gum every few paces, loud and sharp and deliberate. Like punctuation.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Every sound was a middle finger.

Butcher's eyes dipped once—just once—to the curve of your thighs, the sway of your hips. He let himself look, let it hit like a blow to the gut. You were small. Soft-looking, sure, but dangerous in ways you probably didn't even know yet. Or maybe you did.

That was worse.

The lot was mostly empty when you reached your car. Streetlamp buzzing above like a dying insect. Butcher stopped beside you as you clicked your keychain and lit up the machine in front of him.

He squinted.

It was pink. Of course it fucking was. Tiny, boxy, obnoxious. Covered in stickers. One Powerpuff Girl flipping the bird from the back window.

Jesus wept.

You turned to face him, one hand resting on your hip. Still chewing, still unreadable. And when you spoke, it wasn't a question. It was a bullet wrapped in satin.

"So, William... you the type to do dates—or is it just one messy fuck to get all that grumpy bullshit out of your system?"

He blinked. Scoffed. Looked away like that'd shake something loose.

"Ain't thought about it."

You raised a brow. "No?"

"No."

You smiled. Real slow.

"Liar."

He grit his teeth. "And if I was?"

"Then you're coy. It's cute," you said, stepping closer—just close enough that he caught the scent of your perfume again, something synthetic and sharp and you. "I don't mind."

Butcher stared at you, the smirk twitching at the edge of your mouth, the way you tilted your chin up like you were waiting for a punch and daring it to land.

"You're trouble," he muttered.

"You love trouble." Your voice was soft now. Velvet-wrapped and dangerous. "And you've definitely thought about it. Thought about what it'd feel like to get it out of your system. Rip it out of your ribs and put it somewhere hot and messy and mine."

He clenched his jaw. Didn't move. Didn't breathe.

"You gonna keep playin' coy, William?" You murmured, eyes locked on his. "Or are you gonna be a man about it?"

He didn't answer. Didn't trust his voice not to betray the fact that he'd absolutely thought about it. More than once.

And if he was smart, he'd walk away. Right now. But Butcher had never been all that fucking smart.

You didn't move right away. Just stood there, one hand on your hip, the other hanging loose at your side, the pink strap of your bag riding high across your chest like a weapon holster. The streetlamp cast your shadow long across the cracked pavement, a soft silhouette with bite, and Butcher—he couldn't fucking look away.

You were chewing your gum slow now. Not lazy. Loaded. Like every snap between your teeth was another nail in his goddamn coffin. That smug little smile still playing on your lips, like you already knew he was fucked. Like you were doing him a favour by letting him watch you walk away.

He should've turned around. Should've made a cutting comment and left you standing there like the chaos you were.

Instead—he stepped forward.

A single step. Just enough to close the distance between you. Not quite touching. But he could feel your warmth, your perfume, that faint sugar-sharp scent clinging to the night air like a curse. You were a full foot shorter than him, head tilted back just slightly to meet his eyes. No flinch. No nerves.

You stared like you'd already decided how this would end.

Then, slow as sin, you reached into your bag. Fished around between your glittery pill cases and lip gloss tubes, and pulled out a sad little scrap of notepad paper—creased, purple-lined, with some cartoon frog in the corner giving a peace sign.

Of fucking course.

Butcher watched you uncap a pen. Watched you scrawl something in big, looping numbers across the page. Each stroke deliberate. Confident. Like you weren't just writing down your number—you were writing him a problem.

Then—casually—you popped the gum from your mouth, rolled it between two fingers, and stuck it right on the edge of the paper. Pressed it in like a kiss.

You stepped in—close. Pressed the whole thing into his palm, fingers lingering just long enough to make it clear it wasn't an accident.

"For when you stop pretending," you said, voice low and syrup-slick. A wink followed, fast and clean. "Night, William."

He didn't answer.

Couldn't.

Because he was standing there, in a piss-yellow parking lot under a buzzing streetlamp, holding your fucking phone number, complete with used chewing gum and cartoon frogs, and trying not to visibly sweat about it.

You turned without another word, hopped into that ridiculous pink clown car, and fired the engine.

The music hit like a shotgun blast—something synth-heavy and violent with bubblegum vocals screaming over it. Bass shook the tiny frame as you adjusted your mirrors and didn't look at him once.

Then, just before peeling out of the lot like a bat out of pastel hell, you threw him a two-finger salute. Sharp. Dismissive. Final.

And then you were gone. Burned rubber. Candy scent. Blown speakers. Gone.

Butcher stared at the empty space you left behind like a man who'd just been mugged by a fever dream. He still had the paper in his hand, crumpled now from how tightly he'd clenched it. The gum was still warm. Still soft. He could feel it through the page.

His cock was half-hard. And he hated that.

Inside, the mood hadn't shifted at all.

Frenchie was still on the couch, cackling at something Soldier Boy was saying—some bollocks about a bear trap and a stripper. Kimiko had curled up in the armchair now, watching the boys like a woman observing animals through glass.

None of them looked at Butcher when he walked back in.

Good.

He didn't want them to.

"You alright, mon frère?" Frenchie asked without looking, stuffing popcorn into his mouth with both hands. "You look like someone pissed on your cornflakes."

Butcher ignored him. Didn't pause. He passed through the room like smoke, tension in his shoulders and that crumpled paper burning a hole in his jacket pocket.

"Goin' to bed," he muttered.

That got Soldier Boy's attention. The smug cunt chuckled.

"Better jerk off before you sleep, Butcher. You're lookin' a little tense."

Butcher didn't answer. Didn't flip him off. Didn't give him the satisfaction. Just disappeared down the hall, boots echoing, heart hammering, half-hard and angry and more rattled than he'd admit if you put a gun to his head.

And in his pocket? That fucking number. Still damp. Still pressed between his fingers like a threat.

He hadn't called.

Not because he didn't want to. But because calling meant admitting something.

That he'd thought about it. About you. About what you'd said, and how you'd said it—with that glitter-glossed smirk and the gum pressed to paper like a kiss-shaped curse. The note lived in the back of his sock drawer now, folded between worn cotton and denial, burning a hole in his fucking resolve.

He'd taken it out twice. Once drunk. Once sober. Both times, he folded it back up with shaking hands.

It'd been weeks. Enough time to pretend it didn't matter. Enough time to lie to himself in peace.

But today?

You were back.

He walked into the safehouse and the heat hit him first. The air was thick, swampy—no proper ventilation, windows shut tight against the kind of daylight that burned the skin off you in minutes. Sweat clung to the back of his neck.

And there you were.

Sitting on the same goddamn coffee table like it belonged to you. Hoodie discarded in a heap beside you like it meant fuck all—exposed now in some little pink slip of a dress that barely covered your thighs. One knee tucked under you, the other swinging lazily. A sheen of sweat gleamed at your collarbone, glinting where your dress clung to you in all the wrong places.

You were explaining something to Frenchie—voice animated, hands waving, pill bottle in one, notebook in the other.

"It mimics a candy flip," you were saying, like it was no big deal. "But safer. No MDMA crash. No hangover. Half the hallucinations, double the serotonin. I'm calling it Kiki."

Frenchie blinked. "Like... the delivery witch?"

"Exactly," you grinned, popping your vape from your bra. "Cute name, terrifying high."

Butcher didn't announce himself. Didn't say a word.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw locked, watching as you tied your hair up with a pink elastic pulled from your wrist. Your movements were lazy, careless—flyaways sticking to your neck, sweat glistening across your skin, one strand of hair blowing loose across your cheek. You huffed it away with a pout, not even noticing the way his stomach fucking clenched watching you.

It was obscene. That level of ease.

Then Frenchie stood, muttered something about grabbing a glass of water, and stepped out. Butcher stayed frozen in the shadows. And—without looking up—you spoke.

"You gonna stand there all day, or you wanna come sit down, you scared little ghost?"

He blinked.

You didn't turn around. Didn't glance his way. Just twisted the cap off another bottle and kept talking like you didn't just wreck him.

"Jesus, William. You're worse than Frenchie's hallucinations."

His pulse kicked.

"You know," you added, voice light as air. "If you didn't want my number, maybe you should've passed it on to someone a little more willing."

He stepped forward once, slow. "You mean Soldier Boy?"

That got your eyes on him. You looked up—chin tilted, lashes heavy, that grin slinking across your face like smoke under a door.

"He's not my first choice," you said with a shrug, "but if you're really not game, I'll take what I can get."

And that was it.

Butcher snapped.

He crossed the room in three strides, one hand grabbing the back of your dress—soft cotton fisting tight in his fist—as he yanked you up off the coffee table like a fucking rag doll. You squeaked once, laughed next, boots scuffing against the floor as he frog-marched you straight down the hallway.

"Well, someone's finally feeling chatty," you said, breathless and delighted, letting him drag you with zero resistance.

Butcher didn't answer. Couldn't. Not when his blood was boiling and his cock was stiffening and you—you—were grinning like the filthy little menace you were, eyes lit up with pure chaos, hands swinging like this was just a fucking game.

Like you'd planned it.

And maybe you had. You always did.

The door slammed behind you hard enough to rattle the hinges.

You barely had time to stumble forward, his hand still fisted in the back of your dress, knuckles white around the soft pink fabric like he didn't trust himself to let go.

For a second, he didn't. For a second, he just stood there, chest heaving, pulse pounding like boots on concrete, staring at you like you'd just pulled the pin and handed him the grenade.

You weren't scared.

You looked up at him with that same fucking smirk, all teeth and glitter, breath a little heavier but no less composed. You tilted your head, mouth quirking like you were chewing on a thought.

Then—

"You gonna do something," you murmured, low and saccharine, "or just march me around like I'm—"

You didn't get the rest out.

Butcher was on you before the sentence died in your throat, both hands on your waist, hoisting you clean off the ground with a growl caught in his throat. You yelped, surprised—but laughing, too, high and breathless.

Your legs snapped around his hips like instinct, your thighs squeezing firm as he spun, caging you in the centre of his room like a man possessed.

He held you there—fuck, he held you like he was starving for it. One arm locked under your ass, keeping you up, the other sliding up the length of your back until his hand found the messy bun at the crown of your head. Fingers tangled, rough, yanking just hard enough to make your mouth part with a startled breath.

And then he kissed you.

Not soft. Not careful. But hungry—like you were the end of the fucking world and he'd decided to swallow it whole.

You tasted like bubblegum.

Of course you did.

Sweet and sticky and stupidly you, all pink gloss and danger, and Butcher wanted to rip it off your mouth with his teeth.

But then—then—you made a sound.

A low, humming little purr, amused and pleased, like the whole thing was delicious, and it hit him like a fucking thunderclap. That noise. That fucking noise.

You giggled into his mouth a second later, breath hitching as his teeth grazed your bottom lip, and he cursed into the kiss because fuck, this was not supposed to be funny. But you were laughing—soft and delighted, squirming just slightly in his grip, hands curled into his shirt like you owned him already.

And maybe you did.

Because he couldn't stop. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but kiss you harder, fingers digging into the backs of your thighs as he held you like gravity was a lie and your mouth was the only goddamn thing he believed in.

The kiss didn't break—it fractured.

Split open around the sound you made when his hand slid up your thigh, bunching the flimsy scrap of your dress to your waist like it had no business existing between his hands and your skin. He grunted into your mouth, shifting his grip so your back arched into him, thighs bracketing his ribs as you ground down like it was muscle memory.

It probably was.

You were burning. Skin damp, lips sticky, breathing like you'd run five miles just to get here. Your hips rocked against him, needy and sweet, your arms looped around his neck like you'd been waiting for this—for him—and just hadn't had the patience to say it out loud.

He walked you to the nearest wall like he was possessed, one arm under your thighs, the other gripping your jaw now, thumb dragging across your lower lip, smearing whatever gloss you had left.

You hit the wall with a dull thud, back flat, legs tight around him, and he shifted his weight until your core pressed hot against the bulge in his jeans. He grunted, fumbled his zipper down with one hand, just enough to free himself—barely enough.

You wriggled, giggling like a fucking heathen, all flushed and glowing, hair sticking to your temple in soft, wet curls.

"You sure?" He growled, voice low, brutal, the kind of rasp you feel between your ribs. "Last chance, love."

You opened your mouth to say something—no doubt cruel, no doubt biting.

Butcher didn't let you finish. He thrust into you without warning.

You choked on a gasp, legs tightening around him in a spasm. He groaned, low and guttural, head dropping to your shoulder as he sank into you like it hurt.

"Fucking—Christ."

You were so goddamn tight. Wet. Already clenching around him like you'd been aching for this for weeks.

"Jesus," you breathed, voice shuddering. "God, finally—"

Butcher didn't let you say another word.

He pulled back and drove into you hard, fast, all hips and fury, the slap of skin on skin already obscene in the humid air of the room. He fucked you like a man possessed—like every step you'd taken, every smartass line, every smack of your gum, had led to this.

And now?

Now you were his to shut up.

"This what you wanted?" He hissed, jaw clenched, fucking into you like he meant to leave you ruined. "All that mouth—figured I'd fill it with somethin' else but this'll do."

You moaned, head thunking against the wall, one hand gripping his bicep like you were clinging for dear life.

"I'll fuck the attitude outta you, you little cunt." He slammed into you again, rougher, harder, angling his hips until your mouth dropped open on a gasp. "But you just don't shut up, do you?"

Your nails raked his back, and you laughed—you laughed, breathless and wrecked.

"Then shut me up, William."

His hand snapped to your throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Claiming.

"Oh, I'm gonna."

And he kept going—hard, brutal, mean. Each thrust a punishment. Each groan a confession. And you? You took it like you'd won.

Because maybe you had.

You were a fucking mess now. Sweat-slick, dress shoved up to your waist, heels kicking against his thighs as he slammed into you like he was trying to fuck the smart out of your brain. Your bun had all but come undone—strands sticking to your neck, curling wild around your face—and still you were smiling.

Still giggling like this was a game you were winning.

"Still cocky?" He snarled, slamming you harder against the wall, your moan cutting into a whimper. "Still got shit to say?"

Your head lolled back, lips parted, one wrist trapped above your head now as he pinned it there with his free hand, the other gripping your ass, guiding you down onto every brutal thrust.

You made a tiny, breathless sound. A purr. Fucking delighted.

"Always got something to say," you breathed. "You'll just have to work harder."

Butcher growled—actually growled—and drove into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The sound that left you was wrecked, cracked open, real.

"Oh, I'll fuckin' work harder, alright," he spat, slamming into you again. "Wanna get smart with me? Mouth off like some little tart in a fuckin' dress?"

You shivered.

"Who wears that, eh?" He hissed, snapping his hips up. "You knew what you were doin'. Walkin' in here dressed like a wet dream and flutterin' your fuckin' lashes."

You moaned—high and hitched—and he felt you clench around him, a fresh pulse of wet heat coating him as you writhed.

"Yeah, that's right," he sneered. "Knew I'd snap. Knew I'd have you up against the fuckin' wall like a little slut beggin' for it."

You gasped, clinging tighter, eyes wide and glazed.

"You like that, don't you? Bein' used." Another thrust, so deep it knocked your head back. "Like gettin' ruined by a bloke old enough to fuckin' ground you."

You whimpered.

"Fuckin' knew it," he said, teeth gritted, losing rhythm now—not slowing, just sloppier, more desperate. "All that sass—just wanted someone to shut you the fuck up, yeah?"

You whined, loud and unrestrained.

"Well, congratulations, sweetheart," he rasped, voice fraying. "You found the right cunt."

You giggled, delirious and breathless and fuck if it didn't make him even harder, because somehow you still weren't done.

"So fuckin' full of yourself," you slurred into his ear, lips brushing the shell. "All bark, all teeth—figured you'd be soft when it counted."

Butcher bit your shoulder.

Hard.

You gasped—choked—and came right fucking then. Clenching around him so hard he nearly dropped you, your whole body spasming against his chest, thighs trembling as you cried out his name like a threat and a prayer.

He groaned, desperate now, fucked you through it, fast and ruthless, chasing his own high like it owed him something.

"Gonna fill you," he growled, voice feral. "Wanna walk out of here drippin' with me, that it?"

You nodded mindlessly, mouth hung open, eyes glazed over.

"Wanna sit back on that fuckin' table in front of Frenchie, smile all smug, and let 'em wonder who wrecked you like this?"

You whimpered something into his neck—he didn't even catch it. He was too far gone. Too full of you.

Two more thrusts—

One more ragged breath—

And then he spilled into you with a broken, strangled groan, hips jerking as he held you flush, cock pulsing deep inside, your name on his tongue like blasphemy.

He didn't move. Not for a moment. Didn't dare. Just breathed hard against your shoulder, heart hammering like gunfire, fingers still clenched in your hair and around your wrist.

And you? Your breath was still stuttering.

Sweat clung to the back of your neck, your thighs twitching around his waist in the aftermath. You hadn't let go yet—not completely—and neither had he.

Butcher's hands were still locked under your thighs and in your hair, holding you there against the wall like he didn't trust the air to carry your weight. You were flushed, glossy-eyed, fucked-out and grinning like a demon in pink.

He didn't know how long he stood there like that. Seconds. Minutes. Just breathing you in.

Then—your voice, wrecked and smug, cut through the silence like a knife through silk.

"You need to put me down, old man?" You rasped, arms still draped loose around his neck. "Your ancient little arms must be struggling."

He huffed out a laugh against your throat, warm and rough.

"Cheeky little cunt," he muttered.

"You're the one who said you're old enough to ground me," you shot back, breath hitching into a chuckle. "I'm just using your words, William."

That earned a real laugh from him. Low. Gravelled. Something mean and self-aware curled beneath it. But before he could fire off a comeback, you whispered—

"Lucky for you," you purred, "I've got a thing for grumpy old men who wear shit shirts."

He scoffed, pulling his head back just enough to look at you, eyes glinting.

"Yeah? And I've clearly got a thing for bratty little slags dressed like Polly Pocket on ketamine."

You barked a soft, shocked laugh, breathless and delighted.

"Fair."

He didn't move. Still buried inside you, still holding your spent body against the wall like a fucking crime scene. The sweat between you was tacky now, clinging. The room smelled like sex and heat and tension that hadn't gone anywhere.

Then—

"So?" You asked, a little quieter now, but still cocky. "Did it help?"

Butcher's eyes flicked over your face. That smug, perfect mouth. Your throat, still marked from his teeth. Your wrecked hair and sweat-glossed skin and the way you blinked up at him like you'd won something.

And maybe you had.

He nodded.

"Yeah," he rasped. "Helped."

And in his chest, something low and unholy growled awake.

Not love. Not softness. But something feral. Something like a match still burning after it's hit the ground.

Because the truth was—

You didn't just help. You hollowed him out. You carved your name into the part of him he didn't know was still alive. And he had a feeling? You weren't nearly done. Not yet.

Not even close.

a/n: Okay, I loved writing this one omg. FINALLY writing something from Butcher's perspective felt more cathartic than I can even begin to articulate. I am Butcher, he is me. British, always calling people "cunt", jaded, daddy issues up the wazoo, creative insults... have I missed any? I don't fuckin' think so. Please let me know what y'alls think because I absolutely loved writing this one. I think I might start writing for Butcher more. You're all fuckin' welcome. All the love.

Butcher taglist: @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @losers-clvb @drakulana @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @love2liz @angelicjackles @tinas111 @lunaleah @mostlymarvelgirl @kaz-2y5-spn @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 <3