#can’t blame him for wanting all of you all at once

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Don’t Blame Me

Evan Buckley x fem!reader

The coffee pot hisses lowly in the background, but you don’t move to pour a cup.

Buck’s standing near the kitchen counter in his uniform pants and undershirt, tugging on his boots like he’s trying to outrun the tension hanging in the air. He hasn’t looked at you once since he walked out of the bedroom. Not while brushing his teeth. Not while grabbing his keys. Not even when you greeted him with a hesitant, quiet, “Morning.”

You’re still in your pajamas, arms crossed tight over your chest, holding your breath like it’ll stop you from saying something you’ll regret.

But he’s the one who speaks first.

“I’m gonna be late,” he mutters.

That’s it. That’s all you get.

Not good morning. Not I’m sorry for last night. Just that distant, flat tone you hate. The one he uses when he’s already halfway out the door, emotionally and physically.

“Then be late,” you bite out before you can stop yourself. “Be late and talk to me.”

Buck freezes with his boot half-laced, finally—finally—lifting his eyes to you.

You expect softness. Regret. Anything.

But his gaze is cold. Exhausted.

“I don’t want to fight with you again.”

“Then stop running away from me every time I try to fix this!” you snap.

The words crack like a whip across the quiet morning, and for a second, he doesn’t move. Just stares.

“You said I make everything harder,” he says finally, his voice quieter, but sharper. “Do you remember that? Last night? When you were mad—you said loving me is exhausting.”

Your mouth opens—closes—opens again. The memory rushes back, half-blurred by tears and frustration. You did say that. Not because you meant it, but because you were hurt. Because you were trying to get him to hurt too.

“Buck…” your voice falters. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.”

“You didn’t even try to take it back.”

“I—I was upset. You kept shutting me out—”

“I shut down when I’m overwhelmed!” he explodes, and now the room isn’t quiet anymore.

“I know that!” you yell back. “But you shut me out even when I’m just trying to love you! What do you want from me? You want me to give you space? I do. You want me to show up and be patient? I do that too. But you’re never really here, Buck. You’re never fully with me.”

He turns away like he can’t stand to look at you. And somehow, that hurts more than anything he’s said.

“I have a job,” he mutters.

“And I have a heart!” you fire back. “And you’ve been breaking it piece by piece, every time you act like I’m the enemy just because I want more from you than silence!”

He exhales hard, grabs his shirt, and starts pulling it on. “I can’t do this right now. I’m going to work.”

“So that’s it?” you ask, voice cracking. “You’re gonna walk out like everything’s fine?”

“I didn’t say it was fine,” he says over his shoulder. “I just said I have a shift to cover.”

“Right,” you whisper. “Because running into burning buildings is easier than facing me.”

That one makes him stop.

His jaw flexes. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He turns just enough to look at you—but not close enough to bridge the canyon between you.

“I’ll be back tonight.”

And before you can say anything—before you can tell him you’re sorry, or that you didn’t mean it like that, or please don’t leave like this—the door shuts behind him.

Hard.

And just like that, the morning falls silent again.

But now, it’s worse.

Because that’s the last thing you said to him.

And by tonight… you won’t even know if he’s coming home.

———

The first thing you reach for is the cast iron skillet.

Not because it’s convenient—but because it’s his favorite. You haven’t used it in weeks, and the weight of it in your hands feels heavier than it should. Like it knows this meal has more to carry than just calories.

It’s a little after 7:00 when you start the prep, soft music playing low in the background—some jazz playlist Buck said once reminded him of his mom’s kitchen when he was little. You’re not trying to win him over. You’re trying to reach him. To say with this meal what your mouth failed to this morning.

You’re making chicken marsala, his comfort food. The real kind—not the 20-minute kind with shortcuts and cornstarch and cheap wine. You’re talking browned mushrooms and shallots in butter, reduced marsala with stock, pan-seared chicken cutlets finished in the oven. It takes time. Effort. Intention.

Everything you wish you’d put into the conversation you had with him before he left this morning.

⸻

The chicken is sliced and floured by 7:18.

You take your time with the mushrooms, caramelizing them until they’re deep golden and nutty. You remember the first time you made this for him—he said it tasted better than any restaurant. You laughed, thinking he was exaggerating. Then he kissed your cheek and asked for seconds.

Your eyes sting now as you stir.

You glance at the clock. 7:47.

He has two more hours on shift. He said he’d come home after. You want to believe him.

So you keep cooking like he will.

⸻

By 8:10, the sauce is reducing and the house smells rich and warm. You even took the time to roast baby potatoes with garlic and rosemary and steam green beans the way he likes—still slightly crisp. You set the table for two. His side has the glass of cabernet you know he won’t drink more than two sips of.

You’re wearing one of his old firehouse tees. The one that got too small in the shoulders but he refused to throw out.

And while the chicken rests on a warm plate in the oven, you finally sit down at the counter and let yourself think.

How do I bring it up?

You know he hates conflict. You know he gets overwhelmed fast. You’re not perfect either—you push, you poke, you say things to test if he’ll stay. You don’t want to do that this time.

Maybe I’ll start with: I miss you.

Simple. Honest. Less threatening.

Or maybe: I didn’t mean what I said yesterday.

Because you didn’t. You never meant it. He exhausts you sometimes, yes—but you never meant him. You meant the space between you. The way he shuts down. You just… don’t know how to reach through the wall when it goes up.

The smell of dinner still fills the apartment. Everything’s still warm.

8:57.

You fluff the potatoes with a fork and smile. Almost time.

⸻

9:23.

You open your texts. Nothing. You refresh. Nothing.

You click on his location and see the familiar dot at the station. Still there. Maybe paperwork ran late. Maybe someone needed a minute to talk. You know how it goes.

You pour a glass of wine. Just half.

⸻

9:51.

You go ahead and put his plate in the microwave to keep it warm. Not reheat—just enough so it’s not cold when he walks in. You picture his tired face lighting up when he smells the marsala sauce. You imagine him slipping his arms around your waist from behind, whispering “You made this for me?”

You’ll say yes, and then you’ll apologize first. You’ll say it was a bad morning, and you love him, and you don’t want to keep hurting each other every time things get hard. You’ll say “We’re better than this, right?”

He’ll nod. Kiss your forehead.

It’ll be okay.

⸻

10:37.

You’re pacing now. Your stomach’s tight with something halfway between worry and dread. You check your phone again. Still nothing. You almost call, thumb hovering over his contact—but you stop yourself. You don’t want to seem clingy. He said he was coming home.

He promised.

⸻

11:02.

You call.

Voicemail.

You wait five minutes. Then call again.

Still voicemail.

You open Eddie’s contact. Then Chim’s. You don’t press call, but your thumb hovers. Maybe they’d know. Maybe something’s wrong. Maybe—

Your phone buzzes.

It’s not him.

It’s a  text from one of his coworkers:

“Hey Y/N, thank you for being ok with Buck canceling your dinner date tonight, my baby is sick and we’re taking her to the hospital. I really appreciate both of you.”

Your breath leaves your body like a punch to the ribs.

Third shift.

Third.

That means 9pm to 7am.

And he didn’t tell you.

Not a single word.

⸻

The anger doesn’t hit all at once. It builds—slow and hot, like the marsala sauce did earlier, except now you’re burning from the inside out.

He looked you in the eye and told you he’d come home tonight.

He let you wait. Let you hope. Let you believe that maybe he wanted to fix this too. And the whole time, he knew. He knew he wasn’t coming.

You grab the to-go container from the top shelf of the cabinet—the one he uses when he packs leftovers for shift. You fill it with the marsala. The potatoes. Everything.

You don’t care that it’s after 11.

You don’t care that you’re not wearing shoes yet.

You’re going to the firehouse.

You’re going to look him in the eye and ask him why.

——

The firehouse is alive with the usual noise — radios buzzing, boots clacking, men focused on their shift.

You burst through the door, the cold container of chicken marsala digging into your palm. The food’s cold, just like your patience.

Buck’s sitting at the table with Eddie and Chim, playing cards like it’s some damn party and not a damn job.

You don’t hesitate. You throw the container on the table with a slap loud enough to stop the whole room.

“Are you serious right now?” Your voice is sharp, venom dripping from every word.

They all look up, startled. Buck’s face goes tight — but you don’t care.

“You said you were coming home,” you spit, stepping closer, rage burning in your chest. “You looked me in the eye and said, ‘I’ll be home after shift.’ And then you pick up another goddamn shift and don’t even have the decency to tell me?”

His mouth opens, but you cut him off.

“I waited. Two fucking hours—waiting for you to walk through that door. Waiting for you to show up so I could finally fix this damn fight. And all I get is silence.”

You’re shaking now. The fire’s burning so hot it’s almost painful.

“Do you know what it feels like to cook your favorite meal for an hour and a half, spend every second thinking about how to not start another fight—and then find out you didn’t even come home?”

Buck’s jaw clenches. You see the guilt trying to crawl out, but you don’t give a damn.

Before things can get worse, Bobby steps in between you two.

“Y/N, enough,” he says, calm but firm.

You laugh, bitter and loud. “No, Bobby. I’m done. Done pretending I’m not fucking furious. Done waiting on someone who can’t even text me.”

You turn sharply and walk out, leaving the cold food and the broken silence behind.

The street is nearly empty—just you, the hum of the engine, and the boiling silence inside your chest.

You grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. Your pulse is still racing from the firehouse. From him. From the way he sat there laughing, like you hadn’t been home, pacing in the kitchen for hours with a full plate of his favorite food going cold on the counter.

A sob claws its way up your throat but dies before it reaches your mouth.

You’re so caught in your spiraling thoughts, you almost miss the headlights screaming toward you from the side.

Almost.

Too fast.

Your head whips to the left—brakes screeching—but it’s too late.

The other car slams into your passenger side at full speed, a T-bone hit with the force of a missile.

Metal screams. Your body jolts violently as the impact rips through you like lightning. The car spins uncontrollably, tires screeching, glass exploding like gunfire.

Time slows down.

Your head whips forward, then back, as the car spins once—

Twice—

Then slams sideways into a tree with bone-crushing force. The passenger side caves inward, the entire right half of the car crushed like paper.

Your head hits the driver-side window with a crack, blood immediately pooling from your temple. The airbag deploys a second too late to save your ribs from the force. Pain sears through your abdomen—blunt trauma, maybe internal bleeding. You can’t tell.

The door won’t open. Your hands won’t move.

You taste copper.

You can’t scream.

The cold rushes in through shattered glass. Somewhere outside, someone’s shouting.

A pair of headlights flicker in the distance. A car screeches to a halt. Someone runs toward you.

“Oh my God! Call 911! Call 911 now!”

Another voice: “She’s still breathing—barely!”

You’re fading fast.

“Miss? Stay with me! Stay awake—hey, look at me. Look at me!”

A stranger presses on your side. It hurts so badly you nearly black out. The pain is unbearable. But you’re too weak to fight it.

Blood coats your seat. Drips down your wrist. Puddles on the floorboard.

Your car is unrecognizable.

And you? You might be dying.

Somewhere close—only three blocks away—sirens are screaming louder and louder.

The 118 is coming.

So is he.

But you don’t know if you’ll still be awake when he gets there.

——

(Station 118)

“Motor vehicle accident—two vehicles involved. One critical. Location—”

Buck hears the dispatcher say the street name and his body freezes.

He knows that road.

He knows who drives that road home from the firehouse.

“Buck,” Bobby says quickly, already picking up on it, “Don’t jump to—”

But Buck is already running. Helmet in hand. Vest half on. Sprinting to the rig like his life depends on it. Because it does.

The rig tears through the streets. It’s barely been three blocks. That’s how close she was. That’s how stupidly close—

Chim is driving. Eddie’s beside him. Hen’s checking gear.

And Buck is staring out the windshield, praying, pleading, bargaining.

Please don’t let it be her car.

Please don’t let it be her.

Please. Please. Please.

They turn the corner—

And he sees it.

Her car. Or what’s left of it.

A mangled, twisted wreck of metal, glass, and blood. The entire passenger side crushed like a soda can against a tree. Her car is barely recognizable—but Buck knows it. He knows the shape, the color, the dent on the rear left bumper from that time she backed into a post.

He jumps out of the rig before it’s even in park.

“Buck!” Bobby yells. “Wait!”

But he’s already running.

And then—he sees her.

Slumped sideways. Blood all over her. Her face pale. Her eyes half-lidded.

“No—NO—”

He drops to his knees by the driver’s side as Chim and Hen rush in.

“I’ve got no access here!” Hen shouts. “We need to cut her out!”

“Vitals are crashing!” Chim yells.

Buck’s voice shreds open as he pounds on the glass.

“Y/N—HEY—HEY, STAY AWAKE, BABY, STAY AWAKE—”

She flinches faintly. A moan. Barely.

He’s never felt fear like this. Not during the ladder collapse. Not during the tsunami. Not during lightning strikes or bomb threats.

This is worse.

This is her.

Bobby grabs him, yanking him back as they start cutting open the door.

“Let them work, Buck!”

“She’s bleeding out—she’s bleeding—”

“She’s alive,” Eddie says hoarsely, eyes locked on her. “But she won’t be for long if you don’t let them do their job.”

The door peels open.

It takes every ounce of strength Buck has not to fall apart when he sees the blood soaked into her seat, the way she gasps when they touch her abdomen, the deep gash on her temple.

She looks at him—just for a second. Eyes glassy. Barely there.

He reaches for her hand.

“Hey… hey, baby, I’m here. I’m right here, okay?”

Her lips move. He leans in. She’s trying to say his name.

Then her eyes roll back.

The monitors scream.

“She’s coding!” Hen yells.

“Go, go, go!” Chim shouts.

They hoist her out on the board, blood dripping to the pavement, and Buck runs after them—bloody hands shaking, lungs heaving, heart breaking wide open.

As the ambulance doors slam shut, Buck is left on the street, on his knees, shaking and sobbing—

Whispering over and over into the dark,

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The hospital lights are too bright. Too white. Too sterile.

Too clean for how bloody his hands still are.

Buck hasn’t sat down.

Not once.

He’s pacing—back and forth, back and forth—the soles of his boots leaving faint red smudges on the white floor, reminders of how he held her, how her blood soaked into his skin, his sleeves, his soul.

It’s been twenty-two minutes.

Twenty-two minutes since the double doors swung shut behind the gurney.

Twenty-two minutes since she coded in the back of the rig and Hen fought like hell to bring her back.

“She’s got a pulse!” Hen had shouted.

“Go, go, go!” Chim had banged on the ambulance wall.

They’d barely made it.

Now, she’s in the OR.

“Any update?” he asks the nurse at the desk—again.

She looks up. Same look of sympathy. Same rehearsed, practiced tone.

“She’s still in surgery, Mr. Buckley. The doctor will come out as soon as they can.”

He nods, but it’s barely a movement. His jaw clenches. His hands ball into fists at his sides.

He can still see her face.

How pale she was.

The blood in her hair.

The way she looked at him like she was already slipping away.

And all he can think is: I was supposed to come home. I was supposed to eat dinner with her. I was supposed to say sorry.

Not scream at her.

Not make her feel unwanted.

Not send her home in tears.

His stomach twists as the weight of it crashes down on him. He shoves his hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the to-go container.

Her handwriting on top.

“Your favorite. Still warm. I love you.”

He breaks.

Eddie finds him in a chair, head in his hands, the note clutched to his chest. His shoulders shake with every quiet sob.

“She was trying to make things right,” Buck chokes out. “And I—God, I didn’t even give her the chance.”

“Buck,” Eddie says, crouching beside him, voice steady but wrecked, “She’s strong. She’s in there fighting. But you’ve gotta hold it together until she wakes up.”

“If she wakes up.”

Silence.

Then:

“She will.”

Buck sits there, numb and bloodied and broken, staring at the doors like he can will them open.

“Ten more minutes,” he whispers. “I’ll ask again in ten.”

And he will.

Every ten minutes.

Until someone tells him the only thing he wants to hear:

That she made it.

Buck sits hunched over, forearms resting on his knees, fingers twitching against one another like if he stops moving, he’ll come undone.

Eddie sits in the chair next to him, silent, steady, like he always is. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t prod. He just waits.

And eventually, Buck cracks.

“It started over something stupid,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t even remember what. Something about the way I didn’t respond when she asked if I was okay.”

Eddie glances at him, quiet.

“She asked, and I brushed her off. Said I was tired. Said I had a long shift ahead.” Buck lets out a bitter laugh. “She tried to get me to talk about it, and I shut down. Again.”

Eddie’s silence isn’t empty. It’s full of understanding. Full of memories.

“She said it felt like I only let her in halfway. That sometimes I didn’t even try.”

Buck swallows hard. His voice softens.

“And she wasn’t wrong. She never is when it comes to me.”

He wipes his palm across his mouth, shaking his head.

“I snapped at her, man. She was just trying to talk, to understand, and I told her I didn’t want to do this before work. I told her, ‘we’ll talk tonight.’ Like that was enough.”

“She believed you.” Eddie’s voice is low, even.

Buck nods. His eyes are glassy again.

“She asked me if I was still in this with her. If I was still trying. And I just stood there. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t answer her, Eddie.”

Eddie looks over, eyes dark.

“And then I walked out. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like she didn’t mean anything.”

The words sting coming out. Buck flinches at the truth in his own mouth.

“I was already halfway to the firehouse when I felt it. That regret. That voice in my head screaming at me to turn around. But I didn’t.”

“Why?” Eddie asks, gently.

Buck’s voice is barely a whisper.

“Because it was easier to go to work than it was to tell her I was scared.”

He swallows hard.

“Scared that I don’t know how to be loved like that. That I don’t know how to hold something so good without breaking it.”

Eddie leans back, sighs through his nose.

“You think picking up another shift was gonna keep her from seeing that?”

“I think it made it worse,” Buck whispers. “I think she cooked my favorite meal as an apology. I think she wanted to make it right and I didn’t even give her the chance.”

“You didn’t know she’d show up.”

Buck finally looks over.

“I shouldn’t have had to. She always shows up.”

His jaw tightens, grief crawling up his throat.

“And I didn’t.”

Eddie looks away. Doesn’t speak. Because he was there—when she walked into the station, shaking, eyes red-rimmed, voice raised with fury and heartbreak. He saw the way Buck froze, silent and stunned.

He watched her drop the container on the table, the note taped to the lid.

He heard her voice crack when she said, “I waited for you.”

Buck squeezes his eyes shut now.

“She left like I’d torn her in half. And I let her go. I just let her walk away.”

The waiting room door buzzes open in the distance, but no one comes out. Just a nurse crossing through.

Buck leans forward again, elbows on his knees, hands laced together.

“If she dies…” His voice catches. He swallows thickly. “If she doesn’t wake up, that’s the last thing I ever said to her. That silence. That nothing.”

Eddie’s voice is quiet but certain.

“She’s fighting. You have to believe that.”

“I do.” Buck wipes at his face. “But I also know… if she doesn’t make it, it’s not gonna be the accident that kills me.”

Eddie puts a hand on his shoulder, firm. Steady.

“You’ll get to tell her all of this, Buck. You’ll get to say everything you didn’t. Just hold on.”

Buck nods, jaw clenched.

Another ten minutes pass.

He stands again. Walks to the nurse’s desk.

“Any update?” he asks, voice breaking.

This time, the nurse looks back at him, expression softening—

“The doctor’s coming out now.”

The waiting room had never been quieter. Not even when Bobby had been under the knife. Not even when Chim had coded. Not even when Buck had nearly died himself.

Because this time, it wasn’t him on the table.

It was her.

And he couldn’t do a damn thing.

His palms were still sticky with dried blood.

Her blood.

He’d been pacing when the door opened. The air shifted. He felt it before he heard it.

The soft click of shoes on tile. The rustle of a white coat.

Buck turned.

A doctor. Older. Stern, unreadable face. The kind of look that didn’t tell you anything until it told you everything.

“Evan Buckley?”

Buck took one step forward so fast Eddie reached out, as if ready to catch him.

“Yes,” Buck said, voice hoarse. “That’s me. I’m—She’s my—”

He swallowed.

“I’m with her.”

The doctor nodded. “Let’s sit.”

Buck didn’t want to sit.

He wanted answers.

He stood stiff and cold and trembling like a thread pulled too tight.

The doctor didn’t force it. Just exhaled slowly.

“She was brought in with severe abdominal trauma, a major concussion, and internal bleeding. Her spleen was ruptured. There were signs of blunt force trauma to the ribs, a laceration on the liver, and she had lost significant blood volume on the scene.”

Buck could hear himself breathing. Could feel Eddie standing behind him, but he couldn’t look away.

“The impact was… catastrophic. The passenger side of the vehicle wrapped around the tree. She was partially crushed between the door and the seat.”

Buck closed his eyes. His fault. She shouldn’t have been in that car.

“But,” the doctor said, voice softening just a hair, “she’s alive.”

Buck’s eyes snapped open.

“She’s in critical condition. We were able to stabilize her for now. She’s intubated and on a ventilator. Her vitals are holding, but it’s going to be touch and go for the next 24 hours.”

“Is she awake?” Buck rasped.

“No. We placed her in a medically induced coma to let the brain swelling reduce and give her body time to fight.”

Buck swayed where he stood. Eddie’s hand pressed between his shoulder blades.

“You said she’s stable?” Buck asked, and his voice cracked like a boy’s.

“For now,” the doctor repeated carefully. “There’s no guarantee. Her body is in shock. But she’s young. And she’s strong.”

Buck nodded like his neck was made of splintered glass. “Can I see her?”

The doctor hesitated, then nodded. “Only for a few minutes. Let the nurses get her settled in ICU. Then we’ll bring you back.”

Buck breathed out like he hadn’t in hours.

The doctor started to turn away. Buck stopped him.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. “For saving her.”

The doctor paused, gave him a look he’d remember for the rest of his life.

“She’s the one who saved herself,” he said. “She held on longer than most could have. Might be something worth holding on for.”

Then he walked away.

Buck stood there. Frozen.

“She’s alive,” he whispered. Like maybe if he said it out loud, it would stay true.

“She’s alive,” he said again, and this time he turned to Eddie, who had tears in his eyes too.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, gripping Buck’s arm. “She’s alive.”

But Buck didn’t feel relief. Not yet.

Because she hadn’t opened her eyes.

Because she hadn’t heard him say sorry.

Because she’d still left thinking he didn’t love her.

And that might be the part that killed him first.

The ICU was too quiet.

No sirens. No radios. No alarms.

Just the slow, soft beep… beep… beep of the heart monitor keeping her alive.

Buck stepped into the room and felt the rest of the world drop away.

She looked so small in the bed. Tubes and wires tangled in her arms, tape at her mouth, bruises blooming purple and red across her temple and shoulder. Her skin was pale, almost waxy. The kind of stillness that didn’t belong to someone like her—someone who laughed with her whole chest, someone who kissed him with all her soul.

The nurse gave him a nod, quietly closed the door behind him.

He took one step, then another. His boots felt too loud against the floor.

“I—” Buck started, then stopped.

His throat was too tight.

“I didn’t think it was real,” he said softly, sinking into the chair by her bedside. “I saw the car, and I—I thought you were gone. I thought I lost you.”

His hand hovered near hers for a second before he finally took it. It was cool, limp, fingers slack.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked. “God, I’m so sorry.”

His other hand came up, dragging across his face like he could rub the shame out of his skin.

“You were trying to talk to me, and I shut you down. You made dinner—you made my favorite, and I just… I stayed at the station because I didn’t want to face you. Because I was afraid I’d say something that made you walk away.”

He let out a weak, bitter laugh. “And I said nothing. And you still walked out the door.”

His thumb brushed over her knuckles.

“I never wanted you to think I didn’t love you. That you weren’t enough.” His voice trembled. “You’re everything.”

The machines kept beeping. She didn’t stir.

He leaned closer.

“Please wake up. Just… please. I’ll do anything. I’ll say everything I never said. I’ll tell you every day for the rest of your life how sorry I am, how much I love you, how—how I don’t know how to breathe without you.”

His forehead dropped to the edge of the bed, hand still wrapped around hers.

“I didn’t come home, and now you might never come back to me.”

There was silence for a long moment.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Barely there.

The ventilator hissed. A monitor blipped.

And then—a twitch.

Her fingers.

They moved.

Buck’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Hey. Hey—are you—?”

But before he could call for the nurse, the heart monitor spiked.

And then,

flatlined.

[cloudcountry]

SUMMARY: when his cat counterpart is hogging your attention.

COMMENTS: are they jealous of the kitty? are they chill? whatever they are, it's ridiculous (affectionate)

TAGLIST: @as1iiiwhaa @astralsocfactory

Jin will not hesitate to push the cat to the side and take his rightful spot on your lap. His cat is just as sassy as him though, and will more likely than not just stretch all over him . Jin may get annoyed at your soft coos, but if you direct some attention to him he might be satisfied. In a way, you’re still paying attention to him anyway...

Tohma often finds himself in a stare down with the cat version of himself. It’s not like he’s against sharing, so long as it’s not with another man, but there’s still some tension in the room. Whether you notice it or not, it would be in your best interest to give your partner a kiss so the cat in your lap doesn’t get too bold and start hogging all your attention.

Luca rather likes his cat counterpart, actually. He entrusts the cat to protect you if he isn’t there to save you, which can lead to some rather hairy situations. Luca Cat will still jump to conclusions! (And jump on people’s faces to scratch them up.) Maybe you should get him a leash...

Kaito is pouting. He’d feel bad if he shooed the cat away, since it’s technically him and he knows all too well what being shoved aside is like. But he wants your attention too, is that so bad? You should notice how quiet he’s being and take that as a sign to rub his head, too. He may be a human but he’s still weak to head pats!

Alan eyes the cat mournfully, but won’t move it. Honestly it’s best if you just snuggle with both of them at once, because Alan isn’t going to disturb you and neither is Alan Cat. Besides, double the Alan, double the extreme body warmth—maybe you should do this in front of a fan!

Sho Cat knows he needs to stay out of the kitchen, but he wants to be in it anyway. It’s a bit sad that you can’t take pity on the poor cat, so you compromise by giving him a bunch of attention outside. Sho gets a bit grumpy about it, but he knows you’ll make it up to him (one way or another.)

Leo and his cat will have a face off for your attention on a regular basis. It’s up to you to compromise between the two, because they’re too stubborn to do it on their own. Also, cuddling them both at the same time won’t work because they’re gonna get all snippy with each other...I am so sorry for your predicament.

Haru will try his best to bond with the cat, but he always makes his way back to you. Haru is devastated that his cat likes you more, but ultimately he can’t blame the little guy. If he could, he’d nap on your lap forever too! Ultimately, the two get along pretty well, so there’s no need for either of them to get jealous over it.

Towa and Towa Cat can go one of two ways. Either they have a stand off for your attention with thunder and lightning booming outside, or they’re both snuggling you. If it’s the second one, you’re being crushed with their whole body weights and likely overheating from how warm they both are! Good luck either way (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧

Ren and Ren Cat are so chill. Like genuinely, just put a screen in front of either of them so they’ll be so engrossed. Ren Cat doesn’t see a problem with sitting himself right on your lap, but Ren’s shifty eyes tell you he does. That’s his spot, after all. You know Ren won’t say anything though, so it's up to you to compromise!

Taiga is more likely than not just going to move Taiga Cat. It doesn’t matter how long he’s been sleeping on your lap, sharing is caring and it’s Taiga’s turn now! Don’t bet on them having a peaceful resolution to this unless both Taiga’s are in a good mood and willing to share. Hell, maybe Taiga Cat will cuddle with Taiga himself!

Romeo and Romeo Cat are both divas who do not want to compete for your attention. Get used to multitasking! One hand will be stroking Romeo Cat’s beautiful mane, while the other holds your boyfriend’s hand as he barks orders to the poor General Students. They can make it work, but Romeo can’t wait to have you to himself again.

Ritsu is rather impressed with Ritsu Cat’s ability to steal your attention away from him during work hours. He politely asks the cat to focus, which snaps Ritsu Cat out of his head scritch trance. Both of them are quite serious actually, but Ritsu is a bit miffed that you chose to sit next to his cat version and not him...

Subaru honestly does not mind that you’re spending a bunch of time with his cat counterpart. If anything, he’s one of the least jealous ones. (After all, it’s still him, kind of. He has no need to view that as competition.) Be prepared to have a cute tea time session with him and his cat, even though neither of them will touch you.

Haku and Haku Cat are menaces when together. It’s almost as though they’re locked in a playful competition for your attention, and won’t give up until you’re an embarrassed mess on the floor. Haku kisses your cheek? Haku Cat is giving you a few licks. Haku takes your hand? Haku Cat settles on your thighs. Haku wraps an arm around your waist? Haku Cat climbs onto your shoulders. It’s never ending.

Zenji and Zenji Cat are the most energetic duo you’ve ever seen. Both float around your head and yap. Zenji will hold conversations with his cat counterpart and even go so far as to play the biwa while Zenji Cat sings. It’s a fun time, being around those two. They’re very wholesome!

Edward doesn’t mind that much. He can share. The most likely scenario to come out of Edward Cat hogging all of your attention is Edward himself teasing you just to watch you squirm. He knows all your possible ticklish spots, gently brushing over them in a way that makes you jostle the poor kitty in your lap. (Edward Cat does not wake up.)

Rui and Rui Cat are complicated. Chances are Rui Cat has dove under some furniture—and since you are familiar with his curse, you understand why. Despite your attempts to coax him out, Rui Cat will not budge. Rui watches you and sighs ruefully—it’s sweet that you’re still worried about him being lonely, even as a cat.

Lyca doesn’t know how to feel. You’re supposed to smell like him so other people know not to mess with you, but now that this cat has taken residence on your lap, you smell like...cat. Lyca grumbles something under his breath before taking the spot beside you, getting as close to you as humanly possible. Don’t mind him! It’s simply necessary.

Yuri doesn’t let his cat counterpart close to the lab, much to the cat’s chagrin. You hold all the power here, though! If you give Yuri Cat enough attention, he’ll stay away from the experiments in favor of you. Just be prepared for a jealous Yuri (who will not admit he’s jealous) when he sees how much attention he missed out on!

Jiro Cat spends a lot of time sleeping. You’re likely fawning over how cute his lil face is when Jiro stumbles upon you. He will agree—I mean, animals like cats have been domesticated and have therefore developed traits such as a shorter muzzle, extended juvenile behavior, smaller brains, and—oh, you probably don’t want a lecture about Domestication Syndrome, do you?

[prettydaisygirl]

Oh god I love all your fics you are so amazing ♡♡♡♡

¿Can I have another firefighter au about James? That beautiful man driving me crazy. Sorry, but not sorry. .

Maybe where this time, if there's a dangerous fire in the reader building and he can't find her in her apartment or anywhere and he's so nervous going outside that he starts asking everyone if they haven't seen her.

And he doesn't realize that she comes back from work and runs to hug her and we're all happy.

hi nonnie thank you so much for this req! I love my man Chief James, he is so hot. Hope you're having a wonderful day, lovely <3

firechief!James Potter x fem!reader who can't be found during a fire ✿ 977 words

cw: fem!reader, apartment building fire, everyone is okay, James panicking

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

James hears the call the moment it comes in. It’s not you, but it is your building. Of course he recognizes the address. No one seems panicked or alarmed, which isn’t surprising given your building’s fire alarm goes off every other day it seems. 

As Fire Chief (and as your boyfriend) James takes the call more seriously than the others do. He doesn’t blame them for it, though he does yell at them to pick up the pace. After a while it does start to feel like a ‘boy who cried wolf’ situation. The fire truck gets loaded up, the boys all step in, lights go on, and they’re off.

Things change the closer they get to your flat. The plume of smoke billowing into the air creates a tension that makes everyone antsy, and the visibly growing fire when they when the truck onto the street has them all jumping into action. Especially James.

Because now, he’s worried. He hasn’t heard from you in a few hours, which wouldn’t normally be unusual, but right now your building is on fire. James’ heart pounds, he shouts orders at his crew and they get to work. His eyes scan the crowd, everyone looks terrified and panicked, but he’s not looking to see how the bystanders feel. He’s looking for you, and your face is not here. 

Some of his men begin to pull out the hose, some pull out ladders, and James and a few others run into the building to search for any remaining people trapped inside. James wants to beeline directly for your apartment. 

He can hear various shouts of ‘clear!’ as he jogs his way up the stairs. He still does his job, looks around to check for others, but his main mission is to find you. To see your face and know that you’re okay. 

The smoke pours through the halls, clouding his vision. He knows the path to your apartment by heart, and he follows it without hesitation. He doesn’t find anyone else on his way there. The fire has grown significantly by the time he reaches your flat. He flings the door open roughly, the lock crumbling under the strength of his hand and the heat of the fire. He doesn’t care about your door, shouting your name as he pushes into your space. He checks your bedroom, your bathroom, the kitchen, but you aren’t anywhere.

This, understandably, causes him to panic more. He double checks everywhere, but as the fire continues to build, he knows he doesn’t have much time. He rechecks every room and hallway on his way down despite the fact that he’s already checked them once. 

“Did you find anyone?” He shouts to his crew as he walks out. Water sprays down from hoses, slowly helping contain the flames. He hears various responses of ‘No, Chief!’ ‘No, Sir!’ But the denials don’t help the adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins. He stomps through the crowd, his height giving him an advantage as he pushes through people. He’s not trying to be rude or rough, but he feels like he can’t even intake a full breath. 

He calls for you, your name leaving his lips in sharp gasps. He can’t find you, he can’t see you, he’s fully on the verge of a panic attack. It’s very unlike him, but the tightening of his chest is distinct. 

He practically runs over Remus, whose face morphs into one of confusion when he sees the look in James’ eyes. “You alright, Chief?” He asks, and it’s only then that James even registers Remus’ face.

“I’m- I can’t find-”

“Looking for your Angel?” Remus asks, then gestures across the street to where you’re standing by your parked car, phone pressed to your ear. “She just got here, came looking for you while you were inside.”

James doesn’t hear the tail end of Remus’ words, already halfway to you. You stand as he approaches, the phone still pressed to your ear as he gathers you into his arms. You hug him back with your free hand, managing to end the call with a final ‘yes, I’m okay. I promise’. He buries his face in your neck, at least as much as he can with his uniform on. 

“I thought you were inside, Angel,” He forces his breathing and heart rate to calm now that you are back in his arms and he knows you’re safe. “I thought you were trapped, I was so scared.”

“I’m sorry.” You say, hugging him back just as tightly. “My last meeting ran late and then my boss wanted to speak with me and…”

“It’s okay, as long as you’re okay.” He pulls back, eyes glancing over you from head to toe one more time. His hands grip at your waist, and he finally deems you safe. “I need to get back and help, but I couldn’t focus until I knew where you were.” James leans down to place a long kiss to your lips, longer than he should allow, but he’s the Chief so who will tell him off? He pulls back, then presses a quick one to your cheek. 

“Is everyone okay?” You ask, the gravity of the situation coming back to the front of your mind. “Is my stuff going to be okay?”

“Everyone is fine, they made it out safely and we already checked the building.” He assures you, sliding his hands down your arms. “I’ll do my best to save your things, it’ll be alright, yeah?”

“Yeah…” You say like you aren’t convinced, and truly he isn’t either. He’d seen the state of your apartment when he’d gone inside. 

But the two of you will figure that out after this, together. And, really, he thinks he might get to use this as an excuse to ask you to move in with him. 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[sammywritesfics]

QH-Marriage Proposal.

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader Word Count: 676 Warnings: None Request: "Can you write a story about Quinn buying and engagement ring and proposing to y/n? Also including how nervous he is. 🙏😍❤️ thank you!!" Requests are open!

--

Quinn had never been more nervous since he was drafted. He first knew he would propose when you took care of Luke after he got the stomach flu. Quinn had spent months searching for a ring, often texting his mom late at night in secret. It actually started a fight between you too once. 

You were dead convinced he was hiding something. You doubted he was cheating but he would sneak off halfway through dinner with his phone. Or spend late nights answering texts that you weren’t allowed to look at. 

One night Quinn came home with flowers and you bitterly replied, “Are those for your other girlfriend?”. Quinn furrowed his brows at a loss for words. “What?’ Was all that came out of his mouth. 

“late-night texting?” You sassed him. Quinn’s smile returned to his face. It was a goofy grin. “I’ve been asking my mom what the difference is between a princess cut and a pear ring..” Quinn said, setting the flowers on the counter as he reached for his back pocket. 

You stared at him completely shocked as he pulled out an engagement ring. “I’m not gonna propose immediately, I wanted it to be special..” Quinn said, putting it back in his flannel pocket. 

As your eyes watered, you wrapped your arms around him. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you…” you mumble into his arms. 

Since that night, you both talked about different things you wanted after marriage. But the most important thing is that you want it together. All the dumb little things didn’t matter in comparison after that. 

After that month, and the next you had almost forgotten it. You were at the lake house all week. Swimming with Jack, and playing games with Luke. Quinn loved how much you fit into his chaotic family. 

It was only when Ellen mentioned something about Quinn needing a ring polisher to you. That you knew it was gonna be this weekend. 

Quinn’s by the dock pacing as Jack and Luke try to calm him down. Quinn was rambling, “I’m gonna throw up, like actually throw up..”. Jack rolled his eyes, “You're not gonna throw up” he reassured, but neither he nor Luke could be certain at that moment. 

The only time they had seen him that nervous after the draft day, was when Luke broke their mom's fancy vase. And being the big brother, Quinn took the blame and paid for it. 

“She’s gonna say yes. All she ever talks about is you” Luke said casually as both his brothers snapped their heads to him. 

“You talk to her about it?” Quinn asked hopefully. Luke was a bit embarrassed as he sighed, running a hand over his mouth. “She once helped me sneak a girl out of the apartment. Since then she's been my sister” Luke said, watching as Jack burst into an uproar of questions. 

But when you walked out to see what the commotion was, Quinn had never been more certain in his life. Luke pulled Jack away so as to not ruin the perfect moment. Though any moment with Quinn was perfect for you. 

“I don’t have a great speech for this..” Quinn said, kneeling down on one knee. You immediately fell to match him before forcing yourself to stand up. He could see you were just as worried. 

“You can kneel if you want a pretty girl..” Quinn smiled, taking out the box from his shorts. He had even trimmed his hair for this. So you sat with him on the dock as the sun started to slowly descend. 

“I have wanted to marry you since you rubbed Luke's back for an hour as he threw up,” Quinn confessed to you. You couldn’t help but laugh at his words. 

“There’s no one I want to spend my life with. I can’t offer you much emotional support. Because sometimes I’m an idiot. But I'd love to be yours, even if I spend the rest of my life proving I deserve it.” It was short and sweet. 

You said yes, hugging him tightly as Quinn’s face flooded with relief. 

[awaxagoras]

exactly 75 days ago , herta called sunday a snarky brat in the 3.2 trailblaze mission and I have thought abt it at least once a day without fail since then .

I find the headcanon [ maybe it’s canon actually ? in my heart it is , at least ] that astral express sunday kinda just follows welt around like a duckling so cute (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

ehehe [ ooc maybe sowwy he’s such a complex character ] I think it’s silly to imagine that for the first few months after penacony, sunday follows welt around because , well , welt is the only one who tolerates him the most (◜◡◝’) [ ooc for the astral express — I think they’re too nice to do that but let’s play pretend ] while he’s not nearly as intense as he was in penacony , it’s pretty obvious to everyone — including himself — he’s still got a long way to go . snarky brat moment ( • ̀ω•́ ) he’s very much out of his comfort zone , but he is trying ! truly , he is . . ! (•︵•)

[ whether ur the trailblazer or simply another nameless is up to u . im indecisive ] he’s quite embarrassed abt the events on penacony . you can’t really blame him . it is kinda awkward to now be travelling companions with the same people you were just , um . . disagreeing with . [ p-please don’t mention the whole grand theatre thing . . he’s sorry ( •᷄∩•᷅ ) ] sunday himself is actually pretty awkward to begin with so it’s not a fun situation for him [ or anyone , really , but it is kinda amusing sometimes to see the ever-so-composed former head of the oak family stumble over his words ehehe ]

as if his situation wasn’t difficult enough , there’s you !! despite the numerous people sunday has encountered in his life , relatively few have stuck out to him [ both negatively and positively ] he knows about you , of course , but the information is scarce and impersonal . getting to be besties with the astral express was not something he foresaw at all , even if they admittedly did peak his interest ♡ [ you miiiight have caught his attention slightly more than your fellow nameless but he doesn’t want to dwell on that . it was embarrassing then and even more embarrassing now ]

tries very hard to converse with you , even though he always seems to forget the words he was rehearsing in his head the moment you look at him (❀´ ˘ `❀) [ he’s been rehearsing hypothetical conversations with you for an embarrassing amount of time . should you catch him spacing out , there’s a high chance he’s preoccupied configuring the perfect response to the imaginary you ] he’s actually quite the yapper , so he may start to recite his knowledge of miscellaneous topics to you when he senses the conversation is at risk of falling off . did you know ? no ? ah , well , it would be his pleasure to tell you , granted you aren’t too busy , darling ? actually , that reminds him of—

he won’t tell you this , but you can call him sunny if you would like . (ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈) cringed and frowned at march 7th’s first usage of it but he doesn’t speak up when you offhandedly call him it [ the moment march 7th catches onto this , she’s elated . darling ?! no way ! ya knowww , she doesn’t mind being a wingman ! trust her ! (๑>؂•̀๑) . . sunday is adjusting his clothing uncomfortably as she hounds him ] hm ? w-why is he covering his face with his wings ? he doesn’t know what ur talking about . u-um , perhaps you can continue talking [ about something else , he prays . . ] over tea ? ♡

[rainrot4me]

NOW THE OPPOSITE

what are the creeps turn offs when it comes to a partner? a huge no or red flag

ANGIE!!!!!!

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

Someone who treats violence like a joke or a trend.

Jeff is unhinged, yes. But there’s a difference between someone who kills because they’ve lost their mind—and someone who glamorizes it like a trend. If a partner tried to be “edgy” for clout or treated killing like cosplay, he’d immediately lose interest. There’s nothing showy or fun about killing because you can’t stop yourself.

“You think blood makes you cool? You ever watch a guy cry while you twist his eyeball out? Nah? Then shut the hell up.”

✦ . ticci toby

Mocking his tics or trauma—even as a “joke.”

Toby might play the fool, but the moment someone mocks his stutter, his scars, or anything related to his neurological condition, he’s gone. He’s heard enough cruel laughter in his life to know when someone means it. He won’t fight you. Won’t scream. Just disappears. You’ll never see him again.

“Heard that t-tone before. Not stickin’ around to hear it again.”

✦ . eyeless jack

Lack of boundaries or pushing into private matters without consent.

Jack is a highly guarded, private man. If someone constantly pushes him to unmask, probes into his past without care, or oversteps emotional or physical boundaries, it’ll break all trust.

“If I haven’t told you something, it’s because I’m not going to. Pushing won’t get you closer.”

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Emotional manipulation or passive-aggression.

Tim has been gaslit and manipulated by the Operator for years—he knows the signs. If a partner plays mind games, guilt-trips him, or uses emotional weaponry to get their way, he’ll shut down completely.

“Say what you mean. Don’t twist your words and expect me to read your mind.”

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Someone who refuses to self-reflect or acknowledge faults.

Brian is observant and deeply introspective. If someone constantly blames others, refuses accountability, or dismisses emotional growth, he sees it as a dead-end.

“We’re all messed up, but if you can’t admit it—you’ll never get better.”

✦ . kate the chaser

People who play the victim after starting the fire.

Kate has no tolerance for manipulative victims—people who start shit and then cry when they get called out. That’s her trigger. That’s her past. She’ll cut ties fast.

“You lit the match. Don’t act shocked when the fire spreads.”

✦ . ben drowned

Controlling behavior or possessiveness masked as ‘caring’.

Ben doesn’t want a babysitter. If someone tries to dictate his life—who he talks to, what he does, how he acts—it hits a nerve. He’s lived under control before (literally, as a haunted game). Never again.

“Don’t love me like I’m a problem to fix. Love me like a person who knows what they’re doing.”

✦ . clockwork

Dismissive of emotions or mocking vulnerability.

If someone laughs when she opens up or uses her trauma against her in arguments, she’ll harden instantly. Her softness is earned, not owed. And once you cross the line? You’re out.

“I’m not your punching bag for when you feel small. Try that shit again, and we’ll see where we stand.”

✦ . laughing jack

Cruelty toward animals or children.

Jack is chaotic, yes—but if you show unnecessary cruelty to things smaller or more helpless than you, it’s over. He can’t stand people who punch down. It robs him of all amusement.

“You’re not edgy. You’re pathetic. Kick a dog again and see what I do.”

✦ . slenderman

Disrespect for knowledge, history, or the metaphysical.

Slender sees existence through an ancient, almost cosmic lens. If someone is proudly ignorant, refuses to learn, or mocks the concept of deeper thought or reality, he loses all interest.

“Fools who scoff at the unknown often find themselves consumed by it.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[myinconnelly1]

Sunny's Surprise

Pairing: John Walker x Reader (Sunny)

Word Count: 4169

Summary: You've been hiding a secret from John Walker since you broke up with him several months ago. But now that secret is about to be revealed in a spectacular series of bad situations. Will your relationship survive this new development?

Warnings: Canon violence, Pregnancy, Labor/Birth (Graphic), "Oh my God, Bob helped", Hospitals, stuck in a snow storm, loss of power in an emergency. Reference to your on again off again relationship with John Walker, and him being an asshole about it

“You okay, Sunny,” Bucky asked as the New Avengers got ready for yet another press tour.

“Yeah, just a headache.  Ready to be done with these and back home,” you responded rubbing your head and face.

“Better put your face on, Sunshine, you’re everyone’s favorite right now.  The internet can’t stop talking about you,” John snarked.  He was still angry.  He hadn’t recovered from the latest end to your relationship.  But you didn’t have the energy to deal with his problems.  You had your own.

Yelena gave you a look of commiseration, but she didn’t know what you were going through that day.  You couldn’t tell her, or else she would flip out on you.  You stretched your arms up above your head trying to relieve some of the ache in your lower back.

“What are you giggling about, Bob?” John bites back his aggression at the end of the question.  There was no need to take his anger out on Bob.

“Oh, uh, nothing.  Honey was just letting me know she found Bucky’s reports,” he says smiling suspiciously.  If you knew anything about Honey, it was that she hadn’t texted Bob about Bucky’s report.  That girl was kinkier than you would have ever thought possible.  You had walked in on her and Bob once and had blanked out what you had seen as a trauma response.  You honestly thought she might have been turned on by you catching them.  But that was not a thought you could think on long.

“Great, have her send them to my email?” Bucky said.  He was so distracted during this press tour; that he hadn’t noticed the little smile that had flitted over Bob’s face.

“Here,” Ava handed you a water bottle as you all left the safe house.  It kept everyone away from the paparazzi until Valentina wanted you to be seen.  “Drink that, and stay in the back,” she said.  It wasn’t a whisper, but it was meant for your ears.

You did as she said standing toward the back of the group Avengers.  You were the newest member of the team, but it wasn’t that new anymore.  John stood with as many of the team between him and you.  It stung a little, but you couldn’t blame him, since you had broken things off with him this time.  You looked around the crowd as the team answered questions, they were always the same ones.  You quietly counted the kicks of your baby as you stood and sipped your water.  You were thankful you didn’t look pregnant, even as far along as you were.  You didn’t know how that happened.  You thought women were huge normally, but maybe good genes and steady exercise had helped.  Your suit did a great job of hiding your figure as well.  Something you had always been grateful for.

Your breath caught behind your lips as a small Braxton hicks contraction tugged at your belly.  They weren’t uncommon this late in your pregnancy, but they were always a surprise to you. You breathed through it easily enough, standing for this long always seemed to bring them on.

“You okay?” Bob whispered from behind you.  He was not an official Avenger, but Val always forced him to come along for these press tours.

“Mmhhmm,” you nodded slowly.  Something caught your attention.  The hairs on the back of your next stood up, as your danger sense kicked into gear.  Yelena sensed it too, along with Bucky.  She looked over at you.

“You take Bob and go to the safe house,” she urged quickly and quietly.  You didn’t hesitate.  If there was a threat, the last thing that you all needed was Bob being attacked and losing control to the Sentry.

“Come on,” you said as you backed off the stage subtly.

“What’s going on?” He asked quietly.  You grabbed his arm and started to move quickly away from the crowd.  Thankfully, no one seemed to notice the two stragglers, minding their own business.  You were no more than a hundred feet away when there was an explosion and smoke on the stage.  “Yelena!” Bob shouted.  You grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down low.

“Keep quiet.  Don’t draw attention to us.  The rest of the team is together; they will get each other to safety.  We need to get out of here.  We’re alone without backup, so follow my lead.” You said and he nodded.  You both picked up the pace as hell started to break loose back on stage, but neither of you turned to look at it. 

You made it two blocks before you stopped to rest.  You were out of breath- a side effect of your pregnancy.

“You’re not okay,” Bob said seriously.

“I’m fine for now.  We have to get to the safe house before this storm lets loose though.”  You pointed up at the dark clouds in the sky.  It was ominously bleak and cold outside.  You were worried about having to travel in the snow.

You were cursing yourself for coming on this press tour when you finally made it back to the safe house.  Your feet ached and your back was tight.  You locked the door behind Bob as you both went inside, and you made a perimeter sweep, checking all the doors and windows.

Bob was standing in the hallway with a thermometer in one hand and a blanket in the other.

“What are you doing?” you asked as he stopped you from walking past him.

“Come on, Sunny, I know you're sick,” he said shrugging slightly.

“What are you talking about?” You asked.  Another small tug at your belly made you breathe deeply.  It didn’t hurt, but two in the same hour was more than you had ever had before.

“You’re sweating.  It’s like forty degrees outside.  You look like you're in pain, so I would guess muscle aches, so, fever,” he said matter-of-factly as he held up the thermometer and held out the blanket.  You relented, knowing it would put him at ease, and were surprised when your temperature came back ever so slightly elevated.  “See, you’re probably at the beginning stages of the bug.  I’ll make you some tea and soup, maybe you should take a shower.  It’s gonna be a bit before the team gets back.”

If you looked shitty enough for Bob to notice, maybe there was something wrong.  You relented to the shower.  Grabbing some soft baggy clothes and letting the hot water soothe you.

It didn’t.

When you finally felt brave enough to get out of the water, you put the clothes on. You cursed under your breath when you realized the shirt you grabbed was one of John’s sweaters. A tightness had settled low in your back, and you just wanted to cry.  You looked at yourself in the mirror.  The sweater was hiding your figure somewhat.  But if Bob was paying attention, he might notice the slight swell to your stomach. 

You came out and went quickly to the couch grabbing the blanket that Bob had tried to offer you earlier.  He was in the kitchen stirring the contents of a chicken-flavored instant ramen packet.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asked as he grabbed bowls and started to divide out the noodles and broth.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Bob, thanks,” you lied.  He leveled you with a look that told you he wasn’t going to accept that level of bullshit.

“How bad is it?” He asked.

“Seriously, it’s just some cramps or something,” you took the bowl wanting the conversation to end.  You were saved by the bell, as the storm that was blustering outside knocked out the power.

“Do you think they're safe?”  Bob asked quietly.

“Of course,” you reassured him, hopeful that it was the truth.  Bob went and lit some oil lamps to keep you both out of total darkness.  You ate in silence as the snow fell, and the wind blasted at the doors and windows.

“Do you have any service?” Bob asked a little while later as he looked at his phone.  “I got a message from Honey, that the rest of the team got away from the event, but Yelena and Ava were taken to the hospital.  But I can get any more messages or send anything out.”  You realized that you had left your phone in the other room.

“Hang on, I’ll go check,” You put your bowl down and stood to walk into the other room.  The dim lighting hid the look on Bob’s face and the way that his body tensed as he saw your body.  “I don’t have any signal.”

“Right,” he whispered, deep in thought.  “You know John and I are friends?”

“Of course,” you chuckled as you looked over at him before going back to your spot on the couch.

“He told me you guys broke up a couple of months ago,” Bob’s voice was dangerously even like he was treading a tightrope.

“Look, what happened between John and I, it’s complicated.  I didn’t mean to disrupt the whole team.  I thought we were friends too,” you shrugged.  That tightness spread down your belly and into your legs briefly.  Bob must have mistaken the brief look of discomfort as guilt.

“Look if you’re with someone else now, it’s not any of John’s business, but I feel like if we were friends, maybe you’d tell me,” his voice wavered a little, tinged with a little sadness.

“What are you-“ you started but Bob interrupted you.

“I’m not blind, Sunny!” You could count on one hand the number of times you had heard Bob shout.  It always signaled that he was in pain.  “I know you're pregnant. I could tell as soon as you stood up.” His voice was quiet at the end, and his eyes fell away from your face.  “I’m sorry for yelling,” he muttered.

“You think I’m with someone else?” You whispered.

“You’re not with John,” he shrugged then seemed to focus.  “Are you?”

“No,” you chuckled at his eagerness.  “We haven’t been together for months you’re right.  But…”

“But what?” Bob was nearly at the edge of the couch. It was adorable.

“It’s his,” you said quietly.  You didn’t need to tell Yelena and Ava who the father of your baby was when you told them you were pregnant.  Saying it out loud seemed to crack your internal defenses and tears started to fall from your cheeks.

“Are you serious, Sunny!” He cried in excitement.  “Wait…” Confusion overtook his features.  That means you like 7 months pregnant…” He squinted at you like if he saw you better it would explain everything.

“A little more than that,” you sighed. 

“What the hell, Sunny, why didn’t you tell him?” Bob asked, that quiet edge had returned to his voice as he hurt for his friend.  You laughed without mirth.

“The last time he thought I was pregnant he broke up with me!  I couldn’t go through that for real,” you nearly yelled as you stood and walked your bowl into the kitchen.  You looked out the window to see the snow falling all around.  It made the house a little warmer and made you feel safer as you knew there was no way anyone would be able to get into the house without a shovel and a lot of effort.  You took Bob’s bowl as he came into the kitchen and started washing them.

“I understand, I’m sorry he did that last time,”  Bob said looking away from where you were standing.  “It wasn’t fair of him.”  He turned and looked at you as your stance changed and you white-knuckled the counter.  “Sunny?”

“Mmm,” you whimpered as tears fell down your cheeks.  The pain from earlier washed over you again, only ten times more intense.  You took a deep breath through your nose but couldn’t breathe out as the pain held you.  Bob was standing behind you in an instant, hand on your lower back applying gentle pressure.

“Hey, Sunny, breath out, come on,” he encouraged.  He demonstrated blowing out, and you mimicked him meeting his gaze.  “You okay?” he asked when the pain started to subside.

“It happens sometimes, it’s just usually not that intense,” you murmured as you gulped air.  You reached for a cup of water as Bob’s hand brushed up and down your back gently.

“Braxton-Hicks contractions?” He asked looking at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” You huffed trying not to laugh.

“I read a lot.  I was trying to prove to Honey that I can be responsible,” he said.  You thought he was going to laugh at his own statement, but something seemed off about the way he was looking at you.  “Braxton-Hicks contractions are like practice contractions.  They aren’t supposed to hurt.”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” you said deflecting.  “I’m not due for a couple of weeks, and the doctor said I’d probably go late since I’m a first-timer or some shit like that.”

“How many contractions like that one have you had since we got back?” he asked seriously.

“None like that one,” you said shaking a little.

“But you’ve had others that weren’t as bad as that one?” He asked.  “I saw you squirming earlier on the couch.  I thought you just didn’t feel well.”

“It’s not like there is anything that we can do about it right now.  It's too dangerous to go outside and there is no service, remember?”  you snapped.  You hadn’t really meant to, but he was starting to scare you.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he said soothingly.  “You should relax, maybe if the shower helped you could try that, or I could fill the bathtub up for you.  Just get off your feet for a little while, maybe they will go away.”

“Yeah,” you said temporarily placated.  You walked out of the kitchen after drying your hands, intent on getting back in the shower for a little while but didn’t make it to the living room before stopping.

“Sunny?” Bob asked.  He hadn’t relaxed since your contract.  “What’s wrong?” you knew he had that same feeling of trouble that you had during the press conference.  Your breathing was ragged, and you felt strange.  Bob got two steps out of the kitchen moving toward you before you both heard the small pop.

Warm liquid trickled down your legs as your water broke.

“Oh, fuck,” Bob said staring at you.  He moved behind you and almost pushed you toward the bathroom.  “Take your clothes off,” he instructed as he turned the water for the shower on.  You stood there wide-eyed and unmoving as panic flooded your system.  “Sunny, I need you to focus on my voice,” He grabbed your chin so that you were looking up at him.  “How early is this?”

“Two weeks, three days,” You said numbly.

“Ok, good,” He sighed.  Nothing about this seemed good to you, but if he thought so…  “You’re going to get in this shower, try to breathe and relax.  We’re going to wait this out, maybe the storm will clear up.  We will probably get cell service soon, and then we can call for help.  I’m here, I’m going to do whatever you need okay?”

“Okay,” your voice was shaking as the reality set in.  You were going to have this baby.

“I need you to tell me when you have a contraction okay, I’m going to start timing them,” he said.  He seemed very level-headed for a man whose friend was about to have his other friend’s baby.  A baby he didn’t know about 20 minutes ago.  He waited for you to take your clothes off and get into the shower.  You didn’t care too much about being naked in front of him, he had helped you with your suit before, and he didn’t really look at you in any way that showed attraction.  You knew he had eyes only for Honey.

You don’t know how long you stayed in the shower.  Long enough for the water to make your skin feel a little numb where it was spraying.  Bob was sitting in the bathroom on the other side of the curtain, reading a book you thought.  Every now and again you would hear paper rustle.  You told him when a contraction would start, and with a deep sigh would tell him when it was over.  He left the room once to get more oil for the lamp that he had brought into the bathroom earlier in the evening.

“Do you want to try laying down, or do you feel better standing?” He asked quietly as he turned off the water to the shower. 

“Laying down sounds nice,” you murmured.  He grabbed a towel and draped it over your shoulders then grabbed a thin blanket and let you wrap yourself in it.  He walked with you to the couch in the living room, looking out the window into the dark night hopefully.  The storm was still going strong, and he felt his nerves start to get the better of him but quickly shut them down.  You needed him to be steady.  He sat down next to you on the couch and dried you off and brushed your hair gently, as you let yourself relax onto him.

Sleep washed over you.  Not good sleep, and not deep sleep, but a kind of lucid sleep.  You weren’t really aware of time, as the contraction seemed to get more intense, but you felt some rest settle in your body.  Rest that you were definitely going to need.

You sat up quickly a while later, rousing Bob from the light sleep he had managed as well.  “I’m gonna be sick,” you gagged.  Bob pulled a small trash bin that you hadn’t seen before out and held it in front of you.  Sweat had started to cling to your body and your hair as your whole body shook from tiredness and pain.  Bob’s hand was rubbing your back trying to provide you with any comfort that he could.  You took the bin from him as you emptied the contents of your stomach.  Bob didn’t need you to tell him when the next contraction hit you.  They were much closer together now, like the drop-off of one lead into the start of the next one.

“I’m scared,” you groaned.  “Hurts.”

“You’re doing good,” Bob said encouragingly.  “Try leaning forward on the couch.”  You did as he suggested.  It did not relieve any of the pain, but something deep within you shifted at the change of position and you groaned deep in your throat.  “Good job,” Bob praised.  His hands were squeezing your hips as you swayed involuntarily trying to relieve the pressure.

“Something’s wrong,” you panted several minutes later.  The contractions had slowed down with small breathing room in between and you thanked all the gods, Thor included, for the reprieve, but the pressure was mounting along with the pain.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.  You could hear the tremble in his voice this time.  No matter how much you needed him, hearing your cry had scared him.

“I don’t know,”  You groaned feeling yourself press your whole body down.

“I need you to get up a little bit,” He whispered.  He was trying to keep his voice calm and soothing you realized.  He moved you so that you were kneeling on one knee, your other foot planted flat. You cried out at the change in position.

“Sunny, I need you to breathe okay,” he instructed.  His voice was so firm, it left no room for argument, and you panted.

“Another contraction,” You gasped as the pressure started to build again.

“Tuck your chin against your chest, blow out through your mouth, and push,” he said.  You felt like you had the wind knocked out of you at his words.  He wanted you to push.

“I can’t,” you cried.

“Come on, I’ve got you, you’re going to be okay, but you need to listen to me,” he said.  You looked over your shoulder and saw him practically lying on the floor at your feet.  You nodded as he met your gaze and gave you a small smile. You started to take a breath but knew the contraction had ended.  “On the next one, okay.”

“Okay,” you responded trying to steel yourself.  You didn’t have to wait long for the next one.  You tucked your chin and bore down, one long breath, that Bob breathed along with you, demonstrating what he wanted you to do.

“Good job,” he said.  You could feel his hand on the outside of one of your legs.  “Can you do it again?  I’m gonna count to ten try to hold it as long as you can.”  You couldn’t speak, just nodded as your whole body shook with effort.

“Jesus Christ!” You screamed after he had counted and walked you through two more contractions.  Searing pain shot through your whole being.  You were aware that Bob was talking to you, probably trying to get you to push.  “I can’t do it, God it hurts!” you sobbed.

“Come on, you need to push,” He coached gentle pressure on your thigh grounding you.

“Shut the fuck up!” You screamed at him before bearing down.

“Just like that, Sunny, good job,” he said. Something in his voice sounded wrong.  You couldn’t place it.  Frustration, or defeat maybe.

“What’s wrong?”  You asked, panting.

“You’re doing great, Sunny.  I could see the head, almost there,” he said.

“Could?” you choked.  You knew that meant that you needed to push more and you were so very tired as you felt your body slump forward a little on the couch.

“I know you’re tired,” he sighed softly.  Apparently, those inside thoughts were projected out of your mouth.  “I know you are.  But you’re close, you can’t stop now.”  He reached up with the hand, not on your leg, and gripped your hand tightly.  The next contraction started, and you sobbed.

“I don’t want to do this anymore!” You cried.  “I want a hospital, I want John.”  Your legs spread a little as you bore down again.  This time the sharp pain didn’t ease off when you stopped pushing.

“Keep panting,” Bob said.  He was making the same blowing sound you were as you let out small, controlled breaths.  He pulled the hand he was holding down between your legs and you felt the soft hair of your baby there.  “You’re almost done!”

You felt a second wind break upon you.  Like a runner seeing the finish line, and you pushed with everything you had.  You felt the progress you were making.

“Heads out!” Bob cheered, excitement washing over him.  It was contagious and you wanted to laugh.  You pushed again with the next contraction and Bob whooped as he caught the baby.  You went down on both knees as Bob lifted the baby.

“It’s a girl!” He beamed as he cleaned her little nose and eyes gently with a clean towel.  He rubbed her back gently and she started crying.  You gasped in relief as Bob helped you turn around and lean back against the couch, resting the little baby against your chest.

“Hi there,” You whispered to her.  The lights in the safe house came on and appliances beeped.  Both of your phones started to chirp incessantly.

“I guess the powers back,” Bob chuckled as he touched your daughter’s little foot.  “Just in time too,” he chuckled.  “I’ll try and get us an ambulance.”

Bob was asleep in the armchair of your hospital room as the door opened, and John walked in quietly.  He didn’t want to wake you up if you were asleep.  A small light was on, and he could see you sitting up in bed, as you nursed the small baby.

“Hey,” he whispered, careful not to wake Bob or disturb you.  “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” You grimaced.  “The nurses said Bob did a good job, it could have been a lot worse.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You couldn’t bear to look at him when he asked the question.

“I was scared,” you said.  “Scared that you would push me away again.”

“You didn’t need my help, Sunny,” He chuckled.  “You beat me to it, pushing me away first?”

“Surprise,” you said weakly as tears slipped over your cheeks.  John reached up and brushed them away with the pad of his thumb.  “You have a daughter.”

“Best surprise ever,” he mumbled as he looked down at the little girl you were holding.

“I was thinking we could call her Robbie,” you said.  John’s head snapped up to meet your eyes and see the little mischievous twinkle there.

“Bob would probably die,” He chuckled.  “You guys did all the hard work, whatever makes you happy.  Though I’m not sure how I feel about my daughter being named after my best friend,” John mused with a hit of teasing in his tone.

[gotxpenny]

Every Line We Crossed

WWII. Bad timing. Worse decisions. Long stares across war rooms, a translator who speaks four languages and still can’t find the right words, and Lewis Nixon who drinks too much and feels too much. It’s tense. It’s messy. It’s that kind of almost-love that was doomed from the start—but God, did it burn.

Pairing: Lewis Nixon x Reader

Prompt: "You think I don’t know how wrong this is? But I never once wanted something so badly.”

Word Count: ~3,400

Genre: Fluff/Angst, hurt/comfort, slowburn, TENSION

Setting: Berchtesgaden, Germany

Note || sooooo i blacked out and this fic wrote itself. it’s soft, it’s messy, it’s a little emotionally unstable—kinda like lewis nixon with a whiskey bottle. if you’ve ever wanted to scream “just kiss already!!” at two fictional characters flirting, this one’s for you. enjoy the tension. blame harry welsh for the commentary. and remember: no war room was harmed in the making of this aggressively tender meltdown <3 (also, speirs slapping people into silence? peak behavior.)

gotxpenny's masterlist band of brothers masterlist

They met in the dark.

Toccoa wasn’t dark in the literal sense—Georgia was too hot and raw for that. But something about war always shaded the air around it, even in the training camps. And in the middle of all the barked orders and scraped knees, he noticed her.

Y/N, the translator. The one who was always flipping through thick, dog-eared notebooks of German, French, Italian, and—what surprised him most—Yiddish. It wasn’t her fluency that first caught Lewis Nixon’s eye. It was her silence. She was sharp, but measured. Bright, but never eager to show off. She spoke like every word mattered. Like every thought had a weight. And something about that haunted him.

Maybe it was because he had never been very good at thinking before he spoke.

She was softness in a world built to crush it.

Nixon never quite understood how she made it this far, not because she wasn’t capable—God, she was terrifyingly capable—but because she carried herself like someone untouched by the rot of war. While the rest of them had started to harden, crack, even lose shape entirely, she still somehow managed to be kind. Gentle. There was steel in her, yes—but it was quiet. Forged into her spine, not worn like armour.

And she was small. A fact that made him ache more than it should’ve. Her uniform was always a size too big, sleeves rolled twice over and pant legs cuffed just so. Her helmet sat crooked more often than not, slipping too low over her eyes like it belonged to someone else. Which, of course, it probably did. Everything the Army gave her looked borrowed. Too harsh. Too impersonal. As if the world didn’t quite know what to do with someone like her.

He remembered Normandy.

They were crouched in the hedgerows, mud thick on their boots, sky still bruised from the drop. She had landed rough and hard, scraped and breathless, helmet practically swallowing her whole head. He’d spotted her half a mile away just from the way she moved—calm, sure, but dragging her radio pack like it weighed more than she did.

“You sure you weren’t supposed to land with the field mice?” he’d called out, grinning as she emerged from the brush beside him.

She had shoved her helmet up with a huff, eyes narrowed beneath it, “You’re hilarious.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, nudging her boot with his, “You might be the first paratrooper in history who could hide in someone’s pocket.”

She’d flipped him off.

He’d fallen in love a little.

Even then, soaked in rain and war, she looked like something too good for this place. And Lewis Nixon—hungover, jaded, already a little ruined—knew damn well he had no business wanting her.

He tried not to. Tried to drown it in the usual ways—brown liquor, black humor, buried glances. But she kept being there. With her quiet tenacity, her sleeves always too long, her voice calm even when half the room was losing their heads. She translated enemy reports like they were puzzles, threading through languages like silk, and sometimes—just sometimes—she’d look up at him while she spoke, and he swore it felt like confession.

Now, in a dim room littered with maps and wires and the stale weight of smoke, she was talking again. Something about troop movement east of Remagen. He couldn’t focus. Not with her sitting that close, lips moving, hair tucked beneath a helmet that still never fit right.

He wasn’t hearing a word of it.

He was watching the way she bit the inside of her cheek when reading aloud, the faint crinkle in her brow when she stumbled on a dialect shift. He was watching her mouth, mostly. And wondering what it would take to close the distance.

She paused. Blinked at him.

“Are you even listening?”

The room wasn’t quiet—papers rustled, boots scraped, the typewriter clacked faintly in the next room—but her voice sliced through it all.

Nixon blinked. She was sitting across from him at the table, fingers resting on a handwritten enemy communiqué she had just translated aloud. Dick Winters, beside her, was methodically flipping through another set of files. Speirs leaned in his chair, unreadable as always. Harry Welsh was too amused to be useful.

But Nixon wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

He was staring at her lips.

“Nope,” he said, shameless. His whiskey-laced grin curled at the corners, “But if you’d like to repeat yourself—maybe a little slower this time—I promise I’ll hang on every word like it’s scripture.”

Y/N’s mouth opened. Then shut. Then flushed.

She hated how easily he got under her skin.

It wasn’t just the smirk—the one that never quite reached his eyes—or the way he always smelled like a mix of cigarette smoke, damp wool, and something warmer, something him. It wasn’t even the fact that he could be infuriatingly charming when he wanted to be, which was often, and usually when she was trying to be professional.

It was everything else.

It was how he looked at her like she was something he meant to find. Like she wasn’t just some Army-assigned translator in a war room full of men trying not to fall apart, but something important. Something good. And she hated that, because she knew he had no right to look at her like that—not with that ring on his finger. Not with that kind of baggage bleeding into everything he touched.

She had tried to keep her distance after Normandy. Told herself it was just adrenaline. Just the intimacy of surviving. A man like Lewis Nixon didn’t mean the things he said when there was whiskey in his breath and smoke in the air. And she didn’t want to be one more mistake he tried to drink away.

But it never stopped.

He kept circling back to her. In the mess, at debriefings, brushing past her in narrow halls just close enough to make her breath hitch. He was never overt—not really—but he lingered. In looks. In jokes. In late-night silences that made her stomach twist.

And worst of all?

She liked it.

She liked him.

The way he was sharp and broken in equal measure. The way he let his guard down around her, just a little, like she was the one person who wouldn’t try to fix him or leave him worse.

She flushed now—not from his words, but from the heat of wanting something she knew she couldn’t have.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, mostly to herself. 

Because if she let herself fall any deeper into this, she didn’t know if she’d survive it.

“She’s gonna stab you with her pen,” Speirs said dryly, not even looking up.

“Oh, come on,” Nixon teased, chin in hand now, eyes fixed on her with that glint—playful, yes. But something darker too, “You know I’m not the only one who enjoys hearing you talk, sweetheart.”

There was a beat of silence after Nixon spoke—just long enough to feel loaded.

Dick Winters didn’t even look up from the report in front of him. His jaw ticked slightly, but he said nothing, flipping a page with the same crisp precision as always. Still, anyone who knew him could read the warning in that subtle shift: Careful, Nix.

Speirs, leaning against the windowsill with arms crossed, gave a barely audible snort. He didn’t say much—he never did—but the slight upward tug at the corner of his mouth said enough. Amusement. Disbelief. Maybe even a touch of curiosity, like he was watching a slow-burning fuse and wondering when it would reach the powder.

“I am this close to translating something wrong on purpose and letting Speirs go in guns blazing,” she shot back.

Harry leaned forward suddenly, lips twitching, “Okay, is anyone gonna say it or should I?”

“No,” Winters warned preemptively, still reading.

Harry ignored him. Harry Welsh dropped his pencil with a clatter and let out a laugh that was far too loud for the room, “Jesus, Nix,” he grinned, rubbing a hand down his face, “You flirting or interrogating? You two look like you're about five seconds away from tearing each other's clothes off or tearing each other’s throats out—I can’t tell which.”

“Harry,” Dick warned, sharper this time, finally looking up.

But Harry just held up his hands innocently, eyes wide, “What? I’m just saying. You two look like you're about five seconds away from aggressively making out,” he said cheerfully, “Which, for the record, is what usually happens when Kitty and I argue like this. Except sometimes, y’know, we just go ahead and fuck.”

That shut everyone up—including Y/N, who went still as stone, her cheeks going crimson.

Nixon just chuckled, slow and low, not taking his eyes off her.

And that—that—was what made Dick finally close the file with a firm snap.

Winters slowly lifted his eyes and gave Harry the look.

“Shutting up,” Harry said immediately, hands up.

But the damage was done.

She didn’t say another word for the rest of the debriefing. And Nixon? He stopped pretending to read and started drinking in silence.

The silence that followed was long enough to stretch.

Dick, still holding the closed file in both hands, looked between them—first at Nixon, who had resumed nursing his canteen of whiskey with deliberate ease, and then at Y/N, who sat stiff in her chair, jaw clenched, staring furiously down at the translated report like it might burst into flames under her glare.

“You two need to figure out whatever this is,” Winters said evenly, not unkind but firm, “Before it starts affecting more than just the mood in the room,” it wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a warning. It was a statement. Clear. Measured. But sharp enough to cut through whatever tension had wrapped itself around them.

Speirs, still lounging against the windowsill, piped up without looking over, “Just make sure it doesn’t affect enemy intel either. I’d hate to walk into a death trap because Nix was too busy trying to undress someone with his eyes.”

Y/N made a sound—half laugh, half exasperated groan, “You know what really affects intel?” she snapped, glaring at Nixon now, “The fact that this one never pays attention. I could be translating Hitler’s funeral plans and he’d still be staring at my goddamn mouth instead of the map.”

Harry choked on a laugh but covered it with a cough. Speirs raised an eyebrow. Dick didn't react—his expression unreadable—but the silence deepened around them, the air turning almost too still.

And then, without thinking—again—Lewis spoke.

Low. Careless. Raw.

“Can you blame me?”

The words hung there.

Not teasing. Not grinning.

Just true.

Everyone froze.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. She didn’t move, didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Harry actually whistled under his breath.

Even Speirs straightened just slightly, the ghost of a smirk fading from his face.

Dick stared at Nixon for a long moment. And when he finally spoke, it was quiet.

“Out. Both of you.”

“But—” Y/N started.

“Out,” Dick repeated, without raising his voice.

Nixon stood slowly. No jokes this time. No grin.

Just those dark eyes, flicking to her like a storm ready to break.

Y/N followed, every step like walking on ice.

The door shut behind them, and the room fell into stunned silence.

“…Told you,” Harry muttered, “Aggressively making out. Five seconds.”

The hallway outside the debriefing room was dim, narrow, and oppressively quiet. The only sound was the low hum of distant generators and the dull buzz still ringing in Y/N’s ears from what Lewis had just said.

Can you blame me?

She hadn’t expected it—not like that. Not with that look on his face. Not with that truth in his voice.

She marched a few paces ahead of him, arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying to keep her expression neutral. Professional. Unbothered. But her heart was beating too loud and too fast and too hopeful, and that made her furious.

Lewis followed behind her with slower steps, the rhythm of his boots uneven, like even he wasn’t sure where this was going.

Finally, halfway down the corridor, she stopped and spun on him.

“You’re an idiot,” she hissed.

He stopped too, head tilted, “That’s fair.”

“And you can’t say shit like that in front of everyone!”

His brow lifted, slow and unreadable, “I didn’t plan on saying it, Y/N.”

“You never plan anything, Lewis,” she snapped, “You drink, and you stare, and you flirt like you don’t care who’s watching—like this is some goddamn game. But it’s not. You have a wife. You—”

“I know,” he said quietly. Firmly, “I know I do.”

That stilled her.

And it was the way he said it—not defensive, not deflecting—that made her heart twist.

She looked at him for a long second, trying to read past the shadows under his eyes and the way his shoulders sagged slightly, like carrying the weight of it all had finally started wearing him down.

“Then why?” she whispered, barely audible.

Lewis took a step closer. Then another. Close enough now that she had to tilt her chin up slightly to meet his gaze.

“Because you’re the only thing that still feels real,” he said, voice low, steady, “Everything else is noise. The war, the drinking, the mistakes I’ve made. But when you walk into a room—when you talk, even if I don’t listen like I should—you cut through it. You make me feel like I haven’t completely drowned yet. You think I don’t know how wrong this is?” he said, voice low, “But I never once wanted something so badly.”

She stared at him, heart pounding. Y/N’s throat tightened. She hated how part of her wanted to lean into him. Hated how part of her believed every word.

Her voice trembled, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“I have to,” he said, “Because if I don’t say it now, I might never get the chance.”

Silence settled again. Not awkward. Not angry.

Just heavy.

The silence stretched, thick and weighted, as they stood in that dim hallway between two breaths, between two choices.

Y/N dropped her gaze first. Not because she was weak—but because if she kept looking at him like that, she was afraid she’d fall into something she couldn’t climb back out of, “I hate the way you drink,” she said suddenly, the words slipping out before she could catch them.

Nixon blinked. It was the first time her voice had truly cut—not teasing, not playful, not distant. Just honest.

“I know,” he said quietly.

But she wasn’t done, “I don’t mean the smell or the slurring,” she whispered, eyes still fixed on the floor, “I hate what it does to you. How it dulls everything good. How it makes you forget what you’ve got. How it—” her voice cracked, just slightly, “How it makes you look right through me some nights like I’m not even real.”

He stiffened. That stopped him. Like the world had hit pause. Not because he was offended. Not because he didn’t know it was true. But because it was the first time she’d said it. 

Out loud. No jokes. No sarcasm. No safe distance.

And she wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t afraid he’d hurt her.

She was afraid he was already hurting himself.

“You’ll drink yourself to pieces, Lew,” she added, softer now, “And I don’t want to watch you drown when I know I’d still reach for you, even as you dragged me under.”

He stared at her, stunned quiet.

Then he stepped forward.

One slow, deliberate step.

“I’ll stop,” he said, “If you want me to. I’ll stop.”

Her eyes met his again, uncertain. Hope flickering at the edges of fear, “You’ve said that before,” she whispered, “To other people.”

“I didn’t mean it before,” Lewis murmured, and this time, he reached out—gently, firmly—and took her by the wrists, pulling her just close enough that her breath caught. His voice was rough, but clear, “I promise,” he said, eyes locked on hers, like if he said it with enough conviction, it might undo all the wreckage behind him.

Y/N looked up at him, her heart in her throat.

And for the first time in a long time, Lewis Nixon wasn’t running from anything.

She stared into his eyes and saw everything she’d been trying so hard not to feel.

Not just the want—that had always been there, simmering beneath every careless smirk and lingering glance—but the ache. The quiet desperation. The way he looked at her like she was the only clean thing left in a world that had gone to hell.

And for a second—just one painful, electric second—she wondered how long he’d been carrying this weight alone. How long she had.

She’d fought it for months. For reasons that were good and right and solid. He was married. He was self-destructive. He drank too much. He flirted too easily. He lived like he didn’t think he’d make it to the end of the war—and most days, neither did she.

But in this moment, all of that fell away.

Because this wasn’t about logic. It wasn’t about rules. It wasn’t about what was right or wrong or what the others would think.

It was about now.

Because he said he would stop. Because he meant it. Because for once, he wasn’t trying to charm his way out of the truth—he was facing it. Because his eyes were steady and open, and all she saw there was her.

And maybe it would end badly.

Maybe it would fall apart.

But for once, she wasn’t afraid of falling.

Because somewhere along the way—between the war and the silences and all the almosts—she’d already fallen.

So before she could talk herself out of it, before fear clawed its way back in, Y/N grabbed the front of his jacket, pulled him down to her—and kissed him like it was the only thing keeping them both alive.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t slow.

It was years of tension igniting all at once—messy and breathless and real. He responded instantly, hands fisting in her sleeves, mouth desperate against hers like he’d been waiting his whole life for permission.

When they finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, she whispered, “This doesn’t fix anything.”

“I know,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over her cheek, “But it doesn’t make it any less true.”

She didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t let go.

Inside the debriefing room, the air had settled again, though the tension still clung faintly to the walls like smoke after a fire.

Dick Winters sat stiffly at the table, arms folded, his expression unreadable but his eyes fixed on the closed door that Y/N and Nixon had just walked through. The silence that followed their exit had stretched too long—long enough that it was impossible not to wonder what was happening on the other side.

Harry, who had tried to focus on the scattered intel pages in front of him for all of three seconds, leaned back in his chair with a smug little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He waited.

Waited just a bit longer.

Then, with a small cough and no particular sense of timing or shame, he said, “So...we all heard that kiss, right?”

Dick didn’t move. Speirs raised one brow, unimpressed.

“I mean,” Harry added, throwing his hands up casually, “I did say they were about five seconds away from aggressively making out. You all laughed—except Speirs, who doesn’t have emotions—but I was right.”

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose.

Speirs looked directly at Harry, expression as deadpan as ever, then reached out and slapped the back of his head with a sharp thwap.

“Ow— what the hell, Ron?!”

“That’s for being insufferable,” Speirs said flatly, “And for the phrase ‘aggressively making out.’”

Harry rubbed the back of his head, muttering, “Still accurate.”

Dick finally exhaled, the barest flicker of something like resigned concern crossing his face, “This is going to complicate everything,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Speirs gave a lazy shrug, “Could be worse.”

Harry perked up, “Yeah, at least it wasn’t in here. I’d never be able to sit in this room again if they’d started ripping uniforms off.”

Dick gave him the look again.

Harry shut up. Briefly.

But the door stayed closed.

And none of them said it out loud—but they all knew something had changed.

For better or worse…that line had finally been crossed.

[a99jazzybean]

OR it could be jaycexreader trying pot brownies 😬 I think that’ll be funny and can get spicy. If your are comfortable with it of courseee

This one was cute and fun to write! Thank you for the request!

High Enough

synop: You decided to make pot brownies for your roommate, but realize you don't have enough bud. You decide that using juice from a cart is a good idea. Jayce eats some of the brownies not realizing they have weed in them. He convinces you to get high and shenanigans ensue.

Reader is gender neutral but AFAB

words: 3.5K

includes: jaycexgn!reader, modern au, recreational drug use, weed use, high sex, creampie, smut

a/n: Guys, DO NOT make pot brownies like this. This recipe was inspired by my dumbass friends that poured a cart out into brownie mix. A tiny piece had me knocked out in 30 minutes. Do not recommend.

Dammit… You were all out of bud. You swore you had some left, but found measly crumbs at the bottom of your stash jar. That’s what you get for switching to pens you suppose. 

A lightbulb went off in your head. That’s it! You could use a cart. That couldn’t go wrong, right? 

You grabbed a fresh cart and some needle nose pliers and went to work on the cap. After some careful maneuvering, you managed to get it open without breaking the glass. Dumping it in your mixing bowl, you got to work making some brownies. 

Turning on some tunes, you hummed and danced your way through cracking eggs and measuring flour. The brownies were for one of your roommates, Viktor. A “thank you” for getting you out of a bind on a major school project. 

While they were a gift, you obviously were planning on trying them out yourself. Especially since you were experimenting with using a different form of weed. Probably best to see how you fared before accidentally making your friend green out. 

When the brownies baked you found that this batch appeared to have less of the typical pungent scent than if you used flower. Noted. 

After baking you left out the pan to cool. Deciding you needed a shower after accidentally covering yourself in flour, you headed down the hall. As you bathed, your other roommate returned home. 

Upon entering, his nose and eyes were immediately drawn to the fresh baked brownies on the counter. Mouth watering, he skipped over to the kitchen. As the apartment’s resident baker, it wasn’t uncommon for you to randomly make goodies to share. Jayce saw this as no different. Pulling out a knife, he cut himself a decent piece of brownie. Taking a large bite out of the gooey chocolate, he moaned with content. 

When you walked out of the bathroom, you heard Jayce shuffling out in the kitchen. Eyes widening, you rushed in. It was too late. The man had already scarfed down the brownie, his hand reaching once more to cut out  another piece. 

“STOP!” You yell, hand out. 

Turning around, Jayce gave you a confused wide-eyed stare. 

“What’s wrong?” Oh how naive the man was. 

“Jayce, those are pot brownies.” 

“Wait, really? I can’t taste it at all.” 

“I might have used juice from a cart instead of flower…” You trailed sheepishly. 

“WHAT???” His eyes grew even wider. “Why the fuck would you do that?” 

“I ran out of bud! And I wanted to do something nice for Viktor!” You shrugged your shoulders. 

“Something nice for-“ He let out an exasperated sigh. “ I’m pretty sure what you have created might put the man in a coma.”

You scoffed. 

“I doubt it. He’s got an insane tolerance.” 

“Regardless, I’ve eaten one.” His eyes narrowed at you. 

“Don’t blame me! You ate one without asking!” 

“You bake things all the time! How was I supposed to know?” He was growing very concerned. 

“Hey, let’s calm down.” You softened your voice. The last thing you needed was for Jayce to spiral. 

“How are you feeling?”

“I can already feel my head getting lighter.” 

“Okay, so we know it hits pretty quickly.” You walked up to him slowly, taking his hand to help ground him. 

He grasped yours tightly. 

“I’ll keep an eye on you, kay?” Your thumb traced circles on the back his hand. The tender action made him shiver. 

“What if you joined me?” Gears were turning in his head. 

“What do you mean?”

“Eat one too.” He gave you pleading puppy dog eyes. 

“Jayce, we have no idea how this will affect you, much less me.” You shook your head at him. 

“Were you just planning on giving them to Viktor?” He eyed you suspiciously. 

“W-well, no. I was going to try them-“ 

“Then try them. Since you were already planning on it.” He cut you off. 

Those damned pleading puppy-dog eyes had you wavering. Really, what would be the harm? As long as you stay home you should be fine, hopefully. 

Nodding, you gave his hand a squeeze of reassurance. He beamed at your response, making your heart swell.

Ushering you over to the counter, Jayce cut out a piece for you. You took it, giving the treat a once-over. Looking at Jayce, he was shifting side-to-side impatiently. Eyes blown out, leaving a tiny visible ring of a hazel iris. 

“This is what that D.A.R.E. officer warned me about in eighth grade.” You sighed, then took a bite. 

Chocolatey goodness filled your senses. Jayce was right, you couldn’t taste anything off about the brownies. Oh, that was dangerous. 

You swallowed then looked at Jayce expectantly. 

“What now?”

“We could chill in my room, or yours. Doesn’t matter to me.” He shrugged nonchalantly. 

Jayce really, really did not want to be left alone right now. And if you were going to be in the same state as him might as well do it together, right? It’s not like he was expecting anything out of it. After all, you were very good friends. But in his weed addled mind, there was a teensy part of him that was hoping for maybe something more. 

See, you were absolutely fucking gorgeous in the man’s eyes. While you had been close friends for a long while now, Jayce secretly wished for something more. 

It didn’t help that the two of you had enjoyed the occasional sloppy make out sesh that followed an evening of drinking. Giving the man just a taste of what you had to offer, and nothing more. 

The thing was, you also wanted a little something more as well. Not necessarily a relationship. But having a hot piece of ass like him around was tempting to say the least. 

“We can chill in my room.” You said, grabbing his hand and dragging him down the hall. 

Jayce had spent time in your room every so often, but it still felt like a sacred space. Especially now when it felt like his mind was floating. 

Once in your room you hopped onto your bed. Sinking into the mattress with a satisfied sigh. This was the best part about being high. Just laying down and feeling it hit you. Limbs sinking down into the plush of your bed. Lifting your head a bit, you spotted Jayce awkwardly watching you. Shuffling in place like he didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. 

“Get in here, Talis.” You motioned for him to join you. 

He padded over to your bed, then laid down beside you. A small smile on his face as he watched you in content bliss. 

“It’s so nice to just sink in.” You sighed. 

“I take it the brownie has hit?” 

You nodded with a hum. Allowing yourself to enjoy the pleasant buzz in your head. 

Reaching out, you grabbed Jayce’s hand. He intertwined his fingers with yours and you let out another sigh. 

“You have really nice hands.” You lifted his hand above your face, studying it. “So warm. They’re working hands,” you traced the calluses at the top of his palm, “but somehow still soft. Yes, very nice hands.” You hummed bringing his palm to your lips and placing a tender kiss in the center.

Mouth agape, Jayce stared at you wide eyed. A red flush dusting his cheeks. 

Looking at him, you gave him a sweet smile. One he couldn’t help but return. 

Even though you were holding his hand, the distance between you felt too far. Jayce wrapped his free arm around you, pulling you closer to him. Nose to nose, you giggled. This felt… really nice. Humming, you nuzzled your nose against his. The adorable action made him blush even harder. 

Damn, you sure got physical when high. Not that he minded. 

“Jayce…” You mumbled, then pressed yourself into the space beneath his chin. Your face pushed into his chest. “You’re soooo warm.” 

“I think you’re higher than I am.” 

Shrugging your shoulders you nuzzled into his chest. The man curled his arms tighter around you. Leaning his head down, he pressed a warm kiss onto your forehead. 

“This feels really nice.” You murmured.

The comforting sinking returned. Feeling your body go heavy as you slumped into the man. Almost like you were going to meld with him.

Jayce’s skin was buzzing. Your touch feels ten times more intense than normal. As you curled up into the man, your hands roamed over him. Trailing up his torso and neck, fingers curling into his hair. Slowly they skimmed back down his arms. A pattern of movements that had him shivering against you. God, did it feel amazing. 

“I really like that…” He said softly, kissing your forehead again. 

“Mmm, yeah?” You gave him a dazed smile.

“Yeah.”

Your hands returned to his hair. Fingers scraping against his scalp, making him let out a low groan. 

“You’re like a puppy.” You giggled to yourself as you continued to pet him. “So cute.”

“A puppy?” He questioned.

“Yeah. The way you’re responding to my pets. And you have puppy-dog eyes.” 

“Puppy-dog eyes?” He gave you a confused look, head cocked to the side. Looking exactly like a confused dog.

Giggling again, you snuggled as close as you could to the man.

“Puppy-dog eyes that convinced me to get high with you.” You poked him in the chest. “They’re dangerous.”

He chuckled, puffs of air hitting the top of your head.

“Dangerous.”

“Exactly. So use them for good next time.” You admonished him with a finger. 

“Is this not something good?”

Pondering on it, you shrugged. 

“I’m not complaining, I suppose.” You gave him a sweet smile.

“Anything I can do to make it better?” 

“I dunno. You got any ideas?” You gave him a sultry look. 

He licked his lips nervously, eyes darting between your own and your lips. Leaning up, you pressed your nose against his. Lips just barely brushing against his. Looking into his eyes expectantly, you spoke softly.

“Well?” 

Warm lips crashed into yours messily. The man moaned as soon as he pressed against you. Every fiber of his body on fire when you pressed your lips against his. Teasingly, you lightly lapped against his bottom lip. Jayce slightly opened his mouth, inviting your tongue to tangle with his. You slid your tongue into his mouth, groaning at his taste. 

His hands roamed over your body. Appreciating the fact you wore nothing under your comfy pjs. Large fingers pinched your nipples over your clothes. You squeaked at the sudden sparks of pleasurable pain. He swallowed the sound, moaning against you. He was rutting against your thigh, making you feel the prominent bulge straining against his sweats. 

Pausing for a breath, you slightly pushed away, looking over him. This probably shouldn’t go further. Although there was a burning ache in your groin, you knew that going into this high wasn’t the smartest decision. But you didn’t really make a smart decision on the brownies while sober… so perhaps the night was one ready for many mistakes. Though you didn’t feel like hooking up with Jayce was a mistake. It could be for him though, you wouldn’t hold that against him. 

“Is everything okay?” He wanted to pull you back to him.

“Uh, yeah. I just don’t know if we should continue. I wouldn’t want you to regret anything.” You looked away from him, embarrassed.

“I could never regret anything with you.” His eyes pleaded with you, hips shaking as he did his best not to rut himself against you again. 

His words made your heart swell, a blush flushing on your cheeks. Pushing yourself back in, you gave him a deep kiss. Fuck it. You wanted this, your body was making you feel like you needed this. 

“I’ll take it you’re okay with us continuing?”

“Oh fuck yes.” You pressed your lips against his again, earning you a deep moan. 

Jayce returned to rubbing up against your thigh. Letting out little whimpers at the friction against his hard cock. Feeling his length against you had you drooling at the thought of him inside of you. Through the fabric of his pants you could feel how long and thick he was. It would be a stretch, but you wanted all of the man in front of you.

“C-can I taste you?” Jayce pulled back for a breath. “I really want you to sit on my face.” 

That had you flushing furiously. 

“Are you sure?” You asked softly. A part of you was concerned about hurting him.

“Yes. I want- no. I need it.” 

You nodded, agreeing. He beamed at you before shuffling your bodies on the bed. Rolling himself beneath you. You were straddling his waist and felt the head of his cock through his pants brush against your clothed sex. You whimpered at the friction. 

Jayce reached for your sleep shorts, eyes asking for permission. Nodding, you maneuvered your legs to help him remove the article. After tossing them, he turned to look at you. Groaning at the shiny slick coating your pussy and thighs. Lifting you up, he encouraged you to crawl to his face. Obliging, you made your way above him. Holding onto the headboard, you slowly lowered yourself over him. Large arms encircled your thighs, forcing you onto his waiting mouth. The sudden action makes you cry out. 

With a warm tongue, Jayce licked a stripe down your pussy. Your body was buzzing and sensitive with your high, making the pleasure more intense. Lapping through your folds, Jayce was making you release noises you had never known you could make before. Each whine and moan shot straight to his straining cock. Twitching impatiently as he made you fall apart on his tongue. 

You had to use the headboard to stabilize yourself. Around his head, your thighs were shaking as pure pleasure coursed through your body. Warmth was growing in your belly with each tantalizing lick against your clit. 

Beneath you, Jayce groaned. You were fucking delicious. He felt like he could stay under you for hours. Hearing the sounds you were making made him wish he could just hold you pressed against his tongue. 

“C-close!” You squeaked out. 

Jayce had begun flicking his tongue against you quickly. Each flick builds up your climax. With how sensitive you were, it would only be a matter of time before you burst. His tongue continued to flick against you rapidly. At this point, your entire body was shaking with the build of your orgasm. One perfectly placed swirl against your clit was your undoing. 

Practically screaming, you came on his face. Squirting over his chin with the force that your orgasm hit you. Between your squeezing thighs, Jayce thought he died and went to heaven. Oh he would gladly die squished in your plush thighs, your taste filling his senses. 

He only gave you a brief moment before his mouth was back on you.

“Jayce!” You squealed as he overstimulated your cunt. 

It seemed like he didn’t need to breathe as he continued to eat you out with fervor. Tongue tasting every inch of you, occasionally pushing into you. You could barely keep your body up as the shaking grew stronger. Your climax rapidly grows with each lap against your sopping pussy. 

With a shaky hand, you reach for the top of his head. Fingers curling into his hair. The feeling made him moan against you. 

This time, your orgasm hit you like a train. Crashing through your entire body with a giant wave of pleasure. Above him you twitched and whimpered as his tongue continued to lick you. Eventually you pressed your hand against his forehead, making him let you go.

“T-too much, Jayce!” You whined.

Sliding off of his face, you flopped belly down onto the bed. Jayce eyed your bare ass and legs, licking his lips with anticipation. He slid behind and over you. Turning to watch him, you felt your thighs clench. Flopping against his belly was probably the most enticing cock you had ever seen. Tip flushed an angry red, just begging to be fucked. 

Jayce looked at you, the hunger in his gaze making you shiver. Wiggling your hips, you urged him to continue. He spread your legs, and pressed down on your back. You lifted your hips, whining impatiently.

Because of that, Jayce decided to tease you. Dragging his cock between your folds. Gathering up your ever-accumulating slick dripping out of you. His cock caught on your entrance, making you whimper. Fuck, you needed him to fill you. You felt like you were floating and sinking at the same time. A pleasurable bliss that was about to get better. 

Slowly, Jayce pressed himself into you. Thick cock stretching you out deliciously. Both of you moaned as he continued to push his length inside. His cock brushing against the gummy spot that had you keening. 

“That feel good?” He leaned his body over yours, murmuring into your ear. 

It felt too good. You couldn’t form a coherent sentence. Instead, you decided to nod vigorously. Hoping he would move inside you. 

“Mmm, good.” He crooned, pulling out slowly then slamming back into you. 

Your whole body jolted with pleasure as his cock began to abuse your sweet spot. Head of his length continuing to hit it over and over again. Clutching the bedsheets you were a sobbing mess. The oversensitivity from your high mixed with the pure pleasure the man was giving you caused tears to prick at the corners of your eyes. 

“J-Jayce!” You cried out and one very intense thrust. 

“F-fuck,” he released a stuttering breath against your neck. “Please cum, please cum for me. I need to feel you. So fucking bad.” He nuzzled into your shoulder.

Jayce would soon be getting his wish. An intense pleasure was blooming within you, making you gasp and moan. This man was making you feel like an overstimulated puddle. Each press of his cock makes the pleasure grow tenfold. Your entire body was ready to shatter. 

And shatter you did. Jayce’s cock thrusting in and out of you, draggin your orgasm along with it. Your pussy clenched his cock, drenching your bed sheets as you came. 

Jayce groaned, but held himself back. He needed to feel you do that at least one more time. 

You whined when he pulled out of you, then yelped when he flipped you over. A brief moment of soberness had you remembering that he was actually really strong. Then your stoned brain chimed in with how fucking hot it was that he was manhandling you so desperately.

He had you on your back, legs hooked over his shoulders. As he pressed back into your wet heat, he gave you a sloppy kiss. The two of you catching eachother’s moans of pleasure. He pushed up your shirt to your shoulders. Warm hands cupped your breasts, teasing over your nipples. The action makes you shiver all over. 

His hands moved to your waist to give him more leverage. Fast thrust pummeled the sweet spot within you. Jayce managed to hit it perfectly in this position too. Crying out, you felt a sting of pleasure. Thick fingers were circling your abused clit, sending sparks shooting through your body. Moans and whimpers escaping you with each circle. Your hands clenched his biceps for purchase as your body shook. 

He could feel your pussy pulsing around him. Another climax building inside you. He chased your high, wanting to cum with you. Knowing he could burst at any moment, Jayce hoped you would join him. The tightness in his balls was growing a bit too unbearable. 

As if your body was answering his wish, he felt you clench against his length. Unconsciously thrusting your hips as you chase down your orgasm. A scream of pleasure ripping out of you as you gushed around him. 

Warmth filled you as Jayce was granted his release. Cock twitching deep inside you as hot ropes of his cum poured in. A pleasurable feeling that seemed never ending. Jayce’s orgasm lasted long after he had fully unloaded in you. Cock overstimulated with the feeling of your tight twitching walls around him. 

Both of you came down from your orgasm highs. Still extremely high from the brownies. Something that could easily be read based on your drooping eyelids and dopey smiles. Before pulling out, Jayce kissed all over your face. You giggled as his lips pecked all over your cheeks.

“That was amazing.” He purred against your neck, giving you a kiss. “You are amazing.” 

“You feel sososososo good, Jayce.” You pressed a kiss to his lips. 

With a groan, Jayce pulled out of you. His eyes transfixed on your pussy now dripping out his spend.

“That’s hot.” He looked up, chuckling at your confused expression. 

Kissing your forehead, he stood up. 

“I’ll get us cleaned up.”

After a moment, Jayce returned with a wet washcloth. Softly he wiped you down. You softly thanked him for helping you. He responded with a sweet kiss. 

When you were both cleaned up, Jayce returned to snuggle up in your bed. Large warm arms held you close to him. You felt yourself drifting as Jayce spoke to you softly. The man letting out a stream of compliments and fond memories. Occasionally he would kiss you, feeling like he was drowning in your lips. 

“We should do this again.” Jayce said softly.

“Yeah? Yeah.” You giggled, answering yourself.

“Though I think we could skip the brownies next time.” 

[apparitionism]

Court 3

To @amtrak12 , who obviously has the patience of a saint, I offer the next part of this @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange gift. As begun in part 1 and part 2, it’s a vaguely in-universe story in which Myka and Helena are in some fashion being pitted against each other in court.... but that scenario, and everything surrounding it, is of somewhat unclear definition. Why might that be? All will be revealed eventually, I promise, and there are a few hints here in this part. Overall, I hope there’s at least a little enjoyment in the excruciatingly slow ride.

Court 3

Now Artie is waving folders around: “Legal!” he says, flourishing one in his right hand, and then, as if to distinguish by name the one in his next-raised left, “briefs!”

With a little look-at-me shimmy, Pete says, “But what about legal boxers?” Like he’s the first person ever to make such a joke.

“Fisticuffs?” Helena asks, a little plaintive.

So, okay, maybe he’s the first ever to make such a joke in front of Helena. who deserves not to be left in the dark, even by a joke that only Pete thinks is funny. “He means—” Myka starts, but it occurs to her, just in time, before she fully embarks, that she does not want to talk about distinctions between types of underwear with Helena Wells. Or with H.G. Wells. Or with anybody, really, but in particular not with either of those eminences.

But she likes “fisticuffs.” As a word. So: “Never mind,” she says, following up with, “I like ‘fisticuffs.’” To the four surprise-widened pairs of eyes that slew her way—hallelujah, the distraction worked—she finishes, “As a word.”

Artie’s eyes narrow. “Here’s a word: unforgettable. Be that, both of you. On both sides. So nobody questions anybody’s legitimacy when it’s time to take possession.”

Take possession. Why does everything he says make Myka think inappropriate thoughts?

But also: being unforgettable certainly won’t be a problem for Helena.

“How could anyone forget Agent Bering?” Helena asks, in unknowing yet ringing counterpoint, with a tone that Myka desperately wants to be correct in hearing as unironic. (Which may or may not stretch fully to “sincere.”)

“You got that backwards,” Pete tells her. “It’s ‘how could Agent Bering forget anyone.’ Or anything. And the answer is, she couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t she,” Helena says, looking at Myka. Looking intently, like Myka’s leapt a quantum of consequence, and is that good or bad?

Myka doesn’t want to find out. Not now. “We don’t need to get into that,” she says.

Helena blinks at her. “What do we need to get into?”

It sounds suggestive only because, Myka assures herself, everything Helena says sounds suggestive.

No, wait, that’s terrible. Try again: only because Helena can make anything sound suggestive.

No, that’s bad too: it puts the blame on Helena, whose intent can’t be assumed.

So, back to the first: everything Helena says sounds suggestive... to Myka. That’s at least accurate. Accurate and damning.

And speaking of damning, she’s let Helena’s question sit unanswered too long... but, for good or ill, Artie steps into the breach.

“Working the case,” Artie says, stepping into the breach, and is he saving Myka or damning her further? “That’s what—that’s all—you need to get into.”

“All...” Helena echoes, drawing the word out, sinuous syrup in Myka’s ear. Damning, damning, damning.

“Also court,” Claudia says, the “t” an obstructive retort, as if to stop any such flow. “You need to get into that.” Another shot, for emphasis.

But Claudia’s plosives won’t be putting up barriers once Myka and Helena do.

****

Steve likes to wander the aisles of the Warehouse. If he’s being honest with himself (although sometimes he’s not honest with himself, if only because he can in fact lie to himself without pain; it gives him a little zing of illicit pleasure, like not quite triggering an allergy) he feels more at home here in this building that should be overwhelming than he does in the B&B. In this building, he’s anonymous; at the B&B, everyone wants to, or feels that they already, know him too well—too well too soon. He hadn’t signed up for that.

Not that he’d known in any way whatsoever what he was signing up for.

Not that he’d even affirmatively “signed up” for anything.

Should he have seen this life-wrench coming?

On his first day of fifth grade, the teacher, working her way through the alphabet of last names, had asked each student if they had thought about what they wanted to be when they grew up. After praising the ambition of Tony Gentry, who wanted to be the President of the United States and also a rock star, she’d moved on to Steve. “Steve Jinks? Ideas?”

“An advice columnist,” he’d answered promptly, with certainty.

His teacher had raised her eyebrows at that and pronounced it “very interesting,” but she didn’t press the point, instead moving on to the next name. “Jennifer Josten? Your thoughts?” Jennifer had declared an interest in lepidoptery, which then had to be defined for the class, thus fully washing away Steve’s answer... probably for the best, as he’d thought even in the moment.

When his mother asked how that first day went, he told her what he’d said. Unlike his teacher, she followed up: “Why an advice columnist?”

So he had to give reasons. His first one: he liked the words. Advice columnist. They were full and fun to say, and they made the job sound full too.

Then he worried that he was being presumptuous (a word he’d recently learned, though less recently than “lepidoptery”), making like he had some innate (ditto) ability to do such a full job. So he explained that it wasn’t that he thought he knew so much about people and their problems. But he liked the idea of having answers, ones that went beyond “lie” and “truth.”

His mother agreed that answers—nuanced ones—were good. And thus Steve also learned the word “nuanced.”

In retrospect, he suspects he’d been hoping that becoming an advice columnist meant being gifted with answers (other than “lie” and “truth”), wisdom from some advice-ether to which only such columnists had access.

His eventual Buddhism had, and has, served as the real version of that imagined advice-ether, offering him glimpses, even occasional grasps, of more-nuanced answers.

It’s possible, though, and maybe even likely, that answers of similarly greater nuance are to be glimpsed, and even occasionally grasped, here in this Warehouse. Steve’s found moments of unexpected peace in its immensity, and unexpected power in the peace.

But today, even more unexpected, he finds, or rather nears, un-peace, an aural variety, its location and source taking a moment to clarify: the container aisle, from which blares Pete’s voice, angry, demanding, and in response, a woman—but not Myka, not Leena, not Claudia. Not even Mrs. Frederic. An unknown woman in the Warehouse? Arguing with Pete?

Steve is not an advice columnist, which he’s had cause to semi-regret during his brief Warehouse tenure: all these misfit toys (a category from which he doesn’t exclude himself) need advice, and he’s totally unqualified to give it. So he does for a moment entertain the idea of turning away from Pete’s ire, avoiding whatever today’s kerfuffle is.

But he has a job, and while it’s not “advice columnist,” it often seems to lean toward something like “kerfuffle-handler.”

So he turns in the direction of the noise.

****

Layers, Myka thinks. Helpful in South Dakota. The winters, anyway.

Layers. This over that. This, then that. Again?

Pete sits her down and cues up Witness for the Prosecution.

You made me watch this already. Myka doesn’t say this aloud, but it’s... true? He did. Before. Before what? “Why are you doing this?” is what she does say.

“To getcha ready,” he enthuses. “For court. See, what’s a big deal here is Dietrich.”

“Well, sure,” Myka says, because when wouldn’t Dietrich be a big deal?

“Not because of that. I mean, sure, always because of that,” and he is looking at her like he might have just decoded some undercurrenty dit-dot-dash of what she never says aloud, “but. For right now: her testimony. Unreliable.”

“You mean like Rashomon.” Which he has also made her watch. Already. Before.

“Nope. That’s different versions. Everybody’s got different versions. This is about who to trust.”

He must mean Helena... he must be pushing her to not trust. Must mean, must be. Must must must.

But even as she resists that pressure to not, she can’t deny that Helena has an appeal that is by a certain measure Dietrich-esque, and thus what she can’t resist a quick riffle-shuffle, just for the thrill... Morocco (white tie and tailcoat...), Shanghai Express (chiaroscuro with Anna May Wong her mirror...), even Touch of Evil (into every life a little Well[e]s must fall...)...

“Are you showing movies to Helena too?” she asks, as much to talk herself down as to really find out. Helena, Pete, movies... would there really be time for that?

But how is there time for this?

“Why would I?” Pete asks.

“To get her ready? Too?”

“But I want you to win,” he says. “Whatever’s happening.”

Whatever’s happening. “Who’s unreliable?” Myka asks. She wants to know. Whatever’s happening.

She doesn’t really expect an answer, and Pete lives down to that: “Don’t ask me,” he says, busying himself with the DVD remote.

But whom should Myka ask?

Herself?

****

When Steve rounds the corner, both Pete and the woman—she’s beautiful, her face a pale marvel, but it’s her hair, a wash of darkest ink, that strikes him—look his way and immediately clam up.

The sudden silence spooks him. As does the fact that at their feet lies Myka, and she’s... taking a nap? She’s on her side, her head pillowed on her arms, like she’s illustrating “sleep” in the dictionary. It’s more than odd, but then again this is the Warehouse, where stranger naps have no doubt been been taken.

Steve certainly isn’t one to begrudge Myka, or anybody else, the rest they need, but...

...the silence continues, as if enforced.

Steve is patient, but uncanniness makes him antsy. So to the woman, who seems nonthreatening (she’s just standing there, arms crossed), Steve ventures, “Hi?”

“Hello,” she responds. Her voice, now not angry, is low. Rich.

“Right,” Pete says, a put-upon pout. “I always think everybody knows everything. Steve, H.G. H.G., Steve.”

“Delighted,” says the newly identified H.G. to Steve. “Who are you?”

“Same,” Steve responds. “And same?” There’s surely something he should be getting, but—

Pete sighs, still put-upon. “I always think.” To the woman, he says, “He’s the new guy they brought in to replace Myka, after you made her leave.” Then he turns to Steve. “H.G. Think about it.” Like Steve is a complete idiot.

And he is: immediately, realization. The embarrassment burns him, heating his gut, blooming on his face. “H.G. Wells,” he says, and tries to cover at least a bit of his flush by understating, “Claudia mentioned.”

Claudia has in fact woven tale after tale, all in the service of illustrating what she initially described as “H.G.’s good-guy-to-bad-guy-to-goodish-guy-to-who-knows-what status, with Myka all-in then crushed then mostly just sad and Pete really pissed off about all of it, but anyway we got you out of the deal, Jinksy, and maybe someday we’ll get H.G. back for real too, because honestly I miss her basically like I’d miss air.”

Steve adds to his understatement with, “She reveres you, by the way.”

“And I her,” says H.G., with a weirdly formal head-bow. “Not at all by the way.”

“Good choices all around, it seems like,” Steve says.

H.G. smiles, and he is rewarded.

“Meanwhile, Myka was unconscious!” Pete informs the world, full up again with all that anger Steve had wanted to turn away from.

“I don’t think that’s quite right,” H.G. says, quiet.

The way she talks... not trying to compete, but secure in her ability to. Steve feels himself proving his kinship with Claudia. More so than with Pete

“Who cares what you think?” Pete fumes, confirming Steve’s sense. “And you’ll say anything anyway.”

“She’s telling the truth though,” Steve says, because she is. “To me, Myka looks... asleep. Comfortable, even?”

H.G. nods. “That was my thought when—”

Pete breaks in, loudly, “Asleep?!? But I’m yelling!”

“We know,” Steve says, and he hears H.G. say the same, right in tune, and what is he to do with this instant accord? Is it disturbing? Or... flattering?

“She never sleeps through me yelling!” Pete yells on.

Myka, for her part, sleeps on.

Steve finds himself hoping that when the yelling stops—as eventually it must, even with Pete—H.G. will be able to express the as-yet-unarticulated when of her thought about Myka asleep.

He additionally hopes that builds to something like advice.

****

Who’s unreliable?

Myka, that’s who. Why else would Artie have sent Pete along with her and Helena on this retrieval, when he has no role to play in court?

Obviously she requires a chaperone.

Tamalpais was so different. Claudia is a lot of things, but “chaperone” isn’t among them, and anyway she was preoccupied with confronting her own insecurities, leaving Myka generally free to...

... well, to confront her own. While pretending not to, because of the incessant pressured wish to be present for every moment with Helena, whether collegial or clashy or both.

Paradoxically, looking is what Myka’s viscera remember of all that shared presence: for while their physical interactions made serious impressions, the gazes meant. They signified. They offered up the why of the physical.

And that why is obviously the reason for Pete’s presence. Myka supposes “backup” must have been, must be, the ostensible rationale for it, but that’s almost as troubling. Why wouldn’t she and Helena be each other’s backup? Why would they need more? It’s not like this is even a conventional, and thus possibly dangerous, retrieval.

She’s reminded of that as she stands before the bathroom mirror in a hotel room, dressing for court: buttoning up, smoothing down. This suit has always been what she would wear for such an occasion, this eyeliner and blush always what she would apply. As evidence. Of preparation.

Pete gapes at her when she emerges. “Are you wearing makeup?”

Why is he in her room? “I’m going to court,” Myka says. Did he forget?

“Who? The judge?”

Dangerous, dangerous... she knows who. So she says “What?” Playing as dumb as she can.

“And you’re supposedly the word nerd...” He shakes his head. Has he bought it? Surely even word nerds are allowed to plead (to feign) ignorance on occasion. “But seriously, do they judge on hotness now?”

Of course: at that moment, Helena sweeps in, as if doors and locks and privacy are nothing but easily disproved hypotheses. “I certainly hope so,” she says, and she too is buttoned up, smoothed down, yet perfectly so, the strictures fitting simple... also evidence, but of a dream Myka has been waiting till this very moment to dream. She looks Myka over... also not unrelated to several dreams Myka has been waiting, or in fact not waiting, to dream. “At the very least, I relish the competition.”

“I guess it’s time,” Myka says, hoping to send the idea of that sort of competition on its way. (Not that she knows where “on its way” would be. Probably some sort of boomerang trajectory, given everything.) “Time,” she repeats. “For court.”

“Court-ing!” Pete yelps, and Myka wants to sink into the hotel-room carpet, never mind what else those abused fibers have absorbed.

Helena takes it in her stride, not even raising an eyebrow. As she would. “Yes, it is,” she says, an affirmation of its being time, and/or actual courting being involved, and/or every possible jot of meaning in between.

Affirmation... why not affirm it all? All, all, legal boxers and all, because this is about (a bout?) competition, which Helena has said she relishes. Which Myka is ready—absolutely ready—to relish too.

Fisticuffs.

TBC

[vcnillababy]

CAFES AND COMFORT

bokuto kotaro x shy! reader

clinking of cutlery against plates, the buzz of different groups of friends, families and couples having simultaneous conversations, and of course, the smell of coffee beans and pastries were the reason this particular cafe was so popular— especially in your eyes— the semi-loud atmosphere was oddly comforting, especially with BOKUTO KOTARO sharing his apple pie with you.

the bell above the blue door chimed, signalling the baristas of a new customer. you glanced at the figure, it was a familiar one— one that you could never forget— it was him.

your eyes couldn’t help themselves, gazing at the door for what felt like ages— well, that’s what bokuto told you— he furrowed his brows, snapping you out of your trance.

“pumpkin, what’re you looking at?”

you grimace. this date was supposed to be a chance to catch up— with classes taking up your time, and practice needing his full attention 24/7, this was one of your few chances to talk to each other with no distractions— but right now? your attention was fully captured by the hunk of junk at the counter ordering his meal.

big brown eyes, soft black hair, and sharp features that you recognised. the same features that you used to hold, kiss, and comfort during hard times— his hard times.

you shut your eyes, resetting your memories as you flutter them back open, landing on the owl-like boy in front of you, his golden eyes looking in yours filled with concern.

“sorry, kou..” you whispered in shame.

“who is that? is he an old friend?” bokuto questions, glancing at the counter.

your eyes followed his, landing on the figure that once clouded your mind for days on end. “you could say that.”

“an ex?”

“guess so.”

the once light and breezy atmosphere turned tense and somber. still, bokuto couldn’t help but pry— i mean, it’s his girlfriend we’re talking about! of course he’d want to know every single thing about her ex and how to outdo him in every single aspect— “ended on bad terms, huh?”

you reluctantly nod. “my fault.”

you remembered everything clearly. how he chased you first, how you were too shy to reciprocate, and how he was too impatient and immature to wait until you were ready. but you couldn’t blame him, not when you were so painfully insecure and only felt like you were holding him back from his full potential.

bokuto couldn’t believe it— anything being her fault— she was sweet, always has been. sure, chasing after her took time, but it was all worth the wait.

“mind telling me what happened, princess?” he further inquires, his large hands fidgeting with the teaspoon in his mug.

“same thing that you went through.” she shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“what are you talking about? you’re as sweet as my apple pie!” he flails his arms, exaggerating his point.

you let out a soft sigh, your hands picking at the lint on your sweater. “you know..”

he scoffed, growing tired of the back and forth. “no, i obviously don’t. y/n, just tell me.”

you chew on your bottom lip, slightly reluctant to tell him about your faults in the relationship. “i uh..” would he understand? or would he blame you like your ex did?

it was bokuto. you could trust him— or at least you hoped you could— “i was, like, really shy during the three months we were together.”

bokuto’s golden eyes widened, his head tilting in a mix of confusion and curiosity. “what’s wrong with that? it’s who you are.”

“no, kou— you don’t get it.”

“what don’t i get? you can’t keep saying that and not tell me how to understand!”

“i was stupid, okay?” she snaps. “i-i avoided him cause he was always with his huge group of friends— and they were always so loud! always hollering at us and he blamed me cause i couldn’t talk to him when his friends were around— which was practically all the time..”

bokuto’s hand reached for yours, his touch soft and tender. “baby..”

“soon enough, he got bored of the awkward back and forth, and well..” you pause, not knowing how to continue her story. “when the next school year came around, he finally found a prettier girl— a younger girl— and they started dating under a week of our break up.”

he was quiet for a moment, processing your little story time as he squeezed your hand tighter. “that’s bullshit.”

“what?”

“he— because you were shy? oh, come on!” bokuto lets out an exasperated groan. “he should’ve known what type of girl you were before you two even started to date! why is he surprised that the shy girl he asked out is actually awkward and timid?”

bokuto tilts your chin up, locking eyes with you. “y/n, listen.”

his gaze was stern, in contrast to his usual carefree personality. “it’s not your fault that he was impatient— that he didn’t even try to understand how you felt!”

you shake your head, your eyes fixating on the plate of croissants and muffins in front of you. “but that’s not the problem— i kept avoiding him when his friends were around.. you know how i get when there’s a lot of attention on me—“

“that’s not your fault.” he stops her. “he knew that you’re a reserved person, y/n. and he didn’t do anything to make you feel comfortable around him— that’s his fault. he’s an idiot.”

bokuto’s grip on her chin loosens, instead combing through his hair as a feeble attempt to calm himself down. “he’s an idiot for letting you go.”

“kou, he was perfect back then. everyone knew him, everyone liked him—“

“if he was so perfect, he wouldn’t have done any of those things to you. he would’ve been understanding and helpful— not unkind and condescending.”

he takes a breath, his gaze tender and loving. “he’s an idiot for jumping at the first opportunity to go after a pretty girl. that’s not the type of guy you’re looking for, is it?”

“no..” she whispers, her eyes finally meeting his. “you are.”

bokuto’s lips couldn’t help but twitch into a smirk. “damn straight.”

the coldness in the air quickly disappears, turning to the same calm atmosphere she could always count on it being whenever she was with him.

“you’re perfect to me, alright?” he starts, “you’re smart, pretty, kind, and so, so caring. any guy who’s willing to throw you away is an idiot— which i am not— and i’m never gonna let you go.”

you felt a bashful smile tugging at your lips, your cheeks flushing with a warm hue.

“the chase to get you took months, sure, but it was all worth it.” he grins. “especially when i get to spend my time with you after the ‘hardships’ i endured.”

“oh, kou..” she chuckles, her hand reaching for his under the table. “i love you.”

he squeezes her palm, touch warm and welcoming. “i love you more, darling.”

── .✦

╰┈➤ “if you can love the wrong person that much, imagine how much you can love the right one.”

you always thought that you were the problem. that you couldn’t be loved because of your hesitant personality and insecurities despite the positive traits that other people see, but being with the right person taught you otherwise.

with the right person, you could be yourself— they don’t judge you or try to change you to fit their image. you’re you and that’s all that matters.

────୨ৎ────

hii! it’s been a while since i uploaded any fics hehe. i’ve been spending my time watching new shows and movies.

i might start uploading fics for different fanbases (dps, harry potter, wednesday, etc.) but, we’ll see!

[nottellingofname]

Suguru Geto Tries Not To Die

Reason 9 - Passport ⋆⭒˚.⋆

“I guess I have one more day, huh?” you whispered.

The two of you were lying in an abandoned cornfield, long deserted by some farmer years ago. The dry hay scratched Suguru’s neck and made him itch, but he didn’t complain.

Not when you were beside him. Your shoulders barely touched as both of you stared up at the sun, golden and indifferent above you.

“I guess so,” Suguru muttered. He hadn’t been thinking about the deal much these past few days. Had it really been nine days already?

A cold chill prickled along his spine. He glanced sideways at you—your face unreadable, somewhere between defeated and determined.

He licked his dry lips, the question heavy in his chest. Why hadn’t you run yet? Nine days with him—most people would’ve bolted after one.

“Days went by a lot quicker than I thought they would,” you said, so softly he almost missed it.

Suguru let out a dry laugh. “They did, didn’t they?”

“I wish they hadn’t, though.” You sighed.

He turned toward you, his body shifting to face yours. He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”

You looked uneasy, like your words were still forming. Your hand went to the back of your neck, scratching nervously.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I mean, I actually had a lot of fun these past few days. I never wanted it to end. So what happens to me when you decide to leave? I’m going to spend the rest of my life wondering what I could’ve done better to save you.”

Suguru felt something drop inside his stomach. It was like his emotions couldn’t choose a direction—too many of them all crashing in at once: guilt, warmth, sadness, and something else he didn’t dare name.

You let out a soft laugh—bitter and hollow, and it didn’t reach your eyes.

“I can tell you’re not happy, just from the way you’re looking at me.”

You smiled faintly and reached over, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. You did that a lot now. Suguru had grown to look forward to it.

“Don’t blame yourself, okay? I got myself into this, remember?”

Suguru’s mind flashed back to the cliff—that cliff—when he was just an inch from falling.

Later that evening, you cycled both of you back to school. It was already half past nine, and the halls were silent. Everyone was probably asleep. Suguru had missed dinner—Yaga was definitely going to scold him in the morning.

"Let me give you ten reasons to live."

"And if I fail, you can come back here and jump. I won’t stop you next time."

But just as you stepped through the entrance, Shoko came running toward him, a large manila envelope clutched tightly in her hands.

“Suguru!” she beamed. “I’ve been waiting for you all night! Where have you been?”

He frowned at her excitement. “I was just out with Y/N, that’s all.”

You waved at her and grinned. “Great! More people to celebrate with!”

“Celebrate what?” Suguru asked, utterly confused.

Shoko shoved the envelope toward him. He caught it mid-air and stared. It was addressed to him—from the Japanese Ministry of Justice. His eyes widened, checking the name again just to be sure.

“Is that your passport?” you asked, a smile stretching across your lips. “Open it, Suguru!”

He hesitated, then tore the envelope open carefully, trying not to rip whatever was inside.

“Can’t you go any faster?” Shoko snapped. “The suspense is killing me!”

Suguru laughed and gave in, tearing it with one swift rip. The envelope fluttered to the ground as he clutched the packet inside.

“Dear Suguru Geto,” he skimmed quickly, “we are proud to inform you that you have successfully applied for a passport—”

Shoko screamed.

Suguru couldn’t stop smiling.

Shoko wrapped her arms around him tightly, and he felt the dampness of her happy tears seeping through his shirt.

“Oh, Suguru! We can really travel now! I’m so happy for you!”

He pulled away gently, wiping at his own eyes before they could fully spill. He scanned the letter, excitement bubbling in his chest. “Shoko—oh my God—look! We can go to Malaysia with Nanami!”

Shoko squealed again, this time slapping a hand over her mouth to contain the noise. “I need to tell the others! I’ll be right back!”

She spun on her heel and bolted up the stairs, her voice echoing: “GOJO! NANAMI! WE HAVE NEWS!”

Suguru laughed, still in disbelief, and turned back toward you.

You were quiet.

You hadn’t said a single word since the letter was opened.

He smiled. “Y/N? Can you believe it? We can go explore the world together!”

Still, you didn’t speak. Your smile was faint, almost sad. Suguru’s expression faltered.

“Y/N?” he asked again, softer now. “Is there something wro—”

Before he could finish, you had thrown your arms around him.

Your hug was tight—bone-crushing—but protective. Your chin rested gently on his shoulder. Suguru could barely breathe.

And still… everything felt right.

“You have such a whole life ahead of you,” you whispered, breath warm against his ear. “I want to watch you grow.”

Save Suguru Geto?

taglist:

@crims0nova @levifiance

[triggswastaken]

I can’t find the original post by @otherwindow but I loved it so much that I had to write this short story based on the concept:

There were three things Ash hated more than anything: group hugs, sunlight, and the smell of burning sage. Earth had too much of all three. But Earth also had Nora.

Ash had arrived through a rusted vent in the back of an abandoned laundromat, ash-skinned and grin sharp as a switchblade. He wasn’t there for long-term plans—just a few stolen wallets, a defaced mural of a cherub, and maybe setting a mailbox on fire. Then he met Nora.

She worked at the comic book shop next to the laundromat and had an irritating habit of smiling at him like he was a stray cat she’d already named.

“Hey, edgy boy,” she said once, handing him a cold soda. “You look like you haven’t blinked in four days.”

Ash didn’t respond. He didn’t blink either.

She kept talking anyway. She told him about her brother who got too into theology and now refused to eat round foods. She showed him her sketchbook full of winged people with sad eyes. She made him a playlist called For Demons Who Want to Feel Again. Against every instinct in his charred, smoke-stuffed heart, he started to like her.

And then the problems started.

The first time Ash noticed the glow, he thought someone had shined a flashlight into his eyes. It was faint, like the shimmer off hot pavement, just above his head. He hissed and slapped at it.

“Sunburn?” Nora asked, watching him swat the air like a maniac.

“Something like that,” he muttered.

He stopped cursing out bus drivers. Stopped setting off car alarms for fun. He even returned a stolen lighter. He blamed Nora’s influence—her weird, warm gravity that made him want to sit still and listen instead of rage against light poles and yell at pigeons.

But then, one morning, he woke up in the back alley with a full-grown halo above his head. It glowed like a streetlamp, humming low and holy.

“No no no no no,” he whispered, pacing in frantic circles. “I’m gonna ascend. I’m gonna ascend and they’re gonna chain me back up.”

Demons who shed enough sin reverted to angels. Not the fluffy, harp-playing ones. The terrifying, blinded-by-purity ones. Ash didn’t want to go back. Not to the chains. Not to Heaven’s cold silence. Not if it meant losing Nora.

So he started sinning. Quietly.

He jaywalked with flair. Stole one breath mint from a gas station. Told a barista he liked their new mustache when he did not. Poured milk before cereal. Spoiled a movie ending to a stranger.

Each night, the halo dimmed a little.

Each morning, he woke up with a mix of pride and panic.

Nora didn’t notice—at first. But then came the coin incident.

He was helping her clean the shop when she dropped a sketchbook. He caught it. Saw a page. A drawing of him. Smiling.

His heart skipped. And his halo flared to life with a soft ching!

“Hey, are you okay?” Nora asked, turning.

Ash snapped. “I said I hated being drawn, remember?”

Nora flinched. “Sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“I’m not a pet project, Nora. I’m not some sad stray for you to fix!”

She stood frozen, and Ash watched her face crumple—not into anger, but hurt. Real hurt.

That’s when it happened. The halo gave a final ding, shrank, and dropped to the floor like a coin off a counter. It rolled in a perfect circle once before wobbling flat.

They stared at it.

Nora was the first to speak. “That was… yours?”

Ash sighed. “Yeah. It means I’m still damned. For now.”

He expected her to step back, to throw salt at him, to scream about his lies.

Instead, she knelt, picked up the halo, and handed it back to him. “Do you want to keep it?”

Ash looked down. “Only if I get to stay.”

She smiled, bruised but soft. “Then sin small, sinner.”

So he did.

He started stealing pens from banks and purposely mismatching socks. He complimented people’s tattoos but got the references wrong. He drew smiley faces on “Do Not Write” signs.

And every now and then, when Nora wasn’t looking, he checked his reflection.

Just to make sure the light hadn’t come back.

[scarlettriot]

If you asked Kirishima he’d tell you that he never lies. It’s not manly! And yet the first time the two of you fucked he told three:

1. That he’d go nice and slow. This one wasn’t so much a lie as just a sheer lack of self control once he felt how perfect your walls clamped around him.

2. Just the tip. HA. First of all, if you believed this man was gonna stop at just his fat, mushroom tip, that’s on you. He’s giving you all his inches, all at once.

And 3. That he was good at keeping quiet. It’s one of the main reasons you agreed to let him bend you over the desk in his private office. But not only does he grunt and groan as he bullies himself in to the base, he’s doing so with thrusts that have the desk leaving scuff marks along the floor. Which, was actually pretty hot. But now the whole damn agency knows what your very important meeting with him was about.

[red-n-ded]

Stowaway AU

For @numberoneredriotfan

In Stowaway AU, Lala and Roro join Rody and Deku in their road trip running away from the cops. The entire Soul family get to bond and heal with Deku, who inspires, not just Rody, but all of them to chase after their dreams.

Fic ramble below ⬇️

Lala and Roro forgot to give Rody his tie before he left so they run after him to give it to him. Unfortunately, they get lost and Lala spots Deku, Shoto and Bakugou doing errands. She splits away from Roro to ask the heroes-in-training for help. Roro panics when he sees that his little sister is gone.

Deku offers to walks around with her, calming down the scared girl by asking her about herself and her brother as they call out for Rody’s name. He protects her during the bank robbery and chases after Rody for the case of jewelry. However, Lala recognizes Rody and when Deku attempts to jump onto the roof to continue the chase after Pino flew into his face, Lala grabs onto Izuku’s leg begging to be brought along (deja vu?). At first, Izuku is hesitant to bring a child with him but at Lala’s insistence, he ends up carrying her on his back, careful to make sure she doesn’t get hurt. Roro spots the chase from below and runs after them.

When Izuku crashes into the train, Rody is horrified to see his sister happily waving at him from the hero’s back. At the station, Rody worriedly checks Lala if she's hurt. She assures him that she had fun riding on Izuku’s back and explains that she came to give his tie. (she doesn’t tell rody how she was screaming into Izuku ear the first few jumps. she apologizes to izuku about it later)

Rody immediately starts scolding her and the hero but gets caught in the middle when Izuku asks for the case and Lala asks what Rody’s job actually is. Izuku and Rody still fight over the briefcase (with Rody trying to make a run for with it while carrying Lala under his arm) and Izuku still apologizes to him when the case opens. To make it up to both of them, he helps Rody and Lala to go find Roro. (Lala instantly feels guilty for leaving him behind) They do find him in the crowd before getting cornered by the police.

Rody is ordered to hold onto his back and the kids while Izuku escapes the police and Humanrise. Rody doesn’t pass out, focused on holding onto his siblings (all of them screaming in fear), but the added weight does makes Izuku fall from the bridge. After escaping from the water, they find out that Izuku is accused of child kidnapping and mass murder. Lala advocates for Izuku since she’s the one “kidnapped”.

Once Izuku suggests they run, Roro and Rody are eager to leave him behind. Lala doesn’t want to, trusting Izuku, but she reluctantly agrees when her brothers remind her of the many heroes who never came to help them. Rody calls the police and all Souls go to trade in the case for their normal live again but it’s revealed to be a trick. Izuku is woken up by Pino and Izuku saves the Souls from the arrow. Lala starts crying about Izuku dying and Roro desperately looking for a doctor or a hospital (cry-yelling at Izuku to not pull out the arrow). Rody tries to calm them down as they look for a place to hide.

Roro instructs Rody how to properly heal him, telling him how to support the arrow and bandage it (note: do not remove arrows if you’re pierced by them. Clean then cut the arrow and bandage over the head. Only remove when completely necessary and it’s obstructing movement.)

They hide in a cave to properly get rid of the arrow and properly bandage his wound. Izuku is in awe of Roro’s skill, who reveals that he wants to be a doctor and reads medical textbooks for fun. Izuku encourages him to pursue that dream but Roro gets upset and offended, thinking that Izuku is only optimistic because he has everything. Roro accidentally reveals that he’s quirkless. It makes all Souls panic, especially when Izuku looked like he saw ghost. Roro starts to cry and in his silent break down, Rody pulls him into a hug. Lala joins in.

Izuku watches helplessly and pinned against protective glares. Rody shares Roro's sentiment, quietly revealing he wants to be a pilot but cannot due to their situation. Lala remains silent and hugs Rody’s arm. They all brace for pity but Izuku just smiles and stage whispers to Roro and Lala, asking if they can keep a secret. Lala excitedly says yes while Roro nods as he wipes his tears, confused but earnest in his promise. Izuku reveals that he was once quirkless too and his quirk came in extremely late. He has struggled and had to work twice as hard but is willing to work for his dream and catch up to his classmates. This surprises all the Souls and with their perspectives changed, they all properly introduce themselves.

On the road trip, Izuku bonds with the Souls as the kids are eager to learn about Izuku’s stories and with every story, they (including Rody) see the hero in a new light. (After the whole mission, they beg Rody to search up Izuku’s sport festival fight just so they see the real thing)

At the gas station, Lala and Izuku cannot be seen so Roro and Rody work together to distract the cashier.

At the mountain, Roro and Lala loudly cheer on Izuku as he pulls up the truck. (They get to the other side within a few hours)

When they stop at a flower field to review the directions, Izuku notices Lala's habit of talking to plants and flowers, often believing that they understand her. She gives Izuku and Rody matching flowers for luck (making both boys blush), finds special herbs that the flowers told her can help with the pain and thanks a plum tree for providing four ripe plums that suddenly appeared on a low hanging branch. Izuku is curious and suspicious but Roro and Rody are used to it, allowing Lala keep her innocence and play pretend.

They stop so Roro can check on Izuku’s wounds and take out the arrowhead. Izuku continues to tell Roro and Lala about his time in UA and his experiences and friends while Rody fixes his bandages. Lala is most excited about the fighting parts, eyes shining as Izuku recalls his fight with Muscular.

“Actually Kota is about your age. He’s kinda grumpy but has this cool water quirk that lets his shoot water out of his hands.”

“He sounds fun! I wanna be his friend! He can water all my other friends.”

Izuku explains to Roro about Recovery Girl and the existence of scholarships and internships. Roro gets excited and despite Rody insistence to not worry, Roro admits that he knows about his struggles and is willing to do anything to help Rody gives him a tight hug and is willing to support him all the way, making him promise to be the best doctor Otheon could offer.

Unable to resist, Izuku then asks for their quirks. Lala’s quirk hasn’t come in despite her 6th birthday coming up in a few months so she’s expected to be quirkless. After seeing Izuku so accepting to Roro, Rody carefully introduces Pino.

They arrive at Klayd and prepare to split up but Humanrise attacks and Rody nearly falls to his death while izuku grabs the kids and the briefcase. Lala cries out for someone to save him and before Todoroki arrives, the trees reach out to grab him from mid-air.

Apparently Lala was telling the truth (sort of). While she cannot understand plants and they can’t talk to her, she can project her pure emotions and thoughts to the plants around her, similar to how Rody is soul-bonded with Pino. (Izuku theorizes that the stronger her emotions, the greater the radius of her quirk) Lala immediately gets excited by her quirk, especially since it resembles Rody’s so much.

Izuku and Lala ramble about her quirk before they’re interrupted by Bakugou and Shoto. While Rody, Shoto and Izuku try to solve the puzzle, Roro and Lala sit awkwardly with Bakugou. Lala then gets the courage to ask about UA. Bakugou brags about his experience as a student and banters with Roro, who claims Deku is the best hero. Bakugou assumes Lala’s interest means that she wants to be a hero but Lala instantly becomes insecure, not really responding yes or no (her eyes darting to Roro and Rody). Bakugou notices and awkwardly tries (in his own way) give her encouragement, recalling how she saved her brother. He then asks Roro if he wants to be a hero. The boy is quiet at first but remembers Izuku’s words and admits his dream with pride, barking out a threat if Bakugou dares to tease him. Bakugou is stunned but laughs, impressed by his guts and orders him to not let any stupid people get in his way.

They find out about Eddie and the Soul family cry together, Lala being reassured by Shoto that her father is a good man and a hero. Izuku encourages the family to leave to safety but Rody hesitates. Usually he’s happy to have the world burn as long as he’s with his siblings but Rody isn’t so eager to leave Izuku behind now, especially after the entire Soul family bonded with him. Luckily, Roro and Lala becomes the last push to convince Rody to help them. They hijack a plane and Roro and Lala hug Izuku good luck, giving him the flower that dropped during the fight. (Izuku tucks the wilted flower in his pocket)

Rody plans to fly all of them to safety just in case it doesn’t work but they crash land and get captured. Roro and Lala are held hostage while Rody gives the key but at the swap, Lala and Roro uses it as a distraction to escape. Rody still gets shot and Roro and Lala get separated across the room. Izuku fights Flecturn while Lala hides. Lala watches the fight from her hiding place. She has full confidence in Izuku but is desperate to help. She starts to panic and looks away, angry at herself for being unable to do anything. Unknown to her, her anger and determination causes her quirk to make the flower in Izuku’s pocket to overgrow. Izuku notices this and throws it at Flecturn, encasing and choking the villain with the petals and vines. It holds him down long enough to give Izuku a breather and defeat him sooner. Izuku searches for Lala, who is overjoyed that Izuku won but Izuku retorts that it was Lala who defeated him. Izuku shows Lala the overgrown flower and explains how it saved her and her family. (“You’re our hero, Lala.”)

Lala and Izuku hear the countdown stop and rush to where Rody and Roro are. They find the key plugged in (thanks to Pino) and Roro is cradling a tired Rody, who’s lying on the ground, while trying to stop the bleeding. Izuku tells Roro that he’s doing great and removes the weight from him by cradling Rody himself. Rody weakly asks if he was a hero like his father and Izuku happily replies that they all were. They all laugh-crying together

When Izuku wakes up and learns that he’s assigned a hospital room with the Souls, who all insisted that Izuku is family. He cries when the doctors tell him this and sits next to Rody on his bed when he wakes up, to thank him. Roro and Lala wake up and light up when they see Rody and Izuku awake, escaping from their beds to tackle the two teens in relief.

Shoto and Bakugou finds them all asleep on Rody’s bed. Realizing how much they mean to Izuku, they get a working phone for Rody.

All the Souls are there when they say bye at the airport. Roro promises to get a scholarship and get into the best doctor school possible. Izuku says that Recovery Girl is willing to accept apprenticeships at UA and Roro says he wants to be worthy of it, shyly admitting wanting to see Izuku again. This realization makes the kids cry, afraid that they won’t see him again for a while, and unlike in the movie, Rody doesn’t have the heart to tell him to not come back. He stays quiet and comforts his siblings while hiding his own tears. (“Come on guys. Don’t cry. We’re in public.”) Izuku notices that Pino is at the verge of tears and initates the hug, promising to come back. The kids join in when Rody hugs back.

Izuku is about to leave but when he’s a couple feet away, Lala, who was looking nervous before, yells out to Izuku.

“Is it possible that I can become a hero even with this quirk?”

This comes to a shock to everyone. This is the first time Lala ever voiced her dream out loud. Lala has always admired the idea of helping people and especially people who don’t often get help from heroes. Roro and Rody always said that they don’t like heroes so she never said anything and brushed it off as a pipe dream. But after seeing Izuku and how he isn’t like the heroes that pass by her area, how her brothers can actually trust him, she is now definite that being a hero is all she wants to be.

“I always dreamed of a being hero for my community, one that can defend my home. Could I ever hope to become someone like you?”

Izuku recalls a similar memory and nervousness on the rooftop with All Might. The bittersweet feeling nearly makes Izuku cry but at the memory of tears and sunset in alleyway comes racing back, a wave of pride takes over. He gives Lala a genuine smile and say the words he wished and did hear that day.

“Lala Soul, you too can become a hero.”

Such simple words but Lala lets out a sob as her dreams are validated. Izuku waves goodbye to his family in Otheon, excited to visit again and see the kind of hero the youngest Soul will grow up to be one day.

[frontiersb1ade]

had the confrontation with florrick today again, (and my high charisma pc’s always convince her) but i’m over here laying on the floor about the terrible things wyll has to hear about his character when all he did was dare to take back his freedom. and what if florrick didn’t back down, he’d have to strike a close family friend for self preservation but oof the guilt he’d feel over her death.